vH1 blogytellers

one day i'll learn how to write a post without directly referring to the post i'm writing.


one day i'll be able to release forms of creativity into the world without need of explanation.


one day i won't worry about being misunderstood.


but for whatever reason, today is not that day.


i don't know how to start an entry without apologizing for the content therein. it's totally stupid, totally unnecessary and only projects awkwardness and insecurity. the weird thing is i do this even in my own personal journal entries that only i read. every crisp new journal i purchase begins with some kind of apology for the fact that there are countless other crisp new journals with about a month's worth of entries that have long since been abandoned. every time i journal on my laptop i have to comment on the cliche doogie-howser-ness of it all. if i can't get past my own fears of misunderstanding me, how am i supposed to get past my fears of you misunderstanding me?? it's a sick sad cycle, i tell ya.


but i'll work on it, my friends. or rather, my friend aimee -- as i'm pretty sure you're the only person who will ever read this.

:)

my given name

crazy is a cutting word the connotation kills
the way it’s wielded like a weapon wounding me at will
floods of insecurity flow in while blood is spilled
to fill the void that dignity once but no longer filled

crazy is dismissive in its limited portrayal
the way it keeps me hidden thickly under crazy veil
cruelly compensating where compassion often fails
confining me unwillingly in ignorance’s jails

crazy is a dirty word defiling what is pure
it masturbates the tongues of those deceptively demure
tools of mastication used to mangle and obscure
effectively dismembering what stomachs can’t endure

crazy is so circular it works without intrusion
it sneaks into my psyche without warning of confusion
collaboration clean and quick in seamless execution
prophetically condemning me in my own persecution

A pain and pleasure to explain
Why crazy is my given name

i didn't know it

but i'm a poet.

one of the classes i'm taking is a poetry class. it's kinda weird to be required to write poetry but i suppose i can use all the exercise my creative muscles can get.

so i present to you the following:


The Best Defense

I was once told that the best way to defend yourself
when you’re about to be raped
is to defecate
and rub it all over your body
Thus rendering yourself undesirable
and your assailant flaccid
I should note, however
This advice was given to me by the type of woman
who forwards those email horror stories
The kind you’re supposed to
PASS ON TO ALL THE STRONG INDEPENDENT WOMEN YOU KNOW
Stories that have you locking your car when you pump your gas
So no sicko can sneak up in your back seat
And slash your Achilles heel when you least expect it
Stories that up pepper spray sales
And add paranoia to the preemptive fear
That that type of woman already feels
So that now when she walks to her car at night
The purse she already clutched close
Also contains a can of mace
alongside her tube of lip gloss
And now the two can click together in time
As said woman walks confidently
With keys like claws between her fingers
However
I am not said woman
I am not that type
And although the image has never left me
I’ve never been tempted to carry laxatives in my purse
Much less mace
My defenses are meant for offences far less violent
But violations none the less
So that when I feel threatened
When I fear my heart is about to be intruded upon
I’ve been known say the wrong things on purpose
Or say the right things with purpose
Or say too little but more often too much
To effectively
Cover myself in poo

honesty

billy joel might be a drunken super shmarmy hamptons manwhore but he sure had one thing right: honesty really is a lonely word.


my biggest struggle with my latest foray into the blogging world is my almost compulsive need to be absolutely, completely honest. the things i want to write about these days are pretty personal, bordering on actual vunerability. if you knew anything about me and my robotic nature, you would understand what a shocking thing that truly is.


as if that weren't crazy enough, it seems this new found vunerability is somehow seeping into my real life too. don't get me wrong, i'm pretty much an open book and i have very few secrets. in fact, the vast majority of secrets i keep belong to other people [secret squirrel in the house! WOOP WOOP!]. however, when it comes to sharing my actual FEELINGS? eww. gross. nooooo thank you.


and yet despite myself, i've been a veritable geyser of emotions these days. at least by my standards... i guess by anyone else's standards it's more like the weak dribble of water that barely made its way out of the elementary school water fountains of our youth. nevertheless, its weird and scary.


but it's an answer to prayer, so i guess i shouldn't complain.


this season of my life is officially dedicated to finding my medium. i've lived in extremes for most of my life and although it's been exciting and dramatic and mundane and relaxed... it's been anything but healthy. it's time to find my mature medium.


so goodbye, emotional unavailability. see ya, emotional fragility.


hello, medium. where the hell have you been all my life??
:)

. . . dot dot dot . . .

i know i said i'd try to blog more but every time i sit down to write, i get blocked. my problem isn't lack of material as i have a veritable card catalogue of topics i've been wanting to expound upon tucked away in this brain o' mine.

no, my problem is the same problem i always have. i can almost call it my only problem as it seems to be the root problem of pretty much every other problem i face these days:

over-thinking.

gaaaaaahhhhh...

it's stupid, i know. blogs are by nature impermanent, frivolous, and instant-gratification. so why think so much about something that matters so little?

i have no effing idea.

so i'm gonna start writing. even if i'm writing about how hard it is to write, i need to write. i need to quit holding my thoughts captive and set them free so they can roam free and be exposed for their inherent stupidityness. mmhmm. you heard me.

so whether it makes sense or not, whether anyone reads it or not, no matter how personal and impersonal or ruh-diculously self-conscious.

it brings to mind what i once said to a family friend as a recently potty-trained wee lass who required their assistance in the wiping of my toosh:

i'm very sorry for all this.

all to[e]' up

i would love to say that the horrifying image to your left is the aftermath of last thursday's injury. sadly, that's only partly true. other than the big ol' bruise on my baby toe, the rest of that ugly is just my good ol' natural ugly. except for the skanky pedicure; that's not technically naturally ugly but it is certainly ugly nonetheless.

as for the injury itself, using my extensive medical knowledge [i mean, i did just get like a D- in biophsychology] i think i've deduced that my pinky toe probably isn't broken after all. it's been a week since the car accident responsible for my boo-boo and i'm already able to move it around without any pain. now i'm no doctor but i'm pretty positive it takes more than a week to heal a broken bone. who knows? maybe i'm like wolverine and i've got some crazy healing abilities or something.

oh well... better safe than sorry right?

meanwhile, i'm still gonna say i broke it. owning up to a broken pinky toe is pathetic enough... having to admit that i have nothing more than a badly bruised pinky toe?? that's just wrong.

edit: undo

i just wrote and deleted an entire blog.


it wasn't computer error.
i didn't accidentally click something weird.
i just knew it had to be done.


the blog i just wrote and deleted had a very specific, subtly hidden message:
i'm great. please think more like me.


i didn't really mean for it to come out that way
but then again, i think somewhere deep down i did.


so i deleted it.
because if you were to take my advice and think more like me, it would probably be a DISASTER.






i'm not sure what i'm doing here.
i'm not sure what i'm trying to accomplish.
but i think for now, i'm thinking too much.

less is more

i need to work on being more concise, so here goes:

i can't believe it's only 10:30PM. maybe it's the three beers i drank with my labor day bbq meal but boy oh boy am i pooped.

it feels much later than it is somehow.

weird.

look at me.

bah joo seh yo...

'forgive me', in Korean. the literal meaning of this phrase can be loosely translated to say 'look at me' -- quite a fitting title for the following rant.

my biggest problem with this blog is lack of exposure. although in theory one should journal for one's own benefit, i'm afraid i'm far too vain to be satisfied with such a limited scope. i hate writing day in and day out [a heart wrenching three whole days, so far] knowing that my little posts may never get read. the only evidence i have to refute this fear comes in the form of a currency coveted by purveyors of social networks and online forums everywhere: the comment.

thus far, i have two comments to show for the three lengthy diatribes i have composed [not including this one, of course]. this is an extremely disconcerting ratio. i greatly appreciate the acknowledgment received from what may be my only two readers [allie and shelby, i love you both very much] but i'm afraid my ego can not be quelled by even the most heartfelt responses of only two individuals. after all, in the world of online networking, isn't it always about quantity not quality? aren't we all more concerned that the box on the right side of our myspace page can enumerate our several hundred "friends" than whether or not those "friends" are anything more than passing acquaintance? and doesn't our heart sink when there is no bright red message on the left side of our homepage to alert of us "new comments!"? it's like the disappointments we felt circa 1995 when there was no jovial greeting of "You've got mail!" to justify sitting through the lengthy and all-too-familiar whirrings and buzzings of our old friend the dial-up modem. but i digress...

what is it about comments and how is it that they have more in common with crack than just the letter 'c'? i think the answer lies in a very basic human instinct: the desire to be known.

comments are validation. it's an acknowledgement of existence -- a reward for the bravery that exposing one's identity to the world wide web requires. regardless of their actual content, each comment seems to say, "I know you're out there," "I see you," "I hear you," and the best even say "I understand you." and isn't that what we all want? to be understood? to know that somewhere out there someone feels what we feel, hurts the way we do and can prove that we aren't actually as crazy as we think we are? it's no wonder that the internet now serves as the middleman to all manor of communities both great and small, common and obscure, seen and unseen. with just a few simple clicks and the right keywords inputted into the correct search engine, even the most outcast outcast can find that he/she/[none/both of the above] is in fact, not alone.

so is this desire for such superficial validation healthy? debatable. but when one finds themselves deprived of this attention, how does one cope? where does one go for the acceptance one so desires? how does one stop referring to themselves in pretentious pronouns such as 'one'?

simple: find satisfaction within. although i think she may have been exaggerating a bit, i think whitney houston may have been on to something with the whole 'learning to love yourself' thing. i don't know that it was the greatest love of all, but it's certainly up there. the thing is i shouldn't need the validations of comments to promote my writing. i do, after all, have a desire to write in some kind of professional capacity one day so in theory, i should welcome the practice with or without the acknowledgement. i shouldn't seek the comments that tell my ego that i'm a good writer and instead be satisfied by the simple fact that the act of writing itself is making me a better writer.

and yet, the spirit is willing and the flesh is so weak.

so my friends, please forgive me.

bah joo seh yo.

please, look at me.

internal injuries

i am a fiercely independent individual.

while some struggle with the trappings of codependency, i find myself constantly fighting against my natural inclinations and literally forcing myself to accept the help of others. soliciting that help is an even larger hurdle that i'm still navigating all the time.

all that to say i feel like having this minor but nonetheless incapacitating injury really REALLY sucks. as if that weren't enough, i'm here for another week sans my own transportation and nashville just happens to be the kind of city where lack of a car can be equated to lacking a limb. basically, i'm really frustrated.

i'm aware that there may very well be a broken bone somewhere in the purple mass currently masquerading as my right food and should therefore take it easy. but being the independent woman that i am, the worst part of my particular injury is that it doesn't really feel that bad. it just feels like an oversized bruise and nothing more. i mean it looks pretty awful [you can scroll down for a visual reference] but it really doesn't hurt at all. i'm tempted to go against my better judgement and walk around on it anyway. i don't mind sitting on the couch all day by choice but knowing that i have to sit around all day is torture.

the temptation to walk on my foot is only reinforced by the lack of immediate consequence. the few times i have walked on it today there were no flashes of pain and in fact no pain at all. if i hadn't been given specific instructions from my personal nurse [my bff, Lydia] i'd probably be out somewhere livin' it up. okay, so maybe there's a good chance that i would've spent all day on the couch anyway... but that's besides the point.

i've been given an entire day to do nothing but catch up on the second season of 'big love', watch a bunch of romantic comedies, and THINK. the thinking was mostly about this business of internal injury. you may be able to see where i'm going with this metaphor but humor me.

isn't it funny how we can sometimes be knowingly broken inside and yet do things to worsen the injury because of the lack of immediate consequence? go with me on this one people... if you're anywhere near as hyper analytical as i am, you've thought about your issues and with minimal prompting can articulate the specifics of your baggage. and yet despite this awareness, you continue in your dysfunction because there's no immediate consequence to deter you. in fact, many times the only effects you feel are falsely rewarding leading to a cycle of positive reinforcement for dysfunctional behavior. which leads me back to my opener...

i'm a fiercely independent individual. i don't depend on many people and therefore, i'm not let down by many people. i've got more automatic self-defense mechanisms than i'm even aware of and believe me, i'm very aware of a whole lot of them. and yet this continued self-preservation has done nothing but leave me isolated and should i chose to continue down this path, i could very well end up alone. but despite it all, i keep doing the little things that keep my heart protected but leave me more injured in the end.

so for now, i'm gonna at least try to stay off my foot and let it heal a bit. as far as the metaphorical internal injury... well, i'm still working on that one.