Hi, my name is Liz, and I'm an addict.
A Facebook addict, that is. And a gossip site addict. And an addict to just about anything that's counterproductive to life... aka 98% of the world wide web's offerings. I'm addicted to the internet.
12 hours ago, (yes, I've calculated it down to the hour...) I deleted my Facebook account. I can almost hear the gasps, the oh-the-horror's, and the WHAT?'s emitting across the Columbia Basin.
And all I can say is, I know.
I'm shaking like a crack fiend. Facebook has been an integral part of my 'social networking' for years. Hell, without Facebook, I'd probably have zero real-life friends, as I am less than reliable when it comes to answering my phone/returning calls... Facebook is the only reason I have sporadic activities and rendezvous' penciled in on my calendar, without it I'm just some loser that doesn't know what the hell's going on... especially with things concerning my friends.
I think I first noticed that I had a problem when I began thinking in Facebook status form. "Elizabeth Moss is practically DYING without fb :("
One of the most amusing parts of this whole Facebook thing, is that I've convinced myself that any of you care. You know, about my status updates. Or the fact that I posted pictures. Or what my favorite movies are, or my religious/political affiliation. Who am I, the Queen? Who gives a shit what I'm doing. No one, that's who.
But Facebook allows me to be the self-important jackass that I'm generally only comfortable being in front of my close friends... and since they account for only 5% of my friend list.... that would mean there are a lot of acquaintances that probably groan with every update, "Ugh, God, not her again."
What did we do before the days of social networking sites? Did we actually call people to chat? Just the thought of it makes me cringe. How did we get invited to parties? Paper invitations? How 1999. And don't even get me started on dating... how did we know whether or not someone's courtship was legitimate before they vowed their 'In A Relationship With...' status via minifeed announcement? Random sightings at the mall? Palpable affection? Ridiculous.
And, most importantly, how did one stalk their crushes, rivals and/or drunken acquaintances? Tailing them? Peering through a set of binoculars into their living room windows? How barbaric... and mildly thrilling.
Until Facebook came along, what did we do with all the time that we waste, er, I mean spend, on the computer? Frolic in the outdoors with three dimensional people? What an amusing thought.
Now, I realize that most of you don't have the same vices as I. You don't find yourself mindlessly navigating to Facebook during all hours of the night. You don't find yourself halfway through that one guy who sat behind you in English 351's wall-to-wall with his long lost best friend from preschool before realizing, "Shit, I'm supposed to be at work..."
But I do. I have a problem. And that is why I deactivated.
And none of you are going to see this. Because I have no way to tell you about it.
Hmm.
Didn't think this through, did I?
Dumbass.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
clowns, and chickens and ferris wheels, oh my!!
I seem to have procured a vast pool of knowledge that consists solely of random and useless information, like the fact that Humphrey Bogart was born on Christmas day in 1899 or that the ancient Chinese believe that people with three cowlicks are destined to have terrible lives and die early. Everything I know is entirely worthless, unless I'm in a trivia tournament or something... but, still. I didn't fall off the turnip truck when I was born yesterday. Momma didn't raise no dummy.
Now with that said... for a so called "no dummy", I carry with me the weight of several irrational fears. And by several I mean enough to ensure a psychiatrist many a $350 session. I'm surprised I make it out the front door on most days, as I am usually crippled by my (crazy, largely unfounded, and innumerable) concerns.
I should mention that in addition to my ridiculous worries, I'm also uneasy about a number of rational things, like if that one depressing as hell Sarah McLachlan song plays at my funeral, or that polar bears will go extinct before I have the chance to capture one and raise him as my own...
I shudder at the thought.
But, anyway, to heal myself from further intellectual damming, and to save my future shrink the trouble, I've decided to say these fears aloud, not only for your amusement, but for my own benefit, and try to determine their root. Maybe when I read them back to myself, I'll see them for how truly ridiculous they are?
Or, I'll have written record of their absolute dreadfulness.
Deep breath, here we go...
Escalators. I don't know what it is about them, but they scare the shit out of me. Yes, I know I won't get sucked into the mechanism at the end, and yes, I know that the steps won't suddenly collapse, sucking me, once again, into the 'mechanism'... But seriously. It totally could.
Cause: My parents. Damn them. Damn them for taking me to Columbia Center in my youth and forcing me upon the Bon Marche escalators, taunting me with, "make sure your laces are tied, don't wanna get them tangled in the top!" Why wouldn't I heed their warnings? They're my parents, and at the age of 7, I had yet to learn how to ignore their constant blithering.
Cotton sheets. Something about the fibrous weave really freaks me out. I can imagine being choked by the interlocking threads, the CSI coroner pulling a rogue string out of my throat, proclaiming that it was, in fact, death by bedding.
Cause: This one is trickier to pinpoint, but it could be because of that one time my mom tried to suffocate me with my cotton pillow. No, I'm just kidding. She never did that. Haha, it was more of a flannel fabric...
Seriously though, she'll probably be angry when/if she ever reads that...
Clowns. I'm hard-pressed to find this fear 'irrational', though people keep insisting that it is. They have obnoxiously bright, over-sized clothes and annoyingly large shoes, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. What about their identity masking make-up? Who are they trying to fool?! And their disgustingly blood red locks? Quelle horreur! Some people ask, "What's wrong with clowns?" while I ask, "What's RIGHT with clowns?" Nothing, I tell you! Nothing!
Cause: Well, it could be because of that one time my mom dropped a creepy clown figurine on my head while I was lying helplessly in my crib. That's right. I was a defenseless baby... or evidently by my mother's calculations, an indestructible bundle that needed to be squashed. Oh, also, it could be that one time she let me watch 'It', and if you know me at all, you'd know that I'm quite impressionable, so that was most definitely a mistake. I've got a wild imagination, and I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, if I could diagnose myself...
Or, or, it could be the fact that clowns are evil incarnate. And that my 'friends' like to dress up as them and chase me, and hide in my bed in order to further perpetuate my phobia.
Could be any one of those things.
The sound of mute. Now I know what you're thinking... the sound of mute? Yes. The sound of a television set on mute. It's a high pitched humming that I'm pretty sure I'll be unable to hear in a few years, but nevertheless. I can hear it now. And I'm certain in the notion that it's the work of some psychotic alien or really techy-kid trying to deafen me with its near-silent shriek.
Cause: Uh, probably that imagination, again. I should lay off the hallucinogens.
Ferris wheels. I'm not alone in this one. Who doesn't dread the day when you're sitting pretty atop the old wheel-o-fun, when it suddenly dislodges from its carny-kept cage, rolling over fellow carnival goers as you hang helplessly in the balance. It could happen. It probably has happened...
Cause: Well, what do you know, good ol' Mom's to blame for this one, again... There's a bit of a pattern emerging here, isn't there?
Yeah, she used to shove me onto the platform with my (totally willing, aka: delusional) cousin at the county fair, and then laugh at the pictures she took, all of which dynamically showcasing a look of sheer terror upon my face.
Also, I'm a bit weary of fair rides ever since the Benton Franklin Fair and Rodeo debacle of 2000, in which a ride broke while I was on it. I emerged unscathed, as it was not my particular 'wagon' that was damaged... but still, that had to leave an emotional scar, right? My friends got hurt, and I probably internalized their pain. I'm very empathetic, I swear.
Mind readers. Seriously? What if people really could read minds... what are you saying inside your head that you hope no one will ever hear? Exactly. Tons of things. Personally, I think millions of rude/insensitive/horrible/mildly amusing/strange/downright hilarious things that I purposefully hold back from the general public. It'd be like a modern day Pandora's box if my mind was let loose... Ugh.
Cause: Does this one need an explanation? If people could hear all the things that I'm thinking, I'd be totally fucked. I'm not the nicest of people- on the inside... which is ironic, because don't they say, "It's what's on the inside, that counts."? On most days, and in most situations, I'm projecting a much better person than I believe myself to be, just to fool the non-mind readers. Anyone with actual telepathic abilities could really throw me under the bus.
Birds. Some say majestic animals, I say scary-as-hell-beasts. From hummingbirds to eagles, they're all frightening to me. Turkeys, parrots, pets, birds of prey... All scary, all unnecessary in life. I clearly remember running (literally, running...) across Glenn-Terrell Mall from the 'Falcon Club', a group of swarthy ne'er-do-wells, strapped with leather gloves and a falcon on each arm, their razor sharp talons glistening. I didn't for a second trust the leashes the birds were tethered with, because... hello? They can fucking fly. Who's going to stop them?
Cause: I should mention that I was allowed to watch a little film by a certain Alfred Hitchcock at a young age, aptly title: 'Birds'. And what do you know? It was two hours about horrible, winged creatures.
Also, one time, a 'friend' (similar to the one who constantly dresses like a clown) locked me in a chicken coop for at least 25 seconds. They pecked, and pecked, and pecked at their food, and- it was terrifying. I don't think I'll ever be able to overcome the panic I felt in those harried moments before she opened that two foot tall gate and let me out.
And thank God she did, or else I'd probably be chicken food, if, in fact, chickens could evolve into carnivorous beings at the drop of a hat... And if I was chicken food, who'd be writing this? No one. And if you we're reading this blog entry, that was written by no one, or by my ghost perhaps... hmm...
Which brings me to my last irrational fear, GHOSTS.
Just kidding. I don't believe in ghosts. They're freaking ridiculously improbable.
What we should watch out for are those cotton clown clothes wearing, escalator riding, ferris wheel riding (they ride both, okay?), high-pitched mute sounding, telepathic chickens. They're everywhere.
Lurking on corners, in closets, under beds... in trunks.
Ugh. I'm creeping myself out, a bit.
Now with that said... for a so called "no dummy", I carry with me the weight of several irrational fears. And by several I mean enough to ensure a psychiatrist many a $350 session. I'm surprised I make it out the front door on most days, as I am usually crippled by my (crazy, largely unfounded, and innumerable) concerns.
I should mention that in addition to my ridiculous worries, I'm also uneasy about a number of rational things, like if that one depressing as hell Sarah McLachlan song plays at my funeral, or that polar bears will go extinct before I have the chance to capture one and raise him as my own...
I shudder at the thought.
But, anyway, to heal myself from further intellectual damming, and to save my future shrink the trouble, I've decided to say these fears aloud, not only for your amusement, but for my own benefit, and try to determine their root. Maybe when I read them back to myself, I'll see them for how truly ridiculous they are?
Or, I'll have written record of their absolute dreadfulness.
Deep breath, here we go...
Escalators. I don't know what it is about them, but they scare the shit out of me. Yes, I know I won't get sucked into the mechanism at the end, and yes, I know that the steps won't suddenly collapse, sucking me, once again, into the 'mechanism'... But seriously. It totally could.
Cause: My parents. Damn them. Damn them for taking me to Columbia Center in my youth and forcing me upon the Bon Marche escalators, taunting me with, "make sure your laces are tied, don't wanna get them tangled in the top!" Why wouldn't I heed their warnings? They're my parents, and at the age of 7, I had yet to learn how to ignore their constant blithering.
Cotton sheets. Something about the fibrous weave really freaks me out. I can imagine being choked by the interlocking threads, the CSI coroner pulling a rogue string out of my throat, proclaiming that it was, in fact, death by bedding.
Cause: This one is trickier to pinpoint, but it could be because of that one time my mom tried to suffocate me with my cotton pillow. No, I'm just kidding. She never did that. Haha, it was more of a flannel fabric...
Seriously though, she'll probably be angry when/if she ever reads that...
Clowns. I'm hard-pressed to find this fear 'irrational', though people keep insisting that it is. They have obnoxiously bright, over-sized clothes and annoyingly large shoes, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. What about their identity masking make-up? Who are they trying to fool?! And their disgustingly blood red locks? Quelle horreur! Some people ask, "What's wrong with clowns?" while I ask, "What's RIGHT with clowns?" Nothing, I tell you! Nothing!
Cause: Well, it could be because of that one time my mom dropped a creepy clown figurine on my head while I was lying helplessly in my crib. That's right. I was a defenseless baby... or evidently by my mother's calculations, an indestructible bundle that needed to be squashed. Oh, also, it could be that one time she let me watch 'It', and if you know me at all, you'd know that I'm quite impressionable, so that was most definitely a mistake. I've got a wild imagination, and I'm a bit of a hypochondriac, if I could diagnose myself...
Or, or, it could be the fact that clowns are evil incarnate. And that my 'friends' like to dress up as them and chase me, and hide in my bed in order to further perpetuate my phobia.
Could be any one of those things.
The sound of mute. Now I know what you're thinking... the sound of mute? Yes. The sound of a television set on mute. It's a high pitched humming that I'm pretty sure I'll be unable to hear in a few years, but nevertheless. I can hear it now. And I'm certain in the notion that it's the work of some psychotic alien or really techy-kid trying to deafen me with its near-silent shriek.
Cause: Uh, probably that imagination, again. I should lay off the hallucinogens.
Ferris wheels. I'm not alone in this one. Who doesn't dread the day when you're sitting pretty atop the old wheel-o-fun, when it suddenly dislodges from its carny-kept cage, rolling over fellow carnival goers as you hang helplessly in the balance. It could happen. It probably has happened...
Cause: Well, what do you know, good ol' Mom's to blame for this one, again... There's a bit of a pattern emerging here, isn't there?
Yeah, she used to shove me onto the platform with my (totally willing, aka: delusional) cousin at the county fair, and then laugh at the pictures she took, all of which dynamically showcasing a look of sheer terror upon my face.
Also, I'm a bit weary of fair rides ever since the Benton Franklin Fair and Rodeo debacle of 2000, in which a ride broke while I was on it. I emerged unscathed, as it was not my particular 'wagon' that was damaged... but still, that had to leave an emotional scar, right? My friends got hurt, and I probably internalized their pain. I'm very empathetic, I swear.
Mind readers. Seriously? What if people really could read minds... what are you saying inside your head that you hope no one will ever hear? Exactly. Tons of things. Personally, I think millions of rude/insensitive/horrible/mildly amusing/strange/downright hilarious things that I purposefully hold back from the general public. It'd be like a modern day Pandora's box if my mind was let loose... Ugh.
Cause: Does this one need an explanation? If people could hear all the things that I'm thinking, I'd be totally fucked. I'm not the nicest of people- on the inside... which is ironic, because don't they say, "It's what's on the inside, that counts."? On most days, and in most situations, I'm projecting a much better person than I believe myself to be, just to fool the non-mind readers. Anyone with actual telepathic abilities could really throw me under the bus.
Birds. Some say majestic animals, I say scary-as-hell-beasts. From hummingbirds to eagles, they're all frightening to me. Turkeys, parrots, pets, birds of prey... All scary, all unnecessary in life. I clearly remember running (literally, running...) across Glenn-Terrell Mall from the 'Falcon Club', a group of swarthy ne'er-do-wells, strapped with leather gloves and a falcon on each arm, their razor sharp talons glistening. I didn't for a second trust the leashes the birds were tethered with, because... hello? They can fucking fly. Who's going to stop them?
Cause: I should mention that I was allowed to watch a little film by a certain Alfred Hitchcock at a young age, aptly title: 'Birds'. And what do you know? It was two hours about horrible, winged creatures.
Also, one time, a 'friend' (similar to the one who constantly dresses like a clown) locked me in a chicken coop for at least 25 seconds. They pecked, and pecked, and pecked at their food, and- it was terrifying. I don't think I'll ever be able to overcome the panic I felt in those harried moments before she opened that two foot tall gate and let me out.
And thank God she did, or else I'd probably be chicken food, if, in fact, chickens could evolve into carnivorous beings at the drop of a hat... And if I was chicken food, who'd be writing this? No one. And if you we're reading this blog entry, that was written by no one, or by my ghost perhaps... hmm...
Which brings me to my last irrational fear, GHOSTS.
Just kidding. I don't believe in ghosts. They're freaking ridiculously improbable.
What we should watch out for are those cotton clown clothes wearing, escalator riding, ferris wheel riding (they ride both, okay?), high-pitched mute sounding, telepathic chickens. They're everywhere.
Lurking on corners, in closets, under beds... in trunks.
Ugh. I'm creeping myself out, a bit.
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