Reality cannot be escaped. Existence is real. It exists. So when someone offers up the irrational as their wish, it can only be allowed existence by faking reality. It is our duty as worshippers of logic and reason, to vehemently deny the irrational, the illogical, and refuse them existence. We cannot presume that "good will out" or that evil will destroy itself so that only good can remain. To do so is to slip into a victims complacency. It is our obligation to ACT.
So when our politicians offer us up philosophies of good intent, we cannot sit idly by, trusting that one day they will see the error of their ways. By doing so we give them permission to continue on deceiving themselves and denying reason, forsaking thought. Doing so damns us as victims of a non-reality that we allowed to exist. One that is doomed to destruction and bloodshed at the hands of good intent.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Existential Flu
I seem to have caught a bit of Existential Flu.
I should get over it in a week or two but it's quite annoying, let me assure you.
The basis of it is this:
What's the point?
I mean, I don't mean to sound arrogant or anything, but I'm intelligent. Not only that, I'm resourceful and determined. I plan to do things with my life. My family looks at my To Do list and they laugh at me, but it's only because they can't see what I see. Not yet.
But even if I accomplish that list in full, if I get all my degrees in History, Business, Philosophy, Physics, Law, if I get my Mechanics license, become a lawyer, own a successful business chain, write a million books, change the world, EVEN THEN. What's the point?
My life, even if I accomplish every great thing that I intend to, will be nothing more than another ordinary human life in the never ending chain of humanity. Escape is impossible. I've felt since I was a little girl that the only way out would be to run away and join a circus, but even then, to never taste greatness...
And it's not for glory. Well, it is. But not the kind you'd think. I have to reach my potential. I've just got to. I could care less what other people think of me, they're not important. I just have to know that I've done everything I possibly can to become the greatest person who's ever lived. For me personally. Nobody else need ever know, ever speak of me again. I just have to know it for myself.
To top it all off, I'm bored. I work, I read, I write, teach myself French and Quickscript and writing backwards and guitar and piano and calligraphy and mind mapping and philosophy, but what's the point?!
They already cured Ebola without me.
I'll never be able to afford a trip to Africa.
I'll never reach the level that I want to, that I need to.
Last time I felt like this it lasted for more than a year. A year long Existential Crisis. Jolly good fun.
Anyways, I suppose I deserve it. I should care more about other people and serving and getting lost in my service. But I just can't bring myself to care. They'll manage on their own. Just like I will. I don't have time for their constant complaints and endless need for coddling. And if they need help, that's what friends and family are for. I'm not really a "friend" to anyone so that let's me off the hook there, or at least it should. What's the point? Of all of it?
Friday, July 6, 2012
Here's a journal entry for you
Haha ok. So it turns out that I do have feelings. I am perfectly susceptible to human emotion. I had a funny example of it this past week. So I ended up writing this really entertaining (at least to me) journal entry and I believe that journals are to be shared. So I'm going to post it here. Heh. Be prepared. It's pretty snarky and sarcastic all the way through. Oh, and I'm using names and things. I believe in that too. Be warned. These are my personal thoughts and feelings, uncensored and unedited. Do with them what you will.
"Dear Kooper,
...My whole life I've always thought that I was an excellent judge of character. Over the years I've realized that I am actually really terrible. Then yesterday I discovered that I was absolute crap. But now I think that I'm not too far off the mark. You see, my story begins with Michael Fletcher.
Fletcher is attractive. He's tall, tan, has dark curly hair, rippling muscles and a smile to make Chris Hemsworth blush. He's an actor, singer and dancer.
Fletch is the type that knows all women love him and loves to be loved by them. I've always thought that he was an arrogant dog who wasn't worth a moment of my time. well, I've always told myself that anyways.
On principle, I have never liked men like him. A pretty face, even great talent, has never been enough to attract me. Normally when these personalities discover my immunity to their charm, they work extra hard to make me fall for them. This never works, but is fine by me. I love the attention. But with Fletcher it was different.
I always thought he was ridiculously attractive. I've probably told him that a few times too. At the same time that I knew he was a dangerous womanizer and nothing but a pretty face, I liked him. I liked his arrogance. Even though I knew he did not meet my qualifications in a man. So I avoided him like the plague.
Turns out that wasn't too hard to do. He was a year ahead of me with only a few friends of mine in common. Soon he graduated and I gratefully left him behind.
Until, that is, I volunteered to work the Stadium of Fire. I discovered after a few days that he was working there too. Only, I worked in the offices making copies and running errands, while he spent each day in the sun doing hard physical labor.
For some strange reason Jill and I were talking about crazy parties and she began to explain that Fletcher could make out with anyone and then just walk away without it bothering him. Without thinking twice. This was true to everything I knew about him but it still made me feel uncomfortable. She sensed my hesitation on the subject and began to push me on it. She eventually joked that I could ask him for a kiss and he would give me one without a second thought.
I could not hide my reaction from her. What she saw was revulsion. Revulsion that, even in jest, she would ever think that of me. Revulsion at the thought of stooping to such a level, of asking him for a kiss. Revulsion at what he would have thought of me. And revulsion towards myself. Towards the little part of myself that entertained the idea. She did not see that part.
Elated at having found something to use against me for her own amusement, she ran to Michael Fletcher to plan evil schemes with him.
My next few days were filled with his suggestive glances and wicked wiggling eyebrows. I only saw him a few times, but it was enough. Clyde talked to me about him, laughing. He said that Fletch had asked him, "How am I supposed to seduce her if she's never here?"
You're not! Was my ferocious silent reply. Well, half of it. The other half was a desire to quickly run down to the field and make myself available for his seduction.
Instead I bolted to the women's bathroom in the other direction, the only safe haven that I knew. I spent the next hour there fighting with my reflection.
He's just a boy! I told myself. A petty obnoxious boy. He posses no real intelligence, no cognitive genius for me to admire. why should I care about his looks? I'd met more attractive men before and reacted in the appropriate way. Why should it bother me now? I, who have always prided myself on the ability to find someone attractive and not be attracted to them, was falling like an idiot for some playboy I hardly knew, who I knew would never like me. How absolutely, ridiculously illogical!
I decided to end that foolishness. To crush it before it escalated.
"He is attractive." I admitted to myself. "But I am a woman." A woman such as myself would never fall for his tricks. I assigned this to be my mantra, to give my strength in weakness. He is attractive, but I am a woman!
I steeled my resolve and finally pushed open the bathroom door, ready to conquer the world.
At the same time he stopped, three feet in front of me on the way to the men's room.
He lowered his sunglasses and looked and me approvingly. Then he flashed a brilliant white smile and said, "...Hi."
Horror paralyzed me for a fraction of a moment. But then, I gathered my wits and found the appropriate response, rolling my eyes and walking away. However, the muscles in my cheeks didn't get the memo. It wasn't until after I left that I realized I had been smiling like a loon the entire time. The only reason I did finally realize it was because the grin was still there, plastered to my face.
That night, I dreamed of him. There were no zombies, no rainbows, no machine guns, no space travel, no flying, no magic. Nothing the identifies my usual dreams.
There was a dance.
With a sparkling red evening gown and music from a 20's speakeasy in Chicago, I saw him. He wore a vest, dazzling as ever. He passed blonde after blonde, dress after gorgeous dress, and came to a stop in front of me.
He looked me over and wiggled his eyebrows. I stared in disbelief. Then he held out his hand for mine. Without a word I took it, he spun me close to him, and we danced.
The next day I texted Ryan for support, to help me shake my insanity. He said something to the effect of, "Fletch is trouble. Don't waste your time." As if I didn't already know.
During this time I was in the middle of reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. Her writings gave me strength. I was looking for Fransico d'Anconia, Henry Rearden, John Galt and Howard Roark. These were the men I wanted. The only sort I would ever accept: Men of intelligence and ability and joy and a love and respect for life.
Throughout my time there people would ask me what it was that I was reading. The either didn't recognize it, hated the writer, pretended to know it, or said they were just impressed that I was reading a booThis is Rachel again. I'm having some car trouble, so I'm running late. But I don't think it's too serious so I should be on my way soon. Is there somebody I need to call or something?k so big, which wasn't exactly encouraging.
Anyways, I was talking to Michael Edwards. He wanted to know why I was so against love.
Feeling like a hypocrite but stating ideas I used to deserve in order to convince myself once more, I explained myself.
Fletcher joined our table just as I began.
Good. I thought. Let him hear.
I told them how I was a complete being, a whole entity in and of myself. I would never need another person to feel complete. I did not have a "missing piece." There was no hole in me to fill. I was happy by myself, independent and strong.
Fletcher laughed and said that he loved relationships. Or, that he would if her ever found one.
He perplexed me. I knew what he was, yet when I was around him I could never reconcile that player I knew him to be, with the man in front of me.
Mike gave in and explained that he never went into an argument looking to win, but looking to be convinced. And since his mind would not be changed on this matter and neither would mine, further discussion was pointless.
Fletcher and I looked at him like he was crazy.
A little let down, I went back to reading my book, feeling like I had cast my pearls before something worse than swine. Something truly indifferent.
I looked up to see Fletcher staring pointedly at the pages I was excitedly underlining and scribbling over.
"Oh...um." I grinned sheepishly and saw all my colorful annotations. "It's my favorite book." I held up the cover for him to see. "Atlas Shrugged."
"By Ayn Rand." He nodded with a smile. "I love that book. Have you read The Fountainhead?"
A part of me knew I should have been shocked, but I was too excited to notice.
"Of course! I loved it!"
"And Anthem." He acknowledged. "I love her philosophy. I mean, it's a bit extreme for me, but Stalin didn't exactly get it right either." He chuckled.
Someone at the table asked what Anthem was.
"It's like a condensed version of her other books. Like Objectivism made easy. It encompasses her philosophy, but it's much shorter."
"It's the cute version." I agreed and we looked at each other with laughing eyes.
It wasn't until afterwards that I realized what had happened.
Shocked, I asked Clyde and Jill if that was normal for him. They laughed and told me about all his amazing test scores, the endless books he was always reading, his incredible intelligence.
My last barrier shattered.
I don't know how long I sat there trying to process this new information. Michael Knight sat next to me the entire time, finding my reaction hysterical.
That was it. I had nothing left to fight him with. Everything that I had known about him was a lie. Every reason I had to hate him was blasted away. I was left powerless, knowing and dreading the implications of this information. In the end, all I could do was store it away for future processing. I didn't have the capacity to deal with it just then.
I resolved the next time I saw him to ask him why. To force the truth from him.
He sat down next to Clyde. The two passed his phone back and forth between them. They were playing chess. Fletch was winning. I groaned silently.
"Fletch?" I asked. He looked up. "Why do you pretend you aren't as smart as you are?" He leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin with a quick laugh. "I don't know." He shrugged. "It's fun.
I shook my head. "From the moment I met you I thought you were just a player. And you let me think it too!"
He grinned.
"You know what that makes you?" I realized aloud. "Fransico d'Anconia. The playboy that wasn't."
"Thank you." He said sincerely. "If there is anyone in the book that I would dream of being compared to someday, it's Fransico d'Anconia."
So, you see, maybe my judge of character isn't so bad. Maybe some part of me knew what he really was.
But the funny thing is, rather than this sending me into a fanciful obsession, this realization has only set me free of him. Because he is Frisco. He really is. And Frisco was a great man, everything anyone could ever dream of. But he was only step number one.
Step number two? Hank Rearden.
Then, finally, my John Galt, my Howard Roark. The best man. The only options that matter.
And that's my story. :)
-Rachel."
Heh.
Anyways, I just realized how brilliant he is. He plays the fool that every girl thinks she wants. That's his mask. And he's hiding what he really is, which is what every girl actually wants. It's brilliant. The perfect cover.
But yeah. There ya go.
My super special journal entry. Aren't I hilarious?
Thanks for reading! Until next time ;)
"Dear Kooper,
...My whole life I've always thought that I was an excellent judge of character. Over the years I've realized that I am actually really terrible. Then yesterday I discovered that I was absolute crap. But now I think that I'm not too far off the mark. You see, my story begins with Michael Fletcher.
Fletcher is attractive. He's tall, tan, has dark curly hair, rippling muscles and a smile to make Chris Hemsworth blush. He's an actor, singer and dancer.
Fletch is the type that knows all women love him and loves to be loved by them. I've always thought that he was an arrogant dog who wasn't worth a moment of my time. well, I've always told myself that anyways.
On principle, I have never liked men like him. A pretty face, even great talent, has never been enough to attract me. Normally when these personalities discover my immunity to their charm, they work extra hard to make me fall for them. This never works, but is fine by me. I love the attention. But with Fletcher it was different.
I always thought he was ridiculously attractive. I've probably told him that a few times too. At the same time that I knew he was a dangerous womanizer and nothing but a pretty face, I liked him. I liked his arrogance. Even though I knew he did not meet my qualifications in a man. So I avoided him like the plague.
Turns out that wasn't too hard to do. He was a year ahead of me with only a few friends of mine in common. Soon he graduated and I gratefully left him behind.
Until, that is, I volunteered to work the Stadium of Fire. I discovered after a few days that he was working there too. Only, I worked in the offices making copies and running errands, while he spent each day in the sun doing hard physical labor.
For some strange reason Jill and I were talking about crazy parties and she began to explain that Fletcher could make out with anyone and then just walk away without it bothering him. Without thinking twice. This was true to everything I knew about him but it still made me feel uncomfortable. She sensed my hesitation on the subject and began to push me on it. She eventually joked that I could ask him for a kiss and he would give me one without a second thought.
I could not hide my reaction from her. What she saw was revulsion. Revulsion that, even in jest, she would ever think that of me. Revulsion at the thought of stooping to such a level, of asking him for a kiss. Revulsion at what he would have thought of me. And revulsion towards myself. Towards the little part of myself that entertained the idea. She did not see that part.
Elated at having found something to use against me for her own amusement, she ran to Michael Fletcher to plan evil schemes with him.
My next few days were filled with his suggestive glances and wicked wiggling eyebrows. I only saw him a few times, but it was enough. Clyde talked to me about him, laughing. He said that Fletch had asked him, "How am I supposed to seduce her if she's never here?"
You're not! Was my ferocious silent reply. Well, half of it. The other half was a desire to quickly run down to the field and make myself available for his seduction.
Instead I bolted to the women's bathroom in the other direction, the only safe haven that I knew. I spent the next hour there fighting with my reflection.
He's just a boy! I told myself. A petty obnoxious boy. He posses no real intelligence, no cognitive genius for me to admire. why should I care about his looks? I'd met more attractive men before and reacted in the appropriate way. Why should it bother me now? I, who have always prided myself on the ability to find someone attractive and not be attracted to them, was falling like an idiot for some playboy I hardly knew, who I knew would never like me. How absolutely, ridiculously illogical!
I decided to end that foolishness. To crush it before it escalated.
"He is attractive." I admitted to myself. "But I am a woman." A woman such as myself would never fall for his tricks. I assigned this to be my mantra, to give my strength in weakness. He is attractive, but I am a woman!
I steeled my resolve and finally pushed open the bathroom door, ready to conquer the world.
At the same time he stopped, three feet in front of me on the way to the men's room.
He lowered his sunglasses and looked and me approvingly. Then he flashed a brilliant white smile and said, "...Hi."
Horror paralyzed me for a fraction of a moment. But then, I gathered my wits and found the appropriate response, rolling my eyes and walking away. However, the muscles in my cheeks didn't get the memo. It wasn't until after I left that I realized I had been smiling like a loon the entire time. The only reason I did finally realize it was because the grin was still there, plastered to my face.
That night, I dreamed of him. There were no zombies, no rainbows, no machine guns, no space travel, no flying, no magic. Nothing the identifies my usual dreams.
There was a dance.
With a sparkling red evening gown and music from a 20's speakeasy in Chicago, I saw him. He wore a vest, dazzling as ever. He passed blonde after blonde, dress after gorgeous dress, and came to a stop in front of me.
He looked me over and wiggled his eyebrows. I stared in disbelief. Then he held out his hand for mine. Without a word I took it, he spun me close to him, and we danced.
The next day I texted Ryan for support, to help me shake my insanity. He said something to the effect of, "Fletch is trouble. Don't waste your time." As if I didn't already know.
During this time I was in the middle of reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. Her writings gave me strength. I was looking for Fransico d'Anconia, Henry Rearden, John Galt and Howard Roark. These were the men I wanted. The only sort I would ever accept: Men of intelligence and ability and joy and a love and respect for life.
Throughout my time there people would ask me what it was that I was reading. The either didn't recognize it, hated the writer, pretended to know it, or said they were just impressed that I was reading a booThis is Rachel again. I'm having some car trouble, so I'm running late. But I don't think it's too serious so I should be on my way soon. Is there somebody I need to call or something?k so big, which wasn't exactly encouraging.
Anyways, I was talking to Michael Edwards. He wanted to know why I was so against love.
Feeling like a hypocrite but stating ideas I used to deserve in order to convince myself once more, I explained myself.
Fletcher joined our table just as I began.
Good. I thought. Let him hear.
I told them how I was a complete being, a whole entity in and of myself. I would never need another person to feel complete. I did not have a "missing piece." There was no hole in me to fill. I was happy by myself, independent and strong.
Fletcher laughed and said that he loved relationships. Or, that he would if her ever found one.
He perplexed me. I knew what he was, yet when I was around him I could never reconcile that player I knew him to be, with the man in front of me.
Mike gave in and explained that he never went into an argument looking to win, but looking to be convinced. And since his mind would not be changed on this matter and neither would mine, further discussion was pointless.
Fletcher and I looked at him like he was crazy.
A little let down, I went back to reading my book, feeling like I had cast my pearls before something worse than swine. Something truly indifferent.
I looked up to see Fletcher staring pointedly at the pages I was excitedly underlining and scribbling over.
"Oh...um." I grinned sheepishly and saw all my colorful annotations. "It's my favorite book." I held up the cover for him to see. "Atlas Shrugged."
"By Ayn Rand." He nodded with a smile. "I love that book. Have you read The Fountainhead?"
A part of me knew I should have been shocked, but I was too excited to notice.
"Of course! I loved it!"
"And Anthem." He acknowledged. "I love her philosophy. I mean, it's a bit extreme for me, but Stalin didn't exactly get it right either." He chuckled.
Someone at the table asked what Anthem was.
"It's like a condensed version of her other books. Like Objectivism made easy. It encompasses her philosophy, but it's much shorter."
"It's the cute version." I agreed and we looked at each other with laughing eyes.
It wasn't until afterwards that I realized what had happened.
Shocked, I asked Clyde and Jill if that was normal for him. They laughed and told me about all his amazing test scores, the endless books he was always reading, his incredible intelligence.
My last barrier shattered.
I don't know how long I sat there trying to process this new information. Michael Knight sat next to me the entire time, finding my reaction hysterical.
That was it. I had nothing left to fight him with. Everything that I had known about him was a lie. Every reason I had to hate him was blasted away. I was left powerless, knowing and dreading the implications of this information. In the end, all I could do was store it away for future processing. I didn't have the capacity to deal with it just then.
I resolved the next time I saw him to ask him why. To force the truth from him.
He sat down next to Clyde. The two passed his phone back and forth between them. They were playing chess. Fletch was winning. I groaned silently.
"Fletch?" I asked. He looked up. "Why do you pretend you aren't as smart as you are?" He leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin with a quick laugh. "I don't know." He shrugged. "It's fun.
I shook my head. "From the moment I met you I thought you were just a player. And you let me think it too!"
He grinned.
"You know what that makes you?" I realized aloud. "Fransico d'Anconia. The playboy that wasn't."
"Thank you." He said sincerely. "If there is anyone in the book that I would dream of being compared to someday, it's Fransico d'Anconia."
So, you see, maybe my judge of character isn't so bad. Maybe some part of me knew what he really was.
But the funny thing is, rather than this sending me into a fanciful obsession, this realization has only set me free of him. Because he is Frisco. He really is. And Frisco was a great man, everything anyone could ever dream of. But he was only step number one.
Step number two? Hank Rearden.
Then, finally, my John Galt, my Howard Roark. The best man. The only options that matter.
And that's my story. :)
-Rachel."
Heh.
Anyways, I just realized how brilliant he is. He plays the fool that every girl thinks she wants. That's his mask. And he's hiding what he really is, which is what every girl actually wants. It's brilliant. The perfect cover.
But yeah. There ya go.
My super special journal entry. Aren't I hilarious?
Thanks for reading! Until next time ;)
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