Back To Unconsciousness
I feel like I’m always the last person to see a movie. And in a capstone class such as the one I’m in, I feel like I’m the last person to know anything about movies in general. For example, if I hear that a movie is going to come out in theaters, my classmates heard about it in preproduction two years ago, and if not then, they heard about it in a magazine ten years ago when the director was daydreaming about the project for the first time. I try to think about what might cause me to be so out of the loop when it comes to those highly anticipated movies.
So I decided to look at my own DVDs and VHS tapes. I have upwards of ten different Japanese horror and monster films, the entire five seasons of Viva la Bam, all of She-Ra Princess of Power, Rainbow Brite, The Great Chipmunk Adventure, a robot anime I’ve owned for ten years and just watched for the first time last summer out of boredom… Let’s see, I have Tank Girl, Ladyhawk, the Dark Crystal, The Labyrinth, The Princess Bride, The 5th Element, Nanny McPhee, Silent Hill, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Hard Day’s Night and the first two Resident Evil movies… I have Masters of the Universe with Dolph Lundgren, Excess Baggage, the Gold Box VHS Star Wars Trilogy, Sgt. Bilko, Titan A.E., Masterminds, Hackers, the animated Transformers Movie, Demolition Man, and Lawnmower Man 2… I also have my collection of random music video and concert tapes/DVDs, such as: Iron Maiden, about four different Japanese rock bands, The Beatles, and old burned videos of the bands I used to manage.
From the look of my collection, I have not watched hardly anything in the past five years… ironically those are the years I’ve been in college. What does that mean? Am I so uninterested in movies? That can’t be, because there’s entire rental store’s worth of movies from the last five years that I’m dying to see. Maybe it’s because I’m broke, and knowing that I can’t afford to watch new movies deters me from even keeping track of what’s coming out.
Maybe my year in Japan sealed my fate… when I first got off the airplane and walked into a rental shop (immediately and in that order), I could only identify maybe 10% of the films on the shelf. That was it. It was like being in a foreign country all over again. I panicked a little. I wondered if I was really in America, or if I had entered into an alternate universe that looked kind of like home but wasn’t.
And speaking of panicking, being back in America is difficult. I know what it’s like to wake up from a coma. Nothing has changed, but I’m missing a year of my life. All I have is this bizarre dream of living in a strange place in a time that feels decades removed. Did I really live in a house older than America’s constitution? Did I serve drinks in three different bars to pay for it? Was I really part of the women’s stage security at a dancehall? Did I really end up in a Japanese hospital, hooked up to an I.V. while the doctor told the nurse how lucky I was? Did I ever really leave?
I do this every time; it never fails. Every time I think about wanting to escape my life into a movie, I remember how little I’m aware of the options to choose from, and how few I’ve seen, and how many I can’t afford… and I felt after coming home from a dream. That dream life from a year ago that feels more like it happened two decades ago. I miss it, despite feeling so detached. Home is so different for me now that I don’t feel like I belong. If I have to feel like an outsider, I’d rather be one in a place that makes sense. I have to back to Asia. There’s no reason to feel alienated in my own country, when I can feel that way in a world where it’s allowed.
Lies are just facts that can’t be proven.
I’ve heard arguments made by both fiction and nonfiction writers for who has the monopoly on truth (and coincidentally, who deserves more respect for presenting it.) I’ve been exposed to the argument over the last couple of years now. On the one hand, fiction writers have said: nonfiction deals with just facts; fiction deals with just truth. To counter, nonfiction writers have said that fiction is just a pack of lies, and why would anyone want to tell the truth with lies when reality can tell it better?
To me, these arguments seem fairly decent and make valid points, except they’re both wrong. Sure, both views are stemmed from their respective focuses in creative writing, and rationalize why what they do is important. Yet, as someone who has only published poetry (over ten years ago I should add), and doesn’t like the idea of publishing nonfiction, I’ve decided that I would like to step in with my own argument in the debate, as a person who writes a combination of the two everyday for reasons not necessary to outline in this blog.
Now, before the nonfiction people accuse me of anything baseless, I’d like to make a point that my not wanting to publish nonfiction is a personal choice, and by no means does indicate that I disapprove or dislike nonfiction. It also does not have any bearing on my courage or possible lack of it.
I’m not afraid to write nonfiction and I’m not afraid to tell the truth when asked outright, but as I’ve been accused of being spineless for presenting my facts in fiction, I feel the need to set one thing straight: I do not find it necessary to hang out the dirty laundry of others, just to prove to the world I have a spine. Doing so would hurt others, and no amount of fame, glory, money, whatever, is going to tempt me to hurt those I care about.
With that said, I’d like to define fiction and nonfiction in my own terms: nonfiction is facts that can be proven to demonstrate a greater truth, whereas fiction is facts that cannot be proven to demonstrate a greater truth. I would rather write facts that cannot be proven, to protect people. Spineless? Well that’s your opinion.
Now, before my nonfiction and fiction friends flog me furiously for fallacy (and before everyone else in the English department strikes me for using a cheesy alliteration), I should probably define “fact” according to the American Heritage Dictionary (read at Dictionary.com), just to clear up any confusion:
1.) Knowledge or information based on real occurrences: an account based on fact; a blur of fact and fancy.
2. a) Something demonstrated to exist or known to have existed: Genetic engineering is now a fact. That Chaucer was a real person is an undisputed fact. b) A real occurrence; an event: had to prove the facts of the case. c) Something believed to be true or real: a document laced with mistaken facts.
Let’s take a closer look at number 2c. “Something believed to be true or real.” I wrote a fiction piece about a dream I once had. In the dream, the story was real. In the waking state, it was pure fiction. I know many Christians who believe the Bible to be the greatest work of nonfiction. For them, it is real. For me, it’s a wonderful collection of parables and fables.
Reality, though defined as the state or quality of being real, is still different for different people, for different reasons. It’s why two sides of the same story never parallel and why there’s rarely a bad guy in a fight, when taking into consideration the different viewpoints. This may seem like a load of virtuism to some of you, but hell, I sort of subscribe to that philosophy on days I encounter little evil. Let’s just say this is one of them.
The point I’m trying to make is that fiction and nonfiction are the same thing with differing levels of “fact” but equal portions of truth. To choose one over the other is a matter of personal taste, not a matter of personal honor, notoriety, or repute. The argument is stale (after how many years?) and still starving writers are eating that shit up for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and shooting it up for their evening fix.
Now, I’m wondering how many people will call me a hypocrite for joining the argument just to basically call those who participate in the debate foolish. The thing is, I can’t really call myself a hypocrite. Sure, those offended by my opinion would tell you otherwise, but isn’t the definition of a hypocrite a person whose actions belie stated beliefs?
Calling people foolish for doing something, then joining in the foolish fun myself, doesn’t make me a hypocrite until I claim to not be a fool. I’ve not done that, which basically means that no hypocrisy had been committed here. I’m just as much a fool as the next writer out there, believing that I can change the world some day, if only to entertain the public with my work. And I’m a fool who strongly believes that trying to monopolize respect through a genre of writing is a waste of good energy that could be put to better use. How? Oh, I don’t know, maybe by doing what it is we writers set out to do: write (and read to steal shit to write about.)
Now I’ll most likely be assassinated by Rachel or Sam or both… or just get laughed at for being so sure of myself when I have so little reason to be. And I’m done.
HAIKU WITH JENAI. Brought to you by 3:48 PM
Haiku #0: On Haiku.
I wish to share with
You my latest of haiku
Because I’m mad board.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Haiku #1: On Lust.
It’s inutile,
My conciliatory
Woman’s lechery.
Haiku #2: On Rage.
My enmity is
Paltry, deserves no reproach.
Everyone relates.
Haiku #3: On Experimentation.
A carpetmuncher
Is another word for dyke.
Or lesbian.
Haiku #4: On Men.
What I wouldn’t give
For a man with a long, hard,
Clean, legal record.
Haiku #5: On Failure.
Just a college girl,
Lacking in omnificence,
Cursing her wack womb.
Haiku #6: On Age.
Some women’s minds bloom.
Some flat out fail to mature.
And my mind bisects.
Haiku #7: On the world’s shitnoses.
Being proud of your
Own uncertainties is why
You are so shameless.
Haiku #8: On Sleep.
Some need but few hours,
Whereas I need but sweet dreams.
I killed a monster.
Reading Lolita in Tehran: a horror story.
It might be Lisette Lecat’s troubling voice speaking for Azar Nafisi, or it might be the chilling words on the physical page, but either way, this book is haunting me—I hear Lecat speaking those words, even when I’m not reading/hearing them. I am forcing myself to finish, but I’m having a rough time of it. And I need fresh air. So I blog.
Let me put things into perspective for everyone. Zombies and monsters are not real. I know it. I love their books and movies and can watch pretty much any kind of monster or ghost story out there, and love it. I enjoy it with a ridiculous enthusiasm. I love the guts and gore because it’s stage makeup. It’s a gruesome art. I rate horror movies and books based on a scale of entrails. George Romero almost always scores a solid five kidneys. Ghost stories make me shiver in excitement and often receive a yellow liver mark.
But reality… that’s something I play with.
Some people mentally can’t take in slasher films. We don’t fault them for it. Right? I mean, I’ve never heard anyone say, “people who can’t watch gore on screen are lesser people.” But for some reason, I get the feeling that I’m going to be criticized tonight for failing to get through Reading Lolita in Tehran over the course of seven days. It should have been too easy. But still, I’m not more than a 25% of the way through it. I’m not slacking, honest! I’m not forgetting to finish. I just physically could not get to the end in the week-long time frame.
In my defense, the themes in this book are physically causing me grief. I’ve felt mildly ill all week as I tried to make it through the memoir. In all seriousness, I’ve only handled about 2 or 3 chapters a day before freaking out and running away from it. I’ve woken up several times in the last seven days with strands of my own hair gripped in my hand, and have gone on more walks than usual just to clear my head. I’ve been forcing myself to concentrate on lighter ideas and subjects, because if I concentrate too much on what really disturbs me, I get literally sick. Because of this problem, I can’t eat very much, thankfully, so dry heaves are about all I’ve suffered so far. (Perhaps the only other thing I’ll suffer is disapproval from my peers for not finishing the book.)
You’re probably wondering what about this book and my psyche clashes so much… I wish I could explain it. It’s like how some sounds and colors can make certain people feel ill; the theme and degree of oppression in this book just hit home. Bullseye. I’m not sure if it is because I miss my old Muslim roommates Hana and Zeina, and keep imagining them in a veiled world of fear, or if my own freedom is so precious to me that I’m scared to death of losing it. But I can promise that even the tender happy moments in this book are too much for me so far.
Yes, I do vow to finish this book. I refuse to not finish. But I can’t read more than little spoonfuls at a time. I honestly break into tears when I’m alone thinking about what I’ve read so far. I’ve called my mother in hysterics and told her I wasn’t sure what is wrong with me. I’ve wondered what kind of counselor I should talk to about my obsession with world issues, and why the thoughts of them make me physically sick.
I actually wanted to just up and drive to Billings, MT last weekend, just to escape this book. I’d run to my mother’s house, and tell her I need therapy. (Gas prices were the only thing that stopped me.) Excessive? Maybe. Controllable? Maybe for some people, but I don’t now how to read this book… I don’t know how…
And that’s my answer. It’s that simple. I don’t know how to read this kind of book. Just like some people don’t know how to watch a slasher movie without freaking out and getting grossed out; I can’t read Nafisi’s memoir without that same type of reaction. We’ll talk about it in class tonight, and I will have to be very careful with what I say and how I respond to the conversation. I hate crying, and more seriously: hate crying in public. Talking about this book is slightly scary for that reason alone.
Plus, I don’t know how to participate, having only read some 20 chapters. I wont lie about. I will confess to having not finished it. But I’m worried of being accused of slacking, which is so not the case. I wish that I had a stronger constitution for such themes in life… but I cling to zombies for a reason. I’m afraid of reality. I’ve seen enough scary things as a privileged American to know that women in other countries have it way worse. The comparison is daunting. I have nothing else to say.
Lies: Another messy break-up.
So, I noticed that all day yesterday, my weather guide widget for Cheney, WA was promising a thunderstorm. It wasn’t saying “chance of thunder showers,” it just said “thunderstorm.” Now, as most of you could probably guess (if not remember) there was no thunderstorm yesterday. The weather pattern alert thing on my homepage had been lying to me non-stop for a good couple of days straight now, and I’m pretty much done with her. Even this morning, she said today’s weather is “showers.” Showers?
It was 8:53 am, when I first checked the weather widget then looked out my window. I could see nearly clear blue skies with a small wisp or two of happy clouds, a generous amount of summer sun, and the warmth I felt lead me to guess the temperature was in the high seventies, if not more. Where were today’s rain clouds? Where was yesterday’s storm? Where was Saturday’s storm? Why is the weather report on my homepage feeding me a load of shit? And why is the weather still abso-f*cking-lutely beautiful right now?
I’ve just come to the conclusion that I’m going to have to end my relationship with my weather widget. It will be hard tell her because she’s been the woman I’ve woken up to every morning for the last eleven months. True, I was happy with her for most of that time, but catching her in a lie so many times this last week is seriously making me reconsider trusting her ever again.
It’s funny, but I feel that some relationships are just not possible after a year, once both people get comfortable and relax into the real self. I’m sure you understand what I mean. After ten to twelve months, you start to notice the defects in your lover after the “honeymoon” period wears off. You were blinded by fresh love to the flaws, which are now too noticeable well into a relationship. That’s what happened with my weather widget and I. She was hiding her flaws—her inability to forecast the weather with the accuracy I demand. I wonder how I was so unaware of the problems earlier.
Weather is a bid deal for me, and lying about it is just not something I will tolerate. It’s like lying about meeting your ex for drinks and a quicky for old time sake. If you tell me that you were just out with friends, while the lipstick stain on your collar is able to make better eye contact with me than your own eyes can, do you really think I can trust you after that? If you tell me that there’s going to be rain and wind, and I dress for it, then pass out from heat exhaustion from over dressing on a hot, clear, sunny day, then can you blame me for not trusting you? It’s the same thing. Lies hurt people.
I just can’t see myself in a relationship purely based on a level of trust that is dwindling every day. My weather widget just is not the woman I thought she was, you know? I can do better than her… and find someone I can trust. I am so sick of all these non-human nouns not meeting my expectations. Will I ever enter into a good relationship with one where I don’t freak out and have second thoughts about it?
Why is life so complicated?
It’s been over a couple years… I should leave him.
All my life (as long as I can remember of it, anyhow) I was told that Martinis are the most disgusting alcoholic drink on the face of the planet. This of course, is wisdom from my mother, whose liquor cabinet is filled with various flavors of pucker, rum, colada and daiquiri mixes.
When I was about seventeen, I developed a tolerance for vodka drinks, as well as a certain respect for dry gins (and on nights I just wanted to feel that burn, I’d down straight shots of tequila.) This is not a “like mother, like daughter” situation. So why, dear reader, did it take me seven years of my drinking life before trying a freaking Martini? Was my mother’s hatred for them so impressive that I actually believed her? Did I think I’d not like them? Or was I just stupid?
Here’s the real kicker: I worked in a dive bar, a dancehall with a full bar, and in a jazz club with a full bar for a year in Japan. I had to learn how to mix all the most popular drinks as an employee on the busy nights when our official bartenders were over-ran with customers. I made upwards of 200 Martinis as a “cocktail waitress” (for lack of a better job description) over the course of my year abroad, and not once did I ever think, “Hey, I like all of these ingredients, I should try a Martini!”
Now, in my defense, I will say that for the last five or so years, I’ve been obsessed with a crisp, dry gin and tonic with a generous twist of lime and a “peel only” garnish. It was my signature drink. I’d not go anywhere where anyone who’s anyone would be without my glass of juniper nectar. Let’s hear it for the piney bush. And for the record, no, I do not think gin tastes like licking a Christmas tree.
It tastes like something smoother—something like a satisfying sexual experience, without the dirty body fluids or knockout, porn star orgasm. It’s a tender moment in every sip, and gives me the feeling that I’ve been talking with my life-long friend in a hushed whisper about our hopes and dreams. There’s no colossal finale, just a comforting finish after the glass in emptied. There’s a drop of sophistication in a good gin and tonic that I’d not experienced in my other drinks, and so the big G&T was the one I depended on.
Until last night, anyway, when I tried my first Martini. It was interesting coming home last night, to see my bottle of Bombay Sapphire sitting in the freezer on its side, looking lonely and cold. There’re about two shots in him still, and yet, I wonder if I will add him to the tonic in my cabinet later, or if I’ll add him to a splash of dry vermouth and olive brine. I’d rather him be dirty… I wonder if my gin will feel betrayed that I’m forcing him to mingle with a new crowd and leave his lime and soda lover in the dust? I wonder if he knows I might dump him entirely for his Russian brother?
I like vodka, and would be curious to figure out which Martini I would enjoy more. I might need to talk to my gin, and let him know that’s it not him. He’s great—truly sophisticated and deserving of a better woman. The problem is really with me. I might be just too dirty for him. I don’t know whom I was fooling, trying to fit in with the crème de la crème… I’m not a dazzler, like some women. I’m not dainty enough to put lime peels on display; give me the sick olive. I think it’s more appropriate that my drinks be a little clouded.
Jaded, neglected, humiliated… it’s over.
Last night’s alleged thunderstorm stood me up last night. He thought he’d be a suave bastard by having his roadies leave me a note saying “chance of,” so I wouldn’t feel too bad about him bailing on me. What a douche. I worked really hard all day preparing for him, too. I even broke out the candles for him. Candles! All the weather reports said he was headlining last night, but the second I start preparing for him, he changes his tour schedule.
I even pulled out an old quilt and folded it neatly on the sofa for him. I bought all the ingredients to make exotic smoothies and shrimp fettuccine alfredo, because let’s face it; Italians know how to cook a meal to put lovers in the mood, and tropical drinks spiked with Tequila only add to the excitement. But I guess seduction is a man’s sport, and someone didn’t want to be emasculated by showing up….
Chauvinistic creeps like him just piss me off. I had it all planned out. Although I had my suspicions when I got word that he might not come, I didn’t want to think he’d be so cruel. Earlier in the day, his clouds had darkened and toyed with my heart enough that I honestly thought he wouldn’t bail. I wanted to believe he cared enough to show up. The stage techs were building up for one hell of a light show, too. But then: nothing. Nice stage, no rockstar.
I do this to myself sometimes: set myself up for disappointment. I felt like such a fool, sitting in my home with a hot meal, blankets, and candles. And this morning, when I woke up, I found his next note telling me not to be angry, he may still come tonight. Well screw him, I’m not returning that call. At least my other sweetheart showed up with a decent thriller (the ending was shit, but whatever) to make me a little less irritated with Pimp Master Thor. Never trust a blond man with a red beard who names his possessions. What kind of a name is Mjolnir anyway? And why a hammer? Why not some cherry red hotrod with a V8? Sometimes I question what I see in that man. Honestly.
…he could of at least sent me some zombies.
Thunder Storms & Daydreams
Today’s weather forecast expects a high chance of thundershowers. I laughed after reading that, because it’s currently about 70 degrees outside, and my neighbors are tanning themselves and doing yard work. I would feel gypped, because I love storms and it just doesn’t look promising out there. But there are a few heavier looking clouds out in the distance, that could build into nasty thunderclouds later in the after noon. So all may not be lost.
If they do build into stormtacular skysponges, I hope they wait till later tonight, because I have a stay-in-and-veg date this evening with my honey, and a thunderstorm would be a sexy backdrop for the evening’s festivities. I will cook a romantic Italian dinner, let him choose our movies, and we can share a hard smoothie while we ignore the flash of electricity outside. We will laugh at each other as we jump at the thunderclaps, and he will try to claim that I was the only one startled. I will ask why most men think they can predict loud noises or think they’re never affected by them. Hopefully the power will go out, and I’ll have to light candles. He’ll feel manly while playing with the mag flashlight, then tell me to “stay calm; everything’s going to be okay.” A loud blast of thunder will shoot through the air like an EMP and knock us to the living room floor.
Maybe the storm will get so bad that we both feel the beginnings of true nervousness, and he’ll suggest we do it, because we might not live to see the morning. You know how this works; it’s that cliché notion that you must do it so you don’t die a virgin. Then I’ll roll my eyes at him because neither one of us are that innocent. But I would give in anyway, because, what the hell… there’s not a good reason why not to do it.
Things will start to heat up, but then someone would start banging on the front door, interrupting the casual (near) sex scene. I’ll look out the window, and realize it’s our good friend from school, desperate to escape the elements. We will let him in, and he will tell us that he could have sworn that the storm was possessed by some evil from beyond. My date and I will laugh and tell him he’s just imagining things. Soon after accusing our friend of being a ninny, a clap of thunder and flash of lightning will momentarily blind us.
Then the zombies will crash through the living room’s giant picture window and eat us, because I didn’t knock on wood when my honey said everything would be all right. So we all die in an apocalyptic zombie invasion summoned by our apathetic response to a little thunder and lightning. We could have survived, if only we had a sawed-off shotgun or chain saw. But no, we just had a couple candles and a mag flashlight. I can’t wait for my date tonight. I hope the storm is in full swing when my honey arrives. I should lay off the George Romero films… and Grind House.
I’m too happy today.
I’m sitting her, trying to write my new blog today. And, damn it, I think, I’m running out of things to bitch about. Earlier I asked my roommate how I should start, and in all her brilliance, she suggested I “insert the key and turn.” She makes everything sound so easy, if not completely unrelated to my query. Anyway, I’m nearly positive that my inability to come up with a specific topic is directly proportional to my inability to bitch today. I seem caught in a potentially infuriating state of Zen (my fury being thwarted by the whole peace thing.)
But really, it’s frustrating right now, because I need something to tick me off to get my words flowing. I wonder if there’s a way for me to feel somewhat creative while being possessed by a Hindu cow. Don’t laugh; it’s a serious condition. Sure, some word crafters get taken over by normal demons and common writers block. I have to compare myself to East Indian Beef. There’s really no reason for me to be happy right now. I mean, life still sucks, the quarter is still not ended, my heating bill is still too high, and the temperature dropped again. So why do I feel so freaking chipper?
It might have to do with that ridiculous summer fever… you know, the one that makes us dress in skimpy clothing, thinking it makes us look sexy just because we’re a half shade darker, compliments of the new sunshine. But in reality, we’re still a size too big for the waistband and the muffin top is starting to crisp more than the hipbones. The few days of heat that made many women suffer the usual clothing faux pas is what baked my brain into thinking I might wake up one morning and be one of the cool kids. I’ll wear Hawaiian colored flip-flops, fake Chanel sunglasses, and hope that sunning outside all day will help me lose weight (even though I won’t bother to do a damned athletic activity.)
The story of your life, too, right? But what is it about the summer sun that grants us such delusions of grandeur, makes us forget what pisses us off, and, in my case, robs me of my creative juices? Can a brain get heat rash despite the protective layer of skull, flesh, and that weave of dead cells? At any rate, the coming of the summer sun always makes me feel that I might be a tad cooler than I was in the earlier months of the year.
Example, just a week ago, I had gone to a friend’s birthday party. The theme: lingerie. Yes, my circle of friends is a group that finds lingerie gatherings to be the only way to party. It’s cool, suave, and yes, even sophisticated. When I was invited and told that entrance required us to arrive in unmentionables only, I was super excited; here was the kick-off to my coolness. I would arrive in my black lace babydoll and garter belt, complete with faux gold hooker heels. It would be beyond cool—no, I would be sexy—and would stand among comrades armed in satin and silk. I might even get laid. All right. Of course, it was still early enough in the summer for reality to sink in, and I realized that we were still not as cool as I daydreamed. The party’s bar was grossly under-stocked, the guests (for the most part) were sadly over sober, and the most humiliating part was this: we were still just a bunch of nerds in panties.
So I’d like to wish all my readers a joyous summer and an easy assimilation into the cool culture.
Sportsmanship. You’re doing it wrong.
This is another one that might not make a lot of sense to some of my readers (or all, what? …six of you?), but then again, it’s got some good advice that I didn’t make up, so you should read it. P.S., I’m in a foul mood right now, so I get to write this as cryptic and grouchy as I choose, but don’t let that discourage you from reading.
So I’m disgruntled. Yes, disgruntled with competitors who do not acknowledge those who defeated them. I am a competitive person. When I lose to (a) stronger opponent(s), I say the names of the person/people I lost to without shame or alternative purpose. The spirit of good sportsmanship depends on that virtue. Lately, though, I have noticed a decrease in that mentality.
A good friend of mine is an amazing woman and recently won a rather exciting award, and it kills me that this competitive numbskull, whom had competed against her, ignored her accomplishments just to make the “failure” feel less painful. This person demonstrated other unsportsmanlike behavior, but it would take a while to list all the craptacular details involved. Anyway, some people need to realize that no matter how good they think they are in their element, there will (almost) always be someone greater. Beside that, the only worthwhile competition is with one’s self.
On a related note, I have a hard time being okay with a person who would point out the accomplishments of another as an excuse for his or her own failure, rather than to honor the person for winning (it does happen, sadly.) It’s even worse when the loser assumes that the winner won for some unrelated reason (kind of makes you sick, doesn’t it?)
So I ask my readers to please give credit where it is deserved, when it is deserved, and be honest about it. Please do not give credit only when that acknowledgement will benefit your ego. Think about this: the number of times you will lose to someone else in a competition is often higher than the number of times you will win; so don’t fuss. Other people will respect your good sportsmanlike behavior (and be thankful to you for upholding the spirit of competition) if you compete more with yourself, and remain respectful of your opponents. Remember: experience, skill, or even age, has nothing on a strong heart. No matter how far in a competition you go, it’s only your strength of character that is truly deserving of any congratulations. You shouldn’t expect anything more.
