Tuesday, April 29, 2008
That's not me. I’m not that dedicated. Well, I used to. I went to the gym for the wrong reasons, superficial reasons. Narcissist
True, I’m not overweight in any sense of the word. For those who have met me, know my body is lean and that of a runner: taut and toned, but not muscular. You’ll find more fat on a chicken cutlet then on my thighs. Even if I wanted to look better by eating right and working out, I don’t think I’d want to. After a long day at the office, I would rather get home, change clothes, have a light dinner, and crash in front of the couch for a ½ hour while eating a bag of potato chips.
An extra hour of my day to work out would mean an extra hour lost in bed (and I don't get to sleep much, so that ain’t happenin’). And, I wouldn't go to an extreme to change my body to please someone else. If you don't like me the way I am, then somebody else will.
Then again, if I was overweight and no one gave me a passing glance, my fat ass would be on a treadmill before you could say gastric bypass.
To those who do what you do to look the way you do (you know who you are), keep up the good work. I’m not the only one who appreciates it. Wanna potato chip?
Friday, April 25, 2008
But, Goldilocks was fortunate enough to choose between three bowls of porridge. Many of us aren’t that lucky. Sometimes there are only two bowls, and other times, only one. Instead of sitting down, many people would rather skip the meal because it’s not exactly what they ordered.
In a way, the aforementioned fairy tale is a lot like life.
You leave a mate because they have an annoying habit. Your friend isn't approved of in your social circles, so you pretend they don't exist. Your job isn’t the one you planned for, so you do it half-assed. You spend hours in the gym because you never feel buff enough. Your walls are painted several times because you can’t find the right shade of white.
And on and on…
It seems like no one is ever satisfied with good enough on the road to perfection.
But, consider the alternative.
What would’ve happened if Goldilocks never had that third bowl of porridge? Would she have passed the first two? Who knows? She never gave the other bowls a chance. Too hot? Wait for it to cool down, or throw it in the fridge for a few seconds. Too cold? Nuke it in the microwave. And, if those two fail, add the two bowls together, mix the contents et voila, the perfect porridge!
You miss out on so much by passing on potential. If you don’t like something the way it is, try to change it. No one is born perfect. No one dies perfect. Be happy for what you have. You have so much more than you know.
Well, some of my friends know that I am not-so-miserable, but at least I can adapt to those other happy fuckers who are around me without having to resort to homicide.
Eh, maybe I just need to take a walk through the woods… Tip-toe. Tick Tack.
Anyway, back to Goldilocks. That biatch deserved what she got when those bears mauled her ass.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
On more than one occasion, I’ve had people ask me if I was the person they were talking about in a certain story. Quite often, they’re not. They’re just being paranoid.
Whatever their reason is for paranoia is what makes me smirk. Are they really so egocentric to think everything is about them? Probably. Probably, not. I’m not their therapist.
If I ever write about a specific situation or conversation, I tell that person what I’m doing. If I’m feeling generous, I’ll send them an early draft of the story just to see their reaction. It’s usually positive, but if it isn’t, then I know to generalize some elements because I don’t want to tread on dangerous territory.
But, most of the time, I’m not writing about anyone in specific. The people I talk about are composites of several people I know - that’s what happens when your social circle is comprised of several hundred people.
Then again, there are times where I throw caution to the wind and write about someone I know without telling them. But when all else fails, remember this: I’m not talking about you, unless I am.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
There are some people who are always in the picture even after you have taken them out of the frame and thrown it away. They get under your skin, and not in the good way. They are a part of your past and it is difficult to forget about them - lobotomy included.
Sometimes, when you think they are gone for good, they pop up at the most inopportune time: right before the last synaptic memory has re-programmed itself in your brain. Then, they are back.
It is at this moment where you want them to be gone. Forever. It is not that you want them dead, per se, you just do not want them to be alive. Or, at least, alive in your head. You want them to disappear. Vanish. Exiled into oblivion. Into the ether. And, you never want to think about them, again.
Just when you think they are gone for the umpteenth time, they reappear. And, the cycle starts all over again. Fuckers.