I have no sympathy or patience for people who can’t control themselves. One way or the other. Anorexic or obese, they are both irresponsible.
It’s not even just a matter of “wanting” it enough, it’s letting yourself be motivated to act in a way reflecting that desire. Being covetous gets you nowhere. Achieve something…. See More
I’ve been on both ends of the spectrum. It’s nothing monumental to let it go “too far” and make it appear that you have a problem to people who don’t have the same motivation.
Obsessed is a word lazy people use to describe the motivated.
I wrote that for a friend on Facebook who mentioned something about anorexia. Watched something on TV about it I guess. She doesn’t seem like she’s anywhere near considering it for herself, but, it’s an issue I’m fairly familiar with and experienced in dealing with it. Not just myself either.
I’ve been involved in a number of pro-ana communities over the years. Do I advocate “picking it up” as a means to lose weight to impress people? No. Not at all. I support people who have already made the decision on their own. There are people out there who are going to do what they are going to do regardless of how good of a hypnotistical brainscrubber you trot yourself to be.
I’m there for THEM.
Anybody willing to effort a change in themselves, to set their goals and do their damn-best-they-can to achieve them is someone I’ll support. I don’t care if there are oodles of established medical records espousing their methods as dangerous or unhealthy. If safe and healthy were a part of their goal, it would be built into their method.
Like it is with mine.
But I won’t villainize anyone for doing differently. There are folks out there losing weight doing their six meals a day, people out there starving themselves, people out there on the treadmill or in the swimming pool all day long running themselves into shallow graves. Bless them all. Fucking dedicated.
Yesterday I went to Chinatown with birthday girl Fairchild, her boyfriend Bobby, and our friend Roxy.
It was kickass.
The day started with Bobby and the birthday girl picking me up from Bayshore. I spotted a red tulip before the pickup. This is always the sign of AWESOME DAY AHEAD. If I still had my blog from 2008 this would be an awesome moment of thematic coincidence, but alas…
When I was a little kid I loved The Little Mermaid, and I’m not ashamed to admit it was because of Prince Eric. This is probably where my nudging preference for redheads started, though that isn’t as nearly as big a deal as me understanding myself as Disney Royalty. Because, well, fuck yeah!
I heard this particular song at Cabela’s over the weekend during my immensely overplayed descent into sorrow. I was going to do this slideshow of photos of me and her to this song as a sort of sendoff to her, but after writing that letter and not being able to get video-editing stuff working on my now-Linux machine… this will have do.
Good Friday marked the end of my relationship with this woman. We are nolonger anything but memories.
She told me that God spoke to her and said that I am evil and I must be removed from her life.
He’s right, as always.
I wrote her a letter I’m not going to send to her.
But here it is.
Dear Leah,
You’re too important to me for me to end our relationship on the very thing you cite as the reason you are leaving me. As much as I want to hold you and smell your hair and taste your lips for the last time, I won’t be that hypocritical.
You have your belief in God now, and if God has shown you that I am unfit to be your husband and unfit to be the father of your children, then I am going to have to respect that as your decision.
I have been here for you in this life for as long as you have allowed for the chief purpose of supporting you. We are parting ultimately for the same reason I’d part with anyone else: I’m nolonger necessary nor purposeful. I am not part of what makes you happy, nor needed to ensure your well-being. As such I am being left behind.
I am the embodiment and living example of weakness, fear, and desperation. In leaving me you leave weakness, in out-growing me you out-grow fear, and in casting me aside you cast aside desperation. I can understand why I am unfit. I am a painful reminder to you of your shortcomings. .
And so you will be, in time, a painful memory of mine. Of false hope and misplaced trust. My reminder that my search for a partner in life is not a quest that concludes with finding a person.
You found God, after all.
The blame is squarely mine. You were, when I found you, the type of person who was optimally primed to be accepting of my advances. You were, simply, pathetic.
But now you are not. You are a brilliant women with all the (admittedly uncomfortable) righteousness of your mother. Now that you are more like her, you might stop lying to her and to others about your father.
I am sure that when God matches you with your mate, you won’t have to lie about how you met him. You won’t be embarrassed by what a faggot he is, because he won’t be one. You won’t hate yourself for sleeping with him, because you’ve slept with me.
I thank you, though. You’ve dispelled the what-if-could-have fantasies I once lived with. My having never told Tiffany that I loved her or wanted to be with her, and my premature abandonment of Alex because I, like you, feared love. That was why I had taken you back. Alex never would take me back, and now I understand why. You don’t take the knife out so someone can stab you again. I probably would have just hurt her again, just like you are hurting me now. But that’s okay. Unlike her I am not scornful or vengeful over my losses and the exploitation of my vulnerability, because unlike her to me, I love you.
I thank you for your patience with me when I couldn’t do what was expected of me. I thank you for protecting me, even when I knew you were lying to me I bowed my head and smiled because you were holding the shield up for me. Only you could hurt me because you kept everything else out.
I thank you for all you’ve put me through. All the time I’ve lost, all the miles I’ve traveled just to see you. All the nights I worried about you. All the suffering I endured for you. Any or all of it could have been real, or you might have faked it from the very beginning, but I thank you for the experience. All of it. The good was the best I’ve ever had, and in light of it the bad doesn’t really exist. I thank you for that.
So every once in a while I find someone who isn’t quite pleased with the way I behave.
I think we all know somebody like this.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to deal with this person myself. This person was amongst the legion of libelous lunatics linked to L.
Granted, these folks have their share of legitimate accusations. But he doesn’t, which makes him a curious annoyance. Before she decided that she hated me, L’s mother talked to me on the phone once. (And by that I mean “one time” as opposed to “once upon a time.” A single conversation.) She told me this particular son of hers worked in a field with some synergy to my own. I’m a film actor, he is a producer of some sort. Music videos I think she said. I later recall some nonsense about him using his littler-than-the-one-I’m-banging sister for a horror film.
Okay cool. Whatever. But cool. Mom’s trying to establish some sort of common ground to get me to lower my defenses and TALK to her, which I needed and was more clever of her than was probably intentional, but it gave me a reason to add the bastard on Facebook later.
I should note that I have never actually spoken to this guy. All I know about him was the aforementioned film interest, and that he was going to let my girl L live with him to get away from mom when she was old enough to do so.
So basically, until today, a guy I had just assumed was a chill chap confirmed his complete cretinism. An unfortunate disorder, surely:
Kau, kid. I can’t handle that Eric (sp?) kid anymore. For some reason he ended up as my friend and his weird gay shit is pissing me off. You can do what you want, but honestly, if I saw that kid, no teeth. Ever. Sorry kid. Lova ya.
Now, not meaning faggot like a dicksucker. That doesn’t really bother me. He’s just a fag. Major douchenozzle. Waste of space. Sorry if you like him, but damn, he’s the antithesis of a man.
-Jo
He didn’t say this to me, naturally, because he’s a nigger. Now, not meaning nigger like a black person. That doesn’t really bother me. He’s just a jerk. Major picklesniffer. Waste of time. Sorry if you like him, but damn, he actually thinks homosexuality is an insult.
All complaints regarding my personality are of course forwarded to my secretary of slanderous shit. In this case that person was our mutual relation, who graciously defended me:
Ok. 1: You didn’t have to accept the [friend] request! 2. Shut the fuck up about calling people names. Touch him and I will never speak to you again. I’ve tolerated it up to now and enough is enough. I’m sick of everyone bringing him up like that. Forget he ever exists, do something so I don’t have to hear this bullshit and the same goes with talking to him.
If I find you you are talking to him I won’t speak to you. Your immaturity towards this is nonsense.
-L
She’s just great. I love that gal. For all the shit she puts up with just for liking me, she doesn’t seem to place any blame on me and stands by what she believes is true.
That’s a woman, damn it.
Take notes.
I was going to do this whole "Silver Surfer kissing Nova" thing, but I wasn't bald enough.
You know when you look back at when you stopped doing something, and blame whatever it was around that time that influenced you to stop, as the reason you’re presently unsuccessful in whatever you do?
Been feeling that a lot lately.
Anyway, I did a lot of walking this week. More than I am metabolically adapted to, anyway, which I suppose is… any at all… but then it was quite a bit more than that. I believe I have at least three hours of “walking a little faster than what’s comfortable, because that’s more comfortable than being out in this temperature.” I also got quite a bit of oblique work, sliding around on the fuck-ice. I slid down two concrete blocks (squares-in-the-sidewalk.)
As I stepped out of that slide, I very nearly did a Home Alone style fall-on-ass. But I reversed it halfway and torqued the shit out of my right oblique and left shoulder (left arm carrying a shopping bag with a two-liter diet cola in it.) Then the streetlight came on overhead, I got a cheery “fuck yeah bro!” from a gas station across the street, and went back to my Oma’s in a sorely optimistic mood.
Sadly, all this walking and especially this slippery episode led to a weak workout. One of less reps and skipped oblique work.
I mean, my obliques are an isolation exercise, and if I skip them then only that part doesn’t get worked. But only my left shoulder hurt and I still needed to get some pressing in for my chest; unfortunately it’s a compound movement. That means shoulders are along for the ride. It sucked because I could have definitely squeezed out reps to at LEAST MATCH my previous workout, but that shoulder probably would have exploded, and I’m not training to failure anyway.
Even though I haven’t been counting my calories (except on Monday,) I’m pretty sure I’ve been eating near-maintenance. Or just a little bit above what my body is telling me I need. I’m going to fast throughout Sunday and hope for the best. Hopefully by Monday I’ll be recuperated in whatever relevant dimensions and get in a solid depletion-style workout.
These days kids are making youtube playlists. Or I do. But I’m an ADULT.
So whatever. The point is I’ve got a pretty pitiful love life and nobody to actually create an entire playlist for. I don’t even really listen to enough music nor pay attention to the subtleties of personality (SITE NAME, THANK YOU) to do that kind of shit.
Rather, I thought back, waaay back about half of my life ago, and tried to associate a song to someone I either dated or should have dated. The ‘should have dated’ list is a lot shorter than what I was expecting it to be, for the key reasons that: I don’t remember people who I ultimately don’t care about, and even if I do remember them and think I should have dated them, I probably didn’t hang around them enough to associate a song.
And if I did manage to associate a song, well, that would mean they’re in the mix.
Love. I would ban the word from the vocabulary. Such imprecision. Love, which love, what love? Sentiment, fantasy, longing, lust? Obsession, devouring need? Perhaps the only love that is accurate without qualification is the love of a very young child. Afterward, she too becomes a person. -White Oleander
Perhaps I’m just taking it all a little too personally.
