rant

All posts tagged rant

The Next Step

Published Tuesday, May 21, 2013 by Chasing Neptune

If all goes according to plan, one year from now, I will be a college graduate. Don’t worry, I’m not going to launch into some nostalgic rant or preach about the importance of starting a new adventure. I am going to ponder what the hell I’m doing with my life, but hey, at least I won’t whine or stick my nose up.

I’ve decided to go to graduate school. It just seems like the next logical step. Even though I bitch incessantly about the stress of university, I do love it. I’m good at school. I know how to work the system, and it is a huge part of my identity. I’m not ready to give it up just yet.

So, I’ve decided to get my Master’s Degree in Writing, Editing, and Publishing. I like to write. I enjoy editing (probably because red is my favorite color, and I love feeling superior to others). And I think the publishing industry is my best chance for making a butt-load of money with an English degree. I may also be able to be a professor. I’m leaving my options open. In other words, I’ve made a decision that allows me to procrastinate making the real decision.

I think I’m just at the point in my life where the decisions are becoming irreversible. At this point, I can’t change my Bachelor’s Degrees. Luckily, I’m pleased with them. Once I get accepted into a graduate school, that decides my Master’s and, ultimately, my career.

I think I’m just a little worried that I’ll fail. I feel like I’ve been given a bow and arrow, and I have to shoot a target while blindfolded. I know the general area of the target, I’ve seen other people shoot an arrow, but I have no idea how to pull this off myself.

What if I decide I don’t want to sit around and help other writers reach their dreams? What if I try my hand at writing and realize I’m horrid or don’t love it?

I could always be a housewife. Better learn how to cook…

Week Two: Compliments

Published Tuesday, March 27, 2012 by Chasing Neptune

Date: Monday, March 19 to Sunday, March 25

Rules:

  • Must compliment at least 3 people every day
  • People can never be repeated (at least 21 different people over the course of the week)
  • Must be genuine and not “I” focused (“I” like this, “I” like that…)

Reason Why:

I undertook this challenge, because I thought it would help me deal with some of the issues that I am going through right now. I’ve heard many people say that “you get into relationships what you put out.” Therefore, I thought that making a conscious effort to appreciate the people in my life would be a good way to remind myself of their value and feel more connected in my little bubble of the earth. Also, despite popular belief, I’m not totally heartless. I like to make others feel good about themselves and recognize their own beauty, creativity, intelligence, etc. I guess that I thought that by helping other people to see these qualities in themselves, I would feel like I was doing a valuable service to them, and thus, making a difference from this little bubble.

Results:

Overall, I really liked doing this challenge. When I was constantly hunting for compliments, it made me shift my focus from myself onto others. Also, I admit that I got a selfish kind of joy for being the one to make other people smile. During the middle of the week, I felt proud of myself. I felt connected to people. I felt like for once I wasn’t being such a self-focused bitch, not that I’m a completely self-centered/ungrateful fiend, but I have a tendency to bottle up my emotions and completely internalize all my energy…which doesn’t exactly read as pleasant to other people.

I think the lesson I learned this week is that a lot of the problems that I’m going through are with myself. Am I totally happy with where I live? No. Am I totally happy with my course load? No. Am I totally happy with my skin? No. Am I totally happy with the fact that both of my majors probably won’t lead to prosperous careers? Well, kind of… Is all of that 100% my fault? No. Is part of it my fault? Yes.

The point is: I’m not completely happy with my life, and that’s okay. I’ve been through happy spells, and I’ve been through sad spells several times before. What this challenge reminded me is that I need to get the fuck out of my own head and actively try to make myself happy again. I’ve done it once, I’ve done it twice, so surely the third time will be the charm. It’s too late this week to start my “no complaining” challenge, but I think I will undertake it soon. I need to remember how lucky I am to be living my life. I need to remember how much I love myself. I need to remember how much I love the people in my life.

To those of you affected by my tyranny: I apologize. I’m going to try and be better, but know that some days these demons will get the best of me.

To PP: I know I’ve been a whiny bitch. And I know that you would be disappointed in how passive I’ve been. I’m going to be proactive and try to change – no matter what I decide to do with my life, I’m going to make sure that it makes me happy, now and later. I’m going to shed this scaly skin I’ve grown and do my best to be the woman you taught me to be.

A Failure and a Promise

Published Monday, November 28, 2011 by Chasing Neptune

Most people who know me relatively well, including myself (as ridiculous as this all will sound), give me too much credit for my ambition. You see, I’m a talker. I have a million grand plans for myself. I know exactly who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. I have a plan for the present and am forming one for the future. I am tied down by obligation and a sense of duty, but I still find time for myself, and in that time, I watch Supernatural and listen to bands that I like to pretend people have never heard of and…make more plans.

In my defense, most of my plans are well thought-out and relatively realistic (other than the ones that involve marrying rockstars and NASCAR drivers). I want to go to graduate school and live in Jersey for a while with my best friend. I want to own one of my dream cars and spend my weekends at concerts and race tracks. I want to write a novel. You see? All obtainable, not easy, but obtainable. The only problem is that I can never actually accomplish a damn thing.

I have my plans and my lists: a bucket list, a list of fears to conquer, a list of music/books to contemplate, a list of things I want out of life. And I can talk the talk, oh boy can I talk it. I interviewed my way to several opportunities in high school. I made my big ideas sound so well planned and so damn easy that I’ve got a lot of people convinced that I have some sort of potential lurking inside of me, just oozing out of the seams of my soul. I know I sound like an arrogant prick right now, and I apologize…because in all honesty, I’m just someone who knows how to fake it.

I often tell my roommate that I feel out of place at comic book stores. I think that feeling is what started this rant to which I am subjecting you, my poor, defenseless reader. You see, whenever I walk into a comic book store – having only read two or three comics in my entire life – I feel like a fraud. Sure, I’ve learned how to browse the shelves, have a pointless loyalty to Dark Horse, and know which titles to peruse and purchase. However, I have no real knowledge of the comic book industry. And I get it – we all have to learn sometime; this is my chance to dive into that world if I so choose, to slowly assimilate myself into a culture which I have long misunderstood and now long to join. So I walk into the store, faking my confidence and waiting for the moment when the part of me who is presently clueless and longing to grasp the meaning behind the art finally combines with the future part of me who fully appreciates that art.

Another unsettling notion is my attempt to “write.” I am so full of shit that it’s terrifying. Since the second grade, when my “talent” for writing was first recognized, I have declared that all I want to do with my life is write books. Ha. Yeah, great idea, Kate. I am a Creative Writing major (like that’s going to do me any good in life), who has turned out no publishable work, save a handful of elementary-level poems. I have failed at National Novel Writing Month (miserably, I might add) for my second year. Sure, I had school work and extra-curricular obligations – but had I truly committed myself, I could have made the word count. I’m not saying my novel would have been anything more than a pile of dead carcasses and a crushed can of Mountain Dew, but it could have been 50,000 words long. Instead, I am sitting on a way-too-low word count, using my beautiful tongue to smooth over my indiscretion to everyone who believed in my big plan to “actually succeed this year.” And what am I doing now? Instead of writing my novel, I am writing a rant that no one will read and hypocritically ripping myself to shreds.

I must get some sort of sick satisfaction out of watching myself fail and then bitching instead of taking control of my life.

In simple terms, here is the problem: my present self has become bored with herself and is ready to take the next step in her character development. However, she is also extremely insecure: afraid of the world and her self. Moreover, like all humans, she finds comfort in what is known and expected and never has the guts to actually try to push herself.

Yes, I have begun referring to myself in the third person. Thus, it is logical to conclude that I am insane and can now rebuild.

From my feelings of inadequacy in situations in which I wished I belonged, as well as my recent failures to stick to any of my big goals, I have concocted…wait for it…another plan. Fantastic, right? Bet you didn’t see that one coming.

Long story short, the ticket stubs that once filled my cork board are now safely tucked away in a scrapbook, leaving me with a glaringly blank brown canvas. This is going to become my inspiration board, which I will fill with pictures and quotes and (of course) lists and plans. Also, I am going to make yet another potentially (aka most likely) ill-fated promise to myself.

Every single day, for 365 consecutive days, I am going to do something that inspires me. This activity may be diving into an interest that I’ve always felt unworthy to explore, tackling an item from my bucket list, confronting a fear, or fulfilling one of my long-lost promises to myself (yeah, I’ll totally work out for 30 minutes today). Hopefully someone out there will hold me truly accountable to this. We’ll see…

If I were being logical, I would declare this to begin on January 1, 2012 – start the new year with a new me. But I know me. If I put this off, I will never do it. Also, if the world ends on December 21st, I will fail by default, so I need to start now and stack the deck in my favor as much as possible. 😉 All else aside, it’s in the midnight hour, and nothing logical ever happens in the midnight hour.

So here we go. I began this post Sunday, so lest I succumb to cheating already, I will not count it as my Monday item, even though I am technically finishing it today. And again, I cannot count my mission as beginning Sunday, because all this post has been is incessant ranting, useless self-bashing, and whole lot of ambitious talking.

And I think we all know how I feel about my talking.

The Picky Eater’s Guide to Idiots

Published Thursday, June 2, 2011 by Chasing Neptune

This blog post began as I was drifting off to sleep as an entry entitled, “5 Oddly Specific Things that Annoy Me.” However, after contemplating one of my irritations, I realized that it is aggravating enough to warrant its own complete entry. Hang on; let me kick off my heels so I don’t wobble on my soap box.

I am a Picky Eater. There are just certain foods that I absolutely cannot eat because of their taste, texture, smell, etc. Unfortunately, there is a
world full of ignorance out there that wholeheartedly believes that I am simply a spoiled little brat who pretends not to like certain foods for the mere purpose of gaining attention. Yeah, that’s my game. Anyway, after a lifetime of experience dealing with these hypocritical trolls, I have decided to compile a list of their most common assertions about my taste buds (because clearly my acquaintances are experts on my tongue) and how to refute these ignorant statements.

You haven’t even tried it.

Most of the time, I try a food before I pass judgment on it. However, there are certain instances when the food just looks and smells repulsive, to the point that it makes me slightly nauseous. Forgive me for not wanting to stick the innards of a raw shellfish into my mouth. I don’t try to shove it down your throat, so don’t try to force it down mine.

It may taste different in this form, with this other food, when cooked this way, etc.

Let’s say that you do not like mandarin oranges, nor do you like cottage cheese. However, your friend insists that you try the two mixed together, because apparently fruit and cottage cheese taste best when combined. I believe anyone with half a brain cell will realize that if you do not like mandarin oranges, nor do you like cottage cheese, you will probably not like the two flavors mixed together. Similarly, I do not like caramel. I do not like it in Snickers, on ice cream, on apples, with nuts, or plain. So what in the world makes you think that I would like it on a brownie? Of course, there are exceptions to this. But from a logical standpoint if A & B are gross in situations 1, 2, 3, & 4, they will be gross in situation 5. 

You’re just picky.

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Get your damn fork out of my face.

If your mom would have breast fed you, you wouldn’t be so picky.

Hmm. Well, considering I was an infant and had no choice in my primary means of gaining nourishment, I hardly see how you can hold me responsible for this. If you would like my home address so that you can lodge a formal complaint with my mother, I’m sure she would be delighted to hear that she raised me inappropriately and ruined my palate with her poor parenting. It’s a miracle I have survived this long under such negligent care.   

It’s because you’re an only child, your parents just spoiled you.

Wait, just a minute ago you were about to call Child Protective Services…This assertion is ridiculous for several reasons, but I will stick to food. No, my parents did not spoil me. They gave me certain foods for dinner, and I either ate them or I didn’t. As long as I tried everything once, my parents would trust my judgment when I said I didn’t like it, and then they wouldn’t force me to eat it again. We would just have green beans instead of broccoli. I still ate my veggies before dessert, just like every kid with siblings. The lack of additional procreation did not change our dinner routines.

Your taste buds change over time.

This is true, and I will concede this point to a certain extent. Taste buds do change and mature as humans grow older. However, I do not like tomatoes. I did not like them when I was four and tried one for the first time. I did not like them when I was nine and my grandmother forced one down my throat. I did not like them when I was seventeen and my ex-boyfriend held one in front of my face until I ate it in its entirety (In fact, I got sick that night. Coincidence?).  Therefore, I am going to be logical and say that if I have not liked tomatoes in the three times that I have been forced to eat them, I will probably never like them.

Why don’t you like it?

There is no answer to this question. I am not a tongue expert. I have no idea why the sensation of certain foods causes my taste buds to send, “Gross” messages to the nerves in my brain. It’s not like I choose to be disgusted by certain foods. Don’t you think that my life would be a hell of a lot easier if I did not have to order my sandwiches without tomatoes, onions, pickles, and peppers? Besides, you cannot tell me that there is not at least one food that you do not like like. Oh, you do not like carrots? Well why not? Yeah, that’s what I thought you dumb hypocrite.

You can’t even taste it.

Yes, I can, or I would eat it. Any other picky eater will back me up on this. When I peel a soggy slice of tomato off of a savory bacon cheeseburger, I can still taste the flavor of the repulsive vegetable in the juicy excretions that it leaves on the lettuce. I am sorry that the complexities and sensitivity of my palate offend you.

You’re the only person I’ve ever met that doesn’t like it.

Didn’t you watch Barney or Sesame Street? Everybody is different. Everybody is special and unique. Maybe your mother didn’t fondly remind you of your individuality, but that’s okay, I’m here now. Just as we all look different and act different, we all have different likes and dislikes. This is the same when it comes to food. Just because you and your family and every other person on the goddamn planet likes tomatoes, that doesn’t mean that I have to like them.

If all else fails, I have the ultimate strategy for ending the belligerent stream of ignorant assertions. In middle school, I simply adopted the practice of telling people that I am allergic to nuts, tomatoes (raw, that is, the processing of ketchup and salsa dilutes the poisonous toxin), etc. For some reason, people do not ask me why I am allergic to foods. Instead, they simply say “Oh, I’m so sorry,” as if a relative has died (and I am not exaggerating), and then they stop trying to force me to eat foods of which I do not like the taste.

Hopefully, my fellow super-tasters, these suggestions help you navigate the world of culinary ignorance. In turn, I hope that I have at least made my point and you “non-picky” people (or food whores, as I affectionately refer to you behind your backs) will think twice and try to “put yourself behind someone else’s plate” before you try to force someone to eat a food or badger them about the particulars of their taste.

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