Here is something that is cool: synesthesia.
Having studied English literature, it is a term that came up a lot. Writers are forever mixing senses, sometimes to better describe a certain feeling or object.
Most people, when they hear the term synesthesia, think of people who can listen to music and "see" it as colours, or see shapes dancing in the air after hearing a particular sound. Or some such. Personification is another type, wherein a number or letter "behaves" a certain way.
Myself, I attribute personalities to letters and numbers (I had a particularly hard time in elementary school math; I didn't like adding 2 and 7 together because I knew they didn't get along because 2 is weepy and whiney, and 7 is assertive and can't stand that kind of thing). and taste words. Not all words; "the" doesn't taste like anything. Neither do other small words like "it", "a", "some", etc. Mostly it is people's names, or verbs or adjectives. The name Jesse tastes like water chestnuts. When I say, "Jesse", I can taste and almost feel, physically, the delicately crunchy and slightly sweet little water vegetable in my mouth.
I only realized a few months ago that this was a "thing", that it doesn't happen to everyone. I was listening to Ideas (at least I'm fairly certain it was Ideas) and there was a discussion about synesthesia. The host of the show was speaking to a woman who was describing the taste of certain words. She said that certain parts of long words (she used "multisyllabic" as an example of a long word that has different tastes for each syllable). As I was listening to this, I found it interesting but I didn't realize at first that she was describing something that is not particularly common. It felt really awesome to realize that my brain does something that most people's brains don't do. I suppose my brain already works a little differently that what is common, seeing as I have bipolar disorder. Somehow synesthesia is a way more enjoyable thing to think about. After listening to Ideas that day I googled "synesthesia" and learned more about it. That was when I realized the way I see numbers and letters is also a little out of the ordinary. I just always assumed everyone felt that they have distinct personalities.
I have made a point, since my discovery, to tell people what things taste like. Everyone likes to know what their name tastes like. Some things have a taste that it takes me some time to identify. For example, the name "Leigh" has a taste but I really had to think about it hard in order to figure out what I was tasting (it is the taste of chewing on a popsicle stick after the popsicle is all gone and there is no flavour left).
Some words have tastes or sensations that I think are very obvious. The word "Europe" tastes like maple syrup; the words sound similar, and I find this happens often, sometimes with strange results. The word "credit" tastes like nothing, really, but when I say the word I can feel something in my mouth like I am holding a debit or credit card between my teeth, and biting down.
The word "blog" tastes like plain, unsweetened yoghurt. Don't know why that is.
I think it is pretty nifty that my brain does this on its own, while some people only get to experience feelings like this if they are on really good drugs.
20.7.10
In other news
Oh yes. 
Same girl. Stieg Larsson's Millenium trilogy ("The Girl Who ..." novels) are apparently the best things to come out of Sweden since ABBA. I liked the first movie, and then read the first and second novels. It was all very intriguing. I decided to learn Swedish, since it sounds so much like English. So far it is not proving too difficult. I have read that it is easier to learn another language if you already speak more than one.
The best thing, though, to come out of Sweden is, in my opinion, Noomi Rapace. She plays the eponymous Girl, Lisbeth Salander, who has a skewed set of morals and doesn't take much shit from anybody. If she does take shit from you, then you'd best be running and hiding because she will either totally fuck you up, or just kill you.
The character is described as pansexual; so far I have enjoyed seeing Noomi Rapace (as Lisbeth Salander) seduce an older male journalist and writhe on the floor with another girl. Which totally turns me on. As a character who is a hacker with a vigilante mindset and no willingness to be seen as a victim, she has fulfilled my fantasies of strong women.
Also, I think Noomi Rapace is incredibly sexy. I love seeing her embody this character, who does things I wish I were able to do if I were as skilled with technology, and had such an extreme black/white good/evil all-or-nothing mindset.
Excuse me now while I find my lube and vibrator.
19.7.10
Mother dearest darling daughter
I am thinking about moms.
My friend J.'s mother died last Friday. Actually, J. is mostly S.'s friend, but he has become my friend through a process I like to think of as being similar to osmosis. I would say that he is my friend. I just always feel the need to clarify, as if I have to explain why on Earth another human being would be my associate.
I never met J.'s mom, not even when J. lived with S. in Waterloo (they and five other guys shared a house while they attended the same university). I have heard J. talking about his mother at least within the last four months, and always without being upset. His girlfriend explained that she had been sick for some time; I don't know how long -- I would never have known anything was wrong in J.'s life. He is a very happy person and I always found that to be a great (and enviable) quality.
I feel for J. because I do know how much it sucks to lose someone, although I do not know how much it sucks when that person is your mother. J. is 24, a year younger than me. He has siblings who are younger, and I feel for them because no one wants to lose a parent when they are still barely an adult. Before it's time for that sort of thing. Especially when that parent has barely hit middle age (I think I am correct when I say J.'s mother was not even in her 50s).
So I am thinking about my own mother right now, and poking around my current feelings about her. At the moment I feel guilty; J. no longer has a mother, and I do, and I am often irritated with her. Instead of cherishing my mom and being thankful, I get upset with her.
My mom is what my dad calls an intermittent alcoholic. I think he says that just to feel as if he has, in his mind, not yet condemned her to full-blown alcoholism. At home, at my parents' house, if you don't hide your alcohol, she will drink it. My dad is very creative in this aspect; he hides his rum above the basement ceiling. There is a hole in the ceiling (put there in order to do wiring or some-such) and it is covered with a white plastic square that pops into place and makes it look very tidy. And that is where he keeps his stash.
Of course, this does not mean that my mom does not buy her own alcohol. She hides beer around the house, or vodka. Occasionally I will stumble across an empty, hidden bottle. My dad and brother have a tendency to ignore this. They put the evidence in the recycling and no one ever mentions it. I used to do that as well, until I realized that does no good, and more or less got fed up. Nowadays I tend to deposit them on my mom's bed and ask her if she can please not leave empties just lying around the house. It's messy, I tell her. At least make sure to remove the proof of your secret drinking.
She drinks and she is not a merry drinker. My dad, my brother, and myself are all relatively happy when we drink. I had a spot of difficulty a few years back, before I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. I drank more since it made me feel more normal. Later I learned in hospital that this is called self-medicating. Prior to being medicated, I would drink and it would drastically alter my mood; I would either be very manic (which I thought was an improvement on my regular self) or severely depressed. It could be a bit of a toss-up and I wasn't in the state of mind where I even cared what happened. Now that I am balanced, I don't need to do this anymore and I can enjoy a glass of wine without downing the whole bottle in half an hour. I didn't know I was having a problem until it was pointed out to me.
My mom, though, she knows she has a problem. We've all talked to her about it. She acknowledges it herself; every so often she says she's trying to drink less. She'll say something like, "Oh, it makes me act a bit weird". A bit weird. Try ... ruining dad's birthday this spring, or not being able to do more than slur on the phone when I call you.
We had an incident the other day, my mother and I. She called my cell phone the other day while I was at work. On my break a few hours later, I gave her a call back. She was so wasted, she could barely keep up a normal conversation. I was in the midst of headaches and a lowered mood. She mentioned that she was feeling tired because she had taken an Ativan (also known as lorazepam; it's an anti-anxiety medication) and had a couple of beers later on. Every time she does this, she acts as though she's so surprised to be feeling so out of it, like Oh my goodness, whatever has come over me. Golly fucking gee. I had no patience for her and I didn't want to take the kind approach, so I said, "Yeah, well, you've done that before and passed out. You missed most of Christmas, remember?. Don't act so fucking surprised. It's not like you don't know the medication has that effect if you drink." She slurred, "Don't use that kind of language." I told her I'll behave well and use proper language once she gets her shit together. She started to tell me that she is having a bad day. I told her I didn't care and asked her to give me a call back when she wasn't drunk or passed out, "but oh wait, mom, that might be never!"
Here is are my issues with this:
1. Being soft about things won't get you anywhere. But apparently, tough love doesn't help either. So I go back and forth between trying to be understanding, or just telling it like it is and letting my disappointment show.
2. My mom frequently says that she is depressed, and tired. I tell her to go see a doctor or psychologist. I offer to call Dr. F. and set up an appointment for myself and my mom. I tell her she should have her iron levels checked (she and I both have a tendency towards anemia), and that since she is taking blood pressure medication, she should not drink so much, if at all. My mom says yes, those are all good things. Then she doesn't take any steps at all to fix her problems. But she continues to complain about the same shit over and over and expects me to just listen to it and then say, "Poor you," and pass the vodka.
3. I've read several articles on families and friends and their relationships with alcoholics. Apparently she is not the one to blame, it is us, for being enablers or what-not. I can understand where this is coming from; I'm sometimes not nice to my mom when she drinks and I see how this can turn me into a reason for her to drink. BUT. Being nice to her makes no difference. She knows there is a problem and will not resolve it. We can't force her to get help, and she seems to want help but isn't doing a single thing about it.
4. As for trying to get her some help, I have talked to my psychologist, Dr. F., and she has given me some advice but the situation is still no better. Basically, my mom has to hit rock bottom before she will see that she needs help. I am afraid that she is going to die before that will happen. She has very high blood pressure, and it is always creeping higher because she is overweight. And gaining even more weight. She never exercises because she is too tired. She has a stressful job. She drinks heavily. (She would probably not be so tired if she didn't drink so much, and then she would be able to exercise, and then she would be less stressed, and her blood pressure would go down. I see it, the solution is simple. Getting my mother to that point is not simple). And she comes from a long line (on the maternal side) of alcoholics who can't drive and have heart problems and mental illness, who either kill themselves, go into cardiac arrest, or crash their cars.
5. I often feel like her behaviour is some kind of convoluted punishment for my leaving home and moving in with S. These episodes have increased tremendously in the two years since I've moved out. When I stayed at home recently (due to the fridge incident), my mother became much more normal than she has been in that last few months. She often asks me (usually in jest), "How could you leave me with your dad and brother?" I usually joke right back and tell her that S. and I will move into the house with her, and my dad and brother can have the apartment. In the end we always decide that wouldn't be good idea because dad and C. would try and kill each other. Or starve to death. When my mom is drunk while trying to pretend to be sober, and not asking that question in jest, I then reply by saying something like, "You moved out of your parents' home, too, you know. You left Nanny with Grampy and your two brothers, and she managed without you." My mom will then accept this, but continue to nag me. We typically end with her saying, "It would be better if you stayed here more often, why did you have to leave me?" and me responding, "Gee, mom, I get home and you just keep reminding me why I left in the first place."
Since I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and began devouring books on the subject, I find more and more that my mother displays much of the classic behaviour. I point these things out to her and she generally dismisses them, or says, "Oh. Aunt (so-and-so) was like that."
Her mood can change in the blink of an eye. During the course of a dinnertime discussion, she can go from bubbly and laughing, to crying and shouting. Sometimes she is irrational. She will have periods when she doesn't drink, or at least displays perfect moderation. This is when she is my lovely mother again. The next day she might be screaming at my dad for not tidying up the house while she is at work (my father is newly retired), and going on and on about how she has to do everything AROUND HERE and she is sick and tired of this and that and blah blah blah, and then pouring herself a big glass of wine while my dad says, calmly, "Maybe you shouldn't have so much to drink," and she says, "You do whatever you want to, why can't I have a drink if that's what I feel like?" My dad sometimes says, "T., sometimes you can be a little unpleasant if you have too much to drink." From time to time she accepts this, but mostly she just blows up at him again. I've heard her rants so many times before, she and I could do a lip-synching act.
When I was in high school I started making a huge effort to keep the house clean, and do whatever she needed, so that my mother would have fewer things to yell about. I didn't want her screaming at my dad or my brother in the background whenever a friend or a boy would call. I never even brought my first high school boyfriend home because I was terrified of having to explain my mother's behaviour if she suddenly began lashing out.
She is alternately delightful and terrifying, occasionally bewildering. When I am visiting home things do tend to be better; my father and brother and I are skilled at navigating the mine-field of her behaviour together. But I can't be home with my parents and brother all the time. I have my own life. I want to sleep in my own bed with S., I want to live in the apartment that I pay rent for.
My mom and I do have good times together. When we are enjoying each others company and going out shopping or for dinner, it's as if we push all that unpleasantness aside for the sake of a nice evening. We talk and laugh and confide and occasionally discuss her issues, but nothing is ever fixed. She and I become this temporarily normal mother-and-daughter team. There is this illusion, and I always want to believe that it's for real, and she's going to be better from now on, and that this, right here, is the start of things being good, for everyone, finally.
But then it always goes back to the way it really is. And the way it continues to be. She and I will talk (if she is able to talk) tomorrow, or the next day, and it will be one of those above-mentioned conversations, either pleasant or not. She will act as if she wants to move forward, I will be supportive as if we haven't been over this a million times before. Then I will wait for whatever: for her to be ready someday, for her to die, for her to finally hit rock bottom and have no other choice but to finally listen to us.
My friend J.'s mother died last Friday. Actually, J. is mostly S.'s friend, but he has become my friend through a process I like to think of as being similar to osmosis. I would say that he is my friend. I just always feel the need to clarify, as if I have to explain why on Earth another human being would be my associate.
I never met J.'s mom, not even when J. lived with S. in Waterloo (they and five other guys shared a house while they attended the same university). I have heard J. talking about his mother at least within the last four months, and always without being upset. His girlfriend explained that she had been sick for some time; I don't know how long -- I would never have known anything was wrong in J.'s life. He is a very happy person and I always found that to be a great (and enviable) quality.
I feel for J. because I do know how much it sucks to lose someone, although I do not know how much it sucks when that person is your mother. J. is 24, a year younger than me. He has siblings who are younger, and I feel for them because no one wants to lose a parent when they are still barely an adult. Before it's time for that sort of thing. Especially when that parent has barely hit middle age (I think I am correct when I say J.'s mother was not even in her 50s).
So I am thinking about my own mother right now, and poking around my current feelings about her. At the moment I feel guilty; J. no longer has a mother, and I do, and I am often irritated with her. Instead of cherishing my mom and being thankful, I get upset with her.
My mom is what my dad calls an intermittent alcoholic. I think he says that just to feel as if he has, in his mind, not yet condemned her to full-blown alcoholism. At home, at my parents' house, if you don't hide your alcohol, she will drink it. My dad is very creative in this aspect; he hides his rum above the basement ceiling. There is a hole in the ceiling (put there in order to do wiring or some-such) and it is covered with a white plastic square that pops into place and makes it look very tidy. And that is where he keeps his stash.
Of course, this does not mean that my mom does not buy her own alcohol. She hides beer around the house, or vodka. Occasionally I will stumble across an empty, hidden bottle. My dad and brother have a tendency to ignore this. They put the evidence in the recycling and no one ever mentions it. I used to do that as well, until I realized that does no good, and more or less got fed up. Nowadays I tend to deposit them on my mom's bed and ask her if she can please not leave empties just lying around the house. It's messy, I tell her. At least make sure to remove the proof of your secret drinking.
She drinks and she is not a merry drinker. My dad, my brother, and myself are all relatively happy when we drink. I had a spot of difficulty a few years back, before I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. I drank more since it made me feel more normal. Later I learned in hospital that this is called self-medicating. Prior to being medicated, I would drink and it would drastically alter my mood; I would either be very manic (which I thought was an improvement on my regular self) or severely depressed. It could be a bit of a toss-up and I wasn't in the state of mind where I even cared what happened. Now that I am balanced, I don't need to do this anymore and I can enjoy a glass of wine without downing the whole bottle in half an hour. I didn't know I was having a problem until it was pointed out to me.
My mom, though, she knows she has a problem. We've all talked to her about it. She acknowledges it herself; every so often she says she's trying to drink less. She'll say something like, "Oh, it makes me act a bit weird". A bit weird. Try ... ruining dad's birthday this spring, or not being able to do more than slur on the phone when I call you.
We had an incident the other day, my mother and I. She called my cell phone the other day while I was at work. On my break a few hours later, I gave her a call back. She was so wasted, she could barely keep up a normal conversation. I was in the midst of headaches and a lowered mood. She mentioned that she was feeling tired because she had taken an Ativan (also known as lorazepam; it's an anti-anxiety medication) and had a couple of beers later on. Every time she does this, she acts as though she's so surprised to be feeling so out of it, like Oh my goodness, whatever has come over me. Golly fucking gee. I had no patience for her and I didn't want to take the kind approach, so I said, "Yeah, well, you've done that before and passed out. You missed most of Christmas, remember?. Don't act so fucking surprised. It's not like you don't know the medication has that effect if you drink." She slurred, "Don't use that kind of language." I told her I'll behave well and use proper language once she gets her shit together. She started to tell me that she is having a bad day. I told her I didn't care and asked her to give me a call back when she wasn't drunk or passed out, "but oh wait, mom, that might be never!"
Here is are my issues with this:
1. Being soft about things won't get you anywhere. But apparently, tough love doesn't help either. So I go back and forth between trying to be understanding, or just telling it like it is and letting my disappointment show.
2. My mom frequently says that she is depressed, and tired. I tell her to go see a doctor or psychologist. I offer to call Dr. F. and set up an appointment for myself and my mom. I tell her she should have her iron levels checked (she and I both have a tendency towards anemia), and that since she is taking blood pressure medication, she should not drink so much, if at all. My mom says yes, those are all good things. Then she doesn't take any steps at all to fix her problems. But she continues to complain about the same shit over and over and expects me to just listen to it and then say, "Poor you," and pass the vodka.
3. I've read several articles on families and friends and their relationships with alcoholics. Apparently she is not the one to blame, it is us, for being enablers or what-not. I can understand where this is coming from; I'm sometimes not nice to my mom when she drinks and I see how this can turn me into a reason for her to drink. BUT. Being nice to her makes no difference. She knows there is a problem and will not resolve it. We can't force her to get help, and she seems to want help but isn't doing a single thing about it.
4. As for trying to get her some help, I have talked to my psychologist, Dr. F., and she has given me some advice but the situation is still no better. Basically, my mom has to hit rock bottom before she will see that she needs help. I am afraid that she is going to die before that will happen. She has very high blood pressure, and it is always creeping higher because she is overweight. And gaining even more weight. She never exercises because she is too tired. She has a stressful job. She drinks heavily. (She would probably not be so tired if she didn't drink so much, and then she would be able to exercise, and then she would be less stressed, and her blood pressure would go down. I see it, the solution is simple. Getting my mother to that point is not simple). And she comes from a long line (on the maternal side) of alcoholics who can't drive and have heart problems and mental illness, who either kill themselves, go into cardiac arrest, or crash their cars.
5. I often feel like her behaviour is some kind of convoluted punishment for my leaving home and moving in with S. These episodes have increased tremendously in the two years since I've moved out. When I stayed at home recently (due to the fridge incident), my mother became much more normal than she has been in that last few months. She often asks me (usually in jest), "How could you leave me with your dad and brother?" I usually joke right back and tell her that S. and I will move into the house with her, and my dad and brother can have the apartment. In the end we always decide that wouldn't be good idea because dad and C. would try and kill each other. Or starve to death. When my mom is drunk while trying to pretend to be sober, and not asking that question in jest, I then reply by saying something like, "You moved out of your parents' home, too, you know. You left Nanny with Grampy and your two brothers, and she managed without you." My mom will then accept this, but continue to nag me. We typically end with her saying, "It would be better if you stayed here more often, why did you have to leave me?" and me responding, "Gee, mom, I get home and you just keep reminding me why I left in the first place."
Since I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and began devouring books on the subject, I find more and more that my mother displays much of the classic behaviour. I point these things out to her and she generally dismisses them, or says, "Oh. Aunt (so-and-so) was like that."
Her mood can change in the blink of an eye. During the course of a dinnertime discussion, she can go from bubbly and laughing, to crying and shouting. Sometimes she is irrational. She will have periods when she doesn't drink, or at least displays perfect moderation. This is when she is my lovely mother again. The next day she might be screaming at my dad for not tidying up the house while she is at work (my father is newly retired), and going on and on about how she has to do everything AROUND HERE and she is sick and tired of this and that and blah blah blah, and then pouring herself a big glass of wine while my dad says, calmly, "Maybe you shouldn't have so much to drink," and she says, "You do whatever you want to, why can't I have a drink if that's what I feel like?" My dad sometimes says, "T., sometimes you can be a little unpleasant if you have too much to drink." From time to time she accepts this, but mostly she just blows up at him again. I've heard her rants so many times before, she and I could do a lip-synching act.
When I was in high school I started making a huge effort to keep the house clean, and do whatever she needed, so that my mother would have fewer things to yell about. I didn't want her screaming at my dad or my brother in the background whenever a friend or a boy would call. I never even brought my first high school boyfriend home because I was terrified of having to explain my mother's behaviour if she suddenly began lashing out.
She is alternately delightful and terrifying, occasionally bewildering. When I am visiting home things do tend to be better; my father and brother and I are skilled at navigating the mine-field of her behaviour together. But I can't be home with my parents and brother all the time. I have my own life. I want to sleep in my own bed with S., I want to live in the apartment that I pay rent for.
My mom and I do have good times together. When we are enjoying each others company and going out shopping or for dinner, it's as if we push all that unpleasantness aside for the sake of a nice evening. We talk and laugh and confide and occasionally discuss her issues, but nothing is ever fixed. She and I become this temporarily normal mother-and-daughter team. There is this illusion, and I always want to believe that it's for real, and she's going to be better from now on, and that this, right here, is the start of things being good, for everyone, finally.
But then it always goes back to the way it really is. And the way it continues to be. She and I will talk (if she is able to talk) tomorrow, or the next day, and it will be one of those above-mentioned conversations, either pleasant or not. She will act as if she wants to move forward, I will be supportive as if we haven't been over this a million times before. Then I will wait for whatever: for her to be ready someday, for her to die, for her to finally hit rock bottom and have no other choice but to finally listen to us.
18.7.10
It would be like saying Neil Gaiman is my personal Jesus. Which he isn't. And being Jewish, he might not like it if he were.
During soccer fever, I happened to be at work sitting next to two co-workers who were discussing the fact that soccer is like a religion, and die-hard fans will often go to great lengths to avenge their team. One co-worker cited, for example, instances where referees have been tracked down and murdered. The other person, she mentioned that she lives in a neighbourhood with a very large, soccer-crazy Portuguese population, and that during the last World Cup matches, someone was killed outside of a bar after a soccer-related dispute (I guess he didn't die-hard, hahaha ... don't worry, I already know I'm a horrible person).
When she said this, I gave a snort of derision, and seconds later the two of them had poked their heads over the top of my cubicle and were asking what I thought was so funny. I said that disputes over soccer, disputes that lead to death, are ridiculous. And it really is, I just can't take it seriously. I mean, I know that someone died. At the hands of another person. But ... over soccer. I can't wrap my head around it.
One co-worker, a man, said that it's not ridiculous at all. He explained that millions of people are very passionate about soccer, all over the world. I said, "That doesn't make it any less contemptible that people go around fighting to the death, and believe me sir, much contempt is what I have plenty of."
In real life, outside of this blog, I hardly ever speak my mind to anyone. Except for maybe S., my friend G., my brother, and my friend H. Occasionally my parents, if it happens to be a bit of my mind that I want to share with them. So in this situation, as I was talking to my co-worker, I was turning red and starting to shake a bit. I can argue; I can yell, debate, scoff at a poorly constructed rebuttal ... it just affects me very much in a physical way, because I am actually a very private person and not used to sharing my thoughts in such an unedited fashion, especially with co-working strangers.
He said that I can't possibly understand what I'm saying. He told me that soccer players are regarded as gods, and that leads people to become very passionate and start riots or commit murders. This just seemed to me that he was making things even more contemptible, and so I retorted, "Well, I'm passionate about books, but I don't go setting cars on fire and rioting, or popping caps in peoples asses when I don't like a plot twist. Passion is not an excuse for anything. Except maybe in France." ( Okay, so imagine that with some stutters and what-not ) He started to say something about, well, I don't know ... I wasn't really paying attention at this point because it was soccer related, and I can't be expected to pay attention for that long. I cut him off and said, "And don't even get me started on religion!" With that, I snapped my headset back on and I haven't said a word about it since. The two co-workers (well, the man really ... there was a woman but she didn't say much) haven't brought it up since, probably because they know I'm right, and probably because soccer is now finished. Hoorah!
I realize the irony in the fact that I don't care much for soccer, yet I have devoted two blog entries to discussing it. If I were a homophobe discussing how much I hate gay people, then that would definitely point to my having, perhaps, some latent homosexuality. However, it is not so much the case with soccer, and dislike of sports in general. If you hate it, you hate it.
Also, speaking of it -- I don't have any latent homosexuality. I am completely bisexual, and fully acknowledge and realize (on a regular basis, with S. as my partner in crime) that I love to eat pussy.
No, I don't mean going to the sketchy Chinese food place down the street to get a fix for my cat meat craving.
I mean vaginas.
When she said this, I gave a snort of derision, and seconds later the two of them had poked their heads over the top of my cubicle and were asking what I thought was so funny. I said that disputes over soccer, disputes that lead to death, are ridiculous. And it really is, I just can't take it seriously. I mean, I know that someone died. At the hands of another person. But ... over soccer. I can't wrap my head around it.
One co-worker, a man, said that it's not ridiculous at all. He explained that millions of people are very passionate about soccer, all over the world. I said, "That doesn't make it any less contemptible that people go around fighting to the death, and believe me sir, much contempt is what I have plenty of."
In real life, outside of this blog, I hardly ever speak my mind to anyone. Except for maybe S., my friend G., my brother, and my friend H. Occasionally my parents, if it happens to be a bit of my mind that I want to share with them. So in this situation, as I was talking to my co-worker, I was turning red and starting to shake a bit. I can argue; I can yell, debate, scoff at a poorly constructed rebuttal ... it just affects me very much in a physical way, because I am actually a very private person and not used to sharing my thoughts in such an unedited fashion, especially with co-working strangers.
He said that I can't possibly understand what I'm saying. He told me that soccer players are regarded as gods, and that leads people to become very passionate and start riots or commit murders. This just seemed to me that he was making things even more contemptible, and so I retorted, "Well, I'm passionate about books, but I don't go setting cars on fire and rioting, or popping caps in peoples asses when I don't like a plot twist. Passion is not an excuse for anything. Except maybe in France." ( Okay, so imagine that with some stutters and what-not ) He started to say something about, well, I don't know ... I wasn't really paying attention at this point because it was soccer related, and I can't be expected to pay attention for that long. I cut him off and said, "And don't even get me started on religion!" With that, I snapped my headset back on and I haven't said a word about it since. The two co-workers (well, the man really ... there was a woman but she didn't say much) haven't brought it up since, probably because they know I'm right, and probably because soccer is now finished. Hoorah!
I realize the irony in the fact that I don't care much for soccer, yet I have devoted two blog entries to discussing it. If I were a homophobe discussing how much I hate gay people, then that would definitely point to my having, perhaps, some latent homosexuality. However, it is not so much the case with soccer, and dislike of sports in general. If you hate it, you hate it.
Also, speaking of it -- I don't have any latent homosexuality. I am completely bisexual, and fully acknowledge and realize (on a regular basis, with S. as my partner in crime) that I love to eat pussy.
No, I don't mean going to the sketchy Chinese food place down the street to get a fix for my cat meat craving.
I mean vaginas.
17.7.10
16.7.10
Adventures in serotonin
I am having one of those days. I could tell it was coming after a headache last night; it felt like a migraine but I could tell it wasn't. Things often seem to change after a particularly bad one, which I've read is rather common.
It went away last night but came back today and now everything just seems to be getting worse. What makes it even more difficult is that my usual defences against mood change aren't working today. A lot of the time I can make myself feel better by thinking about all the horribly shitty things in the world. Or, at least, I can make myself feel insignificant, which makes my depression seem inconsequential in comparison to what happens in the rest of the world. And then I can do something like walk down St. Clair and give change to every truly unlucky bastard I meet and not even think about the fact that they might spend it on alcohol or drugs. S. would argue that doesn't help anyone. He may have a point, but if I want to be entirely selfish I can say that it at least helps me to feel better. And to whoever I'm passing by who has their hand outstretched or a hat resting in front of where they're sitting, at least I stopped to talk to them and smile (even if I don't feel like smiling) and give them whatever I can (which is not a lot, considering my finances are rather pitiful, now and always). That has to be better than just being ignored, and having someone assume that you're a drunk or deranged or lazy.
Today, though, none of my attempts are working. I just want to make my feelings unimportant and I can't seem to do that. All I want to do is die, and I would take myself up on that offer if I didn't have to think about my mom, my dad, my brother, S., and various other people who seem to enjoy my existance.
It really pisses me off, too, that I feel like this. I had such a great week. Stayed with my parents (which made me a bit homesick at first, but I was there long enough that I remembered why I was happy to leave, too), went to a fantastic wedding (my cousin was married at the RCYC which was followed by brunch the next day), spent a great evening at Heather's, cooking, drinking, and watching Scarface ... So my feelings towards all of this are summed up by saying, "What the fuck?"
I mean, I know why, it's just frustrating that I can't do anything about it. I took a bath. I listened to happy music. I thought about all the best things, like the bike trip S. and I went on before we were together, and when I looked back at him riding behind me and smiling and I knew it was inevitable that we would end up with each other. Or this one summer at our family cottage when a group of us took a trip to visit the monastery at the other end of the lake. We drove there and back in my aunt's huge van, with my mom and my cousins and my aunt and our cottage neighbour Lee. For some reason or other we all started singing these stupid camping songs, and halfway through there was more laughing than there was singing. Even typing that now, though, is not working to make me feel better. Right now I feel like the only thing that will make it better is to crawl into bed and just sleep my current self away.
It went away last night but came back today and now everything just seems to be getting worse. What makes it even more difficult is that my usual defences against mood change aren't working today. A lot of the time I can make myself feel better by thinking about all the horribly shitty things in the world. Or, at least, I can make myself feel insignificant, which makes my depression seem inconsequential in comparison to what happens in the rest of the world. And then I can do something like walk down St. Clair and give change to every truly unlucky bastard I meet and not even think about the fact that they might spend it on alcohol or drugs. S. would argue that doesn't help anyone. He may have a point, but if I want to be entirely selfish I can say that it at least helps me to feel better. And to whoever I'm passing by who has their hand outstretched or a hat resting in front of where they're sitting, at least I stopped to talk to them and smile (even if I don't feel like smiling) and give them whatever I can (which is not a lot, considering my finances are rather pitiful, now and always). That has to be better than just being ignored, and having someone assume that you're a drunk or deranged or lazy.
Today, though, none of my attempts are working. I just want to make my feelings unimportant and I can't seem to do that. All I want to do is die, and I would take myself up on that offer if I didn't have to think about my mom, my dad, my brother, S., and various other people who seem to enjoy my existance.
It really pisses me off, too, that I feel like this. I had such a great week. Stayed with my parents (which made me a bit homesick at first, but I was there long enough that I remembered why I was happy to leave, too), went to a fantastic wedding (my cousin was married at the RCYC which was followed by brunch the next day), spent a great evening at Heather's, cooking, drinking, and watching Scarface ... So my feelings towards all of this are summed up by saying, "What the fuck?"
I mean, I know why, it's just frustrating that I can't do anything about it. I took a bath. I listened to happy music. I thought about all the best things, like the bike trip S. and I went on before we were together, and when I looked back at him riding behind me and smiling and I knew it was inevitable that we would end up with each other. Or this one summer at our family cottage when a group of us took a trip to visit the monastery at the other end of the lake. We drove there and back in my aunt's huge van, with my mom and my cousins and my aunt and our cottage neighbour Lee. For some reason or other we all started singing these stupid camping songs, and halfway through there was more laughing than there was singing. Even typing that now, though, is not working to make me feel better. Right now I feel like the only thing that will make it better is to crawl into bed and just sleep my current self away.
8.7.10
All aboard
Listening to late night Q107 and on comes some Ozzy Osbourne. I like Black Sabbath, but I am not an Ozzy fan. I find him trite, as a person. I am told this is a bit of a contradiction, and that a person can't like Black Sabbath without liking Ozzy Osbourne, because he is Black Sabbath. I appreciate him, musically. That is the extent of it. I often get the sense that he's really making an effort to be exceptionally insane, and I can't abide that. It's like emo kids, and pseudo-intellectual textbook psychology angst. I can tell they're working hard at it. Also, I had to endure the popularity of his reality t.v. show, which in turn spawned a talk show for his wife, and resulted in his children making the tour of various sitcom guest spots and hosting on S.N.L. I can't forgive him for that.
The song on the radio was Crazy Train, which always makes me think of the Pink Floyd song Have a Cigar, which is recognizable for it's lyrics, "riding the gravy train".
I think that would be the best kind of train to have go off the rails. There'd be gravy everywhere, and it would be a bit of a mess, but oh! it's the most delicious mess there ever could be, and could be easily cleaned up by an army of dogs and turkey enthusiasts.
This is what happens when S. and I are apart and I am left to my own devices. I should be sleeping (S. is such a normal person that he keeps me on a regular sleeping schedule but he has gone back to the apartment to await the arrival of our new fridge tomorrow) but am instead imagining the mash-up of a crazy gravy train going off the rails. Goddamnit I'm hungry. It'll be a good four months until Thanksgiving with turkey and gravy. It's not something that can be whipped up in the middle of the night.
The song on the radio was Crazy Train, which always makes me think of the Pink Floyd song Have a Cigar, which is recognizable for it's lyrics, "riding the gravy train".
I think that would be the best kind of train to have go off the rails. There'd be gravy everywhere, and it would be a bit of a mess, but oh! it's the most delicious mess there ever could be, and could be easily cleaned up by an army of dogs and turkey enthusiasts.
This is what happens when S. and I are apart and I am left to my own devices. I should be sleeping (S. is such a normal person that he keeps me on a regular sleeping schedule but he has gone back to the apartment to await the arrival of our new fridge tomorrow) but am instead imagining the mash-up of a crazy gravy train going off the rails. Goddamnit I'm hungry. It'll be a good four months until Thanksgiving with turkey and gravy. It's not something that can be whipped up in the middle of the night.
7.7.10
You saw it here, first. Remember.
The other day I realized that a person can be amused and a person can be bemused.
I said to S., there must be a cemused, which could perhaps be something in between the first two.
S. said, "It's not in between, it comes after. The letter C comes after A and B." I told him that language does not follow that kind of logic. It's higgledy-piggledy and meant to be played with. I get a lot of amusement out of language (but not cemusement). Amusement and bemusement sound similar but have two very different meanings. And since I invented cemusement I get to pick what the word means. I think of it as the "Option C" of musement.
To be amused (an adjective) one is: "pleasurably entertained, occupied, or diverted". A person "displays amusement" when they are amused. Amusement can be created by making people laugh, for example, with a joke.
To be bemused (an adjective) one is: "bewildered or confused", "lost in thought or preoccupied".
Whether you are amused or bemused, you are caught up in the thought of something. Either it is a fun thought, or perhaps a perplexing one. No matter what you are thinking in either situation, you are not indifferent to whatever is causing you to feel amused or bemused.
Therefore I propose that "cemused" be a glorified word to mean "meh". A person could encounter something that could possibly arouse amusement, or bemusement, but instead a person experiences indifference, or cemusement.
It's kind of like the word whelmed, which I first heard in the movie Ten Things I Hate About You. The character Bianca (Larisa Oleynik) is talking with her friend Chastity (Gabrielle Union), who says, "I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be whelmed?" Bianca responds, "I think you can in Europe."
A person can just be whelmed; it's in the dictionary. It means "to submerge; engulf" or "to roll or surge over something, as in becoming submerged". Still, though, it's in between underwhelmed and overwhelmed, both of which are very solid feelings. I think of whelmed as being a "meh". Underwhelmed, well, that's very "meh".
Word games!
I need to go and be cemused at work.
I said to S., there must be a cemused, which could perhaps be something in between the first two.
S. said, "It's not in between, it comes after. The letter C comes after A and B." I told him that language does not follow that kind of logic. It's higgledy-piggledy and meant to be played with. I get a lot of amusement out of language (but not cemusement). Amusement and bemusement sound similar but have two very different meanings. And since I invented cemusement I get to pick what the word means. I think of it as the "Option C" of musement.
To be amused (an adjective) one is: "pleasurably entertained, occupied, or diverted". A person "displays amusement" when they are amused. Amusement can be created by making people laugh, for example, with a joke.
To be bemused (an adjective) one is: "bewildered or confused", "lost in thought or preoccupied".
Whether you are amused or bemused, you are caught up in the thought of something. Either it is a fun thought, or perhaps a perplexing one. No matter what you are thinking in either situation, you are not indifferent to whatever is causing you to feel amused or bemused.
Therefore I propose that "cemused" be a glorified word to mean "meh". A person could encounter something that could possibly arouse amusement, or bemusement, but instead a person experiences indifference, or cemusement.
It's kind of like the word whelmed, which I first heard in the movie Ten Things I Hate About You. The character Bianca (Larisa Oleynik) is talking with her friend Chastity (Gabrielle Union), who says, "I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be whelmed?" Bianca responds, "I think you can in Europe."
A person can just be whelmed; it's in the dictionary. It means "to submerge; engulf" or "to roll or surge over something, as in becoming submerged". Still, though, it's in between underwhelmed and overwhelmed, both of which are very solid feelings. I think of whelmed as being a "meh". Underwhelmed, well, that's very "meh".
Word games!
I need to go and be cemused at work.
5.7.10
Here comes the sun
I was not made for heat.
Toronto is sweltering under a heat wave, and twice in the last few days I have found myself being sucker punched by heat exhaustion. The first time it happened I was taken by surprise; I thought I had balanced sunblock, shade and hydration with the amount of sun I was getting while taking in Pride events on Church Street. At the end of the day I was tired, irritable, dizzy, barely able to lift my backpack, and headache-y.
The second time I was just stupid: I ventured out for the Pride parade, armed with more sunblock, water, and an umbrella. The happiest of parades, however, just would not end and after more than two hours I found myself swaying into S.'s arms and then later vomiting on my way home. I called in sick to work, stood under a cold shower for ten minutes, and crawled into bed to sleep away my headache.
Winter weather never makes me feel this shitty.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that all of my ancestors came from climates that are not well-known for being toasty (I'm largely of Irish, Ukrainian, and Russian Tatar descent, as well as some Scottish, English, French all on my dad's side, and a sliver of Spanish on my grandfather's paternal side). My mother (who is the product of a mostly Irish father and a Ukrainian / Russian Tatar mother) has the build of a sturdy Eastern European peasant who could spit out babies with ease while grinding flour or some such. We don't look very much alike, except perhaps in the face. She is short and curvy, with a wide jaw and a mouth filled with beautiful white teeth that have always reminded me of Chiclets. Her arms and legs are thick and muscular. I am taller, narrower, with dark brown hair and white skin that freckles and burns, but doesn't tan. I mostly resemble my father, who is an ageing hippie and retired computer sciences professor with a WASP-y upbringing. We share the same thin arms and legs, small jaw and crowded teeth (although mine have been improved by orthodontia), papery white skin, and dark hair, although his has greyed substantially. He does not fare well in the sun, either. The top of his head becomes pink at the slightest ray of sun and he will burn and peel if he's not careful.
My mother, though, she tans beautifully in the summer, says that she was built for working in the fields under the sun, and that I was made for sitting in a dark house, looking pale, and mastering embroidery. I do two of those things exceptionally well. I don't tan, I burn, and I generally prefer to avoid the sun and stay indoors. More than anything, I appreciate Canada for it's temperate climate. I love experiencing four seasons, and I love winter more than any other. I love snow, I love wool coats and scarves, I love being cold and then getting home and warming up with a mug of hot chocolate and a fleecy blanket. There are some nice things about summer (ie. flowers, the ice cream truck, having sex outdoors, excellent thunderstorms, and visiting our family cottage) but by and large I find myself tolerating summer until cooler weather begins to make an appearance in August.
Now, though, it is so hot in Toronto that everyone (who previously loved summer and called me crazy for my life-long love of wintertime) is crying about the heat. I just want to point out that I was saying I dislike hot weather waaaay before all of y'all.
The fact that the power went out this afternoon only made things worse. People are cranky in general, I've found, and if you take away their air-conditioning they become downright unreasonable. Facebook and Twitter exploded with complaints about the incredibly high temperatures and the sudden lack of air-conditioning; an explosion at a transformer station on Kipling in Toronto's west-end (much closer to where my parents live than to where I live) leaves everyone wondering who to blame for incompetence, negligence, etc. and so on ad nauseum. I hope beyond all hope that the explosion was caused by an overload on the system. I am always delighted by situations where people seeking to lay blame find that they are the ones at fault.
As for me, I am hiding out in my old room in my parents's (finished) basement, where the sun barely peeks in through the windows at any time of the day, and where it is always cool in the summer and warm in the winter. When I lived at home it was an oasis of calm for me, always cool and quiet, giving me the feeling that I am cut off from the rest of the world. I could always hide out here, away from my mom's moods or my father's preaching about whatever aspect of my life he feels could benefit from improvement.
Down here it is almost chilly. I think of the thick basement walls blocking out all that steamy, stinky city air, and I really see no reason to go outside anytime soon.
Toronto is sweltering under a heat wave, and twice in the last few days I have found myself being sucker punched by heat exhaustion. The first time it happened I was taken by surprise; I thought I had balanced sunblock, shade and hydration with the amount of sun I was getting while taking in Pride events on Church Street. At the end of the day I was tired, irritable, dizzy, barely able to lift my backpack, and headache-y.
The second time I was just stupid: I ventured out for the Pride parade, armed with more sunblock, water, and an umbrella. The happiest of parades, however, just would not end and after more than two hours I found myself swaying into S.'s arms and then later vomiting on my way home. I called in sick to work, stood under a cold shower for ten minutes, and crawled into bed to sleep away my headache.
Winter weather never makes me feel this shitty.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that all of my ancestors came from climates that are not well-known for being toasty (I'm largely of Irish, Ukrainian, and Russian Tatar descent, as well as some Scottish, English, French all on my dad's side, and a sliver of Spanish on my grandfather's paternal side). My mother (who is the product of a mostly Irish father and a Ukrainian / Russian Tatar mother) has the build of a sturdy Eastern European peasant who could spit out babies with ease while grinding flour or some such. We don't look very much alike, except perhaps in the face. She is short and curvy, with a wide jaw and a mouth filled with beautiful white teeth that have always reminded me of Chiclets. Her arms and legs are thick and muscular. I am taller, narrower, with dark brown hair and white skin that freckles and burns, but doesn't tan. I mostly resemble my father, who is an ageing hippie and retired computer sciences professor with a WASP-y upbringing. We share the same thin arms and legs, small jaw and crowded teeth (although mine have been improved by orthodontia), papery white skin, and dark hair, although his has greyed substantially. He does not fare well in the sun, either. The top of his head becomes pink at the slightest ray of sun and he will burn and peel if he's not careful.
My mother, though, she tans beautifully in the summer, says that she was built for working in the fields under the sun, and that I was made for sitting in a dark house, looking pale, and mastering embroidery. I do two of those things exceptionally well. I don't tan, I burn, and I generally prefer to avoid the sun and stay indoors. More than anything, I appreciate Canada for it's temperate climate. I love experiencing four seasons, and I love winter more than any other. I love snow, I love wool coats and scarves, I love being cold and then getting home and warming up with a mug of hot chocolate and a fleecy blanket. There are some nice things about summer (ie. flowers, the ice cream truck, having sex outdoors, excellent thunderstorms, and visiting our family cottage) but by and large I find myself tolerating summer until cooler weather begins to make an appearance in August.
Now, though, it is so hot in Toronto that everyone (who previously loved summer and called me crazy for my life-long love of wintertime) is crying about the heat. I just want to point out that I was saying I dislike hot weather waaaay before all of y'all.
The fact that the power went out this afternoon only made things worse. People are cranky in general, I've found, and if you take away their air-conditioning they become downright unreasonable. Facebook and Twitter exploded with complaints about the incredibly high temperatures and the sudden lack of air-conditioning; an explosion at a transformer station on Kipling in Toronto's west-end (much closer to where my parents live than to where I live) leaves everyone wondering who to blame for incompetence, negligence, etc. and so on ad nauseum. I hope beyond all hope that the explosion was caused by an overload on the system. I am always delighted by situations where people seeking to lay blame find that they are the ones at fault.
As for me, I am hiding out in my old room in my parents's (finished) basement, where the sun barely peeks in through the windows at any time of the day, and where it is always cool in the summer and warm in the winter. When I lived at home it was an oasis of calm for me, always cool and quiet, giving me the feeling that I am cut off from the rest of the world. I could always hide out here, away from my mom's moods or my father's preaching about whatever aspect of my life he feels could benefit from improvement.
Down here it is almost chilly. I think of the thick basement walls blocking out all that steamy, stinky city air, and I really see no reason to go outside anytime soon.
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