People take what's given, they eat what's put in front of them and they do what they see being done. People will adapt to their surroundings whether that means lowering their standards and dumbing themselves down or stretching what's possible to meet an expectation that's way above them. People's capabilities are dependent on what's required of them.
Which is why its disappointing that at the women health free teen clinic that Im at right now, the waiting room is piled with Cosmopolitan, Vogue, People, Us and 5 other celebrity gossip crap magazines.
There's not one Time, Newsweek, National Geographic, any of the magazines I'd normally expect to find in a waiting room catering to a wider demographic; magazines that if provided, I guarantee would be read or at least flipped through. If you are waiting in this waiting room, you basically have no choice but to read Cosmo's 20 Tips to Tingling Full-Body Sexy Sex or People's Fashion Face-Off 'Who Wore it Better?' in which two celebrities are pictured wearing the same outfit and you choose which one looks better. Cool. Tell me there's not a single girl in this waiting room who wouldn't look at a Time magazine headline about the oil spill in the gulf and pick it up thinking, 'Hmm I really have no idea what's going on with that but I've heard so much about it that I'd like to know.'
People have to stop underestimating each other and themselves, start doing what they believe in and genuinely enjoy and expect the same in others. People have to stop catering to the lowest common denominator. It stifles the rest of us and holds back those who are being catered to from growing.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
You Know the Feeling
If I were in bed staring up into the dark, I would have tossed and turned, mind spinning. But I wasn't. I was in the middle of a pack of intoxicated festivarians, dancing to a trippy tranced-out bluegrass band on the dewy grass under the moon.
Next to me, me mom danced barefoot and next to her, a man passed a joint and took a sloppy gulp of beer out of a plastic cup. To my other side, my friend Peter danced and feigned interest in everything around him as conversation fodder with the teenage girl in front of him. After everything he said, she laughed and flipped her hair back and forth as her head turned from the stage to him and back to the stage.
They danced as close to each other as possible without actually touching. They hovered cautiously along the line between flirtation and platonic indifference, staying safe from exposure. Despite their tunnel-vision one-track minds, it wasn't clear to me whether or not they were just warm bodies to each other, used to alleviate their boredom by playing this little game. They thought, Im sure, that their separate mini romances (having very little to do with the actual guts and brains of the little dream case along side them) were well hidden but, just being aware of it, I could feel every tingle their own bodies must have felt with each flush of warmth and accidental brushing of hands.
And I wished there was someone pushing through the crowd in my direction whose hand tingled as it touched my back, sending waves of chilly heat out from the spot, catching my breath as he looked back, said excuse me and smiled, letting a line fall into the water, disturbing the surface stillness, waiting for a tug.
Next to me, me mom danced barefoot and next to her, a man passed a joint and took a sloppy gulp of beer out of a plastic cup. To my other side, my friend Peter danced and feigned interest in everything around him as conversation fodder with the teenage girl in front of him. After everything he said, she laughed and flipped her hair back and forth as her head turned from the stage to him and back to the stage.
They danced as close to each other as possible without actually touching. They hovered cautiously along the line between flirtation and platonic indifference, staying safe from exposure. Despite their tunnel-vision one-track minds, it wasn't clear to me whether or not they were just warm bodies to each other, used to alleviate their boredom by playing this little game. They thought, Im sure, that their separate mini romances (having very little to do with the actual guts and brains of the little dream case along side them) were well hidden but, just being aware of it, I could feel every tingle their own bodies must have felt with each flush of warmth and accidental brushing of hands.
And I wished there was someone pushing through the crowd in my direction whose hand tingled as it touched my back, sending waves of chilly heat out from the spot, catching my breath as he looked back, said excuse me and smiled, letting a line fall into the water, disturbing the surface stillness, waiting for a tug.
Turtle Head
This guy who inhabits a cafe that I frequent is the biggest fucking tool I've ever met. For our purposes, and because I don't know his name, we'll call him Turtle Head. He goes to Naropa- the little alternative hippy college that sits like a shining beacon of ill-informed hope at the bottom of the hill to CU Boulder : the top party-ranking ski-bumming college that I go to.
Everyone at Naropa has a Mac and can easily be identified by the yoga mat which has earned a consecrated spot in their thermo-molded, gortex-blend REI day packs, complete with dual drink-tube exit ports for ultimate on-the-go hydration. They adamently deconstruct gender binaries and challenge society's view of beauty with their deliberately indecorous hair choices. Women choose not to shave their legs and arms but make up for it by shaving their heads, ivory spiral earrings wedged into gaged earlobes. Men have ponytails or immense mountain-man facial hair or the especially arogant of the lot just let their hair go wild. Pantene Pro-V, chamomile and shea butter voluminizing product and endless grooming apparently all come together to create the perfected and painfully conscious image which falls somewhere in between ''I just had multiple orgasms'' and ''I don't give a fuck, I'm just beautiful''. Naropa folk live in yoga studios and cafes and subsist mainly on maté, green tea, gluten-free pastries and over-priced salads.
This man in particular used to sport pigtail braids. He's short and slightly chubby but he's perfected the sustained eye contact and soft touch which is supposed to signify his sensitivity. I call it narcicism but whatever. Either way, it does absolutely nothing to get him laid which is undeniably the underlying motivation behind 80 percent of his actions. The remaining 20 percent goes into trying to assert his intellectual dominance to all who become subjected to his presence.
Naropians bloviate to each other about incredibly important things (that everyone should be thinking about) in order to win their comrades' approval. ''We're all one bro,'' says Turtle Head to his equally hairy cafe table-mate. But, as TH has not realized, while he's making transcendently insightful observations about the state of the world, his convo-bud is listening just enough to follow it with a witty and infinitely transcendent-er response.
Turtle Head loses his train of precious thought as he glances up at a bleached-blond boobed-up bimbo in that gorgeous pair of Prana® pilates pants that are supposed to allow for ultimate flexation-action and are made of that one new synthetic that is built to whick any nearby moisture. She sits down next to him, her pants instantly whick away his maté but he doesn't notice. She can sense a kindred spirit. He's entranced in their impromptu convo about her new yoga iphone app. She very conveniently displays her touch screen right below the horizon line of her cleavage and she's flattered by how intently Turtle Head listens.
''He has inner beauty'', she tells her swooning girlfriends which is code for both ''he's kind of ugly'' and ''he is willing to put up with my shit because he is so desperate to fondle my tits'' simultaneously. Insecurities compliment each other in that sad sick way.
These people pity those who value money because ''there are so many more important things in life than a carreer''. But their money conveniently comes in monthly wires from Carmel and is somehow gone at the end of each month, putting them in the lowest tax-bracket and affording them the title of bohemian or ''starving artist'' which they traips around town proudly only because it's not true. Starvation is so flattering when it's voluntary.
My thoughts, these observations. They're so fucking deep. You have no idea. They're unclassifyable. How could they even fit in a square room with your limitations and definitions and. grammar rules don't: APPLY. My words transcend punctuation I refuse your endmarks and a period is not needed here it can't be placed here as if this were a complete thought you don't even know I'm so deep Dont Limit me with your rules and standardizations because I don't apply they don't apply to me to this this is beyond what you know what you understand beyond your rules my thoughts my jots
OUT.
Namaste bitch.
Everyone at Naropa has a Mac and can easily be identified by the yoga mat which has earned a consecrated spot in their thermo-molded, gortex-blend REI day packs, complete with dual drink-tube exit ports for ultimate on-the-go hydration. They adamently deconstruct gender binaries and challenge society's view of beauty with their deliberately indecorous hair choices. Women choose not to shave their legs and arms but make up for it by shaving their heads, ivory spiral earrings wedged into gaged earlobes. Men have ponytails or immense mountain-man facial hair or the especially arogant of the lot just let their hair go wild. Pantene Pro-V, chamomile and shea butter voluminizing product and endless grooming apparently all come together to create the perfected and painfully conscious image which falls somewhere in between ''I just had multiple orgasms'' and ''I don't give a fuck, I'm just beautiful''. Naropa folk live in yoga studios and cafes and subsist mainly on maté, green tea, gluten-free pastries and over-priced salads.
This man in particular used to sport pigtail braids. He's short and slightly chubby but he's perfected the sustained eye contact and soft touch which is supposed to signify his sensitivity. I call it narcicism but whatever. Either way, it does absolutely nothing to get him laid which is undeniably the underlying motivation behind 80 percent of his actions. The remaining 20 percent goes into trying to assert his intellectual dominance to all who become subjected to his presence.
Naropians bloviate to each other about incredibly important things (that everyone should be thinking about) in order to win their comrades' approval. ''We're all one bro,'' says Turtle Head to his equally hairy cafe table-mate. But, as TH has not realized, while he's making transcendently insightful observations about the state of the world, his convo-bud is listening just enough to follow it with a witty and infinitely transcendent-er response.
Turtle Head loses his train of precious thought as he glances up at a bleached-blond boobed-up bimbo in that gorgeous pair of Prana® pilates pants that are supposed to allow for ultimate flexation-action and are made of that one new synthetic that is built to whick any nearby moisture. She sits down next to him, her pants instantly whick away his maté but he doesn't notice. She can sense a kindred spirit. He's entranced in their impromptu convo about her new yoga iphone app. She very conveniently displays her touch screen right below the horizon line of her cleavage and she's flattered by how intently Turtle Head listens.
''He has inner beauty'', she tells her swooning girlfriends which is code for both ''he's kind of ugly'' and ''he is willing to put up with my shit because he is so desperate to fondle my tits'' simultaneously. Insecurities compliment each other in that sad sick way.
These people pity those who value money because ''there are so many more important things in life than a carreer''. But their money conveniently comes in monthly wires from Carmel and is somehow gone at the end of each month, putting them in the lowest tax-bracket and affording them the title of bohemian or ''starving artist'' which they traips around town proudly only because it's not true. Starvation is so flattering when it's voluntary.
My thoughts, these observations. They're so fucking deep. You have no idea. They're unclassifyable. How could they even fit in a square room with your limitations and definitions and. grammar rules don't: APPLY. My words transcend punctuation I refuse your endmarks and a period is not needed here it can't be placed here as if this were a complete thought you don't even know I'm so deep Dont Limit me with your rules and standardizations because I don't apply they don't apply to me to this this is beyond what you know what you understand beyond your rules my thoughts my jots
OUT.
Namaste bitch.
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