(c) Desude. 2009.
(THIS. IS. LONG.)
As you may or may not notice, I don’t use my real name on the internet very often (If you haven’t noticed, maybe you should pay more attention, this stuff is deep). I use a pseudonym, Desude Lashada, to refer to myself on this blog, as well as most public galleries and sites that require a nickname. I even use it occasionally when I’m feeling the need to be especially mysterious or subversive when ordering computer parts or candy online. My family seems indifferent, so why not? In fact, my mom actually does the same thing (I like to think I thought of it first).
So where did this name come from? Let’s rewind the video back to about- oh say…6 years ago. I was about 13 years old, in 6th grade. At this point I’m the type of kid who is constantly trying to be “weird”: blue jeans with a black floor length jacket, red, purple, and blonde streaks in my hair, annoyingly brooding and chubby. I was in a little gang of 3 girls who were best friends. We had a lot of fun, and the best thing about friends in middle school is that you are constantly with them, bumming on their couch or eating ramen noodles and soda. We would be friends forever, until the backstabbing, gossiping, and insults meant to rip from the roots caused a major fissure and changed one of the us for the rest of her life. But that’s another post. So, my friends and I are in a little group. We have countless nicknames, usually borrowed from tv shows or books. At some point I come up with the idea that we needed original names: something easy to remember, but totally unique to each of us. So I picked out 3 letters in each of our names, and mine ended up S D E…and turned into Des. Which turned into Desdemona Von Pinacoladarita Von Armada III, and then shortened into Desu, which finally turned into the very nice, even sounding DESUDE. Dezooday. I love saying it, I love hearing it, I love being it. Desude is my best friend, my shield, and my sword. I can do anything with that name. People love Desude, she’s talented, confident, and knows how to conduct herself in whatever affairs she can get herself into. And, that name is mine. It’s something I made. It’s as much a piece of art, a piece of my portfolio, as that picture up there. Desude is the public identity, I am the normal one. Desude will do great things, and I will profit from it. (…does this sound creepy to you? It does to me)
When I’m my original name (my real name, from my parents), I have to follow the rules of the world that name was born in. If I make a mistake, or screw up, it STAYS with me. Maybe the edgy Desude doesn’t mind, but cautious “me” minds. A lot. Easily googled, my mistakes can cost me a job, a scholarship, or a friendship, although going that far is unlikely. But it’s a possibility.
I used to want to work for the CIA really badly when I was younger. My dad warned me that if I really wanted to do that, I needed to have the cleanest record ever (He was in the Air Force, in the intelligence sector) They would ask my childhood friends about me, my teachers, the mail dude, everyone. I became dead set on never tarnishing my name. This paranoia never really faded after I decided I wanted to open my own company. What if I suddenly wanted to work for the CIA? I couldn’t with that overdraft fee hanging over my head!! (Ok, I’m exaggerating. A little.) So I’ve protected my real name with the ferocity of a thousand ducks. Uh…in case I want to work..for…the …CIA? Ok let’s look at the big picture: I don’t want anything “unprofessional” or unfortunately worded casual statements I made somewhere on the internet connected to my real name.
Sometimes I think about changing my name to Desude Lashada. But then I realize I much prefer the comfortable dichotomy of two names. Make Believe and Reality. Art and …Business!
And of course, it serves a practical purpose too. Protection from creeps. If you are established on the internet, someone will stalk you at some point.
It also serves to separate my younger self with the me I will become. It gives me a chance to throwaway Desude if I want to.
(word count: 757)
(read up to down, left then right)
Jeex. Hello, everyone, my name is Babbles When Nervous, and my talent is blurting out really incriminating things that reflect poorly on me during job interviews.
Yesterday I had a quick job interview to try to score a second job with the school. You know that quote- "Think quickly, speak slowly"? Usually I do a pretty good job with that. Except in important situations I guess. I'm actually not very talkative most of the time. Why on Earth do I suffer diarrhea of the mouth when it comes to things that are actually relevant to my life? It's almost as though as soon as they ask a question, this jerk named My Mouth decides to blurt out a bunch of embarrassing crap, and his girlfriend My Brain is standing there, gaping at her boyfriend's sheer unfettered JERKFACENESS, until she slaps him.
I really want to practice the Art of Being Suave. Speaking in slow, measured tones, assured of my precise meaning and wit lacing every. FREAKING. WORD.
..and while I'm wishing for stuff, I want a pony.
But really. Maybe I should take speech therapy classes or something. Is there one for "Dealing with socially retarded babbling"? Or "Nervous Rambling: How to End The Heartbreak". Heck, I'd even considering signing up for "Becoming a Debonair Gentleman: For Women".
I think it's important to have the brains, but the brains don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swin- ...I mean, if you can't express the brains in a coherent, steady flow of words. Honestly, there's enough of a stigma about women in the business world without adding "babbly" to the list of stuff people will whisper about you. I already feel insecure about my voice, which conveniently gets about ten octaves higher when I'm nervous/speaking to strangers/on the phone.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go stand around in lounges and smile coolly while maintaining a mildly interested facade. People always go for that kind of thing.
WARNING: this is a long, boring post about me me me whine whine.
This is not how my thought process manifests itself normally.
This is how it manifests itself after my brain has been halfway uprooted.
Orbiting the Giant Hairball has rudely pulled so many switches in my brain that I can’t even communicate to my roommates in Earth speak right now.
Let’s start with a story.
Once upon a time, when I was around 12, I think I probably reached Nirvana. I was in the back of my dad’s Sebring Convertible and I waved to a little kid, even though I’m not a kid person. So I achieved Nirvana suddenly. I felt the whole world go away, and I lived in the wind bubble at 60 mph. We stopped at Kmart. I said with a smile to Dad, “Hey…I think I just reached Nirvana”. My mom seemed oddly accepting. For some reason, though, this threw my Dad into an uncharacteristic fury (He is not unstable or prone to unreasonable anger, by the way). He was vehemently against the claim, saying how there was no way I could reach Nirvana, giving the totally bizarre reason that I’m “Only 12 years old! How is a 12 year old going to reach Nirvana?!” He was livid. My mom on the other hand took this as a challenge. She faced off with him, saying, “If she says she’s reached Nirvana then MAYBE SHE DID!” I just blissed out, until later I thought about what my dad had said. He seemed to always be right so…I hadn’t reached Nirvana. After all, I was just 12 years old. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t until later I thought about what my mom and dad fighting really seemed like. The ultimate rebel, outsider, and all around outlier, Mom, defying authority: angles, the epitome of a white-collar worker, Dad, champion of logic and words. So at the age of 12, I learned that apparently 12 year olds can’t reach Nirvana, but my mom would be accepting of whatever…weird cosmic experiences I would get bestowed upon me. Including Nirvana.
So I read the first 56 pages. I am now sitting, reading my closet doors that are covered in pink pieces of paper. Those pieces in turn are covered in frantic scribbles: my brain overflowing through my favored black Crayola marker. I’m not sure what my brain is trying to say- if it’s agreeing with the book or fervently arguing with it. I’m going to settle for it being overly stimulated. I was on an Elliptical machine while I was reading it, so I couldn’t even jot down my thoughts, just raise the level on the machine to “Nuclear”. I think the reason I feel so messed up is because…I’m not even sure I’m in the orbit of a hairball. I’ve tried to be in a hairball for so long. I once even lost a hold of feeling emotion so I could be in a hairball. Being in hairballs is not a talent of mine. It’s one of the couple things I utterly fail at. It’s the reason jobs elude me, why I can’t say anyone 100% understands me, and why I constantly “float”- float between people, some of who aren’t even there. I am, for better or worse, a 4th dimensional person. It’s a Korean phrase (as far as I know) for someone who has 4 sides, and doesn’t seem to be…”right”.
A popular break down of the 4 types can be:
Bright and Normal
Bright and Strange
Dark and Normal
Dark and Strange
A 4 dimensional person displays all of these or none of these simultaneously. Another common trait is that “words drop out of the sky” to them. This can have several meanings. They might be seen talking to themselves (there is a distinction from crazy, because, at least in my opinion, they aren't talking to themselves. They're talking to whatever is listening, as opposed to crazy people who are talking to their hand or something). They might be artists or poets with an extremely strange, prolific personal aesthetic. Communication with everything and nothing. I don’t know about other 4th dimensional people, but for me, it’s ensured that I can never converse with someone with my entire mind. I’m either analyzing their brain or missing out on everything, coming away from the conversation with entire messages totally unnoticed.
Just because I'm lazy.It also ensures that I totally fail at fitting in. I think part of the reason this book has me so freaked out because it's on the verge of invalidating my existence. So far, I'm almost labeled as a gray fuzzy nothing on the chart. As a bubble person, I float within hairballs and orbits. I go to art school. To study business. I always claim I'm anti-Fine Art, yet…I paint more than most art students do. I’m not an artist by my own definition, but then what would you think when you see my piles of sketchbooks, constant doodles, works in progress? It makes no sense. I love thinking business, and I love the privacy it gives me to do my own projects. I have never been as unhappy as I was in the Fine Art environment. Ironically, it stifled my creativity. I wasn’t allowed to do anything the way I wanted, because it wasn’t “artistic” enough, whatever that meant. As a Business major, I have more freedom in my art than I’ve ever had. I can draw what I want, when I want, how I want, and it’ll still be ok because I’m not supposed to be able to draw. I’m in my own little orbit, I think, floating in my daydreams and scribbles, and ambition. I can raise my hand proudly when someone asks if I’m an artist, because no one expects me to. There isn’t a place for me in the world yet, so I want to make my own place, which is why I’m going to be an entrepreneur. I want to live in the world and show them the 4th dimension through my designs and products. I’m not sure if I’m incredibly stupid or a genius, if I can break through my anti communication frequency and forcefully attach it to everyone else’s frequency, but I’m going to find out. Even if I fail horribly, I can always float back up for some R&R.
