The Thing Is, Sometimes I Ramble.

So I am just blowing off steam here right now. I have a guy in my house fixing my floor. And by house I mean apartment.

Yes, I am officially entirely moved over. And all the things-- well, most of the things, are in working order. There are appliances and a shower and everything. Electricity, even. My new TV will be hooked up on Tuesday. My couch and chair are perfect and I love them. The shelving I designed turned out absolutely perfect. The color of the walls is the best color EVAR. The floors are beautiful. The gas range has a burner that is LITERALLY MEANT TO MAKE GRAVY. Well, maybe not literally. Literally it is a burner for using a griddle top. BUT! BUT! You can put your entire roaster pan on it and it is PERFECT.

And yet.

And yet.

I cannot sleep. I am depressed and zombieish. I have problems maintaining any sort of positive outlook on anything. I think I may be addicted to an online game. I am scattered and sad and I have no idea what I am doing from one moment to the next. Everything sucks, everything is awful, and I feel like I am just malingering, and I need to get over it, or move on, or do something-- but I don't even know what I am supposed to do. Or how I am supposed to act. Or what is even going on. Like, what are we doing?

Does he honestly think this is a functional relationship, him living there and me living here? Does he think I am supposed to just be fine with this, like things are fine? Because they are not. Things suck, and I am chronically lonely, and I know that I take my self-worth from others, because I have not yet learned, after all of this time, to see that I am worth something on my own, without someone there to tell me that. And there is no one here, and when there is no one here, all I want is anyone to love me. And I know that is fucked up and stupid, and I should be able to learn to just be with myself and my thoughts or whatever, but MY THOUGHTS SUCK RIGHT NOW AND I DON'T EVEN HAVE A BATHTUB TO DROWN IN. Or drown my sorrows in. Look at me, ending sentences with prepositions! WOO HOO IT'S GETTIN' WILD IN HERE.

My point being that I do not even know if I want to be in this relationship, because I feel like I am a contortionist these days, trying to fit into what I need to be. I just want a break.

The only thing I am doing correctly right now is not drinking myself into a stupor. But that might just be because I lack the motivation to buy alcohol. I guess also I am still standing. But just barely.

GOD I AM SO PATHETIC.

I will probably delete this later. Or now.

Fuck me.

Pathétique

How can I think of a new blog post when I can't even think of a new Facebook status?

If Today Had a Theme

AAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuughaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

In My Opinion

Preface: If you do not understand that Rachael was being sarcastic, you do not know her well enough, and need to get more of her in your life.

Rachael left me a comment the other day that I was going to address in a rant against relativism in artistic meaning, but I got sidetracked and instead went on a rant against value judgments in general. So... I will come back to a rant about art later. But for right now,

I HATE BLANKET RELATIVISM IN VALUE JUDGMENTS.

You know what? Some things ARE BETTER THAN OTHERS.

This is one of the things that pisses me off to no end. People thinking that their uninformed opinion of something should be taken into account just because there is some sort of wussy "all opinions should be treated equally" mantra floating around out there. ALL OPINIONS CANNOT BE RIGHT, because then A would be both A and NOT A at the SAME TIME, IN THE SAME RESPECT. And that is IMPOSSIBLE.

And who is the judge of this, you say? Because doesn't it end up being put in their hands, the fate of art and taste and all things? YES IT DOES. And I AM THE JUDGE, BITCHES. Actually, I should qualify that by saying I am totally not the judge on most things. I will defer to those more knowledgeable than myself, in most instances. But I can be the judge in areas in which I have been educated. Because I believe that my opinion regarding literature is more informed than most people's opinions, for example. If some illiterate eighth-grader said that Hamlet was a misogynist play that made no sense, I would tell you that he is WRONG. He is not just interpreting the play as it can be interpreted because there are many interpretations and aren't they all right? NO.

And I'm not saying that you have to know Shakespeare's life story, or have read ALL THE PLAYS, or have an earth-shaking love of poetry or theater to love him OR to realize that he IS, unqualifiedly,* a genius. But I am saying that the worth of your opinion depends on your familiarity with the subject on which you are opining.

You are entitled to your opinion in the same way that I am entitled to tell you where to shove your opinion. Freedom of speech does not necessarily entail equality of opinion. You don't go to me to place your horse racing bets, because I do not know a fetlock from a forelock. You go to the stable hands and jockeys and backroom odds-makers, because their opinions are MORE VALID. You don't go to Rachael to tell you how to solve your sinus problems, you go to a DOCTOR, because his opinion is MORE VALID.

And now I am running out of steam because I got sidetracked reading up on fetlocks and sinus problems. Dammit. Let's just have a beer and look at this beautiful picture.

Degas' Ballet Rehearsal. Definitively Beautiful. 

 *Unqualifiedly is so a word. Fuck You, Spellcheck. My opinion is more valid than yours 99.9% of the time.

Sometime After Midnight

Crowding my head
Like drunks at a ball game
Possibilities
Probabilities
And all of the things in between.

It's usually after midnight
That my fancy takes flight
Refusing to sit tight
Preferring not to act right

And that's when I wonder
Lay awake to ponder
The path that I'm on
And the one I could be on

This or that
Here or there
Now or never

But we all know that
It's not a path
It's a moving walkway
And there's no way to get off.

Procrastination

I kind of feel like I may have already entitled an entry here "Procrastination," but I am too lazy to check.

I am currently putting off a deadline. I was recently hired on as a contract grant writer by a national corporation. I used to be the boss of the girl who hired me. I was thinking, "Hey! It will be fun to feel like a productive member of society again! To be doing work that requires skill, and thinking, and writing! To get PAID! IN REAL MONEY! To feel like your job is somewhat respectable!"

GOD was I wrong. I hate work. I hate working. Except now I have committed to it, and have to do it. And I have a deadline, and it is just HANGING over my head. Like the sword of Damocles. That's the one I'm thinking of, right? Damocles? Anyway, it is like a sharp sword. Over my head. About to drop. On the 20th.

And even though I spent the last countless weeks out of my mind with boredom, I now have a million and eleventy things that I MUST do before I write this project. Just because I am putting it off. UGH and the more I put it off the heavier it weighs on my mind, until it is like an Escalade sitting on my shoulders.

I have a whole entire day off tomorrow, but instead of starting/working on/finishing the grant, I will undoubtedly make bolognese sauce all day, then construct a perfect lasagna in the evening.

Because that is what respectable, employed, white-collar contract writers DO.

Like a motherfucking ADULT.

Oh, Bother

I am often intolerant of slowness, stupidity, and quiet-talking. I can pair my annoyance with mercy more often than not-- but sometimes, I just can't take it anymore. I mean, I never really say anything rude. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. But I bitch internally about it, which is probably almost as bad.

When I read Emma, I feel a lot of pity on the heroine when she finally snaps at Miss Bates. God help me, I have been there so many times, and have only just managed to stay on this side of letting them know what I think.

My impatience is bother to me.

The Cycle

1. OPEN MOUTH

2. INSERT FOOT

3. THINK YOU HAVE LEARNED YOUR LESSON

4. REPEAT

Manipulation

When manipulative people start pissing me off, I just remember that the word "manipulative" harkens back to the Latin idea of "handful," and a handful is really not that much.

I mean, unless you're talking about boobs, and then it is just right, no waste.

But a handful is not enough ice cream, not enough sand for a sandbox, not enough beer or soda or lotion or blanket or sandwich. It is just a little tiny bit.

I can handle a little tiny bit of a manipulative person just fine.

By stepping on them with my big feet and squishing them dead.

Unsolicited Advice

More often than not, I find the answers to the questions I have by a) asking someone I consider an expert on the subject, or b) googling it. Usually, the questions I find myself asking are things like "What was the name of that guy that used to work at the book store? You know, the one with the red beard and the improbably hot girlfriend? Daniel? David? I feel like it started with a D? He rode a bicycle and always carried a knapsack?" in which case I would ask a person, OR "Average MLB starter ERA," which is how I would phrase a question for Google, as it requires neither modifiers nor sense in its inquiries.

Point is, if I have a question, I know where to go for the answer. I was a fucking reference librarian, for fuck's sake. That is the whole point of the job. So chances are, all of my questions are always answered.

Why someone would assume that I have questions about the ways that I am doing things when I am obviously not asking them for their expert opinion baffles me. Also, annoys me. No-- PISSES ME OFF.

ESPECIALLY!! Because usually the people advising you are the LEAST qualified people for the job. They are NOT the people I would go to even in the unlikely event that I WERE in fits of despair over my inability to determine the proper course for my actions.

SUCH AS:

1. Woman who abused her children, did drugs in front of them, and had them taken away from her several times, regularly tells me the proper way to discipline, teach, and feed my child. Woman, you are the last person on earth I would ask for advice about child-rearing. If I had cocaine-related questions, though, I hope you know I will come to you.

2. Man who is unemployed and living on welfare after getting fired from his last entry-level job because he threatened to kill a co-worker gives me advice at least once a week on how to run my already successful business. Man, you do not get to tell me how to do this, because I am pretty sure I have a handle on it. If I need to know the pros and cons of working in the fast food industry, you will be the first person I ask.

To these doucheholes: We would all be better off if, when I am not requesting your opinion regarding my life or anything in it, you instead apply to your own life the advice you so dearly wish to dispense. If it works out for you, chances are I'll want to know your secret, and you can share then.

To you, reading this now: ARE YOU WITH ME ON THIS? Or is this one of those things that only annoys me because I am an intolerant bitch?