Spoiled?

I had a discussion about upper-class cities today, and it got me thinking about wealth and opportunity.

Opportunity eludes some (perhaps many), and it’s often unfair.  For example, a surgeon who moves from India to Canada is forced to work at Tim Horton’s because his degree is not transferrable and he can’t afford to upgrade.  That’s difficult, because some people assume older people in the customer service industry are there because they can’t get a “real” job.  They just couldn’t earn some marketing degree because they were too busy, I don’t know, failing at life.

This phenomenon is, of course, unfair.  Anyone who’s ever worked a minimum-wage job during their high school/college/university years knows that it’s hard to be intermittently condescended to based on an apron.  Everyone who has to ask “do you want fries with that?” knows that there’s a lot of jokes about imbeciles who have to ask wealthy and accomplished lawyers that question everyday.

On the other end of the spectrum is the obvious disdain some people have for those with comfortable salaries and upper-middle class homes.

This – though perhaps less disagreeable because those on the receiving end may sleep easy with the knowledge that the surly complainer is probably jealous – is still irritating.  

When you’re born with a little more than you need (or a lot more), you must be aware that your circumstances are, financially speaking, sometimes enviable.  Money doesn’t make people happy, but it makes them less worried about survival, which must lead to some increase in overall well-being.

Last year, I held a cushy 9-5 office job and got paid reasonably well for doing nothing.  I usually arrived five to 10 minutes late, took a lot of tea breaks, and played around on Facebook.  When it came time to work, I keyed numbers into a program and sorted invoices.

I hated it.

It made me want to die.

I hated the white walls and the blue carpet and the constant hum of the air conditioner.  I hated the shitty soft-rock on the radio and the swivel chairs and the loud conversations about nothing (most of which I probably started).  

Every afternoon I contemplated a nervous breakdown or a sudden heart-attack, anything that would promise some time off.  

I knew that I should’ve been grateful that I wasn’t serving coffee or bagging groceries or scrubbing bathrooms (all of which I’ve done, and one of which I do now), and I knew that most people thought I was lucky to have a “family business” to go to.  In fact, every time I complained about the rotten cesspool that was my decomposing brain, I’d often hear, “but you’re so lucky, I’d love to get paid for doing nothing.”

I’m telling all of you naysayers and doubters that you’re wrong.  

A promised position in a family company made me feel more useless and lazy than a barista or a grocery store cashier.  When you’re working with your hands and doing something for others, the lowness of your occupation compared to, like, the prime minister, doesn’t matter.  You’re busy, you’re working, and you’re getting something done.  You may not want to do it forever, but maybe it’s good enough for the time being.

When you’re sitting in a chair staring at a monitor with a bright blue screen and big yellow letters wearing stupid dress pants and ugly leather shoes (Stacy and Clinton would have died), you feel like a fat-assed, sedentary drain on the system.  A big speckled fish that sucks algae off the bottom of an expensive fish tank.

I wasn’t “lucky.”  I didn’t ask for that opportunity, I didn’t demand that the company make room for me.  But, since it was there and I was fresh out of school, I took the job.  I took it because it was easy, and because I didn’t have to work for it.

I think that, occupationally speaking, that was the worst year of my life.  Other great things happened, but while I sat in that building for eight hours, I felt nothing but disgust for myself.

It doesn’t really matter what you’re given.  You’re not lucky if you’re not happy, and sometimes fortune isn’t fortune at all if you’re better off without it.  

If you think you’ll be happier working in a bakery than at your mom’s law firm, then fill out that application.  Don’t let anyone tell you to appreciate the opportunity to make money while someone else vacuums the men’s aisle at Wal-Mart.  Sometimes, believe it or not, vacuuming is better than slouching over an old PC creeping Facebook all day.

Don’t feel guilty about “not appreciating a great opportunity.”  Monotony just kills the soul.

A Burning Question

So, I’m kinda a member of the press now.

Well, not quite.  I write for a college newspaper, and I write for free.  In fact, I write because it’s a program requirement. However, it’s been a challenge, and a rewarding one at that.  

Anyways, I think I may have made some kind of etiquette or journalistic faux pas today.  Perhaps it was merely a professional one, I don’t know.

I’m writing a somewhat important story about some wayward support-gathering tactics used by a prominent political party.  I’m not the first person to talk about it.  This isn’t a Woodward/Bernstein thing, though it would be cool if it was.  I’d like respect and notoriety at a young-ish age.  If I had it, I wouldn’t have to worry about proper phone etiquette, for people would be calling me.  

So, because this is a somewhat important story, it requires me to contact somewhat important people.  Today, I called a politician, and when his assistant answered the phone, I just asked for the person for whom I was calling.  The assistant seemed kind of surprised, and did a little, “umm, uhh” sort of thing before asking about the nature of my call.  

I guess you can’t just ask for a politician the way you’d ask for your friend when you’re bored and want to talk about America’s Next Top Model.  

Are you supposed to be like, “Hi, I’m so and so, and I want to talk to Mr.____ about this, can you help me?”  

Was it brash and ignorant and rude of me to ask to speak directly to an important elected official?  Did I come off as amateur and socially awkward, or ballsy and assertive?  

I think the former.

Damn.

“It’s winter in Canada, what do you expect?

When I say “Jesus Christ it’s ridiculously cold today,” I don’t want to hear, “well, it’s January in Canada.”

I know it’s January in Canada.  I also know that in previous Canadian Januaries, the seasonal norm has been, like, -2C to -5C.  Not -14C every day for a month.  It’s bone-breakingly cold outside.  It hurts – hurts! – when naked flesh on your face is lightly grazed by the icy arctic winds.  In mere seconds, gloved hands go numb.  The wind ices your very bones!  Every time I walk through the school parking lot, I know that should I trip, I’ll break every frozen bone in my body.  One slip, and I’m going to be scattered across the pavement in a million frozen pieces.

Fuck this “typical winter weather.”  There’s nothing typical about this bone-chilling cold and mountain-high snow.   Nothing!

Oh, and on a happier note (to me, at least), I might become an English tutor.  My humble applications have been processed and deemed worthy, and now I just have to write some kind of proficiency quiz in the next week or so.  The money made might be meager, but it’s better than nothing (which is what I’m earning right now).

Here’s hoping it works out.

In the meantime, enjoy the frigid temperatures.  Or, if you live somewhere warm, the beautiful ones.

I Live!

Disclaimer: I started writing this entry about two weeks ago and abandoned it.  I’m only posting it now because I suddenly remembered it was sitting in my draft box. 

I haven’t written an entry in far too long.  I feel like I’ve been neglecting a good friend, one deserving of much more respect and attention.  I actually haven’t written anything lenghty  or important in awhile, and I feel guilty.

However, that guilt shall soon be assauged.  I have to write several papers – short ones, granted – as a part of the college application process.  I bit the bullet, as it were, and applied for several journalism programs.  I now may be able to post-pone real-life for another two years, which is wonderful. 

Life in the working world – or this working world, at least – is dour and depressing.  I’m doing something I’m not fit to do, mentally or psychologically (are those two one in the same?).  It’s exhausting because it’s disheartening and monotonous.  It makes me want to take up scrap-booking, and I’ve never been one for such crafty pursuits.

Yes, I was bad at Arts & Crafts as a child.  My writing was crooked, my drawing pitiful, and my gluing messy.  When I was little, I sometimes had trouble colouring inside the lines.  It was, at the time, a great source of shame and embarrassment.

For those who say they miss their childhood, what about it do you miss?

Childhood is one of the most difficult things one has to endure – and endure it we must, all of us.  Pre-adolescence is the time when you’re most co-dependent and insecure.  You can’t do things on your own, you certainly can’t expect to be taken seriously, and thus you absorb people’s bullshit like a sponge.  Childhood is when life-long insecurities take root.  There may not be a lot of 10 year-old alcoholics, but there’s no doubt things that happen to 10 year-olds that turn them into 40 year-old drunks. 

I never long for the “carefree” days of my childhood.  I prefer to be able to drive and vote and drink and come and go as I please.  I’d take bills over elementary school recess any day. 

The best time of life?

When you’re enjoying yourself on your own terms.  That can’t really happen when you’re 11 – or at least, it didn’t happen to me. 

Now that I’ve officially decided to try going back to school, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders.  I have made a decision – a wise one, at that.  I’m going to toy with the idea of working in media for a little while longer.  I know it’s what I want to do, I’m just not quite sure how or when to start.  This, I think, is a step in the right direction.

In the meantime, I shall reward myself for enduring the daily drudgery of office work (a curse I, admittedly, bestowed upon myself) with late weeknights (and weekends) spent with good friends and hot lovers.  Well, there’s only one lover – but really, I’m a simple woman and I only need one . 

….

 

All of the above was written a couple of weeks back.  I’ve since completed my college applications, but there’s been some administrative fuck-ups regarding those.  As of now, circumstances have compelled me to put all of my eggs in one wait-listed basket.  We’ll see how things go.

 

 

Random Thoughts About Nothing

I’m at work, and I should be working.  However, I hate my job. 

I’ve been saying that for awhile now, and I stand strongly behind my convictions.  Still, I haven’t much right to complain, for I’ve done little to improve my situation.  I stay here because it’s comfortable, structured, and financially-appealing.  I have my evenings and weekends to myself – which, I confess, is important to me.  I like to spend my nights socializing, or sitting.  I should be setting aside a few nights a week for some researching/writing.  However, I’m lazy.  Sloth is my Achilles Heel and Kryptonite.  I’d come up with other literary and pop culture references, but I can’t think of any at the moment.

Maybe I should go back to school; perhaps take a college journalism course.  That way I’d be guaranteed a work placement, and I could go from there. 

Then I’d have no money, and would have to put my dream of moving out on hold.  Again.

I don’t understand why some people drink so much water. 

Seriously, some people go through three or four bottles a day.  Does the body need that much?  Perhaps I’m strange, for I rarely get thirsty or feel the need to hydrate. 

I came across an article that said that a sedentary lifestyle (which is what mine is, to be sure) can cause a spontaneous pulmonary embolism (a potentially fatal blood clot in the lung).  I sit far too often, which puts me at risk.  I could have one of those bad boys tomorrow.  Or not, because of my age – I hope. 

Still, that leads to me to my next idea.

A friend has asked me to try out kickboxing with her.  I’m intrigued, and interested.  I could use the exercise, because I don’t get much sitting at a computer all day.  However, I’m afraid of athletic activities, and cheoreography is my mortal enemy.  I’m not a graceful woman.  I’m clumsy and awkward, no to mention stiff and slow.  I’d die if left to my own devices in the wild, and I’d come in last place in a race (that rhymed).  I can’t lift boxes or open jars.  I avoid running - jogging, even – at all costs.  I like to walk – saunter really – from place to place.  I like to gesticulate in a sitting position, perched on a chair or couch.  I exercise my voice (obnoxiously, perhaps).  I neglect my body.

I’d like to change that, but I fear public humiliation and shame.

Still, a little trail kickboxing lesson won’t hurt…

Speaking of exercise, I should walk my dog more – but he hates walking.  He’s a strange and vile beast, albeit an adorable one.  That, my friends, is why we keep him…

Lesbians make excellent writers.  That’s a blanket statement, but it’s flattering.  Are flattering blanket statements acceptable?  All blanket statements should probably be treated with scorn and annoyance, for allowing some would imply a weakness for unsubstantiated flattery.  Such a predilection is undignified, though understandable.

Still, I’ve found myself enthralled by creative projects created by lesbian writers.  They’re engaging, intelligent and in my opinion, fairly well-rounded.

The L Word?

Great show.

Sarah Waters?

Excellent author.

I’m not gay, but I seem to like a good gay story-line (or two or three).  I also like a good gay advice columnist (Dan Savage).

Every time I have nightmares, they always involve me being somehow unable to dial a phone.  I hit the wrong numbers over and over, panicing more and more as I continuosly fail at an astoundingly easy task.

Does anyone else have this problem? Or, at the very least, a passible analysis to offer?

I suppose I should get back to my tracking.

For now, I bid you adieu.  May I return with something of importance to say at a later date. 

Self-Indulgence

I have no issues to discuss today. 

Well, that’s not true.  I have issues, they’re just not important in the grand scheme of things.  In fact, they’re trivial and insignificant to everyone other than me.  Still, this is my blog, and therefore subject to my rantings and ravings.  I try to make them as interesting as possible, so as to avoid looking self-indulgent (but believe me, I am). 

Blogs are often criticized for increasing the self-importance of unimportant people.  Apparently people use them, sometimes, to write about issues that no one really cares about.  However, I don’t think that’s entirely true.  Someone out there can relate, and therefore someone cares.  Perhaps one blogger can articulate another’s emotions in a more concise manner. 

I’ve had an “off” week. 

I’m tired, moreso emotionally than physically. 

It seems that things have caught up with me.  It was Saturday, after a rather nice day spent in Niagara Falls, that I realized that I don’t know what I’m going to do now that school is well and truly over.  I’ve been working full-time for seven months, and I have no exciting or alluring job prospects waiting for me (probably because I haven’t really pursued them).

I have an intermittent writing gig for a fund-raising organization, but they rarely require (or perhaps desire) my input or contributions.  The woman I work for is fantastic, but she’s sometimes difficult to get a hold of, and is often at a loss as to how to include me in upcoming projects.  I’ve done one assignment in a month, and am currently working on a “we’ll call you when we need you” basis.  My portfolio is lackluster and pathetic.  I need to start freelancing, but I’m having a hard time motivating myself to do it. 

I didn’t get a promising internship that I wanted.  I’m not devastated, really, but rather a little disappointed in myself.  I believe I’ve missed out on a good opportunity.

I want to move out – nay, I feel that I should move out.  However, that would put a strain on some already strained relationships.  I need a certain degree of harmony in my life to be happy. I need to feel at peace with the people I interact with most often.  I loathe awkward tension and sustained anger.  It’s draining, annoying and discomfiting. 

I think my household would be a little more harmonious without me in it, but I know I’d still be missed (and resented for choosing to leave).  I think, for some parents, it’s hard to come to terms with the idea of an aging family.  Your children are your children, but they’re no longer children and cannot be treated as such. 

I’m not a respectful “tenant” anymore.  I understand that living rent-free obligates me to compromise my adulthood freedoms with lingering parental rules, but I’m no longer accepting it. 

I feel guilty and angry simultaneously. 

I could leave, but I’ll be strapped for money.  I’ll also char – not burn – some bridges that I’d like to keep intact.  To put things in perspective, things really aren’t bad enough to leave.  Yet, staying probably won’t work out too well in the long-run.  I like to come and go as I please, and that’s still difficult for me to do.  My mom isn’t strict per se, but she worries.  If my brother or myself come home late or don’t call, she assumes we’re dead.  She no doubt envisions anguishing eulogies every time she gets my voicemail on my cell.  Excessive worry runs in my family, it’s genetic – like heart-disease or cancer. 

To compensate, I invite my boyfriend over three or four times a week and use my parent’s basement as a hotel, essentially.  The parents are at the stage where they accept it only because there’s no real alternative.  My mom would rather I’d be home utilizing her furniture than utilizing empty parking lots where we’d risk, like, police intervention and stuff.

Still, it’s made things weird.  However, when I bring up the idea of renting an apartment, she backs off with her criticisms.  She’d rather have a desecrated leather couch than an permanently absent daughter.

Score one for the bad guy!

Still, she’s reeling from the sudden death of her father, and I understand that.  The logistics of looking after a deceased person’s disorganized affairs are overwhelming.  She has money to sort out, a will to decipher, lawyers to consult, a house to sell, and grief to nurture. 

To make things easier, I try to stay out of the way.  We’ve been having borderline explosive fights over the new dog (I wanted him, she didn’t – and yet she’s home all of the time and I’m not), and things have been contentious for several months.  I’ve made my share of mistakes, no doubt.  I’m dealing with things improperly.  However, I’m not quite sure how to deal with them properly.

A few days ago, I’d have said the best solution was to remove myself (and perhaps the dog) from the house.  However, last night she countered my suggestion with a, “we just need to spend more time together, that’s all.  Let’s go on a shopping trip soon!”  I like that idea.  Nothing fixes family tension like materialism (seriously, I’m not kidding).  There’s a strange, natural high that comes with over-spending on clothes.

Still, ever since I began feeling detached from the people at home, I’ve begun to wonder who else resents my flighty ways and shitty decisions.  Call me neurotic (I can be), but I feel other people – important people whom I care about – rapidly losing patience with me. 

If any of these fine people read this blog: I’m sorry.  I’m sorry about bailing on club nights and being surly over dinner/drinks.  I’m sorry if I go from distant to whiny and needy in seconds.  This, too, shall pass.  I’ve always been bad with change, and my life is changing. 

Maybe I should dedicate Sunday afternoons to writing a sexually explicit novel about ridiculous and improbable things.  I’ve always wanted to do that. 

For those poor souls who may or may not have read this entire entry, I apologize for boring you with my meandering musings.  It was very “emo” of me, and I’m a little embarrassed.  At the same time, I needed to waste time at work writing about nothing.  Doing that almost always makes me happy.

“Hello Darkness, My Old Friend”

Irrelevant blog title, but a cool one nonetheless. 

I’m at work. 

It’s snowing, which means I might get to to leave at 4:00 instead of 5:00. 

I had a latte this morning. 

All in all, it’s been a satisfactory day despite my tiredness.  I didn’t get to bed until 2:30 last night (or rather, this morning), but I was up for a good reason.  A sexy reason, if you will.  To put it more bluntly – for the confused and charmingly (perhaps cutely) slow-witted – I was kept awake by sex itself.  So I’m tired in a content kind of way, if that makes sense.

I haven’t much pontificating to do at the moment.  That’s not to say there’s nothing to pontificate about (there’s plenty), but I’m a little out of touch with issues of vast political importance.  I blame that on being out of school and having little inclination to read newspapers or watch TV.  This will pass, I assure you. 

I have job opportunities at the moment.  One will, I believe, work out.  The other probably wont.  I applied and was accepted to a seemingly competitive government internship program that, according to the organization’s website, I’m not supposed to talk about in great depth or detail.  It’s sort of like Fight Club, only less exciting – much less exciting. 

Anyways, I had to write an entrance exam last week and I feel ambivalent about it.  It probably went well, just not exceptionally well.  I can only hope that, to my surprise, I’ll have scored phenomenally high.  It took me so long to get there – and believe me, the journey was a perilous and difficult one – that I almost want to believe I’m fated to move up and on in the program.  I survived poor directions, wrong-turns, and crippling hopelessness to make it to the test centre with three - yes, three – minutes to spare.  I looked dishevelled, stressed, and shockingly under-dressed (there were a surprising number of people in suits), but I made it. 

Still, my hopes aren’t high.

I’ve applied to volunteer (yes, such a process does exist) at a fund-raising foundation at a hospital.  I’m looking at writing letters, annual reports, and blurbs.  I also expect to do some light research and make phone calls.  I’ll be gaining some experience working in public relations, which is good.  I won’t be paid for my efforts, but constructing a more recent, relevant and well-rounded portfolio is slightly more important than adding to my horribly meager condo fund. 

The radio station at work has been playing a lot of upbeat 60s music today.  Mindless, joyful stuff.  Not a bad thing to listen to in a sterile office, I don’t think.  Actually, I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for 60s pop since ending up at 60s night at a small, appealingly skanky bar several months back.  It was a surprisingly good night, even though nothing particularly memorable or exciting happened.  

Actually, I just thought about something of value to talk about. Unfortunately I have not the time to address the subject, which will require a longer and more thoughtful analysis than I’m at liberty to give at present.  I have lots of invoicing to do and only a half hour left to do it.

The topic is Discovery Channel health shows.  I watched several this past Sunday as I entertained the new-ish puppy (who’s an adorable, charming, satanic little monster). 

Perhaps I’ll discuss it later.  Like tomorrow, if the blogging mood strikes.

 I think this was the most unfocused entry I’ve ever written.  I blame the happy exhaustion. 

Mistakes and the Like…

I rear-ended someone on the way to work this morning. 

I could make excuses for myself.  The road was wet, the guy in front of me abruptly slammed on his breaks, etc.  The truth of the matter is that I was making three mistakes simultaneously:

1) I was concentrating on changing the station rather than steering.

2) I was following too closely.

3) Given the wet conditions, I was driving too fast.

So in a split second, I was slamming on my brakes and sliding into the back of a purple Ford.  It made an unappealing noise, the vibration of the ABS combined with cracking red plastic.  To make matters worse, the guy I hit slid into the SUV in front of him, leading to a three-car pile-up on a congested highway.

We all pulled over.  It was hard to hear each other over the roar of morning traffic, and the spray from other car’s tires was hitting our faces as we examined the damage (most of which I, thankfully, sustained). 

The guys were nice enough.  The one with SUV took my information, but said not to expect a phone call.  His vehicle suffered no visible damage.  The man I hit has a bent license plate to contend with, but that’s the extent of the carnage.  I’m not expecting to hear from him either -but if he calls I’ll gladly cough up however much it’ll cost to fix the minor damage. 

I doubt he’ll insist on going through insurance. 

At least, I hope he wont. 

So needless to say, today has been a “bad day.”  It’s a different animal from the internalized bad day, in which one feels out of sorts.  This is the circumstantial bad day, in which things occur that are decidedly unpleasant.  A circumstantial bad day has more to do with fender benders, break-ups and firings than lack of sleep or existential angst.  And, I must admit, this is the first traditionally circumstantial bad day I’ve experienced in roughly three months. 

I suppose I was due for one.

However, I have no one to blame for it but myself.  I was careless.  I no doubt validated two people should they have believed (like many men before them), that blond women don’t belong behind the steering wheel of a car. 

I’m normally a good driver, I swear!

My plastic bumper is cracked to shit and my license plate is dented beyond repair, so it’ll have to be replaced.  The bumper might have to be as well.  I’ll take the car in for an estimation on Wednesday. 

I’m not opposed to leaving the bumper as is, but we’ll see.  I’m not under the illusion that I drive a beautiful or prestigious car.  It’s not monstrous, but it’s not sexy either.  Aesthetics aren’t of great concern to me.  Perhaps they would be if I drove a Mercedes, but I don’t. 

On an unrelated note, I’ve made some seemingly subconscious New Years resolutions.  I think that, in some cases, writing your resolutions down or speaking them aloud in the presence of others jinxes them.  Sudden passion is often the worst kind, as it fades faster than long-term, gradual, sustained passion.  Sure, it’s exciting to decide one morning that you’re only going to buy organic fruits and vegetables from that point on.  But the chance of you sticking to such a resolution is slim, especially once you notice the change in your grocery bill. 

Life changes need to be made gradually, and your mind (and sometimes wallet) needs time to adjust.  Rapid changes are jarring, and jarring changes can feel like ill-fitting ones.  Just as you won’t love your new dress shoes the first time you wear them, you wont feel complete the moment you order a salad instead of chicken wings. 

You need to decided – over a reasonable period of time – whether you’re truly dedicated and motivated.  You can’t go for three-hour runs four times a week when the only movement you’ve ever known is the brief walk from your car to the office.  You have to work your way there, and want to keep working.

It took a long-standing general malaise to compel me to make changes.  I needed to sit for awhile in my own dissatisfaction (like a monkey sitting in its own poop), before I realized the stench was worsening, and needed to be abandoned. 

Gradually, I learned what was working for me and what wasn’t.  My mind changed, then my actions followed. 

Oddly enough, whenever I’ve said, “I’m going to do this starting now!” – I haven’t.  Now, when I’ve made no conscious decision to shift my focus, it has suddenly shifted – in a good way, I think.  I guess it was just time, and a part of me realized and accepted that. 

A Box Free of Soap

No soap-boxing today.

That’s not to say that there’s nothing to soap box about, I just don’t feel like doing it.  It’s Christmas-time, and I don’t have any energy.  

However, this is the first Christmas I’ve actively looked forward to since, like, childhood.  The last time the idea of Christmas brought me any sort of joy was when I was in grade 8.  I don’t feel particularly high-spirited, but I’m looking forward to the break (however brief it’ll be, now that I work full-time).  My two-day vacation will break up my monotonous (scarily so, these days) schedule. 

I don’t really like my job,  however fortunate enough I am to have it (and I know I should be thankful every time my alarm doesn’t go off at 5 am on a Friday morning indicating that the Starbucks pastry case needs tending to in a half hour).  Still, eight hours of paper-pushing isn’t what I had in mind for myself when I started school four years ago.  Then again, I’d be better off if I was more of a self-motivator.  Instead of actively looking for better opportunities, I often choose to sit.

In ten years, I might be that Hispanic liquor store janitor in Superbad saying, ”fuck my life.”    

I haven’t written anything substantial since school ended.  Sometimes, when I promise myself that I’ll schedule some much needed alone-time with Oscar (my laptop), I end up re-reading old essays, stories, blog entries and personal e-mails/Facebook messages and scowling at the screen.  I think of all the ways those pieces of writing could be improved upon, but I rarely start anything new.  I feel like I can’t, and I don’t know why. 

 A year ago, I used to think that my writing was best when my mind was clear – that is, free of immediate and self-centered concerns.  I suppose I thought that a distraction-free mind was a more rational one (which is probably true, but that’s neither here nor there). 

However, looking back at things I’ve written during extreme emotional highs and lows, I realize that they’re a bit better than the pieces I wrote while free of internal ecstasy/distress.  The problem is that times of unexpected happiness and sadness rarely compel me to write.  In fact, when the pendulum is swinging too hard to the left or right, I try to spend time away from Oscar (but he understands, and loves me anyways).   

Perhaps, to be successful, I need to be in a constant state of mental mania or anguish – with my very livelihood depending on churning out articles/stories/whathaveyou, etc.  I’ll write when I need to, when the circumstances are perilous and I have no choice.  When I’m not compelled, I tend not to.  Probably because I’m lazy and devoid of passion. 

Perhaps I’d have more motivation if I didn’t have a cushy, well-paying job to support my sedentary ass.  I suppose I haven’t experienced enough character-building situations in my life.  Some people might recommend some kind of bare-bones pilgrimage to change this, but that kind of journey isn’t in the cards for someone like me.  I’m too attached to daily comforts, like hair-dryers as powerful as Lear jets and expensive moisturizers infused with luscious scented botanicals. 

Besides, I did the whole back-packing thing this past summer, and it didn’t do much to fundamentally transform me.  I’d still die if I got lost in the wilderness.

In happier news, a puppy is on his way.  He’s a two-week old West Highland Terrier, and we get to take him home at the end of January. 

Pictures are coming – make no mistake of that.

“There’s a feeling I get, when I look to the west…”

That title has no real relevance to this post, I just heard Stairway to Heaven in the car today.  It’s not a song I often hear while driving, mostly because it’s old.  It’s classic, yes, but it doesn’t get a great deal of airplay.

It seems to me that current rock music, though occasionally soulful in its own right, is lacking the abstract passion of the songs of decades past.  It’s not all bad, nor is it all shallow, but it’s not as…prolific, dare I say?  It doesn’t contain as many long guitar solos and abstract allusions to metaphors you’d find in romantic era poetry. 

 I have no idea what Stairway to Heaven is about.  I don’t know what feeling I should get  when I look to the west.  I don’t know why there’s a lady standing on the road that I’m supposed to wind down on.  I don’t need to know to appreciate the song - and it’s a song I appreciate on more than an auditory level.  I’m a fan of most catchy beats, but they don’t hold any long-term fascination for me.   Stairway does, and I wasn’t even alive in the 70s. 

I suppose this entry’s title is relevant  . 

When I started this blog, I promised myself that I’d try to write once a week.  However, I’m not one to talk about my day.  Trust me, you don’t want to hear about it.  Almost every blog turns into an essay, albeit an “I” essay.  One occassionally laced with tasteful profanity – yes, profanity can be tasteful. 

One thing I’ve noticed is that most of this site’s hits come from people sifting through entries with sex tags.  I don’t judge, I do the same thing.  If I see a tag that says “anal sex”, I click – even though I’m not all that interested in rectal intercourse myself. 

So on an inappropriately sexual/mildly political/deeply controversial note, allow me talk about drunk sex - or rather sex had while a woman is drunk.

Some friends bought me The Guide to Getting it On for my birthday.  It’s a book about, yes, getting it on.  It’s long, intelligent, helpful, open-minded and appealing.  It touches on every subject associated with sexuality – kink, fetish, porn, biology, society, psychology and assault and abuse. 

Sexual assault and abuse are serious subjects.  They’ve been very real realities for an astounding number of people, male and female alike.  However, it would be unrealistic to say that adult men are at as great a risk of sexual battery and assault as adult women. 

The Guide is sympathetic towards victims, and rightfully so.  However, it declares women who have had sex under the influence of alcohol – willingly and enthusiastically – as much of victims as survivors of short and long-term sexual abuse.

That’s absurd.

If a woman consumes alcohol willingly, she’s made an adult decision.  If she chooses to leave with a man and proceed to have (or perhaps even initiate) sex with him, she’s made a choice, albeit one spurred on by imbibing potent liquids.  If her drink was drugged, or her protests to “just kiss/cuddle/sleep” etc were ignored, then yes, she was raped. 

However, if she consented to sex, she consented to sex.  Perhaps its sex she’ll regret, but her regret and embarrassment is less serious (and life-altering) than his potential imprisonment and life on a sex offender’s registry. 

Also, the book mentions that it’s a man’s – and only a man’s – responsibility to determine the extent of sexual activity when the woman has had more than one drink.  It is his duty, drunk or not, to err on the side of caution and refuse the woman’s advances.  This is a noble principle in theory.  However, in a situation where sex seems evident, it’s hard for some people (male and female, drunk and sober) to cease activity that is, in fact, consensual. 

And to be fair, some women get drunk in order to feel more comfortable initiating sex.  It’s common to consume at least a few drinks with a date/partner/fuck buddy/whathaveyou on any given evening.  Consuming some alcohol – even a lot of it – does not render most people immobile or unconscious (that said, no one has any right to initiate sex with someone who has blacked out).  It lowers ones inhibitions and leads to hasty decisions, yes, but it’s drank with those effects in mind. 

It is true that sleeping with a person far drunker than yourself could constitute you taking advantage of another’s altered state.  However, there is a difference between taking advantage of someone and brutally, maliciously assaulting them.  It’s not necessarily right and/or ethical to desire a woman simply because she’s drink and therefore more likely to engage in sexual activity.  But as long as that woman participates, willingly, in sexual intercourse, no legal recourse should follow the events of the evening. 

Yes, being used can leave one feeling vulnerable and upset, but these are feelings from which can gain some degree of wisdom.  But it’s not fair to have a man arrested for having sex with a conscious woman who said, “yes”, just as it would be unfair to prosecute a woman for having sex with an intoxicated but conscious man who said, “yes.” 

Just as you can’t blame a beer company for making you run naked through a suburban park at 2 am, you can’t blame a horny partner for your feelings of regret following a night of voluntary drinking and fucking. 

I’ve had sex while drunk.  I’ve had sex while very, very drunk.  I’ve felt compelled to do and say things during drunk sex that I might not do or say during sober sex.  However, I’d never dare accuse any of my partners of anything close to rape or sexual assault.  I’d expect actual rape/sexual assault victims to loathe me if I did.

Anyone can put down a bottle and go home at any time.  You know before you buy that drink exactly how you’re going to feel at the end of the night. 

Better to be the one experiencing a little morning-after embarrassment than two to 10 years in prison.