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Sporkdom
Here And Gone

Mind Traffic Which Does My Head In...

For this exercise, grammer and all it's hindering laws shall be abandoned like so much rotten egg sandwhich in the bowels of a child's school bag. Same applies to spelling.

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When I was coming home on the bus this afternoon I was suddenly struck by the thought that maybe being married to a parking inspector would be fun. At dinner parties, people would say "What does your husband do?" and I could say "He's a parking inspector." and they could look at me like I'm married to scum and I could pick up the wine and bludgeon them with it.

So you're in love. Well that's just grand. That's so super I can barely contain myself. In fact, I'm so close to not containing myself that a failure on your part to stop crapping on about how much in love you are will most probably result in me punching your stupid, soppy, love struck face. Oh yes, you can be struck more ways than one. And I've got the motivation to give you a demonstration. It's not that I hate love. Okay, it is. It's not that I hate couples though. Oh no, I'm all for couples. A couple of rounds of ammo in your squishy, pink, love infested heart. That's what love is. A disease. No, a virus. Because if one person has it, it soon spreads until every idiot within a ten kilometre radius is making stupid kissy faces at the idiot attached permanantly to their side. Well I have a natural immunity. It's a revolutionary vaccine called 'Cynicism'. It comes in handy when surrounded by swarms of affection junkies. It does have a couple of side effects though. One, you get the urge to vomit when ever you are subjected to the pathetic displays of these couples, and two, it puts a bit of a dampner on your christmas holidays. Personally, I think it's worth it though. It's great fun at parties and always entertaining. It can cause hallucinations, like seeing reality as it is instead of through a rosey, love induced haze brought on by a kamikazi chemical combination rushing from synapse to synapse. So that's where I stand. If I ever did contract this virus, rest assured I would fight it to my grave. I'm not about to be infected.


A new addition to my list of things that induce paranoia and hysteria in myself: Bi-polar disorder. I was looking up 'depression' on google (As you do) and came across a description of it and the accompanying indicators. It read like a basic description of my personality. I consider myself to be a reasonably well adjusted person and so I took the 'self-test' on the site. (Not to be substituted for consultation with a qualified specialist, it proclaimed. And that's fair enough.) Upon completion of the test, I was advised to seek proper testing as there was a strong possibility I was suffering from bi-polar disorder. How unappealing. Manic depression is a lot less glamorous than straight suicidal tendancies (Yes, I know that's a band, and no, I've never heard any of their stuff.) which have recently become almost romanticized. Actually, not even recently; look at 'Romeo and Juliet'. Apart from the fact it's the worst play Shakespeare ever wrote and the most abused, it portrays suicide as romantic. Ever since it's modern reincarnation by Baz Lurhman, a man with a fantastic empathy for visual splendor but bad taste in casting, thousands of Claire Daines wannabes have been dressing in black and moaning about how they're so suicidal to provoke the sympathy of those around them. Do I seem umsympathetic? That's because I am. If they were really suicidal they would be dead now. If you're serious about suicide, there can be no 'attempted suicide' because you would plan it so that it would work the first time. And no hinting about it either by displaying the 'classic symptoms' such as giving away personal possessions and finishing unfinished business. It's only failed if by some unfortunate twist of fate some idiot stumbles upon the would be corpse despite their best attempt at retaining some kind of privacy in which to die. If you're going to do something, do it right. That includes killing yourself. All this 'cry for help' bullshit is just that. That's a cry for some kind of attention which has been denied by a parent, loved one etc etc, it's not designed to end in death. That reminds me, somebody once hanged themselves from the building which was my old lacrosse teams' headquarters. It's situated on a main road, in plain sight and this makes me wonder if maybe a 'cry for help' went unheard. Woops, went too far and actually suceeded by killing myself! Oh well. Better luck next time. Why? Because his highschool girlfriend had dumped him. HIGHSCHOOL GIRLFRIEND. Please. Anybody who believes highschool relationships are actually valid in any way is suffering from delusions of maturity. What can children know of sexual love? I'm not refering to sexual abuse because that is not love and if sexually abused it's not going to teach you anything about relationships. So, regardless of sexual experience, children (Which is what teenagers are) can know nothing. It's certainly not worth killing yourself over. If you can't take the disappointment of a highchool break-up then you probably weren't ready to be allowed near sharp objects or roam through society screwing up the existence of others you encounter anyway. My point? I don't know, I just started this rant and now I shall stop. Maybe it's this: Don't come crying to me about how you're depressed. There are thousands, nay, MILLIONS out there in worse situations than you or I could even begin to comprehend and the fact that your parents won't buy you a shiny, red sports car is laughable when compared to the real suffering of others. Anybody reading this has nothing to complain about. You're on the internet. Others are being tortured, raped, starving to death, are too poor to clothe themselves or breathing their last breath. What do you know, that rhymed. That was unintentional and is not intended to trivialise the suffering of the masses. My point, in short, is GET OVER YOURSELF. I won't get tested for psychological disorders, I'll work on getting over me.

Thanks a lot, Tripod. Thanks so much for adding yet another mental illness to my list of things to be obsessed with. Ironically, it was the Tripod site on OCD which has prompted this recent bout of paranoia. (So recent that it was about three minutes ago I finished reading it.) For some reason my hands are shaking. I can't type properly and I'm feeling, well...I don't know if I'll even end up adding this to the site because it's so contradictory to my outward appearance of stable stoicism. Okay, typing has calmed me down some. I don't even know why I was panicking. Maybe I wasn't panicking. Maybe I just had caffiene wthdrawal due to the fact that I haven't been eating as much chocolate as I usually do. Mind you, the fact that in that sentence alone there were about twelve typos before I corrected it seems to reflect my emotional state more accurately than self assessment. That's what worries me. I read all this shit and identify with the people, but I feel normal and in control so I must just be self centered and maybe a bit of a hyperchondriac...right? On the other hand, what if I just think I feel okay and I'm actually losing my mind? What if I just continue in my merry way unawares of the fact that I am sliding into a gaping pit of mental illness? How can I tell the difference between a 'normal' thought and an 'intrusive' thought? I've known what OCD is for a long time but until I read about it more detail just then, I had no idea there was such a thing as 'intrusive' thoughts. Why is it abnormal to have the occassional morbid idea or scenario pop into your head? Who decides what's 'normal'? Doesn't everybody have 'intrusive' thoughts? Would all thoughts not relating to the task at hand be counted as 'intrusive'? How is anybody suppossed to know?! Okay, so I do 'touch wood' a lot and I like my cd collection to be in a particular order and all the cds to be the right way up in their cases so you can see the picture the way it was meant to be seen, aligned with the side of the case...but is that obsessive or just meticulous? I'm not obsessively neat, that's for certain. My room is a bomb site as I type...but within the bomb site, the cds are immaculate...the books are arranged 'just so' and the crystals hanging from the curtains are hung so as to be symmetrical....but is that out of the ordinary? Sometimes words just pop into my head and I can't rest until I've looked them up in the dictionary even though I know what they mean...but isn't that just the desire to learn? Is worrying that I might spontaneously lose my ability to write an essay or draw a picture being over anxious? I'm not washing my hands obsessively or sitting in the corner rocking and mumbling to myself. When I was younger, if I accidently touched something (A wall, an object) with one hand, I would have to do it with the other hand to make them 'even' If I then accidently brushed it again with the first hand I would have to even it up again. I thought that it wasn't fair my right hand was always getting used and my left barely got a look in so I was trying to 'wear them out' equally. I don't do that now, but if I crack a knuckle on the right hand or a toe on my foot, I have to do it on the left (I just did it as I typed that...) or it feels unbalanced. Does that make me unbalanced? If I did go to my doctor and ask them...wouldn't they just laugh in my face and tell me to stop being paranoid? Or say 'it's just your age' and 'you'll grow out of it'. Now I'm paranoid I'm being paranoid. I think I'd better stop typing about this before I turn this into a psychosomatic thing and I actually DO go crazy.

'The alpha male' proclaims that 'constant noise is unnatural' and that we should have silence as often as possible. I point out that in nature there is usually constant noise due to the fact that birds sing, crickets chirp and all manner of little things are going about their creature-ry business and making a hell of a racket while they're at it. He disputes this and says that nature is silent and so I shouldn't be allowed to play music cds or the radio. He says I 'don't have a right to play that' and people should be arrested for producing it. He is deadly serious. He says it with genuine venom in his tone and I wonder just what kind of twisted world he thinks he lives in. He's not even willing to entertain the thought that he might be unreasonable. I dislike his attitudes and opinions. I'm sick of his rascist, sexist, homophobic WHAT EVER-IST doctrines and his conviction that we are still living in the 1950s and paying $20 for a pair of shoes is NOT a bargain but an excess. I find the enforced silence unbearable. THAT is what's unnatural...everything still like a tomb, quiet as the grave...dead as a five day old corpse festering gently in the sunshine. So I use headphones. Then I'm scolded because 'that must damage your ears, why do you have to have music?' He may as well ask why I have to breathe. The alpha male reasons that 'you wouldn't allow a live band in your house 24 hours a day so why do you have the radio on?' and in reference to Jewel Kilcher he says 'If she was standing in the corner of your room singing to you when ever you wanted you would hate it. So you shouldn't listen to her cds.' I said that despite the obvious risk of being charged with inhumane behaviour for making her stand in a corner and possible kidnapping charges, I would have no objections. Then it's back to the 'you have no RIGHT to play music in the house! No RIGHT!' he screams and launches into a tantrum worthy of a three year old. He has a list of stock phrases which no matter how many times you point out their redundancy, he continues to use:
'You have no RIGHT to play that'...'They should be ARRESTED for making that'....'They should be put in JAIL!'...'Any connection between that and music is purely coincidental' <--(That's his favourite) ...Music wasn't meant to be recorded. If it's not live it's not music.'...Music wasn't meant to be visual. They should be ARRESTED for making those videos'...'That thing [the radio] DOMINATES the room!' <---(No, you stupid man, it's YOU who is dominating - as usual.) ...'That's noise! Pure NOISE!'...
I could go on, but he's not worth the space. Then I'll come home to find him listening to the 'country station' at full volume in the loungeroom, playing along with it...probably imagining what he could have been if he hadn't been a selfish, foolish bastard. It makes me sick.