I believe I've mentioned before that I often thought of myself as a really intelligent retarded person. This was particularly true when I was in school. I often found myself unable to understand anything that was going on in my classes. Of course, now I realize it was simply because I wasn't paying attention to what the instructor was saying and when I read the books I usually was thinking about where I'd go if I had enough money to travel around the world.
My travel interest inspired me to think about how great it would be if I could become a photo journalist for National Geographic. I have never really read National Geographic, but I've often looked at the pictures. I like pictures. Especially the pretty ones. Pretty pictures make me happy.
I have no idea why, with this kind of mind that sometimes seems so limited, I have always had an attitude when it comes to my perceptions of other peoples' intelligence. I am immediatly annoyed by those I perceive to be below my intellectual level. Yet deep inside I know that my intellectual level is not so high. I constantly meet people who are probably smarter than me but I seem unable to believe it because often very smart people are not very polished in physical presentation, nor in verbiage. Though I have to point out here that I tend to think of "smart" people as those who are skilled in math and the sciences as I have no idea what the hell those people are talking about most of the time and so they seem like they have brains that work better than mine. At the same time I find them to be socially inept and look down on them anyway.
Then there's also this testing problem I seem to have developed around eleventh grade - you know - when standardized tests actually seem to matter. I had always done pretty well on them and then boom - I was statistically retarded. Was I simply psyching myself out? Did I have a brain aneurysm in my sleep which killed a bunch of my smart cells? Am I an idiot for thinking that an aneurysm could have done that? Do I want to do the research involved to find out? Is my increasing laziness a symptom of my decreasing perspicacity? Am I being pretentious when I use words like 'perspicacity'? Does that word even exist? Do you think I'm even interested in finding out? Maybe. I like words. I'm not always sure how to use them but I like to try.
I've always liked words and sentences and how things sound and look. I assume that there is some kind of nearly useless intelligence there but sadly we live in a world that values test scores and statistics. I find that to be very annoying and it forces me to concluded that we live in a world run by idiots - even if they are good at math and scored 1300 or more on their SATs.
What really pisses me off is that those bastards are getting all the high-paying jobs.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Live Slow, Die Old
I think this is a much better way to live. So far that's the way things are going for me and I'm pretty happy with it.
I hope to be about 99 before I die. I like the number 99.
That chick on Get Smart was pretty hot.
Skinny but hot.
Yeah. I'll take my time dying. Chillin'. Livin'. Tuning in to what it be. Hopefully.
I hope to be about 99 before I die. I like the number 99.
That chick on Get Smart was pretty hot.
Skinny but hot.
Yeah. I'll take my time dying. Chillin'. Livin'. Tuning in to what it be. Hopefully.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
A Boy Without a Name
For the first 95% of my life on this earth, I was officially nameless. I have always had a last name though. Let's say it's STANK.
Why, you ask?
Because my parents, yet again, were trying to prove they were crazy.
Even from birth, I was being given the signals.
So, the story goes like this. My mother doesn't like my father's name. Let's call him, Excretious. And, Excretious didn't realize that Excretious was a horrible name in this country. He therefore insisted that his last born son (they knew I'd be the last born as six was more than enough) be named with his beautiful name.
To add strength to my fathers argument was the fact that my sister Jaqui was named after my mother. So this was not only about sharing a super-fantastic name like Excretious with my father but also balancing out the family with a mother-daughter/father-son same-name situation.
Of course after months of arguing about naming me before I was even born, my mother decided to do what women do best and manipulate things by giving in until the real time came. She told my dad, "Okay. Excretious is a terrible name but I will punish my unborn child for the duration of his life by naming him after you because it will make you happy."
"Thank you.", my dad said in reply.
So mom proceeded to pray nightly, daily and afternoonly for a girl. "He can't expect me to name a girl, Excretious."
Maybe Excretiella?
Then that fateful day in February came, after she'd endured the fall on the ice in the blizzard as well as some balloon-hat ridicule (which I will get into another time if I feel like it) she was rushed to the hostpital to deliver a bouncing ten-pound baby boy who was doomed to be called Excretious.
Now most people don't get to hear much about how their mother reacted when they were born. You generally assume you were met with tears of joy - at least by your mother - when you were first introduced to the world. I, however, have always known that I was met with an "oh shit, it's a boy!" followed by genuine tears of deep depression.
The nurse came to my mothers room with the birth-certificate forms and my mother filled out everything except the name. She told the nurse she needed more time to discuss it with her husband who was having a mid-life crisis and was unable to make clear decisions easily.
She went home and talked it over with my older siblings who proved to be on my mother's side. They all then conspired to call me EJ. The story would go like this: I was Excretious Jackson and my father was Excretious too, so why not make it easier on everyone and call me EJ for short to avoid any misunderstandings that might happen. You know, when my father calls my mother from work to say he's going to be late because he's having drinks at a titty bar with some of his construction buddies. It might be confusing if the messenger said, "Excretious will be late for dinner because he's at a titty bar getting drunk with his friends." This way, she and all my siblings would know that it was my father and not I that was engaged in this activity. Likewise, when someone said, "Excretious just puked all over my back" there might be some confusion lest we differentiate Excretious Sr. from EJ.
My father reluctantly agreed. He never argued about the fact that my sister Jaqui and my mother seemed to exist quite comfortably carrying exactly the same first, middle and last names and that the children never referred to either of my parents by first names so confusion never really came about.
More than thirty years later, I still had no name on that damn birth certificate. I liked it that way. I felt like Sting...only I was Stank.
Why, you ask?
Because my parents, yet again, were trying to prove they were crazy.
Even from birth, I was being given the signals.
So, the story goes like this. My mother doesn't like my father's name. Let's call him, Excretious. And, Excretious didn't realize that Excretious was a horrible name in this country. He therefore insisted that his last born son (they knew I'd be the last born as six was more than enough) be named with his beautiful name.
To add strength to my fathers argument was the fact that my sister Jaqui was named after my mother. So this was not only about sharing a super-fantastic name like Excretious with my father but also balancing out the family with a mother-daughter/father-son same-name situation.
Of course after months of arguing about naming me before I was even born, my mother decided to do what women do best and manipulate things by giving in until the real time came. She told my dad, "Okay. Excretious is a terrible name but I will punish my unborn child for the duration of his life by naming him after you because it will make you happy."
"Thank you.", my dad said in reply.
So mom proceeded to pray nightly, daily and afternoonly for a girl. "He can't expect me to name a girl, Excretious."
Maybe Excretiella?
Then that fateful day in February came, after she'd endured the fall on the ice in the blizzard as well as some balloon-hat ridicule (which I will get into another time if I feel like it) she was rushed to the hostpital to deliver a bouncing ten-pound baby boy who was doomed to be called Excretious.
Now most people don't get to hear much about how their mother reacted when they were born. You generally assume you were met with tears of joy - at least by your mother - when you were first introduced to the world. I, however, have always known that I was met with an "oh shit, it's a boy!" followed by genuine tears of deep depression.
The nurse came to my mothers room with the birth-certificate forms and my mother filled out everything except the name. She told the nurse she needed more time to discuss it with her husband who was having a mid-life crisis and was unable to make clear decisions easily.
She went home and talked it over with my older siblings who proved to be on my mother's side. They all then conspired to call me EJ. The story would go like this: I was Excretious Jackson and my father was Excretious too, so why not make it easier on everyone and call me EJ for short to avoid any misunderstandings that might happen. You know, when my father calls my mother from work to say he's going to be late because he's having drinks at a titty bar with some of his construction buddies. It might be confusing if the messenger said, "Excretious will be late for dinner because he's at a titty bar getting drunk with his friends." This way, she and all my siblings would know that it was my father and not I that was engaged in this activity. Likewise, when someone said, "Excretious just puked all over my back" there might be some confusion lest we differentiate Excretious Sr. from EJ.
My father reluctantly agreed. He never argued about the fact that my sister Jaqui and my mother seemed to exist quite comfortably carrying exactly the same first, middle and last names and that the children never referred to either of my parents by first names so confusion never really came about.
More than thirty years later, I still had no name on that damn birth certificate. I liked it that way. I felt like Sting...only I was Stank.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Career Choices & The Joys of Mental Illness
So, I've been officially diagnosed with ADHD. The psychologist says it's more A than H but "mixed". That's fine and dandy. I was expecting it. But I was also diagnosed (accidentally) with a fairly high level of anxiety disorder as well. The worst part is I don't think of myself as anxious, but apparently the experts agree that I am and I have no say in it.
Not only that, but, as I could have guessed, I might also have a form of narcolepsy. Now I can tell my father and make him feel guilty for torturing me when I couldn't get up all those mornings years ago. He probably won't feel guilty though. That's one of the benefits of being Estonian.
At least now I know what has been wrong with me my whole life. I know some will brush this off as an excuse for my lack of progress, but at least now I have some idea about why I've been such a freak all my life.
Most kids, by the time they're six years old, have an idea that they want to be firemen, baseball players, coat-checkers - whatever. I, however, wasn't sure about what I wanted to do with my life until I was nearly ten. I know, that's a dangerously long time to go without starting on a career path, but I have always been slow. I've mentioned this several times. I hope I don't have to say it again.
The idea of being a vet came to me while on one of those drives to Westchester with my sisters or my father - I don't remember who it was because I was too busy looking out of the window. I was, as usual, scanning the sides of the highway for dead animals.
I used to tell myself, "Don't look out of the windows. You'll just see another dead dog or deer or turkey and feel sad for the rest of the day!", but I always looked anyway.
On nearly every ride north, there were at least three dead animals on the way to wherever we were going. Usually it started with a dead dog. Sometimes there might have been a few dead cats and squirrels but I had never liked them and so I didn't notice. The dead dogs, however, were another matter entirely. I was immediately stricken with thoughts of the dead dog's family and questions about his life with them.
Did they have a son in the family who loved that dog as much as I had loved my dogs? Did the dog go for a walk and never come back? Is the hopeless family going through pain, waiting for Fido to come home? Does Fido have a soul? Is he just a lump of dead meat or will he go to doggy heaven? If I go to heaven and my dog goes to doggy heaven, can he come and live with me or can I just visit him from time to time? Are there limits to how many times I can visit? What if there's a doggy hell? Can I visit him there? What if I'm in hell and he's in heaven? Can I see him? Can he come to me? Do they deliver in heaven? I guess hell would only deliver Dominoes and I could see myself getting really sick of that.
(Well, you see how the unselfish thoughts of concern for the dog's family quickly came back to me.)
On one of these trips, I decided I would help and save these poor dead animals. I'd become a veterinarian and bring them back to life! I'd be like Franken-Vet and bring happiness to all those in the world who'd lost their loved-pets! What a samaritan.
I was pretty sure of my calling for several years. Then my dog, Cheeks, got constipated. We took her to the vet and as usual, I liked to sit in on the examination process to see how the doctor did his thing. So, we told Dr. Scheiz that Cheeks hadn't had a bowel movement in over a week and that she seemed pretty upset about it. He immediatly put her up on his exam table and put on a rubber glove. I was young, but I had a pretty good idea that the rubber glove thing was not usual. However, I was not at all prepared for what would come next.
I remember Cheeks' face as the doctor lifted her tail. She was facing me and looking really pissed. Her nose started to flair and she stiffened up as the doctor stuck his right index finger right between Cheeks' cheeks and WHAM! POP! The crap just shot out of her little dog ass in all directions, onto the calm but disgusted face of Dr. Scheiz and the horrified face of his assistant. Up until that point, she had been all smiles but the assistant looked pretty grossed out now that her face was covered in doggy diarrhea. "There we go!", said the doctor. "She should be all better". It was kind of like there was giant bubble in there keeping her from passing the feces", he told us.
"Eww" - is all I could think. I was just imagining this huge chocolate-colored bubble of shit inside my little dog's ass and then the doctor's finger puncturing it and creating this giant explosion of hershey-squirt that nearly hit the ceiling and all four walls in his office.
I had to search for a new career. There was no way I was going to stick my finger in any dog's ass. Not even my dog's.
Not only that, but, as I could have guessed, I might also have a form of narcolepsy. Now I can tell my father and make him feel guilty for torturing me when I couldn't get up all those mornings years ago. He probably won't feel guilty though. That's one of the benefits of being Estonian.
At least now I know what has been wrong with me my whole life. I know some will brush this off as an excuse for my lack of progress, but at least now I have some idea about why I've been such a freak all my life.
Most kids, by the time they're six years old, have an idea that they want to be firemen, baseball players, coat-checkers - whatever. I, however, wasn't sure about what I wanted to do with my life until I was nearly ten. I know, that's a dangerously long time to go without starting on a career path, but I have always been slow. I've mentioned this several times. I hope I don't have to say it again.
The idea of being a vet came to me while on one of those drives to Westchester with my sisters or my father - I don't remember who it was because I was too busy looking out of the window. I was, as usual, scanning the sides of the highway for dead animals.
I used to tell myself, "Don't look out of the windows. You'll just see another dead dog or deer or turkey and feel sad for the rest of the day!", but I always looked anyway.
On nearly every ride north, there were at least three dead animals on the way to wherever we were going. Usually it started with a dead dog. Sometimes there might have been a few dead cats and squirrels but I had never liked them and so I didn't notice. The dead dogs, however, were another matter entirely. I was immediately stricken with thoughts of the dead dog's family and questions about his life with them.
Did they have a son in the family who loved that dog as much as I had loved my dogs? Did the dog go for a walk and never come back? Is the hopeless family going through pain, waiting for Fido to come home? Does Fido have a soul? Is he just a lump of dead meat or will he go to doggy heaven? If I go to heaven and my dog goes to doggy heaven, can he come and live with me or can I just visit him from time to time? Are there limits to how many times I can visit? What if there's a doggy hell? Can I visit him there? What if I'm in hell and he's in heaven? Can I see him? Can he come to me? Do they deliver in heaven? I guess hell would only deliver Dominoes and I could see myself getting really sick of that.
(Well, you see how the unselfish thoughts of concern for the dog's family quickly came back to me.)
On one of these trips, I decided I would help and save these poor dead animals. I'd become a veterinarian and bring them back to life! I'd be like Franken-Vet and bring happiness to all those in the world who'd lost their loved-pets! What a samaritan.
I was pretty sure of my calling for several years. Then my dog, Cheeks, got constipated. We took her to the vet and as usual, I liked to sit in on the examination process to see how the doctor did his thing. So, we told Dr. Scheiz that Cheeks hadn't had a bowel movement in over a week and that she seemed pretty upset about it. He immediatly put her up on his exam table and put on a rubber glove. I was young, but I had a pretty good idea that the rubber glove thing was not usual. However, I was not at all prepared for what would come next.
I remember Cheeks' face as the doctor lifted her tail. She was facing me and looking really pissed. Her nose started to flair and she stiffened up as the doctor stuck his right index finger right between Cheeks' cheeks and WHAM! POP! The crap just shot out of her little dog ass in all directions, onto the calm but disgusted face of Dr. Scheiz and the horrified face of his assistant. Up until that point, she had been all smiles but the assistant looked pretty grossed out now that her face was covered in doggy diarrhea. "There we go!", said the doctor. "She should be all better". It was kind of like there was giant bubble in there keeping her from passing the feces", he told us.
"Eww" - is all I could think. I was just imagining this huge chocolate-colored bubble of shit inside my little dog's ass and then the doctor's finger puncturing it and creating this giant explosion of hershey-squirt that nearly hit the ceiling and all four walls in his office.
I had to search for a new career. There was no way I was going to stick my finger in any dog's ass. Not even my dog's.
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