Life Geometry.

Needless to say, its definitely interesting the way one's life changes the older you get. Relationships end, paradigms shift...the way you once lived doesn't quite quench your thirst anymore. Questions are even different. No longer are they as self-centered; well maybe this is just me. I'm beginning to question exactly what my purpose is.

I'm beginning to realize that the world is one big renewal. Things get born, destroyed, recycled. At what point does it end? Better yet, at what point is it enough? The daily bombardment of media and propaganda is almost overwhelming. Pink wigs. Eyelid surgeries. The best car. The biggest house. I began to wonder what was more important in my life: truly being happy or being rich? In essence, I don't give a damn about money. Well, in obscenely excessive amounts.

I want to get married and have kids. All of that jazz. But what if that's only what I've been conditioned to want? Is it true that human beings are so far ahead of our primal counterparts that we're the only ones in the animal kingdom that favor and cling to monogamy so dearly? Or, in fact, we're all just a bunch on monkeys?

I've also realized that things are so negative. Its like a big ass cloud, raining on my proverbial parade. Instead of dwelling on the things I hate, there are a great deal of things I like. Candles. Good smelling lotions. Having all the labels on things face out. Pedicures. (Good) kisses. My phone. Chocolate. Cake. Chocolate cake. Pictures of babies smiling.

Spirituality is another thing that is perturbing me. I was brought up in dogma--you will only please God if you're a good girl and go to church. It seems that the sinners get all the perks. So if sin is sin, the people that pick their nose and wipe it on a church pew and the people that have sex with corpses are gonna be in the same hell? There is one thing I wonder of religion (or lack thereof) though and it scares the crap out of me...what if EVERYONE is wrong?

more rants.

Yayyy! First blog of 2010! Over it.

Now. As I sit here, once again at 4 in the morning, I find myself crying for no apparent reason. I should be freaking ecstatic. I have a boyfriend that treats me like a queen, I have everything that I need (maybe lacking some stuff I want, but erroneous). The problem isn't evident. I'm listening to India.Arie's "Beautiful" and it makes me cry every time. Just listening to her imagery, her soulful lyrics..."The time is right/I'm gonna pack my bags/And take this journey down the road..." DAMNIT THAT'S WHAT I WANNA DO! I desperate yearn to drop out of school, get in my car and drive as far as a tank of gas takes me. I want to go somewhere the sun rays warm my legs through an awning of trees...

I've seen places like this when I was younger. My mom and I always used to visit my deadbeat brother (boo) in prison when I was like, 10. Although the trip was for a less-than-happy reason, I loved the drive. It was to Tallahassee or Pensacola...somewhere. We crossed this beautiful bridge where mansions perched on rocky cliffsides...trees gently stretched their arms to meet over the highway...their foliage a fiery welcoming. I'd give ANYTHING to go back to that place right now. The stress and hustle-and-bustle of every day life is damn near to heavy to bear. I agree with India: "I wanna go to a place where/Time has no consequences oh yeah/The sky opens to my prayers..." I want to be able to lie in the grass, shoes off, making out the realization of shapes of clouds. The warm sun on my neck, the breeze lapping at the hem of my sundress. I don't have to worry about painting my toes, shaving my legs, Nicki Minajes, term papers, the latest healthcare bill...how can something so simple and natural such as peace be such a futile and unreachable goal?

Forward to the Past...

Okay, it's four in the morning, I'm slightly nauseous from Goldfish and Little Debbie Christmas Tree cakes, and I'm insomnia-ridden. Not because of the tumultuous churning of my stomach, but because a revelation practically t-boned my mind. I am 21 years old and I'm screwed. I say this because there is a very strong possibility that I will not follow the field that my major is in. Every 5 years I change my life course. Blah, indecision. Will I be one of those college students that know practically every professor, what classes are offered what semester, and how to pass said class? Will I be the 40 year old grad? *gag* Graduate school to me pretty much is an extension on postponing the onset of the real world (college itself is the primary postpone-ation). How long can I actually continue on majoring in plagiarism?

Fast forward 10 years. Option A: I will be a successful associate news producer, waking up every day at ungodly hours to deal with my boss, who is "firm, but fair". (Pardon the cliche.) I will put my Starbucks coffee in a steel thermos, fight rush hour traffic to go discover what gang member initiate has held a gas station at gunpoint or what local child has gone missing. Fun stuff. Option B: I will be earning my doctorate degree in something or other. I will be living in a duplex next to a lady with 6 cats, 2 birds, and an iguana. She will cook something that smells absolutely ghastly and I will retire to bed with a gargantuan mal a tete and a 50 page dissertation slowly but surely destroying my life. Neither of these journeys sound fulfilling nor promising...hence my dilemma. Oh, not to mention the fun onslaught of bills that I have to look forward to. What joy.



Oh well. At least I have this as my motivation to continue on.

A Slightly Bipolar Moment...

Have you ever felt alone inside your own mind? Like the thoughts that you possess transcend what you are going through? Like the sheer misunderstandings of those around you bring you to tears? Well I’m there now. All I can do is imagine myself sailing above these problems, above these buildings that simultaneously free me and bind me…people that are meant to be my equal are seemingly fast-moving sugar ants under my feet. I have no idea where to turn. I need some sort of escape. Somewhere my mind can soar with no fear of being judged nor misguided; where I can be myself with no sort of scrutiny. Does such a place exist? Is there anywhere I can find true peace and elude even myself? Where my tears can fall without a sound and I can take pleasure in their silence? It is not the loneliness that instills fear in me; it isn’t the solitude that defines me. It’s the cold. The icy chill of the other side of the bed. The way the lucid water shrivels my fingertips when I’ve been in the shower too long from crying. The heartless echo of an empty room. The “there is someone out there for everyone” ideal leaves me without hope. I have learned that conforming myself to what a man wants is not the way—hell, they don’t even know what they want. My becoming this relationship chameleon only defeated me in the long run. I lost pieces of myself along the way. Does the empty ever go away? Does one finally regain that sense of oneness, with or without a mate? As soon as I thought I knew who I was, my world was once again turned upside down. The in crowd is out, nobody is trying to keep up with the Joneses anymore and what’s silent is sound. Laughter makes my skin crawls like a squeaky Styrofoam cup. Why am I here? What purpose do I serve in other’s lives? If no one can hear me scream, am I really screaming? Or is there just no one ceasing their busy lives to listen to my lamentations. Ecoute, s’il vous plait. How do I know my real friends from those who are using me? For my possessions, for my time, for my body…still trying to find my way out of the maze…

Britney Spears Might Have Been On to Something...

People have lots of definitions about what it means to be a woman. Getting your period, getting pregnant, enduring life-altering changes, having sex...and I've been through all these before 21. So why don't I feel like a woman? Why do I still feel like the little girl whose front teeth were always a little too big for her mouth, but chose to smile anyway? The loving daughter who thought my mother could do anything? Or that misled adolescent that fell in love with a guy who was just a little too old? I still have the urge to tell people that I'm 18 every once in a while. Here I am approaching that age-purgatory between 21 and 30, and mentally, high school seemed like yesterday. I am not butterfly nor caterpillar; not a girl, not yet a woman (circa late-90s Britney Spears). How does an "adult" react to situations such as these? Is there a such thing as early life crisis? Instead of buying a sportscar and getting Botox, should I hop on seesaw with a juice box and take a nap at 2 in the afternoon? In the movie "Stepbrothers", Will Ferrell queried to his psychiatrist how to be an adult. It was meant to be farce, but in me it struck a nerve. Droves of teens and college students desperately yearn to be "grown" and "21 bout theirs". What does that entail? Paying bills? Moving out of your parent's houses? To me it just sounds like a technology blinded generation running, barreling toward a life of monotony. Am I supposed to be excited to join this fleet of "women" where the only surefire ticket to success is an oxymoron--a scripted reality show? When did just being a girl become an insult?

"Hi, My Name is Crystal, and I Am Not a Groupie..."

Maybe someone could explain this shit to me, because apparently, I'm just not getting it. There is no reason to be a groupie over anyone except Jesus Christ himself. Quite frankly, any monkey with a finger and a screech can sing into an autotuner, but not everyone can walk on water or feed five thousand with five loaves of bread. Yet, I digress. First of all: groupie-(n) an ardent fan of a celebrity or of a particular activity, as per dictionary.com. Although this is it in a nutshell, I feel they should amend this definition. Many groupies, of the rap persuasion in particular, will do ANYTHING to grasp even a minuscule piece of this "artist's" attention. Please. I am not personally prepared to remove my underwear that probably cost more than dinner and throw them on a stage to be swept up with confetti, gum, and whatever trash may be up there. Neither am I prepared to air out my dirty laundry in a tell-all confession that may be a New York Times Bestseller but irreversibly brutalizes my reputation and my psyche.

I recently met a guy, who claimed to be a big-time producer for Slip-N-Slide (whether he was or not, I don't know. Don't really care). He was feeding me hella crap about all the cars and houses and shit he had. The thing was, he was used to women falling all over him and being his...you guessed it. Groupies. Me? Not even, bruh! I don't know why I was not born with this seemingly innate female characteristic, but then again I don't ask why I wasn't born with 12 fingers either. And sidebar: this guy was not the cutest either. It was one of those rags-to-riches stories where the kid who was teased in high school gets a little money and self-confidence, swag if you will, and proceeds immediately to the nearest cool kids' table. Spare me, guy. Looks like if you take away the clothes, the diamonds and the cash-induced swag, I'll take the monkey with the autotuner.

Best Friend or No?

How the hell do people get caught up in such situations? Friends with benefits...or maybe more than just friends without benefits? I'm so lost. This person is someone you talk to everyday, think about everyday, but is not your significant other. Not even close. You can talk about your genitalia without talking about sex. This person knows that you have someone, and will even listen to you vent about your here-today, gone-tomorrow relationship. So is this dude my Jersey angel disguised in gentleman's couture? How can one put such a complicated situation in a box? Or slap a cheap label on it? Or do you even want to? I was once told that I was the only girl he talked to on a regular basis. How do I take that? He's one of the only people I can talk to about my problems without being judged, debate the most recent political foolishness with, and understand my dry, sarcastic sense of humor. So what damn box does this relationship go into? Maybe I can put it into one of those butter cookie tin cans...