Champagne, champagne, champagne. Maybe it's growing up in the village (or Alaska in general), but I've never drank champagne before. It seems so mysterious, and high class. Something you'd drink at a benefit ball, or something you'd expect Bruce Wayne to show up at. So, for me, I associate chapagne with special occasions, basically. Well, special occasions and high society, but like I said, this is Alaska, so we only have special occasions (and those usually aren't especially special).
This may not be special for most other people, but it's definitley special for me. So, I have champage stashed away for the big night. The first night. My first night. In my new place. (Well, OUR place, if Emily's reading. And she's pretty much the only person who reads this, sooo...) That's right, I'm starting to grow up, and finally getting out. Not that living with my parents is awful, but really, I refuse to be the "failure to launch" guy. I'm independant, I think a lot of people will tell you that. (Or am I incredibly DEpendant? I can never remember...)
It surprises me that we've already done so much. We've got the deposit on the place already- it's ours as soon as we get the 1st months rent together (and by "we" I mean "me", since Emily already paid for the deposit). Am I scared? Yeah. A little. I mean, this is a big step. But I'm mostly just excited, and optimistic. I think me and Emily work well together. You'd think our personalities would clash, but they actually just compliment eachother. We're like Will&Grace (except she's the gay man, and I'm the jew).
All in all, I'm counting down till Friday. Three days of work, and then payday, and then apartment-time. Hoo-rah.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
I'll Cut A Bitch
As a friend, you get to take certain liberties. For example, when one of my friends says "fag", I know they're kidding, and I laugh. When someone I don't know says "fag", I assume they're bigots and hold it against them, even if they're not really discriminating against anyone. As my friend, most people have learned that: A) I'm an asshole, B) I'm constantly joking, and C) I have quite the potty mouth. Quite a few of them know where I work, enough of them know how hard it is for me to keep a job, and a couple of them know I love my job. Really, I do. As far as jobs go, mine is the shit. I get to work with awesome people, I get to make and eat delicious food, and I get to make money everyday.
So, when someone I consider my friends threatens my livelihood, I'm a little worried. No, that's not right- I'm PISSED. You're my friend, coming to my place of work, so I treat you like a friend. Really, if you wanted to be treated like a customer, act like you're a customer and maybe don't go to the cafe you used to work at where everyone knows you. Simple enough, right? You were correct, what I said was unproffesional, and if there were other customers around, I wouldn't have said it. But you know what? There weren't. And given the situation, I don't think it's beyond me to expect you to come to me before you go to my boss. You know, a little, "Hey, what you said wasn't very professional/made me feel uncomfortable/was rude."
Instead, I recieved a warning for my behavior. Behavior I would have never shown to a customer I didn't PERSONALLY know and didn't consider a friend. Well, I won't have to worry about that anymore. Because, obviously, we're not friends, so I don't need to treat you as such. I'll treat you like a customer if I see you at work, and I'll treat you like scum anywhere else. Because I can't have people I can't trust right now, I have too much going on. I've got school to worry about, and getting a place, and I have people counting on me, so I don't have the energy to listen to your loud mouth berate ME.
P.S. Didn't you get fired for being severely unprofessional ALL THE TIME?
So, when someone I consider my friends threatens my livelihood, I'm a little worried. No, that's not right- I'm PISSED. You're my friend, coming to my place of work, so I treat you like a friend. Really, if you wanted to be treated like a customer, act like you're a customer and maybe don't go to the cafe you used to work at where everyone knows you. Simple enough, right? You were correct, what I said was unproffesional, and if there were other customers around, I wouldn't have said it. But you know what? There weren't. And given the situation, I don't think it's beyond me to expect you to come to me before you go to my boss. You know, a little, "Hey, what you said wasn't very professional/made me feel uncomfortable/was rude."
Instead, I recieved a warning for my behavior. Behavior I would have never shown to a customer I didn't PERSONALLY know and didn't consider a friend. Well, I won't have to worry about that anymore. Because, obviously, we're not friends, so I don't need to treat you as such. I'll treat you like a customer if I see you at work, and I'll treat you like scum anywhere else. Because I can't have people I can't trust right now, I have too much going on. I've got school to worry about, and getting a place, and I have people counting on me, so I don't have the energy to listen to your loud mouth berate ME.
P.S. Didn't you get fired for being severely unprofessional ALL THE TIME?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Small Town
Once upon a time, I had a best friend who was smart, bold, headstrong, and kind. She was fun, and we used to be close. She told me stories about her boyfriends, told me all of her complaints and shared with me all of the secret couple-things they did. As time passed, she grew more accustomed to the life she had chosen- that of living in a small village. A village where petty gossip caused tidal storms of drama, and the people fed off of the drama like insects. Some stood out amongst the buzzing of the insect wings- butterflies amongst vile scavengers. They were destined to drift on the winds, though some became trapped in the small town, like flypaper, and some would spend the last of their days in that small, sad town.
Once upon a time, my best friend stood out. She was different- open minded, loving, sweet. Then she fell in love- not with a person, but with the small town. She wanted to live a rough-and-tumble life, cutting her own firewood and drinking whiskey around a bonfire. Over time, she became petty and cruel, morphing from a butterfly to a housefly. She surrounded herself in gossip, allowing it to feed her and poison her, to change her into everyone she used to hate. She allowed herself to believe any scrap of "truth" that passed someone's lips, her antenna twitching at the mere mention of an interesting tidbit here and there.
Once upon a time, I knew a boy who lied. Not to hurt, not to scheme, just to lie. For pity, for friends, maybe even for love. He was also kind, and protective of his friends, and he would always listen when you needed it. He wasn't a bad person, just a lonely one. One day the boy who lied moved to the same town as the girl who was petty. It wasn't long until they would fall in love...
Once upon a time, the boy who lied and the petty girl fell in love, or the closest thing to it. They spent every possible moment with eachother, and for a while, it was good. Then, it became dangerous. The petty girl had spent too much time in the village, had grown too petty, and could neither trust nor believe the boy who lied. In a place where people fed off lies and drama, they were a match made in hell.
Once upon a time, I was best friends with a girl who became petty, who fell in love with the boy who lied. I was close with both of them, and I spent all my freetime with them, and then I told them the truth. "You're too dependant on eachother," I told the petty girl, "Perhaps you should take a step back to look at your relationship?" But she would have none of it, and cast me out of her sight. She trusted me no longer, and because she wanted nothing to do with me, the boy who lied was not allowed to be my friend, either.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who lied and a petty girl, and that was it. They had no friends, because the petty girl either didn't like you or she didn't trust you, and the boy who lied did whatever she told him to. They talked about people, and she thought she was better than everyone else while he wished he didn't love her so much. And that's the end of this tale, happily never after.
Once upon a time, my best friend stood out. She was different- open minded, loving, sweet. Then she fell in love- not with a person, but with the small town. She wanted to live a rough-and-tumble life, cutting her own firewood and drinking whiskey around a bonfire. Over time, she became petty and cruel, morphing from a butterfly to a housefly. She surrounded herself in gossip, allowing it to feed her and poison her, to change her into everyone she used to hate. She allowed herself to believe any scrap of "truth" that passed someone's lips, her antenna twitching at the mere mention of an interesting tidbit here and there.
Once upon a time, I knew a boy who lied. Not to hurt, not to scheme, just to lie. For pity, for friends, maybe even for love. He was also kind, and protective of his friends, and he would always listen when you needed it. He wasn't a bad person, just a lonely one. One day the boy who lied moved to the same town as the girl who was petty. It wasn't long until they would fall in love...
Once upon a time, the boy who lied and the petty girl fell in love, or the closest thing to it. They spent every possible moment with eachother, and for a while, it was good. Then, it became dangerous. The petty girl had spent too much time in the village, had grown too petty, and could neither trust nor believe the boy who lied. In a place where people fed off lies and drama, they were a match made in hell.
Once upon a time, I was best friends with a girl who became petty, who fell in love with the boy who lied. I was close with both of them, and I spent all my freetime with them, and then I told them the truth. "You're too dependant on eachother," I told the petty girl, "Perhaps you should take a step back to look at your relationship?" But she would have none of it, and cast me out of her sight. She trusted me no longer, and because she wanted nothing to do with me, the boy who lied was not allowed to be my friend, either.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who lied and a petty girl, and that was it. They had no friends, because the petty girl either didn't like you or she didn't trust you, and the boy who lied did whatever she told him to. They talked about people, and she thought she was better than everyone else while he wished he didn't love her so much. And that's the end of this tale, happily never after.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
I'm sorry I'm a bitch
For years, I've owned the fact that I'm an asshole. I can be rude, dishonest, and insensitive at times that are wholly inappropriate. I made a 10 year old cry yesterday by telling her she had a butt growing out of the top of her head (and that her hairline was the crack). Yet, even with all my flaws, I know there is a line that should not be crossed. I didn't think the butt-head thing was that big of a deal, but I apologised for it anyway (and not just because she's my boss' daughter). I hurt that little girl's feelings, and while I think most people know I don't do it intentionally, it's still been known to happen. And sometimes, I step over that line. The strange thing is, I can usually feel myself doing it. I can feel myself being meaner and nastier, and while it sickens me to the stomache, sometimes I just can't stop. The words are like vomiting razor-blades, cutting you down to pieces because I'm drunk with insecurity.
Here's the truth, though, the sickening, scary truth: I'm not really much of an asshole. If I do something I regret, I usually mull it over for hours upon end, thinking of some way to make it right. Of course, I usually end up finding a way to bury it, or (in my mind) make up for it, without ever having to apologise. Somewhere along the line, I became afraid of apologies. I felt like every time I apologised for something, I was betraying myself. I was constantly questioning my own motives: "Am I apologising because I actually feel bad? Or do I just not want ____ to be mad at me?" I like pretending I'm sociopathic because then I feel less responsible. Sort of a, "Well, you know how I am, so you can't really be mad at me for acting this way." And most people seem to go for it.
I can't stand making people unhappy, though. Laughter is my defense mechanism- hell, it's my everything mechanism. I laugh when I'm sad, I laugh when I'm happy, I laugh when I'm angry. I always try to lighten the mood, and sometimes that backfires. When the dog my family had owned since I was a toddler died, I laughed because I didn't know what else to do. When my bestfriend died when I was 13, I made jokes at his funeral. I haven't cried in 3 years, because the laughter has replaced everything else.
I'm not looking for pity, mind you. I'm just letting you know: sometimes I laugh when the moment is awkward, or inappropriate, or just plain insensitive. I probably don't mean to- it bubbles up before I can think of a better reaction- and I probably won't apologise for it (on the spot, anyway), but I hope you know I really am sorry. For anything you didn't know I was sorry about, and the stuff you won't know I'm sorry for in the future.
Here's the truth, though, the sickening, scary truth: I'm not really much of an asshole. If I do something I regret, I usually mull it over for hours upon end, thinking of some way to make it right. Of course, I usually end up finding a way to bury it, or (in my mind) make up for it, without ever having to apologise. Somewhere along the line, I became afraid of apologies. I felt like every time I apologised for something, I was betraying myself. I was constantly questioning my own motives: "Am I apologising because I actually feel bad? Or do I just not want ____ to be mad at me?" I like pretending I'm sociopathic because then I feel less responsible. Sort of a, "Well, you know how I am, so you can't really be mad at me for acting this way." And most people seem to go for it.
I can't stand making people unhappy, though. Laughter is my defense mechanism- hell, it's my everything mechanism. I laugh when I'm sad, I laugh when I'm happy, I laugh when I'm angry. I always try to lighten the mood, and sometimes that backfires. When the dog my family had owned since I was a toddler died, I laughed because I didn't know what else to do. When my bestfriend died when I was 13, I made jokes at his funeral. I haven't cried in 3 years, because the laughter has replaced everything else.
I'm not looking for pity, mind you. I'm just letting you know: sometimes I laugh when the moment is awkward, or inappropriate, or just plain insensitive. I probably don't mean to- it bubbles up before I can think of a better reaction- and I probably won't apologise for it (on the spot, anyway), but I hope you know I really am sorry. For anything you didn't know I was sorry about, and the stuff you won't know I'm sorry for in the future.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
It begins!
It's been a long time since I last blogged. I believe I was bitching about the mormons, over myspace. Oh, those crazy, crazy mormons... Anywho, welcome one and all, to the Double Standard. That's right, the Double Standard. Some of you may be wondering what I'll be posting in the Double Standard (yes, I know I've typed it out 3 times, but I totally love the title). Well, for the most part, I will use this to bitch about all the little things that bug me (people who don't tip, people who post song lyrics over facebook constantly, women drivers, that sort of thing), or post all of my crazy theories (gravity is a farce, aliens exist, and there's a ghost in the basement of River City). Every once in a while, I may decide to take the sentamentalist route, also (I love you guys!, I'm so depressed right now., or the ever popular, I'm so pissed at _____.) Of course, I'm also not big on "structure" or "planning", so my blogs could go any-which-way. Like Lost, it'll keep you guessing, and probably leave you disappointed at the end (which is also reminiscent of most people's first sexual experience... I just solved the mystery of the island!).
So, to kick things off, let's talk about blogging. That's right, I'm going to write a blog about how ridiculous and stupid blogging is. (See? The Double Standard makes sense!) In all fairness, not all blogs are awful- every so often there is that single, beautiful diamond in the ruff (like this one! or not...). And by ruff I mean heartbroken teenagers, disenchanted housewives, goth poems, faux song lyrics, and other terribly boring subjects (really? your boyfriend dumped you and now you're sad? i really don't give a fuck... or, wow, you write beautifully about killing yourself. why not just get it over with already?). Am I a terrible person for thinking this way? Possibly, but I'm also an honest one (at the moment, anyway).
The thing about blogs are they're for people who want attention (myself included, though I hardly think I need to clarify that). Sure, some people will argue that the writing is theraputic, and they may be right, but you don't need the internet to write. Journals do the exact same thing, and are much, much more private. Blogs are for people who want other people to think they're special, without actually saying that. "Wow, you write so beautifully!" or "You're so creative!" or other such emotionless drivel is usually handed out to appease someone else, while hoping you will, in turn, be commented on. And if you're not commented on, well, that's just more angsty fuel for your next gem, no?
I can already hear the screams of protest. "MY blog IS different!", which really translates into, "I'M really different! I really AM special!" Chances are, you're not. Not to everyone, anyway. Maybe you have a group of loyal readers, or friends, who read all your new blogs. Maybe you don't. Does that make you special? I think not, my dears. Then again, who am I to make that judgement? Who am I to take away the one thing that makes you special?
The Oracle of Delphi was supposedly chosen by the Gods to tell people the future. From near and far, people would go to the Oracle for advice, both commoners and kings. I chose the penname Delphi because I want to fill that role. I want to be special, I want to be revered, and I want to be right. Is that fair? Do I have that right, after putting down so many others?
...Well, I suppose that's the double standard.
So, to kick things off, let's talk about blogging. That's right, I'm going to write a blog about how ridiculous and stupid blogging is. (See? The Double Standard makes sense!) In all fairness, not all blogs are awful- every so often there is that single, beautiful diamond in the ruff (like this one! or not...). And by ruff I mean heartbroken teenagers, disenchanted housewives, goth poems, faux song lyrics, and other terribly boring subjects (really? your boyfriend dumped you and now you're sad? i really don't give a fuck... or, wow, you write beautifully about killing yourself. why not just get it over with already?). Am I a terrible person for thinking this way? Possibly, but I'm also an honest one (at the moment, anyway).
The thing about blogs are they're for people who want attention (myself included, though I hardly think I need to clarify that). Sure, some people will argue that the writing is theraputic, and they may be right, but you don't need the internet to write. Journals do the exact same thing, and are much, much more private. Blogs are for people who want other people to think they're special, without actually saying that. "Wow, you write so beautifully!" or "You're so creative!" or other such emotionless drivel is usually handed out to appease someone else, while hoping you will, in turn, be commented on. And if you're not commented on, well, that's just more angsty fuel for your next gem, no?
I can already hear the screams of protest. "MY blog IS different!", which really translates into, "I'M really different! I really AM special!" Chances are, you're not. Not to everyone, anyway. Maybe you have a group of loyal readers, or friends, who read all your new blogs. Maybe you don't. Does that make you special? I think not, my dears. Then again, who am I to make that judgement? Who am I to take away the one thing that makes you special?
The Oracle of Delphi was supposedly chosen by the Gods to tell people the future. From near and far, people would go to the Oracle for advice, both commoners and kings. I chose the penname Delphi because I want to fill that role. I want to be special, I want to be revered, and I want to be right. Is that fair? Do I have that right, after putting down so many others?
...Well, I suppose that's the double standard.
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