Backlog 1

I am angry at not being present in the words and minds of others. I am angry that I do not exist unless I conform, that my nonconformity is not only disallowed, it doesn’t exist. I am angry that I see that nonexistence when I see myself; I am only this, and nothing more. I am certainly not that, and if not that, then I must be this; there are no other choices. I am angry that others presume to tell me who I am, and how I must be because of that; why don’t I get that right, that power? Because you have green eyes, you can’t wear comfortable shoes, but you can only wear sweat pants; you, with the broad hands, you can’t ever wear rings or like the way flowers smell after it rains. Why don’t I get to impose stupid rules and have them take root? I am angry at my own lack of arbitrary power and enforced meaninglessness. My partings of the world make just as much sense as anyone else’s, save that mine have no power to back them up. Perhaps that will be my guerilla resistance, to try and enforce arbitrary and false divisions as if they came directly from the mouth of some god.

I am angry that others, particularly those who should know better, insist on categorizing me to serve their own attempts to change categories. I am angrier still at being cast out by those who have been cast out; since when did it become acceptable to do unto others that which was done to you? Hypocrites and assholes, all of them; if I could, I would turn my back on them all, and hope that it would have some meaning, the shunning of the victims and outcasts group by one they cast out. I have the sneaking suspicion the irony would be lost on all save me. Too bad I can’t forge that irony into something big and heavy, all the better to pound sense into thick skulls surrounding tiny, underdeveloped and underused brains. Instead, it only serves to amuse myself; I suppose there is some merit to smirking instead of crying, sometimes. I am angry at being made invisible, and yet remain visible enough for others to inscribe upon me all that they insist must be there so they can feel better about themselves and their constructions; I exist only to make the world make sense by being cast and formed, shaped as needed at the hand of any who passes by, but I am not allowed to make sense on my own, or in my own way, because that way doesn’t exist.

Backlog 2

My body betrays me. I want to punish it for its betrayal, but I know too well the futility of that urge. I can suffer, or I can suffer; my body will work its pain on me in one form or another. It mocks me, it says to me, “You are trapped in me, you will never be free. You will always be that which you are not.” My body laughs at my discomfort, my futile but endless struggle, because it knows it has won; it always wins. “Believe all you want that biology isn’t destiny”, it tells me, “but I am proof that it’s inescapable. Live in the land of make-believe, if you like, but out here in the real world, we know the score, and you lose again.”

(no subject)

My patience (rarely a large resource in any case) for small mindedness, both in myself and in others, is just about at an all time low. Inconsistency, lack of seeing implications and nuances, inability to apply stated beliefs, as well as the inability to see past/overcome things that are known to be counterproductive and nonsensical; I'm seeing this everywhere (though rest assured, nowhere more so than in my own head; true irritation starts at home, kids), and it's making me cranky.