In the spirit of adding a little variety to my life, I walked down the cracker isle in the supermarket today. I don’t know why I like just reading the labels.
Although 99.9% of the boxes cost way too much and I start whispering the amounts under my breath. I wish we could all be on board with realizing that they are just charging way too much for this stuff. Who is paying four dollars for Chicken in a Biskit? Somebody’s keeping it out of my reach.
I’m avoiding responsibilities by turning to writing my journal right now. My mind and body are refusing to work. We all know what needs to get done. The Id and the Ego are just through with "doing things". Even my Superego is sprawled out on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, with a half-gallon jug of ice cream propped up on his stomach. I'm letting him just zone out for now. The TV's not even on.
There are papers to grade. There is food to cook. But we’ve got nothing left.
I feel like Djimon Honsou in the movie Amistad where he’s stretching his chained hands out from the prisoner’s box and yelling, “Give me free!!!”
This maybe slightly overdramatizes my situation, but you feel how you feel.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
An Attempt At An Explanation
5 AM. My body has a long standing rule to be perfectly willing to get up early on mornings that I don’t have to get up early and crave like the living dead to sleep longer on days that I do have to get up early.
For some reason, I started to think about my inability to maintain even a shred of normality in social situations. Or at least my perception of this.
I’m an introvert which means I look at parties or get-togethers the way many might look at war. My aim is not to have fun. My aim is to survive, keep all of my limbs in tact, keep all of my vital organs fully functioning, to not be dragged away in a straight jacket to an insane asylum, and to keep the odd misbehaviors from drawing so much attention that you don’t get invited to the next war.
From the looks I see on faces, I am absolutely sure I’ve frightened a lot of people out there. I would like to say that I don’t know myself half as well as I would like, but I do believe there is a normal person buried deep within me somewhere. The problem is, I think he’s been hog-tied by a maniac who walks around screaming “Hey!” at people while smiling too much and nodding too vigorously.
I don’t know why I get the instinct to run the other direction every time I see a room of people. I’ve always had trouble following the “just act like yourself” rule because, when the pressure is on, I can’t remember what “yourself” acts like. There's no script.
The normal guy inside me is pleading with me to just smile, shake hands, and say “How’s it goin’?” in a calm voice. The nod isn’t even necessary.
But, even before I enter the room, the maniac is already panicking and hyperventilating with sweaty palms thinking, “Oh geez, oh geez. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. We’re under attack! Abort the mission! Bravo! Tango! Echo! Pull back, men!”
For some reason, I started to think about my inability to maintain even a shred of normality in social situations. Or at least my perception of this.
I’m an introvert which means I look at parties or get-togethers the way many might look at war. My aim is not to have fun. My aim is to survive, keep all of my limbs in tact, keep all of my vital organs fully functioning, to not be dragged away in a straight jacket to an insane asylum, and to keep the odd misbehaviors from drawing so much attention that you don’t get invited to the next war.
From the looks I see on faces, I am absolutely sure I’ve frightened a lot of people out there. I would like to say that I don’t know myself half as well as I would like, but I do believe there is a normal person buried deep within me somewhere. The problem is, I think he’s been hog-tied by a maniac who walks around screaming “Hey!” at people while smiling too much and nodding too vigorously.
I don’t know why I get the instinct to run the other direction every time I see a room of people. I’ve always had trouble following the “just act like yourself” rule because, when the pressure is on, I can’t remember what “yourself” acts like. There's no script.
The normal guy inside me is pleading with me to just smile, shake hands, and say “How’s it goin’?” in a calm voice. The nod isn’t even necessary.
But, even before I enter the room, the maniac is already panicking and hyperventilating with sweaty palms thinking, “Oh geez, oh geez. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. We’re under attack! Abort the mission! Bravo! Tango! Echo! Pull back, men!”
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Grandma
Okay. I haven’t been back to this thing forever. I’ve been slacking. I admit it. There are extenuating circumstances but there are always extenuating circumstances.
As John Lennon once said, “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.”
I will give myself a tiny little pass on these past few weeks though. My grandmother died and I’ve been having trouble putting my thoughts into words about it. It was only about a month ago that my Dad called to tell me that she had cancer. I cried a lot that day and I think I outcried everyone at the funeral. Not that there’s any competition for these things.
But I’ve been feeling like I need to write something about it. About her. And I just can’t think of the right words.
Any words that I have to write about her just seem so trivial.
It feels like it’s so long till I’m going to see her again.
My Dad once told a story about his own grandmother when he was a child. She was coming to visit the whole family on the train and he had so much excitement to see her. But several weeks would pass by and when it came time for her to leave, she would have to board the same train and wave good-bye. Being only a child, it was difficult for him to understand that he was going to see her again someday.
That’s how I feel.
I love you, Grandma.
As John Lennon once said, “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.”
I will give myself a tiny little pass on these past few weeks though. My grandmother died and I’ve been having trouble putting my thoughts into words about it. It was only about a month ago that my Dad called to tell me that she had cancer. I cried a lot that day and I think I outcried everyone at the funeral. Not that there’s any competition for these things.
But I’ve been feeling like I need to write something about it. About her. And I just can’t think of the right words.
Any words that I have to write about her just seem so trivial.
It feels like it’s so long till I’m going to see her again.
My Dad once told a story about his own grandmother when he was a child. She was coming to visit the whole family on the train and he had so much excitement to see her. But several weeks would pass by and when it came time for her to leave, she would have to board the same train and wave good-bye. Being only a child, it was difficult for him to understand that he was going to see her again someday.
That’s how I feel.
I love you, Grandma.
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