serafaery

My contract is up at AT&T. I don’t know if I should sell my soul back to them for a shiny new phone with a camera in it and 9 hours of talk time, or if I should look for a new provider. I’m very angry that they charge me $40 for voice service that I use about a twentieth of, with no cheaper plan options. I'm especially angry that they charge me $20 for unlimited texting on TOP of that, even though we all know that text messaging service costs them NOTHING to provide. I’m paying over $60 for about $10 worth of actual usage. SUCK.

From what I understand, other phone companies offer either the same rates, or a much lower level of service. I might still shop around the low-end providers, just to not give AT&T any more cash.

…

I feel a little badly that someone linked that ever-so-popular “galadarling” earlier today, because she did a super duper happy-go-lucky blog entry, and all I could think was, “OMG manic! Someone forgot her meds!” Seriously, she sounds insane. Drunk on mania. Euphoric about life to the point that it’s potentially dangerous. That’s what I get for watching a documentary on bipolar disorder. “I don’t trust joy and happiness! I don’t trust it!” Hehe.

Her thing about love just rang so empty to me. Like a feeling that you get on drugs (or when you’re manic), but not anything with any real substance. I know that feeling, and I know it can be fun and can feel like the only thing that matters in the whole world when you’re in its thrall. But there has to be something real to back it up. Something more than chemicals racing through your brain and hopeful, shiny eyes.

I don’t know, though. Lately I wonder if that really is all there is – chemicals in our brains. Isn’t that the only place we can pull meaning from? And so who’s to say whether being drunk on love is any more substantial than whatever definition of true love I might hold to? I can feel holier-than-thou with my more academic and thought-out definition, but in the end, everyone gets to create their own meaning and their own definitions; they get to see the world through their own eyes. If they want to simplify and bliss out mindlessly, who am I to say they shouldn’t? Go for it.

Just remember that stuffed animals don’t hug back. Or something.

I don’t know. I’m not usually this cynical. Am I? I can’t tell. It’s like wearing blue-colored glasses, being in these low depressive swings, without being on meds. The blue looks somehow more clear and substantial than the colorless lenses, and it makes the rosy stuff look really ridiculous. It’s easy to point at mindless happiness and laugh and say they’ve got it all wrong, but, I’ve probably got plenty of stuff wrong down here in this shadowy valley, too.