♫ Never saw a man cry till I saw a man die ♫
It’s the hook from some 80s rap song. Or maybe it was 90s, who knows. That line always haunted me, along with:
♫ Do Gees get to go to heaven? ♫
♫ Coz I don’t wanna die. ♫
♫ But if so I’d like to know ♫
♫ Do Gees get to go to heaven? ♫
♫ Coz I don’t wanna die ♫
There’s a line in Tupac’s Life goes on that haunted me as well. Something about licking. I don’t know why these songs bothered me. I’ve never been a hiphop head. I’m more about rock.
I started this post three days ago, when my mind felt like the credits in Duckula, but I lost my train of thought. Today, I opened my dashboard with a similar theme in mind and found this paragraph instead. Hm.
Lost and found and writers block
I live in words, I think in words, I feel in words. That’s one of those statements that sounds really deep on the surface, but it really means nothing at all. What I want to say is that everything to me is a story. I’ll be sitting in a mat looking at some lady in a blue dress and in my mind, I’m turning her into a blog post. I’m figuring out how to start it, and what the clincher will be, even what song goes at the end … and it’s all subconscious. Half the time, I’m not even aware that I’m doing it. So it really bothers me when I’m in a situation and have no words to say. Which is exactly where I find myself now.
I lost something today, something really important, and I have no idea how, where, or why. I’ve tried to go back over my day, to retrace my steps, to figure out the whys and wherefores, but I’m coming up blank. For me, that’s the scariest part of all. The loss itself is sad, but it’s sadder not knowing why. In my last post, I decided to live in the moment instead of wondering what caused everything. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention to myself. I should really learn to take my own advice.
Dr Phil and menopause
I watched Dr Phil today. Which reminds me, I forgot to watch the evening edition. Crap. Anyway, in the morning, I watched Friday’s repeat. He had a lot of Robin. She was talking about hormonal imbalance and ish like that.
It explained how some women use birth control to alleviate dysmenorrhea, but it just makes the PMS worse. Reason? Contraceptives work by increasing the amount of oestrogen in a woman’s body. Oestrogen is largely responsible for motherhood. It’s also responsible for other distinctly female characteristics like … you know … giving each other the evil eye. So increasing oestrogen really doesn’t make things any better.
That explains a lot. Whole lot.
The Doc on the show also said you can have less PMS by making meals smaller and more frequent. Apparently, when you’re on a menstrual rampage, you sometimes forget to eat – or lose your appetite. As a result, your blood sugar gets low, and that increases your levels of adrenaline. You know, the whole fight or flight thing? Yeah, during menstrual periods, you lean more towards fight. So next time a bleeding woman yells at you, just give her chocolate. It helps in more ways than one.
Unless of course she thinks she’s fat.
You can also get vaginal or rectal progestrone to help with PMS. Apparently, the Doc puts some cream in your secret places and it helps with up 150 moody symptoms. Yeah. Too late to say no comment? And it’s prescription only, just so you know. The clinic is in California.
These words and questions
There are moments in my life when I’m in so much pain that I feel completely lost. The sad thing is that the pain is all inside my head. I can’t trace it, or face it, and I can’t even attack in with Panadol. Today I’m in that pain. But it’ll pass. It will always pass. For some reason, Natasha Beddingfield is playing in my head. Not my headphones – those are playing Justin Timberlake.
It’s probably because I didn’t want to blog today. I wanted to write a poem. I wanted to rattle out rhythm and rhyme and describe my pain as well as this guy here. I wanted say how I’m feeling A-D-E. But I can’t find any words of my own, not even with some help from Natasha. Maybe it’ll come to me later, perfectly clothed in Manga.
I’m a very nosy person. I like to know stuff, and sometimes I ask questions. Most times, I assume that if you wanted me to know something, you would tell me. But other times, I pry pretty deep. For me, asking questions is the only way to find out what I need.
Trouble is I’m blunt. I’m not above asking someone what their dimensions are. I mean, if I want to know, I want to know. But some questions aren’t meant to be asked. They’re … inappropriate. Sadly, I never realize that until after the question is asked. Sometimes I wonder how I made it through 30 years of life without basic social skills. Sigh.
Epic fails and character assasination
I used to think I was a people watcher, and that I could analyse human nature pretty keenly. Yeah, right. See, lately, I ask questions, and when they don’t get answered, I answer them myself, with disastrous results. The disasters make me mad. I mean if you had just answered the damn question in the first place, I wouldn’t have guessed my own response and acted upon it.
Except … it was none of my business to begin with, so I wasn’t even justified to act on my assumptions. Also, I was too impatient and presumptuous to wait for a response. That’s how I spell control freak. And … sometimes… when you ask questions … people lie.
To learn appropriate social cues, I would have to mingle more. And I would have to learn through many embarrassments and mistakes. And pain. Lots of pain. Most people have done that at this stage in their lives, but I haven’t. I don’t know where the train was, or what I was doing when I missed it.
Blame it on the oestrogen
I hang out alone because I don’t get people. They never react the way you want them to, or even the way you think they will. That’s sad, really sad. I suppose there are some people out there who might surprise me pleasantly, but to meet them, I’d have to risk a lot of bad. I’m not sure I want to do that. I’m not sure it’s worth it.
It’s a disappointing thought because I want somebody to want me. I want him to ache for me the way I ache for him. It isn’t anyone in particular, but I’d rather he not be a sugar daddy, a watchman, or a pimp, and I want him to be my friend. It’s been a while since I really felt needed. It’s a nice feeling, being needed, especially to somebody who’s as clingy as me. It’s a massive ego boost to have somebody latching onto me. But I can’t convince myself that it’s worth the drama involved. Plus, it might just be Mwaura talking.
I was talking to a friend last week, trying to figure out this teenage phase I’m going through. I’m pretty sure this is what puberty feels like, even though I have no point of reference – except for those homescience textbooks from the 90s. Do they still make those?
Anyway, my pal asked me if I was afraid of growing old. He thought the craziness was prompted by that. I said that I’ve been making lots of jokes about it, so it doesn’t really bug me. He said the fact I’m joking proves it’s on my mind. Mulling on his words, I figured it’s not about the growing old. It’s not the age or the wrinkles or the assets going south. Oh God. Wrinkles. Anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is I’m getting to an age where I expected some achievements to be done, and I don’t have them yet. That’s what’s bothering me. Probably.
I told my friend I had no distinct reason for leaving my job in TZ, and he theorized subconsciousness and blah blah. It was scary thought, because I left a 9 to 5 to hustle, and I now I want to go back to a 9 to 5. It feels whimsical, moody … and a little crazy.
But when I think about it, I want a 9 to 5. I didn’t then, but I do now. I want to know that when I leave the office, I’m free to zone out and spend all night on cracked or wordpress. That I can do it guilt free is amazing, and it beats punishing myself for browsing and tweeting all day. I like that idea. Plus, I like categorizing things, so it will be awesome to separate work from play. For some reason, the thought makes me feel much better.
Blog housekeeping et al
I wish I was a true loner instead of a convenience one. I wish I truly didn’t need anyone. I wish I had a tower with a library and an oven, like the Tangled version of Rapunzel. I also wish I could make a lasso out of my hair and capture Ryder Flynn. I have no clue why I just reversed his name like that.
I wish I was more comfortable in my skin. I don’t want to swap for anything else. I hate it when I have to blog in riddles. And I’ve always liked the phrase ‘et al’.
My brain still feels squiggly. I should fix the broken Twitter links on the blog. After a few weeks, links like that *pointing up there* lead nowhere. It’s some new Twitter policy. Running out of server space I guess. It’s the same with links to MKZ. It shouldn’t matter so much because not many people click on links, but it’s still annoying when they lead to nowhere. I’m done ranting now. And somebody just got a song.
♫ Recognize ♫ Better than Ezra ♫