The Grand Adventure Posted by Happy Blogger , 6.4.12 at Friday, April 06, 2012, in

Australia
40 days
2 cousins
1 hell of a time.

I can remember counting down the hours until I left for the airport. I had my shoes and my backpack on atleast an hour before we had to leave. When we got to the airport, we approached the check in kiosk, not really knowing how to prepare ourselves for such an adventure. We waved our parents goodbye, ready to head for the land down under. 19 hours of flights and we were in Australia. When we arrived in Australia, we were really lucky because we had our Australian relatives come and pick us up, and house us until we left for our tour 4 days later.

While we were in Sydney, we were adjusting to the new time and doing the usual tourist things. Sydney Harbour Bridge, Sydney Opra House, Botanical Gardens, the Zoo. It was great.

Early one morning, we got on our tour bus. The place where we would find refuge for the next 21 days. When we got on, my understanding is that everyone would be on the tour for all 21 days. Apparently not. It was a whole bunch of small tours combined, so the majority of people would come and go. On the entire bus, there were only 3 of us doing the whole 21 day tour. Myself, my cousin, and a British girl named Laurie-Ann. When we learned we would be on the same tour for 21 days, we figured we might as well get aquainted. Luckily, we seemed to hit it off right away.

Being on tour was a lot of fun. I had never been in such an environment before. Being in a small little bus with people from around the world and staying in hostels. Our first night, we hosted a "Garden Party". It was a fun time. The second night we had another "Garden Party" which consisted of a bottle of wine per person and several beer. I'm pretty sure when we were waking up at 5:30 the following morning, we were all still drunk. Ooh the life of a backpacker.

From Sydney to Melbourne, we had a 'sensational' Aussie tour guide named "Squatter". Some of the highlights of the trip was hiking up Mount Kozsiosco (up and down in 3 hours!), the 90 mile beach, and a 'Bush walk' where we got to get 5 ft away from wild kanagroos!

From Melbourne to Adelaide, we got to drive along the Great Ocean Road, got to see the 12 apostles, and got to see wild Koalas. In my opinion, this was the most calming part of our trip. Great accomodations, the weather was ideal...etc.

Once in Adelaide, we spent 2 days there as we had a free day. On our first night in Adelaide, Myself, Rachel, Laurie-Ann and Lindsay all stayed in the same hostel room, 222. It was Lindsay's birthday that evening, so we decided to have a night on the town. There were pre-drinks in our room, and then we headed for the Woolshed in Adelaide. Let's just say there was mischief to be had that evening. I was the first to head home around 1am. Laurie-Ann followed. When she got in, I was completely passed out. Rachel and Lindsay didn't make an apperance until almost 7 the following morning. Let's just say, the ladies of room 222 spent our free day recovering.

From Adelaide, we hopped on the Stuart Highway and made our way to Alice Springs. Along the way we stopped in Quorn where we got to see the Flinders Ranges and large Huntsmen the size of your hand on the wall, then off to Coober Pedy which was the BEST part of our trip in my opinion. It was the coolest little town in the middle of the outback, where it can get so hot there, that the vast majority of the houses are under grounds in 'Dug out's'. In Coober Pedy was where we got to sleep underground, eat the best pizza in Australia, buy my Opal Ring, and noodle for opals ourselves. Did I mention we got to sleep underground? I must say, that was the most comfortable I slept the entire trip. Off to Marla for Valentines Day where Laurie-Ann and I wrote poems for everyone on our tour.

I like chocolate
I like cake
give it to me now

Then up to Ulara where we got to go to Uluru and Kata Juta. While we were at Uluru, it was 50'C around the rock, and we weren't allowed to walk around the base of the rock because we could die of dehydration. Gotta love the Australian Outback. Then up to Kings Canyon, where we stayed overnight at a campground where there were wild dingoes and we slept out in our swag bags underneath the most beautiful night sky I have and will ever see in my life. Being the the middle of the outback, no cities for miles, the sky stretching out right above you. I honestly have never seen stars look like that before. It was mesmerizing. It was as if the sky was putting on a show, in that moment, just for you, showing off its depth and mystery.

Our tour from Adelaide to Alice was a pretty crazy bit. Sexy Aussie tour guys, Ratti Boy and Shano, caused infatuation amongst certain girls in the group. Not the mention, being on a 24 seat bus where almost every seat was full, and the bus with no air conditioning, I thought we could pollute the world with our foul stench. Proper mingin'!

Once in Alice, we settled in our room. Our first night out, we went to Annie's where I indulged in massive amounts of potatoe wedges. Laurie-Ann and I split 2 pitchers of cider, so I was surely feeling the buzz. We danced around, left for the Casino, danced at the Casino. At one point, I look over and Dan is pouring a pint of beer down Laurie-Ann's dress. I could barely believe that just happened. We went outside,and a group of german boys we had met were leaving. "See you next sunday..... I mean.... TUESDAY!" I can recall Laurie-Ann saying that as if it was just yesterday. Tooo funny. Then it was time to cab home. Dan renamed my camera "Fucking Napolean Dynamite", ran into an aboriginal fire, and could barely mumble his english. We finally got back the hostel, luckily I was the most sober and helped Rachel and Dan get to bed. The next day in Alice, we spent in our Hostel Room, where I decided to air out my stinky clothes. I swear we were all drugged from the stench. The only time we left our room was to go get food. Finally at 5, we emerged from our room for a swim. We were in the pool when Laurie-Ann suggested we play a game. "Let's play cars! Don't crash into me... I don't have insurance!". Still intoxicated with the stench of our room, I almost drowned from laughing so hard!

Then off from Alice in the morning we headed up to Darwin. We went to the the Daly Waters pub, where people from around the world leave souvenirs. Rachel and I left Canadian pins with our names on them. One of the days, we were at Mataranka (or Matti-tar-tar as Laurie-Ann called it), which was a natural hot springs, however we couldn't go in because 3 million bats had flown in and litterally shit everywhere.

We got dropped off in Darwin, and spent the night in a crummy little hostel room. The next morning, we were off again to tour Kakadu and Litchfield national park. I vividly remember saying at Uluru, how can I get more sweaty than I am now?! Our tour guide warned us of Darwin. That the humidity would really get to us. After about a 45 minute easy hike, I was drenched with sweat. How my body could produce so much was beyond me. I was going absolutely mental. I recall writing in my diary... I'm loosing my mind... It appears to be slipping away from me just as the copious amounts of sweat. I actually had a little breakdown. I needed to get off the tour. I mean, it was lovely, and it was probably the best decision we made, however.. I needed to get off a bus! I needed to have a bed, not a bunk in a tent! I needed non- tour food.

We finally got back to Darwin, where Rachel and I decided to upgrade our room to a private room. BEST IDEA EVER! I unloaded all my stuff and did all my laundry. Our room smelled regardless of the fact that this was the cleanest our clothes had been in almost 3 weeks. Our first night in our room, we decided to allow ourselves to sleep in the next morning. Rachel managed to stay asleep until 8:30. I woke up at 5:30, as I was programmed, but then went back to bed until 7:30. I got up, and had some time to myself before Rachel got up, so I decided to straighten my hair. By the time Rachel got up, my hair was a frizzy little poof on the top of my hair. Humidity hates my hair. What the point of even packing the straightner... oh well. Rachel and I by accidentally spent $18 dollars on gelato, so we couldn't afford to eat anything but our rice crackers and peanut butter for a couple days. Oh the life of a back packer. Oh, and because we decided to upgrade in Darwin, we couldn't afford our third night of accomodation, so we slept in the international section of the Darwin Airport.

Off the Cairns. Finally we can relax. Or so we think.
We got to our hostel, Tropic Days. It was the furthest hostel out of central Cairns, however it was the most lovely place we could have spent our 8 days in Cairns in. The staff were so nice, and we ended up becoming good friends with some of them. Not to mention, they had FREE WIFI! Which was a huge deal, considering we used to be spending $1 for 15 minutes of internet before. We decided that we would go for our sky dive on leap year, figured to do something special on a day that is already special. However, because it had been raining in Cairns, it was cancelled. Rachel, Laurie-Ann and I were so bummed. The hostel suggested we rent a car, and drive to Milla Milla falls. So we did, and we ended up having the most fun! At one point we had the water falls to ourselves, and lets just say, What happenend in Milla Milla falls, stays in Milla Milla falls...The next day, Rachel and I were off to the Great Barrier Reef. It was so beautiful and amazing, finally we could swim in the ocean without getting eaten by a crocodile. While we were looking at the reef, we did see 3 reef sharks. I also managed to burn the tiny bit of my face that wasn't protected by the UV Ray suits/face mask and become severely hydrated to the point that I was hallucinating that night. I spent most of our day trip to Cape Tribulation drinking water and catering to a horrible migraine. Luckily the rehydration tablets kicked in, because the next day I would be throwing myself out of a plane at 14,000 ft. It was probably the craziest thing I will ever do. I was so unbelievably buzzed, I had so much adrenaline pumping through my body. I was like Leo, the King of the World. I remember being in the plane, and not being scared, even though I figured I would. I remember angling myself out of the plane, and not being scared. I remember the moment when the guy tilt my head back, and the next thing we were soaring down to the smalls stretch of beach down below. There is no real way to describe the feeling of free falling. You almost feel like you are flying. I'll be honest, my ears were hurting so bad, but I couldn't even care. Another Happy Landing. What a life I have. What an exhilirating feeling.

While in Cairns, we were fortunate enough to get free evening meals down at the Woolshed, which was party central cairns at night. Many drunken moments to be had at the Woolshed. Mexican Mondays, Tropical Tuesdays, Wet T-shirt Wednesdays... Drinking goon behind a bush, dancing on the tables in the club, and Miss/Mr Backpackers competitions. Crazy craziness.

I think one of my favorite days was when we spent the day by the lagoon and made a BBQ by the ocean side. It was absolutely stunning.

Laurie-Ann had to leave for the coast, which was devesating. After spending a month straight with her, I knew I was really going to miss her. We really clicked, and I know I will proper miss her. I vaguely remember saying Bye to her. I was so embarassed because the night before she left, we had Tequila by the poolside, and everyone eventually left, and I remained in the pool sipping on a bottle of Tequila. 5:30 the next morning, I was still drunk saying bye to Laurie-Ann. I'll be honest, by 2 in the afternoon, I still was drunk. No more tequila for me...

Eventually Rachel and I had to head back to Sydney. By this point, I was ready to head back. I mean, I love travellilng and I will miss everyone, but Rachel and I were getting sick, and I longed to be home. Our last 3 days, we laid on our aunts couches while we past the time watching sitcoms on the television. Thank God the dogs, Bronte, Boston and Mia were there to keep us company. The only time we got up was when we went to Woolworths to spend our last Australian notes on Tim Tams, Cherry Ripes and Fantales.

We were dropped off at the Sydney Airport, and we said our final goodbyes to Australia. We had a long day at the airport; a 14 hour flight to San Franscico, then an 8 hour lay over where we mainly just slept in the airport because we were so sick, and then a 3 hour flight back to Calgary.

Our families greated us with open arms from our trip. It was really nice for Rachel and I, because I honestly thought that this trip would be a "Make it" or "break it" trip for us. I was pretty convinced that we would come back from Australia, and not want to talk to each other for a long time after, however Rachel and I became closer while we were in Australia. It was really nice.

Getting adjusted once I was home was really difficult, because I was so sick that I couldn't sleep properly, and I didn't adjust to the time change right away. I went to the doctor soon after of being home and was diagnosed with acute laryngitis and a sinus infection. I figured it was some cruel and unsual punishment. I mean, I just got home from the trip of a lifetime, and I couldn't even share it with the world? How fair is that?!

Oh well.
I met amazing people from around the world.
I gained a new bestfriend, whom I proper miss.
I was pasty and cold, and then I was warm and tan.
I was dependent, now I feel independent.
I was fearful, and now I'm fearless.

It was a Grand Adventure.
My grand adventure.

Until next time,
-Happy Blogger

Finding My Way Back To Here - Chapter 1 Posted by Sad Blogger , 29.3.12 at Thursday, March 29, 2012, in

Listening to the doctors' chattering is unnerving.

You know when you're on the bus downtown and you've got some Asian kids babbling on one side and a Puerto Rican couple yammering on the other side you can't understand a single word of it? You know? They could be plotting my assassination for all I can tell.The doctors, too. Poring over their clipboard, pointing and nodding and deciding whether a gunshot to the head or poison in the ear would be best. I'd probably go with poison. It would make for a better story.


Body of Poisoned Mental Patient Found

Brain Melted Down And Leaked Onto Pillow

Not that I would mind if that happened. Like, yeah, maybe it would suck for whoever found me. I don’t know what brain matter smells like. Probably not good, though. Especially if the poison reacted with my brain and made some sort of brain-poison soup. Like brains and bay leaves. That would suck I guess. But still, I wouldn’t complain.

I think about these things a lot.

The main doctor, the one who never wears a lab coat, Dr. Mahoney, eventually shakes the other one’s hand and turns to me. I don’t know the other one, but he’s looking at me too, even though he’s walking away. Doctors always look at you the same, like you’re a math problem that they know they can solve but you’re just a really hard type of math that they haven’t studied since math school. Even if you’re doing better, they still kind of just study you like any moment now you might be not-doing-better again. Mahoney walks toward me and tries to cover up the doctor look with an awkward smile. He’s just trying to be a normal human being, but the guy’s a doctor and you can’t hide stuff like that.

I go back to watching the window so he doesn’t feel like I’m waiting for him. There’s not really anything out there I haven’t seen before, but if you concentrate on just the glass and move your eyes around, it looks almost like the whole building is moving and you can pretend there’s something out there other than the hemlock tree and the broken park bench. It’s funny. Before I came here, I always imagined mental hospitals to be ominous brick buildings with overgrown lawns and single trees and broken park benches. I guess that’s because that’s what they are.

“Hey,” his voice sounds like Spock’s, “you ready?”

I nod and he gestures toward the inpatient medical counter. Today’s nurse, the Wednesday nurse, smiles at me and hands Mahoney a bottle of pills. Her smile is way more convincing than Mahoney’s but it seems so out of place. Why would the Doc get his meds from the psych ward? Maybe her smile isn’t so out of place, though. In her situation, why wouldn’t she be friendly? Smile for the crazies! “Smile for the crazies, Beth. Just keep smiling for the crazies and they won’t drool on you.” I return her grin with what I hope is sympathy. I can see how the ward might be disconcerting for some people, but I imagine it’s entertaining for the hospital staff most of the time. I mean, when they’re not on their Cold War-era super-spy missions dealing with one of the real fargone dopes.

But the guys that are good old fashioned cuckoo, they’ve got to be a treat after a day of wiping down that old bird whose only method of communication is to shit on herself and bellow a single note until she can’t feel it anymore. She seemed to have had a stroke. It makes me wonder if she is actually crazy, or just trapped inside her brain, without a way to reach out. Maybe her family just decided to leave her here to rot.

There are guys like Ted, though, who reminds us nightly that he is a tractor and absolutely must get back to Annabelle for the derby. Or Alastair, who maintains that he has been giving Fidel Castro a piggyback for the past four decades, and won’t stop until the floor stops yelling. It might actually be interesting to see the world through his eyes for a day. He can tell a hell of a story, too. Apparently Cuba has great weather this time of year.

A bottle tapping my shoulder snaps me back to the med counter.

Oh. They’re for me.

Nurse Beth-Wednesday is still airing her teeth while Dr. Mahoney waits to escort me out of the ward. Today I get to go back to my old life. Except it’s not my old life...or it’s the same life but in a different world...like the planet and my life are still the same, but I’ll see them different or something? I don’t know. I guess everything I’ve learned in here, I’ve only applied to where I am and everything else outside the ward will be new or something? So same life, same world, same everything but I get to start all over again.

I’m not a brain doctor. Like I'd have any idea.

I’d done most of my rehabilitating by myself apart from what amounted to maybe twenty cumulative minutes with Melly. That’s what everyone calls the therapist on staff, Dr. Melissa. I actually like her. She speaks like she holds you accountable for your own actions, but she’s also personable and gets to the point without making you feel like a math problem. If I would have had more time with her, I think she’d be one of those people get me to care enough to figure out what makes her tick.

“So it says in the notes from Dr. Mahoney that you wanted to kill yourself.”

“Well, that might have been what I wanted, but I don’t really know.”

“Generally, when you pull your chin up on the uncomfy end of a gun, we don’t assume your head just needed a place to rest for a minute.”

“I don’t know.”

“You seem to like that phrase: ‘I don’t know’”

“I guess.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

I think we were quiet for a while here. Either we were quiet and I was trying to figure out how to say it, or we weren’t quiet and I just want to imagine it was this big dramatic “Good Will Hunting” moment. You know, lots of yelling and tears: “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT ANYTHING, HOW I’M SUPPOSED TO FEEL ABOUT ANYTHING! I don’t UNDERSTAND anymore how I’m supposed to react to ANYTHING!”

It wasn’t that interesting.


“Don’t know. I don’t want to know. I don’t feel anything anymore and I don’t want to. I stopped feeling stuff ‘cause all feeling does is make you hurt. It works. I was getting by. And without feeling, I wasn’t hurting. ‘Cause everything hurts. It’s how I cope with-”

“You have to start letting yourself feel things again.”

“But my way works.”

“Then why are you here?”

See? She’s smart. Stupid me sat there and let the realization sink in for what felt like ten minutes. The scariest part isn’t that I let myself forget how to feel things, it’s that I had this thing inside me that made me want to just die and I couldn’t understand it enough to even question its presence. It had been so easy to just let go of everything and revel in the anesthesia. That’s what it was, you know? Like an emotional epidural. I guess it’s stupid to have thought that not feeling felt good. But it wasn’t working, wasn’t easy. What I’d thought was armor was the shell of a giant, emotional time bomb. At that point I realized she’d continued talking and I forced myself back into some state of awareness.

“Mr. McColl... Mr. McColl... Tyler?”

I guess she realized I’d been zoned out into what she could only assume was some anti-depressant, anti-anxiety medication-induced stupor.

“You’re an intelligent person, Tyler. I doubt many people would be capable of unlearning the ability to respond to their emotions. However, in doing so, you unlearned any chance you had at wisdom. To be wise is both your emotional mind and your rational mind working together. Depriving yourself of either is foolish.”


And so I spent two weeks in this dump just to figure out that I wanted to die because I was stupid. I guess I have Melly to thank for figuring that out, though.

So, uhm, thanks.

I mean I never really considered myself much of a “therapy person,” you know? They’re such clinical, anesthetic word. Therapy. Therapist. You can’t help picturing some tweed-swaddled mo with a notepad murmuring to a middle-aged elementary teacher who can’t get over the night her dad threw a plate of spaghetti at her mom on her sixteenth birthday. But the doctors want me to go find some now that I’m leaving. I guess after Melly, I could slide into it a little better. The nightmare is going to be incorporating it into my new “real life”. Fitting it in with a job that provides a paycheck that’s only slightly more appealing than living in a cardboard box and fishing for littered soda cans.

And they want me to “get out” more?

Why not pat me on the head and hand me a lollipop when they say it like that? Like I’ve been watching Captain Kangaroo for too long and need to spend more time out in my No Gurlz Aloud fort made from plywood and Kleenex boxes. To be fair, though, running through the woods to my fort and chasing after girls with my slingshot should give me the 2-4 hours of exercise I’m supposed to be getting each day. So my days will consist of working, exercising, and getting out. Which I guess is not the same as exercising? If I go outside and exercise for two hours, do I then have to go somewhere else and not exercise in order to fill my getting out quota? Oh and college! Make-up homework for the last two weeks on top of classes, getting out, working, and exercising. Unless going to class counts as getting out. Not clear on that one yet.

And in between all of that, I’m supposed to feel. Not even between, I have to feel stuff while I’m doing those things. I mean working doesn’t have a feeling associated with it. School doesn’t have a feeling associated with it. Exercising doesn’t. Honestly, if you bounce around wearing a sweatband, grinning all over the place and saying things like "oh yeah!" and "wheeeee!", go fuck yourself. But seriously, certain things are supposed to make you feel a certain way, right? These things, though, they just seem like they’re more things. More things to keep me from doing things that might actually give me a chance to feel some stuff. I don’t have the sort of friends who want to go out and do things with me. Our unspoken contract is that they go places and I come along to keep up appearances and we let me call it a social life. Are we supposed to now sit around my living room afterwards so we can discuss how we felt about it? I’m a very Point-A-to-Point-B kind of person. I mean except for the brush with the ol’ tres-deuce. Point A to Point A1/2? Necessity seems like the only thing that’s really...necessary. You go see friends because otherwise they won’t see you. You go to school because your job stinks and there aren’t many better options to finding a better one. You work because school costs a metric shload and as we already covered, you kind of need the school. Necessity’s a driving force.

I guess Mahoney decided the pill bottle hadn’t conveyed the degree of persuasion that he’d hoped for. A heavy hand budged its way, not unlike an overweight cab driver at 7-Eleven, onto my shoulder and gave me a squeeze that was probably supposed to whisper something like, “Alright, whenever you’re ready, let’s make those steps forward we’ve been discussing,” but sounded more like, “My wife asked me to pick up her dry cleaning on the way home and I don’t need a night of explaining why she’s going to have to pick up herself in the morning.”

We sign a packet of last-minute legal papers and the Doc slides me an envelope with his notes for whoever ends up being my therapist. We push through the doors to the ward together and commence our obligatory trudge down the long, 1920s-style, aquamarine-tiled hallway that maintains the mental image of an asylum in your mind so that the reality of it being a run-of-the-mill hospital remains slightly blurred. I mean it was legitimately spooky. There was an unsettling disconnect from the polished look of the rest of the hospital and the hallway to the psych ward. Like they wanted to scare away any wandering normal patients. But it really wasn’t so bad as like a prison in an old French Revolution film. Just spooky.

To be honest the hallway could have been a mile long. Being out of the ward was like crawling through the wardrobe to Narnia for the first time. It was a new place, but it wasn’t really all that new, but I knew that the door on the other end held something foreign. We stepped through the door at the other end, though, and it wasn’t really all that strange. But my parents were there and that was odd. The people who admitted me waiting to take me away. I mean it wasn’t weird the times when they visited. That’s what people do to people they know who are in hospitals. But it feels weird that they’re picking me up. Is that significant? I broke into their house because I knew that the gun cabinet was there and that the key to the cabinet was there and that everything would go according to plan. Easy peasy. I didn’t expect them to be awake at 1 in the morning. They’re like, old people.

I mean obviously they heard me break in, my dad rushing into the room with a baseball bat, all on edge while my mom stood behind him, scared. Since then, there was being dropped off and having a hot lunch and doing slow laps around the ward. Most of the time just sprinkled with a light smattering of lame conversation.

“Gramma won $40 on the penny slots at the casino last week .”

“Oh, cool.”

“Your father finally fixed that ceiling fan in the basement.”

“Yeah, finally.”

“We care about you, you know.”

“I know.”

I knew. But still, to see them standing there now, smiling like anything other than a smile would hurt me. Underneath the smile it’s clear my dad’s still on edge and my mom’s still standing beside him, trying to pretend she’s not scared. Seeing them that ready to coddle me is almost sickening, but I do appreciate them being there because things are already starting to feel different.

The reception area was just another drab room when I got here. A collection of walls that people had filled with the stuff they needed to use to do the things they needed to do. Now, though, it’s bright and noisy and full of people waiting in chairs. Phones going off and screaming reminders at the people that they’ve got busy lives and important shit to do. Maybe it’s the medication, but everything seems like it’s telling me I don’t belong out here. The waiting room wants me to know that my unshaved face, my unkempt hair, my general aesthetic resemblance to a missionary that spent the past decade living with a primitive tribe of native Peruvians...it all gives off a strong scent of belongs-back-in-the-psych-ward. Maybe I did fit in better there, shelled off from the world in my bubble of moaning, babbling misfits. I guess there’s really no going back now, though.

It’s time to go home.

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