I did not post anything last week. I did write though. I wrote the next few paragraphs. I just didn’t really work up the necessary confidence to post till now. Also, I may be posting this because its Wednesday, I have a full schedule ahead of me, and am too lazy to write anything. Anyway, as punishment, I’m supposed to reveal an embarrassing secret. I think all of this post that follows right here qualifies as a pretty embarrassing secret. Not embarrassing, just not something to talk about kind of secret. For the sake of my ego, please read it in a bored/ dark and sarcastic mind voice because that’s how I wrote it. Here ’tis –
Maybe I’m just of a literary, or to be more accurate, a TV bent of mind, but almost every week, I think of events around me as going towards one clear conclusion. Or maybe I just watched a lot of Scrubs and it left an indelible mark on me. Or maybe I’m just desperate to write something and I grab on to the easiest (in this case, the most difficult) thing I have to write about.
I’ve been struggling with what I should write this week. The added pressure of a few more people expecting good things has not helped. Also, please forgive me for typos. I am very high. There was a treat. There was no alcohol involved in the treat. But before the treat and after the treat, we ladies drank our college lives proud. All of this will be in my memoir in greater detail, for those of you who are interested.
Anyway, I thought about writing about food or OCD or about nothing at all with a lot of references to sessual acts (the latter struck me as a clutching on to last straws kinda thing so I didn’t do it), but really – meh.
This week I got the guts to admit some stuff to my friends. And this stuff was some major stuff. The problem is that I try to be fun in this blog. And personally I am not really into reading philosophical or self-help-y pieces of writing, so I don’t like writing them either. To wit I had to either come up with something else to write about, or come up with some way of writing about said confessions from a perspective that made writing and reading about my little victory over my ego a fun thing to do. I think I may succeed in this venture. I hope so.
H once told me that there was an indescribable pleasure in discussing literature and/or TV or movies and having your opinions thereof challenged and changed successfully. For the sake of me pride, I will mention that this was with reference to the fact that I changed her mind and gave her closure about the second last chapter of Deathly Hallows by referring to something that I had read about in The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie. I plan to make that my dissertation at the University of Stuff People Talk About On The Internet. I had one of these moments when John Green discussed The Catcher In The Rye on his Youtube channel once.
Like undoubtedly countless other mentally and upper middle classed-ly disenfranchised youths, I loved this book because at the most basic level, it spoke to me about being unable to understand and fit into the world that others created. I took it as a tome to independence, suffering at the hands of the world (the world being the education system, parents, friends, films, friends, and teachers) and post-adolescent cynicism.
And John agreed that when reading the book at first, you feel pretty bad for Holden. All he seems to want is someone to talk to; to have an honest, egoless conversation with. And he keeps trying and trying to have some connection with every person he meets, and every person he thinks of and every person he remembers, and in the end, the one person who seemed to want to listen to him ends up touching him inappropriately while he’s sleeping. (That part, I really didn’t know what to think about) By all standards, this book should depress the hell out of all of us. Guy gets expelled. Guy spends a few days in the city. Guy is depressed. Guy tries to talk to people and fails. Guy manages to talk to nine year old sister. Guy ends up in some sort of mental home. Hello Sadville. I’m new in town. Where do all the other sad people hang out? Can I join them? Oh… they don’t hang out?
But then John pointed out that the reason its not depressing is because Holden s narrating this story with a lot of moxy and honesty (is that how you spell moxy?). It is not stream of consciousness. It is not just random stuff that creeps into Holden’s head. It is incidents and feelings that he has examined and thought about, and clearly attained some closure about. He has some perspective. And thus, my long drawn out introduction comes to the point where it has something to do with the title of the post. Huzzah!
But that’s the point. In a moment of clarity, some time while I was high (on the way to TGIF) I realized that all I needed was perspective. This shite of which I will speak was happening about a year ago. I have currently reached a point where I’m able to talk to people about it without any emotional repercussions. So here I go –
My awfully awful friends who will never let me be in denial or even risk me being in denial at any time in the future, presented me with certain fears they had about me and what I was doing with my life. They heard about the drug abuse, basically. No, they heard about the prostitution. No, I ain’t no ho. They heard about the bestiality I committed while high on breath mints. It wasn’t prostitution. I didn’t take the money, and I really did love Alice the Mini Horse (Guess where I got Mini Horse from?). And the breath mints were prescription. Anyway, my friends thought that none of this was going to work out in my favor. So I had to, for the second time, face some stupid existential crisis because they cant let shit be.
Here’s the thing. Remember when I mentioned that my friends have taken to drugging me as a solution to my apathy? I’m checking the date on that post and that was 28th March. That is pretty much an exact quote. Anyway, the crap little detail there is that it wasn’t apathy. And they didn’t drug me. They just said they all wanted to drink and while the drinking was going on, they refrained from telling me that they were not in fact drinking and that I was the only one amongst the four of us that was actually consuming alcohol. Yeah. Under normal circumstances, I would have felt a twinge of pissed off-ness at them. Either way, they got me talking about why I was shut up in my room so much, apparently only interested in sitcoms and Jon Stewart and Colbert.
At some point while I was thus inebriated, I had to mention that I didn’t talk a lot because there was nothing I could say in the utterly lawyerly and erudite conversations they (my friends) seemed to partake in. I had spent the winter before this intervention interning at two places where I really liked working. Both of the bosses involved were cool, funny and gave me a drive to work simply in order to satisfy myself. And I still came back realizing yet again that I wanted nothing to do with the law. Suffice it to say, this was not something I dealt well with.
I came to law school because I imagined that in five years, I would have a degree and enough skills to do what I wanted, which I imagined I would have figured out in five years (Insufferably optimistic of me, you say? Well hindsight is twenty-twenty, fellow law school bitch). The latter clearly had not happened. And honestly, I didn’t even know if I had the strength of will to do the former (get the degree). So sad. And while I was giving this little tidbit of sadnessto my friends, they asked me what I really liked doing. And because I was too drunk to filter my answers, I said I liked writing and that it was the only thing I felt comfortable doing.
That’s pretty much what got me out of my funk. First, the fact that I knew what I wanted to do, and second that I had three people in my life willing to technically delve into grey areas of the law to save me from myself. Make sure you write this down kids – Self affirmation and true karmic independence is overrated. Having someone give a shit enough to do something is much, much better.
But what the three felon friends didn’t know was that they didn’t know the half of it. I wasn’t just confused or worried. I was in a pretty dark stage. The kind of dark where if I think about how bad a state I was in mentally, I get scared of the fact that I was ever capable of being that depressed. And I was like that for quite a while; since a little more than six months before this forced drunkenness.
I don’t like to use the S word (I have never really been very interested in Sex. So I don’t like to say the word. Is this an entirely transparent attempt to distract from the actual S word connected to depression, i.e. Sangria? You’ll never know) and I really wasn’t thinking about Sangria in an actual, “I want to drink Sangria because Sangria is the only drink option left in the world” kind of way. I was just thinking about it in the “man, Sangria seems like it would be a really really easy way to stop being terribly thirsty and sad” kind of way. But I did think about Sangria almost every second that I wasn’t laughing at something someone said or wasn’t generally distracted. This may or may not be the reason there were complaints from my neighbors about me laughing too loudly at odd times in the night.
The point is, I’ve had a few issues in life; issues such as some deep shame over being presumably unworthy. And it sucked a lot. There was a point where I cried entirely too much (in the privacy of my room, late at night) for any normal person. Seriously, I should have harvested the fuck out of that talent – endless crying. But it got better. Cue Vangelis.
And now, I think me and Alice the Mini Horse are going to not be seeing each other anymore. I can’t be sure, but I caught her fucking a goat. A male goat. I’m assuming that means we’re done. Also, my err.. my breath mint person who sold me breath mints left town without telling me about it. But even as I bid adieu to my life with Alice, and the dreams I had of us riding off into the sunset (in a very acrobatic yet odd position to align our boom booms), and I deal with withdrawal symptoms, I think I’ll be fine. Because if I could survive constant crying and day dreaming about Sangria, I’m okay with being a little sad about me and Alice and about my need to tear my skin apart because I haven’t had a hit of fresh, uncut mint in ages. Perspective.
ME: You know, when you try to add funny to this stuff it just seems disingenuous. Like you’re doing the uncomfortable fake laugh throughout. Pathetic.
me: Hey, you’re the one that convinced me to post this shite anyway. I was perfectly willing to wait another week for inspiration and then write about two actually funny embarassing secrets.
ME: I convinced you so people would know you’re capable of being an idiot. That whole time was idiotic. You were stupid.
me: Ugh. Ok whatever. Its done now. Nothing we can do about it.
ME: Cue the random stuff you put up in the end.
Here’s this thing I found when I ran into International Sceptics Day stuff on Youtube. I like how this guy does atheism – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Oe6HUgrRlQ&feature=g-hist
Also I find him to be strangely good looking. Or maybe its just the stuff coming out of his mouth. Oral Sex Jokes!
Wow. I have nothing more. No gifs. No pictures. What will I do now?? Sangria.
ME: Again, uncomfortable fake laughter.