You Call Yourself a Rebel

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

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

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

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

Used an Apocalypstick post to improve the Solaris Wiki entry.

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Freudian Slip

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

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.