Short and sweet and bitter

Throughout my fits and fluctuations,
He remains the same.
My troubles and my trepidations,
He remains the same.
My shattering shouts and binging bouts,
Still, he is the same.
My verbal abuse, the words I misuse,
No budge, still the same.

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Inhale.
Holding a flame to my fuse
I refuse to take part in the cycle
Bottle it in, slap on a fake grin,
Don't fall into the spiral.
Exhale.
I've done it again, here I am.
Haranguing away, abuse in way,
Silence, inaction fueling my say.
Contritions expected.
The fire, resurrected.
Soon burns away, soon returns to stay.

Unknown Maturity

The more I dwell, the more I find how sweeping maturity is.

It’s not attached to a specific age. I’ve witnessed my at-the-time 9-year-old, spry, silly, distant cousin embody more maturity in her words and actions than my mother. One’s subconsciously exhibiting rare forms of maturity. The other, my mother, is choosing to abandon her filter. She damn well knows she’s speaking out of line. And yet, I find maturity in that silent admittance to immaturity.

It’s forever fluctuating, evolving, moving like an in-between state of matter. It’s not quite liquid, not quite solid. It’s malleable—very malleable. Kind of makes me think of the goo I wanted for Christmas a decade ago. My mom’s goo was much more sophisticated back when I was too young to know the difference. Now, that goo has reached diva status. (I envision pink sparkly goo with a fabulous sun hat.)

I blame pecuniary issues that most Americans would love to have.

It cannot be defined in a single sentence. And if it is, that sentence is a total run on. Like, marathon worthy.

It cannot be defined in a single blog post, by a single person, at a single moment in time. Sometimes I think it’s as unknown as space, but maybe I’m just a novice.

A Sign of Maturity

A realization pleasantly poked me in the eye today as I reflected on the CNN article concerning Van Gogh's newly discovered painting. I'm maturing. Not physically (I'm the same size as I was in fifth grade, give or take my five pound fluctuation), but mentally, emotionally, or more generally, intrinsically.

The so-called epiphany revealed itself when I read the news. Sifting through the copious articles on CNN's rather scattered homepage, I read through numerous headlines. Twerking gone bad, a fat cat's workout, the supposed next "Gangnam Style"...all were not enough to capture my interest to the point where I'd read the article, or at the very least, click on it.

They don't appeal to me the same way they once did. When that appeal ended, I don't know. It could've been last year, it could've been a week ago. Bottom line: they're not newsworthy. In fact, it made me rethink CNN's values. Does such a positively appraised news station really find this garbage interesting, or is it an effort to receive the most clicks? Either reason makes me question the organization's decision makers.

And I'm not an extremist. News orgs should garnish their sites with these stories. It creates a variety, it appeals to more people (like the younger me's), it's okay. But the amount of those kind of stories I saw? It was a little much, at least for my liking.

Now to make the this post come full circle: like I said before, I'm maturing. The eye poking happened when my definition of newsworthiness changed, or slightly after that, or way after that...I'm unsure. Point is, I'm choosing what I want to read. What I read on news sites is what I think is newsworthy. My choice to delve into Syria's carnage as opposed to Miley's lewd performance was fully conscious. This maturity makes me happy.

In plenty of regards, embarrassing ones that I'll leave unmentioned, I was mildly afraid that I wasn't as "mature" as many of my peers. I don't know A LOT about A LOT of things. I bullshit a lot in conversation with others. In the back of my mind, I feel a little insecure. Why don't I know this much about this topic that so-and-so knows in such admirable depth? I suck. Suck suck suck. Time to respond with some witty remark which will hopefully steer the conversation in a more known direction for me.

The above usually works in my favor, much to my surprise.

Now, whilst typing this post, I've come to another realization: don't compare yourself to others. I've heard the notion since I was a uni-browed first grader. Too bad I'm not grasping it until now. Better late than never.

So many things I could write about today. I really want to write about my response to Van Gogh's   recently unearthed painting (gorgisimo by the way!). I'll save it for tonight/tomorrow/sometime this week, so long as the emotions don't escape me by then.

She's stuck in 2D.

A brightly lit screen pressed up to her nose. Texting, swiping, gaming. A slightly larger screen radiating heat on her lap. Typing, snooping, wandering. A much larger screen blaring mediocre movies and punctuated marketing visuals. Looking, hearing, changing.

But the umbrella gerund? Wasting. She is wasting away amidst three screens, varying in size, function and usage.

Let me verbally download some more motion pictures. I come home to an absence of light, minus the scattered flashlights plugged into some walls. I head directly to the kitchen to put away my lunch container and utensils. Dirty dishes fill the counter, not even the sink. Food is left out for some other slave to put away. The microwave door is hanging out, a safety hazard to anyone over 4' 9".

I walk toward my room, having to unfortunately pass hers, and the disgust cements. All three screens activated, intermittently grabbing her attention. I could start jump roping in her room and she wouldn't even acknowledge me unless I were a screen. Just the sight of these blue-hued lights glimmering around her room makes me sick.

I don't fear losing her because I have already lost her in the depths of a two dimensional world. 

(Miserable) Girl, Interrupted

Thirteen days. That’s all it took for a small fish to acknowledge my once-unwanted bait since my previous rant. Three patient days later, I landed my first job.

Rewind a few hours, and the misery reeked from my voice. It was a Monday, August 12^th. Tony, the godsend that he is, prepared a comforting mountain of mashed potatoes and took me to Starring Lake. He even brought the puzzle I gave him, knowing it would bring a temporary but much needed smile to my makeup-less face.

We were pressing the pieces into place meticulously, competitively and jokingly. I picked up my smile, reminiscing out loud of how wild Vegas and EDC were. He completed my face, I searched for his arm of wristbands and bracelets.

Interruption: a rhythmic vibration derailed my focus. The nameless number was familiar, so I decided Tony’s arm piece could wait.

In my effort to eschew this obvious play-by-play, I’ll cut to the meaty words.

We would like to offer you the position.

Wow.

The remedy to my worry, a worry that bogged me down the majority of an unprecedented summer at the new house. That worry was occultly lifted upon position. For once, my interminable neck pain was interrupted. At that moment, I didn’t even notice the interruption. It was so smooth, so quick and, in retrospect, so palpable that I’m sure I could stroke it to life on canvas. I couldn’t have predicted such an interruption.

The proverbial tear rolled down from cheek, to jaw, to grass. Then another, and a couple more after that. Tears of relief.

I got off the phone, wiped the wet relief from the screen, and carried a smile that beamed with elation. The fact that Tony was there to share it with me made it all the merrier.

My life rollercoaster is going up!

Going down on roller coasters isn’t fun.

I get scared a lot. Knowingly falling victim to the black sheep of the family “Mahachievers”…and already I’m romanticizing my status when in reality, I eagerly raised my hand to sign up for the not-so-coveted black sheep title.

And we’re not Mahachievers, we’re the Maharaj’s. Our walls lack the MIT and Harvard diplomas, and we don’t frequent a second home in the Seychelles for quality r&r twice a year. But throw in some doctors (current, soon-to-be and aspiring) and a rags-to-riches CEO, and we’re far from America’s norm.

Which sucks for me in more ways than one. Conversationally: This is my son, getting married next year to an engineer. He’s preparing for residency in internal medicine. My daughter’s in the process of applying to med schools, whilst working full-time for mentally and physically disabled adults. And this is—

How much can we embellish the line, “I’m unemployed and live with my parents”?

Not at all. George Constanza didn’t, though it somehow worked for him (for a fleeting moment).

Coronarily (yes, I’m breaking rules by ignoring the distracting red squiggle, but rule breaking is in my nature). My future, or lack thereof, could be one of a handful of scares that engenders a possible heart attack in one or both of my parents. They bite their tongues more than they're willing to admit, but I know my post-grad life has been the subject of their ruminations at least a dozen times this week. Silent, but deadly.

And quite possibly the worst: mentally. I’ll actually following the infamous writers KISS rule on this one—I feel like a fucking failure.

I hate roller coasters (and clichés, and tangential thoughts that reflect a cluttered mind. funny), but life is such, including mine. I’ve had ups (fell in love, got involved on campus, ran a very, very long distance…twice), and I’ve had downs (fell in love, broke circles of trust, endured road rage gone bad, forged signatures, purchased illegal things, stole legal things). Is it any surprise that the latter list could have taken up an entire page, size 8 font, .5 margins?

I’m trying to pound the notion in my head that this, this right here, is a down. I’m going down. But what goes down, must come up.

I may have worded that wrong, but I know what I’m trying to say, and that’s all that should matter. This down will eventually go up. Not like gravity, but like a roller coaster. And eventually those wild rides balance out in the end (or can kill you, as my CNN notification so tragically reported).

I really hope my bait will bite soon, for conversation, coronary, and mental purposes.

*KISS means Keep It Simple, Stupid. While I find the name-calling-conclusion superfluous, I suppose it completes the acronym. It’s kind of catchy, too.

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