I haven’t had any alcohol for a week.
My decisions have gotten better.
My anxiety hasn’t.
The fact is, a little bit of beer lowers your blood pressure, relaxes your muscles and impedes the thinking process – all things that ease social insecur-*ahem* anxiety.
Floating in a pool eases stress.
The Best of Memphis poll needs one more category. Best Pandering Asshole.
Popularity contests are not in themselves wrong. Majority opinion has worth and it’s very flattering when you win. And of course, the pathetic losers keep each other company in their mediocrity. The premise is that the “best” of something gets recognition by consistently providing quality service and/or entertainment to the masses. Lobbying and begging for votes cheapens the concept. Though adding Groveling to the Miss American contest has great entertainment potential.
If only money wasn’t involved. The annual Best of Memphis thing sparks a deluge of people and places reminding everyone who will listen that they want your vote. Some even give reasons why they deserve it. It’s nothing more than high school student council elections sans glitter and poster-boards. With less meaning.
I’m pretty damn opinionated yet I have trouble finding answers for the wealth of categories in this poll. Best BBQ in Memphis? You aren’t really a Memphian without thoughts on that. (Vegetarians note, DeJaVu has excellent BBQ tofu.) But Best Pizza? Uhm – it’s a tie between New York and Chicago for me. Best Florist? Might as well call it least shitty florist in Memphis because people who care about flowers most likely go to the spring plant sales and grow their own.
It’s also annoying that you have to fill out at least 50% of the 135 categories. I guess your opinion only counts if you are a really picky eater or a music snob? It’s a shame the government doesn’t apply the same rule to elections. Your vote only counts if you invest in 50% or more of the issues at hand.
I want to go sit cross-legged in the middle of the music.
Capture the brilliance with a thousand words.
A thing observed, changes.
Women are taught to observe themselves monthly.
Men don’t look until something goes wrong.
Yoga helps no matter what.
Compartments
with thin walls
Flowing together
into Mountains.
Safety in the hills.
Cells
of cardboard.
Keeping together
a body of work
Resting fetus-like
Waiting for enough
Gestation.
Rooms
in a row of homes.
More used the better
because I can’t
have nice things.
Durability makes
Antiques.
Cubicles
in a maze
with no cheese.
Footsore and weary
Limbs aching
Strained. FullRelaxation
Rare.
The most painful thing I’ve ever heard is a stranger’s casual observation. After pouring out my feelings of worthlessness and despair in group therapy a 22-year old states, “It sounds like you’re just playing the victim.”
I didn’t stop crying for 3 hours. He’d seen straight to my problem, in a way. I am a victim. Attempting to play as NOT a victim has colored most of my social behavior. I want to be perceived as strong and in my world that means not complaining.
A lifetime of trying to please other people conditioned me well. I can take a lot of abuse. Fighting every instinct to do things my way, I based my decisions on someone else’s moral compass. Selfish people are not good role models.
That is, the conservation of my self is my only defense. Just get through it. I found a number of allies along the way and my undying loyalty to friends preserved the most important people. I had to let myself go a little crazy just to break the carbonite encasing my inner artist. Now I’m leaking personality all over the place and have faith in the universe and everything. Go with the flow.
I’ll miss some things. Nothing that obvious. The truth is, I’m pretty spectacular. No one can make me feel otherwise unless I let them. Thanks Eleanor. Is rejecting an abusive matriarchy part of becoming a feminist? Maybe I’m just multitasking my recovery.
There were complaints about the way I’m doing things.
I silenced them.
The choices made are less permanent if you don’t worry about it.
Loyalty is only useful in small gatherings.
I guess I shouldn’t worry about it.
Plenty to go around at family meal time.
No swimming in the genetic pool for me.
No matter how much it matters to me.
Stung by a wasp.
Emotionally punched in the face.
The silence is a refuge
A place where I can’t abuse
even my self.
How dare you
Tell me what.
I do remember.
Paying attention this whole time.
Should I win an Oscar?
Or just
Suspended disbelief.
I know what I want.
Done apologizing.
Because eventually
it WILL kill me
to do it.
In seventh grade, I sprouted breasts. In the eighth grade, the most eligible boy in my class wanted to go steady with me. I was so excited. My mom and I didn’t relate on much so the scoring of high quality boy attention was prime pre-Prime Time TV conversation.
Mom, can I go to the movies this weekend?
Who with?
Lou.
Lou?
Yeah.
Oh, honey.
What?
You can’t go out with him.
Why not?
You’ll give Pappy a heart attack.
Smoking isn’t that big of a deal.
I often sit in an empty bar and wonder how much fuss I’d cause taking a puff off my one-hitter. Chances are the staff smokes too. No one else would know. The smell doesn’t stick. It even leaves a pleasant lingering hint that something calming happened here. Like your grandparents house. Continue reading Truth Is
These squinty eyes of mine. They may look glassy. My expression one of cow-brained ignorance.
That’s just what I look like when I can’t hear.
Sometimes the chaos around me is so loud I can’t take it anymore. I just let all noise wash over me and fight my urge to fly.
I want to be there. I want to engage. At some point
the centre cannot hold.
Read the book An Unquiet Mind. There are revelations there.
I’m going back in. See ya on the flip side.