Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Hey Becky! I miss you heaps too! (And I think I owe you an email letter... I'll get on it after I deal with my stupid essay deadlines.)
----------
It's pretty disillusioning, the way things are going. We all have our silly romanticisms and stupid fantasies we keep replaying in our heads. I've always lamented that they've never worked out, and got myself into a little mudhole feeling all sorry for myself.
There's no point, really. But even the most dense blockhead (aka: me) has got to ask, why? Why, for example, do I stand in front of the mirror every morning painstakingly applying mascara? My eyes aren't pretty, and they don't have to be, but I want them to be and goddam I'm going to spend lots of money trying to get them to be and it's all a waste of money because they inevitably never are.
In other words, I know you would say shut up, you narcissitic bitch. But allow me to rant.
Sometime in my childhood I must have been deprieved of some sort of affection or acceptance. And I can remember lots of times when I never quite fit in. I was excluded from the inflatable tent. A list of names had been printed: "Friends invited into the play tent" and my name wasn't on it. I think I cried and made a big fuss over it. I think some parental intervention occurred. But you can't always expect some authority to cushion life's blows for you. If only I had the precosciousness to step away and think "fuck you", and sit on a tree bough reading Enid Blyton books in angry defiance. I should have become the naughtiest schoolgirl in the world, not just read about her.
I think a whole thread of dishonesty runs through my blog entries, and in the way I present myself. I don't mean that I lie about what happens to me, or that I make up these strange imaginary characters and call them friends. I don't lie about events. I don't lie about schoolwork. I don't lie about factual things. In general, I don't lie about how I feel. But sometimes I do. My lies are sins of omission, not commission. Because I could never put in words some of the feelings I have. They're too stupid, too embarassing, too silly, too immature, too boring, too pathetic, too unsympathetic, too narcissitic, too trivial, too irrational, too illogical.
"Rare is the human being, immature or mature, who has never felt an impulse to pretend he is some one or something else." - George P.Baker
And with that illuminating quote, I admit I've always wanted to be an alpine llama.
----------
It's pretty disillusioning, the way things are going. We all have our silly romanticisms and stupid fantasies we keep replaying in our heads. I've always lamented that they've never worked out, and got myself into a little mudhole feeling all sorry for myself.
There's no point, really. But even the most dense blockhead (aka: me) has got to ask, why? Why, for example, do I stand in front of the mirror every morning painstakingly applying mascara? My eyes aren't pretty, and they don't have to be, but I want them to be and goddam I'm going to spend lots of money trying to get them to be and it's all a waste of money because they inevitably never are.
In other words, I know you would say shut up, you narcissitic bitch. But allow me to rant.
Sometime in my childhood I must have been deprieved of some sort of affection or acceptance. And I can remember lots of times when I never quite fit in. I was excluded from the inflatable tent. A list of names had been printed: "Friends invited into the play tent" and my name wasn't on it. I think I cried and made a big fuss over it. I think some parental intervention occurred. But you can't always expect some authority to cushion life's blows for you. If only I had the precosciousness to step away and think "fuck you", and sit on a tree bough reading Enid Blyton books in angry defiance. I should have become the naughtiest schoolgirl in the world, not just read about her.
I think a whole thread of dishonesty runs through my blog entries, and in the way I present myself. I don't mean that I lie about what happens to me, or that I make up these strange imaginary characters and call them friends. I don't lie about events. I don't lie about schoolwork. I don't lie about factual things. In general, I don't lie about how I feel. But sometimes I do. My lies are sins of omission, not commission. Because I could never put in words some of the feelings I have. They're too stupid, too embarassing, too silly, too immature, too boring, too pathetic, too unsympathetic, too narcissitic, too trivial, too irrational, too illogical.
"Rare is the human being, immature or mature, who has never felt an impulse to pretend he is some one or something else." - George P.Baker
And with that illuminating quote, I admit I've always wanted to be an alpine llama.
# posted by me lah @ 9:32 pm 
