In a Superperson World #5- A Diary

April 19th, 2035
The Coffee Shop- Shriner District



Dear Diary,

Some days, more than most, are one of 'those' days. I was leaving the coffee shop after a very odd shift. The buildings echoed reverberations of a distant BOOM. Sudden, like whiplash. 
Great...
I wait for the sirens to sound. (Hands over ears because, let's face it, those fuckers are loud. But they save lives, so what are you going to do?)
Nothing.
Still, no matter how many times you hear it, "BOOM's" are never a good thing. 
Hell, fireworks explode silently now- So the citizenry doesn't mistake a show for another missile attack by that raver gang again...
  
The SPEZ (Superperson Engagement Zone) app dings. It's a cacophony of chimes throughout the entire city. Everyone stops to look at their phones. The notification reads: 
"SPEZ ALERT: 

FIGHT OF REGISTERED VILLAIN'S HOBGOBLIN AND MR. FREEZE. 

321L WEST-BOUND KNOCKED OFF TRACKS. 
ALL LINES SHUT DOWN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. 

DARCIA DISTRICT ZONED OFF UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. 

UPDATES AS SITUATION CONTINUES."

Fine. 
It's a little extra walking. But the bus stop is only a mile down the road. I notice several others changing their direction as well. Most people have at least five contingency plans to get home. I have eight. It'd be nine, but my friend who flies moved to Bali.
Another alert chimes:
"SPEZ ALERT:

VILLAINS CONTAINED. 
IN CUSTODY OF METROPOLITAN SPECIALIZED RESPONSE UNIT.

MAINTAIN SPEZ UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE."

That's good. It's better when things end quickly. 

The bus stop is in sight. I think my work shoes are on their last days. My feet have an ache that's nagging.  
The phones ding. I hear a series of groans around me. People are looking around and shuffling into the stores around us.
"SPEZ ALERT: 

VILLAINS HOBGOBLIN AND MR. FREEZE HAVE ESCAPED CUSTODY. 

SUSPECTS APPEAR TO BE WORKING IN TANDEM. 

OMNI BOTS EN ROUTE.

ALL STREETS ON LOCKDOWN UNTIL SUSPECTS APPREHENDED. 
ALL HERO'S ASKED TO COMPLY WITH LOCKDOWN.
ENTER NEAREST BUILDING AND WAIT UNTIL YOUR DISTRICT IS CLEARED."

Greeeaaat.
Back to the coffee shop it is. Not like I needed to sleep today anyway. And now I have to jog. 
Stupid villains...

The shop is packed to the gills with people. There's a panicked look in Jain and Austin's eyes. They fly around, milk sloshing everywhere. Trying to bang out the thirty plus orders for those standing testily about. 
A regular, Laramy, is still co-opting a table in the corner. Came in a few hours ago. Usually stays a few more. He's a hipster. Claims to be a revolutionary in Goa. He tips decent, so we go along with it.

I sit with him and pull out my laptop. It's inventory night at Bunsen and Beaker. After some 5th Century Egyptians came in last week, we have a whole mess of new liquors and tools. Might as well add them to the invit. sheets while waiting. 

Eventually everyone settles in. 
Austin turns on the radio which is running the Emergency Broadcasting System on all channels. 
It's kind of a downer. 
 My dad once told me 30 years ago, the announcer voice was very scratchy, fading in and out. I was just a baby then. I don't remember this. But now, the sound's so clear, it's like someone whispering in your ear.

The voice states the death tally is at 13, which is really low, everything considered. 
Ironically, when villains fight one another, the death toll is always lower. They're way more into hurting each other than anyone else. Unlike the Great Avengers Battle of 2016. The entire city of Old Chicago was crushed under an alien spaceship coming through an inter-dimensional portal.

Luckily, the SPAKKO! gel promptly deployed in the train. And they were already cutting people out of it. SPAKKO! is a florescent blue gel. It takes three or four shower to wash off the AXE body spray smell. But I can't complain. It held me perfectly still after filling the cabin. Even when it crashed into the Convention Center, we didn't feel a thing.

The EBS mentions the only people hurt were on the street as the train toppled down. 
Also the sandwich artist at 'McGruff's Hoagies and Muffulettas' who's being treated for severe frost bite.
Witnesses from the shop claim the fight erupted from an argument over which brand is the best olive tapenade. And where it should be placed: Bottom of the bread against the meat, or top with the veggies? 
Bottom. Duh. Everyone knows that.

It's been a couple hours now. The Omni Bots are starting a sweep of our district. 
Someone had a holographic game of Risk. Half the customers have joined in. They've taken sides- cheering or booing any particular take-over. Across the shop, a woman decided to set up a Mary Kay party and is steadily making over everyone in the crowd. I'm surprised how many men volunteered. Even Laramy. 


Hopefully, I'll be able to go home and take a shower before going to the bar. Tomorrow, I'm definitely buying new work shoes. Ouch. 


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

In a Superperson World #4- A Diary

April 15th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City


Dear Diary,

My dad used to say, once I start paying taxes, I'd be considered an adult. He failed to mention, after I got my first job junior year of high school, it only applied after I got married and moved next door, preferably.
But under his roof, I'd always be his baby girl.

My mom once said being an adult meant accepting all trivial things and all big things thrown at you, and managing them.
From:
bills
not running out of toilet paper
insurance
getting along with your coworkers
-to bigger things-
going to work despite heartbreak
paying rent (or your bookie) on time
avoiding a SPEZ (SuperPerson Engagement Zone)
and remembering your mothers birthday.


I lived on my own at 22. A bachelor degree of what-the-fuck-does-it-matter, crisp in my hand.  I said sayonara to my parents and the coffee shop (my first gig in high school). Hopped on a bus and went.
More than sure- I didn't think I wouldn't be fine. 
I moved from this crazy place and straight into the arms of it's sister city. A slightly different rhythm of crazy, but played with all the same instruments.

A lot of things pop up when the nest is behind you. Like all the additional costs. The stuff you didn't realize wasn't a given.
Like a trash can, or dish soap. A mattress that doesn't smell like a locker room floor drain.
There are many eternally internal debates too.
Whether packing the hangers is worth the hassle versus buying new ones. Do I reeeeaaally need a bath mat? Will my new roommate get offended if I spray the roaches in the kitchen as, every night, he turns into a large dung beetle?

All these get sorted eventually. It might take a few paychecks... A couple years even... But it gets there. As long as you can find the job to get said paychecks. Which is a whole other maze of banal crap in a new city. And the degrees we thrashed around for, amounts to, about as much as the toe-fungus mattress.
So then there's the cost of not working.

From there, rent. Bills. Groceries (sometimes I resent not being one of those osmosis people. Eating is so damned expensive.). I'd pay for this and that, on time mostly. Hold down a job until the place got slammed into/blown up/burnt down/swallowed into the earth. You know, the usual. Go out with coworkers. Friends. Do all those things my parents said made me an adult (I've started to notice they're all money related).

The freedom is great. Sometimes I'd trip and fall. My parents helped me out occasionally- as long as I promised to Skype with them.


Five year ago, I was shuffling papers around my ugly-ass beige desk. Sunset long over. There were fireworks in the distance (it was a munitions plant exploding). I was the last one in the office. Well, there was Fred the Janitor too. We chatted a bit. Watched some kids play tag around the sky-scrappers. The LED-GLO in the soles of their kicks illuminated neon trails behind them. It wasn't a bad night.

But I didn't feel like much of an adult.

I was wearing a pencil skirt and a button up blouse. Reasonably heightened heels. Eggplant purple hair tamed into a bun.
I looked professional.
I looked like an adult.
It all fit better now- compared to when I burrowed into my moms closet and played dress up.

But I still felt like that kid, hoping to play the part.
I wonder if other grown-ups are the same.

So five years ago, I took all the money I saved. Shipped my shit back home. Quit the office. Hopped on a bus and went.
Then I hopped on a plane.
Then off a plane.
There was also a train... Somewhere in there.
And before I could catch up, I was in Europe. Greece, to be precise.

There was Ouzo. Lamb roasted in drum barrels, buried in the sand of newly formed beaches. A cute fisherman named Paulo who could speak to starfish (apparently they didn't have a lot to say). And a whole group of minstrel-like locals, who played like Metallica was going out of style. Not in this century.

Once a month, I'd ring my parents, to let them know I was safe, well-fed and not doing anything they wouldn't do. I crossed my fingers for that part.


A few months later, I met a crew of crazy mutant kids, just graduated from University. They were fun.
Traveled with them to Spain. We ran from mechanical bulls through the crowded, cheering and drunk streets of Pamplona. One of them, girl named Jezzi, turned a bull's horns into baloney right before it gored her. Instead, she was only head butted with a lunch meat. Michael jumped onto the back of one, in the middle of the mob. We didn't see Michael again until Paris.

In 2022, the mutant spider(s) responsible for Spiderman and his silk (see what I did there?)and escaped the laboratory... again. This time, making it all the way to the docks and up a lee-way line. They sailed across the Atlantic. Eventually disembarking in the port of Marseille-Fos, France.
No one's sure exactly what happened next but... well, let's just say, they got big. Like, size of a car, big. I'll save the history lesson for another time, but the long and short is they took over the Eiffel Tower... and somehow the dome of Saint Peters Basilica in Roma.

They've calmed down quite a bit since then. The french airlift cattle near a woven funnel "entrance" once a month. In exchange, they don't eat the citizenry.
Everyone wins.

So, of course, it's become a tourist attraction. And a popular dungeon crawl, for those adrenaline junkies. Not recommended. Or legal. 

It was here we ended up-
Wearing specialized head lamps in the middle of the night; a tour guide holding a boomstick like a magic wand. We crouched through eerily white, gauzier tunnels, covered in cooking spray so we wouldn't stick to anything. Phones on silent, flash turned off.
Every hush of wind.
Every swaying strand.
Every skitter.
Every echo of tapping.
We were paranoid beyond our wits. Our imaginations proving far more monstrous.

It was mostly safe. A week after feeding, the spiders hibernate into a food coma.
Still. What a rush!
Exiting through the sewers, giggling like school children. The tour ended at a pub, with a pitcher for all. We cheered to our guides health.

An automated voice message had flashed up on my phone during the crawl. I shut it off. Probably a computer asking me to vote for that floating bald guy again.
My phone disappeared at the bar.
For about a month.
I let it go. All the pictures were saved in the cloud. I'd download them when I got back.
We kept traveling. All the way up, to yodeling with sheep farmers at the tip of Scotland.
Then, through the workings of a karma, my phone found me. With the message waiting to be heard.


My parents should have added, 'Get to the shelter quickly, as to avoid the tip of the Space Needle, flung, far from across town.' to the list of adultification. I'd have appreciated it.


My key still opened the door.
Everything looked the same, but fake.
The scuffs on the wall from Mr. Johnson's bike tires. The frosting stains on the floor from when mom dropped dads birthday cake. The coffee, feet and oil stains of everyday life. Even the smells, made the hallways familiar.
A recognition of time passed. Silly little memories created. The proof of a home.
Gone.

A condolence wreathe of lilies decayed, liquified and matted onto the counter. A note from PepsiCo stuck out awkwardly from the feted floral foam.
There were frames on the walls, but no pictures. A couch, but no cushions. Toilet paper, but no trash can. The bedrooms looked ready for a photo shoot, except for a fine layer of settled dust. 

And that was that.
I bought hangers and a bathroom rug.
Got a job as a barista at the coffee shop again.
On a walk, met the owner of Bunsen and Beaker. We talked about Paris. And from there... you know the rest.


Funny... I never wondered if I was an adult again...


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

In a Superperson World #3- A Diary

April 10th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City



Dear Diary,

My mom used to say 'Karma's a bitch'. But I've met her (or at least one of them) and she's really quite nice. A bit skittish, but nice.
'Karma's' are a type of person, who many claim are 'cursed'. Technically because their 'ability' is just there.

According to a study conducted by UC Berkley, led by a Professor Charles Xavior:

"There is no conclusive evidence showing when and why a 'Karma's' ability manifests... Appears to activate randomly... Happens to/around an individual/group whom partook in a single or multitude of malicious and/or self-perceived immoral behavior(s) toward another human being/creature and/or environment- without consequence of when such an act(s) occur(red)... Nor can we conclude how said 'Retributional Event(s)' are weighed via the offense which activates the ability. 

The only two conclusive finding of this panel are as such:

A. The individual 'Karma' is not conscious of the activation of their ability nor in control of the 'Retributional Event'.

B. The 'Retributional Event' may effect more that the intended 'target'."  

They fall into the 'Miscellaneous' group of Superpersons, but don't qualify for the Superperson tax exemptions or protection acts. 
All are tagged in their teens and monitored. 
They are not allowed to take part in communal celebrations or festivals. The UN says it's for the good of humanity. 
I say that's crap.    Don't be a dick.    It's that easy. 

Because of this, most lock themselves up at home. Shy away from public transit, peak hours at grocery stores. The suicide rate is pretty high for them. How bad does that suck?

So a 'Karma' named Daisy walked into a bar. My bar. A couple months back.
She got caught up in a downpour. I'm talking a displaced Niagara Falls (it's happened), or the time when Storm hit menopause. 
It was a regular, local crowd. A little slow that night. 
She looked kinda startled at first. Eventually, albeit warily, walked up to the bar. 
Petite thing. Big brown eyes like a cow. Drenched. 
She shyly asked for a menu. I tossed a look at the old bar rats. Their staring was making her squirm. We don't have menu's at Bunsen and Beaker. Whatever a person wants, we can make. No matter how profoundly obscure. How complicated. Or vile. Period. 
It's a pain in the ass.
She ordered a hot toddy. Easy enough. I gave her a bowl of cashews and continued polishing glasses.

There was a poker game being played in back. A new cardy was doing exceptionally well. A couple guy's already quit the game. Paychecks lost to the pot.
A perma-peeved dude was crunching numbers at a table along the wall. Bunch of guys were watching the opening games of the Baseball season.
Nothing unusual. 

Half hour goes by quietly. Rain hasn't let up. 
I've moved on to restocking my wells.
This kid, couldn't be more than fourteen, sneaks through the back door. Stops behind the Mr. Perma-Peeve. Looked like he'd been meditating under a fire hose. Shivering so hard water's flying half way 'cross the room.  He's whispering to Mr. PP (heh, funny) who's mostly ignoring him. Finally tells him to go wait back in the rain. He's not done yet. 
The kid looks to argue but the guy's hand whips through the air. The crack resounded longer than the kid's yelp. 

Everyone is on their feet. 
In this world, there's a lot we've got to put up with. But not in our own fucking bar, we don't.

Daisy though, skittered backward. White as a sheet.  No one noticed.
She bolted to the door. Tripped over a high-top table leg. A couple pint glasses flew into the air. 
That caught our attentions. 
The glasses bulleted in opposite directions. Weird. 
You'd think it's normal in this world of Superperson's. It's not. And that's the funny thing about Karmatic retribution. Starts as a small, unintended act that snowballs. 
We watched them ricochet around the bar. Off the loft at the back.
Bouncing here. And there. And everywhere. 
One collided into the autographed bowling ball on the wall. The other knocked a plank loose... Like watching one of those 'Mouse Trap' competitions held by the Villains League of Ingenuity.
Mr. PP still engrossed in screaming. Poor kid cowering. 
A loud pop. 
The bowling ball bounced off Mr. PP's head. 
...I didn't know those balls could bounce...
It continued. Dribbled toward the disrupted poker game. Hit the underside of a table. Sent a shot glass barreling through the air. It cupped into the socket of the new cardy's eye. Another pop.
Not a pleasant sound.
He shrieked. Daisy shrieked. Mr. PP didn't. He was unconscious.
The cardy was flailing about. A few aces dropped from the collar of his shirt. 


The bar rats were already calling 911. I sighed. Now there'd be paperwork to do.
Threw the other players a dirty towel. They were caught between irritation and that adreneline rush that comes with a crisis. Told them to leave the glass alone. Let the paramedics deal with it. He was about to pass out anyway. 
Took the pulse of Mr. PP. It was there. 
Grabbed the hand of the kid and sat him between the bar rats. Set a bottle of "medicine" (read:bourbon) in front of 'em and an extra glass.

Daisy was sobbing under the table.
I crouched down. She shrank back. Clutched the stand like it was the only reason she was still attached to this earth. I handed her a clean towel. She whimpered.
I went back to the bar. Filled two more glasses with "medicine". Came back. Sat down cross-legged. Slid a glass to her.
"You could use a drink."  
Then waited.
She picked up the glass once she was done sniffling.

Rest of the bar knew the drill. They're decent folks, really. 
Paramedics showed. So did some cops. Statements were given.
The bowling ball and pints were taken as evidence.
The bar rats felt for the kid. Convinced him to be honest. The cops put a blanket around the kid. Promised to take good care of him. They were pretty gentle...
Some hot, muscly firemen strutted around. All in all, a decent show. 
Everyone skirted around us like a plague was biting at their ass. 
Worked for me. 

Generally, people are terrified of 'Karma's'. It's that whole unknown aspect.
The 'incident' would be reported to the UN Board of Universal Befuddlementals and Counter-Action. Only two people were involved, so no investigation was likely. Just a note added to Daisies file.  


We sat there until the circus was over. 
Jules (bar-back) began moping up the blood. Zand and some of the guys straightened chairs. Then, one by one, they grabbed their drinks and joined us on the floor. 
Everyone just talked. Laughed. Told stories. Daydreamed what they would have done to Mr. PP or the cheat if karma hadn't stumbled in. 
Like I said. Decent folks. 
You could tell a few of them were weary. After a bit, they mellowed out. Daisy began to laugh. Listened to the others. I got the feeling talking with people was new for her. 
Eventually, we drew her out from under the table. Took the party to the bar.    
And at the end of the night, we told her we'd see her tomorrow. 
The rain had stopped. Everyone went home.


Bunsen and Beaker has a new regular now.



See? Karma's not a bitch, unless you are first. 
I guess that's as good a moral as any to end this. 


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

In a Superperson World #2- A Diary

April 8th, 2035
My Apartment, Mid-City



Dear Diary, 


So this bar rookie came back to the Bunsen and Beaker last night. 
You know the type. 
The kind of kid who hasn't figured what belongs in a shotglass and a pint. So he swirls it all together and chugs.
Gawky kid. 
Usually with a group of fellow collegiates- frat guys who think they want a fight. Usually just shoot their mouths off before shooting Patron. Thinks it makes 'em some kind of high-roller. They have a weird assumed maturity after ordering such expensive crap, so it shuts them up for a while.

Anyway. The kid... Name started with a J... Jared? No. Jefferey? Sure, let's go with that. 
He comes barreling in. Annoyingly sing-songy. Orders a Corona and a Four Horse Men. He's talking to anyone close to him. Super hyper. 
I'm setting up the last shot and notice his hand is all bandaged. Hard not to. He's waving it around like a badge of honor. 

So I ask him; what's up? 

The kid, I mean Jeffery, cracked this wide-ass grin. Started jabbering on about a camping trip he and his buddies just came back from. Their first time out of the city. 
He was taking a piss behind a tree and heard a rustle in the branches above. Flashed his phone at it and these "glowing green eyes" were staring at him. 
Ugly creature hanging from its tail. Had a snout covered in bubbles. Not a lot of fur. Jeffery got so excited he climbed the tree. It hissed. He stretched out his hand. Got bit.   

My regulars groaned. 

Jeffery was one of THOSE. 
There's a whole CNM watch for people like him. I'm usually asleep during it. 

See, Discovery Channel's Mutant Week runs once a year. Stirs up the imagination. 
Afterward, a whole lot of ordinary folk go out to find the 'radioactive creature' who, once bit, turns them into a Superperson. 
Except, that's crap. 
And stupid. 
We all saw what happened to Spiderman...
'Death by Insistenced Bite' is one of the highest growing causes of death worldwide. It beats out death by death-ray malfunction. Beats out lightning strikes (even when increased by Thor's fighting with his newest girlfriend). Even beats out death by cattle.

Told Jeffery it was probably a possum. 
He should shoot his four whiskys and drink his beer. 
Then head to the clinic down the street for a rabies shot. Maybe some antibiotics. 
He laughed. 
Said WE were the crazy ones. 
He'd come back and show us how "awesome" he is "once the powers took hold". Then he left. 
Damn kids. Can't convince them of anything. 

A couple regulars discussed calling it into CNM. Put him on the Watch, just in case. 
I shrugged them off. 
If the possum had drooled acid... Whole body lit up green... Sure. Sounded like a normal wild animal to me. 
I guess they agreed. The subject faded into the sudden stock fall of LexCorp.


There's talk Elm St. is going to open tomorrow. I can finally get my lavender-cherry scone fix. A little bakery over there rocks it. Glad they're back. It's been two months. 
I hope they chipped away all the lava...


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

In the Superpersons World #1- A Diary

April 6th, 2035
My Apartment, MidCity


Dear Diary,

It's been almost two weeks since the Easter Day Massacre at the Harlen Park Parade. They finally got the bloodstains off the sides of the buildings.
Took 'em long enough.
The news reported that it was a minor scuffle between two factions of wanna-be X-Men, so there wasn't anyone to arrest specifically.
My parents used to tell me, before Superpeople were put into categories of 'Hero' and 'Villain', gang related fights among them were common.
That was what? Thirty years ago?

I guess that's why it took so long for the mess to get cleaned up.
Had there been a sponsored Hero present, PepsiCo would have it all polished and new in a couple days. Instead, the metro station was a wreck until four days ago. We had to clamber over blown-out chunks of concrete and uprooted trees, like some sort of LSD induced ants.
Man, the city workers are slow.
I hate they moved the coffee shop into that neighborhood. It was safer back in the slums. Stupid, greedy owners. Some obscure chick in purple calling herself 'Nightingale' say she likes our coffee once. Suddenly we're "hip". 
Fuck hip. How about alive?

If I hadn't inherited my parents apartment, I'd still be living in the outskirts. I don't think living this close to the inner city is worth it, especially after what happened here...
Those PepsiCo robots did a great job though.
The whole building is brand new again. They even added crown molding in the bedrooms...
And it's pretty quite, with so few neighbors. The building is slowly filling up again. The Manager said we're at 50% occupancy now.


One of my regulars, Joey Zand, (or, as he tips me extra to call him, 'The Zand Man') claims the city is secretly paying for people on the outskirts of town, to refill the city center.
They should just give up selling the condos above the designer stores on 3rd by Squared Avenue. Put cardboard cut-outs of people in the windows instead. At least the death toll would go down.
Not like it'll get destroyed less often. They're rebuilding it monthly now. 
All the trees lining the road are synthetic too, screwing into place. The real ones kept exploding.

I'm surprised though. I didn't think we had a problem with occupancy after the great Japanese O.M.D.O.J. Immigration Act of 2029.
Those guys keep showing up by the boat and plane loads. You can't blame them. Godzilla is nesting in the middle of Tokyo. 
A couple guys argue about the Over-sized Monster thing at least once a week.
It's a pretty popular topic.
Probably because they haven't come here yet...
For some reason, drunk men think it's funny to act out the first, historic Godzilla battle with Anguirus. They round up all the pint glasses and little bottles of salt and pepper.
It usually leads to a big mess; sometimes a brawl. All which I get to clean up... Thanks guys...
I think they're wrong about Godzilla and his kind. He's not there defending Tokyo. In fact, I've seen the way he stumbles around Narita on MetroPrime News1. Looks like the guys who leave Bunsen and Beaker after last call-

He's just an animal... Who doesn't want to share his sake.

Anyway, it's 2pm. Time for bed. I have another double at the bar tonight, then coffee shop tomorrow.
There are no sirens going off. Hopefully it stays that way.


Cheers for a tomorrow,

Penny

A Commentary on Value, Because of Chicken

'Worth' and 'value' is a curious thing.

We grade ourselves against society. Friends. Enemies. Family. Our own ideals of self.
All by a sliding, fictional scale. And instead of helping us grow, it seems to reflect an ugly image back of everything we are not, everything we lack and are convinced we'll never be. Slowly chipping away at our sense of self.
I would take the leap in saying many good feelings leap away with it.

Story time! Settle in kiddies.
When I was in 6th or 7th grade, among dozens of assemblies for awareness about home abuse, bullying and sexual harassment/assault, there was a man who, ever so candidly, referred to 'victims' of sexual assault as,
“Second Hand Virgins”...
No matter how you spin this term, or your Maklemore'ick infatuation with thrift stores, there's no good connotation here. The implication is a person thus violated is no longer 'new'. Deemed worthless, it is rejected. Put on a shelf at a bargain price. Shuffled through strange hands, left waiting. Unwanted. To gather dust among the nick-knacks, or be snatched up as a 'deal' or DIY project.
This term devalues people.
Almost to a sub-human level.
Much like 'victim' and 'survivor' unconsciously do.
And it made me very angry.
But the damage of these three, incredibly careless words was done... And without my permission, I might add, which is very rude.

Now, let me be candid here; don't get your nickers twisted. I'm 'sharing' bits about myself to lend to a larger observation I had today which I (for some reason) needed to share. That's all. So cool your jets, some of you.
I'll tie this in later.

I'll start with the 'Oh!/Huh...' moment, I had while on my 480th pound of frying mochiko chicken earlier and that is this:
I/you/we are valueless.

There's no scientific scale that spits out a number- rating who we are, at all times, during this experience.
But the concept of trying to estimate our abstract worth is so ingrained that it leads to some very serious consequences.

Our skills have worth to an employer who can apply them and THAT is tabulatable, but on the flip side, a doctor has no use for a mechanic if he needs an RN. That doesn't mean the mechanic is any less skilled.

No one (thank hades) knows what is going through our heads every moment. Or how quickly our opinions and judgments change...
I think it'd look like a school of sardines, swirling refractivly and almost chaotically together in the dark blue and open ocean.
With this constant flow, growth and contraction of character and ideals, a set value is not only inconsequential, but meaningless.

So a guy at a bar thinks a lass is homely and droll but suddenly she's great because... let's say... she bought him a beer... You judge him to be shallow, or her to be trying too hard- but that's a moment, not a whole.
He's a person and, who he IS, isn't that judgment. Just as her single action of buying beer, for whatever the motivation, doesn't change who she is.

With that logic in mind (if you could follow it), here is why I think our instinctual need to place value on ourselves is not a good, or accurate way of thinking.

We aim too high and we fall too low.

The full-grown woman who flounces around arrogantly, stating she deserves to be treated like a princess or the man demanding to be treated as a king; outwardly, they value themselves above the rest but in their heads, to reach such an extreme as to ignore societal etiquettes such as 'modesty', can't one argue that they must actually value themselves very low? That there is a part of them that is clearly not being fulfilled and is instead reaching for a concept that is not in this reality?

Soldiers, who go for country (and college tuition) to fight with bravado, don't always come back proud. Decent and hard working men call themselves murderer instead of hero; thinking less of themselves because they've taken a life(s). As, at least, one society will agree (whomever was fought), it only solidifies a low self worth. It's such heavy tally-mark to add against oneself.

'Worth' is where we lose ourselves.
If depression had a root, I'd call this a catalyst.
See, unbeknownst to me, my worth became 'second-hand' and from this, I treated every relationship with a underlying desperation (this was today's 'Oh' moment, brought to you by Chicken!).
Try to be amicable to everyone...
Don't share my conflicting thoughts...
Try to diversify myself so that no one gets bored of me...
Modify how I behave to who I'm with...
Don't give them a reason to throw me away.
And, at first, it was fucking exhausting!
Then it became who I was.
But it wasn't a real.
Checks and balances are great for politics, but shit for mental development.
Until I became a cook.
People don't understand what that meant to me. As my skills grew in the kitchen and I became part of the line instead of a hindrance, I stopped worrying about my worth, I did my job and well; I was judged by my peers on that alone. I started to take pride in myself and what emerged from that pride was who I always wanted to be.
A person.
Not a 'victim'.
Not a 'survivor'.
Those are labels for something that happened to you, or something you've come through; society sticks you with them, badge-like. Like wearing a suit of avocado green shag carpeting.
But they aren't all we are, as much as people insist on it. Like the soldier who kills so as not to be killed. It's just a thing that happened. And hopefully, eventually, it helps us grow.
Stronger. Wiser. Calmer.
One careless maneuver from an old man later and I had five months in a confined apartment to feel the dullness that was the loss of who I'd become...
I really had liked her.
Then there was seething and bitter anger, then dullness again. Then elevator music... maybe some sonnets...

My worth was intrinsically tied to my career. And I was told I would probably need to find a new one because my stupid knee was being stupid and may be stupid for the rest of my life (Medical terminology, I swear!). I was back to being less.
Even the guy who stumbled upon the mess of a person I was sloping back into, was swallowed up by my fears of lacking. Secretly hoping, as I used too in days o' yore, that he would place a value on me that was high enough and thus accept me, whom had not accepted herself.
It's foolish, really.
And super unfair of me.
Between being mad at him for taking the 'out' I gave born from insecurity, while wishing he hadn't, and moping over the rejection like a Shakespearean writ pup, the hole in my chest got wider.
With everything else compiling, I began to feel numb.
If I wasn't numb, then I was highly irritable. About. EVERYTHING.
Depression sucks like that.
I could tell I was off kilter, my calm slipping away. I'd rear my head like a startled horse every now and then, shocked at the heinousness of my attitude. If I thought on it really hard, hearkening on a truth that no one deserved to bear my poor behavior, I could pull myself out, at least until I was alone again.
Sleep, an old nemesis of mine, stopped visiting. Which is rude because I'd bought some lovely teas to share. I was more weary than I had been, doing three back to back shifts between two jobs. An overwhelming thought became, “I just want to rest.”

All this pirouetting of emotional debauchery stemmed, not simply from situations. I'd dealt with worse and been fine.
Took my licks, my lessons and moved on. It came because, without using anything as cover or mask, I'd never placed a high value on who I was.
And that very concept of plus and minus is what kept me down.

I think everyone needs to jump into the rabbit hole eventually. Evaluating oneself, rolling over events; reactions to events.
It's okay to feel disappointed in people close to you.
It's okay to get upset or be angry.
As long as it's felt and you keep thinking on it, pushing through to all sides of the argument... Well, it helps.
Rabbit holes, like our lives, aren't endless. Even in our own, endemic experiences, we haven't individually existed for 1,000 years. Hell, most of us won't make it to 100. So we can see through all, to the depths of our issues. Like that hole, we can all come back up to face the sun.

So there I was, frying (you guessed it!) chicken! Yay chicken! Ihateyouchicken.
The memory of that man flashed in my head. I thought, with the horse head raise of bewilderment:
'Wait a minute. Have I been living my life by that assholes words?'
...I think we all know the answer to that.
Then I came to think about everything I've written down now. And my conclusion is this:
We are valueless because we are limitless.
That's a good thing.
It means we can go in any direction we chose.
It's scary, but I've never felt so free.




Now if you'll excuse me, I need a shower. I reek of the fryer.