Boadicea

.and if I ever say otherwise, kill me.

Ok, I hate the kissy-face noises that couples make to each other. It makes me gag. And if I ever have a S.O. and s/he does that to me, I'll throw up and then kill him/her.

I also hate PDAs to excess (read: dry-humping in the mall; lots of drool/slobbering whilst kissing; snogging on benches; and not being able to be separated for more than 0.5 of a second, not even to go to the bathroom); phone conversations ending with "No, you hang up!" ad in-fucking-finitum; couples who go to a movie they haven't seen and don't actually watch it (it's so fucking disrespectful to the filmmaker...unless of course you're watching The Land Before Intelligence Time Three Hundred Gajillion and Ten---then by all means, snog, cause it's the only worth you'll get out of the 16 bucks you paid to get in [aside from this exception, see below]); and when people seem to lose their spines when they enter into a relationship. "No, honey, I don't have any plans for the future except to be your spouse and have lots of kids and to do whatever you want to do! Tee hee!"

What I love about relationships (not mine; other people's)......holding hands. Hugging. Quick, sweet, chaste kisses in public (what you do in private is your business). INDEPENDENCE. Compromise without compromise (meaning, I'm willing to work with you on various issues but I will not take your bullshit and you will not take mine). Fun, carefree, non-sexual frolicking through fields of daisies. (Ok, so I'm a fucking hopeless romantic. Are you barfing yet?) Fun, carefree, non-sexual frolicking through the dairy section of Safeway (and this must include big blocks of cheddar cheese, somehow...and yes, I did say 'non-sexual'). Going to a movie you've seen several times already and watched to snog in the back, though if you do this in Star Wars a plague upon both your houses. Playing games of Mad Libs to compose poems/wedding vows for each other. Laughter. Love without price. Love without conditions. A willingness to grow and change together. A willingness to sing love song duets on Karaoke Night at your local sushi bar. Hand-feeding food to each other in that really sweet, very sappy way that only couples can do (and this will, of course, lead to either sex or a steamy snog session on the couch/dining room table/kitchen counter back home, and that's good too).

There's lots more that I love, and lots more that I hate. But this is enough for one entry.

.I've learned that I'm pleasantly furious half of the time.

About everything. Everything everywhere, and everyone, in everyplace and everytime. But most especially, I'm furious about the Gender Wars. I mean the atrocities done from men to women and from women to men: husbands beat their wives; wives kill their husbands in retribution; girls lie about rape and get guys sentenced to jail; men rape women and get away with it; women deal crushing blows with words of steel and men commit suicide; men leave women for one younger and prettier; women leave men for one richer and older; men are afraid to commit but can't admit, and relationships become years wasted in a love that goes nowhere; women aren't ready for sex but don't let on until it's too late to say wait, and if you're lucky he'll pull himself back but you've gotta let him know; and because of all this or maybe a part of all this is men and women afraid to love each other because they might get hit.

With humanity's great capacity for good and evil and great capacity for learning, you would think that we'd begin to get it. That it is harder to walk the path of good, but in the end, so much more worth it.

I'm using Freud's analysis of the psyche as an analogy of where demons, humans, and angels fit on the scale because it's what really does what I think justice: demons are the id, humans the ego, and angels the superego. Angels are so into pure that they won't put nutella on their bagel; demons take chocolate syrup baths and live in decadance without substance. Humans have a nutella bagel once in a while, but mostly eat granola. And therein lies the balance.

But there are...influences. Something pushes humans one way or the other.

I'm begining to bitterly think that it's nothing more than choice.

i want to stop thinking.

Only a Plank Between One and Perdition

.that horrible midpoint.

There is this horrible midpoint between beautiful and beautiful in two different cultures: the aboveworld culture of the beauty myth, thin is in, etc, and the underworld of fat admiration. I am at that midpoint. Camryn Manheim*, apparently, is at that midpoint. At the midpoint, you're 'too fat' for the aboveworld, and 'not fat enough' for the underworld. It seems that the people who like girls my size are few and far between.

And yes, I specify women, because for men it seems not to matter. I wouldn't know, I'm not a fat man (not biologically, at any rate), but it really seems that fat men have an easier time getting dates than fat women do. My dad has had no problem securing three wives and five million girlfriends in his lifetime, and there was never a time when he was 'skinny' (except pre-puberty, but that doesn't really count, now does it?). In fact, the rather portly countenance of my father and his mother are, I'm sure, what I inherited.

Now, I'm not at all blaming genetics on my weight. I know that it's psychosis, years of self-hate and abuse, and depression that has contributed to the size I am now. So no, it's not the fault of my DNA. But my genes are a factor, like it or not. Just as my genes for soft teeth are a factor in my having several cavities and one gold tooth, and just as my genes for bad fucking luck are a factor in my wisdom teeth choosing to come in underneath my middle molars.

Like it or not, I'm big, and like it or not, I'll never ever be smaller than a size 12. (Come to think of it, I wouldn't want to be. My mother thinks I could be a size 10, but that's just too much work. I'll be happy with a 14.)

Yes, my body is huge, yes, I'm a fucking fat-ass, and I wouldn't consider myself pretty. The first two points I'm making are facts that I have accepted, and the third is 1/2 self-hate and 1/2 "Yeah, I wouldn't date me."

Regardless, the self-hate is still huge, still there. It's what fueled my anorexia and made me lose twenty pounds (which I gained back at the slightest whiff of acceptance in Guatemala, where they like women no matter what size). It is what forces me to go to the gym when I'm exhausted and push myself beyond my limits. It's what makes me choose a salad, or no food at all.

These are, in my view, good things. I need to lose this weight. Not for the beauty myth, the non-existent perfect body, or for the purpose of landing a boyfriend (though that would be a welcome side-effect). No, I need to lose this weight because I will most likely die if I don't. Yes. It's sad and it's true. I'm 18 and I'm facing serious health problems because of my weight. I can feel the near-heart attacks coming on, and when I throw out my back or my hip or my knee, I know it's not because of my joints because I drank a fuck of a lot of milk as a kid---it's because of my weight.

Being 128 pounds overweight is no small deal. It is a very big deal. And while I am this weight, I can't have kids, because the dangers already inherent in pregnancy combined with the dangers I now face would irreperably damage my health. I can't get lipo, either suction or selection, because doing so would make pregnancy impossible. Bit of a Catch-22, or it would be if I didn't have another option.

Yes, good old-fashioned working out, eating right, staying fit, and losing weight naturally.

Of course I can't do that normally. I have to do it my way.

So I got a membership at 24-hr Fitness and now go to the gym at 2 in the morning, after eating maybe 500-1000 calories a day. (Remember: 1200 calories/day is a starvation diet.)

*Incidentally, Camryn Manheim is amazing, beautiful, smart, and a wonderful actress, and anyone who thinks otherwise can answer to me and my Feminist!Fist of Death.

.but there must be something else.

Besides this whole 'horrible midpoint' thing, I do believe that there is something else that prevents people from loving me. Or from being close enough to me to love me without fear.

I've thought this for a while, and it was only after hearing it from someone else other than my mom that I really started to believe it.

It's my passion. My utterly raw enthusiasm for life or whatever else I fling myself at. (That includes depression.) If I do film, I do so with abandon, throwing everything I have into that piece of work to make it spectacular. If it's classes, I work my ass off. If it's a relationship, I scare my partner.

And I think that people see this coming before they see anything else. Even if I try to be demure and muted in order to get to the next phase of courtship, it wears off very quickly and the person leaves in interest of calmer, more controllable prospects.

Because let's get one thing straight: I will not be controlled. And I can't be calm. I try to be calm. But something excites me and whoops! There went that plan. So I just have to be myself and hope that someone who is male, likes girls, and is single will appreciate me and love me for who I am.

... ... ... ...

So a life of solitude it is, then.

.hypocrisy is a many-tongued demon.

And yes, I am fucking bitter about this: the shit that people spew about personality and smarts mattering more than the body size/type/looks (you know--mind over matter). It's BULLSHIT. Utter bullshit. The people who say this are in denial. They will indeniably go for a certain type, because it's in our natures.

I, for one, prefer girls who are shorter than I am, and skinnier (and who isn't?); I prefer guys who are tall and slender---but these are just preferences. Possibly completely overridden in favor of personality and brains and sense of humor. As well, totally possible for me to find people who don't 'fit' my preferences as totally gorgeous and attractive. It's not set in stone.

But at least I acknowledge my preferences. I acknowledge that yes, I am human, and yes, I have likes and dislikes. But they're not even written down in spiritual law, much less engraven in stone.

Most people don't. They don't acknowledge their preferences. They pretend they don't care, and then when asked why they won't go out with someone, they'll give bullshit answers: "She's not my type," (how can you have a type if you won't acknowledge your types?) or "I'm going to become a monk and have taken a vow of celibacy." Which is pure bullshit for someone who's 17. I can't believe I fell for it.

You know what? Stop telling me it's not about body size for you. Stop that line. Stop telling me that you care much more about personality, because it's obviously not true: I've been single for four years and you apparently like my personality enough to be my friend, but not my S.O. Tell you what: for once, be fucking honest, and maybe when I see you act differently, I'll consider believing the mind/matter line.

But for now, don't even fucking bother.

All of this Past

Found this delightful bit of writing at this site (courtesy Vox Humana):

Dear Mr. President,

It has come to our attention that, due to a prolonged period of rather adverse weather conditions which has now abated, the United States currently has much of our soil piled up on top of it. Granted, this did not happen during your administration, nor did it, as far as we can determine, happen during anyone's administration. We therefore hold you blameless in this matter.

We would, however, like to have all of it back. This would include silt, sand, gravel, miscellaneous pieces of rock, and, of course, the topsoil. You need not return the groundwater because we do have plenty of that up here, but also to spare you the difficulty of trying to send drippy packages through the mail. Regular post would be fine, but FedEx would be splendid and also go a long way toward repairing your rather sad reputation up here.

Thank you for your immediate attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
The People of Canada

---

Corpse At The Gym

I have never felt so dead inside in my entire life. I feel a great aversion to doing anything that requires emotional energy. However, working out at the gym is fine. When people ask me how I'm doing, I want to say, "I died two weeks ago. How are you?"

There are times when it hits me and I start sobbing uncontrollably for a minute or so before I slap myself and say, "Dude, you're driving. Get a grip!" I have started keeping a box of tissues in my car for this very purpose.

And I think I've lost my...caring for things. If I ask a friend to hang out with me and s/he says no, I'm busy, then I really could care less. I go and do something else. It's not loneliness. It's almost like the loneliness is my comfort as much as the company is.

I don't feel like talking. Silence took my voice. And it's not like the previous 'no talking' bouts I've had. This time I /really/ don't feel like it. So I don't.

I suppose people think I've fallen into a dislike of them. This isn't true.

I just....

I need some time. That's all.

And at the same time I feel like that time that I need will never ever be enough. That no matter what I do, this pain will not ease. This grief will not dissipate.

When I went to go see her, I kept on expecting her to wake up. I expected her eyes to open and see me, and I expected her to smile. I thought my wonderful wolffy dog would return to me.

And even now, I find myself thinking that I should have tried to reach her. That I should have tried to bring her back.

This is how I know that I walk the borders of the Twisted Kingdom. Gray shapes make up my world. I don't know where reality begins or ends.

There is a big, gaping hole in my heart. I can feel her not being there as sharply as I felt her presence when she was alive.

The night before I left Guatemala there was a documentary on a wolf pack on tv, dubbed in Spanish. I couldn't watch it.

Revelations 22:20

PARENTS LIE.

YAY I AM NOT DEAD ON BD!!!!!!!11111oneoneoneeleven

I met people who think like I do: 'fucking Christians' and 'fucking Texans'.

Which is unfair, because I know Christians who are really cool and I know Texans who are really cool and I know Christian Texans who are really cool, so I know that it's just a stereotype and I'm generalizing.

But then I think of raptureready.com, and I cringe at the utter....there's not even a word for it.

Then I think of my dad, who's not even from Texas originally but lived there long enough to /be/ Texan (yes, he does have a gun--3 of them).

And then I think of Bush.

And I realize, generalization or not, there is a Christian Texan in charge of this fucking country--a Rapture-believing, Christian Texan. Who thinks that God wanted him to be President.

Well, you know, God also wanted us to "Love Thy Neighbor", but SORRY CANADA AND MEXICO! And also, God said "Thou Shalt Not Kill, unless you need their oil, in which case bomb the fuckers." Yes. That was in the Gospel of Bullshit.

I'd say we're going to Hell in a Handbasket, except for two things:
1) The Handbasket is broken down--terrorist bombs, you know;

and

2) Hell is my home, it's nice, and where we're going is much, much worse.

One Winged Angel, full version

I need a new mp3 player. mine sucks.

If you read yesterday's entry, don't think I'm being shallow and immaterial and not thinking of my dog. If i think of Blue any more, I'll cry. and it'll be fucking Niagra Falls. I can't afford that yet. Not until I have someone to hold me while I cry, and that's not forthcoming here. So I have to hold in the grief and rage for 8 or so days, until I get home, and be happy and smiley in the meantime. Because it depresses people when they ask how I'm doing and I say "My dog died on Friday." When I really want to say "My daugther died on Friday," because that is what Blue was to me, but that would attract unwanted attention and questions.

I'm so fucking fed up with people's sympathy. I want someone to hold me. For as long as I need it.

Only one person has ever done that for me (though I'm sure, if given the opportunity, others might), and I might get to see him as I pass through LA. If you pray at all for me, then pray that I get to see him and ease my heart's anguish. Don't give me your sympathy. Empathy I'll take. Sympathy I can't stand.

And while you're at it, give a kick to God's corpse for me. She's fucking dead as far as I can see.

I am so done

This is it. God has had my soul on slow-cook for years, and I'm finally fucking done. Ready to be served up when Lucifer comes over for tea tomorrow.

Fuck you God. Fuck you and your whole holier-than-thou posse.

Was eleven days too long for your great fucking omnipotence? Was it? You couldn't make my wonderful canine companion's kidneys hold out the eleven days it would take me to get home? Was that too much for your little hands of doom and greatness? Could handle creating the fucking universe but not keeping Blue healthy long enough for me to see her one last fucking time?

Blue was all that mattered to me. Through thick and thin, when the going got tough I was able to keep my faith in You, God, because Blue was with me. Even when I was close to losing it all--her smiling furry face was there to remind me that You existed, and that You loved me.

I knew it was her time. How could I not, between her back breaking and her heart failing and her energy dropping like a lead balloon? I knew. But I hoped that you would love me enough to let me be with her. To be with someone, not all alone in Guatemala. You couldn't even let it happen before mom left. You had to be completely sure that I had no one to hold me as I cried and cried and cried until the 98% water that makes up my body was gone. You had to be sure that she wouldn't survive my abscence, even after I decided to come home a month early, and you had to be sure that I would be alone in my grief and anger.

Whatever trust I might have placed in you is gone. FUCK YOU. Fuck you god. You fuck and you fuck and you fuck with people until they can't take it any more and turn to drugs and alcohol and theatre.

Oh, gee--just when I decided to quit those three, just when I thought my life was picking up--sure, there's no money and I'm still fat as fucking hell, but life was getting steadily better and had been stable for months--no suicide attempts in weeks! Big fucking improvement, don't you think?--then, then you had to do this. And not even the fucking courtesy of letting Mom be with her. Mom was in LA.

Do you even care? Or notice? Too busy searching the divinenet with yahweh! to make her last 11 more days? Her spirit would have held out--it wasn't a broken heart she died of. It was her fucking kidneys that gave out.

But I suppose your Sniper Rifle takes up a lot of energy.

That's it. I'm done. The only angel I believe in now is One Winged...and I have a lot to learn from Sephiroth's anger.

Know that my anger is great...and I shall strike down all in my path with a great and terrible vengenance.

...a short word from our sponsor

*the Goddess steps up to the microphone*

Ahem.

Hello everybody. Enjoying yourselves? Good.

I would like to say a few short words on those things called 'periods'.

*She clears Her throat, then speaks in Her patented Awesome Voice®*

WOMEN BLEED. DEAL WITH IT.

Thank you.

*She steps down from the microphone*

*EV steps up*

Thanks Mom!

*turns to audience*

Now, that's something that has much more meaning coming from the Mother.

Happy June, everybody!

Epiphany Time!

I've come to the [shocking] realization that food is evil. It's full of these really unhealthy things called 'calories'. And some foods are your death-knell, if you are of a certain bloodtype.

Wheat, dairy, and sugar--oh my! Wheat, dairy, and sugar--oh my!

They've come to take my muscle and give me fat! They've come to cover what should be the body beautiful with unhealthy obesity! They are the bane to the huntress, to my very existence!

Take them away! Do away with them! Kill them! Boil them, mash them, stick'em in a stew!

Don't let them take my muscles!

And here in lies the problem. I love wheat, dairy, and sugar. Mmm....crackers. Mmmm....ice cream. Mmmmm....brownies. Which is bad for someone who's lactose intolerant. Actually, most humans are lactose intolerant. We're not supposed to have dairy after age 2. We ignore it. Just as I have ignored it, lo, these many years. But no more! I feel like shit every time I eat these things that are bad for O blood-types. And great every time I do what the book suggests. Ergo, there must be something to this diet. For me, at least. Not all diets work for all people. But I'm thinking this one is the way to go.

So I must be strict with myself. I must say "NO!" to wheat, dairy, and sugar! No to bloating, no to severe muscular pain, no to premature diabetes, no to premature arthritis! No more shall I gain weight because of my eating habits! No more! No more shall I eat to relieve stress! No more! No more shall I skimp out on going to the gym 7x/wk, or to the chiropractor 3x/wk! No more! And no more shall I let myself be bogged down by peer pressure! No more!

*takes a deep breath; calms down*

Do you have any idea how hard this is to accomplish when you work in a pizza parlor?



~FIN~

Moonlight Sonata [First Movement]

This has to be my favorite piece from Beethoven. It is so hauntingly gorgeous. I want to die to this music. This is music to die to. Quietly passionate, sensual, insistent...heart-rending. Everything a good death-scene needs. Being an actress in every thing I do, every word I speak, every step I make--I make each scene of my life an Oscar-worthy performance, something to entertain the masses. My death scene shall be spectacular. I should like to die like the Diva Plavalaguna--at the climax of my greatest role, closing night, as I'm taking my bows---BANG! BANG! Two gunshot wounds, in my torso, hitting some vital organs. Moonlight Sonata plays as the audience exits, quietly masking the screams of fear and confusion: Am I next? Why her? She was at the peak of her career! Are they coming for me are they coming for mearetheycomingforme..... I am still standing. The pain is great, but I am transfixed by the blood on my hands. I hold my hands up, out, for all to see, and slowly fall backwards. My leading man catches me and lowers me gently to the ground. He is panicking. EV, he says, finding some cloth to hold against me, to stop the blood that has begun to spill across the stage, EV, it's alright. We'll call the ambulance, we'll get help. You won't die. I smile peacefully, say nothing. He does not understand. I can feel the darkness on the edges of me, waiting to lap me up, to take me Home. He is upset...I wish to comfort him in some way--can he not see that it is my time, that I am ready to let Her take me? That it is alright with me--I have lived a good life. I have raised children. I have had a career that pleases me. I have healed and been healed. I have loved and been loved. Life has been good...and life must end. Now I must go Home, to Her, to Him. To the Mother, to the Father--finally I can be at peace for a while. I reach a hand up to caress his face, to let him know that it's alright. Crimson streaks across his face as my hand falls. He grabs it, holds it. You're not going to die. I'm not going to let you. I squeeze his hand, smile, and fall backwards into the abyss.

I can smell hyacinth and rose...and I can tell I'm going home.

Liberi Fatali [Parade Vers]

There are ants in my computer. When I type, they come out of the keyboard and then we play a game of HULK SMASH SMALL INSIGNIFICANT INSECTS. It's a fun game. I think they like it, but after playing one round they're too tired to play another.

Come What May

I'm tired of taking shit from people. From now on I'm acting like the Queen I am. I have a Court, I'm gonna rule it. And that's that. In my Court, my word is law. In my life, my word is law. No one rules me. I rule myself. And I take care of myself and my subjects as best I can. I don't want people to save me from myself, I don't want well-meaning friends to interfere in what they may think is unhealthy, and I certainly don't want people telling me what I can and cannot do. I am Queen. I can do what I damn well please. Like it or not, things go my way--no highway option. And my way means the way that is best in the long run--that is best for all around. It means compromise, not catering to one or two influential and whiny courtiers. Deal.

Not-a-Note

I give up. I just give up.

You have a life. I understand that.

You have a life other than me. I understand that too.

And you have a job. That is what I'm having trouble grasping.

I guess I just have to get used to the fact that I'm not worth your time. And I'm sorry for thinking that I was.

Don't think that I'm writing this because I want you to apologize, or change in any way. I don't. I'm just letting you know that I'm sorry for being such a bitch about what is, essentially, your life, and that I'll stop now.

Don't bother trying to include me, because I know you're doing it only to be polite. I can take a hint. I'm not worth your time. I'm sorry for thinking I was that important.

Raid

Fucking philosophers! They breed like cockaroaches.

"OH, you're a plumber. What on earth is that?"

At this point, sleep would be good.

Prince

Ashen's computer is a monkey. And she's ripped out my tongue and is beating me to death with it. And she just shoved an Aleve pill in her ear and it got stuck. And now it's sitting on my carpet covered in ear wax.

I love my family.

from the tshirthell newsletter...

Prince Charles got married this weekend to his long time mistress Camilla Parker Bowles. There has been no official word on whether or not the Prince of Wales will stop having relations with the decaying remains of Princess Di, which are still hotter than his new wife.

Napalm and Silly Putty

You know what's been really fun ever since I got my nose piercing?

Sneezing.

Yeah. I can attack people to my right now.

Because life is all about balance

I'm really not in the mood to post, but it's not really fair to you guys to leave you hanging on the sordid details of my fucked-up life.

Blue, my wolf-husky companion, and the only person who's made me happy in my life, with whom I've spent the best moments of my life, who kept me going during my 9-year suicidal depression, came down with congestive heart failure yesterday afternoon. Mom came home to her new place after we'd spent a few hours cleaning out the old house to find Blue seizing on the floor. She'd soiled herself, which she would /never/ do under normal circumstances. Mom literally flung the first few boxes she saw out of the truck and carried Blue downstairs with the help of a neighbor and rushed her to the vet. She called me on the way over so I heard most of the details. The vet was closed and she was going to try the other vet across town but made the better decision of knocking anyway on this vet's door. He was still there and they started giving emergency treatment to Blue.

Mom hung up at about that point and said she would come get me in a while if Blue stabilized. I started sobbing and did so for the next hour or so. Ross was home and he comforted me as best he could, but there's really no comfort for something like this. When I got to the vet's and talked to him, he said that Blue had been dead, basically, when she'd gotten there. He brought her back from the dead and if Mom had been 2 minutes later he wouldn't have been able to.

I spent some time with her, as much as I could. She was happy to see us. She's still at the vet's. She still has a 10-15% chance of living, though she was doing much better this morning.

Lacking any other way to deal with this grief that has landed in my lap, I got suitably drunk last night, and was suitably hungover for all of today.

For those of you who don't know how deeply I feel for my canine companion of 12 years, let me put it in a sentence: if she dies, so do I.

Of course I realize that she's a dog, and that she doesn't live as long as humans do. Of course I fucking realize that. I've only lived in the presence of dogs/wolves since before birth--I've only been raised by a woman who's spent at least the past 30 years raising litters of dogs, who's told me the stories of how she cried when Amaruq was brutally murdered. Of course I fucking know.

It doesn't make it any easier to deal with, and no--I'm not being fucking melodramatic. If Blue dies, so do I. I die inside. My physical body will keep going through inertia. I will be a husk.

Think what you want. It may not be the end of anyone else's world but it's the end of mine. Blue is my world. I love her more than I love life itself. She has always been there for me and she has always fucking accepted me. She has never turned away from me because I'm me. She has never turned away from me because I was being a real bitch. She has always known me to be her mistress, her junior pack leader, and she has always, always loved me. And I have always loved her, from the moment she came into my life. She has kept my sanity. She has kept my heart safe. She has made sure that I can still love.

Without her, life is meaningless.

Anticipate

It's this constant cycle of creation and destruction that goes on for eternity. But it's ok, because only the finite is destroyed and the infinite preserved because this is all just physical. My roommate and I started getting existential today with the theory of evolution and the big bang theory and stuff. He says that our current big bang is just one of many, and that at the end, when the universe stops expanding it will reset itself and everything will start over again. My theory is that the universe is a force, maybe conscious, and that that force is divine, and that the big bangs are like yawns or something, and really it's not god but that's the name we've given it so we might as well stick with it. So who is god? We are god. We, collectively, form this consciousness on a higher level and that is the god of our dreams. This god is powered from the Source, or the Universe--the Divine All that runs throughout every living thing. So are there other worlds out there, with life that's similar to ours? Maybe not similar---but not completely different either. Or maybe we're completely alone in this universe, and maybe everything that we do, even if it's remembered in the history of Earth, will never ever matter because the universe will just reset itself and new Earths will form in the new universe with new humans. But maybe something will remain--if not written records, than artifacts: cds, laptops, lightbulbs. Whatever. But this made me think----no matter how big I get as a filmmaker, no matter how many novels I write, no matter how many degrees I get, no one but the people in this universe will know that---will remember me. And speaking as someone who seeks a little recognition (not mega-amounts, but a little), that's a scary thought.

But you know, we never brought talk of the afterlife into this. What if the afterlife, the summerland, the whateveryouwanttocallit, exists outside our universe---maybe floating just outside the gates or maybe in its own universe that won't reset? So even if this Universe does reset, we won't, because our souls will remain in the afterlife. But what happens to those who are in earthly incarnations when the universe does reset? Where do their souls go? Are they lost? Do they remain to be the first souls born into the new universe? Do they become something else entirely? What happens? And this force, this Divine All--did it create the afterlife too, so that we can live on in some respect?

I don't know the answers to any of this. It's all speculation. And if we're going to refer to age in relation to the amount of big bangs there have been, then I'm not that old of a soul either---only 74 incarnations. That fits into this Earth's lifetime (and maybe other planets as well).