tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48631799398018753222024-03-07T20:16:33.284-08:00The Thought SpotMariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-88160376224673741772011-07-14T13:03:00.000-07:002011-07-14T13:57:37.320-07:00Dipping A Toe In The Public Pool of ConsciousnessBrrr. It is cold here. Or maybe it's just me. I've been stewing in my own stagnant warm puddles - though I am proud to say, not of my own bodily making - and now by contrast the outside world feels cold. Will they love me again? Will they be amused by my musings or disgusted by my unabashed need for their affection? Oh, these elusive "they", how I've missed "them". "Missed" them. "I've" missed them. I have.<br /><br />Right now I am at my job. At my work. Sitting at my desk, in my office. Okay, it's not just my office - I share it with my boss. I like that there are two big windows and green plants, but I don't like that my desk is positioned with my back towards the door and the center of the room - making me feel always vulnerable. I've become a master web browser window collapser by now, with the ears of a bat. (Note: my ears are in fact a little pointy and bat-like - a source of great pride, as they make me look elfish.) The point is, as all things in my life, my situation here is quite imperfect. Thus, the guilt that blogging on company time should engender in any conscientious worker is kept at a bare minimum. I'm happier here than I've been at any job before, so I relish the tiny guilt pangs that seep through the general buzzing ennui in my brain. They make me feel authentic and sincere, like I'm a good person who just sometimes does not so good things. You know? The misunderstood bad girl who blogs at work. <br /><br />I decided it's important for me to document my comings and goings after all. I realized this the other day when someone quoted me something I said to them in conversation, espousing a view, or perhaps even a belief, that I never remembered discussing with said person in the first place. Goes to show you how important beliefs are to me! I have them and all - at least I think I do - but I never seem to really use them as valid criteria for choosing which people I interact with, for instance. The point is, my life is moving at an ever-increasing pace, and I don't want to miss any important turns. Not that anything is particularly important. Or is everything important? I just don't know!<br /><br />The main struggle I seem to be having internally these days is one between a life of material asceticism and the pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, and a life of so-called success, as measured by layman's standards: status, prestige, disposable income, the works. Right now I am straddling the fence between the two, and all I have to show for it is a chafed crotch. It's really a matter of poor time management, isn't it? And isn't this rambling entry a case-in-point? Even if I am choosing to spend this time allotted for work on NOT work-related activities, I could be doing something else more "productive". Like, re-working my resume, or uploading the most recent podcast, or writing jokes, or looking into finally having my comedy website built, or looking for other jobs, or reading the news, or any number of things that can yield a measurable reward. But no. I have this mental itch to COMMUNICATE, to SHARE, to CONNECT - but with WHOM?! WHY?!<br /><br />I am as lonely as ever. And that's all there is to it.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-7465735760945433252010-12-04T14:06:00.000-08:002010-12-04T14:58:34.561-08:00Sacking UpI've been having the adventure of my life. Every single day has felt magical. What sort of drug am I on, eh? What is it that keeps me so happy, even when things don't seem so peachy? Good question, Mariya. I'm glad you asked. Why, certainly, Mariya! <br /><br />I mean, this is going to sound totally insane and egomaniacal, but I'm kind of awesome. I'm very awesome in certain very specific ways that have almost no practical application in the "real world", but nonetheless, I am a master.<br /><br />After years and years of suffering from crippling, never-leave-the-house anxiety and shame, I have suddenly learned to master my brain; to direct the flow of neurons only through the passageways of my choosing. Each time a synapse fires, it's because General Me bade it so. Every time an emotion floods my bloodstream, it's because I've admitted it. It goes without saying that I PREFER to feel good, I mean, who wouldn't? So here I am, happy as a clam. Wait, can clams experience happiness? Why not happy as a mussel? Who makes these absurd rules we all live by?<br /><br />Things aren't exactly perfect. It's very difficult, for instance, to not feel at least a tinge of heartache when a person rejects me. And rejection can come in all forms. Any breach of contact - if the contact is enjoyable - feels as it should, like a tiny laceration on your soul. But then I remember that not everyone feels so freely and willingly. Not everyone can make room in their heart for everyone - even the people who don't fit within the contrived roles society writes for us. What motivates me more than anything is meaningful communication and learning. Sex dynamics often muddy that experience, and rob me of potential friendship and intellectual companionship. It's not like I'm all alone - of course not. My world is practically teeming with people I love, but it's not like it ever stops. The people never stop. There are so many many people out there, and they are all a part of each other and a part of me. It's dizzying to imagine the implications. But I don't live in this idealistic abstraction. I live around people who are afraid to tell each other how they feel. They are afraid to be alone, so they alienate one another preemptively. How are any of us supposed to get to that ultimate intimacy of which we all dream if we can't even begin to understand what we really want ourselves? How can another person complete us if we're not ready to fully examine what might be missing? So I'm on a mission to not waste a moment, but figure it out. Figure out how to perfect communication.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-12891998576548702962010-11-06T09:14:00.000-07:002010-11-06T09:49:46.969-07:00Impending NOT DoomCircuitous motion. <br /><br />No, not circuitous. More like endless waves. Crests and troughs of emotion through time and space, interwoven with a constant nagging suspicion that something big is missing.<br />Family, love, friendship - all the things that anchor you as a person - are missing from me. This isn't to discount my nuclear family of parents and sister (and beautiful feline babies). This isn't to say that my new blossoming friendships are unsatisfying. I'm just tired of feeling so anonymous. I have so many daily interactions, but am never left with a clear understanding of what any of them mean. I just want someone to know me. I just want to find a place to really call home.<br /><br />The more I live this way, the less I am open to really caring about someone. I crave it more than anything, but when I'm faced with an opportunity to do it, I shrink back in fear. Fear of having my heart handed to be on a plate after it's been run through a meat grinder. Fear of being bored. Fear of being forced to feel ashamed of myself, of holding my mind reined in, of letting my dreams die. <br /><br />I'm tired of cynics.<br /><br />I won't let myself become one.<br /><br />Happiness is just around the corner. I can feel it.<br /><br />Until then, I have batteries and "Californication" on Netflix instant viewing. And a silly dream that miracles can happen when you least expect.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-47975378619528209772010-10-11T20:57:00.000-07:002010-10-11T21:00:34.979-07:00Oh boyPeople can really surprise you sometimes. <br /><br />In a good way.<br /><br />*sigh*MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-30908012067659284342010-10-11T17:41:00.000-07:002010-10-11T20:40:35.935-07:00Vagina (Wisdom) TeethKayla and I are writing a book. I don't know the title yet. I don't know if it's going to be one continuous flow of a narrative/account, or more like anecdotal essays, but the theme is going to be our common experience: extricating ourselves from bad abusive marriages that we got into way too young, and having to deal with the world newly alone and scared, but how that's still more satisfying than the horrible lives we would have had if we'd stayed married but comfortable. And we use the term "comfortable" very loosely. I mean, what's so comfortable about coming home every day and dodging insults or various projectiles thrown at you in anger? Nothing. It fucking sucks.<br /><br />I managed to carve out some time to read the news today, for the first time in weeks. Boy, what a mistake THAT was. I mean, not really. I personally found it fascinating that Justin Bieber is starting his own nail polish line, or that some asshole actually threw a book at Obama at a recent rally. But there were also nonstop stories about murders and violent crimes of all sorts, and teenage suicides, and bullying, and just people behaving atrociously toward one another. This is so disheartening to me. Something is really amiss in the world when everyone is feeling so frazzled all the time, and has no idea how to process emotions, letting them all turn into aggression and fear. This isn't just some vague general feeling, either. I see it manifest itself every day on an interpersonal level too. People are afraid to care about one another. And, by the same token, some broken people use faux, generic affection to prey upon those they perceive to be weaker, to manipulate and control them. I don't even know what I find more bearable. I think I'd rather have all-out aggression than some of the twisted mindfucky soul leeching I've had to endure. <br /><br />Believe me, I don't like to think in stereotypes, and I've always been drawn to men as friends, so this isn't a typical woman's complaint.. but what in the world is wrong with you people?! Seriously! Like having a penis excuses you from having common decency or integrity! My opinions of people I've admired and respected have drastically, let us say, evolved of late. And it seems like the nicer a guy believes himself to be, the more grotesque his hypocrisy and selfishness ultimately is. And GOD, am I tired of pity parties. Psychologically sound explanations for complete lapses in ethical consciousness. All of it. Grow up!<br /><br />Like, I know life is turning out very disappointingly, when this actually starts to make sense:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bqg_ceFM30I?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bqg_ceFM30I?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />It's like the crazy lady is speaking from experience. <br /><br />I love that she's dressed like a librarian, has the eyes of a meth-head, and an obvious talent for writing erotica.<br /><br />Will I become like that lady?<br /><br />Here I go admitting too much about myself again.<br /><br />I just did yoga, you see. It helps a great deal with feelings that otherwise would be unbearable. And also you feel like just for one more day you've done your part to fight the battle against unwarranted size increases. I can't afford to go shopping all the time, you know. <br /><br />No, but for realsies. I want to teach you yoga. I had a blast instructing my sister. My favorite moment is when I adjust a person's pose to where it's supposed to REALLY be and their eyes start bulging out of their heads because FUCK it hurts muscles you didn't even know you had... (I know, it's still relatively new to me) Well, that moment is priceless. <br /><br />My right shoulder hurts. <br /><br />Night.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-33473000255611218542010-10-11T06:54:00.000-07:002010-10-11T09:42:15.620-07:00Blue MachineMy heart feels like it's locked in one of those medieval torture devices, with the spikes inside, and it just keeps pressing tighter and tighter.<br /><br />Could be all the horrendous fatty food I've been craving almost robotically the past few days. I guess my body is trying to build a nice layer of blubber to get me through the harsh winter. But how can I grow the emotional blubber I need to sustain my soul?<br /><br />Spoke to my ex-husband today. So trippy and weird. The person who used to be dearest to me is now for all intents and purposes an awkward stranger. <br /><br />So it goes.<br /><br />Life is a series of meaningless vignettes. Or, rather, there is meaning sealed into each one, but they don't necessarily relate to one another, or flow in any sensible way. Life is like a goddamned indie art flick. There's all this emotion and angst and beauty, bubbling just beneath the surface, but try to make others understand it, or garner some real universal meaning, and you fail. That's why Hollywood movies will never go out of style. It's nice to be able to pretend, at least for a little while, as your eyes are glued to the screen, that things make sense. That stories have beginnings and middles and ends. That it isn't all just one big clusterfucky soup we're all swimming in blindly.<br /><br />Saturday night after my unexciting comedy show in Columbia, MD, Kayla and I met a trio of "revolutionaries", as they called themselves. They were the strangest, most mis-matched group of people I've ever seen together, on a late-night outing no less. One was a 70-something-year-old man who was obsessed with my feet and my hair, another was a short greasy-haired artsy-bearded weasel who was pretty damn talkative and entertaining, the third a tall Viking of a creature covered in tattoos, with a shaved head. We shared some surprisingly affectionate moments, right at the bar of Chadwick's, as Pete looked on. <br /><br />He turned out to be this guy:<br /><br />http://www.lowerbranch.com/artists/christopheranway/<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/b8y2sbektwk?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/b8y2sbektwk?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />Incredibly talented. Quiet. Punched out Andy Dick at a bar in San Francisco. What a life.<br /><br />I don't expect to hear from him again. *sigh*<br /><br />I just want to get through this week and get the hell out of here. Really looking forward to going to New England with Kayla Thursday night.<br /><br />I don't know what I would do if it wasn't for her, always listening to my whining, going to stupid open mics with me, making me feel not alone. <br /><br />I hope I can be a good friend to her. <br /><br />I need to go to yoga.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-43240653564387791152010-10-07T20:00:00.000-07:002010-10-07T21:37:49.383-07:00Let The Sun ShineI feel animated and alert and kind of thrilled.<br /><br />I just watched the latest Hulu episode of The Simpsons and while it wasn't necessarily LOL-inducing, it made me feel somehow excited about life again. I mean, it wasn't just the episode or anything. All day today I've been kind of teetering on the edge of a delirium. <br /><br />The episode, in any case, before I so rudely interrupted myself, was about micro-financing and Facebook and different ways that people interact with money. Lately I am consumed with thinking about money, like most people in this country, and I think I am tired of pretending that making money doesn't matter to me. It suddenly matters to me a great deal and that is scary/exciting to observe. Maybe because I've never stood so realistically close to actually making it. My new job is providing a wealth of information and opportunity, and I intend to capitalize on it. My jellyfish-like state of mind feels good. Jellyfish don't have minds, I don't think, but they themselves are Zen incarnate. They just go with the flow. They don't worry about the consequences of their movements. Their place in the ocean doesn't matter to them. They are simply designed to survive as long as they can. I mean, they can always get eaten or wash up on the shore, where they can sting random beach goers, causing their friends to helpfully urinate on them... but that's beside the point. They are pretty and floaty and unabashedly unique, and my brain is becoming more and more like a jellyfish each day. <br /><br />Ramble, ramble, ramble.<br /><br />I am going to chisel out the truth from life. That is my mission. <br /><br />Truth can only exist where there is love, though. The truth can only hurt if people don't really love one another. And I mean all people. Really. Love. <br /><br />I just want to be clear so that last night's post doesn't come off too venomous. It was obviously a whimper of defeat, but also a defiant cry. To myself, more than anything. My experience is real, and I am still capable of being the me I was before any of this happened - the comedy, the heartbreak, everything. Writing has been my way of life since I can remember. No, that's not true. I never really had the desire to write for fun back in "Zee Mahzer Land". It was the English language that seduced me. That's when everything began to take on a narrative form. For me, to write is to exist. No matter how seemingly nonsensical, no matter how base or crass - it helps us shape the great human story, forever preserved in time. I am always puzzled by the depths of the human psyche, and the greatly varying degrees to which people are willing to explore them. <br /><br />Things people always tend to have major hang-ups about:<br /><br />1) sex<br /><br />2) relationships<br /><br />Any other thing a person claims is at the root of his/her existence is a decoy.<br /><br />Look, even Mark Zuckerberg was motivated by nothing but being scorned by a girl/trying to win back the girl.<br /><br />I've also found it immensely fascinating reading Clark's new book because while from his music tastes it can easily be gathered that he IS a pensive soul, his book reveals a level of depravity I didn't expect from this quiet brooding creature. He DOES have mischievous eyes. <br /><br />What I guess I am trying to say is that for an artist, there is nothing more valuable than her/his particular unique way of processing reality. How that reality gets deconstructed and presented will greatly vary from person to person, but each artist will feel just as attached to her/his reality as the other artists to theirs. It's not really a conscious choice. It's just something that permeates deeply into your brain, and becomes a constant voice and companion. <br /><br />"You exist, you exist, you exist."<br /><br />"Now this is happening, and now this, and now this..."<br /><br />"What does it mean? Does it mean anything? Surely it means something."<br /><br />This is a long elaborate excuse for narcissism. <br /><br />BEAU-TI-FUL.<br /><br />I had a point somewhere...<br /><br />Oh yeah. I'm gonna figure things out. Bit by bit.<br /><br />In the meantime, this thing keeps growing....That seriously blows my mind.<br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://player.wizzard.tv/player/o/j/x/128651212678/config/k-a3ce724c24bf4fa7/uuid/root/height/360/width/640/episode/k-bb51c179a45838b6.m4v"></script>MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-81569242877870419472010-10-06T18:00:00.000-07:002010-10-06T19:52:05.877-07:00Fiddling My Mental BanjoOkay. Let's try not to be melodramatic about this. So I haven't written in a while. What's the big deal? No one cares about what I say anyway. No one gives a shit. Out of some sort of pride, or fear, I've stopped myself from being indulgent. I've given up on letting my passion consume me. I've tried my best to be temperate and steady and patient, but what I've really found myself being is BORED!<br /><br />I've spent most of the evening tonight looking over some old notebooks. It's funny, Randolph told me today that's what I should do, but he was referring to old joke notebooks. He had no idea how far back my obsession goes. What I'm reading is pages and pages of anecdotes, journals, lists, and most of all, poems. Long poems, short poems. I used to think in word rhythms and rhymes. Gosh, I was so young! My whole stupid life is contained in those pages. I'm tempted to share some of it here. <br /><br />Like, what in god's name was I going on about?<br /><br />***Untitled***<br /><br />Such clever preparation<br />For a sorry administration - <br />Now I hurt <br />From within.<br /><br />Such impatient levitation <br />When you spit your adoration - <br />I cry, <br />I never win.<br /><br />Shake me 'till <br />I'm but a fizzing bottle<br />Boiling over <br />Wilting flames<br /><br />Of disillusion <br />And confusion<br />And a million<br />Ugly names.<br /><br />Don't agree <br />When you don't know.<br />I refuse to play<br />Sex goddess.<br /><br />All this self-hate<br />Is to show<br />How good I am, <br />And just how modest.<br /><br />Only when habitual<br />Feeding frenzies<br />Disperse for quiet<br />Self-absorption,<br /><br />Will the digital<br />Life-like image<br />Give way to natural<br />Distortion.<br /><br />*********************<br /><br />Umm, is it just me or is that pretty neat? I kind of like it. It's moody. It's revealing enough, but vague enough. *sigh* I should be so inspired every day, for god's sakes! WHY, adult life, WHY have you done this to me? <br /><br />I came close to tears several times today. <br /><br />It's been only 5 days or so, but it already feels like eternity. I told the person I'd most recently let myself love, and let myself be seen by, and felt understood by, and that I too completely understood, to fuck off and never speak to me. Because he doesn't really love me, I think. He doesn't care for me as a human being at all. I don't really believe that, but it hurts less to think that than to think that he really does care, but in spite of that went off to have a serious committed relationship with an exotic-looking Asian woman with gums that show just a little too much when she smiles, if you ask me. She may have a perfect little button nose, with a stylish little stud through one of the nostrils, but her body is stockier, her bone structure more massive. Her eyes are just a tad crossed and empty. These are subtle details. I'm sure he doesn't notice anything but her beautiful tan skin and big hair. Men equate big hair with sexiness. I have big hair too, but lack the exotic Asian features, which are on every white man's bucket list. <br /><br />Anyway, I told him to fuck off. I couldn't continue the fake non-friendship that existed in the dark chasms of our awareness. I could never bring myself to say it before, but we'd had an affair. I let him dump me abruptly, for another woman, then proceeded to have an affair with him for what felt like a hellish forever. I blamed him for starting it, sure, but every fiber of my being wanted it. Each text, or phone call, or better yet, voicemail, would be a treasured trophy - a victory! I'd managed to keep his interest for yet another measurable span of time. I'd managed to weaken him this much... <br /><br />I was the truly weak one, of course.<br /><br />It's just hard because although I am surrounded by wonderful, interesting, talented people every day, I feel afraid to initiate the process of opening up again. I didn't feel this tender after the dissolution of my marriage. That hurt like hell, but this somehow feels more damaging. Maybe because my husband's disregard for me manifested itself in violent anger, I felt more able to distance myself from him. With my stupid interesting-nosed, secret ex-whateverthefuck, there was never anything but pure bliss when we were together. Time apart was agony, because I spent it thinking of nothing but the next time we could be together again.... But either way, the wanting never really abated, but the circumstances changed. He simply became unavailable.<br /><br />And it's making emotionally unavailable for someone new. But someone new is what I need most desperately. That's really the only cure for such a state. Some would argue that time heals all wounds, but time is something I don't have right now. My whole world is spinning at a dizzying pace, and I need someone to hold my hand so I don't keel over. But I'm afraid to chase. I need someone to be brave. It would be that much easier for me to give myself again, if I knew that I was being given to as well.<br /><br />Or I just need a whoooooole lot of money.<br /><br />That would help me kill the right amount of time alone while I healed, a la Julia Roberts, eating and praying and loving all over the place. They forgot to include sleep in that movie, now that I think about it. "Eat, pray, love, and SLEEP".<br /><br />I've got to come back to this. The pandora's box has been opened. <br /><br />So much tired.<br /><br />Pass out... must....MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-40664903267551366642009-04-06T22:03:00.000-07:002009-06-15T17:36:41.841-07:00to kill the child withinI don't know exactly where this romantic notion of "the child within" came from. We idealize youth in really stupid ways, in my opinion. I mean, sure, who hasn't looked at a lithe teenage body and drooled a little? We've all been there! But let's face it, despite their physical beauty, kids do stupid shit. They ask too many questions. They have no personal boundaries. They are curious about sex. They dream of bigger things. They get in trouble. They play pretend. They have imaginary friends. They think that something being boring is enough of a reason not to do it. <br /><br />I say this in the heat of my own little epiphany. I am an emotional infant, and possibly mentally challenged. I am hopelessly old - quarter-life-crisis-ready, beaten and bruised by adult life - but I have never felt more like a child. Instead of enjoying an ice-cream cone or spinning joyously around in circles for no reason at all, however, I feel helpless and lost. I do not enjoy this feeling. Being a child is frightening. <br /><br />What missing ingredient was there in my development? So many of my peers have it, but I don't. They book appointments, go to work, grocery shop, join gyms, have power lunches, pick out new drapes - and all like they have a clear idea of why they are doing these things. I do stuff as well, sure, but for the life of me I can't figure out what any of it is for.<br /><br />I dwell on the details.<br /><br />My thoughts are utterly grandiose.<br /><br />I want to be a fireman.<br /><br />No, a police officer!<br /><br />No, no! President!<br /><br />I just want some peace.<br /><br />I want someone to pull a lever and spin my brain like a slot machine, and make me arbitrarily live out the course of my life according to the random pattern of events the aligning wheels would illustrate. Instead of cherries and lemons and apples, the symbols would be more akin to hieroglyphs or Chinese characters. Each one would provide its own chapter to the book of my silly life, a sentence in a Madlib story, a character in an improv scene. I would be a happy robot then.<br /><br />For if I were a robot, I wouldn't question the feelings my maker endowed me with. If I felt fear or desire, or pleasure, or love, I would accept all that as part of my robot nature. I would do what I do without ever wondering what else there might be. I would love what I love because I was made to love it. There would be no possibility of questioning the source of this love, or its motive. There would be no shame.<br /><br />But instead of an adult robot, I am a baby primate. Great ape. I am not a suitable house pet. I may want to drive cars and then eat somebody's face. I may look civilized because I know how to use eating utensils and the toilet, but I am still a wild beast. <br /><br />Oh, if only being shot with a tranquilizer gun didn't hurt...MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-75609839557350693112009-03-15T00:28:00.001-07:002009-06-15T17:36:08.451-07:00on blogging about bloggingPlease make sure to check out a new blog I added to my favorite blog list. Since I have nothing of any interest to offer you lately, I thought I could at least do you the service of pointing out who really DOES have a point of view on things outside of their own broken emotions. I mean, let's face it. If you're not interested in mental agony and general schizoid behavior, there isn't much to see here. This is why I am hereby releasing you to float through the blogosphere like helium-filled balloons to look over the fascinating lives of others, enjoying their quirky sense of humor and well-readness about current events. <br /><br />Start here:<br /><br />http://goodnightmoon.tumblr.com/<br /><br />Remember, this is one of my best friends, so I get half credit for everything witty and funny she says. <br /><br />Please stay tuned for more hot blog on blog action.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-15823037844856244472009-03-02T02:52:00.000-08:002009-03-02T03:11:05.354-08:00guilty?It's the first real snow storm of the season. Everyone was so excited. Everyone but me, that is. I am the sucker that agreed to "dump" at 6 AM at the radio station, and woke up this morning dreading the decision I would have to make. To dump or not to dump? That is the question.<br /><br />My car is like a sardine can of a death trap. The wheels are balding, one of the headlights went out AGAIN, even though I just replaced it like last week (must be some electrical issue), and the break pads need to be changed soon. This really isn't the ideal vehicle to take me all the way to Fairfax in these precarious conditions. All that is bad enough in its own right, but when I thought about the fact that my reward for the arduous journey I would have to undertake is barely above minimum wage, I decided I couldn't in my right mind do that to myself. There's a dump button in the on-air studio, after all. They don't really NEED me. Maybe they can try to tone it down this morning with the sexual innuendo. These are scary times for everyone. No time for cheap laughs. I could very well be kissing my potential references and recommendations good-bye for this, but my defiant spirit says it's better to live reference-less but intact, than to die referred and mangled. <br /><br />To punish myself for my pesky survival instincts and to prove to the universe that I am NOT being lazy and looking for a stolen day of sleeping in, I will stay up and watch Woody Allen movies on my Netflix instant viewing. "Mighty Aphrodite" - here I come!<br /><br />New podcasts are up, by the way. Check them out.<br /><br />http://www.switchpod.com/p19578.htmlMariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-35491350909357957152009-01-12T10:10:00.000-08:002009-01-12T10:28:52.777-08:00life is like a twizzler pull-n-peelMy mind is unraveling. Nothing makes any sense right now. I thought I had made progress - that rationality was my muse. <br /><br />I can't strike from my memory the very essence of what I felt like last Tuesday: light, free, content yet exhilarated. If we are nothing but masses of energy percolating with different frequencies, then it really seems extra unfair that mundane, physical circumstance is preventing a potentially beautiful and fruitful co-vibration. It will take time for my brain to readjust to this new level of perception. It will take my heart even longer to stop aching at the thought of what could never be. I know I will survive any disappointment. I know I am complete already... But who can resist basking in the glow of unfettered joy when the opportunity throws itself at one's feet? And who can willingly relinquish the right to even remember that joy once it's gone?<br /><br />Appropriately enough, I've lost my voice. The raspy gasps my throat emits when I attempt to speak match the ugliness of my societally sanctioned self-denial. <br /><br />To live in peace can mean so many different things. At least I seem to have a clearer idea of what it means to me. I'm not there yet.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-74511701108166202122009-01-05T21:14:00.001-08:002009-01-05T22:01:11.614-08:00Happy new year?I realize that I am still technically young, but I certainly never expected to still be this underdeveloped, emotionally stunted, almost helpless husk of a human being by this time in my life. In Soviet Union time, I'm not only an adult, but should be raising my second or third child by now... WHILE going to work as an engineer at some office, and cooking dinner at home every night. <br /><br />You know what I had for dinner today? A strawberry popsicle. Actually, it's an organic frozen juice bar from Trader Joe's, but that doesn't make it any more of a complete meal - just less poisonous. <br /><br />Anyhow, I only wanted to take a brief inventory of everything I have and am while I have my wits about me. Of course no personal accounting can take place so quickly, nor should it be taken lightly, but I never seem to be able to play by the rules, so let's make light of my baseness, my weak moral character, and fat stack of failures, shall we? <br /><br />1) My marriage is not what I intended it to be - that is, it's currently over, or at least on long-term hold. I counted on this man to save me, and he certainly gave me a great boost at the beginning, if only through allegorical inspiration, but ultimately, he needed me to save him even more. I think I gave him a good head start too. I pointed him in the right direction, emotionally and mentally. I cannot be the one to guide him through anything right now, though, as I myself am suffering from severe growing pains. Where is my wild-haired, clear-eyed, robe-clad sage?<br /><br />2) I find myself painfully attracted to people who have absolutely no interest in me. This seems to give my mundane existence excitement. I don't know why I find suffering so exciting. Hi, my name is Mariya and I am a sadomasochist. And I like to drink and smoke, too.<br /><br />3) I have finally enrolled in an improv class. Appropriately enough, it will be at the DC Improv. Monday nights, starting in March. I believe it will culminate with a showcase performance. This excites me and frightens me greatly.<br /><br />4) Speaking of painful attraction - I am surprised by the sheer number of people I have been feeling these "vibes" from or towards. Am I just lonely? A sexual deviant? A self-aggrandizing fool?<br /><br />5) Despite all this emotional turmoil, I still manage to get intellectually inspired from day to day, which is reassuring. Maybe all this falling in and out of love is just part of my experience. I shouldn't try to will it to be different. Maybe it has to be this way.<br /><br />6) I am poor. <br /><br />7) Truly disturbed to see tiny signs of aging start to creep up on my face. I miss the passion I felt when I first started this pseudo-vegan lifestyle. Back then "no dairy" meant "no dairy". Now it's "no dairy unless I really really want some and haven't had any in a while". Terrible. That's what I get. If I don't commit to not getting feeble and infirm and wrinkly, I can't very well expect to accomplish anything in that regard. When was the last time I had a proper work-out? Who even knows?! I need to re-read "Jitterbug Perfume" and get inspired again.<br /><br />8) Windows Vista is not as bad as everyone tries to make it out to be. So far I don't see how it's bad at all. I'm just glad to have a new computer.<br /><br />9) I keep having very vivid, sensory, emotional dreams. <br /><br />10) When the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve, and as Dick Clark was stroke-mouthing the last of his unsettling count-down, I was in the car with my sister. We shared a brief ironical giggle as we made our way to an unlikely Russian party with red caviar and vodka and such delicacies as smoked pickled herring under a bed of shredded beets, potatoes and boiled eggs with mayonnaise. Mouth-watering, I tell you. It's like a salt-fish potato salad slaw. <br /><br />Good night!MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-20422322648812034082008-12-21T16:54:00.000-08:002008-12-21T17:03:17.875-08:00make it goodI really do amaze myself sometimes. How is it I can be so pragmatic and unemotional about certain things, but then completely lose my mind when it comes to a few select others? I guess "lose my mind" is the wrong expression. I don't think crazy thoughts about these delicate issues, but I seem to constantly be feeling strong feelings that manifest themselves in uncomfortable physical conditions, like a constantly tightened diaphragm, shortness of breath, stress stored in painful lumps at the base of the neck. My rational mind knows what is happening, knows it is powerless to control the situation in any way, but my cardiovascular system and adrenal glands don't see it that way. My body sees this thing as a constant threat to its wellbeing, perhaps its very existence. So how do I eliminate from the body the thing that has permanently altered the mind, like a rare hallucinogen? The cerebral effects are somewhat pleasing even when they are unwelcome and unexpected, but the physical overstimulation is more than I can stand. I ache all over. <br /><br />I'm not really scared, either. It is merely uncomfortable. <br /><br />This all could just as easily be the fresh array of symptoms from some degenerative disease that has been dormant until now. <br /><br />Strange, though, how it coincides with this utterly absurd time in my life. I wonder how this absurd time will measure against all the others I've already lived through. Does this take the cake? Mmm, cake. I had a chocolate muffin from Robeks today.<br /><br />I feel like I need a full body cast just not to melt into a puddle of human fragility. I need something solid to contain my strange ethereal essence. Feeling connected to everything all at once, even on a purely philosophical level, is exhausting... As is pining away for something you can probably never have.<br /><br />Also I am newly addicted to Nat Shermans.<br /><br />Merry holidays!MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-61098000308439624132008-12-12T05:42:00.000-08:002008-12-12T05:45:01.420-08:00false gods?MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-68448719460043704562008-12-08T07:10:00.000-08:002009-01-08T20:02:00.099-08:00uncomfortably numbAriana Huffington encourages people to blog their passions.<br /><br />My passions have never been easily articulated. Activities that I enjoy immensely can also bring me emotional agony. My only passion is experience - the solid, tangible feeling of "doing something" and deriving sensations and thoughts through that action. <br /><br />I love to read and write, but not when my mind is preoccupied with longing.<br /><br />I love to sing, but not when the sound of my own voice makes me cringe with disgust.<br /><br />I crave attention and affection, but resent it when it's given as a matter of routine.<br /><br /><br />I love to learn, but can't seem to find any practical use for my knowledge.<br /><br />Being back from my short trip to New York feels surreal. This is the life I thought I was used to, but it only took a couple of days in a totally different environment to make me feel like a stranger here. I suppose I always felt that way, but didn't allow this awareness to creep into my conscious thoughts. At least in a big, bustling city I can be one among many strangers. Here, I am truly alone. <br /><br />Listen to the latest podcasts, won't ya?<br /><br />http://www.switchpod.com/p19578.htmlMariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-82184016080499668522008-11-24T09:17:00.000-08:002008-11-24T10:25:41.838-08:00my beautiful disorderFor what seemed like the hundredth time, I was reading today about personality disorders, or PD's, as they are lovingly dubbed within the psycho-therapeutic community. More than anything else I fit the profile of a person "suffering" from Histrionic Personality Disorder. The word "histrionic" itself stems from a Latin word for "actor", and quite logically, this disorder is characterized by theatrical, animated behavior, the need for attention and acceptance, and inappropriate seductiveness and sexuality. Incidentally, this is a disorder apparently plaguing the female population... Meaning that any time a woman expresses any sexual tendency or extroverted behavior, she is abnormal. In the ancient world, it was referred to as "wandering womb". By the middle ages, any behavior perceived to be improper in women was blamed on witchcraft, moral weakness, and demonic possession. In the age of psychoanalysis, such great minds as Sigmund Freud and Wilhelm Reich blamed women's "weak nervous systems" and "penis envy" for their troubles. Apparently it was strange to them that women that lived either as idle slaves (wives if the wealthy) or actual slaves (wives of the poor), were bored and unsatisfied with their lot in life.<br /><br />As I read such garbage and reflect upon my life thus far, I realize just how deep-rooted and corrupt society's attitudes are towards women. Virtually every conflict I've ever experienced has stemmed from such thinking, perpetuated even by women themselves. We are taught to hate ourselves for our natural desires, our appearance, our mental flexibility. Even our brave new "modern" world offers no real solace. We question our every move, wondering if we'll be perceived as improper or too aggressive, or too passive, or just plain dull. Whether we are politicians or doctors or housewives, the stigma of weakness and being inherently flawed follows us everywhere. <br /><br />It is prudent to note, too, that all the major world religions, including Buddhism and Hinduism, help to instill this view of women in our collective psyche. This helps to explain why someone like Sarah Palin was so poorly received by most rational women. Her belief in a patriarchal religious system supercedes her empathy toward other women and their struggles. <br /><br />In any case, I'm not sorry. My histrionics keep life fun.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-77164374335686396592008-11-22T06:30:00.001-08:002008-11-22T06:30:29.366-08:00i like it<embed src="http://blip.tv/play/AdvWbY+_JA" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="320" height="270" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed>MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-34185087455902346172008-11-19T20:15:00.000-08:002008-11-19T21:19:01.141-08:00about chicken?The other day my husband made me watch a random documentary available for instant viewing on Netflix about chicken(s). <br /><br />It started on a happy note, showing how chickens live on small farms. People apparently become very attached to their avian friends, cooing to them lovingly, holding and petting them like little lap cats. This one old woman even gave a hen of hers mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after she got caught in a sudden snow while brooding in the small wood around the farm. The poor hen froze to what seemed like death, but the old woman thawed her out and breathed life back into her. I really hope she only uses her hens to lay eggs. It would really be a shame to slaughter someone whose beak you've pressed against your lips in a gesture of ultimate love. <br /><br />Other stories included strange men who had unhealthy attractions to cocks... As in roosters, you sickos! They would raise prize fighting roosters, clearly to compensate for some lack in manliness on their part, but unable to afford a luxury vehicle to replace this cock obssession... It struck me as very peculiar that these unattractively mustached men doted on their cocks to distraction, raising them like their own children, showing them plenty of affection... only to send them into a violent, bloody, untimely death. <br /><br />The saddest of all, though, were the factory chickens. It showed lonely rows of eggs in giant rotating incubators. Then the baby chickens would begin to hatch, in an empty metallic space, surrounded by what must appear to them to be a sea of other baby chicks, but with no mother hens in sight. Then the conveyer belt would send them, scambling over one another, down a chute to a sorting facility, where hair-netted ladies would grab the babies by whatever appendage was handy and pluck them out of the steadily pouring stream of fuzzy yellow life, and throw them into one of several bins or piles, like they were mere objects being readied for packaging. By what criteria they were sorted, I cannot even begin to imagine. All the chicks looked fragile, and yellow, and tiny, and squeaked incessantly. But the factory workers just grabbed them and threw them according to some pre-established order, no doubt mangling and maiming them in the process. Then it showed the sad, pale, confused adult chickens in the factory, sitting atop one another, scrambling for air, for food, for comfort, for anything that didn't feel like raw panic. An endless sea of struggling, suffering, debased creatures - they reminded me most of the pale skeletal ghosts of people in Nazi concentration camps: forlorn, betrayed, alive, but just barely. <br /><br />There was more to the film, but I had to stop there. The tears started to choke me. The idea that this is the way food is produced for mass consumption is sickening to me. I got into the habit of saying that I gave up eating meat mainly for health reasons. People tend to react to that in a positive, encouraging manner. Caring about one's health is admirable. Not eating meat for moral reasons, however, provokes hostility. Forced to examine the moral correctness of eating their precious McNuggets or rotisserie roaster, people get defensive. It's hard to imagine that something so delicious can be a sentient, noble being. Being a coward, I would learn to shy away from total honesty, and just stick to my health story. Now I feel a bit more compelled to be perfectly candid and tell people I encounter that not only is eating meat unhealthy, but that under current conditions, it amounts to endorsing mass genocide of the most wasteful kind. <br />The bill passed in California providing for more rights for factory chickens is definitely a step in the right direction, but I still can't help but feel that somewhere down the road we went totally awry in how we deal with our food. Killing animals for food has been an integral part of human evolution, but we never used to care so little about doing it.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-63763993527951296642008-11-13T19:02:00.000-08:002008-11-13T19:07:54.714-08:00listen!Tammy Bruce is just one in a chorus of Liberal-hating, "freedom"-loving conservatives. Just like her counterparts, she is extremely unpleasant, has a very bad sense of humor, and exudes an aura that is the antithesis of sexy. There's just one thing that makes her "special". Unlike most other self-proclaimed conservatives, Tammy Bruce is a lesbian. The fact that by her own philosophy she should fear and hate herself seems to be lost on her, and that is why she is a prominent topic on the most recent edition of The Mariya Alexander Show. <br /><br />Check out the podcast here:<br />http://www.switchpod.com/p19578.html<br /><br />Or find it on iTunes. Simply search your iTunes store for The Mariya Alexander Show and catch up on all the podcasts you've missed.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-80040509854298555702008-10-27T18:12:00.000-07:002008-10-27T18:40:26.861-07:00an old short story remnantI began my working career at the ripe age of 16, and was always very proud of it. My mother convinced a good friend of hers, a middle aged, mustached and moderately paunched Greek man named Andros to hire me as a hostess at his restaurant, but I immediately started to think of myself as prime employable real estate, sought after by companies nationwide. That same notion of indestructibility still haunts me today, but at 16 and quite unpopular among my new American classmates, I was glad I at least had something to be proud of. <br /><br />I was an awkward teenager, very thin and brittle looking, and at the time was slowly trying to wean myself off of padded bras and gel inserts. It just looked unconvincing – a walking stick figure with a sharp chin and pronounced nose, and perfectly round spheres protruding from a clearly defined ribcage. This, of course, didn’t stop Andros from being enthralled with me. When he saw me that first day at the restaurant, Chef Dino’s, his shockingly beautiful hazel eyes lit up like two votive candles in front of a Byzantine icon of a lecherous saint. His thick mustache quivered with delight in what should have been a disturbing manner for me at the time, but I was just so desperate for someone to like me, that I actually stuck around and let him show me around and brief me on my duties.<br /><br />“Ah, hunnee, look at you! My God! Those beautiful eyes, those lips, AAH-HA-HA, you are like an angel!”<br /><br />I stared at him blankly, waiting for him to regain his composure and actually teach me something about my job.<br /><br />“Look at that soft skin of yours,” he cooed, “God, what I wouldn’t give to be young again and have a chance with a little minx like you!”<br /><br />His tendency to refer to the Lord while verbally molesting his new young employee was unsettling, and perhaps should have been enough to make me walk away, slowly, without turning my back for a moment. I suppose I ultimately must have found his naïve, idiotic rambles flattering – or rather wanted to believe that it was my sheer beauty that provoked such outbursts. Sure, this man had a reputation for being a self-proclaimed womanizer, but I was the youngest one to ever affect him this way!<br /><br />After saying a few more words about the possible color of my panties, and what a lucky guy my boyfriend is if I have one, Andros finally calmed down a bit and got down to business. It was my job to greet the customers, seat them in the appropriate section so that no waiter at any given time has too many more tables than the others, and to ensure proper operations in his absence. I would process all cash and credit transactions, close out the register at the end of the day, and lead the wait staff in setting up the salad bar in the morning, and dismantling it at night. He had the utmost confidence in me, and proved it by grabbing my hand and putting it over his hairy chest, which presumably contained his heart, which I was then to feel beating with excitement and joy. I mainly felt his wiry, partly gray chest hairs, and smelled his pungent cologne, but can’t recall much about his heart’s health and condition. I comforted myself by remembering that since he was charging me with so many managerial duties, he would most likely not be working with me every day, and prayed for the ordeal to be over. <br /><br />I had found it strange that Andros was willing to trust a teenager to be in charge of his establishment in his absence, but after meeting the rest of the staff on my first day, I understood. They were all very nice people, my team at Chef Dino’s, but had all by that point reached a certain level of jadedness and emotional discontent that often prevented them from paying attention to, or talking about, anything but the numerous personal problems they were having. There was Sherrie, a white-haired woman in her 60’s who chain-smoked and lived with a flaky roommate and five cats. There was an older Greek gentleman only known by the name of Mr. Vassily with enormous ears and absolutely no neck. There was also Carlos, a petite, meek-mannered man from El Salvador who always had a dreamy expression on his fairly handsome face, but barely spoke a word of English, and then there was Christopher… Christopher was also from El Salvador, also had a problem with the English language, but whereas Carlos was polite, compact, and overall pleasant, Christopher was elongated, pale, hook-nosed and cheeky, with a mouth full of shiny gold teeth. I, of course, kept my opinions of him to myself. Christopher, however, found it necessary to express his feelings for me immediately, and all the time from that point on; usually with grand gestures like bouquets of red roses and poorly scribbled love notes scattered throughout the restaurants for me to find, written exclusively in grammatically unsound Spanish.<br /><br />In general the clientele at Chef Dino’s was mainly senior citizens from a nearby retirement community. They would hobble or limp in, sometimes in optimistic groups of three or four or at least in pairs, but mostly taking sad and lonely tables for one, and after greeting them and finding them a seat they didn’t mind, I would watch from the bar as one of my fine waiters worked for their meager tips off of orders mainly consisting of coffee, toast, and the occasional Rueben sandwich. The restaurant actually had a pretty good menu of traditional Greek dishes, and other more substantial fare, but for the most part these old farts knew nothing of it, and the waiters all hated them for it. If Mr. Vassily wasn’t out on the dining room floor, or out in Saint Dino’s Cathedral, as I referred to it due to its long aisle between pew-like rows of booths which led to a small apse-like open area in the back with a few tables scattered about, he would join me at the bar for a drink, especially during Sunday brunches. I was 16, but that didn’t stop him from offering me beer or champagne, which I was only willing to accept in coffee cups, for fear of being discovered. He would grumble about how unfairly Andros treated him, something about disrespect and injustice, while pulling bottle after frosty bottle of beer from the cooler and gulping it down like a desert nomad who just stumbled upon an oasis. It was strange to see a man dressed in a black tuxedo-like suit, looking as dignified as a mad opera singer or impassioned symphony conductor, act like a street corner hobo, but I wasn’t about to complain. I enjoyed the feeling of boldness and power that clouded my head as I drank my contraband coffee-cup alcoholic beverages right in the open, in front of naïve old people catching the early bird special.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-57909157365952129782008-10-20T19:00:00.000-07:002008-10-20T19:52:57.228-07:00an international affairI sort of miss livejournal. Every day, I used to look forward to being able to sit down and write. For some reason this blogger business isn't as compelling to me. Maybe because livejournal had communities, and great photo-sharing capablities. Maybe because I managed to grow a decent little readership (for me, anyway) over a three-year period that made me feel obligated to deliver. For some strange reason, I had the distinct impression that the people who subscribed to my blog had sincerely grown to care about me, and were invested in me the same way I invest in my favorite TV characters. On here it feels lonely. No one cares. <br /><br />But time keeps slipping, slipping, slipping into this so-called future. <br /><br />But tonight was a blast from the past. My precious Rongles called me at exactly 5 PM. My phone died as it began to singe my ear at exactly 8 PM, just as Gossip Girl was starting. It was an international call. <br /><br />He mentioned that his health continues to slowly deteriorate, and as always, the thought that I can do nothing to stop this made my heart skip a beat. The fact that the overwhelming sense I am left with after our conversation is pure peace, peace at the thought of knowing true comradership, is a testament to how little his ailment has affected his brilliant mind. In reality - in physical reality - it's probably a lot. Like his body, his brain has been altered greatly by everything he has been through. It absolutely amazes me that not only has his brain adjusted, but his mind, his intellect has thrived with less and less physical real estate to run its operation. As far as I know, I'm running on all cylinders, and I can barely keep up with him. He is the only human being with whom I have been able to stay on the phone for hours - nay, even prolonged minutes - without awkward pauses and grasping for things to say. Let me be very clear: the nature of our conversation is never swapping pleasantries or drunken escapade stories. Talking to him makes me feel like I'm an Athenian boy in Aristotle's academy. Or Aristotle, getting ready to lovingly pat a young lad's firm behind while giving him the gift of thought and reason. Or was that Plato? Plato was definitely a big, lecherous queen. <br /><br />Anyway, I just wanted to say that right now I am happy. Does it make me an elitist to love my brain and to love others for theirs?<br /><br /><strong>PS. Search for The Mariya Alexander Show on iTunes or at switchpod.com!!! All your wildest dreams will come true, my imaginary reader. </strong>MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-70007294763957860582008-10-03T19:00:00.000-07:002008-10-03T19:02:43.895-07:00another blatant lie from the McCain campaign...<a href="http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2008/09/24/fact-check-obama-has-advisers-from-fannie-mae/">READ THIS</a>MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-8877041144003520442008-10-02T20:40:00.000-07:002008-10-02T21:23:12.441-07:00This just in: absolutely nothing new happened!As always, no one won tonight's debate, and nothing makes any more sense than anything else. That's a nice, rational, real, concrete world we live in, isn't it?<br /><br />I understand that we have the "right" to "believe" in anything we want to in this "god"-forsaken country of ours, but I don't see how we can expect to play any significant role on the global stage if we can't even agree on what we see as empirical, unquestionable reality. <br /><br />It's sad that it doesn't surprise me, but of course all the post-debate analyses have expertly declared that there was no "clear winner" out of Joe Biden and Sarah Palin tonight, and that each campaign should feel "pretty happy" with their candidate's performance. <br /><br />So in the words of Sarah-The-Retard-Breeding Palin herself, <br /><br />UMMMMM.....<br /><br />DUUUUH!<br /><br />*WINK*<br /><br />Our news professionals have really gone off the deep end in trying to stay neutral in this blatant war of the religiously motivated fanatical morons against the rationally thinking, normal human beings. To the Associated Press' credit, they did just come out with a respectable piece dispelling the mis-facts mentioned tonight (http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/debate_fact_check), but we all know that the average American isn't going to see that. All the "six pack Joes" out there watch TV and listen to what those dickheads named Topper, Brick, Chip, Chet, Brock, etc, have to say - and the message is that Sarah Palin's grammatically atrocious, nonsensical, but animated ramblings are just as valid as Joe Biden's specific, logically formulated arguments. She actually openly refused to answer questions, but was praised for it being a great strategy to not reveal weaknesses...<br />I don't think this is okay. They aim to not give an opinion that leans in any one direction, but they still sell their analysis in the form of personal thoughts - not hard facts. If they were to start focusing on those, however, they would be forced to say that Sarah Palin seldom made any actual sense, even within one phrase or sentence that she uttered at any given point; and they would be forced to say that at several points in the debate she openly refused to answer direct questions, reverting instead to the same exact lines we all so enjoyed hearing her use during her TV interviews... They would be forced to say that she winked a whole lot.... They would be forced to say that when Gwen Ifill asked her a complex question, at the heart of which was the question of whether she actually knows the vice president's role as designated by the US constitution (the one about Cheney's interpretation of the VP office), Sarah Palin actually shrugged and looked at Gwen helplessly for several seconds, before vaguely muttering something to the effect of "I agree with him", when the question never contained anything for her to agree or disagree with... And by the same token, they would be forced to acknowledge that Joe Biden knew exactly what Gwen meant, and spoke very confidently and concisely about the historical, constitutionally mandated role of the VP in the legislative process... Even a person of modest intellect can deduce that this was due to the fact that Joe Biden actually understands how US government works, historically and practically, and Sarah Palin does not, at least not nearly as thoroughly as one running for such high office should. <br /><br />After all, she studied journalism. Her motivation was never a feeling of patriotic duty to serve her country. Everything about her demeanor and past career as a beauty queen and TV reporter screams of a desperate desire for attention and recognition for her god-given "talents". Actually, I don't want to downplay those. She is frighteningly cute. The entire campaign, I couldn't help thinking that what she really wanted to be doing was reading a beer commercial or lipstick commercial script or something. She just wants to be famous. She certainly has the aptitude for THAT. Hollywood, quickly, offer her a movie part already and get her off of our backs! I guarantee you she would withdraw herself from the race if they offered her a part in the next Shia Labeouf film.MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4863179939801875322.post-13316440447365606252008-09-04T10:41:00.000-07:002008-09-04T10:43:07.468-07:00Poop.I know that politics is all BS and that everyone says things to get voted in and don't necessarily mean them, but wow. Doesn't it at least matter to anyone that Republicans aren't even saying anything that make sense in order to get elected? I mean, rhetoric or not, doesn't it sound better to hear someone say<br />"We want to bring hope by researching new energy, and providing universal healthcare, and giving women the right to choose what they do with their bodies, and giving tax breaks to people who commit to a college education" <br /><br />rather than<br /><br />"We want to give everyone guns, illegalize abortions, promote birthing retards but cut government funding for health care programs and social security benefits, and that's exactly what Jesus would do!" <br /><br />No, but seriously. <br /><br />Sarah Palin, unsurprisingly, sounds exactly like Cartman's mom. South Park will never be the same again. Her husband is a fisherman, and apparently likes to race snow cars. That was the bulk of her speech last night - inane ranting about her inbred, lumberjack family. Now the media seems to be praising her for "energizing" the republican party. I think that just like we shouldn't allow people to drive or operate machinery after a certain age, by the same token we should not allow those same old farts to vote. Then we would see how energized the Republican party would be. We're keeping people alive too long, we really are. Why should some ancient sack of flesh be in any way influencing what happens to me?<br /><br />"Oh, I'm Sarah Palin! I wear a neat bun, and shoot defenseless animals whom I skin alive and bathe in their blood, but a retarded fetus is just too much of a waste of life! The world is suffering from epidemics of sexually transmitted diseases, but I want to do away with sexual education, and the teaching of evolution to boot! I was a part of the party that wanted Alaska to secede from the United States because that's how much I hate people who like gays and don't hunt"MariyaWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01848478496649554342noreply@blogger.com2