C'est Vrai Je Rêve Trop

'I sat curled up on the sofa, trapped in the dream from which I had begun to awaken, but still lost in the reminiscence of our aphotic rendezvous.'

-- Žakalin Nežić, Goodbye Serbia

Part One: Mercurial; Capricious

It's been a while since I've delved us both into the world of my theorizing. This, however, requires some background. I feel like I never really get that deep into 'background', so I'm sort of excited.

How reality works, too, really.

So, the fashion show people dumped me, right? But they'll still send me the random text every so often that's sort of a backhanded compliment telling me that they love my face and my style and my attitude and they're very keen on working with me if I just were skinnier. So could I please lose the weight? If it worked like that, shit would be great and I would respond to said text messages. Instead, I keep on thinking about why I can't be bothered to give a fuck. Apart from coffee cake and the fact that we're dealing with Vietnamese people, I would think this should be doable because somewhere in my head, the message they're sending me is consistent with everything else I've ever been told. I have this theory that if I were, say, 15 pounds thinner, the world would have no choice but to bend to my will and be my fucking oyster. No one would care that my IQ is about 10 points too low and that my wit comes and goes. You'd think that would be sufficient motivation. The idea of men doing things for me because they simply can't not and women wanting to be me because, simply, they aren't sounds pretty cool. Makes me think I would be instilled with a new-found confidence that would spill over into every domain of my life. Makes me think I would find a happiness in the doors that would inevitably open. It'd be sufficient motivation if I didn't, somewhere, know it was complete bullshit. Whether because it's not true or because it is true...both apply. Both apply and I don't wanna.

Back in the day, I had some serious issues with food. I wasn't anorexic since I'm told that, in order to be so, you must be 85% of what is considered a 'normal body weight' (whatever that means) and I wasn't (so an obese woman who allows herself a few leaves of lettuce and the odd grape each day and cries herself to sleep at night because she's not losing weight fast enough isn't anorexic? Is she EDNOS? Because that's crap.) -- but I was completely controlled by my insane, can't-eat-in-front-of-people diet. For a while, I'm told, I was pale, sickly, and sort of hairy, but luckily my parents have never been photo-takers, so I don't have proof (chicken or the egg?). My friends do, however, and they're under constant surveillance and are aware of the blackmail practices I'm more than willing to employ. Moving on. I lost a bunch of weight and I was pretty goddamn miserable (presumably because Mrs. Jones' coffee cake, the only thing I've ever truly enjoyed, was off limits). I've been 15 lbs thinner (a few times); hell, I've been 25 lbs thinner, and shit sucked. No 17-year-old boys fanned me with palm leaves (they just slept with my unattractive best friend) and no trophies were ever awarded simply for my being present. Yet this theory subsists. I wrote and erased the thought, "can one have a theory that one knows is bullshit?" because I very clearly don't "know" that at all. I'm aware of all the research that says how happy people think they'll be if X happens and then X happens and nothing's really that different and I see that my processes are normal and I know that my happiness has little to do with my outside environment...but it doesn't matter. I yo-yo so much I get complacent in the ups, knowing there will be downs. I have the ability to achieve this theoretical happiness and shit just ain't gonna happen. I've lost weight for plays, I've lost weight for men -- both happily -- but this isn't doable. This is just irritating.

But maybe if it were the 90s it wouldn't be.

Part Two: The world is over and I realized it was all in my head.

I don't know if I'm a little crazy or if this is just what being a human is like. I've found recently that I don't have good and bad moods; that wording isn't sufficient. I have times when I'm on the upswing and times when I'm on the downswing. I'll get in a good mood and then the times following will automatically feel straight-up bad because of the circumstances prior to them. It's like when NBC puts a shitty show on the Must See TV line up in hopes that people will watch it but it just magnifies how much worse it is than the shows you actually like. If I thought about it more, I would probably stop having good moods because I'd be dreading what follows them. Good moods produce bad but bad moods seem to produce baseline moods, it seems. Whatever 'baseline' is. 9.7 with Bradley Cooper and a cat poster? Maybe.


Part Three: Sometimes I give myself the creeps.


Today I was thinking about how I was texting my British friend about the fact that the guitarist in my band is in South Korea at the moment. HOW COOL IS MY LIFE? My twelve-year-old self would be damn proud. She might even faint. She'd definitely celebrate with some easy cheese and some shiny, powder blue eye make-up.

It's like when Chandler sees Joey dressed up as an elf, only more metaphorically.

Part Four: Your silver grin; still sticking it in.


I like thinking about people in terms of past tense; it highlights the good and makes you ignore the bad. Like, that one girl I lived with who was Canadian and possibly one of the nicest, most responsible people I know -- who also kept a bottle of scotch by her bed. It also sorts out the people you can't possibly imagine in the past tense from the people you can.

I also really like my blog; have I mentioned this? I started reading it the other day (again) and I literally lolled and agreed with myself on a number of points. Turns out I'm right a lot of the time and can be quite witty given certain circumstances and an adequate amount of time.


I also really, really like something. What the fuck was it? Watching good movies twice because then you just know the next 1 1/2 hours of your life is going to be awesome? No. Jesus. Not Jesus. GOT IT. IT WAS DANGER PAY. THAT'S WHAT IT WAS. Listen up, kids. I'm about to drop some knowledge.

Completely and utterly unrelated to anything I'm saying or will ever say.

I'm actually taking the FSOT this time around. It's in HCMC and I've no excuse not to. I was reading about all their allowances that are part of your salary and it turns out one is titled 'DANGER PAY'. Uhh. AWESOME. If anyone there asks me why I want to work for the Foreign Service, I'd say, "Well, sir, it's because I'd get DANGER PAY. I would tell everyone I know that I was getting paid DANGER PAY and then I would sleep better at night knowing how much cooler I am than almost everyone around me, aside from the money obviously making me feel safer. That's why, sir. DANGER becomes a solatium when one gets DANGER PAY. What's more, no one pussy-footed around that name and I would like to work for a company I respect. No 'locale-safety' allowance. No 'residency-harm' allotment. Fucking DANGER PAY. THAT IS MY REASON." Clearly, my hopes aren't too high, as that's more truthful than not.

Le fin.