So, this website claims to list some of the things that your astrological sign hates. I of course had to look. That kind of stuff makes me really curious and half the time I believe it, so I searched for Pisces on the list. Here's what it said for me. Laugh all you want...because I did.
Places that are too hot
This is, surprisingly, true. I cannot stand it if it is over 75 degrees outside and you can pretty much consider anything dealing with humidity a huge out for me. Having grown up in Northern California, the heat has been present, but easily avoidable. Being on the coast has always added a nice ocean breeze to the mix. However this doesn't mean I totally loathe it; my family and I regularly visit Death Valley and the National Parks of Southern California. Plus, in 10th grade, I did an exchange trip with a school in Tahiti and had an amazing time. Let's put it this way: I don't love it. I won't search it out. But to experience amazing things, some times you have to face what you hate. It's that simple.
Losing their sunglasses
What sunglasses? What is this? LA? Italy in every Hollywood movie? Does the whole effing world wear sunglasses?
Polluted water
Well, gee, yeah. I do hate it. You got me. I'm amazed and totally convinced. But doesn't EVERYONE? Oh no wait, I heard the sign Sagittarius is really into polluted water. This definitely won't be on their list. (The only reason this is here is because Pisces is a water sign - nice try trying to give this some credibility/believability jack ass.)
People who laugh too loud
Depends. What do we mean by "people"? Do we mean the people sitting at the table next to me in the restaurant having a private conversation way too loudly? Are they, at the same time, slurping down bowl after bowl of Miso soup and eating plate after plate of sushi (bastards. I could never afford that much sushi)? Because I do hate them. Or do you mean my room mate Ellen, whose loud boisterous laugh brings me eons of joy? Even at 1am I love to hear it wake me from my slumber.
People who walk away from arguments
That's just because they're PUSSSIES and know that I WILL WIN IF THEY STAY.
Alcoholics
Alright, problems with this statement:
1) I would be a hypocrite (half kidding).
2) I would hate all my friends (3/4 kidding).
3) I would hate almost everyone my age (not kidding).
4) We all have our vices and obsessions. Who am I to judge?
Being denied access to grandchildren
Oh God. Oh. My. God. Ever since my daughter put them in private school and moved out to the suburbs, I never get to see them. I miss them. I sent them checks for their birthday and never got a thank you letter. It is killing me inside. No but really...that would suck. If I had any.
Having to wear prescription glasses
Yo, what UP, reppin' 20/20 vision RIGHT HERE BITCHEZZZZZ.
Cars that waste energy
Once again...most. people. do. And if they don't, it's not because they're a Virgo or something. It's because they're from the Midwest. Just kidding. Sorry Karina.
Slow drivers
Well I don't drive, but I hate slow walkers. Does that count? When I have somewhere to be and the person in front of me is taking their sweet time, I want to punch them in the back of the head. Tourists make this especially hard for me. Actually, even when I don't have anywhere to be, I still get pissed off. I hate being in transit. In the words of Tom Wolfe, "The intrepid traveler takes one step and he is there!"
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Why I write lists
I write a lot of lists. Lists of foreign countries I have been to, long books I’ve read, bands I’ve seen, and famous people I’ve met. They make me look like an asshole.
But I don’t write these lists to be an asshole. It definitely appears to be that way to the uneducated eye, but if you knew me, if you understood how my brain works and how it thinks, you would understand the lists.
Let’s take the concert lists for an example, as I recently updated one. Keeping track of every concert I attend and then laying them all out in numerous fashions is not me bragging to the world of my achievements. I don’t mean to say “Look how many indie bands I have seen!” The pages of concert listings are for me and me only, and if I happen to bring it up in conversation, it is to reassure myself that they are important in some way, or helpful. After I’ve written that first list, I can’t help but continue the list, number it out, add to it, rearrange it. I keep changing it.
More lists have appeared from the first two official lists (“concerts I’ve been to” and “total bands seen live”). Now I list all the bands I’ve seen individually, so I now have an exact figure of bands I have seen (147). I also broke down the number of concerts I have seen by year, then by each month within the year. It’s obsessive and sick in a way. And I know this. But if I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t know that the two months in which I have seen the most concerts so far have been April of 2008 and June of 2009. I also wouldn’t know that from 2005 to 2006, my yearly concert attendance jumped from 8 to 15. And that in 2008 it went up to 18. I wouldn’t know that I attended the exact same number of concerts in 2007 that I did in 2006. Also, the time when I saw the most concerts in a row (8) was April and May of 2008, which was, coincidentally, just before my French Baccalaureate exams.
But what’s the use for all of this? Who cares? Do I care? I don’t even know. The more lists I make about this, the more I fascinate myself. After they’re written, all I do with them is add on and occasionally open them to scroll through 13 or 14 times in one sitting. Scrolling through the lists is a wonderful feeling for me. But what the hell? Is that all they do?
This brings me to my point.
I have a habit of counting things down. Even if I am enjoying myself immensely, I count down to the minute at which something will end. I check the time and estimate how much longer I have in a moment or event. I check the calendar for how many more days in a trip, in a month. I keep a countdown on my Google home page to whatever big event I can latch onto. I am always asking the duration of something, which makes me sound rude. I am not trying to be rude. I just need to know so my brain can start the countdown. No matter what I do, I am counting down. When I was depressed, I used to countdown the hours till 11pm (when I would go to sleep) so I would know how much longer till I had gotten through another day.
And the thing is, I have always hated math. But I do not hate numbers. The only time I hate numbers is when I am using them against me; like I do with, yes, counting down. I wish I could stop counting down completely. I wish I cold enjoy time without wondering when something is going to end. Why do I wonder at all when I am having so much fun? It’s not that I am wishing for it to end. I’m just wondering when it will end. And this distracts me and pulls me out of the moment and I can’t reenter it for a while.
Then people think I’m getting upset. I am not. I am trying to stop counting.
These lists I make, whether they be for concerts I’ve attended, museums I’ve been to, airlines I’ve traveled on, or movies I have hated…they are my way of trying to satiate my craving for numbers. If I make enough lists, and reread them often enough, I don’t count time down. But when I stop the lists, the counting down begins.
Just a month ago I was on a trip with two close friends. I found myself counting the hours down till we had to go back to school. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends of my life and they were two of my favorite people on earth and we were in one of my favorite cities in the world and all I could do was count hours. One night, in my friend’s attic bedroom we were staying in, I tried writing a list of the things we had done that weekend so far, but it did not satisfy my brain.
To this day I remember that weekend with extreme fondness and I had an amazing time. I definitely had fun, don’t doubt that. But I was counting.
And that’s why I need the lists.
I really need them.
I don’t care if you know I’ve been to 12 different countries or not. Yeah, I would love to talk about my time there, but the number isn’t what matters. Remember this: if I say it, I am trying to validate myself with numbers.
It has gotten to the point that next term at school, I will be hanging a list on my wall by my bed. Any list, I just need one to look at. Then I will be going to the school pysch. I have fucking had it with missing the moment because of a clock.
But I don’t write these lists to be an asshole. It definitely appears to be that way to the uneducated eye, but if you knew me, if you understood how my brain works and how it thinks, you would understand the lists.
Let’s take the concert lists for an example, as I recently updated one. Keeping track of every concert I attend and then laying them all out in numerous fashions is not me bragging to the world of my achievements. I don’t mean to say “Look how many indie bands I have seen!” The pages of concert listings are for me and me only, and if I happen to bring it up in conversation, it is to reassure myself that they are important in some way, or helpful. After I’ve written that first list, I can’t help but continue the list, number it out, add to it, rearrange it. I keep changing it.
More lists have appeared from the first two official lists (“concerts I’ve been to” and “total bands seen live”). Now I list all the bands I’ve seen individually, so I now have an exact figure of bands I have seen (147). I also broke down the number of concerts I have seen by year, then by each month within the year. It’s obsessive and sick in a way. And I know this. But if I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t know that the two months in which I have seen the most concerts so far have been April of 2008 and June of 2009. I also wouldn’t know that from 2005 to 2006, my yearly concert attendance jumped from 8 to 15. And that in 2008 it went up to 18. I wouldn’t know that I attended the exact same number of concerts in 2007 that I did in 2006. Also, the time when I saw the most concerts in a row (8) was April and May of 2008, which was, coincidentally, just before my French Baccalaureate exams.
But what’s the use for all of this? Who cares? Do I care? I don’t even know. The more lists I make about this, the more I fascinate myself. After they’re written, all I do with them is add on and occasionally open them to scroll through 13 or 14 times in one sitting. Scrolling through the lists is a wonderful feeling for me. But what the hell? Is that all they do?
This brings me to my point.
I have a habit of counting things down. Even if I am enjoying myself immensely, I count down to the minute at which something will end. I check the time and estimate how much longer I have in a moment or event. I check the calendar for how many more days in a trip, in a month. I keep a countdown on my Google home page to whatever big event I can latch onto. I am always asking the duration of something, which makes me sound rude. I am not trying to be rude. I just need to know so my brain can start the countdown. No matter what I do, I am counting down. When I was depressed, I used to countdown the hours till 11pm (when I would go to sleep) so I would know how much longer till I had gotten through another day.
And the thing is, I have always hated math. But I do not hate numbers. The only time I hate numbers is when I am using them against me; like I do with, yes, counting down. I wish I could stop counting down completely. I wish I cold enjoy time without wondering when something is going to end. Why do I wonder at all when I am having so much fun? It’s not that I am wishing for it to end. I’m just wondering when it will end. And this distracts me and pulls me out of the moment and I can’t reenter it for a while.
Then people think I’m getting upset. I am not. I am trying to stop counting.
These lists I make, whether they be for concerts I’ve attended, museums I’ve been to, airlines I’ve traveled on, or movies I have hated…they are my way of trying to satiate my craving for numbers. If I make enough lists, and reread them often enough, I don’t count time down. But when I stop the lists, the counting down begins.
Just a month ago I was on a trip with two close friends. I found myself counting the hours down till we had to go back to school. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends of my life and they were two of my favorite people on earth and we were in one of my favorite cities in the world and all I could do was count hours. One night, in my friend’s attic bedroom we were staying in, I tried writing a list of the things we had done that weekend so far, but it did not satisfy my brain.
To this day I remember that weekend with extreme fondness and I had an amazing time. I definitely had fun, don’t doubt that. But I was counting.
And that’s why I need the lists.
I really need them.
I don’t care if you know I’ve been to 12 different countries or not. Yeah, I would love to talk about my time there, but the number isn’t what matters. Remember this: if I say it, I am trying to validate myself with numbers.
It has gotten to the point that next term at school, I will be hanging a list on my wall by my bed. Any list, I just need one to look at. Then I will be going to the school pysch. I have fucking had it with missing the moment because of a clock.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Eating chores
I don’t remember when eating big meals became a chore for me.
It suddenly occurred to me one day that I didn’t exactly enjoy eating large portions of food anymore. I used to look forward to meals and certain foods or dinners out, but suddenly I realized this meant I would have to order some huge plate of food. The plate usually ends up three quarters full, while everyone else at the table has cleared theirs. The waiter comes around and looks at me, my plate, and then back at me. “Are you finished?” they ask. “Yes.” I say. “You sure?” they respond almost instantly. I want to scream, “Yes, I am fucking done! I’m sorry, I am so sorry. I know there are starving children all over the world. God, I am sorry.” But usually I just say “Could I get a box for this?” instead. At least that way they think I might finish it. This is why when a restaurant offers half salads or “smaller plates” I am ecstatic and dedicate myself to that part of the menu for the evening like it’s Jesus’ second coming.
Not that I like how people look at me when I order half a sandwich or just two chicken strips. I am already very skinny, and when an extremely thin girl with no fat or muscles whatsoever looks up and says “I’ll have half a salad”, the waiter usually thinks the worst. For once I wish I could gain some weight, just enough so that the person thinks “Oh yeah that’s fine she’s okay.” I feel funny when they’ve included “For those on a diet!” as part of the description of the smaller plates menu.
But let’s get this straight: I love food. I think it’s delicious and I have my favorites, like sushi and pasta. Food tastes amazing and for anyone to deny their human right to eat food is beyond me. I guess I mostly enjoy snacks here and there: coffee in a café, something in a bakery, a small appetizer. This is because these are easy to consume and small, and, having practically no appetite, it’s hard for me to eat a monstrous plate of salad. I like sitting and chatting and eating little bites of food here and there. It gives me something to do while I talk, almost like when a person who smokes only likes the motion and fashion of holding the cig for conversational purposes.
I like the social aspect of dining out. I like to be with people, to talk, to laugh. The eating part is a job I have to complete to make it to the enjoyable part. My burrito is a mountain to be scaled. If I can get through a good chunk, it will look like I tried my hardest. If I shove my salad around it will look more eaten.
I would love to eat out and order a salad, soup, an entrée, and then a great dessert. If my stomach would let me, I really would. The problem is, I get tired of dishes quickly and wish I could switch to something else in the middle of it. Life, unfortunately, does not work like that. Ever. Once you start something, you finish it. Only problem is, I never finish the food I order. Dining out I constantly wish I could switch my entrée platter halfway through eating because I am sick of the taste and how it looks and it’s smell. I become repulsed by the food. Then I get criticized for not finishing it. What can I do when each bite I take after it becomes boring to me makes me want to regurgitate everything?
Some times I’m sick of eating, but I can’t stop. When I’m bored, I eat. In class when I don’t want to work, I take constant sips from my iced tea or water bottle. At home, I snack here and there so big meals aren’t as hard to get through and I only take the minimum on my plate to eat.
Big portions scare me.
They’re intimidating.
When I do manage to get through almost an entire plate of food (this usually only happens when I am deciding my own portions), I cannot take the last bite. I always have to leave something on my plate. A few of my friends find this really annoying and kind of petty, but they have no idea what is going through my head. I cannot take that last bite or everything will end. How can they not see the balance of the world is left in that piece of tortilla or baby carrot? My god, people’s lives are at stake!
I suppose I don’t discuss this with people because, looking back, it sounds like I have some obscure eating disorder. This has been a topic of controversy in my circle for some time and I generally hate it when people think they are helping me with some intervention. I am not anorexic. Absolutely not. I just said I love food, didn’t I? I don’t hate food, I hate the amounts in which it is presented to me. In mountainous volumes, food makes me sick. I will push it away. I cannot understand how people finish the food restaurants serve these days.
I’d really prefer a half salad. Don’t look at me like that. I really do like salad.
It suddenly occurred to me one day that I didn’t exactly enjoy eating large portions of food anymore. I used to look forward to meals and certain foods or dinners out, but suddenly I realized this meant I would have to order some huge plate of food. The plate usually ends up three quarters full, while everyone else at the table has cleared theirs. The waiter comes around and looks at me, my plate, and then back at me. “Are you finished?” they ask. “Yes.” I say. “You sure?” they respond almost instantly. I want to scream, “Yes, I am fucking done! I’m sorry, I am so sorry. I know there are starving children all over the world. God, I am sorry.” But usually I just say “Could I get a box for this?” instead. At least that way they think I might finish it. This is why when a restaurant offers half salads or “smaller plates” I am ecstatic and dedicate myself to that part of the menu for the evening like it’s Jesus’ second coming.
Not that I like how people look at me when I order half a sandwich or just two chicken strips. I am already very skinny, and when an extremely thin girl with no fat or muscles whatsoever looks up and says “I’ll have half a salad”, the waiter usually thinks the worst. For once I wish I could gain some weight, just enough so that the person thinks “Oh yeah that’s fine she’s okay.” I feel funny when they’ve included “For those on a diet!” as part of the description of the smaller plates menu.
But let’s get this straight: I love food. I think it’s delicious and I have my favorites, like sushi and pasta. Food tastes amazing and for anyone to deny their human right to eat food is beyond me. I guess I mostly enjoy snacks here and there: coffee in a café, something in a bakery, a small appetizer. This is because these are easy to consume and small, and, having practically no appetite, it’s hard for me to eat a monstrous plate of salad. I like sitting and chatting and eating little bites of food here and there. It gives me something to do while I talk, almost like when a person who smokes only likes the motion and fashion of holding the cig for conversational purposes.
I like the social aspect of dining out. I like to be with people, to talk, to laugh. The eating part is a job I have to complete to make it to the enjoyable part. My burrito is a mountain to be scaled. If I can get through a good chunk, it will look like I tried my hardest. If I shove my salad around it will look more eaten.
I would love to eat out and order a salad, soup, an entrée, and then a great dessert. If my stomach would let me, I really would. The problem is, I get tired of dishes quickly and wish I could switch to something else in the middle of it. Life, unfortunately, does not work like that. Ever. Once you start something, you finish it. Only problem is, I never finish the food I order. Dining out I constantly wish I could switch my entrée platter halfway through eating because I am sick of the taste and how it looks and it’s smell. I become repulsed by the food. Then I get criticized for not finishing it. What can I do when each bite I take after it becomes boring to me makes me want to regurgitate everything?
Some times I’m sick of eating, but I can’t stop. When I’m bored, I eat. In class when I don’t want to work, I take constant sips from my iced tea or water bottle. At home, I snack here and there so big meals aren’t as hard to get through and I only take the minimum on my plate to eat.
Big portions scare me.
They’re intimidating.
When I do manage to get through almost an entire plate of food (this usually only happens when I am deciding my own portions), I cannot take the last bite. I always have to leave something on my plate. A few of my friends find this really annoying and kind of petty, but they have no idea what is going through my head. I cannot take that last bite or everything will end. How can they not see the balance of the world is left in that piece of tortilla or baby carrot? My god, people’s lives are at stake!
I suppose I don’t discuss this with people because, looking back, it sounds like I have some obscure eating disorder. This has been a topic of controversy in my circle for some time and I generally hate it when people think they are helping me with some intervention. I am not anorexic. Absolutely not. I just said I love food, didn’t I? I don’t hate food, I hate the amounts in which it is presented to me. In mountainous volumes, food makes me sick. I will push it away. I cannot understand how people finish the food restaurants serve these days.
I’d really prefer a half salad. Don’t look at me like that. I really do like salad.
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