Why are thoughts only worth two cents?

Here's my thing about Thanksgiving:

Yeah, it's built upon a complete and total lie. There was no happy harmony between new settlers and indigenous people. There was only slaughter and smallpox.
This is not something to forget. I am not trying to forget anything about that. I think it was nasty for historians to TRY to forget that. To gloss over all the death and teach children some fantastical lie about turkey and corn. While slaughter and smallpox is a little heavy for young minds, I think it's inappropriate to lie to children. Doesn't help anyone.

However, I do not think that celebrating Thanksgiving as it exists today has anything to do with those stories. None. There's no connection between modern Thanksgiving rituals and that lie you tell second graders to pretend our ancestors didn't slaughter whole societies of people.

Celebrating Thanksgiving, as it exists today, is not about some ancient fluffy lie. It's about family and friendship. It's about sitting down and enjoying some food and company and taking a minute to feel thankful for what you have. Even if you don't have much, it's worth taking a minute to be glad. It's about a feast before a long, hard winter. It's about the harvest. It's about enjoying what you have while you have it.

Thusly, I haven't any qualms about celebrating Thanksgiving despite the horrific atrocities my ancestors committed against a full country of people.
We cannot forget the past, but we also cannot forget that things change. In time, meanings change and societies change and a lot happens in two hundred years.

In conclusion, a quote from a Thanksgiving special.
"A bear! You made a bear!"
"I didn't mean to."
"Undo it! Undo it!"

hounddogs

Makes me want my duct tape covered notebook and some black coffee. And chocolate cake, on some summer afternoon after the 11th grade. I do so love it here sometimes.

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A Memo to Men

You know how people always look at you just a teensy bit nicer when you're dressed up? When you clean up nice and wear a button-down Oxford shirt and nice, well-tailored slacks? People may compliment you and point out, with a note of surprise, that you look good when you don't look like hell all the time?

Let me impart some wisdom:
All men look good in an Oxford shirt. All of them. At formal occasions, when fully buttoned with a tie, men will look good. In informal occasions, with sleeves rolled up and the collar unbuttoned, men will look good.

The Oxford shirt is specifically designed to flatter a man's distinct lack of curves. It shows off the angular shoulders and straight hips with ease and elegance. I am convinced that that shirt is one of the greatest product designs of all time. Whoever designed it is some sort of Grecian sculptor reborn, etching the post-war man from blocks of marble in a Platonic Ideal ecstasy.

This is not to say that it doesn't look excellent on women, too. The angular tailoring of the Oxford shirt emphasizes the places where a woman's curves distort the angles and all my CAHS education is screaming at me to giggle "curvilinear lines!!" Thanks, Mr. Feeser.

My point is simply to clarify what perhaps you were never told before:
Wearing an Oxford shirt makes you look your best. When you flatter your shapes with the eloquent confidence of the greatest innovation in men's fashion, those who are turned on by the shape of men will act like total and complete idiots in your wake. It can only improve your hopes of a best-case scenario on a Saturday night, whatever that outcome may be. Waffle house? Yes, please.

When I talk to myself, I speak in thinly-veiled metaphor.

This is a flashback. Sometimes I've already said what I wanted to say. Sometimes, I said it years ago, in another time in another place, responding to the same question. This time, however, I'm really just talking to myself.

I was going to post Lawrence Ferlinghetti's poem "What Could She Say to the Fantastic Foolybear?", but it's obviously not mine, and this is my blog. Think of his work as the question, posed, not by anyone but myself. Below is my response to the question, written in 2001. Please remember that I was seventeen when I wrote this response. Despite it's faults, the poem is as true now as it was then.

----

Usagi's Lingerie

i haven't changed
in the least
i haven't though I have
everyone's different now
they all feel betrayed
and alone
i did not leave them alone
i left myself
for myself
i left my fears
and my excuses
for myself
i haven't changed
have i?
i'm still the me
you love
i'm still the me
with the mismatched
socks and the
pigtails
i'm still me
just a part of me
you didn't know
came out for all to see
and it scandalized the masses
i didn't betray you
you just didn't know me
as well as you thought you did

On the flip side - OKC addendum

I've been told, often, that I shouldn't complain so often about OKC if I never message people back. Or I never message people first. Thing is: I do message back. Sometimes I even message them first. I talk for a bit and they're ok. Then they freak out. I say something wrong and they disappear. Forever. Told one dude I like to color with crayons. It was true, I used to do it every week at Kafe Kerouac. It was fun! Relaxing social time with nice folks and pretty colors. Never heard from him again. Said I liked bloody movies - never heard from that guy again. Invited a guy to Havanna with some friends of mine. We'd been trying to hang out almost every night for a week. Never heard from him again either. I'm not even going to go into the guy that's messaged me three times, always in February, and asks me the exact same questions - all which end up with a "how do you feel about god" thing, despite the obvious answer on my profile that says I'm VERY SERIOUS about Atheism... "You know, I don't know how I feel about a hypothetical deity. Kinda like feeling something about gnomes, don't you think?"
Guys I've messaged first have often ended up annoying in a "I'm not really listening to what you're saying" kind of way, or the Negative Nancy type I mentioned previously, or the "I'm superhyper interested JUST CUZ you showed me the slightest attention" type. Yeah... sometimes I message dudes cuz I think their cat is cute. Not gonna lie about that. Doesn't mean we're soul mates. Also doesn't mean I wanna join your LAN party. Maybe I just want someone to talk to about cats.
So when guys (friends, mostly) come back and say, "you should give a guy a chance" or "you should start the conversation - sometimes it's hard", I can't help but say, "You know what's not hard? Reading. I could be doing that and get a lot more out of it. AND - bonus deal- I wouldn't have to feel guilty for no reason if I did that instead!"
I have enough guilt in my life without feeling responsible for the fragile egos of post-adolescent males, thank you.

On OK Cupid

Perhaps I am judging too harshly. Perhaps not all online dating sites are as frustrating. Perhaps I'm just a cynical bitch.
I just can't help that almost every time I receive any kind of message from OK Cupid, I sigh in exasperation. The exception is only if I happen to already know the sender (and even then sometimes. Really? Must you say that to me... ugh... Do you know me at all?). Whether it be "someone's checking you out RIGHT NOW" [creepy] or "SoAndSo chose you from their quiver"[awkward] or "DudeStuff sent you a message"[comes with free guilt], I know that I will be disappointed. And it's not always for the same reason.
Rarely do I complain over someone's looks. Honestly, I don't really care that much what they look like if they're an interesting person. So he looks like Tyrion Lannister. So what? If he talks and thinks like Tyrion Lannister, I've got no qualms!

Thing is, most often those that message me say something deeply inane. "Nice profile. Your funny. Want 2 chat?" Sigh. Or, like today, someone has a username that makes me uncomfortable. "Diabloblanco" is very similar to me as "ImAWhitey" and "HonkeyTime". Must you so clearly label your race when your profile picture (apparently you're sleeping with a stuffed lion - perhaps a dog) states it for you?

Occasionally someone says something interesting. Often it's "Oh, I read that book", but then it devolves into "I read that book and I hated it even though you loved it deeply. I thought it was boring, and didn't understand what the fuss was about." After I read that (which is often) all the rest I can read is "blah blah blah my opinion is better than yours blah blah blah" It is amazing how many men believe that the way to a woman's heart is to impress upon her the stunning brilliance of their idiotic and unsupported opinions. This isn't limited to books. It's even more true of film and almost ubiquitous when it comes to music. I don't get why guys think I'll be impressed when they tell me they think Kevin Smith is stupid. You already know I love his work. Why would your hatred impress me?
Actually this speaks to an even greater phenomenon among post-adolescent males. The Negative Nancy. Not only are most things stupid and beneath them, but all things that aren't are overrated. Tell a guy you like Cory Doctorow and Neal Stephenson and he'll tell you that Cory Doctorow has no idea what he's talking about and Neal Stephenson is boring and overrated. Tell him you like Quentin Tarantino and Sleater-Kinney and he'll tell you Sleater-Kinney is a whiny girl band and you'd totally like some death metal bullshit better (he'll make you a mix, if you want) and that Tarantino's a camera hog who knows nothing about film. Nothing is good enough for this man and you will never like anything cool enough for him. WHY should I spend time with them if they spend their entire hour and a half telling me my opinions are stupid? Yes, sir, that's why I never called back. Oh and also you're a drama queen.
Back to OKC.
Once I had a guy say, "I see you like Roger Zelazny. I have heard of him but may or may not have read anything by him." Really? Wow. That was a complete waste of both of our times. Are you a spy or something? Are you TRYING to keep information from me? You know I never gave a damn, right?
The chat feature is a joke. Invariably someone messages me. Says "hi" and then gets offended when I don't respond. Perhaps I'm busy or watching a movie or basically doing things to amuse myself not hanging on your every word. WHO ARE YOU?
Then there's these guys. Lots of them. "Hi there, I'm Sweaney, turned 43 earlier this month. I know that's 11 years outside of your posted age range, but apparently, I messaged you anyway. :)" Uhh... really? 43 huh? ok... there's a reason I have a posted age range, it's cuz I don't feel comfortable dating someone who could have had children who watched Ren&Stimpy. At least he didn't open with his "I like to get naked" line...
Guys who say "I was intrigued by your profile." or "I'd really like to get to know you." really just make me nervous. Were you truly intrigued by the biting sarcasm? Or was it the cynical jokes? The randomly goofy references to bullshit pop culture? Or the daring mention of tentacle porn? I just have to wonder if they get the joke. Get that it's on them and me and everyone on this ridiculous farce of a site. I should tear it down, but I keep it up on the off-chance that I sign on one day and someone genuinely catches my eye.
Perhaps I still have hope. Perhaps I'm bored. Perhaps I'm simply too damned lazy. Whatever the reason, I can't help feeling like the joke really is on me. Yes, you unwashed masses, please continue messaging me inane statements commenting on my taste in media. Please. It's what I long for.
And people wonder why I'm an escapist!

Do you need this in MLA format?

My hard drive (I'm lumping three into one) is full of random television shows. Lots of stuff from Salute Your Shorts to Deadwood. From Revolutionary Girl Utena to Ren and Stimpy. It's intense. I'm feeling the burn right now downloading... Veronica Mars or The Animaniacs, I can't remember. I'll have to do some shuffling later.
But I only have two full-length movies.
The Battleship Potemkin by Sergei Eisenstein and
Zack and Miri Make a Porno by Kevin Smith
Now, I have spent lots of time discussing, defending and basically preaching the gospel of both geniuses. Admittedly, I've spent more time discussing the genius of Kevin Smith than Eisenstein, but mostly because everyone knows how brilliant Eisenstein is. I mean, come on, modern comic art wouldn't exist if Eisenstein's theory of montage hadn't happened. That's just obvious. Seriously, if you don't know his work, look him up. You know that montage scene in every movie you've ever seen? It wouldn't exist without him. So take a moment during Team America World Police to be entertained by the contributions of a Russian revolutionary to that song about montage.
Kevin Smith, however, people write off as just a comic fan writing vulgar scripts about slackers, so I have to defend him. His insight into a 20-something existence is just as profound now, as I AM a fucking twenty-something as it was when I was an adolescent being shown what I had to look forward to. Dante's obsession with the bitch who fucked him over in high school, Brodie's tendency to ignore Rene in favor of video games, Alyssa getting pissed off at Holden for putting all that pressure on her and then Dogma's disillusionment and faith. I could go on and on about how great Dogma is. No one agrees with me, but I put it in a class with Dante and Milton. Maybe that's cuz I'm on the outside looking in. Anyway, Smith's ability to tell the truth is what's so impressive. He's true to his characters and doesn't make them do things they wouldn't. Ok, he stretches Jay and Silent Bob quite a bit, but that's kind of their whole raison d'etre. If you need this in MLA format, I'd be happy to oblige, just say the word.

Anyway, I asked Michelle earlier what she thinks it means about me that the only movies on my hard drive are Eisenstein and Kevin Smith and she said it probably doesn't mean much. She's right. Although, Kevin Smith wouldn't be able to do what he does, nor would those comics he so deeply love exist in their proper narrative form without Eisenstein's work. So maybe the choice isn't that random.
Let's be honest though. It mostly was.

Cotton vs. Kerouac. I love you too.

I have always wished I could clothe myself in books and music rather than simple cotton blends. Tonight i'd be a combination of Jack Kerouac's The Subterraneans and Sleater-Kinney's "Let's Call it Love".
I hate getting dressed because it never fully reflects my mood. Since my mood is always best described by books, movies, music and video games, its no wonder that cotton, spandex, wool and other synthetic textiles fall short of the narrative magic I prefer to envelop my consciousness in.
I buy any tshirt relevent to books I like. They fall short as well.
Outland tonight. Cotton blends.

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The cat

There's this cat that's been hanging around my house. Lounging on the porch in full view of Puck and on the front steps blocking my path. He's older, has long, sparse fur and is rail-thin.
He has a look about him, though. Obviously he's either sick or come on some hard times. He's not hale and hearty like Puck. But he's got this look of past might. Sad eyes tell a tale of glory and woe. I started wondering about his name. I could only think of "king" in various languages. Then I thought of Oedipus and his wandering the countryside a broken grotesque. I wondered if something equally horrible happened to my new furry neighbor. If "Roi" had befallen a terrible fate and exiled himself as his own cruel punishment.
A fallen king. An exiled grotesque plagued by his past strength and nobility. A one-was. Who are you, my Roi? Teasing the young man in a cage because you've lost all other ways to make yourself mighty. Blocking my path to cry for attention in a moment of tired weakness- a beggar king.
I named him Roi to avoid the English and Greek associations. I wonder if he understood that I've given him permission to lounge on my steps and porch? I know he understood and appreciated my friendly scratch on the head, anyway. Always be nice to beggar-kings.

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Forgettable?

As old as i am, it still disturbs me that there are times in my life that i can't remember. That there are some days that are utterly forgettable. Nothing significant happens so in passing weeks, months, years, you forget that day. You forget most days. It's all reduced to a mood or a feeling or an atmosphere that may give a lasting impression with nothing specific to give you a reason for those impressions. No text to cite as a source in your MLA formatted five-paragraph essay about why that day gave that impression. It's like the day never happened at all.
And what use does it serve if there isnt anything special about it? Thats why i used to keep a diary, because i wanted to remember at least something about every day. And I found that usually there was something that, on that day, made it unique. I'd write that down and move on. Reading over old entries from high school or whenever, I can't remember those things at all. I see that they happened because i wrote them down, but a quiz in French or someone coming to school to talk about drugs are only memorable in the short term, not the long term. It's the long term that unsettles me.
There's a picture on Facebook of someone dresses as me. You'd think that was memorable, but apparently not. I'd forgotten entirely until i saw the picture. Even reminded, all i've got is a vague bell-ring of an idea she'd had one day. No memory at all of her borrowing clothes and going to a party dressed in a Blanche costume. Then i felt bad, as if people dressed like me all the time, which they thankfully don't. It's awkward enough that someone did it once.
I know this is just the way our minds work. We can't hold on to every detail of every day for our entire lives. There simply isn't enough space. I just want to know when, or how often, i purge those files to free up more memory? Is there a disk cleanup function that reorganizes and archives my files to create more room for newer or more frequently accessed files? I just got a new external with 2TBs of space. Can I fill THAT with old days I've lost? I guess i'd have to compress them pretty severly. Maybe that's what my problem is. The pieces i'm missing are the pieces that are dropped out to compress the file for storage. The equivalent of high notes and low tones that we supposedly can't even hear. Our brain has filtered out all the stuff we wouldnt care about anyway to leave us with a hypercompressed file that's no longer a true memory but rather an educated guess about what probably happened. Like Katherine and my shirt. Obviously she borrowed it and went to a party, since in the picture she's wearing it at a party. I have no memory of these things happening, nor what the bloody hell i was doing instead of attending this party. I have an educated guess based on information i have about the general mood of the time surrounding this picture. Though maybe it's a minor detail, I remain disturbed that i have no memory of discussing or picking out an outfit for her to wear dressed as me, which may have been really funny. It's been compressed and archived and lost in the last great file purge, i guess. Sorry Katherine, my Secret Twin. <3

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Why CAHS kids don't read Hamlet

I'm having a "What a piece of work is man..." kind of afternoon. I know I'm such a CAHS kid. I know he was being sarcastic. I know he was a silly, angsty adolescent. But that quote sums up quite perfectly the majesty and the scale of human capabilities. Look at all this! Despite the horror, despite the bloodshed, despite the madness. Look at all we mere mammals have accomplished! Marvel in it. Relish it! I'm blogging from my little phone on a bus travelling on a paved road through a city. It's a small tribute to all humanity has accomplished since Catal Hoyuk(sp)! How is this not breathtakingly marvelous? Sometimes i just have to sit back and think, "What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in apprehension how like a god. The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!"- Hamlet, Act II scene ii, William Shakespeare. <3


Irrelevantly: Everything is better with chopsticks. ^_^

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Ramblings on A Perfect Circle and the Independence of Solitude

I hear "Brena" and I feel reflective and alone. Walking around Clintonville by myself listening to "Orestes" and, though I was an over dramatic sixteen year old, I was in hindsight actually very satisfied walking alone to the coop. I'd buy myself a strawberry Popsicle and eat it on the way home. A meandering way that involved as many trees as I could find. Crestview and the bridge over the Glen Echo ravine. Contentment coming as "Sleeping Beauty" starts.
I'd stop periodically and write in my notebook. The composition notebook with duct tape all over it. The first of many. Just things I randomly noticed during my walk, or insights about whatever problems I was having. Though I primarily thought about how crappy my life was and how everything was falling apart and I didn't know how to handle it, the walk itself was a peaceful escape. Got me out of the house and able to think by myself. And that album, Mer De Noms, was essential to that reflective atmosphere. I think taking those walks lead to me valuing them so much now. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything if I didn't walk before and after work every day.
I know I should be writing every day after my walk home, but I don't. I had so many notebooks then. Even if it was all crap (which it mostly was), at least I felt like I was doing something. Now I read too much or I watch too much canceled television. But in the same way, it helps me be comfortable with my solitude. The old canceled television and the multitudes of books. I have the time to walk and reflect, even if I don't always write it down. And I have the space and independence to be alone my way.
“It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” - Emerson. Or a paraphrase of Emerson. One of our infamous CAHS quotes, but I still appreciate it. I still try to live by it. Hell, after reading Hamlet, I can't live by “What a piece of work is man...” anymore so now I'm stuck with this one. ;) But I still do. I still strive to keep the independence of solitude in the midst of the crowd. I don't succeed often. My solitude is a lot meaner than my crowd.
Perhaps it's best I not keep that specific aspect of solitude.
I often wonder if I am able to share any of this with anyone. Like in a relationship or something. Solitude me. The me who is comfortable being alone walking home listening to A Perfect Circle. What would happen if I did share this me? Would I automatically change and suddenly not be reflective at all and become some soul-sucked girlfriend-girl? I have before. I doubt it, since I spend so much time being terrified that I'd become that girl. That whole poem no one read about “she told me”. “And then she hopped on a Greyhound and I haven't seen her since.” I edited it to say something else, but I don't remember the current version. In any case, the me who points out that I've become a soul-sucked girlfriend-girl can't get me to listen, so she hops a bus to anywhere else and doesn't come back. Of course, this is all told from the perspective of the me who's still in that relationship. In reality she came back with a vengeance once I realized I was ready to react violently if I had to listen to his inane ramblings anymore.
But I wonder if I don't share the solitude-me, is it really sharing? Is that a true partnership? Or would not sharing her make me so deeply guarded as to make it impossible to be around me?
Of course, this is all in the hypothetical land where anyone would be willing to actually date me. People ride unicorns there.
Probably the sharing of solitude-me does change it. The act of observation changes the attributes itself. Fluoresces the molecules underneath the laser, and the spectrum is rendered useless and unreadable.
I suppose it only matters if I did magically find someone. But I can't help wondering if the window of opportunity between when I last understood how to be in a relationship and my current state of contented and admittedly cynical solitude has closed. Maybe I'm too set in my ways now. I can't remember what it was like to share a day with someone. Share thoughts about nothing in particular, and share activities that are trivial, meals that are forgettable. I remember loving it at the time.
Now I remember... I remember having another body that wasn't my own that I knew very well that thought thoughts that weren't mine and felt things I didn't know. He liked things I didn't care about and didn't care about things I liked. He slept lightly and remembered things I couldn't.
And then there are times I wonder if I fucked it up forever. If, in fucking that up, I've wronged the universe and nothing will ever make sense until I can appease it. Bloodthirsty gods.
Yes, even atheists wonder if they've wronged some horrible bloodthirsty god. Just because I don't actually believe it doesn't mean I don't entertain the possibility. Considering the fucked-up and sad nature of everything I touch, I wouldn't be surprised if Kali were demanding a sacrifice. Sad, too. I rather like goats.

"You always bring me the very best violence."

Sometimes I wonder how much of this image people understand. How much people get that this is... in some ways the REAL me. Piss drunk starting fights in Annie's basement with dudes I'll never win against. I don't care if I win or not. Never do. It's the FIGHT I like. Quick release of aggression. People underestimate my capacity for aggression. Hour after hour after hour killing things. Demons, aliens, zombies, Nazis. Who cares? They're still dead and I'm still here with the gun. Virtually, of course.
First time I held a gun, I got a lady erection. Heart pumped and I got tingly and I thought, “This explains a lot about my life.”
I have theories. I have philosophies about human nature. Violence and sex are one but not and the struggle between the two urges are what makes us human. The ever fluctuating spectrum. Somewhere between violent chimpanzees and loving bonobos, human nature exists. Every human has the capacity for both and the urge for both, but in varying degrees. We must accept this duality as innate and search for healthy alternatives to the orgy and bloodbath. Find balances for our urges.
Ha, the Dionysian arguing for Apollonianism. See what I've become? Sometimes I wonder how much closer to my true nature I was in High School. Was I closer, then, to the true me? Or is the “true me” some bullshit Platonic ideal? Am I the shadow on the wall or the giant made of light hanging out outside the cave? Also? Who cares?
That shirt I'm wearing, with the flies? My mother bought that for me at Atlantis at King and High after Comfest in 1999, just before the tenth grade. I am the Lord of the Flies. Beelzebub. Somewhat fitting to wear it to a fight club, isn't it?
Dionysus vs. Apollo. Chimps vs. Bonobos. Gods vs. Monsters. Somewhere in there is Humanity. And me.

Zines and context - I've been prolific lately, ok?

Back when I was doing zines all the time, I used to be able to see an image in a printed media document and take it completely out of context. To see the image as it is, without explanation, without external influence. I seem to have lost that ability. To see an image or phrase out of it's realm. Maybe I grew up and saw the context of everything and my childish creation of my own environment died with it. It all has extensive cultural and situational context and I can no longer see it outside of that. But I'm trying to find it again. I'm trying to see beyond. I'm trying to build my own aesthetic back. Full of the wonder and excitement that I've lost, or maybe just toned down. Same old introspective and random Blanche. Just with older eyes.

Lies I tell myself.

In general, I don't get involved. I let everyone else run around crazy-like doing their thing. When I'm attracted to someone, they're so rarely attracted to me, I usually don't bother doing anything about it and try as hard as I can to quell the feelings as soon as possible. Distractions are the key. When someone I don't like is attracted to me, I generally ignore it as much as possible. I stay out of it. This crazy bullshit is more than I'm willing to deal with and I get frustrated really easily.
Sometimes, however, I do get involved. Usually, something I've been trying to hide from myself bites me in the ass when I was wrong and the person does actually have feelings for me. And those feelings I'd been hiding from myself weren't hidden very well and I end up making a total fool of myself. “Err... so it would seem I think about you a lot more than should be normal and umm... I'm sorry for not noticing it sooner because... my emotions should be sending me emails instead of impulses I will inevitably ignore.”
This happens embarrassingly often. I must admit to a few things.
1.I am an extremely cautious person and this extends to matters of the heart. I try never to give it to people who have any chance of completely rejecting it. Meaning, I am so cautious, I usually fall for people I know already love me as a friend, so that I know that even if they reject me romantically, they won't reject me as a friend. I am therefore safe. I won't be losing anyone, not really. And friends are more important anyway, right? Romance is expendable and you can always find someone else to fill that void (I'm speaking metaphorically, but yeah).
2.Apparently, even when I try to step outside my comfort zone and take a chance with someone I am not already BFFs with, I still make the situation as safe as possible. I put a deadline on it. Something cataclysmic is happening soon to make either the whole relationship or the emotional closeness something I won't really have to deal with soon. Just in case. Hell, even with Max I got together with him knowing we were going to different schools and that I wouldn't have to be physically with him in however many months. This made it much easier to ignore future consequences. If it all ends soon, there's no having to deal with the reality of the situation. Of course, that's just a lie I tell myself at the time, but it works... sorta.
3.The fact remains that I screw up every serious relationship I'm in. I mean, not that I've been in many but both of the serious ones, based on how long I was with them, ended in stupidity brought about by me. And they both had long distance factors. I called Colin that day and he automatically knew it was breakup time. I didn't even have to say anything. Max … well, Max wouldn't listen to me when I told him I would never be the girl he wanted, so maybe that's not entirely my fault.
In any case, I hate this crap. I often just choose to opt out. Most men who like me have something inherently wrong with them (manipulative bastards disguised as nice guys) to make me really not like them. When it does happen, it's always fraught with some sort of crazy. I'm crazy, he's crazy, we're both not mature enough to handle a relationship. Whatever, it all leads me back to the same place. Driving home listening to 46&2 very loudly and enjoying every second. Mmm. I'm OK with that. I made peace with my solitude a long time ago.

Back to Jack

Going back to Jack Kerouac's prose is like going back to an old lover. With arms you know and touches you understand. His prose brings with it memories of comforts lost. Of moments shared. Though i feel so comforted in Jack's prose, i know it cant last. That all i'm doing is pretending again. Im pretending to be the same girl i was then. She loved those arms and lived for those touches. But im not her. I'm someone else now. And as much as i hate to admit it, Jack's prose doesnt hold me the way it used to. I am loose in his grip and distracted in his eyes. Not that i know where i am, i just know im not there anymore.
Maybe thats why i switched to scifi/fantasy. There's always something new, something different. Some new epic adventure. I guess i've become the kind of woman who is distracted easily and doesnt get touched like she used to. Maybe that says a lot more about me than i'm willing to admit.

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AngryBlanche gets a 20-second spot

This is your typical bitchy rant. No getting around it, I am still pissed off, almost a week later. I felt the need to write something about it because... I'm pretty passive aggressive and, to be honest, the subject of my annoyance likely won't listen to me in person anyway. Also, I'm hoping this will help me get over my feelings of violent rage.
In keeping with this aesthetic, the format of this will most certainly be a "Shitty First Draft" a la Anne Lamotte. I will not stop, it will be in the second person, and there is NO obligation to read it. Seriously, just cuz you feel the need to support my creative efforts, does not mean you have to read this raving rant about someone you probably don't know.
That said, let me set the scene.
There are, admittedly, extenuating circumstances that made last week particularly frustrating. I will acknowledge that things possibly wouldn't have come to a head last week were these circumstances not present. But they were. And everyone but you knew it. One of those things that gets around because people talk and look at each other and pay attention to their surroundings and their friends. But you weren't looking, didn't want to, and instead drowned yourself once again in more drink than could down a cow. Not a rare occurrence, and I admit to not expecting much more from you. Most days, it's entertaining enough. Loveydovey drunk that you are, I can usually write off the bullshit you say to the obscene amount of alcohol in your system.
This time, however, your head-up-your-ass attitude was just the last straw on a heap of obnoxious bullshit I've been having to deal with from you for weeks now.
Now, I could deal with the whole "Oh, I love you, I want you to be my future ex wife, you're just sunshine and rainbows!" shit normally because it usually stops there. I mean, it annoys me for various reasons, but there's a lot I can simply ignore. It's when you start talking about sex with me (strap-ons and otherwise) and touching me and stuff, that's when we have a serious problem. Of the "Oh HELL NO!" variety.
First problem: I have known you for approximately ten years. TEN YEARS. Means I met you when I was about SIXTEEN. Now, a lot's changed since then, but that's still seriously weird. I remember you when I was sixteen and bright-eyed bushy tailed all dorky kid at a dorky school super into The Rocky Horror Picture Show, of which you were a member. All of you guys were so brotherly type taking in young strays and teaching them to be crazy and comfy. It was a nice environment back then. But I was sixteen. I was the kid. THE kid. Like a tiny protege of the cast. Now that was a long time ago, but... still... thinking about that makes this new dynamic super fucking creepy.
Next problem: I've known you for all that fucking time and you didn't notice that I'm not all sunshine and rainbows? Did I have to send out a memo? Are you seriously that shallow? "Hi, umm... I know you still think of me as this girl who eats sunshine and shits rainbows but... I'm really a fucking violent smartass piece of work and I'd appreciate it if all previous versions of me be stricken from the record. THANKS!" Who have you been speaking to these last few years at the club that you think I'm some happy-go-lucky girly girl? Are you fucking blind? Not only am I smarter than that image makes me out to be, I'm not nearly that smiley. I am not a member of the Power Puff Girls. I haven't even watched the Power Puff Girls in at least eight years. A lot of shit happens in ten years that changes a person. I was barely that smiley girl then. Now if you think that's all I am, you're just fucking shallow. I realize that this is, actually, a common misconception of me. Most guys I am around think of me as this pigtailed bouncy rainbow girl. But if a guy gets to know me a little better, they notice that 70% of that is an act. Mostly an ironic comment on that image. I promise, I'm fuckin smarter than that and don't you forget it.
Another problem: Touching me like that is inappropriate. Period. Get your fucking hands off me, I don't care how drunk you are. Next time, I won't try to quell the urge for violence, I'll just elbow you in the throat. And yes, THIS is the girl I expect someone who's known me for ten years to at least have an inkling of. Some idea that I am capable of anger, violence and more rational thought than a fucking cartoon character. Did you need this memo? Should I have sent that? Oops, I had that on my calendar for next week.
And Another: This all went down a week after I ran into you at a different bar and you totally ignored me, chasing some OTHER TAIL. So don't you talk to me about love and whatever, cuz you were not about to give up on that other girl to chat with me about anything. Was it cuz I was with a couple of dudes? Never stopped you from talking to me before. Means you only talk to me when you're hyperdrunk and wanting to get some ass. Thanks, yo. Fuck off.
Last on my list: And we've come to the straw that killed the camel. I didn't think I had to update my facebook status that I was WITH HIM for that last week he was in town. You know, I didn't think it was necessary and, really, I didn't care. Everyone with two eyes was fully aware that he and I had been hooking up all week. But not you. You didn't notice the week before when I let him kinda claim me and yeah, guess who I chose above you? Him. Why? Because he knows I'm not some sunshine-chewing pigtailed Bubbles wannabe. Oh yeah, and you just kinda piss me off.