A Living Oddity: The Last Post

Hello all,

Today, I’m saddened to inform all of you that this will be my last blog post.  In the past I’ve joked about leaving, but this time around it’s going to be for real.  I’m still happy about what I’ve accomplished with this blog.  It was all of you that kept me going for the past couple of months that I’ve been blogging.  I really hope you all enjoyed my writing and vision.

I really do love writing.  It’s an outlet that allows me to communicate with an audience that is not immediately accessible.  It’s also a perfect excuse to not censor myself like I have to with family members, friends, and other members of the public.  Let me make it perfectly clear that I have not lost the will to write, however I am upset with WordPress’ brand new layout.  Many of the changes makes it seem that everybody’s writing is far less accessible and hidden from curious eyes.

Anyways, I’ve enjoyed writing for all of you.  It’s been a great pleasure to meet a few people who have enlightened my world with various writing styles and beautifully complex minds.  I should emphasize that this may not be a permanent absence on my part: I may return one day if I feel that something needs to be said and WordPress switches the format around to my liking.  Please feel free to read any of my posts, and don’t be shy about emailing me.  I always love hearing from you.  If anyone is interested in me doing some guest writing on their sites, I will be more than happy to.  I will also from time to time read everyone’s new posts and as well as comment on them.  This will just be the end of me writing new posts on this account.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavors, keep on writing, and thanks again.

- Evan

 

Going on Hiatus!

Hello all,

This time of year is extremely busy for a lot of people.  I have final exams coming up so I’m not going to be writing any new posts until I’ve finished taking my exams to allow for full concentration.  Now I know some of you are going to be like, “OMG I can study for final exams AND write millions of blog posts you lazy ass.  I’m better than you.”  That’s fantastic, I’m looking forward to those millions of Pulitzer prize winning posts.

Anyway, I thought it’d be better to write a post declaring my intentions to go on a mini hiatus instead of just not writing abruptly.  So, I’ll be back probably next weekend or something.  Summer is almost here!!!

Thanks for understanding!

- Evan

Mistreatment of Animals in Slaughterhouses

The people of the United States and other countries throughout the world have satisfied their hunger at the expense of mistreated animals.  Growing up, I always knew slaughterhouses existed but I was ignorant about what happened within the walls of one.  I ate meat throughout my entire life until September of 2011.  I made the switch to a vegetarian diet because I initially wanted to lose weight.  I eventually lost 30 lbs and now I sit at a comfortable 187 lbs at 6’2″.  It wasn’t until recently that I educated myself about the mistreatment of the animals that are slaughtered just to feed the human race.

Many of the piglets are castrated without anesthesia, cows are beaten in the face with metal rods, chickens are thrown in a grinder alive, etc.  Below, I’ve supplied you with video footage from many slaughterhouses that document the brutal mistreatment of animals.  The video clocks in at about 11 minutes, although it doesn’t take more than just few seconds to realize how cruel humanity is.  I am not trying to persuade you all to make the switch to a vegetarian diet, although I think it’s important that you should know how the meat stored in your fridge came to be.

WARNING! THE VIDEO BELOW IS EXTREMELY GRAPHIC! WATCH AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!

Feeling Faint

Recently I’ve been feeling a little woozy.  I think it’s because I’m not eating as much as I usually do.  This isn’t intentional, I just haven’t been to the grocery store yet.  I ate my last pop-tart this morning and it made my stomach gurgle.

I should just pull out my small intestine and gnaw on it ’til it rips.  It’s like a snake made out of mucous and tissue that’s decorated with braided veins and slithers about in my body.  The snake stays in touch with my stomach by biting down with its fangs so it never loses that connection needed at meal time for proper digestion.  It’s quite ropy and slippery, but I can get a good grip on it with my canines if I bite down hard enough.  They’re sharp enough to the point that I can sever the veins that imprison my half-digested meals.  I can ingest the same carbohydrates, lipids, and proteins over and over; hopefully it will satisfy my hunger before I faint and fall on something sharp.  I wouldn’t want that sharp object to spill meals all over the carpet and let them go to waste.

I could’ve plunged my arm deep into my esophagus to catch the food before it bathes in gastric acid.  This reason, in particular, is why I will choose my small intestine over my stomach.  If I pushed my face into a pool of stomach acid like it was a pie-eating contest, the hydrochloric content would burn my skin and ultimately dissolve my entire face.  There’s not much I can do if my body melts into some kind of gelatin.  You know when people express their pleasure with chocolate by saying, “It melts in my mouth!”  Deadly pH levels can make that dream a reality.

Who’s hungry?

I’m A Failure

However, this doesn’t mean that I’m not successful.  Society pressures you into succeeding, yet for some people they don’t even provide the proper tools to do so.  If I was successful in every single area I’d be the biggest asshole the planet ever knew (debatable).  In which case, I’m proud to know that I have repeatedly failed in many different areas of life.  Many people don’t seem to accept failure; those are the kinds of people who are wasting their time striving for perfection.  They think they live in some kind of world where failures even in the most trivial of forms are frowned upon by society.

I wouldn’t have learned shit if I never failed.  No wonder that society is polluted with idiots; they don’t know what it’s like to fail nor have they learned anything.  Most would say I’m not ambitious.  I will kindly disagree and say I’m pretty ambitious if I’m willing to fail first and succeed later.  That just makes success that much more meaningful to me.

I’ve built my confidence up over the years by embracing my failures because it only means that there is more to learn about the world and myself.  If I’m destined to fail for the rest of my life, then I’m really going to learn a lot about myself.  I want to see who I really am 5 years, 10 years, 20 years, 50 years from now.

I’m definitely looking forward to a new batch of failures so I can become the best human that I can possibly be.

Things Are Not Always What They Seem

Today, I have a guest post from Rediscovering A Stolen Life.  She started her blog about a month ago and I believe she deserves far more recognition for the talent she possesses.  Her writing is brilliant and this post below is saturated with remarkable detail.  After you read, feel free to comment and then visit her site to see more of her writing.  Enjoy!

Things Are Not Always What They Seem

- Rediscovering A Stolen Life

The knife shining beneath the bright fluorescent lights of the bathroom gently beckons me, attempting ever so powerfully to lure me into succumbing to its twisted purpose yet again. It’s funny how one object so very insignificant to others, so meaningless in the realm of their everyday lives, is certainly the one thing I cannot resist no matter how much will I try to keep enclosed within this poorly circulating vessel commonly called my “heart.” Irony. Irony in that if my heart was indeed something more than just an organic mound of beating flesh, I would not be laying here on the cold tile of my bathroom floor as I desperately search my mind for that glimmer of a reason as to continue to carry on in this life of darkness that I lead. A wave of comfort begins to embody my being as I continue to eye the dagger with an increasing hunger to feel its metallic surface scrape pain into my delicate veins, reminding me with every trimmer that trails down my spine that there is no escape. I am exactly who I do not know to be—I am my own worst enemy.
To most, the knife is just another utensil, another inanimate object with a worthless meaning. Commonly, knives are used to cut, slice with precision those morsels of food humans indulge themselves on at feeding time—a useless tool to which most give not a second thought towards. Though to me, and others who bear the burden of hiding our secret lives, the knife is a remedy. With a toxic yet vital relationship, it is my poison and my source of life. It calms my ever-wondering mind and thrashes scars of shame unto my delicate skin. Counterproductive in its purpose, I languish from its inflicted pain yet am dependent upon its liberation. Hypocritically, I frown at the thought of self-sabotage. However, this knife is my drug; I am exactly who I do not know to be—I am just another vulnerable addict.
Society has come to the perception that darkness is indubitably equivalent to evil and gloom while light is the epitome of butterflies and rainbows. Pessimists perpetually recede into the dark while optimists, with their well-played melodramatic smiles and facades, can always see the light of a situation. Throughout the years, I have come to my own conclusion: life is just one big charade. Everyone is dealing with something. No one leads the perfect life. The catch, however, is the way they choose to deal with it. Some acknowledge their unfortunate predicament or self-hatred thoughts, yet still allow happiness to conquer victoriously. While the others, who cannot shake the pervading feelings of depression or escape the downward spiral of things gone wrong, suffer silently and alone. It is the latter that go unnoticed. They are the people who always have a smile plastered upon their face. They go out of their way to help others and are able to maintain an oddly calm and collective guise. If you look closely at this group, though, you will notice that they try immensely to never look you in the eye. The eyes are the mirrors to the soul. If into their eyes you happened to see, you would discover the pain and secrets they hide underneath their happy-go-lucky front.
The drops of pristine water, so untainted and innocent, much like persona of the girl I used to know, bring my ever-wandering mind back to reality. I watch the drops slowly trickle from the faucet for a moment, building up at the end until finally falling into the basin in one big globule. Slowly, I stand on my shaking limbs, grasping the edge of the sink as if for emotional support, and look into the mirror. I see the silhouette of a ghost, a person I do not know. When I look her in the eyes my glance immediately starts to study her standing before me. I observe her poignant, weary stare and wince at her skin stretching tightly over jagged bones protruding at anomalous proportions. My muscles burn as I lift my arm to trace a finger over her sunken cheeks, watching as a faint blush paints her sallow skin with a deep crimson. I hear the faint thudding of her heart keeping time with the old clock on the wall, as if together counting down the hours of the day and of what time she has left. I taste the salty brine that falls tenderly from the corners of her rapidly blinking eyes and I know that they hold the secrets no one will ever hear. I am the only who will ever see her for who she truly is, and not for the person of light others believe her to be.
The mendacious glow of the knife catches my eye again, forcing my mind to focus on the task at hand, and I pick it up. I feel its smooth, stainless handle in my vice shaking with adrenaline. I run the back of my bony knuckle along the dull side of the razor-sharp blade, feeling its preeminence radiate through my being. Something drops into the sink water. Tears. Tears differ from blood in infinite ways. Tears are dead, no indication that the being to which they belong is truly alive. Tears fall all the time as such an over-used, sometimes counterfeited emotion. So cliché, in fact, that it’s almost as if they’ve grown to hold no purpose except to hydrate the open pores of your cheeks with their salty liquid. Blood, however, holds life. No dead organism will leak blood if wounded or cut. All that is living will bleed. I bleed therefore I am considered alive. Though if you were to look into my eyes, those green mirrors echoing the secrets I leave unsaid, you’d see that I am an exception—I am dead. I am nonliving.
Tonight, this knife in my hand holds my answer. My proof to myself, however impractical it may seem, that I am, in fact, alive. The scars rigidly marring my porcelain complexion serve to remind me of the nights when darkness consumes me and I cannot fight it away with the slight ray of light that I am told awaits. The knife, becoming sweaty with fear leaking from my palm, overtakes my thoughts as I start to recall those few pages of hope I attempt to keep locked away in my mind to help me through these nights. I close my eyes and begin to feel my life seep down my arm.
As I hurriedly rush to my fifth hour class the next day, I glance down at my watch. Adjacent to its too-big band that softly slides up and down the contour of my arm, I see the disfigurement of last night’s event, wincing back the tears I feel boiling beneath the smile I painted on this morning in front of my old, antique-style mirror. Sliding into my desk just as the bell rings its bothersome reminder of tardiness, passersby acknowledge my presence with a soft smile and lively small talk of my amazing capability at being so upbeat and presentable. Ironic, I think to myself, how the person I see in the mirror, the girl I saw last night and every other night of darkness before, is invisibly concealed to everyone behind my craftily devised disguise of force-faked smiles and rehearsed lines. Life is full of irony, of hidden fallacies and versatile objects, and I’m nothing more than a shadow in the dark. They think they know me by seeing only what they choose to see, over-looking, like many of us do, what is actually there. In reality we must ask ourselves: is anything actually what it seems to be?

I Want to Feel This Pain

When anger floods and drowns your brain, the mind wants to escape the clutches of such a dangerous chamber.  Weakness flows in the form of a tear drop while anger flees imprisonment by a murderous scream that pollutes the air.  You’re repeatedly told to man up so the people you thought cared about you won’t have to deal with your shit.  I want to applaud said individuals for finally admitting that they’re absolutely fucking worthless.

I wasn’t born with enough middle fingers, although I shouldn’t waste my time giving a fuck in the first place.  You couldn’t get fucked even if I flipped you the bird.  Here’s the sad thing, I do give a fuck.  I want to help all of you heartless people.  It always improves my day when I know I’ve helped somebody, even if they’re incapable of asking how I’m doing every once in a while.  You can thank me when you’ve finally decided to loosen the noose around your neck, knowing I’ve taken time out of my life to help yours.  I didn’t have to do anything, however I’m a nice guy.

Even better, I’m a human being with flaws of my own.  I’ve managed to help you with the assistance of my own flaws.  I don’t care if you’re a man or woman, we are human beings with very similar imperfections.  I will always put yours in front of mine, not because I think your problems are more important, I just care about your well-being.  If you rate the severity and importance of your anger and problems just because you’re a man or woman, you’ve forgotten that you’re a human being first and a man/woman second.

If you think I’m just sitting here bitching on my computer craving for attention, I invite you to write a monologue describing why your problems are of more grave importance than everyone else’s.  Just don’t pull the trigger on yourself before you click to post the comment.

Go out and help somebody else besides yourself.  Be a human being, but don’t let your words dictate the lives of others.  Just support them and show you care.  Don’t be afraid to accept help either even if you’re told to man up initially.  Anger is universal.  Emotional support on the other hand, unfortunately, is not.  There’s just people out there infatuated with their own lives.  Sorry for the inconvenience that there are human beings other than yourself out in the world.

 

100th Post, 100 Followers

I have finally reached the 100 post milestone!  Conveniently, on this very day, I have amassed 101 followers.  I probably would’ve had about 120 of each by now if I didn’t stop writing for that one two week period, but nevertheless I’m quite satisfied with where I am right now.  Congratulations to Rediscovering a Stolen Life for being my 100th follower.  As always, I highly encourage all of my readers to check her blog out and see the divine writing talent she has.  She provides a hauntingly beautiful story that I think all of you would very much appreciate and enjoy.

Thank you all so much for bearing through what I’ve written over the past couple of months.  This is a great experience and I feel like I’ve really grown as a writer and a human being.  I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.  Let’s make it to 200 posts and followers before I die in some freak accident.

I can honestly say that starting this blog was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.  Never did I think a single soul would enjoy whatever I had to offer.  Some of the violent imagery and tasteless humor may not be for everyone, however I’m happy to see that some look past it for artistic value and the deeper message.  A lot of you are only familiar with my newer posts so I’ve provided some links below to some of my favorite posts from when I first started out.  Of course, feel free to check out whatever you’d like.

1. Welcome to Normal – My very first post.

2. Beautifully Broken

3. Caught Between Heaven and Hell

4. The Eyes

5. I Died Last Night

6. Mirrors: Inanimate Life

7. The Perfect Woman

8. The 6 Worst Types of Girlfriends

9. Mental Error

10. Crayons of Chaos

11. The World Is My Painting

12. Lights Out

13. The Angel’s Noose

14. An Artist’s Creation

Farewell

Hello all,

Today, I’m saddened to announce that this is the last day I’ll be writing on this blog account.  I’ve been writing under A Living Oddity for about 3 months now and I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly.  I’ve read some wonderful blogs that have motivated me to write creatively and better myself as a human being, however I have reached a point where I’ve lost my creative touch.  I feel that I have written everything that I wanted and/or needed to say, and now it’s time to cut the cord.  I still look forward to visiting WordPress to read new content from my favorite writers.  Thank you all once again for visiting, reading, and commenting on my blog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

APRIL FOOLS!

Journey Into The Dark

Tonight is the first time I’m having somebody write a guest post for me. Make Life Orange has written an account of a psychologically traumatizing experience she went through with one of her ex-boyfriends. I’ve written a little about the subject of abusive relationships but I thought it would be rather beneficial to share something autobiographical. This is a very sensitive subject, so please respect her and her account on this dark subject matter.

Journey Into The Dark, An Account of My Rape

I want to take you on a journey, to another place and another time. We’re going to travel into a different world, a dark world. I ask you to come with me, not to hurt you, but to educate you. I want to help you understand. At times it may seem as though there is no happiness left, no light to be seen for miles. But that is real and that is the truth. There are places like that, and sometimes you must blindly fumble your way out of them. I’m going to guide you though. I will take your hand, walk you through the evil and bring you back into the light. I would never leave anyone behind. So will you come with me? Because there is no turning back after this…

You’ve been drinking. Your mind feels hazy, as though you can’t properly keep up with what is going on around you. He’s next to you on the couch, three quarters of the fifth of Jack Daniel’s is gone. How did the bottle empty that quickly? Fear strikes you, sobering you slightly. You must be careful. He is very drunk. One wrong move could lead to disaster. You know this and you’ve been conditioned to it. If you just listen to what he wants everything will be fine. Just listen and be good. Take another shot. That will make it easier.

He looks at you. You can see drunken desire in his eyes. They roam over your body as if you’re an object. To him you are. You are his prize and his property. He has claimed you as one of his many possessions, to treat as he see fit. He touches you. Hands travel where they want to. Every touch stings, painful to your mind and soul. The brain begins to scream, “Get out! Run!” You almost listen, but then survival instinct kicks in. It reminds you that pulling away would be bad. That would make him angry and you don’t want him angry. So you let him touch you. You let his fingers glide inside you, feeling that small amount of physical pleasure you are still capable of mustering up. You succumb and numb your mind with it. Focus on how happy your body wants you to be, maybe that will make it feel better. Maybe then your heart will stop screaming in pain and you won’t feel so disgusted on the inside. Close your eyes so you don’t have to look at him. Pretend he is someone else. Anyone else would be better.

Drunkenly, he leads you into the bedroom. You know it will only get worse from here. However, maybe if you play the game just right it will be okay. Just follow all his rules. Don’t break any of them. Be good and you’ll make it through the night. He takes out the handcuffs. This is the moment when you fail. Sober, you would have known that allowing him to do that could be risky. Alcohol has numbed your mind though. You remember the times he’s tied you down lately. He hasn’t done anything bad in a while. Just listen, saying no would be more trouble then it’s worth. He restrains you. And you miss the malicious look in his eye.

The sex is quick. He never lasts long. You fake enjoying it with every bone in your body though. You think you’re pleasing him. Once you please him, he’ll pass out. Then you will be free. This is what you think will happen. You are about to learn that you are very wrong. When he finishes, he sits up and looks at you. You ask him to let you go. He says no. You see a flash of anger. Terror rips through your body. He is mad and you have no way out. “We’re going again.” He keeps you hog tied and pulls you on top of him. You plead with him, “No I don’t want to go again.” He slaps you. Blood rushes to your face as you feel the stinging imprint of his hand. With sickening dread you realize you aren’t going to escape. Tears begin to stream down your face. Shakes of panic rack your body. You hear his voice filled with hatred in your ear, “Oh stop whining.” He pulls himself out of you and forces it into your anus. You scream. The pain is terrible. It rips through your being, threatening to pull you apart at the seams. Luckily, he is drunk and soft. He can’t keep it inside for long. That does not deter him though. He knows how much it hurts you. He’s put you in this kind of excruciating pain before. Never against your will though, but he is mad. He is angry about what you have done. How you have hurt him and how you have betrayed him. He’s going to punish you.

The cycle seems to go on for hours. Minutes of extreme pain. Minutes of relief. You continue to sob and shake. He does not seem to notice or care. He keeps pushing it in harder and farther. You wonder if you’re going to die tonight. Has he finally snapped? Has the rage finally taken over? It seems entirely possible. You begin to pray. You ask the God you’ve never acknowledged before to save you. You beg Him to let you live another day. You want to see your family one more time. You want to graduate college. All of these wishes, hopes and dreams. Could this be the end of it all? Maybe He heard you or maybe he just got tired. Either way, it ended as abruptly as it began. He unties you and rolls over, falling asleep nearly immediately. You retreat to the couch. You sob quietly. You dare not wake him again.

The next morning he asks you why you slept on the couch. You realize he doesn’t remember a thing. You recount what happened. He refuses to believe you. If you mention it he scolds you and tells you to stop talking about it. It never happened. You try and convince your mind. It seems to listen. You lock those thoughts and memories away. It all seems to fade after a while.

Three months later you will remember. You will relive the entire event in a horrifying dream. You will wake up in a state of terror, pale as a ghost. This is the moment when you truly understand what has happened to you. You feel yourself break and you feel your heart shatter. You didn’t think it could hurt any worse, but it does. Guilt mixed with pain, anger, hurt and fear. It takes you a while to come to terms with the fact that you were rapped, vaginally and anally. It was rape. There is no denying it. Just because you were in a relationship does not make it okay. Just because you lived with him does not mean you owed him anything. It will take even longer for you to fully understand these facts. You will though. You will be okay.

For those of you who read this far, I thank you. I thank you for taking that journey with me. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever written in my entire life. Well worth it though, because now I feel at peace. Telling the entire story has released some sort of weight that was resting heavy on my heart. I hope you all took something from it, no matter how small.