Today, I went to Redondo Beach, a rocky beach on the Puget Sound. These rocks, from a distance, looked like they would be a lovely place to sit and stare out at the water, but when I got closer I discovered that they were covered in barnacles and seaweed, which was far more delightful. The barnacles fascinated me - they hissed and gurgled and moved when I touched them.
I am happy to say that I spent nearly thirty minutes harrassing barnacles today.
Last night, I drove to Snoqualmie Falls by myself, and stood in the rain and falls-spray and let myself get soaked. Peace like a river - a roaring, rushing, bubbling, wild river.
It is well with my soul.
Dear Semi-Literate English-Speaking Public:
Please refrain from inflicting your pathetic linguistic gyrations on the rest of humanity. If you are too lazy to learn to write in an intelligent (or even intelligible) fashion, yet you still insist on exercising your right to free speech (even though you sound like a lobotomised monkey), please do not be alarmed when the rest of society, the elitists (you know, the ones who listen to the “gotcha media”), are unwilling to listen to you. Our main concern is, “should we feed the monkeys so they shut up, or just let them starve?”. Democracy would be much improved if the rabble were caged.
I am, in theory, in favour of a free, democratic society, but only because I don’t believe any person, or religious or political group, would be an improvement over the current mess. Eugenics is a lovely idea, but seems to inevitably lead to genocide. Various groups have tried perfecting their societies on the basis of race, gender, and religion, perhaps it is time that we try weeding out the stupid ones*.
Exhibit A: Last year, I went with my aunt, uncle and cousins to the local fair. We spent a great deal of time looking at the art displays. Some of it was quite good. More of it was mediocre (technically decent, but boring). The bulk of it was trash. Worse than trash, because someone had taken the time to turn usable canvas into atrocities depicting disproportionate limbs, bleeding colors, and comically faulty architecture. There was an entire section devoted to art from kids and teens. Distorted anatomy, heavy, scrawling pencil lines and even stick figures were the norm. I was not truly appalled until I realised that the number next to each child’s name did not denote age, but grade. These were not infants lacking motor skills, but middle-school to high-school aged children. We breed mediocrity, then proudly put it on display. A six year old drawing stick figures and calling it art is adorable. A sixth GRADER drawing stick figures should be encouraged to spend more time on his math homework. Or be sent to the salt mines.
Exhibit B: I saw this message on a friend’s Facebook wall from a girl who I know of, but have never met (though I know her sister, and she is aptly described by the first part of this blog). I have copied verbatim what the girl wrote on my friend’s page:
“did ur dad say anything bout a text inviting ur fam to my bday party tommorow night? i didnt hav abything fogered out until monday, so i get it if u guys cant cum”.
Please take a moment to pick up the pieces of your throbbing brain from around the room. (My favourite part is the unintentional (?) reference to ejaculation at the end - perhaps this party will be better than the rest of the message indicates.) This is why I’m pro-abortion. Read it again. Go take some ibuprofen. I rest my case.
Love,
Megsie
Note: *I don’t mean the people who are “slow” but still contribute in countless, irreplaceable ways to society. Just because someone is not a brain surgeon does not mean they aren’t valuable. I’m referring to the people who physically capable of working, but refuse to. Criminals who take what other people have earned. People who reproduce like rabbits without regard for the well being of their children. People who wallow in filth and ignorance. No, not wallow, but revel in their own idiocy. If you think I’m exaggerating, go check out PeopleOfWalmart.com. Free abortions for all suddenly seems like a much better idea, doesn’t it?
I’m a wee bit soused right now, so if this is occasionally incomprehensible, forgive me. I shall correct it tomorrow.
About a month ago (or so - as I said, soused, and cannot remember details) I made the decision to get rid of my cats. Yes, cats. I had two. First was Earnest, who I had from his kittency (that is, kitten infancy) and second was Chester, who I took in for the sole purpose of preserving the shreds of sanity which Earnest daily shed. My sanity, not his. All over the apartment. Earnest was wild, vicious, and much beloved. But it was his time to go. No, I did not bury him in the backyard, although I occasionally wished I could. My apartment does not have a backyard and that was therefore not an option. Earnest was given to a dear Boisean friend and his roommate who love the wild little creature, and who are in posession of a lovely backyard (though not for burial purposes, I hope). Chester, the cat obtained recently, the Leah to Earnest’s Rachel, did not fulfill my utilitarian desires. Earnest and Chester fought, and peed and shed all over, quickly obliterating my lovely dreams of peace and quiet and feline amicitial relationships, and also my dreams of a lovely, clean, apartment. So, the cats had to go. Earnest, as mentioned above, journeyed to Boise. Chester was a bit trickier. I know very few people in this area, and my desire to be rid of him was quickly trumped by my inability to find a good home. I first tried Craigslist, which yielded several strange encounters of people who wanted him! Now! He is perfect! Let’s talk! I’m very serious! Which rapidly devolved into, Oh, I’m not sure! I know I haven’t seen him yet, but I’m not interested! For these people I have only a few words: double-ewe tee eff.
Chester (GK Chestercat, for those theology - or Christian mystery fiction - buffs) deserved better, but in the mean time, I had grown increasingly frustrated with his neediness. Which is to say, I did not like that he wanted to cuddle. I have limited amounts of love, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste it on a cat. Yet here he was, after my long, hard day at work, rubbing up against my legs, purring and kneading, and (worst of all) NEEDING me, like a desperate puppy. If I wanted a dog, I’d get a mother fucking dog. So, here’s the truth: I got rid of Earnest because he was unhappy, but I got rid of Chester because I’m damn near soulless, and I don’t like being reminded of that by a cat.
So, I called the Seattle Humane Society, and (after ascertaining that they were a no-kill shelter, my one stipulation) I made an appointment to relinquish the Chestercat. I said I was allergic, but I didn’t specify that I was allergic to love. After a few increasingly tense weeks, the day (yesterday) finally arrived and I drove up to Bellevue with Chester. He waited in the car while I filled out paperwork, and, as I completed the personality profile, I found myself thankful that his one major flaw was that he was TOO friendly and cuddly, and silently hoped that he would find a home with someone with more affection than I, my singular consolation being that that would be a relatively easy task. After I signed the final documents, the girl at the front desk cooed at the cat, and said abruptly to me, when she saw me hesitating, that we were finished. I walked out to my car and, to my surprise, started bawling. I didn’t cry at all when I said goodbye to Earnest, and he was my baby, but for some reason THIS goodbye really hit me. Or perhaps, it was the latent guilt that I had housed and fed this creature, but never given him a home. Never loved him.
I am sometimes frightened by my lack of even a semblance of maternal instincts, not because I think that it makes me an evil person, but moreso because I feel deficient. I watch my female peers cooing over babies and wonder what the draw is. Sure, babies are cute, and I occasionally enjoy being around them, but I certainly don’t want one. The best part of holding someone else’s kid is giving it back. This disturbs me, because in the not-too-distant future I will most likely find myself a mommy (or something very like a mommy) and I’m told the Humane Society does not accept children. Meaning, I will have to put up with the peeing, and the crying and the wanting to be loved. Oh god.
At least babies don’t shed.
Joy is finding happiness in the present, while still aspiring to something greater.
