If I Was a Cat, I'd Be in The CIA

     Well...it isn't the physical form of being a cat that would propel me to involve myself in a governmental organization. Rather, it's the idea that cats have live(s). Many of them. Some kid told me they have nine. I said "nahh"(jokingly).  He turns to me with a death stare on his face and goes "REALLY." So I said ok.
     Though I'm not sure which life I would use to fulfill my destiny as a member of the CIA, I'd be willing to compromise one of them, in case my head got cut off, or if I accidentally shot my own foot off. I am obsessed with crime novels and detective stories and oddly wish I had the higher cheekbones to match the physical profile of said lead characters. Contrarily, my cheeks remain low and a sly grimace is as close to physical sass as it gets. Someone did tell me I could be Nancy Drew, though...if I wanted to categorize myself as any leading lady. Wait a minute-isn't she 16?
     As I watch the BBC show Sherlock, of course named after the books and the Robert Downey Jr. movie, my head spins and I promptly twirl off of my seat to catch up to it. The mental manipulation this show plays on me is painful, and today, I ache for pain. Sherlock always gets the last word and I, more than ever, want to do the same. Would I lose a few friends? All of them. Would I live in constant fear? Sounds great. At least I could cozy down to the Dr. Watson whom I so frequently direct my condescensions. He is a bad boy and today I feel like wearing my biker jacket. It's made of pleather. Oh.
    This brings me to talk about my father. He so ironically told me that I should stray from bad boys the day I started watching the Sherlock. I had never thought of myself as yearning for hell and striving to singe my fingernails on fire, but you know what, I do. I'm enticed by Sheldon Cooper, have a thing for Robert Downey Jr., and am an uncomfortably fierce fan of Loki's. So, we'll see how many lives I end up with after I spend some time with these fellas.
     Grandma wants me married by 25? You know, CIA members can really only marry each other. Who wants to marry someone with a fake boring job?...except someone else with a similarly dangerous "fake boring job."Check.

Sometimes I'm Lisbeth Salander

    Something interesting that has been happening lately is this: I am everyone. This, of course, means nothing to really anyone. I'll elaborate.
    This morning, I knew I needed to wake up and get some serious work done. It's exam time and my pet Procrastination keeps scratching at my door. I mean really, there was some random cat pawing outside. Scat, yo. Anyways, This is when It happens. I suddenly pretend I am Lisbeth Salander, the girl from The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Why would I want to be an emotionally withdrawn socioopath? First of all, only she could look fantastic without eyebrows and an unnaturally visible spinal cord but, more importantly, she is able to just get things done. Suck out the emotion, plop down, and get it done. Soap up, lather, and repeat. What are complaints? They do not exist. She just does. I subsequently make myself multiple sandwiches and drink an unprecedented amount of coffee (apparently that's what polite Swedish people do).
    On the other hand, when I know I need to be outgoing or shamelessly witty, I pretend I am Robert Downey Jr. Some people hate him, some people really hate him. Realistically, I would just like to assume the position of Child of Robert Downey. This is of course is because I live very much inside my head unless I am either playing music or shamelessly and improperly salsa-ing/b-boying to wonderful music. Essentially, music makes me tick. After that, usually at 4 am, I can pull the wit card out of my sleeve, if I'm not too drunk to find it. Rule of thumb: if you want to see Katie, either visit after 2 am or come back after I've watched a super hero movie.
     And so, I shall conclude this somewhat short post with this: on daily autopilot mode, I am the Watson to Sherlock Holmes, the Leonard to Sheldon Cooper. I cocoon caterpillar style and damn butterfly out at moments that I can neither predict nor control...unless of course, I decide to be Sherlock Holmes (but I also like Sandra Bullock so let's include her on this list in case anyone decides to unite me with these alter-egos in person-hello famous people, I flock to your conscience. Also, you definitely don't know me).

Out

Talking About Good Timing...

     As of now, I would like to do something near the equivalent of plopping myself beyond the hand-rail so rarely crossed at Niagara Falls. I currently have something of the mono-esque type that is to be determined by undeterminable symptoms and mental crazes of inexplicable nature. My insides are running while my outsides shout, "shut up and go to sleep." I guess this is weird; outsides don't really shout, unless it comes from my mouth, which is isn't, because I don't feel like talking much. Of course I am all about great timing. I have an internship to go to tomorrow with high hopes and greater expectations by the staff of the company. Did I mention a job and social life that I cannot have? Each time I take the train to anywhere, my mind shuts down, Zombie Katie comes out, and I am physically and mentally befuddled on some cross street near Michigan Avenue. Really though, you should check out the serious glaze that comes across my eyes when I start to want to eat humans. That only happens after specific train rides, though-not to worry.
      I'm surprised that I am even writing this now. I remain in this oddish state where I'm so jingly jangly to do things but am so overdone mental-wise that I end up doing a smart load of...nothing. Except of course...eating. I only eat Cheerios now, but the thing is, I'm hungry. But, hunger, nausea, confusion, and a swollen thyroid are quite unable to exist harmoniously within my stupid stomach. Yeah, I called you stupid, you stupid stomach. Please, someone give me a cold or cough. Well, only if I can give you this in exchange. Deal? Deal.
     Anger. This is what I feel when I realize that I will be missing my first class at The Second City today. Why (7x)? I didn't even bother to put in commas. I've said it seven times and you'll have to follow this like the repeating chorus it is. I care no longer. Even my syntactical structure is suffering.I do oddly wish my mind would explode so that I could pull a quick Spongebob as I simply remove my old brain and insert another. Actually, he lost his to Plankton, so, this doesn't even really apply. This sounds doable. Done. I wonder how long I'll be banana-rollin' in my bed. I'll keep tabs. Sounds like a counting game to me.

Out.

The Epiphany about Epiphanies

     I have recently come to the realization of all supposed realizations. This realization had me wondering why I even bother to have said other realizations.
     One word: subjectivity. If the world is viewed differently by each person, we can either attempt to seek out those who do see it sort of similarly, endeavor to juxtapose ourselves with people different than ourselves to immerse ourselves in some twisted version of a learning experience, or give up all together. The logical answer is to give up. As my roommate and I have recently discovered, trying only causes trouble. Let me explain. I say this because, no matter how close you think you've come to finding that one person who is similar enough to you but different enough so you don't piss yourself off with too much "you," there really is no perfect match. What you think is right is 3% wrong in his or her mind and if you multiply this by the 3/7 subjectivity variability, you might as well be a manic monster in his or her mind of regularity. Though, in this case, one could argue that life would not exist without controversy to rough up the edges of an implausible utopia. Yeesh. Anyways...if we as humans are able to recognize the fact that no matter what, we will be different, why can we not just move past this as a human race? Acknowledge it, be sad for ten minutes, spring back, and get over it. Is this not a sequence that we can learn to accept? Nope. No, no, no, it is not (well, maybe you can, but think about whose blog you're reading).
     I, for one, get into quite a few arguments. Not bad ones, but the sort that the debate team would stage in high school. Except I wasn't on the debate team. Anyways, the difference between myself and the other person I frequently find myself in mortal combat with is that I get over it. I practically forget why I'm angry in under ten minutes almost every time without fail. Why must grudges exist? Why mash up your feelings into some sort of deathly fireball...spikes and all? This may come off as a level of disinterest and the possibly existence of a sociopath inside me but, should I care that people think that? Please do allow yourself to be bothered as I sit in the corner caring less. Ok, now I sound pompous; I really don't even know that many big words. There's a reason why I always have Thesaurus.com tabbed on my computer.

Sometimes I Seem Uninterested?

      So I usually wake up at 7:30 every morning with a stomach ache. This is probably from all the unintentionally hard thinking I do every night into the oddest hours of each morning. My days are either extreme or incredibly unremarkable and range from life decision-making to pounding my fist on a table upon discovering that no, I really cannot decide which two gelato flavors I should get. The days usually start out slowly with two eggs, hopefully some cheese, toast, and three or five strawberries (even numbers won't do). If nothing strikes me metaphorically (or sometimes literally) across the face whilst I perform my morning activities, I usually go on to accomplish nothing and do so with such a "heart-on-sleeve" lack of ambition that scares off any morning action-seekers. Once I have bored away any potential morning suitors, I take a standing nap after a simple carbohydrate-filled lunch and continue with usual afternoon activities. Dinner happens, evening parties happen, and then I come back.
     And this is when it happens. Whoever the lucky or unlucky person is who I decide to speak to on Facebook or on the phone has, at this point, unknowingly sent me into a spiral of thought and cogitation. To this day I do not know what starts me off a' pumpin, but something about the blackness of the night allows me to think my thinkiest thoughts. Days remain relatively unproductive as I subconsciously yearn for nighttime and all of the emptiness it has to offer to a mind found claustrophobic by day. I say this while realizing how dangerous my mind is, how I really should stay in the sunlight, and how I should never start conversation with not-so-close friends after 9 p.m.
    So this is essentially what happens: I halfheartedly make decisions while the sun is out, go out, dance a little, come back, and then sit down and really pound them out. But wait, everyone I have just made late night engagements with will hate me, yes? Denny's really is important to some people. This is when the moral dilemmas come in. Is it my fault that I am incapable of making a committed decision at certain hours of the day? Rather, that I am solely capable of making proper ones at another certain hour of the day? I have told people about this very specific process my mind goes through. But, of course that can't band-aid up all the booboos I have just re-opened after what appeared to outsiders as a "fruitful"day of decision making. People are also frightened by the werewolf that is my nighttime brain. Stepping on the sidewalk is to scaring lizards away as talking to people about my mind is to scaring humans away (now, re-read that to take it all in). Some people view this as my having a "grass-is-always-greener" complex, my over analyzing and such. I see it as Thesaurus.com being friendlier to me only at times when humans no longer care that I just found the proper words and syntactical structure to express my insides on the outside.
    Stream of conscience post? Absolutely. Sorry it had to be the first one after a period of non-posting. I do my best, and I am sure that a brimming maximum of four people will read this. Score.

The Inception-I Think I Think This

     I was sure that a day proven to be as uneventful as it in fact was would give me nothing to say, but as it turns out, silence allows the crazy to fully nestle in the noggin. Right now I am going to talk about two wholly unrelated topics and then, at some random point of my choosing, find a way to connect the two. Here we go.
     I like to listen to classic rock-a lot. Of course I do not get my fill when every station broadcasts commercials at the same times each hour (this is a completely different issue that could be used to one stations' advantage, but we can talk about that another time). I find myself especially perturbed when the traffic comes on; this is when I have to ask: why tell me the traffic ahead of time? Why not let me just find out for myself that there is going to be a holdup on I-Idontreallycare so that I don't lunge into a state of mental impetuosity anytime prior to actually experiencing the delay? The premature vexation I felt as I found out my one hour car trip would soon become a two and a half hour circus was almost palpable to the car I must have scraped the tail of in front of me at least six times. Plus, I accidentally stuck my tongue out in disgust when he turned around to motion for me to stop tailgating him. Oops. He definitely saw that. Anyways, knowing many a "thing" in advance has me developing expectations. In this case, I expected to be angry at the classless cowboy riding the pimped out pickup to my north. So I was. I pouted and pumped my fist at who was probably a small old lady in her unfortunate son-and-law's monster truck. Since I am trying to get rid of those life experience-reducing thoughts (expectations), I should probably stop with the radio for a little while (*plugs i-Pod in*).
   
P.s. Why on Earth are many of Mumford and Sons' songs on the popular radio? Not to sound like a hipster, but a new branch of hipster will soon need to be introduced; nowadays, everyone thinks they're cool if they wear high-waisted shorts with their bottoms hanging and their banjos playing.

     Now I will introduce my second unrelated topic of choice: fitted hats versus gangsta, loose with room on the top hats that have made their way from the hands of the homeless to the heads of those who shop at Urban Outfitters; guilty as overpriced-ly charged. Today I bought one of said hats. I honestly did wonder if it made me look homeless, lost, uncomfortable, or just trying to look kool. As I eliminated the possibility that it might make me look kool, I had an internal debate that soon turned into a public conversation with myself about whether I should get the hat. Did I feel schlumpy wearing the hat? Did the hat wear me (I do have a tiny face)? Was I owning the hat? Especially considering the fact that I do not wear hats and that this probably wasn't as extreme a situation as Ted Mosby's red cowbow boots dilemma, I purchased the twenty-dollar cylinder of cheaply constructed fabric and shut my trap. (In a broad, all-knowing voice) If I shall look silly upon adorning said hat, do castigate me by name...and include my middle name...I feel uncomfortable when people find out how to use my middle name against me.
     The golden link between slouchy hats and radio traffic reports exists as this: if we, as judging humans with primordial expectations, continue to prep ourselves for disappointment, where are we going? As the crazy lady in Nordstrom said to me, "where am I going in these glasses?" Granted, they were gold-rimmed Gucci glasses and she was wearing leather boots deeming her appropriate to serve in the honky-tonk CIA. Well, lady, if you want to know where you are going before you slap that cap on, leave now, please. You've already done your wrongs and double-dotted the capitalized "I" that didn't need dotting in the first place. Just put the glasses down.

Katie 1.0, 2.0?

     I once had an art teacher I was not a fan of-actually, I've had many of those, but this specific teacher taught me something that I have recently found applicable to life. Here we go: a color cannot be determined without comparing it to a neighboring color, juxtaposing it with something that allows the original color to appear altered when compared to it's juxtaposition with another [color]. I am Katie. Sometimes I am sarcastic, sharp, sardonic, maniacal, manic Katie, yet other times I am a carefree, sort-of-ditzy, mildly delirious, frenziedly comical version of said Katie.
     Depending upon who I am around, the version of Katie which I choose to exist as changes. Overly normal people have me showcasing my wild side-why would I ever want to act like another goose in a gaggle of brown geese when I could be the white one with the red spotted mohawk? Besides the fact that I wore red spotted shoes with Balenciaga-esque pants in a print that had my employers thinking twice today at work, who else would want to just be another brown goose? Other times I find myself around groups of people so loud that I find myself wanting to just be freakin'...quiet. On occasion, I like to pull a Lisbeth Salander (which I sort of am anyways) and retreat into a metaphysical fetal armadillo position. This way I can choose to ignore loudly gawking idiots within close proximity to my personal bubble as I put up my mental armadillo shield. When I go home I just act like a baby. I roll around and ask for food and hugs in a baby voice that parentals find themselves quite unable to deny. Moral of the story: babies win always.
     Double sometimes-I recently caught myself even dressing a certain way around different groups of people. Whether it is to intimidate slash (/) frighten some of my quieter friends and family members or simply make a personal statement I know not, but I do notice myself dressing bizarrely when given the chance to exist as a shameless fool around others who might tend to see me as just that. The concomitant ordering of my Doc Marten boots with my platform Superga shoes had a friend of mine wondering if I intended on taking courses in witchcraft while abroad in Europe. After all, I would be closer to Harry Potter himself.
     I do not deign to discuss how such discordance has arisen within my internals, but at least I now know why I develop frequent stomach aches? The ability to see myself as a person separated from the social situations in which I frequently engage is a tricky one. This makes me turn o'philosophehr on myself and ponder questions of who I am and why I am here-ew.