Godammit, I’m Mad!

reading the little profiles of people om tumblr, I noticed that a few people decribed themselves as eccentric. Like, ‘eccentric 19 year old art student loves cats, drawing, photography cupcakes and random cartoons.’

My feeling is, you don’t describe yourself as eccentric. That’s a conclusion made  about you by someone else.  It just seems unseemly. Like calling yourself ‘classy,’ it’s  kind of a self-negating word.

Naturally my husband failed to see the problem. I explained that actual eccentrics would not describe themselves as such. They tend to take no notice of how odd they are, but rather to find others baffling. The most eccentric people I’ve ever known would never describe themselves that way.

Therefore, almost by definition, these self-described eccentrics are just being pretentious. My husband then asked me  what other words I would categorize as unseemly. I came up with “complex” and “complicated’ as well as ‘lanky”. I don’t know where the lanky came from, but it’s certainly not a word to use about oneself unless you want to be sickening.

It was frustrating to try to make my point when to another wordist, I’m sure it’s all a given. It’s pretentious to use certain words about yourself, even if those words are fairly accurate.  Maybe you’re quirky, but don’t bill yourself as quirky. It’s  an evaluation for others to make.

I was excited about getting into this conversation with someone as sensitive and prohibitive about words and word-usage as I am. I though of calling Cousin Russell, who’s always up for a word discussion.  But what I really wanted was Max, because he would know exactly what I meant and he would be eager to throw in some other words that he found unacceptable in the same way.

I need someone to be Max . When it hit me, I started to cry, even though we were on our first weekend vacation in a year and a half.  Maybe my other nephew can help. I need someone who cringes when they hear a room or building called a ’space.’

anyone care to help out? Agree or disagree, as long as you have strong opinions about words.

I have PTSD and the world is going to hell, but for the moment I’m choosing to focus on other matters. For example, here is a challenging dilemma:

Who is more annoying. Gwyneth or Chloe?

On the one hand, Gwyneth has that awful website and now she has a recording contract as a country-western singer.

On the other hand, Chloe has her stupid fashion line for Opening Ceremony and that hipster lifestyle.

Gwyneth has the rock-star husband and the unforgivable names of her children. But Chloe has no talent and she looks like she needs a good hot bath. Each of them is a grating irritant in the oyster of my psyche, neither producing a pearl.  I would say it’s closer to a blister. I hate them both.

Don’t get caught up on the word “hate,” if that bother you.  Just tell me who you find more annoying, and why.

Ready, set, go.

Three months ago, I wrote about how hard it is to accept being powerless. Now, I am a malignant mass of seething hatred for my ex-husband. If only I could kill him. It would be an act of mariticide, although I don’t know if this applies to exes.

I hate that miserable fucker. I called and tried hard to be nice, to project friendliness. I asked when I could come over to see Max’s things, hoping I could borrow some of his books. We always loved the same books and asked each other for recommendations.

But no! Still no. That bastard is like a character from a Dickens novel, a mean old man who lives to say the word No. His exact words were: “If and when I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” When I began to argue my case, he announced triumphantly: “I won’t be bullied by you.” (Repeat this in your head with an English accent, to get the full effect.) Nothing would change his mind. I lost my temper and he intoned darkly:  ”Don’t call me again.”

Last night I cried hysterically until I couldn’t breath, not because of the books but because of the situation of marrying a man who won’t let you see your son’s belongings, who has to try to control things even after death.

A reader named Marygrace sent me a link to a poem by Julie Sheehan that expresses the scope of my hatred with stunning accuracy. It is a singular gem that everyone should read and pass on, until the whole world can find solace in its perfection.
~

Hate Poem

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.

You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

“Today marks the official launch of TheFix.com, a new content site aimed at recovering drug and alcohol users.”

I read that and imagined a nice scholarly-looking website filled with information and resources, like the sites about autism or migraines. Instead, it’s a garish tabloid-like bonanza of stupid features like “Worst Celebrity Meltdown” and “Hollywood’s Best Addict Performances.”

Courtney Love is one of the experts on hand to give advice, and there are articles on finding the perfect AA meeting and dating a crackhead.  There is even a BIG photo of a syringe in an arm, to illustrate a story about vaccines. Are they insane? The whole thing looks like a great parody except for its breathtaking witlessness.

Please have a look and get back to me. Tell me your theory on how they got the seed money for this venture and what kind of advertisers will want to get in on this.

Meanwhile, they invite submissions and story ideas! I could never be part of such a shabby enterprise, especially knowing what I do about the horrors of drug addiction. But wouldn’t it be fun to propose some idiotic stories just to see if they bite? How about “Funniest excuse for for a relapse” or “How to flirt with an ER doctor?”

Fuckers.

Because it is my avocation to get mad and start arguments, when I came upon a photo of a woman sticking a needle in her arm, on tumblr, I wrote to the blogger and politely complained. I said the picture could be a trigger for recovering addicts, and that addiction should not be romanticized. She replied politely that she was against censorhip and couldn’t be responsible for triggers. I wrote to the blogger from whom she’d reblogged the photo. She replied politely too,  but maintained that the photo was “social commentary.”

Both bloggers pointed out that heroin addiction is a part of life and that you can’t just show nice things. Both denied that the artful picture of an attractive woman shooting dope was in any way romanticizing addiction.

But wait! The “part of life” argument is kind of fatuous. Vomit, amputation,  and car accidents are part of life. All kinds of distressing things are part of life but you don’t see many arty picture of them. The image of an addict shooting up is a powerful one that has been around for a long time, and it doesn’t show the Part of Life that comes after it: The abscesses, the arrests, the death, the funeral, the sobbing friends.

I resent these images, because they don’t tell the truth.  They are a siren song to young people, just as cigarette ads once were.

I know it’s too much to ask that everyone stop admiring nice black and white photos of addicts shooting dope. But I’d at least like everyone to admit that these images are romantic.  They depict a “transgressive” act, nicely lit and composed, that represents mavericky behavior…even rock and roll behavior, one might say.  OF COURSE it is romanticizing an illness that in real life is tragic, sordid, cruel and lamentable on every level!

It’s not art, any more than the images of bottled fetuses used by anti-choice groups is art. It’s the perpetuation of a stupid and dangerous myth.  Or maybe it is art, but it’s political, even if one insists otherwise.

I am not in favor of censorship. But I post images selectively.

What are your thoughts?

My key impression of the Hermes Fall 2011 photos was : This shit is for rich people who want you to know it. The outfits scream. “Fuck you! I have money!”

Other designers also reek of big money but at least it’s money with creativity or daring of some kind. The Hermes woman must be determined to remind us that she is upper class and super-wealthy.

I was pleased to find my impression supported by an article about Hermes and its dread of being available to the masses like that crass Louis Vuitton.

The Hermes family is militantly opposed to being controlled by LVMH, which now owns 17% of the company.

“There is a part of our world that is playing on abundance, on glitz and glamour,” Patrick Thomas, the Hermès’s chief executive, said during an interview the week before Mr. Galliano was fired. “And there is another part that is concentrated on refinement, and basically making beautiful objects.”

God forbid that Hermes ever make an affordable line of handbags. It would be the end of Hermes, Mr. Thomas declares. “It’s not a financial fight, because we would lose that. It’s a cultural fight.”

It seems particularly obnoxious, given the state of the world today, for this kind of class conflict among luxury brands. I’m beginning to hate the rich more than I used to. They don’t want to be taxed, they don’t want anyone to afford their stupid handbags, but they have nothing to offer us as a culture or society.

Fuckers. I hope Berhard Arnault takes over Hermes. “Refinement” is just elitism in their definition, and it’s time for the super rich to be ashamed of their extravagance.  Let them not eat cake.

It’s easy not to care about looking old when you’re not old.

Later, it’s just a constant struggle to accept the changes in your face, the face that in your mind is eternally 18 or 30 or whenever you liked it best.

Seeing Carine and Madonna look like women in their 50’s is such a comfort! Get old, you two!

I decided to see the difference between a face in repose and a face smiling.

I made the biggest smile my face could do, and voila! I’m genuinely old.

If  you have no expression, you can keep up the illusion of youthfulness.

I am unable to age gracefully because I’m too shallow and preoccupied with appearance. I want everyone to wrinkle up like a prune. The only procedure I would rule out if I were a millionaire is the lip enhancement, because nothing says tragedy like a duckface.

I am waiting patiently for Demi Moore’s face to fall. On the day it does, the drinks are on me!

How do feel you will handle getting old? If you are old, how hard is it for you to combat vanity?

Lady Gaga

Justin Bieber

Branding

Cats

Hipsters

Big Banks

Sustainability

Game Changers

Goop

Isabel Marant

Celine

Chloe Sevigny for Opening Ceremony

Tom Ford

Arizona Muse

Charlie Sheen

The Tea Party

Family Guy

Zombies

Chinese Mothers

Crystal Renn

Brazilian Blowouts

Andrej Pegic

****

Feel free to add or complain!

This choice is a no-brainer but that doesn’t mean it’s not deserved.

Debbie Schlussel is an offensive lunatic whose existence was not on my radar until now. Here I thought that Mrs. Palin was the stupidest, most reprehensible woman in the United States! Now I’m concerned that she has a rival.

Debbie, this is some fucked up reprehensible shit you are up to. Congratulations on your achievement.

The Man Repeller is not just repelling men. Consider me repelled. I don’t think I “get” her, but I don’t think I’d like her if I did.

Why is she everywhere?? Why is she so connected, because there is no other way this girl would be in Harper’s Bazaar, and the subject of nearly every fashion or blog related article on the internet.

Am I resentful? DUH, fuck yes! Why isn’t the world adoring me instead?!?

I’ve been mocking ugly clothes for years now. I’m funny and I have a way with words, ahem.  But I don’t have a schtick! Damn me, this must be the problem. Unless it’s because I’m a cunt, rather than just “snarky.”

I don’t understand how a rich girl who talks about getting cabs in Paris and buys high-end designer stuff can position herself as a critic of fashion victims. I don’t understand why anyone wants to hear the word “ladyboner” or why people begin sentences with the words “I mean.” You can’t begin a sentence with “I mean” unless someone has posed the question, “What do you mean?”

I just read an excruciating interview with the Man Repeller in which she observes that red lipstick is not appealing to men but she finds it sexy. Haha, you silly goose, you clearly know nothing about men or red lipstick! I need you to either go away or give me your parents’ money so I can fix my roof and my two broken teeth.

A leaking roof and broken teeth: That’s what man repelling is all about.