No, I don't mean yeast infections (sorry, had to do it). I mean that I went to a lecture by Lauren Greenfield about her exhibition of photography called Girl Culture. It was fascinating to me, as most personal, revealing works are (more on it later), but it also spurred my thinking on women and the way I view them. It's just a recent development that I've become noticeably superficial. As I was thinking about it, I remembered that I didn't start analyzing superficially until this summer when I was in Virginia. Partially as a result of my isolation from others my age and partially because I was bored, I began to evaluate appearances just to see if I could tell whether I found someone physically appealing or not. Since then the habit has stuck. I've been doing it fairly consistently, and I really think it needs to stop. I need to stop thinking of girls as girls in lieu of just "other people." It's like some mental segregation in mind, and after thinking on it I've decided I don't like it. Even if it may have heightened my senses in the search for a love/lust interest, I've found that sort of thing isn't too terribly important, at least to the point where I'd actively seek it out.
I also began thinking about my subconscious desire to be recognized/famous. This needs to stop. It's been sneaking up on me after I expelled it awhile ago, and it's made me start feeling rather worthless and inferior. One of the entire points of 18 was to commemorate the regular individual, and as I also learned in 18 most people aren't really going to be concerned with your activities that don't directly involve them, especially to the extent you'd desire. I don't need to be famous, I don't need to be recognized, and I certainly don't need to be better than anyone else. I need to be happy, I need to enjoy my life, I need to help others do both of those along with me, and that is absolutely it. Ok self?
So, mental checklist: Stop thinking of girls as girls and stop thinking of self as needing to assert worth/superiority.
At any rate, Mrs. Greenfield's exhibit was fairly interesting. It was sickening, to see the rampant superificiality and materialism. The pictures of the anorexic models/younger girls made me squirm in my seat in disgust. I also found it disheartening to hear about a girl on a college track team who got thrown off her team for stripping (the way she had to pay her way through college). The way they found out she was a stripper was when the school's entire football team came in as patrons and revealed her position. Pretty sick, eh?
I was fortunate enough to ask Mrs. Greenfield, who appeared to be a pretty intelligent, witty woman a question. I asked "In our society it seems like sexuality is really taboo, in terms of TV, movies, and video games, especially compared to violence, and yet in your work and our culture it seems to run rampant. How do you think it's possible that these two coexist?" She responded, laughing, "Oh, a hard one for my last question. I don't know. I guess I'd better take another question." I was rather disappointed. I thought someone who'd spent so much time investigating this culture of sexuality might have some insight into how it exists inside a society that aims to crush it. Ah well.
Thursday, September 29
Wednesday, September 28
I went tutoring again at the elementary school today. It's a regular lesson in child psychology. It was kind of sad, too. They were all so... competitive. It seemed like they didn't really have friends, just competitors. Many of them had really bad attitudes, of course they wouldn't listen to us, and there was even a little alpha male with a tiny gang that picked fights. And these kids are like 9. *sigh*
The good news is that when they got some 1 on 1 attention they were pretty motivated to read/work. But it takes a lot of doing. I have no idea how elementary school teachers can work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, fo 30 years. It's astonishing.
The good news is that when they got some 1 on 1 attention they were pretty motivated to read/work. But it takes a lot of doing. I have no idea how elementary school teachers can work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, fo 30 years. It's astonishing.
Tuesday, September 27
Do you ever feel truly alone, no matter how much evidence there is to the contrary? Of course you do. It's odd, isn't it? I sort of feel like this feeling and I will get well acquainted as the years go on. I look ahead, to me teaching, and see someone alone. I don't really forsee a wife, not now, not for me. Possible? Certainly. But I'd say there's at least 60-40 odds to the contrary.
But it's more than that. I see myself, and many adults, as people who go to work, come home, live truly, if not literally, alone, and then repeat ad nauseam. It's not bad, per se. It's just sort of... tragic. How part of our lives can be so full, and yet there are these periods where we can't help but be empty. It's peaceful, in a sorrowful way.
If I come to be a teacher, living alone, I see myself having this feeling. The best way to describe it is a sad smile. The smile you flash when you're trying to fake happiness, but no one's fooled. Not even yourself.
Romanticizing, certainly. And I do think I can be happy, if all goes according to plan. But things have a habit of not following plans, no matter how they're accorded. And the greater the deviation, the more the smile is feigned.
But it's more than that. I see myself, and many adults, as people who go to work, come home, live truly, if not literally, alone, and then repeat ad nauseam. It's not bad, per se. It's just sort of... tragic. How part of our lives can be so full, and yet there are these periods where we can't help but be empty. It's peaceful, in a sorrowful way.
If I come to be a teacher, living alone, I see myself having this feeling. The best way to describe it is a sad smile. The smile you flash when you're trying to fake happiness, but no one's fooled. Not even yourself.
Romanticizing, certainly. And I do think I can be happy, if all goes according to plan. But things have a habit of not following plans, no matter how they're accorded. And the greater the deviation, the more the smile is feigned.
Thursday, September 22
Addendum
(In response/continuation of the below post. Might want to read the other first, but I doubt you'd be missing much.)
I confuse myself. It's why I add that little disclaimer of "how I feel at the moment", because as soon as I write something I consider "definitive" down, I think back over it and figure out how wrong it is. Or how wrong it might be.
In this particular instance, I remember that I'm not too keen on some of the ideas involved in a relationship. The responsibility, the lack of freedom, the general awkwardness. My mood swings only compound the problem, and I'd wager that opening up my "emotional box" again might just cause the fluctuation to become significantly more dynamic. At the moment, I'm at a fairly constant gray/apathy. It goes up to minor carefree euphoria and down to briefly suicidal stress/depression, but they're both still innately gray emotions.
There's an interesting thing about me and caring. When I care about something, I tend to connect to it and really care about it. I suppose it's true for most people. For instance, when I watch a Tennessee football game and care if they win, I really get into it. I jump up and cheer, get anxious, and become rather depressed when things don't go "as planned."
I also really care about keeping my scholarship and getting a job as a teacher. Hence, I get really stressed over school and nervous when I think of all the ways I can lose my future, imaginary job. You can imagine how I'd react when I really cared about a volatile, unpredictable, frustrating person.
I know I've mentioned it before, but I don't handle passion well. Anger, especially. When I get really angry, I cry. I get choked up, to the point where I can't speak. I shake constantly (like I do whenever I have to perform unmedicated in front of a group). Emotion is a dangerous thing for me. It can potentially lead to a constant euphoria or an abysmal decent into crippling depression. So I guess that's what it comes down to. Do I want my constant contentment? Or do I want to take a risk?
I guess right now, I'd prefer the contentment over a risk. I look for an impossibility, a "sure thing", so that I can tell myself "Well, I don't really want/need it anyway" when I obviously can't find it. So, the further the deviance from the ideal, the greater the risk. And, right now, I'm not much of a risk taker.
But who knows? I'm likely to change any minute. This may lead you to wonder why, given the admittedly temporary quality of my mindsets, do I bother writing about them? Well, that's what this blog is partially for, a record of my psyche. I could care less what I did today, especially if it was trivial (as most things are). But being able to come back and look at my frame of mind/past viewpoints and observe how I've changed, that's valuable. It might even help me to understand my students, assuming I keep my job long enough to forget what being a teenager is like.
At this point I'm tempted to make self-deprecatory comments to lessen the risk of exposing my real thoughts. But honestly, I don't judge any of you, so I'd like to think that the "people who matter don't mind," as it were. I'd also like more perspective, to know how others feel and view me and themselves, in this regard and in all others. I might be offended/indignant, but I'll get over it and be better off for it. After all, this whole tirade started because my sister said something I thought was completely preposterous.
In the words of that saint among saints Ryan North, "I guess there is a lesson here FOR US ALL!"
I confuse myself. It's why I add that little disclaimer of "how I feel at the moment", because as soon as I write something I consider "definitive" down, I think back over it and figure out how wrong it is. Or how wrong it might be.
In this particular instance, I remember that I'm not too keen on some of the ideas involved in a relationship. The responsibility, the lack of freedom, the general awkwardness. My mood swings only compound the problem, and I'd wager that opening up my "emotional box" again might just cause the fluctuation to become significantly more dynamic. At the moment, I'm at a fairly constant gray/apathy. It goes up to minor carefree euphoria and down to briefly suicidal stress/depression, but they're both still innately gray emotions.
There's an interesting thing about me and caring. When I care about something, I tend to connect to it and really care about it. I suppose it's true for most people. For instance, when I watch a Tennessee football game and care if they win, I really get into it. I jump up and cheer, get anxious, and become rather depressed when things don't go "as planned."
I also really care about keeping my scholarship and getting a job as a teacher. Hence, I get really stressed over school and nervous when I think of all the ways I can lose my future, imaginary job. You can imagine how I'd react when I really cared about a volatile, unpredictable, frustrating person.
I know I've mentioned it before, but I don't handle passion well. Anger, especially. When I get really angry, I cry. I get choked up, to the point where I can't speak. I shake constantly (like I do whenever I have to perform unmedicated in front of a group). Emotion is a dangerous thing for me. It can potentially lead to a constant euphoria or an abysmal decent into crippling depression. So I guess that's what it comes down to. Do I want my constant contentment? Or do I want to take a risk?
I guess right now, I'd prefer the contentment over a risk. I look for an impossibility, a "sure thing", so that I can tell myself "Well, I don't really want/need it anyway" when I obviously can't find it. So, the further the deviance from the ideal, the greater the risk. And, right now, I'm not much of a risk taker.
But who knows? I'm likely to change any minute. This may lead you to wonder why, given the admittedly temporary quality of my mindsets, do I bother writing about them? Well, that's what this blog is partially for, a record of my psyche. I could care less what I did today, especially if it was trivial (as most things are). But being able to come back and look at my frame of mind/past viewpoints and observe how I've changed, that's valuable. It might even help me to understand my students, assuming I keep my job long enough to forget what being a teenager is like.
At this point I'm tempted to make self-deprecatory comments to lessen the risk of exposing my real thoughts. But honestly, I don't judge any of you, so I'd like to think that the "people who matter don't mind," as it were. I'd also like more perspective, to know how others feel and view me and themselves, in this regard and in all others. I might be offended/indignant, but I'll get over it and be better off for it. After all, this whole tirade started because my sister said something I thought was completely preposterous.
In the words of that saint among saints Ryan North, "I guess there is a lesson here FOR US ALL!"
Female Imagination
A few weeks ago, my sister and I went to see Macbeth. It was rather odd because my sister and I don't really do things with each other. I'm very... guarded around my family, whereas with anyone else I'm at least marginally comfortable with I'll tell them practically anything about myself. I don't really know them, and I don't really think they know me. I guess it's just easier.
Anyway, we walking back from the play and for some reason my sister said that I'm one of the most superificial people she knows. I was rather indignant. She said I have "impossible standards", wanting someone who's pretty and has a good personality. Of course, what person doesn't? Not to mention that, from what I've gathered, my definition of "pretty" is a fair bit below the "norm." For me, someone's personality has a very significant effect on the way I perceive them, and thus see their physical form.
But lately I've begun to doubt this. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe my standards are too high. I've consoled myself by saying that I haven't met anyone with the right personality, but honestly does such a thing exist? I've thought about what I'd want, and, as egotistical as it sounds, I sort of want a female clone of myself.
I guess that's to be expected, since I'm pretty much the person I want to be, so my "ideal" is around myself. I could tolerate neglible deviations, such as taste in music, hobbies, political/spiritual views (as long as she didn't think I was going to Hell). But I sort of want a... complement. Someone who not only goes along with my errant madness, but adds to it and builds upon it in a way that makes us both laugh. Someone who's not concerned with who's doing whom how often, unless one of the parties involved wants/needs to talk about it. Someone who doesn't judge other people as long as they don't harm others. Someone passionate, but patient.
She wouldn't have to be very "feminine", as long as she didn't mind my lack of "masculinity." She wouldn't have to be very thin, as long as she wasn't noticeably obese. Height and breast size don't matter. She'd just need to have nice hair, preferably longer (although as long as it's not boy short I could probably stand it), and a pretty face. That's the worst part, the face. That's where the worst superficiality comes in. It's something that a person can't help. Something I can't define. Something one either passes or fails with no warning and no explanation other than "that's the way things are."
All and all, that seems to be where I stand. At the moment. I don't know my mind well enough to know if that's really how I feel. But it's how I think I feel. Is it impossible? No. Improbable? It seems like it. And I guess, at this point, most people would lower their standards. Most people would "make do." But I don't want to make do. I don't need to make do. I can go my entire life not dating once and still be happy. I could be happier, I could be more adequately "fulfilled", but I can do with solitude. So I keep my unrealistic, superifical standards, knowing that even if I found someone to meet them, I would self-destruct the realtionship in due time.
What's a poor, egotistical jerk to do?
Anyway, we walking back from the play and for some reason my sister said that I'm one of the most superificial people she knows. I was rather indignant. She said I have "impossible standards", wanting someone who's pretty and has a good personality. Of course, what person doesn't? Not to mention that, from what I've gathered, my definition of "pretty" is a fair bit below the "norm." For me, someone's personality has a very significant effect on the way I perceive them, and thus see their physical form.
But lately I've begun to doubt this. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe my standards are too high. I've consoled myself by saying that I haven't met anyone with the right personality, but honestly does such a thing exist? I've thought about what I'd want, and, as egotistical as it sounds, I sort of want a female clone of myself.
I guess that's to be expected, since I'm pretty much the person I want to be, so my "ideal" is around myself. I could tolerate neglible deviations, such as taste in music, hobbies, political/spiritual views (as long as she didn't think I was going to Hell). But I sort of want a... complement. Someone who not only goes along with my errant madness, but adds to it and builds upon it in a way that makes us both laugh. Someone who's not concerned with who's doing whom how often, unless one of the parties involved wants/needs to talk about it. Someone who doesn't judge other people as long as they don't harm others. Someone passionate, but patient.
She wouldn't have to be very "feminine", as long as she didn't mind my lack of "masculinity." She wouldn't have to be very thin, as long as she wasn't noticeably obese. Height and breast size don't matter. She'd just need to have nice hair, preferably longer (although as long as it's not boy short I could probably stand it), and a pretty face. That's the worst part, the face. That's where the worst superficiality comes in. It's something that a person can't help. Something I can't define. Something one either passes or fails with no warning and no explanation other than "that's the way things are."
All and all, that seems to be where I stand. At the moment. I don't know my mind well enough to know if that's really how I feel. But it's how I think I feel. Is it impossible? No. Improbable? It seems like it. And I guess, at this point, most people would lower their standards. Most people would "make do." But I don't want to make do. I don't need to make do. I can go my entire life not dating once and still be happy. I could be happier, I could be more adequately "fulfilled", but I can do with solitude. So I keep my unrealistic, superifical standards, knowing that even if I found someone to meet them, I would self-destruct the realtionship in due time.
What's a poor, egotistical jerk to do?
Wednesday, September 14
Sacrihilarity
The crazies were out in force this morning. No, I don't mean libertarians. I mean the missionaries. Except this time they cam bearing signs. Really, really big signs.
It was kind of funny. They stood there with signs like "OBEY JESUS OR PERISH" and "EMBRACE JESUS LEST YE BE JUDGED" with lightning bolts or something like that and pretty much damned us all to Hell. One said, "God loved us so much he gave his only son to us!" I promptly thought of Elvis's "Return to Sender", broke up laughing, and felt all sinful-like.
I was inspired to create a giant sign that simply read "I DISAGREE." Then I'd put on a silly hat, take out a lawnchair and a shadeumbrella, and sit there all relaxed like. Or, perhaps, a sign reading "SATAN IS MY HOMEBOY."
Another idea was to haveone person come out with a sign saying "I LIKE KITTENS." He/She would yell things like "Forsake the dogs of the damned and embrace the felinic faith!" Then, a week later, someone with a sign saying "I LIKE PUPPIES." would come out and do a reverse performance. The two would eventually meet and an epic confrontation would ensue.
Just, you know, ideas for a rainy day. Raining hellfire and brimstone, that is.
It was kind of funny. They stood there with signs like "OBEY JESUS OR PERISH" and "EMBRACE JESUS LEST YE BE JUDGED" with lightning bolts or something like that and pretty much damned us all to Hell. One said, "God loved us so much he gave his only son to us!" I promptly thought of Elvis's "Return to Sender", broke up laughing, and felt all sinful-like.
I was inspired to create a giant sign that simply read "I DISAGREE." Then I'd put on a silly hat, take out a lawnchair and a shadeumbrella, and sit there all relaxed like. Or, perhaps, a sign reading "SATAN IS MY HOMEBOY."
Another idea was to haveone person come out with a sign saying "I LIKE KITTENS." He/She would yell things like "Forsake the dogs of the damned and embrace the felinic faith!" Then, a week later, someone with a sign saying "I LIKE PUPPIES." would come out and do a reverse performance. The two would eventually meet and an epic confrontation would ensue.
Just, you know, ideas for a rainy day. Raining hellfire and brimstone, that is.
Friday, September 9
Mission Uncomplished
Last night, as I walking back to my dorm with two of my new, fancy college friends, I was approached by, for lack of a better term, missionaries. I declined to take one of their little books, but Christopher decided he'd actually talk to them. It was rather distressing, because while I loathe the concept of Hell and am annoyed by all the contradictions of Christianity, I also really dislike deception. And Christopher just stood there, leading this woman on, toying with her for his own amusement. I saw him try to repress a smirk after a few of her comments, which was rather amusing, but the entire situation was uncomfortable. Elise, the other friend there, called him a "Sky Masteron" which I found rather apt.
I don't really know what to do about missionaries. I generally just try to avoid them. I could try to debate with them, but with mentalities like this, I rather doubt I'd have much success. Of course I don't believe that's a viewpoint indicative of a very significant portion of Christians, but it's still rather disturbing. Actually, it's kind of funny too. You ought to read "No Fear", "The Last Generation", and "The Missing Day" for some further reading on that site (listed under tracts). We agnostics are bbaaadddd people.
I don't really know what to do about missionaries. I generally just try to avoid them. I could try to debate with them, but with mentalities like this, I rather doubt I'd have much success. Of course I don't believe that's a viewpoint indicative of a very significant portion of Christians, but it's still rather disturbing. Actually, it's kind of funny too. You ought to read "No Fear", "The Last Generation", and "The Missing Day" for some further reading on that site (listed under tracts). We agnostics are bbaaadddd people.
Thursday, September 8
Facebooking the Music
After I got invited to be a friend of someone I've never met, I decided facebook is quite silly, so I further attacked my profile. I believe the proposterity is aboot complete, though further revisions may be necessary. Take that CIA soulstealers!
Monday, September 5
The CIA has my soul!
I capitulated and finally made a facebook account. But I'm going to make it as hard as I can for those smarmy sons of sociali in the CIA to steal my kidneys. Hence I created a biography that is a tad... altered. Is it effective? You be the judge:
Dylan Meggs was born the son of a rich Albanian Ferret Harvester back in 1873. Early in his life, he discovered he had a penchant for catching tuberculosis. Seeking to make the best of a decimating situation, he exchanged his frequent diseases for fresh peanut brittle with intoxicated Peruvian Socialists.
As his peanut brittle empire continued to amass its nutty wealth, Dylan looked for avenues to express his growing ambivalence towards the letter "Q." He found such a vehicle in the form of one Mrs. Albierta Telesonatta McMingerson. Mrs. McMingerson, a widower, taught Dylan the ancient ways of the transcendental milkman. The two fell deeply in love, but in a tragic (some people believe intentional) accident involving William McKinley and a vindictive hot air balloon, Mrs. McMingerson was imploded.
Dylan was inconsolable. He continued his harvest of tuberculosis, but no amount of peanut brittle could stem the overwhelming misery that consumed him. Fortunately, WWI arrived and with it came many an opportunity to justify tap-dancing, an underground movement Dylan had been a part of since the Cleveland administration. Dylan tap-danced for Uncle Sam like no man had ever tap-danced before. They called him "The Dancin' Dylnamo", a name which would later result in legal action by a Japanese porn star of the same title. Dylan's dancing enabled an Allied victory, but the somber, insidious undertones of his performances spread a sense of disillusionment throughout America.
The Roaring 20's came and went, a period in which Dylan spent most of his time drunk in a dark alley wearing only one shoe and an incredulous expression.
The Great Depression shook Dylan from his stupor and inspired him to donate his peanut brittle to a needy country. Dylan traveled the country in a rickety old wagon pulled by a pack of three-legged grizzly bears, spreading his bountiful peanut brittle with all who dared to venture close enough to figure out where all those screams were coming from.
His supply of peanut brittle exhausted, Dylan returned to Knoxville, confident that he had changed the world. The country went to war once again, and many urged Dylan to don his tap-dancing regalia once more. However, shortly after the way began, Dylan developed an addiction to shiny objects. This obsession consumed him, and it wasn’t until 1952 that his friends and family convinced him to enter into rehab. 3583 grueling seconds later, Dylan emerged a new, albeit defeated, man. He went into hiding, and gradually faded from public memory for years.
Then, in 1984, Dylan reemerged in a fiery comeback that would have taken the nation by storm if he’d only remembered to pay his library fines. As it was, the outstanding debt was so monumental Dylan was placed into a maximum security internment facility. It was there he learned the tricks of the taffy trade and made connections that would cement his rise to power in the late 1990’s. A grateful descendant of a peanut brittle-recievee paid Dylan’s fines, thus allowing him to return to his home state and forge an empire of such fantastic proportions it seemed trivial. Starting a grass roots campaign, Dylan developed a brand of taffy that combined Italian voodoo and good ole Tennessean methamphetamines that became an overnight sensation. The money rolled in, along with various federal agents, and Dylan’s life became a whirlwind of whores, public broadcasting, and spiked apple juice.
Then, tragedy. On April 27, 2004, Dylan Meggs was shot four times in the left elbow by a crazed insurance salesman with a rubber machete and nothing to lose. He retired from the public scene and is currently living out the last of his days in an intensive care unit outside of Topeka.
Dylan Meggs was born the son of a rich Albanian Ferret Harvester back in 1873. Early in his life, he discovered he had a penchant for catching tuberculosis. Seeking to make the best of a decimating situation, he exchanged his frequent diseases for fresh peanut brittle with intoxicated Peruvian Socialists.
As his peanut brittle empire continued to amass its nutty wealth, Dylan looked for avenues to express his growing ambivalence towards the letter "Q." He found such a vehicle in the form of one Mrs. Albierta Telesonatta McMingerson. Mrs. McMingerson, a widower, taught Dylan the ancient ways of the transcendental milkman. The two fell deeply in love, but in a tragic (some people believe intentional) accident involving William McKinley and a vindictive hot air balloon, Mrs. McMingerson was imploded.
Dylan was inconsolable. He continued his harvest of tuberculosis, but no amount of peanut brittle could stem the overwhelming misery that consumed him. Fortunately, WWI arrived and with it came many an opportunity to justify tap-dancing, an underground movement Dylan had been a part of since the Cleveland administration. Dylan tap-danced for Uncle Sam like no man had ever tap-danced before. They called him "The Dancin' Dylnamo", a name which would later result in legal action by a Japanese porn star of the same title. Dylan's dancing enabled an Allied victory, but the somber, insidious undertones of his performances spread a sense of disillusionment throughout America.
The Roaring 20's came and went, a period in which Dylan spent most of his time drunk in a dark alley wearing only one shoe and an incredulous expression.
The Great Depression shook Dylan from his stupor and inspired him to donate his peanut brittle to a needy country. Dylan traveled the country in a rickety old wagon pulled by a pack of three-legged grizzly bears, spreading his bountiful peanut brittle with all who dared to venture close enough to figure out where all those screams were coming from.
His supply of peanut brittle exhausted, Dylan returned to Knoxville, confident that he had changed the world. The country went to war once again, and many urged Dylan to don his tap-dancing regalia once more. However, shortly after the way began, Dylan developed an addiction to shiny objects. This obsession consumed him, and it wasn’t until 1952 that his friends and family convinced him to enter into rehab. 3583 grueling seconds later, Dylan emerged a new, albeit defeated, man. He went into hiding, and gradually faded from public memory for years.
Then, in 1984, Dylan reemerged in a fiery comeback that would have taken the nation by storm if he’d only remembered to pay his library fines. As it was, the outstanding debt was so monumental Dylan was placed into a maximum security internment facility. It was there he learned the tricks of the taffy trade and made connections that would cement his rise to power in the late 1990’s. A grateful descendant of a peanut brittle-recievee paid Dylan’s fines, thus allowing him to return to his home state and forge an empire of such fantastic proportions it seemed trivial. Starting a grass roots campaign, Dylan developed a brand of taffy that combined Italian voodoo and good ole Tennessean methamphetamines that became an overnight sensation. The money rolled in, along with various federal agents, and Dylan’s life became a whirlwind of whores, public broadcasting, and spiked apple juice.
Then, tragedy. On April 27, 2004, Dylan Meggs was shot four times in the left elbow by a crazed insurance salesman with a rubber machete and nothing to lose. He retired from the public scene and is currently living out the last of his days in an intensive care unit outside of Topeka.
Persistence is Futile
-Jack Kevorkian's motto
Last night was pretty good. I was initially wary of going to/being at a party of primarily people in my sister's grade, and I did feel rather disconnected from "the group." The differences between the "AP crowd" in her grade and mine were noticeably different. I suppose that's expected of course, but it's sort of interesting how cliques of the same sort of "set" of people can be so diverse. Further proof of why stereotyping and trying to group people is pointless. Still, each group, especially comparing the top of the class the year before me, my year, and the year behind me, has its own unique character. Kinda neat.
Anyway, I didn't mesh with them well. What I did instead was stay inside with someone else who didn't "fit in." She is in Carrie's grade, but she's quite religious and rather conservative in action, so the shenanigans of the others weren't really appealing to her. So we just sat inside and talked. I fear I was slightly didactic, but we developed a good rapport and talked for a few hours. It was nice, getting to know someone, as in know them better. There's just something really enjoyable about it for me, when I can look back on a conversation and think "Something actually happened." That feeling of having learned something deeper than the superficial pleasantries of normal conversation, of having connected to another individual really leaves you feeling fulfilled. It's the sort of thing I'd love to do when I become a teacher.
I got back to my dorm about 12:30 and went over to Christopher Martin and John's room, just to say hi. I ended up staying there til 3:30 as they were having a conversation about the meaning of self. I don't normally enjoy philosophical conversations, but I was able to just listen to most of it and add annoying comments when the oppurtunity rose (Christopher: "So we can establish that there are real laws of logic." Me: "Heh, ' I got pulled over for mental speeding, but I think the policeman's going to let me off with a warning!' ").
Christopher also has this chair that makes one feel positively fetal. I felt a strange sense of calm inside it, but I also felt more genuinely fearful. I actually regressed to a more childlike state of mind. That might have contributed to my willingness to stay with the discussion. It ended up being pretty interesting, although I couldn't put any of it down in here in coherent form for the life of me. Suffice it to say, when I finally pulled myself away three hours later, I returned ever so briefly before going to bed so that I could have the last word.
That word? "Boobies."
Last night was pretty good. I was initially wary of going to/being at a party of primarily people in my sister's grade, and I did feel rather disconnected from "the group." The differences between the "AP crowd" in her grade and mine were noticeably different. I suppose that's expected of course, but it's sort of interesting how cliques of the same sort of "set" of people can be so diverse. Further proof of why stereotyping and trying to group people is pointless. Still, each group, especially comparing the top of the class the year before me, my year, and the year behind me, has its own unique character. Kinda neat.
Anyway, I didn't mesh with them well. What I did instead was stay inside with someone else who didn't "fit in." She is in Carrie's grade, but she's quite religious and rather conservative in action, so the shenanigans of the others weren't really appealing to her. So we just sat inside and talked. I fear I was slightly didactic, but we developed a good rapport and talked for a few hours. It was nice, getting to know someone, as in know them better. There's just something really enjoyable about it for me, when I can look back on a conversation and think "Something actually happened." That feeling of having learned something deeper than the superficial pleasantries of normal conversation, of having connected to another individual really leaves you feeling fulfilled. It's the sort of thing I'd love to do when I become a teacher.
I got back to my dorm about 12:30 and went over to Christopher Martin and John's room, just to say hi. I ended up staying there til 3:30 as they were having a conversation about the meaning of self. I don't normally enjoy philosophical conversations, but I was able to just listen to most of it and add annoying comments when the oppurtunity rose (Christopher: "So we can establish that there are real laws of logic." Me: "Heh, ' I got pulled over for mental speeding, but I think the policeman's going to let me off with a warning!' ").
Christopher also has this chair that makes one feel positively fetal. I felt a strange sense of calm inside it, but I also felt more genuinely fearful. I actually regressed to a more childlike state of mind. That might have contributed to my willingness to stay with the discussion. It ended up being pretty interesting, although I couldn't put any of it down in here in coherent form for the life of me. Suffice it to say, when I finally pulled myself away three hours later, I returned ever so briefly before going to bed so that I could have the last word.
That word? "Boobies."
Friday, September 2
Missing the Mark
I went back to my house to wash laundry and do family-related activities last night. My mission, complete, I grabbed my clothes, walked towards the door, and told my mother, "I guess I'd better head home."
She noticed it too.
I've commented on loss before, but I thought I'd go ahead and do it again. It's odd, for me at least. The actual act of losing, of changing, of taking one more step on my hike to hell is treated almost scientifically. It just "happens." It's not until a bit after the event that you realize how accustomed you'd become to "the way things were." How everything fit so well. How, now that it's gone, your sense of safety and security is merely conceptual.
The actual word itself isn't such an indication. To me, "home" is where I "should be." It's where I return and am "normalized." It's not a word of great significance to me. It was just the moment where it really hit me that I'll never go back to home again. Because it's not home anymore. I'll stay there, of course, but it's no longer my permanent residence.
It will be years until I have a "home" in the real sense of the word. If then.
---
I had a dream a few nights ago, where I tossed and turned, obsessed about people that didn't exist. It's happened with math problems too, a sort of half waking/half sleeping state where I repeat the same process over and over, always incomplete. It's like turning the key in the engine of your car, the engine revs, but it doesn't start. I just keep turning, but the car never starts. The problem, of course, is that I'm half asleep so I don't realize the car isn't starting. I just keep turning the key. It generally takes me 15 minutes to snap out of my stupor. It's almost painful, to keep trying to figure out something in your head that is literally impossible because it's an incomplete nothing.
I'm going crazy and I'm not even drinking. Go figure.
She noticed it too.
I've commented on loss before, but I thought I'd go ahead and do it again. It's odd, for me at least. The actual act of losing, of changing, of taking one more step on my hike to hell is treated almost scientifically. It just "happens." It's not until a bit after the event that you realize how accustomed you'd become to "the way things were." How everything fit so well. How, now that it's gone, your sense of safety and security is merely conceptual.
The actual word itself isn't such an indication. To me, "home" is where I "should be." It's where I return and am "normalized." It's not a word of great significance to me. It was just the moment where it really hit me that I'll never go back to home again. Because it's not home anymore. I'll stay there, of course, but it's no longer my permanent residence.
It will be years until I have a "home" in the real sense of the word. If then.
---
I had a dream a few nights ago, where I tossed and turned, obsessed about people that didn't exist. It's happened with math problems too, a sort of half waking/half sleeping state where I repeat the same process over and over, always incomplete. It's like turning the key in the engine of your car, the engine revs, but it doesn't start. I just keep turning, but the car never starts. The problem, of course, is that I'm half asleep so I don't realize the car isn't starting. I just keep turning the key. It generally takes me 15 minutes to snap out of my stupor. It's almost painful, to keep trying to figure out something in your head that is literally impossible because it's an incomplete nothing.
I'm going crazy and I'm not even drinking. Go figure.