All it Takes is ONE Difference of Opinion

And I ponder....

How many people have to believe something for it to be considered, "public opinion"?

Is this based on TV News and propaganda, on people who believe without question, those who follow the herd...?

When the world was believed to be flat, WHO'S belief was that? Did "leaders" use that as a scare tactic to control the masses, and keep people under their power, or had we not evolved enough to wonder or dream or have the desire to look beyond the life that we were living, or the land mass that we were living on?

In a world of infinite choices, options, luxuries, colors, and flavors, and styles, and MORE... I can see that it all had to start with a non-conforming idea...
Yet we consider the visionary to be insane...

The mere definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result...

STILL throughout civilization we shun those who see things differently until we jump on and ride the coattails of their success.

Technology's Curse

My own nagging suspicions and fears of myself were confirmed when reflecting back upon a brief conversation with a dating prospect who voiced an opinion regarding email, online chat, and text messaging. He spoke of how technology seemed to promote social awkwardness. There have actually been studies to substantiate this, I do agree as I know that it is true. In a number of people, just not me. Knowing what I do about people (other than myself of course) it's not at all something I would want to argue. My ego only allows me to half listen to any general statement of opinion made, and if it doesn't immediately strike a chord within me, I won't remember it for long, unless of course, I am using it to criticize someone else. This is a clear example of my inability to see the apple on my own head. When it finally registered, however long afterward, I realize that not only am I one likely to fall subject to social awkwardness and anxiety. I realize that I am perhaps the ideal specimen for such a clinical presentation.

          I ask myself regularly and out loud, "What the hell am I doing?" While returning to the harsh reality of my insanity, again I chase this rapacious, unforgiving and rapidly spiraling, perpetual, ultra-manic, mind-fuck... time and time again. It seemed to intensify greatly, and would appear to have changed direction rather unexpectedly at some point in the last few months. (Perhaps "seasonal affective disorder", or simply the painful reminder of loneliness that springtime brings about when all of the animals are mating, and the birds are singing, and the people are wearing significantly less clothing).

          I am the same woman used to meet new guys and either make friends with them or bed them down within a matter of minutes. Sex is not a hard thing to achieve, regardless of body type, age, etc. It's about confidence, and I never lacked in that area. I still have several men who call or who I can call at any time, however when I think of what I really want, I become disgusted with men, well not all men. It's the "regulars" that bore me, I want someone new, and I search the internet, and I chat and I email and I text and before I know it, I am overcome with insecurity and fear, doubt, distrust, anxiety. I am in isolation, all alone, depressed, suicidal, self loathing, I am suddenly feeling physically and emotionally paralyzed, simply put, I am stuck in my own way. 

Those who know me can confirm that I was NEVER as outwardly insecure or confused about any part of life until recently. It's as if I have suffered a head injury, or burned my brain cells. I need to put down the cyber crack and get back to being the emotionally shallow, yet happy, intelligent, secure, confident, REAL person that I used to be. Another friend, one who I may actually be "in love" with and just not know, stated so eloquently, "Is it possible that you always were insecure and fearful, but you covered it up with drugs and alcohol and bad behavior for so long that you really can't (or don't want to) remember who you are? Maybe now your sober mind and body are not allowing you to continue with the exhausting facade you put on that nearly killed you." OUCH, that's a true friend, calling me on my shit, stomping out my dramatic woe is me damsel in distress act, and forcing me to look inward for the truth.

        I do have a valid need and a rather intense thirst for connection with people who stimulate my mind like this. I am intolerant of mediocrity, which stems from my own underachievement, and I have no pity for fools, as I have been acting like one for so long, myself. As my own silent criticism mirrors back to me, my vision becomes clearer into my own behavior and tendencies.

         I lie to myself and say that my preference is NOT a quest for the coveted holy grail called love, knowing that I have no idea how to be a part of a healthy relationship. My disease tells me I am not worthy at this time, so I should perish the concept and simply chase my more carnal desires, go for satisfying the insatiable, self seeking, instant gratification, through the more primitive, physical, immediate fix. Just like drugs, my mind romanticizes the lies that I tell myself, like the one that says, "I just want amazing, ongoing sex, I just wanna fuck. I wanna fuck one person who I know is cool, I want to trust that person enough to explore my darkest sexual boundaries and push me beyond them. Generally, I trust no one, not even family has earned my trust. This kinda trust doesn't have to be deep, I just need to know when I say stop, he'll stop, and when I say no, he won't force me. Other than that, this is where I am at. I don't want a label, I don't want a status, I want to explore with my hands, my tongue, my nose, all of my senses and my entire body, and just see what the hell happens." How is this not a relationship, how does this not turn into mixed feelings of confusion, lust, love, and more fear of rejection?

            This veracity is often as terrifying to a man as opening up my emotional floodgates and pouring out my shortcomings. Fuck all my whiny insecurities! Look at me, again, I am in isolation. I have been hiding behind this keyboard and screen writing incessantly about me, my feelings, my fears, my everything, while holding back from the more impulsive acts that fuel my very being. I am becoming terrified to leave my own home. I am scared to death of new people, relationships, love, and commitment. I enjoy sex and friendship, but it fucks with my mind, or it becomes a drug that I use to medicate my mood, combine that realization with the ability to be anyone I want to be online and paint any picture I choose, real or fake... DANGER, I'm likely to become the same junky I was, without a needle. I need to get back out there and be human again, I need to be seen, and feel real, and surround myself with life, all walks and aspects of life, once again, I need to be a part of the world again.

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˙uıɐbɐ pןɹoʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd ɐ ǝq oʇ pǝǝu ı 'uıɐbɐ ǝɔuo 'ǝɟıן ɟo sʇɔǝdsɐ puɐ sʞןɐʍ ןןɐ 'ǝɟıן ɥʇıʍ ɟןǝsʎɯ punoɹɹns puɐ 'ןɐǝɹ ןǝǝɟ puɐ 'uǝǝs ǝq oʇ pǝǝu ı 'uıɐbɐ uɐɯnɥ ǝq puɐ ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇno ʞɔɐq ʇǝb oʇ pǝǝu ı ˙ǝןpǝǝu ɐ ʇnoɥʇıʍ 'sɐʍ ı ʎʞunظ ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ ǝɯoɔǝq oʇ ʎןǝʞıן ɯ,ı 'ɹǝbuɐp ˙˙˙ǝʞɐɟ ɹo ןɐǝɹ 'ǝsooɥɔ ı ǝɹnʇɔıd ʎuɐ ʇuıɐd puɐ ǝuıןuo ǝq oʇ ʇuɐʍ ı ǝuoʎuɐ ǝq oʇ ʎʇıןıqɐ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ uoıʇɐzıןɐǝɹ ʇɐɥʇ ǝuıqɯoɔ 'pooɯ ʎɯ ǝʇɐɔıpǝɯ oʇ ǝsn ı ʇɐɥʇ bnɹp ɐ sǝɯoɔǝq ʇı ɹo 'puıɯ ʎɯ ɥʇıʍ sʞɔnɟ ʇı ʇnq 'dıɥspuǝıɹɟ puɐ xǝs ʎoظuǝ ı ˙ʇuǝɯʇıɯɯoɔ puɐ 'ǝʌoן 'sdıɥsuoıʇɐןǝɹ 'ǝןdoǝd ʍǝu ɟo ɥʇɐǝp oʇ pǝɹɐɔs ɯɐ ı ˙ǝɯoɥ uʍo ʎɯ ǝʌɐǝן oʇ pǝıɟıɹɹǝʇ buıɯoɔǝq ɯɐ ı ˙buıǝq ʎɹǝʌ ʎɯ ןǝnɟ ʇɐɥʇ sʇɔɐ ǝʌısןndɯı ǝɹoɯ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʞɔɐq buıpןoɥ ǝןıɥʍ 'buıɥʇʎɹǝʌǝ ʎɯ 'sɹɐǝɟ ʎɯ 'sbuıןǝǝɟ ʎɯ 'ǝɯ ʇnoqɐ ʎןʇuɐssǝɔuı buıʇıɹʍ uǝǝɹɔs puɐ pɹɐoqʎǝʞ sıɥʇ puıɥǝq buıpıɥ uǝǝq ǝʌɐɥ ı ˙uoıʇɐןosı uı ɯɐ ı 'uıɐbɐ 'ǝɯ ʇɐ ʞooן ¡sǝıʇıɹnɔǝsuı ʎuıɥʍ ʎɯ ןןɐ ʞɔnɟ ˙sbuıɯoɔʇɹoɥs ʎɯ ʇno buıɹnod puɐ sǝʇɐbpooןɟ ןɐuoıʇoɯǝ ʎɯ dn buıuǝdo sɐ uɐɯ ɐ oʇ buıʎɟıɹɹǝʇ sɐ uǝʇɟo sı ʎʇıɔɐɹǝʌ sıɥʇ          
¿uoıʇɔǝظǝɹ ɟo ɹɐǝɟ ǝɹoɯ puɐ 'ǝʌoן 'ʇsnן 'uoısnɟuoɔ ɟo sbuıןǝǝɟ pǝxıɯ oʇuı uɹnʇ ʇou sıɥʇ sǝop ʍoɥ 'dıɥsuoıʇɐןǝɹ ɐ ʇou sıɥʇ sı ʍoɥ "˙suǝddɐɥ ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʍ ǝǝs ʇsnظ puɐ 'ʎpoq ǝɹıʇuǝ ʎɯ puɐ sǝsuǝs ʎɯ ɟo ןןɐ 'ǝsou ʎɯ 'ǝnbuoʇ ʎɯ 'spuɐɥ ʎɯ ɥʇıʍ ǝɹoןdxǝ oʇ ʇuɐʍ ı 'snʇɐʇs ɐ ʇuɐʍ ʇ,uop ı 'ןǝqɐן ɐ ʇuɐʍ ʇ,uop ı ˙ʇɐ ɯɐ ı ǝɹǝɥʍ sı sıɥʇ 'ʇɐɥʇ uɐɥʇ ɹǝɥʇo ˙ǝɯ ǝɔɹoɟ ʇ,uoʍ ǝɥ 'ou ʎɐs ı uǝɥʍ puɐ 'doʇs ןן,ǝɥ 'doʇs ʎɐs ı uǝɥʍ ʍouʞ oʇ pǝǝu ʇsnظ ı 'dǝǝp ǝq oʇ ǝʌɐɥ ʇ,usǝop ʇsnɹʇ ɐpuıʞ sıɥʇ ˙ʇsnɹʇ ʎɯ pǝuɹɐǝ sɐɥ ʎןıɯɐɟ uǝʌǝ ʇou 'ǝuo ou ʇsnɹʇ ı 'ʎןןɐɹǝuǝb ˙ɯǝɥʇ puoʎǝq ǝɯ ɥsnd puɐ sǝıɹɐpunoq ןɐnxǝs ʇsǝʞɹɐp ʎɯ ǝɹoןdxǝ oʇ ɥbnouǝ uosɹǝd ʇɐɥʇ ʇsnɹʇ oʇ ʇuɐʍ ı 'ןooɔ sı ʍouʞ ı oɥʍ uosɹǝd ǝuo ʞɔnɟ ɐuuɐʍ ı ˙ʞɔnɟ ɐuuɐʍ ʇsnظ ı 'xǝs buıobuo 'buızɐɯɐ ʇuɐʍ ʇsnظ ı" 'sʎɐs ʇɐɥʇ ǝuo ǝɥʇ ǝʞıן 'ɟןǝsʎɯ ןןǝʇ ı ʇɐɥʇ sǝıן ǝɥʇ sǝzıɔıʇuɐɯoɹ puıɯ ʎɯ 'sbnɹp ǝʞıן ʇsnظ ˙xıɟ ǝʇɐıpǝɯɯı 'ןɐɔısʎɥd 'ǝʌıʇıɯıɹd ǝɹoɯ ǝɥʇ ɥbnoɹɥʇ 'uoıʇɐɔıɟıʇɐɹb ʇuɐʇsuı 'buıʞǝǝs ɟןǝs 'ǝןqɐıʇɐsuı ǝɥʇ buıʎɟsıʇɐs ɹoɟ ob 'sǝɹısǝp ןɐuɹɐɔ ǝɹoɯ ʎɯ ǝsɐɥɔ ʎןdɯıs puɐ ʇdǝɔuoɔ ǝɥʇ ɥsıɹǝd pןnoɥs ı os 'ǝɯıʇ sıɥʇ ʇɐ ʎɥʇɹoʍ ʇou ɯɐ ı ǝɯ sןןǝʇ ǝsɐǝsıp ʎɯ ˙dıɥsuoıʇɐןǝɹ ʎɥʇןɐǝɥ ɐ ɟo ʇɹɐd ɐ ǝq oʇ ʍoɥ ɐǝpı ou ǝʌɐɥ ı ʇɐɥʇ buıʍouʞ 'ǝʌoן pǝןןɐɔ ןıɐɹb ʎןoɥ pǝʇǝʌoɔ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ʇsǝnb ɐ ʇou sı ǝɔuǝɹǝɟǝɹd ʎɯ ʇɐɥʇ ʎɐs puɐ ɟןǝsʎɯ oʇ ǝıן ı        
˙sǝıɔuǝpuǝʇ puɐ ɹoıʌɐɥǝq uʍo ʎɯ oʇuı ɹǝɹɐǝןɔ sǝɯoɔǝq uoısıʌ ʎɯ 'ǝɯ oʇ ʞɔɐq sɹoɹɹıɯ ɯsıɔıʇıɹɔ ʇuǝןıs uʍo ʎɯ sɐ ˙ɟןǝsʎɯ 'buoן os ɹoɟ ǝuo ǝʞıן buıʇɔɐ uǝǝq ǝʌɐɥ ı sɐ 'sןooɟ ɹoɟ ʎʇıd ou ǝʌɐɥ ı puɐ 'ʇuǝɯǝʌǝıɥɔɐɹǝpun uʍo ʎɯ ɯoɹɟ sɯǝʇs ɥɔıɥʍ 'ʎʇıɹɔoıpǝɯ ɟo ʇuɐɹǝןoʇuı ɯɐ ı ˙sıɥʇ ǝʞıן puıɯ ʎɯ ǝʇɐןnɯıʇs oɥʍ ǝןdoǝd ɥʇıʍ uoıʇɔǝuuoɔ ɹoɟ ʇsɹıɥʇ ǝsuǝʇuı ɹǝɥʇɐɹ ɐ puɐ pǝǝu pıןɐʌ ɐ ǝʌɐɥ op ı      
˙ɥʇnɹʇ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ pɹɐʍuı ʞooן oʇ ǝɯ buıɔɹoɟ puɐ 'ʇɔɐ ssǝɹʇsıp uı ןǝsɯɐp ǝɯ sı ǝoʍ ɔıʇɐɯɐɹp ʎɯ ʇno buıdɯoʇs 'ʇıɥs ʎɯ uo ǝɯ buıןןɐɔ 'puǝıɹɟ ǝnɹʇ ɐ s,ʇɐɥʇ 'ɥɔno "˙noʎ pǝןןıʞ ʎןɹɐǝu ʇɐɥʇ uo ʇnd noʎ ǝpɐɔɐɟ buıʇsnɐɥxǝ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝnuıʇuoɔ oʇ noʎ buıʍoןןɐ ʇou ǝɹɐ ʎpoq puɐ puıɯ ɹǝqos ɹnoʎ ʍou ǝqʎɐɯ ¿ǝɹɐ noʎ oɥʍ ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ (oʇ ʇuɐʍ ʇ,uop ɹo) ʇ,uɐɔ ʎןןɐǝɹ noʎ ʇɐɥʇ buoן os ɹoɟ ɹoıʌɐɥǝq pɐq puɐ ןoɥoɔןɐ puɐ sbnɹp ɥʇıʍ dn ʇı pǝɹǝʌoɔ noʎ ʇnq 'ןnɟɹɐǝɟ puɐ ǝɹnɔǝsuı ǝɹǝʍ sʎɐʍןɐ noʎ ʇɐɥʇ ǝןqıssod ʇı sı" 'ʎןʇuǝnboןǝ os pǝʇɐʇs 'ʍouʞ ʇou ʇsnظ puɐ ɥʇıʍ "ǝʌoן uı" ǝq ʎןןɐnʇɔɐ ʎɐɯ ı oɥʍ ǝuo 'puǝıɹɟ ɹǝɥʇouɐ ˙ǝq oʇ pǝsn ı ʇɐɥʇ uosɹǝd ןɐǝɹ 'ʇuǝpıɟuoɔ 'ǝɹnɔǝs 'ʇuǝbıןןǝʇuı 'ʎddɐɥ ʇǝʎ 'ʍoןןɐɥs ʎןןɐuoıʇoɯǝ ǝɥʇ buıǝq oʇ ʞɔɐq ʇǝb puɐ ʞɔɐɹɔ ɹǝqʎɔ ǝɥʇ uʍop ʇnd oʇ pǝǝu ı ˙sןןǝɔ uıɐɹq ʎɯ pǝuɹnq ɹo 'ʎɹnظuı pɐǝɥ ɐ pǝɹǝɟɟns ǝʌɐɥ ı ɟı sɐ s,ʇı ˙ʎןʇuǝɔǝɹ ןıʇun ǝɟıן ɟo ʇɹɐd ʎuɐ ʇnoqɐ pǝsnɟuoɔ ɹo ǝɹnɔǝsuı ʎןpɹɐʍʇno sɐ ɹǝʌǝu sɐʍ ı ʇɐɥʇ ɯɹıɟuoɔ uɐɔ ǝɯ ʍouʞ oɥʍ ǝsoɥʇ
 ˙ʎɐʍ uʍo ʎɯ uı ʞɔnʇs ɯɐ ı 'ʇnd ʎןdɯıs 'pǝzʎןɐɹɐd ʎןןɐuoıʇoɯǝ puɐ ʎןןɐɔısʎɥd buıןǝǝɟ ʎןuǝppns ɯɐ ı 'buıɥʇɐoן ɟןǝs 'ןɐpıɔıns 'pǝssǝɹdǝp 'ǝuoןɐ ןןɐ 'uoıʇɐןosı uı ɯɐ ı ˙ʎʇǝıxuɐ 'ʇsnɹʇsıp 'ʇqnop 'ɹɐǝɟ puɐ ʎʇıɹnɔǝsuı ɥʇıʍ ǝɯoɔɹǝʌo ɯɐ ı 'ʇı ʍouʞ ı ǝɹoɟǝq puɐ ʇxǝʇ ı puɐ ןıɐɯǝ ı puɐ ʇɐɥɔ ı puɐ 'ʇǝuɹǝʇuı ǝɥʇ ɥɔɹɐǝs ı puɐ 'ʍǝu ǝuoǝɯos ʇuɐʍ ı 'ǝɯ ǝɹoq ʇɐɥʇ "sɹɐןnbǝɹ" ǝɥʇ s,ʇı ˙uǝɯ ןןɐ ʇou ןןǝʍ 'uǝɯ ɥʇıʍ pǝʇsnbsıp ǝɯoɔǝq ı 'ʇuɐʍ ʎןןɐǝɹ ı ʇɐɥʍ ɟo ʞuıɥʇ ı uǝɥʍ ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ 'ǝɯıʇ ʎuɐ ʇɐ ןןɐɔ uɐɔ ı oɥʍ ɹo ןןɐɔ oɥʍ uǝɯ ןɐɹǝʌǝs ǝʌɐɥ ןןıʇs ı ˙ɐǝɹɐ ʇɐɥʇ uı pǝʞɔɐן ɹǝʌǝu ı puɐ 'ǝɔuǝpıɟuoɔ ʇnoqɐ s,ʇı ˙ɔʇǝ 'ǝbɐ 'ǝdʎʇ ʎpoq ɟo ssǝןpɹɐbǝɹ 'ǝʌǝıɥɔɐ oʇ buıɥʇ pɹɐɥ ɐ ʇou sı xǝs ˙sǝʇnuıɯ ɟo ɹǝʇʇɐɯ ɐ uıɥʇıʍ uʍop ɯǝɥʇ pǝq ɹo ɯǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ spuǝıɹɟ ǝʞɐɯ ɹǝɥʇıǝ puɐ sʎnb ʍǝu ʇǝǝɯ oʇ pǝsn uɐɯoʍ ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ ɯɐ ı        

˙(buıɥʇoןɔ ssǝן ʎןʇuɐɔıɟıubıs buıɹɐǝʍ ǝɹɐ ǝןdoǝd ǝɥʇ puɐ 'buıbuıs ǝɹɐ spɹıq ǝɥʇ puɐ 'buıʇɐɯ ǝɹɐ sןɐɯıuɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ןןɐ uǝɥʍ ʇnoqɐ sbuıɹq ǝɯıʇbuıɹds ʇɐɥʇ ssǝuıןǝuoן ɟo ɹǝpuıɯǝɹ ןnɟuıɐd ǝɥʇ ʎןdɯıs ɹo '"ɹǝpɹosıp ǝʌıʇɔǝɟɟɐ ןɐuosɐǝs" sdɐɥɹǝd) ˙sɥʇuoɯ ʍǝɟ ʇsɐן ǝɥʇ uı ʇuıod ǝɯos ʇɐ ʎןpǝʇɔǝdxǝun ɹǝɥʇɐɹ uoıʇɔǝɹıp pǝbuɐɥɔ ǝʌɐɥ oʇ ɹɐǝddɐ pןnoʍ puɐ 'ʎןʇɐǝɹb ʎɟısuǝʇuı oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ʇı ˙uıɐbɐ ǝɯıʇ puɐ ǝɯıʇ ˙˙˙ʞɔnɟ-puıɯ 'ɔıuɐɯ-ɐɹʇןn 'ןɐnʇǝdɹǝd 'buıןɐɹıds ʎןpıdɐɹ puɐ buıʌıbɹoɟun 'snoıɔɐdɐɹ sıɥʇ ǝsɐɥɔ ı uıɐbɐ 'ʎʇıuɐsuı ʎɯ ɟo ʎʇıןɐǝɹ ɥsɹɐɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ buıuɹnʇǝɹ ǝןıɥʍ "¿buıop ı ɯɐ ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʍ" 'pnoן ʇno puɐ ʎןɹɐןnbǝɹ ɟןǝsʎɯ ʞsɐ ı        

˙uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹd ןɐɔıuıןɔ ɐ ɥɔns ɹoɟ uǝɯıɔǝds ןɐǝpı ǝɥʇ sdɐɥɹǝd ɯɐ ı ʇɐɥʇ ǝzıןɐǝɹ ı ˙ʎʇǝıxuɐ puɐ ssǝupɹɐʍʞʍɐ ןɐıɔos oʇ ʇɔǝظqns ןןɐɟ oʇ ʎןǝʞıן ǝuo ı ɯɐ ʎןuo ʇou ʇɐɥʇ ǝzıןɐǝɹ ı 'pɹɐʍɹǝʇɟɐ buoן ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ 'pǝɹǝʇsıbǝɹ ʎןןɐuıɟ ʇı uǝɥʍ ˙pɐǝɥ uʍo ʎɯ uo ǝןddɐ ǝɥʇ ǝǝs oʇ ʎʇıןıqɐuı ʎɯ ɟo ǝןdɯɐxǝ ɹɐǝןɔ ɐ sı sıɥʇ ˙ǝsןǝ ǝuoǝɯos ǝzıɔıʇıɹɔ oʇ ʇı buısn ɯɐ ı 'ǝsɹnoɔ ɟo ssǝןun 'buoן ɹoɟ ʇı ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ʇ,uoʍ ı 'ǝɯ uıɥʇıʍ pɹoɥɔ ɐ ǝʞıɹʇs ʎןǝʇɐıpǝɯɯı ʇ,usǝop ʇı ɟı puɐ 'ǝpɐɯ uoıuıdo ɟo ʇuǝɯǝʇɐʇs ןɐɹǝuǝb ʎuɐ oʇ uǝʇsıן ɟןɐɥ oʇ ǝɯ sʍoןןɐ ʎןuo obǝ ʎɯ ˙ǝnbɹɐ oʇ ʇuɐʍ pןnoʍ ı buıɥʇǝɯos ןןɐ ʇɐ ʇou s,ʇı (ǝsɹnoɔ ɟo ɟןǝsʎɯ uɐɥʇ ɹǝɥʇo) ǝןdoǝd ʇnoqɐ op ı ʇɐɥʍ buıʍouʞ ˙ǝɯ ʇou ʇsnظ 'ǝןdoǝd ɟo ɹǝqɯnu ɐ uı ˙ǝnɹʇ sı ʇı ʇɐɥʇ ʍouʞ ı sɐ ǝǝɹbɐ op ı 'sıɥʇ ǝʇɐıʇuɐʇsqns oʇ sǝıpnʇs uǝǝq ʎןןɐnʇɔɐ ǝʌɐɥ ǝɹǝɥʇ ˙ssǝupɹɐʍʞʍɐ ןɐıɔos ǝʇoɯoɹd oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ʎboןouɥɔǝʇ ʍoɥ ɟo ǝʞods ǝɥ ˙buıbɐssǝɯ ʇxǝʇ puɐ 'ʇɐɥɔ ǝuıןuo 'ןıɐɯǝ buıpɹɐbǝɹ uoıuıdo uɐ pǝɔıoʌ oɥʍ ʇɔǝdsoɹd buıʇɐp ɐ ɥʇıʍ uoıʇɐsɹǝʌuoɔ ɟǝıɹq ɐ uodn ʞɔɐq buıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uǝɥʍ pǝɯɹıɟuoɔ ǝɹǝʍ ɟןǝsʎɯ ɟo sɹɐǝɟ puɐ suoıɔıdsns buıbbɐu uʍo ʎɯ

The Human Oxymoron

I am an egomaniac with an inferiority complex. I appear tough, strong, in control, calm, cool, and collected, but inside I'm crippled with fear, doubt, and insecurity on a reckless and wild roller coaster of dysfunction and pure mayhem. I find pleasure in pain. I treat the loneliness of my own depression with still more isolation. I keep people at arms length yet become saddened that no one ever gets close to me. I appear to be independent, yet I'm co-dependent to an extreme, only secure when taking care of someone else. I want to be recognized, but do not want to be watched. When I am right, all should take notice, when I am wrong, all should take cover. I hate my parents, yet desperately seek their approval. I'm disgusted by the opposite sex, and still desperately yearn for that fairy tale of happily ever after companionship. I build walls but have no boundaries. Trust no one, but tell everyone everything about me. I've been labeled as bipolar, bisexual, ambidextrous, passive aggressive, anti social, and yet I'm a social butterfly. I enjoy serenity and am attracted to chaos. I'm a loner, but I'm popular. I'm overworked and underpaid, an addict, a gambler, a stunt driver, a negotiator, an artist, and a muse. I am a best friend and a worst enemy. Let me talk you in or out of anything. I can steal your wallet and help you look for it. I'm born to help and full of hurt, therefore any behavior, substance, or lifestyle that produces enough pleasure to take ME out of me for even a split second... I will become instantly addicted to, constantly chasing any and all feelings of relief to the end of the line, as though I'm on a quest to discover the meaning of life.

Every single part of my life is an extreme in one way or another. I want everything in an instant, or I want nothing at all, I seek absolute perfection or see grounds for immediate dismissal. I am considered overqualified, yet I fall short and will almost ALWAYS underachieve. I am the epitome of spoiled, a textbook example of the purest childish entitlement, this stubborn "all or nothing" attitude. My thermostat is completely off or on the highest temperature, the volume of music has to be turned to the max. I take the hottest showers, and drink the coldest coffee, I barely nap during the day, and stay up all night. I want nothing more than to get to the point, so I find myself reading books and directions backwards. I know better than anyone, I even under-mind my GPS. I make lists but never use them. My best intentions ALWAYS yield the worst results. I detest and repudiate from the rules, instinctively break laws, undoubtedly resist management, defy government, debunk religion, shun politics, and nix the teachings of the like. I abide by my own principles based on logic and my personal experience and knowledge of all of the above. I  live to challenge the so-called experts. I will argue semantics just to make you second guess yourself. I adamantly reject any notion to conform, I subscribe to virtually nothing, I've adopted no trends, I cannot follow blindly like a sheep. I don't smoke nor believe in modern American medicine, I refuse to conform or to be enslaved by the inconvenient conveniences of modern society or anyone else's selfish, self righteous agendas.

Emotional Paralysis

Isolation: Trapped inside of my own mind, terrified of the light, of the dark, of the outdoors, of death, of people, of expectations, of rejection, of the air, of the water, of reality, of the sun, of the rain, of the truth. Like being imprisoned in a room, bound to a chair, embedded in concrete, looking for my purpose, looking for one good reason not to blow my fucking brains out. It doesn't matter though because my arms are too heavy to raise a gun and my fingers too frozen to pull any trigger.

Trusting no one, as they all have selfish motives. Not wanting to be hurt means no longer making an attempt to be friendly. The last one to do it hurt the most, and it was my own fault for giving another person power in my life. I would never fuck with another human being's feelings, emotions, or life the way people have done to me, I do not wish to be a victim or a martyr, I am so confused and so broken. I cannot comprehend cruelty I do not wish to do so, I struggle with society and the way it tells me I should be. I will never be that person, that woman, that wife, that daughter, that mother. I hurt. My soul is empty, I have no faith, I try to let go, I try to let it in, I cry out for help, for relief, for love. I come up empty.

Judge Me

I laugh when people talk behind my back about me. It really doesn't bother me, it's fear, and it's not mine. Writing and blogging is what I do to let off steam, to vent frustration, or to self-soothe. I am not hurting anyone, ever. However there are those who are no longer in my circle who STILL read this blog. To those people I give recognition here:

Judge me, I don't care. You have no power over me, you won't ever have any power, so run your fool mouth, make assumptions, read into my bluntness and let your paranoia feed your ego into believing that every post is about you. It's not, it's about ME, it's about MY life, MY feelings, MY thoughts, MY recovery. ME. If you don't understand it, you aren't supposed to. If you don't like it, don't read it. If it makes you angry, go punch your wall. If it makes you sad, go have a good cry. If it makes you horny, go fuck yourself. If you are uncomfortable with my blog, you might consider working with someone to overcome your fears, doubts, and insecurities of self.

This is my blog, it is for me. I don't associate my name to it, this way it is somewhat anonymous. I don't feel it's going to make me millions, or gain me notoriety, I do not find my ranting to be of any literary genius, I just write, it's what I do. People are afraid of me because I speak and write about things that are difficult for them to say out loud. I don't do this for anybody but me, and it keeps me from acting out in ways that would get me arrested or hurt, even killed.

I write in a public blog instead of a private journal because I believe it can help people. Sometimes, people feel the same way, people who don't know me, people in another place in the world. Sometimes I identify with people that I have nothing in common with, people whose lives would never cross with mine through any other forum. My blogs are not self help articles, I am not a shrink or a philosopher. I have no credentials that can help fix anyone, but if you have issues, I can tell you what works for me, and how I began my journey.

Who knows, I might catch the attention of someone who truly feels alone in this world, someone who is at the end of their rope, who may be screaming desperately for someone to understand them, and no one is answering. I was that person. I was misunderstood. I was all alone and frightened. I was about to take my own life. I desperately wanted to fit in somewhere, anywhere. Today I do fit in, not always, not every day, but today, I  am sure that I belong in this world and even though I am whacky, I am loved.

True Story

I needed to pay my car insurance, it's now Monday and I had been trying since Friday afternoon. They wouldn't accept my VISA online or over the phone, so I brought cash to the office, they can't take cash, in fact, they can't take a payment at all, and there is no option to do a wire transfer, so how do I pay if I need it to reflect TODAY? I am going to be cancelled tomorrow. Jeezus, will somebody just take my fucking money, PLEASE! 

The thought of a strong arm job crossed my mind, but those things never end well, I could see it now on the 6:00 News, "Crazed Woman Holds Insurance Office Hostage, Her Demands: 'PROCESS MY PAYMENT', More at 11." 

CLEARLY, I am out of my mind, is it time for a lobotomy? Do they still administer shock treatment??? How can I exist in a world where the shortest distance from A to B is around and around and around? I'd be less frustrated selling porn to impotent blind men. 

Is it just me? Everything seems upside down and backwards! Am I stuck in some parallel universe where everything is inside out? Has there been a cosmic shift where the lunatics have taken over the asylum? 

Help me see the logic! Nothing is making any sense to me anymore. SOMEBODY hit me with a bat, or a TRUCK! 

What a shit show! My head hurts, I am sick to my stomach. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Bedtime Stories and Birth Control: Where Do Babies Come From?

Prince Charming was a closeted homosexual bitch-boy which clearly explains why his hair was so perfect and he always rode a stallion. "Happily Ever After" referred to his safe existence, after the Princess pulled him up out of the moat after the King's men ran a train on his ass and beat the ever living shit out of him for being such a fucking queen. Shortly after Prince and Princess move in together, there was some strange accidental chemical reaction between two cells and a parasitic infection occurs inside of the Princess. 

This growing parasite thrives on it's new host, controlling everything from body temperature to mood swings, appetite, sex drive, nipple tenderness... It grows and depletes all of the natural supply of vitamins, minerals, emotional stability, shape, and memory of the suffering princess. 

Eventually the parasite becomes too large for the host and must be expelled by any means necessary, it seems biologically driven in the direction of the door that it's foreign, paternal cell used to enter. The Princess suffers through an excruciating event, for which drugs may be introduced, and not a moment too soon. Large doses of opiates and sedatives are just the perfect combination of pharmacology to create a bond between this now external parasite and it's hosts, for it is not cute, it is all wrinkly and yellow, an under-developed, barely human, fish-faced, dependent organism. It does NOT smell good, at first it may smell like bad food, fermented amniotic fluid, afterbirth, blood, and over-worked pussy, then they get cleaned up and some asshole brings it back to you smelling like Ivory Snow and Baby Wash. 

Soon after you bring it home, it reeks of cradle cap and spit up sour milk, then real vomit and straight up shit, the drugs have worn off and you can throw any sign of cuteness out the fucking window, believe me, you are about to! Your delusion of being a princess has disappeared! 

Just before you feed it to the neighbors dog, this dependent creature begins to make these alien cooing sounds, while staring all crooked at you. One eye closed, tongue over to the side of their drooling pucker, oh how cute, you are in love all over again.

NO, moron, that's not a smile, the little shit machine is working on a record, filling its diaper and trying to make shit smear straight up his back and out the top of the Onesie and the adorable little Baby Gap outfit that you just spent 60 bucks on. 

You won't sleep or get a hot meal for years, the common cold seems to linger longer than average in your home, you sanitize and wash everything until you don't give a fuck if the thing eats a dead rat. You stop wiping snot from it's ever running nose, you stop replacing the batteries in the baby monitor, you stop checking it's mouth for small marbles or lego's, you left those in on the floor deliberately, you are secretly trying to kill the fucking thing, it's sucking the life out of you and it's no longer even on the inside. What the fuck have you done?!?!

The parasite is dependent on it's host for many years to come, food, lots of food, clothing, lots of clothing and SHOES, braces, and CASH, car keys and college, bridal shower, wedding, new home, baby shower, there you go rinse & repeat... it's a horrific nasty cycle for which you spend decades wanting to drown Charming in the moat you pulled him out of, if of course, he hasn't left you for your younger wicked step sister, or the much older and wiser, fairy god-mother. 

Now you are an alcoholic, single mom, with a distended, stretch marked gut, wrinkles, yellow teeth, smokers lung, thinning grey hair, a wardrobe which has gone in and out of style 4 times since you purchased it, and it's barely covering your belly, let alone the once perky tits that sag beneath your belt line. What a catch, you go girl!