Las Madrés y Los Padrés

Monday, Monday

So good to me.

Monday, Monday

It was all I hoped it would be.

So, I'm here today. It's about 9am. It's ridiculous. I should be spending the morning in a nice half-doze. Why can't people naturally start their days later? What's the hurry? What's the rush? Why can't we spend as much time being alive as we can? Certainly--CERTAINLY--there's something more important to do than the doldrum of office work.



Oh Monday morning

Monday morning couldn't guarantee

That Monday evening

You would still be here with me.

But it's not that Monday is a bad day. It's completely coincidental that Monday is the first day of the work week. It could be Sunday. Why is Sunday the official week starter when it's not the first work day? What sort of logic is that? It's like calling icecream an entree but continuing to eat it as if it were a desert. And, even, calling it a desert as we call Sunday part of the weekend even though calenders convince us of its status at the beginning. I feel berated by my calender every time I include Sunday in my weekend activities.



Monday, Monday

Can't trust that day.

Monday, Monday

Sometimes it just turns out that way.

I think people would feel better if we got rid of the concept of Monday. I'm not sure how to go about doing that, though. You can't just get rid of the concept of starting the workweek. If you get rid of the day Monday then the song would be called Tuesday Tuesday. And though not as pleasing to the ears, still the same feeling attached to it. Perhaps if we absolutely said that Sunday was the beginning of the week we could come at the week with the impression that we've started it out on a positive note instead of dreading Monday we could say "Hey, we're on the second day of the week! We're doing pretty darn swell!"



On Monday morning

You gave me no warning

Of what was to be.

On Monday, Monday

How could you leave

And not take me?

People don't use the word "swell" enough. It's an underrated expression of celebration. "Gee" is also underused, as is "nifty" and "spiffy." "Cool?" "Hot?" "Fierce?" "Rad?" All so tacky. And fierce? Really? That's awful. "You're fierce!" What? No I'm not. I don't have any intention of attacking you, I promise. I'm hardly even an omnivore in the complete sense let alone someone would would be so driven by primal urges to be fierce. I have no muscle mass! No threat.



Every other day

Every other day

Every other day

Of the week is fine, yeah.

I don't know. I'm not too terribly fond of Tuesdays. It's really a useless day. It's a segue day. It's only used to get from Dreaded Monday to Hump Wednesday. It's like one of those useless walking scenes in a movie that only serves to show continuity. It's terribly boring and not at all intriguing but wholly needed to make the movie comprehendable.



But whenever Monday comes

But whenever Monday comes

You can find me crying

All of the time.

There's a disorder called Seasonal Affective Disorder where people literally become severely depressed during season in where sun isn't visible or when it's cold. They stay in their house all day and mope. And I use mope in the most sensitive way possible. Obviously they can't control it. They've surrendered their control to past events and chemical imbalances. And, to their credit, it's a lot easier to surrender.



Monday, Monday

So good to me.

Monday, Monday

It was all I hoped it would be.

But Monday morning,

Monday morning couldn't guarantee

That Monday evening

You would still be here with me.


I can't understand couples who are "attached at the hip." I think no matter how much you love each other individuals are essentially individual even if ultimately we're all part of the same energy. Thus, it's okay to have individual likes and dislikes and you don't always have to show up everywhere together. It's stressful to have to attend something just to appease your mate. And when you are hip on hip you suddenly segregate yourself from everyone else. You are no longer Jane and John you are some disturbing mutated amalgamation of Jane and John call Janohn. Janohn is a dissociative little creature who is constantly in reluctant disagreement with Janohn's best interests. Soon Janohn can't handle such passive aggressive aggression and Janohn breaks up into two weakened and pitiful personalities, broken down by failed communion.



Every other day

Every other day

Every other day

Of the week is fine, yeah.

Except for Tuesday.



But whenever Monday comes

But whenever Monday comes

You can find me crying

All of the time.


Tear ducts were fashioned to get rid of toxins from the body and to flush out your eyes of foreign bodies. If your tear ducts aren't working your eyes will become scratchy and scarred from dust and salts. I wonder if that's what happens to your being if you can't cry to let go fear, sadness, depression, anger, or even happiness. Emotions are unique reactions to human beings in the fact that they have more power over us than even instinct. I've yet to decide if this is a benefit or a handicap.



Monday, Monday,

Can't trust that day.

Monday, Monday,

It just turns out that way.

I'm not sure what's worse, the personification of imaginary concepts and nouns such as the days of the week or so freely accepting your situation as to let a Monday become untrustworthy and wallowing in the anger and conflicting emotions of it without even attempting to improve the situation.



Oh, Monday, Monday,

Won't go away.

Monday, Monday

It's here to stay

Oh Monday, Monday

Oh Monday, Monday

But if it did go away you'd understand the pure evil of Tuesday much better.

Dermatillomania

One day, when I was much younger in elementary/grade school, I was supposed to go up to bat in a game of baseball. I was so nervous. I scraped my fingernail across the inside of my thumb over and over and over again. Someone asked me what I had done to my thumb. I looked at them questioningly then looked down. There was a large bubble of blood sitting attop my finger.

"I picked it," I replied.

I still don't know if I was allowed not to bat because I'd injured my thumb or because it was obvious how nervous I was.

I once saw a picture of myself from kindergarten. I had my hand up to my neck in a gesture I knew all too well. I knew what the fingers were doing without having to see them. My thumb was horizontal and my fingers were pulling the soft skin of my neck over it again and again. I knew I wasn't aware of it at the time. It was at a birthday party.

I was with my friend J. Ayala once. I was telling her a story. I had mindlessly pulled up the sleeve of my shirt and started pulling the skin over my thumb on the inside of my arm. She stopped me and asked, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" I replied.

"Mess with your arm. Everytime you tell a story you do that."

I explained to her that I'd always done it. I didn't know why.

For a while I was able to control myself. I'd simply acknowledge what I was doing, picking my neck or my arm, and watch myself do it and eventually I could stop without the stress of telling myself "Stop that!" and feeling guilty for it.

I can't say why I do this. Most people with Dermatillomania injure themselves. I've only done that once or twice and the most common place I bleed is my lips which I've kept the picking at bay by using Aquaphor on them and preventing them to become dry enough to be enticing enough to pick. I don't really pick until it bleeds on my neck, though lately I have been entranced with scraping my back blindly of any dead skin. I have since developed more acne there as a result of oils and aggravation.

For a while I had an acne cluster on my right cheek from rubbing my fingers across the surface of the skin.

I don't know why I developed this habit. Usually it's from an event that happened or inner emotions that can't be expressed normally. I know that even if I notice I'm doing it while I'm doing it (if I'm not injuring myself) it feels almost good to have the soft skin of my neck or inner arm on the tips of my sensitive fingers. And I like the feeling of my fingers rubbing my neck there, too. I also like to roll small bits of dry skin or anything grainy in my fingers.

If you look too closely at my neck, slightly to the left there is a moderately rough patch of skin that is the result of years of subtle abuse.

I've gone past thinking that this is an odd disorder and I certainly don't think that my level of it is soon to become detrimental to my health. I've read about people who've scratched their neck so much that they had to have skin grafts and then scratched those off. I'm certainly not that bad.

But I am a bit embarassed for it. I find whenever I do say "You know, one of my oddities is picking my neck," I get a very uncomfortable response. Some people laugh and some people just don't know what to say.

But, ya know, that's how I'd react too. It doesn't really come up and it hadn't really been an issue until recently when I realized how terribly bored I was with work and started pulling at my neck skin obsessively again. I think I'm just going to soak myself in lotion.

Anyone know if they sell lotion by the gallons?

E.M.Green's guide to dealing with obsession:

Step one:
Inundate your pysche with the thing you are currently obsessed about to test its stick-to-itiveness. If, after proper and abnoxious saturation of said content you still remain completely infatuated with the person, place, thing, feeling, or 80's toy in question go to step two.

Step two:
Check out the people who also dig said obsession. If you are not freaked out/disgusted by said people who dig said obsession go to step three.

Step three:
Tell other people about your obsession. Scream it from the rafters. Call for acceptance. Preach diversity in opinion. If you have not lost the entirety of your friends and/or family go to step four.

Step four:
Check if your obsession is interfering in your everyday life. Are you eating less? Are you getting thirty minutes of sleep each night? Are your eyes glazed over? Are you easily aggravated by people mentioning something even weakly related to your obsession in any form be it critical or not? Is your house difficult to navigate because of copious collecting? Are you not able to afford bills or other expenses because of your obsession? Are you forgoing doctor's visits for your obsession? Are you mutilating your body in any way that would be unhealthy for your obession? If you have not lost all touch with reality go to step five.

Step five:
Accept your obsession. There's nothing wrong with being obsessed or being a fan. If you have control of your obsession then embrace the joy and people that come with it. Write a blog about your obsession. List them. Love them. They are who makes you you. These are what make you unique and, yet, connected to people. Do not fear thoughts of your obsession interrupting your day. Simply acknowledge them and then go back to what you were doing.

And to celebrate step five I shall now list my obsessions with links (if applicable) in order of when they first come to my mind:

My Little Pony
Pullips
David Hewlett
Alan Cumming
Haikus
Independant Films (mostly with queer content)
Stargate Atlantis
Firefly

And there they are. They don't look like much now that I've typed them out but they are part of me. They make me who I am. I might have missed one, but being obsessed, one usually fails to miss.

Strattera Strut

For those of you (why I refer to "you" in my journal still is a mystery to me, I've long since procrastinated too much to have anymore readers) who know me personally know I can be more than a little random. I have a feeling it's not really noticed all that much or really taken with any sort of seriousness. I have, on occassion, popped up and said something that really doesn't correlate with the current conversation or the current emotion of the day. I do think quite a bit before I speak so I avoid some of those situations unless I'm nervous.

This is a symptom of ADD. I've had ADD for a while now. It's not major and I don't claim that it prevents me from doing anything or it is incredibly impactful in my life. But it has created some problems.

I'm a horrible housekeeper. I procrastinate about everything. I don't remember conversations, people's names, or timelines in the least. I have trouble taking notes unless it's written on the board. I have trouble paying attention during any sort of performance including lectures and concerts (less so during plays and movies where there is a plot to follow). I usually don't retain information gained from lectures or concert songs.

I zone out when I'm overwhelmed. I used to sleep to deal with too much activity. I hate large crowds or group conversations. I'm a horrid shopper because instead of focusing on one thing I'll go to an item, see another item in my periphery and leap to it then leap to another without really getting the benefit of the prior inspection. It takes me forever to get out of a store this way.

And...well...etc I suppose. I could go on but then I'd lose the focus of my entry, wouldn't I? I would like to commend Strattera for it's hard and unrelenting work on my brain. It has allowed me to gain focus and internal organization more than any semenar or Sunday lesson has. It's a different world with Strattera. Items are initially individual where as before they were itinially a fuzz of activity and there was effort in making them individual.

I don't like taking pills, not generally. So I take Celexa and I take Strattera, which nullifies my statement completely. It literally made me cry when I realized that a higher dosage of Celexa would probably work better for me. I wanna say something about this--about how, if taken with proper care, medicine can do wonders. But, the truth is, I still remain doubtful of medicine (even though it's had such an effect on me).

It is possible to control your body. Medicine is a bridge to that. It's like when you have an infant who is learning to walk and the parent holds up its pudgy little arms so it stands for a few moments and taps a few tentative steps out. But sooner or later those supporting hands fade. You don't see many 30 year olds walking around with their mom holding up their arms.

It's hard to imagine being able to walk all the way from the chair to the couch right now. But I know it's possible. I've seen it done and that is my goal. But for right now I've got two hands in mine and for the first time I'm standing upright. I know how it feels. My perspective is changed. That is a fabulous thing.

What is your favorite color?

I think this is the most telling thing to ask a person, I really do. It's one of those questions you got asked when you were five. You would shyly hold up a crayon or a marker or pull at your fingers while you answered or pointed to it. It was purple or blue or pink or green or something very solid that didn't matter if it was more of a pinkish purple instead of pure because if it was said it was purple then it was the best.

And then when you got older, a little older, it became a bit more complicated because suddenly you've found all these other colors that you fancy. When I was about 7 or 8 or possibly older or younger my favorite colors were of these special markers that I always used to use in after-school-care. There were the regular colors that were darker and were green and blue, black and brown, red and orange etc...but then there were these other markers that came in the same box that had the same marker shape to them but were in colors like "shocking lemon" and "electric pink" and "electric green" or somesuch. These colors were absolutely my favorite colors ever.

Whenever I went to color something I would always pull all of these bright highlighter like colors out of the box and hold them in a fist in my hand so no one else would use them. I would sit there for however long I had and just color the hell out of them. The pink was my favorite one because it was the brightest and most seeable on white paper. The green was fine except it wasn't as bright as what color the outside of the marker was. And the yellow was good until it dried up.

But then I got older. Much older. "What's your favorite color?" And after an introspective moment "Clear, clear is my favorite color. I quite enjoy the lack of color. Black is my favorite color. White, because it's all the colors in the spectrum combined." It became much more thought-out, much less spontaneous. Then when I became even older than that my favorite color became green. I'm not sure why green is my favorite color. I suppose because whenever I say it is people comment "Like your last name!" And I like that.

So this is why I think that this question "What is your favorite color?" is so important. When you get older and past the point of spontenaety and not caring what people think you answer this question with the upmost care and consideration with the idea that whatever your answer will be will somehow symbolize your as a person. So whatever your answer is to this question is who you want to be seen. And if you're spontenious with your answer then who you are is who you are. But if your answer is one in complication and a moment of inner reflection who you are is who you desire to appear.

This isn't a bad thing, in my opinion. Some people take great care in who they present themselves to be. And, in a way, that is a statement of who you are as well. And I think that's fine, as long as you're happy. As long as your happy with what your favorite color is and not second guessing that answer I think you're absolutely OK. For all that matters in the long run, anyway.

I Know You Missed My Intelligent Entries About Petty Issues

So here's more:

Before House, M.D. made his role known on the small screen quiping crotchity remarks while waving his cane about there was, in print on heavy cardstock, Maxine. I haven't read Maxine in eons. I used to peruse the Hallmark (tm)(r)(c) section of the department store constantly but I've, since, fallen out of that routine.

Maxine voiced what everyone, no matter if you were a blue-haired old lady with arthritis or a scrawny 10 year old with a penchant for watching late night TV, wanted to say but had neither the wit nor courage to do so. And while Gregory House is a stunning specimen of the male gender despite (or perhaps because of) his scruffy perpetual 5 o'clock and gimp posture, Maxine is simply Maxine.

There is nothing attractive about Maxine despite her charming personality. There is no jealousy of her bathrobe, funky hairstyle, or waist long breasts (of which she mentions a time or two), but she is just herself.

And so, to satiate my inner aggrivation at the idiocy of simple life, let me share with you a few of my favorite Maxine quotes.

All I want is a little understanding. Like, when I say "Get lost, pal!" I really want you to understand that.
I'd eat more fruits and vegetables if they tasted more like microwaved burritos.
Ah, the thrill of watching kicking, blocking, tackling, running..... but enough about fall sales at the mall.
As far as I am concerned, the perfect bra is a sweatshirt.
Why don't you slip into something more comfortable...like a coma.
Well aren't you just the most adorable black hole of need.
Don't let your mind wander...it's too small to be let out on its own.
You really are as pretty as a picture...I'd like to hang you.
I'd like to give you a going away present...first, do your part.
My bra is more of a cross-your-waist.

Okay, enough of that. I'm already guilty of taking up too much space for anyone who has this journal in syndication on their friends pages more than once.

I do want to mention something about livejournal, while I've segued gracefully to that subject. Some people might be privy to what is being called "Strikeout 2007" (hoist your colors, rah rah rah, and all that rot). For those not privvy (I spelled it a different way the second time, one of them has to be correct) to this occurence:

Brad was away. Brad is the livejournal part of the livejournal/six apart corporation. Six Apart CEO what'shisface smiling smugly on his lj icon was taking his place. Some anti-pedophile group sent a complaint to livejournal about there being pro-pedophile activity on many livejournals. Six Apart CEO (lets call him SAC) said, "Alright, we'll just delete every person with a keyword of incest, pedophile, or any indication of violence or rape in their interests." And so they did, with no former warning. Rumor has it (as rumor often has control of many things) that millions of journals were deleted in a generally poor and haphazardly way.

SAC's actions caused the, sorry, suspension (not deletion) of a few support groups for rape victims and a dog gone good deal of fictional journals. Personally, I could care less about all of this going on, mainly, because I wasn't affected and haven't been a regular visitor of LJ until I started playing Max Headroom in arrivals_only and tried to continue to play Ophilia Whitaker in kit_kat_klub. But it fascinates me the government of the internet.

Even though it's been around for a terribly long time the internet as a means of community, communication, and information is still in its infancy. People who run larger companies, like SAC does, are flying by the seat of their pants on how to handle the democracy and morality of being a notable online company. We're not talking websites of large real-world companies (like Wal*Mart's website), but companies who have all of their services available online (like blogging sites and E-bay). We are entering a new age of just about everything. Not many people under 30 who live in even a modestly urban community fail to have an email account at the very least but most of the time sharing with it a screenname of some messaging system and an online blog to share their most witty, interesting experiences--or just crap like I put up.

This new online world fascinates me! I remember back in the day when all you could really experience on a computer was cheesy games of golf, microsoft paint, solitaire, and Oregan Trail. I didn't get my first computer until I was well in highschool and we STILL have that computer today!

I wonder how much longer this freedom to experience everything online is going to last before the big communication and media companies like Comcast or AT&T/Bellsouth will latch onto the web and make it their own and everyone else's for a considerable fee, censoring those used-to-be free speech sites. Until then, I'm practicing, in depth, my freedom of speech. I suggest everyone else do the same.

Type away, young warriors. For soon this land, too, will be poached with a corporate flag. But before that day comes we can celebrate what was as what is now.

All Mourn the Death of the Inflatable, Plastic Palm Tree!

Coming up the walkway to the building I saw the oddest sight. In the courtyard there was an overturned inflatable, plastic palm tree. You know, like one of those you buy at Party City in the "Luau" aisle aside the grass skirts, leis, and fake coconut bras; right above the ukulele that you can't play because the strings are just big, plastic, stupid-heads. Not that I have anything against fake ukuleles.

But to continue with my vision:
It wasn't only the fact that in the smack dab middle of the courtyard rested a dying inflatable plastic palm tree but the fact that around the perimiter of the grassy island was yellow streamers tied to various posts and table legs along the way so that from a distance it looked like it was yellow caution tape--a murder!

People were wandering around as if it didn't matter to them but--oh no! I knew what had taken place! It's one thing to hate the idiotic summer luau theme, with its tiki torches and harry cross-dressing men in tangled wigs, plastic adorned leis, grass skirts, and genuine coconut bras hulaing to corny music only The Ultimate Luau CD 1983's greatest hits can offer, but to murder in rage a defenseless inflatable plastic palm tree is going beyond hatred to insanity. What has this novelty decoration ever done to you except exist in its design as a cheesy, yet mildly retro, corner lerker sometimes adorned with clearanced christmas lights and always equiped with complementry inflatable repair kit?

Now, no suspects so far in this case but rest assured I'll keep updated accounts of any suspicious activity. I might not let this one slide so easily. I have an uncle that's inflatable.

currently: quirky

current piece of writing: "and miles to go before I sleep"