fromthemouthofmoi

I forget that my mania manifests itself in this loopy dirge of what I refer to as my 'Marie Antionette' phase. I call it thus because when I am in its grips I can often be heard muttering: off with their heads! I become convinced that everyone is an idiot and a waste of space. I want forced sterilization brought back to the table for discussion. I have been know to snap and yell at companies or individuals who fail to provide good customer service. Why customer service rankles me so, I do not know but I sometimes think that people who are incapable of connecting dots tend to be drawn to this profession. When I am in the grips of this cycle I find a passion in beginning conversations with others for the sole purpose of getting the other to see what an idiot they are. I am determined to make a point. I am invincibly right, violently correct, blindly driven, and unable to sleep. You might immediately think that because a chemical imbalance swirls through my blood I must therefor...

I had been unhappy about the quality of people I have met here in Merida. I found them to be either raging alcoholics incapable of a decent conversation, uninteresting, not in their own right, but in terms of matching my interests, or from some place on the planet that infers that New Yorkers are obnoxious and to be avoided. There is truth in a language spoken and shared; being sometimes a relationship of immediate understanding. When I was introduced to C, a fellow New Yorker, I was made happy by her snide comments and fast clipped talking and constant interruptions. It made me feel 'at home'. And I knew that my reciprocation of equally snide remarks and interruptions were well received too. Try doing that with any other state member and you will see people flinch and look annoyed. As they wander away, you can hear them mutter things about your rudeness all with an air that is supposed to convince me they went to elocution school and graduated from Bryn Mawr. At anytime I ca...

Everyone was in their place. Everything had a place. Then my biological father died. I am not going to tell you anything that smells of manure. I am going to tell you how I feel. I don't feel much about my father's death, and when my mother goes, I will feel even less. I can already feel some of you cringing and see some of you falling to knees to say a quick prayer for me; don't bother. Myself doesn't need your prayers, myself needs all of you to ask me what my boundaries are and when I tell you, myself needs you to abide by them. Leave your packet of platitudes for the hour after my death when I will finally be out of earshot. If you would like to know why I feel this way, just ask. What's the point of wonder when you don't use your tongue? And don't be asking any questions to pass judgment. Be asking to understand me. I was not raised by either parent after the age of eleven. At the age of eleven, this is when the heroes, heroines, and those that ...