Random Speculations on the World

I can’t fucking talk to my dad about anything anymore. He’s absolutely convinced that whatever I say, I must be wrong. Why? Because I’m younger and get my news from different sources. He called it “idiot news” tonight, and claimed that “there are facts you can’t possibly know about the [Ferguson] case.”

I’ve been following the case pretty intensely. I know the stories behind the information he claims must be true–because it comes from a cop. What the hell don’t I know about it that he does? I’m not saying I know everything. But everything he’s talking about has been dismissed by pretty much everyone because it completely contradicts all witnesses and video evidence.

When the hell did my dad get to be like this? He didn’t used to be that way. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even point out a simple fact. He doesn’t bother listening to proof. He hates it when I try. I got hilariously “grounded” that last time we had a disagreement. Who cares if I’m younger? I can read. I can understand things. Yet to him, I’m too stupid to understand anything he talks about.

I know I have self-esteem issues. I constantly think I’m stupid. But when you blatantly insult my intelligence, that shit’s going to get ugly. I may consider myself to be stupid, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with calling me stupid. ESPECIALLY without proof of the fact. “I’m older so I know everything” does not, never has and never will constitute valid evidence.

Dare to fucking treat me like a person. Support your thesis.

One of the things I hate the most is where somebody will insist their response is the only one possible. Take my complaints about learning how to drive, for example. At the time, I was concerned about getting back and forth from places without having to rely on the Greyhound bus system (my school is in the middle of nowhere–the nearest city is over an hour away and has no cheap and reliable transportation to places outside the city). I was looking forward to a summer spent working full time and taking two time-consuming classes, and I was pretty much having an anxiety attack over the fact that I wouldn’t have any time to learn to drive.

Suitemate’s response? Make time. That’s what she had to do when she learned to drive, after all (she was sixteen).

A reply like this–and there was much arguing around it–is something I found extremely insensitive. Here I was clearly having an anxiety attack, and the only response she insists is appropriate is one that makes it ten times worse. She had no answer as to exactly how I should make time, or what time I had to spend learning how to drive, or how in the world I was actually going to get ahold of a car. Those were all my problems, she decided. The only useful advice she could give was “make time,” which she absolutely insisted was the only possible response. Nothing more was needed.

Regardless of the fact that she only managed to make my anxiety about the issue ten times worse. Regardless of the fact that this and other similar statements contributed greatly to my decision to stop speaking to her about things in my life. She spoke to me some time later about feeling as if she had to walk on eggshells around me. How the hell did she think I felt?

Fast forward to a week or so ago. One of my friends tells me to clean up my college stuff–it’s all in the living room because there is currently no other place to put it. I responded that I was working on it, but that most of it has nowhere to go. Her response: find room. When I continued to tell her that most of this stuff did not actually come from my room and so really doesn’t have anywhere other than a dorm room to be, she responded with “I don’t care. Find room.” She then proceeded to say that she was going to come over one day and we were going to clean it all up. When I told her that it doesn’t work like that for me–I can’t focus on things I’m not interested in and have to do them in five or ten minute intervals with long breaks in between, she responded with “Well, I’ll make you clean.”

I’m sorry, but something like this is more likely to make me stop what cleaning I’ve already been doing than make me more motivated. There is no way whatsoever that you can FORCE me to clean it all in one go–I will very likely fall asleep and will argue with you when you go to wake me up. Things like this will probably also make me stop talking to you for a long time.

The thing I don’t get is that my friend is huge into making sure people feel comfortable, making sure their needs are heard and met whenever possible. Yet when I try to explain my needs in this particular case, she responds with deeply insensitive remarks. I don’t think I’m being crazy. I legitimately cannot focus on a task I’m not invested in for more then fifteen minutes at a time at the most. I’ve never been able to get interested in cleaning. It makes me insanely tired, and I often do fall asleep. With my depression, I find it even more difficult concentrate on such tasks. For a friend who’s known me very, very well for the past ten years or so, I find it difficult to think she would be so insensitive to the things I go through on a daily basis.


My outlines are giving me more motivation to write than when I try to write without them. This has never happened before. Hm. Let’s see where this goes.

I just want to be back in Canada.


I finally remembered what I was supposed to say last time. I’m trying to shake my apathy for all things academic, and in doing so I’m doing research. Not physics research, since I don’t really feel up to that yet. I’ve decided to just sort of pick something and go with it, and to take any tangents I might come across. This should, in theory, keep my mind moving into a bunch of different avenues at once, which should help with making connections. I’ll be looking at all the sources I can get my hands on.

I thought a lot about what I should start with. I decided to go back to an old and forgotten interest: plague. It was the Newsflesh books that did it, I think–I started thinking a lot about the believability of the disease Grant sets up in her books. It reminded me of reading a rather graphic book about the yellow fever epidemic in Philadelphia in primary school (a book I will be looking for in the near future). I also remembered an article from Global II about the Black Plague. I was a very morbid person from about eleven to fifteen, and things like this–the more graphic the account the better–fascinated me.

I decided these things still fascinate me. I’ve also decided that the 1300’s are a much more interesting time period than the late 1800’s. So I’ve begun to read about the Black Plague. At the end of every week–excluding next week, since I will be without internet–I will post something about what I’ve been researching. I haven’t studied biology in college, so I expect there will be a lot of very basic reading involved. This is very much an information-gathering sort of project.

Since I’ve been working on structuring my daily life, I propose the following schedule, beginning the week after next: on Mondays, I will post about fiction things I’ve read. On Fridays, I will post about my research. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll change it. But I think having some sort of small schedule will help me remain focused, and give me something to talk about.

Pretty sure this is 12

Now that I’ve started to write this, I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to say. I finished Mira Grant’s Feed a while back, and have started on Grant’s Deadline and Marissa Meyers’ Cinder.

I’ve also noticed that whenever I write to say that I can’t sleep, I go to sleep right afterward. Maybe I should do that more often and at reasonable times.


Today was a good day, but full of sleep. Tonight’s too hot to sleep a lot. This delayed sleep thing would probably be helped tremendously if it were cooler inside than it is outside.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.