“That’s why all the aliens were always dropping in, because Kirk was the only one that had a big screen.”

UFO

I know what’s wrong with me.  I don’t think right.  I have an irreconcilable difference in processing.  It seems like a small glitch, but the consequences are unbearable.  I don’t believe in hurting back.  I doubt I’m the only one with this flaw, but I’m sure it’s not a question others would answer.  (I could write a book on things not to ask.)  I’ve tried several times to understand people who murderously lash out at others after being hurt by them.  I avoid the news, but stories of killers who take out ever-increasing numbers of humans in rampages often seep in any way.

I reach the same conclusion each time.  These killers are hurting back as hard as they can.  It’s illogical, sloppy futility, but it’s far from unusual based on my observations of people.  The only difference seems to be the use of extreme violence.  Most hurt back in far more subtle ways.  They opt for a sneakier, socially acceptable manner:  Psychological warfare.

The results don’t vary (from my perspective.)  The hurt people continue hurting because harming others doesn’t heal their hurt; it only increases that of their target.  Some may convince themselves they feel better after seeking revenge, but I don’t buy it.  Self-deception is a sad religion.  I’m an unbeliever.  Worse, lashing out at others for hurting me increases my pain. It’s something I learned as a young child.

I’ve lived decades beyond that lesson, so this vindictive thought process is practically imperceptible now. But I’m occasionally aware of the petty vengeance going on around me. It sometimes amuses me due to its creativity, but I usually ignore it. I observed quite a bit when I used Twitter. It fascinated me for a brief time. The passive aggressiveness was stunning.  I quickly recognized the depth of my unsophistication.  It amplified my sense of alienation from humanity.  I don’t think this way, and it makes me incompatible.

I feel almost like a perpetually deserving victim.  I won’t hit back, which seems to be sufficient justification for being punched in the first place on this planet.  E.T. phone home, please.

 

“Do you know what happens to a butter-based frosting after six decades in a poorly ventilated English basement?”

drum kit

I had a busy weekend, spending most of it practicing with my band.  We played two songs I created, and I’m thrilled by how much they liked them.  I would have strutted around like I’m Stevie Nicks or something, but it was also my first time singing while drumming.  I was pretty anxious about it because I figured it would take months of practice before I could pull it off.

I’m surprised to report I pulled it off to some degree.  The fact that I regularly sing to myself has finally paid off.  Instead of getting odd looks from strangers, I managed to provide backup harmonies with a headset mic.  I’m sure it helps that I know the songs better than anyone else.  Heh.  I used a poem I wrote as a teenager for the lyrics, (but only until I rewrite it.)

The poem is horrible, so I’m not going to share it.  I was going through a descriptive phase, and my subject matter mainly consisted of things I thought were delightfully revolting.  I was like a stereotypical boy for most of my childhood.  Watching my big brother swallow worms or goldfish on a dare was probably my favorite hobby; as well as the subject of the poem to which I’m referring.

He had god-like status in my eyes, and I wish he were still alive, so I could tell him I’m in a band, and I miss him.  He’d think my playing the drums is lame, but would still be impressed.  I suspect my band leader reminds me of Steve, a bit.  He’s somewhat mean but funny about it, so I don’t mind.  I’m content doing anything if I’m laughing through it.  It’s what most appealed to me about serving in the Army.  It’s full of should-be comedians.

When we did the gross song initially, I was able to sing but not loudly enough.  Plus, I dropped a stick and had to get up to retrieve it.  It led to a lesson on always having extra sticks close at hand, and not losing them while playing.  Emphasis mainly on the last bit.  I need to adjust my kit at home to mimic the acoustic kit’s positioning.  My muscle memory finally kicked in so I need to be mindful.  While I was up, I turned up the volume on my mic because duh.  😂

pinball

I’m supposed to work on not grinning like I just won the lottery while I play.  My band leader demonstrated what I looked like, much to my amusement.  At least he didn’t tell me I should audition for Disney; which is the feedback I received when kicked out of my first band, years ago.  I didn’t understand what “sing edgy” meant.  Thank you, Adele, Stevie Nicks, and Amy Lee.  Now I know.  🙃

Incidentally, that band broke up a year later over an argument about whether or not Hootie and the Blowfish sucked.  Heh.  (I think Darius Rucker is talented.)  M. has been planning our trip for next month.  We’re going to visit as many pinball machines as we can find.  We’re both obsessed with the game and highly competitive when playing on PlayStation 4.  I prefer the old-fashioned version, though.  The digital version is wicked distracting with all the animations (that sometimes get in the way while playing.)

He hasn’t managed to beat my high score on the Family Guy version.  I must still have a part of me that’s amused by fart jokes because it’s my favorite table.  I also like Thor.  I doubt they have real versions, though.  M. is an excellent photographer, so we plan on documenting them as we go.  I can’t wait.  I’m off to beat my drums with sticks while not smiling.

“No, it always has to be explained to me, and then I have to have someone explain the explanation.”

Off Switch

I accomplished a great deal yesterday. Today, I’ve barely managed to pull off the mandatory tasks. I squeaked by with incredible effort. I can’t believe it’s early evening. I feel it should be around 2 PM at the latest. So much for my plan to turn in early tonight.

My off switch has never worked properly. Once I’m engaged in a task, it’s difficult to stop. I’d like to believe I have a bit of control over it, despite evidence to the contrary. I haven’t definitively determined what triggers it to become worse. Not even close. I have two hypotheses; both discouraging. Sigh.

I love being completely absorbed in what I’m doing. It’s like stepping out of time, letting go of everything, including my body, and focusing only on what I’m doing. Leaving that state makes me want to weep. But I’ve accepted I must, often. Not doing so often enough is the equivalent of living under a rock.

I’ve learned it’s not the way I want to exist, much as I love it. It murders my ability to socialize, for starters. (I’m always going to regret not finding out about Stevie Nicks sooner.) There are excellent reasons to check in with the rest of the world on a regular basis, and I’m absolutely interested.

The thing is, acknowledging the world outside my head is borderline sadistic. There’s a shitload of pain out here, and I’m unshielded. I don’t have the experience in coping necessary to navigate without rivers of tears; so I tend to retreat when I sense I’m failing and have no clue what I’m doing wrong. (I despise that feeling.)

My decision to attend a Fleetwood Mac or Stevie Nicks concert in the future is turning out to be an effective retreat deterrent. (At least when it’s voluntary.) I need to stay connected, so I’ll know when they go on tour. I already had the terrible, awful nightmare where I discover I missed out because I was too distracted to get tickets. I woke up and immediately began bawling like it really happened. I’m such a doof. Heh. But it was horrible!

I’m going to work out a new time management strategy. I keep adding new things, but there are still only 24 hours in a day. My bad. This is my reward for bragging about my math skills, eh? The universe is hilarious (sometimes.) I’m off to read.

“I hate asking for change. They always make a face. It’s like asking them to donate a kidney.”

Radioactive doll

I’m closer to mastering The Art of Not Making It Weird.  I’m ready to graduate from Just Because You Think It, Doesn’t Mean You Should Say It 101.  I believe the next course is, Yay, You Didn’t Say It! Now Stop LOLing Over It; It’s Still Weird.  Effing sigh.  (My prodigy turned 13.)

I suspect I hurt the feelings of someone I care about a great deal.  I did it unintentionally because I was masking intentionally.  Sometimes, rather than admitting I’m unable to do a task without significant clarification and assistance, I seek an alternative.

Sometimes, I don’t find one before stressing out over how long I’ve spent searching.  In those instances, I usually just go silent and add the stress to the pile of things that make my stomach hurt until I figure out how to discharge them.

Then I low-level analyze.  It’s how I recognized where I probably went wrong.  I also noticed I had an underlying shameful motivation.  Part of why I chose an alternative is because I was subconsciously (?) upset someone (whom I decided should just know without my saying a word) didn’t see it as something I couldn’t do without the patient assistance of another.  (I hate asking for help with things I think I should be able to do on my own.  Issue #29078145.)

Yep.  Hella audacious of me.  I brought luggage to the situation, and it’s led to hurt feelings.  😶  I don’t want to be an adult right now.  I just want to cry it out, then apologize, and hide for a while.  But I don’t even know if it’s appropriate to apologize for something I’m merely intuiting (assuming.)  (Glares at the center of the universe.)

You know, being an adult usually isn’t worth being able to have animal crackers and Mt. Dew for breakfast.  Even worse, you can only do it every so often, or the bill comes due, and the interest is hellacious.  I’m stuck.  I’m going to listen to Lorde and figure out what to do.

p.s.  My band doesn’t have a name yet.

“So, Elaine. Are you going to dance this year?”

Beautiful and alive

I’d like to take a moment to share something important to me.  I’m surprised it’s come up, but at least now I know I need to do this.  If you encounter someone dancing to an internal rhythm, the proper etiquette is to stop what you’re doing, pick up the beat, and join in.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a good dancer.  Be cool enough to dance, anyway.  The only way you can fail at this experience is to stand there and stare as if you’re new, (on earth.)  Bob your head and move your feet, spin your wheelchair if you have one, or something.  Bust the moves you’ve been practicing for years in front of the mirror alone in your room.

It’s proper because you’re answering the unspoken question;  You’re saying, “Yes, I’m beautiful and alive.”  It’s one of those things I don’t feel comfortable saying with words, (because I was raised to fear hippies.)  So if you were previously unaware of this bit of human language, now you know.  You’re welcome.  Tell a friend.

I’ll let you imagine the scenario that led to this nano-rant.  🙃  I’m super excited because I get to play drums with other musicians tomorrow.  I’m bringing my violin, just in case.  (I know, but I’d be so sad if for once it was welcome and I didn’t have it.)

I’d better take a Benadryl tonight, or I won’t sleep.  I got a contract at work to create a custom AI with precise parameters.  I can’t say what, which is unfortunate because it’s hilarious (to me.)  I spent at least ten minutes thinking about how incredible is the human mind after making sure I understood the project.

flashduh

I also have a logo to create, so I’m anticipating a fun weekend.  I changed up my creative workstation a bit to flow better.  Also, I’m using a better mechanical keyboard for typing a book, now.  (It’s a WASD.)  And I replaced my wireless mouse with a Mionix Castor because it’s a dream for creative apps.  I figured out how to use the flash for the photo, so it’s not as painful to view.  😂