Puttering around the interwebs tonight, as I often do, it came to me that I have issues. I mean, it wasn't exactly a revelation, pretty much anyone who knows me will agree without hesitation that I'm not quite like anyone else. Whether or not that's a positive thing is open to individual interpretation, but as for myself, I wouldn't want to be too similar to everyone else. If you're too much like so many other people, you blend in and aren't as memorable as someone who seems off in some way. I'm not saying that I try to be different, exactly, although it's well known that I try to be difficult, but rather that the way I think and feel about things is just naturally different than is popular. However, going back to my previous musing: is it a good thing that I'm a dodecagon-shaped peg that is supposed to be jammed into a square hole?
I've always enjoyed it, but recently I was at the psychiatrist's office getting my monthly anti-batshitcrazy meds when I observed a half naked, overweight black man wandering around the parking lot, accompanied by half a dozen armed police officers trying to put on their most soothing demeanor to quell this man's temper. I have absolutely no idea what his major malfunction was, but it was obvious immediately that he was both extremely high on drugs and extremely mentally unstable with the potential to go violently insane at any point. I know, I know, Pot, meet Kettle, right? After all, I was there for medication to keep me from going violently insane, so who am I to judge? Who am I to judge?, I wondered to myself as I repeatedly crafted judgments in my head. The thought of this crazy dude's behavior got me to thinking about my own behavior.
I typically don't care what anyone thinks about me and the choices I make. I routinely do things that can be described as out of the norm, from spontaneously breaking into a song and dance in public, to loudly and harshly berating Stitchfrank for daring to bring up that fucking terrible excuse for a television show, Family Guy, especially that dumb cunt Lois (don't ask). But I digress. I'm just not a quiet, meek person who spends all her time carefully weighing the possible thoughts and reactions of those around her to her actions. I do what I do, and if you don't like me, blow me. But while I completely disregard the opinions of people as it pertains to me doing things that are abnormal, immature, goofy, or just 'not done,' I have to wonder if people are thinking something more insidious than that I'm merely immature or irresponsible, or just plain stupid, but rather considering me to be more seriously damaged... If perhaps they think I'm actually one of those dangerously unhinged people who needs to have six cops trailing me, reassuring me in low, tranquil tones about the rightness of the world so that I don't start trying to bite off people's ears or something. Or maybe they're even attempting to determine which hardcore street drugs I'm abusing every day before I leave my house.
I have to admit that the idea of people viewing me as criminally psychotic or believing that I must be doing hardcore drugs unnerves me. I've always considered my brand of crazy completely benign, even cutesy. I can act like a child because I see the world like a child. I don't censor most of my thoughts and actions because I don't mean anyone real harm and I feel like that would be a denial of who I really am. Sure, it's completely possible for me to be serious when it's required, but when it's merely a guideline so other people will feel comfortable, anything goes as far as I'm concerned. Fuck, I minored in anthropology and completed half of grad school for Second Language Acquisition, studying the responses of people to external stimuli is a crap-ton of fun for me. Pulling people out of their comfort zones is an unconscious hobby of mine. Put someone in an unfamiliar situation and see what they do- isn't that a formula for a hit reality show? I'm getting off topic again, aren't I? Forgive me, it's the hour, the lack of sleep, and the delicious beer and vodka combo I've been enjoying since about 10 this evening.
My point being that yes, I troll people hard and fuck with them whenever possible because it's not truly causing them any harm and that's just how I roll. But just because I spend a portion of my time either deliberately disrupting someone's equilibrium or inadvertently making someone clear his throat and shift his weight between feet, I don't think I deserve to be labeled as a drug addict or a volatile psychotic. I am by no means certain that anyone, whether someone I personally know or a random bystander, has labeled me as such, mentally or verbally. But knowing how I tend to view people (cynically), I can step outside of who I am and my motivation behind my typically atypical behavior, and put myself in the mind of a typical middle class Republican encountering me by chance, and it seems feasible to me that such a person's mind might very well tend to drift towards thinking of me as clinically nuts or smoking something potent and blatantly illegal. I would rather not have a friendly officer of the law show up at my door one day because someone thought my overenthusiastic approach to life was a sure sign of a mental collapse or drug dependency, know what I mean?
For the record, I have two clinical diagnoses for mental disorders, neither of which cause me to take off all of my clothes and rant while I stalk around looking for someone to maim, nor am I addicted to or using any type of illegal street drug. Now that we've gotten those important truths out of the way, there are several things that, upon reflection, I would probably agree are 'addictions' of mine, after a fashion. It was the idea that I have strange tendencies and repeatedly engage in behavior that is out of character for the average person caused me to make the nebulous connection between me surfing the interwebs earlier tonight and that spaced-out drug user I saw in the parking lot of the psychiatric building last week.
Very likely my most obvious addiction is one that the greatest amount of people would admit to having suffered at one time or another. I feel like I am adrift in a sea of blackness if by some chance I am unable to go on the internet at whatever exact moment in time that I start to feel the desire building inside me. Whenever someone gives me internet access, I have a very explicit routine ingrained in me through many, many years of practice and technique refining. I experience the compulsion to visit Facebook. I will refresh the homepage 800 times in a single day to see who has created a new post or commented on an old thread in one of the numerous mother's groups of which I am a member (online, at least, since no one wants to talk to me or deal with my pissed off kid in real life). I will go to the games that I currently find it amusing to play and accept gifts, return them, and complete what few tasks I can before I'm forced to wait because Zynga is run by assholes who believe that doing any essential task in a game must cost energy or the game is destined to fail (I'm talking to you, Slingo). I google the things I'm desperate to know so I can find the latest information about the 'other men' in my life (besides Stitchfrank), the massively talented members of Chevelle. It's important that I do it every day so I can be among the first to learn about new concerts, projects, and merchandise. I mean, that's what everyone does when they have a musical artist they consider their favorite, right? No? Fuck you too. I didn't ask you. I check the various Facebook groups where I have recurring requests for Rage Baby's milk. I start searching for new porn. I do it all, over and over, until I have to drag myself away from the computer or pass out.
The interwebs aren't my only addiction, just the most obvious one. Maybe addiction is too harsh of a word, as it tends to direct my mind back towards drugs and all that bullshit. Let's go with... habits. Yes, habits sounds better. I have a very serious Chevelle habit as mentioned in reference to my internet addi- er, habit. I quote them in conversation, they're pretty much the only band on my iPhone, I have an entire wardrobe crafted from their merchandise (did I mention my sweet tattoo?), and the list goes on. These guys play music that really speaks to me for whatever reason, and their music has helped me through more than one difficult time in my life.
Then there's my old friend, vodka. Vodka may be welcome occasionally by others, but he's an old friend who's always welcome here. He can always be counted on in a pinch and he never fails to get the job done. Day or night, he's ready for action and he can defuse the most dramatic of situations. He comes conveniently packaged in a plastic bottle so if you get too excited to see him he's not going to shatter and force you to suck him out of the carpet. Yes, you could say that vodka is a daily feature in my life. Some people might see this as a problem, but I have absolutely no issues as related to my relationship with this close, special friend.
Vodka also tends to bring around another good friend of mine, sex. I never, ever want to go to sleep when sex is involved. When I wake up in the morning, sex is invariably the first thing I think of, and it's likely the last thing I do before I go to sleep. I can turn just about any topic into something adult-themed, and often do so freely in my head. When I have a threesome with vodka and sex, all the stress and pressure I feel daily are completely erased and I'm at peace. Coincidentally, this is also how Rage Baby was conceived, but thanks to the wonders of modern medicine and surgical techniques, I can have all the vodka and sex I want without ever being worried that any moment now I'll be presented with another child who wants to watch the world burn. My sex habit is naturally augmented by a talented and willing partner, but vodka hasn't come around much this evening so I'm at this juncture unable to reveal more.
However, I can disclose that sex is often summoned by another special friend of Stitchfrank's and mine, porn. Porn makes all the things you desire in your head seem like things that could really happen, and magically everyone involved is flawless and faceless. You're not going to have to deal with an irate porn star when you forgot to change the toilet paper roll, nor will you ever hear a complaint if you orgasm before they do. Porn is always ready for whatever type of action you can dream of having, and it's there whenever and however many times you need it. Chevelle is amazing, vodka tastes delightful, and I love sex and porn.
I'm fairly certain that my last statement is enough to shock and horrify almost all of my friends online and in real life. My 'habits' of Chevelle, vodka, sex, and porn in no way hamper my ability to get up each morning and face another day of trying to pacify the beast that is my daughter, however, so people can judge all they want. I know who I am and what I like and I'm okay with all of it. At least I'll be tipsy and having amazing sex while the people who are judging me sit in their frumpy pajamas, eating a pint of ice cream, and mourn the demise of their youth and sexual appeal. I might get old and ugly, but I'll never stop having fun thanks to those amazing habits of mine, so I'm not worried about a damn thing.
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