Driven Mild

Ever mix up your words?

I was trying to say either driven mad, or driven wild, and I came up with driven mild.

Appropriate in my case, I suppose.

You see, I've already got a touch of the crazy. The mad and the wild, as it were. Even most men won't touch me with a ten foot pole (ten feet! Don't they wish), save for the random drunken German tourists who accost me on my way home from work. Oh, and that kind soul who was willing to scratch my itch last week, I'll be thankful for that memory on many a cold autumn night to follow.

What I mean to say is that my personality is difficult at times, I am aware that it works against my sweet ass in some cases. I am emotional, short tempered, cynical and brash. Yet I don't feel the need to mild myself down to an acceptable level of blandness, nor should I. It's not my fault I'm so fucking colourful, just like it isn't the fault of the rest of the world that they are so slow, dumb and plain.

No, that's not what I meant to write about.

What I meant to say is sometimes it's hard to be so full of feelings all the time. Sometimes I wish I could just drink a shot of beige and make myself less weird. Less sensitive, less emotional, less lonely.

Just less.

How wrong is that, to try and lessen yourself to feel better superficially? It's disgustingly wrong and I can't even pretend to try it.

Fuck it, I'll just be myself. Besides, who the hell wants to be the girl next door when they can be the crazy lady across the street?

Pleasure, It Can Be Enjoyed Bittersweet

Sigh.

Cobwebs swept away, and the body is pleased.

However, the personality that was attached to the fellow was sweet and light and I enjoyed it quite a bit. And now I want more.

I won't get more, due to extenuating circumstances, and possibly, he might not reciprocate, so I stand alone. Mooning, as it were, over him.

Which is also nice, too.

Again, sigh.

A Crash Course in Something

A couple nights ago, I had two dreams about white.

In the first dream, our species existed in clouds. There was no gravity, no floors or ceilings. There were floating counter tops, presumably upon which to place one's belongings, so I guess there was some sort of gravity, the dream kind that makes no sense.

I saw an acquaintance, floating several feet beneath me and I swam down to greet him. We hugged, and I wondered how people were able to have sex in this place, with nothing to push off from. I had imagined that the thrusting would be difficult.



And then, in the next dream, I was listening to a woman tell a story about her past. She had the reputation of a slut, yet her story did not mirror the accusation. She hailed from Texas and spent a great deal of time taking care of an ailing family member before traveling to whatever destination this dream took place. As she was telling this story, I was walking away, through deep snow and I fell under.

I was completely covered in snow, and yet, my dreaming mind remembered an SAS trick for just such an occasion. I spit, and noted the direction in which it fell so that I could make out which way was up.

I was not afraid, merely determined to survive. And I was calm.



Today, I was followed by a raincloud. The rain held up until I snuck out from work, quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the Rain Gods. How silly of me to try and outsmart a god.

The rain stopped as soon as I climbed into a crowded streetcar. Once I felt confident that I could venture home unscathed, I left the streetcar, and, after about a block, the rain started up again.

So I walked in the rain, angry about being wet. Cursing a god that I felt did not exist, mocking his omnipotence, and planning on writing a nasty post about the whole thing.

It had only been raining moderately thus far. I chose to accept my situation and tough it out for the rest of the walk. I was already wet, and I wasn't going to get much wetter.

So I asked the heavens Is There a God? And then I wondered to myself, if there was a god, what kind of god is it? Certainly not the monotheistic nonsense that results in bombings and bloodshed, but is it a god, or gods, that are actually involved in our day to day lives? Does the god have a Santa list of who's been naughty and who's been nice?

Well, as soon as I'd started wondering about what kind of god there may or may not be, the rain slammed down in buckets. I was forced into a tiny nook, and once again, dealt with the acceptance of my situation. I decided to enjoy the storm, wait it out with a cigarette.

I had music to listen to during all of this, and the first song I got to hear while choosing to enjoy the experience, was what plays on the first video post. I like that song quite a bit, and I especially prefer that quiet version over the more raucous Loretta Lynn version.

The second song that played, of course, was the song on the second video post. Another pretty song. And, as it turns out, the two songs, the two dreams, and the two arguments with gods that may or may not exist all come together nicely in my mind.

It sure did feel nice to climb into some dry pyjamas, though.

A Little Harder Every Time

I was really hoping for some successful retail therapy today. Something good and satisfying to soothe my fractured ego.

Earlier, I had been reunited with an unwelcome and all too familiar friend.

The Rejection.

Yes, that old beast.

And while I know that I'll shake this one off with relative ease, I find it interesting to discover that it brings all the past Rejections into bright and disturbing memory.

How did I regress to my eleven year old self?

The embarrassment of my confrontation and subsequent Rejection (yes, for this post The Rejection shall be capitalized, as if it were its own tangible form), at the hands of an eleven year old classmate who was way out of my awkward phased league. I suppose it never really goes away; that we are the products of our environment, and whether we create that environment or not, we will carry it with ourselves for the rest of our lives.

There is a reason why I rarely make the attempt to connect with someone on a romantic level, and the reason is that I'm a coward. I can't handle The Rejection. Because when it comes down to it, I am still the eleven year old with the poor hygiene, and the lumpy body and the social awkwardness. I have very little to fall back on when The Rejection rears its ugly head.

My ego is as large and fragile as a balloon.

So I avoid it, until I feel that's it's absolutely necessary. I tend to play safe and avoid any catastrophic humiliation.

It's usually not worth the anguish.

Alright, lesson learned. Cowards don't get hurt.

Back into the vacuum with you, old foe.