Thoughtbytes - Take 2

As you may recall, I recently had some technical issues withthis blog. Subsequently, “Rewrite blog post” has been on my To Do list every day since then. Since the Unfortunate Event occurred a week ago, clearly this task has become problematic.

Actually, it’s not the task; it’s my brain. (Stupid Brain Weasels*!)

See, I realized that I’m actually resentful of the site for eating my post. And because I’m Quite Contrary, withholding my bloggy goodness is apparently how this resentment manifests. (Let’s not get into the ridiculousness of resenting an inanimate object, OK? I know it’s silly, but there are my FEELS we’re talking about, internets; they’re not rational by definition.)

So, in the spirit of getting back on the blogging horse (yeesh, mixed metaphors much?), here’s my attempt to recreate last week’s thoughtbyte post.

·         How does a thing called a Burnt Ends Sandwich have any right to taste that good? I mean, the words “burnt” and “ends” together are the sole descriptors of said sandwich. How could that possibly be tasty? But clearly it was… ohhhh, Gates BBQ, I love you so.

·         This love of Gates is yet one more indicator that I am not a Texan, even though I’ve spent more than 30 years here. Texas BBQ? Blech. Too sweet. Give me tangy, vinegary sauce every time.

·         It is, in fact, possible to be funnel caked into submission when you don’t even purchase a funnel cake. Just add 3 friends who each needs her Very Own Funnel Cake, and the willingness to help out when they each in turn admit they can’t finish on their own. (What can I say? I’m a giver!)

·         Apparently, the answer to the question, “Do I really need a third sugar skull t-shirt?” is a resounding “YES!” when said skull is covered in glitter. On a related note, *GLITTER BOMB!* (Sorry, Julian…)

·         Speaking of sugar skulls (like ya do), the group I sing with has been invited to sing for some talented, tap dancing kids at their Halloween show. To look appropriately spooky, we decided on sugar skull make up. I not only get to wear sugar skulls, I get to BE a sugar skull! This makes my not-so-inner Goth girly do some very un-Goth-like squeebling.

·         We’re also learning Donovan’s “Season of the Witch.” Because the Diva knows/loves me, she asked me to sing lead. This led to me squeebling some more. (I know, I know… I love Gothy oontz-oontz stuff, but I also have huge love in my heart for 60s psychedelia. I’m a conundrum.)

Seriously Cthulhu-esque. innit?

·     Went to the Chihuly exhibit at the Dallas Arboretum. It was a lovely event for a friend's milestone birthday. (On Thursdays they do live music on the lawn; that evening featured Big Band tunes.) Some of the glass was lovely, but far too much seemed Lovecraft-inspired. I kept expecting to see an eyeball looking at me, right before it came to life and gobbled humanity whole. 

Me & my Mom-Away-From-Mom
at the Arboretum

      I did, however, manage to use the Big Band theme to try out my Rosie the Riveter look. (Hey, it was humid and I have really sad flat hair on a good day, so it was more of a practical decision than anything... though I will acknowledge my obvious love of playing period dress up games...)

·         While it’s somewhat reasonable to expect to hear the intro to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” on a bagpipe when one is at an Irish music festival, beer can, in fact, make you doubt that what you’re hearing is actually happening. And when the piper deftly launches into the hook from “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and then segues into “Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now),” beer can make you think you might be having a small stroke (at least until a compadre confirms what is going on). For the record, all of this sounded awesome even to people not drinking beer. That was one talented piper.

·         Beer also turns burly guys into Woo Girls. (Adding beer on top of a funnel cake sugar high might also facilitate this transition.) This is, as one would imagine, a veritably fountain of comedy  gold.

I’m sure there’s a thoughtbyte or two missing, but this is what I can remember. I have done my duty by posting. And hey—it got me over being angry at a Web site.

Mostly.

* Sometimes you hear people describe unhealthy, obsessive mental behavior with the “hamster in a wheel” metaphor. My brain is, apparently, an overachiever; it replaced hamsters with weasels. They’re more ferocious and a lot less cute than hamsters and when they run rampant it’s really not pretty.

Technical Difficulties

Frustrated Peg is frustrated, internets. I had a post ready to go yesterday (yes, I even hit "Save" a couple of times), but my Web Fu was defeated by... well, I don't know what. Random vagaries of post-eating Internet goblins, perhaps?

The only things saved were the blog post title - utterly unhelpful when said blog post is of the Random Thoughtbytes variety - and the tags. The pithy post apparently touched on obscure music references, Goth, random Peg factoids, 80s pop culture, wardrobe issues, alter egos, and fun with makeup. It wasn't the Bestest Bloggy Post EVAR, but I managed to eke out time to write it and then it was eaten by gremlins and now that I'm thinking about it again peeved Peg is peeved!

... and apparently in need of some woosah therapy a la Bad Boys 2.

So I will leave you lot to ponder the possible contents of The Post That Might Have Been as I woosah and contemplate trying to recreate it. I realize this is approaching folly-esque territory since it was a post based on random Aquarian mental gymnastics (yes, my brain is sort of Cirque du Soleil territory), but at this point it's sort of personal.

I find myself stubbornly unwilling to let the Internet gremlins win, you see. I might even have to write a strongly worded message out of principle.

Ah, the things we do to keep the Brain Weasels at bay...

Be well, you lot, and fear not. Your pal Peg plans posting pronto!

Holy egregious alliteration! I'mma go now....

Black Holes and Revelations*

Last Friday involved a rather harrowing event for me, internets:I had an MRI.

What's more, I didn't completely lose the rest of what passes for my mind.It may sound like a First World Problem, but trust me—it's a nigh heroic feat.

Lest you fret over the fate of yours truly, rest assured that all is well in your pal Peg's world. It was routine stuff—or at least as routine as it gets when you've had Boobonic Plague. I'm due for the usual spate of -ologists groping my bits to be sure that my breasticles aren't once again trying to kill me (not as much fun as it sounds).

Instead of a mammogram, this time my surgeon wanted an MRI. She seems like a pretty nice person; she even commented on her love for Firefly when I wore a "Shiny!" t-shirt to a check-up, so I think it's safe to assume that her reasons for this recommendation were altruistic (though the traumatic awkwardness of the experience may indicate some latent masochism lurking somewhere in her psyche).

Aside from the will-my-ample-assets-fit-in-that-narrow-tube trauma, there's the matter of being face down in a tiny space for the better part of a half hour. I've always thought of myself as a pretty strong person, internets, but I'm here to tell you that in an appallingly short time frame I would have confessed to Tweeting state secrets to the leaders of Alpha Centauri via tin foil helmet.

You see, internets, not only was I confined in the tube of doom, but I was face-down-and ass-in-the-air, with my girlie bits sticking through a couple of holes (presumably to enable scanning of said bits). The tech was as polite and professional as she could be while manhandling me to ensure optimal position (that's what SHE said!), but that's what it boils down to.

I was given a tiny face cradle similar to the one on a massage table... but unlike during a massage it wasn't open air on the other side, making it only incrementally less claustrophobic. Also, I was clearly not getting a massage out of this (not that I'm bitter). Had to keep my arms over my head, too, like some perverted cliff diver with a Rhode Island-sized ass.

The tech provided ear plugs, then gave me headphones on top of those. This was somewhat of a mixed blessing, as she asked me a couple questions when she returned. I may have agreed to some shameful things, internets; I have no idea what she said, and my non-committal un-replies could be interpreted many ways.

So... yeah. These adventures all occurred before the main event. Yee and Haw.

While I was grateful for the headphones' noise dampening qualities, the music choice was less appealing—generic light piano hits of the *insert indeterminate decade here*. This is where being an MBLF (music-based life form) created an unexpected challenge. At first, the music seemed to be your basic slightly new age piano fare, but then I'd catch a phrase that sounded hauntingly familiar. It wasn't quite enough, though, for my brain to latch on and confirm it it was a tune I knew.

This went on for a couple of minutes and in such situations you're wise to take any available recourse to help pass the time. Once I confirmed that I was actually hearing "I Will Always Love You" (couldn't recognize it without Whitney's hollering—what? Too soon? She had a wonderful voice; I just never cared for what she did with it.), I was able to turn it into a game: See How Fast You Can Figure Out the Song. Parker Brothers would never buy it, but given my limited resources... work with what you've got, right?

It doesn't sound like much of a challenge, but without lyrics and familiar instrumentation some songs were a little tricky. Then, of course, I realized that I could too readily identify songs that I never even liked a little bit ("(Everything I Do) I Do It for You" in only 3.2 seconds—REALLY, brain? Really?!?). Kind of upsetting, but considering my position—which was getting more stiff and sore with each passing moment—I kept it in perspective. (You know you're pretty bad off when you start thinking that a routine mammogram sounds like a cake walk.)

When the actual scan was occurring was the beginning(ish) of the surreal part of the experience. The metallic clanging—even muted—turned the serenade into something more akin to Skrillex** remixes of light rock hits. (Yeah... let your brain meats marinate on that concept for just a moment.) Thankfully, the tech wasn't too alarmed at my giggling. I'm sure she was grateful it wasn't complaining, screaming, or crying (yet).

Soon, even the luster of musical entertainment (such as it was) began to fade. That, internets, is where this wee blog came in handy. I started making mental notes of the experience. With each ludicrous thought, I realized I had the makings of a blog post. Such pursuits helped me pass at least another 5 - 7 minutes.

Sadly, the brilliant mental meanderings are lost to the ether, internets, as I had no way to write down was was most assuredly the most brilliant, insightful blog post in the history of EVER. (Yes, internets, it's true: this isn't the greatest blog post in the world; this is just a tribute.)

Even with all these shenanigans and mental calisthenics, though, I was only half way through the process. That realization alone nearly broke me (particularly as I realized my arrogance in turning down the opportunity to pee just because I didn't really have to go. RIGHT. THEN.).

I remembered something I learned about myself during radiation, internets: if I must experience pain, I'd rather have intense bursts of pain than prolonged low-grade pain (those of you making unsavory inferences—HUSH!) During the slow cooking of my tender vittles (a.k.a. radiation), I began to understand how crazy-making chronic pain can be. Intellectually, I knew that treatment would end and eventually my burns would heal; emotionally there were many days where that knowledge did me absolutely no good.

While it wasn't on par with radiation, the dull ache in my shoulders did have a similar effect—particularly because I couldn't move to alleviate the stress. When the tech came in to add contrast to my IV, I asked if I could shift a little; the answer was a resounding if apologetic "no."

With that, each minute grew exponentially harder to handle. I think I went through all the stages of the Kübler-Ross model in 5 minutes flat, leaving me to grieve the loss of the concept of myself as a strong person (and, possibly, my self-respect).

Just when all seemed lost, of course, came respite and the end of the longest half hour I've spent in quite some time. I must confess a small blush of pride when the front desk staff complimented me on how well I handled the ordeal.

"Me, I just go straight for the drugs," one confessed.

"Shit," I thought. "I didn't even know that was an option!"

It's probably for the best, though. I'm not sure the world is ready for the almost-awesomeness of a drug induced Tribute-esque blog post.

Besides... my boobs are still healthy. It's all good.





*  For a post referencing a lot of music, I didn't actually reference Muse anyplace except in the title. Weird.

** Imagine the gleeful if slightly psychotic chortling, internets, when this decidedly obscene and NSFW song was the first to play on my ride home; it sounds just like getting an MRI!

It's Tricky*

Lately I’m beginning to think that the key to a happier life lies in getting good at tricking oneself. I don’t mean that habitual self-deception is healthy or desirable, mind you. I just mean that sometimes to get out of our own way, we have to practice a little creativity in how we present things to ourselves.

Here’s what I mean:

Let’s say – just as a crazy, random example, of course—that I have several huge piles of laundry to put away. (Hush, internets. This is an entirely fictional scenario** that I’m making up to impart some crazy sage-like wisdom on you.) Of course, the longer said piles are left to sit they tend to multiply. In no time flat, I’m left with an overwhelming amount of work. And because I’m only human, internets, the more overwhelming it is, the more likely I am to avoid it. Then every time I’m confronted with the reality of it, guilt and depression and all manner of self-defeating ugliness flares up. True story.

But as I’ve discovered in my 40-something years on this planet, the way to manage such things is head on. The only way through it is through it... but to avoid all the angst and drama, I can play little games with myself to make it more manageable.

I tell myself, “OK, Peg, just put away the underwear today. That’s the goal. Just the underwear. They're relatively small, and wadding works just as well as folding. How much time can it take?”

By making it small, I neatly side-step that whole I-don’t-have-enough-time-to-tackle-this-chore craziness. One of two things happens next:

1) I feel a rush of accomplishment as I check the task off my To Do list. I win!!!
B) I feel such a rush of accomplishment as I check the task off my To Do list that I’m inspired to do more and I finish ALL THE CHORES. I am mighty! Rawr! I win!!!

See? Either way is a win-win and I only had to reframe the situation to disarm my silly self-defeating behavior and WIN. Hooray!

Other times, though, I have to be a self-created Dread Pirate Roberts to my inner Westley.

Stay with me here, internets. What I mean is this: In trying to tackle better habits, which intimidates me not on the day-to-day scale, but when I consider how important it is to have consistency over the long haul, I Dread Pirate Roberts myself by telling myself, “Good night, self. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you let you quit in the morning tomorrow."

But then tomorrow comes and I no longer feel like quitting, until I do. So I remind myself that I can always quit tomorrow. And so on.

It helps me keep from falling victim to the all-too-common syndrome wherein one realizes the vastness of the journey ahead, and plays out all the scenarios and work/effort those scenarios will take... thus getting so exhausted from over-thinking it all that there’s no energy left to take the first wee step.

As with the chore breakdown method, the amount is no different. It’s all in how you present it.

It makes sense, when you think about it (and probably even if you don't). If someone approaches you with a new idea or some constructive criticism or whatever, how they go about it makes all the difference. Applying the same logic to ourselves is, well, logical.

So, yeah. Tricking oneself. Opposite day. Crazy, or crazy like a fox?

You’ll only know if you try. What could possibly go wrong? ***







* Once again, bonus points to anyone getting my old school hip-hop reference.

** I can make such statements and still look myself in the mirror because I don’t currently have several huge piles of laundry facing me. But let’s just say that there’s a reason the scenario has that vérité ring to things, mmm-kay?

*** Don’t worry, internets. It’s not like I followed that up with, “Hey, y’all! Watch THIS!” or “Somebody hold my beer…” because we all know that way lies madness. And probable ER visits.

Numbers Can Be Hilarious

A New Blog Post! Now With NSFW Video Links! And Extra Capital Letters!


One of the fun parts about nurturing a baby blog is tracking growth. It's pretty cool to see where the site's hits come from—Russia! Brazil! How cool is that?!?—and to watch the number of page views increase.

So far, the most page views any one blog has had is 37.

But because I'm basically 12 years old on the inside (and also a big fan of Kevin Smith and the movie "Clerks" *), I'm finding this inordinately funny today—hence the unscheduled mini-post.

(Seriously. I can't even type the number without giggling to myself. Puerile much? Then again, I use words like "puerile" pretty regularly. I'm a conundrum.)

Because my brain is always filled with tangentially relevant movie and/or song quotes, it's all I can do not to gleefully holler Dante's horribly crass parting salvo as Veronica storms out of the store as I'm writing this post.

Arrested Development—not just a brilliantly funny TV show, folks. I'm living proof.



* Again, language isn't safe for work, or those easily offended by sexual subject matter or crude language. If this describes you, don't click!

One of my -isms

It's time for another of Peg's Quirky Confessions, internets. (Why else, after all, does one blog? It's so cathartic!)

I practice anthropomorphism.

That's right, internets. You heard me.


I am a near-serial anthropomorphizer.

I know, HeyDan*, I know... but I feel confident enough in our friendship that I can share this with the world—or at least the tiniest little sliver of it that connects with these pixels through this series of tubes—without drastic repercussions or a major loss of respect.

It's not just animals, either (though otters are always flirty girls in my head—I can blame that on my affinity for Native American spirituality). I assign genders and personalities to cars, depending on the grill and headlight placement (neither of which is a euphemism, internets, so just quit it—you'll know when I euphemize something... which, I realize, cries out for a "That's what HE said!" follow-up).

Some of them are mean, or menacing.

Some have sweet smiles.

(I know these vehicles' respective performance isn't related to this perception, but just based on the visual? Come on... don't tell me you don't see it...)

And some look like nerds with braces.

It happens with trees, too (which, to be fair, could also be attributed to my animistic tendencies). Weeping willows? Female. Oak? Stolidly male. Holly? Female (more due to red berry decor than name, because there is precedent for at least one male named Holly).

I don't have a lot of rationale behind these designations, either. (Try not to be shocked.) It's part whim and part whimsy, I guess. It just makes sense in my brain (for whatever that's worth... though since it's me I'm gonna go with "a good bit").

I can't be the only one who does this, internets. Please tell me it's not me! What other stuff do you assign gender or personality to?

Don't judge, y'all. Confess and we'll all feel less alone and crazy. Besides, this kind of perspective makes road trips or neighborhood walks or trips to the zoo even more entertaining. Isn't that a good thing? Good ol' fashioned noggin-using?

I even used to come up with stories about them, too.

Hey... maybe I should write that stuff down!







* As you may have rightly surmised, internets, this refers to my friend Dan, who knows the answers to many, many things and is, in all honesty, one of the smartest people I know (and I am fortunate enough to know a lot of smart people—more than a brazilllion, which is to say, more than 5). Since he knows many, many things, people often came to Dan to answer questions, starting with the telltale phrase, "Hey Dan...." Ergo, his moniker HeyDan.

As you also may have surmised, anthropomorphism makes him crazy. Disney movies are a special hell in his world. *sigh*

The Dog Ate My Blog

Writing is hard.

This is not news to anyone who has ever labored over a term paper (and isn't it big of me to assume that all of my followers—all 13 of you!*—have at least an 8th grade education?), but it's no less true for all that.

I suppose, however, that it's more accurate to say that coming up with ideas about which to write are hard. Me, I'm relatively good at beginnings. My brain gets pelted with ideas like a surly C&W crowd hurls bottles of long neck beer when the singer forgets the words to a Hank Williams tune (at least that's how it happens in my head, internets; I'm not much for the honky or the tonk, myself—though I will admit to harboring big love in my heart for cheap Shiner Bock).

So... yeah. Ideas.

I'm not much of a closer. Here's what happens in my brain, only with less science and more whimsy:

My degree is actually in English, and SMU (my alma mater) offers a fiction writing specialty. I loved the classes but ye gods and little fishes... I sucked at outlines. I didn't know where the story was going to go! I had An Idea! My Muse could not be so tamed or restricted (or some such rot). I don't know if it was laziness or if my brain truly doesn't work that way, but I almost never knew where the story was going to go, which meant that it could never get anywhere. Pacing, structure... these things elude me still. (Wow, if that's not an allegory for my life, I don't know what is!)

ANYhoo... when I do get ideas, they're never convenient. (I'm pretty sure my long-neglected Muse is having an aneurysm right about now.) I get 90% of my viable ideas when I'm in the shower. Really? I guess because I'm pondering last night's dream while simultaneously mapping out my day? Something about that combination puts my brain into overdrive, but it's utterly unfair because I can't write down ideas, nor can I bring a voice recorder into the shower. Well, I could, but it would only end in tears. Namely mine. So.. no.

And of course by the time I'm done drying, moisturizing, toning, lotioning, and powdering all the appropriate bits, then engaging in the usual Hair Product Inequity^TM ritual, ideas have fled, and I am (to quote my Grandfather) left and bereft.

Of course, the other time my brain is rife with ideas? When I'm driving. Because clearly, hurtling 80MPH down the interstate is a grand time to pause and jot down some notes. Sure, I'll just reach for the handy dandy recorder instead. Clearly, that's a safer option (in a not kind of way).

So instead, I'm left with trying to reconstruct pieces of these ideas when I can give them the time and attention they deserve, only it's rather like waking and knowing you just had the most awesome dream! It was so vivid! So real! Something about... ponies... or rainbows... and there was this guy. He, um, said some... stuff.

Yeah, internets. It's like that.

But hey, that's why I'm engaging in this whole blogging exercise, innit? To give myself some structure, and to write something other than the training courses that my Real Job pays me to write. CONFESSION: I haven't been using my degree much since I started writing for a living—how sad is that? But it feels too much like... well, work. But that's the WHOLE POINT! It is work, and the you get better by working at it.

I know this is true. I am friends with awesome writers like these and many more inspiring talents who fill me with awe (and some small amount of shame) at the amount of critical thought they're able to apply to their craft.

This is because, internets, there are days like today where you blog about not having ideas, which is the blogging equivalent of a show about nothing, or the dog eating your blog post.

Apparently, the difficulty lies not in lacking something to say, but in saying something in a meaningful way.

My bad.





*To reinforce my Nerdy Grrl cred, I quote Felicia Day: "I have dozens of fans. Baker's dozens. They come in thirteens."

Sitcom Wisdom

Before we get into today's post, I'd like to wish you all Happy New Year! (We'll save the "when do you stop actually saying that?" debate for another post, okay?) I'm not as eloquent about it as My Secret Boyfriend Neil Gaiman*, but it's no less sincere for all that.

Though, now that I think about it, bringing up MSBNG (yeah, that acronym isn't working for me either, internets—sounds too much like a news channel and my adoration for Neil is hardly news—my bad!) was fiendishly clever of me because the linked post above is thematically tied to what I want to share today. (I love it when my brain has a plan and doesn't let me in on it until the very last nanosecond!)

I'm feeling a little more reflective lately, internets. Perhaps this was induced by the dizzying possibilities and potentialities of a brand new calendar year, or perhaps it's due to bidding adieu to the old year. Though I'm not a big believer in New Year's Resolutions, being more of the Do It Now! Live the Life You've Always Imagined! sort, there is something seductive about assigning an otherwise arbitrary start date to such things. For me, there tend to be more pitfalls and disappointments when I follow that path, but I don't judge. If it's your thang, good on ya. Get down with your bad self.

In the inevitable looking back process, though, I find myself doing mental inventory of the things I've learned. I'm middle aged (Good Lord, when did that happen?!?) but in my relatively short-ish life I have managed to amass a small stash of wisdom—mostly through the usual I-Don't-Think-I-Wanna-Do-That-Again trial and error method most of us employ.

It comes down to this: Your brain is NOT your friend. It can be fooled in so many, many ways. Your memories aren't really what you think. And even scientific observation to reinforce our own conclusions fall victim to Confirmation Bias (unless we're actual scientists... but even then, I'm dubious). This kind of sucks since it's your tool for interacting with the world in a meaningful fashion.

Oddly enough, the solution can be found via George Costanza in Seinfeld: Just do the opposite.

It's brilliant, really. George decides that every decision that he has ever made has been wrong, and that his life is the exact opposite of what it should be. George tells Jerry, who convinces him that “if every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right”. George then resolves to start doing the complete opposite of what he would do normally. He orders the opposite of his normal lunch, and he introduces himself to a beautiful woman who happens to order exactly the same lunch, saying, "My name is George. I'm unemployed and I live with my parents." To his surprise, she is impressed and agrees to date him.

George was really onto something. We get so enmeshed in our habits—whether or not they're actually good for us—that it becomes easy to sleepwalk through life. We stick with what's comfortable, when getting strong means hurting a little. That's how you build muscle, right? Little micro tears heal, leaving strength in the wake of temporary aches and pains.

It may be my own Confirmation Bias working here, but that seems to support some of my Working Hypotheses for Getting Through Life in a Less Miserable Fashion (like Captain Barbossa, I don't have rules or codes... mostly just guidelines).

Mentally and spiritually the process isn't that different. For myself, I've discovered that fearing something probably means I should run towards it. The caveat to this, of course, is that one must be facing irrational fears, phantoms of the brain and such. Running towards dangerous predators like Alaskan Brown Bears or Evil Cartilage Fish^TM sharks is probably not wise; fear of those things is utterly rational and life saving.

But for pernicious Brain Weasels that lurk in my grey matter and seek to only maintain the status quo (even if it isn't quo!), I look at it like this: if I'm afraid of something, then it must have meaning or else I wouldn't feel anything (sort of like how the opposite of love isn't hate; it's indifference). The fear probably springs from the fear of either losing the thing of significance, or of actually getting said significant thing. If it has meaning to me, though, that's counter-intuitive at best which means I should run towards situations that I fear because they have meaning and significance for me. And since my brain can't be trusted, voilà! It really does make sense, in a Zen-ish paradoxical kind of way.

It's the same with powerful emotions—especially painful ones. The more you struggle to avoid them, the more they trap you like the proverbial Tar Baby. When it comes to pain, the only way through it is through it. You can bury it or avoid it, but it never goes away. In fact, these strategies practically guarantee that it will get much, much worse before it gets better. It's natural to shy away from pain, but you only get rid of it when you own it and process it; then you can move on and heal. See how that ties into the muscle building analogy?

I love what I read on a post on Tiny Buddha recently: "Fear is an emotion, not a fact." Based on that, it's hard to imagine why we'd want to let fear rule our emotional lives.

I have no scientific basis for any of these theories other than my own meandering experience, but so far it seems to be working. Really, the efficacy of a thing is the ultimate indicator, don't you think? This could be a great informal experiment, internets! Try your own Opposite Day! Let me know what you learn! Ohhh, the things we could unleash... the (good kind of) havoc we could wreak!

Then again, this is wisdom gleaned from an episode of Seinfeld. It's all relative.




* If you didn't read Neil's journal post, you really should. Because 1) I spent the time to embed the links, and really internets, there's no need to be so selfish!; and D) it's a really, really good post—inspiring, warm, and wonderful. And who doesn't need more of that in their day?

My Loud Brain*

Help me, internets! I'm new to this whole public blogging thing and I'm not sure of the protocol. Do I introduce myself? It seems a bit, I don't know, sudden or presumptuous to just start spilling my thoughts onto the pixelated page.

But hey, there's a reason my name is Square Peg. I'm one of those grown ups who is old enough to know better, but frequently doesn't act that way. I'm waiting for that awkward moment when I enter a room and it literally reverts to grade school (instead of that metaphorical "High School Never Ends" state we all know and love loathe), with everyone pointing at me, saying, "Look at you, ya big FAKER!"

Yes, I'm an awkward teenager in a grown up suit.

(Those of you who know me IRL shaddup! Your help is not helpful!)

ANYhoodle...

I'm noticing as I type this that my brain is a noisy place. I guess that's the double-edged sword of being a music-based life form. A couple of key words and suddenly *BAM!* I've got a lyrics snippet in my head, which turns into a full-blown song and then I get all distractimicated (yes, internets, that's what I meant to type) by the song in my mental jukebox.

And if it's not music, then it's a quote from a movie/TV show/comedian. I hear Eddie Izzard in my head a lot with his oh-so-British "I-don't-know-how-to-wrap-this-up" phrase... So, yeah.

Occasionally it's Jerry Seinfeld and his "Ever notice how... blah blah observational comedy schtick here."

So yes, it's loud inside my brain. And now maybe by sharing this, some of it will rub off on you, internets.

Muahahaha!

*ahem*

I mean, "You're welcome."



*So as you can see, internets, I didn't mean my brain is loud is the same way that chartreuse, fuchsia and purple plaid is loud. I don't know why I felt the need to clarify, but there you have it.