Death = Sex

Nothing terribly relevant happened today. My hair is no longer blue. Originally it was a striking and lovely deep electric blue. It’s now an espresso color (dark brown), which is, sure, less interesting than blue. And, even though I’ll miss those dirty looks you can only get in Provo, I have enjoyed waking up and not being bummed out by the dirty grey the blue was fading into.

I also have been working on my addendum for my classes next semester. I enjoy my planned tactic of sugar-coated angry bitterness. For instance, I won’t have a “tardy” policy; students can come in after 15 minutes and not be counted late. But, if they come in after the 15, they’ll be marked absent. And, after 9 absences they’ll get an automatic F. Nice, huh? This next one I’m really looking forward to: I won’t count MLA as part of the grade. Meaning, if a paper is not written in MLA format, I won’t be looking at it at all. At the beginning I feel like I’m going to be so harsh, but, really, it just ends up that I’ll be a complete push-over with mood swings of bitchiness. But, I think if I start out as a bitch and allow that hardness to be chipped at, I think it may be more successful. I just don’t want more willing stupidity and jackassery. For instance, I had a student who, each time I made a reference to something that may be considered dated or classic or, hell, worth knowing, she made her upper lip pull up on one side and held her bottom lip agape, perhaps to let her thoughts fall out as they may have been giving her sharp pains underneath her hair. At the beginning of class one day I played “Under Pressure” the collaborative hit by Freddie Mercury and David Bowie as a belated “Happy Birthday” to Freddie. And, she said, “Who’s that?” I never thought it was possible, but I felt my breath leave my lungs, replaced by a gasp of disbelief. Her willing oblivion backfired, of course, as the gentleman is not only well known, but highly regarded (to say the least). I find it baffling that anyone would be willing to actively make themselves appear as foolish; that, somehow, this is desired and approved of behavior. What’s more perplexing, is that anyone would be willing to behave this way in front of and in spite of the person who handles their grade. Not that I did anything untoward, but it’s just stupid. Which, come to think of it, is rather fitting for this girl or anyone who does this. It happened again when I was wearing my “Team VanHelsing” t-shirt and, again, she said “Who’s that?” Unfortunately, this caused me to educate almost my entire class on who VanHelsing is when another girl answered, “You know, from the movie…” Which would have been fine had that movie been one of the incarnations of Dracula and not the throttled depiction of the character in VanHelsing. However, I did get the chance to employ one of my favorite rants, which is how horrifying Twilight actually is when comparing the respective bedroom scenes from it and Dracula. I’m not sure how I got on that tangent, but I enjoyed every minute of the trip.

I looked at the stats of my little diary here, because I enjoy such torture, and saw that yesterday’s blog post got more hits than any of my other blogs (in their entirety) combined. I would never chalk this up to how good my writing is. Never. I think it was because of the suggestive nature of the title “Skelethong.” And, because all of the hits originally came from clicking the link on Facebook, I know everyone who clicked it. Not who they were, but I can guess. Oh, if Freud were living now, not as a zombie or like the Tales From the Crypt guy, but in some other way where all his mental faculties are still present. What he would see and think. He would look at all of us and our overt obsession with sex and say that we all have an acute fear of having our eyes ripped out. In fact, I think he would see us as a horrible amalgamation of his duel theories of Thanatos and Eros; sex and death. Certainly, our obsessions with the macabre and with the sensual has become so inordinate that it has combined: Death = Sex. It may come to a point where people are suspiciously fumbling with their overcoats and messenger bags each time they pass by a cemetery. What must grandmother’s funeral be like? How will the death industry combat this and eventually give in? Perhaps stripper poles and cage dancers in the lobby. Frilly and revealing death shrouds hanging next to urns and satin pillows with lipstick marks. It is no secret that for such reasons Anne Rice and Stephanie Meyer have made so much money with their vampires. As an aside, I hardly count Meyer’s as vampires, but that’s another rant and, really, I think would merely be saying what’s been said over and over, again. Though, I believe, I’m one of the first to have said it. Anyway, the combination of horror and desire is not entirely new, it’s just become more visual, I think. To say nothing of De Sade (really, I don’t want to) there was the Victorian Era and the citizens of which make our take on Thanatos and Eros tawdry, if nothing else.

You know what? I’m okay with Freud being a zombie.

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One thought on “Death = Sex

  1. Since I really don’t believe in the existence of Freud, I have no problem with him being a zombie. One of my favorite kinds of zombies is the nearly ubiquitous freudfroods in any fuax-university (junior college in sheep’s clothing).

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