Ramblings

What the Hell is Happening?

At what point in social evolution did men get the idea that women actually gave a fuck what they thought about them?  It’s no secret that we lather ourselves in cosmetics, and pull, tease and dye our hair in hopes to become, somehow, more attractive, but if you for one second think this is all for you, it’s not.   Women desire to be just as attractive to other women.  If we spend $30 on a dress and don’t receive a compliment from another woman we deem even semi-fashionable, that $30 suddenly feels like $300 and we’re devastated.  Women live their life on a stage whether they admit it to themselves or not.   And most of the time, we’re out to make other women jealous of our makeup, hair or fashion abilities because it makes us feel better or somehow accomplished in some simple aspect of our lives.

There is an ad on the talk radio station I listen to and the host, of whatever advertized program, plays an audio clip from some author who says “We see a woman and when we first meet her, we immediately think ‘I would do her’ or ‘I would not do her’ and if you fall in to the ‘I would do her’ category, the only way you can get out of that zone is if you are such a horrible person or gain a lot of weight to the point where you become, somehow, physically unattractive to him.”
I have no problem accepting this, it’s not news that men think this way and that’s fine, but why do we need actual books about this shit?  The only people who would read garbage like that are other men, and they wouldn’t waste the money because they already know how men think.   In American society, women already suffer severe self-esteem issues, so there’s no market there.
So basically, the only reason for a man to write a book of this nature would be to brag about how shallow men are capable of being or just to see his thoughts printed between book binds and marked for sale in the clearance section at Barnes and Noble.
I am so tired of hearing men’s thoughts on what they think is some sort of  ground-breaking streak of brutal honesty when they talk about the physical aspect of women as if we’re just dying to take our self-esteem down a notch.  We know you’re emotionally callow and we know you don’t like cellulite or fat chicks.  So what?  Who cares?  The same goes to women who talk about small dicks and thinning hairlines – shut the fuck up about it.  It’s sad that that’s how we “fight” back.
Any woman with a half a brain whether she’s beautiful, fat, skinny, ugly or whatever superficial label fits her – would ever, ever date or sleep with a man who brags about the negative aspects of his interior being.  Unless, of course, she was drunk , high or at rock bottom and needed the self-esteem boost.

Cutting through all of the bullshit though, out of stupid people come stupid children who create stupider children and as each generation is slowly deteriorating, the smart people are beginning to feel somewhat hopeless because they are smart enough to recognize the decline in morale and common sense and everyone else is so god damn stupid that unless there is an emotional sting to a statement, it can’t be fully processed.
At what point did manners become some obscure part of the past?  I am pro-honesty, I have always appreciated brutally honest friends and constructive criticism, but honesty should have positive benefits, never damaging ones.
This generation is shit and it terrifies me that the yolo generation will run this country one day.
I’d just like to end this with saying that there is a reason we are capable of having private thoughts and I urge the majority of the population to exploit that ability to no end.

Advertisements

Another Monday

I have not stopped farting at my desk since I got here.  It’s a scary place to find yourself when you’re right by the stairwell door that 75% of the office uses.   I can’t fan it quickly away when I hear people coming up the stairs either, because my boss’ desk stares directly at me and I’m pretty sure he suspects I’m the sort of person that would do such a thing under their desk.  Summer also means no jacket to muffle the winds either, so they spread across the plains as they please.
I’m not lactose intolerant, but my dairy intake is slightly excessive.  It’s the cheese, I love the cheese, and this is the curse of being a cheese lover.

Only Thirty-Seven Hours of the Work Week Left

As much as I dislike Mondays, I’ve never found them to be nearly as difficult as Tuesdays.

a) because Monday morning coffee is the cat’s pajamas

b) because everyone I work with is so tried that they don’t talk to me

c) because any caught-red-handed slacking can be easily justified with a  “sorry, it’s Monday; I don’t know where my brain is”

Tuesdays, however, are just miserable things.  It’s like popping out of auto-pilot and feeling the full weight of everything.  Plus, the ABC’s of Monday are gone.  The coffee is good but not GREAT, people want to talk again and there are no excuses for slacking.  Monday has a certain edge to it that makes everyone else semi-miserable and since I’m usually Gloomy Gertrude, I benefit from their silent agony; I really do, I’m just going to come right out and say it.
I certainly don’t root for anyone’s misery, I’m just completely burned by this Monday-Friday routine.  I like routine things on my own terms, not on payroll terms.  Working in an office, truly is like Office Space.  When I was young, it was hilarious.  As an adult, it is far too realistic.  Peter truly is the blue-collar hero.
I’m ready for my Colorado cabin and occupational typewriter with a bottle of whiskey now.  I’ve had enough of this 40 hour a week crap.

“Accept Yourself”

I think my favorite thing about breaking myself free of childish judgments are the benefits of the music.  The moment I was able to differentiate talented artists and studio artists, I become a music snob and for a long time considered 95% of mainstream artists talentless hacks.  Somewhere after twenty-four though, that novelty wore off I realized that seeking obscurity was the real crime.  I was denying myself of so many great songs filled with emotional carnage and despair.  It also made me a total asshole.
Somewhere after they hit twenty, all of the punk rockers from my generation started this bearded, skinny-jean-plaid-shirt-wearing  revolution of hipster shitheads and flooded the music scene with concept albums and ironic acoustic sets of mainstream pop songs.
The last house show I went to (probably the last ever too), was to see a local band with the sort of following that requires a bicycle parking section.  After their set, my friend talked to the guitarist of the band that had invited her.  Throughout their conversation, I was informed that my job of printing labels for (organic) chemicals was bad because “Chemicals are bad”.
Just moments after that statement, this conversation took place with someone who walked up to say hello to him:

Stranger: Hey man! What’s going on?

Band-Dipshit: Hey man, I haven’t seen you in a while, how’s it been?

S: Good, I saw you at that party a couple of weeks ago!

BD: Which one?

S: The one at asdf’s!

BD: Oh man, I don’t remember… I was probably coked out of my mind.

End significant part of scene.

I counted at least three mentions of coke in the five minutes he stood talking to my friend and even more mentions of being too drunk to remember anything.  But, of course, he couldn’t tend to his other guests until he was able to ask my friend if she wanted to help paint the planet costumes for the band’s upcoming show debuting their new (concept) album.
If you ever find yourself curious about what’s going on in the local indie scene in Phoenix, Arizona – there you go.
But, back to growing up and becoming less judgmental of music: that band (a 7 piece including a tambourine player) couldn’t have sounded any better under the influence of twelve shots of tequila.  Sadly, just as little as three years ago, I probably would have been slightly jealous of them and wasted money on an album feeling like I was missing something fantastic that all other thirty people saw.
The point I’m trying to make here is that when you bypass music because a lot of shitty people who don’t know dick about music listen to it, you’re sometimes left listening to mediocre music that shitty people who don’t know anything about music make.
Just recently I started listening to The Smith’s.  A band I’d always ignored because… exactly.  There’s this whole anti-Morrissey thing going on, but I don’t know a damn thing about the guy.  What I do know is that “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” and “I Want The One I Can’t Have” are incredible fucking songs.
But because a buck-toothed (very) ex-friend of mine worshiped them (and Tori Amos – who I still don’t like), I hated them because for me, they were associated with someone who didn’t know what “quality” music was, also the fact that their following exceeded 5,000.  So I missed all those years of licking my wounds with great songs because I thought having “high standards” was part of loving music.Anyway, due to my previous arrogance, the past few years have been spent going back and listening to music I’d accused of being talentless and superficial or “too mainstream” (I was that dick for a while, yes),  and it has been wonderful.
People will always be idiots, but growing up and gaining perspective has taught me that people that listen to music but don’t know much about it, are no different from me liking pieces of art even though I don’t know anything about art outside of mainstream artists like Salvador Dali and Vladimir Kush.
I see something, I like it or I don’t. Art isn’t emotional for me just as music isn’t emotional for some people.  It’s like this in every aspect of life.   I’m sure there is an account somewhere that truly loves accounting, or a landscaper that really enjoys cutting grass.
There is a point when passion crosses a boundary and you just become a total piece of shit.  It took a very long time, but I have finally crossed the threshold of acceptance to a very sensitive part of my life.
I don’t know that I’ll ever have an appreciation for Lady Gaga or Katy Perry or any pop artists of that nature, but I certainly won’t be bitching about them anymore and it certainly doesn’t bother me that other people like them anymore either.
Whoever said growing up was boring must not have had a passion, because this is like falling in love with music all over again.

GET ME OUT OF HERE

I am so tired of the desert.  The only thing it had going for it was the low, low humidity.   I can handle 112° with 12% humidity – it’s hot as hell but it’s no problem.  But when it’s 109° with 37% humidity, I have to ask myself “why the hell am I here?”.
When I picture my future-self, it’s definitely not here.  Not California or anywhere where sunshine is selling point.  It’s in a place with an average of 60% cloud coverage and enough snow that requires you to invest in a show shovel.  I picture big trees, deep lakes and green mountains – not the rocky, brown,  shitty things we have around here.
I won’t be moving back to Texas either, I love  it and seriously miss it, but I’m done with summer humidity.  No more miserable heat; no sir, no mam, no way.

Anyway, this future-self of mine resides in solitude somewhere in the mountains of Colorado.   Right near a small down with a population no greater than 2,000-3,000.
Of course, with all the luxuries of indoor plumbing and electricity; none of that dig-a-hole and shit in it nonsense.
And then, society can leave me the fuck alone – the sun too, I could do without him as well.

Hello Again

Okay, so I know I haven’t written anything in over a month, but I haven’t really felt inspired lately. Even my journal has been collecting dust, with the exception of a few self-pity entries and a crappy poem.
It feels ridiculous being depressed at my age, but I know it’s something I’ll never escape. However, it’s not necessarily a bad thing, in fact, after washing off the stink of it all, I feel somehow stronger and more independent because pulling myself away from such depths is always by my own hand.
I have a feeling that this will eventually begin to produce negative affects since I already struggle to open up and trust people, but overall; I’d rather be independent than naive.
This time, I’ve chosen to turn to Buddhism (again). I bought the Golden Zephyr book at Half Price Books when I was about seventeen and going though my “smoke weed and be happy” phase… which doesn’t really coincide with Buddhism at all, but who knows shit at seventeen anyway?
I skipped over the “boring” parts and practices I didn’t feel applied to me (again, seventeen), tried to meditate with absolutely no success, and then, like all teenage potheads, gave up and smoked weed to find some form of (false) inner-peace.
I quit smoking somewhere around 22 or 23 after the “peaceful” affects turned on me and I realized “wow, I suck” and then I just became boring on my own terms, without the help of any other substances.
I have taken the longest, most miserable path to self-discovery and though I have never lost sight of my potential, I still have yet to actually open myself up to it.
So here I am, nearing 28 (augh), and I can finally pick up this book and take something from it. Reading the forward alone was like listening to Beethoven in the Spring.
The last time I read it was about two years ago to help with the transition of completely uprooting myself from a life I’d always known to one where nothing was familiar. It helped a bit, but at the time, I was so hellbent on being an Atheist that I couldn’t truly look past the fact that Buddhism was considered a religion. Having finally grown up, shed of all need to be tied to any particular belief, and simply seeking something to create a balance in my life that allows me to be myself while still being internally strong (I’m an extremely sensitive and emotional person), I am truly at a point in my life where I can fully understand the teachings with little to no objection.
It sounds like it should be easy, but for those of us who spend our lives thinking and mulling over ridiculously tiny details, it’s no easy feat to get to the point where you can read anything slightly philosophical without opposing something. It’s almost as if not having some disagreeing point of view means that you aren’t thinking hard enough.
However, this time ’round, the most beautiful thing I’ve found in reading Golden Zephyr at this point in my life is that it’s not a guide to an entirely different lifestyle or belief system, it’s a guide to opening up to your true potential and finding patience and acceptance in the things you cannot change. Basically, you aren’t bound to anything but yourself and if you can’t find an inner-balance, then you can’t live a balanced life.
There’s no way to fully explain the impact – it’s either something for you or it isn’t. The things that change you the most in your life are the things that find you at the right time in your life.
Countless times, I’ve pledged a new world-view or a new perspective on life, and yet find myself right back to writing dreary poems between the dusty binds of a journal. I can only say that what’s different this time is that I am completely open to letting change happen to me rather than trying to control what changes.
I truly feel like that’s a step in the right direction and I truly feel I have the patience for it at this time in my life. I have no expectations and holy shit, does that feel good.

Just In Case You Ever Got Curious

Coffee. It is my life.  I’ve created an acronym to express my feelings for coffee.  I am on a caffeine high.

Couldn’t live without it

Over ice or hot, doesn’t matter

Fill the cup with caffeine

Forget decaf

Every morning

Everyday

The end, please enjoy your weekend.

Wednesday at Work

Today is one of those days where I play “There’s a murderer in the warehouse!”.
This is where I run through the storage racks where we store our overstock and pretend I’m hiding from “a murderer in the warehouse”.
Although, I have to say, it’s not quite as fun as “There’s a murderer on the staircase!” which speaks for itself.  I’d like to thank my dad for my strange fascination with running from a killer for allowing me to watch horror movies during crucial years of development.  I’d also like to thank my anti-social tendencies for allowing me to play imaginary games by myself at twenty-seven.

This is where you hide from a murderer.

This is where you hide from a murderer.

The Act of Socializing From the Perspective of a Hermit

Last night, I experienced a moment where I realized I had peaked in social awkwardness.  I felt the walls of my inability to understand the act of socializing close in on me and squeeze away any confidence I carried with me into the evening.   I tunneled as quickly as I could through years of reading philosophy and psychology books to take charge of the situation and make the best of it, but found myself pressed in to the background of a group of people I had nothing in common with.   I grabbed my bag, sneaked out the back like a rat and left concluding that I was boring, mature and rather friendless.  All of which carried no self-pity, but a rather harsh self-examination of how I ended up alone and crying on park bench across the street from a good friend’s graduation party.

Had I been this way my entire life, my hide would have been thick enough to protect the teeth of bitter self-loathing from sinking in, but the truth is, I haven’t always been this way.  I’ve always been a loner, always in my own mind, developing my own opinions and practicing my own philosophies.  However, I haven’t always been so withdrawn from other people.   Yet, after spending the rest of my evening reflecting my past, I realized that 95% of any social life I’ve ever maintained has been strictly for appearances and hardly ever for genuine interest.

What bothered me even more was the fact that in order to press myself in to a social situation without raising any eyebrows is to drink.  Get as much liquor inside of me as possible and ride passenger to my liquid courage.
Every angle of that particular “solution” strikes me as pathetic and insincere.  Which begs the question “Am I a hermit by choice or because I have no choice?”  Have I been so psychologically damaged by my past that I fear closeness with others, or am I genuinely uninterested in what people who share no common interest have to say?

In no way could I ever be considered arrogant, judgmental – absolutely, but not arrogant.    I am simply a firm believer in my own opinions and would prefer discussing human nature rather than human interests.  I prefer “naked conversation” where all parties are stripped of self-lies and false-confidence.  For me, a conversation doesn’t have to have depth, just honesty.

I suppose the point I’m (sloppily) trying to make here is that nothing is truly wrong with me.   There is something more wrong with drinking to “fit in” than there is staying home and enjoying my time privately.  It used to make me feel guilty and ashamed, but now, I realize it’s just what I enjoy.  And that’s not to say I never want to go out and drink again, we’re social creatures, too much time alone is unhealthy for one’s mind; we need stimulation and challenges, but not to the point where it becomes self-destructive.

While I believe it’s necessary to push ourselves out of our comfort zones, the result should be rewarding, never damaging.  And, although I know last night wasn’t the last time I will ever feel uncomfortable or suffer an anxiety attack, I will never have to feel guilty about it again.

Family Time

We all have that side of the family.   For me, it’s my mother’s side of the family.  Rural Texas folks just trying to make a dishonest living.   Just to give you a peek at the level of dysfunction in which I grew up; my aunt and uncle are con artists, and bad ones at that.  My cousin is a meth addict that’s been in and out of jail for the past 4-5 years.  She has six kids between three different men and in court, stood up and said her first son belonged to her stepfather, to which he jumped up and yelled “Ya’ll take my blood, ya’ll take it right now!” which resulted in her being charged with perjury.  A few years ago, she gave up custody of her children to pursue a dream of theft and meth addiction.
Mary-Elizabeth-Hillis-Brown-mugshot-23059512.400x800This is my favorite mugshot (she has more than one). She is currently serving a short sentence in jail.

Trust me when I saw that this is only the tip of the tip of the iceberg.  The majority of my mother’s family remained in small towns or little “big towns” that don’t really provide people with successful opportunities.
A lot of people will argue that it’s up to a person to decide, but anyone who knows anything about small towns knows that they’re black holes.  How my mother escaped, I will never know, but each time I see my family (who I do love very much), I am extremely grateful for the choices she made.

That being said, I’d like to tell you about my cousin David.  David is my grandmother’s nephew.   He is the youngest of three children – only one of which turned out normal.  David is ginger as fuck.  The last time I saw him was at my grandmother’s funeral a year and a half ago, his teeth were black and his hair showed signs of whitening at the sides.  I didn’t talk to him that long, but the first thing that came to my mind was the time he kidnapped himself.

Yep, you read that right.  He kidnapped himself.  I was talking to my mother the other day and we were talking about how incredibly fucked-up our family is and I brought up David.
I was always under the impression that he did it because he was broke, but it turns out I was wrong.

The story is; one day he disappeared no phone call, no note – nothing.  A couple of days later, someone received a ransom note (either his parents or his boss) asking for x amount or he was going to die.   However it came about, the receiver threw the note away knowing that it was David.

Getting no response from the first note, he wrote a second one.  Finally, I guess he gave up and turned up a few days later saying he chewed his way through ropes and broke free.  Even took the liberty of bruising himself up for effect.  It was shortly after that that he was turned over to the state hospital.
Again, I always thought it was because he was broke, but after talking to my mother, I learned that it was because he didn’t want to go to work.

I have spent quite a bit of time thinking of ways to get out of work, but I can’t even fathom how kidnapping could even makes it way to a list of options.  Granted, he’s bat shit crazy, but “kidnapping” yourself to get out of work is an entire realm of fuckedness that I can’t comprehend.
Even worse that that shit runs in my family, leaving me open to a world of possible mental-illnesses.  However, when I saw him at the funeral, he seemed pretty normal.  But that shit doesn’t just go away, oh no, it’s the herpes of the mind, and I am more than ready for the next flareup.

Unfortunately, I’m not ashamed of how trashy my family is.  I’m so completely entertained by it that I feel it’s 100%  necessary to tell anyone who will listen and it generally opens doors for sharing.
My favorite documentary is The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia because it  reminds me so much of my family.  I made my mother swear to watch it and after she did, she said the exact same thing.  While only a few family members have developed drug addictions, at least 75% of them are plagued with mental illnesses that stretch out beautifully over decades of rural country life.  And there is little I’m more proud of than having a front row seat to the best shit show around.