I must have had a nightmare. When I woke up this morning, my skin felt sticky and my hair tacky with dried sweat. Made me wonder what my subconscious agonizes over that I don't already beat to death under the sun, when my eyes are open, and even when my eyes are closed but my thoughts whirr onward, refusing to retreat into the refuge of a temporary death.
Well, I guess it's true what they say: No rest for the wicked.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Slitherer Outer
" Of course you hate getting angry! You don’t like anything unpleasant,
do you? You’re a slitherer-outer, that’s what you are! You slither
away from anything you don’t like!"
I like to think of myself as a slitherer outer by choice. I know the limits of my own short temper; I am familiar with the not-so-passive aggression that seeps out when my tenuous grip on its reigns starts to slip. I know myself enough to know that the essence of my personality boils down to fickleness; I am eternally at some stage in the progression of failing relationships as obsession cools into interest, fades into apathy, lapses into annoyance, and eventually terminates in abhorrence. That's where the slithering comes in. Onto my lengthy list of character flaws, you can also add "selfish". I would rather avoid a problem, -- excise it like a malignant tumor greedily consuming my time, attention, and stunted emotions -- than confront it. Actually, I would say it's one of my Principles of life. (Yes, it deserves to be capitalized.) Is not avoidance just another method of dealing with a problem? If I had a festering wound, I wouldn't poke at it in an attempt to make it go away. I'd let it be and try to keep the pain far from my mind until I am pleasantly surprised by the shiny pink scar tissue that emerges and will serve as a reminder to avoid the provocation of said festering wound in the future. I mean, that's still normal, healthy thinking. I am more concerned by my tendency to wait until the wound is inflamed and weeping pus then declare, "Well, fuck it, I don't need this arm anyways!" before lopping the offending limb off and throwing it away. These are the kinds of thoughts I dwell upon on Easter Sunday.
I am having a crisis of spirituality. Not a crisis of faith. I've been through enough to never doubt that there is one true God who sent his only Son, who died in order to pay the price for my iniquities, and the Holy Spirit, who I invited into my heart when I was young, doubting, and alone. The problem lies in my lack of relationship with God, or more specifically, my lack of motivation in seeking a relationship with Him. If my curiosity were a penis, I'd have sown acres-worth of wild oats. Quite the philandering pee-pee, I'd say. Embracing a relationship with The Highest Authority would mean guilt, and horror-of-horrors, most likely giving up these behaviors entirely. I'm not ready to want that. In fact, I am at a place in my life where I vehemently do NOT want that. My parents have always warned me, "There are some things out there that you just never want to try.". My brain grasps the concept of self-destructive decisions and indelible consequences, but the demands of my insatiable dopamine receptors drown out any rational opposition to these behaviors. (And with that, I have fulfilled my Neuroscience reference quota of the day.) That's how it's supposed to be, living young and wild and free.
I've grown used to answering only to myself. When I was younger, my parents were The Authorities. Teachers could scold me and send me to the principal's office, but the real guilt and self-castigation could only be evoked by that look of mute disappointment I would get from my parents. Now that I'm older and my parents are satisfied with the conditioning of my guilt response, they are content to settle in their roles as co-consiglieres. One of the biggest chips on my shoulder, of which there are many, is an inability to accept advice/criticism from the Church. I don't like being told to do my QTs. I don't like being asked to pray. Sometimes I feel like a Republican in a sea of loving hippies. I choose the Republican analogy deliberately to convey the degree of self-disgust I feel at my inability to embrace the peace, love, and general all-around well-being. My heart is saying "Let's go!", my pride is saying "No." (Ok, I'll stop with the obscure references.)
Anyways, I've never been a big believer in talking about feelings. I mean, anyone who ever told you that talking about your feelings was "healthy"was a big fat liar. It's just the oldest excuse to pry and satisfy the basic human need to slurp up the juicy details and get in on the down-low. This may be one of the many reasons I'm going to die alone, but I digress.
One of the easiest ways to perturb a Christian is to feign nonchalance. "Yeah, I'm going straight to hell, so I got this one life to make sure I deserve it." This will get you the Face of Disapproval. Some will get angry, dismiss you, and walk away. Others will attempt to engage you and divert you from this perverted philosophy of paganism (I get my shits and giggles from alliteration), but further flippant remarks will have them excusing themselves to pray for your immortal soul. The smart ones can tell you're just trying to get a rise out of them. They may attempt to put on a neutral face, but the disapproval and concern is betrayed by the slight furrow of the brow and the faint twist of the lips. They may become genuinely concerned. Those are the ones that piss me off the most. Apparently, I don't respond well to other people's emotions either.
So yeah, back to talking about feelings. I don't talk about them because I am selfish and I don't want to deal with, nor do I actually care about, other people's emotions about my emotions. So this is what I do. Write about it. What started out as a quick study break just became an epic rant. I blame Liz Lemon and her decision to finally confront her feelings and tell James Marsden that she loves him. (Yeah, that's how behind I am. Still on the St. Patrick's day episode.) Also Easter Sunday with its holiness and bring-all-the-guilty-people-to-church and redemption themes and promised chocolate that is nowhere to be found....
I know people are reading this (conceited of me, yes) and going, "Wow, what a bad message to send to non-believers." and I say -- well, I say some rude things that would really be a bad message to send to non-believers. If I want to acknowledge that I am flawed, broken, and at times a totally unloveable or even unlikeable person, I will. Christians are people too. I've always instinctively referred to Christians as "them", partly because I take it as a personal insult every time someone says something like "Christians hate homosexuals" or "Christians support Republicans", or even worse, "Wow, Abby, I thought you were a good Christian girl." It's like getting grief from both sides and there are times I just want to give up and say "Well, can't satisfy everyone, so I might as well just satisfy myself." But again, that's the selfishness speaking.
This is what my sister would call an "emo post", but whatever, they make me feel better. You know that feeling right after you take a dump that you've been holding for hours because you went to class before you realized you need to go and then had to run and catch a shuttle and start work and just never got the chance for some APT (Ample Poop Time, courtesy of Tatiana)? In one word -- glorious. In fact, I encourage everyone to write their deepest, darkest, not fit for genteel society thoughts down more often. If not to make you feel better, to keep me entertained.
Anyone ever feel this way?
- Sophie (Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones)
I like to think of myself as a slitherer outer by choice. I know the limits of my own short temper; I am familiar with the not-so-passive aggression that seeps out when my tenuous grip on its reigns starts to slip. I know myself enough to know that the essence of my personality boils down to fickleness; I am eternally at some stage in the progression of failing relationships as obsession cools into interest, fades into apathy, lapses into annoyance, and eventually terminates in abhorrence. That's where the slithering comes in. Onto my lengthy list of character flaws, you can also add "selfish". I would rather avoid a problem, -- excise it like a malignant tumor greedily consuming my time, attention, and stunted emotions -- than confront it. Actually, I would say it's one of my Principles of life. (Yes, it deserves to be capitalized.) Is not avoidance just another method of dealing with a problem? If I had a festering wound, I wouldn't poke at it in an attempt to make it go away. I'd let it be and try to keep the pain far from my mind until I am pleasantly surprised by the shiny pink scar tissue that emerges and will serve as a reminder to avoid the provocation of said festering wound in the future. I mean, that's still normal, healthy thinking. I am more concerned by my tendency to wait until the wound is inflamed and weeping pus then declare, "Well, fuck it, I don't need this arm anyways!" before lopping the offending limb off and throwing it away. These are the kinds of thoughts I dwell upon on Easter Sunday.
I am having a crisis of spirituality. Not a crisis of faith. I've been through enough to never doubt that there is one true God who sent his only Son, who died in order to pay the price for my iniquities, and the Holy Spirit, who I invited into my heart when I was young, doubting, and alone. The problem lies in my lack of relationship with God, or more specifically, my lack of motivation in seeking a relationship with Him. If my curiosity were a penis, I'd have sown acres-worth of wild oats. Quite the philandering pee-pee, I'd say. Embracing a relationship with The Highest Authority would mean guilt, and horror-of-horrors, most likely giving up these behaviors entirely. I'm not ready to want that. In fact, I am at a place in my life where I vehemently do NOT want that. My parents have always warned me, "There are some things out there that you just never want to try.". My brain grasps the concept of self-destructive decisions and indelible consequences, but the demands of my insatiable dopamine receptors drown out any rational opposition to these behaviors. (And with that, I have fulfilled my Neuroscience reference quota of the day.) That's how it's supposed to be, living young and wild and free.
I've grown used to answering only to myself. When I was younger, my parents were The Authorities. Teachers could scold me and send me to the principal's office, but the real guilt and self-castigation could only be evoked by that look of mute disappointment I would get from my parents. Now that I'm older and my parents are satisfied with the conditioning of my guilt response, they are content to settle in their roles as co-consiglieres. One of the biggest chips on my shoulder, of which there are many, is an inability to accept advice/criticism from the Church. I don't like being told to do my QTs. I don't like being asked to pray. Sometimes I feel like a Republican in a sea of loving hippies. I choose the Republican analogy deliberately to convey the degree of self-disgust I feel at my inability to embrace the peace, love, and general all-around well-being. My heart is saying "Let's go!", my pride is saying "No." (Ok, I'll stop with the obscure references.)
Anyways, I've never been a big believer in talking about feelings. I mean, anyone who ever told you that talking about your feelings was "healthy"was a big fat liar. It's just the oldest excuse to pry and satisfy the basic human need to slurp up the juicy details and get in on the down-low. This may be one of the many reasons I'm going to die alone, but I digress.
One of the easiest ways to perturb a Christian is to feign nonchalance. "Yeah, I'm going straight to hell, so I got this one life to make sure I deserve it." This will get you the Face of Disapproval. Some will get angry, dismiss you, and walk away. Others will attempt to engage you and divert you from this perverted philosophy of paganism (I get my shits and giggles from alliteration), but further flippant remarks will have them excusing themselves to pray for your immortal soul. The smart ones can tell you're just trying to get a rise out of them. They may attempt to put on a neutral face, but the disapproval and concern is betrayed by the slight furrow of the brow and the faint twist of the lips. They may become genuinely concerned. Those are the ones that piss me off the most. Apparently, I don't respond well to other people's emotions either.
So yeah, back to talking about feelings. I don't talk about them because I am selfish and I don't want to deal with, nor do I actually care about, other people's emotions about my emotions. So this is what I do. Write about it. What started out as a quick study break just became an epic rant. I blame Liz Lemon and her decision to finally confront her feelings and tell James Marsden that she loves him. (Yeah, that's how behind I am. Still on the St. Patrick's day episode.) Also Easter Sunday with its holiness and bring-all-the-guilty-people-to-church and redemption themes and promised chocolate that is nowhere to be found....
I know people are reading this (conceited of me, yes) and going, "Wow, what a bad message to send to non-believers." and I say -- well, I say some rude things that would really be a bad message to send to non-believers. If I want to acknowledge that I am flawed, broken, and at times a totally unloveable or even unlikeable person, I will. Christians are people too. I've always instinctively referred to Christians as "them", partly because I take it as a personal insult every time someone says something like "Christians hate homosexuals" or "Christians support Republicans", or even worse, "Wow, Abby, I thought you were a good Christian girl." It's like getting grief from both sides and there are times I just want to give up and say "Well, can't satisfy everyone, so I might as well just satisfy myself." But again, that's the selfishness speaking.
This is what my sister would call an "emo post", but whatever, they make me feel better. You know that feeling right after you take a dump that you've been holding for hours because you went to class before you realized you need to go and then had to run and catch a shuttle and start work and just never got the chance for some APT (Ample Poop Time, courtesy of Tatiana)? In one word -- glorious. In fact, I encourage everyone to write their deepest, darkest, not fit for genteel society thoughts down more often. If not to make you feel better, to keep me entertained.
Anyone ever feel this way?
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Indecent Glory
There is a certain hour in the night where everything is indecent and thus, glorious. I don't know anyone who would advocate drunk texting, let alone blogging, but hey, GLORIOUS, I SAY.
It was my friend's 20th birthday a few days ago and he's decided to start his twenties off with a bang....or a bang...wah wah waaaaah. Anyways, needless to say, I will most likely be a loyal patron of Pub Med from the very first day it opens its shady doors.
When did your heart go missing?
I've lived the entirety of my conscious life under a penumbra of guilt and I refuse to entertain that silly notion anymore. I will do what I want. You don't know me. I will live limitless. Watch me soar and crash and burn. Honeybadger don't care. Whee!
I'm not going to humor you anymore. Not unless it suits my flights of fancy. You unearth the ugly inside of me and encourage the darkness I've stowed away. My faith is riddled with apathy, my belief weakened by vice.
I'd rather spend a day worshiping at the altars of consumerism than even an hour pretending to be something I am not.
Divorce is something adults do, so let's take a break instead. I need my space. When I'm distant, what I'm really trying to say is "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT". But politely. So more like, "Shoo, if it's not too much of a bother". Your presence chafes. Your probing questions are poorly masked demands.
My candor is temporary, my feelings inconstant, but one thing will always remain. Don't tell me what to do. Because I will do the opposite just to spite you.
It was my friend's 20th birthday a few days ago and he's decided to start his twenties off with a bang....or a bang...wah wah waaaaah. Anyways, needless to say, I will most likely be a loyal patron of Pub Med from the very first day it opens its shady doors.
When did your heart go missing?
I've lived the entirety of my conscious life under a penumbra of guilt and I refuse to entertain that silly notion anymore. I will do what I want. You don't know me. I will live limitless. Watch me soar and crash and burn. Honeybadger don't care. Whee!
I'm not going to humor you anymore. Not unless it suits my flights of fancy. You unearth the ugly inside of me and encourage the darkness I've stowed away. My faith is riddled with apathy, my belief weakened by vice.
I'd rather spend a day worshiping at the altars of consumerism than even an hour pretending to be something I am not.
Divorce is something adults do, so let's take a break instead. I need my space. When I'm distant, what I'm really trying to say is "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT". But politely. So more like, "Shoo, if it's not too much of a bother". Your presence chafes. Your probing questions are poorly masked demands.
My candor is temporary, my feelings inconstant, but one thing will always remain. Don't tell me what to do. Because I will do the opposite just to spite you.
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