I like to temper my political rantings with something a little more frivolous, so I thought I would take a look at my dating record with some of the weirdest, cheesiest (literally for one ungraceful fellow) and neurotic bastards to ever walk the streets. I can't say that I have dated a ton of guys, but the majority of them have been freakish at best. The worst (best) ones never having a second date, but left me with plenty of comedic material to choke a large farm animal (which a couple of them were.) The odd part is, I don't find very many people attractive, it's a curious problem to have. I tend to like a guy with some unique or pronounced physical feature. It could be anything really, like crazy hair or a very prominent eyebrow ridge, like a neanderthal (I really like this and have no idea why. It must be a holdover from my ancestral past.) Other than that, it all lies in the personality aspects. Attraction for me is 99% mental, which I think is hard for some to grasp. Any 2 people can hump like animals in the zoo instinctively, but it's that mental connection that sets humans apart. The elusive "mind fuck" is a lot harder to achieve, than a quick orgasm (probably faked on the woman's part) in the stall of a nightclub bathroom. One thing I can proudly proclaim is that I have never used men to validate my existence or some wavering self-esteem issue. Anyone I chose to spend my time with, intimately, merited it on some level.
But where to start this egregious gravy train of depravity? There were so many deliciously bad dates and crazy guys. Let's start with the line cook from one of the shitty restaurants I worked at. We'll call him "Sh-rian." We were work friends for a quite a while before we ever went out. He had a girlfriend (who hated me) I had a boyfriend and so on. They eventually broke up the same time my boyfriend and I took a break, so he finally asked me out. At work, he was seemingly normal, but Rule Number 1 of the restaurant biz, nobody that works there is normal. This proved undeniably true as time went on. It wasn't bad at first, he was funny, nice, and could hold a conversation, but he couldn't kiss for anything, something I was willing, but shouldn't have overlooked. It's too good an indicator of compatibility. He was going to college full-time, so he wasn't going to stay a lowly line cook forever. But that all changed the night we decided to play a seemingly innocent game of Trivial Pursuit in his parents basement. Being my usual charming self, I engaged in a little pre-game trash talk about how I was going to kick his ass at this game, which he quickly refuted with a resounding and zealous "Yeah right," with an apparent air of smugness that would later come back to disgrace him. (Now at this point, I feel I must interject something, as I said he was going to college whilst working as a line cook, with all of the other line cooks having that as their main profession. So I think he thought a little highly of himself, thinking he was better than every else at the restaurant. He also was one of those guys that because he got straight B's in high school thought he was smarter than every one else too. He had big fish in a little pond syndrome. Complete pseudo-intellectual.) Anyway, I proceeded to kick his ass as promised and he was clearly emasculated and just plain pissed. I have never been one to let someone win, it's just not in my nature. I do have an animalistic competitive streak that's hard to quell. Anyway, he pretty much begged for a rematch, to which I could not refuse, it was too pitiful or something. So we played again, and again I started winning. At this point I made a conscious, albeit, ridiculous decision to throw the game. I was going to start answering the questions incorrectly, but somehow what I thought were incorrect guesses turned out to be the right answers and I widened the gap even more. The board game stars were just aligned against him from the jump. It became very tense and uncomfortable. I just wanted to stop, but he wouldn't relent. So I just won as fast as I could, so we could do something else. After it seemed like he was just as relieved as I, but ahh, no. For the next 3 nights in a row he made me play Trivial Pursuit with him. And I kid you not, I beat him every single time, even when I was trying to throw the game. Finally, mercifully, he wanted to play something else. He challenged me to a game of pool, which I knew I sucked at. I really am bad, there's no denying that, and I was playing badly. He was winning the entire time and his whole demeanor changed. Smiling, laughing, practically giddy and wholly cavalier. But then, when he only had 2 balls left, the 5 ball and that self-righteous little asshole the 8 ball. He missed the 5 shot and accidentally sunk the 8 ball instead, making me the incredulous winner by default. Well, that was pretty much it for me and "Sh-rian." He broke it off soon after. I knew it was coming, that couldn't be good for such an insecure guy's ego. At least I get to say that someone once broke up with me over losing (repeatedly) at Trivial Pursuit (an apropos title for our relationship.) But it is the, I'm sure, lovely ladies that followed that I feel bad for because Trivial Pursuit wasn't the only thing he was bad at.
Moving right along, let's take a look at someone I am only going to call "The Virgin." Yes, that's right. He was 28 and honestly, very good looking. He looked like an asexual Jim Morrison. But God, was this kid messed up. He lived in his mom's basement for starter's, smoked a lot of weed, which at one point when I said I couldn't be his girlfriend, he said he would give it up for me. (That is romantic. Fuck.) He had the emotional capacity of a rutabaga, and maybe that's even giving him too much credit. He was addicted to video games and had a weekly standing appointment to play D & D. But I mean really when you live in your mom's basement and have a part-time job folding girl's jeans on the night shift at Holister Co. because your vacuous stares would scare customers away, what else could you possibly be into? I should have known better, when I met him at Macomb "Mall," where he pretended to work at American Eagle just to talk to me. He once left me this crazy voicemail, where he used a computerized voice changer to pretend he was the St. Clair Shores Public Library message service telling me I was going to be in big trouble if I didn't return my severely overdue library book. What the fuck? (For the record, I have never been to the SCP Library.) Whenever we would even get slightly amorous, even when he initiated it, he would end up recoiling in terror. Yeah, needless to say, that didn't last too long. Oh, and he wore a lot of scarves.
Then there was the absolute worst/funniest date, maybe in the history of dates. This guy; let's call him "Sh-ominic" was a bouncer at restaurant who liked to suck on moist, limp stogies. He was completely bald with a shitty black goatee that really rounded out his dented melon-like head. I am pretty sure he had man-boobs and slightly smelled. Now, you may be asking yourself, why would a fine, upstanding gal, like myself, go out with such an obvious, cretinous douche bag? Long story short, my boyfriend had just broken up with me which left me really depressed and I would pretty much do anything to repress that literal aching in my chest for any extended period of time. So I reluctantly agreed to go on a date with this ape-man (which I feel kind of bad saying because I really like apes.) He told me to dress up because we were going to some fancy restaurant, that I can't quite recall now. Anyway, right before I was going to leave to meet him there, he tells me that he couldn't pick up his check for some odd reason and if it was all right if we went to some place more low-key (low-key=cheap.) Honestly, I didn't even care in the first place where we went, or even if he showed up at that point, so I said sure, wherever is fine, but I didn't have time to change so off to Applebee's I went, terribly overdressed. But he didn't have to worry because his idea of dressing up was baggy carpenter jeans and an ill-fitting sheer baby blue polo (that I would hear all about later) stretched over his beer gut. The evening was off to an auspicious start. At first it wasn't so incredibly horrendous, I can hold a conversation with just about anyone, but as the night wore on, and more and more light beer got drained down his gullet, he kept interrupting the conversation to check some arbitrary sports score on the bar T.V. or to let out some sort of primal grunt when a player missed a basket. In between grunts and "Hold on a second's" he did manage to reveal that he likes to smoke opium laced joints and coach peewee football. Simultaneously? Perhaps. Then at one point when he was eating his hot ham and liquid cheese sandwich or heart attack between bread, he squished his sandwich just so, that the stream of molten cheese shot out onto his very classy polo shirt. He flew off the handle, cursing himself repeatedly for being so clumsy and such a slob. He was desperately trying to get the stain out for what seemed like hours, continually getting more irate. "I got this shirt at Structure, this was a really expensive shirt. [$29.95?] I can't believe I did this. This is so embarrassing. God, I'm an idiot. I really like this shirt..." and so on. I wanted to leave so badly. Finally, after I scarfed my Honey-Glazed Chicken as fast as I could possibly swallow, we left. We got out to the parking lot, where he then asked me if I have ever ridden in a Jeep Wrangler before. And I was so impressed. A Jeep Wrangler, oh fuck, a car with plastic windows, that is exciting. You are one fine hunk of man, with your cheese stain, Jeep Wrangler and troglodyte mentality. But the ride in the Jeep would prove to be the most rewarding part of the evening. We started to talk inevitably about past relationships where I said "I guess I am confused about relationships at this point. I don't know what I want anymore," or something to that affect. Then came the part that made the entire disaster of night worthwhile. He, in all earnest, asked me the following question; "So do you think you might be a lesbian?" Under normal circumstances I would have tried not laugh, but it was too hilarious and I lost all control, I just laughed viscerally right in his face. Yet he seemed completely unfazed by this. In my head I was thinking, "After tonight, I just may be heading in that direction." After that, I asked him to take me back to my car and I ran out of the Jeep Wrangler so fast without so much as a handshake. But on the bright side, at least the sandwich got off. Needless to say, I never took his calls again, but a few months later, my friend and I were out and saw him working the door at the restaurant he bounced at. I intentionally crossed the street to avoid him, but alas, he spotted me. Later that night I received a string of phone calls from him, which went on throughout the weekend. Finally on Sunday night, I answered the phone, after like the 15th call. All he says is "Bitch" in this hardly audible voice and then hangs up. I laughed for like an hour. I didn't think this guy could get any funnier, and yet he showed me up again.
There have been a few others, not quite as insanely ridiculous as "Sh-ominic," but still noteworthy. There was "Sh-max" who was an all right guy, forgiving the fully acoustic serenade of Led Zeppelin's "Over the Hills and Far Away" he intently sang to me, but when we started making out in his room, he said he had to tell me something. Oh no, no good can come of this. He then drops this little gem, "I just wanted to let you know that my 'size' might not be as big as you are used to." What the fuck?!? Who says that? How would he know anyway? I pretended to be nauseous, (maybe I wasn't pretending) just so I could get the fuck out of there. Then there was "Mark McGrath." I don't remember his real name, but he looked just like the lead singer of the shitty band Sugar Ray. When I found out his favorite movie was "How High" after quite possibly the longest belch I have ever witnessed, I knew it could never be. I distinctly recall driving somewhere when a creepy, scraggly guy in the molester van next to me held up a home-made sign, that he obviously uses often, that said "I like your tits." At least he was succinct. Or the valet parking attendant that just stepped out of an 80's cop drama with his full blond beard and gold-hoop earring who asked me where he knew me from. I had never seen him before, but he kept persisting until he finally exclaimed: "I know where I know you from. Don't you work at Stiletto's?" With so many fucking weirdos out there, it still amazes me that I ever found any normal ones. This handful of head cases were just the tip of the psycho iceberg, but they were definitely the most horribly memorable. At least I can still have a few laughs at their expense. So here's to you neurotic ex-boyfriends.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Anatomy of Oppression
I have been thinking a lot lately about Proposition 8 in California, mainly because it has been splashed all over the headlines, but also because there have been many documentary films on the subject playing on Demand. It has become a hot-button issue, particularly because you would think a progressive, democratic-voting state like California, home to what many consider a LGBT flagship city to be a little more empathetic to the plight of gay marriage (or at least not care enough to vote against it.) It seems strange, but sort of expected that "marriage advocacy groups" from other states would even care what California does with their laws and their people, but it seems that they had gotten their point across. Now with the possibility of overturning the law for good looming ahead, things could get even stickier. I can't see the groups that advocated Prop 8 in the first place just giving in. And if the thousands of abhorrent comments after the Yahoo! News articles on the subject are any indicator, it's going to be a long road to forge.
I guess I am not sure why public opinion is so unfavorable to the thought of gay marriage. Four other states have already passed it without too much fanfare. The fact that Prop 8 did pass in California (even though it should have easily been defeated) leads me to believe there was some other driving force behind the bill. In the movie "8: The Mormon Proposition" it reports that the LDS Church spent around 22 million dollars to get Prop 8 passed in California, mostly from donations from their parishioners. 22 million dollars. Let that sink in a little. Over the course of just under a year, they managed to raise 22 million dollars, all in the name of disenfranchisement. This wasn't 22 million dollars to build a new school, feed starving peoples of third world countries, start community outreach programs for at risk youths, or money to build a homeless shelter, this was purely money to take a fundamental constitutional right away from tens of thousands of people. To me, that's sick. 22 million dollars that could have went to helping the impoverished went to preventing the happiness of those whom they've never even met. To be honest, I think Jesus would have been disappointed.
Besides the money issue, there is that whole "hate" thing. By now allowing gay marriage in all 50 states, not just California it breeds a hatred and contempt for the LGBT community. It implies that that "Yes we put up with your sinful ways because this is America and we have all that freedom crap, blah, blah, blah, but we, deep down, don't agree with what you're doing and think there should be limits to your excess." To me that's the nicest message it sends, I think to others who already want to see being gay as "wrong" or a "blasphemous choice" then I think it tells that it is okay to hate this entire group of people because they are different and that difference may just rub off on you! Sometimes when I am feeling low about the state of affairs in the U.S., I like to think about one of Freud's defense mechanisms. A little gem called Reaction Formation. "In psychoanalytic theory, reaction formation is a defensive process in which anxiety-producing or unacceptable emotions and impulses are mastered by exaggeration (hypertrophy) of the directly opposing tendency." So basically when someone, has a subconscious emotional response to a stimuli that the person (due to religion or upbringing) or society may deem unacceptable, they tend to go overboard in thinking the exact opposite. For example, if a person, let's say a right wing Republican, often speaks out against a certain cause, again and again, lets say gay marriage, some, let's say one with half a brain, might say that he is using reaction formation as a defense mechanism to cover-up his latent homosexual tendencies, let's say Senator Larry Craig. I thought it was just me who seemed to notice the disproportionate number of closeted gay Republicans in the U.S. congress until they finally made a documentary on it; "Outrage." The stupid part is, I don't think people would care as much if they were just honest from jump street. It's the lying and the hypocrisy that makes me angry. Who cares if they are LGBT, if they do a good job as our representative? It's the same with gays in the military. Why do I care what someone, who is doing an extremely dangerous job to protect all of us whiny Americans back home, (that I would personally never even consider) does in their free time? I don't care if they like to corn hole endangered species in their spare time, as long as that means I don't have to go and fight. (Besides the whole, it's okay to kill civilians as part of my job, but having sex with a man, now that's disgusting!)
Another interesting point I would like to offer is the minority groups that are against gay marriage. I find this incredibly hard to swallow. African Americans, Native Americans, Mexicans, immigrants, and women were all disenfranchised at one point or another in our American history and still are to varying degrees today. Even though we have made important (albeit seemingly obvious) strides to correct these oppressive forces, like Emancipation, Suffrage, Women's Liberation and the Civil Rights Movement, it seems like we are going 2 steps back sometimes. It's like none of the monumental occasions ever even happened; ancient history. We should feel some brother/sisterhood with the LGBT movement, for without people like them that stood up for our rights not so long ago, I would not have the right to vote and would still have to take orders from my husband in order to be a "good little wife." African American marriages weren't recognized by the U.S. at one time too, slaves didn't need to marry, they were commodities like cattle or tobacco. But deep down we knew this repugnant view wasn't right, there is no way any human being should be treated like this, so unforgivably mistreated. At another high point in American history, interracial marriage wasn't allowed. We look back on that now and see how ridiculous that was. So I find it hard to see why any minority group wouldn't side with allowing gay marriage. They have been there, stood in that exact same spot before them, but yet why can't they see? Are they honestly that naive to think that somehow their struggle doesn't parallel their own? Are the too steeped in blind faith and literal interpretations of select parts of the Bible? Are they just being duped by the age-old white male power structure that even after all these years still seems to rule the country? Or is it something more visceral? Some sort of subconscious need to oppress another group, as they have been oppressed. An involuntary need to feel like they are on the inside looking out now, a twisted Stockholm Syndrome, where the oppressed emulates the oppressor. It is unnerving to me to think that old stodgy white males still have a certain power over us, they control the largest corporations, the banks, the government, not that much seems to have changed. Every now and again they throw us a little scrap to keep us just complacent enough not to up rise.
Marriage between any 2 human beings is a fundamental right. A popular vote can't take away a fundamental right. I think we should start an initiative that says all people with tattoos are not allowed to marry because they have desecrated the body that God gave them and are no longer worthy of the sacrament of marriage. Once that passes with all the money we throw at it we can start making all kinds of judgemental, arbitrary laws. Prop 8 should have been overturned no matter what, even if the judge is gay, that doesn't mean Prop 8 was ever constitutional. When a Republican appointed by George W. Bush to be Solicitor General says Proposition 8 is unconstitutional, that should make people take notice. Here is a man not letting his emotional feelings about gay marriage, whatever they may be, or his political party's, get in the way of the law. Being gay is not wrong, or sinful, or anything really. It shouldn't define a person, but with so much degradation and hate, it is doing just that. Being gay is not a sickness, a contagious disease, or a choice. Gay people are actually born that way. Many scientific studies have been done on this hypothesis and there have been some conclusive findings. It comes down to the levels of prenatal hormones in the womb during brain development in the fetus. They found statistically significant hormone level differences in those of gay males versus straight males. The AMA, APA and AASW all find that sexual orientation is not a treatable medical condition, it is just an individual variation, just like blue eyes or brown hair. Gay and lesbian sex has been going on for thousands of years. I laugh every time some high-brow asshole says he is going to a symposium. It does occur in the animal kingdom as well. One notable species; the bonobos often have male on male and female on female sex, as well as free for all orgies to pass the time (mainly in captivity.) So it is not unnatural or even a new concept, but gay marriage isn't about sex. It's about love. Why can't 2 people that love each other make an official, state-recognized commitment? Why do they have to settle for those bullshit "civil unions?" Those are just ludicrous. You can't take our word "marriage," but we'll throw you a bone to get you off our backs, here, have a civil union. People sure do have some audacity to go around telling others what they can and can't do, especially those same people who believe in a "smaller government."
Religion has a big part to play in all of this. For as much good as religion, like helping the needy, comforting the weary, or giving some kind of spiritual guidance to reformed inmates, they do equally as much or more detriment to society in the long run. The teachings of Jesus were very good in theory, just like Karl Marx and Communism, but in practice, it loses something in translation. People can too easily convolute and twist the lessons around to fit their own indulgent and often nefarious purposes. Religions tend to harbor archaic and often dangerous attitudes about "outsiders," even though that's exactly the kind of thing that Jesus preached against and was to a certain degree. I tend not to trust huge corporations whose only interest is to bilk money out of me. I sometimes like to think about the people at the top of these huge corporate heaps. Do they actually believe the shit they are peddling or do they just sit in their mahogany lined offices and laugh?
I hope that soon, the LGBT community will enjoy all the rights that are given to all other Americans. And if the politicians up in Washington stopped politicking for just a second, maybe they could follow their moral compass, and do what they know in their hearts and by law is right.
I guess I am not sure why public opinion is so unfavorable to the thought of gay marriage. Four other states have already passed it without too much fanfare. The fact that Prop 8 did pass in California (even though it should have easily been defeated) leads me to believe there was some other driving force behind the bill. In the movie "8: The Mormon Proposition" it reports that the LDS Church spent around 22 million dollars to get Prop 8 passed in California, mostly from donations from their parishioners. 22 million dollars. Let that sink in a little. Over the course of just under a year, they managed to raise 22 million dollars, all in the name of disenfranchisement. This wasn't 22 million dollars to build a new school, feed starving peoples of third world countries, start community outreach programs for at risk youths, or money to build a homeless shelter, this was purely money to take a fundamental constitutional right away from tens of thousands of people. To me, that's sick. 22 million dollars that could have went to helping the impoverished went to preventing the happiness of those whom they've never even met. To be honest, I think Jesus would have been disappointed.
Besides the money issue, there is that whole "hate" thing. By now allowing gay marriage in all 50 states, not just California it breeds a hatred and contempt for the LGBT community. It implies that that "Yes we put up with your sinful ways because this is America and we have all that freedom crap, blah, blah, blah, but we, deep down, don't agree with what you're doing and think there should be limits to your excess." To me that's the nicest message it sends, I think to others who already want to see being gay as "wrong" or a "blasphemous choice" then I think it tells that it is okay to hate this entire group of people because they are different and that difference may just rub off on you! Sometimes when I am feeling low about the state of affairs in the U.S., I like to think about one of Freud's defense mechanisms. A little gem called Reaction Formation. "In psychoanalytic theory, reaction formation is a defensive process in which anxiety-producing or unacceptable emotions and impulses are mastered by exaggeration (hypertrophy) of the directly opposing tendency." So basically when someone, has a subconscious emotional response to a stimuli that the person (due to religion or upbringing) or society may deem unacceptable, they tend to go overboard in thinking the exact opposite. For example, if a person, let's say a right wing Republican, often speaks out against a certain cause, again and again, lets say gay marriage, some, let's say one with half a brain, might say that he is using reaction formation as a defense mechanism to cover-up his latent homosexual tendencies, let's say Senator Larry Craig. I thought it was just me who seemed to notice the disproportionate number of closeted gay Republicans in the U.S. congress until they finally made a documentary on it; "Outrage." The stupid part is, I don't think people would care as much if they were just honest from jump street. It's the lying and the hypocrisy that makes me angry. Who cares if they are LGBT, if they do a good job as our representative? It's the same with gays in the military. Why do I care what someone, who is doing an extremely dangerous job to protect all of us whiny Americans back home, (that I would personally never even consider) does in their free time? I don't care if they like to corn hole endangered species in their spare time, as long as that means I don't have to go and fight. (Besides the whole, it's okay to kill civilians as part of my job, but having sex with a man, now that's disgusting!)
Another interesting point I would like to offer is the minority groups that are against gay marriage. I find this incredibly hard to swallow. African Americans, Native Americans, Mexicans, immigrants, and women were all disenfranchised at one point or another in our American history and still are to varying degrees today. Even though we have made important (albeit seemingly obvious) strides to correct these oppressive forces, like Emancipation, Suffrage, Women's Liberation and the Civil Rights Movement, it seems like we are going 2 steps back sometimes. It's like none of the monumental occasions ever even happened; ancient history. We should feel some brother/sisterhood with the LGBT movement, for without people like them that stood up for our rights not so long ago, I would not have the right to vote and would still have to take orders from my husband in order to be a "good little wife." African American marriages weren't recognized by the U.S. at one time too, slaves didn't need to marry, they were commodities like cattle or tobacco. But deep down we knew this repugnant view wasn't right, there is no way any human being should be treated like this, so unforgivably mistreated. At another high point in American history, interracial marriage wasn't allowed. We look back on that now and see how ridiculous that was. So I find it hard to see why any minority group wouldn't side with allowing gay marriage. They have been there, stood in that exact same spot before them, but yet why can't they see? Are they honestly that naive to think that somehow their struggle doesn't parallel their own? Are the too steeped in blind faith and literal interpretations of select parts of the Bible? Are they just being duped by the age-old white male power structure that even after all these years still seems to rule the country? Or is it something more visceral? Some sort of subconscious need to oppress another group, as they have been oppressed. An involuntary need to feel like they are on the inside looking out now, a twisted Stockholm Syndrome, where the oppressed emulates the oppressor. It is unnerving to me to think that old stodgy white males still have a certain power over us, they control the largest corporations, the banks, the government, not that much seems to have changed. Every now and again they throw us a little scrap to keep us just complacent enough not to up rise.
Marriage between any 2 human beings is a fundamental right. A popular vote can't take away a fundamental right. I think we should start an initiative that says all people with tattoos are not allowed to marry because they have desecrated the body that God gave them and are no longer worthy of the sacrament of marriage. Once that passes with all the money we throw at it we can start making all kinds of judgemental, arbitrary laws. Prop 8 should have been overturned no matter what, even if the judge is gay, that doesn't mean Prop 8 was ever constitutional. When a Republican appointed by George W. Bush to be Solicitor General says Proposition 8 is unconstitutional, that should make people take notice. Here is a man not letting his emotional feelings about gay marriage, whatever they may be, or his political party's, get in the way of the law. Being gay is not wrong, or sinful, or anything really. It shouldn't define a person, but with so much degradation and hate, it is doing just that. Being gay is not a sickness, a contagious disease, or a choice. Gay people are actually born that way. Many scientific studies have been done on this hypothesis and there have been some conclusive findings. It comes down to the levels of prenatal hormones in the womb during brain development in the fetus. They found statistically significant hormone level differences in those of gay males versus straight males. The AMA, APA and AASW all find that sexual orientation is not a treatable medical condition, it is just an individual variation, just like blue eyes or brown hair. Gay and lesbian sex has been going on for thousands of years. I laugh every time some high-brow asshole says he is going to a symposium. It does occur in the animal kingdom as well. One notable species; the bonobos often have male on male and female on female sex, as well as free for all orgies to pass the time (mainly in captivity.) So it is not unnatural or even a new concept, but gay marriage isn't about sex. It's about love. Why can't 2 people that love each other make an official, state-recognized commitment? Why do they have to settle for those bullshit "civil unions?" Those are just ludicrous. You can't take our word "marriage," but we'll throw you a bone to get you off our backs, here, have a civil union. People sure do have some audacity to go around telling others what they can and can't do, especially those same people who believe in a "smaller government."
Religion has a big part to play in all of this. For as much good as religion, like helping the needy, comforting the weary, or giving some kind of spiritual guidance to reformed inmates, they do equally as much or more detriment to society in the long run. The teachings of Jesus were very good in theory, just like Karl Marx and Communism, but in practice, it loses something in translation. People can too easily convolute and twist the lessons around to fit their own indulgent and often nefarious purposes. Religions tend to harbor archaic and often dangerous attitudes about "outsiders," even though that's exactly the kind of thing that Jesus preached against and was to a certain degree. I tend not to trust huge corporations whose only interest is to bilk money out of me. I sometimes like to think about the people at the top of these huge corporate heaps. Do they actually believe the shit they are peddling or do they just sit in their mahogany lined offices and laugh?
I hope that soon, the LGBT community will enjoy all the rights that are given to all other Americans. And if the politicians up in Washington stopped politicking for just a second, maybe they could follow their moral compass, and do what they know in their hearts and by law is right.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
An Overwhelming Love
Sometimes I just can't exactly explain how much I love you. Sometimes these waves just wash over me, not just my mind, but my whole body. I feel this intense emotion, I guess which can only be described as mind-blowing love. There is a literal sensation that sweeps across my entire body, muscles contract, my eyes narrow, my extremities actually tingle and my jaw clenches. It is really strange. I have to wonder if anyone else experiences this. The funny part is, that half the time it is when you aren't even around. I can just listen to a song, maybe one I've never even heard before and my mind just reels. I get this flood of images, emotions, memories, fantasies about our life together, all at once. Things I used to feel, things I still feel, and things I want to experience with you. It's sort of like a climax that was pushed a little too long. It feels amazing, but it hurts a little too. Sometimes it is simply too much. Especially sitting alone somewhere, only with my swirling thoughts to comfort me. For me, who never seems to be at a loss for words, I can always come up with something to say, a way to describe, but it is increasingly difficult to articulate how much exactly I love you. It is so much more than love, it's an admiration, respect, caring, longing, loathing, jealous, pining, devotion, lusting, completely encompassing emotional whirlwind, that this laundry list of words could never accurately describe. It is the kind of love that just makes you want to squeeze someone forever. I don't know why, but when I am feeling this particular way, which always comes on suddenly and unexpectedly, the only thing I can think to do is squeeze you as hard as I can. I have no idea why I equate this fantastically crushing emotional cocktail with squeezing, but for some odd reason, I do. It somehow, in my subconscience, must be transfering all those things I can't articulate to you verbally through a nonsensical physical act. I wonder if you ever feel that way about me, this overwhelming sense of something you just can't quite finger. I thought the mundane quality of our day-to-day lives somehow diminished our sense of intense romantic love, but when this emotional downpour rains over me, it reminds me that our first few months of falling in love, those first few minutes, seconds even, are all still there, emblazoned in my mind and heart forever, waiting to be felt again, whenever my subconscience decides necessary.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Waiting Tables: The Purest Form of Misanthropy
As my last post was crushingly serious and I was half-drunk when I wrote it, I thought I would change gears a bit with some jaded humor. I just read the ridiculously hilarious book; People Are Unappealing by Sara Barron. Somehow while stumbling aimlessly around Barnes and Noble yesterday, I ran into this book. The title alone was relatable, as I too find people to be generally unappealing. While perusing a few of the randomly selected chapters I couldn't help but laugh out loud. (Sidebar: I've noticed that people really hate it when you laugh at something they can't see, like a page in a book. They tend to get very annoyed either because they are miserable bastards or just really want to be in on the joke. There is sort of an exclusionary aspect to something as intimate as reading. It is something you can do in front of other people that has absolutely nothing to do with them. I think it really bothers people not to be paid attention to, let alone have this other person able to have so much fun without them. That's why I love reading so much, I can be in my head like I am all the time anyway, but I don't have to focus on my problems, I can enjoy someone else's for a change.) I immediately went home and finished the book within a couple of hours. I didn't even want to put it down to pee.
There is a chapter on Ms. Barron's life as a waitress in NYC. This got me thinking about my 5 years of personal servitude in the restaurant industry. I was 18 and fresh out of high school, and I do mean fresh, I started work the day before my commencements. I wanted so desperately to get a job where I could make enough money to have my own apartment. Oh, the glory of having my own apartment. No sweeter words could you have spoken to me at the time. I think if any gentleman had wanted to bed me all he need say is "Here are the keys to your very own apartment," and I would have came right on the spot. Having my own apartment meant a freedom I had never known, no more crippling oppression, no more antiquated rules, no one to answer to. According to every woman from a 90's sitcom, independence equaled having one's own apartment. Alas, I never did get that apartment, instead I got to move into an 8 x 10 cinder block cell they loosely termed a 'dorm', with a a roommate who referred to herself as a "Juggalo." She would spend her evenings getting high on homegrown mushrooms and pawing around on the carpet like a cat, letting out soft meows every now and again. Her days were spent 'sleeping one off', while her boss would continuously call wanting to know why she wasn't at work. Ahhh, luscious freedom.
What I did get instead of an apartment, from all my hard-earned cash working as a waitress, was a scathing contempt for humanity that I didn't even fathom possible. The disdain I cultivated through those 5 grueling years has remained with me even 5 years after the fact. That's one hell of a souvenir. I started out with an amped up level of enthusiasm, as most people do when they start something new. You have an energetic fervor that slowly, but consistently gets diminished as time goes on.
First, it is just a customer that has to wait too long for his well-done steak. I mean that's understandable, he is a very important man, eating at Ruby Tuesday's on his lunch hour, alone, wearing a short-sleeve button down shirt with a miniature tie and yellow pit stains. He has big important things he must attend to. Then it's a mother who lets her kid run around and hide under tables like a crazy person because "Little Jimmy just needs to express himself," which the untethered best friend of hers finds so enlightening. And if I never have to sweep up your baby's stupid Cheerios with one of those manual vacuums again, it will be far too soon. Did he get any in his mouth? Over the years, there were a few nice people, moms that would offer to clean up after their babies messes and at least feign embarrassment at the site of the mashed-in french fries on the carpet. There were those who did tip generously, but they were mostly current or former servers themselves, not wanting to risk karmic retribution. The best you could hope for was just complacency or indifference in a customer, one that acted like you really didn't even exist. Like a robot designed for the sole purpose of bringing you one more "Arnie Palmer."
It didn't help that I am an extremely tall girl, 6'0 feet in flats, so I, in addition to all the regular bullshit, got to also field such thoughtful questions like "How did you get to be so tall?" "Are your parents tall?" "How tall are you?" If I had any balls whatsoever I should have answered respectively a) What the fuck kind of question is that? b) No, actually my parents are circus midgets from the vaudeville circuit. c) Why is my exact height of interest to you? Will knowing my precise measurements somehow make your life a wee better or are you just being an asshole? At least these were direct questions, then there was the not-so-muffled whispers of "She's tall." or such creative gems as "Wow, she's really tall." I'm tall, not deaf, you morons. All still better than the degrading comments from, what a shock, really short men. "You're a tall drink of water," "How many times a day do you hit your head on the chandelier?" and the timeless favorite "How's the weather up there?" Thank you 70 year old man, I will never forget your wise words. After these comments about 80% would try to ask me out. What the fuck? I have a theory about these types of men, they were born with pencil dicks and need to take it out on any women who might actually suspect it.
And then there was the management. Oh my, you give a high school dropout a little taste of authority and all hell breaks loose. They think they have reached demigod status. "I got my GED and a 3 week training course in Cleveland, worship me." "Hey babe, I just made assistant manager, I guess all my hard work paid off. Yeah!" Translation, "Want to fuck me now that I think I am somebody?" Then there is always that one token, way too enthusiastic manager that tries to get everyone "pumped up" for their back-breaking, degrading, dehumanizing shift. What a joke. I'm sorry you live in a shitty low-income townhouse and your wife left you, I really am, but for once can you just act like a normal fucking human being. Your manufactured cheerfulness gets to wearing thin. Instead of being 'pumped up,' we are all even more depressed than before.
Don't think that I forgot about you, corporate managers. These guys are some self-important douche bags, aren't they? Oh, I am so impressed by your white button-down with the Ruby Tuesday's logo and your name embroidered on it, Scott. Oh, you over see 5 stores in the metro area, you are the man. That business degree from the community college is really paying off. I was once asked to get in a line with the other servers like we were in the military and pull up our pant legs so this asshole could check our socks. Of course I was wearing regular white athletic socks when I was supposed to be wearing weird men's black dress socks apparently and got a passive-aggressive talking to. The saving grace of it all was when I actually said, "Would you like to check the color of my underwear too?" It wasn't appreciated. That was pretty much the last straw and on to the next bullshit corporate serving job I went.
Another highlight of a corporate serving job, the belittling spiels we were forced to recite, unwarranted to customers who couldn't give a shit less. "Hi and welcome to Bullshit Corporate Restaurant, have you ever dined with us before?" Obligatory pause for response. "That's great, welcome back. I just wanted to mention some of the great specials we have this evening like the Bourbon Street Chicken Fingers Platter or the fall-off-the-bone French Quarter BBQ Ribs." (Now at this point, anyone who wasn't certifiably retarded might interject- What does Bourbon Street have to do with chicken fingers or the French Quarter with BBQ ribs? Beats the hell out me, but corporations sure do love putting cutesy names on everything. I often wonder in big conglomerates who signs off on these decisions. How many absolute idiots does it have to go through before it makes it to the public? How many brown-nosing fuckfaces does it take to get to the center of a shitty idea?) By this time the customers are either laughing hysterically at this rehearsed drivel or want to punch me in the face because they are hungry, crabby and just want to eat already. Either way, its hard to feel more like a piddly out-of-touch corporate drone than right at that moment.
And we haven't even touched on sexual harassment yet. Yes there was the occasional leaving of a phone number on a grease soaked napkin or the sexist slur by a drunken bar patron. I even once had a grandma ask for my phone number for her grandson who was at the table, by the way and like no joke; 5'2 and kind of a prick. These instances were par for the course at Any Shitty Nameless Restaurant USA. But the most disturbing sexual harassment came from within. I don't know how many times I was propositioned for sex. The line cooks were notorious womanizers. After a while you hardly noticed it. It became like someone asking "How are you doing today, want to fuck?" I was ogled, rated, scored, and all around treated no different than the slabs of ribs in the walk-in. It was just another ordinary day in Hell. But the indisputable worst had to come from the rotund little salad bar prick who would start off each shift with the exact same question "Where my hug at?" (Where intentional.) Yet, there was still more sexual harassment to be had. The chauvinistic comments weren't just reserved for the line cooks or lowly salad bar guy, oh no. Management got in on the act too. Countless times I was called "Beautiful" by a manager named Tim. Now you might be thinking, well that's not that bad, better than the crass explicit remarks of the line cooks like "I betchoo a freak in bed." or a personal favorite, "I want you to bodyslam me." But no, this was worse. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't look like a slack-jawed pedophile. Or maybe if he didn't juxtapose "Beautiful" with "Can you go clean the ladies bathroom?" Or use phrases like "Hey beautiful, what can I do you for?" in his ambiguous southern accent. There can't be any more, you say. If only, if only. On top of blatant sexual harassment, and more subdued creepy sexual harassment, there was Blitzkrieg sexual harassment. These were comments made by inconspicuous sources, like a middle-aged manager named Greg, that was always actually pretty nice and seemingly normal. This is a lesson I learned the hard way. If they work at a restaurant, they is no way they are normal. Once, when I was cashing out in the office, he told me unsolicited and out of nowhere that if I "lost 10 or 15 pounds I would be smokin' hot" and what followed was like some sort of primal grunt, like "Ooooohhhheeeeee, boy." I was literally shocked for a few seconds, came to, gathered up by money, said "Fuck you." and walked out. At least with the filthy mouthed line cooks, they put their cards out on the table, not acting like some high-brow poser secretly fantasizing about your would-be body.
I think I would like to conclude this jaunt down memory lane by regaling you with stories of some of the stupidest customers I ever had the displeasure of waiting on. The illiterate, the whiny, the con artists, the slobs, the shamelessly cheap, and the self-entitled. Some general, some specific. If the world were flat, these are the people I would like to send off the edge of the earth or maybe we can round them all up and shoot them up into space, to float around randomly, still complaining about how they shouldn't have to pay for extra Alfredo sauce because they are morbidly obese and need the extra calories to survive.
One of my favorites was this self-important business asshole. He looked like he was fresh out of college and just scored his dream job of ass kissing some executive that made 200 times the money he did. He came in for lunch by himself, (what a fucking shock) and ordered the Peppercorn Chicken Salad. Now I must admit, I think men who feel no shame in ordering an entree salad are kind of off anyway, but he proceeded to tell me he didn't want any corn in the salad. So my first instinct was to laugh hysterically in his face about what a moron he was, but I restrained myself. I was a professional after all. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and asked if he meant he didn't want any pepper on the salad, but like a typical dumbbell he didn't get the hint. "No, I want the pepper, I just don't want the corn," in a tone like I was the idiot here. Now there is no polite way to tell someone "A peppercorn is one pepper berry you grind into pepper and has nothing to do with kernels of corn, you fucking jackoff." So after like 5 full minutes of trying to explain the nuances of pepper milling, I gave up, ordered the salad as is and waited for my 8% tip.
Who could possibly be worse than arrogant pseudo-businessmen? The old fucking ladies. If you see the Red Hat Society come in, run the other way or at least walk briskly. Get ready for 15 crabby, old spinsters who all want water with lemon and hot tea, separate checks, and the soup to be blow your face off boiling. They make a laundry list of substitutions, special orders, and outlandish requests, followed by an even longer tirade of complaints. "Can I have my fish steamed instead of grilled?" "How spicy is that?" (If you have to ask it is too spicy, lady) "I want my burger well-done, but not burnt, otherwise I am sending it back." "I asked for just broccoli, there is broccoli and carrots here." Fuck lady just eat around the carrots. "Is the tip included? By law you have to tell me if the tip is included." If it wasn't for automatic gratuity, I would have beat myself senseless with one of the faux-antique metal signs that adorned the walls.
Then there were the people who couldn't read. Illiterates are always good for a laugh. I don't know how many times I heard 'queso' pronounced qwe-so or quesadilla, qwe-sa-di-la. Nobody knew how to say tilapia and sometimes they would even fuck up regular words like barbecue or steak. Other times they would just point to what they wanted on the menu, like a 3 year old looking at a picture book. And I am not talking about people who looked that they grew up on the streets or were down on their luck, uh no, these were middle-class suburban adults with jobs and kids. Where the hell do these people come from?
Next on the totem pole of the descent of man were the con artists. They were constantly looking for ways to cheat the system. "How can I get this slightly over-priced, mediocre at best burger for free?" they would ask themselves. Here's how: order the biggest burger on the menu, preferably one with 2 patties, a double decker, eat half of it, and then complain that it wasn't cooked to your liking. Essentially you have just eaten one whole regular sized hamburger, and now you don't have to pay for it. Full belly and full wallet, and no tip, what fun!
I had this one old lady that came in, ordered a plate of buffalo wings and she wanted them "well done, but not burnt," of course. After eating about 6 of the 10 wings, she decided they were too burnt, and she wanted a new batch. So I hauled off the remaining 4 wings and picked off carcasses and brought out a fresh order that I thought she was satisfied with because she polished them off without a hitch. Ah, but then it came time for the bill. I only charged her for one order of wings even though she ate 6 of the first batch and her drink. The bill was like $9.00. She then calls me over and tells me that she thought the chicken wing were to be free because the first plate was burnt and she had to wait so long for the second plate. Even though she ate 16 wings for the price of 10, she shouldn't have to pay at all for her trouble. But then came the piece de resistance. The reason she couldn't wait for the second batch of wings before scarfing the first 6 was because she was a diabetic and couldn't afford to wait any longer to eat. Her blood sugar was dropping rapidly and the only cure was sub par buffalo wings. No diabetic needs an $8 plate of chicken wings to keep from going into shock, how about a glass of orange juice or some crackers? What a shithead.
I still think the absolute best was this lady who was eating with her husband and her older kids. She was seated at a booth in a long line of picture windows that overlooked the scenic parking lot. They had gotten there food and were munching away as happily as anyone could be in a shitty chain restaurant on a Wednesday night. One of my co-workers was leaving for the day, and as he was backing his car out, he hit what at first seemed to be the side of the building and it made a pretty loud crashing sound. This could all be seen from the aforementioned, huge picture windows that might as well have been neon signs pointing to this kid's mistake. Everyone looked, mostly laughing once they realized what it had actually happened. It turned out he really only hopped the curb with his back tires and ran into some helpless shrubberies. The damage was minimal, but he was totally embarrassed and I felt for him. But what happened next defies all logic and all hope that human beings are basically decent and good. This lady at the table in my section, who just 30 seconds prior was absently chomping through her shrimp Alfredo went berserk. She demanded to see the manager. She wanted to know why her meal was so rudely interrupted by such a reckless employee. How could she possibly ever enjoy her meal after such a debacle as a stranger hitting some bushes with his fender? Her entire meal experience was ruined, she said. She wanted everything on her bill comped. As if this already wasn't horrific enough, she then tried to rally all of the other tables in my section to jump on board this freeloading bandwagon. "Don't you think we should get our meals for free? Wasn't your evening ruined?" she goaded. A few people lacklusterly agreed, but their hearts weren't in it. In the end all she got was a free dessert and the shame of 5 lifetimes that she will never feel.
There are countless other stories such as these. The drunk man who argued with me that 'soup du jour' meant cold soup and not soup of the day, until he got so irate and obnoxious he had to be escorted out. Or the teenager who hid under one of my tables to hide from the police that were on his tail because of a stack of video games he stole from The Best Buy across the parking lot. Then there was this peach of a woman, who had this incredibly tiny baby with her. It looked like she just gave birth to it under the table. I was shamelessly babytalking to the little bundle when she told me it was her baby's 1 month birthday today. I said, "Happy Birthday little baby, even though you can't understand what I am saying." She responded matter of factly with, "Oh he can understand you, he's very smart." Not if he came out of you, psycho.
That was pretty much the last straw for me. You can only take so much abuse. You can only collect so many 5% tips on meals that people paid with a $100 bill. You can only be ordered around like a servant, getting countless extra dressings, extra cheese, extra bread and extra napkins all one after another, so many times. You can only be treated like a mindless android whose only reason for creation is to take your order, completely devoid of the capability of feeling emotion, evidenced by your sensitive barks of "Burger. Coke. Now." before you go completely insane. You can only be made to feel single-handedly responsible for all the bad things in their lives so much before you want to strangle every last one of them, even the nice ones. I simply couldn't handle it anymore. I have never lost my hatred for the average restaurant patron. I still find myself eavesdropping on fellow diners conversations about how much to leave for the tip or what they thought of the service. I can't help but snoop on how much a friend left for a tip if I have been taken out to dinner. I am not above feigning I have to go to the bathroom, just so I can come back and leave more money on the table after they have left. I ridicuously overtip and throw out please's and thank you's like they are going out of style. It really is one of the shittiest professions, dehumanizing and disspiriting, but the corporations try to make up for it with Hawaiin shirt day or tantalizing gifts like an off-brand cd walkman you can win if you sell the most booze. So to all you overworked, spit-on-by-the-world, sadomasochistic servers out that haven't lost the will to live, I salute you.
There is a chapter on Ms. Barron's life as a waitress in NYC. This got me thinking about my 5 years of personal servitude in the restaurant industry. I was 18 and fresh out of high school, and I do mean fresh, I started work the day before my commencements. I wanted so desperately to get a job where I could make enough money to have my own apartment. Oh, the glory of having my own apartment. No sweeter words could you have spoken to me at the time. I think if any gentleman had wanted to bed me all he need say is "Here are the keys to your very own apartment," and I would have came right on the spot. Having my own apartment meant a freedom I had never known, no more crippling oppression, no more antiquated rules, no one to answer to. According to every woman from a 90's sitcom, independence equaled having one's own apartment. Alas, I never did get that apartment, instead I got to move into an 8 x 10 cinder block cell they loosely termed a 'dorm', with a a roommate who referred to herself as a "Juggalo." She would spend her evenings getting high on homegrown mushrooms and pawing around on the carpet like a cat, letting out soft meows every now and again. Her days were spent 'sleeping one off', while her boss would continuously call wanting to know why she wasn't at work. Ahhh, luscious freedom.
What I did get instead of an apartment, from all my hard-earned cash working as a waitress, was a scathing contempt for humanity that I didn't even fathom possible. The disdain I cultivated through those 5 grueling years has remained with me even 5 years after the fact. That's one hell of a souvenir. I started out with an amped up level of enthusiasm, as most people do when they start something new. You have an energetic fervor that slowly, but consistently gets diminished as time goes on.
First, it is just a customer that has to wait too long for his well-done steak. I mean that's understandable, he is a very important man, eating at Ruby Tuesday's on his lunch hour, alone, wearing a short-sleeve button down shirt with a miniature tie and yellow pit stains. He has big important things he must attend to. Then it's a mother who lets her kid run around and hide under tables like a crazy person because "Little Jimmy just needs to express himself," which the untethered best friend of hers finds so enlightening. And if I never have to sweep up your baby's stupid Cheerios with one of those manual vacuums again, it will be far too soon. Did he get any in his mouth? Over the years, there were a few nice people, moms that would offer to clean up after their babies messes and at least feign embarrassment at the site of the mashed-in french fries on the carpet. There were those who did tip generously, but they were mostly current or former servers themselves, not wanting to risk karmic retribution. The best you could hope for was just complacency or indifference in a customer, one that acted like you really didn't even exist. Like a robot designed for the sole purpose of bringing you one more "Arnie Palmer."
It didn't help that I am an extremely tall girl, 6'0 feet in flats, so I, in addition to all the regular bullshit, got to also field such thoughtful questions like "How did you get to be so tall?" "Are your parents tall?" "How tall are you?" If I had any balls whatsoever I should have answered respectively a) What the fuck kind of question is that? b) No, actually my parents are circus midgets from the vaudeville circuit. c) Why is my exact height of interest to you? Will knowing my precise measurements somehow make your life a wee better or are you just being an asshole? At least these were direct questions, then there was the not-so-muffled whispers of "She's tall." or such creative gems as "Wow, she's really tall." I'm tall, not deaf, you morons. All still better than the degrading comments from, what a shock, really short men. "You're a tall drink of water," "How many times a day do you hit your head on the chandelier?" and the timeless favorite "How's the weather up there?" Thank you 70 year old man, I will never forget your wise words. After these comments about 80% would try to ask me out. What the fuck? I have a theory about these types of men, they were born with pencil dicks and need to take it out on any women who might actually suspect it.
And then there was the management. Oh my, you give a high school dropout a little taste of authority and all hell breaks loose. They think they have reached demigod status. "I got my GED and a 3 week training course in Cleveland, worship me." "Hey babe, I just made assistant manager, I guess all my hard work paid off. Yeah!" Translation, "Want to fuck me now that I think I am somebody?" Then there is always that one token, way too enthusiastic manager that tries to get everyone "pumped up" for their back-breaking, degrading, dehumanizing shift. What a joke. I'm sorry you live in a shitty low-income townhouse and your wife left you, I really am, but for once can you just act like a normal fucking human being. Your manufactured cheerfulness gets to wearing thin. Instead of being 'pumped up,' we are all even more depressed than before.
Don't think that I forgot about you, corporate managers. These guys are some self-important douche bags, aren't they? Oh, I am so impressed by your white button-down with the Ruby Tuesday's logo and your name embroidered on it, Scott. Oh, you over see 5 stores in the metro area, you are the man. That business degree from the community college is really paying off. I was once asked to get in a line with the other servers like we were in the military and pull up our pant legs so this asshole could check our socks. Of course I was wearing regular white athletic socks when I was supposed to be wearing weird men's black dress socks apparently and got a passive-aggressive talking to. The saving grace of it all was when I actually said, "Would you like to check the color of my underwear too?" It wasn't appreciated. That was pretty much the last straw and on to the next bullshit corporate serving job I went.
Another highlight of a corporate serving job, the belittling spiels we were forced to recite, unwarranted to customers who couldn't give a shit less. "Hi and welcome to Bullshit Corporate Restaurant, have you ever dined with us before?" Obligatory pause for response. "That's great, welcome back. I just wanted to mention some of the great specials we have this evening like the Bourbon Street Chicken Fingers Platter or the fall-off-the-bone French Quarter BBQ Ribs." (Now at this point, anyone who wasn't certifiably retarded might interject- What does Bourbon Street have to do with chicken fingers or the French Quarter with BBQ ribs? Beats the hell out me, but corporations sure do love putting cutesy names on everything. I often wonder in big conglomerates who signs off on these decisions. How many absolute idiots does it have to go through before it makes it to the public? How many brown-nosing fuckfaces does it take to get to the center of a shitty idea?) By this time the customers are either laughing hysterically at this rehearsed drivel or want to punch me in the face because they are hungry, crabby and just want to eat already. Either way, its hard to feel more like a piddly out-of-touch corporate drone than right at that moment.
And we haven't even touched on sexual harassment yet. Yes there was the occasional leaving of a phone number on a grease soaked napkin or the sexist slur by a drunken bar patron. I even once had a grandma ask for my phone number for her grandson who was at the table, by the way and like no joke; 5'2 and kind of a prick. These instances were par for the course at Any Shitty Nameless Restaurant USA. But the most disturbing sexual harassment came from within. I don't know how many times I was propositioned for sex. The line cooks were notorious womanizers. After a while you hardly noticed it. It became like someone asking "How are you doing today, want to fuck?" I was ogled, rated, scored, and all around treated no different than the slabs of ribs in the walk-in. It was just another ordinary day in Hell. But the indisputable worst had to come from the rotund little salad bar prick who would start off each shift with the exact same question "Where my hug at?" (Where intentional.) Yet, there was still more sexual harassment to be had. The chauvinistic comments weren't just reserved for the line cooks or lowly salad bar guy, oh no. Management got in on the act too. Countless times I was called "Beautiful" by a manager named Tim. Now you might be thinking, well that's not that bad, better than the crass explicit remarks of the line cooks like "I betchoo a freak in bed." or a personal favorite, "I want you to bodyslam me." But no, this was worse. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't look like a slack-jawed pedophile. Or maybe if he didn't juxtapose "Beautiful" with "Can you go clean the ladies bathroom?" Or use phrases like "Hey beautiful, what can I do you for?" in his ambiguous southern accent. There can't be any more, you say. If only, if only. On top of blatant sexual harassment, and more subdued creepy sexual harassment, there was Blitzkrieg sexual harassment. These were comments made by inconspicuous sources, like a middle-aged manager named Greg, that was always actually pretty nice and seemingly normal. This is a lesson I learned the hard way. If they work at a restaurant, they is no way they are normal. Once, when I was cashing out in the office, he told me unsolicited and out of nowhere that if I "lost 10 or 15 pounds I would be smokin' hot" and what followed was like some sort of primal grunt, like "Ooooohhhheeeeee, boy." I was literally shocked for a few seconds, came to, gathered up by money, said "Fuck you." and walked out. At least with the filthy mouthed line cooks, they put their cards out on the table, not acting like some high-brow poser secretly fantasizing about your would-be body.
I think I would like to conclude this jaunt down memory lane by regaling you with stories of some of the stupidest customers I ever had the displeasure of waiting on. The illiterate, the whiny, the con artists, the slobs, the shamelessly cheap, and the self-entitled. Some general, some specific. If the world were flat, these are the people I would like to send off the edge of the earth or maybe we can round them all up and shoot them up into space, to float around randomly, still complaining about how they shouldn't have to pay for extra Alfredo sauce because they are morbidly obese and need the extra calories to survive.
One of my favorites was this self-important business asshole. He looked like he was fresh out of college and just scored his dream job of ass kissing some executive that made 200 times the money he did. He came in for lunch by himself, (what a fucking shock) and ordered the Peppercorn Chicken Salad. Now I must admit, I think men who feel no shame in ordering an entree salad are kind of off anyway, but he proceeded to tell me he didn't want any corn in the salad. So my first instinct was to laugh hysterically in his face about what a moron he was, but I restrained myself. I was a professional after all. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and asked if he meant he didn't want any pepper on the salad, but like a typical dumbbell he didn't get the hint. "No, I want the pepper, I just don't want the corn," in a tone like I was the idiot here. Now there is no polite way to tell someone "A peppercorn is one pepper berry you grind into pepper and has nothing to do with kernels of corn, you fucking jackoff." So after like 5 full minutes of trying to explain the nuances of pepper milling, I gave up, ordered the salad as is and waited for my 8% tip.
Who could possibly be worse than arrogant pseudo-businessmen? The old fucking ladies. If you see the Red Hat Society come in, run the other way or at least walk briskly. Get ready for 15 crabby, old spinsters who all want water with lemon and hot tea, separate checks, and the soup to be blow your face off boiling. They make a laundry list of substitutions, special orders, and outlandish requests, followed by an even longer tirade of complaints. "Can I have my fish steamed instead of grilled?" "How spicy is that?" (If you have to ask it is too spicy, lady) "I want my burger well-done, but not burnt, otherwise I am sending it back." "I asked for just broccoli, there is broccoli and carrots here." Fuck lady just eat around the carrots. "Is the tip included? By law you have to tell me if the tip is included." If it wasn't for automatic gratuity, I would have beat myself senseless with one of the faux-antique metal signs that adorned the walls.
Then there were the people who couldn't read. Illiterates are always good for a laugh. I don't know how many times I heard 'queso' pronounced qwe-so or quesadilla, qwe-sa-di-la. Nobody knew how to say tilapia and sometimes they would even fuck up regular words like barbecue or steak. Other times they would just point to what they wanted on the menu, like a 3 year old looking at a picture book. And I am not talking about people who looked that they grew up on the streets or were down on their luck, uh no, these were middle-class suburban adults with jobs and kids. Where the hell do these people come from?
Next on the totem pole of the descent of man were the con artists. They were constantly looking for ways to cheat the system. "How can I get this slightly over-priced, mediocre at best burger for free?" they would ask themselves. Here's how: order the biggest burger on the menu, preferably one with 2 patties, a double decker, eat half of it, and then complain that it wasn't cooked to your liking. Essentially you have just eaten one whole regular sized hamburger, and now you don't have to pay for it. Full belly and full wallet, and no tip, what fun!
I had this one old lady that came in, ordered a plate of buffalo wings and she wanted them "well done, but not burnt," of course. After eating about 6 of the 10 wings, she decided they were too burnt, and she wanted a new batch. So I hauled off the remaining 4 wings and picked off carcasses and brought out a fresh order that I thought she was satisfied with because she polished them off without a hitch. Ah, but then it came time for the bill. I only charged her for one order of wings even though she ate 6 of the first batch and her drink. The bill was like $9.00. She then calls me over and tells me that she thought the chicken wing were to be free because the first plate was burnt and she had to wait so long for the second plate. Even though she ate 16 wings for the price of 10, she shouldn't have to pay at all for her trouble. But then came the piece de resistance. The reason she couldn't wait for the second batch of wings before scarfing the first 6 was because she was a diabetic and couldn't afford to wait any longer to eat. Her blood sugar was dropping rapidly and the only cure was sub par buffalo wings. No diabetic needs an $8 plate of chicken wings to keep from going into shock, how about a glass of orange juice or some crackers? What a shithead.
I still think the absolute best was this lady who was eating with her husband and her older kids. She was seated at a booth in a long line of picture windows that overlooked the scenic parking lot. They had gotten there food and were munching away as happily as anyone could be in a shitty chain restaurant on a Wednesday night. One of my co-workers was leaving for the day, and as he was backing his car out, he hit what at first seemed to be the side of the building and it made a pretty loud crashing sound. This could all be seen from the aforementioned, huge picture windows that might as well have been neon signs pointing to this kid's mistake. Everyone looked, mostly laughing once they realized what it had actually happened. It turned out he really only hopped the curb with his back tires and ran into some helpless shrubberies. The damage was minimal, but he was totally embarrassed and I felt for him. But what happened next defies all logic and all hope that human beings are basically decent and good. This lady at the table in my section, who just 30 seconds prior was absently chomping through her shrimp Alfredo went berserk. She demanded to see the manager. She wanted to know why her meal was so rudely interrupted by such a reckless employee. How could she possibly ever enjoy her meal after such a debacle as a stranger hitting some bushes with his fender? Her entire meal experience was ruined, she said. She wanted everything on her bill comped. As if this already wasn't horrific enough, she then tried to rally all of the other tables in my section to jump on board this freeloading bandwagon. "Don't you think we should get our meals for free? Wasn't your evening ruined?" she goaded. A few people lacklusterly agreed, but their hearts weren't in it. In the end all she got was a free dessert and the shame of 5 lifetimes that she will never feel.
There are countless other stories such as these. The drunk man who argued with me that 'soup du jour' meant cold soup and not soup of the day, until he got so irate and obnoxious he had to be escorted out. Or the teenager who hid under one of my tables to hide from the police that were on his tail because of a stack of video games he stole from The Best Buy across the parking lot. Then there was this peach of a woman, who had this incredibly tiny baby with her. It looked like she just gave birth to it under the table. I was shamelessly babytalking to the little bundle when she told me it was her baby's 1 month birthday today. I said, "Happy Birthday little baby, even though you can't understand what I am saying." She responded matter of factly with, "Oh he can understand you, he's very smart." Not if he came out of you, psycho.
That was pretty much the last straw for me. You can only take so much abuse. You can only collect so many 5% tips on meals that people paid with a $100 bill. You can only be ordered around like a servant, getting countless extra dressings, extra cheese, extra bread and extra napkins all one after another, so many times. You can only be treated like a mindless android whose only reason for creation is to take your order, completely devoid of the capability of feeling emotion, evidenced by your sensitive barks of "Burger. Coke. Now." before you go completely insane. You can only be made to feel single-handedly responsible for all the bad things in their lives so much before you want to strangle every last one of them, even the nice ones. I simply couldn't handle it anymore. I have never lost my hatred for the average restaurant patron. I still find myself eavesdropping on fellow diners conversations about how much to leave for the tip or what they thought of the service. I can't help but snoop on how much a friend left for a tip if I have been taken out to dinner. I am not above feigning I have to go to the bathroom, just so I can come back and leave more money on the table after they have left. I ridicuously overtip and throw out please's and thank you's like they are going out of style. It really is one of the shittiest professions, dehumanizing and disspiriting, but the corporations try to make up for it with Hawaiin shirt day or tantalizing gifts like an off-brand cd walkman you can win if you sell the most booze. So to all you overworked, spit-on-by-the-world, sadomasochistic servers out that haven't lost the will to live, I salute you.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Reconnecting
It's 3:30 AM as I write this so it might be a little rough. I've been thinking a lot lately about my past relationships, romantic and platonic alike. I've had this sudden urge to reconnect with old friends. I know after high school there is a natural phenomenon to loose touch with the very people you once thought you were inseparable from. I of course made this empty promise to myself that there was no way I was going to let that happen to us. We were going off to different colleges, but the furthest one was only an hour away. In the beginning, of course the trips were frequent, but as the months went by, they became less and less so. Then we only saw each other in the summer, then as the summers rolled on, we only so each other a few times a year, maybe around Christmas or Thanksgiving when everyone was home for the holidays. These too became less frequent and moved into nonexistent. There was no big falling out, just sort of this quiet drift, a slow, but steady devolution. This was compounded by the fact that for long stretches of time I would become completely reclusive and withdraw from just about everyone. I literally wouldn't go anywhere or see anyone. I know subsequently, I alienated people, friends from my life. A few of them understood, maybe not until years later, but they understood. Yet, a few remained unaware of my plight. I cut a lot of people out because it hurt to much to think about them and the way things used to be. I wanted to try to make a new life for myself because it seemed that everyone else had. I convinced myself I didn't need any friends to be happy or fulfilled, that they were just occasional, pleasant extras. But that wasn't really me thinking, it was my insecurity and fear of rejection all leading back to my OCD and how I got that in the first place. I became very judgemental and believe me, it's lonely at the top.
Just today I called a friend to congratulate her on her engagement that I heard, like third hand, on a Facebook post, which is actually pretty huge for me. I get very anxious calling people on the phone, more than even talking in person. I think it has to do with this sort of anticipation while you're waiting for them to pick up and you can't see their reactions to your conversation. She used to be one of my closest friends growing up, we hardly ever fought, we always had fun, even just doing nothing. She was smart, funny, pretty, a talented artist, and really had a good grasp on the world. Oddly enough, she was the shortest in out group and I was the tallest, (there was almost a foot between us) but somehow we connected more than others I think. I haven't seen her in 2 years, but God it doesn't seem like it. It feels like just a couple of days. My memories are so vivid. I didn't realize how meaningful this friendship was to me until I got the distinct feeling it didn't exist any longer.
I called a few times, to no avail and finally just left a message. I tried about 8 months ago to contact her, but couldn't. I told myself, maybe she is just really busy or got a new number, but I can't help but feeling that's not what's going on. Sort of automatically I began to make it about me, like 'Did I do something?' But then I got to thinking, as I so often do, that maybe she is going through something similar to what I went through, where you just sort of want to recede a little into the background. Maybe I am just thinking what I want to be the case, so I don't have to feel so rejected after putting myself out there in a way I am unaccustomed. Or maybe I just want to be able to be there for someone who needs that reaching out, like I so desperately did. I don't know.
What I do know is that out of all the people I have alienated out of my life, I think this one hurts the most. I really do want to reconnect with some of my old friends, in a way to get part of my 'old self' back, but especially with this particular person just to get my old friend back. I think sometimes friendships are harder than romantic relationships because you never quite know when it is okay to express your emotions. I think getting a date is far easier than making a new friend, but I wonder if reconnecting with an old friend is harder yet.
Just today I called a friend to congratulate her on her engagement that I heard, like third hand, on a Facebook post, which is actually pretty huge for me. I get very anxious calling people on the phone, more than even talking in person. I think it has to do with this sort of anticipation while you're waiting for them to pick up and you can't see their reactions to your conversation. She used to be one of my closest friends growing up, we hardly ever fought, we always had fun, even just doing nothing. She was smart, funny, pretty, a talented artist, and really had a good grasp on the world. Oddly enough, she was the shortest in out group and I was the tallest, (there was almost a foot between us) but somehow we connected more than others I think. I haven't seen her in 2 years, but God it doesn't seem like it. It feels like just a couple of days. My memories are so vivid. I didn't realize how meaningful this friendship was to me until I got the distinct feeling it didn't exist any longer.
I called a few times, to no avail and finally just left a message. I tried about 8 months ago to contact her, but couldn't. I told myself, maybe she is just really busy or got a new number, but I can't help but feeling that's not what's going on. Sort of automatically I began to make it about me, like 'Did I do something?' But then I got to thinking, as I so often do, that maybe she is going through something similar to what I went through, where you just sort of want to recede a little into the background. Maybe I am just thinking what I want to be the case, so I don't have to feel so rejected after putting myself out there in a way I am unaccustomed. Or maybe I just want to be able to be there for someone who needs that reaching out, like I so desperately did. I don't know.
What I do know is that out of all the people I have alienated out of my life, I think this one hurts the most. I really do want to reconnect with some of my old friends, in a way to get part of my 'old self' back, but especially with this particular person just to get my old friend back. I think sometimes friendships are harder than romantic relationships because you never quite know when it is okay to express your emotions. I think getting a date is far easier than making a new friend, but I wonder if reconnecting with an old friend is harder yet.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Saga of Love and Lust
I don't know if it is an OCD thing, or just a me thing, but I have always struggled with having dual personalities. Like the archaic, but somewhat reasonable findings of Freud, I feel that my Id and my Super Ego are at constant odds with one another. I seem to go through phases of complete extremes. At times, I can be absolutely uninhibited, while at others I am completely prudish and judgemental, bordering on withdrawn. These phases can last for months or even years. It's not like bipolar disorder, where a person would be manic for a few weeks, staying up all night going on benders, then dipping into a deep depression that is hard to crawl out of. It's more within my own personality, a change of view, a change of core principles.
The straight-laced side of me wants to be a not only a good person, but a model citizen for humanity. My Super Ego holds me to these impossible standards that no one could ever achieve, at times they are downright puritanical. I have so many ridiculous rules to live by now. I think this is where my OCD really sprang from. The continuous squelching of my animal instincts, really not even by society, but by something much more close to home, my family, namely my paternal grandmother and to some extent my father who was hugely overprotective. I was held to these rigid and more accurately obsolete folkways of the 1950's. If it had been up to my grandmother, I wouldn't have had any contact with anyone, especially not any boys, even as a child. Once, when I was maybe five or six years old, I stuck my tongue at a boy who was on the other side of a window, just being a silly kid. He thought it was pretty funny I guess because then he too stuck his tongue out. We kept sticking our tongues out closer and closer to the window until we mashed both of our tongues against the glass, which we thought was hilarious. When my grandmother saw that (she was always watching, no matter what) she started yelling at me, saying that I should be ashamed of myself for kissing a boy like that and that my father was going to be so mad when she told him (and she always told him.) Now I didn't know that sticking your tongue out at another kid through a pane of glass was considered kissing, or even anything at all, and I know now as an adult how harmless the whole scene was, but at the time I felt so guilty and so scared that my dad was going to be mad at me. I never wanted to do anything like that again. This story is just one of many that peppered my childhood, a microcosm of how I grew up. Always made to feel guilty or ashamed for things that I didn't even know were wrong, that felt natural or innocent. So with this type of upbringing, it isn't surprising that I started to have acid reflux and panic attacks as early as kindergarten.
My undue guilt and shame ran my life, until I was 15, when good ol' teenage angst and rebellion showed up to set me free. I started to do things I know my parents wouldn't approve of, hanging out with strange boys, meeting men off the Internet, thinking I knew what the hell I was doing. It was definitely an exciting time, but looking back on it now, it seems so insane, so risky. But when someone has been caged so long, been so repressed, it isn't very surprising. From this time on, there has been a constant tug-of-war between my 2 halves. Some event will happen to pull me in either direction.
The impulsive side of me wants to go out and run wild, basically. Be completely uninhibited and have to answer to no one, throwing responsibilities and consequences right out. At least once a year, I start to feel this way. I don't really know what brings it on, I can't really say. Sometimes I have these crazy, vivid dreams about off the wall experiences, some imaginary and some from my past, things I consciously didn't even remember. I don't think that commences it though, I think that is a by-product of the underlying feelings my Ego tries so hard to stifle.
My post is titled "The Saga of Love and Lust" because in my adult life, that is what I have come to equate these dualities with. It's some kind of ambiguous defense mechanism thinly-veiled as maturity. I find it hard to be passionate with things that I "love." It's like I file them away in this imaginary compartment, as if to say "Glad I got that taken care of." For example, I love cooking and baking and am pretty damn good at it so I went to culinary arts school (which took some serious convincing to get my parents approval I so desperately sought), and even though I excelled in all my classes, I couldn't bring myself to finish. I just had no drive. I still love cooking and just do it at home for fun, but there isn't this burning desire for me to take it any further.
On the other hand, the things I am passionate about aren't things that I would say I "love." It's like it is a completely different compartment in my brain. Things that I lust after, even trivial things, like a designer purse or the latest gadget, I just can't stop thinking about it until I get them. It's strange that I can be so nonchalant or complacent about my loves, but so forceful and enterprising about my lusts. And no, my love and lust isn't just reserved for hobbies and material goods, there are many actual persons that fall into this trap I've set. I'm just not ready to write about that quite yet.
The straight-laced side of me wants to be a not only a good person, but a model citizen for humanity. My Super Ego holds me to these impossible standards that no one could ever achieve, at times they are downright puritanical. I have so many ridiculous rules to live by now. I think this is where my OCD really sprang from. The continuous squelching of my animal instincts, really not even by society, but by something much more close to home, my family, namely my paternal grandmother and to some extent my father who was hugely overprotective. I was held to these rigid and more accurately obsolete folkways of the 1950's. If it had been up to my grandmother, I wouldn't have had any contact with anyone, especially not any boys, even as a child. Once, when I was maybe five or six years old, I stuck my tongue at a boy who was on the other side of a window, just being a silly kid. He thought it was pretty funny I guess because then he too stuck his tongue out. We kept sticking our tongues out closer and closer to the window until we mashed both of our tongues against the glass, which we thought was hilarious. When my grandmother saw that (she was always watching, no matter what) she started yelling at me, saying that I should be ashamed of myself for kissing a boy like that and that my father was going to be so mad when she told him (and she always told him.) Now I didn't know that sticking your tongue out at another kid through a pane of glass was considered kissing, or even anything at all, and I know now as an adult how harmless the whole scene was, but at the time I felt so guilty and so scared that my dad was going to be mad at me. I never wanted to do anything like that again. This story is just one of many that peppered my childhood, a microcosm of how I grew up. Always made to feel guilty or ashamed for things that I didn't even know were wrong, that felt natural or innocent. So with this type of upbringing, it isn't surprising that I started to have acid reflux and panic attacks as early as kindergarten.
My undue guilt and shame ran my life, until I was 15, when good ol' teenage angst and rebellion showed up to set me free. I started to do things I know my parents wouldn't approve of, hanging out with strange boys, meeting men off the Internet, thinking I knew what the hell I was doing. It was definitely an exciting time, but looking back on it now, it seems so insane, so risky. But when someone has been caged so long, been so repressed, it isn't very surprising. From this time on, there has been a constant tug-of-war between my 2 halves. Some event will happen to pull me in either direction.
The impulsive side of me wants to go out and run wild, basically. Be completely uninhibited and have to answer to no one, throwing responsibilities and consequences right out. At least once a year, I start to feel this way. I don't really know what brings it on, I can't really say. Sometimes I have these crazy, vivid dreams about off the wall experiences, some imaginary and some from my past, things I consciously didn't even remember. I don't think that commences it though, I think that is a by-product of the underlying feelings my Ego tries so hard to stifle.
My post is titled "The Saga of Love and Lust" because in my adult life, that is what I have come to equate these dualities with. It's some kind of ambiguous defense mechanism thinly-veiled as maturity. I find it hard to be passionate with things that I "love." It's like I file them away in this imaginary compartment, as if to say "Glad I got that taken care of." For example, I love cooking and baking and am pretty damn good at it so I went to culinary arts school (which took some serious convincing to get my parents approval I so desperately sought), and even though I excelled in all my classes, I couldn't bring myself to finish. I just had no drive. I still love cooking and just do it at home for fun, but there isn't this burning desire for me to take it any further.
On the other hand, the things I am passionate about aren't things that I would say I "love." It's like it is a completely different compartment in my brain. Things that I lust after, even trivial things, like a designer purse or the latest gadget, I just can't stop thinking about it until I get them. It's strange that I can be so nonchalant or complacent about my loves, but so forceful and enterprising about my lusts. And no, my love and lust isn't just reserved for hobbies and material goods, there are many actual persons that fall into this trap I've set. I'm just not ready to write about that quite yet.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Blog Numero Uno
Who am I? Who are any of us, for that matter? Centuries old philosophical questions aside, why did I choose to write a blog? I wanted to get some of my ramblings down on virtual paper I guess. I do have a lot to say, but no real forum to express these thoughts. Of course I have a shitload of thoughts because I am in my head all the time. I have trouble engaging in the moment due to my overly obsessive mind. Which brings me to why my blog is titled "An Obsessive Compulsive's Guide to Clean Living." I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, along with a wry sense of humor. Humor has always been my defense mechanism when dealing with just about any stress in my life. I thinks it's actually the least neurotic of all my attributes. I have had these "disorders" since early childhood, but only within the last five or six years knew they had a name, which I discovered while in college as a psychology major ( yeah I know.) My abnormal psych book even had a warning in it, that a tendency existed for most students to feel like that had the symptoms of the neuroses they were studying and to not self-diagnose, but a nagging feeling remained. I was professionally diagnosed a year later.
Sometimes OCD and anxiety rule my life, but others times I can quell them (with and without medication, but that is another blog post.) I do struggle with it on a daily basis, which really is misleading because it's more like a secondly basis, especially when it is bad. I know other people must struggle with these issues too, but I feel like mental illness is still a little swept under the rug in our society. I do feel with the current media attention from television shows like The OCD Project or Obsessed sheds some light on the disorder, but at the same time it exploits people living with OCD like a turn of the last century, traveling freak show. They only put on the absolute worst cases, otherwise it wouldn't really be entertaining, as if OCD in any capacity should entertain. I know some people may not like the term "disorder", but I feel it ironically fitting for an obsessive compulsive. We try so hard to order our immediate world with our compulsive cleaning, organizing, and straightening, but all it really leads to is dis-order.
This blog is not going to just be about functioning with OCD and anxiety, but a myriad of other topics that I find myself obsessing over, personal experiences, news stories, politics, society at large. Hopefully by writing about them, I can lessen my compulsions, find some humor in all of this nonsense, and maybe even relate to others in some miniscule way.
Sometimes OCD and anxiety rule my life, but others times I can quell them (with and without medication, but that is another blog post.) I do struggle with it on a daily basis, which really is misleading because it's more like a secondly basis, especially when it is bad. I know other people must struggle with these issues too, but I feel like mental illness is still a little swept under the rug in our society. I do feel with the current media attention from television shows like The OCD Project or Obsessed sheds some light on the disorder, but at the same time it exploits people living with OCD like a turn of the last century, traveling freak show. They only put on the absolute worst cases, otherwise it wouldn't really be entertaining, as if OCD in any capacity should entertain. I know some people may not like the term "disorder", but I feel it ironically fitting for an obsessive compulsive. We try so hard to order our immediate world with our compulsive cleaning, organizing, and straightening, but all it really leads to is dis-order.
This blog is not going to just be about functioning with OCD and anxiety, but a myriad of other topics that I find myself obsessing over, personal experiences, news stories, politics, society at large. Hopefully by writing about them, I can lessen my compulsions, find some humor in all of this nonsense, and maybe even relate to others in some miniscule way.
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