Consider this the compliment to the Cuddle Monster. This is no monster though; no ghouls, freaks, or spooks are involved in this one. In fact: it is the lack of these things, as well as everything else that motivates this fear. I can only describe it as the fear of being alone. Abandonment is the most primal of fears. It is instictual in fact; engrained on our very DNA. So why do we fear being alone? The answer appears to be simple enough: because life is one big game of dodgeball and it really sucks when you're the only one on a team and everyone is trying to peg you square in the nuts from across the gym.
We're social animals. We need the company of our own kind. The only critters out there that are good at being alone are the ones that are singularly created killing machines whose sole purpose is to be a mean little bastard to everyone else (i.e. honey badgers). We homo sapiens are more complicated than that, and we've certainly done a good job at trying to avoid ending up alone. I mean, everything from marriage, to sports, to racism is fundamentally based on the idea of unity; that it takes more than one person to make something happen, to find happiness.
In a more psychological sense, we need others because it gives us value. The very fact of knowing that somewhere out there in this big clusterfuck is at least one person who cares about what I do make us feel good; like we matter. And we do, because as soon as you really let yourself become entwined into another person's life, your actions become a deciding factor in those of that person, maybe even the thing on which his or her happiness is contingent. This is only one extreme though. Meaningful relationships are key, but there is an entire spectrum of interaction that fulfills so many other needs, from the utilitarian to the truly miraculous.
This is not to say that isolation is not without its virtues. Can you truly understand yourself as an individual without the occasional quiet moment of reflection. Whether it's meditation, prayer, laying down for bed, or taking a shit, we allow ourselves times of reflection because sometimes it sucks to be around other people. In the end though, we all want to go back to others.
Are we afraid to be alone because it leaves you with no one around, or because it only leaves you around? Only you can answer that question.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Attack of the Cuddle Monster
Tonight, I'm going to get a little tangental. I'm not dealing with a proper monster; maybe kind of like cookie monster. It's somewhat relevant because I'm dealing with something that really freaks some people out. Officially, the topic is personal space with particular attention being paid to its role in interpersonal relationships, but from here on out, in the spirit of the season, its nom de guerre shall be known as the Cuddle Monster. I don't really know what got me thinking about this. Maybe it's just some kind of cosmic energy with it being the autumnal equinox and all, maybe it's because Fall gets me kind of twitterpated, or maybe it just happened for no damn reason at all.
This little bugger is a crafty beast. It has no one singular corporeal form, it instead appears in a different form to each person. It can be anything from an unwanted kiss, to a forced hug, to anyone stepping within 18 inches of you. Let's face it: people are kinda particular about their personal space. What is it that makes us so defensive about our little bubble? Of course, the only person I can speak for is myself, so why not use me as an empirical baseline to be used in all future research?
Having said this, I'm pretty liberal when it comes to other people touching me. I remember once hearing a beauty pageant question that went along the lines of, "Which of the five senses could you absolutely not live without?" Although I wasn't in the running, although I should have been, I immediately came up with an answer that I always have with me in case the issue comes up.
"I could not, would not, live without my sense of touch. To never feel a balmy summer breeze, the embrace of a child, or the gentle kiss of a loved one is a life incomplete, lacking that most fundamental elements of happiness, the ability to feel good from the smallest of God's gifts."
*applause applause* I get the crown.
I for the most part welcome friendly touching, especially from members of the fairer sex. There isn't a lot that I won't let a woman do to me...well, almost...pending certain laws and public statutes...plus you have to remember that Jesus is watching. Anyways, I suppose my comfortability stems from the fact that I had very warm, physically affectionate parents growing up, so it's what I know. I can see others having more distant parents, so physical closeness makes them uncomfortable, or it could be rebellion against over-affectionate parents. I have to laugh when I see a couple like this. They love each other, but the closest they ever come to expressing it is a fist pound. I kind of like to pretend that once you find a good enough person, you'll want to be all cuddly, as gross and annoying that it is.
As much as I actually like the Cuddle Monster, I hate it when he rears his head in public. I have the same opinion of new love that I do of drug users: you have your right to do what makes you feel good, but do it away from me or suffer the consequences. Sorry folks, a salud to the fact that you're getting laid, but keep it out of my face.
So in conclusion, I guess depending who you are, the Cuddle Monster can either be a fearsome beast with the potential to make you incredibly uncomfortable, or more in the vein of Grover, a cute, if sometimes annoying, little fuzzy dude that can make your day.
This little bugger is a crafty beast. It has no one singular corporeal form, it instead appears in a different form to each person. It can be anything from an unwanted kiss, to a forced hug, to anyone stepping within 18 inches of you. Let's face it: people are kinda particular about their personal space. What is it that makes us so defensive about our little bubble? Of course, the only person I can speak for is myself, so why not use me as an empirical baseline to be used in all future research?
Having said this, I'm pretty liberal when it comes to other people touching me. I remember once hearing a beauty pageant question that went along the lines of, "Which of the five senses could you absolutely not live without?" Although I wasn't in the running, although I should have been, I immediately came up with an answer that I always have with me in case the issue comes up.
"I could not, would not, live without my sense of touch. To never feel a balmy summer breeze, the embrace of a child, or the gentle kiss of a loved one is a life incomplete, lacking that most fundamental elements of happiness, the ability to feel good from the smallest of God's gifts."
*applause applause* I get the crown.
I for the most part welcome friendly touching, especially from members of the fairer sex. There isn't a lot that I won't let a woman do to me...well, almost...pending certain laws and public statutes...plus you have to remember that Jesus is watching. Anyways, I suppose my comfortability stems from the fact that I had very warm, physically affectionate parents growing up, so it's what I know. I can see others having more distant parents, so physical closeness makes them uncomfortable, or it could be rebellion against over-affectionate parents. I have to laugh when I see a couple like this. They love each other, but the closest they ever come to expressing it is a fist pound. I kind of like to pretend that once you find a good enough person, you'll want to be all cuddly, as gross and annoying that it is.
As much as I actually like the Cuddle Monster, I hate it when he rears his head in public. I have the same opinion of new love that I do of drug users: you have your right to do what makes you feel good, but do it away from me or suffer the consequences. Sorry folks, a salud to the fact that you're getting laid, but keep it out of my face.
So in conclusion, I guess depending who you are, the Cuddle Monster can either be a fearsome beast with the potential to make you incredibly uncomfortable, or more in the vein of Grover, a cute, if sometimes annoying, little fuzzy dude that can make your day.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Frankly Speaking
Brief short answer test question: which classic monster has been misrepresented more than any other?
Answer: Frankenstein's Monster
Aside from the obvious nomenclature issues (Frankenstein is his creator's name, not his name), for the most part, this poor guy has been reduced to a green zombie. This is not of course a slam on zombies; they'll get theirs in due time. Let's start with the source: Frankenstein was written by Mary Shelley, then 19 year old lover of Percy Bysshe Shelley, one night in 1816 after the two of them and Lord Byron had spent the evening drinking and reading ghost stories. They then resolved to see who could write the scariest story. Mary wrote Frankenstien, and Lord Byron gained the inspriation for The Vampyre, the forerunner of the gay Victorian vampire. Clearly Mary was the winner.
So the creature was designed to be frightening from the beginning, and indeed he was. Imagine a man sewn together from various exhumed bodies. Now, take all of those Hollywood images of a green skinned gargantuan with the giant flat top and bolts in the neck, and throw them out the f-ing window. Keep the height, but give him long, black hair and an eerie tranluscent yellowish skin that allows you to see his blood vessals and such underneath. Eeeeeew!
The grotesqueness is key to the scariness, but there is more at work here than pure pug fugliness. What is truly scary about the creature is that despite his outward appearance and superhuman strength and endurance, he is a man; a man with feelings, a mind, and all of the trappings of humanity. He feels loneliness, fear, anger, and vengeance, and is fundamentally weak enough to succumb to them as we all are, and though he is capable of murder, he still suffers from remorse after the act. He is as complex a character as any other, and by complex, I mean more than,
"Meeeeeh, I'm a horrible misunderstood monster who is hated by others, but you are the one person who sees beyond the mask, but you still don't know if I'll suck your blood, so let's make out."
This idea was translated in an excellent manner by Boris Karloff in the classic Universal film. You could see the pain and confusion in his eyes, you felt it as much as he did. It broke your heart when he accidentally drowned the little girl, because you knew that he was still a danger and had to be stopped. This model was only charactured in subsequent portrayals, adopting the "Herman Munster Model". I will note that for all of its problems, Van Helsing did a decent job at restoring at least some of the creature's nobility, even if it was at the loss of its scariness.
So why is he scary? It's not just that he is a hulking brute with an unnatural visage. Frankenstein's monster scares us because he was created by a mortal. He is man-made, and he is largely a failure at the attempt to create life. We fancy ourselves as the most talented beasts to walk the planet and are capable of anything, and yet we are not. The sky is not the limit, and there are some things that we simply cannot do, or should not. We possess the potential to create our own destruction, and not as a faceless disease or other abstract means, but in a grossly twisted reflectionof ourselves. We fear him because he reflects our own shortcomings as individuals, and as a species. We look in the mirror and are horrified at what looks back at us.
Answer: Frankenstein's Monster
Aside from the obvious nomenclature issues (Frankenstein is his creator's name, not his name), for the most part, this poor guy has been reduced to a green zombie. This is not of course a slam on zombies; they'll get theirs in due time. Let's start with the source: Frankenstein was written by Mary Shelley, then 19 year old lover of Percy Bysshe Shelley, one night in 1816 after the two of them and Lord Byron had spent the evening drinking and reading ghost stories. They then resolved to see who could write the scariest story. Mary wrote Frankenstien, and Lord Byron gained the inspriation for The Vampyre, the forerunner of the gay Victorian vampire. Clearly Mary was the winner.
So the creature was designed to be frightening from the beginning, and indeed he was. Imagine a man sewn together from various exhumed bodies. Now, take all of those Hollywood images of a green skinned gargantuan with the giant flat top and bolts in the neck, and throw them out the f-ing window. Keep the height, but give him long, black hair and an eerie tranluscent yellowish skin that allows you to see his blood vessals and such underneath. Eeeeeew!
The grotesqueness is key to the scariness, but there is more at work here than pure pug fugliness. What is truly scary about the creature is that despite his outward appearance and superhuman strength and endurance, he is a man; a man with feelings, a mind, and all of the trappings of humanity. He feels loneliness, fear, anger, and vengeance, and is fundamentally weak enough to succumb to them as we all are, and though he is capable of murder, he still suffers from remorse after the act. He is as complex a character as any other, and by complex, I mean more than,
"Meeeeeh, I'm a horrible misunderstood monster who is hated by others, but you are the one person who sees beyond the mask, but you still don't know if I'll suck your blood, so let's make out."
This idea was translated in an excellent manner by Boris Karloff in the classic Universal film. You could see the pain and confusion in his eyes, you felt it as much as he did. It broke your heart when he accidentally drowned the little girl, because you knew that he was still a danger and had to be stopped. This model was only charactured in subsequent portrayals, adopting the "Herman Munster Model". I will note that for all of its problems, Van Helsing did a decent job at restoring at least some of the creature's nobility, even if it was at the loss of its scariness.
So why is he scary? It's not just that he is a hulking brute with an unnatural visage. Frankenstein's monster scares us because he was created by a mortal. He is man-made, and he is largely a failure at the attempt to create life. We fancy ourselves as the most talented beasts to walk the planet and are capable of anything, and yet we are not. The sky is not the limit, and there are some things that we simply cannot do, or should not. We possess the potential to create our own destruction, and not as a faceless disease or other abstract means, but in a grossly twisted reflectionof ourselves. We fear him because he reflects our own shortcomings as individuals, and as a species. We look in the mirror and are horrified at what looks back at us.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Harem Scare 'em
As a buildup to Halloween, I have resolved to do a series of posts regarding things that are scary (and some things that aren't, like vampires). You could say that this series is a continuation of the two previous posts regarding Bigfoot and those lame-ass bloodsuckers. Consider this the Frasier to their Cheers.
We of course can't delve deeply into this subject matter without addressing the common denominator here: fear.
Fear has a certain allure to it. I loved how it was a central theme to Batman Begins. I never felt that the Scarecrow got enough credit. Fear is such a primal feeling; it could be interpreted as motivating almost every single human action. We date because we are afraid to die alone. We eat because we are hungry and afraid that there may not be food around later. We believe in God because we're afraid that life ends when we die. We're afraid to be afraid because it makes us look weak. A bit pessimistic with a touch of nihilism? Maybe, but there is still a grain of truth to it.
Fear drives our need to survive. Things scare us because our fusebox of a brain tells us that we are about to end up in a serious world of hurt unless we do something...and fast. This usually manifests itself in "GYAAAAAAAAH!" Although not a psychological anthropologist, I presume that it is a desperate effort to scare away the potential threat. What usually happens though is that you just end up looking like an ass in front of everyone else, which leads me to my next point:
Just like everything else in nature, we humans have gone made a very simple thing wa-hay too complicated. Take the simple fact that the only too innate fears we have are of abandonment and sudden, loud noises. Everything else is learned, and of course our huge friggen' noggins have gone and messed things up to the point where some people are afraid of the most rediculous things (i.e. the color blue and the letter "Q").
It will be interesting to see where I end up going with all of this. We'll look at some more of the classic monsters, whether they are scary or not, the funny side of fear, and, if there is time, what scares me. After all, if I can't take it too, why bother with this at all?
We of course can't delve deeply into this subject matter without addressing the common denominator here: fear.
Fear has a certain allure to it. I loved how it was a central theme to Batman Begins. I never felt that the Scarecrow got enough credit. Fear is such a primal feeling; it could be interpreted as motivating almost every single human action. We date because we are afraid to die alone. We eat because we are hungry and afraid that there may not be food around later. We believe in God because we're afraid that life ends when we die. We're afraid to be afraid because it makes us look weak. A bit pessimistic with a touch of nihilism? Maybe, but there is still a grain of truth to it.
Fear drives our need to survive. Things scare us because our fusebox of a brain tells us that we are about to end up in a serious world of hurt unless we do something...and fast. This usually manifests itself in "GYAAAAAAAAH!" Although not a psychological anthropologist, I presume that it is a desperate effort to scare away the potential threat. What usually happens though is that you just end up looking like an ass in front of everyone else, which leads me to my next point:
Just like everything else in nature, we humans have gone made a very simple thing wa-hay too complicated. Take the simple fact that the only too innate fears we have are of abandonment and sudden, loud noises. Everything else is learned, and of course our huge friggen' noggins have gone and messed things up to the point where some people are afraid of the most rediculous things (i.e. the color blue and the letter "Q").
It will be interesting to see where I end up going with all of this. We'll look at some more of the classic monsters, whether they are scary or not, the funny side of fear, and, if there is time, what scares me. After all, if I can't take it too, why bother with this at all?
Monday, September 8, 2008
It's not the teeth that suck
I have a question that I wish to pose to the universe:
Does anyone besides me remember a time when vampires were scary?
This question has been brought to the surface because of the recent popularity of the Twilight series of novels, the latest literary phenomenon that has every teenage girl (and plenty of emotionally stunted young women) foaming at the mouth like rapid honey badgers at the mere mention of the books; and in the name of all that is holy, don't mention the movie or risk being torn apart like a dime store pinata (ComicCon this year taught us this lesson all too late, lest we forget). Another contemporary catalyst is Alan Ball's new series TrueBlood on HBO. Although I am a huge of of Six Feet Under, I fear that Mr. Ball may have sold his soul to a rediculous fad.
These two entries are only the most recent of a serious epidemic in our society: the systematic castration of vampires. What was once a terrifying spawn of evil has become an over-sexed wet dream for people with overactive imaginations. How did we go from Bela Lugosi to Robert Pattinson? I suppose Anne Rice has her fair share to do with it, but I won't solely saddle her with the blame. I don't like to point fingers, but if she can do for Jesus what she did for vampires, religion is about to get a lot more interesting.
I have never understood the sexual appeal of vampires. I'm not knocking sexual fantasy here, but what is it about a reanimated corpse shambling out of its grave, turning into a rabies-ridden bat, flying into your room while you sleep, and drain you of your life essence is sexy? I get that the neck is an erogenous zone, and biting can be an exciting part of foreplay, but really? It's a reanimated corpse! I will repeat that for any of you who delude yourselves with that horse shit about vampires being a seperate race, or some result of scientific experimentation...a re-a-ni-ma-ted corpse. One who has been dead for an indeterminate amount of time and has mytically been given the ability to move around. This is a broad definition of course, since nearly every culture across the planet has some kind of vampire mythology.
Even worse are those few nuts out there who think thay they are actual vampires. Again, everyone's free to live your lives as you please, but for godssake! The real shame is that these people are incredibly outgoing and creative. They could write the next great novel or direct the next great film, but instead, they waste their creative juices on lame The Crow-inspired costumes and lamer goth club scenes.
Y'know, in some parts of the world, vampires are given the respect they deserve. Many a small village in Eastern Europe still carry around small holy relics and hommade fetishes to ward off such profane abominations of nature's laws. They carry out burial rituals to ensure that their deceased loved ones don't become the walking damned. These people have it right.
I say, if we're going to embrace this whole "monsters are hot" thing, let's be all inclusive. Let's do it werewolf style (it's the same as doggystyle, only during a full moon) and watch zombie porn ("Zombie have brain delivery!" *bow chicka wa wow*). Don't forget ladies, Frankenstein's monster has detachable parts. We can have Red Cap orgies and bugger yetis until the kelpies come home. They've got it all at Crazy Fritz's Supernatural Sex Emporium!
If any of these suggestions are actually turning you on, you need help and should call a therapist. Consider this an intervention.
Does anyone besides me remember a time when vampires were scary?
This question has been brought to the surface because of the recent popularity of the Twilight series of novels, the latest literary phenomenon that has every teenage girl (and plenty of emotionally stunted young women) foaming at the mouth like rapid honey badgers at the mere mention of the books; and in the name of all that is holy, don't mention the movie or risk being torn apart like a dime store pinata (ComicCon this year taught us this lesson all too late, lest we forget). Another contemporary catalyst is Alan Ball's new series TrueBlood on HBO. Although I am a huge of of Six Feet Under, I fear that Mr. Ball may have sold his soul to a rediculous fad.
These two entries are only the most recent of a serious epidemic in our society: the systematic castration of vampires. What was once a terrifying spawn of evil has become an over-sexed wet dream for people with overactive imaginations. How did we go from Bela Lugosi to Robert Pattinson? I suppose Anne Rice has her fair share to do with it, but I won't solely saddle her with the blame. I don't like to point fingers, but if she can do for Jesus what she did for vampires, religion is about to get a lot more interesting.
I have never understood the sexual appeal of vampires. I'm not knocking sexual fantasy here, but what is it about a reanimated corpse shambling out of its grave, turning into a rabies-ridden bat, flying into your room while you sleep, and drain you of your life essence is sexy? I get that the neck is an erogenous zone, and biting can be an exciting part of foreplay, but really? It's a reanimated corpse! I will repeat that for any of you who delude yourselves with that horse shit about vampires being a seperate race, or some result of scientific experimentation...a re-a-ni-ma-ted corpse. One who has been dead for an indeterminate amount of time and has mytically been given the ability to move around. This is a broad definition of course, since nearly every culture across the planet has some kind of vampire mythology.
Even worse are those few nuts out there who think thay they are actual vampires. Again, everyone's free to live your lives as you please, but for godssake! The real shame is that these people are incredibly outgoing and creative. They could write the next great novel or direct the next great film, but instead, they waste their creative juices on lame The Crow-inspired costumes and lamer goth club scenes.
Y'know, in some parts of the world, vampires are given the respect they deserve. Many a small village in Eastern Europe still carry around small holy relics and hommade fetishes to ward off such profane abominations of nature's laws. They carry out burial rituals to ensure that their deceased loved ones don't become the walking damned. These people have it right.
I say, if we're going to embrace this whole "monsters are hot" thing, let's be all inclusive. Let's do it werewolf style (it's the same as doggystyle, only during a full moon) and watch zombie porn ("Zombie have brain delivery!" *bow chicka wa wow*). Don't forget ladies, Frankenstein's monster has detachable parts. We can have Red Cap orgies and bugger yetis until the kelpies come home. They've got it all at Crazy Fritz's Supernatural Sex Emporium!
If any of these suggestions are actually turning you on, you need help and should call a therapist. Consider this an intervention.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Without a Ding Dong Thing On My Mind
I've heard that moving is the third most stressful event in a person's life, right behind death and divorce (I'm assuming that death refers to others rather than yourself, because I can't see myself caring too much once I'm dead). I'm going to postulate that finding a new place, getting through all of the paperwork, working out payment plans, packing all of your stuff, moving all of your stuff, unpacking all of your stuff, and organizing all of your stuff is indeed a serious pain in the hindquarters, I do not believe that this is the root of the stress.
I know this because I too have recently moved, of sorts, and have begun purging and preserving my things from the ground up. It is the first time I have ever done a complete inventory on myself, and it was a hell of a ride. I found the first toy I ever had as a baby, the first of many successive waves of toy fads that I went through. I needed to up the Ritalin for my inner child as I sorted through the stuffed animals, the Star Wars Micro Machines, the Mighty Max playsets (does anyone else remember these?!), and the random action figures from various yard and rummage sales. I suppose at least a shard of my childish innocence remains intact (an amazing discovery to be sure) since I ended up playing with almost every single one as I picked it up. I missed those carefree days when my daily schedule rarely got more complicated than sitting in the yard and digging a hole with a stick.
The the real memory trip began with the pictures. I know it's redundant to state the powerful effect that photos have on memories...but goddamn! Yearbooks from fifth grade up until I graduated high school, and all of the personal candid shots that breathed even more life to them. Looking back at pictures of my friends before I even knew who they were made me stop and think how funny it is how relationships work between people. Two people can live totally seperate lives, completely ignorant of one another's existence, and then one day they happen to meet and from then on the two paths converge, at least for a time.
For every picture of a classmate that I looked at, an accompanying memory came free, an intellectual 2-for-1 sale. It's amazing how they link togther to create a chain of events that at the time seem ludicrous. The first girl that I ever had a crush on. My best friends who introduced me to video games, Weird Al, and James Bond. How would I know that the little girl in a moppy haircut and sweater that was too big for her would be resting her head on my shoulder at the prom and sticking her tongue down my throat during the balmy summer nights that followed our graduation?
Just recounting this stuff for the second time today is causing me to drift back into nostalgia: the most bittersweet of emotions. Sure, we get that warm, mushy feeling inside when we think of past happiness, but in the same breath, it reminds us that that happiness is no longer there, as per its nature. That girl who danced cheek-to-cheek with me is no longer around, and my friends are scattered about the four corners of the country. I miss these people in my quiet moments sometimes, but only rarely. Today, I think about friends I've made since then and what we're going to do this weekend. Old girlfriends are eclipsed by newer ones, and the prospect of hooking up with that gal that I've started noticing trumps them all. And even though I am content with where my life is right now, I cannot help but feel a small sting of I don't know what; call it regret, sentimentality, or simply growing up, but it's there. It is always there to remind me that things can change at the drop of a hat, and even if you have the best laid plans, you still will be surprised with where you are in five, ten, or twenty years.
That's why moving sucks.
I know this because I too have recently moved, of sorts, and have begun purging and preserving my things from the ground up. It is the first time I have ever done a complete inventory on myself, and it was a hell of a ride. I found the first toy I ever had as a baby, the first of many successive waves of toy fads that I went through. I needed to up the Ritalin for my inner child as I sorted through the stuffed animals, the Star Wars Micro Machines, the Mighty Max playsets (does anyone else remember these?!), and the random action figures from various yard and rummage sales. I suppose at least a shard of my childish innocence remains intact (an amazing discovery to be sure) since I ended up playing with almost every single one as I picked it up. I missed those carefree days when my daily schedule rarely got more complicated than sitting in the yard and digging a hole with a stick.
The the real memory trip began with the pictures. I know it's redundant to state the powerful effect that photos have on memories...but goddamn! Yearbooks from fifth grade up until I graduated high school, and all of the personal candid shots that breathed even more life to them. Looking back at pictures of my friends before I even knew who they were made me stop and think how funny it is how relationships work between people. Two people can live totally seperate lives, completely ignorant of one another's existence, and then one day they happen to meet and from then on the two paths converge, at least for a time.
For every picture of a classmate that I looked at, an accompanying memory came free, an intellectual 2-for-1 sale. It's amazing how they link togther to create a chain of events that at the time seem ludicrous. The first girl that I ever had a crush on. My best friends who introduced me to video games, Weird Al, and James Bond. How would I know that the little girl in a moppy haircut and sweater that was too big for her would be resting her head on my shoulder at the prom and sticking her tongue down my throat during the balmy summer nights that followed our graduation?
Just recounting this stuff for the second time today is causing me to drift back into nostalgia: the most bittersweet of emotions. Sure, we get that warm, mushy feeling inside when we think of past happiness, but in the same breath, it reminds us that that happiness is no longer there, as per its nature. That girl who danced cheek-to-cheek with me is no longer around, and my friends are scattered about the four corners of the country. I miss these people in my quiet moments sometimes, but only rarely. Today, I think about friends I've made since then and what we're going to do this weekend. Old girlfriends are eclipsed by newer ones, and the prospect of hooking up with that gal that I've started noticing trumps them all. And even though I am content with where my life is right now, I cannot help but feel a small sting of I don't know what; call it regret, sentimentality, or simply growing up, but it's there. It is always there to remind me that things can change at the drop of a hat, and even if you have the best laid plans, you still will be surprised with where you are in five, ten, or twenty years.
That's why moving sucks.
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