Friday, December 13, 2013
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Even the word is ugly. An ugly word for an ugly condition.
It’s a dirty little secret people like to sweep under the proverbial rug. It’s something that society mocks, something that is real and tangible and altogether far too common.
I’ve known a lot of people, been friends with a lot of people, who have it. I have family members who have it. I am surrounded by it, on a daily basis. I laugh. I have fun. I float through my life, day in and day out, drifting on waves of contentment and pleasure. I am privileged, and I am incredibly lucky for everyone in my life and everything I have. I want for nothing.
I think that everyone can sympathize, to a certain extent. We all have shit, ladies and gentlemen. We all have secrets that we want to stuff in box and pretend don’t exist.
Am I depressed? No.
Do I feel sadness? Yes.
I cannot imagine trying to wade through life with that type of weight bearing down on my shoulders every day.
And furthermore, I cannot imagine someone ever making light of it.
Is this what our society has turned into? Someplace where we aren’t complete until we validate ourselves with the pain of others?
No thank you. If that’s the case, I’ll stay at home with my cats and my books.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
It’s inevitable. A lot has happened in the last two years since I posted to this blog. I’ve started other blogs, discontinued them, and then started more in an effort to replicate what this one was to me. I wanted a fresh start, someplace to chronicle life on my own. However, despite my carefully constructed places, life marched on and trampled those other sites. I didn’t connect with them, and I had gotten so wrapped up in trying to be someone I wasn’t – someone I could brag about, someone who was cool and calm and who wasn’t a neurotic mess. Someone that people would want to follow. I wanted a blog where I could post my ideas, just as long as they were politically correct and contained the sufficient amounts of wittiness, humor, and thought-provoking concepts that I found necessary for a successful site.
I found myself growing disinterested with those other blogs, and started to absorb myself into my work. It’s a little known fact that I’m a bit of a workaholic – despite my disorganization, I love to work. It gives purpose to my life. I started working 70+ hour weeks, started to focus on that and trying to be successful. I don’t regret it for a moment – I learnt a lot during those first few months - but I started to burn out. And, in the process, I lost myself a little bit. I couldn’t replicate the bare and raw honesty that this blog provided me in the other blogs I tried. Maybe I’m just sentimental, maybe I just don’t respond well to change.
In any case, here I am. Again. I’m still with the same company, just with a different position. I like my job. I like the people I work for, and the people I work with. I enjoy what I do, and I make good money.
Captain America is somehow still with me. In the two years + that we’ve been together, he for some reason hasn’t grown tired of me yet. I don’t think he’s simple minded, but sometimes I wonder – he seems to enjoy my special brand of humor and dorkery. He treats me far better than I deserve, and he puts up with far more than any man should ever be asked to. I am eternally grateful that I’ve found someone who won’t look at me like I’m nuts when I explain, in great detail, how I plan to train my cat to fetch me a beer out of the fridge.
Speaking of cats, I’ve acquired some animals. There’s the cats – Smushie (so named because, as an extreme Persian, her face is concave), and Nomeow the Russian Blue (a very dignified animal). Between the two of them, I am well on my way to achieving my dream of becoming a crazy cat lady. Tuck the parakeet is still around, although Ash (the other parakeet) died a few months back due to a tumor. I like to think he had a good life – or at least a better one then would have been afforded to him otherwise. I’ve also acquired, somehow, an African Grey Parrot named Metoo. Metoo and I have a love hate relationship – I love her, and she responds by biting the shit out of me on a daily basis.
|See? Smushed face.|
And then there’s me. I’m still a neurotic mess. I still like to stare at the stars and the moon; I still love the scent of honeysuckle and almonds. I’m still a bibliophile. But, I think I’ve matured a bit. Grown a little older, perhaps. I’m 28 now – only a hop and a skip to 30. I’m starting to settle down – an eventuality that used to terrify me. Now I find comfort in making a home (albeit a sloppy one) for myself. I’ve always been a bit of a homebody, but I’ve lost the lust I had for the grass on the other side of the fence.
It’s not that I’m not motivated. That’s not it at all.
It’s just that I’ve learnt to find comfort in the little things, and to appreciate what I have for what it is.
And, really, what more could one want?
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
I love fall.
Quite simply, it's the perfect season. Just like Goldilocks, I prefer my weather neither too hot, nor too cold - and fall's weather lands perfectly in that lovely in-between.
Leaves die in a splash of color (because, I guess, if you're going to go out then you might as well make a spectacle of it, and even Mother Nature is entitled to be one dramatic bitch sometimes), Halloween is right around the corner, apples are ripe for the picking, and there's this delicious crisp quality to the air that just makes me tingle.
That's right. Tingle. Not to be confused with Tinkle, which is an entirely different notion.
Football, hockey, fencing. I semi-follow football, pretty much bleed black and orange when hockey season starts, and I couldn't tell you anything at all about fencing - other than it sounds kind of cool, and I can totally picture myself with a sabre.
Ok. Let's face it. I just like sharp, pointy objects.
Something else I happen to adore: fall clothing. Boots. I will totally hit up Marshall's (because, well, who doesn't love Marshall's?) and make Charlie Sheen look positively sane in comparison. My girlish squeals of delight will echo down the aisles, and passerby will avoid all eye contact. I don't care. God help any soul unfortunate enough to be between me and a fabulous pair of boots. I can be a bit of a slut when it comes to a good fall jacket (or hoodie!), and it is painfully obvious whenever I step into the gloriously air-conditioned interior of my local Marshall's.
I've decided to join a gym this fall. It's one of those "open 24 hr" deals - hopefully I won't get stabbed or raped or mauled on my way there after work. Seeing as how I normally work until 9 to 9:30 pm, a 24hr gym is necessary. Along with attempting to eat better, I'm hoping that it'll do my body some good. Updates to come.
Then there's also Captain America (the boy). At the risk of sounding disgustingly sappy, I'm excited to spend this fall with him. His birthday is in November. I'm getting him Pixies tickets. I totally couldn't keep my trap shut and (right before eating dinner with him) I was totally all "So...DOYOUWANNASEETHEPIXIESWITHMEONYOURBIRTHDAY?"
After a moment (which I assume he took so he could decipher my babble), he blinked. Then told me I was awesome.
I know Captain America. I am awesome. Thank you for noticing. :)
Apple picking has started. I think I'm going to attempt it this Sunday. Maybe make a pie.
A pie seems like a nice way to welcome in fall, right? Right.
Monday, July 11, 2011
I'm totally stealing their idea. If anyone has more experience in fumbling, awkward boys I dare them to come forth with their stories. Do you hear that ladies?
I. FUCKING. DARE. YOU.
Nyx's guide to romance. Here you go,
We want the Bad Boy...
Yes. It's true. We want the bad boy, the guy who is the Jim Stark to our Judy. We don't want a boy that we're going to have to defend. We don't want to be the man in the relationship - it's up to you to be the man. And, let's face it - if you come off too nice, we're going to think that you're a wuss. That said, being a complete jackass isn't going to make our lady-parts swoon either. Just be you - be comfortable and secure in yourself.
Don't be a conversational whore
Ok boys. I know that you are more emotionally invested in your game of Magick the Gathering than more people are in their children. I realize that it's hard to focus on anything other than what sweet awesome attack you're going to totally pwn your opponent with, and I realize that you totally want to share the details of that attack with whoever you go out with. I have three words for you, compadre:
Don't. Do. It.
That's like...a total date killer. Especially if the girl isn't into it. And even if she is...the first date is about figuring out the other person's personality. Not about rambling on and on about your card game. Or sports. Or...insert hobby here. Seriously. You're on the date to meet us and vice versa. Don't make it all about you.
...I had thought this went without saying, however a friend of mine recently informed me that she went on a date and her date had B.O.
Instant turn-off, boys. Please. Bath. Shower. Whatever. Just don't smell like that funk that's at the bottom of a garbage disposal. Also in line with personal hygiene: clean clothing is a must, hair (if you have it) is to be neatly groomed, never ever style the peach fuzz on your chin into a goatee, and please keep the neck-beard to a minimum. Also: certain men can wear scruff, and it's dead sexy. If you are not one of these men, please, for the LOVE OF GOD, don't attempt it. You'll wind up looking like a squirrel with mange.
Tip the waiter well
If you're paying, then please make sure you tip the waiter well. Nobody likes a cheap-ass, and yes - we are watching.
DON'T SCRATCH YOUR BALLS
Seriously. Really? This has to be said?
Don't fucking patronize us, listen to us
We're talking to you because we value conversation and want to make sure you aren't a mental midget. You lose more and more points every time you oogle our cleavage. You also lose points for sounding like an arrogant ass, and treating us like we're inferior.
Personality's a must
Don't just sit there staring at us through dinner. Don't expect us to make up all the conversation. Don't expect us to do all the work.
Participate. Share your views, your ideas. Show us that winsome personality. Just don't make us feel like we're out to dinner with a tree stump.
Have some pride
You're a nice guy. You don't think you've committed any grievous errors in judgement on the date, and yet...she didn't call you back! But you really liked her!
Sometimes, it just doesn't work. Move on. There's someone out there who will dig you, but to find her you're going to have to work a bit. I know what it feels like to be emotionally crushed. Trust me - if she didn't call you back, it's not something bad - it's just that you two aren't compatible. Work on finding someone who you are compatible with - you're a great guy, after all, and you deserve to find someone who can make you happy.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Anyways. So there I was. Driving. With glowing bug guts. I put on my windshield wipers and sprayed the hell out of my windshield in an effort to clean the distracting, glowing guts off of it. Didn't work.
Apparently, if you're going to murder an insect by slamming into it at a high speed, make sure it's not a lightening bug - that shit is impossible to clean off.
So there I was, in the humid (because...this is Delaware. And summers here are humid as fuck) night, cleaning bug guts off my windshield with a bottle of Windex and a not unsubstantial amount of paper towels. I had happened to have a crappy day, and I felt as if it were my own blasted insides that I was cleaning off that damn windshield.
I could hear children playing down the street in the summer night. I remembered when I was younger, teaching Leech how to catch fireflies and romping around the neighborhood with my buddies until all hours of the night. We were kind of invincible then, in our own little bubbles of self-assured childhood.
I miss that. It occurs to me that I've spent a good deal of time mourning my childhood. Somewhere, along the lines of life, I lost my innocence and wonder, and grew up and became responsible. I think it's a problem that a lot of people in my age bracket grapple with - finding their place in the world.
We all want to hold on to our childhood selves, we don't want to lose who we are - but we want to succeed. We want to stride forth in the working world and be individuals that are capable of standing out in the crowd, and yet in our pursuit of this we tend to lose who we really are. It's a tricky sort of paradox.
How many compromises do we have to make in order to succeed? Hopefully, not many. However, a good many of my friends have forgotten who they are in favor of fitting in with the crowd. I've even caught myself, a few times, losing who and what I am in an effort to assimilate.
And it's sad, in a way, that we're even being forced to make this decision (even if said decision is oft made subconsciously). It's sad that, in a culture that claims to celebrate and embrace individuality, we're all losing our own individuality in an effort to stand out.
What happened to just being me?
Sunday, June 19, 2011
My dad is, and always will be, an irascible, opinionated buffoon. I can say this because I'm his daughter.
If any of you said it, it's be grounds for harsh judgement on my end.
My dad taught me how to use a chainsaw properly. How to take care of a fishtank. How to best annoy my mother.
He taught me how to make pancakes in the shape of a 's.'
I love my dad. Even though, more often than not, he frustrates the hell out of me with his old-world ideas on what a family is and how "ladies" are supposed to behave. Even though he eats his weight in ice-cream on a weekly basis, despite having diabetes. Even though he can be the absolute densest person on earth sometimes - which, quite frankly, is annoying as fuck.
He's still my daddy.
Happy Father's day, y'all.