June 2nd, 2015 | 1 Comment »

I’m glad that I wrote about exploitation the other day.  It helped me process thoughts more productively.

Exploitation suggests an offender –the one exploiting, and a victim –the one exploited.  It absolves, somewhat, the one exploited from the responsibility of the situation.  Not that I am advocating transferring responsibility for a situation to someone, anyone, or anything other than myself….

Now that some thoughts have had a chance to mill about outside of the coulda woulda shoulda trap, I’ve finally been able to get somewhere.  Now I can and do reclaim responsibility for all of it.  Maybe I was a victim, maybe not.  Well, that man on the train had no right to invade my space, and that Iranian dude had no right to amuse himself with me in the manner that he did…    ….and that ex boyfriend really had no right to do me while I was asleep.  Had I woken up and gotten involved, well hello, that would be a different matter altogether (what’s better than barely waking and reaching for the one you love, and moving together in union and harmony in a semi conscious state?  How sexy and amazing is that?!), but I did not (wake up or respond in any way), and he proceeded, so yeah, he had no right to do that.  I was curious, truth be told.  Curious as to whether he would proceed or not.  It was a test, I suppose, and he failed….    Anyway.  I am not a victim.  I don’t know why or even how some things happen the way they do.  I am no longer hungry for an explanation for any of it.  I’ve decided to let it all go.  It’s something from the past, and the minute that it became history, it lost its power over me.  I don’t know why it took me almost 25  years to figure that out, though.

I’m learning the value of the now.  The only moment for which I have complete control is the moment that I’m experiencing now.  Now!  I am who I am.  I am who I choose to be.  I am who I want to be.  I can draw from the wisdom that has accumulated through the years and the experiences of other times, and I can choose to let all of the experiences be just that.  Wisdom.  Nothing else.  They can’t bring me down.  They aren’t an anchor, holding me down or holding me back.  I don’t want to be sad.  I don’t want to be angry.  I don’t want to be depressed.  I don’t want to be gloomy.  I don’t want to be hurt.  I have no desire for vengeance.  Besides all that, I’m a firm believer that good things come, always, always, always, somehow, from the ashes and anguish and sorrows and tears.  Always, good things come.  So in addition to that certainty, I now have this revelation, this added bonus, this wellspring of effervescent joy.  This is my moment, my life, this time that I am breathing, this instant.  This is mine!  This is my life!  I’m not going to be duped into allowing the past to steal my present.  No more!! And I’m not going to let the future steal my present either.  While I may have some input as to what my future holds, there is absolutely nothing that is certain.  Nothing except for the now.  My now.  My present.  This is what I have.  It’s all that any of  us has.  I’m claiming it.  Owning it.  It’s MINE!  This is life!  THIS.  IS.  LIFE.

brown eyed girl

I am exactly who, what, and how I want to be in this very moment.  I am good!  I am kind!  I am loving!  I am gentle!  I am strong!  I am smart!  I am capable!  I am resourceful!  I am responsible!  I am lovely!  I am fun!  I am creative!  I am happy!  I am healthy!  I am joyful!  I am alive!

Hello world.  It’s me.


February 5th, 2014 | No Comments »

The title alone would likely draw all kinds of traffic, if I didn’t have search engines blocked.  Not that I want traffic.  I write for myself, blah blah blah.

I’ve got these thoughts swirling about in my mind that I’ve never had the courage nor taken the time to ponder very deeply, let alone put to paper.  But I think it’s time.  I’m not sure how cohesive it will be, but I’m going to give it a shot.

…why I don’t like …

I don’t like to give or receive oral sex.  In general.  Or at least not much.  Maybe if the moon is waxing gibbous and the planets are aligned just right.  It’s been a matter of contention throughout the better part of  my sexually active life.  Why is this so?  Simple.  It’s because of negative associations that are embedded in the memories of predatorial coercive experiences from my youth.  It’s very difficult to release such associations, and it’s not particularly easy to talk about them.  Why would I want to talk about them, anyway?  Avoidance is so much easier.  Just don’t go there.  I don’t want to think about icky things that happened long ago.

…keeping numbers low…

I, as a human, am a sexual being.  I, as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent, am a sexual being.  I yearn for connection, for a fullness that is hard to describe.  And I don’t yearn for variety.  Dear God, no.  I don’t get that, about people.  Wondering what it would be like with this one, that one, or the other one.  As if people are flavors of ice cream to try.  I find it gross.  Icky.  There are many icky connotations when it comes to me and the ideas that are trapped in my mind revolving around sexuality.  So sex as a sport, sex as recreation, are icky to me.  I’m so not interested.  Ick, icky, pfthtft, blech.

I have no interest in the dating scene.  I’ve been terrified of it all along, from the very beginning when I found myself adult and single.  Because, as far as I could tell, dating meant having sex with various people.  It shouldn’t mean that, but somehow I ended up harboring that interpretation.  Maybe because when I was young, it seemed that the male prime directive was to get laid, not married.  They wanted to play the field.  I wanted to settle down.

I don’t want to go on exposing myself to others in the pursuit of Mister Right For Me.  Enough is enough.  I want to keep my numbers low.  Or as low as possible.  There is too much at stake, with such frivolity.  Not just physical, with the risk of disease, but the emotional toll is steep.  And I’ve never been frivolous, really.  Serially monogamous, as they say.  But I suppose it’s all relative.  I suppose I could be considered a trollop in some circles.  Because my numbers…  My number is 13, I think.  (I don’t really want to count any more.  I think it’s 13.)   Anyway.  In my own estimation, I have not been frivolous.  I’ve only ever wanted to be with just one.

…in an ideal world, there would have only ever been one…

My number would have been low, in an ideal world.  My number would have been one.  I would have settled in to life with my person, and we would have learned each other, grown with each other, and built a life together.

I know people, my age, whose number is one.  I applaud them.  It’s hard to fathom how they were able to manage it.

…letting go…

It’s not an ideal world.  I have my issues that constrain the relationships I find myself in.  I have a yearning, a hunger, an ache to let everything go and immerse myself in the moment.  I want to release all the constraints and let them flow away so that I can breathe and move and honor each sensation that my body can feel.  How much of this depends on another?  How much of this depends only on me?  Has anyone ever truly let go with me?  Have I ever truly let go with anyone?

…ripped off…

For so much of my adult life I’ve felt like I’ve been ripped off, sexually.  Negative associations aside, I still have a hunger for intimacy.  The man I married was more interested in who-knows-what-until-3 am than going to bed at a reasonable hour and enjoying some midnight magic with his wife.  I literally had to ask him for a deposit when I thought I was ovulating, and that was pretty much the sum of it.  A deposit.  Pathetic.  But I do have two wonderful children now, so it wasn’t for naught.  And therefore it was worth it.  Worth every miserable minute.

I suppose that most of the feelings of ripped offedness (I don’t care if that’s not a word, I’m using it anyway) stem from the marriage.  He probably felt ripped off too, because I wasn’t into giving blow jobs.  That, and he favors big booty and little bustage, and my endowments are exactly the opposite.

It was a chapter.  I’m glad it’s over.


There is something to be said about surrender.  When you carry the weight of your world on your shoulders, the burden is heavy.  How can you let it go?  It takes a certain level of trust to be able to let go, to surrender.  Such moments, however fleeting, are sweet and glorious.  Like honey, smooth and amber, flowing gently, covering everything with a soothing glow.

…mid life…

I’m no longer young.  These thoughts and feelings have been with me for most of my life.  When better to address them, if not now?  I could rue the waste of years and moments that could have been spent loving more fully, or I could gird up and say it’s better late than never.  So now is a good time to address these things.  Or at least try.  I’m on a journey inward, looking for myself.  Finding myself.  Revealing myself.  Unearthing myself.  Discovering myself.  Healing myself.  I must.  Because life beckons.  And I want to live.

…morality, what is it?…

The question of morality has quite an impact on thoughts and feelings revolving around sexuality.  What is morality?  It seems to vary from person to person, and it seems often to be steeped in religious background or  upbringing.  What is it to me?

Is it immoral to go through life, one partner after another, in a seemingly endless quest for ‘The One’?  I would generally say no.  That is, unless the partners overlap against their will.  In which case it’s unkind and unfair to the  unknowing partner.  In other words, unfaithful.  Not good.  Not good at all.

Is it immoral to have sex outside of marriage? I’m thinking along the lines of damage control, rather than religion.  Generally, religion provides rules, guidelines and boundaries designed for our safety.  Not that the intent is never butchered and what results is a far cry from any of that.  The intent of religion is noble.  The execution thereof, not so much.  So I think in terms of damage control.  Sex is personal, intimate and emotional.  It just is.  Well, maybe not to testosterone crazed men.  I’m not a man.  I speak only as a hot blooded Aries woman of Asian and Scandinavian descent.  For me, sex is personal, intimate, and emotional.  To share it with another means sharing intimacy and emotion with another.  It opens a channel of vulnerability.  It seems best, logical even, to keep the impact minimal.  Keep the numbers low.  In an ideal world, my number would have been only one, and I would be married.  But that’s not my world.

Is it immoral to take one’s sexual needs into one’s own hands?  I had a friend who once said, “Better to cast your seed into the belly of a whore than spill it on the ground.”  I’m surprised at myself that I would actually remember a statement, verbatim.  I generally only remember nebulously, without the clarity of detail.  Yet I remember that particular statement.  Distinctly.  Probably because I wholeheartedly disagree.  One, because the attitude propagates a profession that is demeaning to humanity, and two because in so doing, more than one person is involved, hence the possibility of hurt or anguish is amplified.  Masturbation makes complete logical sense.  Nobody is hurt, nobody else’s emotions are involved, no diseases are spread, and a physical need is addressed.  It’s merely taking care of business.  There is a physical need, a tension that grows and can lead to distraction.  Best to nip it in the bud rather than let it lead to something destructive.

That said, I sort of struggle with my Catholic upbringing and the sense of shame associated with such unmentionables.  Masturbation.  It’s hard to even voice the word in thought, let alone write it down.  Religious upbringing aside, it still makes logical sense to me, so truly, at the end of the day, I have no problem with it.


I think about loving.  About making love.  I imagine two people, fully immersed in each other.  Skin on skin.  Touching.  Tasting.  Nibbling.  Fingers gliding gently and slowly along curves of limbs.  Bodies tangled up in each other.  Breathing each other’s air.  Feeling everything.  Every point of contact a distinct sensation.  I imagine drifting off to sleep in the warmth of each other’s presence, waking, but only barely, and moving again with each other, tangled up again in semi-consciousness.  Loving each other in waves.  Surrendering completely to each other.  Falling asleep in peace.  Comfort.  Safety.  Waking up in harmony.  Warm.




Is such a thing possible?  If I can imagine it, it must be so.  It must.

…running out of steam…

As is so often the case with me, all these thoughts that are milling about, that need to be sorted and pondered and placed, are sketched in outline and I find myself winded, unable to think further or write further.  All these important thoughts on the verge of clarity.  Lost again in the quagmire of my harried mind.  All these words penned, and yet no epiphany.

At least it opens a door for more thoughts to process.  At least I’ve mustered the courage to mention the unmentionables, so maybe next time, when I can put some thoughts to form, I just might get somewhere.

But not tonight.

December 10th, 2007 | 1 Comment »

I pray. Why? Because the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much. And I believe that.

I think about beliefs and why we believe the things that we believe. People kill and maim and fight wars over differences in beliefs. If I could project myself out into the heavens and look down on the earth, so as to get the big picture perspective, what would I see’ Would it make any sense’ I would ask myself, “Why'”

There is faith, there is tradition, and there is loyalty. I see fierce loyalties to things like sports teams, towns, schools, countries, religions. There is intellectual loyalty and emotional loyalty. I can understand intellectual loyalty, because it has a basis of reason. I am somewhat baffled by emotional loyalty. Why does it matter if Team A beat Team B’ Did they play well’ Did they play their best’ Do I have to side with Team A because they’re based in my home town’ What if I think Team B is the better team’ Will I be ostracized for favoring Team B’ Why does it matter if I’m a Star Bellied Sneech or a North-going Zax’ Loyalty is a very strange thing indeed.

There are those who are loyal based on tradition. Something is taught and passed on, and perhaps not ever questioned or understood, but held fast to all the same. This also baffles me. To me, loyalty is something that must be earned. Questioning is therefore essential.

There is patriotism. Now that makes almost no sense to me. Who can control where they are born? I’m GRATEFUL to have been born into a (relatively) free country. And I love the land of my youth. Because it’s the land of my youth. But I’m not patriotic in the sense that I think my country is better than any other country. What would give me that right? But to delve further into these questions would mean that I’d have to delve into politics and other things of which I am painfully and shockingly ignorant. And that wearies me. So I will let it rest that I am thankful to live the life that I’m living, where I happen to be.

There is a book movement sweeping the country, fueled in part by Oprah, I suspect. Eat, Pray, Love. I haven’t read the book, but for some reason, Mr. Gadget put Oprah on the other day, and that was the topic du jour. He then left the room. It was very strange on his part, and I sat scratching my head in bewilderment over his behavior, while listening to the women and their stories. I have seen the book in passing, and thought that it sounded interesting. Anything that starts with ‘Eat’ and ends with ‘Love’ must have some sort of goodness to it. One thing that struck a nice chord with me was the suggestion to write down the happiest moment of every day in a gratitude journal, and to ask yourself what you really, really, really want. (It’s an earnest way to probe.) I was going to start blogging my happiest moments each day, but am a bit wary, due to that nanomobololrorljrmormeoeremrmmooo hullaballoo. I know that these things can become tedious if one makes a commitment. (I’m not so good at commitments, I acknowledge, because I knew better than to sign up for nanonaonemoemrn and I’m just about ready to quit seeing my chiroquacker, which is mostly due to him wanting me to “commit to my health.” And while we’re on the topic of commitment phobia and true confessions, let me just say that I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of Good LORD, what am I getting myself into and WHAT AM I DOING???? and no I DON’T! I know not what when I uttered those two words, “I do.”) All that aside, I bought the book, and plan to read it. Perhaps over Christmas break. Either way, I’m making a deliberate effort to think of the happiest moment of my day each night, just before I fall asleep. It’s good to end the day on a high note.

I don’t know where I was going with this post. I started the draft eons ago. Maybe just to document that I am perplexed about life in general. Or not. I must have been inspired about something. But for now, I’m concentrating on each and every day’s happiest moments.

Today’s? Remembering a dream from last night, in which Mr. Gadget and I shared on of those I – love – you – through – every – fiber – of – your – being looks, and kissed a long and beautiful I – love – you – through – every – fiber – of – your – being kisses. Even if it never happens during consciousness, at least the angels have reminded me that there is love. I’ll treasure that moment, even if it was only a dream. (Oh yes, there is love, but the expression in real life… …is not so sweet as the perfection found in dreams…)

And the husband, reading only fragments over my shoulder, says, “Who is James Five Sixteen?  Your blogging pal buddy friend that you’re writing secret messages to?”

Yes Dear.  That’s it.

April 11th, 2007 | 2 Comments »

(as Austin Powers would say)

I spent a s t a g g e r i n g amount of money this week, but I feel very good about it.  (Most of it, anyway.)

The state has a fantastic guaranteed tuition program so I can now proudly say that my son’s univeristy tuition is paid in full, guaranteed for when he’s ready to go (as long as he goes to a public university).  I bought the maximum, which translates to five years.  I had previously let it be known that I would expect my children to pay for their own education, like I had to (the reasoning behind that stance being that the education might be more fully appreciated and taken seriously).  I don’t know whether I will let him know I’ve done this, when he’s older.  I’d rather encourage him to do his best and seek scholarships, grants, internships and such.  I don’t want him to grow up assuming that life is a free ride.  I want him to learn a good work ethic.  I want him to be responsible.  I want him to be able to go confidently out into the world, when it’s his time.  I don’t want him to be lazy.

I also paid the property taxes for the year.  That’s not such a happy outward flow of cash, but there’s no getting around it, and at least a little of it does go towards good things like the public schools.

Recent family crises added to the net (and I’m so thankful that I am able to help out a bit).

…and…   ….shhhhh….   …don’t tell Mr. Gadget, but I ordered the Nikon D40.  What the heck, say I…  It’s a barely discernible drop in the bucket of freeflowing cash this week.  Barely discernible!  What better time than now

Actually, so far I’ve only told him about the tuition and the tax.  Not the family crises and the camera.  He won’t mind, though.  He might be a wee bit jealous, but he did get a new camera himself this week (which he got to get from the community fund).  And I’ve forked out quite a LOT of money to help out his side of the family when in crisis, so he has no room to grumble, should he decide to comment. 

I don’t know how other families keep financial peace.  I know that financial matters are the root of many a marital woe.  And we have had more woe than I care to express or continue.  So.  We have come to an understanding.  Our accounts are separate, like single people.  I manage the family budget.  We contribute to the common fund by percentage of earnings rather than dollar amount so we feel equal relative pain, and if we have anything left over after our family commitments, then it’s ours to do with as we please.  It’s an average budget, though.  It doesn’t include expenses out of the ordinary routine.  And really, we should establish a savings plan, for future and for retirement.  It’s one step at a time for my dear MG though.   He balks at anything that will reduce his current potential spending money.

Mr. Gadget’s wants seem to exceed his means, and mine generally don’t. (Means being what’s left over after family commitments.)  Somehow I end up feeling guilty if I ever covet something expensive.  (I attribute it to my upbringing, which has both pros and cons.)  The tuition, family donations, and camera came from my personal funds, and somehow I feel a bit guilty about the camera, even though I shouldn’t.  I guess a part of me worries that MG will think that if I got to spend X then he should get to spend X.  Math is not his strongsuit.

I wonder if we’d view things differently had we married younger, or had he not been married previously.  If I had married younger, I probably would be gung ho for a fully joint account, in which we would have to agree to certain expenses as a team, and we’d have to be responsibly accountable to each other for all of our expenditures.

Having been single and established, way into my thirties, it’s been quite difficult to fully adjust to the sharedness of marriage.  Having been previously married, MG’s child support payments come from his personal account, which substantially diminishes his available mad-money.  This is why he feels strained and why it’s easy for his wants to exceed his means.  Maybe I’m a bit hard-nosed, but support for his other child is his responsibility, not mine.  And support for our child is our responsibility together.  That’s how I see it, anyway.  If his daughter were to come live with us, of course we’d both support her, but he has no custody, and none forseeable.

I need to find a way not to end up feeling guilty.  I’ve worked very hard (I’ve worked for one company for almost 21 years) and made many financial sacrfices along the way so that I would be better set in the future.  The future is now, and it should be okay for me to have a Nikon camera, guilt-free!

October 27th, 2006 | 6 Comments »

Music is a powerful thing. The soft hint of a melody awakens emotions, bringing them to the forefront of my heart and mind, so that I am transported to that place and time, as though it were here and now, and the experience is new.

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love
Can the child within my heart rise above
Can I sail thru the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life

I see a little girl, four years old, microphone in hand, swaying to the music. I hear the sweet sound of her little voice, off key, singing her heart out. I see her mother, her belly in full bloom, round with my nephew, due any day. She is flanked by my nieces, teenage girls with basketballs stuffed under their shirts. The trio has taken the stage and are singing their song. I see my niece again, this time in her daddy’s arms, out on the lake in a boat, waving the orange flag. Swimmers in the water!

Happy memories of happy times.

And you ask me what I want this year
And I try to make this kind and clear
Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days
‘Cause I don’t need boxes wrapped in strings
And desire and love and empty things
Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days

So take these words
And sing out loud
‘Cause everyone is forgiven now
‘Cause tonight’s the night the world begins again

I see my brother’s lifeless body, cold and hard, laid out on a gurney at the mortuary. I’ve signed a waiver to release the mortuary of any responsibility for emotional damages or trauma I might experience. We all have. They are not comfortable that we are there. They have cleaned him well and put him back together nicely. He looks peaceful. His hair is soft. We look at him. We speak to him. We hold his hand. We whisper to him. We hug each other. We cry. We look at the bullet hole in his temple. We ask him why. We tell him that we love him, that we have always loved him. We cry. We cry more. The mortuary staff are pacing and restless. They have an appointment and want us to leave. We don’t want to go. But we have to. We look at him one more time. We tell him goodbye. We mourn. We grieve.

Too late, my time has come
Sends shivers down my spine
Body’s aching all the time
Goodbye everybody, I’ve got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth
Mama, oooh ohhoo oooh (any way the wind blows)
I don’t want to die
I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all

A year ago today, he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Grief has sent us spinning, spiralling through so many thoughts, questions, and emotions. Much is written about the stages of grief, be there five, six, or a dozen. It doesn’t matter. There’s no easy way to come through it. There are no answers.

I recently read The Five People You Meet in Heaven. If Heaven were like that, I wonder if I’d meet my brother. If he would show me the ripples I started that had an impact on him. Good or bad.

I’ve read that Guilt is one of the stages, and I find that it best describes where I am and have been. It’s the unanswered question, “Why ” Why did this happen Could I have stopped it Did I do something, somehow, that contributed to this

I don’t know how to get past these questions.

We were close, as children. He was my buddy. I was his refuge. He trusted me. I was there for him. I was his strength. There were times that I let him down. Not many, but Guilt, Guilt brings these moments into full focus and distracts my attention from everything else, from the many many good times in which we were buddies and we laughed and smiled and enjoyed being who we were –siblings, friends. It is Guilt that reminds me of my own selfishness, that tells me that I should have been paying attention to more of my surroundings. It is Guilt that shatters my confidence in any earlier understanding that all was well, that I had been forgiven for the ripples that I had caused in our youth. It is Guilt that shouts at me, “COWARD.” Coward for not wanting to face him as adults, to see him, to speak to him. Coward for not understanding him, who he was, the person he had become. Coward for being afraid to reach out. It is Guilt that yells at me, “ACCUSER.” Accuser for thinking that he might be involved with drugs. It is Guilt that screams at me, “TRAITOR.” Traitor for wanting but not being able to trust him or believe him. Traitor for not giving him the help he asked for, when I thought it was counter-productive to his health and safety. Traitor for not believing him. For not giving him the benefit of the doubt. It is Guilt that sneers at me, “WEAKLING.” Weakling, for not wanting him to be angry with me. Weakling for not being his strength when he needed strength. “COWARD!” Coward for not going to him, for not helping him. Coward. For being afraid for him. Coward. For being afraid of him.

Guilt is a demon.

There were so many dynamics in the past few years. So many things going on. So many tangles. I can’t make heads or tails of it all. I did what I could, within the confines of the weakness of being who I am. Of being human.

I am no stranger to depression, yet the inability to understand how one can reach that place where the only solution is out, and having to face the fact that that was where he was, wrenches the very fibres of my being and sends me spinning all over again.
petals.jpgremains.jpgHe knew I loved him, and that I have always loved him. I think that he always loved me too, and I hope that he has forgiven me for anything and everything that needed forgiving. Today I spread dried petals from year old roses around the box that holds his remains. Today I am home alone, to honor his memory, to work through my grief, to mourn. I am so sorry. And I miss him.

Guilt remains. Guilt reigns. Beyond the guilt, there is solace in knowing that he is free, and that he is at peace.

I pray for my family. That they might be comforted from their grief and find peace in their hearts. That they find healthy ways to address their sorrows. That they be free from the demons of guilt and torment.  That they forgive each other for their own ripples.  That their hearts be bathed in love.  I pray these things for myself, as well.

In my mind and in my heart I know that Guilt can be banished with the sword of Forgiveness. I just can’t seem to garner the strength to wield that sword. But that is what faith is for, after all. I don’t have to do this alone.

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

October 10th, 2006 | 3 Comments »

…by idiots…

Sometimes I get that desperate caged feeling where my stomach feels like it’s risen to my throat and it’s hard to catch my breath.  It’s a reaction to frustration.  Or a manifestation thereof.  Either that, or it’s the physical realization of the mental exercise of biting my tongue and heeding my words, reigning in my thoughts so that they don’t explode with the words that I want to express.

It could be ego.  Or ruffled feelings   If I take the initiative to get something started that can potentially help quite a few people, do some extensive research and produce a fairly detailed working draft or prototype, and I coordinate with another who has a little experience in the matter, to seek his review and perspective as to whether I’ve missed anything important, should I take offense when I realize that he has scurried off to the bosses (how does one possessive-pluralize a word ending in double-s, anyway ) office to discuss his thoughts on what I’ve come up with so far   Rather than discussing matters with me   Is that not what coordination is   I am offended.  I gather that he wants to do things his way.  I wouldn’t have a problem with that if I hadn’t already invested the effort I’ve given.  I have deep objections to duplication of effort, and I don’t like to waste my time.  I don’t do my work for glory and fame.  I don’t insist that things be done my way, but if it so happens that the way I’ve proposed is logical and considerate to and for the many over the few, why not   I maintain that it’s not an ego trip, to fight for my way.  My goal is optimization. I want to find the best way.  Not for me, but for all.  For the situation.  I try to keep that in mind when I do what I do.  Whatever it is that I do.  So.  When I realize that the insufferable chatter across the cubicle wall is about me and my work, I get ruffled.  I’ve been down this road before.  I don’t have much tolerance for this weasly behind my back behavior.  No.  Instead, I put on my headphones and turn up the volume so that I can no longer hear my surroundings.  It’s so hard to interact with unreasonable people, and harder yet to muster up any sort of respect for them.  I can’t stomach the thoughts that arise, and I find myself boxed in.


Posted in confessions, work