New People and the Resulting Annoyances

I have been meeting a lot of new people lately. We are more than halfway through the semester and it feels like I have had a tidal wave of new students looking for a reliable multi-divisional tutor so I have had my free time eaten up by working with students (or working through the newer textbooks myself just to make sure that I am up-to-date on my information). At the main job, the fall temps are leaving come November and the new temps are coming in for the winter, which is still essentially a skeleton staff since our events are highly concentrated around the holidays and then nothing for months. They've also been sending me to dance classes to refresh and learn new things. It sounds silly, but it's been very helpful, and I've been pushing for it for a long time since I am their only full-time performer and that kind of makes me the star of the show (which is the lie I tell myself to make me feel better about my job, which is actually not a bad job, but I am so deeply ashamed of it). And then I've been trying to get familiar with my future students at the new dance studio, sitting in on classes or guest teaching when I am able.

There are many new people in my life. And new people mean a bunch of different things: more anxiety, more bullshit, more explanations I need to make, more nasty comments. I've been bracing myself and my family's been scolding me for being so tense lately. But surprisingly, most people have been pretty good, pretty accepting. By general rule too, the younger the person, the better they are about it. My future students have all been good, a couple asked if my scars hurt or how I got them. New temps have been annoying, but they always are, mostly because I'm in makeup a lot so they don't see them right away and then they act all shocked and horrified because they didn't know. But one new guy is being exceptionally obnoxious and trying to spread the rumor that they're self-inflicted for sympathy (and I say "trying" because fortunately everyone knows me well enough to know better). My students usually find me through Dad so they already know what they're getting into with me. But it's the 40+ yr olds that can't behave themselves or keep their mouths shut.

I can't even keep track about how many say really nasty things about me while I am STANDING RIGHT THERE. How I shouldn't be allowed out in public. How they won't take a class if I'm teaching it because they can't take me seriously. How I should have the decency to get "some kind of surgery.' How no one could be expected to look at me for a whole class period. Really nasty things. It's like high school all over again. People have no boundaries either. One guy grabbed my face a few nights ago when I was teaching foxtrot (adult group) as a guest teacher (regular had an emergency) to see if they were real and what they felt like. First of all, I have to know you and like you to let you touch me and secondly, you don't touch my face unless I consider you family, and that's a grand total of five people. Needless to say, this guy is not one of them. I almost decked him. He got pissed off at me though when I pulled away and told him that wasn't acceptable, not to do it again. He made a complaint. Fortunately, the studio sided with me but I'm already getting complaints before I even start working there as a regular and I'm already rather stressed thinking that the studio will reconsider my job (and of course they will if I make enough people complain about me, if only because they're uncomfortable looking at me or can't keep their hands to themselves, ugh for customer-is-always-right mentality). And if these people sign up for my classes, I can't say no. And if these people go to the management and say that they won't sign up for my classes because of me, then I really may lose my job, even if it's not my fault.

Like I said, new people = stress. And I should be really happy. I have a plan for the next year to keep a relatively steady income and yet.... The bullshit. I'm so tired of it.

My Day Off

I ended up having a pretty wonderful day off yesterday. Dea had classes in the morning and in the evening with a huge break between, so I went over to her school to spend the down-time with her and bother Dad because he doesn’t get enough of that at home. Orson introduced me to two of his students this semester, both of whom seemed to have heard of me since one of them mentioned the possibility of needing tutoring for his chemistry classes.

I took the liberty of reserving one of the auditoriums (it’s not a black box theater but the stage is collapsible and they use folding chairs for seats, so otherwise it is completely bare, as it was today, and it has a great dance floor) and surprised Dea by bringing her there for an extended dancing session.

It was very relaxed day, not full of chores and errands like most of my days off tend to be. And although Dea and I haven’t been able to dance together this year as much as we usually do (we usually do one or two competitions by the time October comes around), I think we probably had more fun tripping over each other today in an effort to reclaim our of-late unused muscle-memory. But we also have our best conversations when we’re dancing together. We never shut up. Someone even poked their head in to tell us we were laughing too loudly.

We had dinner on campus afterward but brought it out to the quad to have a picnic of a sort before she had to go to her physics class. She conned me into painting her toenails tonight when we got home and she had me butcher French at her all the while (un cheval porte un manteau vert, if you’re looking for an example of my stellar aptitude, and yes, I am very much aware that I just said a horse wears a green coat, but when she asks me to begin a conversation, it’s dead silence or saying something absurd, and I will always go for the latter). I read a bit to her afterward (we’re still not through the Well of Lost Plots) and I put her to bed when she fell asleep on me.

The day was pretty much perfect.

Being Emo and I Apologize

I had the movie The Elephant Man on tonight last night. Dea came home towards the end and stopped in the doorway. She knows it is one of the movies that I don’t watch so much as cry-my-way-through. And she asked, point blank, “why do you do it to yourself?”

And it’s a valid question, I suppose. I don’t know why I do it to myself. Masochism? Catharsis? Maybe I just need permission to cry. No idea.

There are select movies that can cause me to weep through them. I love them, but they cannot be watched very often. I only put them on when I need to work something out of my system. And my watching is not limited because I weep uncontrollably, but because they do something to me, alter me for a little while. I get extremely introspective. It's almost like defragmenting myself. I do a self-assessment. I explore all those negative sectors. It takes a while. When I'm done, I'm better for it, a little more organized, possessing a little better perspective. But to get to the better end, I fall apart, mentally, emotionally.

When I went to bed last night, I was still in this highly vulnerable state. And Dea, angel that she is, came in to check on me. She settled herself beside me, her arm over me, her head against my chest, and I broke down and cried at her for who knows how long, interrupted only by my profuse apologizing. I'm not even sure what I was crying about, if I was crying about anything specific, or if I was apologizing for crying or for something else entirely.

She ended up spending the night (all completely chaste). I woke to her, still wrapped up in my arms, still sleeping. And I felt so much better. And so much worse. And I wanted to weep all over again. For all that love and all that trust, no matter how equally matched we are in both for each other, I don't feel worthy of it. I don't think we idolize each other. I think we are both too aware of each other's faults to consider even thinking of each other as paragons. But she adores me in a way I cannot comprehend because I'm not exceptional in any way, not extremely talented, not extremely patient, not even extremely kind.

For all that I am older and stronger than she and the most responsible member of the household, I'm not very good at this life-thing. I blunder my way through it. I pretend at confidence. I fake joy. Even when I am closest to bliss, like this morning with her contentedly beside me, I ache with an inexplicable misery. And it sounds so emo, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I know how to be happy. I am sure I have the potential to be, but I don't know how to access it. And maybe that's why I watch films that destroy me, because I'm looking for something I cannot find so it's better to take it all apart and sort through it one item at a time.

I Would Make a Perfect Oberon

If you ever needed a definition for “gpoy,” here you go. My one saving grace however is that this is not self-initiated. One of my sweet and far-too-flattering Tumblr-friends requested I post the others (unsure if she would want me to identify her or specify her reason for asking, so you will just have to trust me that this is in fact the truth).

This is also my formal request to be cast as Oberon in some production of Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The Flower Crown

If I were Dea's boyfriend, I would be the best boyfriend ever. And while I am not her boyfriend, I am still the best something ever, I think (and she has since agreed with me, so it must be true).

Monday, Dea mentioned wanting a flower crown. I wasn't aware that such a thing was an everyday fashion accessory, but they are apparently, even outside of Renaissance fairs and Maypole dancing. I therefore went out, got all the supplies, and made one for her. Being my very first one, I am very pleased with how it turned out.

Dea loved it (but I couldn’t persuade her to let me take photos to share with others and that is her right). I didn’t look that bad today either, so I went ahead and modeled it myself. Voila!

You get to see one of my robes (gift from Phoebe). And, even more amazing, my hair doesn’t look like it’s an awful color here (but I’m still not happy with it, and once I can justify the expense and not hurt Sandy’s feelings, I’m going back to dark hair).

There are a lot more of me looking like some mockery of Dionysus, but one is more than enough at the moment. Maybe I’ll share the others at another time.

How You Do It

I was checking out at the grocery store and this young guy I’d never seen before was scanning me out, nose and eyebrow piercings, mostly shaved head with a fauxhawk with pink-dyed tips, tattoos poking out from under the collar and cuffs of his shirt and huge plugs in his ears. He grinned when we made eye contact, snapped his fingers and pointed at me and said, “I like your mouth.”

I snapped my fingers back and pointed at him and said, “Thank you! I like yours too.”

I’m not sure that would work with everyone, but that’s how you do it with me. I think he may have thought that I was part of the body modification scene and inflicted my scars upon myself, but I don't care. I can’t remember the last time interacting with someone new was that easy.

Complicated Insecurities

anonymous said:

You say you have a lot of insecurities. Are they because of your scarring? They shouldn't be. You're very good looking. 

First of all, Anon, thank you.

Secondly, I am sorry I did not reply right away since I needed a time when I could sit down and answer this properly.

Thirdly, I am now going to answer this properly:

I have a lot of things going on in my offline life that I don’t talk about much online. I get frequent anxiety attacks. I have severe chronic depression. I have a history of eating disorders and even though I have more or less moved beyond those at least, I still have a very complicated and unhealthy relationship with the rest of my body (not just my face) and with eating in general. I have a number of physical conditions that cause a lot of concern and require strict and constant monitoring. And I don’t talk about this stuff because it makes me uncomfortable and because they are not things I can solve or overcome by talking about it online. These things are purely internal.

My scarring on the other hand is completely external. People see it. People respond to it. People treat me accordingly. I have internalized my experiences with it, but if no one could see it, it would never affect me. Maybe it too isn’t something that can be, as I said above, solved or overcome by talking about it online, but it can be addressed online in a way that better equips me when I deal with other people’s responses and reactions to it offline.

With that said, it may surprise you that I don’t think about the scarring that much unless I’m reminded of it. My scarring as a self-initiated thought? That pretty much happens only when I’m concerned for my safety, when I am getting ready to go out into the populace, or when I’m about to be introduced to someone new (or the random incidental like when I went out to the diner with Sandy). But that is pretty much all. At home, or out and busy doing errands, or at work, or anywhere with people I know and like, or at dad’s university, or even in one location for a good period of time, I forget completely. Yes, the scars pull. I feel them all the time, but it has become background noise at this point, until something reminds me.

Being reminded of it happens often, so it is often on my mind. Aesthetically, as you complimented me upon my appearance, the scars, on the whole of things, aren’t much, but some people fret over a zit, and some people fret over unevenly shaped eyebrows, and other people worry about their makeup and go out and buy special waterproof products just to keep it perfect, and other people want to make sure they don’t have chocolate at the corners of their mouths, or food in their teeth, and those are such small things and yet, they are still thought about, sometimes insecure about. And the scars, for whatever else they are, are noticeable, deliberate, and for many, more than a little disturbing. And it is not something I can simply avoid.

When I’m in the grocery store and parents pull their children noticeably out of my way and stare at me like I’m a plague-carrier? I notice. I know why they’ve done that. I think about the scarring. I get self-conscious and anxious and insecure. When unimaginative teens start calling me names and then kick me when I ignore them while I am trying to enjoy a concert in the park, I know why they’ve done it. They have already spent a good ten to twenty minutes telling me why they did it. I think about the scarring. I think about how much I would like to wear a bandanna like a bandit in a Western so that such things won’t happen again, but then I think about the times I have done so in the past and been stopped by the cops. I think about having to take my scarf down and being stared at by many more people who would otherwise not have bothered looking up. And even thinking about it now makes me shake and feel sick to my stomach in panic. When we have new temps at work and they meet me in-makeup and then catch up with me after my hours and their faces drain because they didn’t realize when the first met me that I was scarred, I notice. When I pass people on the sidewalk and they involuntarily touch their mouths, I notice. I remember why. I touch my own. And when other people touch it, for as rare as it is, usually Simona or Dea or some other family member, I remember and I feel guilty. I get even more insecure then and I want to hide, not because they don’t understand, but because they do, and I am grateful. I just want to give them better than I’ve got. So when I say that I am a huge mess of insecurities, I mean it, for many reasons, some more visible than others.

Dea's Ex-Boyfriend Follow-Up

Dea's ex-boyfriend has called every hour on the hour today starting at 9 this morning leaving increasingly more insulting messages. With Dea’s full and free permission, this last time, I picked up, answered with “the freak here” since he apparently called me that (people really need to come up with something more creative, I’m so bored of the standard names), and then I apologized for not answering earlier since, I explained, with Dea’s new-found freedom from him, things just happened and we ended up having rough sex throughout the entire apartment building. There was dead silence on the other end and then he hung up.

Dea and Her Latest Boyfriend

Original situation, July 6:

Dea called me tonight asking me to pick her up. Apparently, this boyfriend is now her latest ex. Is it terrible of me and does it make me a horrible human being if I say that I am secretly delighted by this turn of events? I think it must but I cannot help how I feel. I have been supportive though, keeping my feelings to myself.
________

Follow up, July 7:

I heard the story today of why Dea broke up with her boyfriend and it was apparently over me (and I feel very guilty about being the cause, but I keep myself out of her relationships because she is entirely capable of making her own decisions and determining what’s important or not). From what I could gather, he did not like the fact that she and I are so close and live together, and she said that he used several choice names for me in the process which sealed the break-up for her.

This isn’t the first time. I am sure it will not be the last. But every time one of Dea’s boyfriends throws a tantrum about the fact that she lives with a man near her age who isn’t related, because “something might happen,” I have to laugh. She and I have been in the apartment this time, just the two of us, for a little more than three weeks and nothing has happened. Any prior times we have been in the apartment alone over the course of all the years? Nothing has ever happened. Even now, she’s sitting in the corner of the couch, her legs on me, toes flicking my elbow every so often, her headphones on, and she’s completely oblivious to anything else. Nothing will happen.

But, to be smug for a moment, any significant other of hers should feel envious, not of me, but of the relationship she and I have. That is not to say that I would ever interfere in her happiness, but I don’t think any other relationship could rival the depth of affection and strength of love she and I have for each other. The boyfriend that wins her over will be the one who accepts this and accepts me as part of the package.

The 4th

Work was rained out, again, today and rather than keep us for rehearsals or training, they just let us go since the weather is only due to get worse.

I am feeling more than a little melancholy since it seems like I spend every holiday alone. Dad’s off on his Burmese whirlwind adventure. Dea’s at her boyfriend’s family’s shindig. Phoebe is with her sister and nieces at her brother-in-law’s get-together. And here I am, at the apartment, not even the dog here for company.

And I know it is silly to feel this way since the 4th is not a holiday I have ever celebrated with enthusiasm. And eating barbecue, especially in front of strangers who would invariably be at any festivities, would get me so nervous that I really would embarrass myself. And it is not as if I have been purposely excluded from anything. And I have nothing else which would justify the inner restlessness and discontent.

Nonetheless, I am restless and discontent and feeling isolated.

I hope everyone else who celebrates on the 4th is having/ had a wonderful day.

Yesterday with Dea

After five days of killing myself at work (I think it came out to over 70 hours at the main job, and over ten more tutoring and balancing bank statements for my others), by Sunday evening I was physically dead and mentally exhausted. I therefore resolved that, yesterday, Monday, I should do naught but spend the day abed and sleep. It didn't quite work out that way, but it turned out even better than anticipated.

I woke early like usual, but still tiredly peevish, I opened the laptop beside the bed, put on the Russian musical of The Man Who Laughs, "Человек который смеется," since I didn't care if I fell asleep again in the middle of it, and wrapped myself around my second pillow. I must have been successful in falling asleep again because the next thing of which I became aware was the pillow being pried out of my arms. It was soon after replaced with the warm snugly body of my darling.

I was still a bit hazy, too hazy for any real conversation, and she was content with that. Her hair smelled of cucumber and was still a little wet from her shower and the damp ends plastered themselves against my neck and chest. We ended up napping together for another two hours, her head on my shoulder and tucked up under my chin. I woke again when she kissed me, first on the chin and then she pushed herself up on her elbow to kiss me on the mouth. She said nothing at first, played with my hair, then asked me, if I had no other plans, would I spend the day with her.

Such suggestions are the things for which I exist. We thus proceeded to spend the day in such pleasant occupation as to make my heart flutter for the next week. She decided against taking Philandros since I would be with her, and after I took him for a quick walk around the apartment complex, she and I set off to the park. Originally, we just thought we would walk around and catch up with each other but the adjacent playground was empty, so we amused ourselves there for a little while. I pushed her on a swing and we climbed to the tallest spiral slide and went down together, Dea settled between my legs and wrapped in my arms. When the families started coming, we abandoned it and went for lunch instead. Nothing fancy, just sandwiches. Afterward, we went back home and cuddled on the couch. I read some of Jasper Fforde's The Well of Lost Plots to her and then we put in some movies that we didn't pay attention to, and talked over them, and I fell asleep again. (I said I was tired!)

When we were out getting sandwiches though, I got a few looks like usual, but I don't know if someone had said something or what might have been the cause, but the young girl who checked us out, her eyes blazed with the fire of defiance as she said very loudly to the entire establishment, "You two are the cutest couple ever!"

Now, Dea and I are very hands-on with each other, above and beyond necessity even for her needs. Being in physical contact with her whenever possible is pretty much a compulsion on my end and a habit on hers. Even when her boyfriends are around, it's very difficult for us to keep our hands off each other. It's just what we do and how it has always been. And when we were waiting for our sandwiches, Dea had her back pressed to my chest, my arms were wrapped around her waist, and we were teasing each other about frivolous things, so of course, it would be natural for someone to think we were dating. But the moment the girl said it, I felt my cheeks burn up and I almost corrected the girl, but Dea, her face breaking out into a huge smile (even her dimple showing), said, "Thank you. I am very lucky to have him."

I know she loves me and I know she cares about me. But that simple public statement, the fact that she feels fortunate for having me in her life and to say it to others.... It makes me feel so grateful.

A Few Inarticulate Thoughts on the 2012 L'Homme Qui Rit

anonymous said:

How do you feel about the newest l'homme qui rit?

I know you sent me this question last week, anon, and I apologize for not answering sooner. I have a lot to say and yet no words have been readily available, but I figured that I had dallied long enough. When I have a better and more eloquent answer, I will be certain to let you know.

I’m assuming you mean the 2012 film? (There have been many stage productions in recent years including the Russian musical so if you meant one of those, I’m sorry that I misunderstood. And, if you did mean the Russian musical, let’s talk off anon because I don’t know anyone who has seen it yet.) And I reblog things about the 2012 movie, but I know I don’t talk about it quite as much as I could or perhaps should.

It’s not because I don’t appreciate it. I do. I have seen it quite a few times, a great deal more times than anyone knows about. I treat it a bit like contraband, relegating my watching habits to when I have the apartment alone because it sets me off for days, to the point that, for well over the past year when I have been moody or unusually melancholy, the first question is always “what’s wrong?” followed immediately by, “you didn’t watch l’homme qui rit again, did you?”

The first time I saw it was with my love. She knew that I had been waiting for it to come out and she’s the one who studies French in this household, so it made sense to experience it together. We cuddled on the couch as it played. She had tears in her eyes by the end. Meanwhile I had spent the whole movie silently weeping into her hair. Not my finest few hours.

I could write a great deal about how I feel about it, and maybe I will eventually when I am capable of processing it without being so profoundly affected. While it is not the most book-accurate, it is the most vicious version, not due to the tragedy of the story set as a fairy tale but in the small incidental ways that are more than rooted in reality. When he spills the wine on himself while drinking for example, it is not secondhand embarrassment or even the resulting laughter from those attending his fête that makes me lose it (yet again). Some people carry pens or breath mints or band aids wherever they go; I carry straws with me because I will spill otherwise. And no other version illustrates these daily realities and difficulties or offers this brief and brutal exposure of insecurities quite like this version. There’s a real and terrifying humanity at play. And it’s painful. And it’s beautiful. And it’s cruel.

The Perils of Going Solo

There was a concert tonight at a park not far from where I live. I made plans with a coworker (Amra, if you’re following along with my coworkers) to go. I got there on time, waited at the designated location. Fifteen minutes go by. Thirty minutes go by. I called her up, can’t get a hold of her. Hour later, I get a text that she couldn’t find a parking spot and decided to turn around. “Forgot” to tell me sooner.

Now, that doesn’t really bother me so much. I get stood up (and I mean that in the most platonic way possible) quite a bit which, although not ideal, has helped me be a little more spontaneous when other opportunities present themselves. I am also a capable adult who can attend a concert on his own, which I did, settling myself under a tree not far from the bandstand.

What bothered me was that there were very many people, and while I am a capable adult who goes about his daily life like anyone else, that many people scare the shit out of me. In truth, what are they going to do to me? Nothing. I know that. But my self-consciousness skyrockets. And with someone else, I am able to keep myself focused on my company and my purpose. I never make plans to attend such a large event on my own because I know this about myself.

I also get treated better in company. With someone else, people tend to refrain from approaching me or saying anything to me. When alone however, the bad behaviors come out en force. I got the dirtiest looks from some aged woman sitting in a rusty lawn chair not far from me who felt the need to pull everyone in her party into a group huddle and when they broke, they stuck their heads up like meerkats and just STARED at me. I waved at them and that sent them back to their regularly scheduled programming. A group of teen-aged boys walked by me and shouted to me that I was a “sick fuck” among a couple other choice descriptors and towards the end of the concert, one of them actually kicked me in the back (while I was sitting beneath the tree) and then they ran off laughing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been physically attacked, but it does happen. I’m an easy target too since I look wiry, spry, and youthful, not big, beefy, or imposing, although I probably have almost two hundred pounds of muscle and ten years on them. Fortunately nothing more than my meager pride was wounded, not that there would have been much recourse anyway should it have been otherwise. But here, illustrated, is precisely why I try to keep company whenever I can. I think I’m having a few glasses of wine tonight.

Had My Hair Done, Eep

Sandy works part time at a salon nearby and she’s been insisting on doing my hair for a very long time (apparently a guy with long hair is a rare treat for her?). Now that the black has faded to some really horrid mud-colored thing, she volunteered to fix it. 

She, um, fixed it this morning. She did a lot of other things in the process. My hair is much lighter brown. Much. And copper. I have no idea how I feel about it. It’s definitely different. Different is good, right? Right?

Pics will come, probably this afternoon. Then you can judge for yourselves.

----the afternoon happened, then came my follow-up---- 

So here’s the new color(s). Sandy straightened my hair too, so I have no idea what to do with it (at least it isn’t a Mrs. Brady flip though). If I didn’t have somewhere to go, I’d go rewash it in the hope that it would bring back the natural wave. It is currently back in a ponytail but that makes me look like I’m twelve. I need a cut very badly too. It’s at That Stage. (It’s a nasty pic too, but it’s not like you haven’t gotten tons of those before)

Seeing Pheeb's Family

Phoebe’s car was in the shop today so I drove her to go see her sister and brother-in-law (but really, we all know it was for her nieces, shhhh). The sister and brother-in-law know me from the few years that I lived with Orson and Phoebe while they were married, but now that they’re divorced, I don’t get to see the rest of Phoebe’s family that often. It makes me a little sad since they have the kids now, but it’s a treat when I get to see them. And the girls are smart and sweet: Colette who is seven and Simona who is five.

Simona apparently has a little crush on me too which is really cute to watch. She had to sit next to me the whole time and she told me all about school and her friends and the play they saw. She told me about her favorite foods and the movie they watched in class and then she sang me her favorite song although she got too embarrassed to do the accompanying dance.

When Pheebs and I were leaving, I knelt down to give the girls hugs. Simona launched herself into my arms, kissed both scars (to make them feel better, she explained when I asked her what the French kiss-on-each-cheek was for, but she said it looking at me with an indulgence one might bestow upon an especially dim-witted puppy) and then declared that she was going to marry me when she grew up.

Of course I smiled and told her I was too old for her but I think that’s one of the sweetest compliments a child can bestow even if they forget it five minutes later. Their concept of the institution is so innocent and naive that it doesn’t mean marriage. It says that they feel safe with you, that they think you’re fun to be with, that they like talking to you and spending time with you, and that they want to be as special to you as you are to them, and they call it marriage because they don’t have the capacity to explain all the nuances of why. It’s incredibly sweet.

Being Underestimated

I have much longer thoughts on this matter, but people constantly do it to me and here's a quick bit of advice:


Don’t underestimate me. I am not shy or timid or passive. I am quiet. And quiet people quietly rule the world.

Frequently Asked Questions

I was getting a lot of questions on my Tumblr account ( the-guy-who-laughs, if you are interested) so I wrote up a FAQ for it. Then it occurred to me that I should probably put one over here. This one has been adapted for the journal (rather than the Tumblr) although the subjects are more or less the same. Many of these questions have been posed to me over the course of my (limited) time on the internet.


Q: Your name is listed as Colin Gwynplaine. Is that your real name?
A: Colin is my legal first name. I have been using Gwynplaine as my middle name for many years. It is also my official moniker at work, on my work ID and everything. I use it in place of a last name online since I cannot think of any reason anyone online might need my surname.

Q: What gender are you and what pronouns do you use?
A: I am male and I use male pronouns, thank you for asking.

Q: How old are you?
A: All my legal documents say I’m 28, so let’s go with that.

Q: You look much younger.
A: I know! Isn’t it great? When I’m forty, people are still going to ask me what grade I’m in. By the way, that wasn’t a question.

Q: What do you do for work?
A: My main job is one I do not talk about much. I love my coworkers and we frequently have a lot of fun, but I really hate what I do and I am, in no small way, embarrassed about it, but I must pay the bills somehow. I also tutor in a variety of subjects. And I have my MBA, so I have recently taken on work as a freelance bookkeeper while I look for a job in my field. Right now, I'm also a dance instructor at a local studio.

Q: I have seen the selfies you post. Are they of you?
A: Yes, they are.

Q: Why do you post so many pictures of yourself?
A: Because I’m a total narcissist, and because I’m knock-out drop-dead sexy of course.

Q: No, really, why did you post them?
A: Oh, very well. The truth then. I find it very difficult to look at myself. I dislike being looked at too, which, as you can guess, makes things like, oh… existing for example, unnecessarily stressful. I put on a good show of confidence most of the time, but my core is nothing but anxieties, insecurities, and extreme self-consciousness. The entire point of coming online was to force myself to be more open, to have to look at myself, to learn not to be terrified of a camera, and to get comfortable with the idea of people looking at me…without actively having to be looked at, an idea which is surprisingly liberating. I did the exercise most begrudgingly at first, but between getting into the habit of doing it and the overwhelming support and encouragement of the sweet people I have met online, it has helped significantly.

Q: Are those scars?
A: Yes, they are.

Q: What interests do you have and what fandoms do you belong to?
A: Many. Most notable is L’homme qui rit/The Man Who Laughs (in any incarnation) because it is significant to me and needs extra love since it’s a very small fandom. Other specific fandoms of mine include The Little Prince, The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, Howl’s Moving Castle, Pushing Daisies, and Singing in the Rain. More general media interests include Victorian literature and movies based upon it, silent films, film noir, French films, Vincent Price/ Peter Cushing/ Basil Rathbone/ Christopher Lee films, and over-acted anachronistically-costumed quasi-period films (bonus points if it has Ray Harryhausen animation in it). Other than that, I like sunshowers, thunderstorms, foggy days, books, handmade scarves, the feeling of silt between my toes, the smell of coffee, ballroom dancing, financial security, and long walks on the beach.

Q: Is The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit your favorite story?
A: That’s a hard question to answer. Let’s say that The Man Who Laughs/ L’homme qui rit has roots more firmly embedded in my identity than any other. To quote Wuthering Heights, “my love for [other stories] is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for [L’homme qui rit] resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”

Q: Your scarring and love of L’homme qui rit… coincidence much?
A: Less coincidence and more intentional analogy. I have chosen to embrace a story that resonates profoundly and makes me that much stronger. When I became enamored of it at twelve, it was precisely because I could relate. At last, there was a disfigured man not cast as the villain but as a vulnerable and gentle human being whose personal strength overcomes all those terrible insecurities when it matters. That’s powerful. And I like to fancy that, could I meet Gwynplaine, we’d be best buds and have a secret handshake.

Q: You often refer to Dea. Is that her name? Is she your girlfriend?
A: It is her name, only not legally… yet. She’s often discussed getting it changed because no one calls her anything else except maybe her doctors and school administration. Yes, that was my doing. I regret nothing. And no, she is not my girlfriend. She has a boyfriend, but all boyfriends are called Charmin because she goes through them like rolls of toilet paper in a household of ten. I, on the other hand, am consistently unattached.

Q: Will we see pictures of you two together?
A: Probably not although there are a couple I would love to share because they’re silly and we look happy and those are the ones that please me most. But I would never put up pictures of anyone without their consent and I am a coward and haven’t told her about my online escapades because last year when Orson suggested doing this and I considered it, she became very upset by it.

Q: Is it okay to ask you a question even if it may seem indiscreet?
A: If it’s intentionally rude/ anon hate, you can guarantee that I will cut you down and sass you out. If it’s just a matter of not knowing how to phrase your inquiries, go ahead. I don’t believe in judging people who are trying to learn. That being said, I am still a fairly private person and may respectfully decline to answer, at least until I know you better, or request that we take the discussion elsewhere.

Q: Does that still mean I can ask you about your scars?
A: That depends. Are you going to give me the benefit of asking me off-anon or sending me an email so that I can talk to you as one person to another? If so, feel free. Or did you think you would hide behind a generic anonymous icon and ask me things you wouldn't have the nerve to do in person? Because if that's the case, no, you cannot. All anonymous inquiries about my scars will be treated in accordance with my mood that day, which means you will receive: sarcasm, comment deletion, or a link to my latest outburst of frustration. You will not receive an answer or a notification that I have deleted your question.

Q: Cake or Death?
A: Death, please. Oh! No! Cake! Cake! Sorry. I meant cake.


Do you have a question I didn’t answer? Send me an email at colin.gwynplaine@gmail.com.

Twinsies?

The other day, I posted about Sandy having finally seen L'homme qui rit (2012) and making the comment that there was a strong resemblance between the actor and me, "nose up, of course" she specified, because she's tactful that way, the sweetheart <-sarcasm alert. I was going to paint my scars up in a similar fashion to see how far I could push the film resemblance, but I had no red makeup and Dea wasn't home and I won't rummage through her things (...sketchy....) without her permission.

So I tossed on a bandanna and took this for Sandy instead. I didn't realize it before, but it's kind of freaky now that it's been pointed out. It's definitely the eyebrows... and the soulful gaze. Rawrrrr.

All Backbone and No Apologies

anonymous asked:

I've been catching your posts on and off (your posts, not reblogs and stuff although those are great too) and it seems like you go about living your life just like anyone else which is a good thing (right?). Where do you get your courage? Where does that bravery come from?

This is a question I get on occasion from people I meet or interact with in person, one of those things that gets asked after someone has spoken to me for more than half of an hour, but not much more. Because, at its surface, it seems like a really solicitous and admirable thing to ask, and by asking, it is implied that I embody the qualities of courage and bravery, both which are generally considered good and noble things to be. And for those people who would think I have them, I will be gracious and take the compliment. So, Anon, thank you.

At the center of the question, however, is also the implication that I have something I need to be courageous and brave about. And of course, when I say that to anyone who asks that question, they immediately respond, “but your scars…!” And yes, my scars indeed. They are completely unacceptable in society, hence the need for bravery and courage to go out in society at all, correct? And yet, should I be called brave and courageous for just doing what I should be able to do without remark? Perhaps instead, it is the unspoken rules that make me unacceptable to society that should be called out instead of my so-called courage and bravery.

Because, I will tell you the truth: I am not brave and I am not courageous. I am a terrible little coward who just tries to live his life as best he can if only because there is nothing else to be done. I hide my face behind a scarf in winter. I keep my hair on the longer side so that I can somewhat hide behind it the rest of the year. I like high-collared coats and jackets. I find unoccupied corners in public places, keep my face down when I don’t have to interact with anyone, and strategically hide my mouth with my hands while looking studious and deeply contemplative. On the bus to work, I always try to get a window seat so that I can pretend to be looking out when other people board. When I wash my hands in the bathroom, I won’t even look up into the mirror because I know what I’ll see looking back at me. I know I’m a cowardly little shit and I find reasons not to stray beyond the people and places with whom and where I am already familiar. But there are two reasons why I might appear to exhibit the fine qualities of courage and bravery that you think I do: necessity and fatigue.

Necessity is cruel. You know how you said that I ”go about living [my] life just like anyone else?” You know why that is? It’s because I don’t have a choice about it. I have to contribute to the household. I have to eat. I have a car I need to pay off. I have to have insurance for it. I need gas for the car. I need the bus pass for work since I don’t want to put too many miles on the car. I need the train pass if I want to continue my job interviews in The City. I need a little recreational time. And I need a way to pay for it all. So I work. So I go grocery shopping. So I take the bus and the train. So I walk places. So I go to the post office. So I go to the park. So I take Philandros for walks and play fetch with him. So I, surprise, live my life pretty ordinarily. I don’t have the luxury of being a shut-in, recluse, or agoraphobe. I leave the apartment and go out among humankind because I have to.

Fatigue is another of those annoying reasons why I don’t just hide myself away completely. Do you know how tiring it is feeling like I need to be ashamed and hide myself all the time? Let me assure you, it is damn tiring, not to mention demoralizing. I get tired of being treated poorly or just plain dismissed, of feeling guilty if my face makes someone else uncomfortable, or of being made to feel like I’m repulsive. It’s a constant effort of will not to get down on myself when I’m terrified people will look at me and, the horror, see. And while the discourtesy of others often gets me angry, I am not an angry person by nature and it quickly translates into weary resignation. Being treated like a plague victim is par for the course and it gets old. And because of it, some days I just wake up and think, “fuck that.” And I go out and do normal ordinary things and think, if someone doesn’t like it, sucks to be them. But those days aren’t frequent enough.

Of course, the real irony is that I know all of this quite clearly about myself, the cowardice, the insecurity, the extreme self-consciousness, and yet I am widely told that I am (not necessarily brave or courageous but) one of the most confident people [the people telling me this] have ever met, “all backbone and no apologies.” Admittedly, the confidence is so much more “fake it ‘til you make it” than real personal strength even if I do call people out on their bullshit when I have the opportunity, but I will agree that I have no apologies. Why should I when I should be able to, as you say, “go about living [my] life just like anyone else” without being called brave or courageous for doing so?

How to Avoid Looking Like a "Horrible Person" When You Meet Me (or anyone else with a facial difference)

anonymous asked:

I'm hanging out with a friend and some of her friends in a few days and one of them has a port wine stain over most of his face. I've seen pictures of him on facebook and I still think he's hot even with it. But I'm terrified about meeting him because of this huge crush and I've never met anyone with a facial mark and I'm afraid I'll act awful without meaning to. What advice could you give so that I won't look like a horrible person?

This is a good question, and although I understand why you’re on anonymous to ask it, I wish more people did. I can’t say that I’m the highest or best authority in these matters (so anyone who can discuss this with the wisdom of experience, please feel free to contribute), but I will do my best to be helpful.

It sounds like you’re already quite interested in this guy and it’s great that you’re not going to let a birthmark, that might be considered a physical deterrent to others, diminish that interest. But please, please please please, and I cannot stress this enough, do NOT create a personality for him before you meet him (and this is general life advice too, but…). Now, if you’ve already started building up a personality for him based on your assumptions, you aren’t a terrible person but throw it away. People take a look at someone and instantly begin assuming things about them — it is human nature. They size them up, figure them out, decide if they are worthy of getting to know in-depth or not. Are there cultural influences, gender cues, ethnic associations, religious indications, etc etc etc? It takes us seconds, less than seconds, moments, to compile a cursory profile… and then we build upon it with our own little imaginings.

With me, a lot of people come to the conclusion that I am shy, quiet, extremely serious, timid, and that I have nil for self-esteem. I know it is because of the scarring since, when people look at me, that’s all they see (how I know that as certainly as I know it is for a whole other discussion). And when they see it, they think (I paraphrase here to condense the multitude of responses I have received to this question), “That poor man probably doesn’t want to show his face, probably wants to hide somewhere, probably won’t speak up because he will be noticed, probably has been hardened by how dreadful his life must be, and really, who could blame him when he looks like that?” And then they meet me. At first, yes, I am extremely reserved, but not because I’m shy. It’s because I’m anxious at not knowing how I will be perceived and treated. Once I feel safe, I’m silly, extremely vocal, possessing a healthy dose of confidence, and yes, I look in the mirror every day and hate what I see, but I don’t think that I, as a person, am half bad. And, as it turns out, I have devastatingly, but accidentally, disappointed people who have formed fanciful crushes on me because I did not live up to their brooding moody beast of fairy tale expectation.

As for his appearance, if you feel moved to tell him that you find him “hot,” I would caution you not to phrase it as you did in your question to me. In the most basic, unadorned way, people cannot help what they look like, and no one wants to be told that the thing they cannot control is the detractor. Please don’t make it sound like his birthmark is a hurdle (that you can surmount or not is immaterial) to his natural attractiveness, i.e. do not tell him that he is attractive in spite of it.

Also, do not tell him that he is attractive because of it either. This goes a little hand-in-hand with making up a personality based on a facial feature. Saying attractiveness is because of said feature sort of commodifies it. It’s saying that the feature is essentially the most important thing about that person and that, were it not there, you wouldn’t be interested. It isn’t objectifying so much as turning that feature, which may well be one of their most personal sensitivities, into a fetishistic feature which is never a good thing.

Keeping all of this in mind… when you meet him finally….

It’s really easy to say “treat him like you would anyone else,” but much harder in practice, right? Because you’re crushing on him and you’re dealing with something you’ve never had to deal with before, even if you know, deep down, it isn’t anything weird or different or dangerous. But don’t worry, a lot of people freeze up or do something that’s not ideal, not because they’re bad people, but because they are going through the same experience of not knowing what to do.

When most people meet me, they will not look me in the eyes and while it is such a small thing, it really says a lot about how uncomfortable they are, all the while sending the signal that I don’t merit their attention (which in turn makes me feel like I’m bothering them and that I should probably excuse myself so that they are no longer uncomfortable). So, when you meet the guy, look him in the eyes. Don’t meet his eyes and then look away. Look him in the eyes and keep the contact for as long as you’re interacting with him. Don’t look down. Don’t look at an ear. Don’t turn to your friend while you’re talking to him.

Also, be honest about your experience. If you do freeze up or say something you think is horribly insensitive or you do something you think might be interpreted as being unfriendly, go for honesty… maybe not about your crush but for those of us who get a lot of negative reactions, being told that you’re just unsure how to act and that you do not want to be insensitive is completely acceptable. But don’t make the admission about your comfort — make it about his. Apologise, ask him if there’s anything that would make him comfortable, and if he’s willing, ask him things about it (provided that you do so in a kind and respectful way). Granted, we’re people and not all about our facial differences, but what’s the first thing we see on other people? Their faces, and it’s better to address it openly and honestly than to pretend its not there.

Hope this helped a little?

Best of luck to you with your crush!

Reading in the Park

Spent the day out in the park reading — the wind was rather intense though so I had to call it a bit earlier than I had anticipated. Maybe tomorrow I'll try again.

A couple people have messaged me on Tumblr (I cross-post most of my things -- although the lengthy stuff usually happens here) about how I "hide" in public. Um... I don't. See? I go out in public, almost every day, and do normal things like other people! When winter comes around, it's a bit easier to hide behind a scarf, but I don't generally in the warmer months, if only because you get stopped by cops if you do. ;D

Surprise, unsuspecting people!

One of the pics from the last batch of selfies I took… just in case you were missing my gorgeous face. ;D

 If you were worried, I am still around! Things have just been a little insane between tutoring and helping Dea with her work. It is the end of the semester for her and my students, after all!

An Unpopular Opinion about The Man Who Laughs?

I had a conversation with someone the other day about The Man Who Laughs because she had just seen the silent film for the first time and knew that I have a special fondness for it. That inspired me to think about the problems I have with it (and yes, I do have problems with it, despite its magnificence) and why I have those problems.

As much as I think Veidt did a beautiful job portraying Gwynplaine (and there is no other I think would have done better at the time, not even Lon Chaney), I don’t think it is the right portrayal. Victor Hugo is exceptionally sentimental in the book which, I suspect, misled a lot of Paul Leni’s direction, and I think it misleads many readers.

I have never believed that Gwynplaine is a weak character and I do not believe that he should be portrayed as a meek, shrinking, timorous man, and especially not because of the way he looks. Looks shape a person, not make a person. And contrary to what seems to be the pervasive understanding of his character as a man so gentle he recoils out of fear of being approached or viewed or what have you, he’s a young man of twenty-five with a healthy curiosity, a dash of impertinence, and a good deal of nerve, tempered only by acute self-awareness and a serious soft-spot for Dea.

What doesn’t seem to be well-understood is that, behind the disfigurement, is a person, is a mind, as fully complex as that of anyone else, that his existence may put his disfigurement to use, but his reality is not centered on it. He has a life outside of his face. He probably has thoughts as mundane as “the caravan could use another coat of green paint,” or “I really need to patch that hole in my coat sleeve,” or “damn, Homo’s taken a dump a little too close for comfort and it stinks in here.” Then at other moments he thinks Aristotle was a clueless ancient who should stick to describing craters of the moon because no one could then gainsay him.

And truly, to deliver that final speech to the assembly, he needed a backbone, not just in the moment, but in the whole story leading up to it. One does not simply gain all that courage for a momentary plot-point. It is there at call because it is something he has always had. It is the one moment that should define him, not as a disfigured man, but as a man who is aware of his disfigurement, as a man who is so much more than just what people see. And that nerve, that courage, that brazenness to address such a group when you are only tolerated in it, that is not gentle. That is bold. That is bitter and gritty. That is the knife edge that has been sharpened upon the receiving end of disdain and ridicule, of being reduced to a disfigurement when there is so much more to him.

The silent may be moving, may show the pain of the story very well, may convey the moodiness poignantly, but it only shows the tears behind the smiling face. It misses the foundation of the person completely.

A Phantom of the Opera Photo(Manip)

When I got home tonight, I was tired, but I am most certainly not sleepy. I therefore wasted a bit of time playing around with the photo program that came with my laptop. After this month of selfies, I have been getting decent at it, with sharpness and contrasts and whatnot, making the lighting kinder to me. But I thought, I’m a Phantom of the Opera fan and I would like to know my program better… and I’m already not a very attractive guy.

 So this is my product of tonight. It’s not terrible for a first try with one of my own photos… but you can still see the lines of my scars because I couldn’t manage to take them out completely. Ah well. Next time perhaps.

Tumblr Hate Mail: First Edition

I had an anonymous user on Tumblr send me a charming message:

your a fucking freak

OH NO. YOU NOTICED.

 

Someone Misses My Selfie A Day

From an Anon on Tumblr:

Maybe this is weird but I kinda miss seeing your selfies every day on my dash.

Yes, that does seem a little weird to me considering how much I disliked taking them and posting them (and looking at them, but that is a given), but it isn’t a bad sort of weird, I don’t think. In truth, it is nice that someone is telling me they miss them instead of how freakish and horrible I am. I don’t think I have many other pictures of me readily available that I haven’t already posted. I always avoided cameras. And pictures now, selfies or by others, takes a presence of mind that I don’t usually have. There are a couple of me while at work, but I’m covered with so much makeup, you would never recognize me. Even if that were not a deterrent, I hate admitting to what I do for a job and pictures would give that away. However, I just dug this up (you can tell why I didn’t use it during the Month of Selfies). Yes, this is me doing duck-face. Just because (I have a healthy dose of not-taking-myself-too-seriously). And I ask you: look upon this face (of, how do the kids say it? cray-cray?) and ask yourself, are you sure you miss my selfies? Are you completely sure?

Last One to Finish Out the Month

Finishing out March with a pic (I only missed one day out of 34 and that one was not within my monthly obligation which makes me glad since I thought I wouldn’t last the month). I think I have one or two more pictures of me, but I’ll keep those for later when I am feeling particularly sadistic and want to inflict them upon you.

Post A-Picture-A-Day, Finishing Up March

I didn’t post a picture yesterday (because I forgot) which means it’s a good thing that my monthly obligation is over. But I still have a couple left. Therefore, I will post for the next few days until the last batch is done. And then I will see how I feel about the camera. I mean, I still hate it, but it’s not quite as repellent to me now. This is still with the eyeliner.

A Picture a Day: Day 31

I have done a picture-a-day for 31 days now and my obligation for doing it for a month is officially over. Because today is ALMOST the end of March, I’ll see if I can scrounge up a few more until March 31st and then I will have gone above and beyond my obligation.

I will debrief about the experience soon and why it won’t be a selfie-a-day-for-a-year (I am certain you are just as glad as I am, you sweet people who follow me). Until then…. officially done!

A Picture a Day: Day 30

One more day to go. One more day. I can do it.

A Picture a Day: Day 29

Last batch. I’m sorry I don’t have anything particularly thrilling or interesting to say about these. More eyeliner. And my nose looks rather pointy here.

A Picture a Day: Day 28

I have been scrambling to find some more pictures. The few Orson has of me from recent times aren’t electronic (we are kind of like luddites in this household) and the old ones aren’t candidates for this, even by my own loose criteria and rule breaking tendencies.

In an effort to keep things slightly interesting for the last few pictures though, I let Phoebe but some eyeliner on me, although I think she put it on way too thick… but what do I know?

A Picture a Day: Day 27

This was right after Phoebe dyed my hair. And, I have a confession. This isn’t a selfie. Pheebs took it. I know. I’m cheating. But I’ve run out of pics and I need to take more or find more or something because I am not getting this close to doing it for a month only to fail. Besides, you can tell I’m pretty delighted here to finally have black hair, so I think I should be forgiven for making up the rules (or breaking them as the case may be) as I go along.

Trouble with Eating

One of my coworkers, Sandy if you’ve been following, and I were tasked with coming up with a couple new routines for work. In order to get time to sit down together and brainstorm, the other day she suggested that we should discuss possibilities over some dinner at the local 24/7 diner after our shift ended since it was appallingly late and neither of us had the opportunity to eat prior.

I went, against the inner little nagging voice of my fears, because I have a life to live and I can’t just… not live it. I felt like having the company and, in the interest of not trying to make my life sound more glam than it ever is, I am powerfully lonely, all the time, every day, so if she had suggested going to the grocery store, running naked through a frat quad, or driving to the west coast on a whim, I probably would have done it without a moment of hesitation (although, I am quite relieved that she did not suggest running through a frat quad naked). We also had things to talk about and for a few dollars I could get a large satisfying meal that I didn’t have to cook myself. There were very few cons about accepting the invite.

Sandy knows me, knows what I look like, my peeves, my hidden snarky side. We have worked together for the past two years and occasionally I tutor her with whatever classes are the hurdle of the day (although she is incredibly intelligent, has far surpassed me in Calculus, and I’m just completely useless with her engineering courses). But the thing is, we don’t spend a lot of time together outside of work. Even the tutoring usually happens in the employee area when our shifts match up. So we haven’t actually gone anywhere or done anything in the general population like normal people. Fortunately, we both embrace the word “freak.” She is a delightful body-modification “punk-junkie” with hair more colors than a mantis shrimp can see, and a bit of an activist deeply into alternative fashion in the context of fat-positivity and love-your-body-at-any-size movements. So when I spend time with her, I feel pretty comfortable.

It was late, so I didn’t have to worry about there being a lot of people (I may live my life, but I’m still extremely self-conscious. That doesn’t go away.), but in the past-midnight hours, there are frequently belligerent inebriates and I have narrowly avoided incidents with such people a handful of times. That was all I could think of that might have been detrimental, but nothing else. And Sandy was extremely considerate about me, requesting a booth tucked away in a corner behind the cashier’s area, so that we were in a nice secluded little alcove. And even the waitress who came over was perfectly cordial to both of us.

It was when the food was brought out that I had the first germination of real anxiety.

One thing many people don’t think about when it comes to my scarring (and why would they?) is that it affects much more than mere aesthetic. The thing about my scars is someone cut my face open. And although they are mostly faded now, the suture scars along the edges of the "smile" seem to suggest that merely cutting wasn’t enough, that it was done surgically. Someone restructured my face. I don’t think there was any resulting nerve damage since my face is completely usable and sensory, but the way my face healed, the skin puckers along the incision lines. This causes constant pulling at my cheeks and lips and impedes the mobility of my face. I frequently say that I wear a "permanent smile" but not because my mouth is drawn back from my teeth in a frozen maniacal grimace to resemble an actual smile. I am clearly just scarred. But the pulling, the limited range of movement, means that trying to do anything like frowning is a painful effort. The scarring keeps my mouth fairly taut and to countermand the reconstruction of it is nearly impossible. This difficulty translates over into anything else I do with my mouth, like eating and drinking.

I hadn't considered this prior to being confronted with our meals since I had a straw in my glass of water. And when I looked at my first forkful, I had the extremely eloquent thought, "oh shit." I try to be downright dainty with my eating etiquette, tiny bites of food on the fork, nothing too messy, nothing that can leak. Around my family, I am not so conscious of my habits, but I always try to be aware of myself. And, left unchecked, watching me eat has to be fairly disgusting.

Sandy said nothing about it... not that she would. Hopefully, I was not an embarrassment although I caught myself a couple times spilling. The whole time, I just wanted to slink under the table.

If I ever mention going out to eat again, please talk me out of it. It's a really bad idea.

A Picture a Day: Day 25

I’m sure you can tell just how thrilled I am about these pics. Look at my enthusiasm. It’s contagious.

In actuality, it was early. I was getting ready for work. And the night before I realized that I had only one or two more pictures for the picture-a-day effort. Therefore, I thought taking a picture that morning might not be a bad idea. Although, look at me. I look like I got ahold of a special brownie for breakfast (I didn’t though). I was just very tired. Double shifts four days in a row will do that.

A Picture a Day: Day 24

This is the last one I have (at the moment) from being painted up like The Crow. I might be able to squeeze one or two more out from that flurry of selfies, but they’ll probably all look exactly the same. So, for the moment, this is the last one. Now, I have no idea where I’m going to find more pics (unless I cheat and use pics by others…. that’s a thought). But, only a week left!

A Picture a Day: Day 23

Oh, the end is so near I can taste it. Pulling up the last one of the first batch of selfies I did (a month ago) when Phoebe painted my nails.

A Picture a Day: Day 22

Another Crow pic. Not as happy with this one (I think it’s the lighting that throws it off), but the other ones looked so similar to the ones already posted that I thought, eh, I’m already a sight, let’s run with it, lighting be damned.

A Picture a Day: Day 21

Home stretch! Ten more days and then I’m done! I figured, with the end in sight, I should use the last few remaining pics from the very first go I had at this. They are pretty much the dregs of my pics, but that’s all I’ve got. Sorry. But you can do the little dance of joy with me that this will soon be over.

Today at Work

On break now and still have a few more hours of work ahead, but today was the best day of work I can remember in a long time.

Brian, who brought in the burned CD yesterday with “Sexy and I Know It” on it for background, brought in a new CD today specifically for me to use when leading our warm-ups.

The line-up:
Sexy and I Know It (LMFAO)
Moves Like Jagger (Maroon 5)
Strut (Adam Lambert)
You Can Leave Your Hat On (Joe Cocker)
Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? (Rod Stewart)
Turn You On (The Scorpions)
Pour Some Sugar on Me (Def Leppard)
I’m Too Sexy (Right Said Fred)
Closer (Nine Inch Nails)

It is a great thing to work with a bunch of other improvisational dancers and gymnasts because while it started like a traditional warm-up, it ended up more like a crazy musical montage that vaguely resembled a cross between the opening of Miss Saigon and Cirque du Soleil. A couple of us even sneaked in a little ballet (because we’re trained and we don’t get to use it that often).

I don’t want to go back and actually work the rest of the evening. Hopefully nothing will come along to ruin this wonderful day.

Not So Quiet and Reserved

I hate my job but I really like my coworkers. However I realized today that they are under the greatly mistaken impression that I am the epitome of quiet and reserved.

We were in the studio rehearsing with someone’s burned cds on in the background to keep the energy up and “Sexy and I Know It” came on which is not something I listen to, but I broke out into an outrageous improvised dance routine and everyone just gaped. Sandy and Kelly joined me after their moment of stupefaction and we just put on our own little show. I had one person ask me after if I had been replaced by a pod-person.

It was great though. Their faces were hilarious to behold. I felt like I was in a musical, cast as one of the protagonists who take off their glasses (Clark Kent or heroine-going-through-a-makeover) and suddenly no one recognizes them anymore.

A Picture a Day: Day 20

Another Crow pic. In truth, I am rather pleased about these. I think they came out very well. And yes, I’m saying that because the scars are well masked by the makeup even if not entirely hidden. But the beauty is that, even with a big smile, I don’t look ridiculous because the rest of it makes me look a little too bad ass to be ridiculous. Like I have said before, I should just paint myself up like Eric Draven every day.

A Picture a Day: Day 19

Sorry about the odd glare on the side. This is the new half-ski-mask I mentioned a bit ago. I really like it except the cold weather is leaving and I don’t have much excuse to wear it now.

A Picture a Day: Day 18

Orson wanted to take these pics, but they’re not selfies if I don’t take them, right? He took a couple pics though, but I haven’t seen them.

Ah, look how cute I am.

Mime from Hell, anyone?

My Excitement of the Other Day + A Picture a Day: Day 17

A couple days ago (three days ago? two? I suppose by technicality three days ago, but I haven’t gone to bed yet, so only two), I got a text message from Phoebe while I was at work asking me to go to her place when I was done for the day. This isn’t unusual. Every so often, she has a tech problem (I am not tech savvy at all, but for some reason she thinks I am) or something she needs put together or something that requires a little heavy lifting. I thought nothing of it. After work, I headed over there, was let in, and, much to my confusion, was summarily presented with a box of black hair dye.

Phoebe, her brows furrowed and mouth twisted, told me that she found my rambling on my It’s Never Been About Being Ugly post on my blogspot. She semi-lamented that there was nothing she could do about the scars but she brightened as she pointed to the dye. If she could do nothing else, about my scars or hands or height, she could at least, she beamed, make my hair the color I wanted it.

A box of dye and one stained bathroom sink later, plus all the hilariously awful middle stages where my hair, stiff with dye, stood straight up like a poor impersonation of Edward Scissorhands, I now have black hair. I am aware that, overall, it doesn’t make a great impact on my general appearance, especially since dark brown to black is the most minimal alteration possible, but anyone who, like I am, is hyper-critical and hyper-aware of their appearance can doubtless understand. It’s a small difference that I not only notice, but that makes a great impact in how I feel about myself. And that makes it a pretty fantastic thing.

Pheebs is a wonderful person, a very laid back and very considerate one. I am touched that she went out of her way to make me happy. She may not have stayed married to Orson or decided that being a mother to Dea and me was her thing, but she’s remained a really good solid friend to all of us.

When I got back home and Dea embraced me, she stuck her nose in my hair and then wrinkled it in disgust. She said I smelled of chemicals and whatever flowery scented shampoo Phoebe had used to try to mask it and demanded to know what I had done to it.

Now, Dea’s not one to talk. She has her own, rather epic if I may be so bold as to say, battles with her hair. I mean, I think her hair is perfect, that she’s perfect, no matter what, but what she thinks, and wants to do about it, is more important than any thought I have on the topic. And Phoebe helps her too with the relaxers and straighteners and whatever else they use. All I know is that, if I wander near the bathroom, it sounds like something out of a torture chamber, and peering in with the tools strewn around does not help that impression. So Dea knows and understands about the hair even if her focus is more on the texture than the color.

I told her about Phoebe, about wanting my hair darker although I didn’t tell her how Pheebs knew since Dea doesn’t know about my internetting, about Pheebs turning the bathroom black for me. Dea, wanting to be completely fair before pronouncing final judgment, stuck her fingers in it and combed them through several times before proclaiming that my hair was softer than usual and that she likes that I’ve kept it long… which kind of throws a monkey wrench into the plan to have it cut soon.

She was braiding it (I let her do whatever she wants to me) when Orson got in (she was telling me about how she “pwned” her professor by correcting some equation that went right over my head, did I mention that she’s not just perfect but brilliant?). Orson didn’t notice right away but after a couple hours he finally stopped in the living room, stared at me, and then asked me what was different. I think he was even more excited about it than I was when I told him because he ran and got some black makeup and insisted on painting me up like The Crow.

In conclusion, I had a great day because of a very thoughtful woman, Dea approved which made my happiness official, and now all you sweet followers of mine are going to get spammed with Crow selfies (no, not really, I only have a couple) because I am (almost) officially out of other pictures for the picture-a-day attempt and I still have almost two weeks to go yet.

Sorry!

But, here’s the first! Picture-a-Day: Day 17

(And the colour problems are still happening.... sigh.... better quality here)

Thunderstorm Follow-Up

Dea woke me this morning by crawling onto my bed, wrapping my arm around her, and then poking me in the shoulder until I was sufficiently roused enough to sympathize with her when she lamented that, instead of a thunderstorm, it’s snowing again.

I’ll take snow any day if it merits waking to her.

We snuggled for a little bit, until Orson stopped in the doorway and scolded us both (not very seriously) for being bad influences on each other when she has school and I have work

Waiting for a Thunderstorm with Dea

We were supposed to get a massive thunderstorm through here, so Dea and I went down to the ground floor of the apartment building and sat outside under the overhang on a bench that has left permanent slat imprints on my backside. She let me hold her though, pressed herself against me. And we talked like we used to, of everything and of nothing, huddled against each other like children.

I miss her so much. She has been occupied with school and her boyfriend and going out with Phoebe to attend to those things that Orson is completely clueless about and I’m useless. But it amazes me how I can see her almost every day, live with her, and still miss her so profoundly. Especially when we don’t talk or make time to talk.

We never did get our thunder. Rain came by and the sound of it was pleasant on the metallic overhang, but nothing beyond that. And she just called it a night and said we would try again some other time.

She may be ready for sleep, but my hands and arms tingle from having held her. My heart rate has gone up, especially at the prospect of repeating this another night. I am energized. Wide-awake.

And I don’t know what to do with all this energy and wakefulness at 2:30am

(Non)Adventure + A Picture a Day: Day 16

About two weeks/ a week and a half ago, feeling restless and in unusually low spirits, I left the apartment to do something, anything, other than stay inside and do work or chores or more job applications. I wanted company but Dea was busy and there was no one else available, and in that situation, to fend off any encroaching loneliness, I went off for some dedicated introspection. It was still cold, still suitable weather for my scarf, and I needed to be outside, to walk and think without being interrupted and beyond the confines of the apartment walls.

I thought about going to the green, but I live in an extremely populated area, and when you're feeling lonely, sometimes it's even worse in the midst of many people. This also ruled out Orson's uni campus. And I did not wish to be disturbed, particularly if the point of escaping the apartment was to have a few moments of clarity in solitude.

Instead, I went to the next best place for quiet, solitude, and nature: one of the older cemeteries in the area. I had to drive there since it is across several non-pedestrian-friendly freeways, but once there, I found a place where I could park partly off the road to allow another vehicle by with ease. At the entrance, there was someone doing maintenance, so I went to the opposite end of this rather extensive cemetery so that I wouldn't cross paths with him.

The beauty about the cemetery is that not only is it quiet and scenic but it's usually fairly empty. Even though I often go around without my face covered, it always stresses me out when others are present. Even if they don't notice me or look at me, I feel exposed and the self-consciousness is all-consuming (which is also another reason why company helps, because I am distracted from the self-destructive internal dialogue I have with myself). So being alone, armed with a camera, on a brisk day, with all the landscape before me and some truly beautiful stones, I pulled down the scarf and headed off towards a huge stump of a newly felled tree. I was already feeling much better than I had been in the apartment.

(It's quite sad that such a large and old tree had to be cut down, so I thought I'd take a picture of the stump. Unfortunately, there was no way to accurately judge the enormity of it, so I put the camera on timer and hopped on to show its size. I look like a little kid on it.)

Not even five minutes later, a huge truck rolls up right behind my car and stops. I thought he had plenty of room to go by (and he did, upon checking), but the maintenance worker got out and came towards me. I pulled my scarf back up and went over and asked if he needed me to pull the car over even more. All he did was stare at me for a moment as if trying to figure out what I was doing and then he told me I had to move my car somewhere else (mind you, there's no place for parking here so one place is much the same as another) and then began asking me all kinds of questions: why was I there, how long was I going to stay, was I a student at one of the universities, etc. etc. and then he started on how my coat looked thin and how it wasn't cold enough for a scarf. Annoying. I told him I was just cold and I got in my car and moved off to another location. I got out, started wandering again.... and he FOLLOWED ME. Not on my tail, but close enough so that the engine disturbed the stillness and he kept an eye on me, and my stress levels just skyrocketed, to the point that, not even twenty minutes into the cemetery, I ended up leaving.

(I snapped this there. Who puts shoes on stones though? I've heard of coins and small rocks... but boots? Really? And they're not bronzed shoes or anything. They are actual, unattached, boots.)

I went to another cemetery, also large and historic, but not nearly as cozy as the other one, lacking trees and rambling paths, and any sort of park-like quality. I walked around for about an hour, looking at some of the beautifully carved stones, happily left in peace while I took pictures, some quite ordinary, some quite silly.

(This would be of the silly variety. And, while I look at this, I think I really need a haircut.)

But as I was going around the backside of the cemetery, a dog ran over to me. I don't mind animals at all. I'm rather more partial to animals than I am to people and I bent down and pet him while he smelled Philandros on me. But as I looked around for his companion, I saw a couple of women walking over. Up with the scarf again. They came over for the dog (I learned that his name was Brûlée) and started talking to me.

Now, I don't know what it is about people but sometimes they are maddening. I do enjoy social interaction, I just stress out about it. And that's okay. I can usually move beyond it. But people just state the obvious and I always have to keep my snark in check because most people don't appreciate it. I can have a sharp tongue at times, sharpened ever more by increasing frustration at having to hold it. And amid the pleasantries (ie, discussing the weather), they told me that it was too warm for a scarf (you know, just in case I wasn't enjoying the same weather that they were. Twice, in one day. What the....). I thanked them for that vital piece of unknown information (no, not really, but I wanted to) and we went in our own directions... or at least I thought we had. Every time I went to pull down my scarf again, the women would be disturbingly nearby.

(I was very much not amused as you can tell by that raised eyebrow of mine and that withering glance. And that handless book-toting figure behind me looks rather irate too.)

Now, this is a huge cemetery. Huge. We were the only ones there. And yet, I went to the newer section, they wandered there too. I went to the earliest part, they followed. I went to the Civil War section, they came over to admire the column statuary. In conclusions, I ended up leaving there earlier than desired too. 

Privacy, even outside of personal space, isn't usually that hard to come by if you know the places to go... like the cemetery. And if you think about it more as an outdoor sculpture garden than a place to deposit dead people, it really isn't as morbid as it sounds. The carvings do take a great deal of artistry and many cemeteries were designed by architects as park spaces, meant to be used for people like me seeking a little escape from the rest of the world.

It was a disappointing day, but it did get me out of the apartment and allowed me to return to it with a little more inner peace than prior. And now you get to see just how silly I am at times.

And, this definitely counts as A Picture a Day (Day 16) because you got three pics of me today (lucky devils that you are).

Good Day, No Time To Tell Yet

I don’t have much time at the moment but:

Phoebe was awesome today.
Orson ran with it and painted me up.
Dea says I smell like chemicals.
Overall, good day.

Pics coming!

A Picture a Day: Day 15

Yesterday marked two weeks of doing a picture a day. I have not yet perceived any benefit from this exercise, but Orson has suggested that I stick it out for at least a month. So two more weeks to go before I can be done with it.

This was taken on my little (non)adventure the other day. This isn’t one of the moody trees (if only because I know that I will break something if I test the fates by trying to climb one), but it was the best I could do.

A Picture a Day: Day 14

 I took this on my little (non)adventure last week. I don’t really have a particular fondness for cemeteries but, unlike parks or town greens, they’re usually pretty quiet and people don’t tend to bother me there (except for the other day when I had people do nothing BUT harass me and try to get me to lower my scarf — rant coming). The stone actually frames me pretty well, but I went over to it because it was along the periphery, very far away from the others, and I was curious to see if there was anything different about it… but I didn’t see anything that stuck out.