It’s not that I’m a dull wallflower, it’s just that I lead a dull life. Let’s blame Ali for my sudden obsession with moving away to Scotland, which is really nothing more than me overcompensating for my insecurities.
But no, once you get to know me, I’m not dull. I’m a very complex and intriguing person who can go from fart jokes to deep metaphysical theory in 6.5 seconds.
For example…
I made a bold move yesterday and called the mom of one of Payton’s friends from class. She and I chatted about room stuff, homework, and other general things, including how long we had until our kids found out about Santa Claus.
It was all moving right along and I thought, oh look at me! Making a new friend. See! This isn’t hard after all! Go me!
So we were talking about Santa Claus and how we hoped we had another 2 years to pretend and blah, blah, blah, that’s when I decided to go from the Gapmom who tells fart jokes to my deep metaphysical theorist self.
“Well, I’m not entirely convinced Santa Claus isn’t real. I mean, he could be. For all I know, I am a figment of Santa’s imagination and he’s the real one. Maybe he has made me and everyone else up just so he has something to do on December 24th.”
Silence from the other end of the phone. For some insane reason, I take this as my cue to continue with the psychobabble.
“It’s entirely possible, you know. I can’t prove that I exist, so how can I prove Santa doesn’t exist?”
Dead silence followed by nervous laughter from the other end of the line.
I suppose the fact that I have few real-life female friendships has nothing to do with being dull. With a mind like this, how could I be dull?
It really has to do with the mental flatulence that comes out of my mouth in 6.5 seconds.
I wrote this post yesterday morning, after I dropped the boys off for their first day at school…
Today is the first day of school and I’m sitting here in a house of absolute silence. Except for the refrigerator humming, which I’ve never really noticed before, probably due to the constant sounds from Nickelodeon, the Wii and the screams from the most recent Band of Brothers battle.
Now the refrigerator stopped and this is total silence. My ears don’t know what to do with themselves.
Both of my boys are in school. Both of them. Even my baby.
I thought I would be a pile of blubbering mess by now, but I’m not. There was a moment in the car when I turned back and looked at Parker, sitting in his booster seat with his school uniform on for the first time and, had I been alone, I would have bawled right then. But I didn’t want to upset Parker, who was feeling a little nervous on his first day, so I sucked it up.
This is my sixth year of first days of school. Payton started mom’s day out when he was 2.5 years old and today started second grade.
For the first time in six years, I’m not an emotional train wreck.
For the first time ever, Payton started school just like every other kid.
For the first time ever, Parker started big school, and he too started just like every other kid.
For the first time ever, I was able to walk out of the school without fighting back a torrential flood of tears. Not because of sentimentality, but because I didn’t literally drag anyone (read: Payton) into the building, pry my son (read again: Payton) off of my legs, have the teacher physically restrain him and then walk away as I hear him screaming, as if I’m breaking his heart from abandonment, “Mama! Don’t leave me! Come back, Mama! Come back!”
Today is a bigger milestone in my life than even I thought it would be.
Parker was such a big boy on his first day of kindergarten. He put his backpack up, turned in his lunch money, found his seat and started his work. He gave me and his dad hugs and kisses and that was it.
So this is the kindergarten experience most other mothers have. I never knew.
Isn’t it funny that of all the things that got to me, the fact that he is going to be a tray-luncher today instead of lunch-boxer is what bothered me? Just imagining him walking through the cafeteria with a green lunchroom tray in his hands somehow screams NOT YOUR BABY ANYMORE! more than anything else. Odd.
Payton?
Wow. Payton on his first day of second grade.
Wow.
He got dressed for school with no drama; no crying, screaming or kicking. He walked into the school. Walked, not dragged. He went to his classroom with no crying, talked to his teacher, and I was able to wave bye and leave him without someone holding him back.
I’m almost speechless at the transformation fromthetotalhellthatwaslastyear and the year before (and before that and before that and before that). I don’t know if there are any words to describe how I feel right now.
It’s like the weight from years of worry is suddenly gone and I could float off into the sky, all the way to the moon if I wanted.
Ok, now I start to cry.
I no longer have to hold my breath, swimming blindly in a stormy sea of confusion, desperately trying to convince everyone (including myself) there is nothing wrong with my son, until I’m sure I’ll drown in the emotional hurricane.
Today, I won’t sit here and worry how Payton is all day long, tense and tight until 3:15. I won’t worry that he’ll disrupt the class, require counselor intervention, or that he’ll try to run away from the school again. I’m not flinching when the phone rings, dreading to see the school’s number on caller ID. I’m not scouring my books, lining up my defense and authoritative evidence, ready to shine the light on the real life with gifted children and open people’s eyes to something other than disorder.
Today, I won’t calm myself in a mug of Irish Creme with a splash of coffee.
Instead, I popped open a bottle of champagne and made mimosas in celebration. After the second mimosa, I went straight for the champagne.
It was suggested recently that I look into sitting on the PTA board of Payton’s school.
At first I found the idea funny because, if you didn’t know, I’m a bit of a non-conformist. I’m the type who looks at things and wonders why we do this or that and almost never accepts the reason of ‘it’s always been that way’. I’m not sure my authority-flaunting ways would be an asset.
But I am trying to open my mind more. This is a nice way to tell myself I’m trying to not be such a stubborn and pig-headed ass.
There was one position left open on the board and I did consider it. But when reading the duties of the position, I immediately hit a snag.
Part of the responsibility is to secure people to lead the Pledge of Allegiance and a prayer before each PTA meeting.
While I have non-conforming thoughts in regards to teaching children by rote to pledge their allegiance to a country when they can’t grasp meaning of their words, I can actually shove that internal conflict to the side and roll with it.
See, I can compromise at times.
But the prayer before each PTA meeting?
This is a much deeper conflict for me. Without any thought at all, as soon as I read those words, the feeling hit me. I don’t know how to describe it other than repulsion or disgust.
Maybe it’s being raised in the South where we shove religion down your throat. And it isn’t like we’re shoving a positive and loving religion down your throat either. It’s called the Bible Belt for a reason. Religion is here to whoop your ass if you step out of line.
Imagine growing up in a predominately Baptist small town in the deep, deep South like me. When dancing, drinking, and anything that might constitute a good time is wrong, the Belt stays busy whooping that ass.
And you all know how I feel about my dancing, drinking and good times.
What confuses me more is that I’m not un-religious. Well, I take that back. I’m not un-spiritual. I do have issues with organized religion though.
I thought to myself…well, I could introduce my type of prayer. I could see if my spiritual leader would be interested in doing the prayers.
Heh. That’d be fun!
But I still come back to the question.
What does praying have to do with PTA? It’s the PTA for pete’s sake.
And the feeling of religion being thrown in my face at every turn comes back.
Is this a Southern thing? Or do most other PTA meetings across the country start with praying too?
Not that I think that would say a whole lot either seeing how our country was started by Puritans. Not the healthiest mindset in regards to God.
I wonder if European PTA-type meetings pray too. As a white person, I do love all things European. And hey, even the Puritans were too uptight for them.
About my un-religiousness. I do work for a church. That’s the part-time gig I’ve had for three years now. And the minister reads my blog. Each and every post. So do some members of the church. I’m also a board member at this church. The reason why is that I can talk about my hang-ups with religion and God…even to the point of discussing whether God even exists or if we humans made it up. And it’s ok. Especially the drinking, dancing and fun part. That’s way more than just ok with my church.
I received this in an email from someone and thought it was an interesting article.
YOUNG WOMEN
By LEONARD PITTS JR. lpitts@miamiherald.com
Brace yourself. I’m going to use a word that offends folks. I’m talking the ”F” word.
Feminist.
This woman sent me an e-mail Monday, and it got me thinking. See, in describing herself, she assured me she was not ”a `women’s libber” — the late 1960s equivalent of feminist. She also said she was retired from the U.S. Navy. There was, it seemed to me, a disconnect there: She doesn’t believe in women’s liberation, yet she is retired from a position that liberation made possible.
Intrigued, I asked my 17-year-old daughter if she considers herself a feminist. She responded with a mildly horrified No. This, by the way, is the daughter with the 3.75 GPA who is currently pondering possible college majors including political science, psychology and . . . women’s studies. I asked her to define “feminist.”
There began a halting explanation that seemed to suggest shrillness wrapped around obnoxiousness. Abruptly, she stopped. ”It’s hard to explain,” she said.
Actually, it’s not. Jessica Valenti, author of Full Frontal Feminism: A Young Woman’s Guide to Why Feminism Matters, calls it the I’m-Not-A-Feminist-But syndrome. As in the woman who says, ”I’m not a feminist, but . . . ” and then “goes on to espouse completely feminist values. I think most women believe in access to birth control, they want equal pay for equal work, they want to fight against rape and violence against women.”
A once-useful term ”Feminist,” it seems, has ended up in the same syntactical purgatory as another once-useful, now-reviled term: liberal. Most people endorse what that word has historically stood for — integration, child labor laws, product safety — yet they treat the word itself like anthrax. Similarly, while it’s hard to imagine that any young woman really wants to return to the days of barefoot, pregnant and making meatloaf, many now disdain the banner under which their gender fought for freedom. They scorn feminism even as they feast at a table that feminism prepared.
Says Valenti, “The word has been so effectively misused and so effectively mischaracterized by conservatives for so long that women are afraid to identify with it. They’ll say everything under the sun that’s feminist, but they won’t identify with it because they’ve been taught feminists are anti-men, feminists are ugly.”
Deborah Tannen agrees. She is a professor of linguistics at Georgetown University and author of a number of books on gender and communication, including: You’re Wearing That?: Understanding Mothers and Daughters in Conversation. “The reason, I believe, is that meanings of words come from how they’re used. And since the word feminist is used as a negative term rather than a positive one, people don’t want to be associated with it.”
With apologies to Malcolm X, they’ve been had, they’ve been hoodwinked, they’ve been bamboozled. And it’s sad. I’ve lost track of how many times, visiting high schools or teaching college classes, I have met bright girls juggling options and freedoms that would’ve been unthinkable a generation ago, smart young women preparing for lives and careers their foremothers could not have dreamt, yet if you use the ”F” word, they recoil.
`I am a feminist’ We have lost collective memory of how things were before the F-word. Of the casual beatings. Of the casual rape. Of words like ”old maid” and ”spinster.” Of abortion by coat hanger. Of going to school to find a man. Of getting an allowance and needing a husband’s permission. Of taking all your spirit, all your dreams, all your ambition, aspiration, creativity and pounding them down until they fit a space no larger than a casserole dish.
”I’m not a feminist, but . . . ?” That’s a fraud. It’s intellectually dishonest. And it’s a slap to the feminists who prepared the table at which today’s young women sup.
So for the record, I am a feminist. My daughter is, too.
She doesn’t know it yet. *********************************************************************************
I admit I am someone who has the I’m-Not-A-Feminist-But syndrome. I’ve always had feminist views, but when asked if I’m one or support it, I didn’t know what to say. After all, I’m not very political. Idiotic, but not political, and ‘feminist’ seems like such a political word.
But I now see it is a word that became contaminated by those who are skeered of the pussy power.
‘Feminist’ brings up images of men-hatin’ women who gnash their teeth while carrying around a chip on their shoulder and braid their arm pit hair at the same time.
I wonder just where we get this image from? cough*drlaura*cough
Oh yes, we’ve been bamboozled alright.
When a best-selling book equates feminism, which essentially is about freedom and equality, with being self-centered, no damn wonder we reject the “F” word.
I always knew Dr. Laura made my ass want to suck a sour lemon. Now I know why.
I know my spirit, dreams, creativity and aspirations are just as important as a man’s, and that’s what feminism boils down to.
So someone who preaches morality, yet had an affair with a married man with three kids, may call that self-centered, but I call it self-worth.
We briefly interrupt this Blogcation for the Milk Maid. We really can’t have a Royal Reader having convulsions, now can we?
On the first day of Blogcation, the Queen had fun at Mardi Gras….
…and it was Good.
Until she realized she HAS to do something about that double chin when she laughs. And that her shirt made her look more than slightly pregnant.
What was she thinking when she bought that shirt? That she actually had a flat stomach after two pregnancies, one of which resulted in a line-backer size baby at 9.5 lbs?
On the second day of Blogcation, the Queen sorta cleaned the house…
…and it was Good.
It was very, very good making someone else clean the floors.
When the Queen says ‘hit your brother one more time and you’ll scrub the floor with a toothbrush’, she means it. However, when she tells the opposing sibling that he has to brush his teeth with said toothbrush for fighting too, she doesn’t mean it. He thought she did and brushed his teeth with it.
(oops)
On the third day of Blogcation, the Queen delved deeper into the Theory of Relativity.
…and it was good. (a good brain cramp)
This is what she learned about the Theory of Relativity:
ka*kh5%6#46@5 iaw$osv*132!0 ou(0)64^54$@
Then the book turned to quantum physics and she began to question whether God even exists.
If nothing is real or takes form until it is observed…well, we can’t observe God??
Crisis of faith, coming up next!
Oh, that will be good.
On the fourth day of Blogcation, the kids returned to school after Mardi Gras holidays. The Queen would cry out “hallelujah,” except there is no God to be praised, right?
And then, Einstein died…
…in the book and the Queen teared up. It was a good read and the Queen feels confident explaining Relativity to others:
jod&#%4 x(o)45%5jio ioe$aio@ #(540)huw54456
On the fifth day of Blogcation, which is today, it’s theQueen’s birthday…
…is it Good, this getting older?
She guesses it sure beats the hell out of the alternative.
If hearing I’m from the South doesn’t bring up enough stereotypes for you to draw a clear picture of who I am, let me add that I’m also from ALABAMA.
Born and raised in the Fart of Dixie and I have no intentions at this point in my life of leaving Mobile.
Bless my heart, I’m not only Southern, but from Alabama and have no desire to better myself by leaving the gawd awful state!
The only way it could get worse is if I were from Mississippi, right?
People love to make fun of the South in general, but throw in Alabama or Mississippi and the stereotypes come like second nature.
I’m certainly one that can laugh at myself. I can take a joke or else I wouldn’t find the term ‘Fart of Dixie’ funny. I know that my state and region of the country isn’t perfect.
But then what place is?
There comes a point when the the snide remarks against the South gets under my skin. It’s something about the underlying superiority of the non-Southerner making the remark that irritates me. Things like offering an apology when you find out someone lives in Alabama.
Get off it, mkay?
It’s the difference of being called a bitch as a joke from your girlfriends and then being called it by someone you don’t know.
So I had a thought.
(Stand back)
I thought tit for tat. I’ll make fun of people from New England or the West Coast!
Then I realized I had no idea how people from those areas should act. What do they do? Are they stupid like us? Ugly? Marry their first cousins? I had no clue what stereotypes I could use for a joke.
Some would attribute that to ignorance, surely due to my Alabama public edjumacation.
But I suppose some could call it um, NOT being prejudice???
Not long after I first met Jennifer, I found out she was from the Midwest. Being the ignorant Southerner that I am, I had no idea what she *should* be like.
Really, what are Midwesterners suppose to do? Can’t be ignorant and stupid because the South has the mental market on that.
If ever there was a time to be thankful for ignorance, it was then. I was able to see Jennifer was one damn hot mama for herself and I made a wonderful friend. I had no regional stereotypes to color my judgment of her.
Or of anyone from California, New Jersey, Wisconsin, or blah, blah, blah.
And they say the South is prejudice.
The closest I think I come to regional prejudice would be the idea in my head that New Yorkers are rude assholes, bless their hearts. But hell, even I have the intelligence to know that rude assholes are everywhere.
So there will be no tit for tat in the regional prejudice department from me.
Besides, it’s so unoriginal…this whole making fun of the Alabama and the South.
The idea of participating in such an unoriginal activity like insulting people because of their location irritates me ten times more than old jokes against the South.
I’m sure everyone knows the old saying regarding house guests and fishes, right?
After 3 days, they both begin to smell.
I’m a firm believer in that.
It applies even to family. Or at least to my family. I suppose there might be a family somewhere who adore each other so much that no one smells after 3 days, but they sure as hell aren’t in my family.
But I wonder if this guest and fish rule applies to guest bloggers?
Hmmmmmm.
I won’t be around the bush. I’ll come out and tell you what side of the fence I’m on when it comes to guest bloggers.
I camp on the Stinks After 3 Days side.
Ok, if I’m really honest, I don’t really. I can relate to the people in the Stinks After 3 Days, but in actuality, I camp on the What’s The Point At All? side.
I just can’t get my mind around the necessity of guest bloggers should we go away and are not able to post on our blog.
Are readers really so fickle that we aren’t allowed a life outside of blogging for a week without them turning coat and leaving our blogs forever?
I’m a reader and I’m certainly not that fickle. And for those readers who are, screw ‘em. There’s more where they came from.
If life gets so busy that we have more important things to do than blog then please, we should go forth and do those important things. Like holidays or vacations, for example. Shoot, even if that more important thing is simply spending four days off the computer and enjoying another aspect of life not related to blogging, then we should do it without feeling we owe our blog a responsibility.
As if most of us don’t have enough responsibilities? Kids, spouses, a home, work, bills, etc.
Trust me on this next statement…
Our blogs will survive that time without a babysitter.
I promise.
So why have guest posters at all then?
Are we so egotistical that we believe blogging is that important?
Or are we just scared that our numbers will slide while we’re gone and not gain them back?
I’m sure some will say the reason to have guest bloggers is about blog ads.
If I don’t have a guest poster while I’m gone, then my visits will go down and so will my ad revenue.
Well, I get that. But I hate to say, it’s one of the drawbacks of self-employment…no paid vacation.
However, there are lots of perks of self-employment like being your own boss, working in pajamas, setting your own hours, and little to no work-related expense, such as gas to and from work, to counterbalance that drawback.
I would think ad revenue lost over a couple of days off would be a wash when compared to the pros of being your own boss?
Besides, do people come to read guest posters anyway? At least in numbers enough to really matter for ad blogs?
From what I hear, the BlogHer ads aren’t paying crap right now anyway….
Now, this is where I admit that I’m one of the readers that while I will wait out blogger’s vacation and come read them when they are back, I tend to skip over guest posters who are filling in while they are gone.
The way I see it, I come to certain blogs to read the owner of the blog because I like their style, not to read someone else’s style. It’s probably the same reason I won’t read books written by famous people who “collaborated” with a writer to actually get the material in book form.
I guess the only guest poster I get are those who need to air dirty laundry that they otherwise can’t air at their own place due to family or co-workers reading. I get those and fully believe in the therapeutic value of blogging it out. But isn’t that more about doing a favor for a friend than asking someone to babysit while we’re off being cool away from the computer?
I took a vacation back in the summer and did contemplate arranging for guest bloggers. Come on, lots of bloggers do it so there must be a good reason for it, and I should do it too! Follow the crowd!!
Then I reminded myself that I am not that fan-damn-tastic, so who really cares if I’m gone for a few days. Also, I couldn’t think of anyone in the blogosphere I disliked enough to ask to babysit while I was gone. People have their own lives without me imposing on them for something like my blog.
Crazily enough, the Google Gods didn’t come and strike down my blog while it was unattended.
I speak this in hushed tones so They won’t hear me.
All you lil’ chil’renz, and your parents, possibly even teachers too, if enough of you would stand up and say….
“I don’t like this so I’m not going to do what you are telling me”
…to the asinine ways of the NCLB and current edjumacation system, then the system would have to change.
It’s the way many institutions have experienced needed change, such as….
Slavery Imagine if people didn’t stand up and say “I’m not going to do what you tell me” to that one.
Wimmins suffrage Imagine….I couldn’t complain about the NCLB because I can’t even vote….if some didn’t stand up and say “I don’t like this!” back in the early 1900′s.
Child Labor Laws Imagine….we might be the ones forcing the lil’ chil’renz to paint lead on all of the toys.
Civil Rights Imagine…if little Rosa Parks hadn’t disrespected the white man’s authori-tay and said, “I don’t like this and I’m not going to do what you say”, we might still view segregation as an acceptable way of society.
Why, dear lil’ chil’renz, even Jesus, who does love all the lil chil’renz too, stood up to his own institution and said, “I don’t like this!” and then threw a bunch of money on the floor and overturned tables and stuff…..in a church! He even ignored what authori-tays told him to do and listened to his inner voice. If he hadn’t made that stand, we’d probably all be wearing lil’ hats and my lil’ chil’renz would be circumcised.
I have discovered there is a magical power in acting the fool.
Massive magical power.
I have a friend (who shall remain anonymous) and she hates the word ‘moist’. I found it very interesting that the word ‘moist’ would bother anyone but hey, she’s my friend and I don’t like boring friends. The more interesting the better! But sometimes I can’t resist saying the word around her. Just like at very recent Saturday that is not today…..
After a hearty breakfast, I spent the morning polishing off some birthday gift shopping. I was searching high and low and at every store possible for a particular Super Soaker water gun that Payton wanted. I even had out of town family members scouring their stores for it. No one had it. Water guns are being clearanced this time of year. I lost count how many stores I went to looking for it that morning. I eventually gave up and called it a day.
On my way home I stopped at Wal Mart to pick up some odds and ends, one of which was shampoo for the King. As I’m standing in the aisle of hundreds of shampoos, my eye is caught by this bottle:
Oh my my. I just had to call my friend and tell her what I found. My friend wasn’t home and I got her voicemail, but being the fool that I am, I left a message. I stood in this aisle packed full of Saturday afternoon shoppers reading off the bottles of Moist Shampoo AND Conditioner. I went on and on about the moist quality of it, making sure I accentuated the word ‘moist’ each time I said it. And I said it a lot. It was not long at all before I started getting strange looks from the other shoppers. But I kept on. Finally I started cracking up, before I could even get to the 2-in-1 MOIST shampoo conditioner product damn it, and I had to end my call. All of the strange looks made me laugh even harder as I closed my cell phone and turned to walk out of the aisle.
And then! What do I see?
I see the special Super Soaker water gun I had been looking for.
I had checked this particular Wal Mart more than once for it but was always looking in the toy department. They had been moved to the swimming pool supplies, right across from the shampoo aisle. Had I not stopped to call my friend and act like a total idiot???? Who knows!
On Thursday, I was telling my boss how Payton acts when I take him to school every morning. How he refuses to speak to anyone, barely looks at anyone and from the way he acts, you’d think I was taking him to his death. I couldn’t think of the term for it but I knew they had a term for death row inmates when they are walking to their execution. My boss said, “Dead Man Walking!” Yes, that’s the one! We laughed over the image of me walking down the halls of school yelling out, “Dead Man Walking!” as I took Payton to his classroom. Of course, I could never ever yell something like that in a school but the idea of it was very funny. The term definitely fits Payton’s attitude when I take him to school.
The very next day Payton willingly walked to his classroom, stopped to ask to pet a dog, excitedly said hello to Jessica (his kindergarten girlfriend) and asked her to come over to play, and then saw another former classmate and stopped to say hello to him too.
A complete reversal from the Dead Man Walking attitude.
Did this change happen because I finally found a way to make it funny and imagined myself being utterly foolish over this dreadful morning drop off routine?
I think further illegitimate research is needed to prove my theory that there is magical power in acting the fool.
We could possibly change the world if we all stepped up and embraced the fool that resides in each of us.
In the spirit of research, I will be embracing my inner fool even more than usual.
Consider yourself warned.
Or feel free to join me in this research. Fully embrace your own foolishness and take note of what good things happen around you.
Tomorrow we’re taking Payton in for somewhat of an evaluation. We’re having his IQ and achievement tested, along with some other minor evaluations.
Of course there are forms to fill out: questionnaires, surveys, history. Forms for us and forms for the teachers.
Who knew you had to get so much information just to get an idea of your kid’s level of giftedness.
But there was one word that stood out in particular on his teacher’s questionnaire and it sent me over into tears and panic.
Perseverate
Wooo ooo Woo ooo! Warning Bells! Woo ooo!
I’m somewhat well-read. I know what that word is associated with.
Autism
For those not versed in the world of autistic words, it means to repeat or prolong an action, thought, or utterance after the stimulus that prompted it has ceased.
I’m just wondering who gets to decide when a stimulus has ceased? Who says the mental pay off must stop here as opposed to there? Who?
High-functioning autistic people perseverate, or think repetitively (or even obsessively) on an object or a concept. This perseverative interest is often described as an impairment or an abnormality by normal people, who think themselves free of such obsessions. The reality is, though, that normal people have a perseverative interest too, and that interest is in being social. They perseverate on being with others, even if no information is to be exchanged. They become bored and lonely very quickly, by autistic standards, if they are alone with their thoughts. They are just as perseverative about socializing as any autistic is about a physical or theoretical object, but they are so accustomed to this being the case that they do not see it so. In other words, the desire to be social is so well-accepted and ingrained that it is not seen as a fixation; it is seen as normal and desirable. Even normal people that claim that they often prefer solitude have no idea how great their innate social needs are. They hold that the autistic is defective because he perseverates on physics instead of chatting about the weather or about the latest ball game. The difference is that being social, as most people are, does not bring greatness. It does not result in the formation of new ideas or concepts that advance humanity, or that make our lives easier. Perseverative social behavior does little, if anything, to advance society. That sort of thing is the domain of abnormal minds, to a large degree.
The complete article can be read here if you’re interested.
Oh yeah, I’m a social perseverator. Or we could call me a social persevert…like a pervert, only friendly in an asexual way.
I know, I know. My perseverted ways will not further society or advance humanity in any way. Unless I could possibly advance humanity through farts, and promote cultural acceptances of farts because I also love to perseverate over farts, no? I suppose that could make our lives easier, don’t you think? All of the time we would save from politely leaving the room to go fart elsewhere? All the embarrassment avoided. Yes, sounds like easier living to me!
But let’s compare my social and flatulent perseverting behaviors to, um, say Einstein’s perseverating behavior over math and physics.
Between the two, whose perseverating behaviors should be more valued? I mean, now that we can see the big picture of Einstein and all.
People, the sooner we accept that we’re all fucked in the head and only the degree varies, the sooner the world will be a better place.
The “strange” perseverative people out there change the world. Literally and largely.
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
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