Category Archives: random thoughts

A little about myself

A late 1990's, 60 minute Memorex dBS cassette ...

A late 1990’s, 60 minute Memorex dBS cassette tape with the top cover removed, showing & labeling the insides of the cassette tape. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A telemarketer called me the other day while I was playing spider solitaire at the office.  She had a southern twang and sounded so sweet on the phone. 

Telemarketer – “Now I’m new at this, so I hope I do it right and tell you everything I’m supposed to tell you.”

Me – “Okay, you’re doin’ great.”

I stayed on the phone and listened to her schpiel.  I had nothing better to do.  I wanted to give her practice and confidence (I’m a weirdo like that).

Telemarketer – “How old are you if you don’t mind my asking?”

I had to think about it for a few seconds.  How old am I?  Oh right…but why is she asking?  Oh yeah, I sound naive and too young to afford her magazines.  Any moment she’s going to ask if my mother’s home.

Me – “32”

Telemarketer – “Oh WOW, really?  I’m right there with you girl but you don’t sound it.  You don’t sound a day over 21.”

Me – “Eh, thanks….”

She was being kind, but my voice and the way I come off to others is one of the things I hate about myself.  It’s one reason why I hate talking on the phone.

I have a loving, kind way about me.  I listen to others and care about them – I don’t even have to know them, but I still care about them.  It’s probably because of naivete or innocence, I don’t freakin’ know.  But nothing about it is fake.  There’s nothing artificial about me, maybe that’s considered naive.  Having a young voice doesn’t help.

Perhaps people mistake kindness for ignorance.

I don’t like people thinking I’m innocent, but I can’t help it.  God help me.  No wonder why everyone worries about me.

I feel that people are more likely to get pissed at me more so than at others.  Maybe they consider me as someone who knows better and I have no good excuse for my behaviour because they very well know that I know I did wrong, but I did it anyway.  There’s no wiggle room.  Some people can get away with acting stupid because that’s in their nature, it’s who they are.  But as for me, nobody cuts me any slack. 

Assholes do asshole things.  Nice people doing asshole things are harder to accept and can really hurt others.

I once worked with a slow-minded woman at Stop & Shop.  She was a bagger and I was a cashier.  I felt for her.  She was a bit defensive and ornery, but she had a heart and feelings.  She was working with a bunch of young high school brats who cracked jokes at her, so of course she’d be pissy.

One night at the age of 16 – an age where there’s not many fun activities to do at night, me and my co-workers went over to her house.  We were already in the neighborhood and thought it be nice to pay her a visit.  It felt wrong in my guts and I knew she would take it the wrong way.  If it was just me and my friend that came to visit, it would’ve been okay (she would have been elated!), but instead we brought along three jerky co-workers with us who just wanted to go see the “freak.”

I was against the visit in the first place.  I hung back in the shadows outside while the boys laughed and talked with her from her bedroom window.  I felt like the scum of the earth.  Her sister had to come out and tell us all to leave.

And she WAS pissed.  She forgave everyone except me – the one who stuck up for her and actually cared about her, I was the one she no longer spoke to.

She died in a horrible accident years later.  I never forgave myself for that night at her house.  I did know better. 

If you have two children with a significant age gap, it’s always the older one who gets in trouble, gets the blame.  The little one didn’t know any better.  Well, I’m always considered the older one – not in maturity (heaven knows I’m not mature), but in a different way.  Like, when it comes to matters of the heart.  A wise, caring understanding of people maybe?  When someone like me judges another person, says harsh things to them, it’s felt way more than when your everyday asshole says it.

And when people think I withdrawn my caring, understanding attention, they get spiteful.  It happened with Kristie, and sometimes with Dave (although he loves me too much to ever be rid of me).  It happens with Matt and just about everyone else I ever met.  It never happened with my really good friends though.

It happened with K in Nepal when I told her I didn’t want to hike with her anymore (its a really long story and you can read about it here), and I’m still getting punished for it.

Sometimes I get tired and need a break from everyone.  I have my own problems to deal with.

Telemarketer – “Are you married?  Do you have kids?”

I’m sure that a lot of people would’ve answered that question with a “What business of that is yours?”  Especially when it’s being asked by a complete stranger calling you up trying to sell stuff you don’t need.

But me on the other hand, that thought never entered my mind.

Me – “Ha ha, no.”

Telemarketer – “Oh now that could be why you sound so young.  I only wish I sounded like you.”

Another thing is, I have a tendency to love people in a non-sexual way.  I’m learning that most everybody takes my love in the wrong direction.  I have no ulterior motives or intentions when it comes to others, but they take my attention as being more than it is.  I feel hurt by this and think that the only reason guys stay friends with me is in hopes that one day we can do it.

I have a way with people. 

I was very sensitive, contemplative and reflective as a child – all the ingredients needed to be teased and pushed around.

In all my wonderings and ruminations, I realized at a very young age that all anyone ever wants is to be loved and feel connected to others.  All their actions, every single thing they do is done with the unknowing intent of gaining love and acceptance.  I forgave everybody and learned to accept people.  It opened my heart and changed me.  I guess maybe that’s where my wisdom came from.

I have the knowledge that all anybody wants is love.  I give people that love and connection.  Especially when they have none in their lives.  It’s easy for me to read people like this, and I know that what I give them is important to them.  So when it feels like I’m becoming distant, I get the proverbial shit kicked out of me.

It’s funny how I take the time to understand and connect with others, but instead of them wanting to connect back, they only want to screw me.  Male friendships are very complicated.  However, female friendships aren’t much easier.  At least I know what guys want.  Both sexes get equally fed up with me.

Should I just stop caring about people?  Is that how everyone loses their innocence?

I wish I kept all this crap in a private journal.  Nobody cares about what goes on in my head and writing a blog is pompous in that way. 

I stopped telling people about my blog a long time ago.  Writing a blog doesn’t make me special.  It makes me vulnerable.  I keep wanting to stop, but I can’t.  I feel like if I let too much slip by, everything becomes meaningless.  My life becomes empty when I have nothing of substance to look back on and learn from.  It’s like having a blank cassette tape with no music recorded.  And I love making Melanie Mega Mixes.

I’m sweaty, tired and have on no pants.  This laptop is really hot.  I’m thirsty.  This whole post started from one simple telemarketing call.  I can’t stop my brain!  I write a lot more than I publish, mostly everything I write is still a draft. 

I can’t wait to take some of those Columbian drugs.  My brothers fiancé know’s a girl from Columbia.  I told her where I’m going (upper regions of the Amazon in Putumayo and the valley of Sibundoy) and she replies back saying that it’s one of the most dangerous places in Columbia and she would NEVER under any circumstance go there. 

I wasn’t scared before, but now I’m a bit worried. 

I stereotype people – I love them, but still stereotype them.  An old man yesterday gave me a $20 tip all paid in half dollars for example.  Old men love change.  Who the hell carries around $20 worth of half dollars in their pocket other than old men?  Well, I do now apparently….

But anyway, I don’t have any stereotypes to assign people from Columbia.  These are the times when I don’t mind being blissfully ignorant – I don’t get scared.  The only thing I can connect Columbia with is the old 1980’s movie, Jewel of the Nile with what’s his face and sexy voice lady (forgot their names).  Colombians are comical ruffians who love romance novels, they call their vehicles Little Mules and throw enemies into crocodile pits.  I don’t have much to go on.

No wonder why people worry about me.

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Filed under All about me, journal, random thoughts, Self help, Writing

Eating grass and doing drugs

Soleil Moon Frye as Punky

Soleil Moon Frye as Punky (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t understand me sometimes. I like the ocean, but hate the beach. I love flowers, but hate planting them. It’s like I always find at least one thing to spoil any special interests or passions that spring up.

But if I delve into these spoilers, I learn a little more about the girl behind the curtain. The girl who intertwines the delicate thread-bare webs of reason (aka my wacky brain).

I don’t like the beach because I hate mobs of people. They make me feel exposed, vulnerable and claustrophobic. Why? I don’t know. I’ll save that one for later. Oh and plus I think it’s ridiculous to lay out in the sun all day to fry your skin into “radiance”. To me it’s as senseless as watching people feed slot machines cash for hours on end. Senseless!

Think about it, you’re frying your skin in hopes of looking younger and healthier. When in reality you’re actually searing your flesh to look older and ruined. Same when you sit in front of the one-armed bandit at a casino – you give up your money in hopes of getting more, but you always end up with less in the end. Do only greedy people go to the beach? No, no I’m mixing stuff up again.

But hey, what the hell do I know? I don’t judge anyone anyway. I have my own defects to deny.

But just take a look at this truck driver. I’m sure he can tell you a little about UV rays.

truck driver sun damage

And the evil talking slot machine from the Twilight zone will teach you some hard knock lessons. (I can’t believe I found a picture of it!)

Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, flowers. I hate planting flowers because of the manual labor involved, the patience, the planning and know-how to plant something that will surely die in the end. I don’t want to plant something only to watch it die. There’s no permanence, so what’s the point? And besides, there’s enough beauty in the world already. I’ll BE the flower, I don’t have to plant one.

Buddhist monks in Tibet do this thing where they kneel on the ground hunched over for hours at a time for several days to create what is known as a sand maṇḍala. They create something so intricately beautiful and meaningful using patience and steady hands, only for it to be destroyed. In fact, the sole purpose in creating a sand maṇḍala is to teach the monks about the cycles of life and that everything material is only transitory in nature.

It reminds me of my Grammy’s old jar of pickled tomatoes from 24 years ago. This is one doctrinal belief that my mind can not adhere to.

To me, anything that has no permanence, is not worth my time or effort. But even if it was promising, I still have to deal with my commitment issues. I hate to blame my parents for my commitment issues, but hell yeah, it’s all their fault.

I am deeply flawed and deeply human. At my worst, I turn the spotlight on myself when dealing with my issues with permanence. I say things like, “I’m not worth the trouble, I don’t do anything meaningful or lasting. I’m not good for anything at all, really.”

But that’s only when I’m at my worst, and I haven’t felt that way in a while, well, not since Nepal anyway.

I wish I got to see one of these sand mandalas in Nepal, but there weren’t any around. It’s more of a Tibet thing.

If you look hard enough, spoilers can show you your fears. Mine being the cycle of life. Living only to die kinda takes the wind out of my bagpipes.

Wow I totally lost the point of what I originally wanted to write. The tips of my fingers are vomiting letters uncontrollably.

Okay, what I really wanted to say is that, I don’t get me. I have this sudden urge to plant grass. I may not like planting flowers, but grass is okay. Grass is replaceable without any attachment issues happening. And I love dirt, the smell of it, the texture, the dirtiness. And I love seeds. Hard little nuggets of life that just need watering.

So, my new project that I’m working on is planting wheatgrass in my bedroom. I bought a long flat planter, and all the stuff I need.

At heart, I’m a granola hippie girl. It’s in my roots. I like natural, organic stuff – even if it tastes dreadful, I love it. And now the granola in me is urging me to eat grass. This may stem from my staying out of the sun, I really don’t know, but I at least want to try it. Believe it or not, wheatgrass is actually really healthy and fibrous. It’s easy to grow in low-light and doesn’t need much watering. It’s the perfect project for the slouch that I am. And a good snack to nipple on when I don’t feel like walking upstairs to ransack my parents kitchen cabinets.

I’m growing the grass in the money corner of my baqua (anything green and growing symbolizes prosperity). Once the grass is ready to harvest, I’m going to juice it and take one ounce daily.

I don’t try to be healthy, but sometimes I do these things that make me sound like a health nut. Truth is, I just like eating stuff that I grow myself, even if the only thing I can manage to grow is grass.

I hung out with my little granola friend, Christian, the other day. He called me up out of the blue and we went out for a few beers. He has dreads now and wears twine around his ankles – he pulls some of these twine anklets up above his calves just for the heck of it. It looks ridiculous, but cool at the same time. Cool, yet uncool. It’s so my style. So Punky Brewster.

I don’t really have a style. My summer outfit this year consists of mens white T-shirts (bought in bulk at Wal-Mart), and my friend Stacy’s hand-me-down plaid pants. I have so many white T-shirts and those pants are always the first pair I see hanging in my closet everyday, so there you go. Everyday, same outfit. No fuss.

Christian smokes like a chimney, but he’s healthy in the same way I am. It’s oddly bizarre how similar we are. He was smoking his cigarettes and told me he bought them cheap at a place that rolls their own with chemically untreated tobacco – no preservatives, just plain old tobacco – the building block of America.

So today I drove over to that tobacco shop and bought 200 cigarettes for $44. I’m healthy and frugal.

Anyway, in other news…

I’ve been contacting advertisers to help me grow my business. I’m doing everything in poor-girl fashion, meaning free. Whatever the advertisers offer for free, I take it. It’s practically a full time job trying to advertise. It eats up so much time. Phone interviews, in-person interviews, how to work their website tutorials – I mean jeeze, come on now. I hate talking to rep’s over the phone. I’d rather see them in person. I’d rather give a free one hour massage than chat with a rep for 15 minutes about how to market my business.

The phone is my nemesis and I hate talking on it. People call me in the afternoon to wake me up. I feel like I have to brush my teeth before I talk to them. Maybe it’s a confidence issue. I’m more tactile than vocal. More visual than listening. The recipe for a dumbass? Perhaps.

Speaking of dumbasses, I’m going to Columbia next month to do drugs with a bunch of people who put the ‘strange’ in strangers and I have absolutely no money and nobody to call if shit hits the fan.

I’m going to be reading this post when I’m an old lady and wonder how the hell I managed to survive so long.

I’m going to eat grass and do drugs! Eating grass and doing drugs is in my near future.

You know, come to think of it, I would totally eat flowers too. I would grow flowers only so I can eat them. I don’t have to watch something die as long as I can kill it first.

Amen and Gods peed

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Filed under journal, Massage therapy, random thoughts, Self help

The Life of Riley

green cherry tomatoes Houston, Tx

green cherry tomatoes Houston, Tx (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You’re reading this blog backwards.  You’re starting with the first post in present time, and then flipping back the pages until you reach the beginning.

In the years I’ve been blogging, you would think I’d be smarter, a little wiser, but I’m even more clueless than when I first began this charade of recording my life online.

The things I thought I knew, I didn’t know.  The things I grew to love and depend on, vanished.  I’m living a different life from the one I had two years ago.  I’m living a strangers life.  It doesn’t feel like my own.  This new person likes to take risks.  She has no stability or ground beneath her – she is free falling without a clue or a parachute.  Where ever she lands, she only hopes someone will be there to catch her.

I have very limited funds in my savings account.  I told my job not to schedule me clients without confirming with me first, but I’m not getting any calls at all now.  I just booked a trip to South America and at this moment, have no way of paying for it.

My only hope for real world survival is completely dependant on the success of my new business venture.  But because of my lack of ambition, I found myself at my family’s cottage in Rhode Island.  Drinking daiquiri’s and clamming with my brother and his fiance.  The life of Riley.  Driving home from Rhode Island, I went over to Matt’s house for a fire pit and drank Connecticut moonshine – getting free voice lessons from him (relaxing your voice is key).  I didn’t get home until 6am.

Distractions are my greatest weakness.  My need to be loved by others, my greatest downfall.

I’m just a girl in the world, not playing by any normal desires to be strapped down into the comforts of convention.  Running around aimlessly searching for the point in anything.  Just when I think I got it, it takes on new form, dissolving itself in the viscous liquid of logic.  The point is gone and leaves me wanting to run and escape the tirade of not knowing.

My desire to write and record is the only link I have to finding what’s real.  This blog is my beacon of hope – a lighthouse in the dark.

It can be viewed as being a backwards account of my life, or it can be seen as having a new beginning everyday.  What’s past is past.

Our cottage in Rhode Island originally belonged to my grandparents.  My grandmother used to pickle green tomatoes.  I found an old jar of pickled green tomatoes from 1988 still sealed in a rusty mason jar.  The contents all brown and mushy.  The point of the tomatoes had been lost with my grandmothers passing.  She died the next year in 1989.  But when she prepared that jar of tomatoes, she didn’t think it would be pointless.  She gave it meaning in the process.  Always having the intension of pleasing others.

Maybe the act of doing anything at all for other people, brings meaning.  And what ever comes of it must be eaten up as soon as possible before it spoils.  My blog is my chance to eat things up and make sense of it all.  Maybe helping others in the process.

I hope I don’t spoil like these tomatoes did.

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Filed under random thoughts, Self help

Melanie’s late night ramblings

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Ala Mode

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Ala Mode (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I never fit in well with women gatherings. Last week I went to a pampered chef party / purse party / birthday party all in one at Kristie’s house. It was me and a bunch of her girlfriends. They talked about cookware, purses, recipes, buying stuff. I talked to the only guy there – a 15-year-old boy named Gabe, Kristie’s son. He seemed more fresh and awake than the others.

I never fit in with a group of girls. I especially don’t fit in without alcohol. I sit there with a hazy mist over my eyes wondering how I got there, and what I should be doing now that I’m there.

Give me something to grab onto! I don’t care about buying matching tote bags or a frying pan. I don’t care about your grandma’s recipe for rhubarb pie. I’ll cook it, eat it and nothings left but empty plates. Why don’t you make the pie for me instead of telling me an unrealized grouping of ingredients? I’m not going to group them together. I have only me to cook for, and I’m not worth the trouble.

People seem flat. Talking about the same conventional stuff. None of it really matters. They meld together into one big clump having no discernible traits. Sure there might be a fun drunk one, but she’s a commonplace drunk. Fitting in accordingly. The only way to see any of them individually would be to take a rubber scraper bought from Pampered Chef and scrape one woman away from the clump. I would scrape them all apart, like making cookies on an oiled sheet pan, separating each one to see what kind of cookie they are. They can’t possibly all be the same cookie.

Attempting to interact with a group discussing dish towels tells me nothing and leaves me dry.

My world consists only of experiences, people and learning. I’m not attached to anything material. If my tv blows out, I would say “the hell with it” and move on. If my socks don’t match, I say fuck it.

Women in group discussions such as this, communicate in parallel lines. They run side by side, never to intersect. What’s the point?

Not all women are like this. But most of them are. Especially in large groups led by Kristie.

I love Kristie, I really do. But even separated from the pack, she still runs parallel. What is it she lacks that very few other people have?

I love men because they’re similar to me. They get me. I love beer, going to dive bars not caring how I look or how the person I’m talking to looks. I love playing pool, riding motorcycles and not being committed to anyone or anything. I’m like a man in many ways. I hate talking about how I feel, or sharing my emotions because nothing ever comes of it – NOTHING. And I’m left with a bunch of dirty plates and a splattered, tattered old recipe for grouping together torment.

I love my male counterparts. I love how I can hop on the back of Dave’s bike, pop in my earbuds and tune everything out. Guys have a great ability to tune everything out that isn’t necessary to the moment. That’s why they make such good mechanics, engineers and mathematicians – they leave out the bullshit.

I can be like one of the women. I can slide right in with them, get excited over wedding dresses and cute baby clothes – I can tell myself to do anything and do it, but it’s selling out. It’s cheap and lazy and the cowards way, the defeatist’s way out.

Relinquishing yourself to religion and relying solely on God to tell you what to do is spiritually lazy. Just like relinquishing your individuality and relying solely on others to tell you who you are and what is socially acceptable and normal, is lazy. I never cared about being normal anyway.

There are two certainties in life that should unite us with individuality and love. One certainty is that each one of us, in a sliver of a moment, was the youngest person on the planet. Cold, shivering, wet and blue – we were born with the very first unique double helix sequence of DNA strands that make us individually unmatched by any other who ever existed before us and will EVER exist for all of eternity. We should embrace that we are all uncommon and solitary . The other certainty is that we are all going to die. The people living on earth at this very moment will cease to be in 80 years give or take. That means in 80 years there will be an entirely new population inhabiting the earth. And it’s not science fiction, it’s fact.

We are here at the same time. We will die at the same time. Everything in-between is either eaten away by hate, leaving nothing but empty broken dishes, or filled with a warm, lovingly made rhubarb pie from grandma. People make no sense to me. Wouldn’t they pick the pie? I see pie all around, but very few are handing out slices. People are idiots.

I drink to cope with the idiots. I drink to lose myself only to reset myself. Everything resets the next day. Too tired to do anything but sleep, letting myself sleep guilt-free. Like a newborn babe – not a care in the world. Nothing to do but recover and grow my strength back until the idiots rain down on me again, pulling the booze closer to my lips.

Boom boom POW them chickens be jacken my style, think I’ll head to the bar and get drunk for a while.

I need to chew valerian root and soak my tampon in vodka.

Man – “Excuse me ma’am but are you drunk?”

Me – “No but my vagina is. You can take it home with you and it won’t remember a thing tomorrow.”

I went to a Renaissance fair the other day. I went to see a tarot reader who said I was going into a major depression anywhere from now until six months from now. It was the moon card that came up – not a good one to draw. He also said that next year around May I’m going to have to take a lions leap into the unknown, or I can choose to stay comfortable where I am now. We shall see. I’ve always been a big supporter of comfort. Comfort always supported me.

I’m not depressed. I just want to be left alone in a warm, hazy place. I want solitude – I crave it. But I always find myself out in the world, drinking it in, running from the emptiness, draining my energy until I have no choice but to be left alone to sleep it off.

Anyone can get married, anyone can have babies, anyone can get a job that swallows time and pays so you can buy shit and buy shit to put your shit in, but not everyone can do what I do. Not everyone can stay up till 2:30AM writing random thoughts into a little nook in the world. Or can they? Yes, anyone could I ‘spose. Okay, nevermind then.

Anyone can do the things they are “supposedly” meant to do. And then they celebrate, pat themselves on their backs thinking they’re better than everyone else who still haven’t “made” it. I’ve never been jealous of anybody – I never met a person I’d rather be. We are all equal, so I have just as good a chance as all those other suckers out there waking up at 6AM, brushing their teeth and going to a job that never changes. It holds them and keeps them in place. I have no place, now that’s brave.

I pamper my courage with cobo shots and jaeger rocks.

Rolling home at 5AM

with a beer tucked in my hand,

crushed empties topple the driveway,

in a sad display.

I clamber out of my car,

luminous like a quasar.

I stumble, I swagger,

my belly getting fatter.

It’s two-thousand and twelve,

my sanity shelved.

I got nothing to lose,

my dominations in booze.

That’s why they call me a barfly.

Now slice me off a piece of your

Grandma’s rhubarb pie.

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Filed under Odes, random thoughts

Starbucks Shananigan’s

My two-hour massage cancelled on me and so here I am at Starbucks.  I’m still as crabby today as I was yesterday.  I need sleep.  I want to burrow my body into a little nook and hide somewhere.

There are two very bubbly girls sitting across from me.  How are people able to do that?  Be bubbly?  Now they’re laughing hysterically.  Good for them.  I’m happy for them.

Last night Joel and I met two interesting, desperate poor souls.  One was so skinny that he looked like he was on drugs (I actually picked him up and spun him around), and the other was a short, chubby girl with spina bifida who kept flirting with me and by the end of the night blatantly came out and asked me for my number.  But she kept saying the skinny guy was her fiancé and they were madly in love, so as usual, I had no idea what was happening.

They didn’t have a car, no money, and they lived in a hotel room next to the T & A truck stop.  They seemed nice enough, but I kept checking to see if my wallet was still lodged in my pocket.

I didn’t give her my number.

“Oh, well, I come here all the time.  You’ll see me here a lot.”

I mean, even if I was a lesbian, she’s totally not in my league.

Wow, I’m totally sitting here zoning out and looking out the window.  I’m watching the barista’s take the trash out to the dumpster and thinking how much I hated jobs where I had to take out the trash.  I hate jobs.  Period.

The two bubbly girls in front of me are actually partaking in a job interview for Starbucks.  The over-the-top friendly manager just got up off her chair and left the newly minted employee to read something on a laptop.

I hated job interviews.  I knew I would get hired, but hated applying for a job that I knew would suck.  I knew it would suck because they all do.

I need to sleep.  I’m such a miserable jerk today.  I can’t shake it.

Okay, here’s my new plan.

1)  Hike the Himalaya’s.

2)  Come back home and save $2000 for an aromatherapy oxygen bar machine.

3)  Start my own business.

4)  Take a few college classes.

5)  By the summer of 2013, go backpacking through Europe.  I don’t care if I go it alone –  it would probably be great if I was alone.  It will finally be the time alone that I craved for so long.

Okay, so there’s my plan.  Does it sound enticing?  Does it sound like it’s doable?

One can dream, can’t they?  Of course this all depends on if I survive the Anapurna Circuit.

Now the manager is telling the new girl about her Starbucks story.  It sounds like it’s mandatory for all managers to tell their story.

“I graduated college?  I went to the university of Vermont?  I didn’t know what I wanted to do until my fifth year and by then I didn’t take the right courses for my degree?”

She’s laughing and being bubbly.  How does she do it?  Whats her secret?

An old man is sliding out of his car and limping into Starbucks.  What a cute old man.  Is he capable of being bubbly?

Old man – “I was in the Vietnam war?  My wife has spina bifida?  I have two titanium hips and a plastic rotator cuff?”

I can picture Betty White being bubbly, and maybe that Jessica Tandy, but other than those two, I can’t think of any.  Especially not an old man war vet.

He’s limping back to his car with his coffee, smiling at us as he walks by.  He makes me smile back at him.  Everyone has their own silent happy tune.  Some are just louder than others.

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Filed under journal, random thoughts

Menstrual Mel

Understand The Chaos

I liked being alone when I was little, but I never was. There were always people around watching over me, hovering above me, wondering what I was up to. “When I grow up”, I thought to myself, “I want to be alone and think. Just sit and think until I understand.” I was a weird kid, but I actually had this desire. I was really little too, like maybe seven? I couldn’t understand why people talked so much and why they were always angry or sad. I just wanted to understand, but I felt I had to get away from all the noise first, to be able to do it.

This yearning to be alone followed me all the way into my twenties. “Just for a little while,” I thought, “just enough time for me to clear my head and understand better.”

I had an experience when I was a kid. I may have written about it already, but my head is so foggy tonight that I can’t remember.

I was talking to my Dad. I was about 6 or 7 years old. We were talking about the universe and how it all started.

Me – “What was here before the universe?”

Pop – “Nothing was here.”

Me – “Was it just blackness?”

Pop – “There was no blackness. Blackness didn’t exist yet. There was nothing.”

That’s when I experienced my first zen moment. My mind became quiet, clear, still. It became blank and empty. It was the feeling you get when listening to an empty conch shell. Well, almost that feeling.

A split second later, I was back to reality. I had no idea what just happened – had no name or knowledge of it, but I knew I had experienced something, just no idea what. I tried to do it again. I called it “blankness,” and I could only obtain the “blankness” if I thought about the blankness before the universe started. I was able to control it. I was able to go in and out of Zen.

Are these two things normal for a kid to experience?

I had another zen moment a few weeks ago. I hadn’t had one in maybe 10 years.

What brought on this zen moment were thoughts about energy. The fact that it can never be created or destroyed, only change form. I thought about the time before the universe began – the timeless blankness – and wondered that because energy could never be created or destroyed, than it must have always been here, but since nothing existed before the universe, energy had no form to take. If it had no form, than what was it? If it had no purpose, no place to go, what form was it in? Does matter make energy, or does energy make matter?

This type of unanswerable question is called a Koan. It can’t be figured out or understood using rational thought, but can be intuitively felt and realized. It’s something that can’t be described (though, you can try), only felt. And it induces a state of meditation. Zen Buddhists use Koan’s as a way to obtain enlightenment. It is possible to find an answer to a koan, but the answer is only true if it’s a personal realization and not a rationalized one.

With all that said, I’m pretty sure I was a Zen Buddhist in a previous life. I mean seriously! I read that the Dalai Lama has no tolerance for insincere people – and neither do I! And I intuitively sense when I meet an inauthentic human being. I’m not sure tolerance is the right word. Maybe no patience, or no time to be wasted by conversing with them.

I also get an insane amount of anxiety when I feel that I’ve hurt someone. Whether they are genuine or not, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt Christina for being how she is. You can’t make a person understand by hurting them, it’s just a cycle of anger and sadness. I would hurt her, and she hurts me back. Nothing is gained.

I’m going through a rough time. It’s not just because I want to quit my job at a time when I could really use the money (for Nepal), It doesn’t have anything to do with Christina or the man-baby. It has to do with my Mother. I still haven’t told her about Nepal and it’s tearing me up inside. I feel I’m being dishonest with her – this dishonesty is throwing me off balance. My guilt is wreaking havoc on me. I want to cry. I want to stay home just to appease her, but I know that’s the wrong thing to do. It’s the wrong thing for both of us. I’m hurting my Mother without her knowing I’m hurting her.

I’ll no doubt still lie to her about buying a resort package with a guided tour of Nepal. I have to lie. But it make me feel worse by telling her nothing at all. In this situation, I rationalize, that by me lying to her, I’m only hurting myself with guilt – but by telling her the truth, I’m relieving my guilt, and hurting her instead. Telling the truth to a person who will never understand, is hurtful. However, telling the truth to someone who would understand, is the liberating, respectable thing to do. Well, in this situation at least. Shit, I’m rambling.

But by lying to her, I’m secretly conveying the message that she’s incapable of changing herself or understanding. That she will always be a control freak and not expect much else out of her. This is a paradox. Did I just create another Koan?

I guess the best thing to do in this case is compromise. To grow by gaining small levels of understanding at a time. I’ll tell her I’m touring Nepal, but with a large group of tourists. She’ll become enlightened in increments.

I’m PMS’ing. This type of thought ALWAYS happens to me when I’m PMS’ing. I hate it. Absolutely hate it. Okay, so I was a Zen buddhist in a past life – whatever you say menstrual Mel!

I bought a book about meditation. This is the book:

This guy’s meditation technique is that there is no technique, no effort. It just simply is was it is.

I mix a little of my own technique with his no effort/no control way, and it seriously works. It works to quiet and untangle my brain.

When I meditate to find “quietness,” I feel a physical barrier. A wall. This “wall” feels like a fist that tightens the closer I come to it. It’s stifling, claustrophobic and has the same kind of pressure that you may feel from a headache, only it doesn’t hurt.

My technique to this fist in my head is to approach it lightheartedly without effort, and to visualize it tightening and then loosening. It doesn’t lose the shape of a fist when it loosens, but every time I squeeze it and release it, it’s able to relax slightly more after each pass. I tighten and loosen, tighten and it loosens some more. I do it to the rhythm of my breath. As I inhale, the fist tightens and on the exhale, loosens. And that impenetrable wall and pressure dissipates. It’s left open and free for idea’s to float in.

Of course as soon as I figured this out, I had to jump on my blog to write about it. My mind is a fist once again. I need to learn how to let go. That’s what it is with me. I have trouble letting go. It’s hard to let go of something when you don’t know what it is. I’m guessing it’s fear, or doubt maybe? I don’t know.

Am I done yet? Hmmm, I think so. Sorry for the weird post.

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Sitting in Starbucks, sipping a latte and debating whether or not I’m a sociopath

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I’ve been told numerous times by different people that I’m an enigma.  And they actually use that word – enigma.  They say I’m mysterious and they don’t always know what I’m thinking or feeling.  Even Dave thinks I’m an enigma.

Me:  “Do you think I’m an enigma?”

(I don’t normally go around asking people this.)

Dave:  “What’s that mean?”

Me:  “It means puzzle.  Like I’m an unknowable puzzle.”

He cocks his head to one side and says, “Yeah come to think of it you are a puzzle.”

It’s like he never thought about it before, but now he’s seeing it.

This baffles me and scares me.  I mean, what am I missing?  Am I missing something important?  Something vital in our society that connects us all?

I’m super honest and care a lot for others, but on the flip side I come off as being aloof and uncaring towards people.  I’m also narcissistic for writing a blog about myself, and sometimes feel that the world and everyone in it revolves around me. And because of all this, this lack of connection, this feeling of being separate from everyone, I feel as though I might be a sociopath.  I was debating this for the past couple days until the great warrior Poet wrote me a message:

And no, you’re not a sociopath. Our society has wrongly painted people who don’t care about such trivial, selfish and egotistical things as having something wrong with them. That’s a definition created by cowards. Anytime you’re above the hate and don’t let it affect or influence your own peace and joy, you’re not a sociopath; you’re a master. Of your own emotions and reactions. That’s something to be respected.

I have to remember this!

There’s also proof I’m not a sociopath because I never once spit in anyone’s food while working in the food industry for 10 years.  I have NEVER thought about it.  Not even for the cruelest, most soulless people I waited on, I would never do it or THINK about doing it.  That has to mean something, right?  And the number one symptom of a sociopath is lying.  Sociopaths lie without guilt or remorse.  Sometime’s they lie for no apparent reason.

I don’t lie to people.  I wrote to Heather that I didn’t know what she was talking about in her letter because I completely forgot that night at Blackstone kissing Dave.  I haven’t responded to her because whatever I tell her would only be proof of Dave’s infidelity.  She would read it back to him, he would curse me as a friend and him and Heather would still be together (Heather will never leave Dave) so the letter would accomplish nothing but authenticate that I’m a shitty, backstabbing friend.  And why?  Because I’m honest and hate lying.  I just can’t do it.

Okay, so I’m not a sociopath, but I still have that lack of connection with people.  What is it this lack?  It drive’s me crazy.  It makes me feel isolated and alone.  Don’t people know that when they tell me I’m a puzzle?

I have to get back to work.

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Malleable, Amicable Me

I had a long day yesterday.  I massaged five clients in a row, one of them being an obese unhygienic man.  As soon as I opened the door to the little massage room, his smell smacked my nose buds like a fist (or a bag of Starbucks coffee).  He had shorts on and was laying on top of the sheets forming no barrier between me and his smell.

I happily massage obese people all the time, however they usually don’t stink.  This guy smelt like old sweat.  The kind of sweat that is forgotten between the crevices of your butt cheeks.  Left unchecked, this sweat grows and adheres to the fibers of your skin and builds colony’s of stench rodents.

It exhausted me to no end.

After work I went straight to a fancy little restaurant in the Watchfactory plaza to meet Brie, Paul and Holly for a $50 dinner.  I don’t usually bat an eye when doling out cash for a good meal, but I’m thinking that maybe I should start budgeting better.  I want to move out of my parents house, but I’ll talk about that later.

I went to a toga party after dinner for my friend Caryl’s birthday.  I known Caryl since the seventh grade.  She just turned 32 and has pink hair – she’s awesome.

I drank quite a bit and went to another party after that.  I was so tired.  I was in a dreamy state and highly susceptible to suggestion when my friend Maureen called me wondering where I was and asked if I wanted to come over.

Let me tell you a little bit about my friendship with Maureen.  We met at the Aquaturf club ten years ago when I was 21 and she was 25.  We worked banquets together at a huge facility that employs hundreds of people.

I thought she was the coolest person I ever met.  She was beautiful and smart and everyone loved her and somehow she adopted me into her world of impenetrable coolness.  We became quick best friends, hung out everyday, and I felt that everyone wanted to be around us. I felt I was on the top tier of the social ladder – untouchable, funny, witty, in high demand.

She had this way of looking at me and knowing exactly what I was thinking.  I had other friends who also have this ability, but nothing as profound to her level.  Nobody knew me like she did.  And I mean NOBODY.  And when she looked at me, I knew she was looking at me even when my back was turned.

Anyway, I looked up to her and admired her and she would take me out and we’d get good and drunk together until one day it all just stopped and I never knew why.  I still don’t know why, actually.  I like to keep people.  I like to know they are a phone call away and I have them when I miss them, but some people just fade me out completely and it breaks my heart.

So last night she called me up out of the blue and told me all this stuff about how we are different from everybody else.  She said that her and I are the same and that everyone else are sociopaths.  Sociopaths!  When she said this I felt it was completely true and explained a lot.  Or maybe I was being too empathetic and letting her project her emotions onto me.  I mean I REALLY felt it – every word.

“Nobody care’s about you, they only care about themselves.  But I care about you.  I know you.  We are the same.”

It broke my world in two.

Me – “You just pissed on my candyland.  You poured acid rain on my sugar-coated fairy land.”

Mo – “Sorry to do that to you, but you’re 30 now and need to learn this.”

It depressed the hell out of me.  I mean here is a girl that I was practically in love with, who admitted that she know’s me like no other person can ever know me and telling me that everyone is a sociopath and have total disregard for my feelings.  It all felt so true.  It seems like people really DO have total disregard for my feelings and I’m truly alone in this wretched world to only find happiness in the occasional laugh and the swimmy thoughts of alcohol induced comfort.

We talked on the phone until close to 4 in the morning.  I’m still a little shaken.

It got me thinking though.

I started thinking about all the great works of art in the world.  All the great novelists out there who can capture an emotion and paste it up and bring it to light and make us all feel better and not alone with our dark, lonely thoughts.

I thought about all the great artists who create beautiful works on their talent.  For people to create such beauty, how can people be devoid of love and hope?

I thought of classic movie’s, opera’s, plays and music that moved emotions in me to the point of tears.

Such beauty, togetherness, connectedness and love everywhere – how can everyone be sociopaths when there’s so much beauty in the world?

Then I thought about all the time’s other’s have hurt me, even the most miniscule types of hurts.  Those small fly by comments made by close friends that hit my heart like a sack of bricks (or two bags of Starbucks coffee).  Things said so flippantly, yet so erroneous and damaging.  These small hurts have nothing to do with me, it has to do with the person saying them.  These people are hurt in some small way and it might be my fault they are hurt, but I don’t realize that – I don’t know how or why.

We are all damaged.  Our brains work by damaging it – deconstructing and reconstructing over and over, never to be perfect.  Nothing is ever perfect.  Down to the quantum mechanics of space there exists quantum foam of complete chaos.  Even time itself isn’t perfect.  If you keep zooming in on time, you will find small  quantum wormholes popping in and out of existence – traversing time and space (according to Steven Hawking).

Beauty can be found in our imperfections.  Harmony is found in our imperfections, somehow is works.

So, I have deconstructed and managed to construct myself all over again.  That’s what I did today.

I’m thinking about why people aren’t honest and why they’re too afraid to just let spill everything in them and I think maybe they’re scared to be hurt.  If people knew the truth, I mean the WHOLE truth, they would learn what hurts others and use it to push their buttons or steal their thunder.  At least that’s why I’m so guarded…..

Of course all this is a needless hyperbolic rant and probably means nothing to anybody in the grand scheme of things.  Thinking this way brings with it a belief that maybe everyone really is sociopathic.  I mean, how can I write all this and it means nothing to everyone?

This is a self-delusional neurotic thought.  And I see that plain as day.  It’s such a contrast in perspective.  It reminds me of that old lady illusion.

I’m sure lot’s of people share my thought’s, but maybe they’re not written down or organized.  What I share with the world already exists in the world with or without me.  I’m just a regular girl amongst many.

Maureen certainly rattled my cage, but in a good way.  If she didn’t, I would never have written this post!  She’s still super cool in my book.

But anyways, this is me; bored, tired, confused Melanie trying to seek ways to arouse my spirit instead of doing drugs or partying till my pants fall down.

Thanks for the listen!

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The Mean Reds and The zombie apocalypse

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I’ve got the mean reds.  Mean reds are when you’re scared and you don’t know why.

Holly Golightly said that in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I only drank a pint of water today, that could have something to do with it.  And last night I drank a bunch of beer, tossed down an adarol and couldn’t fall asleep until 5 am.  I’m off kilt.  Fuzzy.

Joel is moving in across the street from my house.  He’s going to be in walking distance.  I went to see his new place last night and met his roommates who all know and love my brother.  They are a bunch of cool, musically talented guys who like to play video games and light bonfires in their backyard.  It’s like a whole new world opened up to me – a new creative world that I can get inebriatedly lost in.  All I have to do is open my front door.

I’m happy, but scared at the same time.  My brain is an omlette.

I have a lot of dreams about being back in high school or attending the college I never went to.  I’m always lost and unprepared in these dreams.  Last night was the first time I had a college dream that wasn’t a nightmare.  I was in a college parade, then I was in class learning about the most interesting things imaginable.  I was ecstatic and wondered why I waited so long to get there.  Everyone was so happy.

A quote from Mad Men; “When I’m out of sorts I look at the calendar.  There’s usually something significant on the horizon.”

Perhaps my brain is rewiring itself for the future?  Instead of imbibing the lushs’ life, I’m getting ready for a more lasting, meaningful happiness?

Whatever it is, I’ve been hit hard with the stupid stick.  I feel dumb.

I’m watching Zombies: A Living History, on the history channel.  It’s scaring the hell out of me.  They interviewed scientists that firmly believe we have the technology to create a zombie plague.  They have people on the show who wrote serious books about the zombie apocalypse – giving us lifesaving tactics to overcome the zombie plague.

There is a real-life zombie squad!  A group of people gathering information on how to fight zombie’s.  This is crazy, really crazy.

I have to zombie out.  Lay in bed and mouth breathe for a while.

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Grrrrr…..

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It’s 12:26 a.m and I think my head might explode.

I’m looking over math problems that are on the acuplacer exam and things are not looking good.  Why did I stop studying?  Why?  There’s so much to math.  So many little steps and formula’s to remember.  Tonight is the first time in my life that I ever heard of the quadratic formula.  The first time!  It’s used to solve quadratic equations when factoring won’t do the trick.  WTF?  This wasn’t in my little review book.  Damn it damn it damn damn –  I’m screwed.

Okay, calm down.  I just learned it.  I can memorize the formula with my well thought-out mnemonic:  b, b , 4ac, 2a – Be Beautiful for Anyone who Care’s To Anyone.  Got it.  My mnemonic makes no sense but there you have it.

I’m calming down.  It’s just that I don’t remember ANYTHING from high school math.  Not a drip, not a drizzle to fuzz my brain to a frothy fizzle.  It’s gone in there.  Where did it go?

My client tonight was telling me that he went to Manchester community college and skipped a bunch of classes by only taking the exams.  It’s called CLEP – College Level Examination Program.  That sounds helpful.

I love this client.  He’s so unsure of himself, not confident at all and he comes off as being dull and boring – but he’s not dull and boring.  It’s just that he’s not inspired.  You need self-awareness to get confidence and to have self-awareness, you need to inspire yourself.

His focus is in his lack of everything – lack of personality, passion, direction (just like me!  That’s how I pegged him).  But he’s super sweet.  He’s so shy he can barely talk – literally he has trouble moving his mouth when he speaks.  I felt my compassion grow towards him and I felt inspired by doing the inspiring.  It was great!

All I did was listen to him honestly.  That’s all it takes to find a person inside their shell, just listen.

I find my confidence by saying “fuck it” and act however I want to act.  That way works too.

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