Line Up To Eat Me!

One thing I learned in college, aside from my Social Security number, is that if you look hard enough, you can find connections between anything. I am writing this blog raw: no proof-reading, and only minor pre-planning. Here’s what I’m thinking about tonight: 1. the novel “Snow Angels” by Stewart O’Nan” 2. watching “The Facts of Life” on On Demand cable, while Kim “Tootie” Fields’ sobbing on one of those round-table discussions of the puppymill-esque conditions of child stars in TV studios in the early 80s.
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I spent the major part of today (when not rearranging the fans and bottles of ice for maximum welfare air-conditioning effect) reading and re-reading “Snow Angels.” I haven’t seen the movie yet, and it’s been on my list for a while since finding out that my friend Amy is in it. Amy plays Barb, the main character’s best friend, and in my opinion, the only mentally stable character in the entire novel.

I apologize to anyone reading this who hasn’t read and plans to read the book. There are spoilers about the plot, and I’m going to write this as if the reader had a basic understanding of who’s who therein.

After my first hungry read-through (I was hooked after about 30 pages), the first thing that popped into my head was the contrasting narrative styles. The narrator, Arthur, starts out sounding pretty much okay. He’s a kid in the 70s who smokes weed, which is, of course, redundant. Then his parents divorce, and he keeps learning, time after time, that dissociation, escapism, and apathy are the three tools that will get him through his transition from child-to-teen-to-adult.

Then there’s the third-person objective narrative (in which the reader can’t see into any of the characters’ thoughts) about Arthur’s parents’ relationship. It’s all about keeping up appearances. That is, keeping up the appearance that no matter how much of a ruin your life is, you’re happy, and there’s no reason for anyone to feel anything but apathy for you. His parents only argue out of earshot from anyone else, yet O’Nan’s descriptions of Arthur’s mother’s appearance tell the story that she is in dire pain, but will not ask for help from anyone outside of the family’s psychiatrist, whom they only visit separately. She, and Arthur’s absent sister keep telling him to think of people other than himself, no matter how far away Astrid is physically, and how far his mother distances herself from him and everyone else who has ever loved her.

Usually, I prefer a third-person or first-person objective narrative because it involves the reader as another very important character. The author isn’t going to TELL you someone is in pain and hanging on by a thread. They’re going to use images, like messed-up hair and a shoddy makeup job to SHOW you someone is in pain and hanging on by a thread.

USUALLY I prefer that. But Stewart O’Nan is enough of a craftsman that he’s able to show-not-tell even with a third-person omniscient narrative (in which the reader is shown everything about a scene: time, character, motivation, spectacle, insert-Aristotilian-unity-here). He bends time to let you know the result of a scene so you can fully immerse yourself into that scene without constantly guessing how it’s going to end.

From the start of the novel, you know that Annie is going to be shot dead in the woods while a high school band practices nearby. Throughout the book, snow is falling. The lights are all on, and everything glares. The pond is frozen, the terrain is slippery, cars are fishtailing…everything is dangerous. What start out as tenuous relationships seem to freeze, then break apart. People who start out appearing grounded and sane seem to melt, and fall apart.

The common ground that all of the characters in the book inhabit is the way they strive toward apathy. While they confront and deal with immediate ways to make themselves feel better (a box of cookies, or bitching out a cheating lover), they are all clawing their way out of a pit and trying to not care. They try to distance themselves from their problems. As a visceral example, this distancing is shown physically when Annie knows that Brock is cheating on her, and she hides out on the frozen pond chain-smoking instead of waiting for him at home.

Arthur learns that instead of finding the prettiest girl, the best way to get what he wants is to settle for someone he used to tease. He and his mother move into the same poor building as Lila and her sister, and seizes the opportunity to “fall in love.” He learns that by distancing himself emotionally from the type of relationship that is supposed to be intimate both physically and mentally, he can present the world with a facade of happiness that will make him more accepted. He saves his money to buy Lila a necklace that he described as “cold and hard,” and presents it to her on Christmas Eve. By giving his girlfriend something “cold and hard,” and by the fact that she accepted it and loved it, he finds himself content in his apathy. He has given her nothing of himself, and she is happy. He is learning that by only giving others that about him which is dispensable and invulnerable, he’s less likely to turn into the wrecks his parents have become.

All of the characters in the book are shoving away the parts of themselves which are most easily hurt. They arm themselves against attack with bitter humor and sarcasm, escapism through either physical distance or alcohol/drugs, and a total lack of emotional investment.

All of the characters, except Barb. Barb is the only character who seems to wear her heart on her sleeve. When there’s a big problem, she faces it head-on, confronts the people involved, and tells them exactly what to expect from her. When she finds out that Annie was sleeping with her boyfriend, she said, “I don’t think I want to talk to you right now. Right now I’m talking with Brock. I will talk to you because I have some things I need to say to you but I can’t do that right now.” She spells it out and stays true to her word.

When tragedy strikes, Barb is able to put those feelings aside and come to the aid of her friend. By the end of the novel, Barb and Annie are great friends again. Barb even invites Annie to live at her home.

By confronting the major issues as they happen, Barb is able to work through her feelings and ultimately forgive. Every single other character simply reacts like a pinball bouncing around between crises. There are tears, there is screaming and yelling, and ultimately, obliteration. Barb is the only character who, despite terrible hurts and trespasses in her life, is able to walk with her head high, and look everyone in the eye. By working through her problems in a rational way, she’s able to avoid the apathy that results from escapism and emotional distance.

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Now here’s the fun part. Why, when I was thinking about child star puppy mills, was “Snow Angels” so present in my mind? The easy answer is, “You read it three times today, dipshit, of course you’re thinking about it.” I’m all about easy. That’s why I just answered my own question with the easiest answer possible. I’m going to leave that up to you.

What is the connection?

Nearly 90 million women worldwide suffer from endometriosis, which is an extremely painful reproductive and immunological disorder. Essentially, what happens is that the sensitive lining of the inside of the uterus (where babies grow) grows OUTSIDE the uterus, and on surrounding organs.

There is no cure.

The only way to eliminate endometrial tissue is to cut the woman open, and use lasers to burn the endometrial tissues, then sew her back up, with no guarantees that the tissue won’t grow back next month.

Of all the endometriosis research currently underway, there are NO studies actively seeking a cure. Sounds like quite a racket for not only the surgeons, but the pharmaceutical companies supplying all of the surgical and post-surgical medication for all of these surgeries!

From the Endometriosis Research Center, here are a few statistics:

Endometriosis affects twice the number of Alzheimer’s patients and seven times those with Parkinson’s Disease, and is a leading cause of female infertility, chronic pelvic pain and gynecologic surgery. It accounts for nearly half of the 500,000 hysterectomies performed in the United States annually. It is more prevalent than breast cancer, yet continues to be treated as an insignificant, obscure ailment. Recent studies have even shown an elevated risk of certain cancers in women with Endometriosis. Endometriosis can be so painful as to render a woman or teen unable to care for herself or her family or attend work, school or social functions. Endometriosis affects every aspect of a woman’s life, from her self-esteem to her relationships to her ability to be a contributing member of society.

When was the last time you watched a television for longer than 15-20 minutes an did NOT see an ad for one of many, many drugs that help men who can’t maintain a boner for very long?

Know now many men “suffer” from lack of long-lasting boners? “Estimates” from the US National Institute of Health, those numbers range between 15 and 30 million men.

Let’s get this straight (pardon the pun):

90 million women are in a lot of pain every day from a disease that is currently only diagnosed and treated by CUTTING THEM OPEN.

At MOST, 30 million men can’t fuck. They can take one of myriad pills, and can fuck again whenever they like.

And where does all of the research funding go? Turn on the television and see. Or do a quick Google search like I did.

What the hell is wrong with this world?! I suppose the squeakiest wheels get oiled. The NIH should take this into consideration:

When I’m screaming in pain, it’s sort of difficult to bitch about it to the government. What form, exactly, would I have to fill out to register a complaint anyway? How do I contact medical researchers? I can’t. I can’t because I have no power. I don’t work for Big Pharm. All I have is a lot of pain, and no options for pain relief other than surgery.

Am I saying that endometriosis is the worst disease out there and should take precedence over devastating and fatal illnesses? No. I’m saying that there needs to be a law that lists, by priority, disease research programs that are eligible for federal and state and private funding. There needs to be oversight of research funds.

While I understand that socialized medicine is extreme, and could very easily result in a reduction of the quality of medical care in this country, there absolutely needs to be SOME sort of control over where research funding goes.

I can hardly wait to go under the knife again. And yes, I resent each and every medically-induced boner. It seems like the 90 MILLION women are suffering excruciating pain, in essence, we are all paying for your erection.

You’re welcome. You’d better enjoy each and every minute of it. And don’t come begging me for a handjob when you give yourself priaprism.

I guarantee that if men had the sensitive material that comprises their testicles growing on other, internal organs, there would be several cures for it right now.

I’m not saying that women’s issues are more important than men’s issues. I’m saying that strictly in terms of numbers (90 million versus 15-30 million) and severity (terrible, crippling pain versus embarrassment), endometriosis NEEDS to take precedence over erectile dysfunction, both financially, and academically.

Anyone involved with Battlestar Galactica (the new one) does not have to eat me. Whatsoever. That show is the best thing that has happened to me in YEARS.

One of the disturbing things about that show is that people are executed by being shunted in to the vacuum of space.

As a scuba diver and overall water junkie, I’m very familiar with the various ways to die in the water, both shallow and deep. None of them are pleasant, although hypothermia is only painful for a short time before you go numb and ultimately die.

I am not, however, familiar with the physiological elements of death in the vacuum of space. I know that humans can survive up to about a minute and 45 seconds, but until now, I had no idea just how horrible those last moments would be. I’d really, really hope that I’d pass out in the first few seconds. Because let me say this about death: I have had enough diseases and bodily trauma that I can tell you, without question, that I would rather NOT be conscious when in a great deal of pain.

When it comes to death, I don’t want to be that chick who fucks up a suicide, or be the brave cancer patient holding out hope till the very end. I don’t want to be the AIDS patient covered with sores, lying on my death bed, suffering as visitors come in and out, crying or acting brave, teaching people that it’s okay to touch me, you can’t catch it from being in the same room as me, etc.

I want to die FAST. I don’t want pain, and I don’t want to have to deal with the grief of others. If I ever get more than 10% of my body covered in 3rd degree burns, somebody just kill me. I don’t want life support, I don’t want to be shocked back to life.

It’s all about keeping the pain to a minimum, and if something is going to kill me, I want it to kill me RIGHT AWAY.

A short while ago today, I clicked on a link to find out how long I’d last if jettisoned into the vacuum of space. Here’s what the site has to say about life after the security of a spaceship:

Congrats! You could survive for 1 minute 23 seconds !

In the first 30 seconds any fluid on the surface of your body would begin to boil due to lack of ambient pressure, this includes the saliva on your tongue and the moisture in your eyes. Your eardrums would most likely burst due to the pressure in your body trying to equalize with the vacuum outside. Unlike what some science fiction films have suggested, your body would not explode.

After the first 15 seconds you would lose consciousness. If you held your breath you could potentially stay alive longer but you risk pulmonary trauma. If you didn’t hold your breath you’d pass out sooner, but your lungs might have a better chance of avoiding permanent damage.

The pressure in your veins would rise until your heart no longer had the capacity to pump blood, at which point you’d die.

Find out how long you’d survive here:

Created by OnePlusYou

Yet another disclaimer:

When my brain goo starts coagulating, stuff comes out of my ears that doesn’t make any sense, especially for a professed atheists such as myself. So just bear with me as I contradict pretty much everything I believe in. My ass is bleeding painfully again, so it’s best to just smile and nod. Or send me a “Cher-Crow” like the one I just saw on the Simpsons. Or just skip this post if you have thin skin and lack any sort of intellectual curiosity.

Let’s talk hypothetically. Rather, I’ll type hypothetically, and you agree to suspend your disbelief/sense of common decency. Sound good? No, you say? Fine. I can’t make you love me if you don’t. Don’t patronize me. I’m not being defensive, you’re being defensive. FLAMES!!! On the sides of my head!!!!, etc.

Let’s say you’re a cult leader. You have quite a few followers who are incredibly devoted to you, and accept you as the Messiah. You have a few really close friends who also accept you as the Messiah. One of those friends kind of suspects you might not be all you claim to be, but agrees to support you in any way he can, because people are better off with something/someone to believe in, and by golly, your message, aside from the typical cult-leader egotistical melodrama, is benign. You’re a little bit goofy sometimes, going on rampages and telling everyone that they’re doomed unless they believe in you.

Provided people believe that you are the Messiah, and that by believing in you, no matter what sort of lives they’ve led, they’ll be able to live in paradise along with other believers forever and ever.

Here’s the rub: the government don’t take too kindly to cults. There have been some nasty ones, and the ATF has been arching its machine gun-shaped eyebrow more and more often lately. As you are not David Koresh, and you haven’t transported your followers to a remote compound in Idaho or New Guinea, you understand that your reign as Messiah is just about at its end.

Since you are a control freak, and want your “message” to really pack a punch, you draw up a plan. Your best friend, although probably not a true “believer,” can be trusted to help you out. You take a walk with him and outline your plan. Because he is your best friend, and completely devoted to you as a person, he agrees to fall on the sword for you, almost literally.

You tell him to go to the ATF, and tell them that he is no longer your follower, and will gladly show them not only where your secret compound is, but will take them directly to you. Then, they will arrest you, and prosecute you to make an example of you for other people claiming to be above the law.

You tell him that after he does this, your other followers are going to hate, hate, HATE him, and that he should probably make himself scarce. Witness Protection sounds pretty good. But your friend, because he is your good friend and knows the truth about you and doesn’t want to do anything that would ACTUALLY betray you, such as go into hiding and pretend to have never really liked you, does you one better. He agrees to be prosecuted right along with you.

Since you are a megalomaniacal cult leader, this is unacceptable. YOU are the one who wants to be seen as the sacrificial lamb. Your prosecution/sentencing has to mean something to your followers. You want to look as though you planned the whole thing. So you tell him that no, that would be unacceptable.

You gather your close friends for lunch, and go all prophetic on their asses. You tell them that soon, one of them is going to turn him in to the law. Your best friend turns to you and says, dramatically, “It won’t be ME, will it?”

You say, in a hushed tone, “Whatever you say, my brother.” Then, you take him aside and say, “Go do what you’re going to do, but make it quick.”

You give your friends a spiel about how whenever they eat and drink, they are eating your bones and drinking your blood. Yeah, that sounds about right. Should give them a nice sense of guilt, and for the TRUE believers, will make them feel like you are always with them. No. Better than that! They will feel like you are a part of them! That will keep them believing in you!!

So your best friend comes back, cops in tow. The ATF puts you under arrest, and then, in an odd twist of justice, takes you back to your neighborhood. There are a few punches thrown into your gut on the way, even though you were hardly mouthy. Some feds just can’t take a joke.

They make you stand on a stage, overlooking a crowd of people you grew up with. On the stage with you, there’s only one other person: a guy who’s been snatching purses from old ladies. The Agent In Charge gets up on the stage, and points at an applause meter. He gets on a microphone and says, “Whoever gets the most applause gets to live. Whoever loses, will be executed!”

This isn’t great news for you, as the people in your neighborhood have been dealing with your ego since the day you were born. You, the know-it-all. You, the bust-up-the-Saturday-market-guy.

Yeah. You’re screwed.

And your best friend? As soon as you’re executed he kills himself.

For 2000 years, you are worshiped, and wars are started in your name, and everyone thinks your best friend is the biggest douche who ever lived.

So tell me, was Judas Iscariot, Jesus’s best friend really a bad guy? Was St. Augustine going overboard? How about Dante? Should the worst part of hell be reserved for Judas?

The defense rests, your honor.

I’m not sure whether my next door neighbors (there are about 30 of them in the house) are:

a) re-flooring the house
b) expanding their “square footage” without adding on to the physical house
c) having an all-night cleaning party
d) airing everything out outside while it isn’t raining
or
e) moving out while it’s dark to dodge their landlord, spreading garbage all over their lawn, the alley, and the street in front of their house

At about 11 this morning, I started smelling charcoal. This isn’t unusual, as they barbecue often, making the entire block smell delicious. No big deal.

At about noon, I looked out my kitchen window, and there were no less than 10 of them in lawn chairs, camped out around their driveway, while maybe 3 or 4 of them hauled out a set of bookshelves, placing various barbecue gear on the shelves.

Throughout the day, more and more furniture, garbage, rugs, blankets, and people poured out of the house and onto the lawn.

Car alarms started going off in their driveway. This was a signal that several of them were trying to drive somewhere else.

At 10:30, I looked out my window, and they have removed the carpet from the front room (It was the nastiest carpet I have ever seen. It needed replacing.) and placed a large straw mat in its place. There are still several people wandering around the yard, and the giant subwoofers are pounding out a monotonous rhythm on the street in front of their house. My walls are literally shaking.

I love my neighborhood.

So my shitty old Linksys wireless router finally died a slow and painful death last night.

Today, I went to Staples to pick up the cheapest router I possibly could. It’s been about 2 years since I’ve had to buy a router and configure and secure a network.

Without making this another long, drawn-out Line Up To Eat Me stories, I’ll just say that it’s SO much easier and cheaper now. I got a WPA/WEP secured router for $30, and opted for the $8 2-year Staples warranty. I think the old Linksys monster was something like $70, and only supported WEP security, which is now extremely hackable.

I got a Netgear router, plugged it in, followed the instructions, and now, let me tell you, the speed is astounding.

I’ve had cable internet since moving here. Even with a shitty router, the speed was better than the DSL service I had at my old house. Now, even on wireless, my computers are running SO much faster. Not the actually computers, but the internet.

I must be getting old, because I am entirely amazed. Also because I have E! on, and I don’t recognize ANYONE they have mentioned so far. Except of course for the Spears Mess and some fucking drama involving Madonna. So either I’m old, or just hopelessly apathetic. Probably it’s a mix.

Also yesterday the side of one of my fingernails popped off. It just snapped, and bled and bled and bled. I had to go in and pick splinters out of the quick. And a mystery blister appeared in the middle of my chin. I sterilized a needle and popped it-at first it was just water, and then it bled and bled and bled. Perhaps in my sleep, my face were wearing shoes. I wouldn’t put it past my face, which has been known to rebel for the sake of rebellion. I’ll have to smack it later.

For now, I have my face bandaged, and my left pointer finger is wrapped and disinfected and padded.

It’s sunny out and I’m itchy to get out and take some photos!! In the next few days, I’m hoping my body will let this happen. There’s only so much television/reading a person can do. None the less, I’m still LOVING having my eyes working in my favor instead of against me.

My sister’s ordination is this weekend in Elmira. She’ll be a Deacon for 6-9 months, and then she’ll get to be a priest. I wish I was able to get out there for it, but I’ll be thinking happy, holy thoughts for her. I hope my nephews take lots of photos!!

Those of you who have read “The Handmaid’s Tale” know that the Latin in the title is a play on words, and could be translated to mean “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Everyone has “bastards” in their lives. The bastards could be co-workers, bosses, friends, exes, spouses, tabloids, annoying news anchors, historical documents, Jiminy Crickets, moral codes, anything really.

When “they” say, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” does it mean that we aren’t supposed to allow our feelings to be hurt?

I don’t think that’s what it’s saying at all.

I think the essential message of “Nolite bastardes carporunderum” is the same as “To thine own self be true.” The verb “to grind” implies a not-so gentle chiseling away at something solid.

If you associate with people that are constantly making you act or feel like you aren’t yourself, you are letting the bastards grind you down.

If you belong to an association with a set of morals that impose the will of the association over your own free will, you are letting the bastards grind you down.

If you are stomaching a friendship that makes you feel less like yourself, or is draining you of your energy, or is otherwise making you compromise your own happiness or well-being, you are letting the bastards grind you down.

I tend to see the world with very little gray area. There are things which I will tolerate and things that I will not tolerate. I refuse to let the bastards grind me down. They try, my gods how they try!! But I have a pretty firm defense. Sure, it keeps a lot of people away from me; people who might be mostly good and who might deserve a chance.

But if you aren’t going to let the bastards grind you down, you really can’t afford to take that chance. If you do, you might lose some of yourself. If you are willing to do that, go ahead.

I recently made a concession. I weighed the pros and the cons, and decided to give something a shot. To hell with the consequences, I was going to be nice. I resolved to give it a shot, never mind the risk.

And you know what? The bastards came running at me like water through a crack in a dam. Not just one. It was like there was a general message: GO GET HER!! SHE’S OPEN FOR BUSINESS!!

And then POW, right between the eyes. The same old shit. What is it about people that we must ALWAYS try to have the upper hand in a situation. We always HAVE to be the one in the right.

Example: A few years ago (christ, I suppose it’s almost 10 years now!) I was going to quit my job in January to return to school. I let it be known around the office, and offered to train my replacement, etc. About two weeks or so after I made this offer, I came down with strep throat. Really horrible strep throat. And then my mom put Molly, the cat I had grown up with, to sleep. On my birthday. Later that day I got a call from one of my co-workers, in tears, all worked up about something. She told me that I was fired, that our friendship (we had been friends since I was 16) had been over for a long time, that I had to have all my stuff out of the office by that Friday, and that she was so angry she could barely breathe.

“What are you angry about?”

“Your attitude.”

“What do you mean?”

“You only come to work when you want.”

“I’ve been out 3 days with strep throat.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You miss more days of work than anyone else on the staff, and when you’re here, you barely ever get your work done any more.”

I was a part-time worker, 3 hours each weekday night. The days I missed were days that the Big Boss had me babysitting her kids. I am not exaggerating. Most days, she brought her infant son to work with her, and I was expected to do my job AND babysit him. When he was three years old, they found out that he had a rare disorder in which being touched actually caused him excruciating pain. What that meant for him as an infant was, the only way he wasn’t in pain was if he was being walked and bounced at the same time. Being set down on the floor or in a rocker, he was in more pain, so he constantly screamed. Essentially, when he was at the office, I was not working. I was walking and bouncing the baby.

This was in October. What I gathered was, they wanted to be in control. They knew I was leaving, but they wanted to be the ones to say when. I wasn’t allowed to have that much control over my own life. Since I was an employee, they felt like they needed to be in charge somehow.

As a side note, the same “Big Boss” from that job now has an entire staff doing the work that I did in 3 hours every weeknight, plus two nannies (one regular nanny and a backup). I’d say they had it pretty good paying me the shit salary to do the work of an entire staff. But that isn’t the point.

My point is, some people just have to have control. It can hurt like a bitch, but lucky for me, after that incident, I was extremely careful about who I let into my inner circle. I’ve always been a very private person, but since being fired by people I thought were friends, I have been even more guarded.

I refuse to let the bastards grind me down. No matter how many times people disappoint me, I refuse to let them take a part of me with them.

No matter how repulsive and repellent and abrasive of a personality I have, at least I can say that it is mine, and that nobody has the ability to reel me in only to tear me down again. It’s ridiculous for them to think that anything they do will affect me in any way.

The bastards will never grind me down again, no matter how hard they try. Let them feel as superior as they please. Let them feel guilty for smacking me down.

I’ve had worse things happen. Hell, I’ve done worse things to myself and to the people I love. Nothing anybody could do to me could be worse than what I’ve done.

I never expect anyone to be better than me. And “better than me” isn’t a high standard at all. In fact, the bar is pretty fucking low. If someone can’t reach that low of a star, to mix another metaphor, then I can only assume that they are one of the bastards.

Lots of people look at it as a major character flaw being so guarded and defensive. Maybe it is. I don’t know. To be honest I don’t care.

I just hope that there are more people out there who aren’t willing to let the bastards grind them down, even if the bastard is me. Although these days the only person I’d be trying to smack down is sitting in this room typing this letter.

I don’t want to have that big of an influence on people’s lives. I don’t need to have control. I have ceased caring one way or the other, because I have finally realized that everything is NOT connected. In the grand scheme of things, I can say or do just about anything, and it isn’t going to matter, except maybe to a very small amount of people. There is no ripple effect. Sometimes, when a butterfly flaps its wings, the world DOESN’T END!!

I’m tired of all the self-important nonsense that gets tossed around all over the place. People have an unbelievable ability to deceive ourselves into thinking we are far more important than we are.

Go ahead, put that aluminum can in the garbage. Send money to a political candidate. Vote.

Because none of it matters. You’re still going to eat, shit, sleep, and nothing else you do really matters to anyone outside of yourself and the small amount of people who care about you.

Don’t let the bastards grind you down, because they don’t matter, and neither do you.

My cat Louie is peculiar. Not in the way every cat is peculiar. Sure, he does cat things like double-back-flips with a half-twist while chasing a ribbon, and licking the skin clear off my arms while purring, but I’m talking about communication.

Louie, not unlike Churchill, is a great communicator. He only has one word in his vocabulary, “Meow,” but he knows how to adjust pitch and tone and make it sound like different words. He also uses his body language to communicate what he wants. Usually, he’s just announcing his presence in the room, lost downstairs (he does that frequently-he’ll lose track of me as I head upstairs, and I’ll hear him 30 seconds later yowling like his world was ending until I call him), or demanding that I play with him from high atop his perch on the windowsill.

The other night, he was so insistent that I took his photo, and you can really tell that he is not just saying hello. He is listing his motherfucking DEMANDS and WILL NOT be ignored!

A friend commented on this photo in my Flickr stream, which got me thinking. Here is my response:

HAHA! That got me thinking, what WOULD Louie say if he had a soapbox to speak from?!

When I was little, I remember wishing I could get up on top of something and yell, “HEY!! EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD!!” and have everyone listen to me. Then in 2nd grade, another kid in my class did just that-he got up on his desk and yelled that. When he had everyone’s attention, he was silent. A little too late, he realized he didn’t have anything to say. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. And BOY did he look stupid and get into a whole heap of trouble?!!! Yes, on both counts.

I call it “Being Eva Peron,” and see it playing out over and over again with famous people who have microphones in their faces.

Since 2nd grade, I’ve always stayed really quiet until I knew I had something to say. And then the internet came along and I haven’t shut up since.

And here’s something I made that’s sweet, just so prove that I don’t hate everyone. Just most everybody.

When I was in my early-to-mid 20s, I had a stable job with people I liked, good friends, a nice and brilliant boyfriend, lived in a shithole apartment and loved it, and had a disposable income.  I also had a habit of drastically changing my hair on a whim.  I’d cut it, color it, do anything just to make it a little different.

It doesn’t take Anna OR Sigmund to figure out that while I had what I was supposed to want, I lacked control, direction, and a clean place to cook a meal.  Coloring and cutting my hair appear to be two ways of asserting control over my life, and trying to figure out (in an abstract way, admittedly) who the fuck I was.

My favorite color to have my hair was purple.  It was a darkish purple, and looked surprisingly natural.  It was when I stripped my hair, or, as a darling little girl I knew at the time called it, “oranged” my hair, that it turned to matted and unmanageable straw.  I’d have to wear a hat for a couple months until I could run a brush through it, and then have a professional come in and fix it for me.  Often, they would have to add layers and layers of color just to give my hair a little bit of volume.  I lost a LOT of hair in those years.

These days, I’m home most of the time, and am not working, no boyfriend, not too many friends (I’ve pretty much told everyone I know to piss off except a few), not too much going on upstairs, and the physical inability to do much to change any of it.  My mind and body are still reeling from some pretty fucking severe trauma, and I’m not altogether happy. In fact, some people would say that I’m a raving, cynical, bitter lunatic these days, and I wouldn’t entirely disagree with them.

Know what makes me happy?  The fact that I have a jar of purple hair color in my bathroom.  It’s been sitting there for the past few months.  I ordered it from eBay during one of my little nighttime blackouts.  Every time I go into the bathroom, I look at it and smile, thinking that one of these days, I’m going to purple my hair again.

It’s great to have purple hair.  You know how you sometimes catch a surprise glimpse of yourself in a mirror?  Imagine catching a surprise glimpse of yourself in the mirror AND YOU HAD PURPLE HAIR!  Wouldn’t you feel like a cartoon?  And wouldn’t that make things a little more interesting?

One of these days, I will purple my hair again, only this time, I’ll be covering mostly healthy, and pretty severely gray hair.  But honestly, if you were me, wouldn’t you?

[photos to come-I have to scan them in, and am too lazy to do so right now. Shut up, motherfucker, I'm on ALL the drugs you can't get your filthy little hands on!]