Random Acts of Awesome

Man, this stupid bullshit drama saga just keeps going. I've been writing these posts to myself for months, and very little has changed. Have no fear, self, that's about to change. So, the worst thing about being stupid is the need to hide your stupidity from others. When this being stupid involves a man (or woman, or whatever form of sexual interest you choose) in your life, someone who's there all the time, the need to hide your stupidity evolves into isolation. It can't not. If you're going to hide how fucking dumb your life is right now due to this person, you kind of have to hide most of your life. Moments that you don't want to talk about start getting bigger, turning into days, and then weeks that you don't want to talk about. You complain once or twice, you vent to people you trust. And then things don't change, and you feel a little stupider venting the next time. And the time after that is even worse. Very quickly, you stop venting. Because a

Something to remember. A very important something to remember. Any man, any person, who encourages your weakness is a weak person. If they need to be better than you, it is because you are better than them. If they see the best parts of you, and they need to bring them down to their level, it is because their level is far below yours. It's not a matter of pride, or class, or money, or intelligence. It's a matter of strength, whatever that means to you. If you can not be stronger than your partner sometimes, if you can not be stronger than your friends, if they can't bear to see that strength inside of you without trying to tear you down just a little bit, think about what that means. And if you get a little thrill from my words, a little sense of righteous smugness... "I knew she couldn't be that good". Think about what that means. My honesty isn't for you. It's for me. It's to remind me to never be that weak again. It's to acknowledge

It's been a long time since I felt like this. I used to have this habit of hope. It was a big habit. It took up a lot of my life. It was a longing for potential, and a sense of absolutely limitless desire and reality. I dreamed big, about a million different things. I had a sense of who I was, and it was huge. I was a teacher, a gardener, a piano player, a consort, a wealthy lady, a zoologist, a marine scientist. I would save the world, I would save my part of the world, I would save you, I would save me. This hope lasted well beyond my youth. It pushed me out of my family, out of the safety of my tiny little existence, out of the surety of my religion. It pushed me beyond incredibly strong barriers designed to limit my hope to safety, dictated by others. It kept me from falling in love, because I hoped to be able to have a better love than I was capable of some day. And then, my hope stopped. It hit the boundaries of my own frailty, and it crumbled. I had never realized how very

There's a woman who works in the building my office is in. She works the front desk of the building, and I've considered her a friend for years now, almost as long as we've been in that building. We both worked odd shifts, and I'd always stop by the front desk before going home, chatting for a bit. Since I work regular hours now, and mostly from home, I don't see her nearly as often. But I still make it a point to stop by and talk whenever I'm in the building. Last night was one of those times. We got to talking about her job, about the good and the bad parts of it. The whole time we're talking, we're constantly getting interrupted. Manual laborers needing access to various parts of the building, business men and women in expensive suits, stopping to say hello and ask for a favor. It's her job to know these people, to smile and nod and remember names and be respectful. It's not a very difficult job, but it requires very specific skillsets, whic

It bothers me, looking back over old posts, how rarely I write about the dark reality when it's happening. I do write about it, but only after. After I'm happy again, after I've got my feet back under me, after I've re-found my strength and am able to pretend again that the darkness that just swept me under and rolled me over a gritty shore doesn't really exist inside me. When I have my reason back, it's ok to write about things that are so unreasonable. Even now, after thinking about this for weeks, today is the first day I'm able to write about it. Because today coffee tastes good again, and sunshine feels life giving again, and I can think happy thoughts without them being immediately obsfucated by that dark reality again. Not writing about it when it happens is, I think, a way of pretending it doesn't happen. I'm very, very good at forgetting things. I forget endings to books that I love, no matter how many times I read them, so that every r