The Gates

Every Saturday, my daughters do an exercise called "The Gates" during their pre-school dance class. If I don't sit in my car to avoid talking to all the other mothers, I am sitting in the back dressing room (hopefully alone)-- knitting and answering any questions posed to me from people trying to make conversation. If inside the building, I can hear the music and the instructor calling for the tiny dancers to make their way through "The Gates". What do I think about when I hear this? My mother saying, "What!?! Do I look like I'm wearing skates!? Slow down!"

My mother has a pretty decent sense of humor when I know she is joking. Unfortunately, I don't always realize when people are joking. However, this comment is only one of the many things I remember being said to me. One that may not have been said to me if others and myself had known about Asperger's in the Seventies, Eighties, and most of the Nineties. Another thing commonly heard about my walking was being referred to as "Stompy". Both of those things are true. But now, I kinda of think of it like this: would you poke fun at a blind man about how he bumps into things he can't see? Or on a less dramatic note, would you mock someone for being right or left handed? Sadly, seeing what I have seen of the human race, I think both of those things have happened. The way I walk is not an affliction! It is the way I walk. I walk really fast, with scissor-like glides. Although most of my life has been spent long and lean, I am far from graceful. And, I walk really hard on my heels. Just look at any one of my many pairs of sneakers. Forensics would pin me in a second.

I have trouble telling how hard I am doing something. This is also evident when I write. I usually end up with a divot in my finger from holding the pen. And, you can easily read what I wrote on at least five to ten pages under the original document. As an illustrator, I tried to use dip pens as recommended to me by a favorite comic artist, Peter Bagge. But, my hand is so heavy that it was almost impossible. So back to Sharpies. Thanks god, somewhere along the line graffiti artist made those cool. If you wait long enough, whatever you are doing will come into fashion (if only for a second). And, watercolor? Forget it! I tear through the paper in five minutes flat. I guess that is one of the reasons why I like the early works of Jean DeBuffet. He painted with sand and dirt.

I am sure somewhere someone would like to say all the little comments had an effect on me. Maybe that person should be me. Maybe a lot of those feeling I can't recognize yet. But, in the beginning of this journey, I declared to myself I would not play a blame game. Some people can be nice, some people can be not-so-nice. Some nice people can be not-so-nice without really knowing it. I don't really remember these things because they hurt me. I remember a lot of things that happened many, many years ago for what seems to be no good reason. I guess that could reek of denial. But, I'm not sure it smells of anything but old newspapers.

For every ten to one hundred things that are said to me and fall off me like water on a rain slicker, there are one or two things that did/do hurt. I stopped keeping track of how many times I'd heard, "You are so smart but you have no common sense!" That hurt. Not only did it hurt me, it made me a little confused and scared. Most of the time, I couldn't figure out why someone (usually my mother) would get upset enough to say something like that to me, because it really just translates to, "You're smart but you're dumb!" And, I would be scared because most people who lack common sense do things like get hit by buses when they bend over to tie their shoe in the middle of the street. I may bend over to tie my shoe in the middle of you telling me something very revealing about yourself. But, I would never do that on the train tracks with a whistle blowing in the distance.

Another comment that stung was being called "clumsy". Being the tallest girl in the class usually set me up for playing forward on the basketball team not gliding across the balance beam. But, it was more than that. I had trouble navigating doorways and pieces of furniture that hadn't been moved in years. Watching me get out of a school desk was more like watching a mountain man wrestle a bear. I couldn't figure out how to rollerskate at skating parties. I tripped over my tennis racket and skinned my knee the first time I ever played. I was well-known for disappearing during highschool gym class. Not to go catch a smoke in the locker room or eat candy bars in the auditorium, but to avoid the sheer panic of having to coordinate my arms and legs into whatever red bouncy ball game of the day was being played.

Now, I see my daughter walk around the house on her tippy-toes sometimes. And, I let her, because I know it makes her comfortable. I will never make her feel bad for doing it. And, I will teach her how to deal with it when someone does. And, when I see on school evaluations that she hasn't quite figured out how to do a somersault yet-- I know she will eventually. I can work with her on that.

And, as of today, I am proud to be a minister of silly walks.

Spontaneous Combustion

For years, I have tried to find others who would understand a time in my life when I was fascinated by the idea of spontaneous combustion. About ten years ago, I saw an article in the Onion that I thought was absolutely hilarious. As I showed it to friends, they didn't think it was as great as I did. "8yr. Old Boy Knows Everything about Squirrels," it read (or close to it). Get it, I'd say, get it? While working on a degree in Psychology at Penn State, I thought of a perfect thesis. It would explore why so many kids in my "Gifted" classes were a little different, a little odd, a little obsessed. This was back in 1992. And, I hadn't heard of Asperger's. I could never figure out why teachers would always tell us to brain storm... to turn things over in our minds OVER and OVER and OVER. Especially when the majority of us were already thinking about things (we were interested in) WAY more then what the average person would consider normal or healthy. It is like asking a gentle, summer breeze to work itself up into a hurricane.

The other day while trying to relax, knitting while watching the Science channel, I tripped over a program about "dark" science. The theme of the episode was spontaneous combustion. Although my interest was peaked, my reply was, "Tell me something I don't already know." I watched it and learned nothing new. It is amazing how little had changed over the past thirty years.

I can't remember exactly how old I was, maybe about 8yrs old like the Squirrel Boy. At that time, I had received a book about various phenomena. It included stories about mysterious footprints on rooftops, rainstorms of frogs falling from the sky, moving photographs of ghostly women, and a whole section on spontaneous combustion. I became entranced. I suddenly needed to find out everything I could about it. Those were the days before PCs in libraries and internet search engines. So, I spent many hours in the library digging through books, magazine articles, and microfiche. I found photographs like of man charred beyond recognition, except for the bit of tattered bathrobe and bedroom slippers filled with what appeared to be hamburger. I found scientific studies about pig carcasses wrapped tightly in blankets and then set on fire. But, more importantly, I formulated my own theory. It took a bit of geology, a bit of Roman Catholicism, and a bit of Looney Tunes. I ultimately figured spontaneous combustion had to be the work of the Devil. I just couldn't believe a being of his power and cunning would settle for sitting in a red hot throne while his minions poked people with pitch forks. Simple chemical reactions didn't cut it. And, it couldn't always be a misplaced cigarette butt. In an almost cartoonish way, I could see Satan himself lifting a fingertip to the outer most crust of the Earth's surface (because hell had to be in a solid center of the Earth's core surrounded by molten rock). He would then randomly set people ablaze like matchsticks for kicks.

I could deal with this theory for a while. It made sense but it was pretty innocuous. But, it still made its way to the forefront of my thoughts OFTEN. Sometimes, I would stop my mother while we were performing mundane tasks, like shopping at the Mall. I'd come to a halt and ask her, "What if I spontaneously combust RIGHT NOW!?!?!" She initially seemed a little disturbed. But, eventually, she would just ignore me. Every time I asked her, I would picture her covered in hot, steaming fleshy bits. Everything, in spite of my obsessive thoughts of flaming flesh, seemed to be moving along nicely in my world-- until the day my mother asked me to do the unthinkable. Go down to the basement and change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. We lived in an older flat with a dark, unwelcoming, Lovercraftian basement. I could handle the shadows and the dank, damp air. What I could not handle was the thought of how much my mother must have disliked me to send me to a certain death. Because, if Hell is in the center of the Earth like many Christians would have had me believe... and it is Satan who is causing humans to go off like fireworks... and the basement is the closest part of the house to the center of the Earth!?!?! I wouldn't return from my task smelling unpleasantly like fabric softener (see previous entry). I wouldn't return AT ALL! I would get so wound up that I couldn't even begin to explain myself. And, what did come out sounded like gibberish to my mother, I am sure. An act of manslaughter, I'd think. In her mind, I was once again being uncooperative, difficult, defiant, overly dramatic, and even lazy. Once again, she'd note that her daughter was incapable of completing even the most simple chore.

As time passed, I though I had outgrown it. An idea lost under the bed like an old sock. Until years later, a boyfriend of mine who worked for a local printer compiled a half dozen pages into a chapbook about spontaneous combustion for me. I suddenly felt like it was a mistake to confide in him. Because didn't he know? The more you think about something the closer it gets to you! Suddenly, the ground seemed warmer under my feet.

I am now able to think of things without thinking I am forming thoughts into matter. I have moved beyond that mode of thinking-- kinda.

Just a little bit

This will begin like many other posts in the future with, "Before I knew I had Asperger's..." In many of my previous posts, someone familiar with the signs and symptoms of AS would see it. I was only familiar with myself, not any form of autism. I didn't see it until I "saw" it in my daughter. But, now, it all makes sense. That sense is a relief. Although, I do not in ANY way view myself as a freak (or any other person with Asperger's), I like to think of the wedding banquet scene from Browning's movie, "One of us! One of us! Gooble-gobble!" There are others like me. Well, kinda. Not JUST like me, similar. More importantly, there are other who understand. Whew.

Before I knew I had Asperger's, little things would bother me a lot. They still bother me a lot. Now, I know why. Today, I don't have to feel awkward, feel defensive, or worse, hide my agitations with shame. The little things are mostly sensory. Like the taste of a spice or herb or seed like caraway causing gag reflexes. The odor of some one's cheap perfume coating the inside of my nostrils and mouth like wax for hours. A school uniform turtleneck choking me and causing a panic like being buried alive. The sound of someone chewing across the table from me creating images of a food bolus being broken down with saliva between molars-- louder and louder and louder. Every night, my husband still wonders how I can read by such dim light. Because, I tell him, the light reflects off the pages and makes me snow blind. It hurts.

When I would tell someone it hurt or caused discomfort, often they would think I was being overly dramatic. Simply trying to cause diversion or to be disruptive. I couldn't understand why they didn't understand. I took it personally. It was depressing to think people didn't believe. It came across as a bizarre punishment when people would tell me to "just deal with it".

Today, many of those things still bother me. However, I can somewhat control my responses or at least control what I share with others about it. I learned how to avoid the "what's the big deal" shrug of the others' shoulders. I can still taste a teensy piece of celery as if eating a head of garlic. But, I don't wince and verbalize my displeasure. I push it to the rim of the dish. I learned where to place my shopping bags in my car so I don't need to listen to them rustle around in the wind coming through a rear window. A sound that amplifies in my head to the sound of water roaring over Niagara Falls. Even the word rustle bothers me because of this association. It makes me shudder if I let myself go with it. But, then I think of a word I like, snacks. That's a funny word. It makes me smile. But, my relationship with words is a another blog entirely.

I sat down with my husband and my psychologist to have a 3rd party person tell him I wasn't just trying to be a pain in the ass. Most of the time, he is understanding about it. But, when we are out to dinner and I order a nice filet only to realize it was grilled with a rub containing caraway seeds (or just one caraway seed or cooked near caraway seeds) making it inedible? Well, that's one time when I can read some one's expression pretty clearly. I am okay with it. I can sleep at night, knowing I married a man that can move past all the things I can't.

Conversely, little things make me love certain things more than others. And, by more-- I mean, A LOT more. There is something so subtle about a walnut lentil burger. I can taste the walnuts, the lentils, the cumin, the garlic, et al. This same sensitivity makes me a good cook. I love the flavor so much, I wish I could eat one (or three) every day. I'd eat them for every meal if I could. Yet, through over forty years of past experience, I learned it is neither practical nor fun to eat the same thing every day. Although, it is comforting. Eventually what happens is: I eat something so often, for so long that I get to a point where I can't even look at the food-- like with Pad Thai. Saying the name of the dish would bring the taste to my mouth. I try not to do that so much anymore. I rotate between certain dishes-- and sure, I'm nutritional more sound for it. Not to sound like an wild animal, I can taste the difference between a grass-fed steak and your run of the mill injected variety. They are two different planets on completely different arms of the Milky Way. With the grass-fed, the taste of the iron in the blood takes the lead in the list of flavors in the steak. Mmmm... irony.

I'll save the list of things I like to look at, listen to, and touch for a later day, too. However, seeing the little things has made me a better illustrator and designer. Listening (I "see" a lot of what I hear) to the little things has made me a better musician. And, the touch part usually comes to the rescue when I need to zone out or relax-- this usually doubles as what I've heard called stimming.

Since being diagnosed with Asperger's, I decided it is all differences of degree. Like changing the font on a document. The rest of the world reads a phrase in 12pt, but to me it appears as 48pt. These little actualizations help me become more comfortable with the big me (which I like to believe is as large as a Macy's day parade float crammed into a slightly above average height human shell).

The Brooks who are funnier than you

Last night, I dreamt I met Mel Brooks. It was in the late seventies. I was waiting tables at a crappy restaurant in NYC. Mel Brooks and Albert Brooks came in to eat at the lunch counter. I shook Mel Brooks' hand and talked to Albert about the latest movie they had in production together. They left without eating. However, a woman sitting beside them ate french fries covered in bacon and BBQ sauce. Then, a drunk Mac Davis showed up. He started singing and wouldn't stop.



Then, it was suddenly the late eighties. And, I moved to LA. I was looking for jobs, but got lost in some winding street bazaar. Stoners and queens selling old clothes, candles, and bongs. I stopped to try on a pair of pants. But, someone stole MY pants while they were off. A black cat kept following me everywhere. I stepped gum at one point. And, I spent a significant amount of time trying to wipe it off on things as I continued to walk. Eventually, I got to an open farmer's market full of yuppie eco-lovin' vegan types. They were all wearing the same green plastic shoes. It was subtly sci-fi. Then, I had lunch with Sean Carnage. He said he'd try help to get me a job. I was still telling everyone I saw how I met Mel Brooks.

In real time news, I swallowed a huge chip from one of my canine teeth last night while eating hard, sourdough pretzels. At first, I thought maybe a piece of pretzel was stuck to my tooth, feeling all jagged-like. But, then I realize it was my tooth. By this point, it was too late-- I had already swallowed my chip. Then I proceeded to throw a temper tantrum. "It's not fair! I brush my teeth AT LEAST three times a day AND floss!!! And, I don't smoke or drink soda!" I know why it happened. I have been grinding and clenching my teeth since I was a toddler. I have another crack in one of my back molars from the same thing. It torques open when I eat sometimes. And, it hurts enough to make me wanna drop whatever I am holding. Because I never had braces and have pretty fine looking teeth (which receive great care), I was always convinced I'd trip and fall during my drunken days, cracking off my front teeth. Now, I thought I was safe. Someone told me it was a sign that I am getting old. And, I guess I realize, despite my preemptive measures, it will just be me and Old Chopper one day. I am more concerned how these events are influencing my bite mark impressions.

The State of Affairs

I was told never to discuss politics, religion, or money with strangers. Well, let's get this out of the way now. I am a non-practicing Catholic, considering myself mostly agnostic. Now, on to money! My father once told me NEVER ask how much a man (or woman) earns for a living. Because, it will either make you feel bad or him feel bad. Of course, my father didn't tell me that part. He gives you the meat and you have to trim the fat yourself. So, that said, I make no more or less than any one I know. Because, I don't know how much other people make. I don't pay attention to other people's finances. I pay attention to the coming and going in this house. Sometimes, well mostly, it goes as fast as it comes. And, the failing market with its inevitable bail out? We had nothing to lose before it all went down, so we lost nothing. However, the prospect of paying for other's loss is infuriating. I understand the stock market exists to give deserving and needy business that extra boost it needs. But, I do not for one minute believe there is any investor (since Mr. Ross died) investing out of some sense of altruism or patriotic belief in the growth of capitalism. Those who invest have the extra money to invest. Meaning, they don't need to roll pennies to buy a loaf of bread. So, they have it to begin with... and they want more.

Or the retirement funds? I don't want to be a 70 year old either pitchin' plates like a crypt-keepin' Flo at Mel's Dinor [sic] or a stealin' cat food from the Dollar Store for dinner retiree. Either way... more is more! I wish upon entering the feeble years you could just pitch your accomplishments and contributions to an unbiased, unaffiliated council and go free range in some sort of Pleasant Ridge interment camp. I think my idea of retirement homes is a bit skewed, though. I have the nightmare of urine-stinking hallways filled with rambling wheelchair bound residents, pushing themselves back and forth by the heels like battery charged Matchbox cars on a circular track. That vision is nicely balanced out by all the Duplex Planets I have read.

Speaking of work, as you may have read in my last ventilation, I can not stand nor understand corporate retail. I have finally decided after all these year of thinking hard work, a level-head & logic, pride, and stamina were to be continually pursued-- I am completely out of step with the rest of the current US workforce. Example, a woman who shows up early for every shift, who works hard her entire shift, and who stays late if asked has been told she will be fired if she accepts one more out of date coupon. No, not me. However, the former burned out Meth head who doesn't show up and doesn't even bother to call, who has to sit on a stool her entire shift because she has a self-diagnosis blood clot in her leg, and who continues to whine about work although she is sitting on a stool her entire shift doesn't suffer any consequences of her behavior. NONE! Not a one! Whhhhhaaaaahhhh? I know this is a crazy mixed up world, but really? Really? Really. I can collect scrap metal. Or I can... anything is better than corporate retail.

Things at the restaurant are still going really well. I think my husband likes it when I come home smelling like braised lamb shank. I got my youngest sister a job with me. It's funny, although she is twenty now, I still feel like I need to watch over her. Like, if a someone addresses her, I'll walk over and say, "What's going on now?" It's gotta be a bit irritating to her. However, I am almost seventeen years older than her-- and, she will always be the baby out of us six kids. So, don't mess with her or we'll all clobber you!Okay, I mean, our brothers will clobber you. By the time sissy was walking on her own two feet, I was out of the house and out of town. So, I never really spent a whole lot of time with her as she grew up. I'm glad to have some time with her. Hopefully, I can show her what an ass I have made of myself during various phases of my life to keep her from doing the same. But, I guess we all have to be an ass when the time comes.

My sister and I also had a nice talk about parenting. I brought up the pendulum theory. She and I have different mothers. She wasn't allowed to leave the state unchaperoned by an adult until she graduated high school. I, on the other hand, was going to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in seedy Cleveland bars with a fake ID at the age of fourteen. Dead shows in Wisconsin at the age of sixteen. Etc, etc. So, now I know I will be a hammer when it comes to the girls. Their dad and I have been around the block a few times. We are very familiar with the gutter around the block as well. It is a frightening prospect because I also understand the more strict you are the more likely your children will rebel. But, you say, all those harsh times made you who you are today, a soft and cuddly kitten. Don't my girls deserve that opportunity to completely screw up the first thirty some years of their life, too? No. No, they don't. Also, I plan on having the girls learn a trade before going of the college.

The Cold War and the Peter Principle

I recently sent a compact disc to Russia. It was purchased/won in an Ebay auction I had posted. For some reason, I can't help but to speculate about the bidders in the auctions I post-- the basic demographic. Who has disposable income these days? What's their zip code? Does it look like they live in an apartment or are they possibly a home owner? No, I don't have too much time on my hands. My brain is just constantly folding over on itself like that.

Like when I see gum on the floor and I wonder, " What flavor is that? Did someone accidentally drop it? Or spit it out? What kind of person spits their gum out?" Or, "Hmmm, is that package is on the floor because the cardboard wasn't strong enough to support the product from the tiny hole used for hanging it on a peg? Or did someone try to aggressively put the package back? Carelessly?" And, "Why is this person walking so slowly in front of me? Are they lazy or do they have a physical handicap? Don't they hear me behind them? Can't they move over? Are they deaf?"

So, I am thinking about the amount of money this Russian guy paid for CD I almost gave away to the City Mission. And, wow, I think the Russian economy has been really out shining the US economy. And, what a bunch of crap we feed the rest of the world in our fight against communism or former embracers of communism, supporting the Grand Ol' Flag and Democracy... I mean capitalism. Since we watched the Wall fall, we get to watch our arch enemies do what we do better than we do. Or are they simply more corrupt and, therefore, more successful? Do they not care about the widening gaps between classes? No, because before the USSR only had two or three classes: government officials, individuals with ties to the government, and the rest of the stinking, starving masses. Only difference now is the stinking masses have heat for two more days a year and possibly a TV. And, you should realize I have no idea what the everyday citizen in Russia has or has not. I'm just creating wild generalizations like any good Liberty embracing American should do about something they are less than informed about. The point? The Russians with all their dollars wrapped up in their domestic investments, celebrating rising employment, and an overall surging economy must think it is absolutely hilarious what we've done to our own economy and are so glad they've maintained a healthy relationship with China (the lenders of the Great American Mortgage).

Sure, I took a month or so of Russian back in college. It is buried next to the German, Spanish, and French I do not use. And, yes, I was horrified when the manager at the bookstore where I used to work had no idea who Karl Marx was. And, yes, I am a big fan of the writer Nikolai Gogol. However, I do not consider myself a "commie" or a "red". I mean, hell! I am convinced I was a cowboy in one of my past lives since I love coffee and bacon for breakfast so much! But, I didn't mind seeing Putin with his shirt off. And, even though I'm no longer entertaining any idea of voting for the crazy heart attack on legs, McCain, I would love to have a wizened, savvy president with a menacing snarl like Putin.

Speaking of the economy, have you ever wondered where the chaos begins? Well, many of you living on the Great Lakes are very familiar with water spouts-- swirling with force, picking up water only to toss it about, and dancing across the surface with no real purpose except for trying to maintain its own existence. That, my fellow citizens, is management in corporate retail. I have had the pleasure of working for small business owners most of my life. That too has it's own fistfuls of razor wire. However, I recommend it over corporate retail. I think I might recommend panhandling over corporate retail at this point.

Corporate retail thrives on a few things like poor time management, wasted resources (staff), and high turn over. During a phone call with my Uncle David, my one-time atheist Godfather, I shared with him some of my recent revelations. One was this: if you stick it out long enough in corporate retail, you will move into a higher position by default whether or not you possess any skill sets appropriate for the job. He told me about the Peter Principle. Amazing. Just amazing. Conversely, I have also noticed you get "punished" with more responsibility than your pay reflects if you do these simple things: show up for work on time, do not call off or not show up without calling, and actually seek out the activity of working during your paid shift at work. I do these things. These are things I assumed were just what you do when you work. Not the case in corporate retail. The deltas don't think they are being compensated well enough, so the deltas do nothing. I always figured before you start your employ, you are told the responsibilities and the correlating wage. At that point, you make a decision. After that point, you perform the tasks outlined as your responsibilities and then get financially reimbursed for your time. If you choose (like myself) to do more because you can't sit around catching flies in your gaping maw, you do so under the advisement there may or may not be an further reward or recognition except your own pride and satisfaction. These views have repeatedly put me in the position of the hard-ass, exasperated freak in the workplace. But, I still can't convince myself I'm wrong.

I have very similar views to nepotism in the bureaucratic arena. But, I don't wanna dig into the secretaries' pool today. There are also those steaming hot piles of EOE controversy in the white collar world. So, I will save the story about the woman (I make no reference to race, religion, age, or physical ability) who was completely inept at her middle management job. She couldn't perform any of the analysis work necessary. And, if she tried to perform the analysis work necessary when not surfing the web her entire shift, she would screw it up so completely and nearly cost the company millions, yes, MILLIONS of dollars. Well, her boss couldn't fire her in fear of legal battles up the whazoo. So, you know what the company recommended? A promotion! They moved her out of the department to a higher salary! Long story short, she was as equally inept at that job, too. She ended up where she started. And, I'm sure she is just biding her time there 'til she can suck the sauce off the juicy rib I call her pension plan. How do I know this? She was a co-worker of mine. A co-work who loved leaving me lists of things that didn't get done on her time, but needed to be competed on my time. But, I've let that all go now. Well, until I think about it again.

Halloween costume? Misogynist!

This year for Halloween, I will be dressed as a cook. I will be going to a Halloween party in the kitchen of Pie in the Sky cafe. Meaning: I'll be working. For a moment I got all jazzed up with the idea of the girls trucking around the neighborhood in their little red wagon. But, then Matt and I discussed the idea of losing a third of my student loan payment versus the girls having no idea what the hell is going on and being too little to eat any candy. So, again, I'll be working. No, I won't be dressed up, seeing I do not wish to catch a wig on fire while grilling up a tuna steak.

Sure, I used to love Halloween. The challenge of the costume! As Bonnie Parker or as stereotypical trailer trash or as a dead Laura Palmer or as an IRA catholic school girl or as Pris from Blade Runner or, my favorite, as The West Nile Virus.

Now, I am not sure what holiday I love. Actually, I think holidays are simply the tools of the labor unions anymore. Well, seeing my kids get excited about a room full of wrapping paper, gift bags, and empty boxes is heart-warming. However, having people in my home, even people I love, makes me edgy.

Thinking about the Catholic school girl costume I wore for twelve years of my life reminds me of one thing. Somewhere along the line, I think it was the four years at an all girls' Catholic high school, I became a misogynist. During those years, I had ONE close friend in that House of Mary. Robbe. And, we would spend time pretending to walk in slow motion down the hallways or quoting slapstick Westerns, "Don't put beans on table." Other than that, I didn't eat in the cafeteria. Well, I guess I had to at least once since I was caught setting a fire atop one of the tables while tryng to illustrate a point. Anyway, the point? I hated it! It seriously made me suicidal! But, then I discovered drugs and being alienated was more of a choice than an affliction.

I've always had this image of myself like a B-movie sci-fi creature. A pulsating brain with googly eyes. Just strolling around, taking it all in. Oh, the ugliness that lies in the hearts of teenage women! Watching girls beat each other with their shoes because one girl's guy gave his phone number to the other girl. But, we learn and grow, right? Nah, the majority of women are fundamentally catty, clique-y, self-hating, self-important, and vapid. And, these qualities do not mature of age. They are honed and used like knives.

I will, however, admit I do have some spectacular female friends. Most of which are also misogynists and act like they have bigger cajones than a sex-starved bull.

I overheard this the other day, "Did you see Sex in the City movie yet? I cried at the end!" That person deserves to be treated as an object. Yes, I've seen five minutes of one episode. And, I instantly hated every character.

I am starting to think similar things about vegetarians. But, I will hold off on any snap judgements. Right! No really, I do have some vegetarian friends. And, it is a let's agree to disagree situation, because I refuse to have scripted arguments about food.

As, I plated up a beautiful mound of grilled pork chops with a mustard-apricot glaze, a waitress said to me, "Those look delicious. But, now I know what they do to get the meat from that pig, I can't eat it."

My reply, "Do you know why God put pigs on the planet? (pause... waiting for a response... but getting none). "For me to eat."