Man thinking on a train journey. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I never had my wisdom teeth removed so now I have to deal with them breaking out of my hard adult gum line. Last night it was the upper left tooth that wanted out. I was actually chewing on my finger drooling all over the place while watching Stargate Universe and playing spider solitaire on my laptop. I’m 32 years old.
I’m 32 years old living at home and planning on spending my hard earned ass massaging income on a trip – A TRIP!
I refuse to grow up. You can’t make me.
Teething feels painfully good. Chewing on things is strangely satisfying. Planning a courageous oversea voyage feels the same as having that itch to chew. My spirit wants out of the confines of my bedroom. It’s both a childish and wondrous feeling of satisfaction. Chew and you shall be free. Painfully good and painfully necessary.
Yes, I am still very much a child.
I have to give an exorbitant amount of massages today. Here’s the rundown:
11 am – 90 min
1 pm – 60 min
2:30 pm – 90 min prego
4:30 pm – 90 min
6:30 – 60 min
7:40 – 60 min
I’m at the 6:30 mark. Any second now she’ll walk in. My back hurts. I’m massaging for 7.5 hours today, but my record is 8 so I know I can handle it. I can handle anything. Bring it.
Last Monday Amy and I trekked up Bear Mountain (the highest point in CT). We taken the long way up and trekked down the short way, spanning a total of 5 miles. We finished it in 2 hours. We are good. I mean seriously now, come on. I haven’t exercised in at least 75 days since groupon started and here I am trekking like a champ. We were jogging on the way down. Jogging! It was awesome.
I’ve kept my word by checking off things on my to do list.
I hung up my ceiling mural.
Finished my wall decal.
Conquered my vision board.
Input 200 emails, did my gift certificates and I’m selling them online, I started a Facebook page for my biz and I’m almost done reading Rich Dad Poor Dad. I’ve been very productive and it feels great!
I also let one of my clients take me out to dinner. I usually say no to these offers, but this guy is different. He has no chance in hell with me, but he’s super smart and funny. Plus he’s a real estate investor so I figured I could pick his brain. He’s a chubby italian born in the 1960’s and insisted we check in on Facebook. He’s hysterical.
One thing I’m learning from real estate investors is that they have no actual money. All their money is tied up in real estate. They shop at old navy, save money and not spend. The true die hard investors invest every penny into buying assets and keep the ball rolling by upgrading their assets. By constantly trading up, they avoid paying capital gains tax. They keep the snowball rolling and very rarely do they purchase something for themselves. They rather buy assets than fixing their teeth.
According to Rich Dad Poor Dad, it doesn’t matter how much a person makes. If they are constantly in debt, constantly struggling, it wouldn’t matter how much they got paid, they will always spend a little more than they can afford. They can never get ahead, they buy liabilities rather than assets. Owning a house to live in is not an asset, it’s a liability. People have kids, get raises, spend more and the bills really roll in.
It’s the rat race I became aware of as a kid.
This is probably going to be a long boring ass post, but it’s important in understanding my way of thinking. It’s boring for me because it’s old news and I don’t feel like writing about shit I already figured out. It’s boring for you because, well, why the hell would you care about any of this anyway?
My thought process as a kid was not normal. I had no one to talk to, no one that understood me. Everyone just thought I was a shy little kid with chipmunk cheeks who doesn’t say much, never any trouble – and yes that’s all true, but the shit coming and going through my head before I reached double digits was ceaseless. I questioned everything. My CCD teacher hated me.
I honestly had no one to talk to growing up. I had two younger twin cousins that I had endless fun with, but I could never talk to them about anything.
Me – “I’m 8 years old now, and they’re only 6. If I wait 2 more years, they will catch up to me and I’ll be able to talk to them.”
Me – “I’m 10 now, they’re only 8. I’ll just have to wait 2 years until they catch up to me and understand.”
Me – “I’m 12, they’re 10 and still don’t get it. 2 more years, that’s all…”
Me – “I’m 14 and…..ah, screw it.”
When I was a kid riding passenger in the back seat of my parents cadalac, I would stare out the window at all the houses going by. My family was not a part of those worlds. My family was a self-contained microcosm that instilled fear of strangers in my heart. We were the only true family that existed in an otherwise cruel world. My brother called everyone gay, my father told me not to trust anyone, and as for my mother, well, let’s just say she was the leader of our self-containment.
Anyway, we drove by houses and cars that were separate from us. These things were parts of an outside world that I was not allowed to know. I looked closely in at those other families traveling beside us and felt I was intruding on their own little microcosm universe.
Me – “How can we be the only family that matters? Everyone has a family, how can they be so different from mine? Do they fear us like we fear them?”
I specifically remember thinking this. My family literally drove it in my skull that it’s not safe anywhere else but at home in my own house with my own people. Any venture out was a gamble.
This led me into a perpetual state of wanting to break free of their self-contained prison. I wanted to eliminate my family’s fear and hate. I wanted them to love and accept others and to show my family that we are not alone in this world, others can care for us just as much as we care for each other. And we are not the only one’s that matter. People feel hurt, and can need us someday – let’s be there!
Spreading the love and feeling included in a family always held great importance to me. I feel a sense of togetherness and safety in someone else’s home. They don’t have to love me, but they do anyway! They don’t have to care about me, but the humanity in them lets them. I see the humanity in everyone.
And because I wanted my family to see the love in others, I looked for it in everyone. I’m a non-stop seeker of love. I see it in everyone. My love of people runs so deep and pure, that if you’re not accustomed to feeling it, it will knock you off your feet. I give 100 percent of myself to others and love unconditionally.
I lift people up. I feed their ego’s and they start needing me, wanting more of what I give them. I give give give until they are able to detach themselves from me and fly on their own. Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes the fact that they needed me in the first place can cause resentment. They detach, fly away and kick the very person that made them feel wonderful.
People tend to crush on me. When I was 18 waitressing at Damons in Cheshire, I had a sweet boy crushing on me. It felt great, absolutely wonderful to be liked, but it felt even more wonderful that I didn’t like him like back. It made me feel powerful and in control.
The poor boy gave me all his power, all his love, and I fed off it like a vulture. I was 18 when I realized what I was doing. I became aware and wanted it to stop, but was scared of losing that self-assured feeling of confidence. I would be back at square one feeling like a nobody, a loser. So I let him feed my ego. And because I needed a guy like that – I needed him to validate who I was, the fact that I needed him made it hard for me to look him in the eye. I behaved shy and coy, leading him to believe that I liked him when in actuality, I had all the power – I held all the cards, and when I was done feeding off him, I could detatch myself and see him for who he really is. Just a sad lonely busboy who crushed on the wrong gal.
I was in the act of doing evil and didn’t even know it. I don’t think anyone’s aware of when that slippery moment of evil creeps into them – who would admit to that? Weak people let evil take over, not mindful smart people like us…
I hated myself. I was draining him of everything he had, using him up only to stick it to him in the end. I was being a succubus, a woman monster eating guys hearts. I would grow to resent him simply for liking me. He was creating a monster. And I was stealing pieces of him.
I sought for ways to end my behavior before it progressed any further. I looked for ways to help me stop.
I saw my weakness, my fear of being a nobody – my need of him was validating only that. I saw myself as a textbook narcissist – a thing that I constantly have to keep aware of and in check. Narcissism is rooted in having a fear of death (that’s according to me, so don’t take much stock). You go around as an empty shell, finding no meaning in your small existence, until another person see’s something in you and makes you believe that you really are somebody, and that you really do matter and you’re special. Because if you matter, that means your life matters, and if your life matters, it has a purpose. There’s a purpose to your living and as long as you have purpose, the end darkness of death can never eat you alive. Without purpose, you die leaving nothing but debt and fast food wrappers in your wake. The death of a nobody is a death that no one cares about. It’s ending a battle that you given up fighting a long time ago – a battle that only existed in yourself. Your death becomes just as meaningless as your life.
But with someone seeing substance in you, you find strength in yourself to face anything! Your hopeless weary soul see’s a glimmer of reflection in their eyes. What a wonderful feeling it is to be a somebody to someone.
So yeah, peoples love of me give’s me strength and purpose. I can’t get around that. But what I can get around is being heartless and using people. That busboy who liked me became my friend. I was thankful and appreciative of him and genuinely loved the guy.
He used to teach skateboarding lessons to people, and one of his buddies whom he taught ended up dying in a fatal skateboarding accident. I listened to him telling me this, I watched the details of him rubbing his eyes as if he was dreaming, his shoulders slumped forward. Speaking slowly as if he couldn’t believe it himself.
That’s when the switch flipped. Life is so precious, everyone feels loss. This boy gave me strength, and now I have to be strong for him. It’s a cycle of giving back. Never just take, but keep recycling it back out. Who am I to power over him? Who am I? What gives me the right?
I’m a giver of genuine affection, and that alone can piss off the angry mob of Melanie haters. I taken everything I ever learned, faced my greatest weaknesses, faced my evil harsh cruelness and fears and taken it all in and learned from it and out spits me, someone who can easily love and be loved. Someone who can create beauty out of shadows – who can pull out substance from nothingness – someone who can create and think beyond what has ever been thought before. Narcissism is not self-love, it’s needing others to love you because you can’t love yourself. Self- actualization, as painful a process as it may be, let’s you fall completely head over heels in love with yourself.
I love me! And if others love me great, and if they don’t, that’s their prerogative. There is nothing more freeing and satisfying than to be at your core being, in the thick of your essence, and feel perfectly whole. Unabridged, shameless and true – a feeling of utter eye-wellling wonder and awe of existence. Of your existence. Of everyone’s existence. It’s amazing. Absolutely butt-fucking amazing. Shit, did I just say that?
I boundlessly give out. I infinitely recycle whats been given to me.
So, I’m a giver. I turned myself into the busboy at Damons and started showing affection to everyone. I have no shame, no anger, no resistance, but I feel it in others. Will everyone suck me dry and spit me out in the end? I don’t care, let them. I’ll love them anyway.
Hole-Lee-Shit! This post taken on it’s own agenda. Damn I love when that happens. I still have an unbelievable well of thoughts to pour into this post. I can write like Dickens today. Ultimately inspired and alive. My heart wants to burst in rainbow colors.
Okay shut up Mel.
What I originally wanted to write was that as a kid riding in the backseat of my parents Caddy, I watched the houses that went by my window. Each house serving the same purpose, each house the same, but having different occupants. And I thought to myself,
I thought – “All these people work just so they can live in these houses. It’s a place to put yourself and your stuff. It’s just a house no different from any other. What’s the point?”
I saw no point in working only to afford a house. It’s like working to build the walls of your very own prison.
Me – “I hope these people like what they do, otherwise whats the point? How is it rational to only live for the weekends?”
Me – “They’re doing it for their families. They work hard to feed and clothe their families.”
Me – “I’m not going to have a family until I can be sure I’ll never get stuck living for the weekends. I’ll only buy a house when I know it won’t be like the other prison houses, it will be paid in full and I’ll own it, instead of it owning me. But how? How can I do this?”
It was a question I could never answer. I didn’t go to college because of not knowing what I wanted to do. Learning about a trade or profession simply because it was the safest bet, felt like the cement mix pouring into the foundation of a self-made prison sentence.
I knew I wanted to write, but felt too inferior and too stupid to believe I ever could. But the crazy thing is that this wild adventure ride of life has taken me into self-discovery and imagination. The choices I made fueled a foundation into self inquiry. Priming my dreams into existence – gaining courage and strength to succeed and yes, if I want to write than I damn well can!
I’m different from everyone. I was never normal. At least by writing about myself, you can understand why I am like I am. ( I’m pretending like you care and I’m not really talking to infinite cyberspace nothingness).
I’m constantly seeking answers to questions that aren’t even properly formed in my head. I ask transient questions and obtain answers to questions I wasn’t aware of. The shitty thing about this process is not knowing if the answers are real, or only emotionally charged responses that are directed by my already existing beliefs.
I wrote about politics a few posts back. It was a lengthy spell that sucked you into my madness. My beliefs while writing that post were not to trust anyone who has power and control over me, people are stupid and can be brainwashed, and that everyone is blind to the truth. These were the beliefs I was fervently working with. Are they true? How the hell do I know whats true? I’m only human. But one belief feeds off another, I stumble on unaware answers to questions I didn’t even know I was asking – answers that validate my beliefs. A proof that tells me I’m right. Seek and you shall find. You will always find that which you seek.
Is there substance to my findings? Do they have any validity? I’m sure in some aspects yes, but that doesn’t make it an ultimate truth. I know nothing, same as everyone else.
I watched a documentary about 9/11 being a conspiracy and honestly they did make some irrefutable discoveries. But by me buying into their paranoia, only feeds into my own and any belief conjured out of fear, should not be taken as real. It should only be taken as a possibility, but never for real.
Ask and you shall receive. Patterns upon patterns everywhere until it’s completely senseless. It’s pure madness believing in things that aren’t real. Seeing things that only exist in ink blogs. It’s lunacy. I strive for truth and justice, the good ol’ American way. Taking small pleasures in sipping down copper, formidable brews, digesting the amber waves of grain and munching on a hotdog, chugging the fluoride laced tap water. American dumb downing – love it.
By believing in that documentary about 9/11, that makes me no different from the rest of the dumbasses. I have to face not knowing the truth, and I’m not about to go digging around. That’s how people get killed.
I just got done massaging the Peruvian genius girl again. This was her fourth visit to me and now we are buddy buddy. No actually, I feel like her mentor. She’s a girl who loves listening to me talk on and on – she loves it and asks me real questions that lead to even more of my senseless ramblings.
Peruvian genius – “I’m quitting my job tomorrow and going on a pilgrimage.”
Oh shit. This didn’t come out of nowhere. I’ve been priming her by telling her to follow her heart, to live and enjoy life and that “you’ll never truly know yourself until you’re out in the world in an unfamiliar place and an unfamiliar situation that calls forth your true spirit. You can create who you are if you gain self-awareness. Putting yourself somewhere you never been, opens up your perspective. You learn more about yourself. That’s why I’m trekking 500 miles.”
And today she dropped that bomb on me. She doesn’t have another job lined up, but she’s so excited and scared and completely ready and willing to start her spiritual journey. I should have warned her about the painful purge that’s ahead. Any type of developmental growth happens with pain. First pain than understanding. Some people get caught up in the pain and stop progressing, they regress to their comfort zones and carry with them their hate and anger, unable to let it go. But I didn’t need to warn her.
Peruvian genius – “I feel like everyone has to have something traumatic happen to them before they change.”
Me – “You’re absolutely right. Our spirits evolve and become stronger when we suffer loss, or something like it. I believe we are all here to learn and we learn through pain.”
Peruvian genius – “Yes, that’s so true.”
Talking to her is like talking into my blog. In a way, I’m teaching her lessons that I lived through, realizations that I came to grasp. It’s the only real thing I have to teach.
Me – “Where are you going to go? Have you decided?”
Peruvian genius – “I’ve always wanted to go to Jeruselum. I know it’s dangerous with the bombs, but I always wanted to go there.”
Oh shit no no no no.
Me – “Are you going with anyone?”
Peruvian genius – “No.”
Me – “Oh man you’re going to make me worry. I’m sorry I know you’re following your heart and everything and you should definitely go if it’s calling you, but please be careful. Trust no one.”
Peruvian genius – “I’m not trusting anyone. My mother is scared too.”
Her mother was sitting in the lounge reading a book. One look at her I could tell she was the sweetest lady ever. I tried showing her how to work the Keurig machine, but she didn’t speak a lick of English.
Me – “Is that your mom sitting in the lounge?”
Peruvian genius – “Yes she’s here helping me. She know’s my arms are sore and she’s been helping me with stuff around my house. She’s really wonderful.”
This little girl who’s about two years younger than me, looks to be 12, she’s going backpacking through Jeruselum, quitting her awesome bio physic’s job and moving out of her apartment.
Her – “I’m not going to have a place to live when I get back. That’s what I worry most about.”
That’s the thing I worry least about. She has her mother to go home to.
I did this. She is a product of my creation and if she dies out there, it’s on my head. I will hate myself, never forgive myself. My words have weight and the illusion of wisdom, but that’s all it is – an illusion! I’m not wise, I’m not of brilliant mind. I know nothing and she eats up everything I tell her like gold nuggets.
I’m such an asshole, such an asshole….
You see how dangerous beliefs are?! I have so much passion when I talk, like some salesperson or a freaking televangelist. It’s dangerous! I believe so strongly in what I say, and speak from the heart and connect with the person and that’s exactly the formula for a persuasive, charming televangelist who wants his wisdom to be heard. To bring meaning with legacy and change.
I don’t want that to be me. I have no ego, I know nothing, don’t listen to me – not ever!
Holy shit this is a long post. She said she’s preparing for her journey by taking Krav Maga classes which is a deadly line of defense. She bought the classes on Living Social. It sounds like a great idea, and me being the kung fu lover that I am, signed myself up as well. The classes are in my hometown! Weird…
If I see her in class, maybe I can coax her into having a better plan. But the thing is, she’s wicked smart and seems to know exactly what she’s doing and know’s exactly what she wants. I want to support her, not scare her. The best advice I could give is for her to use common sense.
So that’s that.
Shit I still have so much I need to get out. I’m home now still in my work attire, super headachy from drinking too much beer last night (which was a way awesome fun night btw).
I still haven’t eaten dinner yet. I’m so shaky and cold. Tomorrow is Monday, my day off and it’s bikrum yoga day. Amy doesn’t want me to go because of what happened to me last time. I almost died last time. It was serious, no joke. I don’t know what happened to me. It was a compilation of things. I drank heavily two days before the class, and I think that had a lot to do with it – if not everything to do with it. I was dehydrated and lacked electrolytes.
Towards the latter half of the class, I started feeling sick – like I was going to vomit. I sucked it up and kept going. Than I started getting lightheaded. This lightheadedness phase happened very quickly. My symptoms piled on so swiftly that I was sent into a whirlwind of panic. You must never panic while taking this class – it’s a huge deal to panic, and there I was, panicking.
Feeling the initial shock of lightheadedness, I had little time to think about the repercussions to continue, instead of thinking, my vision darkened and my brain stopped comprehending what was happening around me. Then came the shortness of breath, feeling unable to breathe – feeling unable to breathe was the last bit that sent me over into the realm of panic. I was unable to hear the instructor explain poses. I saw everyone around me doing the poses, and I couldn’t comprehend what they were doing. It felt like I was having an ayahuasca flashback of hearing people speak and being fascinated they were able to do that. I was unable to do anything.
I wobbly made my way to the exit. It takes EXTREME conditions to get me to leave and give up on anything, and I mean extreme conditions as in life and death. I thought I would literally die by staying in there. This is in no way an embellishment. I’m tough as nails and if anything, I’m downplaying all this.
Instructor – “What are you doing?”
(I don’t remember this conversation exactly. My brain wasn’t working.)
My hand was on the door handle. I heard her speak to me and tried to guess at what she was saying.
Me – “I’m okay, I just feel lightened.”
I must have sounded drunk. I felt I was slurring my words. I was about to drop at any second.
Instructor – “No you can’t leave. You have to stay. You have to lie down on your mat.”
I had no clue what she was saying. No clue. Finally it dawned on me that she wanted me to stay. Was she freaking crazy? At this point my legs were immobile. I could not walk. I tried moving back to my mat, but each step felt like I was walking on a rocky boat bobbing up and down making me sick.
The instructor ran over to me and grabbed me by the arm and led me back to my mat. I silently found it hysterical that I was being that girl. I wasn’t doing it for attention, I wasn’t doing it to be dramatic, I was truly in a stupor.
I got back to my mat and couldn’t sit down. If I went to sit, I would pass out. The instructor had to push my shoulders down. I sat finally, than she had to push me back. I was laying eschewed on my mat, not perfectly laying on it but it was the best I could do. She fed me some coconut water and I took in some deep breaths.
And no joke I was up and at it again in less than five minutes. I was doing the yoga as if nothing had happened. But now Amy is terrified of me going back. I don’t think I ever had a friend that cared so much about me. She even worries about me being alone at the office late at night. Like tonight for instance, I was the only person there. It’s Sunday and even the attached restaurant on the other side of the building was deserted. I was completely alone.
Amy – “Why don’t you go home?”
Me – “I want to blog.”
Amy – “You can blog at home being comfortable in your pajama’s, don’t stay there.”
Me – “Okay, I’ll leave.”
I’m such a schlep.
There’s a long dark hallway outside of my office. I’m terrified of this hallway. In the movie, The Shining, there’s a part where two twin little girls are standing side by side, faces expressionless and staring at you at the end of a very long hallway. I’m tempted to snatch a pic of them to post, but I really don’t want to see that image. Screw it, I’m facing my irrational fears and kicking it in the balls!
Here’s a pic of my scary hallway.
I wish I taken a better pic than that, but I wasn’t looking. I was too scared to look. I know how pathetic I sound, trust me. I’m not proud of it okay?
Come on now, spooky right? This next image makes me remember that it’s fake.
And here are the girls all grown up.
But what makes me feel totally better is seeing this asshole having them as a tattoo. What an asshole lol.
All-righty then, I think I’m done for tonight’s gibber jabber.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Mine was good. The highlight being my brother standing up at the table during dinner, pulling down his pants exposing his butt cheek and asking my Dad, “is this a tick or a pimple?”
Sorry for the long-ass post. You seriously don’t have to read this shit….