boringing it up
I believe in militantly being oneself. Or at least in my case ... because I know deep down I'm not evil, and hell, I might be from the future in some aspects. (Whereas, if you're truly a psychopath then you wouldn't even know that being yourself might be detrimental to people's lives anyway.) I can't stand the message that it's inevitable that we all must "mature" and fit in to certain yesman cookie cutters.
That said, I just held my breath and fucking updated my LinkedIn and OK Cupid profiles (exclusive from one another). There is a part of me that died inside because I did temper down my more obscure and long-winded interests and self-descriptions. But don't worry, my profiles are still fucking weird. And I suppose to the point that they are boring-in-an-attractive-to-everyone-else way, I see that as a fucking joke.
Now all I have to do is pluck my eyebrows to show that I'm actually not angry all the time, but open and appealing.
Anyway, back to some weird dreams:
1/22/15: It's after hours in the office, and we're on a top floor of an '80s glass box overlooking the gold and blue city. All my damn current fellow associates are there, from Rachel the freckled manager who's younger than me, to Jim the white-haired teddy bear, to Max the German trumpeter in a Michael Jackson cover band. Now the office is a California mission. We slept in rows on the green linoleum floor. As we wander in the bottom floor maze of antiques and junk, I see that Max has opened some 50 year-old cans of food and Jim has taken the wooden spinning and wheel and tried to convert it into a perpetual motion machine. Outside, Irene and I trump up twisty hills. I'm staying past the others to work in a computer room, and I cover up my timekeeping screen like it's porn. The ground beneath us is sleek and black, and we must grab on to floating blue bricks so as not to fall into the chasm. The dark mirrors of the mission are gateways to alternate lives.
OK, and although this one just happened Monday, I can't for the life of me remember it, and the notes are scary as fuck:
1/26/15: Old house, new house. Christopher's. Slide down to ocean. Waves crashing through windows. To top floor, jump to inflatable raft to lawn. Safety in Lindo's house. Sex slavery, on camera. Indefatigable ghetto woman. Bend, feign, until she squeezes in submission hold, starts slicing leg.
It's coming back to me now, at least the images. Not a good one. Woke up panicked, again.
That said, I just held my breath and fucking updated my LinkedIn and OK Cupid profiles (exclusive from one another). There is a part of me that died inside because I did temper down my more obscure and long-winded interests and self-descriptions. But don't worry, my profiles are still fucking weird. And I suppose to the point that they are boring-in-an-attractive-to-everyone-else way, I see that as a fucking joke.
Now all I have to do is pluck my eyebrows to show that I'm actually not angry all the time, but open and appealing.
Anyway, back to some weird dreams:
1/22/15: It's after hours in the office, and we're on a top floor of an '80s glass box overlooking the gold and blue city. All my damn current fellow associates are there, from Rachel the freckled manager who's younger than me, to Jim the white-haired teddy bear, to Max the German trumpeter in a Michael Jackson cover band. Now the office is a California mission. We slept in rows on the green linoleum floor. As we wander in the bottom floor maze of antiques and junk, I see that Max has opened some 50 year-old cans of food and Jim has taken the wooden spinning and wheel and tried to convert it into a perpetual motion machine. Outside, Irene and I trump up twisty hills. I'm staying past the others to work in a computer room, and I cover up my timekeeping screen like it's porn. The ground beneath us is sleek and black, and we must grab on to floating blue bricks so as not to fall into the chasm. The dark mirrors of the mission are gateways to alternate lives.
OK, and although this one just happened Monday, I can't for the life of me remember it, and the notes are scary as fuck:
1/26/15: Old house, new house. Christopher's. Slide down to ocean. Waves crashing through windows. To top floor, jump to inflatable raft to lawn. Safety in Lindo's house. Sex slavery, on camera. Indefatigable ghetto woman. Bend, feign, until she squeezes in submission hold, starts slicing leg.
It's coming back to me now, at least the images. Not a good one. Woke up panicked, again.