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Midnight Malarkey

a peek inside the poetic freak

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Thoughts: Memory Wipe

I’m sure we all know that the past contains memories, both good and bad. I’m sure we all have those days when we wish we could just make the bad ones go away. I’m sure you can all relate to this:

Right? Right? Am I right or what?

The things is, I would never want to wipe out my memories. So far, anyway. You have to take the good and bad in life. Like coffee or chocolate—bittersweet in all its glory. It’s like eating Oreos. You can lick the cream first then the biscuit, or eat the biscuit first, or taste both in a bite. Either way, if you want the whole thing, you need to eat the whole thing and taste both sides.

Same as life—to truly live, you must take the good and bad in stride. The cliché “Life is a roller-coaster ride” is a cliché because it’s true.

“But it’s only the really bad ones I want to erase! Let’s say the technology exists, I won’t wipe out all of my happy or bad memories. I won’t erase my good ones with the horrible ones!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Try looking at the pic below to guess what I’ll be blabbering about next.

I don’t know about you, but I highly agree with the quote. It’s not so much about the pain, it’s about what comes after it.

Like it or not, memories help to shape who you are. Wiping the good memories will make you lose a piece of you that you are now, so does wiping out the bad ones.

And especially the bad, specific ones. Memories are based on true incidents that resonate throughout your life, sometimes in the weirdest and most wonderful ways. Sometimes through reality slaps, or déjà vu. Other times, through things that remind you of those memories.

Memories are how we learn from mistakes, because we remember how bad it felt making those mistakes. It’s the reason for our being uncomfortable in new surroundings because our brain’s grasping for familiar things we can relate to but scarcely find any, but it’s also why we find home so… homey.

I know I’m rambling here, but I do hope you understand what I mean. Whenever I pause and relive my past, it’s the bad experiences that have shaped me the most. And I do get negative effects from those bad memories, but I’m also aware that those bad memories are the ones who have shaped what I like about myself the most.

So, there.

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The Concept of “Being Real”

Is completely and utterly BOGUS at least half the time. I take the advice with a pinch of salt. What advice? The kind below:

It’s true. I’d agree with it if we didn’t live in an era where everything has to be politically correct. When image becomes crucial for things like connection and acceptance, how do you keep it real?

Some people are lucky because the real them is widely accepted in society. If you’re really polite, polished, and politically correct, man, you’ve got it good. But I, like many people, am not. Sure, I can be considerate and sympathetic, maybe even feel empathy, but half of the time I find it exhausting. Like, I want to do good. I can be good. But I can’t always be good.

Okay, I’m straying away from the topic.

My point is, being real comes at a high price.

My price for being the emotionally unattached me is the lack of depth in most social connections. People want a friendly, helpful person who takes their side or at least still supports them someway when their opinions differ.

I have a friend (a guy) who likes to sing karaoke, collect trinkets, doesn’t mind playing dolls, and has a pencil with glittery pink flowers as a pattern. He likes fashion A LOT too. Does that mean he’s gay? Does that mean he’s not a real man? He’s still a guy. He’s just being himself, and he’s okay with it. There’s also a girl I know who just like hanging around with guys, and I’ve heard people call her easy. That’s not true. It’s just that she’s more comfortable talking to the guys than girls in general. She’s being herself. They’re being real.

It’s not easy, is it?

“Be real.”

How do you do that? For me, being real is like something you should be ashamed about.

I’m punished by the looks and the shaking heads when I arrive in pants instead of a skirt/dress for parties. I’m punished by the stabs of words people say. I’m constantly ranted upon by people who’d like to see me “grow up”. I’m told to try on makeup. To embrace who I am.

Oh, fuck you, people. How am I supposed to embrace the real me by doing things I’m not? And it’s for your comfort. Your entertainment. If I were just trying out new things because I wanted to, whether out of curiosity or just for fun, then it’ll be just fine. If you simply approached me in a non judgmental way and I consented, it’d be a mere experiment to see if I like it or not. But this? Ugh.

What I think is the truth is that it’s okay to be real. Until the point where other people either get bored of you or become uncomfortable around you. 

Because when you dress different and look good, people call you unique, daring, fashionable, doing your own thing. When you don’t look good or don’t appeal to their taste, they call you a freak and a weirdo.

It’s hard being real. Some artists have it good and they say they keep doing them. Some do, but I see others are desperate for attention, thus they do whatever they can to stand out. There’s a fine line between experimenting and despair, people. But those who do make it—they have it oh. So. Good.

I’m not really there yet—real, that is. But I’m working on it. It’s somewhat embarrassing to admit I still say “sorry” when I’m going to say something possibly offending even if my friends asked for my opinion of something. I gotta stop faking my apologies. It just won’t do.

But I’m still learning to play within the boundaries of what’s legal and what’s acceptable while still being me. I mean, if the real me’s a psychopath, then there’s something wrong with me and not the world, right?

I guess the solution is tolerance for new and different things (both things you like and don’t) while keeping an eye out for the effects. That way people can still be themselves without going over the top with it.

Does that even make sense? Hmm… oh well.

I Don’t Want Your Kind of Pretty

The following post contains things you may find gross. I’m blunt, people. You. Have. Been. Warned. *grins*

When I was in third grade I grew my hair out. Came seventh grade its length was at my ass—or somewhere about. Then I decided to follow another style route.

I cut my hair above my shoulders to get rid of excess weight, not knowing more weight would be put on my shoulders and back and chest and head and heart. These weight holders wanted my regret. Well, it’s not something they’re gonna get.

The first time I related to the word “tomboy” I was in elementary school. I played with boys as much as girls, I liked to play Beyblades and watch them twirl. I watched Barbie and Disney Princess movies but my favourite was Mulan. I could relate to her. I felt it though at the time I didn’t know why.

The tomboys started to change. One by one. Until there’s only one. Until there’s only me. Then the questioning stares came. They asked me why don’t grow back my hair. Why I don’t do diets to slim my body. They asked me why I’m me.

One time someone said, “If you had longer hair, you’d be pretty.”

What’s pretty?

Pretty means having blue or green or hazel eyes. White, flawless skin. A fair complexion. Following society’s expectations.

I don’t want your kind of pretty.

Pretty means long, curly hair. Never leaving your face bare. Make sure you smile and never cry. Say you’re okay when you look sad and people ask why. Don’t let that mascara get ruined! Don’t let your hair tangle! Stop playing with your bangles!

I don’t want your kind of pretty.

Pretty means standing tall and knowing all answers to common questions.

“What do you think of her?” She’s as pretty as she can be.

“What’s your life motto?” Stay me.

“What’s your definition of pretty?”

What is it?

Does it mean having a good heart? Does it mean having good style? Does it mean when your makeup needs touching you excuse yourself and pamper for a while?

I don’t want your kind of pretty.

I lied.

The truth is I’ve spent my share of looking in the mirror and wishing my zits would go away and nose to be smaller and have symmetrical eyelids and… I decided. Fuck society’s kind of pretty. All I ever wanted was acknowledgement. Because the only real problem I have is my extra oily skin, and I only find it annoying because it’s uncomfortable for my skin. I like to feel my skin breathe through my pores. That may sound creepy, but if you felt that nice tingling sensation after a satisfying bath, you know what I mean.

Back to the real problem—acknowledgement. When I saw how people gave into peer pressure, I started to doubt if I had the right kind of peers for me. But even the closest people will sometimes burn me to the ground, so I stopped looking around. I looked in the mirror for the last time and started to look within.

I’ve known for a long time that you’ll always feel bad about yourself if you try to please others. So why am I still doing it? If I ever decide to grow my hair or get facials or have my armpits waxed, it’s gonna be because I want to. Not that I could imagine why I’d willingly wax anything… I believe everything’s there for a reason.

But I still do listen to what people have to say. Listening is good. It’s important. I don’t mind if people try to talk me into dieting because they’re concerned for my health. I consume less sugar know. I still eat a lot, but it’s more balanced. So it’s like my way of making peace, I think. Still….

I ask why people want me to change. The first reason that pops into their head, the first thing that they say; that’s the reason that comes into their mind the most. I get all kinds of stuff from health issues to not being able to do physical activities. But this is the one that bugs me the most: “Don’t you want to be pretty? I’m trying to help you!”

So, I don’t want your kind of pretty. I want my kind of pretty.

“So what’s pretty to you?” Let me tell you.

I think it’s pretty when people have a moon crest smile that shine like the sun and matching closed eyes to protect themselves from exploding for all the wonderful things they see and feel. I think it’s pretty when you do something embarrassing and you look at people mocking at you and you laugh along because what you did is silly.

I think it’s pretty when someone can look another person who’s just gotten out of bed with traces of saliva on their face and messy hair and crinkled clothes then say “You’re disgusting!” then keep talking to them anyway.

I think it’s pretty when you don’t care about being pretty. So I don’t want your kind of pretty.

I’ll be my kind of beautiful.

If you’re a puzzle, I’d put all of your pieces together
all except one.
You should be the one who hands it to me.
That’s what I want.

If you’re a river, I’d follow your current.
I’ll drench myself in you,
lose myself in your riverbanks.
But I’ll never try to dam you up.
You’re water that should flow free,
never stop.

If you’re an artist,
I’ll comment and critique.
Stare at your works with awe and intrigue.
But never change to fit my taste,
I know my place.

If you’re a mess, that’s okay.
Just make it beautiful.
For them and me to see and grow appeal.
But most of all, make it beautiful enough for you to feel.

But what are you?

If you’re a puzzle, I’ll give you my piece.
If you’re a river, I’ll flow into your streams.
If you’re an artist, I’ll paint with you into the seams.
If you’re a mess, I’ll help you clean.

But I need to know what you are to know what I am.
I need to know what you can’t do,
and which ones of those I can.

Because you can survive on your own
but it’s never really enough to be alone.
So as long as I’m here,
as long as I’m near,
I’ll try to be of use.
I hope this will reach your heart’s ears.

So what are you?

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