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My Profile
She blinded him with whiteness - 2008-07-25
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10:07 a.m. - 2008-05-13
Hecate You hold more power in your little finger than most do in their entire being! Hecate is perhaps the most selective of all deities who inhabit the souls of mortals. Being the goddess of the crossroads, Cosmic Knowledge, and of course witches and magic she can’t be bothered by residing in the souls of the mundane. She often chooses those who practice the craft of the old ways and those who harbor deep mystical secrets that must be kept close. Your soul is old, perhaps having been present at the birth of the cosmos in some form or another. Your ability to comprehend the necessity of death and it’s beauty have awakened a connection to the underworld, where Hecate has been known to reign and you relish this otherworldly bond. Darkness suits you well, as many of the best secrets of the cosmos can be found there. Not to be ungracious, but I am truly over that whole 'too powerful for mere mortals' thing. Really. This is something Mick and I are poles apart on. I don't get his need to feel special. I honestly do not know what the craving to be 'more' feels like. For sure I know what not feeling good enough is like. But the desire to be outside the norm, not one of the herd? Not a clue. I enjoy being good at stuff, but have zero desire to crush my opponent. In fact I don't have opponents. Doesn't occur to me to find any. Mick? Not only does Mick like to win, he has to win. He doesn't compete with me, Mick decided on our first date that I am an inherently superior being and must be worshipped as such. But against those on his plane of existence he will prevail or die in the attempt. This is fucking weird to me. Take his muscles for example. Mick readily admits he set out to make himself a freak. Lord knows how many millions of tons of weight he's lifted in his effort to become the Irish Ben Grimm. Yet he's so odd that after turning himself into a freak he refuses to let anyone see it. Dresses like a fat guy. Spent umpty zillion hours in the gym amassing a 52" chest and 20" arms. Climbed the equivalent of the Andes on his mountain bike to get oak barrel thighs. Went 10 years without eating a single piece of cake or fistful of Fritos to maintain a perpetual state of ketosis. Supplements. Sprung joints. Stress fractures. Squatted 500lbs for 10 reps and almost blew his testicles off doing it. All so he could hide beneath battleship grey t-shirts the size of circus tents. I asked him about his contradictory behavior yesterday over lunch. Mick nodded and said he knew it was odd. On one hand he ached to be special, someone different, superior to other guys and his own crap deal from his DNA which, until he forced his metamorphosis at the gym, was to be just your average banty mick. A scrawny pint-sized son of Eire with an unmanageable mop of black curls and coke bottle glasses. I told him I could understand that. Who the heck wants to go through life getting sand kicked in his face? The world already had a Wally Cox and didn't need another one. So he'd done it. Bulked up beyond recognition. Kept his curls mowed and his contacts in. Why the disappearing act then? Because, he said, it somehow felt wrong to be noticed. Being stared at made him uncomfortable. I chuckled. "That, my darling, is where we step off on our different paths. I have no choice. Been stared at my whole life. Found out early on that trying to hide didn't make a difference either. I was a sideshow attraction from the get-go and found out harsh and fast there's no joy in being a freak. No parades or keys to the city. For all that the herd animals long to be unique, en masse they are cruel to the polka dotted zebras in their midst. Hell, even Santa kicked Rudolph to the curb for being a freak. At least until Rudolph proved himself useful. If Rudolph had been born with curly antlers or purple fur instead of that oh so handy glowing nose you can be damn sure Santa would have been just fine with Rudolph dying of exposure up there at the North Pole. Him and Hermey the dentist elf both." "But Baby, your looks aren't horrible, you're gorgeous. Besides what's really amazing about you are your brains. I've never met anyone as smart as you." "Yeah, another freaky facet, thanks for reminding me. I didn't ask for the brains either, you know. And being erudite isn't any path to popularity. Nobody likes feeling dumb. I don't ever pull any "I am so much smarther than thou" crap, but thanks to my freakazoid talent for words and a garbage pail mind full of trivia I'm forever being accused of being a snot. An uppity jerk. Something that pisses me off to no end. Let me ask you something, as one of the herd who longs to be 'special', a 'winner', the 'best', what exactly do you think you'd get out of it? Look at my life. If being unique and gorgeous and a brainiac were such wonderful deals why was my life such a shithole? If being great is so great then where's my mansion, yacht and hordes of adoring fans? Was I ever loved or appreciated or treasured? Being a freak, even a 'good' freak is no guarantee of a good life. It kills me sometimes. All these people striving and pining to be #1, wishing they could be different and special. What the hell for? The Prize Patrol doesn't come by with a big cartoon check. You're not assured of love, that's for damn sure. All being 'unique' does is guarantee you don't ever get to join the reindeer games. "I'm telling you, sweetheart, you're onto something with those baggy shirts. You're right to be leery of the stares. Subconsciously you know what I had shoved down my throat my whole life…being #1 ain't nothing but a big sloppy pile of #2." Thank goodness for my misfit Mick. ~LA
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