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I Like You Already… -~- Welcome, Fellow Derp

If you’ve ever had one of those moments where you realized you’d done something so stupid that you just had to laugh at yourself, you’re in the right place.

You know…

One of those moments where you had to facepalm yourself just hard enough to verify that there was actually a brain rattling around in that skull of yours.

Or maybe just one of those moments where you felt like you had something interesting to add to this conversation we call life, but were too afraid to share for fear it wouldn’t come out the way you wanted.

If you’ve at all found yourself feeling like any of the above, I think this is just the little corner of cyberspace for you.

Why did I name this blog derp2derp?

Well, in order for me to answer that question I should probably clarify the meaning of the word derp, JUST in case some of you reading this don’t already know it.

  Sooo…

What does the word derp mean? 

Here’s a couple definitions:

Courtesy of Urban Dictionary:

derpy-awkward or embarrassing, especially pertaining to a person:

“Man, that guy is so awkward!”
“Yeah, he’s really derpy.”

Courtesy of Myself

herp derp (or simply derp)-a person who is doing or has done something unusually dopey and/or laughable:

“Ouch! I just walked into the sliding door because I thought it was open.”

“Hahaha.  You’re such a herp derp.”

(the terms “herp derp” and “herpaderp” have also been known to be used in rage comics in order to substitute dialogue)

SO, WHY THE NAME derp2derp?

If we’re honest with ourselves, we all know that we have moments that bring out our inner derp and this blog is a way for me to share some of those moments with you.  I find that my inner derp surfaces quite a lot (probably more than I’d like) and I figured if I’m going to be plagued with the disease of herpaderpitis, I might as well do something productive with it.  From walking into glass screen doors to everyday ruminations about the value of life, I’d like to give you a chance to both laugh at my silly everyday mistakes and hopefully, share some of your own derpy stories in return.  I’d also like to share my thoughts on various matters and hear what you guys think yourselves.  It doesn’t matter if you think my thoughts are off the wall bogus or genuinely interesting.  I’d like to turn this into a space where everyone is free to share their thoughts.  I’d like to hear from you.

Life’s too short to waste time being embarrassed by failure.

Why wince at failure when you can laugh?

Let’s derp it up.

~LDA

loco

My Quiet Life of Desperation

Sometimes I question whether I’m missing some piece of mental machinery every human is supposed to have.  Some essential brain cog of empathy or social deftness that would enable me to understand other people’s actions, or more importantly, my own.

 

It’s like this.  I’m confronted with a situation any ordinary person would see as easy to deal with and my mind runs a million miles a minute trying to put the pieces of this great social puzzle together in order to come up with the appropriate response.  My heart’s tearing me one way, telling me to run, run as fast I can, and my mind’s gently coaxing me in the opposite direction saying I should stay and fight the panic.

 

“We can do this,” my brain whispers.  “It’s just a couple variables plugged into some great social algorithm we have to discover.  Just crack the code, crack the code…”

 

I want to choose to fight, but more often than not it’s flight that I choose after a couple of feeble jabs.

 

It’s not that I’m some big social pariah or even that one could tell I’m having a hard time dealing with the occasional social situation, but it’s clear as day to me of course.  I’ll feel like I’m in an episode of Spongebob Squarepants where the driver’s ed. teacher, Mrs. Puff, tries to teach Spongebob to drive through a simple obstacle course.  There’s always someone in my brain screaming “Floor it! FLOOR it!”  

 

It’s frustrating.

 

Luckily my socio-emotional car wrecks don’t end in any physical casualties that heal by the very next t.v. episode.  But I still have to deal with emotional wreckage.

 

No.

I’m being dramatic. 

 

Wreckage is too strong a word for it.  It’s not as if I slap people and insult their mothers every time I feel socially gangly and awkward. 

 

I might just give a one word response to an essay-like question or offer a cold one-handed wave rather than a warm two-armed hug.  Just little things.  But these little things can make a big difference when it comes to relationships, and I feel at a loss when I have to deal with the after-effects with no sane explanation for my actions.

 

I mean, what do I say?

 

“Sorry, I was having a mini-emotional breakdown, but I’m better now.  We still good?”

 

Maybe I’m still just being dramatic and even the average ‘Normal Guy’ has these breaks in reason, but I wouldn’t know.  I’ve never considered myself “normal.” 

 

~LDA

So Apparently I’m a Naked Mole Rat

I stand here,

toothbrush dangling from fingertips,

staring at myself in the mirror.

I stand here for five minutes straight, with my face wet from rinsing, trying to convince myself that I think I’m beautiful. Just the way I am. Right now. In this moment. Water soaked mustache and all.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did that throw you off? I’m a girl, so I’m not supposed to have a mustache, right?

Wrong.

I do. And so do most women though we might try to hide it. Don’t get me wrong. My stache isn’t long enough cuaf into curly points or anything, but it’s there. A little dark layer of peach fuzz who especially likes to come out to play when my face is wet. It’s not too noticeable otherwise  (unless you’re mere inches from my face), but when it is, it IS, if ya’ know what I mean. It kinda slaps you in the face and demands to be looked at. Almost as if someone’s pressed zoom on a camera and the focus just happened to land smack dab in the middle of my upper lip.

Quite frankly, it’s distracting. Or at least I think so. I imagine someone leaning in to kiss me and then recoiling in sudden disgust. AWKWARD.

“Naw, naw. You’re fine,” I tell myself. “This is your natural face. It’s just the media that’s got you convinced you need to change. If a guy can’t handle you and all your ‘ugly’ he can’t handle you anyway.”

But then I stand there making kissy faces for another five minutes, trying to get the positive concept of myself that’s in my heart become true in my brain. I still haven’t succeeded. Somewhere along the line, us women got convinced that any and all hair is the bane of our existence and now we’re plagued with the constant removal of it.

Remove some hair here, cut a patch there, rip off all those babies over there. Never mind the unnecessary pain it causes you!

It’s pretty ridiculous.

I made the societal compromise of removing my leg and armpit hair a long time ago because even as a little girl who was just developing into a woman, I was told which changes in my body were acceptable and which were not. At the ripe old age of thirteen I mowed down those leg hairs with zeal for the sheer convenience of not being pointed and laughed at. Even though I couldn’t for the life of me see the need, I swallowed the idea that my body was unacceptable as it was like Nair flavored Tic Tacs.

“So I look ugly and gross like this,” I thought. “That’s okay. I can change it at least.” So I did. And I continue to every couple days.

But up to this point, I’ve been able to stand by one little shred of self respect for my natural body by leaving my shadow of a mustache alone. A declaration of “this is where I draw the line.”

So why is it that just because I’m faced with the prospect of another human being coming close to my face, the self esteem brownie points just shiver off of me with ease? Is my resolve really that shallow? I mean, sheesh! Isn’t my body mine? Why should I have to cower in fear as someone judges my body? Almost as if it’s some offering I have to beg to be accepted.

“Oh, please, master! Tell me you’re not repulsed by the piece of humanity that is my body hair!”

I mean, really?

I realize body hair, especially facial hair, is sort of seen as the mark of a developing male, but where and when in the medical textbooks did we erase the part where female hair production increases during puberty as well?

Female facial hair. It’s a thing, men.

Why do you insist on asking us to play this little charade where we pretend we’re naturally hairless, and “oh, I just woke up this way”?

We’re human. Grow up.

When the facade of what you think a woman should look like begins to affect us so badly that most of us women feel like we’re basically forced to spend countless hours (not to mention dollar bills) on hair removal, I think there’s a problem.

Why should I have to pretend I’m some kind of wig wearing naked mole rat with eyebrows that just happened to be on fleek?

I’m not a naked mole rat, guys. I’m a female human.

And guess what? I’m also beautiful just the way I am and I’m going to keep telling myself that until all the brainwashing fades away and it sinks in.

~LDA

Prying Eyes and Warrior Cries

Super Smash Bros. Brawl, guys. 

It’s a great game.

SO great a game that it sometimes finds itself worming its way into my daily life in silly and awkward ways. 

For those of you who have never played the game, it’s basically a fighting game created for all characters Nintendo to battle against each other in.

For those of you who have played the game, (or any Zelda games) you know that there is a character named Link who makes these wickedly overexaggerated fighting grunts that sound something like “Hya-aa!” when he does moves like this.

These battle cries sound completely cool in the context of a fighting video game. 

Not so much in regular daily life. 

I’m weird, okay?  And sometimes I let my imagination get mixed in with reality a little too much which ends up having me get caught doing ridiculous things quite often.  One of the ridiculous things I like to do when no one is looking is (or listening) is utter a Link-sounding battle cry when I’m doing mundane things. 

Let’s say I’m lifting a heavy box or something.  In order to make the experience a more fun one, I’ll go “Hya-aa!” as I stumble across the room.  I mean, if you’re gonna be forced to physically exert yourself, you might as well sound like a warrior doing it, right?

Scrubbing at a plate with a particularly stubborn piece of food stuck on it?  “Hya-aa!”

In the kitchen chopping an onion with tears pouring down my face?  “Hya-aa!”

Kicking open a door because my hands are full?  “Hya-aa!” 

I find it makes the boring things of life a lot more exciting and entertaining.

It was this last thing that I was doing (opening the door with no hands) when I found myself in a laughable predicament:

So the first thing you have to understand is I’m a low-profile germophobe. I don’t like touching hotel tv remotes, letting people borrow things that go near my face (like my phone or earbuds), using restaurant utensils, or touching doorknobs.  Also, I cringe inside when someone reaches out to shake my hand because it’s one of the dirtiest and most bacteria infested parts of our bodies.  Who decided we should greet each other that way? (I mean seriously, why can’t we just take a hint from other countries and bow in introductory settings instead?!  ToT)

Anyway, now that I think about.  You guys didn’t really need that little insight into my twisted, tormented mind.  Kicking open bathroom doors is something most average people do, right?  Because the immediate location of a bathroom reminds us how dirty our grimy little grabbing appendages really are.  At least for a second.

So picture this.

I’ve just finished washing my hands in the single stall bathroom at my workplace.  I’m desperately trying to keep my hands in the heavenly stage of antibacterial clean by manipulating water faucets with paper towels and leaning as far away as possible from the toilet area because it has just released thousands of microscopic toilet water droplets into the air.  I’ve finished wiping my hands dry, but committed the deadly sin of throwing it away before using it to push the door open.

So what’s my only option?

To kick the door open, of course.

And what a better time to utter Link battle cry than when kicking a door open? 

So, I did.

“Hyaa-ah!” I whisper shout, with eyes squinted shut and everything.

And of course, with my luck, there was someone standing on the other side of it.  Even though there isn’t like 90% of the time.

 

A surprised wide eyed look when I realize someone has seen me.

A questioning look from the person looking on.

My awkward chuckle.  “Oh…he-he…hey.”

 

Luckily, the woman who caught me laughed it off.  Also luckily, it wasn’t my boss.  Haha.  Can you imagine how exponentially more embarrassing that would have been?

You’d think that after being caught in the act that I’d limit dorky warrior cries to home, but I still do it in public when no one is watching sometimes.  What can I say?

Once a derp, always a derp. 

I’m even doing it as I press the button to publish this post.  ;P

~LDA

 

 

 

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Explosions and Water Slides: A Commentary on Human Nature

Human nature never ceases to amaze me. 

 

It’s even more baffling when I see it manifesting in myself.  It’s like, I know I’m a part of the “human race” in my head, but I’m so often watching other humans from a third person perspective that this obvious truth bowls me over every time I come into contact with it.

 

I was at a water park with my family the other day, enjoying my time in the skin peeling Florida sun, when out of the corner of my eye I notice other people noticing something.

 

People seem to be looking in a certain direction all around me and a few people are even pointing.  Naturally, my siblings and I turn to see what’s so noteworthy.  In the distance, maybe half a mile away, there is a thick, cloud of smoke rising. This was no cloud of barbeque grill smoke, mind you.  It was huge, charcoal black and aggressively billowing.  Similar to the amount of smoke you would expect from a large car fire.

 

That’s what we speculated it was to begin with.  It was the least threatening scenario we could come up with.  People never want to assume the worst when something is happening within their realm of comfort.  It’s too inconvenient.

 

But with the Orlando terrorist attack fresh in the nation’s mind, I couldn’t help but assume so myself after a minute or two.

 

What if this was another terrorist attack?

 

What if there were similar explosions going on in the area and this wasn’t even the only one?

 

What if the water park was the next target?

 

I mean, come on.  How ironic would that be?  A place literally filled with water and crawling with carefree Americans catching fire?  If ever there was a way to send the signal that no matter where you are, you are not safe from ISIS, that would be it in my opinion.

 

Turns out, it wasn’t a terrorist attack.  It was a construction fire from which, thankfully, nobody seems to have been badly injured.

 

But you know what really amazed me?  The reactions the situation prompted for the people in the water park.  Most people’s reaction was to go toward the danger and I thought to myself, “Only humans would take such a course of action.  Any other animal on the planet would naturally run like hell in the other direction.”

 

I kept thinking about it and realized I couldn’t make up my mind as to why that was.  Saying it’s because mankind naturally feels the desire to rescue those in need sounded awfully altruistic.  Saying it’s because mankind naturally feels the desire to excavate uncharted areas of knowledge sounded optimistically philosophical.

 

In the end, I settled with the conclusion that human beings are just that freaking nosy.  That it’s not a desire to help those in need or finding answers to the questions of life.  Maybe we’re just so curious that we fight against our better judgement and move toward risky situations out of nosiness. 

 

Almost like a “What’s going on?  What’s going on?  I wanna find out so I can tweet to my friends that I knew it before them” kind of thing.

 

That we want to know just to know.  Not even that we want to do anything further about the information than reporting it.  We’ll leave that kind of motivated action to someone else.

 

What’s more is the reaction of the water park goers after about five minutes of fruitless inquiry into the situation.  They just shrugged their shoulders and continued riding water slides.  I chuckled disbelievingly and muttered to my brother, “Just shows you human nature.  People are potentially being blown up and they’re riding water slides.”

 

Then it occurred to me that this isn’t anything different than usual.  People are always being potentially blown up or hurt.

 

In fact, it’s a statistical certainty that there is always someone in pain at any given moment in time. 

 

Whether it be via paper cut, slavery, or crushing poverty, there are always people suffering and most of us manage to go on with our lives as if nothing is happening.  I guess it’s just a survival thing.  We’d all go insane if we stayed aware of the suffering of every individual in the world at all times, but it’s kind of sobering isn’t it?

 

When push comes to shove, we can’t bring ourselves to care unless the suffering directly impacts us. 

 

We don’t truly bring ourselves to care unless we see a smoke cloud swelling in the distance.

 

As I watched the smoke settle down and the fire trucks spray tremendous blasts of water in the direction of the problem, my mind floated to thoughts of  people who have survived things like nuclear bombs and the terror they must have felt having had their glass bubble of personal security shattered.

 

How must it feel to go from watching terror to being in the middle of it?

 

I almost wish I could say I’d like to find out as an experiment in human experience.  That I’d like to do what it takes to be brought closer to my fellow human being.  But in truth, I don’t.

 

We take it so much for granted how richly sheltered and 1st world the United States is.  How is it that the RAM space of collective human memory is so small?

 

Why do we always have to fall down in order to remember that we picked ourselves up in the first place?

 

~LDA

Esoteric Garbage

As I confessed in a previous post, I am quite a fan of cartoons.  Anime and otherwise.  I find that they hold a certain charm that programs generally more aimed at an adult audience don’t have.

 

There are two things that I especially enjoy about cartoons:

  1. They are not afraid to be obscenely ridiculous.

and

2. They are not so preoccupied with aspirations of meaning that they miss the whole point.

 

The ambition of greatness often gets in the way of actually obtaining greatness.  If one sits down with the intent of creating some great and masterful work, it is inevitable that the aspiration holder will never reach that end.

 

At least,

I find it is always the case with me.  I am only one person and can therefore only speak for one of the billions of people on this planet.  But it has proven infallible that if I ever set out with the goal of creating something that will stand the test of time and resound throughout the ages, I always, and I mean always, end up with a useless, ungrounded, piece of less than esoteric garbage.

 

It’s my theory that this is the case with many forms of television (and all forms of entertainment for that matter).

 

A person sets out with the Herculean task of creating something that will suit the pallet of the masses and ends up forgetting what they set out to do in first place.

 

Oh, wait.

That’s just it. 

 

Many artists set out with no other goal than to conform, which is a recipe for disaster in itself…Either this actually leads them to disaster or…to rampant success simply by virtue of suiting the mutual meaningless goal of the majority.

 

But that’s an entirely different blog post.

I digress.

 

In any case,

 

I think that cartoons (specifically when speaking of the television medium) have an advantage over the rest, because from the outset they are not expected to produce any form of revelational wisdom.  When one thinks cartoons, they usually think children.  And when one thinks children, they usually think of the ignorant bliss of nonsense which permeates most forms of child play.

 

I think that the mistake we make there is that we underestimate the purposeful potential of a child’s mind and inflate our own just because it’s been around longer.

 

I was talking to a friend’s children this afternoon (ages 8 and 14), and I was amused at the fact that it felt like the most purpose driven conversation I’ve had all day.  Granted, I haven’t actually spoken to many people today.  After all, I’m the type of person who sits happily locked in their room, typing away at a keyboard for long periods of time.  But still, the fifteen minute conversation I had with those children seemed like the most refreshingly honest conversation I’ve had for a long time.

 

What was the conversation about? you may ask.

 

Well, cartoons, of course.

 

The conversation started off direct and to the point with the question of “What’s your favorite cartoon?”

 

No small talk necessary.  No setting of the stage.  No veiled meanings.  No aspirations to the politeness of indirectness.

 

The conversation was so unpretentious and obvious.

 

It just was.

It sat in the air and reveled in the sheer purity of its existence. 

 

I feel like with a lot of adult conversations or the lofty dreams of television shows, there’s this constant question of whether or not what is happening is actually happening.  And in addition to that, is it happening well.

 

“Am I succeeding at this conversation?” the conversational partner seems to ask at the end of each measured sentence.

 

“Am I impressing you with my wittiness and astonishing modern relevance?” the television show asks.

 

With cartoons, because the expectation is lower by default, the people creating them seem to have more freedom of expression.  I think that’s why things like anime and Adult Swim have managed such a booming following.  People are tired of failed attempts at wit and meaning and have slumped into the staticy arms of the cartoon industry.

 

Having abandoned the primary aspiration of societal significance, content creators have managed to attain the very thing they have dodged by focusing on the vapidness of simply creating what they feel like.  The amused masses coming pouring in as a side of effect.

 

Some of the most consequential and successful people seem to have the same general answer to that thirsty, desperate question:

 

“How did you do it?’

 

“Well…I just did what I love most in the world and believed in the value of that love enough to dedicate myself wholly to it.  The idea that others might love that I love it never really occurred to me.  But, hey, what do you know?  Apparently they do, and that appreciation has assisted me in continuing to do what I love.  So I thank them for that.”

 

Have you ever noticed how celebrities, whether they be international pop sensations or adored small town graphic novel artists, always go out of their way to thank the fan and how it’s all thanks to little ol’ you?

 

Do you really think they had you in mind when first creating their work?

Do you think that your amusement was at the pinnacle of their concern when they produced whatever service they were producing?

 

No, I think you are all much smarter than that, but sometimes just choose not to be.

 

You know that you are not truly the center of their universe.

 

They are simply acknowledging the fact that you are acknowledging them in the field of their choice.  They are simply appreciating that your appreciation allows them to recklessly do what they are best at.

 

I wonder what kind of place the world would be if we all produced with such creative abandon instead of producing with the masses in mind. 

 

~LDA

ugly soul

Jesse McCartney Was Wrong: Ugly Soul

 

People are so imperfect.  

No matter how much faith you put in them, they always seem to let you down, at least at one time or another.

 

I know.  I must sound like I’ve just gone through some terrible betrayal recently or something.  That’s not the case.  Quite the opposite actually.  I keep self-reflecting on how unreliable I, myself am at my core.

 

Well, I guess in a way I have gone through a betrayal, a self betrayal.

 

I expect others to depend on me because ‘reliable’ is a characteristic I’ve come to identify myself with, but in reality I let myself down so often that it’s a ludicrous request.  Almost like I’m setting them up for failure out of some egocentric desire to prove that I can be sure of myself at the risk of others.

 

There’s that saying that friends come and go, but family never fails, but I think that’s an exaggeration.  Even the most devoted of mothers fails her child in numerous ways throughout their life.  That’s why people love to point to their messed-up childhood, no matter how perfect, and find excuses for why they are the way they are.

 

It’s so much easier to look outward for the cause of our imperfections, to point the chocolate smeared finger in another’s direction, all the while hiding the cookie jar behind our backs. 

 

Humans are so flawed that they have given up looking inside themselves and trying to rectify what’s wrong.  Our ugly souls are too scary to look at so we give up altogether.

 

A lot of people like to point to this as a main cause of religion.  They say that we have allowed ourselves to become so weak that we like to turn to some Santa-faced deity to fix our problems for us.

 

God is a crutch, they say. 

We don’t need him and he is therefore dead, they say. 

 

But I wonder if the people who say that have ever wondered whether or not we turn to someone else because we’re not only weak, but right.  Maybe we are too messed up to fix ourselves.  Maybe we do need someone else.  And maybe that cloud gazing instinct is a result of some programmed default feature that is triggered when we have finally exhausted our energy and options.

 

People are so imperfect. 

 

Wouldn’t it be nice if there was some big, fluffy Papa in the sky to swipe away tears and reset our central processing units?  Would it really be so wrong to rely on someone who was actually reliable?  I know, I know.  There’s suffering in the world.  How can anyone view that as reliable?

 

I think an important question people forget to ask concerning the problem of suffering is who’s causing the suffering?

 

Is there a God wreaking havoc while he points and laughs?  Is there a God sitting on his divine keister, watching us like television?  Or maybe there’s a God reaching out to us in non-material ways that are so unanticipated we neglect to even acknowledge them.

 

Maybe he’s busy trying to help us fix our ugly souls. 

 

~LDA

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I Think, Therefore I Am: Jaw Troubles

There’s this really weird thing that happens to me every couple months or so where I suddenly don’t know where to place my jaw.

 

I know.  It sounds absurd, but I’ll wake up one day suddenly feeling that my jaw is out of place.  Not so much in the sense that’s it’s been dislocated or anything drastic like that.  Only that I don’t know where to put it.  It seems as though there isn’t a position that seems natural anymore.

 

I’m suddenly asking myself, “How do I usually hold my jaw?  Do I usually have the teeth on either jaw touching each other, or do I usually have my jaw in a loose position?”  And usually as a result of all this clenching and unclenching, I feel exponentially worse, my jaw have tightened into an unnatural position.

 

It’s the most confounding thing to wake up one day and find that you don’t know yourself.  I mean, it’s something that we humans pride ourselves on, right?  “I may not have a clue as to what’s going on in the world or if any of it has any meaning, but if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I know myself.”

 

“I think, therefore I am,” right?  It’s that one thing that the average everyman can agree with those lunatic philosophers on.  That we may not agree with all the rational nonsense that follows that premise, but we can agree that the one thing we know without a shadow of a doubt is that #1:  I exist and #2: I’m therefore the chief consultant as to all the nitty gritty details of that existence.

 

Because, well.  I’m me.  And who could know more about me than me?

 

Who could possibly know me better?

 

I’m the person most concerned with me despite what I might choose to believe about love and the nature of that loaded L-word.  There’s no one on the planet who could possibly be more obsessed about my existence and the well-being of it than the wonderful, talented, consequential, worth paying attention to, special in every way, moi.

 

And yet, there are days when we wake up, and we suddenly don’t know how our jaw is supposed to go, or if it ever went, or where it went for that matter. 

 

How can I, the one and only specialist on me, claim to know the stuff I’m made of when some days I don’t even know how to use my body.  How can I when I find myself wondering if there was ever even a set way that I held myself to begin with?

 

If I can’t even figure out how to gain control of my body, how can I ever hope to gain control of my mind, never mind my spirit, the very essence of who I am? 

 

I don’t want to act like I can speak for the rest of you, but sometimes I wake up and wonder how on Earth I got to where I am and if that even happens to be where I intended to go in  the first place.  I have these short and long term goals set for myself.  I take note of them in journals and write them on my walls in the form of handy little sticky notes.  And even while I find myself satisfactorily check marking and taking them down from my walls, I always ultimately end up in the same place. 

 

“Wait, why am I doing this again?  This is what I intended to do and where I intended to go, right?  Have I accidentally turned down a side street and completely lost track of the main road?”

 

I always find myself questioning who I am and whether or not this is the stuff I want to choose to make myself out of.  Will I be satisfied in the end?  Will I be able to sigh a contented last breath and know that I took my freedom to think seriously?  Will I be able to look back and see footprints burnt into asphalt from the sheer decisiveness of each step that was taken?  Will the direction of those steps reflect my inner most thoughts and convictions back at me?  Will I recognize myself and the distinctive angle of my jaw?

 

I guess all I’m trying to say is, I DON’T KNOW.

 

And I like to tell myself that this is a good thing, even though it’s pretty contrary to any linear and straightforward form of logic.  Because I don’t believe in straight lines.  When I was child a visual arts student once told me, “There are no such thing as straight lines.  Only dozens and dozens of hesitant strokes that trick you into thinking they’re straight.”  And at the time that I heard this, something resembling an unanticipated breath of relief escaped my body.  Like I had been trying to conform myself to something I knew I never had been and could never become, and now I was free.

 

I didn’t know why at the time, but I believe that this revelation was one of the many beginnings of the unbelievably sketchy circle that is my life.  I believe that I discovered the secret that it’s okay not to know, or maybe even better.  If you’re constantly willing to admit that you don’t know, won’t that just keep you in check and make sure that you keep verifying whether what you think you really knew you actually know?

 

But who knows.  Maybe that’s just another thing I like to tell myself.

 

After all, I simply don’t know.

 

~LDA

 

 

Cosmic Shrapnel

*Trigger warning*

There are times when you have stayed for so long in one position thinking about nothing at all that you become unexpectedly acquainted with yourself. Suddenly you’re faced with the reality of your own mind against the backdrop of the world.

Times like when you’ve been driving for so long that you’ve spaced out and started contemplating strange things, some even bordering suicidal. You become so attuned to the sound of your infinitesimal existence that you begin to fade in and out of your surroundings. You start forgetting where you end and they begin, and so suicidal thoughts aren’t so much melancholy or malicious as they are sobering.

It suddenly occurs to you that you could drift onto the median and watch as your car swerves, tumbles and careens from a third person perspective. Or maybe gently let go of the wheel and let the tires take you where they will…

You’d be content and at peace with this too, because the blinding truth that you once knew as you floated in the embryonic fluid of your mother’s uterus has suddenly re-dawned on you.   And this truth is that you are but a tiny piece of shrapnel in the cosmic explosion that is the universe.

And that’s not to say that you are without cause or without purpose. Just that you are only a microscopic cog in the mechanic master plan, and you realize that if you were to fade out a little “too” early, another microscopic cog would quickly lock into position and take your place.

And this happenstance wouldn’t even have to be sad, or unfortunate, or particularly depressing. It could be just another beautiful explosion of a sun. Another pinprick fading in the fabric of our sky.

~LDA

 

Core Persona (NatureVersusNurture)

We say all the time that you should be yourself.

Don’t change for anybody or anything.

Just be yourself.

But who are we really? Aren’t we just the sum of our experiences, a conglomeration of changes we’ve made? Some conscious, some unconscious? I mean, even deciding to take your next breath is a decision you’re making, even if your body is automatically making it for you. You have the autonomy to choose otherwise.  And each breath is causing minuscule changes in your body’s chemical makeup.

Some changes sort of just happen to us more than we choose to make them happen. Like how a traumatic experience such as the loss of a loved one or an abusive experience changes who we fundamentally are. But they’re all still changes nonetheless.

So what makes some changes considered things that turn us into phonies or posers, while others are just considered personal growth or collateral damage? If a person chooses that they want to change how they manifest their personality by changing a clothing style or hanging out with an entirely different crowd, how is that different from if a person chooses to continue wearing the same clothing style or to continue taking part in a particular hobby. At what point do we identify or become ourselves?

Where does the core of our persona lie?

In some super secret sequence of our genetic code?

In the most inner reaches of what some might call the soul?

Who are we really?

Aren’t we all just constantly changing beings who are always in flux?

Or is there an essential part of us that never changes? A solid constant that we must stay true to?

Who exactly are you?  Do you know? 

 

Your Fellow Identity Crisis,

~LDA

Psychotic Breaks Are Sexy

So I rear ended a guy the other day.

In reality it was his fault, because he stopped ridiculously short.  But we all know how the insurance companies see it. If you’re the rear ending party, you’re automatically at fault and now you have to deal with the repercussions of some prick practically setting you up.

These are the thoughts that should have been going through my head at the time of the accident.

LadyDerpsALot that I am…of course they weren’t.

Instead of thinking “Frickety frick!” when he got out of his car, I found myself thinking

“Hey, he’s pretty cute…”

I know, I know.

“Like, really? That’s what you’re thinking about, Lady?!”

I’m ashamed. Really, I am.

I’m not usually this shallow. Honest. I realize that I should have been freaking out or doing something else similarly productive, but instead I was busy admiring how clean cut he was. How for some reason I didn’t expect him to be young. Those are the turns my mind chose to take in such a high stress situation.

I’m pretty amused, really. It was so uncharacteristic of me. I’m not going to straight-up lie and say my eye isn’t caught by good looks, but I’m usually so oblivious to the people around me that I don’t really notice. A handsome guy will only catch my attention for a few seconds at most.  Sure, I’ll drink my fill for a few seconds, but that’s pretty much it.  It’s inner quality that I’m truly a sucker for, which I guess is why I don’t usually pay attention to looks.

But for some reason, this guy’s beauty did not escape me.

Instead of chocking up strategies, I was purring out melodies.

I choose to blame it on the high stress situation. (;p) Something with my adrenaline must have turned we wonky.

If I ever get called in by a boss to be let go, or you know, stabbed to death by a guy on a psychotic break, I guess we know how I’ll react then. If it’s anything like this high stress scenario,

I’ll probably be thinking about how chiseled his chin is or something.

 

Sincerely,

~LDA