I've spent a lot of time working with dementia patients. The disease process is fascinating, but not as fascinating as the raw, uncovered look at the human psyche that it offers. Also, watching old people run down the hall in their birthday suit is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life.
I've always thought of dementia like looking at the world through a foggy kaleidoscope, only instead of colored glass beads and panels, there are memories and hallucinations blocking your view. Some patients live inside a house of horror, constantly plagued by the things they are seeing. Others float in an impenetrable cloud of bliss regardless of what's actually going on. Either way, they are still disabled and alienated from loved ones.
Faith apathy is kind of the same thing.
Now, hear me out, 'cause it's going to take me a while to get back around to the point on this one...
If I hear one more person...just ONE MORE, say "I'm basically a good person. I don't think God is going to send me to hell." I. Am going. To scream.
I don't care whether you believe in Jesus, Buddah, or the Great Pumpkin, when you die, don't expect overflowing mercy from a God you've chosen to ignore your entire life. Forget the facts of what happens to an apathetic believer while they're alive. After death, how do you expect to stand before Someone who is pure, blameless, righteous, all powerful, all mighty, Creator and Ruler of all, Alpha and Omega, and tell Him that pathetic crock of hooey!?
"Well, yeah, I've lived a nice, safe life, cheated on my wife and divorced her, dodged my taxes a few times, hit a dog and kept going because I didn't feel like stopping, only went to church when it made me look good, and only prayed when I was in big trouble. And really, I never thought about You unless I could help it. But I think I'm basically a good person, so move aside and let me into Your house. I want to eat alongside people who have suffered and died for you, the woman who prayed every day for her abusive husband, the man who forgave an unfaithful wife, the guy that went to church every single sunday, not because it made him look good, but because it was RIGHT. Wait, what? You're turning down my 'Basically a good person' argument? How could you?"
And for this God is called harsh and wrathful.
The irony is so rich I could go on all day, but that's not my main point. Besides, CS Lewis said that when taking into account what we know of the nature of God, "the question should not be 'Why are so few saved?' but rather 'How are any saved at all?'" Salvation is a beautiful fluke.
My point here is that there are more serious implications than what apathy does to us here on earth, which is in itself very sobering to think about.
A few weeks ago, my homegroup got into the "once saved, always saved" discussion, and it made me HOPPING mad*. How can someone who has been born be unborn? If the steps for salvation were really, truly taken, how can they be untaken? Answer: THEY CAN'T!
However, there is such a thing as starving oneself into ineffectiveness. Again, a case of forgetful freed men, walking around like prisoners. Sure, you can do it. But WHY? Not only are you depriving yourself of healing, joy, and purpose, but you're keeping yourself from having any connection with other people that might help you slog through this world. Not to mention, one day, you're going to have to look the Almighty in the eye and explain why you chose to just sit back and do nothing while the faithful suffered for His name.
I don't exclude myself from this ranting. I'm just as much in danger as anyone else.
Whether or not you're happy with your life, whether or not you feel loved, the reality is not changed.
Like dementia, whether you're happy or sad, you're still sitting in a wheelchair drooling on yourself and being showered by strangers.
The difference? Dementia patients can't HELP IT!
*I would like to make the disclaimer that my homegroup has consistently proven themselves to be capable of respectful arguing and productive give-and-take. Just because I got mad doesn't mean that someone there MADE me cranky. The issue itself teed me off. That is all. Why are you still reading? Go watch TV! GO!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Attention, All Personnell, Incoming Wounded
Extra points to anyone who gets the reference in the title.
I have a theory. It's not flattering, it's not pretty, it's not graceful or beautiful, but it works. It works like the world's ugliest farm mule works. Like a critter that knows its one purpose in life is to be useful.
If you've ever seen Fifth Element with Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich, you might remember the scene where the police are running an inspection on Bruce Willis' apartment building. They turn the camera on inside his room and ask the clearly homosapien Willis, "Sir, are you classified as human?"
His reply is classic. "Negative, I am a meat popsicle."
Irreverent, but somehow very true. Probably even more true than the script writer knew. I think, somehow, Bruce Willis might know. Even if he is running around with women half his age in leather pants, I think he's smarter than he come off. Anyway. My theory is this:
I am a meat suit.
I SAID it wasn't pretty.
I was put on this earth, and have since spent a lot of time studying the human body. Looked at from one angle, we are beautifully complex, mysterious creatures. In another light, we are nothing more than masses of pumping, digesting, metabolizing, respiring meat. The base elements of the human body can be listed on your fingers and toes, and the shopping bag price is somewhere around twenty bucks. The substances are easily found at any chemist's shop. Watch Full Metal Alchemist. It's true! Independantly corroborated, of course.
And yet, with all the high-tech equipment we have at our disposal, scientists cannot instill life artificially into one single cell. That's okay, because we wouldn't know what to do with it if we created it, anyway. Best case scenarios include organ replication, fertility treatments, and parkinson's research. But those wouldn't be the primary goals. Our Creator knew what was up when He said "Let them be ham-fisted at trying to do My job, and let them constantly make buffons of themselves if they try."
Pretty awesome decree. Nevertheless, I'm not trying to devalue His creation. As I said, we are beautifully complex, fearfully and wonderfully made. But without that divine spark, we are nothing more than meat suits lying here and metabolizing. We are made with only one empty space--the little cavern in our guts that has imprinted on it, "Insert God Here."
Nature abhors a vaccum. If we don't fill it with the One who created us, we will fill it with another, lesser god. We will worship created things, instead of the Creator. Nursing has taught me that if you put a human into an unnatural position, or try to make the human body fit into a space that doesn't conform to it, horrible, terrible injury will result. Plus, the patient's on the call light, like, every five minutes whining.
And yet, we walk around watching people with heart injuries as though it's their fault, as though they'll eventually get better.
News flash: when a meat suit gets injured, it's more than a fashion faux pas.
Whether we like it or not, we're all medics, trying to get through this life without getting hit with bullets like self-loathing, depression, and despair, dragging life's casualties off the front lines and applying pressure to wounds like death of a loved one, family troubles, and failed relationships. If all goes well, we keep the meat suit safe until it can heal, and our friend gets up and fights again.
We may be working these meat suits like we own 'em, but the Holy Spirit has more than a little say. He's not happy when we hunker in the bunker and clench in the trench. Get up. Fight! Keep low, but keep moving.
I myself am naturally inclined to lie low and hope everything goes away, and doing so makes my commander hopping mad. There are others out there being battered and brutalized. Inaction is inexcusable. Also cowardly, and will give you wrinkles. And cancer.
No, really. Prevent cancer by not being a wuss!
I have a theory. It's not flattering, it's not pretty, it's not graceful or beautiful, but it works. It works like the world's ugliest farm mule works. Like a critter that knows its one purpose in life is to be useful.
If you've ever seen Fifth Element with Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich, you might remember the scene where the police are running an inspection on Bruce Willis' apartment building. They turn the camera on inside his room and ask the clearly homosapien Willis, "Sir, are you classified as human?"
His reply is classic. "Negative, I am a meat popsicle."
Irreverent, but somehow very true. Probably even more true than the script writer knew. I think, somehow, Bruce Willis might know. Even if he is running around with women half his age in leather pants, I think he's smarter than he come off. Anyway. My theory is this:
I am a meat suit.
I SAID it wasn't pretty.
I was put on this earth, and have since spent a lot of time studying the human body. Looked at from one angle, we are beautifully complex, mysterious creatures. In another light, we are nothing more than masses of pumping, digesting, metabolizing, respiring meat. The base elements of the human body can be listed on your fingers and toes, and the shopping bag price is somewhere around twenty bucks. The substances are easily found at any chemist's shop. Watch Full Metal Alchemist. It's true! Independantly corroborated, of course.
And yet, with all the high-tech equipment we have at our disposal, scientists cannot instill life artificially into one single cell. That's okay, because we wouldn't know what to do with it if we created it, anyway. Best case scenarios include organ replication, fertility treatments, and parkinson's research. But those wouldn't be the primary goals. Our Creator knew what was up when He said "Let them be ham-fisted at trying to do My job, and let them constantly make buffons of themselves if they try."
Pretty awesome decree. Nevertheless, I'm not trying to devalue His creation. As I said, we are beautifully complex, fearfully and wonderfully made. But without that divine spark, we are nothing more than meat suits lying here and metabolizing. We are made with only one empty space--the little cavern in our guts that has imprinted on it, "Insert God Here."
Nature abhors a vaccum. If we don't fill it with the One who created us, we will fill it with another, lesser god. We will worship created things, instead of the Creator. Nursing has taught me that if you put a human into an unnatural position, or try to make the human body fit into a space that doesn't conform to it, horrible, terrible injury will result. Plus, the patient's on the call light, like, every five minutes whining.
And yet, we walk around watching people with heart injuries as though it's their fault, as though they'll eventually get better.
News flash: when a meat suit gets injured, it's more than a fashion faux pas.
Whether we like it or not, we're all medics, trying to get through this life without getting hit with bullets like self-loathing, depression, and despair, dragging life's casualties off the front lines and applying pressure to wounds like death of a loved one, family troubles, and failed relationships. If all goes well, we keep the meat suit safe until it can heal, and our friend gets up and fights again.
We may be working these meat suits like we own 'em, but the Holy Spirit has more than a little say. He's not happy when we hunker in the bunker and clench in the trench. Get up. Fight! Keep low, but keep moving.
I myself am naturally inclined to lie low and hope everything goes away, and doing so makes my commander hopping mad. There are others out there being battered and brutalized. Inaction is inexcusable. Also cowardly, and will give you wrinkles. And cancer.
No, really. Prevent cancer by not being a wuss!
Monday, June 15, 2009
Forgetful Freed Men
So I was thinking today about the big things keeping me down in my personal growth, as well as my spiritual walk. Aside from plain old sloth and pride, my two deadly sins of choice, there is one really big snare that my enemy uses over and over with great success. He causes me to forget that I'm free. How does he do this with such great ease? The answer is simple.
It's because I'm an idiot.
Really, making me forget that I'm free from my chains is probably not much harder than making a goldfish forget that he already swam around the bowl--that is to say, not hard at all. The only thing he has to do is keep reminding me of the rule of prior experience: That which was so in the past and is so now will probably continue to be so in the future. Why should I think I should do anything other than sin, sin, sin? That's all I've ever done. Apparently a person in motion will remain in that motion unless acted upon by a sledgehammer or 2x4 or a crippling case of ebola. A person in sin will remain in that sin inextricably, because that's what people do---sin. I am no different, no better. Sin happened, is happening, and therefore will continue to happen.
Except that I have been set free from my sin. My natural body stands willing to be bent to the will of the Father. My imperfections are now nothing more than tools for His glory, instead of reasons to sin. There is nothing more free than that.
So someone tell me why, for the love of Bush's left pant leg, am I still RUNNING AROUND IN THE PRISON YARD LIKE I'M DOING 20 TO LIFE?
Oh wait, I already answered that.
It's because I'm an idiot.
Really, I suppose, I'm not that different from anyone else. The fact is that although the cross was the only feasible answer to man's sin separation, Jesus's death and our subsequent redemption is about the most unnatural and unbelievable offer ever.
Think about it. All the metaphors we normally use to explain Christ's sacrifice-a lender forgiving his debtor, a man taking a punishment for someone, a stranger paying off an outstanding bill you owe-all fall magnificently short for one reason. They make NO SENSE! I ask you, when was the last time you saw someone randomly decide to take a beating for someone else? I've known people that have done self-sacrificial things like that, but it was as a direct result of Christ's example. Taking the punishment for a guilty man defies our human reasoning. It's like calling up the prison and saying, "Listen, I'd like you guys to set Charles Manson free. I'd like to serve his prison sentence in his place."
Manson killed people! He killed people a lot! He probably giggled while he did it! Letting him, a menace to society, walk free while a good, upstanding citizen without so much as a traffic ticket on record sits in his cell is the sum total of everything our Juduciary system tries to avoid!
My point is, our experience has taught us that if you free the sinner, they're only free to sin again. The substitution that took place on the cross defies every rule of logic and reason, fair play, the Rule of Thumb, the Geneva Convention, and Murphy's law.
Can you tell this has always been a source of confusion for me? Okay, so He died on the cross in my place, because He loves me. That, I get, at least in my human, half-retarded sort of way. But I still committed the crime. I am the dangerous criminal. I am, so to speak, the menace to society. My debt was paid, okay, good, but I could still set an orphanage on fire without even meaning to! I'm the flawed, fallen one.
Or am I?
If Jesus took my sin, shame, and retardation on Himself on the cross, that means that He took my nature on Himself. That also means that He covered ME with HIS nature.
His perfection is now mine.
Whoa.
But I'm still running around like I can't help my imperfection.
Because I'm an idiot.
See how I brought it back around?
So, how do I STOP acting like a prisoner, I may ask, pretending that you're asking, although you probably aren't.
I think all I have to do is REMEMBER. Remember that I'm free indeed. See the temptation for what it is! Lucifer is the most clever of liars by far, putting Jenny Craig and whoever invented spray "butter" to shame. I don't pretend to know what he's up to. But the thing that he capitalizes most on-human nature-is horribly unchanging. Humans forget that there are other forces at work, because that would mean not thinking about ourselves for a minute. If we do remember Satan, more often we're blaming him (oddly enough, usually for stuff that's actually our own fault) rather than fighting him. We look to God for comfort and succour rather than weapons and strength. We're hugging the sword rather than swinging it at the dude attacking us.
Because we're idiots.
God must really protect children and idiots, otherwise we'd all have wandered off a cliff or stuck our face in a waffle iron by now.
It's because I'm an idiot.
Really, making me forget that I'm free from my chains is probably not much harder than making a goldfish forget that he already swam around the bowl--that is to say, not hard at all. The only thing he has to do is keep reminding me of the rule of prior experience: That which was so in the past and is so now will probably continue to be so in the future. Why should I think I should do anything other than sin, sin, sin? That's all I've ever done. Apparently a person in motion will remain in that motion unless acted upon by a sledgehammer or 2x4 or a crippling case of ebola. A person in sin will remain in that sin inextricably, because that's what people do---sin. I am no different, no better. Sin happened, is happening, and therefore will continue to happen.
Except that I have been set free from my sin. My natural body stands willing to be bent to the will of the Father. My imperfections are now nothing more than tools for His glory, instead of reasons to sin. There is nothing more free than that.
So someone tell me why, for the love of Bush's left pant leg, am I still RUNNING AROUND IN THE PRISON YARD LIKE I'M DOING 20 TO LIFE?
Oh wait, I already answered that.
It's because I'm an idiot.
Really, I suppose, I'm not that different from anyone else. The fact is that although the cross was the only feasible answer to man's sin separation, Jesus's death and our subsequent redemption is about the most unnatural and unbelievable offer ever.
Think about it. All the metaphors we normally use to explain Christ's sacrifice-a lender forgiving his debtor, a man taking a punishment for someone, a stranger paying off an outstanding bill you owe-all fall magnificently short for one reason. They make NO SENSE! I ask you, when was the last time you saw someone randomly decide to take a beating for someone else? I've known people that have done self-sacrificial things like that, but it was as a direct result of Christ's example. Taking the punishment for a guilty man defies our human reasoning. It's like calling up the prison and saying, "Listen, I'd like you guys to set Charles Manson free. I'd like to serve his prison sentence in his place."
Manson killed people! He killed people a lot! He probably giggled while he did it! Letting him, a menace to society, walk free while a good, upstanding citizen without so much as a traffic ticket on record sits in his cell is the sum total of everything our Juduciary system tries to avoid!
My point is, our experience has taught us that if you free the sinner, they're only free to sin again. The substitution that took place on the cross defies every rule of logic and reason, fair play, the Rule of Thumb, the Geneva Convention, and Murphy's law.
Can you tell this has always been a source of confusion for me? Okay, so He died on the cross in my place, because He loves me. That, I get, at least in my human, half-retarded sort of way. But I still committed the crime. I am the dangerous criminal. I am, so to speak, the menace to society. My debt was paid, okay, good, but I could still set an orphanage on fire without even meaning to! I'm the flawed, fallen one.
Or am I?
If Jesus took my sin, shame, and retardation on Himself on the cross, that means that He took my nature on Himself. That also means that He covered ME with HIS nature.
His perfection is now mine.
Whoa.
But I'm still running around like I can't help my imperfection.
Because I'm an idiot.
See how I brought it back around?
So, how do I STOP acting like a prisoner, I may ask, pretending that you're asking, although you probably aren't.
I think all I have to do is REMEMBER. Remember that I'm free indeed. See the temptation for what it is! Lucifer is the most clever of liars by far, putting Jenny Craig and whoever invented spray "butter" to shame. I don't pretend to know what he's up to. But the thing that he capitalizes most on-human nature-is horribly unchanging. Humans forget that there are other forces at work, because that would mean not thinking about ourselves for a minute. If we do remember Satan, more often we're blaming him (oddly enough, usually for stuff that's actually our own fault) rather than fighting him. We look to God for comfort and succour rather than weapons and strength. We're hugging the sword rather than swinging it at the dude attacking us.
Because we're idiots.
God must really protect children and idiots, otherwise we'd all have wandered off a cliff or stuck our face in a waffle iron by now.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
My Froot Loop Subconscious
Okay, apparently, being bored is not only bad for me, but bad for my subconscious. I tried to sleep through the day, since I'm working a 12 hour shift tonight. It seems my brain took exception to that.
First, I dreamt about waiting in line at a buffet. Not any special buffet, just a buffet. I was waiting in line with my parents, and people kept cutting in front of us, crowding us, and generally being jackasses. I kept growing more and more frustrated. It seemed every societal group that ever made me angry was there. I tried to keep it down, I really did. Then, finally, I snapped, told my parents to sit down, and started telling people to go home.
"You obviously don't have the sociological qualifications to be out in public. GO AWAY!" Mom and dad tried to get me to calm down, but I would have none of it.
"You're late for your breathing lessons! Shoo!"
"Sorry, they don't serve rude, superior mothers and their screaming ill-behaved children. Chuck E Cheese is right down the street."
"Oh, don't even get me started on you. Put a bag over your head and get out of here!"
"You! Serial dater! Stop slobbering on your flavor of the week! He's not gonna fix your life, he's probably just gonna get you pregnant, and I'd rather he not do it in a food service area! Go!"
Eventually, I got the line cleared out, but by that time I was too aggravated to eat, so my parents just chowed down on their lunch and made cheery, de-stressing conversation.
Mom: So how is your job going?
Me: GRRRR!
Mom: Well, that's good. Do you still like where you work?
Me: ANGER!
Dad: I think I knew him in college. Have you checked icanhascheezburger lately?
Me: SNARL!
Dad: There's a picture on there of a little persian kitten that says "everyone keeps trying to pick me up. I think my name is Aww."
Me: DISCORD GRRrrr.......squee! *rainbows and stars come out of my eyeballs, birds begin to sing*
Mom: You concern me, child. Do you think maybe if we got you a boyfriend you wouldn't be so cranky?
Me: *unbridled cackling*
Then I woke up, puttered around a little, and went back to bed. My second round of dreams was far more disturbing.
You ever have those dreams where you forget to feed a pet for weeks and weeks? I haven't had one in a long time, but oddly enough I was just talking about those dreams on a friend's blog, and was surprised to find that a lot of people have them. Anyway, when I was younger I bred rabbits for a couple of years. When we lived in town, we kept them in about six cages in the backyard where it was nice and shady. Later when we moved out to no-man's land we set their cages over by the garden. That has to have been at least ten years ago. Anyway, I always used to have nightmares about forgetting to feed them for weeks and weeks. The rabbits are long gone, but I still have those dreams every now and again when I've forgotten something important that I was responsible for. Today, I had a dream that we were visiting the old house in town to do some repairs (why, I don't know, since we sold that house years ago). I walked into the backyard and realized the rabbits were still BACK THERE, after all these years. It was like something from "Seven." The rabbits had been reproducing and eating their babies to stay alive. The startling thing was how extraordinarily CORPULENT these little guys were. They were like big, furry water balloons. Anyway, in the dream, my stomach was turning, and I was horrified. There were rabbit babies running everywhere, some of them half eaten (oddly enough, when I really did have rabbits, I couldn't get a decent litter out of them to save my life, because the mothers kept eating their babies. Also, the one litter I did get out of them was UGLY, and these little ones were actually quite pretty). Then, I started trying to pull them out of the cages and realized that some of them had turned into hamsters. Not sure how THAT one happened. But at last I got them more or less seperated and clean, and sat down to cry because I had let my bunnies go like that.
And then I woke up screaming to the realization that I was supposed to cook dinner for homegroup tomorrow and had forgotten. Not QUITE as dire. I have an overly-dramatic subconscious.
I think I'll serve rabbit.
Kidding. Anyone have opinions on HG dinner?
First, I dreamt about waiting in line at a buffet. Not any special buffet, just a buffet. I was waiting in line with my parents, and people kept cutting in front of us, crowding us, and generally being jackasses. I kept growing more and more frustrated. It seemed every societal group that ever made me angry was there. I tried to keep it down, I really did. Then, finally, I snapped, told my parents to sit down, and started telling people to go home.
"You obviously don't have the sociological qualifications to be out in public. GO AWAY!" Mom and dad tried to get me to calm down, but I would have none of it.
"You're late for your breathing lessons! Shoo!"
"Sorry, they don't serve rude, superior mothers and their screaming ill-behaved children. Chuck E Cheese is right down the street."
"Oh, don't even get me started on you. Put a bag over your head and get out of here!"
"You! Serial dater! Stop slobbering on your flavor of the week! He's not gonna fix your life, he's probably just gonna get you pregnant, and I'd rather he not do it in a food service area! Go!"
Eventually, I got the line cleared out, but by that time I was too aggravated to eat, so my parents just chowed down on their lunch and made cheery, de-stressing conversation.
Mom: So how is your job going?
Me: GRRRR!
Mom: Well, that's good. Do you still like where you work?
Me: ANGER!
Dad: I think I knew him in college. Have you checked icanhascheezburger lately?
Me: SNARL!
Dad: There's a picture on there of a little persian kitten that says "everyone keeps trying to pick me up. I think my name is Aww."
Me: DISCORD GRRrrr.......squee! *rainbows and stars come out of my eyeballs, birds begin to sing*
Mom: You concern me, child. Do you think maybe if we got you a boyfriend you wouldn't be so cranky?
Me: *unbridled cackling*
Then I woke up, puttered around a little, and went back to bed. My second round of dreams was far more disturbing.
You ever have those dreams where you forget to feed a pet for weeks and weeks? I haven't had one in a long time, but oddly enough I was just talking about those dreams on a friend's blog, and was surprised to find that a lot of people have them. Anyway, when I was younger I bred rabbits for a couple of years. When we lived in town, we kept them in about six cages in the backyard where it was nice and shady. Later when we moved out to no-man's land we set their cages over by the garden. That has to have been at least ten years ago. Anyway, I always used to have nightmares about forgetting to feed them for weeks and weeks. The rabbits are long gone, but I still have those dreams every now and again when I've forgotten something important that I was responsible for. Today, I had a dream that we were visiting the old house in town to do some repairs (why, I don't know, since we sold that house years ago). I walked into the backyard and realized the rabbits were still BACK THERE, after all these years. It was like something from "Seven." The rabbits had been reproducing and eating their babies to stay alive. The startling thing was how extraordinarily CORPULENT these little guys were. They were like big, furry water balloons. Anyway, in the dream, my stomach was turning, and I was horrified. There were rabbit babies running everywhere, some of them half eaten (oddly enough, when I really did have rabbits, I couldn't get a decent litter out of them to save my life, because the mothers kept eating their babies. Also, the one litter I did get out of them was UGLY, and these little ones were actually quite pretty). Then, I started trying to pull them out of the cages and realized that some of them had turned into hamsters. Not sure how THAT one happened. But at last I got them more or less seperated and clean, and sat down to cry because I had let my bunnies go like that.
And then I woke up screaming to the realization that I was supposed to cook dinner for homegroup tomorrow and had forgotten. Not QUITE as dire. I have an overly-dramatic subconscious.
I think I'll serve rabbit.
Kidding. Anyone have opinions on HG dinner?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Shut up! SHUT UP ALL OF YOU!
I feel the time has come to explain a very integral part of my existence. This is "Need to know" information for anyone that plans to be around me. My best friends know this, although not in such terms, and my family just tries to work around these facts as best they can. This was spawned by a conversation with someone who will remain unnamed, who said that my blog background was too muted and needed to be more brightly colored to suit my personality. This person also jokingly suggested a screenshot from a First Person Shooter for a background. Then I started thinking. I had a friend in college that used to tell me the only time I ever cried was when my gun ran out of bullets. I've also had people tell me that I need to grow a tougher skin, because I'm way too sensitive. I've had people tell me that I have huge amounts of common sense, and others tell me that I'm a genius with NO common sense. Some see me as chronically depressed, while others see me as endlessly optimistic and too stinkin' cheerful all the time.
There is a reason for this. While none or all of these perceptions may be correct, there is a logical and relatively sane explanation for their occurance.
I have three personalities. There are probably more lurking around down there, but the top three float to the surface more than anyone else. They are the only three with names. For the lowdown on each of them, keep reading. If you know me at all, my behavior will make so much more sense by the time you're finished, and none of the information will surprise you. All these guys blend together to make the person you know as Erin.
Nurse Erin: Cheerful, compassionate, competent, and professional, Nurse Erin acts exactly as her name would indicate. She carries sunbeams in her pockets and pulls them out whenever necessary. She loves glitter and rainbows and has a deep East Texas accent. Nurse Erin rarely gets mad, but when she does the accent disappears, and you'll never see the bullet coming. Then she will probably laugh about the whole thing and go back to making paper dolls to pin up in someone's room. Her biggest weakness is over-sensitivity to the disapproval of others, because Nurse Erin wants everyone to like her. Nurse Erin loves hugging people, braiding their hair, and giving them narcotics that will make them giggle and talk to the marshmallow pandas and blueberry pirates swimming through their bedclothes. If you see me giving you medical advice, asking about your symptoms, or listening to someone's tale of woe, that's Nurse Erin. Overexposure to her sweetness can cause diabetic symptoms from glucose overload. Nurse Erin likes watching What Not To Wear and cartoons. Her weapon of choice is a down pillow and a smile.
Pickles: Succinctly put, Pickles has Tourette's Syndrome. Pickles has no control over what's going to come out of her mouth from one moment to the next. She is mostly responsible for some of my more famous blogs, especially on the POC site. She likes random trivia, and usually makes me watch shows like How It's Made, National Geographic, and Whose Line Is It Anyway? Jeff Dunham, Bill Cosby, and Ellen Degeneres are her big influences. Pickles also likes reading webcomics. A lot. Pickles comes out when I am bored, and the boring quickly dissolves in the burning sphere of her death-ray-like sassery. In the span of 24 hours, Pickles can publish a novel, read through three years worth of webcomic archives, and beat Barbara Bush in a drinking contest. Her weapon of choice is a melon baller and a flame thrower.
ERIN: Necessarily spelled with all capitals, ERIN is the "dark side" that everyone has but so few people know how to properly embrace without allowing it to take over. ERIN doesn't hate everything. She just thinks everything is stupid. When ERIN comes out, she usually goes to Pickles for one-liners, necessarily staying in the dark corner painting her fingernails black muttering under her breath about idiots reproducing willy-nilly. ERIN can swing a bat like nobody's business, but prefers to eviscerate you with her rapier wit, causing you to doubt your value, gender, and heritage, until you go beat YOURSELF with a bat. ERIN is the one that cries when her gun runs out of bullets, because she just knows that some MORON is gonna get away while she's reloading, and isn't that just the way it ALWAY'S friggin' works? You get rolling on a project, and just when real progress begins, you run out of friggin' bullets!
So there it is. Surprised? I doubt it. There are many more facets to my psyche, but they're all undeveloped and too small to be let out on their own. They usually require supervision of one of the three major personalities, and don't speak very loudly.
Anyhow, I'm bored with this now, so from each of my inner voices, bye-bye, hasta la tata, and go away, respectively.
There is a reason for this. While none or all of these perceptions may be correct, there is a logical and relatively sane explanation for their occurance.
I have three personalities. There are probably more lurking around down there, but the top three float to the surface more than anyone else. They are the only three with names. For the lowdown on each of them, keep reading. If you know me at all, my behavior will make so much more sense by the time you're finished, and none of the information will surprise you. All these guys blend together to make the person you know as Erin.
Nurse Erin: Cheerful, compassionate, competent, and professional, Nurse Erin acts exactly as her name would indicate. She carries sunbeams in her pockets and pulls them out whenever necessary. She loves glitter and rainbows and has a deep East Texas accent. Nurse Erin rarely gets mad, but when she does the accent disappears, and you'll never see the bullet coming. Then she will probably laugh about the whole thing and go back to making paper dolls to pin up in someone's room. Her biggest weakness is over-sensitivity to the disapproval of others, because Nurse Erin wants everyone to like her. Nurse Erin loves hugging people, braiding their hair, and giving them narcotics that will make them giggle and talk to the marshmallow pandas and blueberry pirates swimming through their bedclothes. If you see me giving you medical advice, asking about your symptoms, or listening to someone's tale of woe, that's Nurse Erin. Overexposure to her sweetness can cause diabetic symptoms from glucose overload. Nurse Erin likes watching What Not To Wear and cartoons. Her weapon of choice is a down pillow and a smile.
Pickles: Succinctly put, Pickles has Tourette's Syndrome. Pickles has no control over what's going to come out of her mouth from one moment to the next. She is mostly responsible for some of my more famous blogs, especially on the POC site. She likes random trivia, and usually makes me watch shows like How It's Made, National Geographic, and Whose Line Is It Anyway? Jeff Dunham, Bill Cosby, and Ellen Degeneres are her big influences. Pickles also likes reading webcomics. A lot. Pickles comes out when I am bored, and the boring quickly dissolves in the burning sphere of her death-ray-like sassery. In the span of 24 hours, Pickles can publish a novel, read through three years worth of webcomic archives, and beat Barbara Bush in a drinking contest. Her weapon of choice is a melon baller and a flame thrower.
ERIN: Necessarily spelled with all capitals, ERIN is the "dark side" that everyone has but so few people know how to properly embrace without allowing it to take over. ERIN doesn't hate everything. She just thinks everything is stupid. When ERIN comes out, she usually goes to Pickles for one-liners, necessarily staying in the dark corner painting her fingernails black muttering under her breath about idiots reproducing willy-nilly. ERIN can swing a bat like nobody's business, but prefers to eviscerate you with her rapier wit, causing you to doubt your value, gender, and heritage, until you go beat YOURSELF with a bat. ERIN is the one that cries when her gun runs out of bullets, because she just knows that some MORON is gonna get away while she's reloading, and isn't that just the way it ALWAY'S friggin' works? You get rolling on a project, and just when real progress begins, you run out of friggin' bullets!
So there it is. Surprised? I doubt it. There are many more facets to my psyche, but they're all undeveloped and too small to be let out on their own. They usually require supervision of one of the three major personalities, and don't speak very loudly.
Anyhow, I'm bored with this now, so from each of my inner voices, bye-bye, hasta la tata, and go away, respectively.
Apparently my stomach is writing today's blog.
Today is Donald Duck's birthday. Happy Birthday, Donald Duck! Here's to the coolest duck without pants ever. That's right, you heard me Daffy. You can barely aspire to be the cool that Donald Duck was.
Like the new layout? I think it was worth the time spent on it. Besides, I needed a project to take my mind off my slowly eroding nose. I'm thinking of going into the Concentra clinic today. To explain the weather gadget joke to those of us that were not there--one evening a couple of weeks ago, Jeni and I decided to go get Indian food. Just as we were preparing to leave, the sky started to squeeze out water droplets the size of shoes. For some reason, we decided to take my car, despite the fact that my balding tires do not react well to wet asphalt. Jeni drove, which is usually a good alternative to me driving. The rain kept coming down, the tires spun out once or twice, and as per usual when I become stressed-verging-on-panic, I began a series of Tourettes-like-screams.
"Lovin' this weather! When is the plague of FROGS gonna hit?"
"Could someone hand God a monkey wrench so He can fix that leak?"
"WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS ANYWAY?"
Jeni, who has never had a problem matching me in volume (the only one who regularly surpasses me is ex roomie Laura) chimed in a few good ones.
"Stop splashing the windshield! Visibility is already negative two feet!"
"How is fourteen miles per hour on the highway going too fast?"
Then, lest we forget Nature's true power, it began to hail. Just pea-sized hail, mind you, but hail. We're sitting huddled in the car, passing chaos and car wrecks everywhere, when finally my psyche could stand it no longer and snapped.
"ALL RIGHT, WHO ORDERED ICE WATER WITH DINNER?"
Whereupon Jeni nearly drove off the rain-slicked road from trying to breathe and laugh at the same time. In case you were wondering, breathing, laughing, and driving are three mutually exclusive activities.
Needless to say, we made it to Bombay just fine, and oh MAN was it ever worth it. The rice alone was worth eating all day long, except that eating rice all day would make you explode. I had a drink made from mango and yogurt that I'm pretty sure changed my life for the better. The veggie and cheese balls were so good my pancreas fell out. Don't even get me started on the naan bread. I'm pretty sure there's a measure of that stuff sealed up in the Ark of the Covenant. It was covered in a sacred cloth, and we weren't allowed to look at it before we ate it. There was Holy Sauce to dip it in, also. I can't remember what Jeni got. I couldn't be bothered. I was too busy having a Food Seizure over my own meal.
Speaking of meals, I just finished with a cup of potato leek soup and Ritz crackers. They are now having a magnificent dance fight in my tummy to determine dominence over the viral infection in my body. While they duke it out, I will sleep the sleep of the well-fed and over-medicated.
Actually, I'm under-medicated. I can't find my Nyquil. WHO MOVED MY NYQUIL??
Like the new layout? I think it was worth the time spent on it. Besides, I needed a project to take my mind off my slowly eroding nose. I'm thinking of going into the Concentra clinic today. To explain the weather gadget joke to those of us that were not there--one evening a couple of weeks ago, Jeni and I decided to go get Indian food. Just as we were preparing to leave, the sky started to squeeze out water droplets the size of shoes. For some reason, we decided to take my car, despite the fact that my balding tires do not react well to wet asphalt. Jeni drove, which is usually a good alternative to me driving. The rain kept coming down, the tires spun out once or twice, and as per usual when I become stressed-verging-on-panic, I began a series of Tourettes-like-screams.
"Lovin' this weather! When is the plague of FROGS gonna hit?"
"Could someone hand God a monkey wrench so He can fix that leak?"
"WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS ANYWAY?"
Jeni, who has never had a problem matching me in volume (the only one who regularly surpasses me is ex roomie Laura) chimed in a few good ones.
"Stop splashing the windshield! Visibility is already negative two feet!"
"How is fourteen miles per hour on the highway going too fast?"
Then, lest we forget Nature's true power, it began to hail. Just pea-sized hail, mind you, but hail. We're sitting huddled in the car, passing chaos and car wrecks everywhere, when finally my psyche could stand it no longer and snapped.
"ALL RIGHT, WHO ORDERED ICE WATER WITH DINNER?"
Whereupon Jeni nearly drove off the rain-slicked road from trying to breathe and laugh at the same time. In case you were wondering, breathing, laughing, and driving are three mutually exclusive activities.
Needless to say, we made it to Bombay just fine, and oh MAN was it ever worth it. The rice alone was worth eating all day long, except that eating rice all day would make you explode. I had a drink made from mango and yogurt that I'm pretty sure changed my life for the better. The veggie and cheese balls were so good my pancreas fell out. Don't even get me started on the naan bread. I'm pretty sure there's a measure of that stuff sealed up in the Ark of the Covenant. It was covered in a sacred cloth, and we weren't allowed to look at it before we ate it. There was Holy Sauce to dip it in, also. I can't remember what Jeni got. I couldn't be bothered. I was too busy having a Food Seizure over my own meal.
Speaking of meals, I just finished with a cup of potato leek soup and Ritz crackers. They are now having a magnificent dance fight in my tummy to determine dominence over the viral infection in my body. While they duke it out, I will sleep the sleep of the well-fed and over-medicated.
Actually, I'm under-medicated. I can't find my Nyquil. WHO MOVED MY NYQUIL??
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Drug abuse is no excuse.
Man, I've been having some psychotic dreams lately. Most of them happened last night as I slumbered deep in Nyquil-land.
After reading the cracked-out fan fiction of a thousand little preteen Disney Zombies, rife with what they no doubt considered to be original, random, and amusing references to pixie sticks and Dr. Pepper/Rockstar juicers/whatever energy drink they might be selling at the local gas station that mommy and daddy allow them to walk to, I have come to be aware of a basic truth. This truth I will now share with the reader, despite the 25 lb tabby cat attempting to crawl on top of the keyboard and enforce the "no typing. Only petting" rule. It is a truth that will stand the test of time and come out uncorrupted at the end of all things.
This truth is....
OTC drug abuse is NO excuse for BAD FREAKIN' WRITING! Pixie sticks do NOT make repetitive phrasing okay. Sudafed does NOT cancel out poor grammar. Nyquil is NOT an excuse for lamely-jumbled and poorly-timed jokes.
However, the fact is that Nyquil may or may not have been the root cause of some particularly spectacular subconscious pyrotechnics last night. From having to help the vet perform thoracentesis on my cat to being chased by a man-eating killer whale, I would like to think most corners of my psyche were explored. I would also like to think it was solely the result of Nyquil in my system. This, however, I cannot believe, as only a couple of nights prior, I had a zombie-fighting semi-apocolyptic dream-monstrosity worthy of a Bob Marley after party.
All this to say that I think now I must revise my stance on certain drug-inflicted literary wrongs. For instance, were the Musical "Wicked" found to be wanting, there would be no excuse. The sparkly, upbeat lines and lyrics serve to disguise clever jabs into the realm of satirical wit. Were it any other way, and drugs were blamed, the entire world would roll their eyes and go back to reading "Twilight."
The book that the musical is based on, however, is a different matter. It was not so much written as it was congealed into a book. The storyline is tedious, the writing more homoeroticism than plot advancement, and the ending pointless and unsatisfying. But I will say this: I could see drugs being the cause of it all. It is dark and twisted enough that the marvels of modern chemistry added to a sufficiently suppressed psyche could produce something like this.
So now, here is a list of works of creativity that I will stop cruelly taunting, and simply begin to advocate their creators' admission to a 28-day rehab facility for detox and counseling.
The Kill Bill movies (actually, anything by Quentin Tarantino).
House of Flying Daggers
Full Metal Alchemist
Moulin Rouge
Robot Chicken
Napolean Dynamite
Any Mockumentary
I Heart Huckabee's
Admittedly a short list, but I expect that as I am exposed to more and more of the world's nonsense the list will take on a life of its own. I also have to admit that some of my own work must be added to the list. But at least I didn't inflict it on anyone else.
You know, I was going to try for a nap before I had to go into work, but now I'm afraid that I'll dream about a six-inch slug rifling through my closet for something to wear, and, surprisingly, not liking anything he finds. I'm not sure which would be better, that or him loving every outfit in the closet.
After reading the cracked-out fan fiction of a thousand little preteen Disney Zombies, rife with what they no doubt considered to be original, random, and amusing references to pixie sticks and Dr. Pepper/Rockstar juicers/whatever energy drink they might be selling at the local gas station that mommy and daddy allow them to walk to, I have come to be aware of a basic truth. This truth I will now share with the reader, despite the 25 lb tabby cat attempting to crawl on top of the keyboard and enforce the "no typing. Only petting" rule. It is a truth that will stand the test of time and come out uncorrupted at the end of all things.
This truth is....
OTC drug abuse is NO excuse for BAD FREAKIN' WRITING! Pixie sticks do NOT make repetitive phrasing okay. Sudafed does NOT cancel out poor grammar. Nyquil is NOT an excuse for lamely-jumbled and poorly-timed jokes.
However, the fact is that Nyquil may or may not have been the root cause of some particularly spectacular subconscious pyrotechnics last night. From having to help the vet perform thoracentesis on my cat to being chased by a man-eating killer whale, I would like to think most corners of my psyche were explored. I would also like to think it was solely the result of Nyquil in my system. This, however, I cannot believe, as only a couple of nights prior, I had a zombie-fighting semi-apocolyptic dream-monstrosity worthy of a Bob Marley after party.
All this to say that I think now I must revise my stance on certain drug-inflicted literary wrongs. For instance, were the Musical "Wicked" found to be wanting, there would be no excuse. The sparkly, upbeat lines and lyrics serve to disguise clever jabs into the realm of satirical wit. Were it any other way, and drugs were blamed, the entire world would roll their eyes and go back to reading "Twilight."
The book that the musical is based on, however, is a different matter. It was not so much written as it was congealed into a book. The storyline is tedious, the writing more homoeroticism than plot advancement, and the ending pointless and unsatisfying. But I will say this: I could see drugs being the cause of it all. It is dark and twisted enough that the marvels of modern chemistry added to a sufficiently suppressed psyche could produce something like this.
So now, here is a list of works of creativity that I will stop cruelly taunting, and simply begin to advocate their creators' admission to a 28-day rehab facility for detox and counseling.
The Kill Bill movies (actually, anything by Quentin Tarantino).
House of Flying Daggers
Full Metal Alchemist
Moulin Rouge
Robot Chicken
Napolean Dynamite
Any Mockumentary
I Heart Huckabee's
Admittedly a short list, but I expect that as I am exposed to more and more of the world's nonsense the list will take on a life of its own. I also have to admit that some of my own work must be added to the list. But at least I didn't inflict it on anyone else.
You know, I was going to try for a nap before I had to go into work, but now I'm afraid that I'll dream about a six-inch slug rifling through my closet for something to wear, and, surprisingly, not liking anything he finds. I'm not sure which would be better, that or him loving every outfit in the closet.
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