I don’t know which is worse: when the people who know that you love them let you down, or when the people who are unaware that they matter to you (or at least, that they matter more than they think they do) unwittingly disappoint you.

EDIT: Oh, whatever! I’m tired of being unhappy and perpetually disappointed by people. I expect too much from others – my mistake. No more, I say. No more! It’s all a matter of perspective – I’m deeply thankful for the people who do care, and who take the time to show such care.

EDIT 2: It’s so easy to fall into sadness and self-loathing when it’s been a habit for over a year. So difficult to not resort to such feelings as a default. (Sadness is comfortable in its own way. Distress is familiar, wallowing secure. Worthlessness masquerades as humility, a needed antidote for moments of egomania.) But I realize that I have the capacity to think otherwise now – to not allow the actions of people to devastate me so personally. I just need to exercise this capacity.

Apparently, along with the free email alerts provided by the NYT on such topics like “Labor and Jobs,” you can also sign up for alerts on “Funerals,” “Cremation,” “Cemetaries,” and “Death and Dying.” (Scroll to the bottom of Choosing Our Final Resting Places.)

…I wonder what type of person would sign up for alerts on “Death and Dying.” The morbidly curious/curiously morbid? Academics? (How many people can there be out studying the media coverage of death? Or who are otherwise – philosophically, perhaps? – obsessed?)

Vincent van Gogh

(via atomos)

What’s funny is that I used to dislike van Gogh – the whole mythos and bombast of his life/work. That, and I just didn’t see the appeal in art that strives not for perfectionist realism but at capturing the impression of things. But I appreciate him very much now. And I think that why his art resonates (with me, at least) is because it seems an expression of quiet intensity made loud. Garish, even. Definitely bold. And that reversal is both startling and frightening and inspiring. (Not to mention that I can relate to his moodiness.)

(via theoceanwithin)

As shameful as it is to admit, I must confess that I am a sensitive snowflake. It’s slightly less embarrassing than being of the special snowflake variety, but not by much.

(It’s a wonder that I still score as a T on the Myers-Briggs test, what with all the feelings and emotions raising a ruckus, compelling me to speak and write and act in the most wounded, self-pitying way.)