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.
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.
