(no subject)
I went nuts over the weekend in term of purging and used the excuse of the minimalism lifestyle to justify it. There are three kind of minimalists; the religious nuts, upper-middle class folks who are able to spend massive moolah on quality furniture in their large square footage condos and those who are constantly discarding as way to reclaim a part of true self. I steer toward to the third type. Growing up, my parents taught me that buying things were ways of buying love. I adopted this logic for years even though I pretended I was this anti-consumerist type and attended protests, wrote 'zines on fucking with the authority and yet I still went home to a very nice house and had plenty of food and clothing. It wasn't enough for me as I continually spent money and therefore went into debt, became poor and unemployed. The stuff that I bought were just piece of trendy shit that had limited value. After a double loss coupled with several traumatic experiences as well as being unemployed, I slowly got rid of things to pay off my debt. The more I got rid of things, the more I was able to truly enjoy myself. Less stuff usually meant more time to write or making up stories and I sure have a lot of stories. Every year, I go through some frenzied urge to get rid of what ails me. Last year, it was journals, letters and certain photographs. Without a moment notice, I just trashed 15 years of sentimentality. There were no moments of regret because I still had the memory and although the memories were often muddled and unclear, it's better to have fucked up recollections rather than clear visions. To have vivid memories will fuck you up especially if you're a sentimental type.
Life became shitty once again recently when I'm being laid off and life bullshit...suddenly, I just decided to get rid of my yearbooks. Unlike the trashing of the journals, I did look through the yearbooks mainly to see if I was still that same girl I hated. It's that sentimentality in me. In a kind of way, I was comforted by my little notes and comments that at age 33, I am still that ball-busting sarcastic girl of 14. Unlike the girl of 14, my 33 years old self proclaimed on my youth and beauty. I was a good looking kid but I never felt that at 14. It made me realize that my self-pity and laziness in taking care of myself health-wise in the last few weeks -- being all sad because I was rejected by a dude (whatever) and that I may be losing my job (double whatever) is holding me back from my 14 years old beauty. I can't waste my 30's dwelling on some decade closure (which I'm never going to get), some dick bag who rejected my beautiful ass or worrying about employment. Fuck that. It's a good life, if you don't weaken.
