As some of my readers may know, I attend conventions. I am not terribly dorky, but the overall friendly atmosphere and the plethora of nerdy types like myself helps the social butterfly in me help spread its wings a little. Mind you, it takes more than just a nice aura radiating from the people around me for my shell to really crack, but I enjoy keeping my inhibitions, so I’m fine with still being a bit shy. Depending on the group of friends I go with, I may stay more in the background. Still, at times, I crave the spot light, and with certain people, there are mitigating factors surrounding my goal of attracting all the attention. 

For one, most of my friends were in theatre. That means that the battle for the spot light begins as soon as more than two people enter the equation. Even with only a trio, there is the issue of who is the lead, who is the protagonist, who is commanding the stage. A silent tension, barely noticeable, strikes the air and remains there, making the situation a tad uncomfortable. Still, if one of the two trying to direct the spot light upon him/herself decides that the fight is not worth it, then the day out is much more enjoyable. Whenever I am with friends and this somewhat sudden need to be the center of attention overtakes my logic, I usually fight it down, telling myself that being the right hand man, the supporting actor, the one who sometimes steals scenes, is just fine. Usually, that is true. I am not one for drama or in-fighting, because it is not a fun thing to start the fire nor stir the flames. In my social interactions, I have always been on the sidelines; I’ve never tried to take control, to be the unelected leader, because the desire has not been that strong. It has sat there, quietly, brooding, but never has bubbled up to the surface. Oddly enough, at conventions, the inner diva in me bursts forth, albeit without a whisper, and tries to tell me what I should say, what I should do. The logical part takes over once more, because I must inspect my surroundings: my friends are used to commandeering the stage, and what would it exactly do for me to interfere? 

I suppose because we are all actors playing different parts in different ways at conventions (even when we have the same costumes, the interpretations of characters and our actions while in the costumes will change from person to person), then we all want that spotlight. This is the second issue for me. When a hundred plus people are all waving their arms and demanding the spot light in some way or another, one tiny voice will not change the spot light’s course. Depending on one’s costume, the series’ popularity, how in-character one is, and how well made the costume is (or how well it fits, in some cases), then a con-goer will be more respected.  There is a certain social tier even within the anime/manga subculture. For example, if you wear a well-made Naruto costume and stay in character, then you’ll be noticed. People will point you out and take pictures of you, and show those pictures to their friends. If your costume is not well-made but you’re in character, then how in-character you are determines how much respect you can garner. The tier goes down farther. If you’re not cosplaying at all, then your behavior and if you’re well-known on the Internet will help grab a smidgeon of spotlight. Of course there are exceptions to these rules and they are dependent on certain variables (what if you cosplay and you are well-known online, for example). 

So, with all these fans clamoring for the spot light, even in the subtle way, it is extremely difficult to be noticed. That is why I usually try to calm the diva-monster within me, because she seems to find conventions to be her homeland for some reason or another. At this past convention, I was in a costume as Luigi Largo from the movie “Repo! The Genetic Opera.”  I thought it was possible to steal the show with my humor and my acting, but a friend of mine dressed as Graverobber, and was loved by everyone who recognized us. Instead of allowing the diva to come out, I became nervous and then resentful at both myself for not taking the stage and at my friend for having that seemingly effortless ability. It was frustrating; I had practiced, I had worked on my characterization, my movement, but the Graverobber was just perfect, and I was completely overshadowed. Also, the friend who played Graverobber made our Pavi’s mask, and he was more recognized than me (he was recognized and I was not is the truth), so she was able to take credit for that as well. 

Because I had issues with my costume, I improvised as Amber Sweet, the youngest Largo sibling, for our impromptu performance of “Zydrate Anatomy.” I was able to stay in character somewhat, but I watched a recording and I looked terribly stiff. In comparison to Graverobber, I was like a mannequin. She moved effortless, and grabbed all of the attention. Meanwhile, I remained in the shadows again, even as Amber Sweet. I envy my friend’s ability to just fall into character while I must practice and practice, and even then I still mess up while in front of a crowd. I do not understand the random lightning strike of the diva complex because I usually feel better and act nicer when the diva stays away.

It seems, though, that I am even in denial about how much I want to be in the spot light. My resentment and jealousy disgust me; I even thought poisonous things about a friend I had not seen in awhile because her body was not utterly perfect. She was beautiful even with a tiny bit of weight, almost all of which she was able to conceal, and even with it she looked voluptuous and gorgeous. Meanwhile my self-esteem decided to drop into my bowels and stay there, even while I tried to drag it out. It fought me hard; I gave up, tired and disappointed. I cannot exactly pinpoint why the diva complex appears, nor can I get rid of it completely. It still bubbles under the surface, hoping to rear its ugly head again. So do I live in a constant masquerade, wearing a smiling mask to cover my frown of displeasure, or am I actually content being on the side? Do I really want the glory and all its crawling, itching tendrils, or am I happy as is, being someone, but not the one?   

Miscellaneous note to readers: I will be updating every Tuesday from now on, so I am off hiatus. 

We all come to that painful epiphany that, for the most part, our lives mean nothing. Not only do we not understand why we are here, but it has been proven that there is no real way to prove humankind’s existence. Therefore, although we persevere, although we move forward and attempt to make something of ourselves, all efforts are in vain. Kings and slaves alike end up in the ground. Whether the corrupt kings and the virtuous slaves go to heaven or hell is up to debate, along with whether life even continues after the body expires. Some find comfort in the idea of heaven, or at least an afterlife; others take advantage of this one existence and do what they please. For all the complexities, for all the intricate designs, for all the advancements, humans, at their most basic of levels, are still animals. They still need food and water to survive. They still need to reproduce in order to keep the species alive. They still crave companionship and connection; they create laws and rules, stated or otherwise, to further solidify what it means to be human.

And what is it to be human? Is it a working brain stem attached to a fully functioning brain? Is it the ability to create and take life, to regulate it through both logic and emotion? Is it the lack of the need to survive, for we have progressed past simple hunt-and-gather tactics? What does humanity boil down to? People from the beginning of time have viciously hunted down the answer, but the conclusions have a wide spectrum. We are human because we feel; we are human because we are rational; we are human because we are evolved. The list goes on, and no one can truly pinpoint an exact answer. Whether the answer is a mix of all these theories or will always escape our grasp is still up in the air. As much as professors dispute otherwise, philosophy is a dying study.

When faced with death, we revert back to instincts. We become lizards deciding whether to run from the hawk or attempt to poison it. The reptilian part of our brain kicks in, and all decision-making processes besides the simplest are eradicated. We do not weigh our options; we do not wait, or we will be devoured. Instead, we dash away, or we fight forward. At times, the situation is lose-lose: you run and get hit by a car as you sprint across the street, you fight and are strangled to death. Still, when confronted with imminent death, the most frightening idea ever to cross any human’s mind, you do not ponder it. You do not think of reasoning with the harbinger, nor do you offer a trade. You only scream, scream as loudly as you can, and go forward or step back.

When faced with death in the future, some humans go into complete denial. Others accept their fates and move on, deciding to make their lives fulfilling. They complete their dreams and desires, they say what they’ve wanted to voice for decades, they spend time with their loved ones. Those in denial usually wait until the last seconds, and wonder why life has to end this way, frail and sick in a hospital room. When death is close, like a cold hand on one’s shoulder, humans show their true colors. Both types burn, but one shines brightly until it’s snuffed out. The other merely flickers like it’s being blown in the wind, and then disappears with one last puff of smoke.

Of course, there is the gray spectrum. In every instance of human action, there is that pesky gray zone which consists of so many shades, so many options. When disease begins to destroy, some that were in denial end up taking death with open arms and, in turn, embracing life. Others who were at first calm when diagnosed then lose their minds, and are unable to focus on the day-to-day activities they should cherish. Even when the situation does not end in death and actually has nothing to do with death, the gray zone still appears. In debates, it is used and abused to support arguments. In real life, the gray zone is usually attributed to morality. There are so many examples that anything off the top of one’s head fits perfectly. For example, you steal a candy bar. Morally, it was wrong, according to what you’ve learned. Yet you’re hungry, and maybe you don’t have enough money for it, and you live on the street, and that’s how you survive. You feel blameless because without that candy bar it would have been your fifth day without food, and you’re malnourished as is. You steal the candy bar, but you have enough money for it; you just wanted to experience that rush, that euphoria in taking something that isn’t yours. Great conquerors did that for years, and although you know that someone before or after you may have wanted or needed that candy bar, it doesn’t particularly matter. To a part of you, it does, since you’ve committed an illegal and immoral act. Still, you bite into the candy bar; you don’t put it back. As many choices and options as there are to weigh, the end result is almost always the same: your original intention is filled. Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule because those options exist. Without them, the world would be black and white and exceptionally boring. What is simple is boring. Insects are boring to most, because they are simple. A fly fascinates no one.

When the epiphany occurs, that whole morality system, from wherever it developed, collapses like a castle of cards. Life is black and white; life is only dichotomies. There are life and death. There are disease and health. There are love and hatred. There are circles and squares. There is no gray area, because all the results are the same and people are still animals. They face death and succumb. At times, they don’t even face life, and continue on with their existences as empty shells without purpose or drive. Sometimes these empty shells are those that have reached that same epiphany, and instead of taking advantage of living, they fall apart. Their psyches are too weak or fractured to handle such information. Then, at the other end of the spectrum, the hedonists reside, utterly enjoying every frivolous desire that ever crossed their minds. Of course, this is yet another example of that all-perpetuating dichotomy that rules human thought. Things are right, things are bad. With the gray zone, things are somewhat right, and things are somewhat bad. There is no black nor is there white. Yet when the epiphany hits like a tidal wave, good and evil is all that is left. One sees what is good, and puts it in the white category; one sees what is bad, and puts it in the black category. One realizes how simple such categorization is, and despair wrecks one’s heart and mind. All that is complex falls into little digestible pieces, and with each bite the world grows darker and lighter, until it is only light and its absence.

Some go to the light, while others venture into the dark. What awaits those on either side is unknown, because no one dares to discuss whether they’ve had the realization. Sometimes the more perceptive can tell, but the average person will not look at another and think, “They know that life is meaningless. We have no reason to be here, and he knows it. What a shame that he must live the life I lead as well.” The average person has not come upon the realization, and probably never will. It is a defense mechanism, a way to continue on and be content. When one sits down and thinks about the meaning of life, the thoughts simply reverberate in a void, and when that epiphany comes, that void swallows all that one once enjoyed, hated, loved, loathed, and was indifferent towards. Philosophers live in that void, shouting at each other, but none can hear themselves or the others speak.

In short, existence is here, now, and relative. It is unexplainable, and that gives it an indisputable beauty. 

I just wanted to let my readers know that this blog will be on hiatus for the next few weeks. That unfortunately means no updates. The updating scheduling (beginning of every week) may be changed since I’m getting a job and will be working nights and week-ends. I will edit this post when I get my concrete schedule from my new boss. Also, May 22-24th I will be at a convention, so there will most likely not be an update that weekend.

Thanks for hanging in there, everyone. I’ll be back, ASAP. (And now you can cue the Terminator music.)

Whatever happened to that cool thing called inspiration? For some reason, mine has utterly disappeared. Every once in awhile I’ll look outside my window (by peeking through the blinds, of course), and I’ll see a bright-red cardinal bouncing from tree branch to tree branch. Unlike the classical poets, although I can admire the beauty of nature, I am not inspired by it. I could not write an ode to a bird, fish, dragon, or any other creature, mythical or otherwise. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love nature, and my college campus is perfect for viewing it in all its glory. We have dogwood trees beginning to bloom, the grass is bright and green, and there are other types of flora spread throughout campus. Ivy climbs up the fences, even. We have a plethora of fauna too, including squirrels, chipmunks, and humans. (The latter can be quite interesting, I might add.) When it rains, we all feel gloomy, even the trees, with their drooping limbs and soaked leaves. Yet afterward, everything is so alive and glowing that we can’t help but smile. Even the birds have returned early and have started twittering and chatting outside my window. 

What is there not to love? What is there not to be in awe of? I could write countless poems about the puddles, the reflection of street lights on the water, the groves, the bushes, the juxtaposition of technology to the manicured plants, but for some reason, all inspiration has left me. I sigh and bask in my woe, falling back into a dramatic pose with my arm against my forehead, but the writing gods give me no respite. I am forced to write about the daily drivel, about people doing nasty things, about violence and the supernatural. However much I’d love to spin a sonnet about that cardinal, the gods order me otherwise, and once again I’m extrapolating about spider demons and their ability to bite humans’ heads off in a single loud chomp. 

For some writers, when afflicted with the Block, as I like to call it, being able to write anything is a wonderful experience. When they finally destroy the Block with fortitude and perseverance, they can write about whatever they want, be it robots, intergalactic space battles, a couple in love, or vampires (sparkling or not, that’s up to the author). Writers with the Block must stare at me with envy when I jot down little notes in my Spiderman journal. Yet they do not see the frown upon my face, which reflects the dissatisfaction I have towards my writing and its subjects. So what that there is a rather striking girl in my Japanese class? There are beautiful girls everywhere! They’ve all been written about! As much as I love studying the human psyche I hate having to delve into my own. I suppose this is why I enjoy science fiction, horror, and fantasy stories for pleasure reading, but putting my petty thoughts about other humans into poetic form? Bah! What rubbish!

There have been many a time where the weather is perfect, and the flowers are blooming and fragrant, and the little hill outside my dorm is not at all wet and perfect for sitting, and all I want to do is write. I want to expound on the awesomeness of nature; I want to describe the birds, the bees, and the annoying ant that keeps biting my ankle. What a persistent fellow! I would say, and smack him hard. I would write about the itch he gave me, and how interesting ants’ defense mechanisms are, and oh, well, golly, I’m sitting next to an ant hill! It would be an amusing poem, yes? Yet, instead, I sigh at the sights and go inside, lamenting my semi-Blocked state. I read Gaia posts; I write fanfiction. I feel insignificant; my writing is insubstantial. I am not up to par and I cannot create a plot worth my life.

You must all be thinking that this entire entry basically consists of “Oh, oh! Woe is me!” That’s the truth, albeit partially. Any writer, good or bad, despises the Block. Writing is my passion, and the passion of most authors (the other passion is money, but that’s another discussion). Yet through this entry  I’ve realized that I should be thankful for the Blocked times. I don’t have to expect anything of myself; I can write complete and utter dog shit and no one will have to know. I can write surrealist poems that make absolutely no sense, even to me, and I’ll get favorites on deviantART (sometimes. Okay, fine, never). Even though I am Blocked, I am free. All writers should take this into account when they are stuck in a rut. After you’ve beaten the Block, make sure to review whatever you wrote during that time. Sometimes within the rubble, you can find some gold. 

Before you start reading my entry, please go to Ian Bell’s post here. Then my response post will make a lot more sense. I have very little dating experience; I am quite shy and I’m terribly afraid that my flaws will be completely obvious to anyone I show romantic interest in, although that’s utterly irrational. My problem lies in the fact that I recognize my issue and I could combat it, but I don’t want to put in the effort. I have seen so many relationships grow, blossom, wither, and die. Friends walk around with broken hearts, their eyes puffy and clouded from crying, their backs slouched. When one hasn’t been in love, there is no way to comfort a heart-broken person; I just sit there, listening to them lament about what they did wrong, or what their partners did wrong (usually both), and make lame attempts at helping them find peace. I’ve learned to just shut up and let them use me as a soundboard, because the logical part of their brains have been shut off for quite some time now, and they need more time for that logical part to fix itself. They didn’t listen to me during the relationship (although I no longer say a word, it’s useless), and they don’t listen to me when it ends and when they pine for the past. People are too blissful when they are in love. It’s a kind of detrimental euphoria, because they can’t and won’t admit that something may be wrong. 

I am speaking only of teenage relationships, though. I don’t counsel or attempt to help adults because I’m not one myself (and I may never be, but that’s up for debate). I am the type of person who listens, though; blabber all you want, I’ll absorb it all and come to a silent conclusion. For example, my room-mate sometimes asks me for advice on relationships (not just dating ones, but familial ones). Usually, when it comes to boys, she does the opposite of what I recommend, which makes me “facepalm” like no other. I’ve forgiven her for this, although I do use the amazing combined powers of Italian and Jewish Guilting. In my life, I’ve learned that it’s painfully obvious when emotions are overriding logic; I’ve had this problem myself, and it’s frustrating. 

It seems that when we show that we care, we are looked down upon. There is a certain coldness and distance one must put up, like a wall, so that one is separated from others. Human beings rarely embrace their emotions because they find them so unsatisfactory. Happiness is fleeting, sadness is gut-wrenching, anger is destructive, etc. Nothing good ever stays, so we harden our hearts and try not to create any attachments. In Ian’s post, he describes how girls are displeased by his sensitivity, yet the other young men who act harsh and brash are lauded with flirting and praise. The girls take his sensitivity in the wrong way; they find it unattractive, but we all know how much girls love when a man can identify with them emotionally. 

There is a contradictory double standard when it comes to emotions. That is, one cannot feel too much and one cannot feel enough. In friendships, the aloof type is hard to approach, but sometimes they are considered “cool” for this attribute. The outgoing ones are genuinely liked, but not much is known about their true selves; they wear masks to fool different people. When you seem too close with a friend, it’s assumed that you want more than just friendship. When you aren’t spending all your time with him/her, it’s assumed your friendship is wearing thin. In dating relationships, when girls show too much vulnerability, they’re considered clingy and unreliable. Boys can’t be too hardened or they’re thought of as rude (this applies to girls as well). Maturity is construed as elitism, while immaturity makes one look stupid, even if it’s all in good fun. Too much happiness, too much sadness, too much of any emotion is bad, but when one does not exhibit enough happiness/sadness/etc. to fit the standards (and these vary, of course), then something’s wrong.  

In all honesty, the title of my entry is difficult, and maybe impossible, to achieve. Humans are just not constructed in that manner, and we are a judging type, so we base our opinions on what we sense. What is considered wrong by me, for example, which is being a cunt (as Ian put it), seems to be okay with other girls, some of whom are my peers. Why, I cannot fathom. At any rate, emotions and their various forms of expression are something that we just have to deal with. We cannot turn into Mr. Samsa, since that only comes with extreme isolation. 

Who wants to be a giant bug anyway?  

My good friend PsychoPharaoh is allowing me to use this short essay as a guest entry. Read and enjoy.

As some (those “lucky” enough to have heard my midnight to 3 AM ravings) of you know, I hate nickels. Supercilious pricks. Who gave them the right to act like they own the change world? Nickels and pennies.

Now, pennies aren’t half so bad as nickels, technically speaking they’re only 1/5 as bad. No, pennies are simply wannabes. They’re the obnoxious dweeb that tags along with the rest of the group because they don’t realize that everyone is simply too polite to explain how annoyingly useless they are. And so we quietly shun them, content to simply hope that one day they’ll either get bored or get the message and sadly wander off in search of greener pastures. Perhaps they can help keep Sacajawea company. Unfortunately, certain equal-opportunity idealists are only giving fodder to the penny’s inflated sense of self-importance (See: I never approved of this for my tax dollars).

But as awful as all that is, the nickel is the true master of detestability. The nickel is that kid who used to threaten you for the best part of your lunch and then smash it in your face once he got his grubby little hands on it. That’s not to say that a nickel has gender, of course. No, a nickel is simply a solid cylindrical projection of a giant mass of amorphous evil. (Think: Nicholas Cage – also note the similarities between the names.) And why, you ask, is the nickel such a wicked thing? It thinks it is better than you. I’ll repeat that. It thinks it is better than you.

You simply need to look into the face of Jefferson and his imposing Monticello to know that this is true. The cocky jut of his chin, his hair grandly swept backwards, the sprawl of Monticello. All of it with one message: I’m better than you are and we both know it. I speak, of course, of the 1938-2004 mint nickel. That nebulous evil I mentioned? Well, it got wise to our knowledge of its existence and underwent some changes, adopted a less assuming front. Who can fault a buffalo? Or the noble endeavors of Lewis and Clark? Well, the answer, ladies and gentlemen, is me. I can still see through this façade of accord to the true iniquity within.

Why, pray tell, does the nickel weigh twice as much as a dime with only half the worth? It is an imposing tender. It lures you in with promises of wealth and tranquility only spit you out with lifeless passion. And how do we respond to this? A robotic apathy. We continue to exchange these coins as though nothing is wrong, as though the currency weren’t slowly removing pieces of our soul bit by bit to fuel its continually growing force. And our last line of defense? Quarters. Quarters are our Sarah Connor. They continuously fend off the evil that is nickeldom; without quarters, nickels would have long ago overtaken America and set their sights on innocent yen. The peso would be crushed. The ruble slaughtered. The pound massacred. The yuan, peseta, Swiss franc, lira, forint, RAND, and kroner, all laid to waste by the nickel. Even the noble and proud euro would fall to this titan of evil.

How can we ever hope to stop this Juggernaut, Bitch that has so cleverly infiltrated our society? We can only hope to stem the flow. Encourage quarter-exchange. Prepare for the inevitable, much like the prudent human with knowledge of the upcoming zombie apocalypse. Why do you think they made those 50 state quarters with the neat little collector board? Think of it like a large foldable cardboard shield made of pure awesome. Much like Samuel L. Jackson. So consider. Consider that those oh-so innocent chunks of metal that are woolgathering in your pocket or purse or couch cushion are truly a force to be reckoned with. Keep them on the move. Ignore their pleas of virtue. And remember: they are only as good as you let them be. When you look at them, take a leaf out of Jennifer Connelly’s book and tell them: “You have no power over me.”

Hang up the chick habit, hang it up Daddy or you’ll be alone real quick.-April March, “Chick Habit”

Over winter break, I saw quite a few friends and family members. For New Years, I had two friends over for a nice celebration and some catching-up. They’re still in high school, and because I’m in college now, I don’t get to see them nearly as much as I’d like to, unfortunately. So, whenever I get a chance to see them, we all get into long conversations about life in general and what’s happening.

The three of us were sitting at my kitchen table, eating some Pizza Hut and drinking soda. We were all ravenous, so at first, there wasn’t much speaking. Then, after our hungry stomachs were satiated, we began to converse. Since I can be a bit nosy, after some small talk about school and grades, I asked about their dating lives. I don’t have one myself; I’m guessing that’s why I’m almost always interested in others’. One of my friends is a lesbian, and had been in two tumultuous relationships with girls earlier in the year before. Because of this, she was quite jaded when it came to love. In the first relationship, she initiated the break-up because it was too painful to keep on going; her partner was fickle and has an issue with losing interest quickly. In her second relationship, she was broken up with because the other girl wasn’t looking for something so serious. As for my other friend, she dated a boy secretly over the summer, and they had to end it for reasons she won’t reveal. She’s a vague person most of the time, and wouldn’t specify as to why the relationship went kaput, but from what she told me during the summer, he was treating her in a disrespectful manner and coercing her into doing things she didn’t agree with. Of course, this made the mother hen in me rage, and I was glad to hear the relationship was over. I told the girls that nothing was going on for me, besides that I went to a club and met a nice illegal Mexican who could dance well. I rarely had a desire to find a companion, and usually that urge flared up during that time of the month, so I blamed it on hormones. We all laughed about this and then went back to the questions at hand: why was love so painful? Why did relationships end so badly? My answer, as a superior older young woman, was to tell them that during adolescence, the word “love” is thrown about lackadaisically and what they felt was not lust or love. That true feeling of love comes with experience, with dating different types of people and learning about the joy and hardships in the real world. High school is a microcosm that barely prepares anyone for what they will experience in college and beyond.

Both of my friends pondered this with frowns on their faces, and one chimed in, “You’ve never been in love.” True, I’ve never been in love; I’ve had puppy-dog-love infatuations, but nothing more. I was never really interested in anyone in high school and if I was, they were A) off limits B) out of my league or C) just a passing fancy. I online-dated and I only consider one of those friendships-turned-relationships as legitimate; we’re still friends. Still, that was puppy-dog “love” and I can look back and recognize this. My lesbian friend had mentioned that she felt guilty about some of the things she did in her relationships. She thought she was acting in a slutty way. Both of us told her she wasn’t, and that her actions were meant for only her partner, not an audience. (To put it blatantly, she wasn’t being an attention whore; she was just trying to please her partner.) Currently, neither of them are dating, but my straight friend is still “in love” with her ex-boyfriend. My lesbian friend is putting off dating for awhile to heal her heart, which I advised someone actually listened to me oh my gawd!, but both disagreed with my assertion that true love comes with age and experience.

By true love, I mean love that is deep and meaningful and isn’t all rainbows and ponies. People who love each other fight, at times rather viciously. The honeymoon period dies and reality sets in, and they have to learn how to deal with each other on a daily basis, 24/7. My stepfather’s son has been married for 21 years; his wife made a joke at Thanksgiving that those were the happiest 15 years of her life, and he laughed as well. Being in love will never be easy, and will never be perpetually blissful. Like with all relationships with strong connections, there are hills and valleys. From what I’ve seen and heard, those who are in love sometimes want to kill each other. That’s because love, in its purest form, is pure devotion to another person. Hate is its opposite, and we’ve all seen how strong hate can be through the news and other media; love is the same way, but positive. With devotion like that comes strong pain if the other person hurts you. Relationships of true love last because both participants realize that their love will never die, but their relationship will also have its pitfalls. Perfection in any sense is a stupid goal; no one’s ever achieved it. Trying to find the perfect man or woman who will provide a wonderful, painless romantic relationship is just as silly.

Yet so many people try to obtain that goal. They search for someone who will complete them, and make them see life in a whole new way. Maybe I am too logical or independent, but I know that I won’t find the perfect partner. He/she doesn’t exist. If I find someone who I am happy with, who I share a mutual devotion with, and who I see a future with, that would make me burst with joy. I’m my own person, so my partner won’t fit me like a puzzle piece, since he/she will be his/her own person as well. Working together and keeping that devotion alive is what makes relationships strong and meaningful and wonderful. To me, even though the current generation of teens, including myself, have been bombarded with information, we still are not emotionally mature enough to handle that kind of devotion. We can’t give up ourselves like that because there isn’t enough of ourselves to share. We’re not fully developed, thus the “love” so many teens rave about isn’t actual love, but some bastardized form that mimics the images and text we’ve seen and read from all over the place. I hate to blame the mainstream media for people’s problems, but it is rare to see teenagers actually treated as immature, underdeveloped, confused beings. They never straddle the line between child and adult, and always get the fairy-tale ending.

Life has no fairy-tale endings. Of course, there’s happiness and sheer joy and, in some cases, sublimity, but fairy-tale endings are just that: tales. They’re fiction. We’ve never been taught to separate the fiction from fact; then we think that finding our perfect prince or princess is possible at any age, when, in reality, teenage brains are so bombarded by chemicals and hormones and alterations that sometimes we don’t even know who we are anymore. One cannot be in love when one possesses a brain that’s on the roller-coaster ride of adolescence.

Honestly, I wish that both the media and parents especially would educate their children about love. It’s a beautiful thing, a marvel to look at, but in the bombastic time that is adolescence, it’s better just to fantasize than to actually go running after it. I don’t mind teen relationships, but saying “I love you” is an extreme commitment. Hopefully more people will learn this; love is no easy matter, and it doesn’t just randomly appear or disappear. It takes more than a few weeks, even a few months, for those words to actually have meaning. It’s been warped, and it should not be thrown around anymore.

Yet, love is irrational, and I’m a rational being as of now. My friend said that love makes you do weird things and act in weird ways. Do I really have the right to say that love isn’t true between two teens? In my humble experience, yes, I can say so. As always, there are exceptions to the rule (i.e. high school sweet-hearts staying together for 50+ years), but falling in and out of love doesn’t happen so easily. If it’s a constant cycle of getting together, breaking up, and finding someone new, then it was never really love in the first place. This is almost always a constant in teen relationships. Devotion requires time and effort; teens should focus more on becoming educated than finding “the one.”

Click the link. Repo! The Genetic Opera is the next big cult film, and you all need to see it.

For now, that’s all. I’ll be updating with an actual post soon, most likely tomorrow.

My usual mental process goes like this. I think in conversations.
1: I’m awake.

2: Of course, now rub the crap out of your eyes.

1: Okay. (commences to do so) I really don’t want to get out of bed. (groans)

2: You really should. You have class.

1: Fuck class, I’m tired. (rolls over)

2: You know, if you keep on missing class, it’s going to adversely affect your grade. Then your GPA will go down, and you’ll be disappointed. Aren’t I right?

1: Shove it.

2: But I’m right!

1: I didn’t say that. I don’t care about my GPA.

3: Yes you doooo.1: Go away.

2: She’s got a point. 3, I mean.

1: Both of you, go away.

4: Fuck it, man, fuck it all. Fuck society and what they tell you!

1: Hurrah!

2 and 3: YOU, OUT.

4: Fuck you, dumb bitches. Let the girl sleep.

5: And the more she sleeps, and the more she misses class, the worse she will feel. Pretty easy concept.

2: Thank you, 5.

3: And don’t you want to be smarter and know more?! Knowledge is power! You won’t succeed if you don’t go through with college!

4: That’s what society wants. (brooding)

1: SHUT UP SELF. (groans)

5: It makes sense logically. You know your emotional process: you don’t go to class, and you feel bad for doing so. Then, you worry about what you’ve missed, but because you’re self-destructive, you avoid finding out what you need. You reach an even more ignorant state, and get angry at yourself. To punish yourself for such insipid behavior, you don’t go to class. And the cycle begins again.

2: She’s right!

3: Indeed!

4: Man, I wish I was an insect. No emotions, no feelings, just duty…

7: We could join the military.

5: You have no say here. You’re a criminal.

7: No I’m not. I’ve just been neglected due to the fact that she doesn’t want to admit to the fact that she wants a relationship with “romance” involved.

2: You want her to do bad things.

7: …Sex isn’t bad.

3: But it inhibits learning!

7: She doesn’t know anything about sex.

5: Sex causes emotional attachment, and isn’t good for her right now.

4: It only causes emotional attachment because she’s been brain-washed to believe that sex is more than two sacks of flesh grinding against each other.

7: Uh, I’d say it’s better than that…man, you’re angry, 4.

4: Fuck you.6: ‘Kay! (smiles)

5: Quiet, both of you.

2: She’s been ignoring us. Get up!

3: Please? I really want to learn some more Chinese characters. And then we can go to Japanese class and learn more kanji, and then we can discuss really cool stuff in Philosophy! Oh my God! (excited)

4: I only like Nietzsche.

7: That’s because he’s an angry atheist. Grr! But really, let’s do something to relieve the stress. A smoke? Maybe some self-injury? How about too much alcohol?

5: (sighs) No. That’s not good for her, and she’ll feel guilty about it.

1: (makes gurgle noises)4: She’s going back to sleep. That’s what you get for babbling on about standards and what she “should” do.

7: 4, you can totally alleviate your frustration by having anonymous sex.

2: You really are bad, aren’t you? She needs to get to class! Get up! Go forth and conquer!

3: And leeeearn!

4: Oh, fuck this.

7: I think she wants a blunt.

5: She does not. You and 4 go have fun.

7: I have permission? Oh whee!

2: …That was a bad idea.

5: Well, I can’t be perfect.

2: Of course you can. That’s your goal, right? To be perfect in every way, or at least in almost every way?

5: That makes sense, but it will never happen.

3: But it could! She just needs to leeearn!

5: Unless 4 and 6 decide to depart, she never will.

1: (gurgles and groans) I hate my emotions.

5: I know, aren’t they troublesome?

1: You guys are too. “Oh, I have to learn. Oh, I have to grow up. Your anxiety doesn’t have to control you, you’re self-destructive, blah blah blah.”

5: But that’s what it’s doing, and you’re only hurting yourself!

2: And that’s what makes you feel awful!

3: And stops you from completing your goals!

1: That’s not it, guys. This is the formula: 1 plus 2 plus 3 plus 4 plus 5 plus 7 equals 22. I am 22.

22 is my lucky number, but 6 is the missing facet. I’m still searching for her.

Comic to accompany post soon.

Tonight, I attended the play “Our Town.” I assumed it was going to be a light-hearted musical about two people falling in love in small town. Oh, how wrong I was. Instead, the third act ended on quite the depressing point: the young woman died in childbirth, and is speaking with the other souls who sit at their tombstones. The whole play is actually about relishing every minute of living; we are just ignorant and blind souls who take life for granted, and when it ends, all we are left are ever-fading memories. I didn’t expect this, and I left the theatre with a heavy heart.

It was bitterly cold out, and the wind was blowing. If it weren’t for that wind chill, I would’ve been fine, but the weather only heaped more sadness upon me. Also, I have a love/hate relationship with the night. Because of an astigmatism in my right eye, every lamp-post, street light and car blinker looks like a bursting star. Where I live, the sidewalks of downtown are lined with lamp-posts, so, when gazing down the street, the darkness was constantly invaded by exploding lights. They just shine too brightly, and give the world an eerie glow. It’s odd, because it’s not the darkness I’m afraid of at night, it’s the light. It’s how it shines and how it acts. It acknowledges the fact that is widely accepted as the better side, the thing that people want to stand other, the illuminating factor. Yet when you see through a strange eye and your imagination runs as actively as mine, the light looks like a monster, a bunch of too-bright monsters lining the street.Because of all the lights and the darker patches they create with their intensity, my shadows morph quickly. I am one person, I am four. I am tall as a skyscraper, I am no longer there. As I walked through the bitter cold, my hands in my hoodie pockets, my pants pockets stuffed with electronics and cards, I kept my shoulders hunched and let the cold air infiltrate my nose. For some reason, this keeps me awake, and seems to revitalize me so that I don’t feel any fatigue while walking. At first, I waited for the bus, and waited. A woman offered me a cigarette and I kindly refused. She coughed, the phlegm sounding thick as molasses, and I thought, “This is why.” I wasn’t sure if she was homeless or not, but I felt pity for her, all wrapped in blankets and make-shift scarves while waiting like me. After awhile, I gave up, and started my trek home. The world was pretty much silent, besides for the music booming through my earphones. There I am, pale and wide-eyed like a white cat caught in the headlights of a car, walking at a steady pace back towards home.

I could not stop turning around.

No one was following me. No one has ever followed me. I have never followed anyone, actually (unless directed). Yet the world at night, in a town I don’t know well, with its slinky alleyways and barren parking lots, with its groups of students laughing as they head to the nearest club or bar, with the lone woman smoking a cigarette and coughing up the remnants of her lungs as I stare blankly at the world around me. It was beautiful, but it was vicious. It was a juxtaposition; college students and the poor, elegant buildings of plantations and projects in the ghetto, the smell of expensive perfume and cheap cigarettes. Then, with all that light, and all that intense darkness, and the hills that slope and warp the landscape, everything was different. I was astounded, but I was afraid.

I had walked alone before, at night, in the dark, in highly populated places. My astigmatism has been with me since I was young; it bothers me while driving. Yet I felt very different, and very disconnected, as I made my way back home. My hands were constantly in my pockets and I sometimes straightened my back up so that I wasn’t so hunched. I kept on thinking I looked “sketchy,” but I could feel my facial muscles. My expression must of been one of tense fear and alertness. Look around the corner, and see that there’s nothing there. See a man by himself and he smiles congenially at you, but you glare at his shadow as it disappears from your peripheral vision. Keep on turning around and nearly tripping on your own feet, music ringing in your ears but not hindering thoughts of the supernatural and the unnatural.

That was me, lonely little college student. I only saw “Our Town” because I had to for a class. If I had known the content would’ve affected me so, I would’ve never gone near it. In the play, death was not an abstract idea or personified by a skeleton in a cloak; death was there, in my face, as the actors pretended to lift the coffin of the girl and settle it into the ground. I always think of death in a detached way, like something that is far off and will come in years, and something that I will be ready for. I will not die as a cripple. I will not die in agony, and if I must, it will be righteous agony. I will not die because of my own laziness. I’ve promised myself to die in a way that is glorious, not in flames but maybe as a beautiful image crystallized in ice. My expression, my last would be ever-present as museum-goers stare in awe. I dramatize and romanticize death, because that is the only way I handle it. “Our Town” gave death reality, and I disliked that.

I walk the line. I walk the line between reality and what is imagined. Sometimes I err on the side of the mind too much for my own good.