Thursday, July 17, 2008

The riches of diversity


So, my good friend Ritch is changing his life. In the process, he's applying to law schools all over the country. And what did they want? Genius? Hardly. They wanted LSAT scores and ass-kissing. Big surprise, right? So, after reading what I would call an excellent, introspective, culturally accurate essay on this ridiculous, self-defeating notion to which we as a melting pot so desperately cling, I wrote my knee-jerk response to their bullshit subject matter.

What is diversity? Who is diverse? In my uninformed, unpleasant opinion, "diversity" is hardly bound by the kind of pseudo political correctness with which our culture has become so enamored. Rather, true diversity lies within the individual's willingness to be bold, to make gross mistakes, and to discard infamy with the same contempt that he or she would regard anonymity. In other words, maybe one shred of this elusive label lies in the ability to say, "No, dear law admissions board, I will not kiss your ass on this one. The notion of diversity is an absolute crock, and I'm sick to death of its celebration."

Love,
Offended Fascist

Confessionals: Day One

Three things today. Here goes:

1) Buttholes make me giggle. I sometimes do google image searches for "butthole" and surf through the thumbnails, chuckling. I think buttholes are hilarious, especially in conjunction with the word "butthole." I cannot explain this. Maybe I should start my own site, "LoLholes" or something. Dog buttholes, cat buttholes, chicken buttholes, Goatse. It's hilarious to me. They're just as different as faces, but so very not-a-face. What the Foucault? I don't know.

2) I'm bipolar. I was actually diagnosed over a year ago, and have been medicated since then. Not heavily medicated, mind you, but at a high enough dosage that I have some trouble coming, unless I get a lot of build-up (talking dirty especially does it). I have kept this "secret" (not so much a secret to anyone who knows me and sees me cycle over time) because of all of the stigma associated with bipolar disorder and manic-depression. It is even apparent if you sift through my childhood--very textbook stuff, from nature to nurture. Maybe I'll touch on that here.

I don't know what it means to be "bipolar," even though it's something I clearly "am." Maybe it's just emotional immaturity combined with an impulse-control problem and some very irresponsible fiscal habits (formerly sexual, but I've reclaimed a lot of control over that). Maybe it's a spiritual problem. I don't know. It comes and goes in intensity and in manifestation, but I've been under psychiatric supervision for a long time, and I trust these women to know what they're talking about. Not all shrinks, but I have two who communicate (clinical psychologist AND a psychiatrist), and they aren't colleagues or financially connected in any way, but they do agree on the issue of "Allison is bipolar as shit," and that sometimes I'm a danger to myself. Never anyone else (unless they really, really piss me off, and then only exhibited in some very ineffectual, fist-flinging ways), except for emotional or psychic damage caused by exposure to my crazy. Anyway, I'm coming out of the closet, at least in this forum. I've fibbed about it to a lot of people, but it's there in black-and-white on my permanent medical record for everyone to see. Nothing to be ashamed of. The stuff I've done when I'm manic, however, certainly can be. I never wanted to make my "condition" an excuse for the shitty things I do. But this is just an acknowledgment that there's at least a clinical explanation for why I can be either a total emo asshole or a whole lot of fun.

3) I can smell the inside of my nose, which compels me to pick it, because the smell of boogers is very distracting. My sense of smell is incredibly sensitive, and this is just one example of how it's not always a good thing. I hate being able to smell the inside of my nose, especially when it bleeds. I get most of my information from my nose (which sucked when my boyfriend was cheating on me and I couldn't find physical proof, but I knew it long before I "found out" because I could smell other women on him--his hands, his face...you know).

That's it for today. More forthcoming depending on where the mind decides to wander.

Disclaimer to "Confessionals" series


I'm going to try something a little different. I want to discourage you from reading further, or in fact from reading anything labeled "Confessions" if any of the following applies to you:

--You regularly use the phrase "That's too much information," or "Man! Don't tell me that!"

--You are easily offended or grossed out in any way.

--You think that if you lived in another person's head for even thirty seconds, you'd get really freaked out by what's in there.

Because I have a lot of weird thoughts on a regular basis. No, I mean REALLY weird ones. I always have. Maybe it's all mental garbage. But maybe, on the other hand, there are pearls of wisdom to be found in every little bit of subconscious housecleaning. I don't meditate nearly as much as I used to, and when I do, it's usually very active. These bizarre thoughts have to go somewhere, though, and it may as well be here. Besides, insanity has been a great motivator of creative impulses for as long as there has been art; I'm not suggesting it's the only motivator of art, any more than I believe that alcohol improves my writing. It's just that one of the reasons I write is to find out what I think, and vice versa. Thinking without writing it down, for me, is like the parable of the four blind men who all grabbed one part of an elephant; remember that one? One man said, "Oh, this is a tree!" and the other said "No, it's a motorcycle," and one said, "No, fools, it's a dank, smelly cave full of elephant shit!" ...or something like that.

So, here it goes. I have two today, which I'll enter now.

Your life is a joke.

What kind of joke is it?

Mine, for example, is a "why did the chicken cross the road" sort, with a really lame punchline. Feel free to offer one. I've got a few possibilities:

a) To get to the other side. (Existentialist perspective. See, it's like "the road" is a metaphor for life, and of course, "the other side" is death, and that's all there is. Get it? GET IT?)

b) To avoid doing anything productive (No, really. On one side of the road, there's a university. On the other side, there's a social networking site and an online RPG.)

c) Manic spree--believed she was moving faster than she actually was, and also wanted to prove her invincibility. (Psychobabble)

d) Suicide attempt. (Groaner. Suicide isn't funny, y'all.)

e) The road is an allusion. There is no chicken. (Simplistic eastern philosophical spin)

8. Da da!

g) Quack.

m) Sex. That's why everyone does everything, especially dumb animals.

h) She didn't know any better. She should have stayed in the fucking kitchen where she belonged.

I am such a birdbrain.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

The inconvenience of hipocrisy

A lot of folks complain about other folks being "two-faced." But what does that mean, anyway? There are plenty of worthwhile people in the world, and a great many of them simply don't get along. I don't necessarily consider myself to be one of those "worthwhile" people, but I nonetheless don't feel the need to put up with complete asshattery from someone I know marginally at best, just because I have to be around them on occasion. I confess, I'll do an obligatory amount of sucking up to authority figures, but I prefer to at least rib them about the fact that I'm sucking up when I do it. And there are people who I find a bit distasteful for a number of reasons, but have no cause to be overtly rude or unkind to them. They get the cordial chitchat and the smile and the sincere, if superficial compliment ("Nice ___ you're wearing today." Or, "You look really ____ in that ____."). It's not that this sort of compliment isn't genuine--quite the contrary; if I see something pretty, I'll tell the person who possesses it. I don't think that superficial compliments are passed around often enough. However, it's often the case that I simply have nothing else to say to the person, so I'll look for something nice to say in order to pass the time. That doesn't seem like it would make me either a villain or a wretched sycophant, right?

Then there are the people with whom I'm thrown into constant contact for one reason or another. These may be my friends, people about whom I care deeply, or they may simply be people that my friends are around often enough to seem like friends by proxy. Or maybe they're people that I work with, with whom I wouldn't necessarily spend a bunch of quality time, but who seem like perfectly reasonable, likable people worthy of consideration and respect...perhaps we just have very little in common. Hence, a slightly deeper level of polite chitchat--considerate small talk of sorts.

Now, when it comes to my real friends, I love them fiercely. And by fiercely, I mean that I will defend them tooth and nail if someone else is attacking them in any way, whether or not I am aware of some of their personal flaws. Friends are people whose personal flaws I try not to take personally. Sometimes, for whatever reason, even friends don't click in the same ways anymore. Then you just need space before a conflict develops. If it develops anyway, I'm prone to jumping on it, calling it out as a conflict, and doing my best to come to some sort of understanding. "I still care about you very much...we've just grown apart, changed as people, chosen different lifestyles, etc." These are all very palatable explanations for why people who love each other simply don't mesh anymore, but they're certainly not reasons to just cut a person off altogether. They're just causes of tension. No big deal. If there's static with a friend, I acknowledge the static, promise to do what I can to subdue it, and move on.

If I have a serious conflict with someone close to me, and it gets all big and emotional, I'm prone to saying exactly what the fuck is on my mind about how he or she has behaved, and then apologizing once I have said it, and trying to explain why I feel how I feel and why I said what I said, and what I probably shouldn't have said in spite of the fact that I felt it. Then I apologize, usually cry, and try to use it as an opportunity to become closer to the person.

Now, here's another thing altogether; it's something of which I am not necessarily proud, but that I may be nonetheless unable to change for some time. Depending upon who you are, you could call it a virtue or a serious character flaw: I don't take shit from people, regardless of who they are or how I feel about them. If someone attacks me passive-aggressively, I notice, and I respond with at least as much force and honesty as they have avoided through needling passivity. Sometimes, my paranoid streak creates explosive situations where perhaps someone wasn't intending to be passive-aggressive, but he or she said something that they should've known would set me off. In these circumstances, I try to give warnings before I completely blow my top. This applies to people with whom I am close just as much as those to whom I am indifferent. I just don't take shit from people. Trust me, I have taken enough to last me three more lifetimes. I used to be sweet, naive even, soft-spoken, and gentle. In other words, I got walked all over by nearly everyone with any personality. I was abused verbally and physically and in all sorts of ways I don't want to go into. Exploited. That sort of thing leads to rage. Rage leads to hate. Hate leads to the dark side. Etc. I'm not running around attacking people, but sometimes it overflows. When does it overflow? When someone tries to give me shit. I don't take shit from people. Have I made this clear? As often as not, I've smarted the fuck off to someone I later wished I hadn't (authority figures especially). But at least I then know that they know where I stand when they do or say that particular thing that they said or did. Whatever.

Case in point: Sometimes, compassion and empathy are easier if you just go ahead and keep a respectful distance between yourself and someone with whom you clearly clash. (A thing worth noting: if you think I'm somehow referring to you, I guarantee you I am not. This person does not have access to my facebook notes at all, so if you're reading this, it isn't you. And if you're so interested in to whom I am referring, feel free to do the detective work. It's not a big secret; I just want to get this off my chest without publicizing everything in stark detail.) Over the course of the last several months, I had tried and tried to be empathetic towards a person whom I found immediately, dramatically distasteful and unlikable. It has been a long time since I met someone who so swiftly soured me to his presence, under almost any circumstance. I tried time and again to subdue the friction by reminding myself of my misanthropic tendencies, and by telling myself that perhaps this guy isn't an asshole; perhaps you just need to get to know him better. So, I tried. I tried to have conversations in groups; he would dominate and derail anyone within shouting distance. I tried to spend some one-on-one time with him; when he wasn't trying to sloppily molest my face, he was talking nonstop about himself and his own petty struggles. And not non-stop the way that I nervously blurt; I mean, really, non-stop, "Malkovich Malkovich Malkovich," [interject attempt at common ground...change of subject...hobbies, pasttimes, anything besides "Malkovich"]...."Yes, which reminds Malkovich of Malkovich Malkovich."

Eventually, I burned out. I gave up. I came to the realization that I just plain don't like this person, so I gave him a respectful amount of space in order to avoid saying, "Look, I really don't like you. I never did. Everything about you strikes me as obnoxious. Perhaps we are just too similar; I respect that possibility. But in the meantime, recognizing the similarities between us is not going to make me like you any better. All it means is that I hate the part of myself that you remind me of, and I probably always will." Instead, what happened is that I successfully avoided this person, with polite "how ya doin'" interludes...until I was thrown into a small space with him again. True to form, this person acted like an asshole to the point of trying my patience until he finally just insulted me outright, and...true to form, I told him the fuck off. I said cruel, horrible, HONEST things. But by this point, the message should have been the same as it always was: "I just don't fucking like you. Stay away from me."

And then he threatened me. He THREATENED me. This is a thing that nasty, wilted cowards do. I may be a downright vicious cunt, but I don't threaten: I act. And when I acted, he couldn't handle it, so he balked and whined and when I stood my ground with the, "Look, you were being an asshole, so I told you off; it's nothing personal--it's just what I do when I'm around assholes," he began threatening me. And, as is so often the case, he did not want the truth. The truth was so simple: I think he's an asshole. He got in my face with his assholery, and I told him he was being an asshole. I guess that makes me an asshole. Nonetheless, I am through with this person. I am completely fed the fuck up, and I think I may have learned a lesson. Perhaps a respectful amount of distance is often preferable to what eventually, (after no small energy expenditure oh my brothers), begins to verge on red-eyed hatred and disgust. No, I don't hate him. But I could. The son of a bitch threatened me.

Please, friends, if I ever get in your face or tell you off for being an asshole, just tell me off in turn or smack me in the face. Seriously. Cut me off completely; tell the world that I'm a terrible cunt and your nemesis and whatever else you want to do. But don't threaten me. It spurs me to action.

Is it the fear talking, or...

Are we finally, ultimately fucked? I'm not talking about terrorism and global warming; I'm talking about flooded farmlands, increasing food-borne bacteria, and antibiotic-resistant infections. Prions, salmonella, mercury in the water. There are things from which we are not prepared to recover. Crops don't regrow overnight, nor do miracle cures present themselves within a few weeks of a new epidemic. Gas prices, bah! That's nothing compared to what we'll begin to see when we start to run out of food. Think about THAT. When we start to run out of food. Running out of food. Who would've thought it could happen in America? But take a look at the breadbasket, the cattle industry, the poultry industry, the fisheries, the vanishing bees. Friends, we may all know hunger in our lifetimes. Grow your own--start now. Learn how to use a hunting rifle and a bow and arrow. And don't say you didn't see it coming.

Peta-philes

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/politics/animal-rights-group-turns-its-fire-on-celebrity-meateaters-856591.html

I love animals. So, I have three pets, of which I take incredibly good care, at all times. Each of my pets is vaccinated, well-loved, well-fed, and lives indoors with me in cleaner conditions and better beds than at least half a dozen college kids I can name. They all get along, and they are a very important part of me.

I'd take down a motherfucker for hurting an animal. You want to see my claws, try to tell me that animals were put here by God for people to use as they choose. Try to tell me it's not worse than sin to hurt or maim, abuse or starve, or hunt or kill without mercy or the intent to use the flesh and fur to its maximum potential.

And you know something else? I eat dead animals. I do it all the time. I eat their flesh. I wear things made from them. I will most likely continue to do so until the day I die, all the meat in the world becomes polluted and diseased, or another animal eats me raw, with no cocktail sauce.

PETA is full of a bunch of flakes and assholes who thrive on forcing their beliefs on other people through intimidation campaigns and distortion of the facts. Sensationalists. Abusive, reactionary turdbaskets. Fuck PETA. I eat meat. If I die of some wasting, meat-borne disease, so be it. Poetic justice, karma, whatever. I'm so sick of PETA making the rest of the animal-rights advocates look bad.

I feel very strongly about a lot of things, and one of them is trying to mind my own fucking business about someone else's lifestyle. I don't like it when people pump their bass; it pollutes my peace of mind and gives me cause to jump to one simple conclusion: "that ignorant fucker cares more about his/her image amongst a bunch of strangers than he does about the welfare and comfort of people who don't want to be invaded by his/her musical taste." I fucking hate it when people litter. It's unsanitary, and it affects everyone; it blows from one place to another, and when you litter, I have to clean up your mess--dump your motor oil on the lawn, it affects the safety of my garden.

Most of us are guilty of at least one lifestyle choice that genuinely, negatively, directly affects someone else. Me? Well, I cuss a LOT, aloud, and I use someone else's God's name in vain and I say really offensive things within earshot of others. It may make me feel clever and bold, but it's actually pretty obnoxious and rude. I'm working on it. You, reading this, maybe you don't use your blinker. Maybe you stomp back and forth across your apartment without thinking about your neighbors downstairs. Maybe you're the asshole who eats repugnantly stinky food in your tiny, ill-circulated office space. Maybe you smoke by the public entrances to buildings. Maybe you let your dog shit on the sidewalk or in the neighbors' yards and you never, ever pick it up. (If that's you, fuck you. You make the rest of us dog owners look bad.) I guess that's your prerogative; all it does it make you an asshole in someone else's eyes.

However, what you put in your body and on your back with your money that you earned is none of my fucking business at all. Meat-eaters don't get up and gag and point and glare when someone orders a salad with asparagus spears. We don't protest all the hypocrisy inherent in your every lifestyle choice. Get off the public's fucking back, PETA. Meat's murder. Abortion's murder. Murder is murder. It fucking happens. Mind your own goddamn business and shut the hell up. I hope your cats eat your face when you feed them soy nuggets soaked in rice dream and your cruelty-free kids never forgive you for the creeping anemia that haunted their childhoods. Of course, you're only human, I know: it's just that, well, you think you're better than the rest of us. And everyone's an inconsiderate asshole somewhere along the line. I'm not going to form a fucking protest group that attacks the people with whom I disagree. PETA's a small step away from those dicks that stalk abortion doctors and burn crosses on lawns.

The so-called "love" professed by someone who lets their passion turn them into hateful people...someone who "loves" animals so much that they hate a person who eats meat: their beliefs evaporate into thin air. Their tongues are dust. Love becoming hate is an irreversible spiritual alchemy. You can't turn gold into lead and keep its value.

PETA is a four letter word. FUCK PETA.