Another recycled blog, this time from December 27th, 2009.
I love to read articles claiming to have all the answers about how men and women should interact with each other. Every now and then, the advice is actually quite good. Usually, however, the articles are utter tripe, sometimes in a funny way and other times in the most appalling manner. The latest article I’ve read (10 Things a Husband Should Never Do) is just horribly, horribly bad. Not only is the advice questionable and superficial, but the tone of the article has “bitch” written all over it. I have reprinted the article, with my commentary in italics. The original article can be found here: http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/sex/10-things-husbands-should-never-do-552285/
Guys, we love you, we really do. But as wonderful as you are, every so often you do something that makes us want to jump out the nearest window (or push you out first). Please, please, don’t ever…
Uh, ok… You want men to listen to you, but you tell us that we make you want to push us out of a window? I’m listening, but only because I’m afraid for myself and my bunny…
1. Offer to “babysit” your own kids. When your 16-year-old neighbor does it, it’s called babysitting. When a parent does it, it’s called child care, and it lasts for at least 18 years. Get it?
Get this: a freshman psychology major has more sense than you. Want us to listen? Drop the attitude. And honestly, this is simply semantics. Whether we call it babysitting or child care, we’re offering to take care of the kids while you do your own thing. Shut the hell up and go have fun before we change our minds.
2. Imply that office work is harder than housework. At the end of a hard day, there may be smoke coming out of your ears, but let’s face it: You’ve basically been sitting on your butt. That same smoke is coming out of our ears too—but we’ve cleaned the house, shuttled the kids around, run errands all over town and lugged grocery bags besides. When we say we’re exhausted, we are exhausted.
First of all, using your mind can be just as exhausting as using your body. Second, way to break free of gender stereotypes, Mrs. Cleaver. What is this, 1950? While there are still plenty of stay-at-home moms out there, most couples these days contain two working parents, meaning that, at the end of the day, both parents have “just” been sitting on their butts (and let’s not forget that there are stay-at-home dads out there, too). If you are fortunate enough to have a husband or wife who makes enough money to provide for the entire family, perhaps you should try thanking them for allowing you to stay home and take care of your kids instead of sending them to some strangers at day care. Unless of course you see your children as just another chore, as you seem to. If that’s the case, then your husband/wife should divorce your frigid ass and find someone who actually wants to be a parent to your children. And by the way, I agree that implying that office work is harder than housework is unfair. But don’t act like the guys is a lazy bum because you’re doing all the things he doesn’t have time to do. You SHARE the load. Quit bitching and do your share.
3. Give a home appliance as a gift. Forgive us if we can’t work it up for this one. A new washing machine? Really? Can we get you some new snow tires?
As someone who just paid $450 for tires, yeah, I’d love it if you’d buy me some tires. Maybe someone should take your washer away and make you go to the river to wash your clothes. Want that washing machine back now?
4. Buy us the “cougar” perfume. Under our crew-neck sweaters may beat the heart of an untamed vixen—but most of us don’t want to smell like one. (Nice try, though.)
This is so stupid that the only reason I’m commenting on it is to point out how moronic it is.
5. Brag about your driving. This is supposed to let us know that ours isn’t so great. If my husband tells me one more time that he’s been “accident-free since 1978,” I’m going to reach over, grab the wheel and make the car swerve into something, just to shut him up.
I am a good driver. And I’m proud of it. Mentioning it has nothing to do with you. This may come as a shock, but we don’t spend all day thinking of obscure, passive-aggressive ways to criticize you. That’s your job, apparently. Quit finding things to get pissed about and save your anger for something that deserves it.
6. Be unimpressed by a meal that took a lot of time and trouble. I don’t know whose fault this is (Food Network? Julie and Julia?), but every so often we get the idea that it would be fun to make stock and spend the day basting. If the result is less than earth-shattering, say something nice anyway.
Holy shit! Something I agree with! I guess even a broken clock is right twice a day.
7. Buy clothes without trying them on. We know that the second you get into a department store you start to feel faint, but do us a favor and take the extra five minutes. Otherwise, you know who gets stuck with the returns?
No. I hate trying things on. You never know who’s put their nasty ass in those jeans before you did. I’ll take them home, wash them, and then try them on. If they don’t fit, I’ll take them back. If you’re enough of a doormat to return your husband’s things for him, then that’s your problem, not his. Grow a pair and make him fix his own mistakes.
8. Know it all, especially in public. Oh, honey. While you’re going on at length about whatever it is, we’re taking the temperature of the room, and we know everyone’s starting to fidget.
Oh, honey. This is funny, coming from someone who sounds like a know-it-all who writes for the public. Ironyyyyyyyy. Drop the patronizing tone, and just tell your spouse, as nicely as possible, that he’s making an ass of himself.
9. Say anything remotely critical about our new haircut. Sometimes getting a new cut goes well; sometimes it doesn’t. Usually we know the difference. Don’t rub it in.
We’re not “rubbing it in;” we’re just stupid enough to think you want honesty. If you don’t want our opinion then don’t ask for it. It’s that simple.
10. Expect a medal for doing a little housework. Umm…it’s your house too, right? For now, we’ll give you the bronze. Maybe someday, if you work hard enough, you can pick up a gold.
I am so glad you’re not my wife. I don’t even know you and I keep hoping that someone drops a house on you. If your spouse is trying to help out, then be thankful. A lot of men (and women) don’t bother. Odds are he’s like a kid who drew his mom a picture for the fridge; he just wants a little pat on the head and maybe a treat. Is that so bad? Maybe someday, if you work hard enough, you won’t sound like a bitter, spiteful bitch who allowed her husband to convince her to give up her dreams to become a mother instead. And really, whose fault is that, ultimately?
Grrrrr… Perhaps you think I’m misogynistic after reading this. Untrue. I just hate when people, out of all the things that there are to complain about in this world, pick this kind of petty bullshit to whine about. And I'm appalled that this woman is gainfully employed as a writer while I'm delivering pizzas.
In fact, I strongly believe that, if it’s possible, one parent should work and the other parent should stay home. I don’t want strangers taking care of my kids if I can help it. And I’m perfectly happy staying at home if my future wife makes more than me and it’s enough to live off of (and if my current girlfriend and I stay together and she becomes a neurologist as she’s planning, then that’s exactly what will happen…assuming we have kids). I have no problem with not being the provider, because I’m not fool enough to hinge my self-worth upon whether or not I’m meeting ridiculous and outdated stereotypes of what it means to be a man, husband, or parent.
Want to know what a husband should never do? He should never take his wife for granted. He should never forget things that are important to her, like birthdays and anniversaries. He should never stop making his wife feel like she’s the only one for him. He should never be afraid to communicate his thoughts and feelings. He sure as hell should never cheat on her. He should never break important plans for stupid reasons. He should never assume that raising a child is solely the woman’s job. He should never, under any circumstances, suggest that her sister is in any way superior to her. He should never assume that he understands his wife, because there is no way in hell for a male to decipher the female mind. Is that ten? No? Then he should never marry an emasculating, disrespectful woman like the author of this article.
How’s that for good advice?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Your Mamma's Such a Muggle...
For true Potterphiles.
And yeah, I admit that a lot of these are lame, but I was deliriously sick when I wrote them, so yeah.
Think you can do better? Post your own "Your mamma's such a muggle..." jokes in the comments! I'd love to hear more. :)
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that The Boy Who Lived was a movie on Lifetime.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a broom is for sweeping.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that an engorgement charm is the wizarding equivalent of Viagra.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Weird Sisters are chicks.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Chamber of Secrets is something a girl should keep to herself until she’s married.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Norwegian Ridgeback is a dog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Moaning Myrtle is an adult film.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Aragog is a character in Lord of the Rings.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Felix Felicis was that old black and white cartoon cat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Order of the Phoenix is an item on a Chinese take-out menu.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Sirius Black is an eye shadow color.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Goblet of Fire is a flaming shot.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Death Stick is a new metal band. \m/ \m/
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a fidelius charm is a girlier version of a purity ring.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Longbottom is a kind of boat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that St. Mungo’s is a Catholic hospital.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that’s Edward, not Cedric.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Mad-Eye Moody is a sign that her kid’s on drugs.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Death Eater is something you see at the circus.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she can’t tell the difference between a Knarl and a hedgehog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that catching the golden snitch means you need antibiotics.
And yeah, I admit that a lot of these are lame, but I was deliriously sick when I wrote them, so yeah.
Think you can do better? Post your own "Your mamma's such a muggle..." jokes in the comments! I'd love to hear more. :)
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that The Boy Who Lived was a movie on Lifetime.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a broom is for sweeping.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that an engorgement charm is the wizarding equivalent of Viagra.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Weird Sisters are chicks.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Chamber of Secrets is something a girl should keep to herself until she’s married.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Norwegian Ridgeback is a dog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Moaning Myrtle is an adult film.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Aragog is a character in Lord of the Rings.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Felix Felicis was that old black and white cartoon cat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Order of the Phoenix is an item on a Chinese take-out menu.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Sirius Black is an eye shadow color.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Goblet of Fire is a flaming shot.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that the Death Stick is a new metal band. \m/ \m/
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a fidelius charm is a girlier version of a purity ring.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Longbottom is a kind of boat.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that St. Mungo’s is a Catholic hospital.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that’s Edward, not Cedric.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that Mad-Eye Moody is a sign that her kid’s on drugs.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that a Death Eater is something you see at the circus.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she can’t tell the difference between a Knarl and a hedgehog.
Your mamma’s such a muggle she thinks that catching the golden snitch means you need antibiotics.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Why God Hates Gay Marriage
Most of you have read this already, but I'll be damned if it ain't one of my favorite bits that I've written. Originally released on May 2, 2009.
We all know that gay marriage is an abomination that will forever sully the sacred institution of marriage, destroy society, and upset the natural balance and order of our Lord God’s universe. The signs are already there for all to see: this new swine flu—excuse me, the H1N1 flu—is a pestilence sent by God to show his disapproval of Iowa; Satan’s minions are hard at work off the coast of Somalia; and Paul Blart: Mall Cop was actually the number one movie in America for that short, dark time in our lives not so long ago.
We all know that gay marriage is an abomination that will forever sully the sacred institution of marriage, destroy society, and upset the natural balance and order of our Lord God’s universe. The signs are already there for all to see: this new swine flu—excuse me, the H1N1 flu—is a pestilence sent by God to show his disapproval of Iowa; Satan’s minions are hard at work off the coast of Somalia; and Paul Blart: Mall Cop was actually the number one movie in America for that short, dark time in our lives not so long ago.
“But J,” you ask, “how do we know God hates gays?”
Well, friend, the answer is simple: it’s in the Bible. The Bible gives us a very clear answer to this question. If you read Leviticus, you shall know our kind and gentle God for the gay-hating deity that he is. Leviticus 18:22 says, “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination.” Clearly, God hates gays. If you need more proof, look no further than Lev. 20:13, which states, “If a man lie with mankind, as he lie with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death.” This is a clear indictment of homosexuality, and even suggests you go out and bash some homos (bring the kids; it’s fun for the whole family). So as you can see, God hates gays with a passion pure and true.
“But J, doesn’t Jesus say that we should all love one another? Didn’t he tell us to ‘judge not, lest ye be judged’”?
I’m glad you brought that up, friend. You see, sometimes it can be hard to tell what God hates, especially with Jesus’ message of love and understanding mucking things up. First of all, God knew that the Bible was a really, really long book, and that most people wouldn’t have the time or twelfth grade reading level necessary to read it all. That’s why he put the really important parts like Leviticus in the front. So when in doubt, ignore Jesus’ hippy rantings in favor of the Old Testament’s more wrathful take on things.
Second, most people have an incomplete Bible. Most Bibles completely omit the Gospel of Cletus, the thirteenth apostle. Cletus was once an attendant at a Roman bath, until Jesus showed him how totally gay it is to stand around helping naked men all day. As a result, Cletus quit his gay job in order to follow another man around the Holy Land. The Gospel of Cletus shows Jesus’ true feelings about homosexuality, which the other homo-loving apostles left out. Cletus 13:34-37 clearly states, “A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another. Excepting, of course, those damn queers. Oh, and brown people. God, I hate brown people. I guess what I’m trying to say is that ye should love those people which ye hold dear, and feel free to hate everyone else. I mean, c’mon. How hard would it be to actually love everyone? That’d be, like, impossible.” As you can see, a complete Bible shows us the way our good Lord really feels about all manner of things.
“Thank you, J, for showing me the light. I now understand why I should hate gays. But did God say anything about gay marriage? Would it really be so bad if gays were granted the rights they so desperately seek?”
A fine question, my good friend. No, God doesn’t say anything about gay marriage explicitly, but it’s easy to read between the lines. Marriage is a sacred institution, meant to be shared between a man and a woman. We heterosexuals treat marriage’s sanctity with the proper amount of respect. Elizabeth Taylor is a shining example of this. She loves and respects the institution of marriage so much that she’s been married eight times! If gays were allowed to marry, they would desecrate the institution with their flirty eyes, pouty lips, and hard washboard abs. How could a man resist the urge to cheat or divorce when constantly faced with the firm yet supple man-ass that surrounds him at gay clubs, restaurants, and libraries? It’s impossible, and God knows it. Thus, he hates gay marriage. And as for wanting to be able to visit each other in the hospital, inherit each other’s belongings, and get tax breaks . . .what do gays think they are? Human?
I’m glad we had this talk, friends. I hope that I have cleared up any doubts that you may have had regarding the evil nature of gayness and gay marriage. Never forget that it is a pestilence that will spread throughout the land, infecting us all with good fashion sense, the desire to go to the gym, and a love of show tunes. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Lord has just commanded me to go take a cold shower.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Choices: Responses
I got some responses to "Choices" on Facebook and wanted to reply to them without being confined to a "comment" box. So here are the comments and my replies.
Comment A (regarding this preface I added on Facebook: I'M YELLING BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO PAY ATTENTION TO TWO THINGS: 1. THIS IS RATHER DARK. 2. DON'T READ TOO MUCH INTO THIS! GOT IT? GOOD!):
I like it. You've done a wonderful job of capturing the "lost" feeling of having every door open for you and not knowing which one to pick, lest you pick the wrong one and can't go back.
Just one thing, though....I wish you'd stop setting rules for your readers at the beginning of the things you write. I think that clouds your readers' minds with opinions and judgment before they've even had a chance to read and react. Just write. And if you have to clear something up afterwards, deal with it then.
If you're writing to be provocative or make a certain point, warning them ahead of time that what they're about to read is "dark" and to not "read too much into this" defeats the purpose of what you just wrote, in my opinion.
But yeah, I like it.
I totally get what you’re saying about not giving readers something to judge before they even read the main text.
However, in this particular case, it was something released on Facebook, which means the majority of my family can read it. I love my fam, but my history of depression makes them a wee bit jumpy, and I’d rather preface something like this than deal with numerous texts, e-mails and phone calls asking me how I am and whether I do indeed own a Desert Eagle (I don’t). So this was really about saving me the trouble of explaining myself 50 different times and nothing else.
Comment B:
interesting, but dammit man more. give me the despair through the asperger's and alcohol. it's too uncommitted. i need the relief of the weed or the high velocity projectile into the spinal column via mouth through the words. details, details, details. oppress me then let me make a connection with the ways out... wind me up and then give me relief. if you can't give it to me full force fuck it. if i can't feel it i can't care. stop hiding what you mean behind your words,] and detach a little. other than that not bad.
Despite the title, this was never really about Xander’s two paths. That’s why I didn’t bother to go into detail about his forms of escape. This was essentially just an exercise for me, trying to relate how a person comes to this kind of choice, about how some of us are slapped in the face by reality rather late in life, the shock of it, and the inability to recover and deal with it properly.
Although I wasn’t thinking about it at the time, a Chuck Palahniuk quote (from the book Fight Club) offers a view similar to what I was trying to relate:
We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war, our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.
Comment C:
At the most basic level, humans operate out of either fear or curiosity... I think anyways. Because we're all headed for death anyways, I think life can hold much greater fears for most people. Death is a stable, certain state, but life in its unpredictable nature can change in the blink of an eye.
Death is a given, so why not have a perverse curiosity about life? I guess its an argument I always come back to every time I think about sticking my head in the oven. Besides, the "false" world of sedation is only one color in the full spectrum of reality, it's just as real as the world of celebrity obsessed pop-culture is to teenage girls. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'd like to read a sequel where this Xander fellow stops buying into what the world tells him about himself. Fascination with self-destruction, physical or psychological, is ok- it's part of a creative cycle.
I’m not entirely certain I understand everything you’re trying to say, but I’ll try to respond.
I would argue that while death is stable, there’s nothing certain about it. I’m certain it will happen, but I’m sure as hell uncertain as to what it means. And that uncertainty breeds fear. That said, I agree that, in the end, there’s much more to fear from life than death. I’d also agree that humans operate out of both fear and curiosity. I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive. In fact, I think our fears often drive our curiosity.
In regard to the “’false’ world of sedation” being an equivalent to an obsession with pop-culture, I agree to a point. Both are certainly forms of escapism, to be sure, but one does not generally die of complications due to pop-culture obsession. People do, however, die regularly due to cirrhosis of the liver brought about by alcohol abuse, smoking-induced lung cancer, and strokes caused by heavy cocaine use.
I’m not sure what you mean by Xander “buying into what the world tells him about himself.” Self-destruction is self-destruction. It is not a positive thing. One may glean positives from it, but it is, in the end, counter-productive.
The funny thing is, Xander is simply choosing between quick and slow methods of self-destruction. While a bullet is certainly more immediate and efficient, the weed, as he is using it, is not only slowly killing him physically by filling his lungs with tar and a heap of potential carcinogens, but also killing him psychologically by robbing him of the full breadth of human experience and keeping him in a state of psychological stasis.
He would be better served spending his energies addressing the root problem, rather than masking its symptoms. What he’s doing is akin to taking morphine for a broken leg and then walking on it. He may not be able to feel the pain, but the problem is still there and he’s probably making it worse.
Comment A (regarding this preface I added on Facebook: I'M YELLING BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO PAY ATTENTION TO TWO THINGS: 1. THIS IS RATHER DARK. 2. DON'T READ TOO MUCH INTO THIS! GOT IT? GOOD!):
I like it. You've done a wonderful job of capturing the "lost" feeling of having every door open for you and not knowing which one to pick, lest you pick the wrong one and can't go back.
Just one thing, though....I wish you'd stop setting rules for your readers at the beginning of the things you write. I think that clouds your readers' minds with opinions and judgment before they've even had a chance to read and react. Just write. And if you have to clear something up afterwards, deal with it then.
If you're writing to be provocative or make a certain point, warning them ahead of time that what they're about to read is "dark" and to not "read too much into this" defeats the purpose of what you just wrote, in my opinion.
But yeah, I like it.
I totally get what you’re saying about not giving readers something to judge before they even read the main text.
However, in this particular case, it was something released on Facebook, which means the majority of my family can read it. I love my fam, but my history of depression makes them a wee bit jumpy, and I’d rather preface something like this than deal with numerous texts, e-mails and phone calls asking me how I am and whether I do indeed own a Desert Eagle (I don’t). So this was really about saving me the trouble of explaining myself 50 different times and nothing else.
Comment B:
interesting, but dammit man more. give me the despair through the asperger's and alcohol. it's too uncommitted. i need the relief of the weed or the high velocity projectile into the spinal column via mouth through the words. details, details, details. oppress me then let me make a connection with the ways out... wind me up and then give me relief. if you can't give it to me full force fuck it. if i can't feel it i can't care. stop hiding what you mean behind your words,] and detach a little. other than that not bad.
Despite the title, this was never really about Xander’s two paths. That’s why I didn’t bother to go into detail about his forms of escape. This was essentially just an exercise for me, trying to relate how a person comes to this kind of choice, about how some of us are slapped in the face by reality rather late in life, the shock of it, and the inability to recover and deal with it properly.
Although I wasn’t thinking about it at the time, a Chuck Palahniuk quote (from the book Fight Club) offers a view similar to what I was trying to relate:
We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war, our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.
Comment C:
At the most basic level, humans operate out of either fear or curiosity... I think anyways. Because we're all headed for death anyways, I think life can hold much greater fears for most people. Death is a stable, certain state, but life in its unpredictable nature can change in the blink of an eye.
Death is a given, so why not have a perverse curiosity about life? I guess its an argument I always come back to every time I think about sticking my head in the oven. Besides, the "false" world of sedation is only one color in the full spectrum of reality, it's just as real as the world of celebrity obsessed pop-culture is to teenage girls. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'd like to read a sequel where this Xander fellow stops buying into what the world tells him about himself. Fascination with self-destruction, physical or psychological, is ok- it's part of a creative cycle.
I’m not entirely certain I understand everything you’re trying to say, but I’ll try to respond.
I would argue that while death is stable, there’s nothing certain about it. I’m certain it will happen, but I’m sure as hell uncertain as to what it means. And that uncertainty breeds fear. That said, I agree that, in the end, there’s much more to fear from life than death. I’d also agree that humans operate out of both fear and curiosity. I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive. In fact, I think our fears often drive our curiosity.
In regard to the “’false’ world of sedation” being an equivalent to an obsession with pop-culture, I agree to a point. Both are certainly forms of escapism, to be sure, but one does not generally die of complications due to pop-culture obsession. People do, however, die regularly due to cirrhosis of the liver brought about by alcohol abuse, smoking-induced lung cancer, and strokes caused by heavy cocaine use.
I’m not sure what you mean by Xander “buying into what the world tells him about himself.” Self-destruction is self-destruction. It is not a positive thing. One may glean positives from it, but it is, in the end, counter-productive.
The funny thing is, Xander is simply choosing between quick and slow methods of self-destruction. While a bullet is certainly more immediate and efficient, the weed, as he is using it, is not only slowly killing him physically by filling his lungs with tar and a heap of potential carcinogens, but also killing him psychologically by robbing him of the full breadth of human experience and keeping him in a state of psychological stasis.
He would be better served spending his energies addressing the root problem, rather than masking its symptoms. What he’s doing is akin to taking morphine for a broken leg and then walking on it. He may not be able to feel the pain, but the problem is still there and he’s probably making it worse.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Choices
Well, this got some interesting reactions when I posted it on Facebook, and I've decided that they're reactions that I would like to reply to at some length, so I thought I'd do it here. And since I don't want those of you who aren't my friends on Facebook to feel left out, I figured I'd post the original material first. In the next day or so I'll post the reactions and my responses to them.
So here's a rare bit of fiction for you guys.
Xander stared at the two items on his desk, assessing his options. On his left sat a blue and green glass pipe, filled with marijuana. The object on his right was a .50 caliber Mark XIX Desert Eagle, its finish dark and unpolished. Both offered relief, but the variety offered by the Desert Eagle was much less fleeting. Xander sat there, trying to decide whether that sort of finality was what he truly desired.
Things hadn’t always been this way. He hadn’t always been tempted to mute the pain with drugs or orally applied hunks of high velocity metal. His childhood had been wonderful, charmed. He’d gotten pretty much whatever he’d wanted, not because he was spoiled, but because he’d always had realistic expectations and a taste for simplicity. Sure, he’d ask for a new video game console every now and then, but for the most part he was content with a pile of books when Christmas or his birthday rolled around.
He’d always loved to read, to learn. He had an insatiable curiosity, an almost physical need to know as much as he could. It was a non-competitive desire, completely self-fueled. His thirst for knowledge had nothing to do with being at the head of the class or making others feel inferior. He just needed to know things. It was compulsive.
This could have been his social downfall, his ticket to Nerdville and daily swirlies, but his skills on the football field had saved him from that fate. Despite his distinctly brainy bent, he had a love of football and talent to match. He was discovered in 5th grade, during recess. A friend’s father had come to the school to drop off a forgotten bag lunch and witnessed Xander making a diving one-handed catch. True, the ball had been of the spongy variety, but the man, the local high school’s football coach, knew talent when he saw it and quickly sought to mentor him in the subtle art of being a wide receiver.
By the time Xander reached high school his hands were superb, and he quickly earned a spot on the varsity team. His ability to catch anything that came within reach earned him the nickname Super Glue, a moniker he was proud to have earned. By the time he left, he’d set school records for career touchdown catches, yards after catch, and yards per catch. He seemed destined for the NFL, but college, of course, came first. Many universities had courted him, football powerhouses like USC and Texas, but he had decided upon Stanford. He was, after all, a geek at heart.
And that’s when things started to deteriorate for Xander. It’s not that Stanford was bad for him; it was simply that his life had changed drastically, had taken a form that he found unfamiliar and daunting. The first thing to go wrong was football. He played football because he enjoyed it, but high school and college football were different beasts. College football was a ravenous thing, eating up free time, never satiated. There were endless practices, innumerable weight training sessions, and piles of video footage to comb through. The demands on his time began to overwhelm him, destroying Xander’s enjoyment of the game. He quit after one season, a red shirt who never touched the playing field.
This had left him in something of a predicament. He’d foolishly assumed that he’d breeze through college, get drafted by the 49ers and make millions. Now that this was no longer a possibility he was unsure of what to do. Unlike many people, he hadn’t grown up wanting to be a fireman or surgeon. He’d never put much thought into that kind of stuff. It wasn’t as if the football thing had been a lifelong dream. It was simply what he had perceived to be the path of least resistance. Now he’d lost that path, and a new one failed to present itself.
Faced with the sudden necessity of choosing a career, Xander’s mental health had begun to fail. His intellectual strength now felt like a weakness. He honestly believed that he could do whatever he set his mind to, but rather than comfort him this belief brought only despair. The wealth of options before him was too large; it paralyzed him. He fell into a deep depression and began to have such powerful anxiety attacks that he often had trouble leaving his room. He managed to stay in college, eking out mostly Bs with the occasional A, but he flitted from major to major, unable to find something that truly ignited a passion within him. He was stalling and he knew it, but he couldn’t find an answer, couldn’t see a way out.
Having never been much of a drinker, he turned to weed for solace. It calmed his anxiety, and quieted his depression, at least in the short term. But he knew, even if he couldn’t bring himself to admit it, that he was simply masking the pain, not eliminating it. The green was a crutch that he was slowly becoming dependant upon. It was becoming as much of a problem as a solution, but it was all he had, his only path to a moment of peace, and so he limped onward.
After seven years of college, he finally graduated with an anthropology degree. He didn’t really want to be an anthropologist and he had no intention of going on to grad school, but he had decided that he needed something to show for all of the time he’d spent in school. So he got the degree, for all the good that it did him.
And now here he was, an over-educated bookstore clerk making $8.50 an hour, struggling to make ends meet, student loans hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles. He was no closer to a career now than when he had started college. He was still lost, still rudderless in choppy seas. He felt that he was capable of so much more, but he was unable to distinguish what “more” meant.
All he knew was that he was miserable, and that he could see no way out of his predicament. Because the problem, as he saw it, wasn’t just with him. He detested the necessity of money, the struggle to procure enough so that he could live even a modest life. He saw no point to modern life. It felt cold, pointless, and hollow. He despised the rat race. He felt he was running a maze in which cheese was the only prize, and he was lactose intolerant.
And so here he sat with the only two choices that made any kind of sense to him, flawed as they were. He could take the path to the left, smoke his green and find a short-lived and imperfect peace, a numbness more bearable than the existential pain that haunted him. Or he could turn to the right and rush down that short and violent path, whose terminus was shrouded in mystery.
He sighed and picked up the pipe, brought it to his lips and set fire to its contents, inhaling deeply. His body and mind relaxed. His curiosity had been the deciding factor, just as it always was. There was still so much to explore, to learn. But that other path stirred his curiosity as well. It held a macabre allure, and he recognized that one day, if things did not take an unexpected turn for the better, the weight of the world would drag him down, and his curiosity would get the better of him.
So here's a rare bit of fiction for you guys.
Xander stared at the two items on his desk, assessing his options. On his left sat a blue and green glass pipe, filled with marijuana. The object on his right was a .50 caliber Mark XIX Desert Eagle, its finish dark and unpolished. Both offered relief, but the variety offered by the Desert Eagle was much less fleeting. Xander sat there, trying to decide whether that sort of finality was what he truly desired.
Things hadn’t always been this way. He hadn’t always been tempted to mute the pain with drugs or orally applied hunks of high velocity metal. His childhood had been wonderful, charmed. He’d gotten pretty much whatever he’d wanted, not because he was spoiled, but because he’d always had realistic expectations and a taste for simplicity. Sure, he’d ask for a new video game console every now and then, but for the most part he was content with a pile of books when Christmas or his birthday rolled around.
He’d always loved to read, to learn. He had an insatiable curiosity, an almost physical need to know as much as he could. It was a non-competitive desire, completely self-fueled. His thirst for knowledge had nothing to do with being at the head of the class or making others feel inferior. He just needed to know things. It was compulsive.
This could have been his social downfall, his ticket to Nerdville and daily swirlies, but his skills on the football field had saved him from that fate. Despite his distinctly brainy bent, he had a love of football and talent to match. He was discovered in 5th grade, during recess. A friend’s father had come to the school to drop off a forgotten bag lunch and witnessed Xander making a diving one-handed catch. True, the ball had been of the spongy variety, but the man, the local high school’s football coach, knew talent when he saw it and quickly sought to mentor him in the subtle art of being a wide receiver.
By the time Xander reached high school his hands were superb, and he quickly earned a spot on the varsity team. His ability to catch anything that came within reach earned him the nickname Super Glue, a moniker he was proud to have earned. By the time he left, he’d set school records for career touchdown catches, yards after catch, and yards per catch. He seemed destined for the NFL, but college, of course, came first. Many universities had courted him, football powerhouses like USC and Texas, but he had decided upon Stanford. He was, after all, a geek at heart.
And that’s when things started to deteriorate for Xander. It’s not that Stanford was bad for him; it was simply that his life had changed drastically, had taken a form that he found unfamiliar and daunting. The first thing to go wrong was football. He played football because he enjoyed it, but high school and college football were different beasts. College football was a ravenous thing, eating up free time, never satiated. There were endless practices, innumerable weight training sessions, and piles of video footage to comb through. The demands on his time began to overwhelm him, destroying Xander’s enjoyment of the game. He quit after one season, a red shirt who never touched the playing field.
This had left him in something of a predicament. He’d foolishly assumed that he’d breeze through college, get drafted by the 49ers and make millions. Now that this was no longer a possibility he was unsure of what to do. Unlike many people, he hadn’t grown up wanting to be a fireman or surgeon. He’d never put much thought into that kind of stuff. It wasn’t as if the football thing had been a lifelong dream. It was simply what he had perceived to be the path of least resistance. Now he’d lost that path, and a new one failed to present itself.
Faced with the sudden necessity of choosing a career, Xander’s mental health had begun to fail. His intellectual strength now felt like a weakness. He honestly believed that he could do whatever he set his mind to, but rather than comfort him this belief brought only despair. The wealth of options before him was too large; it paralyzed him. He fell into a deep depression and began to have such powerful anxiety attacks that he often had trouble leaving his room. He managed to stay in college, eking out mostly Bs with the occasional A, but he flitted from major to major, unable to find something that truly ignited a passion within him. He was stalling and he knew it, but he couldn’t find an answer, couldn’t see a way out.
Having never been much of a drinker, he turned to weed for solace. It calmed his anxiety, and quieted his depression, at least in the short term. But he knew, even if he couldn’t bring himself to admit it, that he was simply masking the pain, not eliminating it. The green was a crutch that he was slowly becoming dependant upon. It was becoming as much of a problem as a solution, but it was all he had, his only path to a moment of peace, and so he limped onward.
After seven years of college, he finally graduated with an anthropology degree. He didn’t really want to be an anthropologist and he had no intention of going on to grad school, but he had decided that he needed something to show for all of the time he’d spent in school. So he got the degree, for all the good that it did him.
And now here he was, an over-educated bookstore clerk making $8.50 an hour, struggling to make ends meet, student loans hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles. He was no closer to a career now than when he had started college. He was still lost, still rudderless in choppy seas. He felt that he was capable of so much more, but he was unable to distinguish what “more” meant.
All he knew was that he was miserable, and that he could see no way out of his predicament. Because the problem, as he saw it, wasn’t just with him. He detested the necessity of money, the struggle to procure enough so that he could live even a modest life. He saw no point to modern life. It felt cold, pointless, and hollow. He despised the rat race. He felt he was running a maze in which cheese was the only prize, and he was lactose intolerant.
And so here he sat with the only two choices that made any kind of sense to him, flawed as they were. He could take the path to the left, smoke his green and find a short-lived and imperfect peace, a numbness more bearable than the existential pain that haunted him. Or he could turn to the right and rush down that short and violent path, whose terminus was shrouded in mystery.
He sighed and picked up the pipe, brought it to his lips and set fire to its contents, inhaling deeply. His body and mind relaxed. His curiosity had been the deciding factor, just as it always was. There was still so much to explore, to learn. But that other path stirred his curiosity as well. It held a macabre allure, and he recognized that one day, if things did not take an unexpected turn for the better, the weight of the world would drag him down, and his curiosity would get the better of him.
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