Good Morning!

December 6, 2014

I think I may have found a speech that tops even Gandalf the Grey's exposition on wishing someone a good morning. And as such, I am speechless. Good morning!

From Season 2 Episode 3 of A Bit of Fry and Laurie.

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3NHlA2wJ02Q

Hold Onto Your Pants, Dear Audience... [WARNING- NSFW]

Dear Audience,

I wrote this entire post after a night of insomnia and mindlessly surfing the Internet. The topic had me foaming-at-the-mouth frustrated, so I decided that I would write a blog post to relieve some of my frustrations. This post is neither edited, nor censored, nor particularly politically correct. It has quite a lot of cussing, in fact. And for awhile, I thought that I would just leave it be and keep this post as a draft in my archives until the end of time (or until I closed this blogger.com account, at least). I intended this post to be for therapeutic purposes only. 

But then I had a thought. Why? Why couldn't I post it? This is my blog, correct? And no offense to any of you out there, but I'm not sure that anyone actually reads this. And I definitely have a problem with allowing myself to be frustrated and angry without feeling like I have to apologize to people for it and my opinions. So, as an experiment, I am going to post this and see what happens. See what happens when I let my uncensored peevishness out there. See what happens when I let myself be angry and don't feel like I have to censor it so as to not hurt someone else's feelings. 

But I should probably mention that if you are out there, reading this, and you are sensitive about your religion (especially if you are Christian), this post isn't for you. And I think that sometimes that is something you have to accept in life. But feel free to comment if you feel the need. 

December 5, 2014

I realize this is a topic that I should probably just let go of. But dang it, I am tired of having to grit my teeth and smile and be the bigger person. So I'm just going to go for it.

Today, dear audience, we are going to talk about religion.

This isn't going to be some deep philosophical argument about the creation of the universe or the end of the world or the redemption of your soul. I don't have the energy to take on that particular time bomb. No, this is all about Christianity and its goddamn fucking entitlement complex.

Wait, that was wrong of me to say, wasn't it? What I meant to say was, "This is all about Christians and their goddamn fucking entitlement complexes." 

I probably shouldn't have even said that, but hey, this is my blog, right? Right. So we're going with it. 

It is not that I don't believe in freedom of religion, or even that I think Christians are bad people, as a rule. I just think they are fucking whiny babies. It's all about their feelings and their boundaries and their religion, all the fucking time. They are like the kid who plays Monopoly and complains that everyone is cheating while he's swiping cash from the bank on his way to the bathroom. 

One of the writer's who's blog I follow created a Christmas contest called "Nerdtivity" where people basically create nativity scenes out of geeky/nerdy toys. I read it and thought, "Wow, this could be really cool. Wish I had some super hero action figures, this could be really fun." And because I'm not the kind of person who sits down and reads the entire comments section of every post that I read (because every time I do it slowly sucks away what little faith I have in humanity), I figured that was the end of it. Until today.

Today, dear readers, the author of the blog had to post an additional blog post apologizing for offending some of his Christian followers who found his Christmas contest offensive. One reader even said (and I know this because I had to go back and read all those goddamn comments after he posted this, because I wanted to know what all the hullabaloo was about) that the entire thing "turned her stomach" and that the author had lost her as a follower because of his insensitive actions. She said this to a writer who has the acronyms "NSFW"(Not Safe For Work) and even "NSFL"(Not Safe For Life) written at the top of his blog. 

Seriously now? He turned her fucking stomach? One, who says shit like that to people? And two, who are you to go getting all offended at people's personal Christmas traditions on a site that explicitly advertises the type of content that it is going to post? It is just so... Self-centered. And this isn't even taking into account the numerous historical problems there are with traditional nativity scenes in the first place (which other readers did not hesitate to point out, I must add), which are no more offensive or mocking than a nativity with Batman or Star Wars or Bugs Life in it. 

And then, on top of these blatantly self-centered people are the people who say things about how even if you don't agree with them, it's still hurtful to attack them for their personal beliefs. I am sorry that Christians have a fucking persecution complex, but it doesn't exempt them from criticism. Especially when they are the ones who took the liberty of throwing criticism around in the first place. 


-----------

So... I have now talked this all out with my roommate and am feeling better. Apologies for all the cursing. And the blatant stereotyping of Christians. And again for the cursing. 

Have a lovely day, even if you are making nativities out of nerdy toys. Especially if you are making a nativity out of nerdy toys. Because that sounds fucking awesome.  

Guess What I Found?!

November 13, 2014

I found the most awesome website this last weekend while I was at work. It is called Rejected Princesses, and it is about (and I am quoting the website here) "Women too awesome, too awful, or offbeat for kids' movies." My favorite so far? Osh-Tisch, the Two Spirit Warrior Princess. Yes, that is as awesome as it sounds. Dear audience, you should totally go check this website out. Even if just for the laugh factor. 

www.rejectedprincesses.com

Touch-Me-Not

November 3, 2014

A exploration of poetry inspired by the Mary Oliver poem, "Touch-me-nots." Or just the title of the poem, really. 

(Mimosa pudica)

Touch-Me-Not

Touch-me-not,

though I am crying.

Touch-me-not,

while I am scared.

Touch-me-not,

when I am angry.

I am so alone

for they touch-me-not.

Writing Motivational Advice

October 22, 2014

Recently I was informed by my roommate that my old cross-country coach wanted us to write motivational letters for the team before they went to State, which is on Saturday. I, of course, pushed this to the back of my mind like the expert procrastinator I am and completely forgot about it until tonight, when my roommate brought it up again. 

I fear that this is a hopeless endeavor. Someone as narcissistic and cynical as I am  right now should not be writing letters to motivate high school girls. This is what I have so far...

"Greeting- Yet- To- Be- Determined:

Insert introduction here, preferably one that inspires comradery and a deep and abiding respect for my obvious wisdom and omniscience. Follow up with necessary humble phrases such as, “I was once like you,” “I remember the good ole days,” and “These were some of my favorite moments of high school.” Do not mention current narcissism and disenchantment with the concept of motivation and goal setting. Would be counterproductive. Also do not mention embarrassing stories about Mackenzie and Nicole [my sisters] or the fact that Rumsey [my ex-coach] strong-armed me into this. Would also be counterproductive and probably inappropriate. And don’t attempt any puns. You suck at them.

Insert personal history here, not mentioning the fact that your life pretty much sucks right now. This will not encourage them to go to college. Also do not mention that you no longer run. Or that “things were better in my day.” Lay back on the humor, you are the only one who thinks it’s funny. "

Yes. As you can see, this is not going to end well. 

On Depression And Its Many Nuances

October 15, 2014

Have any of you ever used Google as your own personal dictionary? I do frequently. I am actually a bigger fan of Google than I am of Messieurs Merriam and Webster. Why do you ask? Let me count the ways...

1. All I have to do is open a new tab in my Google Chrome browser and type, "define: [insert word here]" and I have the definition. Just like that.
2. There are no distracting adverts in the margins of my web browser that slow down my computer. I cannot describe what pure bliss can be found in the lack of Charter TV, audible.com, or AutoTrader.com adverts. Also, my tab doesn't have the continuous loading circle of death (which, while understandably annoying, is a step up from its Mac counterpart, the infamous pinwheel of death).   
3. All the possible definitions can be found in a condensed, easy-to-read format.
4. There are awesome graphics that track the usage of the word in various media formats. I am not going to lie. This is my favorite feature. Check out my awesome graphic below.

This graphic shows the use of the word "depression" over time. According to Google, depression is a word that originated in late Middle English, taken from the Latin word "deprimere," which means "to press down." 

I find that to be an interesting association. "To press down." How very true. Very much pressing. Very much down. Yes. I like it. 

I had originally started this post with the intention of looking up the definition of "depression" and then using that as a launching pad for chronicling my own experiences with depression and the way it is shaping my life at the moment. 

But, like many things in my life nowadays, I find such a task too difficult. Like I mentioned before, a very much "pressing down" sensation. So I suppose that I shall mention some snippets and hope that I will have the emotional and mental strength to chronicle this experience at a later date. 

Some Facets Of My Depression

1. My sleeping schedule is almost completely opposite a normal person's. I go to bed anywhere from 6 am to 11 am and sleep until 4 pm to 7pm. If I was to take the 12 hour inverse of this schedule, I would either be an elderly person or a very productive person indeed.
2. I haven't been to class in quite a long while. And I'm not sure I want to go back.
3. I eat one meal a day. Usually dinner. And I can never clean my plate. 
4. I have started seeing a therapist and am unsure how I feel about that fact. And all the character failings that I have always thought to be associated with such a need. 
5. I feel the need to recharge after social interaction. I am very much not the Energizer bunny in this situation. There is no "going and going and going" going on here. 
6. I tentatively ventured into the realm of reddit.com and, more specifically, the depression forum on reddit.com. It was not helpful at all. It was, in fact, quite frightening. Reaching out to strangers on the Internet did not make this better. I did make an attempt to try, via answering someone else's post, and I shall copy it down below, as a record for posterity. 

Re-reading it I find that it is probably more about me than it is about the original post. Which was not well done of me, I admit. However, I think that there must be something here, otherwise I would not have felt compelled to write quite so much. So below is my response to a post on reddit.com entitled, "What do you do when you're bored, but you don't want to do anything, not even sleep..."

"I wish I had the answers to your questions. Partly because you sound like you are in a lot of pain. Partly because I have some of the same questions and problems.

I'm searching for something to say, but all I can think of are a whole bunch of cheesy one-liners from Disney movies and cliches from self-help books. Neither of which provide any comfort whatsoever.

I keep thinking that if I talk about this enough, if I can accept enough, or analyze enough, or problem-solve enough, I'll be able to find some magical switch that will snap me out of this pervasive apathy that has enveloped my life. Well, maybe "magical switch" isn't quite the right phrase here. I think "magical pill" is the more pervasive myth in our society. But either way, I keep thinking if I somehow tweak something in my life just so, I'll managed to drag myself out of this dark, dank pit I have fashioned for myself. And it keeps... failing.

Which is frustrating. I hate failing. It smacks of inadequacy and a distinct lack of intelligence. Which is the whole problem, right? The dissonance between my supposed intelligence and the reality of where my life is right now. I totally get what you were saying, about being unable to imagine your life beyond some small apartment where you watch T.V. all day and watch the rest of your life pass you by through a haze of apathy and loneliness. Which you know, deep down, is at least partially self-inflicted. And this is what really gets you, because you feel that if you are smart enough to be able to see what is going to wrong with your life you should be able to stop it somehow. If Choice A results in Outcome B [Outcome B being crippling depression and general feelings of suckiness], then don't make Choice A you stupid, self-absorbed, depressed ninny. And yet... Choice A it is.

And then, if you extend this thought process further, it lends itself to an almost martyr-esque mentality, where you believe that because you are the one who made all these decisions that lead to all of these outcomes, it's not right of you to dump it all in someone else's lap and go, "Here, fix me!" Who are they to have to fix your problems? Especially when half of them feel self-inflicted. And even when you convince yourself to overcome your own inhibitions and pull a kindergarten-share-circle moment, most of the time it doesn't turn out the way you expected. Maybe it's because they are unable to see past themselves and their own problems. Maybe it's because they have their own stressors in life that make them unable to help anyone beyond themselves. Maybe it's a communication problem, or a simple lack of understanding of the depths of your depression. Maybe they want to help but are afraid of making the problem worse. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The end result is, you took a risk, and still you find yourself in the same place, with the same problem, and still no way to fix this crippling inability to actually live your life like a semi-normal person.

I don't know how you fix that. Obviously, otherwise I wouldn't seem to feel the need to write an extensive monologue about it. I don't know how to combat the pervasive boredom, the unending apathy.

I guess the point of this whole thing is that I wanted you to know... I don't know. Everything I can think of to say goes back to the aforementioned "Disney and self-help book" sentiment. I guess I saw your post and felt compelled to say... something. Anything. It reminded me of myself in a lot of ways (if not already evident by the extensive use of the word "I" in this comment), and I was struck by the fact that there was actually someone out there who seemed to "get it" in a way that is so similar to myself. Someone who was as self-aware of their depression and all that it entailed. And the various ways it was screwing with your world view.

I'm usually not a big fan of posting these kinds of things on the Internet, but I figured that if you were someone who could write something that brutally honest and post it online, then I could write you an equally honest reply in return. I don't know if this has helped or not, but I guess I just wanted you to know that there was someone out there, in the vast environs of the Internet, who kind of, sort of, got it. And who hopes that somehow, someday, you will find a way to see beyond the apartment and the television and the potential alcoholism and the potential drug habit and the Youtube and the twitch feeds (or whatever you called it; I'm kind of lost on what exactly that is...), to find something that makes life worth living. Because that's the ultimate problem, don't you think? Finding something that conquers that boredom and apathy? Something that pulls you out of yourself? Well... At least, that's my current theory.

Anyways, the point is, I wish you luck."

So yes. The current struggle. Wish me luck, dear audience. I think I shall need quite a lot of it. 

I Can't Help Myself. This Is A Problem.

August 16, 2014

So, with my tender sensibilities all bruised by Steven Moffat and his careless, cryptic words, I felt the need to share with you one of the most amazing videos done by a Sherlock and  Molly fan I have ever found. Nyah86Production, you deserve to work on television. Like Bones. Or Grey's Anatomy. Or something. 

All the dialogue between the characters in this video came from the series. As did all the clips. My favorite part? The look on Sherlock's face after Molly says the words, "I don't count." It just makes something inside my chest twist. Bravo Benedict Cumberbatch. This is why you will always be my favorite Sherlock Holmes. 

Enjoy.

On Sherlock And Molly And Why Steven Moffat Is One Confusing Bastard

August 15, 2014

NOTE: It has come to my attention, re-reading this post while I'm composing it, that I may perhaps sound like a crazy,obsessive nerd during the course of this whole endeavor. If you don't want to read about things both excessively nerdy and (although I hate to say this) excessively fan-girly, then I suggest you find something better to do with your Internet. Like buying things on Amazon. And stalking people on Facebook. Whatever you "cool" and un-nerdy people do with your Internet. Right. Onwards then!


I think that I have mentioned in passing that from time to time I delve into the dark recesses of the Internet where Fanfiction resides. I usually keep these times to myself, typically being in a mood that is not conducive to socialization, but this time I cannot hold it in and keep it to myself. And it is because Steven Moffat is an utterly cryptic bastard. Curse you Steven Moffat!

Ah yes. I should probably explain this. 

First pertinent point: I have dived into the world of Sherlock Fanfiction. And it can be a dark and scary place if you don't watch yourself (although this is to be expected from a TV show featuring unusual murders, a Consulting Criminal, a female dominatrix, and which has a highly functioning sociopath -his words, not mine- for a main character). 

Oh, and as an aside, if you haven't seen the BBC modern adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's infamous character, for God's sake, WATCH IT! All three seasons are on Netflix. When I heard that the next season wasn't coming out until 20-frigging-16 I about collapsed into a puddle of utter despair. This show makes me laugh, makes me shout, makes me weep, makes me want to put bullets in things, and oddly enough makes me want to snog the bejeezus out of Sherlock Holmes because, as Irene Adler once said, "Brainy's the new sexy."

Second, and no less pertinent, point: I am a huge fan of Molly Hooper, who is the only regular character on the show that is not from Doyle's original works. Which I think is one of the most amazing things about the show. There are so many reasons to love Molly Hooper. How do I count the ways? I can't. The amazingness is unlimited. Suffice to say that while I don't feel like I would ever personally act like Molly, she is complex enough, intelligent enough, funny enough, and just plain awesome enough that when I read Fanfiction, the only kind that I can bring myself to read is one where: A) Molly is one of the main characters, and B) Paired with Sherlock Holmes. Because their relationship is just offbeat yet adorable enough that it makes me want to squeal like some kind of teenage girl every time I see them interact on screen. (Alright, not every time. But most times. And if I'm not squealing, I'm wanting to smack Sherlock in the face. Which Molly did by the way! See?! AWESOMENESS!)

Erhm. Yes. Anyways.

Third point (and probably the one you were wondering about): Steven Moffat. The creative genius whom I would like to hurt very badly in numerous creative ways. He is one of the primary creators/writers of the show. The other being Mark Gattis, the show's co-creator who also plays Sherlock's older brother Mycroft. Who is so delightfully snarky and just a tad bit evil. But back to Moffat. 

I was happy with Moffat. He helped create one of my absolute favorite adaptations of my favorite detective of all time. And he had the good sense to cast Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes! And then I read an interview that he did after Season Three was aired, talking about Sherlock and where it was going and blah, blah, blah... That's not important right now. He screwed it all up at the end and now I'm pissed at him. Steven Moffat, I hope you accidentally take a tumble off a very steep hillside. Not a cliff, because I don't want you dead before you fix this, but I wouldn't be opposed to some severe maiming and general discomfort. 

So Moffat is talking about Molly Hooper's evolution as a character and her role in Sherlock's mind palace when he's shot (really guys, watch this show, now!) and I'm all happy thinking I'm going to get some kind of answer or hint from his response that will hold me until 20-freaking-16! when Moffat opens his fat gob and says this:

"She’s developed hugely. She wasn’t even meant to come back after her first appearance, but she worked so well. Louise Brealey [actress who plays Molly Hooper] was so good. The girl with the unrequited crush became the first person to make Sherlock apologize in “A Scandal in Belgravia,” and then you see it really shift around. Whereas all of Sherlock’s emotion on the rooftop when he’s talking to John in “The Reichenbach Fall” is completely faked — he’s just trying to give his friend a bad time so he’ll be in an emotional state to believe what’s about to happen — the emotion when Sherlock turns up to Molly in that episode and says “I need you,” I mean, it’s amazing everyone didn’t just get it right there. For God’s sake, what do you think he’s thinking about? He’s gone to a woman who works in a morgue — what do you think happens next? So she’s become one of a very small select band of people he absolutely trusts. And he adores Molly, of course he does. He loves her. I don’t think she has the same sort of crush on him anymore. She’s fascinated by him, but she knows that’s not who she actually wants to end up with. She properly cares about him — and gets angry at him, and tells him off. It’s revealing that she’s in his mind palace. She’s one of the people he keeps himself up to the mark with."

I took this interview from vulture.com, by the way. Hope that's enough to avoid plagiarism and all that rot. Back to the real problem here.

WHAT THE CRAP DOES HE MEAN "What do you think happens next?" and "It's amazing that everyone doesn't get it right there"? THAT IS NOT CLEAR AT ALL, STEVEN MOFFAT! And this following the words, "For God's sake, what do you think he's thinking about?" CURSE YOU STEVEN MOFFAT AND YOUR AMBIGUOUS WORD CHOICE AND SENTENCE CONSTRUCTION! 

And then, and then! He goes and says, "He loves her." Just like that. No elaboration. No... expansion upon the subject. He just then goes on to talk about how Molly OBVIOUSLY doesn't love Sherlock that way anymore and that OF COURSE she doesn't want to end up with him. YOU DID NOT MAKE THIS CLEAR, STEVEN MOFFAT! AND I AM EXTREMELY PEEVED THAT YOU ARE MAKING THIS DECISION. 

Besides, why not let her marry "Meat Dagger" Tom if she's not all hung up on Sherlock anymore, hmmm? And what's with all the confusing glances and letting her freaking SLAP SHERLOCK IN THE FACE?! Agh!!! 

And if that's not evil enough... You just had to end it with a little hint. The smallest crumb that might indicate a shift in their relationship. "It's revealing that she's in his mind palace," he says. Pox on you, Steven Moffat. Pox. On. You.

Herein ends my rant about Steven Moffat. May he be munched on by flesh eating beetles and dropped in a tar pit. Back to my Fanfiction I go, to nurse my wounds and pretend that Steven Moffat isn't such a complete and utter arse. I'll see you all when I resurface. 

And for goodness sakes, watch Sherlock! Because otherwise I'm afraid you all are going to think that I've completely lost my mind. And I haven't. I've just stressed it a bit. 

Relevancy Found Within Haikus (Among Other Things)

August 13, 2014

Today is a day for thoughts. Here are some which seem relevant to me, as of now. 

"Many solemn nights 

Blond moon, we stand and marvel...

Sleeping our noons away”

-Teitoku

“Everyone of us is shadowed by an illusory 

person: a false self..We are not very good at 

recognizing illusions, least of all the ones we 

cherish about ourselves. (34)

 

Contemplation is not and cannot be a 

function of this external self. There is an 

irreducible opposition between the deep 

transcendent self that awakens only in 

contemplation, and the superficial, external 

self which we commonly identify with the 

first person singular.(7) 

Our reality, our true self, is hidden in what 

appears to us to be nothingness....We can rise 

above this unreality and recover our hidden 

reality....(281)"

― Thomas Merton, New Seeds of 

Contemplation

“The painter Kramskoy has a remarkable 

painting entitled The Contemplator: it depicts 

a forest in winter, and in the forest, standing 

all by himself on the road, in deepest solitude, 

a stray little peasant in a ragged caftan and 

bast shoes; he stands as if he were lost in 

thought, but he is not thinking, he is 

"contemplating" something. If you nudged 

him, he would give a start and look at you as 

if he had just woken up, but without 

understanding anything. It's true that he 

would come to himself at once, and yet, if he 

were asked what he had been thinking about 

while standing there, he would most likely 

not remember, but would most likely keep 

hidden away in himself the impression he 

had been under while contemplating. These 

impressions are dear to him, and he is most 

likely storing them up imperceptibly and even 

without realizing it--why and what for, he 

does not know either; perhaps suddenly, 

having stored up his impressions over many 

years, he will drop everything and wander off 

to Jerusalem to save his soul, or perhaps he 

will suddenly burn down his native village, or 

perhaps he will do both. 

There are a good many "contemplatives" 

among our peasants. And Smerdyakov was 

probably one of them. And he was probably 

greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly 

knowing why.” 

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers 

Karamazov

Ok... Just One More, I Promise! (False. Make That Two.)

August 2, 2014

Okay, so I realize this makes me like five kinds of a nerd (or a dweeb, or whichever awkward person vocabulary term you wish to employ...) but I couldn't help myself. 

This one is called "The Poetry Prize," I believe, also a sketch from the television series "A Bit of Fry and Laurie." My favorite part?

Headmaster: "I suppose I am one of the 'unhappy bubbles of anal wind popping and winking in the mortal bath,' am I? .... Oh your silence tells me everything, I am! I am an unhappy bubble of anal wind!"

Student: "It's just how I see it, that's valid."

Headmaster: "Valid? Valid? We're not talking about a banknote, you are calling your headmaster an 'unhappy bubble of anal wind!'"

Oh, dang it. I just can't help myself. Here's the last one. It is called "Sexual Intercourse."

I can't even pick a favorite part of this one... Except maybe the oft repeated phrase, "Sexual intercourse can often bring about pregnancy in the adult female." Oh the horror!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xmb1DT62FVc

I'm terribly sorry, but I cannot get this one to load on its own. But don't let that deter you from watching it!

'Merica

August 2, 2014

I have a new favorite television show on Netflix. Why is it that I can only find my kind of humor on television when it is being broadcast on the BBC?

I present... Hugh Laurie's Song for America from "A Bit of Fry and Laurie"

It's Four O'Clock In The Morning...

June 24, 2014 

So, have any of you ever heard that song by Lily Allen? The one that goes, "It's five o'clock in the morning... Conversation got boring..." And so on, and so forth. Well, it's technically 3:30 in the morning, not five o' clock, and there is no one in my house except two extremely fluffy, extremely adorable, and occasionally irritating felines (in comparison with the significant other that is the focal point  of that Lily Allen song), but I find those two lines from that song going through my head over and over and over again. And I am trying to decide whether this constitutes a serious problem in my life.

Perhaps I should explain.

So, for those of you who read the first couple of posts that I ever wrote on this blog, you probably know that I have been struggling with some form of depression/insomnia/I-don't-really-give-a-fuck for some time. For the past three semesters in fact (because I am still at a point in my life when I think of time passing in terms of school rather than an actual calendar). For those of you that are not aware of this, consider yourselves informed. 

When this phenomenon first started occurring, it took me awhile to figure out that it was actually happening. Like many things that happen in life, it crept up on me with all the abruptness of a morning fog. In the beginning, I simply attributed it to being tired, or having an "off day." And then the day stretched into a week and the weeks stretched into a month, and then I got close enough to the end of high school that I could safely term it "senioritis." And there was always the underlying assumption that if I could pinpoint exactly what was happening in my life that was causing me to feel this way I could magically fix everything and no longer inhabit this dank, muddy, dark pit that had become my life. So I tried changing my sleeping habits and buying new alarm clocks and fitting a "fun" class in my schedule and getting out and meeting new people and writing letters and starting a blog and going on dates and talking and talking and talking about it. And with every change, every conversation, I thought to myself, "This makes sense now, I can start fixing this." And I would feel rejuvenated and filled with purpose and for a week or two I would think to myself, "I'm back on track now, I'm doing something with my life." 

Productivity has become a very integral estimation of my self-worth these past couple of years. I can't decide whether this makes me sad or not...

And every time I thought that I had a handle on this and that I was over the hump, I found myself sliding back into the pit. And it became progressively worse and worse. 

But I don't want this post to be about what a horrible mess my life has been for the past two or three years. Because that's not what  my mind is dwelling on at 3:30 in the morning. (Really it is closer to 4:00 now, if I felt the need to be anal about it. Which I suppose I do...) No, what my mind keeps coming back to is beyond simple misery or depression (which I am still not totally convinced is the correct diagnosis of this problem). My mind is fixated on whether or not I actually want to fix this.

There. I said it. 

I don't know if this makes me a horrible person. Or at least a very screwed up one.

Because what it has come down to is that:

1. I have acknowledged there is indeed a problem.
2. I have established that this problem is not a transient phase that I will simply "get over."
3. I have taken a variety of different approaches to solve this problem.
4. I have talked to several different people about said problem.
5. I have found that the problem is not being adequately dealt with to resolve said problem.
6. The problem is beginning to have lasting effects on my life. 
7. I know what the next steps to solve the problem most likely should be.

And last, and worst, of all...

I don't want to take those steps because some sadistic part of me is apparently enjoying wallowing in the utter mess that is my life.

To say it in less dramatic terms, I should really go talk to a therapist or see a doctor (in case there is an underlying physiological reason behind this) or simply realize that I have to grow up and act like an adult and 

I DON'T WANT TO.

I want to wallow. To sleep in until 2:30 in the afternoon and stay up all night reading Fanfiction and watching Netflix. I want an entire week to go by and not leave my house. I don't want to be social. I don't want to do  my dishes or vacuum my house. I don't want to have to go out and sell myself to a vet clinic so I can gain clinical hours and apply to vet school and... I am just so sick of all the pressure and the responsibility and my infernal need to always make the correct decision. 

So yes. I should probably be doing something about this. I should have some self-discipline. I should make an effort to go out and be part of the world. And to eat regular meals. And go to sleep on time. And not constantly whine about how much my life sucks. 

But I don't want to.

And that's what I am struggling with at -- I guess it's now 4:00 in the morning (which is still not "five o'clock in the morning," but is close enough) and I am sitting on my bed writing an anonymous blog post in the dark (which I know is not good for my eyes) and I just want to say that there is major suckage going on at the moment. And that I found a video on Youtube that makes me feel better but fixes nothing. 

And here it is, because I am in a caring and sharing mood. For the record, John Green and his brother Hank are some of the only people I like to watch on Youtube that are not musicians. And when I read John Green's book, The Fault in Our Stars, I had to exert considerable effort not to cry.

For those of you out there who are feeling as depressed as I am, here is a video from the Vlogbrothers called "Perspective."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ooCeoh6608

Note: Just in case the video didn't work, I added the link as well.  

Lawn Chairs

June 5, 2014

Today, I acquired new lawn chairs. Well, I think they are technically pool chairs, but we are going to call them lawn chairs because-- and this is important folks-- we don't actually have a pool.

I got them when I was at work today and we were reorganizing and cleaning my employers garage. These chairs ($160 new!) were being discarded because of one fatal flaw. Wheels. Apparently, this is not a desired attribute of pool chairs. Because whenever the wind blew, my employers would wake up the next morning to find all eight of their pool chairs lounging at the bottom of the pool. And guess who got to fish them out?

Certainly not my employers.

Anyways, long story short, I am now the proud owner of two magnificent lawn chairs and they are currently parked right on my back patio. In fact, I am also parked on my back patio. I have decided to spend the afternoon basking in the sun, writing, and keeping a sharp eye on the burly construction workers working on the house across the street. Just in case they decide it's too hot for their T-shirts. Or that their water is unsatisfactory and that they need to come steal some of mine. 

Because as much as I can appreciate a half-naked man lifting heavy things right outside my window, all that wonderful, sun-kissed skin is forgotten as soon as they decide to trespass into my backyard and steal my water. Sometimes I really wish I owned a BB gun. Or just any gun. Okay, I'm done now. 

Because I Saw Another Freaking "How To Treat Your Guy" Article On Facebook And Am Refraining From Yanking My Hair Out

June 4, 2014

Okay, that's it. I am finished with all this crap. I want to state a disclaimer now, right from the start, that if you are a person who is offended by cynicism, dissatisfaction with societal expectations and social norms, or happens to currently be in a stable, loving, romantic relationship, you should probably exit from this page right now. Go watch Netflix or something. Because this post is going to be all about relationships. And my intense loathing of them. 

This is not to say that I look at everyone who is in a romantic relationship and think, Wow, what suckers. That's never going to last. Because that is not it at all. As I have mentioned previously, I happen to be an avid reader of romance novels, and one of the many things I strive not to be is a hypocrite. So it is not like I am against romantic relationships on principle. I am simply against the notion of romantic relationships as a necessity. And I feel like this is an important distinction. 

I'll admit, I'm as much of a sucker for a cute old couple as the next person. It is why I love reading about romances so much. I love exploring all the different possible dynamics of a relationship like that, the different shades and levels of interaction that are possible. Now, I am not claiming that romance novels are the best way to study romantic relationships, because that would be retarded. But I take them for what they are: an idealization of one person's view of romance. If you read enough of these things -- and trust me, I have read more than enough-- you realize that most of the romances written by the same author all have the same relationship written out over and over again, with different faces and backgrounds and challenges. But it is the same relationship. If you really want to see the different possibilities of romantic relationships, it is important to read a whole bunch of different romance authors, because that is where you find true variety. My theory is that each author bases the relationships of their characters upon their relationship with their own spouse. But again, this is simply a theory. 

So, as you can see, it is not the relationship itself that I find abhorrent. I actually find it quite fascinating. No, what really gets my goat is the theory of incompleteness. Of inadequacy in life without that kind of a relationship.

There are several different aspects that contribute to this, in my mind, erroneous expectation. The first, and most improbable, aspect would be the idea of soul mates.

The first reference that I can find to soul mates goes back to Plato's The Symposium, in which Plato has Aristophanes relate a story about the origin of soul mates. In it he claims that humans were originally beasts with four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces. Through a series of confrontations, which were of course brought about by a conflict between human pride and arrogance and the will of the gods, Zeus decided to split the humans in two as a punishment, leaving them forever burdened to walk the earth feeling incomplete. The idea of soul mates is that you have found the person who is, quite literally, your missing half. At least, according to Plato.

Can I even begin to tell you how many things are wrong with this picture?

First, this would imply that you are walking around with half a soul. That without another person you will never be of any value, that you will always be "lesser" than those who have found their "soul mate." And not only is this stupid, it is also plain dangerous. Not in a Bruce-Willis-jumping-through-a-window-with-a-Glock-36 kind of way; not even in a J. Lo-in-that-one-Oxygen-movie kind of way. (You know which J. Lo movie I'm talking about, right? The one where she marries the guy, he gets all abusive, she goes on the run with the kid... I will look this up and get back to you. This is gonna bug the crap out of me). No, this is dangerous because it sets up unrealistic expectations for both you and your partner in this romantic endeavor. And I am a bona fide expert on unrealistic expectations. 

Second, this implies that there is only one person out there for you, that you are responsible for recognizing them, and that you only get one chance at it in your lifetime. So if you convince yourself that Joe Smoe is your soul mate and he dies in a car crash (or marries what's-her-face from senior prom), well then your are S.O.L. Time to resign yourself to the fact that you missed the boat and are going to be lonely and alone for the rest of your life. 

Which brings me out of my soul mate spiel and into the second problem I have with how our society views romantic relationships. The idea that if you don't eventually find your way into a romantic relationship, then you will never be truly fulfilled. You will die old and alone in your bed with no one in the world who cares about you. Oh, and don't forget the kids that go along with this whole thing. Can't forget the kids. It's like there is some kind of societal checklist.

--I would like to enter a disclaimer stating 

that these items on this bogus checklist 

do not need to be completed in any particular order--

Society's List for Success

1. Move out of your parent's house (whether it be to college or simply to get your own space).
2. Get an education (whether this be high school, college, graduate school, or post-grad).
3. Establish yourself in a career.
4. Find a significant other and marry them.
5. Buy a house.
6. Have kids.
7. Retire with a boatload of money and spend your golden years traveling the globe with your significant other. (Please note that at this point you are not required to still be with your original significant other from #4. But you better have one! Heaven forbid you travel the globe alone).
8. Die happy surrounded by your progeny as they slaver like a pack of rabid dogs over the inheritance that you are leaving them.

Okay.... So maybe not the last one...

But you see my point, right? All around us, in our media and our social interactions, we are constantly being told that nothing we do is good enough if we don't have someone to share it with. That no matter how well we do in life, there is still going to be some sad little corner of our hearts that weeps silently at night because we are all alone and no one loves us enough to marry us. And I am sorry to those of you out there who agree with this, but that pisses me the fuck off.

I would rather never be married than get married to someone just because I feel like society expects it and then have to divorce them one or five or ten years later. And I would rather try to go out and do something productive with my life rather than sit around and worry why no one seems to think I am attractive enough or smart enough or sexy enough to date, and by extension, marry. 

We spend so much of our time and energy and resources out there looking for love. Just look at online dating services. And I would just like to stop here and take a moment to say, I TOTALLY DON'T GIVE A SHIT THAT OTHER PEOPLE MAKE THIS A PRIORITY IN THEIR LIFE. Have at it, folks! If it makes you happy, who am I to nay say?   

What I loathe, absolutely abhor, is having people look at me, my gender, and my age, find out that I am not in a serious relationship, and look at me like there is something wrong with me. To hear me say that maybe I would be okay with never being married, that I could find other things in my life that would fulfill me and make me happy, and having them say, "Oh honey, I'm sure you think that now." 

And don't forget the inflection on the word "now." Because it comes up, every time. Is it so hard to believe that maybe I am already complete the way I am? That I can have a wonderful, fun, fulfilling life without needing to have a man in it? That maybe that is best for me, as a person? Maybe the whole long-term commitment thing works for some people, but I don't think it necessarily needs work for me. 

Why can't that be okay?

Oh-- before I go. Just want you to know a couple of things. One, I found the J. Lo movie, it is called "Enough." Two, when my friends and I were watching it on a weekend away at a hotel, I totally called that the husband was a sleezeball in, like, the first five minutes of the movie. They were all, "No, he's such a good husband!" and "They look like such an adorable couple!" and I was like, "No, guys, seriously, that guy is psycho. She should have married the other guy, because that one is a douche." 

And I was totally right. 

Overhaul

June 2, 2014

So, what do you think? I decided that since summer is officially beginning and all the wonderful things that come with it (such as sunshine, lilac bushes, and raspberry lemonade) are making me believe that my life isn't as despondent as I had previously thought it to be, this called for a make-over of my blog page. (This might also have something to do with my complete lack of anything to write about, but we'll just pretend it doesn't for now). I've also been thinking that green is very much my color and have oriented the re-haul of the blog around it.

In other news, I found a humorous quote about contemplations in bathtubs, I have fallen victim to Etsy and Pinterest (which is just horrendous by the way-- I have never been tempted to spend so much money in my life), I'm thinking about putting another piercing in my cartilage (or two... or three...), and I have discovered the delicious treasure that is Cajun food. 

Happy summer everyone! 

Oh, and here is a picture of the lilacs, because they are currently in bloom and smell like my very own version of heaven. 

On Commitment and Self-Awareness

April 23, 2014

Okay dear audience, so I realize that I have already posted today. And that there is a mountain of work to do with my name all over it. And yet, as I was procrastinating by re-reading some of my past posts, I ran across a post that brings up a point that I am helpless to resist addressing. 

Remember back in November when I wrote the post, "On Bedrooms As Mood Rings"? If you want to see what I am talking about, follow the link below:
http://contemplateandruminate.blogspot.com/2013/11/on-bedrooms-as-mood-rings.html

Anyways, not only is my room still a perfect reflection of my current mood (read: my room is a complete pig sty at the moment), but I found my ending comments about snagging a boyfriend to be quite thought-provoking. 

Dear audience, I think I might have a boyfriend. 

How do you not know whether or not you have a boyfriend, you might ask? Beats me. I can't explain it either.

It started in my Aikido class this semester. We met in class and occasionally chatted afterwards while walking out to our cars. Of course I, being the oblivious noob that I am, failed to realize that he had been walking me to my truck every day for the past three weeks until we had already gone out on two dates. 

He asked me out to a Thai restaurant for lunch that Saturday. I said that I had to work all day, but could we do dinner? Sure, he said. 

He was ten minutes late because he chose to walk all the way from his apartment. I was playing out scenarios in my head of how to cope if he stood me up. Could I get one of my friends to show up on short notice to make it look like I had meant to meet them here all along? He came around the corner and I felt a huge weight lift off my chest. 

I ordered fried rice because ethnic food and I aren't always simpatico and rice is a gift from the gods. He ordered some kind of noodle dish because he is half-Thai and it reminded him of visiting his mother's family in Thailand. 

We talked about high school sports and television shows. Roommates and family. Star Trek episodes. I was delighted that I could be as geeky as I pleased without wondering if it would scare him away. 

He walked me to my truck, and I asked if I could give him a lift to his apartment, as it was 10 degrees and pitch black outside. He said sure. 

I played Lana Del Rey on the stereo in an attempt to appear cool. In hindsight, I should have just put on my classic rock. I chattered away like some kind of demented rodent, dropping words like "man hater" and "eighth grade" in the same breath. He smiled and didn't jump out of the vehicle into oncoming traffic, which I took as a good sign. I parked in front of his building and told him I had a great time. And that would have been the end of it. Except...



The next Friday was Valentine's Day. 



Class that week felt like a time warp back into middle school. 

Do I make eye contact? Is he watching me as I beat the crap out of this guy? Crap, is my makeup sweating off? 

He waits for me after class, walks me out to my truck again. It still hasn't occurred to me that he has been doing this all along. That comes later. 

I convince myself that we were just hanging out. I've been asked out on a couple of dates before, nothing serious. One date, then it's done. It happened with an Abercrombie model once. 

Expectations lead to disappointment. Best to be like Denmark and appear pleasantly surprised when people exceed your excessively low standards.

We reach my truck. He asks if I'm doing something Friday night. No, I say, but Friday is Valentine's Day, right? 

Yes.

We keep it fairly casual. I even wear jeans. We decide on dinner at Mackenzie River Pizza. I arrive five minutes late, not wanting to awkwardly stand out front by myself waiting for him to arrive. Punctuality sacrificed on the altar of insecurity. 

We end up waiting for a table for thirty minutes, which is fine. We talk some more, about school and books and family and life. We are outside, but it begins to rain and we go back inside. 

We finally get a booth and slide in to separate sides. I end up talking to the waitress because I can't handle the indecisiveness. We order a pizza and talk some more. I can hear the waitresses talking to one another, talking about something "cute" and "adorable." I convince myself that it is another couple at a different table. Denmark, remember?

We order a Mac Lovin', a large, gooey chocolate chip cookie heated in a small cast iron pan and topped with vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. I become territorial. 

Cross this line and I will stab you with my spoon. 

He chuckles. I stick my spoon into the cookie. 

I'm dead serious, I say. Don't ever come between me and my dessert. I usually try to be nice when I am on dates, but you eat my half of the Mac Lovin' and I will not hesitate to stab you with this spoon. 

He told me later that that was the moment when he finally relaxed. Apparently he wasn't completely sure that I had thought it was a date. Silly man, it was Valentine's Day.

The waitress comes with the check. She gives us a grin. Here's your check. However, the man that was sitting at that table over there earlier thought you two were the cutest couple and paid for your pizza, so all you have to pay for is the Mac Lovin'. 

Fancy that. Apparently I am cute enough to get free pizza. Or, half a free pizza, as he was quick to remind me. He gave me the rest of the pizza anyways though. 

Then came pool and bowling. I find that he has taken both bowling and billiards classes. I lose. It's okay though, I find it entertaining to become indignant and insist that next time I will whoop his butt. 

We go out to our cars, end up talking for another two hours. The windows steam up from the vapor coming out of our mouths and I turn the heater on and off. On and off. We talk more about our childhoods and high school and other people we have been interested in. I can't say dated. He can't really either. 

He turns to me, says, what would you do if I kissed you right now?

Silence. 

Hum. Hum. Huummmmmmmmm. Well, if you were, which you probably shouldn't at the moment, then I may or may not hit you in the face, not on purpose though. How lucky you are that I am currently strapped into a seat and pinned behind a steering wheel. 

I am overcome with the irrational urge to run off into the night, as fast as I can. Never mind the fact that it is almost one in the morning. I look out the window, avoiding eye contact. 

I, um, I... Well, I've never, erhm, kissed, well... Anyone. Before. So... Yeah.

Insert spastic facial twitches and hand motions. General unattractive-ness. On my part of course. Because we have already established that I am a noob. 

And then he says, 

The grass is slow, but the buffalo is patient. 

Oh, the wonderful, painful, amazing cheesiness. What's a girl to do but laugh? And deflect. 

I come up with a compromise. I will promise to work on it. For now, a kiss. On the cheek. 

And then for 15 more minutes I proceed to stall. And during that 15 minutes he mentions that the day he first asked me out he was so nervous that he wasn't physically able to give blood. Elevated heart rate, and all that. 

Dang. What's a girl to say to something like that? Thank goodness for darkened vehicles that hide unwanted blushes. 

Eventually, I say, 

This is ridiculous.

And lean over and brush my lips against his cheek. 

And so ends my first date on Valentine's Day. 

After this we hang out once a week, see each other in class, walk to our cars together. But life is busy and school is stressful, and we never really hang out like we did on Valentine's Day. And I am okay with this. Because you never realize how much you love being single until someone is actually interested in you. I am such a commitment-phobe, dear audience. Some part of me wonders that if I had realized that he was walking me to my car all that time, if I would have actually said yes. If I hadn't convinced myself of the utter casualness of it all, could we have made it to a point where we are both sitting in my truck at one in the morning and he asks to kiss me and I don't run away?

Somehow, I don't quite think so, dear audience. 

Even now, it occurs to me that it took over two months for me to be able to write anything about this on this blog. This completely anonymous, insignificant blog. 

So do I have a boyfriend, dear audience? 

I'm not quite sure.