Since I was 13-14-ish, I’ve had this [obnoxiously, melodramatically] tormented relationship with the Past. Ohmygod, it was excruciatingly time-consuming and all-encompassing and just freaking exhausting. First, I started getting embarrassed about who I was and kicking myself for my mistakes from when I was just starting out in adolescence, which eventually turned into drinking a lot to blot out the mistakes and awfulness of the Past, which resulted in me making even dumber mistakes and building an even worse life/name for myself that I tried to blot out. (ugh. Redundant.) And THEN I had this weird obsession with people from my past where I tried to analyze every single relationship (platonic and otherwise) and every single conversation within them until it didn’t even exist anymore (name that mid-90’s teen drama quote!) and pore over what happened and what it all meant all the fucking time for years upon years after it ceased to matter. Any time my mind started to wander for even a second, I was never visualizing my life in the future being wonderful or fantasizing about sexual escapades or any of the usual daydream stuff people resort to in their moments of boredom; I was ALWAYS exhuming old situations and relationships and pondering them, poring over theories of what happened and, of course, assaulting myself with regret and the same, painful feelings associated with the hurtful situations over and over. And then when I wasn’t doing that, I was almost forcing it by going back and rereading things I’d written over the years to sort of vicariously relive all of it all over again. AAAaaaauuuuggghhh!!! Gah-ross.

It was easily the worst habit I’ve ever had. And it was an everyday, every hour practice that lasted over a decade. In fact, I don’t even think it was a “habit” so much as a mental lifestyle, considering how much power it had over my every thought and resulting action.

Christ, what a wreck I was.

Anyway, in the slow process of assimilating all my crap into our house from my parents’, I came across 5 different journals I’d kept since 2002. Interested to see what I had to say since such a tumultuous time in my life (2003 was when I attempted suicide), I picked up one of the older ones and started reading. Within 2 minutes, I was DONE. Not that I’d read the whole thing, but all I was seeing was these old feelings and stupid habits I just kept plunging myself into and, without a second thought, I rolled my eyes in dismissal [like I will try not to do when Chloe is whining to me about some stupid boy du jour who's wasting her time with his neediness or general fuckwithery] and flung the book to the side.

Most disgustingly, however, was the oppressively obsessive repetition of the name of my longtime boyfriend that appeared on everysinglepage at least twice and carried with it the same stories of inner struggle to get him to change into a decent person and my blind belief that tolerating all his bullshit would somehow eventually produce my desired partner. (Hint: it didn’t.) Now, reading his name actually didn’t do anything to me emotionally, which was a bit of a shock to me when I realized it later on. Usually when I’m staring a reminder of him in the face, there’s always been a dip in my emotions, a feeling of loss or possession or remorse or longing or something. This time there was nothing. Not excitement or anger or memories or anything. (So, there must be something to this whole “therapy” and “recovery” thing after all!) The reason I stopped reading, actually, was not because I was suddenly experiencing painful memories and corresponding emotions but because I just didn’t give enough of a shit to start.

No, seriously.

I started reading all this trite, struggling, frustrated, cyclical bullshit I did forever and just did not give a fuck. Naturally, I spent about three seconds thinking, “God, what a tremendous waste of time. What a bunch of fruitless, retarded (in the literal sense), unhealthy shit to waste so so many years on.” But instead of spending any time even thinking about that, I didn’t even care enough to rehash the regret. So, not only was I over the whole situation, I apparently am now over being over it.

I wasn’t so analytical about any of this when it happened, actually. In a span of 4-5 minutes, I picked up each of the journals, flipped through, saw that they were laden with carbon copies of the same entry and tossed them into a Dumpster-destined box with nothing but indifference. It wasn’t until Greg picked one up and asked “What are these?” that I realized how much my mentality had changed that I wasn’t poring over them and wading through all of their contents like I automatically would’ve done. Without wasting an ounce of energy, I’d dismissed evidence of my mistakes and didn’t even stop to consider indulging in my old destructive obsessions. Somehow, in the hustle and excitement of progress, I’ve successfully left behind one of my most oppressive habits without even noticing it was gone.

Holy. Fucking. Crap. I never ever thought my mind was capable of functioning without regret and remorse as a prerequisite. And now it just is, without me having to exert any effort to make it happen.

Am I allowed to push humility aside to be a teensy bit proud of myself for even a half-second?

I’ve been part of a metaphysical meditation group for a while now, which I absolutely love. It’s been rewarding, has challenged and built my character, encouraging growth and knowledge (as good spiritual practices should) and really allowed me to becoming in tune with God again and the general energies and divine guidance that’s around me all the time. It’s been a bit of an awakening for me, and presents the opportunity for a lifelong journey of learning and strengthening that I’m pretty enthused about.

I know that all that sounds really cheesy and the whole metaphysical practice thing really freaks people out, especially in the Bible Belt. We study the lessons of Christ and many of our meditational techniques are straight from the Bible, but the unregimented, direct-contact-to-God (versus listening to a self-designated mouthpiece like the Pope or a priest or a minister or whatever) practice really seems to rub a lot of people around here the wrong way, (and we won’t even get started on the reactions to the idea of communicating with guides who aren’t on a physical plane or recognizing energies as a part of God’s presence. That’s cause for major freakouts.) so I’ve learned to just keep my religious leanings and opinions under my toupe unless directly asked or unless I find myself in a situation in which my beliefs may be misrepresented.

Anyway, despite my parents’ ignorance causing them to believe I’m in some Satan-worshipping cult or the general Fear-based reactions I may be receiving from those around me, it’s something I’ve excitedly incorporated into my life and am really, genuinely excited about. Feeling such a truthful connection to a system/method of worship and spirituality is a real first for me and I’m seriously stoked about it.

However, that is not to say that it - just like any religious sect - is not without it’s faults. Within churches or meditational groups there are always politics based on egos or power struggles, which is just one of the facets of dealing with other people. It’s always been a turn-off for me to congregate in religious settings because the inevitabilities of human faults seem to get in the way of my personal spiritual growth. I like to think of my moments of meditation and learning as a break from the rigors of living within society and it’s bounds to reconnect with my spiritual center for a few minutes and recharge my batteries. Many people’s inherent need to judge or control other’s beliefs or morals within religious settings is just bullshit I don’t feel has any place in my personal relationship with Spirit, so I enjoy keeping my practices to myself. This meditational group I’ve found is not an official church and, even though we adhere to the Nine Principles of the United Metaphysical Church, there is no board of directors or church leaders who are funded by the church, which eliminates a lot of the dictatorship dramas that emerge in organized settings. We’re just a group of people who come together to share ideas, experience, and spiritual growth. We all accept that we’re all prone to flaws and faults and none of us are any more divinely guided than anyone else so we’re all giving and receiving on equal footing. It’s perfect.

ANYWAY, with all that said, I encountered my first real faith challenge this weekend when we had a guest minister/medium come from the UMC HQ and guide a clarion circle. I was really excited to get to work with someone who had a lot of experience with mediumship, and I was hoping to possibly learn about a spirit guide or two and ask a question about what path I should place my focus on to best work with the energies that are around me at the moment. I wore a few extra stones to enhance my rhythms and wore a light blue as it’s a spiritual power color. (When Buddists reach a sense of Enlightenment, they claim to experience an overwhelming light blue energy/light. In fact, in scientific studies, a few monks have been screened using MRIs and when they reach this blissful mental state, the reading on their mental activity shows nothing but this light blue color on the brain scans. It’s actually pretty amazing.) And then I sacrificed $25 to attend the workshop that helps the minister afford the gas money to travel to and from Roanoke, VA. So yeah, I was pretty enthusiastic about the evening, especially considering it was held on Wesak Weekend, during a waxing (almost full) moon, during a Mercury retrograde. I was pretty optimistic that everything was aligned for an amazing evening and, admittedly, more than a little giddy with anticipation.

Needless to say, I was sorely mistaken on all fronts. Although rather excited, I went into the experience with an open mind (as I do with most things these days. Preconceived notions have always backfired one way or another.) and I’m really glad I had the brains to keep skepticism on my shoulder.

This woman was nothing short of a blatant scam artist in the most pathetically obvious ways possible. She claimed she wasn’t merely channeling the energies and messages of any spirit guides or persons who may visit but was, in fact, goin into “dead trance” in which she would go all Whoopi-in-”Ghost” on us and allow each entity to inhabit her body for a few minutes each. Still open-minded at this point, I sat and watched the single most ridiculous performance I’ve ever sat through in my entire life. It was serious bullshit from beginning to end. Okay, since there were nine of us who attended the workshop, she supposedly pulled in nine separate spirit guides and a couple former relatives. However, despite these spirits and relatives having originated from a variety of eras and locations, they all had the same grammatical structuring, the same conversational habits and the same general speech patterns. At the end of every other sentence, each character would ask the recipient to confirm what they’d heard, although when the “spirit” was a Native American they would ask “Do you understand what I say to you?” and when they were anything else they would ask “Isn’t that so?” Ugh. Additionally, she only had one accent for her Native American “visitors” that was a paaaaainful (potentially offensive) stereotype of Native American accents which showed complete ignorance to the fact that tribes each had their own dialects, colloquialisms, accents and even interpretations of the English language. It was absolutely ridiculous and pretty embarassing to watch at that. Additionally, the “messages” that she gave in response to our pointed queries were equally as pathetic as her performances as they were retardedly generalized statements of common wisdom.

For example, when I asked about guidance in how to best align myself with the positive energies in my life, my “spirit guide” gave some obtuse, rambling answer about how “Spirit has great plans for [me] and how [I] have a great destiny to fulfill with my gifts. Spirit will make your purpose known to you and you will find great success when you learn to work alongside Spirit’s plans for your life.”

Um, yeah. I got that. Not only is it kind of something that directly applies to every living being on the planet, I pretty much acknowledged my awareness of that principle and my willingness to accept and take on this mission in my original question. I was just wondering if you could, you know, possibly bestow a little bit of that purpose to me to point me in the right direction to set me toward this destiny, since I have a lot of options right now.

All of her answers were in this faux-wisdom vein, telling descendants that they were being watched over and loved from deceased relatives (no shit. Really?), advising people to watch after their personal health to live their lives to the fullest (bederbeder) and other blanket-statement fuckwithery. Just to mix it up a bit, she would take little nuggets of information she’d acquired in pre-workshop getting-to-know-you chatter and apply them to personal messages. Like she told my minister to stop smoking after she and the minister shared a cigarette together. She told me that my daughter had a spirit guardian watching over her (duh) and that she was an Indigo child (something every parent would love to hear but ultimately has no way to confirm until years of development and experiences.)

It was painful. And disgusting.

Now, naturally, I get the lesson here. This whole thing reiterates my beliefs that, no matter what community I may find myself in, there will always be people who pull the wool over others’ eyes and take advantage of people’s longing to believe in something wholeheartedly. Also, there is never anyone more attuned with God in the way that I personally need to be than myself and my lessons will come as they are needed. This is something that applies to bullshit psychics as well as Hate-filled ministers or priests. Nobody’s immune to it and no sect is without their false leaders.

I get all that.

But I couldn’t help but to be disheartened, not only at the tremendous amount of bullshit I’d encountered within a communal spiritual practice I’d found to be pure up until that point, but also with the blind faith that the others in my meditation group instilled in this obvious fraud. After the session (and my brief nap to avoid being rude) they were all alight with hope and excitement about this fantastic experience. I, not wanting to be the bad guy and crush everyone’s renewed spirit, stayed silent along with their exclamations of praise and gratitude. I nodded along when they talked about how impressed they were and only verbally agreed with statements that it had been an enlightening experience.

It kind of took the wind out of my sails a bit. Last Monday in my weekly group, I’d received so much validation that my efforts weren’t for naught, that I was on the right path, that I was growing and developing spiritually (Seriously, I was ON FIRE in my receiving messages and tapping into the Spiritual party line that evening. I was doling out accurate, specific messages with real, tangible imagery and on-point cues and symbols left and right for the first time since I started attending these groups and it felt awesome to finally feel like a participant instead of just an observer.) and then this woman comes along, makes a mockery of the whole thing, and really puts a damper on my enthusiasm to return to group at all. I hate having doubts about those people that I share my spiritual growth with because that implies that I’m letting my own judgment of character get in the way of the benefits of being part of a community, but dammit, I hate feeling alone in my objective skepticism and refusal to just accept anything that’s handed to me from other people as The Real Truth.

I don’t think I’ll bring my disgust of the evening up to the group involuntarily and I’ll just keep my take on the experience to myself as it’s just one bump in the road ultimately. It’s just made me hesitant to want to go back to my group immediately and I hate that I was only able to experience real, innocent, childlike joy and enthusiasm for this part of my life for only a fleeting moment.

Ah well. At least I got out of there before I was asked for fork out 25 bucks. Free bullshit is always preferable to bullshit you have to pay for.

Because I can’t leave the house today as we could have a neighborhood evacuation at any moment due to the massive forest fire lying in wait just a couple miles from us, I thought I’d take a moment to count down the unlucky 13 Best Fire-Related Songs* of all time. Enjoy!

1. Let me Stand (Next to Your Fire) - Jimi Hendrix
Although Red Hot Chili Peppers did a great cover of it at Woodstock ‘99
2. Smoke on the Water - Deep Purple
3. Fire - Ohio Players
“Fiiiiiii-yuh.” :: Sigh :: That song’s just b’dass, really.
4. Burnin’ for You - Blue Oyster Cult
5. Light my Fire - The Doors
6. Hot Stuff - Donna Summer
7. Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash
8. Heat Wave - Martha and the Vandellas
9. Lake of Fire - Meat Puppets/Nirvana
Nirvana did it better, although I’ll always be a Puppets fan.
10. Burn, Baby, Burn (Disco Inferno) - The Trammps
11. Great Balls of Fire - Jerry Lee Lewis
12. Burnin’ Love - Elvis Presley
13. Hot! Hot! Hot! - Dexter Poindexter
guh… what a rancid song. Only made worse when played on local Toyota dealership commercials.

*I refrained from including songs like “Fever”, “Boogie Fever”, “Hot Blooded”, or “Hot Legs” because those discuss biologically-related heat issues instead of just elemental fire.

Oh man. I’ve been busy.

Alright, first there’s been everything I’ve been doing in my personal life which has seen me running all over creation, writing like a fiend, and spending literal days away from the Internets (I can hardly believe it myself.) I’ve had three Very Big projects going on that I’ve been juggling in my enthusiasm to hurl myself into them before I talk myself out of it [as I'm so freaking apt to do] that have been initiated/resumed when I’m not attending to Rather Small projects like taking Chloe in for a checkup and then taking her back because they didn’t want to give her her immunizations so soon after she’d had a fever. Or running myself to three different doctors in a week (all of them either mental or dental-related). Or writing about 5 different letters to people across the globe I haven’t written to in over a year. Or doing laundry, dishes, meal preparation and general housewifery for three people. And then somehow I’ve managed to have a decent amount of cuddle time with the hubs and once, we actually got out of the house and went out in public. On a weekend! Like grown-ups! (Btw, we saw “Sunshine Cleaning” which is easily the best movie I’ve seen in over a year. Highly recommended.)

And then I’ve been kept up almost every other night with stabby stomach pains worse than anything I’ve ever experienced short of labor. They’re weird in that they’re totally centralized to my upper abdomen and they don’t have any.. um… physical manifestations? (I’m not hovering over the potty all night) but they cause me to writhe around, break into atrocious sweats and have to sleep in perhaps the most absurd positions imaginable. I visited a family physician yesterday who told me my blood tests showed nothing, to take some drug named AciPhex (when said out loud, it sounds like “Ass Affects”. This has been fodder for much juvenile giggling.) and to come back to “check in” in two weeks. So this morning (Easter) when I wake up bright and early with The Pains having returned in even worse temper than before (which I absolutely believed was not possible.) I turn to my poor, sleepless husband and declare that I cannot take it anymore and have to go to the hospital or I will die and he’ll have to clean it up and that would be traumatic.

So, yes, I spent Easter morning not being around my family and dressing my little girl in something pastel and adorable, but crying from The Pains while being stabbed with needles, felt up for various organ attendance, and shuffled across Creation in a hospital gown, dragging an IV with me, to have X-Rays taken of my abdomen.

:::sigh:::

(For the record, my diagnosis is not so hot at the moment, but I’m getting a second opinion with a specialist before I go into Holy Royal Freak-Out mode. Nnnnooot what I’d had planned for this spring.)

*Don’t get scared; it’s just the title to a Smiths song.

My best friend gets sick a lot. And not just little, insignificant sick. And not sick in a series of relapses of one Great Sick that will stick with her forever. Just a lot of various shit comes and wreaks havoc on her body. About once a year, actually. To an outsider, you’d think she was some sort of hypochondriac but the truth is that each health problem she has is actually real. And relatively major.

(I hope she doesn’t mind me talking about this but I think I’m safe considering I’m keeping her name anonymous. This entry may disappear in the future, though, if it causes problems.)

When I first met her some 7 years ago, she had some sort of growth (it has an actual medical name but I can’t remember it right now) on her vocal cord that had to be removed and then the vacant spot had to be filled with a littleteenytiny bit of fat from her tummy. A year later she had a lump in one of her breasts that had to be removed and was tested as just a benign cyst. And then after that she was given an antidepressant that reacted really really badly with her system (trembling, borderline seizures, etc.) so she was hospitalized briefly so they could keep an eye on her while they tweaked medications. Two Christmases ago some drunken bodybuilder gave her a hug at a party and fucked her back up so bad she was confined to bed for a week and had to go to physical therapy. And then some masseuse gave her some sort of new, crazy hippie massage that literally made her knees unusable for a while and she had to go back to physical therapy. She’s also had a handful of other serious problems, but those are of a more private nature, so I won’t go into detail. Suffice to say she’s had a time of things.

It’d be different if she lived a crappy, unhealthy lifestyle, but that’s just not the case. She’s health conscious with what she eats (she was vegetarian for a couple years but had to start supplementing protein because of migraines or something… I can’t remember. Anyway, now she basically just eats fish and veggies and fruit.), she’s into supplements and homeopathic remedies, she sees a therapist and an acupuncturist, she exercises, she doesn’t smoke, she drinks sparingly… these things just kind of come out of nowhere and attack her and it really blows, to be honest.

And every time one of these things happens I’m always at the ready. I’ve called her in the hospital and sent her things to entertain her and I even moved everything out of her apartment at college and transferred it to her parents’ house a couple hours away when a hospital trip ensured that she’d be staying at home for a semester. I don’t immediately retreat into Holy Freakout Mode, but I do tend to worry a great deal and have spent more than one night worried about the outcome of her various illnesses and mishaps.

I got a call from her today as I was coming home from a playdate and was told that she was back in the hospital. After a few days of deafening migraines, she’d gone to the ER to find that she has spinal/viral meningitis. Unfortunately, at the moment she doesn’t know much about her treatment or her prognosis as they’re running a bunch of tests. In the meantime, however, I’m trying not to freak out about the long list of bullshit that meningitis is capable of causing to the 50,000 cases of it treated every year in the US. (Yeah, the girl’s got great odds.) Of course, I’m not freaking out to her and fueling any anxiety she may already be having and I’ve agreed to stay in town and not immediately drive up there until we learn a little bit more about her specific condition. And I’m sending out good, loving vibes and trying to stay positive but, goddamn it. When is she going to get a fucking break?

I don’t know; maybe God’s trying to toughen her up for something major in the future. Or maybe she’s just getting it all out of her system now. Or maybe her [un-freaking-believable] gifts with metaphysics are causing her to be somewhat of an amplified empath.

And, whatever the case, it won’t help anything for me to sit around churning out anger and frustration toward her rotten health-related luck, but I needed a second to just sit around and be pissy and whiny about it. Mostly because I’m worried and I hate this powerless feeling that I feel like I’m getting used to because of the frequency of her health problems. And then I’m pissed because I’m getting used to the powerless feeling and that that means that this is happening way more frequently than even reasonable. I’m not saying it would be better if she had something like cancer that kept coming back over and over, but it would at least be something she could watch out for and have consistent expectations of. It just seems like the Universe is flinging her a bunch of physical wild cards that she has to struggle to even make sense of before she can begin treatments. It seems a little cruel, to be honest. And that, too, pisses me off.

So yes. I’m pissy. And that’s what this entry is all about. And I’m sorry if reading this was a total waste of time.

But mostly I’m just really really worried. I’m worried about this particular diagnosis, sure. But I’m also worried about whatever’s inevitably coming for her next and how long she’s going to be able to jump all these annual hurdles. I don’t want to see her get worn down and start losing momentum when she has to duke it out with her health complications. That - aside from the unmentionably-bad worst outcome to health problems, of course - is what I’m worried about the most.

I just want my friend to be okay. And stay that way for a while. I don’t think that’s too tremendous of a wish.

After mentioning the term “white trash” as a legitimate negative characterization in my previous blog entry, I had a reader challenge me with what she thought were opposing views and, when she realized that our arguments regarding our personal standards of “white trashery” were similar, she asked me to define what exactly classifies someone as “white trash” to me. Not a problem.

Simply put, to me the derogatory term “white trash” refers to a specific mindset and/or the motivations from which a type of person conducts his or her actions. That’s honestly, genuinely, really it.

Despite the social conditioning I acquired over time while being raised within my specific demographic, I strongly, vehemently, wholeheartedly disagree with the upper-class WASP conviction that the label “white trash” applies to factors regarding living situation (often the word “white” is interchangeable with “trailer”. This infuriates me.) social standing, annual income, dialect, career potential, academic achievements, to name a few. This long-seeded societal segregation, naturally, allows the bourgeois to exempt themselves from possibly being confused for one of these they call “white trash”. Basically, it allows them a sense of superiority from those in lower income brackets, even if they share the same trashy tendencies as those less monetarily successful as themselves.

This is not how I define the term. And I’m very proud to admit that it never has been. (My mother taught me better than that.)

So by what traits/standards do I keep my own trashiness in check and personally judge (oh yeah, I said “I judge”. I know. I’m flawed.) whether or not someone deserves such a harsh, belittling title as “white trash”? I have no problem answering that. But first, please do understand that just because someone makes a mistake or goes through a spell where they may display the habits or mentalities of a “white trash”er doesn’t mean that I lump them into that category. (Hell, if that was the case, I might be the forerunner. ‘Specially during those drinking years. Yikes.) We all have trashy, undignified moments. Such is human nature. I guess for me, it’s a sort of points system. Someone can do something that I personally find to be “trashy” but that doesn’t automatically make them “white trash”. But if someone lives their entire life repeating these trashy actions, then yeah, I’m most likely to consider them “white trash” (especially if they’re proud of these trashy actions… God, that’s the worst.)

Also, I use the term “white” trash not to segregate or hint that there’s any difference between white trashy people and trashy people of any other race, but because this is the demographic and racial culture that I best understand and can comfortably comment on. Plus, even if I did have something to say regarding racially-specific trashy folk (which, again, I really don’t as my perspective limits those sort of observations) I’m not really allowed to as a white, female, middle-class citizen of America. It’s un-PC.

Alright, enough disclaimers.

What are these trashy actions and/or mentalities that would cause someone to be considered “white trash”?

To me, a trashy person is anyone who goes through life with a sense of entitlement when they’ve done absolutely nothing to earn respect, privilege, status or even financial gains (to cover all the bases.) They are incredibly self-centered and self-servicing, often obsessed and fueled with the desire to obtain material possessions regardless of what realistic factors may be preventing that from happening. More times than not, these material possessions are items that these people may not genuinely enjoy at all, but have been recognized as important within the societal class to which the trashy person aspires. Although most of them have absolutely no idea who they are (which is why they try to define themselves in the “stuff” they can amass or the cosmetic procedures they can afford) and almost always have little to no self-esteem whatsoever, they are not content being anything but the center of attention. This constant need for ego-stroking drama often has a trickle down affect through a trashy person’s acquaintances and/or loved ones and, unfortunately, results in a lot of neglected children, job terminations and broken families as the trashy person grows older physically [as opposed to mentally... I'm sure you picked up on that.] And, most importantly, aaalll of these habits and characteristics are held together and driven with a great underlying ignorance that all trashy people are loudly, undeniably proud of. Trashy people love to “not care” about anyone else’s standpoint or feelings and are always assured of the superiority in the opinions and knowledge that they already have about the way the world/societies/people work, even if they’ve never even left the state where they were born. Buried within this mindset, they are perfectly happy practicing mental stagnation for their entire lives because they are able to mask it with the acquiring of more “stuff”. (”I have a bigger house/new boobs/new car! My life must be getting better! I must be improving as a person!”) Besides, if they became inquisitive, ever-learning people, they might run into their own flaws and then have to face the fact that they’re just trashy and that would just mess up all their plans…

Obviously, all these attributes are rooted in very deep psychological issues relevant to self-image, self-esteem, self-awareness, a sense of identity, a sense of worth (either social or to themselves), a fear of rejection, loneliness and being unloved or undesirable, but these types of trashy people are usually content to stay oblivious to any sort of inner turmoil and, instead, blame their vast wealth of unhappiness on everyone else in their lives. As with anyone, no person is beyond personal change but many times the wall of arrogance and inflated self-importance doesn’t make room for a trashy person to admit humility and many are content in the lifestyle they’re used to, so long as it’s not killing anyone. (And regardless of how it’s actually hurting anyone else, of course. That would require considering someone else before themselves, which, again, doesn’t usually happen.)

So, let’s discuss some examples of what I personally consider basic, trashy actions versus those that are not to better illustrate my point:

Little things that might allude to trashiness:

Fake nails/hair/boobs: Depends on the application, really.

Fake friends: Trashy

Parenting multiple children with multiple partners: Nah; the Virgin Mary did it.

Parenting multiple children with multiple partners and then ignoring everyone involved and your personal responsibility to them: Trashy trashy trashy

Calling your ex-boyfriend one evening: Nah.

Calling your ex-boyfriend repeatedly one evening: That’s pretty trashy. Especially if he’s not answering the phone. And especially especially if there’s alcohol involved on your end.

Calling your boyfriend’s ex: Unless you’re making arrangements to pick up their mutual children or something, it’s usually pretty trashy.

Calling your ex’s new girlfriend to tell her why he sucks and/or that she’s a whore. Super. Uber. Trashy. (Actually, calling anyone a whore/slut/strumpet/tramp/cum dumpster is pretty trashy to begin with, even if said whore did something trashy like moving in on your husband. It’s understandable, but it’s still kinda trashy.) 

Going commando: Not trashy

Letting everyone know you’re going commando: Trashy

Congratulating an unwed mother on not having an abortion: Classless, ignorant, and TRASHY. (This actually happened to me. At a picnic. In the suburbs. While I was pregnant.)

Congratulating an unwed friend on her unexpected pregnancy by sending her flowers immediately after learning the news: Super Classy. (This also happened to me. God, I do love my friends.)

Considering a child born out of wedlock “illegitimate” or born in sin: Good old-fashioned, ignorant, backwoods trashiness.

Smoking: Not trashy

Smoking around children: Uber-trashy

Pretending you don’t know who John Lennon is so you can weasel your way into his bed and then destroy his band: TRASHY

Talking your friend Rod Stewart out of taking the role as Pinball Wizard just so you can have it: Fabulous!

Wearing skanky outfits to the grocery store/church/playdates etc :Terrraaasshhyyyy

Wearing skanky outfits in the bedroom: That’s hot.

Singing karaoke at skeezy, hole-in-the-wall redneck bars: Necessary to your well-being. And so so much fun

Letting skeezy redneck guys buy you drinks and cheap roses at a karaoke bar and then not at least being nice to them or engaging in conversation: Trashy (I mean, don’t make out with anyone unless you really like them, but don’t laugh at a man or treat him like crap if he’s getting your drinks. Seriously.)

Piercing your ears with a needle and potato at home: Not trashy

Showing everyone your erotic piercings: Trashy

Using government programs to help pay for groceries/medicine: If you qualify, there’s nothing trashy about it.

Procreating just to receive a larger government stipend: Traaaashy.

DIY highlighting dye jobs in your bathroom: Not trashy.

Having nothing to talk about except the day you got $300 highlights: Trashy

Botox: I don’t care who it’s on, it ALWAYS looks trashy. (Especially in person.)

Botox before you’re 30: Just sad.

Carrying a little yappy dog around as nothing more than another accessory: Gross. (Trashy)

Having a little yappy dog that you take everywhere and run and play with and treat like a little buuuddy: M’aaawwww.

Flashing a giant canary diamond engagement ring to all your friends who just heard you considering leaving the guy a month prior: Trraaaashy. (This is a true story.)

Wearing a humble diamond bought by your boyfriend of 2 years at a local Wal-Mart and blushing with pride when some crazy friend of yours sees it from across the room and squeals in excitement: Definitely not trashy. (And yes, I was the crazy, screaming friend.)

Taking dance classes: Not trashy

Taking pole-dance classes: Also not trashy (It’s a great workout and confidence booster!)

Living a glamorous lifestyle because you worked your ass off for your success: Excessive greed and self-promotion is supertrashy (Oprah…) but earning comfort and luxury on your own is commendable and enjoying that in moderation is anything but trashy.

Living a glam lifestyle and expecting/having some sort of public clout just because your family made a lot of money before you were even conceived: Trashy. Not to mention shameless.

This list could literally go on forever, but I think that gives a general ideas of basic trashy actions.

But what are some major trashy actions or behaviors that possibly define a person’s whole identity?

Let’s debate!

(At the risk of hurting any of my friends or acquaintances by airing dirty laundry that may pertain to them in some way, I’m only going to discuss events and people who are directly related to and experienced by myself.)

(Also, these tend to highlight parents, but I think that’s when a trashy lifestyle really starts to become undeniable as it directly affects others.)

A single mother lives far beyond her means to get numerous plastic surgeries while she moves her children from apartment to apartment, not paying rent for any of them and leaving before she is evicted. Okay, I started with an easy one. That shit is trash-y.

A former teenage mother works at a liquor store by day and a gas station at night to pay her bills. She is away from her son most of the time but always takes off work to attend his important events. Again, this one is pretty easy, too. This girl is not living the high life by any means, but she’s got her priorities straight and that makes her quite respectable in my book.

A 14-year-old girl has atrociously-bleached blonde hair with dark roots and wears entirely too much black eyeliner. She sneaks cigarettes and her mom’s liquor into the girls’ bathroom at school and has a reputation for being easy with older guys. This is a tough one without an obvious answer. Naturally, all the other girls at her school are inevitably calling her “trashy” (among other things) but at this age this trashy behavior is almost always the direct result of trashy parents. This girl is probably acting this way with a sense of timidity that hasn’t yet grown into the brazen arrogance of white trash and, while her obvious rebellion and attempts at hurried maturity are not exactly the classiest of behaviors, her motivations are probably much different than the ones discussed above.

A family cannot afford counseling or a rehabilitation program for one of their relatives, a young man who struggles with alcoholism, so they agree to allow their story to be documented for the show “Intervention” in exchange for the services of a licensed interventionist and 3 free months at a rehab center for their son/brother. While parading one’s personal problems on national television often is very very trashy because it involves massive monetary benefits (like that woman who brought her son on Oprah a week after he’d returned from being missing for 7 years? That’s so trashy. And heartbreaking.) this was a sacrifice from the family to help out one of their own. They sacrificed a lot of privacy in putting their personal struggles and heartache into a public forum and it was done completely selflessly for the sake of their loved one. Definitely not trashy.

A single mother of an 8 year old boy works 4 nights a week as a stripper and spends 5 days a week getting her master’s degree in biology and student teaching for credits at a local university. (Yes, I really know this woman. She’s real.) It’s the oldest story in the book: a stripper just working her way through college… And nobody really believed it to begin with. Plus, with a young boy in the picture, it seems a rather indecent and possibly embarrassing career choice for this mother. HOWEVER, with an undergraduate degree, there’s no possible way this woman could be making enough to support herself and her child unless she had a full-time job. Because she obviously wants a better life for both of them she is working her ass off day and night at the one job that will bring in enough money for her to live and afford graduate school. Now, if she was a single mom stripping every night to feed an addiction of some sort and bringing a different guy home every weekend, that’s one thing. But this particular woman has nothing but respect from me.

A very successful businessman in his mid-30’s goes out drinking with his old high school buddies at least four nights out of the week. When his irritated wife blows up his phone begging him to come home and spend time with his kids, he justifies his actions by reminding her that he’s bringing in a six-digit quarterly income and then laughs about her nagging with his friends. I hate that this is a true story that I’ve personally witnessed from a distance because this man doesn’t have enough dignity to try to keep his dysfunctions a secret from those of us who are in no way involved…and yeah… That is one trashy S.O.B.

A young woman poses nude for $50 an hour at a prestigious, nationally acclaimed arts conservatory. Heh. Okay, that was me when I posed at the North Carolina School of the Arts for a few hours each week back in 2002. Even now, 7 years later, I don’t think it was trashy at all. Now, $15 an hour at CCU’s art classes? Yeah, that’s selling myself a little short.

A couple makes a homemade porno. No freaking way is this trashy. If the couple is unmarried then there’s a lot more at stake should they part ways under hostile conditions. But whether the couple is married or unmarried, as long as the film is made with the consent of both adult parties involved then there’s nothing trashy about it. However, if a woman makes a porno and sends it to a married man or vice versa or if a couple engaged in adultery were to make a porno then absolutely it’s trashy. (Classy women don’t settle for someone else’s man.)

A woman tells a man who’s dumped her that she’s pregnant with his child. She collects money intended for an abortion and takes her girlfriends on a weekend getaway. Alright, it’s kinda funny from a revenge standpoint but it’s still trashy as shit. (Same goes for keeping the keys to your ex’s car and peeing in it while he’s at work every day. Hilarious but trashy.) I’ve not always believed it but honestly the best, classiest revenge is always, without a doubt, living well. (For yourself, of course, but also so if you run into that bastard later on, you can make him drool and then kick himself.)

A young lady engages in safe but casual sex with numerous partners without expecting or pressuring any of them for emotional attachment. Say what you want about women with promiscuous lifestyles, I believe that if any person is safe and emotionally stable enough to have multiple lovers with whom she shares a mutual respect and agreements regarding their personal interactions, then I really genuinely don’t  consider that trashy at all. (I’ve seen it done healthily with everyone’s self-respect in check. For a brief while there I was able to do it myself, actually, so I know it’s possible) HOWEVER, it’s those girls who are constantly throwing themselves at any or every man who looks her way, clamoring to be the sexual center of attention in every scenario, or begging men for their affection after what was supposed to be a casual one-nighter by texting, calling, stalking, or other forms of general harassment that are the trashiest ones. There’s a difference in being comfortable with one’s own sexuality and being able to assert it confidently and maturely and then there’s just acting slutty to try to convince yourself that you’re sexually appealing. The latter are the trashy ones who don’t get taken home to Mom too often.

A Connecticut housewife hires a nanny to watch after her one child every single day so she can spend her days going to the gym, looking at Italian marble in which to retile her kitchen, getting a martini lunch with her old friends, etc. Yeah, I don’t care how much money you’ve got; wasting the luxury of having enough and not needing to work on frivolous, selfish things makes you trashy. Especially when you’re putting a kid on the backburner.

As their mother lies on her deathbed, her children spend her last weeks dividing her possessions among themselves and arguing over who gets to keep which valuable. Again, I wish this wasn’t a true story. White. Trash.

A father misses almost all of his children’s soccer games and performances for the entirety of their childhood because he drives a truck back and forth across the country for a major shipping company. Because I know that in this particular story, the father retired at 45, was able to pay for both his kids’ college educations, and would call his wife and kids every single night he was on the road then obviously, this ain’t trashy. However, if he’d opted to spend his evenings in strip clubs, wasting his money on booze or hookers or something then, of course my opinion’s going to be completely different. But it’s not. Anyone who sacrifices personal comfort or dignity to provide for their family is a class act. Period.

A Ph.D.-wielding university professor attends his fellow professor’s personal research presentations to criticize their work, ridicule and humiliate them around their peers. Doesn’t matter how high an office you hold or how much brains you got; if you’re arrogant and disrespectful to everyone around you, you’re trashy.

So there we are! A brief (heh.) exploration into my personal definition of what it means to be “trashy” or, racially speaking, “white trash.” If, for some reason, you as the reader have any pointed questions for me or desire clarification about what the hell I may be talking about in the above essay or retorts about my preposterously arrogant definition of others’ actions, then I cordially invite you to bring them on. No hurt feelings here.

Behold, the semi-annual Unsent Letters entry. This year’s first entry seems to be a little angrier than normal, but not enough to actually warrant my sending any of these letters. Don’t worry; there are a few kinda funny ones in there, too. Short ones, too. 

To Whom it May Concern:

Of all the people I’ve known in my life, I am most surprised that you have turned into such a giant douchenozzle. 

See, you’re all arrogant in your cold, mindless convictions these days, so I know you won’t hear or respect any of this. But you used to be amazing, one of those beautiful, colorful people that other people stopped and listened to and respected and appreciated. You were literally outstanding in your gentle nature and free-thinking motives. We used to be great friends, remember? We drove hours to visit each other, you’d make me fantastic mix tapes of the latest dancehall reggae you were spinning, we’d talk about great thinkers and great ideas, you introduced me to The Prophet, you’d teach me how to play the jimbe, I took you to the Meher Baba Center, and we laughed and laughed at those arrogant, greed-driven bastards we’d grown up around who had missed the entire point of life and the incredible excitement of self-exploration and love and just being.

So that’s why, when I read the email you sent to KVP last year (she forwarded it because she was that appalled) I was floored at this cold, distant, calculated person you’ve become, one of the ones we used to laugh at and ridicule in their stubborn ignorance. Without any emotion, you bluntly stated that “the only person [you'd] honestly be able to say that [you] loved was the woman [you'd] one day call your wife.” Whoa. Really?  

Okay, I can sort of see it from your perspective. I mean, love is really a useless emotion when wasted on anyone you don’t plan to procreate with; that’s just science! So there’s really no need to share love with friends or family or anyone you hold close to you in your life because, really, these people are more disposable than your future, non-existent spouse. And, naturally, that rules out bothering to love anyone outside of your immediate acquaintances. Of course! Starving children? Helpless bystanders in war-torn countries? Our fellow man, fighting for the same rights and freedoms and life that we all dream of? Fuck ‘em! No love necessary there! Without having to waste your time on such trite things as compassion and genuine loving reciprocal relationships, you can really whittle down your interests to include only yours! Think of all the time you’ll save not having to listen, reach out, or relate to people! Think of all the personal accomplishments you’ll be able to collect without the utterly pointless element of love and human emotion complicating the progression of time! How incredibly liberating!

Oh, and lonely. Don’t forget lonely. 

I just cannot believe that you of all people could have changed so dramatically into something that really, genuinely sucks. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

There are a lot of us perched on the edge of our seats awaiting your inevitable mental collapse. We’re kind of looking forward to watching the realization that you are a completeandutter condescending bitch to everyone around you crash over your mind and you being tripped up by a great crap pile of humility. 

We’re assuming this will happen when your husband comes out of the closet. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

I’m done.

Not that it actually mattered to you one way or another, but the letter you received from me last August was the last one I will send in my attempts to find peace and understanding with whatever happened between us. 

I’m ashamed of it, but I literally just spent almost five years trying adamantly, humbly to make amends, wondering what I could have done differently, hurting because you never seemed capable of severing emotional ties so abruptly in all the years I knew you before we became romantically involved. (But then, for someone who actually reduces emotions down to chemical reactions necessary for procreation, I really shouldn’t have been so surprised.) I hurt so badly wondering what it was that made you not want me and why you wouldn’t give me a straight answer that I’ve sent you one of these biannual letters for close to five years, apologizing for actions and facets of myself that I can’t even identify. That’s right; I wanted a response from you so very badly that I became pathetic and self-loathing enough to grovel and beg for forgiveness for actions I didn’t even know about. 

So, I’m done. Oh, I’m still hurting and confused, but that’s no longer sitting in my consciousness even on a weekly basis. It took a while (and some news about you actually being a bit of a liar) but I’ve finally (finally) accepted that this is just how it is, there will be no answers, and nobody deserves this much of my time, especially when he has no intention of spending any of his on me in return. After a decade of my mother trying to convince me of this rule of maintaining self-dignity and respect, I finally get it. 

So thank you for being the courier for such a profound lesson. ‘Preciate it.

 

To Whom/That Which it May Concern:

One of the greatest blessings about my last nine months or so is that you have completely disappeared from my life. I don’t think about you, I never ever miss you and your absence has saved me a lot of money, energy, water, etc. 

And yeah, I understand that you have to stop in for a routine visit every so often. That’s fine; I lived with you nonstop for 13 years, so I think I can handle you dropping in for one week every year. 

But could we move this along a little? Seriously, I understand you have a lot of baggage to unload before you actually check in but two weeks is enough of a prelude. That’s right. You heard me. For a little over two weeks now I’ve been inhaling food, squeezing into usually-loose-fitting clothes, and sporting the pimpled face of a 14 year old. You’re making a bigger entrance than a drag queen and I’m really beginning to get apathetic to your theatrics.

Bring it on, already. And don’t worry about me being out of practice; I’ve got this. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

Hey, you know how you’re all full of yourself and assured in your superiority by your vast wealth of irrefutable knowledge and love to cram all that down anyone’s throat who may give you the chance [or not] and you may have passed this annoying character trait on to your family members?

Yeah, well, nobody cares. Not only that, but nobody actually likes you, which, I realize, is of no consequence to you as it probably only reaffirms your belief that you are unappreciated and misunderstood as your genius somehow triumphs over the weak minds of your colleagues and superiors. However - and this may be the most damaging to your incredible ego - nobody even respects you and your arrogant, stubborn, intolerant, unwavering attack on the world and our obvious ignorance. Our recognition of your disdain for our lifestyles and beliefs and your blatant lack of respect for our desires to share our thoughts with you has been sufficient enough to fuel many many years of disgust directed toward you. Even in mixed company, the mention of your name evokes eyerolls and sighs of exasperation from your subordinates, your colleagues, and your superiors. 

I’m not stupid enough to hope that my argument will budge you off your self-righteous pedestal and consider the perspectives of someone else for a change. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that at your age, your convictions aren’t going anywhere. So, really, this message is just a statement of fact, a revealing of the truth on behalf of the many many people you encounter. Solely for the purpose of knowing that someone out there has held a mirror up to your smug face for a change. 

Respect it or not. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

I’m just going to state some facts here. You’re 43, unemployed, mostly drunk, and you live with your mother. You were in your last semester of college (after 20-some years of on-and-off attendance) and blew off one paper (One. It wasn’t even a thesis, for Christ’s sake!) so now you’re just kind of sitting around, playing with your dogs, going to the gym, hanging out with your mom… Explain to me again why you’re confused that she left you? Why, despite all these lovely conditions, you’re still considered one of the hottest bachelors in the city? I mean, sure, money talks and old, country-club money practically screams, but Jesus… 

You know I called your ex a few years ago when I was in town? I told her that, regardless of what your mother is telling everyone in town about her, there are many of us who don’t agree and still love and value her as a person and a longtime family member. And then I told her that, even though it was none of my damned business, I didn’t blame her for leaving and that I hope she finds a far far happier life, one she deserves for a change. 

 

To Whom it May Concern,

You are the epitome of the word “pathetic”. Every time you resurface (and you always do), all you successfully accomplish with me is affirming my knowledge that you are chronically pathetic in general and seem to be rather proud of this pathetic, grappling, self-loathing lifestyle. 

Don’t get me wrong; I realized this a long long time ago. What I’m still puzzled about is your strange fascination and desire to return to me (and, again, you always do), even after years of me telling you to get a life and go away (and actually sticking to that, which is new for me!)

 

To Whom it May Concern:

Oh, we’re going to play the “love” card now? Really? After two decades of complete dismissal, you’re suddenly alive with emotion that you just can’t hold back? What’s wrong; having one foot in the grave making you start regretting not accumulating more people to attend your funeral?

You know, in my many many years of pondering you two and the effects your actions have had on my life and the lives of people I genuinely, wholeheartedly love. For a long time I was really bitter and angry and planning wrathful, heartless acts of retaliation as I got older. And then someone who’s known you far longer than I sat down and explained to me that you weren’t cold-hearted; you were just stupid. You were both literally so vapid and incapable of accessing emotion or self-improvement that treating others this way was the only option you were capable of realizing. And, for a few years now, I’ve believed and accepted this.

But then, out of nowhere, you’re back out of the blue proclaiming your allegiance and love for me and I simply have no idea how to respond to that. I can’t love you from where I sit; I don’t even know you and what I do know has been rejection and disinterest. So, sweeping in and acting like none of it ever happened or was ever wrong or a real problem is easily the most frustrating case of mindfuckery I’ve ever encountered. This confused and angry reaction of mine seems to not matter to you at all, which is the one area of your psyche I at least recognize.

Sigh…

I honestly forgive you, if only for selfish reasons. I know that forgiveness liberates my mind and heart to love and understand others, even if they don’t deserve it. I know that forgiveness makes me a better, honest, ever-growing person. And I forgive you because I feel a tremendous amount of pity for your lives and the love and joy you’ve missed out on. 

But, honestly, it may be too late to create something real here. I admire your willingness to try, whatever the motives and even though the timing’s pretty terrible, but there are many years to catch up on, many growth in our personalities you’ve missed out on, many key components to our personal characters that would take you years to try to understand, appreciate, and even love. Simply put, you can’t possibly love me because you have no idea who I am at all. You love the role I fill, I’m sure, but it’s nothing personal in regards to me and my particular life. And, unfortunately, I don’t see you taking the initiative to change that, which still frustrates me and breaks my heart a little.

Just, you know, in case you were wondering what my personal take on the whole thing was.

To Whom it May Concern:

Please. Please stop whining. Please stop wasting my time by showing me all your trite television favorites and imperative internet experiences. See, my life is more exciting than the newest LOLcat post, so I really cannot relate to you, who whines about the stagnation in his life all the effing time and then seems so content with such a boring, nonproductive lifestyle. 

This wouldn’t ordinarily be any concern of mine (and really, I can’t imagine any other scenario in which our lives would have intersected at all… but here we are!) except that somehow I get dragged into listening to it and putting up with it when you’re around and it’s just exhausting. 

Grow the hell up, already.

 

And finally, 

To [Those] Whom it May Concern:

I honestly, really, genuinely could not possibly care less if I never hear from nor see you for the rest of my life. 

 

… Oh no. That’s all. We’re done here.

(See? I don’t always have to be long-winded.)

 

Most sincerely,

Castallare 

The woman next door has been sitting on her back porch crying about a fight with her ex-husband for the last two hours. She has left this man twice in the last 9 months (since we moved in) and yet, there he is again! Living with her and her daughters! Yelling at her at all hours on her back porch! Keeping my ass up all night!

It’s become apparent that this is Moronic, Self-Loathing Women’s Month. And frankly, I’m pissed that there’s no committee sending out notifications to those of us who want to avoid this sort of anti-feminist embarrassment. 

So, my blatant lesson du jour here is that if you want to get something done, you have to do it yourself. I’ll be shouldering the burden of preparing for next year’s event and am collecting contacts to related charities and public figures who can help me promote my cause.

Moronic, Self-Loathing Women’s Month: If we can’t prevent it, we can at least duck and cover.

Watch for a flyer next March.

I meant that I won’t get fooled again starting NOW. 

Sigh… Silly me and my good intentions and my forgetfulness of results and my cavalier sharing-of-emotions and my fancy cars and rap music…

The hard part, of course, will be remembering that just because I can only expect healthy results while staying at arm’s length from one person doesn’t mean I have/need to do that for all people.

Long long ago, in a forgotten time (Spring 2002) and in an irrelevant place (Greensboro, NC) there lived a beautiful, enigmatic man-god who we’ll refer to as B. B was an incredible specimen of a man, standing at 6 feet tall with bold, rippling muscles that gently pressed against the fabric of his clothing and a smile that could slice diamonds. Having been raised in both London and Chicago, his dialect displayed a humble worldliness unseen in most American youth of that generation, but he kept this unique attribute as a quiet character effect, never boasting about himself or his colorful, varied life. A gifted student of theatre, he wasn’t afraid to exhibit a sensitive artistic side as he both acted and wrote in dazzling performances of subtle genius. This, of course, only added to his appeal and, thus, had women of all ages mesmerized by his intoxicating persona. (Including a not-so-subtle Voice for the Actor professor who shamelessly flung herself at him for an entire semester… to no avail.)

Liz was one of these such women. After drenching her undergarments at the man-god’s arrival to an afternoon acting class, she helplessly surrendered herself to the gentle force of his presence. Each week she would spend a little extra time readying herself to be in his company, taking hours to improve her appearance while she gushed about him to her amused roommate (Hot Liz). At every class she would find herself more hypnotized by his movements, his coy laughter, his blatant ignorance as to the acute power he held over the fawning women (and men, being that he was attending a liberal arts university) that flocked to him. 

On more than one occasion, Liz caught herself making a complete fool of herself in the wake of the man-god’s magnificence. When he noticed her dreamily (and involuntarily) staring at him, she would offer stammered excuses such as “Ilikeyourhat…” or “Sorry, I’m still grieving about the recent death of Layne Staley” before burying herself into her rucksack to hide her crimson face. Despite such mortifying moments of hopeless pining, she would always be rewarded with one of his earth-moving smiles and she liked to fantasize that her involuntary affection was somehow appreciated by someone of his godlike caliber. 

On the last day of class, the other students were talking excitedly about some silly summer film that was coming out in theatres that day (SpiderMan). Someone suggested that they all go together that evening to catch the film and, to Liz’s amazement, the man-god showed interest in joining them. As the ad hoc event coordinator, Liz bravely scribbled her dorm room’s number on his palm, trying not to lose consciousness at the soft strength of his perfect hands that seemed resonate to her very core.

Somehow, the details for this event fell through with the other members of the class and Liz found herself sitting by the phone, waiting, a bit disappointed, to tell the man-god that the plans were off. Roommate Hot Liz consoled Liz on her apparent loss and offered to fetch her something frozen and chocolate to soothe her pain. As Hot Liz was retrieving these vital reinforcements, the man-god called, right on time, and Liz spoke carefully although her hand was trembling and she felt her knees threatening surrender at any moment.

Then, as she listened, the man-god informed her of a bonfire party that was taking place that evening on the outskirts of town with students of the university’s MFA Theatre program. He would be leaving in a few hours and casually invited her along, saying that she didn’t have to ride with him if she wanted to leave early, but was welcome to stay in his tent if she wanted to stay the night.

In her incredulousness, Liz found herself plunged into a delirious euphoria, where everything in the world was magic and the cruelties of reality and society were but mere illusions. Fighting to ignore her wildly ecstatic mind’s whirring, she managed to calmly agree to call him when she’d made up her mind and hang up the phone before erupting in a crazed fit of giggles and general estrogen-fueled screaming. Hot Liz returned with her chocolates to find her insane roommate bounding up and down the hallway and was only able to gather sparse information pertaining to this incredible joy in between Liz’s screaming and panting with excitement. Immediately upon realizing the cause of her friend’s excitement, Hot Liz quickly joined in on the infectious rapture and, soon, everyone in the hallway was dancing with giddy glee at such a triumphant moment (instigated and perpetuated mostly by Hot Liz screaming “THAT HOT GUY IN LIZ’S CLASS ASKED HER OUT!“)

But soon after the high of her initial excitement wore off, Liz’s old Opponents slunk casually into her mind, smirking at her excitement and jeering at her optimism. Scoffing, they ridiculed her audacity, “Have you seen this guy’s smoking hot ex-girlfriend? You think he’s interested in an overweight brunette nobody?”

“Well, that’s a pity date if I’ve ever seen one.” they howled with laughter. “You may want to make sure you’re not part of a bet he has going on with his friends.” Unable to control their hysterical chortling, they ribbed each other and continued to shove their version of Reality in Liz’s face. 

Slowly, Liz began to see valid points in these familiar Opponents’ arguments. After all, who was she to expect someone so highly esteemed to take an interest in someone so average-looking and unaccomplished as her? Within an hour, Fear and its companions Doubt and Self-Deprecation had consumed her and Liz became convinced that she would only be making a fool of herself by following the man-god to this party. Surely, she would look like a pathetic fangirl, tagging along with him blindly and carrying ridiculous fantasies that she would have a shot with him. And, if by some miracle he did make a move on her that night, it would undoubtedly be because he would be drunk and lonely, perhaps treating himself to a little hero worship to boost his confidence.

And so, despite the desperate pleading of Hot Liz to reconsider, Liz gave in to her Opponents and never called B back, opting instead to remain nestled in the safe comforts of her fears instead of facing the hurt and loss that she felt was imminent.

Liz never saw the man-god again. At the beginning of the next semester, B sold a screenplay to a studio in Hollywood and promptly moved to LA to bask in his obvious, inevitable success. Liz retreated back into the habits of her self-loathing, finding refuge in the close blindness of alcohol and the fleeting securities of a chronic but never-ending abusive relationship.

Many years have passed since Liz last saw the man-god. Through a lot of therapy and general rehabilitation she has moved away from such intense self-doubt, finally allowing herself to feel deserving of happiness and a life she can be proud of. It took many years for her to realize that her Opponents were the culprits for her self-sabotage and tolerance for a lifestyle not worthy of her energy. These days, she has a loving, devoted husband with whom she is enamored and a beautiful, joyful little girl who both bring her more joy than she had ever thought she was worthy of experiencing.

But sometimes she remembers the man-god and the regret of not knowing what could have happened on that night jabs at her heart. 

The moral of the story is obvious, unless you’re a complete dolt (in which case, please see me after class) but the truth is that even with this sort of frustration in Liz’s pocket, she still allows Fear to cripple her forward movement more often than she would like to admit.

Slowly, however, it is finally dawning on her that the Fear of looking back on a life of missed opportunities is far greater than the Fear of being hurt in the excited chaos of being alive.