Wishing, hoping, not praying

I’m high but I’m grounded
I’m sane but I’m overwhelmed
I’m lost but I’m hopeful, baby
And what it all comes down to
Is that everything’s gonna be fine, fine, fine
–Alanis Morissette/One Hand In My Pocket

The age old question: can you influence how things turn out?

It seems so fucking obvious that you can. I mean, if I want tomato plants and I don’t plant them or buy them, I am very unlikely to have them. Unless…
If I believe in a deity, and it’s in her ineffable plan, she will provide them. Someone will just stop by with them, or a friend will have extras.

But.

Well.

That’s asinine. I mean, I hate to disrespect anyone’s beliefs, but pre-determinism just. Ugh. It’s dumb. (Wow. Well stated.)

Doesn’t it make you wonder?

The whole idea of predetermination just kind of rankles, right? You can do what ever harebrained or cruel thing you want, because everything will turn out the way it is supposed to. Free will? Bah, humbug.

It is the one thing that sort of makes me wish I believed in a heavenly referee handing out penalties. I mean, having a rule book would come in really handy.

Still, I do wonder.

It would really take the stress out of absolutely everything if that is what you believed. I think I will go on believing in muddling through as best as I can while trying not to be too much of a douche.

Love the people who deserve it, forgive the ones who don’t and maybe still love them anyway. They are probably just muddling through, too. Maybe eventually they’ll get the message about not being douches.

Tell the people you love how you feel, including the creeps. I suspect it pisses them off.

The only thing I am really sure of? Everything will be fine, fine, fine.

And I will die at some point.
Not just me. You, too.

And for some reason, those Facebook quizzes never suggest philosophy as a career for me. Weird.

Promises and lies

“Will you come again?” she asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then I will,” he said, turning to leave; and he did not know if either or both of them were lying.
–Helene Wecker/The Golum and the Jinni

I hate to lie. I feel guilty about it. I hate to keep track of it. Nothing about it feels good. It makes me wonder if people who tell lies do it unconsciously, because I can’t imagine doing something on purpose that would make me feel awful and and also possibly hurt someone.

Or possibly those people are just douche canoes who don’t even have enough of a soul to care if they are lying. Which I can’t understand, but hey–I don’t understand how anyone can like Country music either, and I have heard a lot of people do.

Of course, what’s tricky is that sometimes you twist the truth without meaning to lie, exactly. Maybe you act less interested in someone than you really are because you think they are not very interested in you? That is a common one. But the hitch is obvious. What if they are acting cool because you are? It’s the vicious circle of feigned disinterest. Someone has to be the brave one.

If first kisses depended on me, they would never happen.

What’s that got to do with anything?

Well, if you feel like kissing someone, and think maybe they’d enjoy it…should you just sack up and do it? Is it dishonest not to?
(Yes, it is kind of a miracle that I ever managed to ever have a date ever in my whole life.)

Dishonesty, even if it’s well intended, can back fire. Of course, so can honesty. You’re probably doomed no matter what you do, so you might as well be honest as not. Right? Right…

A friend dared me to watch the movie “the Notebook” last week, so I rented it. It was supposed to prove that I am not the indifferent bitch that I like to pretend I am. Naturally, it made me cry. I am as much of a romantic as anyone, so one scene in the movie stuck in my mind. The teen lovers were in an old mansion, and the girl was saying all the things she wanted–a wrap around porch, a room to paint in–and the boy promised her all those things. Of course, she breaks his heart, but years later he ends up buying and renovating that old mansion. Puts on the wraparound porch. And the room for her to paint in. Even though she is now engaged to someone else. She comes to see him and asks him why he did it and he said “because I promised.”

And that is what I want. Someone who promises me something. Someone who keeps the promise. Someone who loves me no matter what. Who yells at me if I waver and reminds me who he is. Who reminds me who I am. Someone who will be honest with me even if he knows it will end up in a fight. Someone who will not run. Or cave in because I am mad, or crying. Someone who will be open, and encourage me to be.

That simple thing.

Simple, but is it even possible with all of the daily small deceptions? All of the little shields? It’s pretty simple to break down the heavy defenses, but can two people break down all the little self protections at the same time with each other? Because it doesn’t work if only one person does.

There need to be two people with their shields down and they both have to want each other.

Simple is not easy.

And we wrap our feelings in so much armor that it’s amazing that anyone ever knows what anyone else feels. You can set the armor aside, but all it takes is one well placed blow to make you put it right back on. And the more open you are, the more it hurts.

If you don’t take the armor off, though, you don’t feel anything.

So.

There is risk and loss no matter what you choose.

And you can’t help hurting people sometimes.

Even if you love them.

But maybe you can be honest with them, and keep the shields down with each other even when it stings.

Is it only a theoretical possibility?

Maybe I will find out.

An imaginary chat about being an advice columnist

I love talking to you. It’s just like having a journal.

Except I talk back.

Yes you do.

Am I nice?

Not always.

I try to be.

Intentions don’t count.

That is what I would say if I was giving advice.

I don’t think so.

Well. Hmm. Don’t assume that the intent is bad. I would definitely say that.

You’ve said that to me.

I’ve said it to myself.

Did you listen?

Yes. And it not only bit me in the ass, but then it gave me a bloody nose and kicked me in the head.

And yet you are still giving advice.

Did you ever hear me claim to be a fucking advice columnist?

I’ve heard you complain about not fucking.

Did I ever mention that I hate you?

On a regular basis. But you do give good advice.

That no one heeds. Or needs.

Heeding and needing are two very different creatures.

Yeah. I have figured that out. Sort of like listening to your brain vs your heart.

If you had an advice column, what would you advise people to listen to?

Someone other than me. I have a major in Romance Language. I am clearly a fucking idiot.

Not exactly, but you are harder on yourself than you should be.

I’d probably tell myself that in my advice column, but I am too stupid to listen.

Stop it.

You are right. See? I can listen to advice.

Sure. I will only have to remind you a thousand times not to call yourself a dumbass.

I am a slow learner.

A thousand and one.

Like the Arabian Nights?

Would a dumbass make that reference?

Probably not an American dumbass. It’s not referred to as the 1001 nights in English very often.

The average dumbass wouldn’t know that.

So I am not a dumbass, but a nerd?

You’re impossible!

Being self-deprecating used to be considered charming.

No it didn’t. It has always been fucked up.

Always? Are you sure? Even in the 80’s?

Yes.

Huh. Well, that explains a lot about my lack of success in attracting men.

I doubt very much that attracting men has been an issue for you.

Well…no. Not really. Just keeping them.

Really? You’re still friends with your first several boyfriends.

Some of them. The ones who didn’t trample on my heart.

People seem to like to stay with you. Trample your heart? What are you, 14?

No, 15. Look who’s talking…

Pot. Kettle.

Good night, Mr. Black. Let me know if you need any advice.

I will read it the minute you start that column.