Unrelatable

I was watching my sisters watching TV. I watched Randy Jackson, some guy from Aerosmith, and some chick judging American Idol. The Aerosmith guy and the woman both looked really fake and ugly. Randy looked normal but the words he said seemed fake and contrived for the purpose of the show. I watched the audience members as they laughed, cheered, and any other responses to the judges and the contestant. But I couldn't see myself relating to these people. Sometimes I wondered if the thousands of people in the crowd realized that the judges were symbols and not real people. That they're actors and actresses; that they're a company. In the same way that a psychiatrist diagnoses more drugs to patients they haven't gotten emotionally in contact with because they've been paid for by the drug company, the judges act in a way that the directors want them to.

I'm upset I cannot relate myself to these actors and I wonder if that's a problem I should be concerned with. I wonder if the people watching know this and mentally acknowledge it, but go along because it's fun. I don't find it fun, in the same way I don't find acting for speech team about something I'm insincere about isn't fun for me. This is a personal taste; for some reason I have a big problem with trying to convince people I'm someone I'm not, even when I'm doing it for something as intentional and appropriate as a speech competition. I want to be myself to all people at all times. I want my actions to be based on the same judgment system that I would regardless of the crowd of people around me. I want what I feel on the inside of my head while laying down in bed or in the shower to be what I express throughout the day at school. But I don't feel it like I do. I feel like I live in the moment and I'm just a machine reacting to stimuli. I feel like I'm Randy Jackson, saying things to appease people for the sake of money and fame.

The worse thing is I don't know if I'm like this or not. I can't carry a camera around taking into account my actions without reacting different because of the camera. I may be myself throughout the day, in fact, I may be a greater person that I believe myself to be, but I'm too self critical to acknowledge it. I feel like I should run decisions through a machine of "should I do this or not?" but then wouldn't I be systematic? Wouldn't I just be acting as the tan, highschool girl whose dad took her cell phone away for the week, in other words, fake?

It makes me wonder what life would be like if people weren't fake. I like when people are well groomed, smell nice, are clean and what not, but people take it too far to have to spend hours preparing what they look like, intentionally (or unintentionally) completely changing their decision making process depending on who's around her. What if people dressed like themselves, held the truth before emotion, and were sincere in what they said? I hate having to type that; I feel like the broken teenage girl that complains about a boyfriend who cheated on her. But I'm not a teenage girl and no one has cheated on me; I don't want fake people because I hate them. I can't relate to them. I don't even consider them human. They say Nazis were able to kill the other "races" because the Nazi government dehumanized the other "races" to make their killing seem like nothing more than the slaying of cattle. I can't develop normal relationships with these kind of people. I can't love people who beg to be accepted.

There are a hand full of people I know who are themselves around everyone, but that's a relative statement. What if someone isn't like that of how they act in their head? What my whole conception of a person's personality is based on a fake personality? How can I trust the people I know?

This probably seems rather nihilistic, and I admit I'm making things sound worse for me than they are. I'm not feeling well, about a lot of people. I look at the Homecoming pictures of this year and I hate most the people I'm standing by. These people; I don't think I ever knew them. I think I only knew what they wanted me to know of them. I think the problem here in on my end. I think my view of how relationships work and how friendship functions is skewed. Maybe I'm wrong- maybe Randy Jackson is being himself when he talks on American Idol. Maybe I am myself in front of others and the only reason I think I don't is critical analysis of myself. Maybe I should calm down; maybe I should just sit in front of the TV and absorb everything I hear and become one with the people who I feel so unrelated to. But I feel like if I associate myself, and try to change myself to fit these people, then in essence I'm surrendering my own will.

Thanks for reading.

Things at my desk

1. A notebook being used as a mousepad. It has a drawing of Kurt Cobain aiming a shotgun at a blue portal with an orange portal behind him. It's a joke for those who have played the game Portal... the actual photo is pretty impressive if I do say so myself. The paper from the notebook works unusually well as a mousepad.

2. Cell phone in its charger. I'd take it out, but the cell phone's battery is broken since it took a ride in the washing machine. Now it only works directly with power from an outlet. I've been texting my pal Lucy and my mother, who asks me if I've had dinner.

3. 2 Plates. I had dinner.

4. My iPod, with its cords tangled up securely so in that they don't get messed up. Untangling them takes an obnoxiously long time.

5. 2 empty Sprite Cans. There's no recycling can in my room, only a garbage. And being environmentally friendly, I shouldn't just throw them in their lazily. They'll make their way to the recycling bin sometime.

6. World of Warcraft "Know your Lore" calendar. I got it for Christmas. It's a lot more exciting than it sounds.

7. Broken electronic puppy. I got him at SEARS a few days before Christmas when we were buying our Christmas tree. I carried him around throughout the store because he was the only puppy that wasn't bought (probably because he was broken). My mom bought him for some reason, despite her unusually buying me anything. When you press his paw, he shakes his head and woofs Deck the Halls, and pushes his legs back and then jumps forward. He also has a Christmas hat. The thing is, there isn't enough traction on his hind legs, so when he tries to lead back and jump forward, he just jumps to the side. He's adorable nonetheless, and some day he'll be a full grown electric dog.

8. A printer. Pretty generic. On top of it is the calendar and one of the two plates.

9. GameInformer magazine I'm yet to read. It's sitting in the printer where you'd normally put blank paper. I'll read it eventually.

10. 2 empty Pretzel bags. They're my favorite thing to snack on while on the computer. Granted, I could throw them out, but I'll do that later as well.

11. Birthday balloons. They surround my desk. I got them on December 6th for my birthday, and some of them have lost most their helium, so they are weighing down the stronger ones. It looks a little pathetic.

That would be what's on my desk. Feel free to do this as well. I want to do more with Innovatory Thesis now. I don't want to use this blog as a space to keep all my information so I can nostalgically weep upon it in the future. The next blog post I have I want to include all the things in life I won't be able to experience because of prereq things that I didn't choose.

Thanks for reading.

Wrapping up idea for a story

This blog will not have an introduction. It will begin now and will have never not existed.

So Jessie, I only read 10 pages of your book you're writing, and though I sometimes had a hard time
interpreting your hand writing, it made me nostalgia quite a while back to when I was in 5th grade, and how I was writing a "fantasy novel" of a lost boy in a troublesome world who wielded a spiked mace. I remember it very vaguely, however, I do remember that at the end of the year, it was some thirty pages, and by the time the year had ended, I had shuffled my folders into the school's recycling bin, all but my "creative writing" folder wherein I left my writings (redundant).

Now of course I was a fifth grader, and even now I see myself as a little dyslexic and unorganized despite how I am in comparison to others. Infact, I had to proofread the last sentence because I put a "k" in the word "now." Last year during study hall, Tiffany Spuck and I would pass notes, friendily communicating and learning about each other and making her laugh and making her scream and hit me, all depending on what I said. Not along ago I was digging out my collection of papers where I keep my money when I found a piece of paper we had talked once. I read it, and I instantly sympathized for Tiffany for having to interpret my indecipherable sentences, where I mixed up words, added letters to similarly sounding words, and even rearranged sentences. No wonder she thought I was a little special. That's how dyslexic I feel I am, even though I'm not diagnosed with dyslexia, and I gotta give it to those people who actually have it. I have it bad enough as it is.

But what does me being dyslexic have to do with anything? Well, odds were that I misplaced my thirty-some page story because I placed it in the wrong folder. And that wrong folder was discarded and put in a recycling bid that was collected by older kids and cut into small pieces and reharvested into new, clean pieces of paper. Though the molecules and chemicals that made up my story still exist, it's simply their disorganization that makes my old story unreadable. I cannot remember much about that story. I do remember that the boy woke up on a very foggy planet (How generic!). He talked with round creatures that were very intelligent. He had a mace, and for some reason he fell down a hole, and used his mace to dig into the side of the hole as he fell, so he wouldn't fall indefinitely (You see, this was a very wide hole that went down forever. I doubt the physics of this novel would emulate realistically in real life, but then again nothing I ever plan out in my head happens in real life the way I insinuated).

So Jessie, you convinced me to revive my writing inspiration by letting me read the beginning to your story. It is not the adventure of my fictional child in an innovatory environment, but instead it will be pieced with themes and thesis that show intelligent comparisons of human morality and the behavior of children. What the hell did I just say? Let me elaborate.

The story is going to be able a character, I am not sure of this person's sex or his/her name, who represents a role in a product producing company that uses the suffering of a kind of people as a resource for their products. I am not sure about the logistics of the storyline or motifs. I was thinking that the products could be a shoe product or make up or perfume. I was thinking that the company would be forcefully taking bone marrow in order to add specific colors to the perfume/shoe/make up, and that the taking of this bone marrow would be completely unnecessary for product reaction, but merely a phenotypical chroma in the product. But the company wants to sell! The company wants the product to be this specific color, at the expense of the minority group that is having their bone marrow transfusingly removed from their bodies, as their immune systems fail and their bodies become victim to disease.

Some motifs of the novel would be the color of the product. I want the reader to hate the color of the product. This color (what it is I am not sure, probably teal), would be emulated in this book as disgusting, as an epitome of all things evil. This won't be easy, but it'll be fun. I'll need a lot of spare time. But hey, I'm pretty bored of the video games I play and I'm on Thanksgiving break, so I'll keep you guys posted.

What's happening with me this week? Not much other than Thanksgiving. I have to go to my mother's mother's house and my father's mother's house for Thanksgiving dinners on Thursday and Friday. Those times will hopefully serve as times for me to write creatively. No guarantees. I also would love to see George and maybe have him over, and I'd like to spend time with Emily, if we can only set up a time and a place.

So yeah, have a crappy break, I hope your house burns down.

Jacob


(Also, if you see any grammatical/dyslexic mistakes, do tell me, I'd only love to fix them)