What absolute monster uses laundry detergent and fails to replace the plastic scoop thingie?

Now just answer me that.

I look around this empty world and watch as the pathetic scenery struggles to stand. Everything, from advertising to television to the political situation strikes me as something that could be so much better. Creativity has been craved, forced so hard and feigned by so many that it has fled the scene, leaving a mutable shell lacking in merit and point, produced by underpaid workers and rushing deadlines.

Honestly. I could do so much better.

I just watched Sex and the City. Cute show. Cute, cute show. But it's really not hard to give something a purpose, or, you know, intellectual merit. Carrie makes these statements, like 'are we too quick to judge judgment' and then rushes off to the Prada store to ignore the issue and buy new shoes. I like Prada and the afore mentioned question, and I even like the combination of the two. But it's such a stupid show! The ideas that pop into Carrie's head are only moderately asinine, so why don't they persue it? I love it and I watch it every week, but I can't admit to doing so because it's stupid! Stoooopid!

And then the commercial break is upon us and we are subject to the worst bout of bad advertising this decade has seen yet. Argh.

Anyway- The Schiavo Case.

I support Friday's ruling to remove Terri Schiavo's feeding tube. Not because the caring husband knew best, but simply because she dwelt in a persistently vegetative state. In my ever humble opinion, the only individual who can ethically determine the outcome of a human being's existence is the individual in question. That individual alone holds the capacity and the right to do, without exception. The decision to live or to willingly die is one that encompasses every sphere and realm of life, it is one that requires careful consideration of everything from conditions to religious and spiritual beliefs, to family and desire. Whatever one being decides is correct. No one else, however close, can make that decision correctly, because no other entity has the resources. No other entity can weigh in religious beliefs and deepest desires because only the individual in question is in full knowledge of these aspects of his or her life. These aspects, therefore, should not be taken into consideration because they can't be. The affair is now one that is purely medical in nature. It is my belief that the patient's doctor should decide. The family and spouse should collaborate with the doctor, of course, and if possible come to a mutual conclusion in regards to what will be done. No physician should have the right to end a patient's life if there is the slightest chance of recovery and the family forbids it (and if they assume financial responsibility). But if there is absolutely no chance of alleviation, and an unconscious patient resorts to unnatural means to stay alive, for whom is this care given? The patient or the family that can't bear to see them die? Is it ethical to chain one to mortality when they are clearly meant to leave, just to avoid anguish of the most fundamental nature? And what husband knows completely the wish of his spouse? How many spouses would abuse the power of this decision were it given to them? This is about religion, but it shouldn't be about any one God. I find it funny, however, that so many people use God as an excuse to play God.

Bad sitcoms and court cases aside, this post is a frantically manufactured collage of scattered ideas that works hard to criticize the scattered ideas in society. After my lengthy respite from the blogging world I had to force myself to sit down and write, and this is what I produced. I apologize, but what can I say? I'm saving the world, one hypocritical critique at a time.

You know, I feel so good right now. I feel a need to force and push this feeling into some compilation of overly constructed phrases to try and hang on to whatever elation I have. The fear of sounding cliche has always controlled me, sometimes to the point that I neglect what I experience and feel so that I might solidify my defensive pessimism. Perhaps that's why I've robbed myself of the desire to write. Maybe I'm just lazy. I don't know.

But regardless, I've found things and I'm happy to find them. Dreary exhales have turned into breathless sighs and dazes have turned into hopeful reveries. I've momentarily awoken to this flashy world, and I've come to realize that the moments in which I smile are growing longer. It's all been written about before, and it's nothing new, but it's new to me.

Another happy fool, another silly little girl skipping about life gaily. Another individual walking down the sidewalk as a grin slowly rises to her face, another woman bound to be ripped to shreds when she loses what she has. Another individual ready to lean back and listen to Ella Fitzgerald without the skeptical safeguard, and slightly nod in agreement with the mellifluous proclamation. I've become yet another person just ready to laugh and love and be happy.

I don't mind at all.

I wanted to inform everybody that I am still alive.

Lazy, yes, but alive.

The first thing a waiter or waitress starts off with is the drink. It’s a tell-tale affair, it really is; you see who’s cheap, who’s going to be civil, who’s going to get plastered, and who’s going to pay your bills for the next month and a half. I think the beverage judgment to be an incredible injustice. My drink of choice happens to be water, no ice, no lemon, no straw. Water in a glass. I’d like to think that I’m not cheap; I’ve always despised carbonated drinks and I don’t drink alcohol, so I might as well stick to what I know is good for me. That’s all. Immediately after I inform my server of this, however, it’s as if someone’s taken a sharpie to my forehead and written “stingy” in ugly, bold handwriting.

I really think this is unfair.

The next time I go out I will state my regular brew of choice, slam the menu on the table and chant, in all my Ebonic glory, Ricki Lake style, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME!”