Ugh
Little Wisdom, Lots o' Nugget:
Don't drink with the Jesus people. And don't drink with the Jesus people's children who've selected the downward spiral to sin. As much as they think that they've rejected their parents' religion, they'll still raise a stink about pegan beliefs. And don't trust anyone who starts out a statement with "I'm not [insert appropriate label here], but..." If they have to say that, they are. If you hold one ounce of a racist belief, then you're still racist. If you hold one iota of male chauvinism, then you are. Maybe not on a Grand Dragon or mysoginist (I think that's the word...) scale, but you still have it. I always ask people if my beliefs are rascist...I'm not shy like that. I have to be aware, I have to ask. I think more people should turn to the person standing next to them at a bus stop and say, "I've heard this thing...is it true? Does that sound rascist to you?" There are so many people with misconceptions of the cultures that live here...am I not the only person who realizes that family background matters?
Anyway, I thought that I'd share that with you. And I'm getting really tired of young girls and boys who really, really need to grow up. I don't just want maturity, I want to know mature people. Oh, well, can't have it all, can we....
Wednesday, March 27, 2002
Saturday, March 16, 2002
As Random As I Can Be
I love food. It's quite an obvious fact, given that I'm overweight and all. And potato pancakes are the best...
I am going to write my story, dammit. I am going to write it the way I want to, the way that I imagine it to be. I want it to be a good story, an entertaining story.
I slept most of the day today and I'm still tired. I shouldn't party so hard, but hell, it was Friday.
I see John periodically. I try to pretend that I don't notice his presence because I'm sure by now that it doesn't matter to him anymore. He'd be a good friend if he knew how to be friends with someone. Yeah, it hurts a little.
Life sucks. Life is good. I'm at home on a Saturday night but I also have the bar copy of the "standards" to keep me company. How sad.
Sometimes disappointment makes you do strange things.
Ugh I'm tired. I think I'll just go back to sleep. Or play a video game. Same difference.
I love food. It's quite an obvious fact, given that I'm overweight and all. And potato pancakes are the best...
I am going to write my story, dammit. I am going to write it the way I want to, the way that I imagine it to be. I want it to be a good story, an entertaining story.
I slept most of the day today and I'm still tired. I shouldn't party so hard, but hell, it was Friday.
I see John periodically. I try to pretend that I don't notice his presence because I'm sure by now that it doesn't matter to him anymore. He'd be a good friend if he knew how to be friends with someone. Yeah, it hurts a little.
Life sucks. Life is good. I'm at home on a Saturday night but I also have the bar copy of the "standards" to keep me company. How sad.
Sometimes disappointment makes you do strange things.
Ugh I'm tired. I think I'll just go back to sleep. Or play a video game. Same difference.
Wednesday, March 13, 2002
My Decree Against Insanity
One
I will no longer be afraid of the normal. I realize that I am not normal in any way but that does not give me the right to attack normal people. I will respect their views as long as my views are respected. Most thinking in life is merely opinion and not fact, mainly belief and not concrete. I will ignore the frightened feeling I have around people who attack my religion and I will not become arguementative towards them. I understand that it is merely a difference in beliefs and not a personal attack on my being as a whole. I will smile and be excruciatingly polite to anyone who expresses a view (religious, "scientific", or personal) that makes me angry.
Two
I will not point out the foibles of society. It is a pointless activity. Even though I recognize that I live in a culture where women are not treated well even after the feminist movement, I will keep that to myself. I will not challenge the views of men in the concern of women. I will not point out the obvious political manipulations of the two mainstream views of free trade. I will keep silent on matters of state. I will not try to explain urban myths to anyone nor will I tell anyone how a particular magic trick is performed, whether magically or politically.
Three
I will not, under any circumstances, pretend to know anything. Since there is no way to know everything, and I am, obviously, a moron, I cannot state any facts that are true. I will not give advice. I will not predict the ways or habits of people. I will not gather information on anyone and use that information for my own agendas. I will not gossip or tell anyone a true story about somebody that they've told me, using aliases.
Why do I decree these things?
I am tired of saying things that are right, only to be overshadowed by someone who is wrong, or to be ignored completely, or to be wrong once and have that held over my head, even if I am right any other time. And then I wonder why I have the complexes I do...I have to continually remind myself that I'm not all that stupid. Through careful social conditioning, I will second guess myself. I dislike society for various reasons. This is what makes me feel insane, this apparent lack of higher emotional thought -- one that uses reason combined with the spiritual aspects of life. There is a social reality -- it's what the society trains its people to think and do. I do not fit the social reality and it is the most annoying thing to discuss something with a person who has no idea that they're being manipulated -- yes, the "Nancy Northshores" (suburbanites) of my area have negative preconceptions of the poor, but that doesn't make the negative perceptions of "Nancy Northshores" that the poor have more valid. Both stereotypes are incorrect. We are people dammit, why can't anyone see that? Why can't anyone see that although culture differences are abundant, that doesn't mean a person is worth less or that they're evil. I refuse to believe that all young black men are thugs, that all young black women are welfare mommies, that all black people are poor and uneducated. I refuse to believe that America means Christianity (it doesn't), that all Arabs are terrorists, that all Jews are rich, that all Muslem men treat women with hostility, that anyone of Asian decent is either downright stupid or too crafty for their own good, that all Hispanics are Mexican. You may agree with these views...and I don't fault you for that. However, it's been my experience that most people do not truly adhere to these principles. I guess mainly because I hang out with disgrutled white men I think that everyone thinks this. I tend to be skeptical when someone pays lip service to the ideals but doesn't act in the appropriate manner. To me, everyone's a person. We are a generic life form. It's culture and traditions that mold and shape us into who we are, and for me, that's more interesting to know. I don't care about statistics, those can be manipulated. I want to know what every single person's experience in life has been. I can separate one individual from our ever growing collective and learn about a specific life. I like to learn about people different from me who've had other experiences, who can give different perspectives on life. First and foremost, someone's a person, the rest is just details -- interesting details, but details just the same.
And now I'm getting off my soapbox. There's more I want to say, but I'm tired and I have to work tomorrow. Sometimes the best explanations become mired in simple incoherency, which is how I'm feeling right now. And I'm a woman...I'm not supposed to be that sophisticated.
One
I will no longer be afraid of the normal. I realize that I am not normal in any way but that does not give me the right to attack normal people. I will respect their views as long as my views are respected. Most thinking in life is merely opinion and not fact, mainly belief and not concrete. I will ignore the frightened feeling I have around people who attack my religion and I will not become arguementative towards them. I understand that it is merely a difference in beliefs and not a personal attack on my being as a whole. I will smile and be excruciatingly polite to anyone who expresses a view (religious, "scientific", or personal) that makes me angry.
Two
I will not point out the foibles of society. It is a pointless activity. Even though I recognize that I live in a culture where women are not treated well even after the feminist movement, I will keep that to myself. I will not challenge the views of men in the concern of women. I will not point out the obvious political manipulations of the two mainstream views of free trade. I will keep silent on matters of state. I will not try to explain urban myths to anyone nor will I tell anyone how a particular magic trick is performed, whether magically or politically.
Three
I will not, under any circumstances, pretend to know anything. Since there is no way to know everything, and I am, obviously, a moron, I cannot state any facts that are true. I will not give advice. I will not predict the ways or habits of people. I will not gather information on anyone and use that information for my own agendas. I will not gossip or tell anyone a true story about somebody that they've told me, using aliases.
Why do I decree these things?
I am tired of saying things that are right, only to be overshadowed by someone who is wrong, or to be ignored completely, or to be wrong once and have that held over my head, even if I am right any other time. And then I wonder why I have the complexes I do...I have to continually remind myself that I'm not all that stupid. Through careful social conditioning, I will second guess myself. I dislike society for various reasons. This is what makes me feel insane, this apparent lack of higher emotional thought -- one that uses reason combined with the spiritual aspects of life. There is a social reality -- it's what the society trains its people to think and do. I do not fit the social reality and it is the most annoying thing to discuss something with a person who has no idea that they're being manipulated -- yes, the "Nancy Northshores" (suburbanites) of my area have negative preconceptions of the poor, but that doesn't make the negative perceptions of "Nancy Northshores" that the poor have more valid. Both stereotypes are incorrect. We are people dammit, why can't anyone see that? Why can't anyone see that although culture differences are abundant, that doesn't mean a person is worth less or that they're evil. I refuse to believe that all young black men are thugs, that all young black women are welfare mommies, that all black people are poor and uneducated. I refuse to believe that America means Christianity (it doesn't), that all Arabs are terrorists, that all Jews are rich, that all Muslem men treat women with hostility, that anyone of Asian decent is either downright stupid or too crafty for their own good, that all Hispanics are Mexican. You may agree with these views...and I don't fault you for that. However, it's been my experience that most people do not truly adhere to these principles. I guess mainly because I hang out with disgrutled white men I think that everyone thinks this. I tend to be skeptical when someone pays lip service to the ideals but doesn't act in the appropriate manner. To me, everyone's a person. We are a generic life form. It's culture and traditions that mold and shape us into who we are, and for me, that's more interesting to know. I don't care about statistics, those can be manipulated. I want to know what every single person's experience in life has been. I can separate one individual from our ever growing collective and learn about a specific life. I like to learn about people different from me who've had other experiences, who can give different perspectives on life. First and foremost, someone's a person, the rest is just details -- interesting details, but details just the same.
And now I'm getting off my soapbox. There's more I want to say, but I'm tired and I have to work tomorrow. Sometimes the best explanations become mired in simple incoherency, which is how I'm feeling right now. And I'm a woman...I'm not supposed to be that sophisticated.
Sunday, March 10, 2002
Randoms
One
I had a weird dream the other day. I didn't remember it until I saw a commercial that featured lots of bees.
I was walking in a field, possibly a park, it was all grass. I was trying to run away from a bee -- I saw the bee coming after me, like in slow motion but not quite. And this bee was no ordinary bee -- it was about as large as a half-dollar or dollar coin (the old dollar coins). I was also walking away from the bee, not running, but I still was trying to get away from it. It gained on me and I decided to let it sting me. I was wearing a shirt and skirt and I lifted up my shirt a little, exposing a small portion of my back for the bee to sting me. I felt the stinger go in, and then I grabbed the bee and pulled on it, to get it away from me. Then I took the stinger out of my back. And I was nonchalant about the whole thing. Usually, I am terrified of bees and try to get away from them as fast as I can. I am not one of those people who can "stand still". So this dream was a bit odd...but I think I know why I dreamed it. Hopefully, if I'm right, my life will get so much better, but if it's the other theory, well...metaphorically speaking, I'm a doormat and I'll have to change that.
Two
I realized the other day that I do have a type of guy I'm attracted to. (I'm a little slow, so bite me.) I like dark and curly haired guys. Curly is important, but so is the dark hair. Nothing makes me drool like a guy with dark, curly hair -- and a goatee. He has to have that too. Lacking dark haired guys, I prefer brown curly hair, no blondes need apply. I also like dark brown eyes. And the hair has to be short. I am not attracted to guys with long hair. So what?, you may ask yourself...and I would tell you that this is a revelation for me. So, like, if any one of you out there knows a guy with a good personality, isn't a mooch, and fits the above description, send him in my direction. If you haven't already snagged him, that is.
Three
There are fifteen year olds who bother me. I want to say, "Stop being such an idiot!" but I can't. I am only their friend, I can't play mother. Not my place. But it angers me anyway.
Four
I don't believe when people say they miss me. I've learned to shrug it off. Thank you, internet community, for this dispostion. If there's one thing I've learned from the internet -- and life, really -- it's that no one really cares. That may seem harsh and insecure, but I point to John...to have him say he misses me is an insult in my book. And sadly, those are the people who say they miss me. If anyone else misses me, they don't tell me, especially a lot of the people who I want to miss me. However, there are people in my life who really do miss me, and mean it, and I do care about them. So don't think that I believe that nobody is sincere about missing me; I just think that the general portion of the population doesn't miss me as much as they say.
Five
My bother had a dream about me a few weeks ago. It was when we lived in the Maryland St. house. I was about four or five, which would have made him ten or eleven. He was tickling me (and since I was ticklish, that gave full rights for my brothers to tickle me to near death). He'd been having nightmares before that dream. The best thing about the two of us talking about his memory was that we started talking about all of the other funny things we did, like him kissing feet or the times where he and the oldest brother would throw me in a sleeping bag and carry me around the house, like Santa and his sack. Then they'd go up the stairs with me dragging behind in the bag. At the end of it, they'd toss me on the couch or the bed, and I would yell from my little cocoon, "Again! Do it again!" I loved it...but don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you.
This whole topic is hilarious because The Artist has a similar fond memory of his sisters and sliding down the stairs on pillows. Sometimes we sit around and talk about the silliness that we got into with our siblings. It's always lovely to talk about those days. I'm just glad that I'm lucky enough to have nice memories of my brothers. It could be worse....
One
I had a weird dream the other day. I didn't remember it until I saw a commercial that featured lots of bees.
I was walking in a field, possibly a park, it was all grass. I was trying to run away from a bee -- I saw the bee coming after me, like in slow motion but not quite. And this bee was no ordinary bee -- it was about as large as a half-dollar or dollar coin (the old dollar coins). I was also walking away from the bee, not running, but I still was trying to get away from it. It gained on me and I decided to let it sting me. I was wearing a shirt and skirt and I lifted up my shirt a little, exposing a small portion of my back for the bee to sting me. I felt the stinger go in, and then I grabbed the bee and pulled on it, to get it away from me. Then I took the stinger out of my back. And I was nonchalant about the whole thing. Usually, I am terrified of bees and try to get away from them as fast as I can. I am not one of those people who can "stand still". So this dream was a bit odd...but I think I know why I dreamed it. Hopefully, if I'm right, my life will get so much better, but if it's the other theory, well...metaphorically speaking, I'm a doormat and I'll have to change that.
Two
I realized the other day that I do have a type of guy I'm attracted to. (I'm a little slow, so bite me.) I like dark and curly haired guys. Curly is important, but so is the dark hair. Nothing makes me drool like a guy with dark, curly hair -- and a goatee. He has to have that too. Lacking dark haired guys, I prefer brown curly hair, no blondes need apply. I also like dark brown eyes. And the hair has to be short. I am not attracted to guys with long hair. So what?, you may ask yourself...and I would tell you that this is a revelation for me. So, like, if any one of you out there knows a guy with a good personality, isn't a mooch, and fits the above description, send him in my direction. If you haven't already snagged him, that is.
Three
There are fifteen year olds who bother me. I want to say, "Stop being such an idiot!" but I can't. I am only their friend, I can't play mother. Not my place. But it angers me anyway.
Four
I don't believe when people say they miss me. I've learned to shrug it off. Thank you, internet community, for this dispostion. If there's one thing I've learned from the internet -- and life, really -- it's that no one really cares. That may seem harsh and insecure, but I point to John...to have him say he misses me is an insult in my book. And sadly, those are the people who say they miss me. If anyone else misses me, they don't tell me, especially a lot of the people who I want to miss me. However, there are people in my life who really do miss me, and mean it, and I do care about them. So don't think that I believe that nobody is sincere about missing me; I just think that the general portion of the population doesn't miss me as much as they say.
Five
My bother had a dream about me a few weeks ago. It was when we lived in the Maryland St. house. I was about four or five, which would have made him ten or eleven. He was tickling me (and since I was ticklish, that gave full rights for my brothers to tickle me to near death). He'd been having nightmares before that dream. The best thing about the two of us talking about his memory was that we started talking about all of the other funny things we did, like him kissing feet or the times where he and the oldest brother would throw me in a sleeping bag and carry me around the house, like Santa and his sack. Then they'd go up the stairs with me dragging behind in the bag. At the end of it, they'd toss me on the couch or the bed, and I would yell from my little cocoon, "Again! Do it again!" I loved it...but don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you.
This whole topic is hilarious because The Artist has a similar fond memory of his sisters and sliding down the stairs on pillows. Sometimes we sit around and talk about the silliness that we got into with our siblings. It's always lovely to talk about those days. I'm just glad that I'm lucky enough to have nice memories of my brothers. It could be worse....
Wednesday, March 06, 2002
"Hey, Mr. Bartender...
...please don't be so slow, I got time for one more round and a six pack to go...."
"Six Pack To Go" by Hank Thompson
I've been feeling better since Monday. Really, I have. Classic Country Music Night -- that's all I need say. Oh, and someone gave me a copy of the "standards" of the classic country tunes (the songs that the four die-hard, A-plus students love). The CD's that got stolen were some of my soothing pick me up music like "Blow Up The Outside World" (Soundgarden) and "Heart Shaped Box" (Nirvana). Yes, I realize those are depressing songs...but that's what cheers me up. When I say, "depressing fun", I mean it. I love depressing music. Nothing makes me feel happier or cheers me up more than a good, depressing, hopless tune. And there's nothing more depressing than depressing classic country music. I do like regular music, and that makes me feel good too, but nothing makes me as euphorically happy as the depressing stuff. It's like a drug to me...some people need booze, cigs, heroin; I need depressing music. My life is hopeless and sinking if I don't get music. If you think sobbing uncontrollably, swearing, cursing God and every person I could think of, while beating the hell out of my car with a shovel is a sign of a problem, you could be right...but this is me we are talking about. If I'm that high strung over an exam and my life in general, I don't even want to contemplate what life without music would be like. I probably would have done something worse. As a friend said on Monday, "You look like you could take out a McDonald's." No, not really, but without music...who knows? I know it sounds crazy, but it is true...and there's a lot of people who don't understand just how much I like music.
On the same token, I try not to criticize someone's choice of music. I may not like it, but music is a preference and not a doorway into the soul. (I had a friend who would've disagreed with this. Of course, he didn't understand that a person could like a song just because it sounds good. That's not a doorway into the soul; that's a personal preference.) If I don't like your choice in music, I will say so, and I think that's enough. However, I know people who are so offended if you don't like their music, they will insult you. And they seem to think that only their music is the best music in the whole world and everything else is the worst music that they've ever heard. I hate that. All music is music, and it's your choice to listen to the selections that you prefer. And what I listen to may not be what you listen to -- but don't insult me or get insulted because of it. It's just music. There are so many other reasons to insult or dislike or hate someone that using music as a reason is rather silly and trivial. I'd rather just hate someone because they're rascist, rude, moronic, or brainwashed by society. I'll get off my soapbox now about this, but next time you're going to start a fight with someone over the artistic integrity of Britney Spears, just remember that it's a preference, and you're walking into an arguement without an end. Unless you're like me, and you like to start crazy arguements. I'm known for that. ;)
Anyway, just thought I'd write about some music...always keep an open mind about it. You may discover that you actually like what you thought you hated. I know I did.
...please don't be so slow, I got time for one more round and a six pack to go...."
"Six Pack To Go" by Hank Thompson
I've been feeling better since Monday. Really, I have. Classic Country Music Night -- that's all I need say. Oh, and someone gave me a copy of the "standards" of the classic country tunes (the songs that the four die-hard, A-plus students love). The CD's that got stolen were some of my soothing pick me up music like "Blow Up The Outside World" (Soundgarden) and "Heart Shaped Box" (Nirvana). Yes, I realize those are depressing songs...but that's what cheers me up. When I say, "depressing fun", I mean it. I love depressing music. Nothing makes me feel happier or cheers me up more than a good, depressing, hopless tune. And there's nothing more depressing than depressing classic country music. I do like regular music, and that makes me feel good too, but nothing makes me as euphorically happy as the depressing stuff. It's like a drug to me...some people need booze, cigs, heroin; I need depressing music. My life is hopeless and sinking if I don't get music. If you think sobbing uncontrollably, swearing, cursing God and every person I could think of, while beating the hell out of my car with a shovel is a sign of a problem, you could be right...but this is me we are talking about. If I'm that high strung over an exam and my life in general, I don't even want to contemplate what life without music would be like. I probably would have done something worse. As a friend said on Monday, "You look like you could take out a McDonald's." No, not really, but without music...who knows? I know it sounds crazy, but it is true...and there's a lot of people who don't understand just how much I like music.
On the same token, I try not to criticize someone's choice of music. I may not like it, but music is a preference and not a doorway into the soul. (I had a friend who would've disagreed with this. Of course, he didn't understand that a person could like a song just because it sounds good. That's not a doorway into the soul; that's a personal preference.) If I don't like your choice in music, I will say so, and I think that's enough. However, I know people who are so offended if you don't like their music, they will insult you. And they seem to think that only their music is the best music in the whole world and everything else is the worst music that they've ever heard. I hate that. All music is music, and it's your choice to listen to the selections that you prefer. And what I listen to may not be what you listen to -- but don't insult me or get insulted because of it. It's just music. There are so many other reasons to insult or dislike or hate someone that using music as a reason is rather silly and trivial. I'd rather just hate someone because they're rascist, rude, moronic, or brainwashed by society. I'll get off my soapbox now about this, but next time you're going to start a fight with someone over the artistic integrity of Britney Spears, just remember that it's a preference, and you're walking into an arguement without an end. Unless you're like me, and you like to start crazy arguements. I'm known for that. ;)
Anyway, just thought I'd write about some music...always keep an open mind about it. You may discover that you actually like what you thought you hated. I know I did.
Tuesday, March 05, 2002
Classic Country Is My Prozac
I remember Mondays at The Palace of Rock. This was the time when I really was a barfly, drinking lots almost every night. Mondays had one of the local celebrities onstage, singing. He isn't bad, it just wasn't my style. I ended up going to another bar on Mondays -- and most every night -- with The Artist. We would sit and talk about everything we could think of. We never left the bar before bar time. Sometimes he would pull out his big art book and just draw.
One Monday night, The Artist wasn't there. And I really didn't feel like spending time in the Bar of Disgruntled GenXers. Some were punks, others were normal looking, some were dressed to the nines. Granted, I myself am technically considered a GenXer but for the most part, it's a group I'm excluded from. So I decided to venture into the The Palace of Rock. I asked Paul who was playing, expecting that the local celebrity was playing. Instead, it was D.J. Craig and country tunes. It was okay -- at this point, I didn't care about it at all and just wanted to stare into my beer. There weren't a lot of people there, mainly because the local celebrity wasn't playing. They'd open the door, peer in, and then leave.
Then The Artist decided to take a long trip to Texas. I had lost my drinking buddy. Right at this point, I broke up with my fiancee and now had no idea what to do. You know how, when you've just made a hard decision and are feeling a lot of pain, people will tell you that they're there for you? Don't believe them. I kept trying to talk to people but other dramas overshadowed mine and for the most part, it was just me, my problems, and my beer. (Mind you, this is also after the fire, everyone was getting tired of my whining.) And I started going to The Palace of Rock a lot, mainly to look for John, because, stupid me, I thought he'd at least listen to me ramble even if he didn't care. (He mysteriously dropped out of sight, but that's another story....) I was there almost every night, watching cartoons, listening to live music. But Mondays started getting better. I actually started listening to the music, to the tunes that D.J. Craig pumped out. I was always there at 10 o'clock sharp. Most of the time it was just me, the bartender, and the D.J. But soon, people started to come to Classic Country Music Mondays.
As word got out, more and more people started coming to it. At first, it was Mr. Wiskey and Water. He was a huge fan of classic country, especially the songs that were simultaneously sad and funny. He is quite theatrical when he sings along with the music. One of the well-known drunks started making appearances there. Suddenly, the whole world is showing up to this hole-in-the-wall, second rate bar for some good doses of depressing fun. Last night, there was a very large crowd there...the largest yet. I'm still the A-plus student -- I'm there at ten, I sit myself down, and settle in with a pitcher of beer and a pack of cigs. Even though D.J. Craig doesn't D.J. anymore, it still is an interesting night of tears in your beer, wussy men who are heartbroken over their morally corrupt wives/girlfriends/lovers, tales of the evils of the debouchery-filled honky tonk bars, women getting mad at their good-for-nothing men, and the occasional rockabilly/war/patriotic song. I have fun but I also learned that sometimes a song can be very theraputic.
Oh, and ladies, if you marry the character in "Walk On By" (by Leroy Van Dyke), don't be fooled and don't be charmed. Make sure his tune changes to "Alright, I'll Sign The Papers" (by Mel Tillis). Just a friendly warning...
I remember Mondays at The Palace of Rock. This was the time when I really was a barfly, drinking lots almost every night. Mondays had one of the local celebrities onstage, singing. He isn't bad, it just wasn't my style. I ended up going to another bar on Mondays -- and most every night -- with The Artist. We would sit and talk about everything we could think of. We never left the bar before bar time. Sometimes he would pull out his big art book and just draw.
One Monday night, The Artist wasn't there. And I really didn't feel like spending time in the Bar of Disgruntled GenXers. Some were punks, others were normal looking, some were dressed to the nines. Granted, I myself am technically considered a GenXer but for the most part, it's a group I'm excluded from. So I decided to venture into the The Palace of Rock. I asked Paul who was playing, expecting that the local celebrity was playing. Instead, it was D.J. Craig and country tunes. It was okay -- at this point, I didn't care about it at all and just wanted to stare into my beer. There weren't a lot of people there, mainly because the local celebrity wasn't playing. They'd open the door, peer in, and then leave.
Then The Artist decided to take a long trip to Texas. I had lost my drinking buddy. Right at this point, I broke up with my fiancee and now had no idea what to do. You know how, when you've just made a hard decision and are feeling a lot of pain, people will tell you that they're there for you? Don't believe them. I kept trying to talk to people but other dramas overshadowed mine and for the most part, it was just me, my problems, and my beer. (Mind you, this is also after the fire, everyone was getting tired of my whining.) And I started going to The Palace of Rock a lot, mainly to look for John, because, stupid me, I thought he'd at least listen to me ramble even if he didn't care. (He mysteriously dropped out of sight, but that's another story....) I was there almost every night, watching cartoons, listening to live music. But Mondays started getting better. I actually started listening to the music, to the tunes that D.J. Craig pumped out. I was always there at 10 o'clock sharp. Most of the time it was just me, the bartender, and the D.J. But soon, people started to come to Classic Country Music Mondays.
As word got out, more and more people started coming to it. At first, it was Mr. Wiskey and Water. He was a huge fan of classic country, especially the songs that were simultaneously sad and funny. He is quite theatrical when he sings along with the music. One of the well-known drunks started making appearances there. Suddenly, the whole world is showing up to this hole-in-the-wall, second rate bar for some good doses of depressing fun. Last night, there was a very large crowd there...the largest yet. I'm still the A-plus student -- I'm there at ten, I sit myself down, and settle in with a pitcher of beer and a pack of cigs. Even though D.J. Craig doesn't D.J. anymore, it still is an interesting night of tears in your beer, wussy men who are heartbroken over their morally corrupt wives/girlfriends/lovers, tales of the evils of the debouchery-filled honky tonk bars, women getting mad at their good-for-nothing men, and the occasional rockabilly/war/patriotic song. I have fun but I also learned that sometimes a song can be very theraputic.
Oh, and ladies, if you marry the character in "Walk On By" (by Leroy Van Dyke), don't be fooled and don't be charmed. Make sure his tune changes to "Alright, I'll Sign The Papers" (by Mel Tillis). Just a friendly warning...
Monday, March 04, 2002
Fire
Ok, now that I wrote that last piece....
It was Memorial Day weekend of last year. By this time, I didn't see most of my friends anymore (they either felt too guilty or mad that they didn't bother to call me back, which is not a perception of mine, but honest confessions from them), and the relationship I had was slowly deteriorating. The whole weekend I was restless. I didn't want to be at home, yet I didn't want to go anywhere. I spent time at my coffee shop that weekend. On Monday, I went there, but as soon as I was there, I felt like leaving. I left there early, which was unusual because I had the next day off and could sleep in. The restlessness had made me tired, so when I got home, I went to bed. (I also had a touch of depression, which made it possible to go to sleep.)
And then there was a commotion. I heard things in my sleep, like yelling and chaos. It was so far away and muted that I thought that I was dreaming. Suddenly, my door flew open: "Get up! Get up! The house is on fire!" I didn't understand. What was that? "The house on fire, get UP!" I got up and ran...no glasses, no shoes, nothing. I could barely see, I'm pretty nearsighted and I have a bad astigmatism. I ran down the stairs, where the living room was filling with smoke. My mother ran past me, trying to turn on the phone, which turned on with no dial tone. She ran across the street to the neighbor's house. I was standing in the vestibule of our house...it was a townhouse, and oddly, I didn't know if the neighbors were home or not. A woman and her three children lived there. I banged on the door loudly and fircely. No one answered. Then I heard my father and boyfriend in the basement trying to put out the fire. I could clearly hear their voices, which was odd, because the fire was on the other side of the house. It sounded like they were right below me. And then I heard the sound of breaking glass. My foot hit the floor so hard and I hoped that I was yelling, "Get out of there!" but you see, I can't remember if I was yelling at all. Then I heard my father yell. I think I was screaming at that point. But then I heard them say that they're getting out of there. I turned to run away from the house. The last image I had of the house was the smoke in the living room, all of the lights on, the television off, the smoke alarms blaring their warning. I ran across the street to my mother. I don't know when it happened, but suddenly the house was dark. I could hear the guys outside, trying to get the hose to put out the fire. Mind you, I could not see them at all, but I could hear them.
And then I heard the most terrifying sound in the world coming from the direction where I had heard them shouting. The power lines to our house crackled.
"Get over here!" I yelled. And kept yelling until I saw them in my line of vision. Then the fire department came and put out the fire.
We managed to save that house. Our landlord should have bowed down to us. Why? We saved it. Our stuff was okay. We didn't lose much...except for piece of mind, money, and the rental unit. My parents gave up after five or six months of construction and we moved. I won't bore you like I've bored countless other people with the details of the fire or life after the fire. It's a moot point now. I stopped acting like it was a big deal, learning to hide my revulsion whenever I smell wood burning, sirens blaring, or people shouting. Fires happen all the time...and some people never escape from them, let alone have all of their belongings safe and sound but a little smokey smelling. What right do I have to complain?
But I still see myself wandering around in the dark, nearly sightless, looking for my loved ones, terrified because I didn't know where they went and I didn't see clothing I recognized. I see the shadow of the voyuers who sat and watched the fire being put out, the man on the lawn next to me who was videotaping the excitement. I see the smoke billowing out into the night sky. I still hear the glass breaking. I still see my bare feet stomping on the tile of doorway. That was not the beginning of the change, but the last piece of it....
No, I am wrong. It was the final insult.
By the time we moved in, I had a lot of things stored in my car, among them, my favorite CD's. And then my car was broken into, CD's and a few other things were stolen. I don't know why they stole my frisbee and water guns. They could have left those, at least. (And John smiled at me and said, "I sent my specially trained ninjas to steal your CD's to teach you a lesson about loving material goods more than people." Of course, he lives in a fantasy world. He thinks he's God.) By that time, I had given up...after the final insult, nothing mattered anymore...and it still doesn't. It just doesn't matter anymore. And that's when I broke up with the love of my life. That, too, didn't matter anymore. Nothing, now or ever, matters anymore. I'm tired of pretending I care. I just don't care.
Let that be a lesson to everyone: God works in mysterious ways, but know too, that those ways may cause pain and suffering.
And that's the end of my hideously boring story.
Ok, now that I wrote that last piece....
It was Memorial Day weekend of last year. By this time, I didn't see most of my friends anymore (they either felt too guilty or mad that they didn't bother to call me back, which is not a perception of mine, but honest confessions from them), and the relationship I had was slowly deteriorating. The whole weekend I was restless. I didn't want to be at home, yet I didn't want to go anywhere. I spent time at my coffee shop that weekend. On Monday, I went there, but as soon as I was there, I felt like leaving. I left there early, which was unusual because I had the next day off and could sleep in. The restlessness had made me tired, so when I got home, I went to bed. (I also had a touch of depression, which made it possible to go to sleep.)
And then there was a commotion. I heard things in my sleep, like yelling and chaos. It was so far away and muted that I thought that I was dreaming. Suddenly, my door flew open: "Get up! Get up! The house is on fire!" I didn't understand. What was that? "The house on fire, get UP!" I got up and ran...no glasses, no shoes, nothing. I could barely see, I'm pretty nearsighted and I have a bad astigmatism. I ran down the stairs, where the living room was filling with smoke. My mother ran past me, trying to turn on the phone, which turned on with no dial tone. She ran across the street to the neighbor's house. I was standing in the vestibule of our house...it was a townhouse, and oddly, I didn't know if the neighbors were home or not. A woman and her three children lived there. I banged on the door loudly and fircely. No one answered. Then I heard my father and boyfriend in the basement trying to put out the fire. I could clearly hear their voices, which was odd, because the fire was on the other side of the house. It sounded like they were right below me. And then I heard the sound of breaking glass. My foot hit the floor so hard and I hoped that I was yelling, "Get out of there!" but you see, I can't remember if I was yelling at all. Then I heard my father yell. I think I was screaming at that point. But then I heard them say that they're getting out of there. I turned to run away from the house. The last image I had of the house was the smoke in the living room, all of the lights on, the television off, the smoke alarms blaring their warning. I ran across the street to my mother. I don't know when it happened, but suddenly the house was dark. I could hear the guys outside, trying to get the hose to put out the fire. Mind you, I could not see them at all, but I could hear them.
And then I heard the most terrifying sound in the world coming from the direction where I had heard them shouting. The power lines to our house crackled.
"Get over here!" I yelled. And kept yelling until I saw them in my line of vision. Then the fire department came and put out the fire.
We managed to save that house. Our landlord should have bowed down to us. Why? We saved it. Our stuff was okay. We didn't lose much...except for piece of mind, money, and the rental unit. My parents gave up after five or six months of construction and we moved. I won't bore you like I've bored countless other people with the details of the fire or life after the fire. It's a moot point now. I stopped acting like it was a big deal, learning to hide my revulsion whenever I smell wood burning, sirens blaring, or people shouting. Fires happen all the time...and some people never escape from them, let alone have all of their belongings safe and sound but a little smokey smelling. What right do I have to complain?
But I still see myself wandering around in the dark, nearly sightless, looking for my loved ones, terrified because I didn't know where they went and I didn't see clothing I recognized. I see the shadow of the voyuers who sat and watched the fire being put out, the man on the lawn next to me who was videotaping the excitement. I see the smoke billowing out into the night sky. I still hear the glass breaking. I still see my bare feet stomping on the tile of doorway. That was not the beginning of the change, but the last piece of it....
No, I am wrong. It was the final insult.
By the time we moved in, I had a lot of things stored in my car, among them, my favorite CD's. And then my car was broken into, CD's and a few other things were stolen. I don't know why they stole my frisbee and water guns. They could have left those, at least. (And John smiled at me and said, "I sent my specially trained ninjas to steal your CD's to teach you a lesson about loving material goods more than people." Of course, he lives in a fantasy world. He thinks he's God.) By that time, I had given up...after the final insult, nothing mattered anymore...and it still doesn't. It just doesn't matter anymore. And that's when I broke up with the love of my life. That, too, didn't matter anymore. Nothing, now or ever, matters anymore. I'm tired of pretending I care. I just don't care.
Let that be a lesson to everyone: God works in mysterious ways, but know too, that those ways may cause pain and suffering.
And that's the end of my hideously boring story.
Nervous Breakdown
There is a thin line between sanity and insanity. I am basically an insane person but I always feel as if I am the only sane person in this world. Menally ill people do have a sense of reality, warped by insane perceptions. Don't be afraid of them, don't fear the weakness in you that you see in them. They know when you are afraid. They need no patronizing. It's the "sane" people that I feel sorry for.
Sometimes we try and think through things logically, try to talk ourselves out of our emotions, search forever for our "closure". Anyone I've ever met does this, myself included. It's not a bad thing, it's just a coping mechanism that a lot of us have delvoped. I am an emotional person. That really, really sucks, espcially in a world of logical people. I look to logic for insight. But I am also a basketcase at times, because my emotions punch through so hard I become blinded. If this has never happened to you, you're lucky. You don't have to worry about the world. I do. No choice for me. Nothing brings it clearer than now....
I was running late for class, so I decided to drive to school. My car got stuck in a pile of snow that sits on top of a pile of ice. Oh, and my front tires are basically bald, something I've been complaining about to my parents so that they can help me pay for that. (This has been going on for months, this "bald tire" arguement. Women, never get your boyfriends/fiancees/significant others in this battle, especially if your father is involved and they get along. They will not believe you.) And to top this scenario off, I had an exam in the class I was late for. The exam lasts 30 minutes, starting at 10:30. When did I manage to get out of the driveway? Eleven o'clock. I bawled the entire time. Granted, I was allowed to take the exam when I did make it to school, and even though I've never had the unpleasant experience of missing an exam in my entire five years of college, I overreacted...if it had just been the exam I missed.
I was mad and frustrated at a lot of other things. If I write about them now, I'll start crying again, I've got tears in my eyes now. So I won't. I only cry alone, or so I think, because when I was whacking the shovel against the car and cursing loudly to God, I could have cared less if the neighbors had pulled up chairs and grabbed big buckets of popcorn to watch me in my miserable state (and I think one neighbor was watching me). I like to cry alone, because I'm a pathetic creature when I cry, but once I'm into it, I don't care if the whole world sees me. Better to remind someone of their hopless misery than to spare them from the harsh truth. (Lord, the tears are starting up again...)
I have a lot of things to be mad/frustated/despondant about. Digging my car out was the least of it. I am crying over the things I lost over the last year...the things that precipitated a change that I did not want to make. And now, as the world changes around me, I feel a little lost, not having completely accepted anything...yet. I now feel a little crazy, a bit unreal -- downright surrealistic, actually -- and if my writing gets a bit strange, that's the reason why...because I am feeling a bit crazy. I'm sure it will pass -- I certainly hope it does -- and I will be normal again. I am now crying over the dozen or so things that I should have cried about when they happened...beginning with a time point that starts closely to two years ago. It hurts. A lot.
If you've never had this experience, well, I hope that you do someday. You just might be a stronger person for it.
There is a thin line between sanity and insanity. I am basically an insane person but I always feel as if I am the only sane person in this world. Menally ill people do have a sense of reality, warped by insane perceptions. Don't be afraid of them, don't fear the weakness in you that you see in them. They know when you are afraid. They need no patronizing. It's the "sane" people that I feel sorry for.
Sometimes we try and think through things logically, try to talk ourselves out of our emotions, search forever for our "closure". Anyone I've ever met does this, myself included. It's not a bad thing, it's just a coping mechanism that a lot of us have delvoped. I am an emotional person. That really, really sucks, espcially in a world of logical people. I look to logic for insight. But I am also a basketcase at times, because my emotions punch through so hard I become blinded. If this has never happened to you, you're lucky. You don't have to worry about the world. I do. No choice for me. Nothing brings it clearer than now....
I was running late for class, so I decided to drive to school. My car got stuck in a pile of snow that sits on top of a pile of ice. Oh, and my front tires are basically bald, something I've been complaining about to my parents so that they can help me pay for that. (This has been going on for months, this "bald tire" arguement. Women, never get your boyfriends/fiancees/significant others in this battle, especially if your father is involved and they get along. They will not believe you.) And to top this scenario off, I had an exam in the class I was late for. The exam lasts 30 minutes, starting at 10:30. When did I manage to get out of the driveway? Eleven o'clock. I bawled the entire time. Granted, I was allowed to take the exam when I did make it to school, and even though I've never had the unpleasant experience of missing an exam in my entire five years of college, I overreacted...if it had just been the exam I missed.
I was mad and frustrated at a lot of other things. If I write about them now, I'll start crying again, I've got tears in my eyes now. So I won't. I only cry alone, or so I think, because when I was whacking the shovel against the car and cursing loudly to God, I could have cared less if the neighbors had pulled up chairs and grabbed big buckets of popcorn to watch me in my miserable state (and I think one neighbor was watching me). I like to cry alone, because I'm a pathetic creature when I cry, but once I'm into it, I don't care if the whole world sees me. Better to remind someone of their hopless misery than to spare them from the harsh truth. (Lord, the tears are starting up again...)
I have a lot of things to be mad/frustated/despondant about. Digging my car out was the least of it. I am crying over the things I lost over the last year...the things that precipitated a change that I did not want to make. And now, as the world changes around me, I feel a little lost, not having completely accepted anything...yet. I now feel a little crazy, a bit unreal -- downright surrealistic, actually -- and if my writing gets a bit strange, that's the reason why...because I am feeling a bit crazy. I'm sure it will pass -- I certainly hope it does -- and I will be normal again. I am now crying over the dozen or so things that I should have cried about when they happened...beginning with a time point that starts closely to two years ago. It hurts. A lot.
If you've never had this experience, well, I hope that you do someday. You just might be a stronger person for it.
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