Think I should do it?
It'd be a nice fuck you! to The Man, but . . . marriage is as much of a tool of The Man as religion.
Maybe I should do one of those pros/cons tables:
Pro:
--A nice fuck you! to The Man
--Power (of a sort) . . . sweet, sweet power. . . .
--Receptions, free food, free booze
--Three hundred clams just to say some words that don't mean anything
--Don't have license or car, but can probably bum rides to and from with friends
--I can make people call me "Your Ministership" . . . and get out of work for religious reasons?
--Marrying gay atheists.
--Meet interesting people
--Some new clothes that can also double as "job interview" togs, because I am this close at work
--Might help me drag the big stick out of my ass re: marriage.
Con:
--Marriage . . . a tool of The Man?
--Responsibility (not being late to weddings, not flubbing lines, not giggling or being sarcastic)
--Receptions, crappy free food, watered down free booze
--Possible loss of the occasional night or weekend
--My dirtbag friends--not likely to be welcome on a solemn occasion.
--Ministership, meh. I'd prefer to be called Her Awesomeness. Not likely to happen. Plus, time off for religious reasons would still cut into my PTO.
--Putting the shackles of matrimony on (probably) nice people.
--I hate people.
--Will probably have to get something fancy and not riddled with holes to wear, which would cut into my steampunk wardrobe budget.
--Hypocritical of me to usher others into something I couldn't imagine doing (unless I was getting paid to help someone stay in the country)?
Any insight from the public at large would be appreciated.
Freshly back from the dentist, where to my delight, not only was cavity Number Six close to the nerve, but they didn't give me enough novocaine (sp?), and so had to stop halfway through due to me thrashing and mewling like a throat-cut lamb due to the intense fucking waves of pain.
Curse my cavity-prone genes.
Found this, and am instantly in love with it, hope the rest of the blog is as interesting.
PhillyChief mentioned RuPaul's Drag Race in a post or comment somewhere, so I gave it a look-see over the weekend. Watched the marathon. I actually can't wait for season two, if there is one. I still think Nina Flowers should've won.
I love the Man of La Mancha soundtrack. One of the best operas ever.
The reading up on arguments and apologetics slogs on. Not sure how much I've internalized, but, well, I'm soon to find out.
Tempted to start Practical Ethics, but I own that. Once I've made more headway on the skillion library books I've had out since forever, then I'll start on Mr. Singer.
More to say, none of it important. After a restless night and pain-filled morning I'm achy, woozy, and ready to take some acetaminophen and crash till Judge Judy comes on. Or maybe till Olbermann comes on, the way I feel.
Gotta love a day off from work.
"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft
Showing posts with label dentist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dentist. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, December 19, 2008
Rag-tag Dose
Dentist, Thursday morning. One of four yearly cleanings.
Apparently, my teeth are like snowflakes: beautiful and fragile. Nice to look at, but incredibly succeptable to decay. I have to use prescription toothpaste and everything, to prevent . . . I dunno, something to do with calcium and my teeth losing it. I zoned out as the dental hygenist was explaining, lost in a copper-flavored haze of pain.
She was all, like, "hey, at least your gums aren't bleeding . . . as much."
Yeaah-heh! Woo-hoo! Go, me! Go, my trickling-blood-totally-weak-ass gums! They can't even fucking bleed properly. And not for lack of her trying, lemme say. I felt like Dustin Hoffman in "Marathon Man". I thought at any second she'd start asking me if it was safe.
I've got whole new reasons to hate my parents now, besides the passive aggressive disapproval and the ridiculous huge-feet gene that sadly doesn't skip any generations. I've got decay-prone teeth.
Well. I guess it could be worse. They could be ugly, too. But they're actually my best feature. Till they rot and crumble out of my skull, that is ::sigh::
A foot of snow, between now and Saturday, and another few inches on Sunday. I'm ecstatic.
My new favorite quote?
"Needing the money to buy a Cassie Wright replica, fully realistic sex surrogate, that makes you pretty much the bitch slave of every old lady in town."-- Mr. 72, "Snuff"
Possibly. I'm a sucker for Chuch Palahniuk--whose best novel was not Fightclub, though I'll allow that I liked it just fine. Survivor is miles better, however--and I'm not that far out of my quotable-Palahniuk phase. So it's either that, or an oldie-but-goodie repeat: "If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak."--Jayne Cobb, "Firefly"
Why is it so important to have a favorite quote? Dunno. But ever since I was eight, there hasn't been a time in my life that I didn't have one quote that seemed to sum me up, as a person. Even if it only did so for a day or two.
I'm dragging my feet on Unweaving the Rainbow or A Brief History of Time. Just as I get a bunch of science-y books, all I wanna do is read novels. And not even sci-fi, or fantasy. Just plain old fiction.
And speaking of everything being about me . . . narcissism. I think that's the habit I need to kick. Dumping the sky fairy was easy, as I suspect my belief had been delining for a very long time. Maybe since I was ten, when I actively decided prayer was a childish waste of time.
But there's still a huge, vocal part of me that believes in some form of woo, not for its own sake, but because--the universe is so obviously out to get me. It likes to screw with me--like a bored cat playing with a tired, frightened mouse. I can't prove there's a god, or that there isn't, but something is fucking around with me, and has been all my life. It's conscious and a giant effing prick.
That's its only purpose. That's what its good at, and what it enjoys doing. Chipping away at me.
Just because I'm narcissistic doesn't mean the universe isn't singling me out.
I think that deeply held belief, more than anything, is what keeps me from being a seven on that atheist continuum, instead of a wobbly six. I don't like the idea of something larger than myself, but I fear that there is something. Simply because it's what I don't want. And not only does that something not like me--the feeling is entirely mutual-- but it's capricious and callous. Like Q, on ST:NG, only not as amusingly flamey.
I just have this gut feeling that if I could stop believing in, or kill this something, I'd be my own god, and that'd be pretty freakin sweet. Virgin sacrifices every evening.
I think I'll go with the wishes were horses quote. It fits, and . . . the idea of being some old ladies' bitch slave is kinda unnerving.
"The Seether is neither big nor small. The Seether is the center of it all."--Veruca Salt
Apparently, my teeth are like snowflakes: beautiful and fragile. Nice to look at, but incredibly succeptable to decay. I have to use prescription toothpaste and everything, to prevent . . . I dunno, something to do with calcium and my teeth losing it. I zoned out as the dental hygenist was explaining, lost in a copper-flavored haze of pain.
She was all, like, "hey, at least your gums aren't bleeding . . . as much."
Yeaah-heh! Woo-hoo! Go, me! Go, my trickling-blood-totally-weak-ass gums! They can't even fucking bleed properly. And not for lack of her trying, lemme say. I felt like Dustin Hoffman in "Marathon Man". I thought at any second she'd start asking me if it was safe.
I've got whole new reasons to hate my parents now, besides the passive aggressive disapproval and the ridiculous huge-feet gene that sadly doesn't skip any generations. I've got decay-prone teeth.
Well. I guess it could be worse. They could be ugly, too. But they're actually my best feature. Till they rot and crumble out of my skull, that is ::sigh::
A foot of snow, between now and Saturday, and another few inches on Sunday. I'm ecstatic.
My new favorite quote?
"Needing the money to buy a Cassie Wright replica, fully realistic sex surrogate, that makes you pretty much the bitch slave of every old lady in town."-- Mr. 72, "Snuff"
Possibly. I'm a sucker for Chuch Palahniuk--whose best novel was not Fightclub, though I'll allow that I liked it just fine. Survivor is miles better, however--and I'm not that far out of my quotable-Palahniuk phase. So it's either that, or an oldie-but-goodie repeat: "If wishes was horses, we'd all be eatin' steak."--Jayne Cobb, "Firefly"
Why is it so important to have a favorite quote? Dunno. But ever since I was eight, there hasn't been a time in my life that I didn't have one quote that seemed to sum me up, as a person. Even if it only did so for a day or two.
I'm dragging my feet on Unweaving the Rainbow or A Brief History of Time. Just as I get a bunch of science-y books, all I wanna do is read novels. And not even sci-fi, or fantasy. Just plain old fiction.
And speaking of everything being about me . . . narcissism. I think that's the habit I need to kick. Dumping the sky fairy was easy, as I suspect my belief had been delining for a very long time. Maybe since I was ten, when I actively decided prayer was a childish waste of time.
But there's still a huge, vocal part of me that believes in some form of woo, not for its own sake, but because--the universe is so obviously out to get me. It likes to screw with me--like a bored cat playing with a tired, frightened mouse. I can't prove there's a god, or that there isn't, but something is fucking around with me, and has been all my life. It's conscious and a giant effing prick.
That's its only purpose. That's what its good at, and what it enjoys doing. Chipping away at me.
Just because I'm narcissistic doesn't mean the universe isn't singling me out.
I think that deeply held belief, more than anything, is what keeps me from being a seven on that atheist continuum, instead of a wobbly six. I don't like the idea of something larger than myself, but I fear that there is something. Simply because it's what I don't want. And not only does that something not like me--the feeling is entirely mutual-- but it's capricious and callous. Like Q, on ST:NG, only not as amusingly flamey.
I just have this gut feeling that if I could stop believing in, or kill this something, I'd be my own god, and that'd be pretty freakin sweet. Virgin sacrifices every evening.
I think I'll go with the wishes were horses quote. It fits, and . . . the idea of being some old ladies' bitch slave is kinda unnerving.
"The Seether is neither big nor small. The Seether is the center of it all."--Veruca Salt
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