List as many heroic people as you can in 2 minutes. Heroic can be your mom or Wonder Woman or anyone in between.
List as many tragedies as you can in 2 minutes. These might be the large losses such as the death of a loved one, an abuse you’ve personally suffered, or a group trauma…
Republicans only bother to acknowledge women when they’re reasserting our status as second class citizens. Sure, they occasionally feign outrage over supposed attacks on stay-at-home moms (while nary a word of paid parental leave is spoken) and they trot out their wives to assure us how much their hubby respects women. But we know the truth - that this “respect” is conditional. It’s not based on a belief that women are deserving of human rights, but on a very specific set of rules and roles we are expected to adhere by.
Republicans can spin all they like, but what they don’t understand is that women can recognize dehumanization from a mile away. We live it every day. We know what it is to talk to a person and suddenly realize they believe us stupid because of our gender. We listen while people mansplain topics we’re experts in. We watch media that presents us as little more than masturbation fodder and walk down the street feeling lecherous stares on our back. We know what you mean when you say “legitimate” rape. We know exactly what you’re thinking when you pretend to give a shit.
This story is not about me. It is about someone who is exactly like me in every possible way.
When I was five I was happy, when I was ten I was not. By twelve I was joyous again but at fourteen I was as maligned as ever. At fifteen I was content and at sixteen I wanted to kill myself. From there I fluctuated for a few years between various states of happiness and misery until, following a somewhat extended period of happiness, at eighteen I wanted to kill myself again. Upon reaching nineteen I was determined to end my agony but, when I realized that the easy way I had had in mind was much too drastic, I decided that the hard road was the only way to go and that I would have to begin my life again, starting from the bottom up.
I recite my history so candidly and concisely so that you may accurately determine both the tumultuous personal experience I’ve had in such a short lifetime, and, understand that presently, this tumult, although still obviously fresh in my memory, is currently of little consequence to me, or at least, as little consequence as I can make it. Because, you see, as much as I try to keep the past in the past, there is still always the threat of slipping back into established patterns, and as I’ve said before, starting now, I am determined to be very happy.
Of course, it is very difficult, because on the surface, it’s a very easy existence, being depressed. It is to appear completely devoid of exhaustive emotion and actively consists of lying in bed all day, with everybody in your vicinity walking on eggshells, doing their best not to disturb you, for fear of exacerbating your condition. I say “on the surface” because nobody could say that what goes on inside the mind and body of a depressed person is by any means an easy load to bear. One’s mind revolting from the most basic evolutionary state of self preservation. Indeed, it is so conflicting a state, that all of one’s thoughts clash together, creating the familiar white noise of a mind so overcome with activity and emotion, that it is mistaken, by the body, as being completely devoid of it.
But as I said, twice now, I’m determined to become exceedingly happy, from this moment forth. I also mentioned that I know it will be a difficult journey, but I feel that I should elaborate on this point, for to merely describe it as the hard road, as I have already done, probably does not do the uphill battle I have ahead of me justice. Picture a long, winding road, very hilly, very rocky, some water barriers to cross, and hoards of less than savory people to battle. For, although I have seemed to, at present, overcome my depression, I am still very far from overcoming the more formidable opponent of my anxiety.
Imagine, as fiction would have us believe, that everybody did indeed have a Jiminy Cricket type conscience character in their life. Imagine that, this character lived on your shoulder, in close proximity to your ear, constantly whispering instructions and opinions on every thing that could ever thought to be involved in your life. Now imagine that regardless of whether objectively you know something would indeed bring joy to your life, that Jiminy would not have it, and constantly convinced you that it would increase your agony. That is the state of my mind, because, you see, everything I really truly want in my life, I’m horribly afraid of.
I’m lonely and long for numerous, meaningful, enjoyable, and equal friendships, but find myself so debilitated by shyness that it takes almost more than I can muster to talk to someone I have not been previously acquainted with. Having passed this first hurdle I must then display the aspects of my personality that would most induce the other party in to desiring to continue a relation of some kind with me. However on what these aspects are, my own mind draws a blank, and I must defer to Jiminy for conversation topics. It should be mentioned that my Jiminy also enjoys embarrassing me to the fullest extent and , at the end of a meeting, I have either portrayed myself as being the most uptight, unfriendly, all knowing and unyielding type of person, or I have displayed the opposite; someone who is so eager to please and appear pleasant that they accomplish something that could not be farther from that desired outcome. My only small reprieve is that this anxiety only applies to social interactions, and that if I know exactly what is expected of me, I perform exceedingly well. However, it seems that if I don’t know what to do, I will always be doomed to choose the wrong course of action, with regards to people. One can not help but see my predicament then because, as social creatures, everything in a persons life, has to do with other people.
Other than this immense fear of other people, I can easily say that the only other thing I fear, is everything else. Of course this also does not put me in a good position for achieving happiness because when one cares so much about everything at all times it is obviously very difficult to be carefree, and what can happiness be if its not carefree? This is the most arduous battle I know I will have to fight because for someone who worries constantly the state of carelessness is incomprehensible, and as a result, to me, long lasting happiness is incomprehensible.
And all of this brings me to my present state, at nineteen, not wanting to die, but not wanting to go on living my life either. Therefore I want to create a new kind of life, one that can bring me happiness, but unable to even begin to accomplish those things which I know would make me happy. I know I am not happy, I know I want to be happy, but I know not, how to be happy.
Why did the creators of Veggietales decided to teach religion, something children have no interest in, with vegetables, something children openly and universally despise?
What if the things we thought were fiction were actually real, and what we thought was real, was actually fiction?
Yes that is what I gathered from the umpteenth re-read
"Legend has it that Alfred Hitchcock was terrified of soufflés. From the moment his wife put the dish in the oven, the famed director was said to stare at the stove with increasing anxiety. When a beautifully caramelized and perfectly risen creation emerged 30 minutes later, he breathed a sigh of relief and exclaimed, "I can’t stand the suspense.’ "
Too bad he was a dick to women. :( Still made great movies though
Note: The source article is about baking souffle. I really liked the opening though.
Sometimes I think I’m funny.
Sometimes I’m wrong.
Sometimes I say sometimes, when I mean always.
*It makes everything better.
I have a confession to make. At points in my life I sometimes become delusional. I realize that everybody has these moments in their life but I feel as if for one, these instances are much more commonplace in my life than they really should be, and, that they are brought on by horribly uninformed sources. For example, I’ll watch a weekend marathon of House and then be convinced that I really want to be a doctor, when honestly, I would be the world’s worst doctor. I couldn’t even dissect a grasshopper in the seventh grade; operating on a live human (with the objective of keeping that human alive) would so not work for me. But, when I do spend an entire 48 hours watching that lovable douchebag of a genius doctor, I seem to forget about all my squeamish tendencies and fantasize about stomping around the hallways, saving lives and making a difference.
If, for some inexplicable, reason, I’ve spent the weekend watching E! True Hollywood Story after E! True Hollywood Story I will find myself fantasizing about what it would be like to be famous, and what MY E! True Hollywood Story would be like. I would probably say something about how all celebrities say they were losers/geeks/nerds in High School and how usually that’s a bunch of bullshit, but for me it was true. (It is true, I am a giant loser.) I fantasize about which childhood friends they would find of mine and what they would say about me (although I have a sinking feeling that they would not interview my actual friends and instead, go out and find someone like Shira Atkins and she would pretend we were the best of friends growing up, when in reality I spent 12 years of my life wanting to stab her face, but I digress.) When it’s Oscar weekend (or any award show really) I think about what if I won some great, prestigious (televised) award and what my speech would be like. Whom would I thank? Would people I knew and hated growing up (eghem, Shira) see it and be like “I shouldn’t have been mean to you all those years!” Would people I’d fallen out of touch with over the years see it and be like “Why did we stop being friends? She’s awesome!” Would I curse a lot and be flabbergasted? The answer to that one is probably yes.
When I become completely immersed in a subject it becomes hard for me to sift back through it, into the real world. It’s not even always so elaborate as imagining these different, complex, future scenarios. When I spend too much time reading, which is often, I’ll begin narrating my life as if it were a book. Instead of just thinking my thoughts, I will compose them. I think: “Megan sat down at the table, and solemnly reflected on the disturbing dreams of nights past. She contemplated their deep, unconscious, meaning as she steadily raised the spoon to her mouth, and delicately slurped the milk out of the cereal.” Instead of: “Yum, Honey Nut Cheerios.” It actually drives me crazy.
Which brings me to my current state. For the last week or so I’ve been in complete “comic writer” land. I read Bossypants (highly recommended by the way) I’ve watched every episode of 30 Rock, I’ve listening to interviews and youtube videos of different late night hosts, and of course, my long standing addiction to Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. So of course, now, I’m in comic writer delusion land. I’ve been debating whether I would want to stay in New York or move to Los Angeles (I prefer NYC but LA is where things happen. Plus: sunshine!) Would I be able to handle the rejection? Would I even be good at it. Of course in my delusions I think I would be good at it, I can be good at anything. When I told my (usually supportive) mother about it she even said “Really? You think so? I don’t know…” The only career path that she was less supportive of was when I told her I wanted to be a lawyer and she said,”No! Don’t be a lawyer! Nobody likes lawyers.” (Of course that exchange occurred after way too much Law and Order. )
So who knows, maybe this is the one that sticks, besides in show business I might not have to choose, you always need a Plan B. So maybe I’ll be the next great Comedy Writer/Doctor/Actress/Lawyer, or maybe I’ll just be a babysitter for the rest of my life (Please NO!)