This is why I ignore the news: my political rant

So in case you’ve been living under a rock or have recently joined us from a far away planet in a far far away galaxy, it seems like things are pretty much fucked and we’ve all punched express tickets to hell in a hand-basket. Japan is in meltdown mode (literally and figuratively speaking…Radiation Poisoning, anyone?), African and Middle East nations are bent on ripping themselves apart from the inside out (or, as we PoliSci majors like to say, begun the uber-fun not-difficult-at-all process of democratization…specifically check out the transitions part…it is not an easy peaceful process, my loves!), and basically terrible and more terrible shit keeps on popping up on the screen every time I turn around.

If one were to listen to the news seriously and markedly, one would get the impression that all of this (gestures wildly and madly to the Universe surrounding us) is about to come careening to a blazing end.

This and all other sorts of doom served to you nightly and daily!

Yes, I am aware the world is a shit show right now. Non-combatants are gunned down daily without any reprisal (love drone bombing! Kill the protesters!) Governments oppress their peoples. Costs of all items necessary to survival are climbing exponentially and infinitely and salaries and job rates plummet.

Basically, if you listen to the news, we’re all fucked Seven ways from Sunday.

I say Fuck. That. Noise.

That’s right. Fuck. That. Noise. I say the world has always had its fair share of demons. The world has always had (to quote Michael Cain from Dark Knight) men who just want to watch the world burn.  But just as often as the world has suffered these pestilences, it has created myriad End of Days and “Oh Holy Shit This Totally Sucks” scenarios which have never truly amounted to anything of substance. ( CLICK ME FOR MORE DETAILS ON FAILED DOOMSDAY PREDICTIONS) The end is always nigh. The end has always been nigh. The world is always trembling under the burden of humanity it has been asked to bear with all imaginable and conceivable patience.

There are shitty people abounding in this world, and it really fucking sucks Libyans are oppressed by someone whose name bears a great resemblance to a speech impedimented  water fowl cartoon character.  It really fucking blows that there isn’t more stability and peace in that entire region — That Qatar is in peril, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Palestine are all suffering civil unrest and turmoil. I lament the loss of each life that violence claims and each voice that is snuffed and not allowed to speak because of political intolerance.

But I cannot unmake the world– all I know is each day I wake and try to make the world a little softer, a little better, and find a peace to which I can lay claim.

The world will continue to press ever onward. Regardless of how bad things seem, how dark the world becomes, and how much press the evil things get, have faith and be resilient. We. Will. All. Be. Fine. We will all be fine because one of two things inevitably will happen: either the yolk of this burdensome life will be lifted and we shall pass onward or the world will turn to bring us love, safety, and security. Either way, this ever seemingly never ceasing turmoil is a farce. Some day, peace will be found but only inasmuch as it is peace with the world the way that it is: it will not bend for us, especially not before we understand its totality.

It is not the world which needs saving, it’s us. So turn off the news, just for now, smile a little more at people on the street, and if you see any dollar bills with uplifting sayings on them, it’s ok to let them make you happy.

Regardless of what you think, it has always been the end of the world, so don’t worry so much. You’ve already survived the toughest part. Like I always say, If you were gonna be broken by life, you’d have broken already. You ain’t been broken yet, you’re not gonna be broken.

Keep on Keepin’ On.

Ignore the News. Seek Life.

This is my coffee house manifesto: Part 1

 

Merry met my few readers! Sorry for the prolonged absence. Believe me, it’s not been a slumbering break. Being an adult sucks: I work two jobs and still find myself like Oliver begging for more scraps. If anyone out there knows of a handy money tree (or fuck, I’d even take a money bush or shrub at this point) please leave comments at the bottom of this post.

But back to the subject of this post: awkward coffee shop groups. Ok, so I am all for Free Speech (Bong Hits 4 Jesus anyone? And yes the Supreme Court dropped the ball on this one, but that’s a subject for another night.) But holy fuck, my friends. I know we’re all a little weird and all consider ourselves and our thoughts incredibly enlightened, but shit. For the sake of sanity and solidfarity and all those silly terms, let’s just go ahead a come up with a quick universal Coffee Shop Constitution shall we?

Coffe House Constitution: The Thou Shalts…

1. Thou shalt consider the sanctity of human sanity paramount. We are all quite aware that the world in which we inhabit is fucking nuts of its own accord, correct? This is not new news to anyone out there, right? Ok, good. Then can we take that little proof up there a step further and posit that we need “safety zones” from the crazy? Mainly, I would like a place to get a cup of coffee, read a book, or work on a blog post without having to hear any or all of the following:

• • “My vagina opens like a tulip. Soft, stimulated, tantalizing.” or “Nurse, bring me a vagina!” This is not appetizing conversation to have to overhear if it’s being spoken by playmates. It’s even more unappealing when spoken by elderly women and men. I am the proud owner of a vagina, we get along pretty swell. But that doesn’t mean I have to describe it’s functions in banal cliches and strange circumstances.
  • “Well, Peter, what do you think your dreams mean?” The former is acceptable when not being spoken a) to a 6 year old child and b) in a serious context, as if you expect said 6 year old to set Jung on his head and be able to espouse a philosophical treatise of note. He’s 6. Let it go. When he dreams of Ninjas, he’s dreaming of them because he wants to fight some fucking Ninjas.

 

I'm Peter's Dream Ninja. He wants to mess me up. There ends the discussion. No Dream Analysis Need Apply.

2.  Thou Shalt know coffee shops serve coffee….before thou orderest. Or attempts to. And ruins everyone else’s day.

• • Le Sigh. We’re all familiar with Starbucks. The notion of a coffee shop is not alien…I’m pretty sure they erected a Starbucks in Borneo. If Joe Tribal Leader can order coffee without having to ask “Do you serve coffee here?” You should too.

3. Thou shalt chat up strangers.

• • That’s right, I said it. Don’t be afraid of making human contact! Someone has to unite against crusty old vagina monolougers! You need to be able to look a random stranger in the eye, say “hey, that’s a pretty good book/drink/paper/drawing/etc you’ve got there. Are you hearing this shit behind us?”  True, all human contact will not end in humorous victory, but you have no idea what kind of sly quiet place-specific friendships you may form with people. It’s kind of neat, try it out.

 

 

 

 

So, kiddies, now that I have announced the  ”Thou Shalt’s” I am opening them up to the floor for debate. Remember, they require a simple majority to be ratified. (Screw you and your 2/3rd majority! What do you think this is? Congress and we’re overriding a veto? Get the hell out of here!) So let’s review the points, create pointless pie charts, and meet back here in a few days to discuss the “Thou Shalt Nots.”

Until then, kiddies, be well and love each other. And I leave you with these last two parting thoughts:

 

 

Keep On Keepin' On.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Listen to this song. Do it. You know you want to.

This is why I hate GPS.

For cars, that is. I’m totally cool with them being in rockets and airplanes and things like that.  But drivers, oh drivers, why must you be all about the GPS usage??? Where has the reliance on your built in GPS (read: Brain) and some good ol’ map reading or at least Google Direction reading skills gone? Are we so lonesome on car rides now we need deadpan voices barking commands (frequently wrong or wonky) at us for the entire journey? Do we really need to be instructed to “Stay on the road?”

No, thanks, I was going to drive sideways through hedges and buildings. I’m pretty sure that’s the best way for me get to my destination. And you know what? I’m also gonna go ahead and do the steering with my breasts and tie a sock around my head to add that little extra bit of spice.

But you, oh you drivers, apparently do need to be reminded of the obvious: that black top is for driving, side walks, parking lots, and departures down cliffs are not part of the “Optimal Travel Route.”

The “GPS Made Me Do It” Defense Don’t Work, Kiddies.

Le sigh.  I did a quick Google Search when I was all worked up over dumb driver utilization of GPS and the number of hits I got for “My GPS made me do it” was, well, down right fucking terrifying. Really? Really people? 2000 + years of Civilization, of knowing just what a wheel was, and this is what we come to? Case and point a few Gems:

1. This Idiot is from my state, which really pisses me off even more. Hey, GPS you say turn now? Across 4 lanes of traffic? I shouldn’t wait, huh? Well, GPS knows best! Hope this works out for the best… SMASH! CRASH! EXPLOSION! SOOOO Not my fault. GPS Made Me Do It.
2. These Super Ding Dongs’ stories would make me laugh if they were fictional accounts. But sadly my friends, these are real people. Their mistakes actually occurred: “OOOO Honey, look! GPS says to take this Oregon State Forest Service Road! That will get us to Aunt Erma’s in a hurry!” GPS Made Me Do It.
3. It’s not only Americans who fail to use their brains. This British Winner Winner Chicken Dinner decided that since his Tom Tom told him to follow a road he no longer needed the assistance of his retinas and wound up dangling off a cliff. On behalf of all humanity, it’s nice to know he can follow directions well. Now here’s some bleach, have a sip, that’s a good lad. GPS Made Me Do It.

Now, I’m not going to continue on my all “Holier-Than-Thou” schtick and continue heckling those who use GPS as if I have never been part of that demographic. But Holy Fuck my friends! I know I’m batshit crazy, but I’ll at least argue with and defy my (borrowed) GPS when I think it’s trying to play tricks on me! Remember this key piece of advice: Driver has brain. GPS has math. Brain > Programed Algorithms. (See Hastily Paintshopped photo and personal anecdote below)

Hey! You! Yes You! Fucking Drive like you're not dumb, k?

This past weekend my boyfriend and I took a quick “Get the Fuck out of Dodge before the men in white coats come for us” trip to Lancaster, PA. We packed up, got into his shiny new-ish car (which smells slightly less like exhaust than mine does…oh the perks of being poor!), and turned on Good Ol’ Eunice (aka GPS).

Now, we’ve done an excursion to Lancaster together once before and because I am an active passenger (I like to take note of what’s going on about me, what roads we’re on, what other drivers are up to, you know, keeping on top of dumb fucking shit.) I had a pretty good idea of the way we took to get there before.

And it was a pretty good route: scenic, avoided dreaded 76 (Evil, Evil 76!), and got us to Lancaster in fairly decent time. We plugged our destination into Eunice and waited for her to spit out directions we were familiar with, but it was to no avail. Eunice, you tricky harlot, you were desperate to send us every way we didn’t want to go: 95 S to 76 W to the PA Turnpike, make three Ups, four Downs, and fork over a kidney. At one point when I examined her “Maximize Freeways Route” and compared the directions to “Direct Route” they were the same fucking thing. And had us on the PA Turnpike for less than a mile.

I don’t even think that last step is physically possible. So did we side with Eunice and follow her directions to a T? FUCK NO. And she, the ornery twat, was not happy about it and kept loudly barking either “make a U-Turn” or “take next left.”  Initially, when we departed from what Good Ol’ Eunice wanted, she kept tacking on miles and time to our trip, as if she were going to punish us into using her directions. But the funny thing was, once we got past every possible way to 76, our trip mileage and time suddenly dropped by about 20 miles and 30 mins of travel time.

Imagine that: Human intuition and Brain power really do trump programed algorithms. Just think what the outcome of our three examples of “My GPS Made Me Do It” could have been if the drivers had only been savvy enough to realize they could defy that monotone voice in a box.

So, my dear human friends, never forget you possess more knowledge than  you think. Give yourself to prove your potential. And tell Eunices everywhere to go Fuck Themselves when they try to lead you astray.

Until Next Time. Drive safely and remember, I love you. Even if you don’t ignore your GPS.

This is why old people entertain me.

Ok, so perhaps to be more “PC” I should amend the above title to Why Senior Citizens Entertain Me. But I won’t, I’m not going to, I don’t want to, so suck it up and deal with it.  Now that I’ve verbally stuck my tongue out at y’all, let’s delve deeper into why the elderly are so infinitely entertaining to me. And it mainly centers around one key theme:

The number of times a random elderly stranger has engaged me in conversation about the nature of sex is staggering.

Good thing I had my Viagra!

Yup, I just wrote that. And, yup, you just read that correctly. Ta-Da! You’ve now just pictured old people and sex. TOGETHER. Now, imagine this is not the first time your brain has been confronted with that image. In fact, imagine the first time you encountered this, you were 13, volunteering at a Senior Retirement Community (aka, prison for old people). And Voila! You have an insight into this frighteningly entertaining phenomenon in my life.

For over a decade now, I’ve been “that person” who gets stuck in random conversations with old people. They find me at bars. They find me in bank lines. They find me in record stores.  They find me at work. They find me at Hospice Facilities. (Ok, ok, fine. I’ll give them that last one…it is technically their turf.) And each conversation starts innocuously at first:

“Oh! You look just like my grand-daughter…” or “That sure is a large stack of books! What have you got there?”

To which I brace myself for the impending awkwardness and try to answer as banally as possible:

“Really? She must be a pretty girl then…” or, “Thanks! I’ve got some Gogol short stories, some comic books, and a book of Vonnegut’s stuff…”

And that, my friends, is about the point where everything takes a turn for the worst. You see, I’m not good at extraction. I get through the small talk just fine, but when I turn to go about my business I get roped in to their life.  I figure most of them just want someone to share their stories with, and dammit, I am a sucker for being a cache for seniors’ stories. So I listen to their histories, I collect their tales of unpaved roads, out houses, cats, dogs, sibling rivalries, careers, and would be loves.

And brace myself for the sex.

I’ll give you examples from the conversations excerpted above:

“She is. You know when I made her mother, her grandfather and I were standing up…” or, “Oh those sound lovely. Let me tell you about the book I’m reading now. It’s about a woman who couldn’t conceive, so her husband left her. Then she went to her doctor’s office, and well, they had sex right there. In the office. On the table. And you know what? She conceived. Great book!”

I wish I could say the above were: A) flights of fancy or B) rare occurrences but neither would be true. If anything, they’re both quite par for the course as far as sex talks with old people go. The latter made only that much more amazing by the fact that not two minutes before she gave me that pithy description she apologized for not having her dentures in and was sorry if I couldn’t understand her clearly.

If only that were the case. I understood her, and all the others, all too clearly. And while on the one hand, the myriad of awkward sex conversation encounters I have banked away is pretty damn frightening and creepy, it’s kind uplifting and god damn entertaining on the other.  It also gives me something to aspire to: live to an age old enough where I just don’t give a fuck what I’m talking about, where I’m talking about it, and to whom I’m sharing all my racy and scandalous information with.  There’s got to be something terribly freeing to be carefree enough to wander without dentures, enter a local record store, chat up a random twenty-something chick, and not keep to the “socially approved” small talk banter.

So three very kinky cheers to you old folk out there. Thanks for all the random life stories and for choosing me as your keeper. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go try and scrub my brain of every image of old people doin’ it out of the folds of my grey matter.

 

Until next time kiddies: Keep On Keepin’ On. And remember: if you were gonna be broken by life, it would have happened already. You have more strength than you know and I love you.

This is the obligatory New Year’s Post.

Hey ya’ll. Nice to be seen again. As you can tell by the title of this post, I figured I’d start this year’s blogging off with a rather typical topic. What you will not find in this post, however, is a New Year’s Resolution. Don’t look for it. It won’t be hidden, you won’t need a decoder to find it. It simply won’t be there.

2010.

Holy fuck. It’s over. 2010 is fucking done.  I’ve spent a lot of this past week thinking about how I feel about the passage of 2010: was it good? Was it shitty? Am I better ending this year than I was in 2009? Am I worse ending this year than I was in 2009?

Well, in truth, yes to all of those. 2010 was rock-fucking-tastic at some moments: I solidified adult friendships with some wonderful women; found a job that I’m wildly passionate about; watched my sister marry the man she was put on this Earth to be with;  won a six month battle with my student loan company (THANKS MOM!); saw more live sporting events than I can shake a stick at; and remembered how to let myself fall in love.

2010 also fucking sucked donkey balls. I had my heart broken; I broke someone’s heart; I lost contact with a lot of people I promised to always stay by; I failed at my attempt to get into Teach For America;  discovered it will be probably a decade before I can finance a stick of gum because of my credit rating; I didn’t go teach abroad; and I still live at my parents’ house.

I am both better and worse at the end of this year than I was at the end of the last.  I still have haunting nightmares about family and old friends telling me I am not (and never will be) worthy of forgiveness and that the things I did in my past will follow me forever. But I’ve forged relationships with kind and wonderful folk who are willing to support me through those bouts of madness and for whom I would gladly do the same.

But the really amazing thing that dawned on me while I was all a-focused on my review: I am no different than you.  Meaning, 2010 was probably the same for you. You had your good moments, you had your “Holy Fuck, did I really just do that?” moments. You had successes and you had failures. Relax, look around, and remember even that smug asshole next to you had a year like that, too.

And ok, so maybe your year felt imbalanced: maybe you feel like there were more tally marks on the “Holy Fuck” side as opposed to the “Yippie Skippie For ME!” IT’S OK DUMMY! YOU HAVE A WHOLE NEW YEAR TO BE BETTER.

I know, I know. I said in that paragraph way up there the most important thing I discovered was I wasn’t alone.  But I’m amending that statement to make it a two-part discovery: Nope you ain’t alone, and you ain’t dead. So congrats! You still have time to make amends. Or if you’re one of those rare awesome fuckers who had a banner year, Congrats! You still have time to build upon that foundation.

So, ok I guess I lied a little at the beginning of this.  I do have a Resolution of sorts and it goes like this: I will remember to tell you all how much I love you. I will remember that as long as I breathe, I will hope. And as long as I hope, I shall not fear. Being alive is a struggle, but it’s a beautiful struggle.

I feel like I’ve posted the following before, but since I’m breaking my No Resolution Rule, I might as well be redundant while I’m at it:

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

That’s the Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear. There is nothing in this world which can break you: think back on your life and all of the shit you’ve already endured.  If you were going to be broken, it would have happened already. So take heart, stand toe-to-toe with this year, and go forward without fear.

Basically (to quote one of my favorite movies) Time to Nut Up or Shut Up. Which will you do for 2011?

 

And now, to top it off, for your viewing pleasure a stupid tumblr image!

Do it to it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love you all. Until Next Time…

This is my sarcasm/throw back post

Hey y’all. Fancy meeting you here.  It’s nice to be writing again…as usual life has been, well, rather life-like and complicated and left little time for blathering about on the interwebs.  So while I have 10 spare minutes (which is a lie, by the by…I’m sitting a room with 5 projects half started, 6 lbs of killer that needs to be walked, a bike that needs to be repaired, and a bathroom that needs cleaning, but fuck it. I need to write.)

Anyway, like I was saying: while I have some “spare time” I figured I get a random blog post up here.  It’s not technically new material.  While on one of my random cleaning/organizing tears, I found a few copies of a Zine I used to write for in high school.  Most of the things I got “published” were atrocities.  I almost wish I had a time machine just so I could smack the shit out of my whiny self-involved pompous sulky self,  but that is a post for a different day.

What I did manage to discover, and still find delight in, was a rant I wrote about my coffee shop customers during Christmas.  And since the topic of how I got to be a Grinch  has been brought to my attention recently, I feel like reposting this article is appropriate.

(Though to be fair, I do not consider myself a Grinch. I love Christmas, I just hate the pretentious bullshit that surrounds it.  Mall Christmas music pisses me off. Wrapping paper is a source of constant consternation. And one day I will go to New York City and burn that fucking tree to the ground cackling the entire time.  It’s a big fucking tree. Big fucking deal…I like ‘em better in the wild without throngs and throngs of idiots gawking and milling about.)

Anyway, I worked in a coffee shop in the mall for two years consistently and on and off for another year once I graduated high school.  I had all sort of raucous rowdy fun while working there, but mostly because we were a bunch of underpaid miscreants with little to no respect for authority…unless it was directly present. We loathed Mallrats. We closed Espresso machines early and called them broken because we felt like it. We got into whipped cream fights, cut corners everywhere, cursed out each other and bosses on a daily basis.

It was fucking great. Until customers and the Christmas Season arrived…which is when this piece was penned and publish. Forgive its childish language and voice, I was young once you know…

 

So I work at this coffee place and, in theory, I should be perfectly happy working here.  Hell, at the rate I consume caffeine, you’d think I’d get down on my hands and knees and praise Some Entity for allowing me to work here. They supply me with free caffeine. Yes, I said FREE caffeine. Well, not straight caffeine–that’s apparently really bad for you. Or so I’ve read in magazines. With graphs and numbers.  It looked legit. Ok, digressing, I know that.

Anywhoo, so I work at a coffee place.  And it’s amazingly more stressful than one gives it credit for being. You people and your coffee, you can be cruel. Very cruel. And poor fucking tippers too. This job can, and frequently does, irritate the hell out of me.  People refusing to add, “I’d like that decaf, please,” before they receive the drink. If you want it decaf, or with whipped cream, or over ice, or with an extra shot, or with chocolate, or however the fucking hell it pleases you, tell me before I make your fucking drink! Ok? Ok.

And don’t even get me fucking started on the goddamned skus and how to make all possible combination of possible shitty ass drinks people may desire.  (FYI: Sku = the number I punch into our ancient register to find out how much you owe the money whoring company I work for.) Sixty-some-odd skus to memorize because heaven help us if you have to wait 15 extra seconds for me to look up a price before you pay. Oh Lord, the pain and suffering! And if there is a fucking line out the fucking store and you don’t know your shit when you get up to the counter? You are the weakest link, goodbye. And then all those damn drink combos…what happened to just a coffee or a cappuccino or cafe latte at worst, people? No you can’t be satisfied with simple.  You need Mocha Cremes and Frappalattes and Cafe Caramels. Why do you curse me, customers? Why?!

No, we do not have a bathroom for your use. No, we are not Starbucks, we do not make Carmel Macchiattos, whatever the hell that is.  We are CB LLC. And if you can’t handle that, leave my tiny cubicle of a store and do not return.  Don’t buy my Amaretto or Chocolate Raspberry flavored coffees. (Ok, if you’re actually consuming the Chocolate Raspberry, you fail the coffee game, because it is without a doubt the most disgusting coffee flavor ever.) Do not throw dimes at me. Do not hit on me, or yell at me, or check me out, or curse me out.  And if you like the service, remember that I am poor and you should tip.  Especially if we are busy. We work hard and they pretend to pay us for that work. So help a sister out, and toss us those pennies or that buck you don’t need.

And on a more serious note, if you fucking ask me what the coffees of the day are or what the iced coffees of the day are, I will bloody your  nose.  Look at the counter in front of you.  See that giant sign that loudly declares, “COFFEES OF THE DAY?” Read it you literate buffoon.  I do not have time to order for you. I have filters to do, Espresso to brew, dishes to clean, co-workers to despise for being lazy, fingers I have yet to burn, and orders I have yet to fill and fuck up because you cannot order correctly. During the week, I have caffeine to ingest by the gallons as I watch fucking nothing happen and am bored to tears.  During the weekend, I have caffeine to brew and abandon and return to (only when stone cold) when everyone and their bloody brother comes into my store to mill about and piss me off. I have cups to restock and floors to sweep and mop. I have shitty desserts to defrost and peddle to idiot customers. I have evil elf minions of the Dark Christmas Lord Himself demanding free beverages in the middle of a rush. Do you get the point I am too fucking busy to order for you? Or be your babysitter?

So welcome to CB.  How may I help you?

 

That concludes our trip down “Why I am a Grinch” lane.  Thanks for stopping by. Promise more substantial posts to come. Until then, bundle up, stay warm, and don’t forget to tell someone you love them.

This is why the glass is already broken.

Yesterday I got into an epic battle with my laptop, which I ultimately lost.  It started out innocently enough, something like this:

Me: “Hey laptop! It’s been a mighty long time since you got your keyboard there a-cleaned. What say you and I go at it mono-e-dell laptop and see if we can’t get those random keys to stop sticking, eh?”

Dell Beast Laptop from Hell: “OORRRRRRR how about you spend an hour wearing your silly little head lamp, frantically googling computer repair manuals, and cursing like a sailor all in attempts to reattach 3 keys? I think that sounds infinitely more entertaining, don’t you?”
Me: “God dammit.  I hate you technology.”

More or less that’s how this battle went…except the dialogue on the part of this wicked beastly piece of technology was more in my head. And sounded a lot like Willem Dafoe. Because for some reason, evil technology sounds like him to me? I digress. So for an hour I got mocked and the end result is my laptop now lacks the Enter, Back slash, and Backspace key.  The M key is on its way off and the ? key ain’t lookin’ good either.

Now see here we come to the crux of the issue: when I get bested in such a fashion I have this tendency to fixate and spiral downward into how my entire life is falling apart and stressing me out.  Dramatic, I know, but it creeps up on me all sudden like and then it’s all about how I never finish anything I start, or how I didn’t deserve to get into Teach for America, or how many people I’ve let down, or how much technology I’ve broken because I’m a friggin idiot, and how if I can’t clean a keyboard without it fucking exploding, how in God’s name will I ever leave this world a better place than when I entered it?

This time, however, things were different.  And, to be fair, it wasn’t only this past example in frustration which has changed. I’ve had this shift in the way I view the world which makes these momentary frustrations (and thus by extension the grander ones) easier to bear.  The shift in the way I view the world can be summed up like this:  the glass is already broken.

That nifty little phrase is lifted from this excellent parable: “You see this goblet?” asks Achaan Chaa, the Thai meditation master. “For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”

By reminding myself that this accursed keyboard was created, would exist, and would eventually (er, now-ish-ly) break, it became easier to process because this keyboard is not unique, everything in this Universe falls under the same rule: all of life is in a constant state of change. Everything has a beginning and everything has an end. Every tree begins with a seed and will eventually transform back into the earth. Every rock is formed and every rock will vanish. In our modern world, this means that every car, every machine, every piece of clothing is created and all will wear out and crumble; it’s only a matter of when. Our bodies are born and they will die. A glass is created and will eventually break.

So after the epic battle was over, I took a deep breath, stopped cursing, and started to laugh.  There went arguably two of the most important keys, but the laptop itself still works, only now with more personality and style.  So often I get bogged down in the “Holy Shit this was not what I was expecting, Dear Lord I cannot possibly handle one more thing, or I need this like I need another hole in the head,” mentality that I forget to shift my focus to see how the world is newly revealing itself and, by consequence, new forms of me, to myself.

There is nothing stagnant about this experience we have here.  We like to pretend that we are not constantly in flux and that’s what ultimately causes us consternation.  Something changed, something broke, someone changed, someone broke without our permission or desire so we rebel and get angry and all worked up.  But if we expect something to break, we’re not surprised or disappointed when it does, which gives us a kind of freedom in those circumstances. It keeps us (or, ok, perhaps just me) from spiraling into self-defeating mindsets because one thing goes terribly wonky.

So was I pissed that I have a big ol’ hole in my keyboard You betcha. Am I saddened that I didn’t get into Teach For America and have to scramble to apply to grad school before February? You absolutely betcha. Do I feel like I spin around like a top and worry that I have let so many people down in the past that I will never be forgiven? Very much so.

But I am not crippled by any of those, because each of them has brought a nuanced world view. Each of the broken glasses mentioned above have shifted to reveal some other aspect of me or the world.  And so I’m ok sweeping away the shards of broken emotional glass because it only illuminates that much brighter the peaceful, good, *insert positive adjective of choice here* that dwells within this world and within me.

So the next time you’re frustrated with anything remember this: the glass is already broken and, in time, everything disintegrates and returns to its initial form. Nothing is permanent and we (our peers, our experiences, our thoughts, our emotions) are simply foils to flush us out all the more richly.

Phew. That was a lot lurking on my chest. Thanks for letting me get that off. Until next time, kiddies!

This is how the music moves me.

That’s the opening line to a shitty poem I wrote long ago.  Back in my “hey, I just had some of this great non-tobacco smoking product, of course everything I write will be a goddamned gift to mankind!” days, all I needed was one good song as the catalyst for some frenzied poetry dump.  I have to say most of what I penned was crap, but boy, oh, boy, was it voluminous crap. I had a ton to sift through because, well, racing thoughts are captured something fierce when you’re more than slightly altered.

Except now, I spend no time altered (illegally, that is) and my poetry writing, as of late, is not nearly as often or voluminous.  But it still has that same trigger: Music.  There are points when I am overly frustrated or overly stimmed and I’ll stumble over a playlist (for those non-initiates out there, you must check out 8tracks. It’s a user generated music site on which users have 8 songs with which to impress you.) that will captivate me and suddenly these old bones rattle to life and poems spring forth.

Which, verbosely and round-about-ly, brings me to the meat of this post: Poetry Dump! YAY! (Or snooze. It won’t be good, I promise you that.)  Anywhoo, here goes…

“Confusion Blues”

My confusion Blues

These crooked lines I ramble

I lay in seemingly silent repose

But catch a note of my minor tones—

The missed beats and off-pitch notes

There hides the errant key signature

Where my staccato stature

Is found.

My confusion Blues

Stamp stubbornly out one individual tone

After yet another, but still

Desirous of the crescendo building

Legato loving orchestra which surrounds

This one woman band.

My confusion Blues

These crooked lines I ramble

Dissonant and off-putting tones to most

Strategically placed along Staff lines

To dissemble the final Movement

Of this carefully crafted living Symphony.

My confusion Blues

Hummed out ad libitum —

Over and begun in the movement from

Bridge to Broken Chord and back again,

Until finally,

They Rest from frenetic tempos and

Culminate in the last Universal Fermata.

“Hedgehog Effect Examined”

We show our bones the best we know how

Slipping through each duplicitous layer of flesh

Until only our seared and scorched ivory remains are

Flayed out like a Sinner’s sanguine plaintive repentance

We are the curators of our histories

Dismantling and erasing that which besmirches

Lips stitched tightly shut

With poison ingested for none to see—

Funeral plots aligned so that each

Skeletal hand may grasp the Other

And tumble easily into comforting stygian nadirs.

We show our bones the best we know how

Kexy from our feeble attempts to singe away

Memories entwined with osseous tissue—

Better to be remembered as a blank and obedient

Alabaster canvas

Than to be covered in the lugubrious sanguineous

Indelible Ink humanity is written by.

We exchange bawdy and chaotic scrawls

For pristine fire earned absolution

To eat away the crippling memories contact

Leaves ingrained.

Well that sucked something fierce, right? I’ve been sort of on backlog and while I’m working through some of the not-as-shitty pieces (aka, the philosophy, crazy dames, science pieces) you poor saps get stuck with this crap. Apologies…here, let me look around for something to offset my angsty inner teenager that just penned the above. Ok, how about this?

As always, trust the Universe loves you. And if that’s too difficult to comprehend, know that I love you. Regardless of whatever, I love you. End of story.

And finally chickies and duckies, live to the point of tears. Until next time, try to remember the last really amazing kiss you got and let that light the darkness for a while.

This is why I picture you dead

Ok, so the title is a little disorienting, my apologies, but stick with me on this one, I promise it’s not nearly as icky as it sounds.  Nor is it nearly as, uh, psychotic either.

I play this game at work where I zone out (because totally closing your eyes when you have children on your watch is somewhat frowned upon) and pretend everything around me has gone suddenly silent because…

…everyone is dead and I am the only one left standing.

The strange thing about this is that, once I convince myself of this deathly silence, I smile inwardly. Sometimes I do such a good job of believing my own contrivances that I smile outwardly, too, which must make me look stark raving mad, but I really don’t care.

I know the above sounds morbidly depressing and doesn’t do much to dispel the “stark raving mad” statement, but I promise you it’s neither depressing nor supportive of my lunacy.  I am not smiling because I’m happy everyone has ceased to exist, ceased to love, ceased to breathe, or ceased to be. Rather, I smile because by picturing you all dead, I remember that all of this is temporary.  Eventually, we will all draw our last breaths, close our eyes, and become fodder for whatever comes next.  I find something very soothing in this knowledge: one day, all that will be left is the silence.  No more horns, no more arguments, no more sounds of texting, no more humans.

By picturing everyone dead, I remind myself our time here is so limited, so fleeting. Then it makes it easier to deal with daily encounters with shitheads or just shitty “woe-is-me” days by remembering that the room I stand in, surrounded by cacophonous pandemonium, will one day be silently crumbling with no one remaining to hear its dirge.

So, on this day, when I feel like I’m comprised of cellophane and that poor invisible me could slip and tumble off the edge into irrevocable darkness and never be noticed; on this day when I feel as if the entire world has labeled me “foe” and there is not a single ally to be found, it is made easier to bear by remembering this day is only a fraction of a fraction.  By shutting all outside of me away and imagining the deathly silence, I find my halcyon center in the middle of frenetic chaos.

By picturing everyone dead and gone, I stop myself from losing my shit when  my emotional-sponge-y self is inundated and completely overwhelmed by the feelings I’ve absorbed just by being in your presence.  It is the only way I know how to cope when I’m taking on so much emotional water, I’m pretty sure I’ll fucking drown if I don’t caulk the holes quickly.

But mostly, I picture you dead to remind myself that we are granted such a brief speck of time in these bodies and on this planet, and a lot of that brief speck of time is filled with woes and fears.  It helps to cope with the insane amount of shit that we must endure by recognizing one day we will all fly into the void.  Some day we will each meet our Maker(s) and all that will remain are our imprints and dust, so why not relax and enjoy the ride a bit before we go?

The end is always coming.  It has already been written.  That much we cannot avoid, nor control.  What little is ours, what little we have the right to exert control over is what comes prior to the ending.  We can control how we respond to knowing the end is nigh.  So, when I play my game and I smile at something which sounds morbid, I’m not doing it because I actively wish you didn’t exist.  I’m not pretending you’re dead because I wish harm.  I’m doing it to highlight just how important this being alive shit really is.  If, we all may meet the scythe wielding bastard at any moment and, if, we all have to meet him eventually, (cocksucker!) we may as well let go of the shit that keep us from enjoying this fraction of the universal eternity we have as cognizant beings.

Try my little exercise one day and see how much of the “little shit” you find yourself capable of letting slide knowing that in the end, all we are (to get very nerdy for a moment and quote an otherwise utterly annoying movie, Gladiator) “shadows and dust.”  Try it and see how bravely you can face the loneliest moments of your life knowing that these too shall fall away.  Try it and see how much more meaningful those heart-felt moments of love and ecstasy become knowing that they too shall fall away.

And now, because I’m a super-duper-uber nerd, a little poetry to go with the above rambling.  This comes from the most bangin’ website ever, The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor. I personally have this site linked to my iGoogle homepage. Just sayin’.  Anyway, this is a poem by Ellen Bass, entitled “The Thing Is” Read it. Don’t. Hate it. Love it. I don’t care.

The Thing Is

by Ellen Bass

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

Until next time, kiddies! Keep on keepin’ on.  And never, ever, ever, forget how to dance in the rain.

Friday afternoon Rant: This is why I smoke.

I really hate that my first post back is going to be one of those “shaking my angry wretched fist toward the powers at be” rants, but that looks like where it’s heading.  So jump on, buckle in, because I’m about to say some really awesome things about a really sacred topic:

Smoking.

Yup, that’s right, every single day I wake up and think to myself, “today seems like a great day to make something which was once pink, black. What can I pick? OH! I KNOW! MY LUNGS! HOOOORAY CANCER STICKS!”

Crass, I know.  And I’m certain there are people offended, shocked, dismayed, angered, blah, blah, blah, insert angry adjective of your choice here.  But it wouldn’t be a very good rant if I didn’t offend a massive population with my unpopular thoughts on personal freedom.

So my secret’s out: I’m a big bad nasty black lung club member.  And nope, I’m really not all that intent on quitting anytime soon.  And it is on that point where I take issue.  I tolerate my mother’s subtle (and not so subtle) pleas, cajoles, and edicts for my quitting.  I tolerate, less so,  other family members’ directives.  My friends all seem to be smarter than trying to tell me what to do (I love you all for this, just sayin.’) as they all either smoke or tolerate my vice.

What I will not tolerate anymore, are you random fucking strangers who somehow got the fucked-up notion that God or (even worse) I had appointed you my conscience.

“Smoking is bad for you, did you know that?” Holy fucking hell! Really? Did you know the Earth isn’t flat and that money doesn’t grow on trees? Thank you for your enlightening information.  Without your unprompted, unneeded, and thoroughly unwanted advice I would have never known what I was doing might be considered slightly less than stellar  for my health, because I live under a rock, down a hole, and only come out to buy my cigs.  Phew, thanks.

You know what else is bad for your health? Me setting you on fire because you won’t let me get my nic-fix.  You see this little cylinder? It keeps me from losing my shit on busy-fucking-bodies like you who seem to have forgotten that (while limited) I still have the freedom of choice: bad or good.  I am over 18. I vote, I pay my taxes, I  work every day, and to date haven’t actually killed any of the fucking morons who surround me.  So, my darling, while you’ve gotten my attention with your kindly advice, how about you  put the fucking doughnut down before your diabetes kicks in and you have a heart attack?  You don’t like my noxious smoke? I don’t like your noxious personality.  Smoking is going to take years off my life, you say?  So will living in New Jersey. So will chowing down on Wendy’s, McDonalds, and Burger King constantly.  So it’ll take years off my life? Good. They’d be fucking boring otherwise.

And for the love of God, if you’re the person behind the counter selling me my precious, precious, precious cigs, don’t you dare make snide comments when you’re out of my brand, like, “maybe this is God’s way of saying you should quit.”

Really? This is my fist colliding with your face.  Maybe that’s God’s way of telling you to mind your own fucking business.  Just a thought.

I know smoking is bad for me.  And I know it’s bad for people around me.  Which is why I go out of my way to not puff smoke it people’s faces who don’t smoke.  If it happens accidentally I apologize profusely: my bad choice doesn’t have to be theirs.  I try not to smoke in my car if I’m with a non-smoker.  I’ll do the smoking dance to follow the wind so my smoke doesn’t hit you.  I hate smoking inside: I hate smokers who smoke inside.  Yes, I know it gets cold during the winter, but my couch is worth me freezing a little bit.

See here’s the thing, kiddies: we’re all going to die.  So if you ever use that line of reasoning to compel or coerce my quitting, fucking suck it.  Yup I’ll die.  Guess what, so will you.  And while I’m alive I’m going to embrace my personal freedom and make choices on my own, bad or good.  I will choose to have a cigarette after spending an entire week watching your children go batshit crazy.  I will choose to smoke a cigarette instead of slaughtering you stupid fucking pricks who act like every time I light up it’s a personal affront to them. And you want to know the really insane thing? I support your choice to not smoke.  I think that’s pretty fucking nifty. Why? Because what you do or don’t do on your own fucking time is not my fucking business. As long as the only person you’re harming is yourself, whoopie! Go do what you want to do, because I don’t give a shit. I’m not gonna judge you, so please, return the favor, and don’t fucking judge what I do on my own time.

Because if you’re going to judge, and be a fucking prick and get offended, well, prepare to be offended, because after all this ranting I’m pretty worked up.  And you know what fucking fixes that? A nice cup of coffee and a fucking cigarette. So me and my informed bad decisions enacted through my own volition knowing that the end is coming to us all regardless of what we do in the mean time and if I’m not actually endangering you and just leading my own life-stance, are going to go make my lungs just a little bit blacker.

Suck it, non-smoking judgmental pricks.  I’ll see you in the hereafter.  I’ll be in the smoking section, with all the cool people throughout history.