Dear Unfulfilled Dream

I think I would have made a great spy.

No, I truly believe it. I am certain.

I also know that I could say that to someone and they would say, you should do it. They would be encouraging and say I should do it.

And I would hesitate and do nothing.

I think that is lame. I mean, the spy thing isn't really an option, but I am always saying things I want or should do and then...crickets. Nothing. The worst part? I didn't even realize I was the sort of person who was all talk and no action. I thought I worked hard and got stuff done, and sometimes I do, but I don't take action on what I want. I thought I was being patient. I thought that I was waiting for things to happen because eventually they would. I didn't know the waiting would become a stalemate. 

I think the answer is just do it, but it really doesn't seem that simple to me. It should be. I know I need to just do something. But what and how? I know it's pathetic whining. I know there are people who live and people who would live if they were healthy and single. I am sorry that I am not doing more, but who cares about sorry if there is no change?

Hello, corner. I love the color I have chosen to paint myself into you. Fabulous.

Anyways...

I will do something. It will be fantastic, not in deed, but because of accomplishment. Or in deed, because I have done it in a fitted, black, bullet-proof suit, and heels; hanging upside down from the outside of a 125-story building after having saved Johnny Depp and THE WORLD.

me

Dear THE HOFF

I am sorry about your face. I just...

I'm...

You...

I'm just really sorry, man.

me

p.s. If it's any consolation, I loved me some Knight Rider.

Dear p-Phenylenediamine

I am allergic to a chemical! One that is found in hair color, oils, greases, gasoline, and some creams and dark-colored cosmetics. It is also in fabric dye, particularly of black and brown materials. Which is essentially my entire wardrobe.

So, I am allergic to life, meaning the outdoors is an enemy as are many fruits, vegetables, nuts and eggs. I had accepted the foods and if I avoid them, I'm fine. But I have noticed that I always feel awful. Always tired, always irritable and always sad. I have attributed this to me just being crazy. I didn't exercise enough or eat the right things. I wasn't sleeping well and refusing to see things sunny-side up. I was a negative person who didn't want to try and fail. Then! I decided to look at the facts. I took a step away from the feelings to pay attention to when I do feel good. My conclusion after monitoring myself over the summer times? ALLERGENS! Allergens are the key to it all. I thought I had discovered the cause of my omnipresent sadness: the same afromentioned allergens which are now making it impossible for me to be chic-ly clothed.

I had an allergist appointment to check my medication so I could go outside without a plastic bubble and decided I would present my theory. They confirmed the egg allergy and then did a patch test on my back to see if I was also allergic to chemicals. When they asked me why I felt I might be averse to chemicals,  I tried to sum up how my scalp often burned like the boughs of hell when I used certain shampoos and oils. Mascara was causing my eyelashes to jump ship. They agreed this was odd. The test was administered. The initial result: "Sorry weirdo. You have no allergies."

I came home sad.

SAD!

Why would anyone be sad to learn that they are not allergic to chemicals? Chemicals abound on the planet, so if you are cool with them, shouldn't that make you happy? Well, with no allergens, it means that the reason I am crazy sauce is because I am in fact crazy sauce. It's because I am not trying hard enough or just not being enough, enough. I was devastated.

I had paid attention to myself. I was noticing physical differences. My eyelashes were growing back without mascara! My scalp, my poor, poor scalp! All of that was just because I'm nuts? There is no real reason for any of this?

And that is when I was surprise attacked by Oprah and one of her farewell season Aha! moments. I am always looking for some reason to explain why I am the way that I am, which according to my self-assessment is secretly horrid. Or, possibly visibly horrid. I believe that there is something inside of me that is inherently wrong, like a malfunctioning chromosome or cell or DNA strand. Something can't be right because if it was, I would be fine. Instead of fine, I always feel...odd. I  recognized this need for an explanation as to myself and why. As I left the allergy clinic, I realized that I have to just accept who and what I am. I don't know the reason for my deranged times. This is it. This is me.

Except.

I don't really know what it means to accept yourself. I don't actually understand it at all. I mean, aren't we supposed to be trying to be better than ourselves? And aren't we always changing? Who is anyone anyway?

Oh, questions.

So, I had to go back for a final follow up and the doctor noticed that I do have a chemical allergy. I am allergic to one p-Phenylenediamine. Hooray! So, there is some medical reason for the insanity, but I am still insane.

And I am okay with that.
Right?
What?
Exactly.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.

me

Dear Revision

Some time ago I wrote a post declaring my fear of humans. I then stated that what I have always referred to as hating people was really a fear of people.

I revise this statement.

I do believe I have a fear of the humans, and I am trying to address this fear. First, because this fear is not helping me do and be what I want, and I am very tired of less. Second, because people are stupid and so why should I be afraid of something (or in this case, someone, anyone) that is stupid?

Reason two led me to my revision. As it turns out, I still do hate people. They are dumb. They are mean. They smell and they insist they are right when they are wrong. They push and they hurt and navigating life with the humans makes everything incredibly complicated, difficult and often painful. This leads to my next conflict.

I would like to be the sort of person who sends love out. Love to the world and to its inhabitants, even the animals. I do not want any of those lovely beings in my own personal living space, but I want them to have the love. I want them to be safe. I want them to feel worthy, to dream, to accomplish, to love others.

In the movie, The Secret Life of Bees, the beekeeper lady (beekeptress?) is teaching her new apprentice about bees. She instructs her on what to wear and her behavior and says, "Send the bees love, 'cause no life-loving bee wants to sting you." I keep thinking about that. Sending the bees love. They don't want to hurt you.

I do not believe that about the humans. Some do want to hurt you. I have watched enough Law and Order, oh and known enough people, to see that. However, it occurs to me as I type this, that I want to send out the love, not as much for the bees, or in my case, the wretched humans, but for me. Not doing that, sending out no love, crippled me. It kept me from becoming more. I am only now understanding this simple truth. All life needs love. It's the gig. All the love I have I can wrap around whoever or whatever I want, and keep it or share it; or write it or eat it or wear it. I can do that for me, so I can be complete. I can do that the way that works for me, in all of its horrifying awkwardness.

So, I am again trying to figure out how to do this. How to love and hate and be with the peoples and be myself but be better than myself.

Hmm.

Hello, literary trick! The revision is me.

LOVE,
me