Self-Esteem Plan B

I'm either sleep-deprived or suffering from a progressive illness that attacks my intelligence and ability to reason. Somehow, I still managed to get an impressive amount of work done, but I've forgotten how to add. Also, I have nothing clever to say. This is particularly upsetting, as much of my self-esteem hinges upon on my wit and mastery of the English language.  I need to get some new skills. Back-up skills. Like lip reading, vegetable gardening, or harmonica playing. 

Hating the Haters: A Spiteful Plea for World Peace

On the radio this morning, some dude was quoted as saying he was ready for the viciousness that had defined the Republican primaries to end.

I was like, yeah, man, right on. I'm sick of hearing about how awful politicians are, too!

Then he went on to explain that he was eager for the viciousness of the Obama vs. Romney race to begin.

Bullshit, old man! You just want to blame someone with whom you don't identify. I hope the candidates end up being super polite and courteous, purely out of spite for your hate-lust. Hmph.

This shouldn't come as a surprise.

This Saturday, Ezra Furman will be at Schubas. So will I. Why? Because he makes songs like this:

The poetry of ugly things.

Since January, I've gotten up at 5am to workout six days a week, for at least an hour at a time. I've pushed up, pulled down, squatted, lunged, jumped, hopped, leaped, kicked, blocked, punched, and vinyasa-ed to the point of nearly vomiting. As a result, I have seen noticeable improvements in my flexibility, balance, energy and strength.
And still, I look in the mirror, contemplate the approach of bathing suit season, and watch my self-esteem crumple before me. The berating begins. My least favorite of voices cry worthless! cry weak! cry repulsive, cry vile!

What language these warriors employ. Warriors without bodies themselves, who are they to judge?

For as long as I've been not-a-child, I've waged war upon my body. Because I'm a fat kid at heart. My passions are numberless and overpowering, and there are not enough outlets to vent the pressure they apply to my spirit. I refrain from chemicals, even nicotine and alcohol. Caffeine is one exception, and tragically limited in its power to placate the almighty appetite. I find refuge in food, and I eat like it's the only way to escape the claustrophobic corners of self-loathing, anxiety, and defeat. Like every bite is a twig in the dam, which I vainly hope will curb the flood of emotional intensity and spiritual struggle.

Everything I feel is heightened by my artistic vision, which others mistakenly call my melodramatic nature.

So forgive me if this is insane to you. I readily acknowledge it is so. But these words are the iron bars of a prison, to which I will now sentence my contempt and vanity and jealousy. And I'm asking you to take the key, because I'm easily persuaded by the voices of my delusions. I'd really like to leave them behind now.

I want to wrap myself in seaweed, all perfectly contained, and paint it beautiful bronze.