It's Not My Party

Parties have always seemed odd to me. Whenever I inform someone that I am going to a party, there is always an awkwardness involved, that the whole notion of me at a shindig is silly. I have known the reason for a bit, but have resisted it, hoping that it was just residual shyness. The truth is, though, I am out of my element at these occasions. The only parties I have really enjoyed are the ones where I'm drunk, either actually or, by happenstance, in a state similar to it. This, to me, is no way to have a good time; perhaps a fun time, but that isn't necessarily the same.

I do not synch well with the conversation; I'm usually not a fan of the music; the food is redundant (oh, a vegetable platter, how wonderful); if there are games or a video, there is usually too much outside chatter (I like to focus on the fun at hand, with only the occasional remark). Essentially, I feel that there is a running joke whose beginning I missed, and it would be fruitless for me to catch up. I am never more alienated than when amongst a group, and the larger the group the more pronounced it becomes. I'm reluctant to make a farewell to parties, but it has become more of an obligation than enjoyment. Thoughts to mull.

Tempus Fugit

Good golly, Miss Molly, it's been a long, long while since last I blogged. Even in my uninteresting life, happenings. . . happen. Just this week I turned twenty-three, proving the Earth still revolves, even if it's not around me. It was a calm birthday; I wore my coat tails for a bit. There was much reflection on the previous year, and it wasn't happy. What wasn't bland was discouraging, and even the good parts were flavored with a manic drive. My love/romantic life is the prime example here. I won't go into details, but some built up steam was released, experience gained, wisdom learned, and the desire for a lasting relationship with a man strengthened. My employed life is another: cashiering at Walmart, part-time, is not the dream, and my desperate attempts at different employment have been miserably unsuccessful. I am in the desert of my life at the moment, and my future self may appreciate it, but the current one occasionally thrashes about at it.

Either that or becomes depressed. I have had plenty of bad days in my life; they come, but then go. Lately, though, I have been having the most severe episodes of what might be manic depression. Just today, up to mid-afternoon, I was feeling rather dapper, then came the question of what should I do next. Within minutes I was a wreck, despondent over doing anything, thinking it fruitless, and so I retired to my bed to embrace Alfred, my stuffed penguin, where I simply allowed myself the time to be miserable. And now I'm okay. This happened last week, though, and I'm worried it may be more than temporary, but it is difficult to tell as, if you return to the above paragraph, I have not had the best year (one of my worst, actually). C'est la vie.

In returning to this blog, I decided to reread all the posts. I stand by everything, mostly, and am relieved that I'm not as stuffy as I feared (perhaps you will differ in opinion). One thing I would like to clarify is my position on God, religion, and the lot. I realized I could seem a strong Christian in much of my writing, but the truth is far more equivocal. Such things are written at a remove from the Real Me, Myself, that is, the person who still isn't quite sure if God is real. They are, instead, written by Christian Hendricks, Artist, who writes from a stance that He exists as a springboard for other matters. The demarcation between the two is blurry, and I find myself frequently taking from both simultaneously.

I think this suffices for the moment, so good night, and I shall try to keep this up.