Shame

Dear Diary (for which the whole world can read),

A friend of mine asked me what I would wear to church today, and I didn't answer, because, as is the common ailment of our sex, I didn't have a thing to wear, in a closet stuffed to overflowing.

I have pretty dresses, and like I fancy the Irish do, I favor the green, and I have solid colors and prints ... and a little yellow summer dress number from the Banana Republic that I love.

But what did I wear to Mass today? I didn't know at the time of the question, so I didn't answer, instead, scurrying, as I do, to the closet to stare at it and grab something off the rack, ready-to-wear.

In the old days, the commoners wore 'off the rack' and 'ready-to-wear.' Rosalie wore neither: her dresses were made for her, and they fit her perfectly, as her hats did, as her gloves did.

Now, we girls try to fit ourselves into 'one-shape-fits-all' dresses, and either suffer the embarrassment of bursting out of them, or the embarrassment of them falling off our nothing-to-cling-to figures.

I don't wear off-the-shoulder numbers, if you didn't guess by now. Partially because of modesty ... what if a guy stared at my collar bone and had licentious thoughts?!?! ... and mostly because of practicality ... I don't have 'milk jugs,' or put another way: my 'happy fun bags' aren't bags, and all they have is happiness and fun, because they've got nothing else to grab or to hold onto ... just ask my dresses.

But the dress I wore today was Shame.

There we were at Mass, bb and I and my nieces up in the choir loft, singing sweetly, like birds, but it wasn't a sweet moment.

bb was getting angrier and angrier. I could see it in his stance. I could see it in the set of his jaw. And I was like: what did I do? I mean, what did I do more?

I am an utter and complete disappointment to my family.

But I didn't see anything I was doing wrongly, so I almost turned on him and smacked him, right there at the beginning of Mass.

And then he ... left.

I was like, what the FUCK!

He left the pew, walked right over to the priest, and handed the priest the laminated placard of the revised responses that the Church just did for the English translation.

And I was like, lightbulb! bb had seen that the priest hadn't had that, and I guess he got angry that everybody else didn't help the priest, so bb goes right up to him, right in the middle of Mass and hands him the sheet.

He came back. He sat next to me. He didn't say one word. He didn't look at me reprovingly.

But I knew what he was thinking. 'Why didn't you notice the priest looking lost up there? Why didn't you help him? You were on the aisle seat. Why did I have to get up, go around you, make a scene when you could have opened your eyes and helped.'

But as if I could. I mean: really! Me, go up in front of all those people, and me, a girl, hand the priest something to continue the Mass?

I mean: I'm getting sick just thinking of it.

But that's just it. It's all me, me, me, and how I think I look, and that paralyzes me into inaction.

Or paralyzes me to wrong action. Stupid action.

And so I do nothing, or I do everything wrong, and bb has to pick up the pieces, and, in Mass, in front of all those people, he goes right up there, fearlessly, I mean, he doesn't even care! and helps the Mass continue, whereas everybody else is just stuck in their pews, not even noticing, like me, or not brave enough, to do something about it.

And that's what he was thinking about me: self-absorbed. Useless. A waste.

And knowing he thought that of me.

You want to know the color of the dress I wore to church today? It was red. Bright red. The color of my cheeks as I burned in embarrassment at what a ...

What a burden I am ... what a burden I am to my family. How useless I am.

Because you don't know the second half of the story. The part of the story of how I moved down to Washington D.C. from nowhere Connecticut.

Because I didn't move.

bb came and picked me up.

From the hospital.

There's the whole precursor of how I ended up there, with my mom screaming and dialing 911 at the same time, and me just looking up at her stupidly from the kitchen floor, but I couldn't say it would be all right, because my mouth was full of cotton and how I couldn't seem to move my arms because they were so heavy, but everything felt ... funny, you know? heavy, and it felt ... I felt tired, but something felt very, very wrong.

Getting your stomach pumped ... it's not something you forget easily.

Mom has to work, she can't watch me 24/7, so what's she going to do? Hand me over to the State?

So bb drove all the way to Connecticut and picked me up from the hospital.

So you think I have my own apartment, with that ... history? histories?

What are multiple suicide attempts called? I mean, besides stupid?

Those steps I fell down, those were the steps from the kitchen to my bedroom they built for me, downstairs.

You think I participate in family activities because they like me so much? Or so they can make sure I don't confuse my diet coke with the kitchen cleaner?

You really have to wonder, considering me, why people try to keep people alive who are so determined to die. I mean, it'd be better for everyone if they just let people like me just ... go away. No fuss, no blame, and no ...

And no more waste of space and effort watching me like a hawk to make sure I don't off myself so that what? so that what? I can face another useless day in my useless job, ... 'and would you like mocha sprinkles on your latte, sir?' ... or my new useless job where, instead of staring at the suits come and go to work, serving them coffee, now I'm one of them, or one of their doormats, staring at a spreadsheet all day, filling in numbers, and getting shouted at when I get something wrong, and getting shouted at when I get something right (yes, you read that correctly), when I do the payroll in half a day where it took a staff of three to do it over a weekend, and yes, they worked over the weekend to get the payroll in Monday morning's mail, and yes, I do what they did in half a day with my spreadsheet, but because it's Excel, everybody thinks they can put their fingers all over it, screwing up the formulæ, and then blaming me when they screw it up saying nobody can understand it and I have to make it simpler.

So here I am, all grown up, with all the other grown ups riding that metro train to their daily grind with their iPhones and droids out to make sure it all gets blotted out so they can make it to 'happy' hour so they can blot it out some more so they can do that again tomorrow, for ... what?

Or I could be a kid again. I could sneak ... no, I don't even need to do that: I could just walk right onto Annadale High School grounds or Edgar Allen Poe, but not TJ, Thomas Jefferson because you need to be somebody with a proven track record for them to look, scornfully, at your grades and deign to allow you to enter, I could have Mrs. A_ drag me in there by the arm and register me in 10th grade, and start that shit all over again and live through, okay, hell, okay? Hell! with me becoming this thing pushed around by everybody else's opinion until I end up on the floor again, either in the classroom, screaming, or on the kitchen, more than half dead, because somebody said, 'Are you really in 10th grade, because it looks like you skipped some grades,' and then look down at my chest, and smirk, and leave me in the girls' bathroom, looking in the mirror reflecting the tears that will, or that I will not allow to fall from my eyes.

The irony of it ... don't you just get the irony of it? Instead of being ratted out for being too old for my grade, I'd be the subject of an exquisite vivisection on posing as 10th grader instead of going back my 6th-grade classes. Now imagine Rosalie going to Forks High School and fitting right in in 10th grade, and now wonder, truly wonder, how she stopped herself, every day, and in every class, from ripping off those vain, self-righteous idiots' heads, and then showing the teachers their own livers for their arrogant presumptive attitudes.

You see, I'm not a woman. A woman is a person who can hold her baby in her arms. My baby didn't come that far to where I could hold her before she died.

Yes, I've had lots of casual sex. Lots of randy college boys on campus, too, if you didn't know that fact.

I'm not a girl anymore, either. I'm trapped in a girl's body, but I've lived too much death to be a girl anymore, and to continue to play the game of being a girl.

I'm neither a girl nor a woman, I'm a girl-not-woman. I'm a child who's seen too much, but instead of allowing me to close my eyes, they keep pumping my stomach. And those hospital bills are another burden I can never repay, another reminder of what a failure I am.

...Writing.

Writing is good therapy. I mean, take this post, for example. Probably very therapeutic for Saga to read and to revel in the fact that she got away from this no-life jailbait loser.

And I can always review this post, and say, "Wow! Look at how far I've come!" and marvel at my amazing ability to claw my way through life, because I'm so gifted and talented at survival.

"Hey, baby," is called out to me, "how's it going?" And instead of answering with the truthful answer of, "You are more right that you know," I answer with the expected answer: "Fine."

I'm doing just 'fine.'

I'm a good student. And I learn from the best. Whenever anybody ever asks Mom how she's doing, she answers, 'Fine,' and says no more, nothing about her just scraping by after her husband left her, her cancer, or her drinking, or smoking, or the one and only failure in her life, a daughter of a college professor who couldn't even succeed in dropping out of life.

Mom and I are on good terms. She came to visit me once, to see how I was doing, because whenever she called and asked how I was doing, I said I was doing 'fine.' Just like Dad, dear old Dad; he came with Mom and wasn't that just a lovely, awkward, family reunion.

But I can tell people I majored in Ancient Greek lit. I have that going for me.

Funny how nobody ever asked to see my degree. They just say, 'Oh, ... impressive!' and give me a job that has a skill level of pouring coffee in a cup, one cup at a time, or putting numbers in columns and making sure they add up ... you know: third-grade math. It's all about style. And I have plenty of that: style and attitude will get you anywhere, baby.

Heh: 'baby.'

So now what? I suppose I could go back to work Monday morning. I got paid this last weekend. I got paid a lot of money. A lot more money than if I were in High school, even selling drugs, which I don't do by the way. ... Sell drugs, that is.

In the supply-and-demand economy, I'm on the demand side ... you know, a 'user,' or as Ayn Rand like to call me, a 'moocher.'

'Guns or dollars!' That was Ayn Rand's lens, that is: how she saw the world. She missed out on high school and college today. Although drugs are all about guns AND dollars, so maybe her lens isn't all that distorted...

But back to the here and now, ... I mean, I have a job and everything!

Just little `phfina, a good little Catholic girl, sharing her opinions with her dear diary. Just a few words on paper, meaning and signifying nothing.

I think I'll have that diet coke now.

Running/Track

Okay, so ...

Why do shy and quiet girls always start a bold statement with 'okay, so ...' I mean, can't a girl just say something, but, no! she has to say 'okay, so ...' so it minimizes what she's saying so people won't look at her, because if they look at her, she might just be noticed ... SHOCKER! ... and then she's die, so she has to start of everything, with 'okay, so ...'

So, anyway ... (and don't get me started on the 'so, anyway's)

So, I ran in this 5k race this past Monday (or 'weakend' as I almost wrote), 32 minutes, 10 minute miles or ... 6 miles per hour for the whole race ... not bad, not bad for a little nothing of a girl with toothpick legs.

I didn't run again until today ... my whole body hurt but today I was fine so I ran a 5k ...

... and then my arm hurt ... my legs did okay, actually.

Backtrack.

Okay, so I jack-rabbited off the start line, because I was like: 'why is everybody running so slowly?' so I passed a bunch of people. There were young people and middle-aged people and out of shape people and lithe boys and girls jogging along, chatting with each other as they sailed past me.

They didn't irritate me. The ones who irritated me where the little kids, 10 years old, who ran past me, stopped to tie their shoes, and sprinted off before I could catch up to them, the walked along until they heard me coming up to them, the zipped away, then ambled along until I ...

GRRRRR!!!!! #_#

I wasn't running against them, I was running the race to win, and to win, for me, was to run all the way, don't stop, don't walk, and I got my best time in years since I was on the high school cross country team.

(No, girls, don't get all giddy, I didn't get a varsity letter or anything)

And then I crossed the finish line ... nope: it was the half-way mark where they were passing out water!

The half way mark? I almost passed out.

Because, like a total idiot, I sprinted toward what I thought was the finish.

GOD! That second half hurt. But I didn't stop, and I didn't walk. I finished the race, and I didn't let those jr. high girls lap me at the end.

AND I didn't actually puke at the end, either, so: bonus!

AND THEN I hurt, a lot! Runner's headache and runner's achy-ache.

WELL! TODAY!

I ran a 5k jog, went to work, my arm hurting, then I find I have to take my nieces to track after work? (Short story, but not for here) So, what's a girl to do, but to do laps with her nieces?

Yup? Guess who just did another full workout?

Lemme rephrase that: guess who's in agony right now?

*sigh*

Okay. Done with that, on to the Haloz!

So, I get on Live for a little bit in the Campaign to get some more assists, because I so love helping people (actually, ... I do) (The use of the word 'actually' makes the previous statement more emphatic, girls, so, obviously, it's 'more' true @_@)

And I scare one guy right out of the game (Hey, I can't help it; I rawk!)

Another guy was like, 'Hey, cool, wanna play again?' We get into team doubles and DO-MI-NATE! He's like: 'You're really good!' (he didn't say 'for a girl,' either, which was nice) And I'm like "Thanks. I really 'try hard'" And he's like 'no try about it."

Nice kid. And I helped him get his challenges completed and he said, 'you're really nice, lol' (why do people say 'lol' when they are not, in fact, laughing at all?) and I was like 'Wait 'til we play a jerk and you read my nastygrams!' and he was like 'I'll be a good boy, then!'

Like that: nice, easy, effortless.

Life can be like that, I suppose: nice, easy, effortless.

It is for some people. Like at track today. We did it at Annandale High School ('Go Atoms!'), and they had a football game going on at the same time.

High school football.

(`phfina shakes her head)

All those boys? They, each of them, were Greek gods, built like Hercules, strong, powerful, deliberate and graceful, and all the girls on the sidelines, chatting with each other?

They were all taller than me, except for the ones who weren't, they were all more poised than me, they were all projecting confidence and ease, and grace, and belonging. They belonged to each other, to their cliques, yes, but, to their group, of 'young girls who have it all together.' They were smiling and laughing, and playing with the boys or in conversations with each other...

It was intimidating. I was afraid that, like, one of the coaches would be like, 'Water girl! Get over here now! Our boys are thirsty! Tend to them!' And I'd be like a deer in the headlights, and maybe I'd hang my head and get water bottles, and maybe all the girls would look at me and point and talk about me with lifted eyebrows and dropped voices but with castigation evident for the little mouse of a girl invading their turf.

That didn't happen, but I'm almost sick thinking that it could so easily have transpired. And what would I do? I was terrified being at a high school, looking as young, sometimes younger than the student body that a truant officer would grab me by the scruff of the neck and put me right in detention!

DETENTION!?!?!?!

I am so glad I'm not still in High School.

But that's the thing: that's my problem. All those boys ... men, and girls, ... they were at ease, and easy, about their whole 'game of football after school' experience. I never was.

Um ... um ... now I'm supposed to say where I do fit in, but my body's feeling achy, and my mind is shutting down now, at 8:54 pm, for some reasons, like: work and double exercise, so I'll just end here.

Oh, maybe that's life though: trying to fit in, or to conform, and always, always adjusting, or, trying not to conform, but ford your own path, your own way.

I actually (for emphasis) don't know which one I'm trying to do. I'm a try hard, but I don't even know what I'm trying for or what I'm trying at.

Such is life, right now, with my eyes drooping.

And, on balance, right now, right this instant, I feel pretty good about that. I'm trying, and sometimes I succeed, and sometimes, like right now, that's good enough.

Weak

"Dark Paradise" sung by Lana Del Rey

— `phfina commentary:

Okay, you know what Jesus did?

Well, okay: 'said.'

Jesus said a lot of things, but, for the most part, he spoke in metaphor.

Why?

Because words aren't the thing. The thing is the thing, and words describe the thing, but aren't the thing at all.

But the thing is (geddit: 'the "thing" is'? geddit?), people forget that. They start thinking of the words, instead of the thing, and forget that the words are not the thing, the thing is the thing, and in forgetting, confuse words for the thing itself, so they only have words, and, get this: forget the thing, itself, entirely and in fact, now, we live in a world, in a universe, where the only relevant thing is the language that describe things, and we don't care about things anymore, we care about the words around them.

For example. Remember that time when ...

Yup, you're crying already, when she broke your heart, so badly, but she broke your heart. She is not now breaking your heart. Your heart, now, is free to love, or free to laugh, or free to cry.

But no, you bind your heart with those memories, which are descriptions, words, of something that happened in the past and will never happen again, unless you recreate it, and you always do, because all you have is words, memory, and that's all we are, spreaders of memes now, we, ourselves sell our hearts, souls, bodies to memes, so that ideas survive us and what's important, the idea, or this moment, that you're living, right now?

It's the idea, the word, the logos, the meme, that's important, because you're not living anymore, you're just an automaton drifting through the fog.

So.

With me?

So, Jesus was always saying, 'The Kingdom of Heaven is like ..." is like whatever, doesn't matter, because Jesus was taking just one aspect of the thing, Heaven, and saying, the faith of a mustard seed could move a mountain, and everybody stood around and said, 'yeah, sure, whatever, sounds good.' but never, ever, got it, because if they got it, they could move a mountain with a mustard seed of faith, but they didn't, Jesus did, because he had that Faith, and that Faith wasn't words, it was the thing, itself, because He directly experienced what the Kingdom of Heaven was, but all He could do for us was explain, in metaphor and parable what it was like, and then show people, you have 5 loaves and 2 fish and there's 5000 men, let's eat, and they all did, and they still crucified Him because they still never got it, even as they had the fish burps from eating their fill from 5 loaves and 2 fish and they still didn't get it.

And you still don't get it.

Some people get it. Because they have that faith, that ... whatever, whatever they set out to do, and they do it, and a man walked on the surface of the Moon and mountains have been leveled or tunneled through, and the desert has been made an oasis (that city in Kuwait, right?) (or Salmon Fishing in Yemen, right?) and people set up their homes in the middle of, or under, for that matter, the oceans, and you still don't get that these men and women are just like you but they believed they could do it, and you don't.

So, I have words.

That's what I have.

But I know that, see. So I'm going to say something.

I am weak.

That's the thing.

So now I'll use metaphor.

Here's the metaphor.

See that little girl? Her weapons were these: a sniper rifle and a needler.

What are these weapons? A sniper rifle, in the third round, will get you this: the first shot, an Elite will say, "Did a mosquito just bite me?" The second shot, the Elite will say: "You touch me again with that, I will kill you." The third shot, in the head, kills him.

Three shots to kill an Elite. Oh, don't miss: a sniper rifle's clip only has 4 shots.

There are 24 Elites in one wave in the third round.

The needler? Skirmishers laugh at it. It requires a full clip to take out an enemy, or if shielded (like an Elite), to take out just their shields.

And the covies are good dodgers. So you miss. A lot.

Those are my weapons. Weak weapons for a weak girl.

Here were the weapons for the other two players: rockets, and fuel rods. These launch shells so destructive they can take out 8, 9, 10 enemies with one shot. BOOM! They are dead and problem solved.

Strong weapons for strong boys.

Here's the thing. I have weak weapons so I have to work for each and every kill.

They had strong weapons, so they could just aim in a general area and laugh at the destruction they wrought. No skill necessary.

But if you live by the rockets ... you die by the rockets. You shell an Elite, who, because you are lazy, avoids a direct hit. You've just made him mad. He's coming after you.

So okay, your next shell doesn't miss, but guess what? An Elite, charging you, firing at you all the way, takes a shell in the chest, right next to you, who dies in the blast?

He does, yes, but so do you.

Over, and over, and over again.

I was down by 10,000 points that game against those rocket boys, but I had weak weapons, so I ran when I was shot at, and I never died.

Guess who won that game?

Those boys, they were strong, and they rested on their strength and confidence, and, in resting, fell to it.

Pride precedeth the fall.

But I am weak. I know I am weak. I acknowledge it. Freely. I am aware of what my abilities are: I suck at this game, this game called Halo, this game called life, but I use what I have: sniper and needler in Halo, and words in life, and I use them well, and in conflict, where strong people fall, to their own strength, over, and over, and over again, I walk away from fights, triumphant. Right. Victorious.

Whereas other people walk away, angry, selfish, bitter, self-delusionally, wondering: "What the hell just happened? Did that little cunt just walk all over me? I have more skilz than her, I'm a boy, I have the better sex than her. I have more money than her. I have ... all of that. How did she come out on top? How did I look like a fool who didn't know what he was saying in that meeting?"

I am weak. I acknowledge it. I embrace it, and my weakness is my strength.

Other people?

They are strong. Or they want to be. But they are afraid that maybe they aren't.

Actually they are strong, but you can't be strong if you hide things from others or yourself. You can't be strong if you don't know that you are weak.

So somebody lashes out at me, and hurts me, badly, because, yes, I allow it, and yes, they are strong, strong enough to see my weakness, and to bear down into it. Hard.

Like Traci. Like those girls on ffn who looked for understanding, but then found what they really wanted: somebody else to hurt. Me. Because if they can hurt somebody like me, so gifted in her words, as they are not, then that makes their hurting okay, because they hurt somebody else more, so they are now better than me.

But they aren't. But you aren't. You aren't better. You are hurting. And, in hurting, you've hurt somebody else, carefully, thoughtfully, sinisterly, deliberately hurt a delicate, fragile creature: me.

And now you have that deal with. Because now, hurting, you've corrupted yourself, and you see that. You see: 'wow, she sure is a sensitive cunt! All I said was ...' All you said was the exact words that you knew would hurt me, and what happened was that I didn't shrug or laugh it off, I lashed back, or I cried, or I went on a drinking binge, or I slit my wrists.

And you participated in helping me hurt myself, with your words.

So, you can deny that, as people are so good at doing: "I didn't mean that!" "I was only joking!" or "Man up, for God's sake and stop being such a whiny bitch!"

('Man' up?)

Or you can acknowledge that.

How do you acknowledge that?

"I'm sorry"?

No.

"I'm sorry." means all of the above, sugar-coated in sincerity.

Why?

Because "I'm sorry" demands an "It's okay" and in "It's okay" means every mean, little, belittling thing you said is now "okay" somehow because you said "I'm sorry" and you got your "It's okay."

You acknowledge that by acknowledging that. "Holy shit, I was a fucking bitch just then! I meant to hurt you, and I did. Oh, my God! I'm really like that."

And you know what? You're really like that.

Let me say that again: you are really like that.

You, your machinery, kicked into high gear, when you are hurting, and it said, let's hurt somebody really badly, right now, and you snap out those hurtful words, and you hurt somebody. And there are girls, and boys, in high school, right now, killing themselves because there are boys and girls, just like you that, when hurting, hurt others.

That's who you are.

You know why?

Because that's who you choose to be.

And not: "Oh, I choose to be a hurtful person."

No, like this: "I'm strong. I have to be strong. I can't hurt. I'm not allowed to hurt. I'm not weak. If I'm weak, then that means that all these bad things that I allowed to happen to me are because I chose to be weak, and not see them coming, and seeing them coming, not take steps to stop them from happening. Every time I start that fight with my sister she cries and I cry, but no, I start that fight, and now she's dead, or in the hospital with a stomach pump, but I chose to ignore my weakness, because I'm strong and have to be right, even at the expense of my sister's/friend's/classmate's/coworker's life, because it's either them or it's me, and I'm strong, so it's them."

Or: "I've seen my step-father looking at me. And I know, in the pit of my stomach, what that means, but no, mom left home for groceries, and I didn't insist on going, I didn't tell her I think daddy's going to rape me to her, so she left, happy as a clam, and as aware as one, and daddy raped me, and now I have that scar for my life, that I could have stopped. I could have, but now I'm going to scar mom for the rest of her life and every man I ever see for being daddy in my bedroom, and every woman in my life for not stopping what I could have if I had been honest with myself and got help before I needed it, too late."

My dad didn't rape me. But there are Dads raping their daughters, right now. And people just let it happen, because if they don't ...

Then they'd have to admit that something's wrong with him. SHOCKER! But worse, for them: they'd have to admit something is wrong in themselves for picking a man they now know something is not quite right with, but rather than listen to their heart, they do what is safe, they are careful, and turn a blind eye to the thing that hurts them and others, because we can't make waves, can we?

Here's something for you. Examine your histories. Who were the people written in the books? The people who played it safe and got by? Or the people who made waves?

Now.

Now you have a choice. You can get by, and, thereby hurt yourself, more and more and more, playing it safe, and hurt others, and in fact: everyone in your life that you encounter in big ways and in big (for those of you 'confused' about my last declaration, there is no small hurts, you fucking assholes).

Or you can acknowledge who you are being, right now, and right this instant. And choose. And choose to be that, AND make a difference.

"I am weak, and I won that game of firefight."

"I am black, and I have a dream."

"I am Desi, and I am Mahatma."

"I am a woman, and I am God's wire."

I am not MLKjr, Ghandi, nor Mother Teresa.

I am me.

And what can I do? And what can be done, that I am in the world.

Doesn't matter.

What matters, for you, right now, is that you are you, and what can be effected, what can be accomplished in the world because you now choose to be you, instead of using what you believe or what happened to you or what you have been telling yourself that you are, but really whispering deep down in your very core that you're really nothing and shit, ... no: what can you do, what can be done, and done, because you are you, now that you choose to be you, you in your strengths and in your weaknesses.

I am weak.

I acknowledge that.

And none can touch me. None can hurt me.

I am weak.

And I think, and I breathe, and I live, as no one else in this world can, nor ever will.

You? You are so full of your own shit, ... newsflash: just like me, and everybody else in the world, ... the one difference, the one difference between the wave-makers, the doers of this world, and the cannon fodder, the one difference between those two categories of people is that the former, acknowledge them as themselves and, with that, move the world, and the latter say, 'nothing's wrong! nothing's wrong!' and swim in their own shit, and eat it, too, every day, and serve it to whomever they can get to buy it, and call it 'Organic Mango Smoothie' and give you shit for not liking the shit they're serving.

You choose your side, every second. You choose the later by default. It's call the survival mode. But, newsflash: it's just as easy to join the winners' club. You know how I know? A genius and the common man? The mensa and the densa? The difference between the two is 1% more effort of brain power.

Is one percent all that hard? Is one percent effort worth it for you to rise out of the cesspool?

Here's one percent, for me, for you it'll be the same, even as you say it's different, but it's not, because I say so, and I'm writing this entry, so shut the fuck up with your opinion:

Give yourself a good, hard, honest look in the mirror, and acknowledge exactly who you are, and exactly who you aren't.

A child of God, who, with the faith of a mustard see, can say to the mountain, "go," and it will cast itself into the sea.

Have a nice day.