Last night (or actually this morning, since work for me didn't start until after midnight), A particular song by Smashing Pumpkins was playing in my head...
This kind of became my theme for the entire sort because of the crazy sort we were having--everything was delayed because of the tornado warning, which pushed the sort back by a full hour, so we had to work overtime.
I thought it was awesome. Lately I've had to stagger in to work because of attendance issues (my first semester at U of L has been getting to me), meaning my checks will be pretty short for a while; the overtime will give me a little extra money next week. Don't get me wrong--there's nothing good about a tornado ripping through the city. That's terrible. But I still saw the resulting overtime as a blessing. I had been praying for overtime because I knew my checks would be short, and I guess in a strange way, it was answered.
Anyway, I digress...
I kept playing the song over and over all night, and I thought about it--about how I'll put it on my iPod as soon as I get one, and how if my life had a soundtrack, this would make the cut.
Somewhere down the line, I thought about the album it was on (Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness) and the year it came out--1995. Then I think about 1995, and you'd think seventh or eighth grade would pop up, right? Not for Airen, it doesn't! Of all things, I think: Oh, 1995...by that time Jaycee Dugard was 15, had been held captive for four years, and had a one-year-old daughter by a man who made her barter for a $200 cat...which is how she got pregnant...*
After this, I began to think of that whole story, and how it must feel to be 14 and give birth under medieval conditions because you have no choice. Then I began to think of other things related. And on and on...
[I'm obsessed by that story, I know. But who wouldn't be? Think about it--here is someone who had her whole life taken from her by some sicko and his wife (who's either in serious denial or as sick as her husband is), and at 31, she has two teenage daughters to raise, and she has to play catch-up with the rest of the world because of them (the sickos)! It's enough to make one explode! Literally! KABOOM!!!]
Why am I bringing this up, and at this hour? First of all, because I'm hyped up on caffeine, and secondly, this sort of thing happens all the time--I'm at work, or walking around campus between classes, or just sitting at home, and obsessive things just bubble up--and it could be anything--from the whole Jaycee story to God and religion, to (especially lately) the abortion debate, to human trafficking (another depressing favorite), to what I watched on television the other night about whatever or whoever. Nothing's off limits. My mind doesn't shut up.
Being cerebral seems to be one of my stronger traits. And I don't think it's necessarily a problem--so long as you don't run a marathon with it...which I do all the time. Yes, I admit--I think way too much, about way too much.
I guess in defense of that, all I can say is that I'm a sensitive person, and I tend to put too much emotion into things, and there's a whole lot that bothers me. There's a whole lot about "out there" that I can't stand. And I get frustrated that I can't just talk to someone about it without boiling over about it. Furthermore, it upsets me that I can't do anything about it...at least not alone.
Sometimes I wonder what that says about me...
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*This is my personal theory behind her elder daughter's conception. My reason comes from an article I had read on CNN's website about a journal she kept during her captivity (and I'm surprised she was even allowed to keep a journal). In an entry she wrote when she was 13, she talked about how the Garridos went out and bought her a cat for $200. And whaddya know--that same year, she got pregnant. I don't know about you, but I'm putting two and two together here. Think about it--why would "Phil and Nancy" make it a point to tell her that the cat cost $200 if it was just a gift? Why would they tell her that if they didn't want something in return for it?...
