Tag Archive: postaweek2011


It’s… it’s… ALLLIIIVVVE!

Yes, I’m not dead. No, you can’t have my vast collection of art books and geekery.

What the fuck have I been doing? What kind of a question is that?! Things, obviously.

A little update on what’s been going on: I have my first real, adult, 9 hour a day including lunch, job. It’s been taking its toll, lemme tell ya. If I didn’t like working with technology, I’d be fucked. Add on that a flare up of my stomach being a bitch, a sinus/ear infection and a course of antibiotics, and my endometriosis trying to kill me. And Viktor damaging/destroying things and generally being a pain in the balls. Not good. Thus, the writing juices, they have not been a flowin’.

The good news: Now I’m out of training for my job and trying to cram my brain full of information visually and aurally, so there’s probably going to be a little more free space in my brain. I’ll be learning by doing from here on out, which has always been a lot easier for me. So, I’d like to ask you all a question:

What do you want to see here?

Yes, it’s a cheap plea for things to write about, but I’m pretty sure you all don’t want to hear about what’s been fascinating me lately. Not a lot of people are interested in The Divine Comedy and listening to me go “Dante, what the shit did… How did you come up with some of this nonsense?” or being amused to find out that one can make “figs” with a fist and it is an obscenity rather similar to flipping someone off. Or my musing upon a point of a friend from college that The Divine Comedy is just one big gay love note to Virgil from Dante.

But, hell, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe ranting on classical literature is something that would amuse you lot. I’m going to go through my draft posts and see if there’s anything worth salvaging, and see what I can do to maybe write on two of my favorite topics at the same time: Playboy Bunnies and Geisha.

Keep out a watchful eye, leave me a note below if you want to see my fucked up take on something, and I promise things should be in order here again soon. Look out for a new post in the coming week of SOME sort.

Post a Week 2011

I haven’t been having much of a problem making my post a week goal, which has surprised me. Usually I have some angry tirade I can go on, but today, I don’t have a lot. My problem from work today is resolved, the asshole I encountered on the way home is in the past and I’m trying to just let it go. Even if I was dwelling on it, there’s not much that can be said other than “people are assholes.”

This Post a Week thing has actually be really beneficial for me in a lot of ways– I never quite realized how relaxing it was to have to pick something each week and go on a ramble about it. It clears up a ridiculous amount of space in my head that would otherwise be taken up with going over a problem or irritation repeatedly.

So, I’d just like to thank you folk that read this blog for wandering by and reading my rambles, and assure you that the ranting and raving will resume next week.

I’m a twenty something. I’ve been in college a few years now and I’m close to getting out. Over the course of those years, I’ve realized just how many of my high school friends were not due to similarities, their better qualities, or actual ability to be a friend– it was due to proximity.

We all have, and/or had, friends like this. Co-workers, high school friends, people in our classes or studies programs. When removed from the situation we originally befriended them in, too often their shortcomings become clear and just why you befriended them does as well: You needed companionship and a mutually beneficial relationship to get through a situation, nothing more. They don’t fit into your life, and the more you see them outside their original friend-habitat, the more you wonder why you ever liked them in the first place.

Now, this is not to say that all friends met in these places are this way. You can meet your best friend and/or soul mate in school or on the job, no one denies that. However, it is not the norm. Not from what I’ve observed.

The reason I’m rambling on this is recently, more and more people from high school that fall into this category keep contacting me. I’m not sure what it is– they felt no need, or little need, to talk to me, nor I to them, before this. Often what I discover on their end is that they have run through all the friends they had after high school due to one circumstance or the other; Either they have made a stupid ass decision and their friends left them to screw up their life after trying too hard to save them too many times, or they are in the same position I and others I know are: we realize our high school friends are still mentally in high school, even if they haven’t had an epic childish screw up to prove it. What matters is who is dating who, what’s on TV, what the hippest phone is. Some people never leave that stage and that’s fine, if that’s all you really want out of life. I think you should want more, but that’s just me. You want to stay there, fine, but don’t expect me to humor you.

Let me be frank: If I am friends with you, it is because you do not bore me and you’re not a pain in my ass. One can sugar coat the reasons they are friends with people all they want, but it comes down to two things most of the time: you are either useful or a pleasure to be around. That is why you have different “classes” of friends, they each have different things they are best for. The same person you cry to when your boyfriend/girlfriend dumps you is probably not the same person you go and discuss high philosophy with or go on spur of the moment trips to Canada with. If it is, you are damned lucky and I hope you realize just how rare such a thing is. Very often, there are certain things that are utterly off limits with some people for whatever reason (sexuality, gender, politics, religion, the list goes on), and if you want them to accept all of you, that’s often a problem. They may tolerate the fact that you’re Islamic and they’re Christian, but they’re probably less accepting it and more ignoring it exists so they can still use you for whatever end you suit. If you’re looking for “true friendship” that’s not it, even if that person bends over backwards for you on a daily basis.

In any case, I don’t like making people upset if they were once friends with me by telling them precisely why I have no desire to be friends with them anymore. I’m not going to tell them “Leave me alone, you’re bloody obnoxious, YOU are the reason your life is in the shitter because you refuse to keep a job because it’s ‘hard,’ and keep making the same pattern of mistakes because you refuse to believe the world isn’t your oyster.” Instead, I’ll just not answer some of the time, then most of the time, then almost all of the time, then never. It avoids all the melodrama. It’s a coward’s way out and I fully admit that, but again, if you were once a friend to me, I’d much rather avoid a melodramatic blow up and crying and carrying on. I’d rather keep up the pretense that we just naturally drifted apart because we’re both busy. Everyone’s happy, and it leaves the door open for contact to resume in the future, and maybe by then things will work out. I’m uncomfortable cutting people totally out of my life unless they do something to deserve it.

Unfortunately this approach’s upside is also a downside: it leaves the door open to resume contact, and often the dance begins all over again. Thus, I keep getting contacted by people whom I simply have nothing to say to. I feel awkward talking to them and the conversation frequently stalls. When we do speak, it usually becomes apparent quickly that there is little to talk about, yet they keep initiating conversation. I’d like to think that when I realize conversations with an individual are going nowhere, I give up and politely excuse myself. Sometimes, people just don’t have much in common and that’s really okay. Really. It is. Trying to force conversation repeatedly is not going to change our differences.

For some of these people, it may be that they are trying to get their high school days back and by forcing contact with people from those days. They felt safer and more in control then than they ever do now, and they mistakenly associate it with the people they spoke with during that time when really, it has nothing to do with that. It has everything to do with the fact that the way high school and childhood are set up now, with layer upon layer of protection from accountability and responsibility, the real world is a very nasty shock. The real world has a very different set of rules than in high school in the fact that even if it does have any, they’re certainly not static. No one is going to write out a rule book and hand it to you upon the end of high school, college, or whenever mom and dad cut you off. Even if they did, by the end of the day the rule book would be obsolete, so there would be no point. Who wouldn’t want the days of when you knew exactly what was expected of you and how to accomplish it back? I can’t exactly blame them. I don’t think it’s my place to tell them to wake the hell up and realize high school is not only not all it’s cracked up to be but also not coming back– the universe will do that for me, there’s no need for me to rub it in.

I’m not sure if all of this is really progress– perhaps it is just my becoming more selfish with my time and energy. I don’t necessarily believe this is a bad thing, but I could also be wrapped up in happy clouds of denial. Maybe I should be more grateful that someone wants to talk to me at all. But as it stands right now, I’m taking the position of Ditchwater Sal: “I don’t deal with time wasters.” Talking to someone that makes you uncomfortable, whatever the reason, is a waste of both your time, neither of you are getting what you want out of your company. Life is just too damn short for that kind of thing.

…I don’t believe in fairy tales…
…In love with a zombie…
…Love like winter…
…No one suspects at all…

So, I’m sitting up, feeling sick. Curled up on cold porcelain, my insides revolting from CHICKEN, of all things, NOT the bloody Taco Bell I had earlier, I’m going into one of my states of catatonia.

This will be another one of those posts rather akin to my “Watson, using only musical theory…” post, so those of you that didn’t like it, do feel free to skip this one.

Music is said to have a curious effect on people unlike any other stimulus. It can evoke emotions with nothing more than sounds– not so much that the sound is connected to an event, like with scents triggering memories, but that sound itself is a language our brains seem coded to understand on more than one level.

Some people say music keeps them alive, but usually it is those that actively produce music. I rarely hear someone say that simply listening is what saves them, it is the creation of a tapestry of sound from nothing that seems to be most cathartic. If you ever get in the same room with a great musician, watch them as they play their instrument. They may connect to their audience, they may look at you, but they don’t really seem to see you, and if they do, fuck is it uncomfortable. The intensity they possess while doing their passion is positively unnerving.

Occasionally, however, I do meet an individual that is like myself. Massive music connection, seemingly random things thrown in here and there, and an inability to go through a day without listening or your life just feels empty. I sometimes even meet them on another level: we each have music that simply does something to us. Sometimes, even despite our best efforts to dislike it.

For example, take “Wonderland” by Natalia Kills. I’ve never been one for Alice In Wonderland, save for Zenoscope’s take on the tale. In many ways, the ideas have been said many times before, and probably said better– after all, it is a love song. Yet, after I heard it for the first time, something stuck. Something under my skin itched, something was missing. I watched the video. I then watched the uncut version of the video. I’m back to listening to it. Something in it simply settles into my head and lulls me into a state akin to being tipsy, or to being under the influence of painkillers… my eyelids get heavy, my eyes pass out of focus and my mind runs off to make its own connections to what the lyrics mean. For this particular song, my mind climbs all over the jungle-gym of connections that makes up my ideals and thoughts on love and partnership and my relationship with Jess, and how a relationship is like a type of fucked up dope that makes the world go away. If I’m not actively guiding my attention back to reality, I’ll stay wandering around in my red cloak with the Jabberwocky threatening my bodily integrity until the song ends.

At times, it can be a bit dangerous, let me tell you. Hell, it’s sometimes songs that start the trains of thought that tend to eat me and make me stay awake for hours– Hell, it was Judas’s fault that this particular post was written. Despite my wanting to look at Gaga and go “I really don’t care about you reconciling yourself with your religion” there’s still something in the song that hooked those velcro barbs to the nerves in me. Even gritting my teeth and going “DAMNIT, GAGA, YOU’RE GOING OFF THE DAMN RAILS!” something is bothering me about that damn song and won’t let me go. I hate the style, and yet here I am stuck listening to it. Maybe it’s my perverse fascination with the hypocrisy of religion and what is considered “blasphemous,” but I doubt it. If that was it, I’d snicker at it a few times, but I wouldn’t have a compulsion to listen to it again. And again.

It’s sometimes days or weeks later that I discover why it is that a song clicked so well with me and why it won’t leave. Sometimes it is because it reminds me of something so strongly, sometimes it’s because it evokes an overall feeling, sometimes it’s a piece of the lyrics. It was only fairly recently I discovered why “Prelude 12:21” and “Miss Murder” stuck so well:

“This is what I brought you/This you can keep/This is what I brought/You may forget me/I promised you my heart/Just promise one thing/Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep”

“…Hey Miss Murder/Can I make beauty stay/If I take my life?/”

Other than those two songs making you think I’m seriously depressed, they also carry expressions of my depressing/sociopathic views on love. I do carry the belief that should the only one for me, my person, my match leave me, all I ask is one thing: Do come back once more to see me, even if it simply is to close my eyes on my death bed. Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep. Then you get into my mania with Miss Murder: Okay, so you’re murdering me by leaving and destroying the thing I care about most, you and my relationship with you, and while it makes me a selfish prick, I’m eying that knife over there and wondering if I can avoid feeling the loss by stabbing myself in the chest. If you’re dead, technically, your love was just interrupted. No one broke up with anyone, another circumstance broke you up. So I didn’t fuck up and drive you away. YAY!

Hey, stop looking at me like that. Van Gogh cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute. I admitted I’m being a selfish, psychotic prick with that previous bit. Van Gough thought it was just fine to give a severed limb and was annoyed when the chick ran away screaming.. Of course, that was probably due to the long term effects of lead poisoning, but that’s neither here nor there.

The point is that due to music’s ability to do this to me, it makes for a fantastic way for me to cope– the only problem is that only certain songs manage to have the full effect, the rest are just distractions. It is at that point I turn to other things to help take my mind off things more completely… like blogging nonsense at three in the morning about my musical listening habits and the meanings therein.

Also, for those of you still concerned for @DrHowl’s safety/sanity, do feel free to warn her to leave before I lock her in a closet and start calling her “my precious.” However, if you’re one of those people that takes something like that seriously coming from me, this blog may not be the best of places for you. Take a spoonful of salt with what I say in regards to violent outbursts, and for maximum effectiveness, take said spoonful on the rim of a tasty margarita. Do that and suddenly, things will start to make a lot more sense around here.

Whelp, I covered the Glee gay kiss causing an uproar, so I think I should at least make comment on this event, even if it IS a bit late.

So. For those of you that live under a rock like me, please watch this:

Toemageddon 2011

Or, for those that don’t like watching videos (I know I don’t most of the time) here’s the quick rundown: A J. Crew ad sent out to consumers via e-mail contained a picture of woman laughing with her son, who has pink painted toe-nails. The quote underneath (the ad is shown here) says “Lucky for me, I ended up with a boy whose favorite color is pink. Toenail painting is way more fun in neon.”

Some “psychologists” are “slamming” (as the news outlets so love to say) this ad. According to some, it is “transgender child propaganda.”

Let me explain something to those not well versed in psychology– Nothing MAKES anyone gay or transgender. They were born this way, baby. If you believe otherwise, you’re working with an outdated or outright wrong definition of what it is to be transgender.

References to Lady Gaga aside, it is true, at least in the articles I’ve glanced on the subject and classes I’ve taken, none of which I’ve saved, and thus cannot give you as proof. Thus, I will totally understand if you are skeptical on this particular point: transgender brains are actually similar to the brains of the sex they believe themselves to be, for whatever reason. I don’t pretend to know how or why, but even without that particular point to support it, nothing MAKES anyone transgender.

Being transgender seems to me to be innate for two reasons: It has been around throughout history and those that are transgender cannot seem to repress it. One can argue, I suppose, that describing it as something that cannot be controlled makes it a psychosis. However, I would then ask you what the hell heterosexuality is, as it is something that cannot be controlled either. You may really, really want to swear off women and their crazy antics, but you’re just not attracted to men? You can’t control that. You’re great at art, but bad with math? Can’t control that either.

All that said, it is very possible for someone to be a dipshit like me to not realize I can be considered a transgender individual (though I am bi-gender or genderqueer, not the full on “my gender doesn’t match my sex– it’s the opposite” transgender or transsexual person) until late in life. I never knew there was a name for why I didn’t feel like a woman per se, but I also didn’t feel like a man. That said, it is very possible to do what I do (enjoy crossplaying (cosplaying as a character of the opposite sex and try to pass as that sex), idolize males/have male role models) and be completely comfortable saying “I’m a woman!” Identifying as being of the female gender does not say you have to like what “real women” are gender stereotyped as liking. It simply means you say “I am a woman.” It is something self-defined, and therefore, very personal. Some would argue it is simply an opinion or a perception. While this may be true, our perceptions of ourselves are all we have. Actual, factual, untainted, unbiased facts about ourselves and our thought processes cannot be found in ourselves or someone else. Science is getting closer to being able to have some sort of “proof” that someone is gay or transgendered, be it from something that happened during fetal development or due to differences in brain wiring, but for now, if someone has this belief for an extended period of time, it is considered Gender Identity Disorder, which one has to be diagnosed with to be officially, medically considered transgender.

Back on topic here: Pink Toenails do not a transgender or gay son make. And furthermore, Dr. Ablow and accompanying wench: it is not an “attack on masculinity” or a “blurring of gender lines.” No, kids, the gender lines are still there, and as blurry and indistinct as ever. What is being “attacked” by this ad is the assumption that traditional gender roles/stereotypes should dictate if someone should be excluded from activities due to being a biological male or female.

Something about kids I picked up in my stint in a child psych class: As kids grow up, they “try on” different roles to see if they fit them. When my father shaved his face, I tried imitate him with a Popsicle stick and soap. When my mother was making macaroni, I went and found a bowl and started trying to mush noodles and water and American cheese slices together. When I saw the burlesque mouse in The Great Mouse Detective, I spent nights dancing around in a ballet costume on a “stage” made of my fireplace, singing and dancing. Did this mean that I wanted to be a man, or a cook, or a burlesque dancer? No. It meant I saw the role and tried it on like a hat, nothing more.

That is exactly what this kid is doing with pink toenails. Mommy does it, so he was curious if it was fun, most likely. What he likes about it probably has little to do with his favorite colors being on his toes– it has to do with the fact that he gets to spend time with mommy doing what his mommy does that makes her happy, that he probably perceives as being a “grown-up” activity because he’s not allowed to play with nail polish on his own. It is not because he is a “sissy” or in any way not a boy! For those that didn’t watch the John Stewart “Toemageddon” clip, he points out that a pro wrestler paints HIS toenails black. Is this big, burly guy that can win wrestling matches a sissy? Is he a girl? No. Though I have no idea what this wrestler’s personal gender identification is, I’m willing to guess it’s probably masculine. His gender identification is unaffected by the activities he participates in, be it toe painting or wrestling. If he identifies as a man, he is a man. The end. His biological sex has nothing to do with what his personal gender identification is.

As a transgender friend of mine pointed out: “It’s not the fact that Fox News is portraying this as an attack on masculinity. It is the fact it is on EVERY news network and they are ALL portraying this as valid news– that there is some controversy to be had here! There’s NOT!”

So, I thought it was important to address this insanity. This is, in fact, NOT news. A little boy painting his toe nails is not news-worthy. It is not “covering” anything, it is a public attempt at shaming a mother whom is unashamed of her son questioning what he enjoys in life, stereotypes be damned. This ENTIRE new story centers on one thing, and it is what I have already covered in my post on gender early on in this blog: Adult males feel threatened in their gender identity by their sons being allowed to play with dolls and glitter when their father would have beat them for doing the same. It is envy. It is seeing their son’s freedom to choose what they want to be and do without their gender identity being questioned or threatened and wanting to destroy it because these men never had that as children. This has NOTHING to do with this little boy and his mother– it has everything to do with adult men upset that society no longer condones beating up the queers, sissies, and fags to try to make them into “men” as strongly as it once did. It no longer perpetuates this particular brand of rigid gender roles and hatred for those that do not conform as strongly as in, say, the 1950s.

Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. This is all about trying to tear away the new-found freedoms of our sons and daughters have– which are tiny, tiny victories in the fight for freedom to simply exist and be different, by the way. This kid, if he is gay or transgender, will face hell, just as the prior gay and transgender people of the world did. But for some people, the simple fact that those gay and transgender kids are not beaten severely as they once were for being different makes them feel insecure and upset with themselves and society.

All of this is about one thing: Men questioning if the stereotypes they forced themselves to conform to in order to be accepted are wrong. And if so, if they did force themselves to conform that way when it is different from what they were, if they were forced to suppress who they are, it is now all for nothing. Now you can be a boy and paint your toes.

It’s utterly pathetic that the only news that recognized all of this as the lashing out of insecure men and nothing that should be taken seriously is the fake news, where nothing is taken seriously.

HEY. HEY. CUT THIS SHIT OUT. NOW.

This bullying crap has been in the news long enough. Take it out. Right now. Wanna know why? People are now trying to FIX children that have NOTHING wrong with them so that they won’t be bullied.

Anyone see how backwards this is?

“Well, I should do whatever I can to protect my kids.”

“NOT THAT YOU IDIOT.” I want to screech, “What the fuck do you think you’re showing them?!”

“That I love them and want to protect them, so I’m taking away things that could–”

“No! No! You’re telling them that ‘You’re fat, your ears are too big, your head’s too small, so I’m going to fix it so you’re more acceptable to a superficial fucking society!'”

I want to take the woman that is taking her cute little seven year old to a plastic surgeon and turn her over to the authorities for sheer stupidity. You shouldn’t be CHANGING a perfectly cute kid to make her more aesthetically pleasing to people that are just going to find a reason to beat on her anyway if they don’t like her. What are they going to make fun of her for now? Probably getting plastic surgery.

And listen to that video: “Parents often get cosmetic fixes for their kids– think orthodontia or contact lenses.” WAT? Contacts have practical purposes. So does orthodontia, even though you could argue that that IS largely cosmetic in minor cases of teeth just coming in a bit askew. But you crazy bitch, this is permanently altering a little girl’s ears because why? She’s not pretty enough for a superficial society? There’s nothing wrong with her ears. They hear. They’re fine. They’re not going to cause her problems later in life with pain or causing physical issues. This is purely because her mother looked at her and said “Hmm, sorry little Sammie, you’re not pretty enough for kids to not beat up. So, let’s fix that.”

Hey, I might just be extra pissed because this kid has my name and because I was bullied, but not for the reason you’d think. Not because “hey, my parents should have protected me like hers! Boo hoo!” No, because this is fucking going out and telling the kids that bully that “Hey! It’s okay to beat on that kid because he has a weird head. His parents should have had the good sense to make him more pleasing to look at.” Now, I’m jumping to an extreme here, but what’s next? People going to start killing kids because they’re not born pretty enough, so they wanted to “save them a lifetime of suffering?!”

You know what we need to START doing? Not having plastic surgery done to perfectly functional kids. We need to start giving those kids the tools and permission to hit back. This kid, Casey Heynes, is my goddamn hero. He’s the hero of nerds and picked on kids across the web. If this is what happened to little punk ass bullies, you can goddamnit bet they would realize that they ought to use more caution in who they pick to beat on. The only time in my life when that nonsense stopped was when I started hurling verbal barbs back and not taking shit. This BS of “Zero Tolerance” does nothing except punish the kids who had the *gasp* audacity to get sick of someone calling them a fat, stupid, ugly Satan worshiping cunt and deck the little fuck that was doing it. And all of you out there know how kids work– you were one. You know that if a kid seeks protection from an adult, shit just gets worse. You’re then a “pussy” for not fighting your own battles, and they’ll just torment you worse when the adults aren’t around.

No, what people need are parents who, when they find out their kid is bullying someone, be it by calling names, or making snide remarks, or beating them up– that kid gets really, and severely, punished for it. No more Xbox live for you, little Jimmy… you beat up Carl at school. Have fun in your room that NOW only consists of a bed and sitting in it for the next month staring at a wall. If you want to avoid that in the future, how about you leave other kids THE FUCK ALONE?!

Of course, some of you may think that the punishment of isolation for a month is a wee bit severe. Okay. Personally, what I think the most ideal punishment would be would NOT be isolation, but the fun of sending the kid to school in something for a week that will get his/her ass picked on and shunned and made fun of. If you know how it feels, suddenly things seem rather different. I realize that’s not PC and is just “encouraging such behavior” but I also sit here and go “How the hell else will they learn to empathize with the kids they’re victimizing?” Kids have illustrated time and time again they’re not the best critical thinkers. Telling them to “think about how it would feel!” does nothing if they have nothing to compare it to. How the hell do you expect them to learn that something hurts other than through experience?*

Now now, I know this goes against the touchy-feely, cuddly, “omg, my kid is the most precious little angel ever!” mentality most parents have. Thus, this new attitude that I believe needs to be instilled will shock and horrify the masses. However, you need to wise the fuck up, parents. You cannot raise your kids even half decently unless you see them as both your precious angel and a hellion of the first order, and recognize that your kids have just as much potential to do ill as any adult. It’s up to YOU to teach them to master that hellion within. It’s up to YOU to teach them that because you don’t like how someone looks it’s not okay to beat on them or tease them.

It’s also up to you, parents, to not enforce the negative bullshit that the hellions amongst children spit out. If your kid comes home crying because they’re being teased about their ears, you tell them they’re beautiful. You tell them they’re beautiful and not to listen to those other kids because they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. THEN you tell them they don’t have to put up with that shit. Tell them to have the fun I did as a kid: Tell them to ask the kid why it is they care about your ears. Ask them why it matters. Ask them why they feel the need to come over here and kick sand in your face over your ears, and why it is that such a stupid action makes THEM feel BETTER?

Trust me on this one. Teaching your kid to be a verbal ninja and ask the moron questions and force him/her to question why they’re being a jackass will pay off. They may get picked on, but it will be less frequent… and it will also help them to realize that the problem does not lie with them and their ears. It lies with those that choose to harp on differences for no reason other than “CAUSE IT’S WEIRD CAUSE I SAY SO.”

*Footnote On This Paragraph: No, I’m not condoning hitting your kids to show them hitting is wrong. I am, however, saying that it is perfectly okay that if your kid is hitting some other kid and refuses to stop, to do absolutely nothing to help when the other kid hits back, and when your kid comes running crying that they were hit, enlighten them that if they don’t like hitting when it is done to them, they shouldn’t do it to other people.

I realize my blog posts keep veering steadily toward the insane lately. You know what? It’s my goddamn blog. You don’t like it, get out. I got good reason. Wanna know why?

I went to the doctor today, after two months of having so many problems with food I cannot eat, save in small doses maybe once or twice a day. It causes me physical pain. It makes me unable to focus, unable to walk, unable to do anything. I have to plan after attempting to eat something to feel as though there is a basketball wedged under my ribs and deal with the pain that pressure causes, like it or not, because I just had to break down and eat some crackers. The audacity I have, making my stomach serve its goddamn purpose. Horrifying.

No medications help. Heat doesn’t help. Rest doesn’t help. I finally got to the Gastrointestinal Specialist today. Here’s what I learned.

1. I lost ten pounds in the past two months without trying. The look on the nurse’s face when I told her that one was impressive. “Oh fuck” is generally not an expression you want on your medical provider’s face when you tell them something.
2. None of my symptoms, surprise surprise, are anything that the doc can go “A-HA!” and diagnose.
3. In the words of my doctor: “No twenty something should be losing weight from a gastrointestinal problem. You should have an iron gut like most kids your age, and be off drinking beer and eating pizza. Not this.”
4. There is some debate in the medical community if they should continue to have pagers or just use cellphones instead (hey, I saw he had a pager, I was amazed they still existed, and we talked a bit. It made the horrible pain and sick feeling go away for a minute, so he humored me.)
5. I get to go for a endoscopy and a colonoscopy on Tuesday of next week. Most people don’t have a colonoscopy until they are 50+ years old. I’m a wee bit concerned.

Actually, no. I’m not a wee bit concerned. I’m very concerned that they don’t know what’s wrong, and that they have to do expensive fuck tests to even try to have an idea of what’s wrong. And if there are any of you paranoid fucks out there going “THEY JUST WANTCHA MONEY! DON’T DO IT!” Fuck you. Fuck you in the face with a baseball bat with a sprinkling of go to hell. When a doctor I just met is visibly distressed at what is going on, telling me that while he’s doing bloodwork, even if he finds something there we’re still doing the tests to make sure there’s nothing really really bad going on, I FUCKING LISTEN TO THEM. I’m an arrogant little shit, but I don’t pretend to have a medical degree.

I get back from all this fun and games today with some new drugs to tide me over until Tuesday and maybe make my sad little life more bearable. Then guess what? I got hit with a migraine. I tried sleeping after taking some ibuprofen and lots of fluids, it got worse. I had to grope my way to the bathroom with one hand over my eyes because I was so light sensitive, and try a hot shower because the leftover narcotics I had resorted to taking because the pain wouldn’t stop didn’t work. I’m finally okay, but nauseous and still light sensitive after that.

And guess what. Come on, guess. 😀

I have a biology test tonight. I’ve already accepted I’m going to fail it because I can’t study for fear my migraine will come back and I won’t make it to the test at all, and as they say, 30% is still better than a zero.

So, yeah. I’m worried, I’m upset, I’m trying to find my way out of my dead-end job and need to fill out things for that, I’m having tests no twenty something should be going through, I’m scared I’m going to fail this bio class and have to take it again, adding another semester onto when I’m supposed to graduate, and on top of that, I know my parents and I are sitting here looking at the fucking bills my being sick keeps racking up and going “fuck.”

This blog is my only outlet for a lot of this because I don’t want a lot of the people that know me in meatspace (thank you, @patrickcentral) to know what is going on because I don’t want to deal with that. So I’m really sorry if it gets depressing for a while.

On the upside, at least all this miserable shit will probably be sprinkled with videogame references and morbid humor?

Or, you know, if you wanted the funny-ranty to come back, you could always try esunaga. I can’t find my white mage staff at the moment.

Okay, that was forced and sad.

I’m just going to stop now.

Thanks for reading, you guys. And whoever keeps searching “I, out of musical theory, have created order out of chaos” to find my blog? Leave a comment. I’m fascinated by your existence. No, seriously. I am. Please?

… I’ll stop for real this time, now. Bye, guys. I’ll keep you posted as I can.

When Crackers Make You Cry

So, I’m sitting here angry at crackers. This is how you tell you’re way too stressed out for your own good.

I should be happy, for all intents and purposes. I’m going to see My Chemical Romance tonight, giving me an excuse to dress up, and the ticket wasn’t even on my tab– it was a gift. And yet, I almost started yelling at an inanimate object because it, though no fault of its own, kept breaking when I tried to eat it, getting crumbs all over my keyboard.

Thus, I decided to start blogging. All of that looks a hell of a lot more absurd in text than it does when I’m on the verge of tears because I seem to keep spilling everything, because I perceive my cat staring at me as I eat as her judging me (in reality the little fluff ball just wants the tuna I’m eating), and NOW the goddamn crackers won’t stay together long enough for me to eat them and finish my pathetic little fucking lunch of sadness and despair because I’m afraid to eat anything else because if my stomach is upset at the concert tonight, I will be in hell. I contemplated just not eating at all today. I have contemplated not eating all together, not just today, but for the rest of however long I can manage it, because I’m tired of feeling sick. I may be crying from hunger, but hey, done that before– and that way I won’t bloat up so much my pants hurt me! YAAAAAY!

See all of that? That makes perfect sense to me right now. You guys are probably scrambling to find my IP address so you can send someone after me to pick me up for the loony bin. And if they arrived, right now, I would invariably reason my way out of it with this fucked up logic of “Well, I just keep getting sick when I eat– I’LL JUST NOT EAT FOREVER” as though it’s possible. I am the person who whenever I cannot speak correctly and keep stumbling over my words, will physically hit myself in the head. I am not reasonable. I am not sensible. And in my fucked up world where the crackers are just crumbling all over my keyboard because the universe believes I’m too fat and shouldn’t eat anyway, it makes sense.

However, I have a solution. A sneaky secret plan that will work even against my own mind. I can never shut up when I’m upset. I just have to tell someone. So I’m telling all of you and doing it in print. Verbally, the words disappear. In print, I read back through this and go “Fucking hell. Calm down. Things are going to be fine. Vindictive crackers? Time to go watch some cute cats for a while or something, jeezus fuck.”

Suddenly, because I’m telling you, my stress level is dropping. Suddenly Ginger is just the fat little fluff ball that wants my tuna, not some horrible being going “WHY are you eating THAT?” Suddenly the crackers were just damaged in the bag, not pre-broken by some conspiracy to spite me. And suddenly, I’m just another person with a strange pseudo-IBS WTF that my doctors are trying to diagnose and my stomach is testy in the meantime, not someone who should just never ever eat again.

Suddenly, things make sense again, and the tears are of relief. If I can do this, I actually am finally getting better at all of this.

So you know what? It’s okay that I’m doing this instead of the paper due tomorrow right now. It’s okay I’m not going to get home until three– I have my report drafted out, it’s just a question of piecing things together before 12:30 P.M. tomorrow. This benefited me a fuck lot more than trying to work on that in this head state would have.

Now, I’m going to go dress up as a Killjoy, stop worrying, and pick out what crazy ass make-up I’m going to wear.

Suddenly, I’m Miss Punk Rock, star of stage and screen… And I’m never coming back.

I look back at where I’m from,
Look at the woman I’ve become,
And the strangest things seem suddenly routine…”

STOP THE PRESSES. I have figured out why the fuck one of my housemates is so annoying. Wait for iiiiiit…

SHE THINKS NO ONE WOULD COMPLAIN ABOUT HER. EVER.

Now, you can bitch all you like “hurr durr, you shouldn’t talk behind people’s backs, it’s not nice!” but I know you do it anyway. It’s HEALTHY, people. Would it be better to just bottle all that negativity up and end up going into a sneaky hate spiral? No. No one should be screamed at over something as stupid as “YOU LEFT A CRUMB ON THE COUNTER,” or “YOU LEFT THE SPONGE IN THE SINK” when really what you’re so mad about is the fact that the curtains are gone, the paint’s peeling, the pot on the stove is boiling over and your apartment is NOT on fire. It’s not the crumb or sponge. It’s a number of things. But if you wig the fuck out because you’ve been “repressing everything in a deep dark twisted place until you snap and kill them” (thank you Christina) then they’ll just think you’re bonkers or a jackass that overreacts to insignificant stimuli. (And then most likely get worse…)

I found out about the flaws in this girl’s perception of reality thusly: She was standing there and bitching to me about our other housemate and then said “I feel bad for bitching about him now when I’m going to ask him to do something with me tonight.”

“Why?” I said. “Everyone complains about everyone. I’m sure you and he bitch about me, so why is it wrong to bitch about him? Repressing it does no one any good.”

This quickly launched into her looking acutely uncomfortable as soon as she realized that implicit in that statement meant I bitched about HER. Apparently, she could not wrap her little head around that one. She also quickly became cranky. No matter.

Here’s what’s so baffling to me: How can this be the case? Is this a larger trend? Am I to believe the media when they say my generation is a bunch of fucking entitled assholes that think they can do no wrong and offend no one? In response to this incident and a few others, I would say yes. That baffles the shit out of me.

Maybe it’s just the fact that I had PLENTY of opportunities to realize I’m a failure in some aspects of life, but I have trouble seeing how anyone can get to the age of 20 and honestly believe that no one would ever complain about them. That means to me they believe that no one should have any reason to be annoyed at anything they are doing. Suddenly, so much of her thoughtless behavior is explained– it is not that she thinks of no one else, it is that she hasn’t the idea in her head that she should think of anyone else, because in her world, no one should be bothered by anything she does! Ergo, she does not need to consider anyone else when she does something, because that implies that something she is doing might annoy or inconvenience someone.

My question to you all: How the fuck can anyone be this lost in self deception?

For her delusion up there to be true, she would have to live in a vacuum and have no one around to annoy. Something you do is going to irritate someone if you live with them long enough, even if it is something that is useful or positive. For example: I compulsively clean. And by clean I mean CLEAN. I mean, I will spend fifteen minutes cleaning spots off the mirror. An hour cleaning the shower. If that plate in the sink won’t come clean for anyone else, by Bahamut it will fucking come clean for me. Due to these fits of perfectionist mania I have, I have an insane standard of what clean is. Therefore, you can guess how well it works when someone else tries to clean for me as a nice surprise.

Now, think about this. Cleaning has to be done, so it’s good that I do it, yes? Yes. But it is annoying to clean something and have someone come right behind you and go “The spots, the SPOTS, they remain! OUT DAMN SPOT! OUT!” and start scrubbing furiously at whatever you just cleaned. It’s made even more annoying when they actually do quote Macbeth at you. Which I do. You may all now marvel at the fact I have not been shot yet, and please send your condolences to @DrHowl on twitter.

Okay, so, we’ve just established that something that can be positive can be quickly made annoying as fuck. You all know from life experience that more negative things can be annoying as fuck. I know for a fact she knows what it is to have someone do annoying things because she was complaining about what annoyed her about our other housemate. So how can she honestly believe that no one would complain about her, and then become upset when she realizes someone could and probably does? All while *she* is complaining about someone else?!

I have a theory. It has to do with the great evil of being politically correct. In being politically correct, one is to use euphemisms or otherwise hide whatever one actually means. If someone wraps up what they want to say in enough cotton candy, it won’t be so bad that they’re calling you a disgusting freak, apparently. Apparently it is much better to call you “a controversial individual of unique nature that is often in social conflict with peer behavior.” Yeah, because all of that doesn’t mean the same damned thing. Another great example of this type of lying can be found on resumes under job titles and duties. Suddenly a person that has a job cleaning pig styes is a “Animal Cleanliness Controller” and shoveling poo is “Waste management.” The point is, it is all LYING. If you have to conceal what you actually mean in any capacity, it is a type of deception. Worse, it is expected by society as the norm now.

People use this deception as a security blanket. They can say the most hateful things and pretend it’s not hateful. Suddenly it’s not “We don’t hire fags” it’s “we don’t hire anyone that makes risky lifestyle choices to ensure we have funding to help our employees when they are in need. Our apologies.” If you can take something that hateful and make it into something that is on the surface that benign, that even makes some logical sense (“Oh, well, they shouldn’t be extending health insurance to someone that is jumping off bridges or something for a hobby, it’d be expensive if they had to pay for them being hurt!” one might think, hearing that out of context and *not* directly after someone asks about your living arrangements and you have said “I live with my partner.”) then what limit is there to what you can do? What limit is there to what you can suddenly make inoffensive? Suddenly it is not that you leave your clothes lying all over the floor because you’re a lazy asshole, it is that your “creative mind has difficulty grasping inorganic systems of organization.” Oh, so it’s not your fault that you just take off your clothes and throw them on the floor, suddenly it’s because you have an organizational disability. Right.

I understand the PC bullshit that is supposed to be polite because HEY, chances are if you’ve put on some weight since high school (like everyone has) you know it. You don’t need someone coming up and going “Wow, you got fat.” No. You don’t comment on the fact their ass has grown by three sizes, you say “Oh, your hair looks lovely!” That implies some forethought about the other person’s feelings. You recognize that they probably know they’re bigger than they used to be. No one needs to tell them. It’s a form of deception in the fact you filtered what you said, but it is not the PC malarkey I listed above. If it was, what would have been said instead was “I see you don’t have to shop in the mediums anymore! You always used to complain everything was picked over. I bet you have your choice of anything you want, now! Awesome.”

Point is, people have tricked themselves into honestly believing that if they’re not outright calling someone a lard-ass or outright breaking your dishes purposely they’re not being offensive and no one has anything they can complain about. They’re always considerate– except when someone else should be considerate of their inability to grasp what a hamper is. It’s all about the diffusion of blame onto other people for not accepting your short comings. YOU can’t help what’s wrong with you– but everyone else just needs to learn to stop being so lazy and pick up their clothes. And the very idea that someone would complain about what you can’t change– my god. They’re such horrible people! You’re a victim, you’re coping with your organizational learning disability as best you can!

All this taken into consideration, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that my roommate cannot grasp why anyone would dislike her or complain about her. After all, I’m just a meanie-face for implying that she’s somehow not perfect just how she is. I really should just learn to accept the fact she is, in fact, just exceptionally gifted at alternative means of anger channeling and conflict management that can hold multiple differing opinions at the same time. It’s everyone else that’s a sulking, passive aggressive hypocrite.

Silly me.

____________________________________________________________

Small Note: The post published just prior to this has been moved to private visibility. It only provoked silence, which is really not what I’d like to have here. Apologies to anyone that wanted it kept up. I just didn’t see the point.

The Burning Giraffe

Once upon a time, there was a girl. “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like I’ve been somehow torn out of a surrealist painting.”

Normal is relative, she knew. What is normal for one person is not for another– however, she concluded that we can all agree that there are some things that there is a sort of agreed upon definition of.

This girl feels she is taken from a surrealist painting because her perceptions, compared with others, are abnormal. This girl’s normal is made up of giraffes on fire.

What brought all this on for her was seemingly innocuous: her class was discussing birthdays as a child what they entailed culturally. She followed everything they said at first, knowing what “should” happen: There’s cake, a party, everyone gives you presents… but then she nearly laughed out loud at another condition that is supposed to be in place that seemed absurd to her mind.

“It’s almost impossible to get in trouble on your birthday, isn’t it?”

Everyone around her nodded and agreed. Her laughter quickly died, and she slid down in her chair.

This was not an isolated incident for the girl. Another one, brought up by a web comic one evening:

“Hey… your parents go through a few different names before they remember yours, right?”

The confused expression said it all. It was confirmed by the response of the girl’s new shrink.

“Occasionally my parents, who are in their 70s, will call me my brother’s name, but it’s always followed by ‘Oh! I’m sorry, Scott.'” He said.

“So it’s not normal to go through your mother’s name, your sister’s name, and whatever before they get to yours fairly regularly.”

“No.” Not in the way described.

“Okay, well… when you talk to me, you have to tell me that shit isn’t normal. I don’t know.”

The Burning Giraffe doesn’t stop there.

She watched a youtube video of a director throwing a fit on set, guided there by an article on the insanity of the film industry. Most people watched it and laughed at absurdity of the reaction: it’s a grown man throwing a temper tantrum like a five year old. She was amused and disappointed in humanity, just like every other viewer, at first. However, she also had the addition of a knee jerk reaction of sick terror at the point where the director comes back into the set, through a side door and seemingly out of nowhere to resume his tirade. She honestly and truly felt, for a split second, someone was coming through her bedroom door to do the same to her. And this was in her room, in her house a city away from where this could have happened. She had to wrestle that stupid fear to the ground with logic before the sickness would leave, and even then, a lesser form lingered.

That disturbed her. She didn’t mind being unusual, that was her common state. Perhaps her family is just a little strange. Auto-immunity on your birthday not existing and almost no physical contact can’t be that unusual. Not all families are huggy. Not all parents will let you get away with setting the couch on fire just because you happened to be born that day, expecting the same standard of behavior they always expect. That seemed reasonable.

What doesn’t seem reasonable is a grown woman, in her own house an hour away from her parents’ house, terrified her father is going to come through the door and start screaming, complete with exactly what the director said at the end of that youtube video.

“I DIDN’T FUCKING YELL AT YOU.”

… off runs the burning giraffe. It’s normal to the giraffe to be on fire, and it’s normal that it is running around a desolate setting with strange people without faces.

It’s normal for the giraffe to be on fire here. Most giraffes would be grazing or chilling at the waterhole. Now, what is truly normal: to be on fire, or to be going about life?

She never used to know it was abnormal to live in this world of zoo animals aflame. She used to say “Well, my home life sucks, but so does everyone’s.” Apparently it doesn’t. Apparently other people’s birthday memories don’t include hysterically sobbing on the couch while being screamed at as a teenager and not being allowed to move or leave until their older sister forcibly rescued them. Apparently other people don’t have the recollection of being spanked so hard as a kid a handprint stayed there for the rest of the day, possibly longer, they just can’t remember, and are terribly frustrated that interferes with the comforting lie that “Well, at least they never hit me.” Apparently other people don’t rationalize away that pesky, interfering fact and say to themselves, “everyone was spanked when they were little,” leaving out the fact that other people don’t have stories like that one (or have problems with anyone touching their ass with an open palm to this day.) Apparently other people never had to deal with their clothes being yanked on, or inappropriate comments about their body. Apparently most people don’t have the disturbing realization that some of the shit that has been said to them falls under the definition of sexual harassment. Apparently, none of this was normal, and no one bothered to tell her.

Normal people probably don’t worry about libel when talking about their lives, she knew. She knew names in true stories were often changed to protect the innocent, but that wasn’t what would occur should she tell someone. It would be to protect the guilty. Having a strong sense of what is just, that made her sick. Angry.

So, instead of writing it herself, she asked her friend if she would tell her story on her blog. Looking at the words there in print, identity hidden, she felt better. No one had to know, but the process of it being written down made her heart lighter, even if it did make her cry a couple times in the process. She asked her friend to add a last note as to why she wanted her story told.

“Some people don’t know what normal love is. Or what normal life is. Be patient with them.” She paused a moment in her dictation. “And don’t feel sorry for me. That’s not what I want. If anything seems weird in your friends’ or families lives, if they seem not to know what a normal family is, reach out to them. Adopt them into yours. Help them find someone to talk to that will help them realize that even after years and years of not normal, things can be okay.” She lost her voice for a moment, then continued: “Tell them they don’t deserve this.” She turned away and it took her a few moments before she could finally say the last, most important part of all her tale: “Please-” her chest jerked, forcing a pause, “please tell them it’s not their fault.”

And with that final statement, she wept.

****

Sort of a PSA, but not really, considering it’s true. If you know who the girl is, please don’t mention it in your comments or responses. She’d really rather not have her parents find this and sue her ass for libel, no matter how unlikely that scenario is. Leave responses or well wishes to her below if you want, but if you really wanna help, go talk to that person you know whose life sucks balls. They’ll appreciate it.

*ahem* Now, if this sounds like you, or someone you know, call 555-…

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