Nothing More Than Feelings Posted by Sad Blogger , 28.2.12 at Tuesday, February 28, 2012, in

Heeeeeeeeeey looky here! I'm actually writing something again. Actually, since my last post I've written several short stories, finished half a novel and generally acted like I had something better to do. But I'm coming back to my roots (blech) and revealing to nobody in particular the latest idea-thorn that's been stuck in my brain-paw. That idea is how much I despise shitty people.

See, the problem with shitty people is that when you tell them they're being shitty, they act all shitty about it. People are so incapable of taking constructive criticism graciously. I mean you can't even call it criticism. It's advice...life lessons. If I was being a total cocksucker—whether in public or just in a private conversation—I would want to be informed. You know, I'd like to know that I should shut the fuck up because I'm embarrassing myself. AND ALSO know how to behave next time. I like when people tell me what the boundaries are so that I know they're not secretly loathing me and so that I'm not walking around with a THIS GUY'S AN ASSHOLE sign flashing above my head with a big arrow and those fancypants old fashioned bulbs all blinky-blinking. I can only assume other people would be adverse to this as well.

But they're not, maaaahhhnnnnn. Obviously, this issue runs deep in teenagers and younger adults. High school revolves around kids calling each other out on their bullshit and going off like armpit-scented nukes. But I'm referring to grown-ass adults, men and women who should have learned from that high school shit and come out the other side with some tact and graciousness. Because let's face it: most people are cunts and they need to be told they're being cunts so that they stop being cunts and don't grow up and die having never learned to be decent human beings.

Typically, however, telling a person that they're being shitty results in a defensive carpet-bombing of your own character. Don't worry, though. Assuming you're self-aware enough to be calling another person out on their shit, the hateful dreck they'll spew at you will be some petty garbage that you've already owned and accepted. See, that's the problem with these people. That's where the emotional response comes from. You just want to help them overcome their ignorance and reactive bullshit, but they're unable to. And that's the point that I've been hopelessly struggling towards. Like imagine my point is a mouse with above average intelligence and I'm a cat with two broken legs and a missing eye. Maybe I'm even wearing some torn up old clothes like kids in foreign movies about the drug trade. Just for emphasis.

The Point:

Nope, I don't know how to segue from my ramshackle introductions into my aimless, meandering main points. What you see is what you get.

Shitty people are the way they are because they believe in feelings. Feelings are the mind's way of bypassing the effort it takes to think through complicated problems. Reasonable people are able to face their problems and logic their way through them, but most people just see their issues as impossible math equations for which they haven't been given the formula sheet. That's why they invented things like meditation and therapists..they're basically calculators (if we're sticking to the math analogy) for the unreasonable. I'm not saying that feelings can't be legitimate in some situations...the last time I brought this up at a dinner, somebody cornered me with goosebumps:

"Haven't you ever listened to a song that just immediately gave you goosebumps?"

Of course I have. I think most people have. And I have to admit that at the time, I hadn't thought through my hypothesis thoroughly and was forced to stick my foot in my mouth. But if you think about it for just a second, even without a full understanding of how all the science works, music is just sound waves bouncing off some sensor in your brain and sending an electric charge to whatever part of your body it is that makes goosebumps. Obviously your senses are real. The ability to feel cold or feel a blanket. Even feeling happy is a response to chemicals in your brain. But when someone says something like, "You know, that really hurt my feelings", they're being unreasonable.

Your feelings can't be hurt because you dreamed them up inside your head. They're imaginary. Saying, "You hurt my feelings" is basically just saying, "I refuse to deal with the truth about myself so I'm going to react emotionally instead of sorting through my issues and becoming a better person."

Alright maybe the part about becoming a better person is a bit of an exaggeration, but I think if people were more self-aware, they actually would be better people. I, personally, am overweight and a bit of a manchild. I'm not obese and I'm not hopeless, but I am honest with myself and accept the fact that I'm about 30 pounds heavier than I should be, and about three years behind in my progress as a human being. That being said, if anyone were to call me a fatty or make some crack about being a loser living in his mom's basement, they wouldn't be completely accurate, but I would have zero right to object. Neither does anyone else. If you attempt, out of the kindness of your heart, to correct a shitty person on their behavior, they have no business acting offended. They need only look at their actions, compare them to the social conventions we've all agreed upon, and acknowledge their indiscretion.

Some people have told me that this attitude is a cop out. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but it seemed like a professional way to lead into a new paragraph. I don't think that it's a cop out of anything, though. Being realistic about what feelings really are allows me to avoid any responsibility for people's reactions to how I speak to them and prevents me from reacting unreasonably to however people speak to me. I'm generally less stressed because I'm not constantly stewing over how I feel, I have excellent self esteem (perhaps unhealthily so), I'm able to think clearly about major decisions in my life, and I have more time for other people because I'm not wrapped up in myself.

I'm tired of ragging on so I'm going to just end this here. I'd make some half-promise to possible come back and fully flesh out whatever point I was trying to make in the future, but let's be realistic...I've never actually concluded anything I've posted here.

Ta-ta,
Sad Blogger

This Is Kind Of A Funny Story Posted by Happy Blogger , 14.8.11 at Sunday, August 14, 2011, in

I'm going to keep this one brief.

I know that working in the theater business, you are likely to run into to people, people perhaps that you didn't really want to run into.

However. It is your job. You are paid to do this. So personal feelings aside, and I answer the phone as usual.

Typically a good reservation can be done in 3-5 minutes, but some days you get the people who really REALLY enjoy just talking.

This particular phone conversation went on for atleast 15 minutes...however the circumstances of the conversation made it seem like an eternity. I ask for their phone number (per usual) to pull up their file, and I realize that this person has the same last name of my ex.
Just because they have the same last name doesn't mean that it's his mom, it could be
just someone with the same last name, that happens, ya know!?
She tells me her son would really enjoy all the music of the play.
Okay, as far as I last knew, he did like this music, however maybe it's a possibility it's
not him...
She tells me she wants to bring her son for an early birthday present
Okay, sooo now her sons birthday happens to be the same month, turning
the age he is supposed to be turning...

WARNING: Now, this is when things get a little awkward, I know realized I was speaking to my ex's mother, but I didn't want to tell her or anything because I was at work, doing my job, and I kept figuring that the conversation would end, like it was supposed to 10 minutes ago.

She asks me about the bar next to the theater, she wants to know if there is a dance floor- her son LOVES to dance (shit) . I tell her I'm not old enough to be in the bar, so I don't know all that much about it. She then goes to tell me that I should meet her son, he's really a nice, cute boy. (Ummm, been there, done that, got the t-shirt) **insert awkward/nervous laughter here** She then asks about what high school I went to. (Shit, why didn't I lie). Then she asks if I had any older siblings that went there/ and their last name. ( Shit, am I really telling her my sisters name). THEN she asks to confirm my name again (Yes, you have just been talking to your sons ex girlfriend on the phone for the last 15 minutes, tried to set me up with him, and now are realizing...) "OOooh, Happy Blogger?- Bye"

Conversation didn't last all that much longer.
Cool.

Oh, did I mention that I work the doors the night that they were coming to the show?
Yeah...
Thank God, I was busy with another customer when they came through.
However, I did have to walk in last customer into our theater and the end, and I had to walk right past their table. I'll be honest, the revenge push up bra I bought the day before made me feel really good about myself. And I walked away all self righteous.

The end.

Oh, and for those who care, there's a 40% off all bra's at Aerie.
Definitely worth investing.
-Happy Blogger

The Old Colossus Posted by Sad Blogger , 13.8.11 at Saturday, August 13, 2011, in

Well hello there. It's only been ages since we've made a peep, eh? I swear I think about you, even though there's only like one or two of you, you matter to me. The thing is I don't want to submit you to all the terrible ideas I've had for posts over the course of the summer so far. I have a travel blog to go through and edit and pretty-up for you and maybe that will be nice some day. But apart from that, the ol' inspiration (remember that stuff?) is nowhere to be found.

However, I had kind of a cool idea for an angry poem today. I wanted it to be long and epic and full of rage. I wanted it to articulate a kind of creative fury through the use of clever punchlines. What I ended up doing was sort of mashing together some awkward rhymes and giving it a re-read and bursting with shocked laughter at how hateful it was. It doesn't convey any sort of feelings that I actually have, I just wanted to remodel Emma Lazarus' The New Colossus. But as you can see, it managed to contort itself into something my great grandfather, raised in small town Texas at the turn of the century, would probably have beamed at. Have a look-see:

you know what
take back your tired your poor your huddled masses
your fat asses and assholes your cops and robbers maggots and tadpoles
the wretched refuse junkies and users domestic abusers
wretcheder and refuser
there's enough teeming on our own shores
take them back
we don't need yours

So ya, not long at all, hardly clever (To be honest, I'm pretty proud of the concept and I insist on its brilliance), and just off the rails in terms of hate. Not anger, hatred.

Anyhow, it is what it is. Of all the things I could have posted after such a lengthy sabbatical, it's not quite up to the standards I feel I've established for myself but now I'm rambling to an degree even more embarrassing than usual. So take it or leave and a bunch of other dismissive cliches. I hope I can pop in to give you something far more glorious in the near future.

Might have to change my name,

   - Sad Blogger

I Want To Ride My Bicyle! Posted by Happy Blogger , 19.7.11 at Tuesday, July 19, 2011, in

I want to ride my bicycle!
I want to ride by bike!
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride it where I like!

Let's be honest, there is nothing worse than having a summer where you spend it moping around, trying to find things to do. Yes, I have a part time job answering phones for a Dinner Theater Company, but that only takes up a minimal amount of my time. I do some odd baby sitting jobs and 'get my mail' jobs, but realistically that's not going to eat up my days either. Because I need to make money like crazy, I have to stay at home all summer.

For the first little bit of July, I got the privledge to stay in a gorgeous house and watch my cousins dog. This house was a house sitters dream. Absolutely massive, huge TV's, king sized beds that smell like scented candles, massive deck, and I had the liberty to use anything in the house. Need I say more.

I also had a massive family reunion. Only 1/4 of my familes history was completely written out on 3 huge poster boards. It's ridiculous. My family was the kind of family that would organize a reunion where we would have a huge party where we sat around tables, passed around a microphone, each introduced ourslelves, and figure out why we were named what we were named, and see if our names have family ties. When it was my mother's turn to explain my name, she said I was named my first name because it was Irish, and it flowed with my older sisters name. Then she went on to explain that my middle name (which was my great grammy's name) was given to me because when my great grammy came to visit me in the hopsital and she held me, we both had wrinkly hands. What a story, huh?

We also had different colored bandana's given out for each generation and gender and wore them the entire night. Oh, and not to mention, we tried to teach all our american relatives to line danec. Out of all of them, my 83 year old great aunt who's a nun did the best job. Amen!

Some days I spend with my Gramma, just helping her with stuff around the house. I love going over because when she goes down for her afternoon nap, I also sneak off to her living room where she has a massive massage chair, and sit there in utter happiness and after a massage or 2, take a snooze. Not to mention, she has a beautiful sounding piano, where I can sit for hours and just play whatever.

In preparation for the arrival of the finale to the Harry Potter movie series, I watched the DVD's at home, and dug myself a hole in my TV room where I indulged in the magic and catered to silly headaches with water and advil.

In my opinion, I thoroughly enjoyed the last film. I got the worst gut wrenching feeling when Snape was killed, and when we saw Lupin and Tonks dead. Personally, I didn't think that Fred got the credit he deserved when he died. I started to full on bawl when Harry approached the Dark Forest, accepting his death. For whatever reason, seeing his parents, Lupin and Sirius just killed me. Then, I kind of spent the rest of the movie laughing. Voldemort trying to all pumped about Harry being dead just made me laugh, and that 'awkward moment when the dark lord tries to hug you' with Malfoy just made me laugh. I can recall the first time reading the Epilogue in the 7th book, and keeling over laughing and almost peeing my pants laughing, so I did the same in the movie. I mean, how can you not laugh? All was well!

The same night I saw Harry Potter, I also saw the Winnie the Pooh movie. It was seriously so well done, and the cutest thing I have ever seen. At one point, my cousin pointed out the tigger reminds her of my Dad. I don't think I can ever look a tigger the same way again, mind my dad. It's weird how my Dad oddly resembles an ADHD Tiger.

Bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy fun fun fun FUN FUN!

I'll be able to keep myself preoccupied for the rest of the month of July, however I feel that august is going to be the longest month of my life.

All I want to do is ride my bike. The only thing that kind of sucks is that one of my families bike has a sketchy gears and makes clicking noises and the other 2 have a flat tire that my dad lost the pump to fill the tires up. Hmmmmph! I shall have to figure that out. For August, it'll only be my sister and I at home. She works full time, I don't. Meh! I feel like I'll do alot of solo exploring.

Sunday morning, go for a ride?

I'm really hoping to score fulltime come september. I might die from emptiness. Not actually, but still.

I need to start setting little goals. Like learn how a stupidly hard piano piece, knit a sweater, learn to meditate, read books, make a scrap book, lie out and watch the stars, actually make plans if I'm bored, walk along the river, have a cards night, clean my room, go for a jog- a hike! Do a puzzle, climb a tree, draw a picture, camp out in the back yard, have a camp fire, sing into the broom when no ones looking, work out, bake, sleep in, wake up early, learn new language, ...live really.

So this is me, logging in from my first bike ride of the summer. Even though it was twice as hard peddling with a flat tire, I persisted on. Hopefully it will be the first of many adventures.

La la la la la la la la la la

-Happy Blogger

Honey Pie, You Are Making Me Crazy. Posted by Happy Blogger , 13.7.11 at Wednesday, July 13, 2011, in

It's been a veeeeeeeery long time since I've written anything. I never even finished my adventures in China... for another time maybe.

Let's just say I've been in limbo, and I'm waiting to come back to earth.

In all news, I graduated highschool with 195 credits, and walked the stage and managed not to trip. However, as I was getting my picture taken with my principal, I walked away so excited, running off to give my TA a giant hug, I by accidentally left my diploma with the principal. He had to run over to me and say "Happy Blogger! You might want this..."

The mass earlier that day was interesting. We got to sit in alphabetical order within our TA groups. My TA group always seems to be the ones in trouble or making a scene. Throughout the mass, we sat there talking and making jokes. When it came time for communion, we were all making remarks within our little group, and we looked up to see our TA shaking her head in disaproval but with a hint of "I wasn't expecting any less than you to be joking around". It's a bad habit, cause I tend to talk/ make jokes through out any catholic mass, however, in my head I'm not being disrespectful, it's just that they aren't going to tell me anything different at this point. In our gryffindor colored robes, things got hot real quickly-like. I felt embarassed because I was sweating so much under the robes, and I was barely wearing anything under it! Poor boys in there jacket/pants. Anyways, it came to the point in mass where we all got to shake hands, and I was almost embarassed cause I didn't want anyone to shake my sweaty hand, and then remember for the rest of time as the girl with sweaty hands. To my suprise, everyone else had super sweaty hands which made me feel 110% better about myself. On our way to lunch, we got a flat tire. Oh well.

Early I mentioned how I am in limbo. I say this because it's as if everything is numb, and all these changes in my life haven't really "hit" me yet. It's like I'm just staying a-float because I'm wearing a life jacket. Not swimming nor drowning.

Anyways, it wasn't until the finale of "WICKED" which I got to see twice at the Jubilee, when Elphaba and Glinda were singing "For Good", that I had a moment of "shit, I'm not going to see most of the people I graduated with" ever again and "Shit, I'm moving on with my life". I was drowning for a moment, but now I'm back to wearing the life jacket.

In all other news, Kate and William came and drove the Stampede Parade "backwards". I kid you not, Kate Middleton looked right at my friend and I and waved. I squealed and cried. That's not embarassing at all....
Just a fun little anecdote.
One time, I was at my aunt and uncles house for dinner, and we were talking about Will and Harry's daily jobs. They went on to tell me that Will is a search and rescue guy in wales. I then awkwardly said..."he can rescue me anytime..." It was one of those, "Shit, did I say that out loud?". That's okay. I still stand by that statement.

On top of that, I seriously envy my grandparents generation.
I want to be an old person.
Seriously.

honey pie, you are making me crazy
I'm in love, but I'm lazy
so won't you please come home?

-Happy Blogger

The Science of Getting By Posted by Sad Blogger , 26.6.11 at Sunday, June 26, 2011, in

There's a film coming out this summer with a sure-to-attract-a-slew-of-contemporary-romantic-types title, The Art of Getting By. Naturally, I bash the title because it's been stuck in my head for the past week or so and it really does have that 21st-Century sort of artsy fartsy, "oh my mind is troubled and I just can't help creating beautiful things because of it" vibe. IMDB sums it up thusly: "George, a lonely and fatalistic teen who's made it all the way to his senior year without ever having done a real day of work, is befriended by Sally, a popular but complicated girl who recognizes in him a kindred spirit." Yes, I admit I have an obsession with "isms", fatalism especially. No, I will not be seeing this film.

I took a look at another trailer for the movie in the middle of writing that last paragraph. It was a different trailer from the one they've been shoving in between episodes of Love It or List It and House Hunters (yeah, my life is thrilling), but it gave me even more insight into why I despise the existence of the movie. When I sat down to write this whole thing some four days ago, I was simply toying with the title. I didn't like that it suggested there was an art to getting by. Rolling "The Science of Getting By" around in my head was getting boring and I needed to express the notion in a broader context. I had this big diatribe planned that was going to explore the idea that getting by is, in fact, a science rather than an art. I was going to dribble on about how art has no real rules. How art comes from inside people who are connected to whatever it is that feeds them with brilliant ideas. How art is subjective and even if one person says it's wrong, it can be a completely new kind of right for another person. It's abstract and fluid and freeing and infinite.

Getting by is a science because it's always the same. Sure, some people might have their different methods, but they will always arrive at the same conclusion. It has rules and a consistent structure. It is two-dimensional and suffocating and finite.

Getting By
Step 1: Wake up the first time and imagine not waking up.
Step 2: Wake up the second time and notice how urgently the clock is trying to get your attention.
Step 3: Wake up the third time and accept the fact you're not dead.
Step 4: While pissing, showering, dressing, eating, brushing, think of ways to be not-alive.
Step 5: Cling to whatever excuse to stay alive makes the most sense today. (My family needs me)
Step 6: Keep clinging.
Step 7: Masturbate to create temporary clearness of mind.
Step 8: Resume clinging.
Step 9: While eating, pissing, brushing, undressing, attempting to sleep, think of not waking up.
Step 10: Take advantage of not being a member of conscious existence.

At one point in the trailer I watched, this George kid takes Sally on her first school-skipping adventure. He begins with a set of rules, one of which is just simply..."Noodles". I assume that's supposed to be funny to people who are amused by silly-sounding words and all-too-familiar to the school-skipping culture. Like an in-joke overcompensating with "in" and in desperate need of more "joke". Anyways, in practically the same breath, he declares you must "cut rarely in order to preserve the 'specialness'". So it's meaningful to him and he's creative or something with his witty, inventive non-words. Hey! I thought he was supposed to be fatalistic! I did too. But apparently he's managed to find some meaning in the actual act of slacking. Oh, I just had a thought. These people think they're making Ferris Bueller II.

But they're not. Sad face. They are, once again, "grown ups" attempting to emulate another sub-culture of youngsters that they don't understand. I know that sounds shockingly juvenile and out-of-character for me to say, but read my reasoning GODDAMMIT!!! Just like Diablo Cody thought she was Little Miss Catchphrase with Juno, Gavin Wiesen seems to think he's going to be the voice of the slacker savant. Little Georgie is a brilliant artist who just doesn't give a shit about his education. He makes smartass remarks to the teacher about how meaningless her lessons and assignments are (maaaahhhhnnnn), he tells his art instructor he has "nothing to say". OK wait a minute. A couple seconds further into the trailer, he's this soulful mystery guy that says things like "I'm the Teflon slacker" and "I like layers." So we're shown that he's passionate about his do-nothing-ness but then we go back to the art teacher urging him to dig into his soul and say something about what he REALLY cares about. Of course that's when he realizes he really cares about Sally.

Plot summary aside, this film feels like it's reaching for some cultural middle ground. Like it's going to be the next gateway to clique-equality. Like the geeks before them and the stoners before them, the soulful slackers are finally going to receive recognition. But they're being misrepresented here. That whole "I don't see the point" attitude doesn't come from an inability to recognize what you care about. It comes from the understanding (with blinding clarity) that you don't care about anything. This kid needs his class-cutting and noodles and his art and his girly-friend. He doesn't represent an ism. He's not the new archetype to plumb for entertainment gold. He's a scripted mess.

As I'm skimming over all that, I feel like my point got lost somewhere. But is that so new? I think I touched on all the ideas I'd been mushing around. Oh, kind of a side note. I watched Bandslam the other day and it felt kinda like The Art of Getting By is going to be. Like a writer overheard a teenager mumbling incoherently about what losers he thought all his classmates were and a lightbulb went off: "I bet I could synthesize that rage and manipulate it to create characters that represent what I believe teenagers are!"

Dear writers, stop it.
   -Sad Blogger

To Hell With Exposition, Context, or Introduction Posted by Sad Blogger , 11.6.11 at Saturday, June 11, 2011, in

I find it difficult to recall my childhood. It's not that my memory is particularly bad, I just know that there was a point in my life at which I was decidedly a sissy. I was the kid that would grab the soccer ball when it (finally) came to me and clutch it to my chest in a bear hug, subsequently bursting into tears when the other kids screamed as if the world were ending. On my first day of the third grade, I was the new kid with no previous knowledge of what a "religion journal" was, subsequently bursting into tears when the teacher asked me to get mine out. I remember most specifically a day one year after that. Our fourth grade science class was raising mealworms (affectionately called "mealy worms!" by we yon idiots) to observe their transition from pupa to adult. Part of our project was to construct a little house out of cardboard and milk cartons for our wee subjects. Ambitious architect as I was, I set out to design a trendy bi-level apartment for my bugs, Nolan and Oscar. Halfway through the shingling process, my fat friend, Geoffrey, approached me from the side and informed me that A) I was doing it wrong and B) I sucked. Subsequently, I burst into tears. My parents had neglected to prepare me for what I started to believe was the world out to get me. I imagine if you look closely enough, there are WWII trenches carved into my skin from the constant deluge of hurt feelings and broken dreams that flowed down my cheeks.

Oddly—or more so, naturally—enough, rather than sinking into that role and become a sadder person, or learning from my misfortunes and becoming a better person, I rose from my presumed ashes and became the maker of cry-babies. Starting at a new school in the fifth grade, I immediately picked out the wimpiest kids in the class and set out to establish my higher status. The conveniently-named Erik Bultman became Erik Butt-man and everybody laughed. The obviously poorer-than-everyone-else Erik Bultman was called out for his crimes against vanity and everybody laughed. The scrawny, poorly-groomed, Urkelesque Erik Bultman was tagged and targeted and tormented and everybody became uncomfortable. So technically there was only one wimpy kid in class and literally I was a bully. I didn't know better. I suppose that would have to be the moral if this story had one. I didn't know how to examine my situation and see the difference between right and wrong. That's how kids think. Nobody had really done anything to make me less of a wimp or to make my world less wimp-provoking, so it made sense that I go about creating and prodding as many wimps as I could. Or just the one. I hate to admit that I continued being that person until my parents decided to start homeschooling me in the seventh grade. Even as I write this I am realizing that decision may very well have come at the behest of the parents of every preteen I degraded in middle school. There's nothing like getting the punch line a week after hearing it.

I thought that "vanity" thing was a pretty decent wordplay.

   - Sad Blogger

PS for kareno - I don't care if this seems familiar, I think it's a passable example of my ability and worth sharing :D

You Shall Be "You" Because To Give You A Name Would Mean You Exist. Posted by Sad Blogger , 17.5.11 at Tuesday, May 17, 2011, in

What you need is a good dose of "none of it matters."

Give it to me. 

I don't have a syringe big enough for you, my dear. Even if I did, it's one of those things you can't just have administered. You have to fall into that habit by yourself. Fall through enough trapdoors. Until you land on your back and that numbness in your spine shows you the truth. To put it less pretentiously, I can't change your mind. You have to let yourself realize it.

Well that's not happening. 

You know how people always talk about how nothing is perfect? You gotta figure that means the next best thing anybody—anything—can hope to be is "enough." Poets speak, with leaps and bounds, of the hyperbolic lengths to which their lovers excite their senses and how the women they admire set them ablaze and it seems like horseshit. You don't make my heart explode and the world doesn't disappear when I stare into your eyes. But I smile when you're around and I do stare into your eyes and that's enough. If you'd been paying attention, it might have gotten through to that beautiful mind of yours that you're enough.

You didn't say I had a beautiful mind. You said I had a thick skull and I laughed. 

Whatever. People weren't meant to be considered against the entirety of existence. We look at ourselves compared to EVERYTHING that we are aware of and we are aware of too much. The world is on fire around us and it's ruining our lives because we see it every day. You have to ignore the flames. You have to bring it down to something far more local. You have to take yourself personally. Inside the sphere of your existence, you are "You" and nobody else matters. You depend on yourself and only you give yourself license to continue existing. So tell me, if only you matter, what else matters?

You want me to say "nothing" but I can't. A person who is a people person can't think like that. 

You say that as though I'm not a people person 

As much as you want me to say something more insightful, changing my words won't make your point. First of all, since you can't say it, I will. You aren't a people person. You just feed off of other people's energy. You can't feel so you suck the feelings out of them, bring them up then pull them down into your misery just so you can remember you exist. You use them. Secondly, I said, "But you're more okay with not giving a shit about what people think."  

Right. It's because what they think doesn't affect me. It doesn't affect anyone. What is it that you think you get from people that makes it so worth-it to pursue?

I just care about what others think. I want to know what they see. 

They see what you see in them. Everything that you've thought about other people is what they're thinking about you. All the shit you've thought and all the sunshine and all the dark clouds and all the butterflies. It's all the same. Everywhere.

I think horrible things.

Yes. You expected nobody else would? You never considered what's inside all of our heads? It's as bad in here as it is in there.  

Quit adding words. It's not clever if you're editing the way it came out the first time. But I don't want people to think bad things about me. I'm sweet, usually honest, and adorable .

You can't stop them, Stupid. There are seven billion people out there and if we put you on a conveyor belt and every one of them had to look at you and judge you within twelve seconds, one billion people would adore you and six billion would loathe you. And not a single bit of it matters. 

... 

That's not an actual response. Because all those awful things about other people that YOU think, dont affect them. They keep moving on. You sneer at their shoes or you click your tongue at their slutiness or you fawn over their writing or you lust after their eyes and it doesn't make a single goddamn difference. The same goes for yourself. People tsk at your vertical handicap or stare deeply into your eyes or cringe at your freckles or long to hold you forever and it doesn't make you a different person. It doesn't even make you YOU. You make you you. We are ourselves and all this exterior is fluff.

The worst part is knowing how many "You"s there really are and how much I long to fill your mind like a thick syrup. How much it matters to me what you think. Hello, I promised I'd be a hypocrite and your humble admirer has delivered. Think of me. Happily. Seldomly. Finally.

You boy-faced prick,

    -Sad Blogger

It's Like It's All This Guy Thinks About Posted by Sad Blogger , 14.5.11 at Saturday, May 14, 2011, in

It's days like this, when stumbling upon something so incredibly haunting, that I hate humanity a little bit less.

Imagine the day you stumble upon something that will make you love humanity.

I took the preceding from the comments on a YouTube video. The first is not all that important. Sure, I can relate to it...I feel like most days I'm actually seeking out the filth of the internet so that I might further my hatred for the world. Not even the filth. Sometimes the most beige, innocuous blog entry is enough to infuriate me just because of how completely dull people actually dare to be.

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I sat down and started writing all that about a week ago. I logged in a couple times on separate days to edit and adjust, but each time left me bored and uninspired. Which is somewhat ironic since the post was going to end up being about inspiration. I'm pretty sure I wrote a blog last summer about inspiration and how powerful it is. I probably waxed poetic on the way it comes over you and surges through your veins like when the surf pounds against cliffs in dramatic movies starring iconic blonde women. Ya, that kind of shit.

I can't be bothered to actually go back and find that entry, so I'll just keep making assumptions about it. I probably fawned over how long that "I just need to create" sensation hangs around you neck like a little boy with Polio. (Yes, most people would say a chain or something of the sort. A chain is too heavy for this capacity though. The weight of inspiration in like when you have just enough blankets during a not-particularly-cold night. They aren't so much keeping you warm as much as they're just keeping you safe with their presence.) I would have regaled you with my pontifications that the weight of inspiration isn't violent. That it's less like a punch and more like a firm massaging sensation.

But lately it seems so fleeting. A friend of mine questioned my constant reference to inspiration in the past tense. "I was inspired." "It was an inspiration." I explained to her:

To be inspired isn't to be pushed along like the first time you ride a bicycle. It's like being pushed off a cliff.
You get the spark you need and the rest is freefalling.
You gain momentum because that's the only option you have.

Bit of a change in perspective after a year. It was a rather impressive thing to say, though, wasn't it? In fact, when I sat down to write this, I pasted that quote into the bottom of the text box to eventually work into the entry. There's a good chance I finally sat down and committed to finishing this just so that I could shove my philosophizing in your faces.

The truth is that I want to be inspired. As much as it really is a punch in the gut, that freefall is quite spectacular. I wrote a poem last month copying the style of John Donne's "The Good Morrow" and I'm very proud of it. I think it's beautiful and impressive and the people I've let read it echo my sentiments. The poem itself is about inspiration and I think I was inspired when I wrote it. The romantic artist in me is obsessed with the idea of a muse and finding one's own voice within the soul of another, etc.

I've lost my point completely. Once again, the comments on that YouTube video made me think about how easy it is to look around and feel contempt for everything around me. I was about to say 'around us' but maybe you're not as much of a miserable grouch as I am. Either way, the notion that there's something out there that might make me fall in love with the world was refreshing. It still is. Not enough to inspire my ass to work on writing something for more than 5 minutes, but at least there's a bit of a spark. It was kind of like a plenty-of-fish pep talk without the cliches and subtle references to my loneliness. I hate to admit it in these words, but it gave me hope.

Here's hoping,

   -Sad Blogger

April 23- 1-2-3-4 Songs Posted by Happy Blogger , 10.5.11 at Tuesday, May 10, 2011, in

April 23/11


So we woke up at 3:15 am, and checked out, grabbed our "breakfast boxes" and headed out for the airport. My hair (bangs especially) developed this crazy finger curl type style that was commented on several times. The airport was chaotic, but it was swell. Once on the plane, I decided to close my eyes until we took off. 45 mins later, I wake up, and I didn't even know we had taken off yet, I had completely passed out. Airplane food was gross, but I ate the bread off a sandwhich. There was mush. Twas gross. Anyways, we landed in Xi'an, and it was beautiful, it was much less westernized than Beijing. We were so tired because we had been up so long, and we hadn't even eaten lunch yet. Our tour guide explained that Xi'an is better known for its noodles and dumplings (YES!) so lunch was pretty awesome. Then we went to this wall in Xi'an (and no it was not the great wall), however it had a total length of 9 miles. We got the options of biking on the wall, so Rachel and I got a tandum bike. It was hard to get used to at first, but a couple minutes in we got the rhythm (1,2,3,4)! We sang the entire time. BEATLES! JAMES BROWN! ABBA! At one point, we almost went down this flight of stairs because there was no ramp. Thank God we noticed! Our last song we sang was "Thank you for the music!" by ABBA which about summed up the experience here in China. The wall was soooo beautiful, and it was very hot, but with a nice breeze so it was perfect temperature. It was a perfecet experience, and it was a really memorable moment for Rachel and I. At the end, we were attacked by several chinese by-standers, and we stoof there for about 5 minutes getting our pictures taken with so many different people. Rachel poured her H2O on her head and mine too. We went to go back to our new Hotel (it had cool purple stairs that changed yellow when you stepped on them). After being supremely sweaty froma 9 mile bike ride, a shower was well deserved! I felt so fresh after! So Rachel and I put on our pretty dresses and went to a show. The show was various types of traditional chinese dances, and cultural demonstrations. I was at the front which was amazing. GOAL: I'm going to learn to do a back flip when I get home! Supper was a large buffet that was crazy packed. Oh well! I've given up on eating meat here. I just can't do it. But food was much tastier, but still fairly greasy and makes me sick. Tum Tum Tum Tums (sounding like Beethoven). Went and visited Madison and Rhianons room-super sketch- they seriously have the worst lulck ever! Madison saved me in my time of need. (Once again, mother nature can go die in a hole). Went down to our room 516, and vegged with Rach. We talked for a while and talked through emotions.


-xxxooo





You think airplane food is bad in Canada? Just imagine China's.... For me, everything was mystery meat- because you could never really tell what was what anymore. They gave us Kongi(?) which is sort of like tapioca porrige. Gross. Anyways. Being at the wall was amazing. Because we had been traveling that morning, we were all wearing heavier clothing because it would cold on the airplane, however it was about 35 in Xi'An so we just had to deal with the heat. At first Rachel wanted to do her own thing as per bike, but I asked her if we could try a tandum bike together. I had never been on one before and it was freakin' hard the first couple of minutes. One of you loose your balance and you're going down! It was great for Rachel and I, because we got a chance to work together to keep in balance and harmony with one another. We started saying aloud "1-2-3-4" and then we would find songs that would keep us in a rhythm so we wouldn't fall over on our bike. We were in complete harmony with one another and it was just an exhilirating experience. It took us about an hour and a half to get around. We were just doing our own thing. I can bet that chinese people aren't used to having people sing for an hour and a half at the top of their lungs- because we got a lot of strange looks- but we didn't care. Our hotel was amazing, and ofcourse I was naturally drawn to the purple stairs (Madison and I both!). We stood waiting to get our keys for our room for forever. I kind of wished that our school would be a little more organized when it comes to this kind of stuff- oh well, what can you do? My luggage showed up in a later group, so I had to sit around in my stinky clothes an extra hour than most people. Yummy. Rachel and I got all dressed up. For the most part, I don't usually dress up all nice and what not- but sometimes it is the best feeling to take a shower after 9 mile bike ride and to put on a nice dress! We felt pretty:) After the show, it was ridiculous. They should have organized it so that only 1 or 2 tables go at a time for the buffet- but instead it was a free for all. So I tried to get some dessert first, so I could have a "Marie Antoinette", but even that had a huge line up. Our table gave up on trying to go and stand in line for food. So I went and got a plate so that we could all share at our table. P.S. mashed potatoes in China are called "Soiled Bean Mud". What? Anyways, they were pretty good. We got back to the hotel, and I went up to Madison and Rhianon's room. I swear, they were the only students on that floor, and their view was the back of several sketchy buildings and what not. At one point when they were in this hotel room, and they came in and it smelt like smoke... I figured it was an underpaid staff in need of a quick smoke. Went back to my room, which was less sketchy thank god, and just hung out for a bit, eating cookies and chocolate- because I promise you, my friend, there are none of that in China!

-Happy Blogger