Wrong wrong right- episode one

For as long as I can remember, I have always been drawn to the wrong kinds of men.  Coming from as conventional a family as mine, I quickly learned:

“If they like him, he’s likely broken.”

The rose colored glasses didn’t work for me.  I knew what I want, but didn’t know what I want.

I want what I want.

I never stop daydreaming.  In my mind I’m always dancing dancing… in that dress in the moonlight.. waiting for my dancecart to be filled by this amazing brutal prince.

Perhaps it’s psychological scarring.  Abuse can do that to you.  But the strange thing is that even though you know it was wrong and detest that it happened, you find yourself craving another form of it.  The key, like everything it seems, is moderation.  You become this twisted version of reality.. drawn by sadism, masochism, subordination and insuborniation, order and disorder, etctera etctera.

It may make no sense besides nonsense… but if it doesn’t, then feel the misfortune of being fortunate enough to be fucked up enough have a greater sense of understanding.

Pavlov proved that given the proper variables, with time, you can get the trained response you desire.  All people are capable of the most intensive forms of manipulation.  Some use obvious means, but the truly great ones are the ones that mindfuck you.  They are the diseases you cannot free yourself from.. but you wouldn’t want to if you tried.

Weak men succumb to strong women by nature.  I like to toy with the idea.. for I do not want a weak man.  A man willing to worship me aimlessly holds little appeal to me.  I want a man that will buck back at me at the same time as he holds the torch.  I want someone who will press my buttons and get under my skin.  I think that intelligence is the most attractive quality anyone can ever possess… and that it is too often neglected.

I want the man that’s too busy with work than to need to be babysat 24/7.  I want the man that will take a few moments, and look up from the computer screen and tell me that despite that he’s working like he is, that he still thinks I’m beautiful.  I want stolen kisses in the rain.  I want flowers “just because” and not just because you told him to send you them just because.

I want a man who can get a hint without having to give him one.  I want someone perceptive and can fuck like a minx.  I want someone who isn’t afraid to be seen with me in public.. who isn’t afraid to entertain forbidden notions there…

I want a man who’s going to put me on a pedestal an build me up, take  a sledgehammer to it, then rebuild it back up again…

Wrong wrong.. but oh so right.  Yes indeed. Yes indeed… please please please.

Normalacy is in the eye of the beholder

Inspired by a quote from a tumblelog via Maia Bittner:

Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.-― Albert Camus

Enter another series of life story interjections.

A few months back I lived in this hellhole also known as the armpit of California or Bakersfield to the locals. I have never fit in anywhere. I’m not complaining at all. However when trying to get a job somewhere, specifically in the middle of nowhere, you need to look as non-abrasive as possible.

Bakersfield is the epicenter of not only nothing, but an undeserved “better than you” conservative nightmare. If you are not from there, you are snubbed. Even worse if you look anything less than unfashionable lemming. Not to say that everyone from that locale is that way.. but, well, there’s never going to be a major runway show coming out of there.

In an yet another failed attempt to “act normal,” my friend John rolled his eyes. He’d told me that I should downplay my attire for a day out job hunting. I wore a blue collared button up shirt, khacki’s, a plaid scarf, and a brown houndstooth jacket. It was business professional in my mind. However, that was enough to merit

“Oh you have it all wrong. Better, but still no. No one dresses [in this town] like Audrey Hepburn Jena. I mean, look at that coat. It looks like you robbed her grave for it…”

I chortled. Ah I love gay men. Even indirectly, the best compliments come from them. John is a character of himself. Far from normal, but appears it from the outside. He’s not only accepted in the biggoted area there, but welcomed with open arms. For him, acting normal, even if he isn’t, comes easy.

Months later, let’s go back to my last visit to my beloved San Diego. This time I was in the Marina district visiting a lover. Downtown San Diego, as many of you know, is full of that standard “normal.” You can operate well under the radar if you want to… but not me. As he did, quite easily when I wasn’t around. I lived in San Diego for years, but never fully felt like I fit in there either.

I take into account many different fashions and don’t really have a classification. I’m a bit of a chameleon. I have been referred to as a Madonna on more than one occassion. I can’t stand to look at the same face in the mirror for too long. I am addicted to buying hair dye. I’m indecisive. It’s what I do when I stress.

(What’s funny, is that I don’t even think I look that weird.)

For someone like me, to be “normal” is not only work, but it’s damn hard work sometimes. It’s not that I don’t know what society deems as socially acceptable or that I don’t want to fit in. To some degree, it’s human nature to want to.

It’s a double edged sword. You grow up being told to be different. You have to do your best to stand out from the crowd. Then when you do, you are snubbed.

Enter church. Sunday morning Catholocism. My father… the ever vigilante. I didn’t want to go for a colon cleansing. However, after some bucking, I decided to bite the bullet and take one for the team. I was dressed like a Pinup, but essentially conservative. I do not agree with everything being said in the service, but observed and took notes like the normal journalist. When it came time for the Our Father, everyone in the church will hold hands and pray this one prayer as a unified sect. The woman standing next to me was an elderly woman. She snubbed me.

Flashback yet again to when I had my son baptised. A single mother, but doing what I was brought up to be the best thing. I went to a class for parents getting the sacrament. What they want to do is educate you as to why you are getting these things done for your child, and educate you on some of the basics.

Ten years of Catholic school rhetoric. Of course, I was the one to answer nearly every question. The deacon came around to ask everyone about the names on the certificate. He asked the father’s name of my son- whom went MIA immediately upon me telling him I was PG. This was not necessarily my fault, but oh man did I get to hear it. Again, I was snubbed.

However still, despite the nose turning that I had gotten when I did step 1 for my son, when I got married later, I attempted to yet again try and do this “normal” thing. I went to church with my family. I did the aerobics.. not one church besides the one I grew up in, I didn’t get snubbed.

In transverse, I have had a few great moments in not being normal. They far outweigh the bad ones when you think about it.

I was in Venice last summer, when I nearly moved applying for a gaming company. (My housing arrangement fell through so I didn’t end up taking that job unfortunately) I had on an animal print top, black capris, some black and white polka dot pumps with red heels, a red ribbon round my neck, chandelier earrings, and what I call my “Lucille Ball” hair wrap. To me, this wasn’t anything majorly different. And in Venice, even more so.

I was walking around on the canals headed to my interview though, and needed to make sure I was going the right way. I saw someone watering their garden outside. The woman told me that I was indeed going the right way, and I thanked her and carried on. I heard her utter the words

“Desperately Seeking Susan…”

Moments later, she rushed up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. She wanted to know if she could take a picture with me. My immediate reaction was

“I don’t look that weird do I? I mean this is Venice…”

She said

“No no no. You look great. I love it all!”

The whole day went like that, and I was offered that job. When my living situation changed, I had to tell them that I was taking a class and unfortunately could not take them up on the offer. They said that they were disappointed and gave me 2 weeks to change my mind! I wish I could have taken it, and even now, I still consider trying to find an arrangement to pick up that job.

Another day of applying was similar. I get told I look like a movie star. I’m not quite sure why. This happens in spurts. Even though it does seem to be a reoccurance, it always shocks me a bit.

But if not being normal is wrong, well.. a majority of the time, I’ll leave it to those people who can pull it off without worry. Pretending when you’re not on a stage? Fuggetaboutit!

Dear self, stfu

My morning started late. My evening ended in morning, and I hit the snooze… or so I’d thought. I either have chronic insomnia or bouts like this one. However, after yesterday, and having gotten more on it than I have in months, I think I was allowed somewhat of a cookie.
It wasn’t incredibly late when I got out of bed, but it felt it at first. I have been consistently pushing myself to get up at normal hours. I want a conventional office job, and need to get off owl schedule.

Yesterday I was out for 12 hrs pounding the pavement like Sarah Lee does cake. I made some real progress though. Next week will hopefully be hectic in some ways. Today I made my twice a week rounds with the staffing agencies I belong to. I sent my resume to a branch of a staffing agency I was registered with previously when I lived in hell. It’s not adaquately networked though, so I have to apply and interview at each branch if they find something for me. It’s kind of lame, but ah well.

Thirty minutes later, I got a phone call about a possible job 30 mins from me. I have an initial assessment interview tommorrow morning. If that goes well, I will be going to an interview at the location. Fingers crossed that it does.

Positives though.. multiple phone calls. I have some leads that I will be talking to over the next few days. Hopefully I will be gainfully employed again within the next week or 2. Seems promising.

Last week, alot of things happened. I won’t be writing about them anywhere within the public realm if at all. It left me like a deer in headlights. People tell you that it’s ok to talk about things when they’re happening… unless you are one of a few select people, I have chosen the option to stfu. I have found that it’s the best advice someone can ever give you really. It sounds harsh. But realistically, no one wants to hear it.

Now I may sound like a bitch here, but telling people your major drama does nothing but create more and make people run from you… it doesn’t matter if it’s self imposed crap or its stuff that happened to you. Keep… your mouth… shut. And if you can’t.. you’re allowed to vent to a handful of close friends that you have a mutual understanding that you can do it to without them going over the deep end on you.

This is what I do, and the main reason I have a special page privied to a select close kin. It gives me an outlet for the people that I can talk to about things of that nature, and everyone is happy. And even in that page, it still has 2 deafcon levels of privacy.

When you can’t get a hold of anyone, or if you want to spare everyone the headache of listening to your vent tangent, there still is hope. If you have aim, I reccommend Smarterchild for those such instances. That, and the responses you get will more than likely cheer you up. Consider it free therapy.

Sure people tell you that bottling up emotion is bad. They also tell you that showing emotion is a wonderful thing, but the second that you show an emotion other than happiness, there is something wrong with you. It’s a dangerous line to tow. Just trust me, you don’t want to go there.

My life is extremely “colorful.” It is a roller coaster of ups and downs. Everyone has them. We’re programmed as humans though to say that we care, but in the back of our heads, we’re selfish.

There’s an invisible line in the sand about what you are allowed to talk about drama wise. You have to be socially savy and know where it is. Here’s a true acceptable scenario:

So.. once upon a time there was a guy who I used to date that had a psycho friend that didn’t like it much. She didn’t like that he spent time with me instead of her when we dated. She was single.

One night she went emotional and psycho on me. I, of course, tried being friends with her initially and she was fine before the friend and I dated. He thought she was being immature but didn’t do much about the situation. We broke up. I couldn’t handle the friend issue. I wanted a no drama relationship… or well.. yeah.

Months later, I moved. The ex contacts me because we have been friends for years. He’s all frustrated because now it’s the exact opposite situation. He’s single. She’s not. She’s blowing him off for the significant other. Oh, and she’s gay now or bisexual.

That’s the kind of drama people don’t mind hearing about.. especially after the fact because it’s funny and scandalous.

I love hearing about this. A lot of people do. There’s magazines devoted to this stuff because of it. I’m used to being a virtual bartender of sorts. I hear tons of stories like this and keep em locked away.

However most of the time with really bad stuff? The cheapest and easiest thing for you from both a career and everyday social standpoint? If you do not want to commit social suicide, learn this lesson really fast and take my advice on this one- just tell yourself to “stfu.” It will save you money as well as tons of additional drama for yourself, your relationships will be that much better, and the person you vent to won’t have to worry about wrinkles over someone else.

Yes, I’m a hypocrite and unique just like everyone else. So are you. Admit the harsh reality of it and let’s all act normal like because we all know it’s true but won’t openly reveal it.

/changes subject

And I have a monkey and his name is Pierre.