structured rant

I used to talk a lot when I was younger. I'm actually embarrassed by that. I'd like to think that this was because for a long time I didn't have much of a life. Being excitable and bright-eyed and really really young, I wanted everyone to like me. At seventeen, my life was a sterilized bubble of high school and religion. At eighteen I got a taste of something else, something completely different. Naturally I reverted back into the bubble for a year, but at nineteen I re-emerged. Of course, I still talked a lot because I still didn't have a lot going on, but with getting to know all sorts of people through work, school, and life in general, I've been able to channel whatever verbal word count I exceeded into print. It doesn't come nearly as easily, but there is the convenient benefit of self-editing.

I just don't like it when people talk a lot. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable. I often end up somewhere in the middle, wondering if they want me to participate or if they're just ranting and I should just sit by and let them go until there's no more fuel to burn. As a result I've become an expert at tuning people out. I'm trying to modify that 'talent' because only recently have I found that I might actually be missing out on something by doing so. But I can't help it. Sometimes people don't know when to shut up.

I keep my opinions to myself, unless they're spelled out on my face. It's not that I don't care; it's that most of the time I'm just too tired to respond. Unfortunately I think that I've fallen into the category of "Well, we'll just have to see how things pan out, shall we?" and "There's little to nothing that we can do at this point so why worry so much about it?" This would involve a lot of internalizing and blow-ups that just aren't pretty. I need to work on this if I would like for people to consider me dependable and decent. However, I don't need everyone do like me. I don't want everyone to like me as much as I'd rather a choice few think I'm intelligent with a reserved, neutral personality. As long as the universe knows that I'm reliable and don't contradict myself, I could really care less otherwise.

My day job involves listening for key phrases and controlling the conversation; keeping things short, sweet, and to the point. Benefit and detriment, that, but something I couldn't do before. I've gradually incorporated that into daily dealings, and as a result I actually like people, although not always. I just wish I could target what's my deal in that 'silence is golden' should be practiced by others, and not merely a suggestion flashed on a movie screen right before the previews.

Yeah, that's it.

/structured rant

Why I Love Lady Gaga

Television has reminded me that Lady Gaga is considered to be a "new artist". On Sunday, September 13, she will be in the running for a number of honors at the MTV Music Awards, one of these being "best new artist". This post is pretty much to highlight why I happen to be drawn to this particular artist.

My first exposure to Lady Gaga was on Livejournal community ohnotheydidnt, a place for entertainment commentary both scathing and adoring. When photos of Lady Gaga started showing up rather frequently, I couldn't help thinking who the hell was this person impersonating Christina Aguilera, and why wasn't she wearing any pants?

Last December, my younger brother showed me a video on YouTube for a song called "Just Dance" by this artist, Lady Gaga. The music video involved a lot of drinking, making out, pimp cups, and wading in inflatable pools. I pretty much said to him in response, "Oh my God; what's wrong with these people? Is this what fun looks like?" Being a twenty-something, I should probably know the answer to that question, but it's safe to say that I don't.

Fast forward to - for some reason - listening to a song called "Poker Face". I actually really dug the song - the heavy beats, the synths, the glittery effect, yet the personality behind the voice belonging to this Lady Gaga person. I ended up watching the video on YouTube, naturally, and found that between 10 and 10:15 that evening I had watched/re-watched and replayed certain scenes at least a ten left-clicks. For some otherworldly reason I was transfixed by the stomping, platinum, electric blue hussy. She was by no means a lady. Two minutes later I was downloading the song on iTunes.

About two or three months ago, whilst on YouTube yet [again] I had seen one of those preview screencaps of the music-video-to-be-premiered, "Paparazzi". She had me at the subtitles and softcore faux foursome on the Victorian-era couch.

My playlists consist of only three of her songs - the aforementioned - and one music video. One of these days I'll own The Fame, a physical copy on sale at Target, probably. Naturally she has a great production team behind her - someone's running the show, but not enough to tell her what not to wear. God, what an amazing, effed-up sense of style. If she wore the same thing twice, those watching would definitely know; she's that out there. Most things on the runway aren't 'meant' to be worn in day-to-day life unless incorporated in a vanilla fashion. In a sense Lady Gaga is a walking, heaving-chested runway - especially with the suit of Kermit the Frogs. She takes chances, she not classically sexy, and her personality (I would like to think) is the oomph that differentiates her from other artists. Different, in a way that used to be and probably is still considered to be odd and a sign of trying too hard, but somehow manages to work.

Although, it probably helps that I've barely heard her opinion. Actually, I don't think I've ever heard her speaking voice. If I did, that would probably change everything.

(Editor's note: I was born in 1985. Cut me some slack.)

Lately

I've been a little behind, with much apologies.

My folks went on their pretty-much-yearly trip to the Bahamas for two weeks by way of the Disney Cruise Line, and being a good daughter, I house-sat for them. Being that I'm one of their five children still living in the state of California, it was the most decent thing to do. Two weeks of a house, playing nursemaid to their two dogs and one cat, and most importantly, a fridge and pantry full of food. By full, I mean "could easily throw a party for twenty with this much food" full. A set-up such as this would ordinarily be heaven for your normal, average single individual, but considering that I'm neither normal nor average, I pretty much went through various levels of WTF in the last two weeks: where the positives were negatives, and what were once negatives were positives.

For one thing, I was provided full use of one of their [five] vehicles with which to drive to and from my place (to take care of my felines), to work, and to their place. Ordinarily my commute involves either a twelve-mile bicycle ride to and from work or by-luck use of Metro's services - no matter what, I am getting exercise at some time during a normal 12-14 hour day. However, with the car, although I was able to be rested and relaxed while driving to and from, well, everywhere, I was unable to be active for the time it was given me. Sloth, frumpy, and unattractive just covers the surface of how I felt. When my parents returned this past Saturday evening, I made sure to go on a 25-mile bicycle ride the very next day.

It must be said as well that with the time given me to enjoy by myself, I didn't really enjoy it at all. It's odd that the house in which one grows up in as a child does not feel like home without the instigators of the idea. And with work and commuting and responsibility taking the majority of my time, there was little time for fun. There was no Downtown ArtWalk for me. Whatever free time there was was bookended by thoughts of being here, being there, and oh Hell, I have to work tomorrow (don't get me started about work; that will take at least three paragraphs). I missed my roommates, who conveniently double as more than good friends and chosen family. And the wireless service at my folks' house? Sucks, as far as my laptop is concerned; their machines, available though they were, proved to be slow like honey. So what I consider to be purposeful work (writing) didn't get done within my or anyone else's timeframe. I turned in a blurb today, with no muss, no fuss. A review will be in tomorrow. Needless to say, I feel uber empowered at the thought of a reliable operating system and frakking high speed internet. Life's simple pleasures, indeed.

I'm a creature of habit, as we all are. In the last two years, I have become master of my domain. My domain, my control ship. Were that change were completely within our control, I think it would be welcomed a lot easier; however, that's not how it will ever work.

I am catching up.

Explanation, please?

This morning I woke up from a dream in which I was going through a bunch of my dad's old memories in a closet/on a shelf, etc. One of these memories was a box of greeting cards that had the image of two white women with angry, justice-is-served faces, and a black man crying; the other image was of a boat sailing in the ocean, resembling some sort of people-freighter. The box, a sort of faded green color, was labeled with the phrase: "Some boys make bad mistakes." In the dream, I opened the box and inside was a short letter from my sister to my dad, which read:

"Dear Pop,

I'm sorry; I only realized what this was when I opened up the box. Maybe one day Lindsey can send me a birthday card.

Love,
Jessica"

It was then that I woke up.

I've no idea where all that came from, either, but damn it if it wasn't amusing enough to remember.

Dead and gone

Thinking about the past can be both positive and negative. This evening, my thinking about the past is, unfortunately, a negative - which is funny, because not too long ago (read: last week), it was a positive.

Relationships end. Live and let live. But strangely enough, it's likely that the part of your self that was invested in said relationship will die along with it. It's been a slow death in my case, one five-and-a-half years in its duration. I've found happiness and richness in other relationships since, but it's difficult to really forget the way 'it' felt the first time. The newness of love, the spark, the desire. Or was that lust? I wouldn't have been able to tell you the difference then. Looking back, it was a delicate mixture of both. But there's only so much one can take. I understand that now.

The universe deals second chances in some ways, but doesn't in others. I would love it were I given a second chance, but I truly am thinking I was lucky enough to have been enjoyed the time while it lasted.

Yes, I am aware of the awkward drop off. Such is life.

Happy 4th of July...

...from within the walls of my cubicle.

I shouldn't complain, though, as I had yesterday off from work. With these four-day work weeks, I've actually been able to enjoy some sort of summer vacation from school, which has virtually been unheard of in the last three years. While I haven't necessarily gone stale yet, I haven't been as active in social circles as I'd've liked. I am going to need to work on that.

I acknowledge that I haven't been writing here often as of late, and the reason for that I must admit is the little compact thought processor also known as Twitter. I've been enjoying cramming my thoughts into 140 characters. In some odd way it forces the person doing the conveying to be precise with their words, while allowing room to be creative, if applicable. Feel free to follow me; I'm sure we'll have a good time together.

Writing, reading, working - such is life as of late. Still no car, still no winning lottery ticket. Life is one day if not one moment at a time, and it's working out for now. Viewing life in such a way keeps me from freaking out about the future. For once in my life I'm totally uncertain as to what the future holds, where I'll be in a year when it comes to everything - professionally, in relationships, with school, living quarters, everything. It's all up in the air, subject to change. Living in the moment is the equivalent to living in a bubble filled with pure oxygen - it's safe... until it's popped, that is.

Should that moment arise, I hope to not break out in hives. Or, you know, die from exposure. Let's think the best, shall we?

Post-school days

School is done with for the semester. It has literally been a whole day and a half and already I'm feeling a little weird. I'm positive that I won't be on the same campus that I have been for the last three years, adding classes and frequenting the library and the student store, experiencing late nights over an energy drink studying my brains out -- it's over at that location, at least. Right now I'm in a bit of limbo as I transfer from one school to the next (hopefully in the spring). I'm trying to figure out what next to do in the meantime. Considering that unfortunately I haven't been getting much satisfaction from writing lately (this semester was chock-full of writing, so much that rewrites and proofreading was out of the question) which is just... unheard of for me. Since I was thirteen, writing has always been a means of escape. My boyfriend suggested to me that I carry a notebook with me and set a number of pages to write every day and stick to it. The content doesn't matter, just free-flowing verses and phrases and observations and weavings of words, just to do it is the goal. So I will. Merely observing isn't enough; it is given life when on paper, even though it is frozen in space.

So that's what I'll be doing. Until I can get my transcripts together from this past semester, I'm also going to look into a dance class - what kind I don't yet know; swing? Modern? Jazz? Belly dancing? - and just... figure something out. More late-night bicycle rides? Reading more? The last thing I want is to go stale.

I don't know how you all do it.