Rilo Kiley - Science Vs. Romance
that's not to say i don't have good times
crash sites keep me up at night
as for those things
test sites keep me up at night
text versus romance
so it goes... sink or swim. I'm not sure if any of this is real but I have to deal with the fact :I'm alone in the middle of an ocean: I don't want to drown in it. I learn to swim and practice. there is no island to swim for, nor surrender, nor substance, nor permanence; only practice until I reach the below, way, way, down. The question is do I sink now or do I sink later. there's a rock ahead. I'll rest there and think about it. two strokes forward, one wave back. I call it coasting.
Every fucking month for 5, 6, 7 days at a time. It didn't used to come this often, this consistently, this much like clock work... now it's routine, routine punishment. (no, I'm not getting my period) How many years has it been like this? how many months or years spent in hell after hell after hell.... in hell there's no telling time, when you're there you were always there. how many oceans have been unfairly seeped through my eyes? I've heard so fucking theories from so many fucking know-it-alls about why I get depressed, I just wish I could believe the one that makes it stop. They say it's a chemical imbalance. I go on medication. They say it's bad thoughts. I go to therapy. They say it's because I don't respect myself. I quit smoking cigarettes. They say it's because I don't feel good about myself. I start working out. They say it's because I'm not doing what I want to be doing. I practice what I think I want (I don't know what I want) and I'm content in my life. They say it's because I'm not expressing myself. I start this piss poor blog (haha, blog pity). They say it's because I'm lazy, so I make myself busy. They say it's because I feel sorry for myself, I learn to feel gracious toward myself. They say it's because I don't get enough sunlight, I move to Mexico. They say it's the fucking polyester in boxer shorts, so I switch to fucking silk, WHAT DO I DO?!
a man on the bus.
My friend Natalia got mugged last weekend. She was leaving the gym and was almost home when she felt the knife up against her side. She gave up her wallet, her book bag, her house keys, her cell, and when that wasn't enough he started to fool around with her belt. That was more than she was willing to surrender and she started screaming for help. Apparently this was all in plain sight (and hearing) of several bystanders and a pig cop, but did they do anything? No. The guy decided not to push it, I guess, and took of running down the street with what he had already taken.
When I watched American Beauty the first time and saw Keven Spacey smoking up a doober and lifting weights in his garage while rocking out to some Zeppelin or Floyd or something, I thought, that is cool. Actually, it's not cool at all, it's needlessly masochistic. I got pretty high before going to the gym yesterday... not my greatest idea. They have this eliptical machine that measures your heart rate and adjusts the difficulty based on your specified target range. I usually set it to 170, and it rarely reaches that level, but yesterday my heart was racing up towards 160 after only a minute or two and into 170 after four or five... I was getting my ass kicked hard. The other two machines, the treadmill and bike, were another 40 minutes of unusual intensity. Then I really had my ass handed to me. I moved on to the leg weights and discovered an entire new realm of punishment. I remember glowing red lava being poured on my legs and my stomach was giving birth to hell daemon, I looked down and expected something to pop or rip or fucking explode in my legs or abdomin. Every repetition was another blooming flower of agony and each set was a bouquet. I should have stopped... but I couldn't be bothered to, so I kept going and going until it was finished. Getting up off of every sequential machine became more and more awkward, I could barely lift my legs off the ground with each step... they had become some new variety of dense rubber, like the kind NASA would use to make dildos. Yes, my legs had turned into space-age rubber dildos and it was all I could do to not to walk into the wall and fall over. Even with total concentration and focus on every little step (waddle) I still managed to trip twice. Well, anyhow, I got through it okay, but kids, don't get high before intense physical excertion (unless it's sex) and don't listen to anything American Beauty has to say about drugs. And if you ever pay $5000 for a nickle bag of pot, it had better get you high for years. Dumbasses.
Everything that had lemon in it in the States has been replaced here by lime. Nestea, detergent, lemon-aid! And most people here think that lemons are limes, because there's no lemons here (in spanish, lime is called limon.)
I went out for lunch with Gaby today, she was all giddy and googly eyed about her new boyfriend Alick and I got a chance to find out why he's hot shit. It's a fairy tale story really; they met in a bar, he has bad teeth, and he likes The Beatles. Charles and Diana didn't even have that much to go on. I think I should report him to immigration.
I shouldn't say that my parents ignored me and certainly they didn't neglet me; I never bled to death on the kitchen floor or anything like that and I never went hungry or naked or dumb either. But parents are supposed to do more than feed and clothe. Parents are supposed to help you form an identity so you can relate to the world. They were supposed to teach me my history, which was also their history. Most of my parent's relationship and my early upbringing is a giant question mark.
Everyone's gotten some fragmented song stuck in their head. The tune (the clip of the tune) may start at the chorus and goes on until you get to those words that were never quite clear, you try to wrap your head around those missing lyrics, grasping at anything vaguely familiar to fill in the missing gaps so you can finally have a whole song and move on with your life. Sometimes they drift from memory. But as soon as you hear a couple notes wafting in on some foreign breeze, then the obsession begins all over again.
There's a lot of homeless people here in Mexico City. A lot. Thing is, only so many go out to beg, so I haven't even glimpsed their actual number. Most of the impoverished are relegated to the slums where they are far outside the small spectrum of concern offered by the typical city dweller.
I was getting a healthtricious sandwich at Subway and some new soap was on. Tele-novels (as they call them) here are HUGE, they make kiddy soaps and teen soaps and probably soaps for the elderly and handicapped too. This one soap for teenagers, Rebelde, kinda reminds me of Saved by the Bell, except instead of Screech, there's a super-fat girl and instead of Mr. Belding there's like 10 other super-hot girls. They run around in short little skirts and shake their asses... well except for the fat girl, that would be too much shake I think. Usually these soaps only go on for a year, instead of the never-ending sagas you get in the States, but this one just keeps going on & on and I see it on everywhere. Another soap on here was The Virgin Bride (I wonder how that series finished...) and another, The Stepmother, stars(ed?) Ponch from that old show CHiPs. They're all very stupid and silly and way, way over the top... like the wail of a pipe organ every 15 seconds while the actors do obscene gestures with their eyebrows.
The first month after I quit smoking I started eating more... it didn't get out of control or anything, but my choice of food wasn't exactly the best either. Okay... so I've always eaten shit food, but after I quit smoking I was eating even more shit food. (I've found only few other vegatables that are above pasture level, salads have always seemed to me like something cows should be eating.) So, I was rewarding myself with junk, and I had earned the right to do so (in my mind). Grilled tortas with pork chops and steak and cheese or snitzel (?) and hot-dog meat or some other ungodliness, BK... every day I would have either a chocolate milkshake or pack of m&m's and kettle chips, lotsa Coca-cola. But now that I feel like I have this smoking situation under control I don't want to keep going with that. Why should I stop with quitting cigs, the whole reason I'm doing this is to take better care of myself. I should eat better too. And if I'm going to eat healthier, why shouldn't I take care of my body too. I spent an hour at the gym today, (mostly sweating) but what's great is that afterward I don't even want a coca-cola or hamburger or chips, I want to eat something that my body can use. I want water. Did I mention that I've only become this idyllic person that I describe for maybe two days in a row now, lol. Makes no difference, I'm going every day from now on... just like with the smoking, one day at a time.
Happy St. Paddy's Day everyone.
I've been mulling over what's in store for me this year. One thing I recently realized about myself is that I've pretty much gotten everything that I've ever wanted in my life... granted I've never wanted very much for myself, but every little thing that I ever wanted passionatly I obtained and then I somehow ended up rejecting it. And everytime, why did I reject it? Because I either thought I was too good for it, or I thought I wasn't good enough. There have been so many sweet experiences, so many good people that I never fully allowed myself access to and that's because I don't trust myself and I haven't much cared about myself either.
Today is my birthday. I'm somewhat notorious for hating these days... but it's not just me, my body actually has a severe biological reaction to my birthdays, starting around 3am of the day in question. I swear to god, the last few birthdays I can remember were mostly me throwing up and crying. Maybe it's because it's the Ides of March, maybe it's because I'm repulsed by everyone congratulating me for something I didn't want to do in the first place, or maybe I intentionally seek out maladies to make this birthday my last. Whatever.
Mexico's ruling PAN party has launched its' latest wave of attacks against machismo and sexism in an ad campaign where the working-class women of the world are replaced by pucker lipped blowup sex dolls... who seem to be doing their jobs... followed by the message, "No woman should be treated like an object." Am I the only person who finds this completely ridiculous and counterproductive?
She asked me why do I worry? I say, because I'm good at it.
There are no uncharted waters or finial frontiers or lost worlds (except in movies of same titles)... and if you can show me a place on the face of this planet where I can't buy a Coca-Cola from someone, well, then I'll buy you a Coke from someone. Not only is there civilization everywhere, but all of natures mysteries have benn explained away by science and forced to follow it's laws. That twinkle in the stars was given some long-sounding name. Now how am I supposed to worship that?
The training portion of my courtship with Bungal took three weeks. Mon-Fri, 10am-3pm consistining mostly of exercises in futility. In the first week we covered pretty relevant material for learning how to teach English. We went over the main verb tenses, active and passive voice and so on. This is also when we learned the "Bungal Method" of teaching, which consists mainly of saying "repeat, repeat, repeat..." and making traffic signals with your hands.
In the ten years that I smoked, I made the final decision to quit smoking in maybe ten seconds. I wish I made more decisions this quickly.
The thing about starting this blog for me was the same as all other things; I'm really good at thinking about about it and talking about it, but when it actually comes time to do it, I stall and think about it some more. I've always been so preoccupied with the idea of doing things right the first time, that there isn't any room for mistakes. The problem with that ideaology is that I can never decide what the right thing is and keep pondering and weighing the different sides. I'd be a horrible judge.