You're amazing, but...

When I stop being completely drowned in my own drama and egotism for even one minute I begin descrying that my friends are pretty insightful. It's because I chose them so, of course. [Or who knows, karma] No, actually, I've selected this immediate explanation in order to prove a point, namely that I am no good at paying compliments to people. Fact that was recently brought to my attention by one of my insightful friends, whom, of course, I chose so.

I was analyzing my socially autistic heart recently, and I guess this extremely circumscribed affinity to uttering my inside stormy weather has an army of siblings, which come as a full package and reunite like a numerous family around a dinner table, during some random occasion. Where they do not share anything but food and awkward silence, but they are forced to comply to a socially natural behaviour. Strange i should go for this allegory, but this must be it, my being incapacitated to say nice things to people and to praise them accordingly to their merits, the young moody teenage sister of my autistic heart.

So take this, I cannot go the extra cutesy mile and pay a beautiful compliment. And it's not even the fact that I never say nice things to people, maybe that'd be better, sometimes silence is the true philosopher's stone. It's my twisted way of pouring a bucket of irony or bitterness right on the top of my recently spoken honest compliment. Or the way I make it all about myself in the blink of an eye, without giving the poor commendation the slightest break to breathe or to be. It's the way I seldom choose to say "That's great" instead of "That's not bad".

Who knows where this handicap finds its roots. Might be in my endless insecurities, or in the way I was brought up, silently advised that showing people how valuable they're to you puts you in a vulnerable position. Might be just a tint of arrogance, of course pairing flawlessly with the aforementioned insecurities, which enables me to think that anything one can do I can do better, or at least I can top them with some other compensatory quality, however unrelated that might appear. And obviously, if I am worthy of all those compliments myself, why bother praise the others.

Wherever this comes from, my compliment aversion can be summed up perfectly using the worst break up line ever. It's not you, it's me. You are all amazing. But...

Later edit: here's some musical background also, don't exactly know what it has to do, but since I've been talking about my farfetched momentarily superiority...it's 'cause I feel like I'm the worst that I always act like I'm the best.

Sundays I go crazy, this one too

It's like a hungry revolting monster eats me up every Sunday morning. I wake up wanting to act normal, well, at least the normal I used myself to, but I somehow slip into the crazy Sunday mood. Not quite sure what influences me to embrace this socially unacceptable conduct, it's not like every Saturday night I get stepped over and soul-absorbed by a thousand people trying to attend an overrated event or, oppositely, I feel randomly ignored. It was a mere happening that those should happen this Saturday, so it might explain today's partial Sunday fail, but what do we do about the rest? Because trust me, I am to be reckoned with in this holy day of the week, I wish I found a way I were not.

Somewhat helpful for the Sunday social monster was tonight's outing. We went to see Shorts Up via London in a newly opened location, some sort of an industrial space, overestimated, from my humble perspective. The course of events was rather acceptable, starting with a concert of Moonlight Breakfast, a fresh young band, whose lead singer seemed quite stoned to me. Their music is bearable though, I most definitely recommend it for steamy circumstances, for those who experience them, more or less. 

What followed was a number of short British movies, 5 to 15 minutes, which carried my mind and feelings through a rollercoaster. The journey started literally up with a "lift story", which I guess wanted to have a profound strike, but I had not achieved the right cultural status yet, so what I perceived was a bunch of people going in and out of an elevator and interacting at a superficial level. Meh, it worked though, superficial can be my thing. What followed was a rather disturbing tale from a sperm bank, which beyond the trivial and somewhat kinky cover up, I suppose was a pointer to how selfish and crazy can loneliness make human beings. But then again, who is not crazy and selfish may throw the first stone. Then an amusing alter ego story, about how can one take in one's dark side and learn to live with the horrible feelings and cravings that eat one's inside up. Rather appropriate story for my Sunday mood swings. Then Nolan's short up about a bug, from what I concluded a cinematographic interpretation of Kafka's metamorphosis, which I unfortunately missed while trying out the eco restrooms. Last but not least there was Stanley Pickle's story, which ruined everything I had been striving to build up with British muffins, Grolsch and enjoyable trivial little movies. The maximum level of sadness wrapped up in a toy story, with piglet sweaters, green fields and purple ribbons. Which brought me back exactly to the state I started the morning with, outmost heartly autism. We left before the bald lady sang, otherwise who knows what would have become of us. And who else to attend to the more earthly tasks Sunday evening brings about. All in all, I survived another week end without stewing someone, be it myself, which is great. And there's even more silver lining to the current situation. Tomorrow's Monday, so, good news, it cannot possibly get worse. 

Meanwhile, chop chop with your eyes wide open the delicious butter cream muffins, and forgive my crazy Sundays.

Later edit: A-ye, I shook out my stone age and discovered how to add videos, so here's also a sample of the Moonlight breakfast, a song so true it hurts.

To you,courtesy of my autistic heart

Every long road or emotional rollercoaster begs for a corny wrap up. Even if measured in miles or years, smiles or fears, and by no means is this a Shakespearean endeavor, every now and then during such a journey there's no harm in peeking on the agenda of our first world tormented hearts. And today, while loving windmills and being weird ‘cause I hate goodbyes, what harm in x-raying the intricate curricula of my own little black autistic heart. I'm naming it so, and by no means shall I apologize, not after what it's making me go through. While I'm a strong believer in the supremacy mind over heart, and I'm seriously striving to force my feet on the ground so as to not become a complete model of silliness, there's times when the wise brain girl falls short, suppressed by the stupid heart girl. Those times, despite of my easiness to speak my mind, which is apparent, my heart is just a dreamy version of a stammered dork, which refuses to be spoken out. By now I've learnt exactly how this goes, I know what moodiness to expect and just how long it takes my brain to turn on its self defense facilities and kick the little bitch's arse. But those of you who both matter and are around to witness the transitory frustrations, superficiality, coarseness, bipolarity or obnoxious silence, would you be so kind  as to grant me the temporary insanity clause, based on my brazen heart's starlet appearance. Like, those times when I choose to have one too many or one too little emotions, to be oversensitive or insensitive right at the wrong moment. Or, when I refuse to talk about important stuff but pour instead a huge pile of trivia in what I  find to be an empty conversation slot. Or when I get too upset and decide to run and hide, I swear it is just to come back lighter and giving more. How about when I say too much of the things you don't feel comfortable hearing, just for my own twisted momentary amusement. Or when it's impossible for me to bluntly say "I'm sorry" or "I love you", when I emote those a little bit too much even for my brain to cope. So bear with me, if I go crazy for a slight moment, get bitter on your watch, or give you the salad or nail polish talk. It doesn't mean I love you less; it's just my being uneasy with my autistic heart.

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