Fact of Life

There is no healthy kind of cheeto.

postsecret.com

I saw something terrible today. I found out postsecret.com has organized an event tour that has sold out in 6 cities, including Chicago. I mean, is Margaret Cho gunna be there? This is sick.

Self proclaimed as "an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a postcard," I read my friend this description today and her response was, "I'm already annoyed." And that's just it. Postsecret.com is incredibly annoying. If its mediocre content, ablaze with overly dramatic, sacran, pathetic, obnoxious, corny, depressing and aesthetically challenged confessionals don't bug you, its obscene success in the form of 4 book publications, international blogs in German, Chinese, French, and Spanish, attention from media outlets, museums, Bloggie awards, the Suicide Girls and now, 6 sold-out events, will definitely rub you the wrong way. Postsecret.com's success is a screaming testament to the emotionally exploitative, self-congradulating, voyeuristic culture we currently champion, and Frankly, My Dear, It's Disgusting.

Each secret is one train wreck after another. Neck Benders delight. This week's secrets were especially awful featuring a Valentine's day theme of broken hearted, lovey schmultzy, hallmark holiday hoopla. Rarely do the secrets exhibit a hint of irony, or embody any non-cliche expressions of sincerity. Christ, half of them aren't even secrets, "This postcard is a tribute to all of us who fell in love with our ex's...only to get hurt all over again." puke. ahem. barf. ahem. vomit. I will admit, some are funny...okay fine, just that one: I make $150,000 a year and work for a non-profit. That one still gets me.

Now would be a good time to disclose the reason I even know about postsecret.com. After around 9 months of living in rural Japan, working with the infamous JET program, I had hit rock bottom. I was spending my days sniffing at my desk right before sneaking off to the bathroom to weep, while trying to maintain the illusion that my existence existed. My only sources of comfort were 50% off B-list American rentals on Tuesday nights and these shriveled little twin hot dog packs I could get at 1 in every 17 vending machines.

I was so desperate for some form of catharsis beyond my VHS collection of Sex and the City episodes, that I turned emphatically to the Internet. I visited people.com, gofugyourself.com, and gawker.com several times a day to justify my life as a non-celebrity which was, at least, without ridicule. The hideous fat teacher pants I wore every day would go happily unnoticed and although poor, miserable and addicted to mayonnaise, at least I was FREE. I liked seeing Kirstin Dunst get flack for her saggy tits and trash-bag dresses, Li-lo's hole ripped for wearing the same pair of leggings three days in a row, Bai-Ling's...everything. It filled me with the kind of immediate gratification on par with dipping a bacon wrapped snickers in chocolate milk. Oh yeah. It was good. Deleriously good.

But it wasn't enough. There was no amount of bacon snickers Scarlet Jo Brangelina gossip that could fill the void. I was really low, reading about people I didn't know, (Emmie Rossum? Who?Still don't know) watching trailers to their miserable summer blockbusters, IMBDing teen celebrities who put me through puberty (JTT, Devon Sawa, Andrew Keegan and of course Mike Vitar aka Benny the Jet LOVE OF LIFE). I even befriended Claire Danes on Friendster. I was completely Obsessica, neurotically scouring the Internet landscape for ANYTHING to distract me from my sadness. Then, one glorious day I hit the hotlinks jackpot. The Bloggie Nominations page. This was where I discovered postsecret.com.

It had everything I wanted. Sad Sacks R' Us with a creative twist. There were tons of failed relationships that made my bitter singleness seem like a winning lottery ticket, abusive parents, backstabbing friends, relentless lying, incest, porn. It was great. And it was better than celebrity gossip because it was real. PAIN. Real autobiographical PAIN, written by my god-fearing American comrades who I'd trust with my life, heaven or high water.

The true captains of my misery boat, these anonymous secret keepers were my friends. My fcked up, dim witted, cornball friends, that I could, no matter what, feel a million times better than. I read religiously. I dug through the archives crying, laughing, even farting a few times. Postsecret.com was the genius invention to soothe my suffering. Just knowing that people had it worse, gave me something to look forward to. I was not the only tear-streaked freak out there.

Postsecret.com took me through weeks of self-loathing. But as expected it was not enough. And in retrospect, it was way too much. I had to teach myself to meditate, stop eating mayonnaise and LOG THE HELL OFF. Oh and also decide to leave Japan. So, today when I visited postsecret.com for the first time since International Meltdown '07, a lot of painful memories were dredged up- along with a little perspective: That was a sad time, and a sad reason to like a really lame website. So I guess the secret's out. I HATE postsecret.com

The James R. Thompson Center for Mental Health

I've been wanting to write about the James R. Thompson Center for Mental Health for at least two months. But it wasn't until this weekend that I felt the truly soul deadening ramifications of my temporary office work employment forcing me to break the silence. It's been bad. For the past few days of officelessness, my will to enjoy life has notably decreased. I laid on the couch today, cacooned by blankets, and only felt dread in my heart. Dread, that I would at some point have to get off the couch, dread that that point would inevitably bring me closer to going back to the office, and dread that everything leading me up to these series of points has been utterly, utterly meaningless. Happy V-day to me.

When I first started temping in downtown Chicago I met a friend during break at the James R. Thompson Center. The building itself is quite impressive.- All glassy and shiny and elevatory. It's huge and vacuous and bustling with the insane energy of people talking on their cell phones, carrying briefcases and scurrying to get in line to the highlight of their day:Lunch, Potato and Steak, Panda Garden, Pita Express and of course Mickey D's. They're loving it.

Once I passed security and made it off the elevator onto the 14th floor I was immediately faced with my impending mortality. The hallway that links the offices together is edged by a sheer dropoff overlooking the hollowed out center of this conchlike building. Much like the guardrails in national parks that deter you from thrusting your whims into the Grand Canyon, there is waist high wall with a rail on top to prevent the office workers of America from falling to their doom in front of the Sbarro's on the first floor.

I was shocked. How could people work in an environment in which their imminent demise is constantly (Sorry, I have to) at their disposal? ESPECIALLY since they are all working in OFFICES, pushing paper, talking on speakerphone, mass emailing, and drinking water all the time. I would surely have to be pulled down from the ledge several times a day before I got anything done. I was in there barely five minutes and felt the urge.

What was this architect thinking? Maybe he wanted office workers to have a sense of danger and excitement in their lives. To literally give them the feeling of living on the edge. Like working in a gun shop, or the circus or something. Maybe, he thought, the more people have the opportunity to fling themselves down the mercy of modern architecture, the harder they will work to distract themselves. That their molecules will be roused by this opposition to their Darwinian survival that they will push harder, work longer, and watch more internet porn to persevere. I can only speculate, but either way, the building gave me vertigo, and harrowing images of my own death.

There's nothing in Google to indicate suicide has been attempted or achieved in the James R. Thompson Center for Mental Health. Which is shocking, truly shocking to me. It's the perfect place for such an act, especially considering the fact that in 2002 1.53% of death worldwide was caused by suicide while only .98% was caused by violence. Meaning, more people decided to kill themselves before anyone else got a chance to.

Chew on this:

A study conducted by the National Institute of Occupational Health approximately 10 years ago reported three conclusions to the link between suicide and career paths:

1) White male physicians have a higher than average suicide rate.
2.) Black male guards (excluding correctional institution guards) have a higher than average suicide rate.
3.) White female painters, sculptors and artists have a higher than average suicide rate. *prolly cuz they have to get office jobs to support their canned sweet corn and thrift store habits.

It's times like these when I really wished there was a statistic for everything. I would really love to know how many white collar office workers in the James R. Thompson center have entertained thoughts of hurling themselves off the precipice and at what time of day, which shitty food court bodega they ate from, and how frequently these thoughts emerge. I might have to get investigative about this...

On that note: Have a great Monday no matter what job you have! And if you're going to the James R. Thompson Center- Bring a parachute!

VD

Brooklyn Anchorage

I Love This Poem. Lisa Jarnot is the kind of writer who has the words you thought were yours, only looser, yet more precise.

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