coming to grips with sparkle dresses and mer-people

You know those moments when songs, objects, and memories from your youth come running back in little jelly sandals and floral print spandex shorts to the forefront of your mind? Today is one of those days. 

I am sure that I am not alone, with both men and women alike [but mostly women], that there are multiple generations of us whose youths are rife with stories of princesses, fairies, princes, and magical creatures. It would seem to me that it is impossible for anyone past the age of 7 to have lived their life thus far without some sort of story along these lines. And if you haven't... maybe you really should, they're pretty fabulous for the soul. They exercise creativity. You learn some really fabulous songs. However, in my current state of near un-employment and ever increasing self doubt in regards to getting a job I actually want, I have grown acutely aware of a certain disconnect between the ideas of fairy tales, and the demands of the modern world. 

Let's take that lovely gentleman Disney's [or his gigantic company's] take on "The Little Mermaid." I hate to admit it, but I would probably qualify as having just as many gadgets, gizmos, and whos-a-ma-bobbits as a certain mer-girl that we are familiar with. My family is quite wonderful, sure, we don't live in a castle, but shit, in Ariel's castle we'd all be drowned. I would like to believe that I have been in love. On better days, I'm usually pretty sure about that [let's not get into this philosophical can of worms just right now...]. Albeit, MY "prince charmings" didn't exactly have perfect hair, save me from an unfortunate demise involving a tentacled villain, or anything quite that dramatic. But, why is it that the largest accomplishment of the movies of my youth deal primarily with the concept of "ideal love?" And yes, "ideal love" could make your life richer, even normal love can be ridiculously beautiful and fulfilling. But it will never directly pay the bills, love won't raise your IQ [as far as I'm aware at least], and it definitely won't keep you in a size 2. Ariel never asks Eric whether or not he'll be able to support a family, what kind of health benefits he has, or what kind of life goals he's aspiring to achieve. ...Not that she would have really had to... he was a prince for fuck sake. Sure, we have the rest of our lives to worry about shit like that, but really...? I sure don't feel like I needed any help developing obsessive desires for fabulous shoes, designer bags that I can't afford, comfortable leather furniture, or an accumulation of "stuff" to make sculptures out of. 

So, Disney, thanks a bunch for filling my youth with some really memorable stories and songs. My friends and I still sing them on occasion. But next time, maybe slip in something about how even qualified people have trouble getting jobs, or emphasize qualities in a mate that go beyond good looks, love at first sight, and heroically saving damsels in distress. Maybe slip in something about how true love isn't resolved in an hour and a half or less. Or don't. Regardless of all this bitchery, at least I can say that I didn't spend my formative years watching The Hills or the OC. 

mostly accurate articulations of inaccurate experiences

formalities aside, i find it difficult to believe that civility is impossible, that broken english is a sufficient form of emotion. Self-discovery-and-growth, i hate you. and, i love you. let's spend our lives together, but only if you consider answering me ...let's say... 9% of the time? you rush in with fits of sensory data and witty sentences, leaving me done up like some cotton candy.  

in all honesty, i am terribly attracted to the idea of a person that does not exist. he is a figment of some writers and an actor's perception of a "character." it disappoints me that i should still be so juvenile to succumb to such wild and completely ridiculous notions. and yet, it is right there in that [now not-so] secret part of my body where emotions and ideas well up and spring forth like new daisies in spring. i should probably have better things to say. i am aware i should have better things to do than watch television shows on hulu before i say goodnight. and yet, there are plenty of avenues that are much more dangerous than silly teenage crushes manifesting themselves in my early-adult life. perhaps this is a sign that i need to be more adventurous. perhaps i should divert my judgement from strangers' myspace profile pictures [and their inaccuracy in relation to their "typical" appearance] to more worthwhile endeavors. 

the consolation prize? watching at least five [and mind you, this was while i was watching] grown men take digital images of a young lady's ASS-ets at a festival where too many bits were showing anyways, on bodies that should have probably not been showing anything at all [and PLEASE, stop with the "i'm confident with my body" bullshit. firm that shit up, dimple cheeks, then we'll talk.] i can only imagine what the futures of those poor pixels entail. lust, you can be terribly disgusting at times. i'm sure your own personal imagination need not work too hard to get the rest. 

matchsticks

i have been told that i am horrible at telling stories. 

by most people, most of the time. 

for example:

on one hand, you are given a pit with alligators. 

on the other, you are given me trying to dribble something that may resemble a tale of some sort. 

let's just say that i am more likely to make friends with the ones that think i am tasty. you know, the ones that i think belong in my life only as boots. ...or as animatronic disneyland entertainment. 

it's not something with which i am concerned, more so, i fear for your eyes [and eyesight for that matter], your cognitive functioning, those minutes that you spend looking at lines that in all honesty, you should have spent doing something else. regardless, perhaps there will be something of sustenance, something to see...but not now at least. right now there is nothing. except for maybe some thoughts and brain pictures of two grown men intently reading 'glamour' magazine at borders close to mid-day.