Yeah so yesterday I ate too much chocolate. Let's see.
Chocolate chip muffin from whole foods, hefty portion of dark chocolate bar, chocolate covered something-or-others, trader joes peanut butter cups, dark chocolate covered grahams from starbucks. Uber decadent, all of 'em, and made me bounce off the walls. I was wondering what it was that was making me tap and stomp and bang and dash and run and chatter. Too much immersion in autism? A definite possibility. But no, I'd rather blame it on the cacao intake.
My computer is being attacked. I can't say much more, because you, dear reader, might be the attacker, or get a hardon at the prospect of me asserting such a guile and wish to give it a whirl.
*Goes to the kitchen to get some more of that blasted chocolate bar*
meta: hey, is this me being a typical woman? In the year 2009? Not being able to stop eating chocolate, and then blogging about it?
No. I am blogging for other reasons:
1. Putting off writing papers
2. Putting off ASL HW
3. Inspired by a glorious blogpliment I recieved upon waking up this morning via email from a modern-day scholar in resident of christ.
About that, honesty is all I've got. That, and a host of other useful / useless things. But I have been trying to cut away at the crap, i.e. dearth of honesty and mollassessizing parts of my life and thought processes recently, becuase honesty is just better. Except for when I steal shit. ha
Tuesday 31 March 2009
Thursday 26 March 2009
expletive frustrated
Honestly, I don't get why people don't do what they say they will. It's simple. Don't be a flirt or a tease unless you're willing to go through with it. And I don't mean anything big, just some healthy snugglin. Geez Louise.
Tuesday 24 March 2009
Why am I in what I'm in
I realized this weekend that I am not only in ultimate frisbee for the dance, but hockey too. I played hockey all freakin weeken, and the part that sticks out most in my mind, aside from perhaps scoring on a subpar goalie, was this one fancy-footwork bit on sunday at the btsh scrimmage at tompkins park, which this one girl on my mofo team called "tomskin" which the goalie of said team joked that she said 'foreskin park'. anyhow, A tall, quick athletic guy had the ball on the side and i was marking him , he was going to hit it into play. he kept faking me right and left, and i did that thing where my entire being is immersed in the play and i am putting forth all my energies to reading where he is going with the ball, reacting to each movement, and thus my eyes were on his feet, stick, and the ball (i have tried to focus on his center of gravity/waist/hips, but that flubs me up because then i dont knwo where the ball is going. besides, its safer to play ball than man here.)
anyways, I was shuffling and stutter stepping and juking all over the place all the while keeping myself (body, stick, and aura) as big and menacingly imposing as possible. i didnt pick off the pass, but that didnt matter, because i believe i had him challenged and scampering for an open lane. if just felt so satisfyingly exhausting to really be playing hard D like that.
yes, i am aware of my jargon use and beaming with pride inside that i am able to. if only here. but no, i use it in practice too. and i must. because learning to say "do you want in" instead of "do you want to play with us?" was a huge step, just like the michigan trip, the dormage, and the parental prenatal laparnassah honesty.
thats the dance. and in ultimate, same deal while marking. keeping a hard mark and good cover is so important, and a large part of the game that goes unnoticed and is not given enough attention. its about scoring, but not all about scoring. its about intimidation. and i want to own it.
blam. how wrong is it to accept being hit on by a married man?
anyways, I was shuffling and stutter stepping and juking all over the place all the while keeping myself (body, stick, and aura) as big and menacingly imposing as possible. i didnt pick off the pass, but that didnt matter, because i believe i had him challenged and scampering for an open lane. if just felt so satisfyingly exhausting to really be playing hard D like that.
yes, i am aware of my jargon use and beaming with pride inside that i am able to. if only here. but no, i use it in practice too. and i must. because learning to say "do you want in" instead of "do you want to play with us?" was a huge step, just like the michigan trip, the dormage, and the parental prenatal laparnassah honesty.
thats the dance. and in ultimate, same deal while marking. keeping a hard mark and good cover is so important, and a large part of the game that goes unnoticed and is not given enough attention. its about scoring, but not all about scoring. its about intimidation. and i want to own it.
blam. how wrong is it to accept being hit on by a married man?
tomboy
I am one. I looked it up on urbandic and I fit the bills.
So the wedding last night was as it will be.
I greeted, was greeted, was kissed on the cheek, was asked how I was, to which I replied "good, how about you?" instead of the expected "baruch hashem and you?" but my intentional folly was overlooked all of the time.
Funny/Awful thing: About College.
They ask me- what am i doing in college? how much longer do i have? what will i end up with when i finish?
And then some ask "oh, so they let you out of college to come to the chasunah?! Very nice, ..."
"so what, is it like a sleepaway camp/school, and you live there?"
And someone asked me if I'd be coming to BP for the shabbos sheva brachos. I replied with a vague "perhaps." I was met with a curious look. "what does "perhaps" mean?"
nuff sed.
Yes, I am writing off an entire sect of people based on the ignorance of a select few.
enter enter, enter enter, i keep pressing.
So the wedding last night was as it will be.
I greeted, was greeted, was kissed on the cheek, was asked how I was, to which I replied "good, how about you?" instead of the expected "baruch hashem and you?" but my intentional folly was overlooked all of the time.
Funny/Awful thing: About College.
They ask me- what am i doing in college? how much longer do i have? what will i end up with when i finish?
And then some ask "oh, so they let you out of college to come to the chasunah?! Very nice, ..."
"so what, is it like a sleepaway camp/school, and you live there?"
And someone asked me if I'd be coming to BP for the shabbos sheva brachos. I replied with a vague "perhaps." I was met with a curious look. "what does "perhaps" mean?"
nuff sed.
Yes, I am writing off an entire sect of people based on the ignorance of a select few.
enter enter, enter enter, i keep pressing.
Monday 23 March 2009
a phew things
Weird and sticky social thing:
I stopped in a convenience store last night, really tired, just wanted a quick fix of sour cream and onion chips. I heard someone address me and greet me - it was this boy who grew up nearby me, one of the millions of Jewish metro-area boys that I am on a "hey whats up"/ smile basis with. We chitter chattered, and around the corner came the boy he was there with, a friend, in that crowd. This boy happens to be one of the half million that I have seen around since freshman year, but for whatever reason, we never interact or acknowledge each other. Yes, he is my age, a product of the same school system and community system that produced me, and yes we are both Jewish NYU students, but no we never, ever, make eye contact, and if we do, we do not smile or nod or anything. I tried to at the beginning, but I was met with deaf ears and blind eyes. It's ok, no skin off my back. But here we have a clash! I clearly was on a talking-basis with his friend, and we DO know who each other are, so we hastily nodded and smiled and said hey. Cool. Word. I'm still here and I'd vouch for the fact that so is he.
Ego Trip: Hockey. BTSH.
they all want me on their teams. granted, its crappy hockey and its bc im a girl and they dont have enough girls. but i could just be an ignored girl who sucks. instead, im a decent girl who they recruit. YESS!!!!
I signed. with Filthy Gorgeous. I have strange hangups about this whole thing. Who are these people, these expats of yore with rainbow sweatbands round their foreheads, the scrappy attitudes, the standoffish adoptive NY ambience threaded between the PBR's they brag of and tatted skinny-limbs that are somehow agile enough to pick off my every pass. more of this later.
PS any suggestions of consumable items that will give me a 2nd wind? I feel like I'm on my last legs right now and still must actively endure 2 classes and a family simcha. yea. chocolate?
no coffee please kthxbye.
I stopped in a convenience store last night, really tired, just wanted a quick fix of sour cream and onion chips. I heard someone address me and greet me - it was this boy who grew up nearby me, one of the millions of Jewish metro-area boys that I am on a "hey whats up"/ smile basis with. We chitter chattered, and around the corner came the boy he was there with, a friend, in that crowd. This boy happens to be one of the half million that I have seen around since freshman year, but for whatever reason, we never interact or acknowledge each other. Yes, he is my age, a product of the same school system and community system that produced me, and yes we are both Jewish NYU students, but no we never, ever, make eye contact, and if we do, we do not smile or nod or anything. I tried to at the beginning, but I was met with deaf ears and blind eyes. It's ok, no skin off my back. But here we have a clash! I clearly was on a talking-basis with his friend, and we DO know who each other are, so we hastily nodded and smiled and said hey. Cool. Word. I'm still here and I'd vouch for the fact that so is he.
Ego Trip: Hockey. BTSH.
they all want me on their teams. granted, its crappy hockey and its bc im a girl and they dont have enough girls. but i could just be an ignored girl who sucks. instead, im a decent girl who they recruit. YESS!!!!
I signed. with Filthy Gorgeous. I have strange hangups about this whole thing. Who are these people, these expats of yore with rainbow sweatbands round their foreheads, the scrappy attitudes, the standoffish adoptive NY ambience threaded between the PBR's they brag of and tatted skinny-limbs that are somehow agile enough to pick off my every pass. more of this later.
PS any suggestions of consumable items that will give me a 2nd wind? I feel like I'm on my last legs right now and still must actively endure 2 classes and a family simcha. yea. chocolate?
no coffee please kthxbye.
Wednesday 18 March 2009
Michigan
It's really good. That is the overwhelming truth. I had a bit of dabbling with my fraught emotions in, say, the first 24 hours of the trip but I think I'm settled now. Too bad I go back tomorrow. This is, as they say, a learning experience, I guess.
Things I've noticed:
There are lots of chocolate stores in this state. Stores that are fancy and sell chocolate in different varieties and wrapped in thick wax paper. And fudge.
Water slides: Driving in both the Detroit area and the Northern Mich area has allowed me to see many isolated water slides along the side of highways. You know, like tall, curly enclosed water slides that are in water parks...except these slides stand alone.
Flowers For algernon: remember that book? I do. I say that I have read it but really I have just read one emotional chapter from it, as in my 7th grade "Anthology" (textbook full of random bits of novels we had to read) there was one chapter assigned. It was a good book. Dont you think.
It is really different here. people smile at you, and me. they arent in such a rush, and they seem more genuine. they have each other's backs. The atmosphere is just overall more human/humane. You needn't be scared at every corner you turn. It's dark at night and light in the day. The nature is impeccable. It is just different. It's not a shithole.
It's ok to be a person here. Things remain still. There is open space.
i want to write at some point about the Lily, Rose, and Cinderblock joke, and how my first thoughts were about the positive functionalities of C-block as opposed to her obvious deficiencies.
more some other time. if you or i want.
Things I've noticed:
There are lots of chocolate stores in this state. Stores that are fancy and sell chocolate in different varieties and wrapped in thick wax paper. And fudge.
Water slides: Driving in both the Detroit area and the Northern Mich area has allowed me to see many isolated water slides along the side of highways. You know, like tall, curly enclosed water slides that are in water parks...except these slides stand alone.
Flowers For algernon: remember that book? I do. I say that I have read it but really I have just read one emotional chapter from it, as in my 7th grade "Anthology" (textbook full of random bits of novels we had to read) there was one chapter assigned. It was a good book. Dont you think.
It is really different here. people smile at you, and me. they arent in such a rush, and they seem more genuine. they have each other's backs. The atmosphere is just overall more human/humane. You needn't be scared at every corner you turn. It's dark at night and light in the day. The nature is impeccable. It is just different. It's not a shithole.
It's ok to be a person here. Things remain still. There is open space.
i want to write at some point about the Lily, Rose, and Cinderblock joke, and how my first thoughts were about the positive functionalities of C-block as opposed to her obvious deficiencies.
more some other time. if you or i want.
Tuesday 10 March 2009
What I'm doing
I'm pretty certain that I'm keeping debauchery to a minimum. Except for in a certain area that needs work, or does it, I am rather straitlaced. And not even on my own volition- it's like the universe/uterus has deemed my future choices and actions to all fall within a certain pendulum that swings barely higher than a tot.
I had a scary experience last week. I was outside with an autistic child I care for, let's call him Skyler. No, let's call him Jake. No, Alex. Alex is an enigma to us all. I know upwards of 2 handsful of people who care dearly about him, but none of us know just why he does what he does. And it drives us batty. He does not take interest in the things that most of us take interest in, and if he does, it is for an inimitable amount of time and for a reason so foreign to us. Can we even assert that he "likes" stuff? If he does something a lot, like tap long thin things/ random manipulatives on any surface he encounters, is that him doing something he likes, or is it him doing what he was predisposed to do, or cannot get out of the mind of the beast that causes him to do that so incessantly?
The scary thing that happened. I was out with him, and he got pissed. Or so I think. Maybe this is just his emotions running their course. Whatever it was, it was a bad meltdown. And As he grows and becomes bigger and stronger, it is harder for me to sedate him. Especially in public. I am learning to do what a colleague tells me to do in public "have no shame" and do with him what I need. I hate hate hate to lay a hand on him, but he often does stuff that is dangerous to himself or to others, and I need to stop that, and if verbally terminating the detrimental action does not work, I need to use my body. He darted towards the street. I grabbed him back and said to him sternly "you know you cannot run into the street" because he does know. Or at least, he usually knows. He began to jump around and flail his arms, trying to smack my chest and face, scratch my neck, and when I held his arms down by his sides, he tried to bite my arms, and succeeded a few times. I held him by his elbows and faced him forward and marched him down to 3rd ave, the goal now was to get him home where there were more readily available resources that have been proven to help him chill out, like ice, a bath, and peanut butter (a boy after my own heart.) And hopefully, his dad. No such luck, I found out. After he managed to break my hold of his elbows it began to get unclear for me. We essentially spent an unknown amount of time causing a huge scene on the street in front of a blockbuster and next to a fruit stand. He pulled my hair, bit me, hit me, and was clearly very mad. Certain passersby of course stopped to stare, tried to intervene, asked me what was happening, threatened to call the police, all the while I tried to explain to them "he's autistic, he doesn't act the way we would expect and he doesn't mean to be hurting me or understand what you are saying right now." (At least, that's what I think. Granted, I have no fuckin clue what it is all about, and that is the hardest part of this. The line of empathy that I would like to establish with Alex, as I do with any person I meet ever, can only grow so far until it is severed ruthlessly somewhere in the abyss that exists between my consciousness and Alex's. It is almost like I am trying to connect with someone who does not speak the same language as I do, but it runs deeper than that. Alex understands English full well, but he does not speak. He does, however, make lots of sounds. And as I spend more time with him, and by now, I understand much of those sounds. The nuances are there albeit subtle. It is the forehead position and the slight pout that accompany more whimpering and whining sounds that alert me that something is brewing just under Alex's super sensitive/ not sensitive enough thick/thin/? skin.
The terrible climax of this event for me was cerrainly after a passerby had taken my phone to call Alex's dad and recieved his answering machine, and as an elderly woman came up close, too close, she waggled her finger at Alex as she chastised him. I explained through my chapped lips, mussed hair, and welled up tears that she should continue on her way, and he is autistic and does not have control over what he is doing the way we think he should. She continued to scold him, and he turned his energies from me to her. So he managed to slap her tan old-lady coat a few times pretty hard before I grabbed his arms again. In response to getting slapped by Alex, she did the unthinkable: She hit him back. Not just a light tap, but a strong hit. And then again. And then she punched him. By this time I was crying hysterically, a crowd had formed, and I was in pain, scared, stressed, and felt responsible for stuff that was over my head. I have invested a lot in Alex, from when I met him 9 months ago at the 92nd st Y until now. I have had wonderful moments with him, frustrating moments, funny moments, and most poignant of all, humbling moments. Being caught in this scuffle was too much for my frail emotional fortitude, or lack thereof. I wailed "please stop!" to the old woman, and finally she headed off, muttering, as passersby called after him "you can't touch him- he's autistic!."
Next came a godsend. A black woman who was certainly over age 45 offered her help: she took Alex's right arm and I took his left. To my absolute surprise, Alex did not act too aggressive toward her, but rather he complied as she stroked his pasty hand and repeated in an overly-soothing tone "thank you so much little boy, for allowing me to hold your hand...and what a handsome young man you are!" (he totally is). As soon as we made it down the block we were back at his fancy UES high rise, where the security guards know him. They saw me in my state and him, still bouncing around with that spark of fire in his eyes, and were very helpful and calming. Alex bounded down a back hallway after some official looking men in suits holding clipboards, and I ran after him, sputtering and hardened, both on the outside and on the inside. I say the word "hardened" because that is how I felt inside my chest. In the face of adversity and stress such as a freaking out autistic child who I am responsible for who will not see me and realize that I am serious and somtimes just not listen and bo absolutely crazy, I freeze up inside. I harden. But my exterior knows it cannot shut down, so I continue to go through the motions, manually preparing my senses of pain for the impending hit they may have to take soon, and to face it with fierce objectivity and nonchalance.
Why did this bother me so much? Well, For one, it was the fact that we were in public and it's not that I care what strangers think of me per se (anyone who sees how I dress on a regular basis knows it's true) but I have not found that comfort zone in the world with being responsible for a child who is obviously very peculiar, and while he looks like a gorgeous young boy, is clearly a violent, bipolar, and well, disturbed child to some degree. In so many ways he is a loving normal boy who just wants to play and connect, but he is trapped in this enigmatic body/psyche of seeking and or needing these intense stimulatory sensations at specific times, in specific degrees, and to different parts of his being. And when these cannot be met, he cannot regulate himself and has trouble keeping control of his body. Or maybe it's not that there is a "him" and a "his body" - maybe he just IS his body and that is the problem.
Another reason it bothered me: I hate to see him upset, and hate even more that he cannot explain to me what is the matter and I cannot help him. It is ultimately a huge guessing game, and I feel so fucking feeble and low offering him peanut butter, olives, and koubideh to sedate him as he freaks, when obviously something greater is going on.
It hurts when he hits me. It really does. He slaps hard, and he bites hard. Not because he wants to hurt me, but because he wants so much to express something and does not possesss the means to express it in a way that will be cathartic and operative for him and will reach me and my understanding. At least, that's the going assumption.
In the end, I had to run down that hall after him even though the guard told me "don't worry" because nobody would, and what if he ended up somewhere he shouldn't be, or got caught somewhere with someone who tried to talk to him and eventually got him upset and frsutrated because they were not expecting this cute little boy to have such a profoundly different way of being?
As much as I want to be selfless, there is definitely some part of me that is hurt emotionally by this. It is basically what I fear most I am doing to my parents, or to someone above me who is caring for me, what I feel he is doing to me. Here I am trying to give him some time outside because he loves to be outside and on the swing, and he lashes out at me like this? I am not evil! Why does he do this to me? Right there, is the problem. He is not "doing this" and it is not "to/at me." I am there and I am his closest confidante for the time, and he is trying to communicate. Bottom line.
The teethmarks are faint on my arm, surrounded by darker bruises. I note them solemnly as I remember last Friday, and wonder what to do from here on in.
I had a scary experience last week. I was outside with an autistic child I care for, let's call him Skyler. No, let's call him Jake. No, Alex. Alex is an enigma to us all. I know upwards of 2 handsful of people who care dearly about him, but none of us know just why he does what he does. And it drives us batty. He does not take interest in the things that most of us take interest in, and if he does, it is for an inimitable amount of time and for a reason so foreign to us. Can we even assert that he "likes" stuff? If he does something a lot, like tap long thin things/ random manipulatives on any surface he encounters, is that him doing something he likes, or is it him doing what he was predisposed to do, or cannot get out of the mind of the beast that causes him to do that so incessantly?
The scary thing that happened. I was out with him, and he got pissed. Or so I think. Maybe this is just his emotions running their course. Whatever it was, it was a bad meltdown. And As he grows and becomes bigger and stronger, it is harder for me to sedate him. Especially in public. I am learning to do what a colleague tells me to do in public "have no shame" and do with him what I need. I hate hate hate to lay a hand on him, but he often does stuff that is dangerous to himself or to others, and I need to stop that, and if verbally terminating the detrimental action does not work, I need to use my body. He darted towards the street. I grabbed him back and said to him sternly "you know you cannot run into the street" because he does know. Or at least, he usually knows. He began to jump around and flail his arms, trying to smack my chest and face, scratch my neck, and when I held his arms down by his sides, he tried to bite my arms, and succeeded a few times. I held him by his elbows and faced him forward and marched him down to 3rd ave, the goal now was to get him home where there were more readily available resources that have been proven to help him chill out, like ice, a bath, and peanut butter (a boy after my own heart.) And hopefully, his dad. No such luck, I found out. After he managed to break my hold of his elbows it began to get unclear for me. We essentially spent an unknown amount of time causing a huge scene on the street in front of a blockbuster and next to a fruit stand. He pulled my hair, bit me, hit me, and was clearly very mad. Certain passersby of course stopped to stare, tried to intervene, asked me what was happening, threatened to call the police, all the while I tried to explain to them "he's autistic, he doesn't act the way we would expect and he doesn't mean to be hurting me or understand what you are saying right now." (At least, that's what I think. Granted, I have no fuckin clue what it is all about, and that is the hardest part of this. The line of empathy that I would like to establish with Alex, as I do with any person I meet ever, can only grow so far until it is severed ruthlessly somewhere in the abyss that exists between my consciousness and Alex's. It is almost like I am trying to connect with someone who does not speak the same language as I do, but it runs deeper than that. Alex understands English full well, but he does not speak. He does, however, make lots of sounds. And as I spend more time with him, and by now, I understand much of those sounds. The nuances are there albeit subtle. It is the forehead position and the slight pout that accompany more whimpering and whining sounds that alert me that something is brewing just under Alex's super sensitive/ not sensitive enough thick/thin/? skin.
The terrible climax of this event for me was cerrainly after a passerby had taken my phone to call Alex's dad and recieved his answering machine, and as an elderly woman came up close, too close, she waggled her finger at Alex as she chastised him. I explained through my chapped lips, mussed hair, and welled up tears that she should continue on her way, and he is autistic and does not have control over what he is doing the way we think he should. She continued to scold him, and he turned his energies from me to her. So he managed to slap her tan old-lady coat a few times pretty hard before I grabbed his arms again. In response to getting slapped by Alex, she did the unthinkable: She hit him back. Not just a light tap, but a strong hit. And then again. And then she punched him. By this time I was crying hysterically, a crowd had formed, and I was in pain, scared, stressed, and felt responsible for stuff that was over my head. I have invested a lot in Alex, from when I met him 9 months ago at the 92nd st Y until now. I have had wonderful moments with him, frustrating moments, funny moments, and most poignant of all, humbling moments. Being caught in this scuffle was too much for my frail emotional fortitude, or lack thereof. I wailed "please stop!" to the old woman, and finally she headed off, muttering, as passersby called after him "you can't touch him- he's autistic!."
Next came a godsend. A black woman who was certainly over age 45 offered her help: she took Alex's right arm and I took his left. To my absolute surprise, Alex did not act too aggressive toward her, but rather he complied as she stroked his pasty hand and repeated in an overly-soothing tone "thank you so much little boy, for allowing me to hold your hand...and what a handsome young man you are!" (he totally is). As soon as we made it down the block we were back at his fancy UES high rise, where the security guards know him. They saw me in my state and him, still bouncing around with that spark of fire in his eyes, and were very helpful and calming. Alex bounded down a back hallway after some official looking men in suits holding clipboards, and I ran after him, sputtering and hardened, both on the outside and on the inside. I say the word "hardened" because that is how I felt inside my chest. In the face of adversity and stress such as a freaking out autistic child who I am responsible for who will not see me and realize that I am serious and somtimes just not listen and bo absolutely crazy, I freeze up inside. I harden. But my exterior knows it cannot shut down, so I continue to go through the motions, manually preparing my senses of pain for the impending hit they may have to take soon, and to face it with fierce objectivity and nonchalance.
Why did this bother me so much? Well, For one, it was the fact that we were in public and it's not that I care what strangers think of me per se (anyone who sees how I dress on a regular basis knows it's true) but I have not found that comfort zone in the world with being responsible for a child who is obviously very peculiar, and while he looks like a gorgeous young boy, is clearly a violent, bipolar, and well, disturbed child to some degree. In so many ways he is a loving normal boy who just wants to play and connect, but he is trapped in this enigmatic body/psyche of seeking and or needing these intense stimulatory sensations at specific times, in specific degrees, and to different parts of his being. And when these cannot be met, he cannot regulate himself and has trouble keeping control of his body. Or maybe it's not that there is a "him" and a "his body" - maybe he just IS his body and that is the problem.
Another reason it bothered me: I hate to see him upset, and hate even more that he cannot explain to me what is the matter and I cannot help him. It is ultimately a huge guessing game, and I feel so fucking feeble and low offering him peanut butter, olives, and koubideh to sedate him as he freaks, when obviously something greater is going on.
It hurts when he hits me. It really does. He slaps hard, and he bites hard. Not because he wants to hurt me, but because he wants so much to express something and does not possesss the means to express it in a way that will be cathartic and operative for him and will reach me and my understanding. At least, that's the going assumption.
In the end, I had to run down that hall after him even though the guard told me "don't worry" because nobody would, and what if he ended up somewhere he shouldn't be, or got caught somewhere with someone who tried to talk to him and eventually got him upset and frsutrated because they were not expecting this cute little boy to have such a profoundly different way of being?
As much as I want to be selfless, there is definitely some part of me that is hurt emotionally by this. It is basically what I fear most I am doing to my parents, or to someone above me who is caring for me, what I feel he is doing to me. Here I am trying to give him some time outside because he loves to be outside and on the swing, and he lashes out at me like this? I am not evil! Why does he do this to me? Right there, is the problem. He is not "doing this" and it is not "to/at me." I am there and I am his closest confidante for the time, and he is trying to communicate. Bottom line.
The teethmarks are faint on my arm, surrounded by darker bruises. I note them solemnly as I remember last Friday, and wonder what to do from here on in.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Ovum
I should pay mind to my expectations and assumptions about the future, and not put all my eggs in the same basket.
I won't shave my legs
at least not yet. And now I don't even have this pressure hanging over me like an obese cloud named O. Beece McLeod dribbling into my aura-space.
In layman's terms, that means that I quit a certain sports team I am on with a bunch of pretty mainstream girls, and I now feel less pressure to shave my legs for when it's warmer outside or I wear shorts, an arbitrary grooming habit in which most mainstream girls partake.
Why don't I want to shave my legs? Everyone does it, for a girl to have black leg hair is unbecoming and unconventional in an unattractive way, and will probably lend itself to being the impetus of one or more of the following terms being purposefully conjured in ogler's heads: hippy, dirty, gross, boyish, unclean, animal, manly. I can't think of any more right now, but if you are reading this and have any primer words in your head that might describe my unshaven leggeth, do share.
This may all be a subsubconscious ploy for me to other myself from those who I wish to be a part of so dearly and desperately. But assuming it is not, I can commence with my tirade against girls who play sports who are not myself and few select others, and barrel ahead with brazen anonymity.
The above paragraph housed somewhat substantive points in my mind but now that I reread it it might as well say "Bullshit smothered in grandiloquence." So "sue" me.
In layman's terms, that means that I quit a certain sports team I am on with a bunch of pretty mainstream girls, and I now feel less pressure to shave my legs for when it's warmer outside or I wear shorts, an arbitrary grooming habit in which most mainstream girls partake.
Why don't I want to shave my legs? Everyone does it, for a girl to have black leg hair is unbecoming and unconventional in an unattractive way, and will probably lend itself to being the impetus of one or more of the following terms being purposefully conjured in ogler's heads: hippy, dirty, gross, boyish, unclean, animal, manly. I can't think of any more right now, but if you are reading this and have any primer words in your head that might describe my unshaven leggeth, do share.
This may all be a subsubconscious ploy for me to other myself from those who I wish to be a part of so dearly and desperately. But assuming it is not, I can commence with my tirade against girls who play sports who are not myself and few select others, and barrel ahead with brazen anonymity.
The above paragraph housed somewhat substantive points in my mind but now that I reread it it might as well say "Bullshit smothered in grandiloquence." So "sue" me.
Tuesday 3 March 2009
Start Wearing Purple
So I have had this Avril Lavigne song in my head for several hours now: the one that begins like this"
"Let's talk this over/ its not like we're dead, was it something I did/ was it something you said"
I don'tknow why, but i didnt like it. so In my limited mental arsenal, I ploughed hastily through the reachable songs while in my respite-shower (read: shower) and came up with a sorta viable replacement: Gogol Bordello's "Start Wearing purple." Fine. Onto the meaty stuff:
Here's what I want to touch on:
My Sister Reads My Blog!
yes, folks. she does. my one and only sibling who I have been trying to remain neutral and objective towards has been privy to certain vague references of secrets that only I and my heart know! But I must forge ahead, for it is a strong signal of goodness that no reprimands or patronizing comments have been put forth.
Showew blogging: I wish I had a waterproof computer. I would love to blog in the shower. Instead of try to givfe my own shoulders a subpar massage rubbing soap with "cleansing beads" down my trapezius.
Ramen noodle soup: for 59 cents I bought dinner. Those are the burbs, I spose. Fatigue is overtaking me as my scintillating wit takes a one-way trip down memory lane...
"Let's talk this over/ its not like we're dead, was it something I did/ was it something you said"
I don'tknow why, but i didnt like it. so In my limited mental arsenal, I ploughed hastily through the reachable songs while in my respite-shower (read: shower) and came up with a sorta viable replacement: Gogol Bordello's "Start Wearing purple." Fine. Onto the meaty stuff:
Here's what I want to touch on:
My Sister Reads My Blog!
yes, folks. she does. my one and only sibling who I have been trying to remain neutral and objective towards has been privy to certain vague references of secrets that only I and my heart know! But I must forge ahead, for it is a strong signal of goodness that no reprimands or patronizing comments have been put forth.
Showew blogging: I wish I had a waterproof computer. I would love to blog in the shower. Instead of try to givfe my own shoulders a subpar massage rubbing soap with "cleansing beads" down my trapezius.
Ramen noodle soup: for 59 cents I bought dinner. Those are the burbs, I spose. Fatigue is overtaking me as my scintillating wit takes a one-way trip down memory lane...
Monday 2 March 2009
An apple in the face of adversity
Everything went wrong yesterday. And here's a tip: when shit goes down, don't let your only food intake be ice cream, chips, chocolate, candy, and peanut butter. Even though they taste the best, they are the worst.
so everything sucks, right? and then i had to walk for 25 minutes this morning into the biting chilly wind and fat wet snnowflakes that i began to not be able to distinguish from my own tears.
Flubsequently, I am deciding to opt out of class this morning, at least my first one. I have three. I might plotz. I'm wholly unprepared and been having asthmatic trouble breathing for almost a day now.
So yesterday after everything went wrong at Bobst, I came home and planned to dip into my newly purchased crispy promising apple from Trader's joe. Of course it was not where I left it. My damn suitemates strike again. And when confronted, they deny, deny, deny. It occurs to me that I am going to far when I find myself scouring their respective trash cans for a recently deposited apple core.
NYU Frisbee practice:
clearly I am the worst on the team, I suck so hard, and I essentially ruin the flow of the stack, plays, cuts, and every other structurally sound piece of the system that they promote. What else can I say? I thought I was on my way to being in good shape. I thought I was in good shape. If I can pay 7 hours of hockey straight, I can't be that lackadaisical.
Now I'm jittery from proventil. fast heartbeat, whelmed ambiance.
so everything sucks, right? and then i had to walk for 25 minutes this morning into the biting chilly wind and fat wet snnowflakes that i began to not be able to distinguish from my own tears.
Flubsequently, I am deciding to opt out of class this morning, at least my first one. I have three. I might plotz. I'm wholly unprepared and been having asthmatic trouble breathing for almost a day now.
So yesterday after everything went wrong at Bobst, I came home and planned to dip into my newly purchased crispy promising apple from Trader's joe. Of course it was not where I left it. My damn suitemates strike again. And when confronted, they deny, deny, deny. It occurs to me that I am going to far when I find myself scouring their respective trash cans for a recently deposited apple core.
NYU Frisbee practice:
clearly I am the worst on the team, I suck so hard, and I essentially ruin the flow of the stack, plays, cuts, and every other structurally sound piece of the system that they promote. What else can I say? I thought I was on my way to being in good shape. I thought I was in good shape. If I can pay 7 hours of hockey straight, I can't be that lackadaisical.
Now I'm jittery from proventil. fast heartbeat, whelmed ambiance.
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