When I was, to quote myself, "...expung[ing] the twisted sorrow of my stress upon the table..." two nights ago, grieving a nicer world that never was, the Fiery One's grasp on the situation was impressive. There should be awards for astuteness.

I was waxing pathetic, bemoaning my situation in life. I needed a rich benefactor to fund my living expenses while I went back to school, I was fed up with the low degree of respect my job inspires socially even though I enjoy what I do, I felt impotent to take action and vulnerable to the forces that are dictating certain aspects of a transition that I am going through. The world was simply not involved in a perpetual conspiracy to have me be able to do everything I wanted at all times. It felt heartbreaking.

And then I said Maybe I'm just not strong enough for this world. I know that sounds like the extreme end of pitiful, but don't most of us find ourselves feeling just a little more than hard done by at times?

The Fiery One replied: It's not that you're not strong enough. It's that you're still angry with the world. If the world was indeed in proper order, a tall lady in a sparkling gown would have been there to hand him his Odysseus Award for Consummate Astuteness.

It occurred to me that he was right. Emotions are powerful and information heavy, and I like to think that mine are strong for a reason, too strong to be dulled by all the repetitive bullshit that the world likes to hurl at people. Call me an idealist, immature, unreasonable, impractical, what have you, I still get royally pissed off sometimes when it just feels like the world is not holding up its end of the bargain.

I know that the world will never bend to my will. I want classist prejudice to disappear, but I will still have to hear things such as It's too bad you have to have the kind of job you do and It must be frustrating to have a job that doesn't give you a sense of accomplishment. The classist condescension will continue despite my desires otherwise.

I want people to treat each other well all the time, and I don't know why it's so easy for some to be cruel. Someone will do something nasty to me for their own purposes, and I know enough to realize that it's usually not personal, but my heart withers just a little. Thoughtlessness often hurts more than words or fists. No matter how much I want people to be nice, they will continue to go around occasionally being mofos.

I want money not to matter so much. I want life-changing decisions like making babies to be no-brainers that seem as natural as we're led to believe they should be. I want to be recognized for my skills and not how much I paid for a piece of paper that doesn't even ensure employability. I want art and writing to be an easy and flowing process that births itself seamlessly from my mind without all the mess of writer's block and talent and time.

I want, I want, I want. The wanting often smacks up against bald-faced reality, which I expect to happen by this point in my life. I have been through this a thousand times. The outcome never changes, though. I tend to follow a pattern much like Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief: I go through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and only rarely, acceptance. I often act as though the world will behave in a certain way, which is a kind of denial, and when it doesn't, I get angry. Then, I try to figure out what the factors were that caused a situation to arise in the way it did, bargaining with reason in an attempt to fit it into my hopeful world view. That, of course, fails miserably, and then I feel depressed about the whole business, usually skipping over acceptance and heading straight back into of denial the world's general modus operandi.

This all sounds quite bad, but I assure you that it's not. At least not entirely. You see, I have a hopeful outlook. I am definitely not a "cup half full" type of person. I am more the "I would like to believe the cup is half full" typ of person. I do my best. I try to see the good in people. I still get mad. I have not given up.

The Fiery One was so right. My frustration of two days ago had nothing to do with me being too weak and everything to do with me being angry with the world. Really fucking angry. It feels good. It's so much better than operating under the misconception that I feel hopeless.

Does the fact that I am listening to Mojo Nixon and Skid Roper's "Debbie Gibson is Pregnant", and that this song is making me feel alright with the world today, mean that there is hope for me in the world or none at all?

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"Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Because I am such a fan, and because they asked for support by word of mouth today, and because I do what I'm told (sometimes), go listen to woxy.com: the future of rock and roll. Most radio sucks. This does not. Listen to me. I know what I'm talking about.

Watch the Kitty Cat Dance. (via Boing Boing) (audio warning)