For the curious, and my hatred for “sorry.”

A lot of people, on a daily basis, ask me how I’m feeling. Some even treat me like I’m on my deathbed, which makes me feel all kinds of special. It gets a bit daunting reciting the same thing every day, especially since a good portion of people know I have multiple systems working against me at once, and they want details. I’m writing this up as a small guide to How I Feel™, and a bit of the why. I skipped the smaller stuff, because these are the main concerns out to suck my life force.

Let’s start with the big dog everyone is worried about: The thing in my head.

The first culprit:

First, some perspective. Here’s the area the thing is, called the petrous apex:

Image

And this is what it looks like when there’s a thingy in there (this is not my head): Image

Not pretty, eh? Doesn’t feel pretty either. It doesn’t have very far to go when it grows, so it pushes on the facial nerves. Or the carotid artery, your inner ear canal and various innards. Eventually it will wreck all your shit in there and start eroding the bone keeping it out of your brain. That’s not good either, I think you can guess why… we like having brains They’re good for us! Best left uneroded.

So due to this happy little bastard in the right side of my skull (bonus: while looking for this, they found my sinus cavity has cysts. Explains the sinus infections!)  I am usually trying my best not to fall to the right (balance and all that, dizziness) I always have a headache, I can’t hear terribly well, sometimes my ear bleeds. My face will go numb and become difficult to speak with, or just tingle til I want to remove the skin. The pain will go down the back of my neck into my shoulder, and radiate as far down as it likes. Couple this with my previous issues from too many concussions and I’m a speechless, slurring, hard of hearing, forgetful idiot sometimes. I’ve become a professional at hiding it, however, so most people just think I’m drunk. It’s fun to play with.

What we have learned:

I still am not sure what it is. They just keep referring to it as a granuloma, which is slang for we don’t fucking know. It isn’t fun, and makes my head all stupid. I cannot afford treatment so I just deal with it.

The second culprit:

Next up, most of you are aware I have Crohn’s. I will not provide any pictures with this one because asses and poop. So this one is actually a bastard, since it’s been with me for the last twenty-five years. It never gets better, and I certainly cannot afford the medications for it, so I just go about my day til I end up in the hospital for it eventually.

What this one does is simple in some respects. It is an autoimmune disease, and it attacks (mainly) part of your digestive tract. Any part it pleases really, so it could be a surprise! Mine has no specific place, so it’s always a gamble when I go in and wave my hand absently around my stomach at the doctor when he asks where it hurts.

“It hurts about from the everything here to all my everything. Please fix k.”

But! It doesn’t just hurt your tummy and make eating a chore. It can wreck your eyesight from inflammation, cause nasty arthritis, skin problems, various body pains and all around ick. Everywhere. Kinda like the idea of lupus but with more crapping. That’s only in the more hardcore cases on the moderate to severe scale, though, and most people get remissions.

I have it moderate to severe and I’ve not had a remission for more than a a couple months in ten years. So you can guess how I feel, usually.

What we have learned:

Shit sucks, yo. Nah seriously, those times I rapidly lose weight, saying “you should eat more” is a fine way to get a big fat shut the fuck up your ass. I have no qualms about putting things in your ass, either– I’ve had it done to me often enough, and the bastard made me pay him.

The third culprit:

And last but not least, the kidneys! How could we forget the kidneys? Most of you probably don’t know that in my family, we have a nifty guy hitching about in our DNA called PKD, or polycystic-kidney disease. It looks like (fair warning, ick) this:

Image

Also not pretty stuff. This one tends to shut down the kidneys and put you on the everlasting list of doom awaiting another from a donor, while little machines pump fluids in and out of you so you don’t die. Mine haven’t failed as of yet, but this still comes with bonuses.

I found out very much by accident after having some scans taken when I injured myself a few times in one year (I got hit by a moving van, later fell and wrecked my knee, etc. Good year!) the doctor pulled me aside and asked me very calmly, yet distressed, “did you know about this before, or am I the unlucky one to tell you?” I sort of looked at it a while. I was sinking inside. I knew it ran in the family, but I had no idea it was in me already. The scan said, too many cysts to count. I lied to that doctor, sort of. I said I knew. Didn’t want to bring him down a bit too, y’know.

So with this one you get lots of goodies. Cysts can show up where they damn well please. I have them all over my ovaries, one or two on the liver, and who knows where else by now. The kidneys just keep getting larger and larger, so the other organs get squished about. It does a bunch of other awful things but we’ll skip those for now. This compliments Crohn’s nicely, since things get inflamed and also grow about. If I look a bit chubby for a week, it’s because my organs are fighting for space, now go away and let me eat cookies while I cry.

What have we learned:

Coupled with my spinal injuries from the van incident, along with scoliosis, I’m a back pain masterpiece. Kidney disease hurts. And if there’s a new way for me to sit uncomfortably, I’ll find it. I’m that good. 

So the main thing to take from this is: I’m always in a wide variety of pain, all of the time. It doesn’t stop, no matter what. It changes in ferocity but never goes away. It has been this way for a long time, and it won’t stop, either. So when you ask me how I feel, if I say I’m fine, I’m fine. My fine may be a bit different from your definition of fine (my ear only bled ONCE today and I ate a whole sandwich! I AM GOD) but seriously, it’s cool.

Don’t tell me “I’m so sorry.” I don’t like sorry. You didn’t make me sick, why the hell are you saying sorry?! There’s nothing to be sorry for, I’m fine. Do I have bad days and want to shoot the offending areas? Of course. Add to it having no insurance to get help with any of this, and I’m just a pleasant fucker all the time.

But, I don’t care. I still make sure I do what the hell I want to, when I want to. Go out and climb a tree? Damn right. See my friends until 6 am for the fuck of it? Yes please. My body may fight it, but there’s no joy in hiding from life. There are times I don’t want to run about, so I play video games and eat pizza. Nothing wrong with that! Why? I’m not dead. I’m not dead, I should have been a number of times, but I’m not. So I’d say that’s doing pretty damn ok. I’m not sorry for that.

“Oh how awful for you, gosh you’re so brave.” Greatest line of crap slung about. I won’t get better. It’s just how shit is. I’m not “so brave” as people love to throw around at sick people, or people who deal with shit that lots of people deal with. I’m not special, bravery and heroics are for people who do something extraordinary in the face of danger or self destruction. Example: nobody decides to get ill and beat it, they just either do or don’t, depending on how awful it is. I have friends that survived cancer and scoff every time someone calls them brave. It’s not easy, it’s impressive, and it’s a fine show of their strength. But calling me brave because I put up with something I don’t have a choice in is silly. When you’re sick you just do what you have to in order to survive. It’s not brave, it’s normal survival instinct. 

There is nothing to feel bad about in being strong. There is also nothing to feel bad about for not being “brave.” I never ran into a burning building to save orphans, I haven’t stood in the face of my mortal enemy and taken a bullet for my comrades. That’s bravery. Survival instinct is a nice primal attribute to have. If you don’t blow your brains out when shit gets bad, good for you! You’re like most people.

We’re all just living, and trying to keep from dying. It’s natural.

You either keep moving with what bullshit you’ve been handed, or you lay down and rot while people pet you with meaningless words. It’s strength of your own will, the strength of your body, the people and doctors around you pushing for more. You’re just surviving. Other people help, as well as their love and affection, but in the end there’s still just you when it’s time for bed and the anxious thoughts creep in as the light goes out. When the fear slips in, how it gets handled is up to you.

Am I happy? Not really. Pain is, well, a pain, and it drags you down. Sometimes I get extremely mad, but that’s just me being a pussy. Everybody gets to be a pussy sometimes! However, I am not UNhappy. I’m alright, nice and middle of the road.

Alright is good enough for me.

So next time you ask, no, I am not feeling well. Just don’t feed me lines about how bad you feel for me. I don’t feel bad for me. I feel bad for those that let these things hold them down, or define themselves by it. So what if I’m sick? Everyone gets sick, feels bad, has a hard life. People die, people get injured. It may not make it seem fair or good, but it happens to us all.

I prefer to empathize with others instead of feel awful for them. A simple, “hey, I understand life sucks, I too am a living creature. Need a hand?” Words of care are more effective if they go beyond “sorry.” Tell someone who is sick you’re there if they need you, and mean it if you do. Bring them a damn cookie or something if you feel bad! Saying sorry is an easy way to think “my job here is done, I felt bad for the unfortunate today!” Give ’em a hug or some shit. Sickness can be isolating, and knowing everyone just pities you for somehow being unhealthy can make it worse.

Treating people like they’re nothing but an illness and deserve to be coddled helps no one. If they literally need to be taken care of because their body gave out, by all means. Don’t abandon someone because they have become infirm! But otherwise, encourage them to do the things they love if they are capable, help keep them from sinking into the easy out: the little depressive hole. If they do fall into it, just talk to them. Reinforcing to someone who feels terrible that everyone else just pities them is helping it continue. Give a depressed person reason to think everything really is that awful solidifies their reasoning. You may not be able to fix anyone, but you can at least not contribute to the problem. Remember that they are still people, and deserve to be treated as such.  I get tired of being seen as some sick person, and not me. 

I don’t feel sorry for myself. Why should anyone else? I reserve my feelings of pity for hurt animals, small children, and men with small penises. As far as I know my penis is huge.

However, I do like cookies, so that’s pretty ok.

The best mistake I’ve made in years.

I suppose it was inevitable that I’d eventually come right out and pull a dick move on myself. I’m really good at them, and I know so many ways to piss myself off.

A few nights ago I made what seemed to be a very wise decision.

I was to quit writing and focus on what seemed far more important at the time– everything else. I am not even entirely sure what that meant, and how I could refocus creative energy outside of what I am doing now. I was getting to the point where I wanted to free my mind of the constant need to commit things to paper or text.

At least the fire was pretty.

This was the result:  My firepit filled with every notebook I could find, every scribble of a story, and all the writing from probably the last three years. A mistake? I thought so, at first. Now, I think it was probably the best thing I could have done for myself.

In those books sat a lot of awful things I thought about far too often. I filled them with great ideas, yes, but sometimes it was just a venting spot for all the stuff I could never find myself getting over.

Now, they’re gone. I intended to stop writing, ended up feeling more of a desire to do so, and removed unneeded stress from myself all at once. When I realized that I had done something I needed to do unintentionally, I was relieved. I spent perhaps only an hour upset with the loss. I don’t regret anything.

So, like most people, I found something different to do with myself this year. Instead of the usual ideas of quitting smoking or eating less, I’ll write more. I will stop keeping myself away from the situations I should be in in order to get it done properly. Needing to go out and find inspiration isn’t as dangerous to my lifestyle as I originally thought. There is so much I feel a need to say and do that denying it would be very cruel to myself. I have no right to do that to myself.

Just as much as I would hate it if someone held me back, why should I do it? I thought I was acting out of self-preservation in the burning of what seemed like an unhealthy desire. Losing something is a great way to learn the difference between a need and a want. I don’t want to write like I need to write. Not for anyone else, not for some weird desire to be seen around the world for some book I’ll never write.

Nah. It’s just there, sitting in my mind, ruling over me. I can’t quiet it, and I shouldn’t have a desire to.

All of those little overlooked details belong to me for tomorrow’s writing. Every conversation I hear becomes part of me. I watch people interact and find a source for something new in it. Everyone is my muse, and I refuse to let that die off.

It would be too much to try and silence my own mind. I’d probably go mad (more than I already am?)

I’ve run out of excuses.

I even broke my own supposed end of writing mere hours after the fact, and this was the result of it.

 

It’s 5am. The 30th. Very close to New Year’s Eve. I’ve just come out of a cluster headache haze, making it the perfect time to sit and think.

I burned the notebooks yesterday. I had a plan, then.

I was told by someone once that you may have to pretend you never wrote before to learn how to do it all over again. I had no intention of writing again, though– which lasted less than 24 hours– since I was hit with a barrage of “WHAT THE FUCK MORON NO” messages from all sides.

Alright, I get it. I was an idiot.

It occurred to me that, despite my best interests, I can’t stop. My mind was writing for me the moment I decided I had to quit. I realized why a bit after: I am useless otherwise. Extremely.

Not in that I can’t work or breathe or walk or shit.

I can certainly keep those things going.

Especially shitting.

Yes.

I’m not myself without it. I don’t care if it doesn’t always make sense, or if my sentence structure doesn’t fit perfectly, or even if the subject matter is nothing anyone cares to read. I do, and that’s why I started in the first place. It is as much a part of me as thinking. I felt liberated at the idea of stopping, but I quickly realized that liberation fed straight to a void.

My ultimate partner in all things writing is gone. His creator is, too. Yet still he pesters me relentlessly, just as he used to between 2 and 5 am when neither of us could sleep. We passed the time playing Wordscraper and bullshitting, often just needing to vent. It would turn to writing on a regular basis, as that was his sort of thing.

All the little trivial things I tried to ignore– nope, parts of a story. He’d insist.

It’s his fault I can’t stop. I can truly blame him for getting me out of a rut where I refused to believe my writing was going to do anything for me. He is at fault for being the ultimate mentor and even the occasional muse. He is the reason I am a ruined person– in the best possible ways. It took having it utterly beaten into me for the truth of it to sink in.

I blame him, and it’s wonderful.

He’s gone, but not really. It’s like a replaying audio file stuck in my head.

“You’re a writer, so act like it.”

“I bet I have more empty notebooks than you.”

The list goes on, because he could talk. A lot, and then some.

I spent nights proofreading. Debating. Cursing. Not my own things, but his. I helped to go over student papers when he felt like his mind had exploded. Thinking on all of this made me go over other memories, mostly recent ones.

I realized something.

This year brought forth so many odd turns and alterations, things falling apart and perfectly falling into place.

I aided some in betterment, probably led a few to damnation.

I managed to marry someone terribly beautiful and intelligent.

I traveled up the country to see the most amazing people in the world.

I stuck by my morals and self-preservation abilities to a fault.

I watched as people suffered, wishing I could do more.

I lost and won and failed and got my ass back up again.

All of this caused by pointless decisions of mine or others that didn’t matter at the time.

Every. Single. Little. Damn. Thing.

All of the life events you wish didn’t happen, wish could happen again, wish for them to disappear– they happened. If not to me, to someone close enough that I could feel it. Experience it by proxy.

Oddly enough, I can trace so much of it back to a few (seemingly) small decisions I made along the way.

Seeing how those events intertwine and undulate along through time to create where we are now astounds me.

I am not the kind to pray, but I pray to never lose my memory, so that I can always recall how I shape my own world through every single step. I watch people enough to see how they got there, too.

In the last few years, a five minute decision to take a weekend trip gave me a husband.

One poor choice of food landed me in the hospital in time to walk out hours before my friend never did.

One conversation cost me a friendship, and they still don’t know it.

One thought caused me to question everything I know, but especially what I don’t know, reshaping my mind.

One person moving across the country gave me peace.

One person moving across the country destroyed my peace.

One idea became a life goal.

Deciding to talk to someone I always intended to but never had the chance to led me into cultivating a relationship for them.

One person I’ve met but once changed how I view myself completely.

All the small, supposedly benign things that people overlook are more important than we give them credit for.

That stupid thing I said could come back in five years. Ten.

One false move, or one wise move, can make or break everything.

2012 is rapidly approaching me. Us. Everyone.

I decided I can:

Consider those steps. Rationalize them. Forget rationality, throw it away. Do what feels good. Rationalize them again.

Agonize over it, every single thing. Every detail. Feel miserable. Get emotional. Never do anything.

or.

Know that each and every minute detail makes a difference at some point. From the food you eat now to where you go to buy that shirt, it can do something to you. For you… or maybe even against you. Think, but don’t stop.

Never stop. When life becomes to terrifying to try something new, it’s lost the magic. Bad things happen, and always will. You can’t know what they’ll be until you get there.

Don’t let the horrible things fool you. There’s a fine chance that the risk you’re afraid to take might be the best thing you’ve ever done. Maybe it’s the worst for a while. It doesn’t matter. It all leads somewhere, and that place is filled with options. Even the threat of death.

It’s cold out here, so early. Quiet. In my head I am holding court with a dead man, and still his advice stands strong.  I think of what I never would have had if I never took those carefully executed, or hastily thrown together, risks.

If not for myself, but for those that rely on me in some way, I’ll keep listening to those mental recordings.

There’s no longer room for the what if or fear of getting in too deep.

I accept my little details, from their inception to the moment they change my life.

am a writer, good or bad.

am myself, good or bad.

This last year tried to take that from me.

This new year I’ll take for myself, for those I love, and for what I believe in.

All because I listened to one man living only among memories.

 

I’m glad I only lost myself for a short time.

 

No Decency? No Problem!

I haven’t been writing as often as I would like, due to the last week being rather… different. But hey, it was full of things to write about, so here’s the most important and first thing to set it all off.

Years ago, I was working for a coffee place where I had been rapidly promoted after my trial period, and from then on it was smooth sailing. I was repeatedly called in for overtime to cover for missing workers, and the main duties of the manager fell to me daily. I pretty much ran the place, and nobody questioned it– I was good at it. We had been facing troubles with the upper management, and went through four in the time I worked there. By the last manager, I was worn out and getting sick from my later diagnosed Crohn’s. I ended up being so sick that I was hospitalized five times in three weeks, and had to take time off. I had never used vacation or personal days, so I didn’t see a problem. The new manager that randomly disliked me, however, did.

So, shortly after his arrival and while I was sick, he started sniping at my performance. I didn’t do anything right by his standards, even though I followed the books more than anyone. Slowly, he began eliminating workers to place people he knew in their positions. They didn’t follow the rules, but he didn’t care. They kissed his ass, and that was the important factor.

During my sick time, he began calling me daily to berate me for not being at work. The time had been approved by the district manager, so I decided not to add fuel to the fire and rat on the manager for harassing me. Our store had been through enough turmoil without me making it more difficult, and for love of my job, I kept my mouth shut.

Due to this, within a week of my return I was left with the choice of quitting or being fired due to “three strikes on the dress codes.” Apparently, if it’s hot and you roll up your sleeves to show a possibly offensive (a bird of paradise adorns both my wrists) you can be fired. But, if you’re the managers friend and have magic mushrooms and a tripping caterpillar on your leg for the world to see, it’s fine.

I quit that day and didn’t bother returning for my last of the week. I was fed up, still sick, and hurt. I had poured myself into that job, forgoing social life and personal. It was brought down by one man with a grudge, for no particular reason other than I happened to be there. I lost the last health insurance I have had, right before a double diagnoses of two very problematic illnesses.

These adorable kitties make this part less depressing.

Fast forward now to a week ago. I started to see the familiar signs all over again, but this time not with my job– a worker with a grudge, trying desperately to infuriate  my husband on a daily basis. He’d come home angry and exhausted over the constant verbal abuse from this guy, but for the sake of keeping the peace, never bothered to report him. He figured it would blow over, and I tried not to let it get to me. He worked his ass off daily only to be yelled for no particular reason.

 

Luckily, he was spared for two weeks and managed to work with another crew that enjoyed his company and work ethic. They constantly complimented his quick ability to learn, and how much he had already accomplished. They even shared a dislike for his other co-worker, as everyone had problems with the guy. He was all around not someone anybody wanted to bother with. Things seemed to be going well. As all good things tend to end, he was put back on shift with the wonderful man we’ll call Earl. So Earl keeps up with verbally assaulting him, badmouthing everyone (including the upper management) and being rather vague as to what he wanted my husband to do. Still, he did his job and worked as hard as he could.

Some might think I am biased. Truthfully, it could be my own mother doing a bad job and I’d still fire her. I don’t look at friends as friends when we’re working together. I have been in such a position, and despite my own like for the person, did what had to be done if they just refused to work. If I have to boss you around, I will. If you’re doing something wrong, I will correct you. Work is work, it’s not personal. With my husband, I’ve seen his work ethic and his abilities. I’ve personally watched an old boss beg him to stay because he was such a fine employee. So when he came home and let me know he was fired for not doing a good enough job, I called a big fat bullshit.

Apparently, Earl had been quietly going to the bosses and complaining about his laziness and inability to work, none of which anyone has ever seen before and probably never will. This was, in fact, a job he had hoped for. To go out of his way to screw it up would be a stupid move on his part, and stupidity isn’t something he’s good at.

Without speaking to my husband at any point or the other workers, he was let go, all thanks to one guy that likes to kiss some ass. Now, to make a point, he was the third guy this man has worked with that magically didn’t make the cut. Nobody bothered to notice this trend, apparently.

It’s practices like this that truly bother me. All it really takes is one person to come along and ruin someone else’s job record, financial situation and desire to do well. While we’re lucky this came during my work season, it still hits hard when we were just finally catching up.  There’s nothing good to come of losing your job in this economy– except now, there won’t be more constant berating and we can move on to better things without this holding him back.

My job, however, is still awesome.

As if by sheer luck, while I was thinking of writing this my husband turned to me as we exited the highway and pointed out the work truck and his ex co-worker driving back at about 6:30 pm, alone, and a long way from the warehouse. Obviously his productivity has gone up, being three hours behind already with another 40 minutes to go. Unlike this man, though, we’re not going to stay bitter over it all. It does solidify my distrust in people offering a stable job, and it absolutely reminds me that there’s always someone who can and will try to fuck you over.

For now, I’ll enjoy having him home with me more often until we can get things straightened out. When that time comes, if someone decides to be abusive at work, it’s getting reported. People like that don’t deserve to keep coasting along screwing up everyone else’s day just because they can.

I am a failure and I don’t finish stuff, yeah!

"But how many times can you really be tricked by ladyboy before it's gay?"

So, I have the short story completed… in writing, in a notebook. Work has held me off from actually making sense of my scribblings (I’m sure I can post it up as-is, but that would be… concerning. Most margins contain doodles of dicks with hats) and I’m still stuck on some article stuff for the magazine. So what I’m saying here is that fuck you, I will get back to that thing later. I didn’t mean that fuck you. I really like you.

In the meantime, here are some random photographs, punctuated with odd things I heard at work recently. There’s no end to weird crap to be overheard backstage, especially when dancers are involved. For example: There is an interpretive dance about the plight of sex-slave children. … Yeah. That.

So! Have some pictures.

"I'm kinda sad today. I feel like my dancing isn't... heavy. Y'know?"

"I need to really feel like you're owned by that pimp. Make me feel it."

"Someone left poop paper in the bathroom."

"Everyone is walking around like it's 'Free Anal Rape' day. See? That guy? He's walking funny too. What the hell?"

It also occurs to me to tell you about the homeless, urine-soaked man with the twitch that was at my bus stop today. Upon my arrival, he started cackling and (presumably) adding to his urine aroma. I didn’t really want to deal with that so early in the morning, but I doubt he wanted to deal with himself either. Sadly, this bus runs every forty minutes, and I had just missed the last one. He’s taking up the whole bench– which is fine, I didn’t want to sit next to the guy anyway. He flailed a lot, and it’s a rude day when you’re slapped by big hands that have been playing in pee.

So UrineMan starts to stare. I don’t think he’s so much staring at me as he is through my very bowels, because his gaze was centered somewhere around my small intestine. He started digging in his bag, which I was terrified contained the last public transportation victim of the day, but no. It contained, of all things, a pack of pornographic playing cards. Alright, I can deal with that. A guy needs to see some boob in the morning. I do every day for free, so why can’t he? Thankfully, the bus arrived shortly thereafter, because I didn’t really want to witness his intent with those… especially since he resumed staring at my digestive system. The combination of pornography and my poop area wasn’t something I wanted to entertain at 7:30am. Actually, I usually don’t at any given time if it also involves urine and men with muscle spasms.

It dawned on me while I was entering the bus to work… no matter where I am, at what time, or for whatever reason… there will always be someone nearby ready to excrete on me. And that just plain makes me feel special.

Arguing into the void.

"These are the fucks I give about your lack of information."

Due to the current state of affairs around this place, a lot of debates and political discussions have bloomed (or festered) around the local haunts. Often enough I’ll hear some wonderful ideas, but sometimes there’s a moment that makes everyone stare in bewilderment. It’s at a time like this when I just want to cover the offending party with a blanket and hope they forget where they were, perhaps have a nice nap.

A good debate can be a wonderful way to hear differing viewpoints, and perhaps enrich your own or theirs. It’s always helpful, if you have a very strong stance on an issue, to ensure that you’re open to discussion or the ideas of others. If you don’t, you’ll end up looking like a rigid prick.

So you have a strong opinion and you’d like to share that with the world. Awesome! People like a strong willed individual that will stand up for themselves. That does not extend to a person that is adverse to accept anything else, even facts. Especially one that will refuse to even look into it.

Let’s take politics. Yeah, touchy damn subject. But if you’d like to express an opinion on it, knowing both sides to your argument is the best way to make a valid, intelligent point. Saying “Obama took my job and is a Muslim that watches my wife undress at night” better have some really good evidence to back it up. Stating that something has never occurred in history before, shortly before admitting you’ve never checked the history of it– then refusing to ever do so– is not the ticket to credibility. It’s a ticket to filthy, filthy communism, or something.

It’s like sitting down with an oncologist and insisting to him you can beat cancer with more cigarettes because uncle Frank smoked when he had cancer, and he totally lived. Maybe it was gas, not cancer, but that’s not the point. You’ll be fine. Maybe you read about it somewhere or heard it on the radio. Point is, it’s true, man, so shut up.

I once knew a wonderful teacher with wonderful ideas, and we had a lovely argument about a particular psychological study. In the end, after some very heated arm waving and a pack of smoked cigarettes, we realized we were basically arguing the same side. This is where wording is terribly important, and one double-negative can make everyone have a case of confused brain. I’ve seen this happen a lot, too, and I love being there to watch it happen. People get so wrapped up in the idea that the other person is wrong that they miss the point entirely.

I will never run around pretending to know everything. I’ll freely admit when I don’t, and ask for details so I can understand. Some folks try to argue with a half-formed idea, and get completely mixed up in the end. Solidity of thought is a key, so if you want to fight about a particular subject, know everything you can. 

Still valid.

“I read one article about the LHC and I think we’re going to die in a wormhole by 2012 ’cause time travelers.”vs.

“I was reading about the myriad of experiments conducted at the LHC and think…” blah blah science.

And yes, it’s true that a lot can be conjecture and theory. That’s fine too! But present it as such. If there are limited facts on a subject, just admit it. It’s alright, nobody will judge you. The theoretical existence of something is perfectly awesome for discussion. Hell, the panda was once a mystical creature, purely theoretical, and now look at them… not having sex in zoos. Cool.

Rationality is golden. It’s the difference between sounding like someone with a solid opinion based on good sources versus a raving lunatic. Christians are nice people, but once they go to an extreme there’s little to say to them. Same goes for atheists, conspiracy theorists, protesters and all the other well-known opinionated types. Being open to ideas and intelligent thought will take you very far. Of course, having a strong set of beliefs isn’t a bad thing. Believe in God? Good for you. Believe in evolution? Good! But dismissing everything else because nobody else can possibly be right about anything is a good way to be dismissed yourself. The more you do it, the less people will listen. Present yourself in a thoughtful, researched manner and you’ve got a good chance of being heard.

I’ve lost track.

This weather isn't helping.

I’m trying to commit to balance.

The theatre season has begun, and right now I am enjoying one day off out of nine at work. I have writing due every night, and people to attend to. There’s art I have to create for shows, and no sleep on the horizon.

While there’s something brutally rewarding in the fact that my world is saturated in the arts, I’m seeing how some people go crazy in the process. (The owner of this blog in no way, shape or form is stating that she was not already crazy.) There’s been so much going on around me that I am unsure what is keeping me awake or thinking.

 

It hit me earlier, as I was pushing myself further than usual– I thrive on this. I am the kind of person that needs to be shoved, tossed, and made to perform without rest. I get bored and anxious easily, so this makes for a fine distraction. I’m not afraid of burning out… I’ve avoided that for some time, now, and I think I can keep it up. I just don’t need to know what day it is or where I am, and I’ll be fine.

I gave up meat, I’ve committed to trying to sleep at least three hours a day, and I drink healthier things. That’s not going to work for very long, I’m sure, and I’ll find myself in a corner stuffing Mountain Dew and pepperoni pizza into my mouth, screaming “WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKING GOODMUFFMUFMMMMF” and crying. It seems like a natural response to stress, right?

There is one thing I have gained from driving myself over the edge that I didn’t expect: Pride. I’m proud of the things people have said about all of this, and the compliments I’ve received for the work I’ve put in to the magazines. It’s not something I’m used to, at all, because I’ve always been far too critical of myself. I think it’s time to let that go, if only for a little while, and realize that maybe I can do something right.

Again, that won’t last long, and I’ll have an epic movie-like scene of tossing about my notebooks and sketches, rambling on about how I’m a failure. Usually in those movies some older mentor comes around to try and assuage those feelings, but I’ve yet to find my professor figure. Maybe I’ll pay some guy that looks vaguely like Sean Connery to just stand around me and grumble out slightly biting, but useful, words of encouragement.

Nooo, don't go down the doom staircase.

Until that cool old dude shows up, I just have to rely on myself to keep moving forward. I’m seeing changes in myself as this progresses, and realizing some things that need to change. I have a solid goal now, and any roadblocks have to be dealt with accordingly. I can’t be afraid of it anymore.

Here’s hoping I can keep up.

 

Too much time has passed.


Busy busy busy.

Got a new (second) job, been spending the last week in a long send-off for my friend that is moving to Colombia… and having a huge mental store of all the insane shit that has gone down in the interim. Oh what fun!

First, we have Miss Florida. Yes, the Miss Florida, the competition to send scary, dysfunctional, mentally handicapped and embittered women on to become our U.S. representatives in some little thingy called Miss World. I had to work this, see. And deal with the women. … and take apart their stage with a very angry French set designer. I cannot even begin to describe the *fun* I had… because little existed. While I do utterly and inexplicably love my job, I do not often love the client.
While the women in the event were … questionable, my main concern was with the audience. The parents, boyfriends, husbands and families of these critters were amazing. It was like watching the spectators of a dogfight, but perhaps in more Gucci. People screaming, holding signs, yelling “Go, (enter trendy female name,) go! You can do it!” They would throw down anything in their hands if their particular vagina didn’t win, storming off to grasp a cell phone so tightly it bled battery acid and scream at whatever hapless victim made the mistake of answering their phone.

Moving on, because reliving this makes me have the PTSD twitch.

So. I also had a fabulous day on the bus this week… a day where, on all six buses I rode, a new crazy was there to make me smile. Or flail in horror. Whatever, it’s all relative. So, a simple breakdown:

Bus #1, Route 42
“Heeey man. I’m … on drugs, man. What … awww… I’m so many drugs, man. I’m drugged, man. Man, dude… I’m sooo fucking wasted.”
He spent most of the ride babbling this while randomly throwing punches at his own backpack.

Bus #2, Route 2
*mumbles*
Random woman: “What?”
*mumbles*
Random woman: “I don’t understand you.”
*mumbles*
Random woman: “WHAT?”
Mr. Mumbles: “I SAID YOU HAVE A NICE SMELL YOU WHORE.”

Bus #3, Route 7
WWJD Lady: “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus is the ONNNNLLLLY answer, people. Why y’all goin’ to this damn house of Satan? Why! Why must you ruin yerself for Jesus! God loves you, alla you!”
Grinning college kid: “Lady, this is a SCHOOL. Satan is what, like, the smart one?”
Grinning college kid #2: “Haha. She said “God loves Allah.”
WWJD Lady: “YOU ALL GONNA BURN IN HELL!”

I then was at work, and magically… nothing happened. Of course, I had to eventually leave work, sooooo…

Bus #4, Route 7
Hippie: “Hi.”
Me: “Hi?”
Hippie: “Can I bum a smoke?”
Me: “Can you roll one?”
Hippie: “Dude, look, ok, I’m sorry, I like, I am on probation for that shit, ok? Dude, like, ok, let’s just … nevermind, ok?”
Me: “This … is a tobacco pouch. With tobacco in.”
Hippie: “Oh… no, thanks. That shit’s bad for you.”

So … I’m not sure exactly what it was he was after, then.

Bus #5, Route 1
Junkie: “Hey… what day is it?”
Skater kid: “Um, Thursday?”
Junkie, to old man: “What day is it?”
Old man: “What the kid said. Thursday.”
Junkie: “…”
Old man: “The hell is wrong with you?”
Junkie, to me: “What da–“
Me: “Thursday. Thursday. The day after Wednesday, and the day before Friday. Thursday.”
Junkie, to skater kid: “Man, you got any weed?”
Skater: “No?”
Older lady: “You need to lay off the crack.”
Junkie: “Fuck you! It’s meth! I loved meth!”

And finally… my personal favorite had to come last, of course.

Bus #6, Route 10
Drunk hobo #1: “See that girl over there? I’ma tell her I love her.”
Drunk hobo #2: “I… don’t …. I dunnnooo.”
DH1: “Hey! Hey! I love ya!”
Me: “… ok.”
DH1: *to random guy* “Have a beer with me!”
Guy: “How about no!”
DH1: “Ok! Hey, lady! I like ya! I love ya! I want summore of ya!”
Me: “…”
DH2: “I don’t think it’s working.”
DH1: “Hey, lady, have a beer with me. I just wanna tell ya I love ya.”
Me: “I don’t drink beer. I don’t love you.”
DH1: “Look, I know I’m hotter than any guy you’ll get.”

Keep in mind he looked like a half-dead hybrid of Jimmy Buffet and Gary Busey. Not kosher.

Anyway! This is long enough. I’ll slap something else up tonight. I am typing this half asleep and have more to post later.