Identity, Legacy and Social Networking

Assuming that computers and general electricity will still be around after my generation dies (and that we aren't all annihilated by the zombie apocolypse...) social networks will no doubt continue to flourish and I have recently come to the terrifying conclusion that this is what we will pass on to our children.

Twitter will be what they remember us by; Facebook will be our legacy.

I really do not know much about computers and the infinite abyss of time and space that exists within them. But I know they say once you put it up there's really no taking it down. In other words, even if you think you deleted that picture of you drunkenly doing a naked keg stand... somewhere, somehow it still exists. And it can be found with a few simple clicks.

Whatevs. I heart Instagram.

It's cool and petrifying but quickly becoming an accepted side effect of the internet.  We're not going to stop using it so we may as well accept that whatever we chose to put out there will stay out there forever.

But what scares me, for reasons I can't quite put into words yet, is that these social networking sites, like Facebook and Twitter... those will be what we leave our children to remember us by. Once upon a time people left behind journals where they recorded their thoughts so that their ancestors could one day know a part of them. They would write a line just to get it down and see the words in front of them.

Nowadays we update our status.

A Song of Vice and Ire: Part 2

A Clash of Things

Whenever my mother goes a little insane with cleaning, she runs around the house like a schizophrenic chicken with it's head cut off. She gets crazy eyes, crazy hair and you can barely breathe through the tension in the air that surrounds her. She's overworked and all worked up and trying to do a million things at once. She's trying to scrub and organize and make sure that no one messes up whatever she just finished cleaning and... inevitably, she hurts herself.

It happens. Every. Time. It's unavoidable. And though seeing my mother get hurt makes me want to cry while punching someone in the face... in the end, it's the only thing that brings her back down to Earth.

Okay, so my mom's slightly less aggressive but equally as insane.

She's been on a bit of a frenzy lately, with spring cleaning and all, and since most of these deep cleaning sessions seem to go down on the weekends, I've been able to avoid the bulk of them. But unfortunately, this week, she decided to do a little weekday cleanup. I sat on the couch waiting. All my muscles were tense and I wasn't even paying any attention to Boy Meets World, which is usually captivating.

Sure enough I hear a loud SMACK and a "shit!" I cringed because I knew what had happened and I also knew that my mom had really hurt herself because she never curses. I walk over tentatively, "Mom, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just smacked my shin on the stair." I watch her take two deep breaths and just like that the tension is gone. My mom's back and I can relax.

All recklessness leads to some sort of self-inflicted harm, eventually.

We can only floor it for so long, until our carelessness gets the better of us and we're forced to slow it down. All the pressure and stress culminate in that one moment of agonizing pain, be it physical or emotional, and after the initial shock wears off we are finally able to take three deep breaths and calm the hell down.

On Consistency...

*I wrote this in July 2012 and recently rediscovered it.*

"Fuck."

I put my martini glass back down after spilling it all over my hand. I've never understood how they never spill them in the movies.  

"Ugh, what are we doing?!"

My friend is trying to ask me what we're doing tonight but I don't realize that at the time. She catches me in the middle of one of many space-outs and I can't help but consider her question in rather different terms.

I suppose I can't speak for all recent college graduates when I say that it's the strangest time of our lives thus far... but I'm fairly confident that I can speak for most. I've tried, and failed, countless times to translate these emotions into words. (You can imagine what that does to my self-esteem as a writer).  

My mind just fails to analyze feelings that my heart simply does not recognize.

Just as I'm about to answer, I snap back to reality and remember that we are currently sitting at the bar she works at, at 9:00 at night on a Saturday.

"Do you mean tonight or in life?"

"Well, I meant tonight," she takes a long swig of Jameson, "but I guess life, too." We let the word, "life," hang, suspended, in the air.

A Song of Vice and Ire

*This is the first part in a series of ridiculous rants. Read at your own risk.*

Part 1: The Game of Hoes

Mornings that I can only drink water and cannot possibly fathom the idea of coffee... are typically bad mornings.

This was one of those mornings.

As I sat at my computer, desperately trying to ward off unforgiving nausea and a severe case of the shakes, I thought back on the conversation that had ignited a series of drunken epiphanies.

A friend and I had been arguing over the politics of love, life and sex. Mostly sex, though, with a little "love," mixed in.  She made the rather audacious proclamation that it's all merely a game. And you either win or you lose.

Taken slightly aback by her simplifying, Charlie Sheen-esque antics, I immediately disagreed with her.

"How can you possibly define love or sex or anything in such black and white terms?"

Alright, I may not have posed it quite that elegantly at the time nor do I remember exactly what her response was, but it was something along the lines of, "Think about it. It's all a game. And you can win or you can lose."


I think deep down I had always kind of assumed that when you played the game of love, or more importantly, when you played the game of hoes, everyone loses.

Speaking of hoes...

It's all a game.

Maybe it was the margarita, Sauvignon Blanc and Guiness trifecta-of-death combination coursing through my veins or perhaps it was the fact that it's been so long since I've been "in love," that I'm starting to think I don't even know what the fuck it means, but something about the way she said it the second time just made... sense.

There's winning and there's losing and there's not really any in between.

(And if you think you're "in between," you're more likely in denial of losing.)

The only real difference between the game of love and the game of sex is that the former relies upon a balance of two individuals, a back-and-forth, an even combination of openness and communication that results in equal "winning," or crashes and burns into equal "losing."

(And then begins the battle of the exes, where we all know there's a clear winner and a clear loser... I'm looking at you, guy-who-used to date J. Law)

But the latter... well, the latter, to me, is actually a bit more complex simply because it relies nearly entirely on the individual. I mean, I think we can all agree that in both cases, "winning," basically just means being happy. And in the game of hoes, as long as you're happy doing what you're doing, well who cares, right?

Well, sort of. The complications stem from questions of insecurity and vulnerability. See, when you're not in a relationship, you don't have that significant other to rely on; instead, you rely on yourself. Your happiness, therefore, depends entirely upon you, not your girlfriend, not your boyfriend, not your fuck buddy... you.

And if you're not winning, you have no one to blame but yourself.

Long Hair, Don't Care

"Oh, are you not feeling well today?"

Isn't that just the worst question in the world? Translated, it means, "Wow, you look like shit."

Which ultimately means that I probably made the conscious decision not to wear make up today. I look more tired because I am tired and didn't have the time to conceal the ever-growing dark circles under my eyes.

Furthermore, I didn't brush my hair this morning. Now, I realize that to many this is just being lazy... but that means you probably have straight hair/thin hair or more free time to tame your hair. My hair is almost down to my behind, thick as hell and answers to no one but itself. It's wildly wavy with a mind of its own. Some mornings I wake up and it looks amazing, natural and I see the envy in other womens' eyes... Other mornings I look like a lion who just touched one of those electric balls at a children's museum.

Ya just never know.

Mornin!

But what I do know is that I think making myself a delicious, healthy breakfast (egg whites, a piece of whole wheat toast and the most important part of the most important meal of the day: coffee) is more important to me than doing my hair OR my makeup.

And call me crazy, but I'm really not willing to wake up at 5:00 in the morning just so I can curl my hair and do my make up. To me, that is a solid waste of perfectly good sleep time. But the issue is I show up to work looking like this:

Coffee... I need... coffee...

My Name is Casey, and I'm an Addict.

It's what gets me out of bed in the morning.  I feel a surge of excitement just thinking about it. The smell of it gives me goosebumps and the taste of it sends me on a magic carpet ride. When it's gone, I yearn for more. And I'd rather be miserable with it in my life than healthy without it.

I am, of course, talking about coffee.

All day, errday

Sometimes I think coffee was put on this planet to complete those of us who never believed in soul mates.  I feel lost without it... literally, I cannot see straight... I cannot think straight...  Days when I realize the coffee canister is empty and I don't have enough time to run to the nearest Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks before work are the days I contemplate if life is worth living.

No matter how many articles I read about limiting one's caffeine intake or switching to tea (it's the healthier option!) or giving it up just on the weekends... I can't leave it. I can't and I don't want to. I won't.

As for tea as the healthier "option"... Yeah, Imma call bullshit.  I'm a tea lover as well.  It's soothing, delicious, comforting. But it is nothing, I repeat, nothing, like coffee. Even that extra caffeinated Awake stuff- nope, not the same. It's not coffee.

I <3 you.

I may not believe in that one perfect person for each of us... But I certainly believe in that one... perfect cup o' joe.

Apocalypse, Now! (No, Seriously...)

If these are the guys at the end of the world... I'm in.

What's better than an hour long saga about a post-apocalyptic, zombie-infested world dictated by Andrew Lincoln and defended by Norman Reedus?

The obvious answer here is nothing.

I dream about the world ending in one of the most horrific ways possible simply so I can curb stomp some zombies and touch Norman Reedus' biceps.

On so many levels and in so many ways this is uber-fucked up.  But I can't help but occasionally wish that I lived inside the world of The Walking Dead.

Even Hershel's kinda got it goin' on... Who doesn't love an old man on crutches?

In addition to the world ridding itself of all ugly people and keeping only the most beautiful around, the end of the world appears just to be one adrenaline trip after another.  Nonetheless, it's petrifying, trying and terrifyingly harsh.  This show is famous for killing off its main characters. (SPOILER: RIP Andrea...) Though a zombie apocalypse is unrealistic... the fact that most people would die in such a situation is pretty dead-on balls accurate.

So why is it that I (and I believe so many more of us) are so obsessed with the world ending?