26 April 2011

on being emo

I needed to take a breather after that last post. Far too much emotion for my comfort zone. I honestly have no idea where that outburst came from, but it did show me that I am not a very good writer when hysterical. Good to know.

Rather than bitch and moan about how much my life sucks right now (and trust me, it does), I am instead going to focus on something positive. Because nobody wants to read a shitty blog written by some emo kid.

When I’m feeling really depressed, I like to think about the sound of rain. Yes, I know that this notion sounds ridiculous, but bear with me.

I think about the sound of rain, pitter-pattering on my windowsill. Then, I imagine myself looking out of said window, gazing out at the muggy grey landscape without really seeing anything. The raindrops may pursue each other, racing down the glass hoping to merge with another, but I take no notice. Instead, I imagine myself completely absorbed in my lamentation. Maybe I am wrapped in nondescript, neutral-colored clothing. There may even be a hot beverage steaming up the windowpane in front of my face, obscuring my reflection.

Perhaps a solitary tear runs down my imaginary face. My imaginary countenance is nothing short of pathetic. One face cannot possibly hold so much emotion, no matter how furrowed my brow may be. I have hit rock bottom, found a pickaxe, and continued digging until I could no longer see the light of day. Everything is in black and white.

After I have established that mental image, I take a step back. I see myself, looking like a complete idiot, absolutely absorbed in my insignificant problems. Then I laugh. There is no way that I could take myself so seriously that I can pull off the described scene without an ounce of irony. I may be dramatic, but I am nowhere near that ridiculous. Nor am I the leading lady in a romantic comedy.

I know that this probably isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it is the easiest way to put things into perspective. Yes, it blows that I have to write so many papers. It sucks that my hands and arms are sore and cut up from bamboo (long story). It’ is unfortunate that I still haven’t completely recovered from my recent sickness. But I have not reached the point where the only logical thing to do is stare out my window and wallow in self-pity. I have already cried in public. I dealt with my emotions for once. Now it’s time for me to finish my espresso, hug Salvatore the unicorn, and buckle down.

P.S. This is precisely the reason why I cannot be a tortured artist. Nor can I talk about my "process" without being acutely aware that I sound like a douchebag. I usually just end up laughing.


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