If I called you stupid, I don't actually think you're stupid. I would never waste my time bothering to let an actually stupid person know I think they're stupid. If you're smart, I'll call you stupid. If you're stupid, I'll treat you respectfully, but that doesn't mean I have respect for you. If I haven't fucked you, it's most likely cuz I don't respect you. If you don't respect me but try to fuck me, I will lose respect for you for wanting to fuck someone you don't respect. That's all.
Today I:
slept all day
awoke to my car being snow covered
remember my brilliant decision yesterday to drive home in FLIP FLOPS
asked my father to clear my windshield because I only had FLIP FLOPS
got SHOT DOWN
did it myself, wearing his giant sneakers
did a 360 on some iced out backroad
arrived on Bartlett Street to no parking
decided to drive around the house and park in the back of the driveway
finally knocked over random metal stick marking the edge of the driveway
in doing so, TOOK OUT LARGE CHUNK OF DRIVEWAY
freaked out
decided i needed coffee
drove away
came back
parked on street
smacked own head with car door
tripped up porch steps
busted ass
sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
what you know about that...
Apparently Gucci and Louis Vuitton have halted the release of T.I.'s "Swing Ya Rag" video, alleging copyright infringement.
I can't understand how it's ok for suburban 14 year olds from Jersey to sport Louis purses with their L.E.I.-muffin-top-creating-jeans and last year's Reeboks while it's unacceptible for a sexy, talented, RICH man with southern swagger to Swing Ya Rag! up in the club.
Monday, December 15, 2008
first class jerk
At first I thought Jamie Lynn was degrading herself just to get back on tv, but then I began to wonder: is being someone who would fuck Turtle, a woo girl, or a sexed out cashier really more degrading than being cast to play YOURSELF (spoiled jappy princess wtih a string of bf's who constantly play her out) on the greatest show ever made?
I don't think so...Jamie Lynn is superhot and was super funny on How I Met Your Mother, I hope we see more of her (but not on Entourage PLEASE).
Saturday, December 13, 2008
...got me twisted
This was my theme song. I never trusted guys. I would drop any guy in a second for any of my very few female friends. I have no males I would consider my friend, really. I thought they were all liars only looking out for themselves, they would never understand me, my intelligence, my emotion, my passion, my observant nature. They were all, one after the other, just a string of rivers in Deliverance, sucking me up and eating away at me for their own sloppy pleasure. It was just in their nature.
My heart isn't drowning in my stomach today because of the river.
I never thought I'd be betrayed by a female.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Sorry for high jacking your plans.
I'm not upset that you invade my privacy, my space, or my general peace of mind. I'm not pissed that you have no regard for the way things actually are and only pay attention to the way things would more easily be. I'm not angry that you are an inconsiderate jackhole. I could sit here moaning about how I've been wronged, how hurt I am, how I'll never be able to pull myself together...but I won't. I'm just trying to figure out how easily one second you can be so hurtful and the next instantly apologize. What happens in that instant. It's pretty clear, you are TERRIFIED of losing me. I'm not really sure why; I'm not a nice person. But I can't sit around anymore, being hurt, vowing silence towards you, then being forced to ignore hours and hours of phone calls, texts, ims, emails, messages, and whatever else you chock-full of your tearful apologies. How much pain will you put me through?
I know if I don't pick up today, or tomorrow, there will still be calls the next day. Will it stop after three days? Four? Two weeks? When does this end? When you meet someone else? That happened...remember? You still blew me up 24/7. Was it cuz she wasn't good enough? Not quite neerajaneerajaneeraja enough for you? If I found you a girl exactly like me; rude, average, cocky, uninviting and demanding; would you be satisfied?
Being the rude-average-cocky-uninviting-and-demanding bitch I am, I hope you understand that its in my disposition to want to be alone. People like me are meant to drive people away. So why must you insist on being near me? Or apologizing to me? I'm sure, somewhere in the karmic scheme of things, this is all retribution for me. It isn't natural for me to be chased after. Don't you care at all about allowing me to run free in my natural habititat of lonely bitterness? Don't you know that no matter how bitchy my people are, we cannot instinctively ignore tearfilled apologies as doing so would result in others becoming aware of our generally evil nature and thus trunctate even the miniscule amount of feigned sympathy we require to subsist?
What I'm tyring to figure out is...what is it that you require of me? If I forgive you...will you feel better? Have you no pride for your point of view, you obviously believe in it as you brought it to light in the first place...What is CE JUE we're playing? And why has it managed to last longer than monopoly where money lending is allowed?
Or is this in fact all about you? Is it, afterall, that you're the drama queen? Is it that my rude-average-cocky-uninviting-and-demanding nature doesn't matter at all? I'm just the dude with the glasses and you're that river in Deliverance? I just randomly got sucked in, and your natural forces are stronger than mine? You pretend like I'm in control, like I'm strong bitchy and demanding, in order for you to actually be in control. I have no canoe, no life jacket. I'm doggy paddling against you for dear life but I keep drowning.
I was searching for the last straw, I foolishly thought this was up against my back, not yours.
Monday, December 8, 2008
SexySexyChicas
I am beyond girl-crushing on this chick...I want her in every conceivable way.
21-year-old, sober, American Amy Winehouse on solid food. For now.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Apprehension
As a twenty two year old woman with not only the same confusion about life as a seventeen year old but also, additionally, all the fear, shame, judgment, scrutiny and wired zombie-like existence of a grown ass lady I can only offer up this piece of advice to young'uns about to embark on the journey to adulthood: LISTEN TO YOUR PARENTS. They know you, and your future better than you ever will. :\
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Madonna's monotone (delivering a bizarrely foretelling message) over chopped up acoustic guitar, techno beats and bullet-time instrumental intermissions. Plus four sexy, country, dirt-kickin' cowboys which I'm pretty sure I dreamed into life (see crotch thrusting fivesome at 3:10) ...Please, please, don't tell her to stop.
Monday, September 8, 2008
That can't be right.
On the SATC movie website, they have this really cute feature where you can search through Carrie's laptop, which as an innate and unwavering stalker of anyone and everyone even those I don't even remotely care about, I was excited for. They even have a "city chat" feature where not only can you chat with the non-Carrie gals, but Charlotte starts the convo for you. Unfortunately the conversations are so mind numbingly inane that no matter how technologically and culturally adept the feature seems, it can't hide it's nauseatingly girly anti-focusedness.
Here's my one second as Carrie:
Carrie said : do you think miranda's gay?
Charlotte said : That doesn't seem right...
Carrie said : why not?
Charlotte said : That's not what I seem to remember
Carrie said : yeah but she totally probably is
Charlotte said : That answer is worse than Cashmere Mafia!
Carrie said : how?
Charlotte said : That can't be right.
Carrie said : so is miranda straight?
Charlotte said : No way, Jose!
Carrie said : hahaha!
Charlotte said : Uh-uh!
Carrie said : exactly
Charlotte said : Nah, that can't be right
Carrie said : "nah"?
Charlotte said : That answer is worse than Cashmere Mafia!
Carrie said : you don't say "nah", charlotte.
Charlotte said : Are you sure about that?
Carrie said : yeah
Charlotte said : I thought I had a one track mind! - Concentrate
Carrie said : why did you say "nah"?
Charlotte said : That can't be right.
Like, seriously. I'm not asking for the Grand Theft Auto of SATC, but come on! You seriously couldn't prepare for more possible questions? You already only have one possible option of who to chat with and you couldn't even give her another possible answer? This could have been the perfect opportunity to mix exciting fanfiction with clarifications of each character from the standpoint of the show's creators. Obviously no one involved with SATC will ever trump SATC so they may as well pour their souls into this one last, glorifying conclusion. The SATC movie changes every single point of the entire series; pro-singleness, female independence, the randomness of having/wanting babies...I know only SATC could pull that off but will they? Ever since its inception it's progressively delved further from its origins of an expository, creative show and closer and closer to a money-making, publicity-stunting, ubiquitous-being vehicle for anti-womanism and just the fact that the website is all looks and no substance drives this fact home. Whoever created the website deliberately made it not bangin believing that the women who would visit it would either not "get" technology enough to deal with it, or be so ADD that they wouldn't stick around for the ONE SECOND it took to realize the chat feature was WACK. SATC obviously doesn't feel compelled to serve its characters or viewers with the complexity or appreciation they deserve.
And for real, Charlotte would never say "nah."
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Unlikely Rapes & Naked Knife Fights
Why does every journalist under the sun continue to perpetuate the idea that Natalie Portman and Scarlett Johansson are the smartest young women in Hollywood. I get it, Natalie went to Harvard and Woody Allen loves ScarJo; but how does any of this make them any smarter than Angelina Jolie, Jodie Foster, or even Britney or Lindsay?
Natalie's on the cover of Elle's "Intelligent Issue", in which, like all her interviews, she vainly pushes that she swears she is smart! The Other Boleyn Girl was raped because she was a capitalist! Duh! But truthfully, I stopped paying attention to NP when I saw Where The Heart Is in 8th grade. I was, however fascinated by Scarlett when she first hit the scene as the new classic Hollywood beauty; but she let me down too in her Esquire interview where she pretended to by smart by staring at a statue of the Beatles, not recognizing them, then saying they looked like the Princes of Luxembourg (which they don't)...she also insisted she likes older men better because they just get her...
First of all, liking older men is inherently immature and purely driven by horniness. As a woman I can honestly say that when I imagine older men I imagine a man who has experience with truly pleasing a woman: and it's true, men are less mature than women and thus an older man might seem to be right on par with a younger woman, but the way I see it, I prove my maturity by being able to tolerate a man my own age, accepting his immaturity as he accepts my invariable culture, intelligence and power. But truly, I only ever got into older men when I realized they were into me...A woman's maturity blossoms when she can go after what she wants, not what is wanted from her.
Second of all, ok, it's cool that you know about the Princes of Luxembourg, but you're not an actual Boleyn sister, Scar: there's no reason to know about them. Would you be impressed if I knew about Kim Kardashian and you didn't? And more importantly, the Beatles do not look like the Princes of Luxembourg! You obviously just found an excuse to bring up the Princes of Luxembourg thinking it would thrust you into hyper-cultured status.
Why can't we just accept ScarJo and Natalie for what they are: the hot girls that don't fit in with other hot girls? On top of it all, they are in fact the hottest girls; and now, the hottest consorts in the history of movie consorts. And they were really really good. In fact, they were the perfect matches for Eric Bana who not only follows suit with Jonathan Rhys Meyers as a confoundingly hot Henry Tudor (the in-real-life-ugly king must have put it in his will that any dramatic portrayal of him must be done by only fine motherfuckers) but also happens to be the hottest possible Henry IIIV. Him and Viggo Mortensen, like Natalie and Scarlett, represent another minority in Hollywood: the non-douchebag hot old guy.
Between Viggo's naked knife fight in Eastern Promises and Mr. Bana's sexy assassin ass in Munich, I have enough deposits in my masturbatory bank to serve daily withdrawals for two lifetimes. Viggo and Eric quietly but surely annihilate George Clooney and Brad Pitt as the hot old guys in the same way Nat and Scar took over the world of the classy hot lady; and minus all the douchebag gimmicks of boy movies like Ocean's Eleven. They not only redefined the hot old guy, they redefined the boy movie. Eastern Promises, History of Violence, Munich...these movies lack the hokeyness of those other boy movies before it: they represent the end of the rat pack, officially. Dreamboys are now sensitive, manly, strong, and family-oriented. And they don't sing. And now, NOW! our hero likes the flat chested demanding chick over the busty subservient one! Besides the pathetic rape scene which was so obviously unnecessary and a vain attempt to show disfunction in their superhot affair, The Other Boleyn Girl is the ultimate projection of the hot whore consort into the history of women and power.
Critics criticize the movie for not being sexed up enough: they had the same problem Henry had. To me, it was the sexiest; when Natalie painfully rejects the king at her bedroom door I almost came in my pants...through porn and general modern impatience, we've forgotten the sexiness of the almost tantric buildup. Henry could have anyone he wants, but he goes along with the buildup: unconsciously, he knows its better that way. I'm not advocating waiting because of it's supposed morality, but rather to encourage better sex. Critics went in thinking the movie would be sex, perhaps it would have served them better if it ended on a Like Water For Chocolate-like, final, explosive lovemaking session that killed them all; or a cleansing, all-exposing fuckfest like in Sex, Lies & Videotape (The Other Boleyn Girl of the 90's); but this was not the purpose of the movie. The buildup followed by the rape was ludicrous; as it implied men rape because they're horny and not because they're inhumanely violent, but it staunchly ended the fantasy of sex throughout the movie in the familiar vane of Elizabeth and Beowulf (they both started out sexy and ended cold and political). But pre-rape, there were important lessons of sex and womanhood to be learned from The Other Boleyn Girl.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
I know I said "Fuck Photography" but these are cool...
I love this picture from the New York Times' "Pictures of the Day", mostly because the tightened forehead of the boy reminds me exactly of my school picture from preschool when I was three in which I similarly clenched every single muscle in my face. What made us (me at age 3 and this kid) so nervous? Maybe that's how children react at big ass camera's in their faces, or maybe it's just that they have yet to figure out how to appear happy/normal/well-adjusted and still can't hide discomfort. That's probably what makes photos of happy children all the more heartwarming.
And yeah, I know it's possible that he's freaking out cuz his whole half of town BURNED DOWN and his (maybe) dad is wading through garbage water to find their things; but that doesn't explain my shocked eyes and steadfastly clamped hands (it was a full body shot of me leaning against a tree in front of the school). I feel seriously connected to this picture because everytime I walked past my old fireplace and saw that frightful pic of myself I shuddered, at once wondering what I was so worried about and how the shadow of my leg could fall against the tree so perfectly as to look like a distinct third leg under my plaid frock, woolen tights and red maryjanes (fashionista since birth).
While looking at him now, along with his "American" shirt with the flashy zipper, zipped to the very top so his collar can classily frame his face, hair neatly combed, I'm shuddering again. Whenever I see pics of tragedies from abroad, it's never the downtrodden, seemingly immobile people from those pics you remember from the Depression; it's always just people doing what they have to do: which juxtaposes uncomfortably with the pic of a serially bullied kid from a good school district whose problem has neither any apparent reason for existing or any viable solution. 
Again, the subject is not the point; his mom, who's expression is possibly the exact opposite of the little boy above is staring unpretentiously as her boy, like the grown man above, goes about his business. While the man above may be in his worst moment though still strong, Billy savors a rare moment of youthful half-grinning peace; and while the little boy above grows frantic in a moment of unease, the mom is somehow clearly in the same broken down expression she always has. The little boy can only be described as youthfully worried, but the mom is jaded, but you can tell she has vainly attempted a smile on her left side, but failed as her pain has unlearned one of those childhood lessons of looking the way you're supposed to look for a camera.
Monday, March 24, 2008
If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down...
Ok, in refernce to the aforementioned question: WHAT THE FUCK ELSE IS THERE TO THINK ABOUT?!; I have definitely been here before. I used to frequently put limits on myself like in relation to such thoughts: no more looking at facebook until I can manage to think about something other than facebook, no more talking to him until I can manage to think about something other than him, no more talking to friends who do drugs until I can manage to think about something other than drugs, no more partying/whoring about until I can manage to think about something other than these things, no more reading gossip blogs until I can manage to think about something other than gossip, etc. Truthfully, many of these "thinking" qualms became noticeably obnoxious even to myself when I couldn't stop talking about these things, thus proving my lameness to others. Historically, I have always intuitively had too much time to think, and the rare moments others actually spoke to me were thus overcome with my inherent inability to understand normalcy. I never did cool things, let alone anything, and I basically have no skills or hobby now to show for my years of putting myself in a think tank of loneliness. I've thought entirely too much about thinking and grown to resent those who do not think as I do. So now, I approach the final frontier: the aversion of any thinking whatsoever. I want to be in a walking coma, where I only have a schedule to follow, knowledge to absorb and regurgitate, and friends to make inane banter with on a daily, but not too often, basis.
Monday, March 10, 2008
I should have just made my own version of "The Aristocrats"
It's already been established that I can't write, and I have a lot of trouble focusing...what is happening, every year things get worse: should I return to and old way of life, pull an anti-Nietzchian sentiment and just shut everything that is so NOW out and only do what used to work? Well, what used to work was masses and masses of caffeine + any other stimulant. That's not working now. What used to work was watching TV...nope, that's not working now. What about getting away from it all? NO! Still not working...having more confidence about my looks? NOT WORKING!! Drinking...not working. Talking to a doctor? Not working! Can I tell you the truth about my left arm? I'm not exactly sure what numbness feels like, and I don't exactly know what shooting pains are...if you want to know exactly how my left arm feels, well, it feels like I'm stretching it...and like it's a mile longer than my right arm: which all concludes that reading things on the internet isn't working, as well as going to a doctor isn't working.
Today was a tremendous day in losses for me: I lost my whole day in bed, frozen. I lost the heat because a roommate tore down the thermostat. I lost the winning proposal of my passive aggressive note with a 5th grader witticism, which I dignified with an answer. I lost my composure with too much caffeine. I lost my seriousness by showing up at the computer lab hoping to be forced by social pressure to just sit down and do my fucking work, but instead, freaking the fuck out. I lost my ability to make a point. I lost having a place to go when I'm freaked the fuck out. I lost having anyone who can make a difference when I'm losing, but I know I shouldn't be. I just keep thinking "anxiety is anger directed inwards". But I know who I'm angry at...why would I direct this inwards. That episode of Law & Order: SVU where Dr. Wong explains that people who once abused certain drugs are destined to have life long anxiety problems keeps interrupting my thoughts...I can't get anything done. I was fooling myself all along. Or am I just that much of a follower, that every doubt anyone has ever had about me, I jump through painful hoops to prove TRUE. I follow directions that well. "Neeraja, you can't stay in school like this". "Neeraja, you need to RELAX."
I feel like my life is one of those TV shows (who am I kidding, I mean "That's so Raven") where people see the future, try to stop it, and in trying to do so only allow it to happen. My fear of failure makes me fail, my fear of anxiety makes me anxious, my fear that others will be right and I'll never be able to prove them wrong make others right and me unable to prove them wrong. Instead of just trying, I've created a series of elaborate obstacles progressively more and more intrinsically inclined so as to sow them into my own body. Nietzche talks a lot about how the ascetics try to explain away the physical problems as a problem or a punishment of the soul...but who will address the issues of the problem of the soul creating a problem for the body, which in turn create problems for the soul and so forth in an endless see saw of non-productive misery? No, I don't believe in the soul in any religious sense, and I never think of God as the beholder of the soul; by soul, I mean psyche. It is being more and more comprehensively proven with every panic attack that nothing physical is triggering my physical reactions. Nothing. Physical. That means soul to me. My soul is troubled, I am sickened, just like Nietzche. He could focus, he could write, so I know he didn't have what I have, and yet they tell me he was in constant pain. Why do they keep telling me this? Is this supposed to mean something? Am I supposed to be impressed? Or jealous that someone in pain can actually fucking get something done?
Someone explain to me, since I can't concentrate enough to finish this fucking book, what I should do to while trying not to look to the past, or fatalistically break down while looking to what seems to be no future for me. What can I possibly think of if now beginning or end? It reminds me of that joke "The Aristocrats", where the beginning and end stay the same unwaveringly but the middle is what makes the joke a joke. Truly all life begins and ends the same, no matter whose it is: with birth and death. So why continue to dissect every moment of anxiety or pain in the past to understand how to deal with it, and why continue to freak the fuck out over what will happen in the future since I can't get anything done cuz my past remedies aren't working NOW? Why?! Cuz there's nothing fucking else to think about. Goddamn. Everyone thinks it's soooo fucking obvious. WHAT THE FUCK ELSE IS THERE TO THINK ABOUT?!
Women Are Dumb, Bitchy
I normally love jezebel.com, but something about this bothered me. Marion Cotillard is called possibly "brain-dead" for believing that 9/11 may not have been a terrorist attack, and attests to believing the conspiracy theory. I don't want to dispute the legitimacy of 9/11, but I think it's fair to say that the irony of an article criticizing a self-hating woman while calling a gorgeous, talented woman brain-dead is not lost on me. She probably just likes conspiracy theories and just watching that movie on Google Videos, like the rest of us who watched that movie on Google Videos, cuz she was fucking bored and it was interesting.
At least this piece of propaganda had evidence that was, on some everyday level, believable. Do we call people who still follow thousands-of-years-old "sacred texts" brain-dead for believing things that, even on face value make NO SENSE?! Come on Jezebel writers, this cannot be the stupidest thing you've ever heard a woman believe. Even though you hardly elaborate, that one line is caustic enough as you've quickly compared an Oscar winner to a woman who says "I can't add 2 and 2 (well I can, but then what?)". This is not a fair comparison. In fact, I would venture to say that a woman who doesn't believe that the government, amongst other things, is lying to everyone, is brain-dead.
I don't know what the government is lying about, I'm sure the producers of Loose Change don't either. But you, jezebel.com don't rank any higher than us...why should anyone believe you or any other media outlet over our own crazy conspiracy theories? There are Democrats and Republicans in the actual government who argue over what actually happens in the actual government. If they can't even agree what's going on, why should we? I began reading you because I believed in your causes and opinions, but now I see that no matter how unconventional and righteous a media outlet can be it will still always be the media, meaning that it will still always allow the generic American opinion permeate their own unique and informed opinions.
I first noticed this when you published the ubiquitous clip of Barack mocking Hillary and John Edwards for their answers of the "what's your worst quality" question in one of the debate. While it was funny, I noticed that you, like every other media outlet which openly and unwaveringly supported Obama since day one, never published any of his errors and embarrassing moments during the debates, though this clip clearly highlightes Clinton and Edwards' mistakes. The few debates I watched, I noticed several embarrassing moments for Obama which were lost in time after the debates, though his moments of outshining his colleagues beleaguered the media. At one point Obama said he didn't vote in either direction on a bill which would make the maximum a credit card can charge for interest 30% because he thought that percentage was too high...even though not voting could clearly allow the percentage to be much higher. No one ever brought this up after the debate, nor did they ever praise John Edwards for calling out both Barack and Hillary non-stop, whil never being caught off gaurd himself.
But besides jezebel.com blindly following in the rest of the media's footsteps in Barack-related issues, I know they have been vocal in their Hillary support and other offbeat calling-out of media whores. What shocks me the most about this whole thing is that I thought that overzealous, unnecessary American nationalism was replaced by overzealous, unnecessary Obama followerism, as expressed by the media and all those ever-fainting fans. A couple years ago, when John Kerry said that if students didn't work hard at school they would end up in Iraq, the media HATED him, liberal and conservative. They said that his statement was basically calling the troops idiots, which truly offends more people that just troops (John Kerry said students who don't go to college are more likely to end up in Iraq, which is a fact. The media made the offensive judgment that not going to college=being an idiot.) At an anti-war protest at Rutgers last year, all the haters showed up yelling about how the students had no respect for the troops and didn't "support them". 1) This statement is stupid. How are we to support them? By having pro-war sentiments, so they can stay there longer increasing their risk of dying? I actually support them LIVING, not dying. If you support the war, then you support their death and the deaths of random Iraqi civilians. How brain-dead do you have to be to not see that? 2) If you really want to support them and still be pro-war, drop out of school and go to Iraq! Prove John Kerry wrong! 3) If you still believe that support=death sentence, then you're brain-dead. Consult a physician ASAP.
However, when Michelle Obama said she had never been proud her country, the media tried to make it a big deal, but no one cared. Don't get me wrong, I don't care either, but when the brain-dead weren't pissed as hell, I began to see that Barack support had healed over the wounds of arbitrary and inappropriate America-lovin'-in-the-form-of-hate. Dr. King was right, only love can drive out hate. Love of Obama can drive out arbitrary and inappropriate America-lovin'-in-the-form-of-hate. Alas, jezebel.com liked Hillary, so maybe they, being in the media but not blinded by Obama, still knee-jerk it when someone says something "wrong". But still, Jez, why so harsh?
Monday, March 3, 2008
The Origins of Douchedom
Have you ever gotten your period so hardcore you wish you could drop kick your uterus into submission? The crimson tide drowns me out every single month with it's cramps and lethargy, but I can't once say that I've been hit with bitchy "PMSing". While it's plausible that someone experiencing the exruciating pains that no man will ever understand even if he were shot might be inclined to bitch, I still call bullshit on PMSing. The only time I've been unreasonably bitchy in reaction to something physical is when I'm hungry (so stop consistently eating EVERY SINGLE ONE of my goddamn LEFTOVERS, disgusting bitch of a housemate! ugh. i'm sorry, i just can't even get into this right now.)
Anyhoo, the reason I call bullshit on PMSing is because I think people will attest anything feminine as inducing hysterical bitchiness. Even though men are bitches, "bitch" is still intrinsically female, and I know this is because of the original meaning of the word, but this isn't the first female=crazy lingo to impregnate our language with anti-woman sentiments. "Lunatic" originates from the root "luna", referencing the moon, an archaically female symbol. We are told that our periods move by the moon, like the tides; "lunatic" is literally defined as "affected by the moon", or by transitive property, "woman".
"Hysteria" as we know it is almost synonymous with "crazy bitchness", meaning "an uncontrollable outburst of emotion or fear"; but it's root is synonymous with "of the womb" (hence, "hysterectomy"="removing the uterus"). What's interesting is that this is hysteria as we know it, but what about hysteria as ye-olde-English-speakers knew it? As I know this hysteria, it is said to be when a woman gets all uppity cuz her man couldn't hit that right. The cure was, um, a, er, "pelvic massage". Ha! Men had to go to grimey hookers on street corners while women just went to their doctors (who I'm imagining looked like that Cuban doctor in "Sicko")!
But Victorian era fantasies aside, there are still more liguistic fallacies. We say someone looks "ravishing" if they, well, if they look good, I guess; but to "ravish" means essentially the same thing as to "rape". So to look ravishing is, then, what? To look rape-worthy? To make the boys uncontrolled around you? Other familiar words like "rapture" hold the dual meaning of the sexual abduction and sexual ecstacy or enchantment, the desirable definitions of which are all attested to have come about after the oppressive. At one point, the root of "oppress" even served to mean "rape".
That's how I always viewed rape: as the ultimate oppression of someone else. I've heard a broken-into diary described as "mind rape", and I've described anything that forces me to submit to another's desires which contradict my own as "rape". Some people say that no one can "force" anyone to do anything, but I also call BS on this. People are manipulated everyday into doing that which they do not want to do. We are oppressed by the mutation of nasty words like "rapture" into sexy words, like "rapture". It suggests a universal mind-changing from a woman's point of view, maybe what she hates is actually what she desires. These words rape all women by telling us that we have a disadvantage, an unsound mind, because we menstrate and don't orgasm in the one min - er - short time it takes you to orgasm.
I've read a lot recently about the meaning of "rape" and where to draw the definitive lines; but to me, rape is anytime someone is manipulated into sex. That doesn't stop at "no means no", women (and possibly men) are raped everyday when they are guilted into sex. If a man puts loads and loads of effort into courting you altuistically, then brings it all up again when you're fooling around to make you feel you "owe" them something, even if you don't want to, then this is rape even if you say yes. If you are someone who says yes, going against your own will: it is because the man preyed on your insecurity of how you come off to others, or even a worry of what he will say about you. I can't help but feel that nowadays, men are looking more for someone to manipulate than someone who will openly engage in anything.
So many guys I know show off about "how far" they went with chicks that normally don't put out. It's the idea that they broke her, the rape factor, that amazes their audience. The system of baseball analogies even helps them arbitrarily rate each hook-up, to see who gets the furthest. This pissing contest has gone so far that "pick-up" artists like this mega-douche "Mystery" are selling books and teaching seminars about how to "get" any woman in bed; and he justifies it all with his Wikipedia knowledge of evolution, saying that the circuits of his brain are programmed (if it's so essentially human, why must you use computer terminology?) to make him wants lots and lots of different women, and the circuits of her brain are programmed to make her scratch her hand when she begins falling for a man's trickery.
He's not the only one to abide by this fucked up defense of rapturous activity, as he's not the only douche to continue to live against humanity's consistent urges for the opposite. The fact is, that if women were not considered objects to be had, most "gray-area" rapes wouldn't happen. I call bullshit to saying that a woman shouldn't get black-out drunk in order not to be raped, as well as the idea that men "don't know" whether or not a woman wants to have sex when she's black-out drunk. First of all, people who are black-out drunk, without fail, either puke or pass out...what kind of a douche, except a score-keeping rapist douche, would sincerely want to have sex with that? Second of all, if I can boldly claim that some women, even when they say yes, are being raped by fears of societical impropriety or rejection, I can kind of see young frat boys having the same fear. Maybe being exposed to this wacky game of baseball from age eight makes us all believe we must abide by it to some degree...and hearing wacky, homophobic (if all men solely want to spread their seed and all women solely want to be taken care of by rich men, then it further strengthens allegations that homosexuality is not natural - giving clout to religious thoughts over science) interpretations of evolution as defining our implicit human nature just fucks us all up even more.
If "gray-area" rapes were not necessarily prosecuted with the threat of criminal imprisonment looming above, there is a chance an honest understanding of rape in the context of modern society can pull through, as well as an opportunity to change "gray" to "non-existent" through some sort of rehabilitation. With criminal trial, confused students are forced to view their actions as either right or wrong, themselves being 100% responsible or completely innocent, and once the trial is over, so is its discussion. Juries may find a rapist innocent if they think the crime is not worthy of the punishment and if a rapist is not convicted, the raped feel guilty and victimized simultaneously. It's the judicial system which deals with rape that has failed the young boys who drown deeper and deeper into the abyss of douchedom everyday, but more excruciatingly, the young girls they oppress.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
"It looks like we have somebody who fainted..."
http://gawker.com/357361/the-power-of-obama-compels-you
Click and behold the power of Obama!
I love how everyone in this video could not seriously care any less about the person who passed out. They just watch silently as Barack saves the day by embarrassingly drawing attention to the fainter, asks if anyone's a medic, then hands them an unopened bottle of water which he always seems to mysteriously have on hand. Sometimes he even apologizes to the crowd for the interruption, and if we're lucky he'll suggest a reason for the fainting: people trying to run up to the stage to see him, people getting too excited to see Oprah, and my personal fave; "she probably just didn't eat lunch". Of course the woman didn't eat lunch Obama, women always skip meals in order to stay trim for YOU, you sexy beast! LOL! You are sooo hilarious. And your false modesty is a gift for all womankind. See, you may tell us a different excuse everytime, but we all know the fainting happens because of the shock and unrelenting awe produced by being near you; you're basically heroin.
If someone around me ever passed out at an Obama rally I would shriek like a banshee, non-stop, for at least four minutes before fainting myself; and if I awoke with anything other than Barack Obama on my face performing CPR, I would consider him a callous oaf. Then, I would explain to him that no, I in fact did have my lunch, as well as my hourly speedball, and to please, continue.
My mom used to tell me about how when she was a little girl in India Christian missionaries used to come to her house, vainly attempting conversion door-to-door. They would enter, my grandmother would give them tea and cookies, and one of them would then unfalteringly choke on the cookies. The other one would, rather than perform the Heimlich, get down on his knees and pray to Jesus, as the other miraculously would stop choking. They would then explain that, if it weren't for Jesus, they would be dead right now.
Obama doesn't want to be JFK! He wants to be JESUS!
Barf.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
"She's giving me that death stare...that means she wants me"
What's the worst pick up line you've ever heard?
This may not even be a pick up line, but whatever the fuck it is, I've heard it several, several times.
It's when a man comes up to me and asks why I look so sad, or worse yet, simply DEMANDS that I smile.
Why the FUCK would I smile?! What kind of a moron goes around all day with a dumb grin on their face? I would PUNCH that person, not that it would matter because they have obviously been drugged. No one that is not on painkillers or heroin should be smiling at any and all given moments.
I am neither on painkillers nor heroin. I am not trying to impress your supertan, hairless, tank-top wearing, faux-hawk ruining ass. I will most certainly NOT smile when you tell me to. And it in NO WAY affects me when you tell me to stop looking so angry because it's making YOU depressed, or scaring you. That is clearly my purpose. I can't waste my time mindlessly chatting it up with you at Giovanelli's when Degrassi is about to be on and I just need a snack. I am TRYING to drive you away from talking to me. Yes, I noticed four minutes ago when you pinned your drunken eyes on me, hoping I would turn, look embarrassed and shocked that someone actually noticed me, look away, then look back and smile, have you come over so I could fakely giggle at all your not funny jokes until we finally decided to go back to your place and make it to third. I would never go to third with you, or anywhere with you. I will never wake up next to someone who has armhair stubble. And when I slightly grin upon your request for me to moronically smile, it is only because I don't feel like smacking you in front of all these other dumb bitches with whom you may actually have a chance. When you still stick around after that, eventually leading to you requesting a high five, that is where I MOTHERFUCKING DRAW THE LINE.
I am not going to high five you. I already fucking grinned at you, that was like rape for me. I hate the high five. When did it even leave the sports world and enter the world of flirting? I used to dream as a child of flirting being when a suave older gentlemen approaches you, says impossibly smart and funny things while still dedicating most of his attention to making YOU feel smart. No, not cute. Not hot. SMART. Everywhere I look nowadays it's girls being insulted and mocked...by men who want to get into their pants. Rather than my fantasy of a man being impossibly smart but still appreciating my intelligence, all I see are dumb men pretending to be smart. Unfortunately, pretending to be smart only entails treating those around you as though they are dumb. And never letting anyone else get a word in. And when a girl does manage to get a fucking word in, they PRETEND to be making you feel smart by saying something like "Yeah, that's true..." (BTW: this is not making someone feel smart, it's trying to quickly end their talking so you can resume your own. Everyone knows this.) but interjecting your own pretension with a slight correction of what that silly girl got wrong. Guess what dude, she's NOT wrong. She can have an IQ of fucking 38...if you're trying to get in her pants SHE'S NOT FUCKING WRONG.
I learned to evade such situations in my own life by being unrelentingly rude and, for the men who still stick around and still want to buy me drinks, I never stop talking myself and get a perverse satisfaction from watching them nod along and blithely agree just as I used to, oh so long ago. I know what all the douchebags and fans of douchebags are thinking: that I probably never again spoke to a man since I started this process of weeding out. Actually, I speak to men all the time, and it's my general experience that 1) it is only the smartest men who bother to treat you as though you are smart and 2) men LOVE being put in their place and the most fun men are the ones who can hate on themselves (less work for you). I can't tell you why, but I can tell you that there is more than one man who doesn't mind hanging out with me as I do nothing but insult them. And their friends.
So basically, to the drunk tan douchebag at Giovanelli's: no I will never fucking high-five you or any of your actual-conversationally challenged friends who could never handle talking to a woman, and must depend on the desperation of all those chicks who merely shaved their legs and don't want that time to have gone to waste to feel good about themselves. That's the most indicative part of all of this: it's clear that YOU are talking to girls to feel better about YOURSELF, not "just to get ass". I don't know about others, but I PREFER the dude who is sooo sexually motivated that he's willing to endure my endless analysis of Hillary Clinton, Anna Wintour and Oprah for several hours just in order to get into my pants. Men are supposed to have only one thing on their mind, you can't have opinions, ideas, or corrections for women. So drop your silly antics. And while you're working on dropping the high-five, and the "Smile!" from your flirting lexicon, go ahead and delete the generic head-nod-of-acknowledgement, taking lots of pictures with a girl, taking her hand and putting it in your pants...while on the dancefloor, "You're so cute!" as your only response to ANYTHING she says, calling other girls fat and ugly (only we're allowed to do that), and "I was against the war, and I know we fucked shit up there, but we have to stay in Iraq because you can't leave it fucked up! So I said that in class, but the professor didn't agree, he was too much of a hippy. That's why I got a D.".
What's that? I'm a BITCH? Um. DUH.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
if you're having girl problems i feel bad for you son...
"But Derek, I love you, in a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me, choose me, love me."
Ugh. Ok, it turns out I can't just turn off my boner for Hillary because she flip-flopped over Iraq AND thinks she has to be manly to win. That is TRUE love, Meredith Grey.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
i guess an age-denying woman who isn't running things is better than a penis-envying woman who is...
I was, for all intents and purposes, a "Hillary girl". Yes, Obama's amazing, and yes, he was against the war from the beginning. But, well, he's not a woman, and I thought it was TOO IMPORTANT to have a woman president RIGHT NOW, at a time when women think they are dumber than men and are ubiquitously watched in the media in order to glorify each and every one of their drug-fueled screw-ups (while "respectfully" ignoring those of Heath Ledger and his fellow party boys...). This seemed like the perfect time, as it ran parallel with my own life, and my own ten year anniversary with myself of adding a feminist undertone to my everyday existence, brought graciously to me by the Spice Girls. They brought a message of fun, feminine "power!" to little girls everywhere, and now (in a week), ten years later, will personally deliver the message in Newark. They even said that Margaret Thatcher was the first Spice Girl. It seemed like maybe, after eights years of political/general awkward adolescent weird-girl turmoil America would provide the seventh. Even Ann Coulter, the seething bitch of the right wing (who I totally respect, if for nothing else, for shouting over all those dumbfuck men who surround her every television appearance, putting them in their dumbfuck places) came out in support of Hillary, I believe, because of the basic American NEED for a woman president RIGHT NOW.
Then Oprah, the seething bitch of daytime tv, came out in support of Obama. It was the first time the mere idea of her without makeup wasn't what made me nauseous. A woman with such vast influence over everyone with nothing to do at 4 PM every single day had the AUDACITY to go out and support someone, knowing her audience blindly follows her every move. But if she absolutely had to support someone, it should have been Hillary, cuz even Ann Coulter knows the importance of having a woman president. I was crushed, I began to become unsure of my girl, but I knew I needed to just hang in there, and that everything would work out. Come on. It's Hillary.
With Ann, Oprah, and Hillary all under 24-hour watch, I had forgotten about the head seething bitch, the angriest mamasita of them all, my idol, the mother of all sassy ho's, the reason we can just accept Juno: Anna Wintour. Of course, she would be classy enough to not come out in support of ANYONE (unlike certain too-fat-to-grace-the-cover-of-Vogue bitches)...No, no. She was never given the chance to reject Hillary cuz Hillary rejected her. Hillary believed a spread in Vogue would be "too feminine".
Anna Wintour is the opposite of Oprah. The ultimate proof that an old woman can be thin, hot, iconic, classy and run EVERYTHING. She never changes her position. She always says the right thing. She covers up what she has to. She doesn't have issues. She could have saved Hillary, and she clearly wanted to, seeing as how she allowed her on the cover despite her previous ultimatum involving a complete abandonment of navy blue suits. Because Anna knew the importance of having a woman president. But alas, it has nothing to do with Anna why I will never, ever, ever, on this super Tuesday vote for Hillary Clinton. At least those other women only believe themselves to be dumber than men. Hillary actually believes she has to be a man, or at least manly, to be a successful woman. As the idea that the only presidential female in my life might be one who botox's her cheeks (it's either botox or Michelle Obama was never taught to smile and is now awkwardly learning during all her interviews) overwhelms me, I must make an apology: I'm sorry, Hillary, but you are just not woman enough to be my president.
"The notion that a contemporary woman must look mannish in order to be taken seriously as a seeker of power is frankly dismaying. This is America, not Saudi Arabia. It's also 2008: Margaret Thatcher may have looked terrific in a blue power suit, but that was 20 years ago. I do think Americans have moved on from the power-suit mentality."
i told you i was trouble
Over the past month I replaced my past addictions with an addiction to celeb gossip, which cleanly satisfied me for a while but of late has severely let me down. Honestly, I would like to know if actual, my-aged people find Britney, Lindsay, or Amy Winehouse's in-and-out-of-rehab-on-and-off-the-wagon sagas interesting in any way. Yeah, they're fucked up, yeah, they might be bipolar, but who seriously cares? Isn't everyone bipolar nowadays? And isn't it inherently characteristic of undiagnosed sufferers of bipolar disorder and similar ailments to be alcoholic/drug addicted? And isn't it completely unreasonable to ask a twenty one year old to never have a drink again?
While my heart seriously fears for Amy Winehouse's well-being as I need her to live for my OWN sanity's sake, I can't take hearing about these three women and every little slightly crazy antic which ensues in their lives for one more second. It's obvious why they're all drug addicts: for the same reason WE are drug addicts: because drugs exist, we have money, and we are BORED. And nothing's fun anymore. And we have no confidence.
But these things will change, as they do with everyone. I'm not saying they don't need rehab, or that they don't need help if they're bipolar, but I think we need to stay the fuck out of their lives for the drug addict's and bipolar sufferer's around us sanity's sake. They're drug abuse makes ours look glamourous, and it makes it look like drug binges and the insanity which follows are our own person cries for help, so we are allowed to fuck up in our lives...we need "help". We've had perfectly traumatic suburban lives which led us to this mess. It's a cracked-out vacation disguised as a breakdown. They media doesn't realize...the breakdown happens well before the drugs.
Yes, these ladies are supposed to be role models. But they're also twenty somethings, as am I, and I know the life I live. No one would know of their antics had the media not existed to blow them up. As someone trying to change, it makes me cringe everytime I turn on the tv, or try to read about how badly dressed the celebs are these days, to instead see them act the exact way that I'm trying to forget. Not to mention the fact that blowing up drug use undermines the actual problems in these people's lives. Amy Winehouse is codependent...only not with substances, but with men. This is what leads to addiction. Her music, as well as Rolling Stone cover story expose this fact, yet no one makes anything of this. The blaringly ugly need for her man on Amy's album is what makes it so torturously human, and amazing ("You go back to her, and I go back to us"?). In her first album, she even addresses her distaste with the way she looks, and her shock that a man even likes her. She clearly uses men to validate herself, a quality I've witnessed in drunk bitches everywhere.
The media makes it seem like stopping drugs/drinking will end one's problems when it's in fact the problems that cause the "addictions". I bet fixing one's generic life problems would end their altogether desire for the substances. There's a lot of talk in health classes about addiction and withdrawal, as though the drug is the thing making you addicted, and not your desire for the effects of the drug. Whether they just let you forget for a little while, or they make you feel smart, confident and as though everything is ok, it's obvious that once everything IS ok, you would no longer need the drug. The truth is that we're more addicted to having problems than feeling OK. Drugs don't actually make people feel good. Maybe the first few times, but the more you do them, the more your problems learn to permeate through the drug and still prod at you in your fucked up state. It's like we're just trying to train our bodies into feeling pain and torture no matter what. We smoke so that we can't breathe, we drink to be hungover, we get high to be paranoid, and we get coked up to talk endlessly about our problems, and the world's problems (cocaine is always the most ambitious pain-causer). Then we cry for help, get better, realize our faces are still too fat and no one could ever love someone who had to pluck their eyebrows every week, and fall right back off the wagon.
Monday, February 4, 2008
united states of whatever...
Sometime in the summer of 2007, I woke up one afternoon and realized that I could not be here anymore. By here, I mean America. Some mysterious force just came crashing down on me and I just knew, I couldn't stay there any longer. In a manic fit of impassioned energy I instantly called my mom and conveyed my desire to leave, thinking she'd be completely understanding, and help me find a way/legitimate excuse to do so. What actually ended up happening was that she really didn't care and said she had to go back to work. So that was the end of that.
Later that summer I decided that to get out of this country I must, for some reason, actually accomplish something in this country. I realized the only way to do this would be to do what I did those few semesters that I was wildly successful: get meds. So I made an appointment, went to it, filled out classic, meaningless surveys, explained about my past prescriptions and how great things were when I was on them, and somehow left with a prescription only for various heart exams, as those drugs would likely cause "sudden death" because I "may have heart problems". I never did the exams, I never saw the doctor again, decided to hold on to the thought that I would die a "sudden death" and quickly subdued my needs for a later time when they would be more appropriate.
On account of becoming paralyzed by fear (of both "sudden death" and the city of New Brunswick), I spent the summer staying in, watching and introducing movies to others. My favorite of this series is Better Luck Tomorrow. The perfect tale of the results of suburban boredom coupled with unbridled success with little to no effort, this is the only murderous story of teens in America which I would distinctly not classify as a depiction of "teen violence in America". Because the murderers are exactly like everyone from my town. After reading about the actual events which inspired the film, the 1992 murder of Stuart Tay from Orange County, whose scamming involved selling computer parts and hacking for money (in 1992!), I began to wonder why it seems that rich non-white kids, such as Asian or Indian, always seem to turn to gang-like activities to fulfill boredom. Gangs come to existence to procure a secure system of income and protection of their family, neither of which the families of the boys involved, in the O.C., would ever need. I remember my whole childhood of being called "white" by the Indian kids and "weird" by the white kids (I used to eat erasers), as though just being me would never be OK, because if I were "me", I would invariably end up being a poofy-haired nerd with ugly glasses, a big nose and arranged marriage to someone with adult acne.
If I tried to hang with the white kids, they would never lend me their pencils (see above) and if I tried to hang with the Indian kids, we would form a big nerd coalition and more than one of (above) is already way too much of (above). The only way an Asian/Indian person in the nineties could hang with their own race (and not be a coalition of [above]), no matter how privileged, was to be badass motherfuckers. These boys, historically perfectionistic, decided upon this route, and having to be unique and badass, they settled on some computer shit. And they were badass, they were feared, and they were at the top of their class. There was no doubt in their mind that they could and would get away with murder, whether it was over a girl or general inter-wannabe-gang bitchiness. That's not teen violence, that's misguided confidence on the worst trip of its life.
Moving on, fall came and went, I got reacquainted with old friends, and old habits...which gave birth to some new habits...Finally it was Christmas, after which came an emergency room visit. Emergency room visit led to heart exams. Heart exams led to Half-Asian doctor informing me that my dealer does not have the "best shit", but nonetheless, my heart is fine and all exams were normal. Normal heart led to me exhaling a grand sigh of hackneyed relief as I called my parents and told them what happened. Telling them what happened, well, that led to me finally having to be a good girl, doing whatever they say, and seeing a psychiatrist THEY PICKED and doing whatever the doctor orders. OK.
January 7, 2008 arrives, and I somehow maneuvered myself out of bed a mere hour after falling asleep to see the doctor...at noon. I informed the doctor about my fears towards certain stimulant medications, even though my heart is fine, because I don't want to just "drop dead" (as Dr. Hibbert-like RU psychiatrist kept reminding me might happen between soft Filipino giggles). New Flaming Homo psychiatrist promptly opened my eyes to the truth behind this concept of "sudden death", and how it is in fact more common in all kids than in the studied group only on stimulants. He also let me know that the freaking out scientific party was CANADIAN. I was a bit confused as to why that mattered, but apparently it just did. Any who, the end result of this day was spending $500 to get a pill that will conclusively make me wake up in the morning (at least I accomplished ONE THING in 2008!).
And ever since yesterday morning, I've been up, brimming with thoughts and comments, elevated-mood, and suddenly reunited with my Summer 2007 urges. I have to leave again. I don't care about succeeding here first. I don't care about "having a legitimate reason to leave". My urgency is legitimate. But alas, I am still broke, with no support for this cause. So I've just been stuck here, with this laptop and the television, whiling away the days until something exciting can happen. At approximately 3:30 AM, I began to reach zombie stage of random internet research, and decided just to rest back and watch something on TV and what do I come across other than that Michael Moore movie SiCKO? I try not to like Michael Moore because my brother says he's unfair to both sides and shows a ridiculously slewed viewpoint, and being that my brother isn't an imbecile, I trust him. But I've had it with MM haters after seeing this movie 1) for telling me that I can't believe in what he says, even though they believe in whatever Jesus Christ says with little to no evidence and 2) for not realizing that I believe in everything he says cuz I was thinking it already since the day I decided to think (a hobby you haters might consider one day?).
From a strictly movie standpoint, MM portrays the perfect narrative within his documentaries, warming his audience to tragic notions with humor, easing them into harsh and dramatic plotlines interwoven with peaceful fantasies of a better tomorrow...I realized all my urgent dreams were rooted in my growing hate of America over the past year. Before 2007, I was sheltered in my West Windsor hideaway, where I drove everywhere, ate at shmancy restaurants, and had any amount of teen-drama medication at my disposal. When I moved back to New Brunswick, I kept thinking it was I who was spiraling out of control, but it was in fact just my once wide-eyed notion of New Jersey. That day in the summer, I guess I just woke up wanting to walk down a street without fearing for dear life that a crackhead, hoodrat, or old pasty man with white fro pulled back into pigtails wearing little girls dress and socks with balls at the ends topped off by a pink cardigan would so much as make eye contact with me, as I always broke out into a cold sweat when that did happen. Even without MM highlighting the fact that not only are hospitals free AND faster in all other countries, but all doctors in ANY COUNTRY but America are mysteriously really cute and buy cool things (which has only been my fantasy since...FOREVER!!), I knew there was something wrong with the general American peace of mind which was directly linked to their health.
My emergency room visit forced me to wait in the waiting room for 1.5 hours before being seen (though arrhythmias can become deadly way sooner than this!), and yes, I survived so it's easy to write this off as not a big deal, but I also just want to live in a place where I can tell someone that my pulse has been at 140 for over an hour and a half, and have them respect me, as opposed to everyone around me assuring me to just "calm down" because my heart was just "trying to regulate itself" and that I shouldn't go to the hospital because they went when their nose was broken and it cost a shit load "for nothing" (these are all true statements). While this may all be true, I consider alleviating my fears alone a valid medical service, though it should be free. They wouldn't give me the results to my heart exams until I showed them my insurance card and gave them a billing address. I actually thought I was going to die during those five hours of being accused of overreacting, advised to just ignore my heart, waiting for the nurse to seem me, waiting for the doctor to see me, waiting for those results. All I thought about the whole time was that website I looked at when I first became aware of my heart rate..."Increased heart rate is only dangerous if it lasts for more than a few minutes" (check) "you feel chest pain" (nope) and "you feel pain in your arms or legs" (nope). As I was waiting, the arms got tense, but I was already at the ER. There was nothing more I could do by then. Even though I had insurance.
I felt a fantastic joy when I imagined the ease of using the ER in other countries. But even beyond this, it seemed that everyone in other countries cared a lot more about their country and their jobs, as in, carrying them out to the best of their ability. We are scared of the police and the hospital, the two places we should trust with our lives. On top of all of this, Law & Order is on essentially every hour of the day to simultaneously keep us in check and in fear for our lives. With justification for war, spying and allowing millions to die here alone, I feel like the only one who can see on a totally simplified level how any of this is inherently wrong. The government acts like the Better Luck Tomorrow boys in that way, complexifying murder to a shriveled mess then ironing it out to simply equal a symbol of one's power, the government is just bored and money is their game. Winning this game always appears to result in sheer and callous violence, but is actually just misguided confidence on the worst trip of it's life. People call me unmotivated for not caring about my future, or earning money, but I simply don't have that desire to constantly earn money. The American ideal is that only rich people are successful, and the only ones who can pretty much live comfortably work hard and only care about money. People don't understand that I don't mind living in squalor. But my interests will never stay in only earning money. It is a pleasent side affect of whatever I care about. But it is not whatever I care about. People think I'm crazy for not feeling comfortable in NJ. But these emotions are now inescapable, as America has become. With all the fear we have surrounding us here, after 9/11, they even frightened me into not wanting to fly. Now my only option is Canada, the land of unapproved Adderall.
I can't help but feel like America is that family friend you had growing up, the one who was completely annoying but your mom always made you hang out with them, and they followed every unbelievably strict word that escaped their psycho mom's lips, and you had to too when you were with them. It's like I've been on a sleepover with that kid for ages, and everyday they kept begging me to stay and I did because I'm just kind of too awkward to say no, but finally I've decided to begin working up the courage. Yes I was born and raised here, but a place I'm terrified by simply can't home.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
partnership for a drug free neeraja
I've begun to realize that people like me are actually a minority. That is, people who just take whatever comes at them and shut up about it (excluding the daily rant to parent, boyfriend, or random acquaintance they run into right after trying to study but instead just festering masses of hate towards various annoyers). Yes, I am annoyed by many of the things you or anyone else do, but I always thought that I just have to accept the habits of others even if I feel like they are impinging on my sanity. Besides any of this, I always just had other things on my mind more important than every little thing some annoying person do. But I think my last straw has been pulled and I can no longer concentrate on my other important mental business (namely fantasies about torrid affairs with rich, handsome, older doctors who lavish me with presents). In fact, I would characterize 2007 as the year of brats confronted me on just how selfish I have been. I am messy, I talk on the phone late at night, yes. These things are annoying to those who like things clean, and sleep at night, yes. But things annoy me also, I just never bring them up. No, this is not because I "don't have a spine", but rather, because I just don't care nor do I think it's fair to ask someone to change the way they live. This may seem ironic, as it leads one to believe that I would rather change the way I live, but what's so tragic about that, exactly?
That's the problem with the growing majority of people: they think change is tragic because it's somehow murdering "who you are". People think, when in a situation where something annoys them, that it is their duty to confront the person and demand change because if they didn't, they wouldn't "be true to themselves". These quoted phrases are absolute bullshit. You became "who you are" by massive influence from your parents, the government, media,
But this isn't just about drugs. This is about me informing those like me of yet another obliterating personality change of the masses (kind of like claiming to "bring sexy back", or UGGs) which has chosen to mess with my piece of mind. I cannot make myself be a person who demands change rather than someone who just changes themselves, because I am gaining more by being the latter. I have more options in life, I'm never backed into a corner, I have more points of reference, I get to live like so many different people, and get accustomed to their habits, listen to their music, speak their language, live their lifestyles, but no matter where they go, all they get is themselves. Just like those of us who never participate in class get all the insight of everyone else, as well as our own opinion while it's clear that those who speak up can speak in every single class and will still only leave with their opinion, a malleable, willing-to-change person gets the best of all worlds without being bogged down by "true to themselves" bullshit. A worthwhile person understands not only the virtues but also the value of changing your own ways and accepting the ways of others...why continue living if you had it so right from the start? This may sound weird, depressed self-loather of me, but when someone else annoys me my first thought is that I've done something to deserve it (as opposed to The New Race's deserving of only that which is pleasant and lauding). Invariably, this ends up being positive as I have the non-delusion capacity to examine my flawed self and be honest about it, thus allowing me to be thankful to others, or apologize when I've been wrong. The irony of the TNR's (the new race's) gumption in situations such as the messy room or the noisy phone call is their absolute lack of it when it comes to anything that matters. TNR would never be so bold in situations involving school, work, or even most social situations, and they solely prey on those who are like us, the minority, but in the long run, it's OK. At least I'm not on drugs.