I just watched Insurgent, the second book in the trilogy and now I’m re-watching Divergent, the first book.  I watched it in the theater with my niece when it first came out so it’s like watching it for the first time.  It’s one of the perks of having the memory of a goldfish.

But I’m being completely, 100% honest when I say that I can’t find my category.  I can’t find my stereotype, my place.  I’m not even a full fledged geek, not a rebel or a drunk, definitely not a saint or scholar, opposite of marriage and/or baby making material.

Just what the hell am I?

Since I was a kid, I started seeing similarities in people.  I noticed that two people of no relation, never met one another, can have such striking similarities that leave me dumbstruck.

“How can this be?  Aren’t we all different?”

Stereotyping is a real thing and it’s okay to do so long as you don’t factor in skin color, race, religion – superficial stuff like that.  If you look beyond the exterior, that’s where you’ll find insane similarities in people from opposite backgrounds and cultures.  It’s not exactly stereotyping, but similar in the sense of categorizing people.

Okay, culture does factor in a bit and so does skin color, race and religion – but only if the person in question identifies with their superficial exterior.  As long as their identity is linked with their environment, they will become a product of it.  Not only will they become a product of it, but they’ll judge others on their superficial differences since they learned how to do it on themselves.

But….Sometimes environment doesn’t change a person and when that happens, the categories branch off into smaller sects – more defined personalities, less blind faith, more knowing.  Less grasping and more taking.  Less losing and more giving.  More choices.

The smaller sects are the people who interest me and if you take a person out of their element and thrust them into the unknown, you start to see them branching into one of the smaller rungs of a more competent nature.  I.e. , they learn more of who or what they are.

Perhaps that’s why astrology was invented – to explain why we all fit snuggly into categories.  Vata, Pita, and what’s the other one?  Kapha?  Those were invented too but as a way to assess and treat medical conditions.

I’ve only met one or two people in my day that I can say for certain are my kin.   We’re alike, but not totally.  Not really….Okay, maybe not for certain.

What I wouldn’t give to meet another me.  I’m like nobody I’ve ever met before and yet (truthfully), I can somehow relate to everyone.  I can find aspects of myself in just about everyone I meet.

I already did this with each of my employee’s.  It’s megalomanic of me to say, but they each represent a part of me.  Even Laurie, the girl I got rid of – she encompassed some of my worst qualities.

There are just so many Me’s!  So many perspectives, so many minute experiences that my mind grinds down into sand and throws back into sea.  A torrential, never-ending thread of thought and feeling.

How can I NOT write?  How can I not keep lists?

I loathe narcissists.  I don’t know why, but I hate them.  I’m well aware of hate being a strong word.  And here I am writing a post that would indubitably make me hate myself.

Indubitably…..who used to say that?  A cartoon character from the 80’s with a mustache and monocle?

I get inspired easily and Divergent is just one of those stories that does it to me.  Excuse my self-love for tonight, it’s a temporary fixture.

I was laying on my back while my employee practiced giving me a scalp massage and I started laughing – “I feel like we’re all playing together.  Like we’re playing spa.”

My employee laughs.

“I always felt that way since I opened.  It feels like I’m playing at being a spa owner.”

Employee – She laughs and says, “you’re so…. innocent.”

Innocent…..is my “innocence” an innocuous way of me hiding something more sinister?

That thought grazed my mind after she said that.  What if my “playing” is a ruse, even to me?  Intended to mask my inner demon?

My friend the other day slipped me a polished rock with the word “FEARLESS” etched into it.  She slid it into the pocket of my hoodie when we were walking back to my car.  I dug around for it, pulled it out and smiled at her.

But if my “innocence” really is a perfunctory attempt to hide what’s really inside, so much so that I can be seen and categorized under “innocent”, that only means I have more fear than your average deer (in headlights).

Innocence plus fearlessness equals early doom.  But I’m pretty sure my innocence is a ruse, and my fearlessness is mistaken for pigheadedness.

I have much to learn and much to let go of.  I sometimes wish people would question the words coming out of my mouth.

“Yeah right, you’re full of shit.”

Yes I am!  Thank you!

Or maybe I’m just bored and reading too much into things.  I’m transfixing and I have a headache.

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