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Death terrifies me. Many nights, thoughts of death sneak into my mind and cause a state of insomnia that lasts until I purposefully focus on some other less morbid concept. But it's not morbidity, I don't have any inclination to torture myself, it just happens. I'm lying there and it strikes me that I'm a tic-tac closer to death. I imagine the world after my demise, I envision everything and everyone just going on about their business. I'm not as anguished by my inevitable vanishing into thin air as by the fact that I won't be here to see it.
The last time there was such a crisis in my life I could barely concentrate on anything. I couldn't hold a coherent conversation. I lost my appetite and with it a lot of weight. I didn't sleep well, nightmares made me wake up even more stressed than the day before. Life seemed more painful after every dawn. Major crises turned me into a different person. I'm not sure what it is that makes me hold it all together now, but I am certain no crisis can knock me down so hard anymore. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is worth losing yourself over.
I wonder why beautiful models always claim they aren't just a pretty face and insist on saying they've got brains too. If I were pretty enough to make a living out of my body, would I care what others thought of my brains? I can't say. But the fact that these girls dwell so much on their alleged mental prowess makes me suspect they don't have much of one to speak of. Maybe they should stop to consider that they're not the dorks for "selling" their bodies to make a living, we are, for buying into it with such alacrity.
It amazes me how many people believe in resurrection (or reincarnation, or any other form of after-death existence). There's nothing to prove that we're anything but dust after we die, but of course there's no proof to the contrary either. Which is what made the Vatican rich, it sure wasn't reason, and it most certainly weren't good deeds. Fear of nothingness gives meaning to the word "faith," and sustenance to organized religions. Death has been a powerful ally to these empires built on fear of the unknown. They've reigned with impunity forever. We, deathly creatures, are a race of cowards.
I have a hard time with the "politically correct" concept. To begin with, whoever got the idea that anything political is ever correct? Then, it looks like we need some convincing to act and talk with correctness. Such grand sounding word as "political" might help the juices of civility flow. But it doesn't most of the times, so who are we kidding here. What really exasperates me about the whole thing is that more times than not it seems to warn me against telling it how I see it. "Socially challenged", my ass. I'll stick to ill-mannered asshole any day.
Ages ago, when I heard "the worst day of my life was...", I didn't understand how anyone could pinpoint one day in their lives as the absolute worst. Sadly, I eventually found out it's easy to name one day, when that day happens to you. To me, it came when I learnt that my father had incurable cancer. The anguish that spread through me, as cancer was spreading through him, is the worst feeling I've ever experienced. I couldn't cope with the knowledge that dad was going to die soon. Ten years later, I've yet to overcome that terrible sensation.
You have a right to be superstitious. If you must, avoid walking below a stepladder, or black cats that are dangerously close to crossing your path, or any other such thing that's supposed to bring misfortune. But please, I'm asking nicely, leave me well enough alone. I'll be polite and won't call you ignorant, so I'd appreciate it if you return the compliment and refrain from filling my head with your nonsense. Really. If you are superstitious, you better avoid me like you avoid black cats. Don't be silly and tempt me into breaking a mirror just to spite you.
You think that filling up your business emails with lots of acronyms and abbreviations makes you look very professional, but it actually makes you look like an individual without personality. If I need to stop and wonder about the meaning of every second word, your email ceases to be a means of communication and becomes an annoying guessing game. You make me lose my time, as I'm sure you lost yours trying to impress me with your business lingo savvy. Oh, and if you're going to say "pls", please act as if you mean it. Half pleases don't please me.
I'm thinking about the premise that says we don't fully appreciate an experience when it happens because we're distracted by the event itself. In remembrance, we can extract the most from it and so experience it more intensely than we ever could at the time it happened. It might have a point, but reliving events often means "editing" them, cutting and pasting the parts that are worth keeping and suppressing the rest. Like producing a movie of your life. "Remembrance of Things Past" might be a good title for a book, but I'll rather be distracted by experience any day.
Once you start lying about what or who you are, you fall into a bottomless trap. To protect one lie, you need to tell another, and another, until it becomes a full-time chore to keep track of all the lies. You'll get so tangled in your own fabrication, you'll forget why you told that first lie. You'll be so trapped in your fantasy you probably wouldn't be able to tell the truth even if you wanted to. Anyhow, that truth you wanted to hide in the first place no longer exists. You aren't that person anymore, just a complete lie.
There are some cretins that, finding themselves between a rock and a hard place, will ask for your help. But in truth they don't want you to help them, they want somebody else to fail where they did in order to put their wounded egos at ease. As soon as you dirty your hands with their problem, they'll go "I already tried that," "this won't work," "what if..." etc. and will go to shameless extents to boycott your efforts to fix their shit. They don't want help, they want you to surrender, they want a scapegoat to justify their stupidity.
I’m quite plain looking all around, face and body on the whole. Besides, I never use any make-up, nor dress myself in a very pampering way. I never look sharp, never show off, and certainly never turn any heads. I’ll rather be this way than be as those chicks that are even more plain or worse looking than me, but try hard as hell to make it look otherwise, via unskilled make-up or unfitting and inadequate get-ups. Most of them only succeed in looking like ridiculous characters, giving me an advantage I never hoped to have in the first place.
It's sad in a sort of funny way when I see a woman in her fifties with a face that looks in her forties but a neck that, in comparison, puts her on her sixties. If she's happy like that, though, what can I say. I don't care much one way or the other about plastic surgery. It's everyone's prerogative to do whatever they want with their bodies. But it unsettles me how people fool themselves into pursuing an ideal of beauty that doesn't exist. And how they fool themselves into believing they did actually manage to turn the clock.
When I was eleven I ran away from home because I wanted to experience being on my own. I roamed the streets for hours, until I figured the world wasn't prepared for a kid being on her own at midnight. Family, teachers, and the odd psychologist drilled me about my reasons for flying. I fabricated a tale that rang quite true to me, but that nobody believed. That was a mistake; the truth would have spared my parents from worrying that they were doing something wrong. But trying to fly wasn't a mistake. It never is. I never regretted it.
This doesn't look good on me but it's fashionable. This looks great on me but it's from last year. This is what everybody else does. This is what everyone else is talking about. This is what I'm supposed to think. This is fantastic but nobody else likes it, so I guess me neither. I'm above this. I'm too old for this. I'm still not old enough for this. I'm gonna be sorry tomorrow. What will people think. I didn't know. I should have known. I wish I'd known. Well, it's about time you knew. These are all the wrong reasons.
There was a total lunar eclipse last night, peaking at 5:00 am. I set the alarm clock at 4:55 to witness that marvelous display of nature. When the alarm went off, I cursed myself and my ridiculous idea of getting up in the middle of the night. But I did get up, only to return to bed three minutes later, barely conscious of the beauty I'd just witnessed. It didn't matter, though, because I'm perfectly conscious today, and I remember the image of the shadowed, reddish moon, and I'm reminded why I wanted to witness it in the first place.
You're somewhere around fifty, but dress as if you aren't acquainted to forty, and behave as if you're in your twenties. Hello, what's wrong with you? If you really want to pretend about your age, get your act together and settle on a point in time. Mixing up so many generations in your bearing doesn't make you look youthful, it just makes you look like a clown. You're trying so hard to look younger that it makes it painfully obvious you aren't so. You look older than you are, and not because of your years, but because of your desperation.
I wonder about people who can lie to themselves as if their brains had two compartments, one holding the truth and the other holding their self-deceptions. I wonder, too, what's the purpose of lying to oneself. If there's something that's so bad about you that you can't stand acknowledging it, then maybe you should try to change it, instead of deluding yourself with the idea that it doesn't exist. Then again, I hear that some people lie to themselves without consciously knowing it, and I do wonder about that. Is it a refined form of self-protection, or just plain cowardice?
What would happen if we all stopped acting as if we cared about anything that wasn't ours, and started behaving as if civilization hadn't tamed the beasts that we really are? What would happen if we all stopped investing efforts into anything, except the business of surviving, without caring one bit about the needs of our fellow humans? What would happen if, instead of feeling induced to work for things we don't care about, for reasons that aren't ours, we'd just stop being meek and eating all the shit and making painful efforts to go through the motions every day?
When your self-esteem is so low that you need to deeply insult me in order to feel validated, my first reaction is contempt. For a second, I want to get in your face and scream at you to look in the mirror if you need a let-out for your insecurities. But that only lasts a second. Engaging in a struggle with you would actually grant you the validation you seek. So I just stare impassively at you, ignoring your offense. I take satisfaction in seeing your enraged face turning red, as you sink lower yet in your scale of self-esteem.
I know this guy whom I call the spirit of contradiction. He looks like the regular know-it-all who always needs to be right, but if you know him better you realize he's a professional contradictor. He's capable of talking you into a stupor to get you to agree with him, and he won't relent until you concede his point. However, if you do, just to stop the torture of his voice, he'll shut up for only a second, time enough for him to find another way to contradict you. It doesn't make any difference that you just agreed with him.
I hate it when I move out of the way to let someone pass and they don't thank me, or when I hold the door for someone and they pass by without acknowledging the gesture. Sometimes I make them acknowledge it. I'll tap them in the shoulder and look at them meaningfully, until they feel uncomfortable enough to mutter thanks under their breath. I hate it that I do these things when obviously very few care (although they would care if the door smacked them in the face), but I'd hate it even more to become just another impolite jerk.
There's this guy in my office that is always giving free advice before thinking what he's going to say, and to whom he's going to say it. He's the typical know-it-all who'd try to tell a monkey how to eat a banana. Sometimes we're tempted to shut him up via a swift slap in the face, but mostly we let him babble because it's fun. He's totally clueless that the look on our faces while he rambles isn't from awe, but from a tremendous effort not to break into laughter. We actually bet on who'll be the first to explode.
Sometimes I try to imagine what I'd do if I knew that I was going to die tomorrow, but I can't imagine, really. I can't even begin to fathom the anguish I'd feel, but if I extrapolate from the anguish the sole idea causes me, then it's likely I wouldn't even get to see tomorrow. I'd probably die from a panic attack. I don't know why I torture myself like this. Death terrifies me enough as it is, without any help from some intellectual conjecture. Maybe it's a subconscious effort to face my demons, but it's certainly a vain effort.
I'd say there are two ways to go about your job when you work in the corporate world. One is to perform well, and the other is to play the corporate game. More often than not, it appears that those who simply do their thing and do it well seldom get any credit for it, credit goes to those who don't know jack shit about the business at hand, but know a lot about the unwritten rules of the corporate scene. It seems to pay more to have friends in high places than to be good at what you do.
A friend of mine says you find out who your real friends are when you're happy. She says there are always people ready to lend a shoulder to cry on, but many who'd promptly listen to your sorrows won't be inclined to listen to your laughter. She says this is because comforting you in times of grief makes them feel valuable and worthy individuals, but laughing with you serves no purpose, except maybe remind them that they haven't their own reasons to laugh. She says your real friends will laugh along with you no matter what. I think she's right.
We live by the premise that because we had a yesterday we will also have a tomorrow. It's impossible to think in terms of today only, removed from the spins of time, to accept that our life doesn't exist beyond the present minute. We can comprehend the concept, but it's hard to sustain it emotionally. It's true, though. Today is yesterday's tomorrow, but it only exists today; today's tomorrow it just a necessary belief. The future is as unreachable as the horizon. When we move forward, it moves just out of grasp, because it doesn't exist, save in our minds.
Another priest found guilty of child molesting here in my good old religious country. For all the Catholic Church preaching about there being a better life beyond death, they're sure having a field day here on earth. Fucking hypocrites. But that's old news, right? While the Pope is punching holes in condoms, the lower ranks feast on the flesh they ask the rest of the faithful believers to negate. Still, child molesting seems like the ultimate offense. I suppose the fuckers think they're covered... when Christ died on the cross for our sins, he never said child molesting wasn't included.
Trying to please everyone is not only absurd, it's also a sign of mediocrity. There are too many people in the world for you do much of anything without making somebody mad. If you worry how every person that crosses your path will feel, you'd just as well be a soccer ball that everybody kicks in a different direction. Even if you're the conciliatory type, pleasing everyone is impossible, and since it's a given that someone or other will be disappointed at any decision you take, get over it and at least try to make sure you don't disappoint yourself.
Here's how my informal business dinner turned out last night. The girl on my right talked about sex nonstop, which made me think she isn't getting much. The one on my left was convinced sex is highly overrated; my bet was she either isn't getting any, or hasn't had a good fuck in ages. Across from me sat a sexy number who probably gets more action than she can keep track of; she absolutely refused to discuss sex. I didn't say much. I was busy concentrating on not laughing out loud every time she fondled my crotch with her foot.
Gee, I need to be quick about this today, because we're late for dinner at a friend's. My girlfriend is rushing me, and threatening to leave alone. She wouldn't, of course, she just figures the pressure will help me. Damn it, it's just 100 words, it can't take more than five minutes, she says. For the hundredth time, I tell her to shut up and leave me alone, because every time she tells me to rush, she's literally stopping me from writing another word. Babes, come on, do it already for pete's sake. Well, I'm done already. I'm outta here.
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