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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, you gorgeous creature.
What You Don't Know Can't Hurt You 15-Dec-2004 8:10 p.m.
It is said the subconscious mind believes every word you say. So, if you say "My butt is bigger than New Jersey," your subconscious will understand that you have a huge ass. Tell yourself that long enough and your backside will likely stay the size it is, or may even expand. The subconscious has no sense of humour.
Thankfully, I have come up with what I believe to be an ingenious plan for getting around this gullible part of the psyche: talking in the third person. Oh, yeah, it's the good stuff. You can go on for days and days about how you feel like shit, how you think you're ugly, stupid, worthless—take your pick. And your subliminal self will think wow, am I glad I don't know that poor bastard. You can leave yourself out of it, yet still explain to people how you're feeling, as long as you give them one of the business-type cards you carry around which reads "Hello. I am going to address myself in the third person during our conversation in an effort to avoid letting my subconscious know that I may or may not be experiencing current or reoccurring crappy feelings about myself. Thank you for your understanding, and I look forward to our chat." The card is essential here, for without it, you may simply be regarded as another nut in the universal fruitcake.
You could give the third person a name, like Snapper or Ms. Woo—it's up to you. But if you do choose to name the other party who will be taking the heat for all your screwy problems, I would suggest changing the name periodically so your subconscious doesn't catch on. I doubt it would, but it's best to play it safe in these matters. And it would be wise not to say, "I'm going to talk about myself using the name Hammo now." Your subconscious would hear that and might completely understand that you indeed are Hammo.
The mind is tricky. The first time I typed that it came out as trucky, which is an entirely different thing altogether. I have some trucky neighbours. I call them The River People, or The Rivs for short. They are the type that have thirty or forty large trucks, and boats to match. They are always very busy. A houseful of busytits. It is difficult to deduce just how many adults live in that house. The garage door is usually open, men busy at work with power tools. Sparks a-flying. There are no children to be seen, just busy adults driving in, driving out, or firing up tools. The first Christmas we lived here, at least twelve people exited their house that morning dressed in all black casual clothes (as opposed to all black dressier clothing, which may have indicated they were attending a funeral). Not even a scarf with a bit of an accent colour. I quite enjoyed imagining them to be the neighbourhood Satanists.
This bunch does not send out much warmth, I can attest to that. During our first year in this house, there was so much angry energy wafting from that house it was enough to make me want to move from our beautiful new cottage. Thankfully, one of the guys who lived there, and who was one of the busiest people I have ever witnessed, fucked off to some other land. When he left, he took most of the hectic vibe with him. One of the other Rivs stopped screeching his tires every time he left the house. Everything seemed to calm down. And for the last two holiday seasons they have displayed one of those giant inflatable, lighted Christmas figures that take up half the yard. It's crazy how one person's energy can darken a perfectly good house of Rivs. The House Of Rivs. Oh my God, a novel is born.
Wow, Sipsey's neck hurts like hell this evening.
Did you see that? That's the stuff I'm talking about. My neck, however, feels relaxed and wonderful. Poor Sipsey.
Well, I'm off to change the world. See you there.
Linda
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