Like most people, I have a lot of random thoughts all the time. Sometimes I tweet them, and sometimes I write them down in a notebook or on my iPhone, and sometimes I just keep them to myself, only to mourn them later when I forget them. For those rare times that I find my thoughts are publish-worthy but not Twitter-worthy, I think I should be able to put them here. I'm allowed to do that because it's my blog. So there.
Pretty girls never really know how pretty they are. If they know they're pretty, and even if they know they're really pretty, they can still never know exactly what they look like to other people, because they are not super-human. Even they, in all their splendiferous* physical beauty, will never be able to step outside their own consciousness and see themselves as others see them. More specifically, they will never be able to see themselves as heterosexual men who want to get in their pants see them.
Why do people say "ouch" and "ow" as opposed to, I don't know, "raj" and "yag," when they feel pain? Like why are these the chosen words we all relate to pain? They're not even real words - they're just exclamations. As a cunning linguist, I prefer to just say "fuck" and "goddamnit" when I feel pain, because at least those are real words.
There's a reason I've always had a problem with Christianity, and my reason is this: I've never been able to marry myself to the idea that what I need to achieve true personal happiness is anything separate and outside of myself. And the more I live, the more I think I'm probably right.
What if I drop a piece of trash onto the subway tracks carelessly, and a rat mistakes it for food, eats it, and then dies of internal hemorrhaging? Is that my fault, or the rat's?
The thing I hate about winter is that there's no sounding rain. Lots of snow, plenty of snow, but I miss the pounding of the water against my panes. The sound of the rain is like the forward motion of time - it never stops, until it does, and then you have no choice but to accept the silence.
Why do people go crazy? Like, legitimately, what causes psychosis? I see plenty of psychotic people in the city every single day, and I always wonder this. Like, were they always mentally ill? Or did they live as normal children, building houses out of cards and playing with toy trains and dressing their paper dolls? And if they were normal children, where, when and why did the psychotic break occur? Perhaps one day I will be crazy. Sub-thought: Craziness is really good at hide-and-seek in New York. Just this morning I was on the train with a woman who looked totally normal for the duration of our ride together, just standing near the doors, reading her book. Then right before we got to the Union Square stop, she started talking to herself and thanking people who were not, in fact, present.
I do not and will not ever trust people who voluntarily forgo the consumption of cheese. If you're lactose intolerant, that's one thing; you receive one sympathy vote. But if you opt out of eating cheese due to your own free will, I cannot ever trust you.
The scariest thing about the human experience is knowing that you have the power and the ability to end your own life at any given moment. I often find myself thinking about this when I see subway trains barreling toward me. The thought paralyzes me with fear.
Microwaves. We keep the same basic technology responsible for atom bombs and cancer in our homes and it is considered totally normal. WTF?
The longer I live and love, the more convinced I become that people definitely exist on different Planes of Happiness. Not like the kind that fly in the air, but like the kind in geometry. There's a reason I am 23, single, broke, living in a railroad apartment in Manhattan, putting up with a lot of inconveniences, losing sleep so that I can write, feeling like I do nothing but flail around aimlessly hoping I do something right - while others my age are engaged, married, pregnant, having babies, buying houses, and feeling very happy in their settled version of adulthood. And the reason is this: People live on different Planes of Happiness. My friends and I - having given up so much of the stability and security enjoyed my so many of our peers - require more for our happiness. We pursue our dreams - personal, professional, and otherwise - because we demand, for our own happiness, a different level of love, friendship, accomplishment, creation and overall existence. This is why my core group of friends does not budge, but boyfriends and outer-circle friends come and go. If we're not on the same plane, it becomes apparent over time, and everything dissolves.
MRIs are the fucking scariest. thing. ever. I just had my first one recently, and it was fucking frightening. I am 100% convinced that, had they access to the technology, Medieval Torture Creative Directors (MTCD) would have lusted over this device. You know that scene from The Exorcist? Before they realize Regan's actually inhabited by a demon, her mother takes her to the doctor and they do an MRI of her brain to check for any abnormalities. Mine was just like that, minus the God-awful neck injection that must have been a regular occurrence in the 70s. A lot of people think the point of that movie is something about religion and God and Satan or something, but they are wrong: the point is that after Regan got the MRI, her symptoms only got worse, which suggests that the MRI machine actually serves as a conduit for demons who like to inhabit human bodies. After my experience, I can totally vouch for this.
*Probs made this word up
INTRODUCING: HARLEM EATUP! 2017
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