Flipper the bird

Oooooh! I'm on Plenty of Fish! Look at my profile! I'm so whimsical and lighthearted! I have shirtless pictures of me doing a handstand! The only thing I want on a date is to laugh! I have a really good orthodontist! I'm one of the 95% of people that count rock climbing as a pastime!

Anyway...

That was cynical, so let's turn this ship around, shall we?!

*turns ship around*

*accidentally mows down herd of dolphin*

*contemplates if a group of dolphins is actually called a herd*

*is too lazy to wiki that shit*

*ewwww dolphin guts everywhere!*

*ok, that last one wasn't even an action*

*Damnit!*


Phew, ship turned around! Anyway, I was on the bus yesterday and saw some dude with a plastic bag and immediately thought, "What a dick. Everybody knows to carry reusable bags with them these days!"

Then I thought to myself, "Hey, do YOU carry around a bag ALL the time? What if this guy does it, like, 364 days a year and this was the ONE day he forgot?"

Then I realized that I'd made the choice to think the worst of him. Oh, it was judgey. E'er so judgey. So I've made the decision that from now on whenever I see a stranger or anyone for that matter in a potentially negative way that I will assume better of them unless proven otherwise.

I feel we should all try this together as a social experiment. It doesn't mean bad things won't happen or that the positivity theorem won't ever be disproved. Still, it might help. As an example, imagine if a person who suspects their partner is cheating decides to not be a psycho bitch and instead just goes, "Hey, babe. I have this suspicion. Is it right?" He might be cheating, in which case, ya know, freak the fuck out. If he hasn't been though you've just saved yourself a lot of crazy bitch internal stress. Ya welcome.

Or another example, imagine if I have, like, three THOUSAND people that read this blog but only 17 follow it cause the rest are too intimidated by the awesomeness of my tag labels.

Anyway, try this in earnest. Report back and tell me how you felt doing it.

My father needs a proofreader like whoa

Hello parents,

I've attached my summative evaluation from the first practicum for your perusal. In reading this, you may find yourself asking if it was sent with the intention of bragging. The answer to this question is: absolutely correct! I am bragging my ass off! That said, I hope you'll enjoy reading something positive about your eldest and you may chide me later for my braggart ways. However, for the time being, WHOOPIE!!!!!!

D


Reply:
OK, Mom hasn't seen this yet but I have just read it and yes, you have every right to be proud of this exceptional evaluation. I am so proud of you for practicing that which has been suggested to you on many occasion......exceed expectations! Indeed you did and then some!! Good on you but don't let it go to your head... now that you have set the bar this high on your first practicum, achieving it again and again will be no easy task. In fact, you probably will not be able to and not for lack of trying but due to other factors not in your control. Whatever happens, always keep trying to do your best and know that you will be one fine 'teacher in an honourable profession. Carpe Diem tous les jours!! Love 'ya! Dad



Way to keep me humble, Daddy.

Another pre-Tree of Knowledge tale

I still can't get my junk up to do a legit post, so once again I'm bringing you a tale from my Before They Were Assholes vault. Cause seriously, I was muthafukkin cute kid.

Scene: Kitchen table. I am 4.

My parents were part of that first generation to ascribe to the helicopter technique and so were very concerned with their little snowflake's well being. That said, both of them had lived fairly supervision-free childhoods, going on all sorts of wacky Stand By Me-esque adventures involving wandering and gangrene-causing metal objects, and so they were a bit more laissez-faire than some of my contemporaries' respectable parents. C-Dawg, I'm lookin' at you.

Still, they knew that they'd have to one day have a respectable progeny to ensure their Meals on Wheels or Meals on Hydroplaning Pockets of Air (or whatever things are gonna be like in the future) got delivered to them. On this particular occasion, my parents wanted to ascertain just how street smart I was by asking a series of questions relating to Strangers. Anyone that knows me now will tell you that I have roughly the cred of 50 Cent circa 6th bullet wound, but this was not the case during my childhood.

"So David," they began, "What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and wants you to go with him*?"

"I run away and tell an adult," I responded.

"Very good. And what do you do if a stranger comes up to you and says that Mommy and Daddy asked him to pick you up in his car?" they pressed on, turning my Brite Lite on high and shining it right in my face.

"I yell 'NO!' and get away as quick as I can," I proffered, a bit dramatically.

"Yes, that is correct," I was told, as I beamed from my sexually ambiguous mug.**

"Now, David, listen very carefully. This is very important. What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and offers you candy?"

Fuck.

I love candy.

I knew this was the clincher, that I would have to reach back into the recesses of my mind and scour all the information that these people had instilled in my during these first four years. I thought long and I thought hard and I came up with the answer I knew they wanted to hear:

"I would...eat the candy, rush home and BRUSH MY TEETH!"



GOODNIGHT, CINCINNATI!

*In the 80's, there was no gender equality in childnapping.

** No seriously, I was a cute ass motherfucker

Spaghetti sauce or childhood rosacea? You decide.

What...a fat little fuck.

Here I am sitting in my brother's wheely-chair, pretending I'm little but
really just coming off faggy. Tragic foreshadowing. Butch bathrobe, though.

20 years later and still faggy, still alone, playing with my own balls

Fuck you, ABBA.

Today's Google header is retarded.


Okay, so I have nothing to say at all but I'm getting all paranoid about my low output recently. Low out put = me not putting out = blogging prude. It's like THE RULES made a Blogger! Edition.

What? Even I barely get my 90's pop culture references any more.

So I have nothing to say, as previously...said... so I'm just gonna tell ADORABLE childhood anecdotes and pray that no one notices how shitty this blog has become since I started my monstrous ABBA/MS Paint undertaking.

I am 6 years old, playing in the backyard with my next door neighbour, Nathan. Nathan is going into grade 2 and infinitely cooler than I for it. It is the summer time and as always The Red River Exhibition, a three-week long carnival with lots of rides and deep-fried shit, has pulled into town. It is a modern Neverland and so, like all things related to childhood, such as Full House, Lucky Charms and the notion that "my no spot is just for me," my parents have denied me knowledge of its existence.

Nathan, in his super suave 7 year old voice, asks, "Hey David, are you going to the Ex this year?"

Oh god, he is so cool. I don't even know what the fuck he is talking about.

"Good question, Nathan," I respond, "Let me just go an check with the bitch in the kitchen my mom."

Mother informs me that, no, small child, you shan't be venturing forth to have this "fun" you've heard about in rumours and the liberal media.

Distraught not at the idea of missing out but rather having to tell Nathan that I am not in his Universe of Candy Appled Awesome, I head back outside to face the music. This being 1990, likely Minni Vanilli.

"Well?" he asks.

"No," I reply, "I am not going to the Ex...

...but sometimes I go to the Y."


GOODNIGHT, CHICAGO!

Creepin', Hatin', and Playin'

o hai

I've been too busy breathing into a paper bag from reading this to do anything remotely productive. That said, I've been heavily programmed as per my Rollins Manifesto and so I have seen some things in this world over the past few days and feel the need to list them. And who doesn't love a good list? That's right - no one. Wait. You there, the one with your hand up. Get the fuck out...We're waiting...Okay, you know what we're all just gonna sit here until you and your list-hating smirk leave... No? Fine then. Catch ebola.

1. HEY LISTEN UP, BABIES - jay kay, I'm not gonna start by yelling at babies. We all know I communicate with them and their training-pants-aspiring ways far too lovingly to ever yell at babies. Unless it's not mine. Then for shiz they're getting an earful. Like, hey, why's your poop always green and your barf always white? What, brown isn't good enough for you?! That's racist...

2. I won the genetic lottery - Monday night, I had a Passover seder at my mother's cousins' in Thornhill. For those not in the know, Thornhill is to Toronto as Orange County is to LA. Well, with a lot more Jews. And no style. Or No Doubt. Actually, it's not that much like Ora-...THE POINT IS that it's a suburban moneyed enclave where nothing is built taller than three stories and they add the word "Bistro" to their Country Style Delis just to feel fancy. Not a word of a lie. Anyway, the whole night was pretty much a bad scene out of Fiddler, complete with borderline retarded cousin. The mother kept trying to get me to sing, which, no. I'm really not all that fantastic but I hate being put on the spot in a way that will not actually demonstrate skill. Singing a lame-ass prayer at a passover seder is like handing Andy Warhol some crayons and a Disney Princess trace-and-colour book. Actually, wait. Those are awesome. [simile retracted] Still, it's stupid. Then there were the young Israeli couple who were so goddamn cynical about everything that I was tempted to cut a bitch with some jagged matzah. The only things they seemed to enjoy were each other and discussing their internet download plans. I mean, talk about a conversational boner killer. Then there was the aforementioned cousin with intellectual disabilities. Actually, I feel this is unfair to people with genuine intellectual disabilities. The girl is just stupid. In addition to having her mother tell her 25 year old ass how to dress for dinner, she walked into a wall and a folding screen on separate occasions, blew her nose in her sleeve continuously and waxed poetic about her commemorative Olympics glass for five minutes straight. She is a very special girl, ironically in a very Olympic way.

3. Being creepy has paid off - A couple weeks ago, I eye fucked a very nice looking gentleman whilst aboard the subway, a gesture which was returned on his part. Evidently, in the realm of eye sex, I am versatile. A couple days later, I was wasting time online and came across a profile for my occular transit lover and wasted no time finding a place on his msn with Facebook stalking privileges. Long story short, we're having drinks tonight and I will be informing our future Mongolian grandchildren that their grandpas met when Zaida David was creepin' on the subway. See? It's not only 12 year olds with autism that interest me. Mostly, though.

4. Apple tells it like it is - So 'member when you were little and you'd be all on the computer and happy cause you were listening to Barbra Streisand singing a Pretty Women/Ladies That Lunch medley while playing solitaire and the world was so nice and well and good because you were a solitaire god that won, like, at least 2 outta 3 games and that meant you hadded skillz and would go places in life? Well, turns out that it was all a lie. 'Cept the medley. That shit is real and it is awesome. I've started playing Klondike, which is Apple's version of solitaire that comes with all iPods, mostly because when you win, the kings animate and start giving each other gang hand shakes and I love gangs (read: ethnic people and whiteys that want to be like them). HOWEVER, evidently my solitaire prowess, like my innocence, calf muscles and sobriety, is gone. I win maaaaaaaybe 1 outta 6 games and this has led me to possibly the most mind blowing conspiracy theory ever: Microsoft only put the easy-to-win solitaire permutations into Windows so we would be lulled into a false sense of accomplishment and love them more. Like, oh my god. This is like an absentee father who's always disappointing his kid by never takin' him places or givin' him hugs or buying him Jem and the Holograms fashion plates or whatever and then slipping the kid Flinstones-brand roofies so that the kid is all quiet and doesn't complain about all the dumb shit being done to scar me. Ahem. But now I know the truth, people. Solitaire isn't all fun and games cards bouncin' all over da place in beautiful cascades while the voice of a generation sings about hats. No. It is cold, wheel turning on the subway while mean people judge you for not trying your hand at Music Quiz and only earning an average of $14 per game. $14?! Fuck you, Apple. But thank you for finally showing me the truth.

My brown friend (Yeah. I have one. Step off!) and I were half-seriously chatting last night about the notion of seeing others naked. My history with shared nudity is illustrious; often times exploratory, occasionally shame based, but always fascinating. I've always been incredibly self-conscious about donning my own suit de birthday, most prominently in the Pan Am Pool change room between the ages of 4 and 10, which is so silly, cause it's not as though size is important at that age anyway. Unless you're a pedo, in which case, STOP READING MY BLOG. My Hungarian father was and still is very quick to point out that there is no shame such appropriate public nudity. Granted, this is also a 300 lbs. man who has met about a third of my friends in a t-shirt and micro-briefs. Despite his European sensibilities, something must have happened to me as a toddler to royally fuck up any normal perception of body image that may have developed.

Despite my aversion to grown ups seeing me au naturel (Blog goal: use as many euphemisms for nudity as possible), I was always the innocent yet pervy kid playing doctor or truth or dare with other kindergartners. Obviously it was never sexual at that age, nor is it to this day to imagine seeing a friend in the buff. It's still weirdly fascinating though. In high school, I had a couple of friends over and we decided to have a three-person toga party that lasted about an hour before it became a strategically placed pillows party. Nothing sexual happened, but it was indefinably exciting to transform my basement into a naturalist colony for a night.

Okay, so maybe it's time to introduce an Oversharing tag.

Perhaps my platonic approach to most nudity is fueled by the the dualistic, all-consuming of celluloid and online willies that abound. On the one hand, the permeating presence of over-the-top beauty has absolutely dulled my physical attractions to the point that I'm barely ever drawn to anyone who is not ridiculously out of my league, while at the same time the remainder of the populous become so desexualized that their nakedness is of no consequence. It's on par with seeing someone shirtless; just another detail I can add to the collage of the way I think of you all in my head. Like, brown friend would probably be like, "Aw, look! There's an anteater poking out of that there bush!...Wait."

Wow, that got deep yo! Well, 'bout as deep as The Immaculate Collection, which I think I'm gonna download so I can vogue out on the plane ride home Thursday night.

I'm sitting here in TO, actually doing work for once in the job hunting field, but naturally I still have my msn on. I'm talking to my friend Sean, whose status is set to Available. Consequently, he appears at the top of the dialogue window as Sean (Available).

This got me thinking: what if instead of indicating physical presence, msn statuses were involuntary emotional indicators, like a digital mood ring. Think of the emotional energy we would conserve if we got this imperative straight out of the gate!

Available would mostly like remain as Available, but here are some others I've thought of:

Away = Distant: despite Johnny Erstwhile's proclamations that he really is looking for commitment, you know the truth.

Busy = Withholding: if you're so busy, then why are you online, douchenozzle? This will tell you exactly what kind of role you really play in this guy's life.

Be Right Back = In Recovery: He's not a bad guy, but there's been some choppy waters recently and he just isn't available right now. There is hope, however, and a potential 'WB' may be in your future.

Out to Lunch = Bat Shit Crazy: 'nuff said.

Appear Offline = Absent: it's over, dude. You're being ignored and phased out from his msn...and his life.





PATENT PENDING!

I think that perhaps you can't see it when you're in it; the view is too cloudy, like trying to analyze a storm from within its eye. It's just that sometimes the world is viewed so much easier from a cubicle than from a stage. Glamorous, no, but that's hardly the point. You think more because there's nothing else to do. An iPod can only distract so much when doing tasks that could be easily prescribed to any other simian. The victories are more plentiful, if less grandiose, and the tragedies aren't quite so Greek. Perhaps it's a more cowardly or simply one that derives from fatigue and the subsiding of passion, but sometimes it is a relief to spend half your time on trivial things than every waking hour on the one meaningful thing to which you aspire. Lower those standards and you'll be amazed at how successful you can be!

Speaking of successful, I had a potential epiphany on the bus yesterday. Now, I know that the search for happiness has really come into itself in recent years with the boom of The Secret and self-help sections everywhere, and while they're all part myth and part useful information in a variety of ratios, here's what I got: it's all about actions.

Given the world economic situation, the price of talk is at an all-time low, but actions, not the things we do in a moment but rather the things we do before that moment, are really what decides things for us.

I'm still trying to work through this one, so just bear with me. I don't want to get all into the Laws of the Universe (capital L, capital U) because fuck if I know 'em. In fact, this might all be a bunch of hooey, but let's shelve the self-doubt for a minute (God knows I had enough of that on the weekend) and see what we can see. All of the happiness philosophies of recent memory have had to do with thought and the way that those thoughts draw things to you. I'm-a call bullshit. Certainly these thoughts inspire us, but it's the actions we take as a result that brings change. You don't win the lottery because you think you will. You win the lottery cause you bought the damn ticket. Some examples, like that lottery one, are just common sense: if you go to the gym, you will become fit; if read a book, you will acquire knowledge about something. Or Paris Hilton. Whatever. It's the more abstract things, those ideas and desires that we don't normally think of as in our control via previous actions that have piqued my interest.

I cleaned my house this weekend. I have no clue why. While I like neatness, my general laziness usually takes over and things pile up. Yet, something in my head said that I needed to clean my house. That night, a group of us wanted to go out but couldn't decide on a restaurant in a specifically suggested neighborhood that happened to be mine, so we went to my place and had a great night. It was a very "If you build it they will come"situation. My dishes were washed so they were used, my bed was made and, while it wasn't put to good use like the dishes, it got someone who I'd love to have use it a mere few feet away...for a total of 45 minutesBUTTHEPOINTIS...it happened. I'm starting to see if you put yourself in the right situations, things will happen. Look at all those women who can't have a baby so they adopt and then - boom - they get pregnant. They started acting like moms so they became them. Look at me, somewhat wanting to find a better place but not really caring enough to investigate. I started browsing Craigslist every day and within a couple weeks I found this amazing place. Look at girls that flit from one relationship to the next without any time pining over anyone. Well, they're just slutty, but still...they're ACTING like sluts. Huh? Right?

So I dunno. I'm going to experiment with this for a while. Make my bed so it will be slept in; wash the wineglasses so they'll be shared. Acting like how I want it to be rather than how it is. Chores do not a social life make but perhaps they'll result in something amazing. I'll let you know how it goes.

I've been thinking about the term of endearment 'Honey'. To me, it speaks of an intimacy reserved for very specific relationships, specifically one for people in a long term relationship. Perhaps this is because it was my parents' choice when speaking to one another; 'Sweetie' was always used for us kids. Often they would use it in passing, almost as if it coincidentally happened to be both of their given names.

"Do you, Honey S., take Honey V. as your lawfully wedded...?" the rabbi would have said.

It was most often said with affection, but my favourite was always when they used it during an argument. My parents have never fought, not once. They argue, debate, disagree but never fight, and frequently, when in the midst of one of these 'discussions', they would toss out an emphatic Honey. Now this was not, as one might see on WASPy television shows, a way of ensuring us kids that this was not heading for family court. Rather, it was, in the nicest way possible, a way of saying, "Actually, you block head, I'm right."

Other times, it was said accompanied with a sigh. The adult sigh is, I feel, a gift with purchase when a couple has children. I have a childless aunt and uncle who I don't believe have sighed since the 70's. It's not as though my parents' sighing Honeys were always directly about us, but rather the state of their lives in general. Even if it was commiseration about work, the undertone was still, "Sucks about your job, honey. Would sure suck less if on top of that we didn't have these three schmucks running around our house."

I have many terms of endearment for friends.

'Sweetie' is the most general. It can be used for any female friend and, in theory, any mincing homo that would appreciate the female allusion. Sweetie is also the whitest term of endearment. You see it all over predominantly Caucasian shows. Think Friends, Desperate Housewives and Mad About You, the last of which pretty much jumped the shark on Sweetie.

'Baby' or 'Babe' is what I use for my nearest and dearest. While most of these have crept so far back on the back burner that I don't think we're on the same stove anymore, the original usage was meant to imply that we were closer than others. Sometimes this was true. Babe is frequently used when giving advice, counselling or even disputing, which makes it akin to 'Hon'. It is very important to note that Hon, while a diminutive of Honey, is by no means related to the topic of this discussion. It's like Jackson 5 Michael and post-nose Michael. Different entities entirely.

I suppose a paragraph on male terms of endearment is required. These are limited to your basic 'Dude' (usually a greeting or as a replacement for their name, always emphatic), 'Bud'/'Buddy' (only for nice guys) and a slew of Ebonics-inspired pronouns like 'Homeslice', 'Homeskillet' and 'Bizatch'.

'Lover' is always meant in jest and can be said to members of either sex. This can never be uttered to an actual lover otherwise there ain't gonna be no more lovin'. Trust me.

'Honey' is for the actual lover. Or so I imagine. My new thing when sizing someone up and judging whether or not we have a future with an adopted Himalayan whistle kid together, is to ask myself, "Do you see yourself calling him Honey?" Not like Honey-our-love-shall-light-an-eternal-flame-in-the-Kingdom-of-Heaven! More, How-was-your-day-Honey? or Honey-can-you-pick-up-some-goat-for dinner? or Honey-that-goddamned-whistle-kid-got-out-of-his-cage-again. If I cannot imagine asking him these questions, then there is no future. End of story. We may continue the lover-ing, perhaps even form a close friendship, sometimes even after the lovin' up is done with. But without a Honey dream, it ain't happening. And what if there is? In this case, I usually turn into a mute with no ability to actually be my delightful self, but rather make lame jokes about SNL or fidget with my sweater, which has all of a sudden become too small and oh god, why do I look like such a mess?!

Presuming we can actually get through my initial psychotic episode together, my beehive is rarin' to go. You may insert your own 'honeycomb' and 'dripping' innuendos now.

On Saturday night, I was hanging out with Seventeen Year Old, talking about a lot of troubling societal issues and cuddling. At one point he went to the bathroom, leaving me to my thoughts - a dangerous idea at the best of times. When he came back, I was staring at my hardwood floor and before he could say a word and without my eyes moving from the ground, this spewed forth from my mouth:

"You know what I just realized? I struggle a lot with this notion that I must curb any femininity in my nature, but the fact is I gain so much strength from it. I catch myself in these moments where I know I'm invoking the Feminine and I feel powerful because of it. We need to draw on both the Masculine and the Feminine to fully realize our full potential. Just think of the jock in the locker room who strives so hard to maintain a solely masculine output of energy and how much more he could be were he to actually let the Feminine work within him. This isn't simply an issue of gender or sexuality. I have straight male friends who are very much in touch with their Feminine and I've conversely known gay men who abhor any sign of femininity. I just think that's so wrong. The powers of Gender are not contingent on what sex organs we have. I mean, when I'm interacting with someone, it's not with my penis. I mean, it can be, but even that is only a fraction of what's really mingling in the situation. There are a million factors that make up each person and yet with all these potentially opposing qualities, everyone is just fundamentally looking for someone to complete them. I know that sounds cheesy, but it's true. It's like this million-piece puzzle that's near impossible to complete and then when we do, we get treated with such hate because our parts don't match the way theirs do. It's such a small part and it doesn't effect them at all. I don't think they understand that we're all just feeling the same thing. They can't get past the biology. And what are they so afraid of? That we'll rise up like some faggy nation of Israel against Pharaoh so they have to enslave us first? Don't they see that they should be gracious because they get to have something we don't in family, rather than to loathe our existence with every fiber of their beings? We each have entire universes contained in our souls and they hate us for what we don't have!"

I finished and looked up at him for a response. He paused, looked me in the eye and said, "You got all that from the floor?"

I was lying in bed last night when I realized that I have spent a good portion of the past few months analyzing how I should act rather than actually looking at the realities around me. In other words, I've been giving myself far to much credit for my life/fate/quoi-ever when really I have no control whatsoever.

In the last while, I've spent many hours debating how I should act as far as romantic/intimate/quoi-ever issues go, debating everything between celibacy, abstinence (they are different things), long-term relationships, friends with benefits, and just plain fooling around. And I've pretty much sought out all these things as well, which, if you're keeping track, is a hell of a lot of ventures in a mere, say, three months.

So I've decided to stop dealing with shoulds. They serve me no purpose. Now, this all came about because last night, whilst in bed, I suddenly thought, "I am not going to be someone that knows what it's like to be young and in love...at least in the requited, long-term sense." Needless to say, this was somewhat unsettling, but I decided to really examine this hypothesis and to my amazement, I think it's accurate, as far as I can foresee. I can picture myself a diehard romantic and all that jazz, but when it comes to actually visualizing myself with another person where we are both on the same wavelength, I just don't see it. The idea of that balance,/requitedness/quoi-ever just doesn't seem inevitable at this point in life, for me at least. I see so many guys that date for anywhere between a week and 3 months, and I guess they're happy during that time, but is 3 months really the best we can do? Actually, in my case, that would be the best I can do, as I've never been involved for more than 2 months. Numbers are irrelevant though. It's that sense of fluidity that can't be acheived in 3 months. Not dependance exactly, but habit perhaps. I observe how natural this appears to be for certain couples that I know, and I have no empathy for it whatsoever. I just don't see myself in something like that, for now at least. That should be depressing as all hell and yet it seems perfectly obvious now that I've thought of it.

K, not sure how to end this one, but I've got to go and figure out how not to look like a fool for Opera Workshop. See y'all at the after party...

of life...

wtf?

If you are in my intimate circle, you've probably heard my view on '7 out of 10' but for the rest of you, here is my philisophical perspective on that ratio.

7/10 is fine. It isn't outstanding or even great but nor is it necessarily negative (except for the fact that in and of itself it is not great). It's just ok. 7/10 has been the dominant ratio of my life for the past couple months. Between the parties and school and performance stress, it's just been a very emotional Middle-of-nowhere time. Perhaps it was that I was going at things half asses or just being rediculously negative but I noticed a change in how I was perceived, not by my closest friends but by more peripheral ones who would look at me with horrified amusement upon hearing one of my little quips, which as of late have been primarily aimed at one reknowned, soon-to-be-retired choirmaster/blow-hard. Oh, I heard that audible gasp and calm right down. I love him, but, c'mon...

Good news though! I think I finally snapped out of it last night, as I'm definitely an 8/10 this morning which I've not been for quite some time. Last night was rather cathartic as I really got back to talking with my nearest and dearest the way we all enjoy the most. That is having discussions that both challenge, inform, and amuse. It felt like an intellectual homecoming, as well as giving much emotional satisfaction/relief. In addition, I was witness to the first public displays of affection between two of my peeps that were just so natural. In fact I was flanked by two couples and yet didn't feel like a spare tire whatsoever, as I often have in the past. This reassures me that I truly am in the romantic mindset that I have been claiming, as one who is content to observe rather than participate for now, and that brings with it all kinds of freedom.

We take a lot of things for granted. This is not news. Mostly, though, we tend to think of food, clothing, shelter, etc. as examples of things we take for granted. I'm going to present another example that is never stated and is yet so obvious: Truth.

Not like conspiracy theory / The ____ is out there truth. Just small things. Like recycling. This is what I know of recycling: every week, we have two blue boxes full of newspaper, cans, and plastic goods that get picked up. That's it. That's all the concrete proof I have ever seen as to the existence of recycling. Sure, they made a swell little video on Sesame Street about aluminum cans getting compressed into large compressed aluminum can cubes, but does that actually happen? I don't know! I've never heard of a field trip to the recycling plant nor do I know of anyone who claims to work there.

Now without getting too deep into the concept of belief vs. truth, I believe that recycling exists because I am told it does, but really I have no frickin' clue what happens to our used goods. And where is all this 'energy' they're making with it either? Sure, brown paper is often stamped with "Made from 100% recycled paper", but used cans? bottles? Never hear a lick about them.

I don't really believe that recycling is a sham, but it really does make one wonder: what kind of sick individual would someone write a blog entry on recycling conspiracy?