Every love letter I ever wrote (I think there were five) has ended in humiliation, horror and probably hilarity. I don't know what possessed me but I know that once the eyes for which they were intended read them, GAME OVER. It's like a jinx with a Groundhog Day twist. I knew EXACTLY what was going to happen but I'm forced to relive it over and over again until I forgot what it tastes like and try it AGAIN, not unlike the yearly unveiling of THE NEW McRIB (IS BACK) (BUT IT'S NEW) (KINDA) (JUST BUY ONE DAMMIT YOU'LL PROBABLY LIKE IT) (OR NOT BUT AT LEAST WE'LL HAVE YOUR MONEY) I fall for it every time and walk away wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I feel the same way about corn dogs. <muses>
There's plenty wrong but I'm not unusual or unique in that respect. There's also plenty right. Be warned that with every new post I'll probably trot out my Greek chorus of friends singing my praises wondering what the hell is wrong with people when it's very simply, nothing. We're all human. I'm not being magnanimous either. It hurts like hell. I'm STILL licking my wounds but at least the pile of Raspberry Zinger wrappers on the coffee table has stopped growing and threatening to engulf my cat Wonton who likes to roll around in its crinkly creamy scented cloud.
It's easy to attract and be attracted. A lot less easy to feel the same way about each other and even less to put up with each other's 'stuff'. Is love any more about embracing all the good, amazing and inspiring than putting up with all the crap that's hanging out like an overstuffed suitcase? And what if you say, "Okay, I'm game. I'll see your laziness, temper and moodiness and raise you anxiety, clinginess and rejection and they look at their hand and go, "I fold," and walk away? You sit there with your cards (or snack-cake wrappers) in your hand wondering, "Wait....WHAT?" and realize that you have to leave cos Happy Hour is over and you don't even have a stinkin' buzz.
The funny thing is that I know I'll write another love letter. Oh right now, I swear I won't. I'm saying, 'Fuck that shit. I'm done" but I'm not wired that way. I gots feelings and when I feels them I really feel them. I wish I didn't run off my mouth or fingers or pen as much but that's part of my charm too. I guess.
I'm just too Mary Freakin' Sunshine to lay down and die. If I'm gonna humiliate myself, it's gotta be with style and class. Okay, maybe just style. Love me or leave me, you'll never forget me because now you have written proof in the form of a letter. You're welcome.
As Bugs Bunny would say, "Exit, Stage Left."
Friday, November 19, 2010
When someone warns you about themselves, listen to them.
I *warned* you, but did you listen to me? Oh, no, you *knew*, didn't you? Oh, it's just a harmless little *bunny*, isn't it? ~ Monty Python and the Holy Grail
I've been told on more than a few occasions that I'm larger than life. Not only in size but in personality. Ask any number of my friends and they'll use the words, 'flamboyant', 'effervescent', 'bouncy' and 'bubbly'. By many accounts, I'm fun fun fun but there's a dark side to it too. If I'm honest, I'm also overwhelming, flashy and at times, loud and irritating.
So, I've taken to warning people, particularly men who are intrigued by me, that I'm not for the faint of heart.
It's not even a matter of 'wimps need not apply'. You pretty much have to be of very sound mind and preferably sound body to keep up with me (but the catch-22 is you have to be a little crazy so it's kinda like playing a game of duck-duck-goose by yourself) and like Monty Python's bunny, appearances can be very deceiving except for the flash of a devious twinkle or smirk which, unless you're very quick yourself, you'll likely miss while tripping over yourself to impress me. You don't need to, by the way. If I talk to you for more than five minutes, I'm already impressed.
If you think I take pride in this, I don't. It's an albatross around my neck, yet another prick in my own crown of thorns fashioned entirely on my own (and decorated with sparkles, pink glitter, feathers and Swarovski crystals cos I'm classy like that.) The truth is, I don't even know how bad I am until I look back on it not unlike when you have to rewind a movie you've been dying to watch because that loudmouth in the room keeps talking during the best parts. And by the way, the loudmouth is me too.
The thing is when I warn someone, especially a male someone, it's as if I issued a challenge they're compelled to accept. The more competitive the person, the more of an affront it will be. Like my girls singing Bootylicious, "I don't think you're ready for this jelli..." uh yeah...no...I don't think they get it. They think they can but I saw them lagging behind and I saw the writing on the wall and it hurt because I was honest. I was me. Eventually they'd call me crazy or a bitch or pretend they weren't interested when the truth was they thought they were up for the challenge and weren't. Mayne they didn't think it was worth it. I could respect that. Maybe they were cowards. I don't respect that but I accept it. What choice do I have?
Is it possible I'm all the things they say or think or convince themselves I am or am not? Oh hell yeah, but I warned them.
I've been told on more than a few occasions that I'm larger than life. Not only in size but in personality. Ask any number of my friends and they'll use the words, 'flamboyant', 'effervescent', 'bouncy' and 'bubbly'. By many accounts, I'm fun fun fun but there's a dark side to it too. If I'm honest, I'm also overwhelming, flashy and at times, loud and irritating.
So, I've taken to warning people, particularly men who are intrigued by me, that I'm not for the faint of heart.
It's not even a matter of 'wimps need not apply'. You pretty much have to be of very sound mind and preferably sound body to keep up with me (but the catch-22 is you have to be a little crazy so it's kinda like playing a game of duck-duck-goose by yourself) and like Monty Python's bunny, appearances can be very deceiving except for the flash of a devious twinkle or smirk which, unless you're very quick yourself, you'll likely miss while tripping over yourself to impress me. You don't need to, by the way. If I talk to you for more than five minutes, I'm already impressed.
If you think I take pride in this, I don't. It's an albatross around my neck, yet another prick in my own crown of thorns fashioned entirely on my own (and decorated with sparkles, pink glitter, feathers and Swarovski crystals cos I'm classy like that.) The truth is, I don't even know how bad I am until I look back on it not unlike when you have to rewind a movie you've been dying to watch because that loudmouth in the room keeps talking during the best parts. And by the way, the loudmouth is me too.
The thing is when I warn someone, especially a male someone, it's as if I issued a challenge they're compelled to accept. The more competitive the person, the more of an affront it will be. Like my girls singing Bootylicious, "I don't think you're ready for this jelli..." uh yeah...no...I don't think they get it. They think they can but I saw them lagging behind and I saw the writing on the wall and it hurt because I was honest. I was me. Eventually they'd call me crazy or a bitch or pretend they weren't interested when the truth was they thought they were up for the challenge and weren't. Mayne they didn't think it was worth it. I could respect that. Maybe they were cowards. I don't respect that but I accept it. What choice do I have?
Is it possible I'm all the things they say or think or convince themselves I am or am not? Oh hell yeah, but I warned them.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Let's Start At the Very Beginning. A Very Good Place to Start.
I don't know the first thing about blogs except that I read them. A lot of them, in fact. It helps that I love to read, am a hopeless insomniac so have a lot of long nights on my hands and everyone generally fascinates me.
People have been asking me to write a blog for a long time but I've really been wondering if the world needs more of me. I'm not one of those people who needs to get in touch with my feelings. To tell the truth, I should really push a lot of those feelings out the passenger door of a getaway car on a lost lonely highway and make a run for it because those feelings are shared with everyone and everything and like a wriggly puppy can be delightful at first but can quickly degenerate into people running around screaming, Okay...who fed the puppy crayons? Oh GOD! Who let the puppy get into my slippers? Aww dammit..the puppy is pissing all over my pants...well..you get the idea. I got feelings. Those feelings got feelings.
Add to that an anxiety issue that includes something called 'racing thoughts', narcissism and a self-awareness that can only be cultivated through years of navel gazing and having my head far up my ass but hey, at least I can feel it!
So my Fiction Writing for Dummys (not its real name but I have that too) strongly suggests that I write a journal or blog for a few minutes each day to get the creative juices flowing and after much debate and deliberation with some colleagues *cough* friends who also have blogs, I decided to take a shot.
I think I'll start with a shot of Pinnacle Whipped Cream vodka. It's smooth. It's sweet--oh back to the blog-- Here's the thing: I don't have a problem with creative juices. Of any kind. My issue is focus. I have a lot of shit to say but but have the attention span of a cat. I don't go on tangents. I go on thought-safaris.
Well. It's a start. Cheers.
People have been asking me to write a blog for a long time but I've really been wondering if the world needs more of me. I'm not one of those people who needs to get in touch with my feelings. To tell the truth, I should really push a lot of those feelings out the passenger door of a getaway car on a lost lonely highway and make a run for it because those feelings are shared with everyone and everything and like a wriggly puppy can be delightful at first but can quickly degenerate into people running around screaming, Okay...who fed the puppy crayons? Oh GOD! Who let the puppy get into my slippers? Aww dammit..the puppy is pissing all over my pants...well..you get the idea. I got feelings. Those feelings got feelings.
Add to that an anxiety issue that includes something called 'racing thoughts', narcissism and a self-awareness that can only be cultivated through years of navel gazing and having my head far up my ass but hey, at least I can feel it!
So my Fiction Writing for Dummys (not its real name but I have that too) strongly suggests that I write a journal or blog for a few minutes each day to get the creative juices flowing and after much debate and deliberation with some colleagues *cough* friends who also have blogs, I decided to take a shot.
I think I'll start with a shot of Pinnacle Whipped Cream vodka. It's smooth. It's sweet--oh back to the blog-- Here's the thing: I don't have a problem with creative juices. Of any kind. My issue is focus. I have a lot of shit to say but but have the attention span of a cat. I don't go on tangents. I go on thought-safaris.
Well. It's a start. Cheers.
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