Adrenaline Made Me Do It

In my 9+ years of dating, I've heard just about everything. I have quite the arsenal of excuses, "I don't like blondes," and "you're not Catholic" as well as "I hate the way your forehead wrinkles," and the classic "I'm too busy," let's not forget, "You voted for Bush," and last but not least, "you don't fit in to my 5 year plan." That last one has become somewhat of an inside joke amongst friends because it's happened to me three times. I must attract really finicky long-term goalers. Whatever.

The excuse as of late (yesterday, which never ended since I never went to bed) is a real dinger, and has already reached inside joke magnitude. Wait for it... "adrenaline made me do it." I mean at least he called me to tell me that he blamed his youthful horny indiscretion on the levels of a certain hormone in his blood. That's like me blaming vodka for dropping that thing in the toilet on 4th of July... never-mind that. My point is, that I chose to have vodka and as a result of my CHOICE, I dropped something in the toilet. He chose to tickle-kiss and then pounce on me. Then he chose to freeze me out after weeks of solid pursuing-type friendship. He made these choices. He led me on. Don't blame an adrenaline rush from watching the game. Your team didn't even win.

I'm really sore on excuses. I'd rather he just said, "you looked hot/smelled good, so I made out with you. Sorry." But, "adrenaline made me do it." Don't lie, bastard. Let me elaborate, adrenaline makes him, "make bad decisions," (making out with me) as well as, "do things I wouldn't normally do," (be a straight man) and, "I've had this problem for a long time," (tool) and change his personality, "that's just not me." It's not like you to make out with a hot blonde? Well, you have got issues. The "problem" that you have is the problem of being a womanizing ASS and a liar. I know, I know, I'm a little proud of him for being so creative, and I will probably use this line later in life, but, how do we go back to being friends when I know he is lying. I don't like people that lie.

Phone call Yesterday, 1500

"So I don't want to lead you on."
"Ok. I see. I should probably call off the Fatwa on your head then."
"What?"
"Nothing. So, that's it, adrenaline?"
"Yup."
"Ok. I'm going to go now."

He could have just said...."look, i don't want to lead you on anymore. the other night was fun, but maybe it's for the best if we don't do it again." That would've been acceptable. I knew the no good night kiss thing was a tip off. I hate being right.

There is a Campfire in My Mouth

Last night, I was invited to "Man Day." Man Day is a night where my guy friends get together to drink, eat and watch man movies. I felt quite honored to be the only girl invited. Then again, maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend. Oh well. The cuisine was chili—not ordinary chili though, MAGICAL MAN chili.

Let me describe to you the entity that was the chili. This stuff could remove tar from your shoes. The meat to bean ratio was astounding. I had a mind altering experience, and that was befroe the gas. I only had one forkful, yeah all the spoons were dirty. It was like having a campfire in my mouth. And it tasted like it, too. I think I ingested fire. Me and my bowels are still recovering. I think the stuff actually caustically burned my mouth.

The movie was also noteworthy. You're not going to believe this, but we watched, "The Good, the bad and the Weird," which is the * Korean * version of, "The good, the bad and the Ugly." Yeah... As if the chili wasn't enough, I was actually coaxed into taking another forkful at one point, and it was better with rice. Rice made the movie better too. It made it feel more Asian. Whatever. No more Man Day for me, and not during finals week. Although, it was the most relaxed I've been in a while. I think that because it is so cold outside that my blood has turned to (chili) sludge and is slowly creeping through my veins. I digress.

In other news, I'm sick of living with a four-year old and her father/boyfriend figure. I had a house guest last night because he was locked out of a friends' house. And I wasn't going to let him freeze to death, so he slept on the couch. At about 0200 my roommate knocks on my door.

0200 Naomi's Doorway
"Yes?"
"There is a boy in our living room."
"I know I put him there."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Wh-no."
"Oh, ok."
"Good night."

0645 Living room.
ENTER roommates boyfriend—I haven't seen him since Sunday. Wait, today is Tuesday... yep. He lives in Butte, MT. which is a 4 hour drive on a good day. She called him because there is a guy on our couch. I re-iterate, I am sick of living with a four-yr. old. More on this later. I have to finish my play before my final at 1215.

Thumper, Soup and Subjectivism

I'm hungry but I don't want to get something to eat because my roommate and her (jealous-possessive-emotionally abusive) boyfriend are in the living room. I don't want to talk to them. As Thumper once said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't go into the living room and confront the people you can't say anything nice to," or something like that. It occurs to me that I must really not like him if he is getting in between me and, not only my coffee, but my soup. Ass. I think I have some tic-tacs in my purse...

It's been snowing all day, which is really odd for Billings, MT. We have about 45 minutes of daylight left, and then I am in for the night because ThundyToes rejects snow/ice. Good MN car. (Sarcasm sign).

I promised an update about my homework. Yesterday during lunch, I finished my Whitman essay. Here in an excerpt:

"If Walt Whitman’s antebellum poetry was some sort of pleasurable climax of prose, then his post-bellum scrawling represents the morning after nausea, confusion & cerebellum trauma. The cerebellum is the part of the brain that controls equilibrium. It is an integral part of the human existence. Whitman’s post-bellum writing is the perpetual hangover. Unfortunately, Whitman never regained his carefree, yet balanced self. Instead Whitman sank into the unstable mindset of suffering."

Literary analysis is not my forte'. I've decided that this is because literature is overwhelmingly subjective. I refuse to draw closure from wide-eyed subjectivism, nor do I relish taking one professor's "interpretation" of literature when lit is, again, more often than not subjective. Perhaps this is the bane of being a Platonist-moral Absolutist.

I often suspect that if I were a liberal, not only would college have been more enjoyable, but it also would have been easier. I guess I don't like things easy. I like the feeling of accomplishment and over coming challenges. Some say this makes me "too tightly wound" or 'difficult." Boo on them. I have fight, and I like it that way.

Experience the joy of quitting! Start smoking now!

Greg-alogue Part Deux

Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too

SO, I'm taking a break from constructing my American Literature essay about Whitman... the title? "Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too." I disagree with the last 600 words, but it's creative and praises the "universal ejaculation" of Whitman or... whatever. I don't really listen to professors who go off on illogical, immoral or cultural relativistic tangents. I intend to wear my "I survived college without becoming a liberal" shirt with pride. I digress.

I was in the library earlier, looking up quotes for my essay to juxtapose between creative vomit, when I noticed this guy join a group of what appear to be his female study pals. He asked a lot of questions for someone who is 5 days away from their final... actually he talked a lot. And very loudly, too. I was also listening to my ipod at the time. What, did you regress to kinder-garten? Inside voices, please.

In other news, today I was reminded about how I should focus on the blessings of my life instead of the possibility that I could be in hell. I'm going to try this. Starting with...I'm half-way done with the second to last paper I will ever have to write. OK. I have my basic necessities, loving family, check. Health, check. Car, check. Job, check. iMac, check. Talent, check. I'm fighting the urge to think, what is the usefulness of all of this if I don't have anyone to share it with. Nope. Just typed the thought. I guess, I'm lonely. I'm thankful for the ability to recognize what is wrong with me. Another essay update soon.

(How to) Create Your Own Hell

Once again the world has lulled me into a false sense of security and pulled the rug out from beneath me. It was short-lived, though, my sense of security, too short to forget what falling on my ass was like.

I seriously just considered the possibility that I could be in Hell. This is not just because it is "Dead Week." This morning I was reading Sarte's No Exit, an Existentialist play in which the characters make for an interesting & creepy case study.

They create their own hell, at least that is what I've interpreted thus far after, you know, the first 10 pages. Then I began having creepy thoughts. The characters seemed to demand hell. They ask about torture chambers etc.

But, the tricky thing about Hell is in the anticipation. A slow Hell is far more torturous than the expected. Which is probably why i've grown so accustomed to expecting the worse. No surprises that way. No deceivingly pleasant pink embers inevitably turning red. Like my wine and meat, I say give it to me red!

In the play, the characters torture each other and themselves (Man v. self much?). This is mostly accomplished by fixating on comforts that have been denied such as a toothbrush, mirror, or a means of suicide like the statue on the mantle. One character, Garcin, notices that he cannot blink and is forced to endure daylight at all hours, he never gets a break, though, I think that if he hadn't been so concerned with figuring out his torture, he might not have realized this.

Once the characters realize that all they can do is interact and endure their self-torture, the become stagnant. They are void of Hope. The absence of Hope is despair. By this, I suspect at least, that one cannot find Hope in Hell.

Fortunately, I still have Hope, though it is fading. The world—perpetually—lulls me into a false sense of security. I grow comfortable and hopeful. I walk through a peaceful field only to realize that as I stop to inhale the sweet air, that I stand not on grass, but on snakes. What an unstable surface! Nasty, too.

Then again, maybe this is my Hell after all.

Back in my St. Thomas days, I had a delightful Psych 101 professor interject "you can't trust anyone or anything in life. You must go on thinking that your heart will be broken," during his lecture about emotion.

The scariest realization of the day is that I've grown so used to Hell and torture that the goodness, happiness and joy in the world are now my new torture. Mostly because they can be stripped from me. And I'd rather expect their removal, than fear it. So my soul remains cold.

Gee, that's not supremacy

"I thought the point was to hate white women, like ourselves?" Said Anne, after we analyzed yet another black supremacy play in our 400 level Studies in Drama class.

After 30 minutes of discussing, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf is a 1975, which is a, in my mind beyond controversial, stage play/series of poems by Ntozake Shange, we began taking notes on Ms. Shanges' colorful (wait, is that racist?) people who "influenced" her writings. Included in this list are such famous black supremacists/marxists as Toussaint L'ouverture.

"That's all I'm taking away from this class. After all, only African American sympathetic plays can use the isms effectively, because they were oppressed..." I snarkily replied.

"And in my African American Literature class, we'll study more of Ntozake Shange... and her cohort who once said, 'culture is a weapon used to make ourselves stronger and keep the white man down... " Began the professor.

"I though this WAS African American literature. This class should be cross-listed under, "how to hate yo white-self." I mumbled. And then it happened. In my mind I saw the las straw sink into murky blue and something snapped. That's when I said, all too loudly, "gee that's not supremacy." This was followed by an uncomfortably long moment of awkward silence in which I died a little as knew I was about to embark in a one-man debate with a professor about the evils of considering a black supremacist as a role model.

"We all choose our role models, Naomi."

"Right. Sure. But choosing a 'role model' who advocates for more violence and the oppression of a culture is reprehensible."
"Some people find inspiration in different things."

"Right, but the essence of a role model is someone to whom one looks for guidance and considers an ethical entity in one's life. Black supremacy is just as dangerous as White supremacy the racism of the 1960s or slavery. I do not consider people like this to be good examples, or any examples of role models."

Anne mouthed "I agree." And the proff changed the subject. My analysis, which will be reflected in my essay portion of the final, is that this play can be summed up as the snaky author offering you a drink saying, "I'm a thrice suicidal black supremacist, but you can trust me. Indulge in my teachings."

No, thank you.