Blebbziversary 18: Retrospect Is Enriched
Today marks what would have been my eighteenth anniversary with Sue. I previously recapped three of our Blebbziversary day trips until last year sharing select text messages to honor the first such day without her. Initially tempted to retire the concept, I had one final idea to celebrate our time together: publishing a collection of eighteen pieces she wrote. She read several of them to me in 2007 after a few months of dating, all of which I enjoyed and regarded as marvelous for proving how brilliantly her mind worked beginning at a young age.
The obvious ethical question, posed as both her significant other and as a journalist obsessed with integrity, is: Should her writing be published? There's no doubt in my mind that Sue was my biggest fan—she mailed me cards from her pseudonym, Rainbow Griffin, on the day I deemed my first book complete as well as on the day I published it—and I certainly remain hers. Despite my initial idea to write the story of her life, I worried that it would be incomplete, among other things, no matter how fastidious I was. Second thought: What better way to celebrate her than with her own words, especially when they're heartfelt, humorous, and honorable? (She adored alliteration, amigos. Mea culpa.) Her embarrassment at some turns of phrase below led to my brief second guessing, but everything here proves that her desire to live life as authentically as possible began early and never wavered, a fact I told her upon hearing her re-read some of the below material to me during the Covid quarantine. I hope you'll find my assessment more objective than it seems now by the end.
I've included dates when they appear on the pages themselves—all handwritten, typed on her childhood typewriter, or printed from a word processor used during her college and news anchor years—but the order was selected more for flow than chronology. Sue's poems, short stories, diary-like entries, school papers, and essays appear along with one letter to her father that's too good to omit. The final selection—more a manifesto of the type of ideas that dominated her short-lived, yet sensational website-slash-health mission called One Big Happy World—is the only recent writing from my favorite extroverted recluse, an exceptionally idealistic view into a mind that sought joy, felt gratitude, and made strangers happy no matter the obstacles Life presented her. It’s so singularly Sue that it couldn’t be omitted.
Our relationship is now old enough to venture off on its own. She'll be in my heart for all the March 5ths I still have to live, but today I give you the swan song, a fitting term since an animal is involved. Sue DiFranco may not have had that bird's grace when on her feet, but she sure did when sitting down to engage her ideas. To paraphrase a Henry David Thoreau quote she loved enough to have on the fridge and taped to her old bedroom wall: Go confidently in the direction of her dreams. Live the life she imagined.
[Editor’s Note: Sue had long considered writing a memoir called Retrospect Is a Bitch, so in tribute to her best buddy, brain tricks, I reimagined the title in her honor.]
★ ★ ★ ★
WHY… (mid-1980s)
Why do I feel like flying?
Why is the world happy & cheerful all of a sudden?
Why do people’s snide comments go in one ear & out the other?
Why do I feel light as a cloud?
Why do I feel like grinning & hugging everyone on the street?
Why do I feel so carefree about everything?
The answer is simple…
I am in love.
★ ★ ★ ★
02/06/98 13:47:54 SD:MY HAIR
I am mortified.
No, no…scratch that. Beyond mortified. If there was a word that meant mortified magnified ten million times…that would be me.
I am staring in the mirror at a person who is not myself. Oh sure, same eyes, same nose…but that hair. That hair does not belong to me. The hair that belongs to me is scattered on the floor…along with my social life which has just officially ended at the exact moment that person gave me bangs.
Is there any time in your life more horrible than after you have had a bad experience at a hair salon? I don’t think so. In fact, most people can remember the exact moments in their lives when a style has chopped, diced, pureed, and otherwise ruined their hair beyond belief. I myself can recall three times: when I was twelve, just started junior high, and a man armed with a pair of scissors attacked my long, all one length hair, leaving me with a shoulder-length, feathered fiasco; when I was nineteen, and a well-meaning “friend” gave me that dreaded bi-level ‘do; and when I was twenty-five, and I was on the receiving end of a set of bangs that my hair has not seen since ’89.
Oh well, we sigh…it’s only hair. And just because I’m sharing my mortification with not only family and friends (even they don’t know the true horror of the situation; I keep my hair pinned back at all times)...but also the entire state of Connecticut as they watch the news…well, no big deal. Right? I mean, give me six months and it’ll be grown out enough so that I just may be able to forget this situation.
Although I can’t help thinking…I will always remember my twenty-fifth year as the year of bangs, bawling (my reaction), and bravery (for not hiding in my bed for a year)…
★ ★ ★ ★
Mr. Whale (late 1970s)
Hi, Mr. Whale
And how have you been?
What? You’ve been getting killed
While having a good swim?
I know what you mean
Those men are cruel
They won’t even let you
Swim in a pool!
Hi, Mr. Whale
You will exist no more
And your poor baby
Isn’t even four!
Poor Mr. Whale
He was so nice & kind
Stupid people
Kill what they find.
Poor Mr. Whale
I would help if I could
But……. Bang!! Pow!! Oh, no
There’s only blood where you last stood.
★ ★ ★ ★
The Crime of Individuality (mid-1980s)
“Oh my God, Martha, look at that girl! She should be locked up in jail!” I quickly turned around to observe for myself the abominable female this older woman was describing. Expecting either a manic-eyed monstrosity bearing a bloody hatchet, a voluptuous nude woman hanging tauntingly from the G. Fox sign, or at the very least, a mother brandishing a whip on her innocent young children, I was surprised to see that there was no one else in this part of the mall. It was simply the two older women (who surely could have competed with each other for Orville Redenbacher’s hand in marriage), and me. I realized, as I saw them staring with disgust as my fluorescent green skirt, fishnet stockings, and pink basketball sneakers, that it was me they believed should be locked up. I was committing the Crime of Individuality.
Though this situation is extreme, it is a perfect example of the horror of the ignorance of today’s society. The true criminals in this setting were the two women, so overwhelmed with their own conservatism and accepted style, that anything different was met with rude stares and exclamations. These criminals were breaking the Law of Courtesy.
Imagine for a moment a different type of world. In this world, eccentricity is displayed by dull, earth-toned suits, long tweed skirts, and flat, mousy brown, neatly combed hair. These people are taking a great chance, risking their reputations for the humility of being an individual. Society is dominated by a sea of fluorescent colors; spiked, multi-color hair; big, chunky jewelry; seven-inch heels; blue, green, and black lipstick. Leather and chains are everywhere. Short leather miniskirts and carefully ripped shirts are It.
These conservative individuals are the epitome of conspicuous. A man with a pin-striped, button-down shirt and side-parted hair walks through the local mall and gets openly laughed and pointed at. A woman with baggy gray pants and a khaki-green ski jacket steps into a restaurant and her name may as well be E.F. Hutton by the way a hush falls over the room and then whispers break out. With an exasperated sigh, a mohawked mother informs her short-haired, earringless teenage son that he will someday outgrow this silly stage.
The need for acceptance is great, but the need to remain true to yourself is greater. In a world of fringed leather and green fingernails, these people suffer the embarrassment of their friends, families, and spouses instead of conforming to society’s standards. Though they should be met with respect and admiration, instead they are scorned, made fun of, and sometimes even physically harmed.
The most common reaction, though, are The Stares. Ask any polyester-suited individual, and he or she will probably be able to describe in detail the many different categories of Stares. Here is a sampling:
The Double Take. Occurs when two people, an Individual and a Conformist, walk past each other. The Conformist glances, stares, then whips his or her head painfully around to get another look at the polo-shirted weirdo.
The Up and Down Stare. Conformist’s eyes travel from top of eccentric’s perfectly moussed, side-parted hair all the way down to the loafers, then back up again. Slowly. And with growing disgust. This stare is often combined with…
The Horrified “I’ve Never Seen Anything Like This” Stare. The Conformist contorts his facial features into the most gruesome of all Halloween masks, as he stares at the perfectly matched Benetton sweater and slacks. Resembles reaction one would assume upon seeing fungus-covered vomit.
Curiosity Stare. Perhaps the kindest of stares, this is simply a “normal” person looking at a “weirdo,” because he or she quite honestly hasn’t seen anything as strange as the coordinated blouse and slacks set (except, of course, on TV).
The Inconspicuous Stare. Usually requires two or more parties. One glances “inconspicuously” out of the corner of his or her eyes, then casually nudges the other person and stage whispers: “Don’t turn around fast but check out that girl with the turtleneck and blazer behind you!” The second party waits a beat, turns around, pretends to look past the individualist, then turns back around and the two explode into hysterical giggles.
These stares, however common, can hurt just like a knife through the heart. Who are these people, anyway, to laugh at your monogrammed sweater? Where are their hearts, their consciences? Why don’t they ever try to get to know you as a person, instead of merely judging you by your boat shoes?
Why can’t we accept each other for what we are?
★ ★ ★ ★
“Ma Is Great” (with apologies to “Jingle Bells”) (late 1970s)
Ma is always with us
When we need a hand
She will always be there
And never will yell “Damn”
We all love her so
We want her to know
That without her love & caringness
We would turn to snow…
Oh!
Ma is great, Ma is great
This we know for sure
She’s the best that money can buy
And she’s so sweet & pure
Ma is great, Ma is great
This we know for sure
She’s the best that money can buy
And she’s so sweet & pure
★ ★ ★ ★
10/14/79
Attention most super and perfect father,
This, as you suspected, is a letter (or note, whichever you want to call it) from your daughter, Sue. It doesn’t mean anything except to say hi, and of course, I love you. Guess how many sponsors I have for the read a thon? 48. Isn’t that a lot? I’m sure to win a prize. This letter probably sounds stupid and I forgot to put spaces between some of the words but, what can I say? I’m no typist. Tomorrow is school and I’m not exactly thrilled but if I want a good education and a good college I’m going to have to work for it. You sure can type good. I wish I could type as good as you. I might take up typing in high school. I love you very, very, very, very etc. much. We’re moving soon, it’s going to be fun (I think). Now time for the thank yous. Thank you for my clothes, my food, my allowances (if I’m good), my bike, in 5 months my roller skates and everything. And a special thanks for me. I’m going to end this boring letter now.
All my love, kisses, hugs
and everything else,
Sue
★ ★ ★ ★
(mid-1990s)
“It looks like the foot is broken.”
“Broken?” I looked at my mother and began to laugh, then began to cry. The doctor discreetly left the room.
“Honey, don’t worry; it’s going to be alright.” She patted my shoulder. “I’m going to get Dad.”
My parents returned thirty seconds later, my father’s forehead wrinkled in concern, my mother extending her hand to pat my shoulder some more. I was blowing my nose in the slipper-sock which had been home to my broken foot.
Broken foot? How had this happened? Me, of the unbelievably good health “I never get sick” mentality. Me, victim of the 90s taking-good-care-of-myself philosophy.
Me, who had chosen to wear 3-inch platform shoes That Fateful Night.
“You know,” the nurse at the ambulatory center said, snapping her gum, “this is why those platform shoes went out in the 70s.”
Thank you. So, who’s brilliant decision was it to bring them back in style?
Yes, I admit I’m a Slave to Fashion. A Conformist to the Trends. Succumbing to the Peer Pressure of Vogue, Allure, Cosmopolitan. But how was I to know that this trait would end up being my downfall (no pun intended).
So, there I was, in all my platform-shoed glory, at a local club. I produce and host an area cable access entertainment show, and the goal that night was to interview a rock band playing at the club. Planning the interview—the phone calls to the record company, management, and so on—had taken over a month, so by this time I was more than eager to get it over with.
We got to the club, checked with the tour manager, and eyed the spiral staircase which led “backstage.” Back to the car to carry the equipment in. There were only three of us—Kevin, my cameraman; Alison, my friend and production assistant; and me—so it made sense for all of us to grab equipment to avoid making two trips.
I was almost to the door when it happened. Crack! My foot twisted to the side in those damn platform shoes. “Ow!” I yelled. It figured there were cute guys standing around, watching.
No biggie, I thought, entering the club. Please God, just let me be able to walk to our destination. Did I think it was broken? No. Did I think I’d look stupid if I stopped in the middle of everyone and announced I couldn’t walk? Yes.
Suddenly the spiral staircase loomed like a demonic monster. I knew I couldn’t make it. Whose brilliant idea was it, anyway, to make “backstage” upstairs, and only accessibly by a skinny spiral staircase where everyone could look up your skirt? Well, my job was not to redecorate the club; it was to interview the bunch of long-haired “We only write music that means something” musicians upstairs. So, I stood there on one foot, nonchalantly, at the base of the stairs. Poor Alison made two trips and then came back down to help me.
I conducted the interview with barely a trace of agony visible on my face. I still had no clue it was broken; I just knew it hurt. Very, very much.
After the interview, I sat watching as Kevin and Alison loaded up the equipment and trekked downstairs. One roadie looked at me quizzically.
“I...um...hurt my foot,” I explained.
“Oh.” He looked down at my shoes and began to laugh. “Well, no wonder; look at your shoes!” He stopped. “Didn’t those go out of style in the 70s?”
Sure pal. Pick up a fashion magazine. Instead, I smiled.
“I guess I’m just a rebel.”
Still unconvinced of my serious plight, I agreed to stay for the show because, after all, it was free; and why pass up something free? But after about an hour of leaning on my left foot against a pinball machine, I knew I had had it. My shoe felt suddenly tight—“I bet it’s swollen,” Alison said. No duh—and we decided to leave.
It’s a tough thing trying to look graceful while hopping on one leg. I was clutching Alison’s arm for dear life, hopping slowly through the crowd, and praying that no one would hit my foot.
It was just beginning to snow and the three of us were piled in Kevin’s Trans Am. Wonderful, I thought, as Kevin drove like a maniac. We’ll get in an accident, and I won’t be able to get out of the damned car because I can’t walk.
My car was parked at the cable station, but upon arriving, Alison said, “Oh no; you’re not going to be able to drive!” It was, after all, my right foot.
“Sure I can,” I answered while stepping out of the car. I promptly fell on my butt. “Well,” I said weakly. “Maybe not.”
So, Kevin drove me home, and my father freaked while watching me hop through the snow.
“What happened?”
“I hurt my foot,” I told him, collapsing on the couch.
I slowly pulled off my shoe—ha! Like I’d be wearing that anytime soon—and examined my grotesquely swollen foot.
“I’m going to bed,” I told my father and crawled up the stairs.
Fast forward to the ambulatory center. By this time, the whole situation had taken on a humorous air. Every time I had to explain to a secretary, nurse, or doctor what had happened—“Well, I was wearing these platform shoes”—it seemed to get funnier and funnier.
After having a nurse take my blood pressure, take my temperature, and look at my foot—“Eww! It’s really swollen, isn’t i?”—I was set up on an examining table in a private room. My mother sat to the side.
A short, rotund woman wearing a pink Mickey Mouse sweatshirt walked in. I was right about to say, “Sorry, you’re in the wrong room. We’re waiting to see the doctor,” when I realized she was the doctor.
“So! You hurt your foot,” she barked.
“Uhhh…yeah.”
She walked over and started pressing the side of my foot with her fingers.
“Ow!”
“Does any part hurt more than the others?” she asked, still pressing away.
“Ow! Well, yes, they all do!”
“Hmmph.” She stopped pressing. “Have you been putting ice on it?”
“Well, no. Not yet.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Well, we weren’t sure what was wrong so we didn’t know what to do.”
She sighed heavily and then told me to hop to the next room to get X-rays.
After another doctor took X-rays, I sat waiting on the table, clutching the pad I was told to keep over my lap. The doctor emerged from the developing room.
“Do you have an orthopedic doctor?”
“No.” I giggled nervously. “Why, do I need one?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“Do you know what’s wrong with my foot?”
“Uh…no. The doctor will be right in to tell you.”
Which was when I found out the foot was broken, and My Whole Life Changed.
Life is a very different thing when a foot is broken. Calling in to jobs (of which I have two paying and one volunteer) is very difficult. Both bosses were slightly miffed at first. Please! Like I had planned this. My bosses at the cable station where I volunteer laughed hysterically. They had always made fun of those shoes.
One week in the life of a cripple is a movie-of-the-week you don’t want to see. Crawling, hopping, and dragging are my means of transportation. I haven’t been outside of this house in 168 hours, and if I watch one more game show or episode of Saved by the Bell I’m going to throw up.
Oh yes, there’s been the Up moments. I’ve finished reading 3 books and planned out my entire next episode (aptly titled “The Broken Foot Episode”). I’ve read each newspaper from cover to cover, organized and labelled my cassettes and videotapes, and reread every note I’ve received from seventh grade on. I’ve dusted what I can reach on my knees, written in my diary, and deep conditioned my hair. As you can see, I’ve accomplished a lot.
Now I sit wondering…what will the doctor tell me tomorrow? “Well, my dear, you are clearly a Type A personality, so you’d better get back to work tomorrow?” Or: “No dice, lady, stay on the couch for another two weeks.”
Hmmm…get back to making money and producing a fun and exciting show? Or stay here and read the latest Jackie Collins novel?
The decision is getting tougher and tougher.
★ ★ ★ ★
Far Out Cookies (late 1970s)
One day a thing from outer space landed. In it was a Martian named Poopopeepapoo. He walked out. In his hand was a box. It was a box of Outer Space Cookies. The name was “Far Out Cookies.” Poopopeepapoo saw a girl. (To him it looked like a girl, he wasn’t sure though.) He was just about to say, “Hi there, Earthling, how ‘bout some outa’space cookies,” when she went up to him, gave him a friendly pat on the nose, and said, “Hi there, Martian, how ‘bout some Far Out Cookies?” That made him think of her as weird. The End.
★ ★ ★ ★
Lenny’s Pet Duck (late 1970s)
Lenny Linihart was lonely. Since his best friend, Donald Dat, moved away from across the street all Lenny has done was to mope around the house forever saying, “I’m bored. I wish Donald was here,” to which his mother would answer, “Don’t think about him, Lenny. There’s plenty of people out there waiting to make friends with someone like…like…you. All you have to do is forget about him, and believe me, you’ll feel a lot better.”
Lenny had brown hair and green eyes. He wasn’t the dream of every girl in school, like Bob Biller was. He was just an ordinary kid with good grades.
Every summer he and Donald used to go to the park to see the ducks. “Ducks are my favorite animals,” he always says. He didn’t bother about playing ball or anything, he just wanted to watch the ducks. Every single day of the summer you could find him there watching, feeding, talking to the ducks. “I have to check up on them,” he says.
And Donald was the only one who understood. The only one who cared. He’d help Lenny ignore the comments the other kids gave out. But now Donald was gone. Going, going, gone, as Mr. Leavaleaf would say. And there was no way to bring him back. Who’d help him feed & talk to the ducks? Who’d be his friend?
★ ★ ★ ★
(early 1990s)
Oh, the turmoil we Madonna fans face. Following her career as if it were our own, listening to her music, dancing to her videos, watching (no matter how difficult) her movies…and now This.
Yes, along the way we encountered minor roadblocks. From her performance at the 1984 MTV Video Awards (writhing in a wedding dress, singing “Like a Virgin”) to the “Like a Prayer” controversy (burning crosses and kissing a black man caused her to forfeit being the Pepsi spokesperson) to “pretending” to have a love affair with comedienne Sandra Bernhard…we stuck by her through it all, trying to understand what she was trying to say, defending her to everyone who put her down.
But now she does this “Sex” thing.
Now I consider myself as open-minded as anyone, but I’m having a hard time—a very, very hard time—coming to grips with this.
See, we Madonna fans love Madonna. We love her through thick and thin, through popularity and controversy, through great albums and bad movies. We can’t explain why we love her; we just know that we do. Yes, it’s because she’s a great entertainer, very beautiful, strong-willed, ambitious, and eager to open the public’s eyes to issues such as homophobia and AIDS. But that’s not just it. A Madonna fan can’t explain to a non-Madonna fan why he or she loves Madonna. Nor is it possible to figure out exactly why we keep defending her…time and time again.
I’m suffering from this Guilt thing. I love Madonna, but I just don’t think she should be wasting her otherwise considerable talents posing nude and shocking the world. Besides, the book isn’t sexy. Just tacky. And stupid.
See, I think I understand what Madonna is trying to do. At least, I’m trying to understand. I think in her own way she is trying to encourage the public to become aware of their sexual self, and open up their mind sexually, but only in a monogamous, safe-sex relationship. She is not saying “Go out and have promiscuous sex.” In fact, if you know anything about Madonna, you’d know that she is an avid AIDS awareness supporter, and she is always promoting safe sex. I believe she is trying to send out a message of love. Be happy with your loved one, explore various aspects of sexual adventure in a safe way with the one you love.
Or maybe she’s just a money-hungry bitch.
Madonna, please, if you’re listening…I’m trying so hard to understand your message, but it’s not easy. And it’s getting more and more difficult to defend you when I don’t even know what you’re trying to say. I think you want us to open our minds, but the sight of you with tattooed skinheads, an old man, and naked famous people hugging and kissing you—well, it just doesn’t turn me on. Fantasies just lose their thrill when they’re actually photographed.
But your new album…now, that’s a work of art. Please, try to stick to music from now on, OK?
★ ★ ★ ★
(early or mid-1980s)
Yup. Enfield. Nobody in the world’s heard of it, less they’ve been here, which isn’t likely. So small it makes you puke. Want a 7 letter word for horrendously gross? Enfield. What am I supposed to do? I gotta live here no matter what. Sounds like I signed a contract, but I didn’t. No way. Against the rules.
Like that stupid saying – “If you don’t like New England weather, wait a minute.” No kidding. One minute it’s pouring buckets, next it’s sunny. Always cold. Except in summer. Then it’s boiling!
Really small town, but enough room for the gross-outs. Some of ‘em hang around Tiny’s – on the corner of Pearl & High.
★ ★ ★ ★
I’m Sorry (late 1970s)
I’m sorry for this
And I’m sorry for that
But I love you
And that is that.
I’m sorry a lot
I really am
But not when you’re having
Grapefruit juice & ham!
I’m sorry I was late
For about 10 minutes
But, oh, I love the way you make spinach!
One more time
I have to say
I love you
And that’s better than pay
Any day!
★ ★ ★ ★
10/02/95 18:07 SDI ?:80 #21+1PART
I bite into a rice cake, surveying the newsroom from behind my computer screen. My brain has declared itself bankrupt in the middle of writing our noon first block exclusive: Miss Rhoda, makeup artist to the stars, tells us how Marcia Clark can use Miss Rhoda’s own special foundation to get rid of those unsightly circles under her eyes. We’ve been promo-ing this thing for days; and now I’m facing a roadblock, waiting for the traffic cop in my mind to wave me through.
Of course, as I stare across the room, I’m also scanning for him. At once my instant infatuation radar kicks in and I don’t just see him: I feel his presence across the room, leaning across the noon producer’s desk. He looks up. He smiles. I smile back, before turning discreetly around to make sure it was in fact me he was smiling at.
Of course, he’s married. Duh! Like thought I might actually get a crush on someone I could get?! Never happen. In the sick masochistic world called my self-esteem I only fall hard for the men who are miles from my reach.
“Hi Jessie!” Morgan Thompson, star reporter, strolls up to my desk. “Whatcha doin’?”
Morgan Thompson. Brown hair in the obligatory bob, stylish outfits, petite aerobicized body, and of course that Cindy Crawford smile. She’s only a year older than me; but oh, what a difference a year makes when one is known as a goddess of the small screen… And the other is the dayside associate producer.
“The Marcia Clark eye bag thing. What about you?”
“It’s raining. So, I’m the six o’clock lead.”
“On…?”
“The rain, silly!” She swats me with her copy of Glamour magazine.
“Of course. Want a rice cake?” I hold one out.
“No…carbs make me bloat,” she says, patting her infuriatingly flat stomach. “See ya!”
I look down at my baggy sweatshirt covering a stomach that would never be mistaken for Morgan’s in a police lineup. I brush off a rice cake crumb and sigh.
Back to Marcia’s makeup tips…
“OK, now if something comes over the fax that looks important, give it to me…”
I am informing our latest intern on the ins and outs of our exciting newsroom, all the while trying not to notice his blue eyes that remind me of the color of the new M&Ms…or the lashes that would take me an entire tube of Maybelline Great Lash to get.
I know. Pitiful. I am the president of “Pathetic Lives ‘R’ Us.”
Michael, a photographer, walks over to us. “So, Eugene quit, huh?”
Eugene was a photog with us until today. Apparently, he gave his notice two weeks ago, but no one believed him; and when he didn’t show up, we realized that hey…maybe he meant it.
“Frank is going to go ballistic,” I say. Frank is our maniacal movie reviewer who refused to work with anyone but Eugene. Will this be the end of his weekly segment “Frankly Film”? Doubtful. After twenty-five years, a full head of hair, and an operation that provided him with one glass eye, he still loves to see himself on the screen more than anyone here.
“Is that Morgan Thompson?” Intern Boy is pointing across the room, and I see that familiar glint in his eye. It’s hard to be friends with Morgan and not see that glint in every breathing male’s eye.
Michael grinned, looking over at Morgan. “Yup, that’s her alright.” He gave that little just-between-us-guys chuckle.
As if sensing the possible ego boost on this side of the room, Morgan sauntered over. “Hi, Jessie. Hi, Michael.” She looks at Intern Boy. “Hi…Intern.”
“Nice to meet you,” she purrs. “Jess, I’ll call you tonight.”
She turns to leave, with Michael on her tail.
I sigh, waiting for the question.
“Jess, I have to ask you something.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Does Morgan have a boyfriend?”
I shake my head.
“Would you mind giving me her number?”
TO BE CONTINUED……………………..
★ ★ ★ ★
My Plant, George (late 1970s/early 1980s)
Sandra McNeal’s ivy plant, George, was her whole life. The day when her mother bought him for her, she was filled with joy. She named him George because that seemed to fit him. She put a little paper sign up saying, “My plant, George.”
Sandra loved him so much you couldn’t even put it into words. That’s why I’m not going to say how much she loved him because this’d be a novel instead of a short story.
She used to read to him, sing to him, and carry on conversations with him. Although he couldn’t talk, she seemed to think he could.
One day when Sandra came home from school, she went to check on George. She threw her coat on the chair, waved to her mother, and flew up the stairs. When she rushed in the room, she stopped short. There was George: wilted, brown, and dead. He was a little brown yesterday, but not like this! She stared at him, disbelieving, until it came to her. George was dead! She jumped on her bed and cried until she couldn’t cry anymore.
She went downstairs, eyes swollen and red, to tell her mother the bad news. Her mother took it hard too, but not as hard as Sandra had.
“Well, I think I’ll bury him,” she said through sniffs.
Her mother nodded. Sandra went upstairs to get him. She buried him as the tears fell on top of his grave. When she was done, she broke a popsicle stick and stuck it on top of the grave. On it she wrote, “My plant, George.”
★ ★ ★ ★
(mid-1980s)
Jocks are stupid.
Utter this statement around a football player and he’ll crush you with his goal post. Although it’s an incredibly ignorant and narrow-minded statement, the “jock” in question needs only to see the word “stupid” and knows instinctively that he’s being insulted.
In my never-ending quest to see everyone in the world get along peaceably (or at least not mutilate each other at every given opportunity), I must let it be known that jocks are not stupid. At least, not all of them. This is merely a stereotype probably invented by Waldo Whynotme, after being turned down for the thirty-first time by the high school hockey team. Let me repeat, jocks are not stupid.
The word “jock” is so stereotypical and old-fashioned that we should just dribble it away right now. What is a jock, anyway? A person who plays sports. Then why don’t we say, “Oh, there’s Ted Puckman. He’s a person who plays sports.” Obviously, it takes too long to say. Who has time for all those syllables, anyway? Instead, it’s “Ted Puckman is a jock.” Quick, easy, and slides right off the tongue.
But all in life is not easy. Therefore, we must delete the word “jock” from our vocabulary. Yes, I said “delete.” So, the next time you see Joe “I’m Da Quarterback” Finnegan strut down the hall, force yourself from muttering, “Dumb jock” and realize he is not a jock, but a sports player and the question of his intelligence is not up to you to decide.
So, who in the world decided to call sports players “jocks,” anyway? The name certainly doesn’t have the purest connotation (depending, of course, on your state of mind). Who would put down individuals who lived and played for the school?
To answer this, let us first examine the definition of a “sports player.” A sports player plays sports. This aspect of his life begins and ends on the field. He does not force it into his social life because there is no need to. Playing sports is merely a part of his life, something he enjoys doing.
Unfortunately, some individuals don’t learn this until much later. A sports player who hits high school learns all that his sports is going to mean to him through the following four years.
And learn he does.
He learns that all teachers will adore him because he plays for the honor of the school. He will be the teacher’s pet because he looks the right way: clean cut and respectable. He learns he will be able to get away with absolute murder merely because he plays sports and hangs around with the right crowd.
As this realization dawns, many others follow suit. If his football jacket actually does allow him to get away with anything, then why not push it? He is the football player; he is the king of the school. He and his friends are the school.
He finds it difficult to believe that other students—non-sports players, mind you—are actually permitted to attend the same school. They don’t dress right, they don’t attend games, they don’t even bow when the football team saunters by.
So, it’s obvious that they’re going to have to pay the price.
What’s a little name-calling, a little pushing around? He can get away with it. Native and unknowing, teachers will always play right into his hands and agree it was the other’s fault.
We have just discovered why the word “jock” was introduced. There are two distinct categories of people who play sports. Therefore, there are two names: sports players and jocks.
Sports players aren’t stupid. Jocks are stupid.
★ ★ ★ ★
Echoes of Laughter (1986)
A smile is forming.
A hint of a smile, slowly working its
way from the corner of the mouth. With it
comes anticipation, the ceaseless wonder of
what is yet to come. Carefully stepping on
pebbles becomes strolling through fresh
meadowgrass, and the smile becomes brighter.
Words flow from the mouth like a bubbling
stream; there’s so much to say, so much to be
unwavering, in the air, forever shining on us
with its steady warmth. We are the special
ones, we think, gifted in a way few people
will experience.
The laughter is beginning.
Growing closer, loving more. Tears of
happiness stream from the heart, drowning us.
The words “I love you” become our Bible, said
with the strong intensity of a thousand
exploding sticks of dynamite, or with the
quiet familiarity of a favorite soft chair.
Joy, bliss, rapture—no words can come close
to describing our laughter together. His
overpowering, intense, strong—yet calm,
submissive, enduring. Like the sea, our
love.
Forever is an immense word, never to be
used lightly. Yet this word is used
constantly between us – “forever our love,”
“forever our happiness,” “forever we two.”
Too strong a conviction to some people, to us
it is our life. A thousand gods cannot move
us, and we ignore the scoffs of outsiders who
don’t believe in our love as we do. Who
wants to think about the end when this is
only the beginning?
The laughter is dying.
I can feel it, can feel it deep in the
darkest section of my soul. The laughter is
fading like the discoloration of the
once-green leaves when the cool weather
begins. The weak but steady ache begins,
filling my body with dread, terror. It seems
you’re trying your best to answer the
question screaming in my mind—how much pain
can I endure? Too much, not enough.
Hopeless cries fill the air, tears of
Helplessness, apologies of frustration.
Through it all, the one word which remains
Implanted and unshakable—WHY?
There’s no meaning. No meaning to
anything. And so the deepest part of me, the
only part, turns brown and brittle, like the
leaves that fall, and then finally
disappears, as every leaf must. But the
leaves will return happily again next year.
I will not.
The laughter is dead.
And so, my love, am I.
★ ★ ★ ★
Smoking Is Prohibited (late 1970s)
Narrator: Once there was a girl named Roxie who was in a club called the Cool Girls. To be in the club you needed one thing—to be able to smoke. Roxie comes walking in the schoolyard with her club, all smoking. Along comes Sally.
Sally—“Hi.” Roxie in a dull voice—“Hi.” Sally—“Uh, what does it take to be in your club?” Roxie—“Nothing, really, you just have to smoke.” Sally—“Huh?” Roxie—“Well, it’s cool man, you know.” Sally—“No, I don’t know! I think smoking is bad for you! I wanted to be in your club, but not if that’s the price to pay!”
Narrator: She stepped away. When she was in school, all she thought about was smoking. Should she or shouldn’t she? Her science teacher asked Sally, “So, Miss Lilyloop, what kind of formula do you need to make a Pepsi cola?”
Sally—“Smoking.” All children—“Ahhahahahaha!”
Narrator: After school, Sally walked home. She saw the club named Soul Man (after the song) walking home.
Sally—“Hi, Jerry.” Jerry—“Hi, Sally.”
Narrator: Sally is at home now.
Sally—“Ma, is it okay to smoke?” Ma—“Of course not, Dear! And especially you, why you’re only in 6th grade! And why do you ask?” Sally—“Huh? I don’t know, just something to say, I guess.”
Narrator: She thought about it for a month. Then one day in May, she went to her fort in the tall grass. She took a match she had found and lit it. Then she took a Kool out. She started smoking, but all she did was cough.
Sally—“Cough, cough, cough!”
Narrator: She tried again. And again. Pretty soon she caught on with it. Seeing it was close to summer, she was going to buy some things with her saved up money. She had $102.25. Next day in store with Mother. She picked up some pretty flashy clothes. The next day she just came in with jeans and T-shirt. She was also smoking.
Sally—“Now can I join?” Roxie—“Sure.”
Narrator: The next day Sally came in school wearing a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt. Jerry always had a little crush on Sally, but now…... When Jerry saw her, he jumped! She just stood there, smoking. You could tell he loved her. Later on, like in the summer, they went on dates and stuff at the malt shoppe.
Jerry—“Why do you smoke and act so cool?” Sally—“Why do you?” Jerry—“I asked you first.” Sally—“I don’t know, I thought that was the way to act.” Jerry—”Yeah, me too. But I like you just the way you were before.” Sally—“I like you just the way you are too.” Jerry—“Well let’s act just the way we are.” Sally—“Yeah.”
Narrator: So from then on, they acted just the way they felt and their motto is “Smoking Is Prohibited.”
★ ★ ★ ★
An Ode to Enfield High (1988)
Hey—
Remember me? Well, you should, because I certainly remember you well enough. Strange as this is, they tell me I’ll never be able to forget you. That terrifies me.
Four years. Four long years, 1,460 tedious days, 35,040 agonizing hours. We’ve shared 1,460 days of my entire life span together, like partners in a silly sort of crime that neither one of us understands. So, I would expect at least a little remembrance, a welcome home, maybe even a smile?
Yet you just stand silently.
That’s exactly the way you stood, politely indifferent, the first day I entered you. You greeted me with neither laughter nor a shout of protest; what was I but merely one of the thousands to pollute you with arguments, love secrets, and word destruction?
No one prepares a person to enter a life such as the one you create. The only preparation takes the form of an adult’s silly words to their children of how they will simply adore it (and, if by some chance they don’t, then they’ll just have to get used to it). Even more horrifying are the children’s books read by an anxious eighth grader, wondering if what’s between the covers is really true. Are football players and cheerleaders the popular ones? Will all boys kiss as wonderfully as Zach did the first time he tenderly kissed Mary Beth? And most of all, it wouldn’t really matter if a few pimples developed, and Mom refused to buy the jeans everyone was wearing…would it?
Yes, it would.
You see, no one prepared me, least of all, to enter the purgatory that the ignorant refer to as the “best years of your life.” It was to be junior high, I supposed, only a tiny bit bigger with a few more students.
My first year with you was hell. Though it’s unfair to blame you; you merely provided the setting which enabled the student body to make me realize that torture was a reality. I can look at you now and clearly point out places where my sanity was severely tested.
Over here, by the radiator. That’s where I was confronted, threatened physically, and called a slut. She felt my pants were too tight. Down this hall over here. That’s where pennies would be thrown at my feet as I walked, with boys asking me if that was what I charged. In this bathroom. That’s where my name was splattered, with vulgarities I can’t even force myself to say. In this classroom. That’s where half the class got together and openly called me a slut.
A whore. A hooker. A sleaze.
My second year with you became slightly better. I didn’t cry every day after school anymore; it was cut down to maybe once a week. Though my “slut” image was still intact, they now added a new name to my list.
I was weird. Freaked out. A punk.
So, they reduced my rumors (I was down to only sleeping with six guys at a time and only begged to get laid at a couple of the parties I had never gone to). Now, instead of staring with disgust at my faded jeans, boots, and t-shirt, they would stare in horror at my rainbow-colored clothing and hair.
They’d stare. I’d add another color. They’d stare. I’d paint my face green.
Their stares, whispers, and laughter only encouraged me to top myself day after day after day. There had never been anyone like me before; no one could quite fit me into a nice, neat category. So, I was weird? Yes, I was weird; different from her—and her—and him. Different from nearly all of them. They had made me cry in ninth grade because I was Sue—they nearly made me wish I would no longer be Sue. But in tenth grade I realized that I was Sue, and I would not change that, give in, or lower my morals or my way of thinking for anyone.
Perhaps I tried to provide this in my outer appearance. Perhaps I was presenting the entire student body with a challenge. Look at me! I am myself; I am kind, friendly, and have a great sense of humor. But they couldn’t know this because they were too frightened to get past my clothing. You see, I discovered something in my sophomore year. Change frightens people. People see something that’s different from their way of thinking, and they get scared. Their immediate defense is to label it wrong, to make fun of it, to put it down. They do this to provide a cover for their fear, a word often thought of as synonymous with weakness. A person is not weak if he is frightened; he is weak if his ignorance prevents him from accepting.
I was raised slightly higher during my third year inside your walls. No longer a hell nor even a purgatory, I felt an almost perverse glee in coming here each day. Newly made “friends” would inform me countless times of their previous hatred towards me. Well, I was so strange-looking, they’d explain, and of course with all those rumors, what is one supposed to think? But, they’d finish, I wasn’t at all like my appearance, and wasn’t it a good thing they finally got to know the real me?
Ah, yes, it was a good thing, for that was merely my first step in a plan of revenge quite twisted from the norm. I had no plans on “getting people back,” nor even holding grudges. But because your hallways held such terror, I knew it would have to be within your hallways that I would find the satisfaction I needed. And that satisfaction was acceptance.
I had no plans for changing even then. To reduce myself and thus be liked would be far worse than even to be despised. By the dawning of my final year, my struggling began lavishing rewards.
I was greeted by nearly everyone within these halls. I smiled and spoke with virtually all students, teachers, custodians, and cafeteria workers. You were now my Home, my Kingdom. Thus, it was fit that I should win Homecoming Queen in this gymnasium. And it made sense that when people spoke of me, it was not with negative comments, but with respect and genuine liking.
Each day of happiness was my own revenge. I had crawled my way through hell and emerged victorious. I proved to all students that I wasn’t a slut, nor a druggie, nor a weirdo. And just because I looked different from them didn’t mean I couldn’t feel the pain that their words caused. I did all this simply by being myself.
It is easy to let go of the bad; to un-attach myself to the good takes much more time and practice. Yet, they too, are fading. My yearbook is merely pictures; my winning sash merely a piece of felt. The lettering “homecoming queen” doesn’t shout out a memory—it merely stares silently. Just as you are doing.
So perhaps I’ll leave, though I’m sure I’ll be back. You don’t welcome me as you used to. You no longer cry out a greeting, give a friendly hug, nor laugh together with me.
No one does.
★ ★ ★ ★
Positive Thinking That Works Through Brain Training (2018)
Evict Your Brain NaySayer and Take Charge of Your Thoughts
You need to know that you are awesome. You need to believe that.
And sometimes, well…that’s not so easy to believe. Especially when your brain is telling you otherwise.
Honestly, it doesn’t matter who you are: old, young, poor, rich (yup, even those one percenters) – we all have that stupid nagging dude in our brain whose sole existence is to try and make us feel like crap.
He is the most UNWELCOME GUEST EVER!
Half the time, we don’t even realize he’s there; he’s just such a part of our existence. And that’s the way he likes it!
Because if he can blend in with your brain so seamlessly that you think it’s just part of living, well that gives him carte blanche to just keep hammering away at you (sometimes he’s subtle; most of the time he’s outright rude).
[Note: I’m aware that I’ve assigned a gender to the Brain NaySayer (BNS) and I apologize if this makes anyone uncomfortable. Your particular brain asshole can be any gender, or no gender at all. I don’t live in your brain; you do.]
But the great part is you can fight back! It’s not super easy (especially at first) but is is Sue-per doable.
Once you home in on exactly what he’s saying, how he’s interacting with your everyday life pretty much every second, you’ve pressed “Game Start – Two Players” and he knows it’s on!
That really is half the battle. Because he’s such a lazy turd making fun of you behind your back, he just assumes you have no idea what’s happening.
So, he’s allowed to freely accomplish his mission of making you feel like shit every day by barely raising a finger.
“Dumb human!” he chuckles. “I can just put this on auto-replay and they’ll never even know the difference.”
See, he figures he’s getting away with it because you’ve never come knocking on his door looking for a fight. He’s the dude squatting in your house while you’re at work who’s so sneaky you don’t even know he’s there…until you do.
Until someone who cares a lot about you (in this case, me – I know we’ve never actually met in person, but we share a common interest – eliminating that creep) alerts you to the fact that you might want to check your attic.
“But I never go up there!” you say.
“I know. That’s why y’all gotta check it.”
“But it’s scary up there!”
“Exactly.”
You’ve pressed “Play” by actually listening to the things he’s been saying to you. It might seem like it’s just a thing you must accept because it’s so natural but trust me: it’s as far removed from natural as my bleached blond and pink hair. *wink*
BRAIN NAYSAYER’S BAG OF TRICKS
BNS comes with a full supply of negative thoughts he pumps into your brain.
His playlist includes some real gems, many of which you may recognize.
Overly Generic
These are the simplified, all-encompassing “I’m not enough’s.” Not good enough, smart enough, thin, strong, rich, witty, talented, you name it.
All-or-Nothing
Then there are the all-or-nothings. These ones majorly suck because you simply aren’t giving yourself an option. Things like:
· I’m never going to have enough money.
· I’m always going to be unhappy.
· Things will never change.
The “I Don’t Deserve’s”
Why should I be able to find love, anyway? I’m just a [insert whatever negative lie you’ve been telling yourself].
The Giver-Uppers
Well, that’s just the way it is! That’s life!
And my personal most hated giving-up phrase:
“Well, what are you gonna do?”
Umm…a lot!
First of all, you’re gonna stop saying that stupid catchphrase that caught on to the absolute delight of all Brain NaySayers everywhere.
(I picture them clapping their hands with joy watching humans repeat a phrase and unknowingly giving them fuel.)
Then, you’re going to take action because YOU get to choose what you are, in fact, going to do (or respond, or think).
See, every time you accept BNS’s words as true (by even acknowledging, let alone dwelling, on them), you provide more fuel for him to keep hanging out in your attic.
It’s like you’re continuously feeding him spam sandwiches that he thrives on. And it’s YOU giving him these meals.
If he did not have food, he would die and he knows that. But he counts on you to remain unaware for the rest of your life.
YOU provide him with the food he needs to live by acknowledging and listening.
YOU are in control of depriving him of that food by FIGHTING BACK with your own line of attack.
Without the food he needs to survive, he’ll shrivel up like the stinky little snotrag he is.
STOP FEEDING THE BEAST
So, become more attuned to your thoughts. Take time to REFLECT on what your brain is saying to you.
What words are being used, when are they being used, what situations are you in when you hear them?
Just so y’all know, these are NOT normal things for your brain to be jabbering on about and you do NOT have to accept them:
· Dude, I suck.
· I can’t believe this is happening again!
· This always happens to me.
· Life sucks.
· My life sucks.
· Things will never get better.
· I might as well just accept this is how life is.
· I’ll never find love.
· Why does this always happen to me?
· I’ve got the worst luck ever.
· I’m never going to be happy.
· I’ll never make enough money/get out of debt/like my job/find a new job.
· I’m so fat/poor/unhappy/unlucky/stupid/talentless.
· Everyone hates me.
· No one loves me or will ever love me.
· Nothing will ever change.
· That’s just the way it is.
· I have no willpower.
· I hate my clothes/where I live/my job/my spouse/the world.
· There’s no light at the end of the tunnel.
· It’s hopeless!
Oy vey! It’s exhausting just writing these things down, never mind having them taking up permanent residence in your brain all day, every day!
Those mf’s are relentless! And believe me, I know – because like nearly everyone who writes about stuff like this, I had well beyond my fair share of those douche dwellers in my brain through my entire life.
So, I know the havoc they can wreak and the “seemingly” unstoppable power they have.
But then I learned how to fuck with them!
HOLD ON THERE, BUDDY: NOT TODAY
It seems silly at first, and that could be why some people who get to this part do the whole scoff/snort/smirk and turn the page (or click away, or stick their fingers in their ears.) Nah nah to you too.
But for the many who try it out, they discover the weapon they’ve had hidden under their noggin the whole time.
They become a diehard fan of Psshew! Psshew! Psshewing the Brain, Sayer of Nays, until he crumbles to the ground, defeated, in a puddle of his own inadequacy, failure, and embarrassment.
Usually those who do figure this whole thing out and put it to practice in their lives get SO EXCITED that they want to share it with everyone!
And they (we) sometimes get shot down by the ScoffSnortSmirkers, who observe our excitement as a sign of irrational giddiness backed up by hokey hocus-pocus and non-traditional tangible science.
Oh, we’ve heard it all!
“Sure, sure, I’ll just think my way into being rich!” Scoff.
“Like I would try that new age shit!” Snort.
“Yeah, all I gotta do is think happy thoughts and I’ll be sailing away on a yacht with my gazillionaire non-prenup husband?” Smirk.
Or just the Stare.
The “I’m so superior and obviously much more mature than you and the fact you would even think I would fall for your fairytale, pixie dust, pie-in-the-sky notions is hilaaaarious; oh and also, I think we should be calling the loony bin” face.
So, here’s the thing: For those of you who are new to this – first, welcome! – sure, it might seem a little strange, uncomfortable even, to try.
For those of you who are rolling their eyes and thinking, “Yeah, yeah, I’ve read all the books – I know this already!” – well, there’s probably a reason why you’re still reading.
Maybe you (like me – like, constantly) want to get a refresher on brain control to re-stimulate what you already know.
I know, for me, I’m always going back and rereading my favorite books or favorite web articles because we need to be constantly reminded that we’re heading in the right direction!
That we’re doing the best possible things we can to hijack our brains, thereby hijacking our happiness.
Once you start paying attention and recognizing the way BNS has been playing you with his worn-out catchphrases and time-honored put-downs, you’ll know what to listen for and when they typically occur.
When you recognize it happening (and you’ve got to be quick! He flings these things at your at lightning speed like he’s trying to win the Gold Medal in speed-throwing shit in the Brainlympics)…
…STOP it in its tracks.
YOUR POZ-AMMO IS YOUR SUE-PER POWER
So, what’s the battle plan? First, be prepared with your first counterpunch.
There are many ways to try and stop the thought from gathering steam or making it to fruition. Here are a few:
Snap, Crackle, STOP!
Some people need the physical stimuli and will snap a rubber band around their wrist when a Turd Thought thrusts itself into the forefront.
“I see you!”
SNAP.
“Now go away!”
The Turd retreats, and your wrist skin tingles, reminding you of the battle you have just won.
The Power of “NO!”
Sometimes you just need a forceful word or phrase that you can yell out in your brain (your “inner voice,” as parents like to say) or, if it works better for you, out loud.
The audible version of this attack can be under your breath, in a normal voice, or in a louder pitch – it’s your choice because it has to work for you.
I’ve used “NO!” in several intonations:
· The abrupt “NO!”
· The “I’m drawing this word out like I’m talking to a small child or puppy: Nooooo!”
· The “I’m repeating this to make sure you get the message: No. No. NO!”
For variations, you can try “STOP!”, “Shut up!”, “Quit it!”, or really, anything you’d like.
It is entirely up to you because only you know the demon you’re fighting intimately, so you know what weapons will work.
The power of this first fight-back expression is that it’s abrupt, immediate, and quick.
The additional can come after, but the very moment you recognize a thought like that starting to form, attack it first QUICKLY.
And then you can add whatever icing you’d like to the delicious positivity cake you’re baking.
Here are some examples:
When a person enters your head who has no right being there (and honestly, you haven’t thought about them consciously in, like, forever) and they’re only going to toxie your moxie…
Imagine a phrase or visualize a picture of something that is the complete opposite and makes you happy.
For instance, I use both the phrase and the visual “Rainbows & Unicorns.”
I repeat the words over and over while envisioning the cutest ever unicorns frolicking with their rainbow buddies, and that person (or whatever bad thought pops in) goes Whooooosh! to the netherworld.
Sometimes you’ll miss a thought – like I said, they come at you so fast, it’s easy to be caught unaware. They’re like the automatic ball-pitching machine turned to Ultra-Light Speed.
That’s ok! It takes time to realize what they’re doing. But you can still back up – beep, beep, beep! – and attack it even after it’s spawned.
“No no no…hold up! We’ve been over this!”
And just keep fighting away.
POZ-AMMO FOR THE KNOCKOUT PUNCH
The next step is to counter BNS’s B.S. with whatever thought you have designed for this battle.
That’s the beauty of all this – YOU get to design your weaponry, your phrases, your counter-attacks – because it’s unique to YOU.
Certain phraseology might seem dissimilar to how you would talk (for example, reading books about this topic written decades ago might make you cringe with their old-fashioned wording).
That’s why you make it your own! It’s whatever works for YOU, and NO ONE else has to know about it.
If you want to counterattack NaySay when he quips, “You’re so ugly!” by firing back with “Gurrrl, I am the sexiest person to ever walk this universe!’ and that works for you to get rid of him, yay!
Remember: A) no one else has to know what your Poz-Ammo is, and B) you damn sure are the sexiest person to ever walk this universe!
Here are some ideas to get you started:
Money Bummer: “I’m so poor.”
Poz-ammo: “I have more than enough money I need to live richly.”
Overwhelm: “I’ll never get all this done!”
Poz-ammo: “I am fully confident that I will accomplish everything I need to.
Dwelling in the Dumps: “I’m never going to be happy.”
Poz-ammo: “I’m choosing to be happy right now because life is awesome.”
Pick your defense words wisely and be ready to fire back at BNS the moment he opens his mouth.
Remember, though, this poz-ammo works only if:
You’re stating something positive.
Try not to use negative words like “not,” “don’t,” “can’t,” or “shouldn’t” in your positive phrases.
Your brain, though mighty as it is, has a hard time processing a positive word if you use a negative one close by.
Instead of saying “No, I’m not stupid,” say simply “I’m intelligent and I show that intelligence to everyone around me.” See, your brain only heard the “stupid” part, thus allowing BNS to laughingly check off another win.
You use present tense.
If you respond to “I’m overweight” with “Yeah, well, I’m gonna be skinny soon!”, your brain prepares for that to happen in the future, and not now. Instead, choose to say, “I am losing weight and feel healthy and strong!”
You state it as though it is true right now.
This may seem like you’re lying to yourself, but you’re really just tricking your brain into manifesting what you repeat (and also kicking BNS’s ass in the process).
So, when you say, “I am the proud owner of a successful art gallery” while toiling away working for The Man, your brain hears that and puts it into manifestation, despite the (now much weaker) desperate cries from BNS.
You’re grateful for the result you’re affirming.
Experience the appreciation, not only through your words, but also by actually feeling the gratitude. “I am thankful that my wife and I are communicating fully for the first time.” Let yourself feel that appreciation as though it is happening now.
That thankfulness is like lye dissolving the essence of BNS, who coincidentally built his entire existence on a lie. Ba dum tss!
Poz-Ammo Power of the Pen
Your next weapon shapeshifts into physical form.
Every time Naysayer whips a ball at you like: “My life sucks! Why does everything bad happen to me?” have a notebook on hand for quick go-to reference material of how much your life does NOT, indeed, suck.
This little gem is otherwise known as your Gratitude Journal.
Now, the rapid return of your brain can do a lot when blocking those whipping balls, but sometimes you need that little extra oomph and I gotta tell ya, having a Gratitude Journal is the way to go!
There’s something about actually writing shit down that amplifies it, magnifies it, Greased Lightnings it, that goes beyond logical science.
It doesn’t have to be some fancy pants journal manufacturers are selling now that gratitude journaling is the “rip-em-off du jour.” You can just grab a notebook from the Dollar Tree or stock up during back-to-school sales.
Or, if you think a journal that’s totally your style would encourage you to write more, then go for it!
I personally have a healthy stock of journals and notebooks in all shapes and sizes. Please note it is not considered hoarding if I use every last one…eventually. *wink*
You can approach this journal in whatever way you feel comfortable. You may choose to write down:
· Four things for which you’re grateful every morning when you wake up, or at night before bed
· Four things you did or experienced that day that made you feel good, or are proud you did
· The actual counter-thoughts (or positive affirmations, if you’d prefer) that you use in your battle
Or, if it was an exceptional day, just blabber on about how much life rules!
This physical proof of positivity and awesomeness is your knockout punch to Brain Naysayer.
If he didn’t respond to your initial fire-back thoughts (and honestly, sometimes it takes a while for them to take full effect), grab your notebook and reread what you’ve written.
This not only reinforces the poz-ammo affirmations, but it also lets you remember things that happened that would have otherwise gone forgotten (the brain having selective memory and all).
LET THE EVICTION BEGIN!
With all of this poz-ammo under your belt, you can begin to attack BNS and all the B.S. baggage he brings with him.
You can hand him his eviction notice with instructions to vacate the premises of your gorgeous, healthy, positive little brain IMMEDIATELY.
Like I said, this isn’t always easy. And if you’re first starting out, it can take a long while to get the hang of it.
You might feel like a goofball. You might feel like it isn’t working. You might feel silly for listening to some chick you don’t even know on the Internet.
I felt all of those same things (except the part about the chick on the Internet).
But I kept going, because I figured: “What have I got to lose?”
It doesn’t take much effort, it’s free as shit, and if it has even the most remote possibility of making my life a whole lot brighter…
I’m in!
And hopefully, you will be too!
I’d love to hear what ways you’re winning the fight against your own Brain NaySayer! Feel free to email me at sue at onebighappyworld.com and let me know!
Once again, thank you for reading and for being a part of One Big Happy World!
Cheering You On All the Way,
Sue