And that's why I blog.
I'm not in the highest of spirits right now, even though I have every reason to be. I'm being contemplative, so watch out, this blog may actually have substance to it. I try to refrain from the typical whiny blogger rants and raves, so let's hope I stick to my guns on this one.
I've just been thinking about acts of kindness versus acts of rejection. The two counter each other, and since I'm about as paranoid as a person who's paranoid, I "pick up" on both regularly. How many of my hunches are legitimate, I couldn't tell you, but they all affect me equally. The sense of rejection brings me down. It really does. Because- and I know this may be startling- I fear loneliness. I don't fear solitude, which is a conscious choice. But I do fear genuine loneliness: a situation of which I have no control over. Granted, someone with a *sparkling personality* like mine isn't apt to ever be COMPLETELY alone, but the worry of losing those close to me haunts me... more than it should. I swear, I could win a million dollars and have the love of my life drive me off into the sunset in his candy apple red Camaro, but if I had plans with a friend and they bailed on me, I would instantly be upset. But by that same token, the feeling of being completely kicked down can feasibly be remedied by a single act of kindness, or concern. Perhaps that has something to do with my being quite histrionic. My insatiable craving for attention!
Byahhh! Listen to me tell you about my day or I'll eat your neck fat!
I guess that's enough of that. I can't hope to maintain an audience AND talk about my feelings. But then again, how much of an audience do I even have to maintain? *echoes resound throughout cyber-domain*
Well, I'm a little peeved at my sister right now because I entrusted to her the responsibility of dying my hair, and it came out only 3/4 dyed. Part is still dark brown, while the other is a tacky Amber-brown! And my hair stinks, too! I guess there's no use in getting angry at poor darling Heather; she didn't do it on purpose. There is, however, a use in getting angry at poor darling Heather for getting hair dye on my $100 jeans! Calm down; they're the only expensive article of clothing I own. Come to think of it, a good chunk (chunk = approx. 1/2) of my wardrobe is DAV treasures and items from the Red Dot sale at Charlotte Russe. But my jeans! The only nice things I own! Now have a brownish blotch on them. Woe is me! This is how those people in Nigeria must feel.
Today I saw a production of Anything Goes at the nearby community college. About a chunk of the cast were my friends, so that always makes the show more enjoyable. And thank goodness they're talented; it would be awkward to be friends with people who were really bad actors and then have to lie through my teeth about how well they all did. I don't have to worry about that awful scenario, fortunately.
I read a few chapters of a book called Dancing Through History by Joan Cass. Reading about the different dancers and their lives, I have reached the following conclusions:
- Martha Graham was a bitch.
- Isadora Duncan was a see-through-clothes-wearing slut... whom I respect.
- Delsarte needed to lighten up and face the facts that, yeah, what you're teaching IS dancing.
- Dalcroze was an okay dude.
- Dancers are people I could not befriend.
- Dancers are people I could not be.
Wanna hear how she died? It's crazy. She was famous for wearing these long, flowing clothes, and one day she got into a car and the scarf around her neck got caught in the front tire so as soon as they started driving the scarf pulled and broke her neck.
Sick.
RIP Isadora.
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