ImaginaSean

Sean Berry's Thoughts on The Human Mind, Behavior, Movies, Video Games, Television, Technology, Internet, Culture, and Everything Else In Between

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Glamour

Posted by Mandylady303 on October 20, 2010 at 1:51 AM Comments comments (2)

So today I’m waiting for my tire to get plugged at the local tire store and I see a Glamour magazine. For giggles I pick it up. I’m not saying I never read these magazines if I am in said situation, but I will NEVER subscribe to a magazine that tells me what an ideal woman is. A magazine. Really. Are you kidding me? I feel like popular culture, style, the what’s going on in Hollywood crap, is ridiculous. I’m not saying it should be ignored, well on some levels I’m saying this, but regardless, it should not be followed.     

    To put so much stock in what’s what and whose who is down right stupid. Who gives a shit what Angelina Jolie wore on Grammy night. Are you going to be able to afford the Emerald earrings and Emerald ring she wore? No. So don’t even try. We all know it’s not real. And plus, drug addiction, possible incestual relations, a lot of bad decisions and millions of dollars made that woman. I don’t want that life. Therefore, I don’t want to dress like I live it.

    Who am I kidding? It would be fantastic to be rich and be able to travel the world and help people and adopt babies from other countries and fly jets and have the shoes and the hair, and wait, no. I don’t want that. I do not want the Paparazzi encircling me. Screw that. I am envious of the wealth and the ability to pretty much have whatever you want. But I want to be able to do that without all the pressure. Where is the magazine that shows me how to be that woman?

    Where are the articles that tell you how to be a self made millionaire without sub coming to some physical representation for all woman kind? Is that in Oprah magazine? I mean really, GLAMOUR. Give me a break. I guess there should be a magazine like that, as a sort of study guide for all the misguided nit wits. It’s just ridiculous. It’s geared towards teenagers who have money and can spend it whatever is in the magazine. Then we have shows like Orange County Housewives. I think that’s what I’m really mad about. These people live on a completely different planet. It’s gated for god’s sake. The gates to heaven. What the hell. I am watching this today on my free TV, it’s a rerun and honestly, it’s like a train wreck. I have to watch it. I can not believe how out of touch they are. This one chick is getting married and she is asking her 21 year old daughter, who has never left home, if she will be her bridesmaid. She tells her she needs to send out invitations, and the daughter says: “Um Mom, I have that really stringy nasty handwriting you know.” Mom says “Well honey, use cursive.” Daughter and I swear to god she says this “Uhhhh maaaaaaaaauuummmm. I don’t know how to do cursive, remember?”

    Are you kidding me? I bet she has a subscription to Glamour magazine. And what pisses me off is that bitch drives a Mercedes and wants to upgrade to a BMW. Really. Nice. So very nice. Where’s my fucking bailout. I thought, for sure, being able to write cursive was just a fucking given. Now I know that it is the difference between Beemer and Ford Ranger.

 


Common Courtesy by Amanda Edwards

Posted by sean berry on October 8, 2010 at 8:27 AM Comments comments (0)

Common courtesy. A term I will dub the double C. I was recently privy to the lack of it in the dating world. Apparently people no longer have closure conversations. The lack of nobility in people has weakened to the point of collapse. My take on it is technology mixed with egoism. It’s what’s best for me, and if it doesn’t suit you, then fuck you. I don’t give a shit if you like it or not. It’s my way or the highway and I don’t have to explain a shit to you Lucy.

     

Maybe I misread the latest dating code of phase out. The last conversation that feels kinda awkward and forced and ends with well I gotta run, bye is apparently the I don’t want to see you anymore. I mean it’s obvious that you don’t because you have failed to return my calls, or called on your own behalf. And right there I sound like obsessed bitch. Maybe, but not the case on this one. The obsession now is why did you just quit talking to me.

  

Do I not deserve an explanation or a FUCK YOU send off of some sort? I mean bring it bro. I’ve heard it all. Trust me. My first real sustainable relationship ended with the realization that my boyfriend was gay. You got it. GAY and PROUD. I love it now, but at the time, it was devastating.Wow, I must have really sucked in bed. What the hell.

  

Moving on, I’ve been left for drugs, caught cheaters, dated a pedophile (unknowingly) and the big kicker, my last love, well he got married to someone else. “Oh I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone.” Ya, so please, an explanation would be awesome. It would set my mind at ease. At least all the assholes in my past were decent enough to face me and have a final fuck you send off. Where’s my fucking send off. Instead I get silence. Nice. Thanks. I really appreciate how you so gracefully bowed out.

   

Is it too much to ask? The unknowing is insatiable. TheDouble C has left the building. No longer is it necessary to explain ones actions. Is this a trend or just an asshole?


Rants and Raves by Amanda Edwards

Posted by sean berry on October 8, 2010 at 8:19 AM Comments comments (0)

I just got to get it out. Can't stop turning shit over in my head. My energetic thoughtful nature is stifled in a realm of Christian holistic morals that are shoved in my face as a daily reminder that freedom of speech is much over rated.

 

The offensive of the massive supports a lifestyle that has never been a goal of mine when I think back to those days of making goals. The days when my mom got me a Franklin Covey Planner and organizer. In the back was a section for goals over a one year period with monthly, weekly, and daily sections to help execute the goal.Fevericiously I would write in a goal of a painting series, of a grade accomplishment, of an exercise regiment and diet. And always in the margins would be poems and drawings, writings, teachings and urgings of how to accomplish the goal and to truly see it through.

 And never, anywhere, was there a goal of marriage or family. Always something far beyond and such a big dream, that as an adult, I am afraid of it. As a youth, It drove my being with it. This was my pilot, my cabbie, my “to the bat cave Alfred” of my everything. I envisioned a fantastic life that involved art and travel, culture, language. Isn’t that what we live for? Isn’t that what we die for, for the sake of living? How can I mourn a life I’ve never lived?


And now, in the mundane, the stable, the I have a job, car, house, bills, education etc, I am uncomfortable because I do not fit into to the family establishment. The nuclear family is dead, as it should be. We gather our family through other means. We pick up people along the way, and if they earn our trust, we call them family. The idea in the Ozarks is tradition. The tradition is endearing, and deadly. Deadly to someone who is undefined and trying to sculpt themselves into a comfortable life. The predominant feature here is that a woman’s value is in her motherhood. A man is only as good as the woman he is with. The children are a reflection on how the parents did and what the worth of them is in society is based on these facts.


When you do not subscribe to the norm, people are confused and there is this innate pressure to coax friends into dating and settling down with a nice someone who really cares for you…oh yeah, my list is so much longer than that. The list I so lovingly entitled the RED LIST as in RED FLAG list. Everyone has to come up with their own. Its based mostly on bad experiences and things that I think inherently make a relationship go sour real quick.

 

For example, Guy goes out with buddies and meets girl at bar who is partying with her friends. Guy and girl go to bar to get drinks and conversation goes a little like this:

 

Man: Great music tonight right?

Woman: Ya, you know my three girls love dancing to this at 3 in the morning when I get home drunk!

M: I’m sorry how many kids did you say?

W: Three girls, they love it, they wanna be just like mommy

M: Ya ok, what you drinking?

W: Rum and Coke, I’m still breast feeding so I don’t wanna get the baby too drunk

 

Ok Hold the F*** on. If you didn’t see red flags then you are probably a tarp of red flags, or my story eludes you. This is a potentially dangerous situation. I’m just saying. We all know that this is not going to end good. But there are the matters of the heart and the peer pressure mention earlier. On the other side of the bar are his buddies and their conversation is going a little like this.


Dude: Bro man, look at my dog yo, he is bought to hit it wit dis chic man!

Bro: dude, No way. She’s got like 5 kids or something tho

D: Ya bro, but you kno, he’s all single and lonely an shit. He needs to get laid. It don’t matter where it comes from.

Bro: Ya dude true


And there you have it America, Another child born to ridiculous parents who have nothing better to do than consume with the masses, and perpetuate a life of bullshit, backward asspoor minded folk. I’m sorry but I am so not about that. Call me a snob, call me educated, call me liberated because I wanted more out of my life than this. And maybe I have to reject this life, this ideal in order to justify why I am alone, and why I have not met my match, my mate and have not been impregnated and made to fulfill my womanly duty as a Christian fairing framed martyr for a culture that gets off on oppression. I am done with this way of life.


The dreams and goals of my planners of years of introspective thought and an overwhelming drive to create have flooded my heart again. Now I can breath under this water. I can feel this energy of creativity beginning to flow in me. It is ok for me to reject and react. I am not afraid of being alone and rejected because I am alone and selected. I elect myself to create again. To hold onto my ideals and to not be made to feel inferior because I do not conform.