2004-05-16 - 9:36 a.m.
In the past 48 hours, I have completed neither of the two linguistic assignments due in five days, yet I have seen all the SBS footage of Mary Donaldson's wedding ... TWICE.
I have had Abba's "The winner takes it all" in my head for the past hour, but I only figured out what it was in the past few minutes (in my head I have been singing it as "na na na NA NA NA!")
And then there are some more mundane mysteries, like why do the yummy things have to be fattening, why can I never find a matching pair of socks, what does my back really look like (you never get a good look back there -- how do you know it hasn't been invaded by an invisible colony of ants FROM THE FUTURE who have injected it with space juice so your nerves can't detect their presence?? HMMM?! uh... yeah. The answer probably being you know because you weren't the one who forgot to take her anti-crazy pills this morning).
D'you know, it's funny, and possibly a little bit sad, that normal people disinterest me. And by normal, I don't mean the Bradys -- but not messed up. The heart of the matter is that you have to have or have had a certain degree of messed upness in your brain or your life to blip on my radar. I don't think you can have any claim on the word crazy without being messed up, though normals use it all the time, and that irks me no end. Crazy for them is practically normal for us and crazy for us is does-she/he-belong-to-an-asylum?? for them.
I shouldn't draw us-and-them lines, I know it, and I feel a millimetre of guilt for being dismissive of the other side. But I don't get them, I don't get them on a spectacularly molecular level. And I've done the looking deeper thing, but I can't find anything in them. If I can't see their baggage (or at least feel it, you know, give it a good grope), I can't see their mind, I can't see their heart, then they may as well have been created from a generic template that God or whoever uses when they get lazy.
That said, I've only ever seen approximately 2.5 people really like this (um... maybe one was a midget) in my entire life. Everyone is special! Except for you, you, you, and you in the back, how did you get in here??
People I don't know intrigue me no end, however. Because I don't know what they'll say, what's going to make them smile, what would make them cry. And in a way, I don't want to know, I don't want to find out -- I don't want to limit them, condemn them to some box of behaviour based on personality and past conduct. And more than that, I don't want to find something I don't like in them - like ubernormalcy or fundamentalism or ignorance or pride not within reason. And I don't want to give up the imaginings, the endless possibilities of what someone could be like.
All the watching makes for loneliness though, I suppose. For the most part, I've forgotten how to interact socially, not that I ever really mastered it, but you know... And this extends to the point where on the rare occasion that I do manage to engage in a social interaction appropriately, fluently, smoothly, I feel like someone owes me a gold star for it.
I might not be a thinker. I don't know if I'll ever be a dreamer. I'm not always a joker. I've never been a doer. But perhaps watcher is a title I could justifiably claim as my own.
I have had Abba's "The winner takes it all" in my head for the past hour, but I only figured out what it was in the past few minutes (in my head I have been singing it as "na na na NA NA NA!")
And then there are some more mundane mysteries, like why do the yummy things have to be fattening, why can I never find a matching pair of socks, what does my back really look like (you never get a good look back there -- how do you know it hasn't been invaded by an invisible colony of ants FROM THE FUTURE who have injected it with space juice so your nerves can't detect their presence?? HMMM?! uh... yeah. The answer probably being you know because you weren't the one who forgot to take her anti-crazy pills this morning).
D'you know, it's funny, and possibly a little bit sad, that normal people disinterest me. And by normal, I don't mean the Bradys -- but not messed up. The heart of the matter is that you have to have or have had a certain degree of messed upness in your brain or your life to blip on my radar. I don't think you can have any claim on the word crazy without being messed up, though normals use it all the time, and that irks me no end. Crazy for them is practically normal for us and crazy for us is does-she/he-belong-to-an-asylum?? for them.
I shouldn't draw us-and-them lines, I know it, and I feel a millimetre of guilt for being dismissive of the other side. But I don't get them, I don't get them on a spectacularly molecular level. And I've done the looking deeper thing, but I can't find anything in them. If I can't see their baggage (or at least feel it, you know, give it a good grope), I can't see their mind, I can't see their heart, then they may as well have been created from a generic template that God or whoever uses when they get lazy.
That said, I've only ever seen approximately 2.5 people really like this (um... maybe one was a midget) in my entire life. Everyone is special! Except for you, you, you, and you in the back, how did you get in here??
People I don't know intrigue me no end, however. Because I don't know what they'll say, what's going to make them smile, what would make them cry. And in a way, I don't want to know, I don't want to find out -- I don't want to limit them, condemn them to some box of behaviour based on personality and past conduct. And more than that, I don't want to find something I don't like in them - like ubernormalcy or fundamentalism or ignorance or pride not within reason. And I don't want to give up the imaginings, the endless possibilities of what someone could be like.
All the watching makes for loneliness though, I suppose. For the most part, I've forgotten how to interact socially, not that I ever really mastered it, but you know... And this extends to the point where on the rare occasion that I do manage to engage in a social interaction appropriately, fluently, smoothly, I feel like someone owes me a gold star for it.
I might not be a thinker. I don't know if I'll ever be a dreamer. I'm not always a joker. I've never been a doer. But perhaps watcher is a title I could justifiably claim as my own.
