"All I need are my typing fingers and a minimal amount of pain."-- Charles Bukowski
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| I can read, Trebek. That says Anal Bum Cover. I've spent five years of my life trying to invent an anal bum cover; failing to do so is my greatest regret. |
More often than not, there's more truth in my captions and titles than in my actual blog; have you noticed that? What I’m actually getting at is clearer in those additions. Is that obvious? But even I don’t see it until after I choose them, really – like my mind is operating on some other level unbeknownst to me. I see them later and my own mind is blown by my past self. You go, past self. Self-five! Unless, you know, I just make up a connection after it's written because minds like to make sense out of chaos. And chaos, it is.
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| So glad that stage of my life is over with. |
Whatever you think you are feeling right now, you think you are feeling it. Whatever you are feeling right now, you're not. This isn't real. Nothing about this is 'real'. There is no 'real'. There is only what you make of it. Is that true? Is that 'real'? Is there truth in emotion? Or is there truth solely because we choose to see it?
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| At least, probably. How sure can one be? |
That part:
You know, I really have no idea how I come off. The other day I found myself wishing I had more girl friends so I could borrow a pair of shoes. Who am I? On one hand, I wanted a pair of shoes that didn't make my legs look so short, so clearly I'm vain, shallow, and insecure; but on the other hand, I don't have any girl friends to borrow said shoes from because I find most girls either boring or judgey, but most definitely vain, shallow, and insecure. Especially most girls with lots of shoes.
I never got shoe borrowers. Or shoe borrowing. I couldn't stomach a relationship just to borrow someone's shoes, even if the shoes did make me feel pretty. I'd be too conscious of the fact that eventually the shoes will either get dirty or get dirty in my mind and I won't feel pretty in them anymore and then I'd start thinking about how I was shoe borrowing and all would be ruined. Too many people are shoe borrowers. But I'd probably dabble if I could.
That part over yonder:
There's so much shit that I know I should do. I should've taken that hour and a half I had of free time and picked up a book or finished that lecture. I should reward future Jackie by cutting her losses now, when they have less of a chance of ruining her. I should tell her to get up off her ass and find the next step. I should be planning for her. I should want to protect her. I should stop eating this jar of peanut butter because it won't take away her pain of being judged by a woman with 3-inch long, bright green fingernails which, by the way, clash with her kelly green hooker shoes. Most of the time I feel like I'm pretty good at it. Doing things I should, I mean. Not as of late, though. As of late, I'm dragging my heels. As of late, I don't want to have anything figured out. Spontaneity has always freaked the crap outta me. I'm getting better, yeah, but there's still this residual hesitation. This residual needing-to-have-a-plan-that-cannot-be-deviated-from. I always blamed it on the really pathetic story of my parents springing their divorce on me, but I can prove nothing. But now, I'm taking my precious time. It makes the logical parts of me uneasy. However, I've always maintained, in giving advice, that you're never going to do something you don't want to do -- so until you want to do it, there's no use stringing out about it. There's no use sitting on the pot when you know you're not going to poop. I don't know if this feels different because a lot of it falls on a grander scale. I'm dragging my heels when it comes to life, and that's not a way to live. One has to recognize when one's environment is no longer supplying one with what one desires. Or, you know, there's the option that I'm not dragging my heels at all and all this is necessary and good and being in America for however long would be boring as shit, anyWAYS. I'm doing this, so there must be some reward in it. Some greater reward than doing something else. I'd be lying if I said I didn't know what that was. There's nothing certain in the unknown. No safe bets. Either way, I didn't walk to the market to buy a pumpkin for dinner because I wasn't going to eat and instead I cleaned out this jar of peanut butter whilst sitting on my bed. Fuck you, Jackie! You lose! Rise above these obstacles, I dare you! I've yet to regret it. Completely, at least.
That thar part over that-a-ways:
The spelling bee is coming up again. Time sure flies when you're having fun. Time flies so fast you forget what your interests are. When someone comes up to you and asks you to be in a fashion show, your remarkably homely twelve-year-old self gets first dibs and screams out, "YES YES A MILLION TIMES YES THIS THIS IS WHAT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR" and slowly but surely your present self comes to the stage and, while it's nice that the growth you've made is shoved in your face, you can't seem to get over the fact that you hate everything about what your pre-pubescent self got you into. You hate women who wear stilettos during the day, you hate people who don't understand that this beauty they're seeking resides where they're being told someone thinks it resides, and you hate how there's this giant system-creature based on expensive plastic, plant fibers and self-loathing that you just can't understand and you really hate how the world plays along and abhor that a part of you necessarily plays along, too. You play along to get assured that you're pretty. Lasts about three seconds, if it happens at all. Has anyone who fit in with the system ever expressed their disdain for it? If I were prettier, would I have less issues with this? I mean, I sort of enjoy getting manicures and pedicures. I'll let my nails deteriorate to farm-girl status, but I always bring 'em back eventually. I like getting fancy on occasion, sure. But goddammit, I'm only going to do it because I feel like it. Or because a hot dude said he'd spoon-feed me pineapple-flavored chocolates whilst reenacting the opening scene from Jaws if I so complied. Moving hyphens is awesome. Not so much here, but in other places. No, no, no, regular ones won't do; my child's a bit slow. I need some thick-baby wipes! Girllllll, you got yo'self some sweet ass-titties! Whatchu got in that trunk? Young black men, when someone steps on your foot, let it slide. There's no use spending the next 10 years in jail because someone smudged your brown-men's slippers.
The final part :
If I told you I wanted to start a society where there was no money, but instead, people exchanged hugs and if people got caught exchanging hugs fo' free they'd be executed, would you be on board? You can either be lonely and have things or not lonely and a child of the earth. Or you could own one of these and your life would be satisfactory FOREVER.
I rest my case.
You know, I really have no idea how I come off. The other day I found myself wishing I had more girl friends so I could borrow a pair of shoes. Who am I? On one hand, I wanted a pair of shoes that didn't make my legs look so short, so clearly I'm vain, shallow, and insecure; but on the other hand, I don't have any girl friends to borrow said shoes from because I find most girls either boring or judgey, but most definitely vain, shallow, and insecure. Especially most girls with lots of shoes.
I never got shoe borrowers. Or shoe borrowing. I couldn't stomach a relationship just to borrow someone's shoes, even if the shoes did make me feel pretty. I'd be too conscious of the fact that eventually the shoes will either get dirty or get dirty in my mind and I won't feel pretty in them anymore and then I'd start thinking about how I was shoe borrowing and all would be ruined. Too many people are shoe borrowers. But I'd probably dabble if I could.
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| I just spent 15 minutes trying to get my internet to work to do a solid 5 minutes of internet surfing. I don't want to live this way. |
That part over yonder:
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| Wouldn't want to live this way either. |
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| This peanut butter-induced coma begs to differ. |
That thar part over that-a-ways:
The spelling bee is coming up again. Time sure flies when you're having fun. Time flies so fast you forget what your interests are. When someone comes up to you and asks you to be in a fashion show, your remarkably homely twelve-year-old self gets first dibs and screams out, "YES YES A MILLION TIMES YES THIS THIS IS WHAT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR" and slowly but surely your present self comes to the stage and, while it's nice that the growth you've made is shoved in your face, you can't seem to get over the fact that you hate everything about what your pre-pubescent self got you into. You hate women who wear stilettos during the day, you hate people who don't understand that this beauty they're seeking resides where they're being told someone thinks it resides, and you hate how there's this giant system-creature based on expensive plastic, plant fibers and self-loathing that you just can't understand and you really hate how the world plays along and abhor that a part of you necessarily plays along, too. You play along to get assured that you're pretty. Lasts about three seconds, if it happens at all. Has anyone who fit in with the system ever expressed their disdain for it? If I were prettier, would I have less issues with this? I mean, I sort of enjoy getting manicures and pedicures. I'll let my nails deteriorate to farm-girl status, but I always bring 'em back eventually. I like getting fancy on occasion, sure. But goddammit, I'm only going to do it because I feel like it. Or because a hot dude said he'd spoon-feed me pineapple-flavored chocolates whilst reenacting the opening scene from Jaws if I so complied. Moving hyphens is awesome. Not so much here, but in other places. No, no, no, regular ones won't do; my child's a bit slow. I need some thick-baby wipes! Girllllll, you got yo'self some sweet ass-titties! Whatchu got in that trunk? Young black men, when someone steps on your foot, let it slide. There's no use spending the next 10 years in jail because someone smudged your brown-men's slippers.
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| I would give him a roller coaster and dangle pennies from it and we would both be happy. |
If I told you I wanted to start a society where there was no money, but instead, people exchanged hugs and if people got caught exchanging hugs fo' free they'd be executed, would you be on board? You can either be lonely and have things or not lonely and a child of the earth. Or you could own one of these and your life would be satisfactory FOREVER.
I rest my case.
