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1:56 pm | 17 August 2003 | tooting horns at wonderwalls

I become increasingly aware of people in my age bracket (let's say 22-30, psychologically, although this is certainly not exclusive) who suffer from what i have dubbed Wonderwall Syndrome--yes, derived from the Oasis tune of the same name; in particular, the following nearly-universally-known lyrics:

(in nasal ladsome whinge) Maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You're my wonderwall
Now, even the Bros Gallagherazov have admitted not knowing exactly what a "wonderwall" is, or to what it refers. But let's not quibble over deliberately obtuse Beatles-mongering psychedelia, when it's the first part of the chorus that concerns me. I know SO MANY people--so, so many--who labour on under the misguided belief that there's a magical (or "magickal," if you're Wiccan) someone out there who will "save" them--either in the sense of redemption, which also posits a possible "losing" (even outside of the Judeo-Christian model)--or in the sense of "fix/make better/compensate for everything that is wrong with me/my life/my upbringing." This, my friends, is bullshit.

I'm not gonna go off on some Reality Bites-style "the world don't owe you shit" rant, although this is exactly what i mean. The dominant victim culture would have us believe we're all horribly mistreated-- by The Man, by Our Parents, by The World At Large. I have had friends say, "Chicago hasn't been good to me." Well, honey, "Chicago" isn't good to anyone. Because it's a CITY. It's not like some places are Mother Teresa (with reps waiting at the Tourism Office with loaves and cool cloths with which to swab your brow) and others are Ike Turner (all backhanding you in morning traffic and by noon being all "I'm sorry, baby, won't you please come back to me. It's just that the DWP has got me down. It won't happen again." Whack!) and it's a random lottery as to how well/poorly a city treats you. Life isn't here to make us comfortable. Happiness is not a "due to" concept; it's an "in spite of" type deal. Rising above adversity, etc.

It's much like cleaning your house, actually. It's not as though, once you've cleaned thoroughly, your house reaches this point of Permanent Clean Stasis, no. Every day dirt, clutter, and crap (including ample amounts of dog hair, for some of us) accumulate, requiring touch-ups and intermittent deep-cleaning. How frequently you clean is a personal choice; my very ADD/OCD stepmom was practically born with a prosthetic Swiffer limb. I, lackadaisical, lazy, and depressed, tend to clean only once every week or so. And life: it's the same deal. We catch ourselves being happy, but we have to keep working at it. The depth and breadth of our labor is a personal choice, true, but necessary. And so it goes with relationships.

Which brings me, meanderingly, to my final point (i am typing this stream-of-consciousness style on my friend's computer, and so this may not be arranged well. Tant pis, dudes). Thinking that finding The One means that the Happy Switch is gonna be flipped is foolish, retarded thinking. Ladies, gents, those of you who identify with neither gender: if you think you're gonna someday meet Mr./Ms./Genderless Wonderful, and at that moment the heavens will pour mucilage and Bondo down onto the cracks in your life, you're in for a letdown. If you have issues with your family, resolve them yourself. Resolve them with your family, or accept that they might not ever get fixed--really accept it--and move the fuck on. Figure your shit out. Because being in a relationship is not the whole "two halves finding each other and becoming whole" rigamarole we are led to believe. Rather, it's bringing together, say, two machines, and hopefully together you can create something greater than yourselves. Like those mini-volcanoes you'd get in cereal boxes--pack the top with baking soda and dribble lemon juice or vinegar inside, and voila! it erupts. Now if (in this analogy) one of you is baking soda, and the other is vinegar that's gone bad, that shit might not erupt. This analogy is crap. Okay, maybe it's like a three-legged race: if only one person is capable of walking, but the other has two broken ankles, there will be no victory, 'cause Captain Wonderwall is going to have to carry your crippled ass the whole way, and unless you're dating Jesus, "one set of footsteps" equals "a whole lotta unresolvedness." This analogy, too, is crap. Whatever. Alls i'm saying is: Be whole. Take care of yo' shit. Be ready to bring as much as you can to the table, so when you do meet that person, ain't no saving needed, and you two can ride off into the sunset together, sweet as honey-roasted ninjas. clm.


I generally refrain from being one of those people who's like "so-and-so found my diary by searching for panties! giggle!!" or whatever, but someone got here by looking for "how to kill with your hands," which is creeping me out a little bit. Not that i don't know how to kill with my hands--indeed, i may be forced to employ that skill in the coming weeks--but, my little misguided teens, go get yr kicks on a different '66, okay? I got work to do.

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