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Category Quick Jump

Note that we've played, um, loose with the categories so the first 3 especially, are practically meaningless.


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Reich 4.0


Hello, depression

Hello depression! How nice of you to drop by again! It’s been a few days since we’ve talked, hasn’t it?

What’s that? You missed me?! Heh. Awwww. Poor you. Why did you miss me? Surely you must have other friends you can visit?

What’s that? There’s no one exactly like me? No one with the same set of neuroses and fears as me? No one whom you enjoy hanging out with just so much?

I’ve got to tell you, depression, I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but I don’t enjoy you the way you seem to enjoy me. I actually feel better when you are not around.

There, there, depression, don’t cry! Awwwww, I’m sorry. <Hugs depression> Come on, now. <More hugs>

<More hugs>

<More hugs>

<More hugs>

Ok, then, depression, what do you want to do? What’s that? You want me to talk about you?

Animal Morality

All right, I guess I’m forced to pick up where I left off last time: the morality of humans and/or other animals. And my view that humans are just another species and that if we could communicate with monkeys, for example, the way we communicate with each other, we’d find that they view the world in similar ways to us.

For the record, if anyone can convince me that humans are special; that we have a morality and right to run (destroy?) the world the way we do; that we have a right to enslave, abuse, kill, enjoy and pillage other species, plants, earth and rocks, and even other people, the way we do, I would love to be convinced. Frankly, my viewpoint is so simple and without prestige. Who doesn’t want to be king/queen/conqueror and ruler?! Hook a sister up with some power!

But I prefer real power to a chimera.

Faith and Nurture

Can I create what I need? Can I manufacture it out of thin air?

Here is what I need:

Someone whom I admire, trust and respect puts hers or his arms around me. I resist but they hold firmly but gently, allowing me to calm down. Maybe they pat my head.

They rock me, let me cry. With a flick of their hand, they motion to a servant who disappears and reappears with a glass of cold, clear water. I drink. They address me, filled with faith in me. Love, respect, the offer of help, assurance that I will always be nurtured, aided and ultimately free, assurance that there is a safety net; that I can never really hurt myself, because not only will they teach me to live, they won’t let me die.

Here’s the best part: I believe them.

Image from:

Too Good

There’s only been one thing I’ve ever been good at: failure. Oh sure, I’m good at “graphic design” and “writing” and “organizing” – but really, it always comes down to the same fucking thing: I have no staying power. Scratch that. It always comes down to the same fucking thing: programming.

“Do not challenge.”
“Follow the Rules.”
“Make yourself small so others look big.”

“Be good, but not too good.”

“Your reward is in the afterlife.”

So I fail over and over and over again. And other people look good. I, on the other hand, look… less and less like the wild horse everyone wants to tame.

So many plans, so little accomplishment. (God will save you.) So little will power. (God will save you.) Scratch that.

“Make yourself good, but not so good that others look bad.” (Whoops, you’re getting too good, better change focus.”)

Thoughts on Gun Control

I’m unhappy because I have no will power. I get up in the morning, read my email, check Facebook, check my three Twitter accounts – post a notice for the conference I’m organizing - check my email again…

I think about all I have to do…

Work out, the dishes, bit of work for one client, bit of work for another…

Brush my teeth…

The brushing of the teeth is the killer, each morning and night – do you believe that a 45 year old woman has trouble getting up in the morning and going to bed at night because she hates brushing her teeth? It’s true.

Brushing teeth is boring. My life is filled with boring and no – IT IS NOT MY FAULT!!

What is my fault is not standing up for what I need: abandoning writing, abandoning photography, abandoning video-making…

Abandoning my siblings... I should not have shut down when I was eighteen. I should not have let my Mother kill my spirit. I should have continued to fight her.. But I was on the edge of sanity!

Imperfection: my New BFF

I realize now that it is my destiny to be unhappy! Oh, what a release to accept this! I do not need to strive for happiness – it’s all bollocks anyway! Dyed, straightened hair, French tips, tanned perfection – tis not me. Not at all!

I’m imperfect: big gap between my front teeth, nose that is almost African in it’s roundness and lips that could definitely be African in origin!* No ass. Naturally inward pointing toes and the horrid bunions that my Mom had! Imperfection: a glorious, individual blight on the form of accepted (mostly white, upper class defined) female beauty. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and fair – so close - but for the unsightly gap, obscene feet and narrow hips, I’d be a Great Beauty. So close – yet so fucking gloriously far!

Oh, and let’s not get into the brains thing. Ewwww! A pet who’ll put you in your place. Women look shitty with glasses anyway.

Where is My Mother?

Sadness. The only constant. The only thing I can count on. Where does it come from? Why can’t I kill it?

I have incredible friends, an incredible partner and rewarding work. Is it hereditary?

My mom was the same, and probably my dad. My sister? Yep. My brothers? Probably my two oldest ones. I don’t know the two youngest ones well enough to say positively; however, they seem happier than the rest of us. They had the benefit of being born 5 and 10 years, respectively, after the cluster of the four oldest. My mom was a bit happier by then. Perhaps the end was in site. She could see that she was finally going to leave the farm.

The miserable, lonely, pristine and haunted homestead. My father’s life's work built on my mother’s strength and connections. The screaming success my mother would have no part of because women are the servants of men. Or so she believed. Or so she tried to believe.