Category Archives: Rhapsodising

A Series of Fortunate Events, Part I

November 21, 2009

The Selfishness Theorem:

1. Selfishness is not inherently negative or positive.

2. Living for oneself is a natural extension of the evolutionary directive towards self-preservation.

3. Human selfishness can extend beyond the whims and desires of the moment to encompass a greater goal.

4. Cognitively aware selfish behaviour directs us to behave in ways that benefit others, because ultimately this benefits us as herd animals (unselfish behaviour is, at its core, selfish). Selfish behaviour therefore drives a healthy society.

I have explained my idea incompletely, but I hope at least the gist of what I am attempting to say is clear. I am sure my Selfishness Theorem is neither original nor particularly radical (I have been told that it is Randian), but it was the result of original and radical thought on my part when I dared to posit an answer to a question that was thrown accusatively at me over and over again: Can there be morality, or even meaning in life, apart from God?

“No” was the unequivocal answer from pastors, parents and peers, and I, having no other frame of reference, believed them. Truth apart from divinity, they insisted, was void. I could neither believe in, nor worship their God, and, in accordance with all I had been taught I concluded that life was meaningless. Thus, when I found myself waking up in a hospital room that smelled nauseatingly of stomach acid and charcoal, with the heavy weight of a heart that had defied death the night before still beating slowly in my chest, I was angrier than I had ever been before in a life characterised predominantly by rage. Angry at the monitor that counted off my vitals, angry at the doctors who whispered “miracle” to my religious parents, angry at a God I didn’t believe in, and angriest of all that the culmination of nihilism is having nothing to rage against. (This is why the Buddhists are peaceful - they recognize the futility of anger in a world without God).
In my 19 years of having been told that I was selfish and immoral, 19 years of being guilt-ridden and brow-beaten by a religion that is redemptive only to the elect, I, for the first time, had downed two bottles of pills, finally, consciously, done something entirely for myself. Though I did not realise it at the time, selfishness would be my salvation.

Many people will say (with a mixture of derision and fear) that suicide is the most selfish act a person can engage in (intending “selfish” to be taken in a pejorative sense). These people are correct: suicide IS an inherently selfish act, instigated by the pressure to unselfishly meet the demands of others. We are not intended to unselfishly strive to live for others, and our biology rebels against such unnatural acts.

Many people have near-death experiences and find God. Many more people have near-life experiences and continue on in the same rut. I had no God to turn to, and, when the rage died down, I found that my will to live was not obsolete, but was instead crying out for a different life: a life apart from religious guilt and fear, a life not spent in a several-thousand-year-old mold intended to reacreate homo sapiens sapiens in the image of a middle-eastern tribe’s deity. A life not contracted by the morality I learned from infancy, but instead expanding exponentially in curiousity and discovery. The beauty of nihilism, I learned, is freedom.

So, I chose life, in the most Darwinian sense: primeval, raw, and selfish. I fought, I failed, I grieved, I was reckless, thoughtless, utterly selfish, and I began to heal.

Almost two years after my suicide attempt, I realised again that I was spiraling back into deep, terrifying, suicidal depression. This time, though, I was selfish enough to believe I had value, to believe my life was worth preserving. I had spent a lifetime of fighting for others and for whatever cause I was most passionate about at the time, but now I fought for myself, and, again made a conscious decision to be completely selfish. I packed my bags and left Boise.

To be continued…

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She Walks Like a Zombie

September 17, 2009

She walks like a zombie, arms straight and rigid, held at a slight acute angle from her body. Her dark hair is long, loose, and unkempt, falling in wiry curls down her back to the sharp jut of her shoulder blades. She walks slowly, mechanically making her way across the low grassy hill that separates the grocery store from a nearby high school. Animated cadaver, I think, horrified at this human facsimile before me. The thought makes me cringe, though, and I am appalled by my cruel reaction. Already, she is disappearing from my sight as she descends into the hollow where she makes her home, so very close to mine, yet worlds apart.

I discovered her quite by accident several months ago while I was walking on the nature path behind my house. I had been walking on the main path for nearly an hour, and decided to take a detour onto a less-traveled path that followed the shore of a large pond. Caught up in my own thoughts, enjoying the natural beauty surrounding me, and trying to block out the annoying hum of the freeway, I found myself coming in sight of the end of the path. Unwilling to surrender myself into the throes of civilisation just yet, I turned from the trail onto a still more overgrown path. It was strewn with old beer cans, and various other bits of trash. Annoyed, I picked up a beer can, a coffee cup, and a plastic six-pack yoke, cursing the idiots who had so carelessly left these things. As I continued walking, the litter increased, and it occurred to me that I might very soon encounter a hobo. Rather than frightening me, as this thought perhaps should have, I was rather invigorated by the potential danger lurking around the next curve in the trash-ridden path.

The sun was beginning to sink low behind me as I rounded the bend in the path and came into view of the street that runs past my house. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman sitting in front of a blue tent, tucked up against the hill, out of view of the road. I kept walking.

“Have you come from Dr. Osman?” Her voice was sharp and clear and commanding. I stopped and half turned towards her.

“Doctor… doctor… who?”

“DR. OSMAN!” she repeated with an impatient flick of her hand. “Did you bring the medicine?”

“No. I came from there,” I replied, pointing awkwardly towards the woods from which I had just emerged, a dazed and daydreaming fool. Even as I said it, I winced at the absurdity of the statement. The woman did not seem to notice my awkwardness and launched into a long and rambling diatribe against… me? The doctor? The expected messengers? Her words sounded even and rational, although they comprised sentences full of non sequiturs and nonsense words, all with heartfelt inflection. She did not sound like a crazy person, yet she could not speak sense.

She continued ranting about the doctor. We were still so far apart that I could not even distinguish facial features, and everything said was uttered in tones just below shouting. Unable to think of anything else, but wanting desperately to help her, I offered her my cell phone, and took a few steps towards her.

“Stay where you are! Do not come any closer!” She all but shouted.

I froze, instantly. She continued harshly:

“Why d’you think I need a cell phone, huh?”

“Well, I thought you’d want to make a call… to… to… Dr. Osman,” I stuttered, feeling more foolish than ever.

“Well I don’t” she sneered.

“Okay, well, I have to go. Have a good day!”

I stumbled slightly as I turned to go away from her, and began walking rapidly towards the grocery store I was now in sight of. Towards civilisation. Anything was better than this unpredictable, commanding woman.

“You have a good day, too.” I knew she didn’t mean it.

“By the way,” she continued, with a tinge of sarcasm, “you get a zero”. Her voice was steady and clear and authoritative, and I turned back towards her in wonderment, half-halting my retreat, before hurrying on, up over the slight ridge and then across mowed grass, and, finally, onto sidewalks and civilisation.

For years I have played a childlike game with my brother, Nathan. I ask him how much he loves me, on a scale of one to ten, and pretend to be angered if he doesn’t answer with a number greater than ten. His typical answer is “oh, zero” and, then, “just kidding, eleven point five.” It’s my silly way of seeking reassurance, and his of giving it without being forced into overly emotional displays of affection. I don’t know what scale that woman was judging me by, but whatever it was, I failed.

On a scale of one to ten, you get a zero. You get a zero. You get a zero. She did not exist on my terms: she was homeless, but she had a home, a little tent in a grassy knoll. She was unkempt, but not filthy. Her reality was not mine, yet somehow I could not simply dismiss her as crazy.

No, no, you don’t understand, I wanted to plead, I stopped because I thought I could help somehow. I spoke to you, because everyone deserves to be addressed as a human, to be given the courtesy of acknowledgement by their fellow creatures. I stopped because I’m a good person.

No, it wasn’t true. I knew it, and she, this wild woman, regressing into insanity and animalism knew it, too. I stopped, not because I wanted her to feel human, but because I wanted to feel human. I didn’t speak with her to connect with her, but rather to display my magnanimity, to the audience of my Ego.

If life is about connection, about empathy, about the bonds of social animals, not status, or social experiments, then yes, I got a zero. Most days, I get a zero.

Most days, I, too, walk like a zombie.

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Wherein Megsie Engages in Narcissistic Explication

August 20, 2009

Don’t look so surprised. It’s a blog.

My aunt reminded me tonight that July 23rd was quite a long time ago and hinted, not terribly subtly, that I ought to write another blog. I have decided NOT to simply recount the events of the past month (MONTH? Christ, I’m so far behind) by waxing eloquent on my recent heroics, or delving into the inevitable narcissism of my supremely unstable emotional life, or regaling you with tales of my kitten’s antics (he caught and ate a moth the other day), or telling you about my brother, his wife, and her relatives coming to visit me, or how work is stressful and exhausting but good all at once, because you could just follow me on Twitter for all of that.

Instead, I’m going to tell you about the various creative projects I have undertaken in the limited time between working, sleeping, and maintaining my busy and enthralling social calendar (i.e., refreshing facebook every five minutes). I’m somewhat hesitant to even discuss this, since, inevitably, some well-meaning person will make an attempt to hold me accountable for the completion of these projects, and I will, inevitably, be inclined to chuck things in their direction. I will complete, or not complete, these projects at my leisure. Do not question me. Much like the indomitable deity of Christian mythology, I move in mysterious ways.

Very generally, these creative projects fall into a category that I have affectionately termed “Nihilistic Children’s Books”. It’s a bit of a misnomer, in the sense that most people take the term “nihilistic” to mean hopeless, which is not my intention. Of course, most people are idiots and also think that atheists are necessarily amoral and that “irregardless” is a real word.

Much of the children’s literature I have encountered is disgustingly cheerful, clean, wholesome, and inevitably, inane. I don’t mean that I’m intending to write smut for children (although it would put a whole new spin on the term “child pornography” wouldn’t it?), but rather that I believe children are far more capable of understanding complex ideas than we give them credit for. Anyone who has taken a 100-level Social Sciences class can tell you that the idealistic view of childhood we now hold was invented in the Victorian Era, and anyone who has watched a Disney movie can tell you that childhood is rainbows and ponies and one-dimensional villains. Children’s lit. is and always has been propaganda, and really, I just want to disseminate my evil, atheist-satanist-lesbian-liberal-pro-choice views to your children. I WILL DESTROY THEIR MINDS.

My three projects are as follows:

Nightmare Waking - A Picture Book
The title is subject to change because it’s a fucking stupid title and sounds really emo. The inspiration for this story came from the concept of a Möbius strip, where, when you reach the end, the story repeats itself, creating a sense of perpetuity. Of course, my story will not be nearly as awesome as simply taking a strip of paper, twisting it, and taping the ends together. However, once it is in book form, it will be a compilation of pages which could easily be made into many, many Möbius strips, making it not altogether a loss. Also, there are bunny rabbits featured prominently in the story.

These Four Winds - A Novel
Anyone who considers herself* a writer inevitably begins writing a novel and never finishes it. It’s disgusting. Starting a novel is quite possibly one of the most narcissistic things a would-be writer can do, superseded only by said writer’s perpetual references to “the novel I am writing” WHICH WILL NEVER BE FINISHED. That said, I have been writing this novel for nearly four years now. I have maybe ten pages. Partially because every time I start to write something I become frustrated because I have a beginning and a middle, but no end. However, I believe I have conclusively solved my endless issue. And not by being adorably punny, either. This book will be a post-modern re-telling/re-working of Dante’s Divine Comedy, in the sense that I am borrowing many of the master’s plot devices, if not his subject matter.

Eggs - A Novel About Rape and Abortion
A classic fairytale. And I do NOT refer to the Disney concept of the fairytale. I really don’t know what to say about this story without giving it away. My main goal is to avoid being excessively heavy-handed and/or cynical.

I frequently find myself wishing that I had hours of free time to devote to these projects, but I am wise enough to know that I am no more likely now to actually utilise that time than I was a few months ago, when I had days upon endless days of free time. That said, being cooped-up in an office all day has it’s benefits: my creativity, thirsting and desperate for attention, has spurred me to set aside time daily to write and ponder my projects. Creative expression keeps me sane. Well, saner than I would be without it.

*Ooh! Look at my subtle undermining of patriarchal pronouns! I’m such a liberal whore.

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Three Weekends, One Blog.

July 23, 2009

The past three weekends have been shockingly busy for me, so this blog will be ridiculously long. Here are some highlights, arranged numerically for my convenience (I’ve clearly been working too long as an admin assistant - I already have to format everything):

Weekend of the 3rd - 5th:

Friday -

1. I went to Portland to see my friend Josh.

2. We rode the train (first train I’ve ever been on), perused old books at Powells, ate ice cream, and drank beer (not simultaneously).

3. We also watched a scary TV show, and I cried (sorry, Josh). I’m a really fun guest.

Saturday -

1. I drove home from Portland.

2. I went to a concert in a park with my aunt, uncle and cousins. Some good blues bands played, and the fireworks were pretty. Unfortunately, we were sitting next to some extraordinarily idiotic people, of whom the only remotely tolerable member of the group was the retarded girl who plugged her ears and yelled at the bands at random intervals. (See points three, five, and six here).

Sunday -

1. I have no idea what happened this day. I probably cried.

Weekend of the 10th - 13th:

Friday -

1. Karissa, my indomitable best friend came into town.

2. I had literally no money whatsoever (due to a paycheck fiasco involving my former employer) so Karissa had to pay for parking so that we could leave the airport. I’m a terrible friend.

Saturday -

1. We went to the bank to cash my paycheck, and the tellers acted like it was a HUGE inconvenience for them to cash a check that one of their customers had written. I refused to sympathise with their desperate and terrible plight. Imagine, having to do your job! Oh, the humanity!

2. After eating a massive breakfast (we each only ate half of what we ordered), we headed to Pike’s Place Market.

3. We didn’t get lost, thanks to Karissa’s superb navigation skills, and my superb driving skills.

4. I did, however, almost destroy my car’s transmission when we were forced to stop and start again while going up an absurdly steep street. I don’t actually know if the horrible grinding noise my car made was the transmission, but that’s what I imagine an angry transmission would sound like.

5. We were hit on by a homeless man who said “Hey, girls” in a creepy, syrupy-sweet, voice while we walked past him while we were headed to the car to drop off some stuff. On the way back to the market we passed him again, and he said “Hey, girls” in EXACTLY the same tone. So creepy.

6. Some random guy informed us that smoking causes cancer and would kill us. I reminded him that everyone dies at some point. He mumbled something that was probably obscene and walked away. In retrospect, I wish I would have exclaimed “NO, REALLY?!” in utter shock.

7. We walked from Pike’s Place Market to the Seattle Center, which is over a mile-long walk. Not bad, unless you are like me and choose to wear ballet-style flats instead of walking shoes. After we got to the Seattle Center, we discovered that we could have taken the monorail.

8. I’m already bored of writing this, so I’m going to assume you’re tired of reading it. Here is the next few hours in one sentence: We rode the monorail back to the mall, went shopping and had dinner at PF Chang’s.

9. Oh, but I cannot forget to tell you about The Great Bathroom Fiasco of ‘09 (or, “Why Tukwila, WA, Should Be Destroyed in a Nuclear Holocaust”): Karissa may be angry if I tell this story, but she is in Boise and I am not, so tough beans.

Just as we were leaving downtown Seattle, Karissa announced that she had to pee. As in, RIGHT NOW. I, being the loving and sympathetic friend that I am, refused to stop anywhere until we had safely exited the downtown region and navigated to the freeway. “We can stop in Tukwila,” I said, “it’s very close”. Karissa, being a good friend, agreed. She was miserable. I laughed. Not in a mean way, more in a “this is ridiculous and hilarious” way. My laughter did not help. By the time we exited at Tukwila, we were in Code Red. I pulled over at the nearest gas station, and Karissa went inside. I stayed out in the car, because a few minutes earlier I had taken off my strapless bra (which had become uncomfortable) and thus I was feeling somewhat self-conscious (ABOUT MY NIPPLES, DUH). To add to my discomfort, there was a group of young men milling about a few feet from my car who kept waving at me and gesturing for me to join them. Uh, no, sorry boys. My nipples and I are just fine where we are, thanks.

When Karissa emerged from the gas station, she informed me that someone had locked the keys in the bathroom, so she couldn’t get in, but the attendant had said there was a gas station “just down the street”. So, we started driving. And driving. And driving. Turns out, the gas station dude was correct, and there IS a gas station “just down the steet,” if you interpret “just down the street” as FIVE MILES AWAY. When we finally found a gas station, its restroom was for employees only. I, again, waited in the car (I really am a terrible friend), and watched Karissa gesticulate frantically while she tried to convince the attendant to let her use the restroom. Thankfully, they consented, and a crisis was averted. Everyone was happy (or befuddled, in the case of the gas station employees), and we vowed to never go to Tukwila again.

Sunday -

1. We went shopping at Trader Joe’s, and went to my Aunt and Uncle’s house for dinner. A fun, lazy day.

Monday -

1. I went to work, but left early to have dinner with Karissa before taking her to the airport. I must admit, I really enjoyed coming home to someone who made me dinner. I think I need a wifey.

Weekend of the 17th - 19th:

Friday -

1. I woke up at five am to the sound of my uncle knocking on my apartment door. My uncle, who had kindly offered to take me to the airport that morning, had to wait about twenty minutes while I packed. In my defense, I managed to get ready to go and completely packed in under 25 minutes. I was impressed with myself. I only forgot a few things, like my strapless bra (which is still in the back seat of my car where I had thrown it the weekend before) and my friend’s wedding gift.

2. I arrived in Boise at 9:30am, and spent the morning and early afternoon with my mother at her Iraqi friend’s house. They are an incredibly sweet family, and fed me a lot. Really, a LOT. After I had eaten several platefuls of excellent food, they still kept trying to get me to eat more. I really don’t think eating oneself to death would be a too-tragic fate.

3. In the evening, my eldest brother Daniel (Elder Barry, as Julie calls him) and I went to the rehearsal dinner for my best friend Quinn (yes, I have multiple best friends. Three, to be precise: Karissa, Quinn, and Aimee) where we consumed MORE food.

4. After the rehearsal dinner, the girls went downtown to Old Chicago for drinks (well, Aimee didn’t drink because she is still a registered fetus. Also, she doesn’t really like alcohol anyway).

5. I forgot to mention that I decided to wear heels that day, and ended up doing much more walking than I had originally anticipated. By the evening, when we were walking the four or five blocks to Old Chicago, I was in so much pain that I contemplated sawing off my feet at the ankles so I wouldn’t have to walk any further. I’m pretty sure that if I was ever captured by hostile forces and tortured I would just laugh at them: HAHA! Your futile methods may work on MEN, but I am WOMAN! I wear torture devices on my feet of my own free will! Once a month, my uterus tries to destroy me! I have constant migraines! I tear the hair off of my body using hot wax (okay, I only did that once, and it hurt so much I had to stop)! You have NOTHING on me! (Women who have actually given birth, feel free to add that to the catalogue of womanly strength).

6. I did not get drunk. Yes, that is noteworthy.

Saturday -

1. Wedding day! Because I had neglected to bring my strapless bra, I had thrown a corset into my bag, figuring that it would accomplish the same task. I was not sure if I would have anyone to help me put it on when I later tried to get into my dress, so I decided to put it on myself. Let me say one thing: wearing corsets? Sexy. Putting on corsets, particularly by oneself? Not so pretty.

2. Went to breakfast with my brothers, Elder Barry and Schneitzel-face and Schneitzel’s lovely bride, Hilary.

3. Went to the rehearsal for Karissa’s play since I will be missing the show in August. So far, it looks excellent, albeit occasionally unintentionally hilarious.

4. Journeyed to (I am tired of typing “went to”) Karissa’s abode where she helped me get ready for the wedding, including tightening my corset so much I couldn’t breathe even if I wanted to and convinced me to wear a ballgown-style skirt with the corset, instead of the less formal dress I was planning on wearing. It didn’t take much convincing. (So far, Karissa scores as best wife and handmaiden ever - she even did a bit of sewing to repair my skirt! Again, Karissa is a good friend, me, not so much).

5. Karissa drove me to Quinn’s wedding where I was, suffice to say, the most buxom creature there.

6. The bride was gorgeous in a wine-red dress that she and her talented sister Mandi (200books.com) made themselves. (Follow the link to see pictures of the pretty lady)

7. The wedding was HOT HOT HOT. I think poor Quinn got a bit over-heated.

8. After the bride and groom departed, I became rather melancholy, which always happens to me at weddings. Then I got drunk on some fantastic home-brew, and my mood improved immensely.

Sunday

1. Aimee and I went to lunch at the Pie Hole downtown. They burned our pizza, and it was still fantastic. I love that place. Aimee and I go there almost whenever we go out, which obviously isn’t very often anymore.

2. We then went to the park, where Aimee and I hung out for an hour or so while I waited for my family and the Iraqi family I mentioned earlier to arrive.

3. I spent the rest of the day eating picnic food, playing badminton, crying, playing poker, crying, and lying on the grass. Then I went to the airport and had to wait an extra hour for my flight.

4. On the flight home, the people behind me were obscenely drunk and loud. In case of crash and we had found ourselves in a Donner Party-like situation, I would have gladly voted to eat them first. Alcohol may not be the best marinade, but goddammit, at least being cannibalised would shut them up.

5. I arrived home to find my kitten fat and happy to see me. I figured that he would be very angry with me for leaving for so long, but he was very cuddly.

The End!

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I Can’t Even Think of a Good Title

July 22, 2009

I have a half-finished blog detailing my most recent adventures, but tonight I am too tired, and too depressed to try and finish it.

Instead, I’m just posting a link to Jon Armstrong’s blog about living with someone with chronic depression.

I’m too emotionally spent right now to even try to explain why I’m posting this, but I will say that I think that if all the pragmatic, calm, “normal” people in life could just step outside themselves enough to recognise that sometimes they’re part of the problem too, maybe we could find a solution.

I’m going to stop there, because I have nothing remotely kind or funny left to say.

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