Consumerism

I both loathe and love shopping. I don't particularly like spending money, especially when we have so little of it. That's why I make everything home, from the three meals a day, to the snacks that be enjoyed, even if not bought. I can veggies, fruits, make my own pickles, my own jams, and my own bread. Every little bit helps, tremendously.

I love buying small little things that changes the mood and look of the home. I also don't like buying things that aren't sturdy and don't make through at least two years, no matter how cheap they are. So I tend to stay away from extra cheap stuff, because they aren't made to last.

However, the way the stores are managed, designed and the ads and the catalogs all create a narrative consciousness we believe in. Or at least can be susceptible. It's easy to buy into this narrative, quite unconsciously. Ads begin the circle of this vicious routine and deep brainwashing. TV Series, movies, books, and eventually ending at the stores. We believe everyone shops a lot, everyone has all of these items and that over and over we are advertised things we don't need as necessities.

I fall into this trap and thankfully, because I just don't have the money, I always return back home empty handed, and it's my golden rule to wait until the third visit to actually buy something. So when that happens, it becomes apparent all those items, decorations, new gadgets and gismos and appliances are not necessary.

Bitch Goddess: Money

At this point, I don't even know why I even write on here. It's not like I can sit down to coherently think about anything. Even these thoughts, it's like in jumbles, randomly. I can only feel the touch of the keyboard as I press my fingertips on each letter. Other than that, there is no feeling there. I am tired of the uninvited knowledge I am not privy too, I am tired of being blacked mailed about it and even more so, refusing to sink so low to do something about it. Though I suppose, I should have, when I began to see a pattern of abuse and misuse of power in the beginning. It's all too late now and I have this hollow, numb, harrowing, eccentric cavity. This cavity in my chest, this desire to fill the numbness of my fingertips, but inability to do so with any means I possess, it's all maddening. This winter is not going to be treating me well, I can see it.  All of this work is a hindrance.I really could have been writing, reading, critically analyzing something...or thinking in general.

I liked thing as they were settling down. I was comfortable, adjust, and moving forward with my master plan of life. All hail to the "Bitch Goddess: Money". Nothing like the need to eat to interrupt with the dream world of a writer who really would just like to be left alone to do her work.

Count Down to Christmas

As Christmas draws, I find myself impatient for the start of a new year. I've never been able to understand why new year is at the dead of winter, where everyone is too tired and too cold to even care about celebrating, and the night falls far too quickly and way too snowy to accommodate for traveling. Or really, for walking.

I know some people get fueled by the holidays, the count down to a new beginning, but I find myself reflecting, withdrawn, confused, internally disabled and well, stopped caring enough the markings on my calendar. Meaning, I just let go. I let go of myself, my house, my hobbies, and even those reflective emotions I've been festering leading up to this point in the calendar year.

I've been seeing the depression slowly creep up. I've perhaps been working too much--there is obviously no doubt about that--but even so, I've assumed this persona of a "Bitch Goddess" where I must make money and cloak myself out of this world, where I've become a sheep for the tax industry of the capitalist. Money in the long haul is a disenfranchising thing to think about, where it leaves me hanging and a harrowing chest pain, I can't seem to numb away with my awesome mind powers (that are nonexistent). Because really, my soul begins decaying and my body just tells me, kiddo, it's time to pick shit up. It never has preferably sat with me, or settled in, always leaving bitter after taste, although not as layered as a glass of

Cabernet Sauvignon.