I've heard it said that you can't let your past decide your present. That no matter where you've come from, or how you got to where you are, you gotta live each moment for it's own sake, not as the logical conclusion to a series of events. That every second of your present is what it is because you make it that way, in that instant, and that you get to decide whether it is positive or negative.
I like this philosophy. Quite a lot. I try to live by it, actually... but I've found that there are instances in which the real-life applications of it aren't quite as helpful and poetic.
Because as with all things bright and beautiful on earth, humans have an incredible capacity for messing this up (myself included of course) For example: forgiveness is awesome. Sometimes when you're struggling to forgive somebody it's super cool to reflect on this philosophy, then look yourself in the mirror and decide whether you are going to cling to mistakes made in the past, and drag that pain into your present forever, or whether you are willing to bravely choose to behave lovingly, let go of that past reality, and in this new moment to begin to heal instead.
-Well, when it's laid out all neat and pretty like that, the preferable choice seems obvious, and that's just peachy. But exactly how much of the past should we leave in the past? What about that horribly annoying couple who are getting back together AGAIN, or the victim of violence who keeps returning to their abusive spouse, or the repeat offender who keeps getting out on parole? You could excuse all of them with "forgiveness" but is there a limit to how much we should forgive? Should we perhaps forgive but not forget? What does that entail? How much are we allowed to learn from past experiences before they begin to dictate our present?
Overall, I do my best to stick by that philosophy of taking every moment for what it's worth, and making what you will of your present. Realistically, though, I do realize that in between the little misunderstandings and the minor setbacks, there are moments in our life that shape who we are. These occurrences or situations or events (or even people) from our past and how we responded to them make up bits and pieces of the people we are now, whether or not our past and present selves are the same person.
For me, one such self-defining past occurrence was my first ever kiss. Well, not my first ever kiss; that was a quick, nervous ordeal preceded by a sitcom-y nose-bump and followed by terrified giggling which took place on the boy's couch in a dark basement- but I mean my first kiss kiss like with tongues and teeth and hormones. That one took place 2 years later, and with a different boy- but also on the couch in his dark basement, which seems necessary to point out.
Anyway, I can't help but aknowledge that first kiss kiss as a piece of the past that affects my present reality, and I say that, because I puked in his mouth.
Now, take a second to think about that. There was some hot, smelly, human vomit. It came from my nasty gurgling stomach, exited my mouth, and then entered the mouth (and possibly throat, stomach, nose, etc) of a DIFFERENT PERSON... This is the stuff of nightmares.
Now before you get all riled up and upset with me for forcing my vomit into another human being, allow me to explain how this was NOT AT ALL my fault: First of all, I'm pretty sure this kid (Let's call him "Adam" because it's ironic, even though I probably won't even need to say his name again) was offspring of Gene Simmons and a feral cat, and I say that because his tongue had to be AT LEAST as long as my forearm- just obscenely long, and not JUST long, but dry, and scratchy, and AGGRESSIVE! A solid case could be made in favor of my gastrointestinal system stating that the vomit was sent up as a defense mechanism to keep that monster tongue from strangling me,Strangling me from the inside-out, that is. Second of all, not only did this boy have a dry, aggressive tongue the length of New Hampshire, he also [somehow simultaneously] had some serious drooling issues. And I'm not talking about normal human saliva, but like gross, sloppy SPIT that got all over my mouth and tasted like the hot dogs with relish (I DESPISE hot dogs with relish) that I'd watched him eat earlier.
I think perhaps the heart of the issue here, was that I was drowning in his spit, so instinctively I tried to preserve my life by swallowing, which only only led to choking on his mutant giraffe tongue, which of course resulted in the defense-puke... which was entirely not my fault.
Now, as anyone who's puked inside another person will tell you, there's a certain moment that happens just before the vomit rises, when you become profoundly aware of what is about to happen. It's the kind of moment that changes a person. In these precious final seconds before the full eruption occurs, you are afforded the opportunity to remember your life as you once knew it, and to accept that the moment this other person has tasted your upchuck, you can never go back. Your mouth, your diet, your outlook on teenage dating, and most of all your dignity are forever altered.
Truly, the consequences of throwing up into the mouth of a romantic interest reach far beyond the initial horrified choking, ruined upholstery, and the car ride home awkward enough to cause physical pain... No, from the bottom of my heart, I believe that blowing chunks into that boy's esophagus has made me the woman I am today... and by that I mean the awkward, nervous, bread-eating, basement-couch avoiding romantic disaster that I am today. Ah well.
And just in case you wanted some KICKASS visuals for that story: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Izp7g5CJekY#t=110
(for those of you that aren't going to watch the video, the clip is from the movie "Kickass 2"...get it? "kickass visuals"...)
~Alicen
Two blog posts in a
Single day means double the
Haikus. Elephant.
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