Monthly Archives: January 2011

Glacier

On my way home today, I was  thinking of something to post here, and I actually came up with a pretty good idea. I started thinking of how it would so in my head, and I thought it was a pretty fun idea. It also really helped that the traffic was really bad, since it gave me more time to think. But I’m not going to post that post now, obviously. Mostly because I’m really freaking tired right now, and it needs work, and I’m having a lot of fun working on it.

Here’s the thing. I didn’t really notice how bad the traffic was until I was a few minutes in. The rest of the road up to this point had been totally clear, so it was the kind of traffic that had to be caused by an accident. And indeed it was. I was expecting some regular superficial scratch and bump situation where everybody is being help up because the drivers are arguing about insurance, and the police officers are taking up more of the road with their cars because they want to feel like they’re actually doing something. But it was actually a motorcycle/taxi mess. I noticed because there was a stationary taxi and a motorcycle on the ground. Oh, and a crowd around a man who was bleeding (from the quick glimpse of him I got) quite profusely. Damn.

So of course, I did feel sorry for him, on the ground and bleeding and whatnot. Though he was also yelling quite a bit, so it couldn’t have been that bad, I guess. But as I got farther and farther from the wreck (which was easy since everyone was stuck behind it), my thoughts drifted from sadness, to concern, to “I really hate motorcycles”, to hunger, to (and this is one of my favorite ways of getting through most days) “Somewhere out there, somebody is having a WORSE day that you.” And that saying really has helped me rationalize myself out of the occasional depression. Sure, I’m using other people’s misery to make myself feel better, but it’s not like I CAUSE said misery, so there’s really no reason for me to feel guilty.

So, here’s to you, Fallen Motorcycle Accident Guy. I’ll make sure to write a post-rock song in your honor.

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Tubbs

For the past few days, a strange substance has been appearing in my fridge. It’s a weird greenish color, and it has some yellow… bits. It’s kind of like a mist of… something. I honestly don’t know what it is. I’ve seen it in every possible container too. Plastic bottles, pitchers, even a bottle of vodka (which I did NOT almost drink because the lights were off). None of these containers, however had any sort of label on them. Except the bottle of vodka, which I am sure it was not.

Anyway, just a while ago I went to get a glass of water. And there it was. An entire pitcher of Substance X. Then I thought “To hell with this, I’m drinking this shit. It’s the ONLY way I’m going to find out what the FUCK this is.” But then I recalled the words of the Eternally Wise Joey Tribbiani: “It’s fat. I drank FAT.”

I’m no chef, so I have no idea why Monica just happened to have a glass of fat in her fridge, but I’m sure she had a good reason. And until I saw that episode, I didn’t even know fat could be stored in drinkable form.  But this Substance X is EXACTLY what I imagined the liqifat would look like. So just like that I was confronted with a choice. Drink the Substance, and have my curiosity satisfied, but possibly drink a glass of fat. Or NOT drink the Substance and forever be haunted by it. It was a risk.

Now, I’m not really a risk-taker. I usually prefer the safer option. But that’s not to say I never take chances. I have, and they’re paid off. But they were small things. I mean, it’s not much of a risk if all your putting at stake is some money, or maybe some pants wearing. I’ve never come to a choice that will ACTUALLY affect things, with real big consequences. Like a LOT of money, or a lot of pants wearing. Or even my certain credibility.

All of us have  to take risks, I guess. Thing is, on TV, you can always tell how risks are going to turn out. In a fluffy light time show, they’ll always benefit the character and show that taking risks is good sometimes. In a gritty edgy show, it will turn out very badly. If there was an aforementioned worst case scenario, it WILL happen. Possibly with somebody dying. Or in a complex sci-fi show, the world will decide to throw in some weird ass new choice nobody knew about before. Basically, whatever option will be the most dramatic/cool/funny/touching, etc.

And now we yet again see the stark, extremely depressing contrast between fiction and real life. See, in real life, we also have risks. Usually ones with big rewards and very unfortunate consequences. But real life isn’t guided by some writer playing god. There is no all-seeing entity controlling what we do (let’s not get into that now). But they ARE still risks. And the higher reward well, you know the rest. Thing is, when the numbers SAY you have a 0.000…1% chance of finding a golden ass cleaning toilet in your backyard, they really DO mean it’s never gonna happen, no matter how many entertaining implications there might be to it. And if they say you’re not going to win the lottery, they mean YOU’RE NOT GONNA WIN THE DAMN LOTTERY, even if it would create circumstances in which you are hated by everyone you know and realize that money isn’t true happiness.

In fact, all out lives we’re taught to play it safe. Sure, like, they mention the fact that risks can pay off sometimes. But that’s just so that they don’t seem like they really just want you to always choose a solid, not great reward instead of the -mystery box-. Because the mystery box probably has a freaking boat in it. Or maybe not. But this isn’t one of the times when I give you advice, or some sort of perspective. I’m just ranting here. If you want to go drive in the oncoming lane until just before you get a face full of truck, go right ahead. I on the other hand, opt to not have to go to the hospital. No, I’m not going to drink the fat. At least, not yet.


One of These Things

There are many things that are important to each of us, right?

Well I don’t care about those. So right now, I’m gonna focus on the “us” part. Or rather, the “me” part, cause I’m selfish like that. And I’m trying to answer the question, as everybody in this damn world is, “Who the FUCK am I?” I have a name, sure. But obviously, that isn’t enough. I’m talking a full-fledged identity thing. But really, that question is pretty damn hard to answer. I mean, everybody is unique, right? Sure but… not by much. It’s like we’re all points on the edge of a circle. Sure, that dot all the way in Norway is pretty different from you. He eats salmon all day and has to fend off polar bears with sticks as he makes his morning commute to operate a train station. But this is a circle we’re talking about. So there’s that dot right next to you, and while TECHNICALLY it’s a different dot, it is NOT different enough for anybody to care.

Again, let’s say I have an identical twin. We look EXACTLY alike, and short of a DNA test, it’s impossible to tell us apart. We like the same things, think pretty similar. We’ll get the same gifts on our birthday, get the same compliments, get the same grades in school, score a pair of hot twin supermodels (mine is the hotter one tho), you get the idea. So to most people, we’re essentially, practically the same person. Then let’s say we each have totally different circles of friends. I would be able to live a day in the life of my twin probably without anyone being any the wiser. But I wouldn’t be able to fool his friends. They’d probably pick up on the tiny little differences that make me… not him. Like noticing the 1 degree difference between me and the dot next to me.

What I’m trying to say is that, to the great majority of people, we are not unique, at all. We’re clustered into our genders, age groups, social standings, and stuff like that. But when we look closer, to our friends and stuff we ARE. And it’s impossible to be REALLY unique, in any way that matters to the great majority. Even famous people can’t do it. They have to deal with classifications like Dumb Blonde Model, Girly Man Singer, Manly Girl Actress, Arrogant Hollywood Creative Type, etcetc.

I’ve also noticed a great deal of my hating people stems from their proverbially yelling “OOH, OOH LOOKIT MEEEE I’M SOOOOOO COOL.” And sometimes, it isn’t proverbial. In fact, most of what we do it motivated by the intention of trying to be seen and recognized by everybody else. The guy who gives everybody free stuff, the guy who always gets drunk, the guy who everybody hates, the guy you know is an asshole but everybody seems to like, the guy who seems to be good at everything so people like him, the guy who is a douche and has more friends that he should, etcetc.

See, this doesn’t work. And unless you actually try to make genuine connections with people, they will not remember you, and you will be clustered into the group of people who are annoying. We can’t be like one of those superhero teams where every member is different and has a totally different skill set and use to the group, such that they wouldn’t be able to function properly if even one member was missing. And they would each have a challenge only they can complete when the team is raiding the villain’s lair. Even if he has a lame power like Heart. There are far too many people in this world for each of us to have an extremely specific role that nobody else can do. When any of us dies, the world at large will not give a fuck. And short of running for president or something, there’s nothing we can do about that. The world won’t be crippled by our loss, because there will be somebody else, or a combination of somebodies who can fill our space no problem. The only ones who will care that you’re dead are the people who you’re actually close to. It’s your role in THEIR lives that nobody else can fill.

Unfortunately, nobody seems to realize this. And if they do, it’s still hard to fight that instinct to try to be remembered for some stupid superficial reason, just for the sake of people knowing who they are, and hopefully remembering them. Hell, I’m sure even I do it. And where does this end up? With me hating everybody. Just a little. Well, just a little for MOST people.


Horrible, Just Horrible

I’ve always considered myself at the very least competent in a great many things. Furniture assembly for instance. Sure, this little red rolly shelf thingy has a bent top part, but hey it got ASSEMBLED. And it rolls around like a motherfucker, so I count that as a win. Competent, not good, but I’ll do. Also, I’m competent at sleeping (cause sometimes I just have to lie there for hours), singing (as long as it’s not Bon Jovi, or anybody with… talent), creating large cardboard cubes (they stick together, and that is what matters), organizing things (when I’m motivated, which is like, once a year), cooking (the microwave just makes my awesome dishes get hot faster), and many other things. Hell, I might even be called ‘good’ at some things (Um… let’s just move on).

HOWEVER. There is one thing that I am not, nor will I ever be even the least bit competent in. That thing, dear reader (readers?), is that is sports. Or rather, anything that requires more than “below average” physical strain. It’s not for lack of trying too. I remember I first tried playing baseball. And my first time at bat, the jackass pitcher threw the ball right into my fucking face (in my mind, I’ve named him Steve, and he sucks). Oh, I also tried badminton once. But I couldn’t stop laughing because the coach’s head looked exactly like one of the shuttlecocks. I was supposed to start basketball lessons as a kid too, but my parents pulled me out because I kept oversleeping. I learned how to not drown when I took swimming, but then I got discouraged when the teacher yelled at me while I was pretending to be a Poliwrath, yelling “BUBBLEBEAM” every time we did that breathing underwater thing.

Anyway, the point is I was never good at sports, because well, I never LIKED sports. Why? It’s all a matter of preferences. I hated baseball. Steve probably loved baseball. Whenever whatever training bullshit we were doing ended, it was truly a relief for me. There’s no reason for it. Just… not my thing. Besides, it’s not like there are any repercussions to not being physically active, right?


Ouch

So I woke up this morning (from a particularly strange dream, which I won’t bother going into detail about), and the first thing I notice is that my arm hurts. I chalk it up to me shifting positions sometime during the night and sleeping on my arm. Seems reasonable enough. So I decide to get up and make the most of my morning (afternoon). But the action of getting up is impaired by… my other arm hurting. How do I know this? because I collapsed using it to push myself off the bed. With both my arms out of it, I decide to get up without their assistance. No good though, as my attempted sit up is foiled by the also very much painful pain in my entire upper body. So what do I do? I just lie there waiting for the strength to be able to get up.

And as I lie down, I begin wondering WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO ME WHILE I WAS ASLEEP (*insert whatever rape jokes you may have here*). I remembered reading something about Dave Mustaine falling asleep with his arm over the back of a chair, which messed his arm up or something. Did the spirit of an angry Dave visit me while I was asleep? God I hope not. But my wicked guitar skills weren’t any better than usual, so I can rule that one out. Aside from my body getting Megadeth’s, I also pondered the possibility of me pissing off some dream pandas, who kicked my dream ass so hard that I affected my physical body. Or maybe my body is finally taking matters into its own hands, and has begun forcing itself to work out while I’m unconscious. But I’m really hoping that I’ve become a superhero with a secret identity so secret that even I don’t know it.

Eventually, (I can’t say how long exactly, I was still mostly asleep at this point) I managed to get up, driven mostly by my need to pee. And walking out of my bedroom to get a snack, I learned well… nothing at all. Oh, my entire body felt perfectly fine like, ten minutes after I got up so I guess I’ve learned that I’m Wolverine. Though I don’t really have claws, so I guess I can be… Airverine. What is the point of posting this you may ask? Nothing. There is no point at all, but I am very bored. So, yeah.