Addictive Mistrust

A Definition of Addictive Mistrust.

I have noticed a very obvious pattern within the cable news industry and politically popularized blogs as of late. The idea is not to report on factual information in order to satisfy our curiosity, but rather to create a situation as to where the general populous will gain in interest in the story before all the facts are laid out. They then report the information as "fact at this given moment, with more information as it comes," whilst still allowing the imagery of a factual situation. The purpose is not, in all reality, to get us to believe them. This is not profitable. If we are simply to believe the story, then our urge to find out more is squelched thus disallowing more air time.

They have actually found it far more profitable to allow us to not trust them completely...

If they are correct, then we can continue to trust in them because they nailed it and can then move on to the next story.

This, however, is not the ideal situation. It is actually better for them in the long run to have given us a certain amount of information and allow it to fester long enough for us to be intrigued, which will lead into more speculation, talking heads, specialists in the manner, and eventually get us addicted to the story, never really allowing ourselves to make up our own mind.

When we get upset, it doesn't hurt them because they never have to apologize for giving us the wrong information. All they have to do is move on to the next story, thus allowing ourselves to forget the last one, why we were upset about the lack of information, and get wrapped up in the next one.

I call this addictive mistrust because if we trust them then we are satisfied. Nothing more is needed. If we are not completely trust worthy, we still allow room for "human" error, thus allowing carnal interest to further set in.

Media sources like NPR and PBS rely heavily on listener and viewer donations, and thereby are constantly kept in check by those that demand a certain level of reason and information. Cable news stations and up and coming blogs (as they become more prominent) rely less and less on listener and viewer contributions, allowing them a certain amount of addictive mistrust.

So, the next time you listen to your news of choice, take into account whether the information is being given to you as a public service, of as a matter of addictive mistrust in order to make a profit.

On and On and On

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Homosexuality and the Holy Book

I am finished with the biblical justification of oppressing homosexuals in the same manner that has been used to oppress women and other cultural, racial and religious representations within society for as long as we have known.

I will make it one of my life's goals, if need be, to speak more openly about it in order to point out it's hypocrisy.

This is not a statement of blasphemy toward the faithful, but rather an open dialogue for greater understanding on how we all interpret religious books in order to justify current belief systems that wholly undermines basic human decency.

For every verse you preach openly that speaks out against homosexuality, I have verses, ten-fold, that preach against your own personal hypocrisy...

Try me.

Congrats.

How do we let go. I want for this to be the last time I ask this question. I wish to be open and honest, and judgmental, and sympathetic, but worry that by each word I type, that I may offend an onlooker, thus rejecting them from my own thought process.

Even now I am questioning every word I am typing and have already stricken the last several thoughts to have been typed from my personal record, still hoping I might remember them at a later date in order to use them to my advantage.

Self reflection is often the most painful prose that one must suffer through reading, unless they, themselves, wrote it, of course.

It is almost as painful as sitting through a 10 minute play by play of someone's painstakingly accurate depiction of a dream they once had where they were hopping from one mushroom to the next, chasing the dark, curly-haired girl that just so happened to be ingesting their heart. Not very fun to read, right?

I once thought that being self reflective was a step ahead of evolution, but now feel as though it is far more of a burden than a breakthrough. I felt that by being self reflective, you somehow had a better grasp on the next move from those around you.

Wonderful! You know what people are going to do next! Fabulous! What are you going to do next?

Me?

Yes, you...

I don't know, I was kind of relying on playing it off of your next venture so that I might create a slightly more complex, yet comfortable future where, at any given turn, I might be able to blame you for my short comings because I allowed you to make the decisions. They weren't my own, so how could it be my fault? How could you possibly blame me for our failures?

I tried to support you... So what that I didn't have my own future planned out... we were planning yours, not mine, right?

Nope. Can't blame me. You were the one that wanted to be proactive... See where it gets you?

Downtrodden and full of disappointment, that's where!

Why should I put myself through that agony? You fought for it, do you not want to bathe in the aftermath? Why should I indulge in the monotony alone while you get praise for your empathy?

Wait... no praise? What about from me? What about from your peers... is that not enough?

Oh, you want paternal praise, a job well done and a pat on the back.

Pat pat.

Did that help?

It must be the place. I didn't want it... but I tried to want it.

Did you really want it... If not.. who did you think wanted it?

No, I don't think they did.

Good luck with that.

Don't worry... I'm still trying and I still love you. I'm just simply losing myself in the process.

No worries though. I am sure one day you'll come around.

If not....

Such is life.

If so...

Such is life.

If everything but...

Such is... such is...

Being Unselfish

Strangely enough, one of the most unselfish things we can do is to be selfish. By trying to be unselfish and just looking out for another person creates a burden on the other person, thereby forcing them to be aware of your struggles to please them. This only creates further anxiety on the other person already reacting to other burdens unrelated to you and them. It is best to allow that person, unless they openly reach out for your help, to deal with the problem the best way they know how, and to simply be there for them when they request your help. There is no need to create a hero. Hero's come naturally. They are not forced.

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Death to the Tyrant

As he sat there witnessing the ever-growing chaos around him, he couldn't help but join in on the shouting, join in on the vehement nature of the crowd, join in on the hundreds of people around him who were angry at what they all knew were outright lies.

They were having none of it and neither was he.

He tried to keep his composure, first by clenching his ever tightening fists, nail bitten fingers digging into his palms, then by gnawing at his tongue until blood was drawn, and then by the sweat that was trickling down his forehead and stinging his eyes, at which he would dab with the filthy handkerchief kept in his shirt pocket that probably hasn't been throughly washed since his beloved wife, Margie, passed away four years ago. He tried his best to keep his composure.

But they were having none of it and neither was he.

The crowd was growing ever angrier and the shouts of "death to the tyrant" were growing ever louder, ever more solidified until it sounds were of one, aweinfrightening noise.

He knew why he was angry and now he had a proper audience to show just how angry he was.

It didn't matter that he couldn't express in proper speech why he was so angry. It didn't matter that they had no idea what he was capable of.

They would consider him a hero! Hell, if he was a Muslim, God forbid, he would be a martyr!

The walls of the high school auditorium, usually filled with unsettled teenagers only half willing to participate in the endless barrage of pep rallies and motivational speakers, were now filled with much older versions of themselves, each with an opinion solely his own and yet unsurprisingly indifferent to those around him.

One after another, the individuals in the crowd, barely audible among the death chant, began shouting questions to the fearful Congressman standing on the podium before them.

"Why are you lying to me?"

"Why is he sending people to our door to ask us how we want to die?"

He had questions of his own.

Who were they to call him crazy? Who were they to label him with the endless barrage of labels... of birthers and deathers and teabaggers?

He knew these people. These were kind hearted, salt of the earth people.

Jim Peterson down the road would look, night after night, after his neighbor Charlotte when her husband was killed in Iraq, even drove her to the hospital when her water broke. And ol' Sammy worked two jobs for some forty odd years just so he could make sure his kids had a proper education and had enough money to go to a good private school.

These were good people and he'd be God damnned if he didn't see these folks right.

The shouts were almost deafening now, and the local law enforcement which the city had invested to keep the crowd under control were growing ever more concerned, their eyes darting from one person to the next, warned that at anytime someone could be provoked to do something just outside the wishes of the crowd.

They were having none of it, and neither was he.

His hands unclenched.

He felt a wave of calm wash over him. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his hands this time and ran his hands down the outside of his soil stained jeans. These jeans were a symbol of what it is to be a hard working American citizen! He'd be God-damned if he were let those damn illegals stain their jeans with the same soil that this God fearing free nation was built upon!

His right fist bore into the right pocket of his jeans. He stood up and, pulling his hand out of his pocket, joined the crowd.

"Death to the tyrant!"

His arms extended in front of him, a symbol of true freedom lay in his hands, he was instantly tackled by those that he trusted, those he related to, those that he was fighting for and those that he knew he was trying to save.

As his head crashed into the linoleum floor, which smelled of lysol and after market footwear, and as those around him grew ever weary of his intentions, each wanting to be the one that ultimately wrestled him to the ground, each fighting for a piece of story that they could head home to tell their grandkids, he was sent back.

He was now on the floor of his childhood baptist church, writhing at the words being shouted toward him from the congregation.

"Hallelujah!"

"Please Lord, save this child!"

"The Holy Ghost is in him!"

He struggled to join in, every sound uttered from his mouth a litmus test that he was speaking with the Lord. Every sound uttered an attempt at proving he was indeed speaking in tongues, indeed having a one on one with the Savior. Part of him felt he was. The other, which he'd never admit to those close to him, wasn't so sure.

They would have none of it and make sure that neither would he.

And he was back.

The crowd was now able to detain him, not that he put up much of a struggle. They tightened their grip as he loosened his. The shock of being betrayed by those he knew needed enlightening was enough to keep him at bay.

And he was sent back.

Now he lay on the floor of his bedroom, shared with older brother, his father's knees embedded in his chest.

"Why'd you do it boy? You knew better!"

The back of his father's left hand came down hard across his left cheek.

"This is for your own good boy!"

The back of his father's right hand came down hard across his right cheek.

His father would have none of it and would make sure that neither would he.

And he was back.

The few left in the crowd that still had ahold of him put up a bigger struggle than he was giving in order to display how courageous they were to apprehend the man who had displayed such a horrific act of speech. The symbol of freedom now lying on the ground, a child rushes over to witness the commotion, to grasp onto what the man had left behind. His grandfather was right behind, grabbed the child, first by his hand, and then pulled him in close, whispering, "You don't want to hold that my boy. That's a toy only grown ups understand."

The few left in the crowd still grasping the man, now led him to the local law enforcement who were more than willing to put up a bigger struggle than he was in order to display an act of courage, and to tell their wife and children at home just how horrific this act of speech was.

He was cuffed. He was thrown in the back of the patrol car. He was sent back.

They were having none of it, and as much as he tried, neither was he.