Well, the world broke.
Thought you ought to know.
Sunday, December 1
Thursday, September 5
Freed
Consistency is needing to be told, time after time, that there are no hands on these shoulders or chains on these hands. I have been released.
When your mind goes into self-preservation mode, it's difficult to rise above simplicity. I can smile all I want on those three days, but I can never forget that those smiles were made by me and are for me only. I choose to see the world the way I want to, and I've been misimagining again.
Complexities are everywhere, the biggest of which cannot be me. Not in a world this vast and troubling. I am an enigma, but not the enigma.
The truth resists simplicity. I should, too.
Sunday, August 11
It never ends
Lately, I have realized that I am happiest during those rare weekly encounters I pretty desperately wait for and at first, I was wildly embarrassed. I thought of how dramatic and hyperbolic and high school that was, counting down the days, not unlike Captain Harville, when I am owed literally nothing and have no hope for anything but continued waiting and ambiguity. But is it really that bad? I mean, really? For a life so full of people eager to share in it, is it really that bad, to be moved or to be uplifted or, in this case, to feel complete contentment when together?
I know I have never been a person to think much of myself or to have a sense of emotional entitlement, like it is the job of someone else to make me happy, but if that ends up happening, am I supposed to feel this guilty? Should I not accept these short, precious times as a gift from God? Is that not more productive than this cycle of fear and self-degradation? Again I am reminded of those familiar words... pain demands to be felt. Doesn't joy demand to be felt, too? And if it does, what am I fighting against that is worth the effort it takes to berate myself for knowing which three days of the week will bring a smile to my face? It doesn't feel like it tonight, but I guess that is not saying much. Tuesday was a long time ago.
I know I have never been a person to think much of myself or to have a sense of emotional entitlement, like it is the job of someone else to make me happy, but if that ends up happening, am I supposed to feel this guilty? Should I not accept these short, precious times as a gift from God? Is that not more productive than this cycle of fear and self-degradation? Again I am reminded of those familiar words... pain demands to be felt. Doesn't joy demand to be felt, too? And if it does, what am I fighting against that is worth the effort it takes to berate myself for knowing which three days of the week will bring a smile to my face? It doesn't feel like it tonight, but I guess that is not saying much. Tuesday was a long time ago.
Sunday, July 7
Difficult Thing
I did something tonight I said I wasn't going to do, but in breaking that promise to myself, I just feel so... relieved. Still scared, still uncomfortable, still anxious, still guilty, yet there is a peace that rests below the shallowness in my surface tension in that I have people who not just CAN understand me, but want to understand me. They make the effort. So even if my great conundrum gets shot down or remains unsolved, I have these beautiful people, these men and these women, that care enough about me to ask how I am and want the full, unfiltered truth. It's a beautiful thing. A spiritual thing, surely. These kind of connections make me not only so thankful for life, but so thankful for a God who understands me and knows what I need and who I need.
This was the best weekend ever! Let's round it out, Sunday, with another good day. Please? :)
This was the best weekend ever! Let's round it out, Sunday, with another good day. Please? :)
Tuesday, May 21
Blergh
This past weekend was perfection. I didn't stop to question myself. I looked and felt beautiful, which is pretty rare (pun intended, fo' sho'). I did not care a bit that I still want things I cannot have; in that strange, fleeting moment, I embraced it. I felt full to overflowing, loved completely. And then today happened. Pessimism, why must you be so faithful?
Friday, May 10
Pipe down
The irony of this being my next post is not lost on me, but have you ever had one of those days where something happens that makes you look at yourself and see a person constantly in need of attention, like your whole life is one big LOOK AT ME, SEE ME, PAY ATTENTION TO ME adolescent screech to the world?
It doesn't ring true. I know that. But tonight, it just feels true. Ugh.
It doesn't ring true. I know that. But tonight, it just feels true. Ugh.
Monday, April 29
Just an idea...
Looking back over the last few years, the most rewarding experiences have come from me choosing to set aside my fear and take a risk, to act boldly. It sounds silly, but I just remembered how I'm always telling the choir to "sing with confidence," because even though they're worried about messing up, they know the words better than they think they do. There are worse things than going into the bridge too fast or mixing up the lyrics. It's the intention that matters.
Every great thing I've ever done, I was afraid to do at one point in time. I mean, ample proof exists at my fingertips that would suggest the time has come to accept any change for the better, no matter how frightening. I should sing with confidence, trill my melodies in this time of waiting.
Friday, April 26
Fear
There haven't been words or phrases or sentences yet invented to start off something like this, but I've been thinking, as I'm sure is abundantly clear. My most satisfying relationships are almost all with women and while that is certainly satisfactory, I think that leaves a large hole in my life.
I remember the first time I was afraid of my father and I remember, in little child wisdom, giving way to numbness and love alternately throughout much of my childhood. I clung to my mother for her great love, the best I'd ever known, and I clung to my father when I could. I remember the first time that fear came back. Fresh, raw, and potent, it paralyzed me. It was in my own stupidity that we almost died that night, all four of us. I look back and I can't believe I didn't say anything. i can't believe my own naivete, that my father was going to do what was right for his girls when he never had before. I regret how I felt and how I acted. I regret not saying no. But most of all, I regret what that makes me.
Not all men are like my father. I firmly believe that. I have seen some of the most beautiful and touching moments of fatherhood, moments when you so perfectly feel the existence of evil in the world and at the same time, the power of man to rise above it in the Lord.
But I am afraid of men. I do not trust them so easily or so wholeheartedly. I do not believe they value me as a person. I do not believe that they do or ever could need a person, a woman like me. I spend much of my time feeling like a shapeless mass, a slouching blob of nothing. But around them, I feel so incredibly small, a glass doll in an earthquake. I cannot hold myself together. I am afraid and there is nothing I can do about it.
So when it comes to love, it is no wonder I am alone. I could say it was "sabotage" and this blather could end with the feel of a formulaic chick flick, but that's not it. I need more than I could possibly expect from another human being. I need healing that can only come from God. I can't find any of that in a man and I'm not going to look for it. I have faith that if God is going to put someone in my life that He intends to have love me, He will make it clear. But until that day, I will push on, hands clasped and heart ready, no matter how my steps falter or my knees tremble. Harder things have been done.
I remember the first time I was afraid of my father and I remember, in little child wisdom, giving way to numbness and love alternately throughout much of my childhood. I clung to my mother for her great love, the best I'd ever known, and I clung to my father when I could. I remember the first time that fear came back. Fresh, raw, and potent, it paralyzed me. It was in my own stupidity that we almost died that night, all four of us. I look back and I can't believe I didn't say anything. i can't believe my own naivete, that my father was going to do what was right for his girls when he never had before. I regret how I felt and how I acted. I regret not saying no. But most of all, I regret what that makes me.
Not all men are like my father. I firmly believe that. I have seen some of the most beautiful and touching moments of fatherhood, moments when you so perfectly feel the existence of evil in the world and at the same time, the power of man to rise above it in the Lord.
But I am afraid of men. I do not trust them so easily or so wholeheartedly. I do not believe they value me as a person. I do not believe that they do or ever could need a person, a woman like me. I spend much of my time feeling like a shapeless mass, a slouching blob of nothing. But around them, I feel so incredibly small, a glass doll in an earthquake. I cannot hold myself together. I am afraid and there is nothing I can do about it.
So when it comes to love, it is no wonder I am alone. I could say it was "sabotage" and this blather could end with the feel of a formulaic chick flick, but that's not it. I need more than I could possibly expect from another human being. I need healing that can only come from God. I can't find any of that in a man and I'm not going to look for it. I have faith that if God is going to put someone in my life that He intends to have love me, He will make it clear. But until that day, I will push on, hands clasped and heart ready, no matter how my steps falter or my knees tremble. Harder things have been done.
Thursday, April 11
Outlets
I have made a new endeavor to be more creative, as that seems to dispel my moods of doom. Writing is all well and good, but it is difficult to edit Proxy and unmarry that project with failure (no one's read it, it'll never be a real book, people will hate it, etc.). It's much easier to use the skills I have that are of no value to me.
I know that no one cares how I draw, so I draw. I know that no one cares about my poetry, so I write poetry. It is very freeing. There is no pressure, which is something I can say about very few aspects of my life. I spend most of my time in damage control, imagining what other people think of me and usually imagining the wrong things to boot, so it's nice to leave those thoughts behind, turn on something sultry, and say, "Fuck it, let's make some art."
I know that no one cares how I draw, so I draw. I know that no one cares about my poetry, so I write poetry. It is very freeing. There is no pressure, which is something I can say about very few aspects of my life. I spend most of my time in damage control, imagining what other people think of me and usually imagining the wrong things to boot, so it's nice to leave those thoughts behind, turn on something sultry, and say, "Fuck it, let's make some art."
Wednesday, March 27
TMI
Despite the fact that I have never experienced this particular pleasure, I find myself unable to ponder anything this evening but the mechanics of and reactions to oral sex.
... And good night!
... And good night!
Monday, March 18
A penny thought
First of all, ha ha ha on this title considering the actual value of a penny, which is unfortunately a negative amount of money. So there.
Here is the part where I get weird.
I can't... What a great way to start this. Lord, help me.
I can't figure out what to do with all the emotions I have. They are fierce, yet tepid at times, with no basis in reality and no real potential in having anything to do with my future. I am too quiet, but too loud, saying all the things that don't matter because I'd rather have people like a superficial me, laced with bitterness, than hate the optimistic, bright-eyed little fool I really am.
How can these few moments, meaningless to anyone else, be so important to me? When I think of the last time I was really, truly happy and completely comfortable with who I was, no wondering about anything beyond the present, many of those memories are wrapped up in those emotions. And when I think about it so logically, the conclusion seems crystal clear. But there's more to it than that, as there always is. There's more to me than that.
And what I always conclude is that I just have to shut up, calm down, and wait, my oldest and most despised game. I am living in a way I never thought I would be. I am feeling beyond what I thought I could. I feel isolated and alone, protected by my silence and in the same moment, so vulnerable. I am scared. This isn't what I wanted, but my prayer will never be for what I want. I always want the wrong things, I have learned. I run from the things that make me uncomfortable and scared. Those things are very often the things that end up saving my life.
Case in point: the community I am a part of, I once hated and wanted to abandon. Where would I be without them now?
So, yeah. I'm sitting in my room, early in the morning, crying at all my favorite Relient k songs, praying for patience and the ability to shut up. I have to let God speak and I can't hear him over the sound of my own fear. Maybe if I just be quiet, something beautiful will happen. After all, He has never failed me yet.
Here is the part where I get weird.
I can't... What a great way to start this. Lord, help me.
I can't figure out what to do with all the emotions I have. They are fierce, yet tepid at times, with no basis in reality and no real potential in having anything to do with my future. I am too quiet, but too loud, saying all the things that don't matter because I'd rather have people like a superficial me, laced with bitterness, than hate the optimistic, bright-eyed little fool I really am.
How can these few moments, meaningless to anyone else, be so important to me? When I think of the last time I was really, truly happy and completely comfortable with who I was, no wondering about anything beyond the present, many of those memories are wrapped up in those emotions. And when I think about it so logically, the conclusion seems crystal clear. But there's more to it than that, as there always is. There's more to me than that.
And what I always conclude is that I just have to shut up, calm down, and wait, my oldest and most despised game. I am living in a way I never thought I would be. I am feeling beyond what I thought I could. I feel isolated and alone, protected by my silence and in the same moment, so vulnerable. I am scared. This isn't what I wanted, but my prayer will never be for what I want. I always want the wrong things, I have learned. I run from the things that make me uncomfortable and scared. Those things are very often the things that end up saving my life.
Case in point: the community I am a part of, I once hated and wanted to abandon. Where would I be without them now?
So, yeah. I'm sitting in my room, early in the morning, crying at all my favorite Relient k songs, praying for patience and the ability to shut up. I have to let God speak and I can't hear him over the sound of my own fear. Maybe if I just be quiet, something beautiful will happen. After all, He has never failed me yet.
Friday, March 15
Um.
I think I'm just going to pause here in this moment and take the time to say that yesterday was a horrible day. I did not do the difficult thing. I was not brave, I was not smart, and I was not happy. Not at all.
But I did write. And today, I am feeling a great shift. I didn't get any answers to any of the questions amid that disgusting slush of whining, self-evaluation, and angst. That's okay right now. I'm okay with that.
I'll keep walking and seeing and trusting.
That's all I can do.
But I did write. And today, I am feeling a great shift. I didn't get any answers to any of the questions amid that disgusting slush of whining, self-evaluation, and angst. That's okay right now. I'm okay with that.
I'll keep walking and seeing and trusting.
That's all I can do.
Thursday, March 14
Carried
I am trapped inside myself. That's what this feels like.
I know my own strengths. I know my boundaries. I know what I can do and what I can't and the list of "can'ts" is getting longer than I'm willing to take.
I feel like everyone around me is going somewhere. I feel them slipping past me, there for the blink of my eyes and then in an instant, light years away, already off to some future I am not capable of partaking in. Screw the person who said "slow and steady wins the race" because that has got to be the loneliest fucking thing I've ever heard, said by some six-packed jerk in running shoes.
I don't want to slow people down. I want them to run, get as high as they can. I don't want to be a burden and I know that I am and I don't know how to be anything else. It's a side effect of living for me, dragging people into the dirt. I am a lead balloon, a sand bag, a paperweight. The dead fish.
"Why?" is the question I ask most and my frustration builds when it won't go because I know that I don't need to know why. And I never will. It doesn't matter. I want to, but that doesn't matter either.
And then I think harder. In my desire to be logical and to "think" my way out of whatever I'm feeling, I struggle to analyze it, to do anything to feel better about my emotions. To justify, to explain, and to hopefully find someway I can rise above it, to be in control again. Even now, I feel like I'm dramatizing all of this, just so I can deal with it. There are people who've had far worse things happen to them and they're okay, I say to myself. And almost instantly, I snap back because of course that doesn't matter. I'm me. I can't be someone else. I can't process things the way someone else does. If I could, I'd be them and this wouldn't be here.
I'm always struggling to find a way to bridge that gap between what I'm doing and what I think God wants me to be doing, but I try to do it on my own, without even realizing it, like I was programmed that way. I haven't yet learned the words to tell people how much I need them. They don't exist in me yet and I've got to learn them, I know that. I think, in my more helpful moments, the moments when I give myself a break, that letting me move inside His will means letting him work through others. Maybe it's not an issue of me being a burden, but an issue of me learning when to be carried. You can't be in community with people until you can admit that you need them without condition or ceremony. You can't be loved by people and you can't love them until you can open your mouth and ask them to help you. I haven't done that yet and I don't know what I'm waiting for. It's never going to get any easier than it is now. I'm not suddenly going to get stronger, or better, or wiser. I have to ask and I haven't yet. I don't know what I'm waiting for.
But I don't know. When I'm angry, I can't help but feel like that's giving up somehow. But maybe that's my own need for independence. I need to take care of myself. I need to help myself. I need to save myself. But I'm not allowed, because someone already did that, without my consent. I think that makes me angry sometimes. I wasn't asked what I wanted. It was decided for me. It's what's best, for sure, but I didn't get to choose. I feel drawn toward God, sometimes against my will. I'd rather stop caring than feel pain sometimes and that's a pretty cowardly thing to want. I feel real low every time that crops up.
I want someone to know how angry and sad and hypocritical and messed up I can be and am and then I'm mad that I need that or that I think that I need that, because wanting implies a lack of contentment and a lack of peace, which I'd have if I was that person I want to be, a person more fully connected and moving with God. A person in the center of His grace. I'm not that person. I hardly ever am. I used to feel like I was before more of the time, and I look back and think I was happier then, but I don't know if that was real or immaturity or just plain ignorance on my part.
This is shaping up to be a very ecclesiastical week. Involuntary fasting and unhappiness is my future and I can't see around it right now. I could ask someone for help, but I'm just not there yet. I wish I was. I wish I was better.
I wish I was someone else.
I know my own strengths. I know my boundaries. I know what I can do and what I can't and the list of "can'ts" is getting longer than I'm willing to take.
I feel like everyone around me is going somewhere. I feel them slipping past me, there for the blink of my eyes and then in an instant, light years away, already off to some future I am not capable of partaking in. Screw the person who said "slow and steady wins the race" because that has got to be the loneliest fucking thing I've ever heard, said by some six-packed jerk in running shoes.
I don't want to slow people down. I want them to run, get as high as they can. I don't want to be a burden and I know that I am and I don't know how to be anything else. It's a side effect of living for me, dragging people into the dirt. I am a lead balloon, a sand bag, a paperweight. The dead fish.
"Why?" is the question I ask most and my frustration builds when it won't go because I know that I don't need to know why. And I never will. It doesn't matter. I want to, but that doesn't matter either.
And then I think harder. In my desire to be logical and to "think" my way out of whatever I'm feeling, I struggle to analyze it, to do anything to feel better about my emotions. To justify, to explain, and to hopefully find someway I can rise above it, to be in control again. Even now, I feel like I'm dramatizing all of this, just so I can deal with it. There are people who've had far worse things happen to them and they're okay, I say to myself. And almost instantly, I snap back because of course that doesn't matter. I'm me. I can't be someone else. I can't process things the way someone else does. If I could, I'd be them and this wouldn't be here.
I'm always struggling to find a way to bridge that gap between what I'm doing and what I think God wants me to be doing, but I try to do it on my own, without even realizing it, like I was programmed that way. I haven't yet learned the words to tell people how much I need them. They don't exist in me yet and I've got to learn them, I know that. I think, in my more helpful moments, the moments when I give myself a break, that letting me move inside His will means letting him work through others. Maybe it's not an issue of me being a burden, but an issue of me learning when to be carried. You can't be in community with people until you can admit that you need them without condition or ceremony. You can't be loved by people and you can't love them until you can open your mouth and ask them to help you. I haven't done that yet and I don't know what I'm waiting for. It's never going to get any easier than it is now. I'm not suddenly going to get stronger, or better, or wiser. I have to ask and I haven't yet. I don't know what I'm waiting for.
But I don't know. When I'm angry, I can't help but feel like that's giving up somehow. But maybe that's my own need for independence. I need to take care of myself. I need to help myself. I need to save myself. But I'm not allowed, because someone already did that, without my consent. I think that makes me angry sometimes. I wasn't asked what I wanted. It was decided for me. It's what's best, for sure, but I didn't get to choose. I feel drawn toward God, sometimes against my will. I'd rather stop caring than feel pain sometimes and that's a pretty cowardly thing to want. I feel real low every time that crops up.
I want someone to know how angry and sad and hypocritical and messed up I can be and am and then I'm mad that I need that or that I think that I need that, because wanting implies a lack of contentment and a lack of peace, which I'd have if I was that person I want to be, a person more fully connected and moving with God. A person in the center of His grace. I'm not that person. I hardly ever am. I used to feel like I was before more of the time, and I look back and think I was happier then, but I don't know if that was real or immaturity or just plain ignorance on my part.
This is shaping up to be a very ecclesiastical week. Involuntary fasting and unhappiness is my future and I can't see around it right now. I could ask someone for help, but I'm just not there yet. I wish I was. I wish I was better.
I wish I was someone else.
Tuesday, February 26
Why am I stupid?
Why do I feel so guilty? Why do I need love from people, when God's already given His perfect love to me? Why do I want the wrong things?
Why do I want things that don't make any sense? Why do I think things that hurt me? Why do I obsess and cling and cry and hope and wait?
Why do I think some earthly thing will make me happy? Why do I need to be happy on my own terms? Why can't I just let this go, like everything else? Why do I need this?
Why do I think I'm alone when I'm not? Why do I think people care, when they don't? Why do I want to be known?
A very questioning evening. No answers, just disappointment, frustration, and guilt. Beating hearts and senselessness.
Why do I want things that don't make any sense? Why do I think things that hurt me? Why do I obsess and cling and cry and hope and wait?
Why do I think some earthly thing will make me happy? Why do I need to be happy on my own terms? Why can't I just let this go, like everything else? Why do I need this?
Why do I think I'm alone when I'm not? Why do I think people care, when they don't? Why do I want to be known?
A very questioning evening. No answers, just disappointment, frustration, and guilt. Beating hearts and senselessness.
Sunday, February 24
Saturday, February 16
And now for something completely different!
I thought I'd insert a little pointlessness into this void. I was thinking about my old favorite TV shows this morning and how many of them had "gone to the dogs," as the Draconian expression goes. So, as per usual, I made a list:
24
Jack Bauer, resident badass patriot, stops terrorist attacks with the force of his rage and expletives.
Number of seasons: 8
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 2, 5, 3, 4
Best thing about the show: Jack Bauer's pistol whipping
Worst thing about the show: In season 7, the whole point was that CTU was no longer a viable institution and was too fraught with mistakes/moles to function effectively. In season 8, it's back with no real explanation.
Where it all went wrong: The phrase "too much of a good thing" comes to mind. In season 5, the plot was so high-stakes, so shocking, that there really was nowhere to go from there and the show inevitably sunk into predictability and utter nonsense.
Bones
Disgruntled "man's man, ladies' man" FBI agent, Booth, and socially backward, wildly intelligent anthropologist, Brennan, team up to solve murders.
Number of seasons: 8 and still running
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 3, 2
Best thing about the show: David Boreanaz as Booth is fantastic. Snarky, sexy, & searching for salvation.
Worst thing about the show: The age-old Fair Lady act. All of Brennan's friends and colleagues "teach" her how to be an empathetic person. It is a TV trope reaching criminal proportions, especially in this case as it's used to replace a healthy foundation for a romantic relationship between Booth and Brennan.
Where it all went wrong: The writers took "hard to get" to extreme lengths. Booth and Brennan dance around each other until it becomes positively absurd and it doesn't stop with them. Minor characters Angela and Hodgins are about to get married and instead, break up in the most ridiculous soap-operaesque plotline since I don't know what.
House
A witty, crude doctor and his troupe of underlings use their collective knowledge to cure patients with strange medical conditions.
Number of seasons: 8
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 2, 3
Best thing about the show: Hugh Laurie's off-color humor and "dark horse" methods as House are unforgettable. Hilarious as well as groundbreaking for television.
Worst thing about the show: Cuddy and House's bizarre relationship. I really cannot see those two as a couple.
Where it all went wrong: The break-up of the Dream Team. As much as Chase, Cameron, and Foreman annoyed me, they had a chemistry that worked. Season 4 was as ridiculous as it was unentertaining.
The Office
The employees of a little-known paper company struggle to actually work despite their dim, wacky boss and his innumerable distractions.
Number of seasons: 9
Favorite seasons, ranked: 2, 3, 5, 6, 4, 1
Best thing about the show: Dwight Schrute. Nothing beats him... I could watch Jim prank him all day.
Worst thing about the show: The deterioration of the characters. In the beginning, you knew where you stood with them. But after awhile, crazy became the norm for The Office and they kept trying to outdo themselves at the expense of remaining "in-character." I still have a hard time believing Pam would commit fraud to get a higher paycheck and Andy would leave work for 3 months without telling anybody, among countless other things.
Where it all went wrong: When Steve Carell left. He was the glue that held that show together. For me (and I'm sure for many others), Steve Carell was The Office. Without him as Michael, it lost its spark and went from painfully funny to awkward and sad.
Burn Notice
A burned spy gets back on his feet and seeks revenge on the agents who fired him with the help of his gun-toting ex-girlfriend and an old war buddy turned boy toy.
Number of seasons: 7 and still running
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 2, 4, 3
Best thing about the show: I do have a bit of a "vigilante" problem, as my previous obsession with 24 and current obsession with Django Unchained can attest. I like the idea of a man using his skills to help people in need, skirting the line of legality.
Worst thing about the show: Jesse Porter. He is an enormous man-baby who thinks he is both Mr. Smooth and Mr. I-Don't-Need-A-Partner. He constantly foils the team's plots with his bumbling ways and I don't care that Michael burned him, because he is stupid. One of the biggest disappointments of Season 5 was that he was still there.
Where it all went wrong: I guess it was wrecked from the premise, but with the end of Season 4, Michael is ushered back into the fold of super-secret American espionage like he always wanted. The show should have ended there, but instead it went on, which was unfortunate for the sake of both Michael's haircut (http://i128.photobucket.com/albums/p162/weasleybabe24/badhair_zpse33b772a.png - Ouch!) and the viewers. It quickly became pointlessly formulaic, much to my chagrin.
How I Met Your Mother
A single, lonely architect searches New York for "the One" when he isn't hanging out with his friends.
Number of seasons: 9
Favorite seasons, ranked: 2, 3, 1, 4, 5
Best thing about the show: Marshall and Lily. Through all the crazy crap that happened on this show, they were the reason I kept watching and it was with real sadness that I stopped.
Worst thing about the show: The fact that Ted is not actually a "nice guy" as he professes. As a viewer of HIMYM, you are constantly treated to a lot of whinging about Ted not finding the right girl, despite the fact that he is kind of a jerk. Across the episodes, Ted tries to break up a woman and her fiance because a computer says they're a better match, cheats on his girlfriend with Robin, pretends to be from the South visiting New York to have sex with two locals, has a one-night stand with a horrible woman knowing he'll never have to see her again, cheats with two different women, breaks up with the same girl on her birthday twice, and the list goes on and on. Barney is worse comparatively, but at least Barney knows he's a jerk and admits it.
Where it all went wrong: When Barney and Robin cheated on their significant others (Norah and Kevin) for no good reason. There was always something weird about watching a show where three of the main characters were in a complicated love triangle. But despite that, I watched on, assuming the "backsliding," as they refer to it, would be a minimum. Obviously, I was wrong. People that wishy-washy about their feelings shouldn't be in relationships at all.
24
Jack Bauer, resident badass patriot, stops terrorist attacks with the force of his rage and expletives.
Number of seasons: 8
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 2, 5, 3, 4
Best thing about the show: Jack Bauer's pistol whipping
Worst thing about the show: In season 7, the whole point was that CTU was no longer a viable institution and was too fraught with mistakes/moles to function effectively. In season 8, it's back with no real explanation.
Where it all went wrong: The phrase "too much of a good thing" comes to mind. In season 5, the plot was so high-stakes, so shocking, that there really was nowhere to go from there and the show inevitably sunk into predictability and utter nonsense.
Bones
Disgruntled "man's man, ladies' man" FBI agent, Booth, and socially backward, wildly intelligent anthropologist, Brennan, team up to solve murders.
Number of seasons: 8 and still running
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 3, 2
Best thing about the show: David Boreanaz as Booth is fantastic. Snarky, sexy, & searching for salvation.
Worst thing about the show: The age-old Fair Lady act. All of Brennan's friends and colleagues "teach" her how to be an empathetic person. It is a TV trope reaching criminal proportions, especially in this case as it's used to replace a healthy foundation for a romantic relationship between Booth and Brennan.
Where it all went wrong: The writers took "hard to get" to extreme lengths. Booth and Brennan dance around each other until it becomes positively absurd and it doesn't stop with them. Minor characters Angela and Hodgins are about to get married and instead, break up in the most ridiculous soap-operaesque plotline since I don't know what.
House
A witty, crude doctor and his troupe of underlings use their collective knowledge to cure patients with strange medical conditions.
Number of seasons: 8
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 2, 3
Best thing about the show: Hugh Laurie's off-color humor and "dark horse" methods as House are unforgettable. Hilarious as well as groundbreaking for television.
Worst thing about the show: Cuddy and House's bizarre relationship. I really cannot see those two as a couple.
Where it all went wrong: The break-up of the Dream Team. As much as Chase, Cameron, and Foreman annoyed me, they had a chemistry that worked. Season 4 was as ridiculous as it was unentertaining.
The Office
The employees of a little-known paper company struggle to actually work despite their dim, wacky boss and his innumerable distractions.
Number of seasons: 9
Favorite seasons, ranked: 2, 3, 5, 6, 4, 1
Best thing about the show: Dwight Schrute. Nothing beats him... I could watch Jim prank him all day.
Worst thing about the show: The deterioration of the characters. In the beginning, you knew where you stood with them. But after awhile, crazy became the norm for The Office and they kept trying to outdo themselves at the expense of remaining "in-character." I still have a hard time believing Pam would commit fraud to get a higher paycheck and Andy would leave work for 3 months without telling anybody, among countless other things.
Where it all went wrong: When Steve Carell left. He was the glue that held that show together. For me (and I'm sure for many others), Steve Carell was The Office. Without him as Michael, it lost its spark and went from painfully funny to awkward and sad.
Burn Notice
A burned spy gets back on his feet and seeks revenge on the agents who fired him with the help of his gun-toting ex-girlfriend and an old war buddy turned boy toy.
Number of seasons: 7 and still running
Favorite seasons, ranked: 1, 2, 4, 3
Best thing about the show: I do have a bit of a "vigilante" problem, as my previous obsession with 24 and current obsession with Django Unchained can attest. I like the idea of a man using his skills to help people in need, skirting the line of legality.
Worst thing about the show: Jesse Porter. He is an enormous man-baby who thinks he is both Mr. Smooth and Mr. I-Don't-Need-A-Partner. He constantly foils the team's plots with his bumbling ways and I don't care that Michael burned him, because he is stupid. One of the biggest disappointments of Season 5 was that he was still there.
Where it all went wrong: I guess it was wrecked from the premise, but with the end of Season 4, Michael is ushered back into the fold of super-secret American espionage like he always wanted. The show should have ended there, but instead it went on, which was unfortunate for the sake of both Michael's haircut (http://i128.photobucket.com/albums/p162/weasleybabe24/badhair_zpse33b772a.png - Ouch!) and the viewers. It quickly became pointlessly formulaic, much to my chagrin.
How I Met Your Mother
A single, lonely architect searches New York for "the One" when he isn't hanging out with his friends.
Number of seasons: 9
Favorite seasons, ranked: 2, 3, 1, 4, 5
Best thing about the show: Marshall and Lily. Through all the crazy crap that happened on this show, they were the reason I kept watching and it was with real sadness that I stopped.
Worst thing about the show: The fact that Ted is not actually a "nice guy" as he professes. As a viewer of HIMYM, you are constantly treated to a lot of whinging about Ted not finding the right girl, despite the fact that he is kind of a jerk. Across the episodes, Ted tries to break up a woman and her fiance because a computer says they're a better match, cheats on his girlfriend with Robin, pretends to be from the South visiting New York to have sex with two locals, has a one-night stand with a horrible woman knowing he'll never have to see her again, cheats with two different women, breaks up with the same girl on her birthday twice, and the list goes on and on. Barney is worse comparatively, but at least Barney knows he's a jerk and admits it.
Where it all went wrong: When Barney and Robin cheated on their significant others (Norah and Kevin) for no good reason. There was always something weird about watching a show where three of the main characters were in a complicated love triangle. But despite that, I watched on, assuming the "backsliding," as they refer to it, would be a minimum. Obviously, I was wrong. People that wishy-washy about their feelings shouldn't be in relationships at all.
Thursday, February 7
Unastonishing, but I have certainly changed
I've been reading over past blog posts as I sit up, tired and unable to sleep from a particularly delightful allergy attack. So as the ice pack numbs my neck, I am numbing myself reading my own heart and what it has revealed over the past few years on this page.
In my first post, I said my biggest fear was being the Christian that people love to hate, being perceived as false.
Ouch.
In an effort to be completely honest and far less likely to ignore how sad it is that that would be my biggest fear, let's readdress this. That is not me anymore.
The idea that I would care more about being understood for who I am than being a person who loves as God did, outrageously and without condition, is a little nauseating. I suppose I've gotten better at waiting. This may be the only benefit of my new diseases: that they forced me to slow down. And even though I hate that and the fear of never accomplishing anything I want sets in soon after acknowledging that, it's becoming easier and easier to shut up.
Although, in many ways, I am still that girl. I still want more than I deserve and I still want to love more than I am loved. And I still haven't learned how to do it yet.
With daring, I say, "God, keep teaching me."
In my first post, I said my biggest fear was being the Christian that people love to hate, being perceived as false.
Ouch.
In an effort to be completely honest and far less likely to ignore how sad it is that that would be my biggest fear, let's readdress this. That is not me anymore.
The idea that I would care more about being understood for who I am than being a person who loves as God did, outrageously and without condition, is a little nauseating. I suppose I've gotten better at waiting. This may be the only benefit of my new diseases: that they forced me to slow down. And even though I hate that and the fear of never accomplishing anything I want sets in soon after acknowledging that, it's becoming easier and easier to shut up.
Although, in many ways, I am still that girl. I still want more than I deserve and I still want to love more than I am loved. And I still haven't learned how to do it yet.
With daring, I say, "God, keep teaching me."
Monday, January 28
Wrong
I am still childish in many ways. I know I shouldn't see people as flat. I know I have to imagine people complexly, as many-faceted and unknown and beautifully broken. I know people don't think the things my brain jumps to attribute to them. People are nicer than I give them credit for and meaner, in the best ways. I am not a good judge of character and I am not good at admitting it. I rely on myself instead of being God's vessel. I want to save myself, but I can't. It's already been done.
I feel like I'm living out the middle of Ella Enchanted, but I am my own curse. I am the spell that keeps myself from being happy but, similarly, I deem it necessary to hold back. I am too young to be loved. I am too old to be loved. I am too tired to be loved. I am too restless to be loved. I am too beautiful to be loved. I am too ugly to be loved. I am too wonderful to be loved. I am too horrible to be loved.
This is the only way in which my life resembles a fairy tale.
Friday, January 18
Not Yet Begun
I have this itchy, tickling feeling inside. I want to wiggle and stretch and yawn my way out of my own skin. I want to rip free from my withering body. I want to fly.
Twenty two years is a long time. I should know more than I do. I sit, blinking widely at this screen, wondering if I will ever do what I've thought of for so long... play, pray, sing, change, climb, dance. Live. Love. Be.
Sometimes I feel so young. Small. New.
Today, I am old. Broken. Crazed. Wild and waiting for the next great love to take me away from myself.
My heart is a tiny thing, like a "speck of dust in a giant's eye." It is fragile and, as if to prove my words, damaged beyond human repair. I think I can risk more of it and share more of it and show more of it. I think I should. It might be good, for me and for everyone.
I'll try, for the sake of that inner tickling, that divine poke I feel, right between my ribs. Maybe I'll fall, but maybe instead, I might just shine.
Twenty two years is a long time. I should know more than I do. I sit, blinking widely at this screen, wondering if I will ever do what I've thought of for so long... play, pray, sing, change, climb, dance. Live. Love. Be.
Sometimes I feel so young. Small. New.
Today, I am old. Broken. Crazed. Wild and waiting for the next great love to take me away from myself.
My heart is a tiny thing, like a "speck of dust in a giant's eye." It is fragile and, as if to prove my words, damaged beyond human repair. I think I can risk more of it and share more of it and show more of it. I think I should. It might be good, for me and for everyone.
I'll try, for the sake of that inner tickling, that divine poke I feel, right between my ribs. Maybe I'll fall, but maybe instead, I might just shine.
Tuesday, January 15
Why Nicholas Sparks books do nothing for me...
Yesterday, I finally figured it out. I could say that they are poorly written, ill-conceived, riddled with tropes and clichés, predictable, purely escapist, and not interesting and I would be right. But that is not it.
Sparks' novels - which he hilariously and delusionally believes are incapable of being placed in a genre category - are flat, sensationalized stories of what love would be if love had nothing to do with real people, real pain, and God. They take us to a place that exists only in the daydreams of lonely, frightened teenagers who have known nothing better than the white-people-nearly-kissing "love" that Sparks has to offer because they have yet to experience love at its richest and deepest and best.
Every time I see the movie trailer for Safe Haven, I roll my eyes. Julianne Hough and Josh Duhamel flit across my TV screen, meeting and staring and barely controlling themselves and running and kissing and wailing and on and on and on in a spectacular show of what Nicholas Sparks thinks love is.
The idea that a single woman and a single man in close proximity to each other must fall in love, because that is what is done. The idea that every woman is looking to be "saved" from a lonely life of spinsterhood and protected from her father, an ex-boyfriend, the world. The idea that every man needs a six pack and a Georgia tan to go along with the woman he can't take his eyes off of, not even for a second to, like, go to the bathroom or drive to work or go to the gym to keep those abs looking fine for his lady.
The idea that the tragedies of life (the BIG ones - death, cancer, war - all used for the furtherance of this one couple's glorious, wholesome relationship) will bring them together in a way that no one who sees them could ever forget. Nothing can ever compare with their love. It is the pinnacle of everything, the masterpiece to our horror show. The Romeo & Juliet to our Bonnie & Clyde.
I see that and I can't help but think that there has to be something better. There has to be something more.
Sparks' novels - which he hilariously and delusionally believes are incapable of being placed in a genre category - are flat, sensationalized stories of what love would be if love had nothing to do with real people, real pain, and God. They take us to a place that exists only in the daydreams of lonely, frightened teenagers who have known nothing better than the white-people-nearly-kissing "love" that Sparks has to offer because they have yet to experience love at its richest and deepest and best.
Every time I see the movie trailer for Safe Haven, I roll my eyes. Julianne Hough and Josh Duhamel flit across my TV screen, meeting and staring and barely controlling themselves and running and kissing and wailing and on and on and on in a spectacular show of what Nicholas Sparks thinks love is.
The idea that a single woman and a single man in close proximity to each other must fall in love, because that is what is done. The idea that every woman is looking to be "saved" from a lonely life of spinsterhood and protected from her father, an ex-boyfriend, the world. The idea that every man needs a six pack and a Georgia tan to go along with the woman he can't take his eyes off of, not even for a second to, like, go to the bathroom or drive to work or go to the gym to keep those abs looking fine for his lady.
The idea that the tragedies of life (the BIG ones - death, cancer, war - all used for the furtherance of this one couple's glorious, wholesome relationship) will bring them together in a way that no one who sees them could ever forget. Nothing can ever compare with their love. It is the pinnacle of everything, the masterpiece to our horror show. The Romeo & Juliet to our Bonnie & Clyde.
I see that and I can't help but think that there has to be something better. There has to be something more.
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