How Staying Apart Will Keep You Together

For the entirety of my dating career, I have run into the same issue over and over again; I would meet a great guy, become completely smitten with him, spend every second I could in his arms...and then become sick of him and/or dump him in under six months. For years I thought something was wrong with me because I couldn't stay in a long-term, committed relationship without feeling like gnawing off the hand my man was holding (though I often did stay in said relationships out of guilt, creating a miserable situation for both parties involved). I became a serial dater of the worst kind and as a result, lost a lot of important guys in my life and acquired nicknames including, but not limited to, succubus, Jezebel, Eve, siren, hussy, harlot, man-eater and, of course, the usual bitch, slut and whore.
After releasing the most recent of my victims, I made myself a promise to not even go near the idea of a monogamous relationship for a good while. I became a self-proclaimed swinger, giving myself the right to have no-strings attached hook-ups with any guy I pleased, and to casually date as many different types of men as possible.
The first of my hook-ups was a guy who had become a friendly acquaintance at school, and someone whom I knew wanted me; Kyle. He was an odd duck, but an extremely good-looking, intelligent, and polite odd duck, so I gave it a shot and found him to be quite the man-candy. Aside from hooking up, I just plain liked spending time with Kyle as a person. While I did stick to my promise and dated other guys, Kyle was probably always the favorite. Knowing I wanted to be a free woman, Kyle respected that, but after several months it became clear that we were pretty smitten with each other. Of course, I knew this meant it was all downhill from there.
Much to my surprise, it wasn't. We didn't really start hanging out more, which at first I was a little upset about. However, I found that instead of losing interest in him, my interest grew. Every time I saw him I was happy and excited, and what was more, I still actually wanted to have sex with him. I was absolutely perplexed by the situation until one night when I stayed in to have a "me" night. As I lied in bed writing, my mind drifted off across all of my past relationships and I finally realized what was different. For the first time in a relationship, I was allowed to have a "me" night. I could also still hang out with my friends almost every night. The reason I wasn't getting sick of Kyle is because he gave me the space and time to be Caitlin.
We never see each other more than two or three times a week, which can get a little tough, but for the most part, it just makes me more excited for the days when I do get to see him. I can't say for certain that I will never get sick of him, but I can say that this is hands down the happiest I have ever been with another person because I still get the chance to be my own person.

I think that when relationships first start out, a lot of people tend to binge on all the happy,romantic things they are feeling and ignore the fact that they are still two separate people. They do everything together, and end up sacrificing many of the people and things in their lives which made them happy as an individual, eventually leading to feelings of suffocation and resentment. This can especially apply to people who are living together and sharing one bedroom. Having to sleep in the same bed every night can become monotonous and even irritating depending on the other person's sleeping habits. So why not have two separate rooms and have "sleepovers" a couple of times a week? Just as every person is different, so is every relationship and what may work for the "Leave it to Beaver", All-American, perfect couple, may not work for you. So even if a married couple sleeping in separate beds seems weird, it could be what makes all the difference.
I used to always think that if I didn't want to spend all or most of my time with my significant other, there was something wrong with me, because it wasn't what I saw in the movies or the media. But, the truth is, as much as we may love another person, one of the most important ways to a happy relationship is to have time and space for ourselves, so we can keep being the people our significant others fell for in the first place.

Why Brangelina is the Scariest Thing to Happen to Long Island Since the Amityville Horror

It began at around 9 a.m. on April 19th, 2009 when I got a text from my friend that read "OMG! Brad and Angelina were at the Oyster Bay Stop and Shop! That's right near you, did you see them?!"
No, I had not see them, nor did I have any interest in seeing them. I'm not really the type to go nutso over celebrities of any sort and I certainly don't understand the fascination with the Paris Hiltons and Brangelinas of the world. Apparently the rest of the world, or at least the rest of Long Island, doesn't feel the same. Starting with that fateful trip to Stop and Shop, it suddenly seemed as if all of Long Island had Brangelina Fever.
That text message proved to be nothing in comparison to the barrage of Brangelina-related questions, comments, and incidents I had hurled at me over the next few weeks. The magazine racks quickly became packed with tabloids featuring Brad and Angelina in Oyster Bay, Long Island on the cover and contained riveting stories and photos of Brad and Angelina's OB house, Brad and Angelina at Stop and Shop in OB, Brad and Angelina at CVS in OB, Brad and Angelina out for a family stroll in OB. Think about this for a second; a magazine was taking terrible Kodak disposable camera pictures of completely average people doing completely average things and making millions off of it because these very average people just so happen to be famous. Well, as a Long Islander I thought that most of Long Island would be brought to their senses by the fact that if these things were taking place in their normal, everyday home-sweet-homes, it couldn't really be that big of deal. Naturally, I was wrong. The tabloids flew off the racks throughout Long Island, including where I, and Brangelina live, Oyster Bay. After the magazines alerted absolutely everyone who saw them that the world's biggest celebrities were in town, the topic became unavoidable. At least three times a day I would be asked by random people who I never really talked to if I had seen Brangelina, what were Brad and Angelina like, what did the Jolie-Pitt household like to do on weekends, had I ever partied with Brangelina? There were internet articles popping up everywhere claiming that Oyster Bay was causing some sort of a split between the two because Angelina was involved with Oyster Bay men and that Oyster Bay mothers who usually "schlepped" around in sweatpants were now glamming themselves up for Brad Pitt (this is absolutely insane by the way, because Oyster Bay is the land of MILFs, Botox parties and mansions starting at no less than one million. If things around here got anymore "glammed up", we'd be in Bel Aire).
One day as I walked through town with my friend, venting about the pandemonium that had apparently hit our town, we noticed that there was some sort of filming process on what I later found out was the set for a TV show, which neither Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie were cast in.
"Wonder if Brad and Angelina are there," I joked.
Before we knew it, the entire area was surrounded by hopefuls attempting to get a look at the acclaimed couple. People literally left shops and restaurants just to get a look. Mothers called friends and family on their cell phones to lure them into town to play "Where's Brangelina?" As we walked on, my friend and I were approached by a man in a convertible talking excitedly on his iPhone. As he turned a corner at a good 40 mph, he screeched to a halt at the curb, asked "Have you seen Brad and Angelina?!" and drove off in frenzy as we told him we had not. A week later I was informed that a high school acquaintance had tipped off People, or OK, or one of those typical tabloids, providing it with information about Brad and Angelina in exchange for a lousy $2000. How low can you go Long Island?
It's not the fact that people getting excited over celebrities that is bothersome. I understand; they're beautiful people who many aspire to be like. What bothers me is that people allow their entire realities to become twisted by the presence of over-publicized, yet perfectly average people. Such is the case with Long Island, hence the storm of text messages, trashy magazine articles, sell-outs and crowds of Brangelina-obsessed zombies. For whatever reason, indirect contact with these two beings has turned Long Island into Bedlam.
I can't say whether or not the mayhem is intensified by Long Island culture; maybe it's the affluence that makes many Long Islanders feel entitled to schmoozing with the "beautiful people", or maybe it's our close proximity to the most well-known city in the world that makes us feel like it is somehow in our destinies to brush shoulders with fame. Honestly, though, it would probably be the same anywhere else as it is here, maybe even worse. It's just a wonder to me how a glimpse of the beautiful people has made my home seem so ugly.

The Swine Flu: Why This Little Piggy Can't Make Me Cry

If you know me, you probably know that I am a hypochondriac. I think I have every disease known to man... all the time. I attribute this to my loving but neurotic grandmother, may she rest in peace, who habitually thought everyone around her was dying...all the time. If we had dirt on our hands, we immediately were plagued with some mystery illness that would surely kill us if we didn't go to the doctor within the next 24 hour period. As a pseudo neo-hippie, I believe in free love and enjoy being out in nature more than anything, but as i get older I notice it has become increasingly harder to do so without my grandmother's Brooklyn, New York, Jewish accent screaming, "ya gonna catch ya death; ya gonna need a tetanus shot!" The bottom line is that disease scares the living Hell out of me for no rational reason beyond the fact that dead or alive my grandmother has proven herself to be the archetypical Jewish mother.
And yet somehow, with the threat of Swine Flu all around, (the sheep wearing dentists masks, this persistent cough , and my frequent trips into the City), I just can't get myself to be worried about the Pig. I'll admit, I was sent into a momentary panic a week or so ago by an unusually high fever, but I awoke the next morning feeling like a new woman and haven't given it a second thought since. I'm just not worried about the swine flu. So naturally, this worries me. Why should a hypochondriac such as myself, who is finally faced with an actual disease, unconcerned with it? Call it a hunch, but I'm going to say that, for starters, it's called Swine Flu. All I see are images of the three little pigs or Pumba from The Lion King. Not very threatening. Now The Black Death, that's a keeper in terms of disease names. The Black Death does not sound like something you want to mess with. Neither does Scarlet Fever or Flesh Eating Bacteria. These are all things I would instinctually try and avoid based on the name. But Swine Flu sounds like a bored seventeen year old's senior prank, and quite frankly, in a time where I can't really count on finding a job when I get out of school or ever being able to retire, you tell me how much thought I should really be putting into how to avoid what sounds sort of like an overpriced, pork-based dish served at a fancy restaurant somewhere around Broadway. Bird Flu, Swine Flu, Mad Cow Disease. Doctors are getting lazy with their disease names, I'm getting bored with the over-exposure of them, and the rampant publication of Swine Flu fluff seems to be a blatant avoidance of the only real American issues, because let's face it, the amount of suicides resulting from job loss and economic failure probably trump any number of Swine-related fatalities. So I guess that's my answer; I'm not worried about Swine Flu because there are a lot of other things for me and my generation to be worried about. The wasted youth epidemic that is sweeping my generation of the nation is a lot more of a threat than a drop of pig snot could ever be. We were told to go to college, work hard then get a job. But we can't even though a lot of us actually want to. But the papers won't put that on the cover because it doesn't sell as well and it doesn't send people rushing to purchase over-priced and unnecessary medications. I’m not scared of the Swine Flu because I’m more scared of where this country is headed and what it means for my future. I’m not scared of the Swine Flu because if I get it and it’s as bad as they say it is, then hey, at least I won’t have to worry about paying off student loans or trying to save the endangered retirement fund.
That’s all folks.

The Bracelet

Alex glanced at the little piece of plastic around her wrist and frowned. This wasn’t the type of accessory a girl usually wants to wear for a night out, but she felt like a fake cutting off her hospital bracelet so soon. She shook thoughts of St. Francis from her mind and took a drag from her joint. She was stressed enough from having to play catch up at school after being released from the hospital. The last thing she needed was to have to try and impress some guy her friend had set her up with.

“It’ll help you get back into the swing of things…you know, normalcy” her friend Anna had told her.

The two girls were now wandering hurriedly around Alex’s room getting ready for their double date slash concert.

“He’s an old friend of Eric’s and he’s a great guy.” Anna said cheerily. I met him yesterday and he is really good-looking. He’s smart too. He’s been away at this fancy private school for the past couple of years, and he’s going to Vassar in the fall but as smart as he is, Eric says he’s still crazy fun. We’ll just all go to the concert together and have a great time. It will help you get your mind off of…stuff…”

As much as Alex appreciated the efforts of Anna and Eric, Anna’s long-term, perfect boyfriend, she doubted not only the sincerity of those efforts, but also that some demi-god of a guy would help her to forget “stuff”. In fact, she was pretty sure his perfection would only emphasize her instability, because the “stuff” Alex was trying to forget about didn’t consist of the normal, angst-ridden, teen issues. Less than a week ago Alex had still been unable to wear clothing with any type strings or metal attached to it, for fear that she would either try to kill herself or someone else with it. Even in the half-conscious, drunken, self-loathing state which Alex had been dragged to The St. Francis Psychiatric Facility, she had mustered the coherency with which to ask the nurse “how the fuck’mygonna kill myself with a zipper, bitch?” In response, the nurse proceeded to strip her down, dress her in an ensemble of a paper gown complete with slipper socks and that beautiful plastic bracelet and fed her a sedative (as if she needed any more drugs in her system) in order to shut her up. “After all,” said the nurse cheerily, “we don’t want to disturb the other patients who are on their way to a happy recovery.”

Despite the absurdities the hospital employed to ensure its patients’ well-being, it seemed that Alex always found an equal and opposing absurdity to ensure her ceaseless stay at St. Francis. And so, despite the hospital staff’s original estimate that Alex would only need to stay two months maximum, the entire year came and went and only four days ago, exactly one year and two weeks after she had been admitted, had she been officially released. No one but Alex and a few far-too-happy doctors at St. Francis knew exactly where she had been and why she had been admitted, and only Alex knew for sure why she had stayed so long. As Alex’s best friend since kindergarten, Anna had been satisfied with the explanation that “I knew I was on a bad path and I just had to go away for a while where people could help me…so basically my dad dragged me away kicking and screaming against my will” In any case, Anna got the gist and had dropped the subject. At least, this was the impression Anna had given Alex. However, in high school, bad news travels exceptionally fast, and so by this point, Alex was aware that, starved of information, Anna had proceeded to fill in the blanks like a bad game of Mad Libs with stories ranging from Alexis trying to kill her father and being hauled away by the authorities to Alex being pregnant, getting an abortion and going insane from the guilt of killing her first unborn child. “But what can you do?” thought the newly reformed Alexis, frowning, “that’s just your typical upper-middle class teenage girl sort of friendship.” “Besides, I am the only one who knows about that girl’s little eating issues.”

Alex turned away from the mirror where she had been applying enough black eyeliner to make even Alice Cooper cringe. She flashed a synthetic smile at Anna, but it quickly fell back into a frustrated pout.

“So you’re telling me that you set me up with some perfect guy who’s going to what is essentially an Ivy League level school in the fall a few days after I was released from a mental hospital? Anna, I don’t think he’s going to be smitten with someone whose interests are getting fucked up, resisting anything that isn’t masochistic, and listening to music that would make your grandmother cry. He’s probably into girls that wear kaki and headbands and play field hockey and go to sock hops.”

“Sock hops?”

“I don’t know, Anna, whatever it is that good, intelligent people who attend private schools do! Sock hops, clam bakes, croquet…practicing fiscal responsibility; I don’t know. But I do know that whatever it is that he does, I don’t know shit about, and he is going to think that I am a basket case at the very least. How did you even get him to go to a punk rock concert anyway?”

“Apparently his father has sold insurance to a couple of the members of the Misfits. He’s the one who got us these tickets in the first place. That whole family is tied in with a bunch of famous people.”

“Of course they are”, sighed Alex as she purposefully smudged her eyeliner because “a Misfits concert just isn’t a Misfits concert unless everyone there looks they’ve been on a ten week bender and a lot of drugs that can’t be smoked”.

“That’s lovely, Alexis” said Anna, not thrilled that her friend, fresh out of rehab, didn’t seem much different from before she had gone to rehab. “Listen, if you don’t wanna go, I can always have Eric tell Prince Charming that you weren’t feeling well. And then you and Amy Winehouse and Kieth Riachards can all hang out here and snort your parent’s ashes. Besides, you probably are still a little too…fragile” she said with a demeaning tone, “to be going out and meeting new people.”

“First of all, fuck you; my mother was buried. You should know that because if remember correctly we were ten and you wanted to skip her funeral because it just so happened to be on the same day that Lilo and Stitch came out in theatres.” Anna winced at the unfortunate recollection. “And second of all,” continued Alex, “after a year of residing in a place where a Britney Spears CD was considered contraband, there is no way in Hell I am missing that concert.” She looked back to the mirror for a minute and shook her head wildly in order to achieve that perfect “I’ve just had meaningless sex ten times in a row, now let’s go drinking” look. Content with her appearance she turned away from the mirror and reached for her combat boots. “So what’s Casanova’s name anyway?”

“Charles.”

“Jesus Christ, Anna… Charles? What’s his last name, Vanderbilt?”

“No” said Anna with a nervous laugh. “Its Walcott...” she said lowering her voice.

“Oh my God ...you set me up on a blind date with a ‘Charles Walcott’ four days after I was released from a, I mean, just when I’m starting to get my life back to normal?"

"Charles Preston Asher Walcott III actually..."

Alexis rolled her eyes. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m referring you to St. Francis,” she snapped. She laced up her boots and slipped a black hoodie over her wife-beater. “Now let’s go before his parents decide to lengthen his name and you have to introduce me to Charles Preston Asher Warner Skip III, Esquire.”

As they made their way to the back of The Pit, the local bar slash concert hall, Alex frowned, considered all the possible ways the night could get worse.

“Nope, can’t think of anything” she said just loud enough for Anna to hear, “not one damn thing.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Anna. “Listen, Alexis, don’t be weird in front of Charles and Eric okay? Like, I know I’m your best friend but…they’re not. So just try to act like a human being, kay? And stop looking so glum, you look like an Auschwitz victim.”

“Ugh,” Alex couldn’t decide if that was a shot at her religious background or not. “Whatever you say, Aryan Princess,” she spat at Anna, looking only more unhappy than before.

“Good. Now they’re at the bar getting us drinks because both of the boys have really good fakes. Let’s push our way through quick before the first band goes on, or the guards will give us a hard time when we try to go upstairs.”

“Woah, woah. Upstairs?”

“Yea. We got private balcony seats” said Anna happily. “Very VIP.”

“VIP? Anna, this is a Misfits concert! I want to be down there beating people up and drinking Guinness until I pass out, not sipping a Long Island ice tea and observing the mayhem from above.”

“Well, tough luck, Alexis. If you wanna go back stage and chill with the band afterwards, you have to be a good girl and sit still and watch nicely while the band plays. Come on, Allie, please” she said with a pout. Allie is what Anna had always called Alex ever since they were five when Anna wanted something that Alex wanted no part of. Alex was a sucker for nostalgia.

“Ugh, fine. Let’s go”

As they approached the bar, they saw Eric wave. From a distance, Alex could see the back of who she presumed to be Charles, buying drinks; and she already didn’t like the look of him. She could see that his hair was perfectly gelled and that he wore a crisp, white, collared shirt paired with a pair of designer, pre-ripped jeans. “Gross” thought Alex.

“Hey there, cutie” said Anna as she gave Eric a kiss.

“Hey Eric” Alex muttered.

“Hey, Alexis. This is Charles” he said pointing to the perfectly groomed back before her. The back disappeared as the boy turned around and handed her a Guinness. Alex froze.

“Well, hey there…Alexis, right?” he said with a sly smile.

“Well, that’s it,” Alex thought as she stared at a face she had seen many, many times before. “Time for me to back to St. Francis, because I must be losing my mind.” There, before her, stood someone she had laughed with, cried with, and lived day to day with for over a year. Perfect Charles Preston Asher Walcott III, was just as crazy as Alex was, “and we both have the same hospital bracelet to prove it,” she thought twisting hers around her wrist.

Charles stood still smiling that knowing smile, arm out-stretched, holding the Guinness.

“Allie, what’s the matter with you? Say hello and take the beer”

“Ch-Chuck?”, Alex finally managed to stutter.

“Uh…no, it’s Charles, actually” he said, all the while still smiling.

“Um, Allie, you okay?” asked Anna.

“Yea. No. I just, I think there’s something wrong with my contacts because I don’t think I should be seeing what I’m seeing, so I’m going to go fix them and then I won’t see it anymore. Bye.” And she dove into the crowd, careening towards the exit like a train off of its tracks.

“Wait!” came Charles’ familiar voice from behind her. “Alexis, hold on!” The sound of his voice grew closer. “Alex!” Charles grabbed Alex’s arm. “Jesus, you’d think I was here to bring you back to Francis”

Alex whipped around. “Away at a private school, huh?” she asked coyly.

“Well…that’s half true. I was away at private school last year. But after that…well, you know the story. Better than anyone else, in fact”, he said tugging on the bit of the hospital bracelet that stuck out from under Alex’s sweatshirt.

“Why are you still walking around with that scarlet letter around your wrist, Alex? We don’t need to be those people anymore. We’re out, it’s done.”

“It’s not a scarlet letter,” she said furrowing her eyebrow. “It’s more like a badge of honor. Like, I went through something most people will never have to and I made it out alive. I don’t really get why you don’t feel the same way.”

“Because, Alex, if I had a reminder everyday that I’m messed up, and that I’m different from everyone else I’d start to believe it, and I would never have a chance at being happy. I’d just end up right back at St. Francis…and so will you if you keep wearing that bracelet.”

Alex looked more displeased than ever. Then in a sort of a frenzy, she lifted her wrist to her mouth and began to chew away at the little piece of plastic. When at last, she had chewed all the way through, she spat the bracelet out of her mouth and watched it fall to the beer soaked floor.

She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you Charles”

He took her hand in his and shook it firmly. “Likewise… Alexis”

They let their hands drop, and Alex finally took the now-warm Guinness from Charles’s other hand and took a sip.

He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

We Can't Afford Not To Turn Back Into Pumpkins

I remember the road trip to Florida.
We took two different roads but met in the middle.
And when we finally arrived at Disney World, it was clear we’d found the happily ever after we’d both been looking for.
The thing about the happiest place in the world though, is that it’s got to close sometime.
And the park-hopper passes, they cost money.
You can’t pay your way to happiness with credit forever; that’s how our country ended up in this mess in the first place.
Yes, at a certain point, even Cinderella’s feet begin to blister and she’s got to take the glass slipper off.
Dumbo’s ears get tired and he’s got to stop flying.
Tinkerbell runs out of pixie dust and she can’t go out and buy more-at least not until pay day.
We watch wistfully as Ariel trades in her feet for flippers again-you can take the girl out of the ocean but you can’t take the ocean out of the girl-that’s what they say isn’t it?
We want to go back for just one more ride on Space Mountain but they’ve shut off all the stars.
We walk through the gate and let go of each other’s hands-our tickets have expired, the park has shut down, and the way back home is split into two different roads.
You try to buy us more time but you don’t have the means, and no, you can’t pay your way through a relationship with credit; that’s how we got into this mess in the first place.

Allergic to Normalcy
After almost twenty one years of living on this planet, I’ve finally come to the realization that I am allergic to any sort of normal life. The End. Period. But, for the sake of comprehension, let me back up a minute. See, the reason why I feel the need to say this now is a complicated mixture of things, starting with the fact that in the past week, I have skipped two Spanish classes, one expository writing class, and have left early from my philosophy class twice. The reason for my skipping class is also a complicated concoction of reasons. These reasons include the fact that I’m either allergic to half the foods that I enjoy most, i.e. anything with refined sugar, flour, or gluten, or I have diabetes which would suck even worse. The reasons for my absences also include the fact that every now and then I wake up and I just don’t give a shit, which is a direct result of opening my eyes every morning to my mother’s guitar sitting in the corner of my room, but no matter how hard I look, I never find the mother that’s supposed to go along with it. Also, when it rains, I could really give a shit, because adding to my lack of normalcy is the fact that my moods are controlled at least 75% by the weather. Mix in a severe food allergy of some sort with a depression induced “I don’t give a shit” attitude and you’ve got a lot of missed classes. But hey, the missed classes are just tiny pieces of why I feel like I am allergic to any sort of normal life.
Let’s go back to the food allergy thing for a minute. My entire life I have been addicted to junk food. I love it. Sugar and fat are the yin and yang of my world. But lately, I haven’t been feeling too great after eating junk food. Regardless, I always crave more, so I always eat more, despite the fact that I’ve gained, oh, about fifteen pounds this winter. Anyway, like I said, I haven’t been feeling too peachy after eating these sugary, crappy foods. I get headaches all the time. I’m always tired, no matter how much sleep I get. I feel dizzy and weak a lot o f the time. And I am never, ever in a good mood anymore. Then two weeks ago, my digestive system starts completely malfunctioning. So I go to the doctor. She tells me to drink a lot of water. My insurance company paid god knows how much for some broad to tell me to drink a lot of water. Now, hydration may be part of the problem, it’s true, but the main problem is that about 90% of the time I feel like at any moment one of those creatures from Alien is going to burst through my stomach. No, I’m sorry doc, but lack of hydration is simply not the answer. I want a second opinion from someone who’s not a moron.
So I tell all this information to my fiancé and he says, comfortingly, “maybe its diabetes”. Awesome. I have a family history of diabetes so that’s very plausible, except for the fact that I haven’t been losing any weight. A week later I still don’t know anything aside from the fact that I still feel like crap, so I go to the doctor again. Then she tells me to go get blood tests and hands me a pamphlet about the importance of fiber in my daily diet. I shred the pamphlet and I plan to I go get blood tests. I have to fast for twelve hours so that some nurse in a bad mood can strangle my arm in a tourniquet and drain more blood from my body than I personally believe I have to give. And all this for a woman who went to eight years of medical school to be able to figure out whether I have a food allergy, diabetes, or just a really large parasite living in my stomach. Brilliant. Its been weeks since all this craziness began, and I still don’t know shit. All I know is that I have had to cut out anything from my diet that doesn’t grow on a tree or on a bird’s chest. And after 20 years of eating nothing but sugar, the withdrawal is not treating me well. It’s getting to the point where I’d just about stab someone for a piece of chocolate.
If this doesn’t make me sound abnormal enough, let’s rewind to Monday. I wake up, get dressed, drive to school, get to Literature, and we begin our discussion on Oedipus. I can tell by the overwhelming silence of the classroom that I am one of the only people in the room who reads Greek tragedies not simply for class, but in my spare time. I mean, really, what better way is there to unwind after class than kicking back and reading Medea? Anyway, there were are in class, I raise my hand to answer a question, positive that I have the perfect answer, and I get the response “Mmmmm, kind oofff, but not really”. “Kind of but not really.” “My God”, I think to myself. “It’s happening…I’m actually getting dumber”. This may sound like an overreaction, but let me tell you something. I am not that smart and I am not a good student. I’ve always wanted to be, but have never had the patience for the conveyer belt monotony of it all. But my mother went to Cornell, her brother went to Cornell. Two of my cousins went to other Ivy League schools, and my other cousin who is literally a genius graduated high school at sixteen, moved to France, then moved to New Zealand, then went on to NYU with whom she is currently studying abroad in Ghana. However, she will no longer be attending NYU in the fall because she wants more of a “life challenge”. What, because NYU isn’t challenge enough on its own? I mean Jesus Christ. Basically what I’m trying to say here is…I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. I’m the black sheep of the family, and nobody really expects anything from me. But English…now there’s something I get. The English category is pretty much the only thing I’m good at and the only thing I really care about academically. But having my favorite professor telling me “Kind of but not really”, well, he may as well draw a big red capitalized “FAIL” on my forehead and shove me in the corner of the room with a giant cone on my head.
So, I can’t even comprehend the English language now. Great. There’s only one thing to do in this situation: cry. That’s right, I started crying in the middle of a discussion about a man who accidentally kills his father and makes babies with his mom. Nobody really notices, of course. I’ve gotten good at hiding my emotions over the years. But still, there I sit, my eyes welling up in the middle of Lit class. Well, it didn’t matter anyway, because after that class I was out of there. I had yet another a doctor’s appointment to go to on the other side of the island, so it’s not like I would be returning to class for another chance at a random sob-fest. But see there it is again. My sheer weirdness. My inability to exist on the same plane as everyone else around me. Who does that? Who starts crying in the middle of class because she missed one question? Me, just me. Because I was born in the form of nature’s practical joke.
I really think sometimes I was created when Mother Nature was drunk or something. And speaking of drunk, I can’t help but interrupt this essay to wonder if my food allergy or diabetes or black plague or whatever it is I have effect my ability to get drunk? That would suck because on the rare occasions when I do act like a normal twenty something and decide to get a little crazy with one Bud Light, it’s pretty much the only time I feel like maybe I am normal. Maybe I have the ability to be just like everybody else. Then I sober up and have a horrible hangover, and I don’t drink again for a month because I realize that one night of acting like a twenty year old, care free, idiot is not worth the migraine and/ or nausea.
But seriously, what is my mental damage? I mean, all these thoughts and feelings and all this self doubt. The constant whirring of the wheels in my head. The places my mind goes when I should be in class. None of this can be normal. I am allergic to normal. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be normal. I wonder because I do things such as the aforementioned and things like accusing my fiancé of cheating on me, even though that is nearly physically impossible because he spends every moment he is not at school or at work with me. He is completely devoted to me. He is 100% wonderful, but no matter what, I find a way to make him look like an asshole. Why? Because that’s my job. I’m pretty sure that I was put on this planet to annoy and weird people out. I do things like complaining about my weight one minute and then grabbing a doughnut the next. I always talk about how much I want to be a great student, but then I never do my homework. I talk about how adult and responsible I want to be, but, I don’t even have a job right now. I wake up late everyday. I speed even though I got a speeding ticket in August. I need sleep, but then I stay up on the computer till 4 a.m. I smoke pot when I want to be on a diet. When I want to make friends I clam up. When it’s a beautiful day, I lock myself inside to read a book. When it’s rainy I complain that I want to be outside. When I tell my father I want to be closer to him I don’t talk to him for weeks at a time. And I want to finally improve my life and change things for the better…I just turn around and screw things up again. I give up. I get lazy. I can’t. I won’t. I just don’t give a shit.
I am a living contradiction and I hate it. It would seem with all the medications and therapy and self-help books, that there must be some way to stop this never-ending circle. But I don’t know if there is. The philosopher Sartre had a theory that everything that happens in your life and even in other people’s lives is free-will. It’s all choice, and all things, good or bad, are things that you must take responsibility for. Well, I don’t know if Sartre is correct, but if he is, in his world I would be screwed. But, on the other hand, philosopher John Hospers had a theory that everything you do in your life, every decision you make, everything you do, everything you don’t, and everything you are capable of and everything you aren’t is all determined by luck. There is little free will. Some people are lucky, and some are not. Some kids are raised in a perfect household, they go to a good school, they were blessed with an active personality with a “never give up” attitude. Some kids…aren’t. Some kids’ mothers die. Some kids fuck up in school because they’re depressed and don’t have the willpower or energy to deal with life. Some kids are lazy. And some kids are just too tired to not give up. So, I could theorize my life and personality the John Hospers way. None of these quirks or fuck ups are entirely my fault. It’s all just luck. It’s just how I am and there’s nothing I can do about it. But if I live with that kind of attitude, then what? Do I settle with all the things I hate about myself and that’s it? Do I never strive for better? Am I doomed for the rest of my life to be an abnormal, introverted, mess of life just because some fucked up things happened to me? I really don’t want it to be that way. I want to be better, and I want my life to be happy and filled with good things. But, if I choose to live that way that means I’m responsible for all the bad things in my life too. And I’m just not sure I’m ready to handle that.

The Soul Purpose

The Soul Purpose

Though J. K. Rowling may not be the great philosopher that Plato once was, she is a woman wise beyond her world. Her illustration of the soul based on her description of horcruxes is comparable with that of Plato’s own view. Though Rowling seems to write as more of a dualist, and Plato as much more a spiritualist, some similar points are made by both about the soul. In both Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, horcruxes play a very important role in the description of soul and mortality. In Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Tom Riddle coerces Professor Slughorn into sharing information about the workings of Horcruxes. Professor Slughorn explains that existence in the form of a split soul, or horcruxes, would be a very evil and undesirable existence. “Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.” (497) Lord Voldemort, however, would clearly not prefer death. His main goal is power and therefore sees nothing wrong with abusing his soul in the name of attaining that power.

In Plato’s view, that abuse of the soul is highly detrimental. “If the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken of her, not only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity!” (Phaeto). For one to find purity and truth, the flow of life and death cannot be interrupted. The act of prolonging life is looked upon as pointless, and fear of death is deemed ridiculous. Fear of death, is, of course, Voldemort’s entire motivation behind creating his horcruxes. He feels the opposite of how J. K. Rowling and Plato view the soul; his soul has little worth, but as long as he is physically present he believes he has the most important type of power.

Voldemort believes what neither Rowling nor Plato does; that his evil separation of the soul with has no consequence. It does, of course, take a toll on him physically and otherwise. In The Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore explains that so many separations of the soul may be the cause for the change in his physical appearance. “Lord Voldemort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he has undergone seemed to me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’” (502). Although Voldemort regarded his physical presence on Earth with more importance than the well-being of his soul, the books back up Plato’s theory, that the main importance lies within the soul, and that the body is a mere vessel. “When the soul and the body are united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve” (Phaeto).

Voldemort’s ideas of separating soul from body greatly contradict Plato’s views on separation of soul and body. Where Voldemort seeks to literally separate his soul into many, many parts, in order to keep just a small, miserable portion of his physical self in existence, Plato views the separation of soul and body as a very wonderful, nondestructive thing. “And then the foolishness of the body will be cleared away and we shall be pure” (Phaeto).

In The Deathly Hallows, when Harry is “killed” by Voldemort and is at King’s Cross station, a whimpering, weak, repulsive animal, which seems to represent Voldemort’s soul, lies near Harry. Although Harry would like to help, Dumbledore tells him “You cannot help” (707). This image shows that Rowling’s view is that, through evil, even the soul can be destroyed, which is the complete opposite of Plato’s view that while the body can be destroyed, the soul cannot. “The soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intelligible, and uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and the body is in the very likeness of the human, and changeable” (Phaeto). Though Rowling paints the portrait that human life and the soul are tied together, for Voldemort would have ceased to exist had he not split his soul into many parts, Plato insists that the soul is entirely free and separate of body, and that all life came from souls that existed before, and which will exist again after departing from the body. “We arrive at the interference that the living come from the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and if this is true, then the souls of the dead must be in some place out of which they come again” (Phaeto).

Rowling and Plato do share a similarity as far as good and evil goes, however. Though Voldemort’s soul does not seem to outlast his life, the “death” of his soul at King’s Cross seems to be a very slow and painful one, in return for the abuse of it. “And the danger of neglecting her from this point of view does appear to be awful” (Phaeto). Though Voldemort, along with his soul do die, and it is at last the end for him, which is contrary to Plato’s belief of the immortal soul, neither he or his soul escape his life without some form of punishment for his evil. “If death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own evil together with their souls” (Phaeto). Voldemort’s soul does wither, but that in no way means he has been relieved of the evil he caused throughout his life.

The soul is a complex idea that deserves much exploring. Both Plato and Rowling do this in their own ways. No one may ever be certain of what the soul is or how long it lasts. No one may ever agree exactly on their ideas of what the soul is and what its existence entails, but ideas do often cross and collide and create new, shared ideas, giving the soul new meaning and all the more reason to be explored.