happiness, life, love, mind, psychology, relationships

I Am Average

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 – You are very predictable and pedestrian, why am I even talking to you? – Jim was furious. He was always furious around me. I made him extremely angry all the time; angry and horny. I kept telling him we are incompatible, and we should break up, but he never listened.

 – I do not know why you are still with me, maybe you like the way I f*ck?

 – Hell no, sex with you is mediocre.

 – I have no idea than, – I shrugged my shoulders, – You can always leave.

 – If I leave now, you will never see me again, is this what you want?      

 He was right I am very average.

I kill 8 hours of my day in the office, work out several times a week to keep my butt firm and round, drink water to reduce the appetite, and am quiet to look smart.

I love money, chocolate, and flirting with my dentist.

I hate Mondays and crave for Friday evenings 6 days a week.

I routinely pay my bills, desperately fight my age, and love guys who take care of my needs.

I bleach my teeth, dream of a long vacation in Italy, and smell glossy pages of fashion magazines in beauty salons.

I have two hands, two legs, one head, one pussy, money anxiety, and retinol creams on my nightstand.

I am boringly predictable, worldly, and dispickably non-special. I am just an average-looking girl focused on raising the kid and cutting back on carbs, sugar, and salt.

I am an average person having happy moments and issues like everyone else, not trying to lie to myself about extraordinary abilities, special skills, ever-lasting youth, and other crap.

I just live my life aching from push-ups, watching sunsets, and growing roses neither bragging nor complaining about my mediocrity.

 – You love me Jim, – he dragged his gaze away from stocks trackers in his iPhone, tired and crestfallen.

 – Now what?

 – You love me because I am very average.

life

Saturday Morning, Flipping Realities, Jim

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Saturday morning, 50 boy-pushups on the pier, and beach running. Dancing palm-trees and air in the ears as I was forward and backward swinging on a children’s playground. The fun of morning loneliness,  my 87 pounds on a swing seat, feeling as light as a feather.
 
Jim’s “you are psychotic, I cannot figure you out” shattered the serenity of rustling palm leaves and crashing waves. His texting threw me from trance to the hysteria of his never-ending I-need-to-know-what-is-on-your-mind. The message got me pensive.
Psychotic, wow. He kept telling me I was bi-polar, I kept laughing in his face, he kept getting pissed, I never cared.
 
With time, I learned to accept my mood drops as the part of one of my countless personalities. Then, I started catching the signals of my upcoming mood swings, I knew the time they would occur, I knew when the reality would flip, and how long it would take to get back from seeing the world through the lens of gloom or ecstasy. Gradually, it got way too old and boring to follow the mind games, and I just stopped paying attention to my mind. I quit forcefully evening up my moods since I did not care any longer.
 
The Madonna’s “you only see what your eyes want to see” made lots of sense. The depressed personality chose to see the world through the despondency of poverty and fast-food, the anxious self was able to find drama even in the bliss of winter sunsets. 
 
Then I discovered a bunch of other personalities and stopped locking myself in the hyper-hopeless box. The mind could create anything from happy to horny, from pensive to doomy, separate personality – separate reality with own rules and regulations. I learned to take advantage of the Buddhist “what we think we become”, choosing the personality daily like my laced panties. I juggled the realities having fun when I wanted, knowing that they were fictional, that everything was fictional, that there was no real self, that I did not exist.  
 
Speaking to Jim about it made no sense, he was way too immersed in his money-making rat-racing circle. Greg and Adam were more existential, they understood, but it did not matter, nothing really mattered that quiet Saturday morning in Florida.     
health

My Bodily Needs and My Mind


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 The only friend I can entirely trust is my body. Unlike the mind that drags me through a myriad of imaginary horrid to ecstatic life scenarios, the body never lies. The body is always real, it always stays with me here and now, the body is very articulate in expressing its likes and dislikes regardless of the societally imposed bullshit about the nutritional value of meat, sugar, salt, bread, and dairy.
 
The body will cry out loudly for the need to work out and to sleep at least 8 hours daily.  Even if its voice is temporary silenced by anti-depressants, energy drinks, antibiotics, and surgeries, the truth comes out sooner or later. We tend to panic when the body sends us signals in the form of sickness. Instead of putting our rat racing on hold and listen to the voice of our bodies, we desperately ask doctors for help, entirely ignoring that most of them literally fall apart under the burden of diagnoses and prescribed substances. Mentally and physically sick people who do not know how to take care of themselves claim that they know how to treat others. The matrix is ruthless in its insanity.
 
Suppressing the bodily needs is the most inhumane thing that most of us do going to work they hate, impressing people they do not know, and sleeping with someone without chemistry – Kids need both parents, two incomes are better than one, I must save the family at any cost and blah blah blah.
 
The mind is tricky, it only goes by what happened in the past; it offers the future based on the previously happened traumas. And we listen to it, turning our back on the reality that does not give a shit about hallucinations of our little broken tape recorder. We follow the mind, disregarding the bodily yells to stop and get real. We do not want to get real, we cannot get real associating ourselves with that little head device that tells us what to do and how things need to be done. Even when the reality smashes us with common sense, most of us do not get it and continue following the mind games over and over and over. All we get out of being slapped in the face is that we are victims. And we fall in love with our sufferings, traumas, and problems, proudly carrying the victim-status throughout the life. We cherish this shit, aggressively protecting it from common sense.
 
          We live in imaginary worlds created by our minds. Even if the body suffers, we are not willing to let go of the created illusions, Greg.
          Interesting, Vixen. But I still do not get how come that we do not exist.
          It does not matter
          What matters?
          Nothing really, our mind creates what is important what not, and we stupidly follow the created priorities. This makes us suffer
          Do I make you suffer, Vixen?
          Sometimes, when I appropriate the illusion that you are the most wonderful person in the world.