I have a complicated ego. (Don't we all?) It shields me from reality, keeping me lost in the sea of its preconceived notion of itself. And then shields me from the crap that its preconceived notion emits by rationalizing it into something else. Ultimately, how I end up seeing myself is completely different from how others see me. Who gets the correct view of whom I am? Neither. Both are pretty much fucked up.
When it comes to shit like that, friendships can be, and will get, utterly destroyed. And my ego, in its attempt to take the moral high ground by attempting to not judge their responses, can't see what harm has been done to that other person. Completely oblivious really. It's so messed up.
What it ultimately comes down to is my ego butting heads with someone else's ego. And my ego will not let me see that that is what I'm doing. Yes, my battered and bruised ego, injured from decades of abuse, screams out acidic tirades in frustration, all the while telling me it's simply expressing a truth that other people need to understand. No concept of whether it's appropriate or even relevant. It's oblivious to that reality. And then my ego has the audacity to be confused and offended, if that screaming is rejected, dismissed or challenged.
So what am I going on about?
Me shoving my Dirty Laundry into other people's faces.
No one likes that shit. No one. It's a lose-lose. Always has been, always will be.
I would have imagined that in time I could open up to people. Come out of the closet about this blog. To remove the anonymity and let it stand as a connection to my past. Show how I've worked through things, and come to learn who I am. But now, I'm not so sure this blog should exist. It may need to disappear completely and permanently off the Internet. I may need to disappear completely and permanently off the Internet too.
All the plans I had, wiped out by my own arrogance and smug self-righteousness. Oblivious I was. Fucking oblivious. Patting myself on the back for all the great work I've done only to find I've done nothing but make enemies where I had none before. They had done NOTHING to me. They had been patiently putting up with my bullshit for DECADES. They had defended me and stood-up for me when I was at my most assholishness. They didn't give a shit that I was gay. They didn't give a shit I left the church. And then, I turn around and spit on them to feed my little bruised ego. What was I trying to gain from that? A reason to say, "Oh poor me. Look, see, no one really likes me." Self induced pity. This entire blog has turned into a pity party for me. What the fuck was I thinking?
I don't care if people think that they shouldn't have been offended by what I was doing. That's no excuse. Why? Because deep down I knew that what I was doing was going to offend. I may not have known why, or how or who specifically, but I did know it would offend, on purpose. I was trying to push buttons.
I have written and spoken at times about how it is not my responsibility to protect other people's view of the world by compromising who I am. I still mean it. It's just that in this case, I crossed the line and compromised myself in an attempt to selfishly destroy someone else's view of the world. That's a big difference! When my view of the world changed, it wasn't because someone was shoveling it on me. I did it on my own because I needed to do it. But then I snapped. Something had triggered my pain. I quickly forgot my experiences and selfishly expected that others needed their world view changed. Even when it was working perfectly well for them, maybe even better than the one I was currently trying to shovel. It was pure hypocrisy from a lapse of self-awareness.
I can say it like I see it but it doesn't matter if buttons are purposely pushed. They will only create conflict and close hearts, hearts that have been so willing to work with me and let me be myself. Hearts that put up with the button pushing until it became so toxic that they had to shut down to protect themselves from annihilation. Pushing to that point is poison. It's healthy to remove toxic people from your life. But I didn't realize that I would be the toxin. I lost my awareness of that.
But get this, even though I had been pushing buttons for decades, the weird thing was, only recently had I become aware I had been purposely pushing buttons. That seems odd, doesn't it? The ego was in charge, and I was oblivious. I had not understood how stupid it was. How destructive, how evil. In fact, my ego thought it was just the way I do things. I even told people in all confidence that I'm the type that needs to test people. As if "on purpose" wasn't really "on purpose". I really thought I had figured that part out. I was proud of myself. Oblivious to what it really truly was. Oblivious to what others already knew. A character flaw, personality disorder, mental illness, whatever. It is all those things but most importantly, to the unbeknown victim, it is the definition of an asshole.
But then I realized what I was doing was wrong. I understood that it was a flaw, I understood its error and acknowledged it, I even stopped doing it, or so my ego told me. No, I hadn't stopped doing it at all. I had only stopped doing it to new friends. I was still doing it to my old friends. I wasn't aware that my habitual, destructive behavior had not gone away. I was still a raging asshole. After all these years, after all I've gone through. Still, a raging asshole.
I need to forgive myself and move on. The damage is done. No amount of
apology will be believed at this point. I brought that on myself.
It's over. Some may forgive me. I may never know. I don't know what
else I can do other than take the punches as they are returned. And
they are still punching. It's their right.
I could say that I love my friends but if I really do, then I would be letting them live their life just like they have been letting me live mine. So until I can lean to do that, I'm not capable of truly loving someone. But, I want to love, so I'm going to keep trying.
You know, this entire blog was set up to air my Dirty Laundry. I
haven't always used it for that but that's what its main purpose was.
Why on earth would I think that anyone would want to read it? And I
hope that no one finds it. Because if they think the shit I put on
Facebook was offensive, most of which I don't even write, wait until
they read the drivel here.
And that's another thing, if I could just fucking stop airing my Dirty Laundry on Facebook. Of all the places not to
do that, Facebook would be the one. There really are places I can go
which would be appropriate, for one, the therapist's chair, and here,
once I make it a private blog. It will do no good to try and erase the
past. The internet has made that impossible. I'll have to own up to it
eventually.
I do not pity myself for all this mess, so for hell's sake don't pity me. I believe this is the essence of the human condition, to live, learn, and love. I'm doing my best with what I have and there are bumps along the way. And what I've learned so far is how not to love.
Showing posts with label anonymous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anonymous. Show all posts
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
My Right to Wear Spandex
The following Facebook status was entered by one of my friends:
Then a few seconds later it was followed up by:
I don't get this as a joke. I understand that it's supposed to be funny but for some reason it bugs the ever living crap out of me. Who the fuck says people have to obtain the right to wear spandex?
I understand that this is underlying a joke about our poor self-esteem issues regarding our own bodies. I can understand that, I had just completed posting pictures of me and my fat ass, trotting around on a horse minutes before. And yes, I even made a comment about how that skinny-ass horse made my fat-ass look fat. They were both self deprecating jokes, so, to be fair, since I was bothered by someone's joke, I can understand if my joke might bother someone else. (Other than my use of the words "fat" & "ass") I seriously don't intend to offend. I think.
However, I believe my joke is less likely to offend. I'm not trying to say anything about what someone chooses to wear whereas my friend is. I'm directly mocking my body despite the clothing, whereas he is directing people away from his unshapely body type by mocking spandex. Granted, I did make a comment about my riding breeches making my ass look fat. But I was actually wearing them! My friend, on the other hand, has probably never worn spandex in his life.
Spandex, made from a supper stretchy material called Lycra! A type of clothing that accentuates the human (especially male) form in lovely ways, feels great, and it's fun and practical to wear. I wear it. Granted, with my current fat ass, I don't wear in public. Or if I do, it's not visible.
Ok, I think I'm rambling now and I might be starting to talk in circles here. I just wish we weren't so judgmental to others and ourselves about our fat asses in spandex.
Now, that fat ass thing, isn't really the core issue for me though, because what's hitting me in the back of my head about all of this judgmental spandex wearing is the truth of the matter, that even if I had a skinny, sexy ass, the judgmental spandex wearing would continue and it would even be worse. Why? Because I'm a man. Simple as that! And only the "faggoty" men wear spandex. That's what I grew up hearing in my neck of the Utah Mormon cultural landscape. God I hate that word "faggoty"! OK, to be honest, I only remember hearing it once, but goddamn, it rang in my head for years!
Now, I'm not talking about the spandex common to biking; I'm talking about the spandex made famous by those big hair metal bands from the 80's. That spandex caused me to stare uncontrollably at all of the male crotches who wore it. I would secretly watch Friday Night Videos in hopes to catch a glimpse of a spandex clad, skinny ass, with a big bulge in front. I didn't care who they were or what the music was. I was just interested in the spandex and how that spandex was filled. Bonus points if the spandex had a bright colored print.
Basically, spandex was all about sex. There I've said it. Sex! Fetish! And since I was just entering into the pubescent stage at the height of the 80's hair bands, my hormones raged. The more my hormones raged, the more I wanted to see, have, feel spandex, the guiltier I felt, the more distance I would publicly put between me and my fetishes, the less likely I would ever have of wearing it. Sad, isn't it? It wasn't until well into my late 20's early 30's did I finally buy some spandex. And even then, I did it as anonymously as possible over the Internet. Talk about living in complete and utter shame!
OK, now, I didn't suddenly develop a spandex fetish during that time, I already knew I had one as young as 5 when I wore some tights for a little school play. Yes, at age 5, I had experienced an indescribable emotional thrill from wearing them. Emotional! Not sexual! So, those so-called experts who like to say we develop fetishes for things because of our misdirected sexual outlet are all idiots. There may be some truth to that, but in my experience, I haven't been successful at developing fetishes, I can only discover them!
Ok, if I go on much more with this I won't be able to post it to this blog. This was supposed to be about how someone's joke triggered a mild frustration in me that is masking a deeper seething rage. Yes, it's true, as much as I would like to think I've put my past behind me, I still have some baggage. And I've been discovering over the past few years that my baggage is mostly about sex. This has caused me some real and embarrassing problems in the physical intimacy department.
Actually, I still have symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This may seem like a joke at this point but it's not. It has really been frustrating getting past a lot of the emotional and spiritual abuse I went through. I'm doing really well considering, but something this seemingly innocuous will pop up on occasion and really send me into a dive. I just want to fucking scream! I believe my cultish upbringing has robbed me of being able to experience fully one of the joys of being human. Why? Because somewhere along the way, a few people had some serious hang-ups about sex and wanted to make sure everyone else in the Mormon hive-mind had them as well, so they institutionalized them into church doctrine.
Erm, I wonder who they were? Anyone?
Fuck them!
[Name withheld] good to be alive and good to feel like I'm walking to a bee gee vibe... I'm staying alive..
Then a few seconds later it was followed up by:
[Name withheld]... that doesn't give me the right to wear spandex and strut however..actually..hmmm..
I don't get this as a joke. I understand that it's supposed to be funny but for some reason it bugs the ever living crap out of me. Who the fuck says people have to obtain the right to wear spandex?
I understand that this is underlying a joke about our poor self-esteem issues regarding our own bodies. I can understand that, I had just completed posting pictures of me and my fat ass, trotting around on a horse minutes before. And yes, I even made a comment about how that skinny-ass horse made my fat-ass look fat. They were both self deprecating jokes, so, to be fair, since I was bothered by someone's joke, I can understand if my joke might bother someone else. (Other than my use of the words "fat" & "ass") I seriously don't intend to offend. I think.
However, I believe my joke is less likely to offend. I'm not trying to say anything about what someone chooses to wear whereas my friend is. I'm directly mocking my body despite the clothing, whereas he is directing people away from his unshapely body type by mocking spandex. Granted, I did make a comment about my riding breeches making my ass look fat. But I was actually wearing them! My friend, on the other hand, has probably never worn spandex in his life.
Spandex, made from a supper stretchy material called Lycra! A type of clothing that accentuates the human (especially male) form in lovely ways, feels great, and it's fun and practical to wear. I wear it. Granted, with my current fat ass, I don't wear in public. Or if I do, it's not visible.
Ok, I think I'm rambling now and I might be starting to talk in circles here. I just wish we weren't so judgmental to others and ourselves about our fat asses in spandex.
Now, that fat ass thing, isn't really the core issue for me though, because what's hitting me in the back of my head about all of this judgmental spandex wearing is the truth of the matter, that even if I had a skinny, sexy ass, the judgmental spandex wearing would continue and it would even be worse. Why? Because I'm a man. Simple as that! And only the "faggoty" men wear spandex. That's what I grew up hearing in my neck of the Utah Mormon cultural landscape. God I hate that word "faggoty"! OK, to be honest, I only remember hearing it once, but goddamn, it rang in my head for years!
Now, I'm not talking about the spandex common to biking; I'm talking about the spandex made famous by those big hair metal bands from the 80's. That spandex caused me to stare uncontrollably at all of the male crotches who wore it. I would secretly watch Friday Night Videos in hopes to catch a glimpse of a spandex clad, skinny ass, with a big bulge in front. I didn't care who they were or what the music was. I was just interested in the spandex and how that spandex was filled. Bonus points if the spandex had a bright colored print.
Basically, spandex was all about sex. There I've said it. Sex! Fetish! And since I was just entering into the pubescent stage at the height of the 80's hair bands, my hormones raged. The more my hormones raged, the more I wanted to see, have, feel spandex, the guiltier I felt, the more distance I would publicly put between me and my fetishes, the less likely I would ever have of wearing it. Sad, isn't it? It wasn't until well into my late 20's early 30's did I finally buy some spandex. And even then, I did it as anonymously as possible over the Internet. Talk about living in complete and utter shame!
OK, now, I didn't suddenly develop a spandex fetish during that time, I already knew I had one as young as 5 when I wore some tights for a little school play. Yes, at age 5, I had experienced an indescribable emotional thrill from wearing them. Emotional! Not sexual! So, those so-called experts who like to say we develop fetishes for things because of our misdirected sexual outlet are all idiots. There may be some truth to that, but in my experience, I haven't been successful at developing fetishes, I can only discover them!
Ok, if I go on much more with this I won't be able to post it to this blog. This was supposed to be about how someone's joke triggered a mild frustration in me that is masking a deeper seething rage. Yes, it's true, as much as I would like to think I've put my past behind me, I still have some baggage. And I've been discovering over the past few years that my baggage is mostly about sex. This has caused me some real and embarrassing problems in the physical intimacy department.
Actually, I still have symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This may seem like a joke at this point but it's not. It has really been frustrating getting past a lot of the emotional and spiritual abuse I went through. I'm doing really well considering, but something this seemingly innocuous will pop up on occasion and really send me into a dive. I just want to fucking scream! I believe my cultish upbringing has robbed me of being able to experience fully one of the joys of being human. Why? Because somewhere along the way, a few people had some serious hang-ups about sex and wanted to make sure everyone else in the Mormon hive-mind had them as well, so they institutionalized them into church doctrine.
Erm, I wonder who they were? Anyone?
Fuck them!
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Am I still hiding?
Again, I wonder what I'm doing with this blog. I've noticed a few things about myself recently with how I relate to this blogging stuff. This blog, its title, the moniker I use, the tone and subject matter, etc. all contribute to creating an identity, an identity that I'm not so sure that I personally relate to for the most part. I think this blog has presented a highly skewed perception of the real person behind all of this stuff.
I don't feel like it's a very good representation of me. I don't feel like I'm really helping people know the real me. Perhaps what I should be doing is using this blog to simply help myself know the real me. Either way, it seems I need to talk about myself more, rather than about the angst that occasionally passes through me.
Everyone mostly sees the troubling issues in my life. Or, if they follow my other blogs, they might see a sample of my sense of humor or what I do for fun. I wonder sometimes if the humor comes out on this blog or not. It is hard to put casual humor across in writing, especially when it's juxtaposed with confusion, anger, depression, cynicism etc. Or is it? Is my humor cynical? Is self deprecating humor cynical? OK, not all of it is self deprecating. Actually, I don't really know how to classify humor. I just know what I find funny.
Anyway, it takes more than just bad humor to know a person. It's obvious that the subject matter of my writing is shaped by my experience, but when do I simply write about the experience as opposed to simply mentioning it as means to convey my feelings toward something. And by doing that, the experience as a story itself is diminished to much less than an anecdote. Obviously, I know what is in my head when I write it; there is a lot of momentum behind it as a thought. But what ends up on the page are a few words that summarize it into an idea that means only a fraction to the reader as it did to the author.
An example, looking back at my last post, my simple statement, "Even though I wore tall black boots and long hair, I still had to conform in some things to keep the peace." carries behind it 20+ years of attitude shaping moments with people, enough that I could probably write a book. And although they were life shaping moments, they all seem too mundane to write about the specifics. So the best I can do is to oversimplify it into boots and hair vs. conformity and piece, assuming that such things carry with it the right cultural information to allow for understanding and bring about a shared experience between the writer and reader. Barring that, I would need to write about a few specific incidents to get the point across. Who knows though? If I started to write about myself more than the angst, those moments might actually get mentioned. But then, I might bore people. Hell, I bore myself sometimes in my own writing.
I haven't had a profound angsty moment since January of this year. Sure, I still have angst but it has really tapered off. A small moment in March and April but nothing even close to what I went through last year. I think that's a great thing! I'm thrilled! But the result is my drive to write things here, which were purely to work out my angst, have diminished. I hardly even journal anymore. Besides, my journaling was never about writing down a journal of my life. It's just free association writing to clear my head. I would say that 99% of it is garbage.
So I'm wondering if it would be a good idea to push myself to writing things here anyway.
About anything. Make this an honest effort to journal "properly". And just let it free flow more and not put so much effort in editing and presenting a polished post. Not being as articulate in person as I try to be in writing, I have a bit of insecurity about presenting my writing more casual. It's as if I'm over compensating for my slow verbal acuity. I'm actually a bit frustrated by my slow verbal acuity. So, yeah.
But I have been experimenting with making it more casual and off the cuff. Like the way I speak. I say a lot of things that are incomplete sentences; sometimes I don't even complete a word. I say lots of non-sequitur shit sometimes. And sometimes I say sequitur shit that doesn't make any sense. And many times when I comment on blogs and Facebook I'm saying what's on my mind with little editing. Mostly it's cynicism. Although when I've started to comment on blogs I've found myself rambling between many different ideas. I end up deleting most of them because I can't find coherency. I'm really just trying to find words for things that I have never had before. Words I've never let myself have or have always let other people make for me. So in that respect, I could write posts that have broken ideas and incomplete narratives, and jump around and just say shit.
Life is just a big experiment anyway, right? Well I see it that way. At least, I do now. More so than ever.
I don't feel like it's a very good representation of me. I don't feel like I'm really helping people know the real me. Perhaps what I should be doing is using this blog to simply help myself know the real me. Either way, it seems I need to talk about myself more, rather than about the angst that occasionally passes through me.
Everyone mostly sees the troubling issues in my life. Or, if they follow my other blogs, they might see a sample of my sense of humor or what I do for fun. I wonder sometimes if the humor comes out on this blog or not. It is hard to put casual humor across in writing, especially when it's juxtaposed with confusion, anger, depression, cynicism etc. Or is it? Is my humor cynical? Is self deprecating humor cynical? OK, not all of it is self deprecating. Actually, I don't really know how to classify humor. I just know what I find funny.
Anyway, it takes more than just bad humor to know a person. It's obvious that the subject matter of my writing is shaped by my experience, but when do I simply write about the experience as opposed to simply mentioning it as means to convey my feelings toward something. And by doing that, the experience as a story itself is diminished to much less than an anecdote. Obviously, I know what is in my head when I write it; there is a lot of momentum behind it as a thought. But what ends up on the page are a few words that summarize it into an idea that means only a fraction to the reader as it did to the author.
An example, looking back at my last post, my simple statement, "Even though I wore tall black boots and long hair, I still had to conform in some things to keep the peace." carries behind it 20+ years of attitude shaping moments with people, enough that I could probably write a book. And although they were life shaping moments, they all seem too mundane to write about the specifics. So the best I can do is to oversimplify it into boots and hair vs. conformity and piece, assuming that such things carry with it the right cultural information to allow for understanding and bring about a shared experience between the writer and reader. Barring that, I would need to write about a few specific incidents to get the point across. Who knows though? If I started to write about myself more than the angst, those moments might actually get mentioned. But then, I might bore people. Hell, I bore myself sometimes in my own writing.
I haven't had a profound angsty moment since January of this year. Sure, I still have angst but it has really tapered off. A small moment in March and April but nothing even close to what I went through last year. I think that's a great thing! I'm thrilled! But the result is my drive to write things here, which were purely to work out my angst, have diminished. I hardly even journal anymore. Besides, my journaling was never about writing down a journal of my life. It's just free association writing to clear my head. I would say that 99% of it is garbage.
So I'm wondering if it would be a good idea to push myself to writing things here anyway.
About anything. Make this an honest effort to journal "properly". And just let it free flow more and not put so much effort in editing and presenting a polished post. Not being as articulate in person as I try to be in writing, I have a bit of insecurity about presenting my writing more casual. It's as if I'm over compensating for my slow verbal acuity. I'm actually a bit frustrated by my slow verbal acuity. So, yeah.
But I have been experimenting with making it more casual and off the cuff. Like the way I speak. I say a lot of things that are incomplete sentences; sometimes I don't even complete a word. I say lots of non-sequitur shit sometimes. And sometimes I say sequitur shit that doesn't make any sense. And many times when I comment on blogs and Facebook I'm saying what's on my mind with little editing. Mostly it's cynicism. Although when I've started to comment on blogs I've found myself rambling between many different ideas. I end up deleting most of them because I can't find coherency. I'm really just trying to find words for things that I have never had before. Words I've never let myself have or have always let other people make for me. So in that respect, I could write posts that have broken ideas and incomplete narratives, and jump around and just say shit.
Life is just a big experiment anyway, right? Well I see it that way. At least, I do now. More so than ever.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Claiming My Life
This blog isn't working for me anymore. In particular, the current format of trying to maintain my anonymity. What was this anonymity suppose to help me with anyway? It's has a good side but it's mostly been a curse.
The good side is that I was able to work out my feelings somewhat publicly and vent my real frustrations openly and without restraint and fear of retribution from someone that would take offence of what I would say. Although there isn't that much evidence that I'm in any danger of retribution. But, I certainly don't want my co-workers, relatives and friends to read a lot of this drivel. Even so, a few co-workers and family have read this blog. But then I actually went as far as inviting those people to read it. Duh!
The curse is that I feel restricted in what I can talk about as long as I'm trying to stay anonymous. I thought anonymity would make it easier but the way I see it, the situations, conversations and events that happen in my life, the ones I want to write about, are so bloody public already that mentioning them here would give me away. There are many things I would like to have posted but didn't because the events were too specific. I've tried to avoid mentioning specific people and, if I do, avoid using real names, but even that isn't good enough. I realize the chances of the wrong person finding these posts are slim, but they are not none.
But one thing is for sure, this anonymous game has taught me that I'm still in the closet. I'm still trying to live a double life. The life of how I really feel verse the life I want people to think I feel. But ultimately, it's apparent that anonymity isn't my real problem. It's just the symptom.
My real problem is that I worry about what people think. Especially if I believe it's negative. I don't usually get hurt by negative comments like I used to but I still have my moments and naturally want to avoid them, especially here when I'm trying to express my more authentic self.
Most of the rude and negative people I've had to deal with were in email, on Facebook, and in person. So, I naturally assume that the same thing is going to happen here. This is 100% public. Not limited like Facebook and email. Any crazy asshole can post here. But, it's not the assholes that worry me. It's everyone else. The ones I care about. The people that have gotten to know me here. And the ones I know in person. I care about people. I care too deeply. And I'm embarrassed because I haven't been 100% truthful. I'm still hiding myself, I'm still afraid of letting people into my life and letting them see all that I'm about.
So, part of me is bristling to shed the anonymity and bust out of my shell. The other part is still scared as hell of rejection. The more people I know who read this blog, the more I plague the course of my writing with assumptions about what I suppose people want or don't want to read. I thought by making it anonymous I was avoiding that. But it didn't matter. They didn't even have to say anything. I assumed what they were going to say before they even say it. And 100% of the time, my assumptions are wrong.
So, when the comments came, very few were negative, most were encouraging. The ones that were negative came from my mom. But she didn't post a comment; she called instead. What she said actually didn't bother me. This seems ridiculous but what she said actually didn't bother me, it was the positive comments that fed my ego.
By avoiding certain subjects or areas of my life, I could continue writing about things that would appease to get more pleasant comments, rather than go in my desired direction. I did more than keep the status quo. I started to gear it back. In one of my posts, I even made a big deal out of not taking a direction that I really wanted to take because I was afraid of possibly displeasing my readers and eliciting negative comments. I even found a way to convince myself it was what I wanted to do. Looking back at that, I am still angry with myself for copping out. This non risk-taking pattern had been building for the past three months in all aspects of my life. As I fell into the trap of not thinking for myself, the frustration and anger built up and I exploded.
Even so, the comments that I've received have meant such a great deal to me I can't even begin to explain how. Even the simple acknowledgments that I'm not alone are very rewarding. But I continue in fear that I will write something offensive and drive someone away. Hell, it may have happened a few times in the past as I've seen my followers list shrink. But then I've stopped following blogs before, and getting upset for losing a follower makes me a hypocrite. They went a direction that didn't interest me so I left, ironically the ones that have offended me I still follow. So, I would hope that they left because I'm not of interest as opposed to being offensive. Yeah, I see it as rejection either way and I hate it but I hope I'm getting better at not caring about it.
Some aspects of my self-esteem are still dependent on outside validation. And thus, I want comments. I want to know what others think. I want people to interact with me and be frank and honest. If they don't like what I say, and feel a need to disagree, then by all means I want them to. So far the only comment that came close to stating a disagreement was in green and purple's comment when he said, "I agree with almost all that you say." I'm curious what the little bit was he didn't agree with. He's right in that it doesn't matter, but still, my curiosity gets to me and ultimately the disagreements can be learning experiences in and of themselves as they challenge my ego; help me understand the holes in my self-esteem.
But, with that being said, I've started to get a sense that the comments left by readers are not always there for me. They're for the readers. As I've been poking around the blogosphere making comments on other people's blogs, I've noticed that when I've written comments I was essentially venting. That, in effect, actually helped me clarify a thought in my head. In the end, the comment was just something I needed to get off my chest and didn't matter if the author of the blog read it or not. Although, whether they agree or disagree, it's still quite satisfying when the blogger or someone responds to it or references it in a future blog post. At least it's evidence that someone noticed it.
The other aspect of all this is that I'm lonely, desperately lonely. I'm acutely aware that my desire to fill that loneliness hole, a hole that severely depresses me often, feeds my desire for comments. And that is a hard thing to admit openly because this depression and unhappiness is all some people in my life need as evidence to fuel their anti-gay religious shit and throw it in my face. If I can put on that happy face they have no case and will leave me alone with their silly "wickedness was never happiness" bullshit and how turning way from God and the church is the reason I have these holes in my soul.
It's so fucking pathetic. I'm right back to where I was a few years ago when I was a miserable, Mormon, fuck with a plastic smile so that I wouldn't make the church look bad. Now I'm a miserable, lonely, fuck with a plastic smile so I don't make the Gay, ex-Mormons look bad. Fucking bullshit! And I'm being a drama queen! Yes, it still makes me angry; I still have a lot of bitterness left in me. But I should be 100% honest, I'm not as miserable now as I was then. But still, any misery sucks and I hate it and I just want to scream.
But, as of late, not all of the bullshit has been related to Mormons or their silly beliefs. It's been bigoted and ignorant co-workers, slummy landlords, thieves breaking in to my house, distant family, shitty job, distant friends, my shrinking bank account, and no one to talk to about any of it at the end of a hard day. For the last few months I've been wondering, what I am going to do? Where am I going to go? And with all of that, there is the added frustration and anger of not finding an answer. Again, another aspect of all of this apparent misfortune is that those silly Mormons are going to use it as evidence that God is punishing me for leaving the church to have gay sex.
It just keeps coming back to worrying about what people think. And it goes back as far as I can remember. Hell, just read some of my past posts! I totally dwell on shit from my past over, and over, and over...ad nauseam. Yes, we all know now that my past sucked and I'm still not over it. Give it a rest, right? Easier said than done. Besides, I get to decide when to give it rest anyway.
I've been struggling for a long time trying to find a way to reconcile or connect in constructive ways with my past. I wanted to remember all of those times were I got misdirected so that I could change or realign the beliefs I formed around them, beliefs that misinformed me later in life and continue to do so; such as why I still care what other people think of me. But it got daunting. My past was so vast and my memory so jumbled and broken, I was getting frustrated with that alone.
A few days ago, I stumbled across a photo album that my dad sent to me few years ago. In it were miscellaneous photos of me mostly between the ages of 3-16. Many of these struck me as odd because I had no memory of the event captured in the image. Others, I had a clear memory of them and was surprised by the memory. Some were good, many were bad. But all of them invoked a thought or emotion of some kind. I realized that some of these pictures captured events in my life where a belief was forming or being exercised, a belief about myself, about the world or about life. Some were positive. Most were negative. That's probably why I had the photo album shoved deep in the back of the filing cabinet rather than on the shelf or with all of my other pictures.
I've been told that worrying about the past is a waste of time; it does nothing to serve the present moment. And exploring those moments would just be wallowing in the past. So, I've convinced myself that these moments are not important. These moments are all just shit that happens. They don't affect me now. But is that really true? I feel like I'm wallowing in my past more than ever because I refuse to accept it. All this drama I face in my life came from somewhere and the same shit keeps happening to me over and over again. Why?
So I'm going to call bullshit on the non-importance of my past. I've come a long way by looking at my past, piecing it together, and figuring out what happened. How dare anyone tell me it's a waste of time. It's bad enough that the feelings are not easy to confront, I don't need people telling me that I'm doing it wrong just because they think they know what's important to me.
Fuck them. This is MY life.
Through the course of writing this post, I continue to have moments of worrying about what people are going to think. It's always been my problem even before I realized it. I'm more conscious of it now. The anger for it has surfaced so as I move forward, I'm going to be confronting that head on, even if it means starting every post with the phrase, "This is my life, if you don't like it, then fuck off." Anger serves a purpose. I have not been honoring it and so now, it is seething. If I don't let it out, I will continue to wallow in it. I definitely know that that doesn't serve the present moment.
Because my life is so multifaceted, so esoteric and so gut wrenchingly depressing, sometimes I'm pressured to spare people the "Too Much Information" (TMI) that will eventually come. Of course, I'm only assuming it's going to be TMI mainly because I've had many people who were eager to point that out to me. Having people do that only feeds my habit of editing myself, smoothing things out or censoring things so that I can spare other people my most intimate details, the most important things to me. What I end up with is a thick layer of orange paint that covers or obfuscates who I really am. And I resent that. Orange is a nice color; it's just not MY color. This orange paint represents that nasty habit of self-deception, a habit that has managed to totally fuck up my life and continue to make it difficult. Well, no more. If anyone thinks that any aspect of my life is TMI, then they too can just fuck off.
The good side is that I was able to work out my feelings somewhat publicly and vent my real frustrations openly and without restraint and fear of retribution from someone that would take offence of what I would say. Although there isn't that much evidence that I'm in any danger of retribution. But, I certainly don't want my co-workers, relatives and friends to read a lot of this drivel. Even so, a few co-workers and family have read this blog. But then I actually went as far as inviting those people to read it. Duh!
The curse is that I feel restricted in what I can talk about as long as I'm trying to stay anonymous. I thought anonymity would make it easier but the way I see it, the situations, conversations and events that happen in my life, the ones I want to write about, are so bloody public already that mentioning them here would give me away. There are many things I would like to have posted but didn't because the events were too specific. I've tried to avoid mentioning specific people and, if I do, avoid using real names, but even that isn't good enough. I realize the chances of the wrong person finding these posts are slim, but they are not none.
But one thing is for sure, this anonymous game has taught me that I'm still in the closet. I'm still trying to live a double life. The life of how I really feel verse the life I want people to think I feel. But ultimately, it's apparent that anonymity isn't my real problem. It's just the symptom.
My real problem is that I worry about what people think. Especially if I believe it's negative. I don't usually get hurt by negative comments like I used to but I still have my moments and naturally want to avoid them, especially here when I'm trying to express my more authentic self.
Most of the rude and negative people I've had to deal with were in email, on Facebook, and in person. So, I naturally assume that the same thing is going to happen here. This is 100% public. Not limited like Facebook and email. Any crazy asshole can post here. But, it's not the assholes that worry me. It's everyone else. The ones I care about. The people that have gotten to know me here. And the ones I know in person. I care about people. I care too deeply. And I'm embarrassed because I haven't been 100% truthful. I'm still hiding myself, I'm still afraid of letting people into my life and letting them see all that I'm about.
So, part of me is bristling to shed the anonymity and bust out of my shell. The other part is still scared as hell of rejection. The more people I know who read this blog, the more I plague the course of my writing with assumptions about what I suppose people want or don't want to read. I thought by making it anonymous I was avoiding that. But it didn't matter. They didn't even have to say anything. I assumed what they were going to say before they even say it. And 100% of the time, my assumptions are wrong.
So, when the comments came, very few were negative, most were encouraging. The ones that were negative came from my mom. But she didn't post a comment; she called instead. What she said actually didn't bother me. This seems ridiculous but what she said actually didn't bother me, it was the positive comments that fed my ego.
By avoiding certain subjects or areas of my life, I could continue writing about things that would appease to get more pleasant comments, rather than go in my desired direction. I did more than keep the status quo. I started to gear it back. In one of my posts, I even made a big deal out of not taking a direction that I really wanted to take because I was afraid of possibly displeasing my readers and eliciting negative comments. I even found a way to convince myself it was what I wanted to do. Looking back at that, I am still angry with myself for copping out. This non risk-taking pattern had been building for the past three months in all aspects of my life. As I fell into the trap of not thinking for myself, the frustration and anger built up and I exploded.
Even so, the comments that I've received have meant such a great deal to me I can't even begin to explain how. Even the simple acknowledgments that I'm not alone are very rewarding. But I continue in fear that I will write something offensive and drive someone away. Hell, it may have happened a few times in the past as I've seen my followers list shrink. But then I've stopped following blogs before, and getting upset for losing a follower makes me a hypocrite. They went a direction that didn't interest me so I left, ironically the ones that have offended me I still follow. So, I would hope that they left because I'm not of interest as opposed to being offensive. Yeah, I see it as rejection either way and I hate it but I hope I'm getting better at not caring about it.
Some aspects of my self-esteem are still dependent on outside validation. And thus, I want comments. I want to know what others think. I want people to interact with me and be frank and honest. If they don't like what I say, and feel a need to disagree, then by all means I want them to. So far the only comment that came close to stating a disagreement was in green and purple's comment when he said, "I agree with almost all that you say." I'm curious what the little bit was he didn't agree with. He's right in that it doesn't matter, but still, my curiosity gets to me and ultimately the disagreements can be learning experiences in and of themselves as they challenge my ego; help me understand the holes in my self-esteem.
But, with that being said, I've started to get a sense that the comments left by readers are not always there for me. They're for the readers. As I've been poking around the blogosphere making comments on other people's blogs, I've noticed that when I've written comments I was essentially venting. That, in effect, actually helped me clarify a thought in my head. In the end, the comment was just something I needed to get off my chest and didn't matter if the author of the blog read it or not. Although, whether they agree or disagree, it's still quite satisfying when the blogger or someone responds to it or references it in a future blog post. At least it's evidence that someone noticed it.
The other aspect of all this is that I'm lonely, desperately lonely. I'm acutely aware that my desire to fill that loneliness hole, a hole that severely depresses me often, feeds my desire for comments. And that is a hard thing to admit openly because this depression and unhappiness is all some people in my life need as evidence to fuel their anti-gay religious shit and throw it in my face. If I can put on that happy face they have no case and will leave me alone with their silly "wickedness was never happiness" bullshit and how turning way from God and the church is the reason I have these holes in my soul.
It's so fucking pathetic. I'm right back to where I was a few years ago when I was a miserable, Mormon, fuck with a plastic smile so that I wouldn't make the church look bad. Now I'm a miserable, lonely, fuck with a plastic smile so I don't make the Gay, ex-Mormons look bad. Fucking bullshit! And I'm being a drama queen! Yes, it still makes me angry; I still have a lot of bitterness left in me. But I should be 100% honest, I'm not as miserable now as I was then. But still, any misery sucks and I hate it and I just want to scream.
But, as of late, not all of the bullshit has been related to Mormons or their silly beliefs. It's been bigoted and ignorant co-workers, slummy landlords, thieves breaking in to my house, distant family, shitty job, distant friends, my shrinking bank account, and no one to talk to about any of it at the end of a hard day. For the last few months I've been wondering, what I am going to do? Where am I going to go? And with all of that, there is the added frustration and anger of not finding an answer. Again, another aspect of all of this apparent misfortune is that those silly Mormons are going to use it as evidence that God is punishing me for leaving the church to have gay sex.
It just keeps coming back to worrying about what people think. And it goes back as far as I can remember. Hell, just read some of my past posts! I totally dwell on shit from my past over, and over, and over...ad nauseam. Yes, we all know now that my past sucked and I'm still not over it. Give it a rest, right? Easier said than done. Besides, I get to decide when to give it rest anyway.
I've been struggling for a long time trying to find a way to reconcile or connect in constructive ways with my past. I wanted to remember all of those times were I got misdirected so that I could change or realign the beliefs I formed around them, beliefs that misinformed me later in life and continue to do so; such as why I still care what other people think of me. But it got daunting. My past was so vast and my memory so jumbled and broken, I was getting frustrated with that alone.
A few days ago, I stumbled across a photo album that my dad sent to me few years ago. In it were miscellaneous photos of me mostly between the ages of 3-16. Many of these struck me as odd because I had no memory of the event captured in the image. Others, I had a clear memory of them and was surprised by the memory. Some were good, many were bad. But all of them invoked a thought or emotion of some kind. I realized that some of these pictures captured events in my life where a belief was forming or being exercised, a belief about myself, about the world or about life. Some were positive. Most were negative. That's probably why I had the photo album shoved deep in the back of the filing cabinet rather than on the shelf or with all of my other pictures.
I've been told that worrying about the past is a waste of time; it does nothing to serve the present moment. And exploring those moments would just be wallowing in the past. So, I've convinced myself that these moments are not important. These moments are all just shit that happens. They don't affect me now. But is that really true? I feel like I'm wallowing in my past more than ever because I refuse to accept it. All this drama I face in my life came from somewhere and the same shit keeps happening to me over and over again. Why?
So I'm going to call bullshit on the non-importance of my past. I've come a long way by looking at my past, piecing it together, and figuring out what happened. How dare anyone tell me it's a waste of time. It's bad enough that the feelings are not easy to confront, I don't need people telling me that I'm doing it wrong just because they think they know what's important to me.
Fuck them. This is MY life.
Through the course of writing this post, I continue to have moments of worrying about what people are going to think. It's always been my problem even before I realized it. I'm more conscious of it now. The anger for it has surfaced so as I move forward, I'm going to be confronting that head on, even if it means starting every post with the phrase, "This is my life, if you don't like it, then fuck off." Anger serves a purpose. I have not been honoring it and so now, it is seething. If I don't let it out, I will continue to wallow in it. I definitely know that that doesn't serve the present moment.
Because my life is so multifaceted, so esoteric and so gut wrenchingly depressing, sometimes I'm pressured to spare people the "Too Much Information" (TMI) that will eventually come. Of course, I'm only assuming it's going to be TMI mainly because I've had many people who were eager to point that out to me. Having people do that only feeds my habit of editing myself, smoothing things out or censoring things so that I can spare other people my most intimate details, the most important things to me. What I end up with is a thick layer of orange paint that covers or obfuscates who I really am. And I resent that. Orange is a nice color; it's just not MY color. This orange paint represents that nasty habit of self-deception, a habit that has managed to totally fuck up my life and continue to make it difficult. Well, no more. If anyone thinks that any aspect of my life is TMI, then they too can just fuck off.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Happy New Year!
Before I go off on a heavy handed tyrannical rant, I would just like to pre-apologize for the offenses that I will deliberately be dishing out. OK, to be honest, this is only a partial or rather fake apology. What I'm really getting down to is that this is just a preamble to some serious and offensive ranting and I'm not holding back. Why I'm even bothering to warn the reader? Why don't I just start ranting? Because I seriously don't want to hurt anyone's feelings with what I'm about to say. As I'm currently in a state of some deeply hurt feelings myself, I wouldn't wish such things one anyone else. With that being said, I'm going to start off my little rant by first inviting anyone who might be offended to seriously fuck off. I'll recap on that later.
Anyway...I just got past the holiday season.
Oh My Fucking God!
I have a love/hate relationship with this time of year. But this time around it's mostly the hate.
How did the year end and how did the new one start? It ended with a crash and a bang and bunch of other complete bullshit. It was an otherwise great year that came together in the most fucked up holiday season ever. And it's still not over yet. In fact I think I'll still have a few more months of this shit before I might be clear enough to start thinking and feeling grounded again. It's not to say I'm in a constant state of rage. I do have moments throughout the week of positivity, but it's only about 0.6% of the time. I think that equates to about an hour per week where it's just me and the equines.
I debated if I should even bother listing all the shit that has gone down since October but I don't think I will. There is just too much of it. Perhaps it would have been better had I made small blog entries for each incident as they happened. But it really came down to the fact that I'm still relatively anonymous on this blog and after considering the implications of revealing the nature of the shit that's gone down, it would seriously compromise my identity. Besides that, listing all that shit would incite a pity party. It's bad enough that I pity myself as much as I do. Getting it from others doesn't feed my ego in healthy ways. And right now the combination of all this shit going down and the affects of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), regress me to some serious irrationality. Besides, all of the shit that's happened is actually incidental and doesn't really have any real meaning. The important question to ask is: How I've been handling it all? To which I would respond: GAH!!!
Needless to say I've got so much pent-up anger right now I could bite anyone who crosses me...until they bleed of course, and then I would let them go. I'm not a vampire and don't like the taste of blood. Don't worry. I am seeking counseling.
But for now I feel like ranting about shit that I've wanted to rant about for decades. And to make it even worse my rant is all a fucking cliché. When ranting about the so-called Holiday Season how could it not be?
When I see people walking around wishing each other "Merry Christmas" and "Happy New Year" and all that crap, I want to gag. And yet I find myself going along with it anyway so I don't come across as a complete asshole. But deep down inside I'm screaming, "Whatever!" That alone pisses me off further. It's hypocritical and I'm angry at myself for playing the game.
It's a pointless and mindless time of year where people try to act extra nice. Why now? Why not all of the time? These holidays and their dates are utterly arbitrary to me. Take New Year's Day for instance. That one is especially pointless to me. It is a week and a half after the winter solstice. To me the solstice is more like a new year than January 1. A solstice is an actual measurable physical phenomenon that can be used to mark the end and beginning of a solar cycle. January 1 is just a number on some made-up calendar. Who made up that calendar anyway? And why does that calendar say the year has to be 2010? Why not 8302 or some other number in say, base 12?
And then there is the Christmas holiday and all of that crap. Set aside the fact that December 25 is not even the actual date of the birth of the Christian religion so to speak. But that doesn't really matter. What matters is that it's the one time out of the year where all of the hypocrites can come out in droves and be EXTRA hypocritical. Personal experience has allowed me to witness many so-called Christmas holidays where Christianist behave in some of the most unchristian ways ever seen. That really doesn't bode well for celebrating the birth of their Savior™.
Another thing that doesn't bode well is that most of the modern Christmas traditions claimed by some Christianist come from the Pagans! Yeah, PAGANS! After all, to trick the Pagans into becoming Christians they had to assimilate their traditions. But don't worry; it was all done in the name of Christ. Too bad that Christians don't know who Christ really is anymore. Not that they would care anyway. And they especially wouldn't give a shit what a godless heathen such as myself would have to say about it anyway.
Sorry folks, I guess I just don't have the Christmas spirit. Well, I guess if I stick with just the hypocrite part I do have it. I get that. But the rest of it? Whatever!
Am I waging a war on Christmas? I don't think so. Christianist are doing it themselves just fine. I'm just watching them go at it while I do my own thing. Such as: no lights, no tree, no music, no shopping, no family, no handouts and no Christ. Selfish? Meh. If you want all that stuff, great! Go for it. I don't care. Just don't expect me to do it to.
God, I'm glad the holidays are over!
I guess this makes me a scrooge or a curmudgeon or something. It doesn't matter. I'm hated by one group of people or another no matter what I think, say or do. So I'm going to do my own god damned thing from now on and if you like it, join me, if not, FUCK OFF! I'm serious. I invite anyone who finds my little rant offensive to seriously fuck off. I don't mind at all. It may sound like I mind because of the seemingly harsh language but at this point I'm really not talking directly to anyone. It's more of a proverbial use of the phrase to anyone in my life who really does need to fuck off.
Postscript: It was the Christians who came up with the word 'Pagan' to call these unbelieving, polytheistic, heathen, low life, evil people. I'm proud to be called a Pagan. It's like taking back the word 'fag', which I'm am one of those as well. :) Happy Xmas! (Nov 20, 2010)
Anyway...I just got past the holiday season.
Oh My Fucking God!
I have a love/hate relationship with this time of year. But this time around it's mostly the hate.
How did the year end and how did the new one start? It ended with a crash and a bang and bunch of other complete bullshit. It was an otherwise great year that came together in the most fucked up holiday season ever. And it's still not over yet. In fact I think I'll still have a few more months of this shit before I might be clear enough to start thinking and feeling grounded again. It's not to say I'm in a constant state of rage. I do have moments throughout the week of positivity, but it's only about 0.6% of the time. I think that equates to about an hour per week where it's just me and the equines.
I debated if I should even bother listing all the shit that has gone down since October but I don't think I will. There is just too much of it. Perhaps it would have been better had I made small blog entries for each incident as they happened. But it really came down to the fact that I'm still relatively anonymous on this blog and after considering the implications of revealing the nature of the shit that's gone down, it would seriously compromise my identity. Besides that, listing all that shit would incite a pity party. It's bad enough that I pity myself as much as I do. Getting it from others doesn't feed my ego in healthy ways. And right now the combination of all this shit going down and the affects of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), regress me to some serious irrationality. Besides, all of the shit that's happened is actually incidental and doesn't really have any real meaning. The important question to ask is: How I've been handling it all? To which I would respond: GAH!!!
Needless to say I've got so much pent-up anger right now I could bite anyone who crosses me...until they bleed of course, and then I would let them go. I'm not a vampire and don't like the taste of blood. Don't worry. I am seeking counseling.
But for now I feel like ranting about shit that I've wanted to rant about for decades. And to make it even worse my rant is all a fucking cliché. When ranting about the so-called Holiday Season how could it not be?
When I see people walking around wishing each other "Merry Christmas" and "Happy New Year" and all that crap, I want to gag. And yet I find myself going along with it anyway so I don't come across as a complete asshole. But deep down inside I'm screaming, "Whatever!" That alone pisses me off further. It's hypocritical and I'm angry at myself for playing the game.
It's a pointless and mindless time of year where people try to act extra nice. Why now? Why not all of the time? These holidays and their dates are utterly arbitrary to me. Take New Year's Day for instance. That one is especially pointless to me. It is a week and a half after the winter solstice. To me the solstice is more like a new year than January 1. A solstice is an actual measurable physical phenomenon that can be used to mark the end and beginning of a solar cycle. January 1 is just a number on some made-up calendar. Who made up that calendar anyway? And why does that calendar say the year has to be 2010? Why not 8302 or some other number in say, base 12?
And then there is the Christmas holiday and all of that crap. Set aside the fact that December 25 is not even the actual date of the birth of the Christian religion so to speak. But that doesn't really matter. What matters is that it's the one time out of the year where all of the hypocrites can come out in droves and be EXTRA hypocritical. Personal experience has allowed me to witness many so-called Christmas holidays where Christianist behave in some of the most unchristian ways ever seen. That really doesn't bode well for celebrating the birth of their Savior™.
Another thing that doesn't bode well is that most of the modern Christmas traditions claimed by some Christianist come from the Pagans! Yeah, PAGANS! After all, to trick the Pagans into becoming Christians they had to assimilate their traditions. But don't worry; it was all done in the name of Christ. Too bad that Christians don't know who Christ really is anymore. Not that they would care anyway. And they especially wouldn't give a shit what a godless heathen such as myself would have to say about it anyway.
Sorry folks, I guess I just don't have the Christmas spirit. Well, I guess if I stick with just the hypocrite part I do have it. I get that. But the rest of it? Whatever!
Am I waging a war on Christmas? I don't think so. Christianist are doing it themselves just fine. I'm just watching them go at it while I do my own thing. Such as: no lights, no tree, no music, no shopping, no family, no handouts and no Christ. Selfish? Meh. If you want all that stuff, great! Go for it. I don't care. Just don't expect me to do it to.
God, I'm glad the holidays are over!
I guess this makes me a scrooge or a curmudgeon or something. It doesn't matter. I'm hated by one group of people or another no matter what I think, say or do. So I'm going to do my own god damned thing from now on and if you like it, join me, if not, FUCK OFF! I'm serious. I invite anyone who finds my little rant offensive to seriously fuck off. I don't mind at all. It may sound like I mind because of the seemingly harsh language but at this point I'm really not talking directly to anyone. It's more of a proverbial use of the phrase to anyone in my life who really does need to fuck off.
Postscript: It was the Christians who came up with the word 'Pagan' to call these unbelieving, polytheistic, heathen, low life, evil people. I'm proud to be called a Pagan. It's like taking back the word 'fag', which I'm am one of those as well. :) Happy Xmas! (Nov 20, 2010)
Sunday, February 15, 2009
My First Post
Well here we are, my first post. Well, it's not really my first post. I had some posts here from last year. They were all about stupid political stuff regarding gay marriage and those crazy religionists. Oh, and Mormons too. Yeah, it was just a bit too topical. Topical equals boring times infinity.
Well I'm taking this a new direction. I'm setting out to do what I originally intended to do:
Dump my brain.
Why? Could it be because I'm a narcissistic little twat who believes that the world revolves round me and cares what I have to say? Of course not, that's just ridiculous. If I were narcissistic I wouldn't have made this blog anonymous now would I? Hell, if I were narcissistic I would have had my real name posted with 300 pictures of me posing with celebrities, a few hundred pictures of my cat, a list of my CD collection, my address and the place where I work and all 17 email addresses where you could contact me.
But I didn't do that. That's what Facebook and Myspace are for. I value my privacy just way too much. Well except on Facebook where I post all of that shit. Except for the cats. I don't own a cat. But my friends do so I borrow theirs.
No, in reality what I fear is retribution. But then if you are the one person who actually follows this blog you will come to know in time why I fear retribution. Not your retribution but the retribution of the people I talk about in this blog. However, if I got to know you by some slip of the tongue, and we were to somehow reveal ourselves to each other, chances are you would then become fodder for my blog. And your embarrassment would motivate retribution towards me. Therefore, all the more reason to remain anonymous. See how I'm thinking ahead here? Anonymous is a win-win!
Now, I know what your saying.
"COWARD!"
Ok, well shouting actually. But still, I understand. And I don't care. Keep in mind I did say I feared retribution. And whether that fear is real or not is irrelevant. The fact is I refuse to own up to the drivel I'll be posting here. So, yes I am a coward. Or as some of you shouted, "COWARD!"
But I digress. I believe I was answering the question as to why I am dumping my brain on this blog. Well, at the risk of sounding all newagey I will just say this:
Writing allows one to transcend the subconscious mind energies and open new pathways for enlightenment of the inner-child, god-self which will lift the core-person to its conscious forethoughts of spiritual oneness with the universe. Or some shit like that.
Well I'm taking this a new direction. I'm setting out to do what I originally intended to do:
Dump my brain.
Why? Could it be because I'm a narcissistic little twat who believes that the world revolves round me and cares what I have to say? Of course not, that's just ridiculous. If I were narcissistic I wouldn't have made this blog anonymous now would I? Hell, if I were narcissistic I would have had my real name posted with 300 pictures of me posing with celebrities, a few hundred pictures of my cat, a list of my CD collection, my address and the place where I work and all 17 email addresses where you could contact me.
But I didn't do that. That's what Facebook and Myspace are for. I value my privacy just way too much. Well except on Facebook where I post all of that shit. Except for the cats. I don't own a cat. But my friends do so I borrow theirs.
No, in reality what I fear is retribution. But then if you are the one person who actually follows this blog you will come to know in time why I fear retribution. Not your retribution but the retribution of the people I talk about in this blog. However, if I got to know you by some slip of the tongue, and we were to somehow reveal ourselves to each other, chances are you would then become fodder for my blog. And your embarrassment would motivate retribution towards me. Therefore, all the more reason to remain anonymous. See how I'm thinking ahead here? Anonymous is a win-win!
Now, I know what your saying.
"COWARD!"
Ok, well shouting actually. But still, I understand. And I don't care. Keep in mind I did say I feared retribution. And whether that fear is real or not is irrelevant. The fact is I refuse to own up to the drivel I'll be posting here. So, yes I am a coward. Or as some of you shouted, "COWARD!"
But I digress. I believe I was answering the question as to why I am dumping my brain on this blog. Well, at the risk of sounding all newagey I will just say this:
Writing allows one to transcend the subconscious mind energies and open new pathways for enlightenment of the inner-child, god-self which will lift the core-person to its conscious forethoughts of spiritual oneness with the universe. Or some shit like that.
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