Look, kids! Madness awaits! I can only imagine that Tori Spelling was chosen because she, too, can inspire madness with a single sighting.

That’s mean. But reasonably true.

via Warren Ellis

Socially Awkward: Child often complains of “butterflies” in their stomach.
Mentally Deficient: Child often complains of termites in their wrists.

More…  HOW TO TELL IF YOUR CHILD IS SOCIALLY AWKWARD OR MENTALLY DEFICIENT

Is it just me, or is there something sublimely humorous about a promise made to always be open and honest?  Is it meta?  Irony?  A double whammy in disguise?

A promise like that, there’s no point even getting it in writing, signed in blood mixed with the ashes of a loved one.  Actions speak louder than words — which is pretty funny, because open honesty is all about words.  As many of them as you need to get from Point A to Point B, in fact.

You look for reasons, for closure, for anything at all to grab onto .  And it’s at that point that you suddenly realize that you’ve been reaching down, trying to pull someone up that had no interest in being brought out of the waves.  They’re not drowning — they’re just waving, oblivious to the deep water they’re in.  Now you’re tired, from struggling to help them, and the only reason things seem temporarily better is that you’re on the same level, for a split second; not because you’re making headway at pulling them onto dry land, but because you’re about to find out if it’s true that you never forget how to swim.

This is the joy of being left in the dark: you get to create your own stories, fill in the blanks however you wish, let your theories run wild.

I find that I’m not angry, or even really hurt.  I think I’ve put my faith in other people too much over the years to even be shocked to find that something like this has happened. Again. You spend your life doing the things that you want done to you, and that you were raised to believe were the right, good, Christian things to do: helping others when you can, whether materially or emotionally.  Being nice to the point of harming yourself.  Work hard.  Give until it hurts.  And then you wake up and find that yet another person has mistaken your kindness for weakness.

And maybe the two are hand in hand, lovers entwined forever.

The more I show the way I feel the less I find you give a damn
The more I get to know the less find that I understand
Innocent, the time we spent, forgot to mention we’re good friends
You thought it was the start of something beautiful? Well think again.
– Porcupine Tree, The Start of Something Beautiful

I’m not so cynical (which is to say, I’m quite possibly naive enough not) to think that I’ve given and given and eventually felt taken from by people who are malicious or have hurtful intent.  I do think that there’s a serious imbalance in how much thought is given to the appropriate response to a good deed.  If someone — if a friend, more to the point — extends his or her credit rating to you, to help you out of a bad spot, you should go out of your way every single time to repay that loan, or at the least, take the initiative in explaining that the money will be late.  If someone loans you clothing, especially if they’re not in a position to replace that clothing any more than you are, get it back to them.  Ever.  If not sooner.

When you don’t do these things, when you take for granted the generosity and kindness of your fellow man, on any level, you burn the edges a little bit.  And eventually the edges are now at what used to be the middle, and there’s not much left to put aflame.  Eventually all that’s left of that large heart is ash, and that’s one less person in the world who is willing to give and do good for others.

Not that I am planning on being anything different than what I’ve always been — the cynical optimist, the crunchy bitter shell with the marshmallowy sweet innards.  The people that will come after all you that have come before and walked so carelessly don’t necessarily deserve to pay for your mistakes.  And surely, sadly, they will, a little bit — that desire to trust everyone until they give you a reason not to gets weaker with every reason, and the walls build themselves up inside of you even when you think you’ve taken a break from masonry.

But maybe they will get a little something more, too; a more rewarding unconditional trust when they show you what they tell you, when the song of their actions makes the words redundant and unnecessary.

While sitting in the back rows of the Samford University theater (I could look up the actual name of the building, but let’s just say that it’s a Baptist building in which dancing sometimes takes place), watching the Alabama Ballet perform Giselle, I was struck by both a sudden need for a cigarette, and the amazing parallels between the ballet and my life today.

Both are beautiful at times (mostly when you least expect it), boring other times, and really painful when you’ve stayed still too long and your hip audibly pops.

Neither one makes a whole lot of sense, even if the background music is familiar.  Unfortunately, there is no program for my life, so I don’t get any clarification on that one.

Both are filled with a long line of beautiful women.  And out of both batches, there are only a few whose names and faces remain in my memory for more than about 24 hours.

I don’t dress up for the ballet, either.