Recently I wrote a review about Being Elmo where I talked about how awesome I think Kevin Clash is and how it was refreshing to see a documentary that isn't like an episode of Inside The Music and instead just tells an interesting story about an interesting person.
Apparently the universe read my review, said "Well, we can't have that" and threw a scandal on Kevin Clash's shoulders that is forcing him to resign from Sesame Street.
Kevin, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make the universe try to balance out the lack of drama in your career.
Be seeing you.
-Sally
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Come To Think Of It...
I don't think these pills are doing what they're supposed to at all. I've been pretty much withdrawing from the world for the past few weeks. I hide in my room and only come out to babysit my nieces. The only person I hang out with is my mom (admittedly, my mom is awesome, but she lives in the same house as me so it takes no effort to hang out with her). I don't call my friends anymore (I called Ivan yesterday but it was his birthday, and even then I put off calling him for several hours), I don't hang out with my friends anymore. I tried to take a break from Facebook; it lasted about five days and I'm pissed at myself for having gone back on so soon. I also went on Twitter for the first time since April, but I also narrowed down the amount of people I "follow" from thirty three to ten. And I'm mad that I logged back in there, too. I hate social networking sites because they're a pathetic excuse for actual human interaction but I'm making no effort to go out into the world and actually interact with humans. So what is the fucking point of anything? I'm scared. I'm scared by how negative my brain is, how much it hates me. I don't want to be "normal" for several reasons (the biggest being that I believe in "normal" as much as I believe in "weird," which is not at all) but I thought antidepressants were supposed to help you be not depressed anymore, not just rearrange your depression so you can observe and study it. I feel like that's all the Prozac has done. I've spent the past several hours unable to log off the computer. I haven't done much of anything; I went on Craigslist and looked up how much it costs to rent an apartment in Rutland, Vermont and I looked to see if anybody in Ventura County might be giving away a little dresser since mine is falling apart and I am broke. (In case you're curious: no, they're not). And I did the aforementioned logging back onto Facebook and Twitter. I've also played countless games of solitaire (how appropriate) and thought about what I would write if I were to place a personal ad on Craigslist. (Everything I came up with sounded negative and bitchy.) Not that I'd go through with it. 'Cause I know me; that's the sort of idea I get around midnight. If I were to post something, I'd feel embarrassed and stressed and cowardly about it tomorrow and go right back and delete it. So instead I'm sitting around and typing a blog post about how I'm hyper aware of my depression and wondering why I didn't realize that the pills were having this effect on me all along.
Be seeing you.
-Sally
Be seeing you.
-Sally
Monday, November 19, 2012
One Month On Prozac
It's weird. I notice a difference but it's really hard to put my finger on exactly what that difference is.
It almost feels like it's just made me really okay with my depression. I spend as much, if not more, time alone as before and I'm still really unhappy about that, but I also just don't feel like making the effort to go anywhere or hang out with anybody and I'm not unhappy about that. I'm suddenly okay with the loneliness and not caring and not making an effort.
I still spend a lot of time thinking about how it would be fun to hang out with friends, go to concerts or parties or to, like, take a trip to visit out of town friends or go to the zoo or something. I don't make any effort to do any of those things. I just think about them and how they might be fun.
Every day for the past two weeks I've thought "I'll call Dan tonight and see if he wants to hang out." I have yet to do so. I'd like to; I haven't seen him in a while and I miss hanging out with him. But it takes too much effort to call or text and hope he responds, and then if he does want to hang out I'd have to leave the house and drive to his house and it'd be fun while I was there but then eventually I'd have to leave and come home again and that doesn't sound fun and I'm already at home, so why bother?
I started writing an exploitation movie. I read about them a lot (specific kinds of exploitation movies, anyway; the kinds that get written about in books and magazines about horror movies) and I decided I want to make one. It's going to be practically nothing but rape, cannibalism, nudity, gore and extended scenes of a band playing in a nightclub for padding because apparently exploitation films are often badly paced. I was alarmed at how quickly I came up with a synopsis for the movie (about five minutes; for comparison, it took me more than a month to come up with a proper outline for Sunny Ella) and even more alarmed by the fact that it is practically nothing but cannibalism and rape and so on, and how casually I come up with that sort of thing. I don't know how to write happy things or even just non-dysfunctional things.
I feel like I've spent the past however-long-it's-been-since-the-Prozac-kicked-in doing a lot of self-reflecting and I'm seeing myself very clearly. I realized that my brain is irreparably fucked up in a lot of ways. I'm remembering things I had blocked, I guess, mostly things about being picked on in school and shit like that. I always knew I didn't have a lot of friends when I was little but I'd forgotten how much people were mean to me when I was a kid.
I always just assumed I was normal and that everybody feels like this all the time, too, but apparently that's not the case. My brain is miswired and broken and malfunctioning and for the first time in my life I see that very, very clearly.
And I'm okay with it, I guess, because of the pills.
I'm not okay with the fact that I'm damn near thirty and I'm writing a blog post that may as well be coming from a whiny fifteen year old with no real problems.
Maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe my brain is wired to be that of a whiny fifteen year old forever and ever.
I fucking hate teenagers.
Be seeing you.
-Sally
It almost feels like it's just made me really okay with my depression. I spend as much, if not more, time alone as before and I'm still really unhappy about that, but I also just don't feel like making the effort to go anywhere or hang out with anybody and I'm not unhappy about that. I'm suddenly okay with the loneliness and not caring and not making an effort.
I still spend a lot of time thinking about how it would be fun to hang out with friends, go to concerts or parties or to, like, take a trip to visit out of town friends or go to the zoo or something. I don't make any effort to do any of those things. I just think about them and how they might be fun.
Every day for the past two weeks I've thought "I'll call Dan tonight and see if he wants to hang out." I have yet to do so. I'd like to; I haven't seen him in a while and I miss hanging out with him. But it takes too much effort to call or text and hope he responds, and then if he does want to hang out I'd have to leave the house and drive to his house and it'd be fun while I was there but then eventually I'd have to leave and come home again and that doesn't sound fun and I'm already at home, so why bother?
I started writing an exploitation movie. I read about them a lot (specific kinds of exploitation movies, anyway; the kinds that get written about in books and magazines about horror movies) and I decided I want to make one. It's going to be practically nothing but rape, cannibalism, nudity, gore and extended scenes of a band playing in a nightclub for padding because apparently exploitation films are often badly paced. I was alarmed at how quickly I came up with a synopsis for the movie (about five minutes; for comparison, it took me more than a month to come up with a proper outline for Sunny Ella) and even more alarmed by the fact that it is practically nothing but cannibalism and rape and so on, and how casually I come up with that sort of thing. I don't know how to write happy things or even just non-dysfunctional things.
I feel like I've spent the past however-long-it's-been-since-the-Prozac-kicked-in doing a lot of self-reflecting and I'm seeing myself very clearly. I realized that my brain is irreparably fucked up in a lot of ways. I'm remembering things I had blocked, I guess, mostly things about being picked on in school and shit like that. I always knew I didn't have a lot of friends when I was little but I'd forgotten how much people were mean to me when I was a kid.
I always just assumed I was normal and that everybody feels like this all the time, too, but apparently that's not the case. My brain is miswired and broken and malfunctioning and for the first time in my life I see that very, very clearly.
And I'm okay with it, I guess, because of the pills.
I'm not okay with the fact that I'm damn near thirty and I'm writing a blog post that may as well be coming from a whiny fifteen year old with no real problems.
Maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe my brain is wired to be that of a whiny fifteen year old forever and ever.
I fucking hate teenagers.
Be seeing you.
-Sally
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Your Offense Offends Me
This is an article about the new Die Antwoord video and the fact that, in it, Yo-Landi Vi$$er is painted black. I guess the Rolling Stones got her. ("I see a South African rapper chick and I want to paint it black...")
Okay, the following I say as someone who is not black, nor South African but I'm far more offended by the article telling me I should be offended by something than I am about some broad in minstrel show makeup.
If you have to write several paragraphs explaining why something is offensive, it's not all that offensive.
Or, to put it another way, offense is a natural thing, a gut reaction. A person is either offended by something or they're not. If something requires research in order to be offended by it, it's not offensive.
I don't know the state of race relations in South Africa. I do know that it's 2012 and blackface is impossible to take seriously anymore.
Did The Slate throw a tantrum when they did a blackface gag on Stella, too? I bet they didn't.
The Slate is offended by the new Die Antwoord video. I am offended by The Slate telling me to be offended by the new Die Antwoord video.
To be honest, while I am not necessarily offended, I do think the vicious interpretation of Lady Gaga is uncalled for.
It's fine that they think her music is shitty (I enjoy it, but I'm not everyone) and I really, really respect them for turning down her offer to tour with her. Bands shouldn't tour with people they don't like.
However, the fact that they didn't let it go and made a video that brutally mocks and kills her for committing the horrible crime of ... asking them to open for her (?), that's just unnecessary.
I also really, really, really hate it when music videos pause the song in the middle for dialogue scenes. Music videos are supposed to illustrate the song and you can't do that properly if the song isn't fucking playing.
I also learned that Die Antwoord is not just a Sally's One Hit Wonder; they have at least two songs I like. Fatty Boom Boom is catchy as fuck. Not as good as I Fink U Freeky,
but good enough that I went and downloaded the song (legally, all you governmenty anti piracy watchdogs).
Be seeing you.
-Sally
Okay, the following I say as someone who is not black, nor South African but I'm far more offended by the article telling me I should be offended by something than I am about some broad in minstrel show makeup.
If you have to write several paragraphs explaining why something is offensive, it's not all that offensive.
Or, to put it another way, offense is a natural thing, a gut reaction. A person is either offended by something or they're not. If something requires research in order to be offended by it, it's not offensive.
I don't know the state of race relations in South Africa. I do know that it's 2012 and blackface is impossible to take seriously anymore.
Did The Slate throw a tantrum when they did a blackface gag on Stella, too? I bet they didn't.
The Slate is offended by the new Die Antwoord video. I am offended by The Slate telling me to be offended by the new Die Antwoord video.
To be honest, while I am not necessarily offended, I do think the vicious interpretation of Lady Gaga is uncalled for.
It's fine that they think her music is shitty (I enjoy it, but I'm not everyone) and I really, really respect them for turning down her offer to tour with her. Bands shouldn't tour with people they don't like.
However, the fact that they didn't let it go and made a video that brutally mocks and kills her for committing the horrible crime of ... asking them to open for her (?), that's just unnecessary.
I also really, really, really hate it when music videos pause the song in the middle for dialogue scenes. Music videos are supposed to illustrate the song and you can't do that properly if the song isn't fucking playing.
I also learned that Die Antwoord is not just a Sally's One Hit Wonder; they have at least two songs I like. Fatty Boom Boom is catchy as fuck. Not as good as I Fink U Freeky,
but good enough that I went and downloaded the song (legally, all you governmenty anti piracy watchdogs).
Be seeing you.
-Sally
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