Oh, my. Whatever was the matter with me yesterday?
Perhaps it was getting dumped by my girl for another guy, who then dumped her and now wants to become my best friend.
Perhaps weeks of being drawn back into the crappiest project ever, where everything that could possibly go wrong did and no matter how hard I try to get away I can't. Which actually sounds pretty familiar to my love life the past couple months.
Perhaps it is because I've been neither sleeping or eating well for the past two weeks.
I don't know why I've been in such a bad mood and I guess it doesn't matter. I just know I need to stop.
If anything bad ever happens to me again I am going to just suck it up. Accept it. No complaining. No wallowing.
So, what happens if I get put on another disastrous project?
Hey, if I do my job well I can't be blamed when everything falls apart, can I?
And if I lose my job, like so many of my web designing brethren?
Oh well, there are plenty of jobs out there, right. And if not, the weather is getting warmer again, I can always live on the street. Or join the Geek Corps.
If my girlfriend decides to get back together with me and I am stupid enough to allow it?
Well, I'll just be happy.
Enjoy it while I can. It is so much better to be with someone who loves, respects and would never lie to you than it is to be alone.
And when she invariably dumps me again?
Well, a friend acquainted me with this poem by Richard Brautigan:
It's so nice
to wake up in the morning
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don't love them
I think it would (and does) make me feel better about having my heart ripped out. And when it comes down to it, it was good while it lasted, right?
Be happy for life's blessings MG, that's what my mom always used to say.
Perhaps it is time to start listening to her.
So, I've not updated in a couple days. Which is kind of strange because I've got plenty to say. What a weekend. There is a lot to update as far as the whole love triangle episode of the last week or so. Yet, for some reason I don't care to write about it, or anything really. I've been wallowing in my own putrid emotions for long enough now.
What is it about humanity (or at least everyone that I've ever met) that makes us revel in the unhappinesses of our lives?
We are all guilty of it, me no less than anyone else. Why else, when I've got a roof over my head, clothes on my back and food in my stomach do I choose to constantly dwell on just the mere possibility of being laid off? Why else, when I've got family and friends who love and support me, do I focus on being dumped by my girlfriend? Why else, when I've got my intelligence, creativity and passion for life do I choose to accentuate the negative?
Is it because trying to find the good in life is so much harder than bitching about what's wrong with it? And let us just never mind trying to make a change.
What is truly sick is that it isn't just as individuals that we accentuate the negative. We do so as a culture. Just watch your nightly news cast. Most will have a segment dedicated to good news.
A one-minute segment in a 35-minute newscast. Is that the worldwide ratio of good to bad news?
No, but no one cares about some firemen rescuing a cat from a burning tree house. They want to hear about murder, rape, and scandal. They want to hear about people getting their skulls smashed in with bricks.
When only 60 seconds out every 2,100 are dedicated to good news no wonder most people believe they are (orders of magnitude) more likely to be the victim of a violent crime than they actually are.
This sadistic worldview is certainly not just used in regards to reality. We wear blood colored glasses when it comes to fiction too.
A flip through TV guide reveals that nearly every drama involves some combination of doctors, lawyers, and police, or demons. Death. Conflict. Crime. Evil. The same is true of cinema, literature, and on and on.
Even comedies contain an element of darkness. We may have been laughing, but when we watched Roseanne it wasn't about laughing with her. It was about laughing at her. No matter how fucked up our lives might seem, when we see someone up on stage or on television with a worse life, we can laugh. You may have just been contemplating hanging yourself in the basement a few hours ago, but seeing that dude on the screen there, his life is waaay worse.
HA HA FUCKING HA!
I've spent the past week putting together coherent posts of significant length and containing a general sort of grammatical correctness. So, please forgive today's random rambling and ranting.
It was raining this morning. A cold and grey sort of winter rain. A cold rain is really the only kind of weather I don't like. Especially since I'll be sitting here in this subway car in these wet clothes for another 30 minutes. I probably should invest in an umbrella.
Like I've mentioned before, I write most of what goes on this site on my Palm Pilot while sitting on the subway going to or from somewhere, usually work. People on the subway seem to be really interested in seeing, what, exactly, I'm doing when writing on my Palm. I always catch people standing or sitting next to me looking over my shoulder watching me and reading what I'm writing.
And it really bothers me.
Now, I'm guilty of looking over people's shoulder to read newspapers, magazines and books. Everybody does it. Everybody has had it done to them. It is an accepted practice and no one seems to mind.
But reading anything handwritten? That is just a no-no, you know?
It could be a letter from a lover or the person could be writing in their journal (like I'm usually doing) or it could just be some math homework. But whatever it is they are doing, it is their own business, so you shouldn't be looking.
Last night on the train some guy was looking over my shoulder. And it really bothered me.
I looked at him and shot him my best "if you keep looking I am going to jam this stylus through your eye socket straight into your brain" glare with a little "I wouldn't really do that, but stop looking, 'kay?" smile.
I obviously didn't combine the proper ratio of glare and smile because as I looked back down to start writing again the guy nudged me.
I looked up, pulled the headphone out of my ear and said Yes?
What are you doing, he asked.
Fuck, I thought.
It didn't end up being that bad a conversation. He wasn't a freak after all. His kid has attention deficit disorder and has trouble being reading the notes he takes in class. The man thought that if his kid could take notes on Palm Pilot, he would have less trouble in school. I think the kid definitely could do better. I'm ADD and dyslexic. Being able to read what I write in digital form definitely helps me out.
Anyway, I was relaying that story to my friend Kathryn (whom, I need to talk about again a little later). And she asked me why I was bothered by someone looking over my shoulder and reading what I was writing when that same writing, in most cases, was going to end up on the internet where millions of complete strangers could potentially read it.
I wasn't really able to come up with a good answer. It probably has something to do with the fact that when I post things to this site I don't really expect people to read it. I may check my hit counter almost obsessively throughout the day. So people do come here. They do read my daily blather. But I don't see them doing it. Which is what, I think, it comes down to in the end.
When I'm on the train, with some old lady peeking over my shoulder, reading about my life while sitting right there next to me, well, it kind of feels weird, and sometimes a little icky.
What doesn't feel at all icky, but a hundred times more weird, is reading about myself in other people's weblogs. Okay, it has only happened once so far, but my feelings are probably pretty representative of how I'll feel if it ever happens again.
Lilly, over at Kiss My Lilly White Ass (lord do I love that name) has been reading my site since almost the begining, which is odd, because back in the day (okay, October), the only people that came around were my real-life friends. Now none of them come around anymore and my readership is a made up of a bunch of strangers. Anyhow, Lilly and I have emailed back and forth a couple times before. So we aren't total strangers. She sent me an email earlier this week with a URL. It was a link to a post on her blog that commented on a post here about the whole getting dumped my girlfriend story.
It was strange reading it. She posted a couple more comments as the week went on. Following the "story" as it was unfolding. If it wasn't me she was writing about... It pretty much felt as if I was reading a synopsis of an episode of Dawson's Creek. First, MG did this, and then his girlfriend said this and then... Like it wasn't even really about me at all. It definitely put things in perspective.
I'm going to talk more about Lilly at some point, but it turns out today isn't a ramble, I've actually got a point to make. (And if you are keeping score I've got to eventually write about Lilly and Kathryn).
It really is a strange kind of schism. I write these things and put them on a website that everyone in the world can read. I want people to read my site. I know that people do read my site. But getting emails from people who read me, or reading people who read me, and god forbid, ever randomly running into someone who reads me... I'm not sure if I could deal with that.
Jason Pettus wrote an essay on his site just yesterday about this. I generally tend to shy away from reading writing on the subject of the weblogging community (though here I am contributing more words on the subject), but it seemed particularly fitting yesterday, so I continued reading.
His piece talked about how reading confessional writing allows the reader to feel a sense of intimacy with the writer, but that intimacy is false (which I don't necessarily agree with). He says it is an intimacy of one (a term I think I just made up). The reader feels the intimacy because they are being exposed to the bared sole of the writer. The writer, however, feels nothing. The writer doesn't know the read even exists.
Which is why it is so freaky to get emails from folks making comments on the site. Or reading about myself on other people's sites. Or like I said before, god forbid running into someone who reads me (like what happened to Jason). The person on the end knows everything (or at the very least, a lot of things) about you, but you know nothing about them.
So, I don't know where I am going with this. Reading over my shoulder is bad. It will always be bad. If you do that, you are taking something from me that I am not willingly giving you. However, if you read the site, as weird as it may feel for me, I'm giving myself to you. And I think I can accept that.
If you, my readers, feel an intimacy toward me, I'd like to feel a little of that toward you. So send me an email, or a URL to your page, I'd love to get to know you.
It is a holiday in the States today. Martin Luther King, Jr day. I don't really have anything to say about that.
But since it is a holiday for me, I am not going to write anything. Read this bit of an AIM conversation with a friend of mine that I saved, I'm guessing, because it it terribly amusing. mg is, indeed, my AIM handle. So if you ever feel like writing and find me on-line, please do (write, that is).
friend: i'm applying for genus-species reassignment
friend: paperwork should take 30 - 90 days
friend: i didnt want to pay the $45 fee to expidite
mg: oh yeah? what species are you applying to be?
friend: genus "poontang"; species: "magnetus"
mg: oh yeah, what phylum would that fall under?
friend: dammit mike, i'm doctor, not a taxonomist
friend: i dont know the phylum, but falling under the "lesbos" kingdom would be pretty cool
Tomorrow starts a couple days of me putting my ex-girlfriend behind me. I already wrote tomorrow's bit. It is pretty good, so check back, and check Saturday's post to figure out what is going on if you haven't already read it.
Too tired to write. Go read this stuff:
tea and massages. Having ridden the Paris subway, I don't think any massage could get me down there again, unless it were to involve me, nudity, Angelina Jolie, some lubricant, a zucchini and a live hamster.
Even the good folks of Germany can't manage to do "Who want's to Marry a Millionaire" right. How shocking, they did such a good job with those two wars.
You can't make this stuff up - "Expatriate Scots from the U.S. to Australia are being forced into the shadowy world of international haggis smuggling... due to import bans on the dish, traditionally made from boiled up lamb, beef and oatmeal stuffed into a cow's intestine." I'm not one to yuck another person's yum, but yuck. So very very yuck.
This story is more fun than a barrel full of genetically engineered monkeys. Oh wait, they aren't available in day glo colors. These monkeys are no fun at all!
Speaking of monkeys... What kind of backward society do these people live in when the fact that "thousands of monkeys are invading government buildings in Delhi, forcing employees to arm themselves with sticks and stones" is seen as something relatively normal.
Well, as my mom always used to say "Sticks and stones may break a normal monkey's bones, but what good will they be against a race of genetically engineered super monkeys"?
So, I probably sounded a little depressed Monday. And I pretty much was. Depressed and frustrated and extremely tired. But more than anything I was venting.
After letting out the bad thoughts I was feeling much better. My life isn't that bad I thought. And really it isn't.
There were a couple things that happened last night that made me feel even better.
First, I left work early. Okay, okay leaving a 9 to 5 job at 4.30 is really not all that early. But, if you consider that I'm normally there till 6 and that for the past week I've been working 11 hours a day 9 to 4.30 is practically a day off.
The next thing that happened was that on the way back to my apartment there was a homeless guy sitting across from me on the subway. One of two things happen when I'm brought face to face with homeless people. Either I feel better about my life or feel much much worse.
If I feel better it is because no matter what might be going wrong at that particular moment, my life, overall, is still better than the homeless guy's life. Despite any problems I've had in the past, I've obviously made the right decisions. I've been strong enough to handle anything that has come my way. I'm sitting here in my nice clean clothes that don't smell like pee. I'm heading home to my nice big apartment and queen sized bed with a warm down comforter and that homeless guy is scrounging up dough to buy a sandwich, or a 40 oz, or crack.
If I feel worse, it is because of the same reason. No matter what might be going wrong at that particular moment, my life, overall, is still better than the homeless guy's life. Who am I to be bitching about having to work to hard when someone else can't find a job? Who am I to be bitching about not being able to do laundry, when some people have to wear the same clothes everyday, no matter if they've peed themselves, shit themselves, or just have a bad case of BO. Who am I to be bitching about my not getting to go grocery shopping when some people can't even afford the simplest of life's necessities?
I'll answer the questions and finish the story later today or tomorrow, I'm positively swamped here at work.
I hate my life right now.
It could just be that it is Monday, cold, there is a layer of black, slushy snow over the entire city, my girlfriend is 1000 miles aways, and I've spent about 50 of the last 80 hours at work.
Because my weekend was spent here, working, I haven't had a chance to do laundry, which means I'm had to wear my ugly underwear today.
You know, everybody has a pair or two of ugly underwear. The boxers with the really awful pattern. The giant pair of grandma panties (god, that is such a fun word - panties panties panties). The tighty-wighties with the skid marks.
I'm wearing a a pair of boxers now with some god-awful pattern. I looks like I'm wearing a trapper-keeper on my crotch.
I'm also down to the bottom of my sock drawer. Today I'm wearing a pair of mis-matched socks. And one has a big hole in the heel area. With the other, my big toe is sticking out. I hope I don't get hit by a car today, my mother would be so disapointed to know I died with dirty socks and underwear.
I also haven't been able to go grocery shopping in two weeks. When I open my refrigerator door, tumbleweed floats by. There are spider webs in my cabinets and a think layer of dust on that one tin can with the torn of label that I've had for my last three moves, which I'll never open because I don't know what is inside and I'll never throw out because there is food in there, and you never know when you might need food.
I haven't been able to do dishes in more than a week either. I think there is a family of possums living in my kitchen sink.
I'll write again when I can pull my head out of my as-ignment here at work.
You realize, it is the year 2001? How creepy is that?
Even creepier is this story. Who ever thought the next great evolution of mankind would occur in Seattle?
I mean, they make great coffee and all. And I really liked Nirvana, but seriously.
Did you think you'd be alive 2001? Did you think anyone would?
Hey, check out the link of the day, and explain to me how NASA can build ships that can fly to Mars but not a website that looks like it wasn't last updated in 1993?
Happy New Year and welcome back!
I remember the days when I used to look forward to Christmas for months in advance.
Since I've gotten older, however, Christmas doesn't quite inspire those same kind of jubilant expectations. This year, it approached, it came, it went. No big deal.
Sure I got some good gifts, got to spend time with family (I kind of ducked out on most of my friends, sorry guys!) and had some time off from work. But really, there should be something more, right? I can't wait 'till I have kids of my own, so I can buy, and play with, toys again.
As for New Year's Eve - well, I can't remember much of last year's New Year's Eve. I can remember all of this year's celebration. Is that good or bad? Again, I'm getting older, going out and drinking doesn't quite float my boat as much as it used to. I had wanted to go to the big party at Times Square, something I've never done even though I've spent about 20 New Year's Eves in New York City.
I'll be honest, the cold scared me off. Besides, the thought of standing outside for a couple hours didn't appeal nearly as much as the thought of having a posh diner with my family and girlfriend.
Speaking of my girlfriend, she was visiting this week. We had a really nice time. Being with someone in person, having someone to fall asleep with at night, man, this is just so much better than talking on the phone. I hate talking on the phone to begin with, but having to use the phone to relate to a significant other just kills me.
She left last night, which means it is back to the phone for a couple months. I'm kind of bummed out about her being gone. The ol' apartment is kinda lonely.
She was about to get her period the last couple days she was here. And whenever she is just about to get it she complains about her boobs hurting. Everytime. Apparently, well actually, they get bigger at that time of the month. So much so that she sometimes thinks they are going to pop like a fatted tick.
She was complaining as we were getting ready to go out on New Year's Eve and I said, "Wouldn't it be great if this time your boobs really did pop? And wouldn't it be great if you could time it just right so that they exploded right as the ball dropped and that confetti and streamers shot out of your chest just as the clock struck midnight? Wouldn't that be festive?"
For some reason, she didn't want to comply. Some people just can't get in the party spirit.