And at long last, a rant.
I think I’ll begin or end each of my blogs with a summary of my mood in only six words. For today:
In tears due to status quo.
I am again, a victim of insomnia. Inspired by a recent conversation with FS and disheartened by the amount of time spent wasted on Facebook applications during my usual bouts of sleeplessness, I decided to educate myself in global matters. I realized recently that I have little to no global perspective. I just finished The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver and learned that I am utterly ignorant about Africa. I know nothing about the continent except that it has deserts and dark people. Don’t I sound like I’m from the South now. 
I am completely disgusted with myself. In all fairness, I suppose I am selling myself a bit short.
I am aware of the copious amounts of racism, thanks to Andre – our white South African counselor who was surprised at how we “treat our blacks”. Like, oh I don’t know, they’re people or something. Gee, who would’ve have thunk it. 
I am also aware of the state of refugee camps throughout the world (including Africa) after I attended the model refugee camp site that Doctors Without Borders hosted in Lake Park. But the book discussed the political movements in the Congo in the 1950’s. I know nothing of that. I knew nothing of the role the United States government played in the Congo at all.
As I related this in the car to Alex we began to talk of history, of ignorance, of the current state of the world. The conversation eventually turned to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict; another topic I know absolutely nothing about. It was this conversation that inspired to me pursue research in what is going on outside of our blessed United States. Oh what a surprise I was in for.
Then there was this: http://www.foxnews.com/printer_friendly_story/0,3566,402111,00.html
A court ruling that a British woman was 25% responsible for her rape because she was drinking at the time. As if she went around asking, “Excuse me, would you mind slipping a roofie into my drink? I really would love it if someone would violate me and emotionally scar me for life.” What kind of society are we living in that it would be unanimously ruled by strangers that a woman would welcome that sort of horrific event upon herself? It was this that set me off. How can I find hope in human nature when we condemn each other in this manner? When we assume that others deserve this sort of tragedy because of irresponsibility? Yes, I believe that woman was irresponsible for drinking around people she does not know or trust – as much as I believe anyone who does so is. However, if it had been some young white girl with rich indignant parents who was raped by a black gang member, please believe that she would be an innocent victim to absolutely everyone. Oh America would stand up and hold her on a pedestal as a saint for coming forward and contesting the sins against her. Hallelujah, she’s a saint! I’m sure the fact that she was wearing an outfit that left nothing to the imagination and handing out lapdances like toothbrushes at a dentist’s office would never be mentioned in trial. And there is no way in hell that gangbanger’s lawyer would stand up and shout to the heavens : “She was asking for it!”. I bet that there is a child in Africa with some debilitating disease or another who has hit their sibling, or lied to their parents, or sinned in some other way – do we cast the judgement on them then? Do they deserve to die because they have committed the same wrongdoings we have so often in our lifetimes?
My mother and I talk often about the state of the world. She is so optimistic about my generation. She is taken aback by the technological advances of today and astounding by the amount of information now available to us. She praises the enthusiasm for change she sees in my age group Maybe it is because I am around my peers more often than she that the same things that she appreciates are what discourage me. I too am aware of the abundance of information that the internet allows, but am also aware of how few of my peers take advantage of it. Instead my friends and acquaintances spend hours on Facebook, or Myspace. I read daily of internet scams, successful abductions of young teenagers stemming from chatrooms and internet hookups. I see the same enthusiasm for change at political rallies, full of young people who buy political t-shirts and bumper stickers because they are trendy. To me these are dispiriting.
I look at the state of the world and am overwhelmed by the tragic situation human nature has created for itself. I feel like one of those Orthodox Baptist preaches, lamenting about fire and brimstone, ranting that the Apocolypse is NOW. The Antichrist, or a million of them could very well be upon us in a million forms stemming from the corrupt politician, big business owner, pedophile living 2 blocks away. All of these are different forms of evil. But the worst evil, the one I recognize most clearly and the most opulent is that of indifference. Here the world is thriving in chaos and half of my generation are worried about whether or not their hair is teased enough to be socially acceptable, or if their Call of Duty stats are going to suffer because of the last game they played. They don’t worry that another thousand people are going to be killed in Myanmar tomorrow, or that they might get abducted into a human trafficking ring tomorrow night, or that another child is going to die of AIDS any second now.
And I haven’t even researched the Congo yet. 
Unfathomable
How can people doubt God when instances such as this occur:
1 Chronicles 29:17 NLT
I know, my God, that you examine our hearts and rejoice when you find integrity there …
This was in my email. I get a Bible verse emailed to me daily. I usually don’t check it. I didn’t even mean to check it really, I must have run my mouse over it and accidentally opened it.
How could I doubt when my life is full of little messages from God? He speaks through many mediums – apparently now including email
It’s good to know that my God adapts to the times. He’s a revolutionary contemporary.
And there it is – I stopped making sense.
My Life in Six Words
I haven’t written because Beste told me that I was awkward.
Fuck him.
My new challenge is to write the story in my life in six words. It’s going to be difficult because I am so bad at categorizing myself. Also I think it changes daily.
Faith in humanity is slowly dying.
I am slowly regaining hope for the human race. The more I converse with me mother the more her words stick in my heart to surface as little reminders of faith and chase away the seeds of doubt that occasionally sprout in my mind. I have been so worried for the state of the world as of late, as if this upcoming election marks an assured change- though in what direction I am uncertain. But it makes me quite nervous. My mother however, has no qualms about the direction our society is headed because she places faith in my generation. Apparently 80%* of volunteers over the past year are under the age of 30. It was an interesting car conversation because on the one side, or backseat rather, I have my brother – a complete cynic with no faith whatsoever in human values. He is convinced that a majority of these volunteers are doing so to take advantage of the credentials and addition to their self-image. But my mom is convinced that the youth of my generation have a better sense of global perspective and that people are generally good at the core, and willing to put the survival of others before themselves. I believe that leaves me somewhere in the middle, struggling for balance between the two extremes.
* I place no faith in statistics and so any statistic I use ever could indeed be completely falsified. But I find comfort in them nonetheless.
The Love that I Love
I love Jason Mraz.
I think one of my problems here is that I have not done enough to hold onto myself. I stopped writing, reading, listening to my music- lost faith in love for a while. Where did I go? I stopped dreaming and it’s nearly drown me out. Well, I’m back, full force. I want to be a starry-eyed romantic. I guess I worried that being in college meant beginning ‘real life’; it meant growing up. I feared that if I didn’t this big scary real world would chew me up and spit me out- just as everyone thought it would. So I hardened myself; my outlook, my attitude, and more than anything else, my heart. In doing so I nearly lost sight of myself. There is a young pretty girl in a flowing white dress with wide eyes and an even bigger heart, and I put her behind bars. She withered. But all I need is room to run, to laugh, to dream and I’ll be back. I need more of ME in my life. The influences of my own personality, because otherwise I’ve become this tangled web of everyone around me and it has made me miserable. I want the Princess Bride, Beauty and the Beast, Jason Mraz, fields of wild flowers, daydreams that make me late (instead of laziness) and an appreciation for beauty.
My roommate asked me if she was high-maintenance to which I scoffed allowed and said, yes- yes you are. She asked what it was and whether it was a bad thing. I defined it as having high expectations for your relationship and significant other: demanding a lot of attention in the forms of time, effort, money etc. And decided that it is not necessarily a bad thing in small doses but that it is often abused to the point of gaining a bad rep.
Then she asked if I was high-maintenance. Again, I scoffed. I think I am the most low-maintenance girlfriend I’ve ever met. Well, my other-soon-to-be-roommate is, I suppose. But she’s been with her boyfriend for over two and a half years now, so I credit a certain amount of that to their level of comfort and security as a couple. I, on the other hand, am in a fairly new relationship and am still ridiculously low-maintenance. I don’t wait around for phone calls, or even expect them really. I hardly get jealous, and never to an extreme level. I don’t expect my boyfriend to pay for anything and don’t expect gifts except perhaps on my birthday. (Not even on Christmas because my birthday is so close to Christmas I am accustomed to getting Birth-mas gifts. And I think Valentine’s Day is a joke.)
I am about as low-maintenance as they come. The only thing I expect out of a relationship is loyalty and honesty. But gaging my most recent track record, I’d say that’s expecting a lot. The thing is, I return it. I am not saintly enough to say that I have never cheated. I was young and stupid and in love with someone else for years – and even those are not good enough excuses to make up for it. The boy I was with at the time has no idea and I could never tell him. We are too good of friends for me chance ruining it over something that happened long ago. Aside from that, it was a secret affair (which made it all the more appealing and thrilling at the time) and what good are those if everyone knows about them. But because of this, I am loyal to fault now. I am extremely trusting, loving, and adoring while I am with someone – and would not cheat were an opportunity to come up. I am sure of this in my heart. Even if Fred were to come home – as much as stupid heart still longs for that kind of love – were he to appear at my doorstep and beg for me back, I would go to Alex before anything else.
I guess I should come to a point, because I could talk myself in circles coming up with examples, scenarios, and analyzing my behavior patterns — I don’t love like other people do.
When I love, it is not shallow or fleeting, or forgettable. When I love, it is deep, sincere, wholly, life-altering (for me at least). And easy. God, it’s so easy for me to fall in love. That kind, the serious kind. The kind with implications. I almost wish that my heart had reins so I could hold it back before I fall on my face and get hurt. But it doesn’t. And after my train of thought today, I’m glad. Because if I were able to do that, if I try – like I have been recently, I lose myself. I lose a part of who I am. That is a major part of who I am and rare enough that it ought to be treasured. I’ve just got to find the right person who will do so. I’ve got to find someone who I can trust it with, who deserves it.
I need to be more picky. I wonder if that will make me high-maintenance. I don’t think I care.
Camille
I am in an odd mood.
I want to be a starving artist. Bone-thin, tall and gangly because of it, and jealous of girls with natural curves. I want to have a shitty apartment that is dirt cheap and maybe a little dangerous. I want there to be a gray cat waiting for me when I come in from my minimum wage bistro job. He’ll be named after the brooding main character from some great literary work. I’ll walk in, pet the cat for a little bit and then turn left into the kitchenette that has dingy linoleum countertops that match the yellowed and peeling linoleum floor. There will be some terrible brown and orange tile pattern on the back wall above the counter leering out at me from the midst of whatever hell the 70’s retired to. I’ll open a faded painted wood cabinet to one bag of cat food, a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of PAM cooking spray, and a can of stewed mushrooms. I grab the cat food and pour Heathcliff, who is curving around my legs a bowl of food. “It’s a feast for you good sir.” I mutter as I bow to him and my own stomach growls. I stare at the cabinet for a moment and then at the cat, who is happily munching away on his banquet. I walk into my bedroom that barely fits a twin mattress and a beat up dresser, and begin dropping all of my bags and coat and scarf etc – until I’m in nothing but my skimmies. I bend down and scrounge through the mess I just made until I find a thin cotton t-shirt and pull it over my head. I walk back into the kitchen, grab the single clean spoon from its drawer and before reaching in to grab the jar of peanut butter, lovingly ruffle the cats head. Into the living room I go, I settle onto the sagging couch with it’s horrid flower pattern (if the pattern on the linoleum and the kitchen tile had a baby and it barfed all over – it would be the color of my couch) and reach under the seat cushion for the remote. If I leave it out Heathcliff will press the buttons all day, turning the tv off and on and spiking my electric bill. I turn on the fuzzy tv and flip through the 3 channels I get with my foil antenna and settle into my life.
Sorry I come with Strings
It just occurred to me how terrified I am to leave for the summer.
The realization did not spawn from some jealous moment or instant of obvious insecurity, but instead because of how preciously I was treating each moment I spend with him before that time comes. I don’t remember ever feeling this tender toward someone. It’s just that there is nothing wrong thus far – and that in itself, being aware of me and my history of relationships – seems wrong. But it’s not. It’s wonderful. And he’s pretty wonderful. I’m just so happy spending time with him. The last few days that we’ve been at his parent’s house to watch his younger brother have just been amazing. Not in the sense that anything spectacular happened, in fact, mostly because nothing spectacular happened. We watched went out to dinner, did laundry, watched a movie, made pizza, cleaned up the house a bit, mowed the lawn, lounged- all normal weekend activities. It just seemed so normal, like we did it every day. And it was so nice being able to be around him whenever I wanted. I love how casual we are with each other. Something changed this weekend, deepened. We are no longer a new couple, I can feel it. We crossed some imaginary line that advanced us into a new comfort zone.
He just walked up to me, kissed me and when I paused for explanation, he said, “That’s it.” and walked away. It’s official, I’m pretty crazy about him.
But knowing that, and knowing that I am leaving for the summer has made me treat each moment that I am with him as if it is something beautiful and fragile. I suppose this is not a bad thing, but for what it means to me. You see, I often take things for granted and if I am not it is for a reason. I am making this time worth it because I worry it will be all we have. It’s not his fault I was cheated on last summer and therefore wary of long-distance relationships ( although truth be told I had very good reasons to be wary before but wasn’t wise enough to ) And so I feel terrible knowing the in my subconscious I have trouble trusting men. I suppose all I can do is be grateful that I am happy and able to appreciate it (no matter what the reason behind it is)
WordPress Virginity
I don’t think I’ve truly grasped how intricate the WordPress world is yet. I just did a bit of a scan through my homepage and realized how many options I have ignored. I have no categories, no pictures, have not imported or exported anything yet. I felt brave and adventurous, the way you do after your first kiss – that is, until you learn about sex and everything in between and realize you’d just stumbled onto the tip of an iceberg and have opened the door to a world you’d been previously unaware of. You know what they say; kissing leads to other things. I only wanted a new blog but now I’m worried that I’ve gotten myself into something I won’t be able to get out of – I will just get more and more involved in the wordpress community until I no longer have a life outside it! And lose all identity except that of my wordpress blog!
Okay, so it’s not that serious, but honestly, I can see myself spending more and more time on here. Though I’ve decided that is no tragedy, my vocabulary could use the encouragement. I haven’t read a novel for myself in longer than I would like to admit to myself, and having abandoned journaling for the year, I have avoided any kind of enriching activity therefore demolishing the vocabulary I had painstakingly built over the years. It’ll be refreshing.
Friends vs. the Boyfriend
I started to write Maria tonight. I wrote about the summer, camp and then him. I got through all of the good times and how hard I fell, moved onto my first semester of college- but had to stop because I started writing about Christmas Break. Everything rushed back to me. I think it hurts more now than it did then. How does that happen? And to think, I talk so big everytime I hear about some scandalous guy cheating: “She should just dump his ass and be done! Why would she even consider taking him back?” yet, here I sit, pining after a prime example of a sleazeball. He didn’t even have the balls to admit his infidelity to me and in doing so broke the only promise he’d ever made me.
Tonight my roommate posed the hypothetical situation: If you had a negative opinion about a good friend’s relationship should you tell them? I decided that it depended on your relationship with the person and whether or not the relationship they were involved in was unhealthy for them and hurting them. She proceeded to tell me that she thought my boyfriend was rude and she was worried that his personality would rub off on me.
You know, I don’t really care that he is rude to my friends. I feel like maybe that ought to matter but truly, I don’t care how my boyfriend gets along with my friends. After years of being screwed over by both parties and often somehow relating to one another – I have decided that mixing my boyfriend with my friends is something that just never works out for me. After my best friend in eighth grade convinced me to break up with probably the only decent guy I’ve ever been with, and I had another ex leave me for one of my friends, etc. etc. After a few similar scenarios, I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe mixing my relationships with my circle of friends isn’t a good idea.
Now this isn’t as cut and dried of a rule as I make it sound; I have to date guys that I’m friends with. How am I supposed to be friends with guys without hanging out with them in a group of friends ever? Well, I have thought about it and to be more exact : I don’t care if my girlfriends get along with my boyfriend. In fact, I want to keep them away from my boyfriends, so really it is convenient for me that my 2 closest friends think he’s rude. I don’t have to worry about co-mingling and the drama that is sure to ensue because of it. Well, perhaps convenient is a bit of a stretch – I’m sure that him ever coming over to the apartment is going to be awkward, especially since I’m sharing a room with one of them, but I just assume I’ll sleep at his place when we do stay the night together.
One of my roommate’s points was that I might should worry about how he treats other people, but she mooted that point when she pointed out that he is only nice to the people he cares about. Not that I myself have that attitude, I am a bleeding heart and care about anything that has a heartbeat -a trait which often is abused by the people in my life- so I can’t exactly blame him for it. But I am someone he cares about and to this point in our relationship I don’t have a single complaint for the way he has treated me. We have never fought about anything, he is always open to my feelings and concerns, we’re able to have intelligentconversations, he puts up with me being irrational, he understands my humor and I his. I guess I’m a little grateful that my roommate is a mostly selfish person, she pointed out that he is indifferent only to people that don’t matter to him (thinking of herself). Her example was that she would like a “hey how’s it going?” everytime she sees him, but somehow it doesn’t bother me that for once when a guy walks into a room he’s all eyes and ears for me. In fact I think I’m a little flattered.
I suppose that this sentiment may change when I am looking for a more serious relationship. For example as far as my husband goes, I will look for that trait in my relationship. But for now, when I am content with who I am with and the level we function on, I don’t need my friends and my boyfriend to get along.
Taking Precautions
So sometimes I get a little nostalgic, sometimes I can’t help but let my mind drift back to old relationships. There is a folder in My Pictures labeled Ferdy that it has all of the pictures he sent me, the 1 picture of us together, and also all of the pictures his new girlfriend took of him (wow, don’t I feel like a creepster now.. they were posted on his facebook when we stopped talking for a while – though I think the explanation made me sound even creepier. Crap.)
As you can imagine it’s quite a bittersweet trip down Memory Lane – however, apparently I know myself well enough to provide roadblocks:
‘It was the very last picture in the folder and was titled : What would have eventually happened.
Just in case.
