Moderately Bad Things, Part 1

I think that we all have little ideas we can’t let go of (yes? no?) and the other day, something happened that reminded me of one of mine. First, a little background; I have this recurrent motif that, deep down, I am evil. I was raised in the Bible Belt, by fairly religious (US take on it) and strict/borderline-crazy religious (UK opinion) Christians, so it’s not hard to see where I picked up this notion. When you are confronted, AT LEAST a couple of times a month, with the idea that you deserve to be roasted for eternity–and not for anything you’ve done, as such, but because you are just intrinsically deserving of such punishment–it’s hard to internalize any real belief in your own goodness. On the contrary, you internalize a belief in what I like to call innate wickedness. It crops up all the time, mostly as a joke (or so I tell myself….) but this idea that we’re all wicked really, and I’m probably one of the worst, is something I can’t quite shake and thus have to make fun of, all the while trying to be a good person (as best I can; and, in all honesty, I mostly think I suck at real goodness). Because this idea is always floating around in the back of my head, I can’t help but look for evidence to support my hypothesis, and do you know, I find it everywhere (I do believe we call that confirmation bias…).

The other day, someone posted a picture on Facebook of their hair, after a DIY haircut. The haircut was fine; the hair, on the other hand, was absolutely glorious. It was, quite literally, everything my hair would be, if my hair were the perfect version of itself (similar colour/texture/length, but longer, healthier, with a more even level of curliness, and above all, more abundant). As someone whose hair has been noticeably thinning since her mid-20s (just like the rest of her mother’s female family members) and who has recently come to the decision that she is going to have to cut her waist-length (for most of her life, so far) hair, because it is just too fragile and thin now, the feeling that went through me was less envy, and more actual pain. I would not have taken that woman’s hair for myself, even if such a thing were possible; but I was very nearly crying when I went and looked at my own hair (in a photo taken a day or two earlier).

And then–and this is where the innate wickedness comes in–I decided that, if Evil Genie appeared, I would make a deal with him. (You know about Evil Genie, I know you do; he’s the imaginary guy who’s going to enforce your choices, when you find yourself playing those thought games where you have to answer questions like, “Who would you save, your child or your partner, if you were on the Titanic?”… anyways, I digress. Back to my deal.)

I decided that, if I were completely honest with myself, I would do a Moderately Bad Thing, if it meant that Evil Genie would give me hair like hers. Exactly the same hair (minus the fringe; I wouldn’t have a fringe, if I didn’t have hair that was too thin to grow out properly) so it would be, like, an easy job for Evil Genie, he could just look at her hair and magically copy it onto my head; and then, he could (according to pre-set parameters) ask me to do a Moderately Bad Thing, and I would do it.

And what qualifies as a Moderately Bad Thing, I shall cover later, because I have children and a partner and housework, etc etc, now… but isn’t the fact that I *would* do a bad thing (even if it’s not a terrible thing) for such a frivolous reward proof enough that, deep down, I really *am* innately wicked?

Silly Posts

I Hate Mickey Mouse

This is why I hate Mickey Mouse (and I mean, I really, really hate him):

We’re watching Mickey’s Magical Christmas (oh, OF COURSE it’s *Mickey’s* Christmas, not Disney Friends’ Christmas, or whatever) and basically, it’s a series of short movies inside a movie, in which Mickey usually stars, always introduces the short films, and is just generally being MC for the entire production.

The purpose behind this all, we discover (or knew already, if we didn’t hate Mickey anyway and had been paying attention from the start) is that Donald Duck has no Christmas spirit… and nothing seems to be helping. Towards the end of the film, Mickey utters the statement, “I’ve tried everything I can; I guess Donald will just *never* have any Christmas Spirit”. And he walks outside to sulk on the roof.

Right. So, everyone who participated in the party, trying to cheer Donald up: they don’t get a mention. The actors in the short movies (all of whom are in the audience, because every character in either place is a standard Disney character) also get no mention.

Most importantly, the fact that Donald Duck CLEARLY has some sort of seasonal affective disorder or major depressive disorder (he can’t freakin’ smile in the middle of a Christmas party, surrounded by friends, well-lubricated with what could be cocoa but I’m guessing is mulled wine, knowing Donald) and Mickey is upset because HE couldn’t fix it.

WHAT A FUCKING NARCISSIST. Grow up, Mickey Mouse. You are not the star of Donald Duck’s mental health crisis.

But oh wait… you are.


PS Maybe if you’d stop making Donald Duck or his family members (Scrooge McDuck, anyone?) the bad guy in *every* short film, he wouldn’t feel so down… remember the saying, Donald: “When you think you’re depressed, look around and make sure you’re not surrounded by assholes”.

And if you happen to be standing next to Mickey Mouse, the world’s greatest narcissist, the only mouse to ever have a god complex, the Kanye West of Disney animations, get the hell outta Dodge.

And thus concludes my rant for today.

2nd PS But one more thing, on the subject of Mickey… he keeps a dog, right? Every other animal in that world can speak and look after themselves just fine, but not Pluto… who is obviously an adult with special/complex needs, being kept ON A LEASH by Mickey, who treats him like an actual pet.

Mickey Mouse, you are a disgusting non-human being. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED.

3rd PS Have I ever mentioned, my kids LOVE Mickey Mouse? I mean, more Minnie, but… *sigh* I have nothing to say to that, except *sigh*


Mood Diary, Today (11th Feb 2015)

I feel like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.

My skin feels tender, as if I’ve somehow grazed the entirety of it on something rough; I have not. My chest hurts, it’s a little tight, and my inhalers (the blue and the brown) seem to do nothing to relieve it. My head has been throbbing for the last 2 days, in spite of copious medications (paracetamol, ibuprofen, caffeine) to ease it. I also feel a bit cold, especially in my extremities; I’ve been saying I have poor circulation for years, and the other day, a doctor friend tested it and actually said, “You know, that *is* pretty sluggish,” SO THERE (suck on that, everyone who calls me a hypochondriac; nevermind that “sluggish circulation” isn’t a diagnosis of anything, and I don’t have any worrying symptoms, and nothing will come of having sluggish circulation other than I’ll need to wear socks and gloves occasionally when other people don’t, I was right, I get cold fast, and my being right is what counts!).

Sorry, I digressed, there. Returning to my story:

So, I feel the way people look when other people tell them, “You look like you’ve been dragged (or “drug” in my native patois) through a hedge backwards”.

Why do I feel this way, you may ask? I have an answer:


In my native patois, that’s short for, “None of your business.”

That being said, if I didn’t want to talk about it (so to speak) I wouldn’t be, so let me give you the situation in broad brush strokes, without revealing too much (but hopefully enough).

I’ve been fighting (definitely for the last 2 days, but off and on over the last couple of months) with a close loved one. Well, more than one, really; but one in particular, most of the time/most vehemently. The range of things we fight about is vast, and yet, so easily boiled down to one specific issue… and that, friends and readers, is the bit that’s not going up. Not today, not ever. Sorry to disappoint.

But can I get a little virtual cuddle anyway, a little bit of recognition that fighting with loved ones, for whatever reason, is HARD HARD HARD HARD HARD?

And I’ve been doing it, more or less constantly, since I left home 12 years ago. I’m just tired, now. I want to rest. I want to not have to scrap constantly, for every little thing I believe, or believe in, or seek to do, or try to understand… I just want to take it easy, for a bit.

Which will never happen, of course. The day I stop questioning everything and railing about things that I think are unfair and trying to mould my life to my own specifications, is the day they’ve finally hauled me off to a hospital somewhere and filled me full of anti-psychotics. That day may be in my future, but it’s a long way off… at present, I’m still capable of doing what we’ll call a Robbie; ranting and shouting and breaking things like a demon, saying borderline crazy stuff, and scaring everyone who’s in the house with me (I’m so sorry, sweet babies; I did leave the room almost straight away, last night) right up until the moment that the neighbours/wider family/police are called, and then, I am most humbly apologetic and contained. And since Robbie (my dad) has never gotten himself locked up for such behaviour (well, not in my lifetime, anyway) I reckon my odds are pretty good that I won’t, either.

But God. All the screaming and wailing and arguing and railing and just plain discord… it takes a toll, doesn’t it?


Stupid Things

Have you ever been really, really glad you did a stupid, seemingly innocuous thing?

I don’t know if everyone is like this, but I know I am; I go through life, trying to make connections, trying to see how the intricacies of cause and effect play out, trying to work out how it all happens (and why, and where it’s going, and what happens next). I have always spent an inordinate amount of my time just thinking, just pondering, just trying to make some sense of life. The things that seem like coincidences–are they, really? The things that seem like they carry so much weight, and have such intrinsic meaning–do they, really? One can never be sure, I suppose… which is why, yes, everyone is probably like this. Everyone, I assume, spends too much of their time trying to make sense of their life, in what can only be a doomed, subjective attempt at objectivity.

So I’ll leave objectivity where it is, for the moment, and return to my original question: have you ever been really, really glad you did a silly, ostensibly meaningless thing?

In April of last year, I sowed a little seed (unintentionally, at least consciously) and made myself memorable (in a way that could’ve been good or bad; however, the ground in which I sowed this seed was distinctly favourable) and lo! I have since reaped many and variable rewards. The tree that has grown out of my little seed is a beautiful thing, it fruits and flowers in a glory of emotion and shared experience, and I am made the better for having it with me. Oh, the poetry that has come from this little seed (both the written, and unwritten, kinds of poetry)–you wouldn’t believe how productive I’ve become, all of a sudden! And–in what’s maybe the most important part of all this–I feel so alive.

I haven’t felt so vital since my introduction to citalopram, all those months ago. I know a lot of words, but… there’s nothing in my vocabulary to express or even describe how it feels to FEEL, really FEEL, again. It seems like such a little thing, such a stupid thing, that I did, and yet, from that… I dunno… Ah. The Proclaimers have said it better than I could: I took a right turning yesterday, is all.

Thank God 🙂