Just Me and My Ego

 

fullsizeoutput_884.jpeg“Feed me!” growls the beast. It has wielded its way into my being, and taken possession of my soul. Saliva drips from the corner of my mouth and splats upon the ground. The relentless hunger is a gaping hole. It is my appetite for praise and kudos. My Ego has come forth to seek sustenance.

At the height of my feelings of unworthiness, my Ego silently stalks the lives of others with the intent of ripping them apart. It picks at the sore spots and feeds with ravenous vigour on their juicy dramas. The taste of spicy words sits on the edge of my tongue ready to add flavour to the attack. It feels orgasmic to lash out and whip another with snide comments and pointed jabs. Having fully gorged on others supposed delicious failings I suddenly find the monster inside has abated. I realize a self-reset is needed before others are sacrificed on the bloody alter of my ego. Where’s the damn easy button now?

My ego’s massive head whips around in discomfort sensing my lucid thoughts. We are bound together. I am gagged and tied to its bulk. It stomps off with heavy-footed steps foraging ahead in search of people and things to complain about in order revel in their inequities.

The stench of judgement is overwhelming to me. I summon my sharp inner wisdom and manage to wiggle free. I leap in front of my demon-like Ego barring its path of destruction. I stand toe to toe with the creature staring up at this beast of my own making. “Wait!” I scream, and spittle flies from my lips.

Its dreadful gaze full of self-loathing focuses on me. Its low growling tone vibrates inside my chest, “Shut up, you weak snivelling mass of flesh.” It reaches out and snatches me by the throat. It holds me high, and my feet dangle like a clapper in a bell. Its claw tipped fingers squeeze, and I cannot breathe. I stare into the hostile eyes and manage to gasp, “I love you.”

With those words the fingers relax and shame falls away like a shimmering silver shower from the sky. The hideous being shrivels down to the size of me. It blinks with sadness and confusion.

I rub my throat, “It’s okay,” I croak. “ You’ve been infected by others needing you to be this, and needing you to be that. You’ve been listening to the voice in your head telling you you’re not good enough, and you’ll never amount to anything. You need to forget about what anyone else says, or implies, and you most certainly need to stop looking around for others approval. Just be you. Who cares what anyone else thinks.”

My Ego steps away creating a space between us, “Easy for you to say, the only reason I get out of control is because I’m starving. If you would just feed me a little TLC, that’s all I would need to stay satisfied. But no, you ignore my needs. Well, that’s when I fend for myself, I look around to see what’s tasty today.” My Ego said giving a slight shiver. A glassy eyed grin crosses her face. “It’s feels delicious when someone tells me I’m doing a good job.”

I raise my eyebrows, “Yeah? Well that’s the slow start of it.”

My Ego chuckles, “ Mwahahaha, at least it’s not like last time. The last time I went searching for gratification you almost had to buy shelving for everything I bought to fill the hole.”

I scrunch up my face and wipe my brow, “I know, I still have adds in the local Buy and Sell trying to get rid of the stuff. Maybe we could work together next time, and try to get a handle on your feelings before you turn into the Hulk.” I rub my neck feeling the residual tightness in my throat, “ You almost killed me this time.”

My Ego scoffs, “You’re overreacting. If you die, then I die.”

“Well, I feel like I almost died,” I grumble.

My Ego shrugs, “Well then, get a hold of yourself. Any imagined feelings of unworthiness are because of our thought patterns.”

“Yeah, I know,” I answer, “It’s just so easy to forget that long ago when we were born caterwauling to the sky we had everything we needed to succeed within ourselves— we still do.”

“La de da, Miss. Positive pants, get rid of the camel toe and tell me something I don’t know,” My Ego quips twirling like a ballerina on steroids.

I put my hand out against the wall trying to steady the swirling world “I wish you wouldn’t do that. You do realize—” I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut, “this whole talking to my Ego thing could put us in a straight jacket?”

“Does it come in blue?” asks my Ego. “I hope so. It would match my eyes.”

Blade Runner 2049

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A good movie provides entertainment; a great movie inspires internal consideration. My hubby and I went to the movie Blade Runner 2049 last Saturday. We choose to watch it in 3D, and although the glasses are annoying as hell, my eyes eventually adjusted and I was transported into a world of apocalyptic conditions. It is a time of humans and replicants. The replicants are bioengineered humans birthed by technology for the sole purpose to obey and serve. The main character K is a replicant, a Blade Runner for the LAPD who is instructed to hunt down and dispose of older model rogue replicants. As we are swept along into the story it becomes clear that the storyline is more about creation and the rights of self-aware beings. In the midst of the movie we discover life has been created within a replicant through a loving relationship. A baby had been born, and the bioengineered human died in childbirth. The character K is sent to hunt the now grown baby.

The cinematography is nothing short of stunning. The visual effects sweep me into the adventure as though I were in a waking dream, and although I sense the length of the movie I didn’t want it to end. There are a few drawn out scenes with little action, and although I am tethered in an otherworldly state, my hubby begins to snore in the seat beside me. The increasing volume of the chainsaw noise yanks me back into my reality.

Here I sit in an expansive room crowded with rows of tilting chairs filled by strangers wearing unattractive glasses in the dark. A ginormous screen occupies the front wall playing images and there are numerous speakers surrounding the uppermost parts of the room emitting intense sounds. I lift my obnoxious spectacles. I lean over and stare at my hubby entering the thralls of deep snoredom. I poke my chosen mate in the ribs, initially with no response, or so it would seem in the darkened room. I prod him again with my rigid finger for which I receive a glassy glare.

Take my hubbies snore as no reflection on the movie. I myself was in wide-eyed full appreciation of the drama threaded through with wicked stimulation. I thought the cinematographer Rodger Deakins created a work of art as he brought the imaginary world destroyed by war and famine to life. If you care to enhance the experience, please do wear the magical but ugly 3D eyewear and be catapulted into the year 2049.

After we left the movie and acclimated our senses to the present moment we headed downtown to attend an Oilers hockey game. It was a once a year, big night in the city for us. We are confessed Oilers fans but rarely go to a live game. We were looking forward to being part of the crowd and making some noise. We did in the beginning, but it soon became obvious our team had not shown up for the game. It was a snoozer. This time I fell asleep through the show and Rick poked me in the ribs. The final score was the Senators 6 and Oilers 1, it’s no wonder I lost my battle of the yawns.

After our evening out I can honestly say the Canadian, Denis Villeneuve who directed Blade Runner 2049, scored big. The movie was the significant winner of the evening for us despite my partners brief snore. Blade Runner 2049 gets a standing ovation from me, along with the wave, which isn’t very impressive with only one person. It just looks like I’m doing a set of squats. Now go be inspired by an amazing cinematic experience.

Two Years of Trudeau

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My happy go lucky side has been kidnapped. I am held hostage by pissy thoughts and rampaging inner tirades. I started seven different topics to write about this morning, and now I’ve settled on doing something different.

Oh how much do I love the Trudeau government? Let me count the ways. It’s snowing today so I decided to rant in a festive way, a Christmas Carol with a political twist. It’s written to the tune of The Twelve Days of Christmas. Feel free to sing along, and bang on your pots and pans while you still have them.

The Two Years of Trudeau

On the first month of Trudeau,

My P.M sent to me

A ridiculous amount of selfies.

 

On the second month of Trudeau

My P.M sent to me

Crazy looking socks

And a ridiculous amount of selfies

 

Pause/time out. You get the idea. I’ll just go straight into the final verse because nobody needs to sing Trudeau’s name that often.

 

On the umpteenth month of Trudeau,

My P.M sent to me,

An unbalanced budget,

An overwhelming deficit,

A small business tax hike,

Cancelled Eastern pipeline,

Mismanaged carbon tax,

Cash for access fee,

Overpriced security,

Five billion in foreign aid,

Increased CPP,

Pushy elbow gate,

Crazy looking socks,

And a ridiculous amount of selfies.

Welcome to winter, and kiss my plain ordinary black socks Justin. :*

Boundaries

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“I don’t like this hat on. Take it off,” Baby girl asks.                                                                                   

We are not born into this world with our boundaries installed. We develop them along the way. Have you ever been the victim? Would you agree that we’ve all let ourselves feel unworthy through other people’s actions towards us at one time or another? I would go on to say that although it’s difficult to experience, I think it’s enlightening to be pushed into the state of feeling uncomfortable. It forces you to acknowledge where your line of self-respect begins.

I was in Grade four when I began to develop bumps on my chest, the first girl in my class to start to show.At that time I despised being first at anything, unless it was in a buffet line-up. Not only that, but I was a tomboy trying to live up to my Dad’s expectations for never having a boy. Why, oh why, did it have to be me that was the early developer? Wasn’t it enough I was the early riser? Curse you hormones of puberty.

I took up wearing sweaters, the bigger and the baggier, the better. Oh the hell with it, just give me a few sheep to hang off my body.

By grade five it was impossible to hide my femaleness. Lets just say I became a little hefty in the chesty. I hated it. I should have grown modest boobs to match my low-key personality.

Halfway through grade five my bountiful boobs caught the attention of a budding pervert who rode the school bus. He sat kitty corner to me. Most of my friends rode the other bus, so I spent my time reading, or watching the scenery whiz past. I would be disengaged to the other kids around me. Thats when the unrestrained molester would reach across the aisle and snatch a handful of my boobs to squeeze. I’d slap him away. He would laugh. I’d give him a poisoned look and pull my coat tightly around me. Then he’d leave me alone for a few days, and just when I was feeling safe— he’d do it again.

I thought maybe the school bus driver would take notice and save me. I began to check the rear view mirror after the snatch and grab. Sure enough the bus driver was watching. My eyes would meet his, and he’d quickly look away like he hadn’t seen. There would be no hero to the rescue coming from his direction. Eventually I came to realize he wasn’t only watching— he was leering.

Now, you might be wondering, why I didn’t tell my parents? Well, in my mind Dad had an explosive temper, and Mom just seemed tired and irritated all the time. I really didn’t want to bother them. Plus, I was mortified. I was red faced and tongue-tied embarrassed. How do you tell your parents a boy keeps grabbing your freshly grown boobs on the bus?

This was one of those moments where I should have acted first and explained later. I should have brought Dad’s cattle prod for show and tell. I could have given the little slimeball a few jolts. It might have sizzled his ardour. I may have even achieved a little respect, my own at least. Then while I was on a roll I could have given the school bus driver a few zaps. Regretfully, I didn’t do anything. I was too afraid to get into trouble.

As I look back, I clearly remembered feeling vulnerable, and unsure. I felt like a victim. Why didn’t he just keep his hands to himself? Why didn’t someone else intervene? But I know now, that solving my issue was up to me. I didn’t have to be a victim. No one has to be a victim. It is one moment in time I wish I could live over again. The first time that kid touched me I should have boxed him bloody. Well, maybe not bloody, but at least one solid right hook. Looking back, I think my parents would have supported me one hundred percent. And really, so what if my DNA providers didn’t approve of my decision to join the fight club? At least I would have stood up for myself.

In the end I solved my own problem. I simply switched seats. I carried out the peace loving pacifist move.

However, the dark side of me is still thoroughly unsatisfied. Can I have a volunteer from the audience to be a surrogate pervert?

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“I didn’t need your help after all. I did it myself,” she claims triumphantly.