Why, why, whyyyy?

Dear Pysche,



Why can't my funk be like this?

xoxo Wally

PS-I don't know if it's worse to be Tonya Harding or Nancy Kerrigan, really.

I have smart friends.

A really great friend gave me wise advice, as she often seems to do. I was upset because I couldn't figure out how to come to a conclusion about myself. I wanted something from someone to help tie it all together. Well, she said something along the lines of "I think you're going to have to work on that yourself." Funny enough, I had never thought of that. Somewhere along the way, I've become rather codependent. Crap. Now I ruled myself out of the whole "throw your hands up at me" part of "Independent Women Part 1." (I still got the whole "Now, put your hands up!" gesture in "Single Ladies," but that's not really much of a consolation.) [Yeah, for the record, I don't exclude myself from the lady/female category when Beyoncé is concerned. Get off my dick.]

Anyway, I had put so much time and energy into working it out WITH someone rather than really figuring it out on my own. ("And I know it's only in my mind. That I'm talking to myself and not to him..." Fuck. You. Les. Mis.) At first, I was angry because I didn't want to do it alone. But now I've realized that it's better this way. If I've got it on my own, I can bring someone else in much easier. In many ways, I'm trying to work on things for the future rather than just resolve this past.

In short, thank you, Friend. I needed this help. Even if I don't always seem too gracious, I appreciate it. Without you, I don't know how I would've gotten through this year. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

You were right.

"Still, I'll always cry a little when I think about you suffering on that cross just so that someday—Judgment Day Judy calls it—we can all be together (You, me, Judy). Because, honest engine dear Lord, I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend eternity with." ME NEITHER.

Sherie Rene Scott is a goddess. I knew this already, but I was pretentiously hesitant towards Everyday Rapture. I've rediscovered it, and...I love it. I truly cannot get enough. I'm listening to the cast recording all the way through on repeat. SRS is appropriate because it looks like a contagious disease. Except everyone should really really want this one.

So...you were right. I was wrong. This show is divine.

Eleanor Roosevelt

Whenever I feel like shit, I think of wise Eleanor Roosevelt. She's attributed to an oft-quoted saying: "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." I find it appropriate that a woman most often mocked for her 'ugliness' or supposed homosexuality rather than praised for her accomplishments is the same who is on record basically saying, "Yeah, fuck 'em." I truly love this quotation. I try, very often, to make it my mantra. Instead, I find myself resenting her.

No shit, Eleanor. I know I give someone a power over me when s/he succeeds in hurting me. I was bullied as a kid, I get it. I just wish it were that simple. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to commit to it. (Irony @ me not committing.) I can say it. I can comprehend its meaning. Somehow/somewhere, though, there's a block. I think I'm unwilling to work on myself, by myself. Eleanor calls for an independence.

She does not say, "No one can make you feel inferior while you have friends" or "because Mommy loves you." WITHOUT YOUR CONSENT. Legally (outside of special circumstances), you are the sole possessor of your consent. You and you alone can give that consent up.

I feel as if I spend most of my time parroting the same fucking stories to each of my friends. In some ways, I genuinely want advice. I hope someone can solve my life or heal me. Basically, I want someone to do my work for me. I'm lazy. But, really, I just want someone to tell me I'm okay. I'm incapable of making an opinion on an event of my life and sticking to it.

"He's an asshole." Well...maybe he's hurting? Maybe I said something wrong? I might be misinterpreting something...

For all of the growth and change that I've supposedly accomplished (I don't know, ask my therapist), I'm still the insecure little boy who wants to see the good in everyone. I just can't fucking beat the romantic out of me. Logically, I am the greatest realist. I can look at other people's lives (or fiction—hence the English major) and easily analyze the way things are. But as soon as I so very slightly care, I'm incapable of knowing how to function. Well, no. That's a lie. I *always* know what to do. I just can't seem to do it.

So now I'm trying. I'm making an effort. I will not be inferior. Consent revoked.

Mia Farrow Complex

I haven't felt the need to write a blog post in a really long time. It became kind of dated and unnecessary to me. Also, I couldn't navigate the divide between the need to express myself and the right to privacy, which I hold dear. In some sense, I don't want people to know my life. Still I can't help myself from talking about it almost constantly. And, here I am, writing about it in a public medium. There's something about airing one's dirty laundry that is both shameful and thrilling.

Blogging is undoubtedly narcissistic. It presumes that someone wants to read what I'm saying. Now that I've deleted the link from my facebook profile, I doubt anyone's going to particularly come across my posts. I nevertheless struggle with the pathetic qualities of this enterprise. Well, I struggle with the pathetic on a regular basis. Weakness and vulnerability are rather contrary to my persona. I tend to present myself a brash diva: wild, moody, stubborn, but always in control. When you're in control, you don't have to trust anyone. Everything's on your terms. Funny how that doesn't garner you a whole lot of sympathy.

I guess, in some ways, I'm having this meta-moment because I'm realizing how exhausting it is to have a persona. I'm not always sure how much control I really have over it. I hate the cliché, but it's a vicious cycle of sorts. I act out for the attention and so then I get noticed. In being noticed, however, I garner the label of 'difficult.' That, in turn, encourages me to act out more. If you think I'm a diva/a slut/selfish/mean/out of control, I'll do it back on a scale that you could never imagine. A sort of defiance in the face of judgment. The thing is, it's hard to be so vigilant and strong all of the time.

Sometimes I want to be taken seriously. I think, though, that my outbursts and mania detract from the times when I truly need support. I'm sure, too, that it can be somewhat of a chore to deal with me. I am the happy drunk. I flirt with whomever is near. I'll take off my clothes. I cavalierly curse, tease, and mock anyone I talk to. And so that's what people think of when I'm trying to be genuine. It's hard to forget that time I called your sweater ugly or left you to hook up. Being mean doesn't lend itself to a needy/neurotic interior. I'm sitting here as a cold blond, a Betty Draper, really. I'm an asshole looking for a chance to be good. Well, I had that chance. It blew up in my face. Now we're not speaking.

I'd find my tornado-like path much more amusing if it were simple fiction. The Mia Farrow persona—blonde, distant yet passionate, and so very neurotic—functions on a level because it's not quite her real life. None of us know her. We can only assume that many of her roles are playing up her actual attributes. I strangely feel as if I can relate to this. I'm having a weird time getting to know myself. It's as if so much of how people see me to be has so little to do with my reality, my humanity. Or maybe everyone sees me as a weak, pathetic, out of control mess.

I don't know. I'm trying not to rely on my various vices (you know: sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll) as I navigate this path of self-discovery. Most of all, I'm trying not to leave any casualties in my wake. I can't tell if I'll be friends with my Woody Allen. Lord knows I gave him hell, and now he's not making it easy for me. Well, I'm going to follow his advice and pretend he doesn't exist for a while. It's funny how I, the diva, find myself more concerned with his feelings than my own. Maybe it's time to take up the mantle once more. I'm ashamed of being selfish here, but I love it all the same. Guilt is a powerful bitch; I think I might be stronger.

Le Métro

I like to play a little game along the lines of Fuck, Marry, Kill while I ride the subway each day in Paris. The thing is, the subway isn't always that pleasant. Very often, there is a smelly mofo who just smells up the fucking train. But typically, there is also at least somebody present who's cute enough to make up for it. (Shout-out: Random guy with longish, curly hair, who was wearing dark neutral tones the other day!! You had potential, even with your strange gait. [I just described most of Paris...]) I don't look them in the eye...seriously, no one seems to make eye contact with strangers here!! But I nevertheless glance around the car. It helps pass the time.

Plus, it's innocent enough. I'm not planning on fucking anyone. I think meeting on the subway requires a little more coyness than that. At least a drink in bar in a semi-popular neighborhood. Also, it can never be that fruitful because it very often ties into my soon-to-be-proposed game show: "Is he gay or just European?"

Verbose

What's more valuable: feelings or intentions? I feel as if this debate is the one perpetually going on in my mind. As a sensitive person, I'm so often insulted or hurt and people try to reconcile that by reminding me of intent. The problem is that I'm logical, romantic, loyal, stubborn, and narcissistic. I can see the logic of both sides: when someone doesn't mean to hurt you, it should objectively be less offensive. However, that does not negate the feeling produced. I'm romantic and thus I try to see the good in everyone ("She didn't intend on it sounding that way"). I'm loyal—once you gain access to my inner circle, despite my high expectations, I really don't want to push you out. This hesitance to change leads pretty wonderfully into my stubbornness. And my narcissism means that I tend to want to value my feelings more than others' intentions.

The solution is always to compromise. I just wish that this all was easier for me to express, preferably in less than 1 paragraph.