Enemies

None of this matters, but I've written it already, so here it is.

I have recently purchased two books with writing prompts / questions. 
One book has 300 prompts in general, the other has 642 "things to write about me"
After flipping through the latter, I have learned something about myself (and at not even a quarter of the way through):

People - presumably "everyday people", not necessarily massive influencers or celebrities - have enemies. 

I deduced this from the multiple prompts surrounding the topic. In example: 
    *    Your worst enemy writes his/her memoir. There's a whole chapter devoted to you. How does it begin?
    *    If you asked your first enemy to describe you, what would she say? (bold of you to assume it was a "she")
    *    List three people you consider enemies. Why so?

This is insane to me.

Now, these books may very well have been created for far younger people. In this case, I will say, the enemy thing makes more sense. Because at this "far younger" stage, your enemies consist mostly of the sinister wanks who always stole the good swing and the kid who wore their hair like you at your tenth birthday party.

However! If these books were not created for a particular age range, I find all the mortal enemy discussion very peculiar. (For those wondering; here are some prompts that I feel may be slightly inappropriate for the youngster audience:)
    *    What fad of your youth did not live up to the hype? Awfully dramatic for a youngster. Then again, so are "enemies".
    *    What are your rules of physical attraction? Have they changed over the years? Pardon??
    *    Describe yourself at three different ages. Well, one must be at least three different ages before one is able to write about being three different ages. 

 And if the prompts' intentions were for me to reflect on "enemies" of my youth, then what would it matter who they were? What would it matter what they would say about me? Furthermore: are we looking for what they would say about me back then? I hardly think anyone (including, but not limited to me) would care much about what my old enemies - with whom I have had little to no contact with for years, now - would say about me today. 

I can honestly say that I don't spend much time thinking about the people who I don't particularly care for. I don't care for them. Why would I think of them on my own time? I may think about them when they are around me because, regardless of my personal opinion on someone, if a person is physically around me I will think of them. Sometimes just in the same way one might think about the desk they're sitting at. A light consideration for the stapler atop it, etc... I do not try to not think of the folks who I don't particularly care for, I just don't. (Unless, of course, these people / this person could have a dangerous effect on me.)

I think about ghosts more than I think about "enemies".

I've gotten away from the point: Do adult people (let's say... people 20 years old and above) still have enemies?

642 Things to Write About Me assembled by the San Francisco Writers' Grotto,
                                                introduction by Jason Roberts

Hometown Adventures: Coffee Edition

 What is this panic that sets in us when we hear the words "Limited Time Only"? 
(Finite resources and/or time, you say??) It's similar to the reaction we give when faced with that question: "What would you do if you found out it was your last day on Earth?"

The idea is to "make the most" of what you've got when you've got it. The branch-off of that being, of course, that you will do this before you find out you've only got one day left. But hey - nobody's perfect.

I would like to think I am not one who falls victim to this attitude; this "Final Sale, Everything Must Go!" / "Get it While it's Hot!" way of life. I will get it once it is lukewarm, thank you kindly. Once the angry crowds have gone and I have decided that is is, in fact, something I actually want. (You won't find me out in the thick of Black Friday, if you haven't guessed. Catch me inside my home, how bout dat.) This isn't an exciting way to live, but I like it better than the alternative. However!

Upon recent meditations of skipping town, I have somewhat changed my tune. Since the very first weekend of this month (my last month in my hometown), I have made the decision to take myself on little adventures. Instead of spending time at my favorite spots, I have finally decided to branch out and try new spots. (Coffee shops, mostly. No bars. I am trying my damndest to stay out of trouble until I get to my new destination.) 

I am attempting to take advantage of living where I do for as long as I do. And at a nice, easy pace (as is customary for any Taurus worth their salt). And there's really no pressure, as far as I can tell, because I can always come back and visit. And this collection of coffee shops is more of a mere suggestion as opposed to a bucket list to check off. I figure if I've gone this long without them, there will be nothing lost if I "miss out". There is nothing to lose, in my eyes. Only the possibility of hammering out some therapeutic blog entries and - God-willing - another couple of pages in my latest story. (I simply can't bring myself to call it a "novel". "My latest novel". Ugh. Downright ugly.)

My home-state has miles to go in the way of accommodating the hungry, plant-based citizen, but at least the espresso has been good. And coffee shops, as a whole, are typically very cool, low-key places to visit, so they are ideal for someone like me. 

Sensory Time:
A favorite day of mine, the whole experience. Getting up early without an alarm. Easing into yoga in the comfort of my warm bedroom. Doing some light research online to pick out a new coffee shop / cafe. Popping into my car, Jasper, with the music playing me over to the next town. Maybe the windows are down and the summer scents fill the car. Or maybe the windows are up, the heated seat is going and the changing leaves fill the scene. 

I arrive at a place where I am unrecognizable. I snag an espresso (and perhaps a vegan snack) and find my way to a calm little space where I can tuck into my book or my laptop. The sounds of clinking silverware and demitasse sets. The occasional laughs between the staff, maybe one of them starts whistling along with the quiet music playing. 

I love the feeling of possibility and promise of the early drive. 

Okay let's finish this up.

This is similar to the feeling of visiting The Met coffee shop in North Conway. I wasn't able to get there very often (other than taxes and doctor's visits, if you do anything sparingly enough, it'll become enjoyable. A special treat). So when the magical apex of being able to afford the time and money presented itself to me: I would proudly walk down to The Met. There is something inherently adult about taking a jaunt down to "the coffee shop" on your own. Some kind of easy, beautiful independence. Perhaps it is the 90's-kid in me: watching Friends and seeing too many cop films where (between Axel Foley bars) the characters would always just be at the cafe. At the top of the scene. That's where you go when you're an adult. It is simply what you do.

Hopefully, I will be able to bring this attitude with me on my next adventure. You can tell a lot about a place by its cafes.

Impending Journey

 I am about to embark on a journey.

This entry will not be my philosophical musings on a topic. This will be my page to empty my thoughts and excitement onto. Much like a journal or diary. I am doing this because I remember stumbling upon some old (non-blogged) journal entries in my old acer pro laptop. 

The intention: I was given this acer pro laptop by my friend, A, for skyping purposes when I decided to move away for a job. 

The result: I typed out my honest-to-goodness thoughts for the first time ever. Putting every ounce of faith into my laptop's ability to require a password. Also hoping that I was not so predictable that my mother might guess said password. It was the first time I had ever thought honestly out loud. It was incredibly freeing and just what the doctor ordered. Especially at the time. (Also, my mother and I used this laptop, a pair of cheap speakers and our neighbor's wifi to stream our very first episodes of American Horror Story. Again: a godsend at the time.)

Reading the aforementioned journal entries (years ago) was so fascinating - to properly get a glimpse of how I truly felt and thought and what I was actually going through. No mixer, no sugar rim, no garnish. Straight up.

I at least got a kick out of the little things. The things about the North Conway Experience that I had forgotten with time. There's always something you forget. Some of these things are not written down / logged and are forever lost (and maybe that's okay / for the best). For everything else that was written down; I got to experience that ever-cool "Oh, that's right!" feeling. Many people might do this via photographs / albums. I move a lot (leaving little to no place for sentimentality in physical form) and am dreadfully uncomfortable with technology / the ever-dreaded phone switch-over (it only takes one bad experience to forever assume there is no safe place for photographs & playlists). And so, I write. In a laptop. because all it takes is: Charge laptop. Turn on. Enter password. Open doc. Write. Save. Keep laptop away from fire and water. Repeat. 

Now that I have changed the game a bit by adding my thoughts / journals to this site: I've got an extra step of back-up (if I am unable to keep laptop away from fire and water). If I need to purchase a new laptop: I can simply log on here. Of course there is the possibility that this site will somehow get f**ked sideways and/or the entire internet explodes, but this is less likely and also: if there is no internet, we've probably got bigger concerns than recovering my insightful and hilarious thoughts nine years ago on taxes.

Holy shit. Anyway. I am moving again. 

I am dreadfully excited about this. There are plenty of reasons why, but let's focus on the little things. This will be the first time I leave town without it simply being for a job opportunity. I have worked hard to tie up loose ends (and for everything else: I am finally allowing myself to let go and let god). It already feels like the smoothest transition I've ever experienced moving and I haven't even gotten to the moving part, really. It just feels different. I am simply drawn to the new place. There are no feelings of fear / irritation / panic / remorse / second-guessing... this simply is what I am doing and simply is the correct choice. There is no other option. Not out of desperation, but (finally) out of something more beautiful / organic / just downright cool. 

I have no idea what I am going to do down there for work, but it has never been an issue for me to find work (I recognize some of this is luck, but most of this is my absolute stubbornness and ability). I visited once and fell in love with the place. It feels sunny and safe, even when it's raining. It's beautiful and real. And not in that dollhouse-facade way that a resort might be or that North Conway absolutely was for its visitors. It's sustainable, not unrealistic. I feel comfortable there. Of course that could be the company.

My home town usually feels familiar and comfortable and controlled. Small enough to not be overwhelming. I understand it. Recently it has felt stale and uncaring and too familiar. Too small. Like a place I should get away from / the reason why I am not where I belong / where I should be. This place is starting to feel like the place I visit before finally going home. 

I am finally not devoured by worry of how this change will affect every single person who knows me. I have found - even for just briefly! - the sweet spot between being selfish and being wholly uncaring for myself. I have broken chains. It feels like that long joyride in your new whip. Windows down, arm out the side. Fresh, cool breeze rushing its way through your fingers. Sun warming your face. Killer playlist on blast. 

I would like to mention to my future-self: This last month was / has been rough. Friends / the community, the job, health / the pandemic. But it has been rough in a way that only solidifies that you have absolutely made the right decision. And a few sparkling gems were still to be found. A few beautiful people holding steadfast and/or a new person here and there left to surprise you in (simultaneously) the biggest and smallest way(s).

This is easily the happiest you have ever been.
So if things ever get foggy, I hope you find this entry and say "Oh, that's right!"

Being Good to Others vs. Yourself

 Is this a generational thing? Is it an adult thing? A human thing? Of this, I am unsure. What I do know is this:

It's complicated.

Forgive me if I have touched upon this topic in past blogs - I feel as though I haven't the time to check.

Picture this: you're in a bar with your buddies, some little puke comes up to your assemblage and spits some kind of nasty to one in your crew. It matters not if this is your best friend, sibling/family member, co-worker, casual friend, someone you just met... The instinct is to come to their defense, yes? Or in my case: catapult something you are convinced is scathing and hilarious (at least hilarious) at the offender. No second thought. It's clearer and more knee-jerk than instinct. Right?

Well why is it so bloody difficult to do this for yourself? In quite a similar / the same setting, even? Is everyone this way? Because I am nearly certain the majority (if not the entirety) of the company I keep feels the same way. Is it because we have a higher opinion of our loved ones than we do ourselves? Is there something in the back of our minds telling us that we do not deserve the back up that our loved ones certainly do? Or is it just that jarring to everyone when trouble comes our way that we will nearly always freeze and be unable to say anything for ourselves? This would certainly afford the air time for our friends (anyone, really) to say something / "come to our rescue".

On the other hand (you knew this was coming), if I was only able to stand up for myself and not others, I would surely whither away and die. If the missed zing opportunity didn't get me, the guilt would. This would also portray me as a coward. Something I actively am afraid of being! HAHAHA (had to). As for the other scenario: I would - at worst - be portrayed as the victim.

Ahhhh!!!! The plot thickens!

I hope I am absolutely not onto something, as it would make me positively ill to know that there is a very influential part of my subconscious infinitely fiending for a chance to be the victim. Although, for the record: I have to admit that it would be logical / make sense / is certainly a possibility.

It could be something as simple as: we love our friends more than we love ourselves. / We are more protective of our friends than ourselves. Which sounds noble and romantic but, in reality, could very well be unhealthy and problematic. (Unhealthy & Problematic: a low-key, low-angst E-girl / Indie crossover band for the ages. Or something.) But since balance is hardly ever - if ever - perfectly achieved and is arguably subjective, I suppose I would rather err on the side of friend-protecting than the other way around.

A Fate Worse Than Death

***this entry is heavily opinionated AND regarding sensitive topics AND is discussed in a possibly insensitive way and should not be viewed by anyone.***

Why does it feel as though our human society views death as this awful thing? More specifically: that literally anything would be better than dying / being dead?

Let's go through some examples (in other words: I don't agree and here's why):

Most of us have been taught / fascinated / horrified by remedies from days of old. One of these horrific remedies that truly sticks out to me is the lobotomy. For those of us who need a refresher: 

lo·bot·o·my

/ləˈbädəmē/

Learn to pronounce

noun

1. a surgical operation involving incision into the prefrontal lobe of the brain, formerly used to treat mental illness.

   "there was talk of performing a lobotomy"

First of all: if there's any talk of performing a lobotomy in your general vicinity; run.

Essentially: starting in the mid-late 1930's in the good ol' U.S. of A., civilians were coerced to get "fixed" by way of "professionals" jabbing them in the brain with a tiny, metal rod. Well, I suppose "tiny" would be in the eye of the beholder when the time comes to actually shove it - quite literally - in the eye.

Regardless. This lobotomy had quite a popular stint because EVEN THOUGH one would absolutely lose one's personality / artistic inclinations / sense of humor / anything and everything that made them inherently them, it was considered a better fate. A fate better than being (what people considered) unwell, I mean. And we can gab alllll day about the disgusting details of what was considered "unwell", but that is not what I have come here to ponder about. What I am trying to get at is this: 

Lobotomies essentially killed the individual it was performed upon. And yet if the people performing these lobotomies were asked why they didn't just kill the "unwell" / put them out of their misery (if they were going to treat these "patients" no better than livestock, you might as well come full circle), they would likely faint. For some reason, it was ingrained in everyone's mind (until the lobotomy, ha ha) that there was no contest; it was not an option to kill anyone, kill one's self, even have suicidal thoughts, but it was an option to have a bunch of mindless, empty, vanilla-mc-plain-wrap bodies droning around these Leave-it-to-Beaver 'hoods. 

Perhaps this was a rocky start. A squiffy example. Let us proceed with a slightly different slant:

It's just like our infinite battle against aging, or never-ending search for eternity. For some reason, even when individuals become catatonic, never to scientifically completely return again, modern medicine absolutely refuses to let anything natural happen. Now I have never been catatonic, so my opinion on this doesn't matter. But my opinion is that if I became somehow so mentally / physically traumatized that I completely lost any version of myself that I had ever been / ever wanted to be, I would rather not exist. I would pull the plug, myself, if I could. The day I suddenly need round-the-clock care, lose my independence / freedom to make my own daily decisions, am unable to freely and creatively think - the day I am no longer able to write creatively in the fashion I love to due to this fancied head-trauma is the day it's over, Rover. 

I know, I know; this is a slippery slope: should we take little Johnny out back and shoot him if he ever should break his leg or fall ill? In my opinion, no. This isn't even semantics. Because presumably little Johnny would still have his same personality and passionate drives (unless he is the world's most sinfully dramatic child).

Dear legal caretakers: If you have convinced yourself that I am able to communicate: ask me if I wanna live or not. If I am unable to communicate: feed me some arsenic pie, kill me off real quick and painless-like and let's call it a day, eh?

Anyway, just thinking.

Additional thoughts:

1.    human instinct to have hope: but what if this is the one case where the person does "pull through"?
2.    human inability to "let go": i'll just wait for another week, i'm just not ready yet
3.    some kind of religious influence: ...i don't have an example, actually, i know very little about this
4.    societal influence: doc: "if i let them die, i have failed!" patient's fam: "killing is heartless!"

These all just sound so bloody selfish. Who does this person's life belong to?? Why is this person not weighed in on the formula of reaction / when trying to figure out what to do with person's empty body?

Ugh.

Intimidating vs. Intimidated; who's at fault?

 I have been told I am intimidating to talk to / approach about certain things.

I know. I was shocked, too.

I have painstakingly built myself (ever-growing, of course) to be kind to others. To be certain I am approachable by being more accepting, less judgemental, good-humored, open-minded as my little brain can muster and try to be forever-patient. Because this is what I would want in a person who I had to break news to, who I had to ask hard questions, to whom I needed to help with a personal issue, etc... Turns out everyone is different and the person who I need may not be the person you need. 

(I'll grab the EKG.)

So while I am certain that I have succeeded in creating/becoming the easiest person in the whole entire universe to tell something to - to approach - in reality all I have done is create the easiest person for me to talk to. Which, if you think about it, is really nearly just as useless (if not arguably moreso) than not creating anything/wasting my time with this silly little project whatsoever. I don't need to talk to me - I'm me. I need to talk to others, if anyone. And vise verse. But if everyone is different / needs a different unique combination of things out of me, how am I to know what things to be? How am I to choose? Better yet: how am I to be everything?

Is it even my duty to be everything to everyone / anything to anyone? Well, in my opinion: no. First of all that's impossible. Second of all, I feel as though this is one of those Life Choices scenarios where you choose what to put your energy toward. And no, just because you are not dedicating your time / making it your entire life's worth to be something to a number of others, that doesn't mean you're a bad person. Well, it might mean that some others think you're a bad person, which is valid... I guess it's time for a well-placed "who's to say?".

What I am pondering on - whether I get an answer or not - is:

If someone feels as though they need to talk to me about something but they are too afraid to / find me too intimidating to do so: is that my fault? Or the other person's? Does it even matter? (Of course it doesn't matter, not really, anyway. But I'd still like to know.)

If it was the other person's fault, it would be because they - essentially - made a decision to not ask me / tell me whatever it is they felt they originally had to. That they were - in some capacity - unable to do so.

If it was my fault, it would be because I didn't make myself available enough to the other party. I was not considerate enough. Being considerate is very important to me. It is also a slippery slope. It is also one of those things that others will likely chastise you for not being as well as for being "too considerate" / a people-pleaser / what-have-you. It is also - as I have said - completely and entirely unimportant to know where "the fault" lies, on this one. Partially because it is mostly an opinion-base, partially because there are so many seemingly bigger things to worry about / focus on, etc... 

But that is the fun of having an OCD-mind: you fixate and you take infinity to process and it is all due to an unbridled need to know if something was your fault / if you were the one to blame. That way, you can not only loathe yourself for it for an inhumane amount of time, but also so you can work on it and correct it so that it (hopefully) doesn't happen again. 

Also: just coming from a spiritually-ever-growing being (human bean), I would absolutely love to keep learning and improving the person I am. And one of the reasons for the drive for exponential improvement is to ever-improve the company my loved ones keep.

The Trolley Experiment

 I have recently watched a hilarious and thought-provoking youtube channel podcast called "What you thinking, hun?" On this cast, the host presented the question:

    Let's suppose there is a train chugging toward a branch on the tracks - on the first branch: five people tied up. On the second: one person tied up. The train is rushing straight for the five people and they will surely perish, should the train reach them. Let's say you are in some kind of control room where you have the power to switch the train's direction and have it run over (and kill) the one person, instead. What will you do?

Now, first of all, let's get this out of the way: this is a sick question / supposition (not in the "tight, dude! sweet!" kind of way, but in the "oh, my godddd..." drawn-out, Mrs. Peacock kind of way). At first strike, I think "who has the time to think of these things??" but am immediately shot down from the thought when I recall the time my mother thought my OCD Rules were because I "had too much time on my hands", which certainly wasn't true. Then I recall any time someone (usually my mother again) will wonder how / why on earth I have come up with a certain thought / ponderance (not a word, but maybe some day it could be). It's simply because I think a little differently than that incredulous individual. No right, no wrong, just different.

And now that we've gotten that out the way: My next jaded-humanoid reaction is to be suspicious of the question-proposer and that there must be an inherently "correct" answer. That this person must be asking me this only because he has learned a riddle, found the secret-yet-in-plain-sight-answer and is now seeing if I pass the test. This reaction is gross, and I wish I didn't have it. It makes me feel stupid and like one of those people who have conspiracy theories just to seem clever when in reality they are a few shy and fight like hell to mask it. Sometimes sheep aren't the only sheep, eh?

So! Now that I've irritated and offended a decent chunk of people who are likely too insecure to digest most new information and/or thought due to their salivating need to find something to clap back at: Let's get to it, shall we?

As I understand: there is no right or wrong answer. This is simply a gear-turner, a social experiment, something of the like. And obviously this would be an incredibly unlikely scenario as well as one most (if not all) would be completely unable to prepare for. In other words: "You don't know! You weren't THERE!" as the control room person shakes a reporter by the lapels. 

I believe I would leave the handle alone (allow the train to run over the five). This is because - in my own, twisted, guilt-addled mind - one of my survival tools (living with detrimental disorders) is the strange and often inaccurate justification of my own actions and lack thereof. I have to make up my own rules or I will never make it to my next vacation (and I was planning on Hawaii!). In this specific scenario, I would think: "Well I didn't touch anything, at least I didn't do it" which obviously begs at least further argument. We all learned about sticking up for others in elementary school. See something, say something. But there is a fine line (with most things). Not to mention: I live a very active life of "Lesser of Two Evils". (I will keep smoking cigarettes because I like them, but stay away from hard drugs. Also, I will be polite when smoking and not blow it in other's faces / leave my butts on the foliage???) As such, I would argue that:

Me, watching something bad happen is less shitty than me making something bad happen.

To me, the number of people killed would make no difference in that scenario when we get down to the argument of consciousness. If a man killed one man on purpose, it wouldn't be "less bad" than him killing three. It's just "even worse" if he killed three. 

Of course, when you do get down to it - I feel as though the answers will simply come down to which strange self-soothing method you've come up with to clumsily justify yourself. 

Just Thinking.

***later edit***

I just realized - I never even got into the thought I had originally intended: Often times the individual being asked this question will ask: "who are the individuals tied to the tracks?" They will ask: "Is the one person tied my mother? Or a stranger? Are the five people tied criminals who committed heinous, unspeakable acts?" This is incredible to me. I did not have this thought and, upon further pondering, I must say; I don't think it matters. Sure, it may matter to you - it matters to me if my family is alive or dead more than it would, say, an unspeakably heinous criminal. But this mattering is closer to an opinion / subjective than it is an equalizer / deciding factor / scale-tipper of what is Right and Wrong. But perhaps the individual asking whether their mother is on the tracks or not is not interested in being Right / doing The Right Thing in this particular instance. In which case, I would say, is incredibly genuine / self-actualized of them. To realize (and admit!) so easily / immediately that they (realistically) would not give a flying fuck about the strangers on the track if it meant their mother was at stake / in peril. 

I must say, realistically? I may not be so righteous, either. Given the horrible opportunity, I would likely turn in favor of my loved ones. God knows I have in less-perilous situations. 

I had a thought once

WARNING: the following body of work lies not as one cohesive unit, but more of a smattering of thoughts. I found these thoughts intriguing and wanted to expound a bit, but currently lack the focus. 

Time breeds wisdom and opportunity for intellectual growth.
   on one hand: wisdom brings peace and strength.

   on the other hand: intelligence brings loneliness, bitterness and - very usually - arrogance/apathy.

Between the two (wisdom and intelligence) lies a constant battle to have a conscience. 

Furthermore: without a conscience, one will surely find it very difficult to attract/keep company of a certain quality, indeed. This will only perpetuate the loneliness and bitterness. The clinging desperation for company only grows. 

Respectively: in gathering peace and strength, one gains company. Without even trying. Company is actively attracted to these attributes, intrinsically. Of course, ironically; when one has these attractive attributes, one does not usually (possibly ever) crave company. Or at least certainly not enough to feel a kind of remorse without it. Nor to sacrifice quality for the sensation of it. 

The wiser one becomes (the more at peace/strong/patient), the more comfortable/content one is in spending time only "with" oneself. 

So if you find yourself battling with feeling/being lonely due to an influx of intelligence, fear not; the wiser you get, the less it will bother you and the more you will find joy in other sensations. And the more time that passes, the more wisdom-gaining opportunities you will be presented with. 

Not many people even have the wherewithal to deny their sweet tooth, let alone their craving for touch.

Perhaps monogamy is simply too much to ask of certain people. 

(Thank you, thought-provoking-N, for this term)*
Levinas* - "infinity"; needing another human interaction to verify experience.

the concept of perpetuating information, an event, a period of time, etc... by way of sharing. 
essentially this is what social media is. 

perhaps this is why we were so attracted to it in the first place; it is instinctual.

I wonder if the creators of these platforms formed them around this kind of thought/concept.

your tree in the woods could have broken the sound barrier and it would never officially "matter".

it's natural to want to share; instinctual. if for no other reason than (likely originally) to impart wisdom. 

and what was initially meant for teaching became an enormous part of our psychology/philosophy on the quality of life. Just one more thing we modern-day humans do without thinking / considering / truly knowing or really caring why. Are we social because it is enjoyable, shallowly? In that cup-of-coffee-with-friends way? Or is it more a tool of a core survival / growth of/for species?

regardless of how it started, it quickly became something else. i.e.: you want to make that person / competitor / enemy / frenemy / ex-/current-lover jealous? there's one way to at least feel as though you've done it. whether or not they ever even end up seeing that post / story. although, you're in luck! the platforms have been designed so you can see - you can tell - which people have seen it / reacted to it. you can spend hours pouring over your posts, sifting through piles veritable strangers, searching for that person. oh, what fun.

of course, the same can be said about a purer motive: some of us are just lonely. some of us just want to feel as though we have someone. we have connected. no matter how shallow. and if we haven't achieved even that? well at least we can feel as though we have. we can peel the plastic backings off of our GenuineConnection Patches (tm) and slap them on an unencumbered limb. I get instagram brand, I wonder what kind you get?? Oh, right, nobody actually connects. Doi! What a total goofball! 

whether for spite or genuine human connection/affirmation, that is by and large the use. we are sending out signals in the hope that someone received it. In the hope that someone contacts the poster as evidence the poster is not alone.

 Although, I must say: some people just use social media as a fun little past-time, photo-album, to-do list (recipes, cleaning hacks, fitness, travel, fashion) and less depressing things of the like. It's not all dark and somber. 

Inevitability

I have been inspired by an excerpt I have read: the original, full article is linked below and credit goes fully to a friend who posted the excerpt on facebook. He certainly reads the kinds of things that I very typically shy away from. (Thanks, N, for stimulating my brain.)

Now, in the interest of being transparent: I have not read this entire article. I might never read this entire article. This blog is not meant as a dissertation upon said article. I simply did the thing I usually do where I hear/read something complex, chew it/swallow it/decide to write an opinionated blog about the dregs remaining between my teeth. (So much so that by the end of this blog there will be nothing left of the original topic.)

This article served as a callback to many topics and thoughts I have previously pondered. From social media being our inherent downfall to the theory I blogged about where humans have outgrown their purpose down to the simple decision I made many years ago: (on suicide:) I'm going to get my way eventually and die anyway, so I guess I might as well do the things I like to do until then. 

In addition to the callback (and branch-offs) of many dusty theories, this article brought something new to my attention: some people really just refuse to play the game. 

In my unscholarly opinion, this goes beyond nihilism. Of simply poo-pooing the "playing of the game" and deciding life is meaningless. I doubt I will ever fight anyone on the thought of life being meaningless (until I get old and find a sudden interest in local Christianity, out of inevitable desperation). What I mean is some people truly refuse to believe they have ever been happy. Of course there is little I can do or say about this for many reasons, one of them being: I truly refuse to believe it is possible that a person has never truly been happy. Those who hail from (what we would consider to be) the absolute darkest depths of ruin experience happiness. Because it is in our blood to experience "hope". 

Whether you like it or not, you crusty old non-believer. 

I have known a few in my time here who subscribe to the opinion that happiness is not important to them. That they refuse to waste their time working toward it. While I've got news, Buster. You ever go into a relationship with someone you like spending time with? Friendly or otherwise? Have you ever purchased a movie you liked? Have you ever brought home your favorite snack? That single feat alone is proof of the pursuit of happiness/your own will and drive to do so. It would literally be more effort to not strive for joy of some sort. So really all you're accomplishing when you say things like "Happiness isn't my goal" is unnecessary dramatics. (And, very usually, a slight irritation in the person you tell.)

One last thing before I go (may the old and crusty avert thine eyes):

We all have had our moments of defeat and withdrawal. Of giving up, of slacking, of convincing ourselves of seeing the last straw before we plummet into a sort of darkness. Somehow our inherent human-ness prevails. Always. And at the end of a life span, I think you will find more moments of hope and drive than any kind of defeat. 

original article:

https://isi.org/modern-age/the-great-stagnation-or-decline-and-fall/?fbclid=IwAR0BHIAJ25jLOS9mELRFr1Pzr5CFICXd1GuPSWUM3Jw9mdRI-imOJvB36wI

Privacy

 My mother caught me a bit off-guard when she told me I had always been a “private person”.

This comment was not rude or hurtful. It wasn’t even inaccurate. It simply caught me because I had completely forgotten that being private was such an enormous part of my personality. 

Privacy was a glaringly obvious trait of mine when I was younger, but that was back when I had only lived so long and only collected/decided on so many traits. There were less to keep track of and less to take up the finite amount of space. Ergo the qualities that I did have were massive (as they anxiously awaited better company).

I did three things and was obvious about it.

(On the offchance you’re interested: 1. Keep things private 2. obsess 3. panic.)

On my journey, I had forgotten that piece of myself. I watched on as it was slowly dwarfed by the newcomers. (Picture big, clunky football players shuffling their way into a small room: “Excuse me, e-excuse me, oop! Sorry ‘bout that, little guy. Excuse me…”.)

My mother then speculated: “So strange. I wonder why you are that way.”

Now that we’ve had the ridiculously long set-up for no reason whatsoever: All of this got me thinking; how did I end up this way?

Obviously I can only hypothesize as to how my own attributes came to be, let alone another’s. But I think it’s interesting to ponder and fun to type out and if you don’t know this by now then I just don’t know what to tell you.

If I had to suppose, I would say my fight for privacy likely sprung from when I was younger (when do these things not?). I had a hovering, suspicious mother, a teasing, nosy sister and a father who thought it more polite to not talk. This very likely resulted in not wanting to say anything (so it wouldn’t be used against me by the sis), not getting the chance to (when my mother found it out from my diary) and finally thinking it just as well (because at least my father wouldn’t mistake me for being impolite).

I wasn’t interested in socializing, which is just as well considering I was so crap at it. When I did socialize it was all too stressful and my defense mechanism just so happens to be shutting down. It all came together in a truly magnificently unhealthy cocktail for a growing frontal lobe. 

On the few occasions I managed to share an iota of myself, others might judge or tease or use said iota against me (only the truly criminal were able to acheive such feats with such little material). Was I too sensitive? Arguably so. And even as my skin thickened and I cared less about others’ opinions of me, I still kept to myself. I find it so irritating when others are so quick to expose (what I would argue is) the worst of themselves in the interest of getting a shot in / making themselves feel better about their own insecurities. I’d just as soon not deal with it. 

And who cares about my news, really? Who is genuinely interested in what I have to say, purely just to hear it? I’m sure I don’t know, but after years of the self-important interrupting my words, the odds appeared to be against me. Which is perfectly fine (don’t cry for me, Argentina) as I, too, am uninterested in some peoples’ stories. What’s fair is fair. 

This is also just as well as I - for reasons I will not bother to speculate, as this blog is already unlawfully long and very much about nothing - also find it irritating when I am being grilled. When it feels like someone is just digging into me for their next scoop to the Morning Gazette. Although I have to wonder if I would still feel this way if I had felt like people genuinely and generally cared about what I had to say. Hm.

I can't help but also find it odd that, despite all of my mouth-shutting, I certainly am one to have too-open a trap and say things others may not feel comfortable saying. Or hearing, depending. It's strange being private while simultaneously being completely genuine and honest. Anyway, I guess that’s about all I can ponder on this at the moment. Glad to be blogging again. Til next time.

Payne & Catch

work in progress... 

“We got a real humdinger for ya tonight, Catch.” Officer Payne smugged through his cigar at the coroner. Ruddy, round cheeks slick with a day’s sweat. The gurney made a sharp clatter as its metal bars collided with the basement’s cement siding. The body upon it caused the wheels to vibrate in a most unpleasant way. Especially over the grating on the floor. Catch cringed at the ruckus. He straightened his white lab coat in an attempt to regain control.

The symphony was lost on Payne as he casually leaned against the basement wall, flipping through his notebook. The stout cop took the time to get comfortable, adjusting his arms in the blazer he sported. He lifted his brimmed hat a bit, exposing his mussed, dark hair. Plastered to his head with sweat. 

Clang, clang, clang went the trolley as it violently escaped the entryway. The muscles behind it? Well, Catch couldn’t be bothered to learn those men’s names. He couldn’t even be certain they were men. They might just as well remain anonymous; merely a vehicle of the showstopper they delivered. Not even an opening act; simply an extension of the gurney. 

Catch could barely be bothered to learn Payne’s name. But he had been such a faithful supplier. 

The cop landed on a page with an insurmountable collection of scribblings. He took an impressive haul off his stogie. He snagged the cigar with a flourish of his right hand. In his left: the curious details of the gurney jockey. There were so many of them - and yet, not quite enough. That’s where ex-detective, Catch, came in. 

“Get this,” Payne exhaled, his voice distorted by thick smoke. 

Catch stood, patiently, as the Officer’s words fell down upon him. A sweet, virginal snowfall of completely corrupt text, descending upon his person. Chin raised skyward. Eyes closed. He stood atop a large grate in the center of his cellar. The faceless muscle bustled around him, moving Humdinger to the coroner’s examining table. The faceless team retraced their steps toward the entryway, abandoning the body as one of them dragged the cart out. 

Then, there were three. Payne finished rambling through the particulars he had learned hours ago. The officer raised his misleadingly sweet, moussy eyes from his notebook. Chocolate lookers locked on the coroner; awaiting the signal. Could he join his wife for a neat scotch, yet?

Catch lowered his structured jaw to once again join the living. He allowed his bright peepers to regain visuals. For a moment he stood stock-still; frozen under the snowfall. 

Payne focused all of his energy on denying his instincts. He could feel his right hand quivering - aching - to snap at the coroner. Anything to speed up this process. It had been a long day. Most of Officer Payne’s days were long. And there was nothing he wanted more than to go home, take the shoes off his throbbing feet. Free his arms from the tweed prison they all-too-often found themselves in. Payne knew better, though. Years of dealing with this nut-job had conditioned him to at least feign patience. Catch was brilliant - there was no questioning it. Along with this brilliance, however, came a slew of curious behaviors and ticks. 

Why else would such a dazzling blade be excommunicated from the police force?

“Good.”

“Good?” Payne reacted.

Catch swiveled his head to the cop’s direction; green eyes piercing past his pale skin. He nodded once at the officer. “Good. Thank you.” Catch had come a long way from “Good. Go.” Those days were behind him, now. As were the days of “JUST FUCK OFF, ALREADY. OUT.”

He had come a long way. 

Payne became a hostage of his ridiculous smile. Another day done. And the money would come. And the recognition. It would all be worth it in the end. For now; Scotch Time. Payne tipped his cap and silently bolted through the door, ever-so-gently closing it behind him.

“Boys,” he spoke to the dunderheads by the car, each on their third cigarette. The crickets chirped from the property's surviving shrubbery. A cool blue darkness leaked onto the world around them. Payne beamed at his underlings. “What say we drop this puppy off and call it a day?”

Inside the sealed basement remained a tall, lanky, pale ex-detective. He pivoted to face the new arrival on his examining table. Last season’s tennis shoes crunched the salty grime below them on the turn. Well… the season before last, if we’re being honest. Catch’s pressed, fitted bluejeans followed his impossibly long legs up to a poorly-chosen belt he had found in a dumpster months ago. His clean-but-cheap button-up had appallingly short sleeves that his lab coat carefully camouflaged. It was difficult retaining a shirt that properly fit his slim torso without sacrificing sleeve-length. At least his midsection was covered. 

Catch could hear music playing as he made his way to the examination table. His battered tennis shoes found a delicate beat as he moved. Lab coat swaying to the rhythm. His days were so somber between arrivals. And he knew they would be again, shortly. In the meantime he decided to absolutely relish every moment of the good stuff. 

Another salty crunch followed him, announcing his full spin as he shortened the distance between him and his prize. 

“Hello, there,” Catch sang, dramatically leaning one arm over the table, “...Beautiful.”

Quick Lunchtime Thought: different lifestyles

 I try to live my life with purpose. I go about my days trying to do the least amount of harm to others / the planet while trying not to completely compromise my own happiness / contentedness / safety. And if I do some good on top of that - I am victorious. 

This sounds wonderful, but really it only works because others do not live the same way.

Don't get me wrong; I am well aware that I am not the first one to consider this way of life, nor shall I be the last. I just mean that there are plenty who do not subscribe to this lifestyle. It brings me back to a conversation I had with a dear friend while working at the framing studio.

K and I were discussing sociopaths (I was suggesting that I might be one due to the fact that I don't nose around / "care" the way some others do). He assured me I am not one. He went on to tell me that sociopaths weren't all bad. Intrigued, I listened on.

K's proposition was that without sociopaths, we would not have a number of our "big successes"; we would lack (maybe entirely) in our big CEO population. We would have far less competition. Less selfishness. Less drive. We would have less people "knowing" how special and important they were and thus we would not have gone on to progress as much, as a society.

Please know that I am butchering his words (bad memory, not bad intent, I promise you), but not his general thesis.

I am thinking of this today because if the population were made of only a bunch of quiet hippies (such as myself), keeping to themselves, minding their own business, if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-ing their way through life, we would not have some of our most brilliant minds and finds. We would have so much less curiosity. Less theory. Less science. Less discovery. As much as I cringe to admit it, I would have likely been a quiet, Christian housewife with (at least) nine screaming children. 

Today I would like to (somewhat) publicly thank each and every brilliant mind, curious scientist and driven sociopath of the world. You folks make everything sparkle in a way I would never know how to. 

You make it possible for people like me to live the way that I feel I must. 

Censorship v. Self-Control

 I have had at least fifteen conversations about censorship recently, so I guess I can blog about it today.

I will say my personal relationship with censorship has been: I should practice it. I was told by my mother to behave (don't swear at your sister). I was told by my bosses (essentially) to behave (don't swear at your customer). And after numerous occasions where I deeply offended friends while practicing what I was convinced was scathing wit (but was really just scathing), I learned to behave around them, too.

What I find funny is that the people who don't like censorship will very often be the same people who get upset/disgusted when the younger generation sticks up/fights/pickets for something they truly believe in. And before you get too excited, censorship fans: I have the same to say about your behaviors (just flipped). We're all a little hypocritical and - at some point - censorship is in the eye of the beholder. It is subjective. It is not definitive. Yes, the definition is definitive:

cen·sorship

/ˈsensərSHip/

noun

1. 1.

   the suppression or prohibition of any parts of books, films, news, etc. that are considered obscene, politically unacceptable, or a threat to security.

But who is to say what is to be considered "obscene"? Or better yet: "politically unacceptable"? I am nearly certain that the non-censors only mean that they are the way they are and they don't care to consider others throughout the interim. They will tell you to get over it/relax/stop being so sensitive. Meanwhile, once the censor-fans hear this blatant dismissal and/or inconsiderate behavior, they will tell the nons where to shove it. And then the nons will get offended/be dreadfully uncomfortable/touche'd and retaliate with more non-censored language. 

I can't help but sit on the fence and observe both sides with binoculars. Curious.

Once again I believe "balance" to be the answer here. Here's my current opinion on the matter:

    Follow the Golden Rule when possible / while not putting yourself/others in dangerous pinches. 

    Don't go out of your way to be a dick. (Jesus, who is this behavior really for?)

    Pick your battles.

    Learn to take a joke (and learn to stick up for yourself)

    NOT EVERYTHING IS A BIG DEAL. AND I'M SAYING THIS EQUALLY TO BOTH PARTIES.

And, finally: You simply can't please everyone. And if you try not to offend anyone, you will eventually (at the latest) offend a very large group / an individual you truly care about. 

What is it, going to kill you to not say those offensive things you say on principal, alone? Shock-Comedy died in the 90's. And what about you, there, fighting the urge to tell us you're deeply offended at what you suddenly decided is a "social injustice"; Just going to fester and eat away at your kidneys, is it? Now I know it is a slippery slope. I also know that social media is an exacerbator (<-- think I made that up). I also know that me getting frustrated at all of this - ironically - will likely pop me into being one of the aforementioned fence-siders. *Sigh* I just think that a lot of what the non-censors consider "censorship" is what I would consider "having manners", "being polite" or "practicing self-control". Honestly, how hard is it to try for others here and there? I do it nearly every day.

As with most other things: I think the best any of us can do is try. Keep an open mind, accept what you choose to, duke it out over what's worth your dukes. Be genuine. Do research. Ask questions. Care. And for God's sake; practice balance. 

...back to work.

Haunted Houses

 I suppose you just never know until you're in it, but:

What do you suppose it would take for you to leave the home you just bought once you had suspicion of it being haunted?

We have all read the books and seen the films; a family (two parents and at least one child... very typically a sacrificial dog) moves into a new town. They buy that vacant house. For what price, did you say? Holy cannoli, what a deal!! And so close to the school? Wow, how could they afford not to take it?

The kid gets excited to see his room, the parents stand side by side, arms around each other. Smiling at their child's precious antics as he calls the family dog to follow him upstairs. "C'mon, Roscoe! Last one there is a rotten egg!" (Bark, bark!) 

Aw. 

So regular. Until... 
Crrrreeeek... - "It's just the house settling. It's an old house, honey."
"Oh I thought I left the keys over there... Ugh, getting older is tough!"
BANGBANGBANG - "That's just the neighbor kid pulling a prank; what a big silly!"
"Huh. All the food is rotten."
"That's strange; I don't recall opening each and every cabinet. Probably our kid, for some reason."
"Mommy, Daddy; there's a MAN in my closet!!"
"There's BLOOD IN THE BATHTUB, JON!"
"I just haven't been feeling myself lately..."

Now. I understand the need to scream at the television at the family's short-sightedness upon the very first sign of trouble. Of course you know better. You didn't just finish setting up the living room (just the way you like it). Plus, you did see the title of this film: Something Wicked & Dangerous in the New House We Just Bought. I would hope you would have seen this coming. 

My question is: What would it take for you? I mean obviously there's the financial loss to take into consideration. But what's money worth if you're possessed the whole time you get to spend it? Would you even get the same thrill after leaving TJMaxx with a new planter at that point? It is, for sure, an enormous bummer; having to leave the giant money-eater you just spent your life savings on. But isn't it a little more cruel to think that your story would end there? 

"Such a shame. They spent their entire life saving for that house and it ate and killed them."

I am almost certain I would rather survive to tell the tale of how I escaped the house victorious and - against all odds - built my family and myself back up from the ashes like a phoenix. Surely at that point everything you have tastes so much sweeter by comparison. Then you really did it. Not everyone could survive a haunting, you know. I would wear that badge proudly on my chest until I became that old relative at family gatherings. 

"Ugh, Grandma's had too much sherry again."
"Yep, off she goes."
"I ReMeMbEr WhEn I sUrViVeD GHOSTS."

I know the name of the game is to consider your family in the decision-making; even if you don't feel like being there, Junior did always want a backyard to play in. And he's only losing a couple hours of sleep a week over this. No more than a regular child with a late-night pixie-stick habit, really.
But isn't that just it? Wouldn't you want to keep that kid away from harm? The world is already dangerous enough and you're going to roll the dice on demons inside of your home? Perhaps it is just that the parents do not want to believe their child. Which I get. I was afraid of everything when I was little (still am). If it had been up to me, my mother, father, sister and I would have been zipping from this house to that like traveling salesmen.

This one had bugs I didn't care for in the garden. 
This one's rooms were too dark.
These curtains gave me a start.
I saw an ant inside.
I just feel like there are goblins here.  

I'm honestly surprised I lived to tell that tale. With OR without hauntings. My poor mother.

I do hope that you are able to safely exit the house (safely and fully intact), should this scenario ever arise for you.

Anyway. Just thinking.

This One's Light

Today the sun lingered at 5:00pm.

This is the first sign of reaching safety from the clutches of seasonal depression. What makes it sweeter is: I recently read a few of my old blogs, one of them being the "Dark" one. It was awful. I'm glad I wrote it, don't get me wrong. I just mean the feeling was awful - upon the first sentence, I was transported to the malaise that once was. (And in my favorite bar!) I am once again in said bar. It wasn't pitch-black when I pulled up. It wasn't nightmarishly freezing when I went out for a smoke after my first negroni. There's still a little snow on the ground, but not enough to separate me from this good feeling. Spring is coming. 

I just told one of my beautiful friends about my current woes (briefly) and ended it by saying: "I'm just waiting for Spring, man." I know this is what my entire last blog was about, but I am excited. And you didn't pay to be here. So here's s'more. 

To be completely truthful: even my most detrimental woes are not currently eating away at me enough to spoil the good that I have. I simply am anxious to feel even better. 

Tonight: Cake and Alabama Shakes replaced Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. The bar staff dance and laugh and bob their heads along here and there. (Jack White Radio, I'm told. Brilliant.) I have been kicking writing's ass all week (through some jobby issues) and here I am again. Still killing the game the way I want. A blog here, a few scenes there, perhaps a journal entry if I'm feeling so inclined... Not to mention I just nabbed a few things (at good prices, naturally) for my and my best friend's home. 

Last night, I recalled past dark times. Times when I felt so separated from myself, from my choices, from my life. Times when I felt as though I would never truly be living. I took in the scene around me: Best friend, snuggled up in their toasty bed with their cat, rent and bills paid, the whole apartment filthy with houseplants... I went to bed smiling last night. It doesn't get much better than this. 

But wouldn't it be lovely if it got even better? 

Dreaming of Spring

 I am going to escape for a moment.

To say "I could really go for Spring" would be an understatement. This winter has been unbelievably mild (thank God), and even so I find myself anxious for the warmer seasons. I honestly wish that there was some kind of government support system that would allow us all to stay home from work during the entire winter season. Can you imagine it? Your days would be filled with the coziest of home routines and teas and well-prepared lunches. Every room in your home would have never looked better. You could learn so much. And conserve so much energy. And zip through books and plan your days according to you all winter! Plus, this would make the winter sweeter by comparison and possibly even make it something to look forward to. 

But this is not the way things are for us, so the very best I can suggest is popping a wild amount of vitamin D and getting used to your brain collapsing for a few months. 

I am eager for the warmer days my friends and I can spend on the porch. For those mornings you wake up to birds chirping. To warm, glowing skin. To farmer's markets. To body-freeing attire. to late nights at a favorite outdoor restaurant. To wonderfully sweaty hours spent in my perfect bedroom, sitting like a monkey at my writing desk. 

The feeling of renewal. When everything seems just a bit less heavy.

My best friend (and roommate) recently asked me how I would feel about moving with them, should an incredible job opportunity arise for either of us. I considered it and said: I have done it before without my friends and not regretted it, so I should think that I would truly enjoy doing so with my best friend. 

I bring this up because I would also like to daydream about the possibility of relocating to somewhere warmer with my them. What an adventure to have! To trek the neighborhood, converse in new cafes and check out the coolest bars on the scene with your best friend. It would be like an extended vacation without all the tourist traps and expensive plane tickets. And (at least) one of us would be getting paid. 

Without a doubt I love my town; it is always where I ultimately end up, after all. But every winter, I would be lying if I said I didn't at least daydream about another place. 

Power Outage

 If you take away the actual work from your office / place of work, it's actually kind of fun.

Any time I have ever been at work where there has been some sort of faultless SNAFU (i.e. the power goes out, phone lines are down, internet's not working...), I get this cozy giddy feeling. Suddenly the weight has been lifted from our collective shoulders. Suddenly it's okay if you don't get that project finished. It's not only okay - it's expected. Who could be expected to accomplish anything - the phone lines are down.

Work suddenly becomes a familiar setting filled with familiar faces (and in some cases a fridge, Keurig and vending machine). It becomes a bit of a sleepover. And if you don't agree: You'll still get your breaks, you'll still get to eat lunch and if luck is on your side in the slightest; you may even get to go home early. Have you ever known words so sweet? My boss telling me to "go home early" is right up there with a romantic partner telling me "I love you". (And about as likely, AM I RIGHT??) And I must hold on to the dream of a no-fault-failure of some kind because COVID has single-handedly killed the dream of a stay-home-from-work-snow day. (Now you get paid the same as you did back in the day when you didn't have to work! With the added fun of shotty internet connection and screaming children!)

I love work when there is an "unfortunate event" like this. Because it's not like life won't eventually return to normal. It's not like anyone is put in harm's way because of it (I have never worked at a place where they save lives). And it's absolutely no one's fault. So nobody can get mad at anyone. We are - at least momentarily - on a very similar / the same wavelength. No man left out. Except the store manager, maybe. But even they may be feigning frustration to better guise their childlike excitement. (Just one more reason to love not being in charge of everything. God bless those of you who do.)

Confession: I bring the same items to work every day in hopes that there will be a day like this. So that if I am not given the option to go home, I am at least able to take full advantage of the time.

In my pack:

1.    laptop & cord (for a long, glorious day of blogging)

2.    current story notebook (should inspiration hit)

3.    phone & cord (for a long, glorious day of educational podcasts)

4.    current book

5.    Sudoku puzzles

6.    snacks (obviously)

I am nearly convinced this is all I would need for such a day. More than I would need, really. Because when it comes down to it, there are nearly no jobs (if any) where you will be hard-pressed to find paper and a writing utensil. I've purchased such things from the supermarket/retail place I've worked at, grabbed scrap paper and a colored pencil at an art studio... I've even grabbed a crappy, brown paper towel and a cheap pen at an old serving gig. There is always something. (Also: if I ever am in a jam without my pack in my current job: I could snag a piece of printer paper and write on it the way I did during "Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work-Day".)

I will say that out of all of the aforementioned items: the book will get you into the most trouble. People have "gotten caught" with their phones out during a Friday rush - nary a shaken fist. The laptop's intention can be easily camouflaged, depending on what job you've got, so no problem there. But the minute I crack the spine on my latest Shirley Jackson novel; there's hell to pay. 

I have never been so insulted in my life.

I'm kidding. I know it wasn't personal, and I truly wasn't insulted, but I did feel terribly confused. 

Once I had a job where I could get my tasks done and - if it wasn't busy - turn to my blog. It was heaven. I couldn't believe my luck. And then I would read a blog to my boss every now and again and have lovely conversations about the human psyche. It was perfection. My good times there did, eventually, have to come to an end; it was a job that did not necessitate a 40-hour work-week. (And at a certain point I succumbed to the reality of rent.)

There are good times (and struggles) to be had at every job. But regardless of where I am, I think I'll keep crossing my fingers for the occasional power-outage.

Being a "Good Kid"

 Here's a thought I haven't had in a while;

    When you are the "good one" in the group, 
    You are more than likely held to an exponentially higher standard than those around you.

The "good one" gets away with nothing and is judged for everything. They are very typically never freed from a watchful eye, one way or another. It's never good enough. Any of the other kids in the metaphorical group will steal beers from their dad's fridge, stay out past midnight, snort chopped up pills from their Aunt Franny's cabinet while baby-sitting the neighbor's kid... unless the cops get involved: nothing gets done. This is expected behavior.

Meanwhile the one who's sacrificing childhood memories for a clean record gets verbally beaten to death by the teacher down the hall when they sneeze during French class.

The moment you raise the bar, you raise others' expectations of you.

This is something I have been exposed to for nearly my entire life. Started as the kid who avoided trouble (horrible for one's social life, by the way), grew into the one in the group who "wasn't sure what Mom would think about that" (once my sister took pity on me and surrounded me with people who were older and infinitely cooler than me) only to make my final transformation as the hard-working (and at times truly the least-fit-for-the-job) corporate back-breaker. 

I have since slowed my roll a bit at the workplace. I still try my best every day and push myself; I've just been a bit better about applying my favorite word (balance). 

...But I still don't want to cause trouble. (What would Mom think??)

Now! I haven't had this thought in so long. So why now? 

I have recently been accused of having a few less-than-sweet attributes. No big shocker there; I am more than aware of my imperfection. This is not what I have come to ponder on. 

I tried to talk to a different person (let's call them "Beverly") about these downfalls of mine and Beverly took very little time to hesitate. Her fangs were out, her weapons were drawn and she pounced. 

It felt as though she had been waiting her entire lifetime for such an opportunity (which is strange, considering Bev has not known me her entire life). Here I was thinking I was just having a conversation with a friend and BAM! Hello, nasty. 

Now, it has to be said; I am no longer mad at / conflicted about Beverly / her actions (thank you, processing server in my brain). However, at the time I was completely insulted and taken aback. I have not (at least in the last ten years) spoken so viciously to a friend. Again; it is not that I am perplexed as to how Beverly could ever think I am less than perfect. I am upset at the intention. Or perhaps lack thereof. Why does it seem so impossible to be considered? I know I am not as in-touch with my emotions as I could be / as others (mostly others that I hold dearly) are. Does this attribute of mine shoot off a Bat-Signal to those around me to metaphorically put their dukes up? (Thank God I am not a big strong-looking beastie or I may have been un-metaphorically boxed.) 

Is it that these people think I can take it (possibly because I am part robot)? Is it something un-clockable / coincidental? Is it that the Beverlies of the world are all-too eager to witness my stumbles - and as such - do not consider my feelings at all? Because they are far too consumed by the excitement of it all: "MY DAY HAS FINALLY COME." There are more polite ways of telling someone how much they suck, you know. I have been on both sides of that conversation; it can be done.

Meanwhile, I never meant / mean to "rub things in faces". I get genuinely excited about things. I love good conversation (especially with friends). And I don't mean to exclude anyone, but I truly cannot explain how incredible it is to finally feel as though I am able. My mind has fucked me up sideways (mostly in the earlier years). It has made me feel as though I was destined to be miserable, lonely and entirely exiled from victory (large or small). And don't cry for me, Argentina; this is not a futile attempt to make anyone feel sorry for me. I am aware of what an incredibly safe and privileged life I have led. I am also aware that I should take my own advice that I have given friends: 

"just because it could be worse, doesn't mean you're not allow to have feelings about it" / "don't let others' experiences cheapen your own". 

Also: I genuinely get excited about others' victories, as well. I do not downplay (an awful thing to do). 

So if I've been cheering on those around me and not rubbing my own triumphs in anyone's face, it's really quite irritating that there are Beverlies in the world, allowing themselves to physically be near me while quietly praying for my downfall. 

It is so unreal. I am convinced that there are people out there that (at least subconsciously) get so insulted by others' successes. Their little victories. Those people who are never really happy for you. Mostly a bunch of "why-not-me" drowning in a sea of envy. (A jealou-sea, if you will.) And when you mix an insecure, jealous individual with a triumphant "good kid"? It is a recipe for disaster. 

This is not to downplay all of the hurdles one must jump when one is deemed the "trouble-maker", it's just that I wanted to write about what I knew. I can only imagine how exhilarating it is causing mischief and - honestly - I still get the adolescent drive to do so from time to time. I would always dream of being "cool" enough. Of being the one who had friends. Who did fun stuff. However I also can only imagine how incredibly tough / seemingly impossible it would be to "outrun" that past to start anew. 

This is also not an attempt to spread hate and/or divide. My intention to separate parties in this entry is simply an attempt at making my thoughts a bit easier to digest. I love conversation and writing, but that doesn't mean I am necessarily good at either. I often find that if I can give specific examples to the person I am trying to communicate with, it is easier for my rambling thought to be understood. 

I have said it before and I will say it again: there are no good guys or bad guys. Just people. As I age I find it more and more possible to find the reason(s) for others' actions. In doing so, I have been able to better-control my temper (again - still not perfect there, but not as bad as it once was). I have also been able to see that sometimes peoples' actions are not fully in their own control. Sometimes we humans only do things because it is inherently human to do so. And how do you get mad at that?

I still get mad sometimes (not perfect, for the seventy-fifth time). But knowing that Beverly was likely acting out of insecurity / inherent human reaction certainly helps the mad evaporate into curiosity and, at worst, irritation.