My Own Worst Enemy

My mind has turned against me. It's done this before. My mind thinks, "Nope. Not gonna cooperate today," and suddenly all hopes of productivity are shot. So then, I try to sleep, but once again my mind thinks, "Nope. Definitely not gonna cooperate right now," and suddenly I'm an insomniac.

Don't get me wrong. I know my mind plays these games, and I have the pharmacological ability to make it stop, but that's just not very fulfilling--or so my mind tells me. I could easily take a sleeping pill to prevent that pre-falling-asleep deadness that lasts longer each night, with my mind wandering, repeating songs and snippets of conversations and pretty much anything else to keep itself from sleeping. I could prevent all that. But tomorrow, when I'm dead tired yet again, my mind would lovingly remind me, "Hey, dipshit. Did you know that sleeping pills prevent REM sleep and so even though you think you won, you really lost the game? Oh, that's right--I'm your mind. Of course you knew. Good job. Really. Impressive."

But what really pisses me off. . . that part of the night that just makes me want to jump out a tenth-story window to spite myself. . . that one little moment when my mind is snickering and I want to drive a rusty bolt into my skull. . . that time when I sit up in bed, knowing I just had the most fucked up dream of all time, and I look at the clock, and I see that I've only been asleep about ten minutes--I've been in bed forty minutes, but I've been asleep about ten or so.

Why!? WTFuck!? Why is my mind playing this game?

Ugh.

Surgeon General's Warning

I’ve decided that people should come with warning labels. We should know up front what we’re getting into if we decide to associate with a person or enter into a friendship or relationship. I’m talking about something more than a legend or key that would tell us, “A narrow nose shape equates to meanness,” or “Full lips equate to superficiality.”

Here are examples of what I’d like to see:

“Warning: I have the emotional equivalent of syphilis. It may cause some itchiness at first, but after you think you’re over it, it’ll lie dormant until your brain is eaten through like Swiss cheese and you die.”

“Caution: Extremely fragile. I’ll become upset and have a major meltdown if you so much as look at me the wrong way. Don’t even think about constructive criticism; I don’t know what it is.”

“Beware: I’m a woman beater. I’m not kidding. I’ll beat the shit out of you and then convince you that you can’t live without me because you’re worthless on your own. If you doubt me, you’ll regret it. Oh, and I beat men too.”

And these warning labels would not be discrete. They would serve no purpose if you couldn’t see the warning labels until you were already undressed and in bed with someone. And forget about small print. I’m talking billboard-size font. Right on the side of someone’s face. Or possibly on the forehead. Doesn’t much matter, as long as there’s no possible way to miss the warning. Perhaps we should require that it be printed in Braille too. . .

Three Cheers for the Free Market!

Being on Break in my conservative little hometown has awakened the capitalist within me. I have come up with the most genius marketing plan ever. This is even better than the suicide planning service I wanted to offer. While I am going to share this idea with you all (a most idiotic thing to do, if I had any intention whatsoever of pursuing this plan), I will not hesitate to bring suit against any of you who dare to implement my plan without paying me a hefty royalty. With that said, I can be contacted to discuss business ventures at any time.

This new service is going to be aimed specifically at college students--a group to which I belong, but don't claim to understand. This group is known for several things: drinking, partying, having sex, and occasionally going to class or learning something. These people are supposedly the future of our society, but I'm not so much concerned about that. I will focus on two things with which they are preoccupied: getting good grades and having sex.

If you're asking yourself where this is going or how I ever thought of this plan, don't bother. I never claimed my mind made sense.

So what is this new service or product I intend to offer to college students? It's genius. It's brilliant. I can't believe it doesn't exist already, and if it does, I don't want to try googling it to find out. The resulting pop-up ads for the next month would be far too annoying.

I am going to offer specialized pornography. Perhaps I will use the tag line, "The Thinker's Porn." Who knows? I'd have to get a focus group together to decide what marketing scheme will work best.

But here's the basic concept: You have all these students out there who need to spend time studying but would rather be having sex. So why not combine the two? The dialogue in each video would be specialized by discipline--philosophy, legal studies, statistics, English, Russian, you name it. The company would be willing to take requests. Hell, we could even turn the stuff into podcasts for all you iPod-addicted freaks out there. Portable Porn. Fantastic idea.

Just imagine it though. Two people in the throes of passion, then they start talking. (And to be quite honest, I laugh out loud every time I think about this, but just think along with me.) "Oo, tell me about Sartre, baby." "Mmm. . . Sartre! Existentialism!" "Oh yeah. . ." "Oo. . . define your own purpose. . . The Myth of Sisyphus. . . Ugh!"

Or. . . "Rule 615. Sequester those witnesses." "Oh no. . . improper character evidence offered on propensity. Rule 404." "The prior acts are not being offered on propensity but rather to show--oh!--truthfulness or untruthfulness, which is admissible pursuant to rule 608 of the Federal Rules of Evidence." "I'll show you 608."

I mean, isn't it hilarious? The concept is so laughable that I love it. And knowing the society we live in, I think it would sell. Just maybe.

Of course we would make no guarantees about the videos' effectiveness as a study guide or tool for learning. But that goes in small print on the inside of the packaging. Details, details.

Tradition is a Funny Creature

I would venture to say, without any evidence to back the claim, that most families have Thanksgiving traditions. Decades ago, my family had a poem that we would read before circling the table for each person to name something for which he or she was thankful. That tradition fell out of favor when we children realized what a sham it was to pick one day of the year to search our brains for a feeling of being blessed. It just didn't work any more.

So last year, on Thanksgiving, we started a new tradition. It couldn't be considered a tradition until it had been repeated at least once, but after last night's celebratory events, the verdict is in. We have a new tradition.

This exciting new tradition involves me, my siblings, crystal wine glasses, and several bottles of champagne. We, the children, personally consumed three bottles of Gran Spumante, probably half a bottle of some red wine (I would know the name, but I hate red wine so I don't care), and half a bottle of Riesling Relax (a nice white wine) while the parents weren't looking. . . and while they were.

Then, feeling a little tipsy, we played pool. And, as always happens when I drink around my mother's husband, I just had to make that one little verbal jab--that one line that says, "I fuckin' hate you, but I won't tell you unless I'm drunk." Last night, he was trying to tell me how to take my shot for nine-ball. I just couldn't resist the temptation, couldn't stop myself from saying, "Believe it or not, Garey, I'm not incompetent." And the tone was so excellent. It was that scolding mother's tone. It was perfect. I wish I had it on tape.

Meanwhile, my mother and the other women were upstairs doing dishes and cleaning up. I was most amused by the realization that I'm just one of the guys when I come home. We play pool, listen to music that's far too loud for the setting, and engage in as little conversation as possible. Yea! for gender roles.

Something New

I’ve been thinking lately. (Oh no, I know.) And I’ve decided that there are several things that make me happy (at least for a brief second at a time). Those things include singing, painting, playing with my little brother, and writing. I’m not the best at expressing myself. I lack the eloquence of lyricists like Ani Difranco and Trent Reznor, or the blunt reality of short story writer Raymond Carver, but I try nonetheless. And sometimes, just sometimes, the end result turns out alright. So I’ve decided that, in an effort to motivate myself to write more often, I am going to start a second blog. It will be linked from this one, for your ease, and it will contain snippets of my writing. Browse as you wish, or ignore it. The choice is yours. I write for me, so it doesn’t much matter.

Delta

The Greek symbol. Delta. Looks kinda like a triangle. When in mock trial, the symbol means "defense" or "defendant." When in geometry, it means "change." Change in x, change in y, change in whatever.

Ever noticed how children never want to nap because they're afraid they might miss something? Something exciting or troublesome or simply fun. Something's bound to happen without them. The world, for a brief hour or so, will continue without them--and that's troubling to the young child. But shouldn't it be troubling to us all?

I'm home for the first time in almost four months. My little brother can read. He's in kindergarten, reading at the level of a kid who's finished first grade. My sisters are in college, living on their own for the first time. My older brother is dating someone, for the first time that I know of. My other older brother is at home again, having quit his job as a scuba diver. And my mother is seemingly happy--tired, but happy.

Life has changed. And I missed it.

My room is the same as I left it. Well, with the exception of the fact that my embroidered pillowcase has been replaced with an imposter screen-print. And about fifty envelopes containing junkmail and useless bank statements have been added to my bookcase. But things look, for the most part, the same.

Every time I come home, I am reminded that life goes on without me.

And every time I come home, I feel more like the angry child who never wanted to go take a nap in the first place. I missed it. Something happened. And it happened without me.

Robe v. Blanket

I have many odd habits, one of which is writing blog titles in the form of legal case names. Another one of which is that I wear a robe around the building when I'm cold. It reminds me of Hugh Hefner. Lounging around the Playboy Mansion, wearing silk pajamas and a bathrobe. Quite the ridiculous get-up actually.

But anyway, last night I was wearing said bathrobe, watching a movie with my roommate when I thought, "I may be a tad bit warm right now." I remember thinking this because I am never warm. I'm always freezing cold. (Hence, we end up with pictures of "Inuit Allison," bundled up in two shirts, a hoodie, the bathrobe in question, and two throw blankets.)

Thinking that I may actually be warm, I took off the bathrobe. Moments later, when my roommate returned, I had wrapped myself in a blanket. "Did you take off your robe just to grab the blanket?" "I thought I was warm, but then I was cold."

And it was that simple. My actions made no sense because I didn't know what I was doing. I thought I was warm, but then realized that I was cold.

According to William Irvine, I don't know what I want. According to Daniel Gilbert, I don't know what will make me happy. Yet, somehow, according to American individualism and the classical liberal creed, I should be held responsible for all of my actions because people are rational calculators.

Hmm. . . I can't figure out how to regulate my body temperature, but I should be held accountable for the situations in which I find myself each and every day? I can't even figure out whether to change the thermostat, but magically I must be able to make economic and political decisions that are in my best interest. After all, that is what rational calculators do.

Deities bless America. Land of the rational calculators. (On sale at Wal-Mart for $2.99 through Saturday.)

Accidental Education

Allow me to tell you about one of the most idiotic things I've ever done. This one gets filed under "Never do that again." It goes right along with lighting my car on fire.

I was in junior high. I had a friend over for the day, and we were bored. What do you do when you're a bored kid? Well, you could play outside, watch television, play a game, or invent some other way to occupy your time. I decided to choose the latter option. I decided to combine two of the things I enjoyed most: playing with fire and being female.

Now, I have no idea what you're thinking. But I'm thinking, "This can't end well." And, indeed, it did not.

When I was in junior high, I loved candles. I received candles as gifts for nearly every holiday, and I purchased candles with the little money I earned by babysitting. (Someone should remind me to tell you about what a horrid babysitter I was. I mean, really, really horrid. I don't like kids--with the exception of my little brother.)

So here we were. We had all these candles. And I was allowed to light them whenever I wanted. I kept one of my mom's lighters in my room so I never had to ask permission. (If you're wondering what my parents were thinking, don't bother. I was one of the parents in my house. Very little supervision. Which was a bad choice on their part, but they didn't realize that.)

We set up a little ring of candles on the floor. My bedroom had wood floors at the time, so I was pretty sure this was okay. After all, we were sitting right there, watching the candles. What could happen?

Then, we pulled in one of the other things I loved dearly: painting my nails. I thought this was a great idea. I was going to paint my nails by candlelight. What could go wrong?

Well, had I been simply painting my nails, that assessment may have been correct. But before I painted my nails, and after I lit the candles, I needed to remove the nail polish that was already on my fingernails.

Anyone see where this is going?

I opened the nail polish remover--highly flammable, as we all know--and I poured some onto a cotton ball. No big deal. I was removing nail polish, we were listening to music, and we were talking over our little ring o' candles. My friend was peacefully painting her nails. La de da. . . whatever.

Then, I reopened the nail polish remover. I reached for a new cotton ball. I proceeded to place the cotton ball over the opening of the bottle of nail polish remover. And then I turned the bottle--not all the way upside down, but close--to wet the cotton ball. But this time there was a malfunction. The cotton ball was not placed securely over the opening of the bottle. And nail polish remover came spilling forth--over my hand, cascading to the floor, hitting one of the flames leaping from a candle below.

Before I had a chance to process what was happening, my hand was on fire, my floor was on fire, and I was screaming, "Mom! Mom!" For those of you who know how high-pitched my voice was two years ago, this voice didn't even begin to compare. Never have you heard such a terrifying shriek--not even when I'm startled by people entering the elevator behind me.

My mother, sensing that this was not just any another "Mom!" scream--that clearly this was more urgent than telling my little sister to get out or my big brother to stop taunting me--came dashing into the room. Ever the quick thinker, she grabbed a towel from the nearby closet and with one simple slap of the fabric, she had extinguished the fire.

Then she just looked at me.

What does a mother say in that instance? Several years prior, when my step-sister and I were caught playing with matches, her only admonishment was, "And I thought you were the smart one." That sentence stung. And as you may have noticed, I never forgot it. But in this new situation involving fire and idiocy (a theme in my life, it appears), she opted for silence. She just looked at me. Until finally, somehow, it dawned on me that my hand was just on fire.

So I held my hand out to her. No explanation necessary. She's a nurse. And she and I have always been good with obscure non-verbal communication. For example, you'd never believe the dismay of our opponents when my mother and I were playing Cranium and figured out "quadruple bypass surgery" during charades, in less than ten seconds. No idea how.

But anyway, she looked at my hand, turned it over, looked at it again, and then left the room. My poor friend was just sitting on the floor. She didn't know what to do.

A moment later, my mother returned. She had a bowl of ice water with aloe in it. (My family was so weird that we actually kept real aloe plants in the house and would use pieces of the plant rather than any aloe vera products.)

"Put your hand in this."

Then she looked at the floor. And I just have to say, I lucked out. I really did. My mother loves wood floors. She's personally torn carpet out of our houses at least twice because she wanted to see the wood floors instead. When I lit my floor on fire, I didn't actually burn the floor. Instead, I burned the nail polish remover that had been spilled on the floor. Similarly, I didn't really burn my hand badly. I burned the nail polish remover that was on my hand.

So, I did a really, truly, monumentally idiotic thing. But I got lucky. No bad burns and no punishment. After all, don't parents understand learning theory? My hand hurt like a bitch. It was at least a year before I lit another candle. And NEVER again would I mix fire and nail polish remover. That was just stupid. Beyond stupid.

But why did I tell you that story? What motivated me to publicly share my idiocy? Quite simply, lately I've been ruminating about some of the more moronic things I've done in my life, and I think we need to talk about those things occasionally. We need to remind ourselves that we are inherently dumbasses. And only after making that acknowledgement can we work toward learning from our mistakes. After all, wouldn't it be nice if we could do something superbly senseless--and then never do it again?

Letter Writing 101

I was listening to Alanis Morissette yesterday. More specifically, I was listening to the song "Unsent." And I was reminded of high school for two reasons. One: I listened to that song repeatedly, along with the rest of my arsenal of terribly depressing songs, while staring at homework I had no intention of doing. Two: For those who don't know already, the song is written as a series of unsent letters expressing her true feelings for former lovers. I used to write similar letters--before I graduated to the more sophisticated method of bashing people on the internet for all the world to read. (If, of course, by "all the world," I mean all the world that has access to the internet, which really rules out a lot of people; but they're poor, so they don't matter, right?)

Anyway, I didn't write letters to anyone in particular. Alanis wrote the song for her ex's. I wrote letters to my parents, my siblings, myself, and anyone else who happened to evoke an emotional response or extended thought process from me--both of which are highly unacceptable. The letters were hilarious because they served no purpose. What must my thought process have been?

"Hey, I'm pissed. And I have a feeling that if I don't vent somehow, I'm going to actually engage in regular human interaction by communicating my feelings to someone else. I better do something about this. And quickly. I know! I'll write letters! That I never intend to send! That way, I can continue to further develop the unacceptable thought processes without engaging anyone else or resolving any issues or easing my mind at all. I'll just write until I get a hand cramp and then convince myself that I'm over it."

And thus the writing process would begin. Writing such a letter is harder than you think though. There are three key components that lead to the success or failure of such a letter.

1. Repetition. There must be some recurring theme. For those who are fans of Dane Cook, think of his explanation of hysterical sobbing and the repetition of "I did my best." This is the real essence of the letter. Kind of like a Republican with five minutes to speak, if you just keep repeating "terror," "fear," "commie bastard," "nucular," and "axis of evil" in a catchy rhythm, very few will notice that you didn't say anything of substance.
2. An overwhelming sense of confusion. If you're writing letters to addressees who will never receive the letters, then you're pretty much writing letters to yourself. You may as well resign yourself to insanity. Thus, for anything to make sense would be absurd. Everything about the world must confuse you--the actions of others, your reactions to the actions of others, everything right down to the very words you are writing.
3. A total lack of logic. If ever you had a logic or critical thinking class, now would be the time to remember everything you were taught not to do. All those non-sequitors? Use 'em. All those other fallacies? Yeah, use those too. Unjustified descriptive assumptions? Not a problem. If your letter flows logically, then you've missed the point of the exercise.

Now that you know what goes into an unsent letter, allow me to provide an example. This one comes straight from the heart, straight to the heart, and straight through the heart.

November 8th, 2006

Dearest Allison,

"Actions offered for the truth of the matter asserted." "Actions as hearsay." What is wrong with you? Here you are, sitting in your pajamas and robe in front of the computer, obsessing over nothing, drinking bottled water, staring at your reading glasses, and trying to figure out what the fuck happened to your life. Why can't you figure this out? Hmm? You're supposed to be so great. Actions as hearsay. Can't do it, can you? Do the world a favor and quit.

Oh, and need we mention how you've been parting your hair lately? Yeah. You think I don't notice that it keeps getting closer to the middle? I just don't understand you. I don't know why you think you need this. You don't need this. You don't need this hearsay shit. You don't need this for the truth of the matter asserted. You don't need anything that has to do with propensity evidence. You should just give up. Just give up. You're not good enough to pull this off.

What was with that 403 argument tonight? Can you not even apply a simple balancing test to the evidence? Apparently you don't need to know how to argue that the probative value of evidence is fairly balanced with the possible prejudicial effect it may have on the jury. Noooo. You don't need this. You don't need this shit. You don't need this. Actions as hearsay. You don't need to know how to be effective in this world or to succeed in any way. That's right, just aim for failure. That's a great idea. Hearsay.

I don't understand you. I really don't. And I don't know why you insist on writing this shit until your hand hurts when you could just as easily have told yourself to shut the fuck up and saved us all the trouble. You're so fucking neurotic that you can't even vent without polluting the world with your thoughts. Good job, dumb fuck.

Keep it up,

Allison

I don't even know what's wrong with me.

The Helper Complex

There are certain people in this world who have an insatiable need to help. Teachers. Doctors. Nurses. Paramedics. Social workers. Tech support personnel. Lawyers. (Just kidding. I didn't think my list was long enough, but come on. I hope one of you would have called me out on that bullshit. Who am I kidding? The last two are just assholes.)

Think about those people. You all know them. They always want to help. They need to help. They have a solution or advice for everything. Perhaps they are in a helping profession. Or perhaps they only date people who suffer from at least three psychiatric disorders, regularly quit taking their medication, and have at least five different dramatic interpersonal conflicts to discuss when they run out of other things to rant about--such as, inter alia, work, school, living arrangements, traffic, groceries, wind, killer leaves, scheduling, useless extracurricular activities, paper cuts, mice, drugs, and, of course, the ever-annoying drama queens they know.

But there is one distinct characteristic that we rarely acknowledge in the helpers around us: they don't know how to accept help.

I'll repeat it: they don't know how to accept help. Now let it sink in.

They spend their lives helping other people, but they can't let anyone else help them.

Try it sometime. It's really quite hilarious. The helpers spend the majority of their time trying to help you, and then, when it's clearly obvious that they need help (for example, they've broken both wrists, developed blinding eye infections in both eyes, and been quarantined to a single room because they contracted the plague), they won't let you do something as simple as bring them a beverage or ask if they want to talk about it. "No, thanks. I'm fine. I'll get it myself."

And don't even try speaking rationally. "Suzy, I know you're a ridiculously independent and stubborn asshole, but you can't see, you can't use your hands, and you're locked in a room by yourself with CDC officials guarding the door, which has been sealed off with plastic, along with every other crack in every wall. Clearly, you're not going to get yourself a drink and you're not fine."

Suzy's not going to listen. And don't be surprising when she turns on a faucet with her toes and drinks from it like a dog lapping at a hose. She's doing it to spite you. Then, she's going to start singing happy songs from her childhood. And if you're still standing there when she's done, she's going to turn (probably in the wrong direction) and say, "See? I'm fine. I told you I could do it."

So, non-helpers, you selfish bastards you, if ever you get the urge to help the helpers, quash that urge as quickly as you can. You're only going to end up feeling futile and giving the helpers something else to talk you through when your insecurities lead to another nervous breakdown. Helpers, quit trying to deny that you need help. You know you're fucked up. Every now and then, let someone hold your hand. You won't die. I promise.

Author's Note: If you even expect me to follow my advice, most succinctly expressed in the previous paragraph, then you are kidding yourself. I'm a helper. I don't accept help unless I'm dying. And even then, I've really gotta be dying. So get over it. I don't follow my own advice.