Tuesday, February 26, 2002
I NEED A MIRACLE
I am currently seeing a woman who makes me sweaty. Not because we rub our bodies together regularly; we haven't gotten to that yet. She makes me sweaty from across the room. She makes me sweaty and stinky. Also, I twitch and stutter. I am scared.
This is bad because my personality, which is usually charming and adorable, is now stilted. We have such a good time together, but as soon as I realize how much fun I am having and how much I like her, instead of coming across like the charismatic dreamboat who I am, I come across as a dork who stares at his shoes and has nothing to say. Then I feel stupid, so I start lashing out at her.
I am turning into a hostile geek. Hostile geeks sweat profusely, but they do not get laid. Am I afraid of her, afraid of having fun, afraid of really liking someone? If so, what do I do about it?
Are you afraid of having too much fun? I don't know. I think that chances are, like many dysfunctional young neurotics today, you are merely bad at:
1. Feeling vulnerable
3. Giving up control
4. Waiting (in joyful hope)
6. Not saying everything that's on your mind
7. Not getting aggressive in order to push away your vulnerability
8. Feeling instead of thinking
9. Being in the moment
10. Not falsely manipulating a situation so that it adheres to your prior notion of what it should be
In other words, you would make a very bad disciple.
Or, say you stumbled on John the Baptist, ranting and raving in the desert. Would you give up your previous life, go with the flow, and follow him to the ends of the earth, perhaps selling grilled cheese sandwiches or whimsical leather bracelets to fund your trip?
No. You'd have his head on a platter.
You're nervous not only because you don't like feeling out of control, but also because you're imagining some kind of intense silver-screen-style interaction, and you're trying desperately to squeeze reality into this preconceived vision you have of How It Should Look/Feel. But life is far more intense than a movie, as long as you're able to let go and allow each moment to unfold as it will. Stop letting your neurotic mind strangle the life out of everything.
2. Let go
4. Stay open
And if you really want to seal the deal, I'd suggest pumping up until you have great big man-titties and an ass like a basketball.
Monday, February 25, 2002
I just saw "Crossroads." "Crossroads" is easily one of the best movies of the season. It is both so bad it's good, and so good it's great. It hits you on a multitude of levels. And that's not to mention how bad you feel about thinking it's good, and how good you feel about loving something so bad that's not even bad. In other words, it's all good.
We begin with Britney in her undies, singing and gyrating in her room. We are immediately comforted that the filmmakers understand why we are here.
Next, we see Britney in school. Like most beautiful blonde girls with great big blue eyes and asses the size and shape of a basketball, Britney is QUITE UNPOPULAR. Britney is good friends with the teenager from Ed, that geeky dude also known for his excellent fanboy role in "Galaxy Quest". He is a funny person, and like any form of life on the planet Earth, he wants to do Britney.
Britney's dad, played by outstanding actor and hilarious comedian on the rise Dan Akroyd, puts too much pressure on her. Like any dad, he relays his concern for her primarily by squinting and pursing his lips. Sometimes he raises his voice a little.
Dan has cause for concern. After all, like most ultra hot blonde women who everyone on the planet would like to get filthy with, Britney is the VALEDICTORIAN, and has a very promising future as a doctor ahead of her. The mind wanders to every hospital-themed bit of pornography one has ever seen. Yes, Britney might just make an excellent doctor.
But Britney maybe doesn't want to be a doctor. Britney maybe would prefer to... sing! Yes, like most geeky valedictorians, Britney would like to wear hot pink sequins and gyrate her hips in front of thousands of preteen girls and dirty old men.
Stop reading if you're sold already.
So Britney goes on a trip across the country and she maybe lets loose a little, but we don't actually get to see her sucking cock, so it hardly matters. Still, there's lots here for the girls and the guys. There's the cute guy, there's Britney's torso, there's the girls putting on sexy outfits and doing the hugely successful Karaoke show, there's the really damn cute guy, there's Britney's ass in sweatpants. How could it not be an amazing movie, when you think about it?
If you don't like this movie, you don't have hormones.
Friday, February 22, 2002
AND THE WIND CRIES "MOTHERFUCKER!"
motherfucker! i can't believe the tori spelling of the ice world defeated my kwan! i can't believe she fell. and my little ice pixie sasha fell, too. she is so beautiful to watch skate, yet she leaves a chalky dawson's creek mouth feel. and that magilla gorilla slutskaya. i'm merely content that i won't have to see that candid russian footage of her hamming it up in the woolery anymore. shit, my ice maiden dreams are dashed, time to hang up the mr. microphone and put an end to my fireside commentary for another 4 years. i do stand corrected on the best ass of the program. that little russian ho butskater, who is so washed up at 29, always looking like she's
fresh from the brothel in k-mart evan goolagong lingerie collection finery, has a good ass. a very good ass. well, i'll be behind this closed door if the media wants an interview.
working on my signature moves,
And a great cry of "motherfucker" was heard across the land, and the people did weep, and tear their hair."Motherfucker!" they said once more, and raised their fists to the sky, questioning the Lord, "Why another preteen squealer, Lord? Why?"
And the Lord said, "Preteen squealers can't grasp the enormity of the moment, much like dogs or squirrelly commitment-phobic men. To be light in the heart and thick in the head is to skate perfectly. Remember the Book of Tara, my children."
"But, Lord," the masses blurted, in that whiny voice that makes them seem pretty unattractive, "Lord, why not Michelle? Why not, Lord? What did she ever do to you?"
"That Chinese good luck charm she wears on her neck? First of all, it's a bad luck charm, she's got it all wrong. Secondly, that's worshipping a false god, you dimwits. Don't you even read my Good Book anymore? I admit the first few chapters are kind of slow, but... it gets better! Did you even read past the first few chapters?"
And the people did stare at their shoes and scratch themselves and try to think of ways to change the subject. "Lord, all we ask is that after four years of dedicating her entire life to this sport, you could reward a woman, particularly when she ditched her coach and showed such..."
"Silence, fools! You know nothing! Your pompousness astounds. Do you forget so quickly what I see, what I know? I know everything, you morons! I know which of you eats oranges standing over the sink, and which of you pees in the shower, and..."
"Enough! OK, fine, you want the truth? I'll admit it, but only because I missed therapy this week: I got bored. To let Kwan win it all? That would've been too predictable. No one would've bought that ending. Sure, you'd all go home feeling warm inside, but then you'd forget, by the next day, why you cared. Besides, this way, you're reminded once again of who the boss of you is. I'm the boss of you, you idle stupids! You lowly beasts! Me! G.O.D.! My power is off the chain, yo!"
"God, don't speak in teen lingo. It really dates you."
"Don't tell me what to do, pigs, or I'll...make a really big storm and kill George Clooney again!"
"That didn't really happen. That was a movie!"
"You think I don't know that, you smart-mouthing brats? Why I oughta..."
And then, the clouds parted, and the Lord revealed herself to them, and she was large and round and had long ears. and she looked like she needed a nap...
Thursday, February 21, 2002
Haven’t seen a new post from you since Sunday, and the withdrawal has got me feeling a little edgy. I really miss not seeing new stuff every day. Not that I have any right to complain, given this is your personal blog and all. You’re not getting paid.
So I strongly recommend you start charging. You have a huge fan base, after all. And I’ll tell ya, there’s a lot more people than me willing to pay for what you’re writing. Even at a paltry $5 a month, you’d turn a cool profit and I don’t really think that would scare off your readership. Why not try out the fee-based blog for a month or two. And see what happens?
I think I like the way you think. Maybe you're the Boss of Me I've been looking for all these years.
$5 a month, huh? I don't know. It seems a little alienating, charging for a blog. Many of my good friends don't charge for their high-quality daily blogs, despite the fact that they badly need to trim their unruly hairdos, update their wardrobes, and take their pretty wives out for fancy dinners.
Then again, if I always did exactly what my good friends do, I might be in San Francisco right now, getting a degree in Chinese medicine - endangering myself and others, in other words.
I guess if it pushed me into churning out consistently good stuff, it couldn't be a bad thing. I might have a little bit more of a drive to post daily, and to answer everyone's advice letters, make better jokes, eat more greens, and grow a thicker, shinier head of hair. And it's true that I feel wobbly on the matter of posting these days, since I feel guilty if I don't do something that will pay my rent.
I could try it for a month, and if no one likes it, I'll just go back to posting 2 or 3 times a week.
What does everyone else think?
Tuesday, February 19, 2002
I wanted to thank you for the advice, though it was not crappy as I was expecting (something along the lines of max out your credit cards buying malomars and miller lite and wait for the beer to tell you what to do. That is Crappy advice). I had not thought much about it before, but you are right, I can't rock the boat, but he sure can, and will, whenever he wants.
My male friends and ex-boyfriends claim I am one of the most low maintenance girls they know, and I sort of suspected that considering the emotionality of my female friends. But that made me think, If I am low maintenance, and too high maintenance for Mr. Flinchy, there is nothing I can do about that. I don't expect much, but I do expect to be allowed to goof every now and then.
So, So long Flinchy. I am going to embark on a tour of the Southeastern United States en route to Texas where I will visit a good college friend I have not seen in years. I will eat a lot of beef and good cajun food along the way, and when I return, either Flinchy will have figured himself out, or I will part ways and get a swank new apartment where I will blast good music to cleanse my ears.
The fact that you're already thinking about eating cajun food and blasting good music in your swank new apartment means that you're well on your way to emancipation. You're facing the hard facts about your relationship, and you're still hungry for beef? You're a survivor.
It's funny, I always thought that high-maintenance women (like myself) were the ones who got mixed up with Mr. Flinchy. But no, it seems there are a million shades of gray on the confusion scale, and a million shades of flinchy to match. For some, flinchy means "doesn't fetch the Kleenex fast enough when I need to weep piteously for several hours." For others, flinchy means "ignores me when I'm not bubbling over with enthusiasm and affection." Your Mr. Flinchy was one of the flinchiest I've heard tell of: "Ask me to pay more attention to you, and I'll suggest that you move out soon."
But of course, behind each degree of Flinchy lies a more complicated picture: Perhaps he had doubts about your relationship all along. Perhaps he has mother issues. Perhaps the smell of your deodorant enrages him. Perhaps his tighty whities are two sizes too small. We need not concern ourselves with the more complicated picture, though, since we can't see it from here, even if we squint.
No. Your only concern now is crawfish gumbo and big steaks and chili-cheese fries. When you get back, my best advice is, take a careful look at the facts, examine any offers on the table, and if it all falls short, begin packing. No talking, just seeking swank apartment, packing, and beers with the girls. Denial is a powerful tool, cricket. Use it until your safely out of his domain. Once you're unpacked, and the good music is blasting, then you can think back over what's happened. Or not.
But you know all of this already. Let me know how things go when you get back. We crave juicy, unfolding drama in these parts. In fact, if you could manage to get into a really good shouting match, and tape the whole thing...
Tipping the boat over,
Sunday, February 17, 2002
YESTERDAY I WOKE UP SUCKING ON LEMON
I never wake up the same person as I was yesterday. I hate 3/4ths of the people I hung out with back then. I hate the music I used to listen to, except the late 80’s acid punk that got me through high-school and that dish-washing gig.
Have you seen my wig around? I can’t make it without it.
I just quit the band I’ve been in for the past 2 years. I realized that they weren’t interested in my ideas, input, or performance intensity. They wanted a yes man to kiss the “band leader’s” ass, shut up, and play the fucking rhythm. They didn’t want to be “punk” anymore. They wanted to start feeling and singing about their goddamn kids, wives and SUVs and how the rest of the world is idiotic and stupid but they can’t complain that much because the house is paid off and the brat just started soccer or hockey or curling or some such bullshit. Well, I showed them my back. I (think I) feel good about it, but now I’m starting to get all the flashback, PTS, “I shoulda done…” lightning bolts of self-loathing afterthought that tend to accompany any sort of break up. Is visualizing a multi-state, speed-fueled, semi-truck-living-room-park-job revenge spree a bad thing at all times, or is there a therapeutic use for all things, including cyanide and Emmanuel Lewis?
And I still can’t seem to enjoy Radiohead as much as everyone tells me I should. Are they fucked in the head, am I, or does Thom York’s voice piss you off as much as it does me?
I ain’t never been in love; I don’t what it is. I only know they want me. I want them if they want me.
Dear Saint Waldo,
I wake up as a different person every day, too. One day I'm brimming over with enthusiasm for every person I know, the next day I'm disengaged or mildly amused at best. One day I'm thrillingly open and confessional, the next day, as Pavement put it, I want all my secrets back right now. One day I'm in love, the next day I'm wondering what the point of sharing is, beyond just subjugating your needs to the greater good like weary livestock, eyes rolling wildly in your thick skull, alarmed but resigned, accepting as best you can the long, stinky road to the slaughterhouse.
Anyone who's vaguely familiar with psychology will recognize such a splintering of selves as a chronic problem that arises from adjustments made in early childhood to a world that doesn't want Johnny to be inconsistent: "We like you when you're funny. When you're sad, get the fuck out of our faces, you're bringing us down." Johnny puts off being sad as much as possible, and when sadness does slip in, it takes over his entire personality. We all know an extreme of this: Mr. Funny, who every now and then isn't just not funny, he's not even human. And funny-sad is just one example of splintering. Good-bad, agreeable-curmudgeonly, honest-evasive... Most people have a whole herd of different personalities.
Personally, when my mental health is on the upswing, it still doesn't make a discernible difference in terms of my consistency as a human being. I'm inconsistent. One day it's white, the next it's black. That's part of being a weirdo, I guess, and Saint Waldo, I'm guessing weirdodom is in your statement of purpose somewhere.
Which brings us around to your essential difficulty in life: For all your grandiosity and opinion-slinging, you're not sure you like yourself that much. The lightning bolts of self-loathing are one sign - but lightning bolts of anything, really, would be a giveaway. If your emotions come at you with alarming force, that means that you're generally resisting them.
I'm going to suggest that you stop resisting your emotional experience. Maybe you deeply regret quitting the band. Maybe it makes you sad. But then, maybe you have too much self-respect to be the willing rhythm monkey. Most people in bands complain of the same problem. But it doesn't have to be that way. My band is a democracy to a fault, totally free of the trained monkey dynamic. It's a trade-off, of course. Democracy is inefficient, and occasionally inspiration-squelching. Bono did not spring from the loins of democracy. Huge egos often create great art. If your band wasn't in that league, though, fuck it. Do your own thing, and recognize that it's not unreasonable of you to want that for yourself.
The real question is, why would you think it was unreasonable of you? Because you second-guess your decisions, because you don't allow yourself to be guided by your emotions. Just because you felt regretful about quitting the band, that didn't mean that you made a big mistake. If you stopped resisting your emotions, you would allow them to exist without judgment, and that would make your decision-making - and your self-assessment - more reasoned, balance, and forgiving. And it would make your breath minty-fresh.
And you'll hate people less, too. I swear. Those who are unforgiving towards others are unforgiving towards themselves first.
But I didn't say it would start immediately, which is why you think I'm a dork and my advice is total horse shit. Those observations can't be factored out regardless.
From the loins of tyranny,
Friday, February 15, 2002
EVERYONE'S A WEINER!
So do you remember where you were when you first heard that the Russians had beaten the Canadians in the Olympic figure skating pairs competition? I heard about it on the radio the night it happened, and all I could think was, it wasn't ever supposed to happen here. Everything is different now. Sometimes at work I'll suddenly realize that I've been spaced out for minutes, just thinking about the event all over again, and how it might've been avoided. I keep seeing photographs of the event in the news media, and I'm starting to have nightmares that are definitely related.
Bob, you're my hero.
I just can't stop thinking of that one guy with the filmy blue shirt, who looked like a rock star. I wanted to see his pretty face as they read his (not so good) scores, but instead, they put American loser boy in the foreground, so we could measure his disappointment as he realized he wasn't getting a gold or a silver, oh fooey! What a big surprise, he looked like he was doing practice jumps, with his lackluster droopy routine. Sure, he did a few Mr. Roboto moves with the jazz hands - who choreographed his routine, Shields and Yarnell? And why should we care what Christopher Atkins feels? Show us the rocker boy, damn it! We don't care if he's Belgian!
You know they only gave that second set of golds because otherwise the Canadians would have something bigger to whine about than whose side of Niagara Falls is prettier.
Did I ever tell the story about the guy in Vancouver who, upon discovering that I was from LA, said, "Well, I hope you left yer guns back in Los Angeles." Uh, yeah, they made me leave my gat and my ak-47 in a locker at the border.
Girls just wanna have guns,
SPICY SPINELESS PAWNS!
I actually heard this on the radio yesterday:
"How do you explain the Enron bankruptcy to your kids?"
Um, so...kids are asking about the Enron bankruptcy? Really? What kind of freakish informed yuppie demographic does NPR cater to, anyway? Sounds like someone's been sitting junior in front of Crossfire while she boils the couscous one too many times.
"Mommy, do you think Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle was wise to retreat from his criticism of President Bush for calling Iran, Iraq and North Korea an 'axis of evil' in the war on terrorism?"
"Johnny, I have no fucking idea. Now step away from the roasted red peppers or I'll get your nose with these stainless steel Williams-Sonoma tongs..."
Other Upcoming Stories!
How To Explain The My Lai Massacre To Your Kids!
What To Tell Your Kids When They Ask You About The Viability of Supply-Side Economics!
How to Explain To Your Kids That Even Vanguardist Cultural Forms Are Often Complicit With Patriarchal Logic!
What To Say To Your Kids When They Assert That A Morally Upright Human Is Utterly Incapable Of Confronting Any Matter Except With Dishonest Mendaciousness - A Mendaciousness That Is Abysmal But Innocent, Truehearted, Blue-Eyed And Virtuous, And Who Among Such "Moral" Men Could Stand The Truth About Himself?
That last bit comes from Nietzsche, who writes, "What prudent man would write a single honest word about himself today? He would have to be a member of the Order of Holy Foolhardiness to do so. We are promised an autobiography of Richard Wagner. Who doubts that it will be a prudent autobiography?"
Here's to the Order of Holy Foolhardiness! Who's with me?
Who's with me?!!
Camera circles, monkeys screech, fade to black...
Thursday, February 14, 2002
My friend Gary recommended this book to me, by Nathaniel West. I expected a lighthearted romp. Why? Because I assume Gary knows that I'm into depressing books about dysfunctional families (if you like these, you'll love The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen) and lighthearted romps about love. But instead, he sends me to this very depressing, depressed advice columnist who gets letters that are not fun to answer, as in "Daddy does bad things to me, but when I tell Mommy she beats me to a pulp. I would go to the local shelter but the priest there molested me..." There's never any advice to give without feeling like a heel, so instead our hero roams about, a Mr. Flinchy of yesteryear, and randomly beats the shit out of people. I have to say, I hate it when I'm reading something and some helpless old person gets his ass kicked by the protagonist, completely out of the blue, because he stinks or won't shut up or is in some other way objectionable to our hero. It's a very male thing, I think, and seems to spring up a lot in books from this era. It's as if writers of yore wrote fiction mostly to expunge the thoughts of fucking and fighting from their wretched minds.
In contrast, I write so to trick others into paying attention to my pointless ideas. I have inanities to expunge from my idle, empty mind. It fills me with sinister delight, to think of all the silly drivel I'm allowed to lay bare!
Thank you. I love you dearly! Dearly, nearly! Queerly, sneerly and jeerly!
Wednesday, February 13, 2002
Someone I know has a nephew who calls his computer "my mcpooter". That kid's got a great future in product development at McDonald's.
Anyway. Sometimes I wish that I could free myself and everyone I know from working at a crappy job. But then I think, "If I could do that, I'd also need to free anyone who has a demeaning, degrading, dangerous, or unbearably grueling job." Then I think, "I need Bill Gates' money, and a team of expert philanthropists to manage it."
I think this is why people become Libertarians, so they don't have to wrestle with such obligations. Not that I know what a Libertarian is, really - or a libertarian, for that matter - nor can I seem to get a useful answer out of any libertarian, upper or lowercase. And let's face it, ultimately, I care more about chocolate pudding cups.
Anyway, then I think, "Why can't everyone do exactly what they were called upon to do?" But then I see that there would be far too many bad paintings and bad novels, and the traffic lights wouldn't work. "Oh, but I really was meant to be a writer," we say to ourselves as we avoid making a practical use of ourselves at all costs, in a world in desperate need of kind yet intelligent, energetic teachers who don't think of kids in terms of "slow" and "gifted." I once tutored high school kids in Durham on SAT math (Yeah, I know. Thanks a bunch, whitey.) and the main thing was just telling them they weren't stupid, over and over again. One girl's teacher announced her shitty grade in front of the entire class every week - she'd hand out papers in order. Yeah, hanging those soiled sheets out the window turned Michael Landon into a great distance runner, too. Keep up the good work, motherfuckers!
Where was I? See, if I had a fucking teacher like that girl had, I would think I forgot where I was because I'm a fucking idiot. Instead, I had mean old Catholic women who knew my sharp older siblings and therefore cruised me through school without a hitch, plus I had a mom who told me I was literally a genius. OK, maybe she said I was incredibly smart, and very talented and nice, and I derived the genius part using my creativity and powers of imagination. Therefore, I come to forks in the road of the mind and I don't say, "Where am I? Oh no, I'm a dumbass!" Instead I say, "Where am I? Who built this stupid road without clear signs? Ah, who cares, I can go wherever I want and not be lost because I am a fucking Genius!"
Confidence is my special friend, but shouldn't be confused with grandiosity, which takes some natural confidence and mixes it in with unhealthy doses of alienation and denial. I have streaks of grandiosity, which are bad, because then when I'm screwing up, I feel utterly shitty, far shittier than it is right or good to feel. This is the Good Kid syndrome we discussed earlier, class. Yes, it will be on the exam. No, you cannot be excused. Yes, I will pass out cold beers later. No, you cannot talk. I talk, you scribble furiously in your wee little notebooks, mostly just to make me feel useful.
So grandiosity is one trap. Another thing: it's fine to be Great, not as good to be Better or Best, since comparisons are fraught with peril and inevitably create jealousy and obsessive weirdness and facelifts. Comparisons have not generally been my personal El Guapo, since my mom repeatedly told me that I/we had it all (we were broke, this flew in the face of the facts) and could only pity those who appeared to have it all but who were actually tacky nouveau-riche freaks who thought shiny cars and nice furniture were important, I mean, Please. We were so over the bourgeoisie, and over the use of the very term, because it implied that we thought ourselves intellectuals, and we all knew intellectuals were egocentric blowhards. We knew this from the dull conversations Mommy had to have when she went to what I referred to as "fruit cocktail parties" (God, I wished I could attend. I mean, all that fruit cocktail! Think of all the cherries...).
My mom was not unlike JD Salinger growing up, come to think of it. Above it all, above even superiority. But humble, and not remotely vain, to the point of pathologically self-uglifying choices.
And why should you care? Well, I have no idea. Why should I care if you care?
Uh oh. That was grandiose, wasn't it?
Anyway, I have to go get some sale-price Valentine's chocolate now. Class dismissed! Oh, and Darla? If I see you getting felt up in the hallway one more time, I'm gonna call the dirty slut police and have you hauled off to dirty slut jail.
And no, the rest of you cannot get the directions to dirty slut jail.
I want to post. I want to post and post and post. But here I am, I just finished emailing a small handful of people, and my throat hurts like hell. It's late and my fucking throat is killing me. I don't have tea, honey, or even some crappy candy-type medicine to suck on. I left all the medicines, teas, and honeys (literal and figurative) at my old place.
So now my throat hurts, and it impinges on my ability to make the kinds of lighthearted jokes that those who aren't in pain sometimes manage.
Let's briefly discuss the Olympics though, shall we? My brother turned on some Olympic coverage tonight and Lordy me, there was this insane shit going down. These crazy motherfuckers were flying over these moguls at a hundred miles an hour, they looked like they were moving in fast motion, and then they'd do these crazy freestyle jumps. How new is this shit? How old am I? I feel like I took a brief nap and woke up in some crazy Jetsons universe where skateboarding preteens have taken over the airwaves. Wasn't there once some kind of debate over what was a traditional winter sport and what wasn't? What happened, did they just say, "Let's just include whatever kind of crazy exciting shit we can dream up."?
Well, all I have to say is, hell fucking yeah. I never though the Winter Olympics could make such quality television. Everyone was screaming at the top of their lungs the whole damn time these guys were doing their runs. Then, when they got to the bottom, they'd have to stop on a dime to keep from plunging into the stands, and they'd end up spraying ten feet of spectators with snow. Rock 'n' roll, baby! My favorite part was when they interviewed some Jonathan Moseley feller (the best by far - I didn't understand the judges' bias against him) and he kept saying that despite earning gold in '98 and not even getting a medal this year, despite his obvious superiority, he was still "totally stoked". Hey, it's all good, bro!
Positivity has really been a boon for today's youth, hasn't it? I mean, that's why they get to play in the snow, while the generation above them foolishly chainsmokes and churns out blogs to excise their negative, circular thoughts. What I wouldn't do to be a part of the "it's all good" generation, instead of sulking around with my pale, lackluster, Dougie "Fresh" Coupland-style brethren. War blog, whore blog, I say! Chore blog! Bore blog! Snore blog!
Mired in my snore bog,
Monday, February 11, 2002
EXPOSE YOUR LIMITATIONS
What's your verdict on:
"limiting my exposure"
b) not creepy
That depends. What are you limiting your exposure to? Limiting your exposure to the world in general? That implies a certain degree of self-importance, doesn't it? Like the world is waiting in joyful hope for you to poke your big nose out your front door. Limiting your exposure to bad TV? That's a pretty unpretentious use of the phrase. Limiting your exposure to pairs figure skating, since those damn Russians always win? Creepy, yes, but for other reasons.
Personally, I think Sasha Cohen might have a shot. I watched Nationals when I was in Durham, and you know, as sort of wilty and unrefined as figure skating can be, it's also sort of thrilling. I guess making tons of difficult jumps mandatory helps to up the stakes to the WWF Fear Factor level. It's a heartbreaking sport, really, not easily undertaken by neurotics. Take someone like Michelle Kwan. She's graceful, she's puts a lot of heart into her routines, but that dippy little preteen Tara Lipinski races onto the ice, all big ears and elbows, and she snatches the gold right out of America's Sweetheart's clutches. Why? Because she nails her jumps like a robot, while Michelle screws one up slightly, but is otherwise breathtaking and provocative.
OK, it's true. When figure skaters get carried away, so do I. This is why I like the sport - it's all about overwhelming emotions like pure joy and grace and the desire to bust someone's knees in with a baseball bat. You can practice all your life, but get a little bit distracted, just for a second, and you won't be nailing that triple, which means no gold for Goldilocks. This is why we like Michelle Kwan - when she's in the zone, not only does she do everything right, but she has that look of thrilled happiness on her face that really gets everyone within 100 square miles into it. I am growing tired of her pure joy signature move, I have to admit - that slightly skewed one-legged arms-outstretched thing? But I like the red necklace, and I want her to win. That little weasel Tara Lipinski made her stay in the game for another four years, and it had better fucking pay off.
I also like Sasha Cohen, because she's inconsistent (I can relate) and her moves are original. The other woman? Not so impressive. Can't remember her name.
See how little exposure I need to make sweeping judgments?
I'm not incredibly interested in the Winter Olympics, otherwise, but I did watch a little snowboarding today. It was very weird to see what appeared to be young skate rats going for the gold. They all seem to have those strange inverted chins that come from saying the word "dude" too much. Maybe having a chin compromises one's aerodynamics. Maybe they let their chins get really big, then shave them off the night before a big competition.
OK, where were we? "Limiting my exposure." I guess I really need some more specifics, but my gut feeling is that this is not an overly offensive or creepy phrase. Then again, I'm not a trustworthy source for such information, seeing as how I live in Los Angeles, and I'm coming up on 10 years in California, where we don't use hushed tones to discuss our issues, our astrological signs, or even our psychics. We're freaks to whom you'd be well advised to limit your exposure.
But if you can put this one into context for us, more bad ideas will be heading your way.
Friday, February 08, 2002
NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST OR STOLEN ITEMS
Shouldn't chicks who steal boyfriends wear shirts that say that?
No, no one took my goddamn boyfriend. Jeez, you fuckers are so chafingly literal.
There's a raw thrill that comes from typing straight into Blogger, a thrill that cannot be replaced - that need not be replaced. OK, there are ways to replace it, truth be told. Perhaps it does need to be replaced.
Oh, need. Who cares about need, when there's want and long for to contend with? Was that three prepositions in a row? Do I get a door prize, a frisbee that says "Margler Life Insurance" on it?
Sometimes I think that I don't exist, except in the tortured mind of a male housewife.
Also I suspect that if I talk too much about happiness, I could start a veritable avalanche of female power, which brings to life things like threesomes and strong apple martinis and hurtful shoes and dildos, a word which might demand an "e" in the plural, but if it does, we're unaware.
You will feel better tomorrow, but that means nothing. You'll feel worse next week, but that also means shit. I am the worst possible person to ask for advice, for I trust not emotions. Or, I didn't, and now that's all I do. Emotions keep a slippery hand on the wheel, and one eye on the first mate's big dick. You know. They're not to be trusted. Or it's best to trust them, depending on how you look at it, and how much fiber you ate today.
Sometimes nonsense cuts the cleanest path to truth. Sometimes nonsense cuts twisting circles through the Amazon jungle, leading nowhere, and several infected bug bites and teary, desperate cries to the gods for mercy later, you starve, and are immediately eaten by large worms the likes of which no civilized man hath seen.
I think there should be a soap opera set in the Amazon, sort of like "Santa Barbara" meets "Aguirre, Wrath of God."
big-breasted woman: Did a praying mantis the size of a poodle just run off with the last can of refried beans, or are my eyes deceiving me?
arrogant european man with gorgonzola breath: I am the ever living and the all powerful! Get behind me or die!
Actually, this reads more like a presidential address. Is nothing exotic and morbid in this godforsaken world?
Wednesday, February 06, 2002
INFINITELY APPROACHING ZERO
I don't exist, except in the tortured mind of a male housewife. I might be a drag queen or I might be a hated and feared media critic, maybe with a technology or business slant. Plus, I might be just a horny construction worker. I might be all these things or none of them, alpha and/or omega, being and/or nothingness, but my question is how do I actualize myself? I know that this is not a problem you have faced, but how do these people who don't exist get famous? Do you have to have an agent?
Am I being too abstract?
Admiring the rabbit,
I object to the ease with which you sidestep the obvious dichotomy you present with your "all and/or none of the above" trick. One might say you subvert the trap of duality in a provocatively non-Western manner. However, I find it typically male and very American of you to conquer the concept of Other by simply using a bigger net.
Yes, I'm kidding. There's nothing I like worse than lit theory wanking. OK, lit theory wankers, maybe.
Onward: It's much easier to get famous when you don't exist. Existence is one of the major impediments to fame, in fact. No one wants to think that you actually have a name that might remind them of someone else they know, some ordinary lump with mediocre dreams of couplehood, televised sports, moderate wealth, and the occasional plate full of chili cheese fries. Better to be an archetype of some sort, that way you can bend the collective unconscious to your will. Talk about your bulletproof marketing strategies!
Naturally, you'll need an agent. You're nothing and/or everything without one. I'd hook you up with some of the agents I know, but they won't even call me back, and I exist in the material world, as far as I can tell.
Everything and/or everything,
You seem well-versed in men behaving oddly and have put out a call for crappy-advice seekers. Why not chew on this carrot?
Say you have a man, who is by man standards pretty incredible. He can basically dress himself (except for the occasional marriage of two shades of green), can hold intelligent conversations, has his own business, and has pretty decent taste (with the exception of his penchant for bad '80s bands). Say the two of you fall in love, move in together and go through an unfortunate rough patch. Say the cause of the rough patch has been solved and was not a major indiscretion (no cheating, lying , etc.).
This man, though insistent of his love for said advice-seeker, decides he needs "space" to heal from this indiscretion (which never amounted to more than poorly chosen words of anger fueled by momentary insecurity). Man says to woman, I would like to to move out, but there is no rush, take a few months to get your self together. As an aside, advice seeker upon moving in with man fire-saled all furniture type belongings.
After a few initial days of mutual crying, hurt, proclamations of love etc, things start getting "better". Advice seeker commences an aggressive campaign of focusing on her own life and having fun. Since that point and over the past few months Man and Advice seeker resume all relationship type activities including dating/sleeping together. Man has not told friends or family of situation and maintains to outside world that we are "together", which in all ways conceivable, we are.
In fact, things inside relationship have never been more rational and fun, except that in our inside world, he says he still needs space. What type of Flinchy behavior is this? Why go through the trouble of I love you's and caring/dating etc. to just push me away? What is he trying to accomplish here? What is his soft flinchy skull thinking? There are only so many warm loving conversations and good times one can have without wondering, why if you are happy with how things are progressing do you feel the need to stop the forward momentum.
Is there anything advice-seeker can do to convey to man the silliness of the situation?
Crappy Advice Seeker
I'd love to launch right into some half-baked thoughts on your situation, but there are so many holes in the information I have to work with. Please fill out the following form and return it to me, signed and dated, and we'll proceed from there.
Flinchiness Aptitude Test (FAT-462)
1. Which bad '80s bands does Flinchy like?
a) Duran Duran
d) other _____________
2. When you refer to the indiscretion, i.e. "poorly chosen words of anger in a moment of insecurity", are we talking:
a) "You know, kelly green and army green don't look so hot together."
b) "If you were such a self-involved jerk you'd understand how I feel!"
c) "At least I'm not a short, balding loser who can't get it up."
3. Did you, in fact, move out? Or are you still living with him? And if so, does he still want you to move out?
4. Is he a sugar-coater, or does he have trouble saying anything that might be misleading?
5. Is he less than proactive in other areas of his life? Would you describe him as "passive" or "distant" or "avoidant" or "a real dickwad"?
6. Is there a little voice inside your head that screams, "He doesn't fucking love you! Get out while you still can!"?
7. Does he come from a family where confrontation is acceptable, or are there lots of smiles and nods and simple summaries, along with occasional oppressive silences?
1) Flinchy likes a, b, and c, but they are not as offensive as his favorites, d) The Outfield (I am convulsing at the thought)
2) My words of indiscretion lean more towards b than c, something along the lines of (while he was preparing for a trial, yet still hanging with his friends) "Pay attention to Me! Am I not important? Perhaps I should leave, etc.." Not that I had any plan on leaving, but ya know things get fuzzy when anger and self esteem collide. He tends to think teal and olive green match, but really, that is just icing compared to his bright purple sweatshirt obtained circa middle school.
3) Still living with him and carrying on as a couple, oddly enough he is spending more time with me than before, and we are getting along like peanut butter and chocolate. He only brings it up (moving out) when he is cranky, and that is almost 100% of the time about something outside the relationship. After bringing it up he immediately becomes almost overly affectionate. On a few occasions, after a long stint of normalcy he brings it up, this is also coupled with the affection and I love, care about you's. Not clearly waiting, if anything still making plans for us to do things as far as a month away.
4) Not a sugar coater to me usually, but that said, he is a lawyer. He tends to be a little girly and emotional and has trouble letting go of things.
5) Pretty proactive, has his own business.
6) Little voice is screaming "Flinchy Dumbass, If you say you love me, make effort to spend time with me, and carry on as if you are in a relationship with me, in fact calling me your girlfriend outside the house, and things, as you have admitted, are better than ever, What Da Fu@#$$ do you think you are accomplishing by having me leave... What are you Smoking?" Perhaps I am missing something, after all I am in the situation. I just wish I understood what is going on in his flinchy mind.
7) His family, there's a touchy situation. I don't get the feeling that there is a lot of confrontation amongst his parents, his mom is sort of the demure, happy to have little contact with her husband so long as he keeps bringing in the big dr. paycheck to keep them in Lexus's and Beverly Hills sort. His parents drive him nuts though. They have very distinct ideas about what he should be doing with his life that he does not like to hear about.
I get the distinct feeling that if I take off, he will come crawling back on his flinchy hands and knees, but I'd really like to avoid that situation, Crawling is not very flattering.
When someone tells you about their relationship troubles, the easiest thing to say is "Forget him. It's over." It takes a little more effort to encourage someone to reach deep inside and find the strength to understand and accept another admittedly flawed yet fragile human being, even when it seems well nigh impossible.
But to you, I say: Forget him, it's over.
One of the most common mistakes women make is thinking that, "The more fun we have together, the more he'll see that we're meant to be!" That's not how it works. If he's asking for space, but still clinging to you whenever the mood strikes, he's not going to wake up one morning and find himself in love with you. You could be more fun than 50 barrels of monkeys and he still wouldn't commit to you. Mr. Flinchy doesn't make up his mind via fun, he makes up his mind via suffering.
Which is why you have no choice but to move out. He'll only figure out that you're the one for him if you move out. But let's hope that he doesn't, because you're better off without him. Here's why: He doesn't want you to rock the boat, ever, period.
You said "Goddamn it, spend more time with me" and he's so hurt that you need to move? Has he ever dated a woman before? I'm not saying women should feel comfortable losing their shit constantly, but everyone knows that part of dating a woman (hot hot! radioactive!) is putting out fires and cooling jets. If you got pissed off all the time, I could understand, but you got upset once and he acted like it was the end of the fucking world. If he blames you for breaking down once, out of insecurity (join the fucking club, everyone's insecure with Mr. Flinchy - for a very good reason), he's not up to the realities of a committed relationship. Either he's a pussy or he's using it as an excuse, or a little bit of both.
You're making it so easy for him, too, because you know the second you stop being easy, he'll be lugging home boxes from the grocery store and urging you to put your stuff in them.
Let me paint you another picture: You stay together, and one day you're trying to take care of the baby and the Christmas tree falls over and your hormones are a little wacky so you start to cry and you call him at work. What does he say? "I'm at work, jeez, I told you not to call me at work. You know I can't deal with this now." You hang up the phone and feel like the loneliest human being on the planet. You can't have a good relationship with someone who wants you to be consistently even-keel and strong and 100% need-free. Either he'll turn into an uncaring robot or you will.
Is that what you want your life to look like? If you think he's Flinchy now, just wait until you're 40 and you've got a little army depending on your emotional stability. See how you feel then, and see how he feels about having little people depend on him. He's not up for it and he knows it. Yes, he loves you. That's why he feels guilty for not really wanting to spend his life with you.
You can make all the jokes you want, but I know how it feels to get advice like this, I got some strong advice in the same way once and it fucking sucked, but I knew it was right. I hate breaking up, I hate moving out, and some days I really do hate being alone and thinking that I'll be the lady with all the dogs and the funky hats and the needlepoint throw pillows. But come on, we all do, or it wouldn't be a punchline on Sex & The City. The more you face the bag lady life, the better it starts to look. Oh sure, it's deeply uncool, but what truly good thing isn't?
This is where The Outfield come into the picture. As you're packing your stuff, listen to one of his worst Outfield albums. See? It was never meant to be.
Tuesday, February 05, 2002
WAVE OF RELOCATION
Apologies for the lull in these parts. I moved this past weekend, and seem to have tripled my stuff in the past two years. The sheer volume of crap I own, it's unnerving. If the crap weren't quite so crappy, that would be one thing. But I seem to be lugging around boxes of terrible, pointless, bulky junk that I've hauled around for...Oh god, ten years now.
Ten fucking years! That's old, when you're ten years into your independent adult life. You'd think I'd be an utter swami by now, the amount of time I apply to analyzing where I'm fucking up and what to do next. But nay, cricket. The road to enlightenment is not smooth, and neuroticism is a rickety bicycle with flat tires.
Cricket! Don't eat all the goddamn brownies, I just made those!
Special thanks to Ken, Matt, David, Laura, Apryl, and Emmanuelle for helping me relocate my huge piles of junk without complaint, at least none that I could hear over the sound of my own voice, bellowing orders.
Just the memory of it gives me goosebumps.
COOKIE, I DIG YOUR FRAME
I went to a Superbowl party, and didn't watch the Superbowl. Naturally, it turned out to be the Best Superbowl Game Ever To Be Played, Now and Forever and Ever, Amen. That's all well and good, but I had eyeballs to lose.
As much as I'm morally opposed to regret, I have to say, I look back now and I regret missing the game. I comfort myself by remembering the last good Superbowl game before this one - two years ago, I know it was close, but I still barely remember the game, because stupid teams were playing. I think the Tennessee Oilers played. Is that possible? Tennessee Oilers? Throw in the Memphis Grizzlies and you've got a state in search of itself.
As opposed to a self in search of a state, which is what I was on Sunday. Speaking of altered states, if you think you kind of sort of like Elliot Smith but you don't own the first album with the free-falling guy in blue on the cover (blue and white cover), you need to do some more research. This is just an excellent album, and suddenly my favorite song is not "Southern Belle" (as in "Kill The Southern Belle" for those of you who imagine me to be the kind of chick who gets green contacts and then sings along loudly to lines like "green-eyed lady, wind-swept lady!"). My new favorite song is "St. Ides Heaven". It's such a sad little song about addiction. I love sad little songs about sad little people. No matter how many times they remix and rehash it, I still love "Jane Says"- the first version is the best.
As in, the first version is the best, dude.
Something about living alone again has me rediscovering my music collection. My ex was completely nice about listening to my stuff, too. I just got lazy. But it's almost worth it, to comb through my old Pixies and Slint and Pavement and Built to Spill and appreciate them afresh and anew.
Things are getting dangerously blog-like around here, so I'd better duck out and look for more and better inspiration. I've got plenty of great letters requesting bad advice, and will get to them in due time. In the meantime, munchkins, hang in there and rest assured that the daily schedule shall recommence.
I will not lead ye down the path to empty rabbitless living!
Me, smug fucking me!
The world revolves around me, me!
Saturday, February 02, 2002
FREE, CRAPPY ADVICE
Just a reminder that I have tons of shitty advice for people with problems. It's probably time we swerved away from my tedious existence and sampled a wide variety of other people's bone-crushingly dull narratives, don't you think? No problem is too tiny and little for the rabbit, so send in those cries for help, pronto.
STUFFIN'? I'M STAYIN'!
i thought we were playing. can't tell if i touched a nerve, or if it's all part of the "deal", but i wanted you to feel some love from my direction. i read your blog everyday for the same reason i read everything i can find that you write: you're gifted, ballsy and fun.
please take credit where it's due and know that my unwarranted criticisms were all meant in the spirit of "write to rabbit, damn it."
ps - lghblblghblghlblgh is lifted straight from jerkcity.com and is the sound of a mouth stuffed with dick.
Of course it's all in good fun. I like the mean letters best of all, because they allow me to show my true colors as an arrogant jerk. But I used your letter opportunistically, to address a common dilemma of mine: if real doesn't seem very funny, is real good enough? Generally, for me, the answer is no. But then a part of me also feels justified in writing whatever pointless slop I feel like writing, even as I proclaim it pointless slop. And I get weary of the Must Be Funny compulsion, as it's tied to other, more complicated dysfunctional tics. If I were a columnist, I'd quip lightly on the subject, then move on. Since I'm a self-indulgent blogger, I drag the whole mess out and pick through it, full of unanswered questions. Unpleasant, perhaps, but a worthwhile exercise, if only for me.
I see from your use of the word "ballsy" that you're a man. I think I assumed you were a woman when I read your letter - it was your use of the word "yummy" that made me think you were a woman, I see now - a woman urging me to shut up about fat and bangs and get to the quippy insults and fucking. You know, that strikes a nerve, coming from a woman. From a man, it's such a natural response it's not even noteworthy. There's a certain kind of attacking tough girl that I think gets me down, because it reminds me of former selves/some of my personalities, etc.
Please, feel free to be mean. It's hot and sour soup for the asshole.
Friday, February 01, 2002
DAY OF THE FUCKWAD
crap, again. damnit, just when one gets used to the yummy pulse dancing under the soft, furry skin of the rabbit (you know, the thing that makes it everything that it is), suddenly (just sounds more dramatic, actually it's been coming on for a while) it's all about losing boyfriends, being fat or worse (which, of course, is NOT being fat), exercise regimens, bangs, doormat syndrome, etc. honestly, barfa wawa and her stewed crue this is NOT supposed to be.
remember when the old lasalle ran great? that's when the vagina puppet was doing the talkin. that's when leia wouldn't hide behind an excuse like hair washing, but would have told wimpy luke right to his face that she wanted to boff his bud and not his lame self.
bangs! BANGS! lghblhglhblhglhb
Dear LGHB etc.,
Please, by all means, tell me what my blog is supposed to be. That's what blogs are all about, after all: Getting paid nothing to write stuff that caters to the special needs of others. Why would I have started this blog, if not to become locked into a regular schedule of writing 1000 or more words a day that I self-consciously comb through, second-guess, and tailor to entertain as many humans as possible?
When I want to maximize the make-the-masses-laugh factor, I'll get a job writing for Two Guys, A Dog, And A Bottle of Turtle Wax. In the meantime, if you don't like reading stuff that I wrote at least in part for the valuable exercise of stretching the boundaries of my tolerance for honesty, which any good writer does constantly to ensure that his or her work doesn't stray too far into the land of the arbitrary, the false, and the self-consciously consequence-less, then by all means, go elsewhere for that "yummy pulse". The truth is, if I didn't challenge myself, I wouldn't have a pulse. If you want to eat bunny rabbit stew, start sending the tall dollars and I'll start serving it up. Otherwise, turn on Comedy Central and leave me alone.
WHAT CAME FIRST, THE CHICKEN OR THE EGGERS?
Those of you who haven't read the entry below yet ("Thinly Veiled"), please try to read it not with the concept of downtrodden, melancholy confession, but lighthearted self-disembowelment. OK, maybe not lighthearted, but alienated enough not to be tragic. Or alienated enough to be tragic, depending on your perspective.
Jeez. You'd think I could do the Splayed Ham Pose once in a blue moon without either eliciting unjustified pity or raising the ire of those trolling for a quick guffaw. I mean, the alternative is that I come home in a crappy mood and don't post anything. Is that what we want, huh, Johnny? Don't make me put the nice toy away.
Think about it: I've been posting every day. I'm moody and dysfunctional. You think I've got a happy-go-lucky cartoon world coming out of my ass 24-7? As much as I chide myself openly for the fact that I don't, this is sort of what I was talking about. Since everyone's here on their own time and no one's making more than a little blended mocha money, shouldn't we venture into the truth every now and then without sugarcoating it with humor and self-deprecation?
Man, now I'm starting to sound like Dave Eggers. In fact, he's a great case study for this stuff, because he can't stick to a persona that keeps everyone satisfied, so this vulnerability shows through, and then he feels exposed so he tells everyone to fuck off, then he offers up lists of his charitable donations as a means of offsetting criticism regarding the money he wasn't supposed to make (um, why the fuck not?), and he's got all these hopelessly cool projects that not everyone loves because, um, he's picking them based on his own personal tastes, and he's got book-signing gimmicks to both market and protect his true self from curious onlookers, yet he knows it's way, way too late for that - he wrote a memoir, for christsakes, and more power to him. I have all the kneejerk Eggers responses of any Eggers hater, but fuck, the guy's courageous, and he bites off more than he can chew, which I think is incredibly admirable.
Yes, he retreats into anger and self-consciousness - but who doesn't? Who would view such responses as a mistake, aside from someone who's even more self-conscious and therefore prescribes self-restraint as a way of life? Certainly it can be argued that he lacks creative self-restraint, the kind that makes a Raymond Carver or a Nathaniel West. But given the already horrifying self-squelching for the sake of cool that afflicts our generation (late-20s-mid-30s), where would such restraint lead Eggers? Down that path taken by JD Salinger, who, based on his utter retreat from the world, didn't see around Franny's narrow views, despite artful authorly manipulations that might have once seemed to indicate otherwise. Eggers' appeal springs from his lack of restraint, in fact. Think about the courage and reckless abandon it takes for the editor of a cool-to-the-point-of-paranoid magazine like Might to write a memoir. Yeah, he's not the most talented American novelist ever to have lived, and that makes all the attention he gets unjustified? Why? He gets attention for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that he's an incredibly original human being. His multiple personalities are duking it out in public, he's got new projects a-plenty, and he alternately apologizes and refuses to apologize. Britney gets lots of press, too, and she's not a truly great American author. You're just jealous, aren't you? And who isn't? Personally, I'm hoping to write a thoroughly mediocre debut novel myself. If I sell a ton, will you kick my ass and criticize my choice of shoes?
I hope so.
Ah, well. Now I'm sure people will write and say, "Why are you so pissed off?" I guess it's a fault of my writing that I can't indicate subtleties of mood. Everything is misread as extreme, like one night I'm weeping, and the next day I'm furious. The truth is I'm always just here, smiling slightly as I write, and writing for catharsis. It's better than kicking cats. Again, depending on your perspective.
Don't worry about me. I really like to write. As long as I'm writing, things are never that bad. They might be bad for you, because I'm not writing shit that's consistently hilarious and fun and outrageous, but that's really your tough shit, isn't it?
Me, grandiose me!
Hot pastrami and me me!
Today was a motherfucker. I tried to write, I tried to get shit done, to no avail. The fates would not have it. My friend's car broke down, and I came to the rescue. My other friend had surgery and her other friend bailed on taking and picking up, and I came to the rescue. The Type 1 in me was pissed. "Give me productivity or give me death!" it screeched in my ear. But sadly, I started reading "The Drama of the Gifted Child" in the hospital waiting room, and over the next three or so hours of waiting (I shit you not - they said come at 6:45 pm and we didn't get out of there until 10 pm) I learned that I fit all the wildly dysfunctional profiles. Not that it should come as any surprise, at this point, but somehow reacquainting oneself with one's utter fuckedness afresh can be something of a fresh bummer. But then, tomorrow, there will be more caffeine, more exercise, and perhaps a renewed ability to make big jokes about how screwed up I am. Which, of course, is yet another affliction common among the fundamentally unhinged. Woohoo. Also: sacrificing one's own needs for the sake of others, then feeling annoyed, but blaming oneself for feeling annoyed. And did I mention my grandiose nature, which hides the real me? The real me, who's fearful of her inherent lameness, and therefore craves adoration?
Maybe I veer recklessly onto this terrain as a means of calling the little bald man out from behind the curtain (a horribly overused metaphor; I apologize). Maybe the rabbit years are meant to undo the bulletproof cheer and unrealistic bill of goods sold via the cartooning years - or even before that, because the drunk fun-girl years were perhaps the biggest lie of all.
But then, grandiosity is a wild ride. I hate to cling to my sick little toys so desperately, so transparently, but being the insensitive macho chick made college much easier for me than it was for my more sensitive, less screwy friends, who thought playing drinking games that made you puke was fucking stupid. And needless to say, my weird childhood wouldn't have been any fun at all had I been painfully aware of all that transpired, instead of hiding in my room making my Star Wars action figures go on dates. ("Ding dong!" "Who is it?" "It's Luke. I'm here to see Leia." "Oh crap! I like his friend Harrison! Tell him I'm washing my hair!")
Honestly, is anyone still out there? Hellooo?
When I started this fucking blog, I vowed never to resort to completely 100% irrelevant, uninteresting stories about my day, as in, "First I went to Ralph's to get some ham..." I'm not insulting those who write this kind of thing, not at all. I just think of myself as... Well, I can't answer that without the grandiosity function. God, I miss narcissism already. I remember when I let both fly, unfettered. Ah, nostalgia. I remember when I didn't have itchy welts on my legs, just like it was yesterday. Gee, our old Lasalle ran great.
Now that we've plunged down the cliff and smashed into a million pieces, how about a nice letter, hmm?
BIG CLAIMS DISPUTE COURT
Liar, liar, combustible trousers! All this time we've been lead to believe that there were spare rabbit bits that were in need of melting away, that lassitude and injudicious snacking had left you puffy and mottled like Jasmine Bleeth's booger sugar mug shot. And then today this Large-ish, Hopeful individual more or less throws down the gauntlet and smears you with the lardy end of the "chubby bunny" brush. But: Feh! That's right: Feh! I've seen the photos! Behold: (url omitted).
There you stand, with all your bloggy pals, drinking wine and smoking butts and looking for all the world like someone who, were she a dog, would never know the pain and humiliation of having to switch over to Cycle 3 or the Science Diet.
It's a good thing I'm on Zoloft and as such am dead to the world of your human emotions, because otherwise I'd be feeling sorely betrayed.
Since the window of honesty has briefly been propped up, let me say that I'm not thrilled about photographs online that people can find and view and associate with this blog or anything else I've written. Some guy at OJR interviewed me and wanted a picture of me in my office, you know, just doing what I do. Bleh! I mean, how could that not be incredibly disappointing? Have you ever seen an author photo that wasn't disappointing at some level? The person is always too ugly or too good-looking - either way it fucks with the work. I loved Jonathan Franzen's book "The Corrections", but I'm disturbed by the fact that he looks like someone I'd despise. He just looks like a dick. It's fucking stupid. First of all, who cares? Secondly, how can someone look like a dick? And yet, it's like they said in Pleasantville: you can't stop the bad head that's inside of you. It forms bad thoughts. You see the picture, and the bad head connects the dots, no matter how you will it to do otherwise.
Sometimes I second-guess my preference on this subject, and explain it away as a manipulation - crassly creating interest in the reader by not making all information readily available. But the truth is that I really do prefer to be words on the page. That's the thrill of writing. There's no "Oh, you. I know you! I know why someone who looks like you and sounds like you and smells like you would write that. I know all about you." Call it the writer's perverse (and totally unfulfillable) need to be "understood" for "who they are" and judged by their books, and not by their covers. Or, call it a cover-judger's paranoia and fear of the bad heads of others.
I guess you could also call it vanity. I look like an immensely lame human in those pictures. And goddamn it, I'm a rabbit! Neither lame nor human! I bestride the narrow world like a colossus!
As for the fat, well, whatever. Did I claim to be fat, or just lazy and disgusting? I'm going through a break-up right now and therefore exercising a lot to keep from sulking (see also: denial), but I've been chunky-ish in the past. I had a framed picture of my family on my mantel a while ago in which my face looked like an ass. My smile pushed back large round mounds of ass. I had big, thick, ugly bangs, too. But I liked the picture. See how un-vain? A petite blonde once saw the picture and gasped and said, "Why do you have this...framed?"
As for pain and humiliation, isn't it obvious I've had both in larger doses than is good for a dog?
I envy your deadened status, frankly. I, too, was blissfully alienated from my emotional experience for weeks there, then I had a bad day and read a scary book that reminded me of The Real Truth About How Fucked I Am, and now I'm all fucking in touch with my stupid inconvenient emotions again. Of course, the pain of feeling things is but a distant memory to you, you bastard. According to this book, though, unless you face The Truth you'll never really Live. What do you think of that, fatty? Huh? Did that get through the armor of your chemical cocktail? Huh? Huh? Huh?
Inherently lame and thirsty for denial,