On some real tip, this dude's answers were NiCe! Peep the asterisks.
From http://www.avclub.com/content/home
When The A.V. Club thinks about Valentines' Day, we naturally think about relationships, passion, and Sean "Slug" Daley, MC of hip-hop duo Atmosphere, who has written some of the most pointed love-and-sex rhymes we know of. So we enlisted him to answer some questions in honor of the holiday, figuring that he'd be willing to get deep with our readers. (He is, after all, the guy who told us at length about his theories on alien life.) The call for questions was overwhelming, with multiple marriage proposals tucked within actual cries for help. (Names have been omitted to protect the innocent and guilty.) Slug decided to answer 14 questions in honor of February 14. He also decided that whether or not you have love problems, you should know he's got a new Rhymesayers record, When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold, coming out on April 22. His album Strictly Leakage is also available for free download at rhymesayers.com/atmosphere.
Every couple of years, some girl I'm dating will just spontaneously burst into tears after sex. I've talked to guy friends of mine, and they've had it happen, too. What the hell is the deal? Just some female thing I'm not getting? Or do I have an effect on women that reduces them to tears?
Slug: Crying is a common defense mechanism for the women who sleep with you. Don't get neurotic about it, though. They are not defending themselves from you. They are defending themselves from themselves and their overwhelming desire to burst into laughter.
I am 18 years young and pretty shy. There is this male in one of my classes and I can't keep my mind off him… I don't even know his name, so what are some good ways for him to notice me without looking like I'm trying too hard?
Slug: Who are you afraid of looking like you are trying too hard in front of? I'm going to assume that the male in question is a) not your professor, and b) near the same age as you. If these are both true, relax. I usually try not to generalize, but most male prey your age do not analyze the hunter's technique the same way that you might. He will be too busy wrapping his head around the fact that you were proactive to question whether you appear desperate. Go for it. Now.
I made the mistake of taking my boyfriend to go see Juno with me. Ever since, he's been terrified of getting me pregnant, to the point where he damn near refuses to sleep with me. Help a girl out.
Slug: Relax. It will subside. In the meantime, catch up on The Wire.
I am a 28-year-old woman who has had the pleasure of having one partner for the experimental period of my life, and he and I explored all the doors of intimacy. My now-fiancé lacks the forbidden fun that I am craving. I am the one who had the cuffs, the rope, the toys, and the knowledge, and if I bring these things out during our private time, he acts scared and intimidated. I have tried to break him out of his shell and get him to explore with me, but he just likes to do the same thing over and over again. How do I get him to open up to me and be comfortable enough?
Slug: Comfortable enough for what? Maybe it's not your knowledge that he is intimidated by, but rather where you obtained it. Try some things that are new to both of you. My best half has been to Mexico, I have not. So when we plan our next vacation together, I would prefer to go somewhere neither of us have been, rather than experiencing Mexico with her as my tour guide. I'm not wrong for that (maybe a little stubborn), but I prefer the idea of a shared adventure more than I like the idea of trying to track down some restaurant that she remembers from when she was a teenager. Now if she absolutely must go to Mexico, and I'm still not into it, I'm secure with the idea of her going with her homegirls, while I stay at home and rap. Figure out an adventure that fits both of your tastes. If that doesn't work, figure out how much you need the adventure. If you can't live without it, do what is best for you. But never, ever, guilt or manipulate someone into doing something they don't wanna do. After reviewing your question, I think maybe I wanna go to Mexico.
What warnings do you have about marriage besides the fact that there will be arguments, and you'll likely hate one another after living together for a year? I am a 21-year-old single mom who is constantly being proposed to, and I wonder what it would be like if one of these guys could actually wrangle me into commitment. I have had long-term relationships, but I have never lived with a man I had been in a relationship with. What are the ills that could scare me off from marriage for good?
Slug: Constantly being proposed to? By who? Co-workers? Neighbors? The guy at the local food co-op juice bar? Are these long-term friends that you've known for a while? Or just random guys? Forget focusing on the warning signs. Focus more on the bond you share with the person who is proposing. Due to the way your question is worded, I feel like your parents may have left you with a twisted outlook on "happily-ever-after." Join the fucking club, and only marry for love. Anything else won't work. Besides, your child will benefit more from learning what happy looks like alone, rather than what misery looks like embraced.
What is your advice to a couple in which one person is sober, and the other is addicted to crystal meth?
Slug: Personally, I don't believe in the risk. The addict needs to get well. The addict also needs to examine how he/she could ruin the lives of the people he/she loves. The addict won't do either of these things if the addict can take advantage of the love and nurture of his/her lover. My advice is to wean off of each other. Send the addict to treatment. And once the addict learns to establish a love for self, the addict may actually end up mentally and emotionally available enough to love another person correctly. Or not. Either way, throwing away one life trumps throwing away two. I don't believe in the risk.
I need a good pickup line, something that will sweep a girl off her feet and into my bed. Give me some sort of dope line, please!
Slug: Try this one. Next time you're at Daiquiri Joe's tossing a few back with your Billy Bro-ceans, walk right up to that long-legged makeup kit and tell her, "I'm the type of guy that thinks it's hilarious to write into an advice column asking for good pickup lines." Dog, she will think you are the cat's pajamas.
I'm a 27-year-old female and I'd been with this guy for about a month and the sex was okay, but I didn't really feel he had much passion for it. He was a mechanical dick, at best. That is, until I let him cross the velvet rope and enter my virginal back door during one of our encounters, and his inner gay was released. He likes the backdoor action A LOT. Giving, receiving, butt plugs, dildos, tossing, he's all about it. He can't even get off now unless HIS ass is being stimulated or penetrated with something. He even talks dirty in a different and somewhat feminine tone when I'm dominating his ass. I've hinted and teased that if he were any more flaming, he'd spontaneously combust. He laughs it off, but doesn't deny. Would you guess him gay? Would you marry me?
Slug: I'm not entirely sure, but I think you are asking me if your boyfriend is gay. Is that the question here? Maybe you should ask him. I really have no answer for you. I don't think people's metaphysics are defined by who or what they have sex with. But I do think you and him should link up with the couple from question number four. And no, I will not marry you. Buy my new album.
The woman at the root of my grief shouldn't be as tricky as this. It's almost transparent that she no longer has feelings for me, but this doesn't impede her ability to call me (sober, no less) and say that she loves me. Her words never seem to match her actions, and I'm constantly fighting between my urge to stay away and my urge to try and get her back. How do you get past it all?
***Slug: Drama is a helluva drug. We get addicted to it. When we are in a dysfunctional relationship that lasts long enough, we will still crave the dysfunction after the relationship has ended. We will still carry out some of those dysfunctional actions with that ex. It's our way of still feeling important to that person. A string to hold onto. The Vali-Dating Game.
My advice to you (and her, for that matter) is to stop taking the calls. Self-intervention does work. Do not go to the bars she frequents. Do not hang out at mutual friends' homes if you know she may come around. Ignore her away. The more progressive the dramatic advances become, the bigger step back you take, until you are both far enough away from each other that you can stop acting like the people that you know you are not. You are both bigger and deffer than what you've become for each other. Growth time. And then go get the word "codependent" tattooed somewhere on your upper torso in a place that only can be viewed by the next person who sees you naked.***
What, in your opinion, is the biggest difference between men and women?
Slug: The "wo." Sorry. Had to. I'm an idiot, mostly.
I'm a shy small-town girl, and I need some advice. I've been single for the past two years, because it seems like every guy that comes along just wants a piece of my ass. How do I get the fellas to look beyond the exterior? I'm no hoochie, nor am I a skank. I just happen to have a body that appeals to guys. Can you help me out?
Slug: Honestly, change your preferences. You yourself are attracted to a certain body type. Some tattoos, maybe. Dark hair. Tall. Change your preferences. Start noticing a different type of boy, and that different type of boy will start noticing you. Eventually, the type of guy that you are complaining about won't be so obvious in your life, because they will get tired of you not giving back the attention. Go directly to the independent record store (vinyl stock is a must), and start flirting with that employee shaped like Grimace from the McDonald's commercials. He doesn't have an awesome sleeve tattoo. But he isn't embarrassed about his dandruff, he knows way too much about cool music from Alice Cooper to Zhigge, and he has studied enough Internet porn to teach classes at junior college. If your "shy small town" does not have an independent record store, move to the big city.
Why is it that girls can't resist a cocky asshole?
***Slug: I'm going to assume that you are not a cocky asshole. And that you are frustrated with how the cocky asshole always walks away with the girl you desire. Relax. You don't really want her yet. You are best off without her for now. Give it five years. Everyone is amused by bells and whistles at first. Those neon lights distract us, like moths. But eventually, we realize that there is nothing else there. And that's when your worth will translate. The real question is, once everyone realizes how awesomazing you are, will you have your face buried too far up a stripper's butt to notice? Good luck.***
Do you believe that everyone has one specific person or "soulmate" that they are supposed to be with?
Slug: No. But I did murder the tooth fairy once (by accident). It's a long story, and I've told it before. Go Google it.
What's the best way to celebrate Valentine's Day when you're single and you're secretly jealous of people in relationships? Should I get blind-drunk and forget what day it is? Or should I go to the strip club? Or both?
Slug: Hell, why not both? And when you are there, blind-drunk, make sure you preemptively used a Sharpie to write this on your hand: GET USED TO THIS, YOU SCHMUCK. Ha. I've never even said the word schmuck, much less typed it. I'm all about new experiences.
I love you all as if you were my own. —S
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Sometimes, everything I wanna say comes out in emails...
Message to a friend, sent a few minutes ago:
things are going fabulous on my end, mama. and by "fabulous," I basically mean I'm making a lotta conclusions & decisions & moves that I shoulda made yeeeeaars ago. LOL this has to do with school, with my family, with relationships, with friendships... I'm coming to grips with the reality of things: how they are and how I want them to be aren't sympatico - but that's okay cuz they're in a good enough place to get me where I wanna be. I'm tryna make some "takin over the world" kinda moves, with big money and lots of respect and none of the status (thass just how I do - don't need everyone knowing what kinda big moves I make; I'd rather see how they'd treat me if I were like everyone else). I guess it boils down to the fact that there are people who weigh me down by being themselves, whether intentionally or unintentionally, and I can no longer be the nice person to be like "sure, you hold me back, but I love you and I'll let you continue to bring me down. matter fact, I'll enable you to pull some straight BS on me." I ain't masochistic like that... at least, not anymore.
anywhos, that's me in a nutshell right therr. LOL how are things with school going? you need an extra client any time soon? I'd letcha practice whatever you haven't had a chance to do yet!
XO-M
things are going fabulous on my end, mama. and by "fabulous," I basically mean I'm making a lotta conclusions & decisions & moves that I shoulda made yeeeeaars ago. LOL this has to do with school, with my family, with relationships, with friendships... I'm coming to grips with the reality of things: how they are and how I want them to be aren't sympatico - but that's okay cuz they're in a good enough place to get me where I wanna be. I'm tryna make some "takin over the world" kinda moves, with big money and lots of respect and none of the status (thass just how I do - don't need everyone knowing what kinda big moves I make; I'd rather see how they'd treat me if I were like everyone else). I guess it boils down to the fact that there are people who weigh me down by being themselves, whether intentionally or unintentionally, and I can no longer be the nice person to be like "sure, you hold me back, but I love you and I'll let you continue to bring me down. matter fact, I'll enable you to pull some straight BS on me." I ain't masochistic like that... at least, not anymore.
anywhos, that's me in a nutshell right therr. LOL how are things with school going? you need an extra client any time soon? I'd letcha practice whatever you haven't had a chance to do yet!
XO-M
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Gratuity Not Included
Gratuitous: adj.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Given without an equivalent or recompense; conferred without valuable consideration; granted without pay, or without claim or merit; not required by justice.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not called for by the circumstances; without reason, cause, or proof; adopted or asserted without any good ground; as, a gratuitous assumption.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
gra·tu·ity
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural gra·tu·ities
Date: 1540
: something given voluntarily or beyond obligation usually for some service; especially : tip
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We've all heard the term "gratuitous sex." Lately, I feel like it's the only kind I've been having - and to be perfectly honest, that's the way I want it. I know that I've been heeing and hawing about leaving the safe and satisfying realm of "making love," but times they are a' changin. The past several years have been full of back-to-back serious relationships, and I've realized that I'm not about to fall in love with anyone, so I might as well stop wasting my time finding someone to make love to.
For a split second, I seriously considered celibacy. I thought about self-respect and the daunting task of putting myself out in the dating world again. I thought about my self-image and the effort to make a relationship successful. And then I realized I was putting too much thought into it. Dating doesn't have to be a stepping stone to anything serious, and sex can be fun without overcomplicating my life. Why make dating and sex such loaded issues? Why not dive into life and see what I come up with?
So that's what I've been doing the past couple of weeks, and lo and behold, I came up with something unexpected: I enjoy dating women.
To be frank, I've had sex with women before. It was during my teenage phase of discovery, when homosexuality was the hot topic and being gay automatically made you that much closer to cool. All of the girls I slept with during this time were aggressors, and though I found all of them extremely attractive, I was only attracted to a handful of them. I figured sex with a woman was a contemporary New York City girl's rite of passage just like going to Planned Parenthood or having an abortion. (Place tongue in cheek here.) It was taboo and considered sinful, but ultimately not worth much thought. I had youth on my side; fucking up was part of the package, just like olives are part of a Greek salad. If you decide you only wanted feta cheese... Well, you get the idea. Nothing is permanent and all that. The point is, though I've had sex with women before, I've never dated one. Until now. And I'm dating two women. Talk about jumping to the head of the class!
So now it's a week till Valentine's Day, Rob claims to have planned an extravagant date for us, and the two women I'm seeing, Pammy and Sweetie* (she asked that I try not to blog about her), are turning out to be amazing people. In fact, all three of them are turning out to be wonderful in different ways, and each of them have broached the subject of our relationship with impending concern: Are we anywhere close to monogamy?
The truth is, No. I'm nowhere close to being monogamous with ANYONE. I don't enjoy the thrill of the chase as much as I did when I was younger, but I definitely like getting to the "comfortable" but still "tingly" stage of a relationship, when no one has to tiptoe around information and everyone can relax around each other. I'm learning that with women, this stage happens earlier in the relationship, and I'm realizing that this is where I'm most comfortable: when we haven't been together so long that we can anticipate what each other is going to say, but we haven't been together for so short a period that our conversations and actions are awkward. This is bliss.
I realized that I treat Rob, Pammy, and Sweetie all differently when it comes to telling them that exclusivity is out of the question - and they all react differently. I tell Rob (who is three years older than me and hustles to make money) CONSTANTLY that I want to see other people and that I'm only seeing him because, 1) Yes, I love him, and 2) I love what he does to my body (most of the time); he works around the clock to pay as many of my bills as he can. I tell Pammy (who is four years older than me and a CPA for the government) that I enjoy our time together but that I haven't put any thought into whether or not she and/or lesbian relationships are merely a detour in my life; she awkwardly brushes off my straight-forwardness and becomes detached in a way that hints she might really like me. I hint to Sweetie (who is my age and has a mid-salary corporate job) that I'm seeing other people, and she laughs at me, we have a two second conversation about whether I'm playing or not (I always say, "Wish I was, but I'm a rolling stone" - a reference to Bob Dylan) and then we resume whatever we're doing. Each of the people I'm seeing are attractive smart, successful, funny... okay, some more than others, but yeah: they're all good catches. And generous! I hardly have to pick up a tab or make a grand gesture, although I do so all the time out of pride and because I'm not a complete bitch.
But what can they see in me? Why would anyone want to attach themselves to someone who so blatantly and constantly reenforces the fact that we're going nowhere as a couple, while they're looking for something more permanent?
One thing's for certain: Karma's a bitch. When I start looking to settle down, I bet there'll be tumbleweeds blowing in my dating itinerary.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Given without an equivalent or recompense; conferred without valuable consideration; granted without pay, or without claim or merit; not required by justice.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not called for by the circumstances; without reason, cause, or proof; adopted or asserted without any good ground; as, a gratuitous assumption.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
gra·tu·ity
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural gra·tu·ities
Date: 1540
: something given voluntarily or beyond obligation usually for some service; especially : tip
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We've all heard the term "gratuitous sex." Lately, I feel like it's the only kind I've been having - and to be perfectly honest, that's the way I want it. I know that I've been heeing and hawing about leaving the safe and satisfying realm of "making love," but times they are a' changin. The past several years have been full of back-to-back serious relationships, and I've realized that I'm not about to fall in love with anyone, so I might as well stop wasting my time finding someone to make love to.
For a split second, I seriously considered celibacy. I thought about self-respect and the daunting task of putting myself out in the dating world again. I thought about my self-image and the effort to make a relationship successful. And then I realized I was putting too much thought into it. Dating doesn't have to be a stepping stone to anything serious, and sex can be fun without overcomplicating my life. Why make dating and sex such loaded issues? Why not dive into life and see what I come up with?
So that's what I've been doing the past couple of weeks, and lo and behold, I came up with something unexpected: I enjoy dating women.
To be frank, I've had sex with women before. It was during my teenage phase of discovery, when homosexuality was the hot topic and being gay automatically made you that much closer to cool. All of the girls I slept with during this time were aggressors, and though I found all of them extremely attractive, I was only attracted to a handful of them. I figured sex with a woman was a contemporary New York City girl's rite of passage just like going to Planned Parenthood or having an abortion. (Place tongue in cheek here.) It was taboo and considered sinful, but ultimately not worth much thought. I had youth on my side; fucking up was part of the package, just like olives are part of a Greek salad. If you decide you only wanted feta cheese... Well, you get the idea. Nothing is permanent and all that. The point is, though I've had sex with women before, I've never dated one. Until now. And I'm dating two women. Talk about jumping to the head of the class!
So now it's a week till Valentine's Day, Rob claims to have planned an extravagant date for us, and the two women I'm seeing, Pammy and Sweetie* (she asked that I try not to blog about her), are turning out to be amazing people. In fact, all three of them are turning out to be wonderful in different ways, and each of them have broached the subject of our relationship with impending concern: Are we anywhere close to monogamy?
The truth is, No. I'm nowhere close to being monogamous with ANYONE. I don't enjoy the thrill of the chase as much as I did when I was younger, but I definitely like getting to the "comfortable" but still "tingly" stage of a relationship, when no one has to tiptoe around information and everyone can relax around each other. I'm learning that with women, this stage happens earlier in the relationship, and I'm realizing that this is where I'm most comfortable: when we haven't been together so long that we can anticipate what each other is going to say, but we haven't been together for so short a period that our conversations and actions are awkward. This is bliss.
I realized that I treat Rob, Pammy, and Sweetie all differently when it comes to telling them that exclusivity is out of the question - and they all react differently. I tell Rob (who is three years older than me and hustles to make money) CONSTANTLY that I want to see other people and that I'm only seeing him because, 1) Yes, I love him, and 2) I love what he does to my body (most of the time); he works around the clock to pay as many of my bills as he can. I tell Pammy (who is four years older than me and a CPA for the government) that I enjoy our time together but that I haven't put any thought into whether or not she and/or lesbian relationships are merely a detour in my life; she awkwardly brushes off my straight-forwardness and becomes detached in a way that hints she might really like me. I hint to Sweetie (who is my age and has a mid-salary corporate job) that I'm seeing other people, and she laughs at me, we have a two second conversation about whether I'm playing or not (I always say, "Wish I was, but I'm a rolling stone" - a reference to Bob Dylan) and then we resume whatever we're doing. Each of the people I'm seeing are attractive smart, successful, funny... okay, some more than others, but yeah: they're all good catches. And generous! I hardly have to pick up a tab or make a grand gesture, although I do so all the time out of pride and because I'm not a complete bitch.
But what can they see in me? Why would anyone want to attach themselves to someone who so blatantly and constantly reenforces the fact that we're going nowhere as a couple, while they're looking for something more permanent?
One thing's for certain: Karma's a bitch. When I start looking to settle down, I bet there'll be tumbleweeds blowing in my dating itinerary.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Today's Word is "Confidence"
I keep meaning to write something substantial up here, but I'm stopped by the sensation that some living is meant for the memorialization of fictionalization - and not memoir.
Instead of diving deep into the drama (which I often do), I'm gonna keep it short and sweet: a synopsis of all that I've been up to. And, along the way, I'll start naming people, since I'm kinda getting tired of using initials.
1) Getting my swerve on whenever I get the chance. It's scary how naturally this comes to me. One second, I'll be dancing on a table, the next I'll be fucking a guy in a public restroom - and none of it fazes me anymore. I find these sexcapades so passe that I don't even bother mentioning them in person. I mean, yeah, sex is great, but it's only sex. If it's really that interesting to you, you're probably not doing it enough and/or don't have much of a life.
This is probably why I shrug off all sexual advances - and I've been getting a lot of them lately. Aside from the daily barrages of boys, girls, men, and women who bask in my beauty and ask to get a taste, there's been an onslaught of dudes that happen to have remembered me in the past six months. Maybe it's cuz they caught wind about my leaving the country, or maybe Asian women are in season - but accountants, rappers, drug dealers, models, actors, DJs, MCs, doctors, financial analysts, stock brokers, students, wanna-be film makers, etc. are flooding my cell phone. And I really couldn't care less.
2) Realizing that some friends truly are family - but that doesn't mean they know me and/or we vibe 24/7. There are moments when I'll be hanging out with someone and we are undoubtedly tuned in to the same frequency of life and understanding. We can expound on each others' thoughts and assist each other in broadening our mutual horizons. We realize that we have similar passions, interests and priorities, and feel less alone in the world. We develop respect for each others' thoughts and ideas. More and more, the people with whom I have these attachments and relationships are people that I haven't known all that long. They're people that I happen upon by circumstance and intuition, and they are on similar paths as myself. I look to these people for guidance, instruction, and assistance in the difficulties of my adulthood. For these reasons, these people should rightfully be called my "best friends" - but they're not.
I call Dallas, Yvonne, and Ariane my best friends. Not because we have common interests or because they understand me the best (truth be told, there are times when I feel like we don't know each other at all), but because we have a history together and I know that when push comes to shove, they'll help bury a body at a moment's notice and the only question they'll ask is, "What story do I have to tell the authorities?"
I mentioned this to Tori today as she was helping me sort out my finances, and she said, "Seriously? That's your criteria for calling someone your best friend?"
"Sure," I said. "We love each other unconditinally, and we're there for each other no matter what."
After laughing at how redundant I sounded, Tori sucked on her teeth. "I'm willing to fork over a couple thousand dollars to help you pay your mortgage," she reminded me, "no questions asked. Your writer friends help engage your imagination and your passion - and don't have ill will towards your success, which is very hard. Your activist friends heighten your awareness and your hope - all while entertaining your monthly bouts of depression and cynicism. I can name off the top of my head people who would take a bullet for you, if it came down to that - and all you have is 'they're willing to dump a body and corroborate a story to the cops'? If that's the case, you have a lot more best friends than you realize."
Later on in the conversation, as I was crying on the phone and talking about my family's financial crisis, Tori made an observation that frightens and validates me and my feelings. "You say that you couldn't leave your family because when push comes to shove, they're there for you - and you think you need that, even if sometimes you question their worth. Maybe that's what your best friends are: your family."
3) No matter how far I stray from the path I feel I should be on, sooner or later, I always find my way. For the past few months, I haven't felt like myself. I was taking in all of my acquired life experience and academic knowledge. I was steeping in feelings and options. I was growing up and growing out of the person I used to be, and in that process, I was afraid that people wouldn't understand me or like me. I was afraid that I'd be labeled by some people as "corny" or "lame." I was embarassed and frightened that I'd no longer be the crazy, loud, show-stopping diva that people had become accustomed to.
And then, one day, I was Me.
I really couldn't care less what you think of Me.
4) I really like the structure brought to my life by working all the time, etc. I'm getting back in the grind, writing, performing, teaching, looking for another source of steady income, etc. I'm more invested now in my life than ever before. I have a sense of self that's unparalleled. I'm crazy comfortable in my skin and able to take responsibility for my life and everything it entails. Things are so clear to me now: who I am, what I want, what I need. This faith in myself is absolutely intoxicating. I wake up and feel like I have purpose. I deal with situations with ease and understanding. I write and learn and read and teach and feel a part of everything.
Even after being diagnosed for cervical cancer and coming through that alive, I didn't feel such an overwhelming sense of resolve and hope. These days, I'm filled with confidence and appreciation for everything that I have and encounter. More than that...
5) I'm done with fear. They say there's nothing to fear but fear itself. I feel like I've been afraid of everything: Rocking the boat. Not rocking the boat. Not living up to my parents' expectations. Only living up to my parents' expectations. Making too much money. Not making enough money.
I've always been extremely aware of myself and my place in the greater scheme of things. I'm not one to overdo or underdo. I've strived to strike the right balance in everything, and make a positive impact on as much as possible.
But there's a downside in keeping such a keen eye on yourself: you forget to just Be. So that's what I'm doing now: just being, and knowing that I'm inclined to fulfill wonderful and extraordinary feats. In the face of the impending storm of family drama, financial drama, etc., I feel good. Really, really good.
Instead of diving deep into the drama (which I often do), I'm gonna keep it short and sweet: a synopsis of all that I've been up to. And, along the way, I'll start naming people, since I'm kinda getting tired of using initials.
1) Getting my swerve on whenever I get the chance. It's scary how naturally this comes to me. One second, I'll be dancing on a table, the next I'll be fucking a guy in a public restroom - and none of it fazes me anymore. I find these sexcapades so passe that I don't even bother mentioning them in person. I mean, yeah, sex is great, but it's only sex. If it's really that interesting to you, you're probably not doing it enough and/or don't have much of a life.
This is probably why I shrug off all sexual advances - and I've been getting a lot of them lately. Aside from the daily barrages of boys, girls, men, and women who bask in my beauty and ask to get a taste, there's been an onslaught of dudes that happen to have remembered me in the past six months. Maybe it's cuz they caught wind about my leaving the country, or maybe Asian women are in season - but accountants, rappers, drug dealers, models, actors, DJs, MCs, doctors, financial analysts, stock brokers, students, wanna-be film makers, etc. are flooding my cell phone. And I really couldn't care less.
2) Realizing that some friends truly are family - but that doesn't mean they know me and/or we vibe 24/7. There are moments when I'll be hanging out with someone and we are undoubtedly tuned in to the same frequency of life and understanding. We can expound on each others' thoughts and assist each other in broadening our mutual horizons. We realize that we have similar passions, interests and priorities, and feel less alone in the world. We develop respect for each others' thoughts and ideas. More and more, the people with whom I have these attachments and relationships are people that I haven't known all that long. They're people that I happen upon by circumstance and intuition, and they are on similar paths as myself. I look to these people for guidance, instruction, and assistance in the difficulties of my adulthood. For these reasons, these people should rightfully be called my "best friends" - but they're not.
I call Dallas, Yvonne, and Ariane my best friends. Not because we have common interests or because they understand me the best (truth be told, there are times when I feel like we don't know each other at all), but because we have a history together and I know that when push comes to shove, they'll help bury a body at a moment's notice and the only question they'll ask is, "What story do I have to tell the authorities?"
I mentioned this to Tori today as she was helping me sort out my finances, and she said, "Seriously? That's your criteria for calling someone your best friend?"
"Sure," I said. "We love each other unconditinally, and we're there for each other no matter what."
After laughing at how redundant I sounded, Tori sucked on her teeth. "I'm willing to fork over a couple thousand dollars to help you pay your mortgage," she reminded me, "no questions asked. Your writer friends help engage your imagination and your passion - and don't have ill will towards your success, which is very hard. Your activist friends heighten your awareness and your hope - all while entertaining your monthly bouts of depression and cynicism. I can name off the top of my head people who would take a bullet for you, if it came down to that - and all you have is 'they're willing to dump a body and corroborate a story to the cops'? If that's the case, you have a lot more best friends than you realize."
Later on in the conversation, as I was crying on the phone and talking about my family's financial crisis, Tori made an observation that frightens and validates me and my feelings. "You say that you couldn't leave your family because when push comes to shove, they're there for you - and you think you need that, even if sometimes you question their worth. Maybe that's what your best friends are: your family."
3) No matter how far I stray from the path I feel I should be on, sooner or later, I always find my way. For the past few months, I haven't felt like myself. I was taking in all of my acquired life experience and academic knowledge. I was steeping in feelings and options. I was growing up and growing out of the person I used to be, and in that process, I was afraid that people wouldn't understand me or like me. I was afraid that I'd be labeled by some people as "corny" or "lame." I was embarassed and frightened that I'd no longer be the crazy, loud, show-stopping diva that people had become accustomed to.
And then, one day, I was Me.
I really couldn't care less what you think of Me.
4) I really like the structure brought to my life by working all the time, etc. I'm getting back in the grind, writing, performing, teaching, looking for another source of steady income, etc. I'm more invested now in my life than ever before. I have a sense of self that's unparalleled. I'm crazy comfortable in my skin and able to take responsibility for my life and everything it entails. Things are so clear to me now: who I am, what I want, what I need. This faith in myself is absolutely intoxicating. I wake up and feel like I have purpose. I deal with situations with ease and understanding. I write and learn and read and teach and feel a part of everything.
Even after being diagnosed for cervical cancer and coming through that alive, I didn't feel such an overwhelming sense of resolve and hope. These days, I'm filled with confidence and appreciation for everything that I have and encounter. More than that...
5) I'm done with fear. They say there's nothing to fear but fear itself. I feel like I've been afraid of everything: Rocking the boat. Not rocking the boat. Not living up to my parents' expectations. Only living up to my parents' expectations. Making too much money. Not making enough money.
I've always been extremely aware of myself and my place in the greater scheme of things. I'm not one to overdo or underdo. I've strived to strike the right balance in everything, and make a positive impact on as much as possible.
But there's a downside in keeping such a keen eye on yourself: you forget to just Be. So that's what I'm doing now: just being, and knowing that I'm inclined to fulfill wonderful and extraordinary feats. In the face of the impending storm of family drama, financial drama, etc., I feel good. Really, really good.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Okay, so... THAT WASN'T IT
I can't really sit and type since I'm due at Nuyorican in six and a half hours and still haven't gotten any shut-eye. But after tonight, it's been confirmed: the blog isn't over yet.
So much to cover this weekend...
I'm gonna start with dating and sex.
So here's the deal, short, sweet and to the point: I still have sex with Rob, but lately he hasn't been dependable on providing orgasms and I realized that we've NEVER had an actual conversation. (Yeah, two years together and the only thing we ever talk about is our relationship. How's that for unhealthy?) Those two things combine to give me ample reason to limit our time together. So I have. And the singles scene ain't what I remember, to say the least.
I remember, three or four years ago, fucking my way uptown on a Friday night just to fuck my way back downtown by Sunday evening - all to sleep off the heady high of sexual euphoria in time for Monday's work and classes. I've come to the realization that something must've happened between then and now: I've become sexually desensitized, my memory's lying to me, or I'm shit out of luck cuz lemme tell ya, the "great fuck" has taken on the mythic proportions of the Yeti of Loch Ness Monster and I am H-O-R-N-Y.
I'm dating a few people - a woman included - and remembering that pretty faces and kicking good games don't mean that people have the skills to get me off. The woman I'm seeing, PW, is hot - but more than that, she and I can vibe with each other on so many levels. With the men, it's all about looks and personality - but not intellect. I feel like now's the time that karma's biting me in the ass. It seems to be saying, "You had a good run with so many men who loved you, nurtured your spirit and intellect, and fucked you silly - and you denied each and every one of them any real opportunity at a serious, long-term relationship. Now you get to see what the other side's like."
And sex?! I dunno. Maybe I'm out of practice with telling someone new what I like, but five years ago, screaming out, "Yeah. Right there. Don't stop doing that," was appropriate and got the job done. Does that not work anymore? Or am I fucking men who don't know how to listen/don't care to listen once they've been invited to the show? (I haven't slept with PW yet.)
Speaking of "the show," what the fuck is up with dudes that expect you to diddle your clit to get yourself off?! Honestly, I've always held the position that you should NEVER have to masturbate while fucking someone. During foreplay? Sure! But during the act itself? Nah, man. Fuck that. If I need to do all the real work, then you're just there for the privilege of watching it happen - and I don't need to risk pregnancy, STDs and wasted time in order to put on a show. Just pay me money and I'll hook up a webcam. Fo real.
So much to cover this weekend...
I'm gonna start with dating and sex.
So here's the deal, short, sweet and to the point: I still have sex with Rob, but lately he hasn't been dependable on providing orgasms and I realized that we've NEVER had an actual conversation. (Yeah, two years together and the only thing we ever talk about is our relationship. How's that for unhealthy?) Those two things combine to give me ample reason to limit our time together. So I have. And the singles scene ain't what I remember, to say the least.
I remember, three or four years ago, fucking my way uptown on a Friday night just to fuck my way back downtown by Sunday evening - all to sleep off the heady high of sexual euphoria in time for Monday's work and classes. I've come to the realization that something must've happened between then and now: I've become sexually desensitized, my memory's lying to me, or I'm shit out of luck cuz lemme tell ya, the "great fuck" has taken on the mythic proportions of the Yeti of Loch Ness Monster and I am H-O-R-N-Y.
I'm dating a few people - a woman included - and remembering that pretty faces and kicking good games don't mean that people have the skills to get me off. The woman I'm seeing, PW, is hot - but more than that, she and I can vibe with each other on so many levels. With the men, it's all about looks and personality - but not intellect. I feel like now's the time that karma's biting me in the ass. It seems to be saying, "You had a good run with so many men who loved you, nurtured your spirit and intellect, and fucked you silly - and you denied each and every one of them any real opportunity at a serious, long-term relationship. Now you get to see what the other side's like."
And sex?! I dunno. Maybe I'm out of practice with telling someone new what I like, but five years ago, screaming out, "Yeah. Right there. Don't stop doing that," was appropriate and got the job done. Does that not work anymore? Or am I fucking men who don't know how to listen/don't care to listen once they've been invited to the show? (I haven't slept with PW yet.)
Speaking of "the show," what the fuck is up with dudes that expect you to diddle your clit to get yourself off?! Honestly, I've always held the position that you should NEVER have to masturbate while fucking someone. During foreplay? Sure! But during the act itself? Nah, man. Fuck that. If I need to do all the real work, then you're just there for the privilege of watching it happen - and I don't need to risk pregnancy, STDs and wasted time in order to put on a show. Just pay me money and I'll hook up a webcam. Fo real.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Why Do I Torture Myself?
I just spent the last twenty minutes stalking a guy online. I'll call him DD. No. That sounds like a reference to my cup size. And in case you're wondering: yes, I'm a 38DD. You can wear my bra as a hoodie. But I digress... Oh, whatever. DD it is.
So DD and I fucked a while ago. The sex wasn't that great. Scratch that. It was pretty bad. His dick was small, he came too fast, and he isn't all that to look at.
Okay. Wait. The first two are definitely right. That I remember. How could I forget?! He was just so puny and so... Remind me again what the point of promiscuity is?
Anyway, when I first met DD, a year or two before we actually had sex, he was pretty good-looking. He was the kind of good-looking that sits somewhere near the intersection of Hoodlumm Hottie and Artistic Sexy, a juncture well known to women who are rough around the edges and need a guy who thinks outside the box. His eyes were the kind of green that seem to be the doorways to an underwater cavern, full of mystery and intrigue. His hair, when braided, hinted at his street roots; when loose it fell haphazardly around him, a distinct indication that he couldn't care less about your opinion. All of that is well and good, but what got me is his attitute. He was brazen. Bold. He'd start feeling me up in public in a way that suggested he was the man - and somehow it didn't come off as needy or swarmy. His words had meaning and thought. There was a sense of purpose and duty to his air.
So yeah. I fucked him. The act itself was pretty bad/forgettable. But I'll tell you what I do remember:
That first night, in between repeatedly fucking DD - what can I say? I'm quick to give out second chances - we had meaningful conversations. Not the kind of gushy sentimental bullshit that guys feed you when they want to get laid. Not the nonsense verbal spillage of couples who talk just for the sake of talking. But actual conversations: the kind that made me think and communicate insights. The kind that opened me up to new thoughts and ideas. The kind that are so rare they don't even happen often between best friends.
After the sex was had and the weed was smoked, I said I'd drive back to my place, but he insisted that I stay. That we actually sleep together. That I maybe stick around in the morning to talk some more. And now that I think back on it, I'm surprised that I agreed; back then, I was quick to hightail it out of a scene after I'd gotten some tail.
So we slept together, and in the morning, I took a shower and he heated me an empanada for breakfast. He played hiphop on his Mac, sat on his balcony, writing, and left me lying on the bed to do the same. Deep in thought, I scribbled away and studied his walls, which were littered with remnants of his childhood, reminders of his goals, retainers of his memories. Now and again, a line from a track on his playlist would pop out and one of us would break our mutual silence to exclaim how great it was, or to start a conversation about artistry, or to get the others' attention and just smile.
Even though the details of that first night we fucked are getting hazy, I remember a lot about the feelings of the next morning. They're painted in that perennial shimmer of bliss which taints your heart every time you think of something pure. I know that we "talked" for a bit after that, and that when drama started coming up in my life (as is often the case) he didn't want to/didn't know how to deal with it. I know that I let myself become needy for a day, then decided that I was better off on my own. And I know that I'd rather I have that great memory than have started something with DD that more resembled an actual relationship; I sure as hell wasn't ready for one back then.
More than all that, I know that DD knew how to kiss, and that our lips seemed to compliment each other like interlocking pieces of the same puzzle.
So DD and I fucked a while ago. The sex wasn't that great. Scratch that. It was pretty bad. His dick was small, he came too fast, and he isn't all that to look at.
Okay. Wait. The first two are definitely right. That I remember. How could I forget?! He was just so puny and so... Remind me again what the point of promiscuity is?
Anyway, when I first met DD, a year or two before we actually had sex, he was pretty good-looking. He was the kind of good-looking that sits somewhere near the intersection of Hoodlumm Hottie and Artistic Sexy, a juncture well known to women who are rough around the edges and need a guy who thinks outside the box. His eyes were the kind of green that seem to be the doorways to an underwater cavern, full of mystery and intrigue. His hair, when braided, hinted at his street roots; when loose it fell haphazardly around him, a distinct indication that he couldn't care less about your opinion. All of that is well and good, but what got me is his attitute. He was brazen. Bold. He'd start feeling me up in public in a way that suggested he was the man - and somehow it didn't come off as needy or swarmy. His words had meaning and thought. There was a sense of purpose and duty to his air.
So yeah. I fucked him. The act itself was pretty bad/forgettable. But I'll tell you what I do remember:
That first night, in between repeatedly fucking DD - what can I say? I'm quick to give out second chances - we had meaningful conversations. Not the kind of gushy sentimental bullshit that guys feed you when they want to get laid. Not the nonsense verbal spillage of couples who talk just for the sake of talking. But actual conversations: the kind that made me think and communicate insights. The kind that opened me up to new thoughts and ideas. The kind that are so rare they don't even happen often between best friends.
After the sex was had and the weed was smoked, I said I'd drive back to my place, but he insisted that I stay. That we actually sleep together. That I maybe stick around in the morning to talk some more. And now that I think back on it, I'm surprised that I agreed; back then, I was quick to hightail it out of a scene after I'd gotten some tail.
So we slept together, and in the morning, I took a shower and he heated me an empanada for breakfast. He played hiphop on his Mac, sat on his balcony, writing, and left me lying on the bed to do the same. Deep in thought, I scribbled away and studied his walls, which were littered with remnants of his childhood, reminders of his goals, retainers of his memories. Now and again, a line from a track on his playlist would pop out and one of us would break our mutual silence to exclaim how great it was, or to start a conversation about artistry, or to get the others' attention and just smile.
Even though the details of that first night we fucked are getting hazy, I remember a lot about the feelings of the next morning. They're painted in that perennial shimmer of bliss which taints your heart every time you think of something pure. I know that we "talked" for a bit after that, and that when drama started coming up in my life (as is often the case) he didn't want to/didn't know how to deal with it. I know that I let myself become needy for a day, then decided that I was better off on my own. And I know that I'd rather I have that great memory than have started something with DD that more resembled an actual relationship; I sure as hell wasn't ready for one back then.
More than all that, I know that DD knew how to kiss, and that our lips seemed to compliment each other like interlocking pieces of the same puzzle.
******
So maybe that's why I made out with DD a few months ago, while Rob and I were on one of our ubiquitous breaks. I dunno... What I do know is this: I'm not the same person I was when I slept with DD, and he's definitely not the same person that he was. He seems less confident, more needy, definitely less physically attractive. And no, his kisses don't do for me what they used to.
Now and again, though, I still like to think back on him, relish in the sheer feel-good feeling of a particular encounter, and wonder if somewhere on his bedroom wall is hanging a short poem that I wrote while lying on his bed.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
This can't be worse than the first.
According to my laptop clock, it's twenty-three minutes into the second day of 2008; yesterday, at this same time, I was throwing a temper tantrum and crying hysterically on my bedroom floor while my parents were screaming at each other and my boyfriend lay helplessly in bed, eyes wide and mouth agape as I incessantly blamed him for the ruining of my new year's eve. If I'd have had some alcohol, or shrooms or acid, I could say that it wasn't my fault that I was being a monster. The truth is, it's been more than forty days since my last period, I've taken four different pregnancy tests that have all come out negative, and I'm worried, confused and anxious. If I were still in therapy, my therapist might say my anxiety is an extension of my subconscious need to fix shit that I keep putting off. I guess I don't need therapy anymore; I can figure out and respond to my problem all on my own. Yay for me.
It's now one o'clock in the afternoon, and I'm starving. My refrigerator's stocked with name brand holiday leftovers: Pepperidge Farm stuffing, Country Crock buttery mashed potatoes, etc. Even the stuff that's been prepared from scratch has the mouthfeel of food that's void of soul. My brother, the cook, is in the living room, having just woken up. His brattiness has tempered since he's gotten home, and he offers me a look of sympathy as I walk in through the front door. "You're home from work already?" he says, sweetly and sincerely. I nod, blinking to convey that I'm holding back tears. Behind my mask of MAC foundation and heavy eye make-up, I'm too numb to cry, but I don't seem to have a voice. I tip-toe to my bedroom, careful to avoid my mom, who is washing dishes in the kitchen, and I lay in bed. Letting my mom see me would mean having to answer her questions - why I'm home early, if everything is okay, if I'm hungry - and I'd have to lie to keep her happy. Goodness trumps honesty in this house, and happiness is a thin veil that we all wear: artificial sweetener meant to keep one another out of our doldrum ho-hum collective reality. We are all great albatrosses, the weight of our family-love wringing one another's necks.
Our satellite service got cut off a week ago. For days, my father - who sleeps on the expensive-looking black leather sofa in our living room - would tell us about a mythical pop-up that appeared in the middle of the sixty-inch flat screen of our TV and ask him during the wee morning hours to pay the satellite bill. Dad humorously told us that he first hoped he was imagining it, delusional from back-to-back 24-hour work days at the hospital. Then the pop-ups happened more frequently, till finally our satellite service was cut off and we started shuffling through our dvds and padding towards the computers for sitcom and dramedy distractions. My folks were planning on cutting off the entertainment once Abie and I were done; now they have one less task to take up their sleeping time.
I got another bill from LabCorp today. I owe them thousands of dollars, and every time I get one of these bills I shudder and hope they'll stop existing if I throw them away. I don't have enough money to pay even a minimum payment on them, and every time I'm faced with that knowledge, I think back on two years ago, when I was flush with cash and able to buy my folks a retirement house. Two years later, I can't even afford to buy furniture for the place, and I'm depending on the kindness of my friends to get through my financial and emotional hang-ups. I'm laying in bed, propped up on a Calvin Klein pillow, surrounded by clothes that no longer fit me, bills I can't afford to pay, and an ominous feeling that there are unfinished issues that I must conclude as soon as possible. I feel like I have a good sense of "what is what" when it comes to life, and more specifically, my life, and I want to get started with the living, doing, fulfilling aspects of existing. I want to make money, advance income brackets, fulfill my personal potential and feel like that's what I'm doing. I know instinctively that going through the motions is a necessary and vital part of making things happen, but I know through experience that it's the most boring and slow part of the process. It's the part that I wish were over right now.
But first, I need to get another job, since this morning I was fired.
Now, more than twelve hours after I left off on this post, I'm finding it hard to remember exactly how I got fired. I remember feeling out of place in the office, thinking that I don't belong in a real estate office in Richmond Hill, deciding that I'd better grin and bear it. I was yapping about how happy I was about my impending health benefits, and was confused to see my health care paperwork gathering dust on my boss's desk. I'd handed her the paperwork on my first day of work two weeks ago, and she promised to get it done so I could get proper medical care as soon as possible. Those were her words - "as soon as possible." She'd said them to seem concerned, and even at the moment they hit the air, they'd sounded strange to me, but I'd shrugged off my feelings as paranoia.
I asked sweetly about my health paperwork, and my boss gave me a look of disdain. Maybe, I thought, she was still hung over from New Year's, and she didn't feel like dealing with my sunny office disposition. So I said very plainly, "I was hoping that my health benefits would be processed by now. Or at least already handed off to whoever's supposed to process them. But I noticed that they're still on your desk. Is there any reason for that?"
She blinked unapologetically, as if she were resigned to believe that whatever monstrosity leapt next from her lips was my own doing. "You're doing a great job here, but I don't think you'll be with us long enough to use your health benefits."
I thought she was kidding. I'd never been fired before, and I couldn't fathom the thought - especially from a place that was quite obviously below me. I furrowed my brow. "Excuse me?"
"You said at your interview that you're leaving the country in April."
"Yeah, that's right. And I was assured that I would still get all of the benefits from being a full-time employee - and that it was okay with everyone if the position was only temporary."
"I'll be honest with you," she said, her features stern and solid. "We've found someone who can stay past April, but we're going to let you keep the position till the beginning of February."
"That's very kind of you," I said, embarrassment creeping into my face. I walked away from her, aware that I wasn't going to get health benefits, that the job paid too little and was good only because it was easy and close to home. I thought of the job opportunities that awaited beyond this one, the fact that I've never been without a job for more than three weeks, my impressive four-page resume.
And this is what I was reduced to? Settling for a meagerly paying wage at a mediocre real estate firm whose employees couldn't even manage their quarterly reports without my expertise?
Rage consumed me. Anger engulfed me. Pride - possibly arrogance and hubris, too - blinded me. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I must have done something wrong. Why else would they renig on their promise to keep me till my departure? Only ten minutes had passed since my boss had told me the news, and I couldn't stand it any longer. Maybe the Me that I was six months ago would've been too afraid to hear a negative reaction: that I'm really a slothful and disobedient worker, that I'm wasteful and inefficient, that I'm a slow learner - but I now have more faith in my abilities, and I can now stand false criticism.
I let the rage swell within me and continued to stare at my computer screen. There was no way that I would let my boss be proved right: I had to show that I'm worth keeping.
But then a thought formed in my head, as I stared at the quarterly reports that very few people in the office know how to do: I'm better than this. I can get elsewhere what this job gives me. Why do I have to show my worth to these people who are obviously beneath me?
So I walked to my boss's cubicle, knocked on the door, and looked my boss dead in the eye. "I'll be honest with you," I said, smiling sweetly, "ever since you told me that I'll be fired, I've found it hard to concentrate. I just want to know why you're letting me go, when you initially told me that you're fine with me leaving in April."
She nodded gravely, as if she were about to impart the secret of life to me. This was privileged information that she was imparting, and I had to be aware of that. I nodded. She mentioned the owner of the company, talked about him at great length in praising words, and then veered into a segment about his sixteen-year old niece, who's looking for a job. I nodded my head understandingly, all the while a million blood-soaked scenarios playing out in my head. Violence runs quick in my veins when I feel I've been wronged, and as much as I want to be a pacifist hippie, the truth of the matter is, it feels right to me to inflict bodily harm on people who do me wrong.
The rest is a blur. My boss and I talked for an hour about how she got into real estate. I talked about my resume, my work experience, my present educational situation. She told me about her daughter, who's my age and doesn't know what she wants out of life. I told her that it's common for people in my generation to have lofty aspirations and no real direction; she seemed comforted. She thanked me for all of the hard work that I'd exhibited in my two weeks, said that I'd taught the trainees and administrative assistants more than she'd bargained in my short time in the office, and said that she was sure great things are in my future. I thanked her for her kind words and went back to my desk. Crappy pay is still pay and my family needs help getting by - but I couldn't sit at that desk, working like a drone to make barely enough to pay our monthly utilities. I went out for my lunch break and didn't come back.
I've lined up promotions gigs for the next couple of weeks, and I'm looking for another desk job. I'm simultaneously reading three books - one by Al Franken, one by James Frey, and one by Neil Gaiman. There is a huge rat living in my house that I'm trying to kill. One of my best friends is going to be deployed to the Middle East in a couple of months. I haven't talked to another one of my best friends in more than a year because of my emotional hang-ups. My grades at Brooklyn College have to be settled once and for all, so that I feel like I'm leaving on good terms with myself. I think I might have carpal tunnel syndrome. And on New Year's Eve, as the minutes of 2007 ticked off and the new year rapidly approached, Rob's cousin was proposing to his girlfriend of thirteen years, Rob was sleeping in my bed in Queens after a night made sleepless by his first ear piercing, my parents were having a gigantic fight, and I was frantically searching for a live stream of Times Square on the internet. Traditions were broken: my mom wasn't her annual jolly, jubilant self, chasing away evil spirits with pom poms, bells, and tambourines; the Times Square ball wasn't on the television screen, counting down the seconds as I made a wish for the new year; I wasn't full of the idealistic and naive hope which annually fills me with good cheer.
For the first time ever, crappiness flowed uninterrupted from one chapter to another, and I was powerless to edit the events as they unravelled. I cried, I bitched, I moaned. And even though I knew that it was pointless, I let myself build up my moment of fury and supreme irritation because, in truth, all emotions are rendered pointless and meaningful with the passing of time and the introspection of artists. In that moment when a tradition was broken, my carefully constructed view of the way things ought to be was broken a little bit more, and my song of childish innocence gave way slightly more to an orchestra of adult experience. Romance and hope became a bit more alien; cynicism and skepticism invaded a larger part of my world. And the joyous version of me who's able to discover magic in the mundane, the part of me that's responsible for imagination and wonder, morphed into something altogether too stuck in "being real." When I cried, when I bitched, when I wanted to make someone (Rob) feel my pain, it was only because I had no audience to understand my suffering, to acknowledge what I was acknowledging, to sense the passing of time and the alteration of my character into something I don't entirely know or understand.
Some people slip through many versions of themselves without ever realizing that they'd been something else. Others only acknowledge their development after twenty, thirty, forty years. I drag myself, kicking and screaming, into a heightened sense of what is capable of becoming a better reality. Aware of the grand standards I've set for myself, I am humbled, excited and mortified at the idea of reaching them. So abruptly, impatiently, unapologetically, vocations turn into stints and destinations turn into reststops. On New Year's Eve, I entered a new beginning and now as I'm typing about it, it seems far away and already I am far-removed.
It's now one o'clock in the afternoon, and I'm starving. My refrigerator's stocked with name brand holiday leftovers: Pepperidge Farm stuffing, Country Crock buttery mashed potatoes, etc. Even the stuff that's been prepared from scratch has the mouthfeel of food that's void of soul. My brother, the cook, is in the living room, having just woken up. His brattiness has tempered since he's gotten home, and he offers me a look of sympathy as I walk in through the front door. "You're home from work already?" he says, sweetly and sincerely. I nod, blinking to convey that I'm holding back tears. Behind my mask of MAC foundation and heavy eye make-up, I'm too numb to cry, but I don't seem to have a voice. I tip-toe to my bedroom, careful to avoid my mom, who is washing dishes in the kitchen, and I lay in bed. Letting my mom see me would mean having to answer her questions - why I'm home early, if everything is okay, if I'm hungry - and I'd have to lie to keep her happy. Goodness trumps honesty in this house, and happiness is a thin veil that we all wear: artificial sweetener meant to keep one another out of our doldrum ho-hum collective reality. We are all great albatrosses, the weight of our family-love wringing one another's necks.
Our satellite service got cut off a week ago. For days, my father - who sleeps on the expensive-looking black leather sofa in our living room - would tell us about a mythical pop-up that appeared in the middle of the sixty-inch flat screen of our TV and ask him during the wee morning hours to pay the satellite bill. Dad humorously told us that he first hoped he was imagining it, delusional from back-to-back 24-hour work days at the hospital. Then the pop-ups happened more frequently, till finally our satellite service was cut off and we started shuffling through our dvds and padding towards the computers for sitcom and dramedy distractions. My folks were planning on cutting off the entertainment once Abie and I were done; now they have one less task to take up their sleeping time.
I got another bill from LabCorp today. I owe them thousands of dollars, and every time I get one of these bills I shudder and hope they'll stop existing if I throw them away. I don't have enough money to pay even a minimum payment on them, and every time I'm faced with that knowledge, I think back on two years ago, when I was flush with cash and able to buy my folks a retirement house. Two years later, I can't even afford to buy furniture for the place, and I'm depending on the kindness of my friends to get through my financial and emotional hang-ups. I'm laying in bed, propped up on a Calvin Klein pillow, surrounded by clothes that no longer fit me, bills I can't afford to pay, and an ominous feeling that there are unfinished issues that I must conclude as soon as possible. I feel like I have a good sense of "what is what" when it comes to life, and more specifically, my life, and I want to get started with the living, doing, fulfilling aspects of existing. I want to make money, advance income brackets, fulfill my personal potential and feel like that's what I'm doing. I know instinctively that going through the motions is a necessary and vital part of making things happen, but I know through experience that it's the most boring and slow part of the process. It's the part that I wish were over right now.
But first, I need to get another job, since this morning I was fired.
Now, more than twelve hours after I left off on this post, I'm finding it hard to remember exactly how I got fired. I remember feeling out of place in the office, thinking that I don't belong in a real estate office in Richmond Hill, deciding that I'd better grin and bear it. I was yapping about how happy I was about my impending health benefits, and was confused to see my health care paperwork gathering dust on my boss's desk. I'd handed her the paperwork on my first day of work two weeks ago, and she promised to get it done so I could get proper medical care as soon as possible. Those were her words - "as soon as possible." She'd said them to seem concerned, and even at the moment they hit the air, they'd sounded strange to me, but I'd shrugged off my feelings as paranoia.
I asked sweetly about my health paperwork, and my boss gave me a look of disdain. Maybe, I thought, she was still hung over from New Year's, and she didn't feel like dealing with my sunny office disposition. So I said very plainly, "I was hoping that my health benefits would be processed by now. Or at least already handed off to whoever's supposed to process them. But I noticed that they're still on your desk. Is there any reason for that?"
She blinked unapologetically, as if she were resigned to believe that whatever monstrosity leapt next from her lips was my own doing. "You're doing a great job here, but I don't think you'll be with us long enough to use your health benefits."
I thought she was kidding. I'd never been fired before, and I couldn't fathom the thought - especially from a place that was quite obviously below me. I furrowed my brow. "Excuse me?"
"You said at your interview that you're leaving the country in April."
"Yeah, that's right. And I was assured that I would still get all of the benefits from being a full-time employee - and that it was okay with everyone if the position was only temporary."
"I'll be honest with you," she said, her features stern and solid. "We've found someone who can stay past April, but we're going to let you keep the position till the beginning of February."
"That's very kind of you," I said, embarrassment creeping into my face. I walked away from her, aware that I wasn't going to get health benefits, that the job paid too little and was good only because it was easy and close to home. I thought of the job opportunities that awaited beyond this one, the fact that I've never been without a job for more than three weeks, my impressive four-page resume.
And this is what I was reduced to? Settling for a meagerly paying wage at a mediocre real estate firm whose employees couldn't even manage their quarterly reports without my expertise?
Rage consumed me. Anger engulfed me. Pride - possibly arrogance and hubris, too - blinded me. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I must have done something wrong. Why else would they renig on their promise to keep me till my departure? Only ten minutes had passed since my boss had told me the news, and I couldn't stand it any longer. Maybe the Me that I was six months ago would've been too afraid to hear a negative reaction: that I'm really a slothful and disobedient worker, that I'm wasteful and inefficient, that I'm a slow learner - but I now have more faith in my abilities, and I can now stand false criticism.
I let the rage swell within me and continued to stare at my computer screen. There was no way that I would let my boss be proved right: I had to show that I'm worth keeping.
But then a thought formed in my head, as I stared at the quarterly reports that very few people in the office know how to do: I'm better than this. I can get elsewhere what this job gives me. Why do I have to show my worth to these people who are obviously beneath me?
So I walked to my boss's cubicle, knocked on the door, and looked my boss dead in the eye. "I'll be honest with you," I said, smiling sweetly, "ever since you told me that I'll be fired, I've found it hard to concentrate. I just want to know why you're letting me go, when you initially told me that you're fine with me leaving in April."
She nodded gravely, as if she were about to impart the secret of life to me. This was privileged information that she was imparting, and I had to be aware of that. I nodded. She mentioned the owner of the company, talked about him at great length in praising words, and then veered into a segment about his sixteen-year old niece, who's looking for a job. I nodded my head understandingly, all the while a million blood-soaked scenarios playing out in my head. Violence runs quick in my veins when I feel I've been wronged, and as much as I want to be a pacifist hippie, the truth of the matter is, it feels right to me to inflict bodily harm on people who do me wrong.
The rest is a blur. My boss and I talked for an hour about how she got into real estate. I talked about my resume, my work experience, my present educational situation. She told me about her daughter, who's my age and doesn't know what she wants out of life. I told her that it's common for people in my generation to have lofty aspirations and no real direction; she seemed comforted. She thanked me for all of the hard work that I'd exhibited in my two weeks, said that I'd taught the trainees and administrative assistants more than she'd bargained in my short time in the office, and said that she was sure great things are in my future. I thanked her for her kind words and went back to my desk. Crappy pay is still pay and my family needs help getting by - but I couldn't sit at that desk, working like a drone to make barely enough to pay our monthly utilities. I went out for my lunch break and didn't come back.
I've lined up promotions gigs for the next couple of weeks, and I'm looking for another desk job. I'm simultaneously reading three books - one by Al Franken, one by James Frey, and one by Neil Gaiman. There is a huge rat living in my house that I'm trying to kill. One of my best friends is going to be deployed to the Middle East in a couple of months. I haven't talked to another one of my best friends in more than a year because of my emotional hang-ups. My grades at Brooklyn College have to be settled once and for all, so that I feel like I'm leaving on good terms with myself. I think I might have carpal tunnel syndrome. And on New Year's Eve, as the minutes of 2007 ticked off and the new year rapidly approached, Rob's cousin was proposing to his girlfriend of thirteen years, Rob was sleeping in my bed in Queens after a night made sleepless by his first ear piercing, my parents were having a gigantic fight, and I was frantically searching for a live stream of Times Square on the internet. Traditions were broken: my mom wasn't her annual jolly, jubilant self, chasing away evil spirits with pom poms, bells, and tambourines; the Times Square ball wasn't on the television screen, counting down the seconds as I made a wish for the new year; I wasn't full of the idealistic and naive hope which annually fills me with good cheer.
For the first time ever, crappiness flowed uninterrupted from one chapter to another, and I was powerless to edit the events as they unravelled. I cried, I bitched, I moaned. And even though I knew that it was pointless, I let myself build up my moment of fury and supreme irritation because, in truth, all emotions are rendered pointless and meaningful with the passing of time and the introspection of artists. In that moment when a tradition was broken, my carefully constructed view of the way things ought to be was broken a little bit more, and my song of childish innocence gave way slightly more to an orchestra of adult experience. Romance and hope became a bit more alien; cynicism and skepticism invaded a larger part of my world. And the joyous version of me who's able to discover magic in the mundane, the part of me that's responsible for imagination and wonder, morphed into something altogether too stuck in "being real." When I cried, when I bitched, when I wanted to make someone (Rob) feel my pain, it was only because I had no audience to understand my suffering, to acknowledge what I was acknowledging, to sense the passing of time and the alteration of my character into something I don't entirely know or understand.
Some people slip through many versions of themselves without ever realizing that they'd been something else. Others only acknowledge their development after twenty, thirty, forty years. I drag myself, kicking and screaming, into a heightened sense of what is capable of becoming a better reality. Aware of the grand standards I've set for myself, I am humbled, excited and mortified at the idea of reaching them. So abruptly, impatiently, unapologetically, vocations turn into stints and destinations turn into reststops. On New Year's Eve, I entered a new beginning and now as I'm typing about it, it seems far away and already I am far-removed.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
On Self-Esteem, -Image, -Reflection, -Depracation, -Flagellation
I've been spending a lot of time with my brother and Rob. It's not that I haven't had the option of hanging out with anyone else, or even that I particularly want to hang out with both of them all of the time. It's that I need to hang out with them. They put me in a context in which I'm eternally comfortable, and at this moment, I don't need the cajoling of new ideas, different perspectives, or catalysts of evolution. I need time to mire and steep in resolutions.
To be continued...
To be continued...
Sunday, December 23, 2007
I've put on my rose-colored glasses...
... but looking at Rob still makes me blue. Is it possible that he was always blue, and I just temporarily saw him in the hue that I expected to see? Or are my glasses broken, and I'm looking at him from behind a crack in the pigment?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sexy Time
My current thought, as I lay in a satisfied heap on the bed and gather myself for a night on the town: Say what you want about "making love," but when the act of sex is physically and emotionally fulfilling, fucking is a laughable memory.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The What
Lately I've been having a hard time blogging. All the words seem void of poetry and all of my insights seem cliche. Even my grammar and syntax are off, and that's not like me. I don't know why this is happening, but at the moment I'm not concerned with "whys"; I'm more concerned with "whats." If I'm the tree, "why" might be the root, but "what" is the trunk. "Why" might be the start of me, but "what" determines what kind of tree I am. I already know that I exist; now I have to worry about my substance.
My throat's killing me today. I couldn't fall asleep till four in the morning. My brother came home last night. I've officially decided to keep on looking for work even though I've already landed a job. Rob and I are doing well as a couple. The fictional and academic writing are going well. The paperwork for my health insurance should be processed in a couple of weeks. Mom and Dad are dealing with everything maturely and responsibly. My friends are awesome, quirky, beautiful, supportive, talented and intelligent people. I'm over the bulk of my "issues." I aced two finals and handed in a bunch of papers; the semester is going to end on a high note. In truth, my life overall has become pretty boring.
The other night, when I was on the phone with one of my closest and most awesome friends, AJ, we gabbed about her marriage engagement, her cold feet, and her issues of trust. It's not simply that she doesn't trust her fiance to be the man she needs him to be; it's self-trust that's more of an issue. She's so introspective that she knows all too well her self-damaging behavior; whenever she makes a do-or-die decision, she can't tell if she's subconsciously hurting herself or if she's already gotten over that tendency and is making a truly good choice.
Usually, my personality fluctuates from one extreme variation of myself to another, but lately I'm a well-rounded amalgamation of all of my personalities. It's unsettling and takes a little getting used to. So AJ was talking about her relationship with her fiance, and I was finding a million parallels to the problems I used to have with Rob - but I couldn't find anything useful to say. Instead, I was remembering part of a conversation that I'd had with a good friend, JS.
Earlier that day, I'd been telling JS about how Rob seems to have morphed into an amazing and really, really good guy, and she'd laughed. "Maybe he's always been a good guy and you've put on your rose-colored glasses, so now you see it," she'd said. Her words made my skin hot because I knew that she understood exactly what I was feeling. It wasn't necessarily that JS had gone through the same situation; it's that we had found copies of the maps of our lives, and we'd learned to read the signals. Verbal communication is the way we describe the terrain, and since our paths are eerily similar, she was able to offer insights about my way.
Talking to AJ was the same: a story similar to my own was unravelling before me. Instead of trading amazing insights and revelations, however, my brain felt too overwhelmed to compute. I mumbled some vague words of undestanding and acknowledgment, but I knew I was expected to give advice. AJ's problem with her fiance was one I'd had with Rob, and although I'd already completed that leg of my journey, I couldn't verbalize my method. This is what I knew: Like me, AJ's a writer and a very passionate person. Unfortunatley, her fiance doesn't seem to have any passion in his life, and she's mulling over whether or not that's a deal-breaker.
When it came time for me to voice an opinion, I found myslf remembering the words of one of our best friends, DC (she'll ALWAYS be DC, even if she gets married and remarried, ad nauseum). A year ago, when I was going through the "lack of passion problem" with Rob, I'd called DC (my only best friend that's a married mother), and in between talking her oldest child out of banging on pots and pans and nursing her youngest, she gave it to me straight and succinctly:
Everyone has a picture in their minds of what they want their partner to be, and more often than not the person you're with doesn't have all of those traits. But maybe it's not important that your partner have all those traits. Maybe what's important is that he have all the traits that can make you happy for the long haul, and that you fulfill the requirements of a "soulmate" through other people.
When I first heard the advice, it immediately rang as true. Rob will never quite understand the feeling I get when I write something and instinctively KNOW that it's awesome and life-changing, but AJ, AP, SR and JS know what I mean. Rob can't really wax philosophical with me for hours on end, but KA, IS, RM, and KB can engage both spheres of my brain that way. Et al. As much as I stress these parts of my personality, I remain an intact and ever-fluctuating person even when they're not present. It's that vague, unnameable thing that's constantly shape-shifting and evolving which needs to be loved, respected, nurtured, and understood by a partner. Its very ambiguous nature makes it difficult for one person to be its match. But somehow, Rob knows how to be everything that that vague, unnameable thing needs in a partner, and that's more than I can say for anyone else.
So maybe DC's right, and the important thing isn't that Rob satisfy all of my qualifications in a "soulmate"; it's that my life fulfills all of my qualifications for a "soulmate." The important things in a relationship are that my partner knows how to love me the way I need to be loved; that he understands me the way that I need to be understood; and that I feel the way about him that he does for me. Whether or not all of those qualifications are enough, or if Rob and I fulfill them are subject to alteration and interpretation with time and accumulated experiences and knowledge, but for the people we are at this moment, we're the perfect couple.
So that's what I ended up telling AJ - not that Rob and I make the perfect couple, but that those are my words of wisdom. They were handed to me from a trusted source of love, experience and respect, and they've served me well. Opening up to the idea that I can have everything without having it all in one person freed me to see everything that Rob does offer, instead of keeping me focused on the things he doesn't. And little by little, that's how I came to grips with the idea that I don't have to be afraid of trusting him, or anyone, or relationships in general. As simple and cliche as it sounds, he is not the be-all and end-all of what I'm looking for. He does not personify everything that I need to be happy. He has the qualifications to be with the person that I know that I am at the moment, but my ever-evolving ways keep our future a mystery. If Rob does have what it takes to make me happy in the long-haul, it's as understandable as the other option, and I can live with that.
AJ seemed satisfied with my answer, then she laughed and asked how I was doing. "Rob and I are doing good," I said. "I told him yesterday that I needed him to come home early so we could clean up the house for Abie's return. He said he'd be home around seven, and he was. But then he said he was tired and asked if we could relax for a little bit, so we got in bed with ice cream and junk food and watched our favorite TV shows on the internet. Then he said that he wanted to take a nap and that I should wake him up later. When I tried to wake him up, he said it didn't count because I'd been watching TV next to him, so he didn't have a deep sleep. He ended up sleeping for fourteen hours straight. I don't mind because he had a final the next morning, and today he ended up cleaning everything himself while I studied for my final."
Then I caught myself laughing at how much I sounded like a '50s woman with "simple problems." "The only real problem I have is money," I added. "But when I think about things, I have it pretty good. Arguing with my loving boyfriend about a problem that he fixes himself is the kind of problem that I want. If I had to choose a problem, that's the one I'd choose all the way."
My throat's killing me today. I couldn't fall asleep till four in the morning. My brother came home last night. I've officially decided to keep on looking for work even though I've already landed a job. Rob and I are doing well as a couple. The fictional and academic writing are going well. The paperwork for my health insurance should be processed in a couple of weeks. Mom and Dad are dealing with everything maturely and responsibly. My friends are awesome, quirky, beautiful, supportive, talented and intelligent people. I'm over the bulk of my "issues." I aced two finals and handed in a bunch of papers; the semester is going to end on a high note. In truth, my life overall has become pretty boring.
The other night, when I was on the phone with one of my closest and most awesome friends, AJ, we gabbed about her marriage engagement, her cold feet, and her issues of trust. It's not simply that she doesn't trust her fiance to be the man she needs him to be; it's self-trust that's more of an issue. She's so introspective that she knows all too well her self-damaging behavior; whenever she makes a do-or-die decision, she can't tell if she's subconsciously hurting herself or if she's already gotten over that tendency and is making a truly good choice.
Usually, my personality fluctuates from one extreme variation of myself to another, but lately I'm a well-rounded amalgamation of all of my personalities. It's unsettling and takes a little getting used to. So AJ was talking about her relationship with her fiance, and I was finding a million parallels to the problems I used to have with Rob - but I couldn't find anything useful to say. Instead, I was remembering part of a conversation that I'd had with a good friend, JS.
Earlier that day, I'd been telling JS about how Rob seems to have morphed into an amazing and really, really good guy, and she'd laughed. "Maybe he's always been a good guy and you've put on your rose-colored glasses, so now you see it," she'd said. Her words made my skin hot because I knew that she understood exactly what I was feeling. It wasn't necessarily that JS had gone through the same situation; it's that we had found copies of the maps of our lives, and we'd learned to read the signals. Verbal communication is the way we describe the terrain, and since our paths are eerily similar, she was able to offer insights about my way.
Talking to AJ was the same: a story similar to my own was unravelling before me. Instead of trading amazing insights and revelations, however, my brain felt too overwhelmed to compute. I mumbled some vague words of undestanding and acknowledgment, but I knew I was expected to give advice. AJ's problem with her fiance was one I'd had with Rob, and although I'd already completed that leg of my journey, I couldn't verbalize my method. This is what I knew: Like me, AJ's a writer and a very passionate person. Unfortunatley, her fiance doesn't seem to have any passion in his life, and she's mulling over whether or not that's a deal-breaker.
When it came time for me to voice an opinion, I found myslf remembering the words of one of our best friends, DC (she'll ALWAYS be DC, even if she gets married and remarried, ad nauseum). A year ago, when I was going through the "lack of passion problem" with Rob, I'd called DC (my only best friend that's a married mother), and in between talking her oldest child out of banging on pots and pans and nursing her youngest, she gave it to me straight and succinctly:
Everyone has a picture in their minds of what they want their partner to be, and more often than not the person you're with doesn't have all of those traits. But maybe it's not important that your partner have all those traits. Maybe what's important is that he have all the traits that can make you happy for the long haul, and that you fulfill the requirements of a "soulmate" through other people.
When I first heard the advice, it immediately rang as true. Rob will never quite understand the feeling I get when I write something and instinctively KNOW that it's awesome and life-changing, but AJ, AP, SR and JS know what I mean. Rob can't really wax philosophical with me for hours on end, but KA, IS, RM, and KB can engage both spheres of my brain that way. Et al. As much as I stress these parts of my personality, I remain an intact and ever-fluctuating person even when they're not present. It's that vague, unnameable thing that's constantly shape-shifting and evolving which needs to be loved, respected, nurtured, and understood by a partner. Its very ambiguous nature makes it difficult for one person to be its match. But somehow, Rob knows how to be everything that that vague, unnameable thing needs in a partner, and that's more than I can say for anyone else.
So maybe DC's right, and the important thing isn't that Rob satisfy all of my qualifications in a "soulmate"; it's that my life fulfills all of my qualifications for a "soulmate." The important things in a relationship are that my partner knows how to love me the way I need to be loved; that he understands me the way that I need to be understood; and that I feel the way about him that he does for me. Whether or not all of those qualifications are enough, or if Rob and I fulfill them are subject to alteration and interpretation with time and accumulated experiences and knowledge, but for the people we are at this moment, we're the perfect couple.
So that's what I ended up telling AJ - not that Rob and I make the perfect couple, but that those are my words of wisdom. They were handed to me from a trusted source of love, experience and respect, and they've served me well. Opening up to the idea that I can have everything without having it all in one person freed me to see everything that Rob does offer, instead of keeping me focused on the things he doesn't. And little by little, that's how I came to grips with the idea that I don't have to be afraid of trusting him, or anyone, or relationships in general. As simple and cliche as it sounds, he is not the be-all and end-all of what I'm looking for. He does not personify everything that I need to be happy. He has the qualifications to be with the person that I know that I am at the moment, but my ever-evolving ways keep our future a mystery. If Rob does have what it takes to make me happy in the long-haul, it's as understandable as the other option, and I can live with that.
AJ seemed satisfied with my answer, then she laughed and asked how I was doing. "Rob and I are doing good," I said. "I told him yesterday that I needed him to come home early so we could clean up the house for Abie's return. He said he'd be home around seven, and he was. But then he said he was tired and asked if we could relax for a little bit, so we got in bed with ice cream and junk food and watched our favorite TV shows on the internet. Then he said that he wanted to take a nap and that I should wake him up later. When I tried to wake him up, he said it didn't count because I'd been watching TV next to him, so he didn't have a deep sleep. He ended up sleeping for fourteen hours straight. I don't mind because he had a final the next morning, and today he ended up cleaning everything himself while I studied for my final."
Then I caught myself laughing at how much I sounded like a '50s woman with "simple problems." "The only real problem I have is money," I added. "But when I think about things, I have it pretty good. Arguing with my loving boyfriend about a problem that he fixes himself is the kind of problem that I want. If I had to choose a problem, that's the one I'd choose all the way."
***
Years ago, I came up with the idea that we all choose our problems - whether or not it's consciously. We stick to patterns that are harmful but comfortable, people who hurt us but are familiar, addictions which are dangerous but also routine. We are molded by the problems that we face, and become the people we have to be in order to face them. And maybe it's because we're women, or because we're human, or because we're us, but we need problems to get by.
We are untrusting of situations that are "too smooth." We feel uneasy when things have been quiet for too long. We have become too accustomed to being "problem solvers" and feel inept and idle when there are no problems to solve. So whenever life seems too simple, we come up with questions we already have the answers to, insecurities to hang over our heads, doubts that we instinctively know are useless. That's how we feel like ourselves. We're like donuts; the holes are useless and might even take away some of our substance, but without them we feel awkward.
Luckily, there are others like us who know what we mean, have gone through what we've gone through, or feel themselves headed down a path we've already been. Our lives overlap and interlock, and at the end of the day we are each extensions of one great story, a story that's undeniably ours.
Perhaps it's because I'm a writer, but this story soothes me simply because I know that it exists, and that it's getting told in different places, at different times, to different people, and that all the good I could ever do is getting done because I'm doing my part to contribute to the story. Maybe I feel this way because I have a sense of self that includes a network of close friends. Or maybe it's beause I have on my rose-colored glasses. But none of that matters. The "why" isn't as important as the "what."
Monday, November 12, 2007
Use Your Words - Not Mine
It's 11:30 on a Tuesday morning, and instead of writing papers and getting ready to go to my internship at the English Major's Office, I'm feeling defeated. Deflated. Depressed. Yes, I'm depressed. That unholiest of adjectives within an Asian family. My pseudo-boyfriend-cum-actual-boyfriend, Robert, just left my bedroom, and it's depressing. No - we're depressing.
We entered this relationship as two individuals and now we've succumbed to co-dependency. He's a twenty-six year old who never learned what it's like to be a full-fledged adult; I'm a twenty-three year old who's always known the responsibilities of full-fledged adulthood. Between the two of us, we are children playing dress-up. We "see" better in the dark, with our senses heightened and our awareness keen - and it's a good thing, because our parents have kept us in the dark about a lot of things.
I, for example, am well aware that mail should be checked daily, bills paid on time, and work handled fastidiously. But I don't know why I'm not supposed to like my job. I don't know why I've entered a relationship with a man who does not know how to fulfill my relationship demands. Most of all, I don't know why I fall in love with people who will never learn to take care of me, and who will always need to be taken care of.
Robert, on the other hand, knows how to hold his temper, how to compromise, and how to soothe my agitations. But he doesn't know how to hold down a job. He doesn't have any direction or any motivation to do anything with his life. He doesn't know how not to waste away. Most of all, he doesn't know how to be a fully-functioning, independent adult who is worthy of respect.
So why are we even together? Why are my parents still married after twenty-five years of adultery, betrayal, and bastard children? Why does Robert claim that his parents still love each other, even after they've spent most of his lifetime divorced and battling in court rooms for money? Why is anyone together, for that matter? Or, no: Drop that "why." Is anyone together? Like, really together? The kind of "together" that we grew up fantasizing about?
Or is that kind of coupledom - just like the job that is challenging, well-paid, and fulfilling - nothing more than a fantasy?
What is a couple? What is a job? And what is a blog? The connotations, implications, and definitions of these terms (and maybe every word) fluctuate and are altered by society and time. But right now, sole possession of these words and every other word are my property. The world is mine. In this manic state of writing, I am my megalomaniac self.
We entered this relationship as two individuals and now we've succumbed to co-dependency. He's a twenty-six year old who never learned what it's like to be a full-fledged adult; I'm a twenty-three year old who's always known the responsibilities of full-fledged adulthood. Between the two of us, we are children playing dress-up. We "see" better in the dark, with our senses heightened and our awareness keen - and it's a good thing, because our parents have kept us in the dark about a lot of things.
I, for example, am well aware that mail should be checked daily, bills paid on time, and work handled fastidiously. But I don't know why I'm not supposed to like my job. I don't know why I've entered a relationship with a man who does not know how to fulfill my relationship demands. Most of all, I don't know why I fall in love with people who will never learn to take care of me, and who will always need to be taken care of.
Robert, on the other hand, knows how to hold his temper, how to compromise, and how to soothe my agitations. But he doesn't know how to hold down a job. He doesn't have any direction or any motivation to do anything with his life. He doesn't know how not to waste away. Most of all, he doesn't know how to be a fully-functioning, independent adult who is worthy of respect.
So why are we even together? Why are my parents still married after twenty-five years of adultery, betrayal, and bastard children? Why does Robert claim that his parents still love each other, even after they've spent most of his lifetime divorced and battling in court rooms for money? Why is anyone together, for that matter? Or, no: Drop that "why." Is anyone together? Like, really together? The kind of "together" that we grew up fantasizing about?
Or is that kind of coupledom - just like the job that is challenging, well-paid, and fulfilling - nothing more than a fantasy?
What is a couple? What is a job? And what is a blog? The connotations, implications, and definitions of these terms (and maybe every word) fluctuate and are altered by society and time. But right now, sole possession of these words and every other word are my property. The world is mine. In this manic state of writing, I am my megalomaniac self.
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