tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86195842845884206302024-03-05T01:51:27.454-08:00so... wake up.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-33286677852953471732011-09-03T00:59:00.000-07:002011-09-03T01:01:49.864-07:00Alli-oop! And Then My Ass Exploded<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I was dressing for a job interview the other day, and I went to pull some pants on. I knew they were going to be a bit tight, but I was thinking at worst I would have to shimmy, suck it in, and be a bit uncomfortable.<br />
I got them to my knees, growled a bit, and shimmyhopped my way back out of them, getting my feet stuck in the inside out legs in the process. I tripped and nearly smacked face first into the dresser and knocked out all my teeth. Then I grabbed another and got them up to just below my butt. Right below. I just stood there looking over my shoulder at this bubble butt I didn't know I had. I looked kind of cartoonish standing there like that. It didn't seem to make sense the way these things were (not) fitting me.<br />
Recently, I have gained <strike>the equivalent of my five year old self</strike> a little weight. <br />
In trying to determine what to do about this, I remembered a time in the not-so-distant past when I thought it would be a good idea to give alli diet pills a try.<br />
<br />
I had been taking them for a few days when I went to my friend Heather's house after work. She is notorious for taking forever to the point of what-in-the-shitting-hell-are-you-doing-in-there to get ready. I was waiting <strike>im</strike>patiently, looking at this long framed sequence of pictures of us being <strike> drunk assholes</strike> adorable and funny together, when it just so happened I needed to fart. Nothing dramatic. Just a little one, you know, in my friend's living room. No big deal, right? <br />
<br />
Little did I know. <br />
<br />
I don't know if you've ever heard the term "alli oops" but at this point, I hadn't. You're probably thinking I let out a huge stench bomb, or rattled the windows, or perhaps if you expect the worst from me, you've come to the conclusion that I shat my pants. Would that it were that simple, my friend. Would that it were. <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
My eyes wandered to pictures of flowers and whatnot on her wall, and I shifted my weight ever so slightly, in anticipation of the tiny little fart I felt coming. I was anticipating a dainty "pfft," if anything at all. Maybe "whsh." As soon as my cheeks parted, my eyes shot open wide with alarm.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://operatorchan.org/t/arch/src/t224208_beaker-oh-shit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://operatorchan.org/t/arch/src/t224208_beaker-oh-shit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Panic, as I realized something had escaped my asshole. Something that was not a "dainty" anything. It felt like a small amount of liquid. "Terrific, I just sharted," I thought. Or maybe, "ACK! SHART! RUN!" I slammed my ass shut as hard as I could, and went waddle-sprinting up the stairs to inspect the damage.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.paraorkut.com/img/pics/images/s/shit_my_pants-4336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://images.paraorkut.com/img/pics/images/s/shit_my_pants-4336.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't stop laughing at this child. Every time I look at it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I cannot explain to you adequately the horror that awaited me in my pants. First let me say that I was still wearing my uniform, which was in part khaki pants. I hate khakis. I think perhaps .0001% of the population looks acceptable in these punishment pants, but this is irrelevant at the moment. I took the pants off, I looked, and what did I see? Curiously, a small orange spot, located directly around the asshole area. I looked at it suspiciously, and went to clean myself up. Apparently the slamming shut of the ass was effective while the pants were on, because while the pants sustained minimal damage, I was a fucking mess. I should also mention at this point that the unsettling orangeness smelled like...<br />
I...it... I mean, 'reeked of cabbage' and 'smelled of hot sick' don't even begin to cover it. My eyes were watering. I was essentially covered from waist to knee in a mess of bright orange oil, and wipe as I might with toilet paper, I was basically just rearranging it. I kept frantically trying to make it GO AWAY, but it just wouldn't. It was horrifying. Eventually, I got in the tub and cleaned myself up, ever thankful that this happened at the house of a friend, and not on a date (which is absolutely something that would happen to me).<br />
<br />
Heather was still blissfully taking her time getting ready, unaware of my plight. She didn't seem to hear the waddle-dash up the stairs or anything. When I finished cleaning myself up, I hand washed my pants, and flung them over the shower. Then I came FLYING out of the bathroom and down the hall to Heather's room, flinging the door open. <br />
<br />
Me: HEATHER!!! HeeEEEeeLLLppPPP!<br />
<br />
Heather: Why are you yell--Why aren't you wearing any pants?<br />
<br />
Me: I. I just...Ijustshatmypants?<br />
<br />
Heather: BAHAHAHAHA!<br />
<br />
Me: HAHAHAH--Hey, fuck you. Give me some pants.<br />
<br />
Heather: Where are yours?<br />
<br />
Me: ...hanging in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
Heather: Sick.<br />
<br />
Me: Yeah, I made cave painting inspired designs all over your walls with them. It looks great. GIVE ME SOME FUCKING PANTS, DICKMOUTH. And do NOT tell anyone about this or I will give you a permanent, ear to ear smiley face.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now here I am telling the whole blogosphere. Err...the five people that read my blog.<br />
<br />
I found out later that this is a common side effect when taking alli. It is sometime referred to as "alli the anal leakage diet pill." They recommend wearing dark colored clothing and possibly pantyliners. Supposedly this can be avoided if you cut your fat intake to some percentage I can't remember right now. Basically, the reason alli helps you lose weight is that it makes you shit out the fat you eat instead of your body absorbing it. I'm pretty sure I didn't have anything fatty, because I don't think I was eating much at all at the time. Ay, I don't know. I have since read all sorts of horror stories of "alli oops"es... but that term makes it sound too cute. Nothing like the hot toxic bright orange ass river of doom I experienced.<br />
--<br />
<br />
Any diet horror stories out there? Pants pollution? </div>sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-8254032260177845712011-01-24T18:21:00.000-08:002011-09-02T20:43:18.546-07:00Let's Give Them Something to Talk About<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When I was younger, I lived in a much smaller city.<br />
<br />
A smaller city with a lot of big mouths, or so it seemed to me.<br />
<br />
I kept hearing gossip about myself, and it started to get on my nerves. Instead of starting a fight with someone, or trying to combat whatever was being said about me that was not true, I decided to liven things up a bit. I started saying crazy things to plant seeds that would <i>cause</i> rumors. I wanted to see how long it would take to get around, and how much ridiculousness people were actually willing to believe (and repeat!).<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
The one I remember most clearly and found the funniest? That I had a three year old daughter named<a href="http://www.myspace.com/littlesophiep"> Sophie.</a><br />
I made her a Myspace profile, and placed her at #1 in my top friends, and friend-requested a couple of my friends. I posted comments on her wall from my profile, and vice versa. I started making random comments about her, in mixed company. I started conversations with my friend who knew the inside scoop, talking about the complications of motherhood, loudly enough to be overheard. Most people were too caught off guard to ask me any questions about this directly. They started talking amongst themselves.<br />
<br />
When anyone did get brave enough to say something like "I didn't know you had a daughter!" My responses were intentionally vague, and I feigned discomfort talking about it, implying that there was some underlying conflict. I filled in the blanks at my leisure, saying whatever came to mind. I didn't really have to make up much, because people starting piecing their own work of fiction together. No one seemed to think it was too unbelievable that they had known me for years, but I had a 'secret' daughter that they had never seen or heard of. I believe the story ended up being something along the lines of that I had little Sophie young, so she had gone to stay with relatives (or her "dad", or something, who knows?), but I now felt that I was in a place where I was able to care for her myself (or something?), so I had gotten her back. I heard second and third hand accounts of people stumbling upon Sophie's profile, being baffled, and then checking with someone else to see if it was true. I swear to you, almost no one contacted me directly to see what was up. Not a single soul told me that they didn't believe me. There were a few people that couldn't tell if I was messing with them or not, and kept asking 'if I was serious,' but if they left the conversation not believing me, they kept that to themselves. Or at least kept it from me...and probably told ten of their friends.<br />
<br />
At some point, my mother got a phone call from someone in the family, asking how they could not have known I had a child.<br />
<br />
The pictures I put on her profile were baby pictures of myself, as well as some random products of internet searches, including some girl's pregnancy photo (A girl I used to be in guard with said she 'wasn't sure if it was real or not, but as soon as she saw the pregnancy picture and looked closely, she knew it had to be, because those were <i>definitely</i> my hands.), someone else's ultrasound, and a random marker drawing. One person that saw the profile and was immediately certain I had a child, to the point of arguing with my then significant other about. She said, "Did you SEE those pictures? That little girl looks JUST LIKE her!"<br />
Eighties chic. Not sure how no one seemed to notice that. Kids don't really dress like they did 20 years ago anymore...<br />
<br />
Eventually the talk of this died down, but I went to absolutely no effort to dissuade anyone from continuing to think Sophie was real. My close friends all ended up in on the joke, and most of them helped me with it. I am pretty sure there are still people out there that believe in little Sophie, who would now be seven, I think.<br />
<br />
</div></div></div>sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-27429422417685866012011-01-19T21:05:00.000-08:002011-01-19T21:08:45.898-08:00From Slanket to JeggingsI was editing a post I wrote a while ago that mentioned how I wanted to make myself an electric snuggie the other day, when I stumbled upon this gem:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/pcynQAAGBLE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
After collecting myself, I shared this video on Facebook, which prompted my friend <a href="http://www.facebook.com/#%21/profile.php?id=511377578">Annabelle</a> to share another video with me: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/7HD9BmRtdSs?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
I have gotten quite a lot of mileage making fun of the <a href="http://www.mainstreet.com/slideshow/small-business/secret-snuggies-success">Snuggie,</a> not to mention the <a href="http://gizmodo.com/5191510/peekaru-is-a-baby-snuggie">variety</a> of <a href="http://gizmodo.com/5251186/the-space-snuggie-could-protect-astronauts-from-radiation">retarded</a> <a href="http://www.crunchgear.com/2009/12/31/snuggle-suit-its-a-robe-with-pants/">options </a>that have<a href="http://www.crunchgear.com/2009/09/14/two-person-snuggie-costs-350-made-from-icelandic-wool/"> followed</a> in its<a href="http://gizmodo.com/5190557/ultimate-battle-the-snuggie-vs-slanket-vs-freedom-blanket-vs-blankoat"> footsteps,</a> but a Snuggie ripoff is one thing. Pajama Jeans? Different animal. Sure, Snuggies are a stupid waste of $15, and a few of the snuggie-type-thingies are much better ideas that are dramatically over priced (See<a href="http://www.pajamagram.com/Category/hoodie-footie-snuggle-suit-for-women-gift-set-gallery.aspx"> Hoodie-Footie</a>), but these "designer jeans" offend my sensibilities. They offer a "complete outift" (pajama jeans and a plain grey crew neck t-shirt, which is supposedly a $100 value) for like $50. A fucking t-shirt and FAKE jeans for fifty dollars. Oh, but wait, there's more! If you hate the P-jeans, you can keep that shitty t-shirt <i>as a free gift.</i><br />
<br />
I would ask, "Who BUYS this crap?" but unfortunately, I already know. Plenty of people that should know better. The same people that buy <a href="http://www.qvc.com/cgen/render.aspx?qp=class%7CK745&level=2&walk.yah=1001-K745">diamonique</a> and other wonders from Home Shopping Network. I am related to some of these people, and so are you.<br />
I assure you.<br />
There are closet infomercial shoppers lurking all over our great nation.<br />
<br />
Also, these "jeans" are a total ripoff of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeggings">jeggings</a>, which are offensive enough just on their own. In case you aren't familiar, here is a musical explanation of their splendor: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/h9zcGGrvcck?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-42442192122060085632011-01-08T23:10:00.000-08:002011-01-09T21:00:32.711-08:00Conversation, Robbery, Dinner, and a Movie [updated]Remember when I wrote about the <a href="http://symphonicmonotony.blogspot.com/2010/11/ninja-walletsnatcher-needs-new-linens.html">ninja wallet-snatcher</a>? Well, I have since encountered a fingersmith that puts said thief to shame. I went to Argo Tea (which generally I find to be a lovely establishment) last night. I was meeting a woman for one of those awkward is-this-a-date-or-just-a-friend-thing-things, and I got there a bit early on purpose to screw around on the internet...and be there<i> first</i>, because being early makes me feel some sense of control for absolutely no reason in situations like this.<br />
She got there and we started talking and after about ten minutes she commented that the table we were sitting at was vibrating and it was really loud, and suggested we move. FINE. There goes my false sense of control. She was right though, we were practically yelling at each other and the table was shaking visibly. So we moved upstairs, to a table right by the top of the stairs, and I put my bag where I thought it would be safely stowed, under the table, between my legs and the wall. We proceeded to get to know each other a bit. She's an elementary math teacher, she sings and plays guitar, she is from D.C...normal, normal, teehee whatever..bla, bla, Ex-wife.<br />
<br />
Homosaywhat?<br />
<a name='more'></a><hr xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" /><br />
<br />
I actually knew she had been married prior to having this conversation, but the way it came up it was still like flinging a half dead fish in the middle of the floor. All I could do was sit there and stare while the information flopped out of her mouth uncomfortably. <br />
<br />
She handled it very gracefully, though. No trash talking, a balanced perspective. The situation was one that would have facilitated a lot of bitter, nasty remarks as well, so I was somewhat impressed with that. We decided we were going to go see a movie and we got up to leave. As I was putting on my coat, I had a definite Miss Clavel moment.<br />
"Something is not right."<br />
<br />
My bag was gone. A messenger bag that my aunt just gave me, which, if memory serves me, happens to have been a bag that I picked out for my grandmother to buy when I was a preteen. I chose it, she bought it, gave it to my aunt, then my aunt gave it back to me like twelve years later. Then fucking twelve <i>days</i> later, some shit heel swipes it. Inside was quite a boon. My laptop, a cashmere scarf which apparently cost more than the laptop and was not mine, all of the relevant cords, phone charger, credit/debit cards that I just got replaced, my passport (which was the last scrap of ID I had left and if you aren't aware those things are not cheap), my notebook (which had so much personal and embarrassing shit in it I don't even want to think about it), my <i>endorsed</i> (yeah, I know, good one, shut up) paycheck, and a bunch of other crap that I could list and explain why it irks me that it is gone, but it would be gratuitous to do so.<br />
<br />
Fuck. Poor Sylvia had no idea what to do. I was strangely calm, and walked around for a few minutes like a zombie, "just checking" to make sure I hadn't somehow forgotten that I left it sitting in the middle of the cafe floor or something. There were a couple of cops sitting downstairs. I had a little chat with them. They told me that since I didn't know what the thief looked like, it was pretty much hopeless, but to file a police report anyway. While I was calling to report the cards stolen, Sylvia took out her wallet and realized that her credit cards and ID were gone. So not only did this creep make my bag magically disappear, she also got into her pockets, took her wallet, took out the cards,<i> left the cash and put the wallet back.</i> What the hell? I am reaching the point of paranoia that I actually eyeballed her suspiciously like she was trying to scam me in some strange way, but then she started freaking out and making phone calls, so I dropped that theory. Also, she very sweetly offered to take me to get food with her surviving $12, but then thought better of it and suggested we go back to her apartment, so she could make me dinner in an attempt to redeem the evening, which we did. Then we watched Fingersmith, somewhat coincidentally (fingersmith means thief, if you aren't familiar with the term), which I quite liked. I'd say it was a successful turnaround<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAJZk-787RYPFXsoxjQdEINH5jWnNBot9N_4aha7413j68Ilxk-IV6mMBFUE2NbB9ymtNNHygqhdfwnhyphenhyphenTIF0_twYPlfVetrw74c5ja23lbxPlC_L84GTueScRTUcIbjPlNiuS2vGRXs/s1600/fingersmith+movie.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>.<br />
<br />
<b>UPDATE:</b><br />
The thief went and treated herself to dinner at Panda Express ($20), a shopping spree at Walgreen's ($50), and then tried to buy a whole mess of crap at Sears ($400), which stopped the shenanigans by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTZgGVFqz5c&feature=related">tripping</a> the fraud alert on both of our cards. <br />
That is some ghetto shopping right there.<br />
If I was going to steal someone's cards and go on a spree, you would find me buying <a href="http://www.spoiledrottenpetboutique.com/clothing.htm">designer clothing</a> and a <a href="http://www.esquire.com/features/steak/salisbury-steak-0908">steak dinner</a>, not at some triflin' <a href="http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/c/corner_shops.asp">convenience store</a>. <br />
I went to the <a href="http://www.superpoop.com/081808/">police</a> station to file a report, and guess who helped me? The same <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=front+butt">front-butt</a> who "helped" me file the report about my wallet. He was completely dismissive and basically told me that since I didn't see the person who did it, there was nothing they could do (regardless of the fact that Argo has security cameras that the person would have had to walk right by with my bag and the cops are the only ones that can go review the tapes), and that they are not going to be investigating. Neat. Thanks. I wonder why this keeps happening to people? <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="320" id="il_fi" src="http://mobclub.com/resources/productmaster/Head%20up%20ass%20903.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little cranial-rectal inversion syndrome, perhaps?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-47161875177251606062011-01-03T23:17:00.000-08:002011-01-03T23:17:39.195-08:00Don't Worry, I'll Be FineDay 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.<br />
<br />
I could definitely live without pretty much anything that is non-essential to my physical functioning (food, water, etc.) and general well being (clothes, shelter, etc.). Seriously. I have no doubt in my mind that if I was for some reason dumped in the wilderness, I wouldn't curl up next to a rock and cry until something ate me or I died of starvation. I would figure it out, do what I needed to do, and survive by whatever means necessary.<br />
There are a lot of things I would certainly prefer not to go without (a modicum of safety, comfort, internet, cellphone, bla bla), but I'm sure I could get by without those. I'm really just typing my thoughts out loud here.<br />
You know what I could certainly live without that I don't even want to think about giving up because it makes me feel squirmy?<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Social networking. Text messaging. These two things have ruined me for phone conversations, which I already hated, and fed into my predisposition for avoiding social interaction. Thanks to the miracle of facespace, twatter, whatever, if I want to know what is going on in someone's life I can simply click clack my way around and cyberstalk them. Ta-da. No more "Uhhhhh hiiii.........................How are you?..................GreatwellIwasjustwonderinghowyouarebutIhaveto Go. Now. Awesome. OkayyyyYeptakecareKbye." <--This is roughly what I used to sound like on the phone, after agonizing forever about whether or not I would be bothering the person by calling them, unless I decided that if they wanted to talk to me, they would call me themselves and didn't call at all. Then I would hang up and think, "Jesus, weirdo, really?" Thankfully, now I don't really care if I am bothering someone by calling them or not. I figure if I am, the worst thing that is going to happen is they are going to tell me so, or if they are a real asshole, they might even yell at me about it or hang up on me. Oh, <i>Horrors.</i> If you're busy, don't answer your phone, yeah? When I think about what it is I am actually getting freaked out by and re-frame it in reality, it sounds pretty ridiculous. I'm not going to burst into flames if someone raises their voice. OoooOooOooh!<br />
<br />
Twitter seems to encourage people to think people give a shit what their every thought is.<br />
<br />
They don't.<br />
<br />
Just saying. I swore I would never have a Twitter account. When it first became popular, I thought it was the dumbest thing I had ever heard of. I held out until a month or two ago, and now I have one. [insert melodramatic sigh here] <br />
<br />
I don't understand this type of Twitter update: Leaving the grocery store.<br />
...and then your car blew up? What the fuck? People that update every time they do ANYTHING, EVER give me irritable bowel. Yes, twittards, you're so annoying that my intestines are irritated by you.<br />
My favorites are people sharing their observations of the world around them: If you look closely you'll notice that trees are covered with a whole mess of wooden vaginas.<br />
And this little kid's twitter makes me laugh my ass off: (to his mom) I'm going to give you shaken baby syndrome.<br />
<br />
I was talking to someone the other night that said she thought it was creepy when people read her facebook comment conversations. That's kind of like taking your clothes off in the street and thinking it is creepy if people look. Seriously, what did you expect? She was like, "Oh my God, seriously, is that what you do with yourself, read other people's facebook conversations?" ...Uh, yes. That is what plenty of people do with themselves. That is why it is a public wall. You don't want people to see you naked, go inside to take your clothes off. Problem solved.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-56316027676920175392011-01-03T12:18:00.000-08:002014-08-31T20:32:10.771-07:00Mi corazón consiguió una nueva actitud<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last summer was a swirling mass of insanity. There was a period during which I didn't know whether I was coming or going, and I was very isolated. I went to the beach one day with a woman I was meeting for the first time, named Sandi. It took a some convincing, as I didn't want to leave the house. On the walk there, she was talking about how she had been "seeing hearts everywhere." I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and thought, "That sounds like a personal problem. I bet they have a medication for that."<br />
She busted out her iPhone and started showing me a bunch of pictures that she had taken. She had cracked an egg into a pan and it formed into a heart. She cut a cucumber and the center was heart shaped. She looked up at the sky and saw a heart shaped cloud. I said, "Hm," very non-committally, thinking that must be some combination of cognitive bias and availability heuristic, but trying not to blatantly be an asshole about something she was so obviously excited about.<br />
<a name='more'></a>When we got to the water's edge, she mentioned how she and her daughter like to look for heart shaped rocks. I closed my eyes and rolled them, which made my eyelids flutter, and I wondered if we were going to talk about this all day. It was a heartbreakingly beautiful day, but I was hot and sticky because I refused to wear short sleeves or shorts, and it was at least 90 degrees. I was lagging behind her, trying to manage my flip flops with my jello-y I-never-move-unless-I-have-to-anymore legs in the wet sand with my pant legs and hoodie sleeves sticking to me, sweat started beading on my forehead, and I squinted into the sunlight. Her voice had faded into the background when I got all caught up in how much I would rather be grousing about by myself in the cool dark of a quiet room, with a book. Of course, if I was there, I would be thinking about how much I would rather be elsewhere. Anywhere else. The real problem was that everywhere I went to get away from everyone, <i>I</i> was still there. For whatever reason, I happened to look down to my left, and in one smooth motion, completely contrary to everything I was thinking, feeling, and had been doing all morning, I saw something, stopped, bent, grasped it, stood back up and said, "Oh- Here's one." <br />
<br />
I tried to hand Sandi the smooth, gray, perfectly heart shaped rock I had happened upon. She turned and smiled her big bright smile at me. "No, that's yours. You keep it." She is one of those people that has a huge amount of energy and enthusiasm that is so genuine and unobtrusive that it is incredibly difficult to be irritated by, even if you are in a completely terrible mood. I thought it was weird that I saw one of these things, especially when I thought the whole concept was kind of stupid and I wasn't even looking, and to find one that was so perfectly heart shaped? I was sure that Sandi simply had a good imagination and that she was seeing what she wanted to see with this stuff, and while that struck me as odd, I just kind of shrugged it off.<br />
Then I found another one about three feet ahead. Then another, and another...I think I found ten in a half an hour. I was<i> trying</i> to ignore them at first, and then I got into it and started looking.<br />
<br />
At this time I also had terrible tremors. I could not hold my hands still to save my life; I could barely write my name. We were walking along and talking for a while, and at some point, she walked a bit ahead, and I was standing up to my calves in the water with my sleeves pushed up (these details are kind of a big deal...I never showed any of my skin except my face, hands, and feet at this point), looking at the way the sunlight glinted off of a few different colored rocks in my hands, and feeling the warmth on my skin. I reached up with a damp hand and felt my sun heated hair and closed my eyes. The wind started gliding past me in soft swoops, and little waves started forming around me. This incredibly peaceful feeling came over me. There were four heart shaped rocks in what I had just picked up. I put them in my pockets, and, as an experiment, put my arms out in front of me. No tremors. They were still.<br />
<br />
I just kept finding more and more of them. It became a weird game.<br />
<br />
When we left, we went to find somewhere to eat. We got lost, drove around in circles, and passed a place called Love Always Cafe, and Love's Diner. We looked at each other quizzically. We drove around for a long time, talking and looking for a mexican restaurant. Our respective indecisiveness hadn't gotten us very far, but it didn't hurt the conversation at all. When we eventually got there, we had some table side mariachi entertainment. I looked at one of the guy's guitars, and then looked at Sandi. "Look at his guitar." There was a big fat heart by the pickguard. I told him I liked it. <br />
<br />
When we got back to the house, we laid them out and counted. Cognitive bias? I don't know... You be the judge. They sure look an awful lot like hearts to me, and I definitely ended the day with a different attitude than I started it with.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-h-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xpf1/t1.0-9/148465_561229561460_2359053_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-h-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xpf1/t1.0-9/148465_561229561460_2359053_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There were over 70. This isn't even all of them.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-63429061674738715132011-01-02T22:20:00.000-08:002011-01-19T21:24:58.316-08:00Car Accident After a FightDay 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?<br />
<br />
'What do I do?' What kind of a question is that?<br />
First, what happened? Is my friend just rattled? Are they hurt? Did they die? <br />
If it was something serious, or even if it was minor and they called me to talk about it, I would immediately forget whatever petty nonsense we were fighting about, and do whatever I could to help. There is nothing so important that I would sit around being a stubborn asshole and ignore my friend. Life is too short for that.<br />
No, I would not even begin to be ridiculous enough to entertain the self-centered notion that it was somehow my fault that the car accident happened. I am not that powerful. I can't cause car accidents with my mind or some harsh words, last I checked.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
If my friend died, I would obviously be upset, and I would go through the grieving process. Again...the fight really wouldn't have anything to do with how I reacted. It might sprinkle in some guilt and remorse, depending on what the fight was about and what the last thing I said to the friend was, but at that point there would be nothing I could do to change it, so there wouldn't be much point in dwelling on it. I would process those feelings and move on.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the grieving process; I read an article yesterday about this process, and whether or not it was appropriate. The <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128874986">article</a> also discussed how long was an appropriate time to grieve, and when that process crosses the line from normal into mental illness: clinical depression. If I remember correctly, they classified something like <i>two weeks</i> as a normal grieving period, and said anything beyond that is depression and needs clinical attention. Two weeks? Maybe if your fucking goldfish died.<br />
Then they started talking about medication. Some of you might know that my career goals are based in the mental health field. This article was one of several that had me rather <a href="http://www.npr.org/2010/12/29/132407384/whats-a-mental-disorder-even-experts-cant-agree">heated</a> yesterday. I was seriously gesticulating wildly and swearing at my laptop. In public. Diagnose<i> that</i>. Actually, don't please. And shove those cockamamie medications somewhere special. ;)<br />
<br />
I do think that some, even many people are genuinely helped by medications, but I think they are outrageously over prescribed. Americans are certainly outrageously over-diagnosed as well. As that second linked article mentions, part of this is due to a set up by the system, which makes a diagnosis useful and sometimes profitable, but at what cost? There are certainly ramifications associated with telling a child they have Asperger's and treating them for it when they do not, and that is only a tiny piece of the over-diagnosis population. I won't even start on the prevalence of diagnosing and medicating/extremelymegatotallyovermedicating depression and anxiety. You think this might make it a little harder for the people who genuinely have terrible struggles with these issues to have their problems validated and properly addressed? Hmm...maybe. I think that there is a major misconception in this country that clinical depression is something that almost everyone goes through because of how common it is for people to be put on antidepressants. That is sick, sad, and terrifying. These medications are not safe and harmless, y'all. ADD/ADHD? Ugh. I could go on ad nauseum. This is why I do not want to be a psychiatrist. Most of them don't even have regular sessions with patients any more. They just prescribe meds and send you to someone else to do your work. 15 minute appointment: Here's your prescription. Bye.<br />
No, thank you.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-22687773866485397752011-01-02T13:18:00.000-08:002011-01-02T13:18:27.670-08:00Crumbs are not satisfying; mealtime is not sexytimeIt just occurred to me that my fear response seems to be installed improperly. Well, maybe it was installed correctly but is malfunctioning.<br />
In my last relationship, I remember my partner saying, "I feel so safe with you," repeatedly. I felt the same way. For absolutely no good reason. Actually, despite mounting evidence that I should probably be grabbing my shit and running for the hills (out of my own house, no less), my brain still kept saying, "You love her. Stay." I would get blindsided by something that really hurt my feelings, time after time, have a moment of clarity that our relational patterns were twisted, and then get interrupted by my own brain. No, no. You should stay. Y'all love each other. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a> When you really love someone unselfishly, you don't to the things we did to each other. I certainly had my part in the insanity as well, but there is no denying that's exactly what it became. Insane. And I stuck around anyway. I really thought we were in love, and I wasn't ever going to find something better. I thought I didn't deserve better. I didn't know better actually existed in real life. A friend of mine remarks frequently that the crumbs she used to mistake for relationships astound her. I can really relate to that, both as someone that was once scrambling for crumbs and someone that was once dropping them at my leisure. Of course, I never realized I was doing either at the time, and looking back and seeing it for what it was makes me nauseous. <br />
<br />
I find this type of backward fear response in other situations. I was in a room with twenty guys the other night, and I was the only woman.<br />
Twenty gay guys. Not a single one of them was in the slightest bit dangerous, to my knowledge, and I knew several of them. Yet, I started getting a little panicky. Sweaty palms and short of breath and everything. I wanted to leave. (No, I don't have a gay man phobia, I live with one. ...Wait- did that sound like 'I am not racist, I totally have a black friend?') I talked myself down and stayed, and eventually other people I knew, some of whom were women, started showing up and I realized how weird that had just been. The strangest part is that I know from experience that if I had not been in the safe and familiar setting with the non-threatening men I was with, I most likely would not have gotten panicky like that. For example, if I had been in a club, on a dance floor, with a bunch of men around me of indeterminate sexuality that I didn't know, I would have probably been perfectly fine. I think the reason for this is that in that situation I can put up a front of indifference and create a sense of control by judging these men and whether or not I think I have some sort of power over them in the form of them being attracted to me. This isn't a matter vanity or conceit, it is actually more like the opposite. Obviously the actual threats to my safety are in scenario two, so why is the fear in scenario one? I become so afraid that if I acknowledged it as what it is, I would be possibly be overwhelmed, so I behave fearlessly and that original fear spills into weird and inappropriate situations. <br />
<br />
I didn't realize until fairly recently that commitment and intimacy are fucking scary (to me...I'm <i>Sure</i> no one else can relate). I thought I was totally down with the commitment. Yeah... No. Intimacy I knew I wasn't a fan of. I don't so much have boundaries, or even walls. I have something more like this:<br />
<img height="430" id="il_fi" src="http://www.marianneart.dk/img/8-.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="650" /><br />
I think you get the idea. <br />
<br />
<br />
More ass backwardness: <br />
<br />
I laugh when I'm uncomfortable- Especially if someone is really angry with me, at random odd shit, and at people with incredibly dry senses of humor, and seem to not laugh at things most people find funny. I think the creator of America's Funniest Home Videos should be executed, speaking of.<br />
<br />
Oh my God, I just got the theme song stuck in my head. Instant karma.<br />
<br />
<br />
I could calmly eat a sandwich while watching open heart surgery or discussing vomit and excrement, but if you start licking your fingers, smacking your lips, or saying "Mmmmm!" (/making any noises that sound like you are having a sexual response to your food) I will gag. Hard.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-69346743047416898752010-12-29T11:52:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:33:13.087-08:00Lesbians can't impregnate each other, stupid.Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?<br />
<br />
If I got someone pregnant, I would be quite confused and probably feel like I missed something in biology class. Preeetty sure I didn't, otherwise I know a whole lot of lesbians that would be popping out puppies left and right. And I would probably already have a mess of children by now. Awkward.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHpQOsfBPUWdoR5c7Azsmp6brfTmXQDupbdi-DHMSG_wtMPYWyNzrqOTjvhfdxcFA5mPoIV3wEMVUO2eFFr6Xp1AjwX2d-nf4H24sd_FOcwZcYzhbyvpaaFUCtoDBIukKSlcqL23uCfdw/s1600/awkward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHpQOsfBPUWdoR5c7Azsmp6brfTmXQDupbdi-DHMSG_wtMPYWyNzrqOTjvhfdxcFA5mPoIV3wEMVUO2eFFr6Xp1AjwX2d-nf4H24sd_FOcwZcYzhbyvpaaFUCtoDBIukKSlcqL23uCfdw/s320/awkward.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what it looks like when I type something that makes me uncomfortable.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
If I got pregnant, I am not sure what I would do. I just spoke about this with one of my cousins recently. I hope that if I ever found myself in this situation, I would be able to remove my desires from the equation as much as possible, and make the decision that would be most beneficial to the little one. While I do not judge anyone else that has had or would have an abortion, it is not something that lines up with my personal code of ethics, so it would probably not even cross my mind, barring a very unusual circumstance. This is simply what fits for me.<br />
<br />
The only situation I can possibly imagine considering terminating a pregnancy (I totally hate this phrase because it makes me picture Arnold Schwarzenegger blasting my uterus with a rocket launcher or something and then threatening his imminent return in his thick accent) is<br />
<a name='more'></a> if I learned that the child would have incredibly severe physical deformities that would leave little to no possibility of any quality of life. Even if I became pregnant as a result of a situation like sexual assault (and I have carefully considered this), I believe that in the absence of that type of medical threat, I would carry the child. I can't help but have compassion for babies-that-might-be. I was one once, and so were you. None of us choose how we come to be, and I think everyone has an equal right to be brought into this world, regardless of the circumstances of conception. That being said, I also completely respect that this does not fit for everyone, and don't have a single expectation of anyone else to adhere to my ethical standards in regard to this topic or any other, unless it directly concerns the safety and well-being of myself or those I love. I have a lot of compassion for people in general. I'm (possibly excessively) empathetic, and have zero difficulty imagining things from other people's perspectives.<br />
<br />
I could have been aborted. Not theoretically, it was actually suggested, and I'm not saying that with anger, it is just to give an idea of why I can't see myself ever making that decision. I am also a survivor of such an assault, so I can identify with the incomprehensible degradation and shame, and have considered the feelings that might accompany a pregnancy resulting from this. I can certainly understand how and why someone would make different choices than I would in this situation. Your body already feels completely invaded, taken over, stolen. Now there's a fucking person growing in there that you didn't ask for, expect, want? These situations are genuinely tragic.<br />
<br />
As I mentioned previously, I would try to make the least selfish decision possible, which I know would be very difficult. I would definitely look to friends and family for support. If this happened right now in my life, as much as it pains me to say, I think raising the child myself would be selfish. While I am happy with where I am and where I am going, my current circumstances are not appropriate for parenting a child to the best of my ability, or even to the point that I would be comfortable doing so. When I have children, I want to have a modicum of sanity and stability in my life. I am too transitional right now.<br />
<br />
I am in the process of learning how to properly take care of myself. I haven't historically been very good at that. Sure, I can feed and clothe myself, and keep up appearances, but at the end of the day, how is my spirit? Am I a 'human doing,' or a 'human being' (I kind of want to punch myself for typing that, but I'm leaving it.)? I spent most of my life on fast forward, trying to get to the next thing, applying constant pressure, thinking that if I just accomplished enough, pleased enough people, if I did everything 'just so'...then I would finally be happy. I buried my feelings, stomped them down, and kept running. I didn't realize that if you don't feel the unpleasant ones, you can't feel the nice ones either. I never took the time to look around, see where I was, take a deep breath, and appreciate it. Just for what it was. To be in the moment. I need to get more comfortable with that before I can include an impossibly precious little one in my life. I can't teach anyone something that I don't have myself, and I don't want to pass on any of the pain I carried around for so long to a wide-eyed, innocent little baby that deserves unrestrained joy and laughter. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure how that would play out. My first thought is open adoption. That way, a family that was prepared to care for a child would have that opportunity, and I would still be able to possibly be a part of their lives at some point, so that it was known that I didn't choose adoption out of lack of concern for the child, but rather quite the opposite. Perhaps something would work out so that someone I know could take temporary custody, and I could come around regularly and take on full responsibility when I have my shit more together. I don't know. What I do know is that I am really glad that this is all hypothetical, because I can say and type this til I'm blue in the face and the cows come home and the height-weight-disproportionate lady sings (just thought I should throw in a leetle PC to fuck with your mind), but things are totally different in the heat of the moment.<br />
<br />
P.S. I really love parentheses, if you haven't picked up on that. I need them. I actually talk like that in real life; I have a really hard time finishing sentences without adding in little tidbits about other things sometimes.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-79530963530088940672010-12-27T23:01:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:33:32.633-08:00Don't challenge me to a staring contest unless you want to loseI opted out of the family Christmas experience this year. I had planned on spending it with friends, but I actually ended up alone for the majority of the holiday. Unless you want to count cats, which just sounds impressively pathetic. My reasoning behind staying in the city was that it would be less stressful. If you read my last post, you may have sensed that my hypothesis didn't necessarily hold up. By nightfall on Christmas, I was in rather a shit mood. After Christophucker "fired" me, I was walking down the street to get to the bus, grumbling to myself that it was stupid not to have gone to see my family, cursing about this and that, giving people dirty looks, you know...just generally spreading holiday cheer. <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
When I start feeling really low, something happens inside of me that I can almost physically feel. I am not referring to just being in a bad mood here. This is when a lot of little things pile up on each other, mixed with some big things, sprinkle in whatever else is going on and stir, and I start to shut down. It is like an internal shudder; a master switch being flipped. The electricity drains from me, the bottom drops out and underneath is a black hole, which needs to be filled with something that will make me feel better. I have a drop but I need an ocean. For now. Sometimes it feels like something so dramatic has happened that I half expect people to be able to tell just by looking at me. I feel numb. My affect changes. I look at people blankly, and if I don't force myself to, I will hardly speak at all. When I do, it comes out monotone. It feels like a dark, echoey cave inside of my head. It starts to take twice as much energy to do half as much activity, and I am tired but restless all of the time. Concentration becomes a chore: I have a hard time paying attention to anything longer than a commercial, and following what people are saying when they are speaking to me is nearly impossible. I can't cry. I can't laugh. But I can stare like a fucking champion.<br />
This is a scary thing when it starts to happen, and when I am coming out of it, but as you might intuit- in the thick of it, I can't really get myself to give a shit. Another neat feature of my own peculiar set of circumstances is that even when I am not feeling like this at all, a loud and sudden noise, a certain distinctive smell, someone that happens to intensely remind me of something particularly unpleasant, or some other things can launch me directly into varying degrees of this state. Or other fucked up states of being. PTSD is not awesome. The biggest pain in my ass lately has been dealing with my startle reflex. Loud and sudden noises happen all of the time, especially in the city, but dang. I don't generally go into super rowdy situations, so I am usually at least somewhat prepared for what I am going to encounter, and am used to dealing with the weird looks I get when I jump visibly from the sound of someone setting a glass down on the table firmly, or whatever. I was at a pretty calm holiday party last night, and apparently someone was having a hard time getting people's attention to announce something, so this guy SCREAMED...so unexpectedly, so<i> fucking loudly</i>. I don't even remember what he said, but I didn't even have time for a 'wtf?' My eyes glazed over, my heart started pounding, and my ears started ringing. I was no longer mentally present in the room and I wanted to crawl under the table. I was already pretty overwhelmed and that was just the shit sauce on the turd burger. I had to put my head in my hands and ground myself. Once that passed, I wanted to go stomp on his nuts, because he's an obnoxious asshole. Does that sound judgmental? <br />
When I got home on Saturday night, still grumbling, I trudged into my room, plopped down on the bed, and kicked off my boots. I surveyed the room critically, still rolling around the day's events in my head, and beating myself up about the mistakes I made, actual and perceived. Then the beautifully wrapped present in the corner caught my eye. A white and silver box with a big white bow. My uncle had given it to me on Thursday, with the suggestion that I wait until Christmas to open it. I'm slightly Scroogey sometimes, but I thought that was really sweet, and both when I received it and when I saw it that night, I got uncharacteristically excited. It was enough to snap me out of that funk, actually, and I hopped up to pick it up and open it.<br />
By the shape of the box, I was guessing clothes, which I totally need and would have been ecstatic to get. Especially from him; he has great taste. When I picked it up, however, it was unexpectedly heavy. I looked at the present like it tricked me and thought, "What the hell is this heavy? There's no way it's..."<br />
And then I unwrapped the box containing a brand new laptop and yelled, "NO FUCKING WAY!"<br />
Total missed Kodak moment.<br />
I stood there looking at the half opened present with my mouth hanging open for a minute, and then I sat down on the bed and started crying. Sneak attack tears. Good tears. I'm not a robot after all. That gift was so unexpected, I was so grateful, and there was so much other stuff going on in my head that I was just overwhelmed. I'm just now building a close relationship with my uncle, who has always been good to me, but is a literal lifesaver right now. We had been talking about how I want to go back to school, and that is why he got me the computer (which I am blogging on right nowww!). Missing my family had been weighing on me, but that was sort of like reassurance that they aren't going anywhere, regardless of whether or not I happened to make it this year for the holidays. It just really made me think about where I am in my life right now, and where I am headed. Something clicked in my brain and went, "You are loved." So I sat with that, and let it in as much as I could, even though it was uncomfortable. <br />
<br />
Whoever you are, in case you don't already know, you are loved. Yes, you. You are worthy. You are valuable.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-12535925553079240632010-12-26T13:37:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:34:16.449-08:00Fleece Knobby ToddI was interviewed by some flaky chick named Laurie with her own cat sitting company, which shall remain nameless (except to say that they are called cat nannies rather than cat sitters and I find that amusing), on Christmas Eve day. This was a rescheduled interview, as she didn't answer the door or her phone, nor did she get my voicemail when I showed up for the first one. I don't know if flaky really covers it. She had pushed this appointment back an hour and a half, and was not home when I arrived. I had actually just given up and was about to leave when she showed up, ten minutes late and twenty minutes after I had gotten there. I entered her apartment and did my best not to make any faces. (My best at not making faces is not very good. It's a good thing she wasn't looking at me.) <br />
<a name='more'></a>There was shit everywhere. Bras and other miscellaneous clothing slung over a keyboard, things hanging from the ceiling, shoes in the middle of what little walking space there was, open containers of food randomly placed on flat surfaces here and there, and a few cats staring at me from their respective nooks. When I started paying attention to the cats, she remarked that they were annoying and needy and I should just push them away. (Uhh..?? Ok, cat master.) A girl had come in at the same time as I did to get keys for the houses she needed to go to that day. As soon as she left, Laurie's phone started ringing, and a procession of about five other girls started coming and going to pick up and drop off keys, laugh, and chat. I sat and played with the cats. Laurie occasionally looked at me like that was a very strange thing to do. After that calmed down a bit, we talked about the job duties a little, and she asked my availability. She said we could set our own schedules, and our own hours, and that we just needed to send her a text whenever we finished with a cat so she could check it off.<br />
<br />
She hired me on the spot after a brief conversation about pay and paper work, and I headed from her house downtown, to meet a hung strung skinny fellow with an excessive workload and get my first round of cats to look after. This was Christopher. The switch from Hurricane Laurie to his anal-retentive style was somewhat alarming. He filled me in on the details about where I would be going. Then he told me again. Then he repeated the highlights. He asked me very intensely if I had any questions. Then he asked if I was sure. At this point, I kind of just wanted to get the hell away from these people and go hang out with cats. I finally got the go ahead, and went outside to head to the first place. I took a deep breath and started walking, and I'll be damned if he didn't run up next to me to give me some last minute tip or something, which I don't even remember now. I didn't know it was him, and he scared the crap out of me. He's lucky I didn't throw a bow and break his nose.<br />
<br />
I finally broke free, and the rest of the day went pretty smoothly. Oh, except for at the first building I went to, where I had to wait to find out about getting the key. I was standing in the lobby, and this guy was standing a few feet from me. I was flipping through my papers, reading up on the needs off the different cats while I waited, and he said, "Are you waiting for someone?"<br />
"No."<br />
"I'm Kashi."<br />
He tried to shake my hand, but I looked at him and attempted to convey 'I would not piss on you if you were on fire' with my eyes. <br />
"Ok. Hi."<br />
He did this weird motion with his hand and his nose, which I only half saw. I gave him a weird look and said, "What?"<br />
"Uh...nothing."<br />
"Um, oookay."<br />
"Do you wanna dshrmblekckn?"<br />
"What??"<br />
"Nothing." <br />
At this point I was like, 'What the fuck is wrong with this guy?' I was looking at him out of the corner of my eye. He was super sketchy and seemed all geeked out and twitchy. I kept trying to look busy and hoped he would leave me alone, because I had to wait for a call about this cat, and I didn't want to go wait outside because it was snowing and freezing. It was a really nice building, with solid security, and this guy was nicely dressed and clean. It wasn't some random homeless creepo. He was a well to do creepo.<br />
"Do you want to do some cocaine?"<br />
"WHAT?"<br />
Very slow and low, with a weird bug-eyed look on his face, "We're cool...do you want to do some cocaine?"<br />
<br />
I'm relatively sure I looked at him like he was an alien with a serious deformity. My phone rang. Thank you God. On with my job, and what the hell just happened? Noon on Christmas Eve and a stranger offered me drugs in a fancy downtown high rise. <br />
<br />
I had stupidly agreed to work on Christmas day as well, even though I had 64 other things I was supposed to be doing. Christopher had mentioned meeting up in the morning so he could assign me a few more cats, and said he would give me a call around ten or so to figure that out. I was planning on getting up super early to take care of all of the cats that I already had before I met up with him. Unfortunately, I overslept. I woke up at noon to him calling me, but wasn't awake enough to answer. Laurie immediately called. Ack! I was completely disoriented, but I answered the phone. I explained what was going on, and apologized. She said it was no big deal, that it was a holiday and she understood, but that Christopher was freaking out because I had the keys and he thought I had bailed since he hadn't yet heard from me. I didn't quite understand that reaction, given that he had said "10 or so" and it was noon, and I was told we could set our own schedules...but I said okay, got off of the phone, and called him to let him know what was up. The day went on normal, as far as I knew, and then he said he would meet me at the last apartment, and told me to wait there. I called Laurie in the meantime. She said they needed more help on the north side, and that he would trade out keys for me. So, I sat there and played with Loshi, and fucked around for a half an hour. When Christopher finally showed up, he was acting really bizarre. Shifty and awkward. He checked in about how the day had gone, mega-awkwardly, and asked for all the keys back. I was very confused, since I thought I was keeping those and getting more, but gave them back. He told me that I had 'scared the crap out of Laurie' that morning, and she didn't want to keep me on, but that he would go ahead and pay me out. Slightly different from what I was expecting. He said, "I hate to be the Christmas jerk, but you understand, right?" <br />
<br />
Fired on Christmas. Awesome. <br />
<br />
He went on to say that if I wanted to find a job with a different company, I could use him as a reference. I just wanted him to stop talking and go away. The more his mouth moved, the more I pictured throwing him out the 50th floor window, but he kept going. He must have been nervous, but seriously guy, shut the fuck up.<br />
<br />
I called Laurie for clarification, because I felt blindsided. No answer, but she called back way later, when I was totally at peace with the situation. Apparently, she went back over the day's events in her head (in those 20 minutes or whatever) and changed her mind. It didn't seem like I was taking the job very seriously. I said something like, 'okay, I totally understand your decision. There was a misunderstanding of the guidelines on my part, but regardless of that, my conduct was unprofessional and I apologize.' Once I calmed down from being pissed and hurt, I realized that this whole thing had really been a shit show from the start, and pretty much accepted the firing. I do like the cats, and the job duties by themselves were something I could totally get down with. But- Lack of organization, drama, conflicting personalities, finicky cat people..I don't think I need all that. Then I tried to get off of the phone, but she wasn't having it. She started back-pedaling, hard. She was all, "Wellll...." I'll save you the stomach churning details of the circular talking that followed, but basically, she un-fired me. She said I could give her a call after the holiday craziness dies down, and then she could give me some training, like she <i>normally does with people</i> and I could ease into the job. That was my one of my favorite parts. She normally goes to the first several houses with people and shows them what all needs to be done. There's an actual training process that she decided to skip with me.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking this is probably going to hold a spot in my top five weirdest Christmas experiences for a while.<br />
<br />
<b>UPDATE:</b><br />
I thought I lost these, but I didn't! This by no means gives you the full effect, but it does afford you a little glimpse into <strike>the crime scene</strike> her apartment. I wish I had more, but I didn't want to get busted making fucked up faces <i>and</i> snapping photos.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzAlQZM3_SWyQxilUt4hdQCi65cIpsNEGGOjvNjHStBN5ZeyGR7dkSKvRYh9l5A_u3bnsRUkWW6w9A1_fdPZCajHpJmnvvJuMkd3rw0R9VNaSEbXs4BQSnummDveS9B4J9COM6dFIkEg/s1600/cats1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzAlQZM3_SWyQxilUt4hdQCi65cIpsNEGGOjvNjHStBN5ZeyGR7dkSKvRYh9l5A_u3bnsRUkWW6w9A1_fdPZCajHpJmnvvJuMkd3rw0R9VNaSEbXs4BQSnummDveS9B4J9COM6dFIkEg/s320/cats1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did I describe this adequately. or what? That little shadowed area on the left side is the front door. This was my greeting upon entrance as soon as I turned to enter the actual "living room."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCq468PGFsihB43sJqyvbvgDSjzQFMlltocS6VgF6MvjKTgFSFyi20OXpdA-g1xL2Tsgs0pq6B61MvNMeALRwvCRVpy7wkwKSNGzmXeYzOhAUgEqaUtQxcqEBZB9H5StSdEVnsIW1Jt9c/s1600/cats2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCq468PGFsihB43sJqyvbvgDSjzQFMlltocS6VgF6MvjKTgFSFyi20OXpdA-g1xL2Tsgs0pq6B61MvNMeALRwvCRVpy7wkwKSNGzmXeYzOhAUgEqaUtQxcqEBZB9H5StSdEVnsIW1Jt9c/s320/cats2.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wish you could see the weird-ass "cat tree" thingy hanging from the loft above the couch, and the GIANT bowl of cat food, surrounded by more disaster...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-72334798100953622722010-12-21T23:02:00.000-08:002011-01-02T21:22:36.620-08:00Books, Bands, Vulgarity, and Janis JoplinDay 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. <br />
<br />
I decided to randomly throw one of these out in no particular order when in strikes my fancy. <br />
'Tough ass days'? Huh.<br />
Hard saying! I have always had a peculiar (but not uncommon, I am finding) habit of listening to music that matches my mood, rather than counteracts it: Sad for sad instead of happy for sad, for example. I doubt that makes sadness any better, but at the time it usually feels like the right thing to do.<br />
<br />
I can remember listening to Fiona Apple, The Smashing Pumpkins, Silverchair, and Veruca Salt when I was a freshman in high school and going through a very low period. <br />
<a name='more'></a>4 cds basically on repeat. Tidal, Melon Collie and The Infinite Sadness, Neon Ballroom, and American Thighs. I already loved Fiona Apple for her sullen, skinny 90's self, and when I saw <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u09s0uz0tEU">this hilarious video,</a> I fell in love with her all over again. Extra hard. Not to mention that Extraordinary Machine was phenomenal both to listen to and to dance to/choreograph for. Now that I mention it, I find it a little strange that TSP and Veruca Salt are both bands out of Chicago, being that I live here now. I'm not really sure what drove my love of the Smashing Pumpkins. I remember finding Billy Corgan oddly alluring, which is embarrassing. Veruca Salt caught my attention because one of my favorite authors is Roald Dahl, author of <i>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory</i>, which is where the name of the band came from, and they held it. Similarly, <i>The Silver Chair </i>is the title of one of "The Chronicles of Narnia," by C.S. Lewis, another favorite of mine.<br />
<br />
I also used to listen to loud, screamy music when I was angry. Metal, industrial, punk. In recent years I have been more prone to listen to rap/hip hop in either of these situations. If the hook and the beat are there, I get so into it that it gets my mind off of whatever and I often end up dancing around as well, which is funny for anyone involved. Among my faves: Missy Elliott, Trina, Lil Kim, Lil Wayne, Trick Daddy (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrdkWrzNlOA">Nann (explicit language)</a>), Outkast...Outkast was also a big part of my high school survival. Stankonia. They have so many <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fVyVIsvQoaE">songs</a> that are almost impossible to not at LEAST tap your foot to. <br />
Missy Elliot's lyrics are sometimes impressively stupid (one tame example: "I eat filet mignon and I'm nice and young/ Best believe I'm number one") but they are so catchy... and I love her. I just can't help myself. If Lil Kim has never done anything but <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ol_6E1AK_A">this song</a>, I would still be a fan. <br />
<br />
Last but not least, if I for some reason had to select only one album to listen to for the rest of my life, it would probably be <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h24fNDET-Io&feature=fvw">Janis Joplin</a> with Big Brother & the Holding Company, Live at Winterland '69.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-26961664855906607042010-12-21T20:33:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:35:48.851-08:00'Child Rape for Dummies' Book Sparks Controversy<img alt="" border="1" hspace="4" src="http://www.blogcdn.com/www.bvonmoney.com/media/2010/12/phillipgreaves.jpg" vspace="4" /> <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504083_162-20026186-504083.html?tag=contentMain;contentBody">Full story</a><br />
<br />
This unassuming fellow(/creeper from creeptown), Philip R. Greaves II, was arrested yesterday afternoon for selling his self-published gift to the world, "The Pedophile's Guide to Love and Pleasure: A Child-Lover's Code of Conduct," the title of which reflects the content from his clearly demented vantage point. This how-to guide was, frighteningly enough, available on Amazon.com until recently. Authorities were able to apprehend Mr. Greaves after he sent an <i>autographed copy</i> to undercover police officers in the mail, for fifty dollars. [Anyone else notice he has a smug-fuck-of-a-grin on his face, even in his mug shot? Do you think that has to do with being a II?] Further pretentiousness: <br />
<a name='more'></a>Ol' Phil II asserts in the book that pedophiles are misunderstood- that the word itself means to love a child. Hug a nut, buddy. That is NOT what love looks like. He literally gives step by step instructions, including how to instruct children to lie to their parents.<br />
<br />
These shenanigans have sparked legal debate. Is this arrest, which was based on an obscenity charge, trampling on his freedom of speech? Are you fucking kidding me? I'm not surprised that the issue was raised, but really? A guide on how to molest children. Freedom of speech only goes so far, and it doesn't even cover yelling "FIRE" in a crowded theater, which I think is a much less dangerous thing to do than instructing x number of people in something this horrific. Sexual abuse leaves permanent scars, visible and otherwise. If it were a book about the feelings he is having and the associated struggles, I would be totally supportive of it. God, even if he wanted to talk about how gloriously attractive he finds kids, I could be tolerant... despite despising his message- and I would have to be praying my ass off that someday he develops the willingness to seek help instead of indulging unhealthy and damaging urges. <br />
<br />
As infuriating as it is to me when I hear stories like this, it is also infuriating to me when I hear people say things like 'child molesters should be castrated.' No, they shouldn't. Before anyone blasts me with "If you had been through something like that you would think they should be killed or worse!" or some kind of blibbity blah nonsense like that, let me mention that I am a survivor of sexual trauma. I think it is important to say so without shame, because I didn't do anything bad or wrong to deserve it, nor does having been through it mean that I am now defective in some way. A lot of people who have been through these things do not realize that for a long time, if ever. People are not their actions, or what has happened to them. This is most of why I don't have vengeful feelings toward perpetrators. I don't think of them as horrid, vicious, awful people. They are human beings who have made bad choices. Often they have been abused themselves. Even if someone is somehow evil to the core (which I don't even think is possible, but hypothetically), evil + evil does NOT = good. It just equals more evil. Inflicting pain on someone because they inflicted pain on someone else just doesn't make sense in my mind. It's a self perpetuating cycle.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-74235654084723640762010-12-10T21:52:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:36:31.420-08:00I'm nuttier than a squirrel turd, and that is A-OKAY!I used to tell myself I wasn't crazy. I'd say "Sometimes people think I am crazy, but I'm really not..." followed by whatever explanation about how my thought patterns or behavior are normal, sane, rational, whatever.<br />
Well, it came to my attention this summer that I AM, in fact, quite round the bend. When people think of the kind of crazy that does NOT involve hearing voices in one's head and seeing things, but does involve neurosis and unfathomable behavior and thoughts, they are thinking of things that I think, say, and do. Or have in the past. Regularly. I am, fortunately, a rather high-functioning crazy person, but I am still motherfucking crazy, and I don't feel the need to split hairs about it. In fact, I feel the need to claim it. Proudly. Crazy isn't necessarily a bad thing...especially if you know you are, and you're working on it (It's the people that<br />
<a name='more'></a> are unapologetically batshit and not doing anything about it that you have to watch out for).<br />
<br />
It isn't uncommon to go through a lot of fucked up shit and come out of it a little twacked. It is frighteningly commonplace, as a matter of fact. People shouldn't have to be ashamed just because they don't think/react to things the same way other people do. No matter how your brain works, you're still a human being. I mean this as a blanket statement, but I would like to specifically mention schizophrenics, trauma survivors, addicts, MRDD and individuals with dementia. It is disgusting the way some people treat these segments of our society. I have seen and experienced some of it first hand.<br />
<br />
Just because someone doesn't think that they can survive another day reliving their past via PTSD symptoms and their desperation leads them to attempting suicide does not mean you need to talk to them like they are a second class citizen, or are stupid. If someone thinks it is snowing in the living room, you don't have to be condescending about letting them know it isn't, nor is it ever, EVER appropriate to use someone's disability against them [Sidenote: If anyone comments about the importance of using PC terms like "differently abled," be prepared for me to show up right behind you with a machete]. Ever. Stealing from some old lady because you know she won't remember it is absolutely despicable. Toying with her emotions because she can't always tell who you are? Not funny. Not cute. I don't give a shit if she will forget it ten minutes later, this is a Person, not a Pin cushion. I'm not making this shit up, either. It's not a random rant. Some people that are entrusted to care for people that often are not able to care for themselves either resent the population they are caring for, or have other issues of their own, and they abuse their power as well as the people they are supposed to be helping. It is incredibly unsettling and very sad.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-30151039853941130542010-12-05T11:22:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:38:26.806-08:00Little kid: "I feel sick." Mom: "Where do you feel sick?" Kid: "In my room."Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.<br />
<br />
I think that anyone I really didn't want to let go that started to drift, I have reached out to. <br />
<br />
If someone drifts away and stays gone, I don't think they were meant to stick around.<br />
<br />
It has been hard adjusting to all of the people that have come in and out of my life in the past year, though. There are people that I really thought were my friends that just kind of dropped off the face of the earth when I left the city I was living in. When they made no apparent attempts to contact me and see if I was alive, I didn't find myself concerned with keeping in contact with them. Most of them. I think I have kept in contact with about a handful of people from there. Quality not quantity, right? It is good to know who is fair-weather and who is not.<br />
<br />
Aside from that, I have met several people that I have wished I could stuff into my suitcase and tote around with me. I don't think that would have worked out very well, but I still suggested it to them enthusiastically.<br />
<a name='more'></a> I am supposed to have pen-pals of some of these people, as a matter of fact, and I still would, if I would quit balking and write them back. I always feel like when I write a letter it has to be really good, though. Stamps are like $800 these days, and you'd think if you're going to sit down and actually write a letter, you ought to have something worthwhile to say. I would think anyway. Or maybe that is just me rationalizing why I haven't been a faithful pen-pal because I feel kind of guilty.<br />
<br />
Now I've sufficiently made it very clear to myself that I need to go write letters.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-66736859371020567502010-12-03T14:31:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:39:07.021-08:00When I was a child, I hated childrenDay 08→ Someone who has made your life hell, or treated you like shit.<br />
<br />
<br />
The kids I went to school with treated me like TOTAL shit. I was the champion nerdgeek outcast-face in all of the land. Kids are fucking cruel, and a lot of times it goes completely unchecked. The recent rash of suicides among teenagers has made me think about a lot of this crap, actually. <br />
<br />
I got made fun of for pretty typical stuff. I had freckles, I was a little chubby, I didn't have 'the latest' anything. I went to a Catholic school. A lot of my classmates' families had considerably more money than mine did, and were also different in a lot of other ways.<br />
<a name='more'></a> I didn't know my dad at the time. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't poor or suffering. I was just an easy target in a lot of ways. On top of the stuff I already mentioned, I was incredibly uncomfortable in my own skin, which made it even easier. I hear other people say they had such-and-such awful nickname. No one got that creative with me, really. They just called me <i>FAT!</i>. Or Miss Piggy. (Sidenote: I ran into this guy I went to grade school with a couple of years ago and he told me that the older boys in his grade, which was sixth I believe, that started the Miss Piggy thing did so as some juvenile flirting thing, because one of them had a crush on me. I found this fascinating because I thought everyone in that school thought I was the ugliest human being on the planet.)<br />
<br />
When it was school picture time one year, and everyone signed the backs of their pictures and traded them, I remember giving mine to a couple of the girls in my class. They laughed at me and threw them away. We wore uniforms, and when we had gym class, we had to change clothes as a group in the bathroom. My body was ridiculed so often that I started hiding in a stall to change. Sometimes people openly made comments about me in class. I would answer a question and someone would make a snide remark about me, people would laugh, and the teacher never did a thing about it, outside of perhaps saying, "That's not nice." Thanks a lot, that helps. I would turn bright red and wish I could seep through the cracks in the floor. It was so bad by fifth grade that I was seriously contemplating transferring schools. I can't remember now why I didn't, but I didn't. I could go on and on with horror stories about grade school. It was outrageous. I actually got punished for something that was done TO me once. <br />
<br />
When I left that school I knew I had a chance to reinvent myself and not take that kind of shit anymore. My attitude completely changed. I think people started to be a little bit intimidated by my quirks instead of feeling so comfortable mocking them, which was fine with me. I spent one year of high school in Catholic school and then FINALLY escaped to public school, which was one of the best things that ever happened to me. A totally new group of people that didn't know where I came from, what I was like in grade school, how I was treated... It was great. I still kind of hated everyone, but I did make a solid group of friends, and I was certainly much less miserable than I had been before.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-16633736181596656142010-12-01T22:35:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:40:39.565-08:00Maybe a baby will fix itDay 07→ Someone who has made your life worth living.<br />
<br />
Me.<br />
<br />
Frankly, it was not until frighteningly recently that I actually knew for a fact that my life IS worth living. I had a truly terrible self image, and had gotten caught up in this self-defeating thought loop stemming from asking, "What's the POINT of all this?" and concluding that there was none. I was a philosophy major. Spending too much time thinking about if free will exists and a table is a table can fuck your shit up, for real. Also, some of the people that were around me just killed way too many of their brain cells and started spouting off with <i>amazingly</i> idiotic comments. ("Oh my GOD what if I'm like, just a figment of your imagination or like this entire planet is actually just a speck in some huge creature's fingernail or something?!"<br />
<a name='more'></a>Right. Smoke some more pot. Do you also have a conspiracy theory to share?) When you convince yourself that you are completely worthless and undeserving, life is pointless, and nothing you do really matters, it makes for a pretty bleak outlook. You can imagine that arriving at this conclusion did not exactly fill me with enthusiasm and zest. <br />
<br />
Many people helped me get out of that dark place and change my thinking, but ultimately, I was responsible for reclaiming my life and making it a life worth living. I can't just sit around and hope for the people around me to make things the way I want them to be. I have to work for it. For me that means constant work. I am not a person who is naturally inclined to be happy. I am naturally inclined to be angry, irritable, and depressive. I have to watch out for these feelings to come up, and rid myself of them as they come, instead of clinging to them and letting them weigh me down. When I do this successfully, I literally feel physically lighter. My head feels less cluttered. My thinking is clearer.<br />
<br />
A "life worth living," to me, means being present in the moment. I've spent a lot of my life in my head. I don't know about you, but My head is a dangerous neighborhood that I shouldn't venture into alone. I used to think that it was a useful skill to be doing one thing and thinking about ten others. It's not. All it does is make you crazy. It deprives you of the ability to get everything you can of what you are doing when you are doing it. For me, it also contributed to my feelings of isolation. It was like I had some sort of thought wall between me and other people.<br />
<br />
Being present in the moment also means enjoying what I have now instead of despising it and waiting for the next thing to come along. Like, oh things will be better when I get a job. Things will be better when I move. Things will be better if I get a puppy. Maybe things will be better if I have a BABY. No, things will be better when I take a look around me and am grateful for what I have. I am incredibly blessed to be where I am with what I've got. That doesn't mean everything feels awesome all of the time, but the more I struggle against reality, the less worth living my life will be. I work hard, I try to do things that are helpful to others and good for me, I try to remember to reach out for help when shit gets rough , and try to remind myself how lucky I am on a regular basis. Whatever problems I'm having, in the grand scheme of things, are not that big of a deal. I have food and water, and a warm place to live in a safe neighborhood. Even if I had a fucking obnoxious day, I had a day. I was alive and breathing, and if I'm really lucky, I'll wake up tomorrow and be able to give it another go.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-20310419240263763872010-11-26T13:38:00.000-08:002010-12-29T13:41:27.996-08:00Demented bankrupt teen-aged amputee zombiesDay 06→ Something you hope you never have to do.<br />
<br />
For whatever reason, this one has taken me a million attempts to write. There are a lot of things I am not endlessly thrilled at the prospect of facing, but in every struggle there is a gift of some sort, so I have been struggling with how to answer this. Every fucked up thing I have faced has taught me incredibly important things that I very well may not have learned any either way, whether I realized it at the time or not.<br />
<br />
So...The first things that come to my mind when I think of things that would top the list of "Damn, that would really suck out loud..." are, in no particular order:<br />
- Facing dementia, in myself or anyone I love<br />
- burying a child, or having a child face difficulties I am powerless to change<br />
- bankruptcy<br />
- having to repeat ANY part of being a teenager<br />
- paralysis or limb amputation<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Dementia, bankruptcy, paralysis, and amputation are all on the list for basically the same reason. Immediate association in my mind with a feeling of helplessness. Dementia makes me think of being a prisoner in my own mind, or watching someone that I love fade away right in front of my eyes. One of the most heartbreaking things I have ever seen is an elderly couple in which one partner has severe dementia and the other has become the doting caretaker. Now THAT is unconditional love. <br />
<br />
Losing a child or being unable to ease whatever pain, be it physical or mental, that they may be going through, invokes a similarly helpless feeling. The best I could hope to do in that kind of a situation (the latter, obviously) is make sure that my child knows how much I love them, and that they have my unwavering support. <br />
<br />
When I was a teenager, I was a fucking lunatic. Everyone is. Some more than others, of course. It is just so funny to think about now. Everyone tells you that you are thinking irrationally, things will seem different when you are older, this or that isn't the end of the world....and all it does is piss you off. Every teenager I have ever met thinks that they are incredibly mature for their age (even if you are, there are still things that make you distinctly teen-aged), and of course that they are ready to be doing things that are not appropriate for them to be doing. They think they know everything, do not need advice from anyone, and are indestructible. I was so heavily impacted by things that were going on around me. It all seemed like such a big deal. Not only that, but I was certain that the way I was thinking was totally rational, and couldn't understand why someone would be questioning me. After all, I was very mature for my age. Again, teenagers are fucking insane. I say this with love. It took me a while to look back and say "Wow...I was crazy," and by NO means am I claiming that I magically stopped being a loon when I hit twenty. However, I would certainly like to think I am at least slightly less out of my tree than I was at, ohh, say, fifteen. Otherwise I should probably be locked up.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-87509533109371621052010-11-22T10:59:00.000-08:002011-01-19T21:26:30.540-08:00Sneaking Suspicion of InspirationDay 05→ Something you hope to do in your life.<br />
<br />
This fucking writing project is <i>EXHAUSTING.</i><br />
I'm being extremely dramatic, but seriously, I kind of feel like I've been doing it forever and I'm what, 1/6th of the way through or something? Coooooool guys. <br />
<br />
I read a related quote the other day, the origin of which I can't recall. Something like 'I once wanted to change the world, now I just hope to leave the room with dignity.' That's a little depressing. What I hope to do in my life is touch the lives of others. I want to help people. I have been fortunate enough to have fallen flat on my face and been hurt badly enough to swallow my pride and let those that were kind enough to lend a hand help me back up. Those people have forever changed my life.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I want to go back to school for psychology and become a licensed therapist. My eventual goal is to have a private practice, and to collaborate on a nonprofit for women with mental health/substance abuse issues, who don't have the means to pay for treatment. My aim in this would be to make sure that the treatment they would be receiving was well regulated and of high quality, in a very safe setting. I want my theoretical private practice to function on a sliding scale as well.<br />
<br />
I don't need to be a millionaire. I don't need to be famous. Everything doesn't have to be roses (it would really freak me the fuck out if it was). That would be kind of awesome, yeah (everything except the roses part). I probably wouldn't turn it down. What I am really seeking, though, is to be comfortable in my own skin and to have peace of mind. I would like to be financially and socially comfortable, with a nice house and all, but if I'm not I honestly have no problem with that. This last year has been so rife with chaos that there is no doubt in my mind I can handle whatever comes my way, and that facing it without fighting it makes it that much easier. Well, there's no doubt in my mind right this second. It comes and goes, and I have to keep reminding myself.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-48462028340842463512010-11-22T10:26:00.000-08:002011-01-19T21:23:11.221-08:00It's all a little bit awkward when you're with me :DDay 04→ Something you have to forgive someone for.<br />
<br />
Like I said, I'm not a grudge holder, but I get randomly mad about the weirdest shit. <br />
<br />
When I'm sitting down with my hair up, and someone bumps into my messy bun thingy, causing my head to jerk rapidly from side to side, it makes my eyes pop wide open and causes me to want to jump out of my chair and turn around and punch whoever just did it in the kidney. Seriously, I briefly picture it in my head every time that happens. I think this might be slightly excessive, which is why I just picture it instead of doing it.<br />
<br />
When someone walks at me on the street, (you know, when it usually makes you both do that retarded this-way-that-way-oooh-which-way's-it-gonna-be shuffle) I stand completely still and look them dead in the eye with a completely blank face, and wait for them to choose a side instead of doing the tard shuffle. I'm not sure why I react this way, I just do. It seems to scare the crap out of people. Even people that are significantly larger than me. They just don't like it.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
It goes over a lot better than what I used to do, though. I would stop, step once to one side, once to the other, and if we stepped the same way again, I yelled. Not at the person, I just yelled out of frustration, but if someone else did that when I was the other person I would be like "What the shit is wrong with that chick?" It was a short, loud, grunt/yell that made my neck-veins pop out and turned my face red. Hot, right? <br />
<br />
Oh, wait a minute, I lied. My paternal grandmother once (when I was a morbidly depressed teenager) told me that when my mother was pregnant with me, she (the grandmother) and my father encouraged her to have an abortion, and that was the plan. She blathered on for awhile, expanding upon how I should never have been born into this world. I can't remember what else she said. I think my ears turned themselves off so I wouldn't snap this soft-spoken and frail, but completely twisted woman into a million pieces and light her on fire. We were actually next to a fireplace. I totally could have. So yeah, there's that thing. I've let it go for the most part, since she is a batty old woman, but I'm still just a little salty about it.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-17676558886457211272010-11-20T13:48:00.000-08:002011-01-19T21:21:37.577-08:00Can You Kiss Your Own Butt?Day 03→ Something you have to forgive yourself for.<br />
<br />
Stellar segue. Wasn't I just talking about forgiveness? Yes, I think I was. Bravo, me.<br />
<br />
I have to forgive myself for not living up to my own expectations...which it has been brought to my attention are super-human. That might sound poncy, but I swear on a stack of scrabble dictionaries, the thoughts and feelings I automatically have in reaction to not getting things exactly right the first time are ridiculous. I put an insane amount of pressure on myself. In some ways this is good. It inspires in me a fierce determination, and has led me to achieving most of the goals I have set out to reach. The main problem, however, is that when I am thinking like this, I usually can't give myself credit for the achievements. The first few years I was dancing and in color guard, I could give a beautiful performance that got a wonderful audience reaction, but if I didn't execute the choreography perfectly I came off of the stage furious with myself, ruminating about how stupid whatever I did was. On top of that, <br />
<a name='more'></a>if it was guard, or a group dance performance that went badly, I thought *I* ruined it, regardless of whether I had a bad show or a good one (there's that self-centered thinking again. Hello! Not everything is about you, dude). Perfectionism seems like it would be a good thing in theory, but a lot of time it is very self-defeating. Another problem with telling myself I was an idiot that was never going to do anything right was that I <i>believed</i> myself. This sometimes held me back from <b>ever</b> fixing whatever mistake I made, so it became an ugly self-perpetuating cycle.<br />
<br />
Thankfully I didn't stay in that mode forever, because I had some really amazing experiences later in my dancing and guard days that would have nevereverever been possible with that attitude. I was able to perform in front of thousands of cheering people, and soak in the joy and enthusiasm instead of freaking out about being perfect. The last show of the '06 Zydeco winter guard season is the one that comes to mind as I'm typing this. I honestly don't even remember if I bobbled anything or not. What I remember is how it felt to see how excited the audience was and how insanely loud they were. They knew who were were, and they were screaming that they loved us. I remember seeing the lights shining down on us as we walked out as a group, all of us practically vibrating with nervous energy, and getting ready to go out on the floor for the last performance of the season. My eyes started tearing up but I wouldn't let myself cry. I could be sad later, right now it was SHOW TIME [insert a bunch of guard people jumping around like idiots and repeating inside jokes]. There is a palpable energy on the floor when you are performing with a group that you feed off of, in addition to the response of the audience. To give you an idea of what it was like that day, it felt like my leaps were twice as high and my smile twice as big as usual. Adrenaline, yo. The air was buzzing. I don't think there are words for all of the thoughts and emotions that went through me. It was just so much fucking fun. That season in general was so hilarious. Some of my fondest and funniest memories are with the friends I made in that group. I have to do some blogging about them. I'm so grateful for that experience. I think that everyone should have something in their life like that...at least one moment that makes your brain freezeframe and go "Holy shit, I feel so great right now. I want to remember this moment foreeever(for some reason, in my head when I said that 'forever', I suddenly developed a spanish accent...?)."<br />
<br />
UPDATE:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EojAehl84v28GKzEnu7IREFYczNEVju6F8gxG3k9aMmjz46hAiQ86WXGwt_sswx_558aMQAJOYXHcC8PkKOzakg-x9dUFwhHqx7wVtfSOmbxja6fTnQHAsB4jnHHA4BENq6TkJHBAx8/s1600/jp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EojAehl84v28GKzEnu7IREFYczNEVju6F8gxG3k9aMmjz46hAiQ86WXGwt_sswx_558aMQAJOYXHcC8PkKOzakg-x9dUFwhHqx7wVtfSOmbxja6fTnQHAsB4jnHHA4BENq6TkJHBAx8/s320/jp.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">opening pose I was referring to</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZA0Lm9fNsef8YF-x71Nda8TBVn0oReog4FhrN-39ySBtE8P21gyHjKN7UCPlDjy6WoX4zSSiG68O9L4dIFZZrx3Mc1vyKOlBPHxTPOUUREjoJX8JVNfzXUn1EsX6YOFAQ0SByCidUIsk/s1600/jp2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZA0Lm9fNsef8YF-x71Nda8TBVn0oReog4FhrN-39ySBtE8P21gyHjKN7UCPlDjy6WoX4zSSiG68O9L4dIFZZrx3Mc1vyKOlBPHxTPOUUREjoJX8JVNfzXUn1EsX6YOFAQ0SByCidUIsk/s320/jp2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a few of us after awards...there appears to a rose growing out of my head</td></tr>
</tbody></table>sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-48668654784578582112010-11-19T21:17:00.000-08:002011-01-19T21:18:16.485-08:00Jibberjabber Forgiveness, blah blah Dinosaur<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Day 02→ Something you love about yourself.<br />
<br />
I would have to say I dig my ability to forgive. I am a very empathetic person, and as such it is almost impossible for me to hold a grudge. I am not perfect, there are certainly times when people just piss me off and my anger lingers for a while. In most situations, I try to put myself in the other person's position and to imagine not what I would do, but being <b>them</b>, and what it must have been like to do whatever they did. What led up to it, and what the motivation was. It is rarely an actual personal attack when someone does something that harms me.<br />
<a name='more'></a>I think this is often the case in these situations. Yes, people do things out of spite, but I think much of the time when we hurt other people it is simply a side effect of doing something selfish or impulsive; pursuing self-will. Even when people do things out of spite, I don't think the object is to hurt anyone in most instances. It can be to illicit some sort of emotional reaction, to try to control the other person in some way, or get attention that they weren't getting otherwise. Why I would I stay mad at someone that wasn't even trying to hurt me in the first place? That will only cause me further pain. It barely even affects the object of my anger.<br />
<br />
It is really easy to take everything personally. A stranger walks by you making a nasty face, and you think it was a judgment of how you look, or some sort of ill will. The reality is that it is quite possible and even probable that the face is actually in reaction to something that has nothing to do with you, like a funky smell you can't smell, or an unpleasant thought or memory. This thought process is common. People are naturally inclined to be self-centered, due to survival instincts. Think about that for a hot second though. Everyone is inclined to be self-centered... so we're all basically walking around thinking about ourselves, our respective baby-daddies, how we finna pay tha rent, and what we want most of the time; not judging you about whatever. Obviously, there are exceptions. Most of the time the people that are standing their thinking "Omg girl, her shoes don't match her bag," or other generally dickish, rude things, are doing so because of their own insecurities, and not any defects of yours. Fuck it and drive on.<br />
<br />
Thinking about this when I start getting paranoid that someone thinks I look like a spaz usually calms me down. I recently heard it said that all a 'panic attack' is, is a 'self-centered' attack. I'm still chewing on that one. My initial instinct was to cuntpunt the source of the statement, and be all "OBVIOUSLY YOU HAVE NEVER HAD REAL STRUGGLES WITH ANXIETY RAAAHHHRRRRDIIIIEEE(and then probably turn into a flesh eating monster of some sort, or maybe a badass dinosaur)!!" but I don't think that would have been very tolerant behavior, and I actually think it is an interesting perspective that merits some consideration.<br />
<br />
<img height="100" id="il_fi" src="http://www.avatarsdb.com/avatars/dinosaur_angry.gif" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="100" />"I HAVE MORE ANXIETY-ERR! NESS!"<br />
<br />
When I forgive someone, it also offers me an opportunity for growth. It frees me from whatever emotional entanglement any associated grudge may have had me consumed with. Thinking someone wronged you in some fashion is quite an uncomfortable place to be in. Leaving it is pretty cool.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-78939279908469287352010-11-17T09:13:00.000-08:002011-01-18T16:34:27.159-08:00Ninja Walletsnatcher Needs New Linens and L PassesSo...medical bills update: I got one of the ambulance companies to cut what I owe them in half. On the condition that I pay it in full in 30 days. They will not under any circumstances set up a payment plan for the reduced amount. Full amount of reduction now, or really full amount of everything over time. So, I got excited for a hot second and then they busted my bubble like the dream-squashers they are. What part of "indigent" do they not understand? And if they can just slash it in half on a whim like that, why in the shit-hell does it COST THAT MUCH IN THE FIRST PLACE? I tried to get the lady to tell me why, if no one performed any sexual favors, the base rate without mileage or anything else included for the ambulance was $1400. She, for whatever reason, did not find that question appropriate. I asked her what the difference is between the "Basic life support services" on one bill, and "Advanced life support services" on another. She had nothing for me. I don't think I made a new friend on that phone call. <br />
<br />
At some point yesterday, my wallet "disappeared." I have no idea when this happened, or how. My theory is <br />
<a name='more'></a>that it was done by some sort of transit-bound ninja that has a thing for home furnishings. I was going to go to the social security office yesterday, so I had EVERY possible piece of useful identification in my purse. That was asking for it, really. I think thieves can smell that shit from a mile away. When I am out, I carry my purse over my shoulder, which means that the top opening is nestled securely under my armpit. The side pockets are zipped and facing in toward my side. My wallet is like a brick, and is in the main section of the purse. The last time I saw said wallet was yesterday, at approximately 11:00 a.m. I was at a coffee shop across the street from Millennium Park. I paid with a credit card. I did not set anything down anywhere. No one was standing anywhere near me. I did not sit down. I got on the bus. It was not crowded. I sat with my purse on my lap and my elbows clamping it shut while I facebooked and tweeted neurotically.<br />
That's kind of an embarrassing admission and realization.<br />
Huh. <br />
I met up with a group of people, the majority of whom I know, but a few of them I did not. my purse was closed and in between my feet the entire time, BUT THEN, I picked up the purse, and put it on my chair, and my friend said something to me. I turned for a minute, maybe two minutes, butt-to-purse. My butt was literally touching my purse-handley-strap thing. In order for someone to have taken my wallet out, they would have to move the other purse-handle, reach in, move my water bottle, grasp and remove the wallet. With me physically touching the purse and half a turn away from seeing them. In a room full of people, in full view, in broad daylight. At fucking noon on a Tuesday. But this is the only point in the day that my purse was not in my full view and fully protected, so this is the only time I can put together that it would have happened. Ugh. Anyway, from here I went and got coffee with said group of friends. So if it was one of these people, it is highly likely that the offender looked me dead in the eye and smiled and chatted right after stealing my fucking identity out of my purse. I didn't know yet, though. I went on about my business for another hour and a half after leaving Sbux, and then I got a phone call about a fraud alert on one of the credit cards. I was all, "That's impossible, I have that card right he-MOTHER FUCKER!" They got $200 in Trader Joe's gift cards, Starbucks gift cards of some random amount, my Massachusetts ID (which by the way was HELL to get god damn it), 2 other photo IDs, a printout from the social security office with my SSN on it, 2 credit cards, my birth certificate, and a ton of other stuff that would be useful to still have but is not nearly as important as the legal documents that lend themselves to identity theft.<br />
<br />
And do you know what they did with the credit cards? They went and bought redline transit passes, several transactions worth, to the tune of like $150. Then they went shopping at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. THEN they called a homeboy in PA and tried to let them use the card, but that wouldn't go through and the game got busted. Bummer, dudes. Seriously, y'all, if you had asked nicely I could have gotten you some nice fluffy towels and some pots and pans and bath beads and shit. I probably even know some people that would have given you rides places or something, but nooo, you had to go and be a walletsnatcher.<br />
<br />
So, I got to go file a police report last night, and call and put fraud alerts on everything, ever, in my life. And now I have to get new ID and SS card, and all that garbage, for easily the third time. That's okay though, this is probably some sort of a karmic repercussion for something. I should not have had all of that stuff with me, so easily accessible, and I should have paid better attention. Plus, who steals someone's credit cards and goes shopping at Bed, Bath, and Beyond? I couldn't even really be mad last night. It was just too funny.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-34123437148999240162010-11-17T08:12:00.000-08:002011-01-19T21:15:46.513-08:00I Never Get Sick and I Always Have the AnswerDay 01→ Something you hate about yourself.<br />
<br />
I hate how difficult it is for me to show my real self to others. I have a tendency to keep people at arm's length, if not much further away. I have a very strong desire to be close to them, but I usually keep that to myself, because I never want people to know that I want anything from them and *definitely* not that I need anything. I am working to correct the misdirected thinking I have that my having perfectly normal needs somehow makes me weak. I mean, god forbid anyone know I'm human or anything.<br />
<br />
The hardest things for me to say are "Help me," and "I don't know." Sometimes a tractor couldn't drag them out of my mouth.<br />
<br />
If I am sick, I will deny it and deny it and deny it (to everyone, including myself), until I pass out or projectile vomit<br />
<a name='more'></a>in a totally inappropriate setting. When I was struggling with depression, I kept it to myself and almost drowned in my own head, instead of talking to someone about how my own thoughts were strangling me. That almost killed me, and that's not the only situation where not asking for help has put me in a great deal of danger. I would say that this is a result of outrageous pride, and I do think pride is a factor in this equation, but more than that I think it is fear. I have the preconceived notion that if I ask someone for help, it won't go well, and I will feel worse than I did before I asked. I think that they will say no, or tell me that what I think is a problem is stupid, and I should suck it up and move on. Be a man. The truth of the situation is that when I was offered help and accepted it, a hundred doors swung wide open. I'm forcing myself to ask now (even if it is just in little ways it is a step in the right direction) and actually this past week has been a prime example of this. I was just talking about it this morning. I have found even in this short period of time that when I open my mouth and say what is bothering me out loud to someone else, it gets so much more manageable. It's like when I keep things in, they start growing and morphing into something far bigger and uglier, but talking about it takes away a lot of the power and girth. It helps me get perspective. Sometimes I will think something sounds reasonable when I am thinking it, but upon hearing myself say it out loud, I realize it is completely preposterous. This is also a way to chip away a little of that distance between myself and another person.<br />
<br />
No one likes being wrong. I'm no exception. I won't have a tantrum or anything if I don't get a trivia question right, but if you ask me a question, I have a nearly pathological desire to give you some sort of an answer. If I ask you a question, like, "I have this problem and..." most likely it won't be phrased as a question, and after I finish stating the problem, I will supply my own solution as if I don't want your help and was just thinking out loud. This shit is totally obnoxious. It's also 'default' behavior that I'm trying really hard to change because now that I am aware that I do things like that, when I hear it coming out of my mouth it makes me cringe.sowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8619584284588420630.post-90638974592420919222010-11-17T08:10:00.000-08:002011-01-03T23:18:04.683-08:00Upcoming EventsI have started at least 10 new blog entries, and I can't seem to finish them. Up to my standards, anyway. I'm having some blockage issues (yum). I was recently linked to 30 days of writing prompts by <a href="http://www.twitter.com/09thehippy">Craig</a>, and I think I'm going to give them a try. Writing about these subjects publicly on the internet kind of scares the bejeezus out of me, but I suppose that's part of the reason I want to do it. Here they are, in case you want to do it yourself. Or salivate expectantly for my impending updates.<br />
<br />
30 days of truth:<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<strike>Day 01→ Something you hate about yourself.</strike> <br />
<strike>Day 02→ Something you love about yourself.</strike> <br />
<strike>Day 03→ Something you have to forgive yourself for.</strike><br />
<strike>Day 04→ Something you have to forgive someone for.</strike><br />
<strike>Day 05→ Something you hope to do in your life.</strike> <br />
<strike>Day 06→ Something you hope you never have to do.</strike><br />
<strike>Day 07→ Someone who has made your life with living.</strike><br />
<strike>Day 08→ Someone who has made your life hell, or treated you like shit.</strike><br />
<strike>Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.</strike><br />
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.<br />
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.<br />
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.<br />
<strike>Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days.</strike> (write a letter.)<br />
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)<br />
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.<br />
<strike>Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.</strike><br />
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.<br />
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.<br />
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?<br />
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.<br />
<strike>Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?</strike><br />
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.<br />
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.<br />
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)<br />
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.<br />
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?<br />
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?<br />
<strike>Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?</strike><br />
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.<br />
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourselfsowakeuphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387711013684358299noreply@blogger.com0