Talking to Myself and that's okay

I'm beginning to think that talking to yourself is not a sign of insanity or an offkilter mind at all. Perhaps this is because I talk to myself quite often but, other than an extreme need to have everyone like me and to be the centre of attention, I don't think that I am in any way, other than the afformentioned extreme needs, (dare i say it) crazy. I've noticed a lot of people talk to themselves. At least the people I surround myself with do. True, several of them have been institutionalized but they are not really the ones I catch talking to themselves. I think that people have taken crazy and made it wonderfully easy to use; perhaps even complaimentary. I know if someone calls me crazy I am, in a way, flattered. It sort of makes me feel like I stand out, like I don't have to fit in to be alright. They don't really think I'm insane or they would have a talk with.... i really don't know..... my parents or someone. I just think that as long as yourself doesn't start answering for you (sounds weird but I know what I'm trying to say and maybe I'll pull it off but probably I won't) I think you're okay.

Independence, like greatness, has alluded me.

oh my own faults baffle me! I can't seem to except anyones help for anything if I don't work with them. I want to be independent. Don't interpret ("Ever interpretation is a misinterpretation. Don't interpret; try to understand.") me there. I just wish that I could accept help when I know I need it. I had some friends and some friend's friends over at my house last night and they were playing with my brothers scoota (also known to most people as the scooter but not if you are interesting in any way :) ) and in the goings on of the night the scooter got broken. Snapped right in half. I wasn't angry; just baffled. I couldn't believe it happened. In my attempt to be "cool-headed" (I'm not but I didn't want to snap because the guy who was riding it when it broke was a friend of a friend) I said that I didn't need any help financially replacing it. That was a bold face lie. I don't have the disposable income to pay for a new 100 dolla scoota (see the trend er/ar = a) but when the friend's friend offered to pay for it I denied him, 100 percent denied him. Not just a simple "No Thanks I can handle it" but more like an "Are You CRAZY?" (Perhaps that's not how it was but my memory is less like a bathroom mirror reflecting the exact image than the funhouse mirror making the image a little more interesting.) Luckily, now my father (ah, the parents releaving all responsiblity) is going to take it to the place where they got it (WalMart, figures it broke) and ask why it just broke like that. Though the crisis, and my own anxiety over the scotta, is over I can't help but wonder why I didn't accept that he even was willing to help. I wanted to say "Yes of course you can pay for it" but instead it was "No fucking way." I seem to be able to accept gifts but not assistance. If my friends buy me something sweet, like a friend buying me a peice of red jasper because he noticed that I have trouble warding off negative energy (how assutute of him, really), but if my friends want to buy me something because I can't pay myself I turn them down flat. I always used to bug a close friend because he wouldn't let anyone buy anything for him, not even his girlfriend. Now it seems as though we are seeing eye to eye, even though he is 6' 2" and I am a measly 5" 5".

I hear that it's bliss; is ignorance that good?

Fuming! That's what I am. Fuming! Why are people ignorant pricks? If anyone can earnestly answer that please e-mail me because really I'm clueless here. I'm at work today (which is a chip truck) and a man walks up wearing, in the year 2001 mind you, a shirt which reads (oh I get mad even thinking about it) "Silly F*gg*t, Dix are for Chix!" with a picture of a trix rabbit on it.(I can't say the dorogatory word and seeing my fingers type it onto my computer screen was nearly as awful as hearing my voice spit it out) I was rabid! But the simple fact of the matter was that I was at work and had to let him waltz on by thinking that it was alright that he should be an ignorant asshole. I just clamped my jaw shut and bit my tongue (it bled. If you know me you know I'm probably not joking about that.) When he was gone I went berzerk and the guy I was working with, Jesse, wondered why I hadn't said anything (I'm quite outspoken and normally would have) The fact of the matter is that I was at work. I'm not allowed to yell at paying customers, no matter how wrong I believe them to be.
It is the year 2001. This isn't the 80's where you don't know about the fact that you can't get AIDS from a toilet seat or a hand shake. I thought Degrassi High taught something about homophobia and such (this guy was only maybe 10 years older than my 18, part of the generation that would have grown up watching Degrassi). i hate that with as much progress as I see I still find myself wanting, no needing to fight these people. Whether I get called a lesbian at school (yeah guys it happened) when I'm straight or I get shunned in a classroom because I yelled at the homophobic popular kids, I just can't seem to let it slide. Frankly, I don't see why I should.

Requeim for the Disturbed

I watched a movie last night that did nothing for this waining grasp I have a stability. Requiem for a dream is one of the most visually disturbing movies I have seen in years. I thought I was past being disturbed by scenes of drug overdose or misuse. I also thought I had seen and read the most horrific depictions of shock therepy that one could possibly have seen. Requiem for a dream was the sort of movie that made me want to shake for no reason and sit by myself in the dark, not moving, just staring forward. I always knew I'd never try heroin (an obsession with the book Trainspotting had cured me of any whim there) but speed I thought maybe I would. After last night, never will I pop a pill that wasn't researched by me. I just find it difficult to put into words the way that movie made me feel. It was a phenomenal movie with Oscar worthy (if oscar are worth anything, which I doubt they are) performances and superb cinematography. The shots in that movie, especially the reoccuring shots from when the heroin junkies were shooting up, were mind blowing. Really an all-around awesome (in the true sense of the word, not slang) movie. But really one that fucks you up. P.S. The web sites really fucked up too.

Just when I think I have it figured out I'm tapped on the wrong shoulder and left spinning for hours looking for something just out of my sights. I thought I had a good friend, no actually he may be my best friend, figured out but he has changed. Almost so much that the only way I know him from a stranger is that a stranger couldn't look me in the eyes and know what I was thinking the way he can. It isn't really that he characterally (is that a word, mnh) has changed, just outwardly. He looks different in every way but the one that counts the most. When I look in his eyes. Eyes are the windows to the soul, babies, and it is the same soul I've always known. Maybe this is supposed to teach me a lesson, such as just because the covers changed doesn't mean it isn't the same book you've read a million times. Perhaps it is I that am exceedingly static. The rock of Gibralter if you will. Except that I can't say that I don't change. It is just not as noticable. Also, the rock of Gibralter is strong and in a strength contest I'd be the wood with the rotting core. I appear as if strength is my speciality but infact the smallest touch will collapse me.

I heard about this site from a friend of mine and I've always wanted a web page but my basic laziness wouldn't allow it. Now I suppose I sort of have one, in a cheap sense of the word "webpage" because it isn't even truly mine. I suppose this would sort of belong to Pyra (the company named in the terms of service as owning this - yes, I read the terms of service. As my grandfather say *insert false teeth* "You never can be too careful of what you're signing up to now a days.").

I was thinking, when my friend told me about this what I could possibly write about. There is basically only one thing I could write about: myself. I hate that. I don't mind talking about myself and what I think but I like feedback. I'm an artist and I like people telling me that I suck. If the truth be told (as it is so often attempted to be) I like being told how, and how much, I suck. I almost expect to be told I suck in various ways and mediums. When people tell me I'm any good at anything, I don't know what to say. I had a good friend of mine's girlfriend tell me I had a nice voice and I walked away from her. I'm going to school to study opera in the fall! I should be able to say thank you and take the complement graciously. Instead I walk away. Now the girl thinks I hate her, but what am I to say "Sorry about that. Tell me again how good I am." I don't especially like having new people over to my house that much because the main room I spend most of my time in is littered with my art. I would love it if the new people went through ripping it to shreds, but they don't. They talk about how talented I am and all that bullshit. I wish they would talk about how I have a hard time with perspective and that all my portraits are either in profile or dead on. Even my friends who I KNOW see the faults give me the "I like these, Alysia" crap instead of saying why it sucks. Maybe that is the politeness that has replaced the truth as I age. I still love people who can be frank and say why something sucks. But you have to be careful because you need (here comes the Libra) a balance of suck and sweet. Maybe that is what we haven't achieved in the North American society (I'm not calling it a civilization because I see a lack of civility all around me); a balance of the good and bad comments hasn't been achieved. I'll try that. For every negetive comment, a positive accompaniment and visa versa.