For the love of elf with an s

I am an optimist most people would say, though lately find myself wracked with pessimistic feelings like I’m rolling a bolder to the top of a hill only to see the damned thing roll back down, over and over again. Ugh… what a waste of time. I just want to relax and have fun, be free like everyone else seems to be, but to some extent, I know it’s the just lingering voice of my over-achieving parents haunting me. I try hard everyday to walk on the sunny side because I know I am truly a lucky person and given the perspective of many less fortunate others, most of my concerns are societal and rat-race derived. I try to hush the terrible voices in my brain that try to make me feel less than, useless, lazy and a whole host of negative image issues that constantly come in to play when rolling that stupid rock up the blasted hill.

I believe in the power of mind over matter. You could call it prayer, but I don’t always involve any god or prophets in my hopeful mantras. In attempting to make sense of the divine, I often don’t and instead turn my thoughts to being a better person to my fellow human beings. I can’t possibly worry about making someone I’ve never met upset, I just try to make sure I don’t piss anyone off without reasonable cause, though I’m not sure others think so. Perhaps the time spent visualizing whirled peas just shuts out all the other thoughts my ego is attempting to manuever. I trust that my brain is a store house of the divine, that in it are things I could never pinpoint, or fully manifest. I probably listen to my brain a little more than my body, as I have always had a sense that my body is just a physical manifestation to carry my brain through this world.

I believe people can think themselves into sickness or pain through attitude or feeling powerless. The big bang moment in my life on this issue came when I saw my step-grandmother give up on her life and the people in her life then die shortly afterwards. Her brain was leading the ship and she let it crash-land into a reef. The joyousness of a man certainly does prolong his days.

I am wildly sarcastic with occasional dry wit and the irony in sarcasm just makes me giggle inside to no end. I do like to make myself laugh a lot. I find much emotional relief in laughter and sometimes inappropriately. I often  suspect the people in my life who don’t know me very well, don’t get my jokes or get offended. It’s the one down side to my kind of humor. I like slap sticky, silly foolishness. I’m not much into the sad awkward genre of comedy, like Napoleon Dynamite. I sat in the movie theater with scores of people laughing all around me and I just didn’t get it, I just felt sorry for the guy, though there are a few funny bits. I was told you must have a dysfunctional family to understand the humor. My family is not without fault but mostly functional, won’t they be glad to know that. Laughing keeps me sane.

I love being naked and barefoot. I find clothes ill-fitting and rarely flattering, over-priced and thread bare, torn or stained within hours of purchase.  I am convinced that the rise of breast cancer in women is due in to the invention of the bra. Pinching and strangulating women in the ribs, restricting circulation of blood and glandular whatevers. My boobs are too large to bounce freely in public and I enjoy the perky lift of a lacy bra for a few hours a day but I hear some women sleep in bras. This is a WTF moment for me.  I don’t have the kind of budget for tailored clothing, though think it would make the most sense in terms of finding a flattering, high quality piece of clothing. I like to think I’m fashionable but I also realize that I just don’t care enough to really pull it off. My shoes tend to be lovely to look at and unbearable to wear or unbearable to look at and lovely to wear. I “rock the crocks” and don’t really give a damn if you find them ugly or so-o-o-o last season. It’s basically a means to keep the hook worms and shards of glass out of my feet and only on occasion to make me feel pretty or stylish. I wear my shoes like cars, unafraid of using a little shoe goo to keep them going a few extra miles.

I don’t feel comfortable asking for help even if I need it. I know “people who need people are the luckiest people in the world” but for some unearthed reason it doesn’t sit well with me when I find myself needing to ask. Perhaps I feel too vulnerable in the asking, too burdensome in the needing, too failed or shamed by admitting weakness. But I don’t see it that way if someone asks for my help and I do very much enjoy helping other people.  Lately though I do feel like my energy is misplaced into helping others too much. That I have neglected myself int he process. Charity begins at home they say.

I am foolishly confident in my ability and am fanatically DIY. You only have to come over to my house to see the slightly crooked tile job in the shower or visit my restaurant where a window full of scratched lps are chained together in curtain formation to understand that I’m creatively self-reliant. It probably doesn’t hurt that I’m forever rolling on a low-budget and can’t afford to pay an expert to do the work either. There is much learning in the process, perfection is of no use to me. The traveling is more fullfilling than the destination.

I’m writing this post in expression my own feelings about me, to try to root out my ego or id or whatever the hell motivates me to be the crazy fool I am. Thanks for listening, you are my free DIY shrink.

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