Sunday, July 22, 2012

When one cannot sleep... writes jibberish in hope of tiring oneself out.

In all honesty, this Sunday has been all about the search for self love (a best selling novel by Nicholas Sparks?). If you're like me, you barely know what this term means. To love oneself. Bizarre to even think it.

You sat in your chair, behind your desk, when your teacher told you how special you are, and you pondered whether or not the act of NOT wanting to stab yourself in the chest counted as self acceptance.

I'm here to tell you that it kind of doesn't. It just means you're not bat shit crazy. (But then again, what do I know?)

I recently changed my alarm text. (you know, the little message that pops up when your alarm goes off on your phone.) I've always had a message like "get up you fat cow!!", with the logic that personal insults will set me off and wake me up properly (although, in all honesty, it was probably also to remind me that sleeping in is bad for your metabolism.... Or so i've heard).
I've never thought much of it, really, until recently. Suddenly the text seemed unnecessarily rude. Like the world isn't mean enough, anyway.

I changed it to "wake up <3" (yes, heart included).

Call me sappy, if you like, but once you've survived your teens, it's time to stop feeling so much hatred. Society doesn't want you to love yourself. That would mean you'd stop comfort eating and staring at your TV 24/7. It would mean you'd stop putting your life in the hands of men in power, and start thinking about what actually makes you and the people around you happy. It would mean you'd stop spending so much money on products that are meant to morph you into a stick of glossy perfection.
But screw that. Be all rebellious and shit.

I don't actually know how to love myself, but I know that waking up to the words "fat cow" doesn't help.

I'm sure you do a lot of things to make yourself even more miserable. So stop it.

And goodnight.
Love you.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

I hate it when people don't dance.


I hate it when people don't dance. It makes me angry to see them standing in pairs, groups and other various constellations AROUND the dance floor instead of ON it.


-I have spent an hour picking out this dress.
-I have spent a lot of money getting this drunk.
-I can't hear what you're saying anyway!
-Just look at the DJ! LOOK AT HIM! He's going to cry himself to sleep tonight.


And then you're out there- Jumping around like a maniac, almost causing your friend's death in a dangerous tripping-on-shoelaces accident, hoping that this will inspire this room, this place, this hell, to have fun.
You're filled with HOPE when a lean Tom Wellington look-a-like steps out of his comfort zone and hesitantly creeps out into the area-in-which-people-are-supposed-to-dance. He's waving to his friends, silently pleading them to follow him.

This is insecurity in human form.

This is a man on the verge of either crying or running home. He looks back at me for a second. I'm helping my friend spin around like a ballerina, while mimicking the moves of a feathered beast. I stare at him, judging him for what he's about to do.

He leaves the dance floor.

With his defeat I felt defeated as well. We left with our heads held high, and our hearts pounding with both adrenaline and frustration. To add to the general misery; we were broke and freezing.

Somehow, we were able to end the night with a few laughs and an agreement on the OKness of our experience.

But the point still stands.
I hate it when people don't dance.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

The first post on a new blog is never any good, so I'm not even going to TRY to be profound or thoughtful.

This is just me trying out my word-mixing-and-meshing-skills. This is my saying "hello", "hi" and "welcome!".
This is me telling my old blogs to go away --far, far away-- and let me have this one, perfect, unbreakable blog that doesn't get thrown in the trash because of insecurities, boredom or annoyance over my parents' incessant corrections and comments on how I choose to write down my thoughts, free for all to see.

(Let me make on thing very, very clear: I love my parents, and never mean them any harm, no matter what I sometimes happen to end up saying to or about them. Love and hugs.)

So far things are going OK.
I've managed to 1) insult myself, 2) possibly provide my mother with new material and 3) create passable sentences.

Hello world.
I'm blogging again.
Deal with it.