Have you ever been with someone who takes 20 minutes to say what could have been two sentences, and at such a loud volume that it’s socially suffocating and uncomfortable, and who fills every dead space with “aaaahm, uhhhhh” noises to ENSURE you have no way to protest or contribute one way or the other, so you just have to sit there and take it?
As has been proven many times in the past: at the exact same time I have no patience, I also seem to have the patience of a saint.
Oh sorry, I’m no longer in the business of making myself small because a man wishes it.
The subconscious is funny. It takes care of me when my instincts won’t. When your room is a pig sty, and every time I come over you still haven’t cleaned, I stub my toe or trip on everything, and I have to beg you to provide me–your guest–a clean towel, space on the bed, basic amenities, a single empty space on the floor to even put my overnight bag….. I’m attracted to you less and less each time until I’m finally not attracted to you at all. My subconscious looks into the future and sees you never pulling your weight, and it slowly cures me.
Thanks, subconscious–the real MVP. To the gross dude, you have literally shoved me out of bed and made me feel unwelcome for the last time. Congrats, it worked?
My grandfather and I were close only in that emotional way that girls are close with a grandfather. We didn’t have deep conversations, and it says a lot about my self-imposed isolation and general disinterest growing up that I learned most of what I know about him from reading his book. He believed certain things with every fiber of his being, and it made him happy to do so. When he lived, all I could see were what made us different. Here at the end, I’m thinking about all the wholesome interactions we shared over the years. He was a good and generous person; the kind of man who spent retirement picking up trash off the highway every morning in his bright yellow beetle, even if environmentalism was for weirdos. I suppose I get my outlandish fashion from him, even if we didn’t agree on much else. His positive outlook on humanity is something to aspire to.
Watching my grandfather run from invisible demons in his mind; hear him cry out in pain or fear or both, completely incapacitated and absent from reality…. I’m called back to those moments of madness that I have after my seizures, when I’m stuck between worlds but can’t move or speak or see or even form cogent thoughts. In those times I don’t have thoughts at all, I have “mind flashes” — flurries of images and feelings that make no sense when placed on a number line because there’s no relativity, connection, or logical flow between them. These times look and feel just like those episodes of Evangelion.
I only experience them for a few minutes, and they’re absolutely frightening every time. He (I assume) has been experiencing them for years. Y E A R S. Late-stage dementia is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen a person go through. It looks like complete insanity, and with the physical incapacitation to boot, there’s no ability to escape, distract, or end it (if that were his wish). It’s a version of being alive that is literal torture.
When I’m on the cusp of death, I hope I have even half so many visitors and well-wishers as he’s had. I hope my impact on others looks something like his. But I wouldn’t want his end. I’d hope someone rescues me (or I accomplish the rescue) long before I ever reached permanent Evangelion.
I had a bone-chilling dream last night. On the side of a backroad, off in deep woods somewhere, I and a friend discovered an underground series of dormitories that centered around a portal to another world, possible in a different dimension altogether. This other world was jaw-droppingly beautiful–pastel skies, space and time in flux, wide grasslands that shimmered and seemed to move in ways earth materials don’t. The potential of this reality-altering discovery could not be overdescribed.
So, why was it being kept down here in this underground dormitory in the woods? I come to discover naked female corpses being dumped beyond the portal. …Rich and powerful men were keeping the portal secret and using it as a dumping ground for their sex trafficked slaves to hide evidence and operate with impunity. The rest of the dream is escaping this underground dormitory (which is castle-sized, but horizontally instead of vertically) without being discovered, killed, and dumped across the portal myself.
What a meta take on the human race that this is what I assume the first evidence of a reality beyond our own would be used for. And I can’t even say with waking-world certainty that my take was incorrect.
Today in “Facebook ads that know me better than I know myself”, we have my two fashions: bondage gear and Shire garb.
Having emotionally charged encounters with a poly dude who “doesn’t believe in relationships” is the equivalent of driving out to Yosemite without food, water, or camping equipment and thinking it’s going to go fine.
Me, to me: “Sure, but after a few years alone it’s better than nothing.”
My rebuttal, to me:
Update: It went south 👍
I’ve pulled enough all-nighters at work to know the exact moment I’ll be kicked off the server for it’s nightly backup routine (4:48) for approximately 25 to 35 minutes, also known as forced naptime. And let me say, this morning’s forced naptime. was. glorious.
There are those Teapartiers on your newsfeed that you always suspect don’t fully understand their positions…. And then an application like Facebook just makes it so much easier to confirm that suspicion when they press “like” on an article that not only disagrees with but outright debunks their position simply because they misunderstood the title, proving once and for all that they share articles only in an effort to appear as informed as their opposition.
And then once being called on it:
I’m fickle, I’m curious, and I like to try new things. This means I sometimes pick up a hobby only to put it down again and move on to something else. Before I die I’d like to have tried just about everything that would ever interest me.
While I do this in sufficient quantities sometimes, I think chronicling the efforts will do two things: One, get me blogging again, which is sorely missed. Two, keep me motivated and continually doing the new things currently tantalizing me in the back of my mind. I feel myself slipping into comfortable monotony and settling for familiar, easy activities like Netflix and cleaning.