Chapter 1

In the future, thanks to an advance in technology, evolution becomes generational, instead of taking millennia. The resulting off-spring view their parents as backward cavemen.

We stared blankly at our girl as she stood at the edge of the cliff. We lived on a cluster of islands, and back in my generation, everyone had developed gills and webs growing up before we left our parents to perish slowly on the last island. Now here was our daughter, about to fly off onto the next island with her fellow fowl friends. It was only 20 years ago when we had her swaddled in her seahorse blanket with only her fish eyes peeping out.

Seeing her shed her scales and sprout feathers was traumatic for us parents. Our enterprising neighbor Larry made quite a profit from starting a baby scales memorabilia business. We got our trinkets made and delivered in no time, and all I had to do was blink twice using my iPhone5000sx.

Our respective children shot their individual disgusted looks at us one last time before taking off. We all cried. Not because of the ceremonious taking off of the children, but because from this point on, we had no experience of what was to happen next. All we felt presently was a tremendous guilt that had been absent when we left our parents.

I turned to my partner only to see my reaction reflected back at me. I was only 45. I was only halfway through my lifespan, although optimistically speaking. We had focused so much on the science of excelling evolution that we had overlooked all of the diseases that are prone to each form of animalistic traits. In addition to human disease like heart disease and cancer, we were dealing with anthropomorphic fish diseases like iridovirus and piscine tuberculosis.

After a long period of silence, we started making moves. Some of us swam off happily back toward our newly unburdened lives, some packed up and started swimming back to the last island, hoping to reunite with their parents, some just stood there, like me, unsure of what to do next, while Larry got busy thinking up some crazy mature nightclub industry that was sure to explode.

Chapter 1

You sold your sole to the devil. Due to a typo you can’t wear shoes anymore.

This particular devil has accidentally prevented a homonymous homicide. Thanks to his typo, I just have to be barefoot instead of a bare shell of a human. Continuing to live mindlessly while being rid of my soul would have been a case worse than death. What do you call a person who no longer has any desire, drive, or dreams? I’d rather be reincarnated as a carrot. Or worse, a misleading radish – alluring dark magenta on the outside, white and tasteless on the inside.

Don’t get me wrong, I was initially devastated that I could no longer fuel my shoe fetish (after I said my prayers to god and considered myself blessed of course). I tried to MacGyver some cardboard and string combo to put under the delicate bottoms of my feet but anything that I tried to attach under my feet would just incinerate instantly.  Thankfully, humans are quite adaptable and my feet calloused in due time.

But the devil really took his typo to heart. He banned me from eating sole (that ugly but delicious flatfish) and, here is the real kicker, I have to be married ASAP. That jerk pulled out the freaking dictionary and told me that because sole used to be used synonymously with unmarried, that I cannot be single for the rest of my life. Just when I had stopped looking finally and started enjoying being single, too.

And this devil, being the devil he is, proposed the most immediate fix – I could join his legion of wives in the Underworld Sector 3 (Aggravated Murder Division), find a suitor within 12 hours, or I could burn up into a neat pile of ash.

Challenge accepted.

I am not into politics but…

I am into any and all issues regarding identity.

I am an identity activist. I believe that everyone is faceted. I described my identity to my therapist once as a bag of marbles, each one with its own shine and color, contained in a mesh bag that can conform its shape to changing surroundings. We are all, for the most part, skilled marble drawers. Depending on the situation, we can display the one we feel the most appropriate. You can show up to a party and light the room. You can show up to a meeting and propose the best ideas. But sometimes, we get stuck on one marble and you can’t swap it out no matter how hard you try. You drop it back in the bag, again and again, but you keep picking the same one back up. You find yourself depressed even though everything in your life seems to be going right. You find yourself yelling at somebody when they’ve done nothing wrong. But it’s not always so bad. Because you can also laugh maniacally even though your world is crumbling apart. You can cry at a dog food commercial because the dog’s hair is sooooo fluffy. I think the bag of marbles analogy appropriately explains weird emotions that we don’t necessarily know the origins of.

Also, it would be exhausting to strive to be the same exact person all the time. You would become predictable…boring even. Some months you’re shy, some months you’re weird and inappropriate, and some months you give zero fucks about everything.

The important thing is to embrace all facets.

Trying to Love Myself

I feel that I am an optimist in general.

I don’t get easily upset or stressed about wordly matters, but I do get easily upset or stressed about minute matters. One time, I thought for eight hours on how I should ask my co-worker about her daughter’s surgery. I had to talk to myself the whole time, telling myself that I can do it. I can walk over there and talk to somebody that I barely know.

Child mutism. Social anxiety. Depression. Anxiety.

I am such a conflicting and messy product of nature and nurture. I cannot for the life of me, figure out where the nature part begins or ends. I believe that I am old enough to have done plenty of trial and errors. I have tried to be my most buoyant self, inserting myself into conversations, making eye contact, and greeting people like a normal person. People thought I was a complete airhead because I was laughing all the time. I quickly realized that I could not handle keeping such a facade for long. I value being honesty and intelligence and I was lying to myself and throwing away my values.

I weave in and out of introversion and extroversion constantly. I have giant ass tattoos, and I wear fashionable (or so people tell me) and provocative clothes. People have told me that their impression was that I would be outgoing. There is a disparity in identity that causes people to assume and expect certain behavior and personality out of me. What further adds to the confusion, is that I have trouble expressing emotions, yet have no trouble talking about inappropriate subjects, or things that are way too personal (threesomes, orgies, anal, you name it).

Just when I feel like I am getting close to figuring out who and what the fuck I am, I take some unanticipated 90 degree turn onto identity bumfuck and I have to figure out how to get back to society.

I am trying to love myself, but it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard. I hate myself so much that every day, I replay parts of the day over and over and drive myself crazy with regret. I hate myself so much, that the very act of living is a source of regret. Every word, every movement, is fuel for my self-loathing.

But-

God damn, I know that I am blessed. I am alive. I have loving people around me. I have nothing to feel ashamed of. If I don’t like me, nobody can like me. I have changed and made considerable progress. I just have to embrace myself and stop looking at the past so much.

Chapter 1

You can control the minds of people with almost no effort, but you only want to do one thing with your power.

I can control a person with a half-assed side glance, but I only want to watch TV.
I can have trailer-park-Jerry go make a consummate chicken vindaloo when I don’t even know who the hell Jerry is and Jerry doesn’t know what the hell vindaloo is.

But where do I learn about vindaloo and other spices of life? TV.

I can’t make this shit up by myself. How can I recreate dramatic story lines on real people if I don’t gain the inspiration first? How do I learn what’s normal so I don’t get caught? When I’m watching TV, I can imagine what it’s like to be normal, because I can’t control the people inside (because they have been pre-recorded. I have mind powers, not some magical time-altering bullshit).

When you control minds, you can mimic all sorts of things. But like all other too-good-to-be-true powers, you become bored. Do you have eternal life? You’re screwed. Do you have eternal youth? You’re screwed. Do you have meat vision? Screw me. Having meat vision, which I cannot find any cons to this (meat is expensive, y’all) other than maybe testicular cancer. This is one of those rare times that I can thank god for these female organs.

I do wish that I had acquired my power suddenly one day. Even that would’ve been more interesting. But no, I was born with this. You should be happy that I am an ignorant ingrate (howbow dah?). I could have plotted many evils up until now (insert devastating recent events here). I also could have prevented many evils up until now (presidential election pops into mind).

I think I was going somewhere with all of this, but I think I’ll turn on the TV while I gather up more material.

I knew I would

Third, “I am a multi-tasker:’ No you’re not. WeIl, you might be, but it’s difficult to imagine Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel or chiseling David with an iPod pumping out Rihanna. Turn off all devices so you can write without distraction, disruption, or temptation. Most writers most of the time need uninterrupted peace and tranquility.
– Carroll, Brian. Writing and Editing for Digital Media (2).

I anticipated this. I knew I would start something and let it meander away.

To be fair (here I present to you my excuses), I had to finish up school and find a job. And I did both of those things.

Now I sit at a desk all day. Something I always thought I would despise. Now that I am sitting at my first “real” job at the age of 27, I can say that it’s alright. I’d even say blessed (when I compare myself to homeless paraplegics).

All I can think about every day is, how can I get ahead?

Couples Counseling for an Ambivalent Personality

I started seeing a psychologist (again).

I kept explaining to him how I function in black’s and white’s, and how if I were gray, I would be a perfect person.

For example, when I react to something, I feel two opposing notions or emotions at the same time. I am depressive, but intrinsically optimistic. I always have body image issues (a girl can’t be thin enough), but I am also aware that I am kind of thin. I want to appear intelligent and put together, but I want to also appear fun, wild and uncensored (fuck oxford commas). To top it all off, I am bisexual.

My explication was more impassioned and detailed at the session, but hopefully it will become more clear as the post progresses.

After I finished talking, the psychologist said the magic word. Ambivalence. It is a word that I have long recognized to be an essential part of my constitution. He proposed an interesting idea. If I am dealing with these two parts that I have labeled as “black” and “white,” why don’t we personify them and have them be a bickering couple? Then you can write a dialogue between these two and find out why these two don’t get along.

Mind. Blown.

 

I never would have thought to break myself into facets and have them communicate to each other. I can’t wait to see what will get written down 🙂