A blog written by a guy trying to get his mind around the existence of all the stupid, senseless, dim-witted, annoying, ridiculous, laughable and mindless things that people do every, single, day.
In the year of 2008, having lived in Hong Kong for more than eighteen years, I, Michael Rivera, felt the need to reach out to the wider global community, to have my voice heard, through the World Wide Web. At the time, I pondered how I could possibly write in a way that would achieve the world's attention, and what else is more universal, more relatable, than the beautiful emotion of hate?
Feel free to e-mail me if you have anything you want to share, suggest, criticize, inquire or comment on!
There are very, very, very few times in your life where you will hear the sweet essence of silence. I love going to the beach or the swimming pool and diving into the water just to drown (pun intended) out all the sound in the world for as long as I can hold my breath. It's amazing how much noise can come out of one simple action - for example, each instance my finger pushes a key on this keyboard. Even if I try really hard not to make any noise, there's an inevitable sound emitted when the key rebounds back upwards.
That paragraph was roughly 500 characters, which means there were roughly 500 soundwaves that came out. That's just one action, repeated over and over again, by one person. Now imagine the computer room that I'm in. It's seven in the morning. There is only one other person in the room aside from me perusing a computer. He's typing right now, and it annoys the life out of me. Of course, I'm typing too, but here is why I believe I'm not a hypocrite here.
The other person doesn't only make typing noises. He fidgets too. He thinks he's being quiet, but he's not. I can hear the wheels at the bottom of his chair make slight moves, shifting a little bit here and a little bit there on the hardwood floor. I can hear him inhaling quickly, almost desperately, and then letting out each puff of air steadily, with an air of relief. I can hear him scratching, and I know that the slow, but determined reptition is him scratching his forearm, and that the gentle, fast itching is him scratching his back. I can hear him move his mouse along the surface of the desk. I can hear him sniff.
I am fully aware of the fact that it's impossible to be completely quiet all the time. However, one can strive to be, especially when it's fairly obvious that others in the vicinity are trying to get some work done. This is all almost second nature to me, but I make sure that I'm comfortable in my chair when I first sit down. I see no need for any noise to be made when breathing, and I see no need to scratch at all. I hold in my sneezes, I hold in my yawns, and I sniff only when I'm alone.
And even though some noises are inevitably to be made, I try to do it in a way that is pleasing to the ear. While I'm typing this, I type full paragraphs continuously until the very end, and take longer intermissions between paragraphs. There's no need to stop if you learn how to organize thoughts in your head. Why is there any need to be so sporadic and choppy when you type, that's so cacophonous.
Trees rustle, coins jangle, doors creak and printers sound like they're about to explode. But hey, we have controls over our own bodies. So what if other people are making more noise than you? So what if it's just the sound of you tapping some keys? The fact that it's a small amount of noise doesn't mean it isn't pollution. Who needs to graze the floor when they're walking? You're going to make all that noise just so you can get some gum out of your bag? Who needs to hear rap music come out of your phone when you get a call? No, not everybody wants to hear how you flirt with girls over the phone. And explain to me this: why the heck is it that I can tell the difference, when you're scratching your damn arm, and when you're scratching your friggin' back?!
As I was growing up, I was always encouraged to try new foods. With having travelled quite a bit too, at this point, I very rarely refuse to try any cuisine, even if it is a bit out of the ordinary.
Being brought up in Hong Kong in both Chinese and international contexts, I learned very early on that consuming things like duck's liver, bird's nest, shark's fin, and turtle shell jelly (pictured above), was pretty weird to some people - specifically those that weren't local Chinese. But to me, my beloved grandmother, and the rest of my Chinese-side family, it was perfectly normal. (And yes, I've tried and love all of those things.)
Recently, I've been listening to a lot of people give China crap about eating things like dog, because they're a creature that the Western world has domesticated. Or things like scorpion or tarantula, because they sting and they're poisonous and they look too different from us humans. Give China a break, man, it's a big country, with the largest population in the world. I'd be surprised if all 1.3 billion of us were only eating cow, chicken and pig, animals we're 'supposed to eat'.
What, like the French don't eat steak tartare, escargot, or frog legs? The Spanish eat bull testicles. And the Texans deep-fry rattlesnake. Australians eat kangaroo, crocodile eggs and ostrich. The Americans use cod liver oil as a vitamin A supplement. And the English feast on pig's blood every morning in the form of black pudding.
The Americans invented chewing gum - I mean, if you really think about it, that's a pretty weird idea for someone to come up with.
Foreign food should not be looked at in disgust. I respect whatever your personal preferences are, or what you feel about certain animals - I really do. I mean, some things I find weird, too. For example, I find it weird that Ukrainians eat bear, Filipinos eat chicken fetus, Alaskans eat raw fat from whales, and Icelandic people eat puffin. I'm weirded out by it, but I would never feel disgusted by any of these things because it's just what different people in different parts of the world have become adapted to eating. If you're an animal rights activist, well, good for you for trying to conserve different species. If you hate spiders, that's fine as well.
But I'm not pressuring you to like these things. Just accept that others eat these things, just respect that others may even love eating these things. Nobody's trying to force-feed any of these 'disgusting' foods down your throat, so we shouldn't have to swallow our feelings of embarassment when you say that they're disgusting.
In my life, I've only ever met two people that actually said, 'I don't like rice.' When I hear this sentence, there are three things that tend to go through my mind very quickly:
1. The biggest export of the Phillipines is rice.
2. China consumes and produces more rice than India and Indonesia combined.
3. I am Filipino-Chinese.
I have probably eaten more grains of rice than there are people in the world. I don't understand what there is not to like. It's a staple food, just as potatoes are to the Irish, just as yams are to the Central Africans. Apparently, this peculiar disfavor may be due to the granularity of it. Small particulates bother people because they don't feel wholesome, they remind one of tiny insects or bacterium. Lots of tiny little things going into one's mouth... IS disturbing...
Some people also say that rice and couscous and similar foods make them choke easily. Yeah, that doesn't make you sound stupid at all. Others say they never know how long to cook it for. That doesn't sound cretinous either.
Another reason people tried to justify their dislike of rice was that it was difficult to finish it all, in that they couldn't possibly get every grain of rice off the plate. They're using spoons and forks, and are apparently people of modern civilized origin, so it amazes me that they are unable to clear the plate with the silver cutlery they are so accustomed to, solely because the foodstuffs are small. They guffaw as some rice is still leftover on their china and say, 'Imagine if I was using chopsticks instead!'
Eleven days ago, my mother flew from Hong Kong to come visit me here in the UK for her Chinese New Year holiday off work. We spent half the time in Canterbury, where my university is located, and the rest of the time in Edinburgh, the Scottish Highlands and Londontown. Before the 10th of February, I hadn't seen her for more than 4.5 months, and to be honest, I had sort of forgotten what she looked like in person. Right now, her physical appearance is fresh in my mind as I only saw her off at Heathrow airport last night, but it'll be another four-and-a-half months before I see her again, and I know I will gradually begin to forget her semblance again until the day I embark on that 16-hour journey finally.
Of course we have all this technology that allows us to talk to each other and see each other with the click of a button or two. But it's just not the same, if you get what I'm saying. This experience of moving away from my home in Hong Kong, to a place where I have to pretty much make it on my own in all aspects of my life, scares the living crap out of me all the time, but it has really shown me what fears, discomforts, and individual strength can be brought about inside me by something as simple as geographical distance.
I do have two or three close friends staying here in the UK, who I've known for a long, long time. The more I thought about it on the train back to university from London, the more I realized that I actually forget people's faces and voices very easily with prolonged absence. There are actually many people in my life that I have forgotten the faces of, and the mere voices of. Sure, I know where they go to university now, and sure I hear things about what they're doing. Sure, I talk to them every now and then, and sure we play games online together, and we look at each other's photos, and it's pretty much like spending time together in the flesh...
...but it's not. There really is a difference, one I cannot find the words to explain adequately. It means something to be in one another's physical presence. It means something to hear the sound of their voices, and their distinctive laughs. And it means something to see each other's expressions, to feed off each other's gestural and facial reactions, to see each other's 'thinking face', or 'eating face', or 'waiting-to-cross-the-street face', to walk side-by-side, and to hug and kiss, and hold hands, or interlock elbows, as you're walking.
I miss home so much. And the familiarity of people's faces and the geography of Hong Kong is probably what gets to me the most.
Well... except the food perhaps.
Yeah...
Food definitely trumps the faces... and everything else.
Now, after a good long jog, or a hike up a steep mountain, or a 100m sprint at Sports Day, I know it's healthier for you to bend your back, place your palms on your knees, bow your head down, and pant, after such rigorous exercise increases your internal temperature, and makes your heart pump so fast. I agree, it's a useful physiological adaptation. But right now, I'm complaining about how unattractive it looks.
Often, people who do exercise can be quite visually unappealing, as their faces are flushed, their hair dripping with sweat, their body odor radiating throughout the vicinity. Panting only makes it worse, nostrils all flared up, thorax pulsing up and down, mouths gaping wide, like a blackhole. Looks reeeeeal unattractive.
Do you know how Ernie laughs on Sesame Street? It's kind of like that. Seriously, what kind of a laugh is that? It's like you have too much saliva and want to expel it from your mouths, like you have phlegm in your throat you want to get rid of. I can't even let you borrow the newspaper without ruining the material... but then again, why would you laugh at the news? So a joke book, perhaps. Argh.
------------------------------------------
By the way, I've opened a new blog with a good friend of mine named Jessica. We launched uTube & iShare just half an hour ago, and we're proud to present it. Feel free to just click that link to reach it. And follow me on Twitter or Facebook if you haven't already. :)
When I was eleven, our entire family, around twelve or thirteen of us altogether, went to this amusement park in Hong Kong called Ocean Park. The park has rollercoasters, animal exhibitions, dolphin and sea lion performances, carnival stalls, and a four-story aquarium containing over 2,000 fish. We had just finished having a buffet lunch at the seaview restaurant they have there, perched up on the side of a small hill, and as most of my relatives had to go to the washroom to avoid having to find one elsewhere later on, my grandmother and I walked out of the restaurant first, and strolled down the hill.
As we were walking down, it started to get crowded as we were gradually entering the general park area, and this woman who was talking on her phone walked right in front of us. Somehow the woman's foot had made contact with my grandmother's foot, and my grandmother had suddenly fell down face first. The woman on her phone took no notice of it, she had no idea, and she just continued ambling aimlessly, zigzagging along the path.
Luckily, my grandmother had stuck out her hands in front of her to cushion her fall and prevent major injru to her face, but there was still a tiny sliver of skin that had come off the bridge of her nose on account of the glasses she was wearing. Her spectacles had basically scratched her nose, and this made her dorsum bleed. It was a very small wound, so don't let your imaginations run too wildly.
I helped her up, brought her to a bench, got out some tissues and water, and helped her clean it up. By the time the rest of my family had arrived, the bitch (if I may use that word... read my last post) who tripped my grandmother was already gone. My aunt asked me where the woman went, and I shamefully said, "I don't know".
From that day on, I never ever give a damn about what public civilians feel or think if they do me wrong. Before that day in that park, I was always very submissive, and didn't mean to cause any dispute should someone run into me hard in the streets, or if a cashierlady gave me the less change than I should receive. These things need to be called out on, and next time someone trips my grandmother, if there is a next time, the perpetrator is going to pay.
When I was a kid, maybe around five, six or seven years old, my mother used to tell me to 'Stop that crap!' when I misbehaved or said something incredibly heinous. This was the first 'bad word' I can remember myself being exposed to, and since I had the vocabulary of a seven-year-old, I took the word 'crap' and associated it quickly to the most accessible word that sounded the most similar - 'crab'. I literally, for a couple of years, thought my mother was telling me to 'Stop that crab!', thinking it was a combination of her non-native accent that interchanged the 'p' and the 'b' sounds, and that crabs had notoriously demonstrated naughtiness in some ancient Chinese folktale.
See, the word 'crap' isn't so bad, right? I haven't offended anybody, have I? (Actually, seriously, have I?)
Often, it can be awkward though when you're cussing, especially when you're on Facebook or on these blogs and you know your family or your teachers are following. But why does it have to be awkward? I mean, words like 'cock', 'bitch', 'boob', and 'ass' can all mean things unprofane, and don't forget the name 'Dick'.
I think that it is right to discourage children from using these words, as they don't know the implications of them... however, I don't see what the big deal is when we're older, so long as we don't use them maliciously, or lazily without other words at our perusal to express our vehemence, joy, pain or surprise. I guess often these words are used derogatively, profanely, in a socially disrespectful manner, but it just irks me slightly because they're only words, sticks and stones...
What do you think? What makes a word into a ‘bad’ word? How bad is too bad when it comes to normal, everyday conversation? Does it depend on who you're talking with? Where do we draw the line when writing in a public space, such as your blog?
I'm sorry if I sound like an English/psychology professor, but this is a mistake that really annoys me and I come across more frequently than I would expect. The difference between the words 'unconscious' and 'subconscious' is actually not that difficult to decipher if you just think about it and recall the meanings of the prefixes un- and sub-.
un- implies 'not', 'the opposite form', 'the reversed action', and/or 'deprived of'. This can be seen in words like 'uncooked', 'unknowable', 'unassuming' and 'untidiness'. So the adjective, 'unconscious', means the inability to recollect information to the conscious mind. It is not defined primarily as the notion of being 'knocked out'. The man who suffered a traumatic brain injury and entered a comatose state can be described as unconscious, because while he lies there, unresponsive to external stimuli as he is, he cannot mentally recall any information, because he is not awake to consciously share it. If he were to wake up, he might still not remember what happened to him as the trauma clouds his memory and represses the facts. Although he is awake, he would still be termed as 'unconscious' of the information in question. The term 'the unconscious mind', as applied by Freud, Nietzsche and other 19th-century philosophers, can encompass not only the memories of trauma, but also simple untraumatic memories, desires and logical thinking that all remain far outside the conscious mind. We cannot 'pick it out' of our heads, even if we try really, really hard.
sub- means 'under', as in 'subway', 'subcategory' and 'submarine'. So the 'subconscious' is the collection of information that lies just beneath the conscious mind. Things like your full name, your password, your phone number, your e-mail address and your bank details are part of your subconscious mind. Unless you're filling out a form or talking to another person that asks for such information, this information is not consciously being perused, but subconsciously retained in your mind until you should need to 'pluck it out' for your conscious mind to ponder.
So say we're talking about the story of Hansel and Gretel. Now you're consciously thinking about it. But the fact that you can easily recall the tale of two children, the breadcrumbs and the witch demonstrates how that information is in your subconscious mind.
If I were to ask you how you first came to know that fairytale, did someone tell you that story, or did you read it, then that would prove to be a bit more difficult, wouldn't you say? This information therefore lies in the unconscious.
Today, for some reason, I seem to be a magnet for filthy slatterns who do not shower. Since I woke up this morning, I have seen nine slobs - oh, wait a minute, that's the incorrect verb - what I mean to say is, on nine different occasions, I smelled particular stenches, looked up, and then found slobs present before my eyes.
Nine times, I've seen long, slick hair sweeped backwards carelessly behind a head all greased up by the owner's own natural oils, and if you were to look down in search of comfort, you would unsuccessfully find instead, moisture, soil, and God knows what excrement, darkening the shade of denim blue at the ankle hemlines, and should you wish to look back up again, you will regrettably observe a great abundance of earwax, shades of yellow and orange, formally watery, initially runny enough to ooze down to the mouth of the ear canal, but on exposure to the air, now dried and viscous enough to adhere to the rim of the concha and remain there as an unslightly spectacle for those unfortunate enough to have caught a glimpse of it, and assuming you draw your eyes downwards again to avoid further analysis of his aural secretions, you will discover sweaty, clammy hands, with nails fraught with rubber shavings-like clumps of dirt, and finally, on the occasion you may look upwards at his face once more, in some morbidly humorous way, for a fifth demonstration of sickly squalor, you will notice a horrifying dentition, teeth ruined by poor oral hygiene and persistent nicotine smoking, yellow like Dijon mustard, reeking a breath reminiscent of grandpa when he used to lean towards you to tell you one of his most valued secrets.
I swear one of them even smelled like vinegar - his sweat was so old and musty that it stank like expired milk, reeked of rotten eggs, funked like decaying meat, the pH level decreased so low that it was caustic, unbearable for me to even stay near him for ten seconds longer.
I'm not asking that people shower everyday like I do... I'm not even offering my hygienical recommendation. If you smell bad, take a shower, because you're upsetting one of my senses, in fact the one that gets disturbed the least, which makes the crime all the more depraved. Otherwise, please, do us all a favor, and don't leave the house at all.
What does "I hate calculus with a passion" even mean?
If by passion, you mean intense hatred - abhorrence so strong you want to crucify it (as in the Passion of Jesus Christ) - then you're just really weird, because as we all know, you cannot kill calculus by nailing it to a cross. What - you're going to hammer a couple of integration questions to a crucifix and stand it up atop a hill?
I don't think so.
You can't simply just say "I hate maths", full-stop? What's wrong with just saying "I hate maths"?
You're pretty much undermining the word hate... You're saying that the word hate is not good enough for you, it does not fully articulate the vehemence you experience. I personally think that the word hate works fine on its own. There's no need for the addition of such nonsense to emphasize. I hate the phrase "with a passion", with a passion!
I'm writing this post to the sound of Santana's Nothing At All. Not that it isn't great, but it pretty much distracted me so much as I was trying to type what I originally wanted to type. I'm sitting in a computer room here at university, because my laptop hasn't been working for the past few days. This computer room is so great because the lights are always on, the internet access is free, there are no restrictions on online games or anything, and it's always very peaceful and quiet...
...between the hours of 10pm and 6am.
At 6am, the cleaner lady comes along, and I don't know what she's doing, but she makes a lot of noise for something like six hours non-stop. She's always pushing the vacuum cleaner with wheels around, or her little trolley thing that holds her brooms and mops and cleaning stuff, and it rattles inside the trolley, and it feels like she's cleaning the place again and again and again and again. After noon, it's then around ten hours of students coming in and out, talking on their phones, talking to each other, grumbling in frustration at their computers, stomping, coughing, sneezing, ruffling through their bags...
...and I can't bloody concentrate on my blogging during these hours. And right now, this doofus two rows in front of me thinks it's cool to play music loudly. What if I was to watch my American Idol episodes loudly, huh? It's not fair.
Okay, it's Santana, but even though it's good taste, I can't concentrate in the presence of any noise. I just can't.
There are also two guys seated on my right that are chatting about cars. One guy appreciates Lambourghinis for their design, but prefers Ferraris as it suits his personality. The other guy's favorite brand is the Maserati.
If you ask me, my favorite brand of car is Shutthehellup. I can't blog properly, damn it!
If someone were to ask me what was the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life, the following story would be it. If someone were to ask me what was the stupidest thing I've ever seen anyone do in my entire life, this would be it. That is why it deserves a post here today - it is senseless, it is laughable, and it is totally ridiculata.
When I was in my second year of high school, we had a physical education class in the late afternoon, and as a warm-up exercise, the sports teacher told us to run around the football pitch three times. At that age, I wasn't so competitive yet, so I was always content just running in the middle of the pack. One of my close friends and I decided to maintain our place just behind all the sports and activity enthusiasts.
Jogging just a few steps ahead of us was a girl I was tragically infatuated with at the time. She was Australian-Chinese, brunette, sweet smile, fit body, funny, clever, charming, and beautiful. She was trotting along beside this other guy, an English dude who loved nothing more than football, sweets, and his clarinet. (Seriously, the box that he used to store his clarinet in had a sticker on it saying 'I <3 MY CLARINET'.)
This guy who had the sweet tooth... I forgot what he was saying exactly, but as we were doing our three laps, he was definitely trying to flirt with the girl of my dreams. I remember thinking to myself, as we rounded a corner of the football pitch, about what a twerp he was, and how he was polluting my very schoollife in every conceivable way.
And then, the most miraculous thing happened. He turned his head to ask my gal another question, and had no awareness at all of the football post that was fast approaching. For the tiniest fraction of time fathomable, I had the opportunity to call out his name and warn him about the pole he was about to collide with, but I refused to - the figurative devil stuck his pitchfork into my shoulder angel's heart - this guy was going down.
And in 3...
2...
1...
*CLUNK*
And I Laughed. My. Ass. Off.
His temple had come into contact with the football post, and he had fallen to the ground instantly. I continued laughing as I kept on running, my close friend running beside me was laughing, another friend jogging behind me laughed, and even the girl who was talking to this poor fella didn't stop to bat an eyelid - she continued to do her three laps of the field as she laughed as well.
My friend and I jumped to avoid trodding on him, we caught up with the girl and had a brief chat as we finished our third lap, and left our beloved clarinetist moaning, groaning, grumbling, and rubbing the side of his head, like any guy who had just run into a football post would do. I bet there was a real ringing in his ears at the time, stars spinning over his head. To me, that was pure magic.
There is not one single time when I relive that moment and do not find it funny. The physical comedy does not wear off. If I go to Heaven, I bet God would grant me the option of viewing that scene ten thousand million times.
But let's face it, judging from this story, I'm probably going to Hell.
On the 18th of January, after a month of winter holidays, I came back to my cosy room at university, and five parcels at my door. Four of these boxes at my door contained books which I had frivolously bought online during the Boxing Day sales, and the fifth package had two small plastic bottles (pictured above), containing what seemed like some medication. One was labeled AcaiBerry Detox, and the other, Reservatrol Extract. I Googled these names to see what they were, and AcaiBerry Detox was for burning fat, while Reservatrol Extract was for 'cleansing the body'.
I never have, or ever will, purchase pills, for losing weight.
So I then Googled the return address labeled on the package. Apparently, it had originated from somewhere in Scotland near Edinburgh. I Googled the phone number also labeled, and managed to find a forum, where all these people who had actually purchased these pills were talking about how it was actually all a big scam.
Apparently, there were some adverts displayed on Google and on MSN.com, offering an opportunity to people to try a free trial for these new dieting pills. Signing up for them meant that you were signing up to pay for it, and immediate entering of your banking details was necessary in order to complete the order for the trial. People who received the pills, would then be given 15 days to cancel the order for more if they found the product dissatisfactory, and if not, the company that manufactured these pills would then deduct seventy U. S. dollars every month, for a monthly supply of these pills. The people on the forums all stated these sad, sad statistics, saying they had lost $210 so far, $230, £150, $77.... To top it all off, the pills apparently caused stomach sickness, and brought about no healthy weight loss effect whatsoever.
This scared the crap out of me of course, so I went to check my bank account details online. I had been checking occasionally during the holidays to see when the money for the books I ordered would be deducted, but I had overlooked the fact that some douche called SUP*EXCLUSIVEBERRY had actually taken £4.19 out of my bank account, as shipping cost for the pills to be brought to me.
So I called up my bank, and apparently some malicious hacker had gotten hold of my bank details, and used it to purchase these pills. My bank gave me a new bank card, a new PIN, a new everything, and reimbursed me for the £4.19. It took five days for the new card to get to me, and that was the end.
The internet is a dangerous place, folks. Be careful of what you do on the computer. People can be very mischievous, and very mean. They can insinuate that you're fat.
Whether it's a train station or a lecture hall, whenever someone new enters the premises, there's always one conteingency that precipitates - everyone already standing or sitting in the room turns their heads towards the general entrance area to look at you. Everyone checks to see what kind of idiot is going to the bathroom in the middle of the movie, everyone judges the deliquent pedestrain who jaywalks across the street, everybody wants to see who didn't turned up late for the chemistry exam, and all eyes are on the people that are getting on board the bus. They check out who you are, male or female, old or young or middle-aged, what you're wearing, the expression on your face, what you're carrying, just for a brief second or two, until they've taken in the information that they want, they go back to their book, or their newspaper, or to talking to their friends.
Does every place have to be a public bathroom or changing room in order for people to mind their own business? I mean, must we all be peeing in urinals, self-consciously pulling up our underwear with a towel wrapped round our waists, or touching up our make-up in front of the bathroom mirrors, in order for people to respect what is not of their concern?
Do we have to be at church, where it's commonly considered inappropriate to face any other direction than to the altar at the front?
I can understand if you're working at a restaurant or bar, when anticipating incoming consumers is more than befitting, or when you're a salesperson in a shop making sure there aren't any customers who might need a helping-hand.
But otherwise, pretend you're seated in an airplane, and continue reading your paper, reading your book, or staring straight in front of you - you're already settled into the room, but others aren't, so make it easier for them by simply ignoring it.
I've seen a lot of people say how they hate their insomnia, or are proud of their insomnia, but this is all but just a big exaggeration of what's really going on. Insomnia is defined as the persistent difficulty in falling asleep or staying asleep despite given the opportunity. It's a medical disorder - there is an inability to initiate sleep, not an unwillingness to. Just because you stay up all night playing online games and chatting to your overseas friends doesn't mean you have it.
There are actual insomniacs out there that suffer from serious, serious symptoms, like chronic depression, and obesity, and severe anxiety disorder... it's insulting to those people that pay thousands of dollars just for professional help. It's like proclaiming you have cancer just because you'e developed a new mole on your arm.
So long as you actually put your head on your pillow, (maybe with the aid of a Dickens book) I bet you'd eventually enter a state of slumber. Please, stop misusing the word insomnia.
Posts
