Closeted

Closeted


She locked herself in there after the cat ran up onto the couch, pounced on her and scratched her face. She had never met or even seen a cat before, and the person with whom she currently resides had not informed her of such a creature residing within the house. Hence, the closet, now. She can hear the cat scratch at the door and jumps with a simultaneous outburst of breath. How does the cat know she is in there? she murmurs silently to herself.  Read more

Season’s [F*cking] Greetings

Season’s [F*cking] Greetings

|how.odious| Year Two: DAY FORTY-FIVE

2016 December 05 [Monday]

Oh my ephing ay! This is the Fifth [5/6] Installment of the Mundane Monday Memoir, which is a consolation day for writing as I am still deep within No-Writing November [yes, I know it’s December, but No-Writing November is the name of the six weeks that I forced myself to participate in as a “break” from writing after my book release]. I still have nine goddamn days until I can write about anything of any substance. The worst part about all of this is that I actually have a bit of a rant about the holidays, and I cannot write about it; I can’t write about it on a computer, that is. I have written a few notes down in the notebook the lifemate bought me expressly for this purpose, but it’s not enough! Ugh! There is an even worse part though, I suppose. I’m deathly terrified that once I’m freed to write whatever whenever [and that I sort of must], I won’t have anything to write! *sigh

Oh well. I can’t really worry about that now, especially since I have a handful of nonfiction topics about which to rant. As far as Book Two is concerned, however, I have nothing. I have absolutely no thoughts, ideas, questions, nothing about the book and where it’s heading. Again, though, it’s not really something I should be worried about at this point. Thus, I will move on to the truly mundane aspects of my life over the past week.

Most of last week was spent soaking up this unseasonably warm winter. I did a series of circuit workouts at the park during the day on MWF, finished up the November Yoga Challenge, began the December Yoga Challenge, and we went for an early evening hike yesterday. As far as socializing, the lifemate borrowed a Crock-Pot from one of his coworkers. When the coworker and his husband came to drop it off, we offered to compensate them with a few shots of vodka. Three and a half hours later we polished off the entire bottle over a fairly intense conversation about life in Korea. It was excellent.

On Saturday, we attended a wedding [where we also had the chance to converse with the coworker and his husband from the night before. The coworker’s husband, btw, is one of my favorite Koreans ever]. The ceremony was quick and beautiful.

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Afterwards, we [the lifemate and I] strolled along the river toward Nowon where we shopped a bit and picked up a bottle of tequila. For dinner, the lifemate used a coupon I made him, and we ate pizza and fried chicken. Hoy. I was feeling quite glad about busting my ass at the park earlier in the week.

Yesterday, we both slept in pretty late, which was amazing. Then the lifemate made his kickass chili, and then he found out that he bought the wrong printer ink cartridge. It was a tense afternoon. Haha. Needless to say, I was cranky, but still wanted to hike because I’m trying to do a little personal research on what it’s like to “live for your social media.” So, I thought, “I will go on a hike today so that I can take a pic of ‘going hiking’.” I didn’t want to hike because I wanted to. I wanted to go on a hike so that I could say, “I went on a hike … Check out this pic!”

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I’m merely testing a little theory of mine about how people use and internalize their social media use. And I gotta say, I’m not entirely sure if doing things just so that you can post them is a bad thing if it gets you out of your house and into the world. So, the question seems to now be something else.

When examining how it seems like some people warp and shift their own lives in order to ensure that everything about their life is “shareable,” I’m sort of beginning to understand more about the implications of that type of behavior. Shit. I’m not supposed to be writing about this. Ugh! Uh, one last thing before I get yelled at for breaking my rules yet again, there are definitely some significant differences between those who share only the best parts of their lives and those who fabricate a life offline that can always be fully bragged about online. Ugh. Okay. I’m done.

Let’s see. Oh yes, I also sent out a big box to my parents for Christmas and my mom’s birthday. I truly dislike the entire idea of exchanging gifts because you must. Gift giving is my love language, and so I put a lot of stock into giving and receiving gifts. I love to give gifts. It is the way that I show someone I like and/or love them. Thus, the idea of “A Season of Giving” is so unappealing to me because I want people to give me things when they want to, not when they’re supposed to. The same goes for my giving of gifts. *sigh

For the past few years I’ve opted out of giving anything more than a card with a picture to my parents because I just don’t like the hassle. This year, however, I actually had some ideas for gifts to give my parents, and so I put together a little box and sent it off. I’m genuinely excited for them to receive their gifts this year. There’s this sort of perverse irony to this season’s wishing of peace and goodwill as everyone busts their asses and their bankrolls to partake in the celebration of … of what? Love? Consumerism? Joy? Religion? Gift giving? This is the first year in a long time that I’ve wanted to give gifts, and so, I sent gifts.

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Wouldn’t it be nice to simply exchange gifts whenever we felt like it instead of being forced to during this “most wonderful time of the year”? Maybe I don’t feel like sending gifts now, but if I don’t, people feel unloved. Boo. I mean, when did society determine everything through the acceptance and/or rejection of your actions by your peers? Like the totally fucked up practice of buying a chopped-down tree so that you can drag it into your house and watch it die over this “holly jolly holiday,” all in order to avoid being ridiculed with, “Is that a fake tree?” Yes, it’s a fake fucking tree because then I can use it year after year without killing a perfectly good tree and being a hypocrite who uses reusable bags but who kills real trees for no goddamn reason! Good riddance!

Damn it! I wrote more writing. Fuck!

Oh! I’m planning a little online shindig! Check me out on Instagram to get the full details on December 10th! You won’t hear about it here until the following Monday in the final installment of this no-writing nonsense. So, there’s that.

Until next week …

Does it even matter?

Does it even matter?

|how.odious| Year Two: DAY THIRTY-EIGHT

2016 November 28 [Monday]

Yes, this ought to be the fourth installment of the Mundane Monday Memoir, but I didn’t feel like writing last week, so I didn’t. These entries are really just an “out” for when I really want to write despite No-Writing November. Today, I still don’t really have much to say, but I feel like writing.

I’m finally reaching that point when I’m beginning to feel depressed and really shitty about myself and my life. This may sound awful, but it’s a place in which I desperately need to exist if I’m ever going to write this second book. There are many things mulling in my mind that range in topics from hatred to discipline. I honestly have no idea where I’m going to go with this second book, but that’s not really the point. What I’m trying to do is wait. I wait for the moment wherein my internal thoughts and feelings reveal themselves to me. If there’s anything I know about myself, it’s that I cannot force any sort of creative endeavor. Sure, I can be diligent about writing and practicing my writing, but I can’t just hope to land somewhere interesting. All I can do is wait for it to reveal itself to me. Ugh. *sigh.

I have come to a decision about another aspect of my life. I have officially decided that I must start painting again. If there’s something else I know about myself, it’s that I’m a pretty good painter. I need to start painting again. Thus, I will. The lifemate bought me a really nice canvas last year for my birthday, and we prepped and gessoed a square on our living room wall so that I could paint a mandala there, but have I painted a single stroke yet?, of course not.

Don’t be misled by my enthusiasm. It’s not really that I WANT to paint. I’ve just kind of come to the realization that I MUST. I like to paint, and it’ll probably be really good for me, emotionally and creatively. We’ll see.

In the meantime, I am finishing up the November Yoga Challenge: #PebbleToNextLevel. I’m a few days behind, so I am going to finish late. At this point in my life, though, I can’t be so hard on myself and quit just because I didn’t complete the challenge “perfectly.” Despite being a bit behind, I just have to keep pressing on and remind myself that it [the yoga] is not a competition that I will ever “win.” My the yoga practice is just that, all mine. So, yes, I will finish the last few postures, but no I will not have them practiced and photographed by the end of today, which is the technical end of the challenge. I will, however, complete the damn thing by December 1st, hopefully. *sigh.

As far as documenting the goings on of the past two weeks, there’s not much to tell. I go to tutoring; we [the lifemate and I] watch movies and eat food together every day; it’s fucking freezing, yet I still sweat sometimes while outside; the cat continues to howl in the early mornings and is a general pain in our ass, but I don’t blame him; this is one tiny apartment. Sometimes I’m wracked with guilt because I want his company, but it seems a bit cruel to keep him cooped up in here all the time. Ugh.

Alrighty. It’s time to drop off some pics to print for my parents, drop off some coffee for the lifemate, do a short circuit workout, swing through Lotte Mart to pick up some presents for my parents, and do the yoga. Until next time. I have two more weeks of no writing, so I make no promises about when you’ll see me again. Laters.