Thursday Fight Night.

There's one concept throughout my collegiate career that has had a jaw-dropping effect. Now, it's actually a rather simple notion, so before you prepare yourself for some grandiose spiel, don't.

Written communication is different than verbal communication.

"Well, that's obvious," you might be thinking, but pre-Communication 309, this elementary sentiment was never brought up or thought upon. The more I swallow this idea, the more I realize why I prefer writing.

For example, anyone who knows me, is well aware that my foot (or gravity-defyingly* both) is usually positioned somewhere near my mouth. When you share discourse with someone words can't be taken back, nor are there opportunities for unlimited editing prior to submission.

All in all, I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere in this, such as the ruby rule "think before you speak." Or, better yet, maybe this can spur the invention of a filtration system that can be surgically installed near the connection between my brain and vocal cords. Whatever it is, I appreciate the individuals around me who continuously help to get myself out of the human pretzel position (as I am no gymnast), and being worth the dissection of prior assertions.

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*Apparently this suffix is incorrect, but I'm using it anyways.

Edit: I've really tried hard to steer clear of big words, really.

The Dinner Party, Act 2.

I just got slapped in the face by the hand of disesteem, and let me be the first to say I did not like it.

I caught myself sitting in a glass house throwing stones, something that from a metaphorical-I'm-reflecting-on-the-subject-stance-now seems rather ludicrous (not the rapper). I realized that I'm a huge hypocrite when it comes to certain things. For example, I feel that I can have the last cookie and you cant, it's a-o-k for me to recite commercials word for word and it not be a sign of laziness, or the fact that my room's allowed to be disorganized and yours isn't.

When this ignorant thinking became exposed, my stomach fell - just like when you're on a roller coaster and keep your eyes closed right before and during a drop, it's that same feeling (but I don't particularly like this source of adrenalin). There is a good thing that comes out of it, though. Actually, two positive things: the first, I know how being buddy buddy with guy friends looks and feels to another person, the second, I need to have more self confidence. The latter is just for my own referential purpose, really, but I now know what I need to focus on and what not to.

My hormones are out of wack, so possibly this has something to do with my current mentality (get it? Men-tality). I'm happy, you're happy (right?), everyone's happy - so we should take the drops as they come, eye's closed and all. Be that as it may, life wouldn't be worth the ride without them.

Sunny Delight Earns D Grade.

"I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it."

I haven't written in awhile, but let me tell you why.

There's nothing like a good glass of orange juice. The taste, the aroma, and joyously throwing the peels down the garbage disposal - it can't be beat. However, when something is lost out of that substance, like the pulp (which is undoubtedly the best part) (that's not up for discussion), the glass almost instantaneously appears half empty, and certainly lacking in a proper serving of vitamin c. Without this pulp, one could infer that the simple reminder of mother nature has been removed from the processed, frozen, popped out of a can fruit concentrate. In the same way, I've lost my words, or at least the essence behind them.

And you know who I have to blame for this malnutrition? My mother.

Driving home from class tonight I began thinking why certain things happen. I also double checked my image in the mirror to see if there were giant letters spelling out "screw me, please" on my forehead. Then it hit me - I know exactly where it comes from. My ma has the biggest heart of anyone I have ever graced these past 20 years; she consistently gives and gives and gives, never expecting a token in return. She hardly complains, and when she does it's framed in such a way to sympathize with others (whether she realizes it or not). She forgives, she's thoughtful, and continually strives to cure all wounds - especially those that can't be seen. I feel for other maternal figures that know her, because surely there's some envy at her mothering skills. Yes, I'm biased, but don't let that fool you. This, then, is where the applied analysis comes into effect.

However much I don't want to care, however much I don't want to give simply doesn't matter. Period. It's like someone decides to take a machete to my insides, tearing me up because I want to, I have to - this emotional mindset has been ingrained within myself from the very beginning, and I'm afraid a reverse-conditioning process would be of no use. This further goes to supplant the notion of unconditionality. Whether you beat me down, like to take me for a ride, or pull the silent treatment card, I let you. And you know why I let you? The same reason my mom puts up with my pent up aggression. The same reason she continues to accept me for who I am. The same reason she routinely shows her love for me whether I deserve it or not.

Maybe it's because we like to see the good in individuals. Or maybe, its the simple the fact that we like to see people content, even at the cost of our own egos.

And it absolutely kills me.

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Man Vs. Wild.

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.

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* A word made up for argument's sake.

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.

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*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.

Free Cat to Good Home.

This was my morning.

And we're out of coffee.

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 posts 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.

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