WTF does a 24 yr old do for fun anymore? I’m so sick of parceling out my time and living like I owe people my soul in the form of minutes and favors, and I was much happier when every other sentence out of my mouth was “I don’t give a F” and I had purple hair and no curfew and my own opinions and a lack of worry. I need to get the hell out of this place, away from these people who measure each other up by cars and clothes and handbags and black AMEX cards, and closer to people who like the same stuff as me (whatever the heck THAT might be, i don’t even know anymore) or at least who have enough of a personality to make me believe they don’t go home at the end of the night and plug themselves into a wall outlet to recharge til morning. ARRRRRRGGGGGHHH!!!!!! Can you tell the pills aren’t working?
AwesomeSauce82 has written 14 entries about this goal
The funny thing about this goal is that you almost can’t plan out a way to do it. It’s execution is based in spontenaeity. So i can’t go “i want to live instead of exist today, what can i do to achieve this?” Just have to keep my eyes open… unless anyone has any suggestions
Dear Crazy Bad-Tan Apple-Faced Roided-Out Miss Universe-Dropout Looking Lady;
I know there’s no way you could have forgotten already, unless your anabolics have shrivelled your brain to the size of a walnut, but you were my table last night at Chili’s. You talked to me like I was beneath you, you complained about everything, you ordered your food wrong and then blamed it on me. Your appetizers arrived with punctuality, as did your salad and burger, each course greeted by a fresh wave of rage, sweating and a maniacal smile which seemed less an expression of happiness and more a gnashing of fangs. You claimed you didn’t want to be a “pain in the neck” when you sent your food back, even though we know that’s a lie. I should probably thank you for refraining from throwing it at me, as I know how your Neanderthal types are so fond of the heaving and grunting. But there will be no thanks to you, and no “sorry”s either. I’m not sorry your burger was exactly how you ordered it; if your facial muscles weren’t so tweaked out maybe you would have been able to open you eyes and read the menu as to what came on it. I”m not sorry your appetizers were 30 cents more because you wanted chicken instead of ground beef; quality of meat dictates price, but being that you hunt and kill your own animal-food, I guess you wouldn’t know that a chicken breast is more costly than chop. I’m not sorry for my apparent incessant annoyance; my offers for more drinks and condiments are normally recieved as polite and helpful, but it seems that in your native Rhino tongue, they were an invitation to do battle. A battle which i welcomed and relished mightily by the time you threw down the gauntlet. You came off looking like the snorting raging bull that must be depicted on all the bottles of SuperMaxUltraMegaStupid Strength 30x+ that you chomp down. The flaring nostrils and oscillating pupils, the fountain of sweat coming of your cro-magnon brow, the thrist for blood and my job rising in you throat, it was like The Discovery Channel meets “The Apprentice”. I’ll have you know that I truly enjoyed leveling you by refusing to say I was sorry, and I did a little dance when the manager let me know I still had a job. A dance of “NYEH NYEH!!!”, but also a dance of joy and anticipation, for when you decide to step into the ring with me again. By that time, you’ll prolly have a pair of stones and a full chest of hair, so it’ll be considered “a guy hitting a chick” if you take a swing at me, and everyone knows that’s a no-no. Battle of wits then…. be sure I’m not worried. Love Love, Your Waitress
I have a half brother named Billy whom I wouldn’t even recognize if he pumped my gas, handed me my change at McDonalds or ran for President, most likely. A product of my mom’s marriage (as opposed to me and my younger brother, products of her season in Purgatory), Billy was the second youngest of 4 siblings (the rest of the “half”s) in an over priviledged household. My siblings, being causalties of divorce, were placated and spoiled to a degree which would offset the fact that their mother had been replaced with a woman akin in stature and hygeine to Jabba the Hut. Billy would have none of this. Billy would not excel at sports to impress their father like his younger brother. Nor would he bend to please both father and stepmother like his older sisters. No, not Billy. Instead, Billy became… interesting. He gave his teachers lip, got bounced from military school, had a pregnancy scare with the sheriff’s daughter, started drugs, dropped out of college, dropped out of drugs, started hitching his way around the country, worried my mother and my sister to death, borrowed himself into neverending debt with my sister, and then my mother, and generally made it his life’s work to be a screw-up. I remember when I was 16 and I had to put up $200 of my own money at a Western Union as a favor to my mom cuz he had tried to ring her out again. I used to be so mad at him, so angry with this phantom older brother that i wished i’d had for real instead of just through DNA. In the last few years, he really has gotten himself together, totally clean, and today my mom told me he’s living in New Orleans, cleaning up the hurricane wreckage. Thinking about it a little bit, I’m sure I was angry at him for being such a selfish hedonistic moron, but at the same time I can admit that I’m jealous of him for living by doing.
I had an awesome, thoroughly fascinating woman as my final client on Sunday. She was at the spa with a bunch of her friends and after a bit of client shuffling, I ended up being her therapst. She was so cool, she talked the entire time about everything and nothing, and by the time i was done with her, I found myself wanting to offer to drive to piscataway to giver a massage every month just to listen to her talk. She was purely vibrant, and maybe I’ll bring something out of that chance encounter to help me live a little more.
I just watched the last half of “Garden State”, and it gave me another little element of how I want to live. It’s not really a concrete concept, just a vague wisp of a suggestion of how I want to tweak my life. I know this doesn’t make sense to people reading this, but i wanted to make a note so I don’t forget
A lot has been said about how to prevent rape. Women should learn self-defense. Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark. Women shouldn’t have long hair and women shouldn’t wear short skirts. Women shouldn’t leave drinks unattended, they shouldn’t dare to get drunk at all.
instead of that , how about:
if a woman is drunk, don’t rape her.
if a woman is walking alone at night, don’t rape her.
if a women is drugged and unconscious, don’t rape her.
if a woman is wearing a short skirt, don’t rape her.
if a woman is jogging in a park at 5 am, don’t rape her.
if a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you’re still hung up on, don’t rape her.
if a woman is asleep in her bed, don’t rape her.
if a woman is asleep in your bed, don’t rape her.
if a woman is doing her laundry, don’t rape her.
if a woman is in a coma, don’t rape her.
if a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don’t rape her.
if a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don’t rape her.
if a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don’t rape her.
if your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don’t rape her.
if your step-daughter is watching tv, don’t rape her.
if you break into a house and find a woman there, don’t rape her.
if your friend thinks it’s okay to rape someone, tell him it’s not, and that he’s not your friend.
if your “friend” tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
if your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there’s an unconscious woman upstairs and it’s your turn, don’t rape her, call the police and tell the guy he’s a rapist.
tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it’s not okay to rape someone.
don’t tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
don’t imply that she could have avoided it if she’d only done/not done x.
don’t imply that it’s in any way her fault.
don’t let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he ``got some’’ with the drunk girl.
don’t perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.
Ive come across this post a couple of times and it hits hard everytime. I don’t have a journal, but I want to repost it to help it along, so here it is.
Yeah, prolly shoulda stayed home yesterday.
Been agonizing all day about going out to dinner with other massage therapists from the spa tonight. Seriously, my stomach is so twisted and knotted right now from the impending social interaction, it’s like a macrame plant hanger. Gah. Maybe I’ll catch a flat on the way to the dinner.
Shirley Jackson wrote a story called “An Ordinary Day with Peanuts”. A husband and wife couple assume the roles of “good” and “evil” , “good luck” and “bad luck” for the day, each of them going out into the world to affect everyone they meet. I mean, this is like their job, to go be the human embodiment of fate. Anyway, the story follows the husband through his seemingly mundane daily duties, wherein he positively affects the lives of everyone he comes in contact with by making the tiniest of efforts to turn their day’s luck for the better. Conversely, at the end of the story, you find out that the wife’s job was to even the scales negatively. While both of them take their jobs seriously and objectively, the wife still asks to trade the next day because really, who wants to be the bad guy ALL the time. I always find myself thinking of this story, and when I do I always want to have the husband’s job. I’m sure I haven’t done a great job boiling the story down, so if you have a chance and can get your hands on it, I highly recommend “Just an Ordinary Day” by Shirley Jackson. The rest of the short stories in there aren’t too shabby either.
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