Now that's friggin' funny

I can't help it. I think I'm funny. It's a problem. Other people do find me funny, but definitely not as funny as I do. I am definitely my biggest fan. I would go to my stand-up show every night I was in town.

I re-read my old blog stuff and I find myself laughing like some unknown person came up with these clever, clever stuff. Half the time, I'm impressed with myself all over again at some of the stuff I have said. I mean, the old stuff - the 03 and 04 stuff. You know, when I used to write.

But, it is a problem. I diffuse every situation with humor. My emotions have to be at an extreme for me to not find a joke in most situations. I've been in a mentoring role with some of the new claims hires this past month, and it's been hard for me to slip into a more professional role and be serious with them. Most of the time I've been pretty unsuccessful -- surprise!

For example, one of the guys (well, there are only 2, which is average for claims world) I have nicknamed Flash because he's almost always out when the bell rings, as it were. We're talking about drinking amongst a small group of us. One of the girls was saying that no one drinks as much as Flash, which I knew was not true. But a Flash was hysterical -- he was all, I've never been hungover, I've never been to work drunk, I've never been sick, etc. I said, what are you checking out AA's website every day and going through the checklist to determine if you have a problem?? At one point, I realized that this was -- as usual -- going over the line of professionalism, but luckily someone needed help and I didn't have to worry about that any more.

And then I don't have a witty thing to wrap this up...

I've always wanted to write a book. But the problem is that that's all I've ever had. The desire to write a book. It's not as though I have any idea what this book will be about. Or have any good ideas at all. But yet I feel all the time that it's in there. I even signed up for NaNoWriMo. You write 50000 pages in one month. It's supposed to help you kickstart writing a novel. Or something. But I just couldn't even bring myself to start.

I mean, the only thing I know anything about is me. I haven't been anywhere, I haven't done anything. Maybe I never will. That sounds more dark than I feel about it. Anyway, I have certain feelings about people who are not famous writing memoirs. Maybe that's wrong, but as arrogant as I am, why would I write my own story? Especially when there is so little of it that I can remember well.

So if I wrote fiction, then I'd be writing fluff. I don't know how to write the kind of fiction that I actually would want to read.

When I was much younger I used to start writing these books all the time. I filled up 3 subject notebooks with stories. I used to subject my dear, patient, wonderful friend Kalpana with hours of reading them to her over the phone. Why on earth she would put up with that who knows? I have searched for her on Facebook, but haven't found her yet. Anyways, she was remarkable and really probably the opening chapter in me only being able to be friends with people whom I felt adored me. But, that's perhaps another topic. And we grew apart as people tend to do when they have a narcissist in their lives from whom they want to escape.

ANYWAYS!

The books. I don't even remember what they were about. And why I didn't keep them? So anyway it's there. The book. The idea in my head. The idea that I'm supposed to write one. And that maybe someone would read it.

I'm going to try to pretend that this is still private. I don't know how, but that's the goal.

So, don't take it personally.

I just wanted a space for it to be me, about me, self-indulging if you will.
That's why I made it private in the first place.
It wasn't personal, and I'm sorry that you took it that way.
See, I'm addressing you. It defeats the purpose. I don't care that you're there, but I want to not think about it. Because I don't want to think about how you will react to what I'm saying. And I'm not sure that I would be able to avoid the temptation of asking you what you think.

Because who am I if I'm not always worried about what people think?

Anyway. I'll start momentarily...

The thing that really turns me on is the words the people use… the power of the choice of words. How words can be used to evoke such intense emotion. The way certain words are emphasized. The beauty of grammar. And the dangerous beauty of breaking grammar rules. Trying to remember the grammar rules. It’s a hazy, hazy fog in my head. I am struggling to be heard but I can’t even hear YOU over all of this yelling screaming blue purple red violet work life car mom vwc drug Prozac allergies caffeine wine booze booze booze memories memories tumors and matter and trees and… this is what it feels like to be crazy. I can’t see. My glasses are dirty. My glasses are dirty. They always feel dirty. I always feel dirty. Wrong. Afraid. I like to be afraid. It makes me feel safe. I like cycling down into my mind and seeing what I find in there and seeing how it makes people react. It never ceases to amaze me the words that comes out of the mind and the word that we withhold in it. We’re all looking for god because we’re all looking for a reason to believe that there is a reason that the inner world is the way that it is. Some people’s answer is that there can’t be a god because no loving god would ever let me know the pain of living AND loving – knowing that when either end they end so painfully. And most of the times, they end up happening together. But to die, knowing that you were living AND loving…? What a sacred thing.
Sacred….

See – powerful word.