My Morbid Mind

Back in the days when I claimed to be a psychology major (or maybe it was in a high school psych class... both are now far enough removed from my consciousness that they're barely distinguishable), I remember learning about the nature of morbid thoughts.

- It is common for children to have the vengeful thought, "If I died, they'd be sorry they did this to me." (in which "this" could refer to being punished, not being allowed to eat ice cream instead of dinner, having to go to bed on time, taking another person's side in an argument, etc.)
- It is common for people who feel undervalued to think, "If I died, they'd see just how valuable I really am."
- It is common for people with low self-esteem to think, "If I were dead, it wouldn't even matter."


My morbid thought isn't on that list.

Mine is more like...

"Maybe it'd be better for me to die young. Because when you die young, they talk about how great you were and how you had so much potential. They assume you would've achieved so much. It's better than dying after a life where your so-called "potential" led to nothing. Maybe I'd be less of a disappointment to everyone if I died sooner rather than later."


Don't worry. I'm not suicidal. And this thought doesn't last long when it comes. But I feel like it's something that I can't say out loud to anyone. And it was weighing on me tonight.

So thank you, internet, for once again providing me a therapeutic outlet where I can vent my inner demons. I love you.



May you make the most of your life.

~A~


P.S. Merry Christmas Eve

Tug and Shift

(Two-Shots-Up and me on New Year's Eve. Yes, she's wearing my Hannah Montana wig.)

I'm becoming someone else. Someone that I never was. Quickly, it seems. I'm not yet sure if that's the someone who I want to be. But I feel like I need to give it a shot for awhile.

It's not a bad thing, I don't think. It's just something I'm keeping an eye on.

I'm making decisions a little faster. And making them with different things in mind.

I've decided to stop talking myself out of things and into things as often as I do. I'm going to be more impulsive. I'm going to own my emotions. And once I acknowledge them, I'm going to set them free instead of drowning in them.

I'm not the kind of person who let's things go. Anything. I hold on to moments for hours, days, weeks. I hang onto words, and run them through my brain like a river. I wonder what I could have done differently. What I could have said differently. Why other people say and do what they say and do.

I've realized recently that I'm a genuinely nice person. I don't do nice things so that I get credit for doing them, but rather I do them because I feel satisfied by making other people happy/relieved/secure. And because I'm nice, I get taken advantage of a great deal.

Maybe I need to be more selfish than I was before.

I think too hard about things. I like to feel like I'm in control of situations. I am overly concerned with the consequences of every action. And I have a hard time turning off that part of my brain.

In the last week, I've made several choices about where I was going and what I was doing that were not the sort of choices I would've made before. They were braver. Riskier. And perhaps not quite as nice as I usually am. I made them without thinking about other people.

It was liberating, actually. I stopped worrying about what people thought of me. I stopped worrying about what I was supposed to do, and did what I wanted to do. And so far, the results haven't been that bad.

I'm a little concerned about this lack of consideration for others. Or this lack of consideration in general. I didn't consider things; I just acted. I was forward. I was blunt. I was -- on a beginner's level -- adventurous.

On a small scale, I'm turning into a risk-taker. In a minute fashion, I'm becoming a libertine. And with baby steps, I'm discovering my inner hedonist.

Maybe it's just a phase.

In any case, I think I'm going to embrace it. For the time being, anyway.



I don't need a new year to make resolutions for myself. But the change of year is certainly a good reminder to make some.

Resolutions for 2009:

- Call my brothers more often.
- Stop trying to talk myself into things and out of things. Just let them happen, and take them as they are.
- Make up my own mind about things, instead of just agreeing with the opinions of others.
- Acknowledge my emotions and then let them go, instead of pushing them aside and letting them control me.
- Stop taking personal responsibility for the happiness of others.
- Be more assertive. Stop letting people take advantage of me just because I'm nice.
- Stop judging people based on their history or reputation.



May you tug your skirt, shift in your seat, and see how comfortable you are in a different position.

~A~

Chameleon

As I prepared you for in my last post, I've again started dealing with a facet of myself that I don't particularly care for.

I'm a chameleon.

I adapt easily. I am fully willing to change.

Doesn't immediately sound like a bad thing, does it?

But it is.

It comes out in relationships. I have a tendency to mold myself into whatever it is I think the other person wants. And, as a result, I sometimes lose sight of who I am and what it is that I want.

I do whatever the other person wants to do. I watch movies that I have no interest in watching. I listen to music that I would never listen to otherwise. Hell, I watched Monday Night RAW (yeah, that's right... professional wrestling) sitting on a couch next to my then-boyfriend for about a year.

And I liked it.

Or I thought I did. At the time.

I even had a favorite character (Edge). And favorite moves. And I knew all the back-stories of all the wrestlers (both the performers AND their characters).

But I don't know if I ever actually liked it. I don't think that I ever really enjoyed listening to U2, watching Mr. Show, or suffering through The Fast and the Furious with my exes. What I was actually deriving pleasure from was making them happy. Seeing how excited they were that they had finally found someone with whom they could share this thing that they loved? That was the real magic.

Maybe it has something to do with me being an actor. Maybe I crave the opportunity to play these roles. Maybe I just have low self-esteem. Or maybe I think that it's impossible to find someone who I'll actually have things in common with, so I find ways to synthesize that.

When I recently discussed this with a coworker, he said that all relationships are like that. That there's a level of give and take. A balance. And that you each spend time giving the things that the other person likes a chance.

Unfortunately, my male counterparts are usually not as eager to contort to my favorite things as I am to them.

Brian was different, to some extent. We had aligned tastes in music from the get-go. We were excited to learn new music from each other. To look at it honestly, I think I was probably more excited to hear his music than he was to hear mine. And I shared mine with him more frequently than he sent any back... But still, it was a start.

And here I am, watching his collection of Battlestar Galactica, trudging through episodes I don't like, while he holds my copies of Arrested Development and The Office somewhere in the desert. We share these things even now, after all that's happened... We're learning to like things that the other person liked first.

It's more out of friendship now, I guess. I hope. I think I'm watching this show at a friend's recommendation. It's not because I'm semi-consciously trying to be the perfect girl for him.

Yet, I can't help but wonder... Am I watching because I like it, or because on some level I think it'll make Brian happy if I like it?

The honest answer is that I don't know.

And that scares me.

Here's another weird thing... Brian got me interested in the music of Kara DioGuardi and her band, Platinum Weird. And I know, I KNOW, that I genuinely like that music. But I haven't been able to listen to it since I left Nebraska. I skip over it as soon as it comes on my iTunes.

So how come this thing that I actually enjoy is something that I'm now removing from my life, and this other thing that I only like sometimes doesn't bother me at all? What's the difference?

Maybe it's because I listened to Kara's music WHILE I was with Brian, whereas BSG only really entered my life when I was in Nebraska. Maybe, somehow, BSG doesn't remind me of him as much?

The girl sighs.

Why can't I tell the difference between things I like and the things I try to like because other people do? Is it just because I'm good at convincing myself of things?

I don't always know who I am or what I want. I've always been willing to sit through things I didn't like if my friends did. Heck, the thing that got me on stage back in 6th grade was my best friend auditioning for the musical. I thought I should do it, too. The whole reason I'm on the career path that I'm on was because I was pretending to like something that someone else liked, and it just sort of stuck.

In the movie Runaway Bride (I've never seen it in its entirety and I'm splicing together fragments here, so please forgive inaccuracies), the main character is like me, but in an extreme form. She molds herself so closely to the desires of whatever man she's with that she never really knows who she is or what she wants. She doesn't even know how she likes her eggs, because she's so used to eating them however the current male in her life does.

That's how I feel sometimes. I question whether I like eggs at all. (Metaphorically speaking, that is.)

There's another problem I can spot from this behavioral pattern. One that might be worse...

I have this semi-conscious desire to be the "cool girlfriend". So I put up with a lot. I convince myself that I'm not bothered by things that should, by all means, bother me. Like the time that my long-distance boyfriend didn't return my calls for three weeks straight, and I said, "That's okay. I know you've been really busy lately." Or the times that I've let a relationship go undefined for too long because I didn't want to pressure the guy into submitting to a label, and then felt used when it turned out we hadn't been in the same place mentally. Or how I kept dating a guy after he didn't return my phone calls on our 2nd anniversary.

Why? Because I was trying to be the kind of girlfriend I thought I should be. The kind I wish I were. Completely laid back, low-maintenance, and cool. I pretend to be that girl a lot. I feel like I SHOULD be that girl. I want to be her. And so I act like I'm more okay with things than I am. I try to convince myself that things are fine, when clearly I don't actually feel that way. I ignore my instincts a great deal because I feel like I'm being the whiny shrew in the relationship if I don't, and that's not what I want to be.

I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's because I have low self-esteem. On some level, maybe I feel like no one will ever love me as I am. So I try to be something that they will love. I try to do all the things I think they'll want me to do.

Also, I never fall first. I only go after guys that I already know are interested in me. Low-hanging fruit, I suppose (please forgive the corporate buzzword). I guess I'm so shocked by the idea that anyone could want me that I WANT to want them back. And we already know that I'm good at talking myself into things. Add this to the list.

How horrible is that? Maybe every feeling I've ever had has been one I convinced myself to have.

I can't keep doing this stuff. I can't. I deserve better than to settle for someone just because they want me. I shouldn't have to put my needs on hold in order to be the cool, low-maintenance girlfriend. I shouldn't have to be the only one trying to adapt. And I definitely shouldn't pretend to be someone I'm not.

But I'm not sure that I know how to stop.



May you be happy being you.

~A~


P.S. I'm watching Sister Terry twice this weekend in TnT. Woo-hoo!

P.P.S. Renee and Jenn are coming to see TnT tomorrow night, and I'm super excited!

P.P.P.S. I'm also going out with a bar to meet up with a thousand bloggers tomorrow night, and then on a cupcake crawl on Saturday. Best weekend ever? Quite possibly. :)

Questions Written on My Face

I've spent half of April 29 wondering if something crazy would happen. And I'm spending the other half trying to prevent anything interesting from happening at all.

I had plans. I was supposed to go to a write-in to work on my novel. And I decided I couldn't. I wanted to lock myself in my shoebox-sized apartment and block out the world for a bit. I even considered turning off my cell phone (but decided I shouldn't render myself unreachable, in case the craziness of April 29 manifested itself in some sort of emergency situation... but even just considering it was a big deal). I just want this special day to not be special anymore. I want it to be like any other day.

Instead, I decided to stay in and write a blog post. On a Tuesday. Because I have something to say. Some thoughts that I have to drain from my skull before they flatten my brain like a pancake.

In the comments section of my last post, my buddy Nilsa said:

I think you should start posting "real life" pictures of yourself (i.e., post-storm) instead of continuous dolled-up ones. We already know you're gorgeous! :-)

This seemingly innocuous comment got my wheels turning in a major way.

I post the pictures that I do because I'm interested in photography. I really like taking photographs of people, but most people I know don't seem to like getting their picture taken. And besides, my camera isn't particularly great. So I improvise. I take pictures of myself. Using my laptop, as I don't have to hold it as I would a camera. I'm both the amateur photographer and the model. It helps me practice. I'm learning about lighting and angles, and even a little bit about editing (although very, very little... any editing I do is in iPhoto, which doesn't have a ton of functions).

Or, at least, that's what I tell myself.

The reason I didn't post a picture of me post-storm was because I didn't have a camera on me then. If I had one at the time, I'm sure a picture would've been taken. And who knows, maybe it would've been posted. It would, after all, have illustrated the story rather nicely.

And I have put a lot of candid pictures on here. Even a few in which I don't think I look particularly attractive.

But maybe not.

I take so many pictures. So, so, so many. And most of them get deleted before anyone other than me sees them. Any picture you ever see of me that I took? It has gone through a strenuous approval process. I have hemmed and hawed over whether it's good enough. I've hit delete on so many pictures. Ones that are blurry. Ones with bad lighting. Ones where I don't look like myself. Ones with bad angles that make me look like I have a double chin (my greatest fear).

I paced around my apartment trying to figure out why that is until I found an answer that is, at least in part, true.

Sometimes I'm afraid that people will see me the way I see myself.

*her vulnerability clicks into place*

It's true. You know how people say you can be whomever you want to be? Sometimes I wonder if I'm only pretending. I like the idea of being the quirky, light-hearted, smiley girl. But am I embracing who I am? Or am I pretending to be something I'm not and taking on this persona as some sort of facade? Maybe my entire being is a lie. Maybe I don't want people to see that I'm really just normal. And boring. And not special in the least.

I see the bad things about myself before I see the good things. I see how thirsty my dry skin is, and how badly it breaks out and taunts me when I over-moisturize it. I see the disorder in my eyebrows. I see the gaps reforming between my teeth because I stopped wearing my retainers once a month like the orthodontist said I should. I see my loathsome neck and the double-chin effect that it has been producing for the last 10 months in photographs and mirrors alike. I see my pathetic, bony wrists. I see the features that seem too big for my face. I scrutinize every detail. I'm sure I've worked myself up over problems with parts of my face and body that other people wouldn't look at twice. But then, why would they? These things are my burden, not theirs.

There are days when I think I'm attractive. And there are days when I don't. You may have noticed that two of the posts I put up recently had photos that were clearly taken on the same day. I stockpile them sometimes. Whenever I have a day when I feel cute, I take a bunch of pictures. Because I know there will be days when I don't feel cute. And I want to have those pictures. They make me feel like maybe I was once. And maybe I could be again.

God, that makes me sound so... fake. And manufactured. Maybe I am to some extent. Maybe I only allow people to see the parts of me that I approve first. Maybe I need that level of control.

You know what, fine. Here.



This is what I look like right now, at this very moment. I'm lying down, typing, with all the lights off. I'm wearing a truly hideous nightgown and am not wearing a stitch of makeup. And the sunset in the background is far more interesting than I am.

When I look in the mirror, I see me. I see all the flaws that come with me. And not just physically. I see the tenacity. I see the fear. The loneliness. The indecision. The manipulation. All of it.

Sometimes I have conversations with myself in the mirror. I will literally ask myself questions and answer them. All aloud. And sometimes I surprise myself with the answers. Sometimes I say things that I didn't know were underneath the surface until I say them.

(Note: I just started typing out one of these conversations, and then realized just how inexcusably dumb it sounds.)

There's a line from the movie The Truth about Cats and Dogs that Uma Thurman's character delivers... "Did you ever look in the mirror so long that your face didn't make sense anymore? It just becomes all these shapes. Just shapes. Not good or bad."

I do that. My face has lost a lot of meaning to me. I look at the pieces instead of at the whole. Sometimes I stare at my reflection until I'm near tears. And what's really horrifying and embarrassing about it is that I don't know why. Maybe it's just to see if I still can.

Do other people do this? Is there something wrong with me? Shouldn't I have grown out of this by now?

But I haven't. I have flaws. I have fears. I have insecurities. I have more boundaries and barriers than international travel. I can try to work through them as much as I like, but they'll never be completely gone. They're a part of me... Take it or leave it.

So you know what, while I'm in this vulnerable, uncovered sort of mood, I'm opening it up. I'm blatantly ripping off an idea from my blogging buddy Tipp (hope you don't mind).

Leave a question for me in the comments.

Please.

And, barring anything that might make it possible for an online stalker to track me down or a person I know in real life to find me via Google, I'll answer it. Honestly. Openly. Vulnerably. Longiloquently. And to the best of my ability.

Seriously. Anything. Even if it's something stupid. It'll give me something to think about other than the thoughts that are currently rolling around in my head. And that would be a welcome distraction. And it'll remind me that someone, somewhere, wonders what I look like on the inside.

ETA: Hey, lurkers! Come out, come out, whomever you are!

I hope it'll be a learning experience for all of us.


May you step back from the mirror and try to see yourself another way.

~A~


P.S. Please don't go paying me obligatory compliments and trying to build up my self-esteem or something. I wasn't fishing for niceties with this. And frankly, knowing that you've read what I've just written, it would be hard for me to believe them anyway.

P.P.S. Maybe that's what was supposed to happen today. Maybe that was my fluke. Having a weird psychoanalysis in my apartment alone, with no outside stimulus. Happy April 29 to me.

P.P.P.S. I'm sorry, Bri.

Picture Perfect

I've been thinking a lot lately about the value of on-camera training as an actor. I focus so much on the theatre aspect of things (I'm from the Midwest... it's what we do) instead of considering film and television. I've never been much of a film person until recently. Especially now that I have Netflix (genius!).

If the graduate program I choose is one that doesn't include it, I think I'll have to seek out that training on my own. I think I'm also going to look into training for voice-overs. And possibly acrobatics and aerial dance (not so much because I think I'll need it... more because it's SWEET!).

I've been told I have a good face for stage (big features, I guess), but I don't know if it's the same for film. I mean, I guess it works for Angelina Jolie...

Also, I'm too fat for Hollywood. Not that I think I'm fat... I just think that they're all unrealistically skinny. I'd be a six-to-eight in a world of zeroes. (Weird to note: I was a zero-to-two a mere year and a half ago... And people were concerned that I might have an eating disorder. For the record, I didn't. I just had much higher metabolism at the time.)

And they're all so pretty in Hollywood. So perfect. When's the last time you saw a lead actress in the movie that couldn't be described as either "beautiful", "hot", "cute", or "striking"? I wish the way I looked made more of an impression on people. The managers at my old apartment building could never remember me (although they always recognized my roommates), and it became sort of a joke between us how I was so unrecognizable (I suppose they really meant "generic" or "forgettable"). And I'm always being told, "you look so much like a friend of mine." I'm always being compared to other people. I guess I just have one of those sorts of faces. I wish I looked more... distinctive, I guess. I would love to be "striking". Like Donna Murphy. Or Uma Thurman.

But anyway. I often extol the virtues of the theatre, fighting on behalf of this art form for which I have such deep passion. I often overlook the other ways I could reach people through acting. If I'm serious about wanting to use acting as my way of changing the world, I think I should really explore all the paths through which I could accomplish that. I shouldn't limit myself to just one medium.

So who knows. Maybe one day, you'll see me in pictures.

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My friend Amanda and I went to the AMC Best Picture nominee marathon yesterday. It started at 11am and finished at 11pm, showing the five films nominated for the most coveted Oscar. Are we crazy? Quite possibly. (We actually both saw Juno ahead of time -- I saw it Friday night, making it the first time I've ever gone to the movie theater alone -- so that we could take a two hour dinner break).

Here are my thoughts:


Michael Clayton
Generally good. I personally feel that George Clooney is overrated as an actor, but he was fine here (I just wish there hadn't been so many close up shots of his face). Tilda Swinton is truly excellent, and I hope she pulls an upset. Tom Wilkinson is also nominated, as a man losing his mind, and he's fantastic as well (and I'd love to see him beat out Javier Bardem, but I'll get to that later). The editing and storytelling are good. But I failed to pick up on the importance of one seemingly innocuous detail -- a sketch in the margin of a book as it's being leafed through -- and Amanda had to remind me of it when the movie was over (I don't remember the sketch at all... and the movie makes a ton more sense as a result. My parents had seen the movie, and they didn't remember it either. Maybe it just wasn't highlighted well enough). The music was good. It was at times suspenseful. I'd see it again, if only for the sake of clarification.

There Will Be Blood
Yes, there is pay-off for the title. By the end of the movie, there is indeed blood. Daniel Day Lewis shows off a truly grand performance in the corruption and decline of an oil man. Paul Dano isn't really on equal footing with him, but he's pretty good. The movie is far too long (three hours, I believe) and the director (Paul T. Anderson) was clearly over-indulgent with his shots. The score was creepy and well done (although it was deemed not eligible for an Oscar nomination). All in all, a good film. But I wouldn't see it again... Spending three hours of my life with this flick was enough; six would be too many. (By the way, the "I drink your milkshake" line is better in context. And actually really sort of terrifying.)

Atonement
EASILY my favorite. This movie is so good. I thought it was going to be some sappy chick flick, but it's not. The movie is about a character who observes the love story, as opposed to being about the love story itself (and who would've thought I'd love a movie that so prominently featured the C-word?) The acting is excellent (how did James McAvoy not get a nomination? He's stupendous in this), and I now understand why Saoirse Ryan was nominated (although I don't think she should win, based on the other nominees in her category). The sound editing/sound mixing/score = superb (sounds in the scenes play into the score in a way that I don't think I've ever experienced in a movie before, with sensational results -- How was it not nominated for Sound Mixing or Sound Editing?). The cinematography is incredible (including an extraordinary 5.5 minute tracking shot through a beach at Dunkirk. The whole movie is gorgeous). The editing and storytelling are phenomenal (you see several scenes from more than one point of view, and it unfolds nicely), and there are a couple of scenes where it felt like a "classic" film. And it's at times suspenseful, causing me to lean forward while literally sitting on the edge of my seat. The costumes are exquisite (including the breath-taking green dress that everyone seems to be talking about). This is the best movie I've seen in a long time. As soon as it ended, I wanted to immediately watch it again. Phenomenal. Go see it.

Juno
A delightful little film, although certainly not one that makes you think "Oscar". Ellen Page is wonderful in it. The writing is extremely stylized and over-the-top, but once you become acclimated to it, it's fun (if you're willing to suspend your disbelief). Michael Cera is the same character he always plays, but he's well-cast, so it didn't bother me (I haven't seen any range in him as an actor, but he's so charmingly dorky that I can't help but adore him). Allison Janney and Jason Bateman are both great, and I also enjoyed Olivia Thirlby's performance as Juno's best friend Leah. I walked out of the theatre with a strange mix of emotions that I couldn't reconcile. I felt simultaneously lonely, detached from humanity, and maternal. I had a bizarre urge to have a child, but let someone else raise it. I'd see it again. (My favorite line: "Have a condom. They're boysenberry. My boyfriend uses them every time we have intercourse. They make his junk smell like pie.")

No Country for Old Men
HATED it. One of the most boring movies that I have EVER seen. Horrible. Javier Bardem won a Golden Globe for his role as a remorseless killer, but he was just okay. The most interesting thing about the movie is a character that's only in about half the movie (I won't ruin it for you in case you decide to go against my advice and see it anyway). It was incredibly slow-moving. Woody Harrelson wastes what could've been one of the interesting roles in the movie. The ending is completely bland and unsatisfying. There was nothing redeeming about this movie. Nothing. It was terrible. There's a fair amount of gore and guns, which I guess is why certain male friends of mine seemed to like it. I can't figure it out. At the end of the movie, I felt gypped. I think that any and all Oscar nominations for this film are wholly unsubstantiated, and will be greatly angered if it wins... anything. And it's rumored to be a front-runner in several races (God only knows why).

I just got Away from Her via Netflix, so I intend to watch that today (as I've heard that Julie Christie is a front-runner in her category).

My only other Oscar comment? I'm rooting for "Falling Slowly" from Once to win for Best Song. You may have noticed it was on my playlist for awhile (and will be again, I'm sure). It's a gorgeous song that is truly integral to the plot. To be fair, I don't know any of the other nominated songs... But "Falling Slowly" needs to win. It's just... lovely.

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My life feels complicated.
Not that such a thing is unusual.
I feel like I'm telling the same stories to people over and over again.
I'm looking for some answer that isn't there.
Some obvious explanation as to how to solve my problems.
A way to make everything into the way I'd like it to be instead of the way it is.

I keep reflecting on things that have happened.
I've replayed events in my mind so much that I can't recall their original order anymore.
I've wondered if I made the right decisions.
I hope that I'm not steering life in the wrong direction.
(And after seeing Atonement, I'm now keenly aware of how misunderstandings and missteps can alter the course of life.)

I hope that I somehow end up away from this.
That years from now, I'll live a life without confusion.
And without regret.

I hope that I'll lose this aching pain of loneliness.
I hope I'll know who I am and what I want.
I hope I'll find a way to explain myself to others without resorting to typing.
I hope to have things to do and people to see.
I hope to find a base of friends that I can trust.
I hope I'll be intellectually stimulated on a regular basis.
I hope that I'll pair off with someone who fits me perfectly, as though it were meant to be.


May the future you picture be one you hope to live in.

~A~


P.S. You may have noticed that my playlist is sort of... missing. Replaced by one song: "Desperately" by Michelle Branch. Perhaps you should listen to it and then help me figure out why it's been hitting me so hard lately. I don't know how accurately it reflects my state of being, but it's tugged on my spirit when I've listened to it in recent days. (Don't worry... the playlist will return to its regularly scheduled programming at some point.)

In Defense of Silence

Whenever I played team sports in gym class, I always preferred being on defense. In soccer, I'd hang around down near my own team's goal, feeling as though I was going to be more helpful down there. I was never an aggressive player. I often ended up in the right place at the right time to help my team. And even when I was just standing on the field, just chatting with the goalie while everything interesting happened on the other end of the field, I felt like I was being helpful. As though by not acting, I was setting up a better strategy for moments to come.

And I guess that's how I play life as well. I have so many coping mechanisms and defense mechanisms that it's a wonder that I'm not mechanical. But I'm great at protecting myself. Self-preservation is my specialty.

I learned long ago that I'm great at talking myself into and out of things (a good example of this being my concept of "As Good As Gay"). I'm able to convince myself that the things I predict will happen are all for the best. I'm good at seeing something that's going to fall through long before it does, and I know what steps to take to make myself the least disappointed. I shape a cast around my heart long before it has even broken.

I also have great skill with abstract thought. I make connections that other people don't, which is either advantageous or alienating, depending on the circumstances. And I'm constantly thinking. Even if you don't see them turning behind my eyes, my wheels are always in motion. And whereas most people have linear thought processes, I tend to think in webs. Every new idea leads me to a whole set of unrelated tangents. (Like this one about how I think, for example.)

I only mention how I think because it relates to my methods of self-defense. I'm overly analytical. I think far more than I should. And before any important action, I think through a thousand consequences. I think until my hands shake and the world is blurry. I think about the things that could happen and the things that never will. I think about the positives, the negatives, and everything in between. That way, no matter what happens, I'm a little more prepared than I would've been (I've already mentioned how much I hate surprises).

Now, this bubble-wrapped life of mine does come with it's drawbacks. I'm not much of a risk-taker. I don't stir the pot if I don't have to. And there are a lot of things that I don't do because I think it's going to benefit me or someone else in the long run, no matter how appealing it may seem in the moment. (Really, the only time I have a tendency to be impulsive is when I'm shopping, and I've been using a system of checks and balances on that one with Megan for the last decade... Dear God. I just realized that it's been a decade since I started high school. Well, 9.5 years technically, but close enough. Egad!)

Sometimes I think about things for so long that it becomes too late to do anything about them. But I'm generally able to convince myself that it was meant to be that way (I am, after all, good at talking myself out of things).

Generally, I'm a pretty honest person. Mostly because I'm a terrible liar. But also because I don't like lies. Honesty is much more appealing.

But I am not of the opinion that "not telling the whole truth" classifies as lying. Lying is fabrication, not omission. Withholding information is completely different from lying. And I find that it's often completely necessary.

It's not that I'm trying to lie. It's not that I'm trying to be manipulative. It's just... I feel this need to strategize.

Most of the time I do things like this, it's with the intention of protecting someone. Sometimes that someone is myself. Usually, it's whomever the thing I'm hiding pertains to. Sometimes, it's whomever I'm keeping the secret from. And sometimes, those last two qualifications have to do with the same person.

Brian finally read the entry I wrote about him.

Maybe I shouldn't have written what I did. But I felt like I had to. And he reads this infrequently and without pattern... I guess some part of me thought there was a chance that he'd never see it. I guess I left things up to God/The Fates/destiny/the universe. And I convinced myself that it was for the best.

There was a lot that I didn't put in that entry that I would have if there were no chance that he'd read this. A lot of things that can't be said.

As a side note, I recently realized that I talk about Brian almost as much as I talk to Brian. Is that unhealthy? Or stalker-esque or something? Or perhaps I'm finally riding the final hill into the valley of mental illness that I've feared for so long with my thinking-man's-hypochondria.

Anyway. Every time I told someone that Brian was in Nebraska and in love with me, I could expect to hear the same answer: "Oh, this isn't going to end well."

We had a long conversation a couple of nights ago. Brian's apparently over me. Yes, over me. Meaning not in love with me. I don't know whether it had anything to do with reading what I wrote. All I know is that I was just as confused and messed up by him saying that he's not in love with me as I felt when he said that he was. Only this time, I wasn't smiling and blushing during my silence on the phone. I sat with furrowed brow and no words that would create a proper response.

I've been silent through large chunks of many phone conversations with Brian, which is something that I don't do much with anyone else. Sometimes it's because he's analyzing me and trying to bring slices of my soul to the surface. Sometimes it's because I'm not sure how to react to the inane things he's said. Maybe I'm just comfortable sitting in silence with him.

After we ended the phone conversation (because he goes to bed about 3 hours before I do), I ended up composing a long e-mail, saying all the things that I've never said. The things it feels like I can't say or shouldn't say... so I don't. Things that I've wanted to say that I thought weren't okay to say.

Maybe it was because I'm sick (I have a tendency to be blunt when I'm sick). Maybe it was because I was sleep deprived (I hadn't slept the previous two nights, thanks to the sickness and my insomnia). Maybe it was the medications I was on. But it just seemed like things he needed to know. Things that he should know now that he says he's over me.

I finished the e-mail. I reread it, and deleted a few paragraphs (using the self-censoring techniques that come along with my defense mechanisms like a 2-for-1 deal at Target). I wrote an introduction about how I probably shouldn't send it. And I wrote a conclusion blaming it on my illness/medications/insomnia. I went to hit send, but then stopped myself. I walked away from my computer. I said a prayer. I called Megan (at what I'm sure was an ungodly hour in Michigan... and on a school night for her, no less). And Megan did exactly what a non-sexual soul-mate should: she talked me through it without pushing me in one direction or another. And we decided that I should sleep on it before sending it. So I saved it as a draft and left it in my e-mail account.

Fact about me: I'm a great secret keeper, but everyone always knows that I have secrets. Somehow, I'm bad at the poker face part of the secret-keeping process. Still, I'll keep a secret as long as you need me to do so. I have a secret that someone told me in 8th grade that I've never told (again, that was a DECADE ago). And a handful of them from high school (including one that has to do with a wide circle of my friends... and I've never told). Some of them I've kept for so long that they don't even matter any more. Others I kept for so long that I forgot them. Once I swear my secrecy, I'm a lock-box, baby.

But that fact also applies to my own secrets. Hence how I ended up telling Brian that the e-mail that I didn't send exists. He thinks the fact that I mentioned it means that on some level, I want him to talk me into sending it to him... something like that. And he's a little bit right. I do want to send it to him. But I won't. Not now, anyway. Because I know that right now, some things have to stay secret. And I'm very good at that.

Besides, it's for the best. In the long run. For the both of us.

Or, at least, I've convinced myself of that.


May you always know how to stay silent when you know you should, no matter how much you want to scream.

~A~



P.S. Yes, the shadow picture is a self-portrait. (Someone once asked if I was naked when I took it. Can you believe that?)

P.P.S. For those of you non-Reader users (dude, seriously look into them... they're fantastic. I use Google Reader), you might want to get in the habit of checking back here every Monday and Friday, so as not to be disappointed (I'm trying to post a Wednesday-or-Thursday and a Saturday-or-Sunday... and I often post at night, as that's when I'm free to write... so that's a good way to save yourself heartbreak...). Or, if you're like Amy and you just like having something to check, by all means keep checking back. It makes my hit-counts look higher, which makes me giddy.

P.P.P.S. If you do use a reader, please click to this page on occasion. I'll admit that it's mostly because I like having my hits go up. But it's also for all these good reasons that my blog-buddy R.E.H. pointed out. (Please read his post... And please comment on this one. Feed the bloggers! We all love responses.)

P.P.P.P.S. I've been listening to "Three Wishes" by The Pierces all day. I just added it to my Project Playlist, so now you can listen to it all day, too. (You might recognize it from Gossip Girl when they had that debutante ball... You know, if you're a loser like me and you're completely addicted to Gossip Girl... And you bought the episode Victor/Victrola on iTunes... And think that the British actor Ed Westwick -- a.k.a. Chuck Bass -- is fiercely sexy. Just me? Okay then.)


ETA: I just noticed that saying the title aloud sounds like "In Defensive Silence." Or maybe "Indefensive Silence" (not that it's a real word, but you can infer a meaning). And it's not too far from "End Offensive Silence." And that made me laugh.

Flipping the Switch

As I’ve mentioned before, I used to keep a card in my wallet that said “Never fall in love with your guy friends”. You only carry something like that with you if you have to.

My relationship pattern is cyclical. I’m about to open a window into myself. Are you ready?

(There’s a part of me that feels like I shouldn’t write this on such an open forum, but I feel the need to. It might help someone out there to understand me better. More likely, it might help someone out there to understand someone else who may behave the way I do. May this help someone, so that I’m not just throwing out extremely personal information for no reason.)

Here’s how I work:

Something jumps up and bites me. I know you’re not supposed to wait around for things in life, and I don’t, but I swear that they come more often when I’m not looking for them. Someone enters my life in a casual, quiet way. It’s usually person I’m just meeting, but occasionally it’s someone that I just haven’t seen in awhile or have a distant friendship with. I never notice at first. I take the encounter for what it is (which panders from “completely forgettable but generally pleasant” to “wonderfully fun”), and I leave it as a moment in time, not expecting it to be repeated. (I often found out several weeks later that the meeting was a bigger moment for the male in question than it was for me… hence how this progresses).

For one reason or another, this guy is usually placed into a category that I like to label “As Good As Gay”. This means that the guy might as well be gay in my eyes, because nothing could ever happen between us. I mentally take all possibility of a relationship off the table right from the get-go. Things that might get a guy the label “As Good As Gay” include:

1. He is dating someone.
2. I am dating someone.
3. He is interested in another female on a level somewhere between “significant crush” and “stalker-like obsession”.
4. One of my friends is interested in him.
5. One of my friends has dated him in the past.
6. He lives far away.
7. We’ve never actually met in real life.
8. I suspect that he might actually be a homosexual.

Most fellows get into this label and never leave it (such as my good friend Mike, who is like an adopted sibling to me… We’ve agreed that neither of us could ever make a move on the other, as it would be practically incestuous)… But with certain others, there’s a problem…

You see, by removing the possibility of a relationship from the table, at least in my own mind (although I have in the past gone so far as to tell the male that I plan on us being buddies, in the strictest sense of the word), I have removed the stress. I’m not trying too hard to please anyone. I’m not wondering if I should be going for cute, sexy, or flirty, and therefore I’m not attempting all three and failing miserably. I’m something much closer to myself (despite the fact that I don’t always have a good handle on who that is). And thus, I end up being quirky, charming, and occasionally exactly what this male wanted me to be in the first place.

We hang out more, with me thinking that we’re destined to be good friends. I become more attached. Familiar. Comfortable. We have an emotional affair. I develop a platonic love for the person (or, as I like to call it, a non-sexual crush). Everything is lovely and wonderful and just right as it is. Nothing needs to change. We are good friends. Kindred spirits, even.

Then, one of two things happens.

1. We float out of each others lives as easily as we floated in. This emotional affair was a brief fling. We remain good friends, and we brush back together from time to time, always wondering why we have such difficulty staying in touch.

OR

2. The switch gets flipped.

What switch, you ask? The “As Good As Gay” switch. Something happens that puts the possibility of a different sort of relationship back on the table.

Once, it was the guy telling me that he’d give up his obsessive crush on another girl if he thought he had a chance with me. Once it was the fellow dancing with me in a hallway shortly after learning that my friend was over him. Once it was me suddenly being single and running into the guy randomly. But there’s a distinct, key moment when it hits me like a semi-truck. (And it’s often at a horribly inopportune time.)

Something feels wrong. My life is off-balance. Something that was a fact before (that he and I could never possibly be anything other than friends) has now been called into question. Suddenly, the sun is spinning around the moon, the oceans have leapt into the sky, and my stomach is in my throat. I try to escape. I leave the room. Or I cut off contact for a few days. It’s just something I cannot possibly deal with. I need time to myself to sort out how I feel about the whole matter (and I usually end up e-mailing a dear friend who is far removed from the situation to help me decode everything without bias).

Overnight, I remember that this friend of mine is male. And fascinating. And compassionate. And attractive. And I can’t understand how I’ve let it escape my attention for so long.

Then the confusion sets in. Am I infatuated with him? Do I want things to change? Is he interested in me? Am I only questioning our friendship because I suspect that he’s interested in me? Maybe I’m not interested in him at all… Am I using him?

I worry. I go into all the worst-case-scenarios. I play “devil’s advocate” against myself for hours on end. I tell myself all the reasons why this is a bad idea, and I see if I can talk myself out of it (which I occasionally can… I’m very convincing).

What if we lose what we have? What if this disappears? Will being interested ruin the friendship? Will not being interested ruin the friendship? Have I gone so far into over-thinking this that I have ruined the friendship already?

I try to figure out how to make him lose interest in me, as that seems like the simplest plan. I talk myself down a bit more than usual (although, let’s be honest, I’d do it anyway). I talk about other guys a little more. I hint that being anything other than friends would a bad idea (if only because I’m trying to convince myself of this).

But then I think that perhaps it would be horrible if he did, in fact, lose interest. After all, the male is splendid (that is why choose to interact with him, after all). Maybe I’m cheating myself out of something great. And maybe I really want this. If he were to talk about other girls, would I be jealous?

Oh no. I consider that maybe he only wants to be my friend because he’s interested in me. If I talk him out of being interested in me, will I also lose this person I’ve been bonding with?

And maybe I want it to change. Maybe I want this to be more/bigger/better than it is. Maybe I should throw myself forward.

It seems, somewhere along the line, I developed strong feelings for/about this person. And I haven’t sorted out exactly what they are yet. But something needs to be done… I know I need to make a choice, but I’m the least decisive person on the planet.

So I make awkward half-steps forward and backward for awhile, hoping that I won’t have to make that choice. Eventually, I imagine, what I’m supposed to do will become blatantly obvious. And in the meantime, I’m a bit of a mess.

There you have it. My pattern in a nutshell.

Honestly, I don’t even know what I want in a relationship. I know that my Savior Complex figures into things a great deal. Some people want to find someone they “need”. Some people want to find someone that “needs” them. Some people want a relationship where both people are completely autonomous but can draw support from each other while neither really “needing” the other person, nor being needed. And me? I want both. I want to need someone who needs me. I want to be hopelessly co-dependent.

I have had dreams about living in a cultish, hermit-like state with others in some sort of combine. It feels warm and cozy, like a giant slumber party. It feels like Saturday mornings watching television in my pajamas while my dad plays the piano. It feels like home. (Of course, I also have nightmares about being drugged by a man who wants to shave my head and sell my hair on the black market, so I guess I shouldn’t put TOO much stock in dreams.)

I want someone to have little adventures with. I don’t want the sit down dinners and the big romantic gestures. I don’t want roses and chocolates on Valentine’s Day. I want someone unpredictable, passionate, and silly. I want spontaneity and frenzy. I want child-like, carefree fun. I want to run around with my hair in my eyes and my shoelaces flopping untied on the pavement, and having someone there with me who finds it just as refreshing as I do.

Anyway. If I’m right, there are a handful of guys reading this who are “As-Good-As-Gay” in my eyes right now. I just wanted to let you know that if you’re interested, and if you think you can be "that guy" for me, please find a way to flip the switch (it’s not impossible… the two boyfriends I’ve had started out As-Good-As-Gay). There has recently been, of course, someone in my life who was in the “zone of confusion” (which is why I felt the need to write this), but I think I’ve sorted that out now. At least, I hope I have.

May you know your own patterns and how to break them if you need to.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. Starting at 12:01am, I will be working on NaNoWriMo. This means I will be blogging in a foreign format for the next month. I will elaborate tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy it.

The Path of Thursday's Child

My birthday was a smashing success, I think. Went to a bar that made extremely weak drinks (which on one hand meant they were delicious, but on the other meant that I didn’t get anywhere near intoxicated off of them) and did a little bowling (and we were all horrible, which is the most fun sort of group to bowl with). One friend from high school, two friends from college, two friends who are technically post-college though really should have been during college due to proximity, one coworker, and me. The recent ex-boyfriend made some excuses and didn’t show up. Whatever. Received lovely text messages throughout the day wishing me well.

I took the day off from work on Friday, in anticipation of a wicked hangover that didn’t happen. I did nothing for the first half of the day, and then spent the second half of the day being a drama queen.

I got a birthday present in the mail. I had to walk to the post office to get it. Upon receiving it, I saw that the return address was that of my ex-boyfriend (the original ex-boyfriend, not the one who stood me up on my birthday). I opened it right outside the post office, and I cried the whole way home. He bought me a CD of an artist he thought I might like (Feist, whom I know nothing about, but I made the decision as soon as I removed the CD from the envelope that I would adore it) and included a card filled with kindness. I would normally say that I melted into a puddle, but it was quicker than that. I sublimated. I was dry ice on a spoon, screaming while dying away.

I don’t regret breaking up with him (I feel the need to make that clear in case any of our mutual friends are reading this and get some brilliant idea to try to shove us back together). But I miss him terribly. He was a major part of my life for a long period of time, and suddenly he isn’t. I want him to be my best friend again. And I cried because I’m still not sure if I should give up hope of that or not. And because I know that I hurt him by breaking up with him. And because I hurt myself, and I didn’t really allow time to heal from that.

Maybe I haven’t fully.

Maybe I don’t want to.

I was supposed to go to a theatre benefit on Friday night, but I put on pajamas and curled up on my bed with Bridget Jones instead (the sequel, “The Edge of Reason”, which I bought from a used book store last weekend). Ah, Bridget, you’re the only one who knows what my world is like. Except your life is so much more interesting than mine. I’ve never been to Thailand. Or in jail. And I don’t have a rich, handsome, brilliant boyfriend who will do the following when I need it:

“It’s all right,” said Mark, holding me tight, stroking my hair. “It’s all over. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right.”
(309; Man, I’m a loser. Citing works in my blog. I’m not in school anymore. No one cares.)

*sigh of jealousy*

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I would prefer to wear my light green fluffy bathrobe and live vicariously through a fictional character than go out into the world and risk more of the disasters that my own life surely holds.

Saturday night I did go out. I went to my friend Anna’s Halloween party. I was a "Formal Apology". I put on a black dress, glitzy jewelry, and high heels, put my hair into an updo, and affixed a sign to myself that read “I’m Sorry.” I stole the idea from a friend. I thought it was an elegant solution to the problem of how to look attractive without succumbing to “Sexy Halloween”. I was classy instead. Perfect choice.

After watching Ghostbusters 2 and playing drinking games (Do people still do that after college? Or just us?) using pomegranate juice (I was the only one with the juice… I march to my own drummer), we went to a bar. We saw my friend Mike’s band, The Villers, play a set. After mad chants from the crowd that they should play “Freebird”, they actually did. Completely impromptu. An audience member passed forward his PDA with the lyrics on it for the lead singer. My friend’s band? They’re total rockstars.

Tonight I’m met one of my high school friends, Amanda, for dinner in belated celebration of my birthday. I love that my birthday is lasting so long. It is, after all, my favorite time of the year.

I was excited to see that my birthday fell on a Thursday this year, as I was born on one. There’s a poem that describes what children are like according to the day of the week they were born (Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, etc.) According to that, Thursday’s child has far to go.

That’s a bit of a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it seems as though there’s a rocky road ahead. The journey will be long and challenging.

On the other hand, it suggests a bright future full of promise and hope. It may be a slow climb, but there will be success. The road may wind, but at least it will be interesting. There may be obstacles, but they will make the end more rewarding. Thursday’s child has far to go, but Thursday’s child will go far.

Having “far to go” also makes the path seem endless. There is no goal in sight. But I suppose that’s the way life should be. I believe that God has a plan for me, but I don’t think that the plan involves resting on my laurels. After every achievement, one must work to go further. I don’t want to be ruled by apathy. I will set goals for myself, even if they seem impossible. I am Thursday’s child, and I will go far. Yes, I was born on the right day of the week. (Although I’d probably think the same thing if I had been born Friday… look it up.)

I used to always quote, “What would you attempt to do if you knew you would not fail?”

My own answer to that being that I’d become Miss America, cure cancer, join Mensa, and win a Noble prize, a Pulitzer, a Golden Globe, an Oscar, an Emmy, a Tony, a Grammy, and a Matt Damon. I mean, as long as I’m not going to fail…

The idea behind the question, I think, is to show you what you really want in life. If you could do one thing (and only one, as opposed to my colorful list), what would you want that one thing to be? If you removed your fear of failure, what would you be able to accomplish?

Your answer to that question, whatever it may be, is the very thing that you should be fighting for with every fiber of your being (and any fear of failure should be vanquished by your passion).

I continually ponder this topic. Let's see... at the moment that I’m writing this, the thing I would attempt to do is... find someone to hug me tenderly like Mark Darcy and reassure me it's going to be okay.

Wait a second… That isn’t a goal. That’s… that’s a sign that something is wrong… Still emotional from Friday perhaps… Drat.

In play analysis, one must always dig up the root “want” of the character that drives every action, tactic, and smaller "want" throughout the play. Looks like it’s time for an excavation.

*Angela now goes off into a literal 20-minute daydream to soul search and find the root of why she wants someone to comfort her and what exactly she needs to suddenly become okay.*

*Okay, she’s back. And she has an answer. Don’t ask how she got there.*

What I really want is to be able to forgive myself for the things that I’ve failed to do. And I want the motivation, the strength, and the courage to do them all in the future.

And now I’m exhausted, so I’ll have to figure all of that stuff out another day.

May your path be a little winding, a bit cluttered, and exceedingly long.

~A~

P.S. I’d put money down that Bridget Jones was born on a Wednesday (look it up).

P.P.S. I have another quotation that I just remembered that seems wholly appropriate to tack onto this entry. It’s from a character named Sammy in the movie The Wedding Singer: “All I really want is for someone to hold me and tell me everything is gonna be alright.” See? It's a universal truth. Among fictional characters, anyway. And me.

Poetical Parentheticals

My mother often will comment to me that she enjoys reading e-mails I’ve sent her because “you write just like you talk!” I don't understand... Doesn’t everyone? Why would you write any other way?

I agree with her. I like to think that I write in a fashion that is similar to the way I speak. Run-on sentences and fragments. Beginning sentences with conjunctions. An appalling amount of long, winding parentheticals (I don’t think that’s even a noun, but someone I know uses it all the time, so I’m stealing it… and I just realized that I put in a parenthetical right after mentioning my use of parentheticals. That was unintentional, and I’m slightly embarrassed that I’ve accidentally proven my own point. But since it so beautifully illustrates what I’ve said, I’m leaving it in. Wow, I didn’t mean to start that sentence with a conjunction. Smooth move, Angela. At least there is now evidence that I know myself). Other than omitting my disturbing usages of “like”, “um”, and “uh”, this is pretty much the standard way I communicate.


I probably shouldn’t admit this, but to make certain that everything I’ve written is something I would say, I recite each of my blog entries out loud once through before posting them. I remove anything that’s too fluffy or unnatural, because I don’t want to be that sort of writer. I want to be, for lack of a better word, real. (If you’ve met me, and you try hard enough, I bet you can hear my voice right now…. Helloooooooooo!)

I’m not one for long passages of purple prose. I’m not going to grab a thesaurus while typing (or rely too heavily upon the thesaurus I have internally). I’m not going to carefully compose something that is linguistically artful. I’m just going to write. And I’ll write whatever thoughts come into my head, whether they follow or not. Just like I’m doing now. Which is why I’m writing about writing instead of actually writing something of interest to others. Because that’s what I’m thinking. (Luckily, I’m a decent typist. Otherwise, this would be a far more complicated and arduous task. My fingers can’t quite keep up with my thoughts, but they do alright.) I still choose my words, because if I said everything that popped into my head, I’d surely be committed against my will. I have no desire to be institutionalized. I imagine that it would be far less interesting than the movie Girl, Interrupted made it out to be. So I only let the debatably crazy thoughts leak out (until I’m being arraigned for something, in which case I will find a way to use insanity as a defense. I wonder if that would work with parking tickets...).

I like to think that, despite my breaking the occasional rule of language, I'm relatively articulate. I think I get most things across exactly as I intend to. Although I do, from time to time, have to translate my thoughts into a language that can better be understood by people who aren't me. It’s not that I’m dumbing down my writing to make it more accessible (which I certainly did on occasion in my previous online journal… I had a couple of regular readers who became confused and alienated when I chose words in excess of seven letters… and I loved having fans so much that I catered to them a little in order to bait them into returning). I will only translate myself if the things I wish to say don't seem to be understood the way I wish them to be.

I'm not going to try to impress you. Why should I? It's not like you're going to read this if you have to google half the things I type. I hate reading ostentatious or patronizing writing (if you don't know what those words mean, then you really should invest in a good dictionary... trust me, you need it), which is why I refuse to compose it. I will not read text if it seems that the writer is out to prove something about their abilities or how “deep” they are. Tell me a story (or four). Take me on a journey full of ideas. Make me think. But don’t choke me with words; I won’t put up with it.

For the record, I am quite capable of writing at a more scholarly level than I do. I am, after all, rather cerebral (or, as I generally prefer to paraphrase that, “I think too much.” It makes me sound like less of an egomaniacal jackhole). Maybe someday I will. Just to prove a point. I’m not even sure whom I’d be proving it to (myself, I suppose). I’ll write something so condescendingly profound and pretentiously b****y that you’ll deign it to be good writing, if only because that’s the kind of writing you have been taught is good. I’ll throw in tons of unnaturally large words so that you’ll be confused as to what it’s even about, and you will be forced to say it’s great rather than admit that you had no clue what on Earth I was talking about. We’ll see. Someday. Hopefully I’m stimulating and eloquent enough that it won’t be a problem in the meantime. And if it is a problem, I have a couple of other blogs I can recommend that might better suit your liking (the very sorts of things that I, personally, will never enjoy).

I learned something while writing that last paragraph… I am apparently hesitant to swear in my blog. I took out two instances of using language that my mother would not approve of, and I used asterisks on a third (I actually considered going back and paraphrasing that last one… replacing b****y with “haughty” or “pompous” perhaps, but I decided to keep my self-imposed suppression to a minimum. Besides, that one seemed necessary). I don’t know what I’m afraid of. I guess that people will read it, realize I know how to use curse words, and condemn me to some netherworld in which people are made to suffer until they can respect language. I try not to swear very much. I only began swearing about a year and a half ago. I always felt the power behind those words when I used them sparingly. Throwing one out in conversation made people shut up and pay attention. Now, I spit them out a little too freely. I usually ask for forgiveness about that. It just seems like the right thing to do. I apologize at work a great deal, as I use the phrase “what the hell?!” quite a bit while talking to my computer about why it is choosing to so rudely disobey me.

(I wish I knew how to type an interrobang on the keyboard. An interrobang is a piece of punctuation that looks like a question mark and an exclamation point rolled into one. It takes the place of “?!?!?!” rather nicely. The alternative seems confused and rather juvenile.)

You know what, I’m done. I would normally allow this to evolve into a blog entry about something (anything) else, but I just don’t feel like I should. I think I’ve said what I needed to say (although, trust me, I have about three directions I could take this entry from here… and it’s a little hard for me to not dive into any of them). And for those of you who are psychoanalyzing me right now (I know there’s at least one of you who is), yes, there’s a reason that this is on my mind. And yes, like always, I’m judging myself, over-thinking things, and wondering if I should just delete this whole blog altogether. But that might just be because I’m listening to “Feathers and Doom” by The Cardigans right now and it makes me want to curl up into a ball and be reborn as something more beautiful than myself.

And yes, if you’re curious, I did just read this aloud and cut a whole slew of things that didn’t quite sound like me; they sounded like me trying to be a writer.

May you never try to be someone you’re not, in writing or in life.

Much love,

~A~

P.S. I hope you paid attention to rule #7 (and if you don't understand why I pointed that out, go back and read my first entry, "An Introduction to My Mind")
P.P.S. I chose the title because of a scene in Twelfth Night. A disguised Viola has written a speech for Olivia on behalf of the Duke Orsino. She begs to be allowed to read it, saying, "I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it." Later, she states, "Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical." I felt that those statements somehow applied to this entry and wanted to find a way to stick them in. And besides that, I find "poetical" to be a very fun word.
P.P.P.S. If I had not already named this blog ~angelaboration~, I think that "Poetical Parentheticals" would suit it rather nicely.

Honestly Sincere

When I was in fourth grade, I wanted to be Harriet the Spy. For those of you unfamiliar with the character, she was a young girl who kept journals of everything she encountered because of her desire to be a writer. She watched people whenever she could, and she wrote down her observations in a harshly opinionated manner. Of course, eventually, her secrets got out. Her journal winds up in the hands of her peers, who were quite rightly furious. She inadvertently attacked every one of her classmates with her honesty. They formed an alliance against her, and made her life miserable. Eventually, they forgave her, but it was a painful journey.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea from that. I’m not sick. I didn’t want to be Harriet because of this friendless, isolated, and tormented existence (although I think I identified with her because of it). I wanted to be able to experience the world as she did. I’ve always had a lively imagination, a love of writing, and a strong sense of curiosity (some would call it being nosy; it’s a subtle distinction, along the lines of whether I’m gullible or trusting… “curious & trusting” is far preferable to “nosy & gullible”). What I didn’t have was her boldness and her courage. For example, she hid in a dumbwaiter in order to get a closer peek into the life an eccentric rich woman. That takes guts.

There is one other thing that I have in common with Harriet. My honesty has a way of getting me into trouble. It’s been happening a great deal recently. I hurt one friend because I was too blunt with my words, and came off sounding like a nasty person who was lecturing her (that was today, actually). I hurt a relationship because I gave a friend information that he would’ve rather not known. I hurt another friendship because I shared something about myself that he wasn’t ready to handle. And I’ve hurt myself by saying the things I’m thinking, when it would be far better for me if they remained thoughts.

I’ve been in awkward situations more than once because I told one of my male friends that I had a crush on him (I used to carry around a card in my wallet that said “Never Fall in Love with Your Guy Friends.” I kept it for years, until I actually started dating one of my guy friends. I don’t know what happened to it after that). That ended up failing particularly badly in the instance when the male in question was dating my best friend (I was in middle school. And I had a crush on him long before she did. She was just the one with enough Harriet-the-Spy gusto to ask him out).

I manage to hurt myself and others with my honest nature more often than you’d think. I embody the antithesis to the adage “honesty is the best policy.” It’s not true. Silence is the best policy. If you can’t be silent, then omission is a good way to go. And if you can’t omit, then as a last resort you should go with honesty. Lying almost never works out (if you don’t believe me, rent a season of Seinfeld, Friends, Frasier, or any other 1990s sitcom, and I’m sure you’ll see a multitude of fictional examples that will back me up. You can learn a lot from watching characters fail miserably), so it’s best to avoid it all together.

I would also like to quote the character of Cal from the movie The 40 Year Old Virgin on this matter: “Yeah, you should definitely tell her, because I saw this movie called Liar, Liar, and the message was ‘don’t lie.’ And that was a smart movie.”

Another reason I’m honest is because I’m a lousy liar. No one believes me when I say that (it does sound like the sort of thing a habitual liar would say), but it’s sadly true. And for an actor, I’m extraordinarily horrible (I mention this only because people use the fact that I’m an actor as some sort of proof that I must be an expert in the field of lying. It’s completely different from being in character. The two really have nothing to do with each other). I wear my emotions on my face, and it’s very easy to figure out that there’s something going on.

I have recently discovered that my most successful poker face is a smile, as I have a tendency to smile through many different emotions. I smile when I’m frustrated. I smile when I’m happy. When I’m frightened, I smile. When I’m relieved, I smile. I smile when I’m pissed as hell at you. I smile when I’m about to cry. I smile when I’m offended (when I’m extremely offended, I start to laugh… Don’t ask me why. Beats me). I smile buckets full when I’m really depressed (so far only one person has been able to see through the smile-mask and ask me what was wrong, and he only did it once. I think I broke down into hysterical sobbing as soon as he asked). And I smile when I’m lying (or omitting). See? It’s the perfect poker face (just like Kenneth on 30 Rock). Okay, so not perfect. I have a lot of different smiles. If you were to pay attention, you’d probably be able to sort out which is which.

Anyway. Since I am learning that I would benefit from holding my tongue more, I’m attempting to do just that. I’ve started censoring myself to prevent undesirable effects from occurring. While I’m still figuring it out, it makes for some strange conversations. I’ll often start to say something, then think the better of it and cut myself off mid-sentence. Of course, all that serves to do is intrigue whomever I’m speaking with and make them think that what I was about to say was incredibly important. Or they take it as some sort of challenge to discover what I’d both spurred and stopped. Often, it’s just something that I’ve determined, after consideration, doesn’t need to be said. Sometimes I decide that it would be less embarrassing for me not to say it. Or, after thinking too much about it, I worry that there could be some other potential negative consequence that might result from it. If ever you are engaged in such a conversation with me, just know that if I’ve stopped saying something, it’s probably for the best. And try not to get offended.

Another trick I’ve learned is to be able to blame honesty on something else, such as a “bad day” or “lack of sleep”. I find that alcohol is particularly good for this. I’m not much of a drinker, so I only recently discovered something that most of my peers have known for quite some time: drinking is a fantastic excuse. Seriously. It’s hard to come up with something else that’s an equivalent cure-all for bad social situations. That stupid thing you said last night? You’d been drinking. Calling your ex to find out why he dumped you? You were obviously drunk. Trying to proposition your friend? You don’t remember it because you were so wasted.

I’ve only used the alcohol thing a couple of times. Like when I tried to tell a friend to break up with a significant other… The next day it was a non-issue. The friend didn’t seem to remember it, and I figured if it ever came up in conversation I would chalk up my actions to the Stoli-and-Sevens I’d had immediately prior to our chat.

Alcohol has certainly facilitated some important discussions in my life, though. I wasn’t anywhere near drunk, mind you. But somehow, when both you and the person you’re talking with have it in your system, alcohol makes conversations more acceptable. A recent exchange I had was one I would’ve been comfortable having sober, but the person I was speaking with needed a few beers before the possibly offensive subject was broached. Thank you, beer, for being the excuse we needed to get that topic off the ground.

I’m willing to have a lot of strange conversations without any aid, though. In fact, I ask people things on a regular basis that they’re not comfortable with, mostly because I’m too naïve to know that I shouldn’t be asking them. Like in a recent phone call to a male friend when I asked what sort of underwear he preferred. Despite his generally forthcoming nature, he seemed flustered for a good fifteen seconds out of sheer surprise that I had asked him something of that nature so casually. I didn’t understand what the problem was… I was just curious/nosy/being a good spy.

The flip side of this is that I’m willing to answer most questions without getting too self-conscious. I have recently responded to questions that are EXTREMELY personal. I won’t be doing that in this blog (there are some things about myself that I just don’t want on the internet). But I understand curiosity. And I’d rather be asked and answer than volunteer information that might prove awkward. It’s easier to share things if they are prompted by another action or solicited by a pointed question.

There are some things, though, that I don’t share. They’re the sorts of things that don’t come up in daily chats, and that I would never go out of my way to bring them up. And so today, I mailed them to Post Secret. I mailed four postcards. One of them I made over a year ago. Two I made in February. I made the final one a couple of days ago. And I finally decided it was time to mail them. I doubt any of them will get put online, but I know that the guy who does Post Secret does exhibits at museums on occasion. I like to think that someday, somewhere, someone out there might end up reading these things that I hold so close. Does that make me some warped form of exhibitionist? I hope not. It’s more like a Dear Mr. Henshaw thing (see previous blog entry).

Back to the problems with my honesty… A friend pointed out to me today that I meddle. This is true. It’s part of that Savior Complex I mentioned previously. I tell people exactly what I think they should do (just another form of being too honest). I feel like people will be better off if I’m there to help facilitate the right sorts of events in their lives. Like Dolly Levi (please tell me you’ve seen “Hello, Dolly!”), “I put my hand in there.”

A friend of mine once said she wanted a job as a “professional realist.” She thought that she should be paid to help stage interventions involving people who were not seeing the world in a rational way. She could tell a screechy tone-deaf girl that she’ll never be a jazz singer, and that she should keep her day job. She could tell the guy who spends all his time playing video games that he’s 32 years old and it’s time to move out of his parents’ basement and get a job. That sort of thing. And frankly, she’d be rather good at it. If she were to tell me that I am wasting my time writing blog entries, I might just listen.

Maybe that’s the sort of job I should get as well. I’d be able to put all this truth-telling and hip-shooting to good use. Until I find a dream job such as this, I’m going to continue to censor, consider, and reconsider some of the things I say before I say them (well, more realistically, as I say them. I’ll learn eventually).

May your days be filled with comfortable silence.

Sincerely,

~A~

P.S. Yes, the title is a Bye, Bye Birdie! reference, and you win points with me if you caught that.

An Introduction to My Mind

Before you know anything else about me, it is imperative that you know this: no matter what it is that you say or do to me, I will find a way to over-analyze it. I think too much in general, particularly with matters of little to no consequence. I'm just that type of cat. It's what I do.

I suppose it's also important to note that I'm a bit of an odd bird when it comes to my trains of thought, and the ways in which they leave the station. Some people think in circles. Most people think in chains, or straight lines. I think more in webs. Each thought I have connects to a few more thoughts, in different directions. Occasionally, I go leapfrogging in my conversations. And I'm certain I will do the same in my writing.

I think I love people too much. I carry on elaborate emotional affairs with everyone in my life. Both men and women. Occasionally I decide that these relationships stem from a sort of "non-sexual crush" (which my mother, of course, does not believe exists). I even have a non-sexual soulmate. She's a heterosexual, long-distance life-partner. Inexplicably, I don't even speak to her on any sort of regular basis. But on any occasion that we're in the same place at the same time, we are able to pick up where we left off without any sort of hitch. I find that I can do that with everyone in my life, actually. I can sort of pick of the pieces of the past and continue with them, ignoring the void-like interim in the relationship. Over the last couple of months, I've had strong reconnections with a few people whom I've barely seen since high school. Now, they've suddenly become part of my inner-circle. How does that happen?

I've fought hard to leave certain parts of my life behind. I wanted to distance myself from the awkward girl who endured mocking and social isolation throughout her formative years. I went to college in a different state; to a school that no one I knew was to be attending. After college I moved to a city where I knew fewer people than I could count on one foot (what? like no one else counts on their toes?). I treat it as though it's an experiment. Maybe I'm continually in search of myself. I have a feeling it's more a form of escapism. I'm always in need of some fresh start. I can be something better, something more desirable, if I can sandblast my slate. I can become the person I want to be. Nay, the person I was MEANT to be.

I wonder if I ever really change.

Every six months or so, I have a complete revamp of my soul. I go through a huge, world-altering metamorphosis, and I determine that this new being is the person I was meant to be. I think back to a few months before and naively think, "wow, I've really changed this time." I suppose I have, in some way, grown. But changed? Probably not. Otherwise, how would I be able to so freely pick up where I'd left off with those friends of mine?

My last major, life-altering time came a few months back (perhaps that means I'm due for an emotional tune-up soon. God, I hope not. They take a lot out of me). I was in a play (not a particularly good one, if you were curious). The play itself had nothing to do with my new mindset. Rather, it was the people I met while working on it. I started going to bars, and being social (which, previously, had always been awkward for me). Suddenly, I had found a crop of people who were all willing to buy me drinks and let me dance like a maniac around them. Before meeting them, I'd been drunk three times in my life. And then, in a matter of a couple of weeks, the number had been inflated to eight (I'm not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed by that). They gave me a level of self-confidence that I had never known before (a boost that would be dangerous to a normal person, but not to self-conscious, self-loathing me). Suddenly, I wanted to be free to do as I pleased. And I broke up with the person I had been dating for over two years.

Ah, there's the real change. It wasn't the drinking, the dancing, and the partying. It was the break-up. I broke up with a fantastic fellow, whom I respect, adore, and admire. It became apparent that, despite all the wonderful attributes he had to his name, I was unhappy. I wanted to go wild. I wanted to flirt with the world (a skill that I'm still learning... somehow, I graduated college without ever properly cultivating it). I wanted to be able to acknowledge men hitting on me. Somewhere in the last couple of years, males had begun to find me attractive, and I had been doing my best to strategically ignore it. And so I, for lack of a better word, dumped my boyfriend.

I felt guilty (I broke my best friend's heart. You'd feel guilty, too. And if you wouldn't, well then, you have no soul)... but suddenly the doors in front of me sprung open, and the world went into a strange, unfamiliar Technicolor. Everything was lighter, brighter, newer, cleaner, stranger, and slightly more perverse. And I liked it. People hit on me. People asked me out. People grabbed at me in public places (alright, that part I didn't enjoy... but it was occasionally amusing. And that which doesn't kill us either makes us stronger or makes for a damn good story later on). And about five different guys asked me out. My juice was flowing and I had arrived on the scene. I hadn't realized it (apparently I had previously had some sort of "relationship blinders" on) that certain people had been attempting to lure me into their arms for months. And then, once the problems in my long-standing, long-distance, long-lacking relationship became apparent to them, they became vultures. They circled over my head, waiting for my relationship to die so that they could identify the perfect moment to swoop down and grab me.

I'm really rather dense when in comes to certain things, like flirting. I never know when people want me. When people are interested, they have to pull out a mariachi band and serenade me before I get the picture. How I'm that oblivious to romantic and sexual gestures is beyond me. I like to think of myself as a fairly perceptive person. I suppose this falls into the category of the "random things I'm bad at."

I have many skills and strengths, in varied areas. That's probably why I changed my major 118 times before graduating from college (in four years... the joys of a liberal arts school. I accidentally fulfilled all my general education requirements by bouncing around from one department to the next). Well, that and my indecisive nature, but that's neither here nor there. But the things I'm poor at are things that no one should have trouble with. They're either embarrassing or cute, depending on whom it is that you ask. I can't find things that are right in front of my nose. I have trouble reading analog clocks. I find it difficult to make things fit into envelopes. I'm always worried that I'm miscalculating tips. I occasionally have difficulty screwing lids back onto jars. I also have difficulty with the initial task of removing lids from jars, but I have a feeling that it's more common to struggle with that, particularly for people of my gender. Not that I think women can't be strong... we just have daintier hands (or, in my case, awkward, gangly, alien-like ones).

The weakness I have that seems to frustrate others the most is my inability to take compliments. I know it's ridiculous, but it's true. I can't even explain it to my own liking. When I am paid a compliment, I feel the need to argue against it. I have this feeling that the person is being insincere in order to butter me up for something. Or they're lying in an effort to mock me in some way (rough adolescence... you understand). It's especially difficult to accept if I don't agree with the compliment. How can I say "thank you" when this person is so obviously mistaken? Also problematic is when they compliment something that I have no control over. It's nice that someone thinks I have beautiful eyes, but they're really not of my making. Somehow it would be different if they were complimenting my dress. I picked out that dress, I paid for that dress, and I decided to wear that dress that day. That's the kind of compliment that I can handle, because, let's face it, I deserve it. I have astonishingly good taste in dresses. And anyone who says otherwise is obviously lying out of acute envy.

I've just made a mental note to start a list of things I'm bad at, for future reference. I make lists a great deal. I actually have a notebook reserved for these lists. I have a list of potential party themes, a list of famous people I've been compared to, and a list of things that make me smile. I have about ten lists dedicated to names in various fashions (I'm a little obsessed with names). And I have the requisite list of "Things I Want to Do Before I Die", which I know I will never achieve. I like having all of that information on paper as opposed to in my head, as trying to juggle all of that can make anyone's brainwaves a bit turbulent. I have to hide my book of lists most of the time, as there are some lists that I don't wish to become public knowledge. I don't trust anyone enough with the information contained by them.

There are a few lists that I am particularly protective over. I guard them so intently that I leave them vague enough that even I occasionally have trouble with recalling what they mean. As a good friend of mine once told me, "never in writing." I've had written statements haunt me in the past (particularly with a dreadful AIM conversation I had my first year of college. *shudder* Wow... I hadn't mentally revisited that one in awhile), and I refuse to allow them to harm me in the future. The first of these lists is titled "Soulmate Expectations" (which is a horrid name for it... but I started this book in high school, so I deserve forgiveness on that one). It's a list of certain things that I have to keep in mind with guys, and every item on the list is written as "The ______ Thing". One example of this being "The Hair Thing". That one's the silliest on the list, and the only one I feel comfortable putting out into cyberspace. The right man for me will be one who cares about his appearance, but doesn't spend hours grooming himself. If a gentleman is obsessed with his hair, it just isn't going to work out between us (take note, all potential suitors... I may have just saved you a lot of time and pain). I recently started a list of "Deal Breakers" (which is different from the expectations list... most things on that are what I want a fellow to be... this new list is things I want him NOT to be. A subtle but important distinction... I did mention that I think too much). And then there's the most secret (and, perhaps, most silly) of my lists: "Cues".

My "Cues" list is undoubtedly the dumbest thing I've ever come up with. Every once in awhile, I'll hear/see/experience something and think, "if a guy ever says/does/acts like this, I'll know." What I'll know, exactly, isn't really set in stone. I suppose if I'm dating someone who sets off one of these alarms, maybe that'll mean that I can take the next step with him. If I already knew he was a keeper, perhaps that'll mean he's the One (is there such a thing? Outside of "The Matrix", I mean? I'll save that inner-battle for another date). If it's someone that I meet casually, I'll know that I should pursue a relationship with him. It's ridiculous, I know. Some are things that happen in movies, some are lines from songs... You'd find me to be barking mad if you knew some of the things on that list. Actually, I'm not sure why I'm so protective of it. If someone can look at the words "The Nonsense Thing" or "The Cell Phone Commercial Thing" and know (or be able to figure out) how to sweep me off my feet, maybe he deserves whatever promotion he was applying for. I don't think I'm transparent enough for that type of decoding to come easily to anyone. (Allow me to take a moment to revel in my own sense of mystery... Ahhhh.)

I've actually had to remove a few things from my list of cues over the years, as people stumbled across them unknowingly. A good friend of mine answered a question I asked with one of the cues a few years back. For the next eight minutes, I was in love. Luckily, I realized that the cue was too easy of a wire to trip before I began making wedding arrangements (this is especially fortunate, as he had an unpronounceable surname, which I'm very grateful not to be saddled with... and then there's the part about "ruining the friendship"... but he and I ended up growing apart anyway, so he was obviously not the One). Another of my friends set off sirens when he hugged me in a specific way, just as I had seen somewhere before and made a mental note of (you understand why I have a book of lists... I make too many mental notes... a large portion of my brain has turned into a cobwebbed attic, and I can't find anything when I need it. I already mentioned that I'm horrible at finding things). Then I saw him greet two other friends in the same matter within a matter of seconds, and I rushed to cross that off the list as soon as I returned home. No, I am not going to fall that easily. I hope it has become apparent that I do not play hard to get; I genuinely AM hard to get. And I'm more than a little proud of that.

In any case, surely you can see why I feel the need to hide these things about myself. I don't want the nearest con artist to suddenly have a way into my heart. I like to keep myself heavily guarded, with plenty of walls and barricades (I imagine myself to be a human Hogwarts, if that means anything to you. If nothing else, I suppose it means that I'm a Harry Potter geek).

I've just come up with about eleven more things that I would like to delve into at some point, but I'm not going to do it now. I'm too easily distractible (I had a two hour phone conversation with a friend in the middle of writing this), and I need a break from myself. Train of thought writing only works if you stay on the train. Once you get off at a station to smoke, you end up running after the train as it takes off again, and by the time you run out of breath, you might as well wait until the next one. Well, I'm deciding to wait.

Much love, many blessings, and happy future reading (I assume you will be reading this again... after all, I'm delightful),

Angela