On Badassery

I'm very good in a crisis situation. Calm. Clear-headed.

There was a time when I thought I was a badass. I'd chase thieves or others who comitted a wrongdoing without a second thought. On foot or in a car, it didn't matter.

I'd also be the first to react. Whether it was a car accident or someone running from a crime just committed, I'd jump to action without a thought as to what I'd do once I caught up with them. I once pulled over for two cars whose drivers had lost control while racing. They tumbled off the highway then into the woods. My reaction was immediate and angry and when one of them crawled out of the car and began to wobble toward me, covered in mud and debris, I very angrily and forcefully demanded that he "sit DOWN, NOW". Dazed, he complied, and I wrapped him in my jacket until the medics arrived. I remained angry but calm.

When witnessing a car full of young guys ram into two cars then speed off, the rush of adrenaline made me chase them on foot to get the license plate.

Once I saw a woman attempt to escape a moving car. When she couldn't get out I followed the car at high speed, running stop signs and red lights as I gave a play-by-play to the 911 operator.

I said that I thought I was a badass, but my actions were just the result of misplaced anger and a need to balance some scales which had never been tipped my way.

These days I've learned to function in a life with no drama. I no longer chase cars and thieves, but call the police or emergency responders. The anger's long gone. In a way, the sense of general dissatisfaction I've recently felt is in living with the void left by that anger's dissipation.

11:11 - What's in a Number

If there's a long-standing hobby or fascination I've had, it's been with a number. By now the digits and I have become intimate and it's more than just two ones standing side by side, it's Eleven.

A lot of you will understand.

Some of us notice this number all the time. Clocks, receipts, Twin Towers, license plates. It catches our eye. Google 11:11 and you'll find that it's pretty popular. Seems like a whole lot of people believe that it means something and I'm not talking just new agers. I'm talking people who consider themselves scientists... logical, and practical. The budding fascination intrigues them because it's out of character.

I'd call it one of the biggest memes ever spread, except that people start seeing it on their own and come to the conclusion that it means something of their own accord. No one comes up and says, "Watch for 11:11. It means [fill in esoteric belief here]." It just happens.

Cruel to be Kind

Ever participate in a charity event? Me, I tend to avoid the rush of good feeling you get when you help out the invisible entity called "fellow man". When I've tried to be chartible that way, the warm and fuzzy goodness never came. I think GoodFeeling is in league with Contentment and has deemed me unworthy because they don't come to call often enough.

So anyway, I did participate in Relay For Life, a 24-hour Walk-A-Thon type of charity event. As that was how I spent the first half of my weekend, I now sit bleary-eyed and stiff-hipped before this computer, attempting to chain words together to describe my feelings about the experience. I must say that Contentment continues to play coy, though GoodFeeling is currently keeping me company.

I fecking hurt and it feels good. I'm pretty hungry, too.


Yours in Faith, Hope, and all that is Right and Just,

IndianaJonesing

On Sangria and Blog Flatlining

Today's Mood: Color Me Uninspired

Mood bedamned! Oh, see there... I suppose I actually am inspired because I've just created the new word, "bedamned", which I deem should be used much like bespeckled or bedecked.

All Baja Cafe liquid Sangria lunches aside, I'm not feeling much angst this afternoon (odd how sugar and yeast shit has that effect) and therefore don't have much in the way of interesting content for this little square box-in-which-i-attempt-to-write. I apologize in advance for the lack, and hope you will tune in again when I'm feeling depressed or angry (read that as interesting). For now, however, I must continue, for this is where I've promised to write (pause) then write some more.

Though the Sangria has dumbed this post down considerably, some of you may read it after a glass or two of your own special sauce and find yourself bemused and completely able to identify with this BlogWorld flatlining. If you do suffer from a similar Writer's Block, try not to read the word-space of others because you might then be tempted to crumbsnatch an idea or two. That will no doubt leave you feeling rather beKAAVYA VISWANATHANed.

Note to my dearest commenter, one who blinds us with the glare of what is Obvious, I have crumbsnatched your latest entry and ask you to please consider this a sort of homage as it is the highest form of flattery.

Yours in Elevens,

Indiana Jonesing

One Wish

If you had just one wish, what would it be?

(Personally, I'm going to ponder this one for a while)

Holy Hell, I Got A Comment

Can I get a woot - woot?!

The noter asked whether there will be no confessions because I have none to make, or don't want to share. Well, it's a little of both.

Dear Commenter,

This space being one of three where I wax poetic on my observations of the limited world around me, I've decided to keep it completely anonymous in the hopes it will allow me to write something interesting (read that as potentially scandalous) for a change. Now, I'll grant you that in the age of Jerry Springer, there's little which could be considered such, but I'm hoping I get some average readers here who understand that I'm not being paid for this appearance and therefore have no reason to embellish. I should let the embarassing episodes stand on their own. Un-Jerrified.

Ok, we've covered the "not wanting to share".

Have I none to make? Naw, we've all got some doozies and those listed in the previous post are all too real, including the tampon episode. No, I was not shown the tape. When I'd finished, I looked up to see the frigging fish eye staring at me. Sumbitch.

So with all that having been written, I'm hoping the introduction of the aforementioned talk-show topics inspire actual posts on each-- as a writing exercise, because believe it or not the entire point of my creating this blog is as a space to write and write some more. And lots of topics should be of the type I would not post on the other blogs. Let's see if I dare.

Yours in prolific blogging,

Indiana Jonesing

That's Not How I Roll

Exactly what do you think you're going to read here?

I. am. not. going to tell you about the sexual escapade in which we both lost our gum and it became stuck to the sheets and asses.

I. am. not. going to recount my job working among senators who were defamed because hidden cameras caught them gambling in Vegas on government time.

I. am. not. going to speak of my being held against my will by a group of mafiosos whose stolen drugs came up missing.

You. will. not. learn. of my tampon insertion while in an elevator I did not know was manned by a camera.


Oh. No. I. Wont.

Second Verse, Same Rant as the First

If someone driving an SUV to Starbucks every morning before checking into their cubicle is truly happy with their life, please, PLEASE go ahead and shout it out loud for me, will you?

Maybe it's my mood today (PMS much?.... Yeah, I can hear you now, "Every month, bitch."), but I'm not feeling the Sport Utilitarian Love for my fellow worker bees with designer sunglasses. Shuttup, mine are from the $15 kiosk in the mall. So, let's get down to bid'ness, shall we? What's the point of this grind? Buy a home? Buy a bigger car? Get married and have babies? Pffft. Then some of us have a problem and need to get off the mothership.

Are you inhaling my poison here?

When my factory-worker mother and longshoreman dad sent me to school, it wasn't to work in a data factory and write a blog or two. I'm sure my dad would turn over in his grave if he knew the reality of the banal existence I've chosen to live. If he could look right into the depths of my hollow space that now occupies my presently bitter little heart, he'd wither. --Well, I guess he's already withered. Scratch that.

What-ev-ah. I'm sure I'll get over this soon. Watch for the next episode of Biatches With Hormonal Fluctuations.

First Draft

"What are you going to do with it?"

The textured pattern in the fabric of my cadet blue cubicle has been vibrating at me for months, and it's not a pleasurable kind of buzz. Maybe I should take the little mementos down because they're not cheering me in the least. I don't believe any of these cubicle squatters really believe in the power of their desk-amulets. They're not staving off the soulsuck in the least bit.

"I'm going to write about things I like to think about." is what I said with just a little conviction... Not too much because I'm not one to commit too soon.

"Who do you think's going to read it?"

"I have no idea, but does it really matter? With no audience I can spout words and not feel like I have to live up to something. I'm already trying to live up to everyone in my physical presence. Why would I want to do it online, too?"

He shrugged, losing interest. "It's your blog. Do whatever you want."

"That's exactly the point."