I'm perched - well, slouched, rather - upon my couch and watching this weeks episode of The Bachelor. I begin to wonder if I'm going about the whole romantic relationship thing wrong. I mean, I haven't choreographed a lyrical dance nor gawkily made wishes on fungi-infested decomposing leaves that I so philanderingly* threw up into the air. Do they really talk like that in real life?
It's that time again - the one where Jake, this season's two-timer, goes home to visit the families of the 4 remaining girls. I'm literally cringing in my seat watching this all unfold; I can't decide whether the whole situation is pathetic or simply dense. Probably a combination of both. Now mind you, I'm no cynic, after all I'm a firm believer in love, but going on a tv show seems a bit absurd, and here are my reasons why. I apologize in advance for my cheekiness.
Firstly, it's awkward. If the stuttering and obsessive tears weren't enough, there has to be a camera in your face to quadruple the nervous ticks. I keep going into Comm. major mode - just watching and studying how the two (whichever girl you'd like to envision with Jake, and yes, they're interchangeable) interact screams of insecurities and discomfort, yet, they're "in love?" I can't handle it.
"Hey!"
"Hello..." says girl, as she runs up and gayly leaps into his arms.
"I'm so happy to be here!"
Now, just imagine that with forced smiles and unease written all over it. Painful, right?
Secondly, where do they find these bachelorettes who aren't even bachelorettes to begin with? Married, going through a divorce, still attached to an ex - a lot of excess baggage that I'm sure no man should have to, nor want to deal with. If it's meant to be, it'll happen in time, and once the papers are final.
Thirdly, everything feels forced. Everything feels coerced to some extent - each date perfectly conspired by a talented love-enthusiastic crew of writers and producers. Because it's completely reasonable to go to Hawaii on a first date, or bungee jumping, or have candles that maintain a perfect flame for 20349824 hours. Their only real conversations are about their troubled past relationships, and how they've been hurt, which adds up to a grand interaction total of 45 minutes. Grow up, get over it, and stop being pitiful.
I almost was going to conclude, before a fourth reason just yelled at me. I don't enjoy watching an hour of a guy saying the same thing repeatedly. Nor do I enjoy watching him make out with each girl, either. The more I think of it, I don't even know why the show's ratings are so high. Maybe people like watching other individuals suffer, because that's basically what it is: a three ring circus of deterioration. If I had to sit back and wait for a guy to decide if he'd rather be with me over 3 other girls, I'd be an utter mess. But then again, I'd never put myself in that situation, nor should anyone, which returns me to the beginning of this post: they're densely pathetic. And that goes to all parties involved.
I'm not sure how I was able to write this much on the topic, as it wasn't even supposed to be up for articulation. However, it is what it is, and I just hope ABC gets slapped in a nice, why-are-you-obscuring-reality kind of way. Thank you for taking my mind off of more important things like scrubbing the floors or cleaning out the litter box.
CourtReplies
* A word made up for argument's sake.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Speak Up Sonny, I Can't Hear You.
There's a bit of stuff I hold in. Actually, the more I think of it, I probably internalize a lot more than I should. I'm like a gigantic (relatively speaking) featherlight Dirt Devil with my microfresh filtration trapping over 99% of dust and allergens. Except, in this case, the cat fur and pine needles* just pile up with no means of an escape. This definitely can't be healthy**.
Maybe that's why I've become so entwined within my comfort zone. Maybe that's why I've become so closed off from reality. Maybe that's why anyone ever is.
I mean, think about it: in today's society (or within Western civilization), the tick of the clock reigns supreme. Life is busy; Deadlines are created and demanded to be met. People bite off more than they can chew, yet strive to prove to the world that they're in control, that they're going to come out ahead. This interminable pursuit of commercialism becomes prioritized and interpersonal relations take a back seat. Actually, it's not even in the vehicle. It's probably still waiting at the bus stop, in the rain, with no overhead protection, and there's a tornado warning. It also doesn't have any shoes. But yet, this social association still waits patiently to be picked up. Why?
No one can go on living forever without it.
It's funny, because, after conversing with a friend about the matter, we pooled together our ideas and came up with our own logical (of course) assumption: the primal reason we close ourselves off is because we feel that no one can give us an honest second of their day. Sure, you can ask how I'm doing, and I'll reply, "I'm well, thanks." "How's school going?" "It's school," I'll say, and issue a supportive laugh. But that's it. Humanity is too busy for an ounce of sincerity, for a teaspoon of geniality (and that's not even asking much). Therefore, disclosure shallows out to breath rather than depth, and everyone goes about their day just as the prior.
This is in no way saying that humanity is a walking vacuum cleaner time bomb. It is saying, though, that no one can get through life alone - I'm willing to bet on it. You can only fight through the traffic of stress, pressures and deviances for so long before you realize you have a stop to make. After all, whatever you believe, Adam and Eve, nor our ape-like ancestors, could have survived without each other. Either way mankind wouldn't exist.
Karl A. Menninger stated that, "Listening is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force. The friends who listen to us are the ones we move toward. When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand." Maybe people just need to take more communication courses, or maybe I've just taken too many. All in all, life, it would seem, could be that much more of a comfort rather than chore, if humanity simply stopped hearing.
CourtReplies
*One of our cats, Lola, ingested pine needles and proceeded to purge all about the apartment.
**However, my immune system is impeccable - 5 second rule? Try the minute rule.
Maybe that's why I've become so entwined within my comfort zone. Maybe that's why I've become so closed off from reality. Maybe that's why anyone ever is.
I mean, think about it: in today's society (or within Western civilization), the tick of the clock reigns supreme. Life is busy; Deadlines are created and demanded to be met. People bite off more than they can chew, yet strive to prove to the world that they're in control, that they're going to come out ahead. This interminable pursuit of commercialism becomes prioritized and interpersonal relations take a back seat. Actually, it's not even in the vehicle. It's probably still waiting at the bus stop, in the rain, with no overhead protection, and there's a tornado warning. It also doesn't have any shoes. But yet, this social association still waits patiently to be picked up. Why?
No one can go on living forever without it.
It's funny, because, after conversing with a friend about the matter, we pooled together our ideas and came up with our own logical (of course) assumption: the primal reason we close ourselves off is because we feel that no one can give us an honest second of their day. Sure, you can ask how I'm doing, and I'll reply, "I'm well, thanks." "How's school going?" "It's school," I'll say, and issue a supportive laugh. But that's it. Humanity is too busy for an ounce of sincerity, for a teaspoon of geniality (and that's not even asking much). Therefore, disclosure shallows out to breath rather than depth, and everyone goes about their day just as the prior.
This is in no way saying that humanity is a walking vacuum cleaner time bomb. It is saying, though, that no one can get through life alone - I'm willing to bet on it. You can only fight through the traffic of stress, pressures and deviances for so long before you realize you have a stop to make. After all, whatever you believe, Adam and Eve, nor our ape-like ancestors, could have survived without each other. Either way mankind wouldn't exist.
Karl A. Menninger stated that, "Listening is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force. The friends who listen to us are the ones we move toward. When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand." Maybe people just need to take more communication courses, or maybe I've just taken too many. All in all, life, it would seem, could be that much more of a comfort rather than chore, if humanity simply stopped hearing.
CourtReplies
*One of our cats, Lola, ingested pine needles and proceeded to purge all about the apartment.
**However, my immune system is impeccable - 5 second rule? Try the minute rule.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Stitch 'N Bitch: The Friday Night Knitting Club.
You know what's interesting? Things can be great, and then, right on schedule, I feel the need to seduce atrophy. I sigh, of course.
It's mirthful to think that after a while, people begin to wear on you. Judgment fatigued, expectations altered; even the most elementary of humanistic variables juxtaposed. For example, when you're hanging out with a group of individuals that knit all the time, you're slowly going to start inquiring about it, or better yet, find yourself wandering through Michael's looking for maroon-colored yarn. An unforeseen and equally unavoidable influence takes its toll, consuming, whether you approve or not. No matter how much I profess my independence and Hamlet-like true-to-self nature, in less than a month of close contact, I too, began to knit.
Unless someone points it out to you, you're never going to notice how skilled you've become at purling.
No, I don't know how to knit. And yes, making a point via metaphors has never been a proper mode of self-disclosure. However, I'm both ashamed and encouraged, roughed-up and ready; The dish washer droning on in the background even gives me hopes of a return (and clean dishes).
There are a few things I need to elicit from my once-upon-a-time disposition. I looked back over some of my older post
s in a bit of a reflective state, playing doctor in search of a diagnosis.
I was patient, I was simple. I was sick, yet found a reason to trek to the educational kingdom. The reason goes on to be found with a talent to charm, not to mention firearm compatible, furthering to promote the theory of comfortableness. November. December. January.
Apparently, now I'm needy, I complain a lot, and in turn, I ask for too much. All I know is one month can kill you, as I am officially retracting my subscription to Knit 'N Style. Sorry ladies, but this plain-Jane has had an epiphany: reasons are far more important than scarfs or afghans.
CourtReplies
It's mirthful to think that after a while, people begin to wear on you. Judgment fatigued, expectations altered; even the most elementary of humanistic variables juxtaposed. For example, when you're hanging out with a group of individuals that knit all the time, you're slowly going to start inquiring about it, or better yet, find yourself wandering through Michael's looking for maroon-colored yarn. An unforeseen and equally unavoidable influence takes its toll, consuming, whether you approve or not. No matter how much I profess my independence and Hamlet-like true-to-self nature, in less than a month of close contact, I too, began to knit.
Unless someone points it out to you, you're never going to notice how skilled you've become at purling.
No, I don't know how to knit. And yes, making a point via metaphors has never been a proper mode of self-disclosure. However, I'm both ashamed and encouraged, roughed-up and ready; The dish washer droning on in the background even gives me hopes of a return (and clean dishes).
There are a few things I need to elicit from my once-upon-a-time disposition. I looked back over some of my older post
s in a bit of a reflective state, playing doctor in search of a diagnosis.I was patient, I was simple. I was sick, yet found a reason to trek to the educational kingdom. The reason goes on to be found with a talent to charm, not to mention firearm compatible, furthering to promote the theory of comfortableness. November. December. January.
Apparently, now I'm needy, I complain a lot, and in turn, I ask for too much. All I know is one month can kill you, as I am officially retracting my subscription to Knit 'N Style. Sorry ladies, but this plain-Jane has had an epiphany: reasons are far more important than scarfs or afghans.
CourtReplies
Monday, January 25, 2010
3 Cheers for Ambiguous Indirection.
I'm disgruntled, and I'm not quite sure how to articulate it.
Maybe disgruntled isn't the right word - frustrated, perhaps? Nubs keeps kneading at my thighs, just to further my enjoyment of the darkening day. Her tail is so weird. I felt it today. Like, really felt it. And you know what it feels like? A crooked nub. Her face makes up for it, though, and I love her - abnormality and all. Because that's what love is, right? That's what caring about another is about, I suppose. Or you would think I'd suppose.
I think I think too much. I think more than I should have thought, and thought more than I should have thunk. I end up driving myself crazy over nothing in hopes that it's something, or just the opposite. Maybe it's the estrogen, or maybe it's simply my haggard eyes staring at the screen, searching for any means of a focus to inscribe at the moment. Creativity is lagging, yet somehow, the sharp claws of the feline are pushing me onward.
What to write.
I know right from wrong.
I also know up from down. Furthermore, I am now knowledgeable of the fact that samples are slim at Costco on Monday afternoons. My severely disciplined-in-the-art-of-ethics self is hard to please; my conscience consistently gives me slack. Like an overbearing parental figure making me rethink the decision of another bite of cake, I can't seem to escape. I'm running, and running as quickly as I can to, well, live. The enigmatic shackles that drag behind me continue to hold; I want to be happy.
That's it. I just want to be happy. The sounding of a text message on my phone just went off down the hall, and I would like to go get it. I would like a lot of things. But I only need a few. Please be the one I need.
CourtReplies
Maybe disgruntled isn't the right word - frustrated, perhaps? Nubs keeps kneading at my thighs, just to further my enjoyment of the darkening day. Her tail is so weird. I felt it today. Like, really felt it. And you know what it feels like? A crooked nub. Her face makes up for it, though, and I love her - abnormality and all. Because that's what love is, right? That's what caring about another is about, I suppose. Or you would think I'd suppose.
I think I think too much. I think more than I should have thought, and thought more than I should have thunk. I end up driving myself crazy over nothing in hopes that it's something, or just the opposite. Maybe it's the estrogen, or maybe it's simply my haggard eyes staring at the screen, searching for any means of a focus to inscribe at the moment. Creativity is lagging, yet somehow, the sharp claws of the feline are pushing me onward.
What to write.
I know right from wrong.
I also know up from down. Furthermore, I am now knowledgeable of the fact that samples are slim at Costco on Monday afternoons. My severely disciplined-in-the-art-of-ethics self is hard to please; my conscience consistently gives me slack. Like an overbearing parental figure making me rethink the decision of another bite of cake, I can't seem to escape. I'm running, and running as quickly as I can to, well, live. The enigmatic shackles that drag behind me continue to hold; I want to be happy.
That's it. I just want to be happy. The sounding of a text message on my phone just went off down the hall, and I would like to go get it. I would like a lot of things. But I only need a few. Please be the one I need.
CourtReplies
Monday, January 18, 2010
Soggy Monday.
There's one thing that a massive mother nature air strike can undeniably consummate: soaked jeans.
I've never been a fan of wet clothes, and the more I think about it, the more I cringe at the mere idea. All that added amount of friction between your legs hardly makes walking throughout Target enjoyable, which we all know, would normally bring pure contentment. The cats have approached
my soggy trousers with a sense of unease a couple times now, only to be just as put off as I am about the dampness. I'm contemplating wrapping myself in Reynolds wrap, but realized my self-esteem isn't prodigious enough.
The wet weather is supposed to stay for the next week, and although my Seven's have seen dryer days, I welcome it with open arms. Just not a tornado - hospitality embracement will not be available. FYI, I have a huge fear of flying up inside a cyclone, with farm animals joining in on the ride. Some movies, like Twister, should not be shown to 7 year olds. Sorry Helen Hunt, but my children will not have to mentally cope with Meg being stuck in the basement. However, I digress.
Just be sure to dust off the rain coats and umbrellas, California, and leave the jeans safe at home.
CourtReplies
I've never been a fan of wet clothes, and the more I think about it, the more I cringe at the mere idea. All that added amount of friction between your legs hardly makes walking throughout Target enjoyable, which we all know, would normally bring pure contentment. The cats have approached
my soggy trousers with a sense of unease a couple times now, only to be just as put off as I am about the dampness. I'm contemplating wrapping myself in Reynolds wrap, but realized my self-esteem isn't prodigious enough.The wet weather is supposed to stay for the next week, and although my Seven's have seen dryer days, I welcome it with open arms. Just not a tornado - hospitality embracement will not be available. FYI, I have a huge fear of flying up inside a cyclone, with farm animals joining in on the ride. Some movies, like Twister, should not be shown to 7 year olds. Sorry Helen Hunt, but my children will not have to mentally cope with Meg being stuck in the basement. However, I digress.
Just be sure to dust off the rain coats and umbrellas, California, and leave the jeans safe at home.
CourtReplies
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Happily Ever After A Week.
I just finished an intensive one-week three-unit winter-session class. If the plethora of dashes weren't enough, try to imagine running a marathon in an hour. Maybe 1.5 with a foot cramp, but that'd be stretching it. Meet Communication 352, or for the CSULB handbookless*, Storytelling.
What? That's an actual class? Go figure, but apparently in order to be an effective and dynamically cogent major, one must practice their art of reciting fairy tales and producing proper audience utterances of "oohs" and "aahs." Because that's what Comm 352 is, right? Or as a fellow individual noted of intersession courses, PS2 would occupy most educational time.
News flash: Storytelling is the ideology that fueled the creation of acronym FML.
I'm pretty sure I've never worked this hard in a class. Ever. I'm also pretty sure my mind was complete mush by day 3. Coffee, if it had any effect before, was consumed like water. The baristas/baristos at Starbucks were incredibly sympathetic with their offering of free refills every day - maybe because the $.05 change I dropped each time into the tip jar really started adding up. Who knows. However expressive I can be, just know, this class violated all prior expectations.
Day 1: It's never a good feeling walking into a room, sitting down, and the first utterances from the professor is, "This week is going to be hell, say goodbye to your life for the next 5 days. Seriously." After that remark, the class tally dropped from 28 - 20 students.
Day 2: My snacks for the day run out by 11AM. It can only get worse. Oh, that's right, my boyfriend leaves for Mexico.
Day 3: The professor tries to encourage us with some doughnuts, but his nonverbal rhetoric is still screaming, "Your grave plot will be issued soon."
Day 4: A total of 42 hours on campus is recorded to date, not to mention 3 papers, 157 pages of reading, and 2 speeches completed. We're still expected to have a 5 minute story memorized and ready to perform by tomorrow, as well as our corresponding Korean immigration presentation. Our group stayed later to practice, only for our superior to note, "It's my personal opinion you guys stay a bit longer, you need a lot of work obviously." Obviously you would be good at running a concentration camp.
Day 5: We're the last group to present. Right when we are about to begin, campus-wide black out. The professor says he has two options for us: 1, do the exhibition by the illumination of fellow students flash lights. I waited for option 2, but it never came.
Needless to say, there were (believe it or not) a couple positive things that arose from this experience. Besides being 3 units closer to graduation in May, I finally finished off the huge Costco-sized box of FiberOne bars. Thumbs up. Also, I feel that I've reached my quota for the coming semester of work exertion. I now have a week of mindlessness ahead of me before my last bit of collegiate studies begin. There's no time like the present to practice staying in bed all day, at least for the next few turns of the sun.
CourtReplies
* Not a real word, as pointed out by the squiggly** red line.
** Apparently squiggly is a real word?
What? That's an actual class? Go figure, but apparently in order to be an effective and dynamically cogent major, one must practice their art of reciting fairy tales and producing proper audience utterances of "oohs" and "aahs." Because that's what Comm 352 is, right? Or as a fellow individual noted of intersession courses, PS2 would occupy most educational time.
News flash: Storytelling is the ideology that fueled the creation of acronym FML.
I'm pretty sure I've never worked this hard in a class. Ever. I'm also pretty sure my mind was complete mush by day 3. Coffee, if it had any effect before, was consumed like water. The baristas/baristos at Starbucks were incredibly sympathetic with their offering of free refills every day - maybe because the $.05 change I dropped each time into the tip jar really started adding up. Who knows. However expressive I can be, just know, this class violated all prior expectations.
Day 1: It's never a good feeling walking into a room, sitting down, and the first utterances from the professor is, "This week is going to be hell, say goodbye to your life for the next 5 days. Seriously." After that remark, the class tally dropped from 28 - 20 students.
Day 2: My snacks for the day run out by 11AM. It can only get worse. Oh, that's right, my boyfriend leaves for Mexico.
Day 3: The professor tries to encourage us with some doughnuts, but his nonverbal rhetoric is still screaming, "Your grave plot will be issued soon."
Day 4: A total of 42 hours on campus is recorded to date, not to mention 3 papers, 157 pages of reading, and 2 speeches completed. We're still expected to have a 5 minute story memorized and ready to perform by tomorrow, as well as our corresponding Korean immigration presentation. Our group stayed later to practice, only for our superior to note, "It's my personal opinion you guys stay a bit longer, you need a lot of work obviously." Obviously you would be good at running a concentration camp.
Day 5: We're the last group to present. Right when we are about to begin, campus-wide black out. The professor says he has two options for us: 1, do the exhibition by the illumination of fellow students flash lights. I waited for option 2, but it never came.
Needless to say, there were (believe it or not) a couple positive things that arose from this experience. Besides being 3 units closer to graduation in May, I finally finished off the huge Costco-sized box of FiberOne bars. Thumbs up. Also, I feel that I've reached my quota for the coming semester of work exertion. I now have a week of mindlessness ahead of me before my last bit of collegiate studies begin. There's no time like the present to practice staying in bed all day, at least for the next few turns of the sun.
CourtReplies
* Not a real word, as pointed out by the squiggly** red line.
** Apparently squiggly is a real word?
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