The Happiness Disease

I've noticed of late that there is a clear preference for "happy" people, keeners, positive thinkers, extroverts; as if everything can be glossed over with a smile, a friendly nod and an optimistic thought. That would require an acknowledgement that everything is indeed ok, which frankly, is rarely the case.

"Happy" is not my default setting. I usually wake up with some degree of melancholy and general unease. Happiness feels like work, and I'm not about that. Maybe I'm just lazy, or unmotivated. Are those synonyms?

I'm most certainly an introvert. There seems to be a general misunderstanding of introverts since extroverts are valued so much more. Introverts make people uncomfortable. I'm guessing it's because others can't understand why we would more often choose to be alone than with other people.

It seems pretty obvious to me. Other people are usually really f*cking annoying, especially those sickly sweet, jazzed up extroverts who are basically asking for a punch in the face. It's not that I aspire to be a recluse. I'm just very particular about who I spend my time with, and much more so as I age, and realize that life is short so why would I spend it with people I hate or find generally irritating?

The one beautiful thing about aging is that you start to care less and less what other people think. If everyone is basically obsessed with what everyone else thinks of them, no one is paying attention to you, so why should you care what others think because they're not thinking about you at all. They're only thinking about what you think of them.

I tried to get on the "positive thinking" bandwagon a few times. It's much easier to be bitter and cantankerous, and frankly, much more interesting and entertaining. Being steeped in anger and resentment feels natural to me, and fuels my drinking habit, which I treasure dearly. Also, being a happy writer just sounds like an oxymoron. What would I write about if I were happy? How to be happy? Puke. Besides, that market is completely saturated... with extroverts.

I recently had a profound revelation. I thought my life would miraculously change once I was a playwright with a production under my belt. Well, I'm now a produced playwright, and guess what, jack shit has changed. It's been a very humbling time.

I thought all this "positive thinking" would ensure an unprecedented success for my show. Well, it was a success, but not unprecedented, not entirely unique, and everything is basically as it was before, i.e. me wondering why I even write at all when it feels like I'm losing an uphill battle, then deciding I may as well start drinking before I get swallowed whole by my existential angst. Maybe I'm not visualizing enough or I'm doing it wrong. I was supposed to be an international sensation by now. Perhaps my 104 Twitter followers think I am, and I suppose, for now, that will have to do.

Arctic madness (also known as "It's bloody cold and I'm losing my sh*t.")

Do you know what a long, cold winter (think like, -40C with wind chill for like, a few weeks in a row) does to a person? It f*cks your shit up. I think I may have read somewhere that there's a disorder in the Arctic that makes people act crazy, like taking an ax to your blow-up doll and making broccoli explode.

I kicked off 2014 by doing some alpine skiing in Vermont in -20C weather with a bad cold, something only powerful pharmaceuticals make possible. Was this a harbinger of the year to come?

I came back to work sick after our Christmas vacation, then I felt better for a couple weeks, then this crazy ass frigid weather hit again, and my cold came back for an encore. If this is global warming, I don't like it anymore. Warm weather when it should be winter = totally acceptable. Weather that only belongs in either the North or South poles = unacceptable.

Now I'm supposed to be all excited about the Olympics. The figure skating is fixed. NHL-player stacked teams make Olympic men's hockey a joke. Only the Dutch seem to be winning speed skating events. (Don't get me wrong, I love the Dutch, but is this the '72 East German women's swim team all over again?) And they keep showing those "How we raised an Olympian" montages with sappy, Hallmark movie of the week background music that gets me every time. Damn you national broadcasters and your emotional manipulation!

It's only mid-February and I'm exhausted. I sensed 2014 would be a year of "growth". Sure, growth can be good but it usually doesn't feel good and you have to go through stuff that "stretches" you, metaphorically speaking, and keeps you perpetually uncomfortable with your "status quo self". I'm starting to think growth is overrated. What's wrong with ignorance and a bottle of wine to numb those pesky emotions? Growth and maturity are for suckers.

On a bright note, I got a mystery Valentine at the office with a picture of Dwayne Johnson (a.k.a. The Rock) with the caption "You Rock".  #totallyawesome

The Facebook Fee

It's official. Facebook is insidious. There was an ad strategically placed on my newsfeed for the Candy Crush Saga app. When I first saw it, it briefly captured my attention, then I moved on. But the seed had been planted. Then I saw the ad again, and it stuck. I downloaded it, and now I'm addicted.

It was technically "free" to download but you only have five lives and if you max them out trying to get to the next level, you have to wait 8, maybe 10, maybe 20 minutes for a new life to continue playing. OR, you can BUY five more lives and keep playing NOW.

Guess what happened next. I got app raped. I spent a few bucks so I could keep playing, like a gambling addict in the wee hours of the morning, sucking the last dregs of cheap alcohol from a plastic cup, scrounging for those last few dollars while getting the stink eye from the dealer who's counting the minutes until the end of what seems like an interminable shift.

It seemed wrong to shell out dough so I could keep matching virtual candy but I couldn't help myself. I felt dirty afterwards. When I was asked for my Apple ID so I could buy more lives, I shamefully tapped in my password, thinking I'd sunk to a new low.

So you see, Facebook isn't free. They get their money through the back door (pun intended). Who needs a user fee when advertisers pay Facebook to sell people shit that's specifically targeted to their own individual interests. I don't know why everyone has their panties in a knot over Obama reading their e-mail. Facebook knows more about you than the government ever will. Big Brother is watching, with your permission.

Does this mean I'm going to delete my Facebook profile? I bought the app, didn't I?

Fake nipples and Frankenveins

So I'm walking down the street the other day and some guy gives me a look. Then I realize what's happened. I'm wearing a hoodie under a thin coat, and hoodies have strings, with knots at the ends, which end up strategically placed near the nipple area under said coat. So it looked like I had giant nipples. Mystery solved.

It's strange what time off can do to a person what with the mental space that opens up when you're not caught in your daily routine. My boyfriend and I were on vacation last week in downtown Montreal. About mid-week, I decide to ask him for advice about something I'd been tossing around in my mind.

You see, I have a Frankenleg, or in other words, varicose veins, which apparently, is hereditary. I guess it's better than inheriting a high probability of getting breast cancer and having to chop off my boobs. Oh Angie... But I digress. It's not gotten to the point where the mere sight of my legs frightens little children but it's just enough to start being somewhat noticeable, to me, and possibly no one else. But still.

My family physician referred me to a vein clinic almost two years ago but I didn't really follow up because I saw it as some kind of possibly risky cosmetic surgery and, at the time, wasn't bothered enough by the tiny bulge in the back of my left leg to do anything about it.

Fast forward almost two years later, on a downtown Montreal street. The boyfriend thinks it's probably like getting a tooth filling - not a big deal. I sense he's right. And then I get sucked into the rabbit hole. I must have my leg fixed NOW.

I look up the clinic on the Internet and do some reading. The procedure to get rid of the frankenveins is pretty straightforward, like getting a tooth filling. It's too late to call the clinic that evening so I'm up early the next day making a long distance call because I want an appointment as soon as possible so I can fix my leg in time for summer.

"How about 3 pm on August 29th" says the woman from the clinic. "Sure", I say. Just in time for... fall.  I have to wait three months. I feel completely deflated. I mean, I made the appointment, which was good, but three months! Three summer months of shorts wearing! The horror!

At this point, the obsessing intensifies. The full length mirror in our hotel room doesn't help one bit. I don't have one of those at home so I don't see my full legs very often. But now I do, and I stare, and scrutinize and judge and am horrified. It utterly consumes me.

We see these super cool international dance shows while in Montreal and all I can think is "look how perfect their legs are. I wish mine looked like that."

It's strange how the mind works, once it decides to notice something, and focus on it intently. I would imagine that comes in handy when you're trying to achieve goals but not so much when you'd just like to turn off the switch.

Then my boyfriend asks me: "Has anyone ever pointed it out to you?" "No", I say. "When I spoke of it with friends, I actually had to show them my Frankenleg because they hadn't noticed anything". "Uh-huh", he says. Message received. Sometimes, the sheer depth of my superficiality scares me.

Another victim porn assault

Ashley Judd recently released her memoir detailing a childhood marred by neglect and sexual abuse. Her mother Naomi and sister Wynonna were initially dismayed by the allegations in the book but merely days after its release, mommy Naomi admitted she too was sexually abused as a child during an interview on The View to promote her upcoming reality series The Judds.

Why do celebrities feel they have to reveal their deepest, darkest secrets to the whole friggin' world? Are they that desperate for cash and/or attention? Newsflash: it's already been done, like a zillion times, and it's pretty hard to beat Mackenzie Phillips who got it on, willingly, with her father. 

You were abused as a child? So f*cking what. Get over it already. I don't mean to downplay the seriousness of sexual abuse but that's exactly what these celebrities are doing - I mean, I don't know about you, but my sympathy is wearing thin for this kind of thing. You were abused? That totally sucks. Get some therapy, work on your shit and stop letting it define you as a VICTIM. 

What exactly are celebrities hoping to accomplish by divulging these disturbing truths? Working out their mommy/daddy issues in the public eye? Creating "awareness" around abuse? Justifying bad behaviour? Dudes, we're so "aware" of this issue, we're becoming desensitized to it. "Oh, ANOTHER celebrity was sexually abused as a child. Boo f*cking hoo." 

Is the implication that a messed up childhood is a prerequisite to becoming an actor/musician/comedian/artist? Because I can say, with a great degree of certainty, that that's not the case. I had a perfectly normal childhood and it hasn't tarnished my creativity in the least. 

The world doesn't need another tell-all book by some has-been celebrity hack. What we do need are publishers who are more focused on developing the talents of actual writers instead of printing volumes of celebrity navel gazing. It's no wonder our society is getting dumber by the minute - look at what we're publicizing and reading. 

Kudos to the mighty Opes for her book club and the power it wields to push actual works of literature into mainstream pop culture. It's a ray of light in a murky sea of banal victim porn.