Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

selfy-stuff

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Sometimes it is just there in the pit of your stomach, bubbling under. Each little phrase and laugh is a dig at you, winging across the room to impact like a punch to the solar plexus and, while everyone else has their head thrown back with laughter, you are just slowly reaching your break point. You are trying not to boil over, but there is always that one irrelevant thing that someone says that is the coup de grace — the blow you cannot recover from.

They had been verbally working me over for an hour and i don’t even think they realized it, even after i left. My food had stuck in my throat for a second, and i could feel myself turning a little red, and then i wasn’t in control of it anymore. Boiling over. Screaming, cursing, slamming, until i was out of there and down Walnut Street and back in my room. I wasn’t in control of it; my body entered some sort of social fight-or-flight reflex on my behalf. Some quick words to the roommates, and then i was up the stairs and locking the door, and on my bed i was mouthing over and over “i can’t change anything, i can’t change anything.” And i know that i can’t. I know that i am two decades into this and that i set myself up for this fall for my entire life, but it doesn’t making the landing any easier.

I knew it couldn’t possibly work twice in a row.

Last night i was miserable and so i went out. It was a good idea; sitting around and moping wasn’t going to fix anything. Tonight i had the same impulse, but although it was well-intentioned of me i think that i realistically should have realized that it was time for a recharge Because, if i don’t take time to recenter every so often i manage to let people see through to what’s underneath. And, that never works out too well.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9324213/

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I’m not sure what came over me.

Okay, i’m actually quite sure of what came over me. I had been having a shitty depressing day and i didn’t want it to continue into a shitty night and possibly an altogether miserable weekend. I decided that a Best Friend was needed to salvage what was left of my evening, so i put in a phone call to Laurel.

What’s strange is that i don’t do this; i don’t call people up on a Friday night to see what they’re doing. If there’s a party i’ll be there, and if we’re all going out to eat i might show up, but i’m not really into the whole one-on-one hanging out scene. It’s like dating without the date. Or something. But, anyhow, tonight i really just needed to get out of the house, and Laurel was heading out to see a mutual acquaintance of ours play at the NorthStar, so off we went.

I had never been inside of NorthStar bar, because every time someone i want to see plays there it’s not an all ages show. Being an all ages show, tonight was heavy on the college crowd and what had to be a couple dozen fourteen-year-olds who were definitely more punk than i’ll ever be. I am, let’s face it, about as non-punk as it gets. Well, other than Laurel. Although, Laurel at least has boppy ska-grrl potential if we were to get her into a plaid skirt. I, on the other hand, looked like i got lost on the way to a very touching Emo concert; i self-consciously shoved my token studded bracelet into my pocket with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Laurel happened to be less punk than me precisely because of her bopping … she’s totally unembarrassed to dance around and have a good time, regardless of whether or not she’s fitting in with “the scene.” I, on the other hand, am definitely intimidated by scenes — so much so that i feel desperately out-of-place even at an Ani DiFranco concert (where i probably have as much scene credibility as anyone in the room who isn’t a lesbian). In light of this, i was of the more toe-tapping head-nodding persuasion until the last band came on and we pushed our way up to the front, at which point i actually exhibited some shoulder-movement and general rhythmic body-bopping. With much awkward self-consciousness, of course.

As embarrassment goes, we were definitely a distant second to the massive fist-fight that broke out when a Neanderthalic mosher crash landed too many times on a highly strung hard-core guy. Aside from the frightening part where i had to catch Laurel and ascertain that she hadn’t been struck with a ham-sized fist it was rather amusing; i’ve never been at a concert small enough that the performers stopped mid-song to admonish the moshers. But, anyway, it certainly drew attention away from our toddler-like dancing.

You know, i bet if they bopped more they’d be less violent.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9293457/

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The first time it goes off is around six in the morning, for no discernible reason. I mean, it obviously goes off because i set it to go off then, but Lindsay is constantly asking me why i set my alarm to ring four hours ahead of time. No reason other than it’s like a two-minute warning for having to wake up and deal with another day.

I was happy to have the warning this morning, since the day seemed especially dreary. I didn’t even need to look out of my tiny back window to know; i could feel the chill sliding in through the cracks and twisting up to raise goose-bumps on my legs. Deciding to sleep through my first two classes was not the most wrenching decision i’ve ever had to make.


The other thing Lindsay can’t seem to understand is why my alarm rings over and over again. I tell her it’s a warning… life ahead in four hours… three hours… until finally it’s just “Time to wake up. Fucking Blastoff.” Apparently, one ring is enough to convey the message to her. Today the blastoff ring was #6, and the reason i got me out of bed was because the sun had decided to accompany it. I was up and navigating the mess of my floor to turn down the alarm before Courtney could start screaming, and i could feel the diffuse runny-egg yellow of a damp sun on my back. The day had made an ugly duckling transformation for me, and i felt as though i was headed for something not entirely dissimilar.


It’s strange to go from kneading a palmful of shampoo past damp curls down to the suffocated scalp beneath to sliding a dime sized drop down the middle of centimeter long strands on the top of my head. It’s the shortest my hair has ever been. Stepping out past my fish-curtain i caught my nude reflection in the mirror, and something seemed different other than my hair. No new pimples, no unexpected muscles. It was something about how the slope of my shoulders changes, the line of my neck becomes smoother. And, something else as well — as if my haircut was emblematic of some greater change that was working its way out from my heart and up through the skin.

I wasn’t sure of what the change might be, but i hoped it would go well with my grey turtleneck and sexy jeans.

It wasn’t until i had gotten halfway to my destination of skipping class that i started feeling the way my reflection looked. Nothing tangible, but my change in carriage had seeped down from my neck and shoulders and out from my gut to pervade my whole being. By the time i got down to the Green Room i definitely felt different, although to everyone in the room it read as something closer to narcissistic conceit. Really, could i help wanting to have attention paid to me? I had Changed and they wanted to talk about midterms. Ridiculous.


Amazing what a $10 haircut, losing three pounds, and being in my scientifically determined sexual prime can do for morale. Whatever. I try not to dissect the positive moments of life too much. I just felt … fuckable. And, not just hot or easy or anything like that, but like someone covetable. Someone other people have strong opinions on. And, well, fuckable sounded like a good adjective at the time, but now that i’m looking at it in writing i can see where that narcissistic angle came in.


So, maybe it wasn’t so different from most other days, really, but usually i’m more of a pity fuck, you know?

Nevermind.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9028072/

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The feelings i have are these slippery things, and i wish they were more like velcro. I wish i could throw words at them and have them stick. I feel… slighted, continuously slighted by life despite my attempts to make it worthwhile. I feel unappreciated for being someone i enjoy being and over-valued for things i despise. And, of course, alone on a Sunday night my immediate reaction is to try to write a song about how i feel and, failing that, to blog about it.


The thing is, i’ve written this song already and blogged about it a hundred times. Yesterday Lindsay and i had a ridiculously deep conversation while watching the Eagles game, and i said something about getting married and having children and a house, and i meant it. But, i can never have any of that so long as i live within this private universe i’ve constructed, with all of its own symbolism and meaning.


I’m usually not shy with my lyrics, but this week i wrote something that says how i feel and i purposefully tucked it away. It Says how i Feel, but i can’t sing it or play it because for it to really come out and do justice to all the slippery feelings i have inside i need to make it perfect. In my head i hear the sighing melody and the double bass beat on the chords in the chorus, but try as i may i can’t get even a line of it to come out like that at all. Anyway, i don’t know what to say about this feeling other than what i already said in these lyrics last week, so here’s the latter half of them:

Imagine my whole life as Technicolor — with someone painting the shades into the scenes, and everyone acting from scripts with each other. They’re all off-book except for me, so every day is a stumble-through rehearsal, and each night is an actors’ worst dream because i never know the right thing to say, and i’m left silent in the spaces in-between. So, my front porch is a consolation, my door is a sigh of relief. The stairs are invigorating, my room is a reprieve. It’s then that i open my mouth, and the room is filled — the words come pouring out. My guts are spilled. It’s a shame i can only find my voice between four lonely walls of brick and concrete, but i don’t really have any choice: it’s just something about emptiness and me. Outside i feel just slightly out of focus; around other people i sing a little off-key. I wonder all the time if anyone will notice that i seem to be coming apart at the seams. I am coming apart at the seams.

It’s a one-dimensional representation of what i’m trying to say… my words stripped of inflection and tone. But, it’s the closest i can come to opening this up to you, so take it for what it is.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8889949/

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I hated Napster, mostly. The way i saw it, a bunch of cheap college kids were using it as an excuse to short-shrift their favourite artists of hard-earned profit. It did have its high points, namely tracking down obscure and out-of-print Tori songs, but it wasn’t something i was very fond of. In fact, I may have cheered a little when it bit the dust.

Really, how could i help but hate any service that makes cd shopping somewhat obsolete? I live for cd shopping! Even with statistics indicating that cd sales actually showed signs of an upward trend for many of the demographics engaged in trading audio files over the internet, somehow i could never reconcile the idle sampling of a new album with myself — it takes all of the fun out of blindly buying something and then falling madly in love with it. Looking at some of my recent favourite albums, i don’t think i would feel the same about choirgirl, distillation, or poses if i had gotten any sort of substantial preview of them … part of the wonder i hold them in was my initial discovery of what they had to offer A lot of college students might have wound up buying things that they never would have previously, but for a completest like me the entire concept is the sonic equivalent of peeking at my Christmas Presents on December 22nd.

250+ purchases later, tonight i found myself warming to the concept of trading files for an entire opposite reason than i would have suspected Freshmen year. Essentially: my purchasing plan for Winter 2002 is already upwards of a dozen new releases — with my time and money already tied up in snapping up albums by the myriad of performers that i am already practically subscribed to, i can’t always afford to find & snag other random recommendations that people make to me. You could argue that i have enough new music to keep myself occupied, but i could be missing out on my next favourite album every time i blow off a suggestion! Tonight i found myself chatting with Andy, and we made reciprocal recommendations to each other. However, rather than add these people to our ever-growing shopping lists, we proceeded to neatly exchange a handful of their mp3’s, and now it would seem that i’m as destined to own a Mason Jennings disc as he is to buy a Peter Mulvey album.

I never thought of it this way, but i really am a one-stop shopping center for a shocking array of artists; i own between ninety and one hundred percent of the catalogues of Garbage, Madonna, Tori Amos, Ani DiFranco, Peter Mulvey, PJ Harvey, Weezer, Death Cab For Cutie, Erin McKeown, Velvet Underground, & Garrison Starr, with significant holdings in Alanis Morrisette, Melissa Etheridge, Radiohead, and a slew of other artists. Of course, i collectively have under 10 mp3s on my computer of songs from these umpteen albums, but it’s sort of neat to think that someone who was interested in one of these artists could really hear anything by them via me. I think that i’m finally softening to owning mp3s because the odds are if i’ve listened to something more than once or twice i intend to buy it. I still can’t endorse things like AudioGalaxy and the like because i know that i am a highly unusual music consumer, and also because of my possessive singer-songwriter issues, but there’s a difference between randomly downloading a hot new single and making a calculated attempt at triangulating whether or not you should get addicted to an already established artist.

I don’t know why i felt the need to bring that up; i definitely wasn’t volunteering to hook you up with Madonna’s complete greatest hits, that’s for sure. Of course, if you were offering to introduce me to the collected wonders of Lucinda Williams, i would gladly give you three reasons to love PJ Harvey….

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8773094/