You know, it's bad enough when a man automatically assumes you can or can't do something based upon your ownership of ovary real estate, but I think it just might be worse when that attitude comes from a woman.
I pride myself in being able to take care of most things when it comes to cars. I can change my own oil (but don't because I don't want to); I know how to change a tire in 95 degree weather and a dress; and I keep a little pouch of emergency items, like jumper cables, in the trunk. I'm no mechanic, but I can tell the difference between a battery and an alternator. I know when to go for help, and I usually call my dad or my friends who are mechanics or work on cars as a hobby.
Anyway, yesterday, a friend of mine left her lights on all day, thus rendering her battery dead when we were dismissed from training at 3:30. I told her I had jumper cables with me and that I would help her, but when I arrived with my Aveo, lo and behold, she had an older gentleman with her. Which, you know, is fine, except that I already had my hood up with the cables connected to my battery. So me = all ready to go.
Well, dude pops his hood and asks for my cables. Blinks galore from me. But I unclip them and hand the cord to the guy, all the while staring at her incredulously.
"I'm just terrified of the sparks," she said.
Okay ....... I mean, I guess I could have damaged her confidence in me by having to text my friend, asking if it mattered which colored end was clamped first (which is doesn't), but it's not like I'm incompetent. I have two arms and two hands, I know what a battery is, and I can differentiate between black and red.
To make a long story short, I was fairly annoyed for a minute but got over it once I realized that I wasn't having to do any physical labor, as simple as it was, in the heat. So, yay for me. But the concept still burned in my brain for the next few hours.
Have we, as women, completely been brainwashed into thinking that a man can solve our problems? I mean, look at the lady mags that I personally loathe. Nearly every situation or quiz eventually about how to find/keep a boyfriend/husband/whatever, implying that, without such an accessory, our lives are somehow left wanting. After we manage to snag a member of the opposite sex, it's all sunshine and kittens, according to the Elle/Cosmo/Marie Claire/etc. Powers That Be.
The sheer idea that we cannot function separate from a male partner really gets me riled. I can balance my own checkbook, do my own taxes, take care of my own car, mow the lawn (and maintain the mower), play Miss Fix-It in my own residence ... This list could continue for pages, and I'm assuming that a great number of other women can do the same thing. I guess this goes back to an earlier post, where I posed the scenario of a woman feeling accomplished because she did something period or having that same emotion because we did it without help from the menz. I'm always amazed and slightly irritated when a man patronizingly congratulates me when I tell him that I've done something that is usually male dominated.
Example:
Me: Remember that rattling in my car I was telling you about? I figured out that when I was checking my oil I didn't completely secure the little prop up thing.
Guy: Really? Good for you. I'll bet that was hard for you, you know, as a girl.
If I were a guy, I don't think the congratulations would have been offered, seeing as I would have been preternaturally given knowledge of all things with an engine at birth due to my penis. But it was the last sentence that really made me go off on this friend of mine. "Yeah, it was really hard to lift the hood and see it dangling there." He made a hasty retreat into the excuses of, "Well, most girls just go ask for help if something's wrong" and "They don't try to figure it out on their own, especially if they have the information readily available." This portion of our conversation was quickly terminated, once he saw that I was about ready to strangle him. I think we then talked about the new "Gears of War" comic. Oh, and he also thinks it's hot that I'm into that sort of thing, which just confuses me. I don't get all turned on when a guy friend of mine likes stereotypically female interests. I just don't understand, and really don't think I ever will. Until then, I'll refuse to ride side saddle, I'll eat big steaks and I'll enjoy blowing up things on my xbox.
And in closing, I leave you with this:
19 August 2009
18 August 2009
Me vs. Green Veggie
Okay, so true story.
Today, I decided to venture out of my usual skipping lunch and scribbling ineffectually away in my notebook and went to eat with my friend Cari. She suggested that we go to this Thai restaurant over on Woodland Street, and after thinking to myself that I hadn't had anything other than preprocessed, heat lamp cuisine over the past couple of weeks, I agreed.
It's this little rundown shack of a place that I've driven by a million times and yet never realized was a restaurant. And, come to think of it, I'm wondering how it passes health inspection codes. There is plywood for walls, one of them spray painted in a black and white polka dot fashion and a giant outline of what I thought was someone's representation of a window, but we all know that all artists are misunderstood. Through an actual window from the patio where we ate, you can peer into the kitchen, which looks clean enough, but you kind of have to overlook the 85 different appliances plugged into one ancient-looking outlet next to the stove. I mean, this is just a blaze waiting to happen.
The meal went normally enough, with a very friendly waiter and quick service. The spring rolls were awesome, and my sweet and sour stir fry dish (it had a name, but I'm not about to try and remember the spelling of pronunciation) had the perfect mix of fruit, chicken and veggies. I've never really liked pineapple until this afternoon, if that says anything. I even got to try Cari's drunken noodles, which I will be ordering next time I go there. I finished off my rice and then started picking at the remaining bits of my lunch.
I came across what appeared to be a green bean; I thought, that's strange, and then proceeded to bite down. And I'm not even speaking in hyperbole here, within milliseconds, my mouth erupted, and I frantically searched for anything that might calm my poor tastebuds. I had no more rice, I had drank all of my water, and the only thing left on my plate were a few bits of chicken, which does nothing at all for an extremely hot pepper in your mouth. I started sucking on ice cubes, but not even that helped. The poor waiter couldn't really do anything except bring me more iced tea, so I suffered for about 15 minutes with this weird limbo between numbness and extreme pain in my mouth. Cari was laughing with me, especially after I had to tell myself not to wave over the firefighters driving by. Our waiter gave me a to-go cup of water and a little bit of rice to take off some of the edge of that damned pepper.
So, even nearly twelve hours later, the roof of my mouth feels like it was burned with scalding coffee.
There's no moral here, except maybe not everything that looks like a green bean is a green bean. But, the more you know ......
Today, I decided to venture out of my usual skipping lunch and scribbling ineffectually away in my notebook and went to eat with my friend Cari. She suggested that we go to this Thai restaurant over on Woodland Street, and after thinking to myself that I hadn't had anything other than preprocessed, heat lamp cuisine over the past couple of weeks, I agreed.
It's this little rundown shack of a place that I've driven by a million times and yet never realized was a restaurant. And, come to think of it, I'm wondering how it passes health inspection codes. There is plywood for walls, one of them spray painted in a black and white polka dot fashion and a giant outline of what I thought was someone's representation of a window, but we all know that all artists are misunderstood. Through an actual window from the patio where we ate, you can peer into the kitchen, which looks clean enough, but you kind of have to overlook the 85 different appliances plugged into one ancient-looking outlet next to the stove. I mean, this is just a blaze waiting to happen.
The meal went normally enough, with a very friendly waiter and quick service. The spring rolls were awesome, and my sweet and sour stir fry dish (it had a name, but I'm not about to try and remember the spelling of pronunciation) had the perfect mix of fruit, chicken and veggies. I've never really liked pineapple until this afternoon, if that says anything. I even got to try Cari's drunken noodles, which I will be ordering next time I go there. I finished off my rice and then started picking at the remaining bits of my lunch.
I came across what appeared to be a green bean; I thought, that's strange, and then proceeded to bite down. And I'm not even speaking in hyperbole here, within milliseconds, my mouth erupted, and I frantically searched for anything that might calm my poor tastebuds. I had no more rice, I had drank all of my water, and the only thing left on my plate were a few bits of chicken, which does nothing at all for an extremely hot pepper in your mouth. I started sucking on ice cubes, but not even that helped. The poor waiter couldn't really do anything except bring me more iced tea, so I suffered for about 15 minutes with this weird limbo between numbness and extreme pain in my mouth. Cari was laughing with me, especially after I had to tell myself not to wave over the firefighters driving by. Our waiter gave me a to-go cup of water and a little bit of rice to take off some of the edge of that damned pepper.
So, even nearly twelve hours later, the roof of my mouth feels like it was burned with scalding coffee.
There's no moral here, except maybe not everything that looks like a green bean is a green bean. But, the more you know ......
16 August 2009
I am not a pretty girl .....
Ani DiFranco - Not A Pretty Girl
Back in high school, I discovered the greatness that is Ani Difranco. At that age, I was just looking for something different from Britney Spears and the other cookie cutter "artists" flooding the music scene, so it was refreshing to hear someone like Ani.
I am not a pretty girl. That is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress, and I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk; maybe you'd prefer a maiden fair.
Isn't there a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere?
It was the biting remarks that I appreciated at the time. They were a not so subtle "screw you" to pretty much anyone who misunderstood me, especially the boys. Oh, those silly boys. Thankfully, I have gotten past that.
I am not an angry girl, but it seems like I've got everyone fooled.
Every time I say something they find hard to hear,
They chalk it up to my anger and never to their own fear.
And imagine you're a girl, just trying to finally come clean,
Knowing full well they'd prefer you were dirty and smiling.
The one thing I hated about being in high school was that I had been in school with the same people since I was in the 4th grade. That kind of consistency does not allow for evolution of personality and character. Instead, even as I grew and changed, mostly for the better, I was stuck in this weird limbo of geeky girl who never spoke much more than necessary. And then apparently, I became what the above lyrics described. It even lingers somewhat to this day, at least to the people who didn't get to know me much past a "hi" in the hallway.
And I am sorry I am not a maiden fair,
And I am not a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere.
Who would have thought that nearly 8 years has gone past and I am still moved by what she has to say? The same lyrics come through the speakers, but suddenly, it all has new meaning. This interpretation is much more universal, rather than specifically geared towards my peers. It speaks towards my position as a woman; I'm expected to be something I'm not. I'm not a quiet bystander and I will call you out. And I'm not looking for someone to take care of me. There's a certain amount of accomplishment from making it on your own.
And what if there are no damsels in distress?
What if I knew that and I called your bluff?
Don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down,
Whether or not you ever show up?
For me, the question is this: should I feel more accomplished because I am a woman and I did something all by my onesies? I'm not asking this out of malice, believe me. It is just very frustrating to be a woman and have all of these expectations of me. I am more than my appearance. I am more than the words the come from my mouth and from my hands. But I'm not viewed that way. (And by no means am I claiming that men have it easy. That is a whole other set of issues that I cannot even come close to accurately describing, seeing as I don't have to deal with it.)
Anyway, I will close with Ani's final stanza ...
I am not a pretty girl.
I don't want to be a pretty girl.
No, I wanna be more than a pretty girl.
Back in high school, I discovered the greatness that is Ani Difranco. At that age, I was just looking for something different from Britney Spears and the other cookie cutter "artists" flooding the music scene, so it was refreshing to hear someone like Ani.
I am not a pretty girl. That is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress, and I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk; maybe you'd prefer a maiden fair.
Isn't there a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere?
It was the biting remarks that I appreciated at the time. They were a not so subtle "screw you" to pretty much anyone who misunderstood me, especially the boys. Oh, those silly boys. Thankfully, I have gotten past that.
I am not an angry girl, but it seems like I've got everyone fooled.
Every time I say something they find hard to hear,
They chalk it up to my anger and never to their own fear.
And imagine you're a girl, just trying to finally come clean,
Knowing full well they'd prefer you were dirty and smiling.
The one thing I hated about being in high school was that I had been in school with the same people since I was in the 4th grade. That kind of consistency does not allow for evolution of personality and character. Instead, even as I grew and changed, mostly for the better, I was stuck in this weird limbo of geeky girl who never spoke much more than necessary. And then apparently, I became what the above lyrics described. It even lingers somewhat to this day, at least to the people who didn't get to know me much past a "hi" in the hallway.
And I am sorry I am not a maiden fair,
And I am not a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere.
Who would have thought that nearly 8 years has gone past and I am still moved by what she has to say? The same lyrics come through the speakers, but suddenly, it all has new meaning. This interpretation is much more universal, rather than specifically geared towards my peers. It speaks towards my position as a woman; I'm expected to be something I'm not. I'm not a quiet bystander and I will call you out. And I'm not looking for someone to take care of me. There's a certain amount of accomplishment from making it on your own.
And what if there are no damsels in distress?
What if I knew that and I called your bluff?
Don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down,
Whether or not you ever show up?
For me, the question is this: should I feel more accomplished because I am a woman and I did something all by my onesies? I'm not asking this out of malice, believe me. It is just very frustrating to be a woman and have all of these expectations of me. I am more than my appearance. I am more than the words the come from my mouth and from my hands. But I'm not viewed that way. (And by no means am I claiming that men have it easy. That is a whole other set of issues that I cannot even come close to accurately describing, seeing as I don't have to deal with it.)
Anyway, I will close with Ani's final stanza ...
I am not a pretty girl.
I don't want to be a pretty girl.
No, I wanna be more than a pretty girl.
14 August 2009
Please, The River, Teach Young Girls to Give It Up to Musicians
I was listening to 107.5 The River. Why? I'm not really that sure. I probably was focusing on the asshole who cut in front of me or something of that nature. But there I was, with my radio dial turned to one of two major Nashville pop stations. By the time I had started paying attention, it was on a commercial break, and something about the JoBro came on. At first, I couldn't tell you what the hell a JoBro was, but I guess that shows you how big a rock I've been under. I thought it was an ad for a new brand of fashionable boxers or whatever. It became abundantly clear within a few seconds that is was actually an advert for the Jonas Brothers.
First of all, let me clarify. I only know a few scant details about this new tween craze. I know that they are boys, that they are a "band," that a lot of people think they suck, one of them dated and may still be dating Miley Cyrus and/or Taylor Swift, and that one of them danced and lip synced to Beyonce's "All the Single Ladies."
But other than that, I'm totally out of the loop. But this absurd apparent dedication of preteen and early teen girls irritates me, akin to the rabid fixation that I've read and heard about in terms of Robert Pattison (or whatever his name is) and the whole Twilight silliness. When I was growing up, I followed the trends of picking a Backstreet Boy or N*Sync member to fawn over, but it was mainly because all of my friends were involved with this. If it were up to me, I would have been harboring my severe crush on Fyodor Dostoevsky or Johnny Depp in the open, but alas, I had not developed a backbone at that point in my life.
Anyway, back to The River. As this commercial continued, it sounded harmless. Girls were instructed how to respond if they ran into a "JoBro," repeating, "I love you" ad nauseum. Which, you know, teen girls use the word "love" in regards to their favorite leggings, so I wasn't really concerned here. But unfortunately for me, I listened to the very end of this, mainly out of curiosity. Well, the final recitation from the girls at this "How to Speak to Famous Boys" academy was, "Yes, I will go back to your hotel room with you."
I turned off my radio and sat in silence for a minute. Seriously???? It's bad enough if you are an adult woman to do this, because you don't know how many other women and diseases they've slept with out of opportunity, but to encourage that behavior to a member of the demographic that listens to the Jonas Brothers? Irresponsible. I got angrier and angrier as my drive continued.
Working in DHS as I do now, I understand that girls are having sex (and getting pregnant) at very young ages, so the idea that someone as young as 13 would offer herself is not really that shocking. Well, on a personal level, it is, because at 13, I was like, ew, penises are gross, but statistically, it isn't that uncommon. I suppose what is so disturbing is that it was a sort of subliminal message that they just tagged on at the end. In marketing terms, brilliant mode, but what exactly are they marketing? Was it really necessary?
Okay, before I go on a diatribe, because I'm still seriously angry about this, I'm going to go hop on the treadmill to work out some angst.
First of all, let me clarify. I only know a few scant details about this new tween craze. I know that they are boys, that they are a "band," that a lot of people think they suck, one of them dated and may still be dating Miley Cyrus and/or Taylor Swift, and that one of them danced and lip synced to Beyonce's "All the Single Ladies."
But other than that, I'm totally out of the loop. But this absurd apparent dedication of preteen and early teen girls irritates me, akin to the rabid fixation that I've read and heard about in terms of Robert Pattison (or whatever his name is) and the whole Twilight silliness. When I was growing up, I followed the trends of picking a Backstreet Boy or N*Sync member to fawn over, but it was mainly because all of my friends were involved with this. If it were up to me, I would have been harboring my severe crush on Fyodor Dostoevsky or Johnny Depp in the open, but alas, I had not developed a backbone at that point in my life.
Anyway, back to The River. As this commercial continued, it sounded harmless. Girls were instructed how to respond if they ran into a "JoBro," repeating, "I love you" ad nauseum. Which, you know, teen girls use the word "love" in regards to their favorite leggings, so I wasn't really concerned here. But unfortunately for me, I listened to the very end of this, mainly out of curiosity. Well, the final recitation from the girls at this "How to Speak to Famous Boys" academy was, "Yes, I will go back to your hotel room with you."
I turned off my radio and sat in silence for a minute. Seriously???? It's bad enough if you are an adult woman to do this, because you don't know how many other women and diseases they've slept with out of opportunity, but to encourage that behavior to a member of the demographic that listens to the Jonas Brothers? Irresponsible. I got angrier and angrier as my drive continued.
Working in DHS as I do now, I understand that girls are having sex (and getting pregnant) at very young ages, so the idea that someone as young as 13 would offer herself is not really that shocking. Well, on a personal level, it is, because at 13, I was like, ew, penises are gross, but statistically, it isn't that uncommon. I suppose what is so disturbing is that it was a sort of subliminal message that they just tagged on at the end. In marketing terms, brilliant mode, but what exactly are they marketing? Was it really necessary?
Okay, before I go on a diatribe, because I'm still seriously angry about this, I'm going to go hop on the treadmill to work out some angst.
02 August 2009
Imagination Station
Don't worry, kiddies, I am not suffering from writer's block. Well, that's good news to me, anyway, but I think that's just the weird artist in me. Either way, I've just been super busy and super exhausted for the past two weeks.
I knew it was going to be metaphorical murder on my body as soon as I found out I would be starting work again. The fact that my sleeping schedule was all out of wacky sorts was only one part of it. You'd think that nearly 11 hours a day of sitting would be easy, but it's really not. I wake up between 5:30 and 6 am every morning, drive between 45 minutes to an hour to work, sit at my desk until 4:30 pm, then drive home, which usually takes a little over an hour, depending on afternoon traffic. When I get home, I have to fight to stay awake past 8 pm. I have started this "stay healthy" regimen, where I exercise when I get back to the house, but it's getting harder to stick with it.
Now, this is not to say that I dislike being employed. Au contrair, mon ami. I didn't realize how much I missed having to get out of the house. Plus, my entire office is full of incredibly nice people with whom I have a lot in common. And of course, there's the benefits. Thank God for Uncle Sam and his state employee health care.
Anyway, with my above stated sleepiness comes overactive imagination during sleep. I had a very strange dream the other night involving a particularly sexy Viking in a lush fur coat. Okay, I have to describe it as I saw it, and I'll just go ahead and warn you now: it's like a really weird, indecipherable arthouse film. So, I'm in the ocean next to this wooden boat, and the water is up to my shoulders. I'm basically looking like a mermaid, only I'm wearing clothes. Whatever. Moving on. I look up and the sail has started to smolder, even though I haven't seen any lightning and it's only drizzling. My gaze then moves towards a Viking (who looks oddly familiar, like a character actor that you always recognize but can't place where you saw them last) who is staring down at me with this serence expression on his face, and I ask him, "It's going to burn, isn't it?" He smiles and says, "Of course." Suddenly, the water starts to rise from beneath me, and I'm nearly to the deck level of the boat. The Viking extends his hand to me and helps me aboard his doomed ship, saying something along these lines: "Before I die ... I love you." Then he starts to cry, and he kisses me, briefly stopping in between smooches to say, "I love you" and cry some more. And then I was woken up by the sound of my cell phone ringing. (I'm determined to use this in some way in one of my stories, but I'm unsure as to how I'm going to do that. But I will do it.) My dreams have been weirder than that, but that's the most recent one that I can recall.
Well, I'm going to have to cut this short, seeing as I have to get up in a few short hours to hop on the treadmill and then go to my first day of training. Wish me luck!
I knew it was going to be metaphorical murder on my body as soon as I found out I would be starting work again. The fact that my sleeping schedule was all out of wacky sorts was only one part of it. You'd think that nearly 11 hours a day of sitting would be easy, but it's really not. I wake up between 5:30 and 6 am every morning, drive between 45 minutes to an hour to work, sit at my desk until 4:30 pm, then drive home, which usually takes a little over an hour, depending on afternoon traffic. When I get home, I have to fight to stay awake past 8 pm. I have started this "stay healthy" regimen, where I exercise when I get back to the house, but it's getting harder to stick with it.
Now, this is not to say that I dislike being employed. Au contrair, mon ami. I didn't realize how much I missed having to get out of the house. Plus, my entire office is full of incredibly nice people with whom I have a lot in common. And of course, there's the benefits. Thank God for Uncle Sam and his state employee health care.
Anyway, with my above stated sleepiness comes overactive imagination during sleep. I had a very strange dream the other night involving a particularly sexy Viking in a lush fur coat. Okay, I have to describe it as I saw it, and I'll just go ahead and warn you now: it's like a really weird, indecipherable arthouse film. So, I'm in the ocean next to this wooden boat, and the water is up to my shoulders. I'm basically looking like a mermaid, only I'm wearing clothes. Whatever. Moving on. I look up and the sail has started to smolder, even though I haven't seen any lightning and it's only drizzling. My gaze then moves towards a Viking (who looks oddly familiar, like a character actor that you always recognize but can't place where you saw them last) who is staring down at me with this serence expression on his face, and I ask him, "It's going to burn, isn't it?" He smiles and says, "Of course." Suddenly, the water starts to rise from beneath me, and I'm nearly to the deck level of the boat. The Viking extends his hand to me and helps me aboard his doomed ship, saying something along these lines: "Before I die ... I love you." Then he starts to cry, and he kisses me, briefly stopping in between smooches to say, "I love you" and cry some more. And then I was woken up by the sound of my cell phone ringing. (I'm determined to use this in some way in one of my stories, but I'm unsure as to how I'm going to do that. But I will do it.) My dreams have been weirder than that, but that's the most recent one that I can recall.
Well, I'm going to have to cut this short, seeing as I have to get up in a few short hours to hop on the treadmill and then go to my first day of training. Wish me luck!
17 July 2009
She Works Hard for the Money, So Hard for It, Honey
Well, today is the last weekday in which I am an unemployed woman. It kind of makes me tingly and nauseous at the same time. I'm not quite sure what to expect for this first week of eligibility counselor-dom, but I'm looking forward to it. Getting up early, not so much, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for the sake of buying dog food for Zola. Oh, and for getting out of debt. That's going to be nice.
I've put myself on a budget plan, which, for me, is a brand new scary delving into organization. I'm not good with money, and this is something I've known since, well, I got my first job at Sam Goody/Suncoast (RIP Bellevue Mall) and blew all of my money on DVDs. It's up in the air as to whether or not I can learn this apparently vital skill, as I'm worried that it may be a personality flaw. But the debt I've accrued has motivated me to at least give it the old college try. Because, damn, having creditors call you ... not fun in the slightest.
Here's the new me: annoyingly frugal. Reusing plastic bags, drinking box wine, planting gardens for my own produce, yard-saling ... yep, I'm turning into my grandmother. Well, except for the wine part, as she has never had a drop of alcohol in her 80-year lifetime. And the fact that, while I'm living through an economically stagnant time, I did not live through THE Depression.
Like I've said in previous posts, it's time I grew up and accepted this thing called adulthood. Even though I've worked before, I never had a career, even though I didn't really want one. I was the quintessential writer/artiste, but as time trudged along, I realized that I wasn't giving up on my dream to be a published and hopefully famous writer if I got a career. I could write all I wanted, but it's a lot easier to do when you don't live in under a bridge and have to beg for tampons.
So now I have two jobs: one that is paying and one that is not. In one, I'll be helping others, meeting people and welcoming responsibility into my life, and in the other, I will further my artistic endeavors, market myself and continue to follow my dream. It's just starting to get interesting. :)
(PS I will so be listening to Donna Summer on the way to work on Monday.)
I've put myself on a budget plan, which, for me, is a brand new scary delving into organization. I'm not good with money, and this is something I've known since, well, I got my first job at Sam Goody/Suncoast (RIP Bellevue Mall) and blew all of my money on DVDs. It's up in the air as to whether or not I can learn this apparently vital skill, as I'm worried that it may be a personality flaw. But the debt I've accrued has motivated me to at least give it the old college try. Because, damn, having creditors call you ... not fun in the slightest.
Here's the new me: annoyingly frugal. Reusing plastic bags, drinking box wine, planting gardens for my own produce, yard-saling ... yep, I'm turning into my grandmother. Well, except for the wine part, as she has never had a drop of alcohol in her 80-year lifetime. And the fact that, while I'm living through an economically stagnant time, I did not live through THE Depression.
Like I've said in previous posts, it's time I grew up and accepted this thing called adulthood. Even though I've worked before, I never had a career, even though I didn't really want one. I was the quintessential writer/artiste, but as time trudged along, I realized that I wasn't giving up on my dream to be a published and hopefully famous writer if I got a career. I could write all I wanted, but it's a lot easier to do when you don't live in under a bridge and have to beg for tampons.
So now I have two jobs: one that is paying and one that is not. In one, I'll be helping others, meeting people and welcoming responsibility into my life, and in the other, I will further my artistic endeavors, market myself and continue to follow my dream. It's just starting to get interesting. :)
(PS I will so be listening to Donna Summer on the way to work on Monday.)
12 July 2009
I've Never Met You in Person, but I HATE YOU!!!
Do you want to know why people think that people who play video games are losers? Because sometimes, they are. Big, whiny baby losers who seem to forget that there is life outside of the virtual. I mean, whether or not a tree makes a sound when it falls in a forest devoid of humans is a more important issue than successfully completing a self-imposed mission or perfectly executing a triple jump with a midair twist while throwing a grenade and shooting another player right between the eyes at the same time (although that would be pretty cool).
Now, I'm going to make a confession here. I was sucked into Vampire Wars (pun only slightly intended) by my dad, who has, since joining Facebook (which was strange enough), joined about 5 games. I am now a level 18 modern vampire, working on the third tier of missions (adept level) and buying as many minions as I can. I spend way too much time on it, but it's that kind of game that you sort of have to. My deadline is July 20th because, well, I'll have a job and they'll probably frown upon my insistence that I must battle the other online vampires for superiority (and blood). That, and I ran into Velkyn, the type of gamer that makes the rest of us look really bad.
I honestly didn't even remember who the hell he was until I looked back through my history. Apparently, I attacked his vampire avatar and ended up killing him, so he sent me this message: (sic) "oh, you attacked me without cause that's not very nice is there an explanation or shall I just allow hell to descend upon you for this vile transgression?" That question mark at the end of the sentence is mine because he has no idea how to use them. Maybe proper punctuation is like garlic or crosses for this useless human being. Either way, he keeps bothering me because I won't respond, telling me that I'm not playing the game properly. I guess I didn't realize that threatening to send hell in my direction warranted my giving him a reason as to why I fought him once on the combat board. I've been clobbered more than once by the same person and I just laughed it off, but this guy I'm assuming has waged little online wars since he could type "you're a poophead" onto a message board.
Still, I suppose I could be overreacting to his childish ways. It could be wrong of me to expect people to behave like adults, but then again, people have a hard time proving this to me in the real world, so I'm kind of screwed in this department.
I think this is why I love the legend that is Leeeeeeroy Jenkins.
I giggle and occasionally guffaw each time I see this video because it just reinforces my above-stated belief that some gamers are just crybabies that take things like World of Warcraft way too seriously. Yes, video games are fun. I lalalove them and have wasted many a day on upping my stats and trying to get the little achievement bleep bloops. Right now, I'm actually trying to work on leveling up my characters to 100 on my replay of Final Fantasy XII, but I seem to be able to differentiate between the game and oh, I don't know, finding a job, having relationships with face-to-face people ... the list goes on.
But, like I said, I'll be deleting Vampire Wars because of all of this silliness. I may keep Farmville and Farm Town, though. Need to get that damned silo!!!
Now, I'm going to make a confession here. I was sucked into Vampire Wars (pun only slightly intended) by my dad, who has, since joining Facebook (which was strange enough), joined about 5 games. I am now a level 18 modern vampire, working on the third tier of missions (adept level) and buying as many minions as I can. I spend way too much time on it, but it's that kind of game that you sort of have to. My deadline is July 20th because, well, I'll have a job and they'll probably frown upon my insistence that I must battle the other online vampires for superiority (and blood). That, and I ran into Velkyn, the type of gamer that makes the rest of us look really bad.
I honestly didn't even remember who the hell he was until I looked back through my history. Apparently, I attacked his vampire avatar and ended up killing him, so he sent me this message: (sic) "oh, you attacked me without cause that's not very nice is there an explanation or shall I just allow hell to descend upon you for this vile transgression?" That question mark at the end of the sentence is mine because he has no idea how to use them. Maybe proper punctuation is like garlic or crosses for this useless human being. Either way, he keeps bothering me because I won't respond, telling me that I'm not playing the game properly. I guess I didn't realize that threatening to send hell in my direction warranted my giving him a reason as to why I fought him once on the combat board. I've been clobbered more than once by the same person and I just laughed it off, but this guy I'm assuming has waged little online wars since he could type "you're a poophead" onto a message board.
Still, I suppose I could be overreacting to his childish ways. It could be wrong of me to expect people to behave like adults, but then again, people have a hard time proving this to me in the real world, so I'm kind of screwed in this department.
I think this is why I love the legend that is Leeeeeeroy Jenkins.
I giggle and occasionally guffaw each time I see this video because it just reinforces my above-stated belief that some gamers are just crybabies that take things like World of Warcraft way too seriously. Yes, video games are fun. I lalalove them and have wasted many a day on upping my stats and trying to get the little achievement bleep bloops. Right now, I'm actually trying to work on leveling up my characters to 100 on my replay of Final Fantasy XII, but I seem to be able to differentiate between the game and oh, I don't know, finding a job, having relationships with face-to-face people ... the list goes on.
But, like I said, I'll be deleting Vampire Wars because of all of this silliness. I may keep Farmville and Farm Town, though. Need to get that damned silo!!!
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