Your life would not make a good book.

Don't even try.

Yes, this is going to be another quick post where I talk about something that annoys me.

Every so often I read people's posts on various websites, and the thing I see over and over again is people talking about their daily lives. Do you know how interested I am to read about your daily life on the internet? Astonishingly not.

The thing about daily life that we all understand until the opportunity to ramble uninterrupted presents itself, is that daily life is really boring. It's mundane, and unless you're off having some kind of adventure, I don't care what you do every day, and neither does the majority of anyone else. If I know about your daily life, it should be because I either spend a significant amount of time with you, or we talk one on one about our lives. Not because you feel the need to share with your eight hundred best friends online what you do all day, especially when what you do all day is both boring and unproductive.

I read a quote somewhere, probably by George Bernard Shaw or some such, that said "most of us live lives of noisy desperation," and I think that characterizes a lot of online culture. We like to shout ourselves into significance to a largely indifferent universe, but the thing is, you don't get to be significant simply by existing or exclaiming your existence, and you shouldn't need other people to validate your existence.

Also, does it unsettle anyone else how easy we make stalking? There should be some reserve about telling the very public internet about where you go, what you do, and anything else that would make it very easy to keep track of you in a not okay way. The only people that should know a lot about your daily life are the people active in it.

THERE IS NOTHING ENDEARING ABOUT STALKING. IT'S TERRIFYING.

What is it with everyone romanticizing stalking? There is nothing lovable about being followed home, watched incessantly, "loved from afar," or whatever. Sleep-watching too. Those are all grounds for getting a restraining order, or pepper spray, or a body guard. Not for warm fuzzy, princess, idiot feelings. Don't feel special, feel stalked.

You notice how that term is also used for predators? That are hunting prey? For violent consumption and amusement? Yeah...

Anyway, there's this quote about your life never making a good book, and I agree with that emphatically. You notice how when I talk about my life it's in the context of what it made me think of, or how it relates to this thing that I'm talking about? Yeah. That's as relevant as my life ever is on the internet. Unless your life is extraordinary, there is no reason for you to treat it that way. No one wants to know the floor plan of your house, or your pedigree, or what you got for your birthday, or all your favorites, or whatever else unless they ask for it directly (and if they do, you may wanna think about whether or not you really want to answer O.o), so until then, why bother sharing all that nonsense? Keep it to the random thoughts that pop into your head, and share them fearlessly and tactlessly with whoever has the time to waste pretending to care.

And that's love for you, my hypothetically dedicated readers. Or just Taryn (actual love!). Either way.

Anyway, just some things I was thinking about this morning before work.

On Christmas Eve

Hello, largely imaginary audience. It's been a while since I bothered to post, and I can tell from the great out cry that you were both very distressed by my silence.

The reason for this hiatus has been this: I didn't feel like writing any blogs.

That being said, I thought I'd take a few minutes out of my very busy Christmas eve (my plans all fell through,  and I now have nothing to do until seven) to you all why I passionately hate this wretched holiday.

In keeping with my similar blogs. I shall do this in list form.

1. Family
Christmas is the time of your all your loved ones get together and pretend all your garbage doesn't count. It's a time of hypocrisy and forced smiles that warms our hearts and induces heavy drinking. Even if you actually do like your family, by the end of your time together you will probably want to stab at least one person. See Imogen Heap's song "Just For Now." (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kW59K3WQBjc)

2. Shopping
Shopping always sucks, but holiday shopping is especially horrific. You get to come face to face with the fact that you will never have the kind of money you'd need to buy everyone the thing you want to, and you also have to sit and contemplate something to give them, and usually you end up searching forever for the right thing, only to not get it for them because it's not there, or way out of your price range, or because someone else got it for them.

3. Presents
I think this is self-explanatory. We are all children, and if everyone agreed that it was the thought that counted, no one would even get presents, but deep down, we all just really want a bunch of cool crap, and it's not likely to happen. Yes, you may love the socks and sweaters and useless things and unreadable books, but they weren't that thing you wanted. And then there's the actual children, demanding, demanding, demanding. Toys, candy, and all other forms of expensive, artificial, annoying fun.

4. The music
There is not enough profanity in the world to describe my hatred for ninety percent of the Christmas music in existence. Yes, I have two or three I can stand to hear once or twice in December, but it's there everywhere you go. Repetitive crap, full of sticky, nauseatingly sweet cheer, without an ounce of meaning or talent behind them, meant to send your children into a holiday frenzy. The religious songs are slightly less aggravating, but after the millionth time you hear them, they start to wear. No amount of covers or new arrangements or variation can make this music less crappy and irritating. The only Christmas songs I've heard this year that had any amount of enjoyment were about the violent destruction of Santa and all that he stands for.

5. The date
Christmas, as so many people stoutly remind us, is a celebration of the birth of Christ. The thing is, Jesus of Nazareth was probably born during the summer. There are a bunch of different speculated dates, but the consensus is that it was nowhere near December 25th. Do you know what is near December 25th? The winter solstice. Do you know why Christ-mass is celebrated so close to a pagan holy day? Because the Catholic church was lazy and controlling. That's why, boys and girls. The pagans wanted to celebrate their holidays even after the "convert or die" speech, so to save time and effort, the Church decided to just combine the celebrations and let everyone pretend they were good Catholics.

6. The reason
Unless you are a Protestant or Catholic Christian, you have no reason to celebrate Christmas. How did this become such a hideously commercialized world-wide thing? It's a religious celebration. Do you also take a week off to celebrate with family for Rammedon and Passover? Not unless you're Muslim or Jewish. Somehow, almost everyone in the country feels the need to join in a holy day for a religion they don't even subscribe to. This is one of my issues with St. Valentine's day as well. Instead of keeping it's religious significance, we have to turn it into a plastic, mass-produced, all-inclusive day that means nothing.

7. Forced fun
If you don't love Christmas, there's something wrong with you. Even The Grinch loved it in the end. Well, you know what? The Grinch was a pussy. He had no resolve, and his reasons for hating Christmas were stupid. "The creepers down in Whoville love Christmas, and they don't like me?? Raaaaah! Christmas sucks!" I don't believe in forcing myself to be happy. I won't fake a smile for a photo if I don't feel like smiling, and I'm not going to spend the month of December pretending that everything is joyous and fuzzy.

And now, I'm tired of writing this crap, so you get an odd numbered, unplanned, unedited, unfinished list.

Existential Questing: Screw linear questlines.

Do you feel smothered audience? I feel kind of absurd writing three blogs in next to no time. Especially since I posted just last night, but Becca and I were talking this morning, so I thought I'd share some of this.

So I'm going to do something I don't usually do: talk about video games.

So Skyrim.

It ate my life and owns my soul.

Becca and I were talking about life, and how she's started viewing everything not necessarily as good or bad, but as an experience, because a lot of times, she thought things had to go from point A to point B, like in a basic, RPG type videogame.

Someone else has set out a path, and you're supposed to follow the linear storyline, do you necessary quests, fight your boss battles, pick up items, and reach your highest level and finish the game, but life isn't like that, boys and girls. Life is more like Skyrim (oh, how I wish...); you have a story arc, but it's entirely up to you how much you do. You can choose any perks you feel like and create basically any kind of class you want. It's like the best of every tabletop RPGs, where you have open class creation and pretty open world creation.

But life is like that. I've talked about it before. It's not necessarily about getting to the end point. There's no GO to pass, and if you do, it's kind of iffy whether or not anyone is going to hand you $200 for absolutely nothing, usually, as in the case of LIFE, you have to pay for everything.

To quote the good Shepard Book, "How you get there is the worthier part." It's a concept that I've talked about several times with Becca and Rosalinde. There's not actually a magical end point. Your life satisfaction gauge is never going to max out, not even when you're in your forties, happily married with beautiful children, a steady lucrative job, and a dog, blah blah blah. (That sounds intolerable, by the way.)

So it doesn't make any sense to live as if that's true.

And that's not just us consoling ourselves for not doing anything with our lives yet.

There's not an outside standard to follow. There's no progress bar. No one is going to show you your life is  30% complete, and if you have a quest marker other than on your GPS, I suggest you seek medical attention.

And I'm starting to stray from my point, because theoretically I actually have a thread to follow, so I should shut up probably.

But my point here is that we should live mindfully. Pick up a few side quests, and don't be afraid to ignore some as well. Life is as much of an adventure as you make it. If you follow the paved, well-tended, high traffic highway, you'll be able to get exactly where you aim for, but if you wander off on side paths and get completely lost, you're likely to find all kinds of fun stuff, and more than a few rare items.

Decoration only

This'll have to be a quick post, theoretical readers, but I figured I'd throw it out into the ether before I forget again. It was a though that I had this morning, and then after my adventures this afternoon and a five hour shift at work, I'd nearly forgotten about it until I went to read a few other blogs. Apparently October is the time for a blog spew for everyone.

Anyway, I was helping clean this house this morning
(My mother talked to me about this last night while I was dungeon crawling, and there were like four Restless Draugers and a boss battle going on, so I was helpless to refuse. I barely had the attention to spare to acknowledge her presence.)
and I realized something I've actually known for a very long time without naming.

Don't ask me how that works. It just does.

I hate decorative things.

But wait, you hypothetically say, aren't you a self-proclaimed artist, and don't you always bitch about all your random stuffs??

Yes, that's true. But I'm not talking about art. I don't make art because it's pretty to put up on my walls. I get art because it's awesome, but YOU get art to display. But that's another one-sided discussion.

When I was a wee little'un, I always felt really uncomfortable in certain people's houses, and that continues to this day, and at some point (probably when discussing it with one of my many siblings), I came to the conclusion that it was because those houses, or rooms, felt fake. They looked like a magazine picture, as though they were on display for someone. It's something I've come to hate. I like places that feel lived in, that are clearly used on a regular basis.

If your kitchen is pristine, I mistrust you and it immediately.

My issue here is that it's a lie. You're beautiful house is a lie! It's contrived and insincere, and I hate that in any aspect. You can't trust someone who isn't real, and you can't respect someone whose worth clearly depends so heavily on what other people think.

When I clean, it's largely for me. That isn't to say that I don't clean when I have people over, but they've pretty much all seen my house nearly at its worst at one time or another.

I think what it comes down to is comfort and ownership. There's a balance to be maintained, and when something is fake, you totally crush that.

Along with that, I was gonna talk about my hatred for fake plants. They serve no purpose, add nothing of worth, and serve only to create tripping hazards and collect dust. I hate pointless things more often than not. if it serves no active purpose and adds virtually nothing aesthetically, don't buy it.

So yes. Fake, decorative, display-only things should go away.

Anyways, that's my doughy, disjointed thought for today.

I feel almost guilty that you, unfortunate readers, get the dregs of my cleverness and my least polished writing.

Faceless (A disjointed ramble on being a food-service drone)

Before my actual post, let me briefly offer some vague, half-sincere apology about not writing in so long. I keep thinking I should post something, but then I lose motivation, or don't have time, or don't have anything to say worth posting, dubious though that distinction clearly is with me.

But on to this blog!

So today at this meeting I had for work, we got informed that there are some changes to the uniform; we now have to wear aprons, tuck our shirts in, wear a plain, solid colored belt, and if we wear black jeans, they have to be solid colored, with no fading or wearing anywhere. Our area rep commented to my manager during his last inspection that we were looking a little "sloppy" right after commending us on almost everything else. This was because we are allowed to wear black jeans and colorful, exciting belts if we so desire, and that day I wore capris and boots. When I got hired on, I was told I could no longer wear my nose ring (I can get away with the stud, but the ring is too extreme or something), my watch, my bracelets/wristband, any visible necklaces, and anything but studs in my ears. I also have to have a natural hair color, solid, dark shoes, constantly wear my work shirt and hat, and not paint my nails.

Yes, my fingernails cannot be painted pretty colors.

I realize that that isn't that bad as far as uniform requirements. It's actually not that much worse than my dresscode in high school, but the thing about the dresscode in school was that I was free to wear anything I wanted within the parameters. It's a genuine struggle for me to conform to the boring uniforms, and I have to try very hard not to look as individual as I typically do.

Let me give you guys some point of reference...

That's me in real life, more or less (my hair is actually black at the moment). I don't take issue with looking professional and making it clear where I work, especially since I'm often out of the store on deliveries and such. What I take issue with is the evil implications behind this stupid rule. Because the subtext of what my place of employment is doing is that I am not an individual. I am a food drone here to serve you.

The purpose of a uniform in food service is to make you, the customer, forget that I am a person, with my own life, my own problems and priorities, my own style, my own views, and they have nothing to do with you. It's more convenient and it's quicker is we forget that we are interacting with people and simply treat them as a function. I do the same thing. My customers are largely irrelevant to me, just as I am irrelevant to them. When I flash you a sunny smile and ask how your day is going, I couldn't actually care less, and if you don't tip me, my coworkers will hear all about what a fat trollop I thought you were. Your function, faceless customer, is to provide me with income, and my function is to provide you with food.

Actually, one time, I delivered to one of my coworker's houses right before she started working with me, and  the day I met her officially, she told me that I delivered to her before. I just stared blankly, having absolutely no memory of her until she reminded me that I got lost and her little sister walked around the corner to assist me.

I'd love to be able to give a fuzzy moral for this story, or to challenge you to remember that everyone is the hero of their own story, but that would likely just end with me telling you to tip, for the love of god, so I won't do that. Everyone is their own main character, but we are such egocentric creatures, we forget that not everyone is living our story.

Maybe someday I'll come back to this topic and write something clearer and better on it, because there's really so much more I wanted to say, but everything is coming out misshapen and cloudy, so I shall simply leave this monstrosity as it is and go about my day.

Quick, Anecdotal Social thoughts: Gender roles

I realized when I wanted to write this post how much the purpose of this blog has changed some in the last few months. Because, if you recall, I originally started this as kind of a snarky joke, to share my wellspring of BS with an easily amused audience, but it was in practically no time that this turned into whatever Rachel feels like today, which is sometimes me thinking I'm clever and funny, and sometimes it's not.

Anyways! The reason I thought about this was because something that happened this morning started turning into reflection and the desire to throw my personal views out into the void.

As I've mentioned several times, during the school year, I babysit on Tuesday mornings, and this year, we have a much wider age range and a larger group of kids. The oldest ones are around six years old, and the youngest aren't quite a year old. This morning, the older girls (there are three of them) were all hanging out in the corner of the room monopolizing most of the plastic food and baby dolls, presumably playing at that most horrifying childhood game "house."

I may need to take a moment here to interrupt myself and rail against the horror that inspires in me...There's part of a stand-up routine I watched that the guy is talking about the heinous unfairness to little boys and girls, because when a boy is small, what do we get him? Trucks and guns and Legos and such, but what do you get for a little girl? Another kid, of course! He says something like, "Hey, little baby, here's your baby!" and then adopts this horrified and disappointed face and responds, "But I just got here..." Maybe this a the benefit of hindsight, but why on earth would children want to play at the mundane? There is sadly few thrilling things about keeping a house, being poor, having children, or cooking dinner. I know I played some aspects of that as a wee child, but I'm pretty sure I was usually also building shelter on a desert island, or fleeing Bad Guys, or embarking on a quest...

And now that I've thoroughly derailed both of us, dear audience, I shall continue me story!

One of my unashamed favorite children in the nursery, a little boy named Daniel, a little two-year-old, chubby, ginger kid,  comes over and picks up a little plastic "milk" bottle and this hideous, plastic, Cabbage Patch-esque monstrosity, and promptly pretends to feed it, cuddle it a bit, and place it clumsily in the toy crib with a blanket. And these little girls look at him like he's utterly mad--but, of course, he's only a baby, so he can't be expected to understand that these are girls' toys. They keep giving me side-long glances, as if waiting for me to do my grown-up duty and gently pull Daniel away, informing him sternly that these are for girls, and little boys don't play with baby dolls.

I find that both amusing and infuriating. I came across the same thing in a family I used to babysit for. The youngest girl was ridiculing her little brother, because he wanted the three of us to play the Angelina Ballerina game, and she claimed that was a girl game, because it contained pastel colors, primarily pink, and was about ballet. I gently explained to her that ballet was also for boys, and they're hardcore, and that if she, a girl, could like "boy" things, like green and Legos and guns, it was ok for boys to like "girl" things too.

This might simply be because I know many happily metrosexual men, but I don't understand this double standard in rigid gender roles. You would think that in a country that has experienced not one, but three major feminist movements, we would understand that gender equality is not just about one sex. If women demand to be freed from centuries of social tradition, how can they refuse to extend the same right to their male counterparts? There's this absurd stereotype that men fulfilling traditionally female roles, like stay-at-home dads, or nurses, or stylists, or whatever receive ridicule and criticism for not fulfilling their "role as men." When a woman enters a field that is primarily populated by men, she is either congratulated as a pioneer, or laughed at for being crazy, but when men do the same thing, they pretty much just get their sexual preferences questioned.

...What?

How does that make any sense, boys and girls?

Anyway, I think that's about enough from me for tonight. It was just something on my mind that I thought I would share with the silent void.

The Rules of Engagement: Relationships according to me

Due to some recent nonsense on Facebook, I've decided to suspend my plans for writing a post on something fun, and I shall rant about relationships, because at least half the people in existence are total freaking morons about them. And I'm not just talking about women. (Yes, that just came out of my feminist mouth. Or hands. Feel free to snicker. I'm only half joking...)

I have decided to give you, my dear audience, the benefit of my vast and excessively snarky wisdom. Because apparently these things aren't obvious. So! Without further ado, my ten rules on relationships. There are probably more, but these came to mind first and most emphatically.

In almost no particular order...

1) Love at first sight is bollocks. Always.

Do you know who believes in love at first sight? Children and stupid people, so unless you're an eleven year old girl or a Disney character, I suggest you stop waiting for the light from heaven to shine down on your Destiny while he/she starts singing the first verse of your duet while grocery shopping or whatever.

Yes, I'm looking at you, Michael Buble!

Sorry to be the one to say there's no love Santa, guys (No, I'm not. That's a total lie), but if you rely on love at first sight, you're probably going to end up divorced. And I don't want to hear about your cousin's best friend's aunt, who met her husband and got engaged three days later, and now they've been happily married for twenty-five years, and I'll explain why in a few minutes. So keep reading until I've offended you enough that you huff away and watch The Notebook. (*Whispers loudly* That's mockery, for those of you smart enough not to have wasted your time on that film. Because it was stupid.)

2) Friendship is not Step 1

Sorry, guys. For those of you crying yourself to sleep because you've been Friendzoned AGAIN, this may be something you might want to learn. As a girl, I've experienced this several times, as have the few females I spend time with (By which I largely mean Becca and Taryn): You start talking to this guy, and he's pretty cool so maybe you hang out a few times, and seven out of ten times, it ends with him abruptly dropping the bomb that he wants to date you, which you then shoot down as gently as possible (don't be nice, chicks out there. They interpret treating them like humans as a signal. Obviously you're attracted to them, and if they're just patient enough...), so of course the friendship is usually ruined.

The thing you guys need to understand is that friendship is not a means to an end. It's an end in itself. You don't become friends with someone to work your way into a relationship. If that happens by accident (it's happened to me more than once), good luck with that, but it's not a bloody strategy game, guys. It's not about being patient, or being there for her, because most times, it's not going to end with her suddenly discovering that "it's been you all along <3" More likely, she already knows you're great, already loves you to death, but--sorry, sweetheart--You're a brotherly lamp.

3) "In a relationship" means off bloody limits

This has also happened to me, and it's usually in conjunction with the Being Friends First Ploy. I was under the impression that having a significant other meant that other people were aware you were not available to pursue another relationship. Apparently that's not so. So let me break it down for those of you scummy enough not to get it.

When one is in a relationship, theoretically there is a significant and committed bond to one's significant other. If someone else breezes in and makes themselves available, they're SOL. "Taken" means "not single." Therefore unavailable.

Maybe that's what they should say on Facebook. Not "single" and "in a relationship" (I'm ignoring all the married and engaged nonsense), but "single" and "NOT single, ie unavailable, no you can't date ____"

4) Friendship is not an in.

See 2.

I think this bears repeating, because it doesn't seem to penetrate most people's pathetic little brains. Relationships need friendship as a grounding point and foundation, yes, but it's not friendship-->relationship. Besides, why wouldn't you want to be friends with your significant other and have friends that are platonic friends? It's so much fun.

5) Time

This probably goes back to the "love at first sight" nonsense, but relationships require time. I've never really understood the people who go, "Hey, you're remotely attractive, and we've been talking for like an hour. Wanna date, so that we can get to know each other better?" How often does that actually result in a lasting relationship? Because every time I've seen it, they last about one to six months. And that's being generous.

Supposedly marriage counselors say it takes something like two years to know someone well enough to make a lasting commitment.

The other thing is that people have a totally skewed perspective on what constitutes a "long" relationship. I've known people who have never had a relationship longer than six months. They're doing it wrong. Relationships are ideally going to end in the M word. Which is supposed to be a life long commitment, though that's a rant for a different day, or possibly never. Feel like a relationship counts when it's multiple years and genuinely serious. Not until then, because those are essentially the same as that two week "relationship" you had in sixth grade.

6) You're not an amoeba

We've all seen that couple. They were annoying at best, and nauseating at worst. It's not--I repeat not-- necessary to be constantly in contact with your squeeze. No one wants to see you snuggling, or anything else. The idea of a relationship is not to be part of this creepy blob. It's two distinct, independent people. You don't need to be physically or emotionally intimate or whatever all the time. Don't lose yourself in that scary morass you call a relationship, because when you've become an appendage or you constantly have that  person's vibe all over you, it's just annoying, and no one wants to be around you. Which only furthers your blobbiness, and then when you break up, no one is gonna be there to tell you what a douche you were dating anyway.

7) The exception is not the rule.

Everybody knows a few stories about those couples that married super young, super quickly, had different *fill in socially heinous something or other*, or whatever, and they ended up perfectly happy for the rest of their lives. 

I have one thing to say about that: How many stories of that are there as compared to the number of stories of stupidly failed relationships? Those are the exception, and not the rule. How many stories have you heard of that one in a million chance that the seatbelt killed someone in a car accident? Do you now no longer put in a seatbelt when you drive somewhere? It's the same idea. You are, in all likelihood, the rule. You are not the exception, and the chances of whatever idiotic, absurd, romantic bullcrap you're believing happening to you is miniscule, so open your eyes and live in the world as it is. You don't need fuzzy fairytales of twu wuv to make the world an amazing place.

8) Other people can see you

Closely linked to number 6, people can see you and your honey. Please, for the love of all that is holy, keep your affection to yourselves. If you want to hold hands now and again or exchange the occasional peck, go for it with my blessing. But keep your lovey-dovey, squishy emotions between yourselves. The point of emotional intimacy is that it's intimate. As in not shared with anyone and everyone around you. I don't want to hear about your relationship either. I don't care how much you love your significant other.

This the correct response. And also clearly a good relationship.

9) Learn the meaning of "anniversary"

I'm not sure how many of you are aware of this, but theoretically, if you're literate, you know the root in "anniversary" means "year." Year, boys and girls. Not month, not week. Year. If I hear you say it's your three month anniversary, I'm going to stab you in the neck with whatever I can reach fastest, and if it's not a stabbing tool, I'm resourceful enough to use it to bludgeon you to death.

10) Know what you're getting into.

This also ties back into a few things I've said before. If you don't know the person you're getting into a relationship with, you're probably boarding a sinking ship, honeychild. Also, it may have escaped your notice, but relationships can be hard. They're definitely not for the faint at heart, because that's usually some strange baggage your picking up. Any time you get two people being close, you're probably going to get some flames somewhere or other, so if you're expecting all sunshine and rose petals (Oh, god! Don't follow the rose petals!), you should probably just give up now.

Also, some advice for the single: Your watchword is "amazing" usually with a smiley face. That's your cue to run. Run now.

The problem with stalling

Everyone calls it procrastinating, which doesn't seem like the right term somehow. Maybe this is just me, but I have it in my head that procrastinating is a result of doing other things rather than something else that needs done, whereas stalling is doing things to avoid doing something that needs done.


A fine distinction, maybe, but one I mentally make nonetheless.

As you may have guessed, I am currently avidly engaged in the latter.

My bedroom is in worse shambles than it usually is, and rather than clear away enough random crap that I can sleep on my couch (there's not enough floor space for the bed [my bed unrolls from the couch. Yes, it's awesome.]), I'm writing this blog post, which probably won't even get posted until I get up tomorrow morning. Yay for time limitations on my internet, because that's mysteriously necessary -.-

Anyway! I was thinking about how this heinous, overwhelming mess is completely my fault, and how I don't know what to do with it, and while trying to think of some legitimate way to not be cleaning it up, I got to think about stalling and accountability and such.

Also, I think there might be something wrong with making parenthetical statements within a parenthetical statement, but that's neither here nor there.

But have you noticed how often we dig our own graves? This doesn't really qualify as grave, I suppose, but it's at least a very deep hole that is inconveniently difficult to get out of. Because once mess begins, it's hard to fix.

I believe that's the underlying principle to "Kipple." In Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, they repeatedly talk about kipple taking over the world, which is essentially just random crap. It's a force akin to entropy, but more lethargic and pointless. At least as I remember it. It's been at least a year since I read that book.

But all this random crap that I'm trying to sort through and throw away has gotten me thinking about how much junk I hold on to for absolutely no reason. Maybe other people don't have this problem and I'm just a level 3 hoarder or something, but I can't help but think this is a concept that transcends me, and probably transcends stuff. I haven't actually thought about it enough to come to an actual conclusion, and now I don't even know where I was going with all of this, so I'm just going to end this here and post it despite its absolute uselessness. I don't want all that typing I've just done to purposeless, though, even though the content is little more than pointless ramblings on a half topic.

I think I'm going to call this to be continued, because there's ideas budding in here that I want to explore further.

Five Valid Reasons Not to be a Stripper

Maybe I'm the only one who keeps being told that being a stripper would be awesome. If so, feel free to skip this post and waste your time and entertain yourself in some other way.

In almost no particular order:

1) EXERCISE

Because no one ever wants to do that except crazy people. Apparently pole-dancing takes some serious muscle.  And, lets be honest, guys, no one wants to see someone's half-naked flab, especially when they're not at all invested emotionally. Most people don't even want to see clothed flab, barring some terrifying fetishes. Also, apparently being attractively toned and athletic is kind of important in a trade where you sell your body.

Did you know that they offer pole dancing classes at a lot of gyms now? They're largely populated by pathetic, suburban soccer-moms.

2) TAN

For some mysterious reason, those of us the color of a luminescent glass of milk are not the standard for beauty.

Whatever happened to the times when this was the height of health and attractiveness?

And that's the creation of Eve, so so obviously the real standard.

So unless you were aiming for some vampire-fetish or goth strip joint (Do they even have those? I don't think strip clubs follow the rule of internet porn subject matter--If you can conceive of it, it exists somewhere.), you'll have to either sit outside under the sun's fiery rays, get baked under artificial, carcinogenic lamps, or coat your skin in some horrifying shade of oily grossness.

3) OUTFITS

Of all the possible horrible outfits that professions can have, I think strippers got the short end of the stick, which shouldn't be possible given that their whole job is to take clothes off. But seriously, watch any movie, videogame, or tv show in existence and tell me you wouldn't feel like an idiot in that stuff.

Little do I know that they're intentionally awful so that people will gladly take them off when they're at work.

4) STAGE NAMES

Have you ever heard a stage name that you wouldn't wince at? I can understand not wanting to use your real name for several painfully obvious reasons, but why do half of them sound like sex-obsessed My Little Ponies? Is it so that there's no confusion? "Wait! That sounds like an actual name. Does that mean the clothes stay on??"

5)TIPS

Think about this for a minute: strippers get tipped by their adoring and horny audience stereotypically in singles. Not only is that not that much money for a very long time, it's going to add up. Think about the number of  dollars that they get on a regular night. Now imagine trying to wrestle all those ones into a wallet. Just think about that. Lots and lots of single bills.

Someone once told me that nearly every time she gets a dollar, she thinks to herself, "I wonder if this has been in a stripper's g-string."

This is the real reason for this whole post. I was carrying eighteen one dollar bills when I left work tonight, and getting them into my wallet was murder.

And that's really why you should finish high school and learn a real trade.

You know, aside from the part where you voluntarily make yourself a sex-object (and the rest of us by extension, men and women), and the creepers peering at your body.

Feelings

I had the idea for this post ages ago, like the middle of the month at least, and until I was just looking through my post list just now, I'd forgotten it existed.

I wanted to talk about emotions and responses (emotional responses, of course) that I find utterly moronic.

Let me start by informing you, dear audience, that I hate emotion-driven people. If you operate largely based on your feelings, I think you are varying levels of stupid. That being said, some of the emotions that I find particularly stupid and wasteful: Regret, guilt, self-martyrdom, and anything that conflicts with what you say you believe about life.

To quote the glorious Katherine again, "Regrets are a waste of time; they're the past crippling you in the present." What does one accomplish by feeling bad about the past? You can no longer change it, and it really has nothing to do with you anymore. Sometimes things happen, sometimes they're your fault. Own that and move on, you whining children. All those feelings do is prevent now from being better than then. And no one wants to be around someone caught up in regrets. Those people suck. Living in the past accomplishes nothing. Same thing goes for guilt. If you screwed up, fine. Do what you can to fix it, and move on. That's also, by the way, the only kind of permissible guilt. If you feel guilty about something that wasn't even your fault, I can't actually think of any response other than to hit you with something heavy, and hope the head-trauma makes your brain work better.

The other thing that really pisses me off is when anyone plays the martyr or the victim. Feelings of victimization are entirely on you. Yes, sometimes people do horrible things to you, but how you respond is on you. If you let that take any power you had away, fine. But don't go about thinking you can't do anything about how you feel. My real fury is directed to the self-appointed victims. So often I see people acting as though everyone has gone out of their way to make life hard :( Sad face. Poor you.

This is the point where you slap them soundly, and then proceed to roll your eyes every time they say something about how they feel.

Last night, I was babysitting, and I asked the youngest (five year old Jacob) to clean up the Go Fish cards that he and his sister had gotten all over the living room. He proceeded to make inarticulate whining noises and say that I made him to everything. He works so hard all of the time doing chores for everyone, and it's not fair, because he deserves a break sometimes.

That night, all he'd done in the way of chores was pick of some trash off the living room floor, take a cup to the kitchen, put his dinner dishes on the counter, and pick up food off the dining room floor.

Oh god. I'm such a monster!

This is what you ALL sound like.

Anyways. I think that's enough of a rant for now.

More on Rain

I was in Wisconsin again this last week (fourth time since Christmas), and as most of you have cleverly discovered in your lives, spending a full week with the same few people gets kind of wearing. By which I mean I wanted to stab people for existing near me. So I went for a long walk through River Falls in the rain.

For some reason I'd had it in my head that rain is just rain, but when I walked through the streets and looked at the grass and trees, I noticed none of the vibrancy I associate with sudden rain. Living in as dry a climate as I do, I can see how rain wakes things up. When it rains here, everything is alive and colorful and drinking in the moisture. The greens are the brightest I've ever seen. But in Wisconsin, where there is more constant moisture (the kind that makes you feel like you're trying to breathe soup after living here), nothing lights up when it rains. I was walking and staring, and it suddenly came to me that the trees just looked complacent. They weren't starving for the water, and it was nothing out of the ordinary for them to receive it. It was like seeing gorged fat people. There was something offensive about it after seeing the way my trees love rain. It's like a sacrament in desert areas.

Of course, I started comparing that to the rains in Oregon too, where it's more or less the same as breathing, but everything is bright and alive regardless of when.

Anyways. Just some quick thoughts I had in relation to my last post, so I thought I may as well publicize them. Not that they're really being read by many people. I had to laugh, because in the space of like a week, I went up like a thousand pageviews solely because of my mention of the fire. It made me laugh at what cause-whores we are here. We're passionate about whatever disaster/cause/tragedy we found out about for about two weeks, and then it disappears and life as usual resumes.

Maybe someday I'll do a real post again, with all kinds of thoughts and pretty pictures for you, but I don't actually have the motivation right now. My bedroom is a rioting hell of junk and displaced furniture, so that takes precedence. And now that you've all forgotten what it was this post was even about, I bid you farewell.

Rain and Verbal Punctuation

So, have you ever heard those people who, like, use all these little words to umm, kind of fill in all the little, like, cracks in their sentences? I HATE IT! >.<


Verbal punctuation makes me want to stab people. I'm just as guilty of it as lots of other people, but I can actually speak relatively fluidly, so I feel entitled to being annoyed. My usual culprits are "so," "anyways," "umm," "and," "yeah," and so on. It seems silly, because you aren't actually saying anything. Nothing is being contributed with those words and phrases. At best. At worst no one can focus on what you're saying because you can't actually say it without thousands of distracting breaks. It's like when people have some annoying, physical thing. Maybe that's just me.


And on an unrelated note (Isn't it always?), it's raining! I mentioned before that the city was on fire, but that's pretty much irrelevant now. It was basically taken care of a few days ago. I love rain like crazy, thought. And I'm not talking about the light shower, lets get and umbrella and puddle jump rain. I mean the run for cover, say goodbye to your gardens rain. Full lightning storms that beat against your house and terrify your pets (Mine anyway. The dog is afraid of thunder.).


I woke up to one of those yesterday afternoon. I was in a really terrible mood that day. Low on sleep, and yet another job lead had essentially fallen through, and I was really just sick of life and hideously depressed and angry at everyone. I've had a few of those days in the last few months. It's an unavoidable side-effect of being nowhere near where you want to be in life. But not long after I'd slipped into an exhausted doze, there was this huge CRACK of thunder and the rain arrived.


We've had a few light sprinkles in the last week or so, but yesterday it was more or less torrential. I stared out at my backyard and watched the trees bend submissively under the force of the rain and wind, and I could see everything coming back to life. This is part of what I love about rain. It's been really hot and dry recently (Go figure. It's Colorado in July.), and everything in my yard just looks thirsty, so when the moisture hits it, everything lights up, and the grey of the sky just makes it look more vibrant. All the trees and grass in my neighborhood looked full. Glutted with the storm.


But as I was watching the rain, my afternoon tantrum was still on my mind, and my first real thought was that no dry spell can last forever. The rain always comes eventually. Sometimes you just have to wait for it awhile and survive the heat as best you can. It was one of the more comforting and optimistic thoughts I had that afternoon, so I thought I'd share it here. I know I'm the only one in the midst of a drought. 


Be patient, guys. The rain will come.

A Blinding Flash of the Obvious

I think that phrase entered my world when I was like eight or nine years old. It's awesome.

Anyway. I was reading my aunt's blog earlier (possibly the other day, but she posted again today, s%%o I might be wrong), and I realized something interesting.

It's http://www.journeydancing.com/, if you should be interested. She says some brilliant things, and I basically learn something new about her and about life every few posts.

So I suddenly realized is that I've been so terrible at posting this month because I don't have anything huge to say. Nothing that would take more than a few paragraphs to explore a bit, so it didn't really seem worth posting any of the thoughts I've had of late. For some mysterious reason, I feel like I have to have nine thousand things of interest to say in order to post, and I'm pretty sure that's just crap.

Possibly this is a terrible realization, because it's likely to result in me poster shorter blogs more frequently, which could be either good or bad. At the least, it might make me pay a little more attention to the fluidity and comprehensibility of my writing; I've gotten into the bad habit of simply spewing my word vomit at the internet. And checking Facebook and XKCD while trying to post.

Also, as a total side note: Yes, Colorado Springs is on fire (actually, it's the mountains and a teeny bit of city that's burning). Yes, that's kind of terrible.

BUT, boys and girls, if you live surrounded by miles and miles of city, YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE. Don't pack up your junk or worry about being evacuated. And don't whine about how terrible everything is unless you've been evacuated and your house may be burning to the ground. Don't shout about what you'll do if this is arson unless you know and have authority. Don't talk about helping if you aren't going to actually help. And we all know about these fires already. It's all over the news and all kinds of social media. We don't need to keep hearing about it every second. 90% of what I've seen in my newsfeed the last week is fire-related, and the only posts I care about are the ones making fun of this, or the ones about people I know being evacuated.

I'm still hoping for orcs and/or dragons to come pouring out of the foothills to do battle with this city of retirees, stoners, and military families. That would make my summer.

Someone said the Springs looked like Hell, and I laughed. 

A bit on Mexico

I feel kind of obligated to post a blog since I haven't in nearly a month, but I also have a few things swirling around in my head that I'd like to spew at my unsuspecting audience. Which has either gotten much larger, or someone is giving me repeated pageviews to boost my self-esteem.

(It's Taryn, isn't it?)

Not gonna lie, though. I feel like a total winner for reaching over six hundred views.

Anyway, as most of you know, I got back from my annual week in Mexico on saturday (the 16th), and I always come back to the US with a different perspective on a lot of things. And fortunately, this trip fell on one of my more optimistic stints, so I spent a lot of it looking forward to all the amazing things that could happen in the future and enjoying the present. It's a nice way to feel, but I often don't manage it for more than a couple of hours.

The thing about Mexico is that it's a completely different world for me. Everything is so radically different for the single week that I'm there that I can't help but come away with a slight paradigm shift.

For those who don't know, I go every June with a group from my church to Cuidad Juarez, just south of El Paso, Texas.
We work with a sister church on any projects they're currently working on. Which we've been doing for about the last sixteen years, the last five of which I've been on. Temperatures are generally in the hundreds (it was between like 95 and 105 Fahrenheit the entire week this year), and this year we didn't have much in the way of shade. We were helping to start foundation work on a new building in an open lot across the street from the church. For the last couple years, it had been used as a parking area for the church, but since it's grown so much, they wanted to put in a new building.

I don't know if many of you are aware of this, but they speak Spanish in Mexico, and the number of Mexicans that speak English is relatively small. I speak very little Spanish, having taken four years of French in high school and one semester of Spanish in 12th grade, so most of what I know is simplistic and mangled, but one of the things I find constantly amazing is that language is not the main source of communication. I'm reminded of that every year when I enter into a world that I understand very little of.

And make no mistake, boys and girls, South American culture is an entirely different world from the one I live in. I imagine that's true of every culture, and it's something I'll have to get used to as I travel.

But where I was going with that was this: I always have an incredibly fun time and it's become kind of a "home away from home" thing, and this year I made a few friends, only one of whom spoke English. Because with Saras and Mayra and Erick and Antonio, we didn't have to be able to understand every word, you just have to be able to listen to what they're saying.

I learned once that only something like 10% of communication (I could do some research to substantiate that number, but I choose not to.) is based on the actual words coming out of your mouth. Body language, tone, expression, and so on play a much larger role. That's something that I never really consider when having conversations with people, but when you spend half the conversation exchanging questioning looks and laughing at each other's and your own incomprehension in between the exchange of information, you suddenly understand the value of such things.

I find that kind of amazing. It's an incredible learning experience.

And now I've lost motivation to continue this post, so I shall silence myself. Perhaps there'll be more about Mexico later, because I really didn't talk about anything I'd intended to, and I've said basically nothing about the actual trip.

Some random thoughts and stuff.

You know the quote "I put the 'fun' in 'funeral'"?

It kept running through my head on monday at my grandfather's memorial service, and it made me feel like a terrible person. But since it started with my mother and her siblings giggling uncontrollably through the prelude, I don't feel quite so badly.

I mostly sat there watching my family giggle and whisper in our pews at the front of the church, and I kept thinking (and may have commented to my darling cousin) that we are bad mourners. I've had a really good time at both family funerals I've been to this year, which is kind of boggling, because they were for both my maternal grandparents, the core of all family holidays. I think the world may fall apart this Christmas without Grandmum, the matriarch humming her way about the house, feeding everyone and scolding us goodnaturedly at every opportunity, and Grandpa's sarcasm, wit, and Pall Malls holding court over the livingroom...

These, theoretical readers, are two of the coolest people you'll never meet.

Anyways, as we were all laying claim to pieces of their home (pieces of their lives, I think), the thought kept returning that we're kind of horrible at all this, and as I took my turn driving a few hours on the long trip back home, it occurred to me to connect this experience--having fun and enjoying my family even as we were together to mourn the death of another superhero--to a conversation my little sister and I had a few months ago. It actually began in the context of relationships, but quickly expanded to take in more facets of life.

Someone told me not long before that conversation, that if they were told that they could never fall in love, never be a parent or a spouse, they wouldn't really see the point in living, and that was utterly inconceivable to me

(Admit it, we're all thinking it.

Or maybe just me..)

because there's nothing in my life I can say that about. I was telling Becca this, and she agreed with me.

If someone told me that I would never be published, never paint again, never be a parent, never travel the world, never get married, etc., yes, I would be crushed. I'd spend a few minutes in the mental fetal position wondering why I should even bother, but then I'd get up, and find something else to do with my life. If there's one thing I intend to do with my life, it's to survive it. And if I can't do that, I'm dead and my life is over anyway, so no problem.

Becca and I came to the conclusion that unless the world actually ends, it's not the end of the world.

This is an attitude that I've seen repeatedly in my family, though never actually named by any of us until my sister and I discussed it. We are a clan of survivors, and we've survived a fair share of crap. Some of the strongest, most amazing people I've met are related to me.

So maybe we're not bad mourners. Maybe we just understand that life goes on. Yes, we mourn. Yes, we appreciate what's been lost, but we don't lose sight of everything else in the face of that either, which I find to be a virtue rather than a flaw.

A quick, ranty ramble on Beauty and the Beast.

You know those mornings when you wake up with a song playing in your head you haven't heard in a while? That totally happened to me today. Not that that's in any way relevant to what I was going to write about. I just thought I'd bring that up briefly. I can't be relevant all the time. You might get suspicious and stop reading. And let's not pretend. Half the reason you keep reading is because you have no idea what I'll say next, regardless of what the title of the post is.

I'm really in the mood for some painting again, but I don't think I'll get round to it until after I get back from Wisconsin.

Anyways. I was just putting laundry away and singing obnoxiously loud when I started thinking about Beauty and the Beast. It's one of my favorite Disney movies. That transitioned into the other adaptations of the story that I've seen and read. And you know what I noticed?

Also, someone should really explain to me how he's cursed. Because he looks awesome, 

much better than when he's not.

How exactly does getting with some gorgeous chick cure the prince of being a shallow douchebag? There's no guarantee there that he learned anything. Because it's easy to hold a double standard. Why didn't the curse make him love someone ugly? I feel like that would've accomplished more in the way of correcting his personal flaws.

Which is really the main message there. Magic can fix people who suck.

Wouldn't that be awesome? I want to be a vengeful fairy enchantress thing that goes around cursing all the stupid people.

So I think a much better curse would have been to just take everything from the prince until he fell in love with someone not traditionally lovely. Or maybe blinding him. Then he couldn't base anything on someone's appearance. That would free the entire population of the castle from being collateral too. I always thought it was unfair that all the servants and such got cursed as well, because they really had nothing to do with this. What were they gonna do? Rebel against the aristocracy and take off? That way lies starvation, boys and girls.

I feel like I need to write something like this sometime. Prince Hobo. No Beauty, no Beast. At least not at first glance. Monsters come in all forms, and beauty can be in unexpected places. That seems like it should be the real message to that story.

Has anyone tried role reversal? What about a sweet, hapless prince cursed by a random witch or whatever and saddled with a psychotic wench? That'd be a fun revision of Beauty and the Beast.

Anecdotal Adventure!

So this weekend I'm running deliveries for Edible Arrangements (apparently Mothers' Day is a big deal for them), and two of them today were at this hotel in town...

I've been driving all over this stupid parking lot for ages, and I'm already irritated because it's taken me far too long to find such a painfully obvious building--I didn't see before that the order ticket has a small memo at the bottom stating that the address is in the hotel--and I can't find a parking place remotely near the entrance. As I have two large, fruit bouquets with foot-wide, cardboard bases, I don't relish the idea of carrying the things across a huge expanse of windy parking lot. I've circled it too many times already, and I'm ready to be finished.

Seriously hard to miss. I was annoyed.

When I get inside, one arrangement tucked against either hip, I search for the front desk, which is not, as one would expect, at the front. In fact, it rests inconspicuously behind a large pillar (really more like a section of wall, not unlike the ones they often have in Starbucks) in the far corner of the central hub. I stroll over, trying valiantly to maintain the illusion that I am remotely cheerful and personable, and spend a moment making small talk about how amazing pineapples are with a middle-aged woman also waiting at the desk. When the guy actually working comes to see if he can assist me--warning me in comedic tones that he hasn't had lunch yet, and it may not be safe to leave those with him--I discover that I must actually bring these monstrosities to the rooms they're meant to be sent to, and so lose all hope of just dropping them off and leaving.

I have to go the eleventh floor of the A wing and the fourth floor of the C wing. Deciding that it'll be simpler to start with the higher floor, I set out in search of the elevators, which are not placed anywhere painfully obvious to my sleep-deprived eyes. After struggling through a set of double doors with my burdens and stumbling on an area of mysterious shops and offices in the A wing, I realize that I must have passed the elevators already. I've barely made my way back down the hall toward the lobby when--Aha, elevator!


The button with the UP arrow is abnormally high on the wall, and I'm forced to perform an impressive and absurd balancing act rather than simply craning my hand around to hit it; I stand on one foot, bracing my left knee against the wall and setting one box-stabilized bouquet atop my thigh, then hurriedly punch the button to call the elevator. It arrives with a slightly jittery bounce that doesn't inspire much confidence. I stare at it for a moment, weighing my desire to finish the last two deliveries and leave without taking the stairs up eleven flights against the possibility that I am inevitably going to die in this elevator. The walls are covered in some material that looks as though it's meant to cover up repairs or remodeling or something, and if I've learned anything from movies, it's that scary elevators never lead anywhere good. Unless you happen to be a vengeful spirit, blood-thirsty psycho, or a peckish zombie.

Holy crap. I'm going to die.

I step dubiously inside and do my button-pushing trick again, peering anxiously about the empty elevator and listening to the workings take me up, floor by floor. The line of numbers above the sliding doors light up as I pass each floor with a slight click, and it's like the tic-toking of a very slow clock.

2...3...4...5...

I keep wondering what happens if it stops suddenly and I'm stuck in here.

6...7...

It's hard to ignore the knowledge that every second I'm in here, there's another few feet of empty elevator shaft underneath me.

8...9...

Would I even survive that fall?

10...

When 11 lights finally lights up and the doors open (with a slightly terrifying bounce), I breathe a sigh of relief and step out.

I'm in a small triangular area created by the intersecting halls. It's completely dark. All I can see outside of the small half-circle of light spilling out of the elevator behind me is a few dark corners and the shadowy walls, and my hands are full.

Wouldn't Star-Gauges Guy have told me at the front desk if they were remodeling or something? Why isn't this area off limits, or marked or anything? I'm distinctly unsettled, and I clutch the heavy fruit arrangements, hoping that the elevator doors aren't going to close behind me and leave me trapped alone in the dark. I'm uncomfortably aware of how defenseless I would be if something were to happen.

I've seen the movies. I know how this goes. I have two choices.
One: walk cautiously down that dark hallway in hopes of finding A1101, meet some blood-hungry terror, and die horribly in a deserted hotel room strewn with dusty tools and chunks of drywall.
Two: get my paranoid ass back down to the lobby and find a different way to the room.

That's not even a choice. I turn abruptly and search for the correct button, pushing it a little harder and faster than I might normally have done. I watch the darkness through the closing elevator doors, not quite convinced something isn't going to flash through at the last second and either leave me trapped in a creepy elevator with a murderous something, or stop the doors from closing and leave me face to face with whatever was just out of sight when I stepped out the first time.

The ride down is slower than the ascent somehow, and I spend it half-waiting for the theatrical lurch and creak one  always sees in films. Stepping out, back into what suddenly seems like an alternate world on the ground floor, is slightly frightening, because the elevator jerks again as it comes to a stop.

I'm slightly jumpy when I finally make it to the designated rooms, and I wonder to myself when I developed this irrational fear of riding in in elevators.

For the romantics

"From the diary of Prospero Taligent, cylinder #343

--A number of things about falling in love make it not worth the time and effort. But the worst of these is that we can never truly fall in love with the person, but only what we think that person is--more precisely, we fall in love with an image of a person that we create in our minds based on a few inconsequential traits: hair color; bloodline; timbre of voice; preference in music or literature. We are so quick to make a judgement on first sight, and it is so easy for us to decide that the object of our love is unquestionably perfect. And while people can only be human at best, these same fallible humans are more than capable of imagining each other to be infallible gods.

Any relationships we have with another human being is an ongoing process of error correction, altering this image that we see in our mind's eye whenever we lay love-blinded eyes on our beloved. It changes bit by bit until it matches the beloved herself, who is invariably less than perfect, often unworthy of love, and often incapable of giving love. This is why any extended interpersonal relationship other than the most superficial, be it a friendship, a romance, or a tie between father and daughter, must by necessity involve disappointment and pain..."

The Dream of Perpetual Motion by Dexter Palmer

Love is about realism, not an ideal; honesty, not adoration.

Self-esteem- Some hating to end my day

I know I've referenced the quote before, but in Fight Club, Tyler Durden tells his space monkey disciples "You are not a beautiful unique snowflake. You are the all-seeing, all-dancing crap of the world!" while shoving his angry, sexist, implausible anarchy down their directionless sheep throats.

This is the first thing I often think when people share things that are genuinely stupid and pointless and expect anyone to care.

Kind of like this blog. Isn't funny what a hypocrite I am?

I'm thinking primarily of all forms of social media, lots of art, poetry, etc, and many conversations. This occurs to me because I was just wandering around the internet, and I found myself getting increasingly annoyed by the amount of tripe floating around. Idiotic posts, crappy art, and generally obnoxious wails for attention and validation.

I think this culture over-values validation. A lot. And it starts young. You have to praise a child for everything it does, and then they have graduations for everything ever. I think it undervalues things that are actually achievements. And if you don't set the bar low and commend everyone for their every attempt at anything, you're a horrible person. Because obviously people need to be told everything they do is gold, or else their weak personalities will collapse and they'll whither away and die of bad self esteem.

I hate to break it to you all, but not everyone is or ever will be great. In all likelihood, most of us won't accomplish anything of real worth in our lives.

You know that song "The Kids Aren't Alright"? That's kind of what I'm talking about here.

You aren't a beautiful, unique snowflake. You're probably actually a grain of sand. surrounded by a bajillion others, made of the same stuff, essentially indistinguishable. There are differences, yes, but the chances of you being actually unique or new are basically nil.

Congratulations. Happy Tuesday, kids.

Life after high school...Ish

So, a lot of the younger kids I know are coming up on the end of high school, and that brings to mind the hazy months of senoritus, the college search, and the general curiosity about my plans for the future. In the last couple of years, I've been asked about a million times what I want to do with my life.

I understand that this question is largely because I'm an unemployed (again) twenty-something, not in school, and still at my parents' house, but really? My life? I'm not quite sure if anyone over thirty (or with actual direction for their lives) can appreciate the immensity of that question.

I am twenty years old, and it feels like I've only been out of high school for about three seconds, and yet people have been asking me since graduation what I want to do for the foreseeable future.

And that answer has always been, "I have no idea...School maybe? Have a career? Get married and pop children someday? I dunno." Because what kind of society are we in where people expect you to know what you're doing with your life in your late teens? Most people don't even choose a major in school until toward the end, or they change it at least once before they get their degree. And then comes the whole question of whether or not they even end up somewhere relevant to their degree...

I've officially come to the conclusion that most clueless post-adolescents simply follow the path laid out before them; they do what we're "supposed" to do, which is go to college, theoretically fall in love, get married, and begin the arduous work of starting a career. The thing that I think has been sadly lacking from education is that the traditional path is not the one that everyone has to choose. College isn't for everyone, and it shouldn't be treated as simply the next step of life. Life after high school is supposed to be the start of adulthood, the beginning of independence and personal accountability, which is something that I don't often see in almost anyone under twenty-five.

I think the difficulty here is that people don't want the pressure of choosing an alternate path for themselves. They can pretend the safe, socially acceptable route is enough to sustain their ambitions without ever having to seek for something other or more satisfying. Being creative in your life, not simply following the current--whether that be college, or a crappy job, or marriage--takes effort and ambition and willpower. It's a step into the unknown, and it can be terrifying to be in that kind of free fall.

Yes. This is free fall! Terrifying, atypical life choices being made >.>

I don't mean to glorify my general bummery and that of many of my acquaintances, but I think the illusion that we are ambitionless, childish, slobs is very much present, and I find that people tend to look down on those of us who don't have it figured out right now. But personally, I'd rather admit to not having all the answers right now than end up thousands of dollars in debt for my degree in Literature or whatever that I'll never use in a career. Life isn't something that generally goes according to plan anyway, in my experience at least.

I think part of it is that I don't have any illusions about the likelihood of my having a career I'm passionate about. I would love to be able to get paid for something I love doing, but the chances of that aren't high, and since I can't think of anything else I want to be doing for the long run, I may as well not spend thousands of dollars furthering my education. Instead, I'm going to search for a crappy job so that I can save up the money to do things I actually want to do without being completely penniless afterward.

Anyways, just some thoughts from one of the many useless drones devouring your resources.

A Disclaimer

I felt obligated to inform you, theoretical readers, that I am, in fact, capable writing both well and lucidly; it is completely within the realm of possibility for me to astonish you all with my intelligent prose. I'm also fully aware that this isn't something you've seen in any appreciable way in this blog, but I felt, given the eloquence and intelligence of the blogs I've linked to, as well as the utter nonsense I tend to post, that I ought to inform you that I'm not simply a gibbering moron.

I actually quite enjoy writing intelligent analysis; however, the purpose of starting this blog was not to share the quality of my writing skill. It was to share my nonsense, and though it has deviated from that to some degree, that remains the primary purpose here: to spew the contents of my conscious mind whenever the desire descends. The possibility that I'll actually say something clever or serious now and again is entirely present, but The Bull Well exists simply for my own (and, one would hope, other's) amusement.

This, by the way, comes in the wake of my last blog's utter lack of coherence. I've no doubt that in the months since I quit formal education, my writing skills have suffered somewhat; I generally have much smoother syntax when writing formally, and my capacity to logically lay my thoughts out in a comprehensible pattern is theoretically much greater.

Just something I thought I'd inform you all. I consider myself a writer, so it galls and even shames me the slightest bit to reflect on the word vomit I've been sharing. I've been accused more than once of having diarrhea of the mouth, but rarely of the pen, and I'd prefer not to make my Muse flee in horror at the tripe I've written in my day.

The Labyrinth

So sitting here munching my apple and staring the pile of dvds on the arm of my chair (500 Days of Summer, Gladiator, Accepted, Labyrinth, and Leverage) I've decided to write about Labyrinth while I wait for my hair to be dry enough to strighten. I've just cut more bangs, and I can't just let them go wild. That would be absurd.

It is, for obvious reasons (and by "obvious," I mostly mean David Bowie), one of my favorite movies.

My copy actually has Jareth contact juggling scenes from the movie in 

his pretty glass spheres on the cover, but this works too.

And look! Pictures to make the sidebar more terrifying, but the text friendlier. Aren't I nice?

 The answer there is always no.

As all of you with childhoods know, this film is about Sarah (as played atrociously by the eventually lovely Jennifer Connely. I loved her in A Beautiful Mind, which revolves around Russel Crowe, so yay) becoming less of a horrifying brat by fetching her baby brother from the embodiment of awesome, the Goblin King.

First thing: Did you see on the cover? It says "Where everything seems possible and nothing is what it seems." I'm incredibly annoyed by the extraneous capital letters in there, as yet another irrelevant side note. Think about that one for a second...All I keep getting out of that is that nothing is possible in The Labyrinth.

Also, is that word hard for everyone? I always want to add an unnecessary E at the end. Labyrinthe. Which isn't at all correct.

Now on to Sarah's flaws!

Aside from her terrifying, caterpillar-esque eyebrows, there's so many things to rant about with her.

When Taryn and I watched this on tuesday, we had to laugh at the opening of the film. Partly for the bad CG--cutting edge technology in 1986--but mostly because watching Sarah is just entertaining. I love that first dialogue with her evil stepmother. She never raises her voice or says anything horrible, and Sarah is so angsty; Taryn suggested that we do a parody with the stepmother getting increasingly nice.

"Sarah, I made some chocolate-chip cookies for you. They're in the kitchen. We'll be back around midnight, and we already put the baby to bed, so you don't actually have to do anything unless he wakes up."

"Chocolate-chip isn't even my favorite! Not that you'd know. You never ask me what I like! And I hate having the house to myself on a saturday night!" *Stomps up the stairs*

Dude, if I was an hour late to babysit on a night my parents were going out, I wouldn't just get lightly chastised. I would be lucky to get away with a stern lecture, depending on how rushed they were.

That's kind of how she is the entire movie, though. Sarah is the victim, and it's everyone else's fault that she's whiny. Isn't part of the drinking game to take a shot every time she complains? Even without David Bowie's crotch, you'd be sloshed about fifteen minutes in.

Our conclusion was that she must have originally been written for a younger character, because her behavior is much more typical and forgivable in character like ten or twelve years old, and she's supposed to be fifteen.

I shall do some quick googling to see if it was once a book.

According to wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labyrinth_(film)), it was an original concept by Jim Henson and Brian Froud after they finished Dark Crystal (another of my favorites), but they found a lot of inspiration in various other works. So no book, and therefore no excuse for her character.

And, holy crap! Helena Bonham Carter auditioned to play Sarah. That would've been an entirely different movie, and I don't doubt it would've been awesome.

Anyways. That was interesting. You should really read that.

I've thoroughly derailed myself now, though. This is why one traditionally does research before writing. Then things can coalesce and become a cohesive stream of thought after your brain sifts and categorizes the information. Yay brains! I may need to blog about that one of these days. Because all that squishy crap in your head is a freaking miracle, guys. You should totally research that a bit.

And while wandering around the interwebs looking for adequate pictures, I stumbled on this blog about Labyrinth, and I ended up reading through it. So if you happen to be interested or need to kill some time.
http://fluffrick.wordpress.com/2011/11/06/bonfire-of-the-nerderies-labyrinth/
This one too.
http://www.acidemic.com/id29.html
Don't do any comparing, though. This is an actual evaluation of a film from adult eyes, not my silly rambling that sounds kind of like a combination of brain vomit and a sugar high.

And now I've kind of lost steam. So I'm just going to stop there and spare you my talk of Jareth. Because he's the best part of that movie. Dodged that bullet. I'll simply put these in here and assume you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvyNOg4jSRg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nBjvElCzAw

Because, yeah.

Also, I love the goblins. They're totally ridiculous. I was never a huge Muppets kid, but I liked them well enough, but I grew up absolutely loving The Dark Crystal and such. I have a particular affection for the craptacular special effects of the past, particularly the eighties and nineties.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l0K5T0AqVlY&feature=relmfu

And with that, I shall go. No brilliant analysis or anything, just me rambling about a movie and stuff.

At long last, I ramble once more.

Hello, theoretical audience! It's been ages. And by ages, I mean most of a month. Thank you for those of you who whined that I haven't blogged. I now love you more than the other people who read this.

I'm gonna blame the month of march, though. Because it's been kind of stupid. Not in a bad way. I've just been somewhat busy, and my internet is clearly on some form of mind-altering drug.

Which is why I am, at this moment, using my sister's computer with its demonic keyboard.

I hate it -.-

Feel loved, for I struggle on your behalf...Kind of.

Anyways! I actually had a topic for rambling in this post (which is another part of the reason I've been away so long).

Art!

As most of you know (and by "most" I mean all my followers, and probably you possible secret readers that aren't following), art is more or less my life. Not that I'm obviously, wildly passionate about it, or that I intend to make a career out of (though that could definitely be nice. I haven't ruled it out.), but I'm pretty much constantly creating. I have been forever and ever. I draw to keep myself focused or to keep my hands busy; I make a large portion of my clothing and jewelry; I paint whenever possible. It's second nature for me.

So one of the things I was thinking about this past week is how art inspires me. I love looking at it, and I can spend hours in galleries and museums. The Fine Arts Center downtown has been one of my favorite places since I discovered I can get in free with my PPCC student ID. The thing about looking at art, for me, is that I can appreciate as a viewer and as an artist, and it gives me something to aspire to and something to love about humanity. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of short on those. I'm not like the Doctor, going "Yay, humans!" every five minutes. Kind of the opposite, actually. So when I see the spectrum of human emotion, experience, and genius, I have to take a moment to appreciate what it is that I'm seeing.

Which is part of why I kind of want to stab people when they look over my shoulder at something I'm drawing and coo over my creativity and wistfully say that they can't make art.

Don't be an idiot. Everyone can draw. You think it's some magical gift of the gods to be "artistic"? No. Wrong, boys and girls. It's a skill, like almost anything else. It takes practice and training. As much as I wish I were one of those awesomely talented individuals (*cough cough Tim* >.>), I'm not. All of the growth I've seen in my art has been the result of a lot of effort. And being taught. Figure Drawing last semester was phenomenal.

But that's how everything is. Most of "the arts" are a matter of learning and desire. It's about how much you want to learn to be an artist, or a dancer, or a musician, or an actor. Yeah, there's some predisposition that goes into it, but that's true of anything, isn't it?

Anyways. These were things that were running through my head while working on a digital painting.

Also, digital art is so much easier than real art! It's fabulous. You can undo your mistakes and change things so painlessly. So many effects and possibilities just a click away. It's beautiful. Less personal, of course. I like the smears of paint all over my hands and jeans, but to each his own. "Different strokes for different folks," and all that.

And I put a hole in my face ^.^ Yay for Tim and I having random adventures when we hang out. I'm still being kind of excited about that one. Nose, for those of you bothering to be curious.

And now I'm going to go read more Sophie's World, since I've taken far too long with that one, and I think I'm done writing. No pretty pictures for you this time. Just the monotony of blocks of intimidating text.

And on a totally unrelated note that just popped into my head, Go is one of the best games ever, and everyone should try it. I need to play it again.