OMINOUS BRASSIERES

This Blog Has Moved!

2011-02-24T18:33:00.000-08:00

Ominous Brassieres has found a new home on Wordpress!

http://ominousbras.wordpress.com/

All the old content has been imported and a new post is already up, so head on over to check it out.

Naturally, all new posts will be made there.

The are some little fixes here and there that still need to be done, but overall it's up and running. I think you'll enjoy it. I know I do.

We'll Play Some Old Records

2011-02-21T22:14:00.000-08:00

Lovely, what do you think of me? You don't know me all that well, I suppose. Oh, we've talked and laughed and shared our secrets, but what does all that really say about a person? You would argue that it says quite a lot, I'm sure.

You have the most enchanting eyes. Have I ever told you that? I should. They're clear and bright, like you. You're dirty, darling, and you can match wits with the best of them, but you have no venom. I like that.

Now, I've gotten off topic: What is it you think of me? I think you think quite highly of me. Funny. I wouldn't. But then, I know so much more about myself than you do. I have half a mind to lay it all out before you. Or better yet, prostrate myself and let you do it yourself. Dissect me; really get in there; pull it all out. Dirty your hands with my inner self.

The strangest part is, I'm not all that bad. Not, at least, by this society's standards. But yours? Oh, sweetheart, I fall painfully short. I wish you knew. I wish I had the courage to tell you.

What would you make of the thoughts that have been racing through my mind, of the plans I've constructed for my life? Oh, don't get me wrong, you wouldn't leave. Things would be different for us, though. You wouldn't think so highly of me anymore, and I'm not sure I can live with that.

If I let my desire consume me, well, I'd drag you down with me. I'd sit with you on this sinking ship and laugh as we drowned. I want to touch you. I want you to fall asleep next to me. I want to watch you and know that I've won.

It's not about satiating the flesh, love. It's about bringing you down to my level. I want to squeeze you until all the goodness runs out of those stunning eyes. If you can be broken, then I can't be that bad. I can't be that bad.

Don't hate me. I'd never do this. I love you too much. I love you more than I hate myself.

Maenad

2011-02-21T21:57:00.000-08:00

I'm riding in the wake of my euphoria. It doesn't feel good.

The spasms gradually lessened into nothing. The lights stopped flashing. The film was peeled off my mind.

Emptiness.

I'm so empty like this, alone. I need people. I pretend I don't, but I do. I need them close to me, warm against me, holding me.

Those lines can get so blurred. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

I feel like smacking myself for judging all those people. "Control yourself; you have no decency; you have no self-control."

Hypocrite.

I'm a hypocrite, and I don't care. Dionysus has sunk his grip into my mind.

If Alice Found Her Rabbit Hole

2011-02-17T22:57:00.001-08:00

Alice never knew
(But I do)
The potential of that rabbit hole
All the fun that could've been had
If she abandoned all sense
And let herself go

The caterpillar, she did not like
She should have
(I know this, because)
He can share what's in his pipe
And bring about those strange delights
That one most often chases down
Rabbit Holes
In search of

Or that Cheshire Smile--
Her naivety shows--
That can so much more than loom
Out of the dark
(In a frightening way)
With potential to work that
Twisted, Crazy, Rabbit Hole
Magic on her softer bits

Well Alice may have never known
All the secrets of that rabbit hole
But I do
And I wish I could see
How far I could go
(While still being me)

If I turned to the wind and said
"Take my sense
I don't need it anymore
With my rabbit hole friends"
And threw that sense away
Away into the wind
Would I miss it
Or find
It's (really) more fun this way?

But rabbit holes are tricky things
(They're full of wonder but)
They're deep
And if I jump right down this rabbit hole
Will I find my way back
Or will I find I must stay?

"Now, Alice," You say
"Now she was fine
So you will be too
So step in line"
But Alice was blind
(Unaware of the fact)
That Rabbit Holes

Are slinky, sexy, dangerous
Places for little girls
To lose themselves
(In mystery
And Thrills)
To pretend, for a day
That they can be someone else

And if I were to follow her
(To that place underground)
I expect that I'd far too much enjoy
All those lures of the Rabbit Hole
To ever much care
If I remained lost or was found

The Big "V.D."

2011-02-14T19:07:00.000-08:00

I was dreading Valentine's Day this year, but now that's it's arrived, I find that I've come to a tentative peace with it. It's never fun to spend alone, but I can work past that. Today is supposed to be about celebrating the love you have with your significant other. Well, I don't have an S.O., but I have something even better. I have myself.

The thing is, we have to spend our whole lives with ourselves. If I had a dollar for every time I saw a person that hated him- or herself, I'd be a rich woman. Who cares about romance when the feelings you have towards yourself are fractured and tainted?

I have a healthy love for who I am, and that's what I'll be celebrating today. I bought myself a card, flowers, and a box of assorted chocolates; I'll be spending the evening eating pizza and watching bad TV; and I'll love every minute of it.

I hope that you have a very happy Valentine's Day.

Hazy

2011-02-13T18:03:00.000-08:00

It's strange how your past comes creeping up on you when you least expect it.

"Hey, didn't we used to go to school together? I remember you."

Do you? I don't.

I wonder what she's remembering when she looks at me. I wonder who I was then. That whole time is painted black in my mind. I only remember snippets, frozen images. I don't have nearly enough to piece together a complete story.

I'm surprised she remembers me at all. I guess I must've had more of an effect there than I though . . . or maybe just a memorable face.

I remember her too. I remember all of them. All the faces, all the words, all the emotions rushing back--are they even real?

Why can't I remember myself?

He'll Never Leave Me

2011-02-13T17:21:00.000-08:00

It seems that, for me, introspection is equivalent to pessimism. Whenever I'm "honest" with myself, I invariably point out everything that's wrong--whether it's an internal or external factor. I've been thinking a lot about relationships lately. I've worked myself into such a sad, paranoid corner. I'm so ready to point out every failed friendship, every broken romance that's ever come into my life. I hardly ever default, though, to focusing on all the beautiful ones.

I was reminded of one in particular today.

I'm not really sure how you would classify our relationship. He's the best friend I've ever had, to be certain, but he's also been a counselor. He's been with me through all the ups and downs, and has held my hand no matter how far I've fallen. His love for me has never been affected by mistakes I've made. He's never hesitated to forgive me. He's been constant all the years I've known him, and has never wavered in his principles or affections.

He is kindness, truth, and strength in my life.

He's taken care of me when I didn't have enough sense to take care of myself. He's been there waiting with open arms even when I've ignored him or been blatantly abusive. He's held me while I've cried. There are times when I've come to him a complete wreck, an incoherent, sobbing mess, and he doesn't think twice before scooping me up in his arms and hugging me close until I've quieted. He's tender, but he isn't afraid to correct me when I'm in the wrong.

I know that no matter what happens to me, I'll be okay, because he's in my life.

If only I could explain how I've acted towards him. I have been fickle in my love; I've lied to him; I've dropped him on a dime. I've turned on him in the company of others. I've up and left without any prior warning. I've screamed at him, insulted him, and have stomped on the kind things he's done. I've twisted his words, and thrown the perversions back in his face. I've consciously done things that I know upset him solely for the sake of twisting the knife.

Yet, he's always been there when I come crawling back. He doesn't judge me, doesn't say anything. He just smiles, knowing. He knows me so much better than I even know myself. He forgives me without my even having to ask. He throws away the past, and sets his eyes on our future.

He is so pure in his intentions that I'm brought to tears. He is the most wonderful man in the world, and I love him. I love him so much that I want to scream and sing it from the rooftops. He sets my entire being on fire, and every morning I wake excited to lose myself in him. It's awful what I've put him through, but he doesn't care, because he loves me more than his own life.

He's brought me into his family. He's shown me more tenderness and brought me more peace than I thought possible. I love him, I love him, I love him!

People try to shame me for our relationship, but I've stopped caring. He's the most beautiful thing in my life, and I'll tell anyone who asks.

I'm not afraid anymore.

Inevitability

2011-02-10T21:43:00.000-08:00

I wish I was braver. I can be pathetically weak when it comes to taking a stand. I crumple. No where does this show itself more obviously than in my relationships.

I should preface by saying that many of my relationships are healthy--that is to say, the established ones. There's a reason, though, why I can count so few people as my close friends. I'm awful in new relationships. I'm neurotic and obsequious. It's not that I lose myself, but in my desperate attempt to make a connection, I tend to shove myself away. I hang on tenterhooks waiting to speak to a potential friend again. It would be pitiful if it wasn't so off-putting.

I suppose most people don't consciously notice it. We all love attention and flattery, so it would take a peculiarly aware--dare I say, abnormal--person to find my behavior unappealing. Inevitably, however, this new-found connection will pass on, done with me. Don't take it the wrong way, most people don't do this maliciously. It's natural to make transitions in life, and if you find yourself becoming bored with activities or conversations, well: by all means, transition. Never mind that all those actions and words are attached to a person. Never mind that she cares so much more than you.

If I may backtrack for a moment, I want to address the nature of inevitabilities. They, in and of themselves, are not so bad, I think. Humans are so marvelously resilient. If we're thrown down, we jump back up. If we fail one way, we try another. It's the drive to never give up, to keep on against the odds, to test out limits in survival. So, then, when we face an inevitability, we aren't thrown off course. We recognize the situation and do what we must to make ourselves comfortable with the outcome. (Not in altogether healthy ways, at times, but the point isn't lost.)

It isn't the inevitable failure of friendship itself that I fear, it's the circumstances surrounding it. I hate not knowing the when, where, and why. The knowledge is so impossibly general, so abstract, that I find myself unable to move past it. When a friendship is ended it isn't just that you have one less person in your life--it's the emotional upheaval, the physical loss of presence, and a cache full of aching memories. That's what I fear, and that's what I know nothing of.

I wish I could be brave and say, "Here's my heart, don't fucking break it." That's what I want to say, but I can never bring myself to. The truth is that they can break it, tear it, constrict it, riddle it full of holes, just as long as they don't let go. Don't let go, and you can treat me how you like. I feel connected to you, I may even love you--please don't drop me.

The worst part is, I haven't found another way. When I hide myself, they move on. When I let myself shine through our encounters, they move on faster. I feel so tossed around that when I finally make that connection--when I'm able to take hold of something solid--I'm so starved and desperate that I overcompensate. I'm so fearful of losing it that I don't dare let myself show and compromise the situation.

Call it codependency. Call it neuroses. Call it low self-esteem.

I call it justifiable fear.

Snow White Disgusts Me

2011-02-08T20:09:00.000-08:00

I will never ever never let my kids read Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Or watch the movie. Or own the Barbie. Never.

You want to know why?

Because it's disgusting, that's why.

At first glance it seems okay, right? The seven little men living alone in the woods is, admittedly, a bit weird. However, who are we to judge? But that's at first glance.

The other day, I was pondering over this particular work of fiction. Why? I asked myself, do the dwarfs have such strange names? And why is Snow White so nice? And why did Disney deviate so far from the original story in the creation of the movie?

Then the oh-so-true truth dawned on me. The sick, horrible truth: Snow White is a commercial endorsement of drug use, psychosis, and mild disorders.

Allow me to expound:

Doc

He's the pre-med dropout/alcoholic. After showing up drunk to class for the third time, he was "let go" from his courses. And given a restraining order. When the dwarfs realized Doc couldn't act as their supplier anymore, they moved out into a secluded wood to wean themselves off their addictions. It didn't work. Doctor Dipso's constantly red nose (I mean come on--he can't get sunburned in a mine), beer belly-paunch, and onsetting wet brain do little to disguise his addiction. (Not to mention, an alcoholic doctor. Come on, man--spare us the irritating cliche.) Luckily for him, the A-type personality and delusional optimism that keeps his drug circle droogies in line also keeps Grumpy's knife at bay.

Dopey

It's a sad day for humanity if I have to explain this one. He's the hippie pothead, originally too scared to try anything hardcore, and now too brain damaged to care one way or another. He's the luckiest of the seven, as the forest provides a fertile environment to grow and harvest his marijuana, so he never has to go without a fix. The green-suited dope fiend is probably also sharing in Doc's booze supply (note beer belly, red nose, and vague, swimming demeanor).

Sleepy

He's the resident barbiturate addict. Ironically, he wasn't a druggie before moving out to the woods, but his brothers' compulsive and violent withdrawal behaviors sent him running for escape . . . which he found in sleeping . . . all the time . . . with the help of downers. Sleepy has been known, at times, to substitute alcohol for drugs, curling up with a bottle of Scotch (Doc's Scotch) and crying himself to sleep. It's a clinical depressive thing--you wouldn't understand.

Sneezy

Tell me, what drug is taken through the nose, hurting the nostrils and causing uncontrollable nosebleeds and sneezing? That's right--he's on a regular diet of Bolivian Marching Powder, this one. Unfortunately for our little cokehead, during the making of Snow White he was in the habit of blowing several rails every night, leaving him with sick hangovers right out some cliche drug movie and nasty-tasting postnasal drip during filming. (His inexplicably retarded behavior--EXPLAINED: the man was using Doc's liquor stash to counteract splitting cocaine-induced headaches. He did fabulous considering how plastered he was.)

Grumpy

Originally, Grumpy was a heroin addict. Seeing as how his dealer wasn't willing to tramp into the happy bunny forest where the dwarfs relocated to exchange the goods, though, he made the switch to methadone in hopes of coming off his dependency altogether. He failed. As a result, though he's been spared the seemingly inevitable opioid withdrawal syndrome, the methadone has left him and without any of the euphoric effects of heroin, leaving him a right crotchety old jerk (and completely stabilized, mind you, meaning he can continue his pissy behavior right up to his death).

Bashful

A chronic sufferer of social anxiety disorder, Bashful turned to self-medication within the SSRI family of drugs when Doc got his hands on some Paxil. (Side note: Bashful used to be a rather trim little thing, but as paroxetine causes serious weight gain, he's now running [no pun intended] at about forty pounds over.) His condition being so severe that the ingestion of any more pills would result in heart failure, Bashful also frequents Doc's alcohol supply--Coors Light, to be exact, which keeps a nice buzz going without causing (too) serious an impediment to his mental faculties, and also doesn't contribute (too) heavily to any further weight gain.

(It may be worth mentioning here that most of the dwarfs are burgeoning alcoholics, courtesy of Doc. It was unavoidable, really, given that alcohol is the universal substance to abuse.)

Happy

I'm of the personal opinion that men this morbidly overweight should not even attempt cultivating facial hair, as it makes them out to be some sort of deranged Santa. And by God, I was right. Albeit, in this case, it's more of an overly-friendly Captain Kangaroo, potato sack shoe-wearing, strangely shaped hat-sporting deranged elf of Santa, but my point remains, nonetheless. Anyway, I think it should be clear to anyone with two brain cells to rub together that that not only is Happy a chronic overeater, but is also, not surprisingly, on "happy pills." Ecstasy. Lord knows all the symptoms match up: enhanced sense of self-confidence and energy, feelings of closeness and the desire to touch others, as well as peacefulness, empathy, and acceptance. Now if only there were medical terms to explain away that blasted horn he insists on playing, and we might actually be getting somewhere.

Snow White

If you thought the dwarfs were bad, just wait 'til I fill you in on Snow White. Although she doesn't participate in substance abuse (on a regular basis), Snow White does have deep and concerning psychoses. First and foremost, she displays indulgence in fantasies and escapism (through manual labor) to such an extent that she is barred from reality. We first see this shown in the beginning when she is singing that "one day her prince will come" while performing tedious and strenuous cleaning under the abusive jurisdiction of her stepmother. These could very well have stemmed from a desperate attempt to put up walls against her stepmother's maltreatment, having evolved in such a way that she has mentally separated herself from this plane. Another point of interest is her weak-to-the-point-of-nonexistent personal boundaries and a thwarted maternal drive that we see manifested when she joins up with the dwarfs. Perhaps these are just subsets of her fantasies (refer to her seemingly inherent need for a prince?), or another thing altogether, but we've got trouble in River City either way.

I won't even bother asking if I've converted you, because I know I have

To Whom It May Conern

2011-02-04T19:54:00.000-08:00

Excuse me, condescending assholes: You have no right to speak to me the way you do. You are rude, you are nearsighted, and, frankly, stupid. You have no basis for the things you say. They are predicated on ignorance and insensitivity.

Next time, before you open your whiny mouth, think, "What will I gain from acting like a superior asshat in this situation?"

The answer is: nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Want to know why? Because I've already beaten you. I am so far ahead in every pertinent category that no matter how much bullshit you spew at me, you can never catch up. You are not more competent than I am; you are not more aware than I am; and you sure as hell aren't smarter than I am.

Perhaps you should consider the possibility--and I know this will sound crazy--that I am not the slow one in any given situation. Perhaps if there has been a miscommunication, misunderstanding, or something similar, it is you who has caused it. And before you mention that I am the only one who does not seem to [understand the way you speak/follow you logic/care about the tabloids/follow a strict diet/etc.], and therefore I must be the one in the wrong . . . no, sweetheart, that's not how it works. There are some stark differences in our backgrounds and cultures, and it would be ridiculous to assume that I would connect to anything and everything you offer up. (Moreover, you would not last a day with my people. You would embarrass yourself to no end. However, we would have better manners than to openly mock you for it.)

You are the problem. I do not say this to your face because I very much doubt it would have any effect on the way you conduct yourself. You are self-absorbed and eternally bent on being right. The day you take someone else's feelings and suggestions into account is the day hell freezes over.

My only consolation is that I will be subjected to you for a very short time, but you have to live with yourself forever.

Guilty

2011-01-31T20:52:00.000-08:00

There's something about being sick that brings everything into focus. You just don't have the energy to bullshit yourself. Your defenses are down. You're forced, physically and mentally, to confront everything as it hits you.

Your emotions seem to balloon to vast proportions, consuming your thoughts. The strangest part is, though, that they aren't themselves aren't any stronger. You've only opened yourself up to experiencing their full force. You feel yourself to the point of exhaustion.

That happened today, and I nearly suffocated. The tears pricked behind my eyes, and I thought I would lose it right there. I thought I would break down, sobbing, in front of my coworkers and a handful of strangers. Why?

I felt guilty. Oh, God. I felt awful. The minute he looked at me my stomach turned to knots. It felt hard, like a dead weight. It affected my ability to breathe. I wanted to run away. I know that look.

God, oh God, why? Every fucking time.

I shouldn't have felt guilty. Rationally, I know that; of course I do. But stuck in that moment, under the influence of a cold, functioning on too little sleep? Guilt. Cold, hard guilt that screwed itself into my chest until it was stuck tight. It taunted me to pull it out. Pull it out, be rid of the guilt . . . and bleed out on the floor.

I started getting flashes of other, similar faces: all hopeful, all about to be broken--because I'm a horrible person, I guess. It's the only explanation. Once is unfortunate, twice is a coincidence, three times and you're the issue. I'm the issue.

I'll have to see him again. I'll have to say, "Remember the other day?" Then downhill. I'll rip out that weighty shaft of guilt and arm myself with it. I'll turn it into aggression, into hurtful overconfidence. Do I have to? I think so. I've never known any another way.

Then his face--his face will fall and burn itself into my mind. It will join all the other faces--that wretched album of all the people I've hurt.

And the guilt will work itself back in.

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am!

2011-01-27T17:29:00.000-08:00

Dear Ginger,

You wanna know something awesome? You. You are a total and complete manifestation of awesome.

You're beautiful, you're smart, and you're funny--really, truly.

The way you handled that pushy asshat at the union office: awesome. The way you handled that bimbo who ruined your lab assignment: awesome. Did you lose your cool? No, you did not. Remember that. You are poised and self-possessed, and no one can take that away from you.

I know this morning you woke up and you weren't feeling so hot. You were tired, anxious, and in the throes of a major cramp attack. But you know what, you powered through. You pulled out that makeup bag, popped that Rockstar gum, and faced the world head-on. You know what that is? Awesome. You are strong and determined. Those are intrinsic values of yours. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

You felt jealous today, didn't you, looking at all those couples? I know you try to avoid that vice as much as possible, but remember what they say: even the best of us, my darling. You didn't let yourself get sucked in, though. I'm really proud of you for that. You pulled yourself out of that pit and moved right along. You know what I'm going to say next, because I've said it a thousand times. You're awesome, and there's someone out there for you. There is someone made just for you, your perfect complement. All these lonely nights will be forgotten in the light of the love you will find. I promise.

You don't always believe these things about yourself. Sometimes, more often than you would like to admit, you look into the mirror with loathing. You feel so painfully not enough. You feel like you fall short of everything you need to be. Or worse, you feel that you're not even close, completely out of orbit. You feel ugly, and stupid, and overemotional, and slimy, and sick. You just want to crawl into bed and cry yourself to sleep.

The next time you feel that way, I want you to come back and look at this. I want you to read it slowly and carefully. I want you to absorb every word and accept it. I want you to remember the way you're feeling now, and believe that you will feel that way again.

Babe, you're awesome, and I love you.

xo Ginger

You Call Yourself a Rebel

2011-01-27T16:43:00.000-08:00

You call yourself a rebel

Purveyor of truth

An outcast by choice

You call yourself a victim

Trapped by conventions

Dying to break free

Funny how you mock me

Belittle all the

Things I have to say

Funny how it's not me

Screaming 'til I'm hoarse

So the Man backs down

Funny how that works, love

That you're feeling low

'Cause you're out place

Funny, when it all hit,

You turned and blamed me

For all that you'd done

Funny that I'm called weak

Utterly careless

The worst of the worst

When all I am is

Frightened and confused

Just trying to cope

Making Me Human

2011-01-25T21:45:00.000-08:00

Why is my first instinct to hide myself?

I was talking with some people the other day--people my own age, normal people. It was going well, to my great surprise.

Don't let them know.

The thought reverberated clearly in my mind. It a suggestion offered up by my subconscious, very nearly a command. It stopped me in my tracks.

What?

Let them know what?

And then it hit me: myself. Don't let them know about me. Surely, if they knew me, they wouldn't be so cheerful, so willing to talk.

Because I'm a bad person? Maybe not. I'm tainted by the sin of the world, certainly, but I don't far surpass it. I hope. I'm aware of my shortcomings, at least, and I try my best. I don't think I'm a bad person.

But . . . perhaps I am. Perhaps that's what my internal self recognized.

If they ever found out about that, it says to me. Or this, or those other things. If they knew . . .

If they new, indeed. If they uncovered all the rips and stains that litter my heart and mind. I panic.

Oh God. Don't let them know. Don't let them know any of it.

My heart picks up, skips a beat, and stops. It restarts, shaky. They couldn't know, and never will. I wouldn't tell them. I will hide that part of me indefinitely.

A list in quickly compiled in my mind.

I should hide my thoughts--too strange. My opinions--they'll judge me. My dreams--they'll think they're stupid.

I can't tell them about the promotion--they'll be jealous.

I can't tell them how I'm doing--not really. They don't actually want to know.

So . . . what am I supposed to show them? What part of myself isn't "too this" or "too that" to expose to the world? Why do I think everything about myself is wrong?

Inner self, you're a bitch.

So, I'm different than some people. Than a lot of people. And that's okay.

I shouldn't hide myself because I'm afraid of reprisal. I should "hide" because they wouldn't appreciate what I have to offer. Does that make them stupid? No. Does it make me pretentious? No.

It just makes us different.

They wouldn't care a whit what I have to say on the theme of sexual abuse in Oedipus Rex; so I'll talk to them about the cute GM.

They're not interested in me unveiling the depths of my soul; so I'll keep the talk superficial.

You know what the funniest bit is? It's pleasant. Not every conversation needs to be life-changing. Sometimes, it's enough just to connect on a basic human level. To laugh together. To smile. To share a knowing wink.

So, we don't exegete Ulysses. My conversations with them are not riveting, intellectually satisfying, or otherwise noteworthy in the least. But when I'm with them, for the first time in a very long time, I feel utterly human.

And that, my friends, is worth more than any lecture hall has to offer.

The Thing Is, I Don't Matter

2011-01-24T20:07:00.000-08:00

I've experienced the profound relief of realizing what little impact I have on the world.

I walk around with all these grand delusions about what my presence has wrought, so to speak.

"Oh God, she must be torn up about what I said. She'll never, ever forget."

"I hope he'll be able to get over me forgetting about our study date."

"Will that clerk ever be able to recover from my short reply to him?"

Yes. Yes, they all will. You want to know why? Because I'm a fairly insignificant part of the world as a whole.

Thank God.

I didn't fuck it it up.

Everything is going to be all right. La vie continue--I don't have to carry this around with me anymore. A weight in my chest has just dissolved, a weight I didn't even know I was carrying around with me. I'm breathing easier. The scratching guilt in the back of my mind has ceased.

What a lovely feeling, to know that my actions did not bring about such serious consequences that, in my self-absorbed worldview, I believed they did.

I didn't fuck him up.

I Still Think About You

2011-01-22T23:12:00.000-08:00

by Zindy S.D. Nielsen

You hardly even look at me anymore, and it kills me. I know I was the one who made the first move, but I wouldn't have said a damn thing if I new you'd react this way.

You realize it's almost exactly a year since our relationship began to die? God, this month. The whole damn month was one big emotional hailstorm. I didn't want to hurt you, and you didn't want to let go. That did it more than anything else, I think. Quel suprise.

Still, I wasn't the one who drove the final nail in the coffin. That was all you. You drew away, and drew away, and kept moving until we lost all contact. Why? Because you were hurt? You could've told me. We could've worked something out.

I'm angry at you for being closed off, and I'm angry at you for leaving me. And I miss you. And I love you. I love you so damn much it hurts, and I cry, and I wish I could talk to you again--for real, not this crap we suffer through now.

The thing that hurts the most is that this is what did it. It wasn't distance. It wasn't a change it social circles. It wasn't anything that should have wrecked us so bad. It makes me think--because I didn't let you feel me up? I get eight years of my life ripped away from me because I wouldn't put out? Because I was in the wrong relationship, and you were too damn selfish to respect that?

I automatically assume the worst. That's what I loved most about you though: You knew that, and so you never did anything that would prompt me to speculate. You were always brutally honest with me. God, you were amazing. One of the best things in my life.

Why did that change? I guess the transition was too much. That's all it is, though--a guess. You never told me anything. For seven months I felt like I was running around with a mannequin. "Run" would be the wrong word, though, come to think of it. You can't run when you're stuck on a pedestal.

I stare at your picture on my phone. I think about you every single day. I'm completely inappropriate, the worst kind of stalker, but I can't help myself. I want to to come back to me, and I want us to love each other like we used to. Do you remember?

I never told you, but I used to have nightmares. In my dreams, I'd be stuck with you in a room with you, and you were trying to make love to me. I felt so disgusted and forlorn that I'd hang myself with your tie. The dream came back so often that one day I had to wake up. I couldn't attribute it to an overactive, self-sabotaging subconscious anymore.

I wish, with all my heart, that I could've wanted you like you wanted me. I wish we could be perfect, and beautiful, and live happy, fulfilled lives, never taking our eyes off each other.

I wish I could say I'm sorry: I was an idiot, I was a jerk; I was selfish and insensitive; please forgive me, I love you so much.

I love you so fucking much. Why don't you love me?

Helping Wikipedia

2010-11-18T22:42:00.001-08:00

Used an Apocalypstick post to improve the Solaris Wiki entry.

Click to enlarge.

Freudian Slip

2010-02-13T15:02:00.000-08:00

One man says to another, "So, I had a Freudian slip yesterday, it was pretty embarrassing."

The second replies, "A Freudian slip? What's that?"

The first answers, "You've never heard of it? Well, I was at the airport, and I wanted to buy two tickets to Pittsburgh. The woman helping me was rather well endowed, though, so instead I asked her for 'two pickets to tittsburgh.'"

The second says, "Oh, I see, that's too bad. Well, I had one just this morning."

The first asks, "Yeah, what was it?"

The second explains, "I was sitting at the table with my wife this morning and breakfast, and I wanted to ask her to pass the butter, but instead I said, 'You crazy bitch, you've ruined my life!'"

I'm a Watered-Down Grinch

2009-12-22T22:14:00.000-08:00

I feel obliged to write something on Christmas, 'cause that's sorta the thing to do, innit?

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say there are a lot of Christmas traditions I find aggravating -- like Christmas trees. Really, Germany? Was this necessary to bring with you? I get the symbolism and how it's all happy happy fun time to decorate it with your family and whatever, but I find it a waste of time, space, and energy. When I move into my own place, I'm going to replace a tree with a bowl of red and green jelly beans.

Not to mention, haven't any environment people come out against this?

. . .

Apparently, they have not, but when I searched "christmas tree cruel" I did find the darkly entertaining "Monkey 'kills cruel owner with coconut thrown from tree'" article, so I guess it wasn't a total waste of time.

I'm not one to get outraged over the commercialization of holidays, because I figure if you can trick millions of people into spending hundreds on your merchandise for no viable reason then props to you. I like giving and receiving as much as the next guy, but let's not pretend there's something magical about the season itself that is conducive to charity and good will. Well, people do drink more around Christmas, so I guess there's that. Alcohol does make some people much nicer. Point being, if we cared that much, we wouldn't wait until Christmas to express how much love we have bottled up inside of us as a society -- but I guess that's just the Valentine's Day argument all over again.

My parents told me that (*SPOILER ALERT!*) Santa wasn't real at a pretty young age (i.e. the first time I asked if he was real), so that was never a big aspect of the holiday for me. That's why I have no great love for Santa. Not that I dislike him, but as I grow older I begin to realize how patronizing it is to present this idea to children as reality. I don't buy into the whole "Santa encourages overeating/makes an easier time of it for pedophiles/will give your child Swine Flu/ad nauseum/etc.," but I do believe it sets kids of more delicate mental dispositions up for more than a few debilitating complexes later in life. Like, "Mommy and Daddy lied to me and so they don't love me" stuff on the lucky end and maniacal rages of incredulity and sadness that morph into felonious actions on the hardcore end. Also, may we stop putting grown men in tights at the mall photo places? I have glam rock galleries bookmarked on Internet Explorer; I don't need to get my fill of inappropriate male exposure through Rick the pre-med dropout elf, thanks.

And because I'm sure I haven't taken enough potshots at Christmas' Most Loved, I'm gonna throw in that I find decorating the outside of your house with lights and any other sort of seasonal paraphernalia is a tacky eyesore 95% of the time. I can't remember the last time we did anything of consequence to our house, and that sliver of amnesia couldn't make me happier. It's so hard to do right, I'm annually impressed and aggravated at my neighbor's continued attempts to project Christmas cheer through sprucing up their garage door.

When it comes down to it, though, I do enjoy Christmas. I like family and hot chocolate and staying up ridiculously late for mass and the opening of the first present. I like pulling up YouTube videos of snow, throwing on a scarf, and remarking to my bemused brother that it doesn't look deep enough to warrant shoveling the driveway yet. I like watching those campy claymation videos with their jerky movements and old-fashioned, all-too-naive songs. (Santa, here's lookin' at you and your little "a kiss a toy is the price you'll pay" ditty.) I like the food, the fires (fireplaces, not forests), and the all-around joy and contentment it seems to bring.

So whatever you're doing, or however you celebrate this time of year, have a Merry Kwanzmaskkah, drive safe, and drink at least eight cups of water per day.

Diary of a City Slicker*

2009-11-28T22:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I can't help but wonder, "Why am I here?"

Not in a I-am-not-worthy-of-life-I-was-probably-a-mistake-or-maybe-Fate's-cruel-joke-Oh-God!-*sob* way (haven't reached that level of paranoid depression in a while), but quite literally why am I here as opposed to there.

Like Journey, I haven't stopped believin', and I've held on to that feelin' that there must be other people in the world like me. Don't get me wrong, I have friends ("A lie keeps growing and growing until it's as plain as the nose on your face."), one of whom I have such a soul power! connection to we all but finish each other's sentences. I guess what I'm trying to say is, please tell me I'm not going to have to go through the rest of my life with a desperately limited circle of friends spending my days avoiding contact with my peers so I don't get looked at like I have a wart in the shape of Florida on my forehead and reading British news publications from small country towns or I SWEAR I WILL SHANK YOU -- I WILL MURDER YOU AND THEY WILL FIND YOUR BODY IN A DITCH FIFTY MILES FROM THE NEAREST CITY, SO GIVE ME THE MONEY! I NEED MY FIX, I NEED THE MONEY, JOEY!

Whoa, sorry, that went to a weird place.

I think my problem -- summed up as succinctly as possible -- is that I'm a city girl living in the suburbs. I have this lunatic hummingbird of an idea slamming around in my mind that if I could just burst free of this vapid, careless, overly-tanned bubble of society and into a place that thrums with lust for life and success I'd suddenly be gifted with the drive and initiative to jump headfirst into the world and have one of those "this is the first day of the rest of your life" moments where everything falls into place and I can finally make something of myself and shape myself into my perfect me.

Of course, I know I can just as easily do that with the treadmill in the next room over and God's gift of word processing, but I'd prefer to believe the only reason I haven't gotten there is because I'm here, and as soon as I get there, I will have arrived into the here and now -- humor me, it staves off the guilty self-loathing.

I'm going to make up a famous movie quote that says: "I've acted in a million films, dated a million women, drunk a million martinis, but never felt like a million bucks, because I've never had a million moments with you." That's basically how I'm feeling right now -- minus the overtones of fame and hedonism.

I know I must be drawing you in like crazy, so I feel that now is a good time to say I have no idea where I'm going with this.

*I will so write this book/create this show one day: it's an episodic commentary of an anonymous first-person narrator who lives among New York's haughty and affluent and spends his nights hitting and participating in iconic subsets of NY culture. You may not find it interesting, but I would pay to see the dry humor and sly observations into human nature that this setup is ripe for. It's sort of like the test-tube lovechild of Invisible Man, Gossip Girl, the "Poker Face" music video, and any PSA on violence and drug use in impoverished neighborhoods.

We All Need Something to Define Ourselves

2009-11-14T20:34:00.000-08:00

When people ask me what I am, I tell them I'm a writer. I consider this a perfectly legitimate response because a) I have a "creative writing" folder on my desktop (that hasn't been touched in about eleventy-two months), b) I've won awards (tiny, no cash prizes, no publications, but my Mommy is proud), c) and my history professor read my essay aloud to the class (and while it was technically required and technically not at all creative but instead on the similarities and differences between the early American colonies while remaining utterly chock full of art and emotion that I deserved it so just SHUT UP, I love you).

I dream that someday I will be sitting over lattes with an avid and cunning young interviewer, describing my newest bestseller with drawling prose and languid hand gestures. At one point, gently egging me towards the contemptuous fit of a narcissistic artiste, the young woman coyly mentions critical reviews questioning the artistic integrity of the book whose writing I ostensibly attributed to the school of decadent writing. I'll chuckle and shake my head, looking across the street to where the glossy cover of my novel winks at me through the front window of Barnes & Noble. "Oh, honey," I'll murmur, "I hardly intended for it to be the next War and Peace. I've always held that a major role of fiction is escapism, and I think I've managed to craft something which both provides a light and compelling break from life without being insulting to the reader's intelligence." I'll cock a brow and mischievously add, "Surely no coffee house Pulitzer will deny that?" before taking a satisfying sip of my beverage.

(In case you were wondering, this is usually the part in my daydream when Freddie Mercury picks me up so we can go leotard shopping and I'm fed Rainbow Goldfish by Margo Channing.)

The cool, elitist self confidence and best seller are equally out of my reach for the present, however. This has more to do with the fact that I'd actually have to, ya know, spend time writing rather than any real lack of talent on my part (I hope. I lie.). It doesn't matter how often I put a pen to paper, I am a writer simply because I want to be. I use school hours to jot down impossible scenarios in my notebook when the lecture gets boring, I've stayed up into the wee hours of the morning chasing down a plot bunny that trails off into oblivion, I draw from my experiences to mold something new and wonderful to share with others -- so give me my BA in Writing and put up some dough to back my youthful caprices!

And if anyone asks for a sample, I'll brush up whatever that thing was I did two years ago.

I'd say Grace Kelly is lovely, but that would be a non sequitur.

2009-10-12T16:21:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder how a biographer would look at this period of my life. If could go one of two ways in my mind: 1) the transition period in my life where I've decided to slow down and chug the coffee (why would you smell it?), dallying through the days and focusing my attention on what makes me smile instead of manically planning the microbial details of what will get me ahead; or 2) the transition period in my life where I've become aimless and apathetic, stalling on the road map to a secure future to instead waste my time on fleeting trifles and fancies.

I'm not sure what to think of that, really.

The past six-or-so months have been somewhat of a rabbit hole for me. Before this summer I cannot remember a time when I wasn't stressed and unhappy, at least in some corner of my mind. I always seemed to be afraid that something in the no-wiggle-room plan for my life would be derailed. I was always doubting myself, my family, my friends -- human species as a whole, to be quite honest.

Something shifted drastically, though: as in, one morning I woke up and thought, "I should stop crying over Goodbye Yellow Brick Road on repeat and go outside, because it's a beautiful day and life's worth living." Now, if someone held a gun to my head and demanded to know what, exactly, it was that changed, well -- the last time you'd see me would be on the 8 o'clock news.

I've been swinging between blissful, sleepy, and content, with no substantial dark clouds on my horizon to speak of. Not that bad or anxiety-inducing things haven't happened, just that, although my brain may register the event and label it as "mucho unhappy times," the unpleasant feelings that logic dictates should follow never do. I sometimes wonder if this is a true transformation so much as the psychological equivalent of endorphins, the body's natural anesthetic.

While this entire post smacks a little too much of the inane ramblings of a burned out teenage goth post The Cure bender for my taste, it . . . well, there is no excuse, really . . . "this is my blog, so deal"? Yeah, that works.

I was feeling a little introspective. So sue me.

In Which I Am a Stick in the Mud

2009-10-07T11:07:00.001-07:00

Halloween is such an odd holiday to me. It seems like only yesterday we were celebrating it by slaughtering livestock for wintertime, right? We did this every year for whoknowshowlong, until one day it's like wha-bam! and we're hemming our gingham dresses up to out hoo-has.

I'd like to be a able to offer you a detailed, thoughtful analysis on what caused this shift in paradox, but that's not what I'm going to school for; because honestly, where can Holiday Studies 101 get me in life? And I'm too lazy to read the whole Wikipedia page.

I'd assume that somewhere down the line people realized it was sort of a BS endeavor to be wearing masks and lighting bonfires in an attempt to placate evil spirits that threatened the harvest. The specifics of this realization evolving into "so let's instead wear cheaply manufactured costumes that would fit my 12-year-old sister" I'm not sure. It might have something to do with the psychological need to embrace or acknowledge, and therefore release the fear of, one's "shadow aspect" -- those dark wants (e.g. to be OMG naughty) in our nature -- as Jung would say; or possibly as a way to gain control over others through shock, if someone felt she had very little power in her life. But I'm just taking a shot in the dark, here.

My point? Gorging on Twix, I love. Having Halloween being fashioned ever more surely into a holiday centered solely around skank wear, however, makes me cry a little in the dark. I miss the bed sheet ghosts and thrift store hobos of my childhood.

Mob Involvement on Wikipedia

2009-10-05T17:36:00.000-07:00

Wikipedia are such Nazis. They didn't even give my revision to David Bowie's page two minutes to live.

(Click to enlarge. I'm gonna toot my own horn and say it's worth it.)

Excuse Me, Boy Who Gave Me a Flower?

2009-10-01T16:49:00.000-07:00

Is that really you? Wow, small world. Yeah, yeah, I've been great. Going to school, reading, spending time on the internet . . . and, you know, going to lots of parties with drugs and hookers and stuff. And yourself? Oh, how lovely for you.

Look, I don't mean to be forward, but I need to get something off my chest with you. Retract your hand. I didn't mean that.

You see, Flower Boy, I've been thinking about you lately. You want to know why? Because whatever we could've had was ruined by your lack of balls.

You're right, that was kind of harsh -- I'm sorry. No I'm not.

The thing is, you were the first person who's ever given me flowers. Why would you even bring that up? Yes, I know it was technically a single flower, but dontcha think it helps your case if we pretend it was more? Imagination is a rainbow.

But I digress.

Point being, we could've had something, because I was dazzled by your froufrou card and brightly colored vegetation. Cross my heart, you could've been a dead ringer for Gary Busey and I would've fallen all over you -- because you gave me my first flower.

Really, are you twelve? Not that flower. I'm trying to have an adult conversation here, stunted-romanticist to stunted-romanticist. Hang with me.

But you blew it, turtledove. You blew it because it was anonymous. You gave me an anonymous present. At first this didn't bother me, because I was certain you would identify yourself at a later date. Well, as my French professor would say, "J'ai eu tort." I was wronger than Kanye West at the VMA's.

Well, yes, I know Kanye was wrong as in "improper" and I was wrong as in "incorrect" but I was just trying to be funny. You know what, no one cares what you think about Taylor Swift's feelings. Can we just move on? I have a conclusion here I'd like to make.

I don't know what you felt for me, anonymous-flower-boy, but I do know this: whatever it was, you should've told me. Giving me that pretty flower and then letting it wilt without me ever knowing your name is like writing your girlfriend a break-up note on a molding Cheez-It -- it's dirty and upsetting.

I've moved on now, AFB, to someone who isn't an emotional coward, to someone who has the drive to go after what he wants without dropping cryptic gifty hints before class then leaving me to hang. I'm happy, and I'm sure you are too, but I can't help but thinking about it some nights when I'm fighting sleep.

Who knows: Maybe you'd have changed the course of my unborn children's future if you'd just grown a pair.

Sorry, that's my order -- I've gotta fly. Aw, don't look at me like. Remember, it takes less muscles to smile!

Cop Out/Picspam Survey! (edited for decency)

2009-09-18T22:08:00.000-07:00

I'm in need of a post and so I've turned to the oldest and most trusted friend of any internet blogger: the survey.

But it isn't a (total) cop out, because this one has pictures! Pretty, shiny, delicious pictures cooked up fresh for your viewing pleasure.

Original rules: "GAME: Comment here asking me to choose a person for you (someone I know you like), and answer these questions with a pic of that person."

1. Choose a picture of the funniest face on your person.

You've gotta wonder what's going on in the background.

In which Bowie has an extra chromosome.

So. Many. Things. Wrong.

2. Choose a picture of your person eating.

He's not good at the whole eating thing yet.

Don't judge me.

How nice of Liz Taylor to feed him his lunch.

3. Choose a picture of your person with an animal.

What's that magazine doing there?

Rock stars love a spot of falconry just as much as the next guy.

Gladly.

4. Choose a picture of your person with a member of the opposite sex.

Mick Jagger is a woman, okay?

I don't even know where to begin. Maybe with that woman's hair: a bender is no excuse for a rat's nest.

Too bad Angie turned out to be a psycho, they were a pretty hot couple.

This one is basically hilarious.

He's wondering why he dated her all those years ago. Or maybe he's trying to remember dating her all those years ago.

Iman is just unfair.

5. Choose a picture where you would kiss this person.

You know I literally have hundreds of pictures of him?

I wish I could get these first two bigger and better for you:

He's just a regular ray of sunshine.

This is his sensitive and yearning face.

Basically this makes me lmao irl.

Hottest mugshot I've ever seen. The original sold on eBay for thousands.

"What do you mean unicorns aren't real?"

He's like the prettied up gangster of my dreams.

Incidentally, I get the feeling that he and the cameraman are getting ready to do just that.

6. Choose a picture of your favorite outfit on this person.

Basically whatever he's picked out in the dark that morning . . .

Just for the record, the guy on the right does nothing for me.

David is wistfully disillusioned and in love with his tweezers.

He's your interior decorator, and he's very upset you don't like the drapes he's picked out.

Why is he allowed to pull off this outfit?

He loves suits and sunglasses. So do I. Coincidence? I think not.

My grandma never knits anything that sexy for me.

Boots, boots, boots . . . I. Want.

My parents have a picture of themselves that looks a bit like this. Oh Bowie, you marvelous little thing, you.

D'aw, he's just a whippersnapper!

People ask me why I don't like like Hugh Grant, and to them I say, "Did Hugh Grant ever wear silky pirate pants?"

7. Choose a picture of your person smiling.

Elton John called: he wants his glasses back.

*hair*

( Why must he look like the Goofy Gopher on the right?)

Someone once compared his pre-fixed teeth to "untended tombstones after a nuclear holocaust," but I will always love his wonky smile.

I wanna join their chess club.

8. Choose a picture of your person half naked.

Sometimes words aren't necessary. *click, save*

Disgusting hair but nice feet, no?

I seriously debated putting this one in before hormones won out.

O HAI. No, David, I haven't heard of knocking.

Your trips to the dentist will never be the same.

9. Choose a picture of your person doing an outdoor activity.

He hesitates in his doorway, staring with great uncertainty at the outside world. Perhaps it would be better if he stayed indoors.

Dear Bowie is still greatly confused by all the grass and oxygen and lack of screaming groupies.

Ah, he's discovered what to do: pose!

I've only put together about two of these, the really cheap ones made of Styrofoam. I always wound up snapping the wings off.

He sunbathes fully clothed too! We're clearly meant for each other.

10. Choose your favorite picture of this person.

Jeez, why not just ask me to choose my favorite ice cream flavor while you're at it!

But, I have enough restraint to narrow it down to these.

In Memoriam

2009-09-11T18:06:00.000-07:00

I've tried, so far, to keep this blog generally light and funny -- to throw in humor among self-deprecation and deeper emotions. But I feel it would be irreverent not to remember in complete sincerity the events that occurred eight years ago today.

During the terrorist attacks of 9/11, innocent lives were lost: lives taken by force, and lives given in service. Lives destroyed by an act so horrific we can't begin to comprehend the strength of the hatred that fueled it. What could drive a man to forfeit his life just to end another's?

I don't think that, as a nation, we can ever allow this to be forgotten. I think it's something we need to pass down to our children, their children, and our children's children. More than just a terrifying episode in history, it represents the strength and courage of the American people. Our prayers will always be with the civilians who were killed in the attacks: our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, comrades in arms and companions at play -- may their souls rest in peace. But our proud remembrance will be with the men and women who lay down their lives for our country, who died so that we may live in freedom and security -- greater love has no one than this.

Things happen in this world -- terrible things -- that we often can't understand, nor do we want to. Most of us don't like to think back to that day, and with good reason: We don't want to be confronted with the grief and sadness it brings, that sick feeling that worms its way into our hearts saying, "How could someone do this?" And yet, as we all know, it's necessary. It's necessary to stand up once a year and say, "We won't forget you." Necessary to let people know that we are strong. Necessary to cry, to scream, to grieve, even as we pick up the stones to rebuild what was ruined. Necessary to lay aside the humor, to rip down the veils, to bring every dark thing about that day into the light, and vow to protect what's been left in our care.

God bless America.

Stream of Consciousness

2009-09-08T19:55:00.000-07:00

In which I unwrap and lay open my every thought to you across the screen:

Jim Morrison's head is very fat in comparison to his body. I DON'T WANT YOU TO TOUCH ME! I wonder why any parents would call their daughter "Stacee" instead of "Stacy." It's kind of a black thing to do. My French Professor is white. Why does the bottom of my chin itch? I faceplanted on a manhole covering when I was seven. Now my nose itches. I feel like a pervert watching Labyrinth. It makes my lips dry. I wonder how high Bowie was when he filmed The Man Who Fell to Earth? They're remaking that movie, but they shouldn't be. Don't they know the only reason it has a cult following is because DaBo flashed his birthday suit in it? I wish I hadn't missed Bandslam in theaters. I wonder what it would be like if I was a rockstar? Groupies would embarrass me. I hate Mick Jagger's lips. They could probably feed a whole village of starving African children. Ugh, I hate French verb conjugation. Everything sounds dirtier in European languages. Especially in an English accent. Why do the English like butts so much? The BBCA is amusing. I like watching them "work." "We must slow the frantic pace we set up yesterday, dear; I nearly broke a sweat. We can't get pimples now." Men would find it so much more convenient to wax their faces. Oh wait, that would probably hurt. Clouds surround your head -- cooling and suffocating. Cutains! I wish clocks mooed instead of ticked. Light, light, light, light, light. The little aliens are crawling through your head, pink and bigger than your thumb. My skin is very soft. I love cocoa butter lotion. Picture squirelly little chipmunks drinking Koolaid colored beige and maroon, with saltwater coming from their ears, but they don't notice because they're falling asleep. Whoa, no Labyrinth codpiece! Step right up and sha la la la kiss the girl. Duh duh duh duh. Duh. Duhduhduh duh. Duh. Duhduhduh duh. Duh. Duhduhduhduh. Why can't we all just get along and wear the leather masks? I love my neck. Cupcake shops are the shiz. Sprinkling, shifting, falling, and they're all mine! I have a box. The box is brown. I have a body. The body is dead. The body is in the box. Chase koala! The man walks from the house with a trench coat. But it isn't really a coat, it's a hat that he stole from a man named Ezekiel, who's actually a woman. We both like dresses. Woohoo! Ants, pants, dance -- whoops, the last one doesn't really rhyme. "If you want to, I can save you!" Not really, I lie. Just eat some ice cream and cry yourself to sleep.

I'll trade you some self-esteem for chocolate.

2009-09-05T17:16:00.001-07:00

If you have two brain cells to rub together (and by God you'd better if you have access to a computer), you've probably figured out by now that I don't take myself very seriously. That's not to say I have a neurotic self-loathing that bleeds through my every interaction, but I enjoy a good dose of self-deprecating humor as much as the next guy, even (sometimes especially) if it's coming from myself. I have confidence, though: I know my assets -- physical, mental, emotional -- and take pride in them, as any healthy individual would.

Though I didn't used to, I've come to believe it's quite unrealistic and small-minded of me to expect others to be the same way -- that is to say, to be able to laugh at themselves while remaining secure in themselves. A trend I've noticed among females my age and a little older is to compensate for their own (usually irrational) insecurities by giving out compliments that specifically target things about the other person that the complimenter herself does not possess. Something tells me I should've realized this a significant time ago -- thank you for being patient with me. (See? You see that? That was a little hit of self-deprecation, yeah, but I'm not sitting here thinking "They see me laughing and they laugh to, but all I want to do is end my fat, disgusting life on that broken windowpane" or anything. Seriously -- I'm really, super not.)

Example: I was talking once with a girl (with whom I was casual friends -- acquaintances? -- with for a bit) and she said, no joke, "I was afraid to approach you at first because you look pretty and smart and confident, so I thought you would be a total bitch." Well I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. Shall I not wash for a week, throw away all my books, and wear my fat pants to assuage your suddenly burning insecurities?

Pictured: how I visualize your "compliment."

I'm not sure how one is supposed to respond to a statement like that, honestly. (I gave an awkward grimace-smile and gurgled something unintelligible, but there must be better ways to go about it.) Not to mention, the structure of the compliment, if it can be called that, is very oddly arranged -- are you saying that I am the aforementioned three things as well as being not-bitch, or because I'm not-bitch I'm not those aforementioned three things? It took me a good fourteen years to get to the point where I could accept a compliment, and now you go and throw some doozy of an I-hate-myself-and-kind-of-you-too-no-there's-no-specific-reason-why-you-just-breathe sentence at me.

It must be a "girl thing," like stuffing your bra full of chocolate malt balls at Henry's (just me? Ah, how strange middle school was), because I talk to boys about things like this and it's like their comprehension of the English language drops eighty percent within the first two minutes. (That analogy makes perfect and mildly amusing sense in my mind, but I'm wondering now if it translates as well onto paper(/computer screen). I'll just keep it.)

I can't think of a clever exit line, so I'll simply say: "Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit" (Oscar Wilde).

Where's the happy medium between emos and Elmos?

2009-09-02T18:56:00.000-07:00

I hate it when people ask me if I'm a happy person.

In the Merriam-Webster Dictionary alone there are four definitions, with dichotomatic synonyms of lucky and fit. Wikipedia categorizes happiness into religious, philosophical, and scientific and psychological views. The founding fathers wanted to give us the right to pursue it, and Buddhists seek it through utter detachment.

So how do you want me to define "happy," exactly?

Much like the initial stages of love, I like to think of happiness as a transient emotion brought on by chemical reactions in the body. When you feel a sense of excitement or pleasure, endorphins are released and send signals to your brain, which in turn releases dopamine, telling you that whatever just happened is a good thing -- this is all that I consider happiness. It's a series of chemical reactions that take place in response to direct or indirect external stimuli.

While perhaps taking a little of the magic out of the fantastical notions of a "happy person," I think it holds true. The ultimate effect of dopamine release is a relaxed and euphoric state, which is quite close to the first definition of happiness on Google: state of well-being [relaxation] characterized by emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy [euphoria].

Conventional logic would dictate that to be a "happy person" (whom we will now refer to as Elmo), one must experience a consistent dopamine flow to remain in this "happy" state.

Are we all on board so far? Fantastic.

I'm going to step aside for a moment and direct your attention to the screen on the right. Illustrated here you'll see, of course, the effects of dopamine on the brain processes that control movement, emotional response, and the ability to experience pleasure and pain. In the case of a dopamine release brought on by endorphins signifying pleasure, movement is slowed, pain is suppressed, and ultimately works as a depressant, such as heroin, on the body.

We will now be returning to the main program.

As I'm sure you've pieced together at this point, an Elmo would eventually become little more than a smiling zombie, quite similar to any dreadlock-ed Rastafarian you'd find sitting on some beach in Jamaica bumming joints off a scuffed '70s Marley vinyl murmuring, "Don't be so polarizing, man, spread the love."

So am I a happy person? No. I'm a content person. I'm content with my life, my friends, my family, and my future.

Being a happy person sounds too dangerous to me.

Boys don't have cooties, silly goose.

2009-08-29T20:01:00.000-07:00

I run into feminist women quite a lot in my life. Why? I do not know, but such are the cards that I've been dealt. I should say right off the bat that I'm not talking about normal, pleasant women who see pockets in society where females are getting the short end of the stick and utilize their influence and resources to mend it -- I like those women. They make me feel empowered, successful, and ready to face the world on my own two feet. My beef is with "womyn" whose general attitude projects "a girl needs a boy like a penguin needs Prada pumps"; we will group them collectively under the name "Jocasta." You couldn't pay me to back "wimmin" like this, because:

1. I like boys. They're generally uncomplicated, open creatures in the best way. Most of my sincerest, intellectual conversations are with boys. Their dirty jokes make me laugh. It's really quite amazing how well my hands fit into theirs, and they smell so deliciously different than any girls I know. I know Jocasta would rather spend her time with lonely, middle-aged women passionately discussing the misogyny and brainwashing effect of the Barbie franchise, but why spend your time chatting with menopausal chocolate fiends when you could be watching The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly with Johnny?

2. I like makeup. Jocasta, I know you'd like to tell me that makeup is just another way men subjugate me into the dark corner of a unfulfilled housewife by setting forth products that promise an unattainable standard of beauty, but let me tell you, sister, pimples are a real beeyotch. I know they're natural, and I know everyone gets them, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do anything in my power to gag them, throw them in a box, and drop said box in a ditch on some lonely country road, capisce? More than that, though, it's fun. I love coloring with the blazing flame of eternity. All I really ask of anything in the world is that it be brightly colored and shiny, and boy does makeup fulfill that!

These two points are, of course, a very small part of the feminazi agenda. However, these are the ones that hit closest to home for me. Instead of straggling off on a boring ending that will inevitably sink into an angry, political rant and surface my insecurities and gnawing anxiety, forcing me to hop downstairs and whip up a glass of chocolate milk before the cold sweats set in, I'll just say this:

How can you not love?

Call Girls Dress Classier Than That, Peaches

2009-08-27T15:08:00.000-07:00

WAS THIS NECESSARY?!

FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY what possessed you?

Her name is Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof, and apparently she is an English socialite. (Mommy, you'll be so proud -- I just found an English person I don't love!) Does no one love her enough to let her know that no matter how much it cost, hick-streetwalker-wear is not the new little black dress?

I'm not sure what horrifies me more: the denim abuse, the pseudo-rasta hair, or the fact that she appears to be utterly unaware of her crime.

If Peaches promises to never, ever wear this again, then I will honor her by naming my first child Clingstone.

Twinkies have their place in one's diet.

2009-08-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

"To put it simply, dear reader, I was horrified [by the Twilight series]. Not just by the sickeningly purple prose or the lack of general writing quality, but the books themselves are insulting on every level-as a woman, as a teenager, as a literature student, and as a graduate of the Harry Potter craze."

To be perfectly honest, I think literary critics are being far too harsh in their reviews of Twilight. Speaking as one who has read all of and been (operative word) religiously addicted to the series, I can tell you that they are approaching their opinions on it from entirely the wrong angle -- it would be like sitting down at a Little League game and yelling at snot-nosed Tommy Johnson when he pitched a ball; you don't go into it expecting the kid to be the next Nolan Ryan.

Such is the case with Twilight. It's a "twinkie" book -- utterly sweet and soul-satisfying crap. You don't waltz into McDonald's and rant about how the food is Play Kitchen plastic chock full of MSG -- yes, buttertart, we know that, and that's why we like it. There's nothing wrong with having and liking the occasional twinkie. Apparently, some people consider twinkies gourmet food and have integrated them as a staple of their diets, and that's where we get into trouble.

I think there are a lot of folks out there who need to admit that, for what it is, Twilight is among the best (which, albeit, isn't saying much). It's perfectly condensed and cleaned up modern vampire stories (a la HBO's True Blood) for a young adult audience. Yes, it's predictable; yes, its purple prose is prevalent to the point of vomit-worthy; and yes, it would be doing the literary world a favor to have it taken out and shot at dawn. But despite all that, it's the perfect twee book to take off the shelf if you want something impossible and fluffy (or impossibly fluffy) to get out of your head with.

Forget love, I'd rather fall in choco-- wait, no, that's a lie.

2009-08-08T22:13:00.000-07:00

Love is a many splendored thing.

That's what they tell me, at least, when I step away from my computer and out of my house long enough to interact with other people. (Yes, there are actually conversations to be had away from the guise of ironic pen names on the blogosphere!)

I've only been in love once, and he turned out to be clinically depressed, codependent Polish royalty. (No, really. Me: "I want this to work, but I need to focus on myself right now. I'm not saying never again, just that I think we need a break. I'm sorry." Him: "I haven't been in this much pain since I saw my cousin stabbed to death in a ghetto." o.O) While conventional logic would dictate that after a fling like that I should take a break from love altogether for a good long while . . . well, I think the penchant for self-destruction is a trademark of the Irish.

Despite my pursuit of a relationship, however, the only males I seem to attract are militaristic Aries or men fifteen years my senior. Meh. I like to think I can do better. (D-e-n-i-a-l . . .) I've deconstructed this situation I'm in, and have, through strenuous mental labor and late nights over Toddlers and Tiaras with a chunk of fudge, that I have come upon the root of my problem: I don't understand a gosh darn thing about men.

Which is not all that surprising, really.

My bestest buddy evar is a guy, and I've grown so comfortable around him and his friends that any flirting etiquette has been completely wiped from my mind. I think, at this point, I may be constitutionally incapable of attracting male attention on my own volition. I'm not sure what it is precisely -- whether I'm just too lazy to learn or I have, in fact, forever blockaded myself from the use of my feminine wiles -- but in most cases it appears that Hottie McSixpack would rather stare at drunkenly constructed cloud formations than me floundering along in my too-long-to-be-a-mini-too-short-to-be-anything-else jean skirt.

If I seem to have caught someone's interest -- well, you know how it is: smile, laugh, head tilt, eye scrunch, pupil constriction, nervous smirk, excuse, bail. "Wait, come back! My filter doesn't kick in until ten! I promise I'll be better after that!" What, don't you bring up your pant-wetting fear of Robert Plant during introductions?

Whatever. I'll just keep re-watching Labyrinth and reading ironically funny blogs. It can only get better from here.

Yeah. Right.

My style is "comfortable." gag

2009-08-06T20:36:00.000-07:00

"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months." -- Oscar Wilde

I love clothes. I spend more of my life than I'm willing to admit learning the ins and outs of fashion through the humorous commentary of flamboyant men and thirty-something(-not really-more-like-forty-five-but-shut-up) women on real-life style shows like How Do I Look? and What Not to Wear.

I fancy myself a budding fashionista: Yes, you can mix brown and black -- they're both neutrals, sweetie; a straight-legged jean slims, unless you're a man, in which case you go with a boot-cut or wide-led -- never flair for either party; cinch the waistline and wear coats with tailoring under the bust line as well as the sides to create the illusion of an hourglass shape and narrower waist.

See? I have the theory down pat. Which is all I really have, because any sense of discernible style is as far from me as Keith Richards is from rational thought. I would say I'm a t-shirts and jeans kinda girl, but it's really whatever I arbitrarily decide is cute for under ten bucks at T.J. Maxx.

Sometimes I'll go to the mall with a reasonable chunk of change in my pocket and the intention to start outfitting my new wardrobe. Then I'm hit with the pricing and tiny sizing. That kills, but I'll wince and suffer through it, determined to pick up at least a few pieces for the all-new me. It'll be around lunchtime as I'm sitting in the food court, staring at my turkey sub (healthy, yeah? All right . . . ignore the fries.), that I realize all the work that will go into managing accessories, coordinating outfits, and staying on top of designer lines so that I can re-create the looks within my budget that. I'm man enough to know when I'm beat (I lie.) -- it's better to quit before I'm too far behind. (I should actually take this advice sometime.)

That afternoon will see me snuggled up on the couch in my too-small Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and Hilfiger jeans that sag around the tush watching What Not to Wear. Masochism is a sweet thing.

I'm unique, just like everyone else.

2009-08-05T15:19:00.000-07:00

People think I'm rather strange. Not in a -- necessarily -- worrisome way, but more in the vein of "I'll smile, nod, laugh, leave, and not think any further about my interactions with her."

I've come to terms with this. It isn't so bad, really, to be thought of as the odd duck; at least I'm not "the ugliest cat in the world" or "that chick with the boobs." I have next to no friends, but that isn't too troubling, because I know I could have friends. People laugh at my jokes, and give me sincere smiles, and prattle on about boring things to me before class. It I was so inclined, I'm capable of putting up a facade and melding into "their" world in which I would attend parties, flirt with boys, and giggle over Facebook as I read over what people have left on my wall. I know this.

I don't want it, though, and therein lies my struggle to keep the tenuous balance between being true to myself while refraining from becoming the verbal equivalent of a hobo peeing against the wall of a subway. Which, I've found, can be drastically harder than one might think. It's like being a My Little Pony who's trying to disguise the fact that her name doesn't sound like the stage pseudonym of a schizophrenic homosexual on crack, but doing so after having woken up with a hangover and watching consecutive marathons of Gilligan's Island and Green Acres. (What?)

I'm eternally annoyed by the vapid ditzes society churns out. Oh sure, they're all sweet enough, smart enough, funny enough, successful enough -- enough, enough, enough, enough, but never ENOUGH. They bother me because I find myself speaking to them as I would a well-intentioned but slow five-year-old; and that makes me want to tattoo Godzilla onto my chest and bathe in cooking sherry.

Over the years I think I've managed to get a firm grip on the art of normality, and most of the time, if the conversation stays superficial, I can pass myself off as a Stepford Student. Which is why I love -- love, love, LOVE -- breaking character now and then.

They say things that one might perceive as friendly and considerate: "Are you feeling all right? You're looking a little pale."

Gee, thanks. Yeah, well, being 37.5% Irish will that to a person's skin. I was feeling fine, actually, until you shoved your insensitivity through the door where I store my insecurities. Now I'm second guessing everything about myself today: Is my eye makeup bringing unnecessary pallor to my complexion? Does this shirt make me look bloated? Is my toothpaste doing an adequate job of whitening my smile? Does she know I'm wearing an extra-thick Maxi pad? You don't care about how I am, so why did you even ask?

Sometimes, though, instead of dissolving into a tearful and twitching mess as the other person slowly retreats in soundless worry, I'll deliver a startling little answer with a nod and a smile:

"Oh I'm just a little tired. Guess I should stop staying up until three in the morning reading Wikipedia pages on serial killers, huh?"

And eyes back to the front of the class. Yes, this does make me feel better about myself. Why do I feel compelled to take out my frustrations and insecurities on well-meaning if dull people?

Why is the sky blue, baby.

Soul Reaper jammed with Weird and Gilly.

2009-08-04T21:50:00.000-07:00

I went to Comic-Con (OHMIGOSH AMAZING *gaspsputterdie*) in San Diego the other week and raided one booth's collection of cheap and plentiful posters. I spent $21 dollars for three posters: The Clash's famous "London Calling" print, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and a gi-nor-mous picture David Bowie's face, circa 2003.

For you to understand why I dropped seven bucks for a print of a fifty-six-year-old man's visage, you must know that I am a . . . there really are not even words to describe how utterly enamored I am of Bowie -- I mean, to the point that my love of him can be socially debilitating. Yeah. I'm the premenstrual food addict and he's the German chocolate cake. On second thought, that's kind of a poor analogy, because it isn't that I want to devour him, per se, more that I want to trap his clone in my closet and intimidate it into singing Moonage Daydream 24/7 while wearing sequined tank tops and stretch leather pants.

But we've wandered far away from my original point, monkeybirds.

When I saw this print, all I could think was "Wowwowowowow -- OH. SWEET. NIBLETS. The man glows." So I bought it. Because I want him to stare me to sleep every night. However, now that the initial manic excitement has faded away, I'm starting to have second thoughts . . .

"Let's sway . . . as I drink your soul, feeble mortal, and force the hand of your last breath . . . While color lights up your face."

It's the manifested horror of combining his "Devil's Little Helper" period with a carjacking hobo.

Don't get me wrong: It's Bowie, so I'm going to keep it anyway. The man could dress up in a chicken suit and walk in a circle and I'd say it was the most marvelous thing since Swan Lake. I'm fairly certain that Bowie is incapable of disappointing me. Nonetheless, his expression makes me want to cross the street and get a handle on my bear mace.

Willy "Cookie" Sutton

2009-08-03T21:28:00.000-07:00

"Me not take cookies, me eat the cookies." -- Cookie Monster

Quite a few years ago my family was looking to move, so every Sunday after church we would hit as many open houses as we could. I was just a wee sprog then, with the attention span of an autistic goldfish, so I was often subject to about an hour and a half of unadulterated boredom on these excursions. After all, how many times can a kid carve her name into the master bedroom's north wall before she gets fidgety? It seems that at every house we went to there was a plate of free chocolate chip cookies -- this, of course, was the homemade bribe used to get people to make a down payment on a $750,000 home. My dad took to allowing me and my brother a cookie at every house we visited to keep us pacified while he and my mom looked around.

A few months passed and we bought a home, but the now-ritualistic open house-visiting hadn't faded. At this point, it was no longer about the homes, but the cookies that were inevitably there. My parents would give them to me as a treat for behaving in the service that morning. A little piece of me withered and died every time we waltzed through a doorway, nodded to the realtor, and stole four cookies before quickly making our exit.

"Go on, take one," my mom would say as Mr. Homeseller looked on with a confused smile and my ten-year-old self alternated between the beet red of embarrassment and the pallor of imminent death.

I have a feeling this is the sort of thing I'll be bringing up in therapy forty years down the road -- "You have no idea what it was like. My family was like the Willy Sutton of real estate cookies: hitting up houses with a smile, in 'n out in forty-five seconds."