Thy name is Adobe.
My parents went to see Into Darkness tonight, before I’ve had a chance to plan when I’ll even be able to go. So naturally I filled my mother in on whatever basics she needed to know to watch it properly. But mostly, I told her all about Benedict Cumberbatch (I had to refer to him as “the bad guy”/”the dreamy bad guy”) and how, with any luck, he will be her future son-in-law/the father of her distant grandchildren, or else she most likely will get no son-in-laws from me. I think it mostly made her mad. Because she knows it’s so pathetically— disturbingly— close to true.
So I talked to her again tonight. Of course my first question, which I asked with undeniable excitement, was, “Did you see Benedict?!” Her answer was somehow offensive, but, in retrospect, predictable. She said that they thought I had Benedict mixed up with “the Captain.”
Once more for charm and effect.
I made it very clear to her beforehand that Kirk was pretty. Beautiful, even. But what else can you expect when Chris Hemsworth and Jennifer Morrison produce a child? But I would eagerly take the talented, deep, unique, brilliant, elegant, (and…yeah, British) less conventionally attractive guy over some blonde pretty boy any day. This has always been my preference, in one form or another.
How can she still not know or understand me at all? I’ve tried to reach out. I think I just want to be accepted or respected by my parents or something. Wtf is that? I’m a semi grown-up. I know that once it all boils down, you really just have to accept/embrace yourself. I am the only person I really have to answer to at the end of the day. I can grasp this logically. I understand it. But still there is this unrelenting thirst or desperation for acceptance that is much too strong of a drive in my life. The constant urge to prove to her that I am “good enough” as who I am, that just because I’m not generic or traditional or complacent (or her. or my sister), doesn’t mean that I am “bad.” This is a losing battle, I know that deep down. I need to harness the maturity to let it go. To no longer need validation from people who, if we were strangers and not family, I would never befriend or identify or associate with.
She just calls me “interesting,” which under most circumstances would cause me to blush in appreciation. But she doesn’t mean it the way I would mean it. From her, it’s hardly a compliment; a double-edged sword at best. Or she says I’m too smart for my own good. That one stabs, because I know it’s true… And it’s much less about her calling me intelligent than it is her way of saying she thinks I’m odd or dysfunctional…or just. totally. lost.
Woaaah, there. girl……
This post genuinely started as another pro-Benedict rant, but has somehow evolved into an ugly avalanche of emotional baggage only suited to tumble and crash safely behind the smug, thick doors of a highly qualified therapist’s office.
You have my apologies, my flowers (again, that’s my pet name for all of you collectively). I’m hoping that most of you scrolled past this entry upon seeing the sheer length I can only assume it has now achieved. If you didn’t, I hope your attentiveness is not the result of the same primal appetite that goads people to peruse carnival freak shows, but because you can somehow relate to what I have so impulsively typed. Being able to identify with someone or something in its likeness is the most necessary component in connecting with someone or something beyond yourself.
And maybe that’s what this accidental tirade has really been about, at its very basic core…
Even the happiest of people carry the weight of the yearning to feel less alone.
You know those people who don’t put trash bags/liners in their trash cans?
What in the hell?
The Mars Volta - With Twilight as My Guide
When my quill begins to squirm
from the ashes in your urn,
your deviance is anything but faithful.
My devil makes me dream
like no other mortal dreams.
With a blank eye corner,
the only way to see him,
in the tunnel where he slept
by the longest tusk of corridors.
Numb below the neck.
Welcome to my blog. Where tags are of more substance than the posts they’re attached to. And everything ends with a preposition, it.
♫ BAYBEH, ooo I like-a be-a kissed by a rose on the nose
I’m probably wrong about the “exact” lyrics, yes. But it’s stuck hard in my head and this is how I sing it for life.