Although I have not made my move away from home yet...I've moved this blog as far away from familiarity as Wordpress could possibly be.
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Saturday, June 21, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
All of My Diets
No, I'm not on a diet for my weight. Yes, I did gain a few pounds while in the presence of mommy's food. No, I can't have any of that for now. As none of you may know, I am, as of a year ago, intolerant to gluten, dairy, eggs, and whichever random morsel of food decides to attack my innards that day. Within this past year, I have been to every single type of doctor. After losing 60 tubes of blood to medical exams and rolling continuously while in Extreme Fetal Position, I ended up seeing a...wait for it...holistic neurologist. In actuality, it's more of...he got a degree in neurology but happened to turn to nontraditional medicine. What this man does is he solves your problems from the inside out. Essentially, the gut is the reason we are all sick and, if you can find a way to fix that, you are golden. Unfortunately, I've only reached copper and am struggling to get myself a real piece of jewelry. Over an eight month-long period, I started as a gluten-free vegan, worked my way up to pescatarian, began to try yogurt, rolled over onto my stomach upon trying egg, and curled up into an extreme form of pity-me-please-now fetal position. Basically, the frosted cupcakes I aimed to have would not only have to be gluten free, but vegan as well. Ever wonder who makes that kind of cupcake? Right-no one.
As was made apparent, I had reached a plateau. But would Katie accept this omelette-less fate as her own? After force-feeding herself many a hardboiled egg and watching them come proudly back into her hands, she said yes. But then after this displacement of almost-chicken babies came to completion, she said no. And so, (definitely changed my literary perspective there for a minute), I went to see a dietician, someone who specializes in sticking chewing gum into the cracks of my stomach...or something to that effect. This time, I was on a diet. Oh wait, I was already on one. This diet was prefaced by a blood test that would determine my specific levels of sensitivity toward each food. Turns out, I am sensitive to mint, need to discard my toothpaste, and am no longer welcome to consume tilapia. Guess minty tilapia is out of the question...for now. Oddly enough, while I am sensitive to all of the odd things one would never develop sensitivities to, I was not shown to be sensitive to eggs or dairy. What. I soon found out that there are differences between "intolerances" that make me projectile vomit my innards out upon ingestion, "allergies," which will make me choke or turn hivey-pimply, and "sensitivities," which make me feel the sad-feely way I do today. Maybe I can take Lactaid pills. Maybe dinosaur eggs would be more suitable for me? We'll have to see as I work my way up the ladder.
Diet. Now, this new diet is a diet like no diet I have ever seen before in the history of diets and fat people or skinny people or medium people or really just anything that walks with feet. I am to start out with fifteen ingredients. Before you get excited and cast an oversized "pffft" in my direction, let me explain. I am limited to that number which includes spices, fruits, vegetables, and real people food. These ingredients alone, without added seasoning, without sauces, are the ones which I will consume for two weeks before adding in ten more. Here they are, ladies and gentlemen, the ingredients I have been taking in for two whopping days: lentils, tuna, salmon, oat, sweet potato, rice, spinach, onion, yellow squash, mushroom, banana, plum, peach, cantaloupe, peanut, hazelnut, walnut, garlic, dill, ginger, and black pepper? Soy sauce on my sushi? No. Butter on my fish? I was never allowed to have that anyway. So, for three days straight, I have had rice cakes, salmon in either whole form or mushed form, canned tuna, squash and mushroom kebabs, and probably more lentils than are available in South Florida. As my roommate Mackenzie would say, HALPPPP!!!
Regardless, if this stupid diet doesn't make me evaporate into thin air first, hopefully it will put me onto the road of recovery in the golden Maserati I used to see around campus. The prince of Kuwait can buy another. Mine for now.
As was made apparent, I had reached a plateau. But would Katie accept this omelette-less fate as her own? After force-feeding herself many a hardboiled egg and watching them come proudly back into her hands, she said yes. But then after this displacement of almost-chicken babies came to completion, she said no. And so, (definitely changed my literary perspective there for a minute), I went to see a dietician, someone who specializes in sticking chewing gum into the cracks of my stomach...or something to that effect. This time, I was on a diet. Oh wait, I was already on one. This diet was prefaced by a blood test that would determine my specific levels of sensitivity toward each food. Turns out, I am sensitive to mint, need to discard my toothpaste, and am no longer welcome to consume tilapia. Guess minty tilapia is out of the question...for now. Oddly enough, while I am sensitive to all of the odd things one would never develop sensitivities to, I was not shown to be sensitive to eggs or dairy. What. I soon found out that there are differences between "intolerances" that make me projectile vomit my innards out upon ingestion, "allergies," which will make me choke or turn hivey-pimply, and "sensitivities," which make me feel the sad-feely way I do today. Maybe I can take Lactaid pills. Maybe dinosaur eggs would be more suitable for me? We'll have to see as I work my way up the ladder.
Diet. Now, this new diet is a diet like no diet I have ever seen before in the history of diets and fat people or skinny people or medium people or really just anything that walks with feet. I am to start out with fifteen ingredients. Before you get excited and cast an oversized "pffft" in my direction, let me explain. I am limited to that number which includes spices, fruits, vegetables, and real people food. These ingredients alone, without added seasoning, without sauces, are the ones which I will consume for two weeks before adding in ten more. Here they are, ladies and gentlemen, the ingredients I have been taking in for two whopping days: lentils, tuna, salmon, oat, sweet potato, rice, spinach, onion, yellow squash, mushroom, banana, plum, peach, cantaloupe, peanut, hazelnut, walnut, garlic, dill, ginger, and black pepper? Soy sauce on my sushi? No. Butter on my fish? I was never allowed to have that anyway. So, for three days straight, I have had rice cakes, salmon in either whole form or mushed form, canned tuna, squash and mushroom kebabs, and probably more lentils than are available in South Florida. As my roommate Mackenzie would say, HALPPPP!!!
Regardless, if this stupid diet doesn't make me evaporate into thin air first, hopefully it will put me onto the road of recovery in the golden Maserati I used to see around campus. The prince of Kuwait can buy another. Mine for now.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
A Doofus Once Said
I once spoke to a nutty kid. And it wasn't me...this time. Promise. This man/boy brought up an interesting point that I took particular note of in my book (Blues Clues style). He spoke of the "odd man out" and how he intentionally and continually put himself in situations where he could exist as exactly that. Essentially, he thrived in situations where he was the only oddity versus being around people similar to him. He said he felt his creativity was diluted when he surrounded himself with more of...himself. You would think that would be the opposite case, that he would be more creative in that setting...yes/no/not today? Well, I thought about what he said, and now I'm going to say a thing about that thing.
When I came to Miami, I walked into my dorm room, sucked in a mouthful of mold from the rotting linoleum below my feet, and put my head down to weep. I wanted to fall into a hole...but not hit the water below-that would be too easy. I felt alone and threatened by all of who I thought were the idiots around me. Little did I know, I could use some of those idiots to my advantage. Those morsels of moron would unknowingly help to craft what I now call Me.
Before realizing this, I decided I needed to leave Miami. And...after a few painful months, I did just that. I went to fashion school where there were a million Katies...but they all had pink hair...or weirder shoes...or weirder outfits. I, in this situation, felt normal and creatively diffused. How is it possible that my derpy outfits looked sane on the streets of Chicago? This was my big rebellion and I was looking like a half-decorated cupcake. I wanted to be a damn fully decorated pancake (I wanted to make sure I used a metaphor that made the absolute least sense).
When I came back to Miami after a few logistical avalanches, I fled for a semester abroad, came back, and then realized what was up. Oh, my. Maybe there was a reason I wasn't friends with very many artsy people. And maybe I ended up at this school for a reason other than to feel like a foreigner from the no-longer-existent-negative-terranium that is Pluto. For one, I am not a hippy dippy, although I partake in most activities that would define me as such. And, Dear World, stop calling me a hipster. my white skorts and printed pants define me as no such thing. I am a transitional chameleon, not a bearded lumberjack. But most importantly, I unknowingly loved to surround myself with people who made me feel even stranger, even more unique, and much more at...unease. I was almost in competition with myself to see which side of me could out-weird the other. "Who's gonna jump off the cliff into "freakdom" first, blehehehe."
And so, this anti-global warming, spotty-haired man/child planted this seed of "hm" into my mind. Actually, it's one of the more important seeds that have grown in the garden. Of all the ideas I have planted in the past year, this might be one that will stick with me for a long time. Does this mean I'll stay in Miami for much longer? Pfft. We'll see.
Out.
When I came to Miami, I walked into my dorm room, sucked in a mouthful of mold from the rotting linoleum below my feet, and put my head down to weep. I wanted to fall into a hole...but not hit the water below-that would be too easy. I felt alone and threatened by all of who I thought were the idiots around me. Little did I know, I could use some of those idiots to my advantage. Those morsels of moron would unknowingly help to craft what I now call Me.
Before realizing this, I decided I needed to leave Miami. And...after a few painful months, I did just that. I went to fashion school where there were a million Katies...but they all had pink hair...or weirder shoes...or weirder outfits. I, in this situation, felt normal and creatively diffused. How is it possible that my derpy outfits looked sane on the streets of Chicago? This was my big rebellion and I was looking like a half-decorated cupcake. I wanted to be a damn fully decorated pancake (I wanted to make sure I used a metaphor that made the absolute least sense).
When I came back to Miami after a few logistical avalanches, I fled for a semester abroad, came back, and then realized what was up. Oh, my. Maybe there was a reason I wasn't friends with very many artsy people. And maybe I ended up at this school for a reason other than to feel like a foreigner from the no-longer-existent-negative-terranium that is Pluto. For one, I am not a hippy dippy, although I partake in most activities that would define me as such. And, Dear World, stop calling me a hipster. my white skorts and printed pants define me as no such thing. I am a transitional chameleon, not a bearded lumberjack. But most importantly, I unknowingly loved to surround myself with people who made me feel even stranger, even more unique, and much more at...unease. I was almost in competition with myself to see which side of me could out-weird the other. "Who's gonna jump off the cliff into "freakdom" first, blehehehe."
And so, this anti-global warming, spotty-haired man/child planted this seed of "hm" into my mind. Actually, it's one of the more important seeds that have grown in the garden. Of all the ideas I have planted in the past year, this might be one that will stick with me for a long time. Does this mean I'll stay in Miami for much longer? Pfft. We'll see.
Out.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Yogurt Kickflips
I opened a container of yogurt, proceeded to scoop up a glob with my spoon and watched as I flung it into my eye and spilled the rest onto my pants. And these weren't just any pants. These were the only pants I had with me, the ones I would be flying back to America while wearing. Great. Now they were covered with pink, slimy, probably spoiled, yogurt. I guess it could be nice to enjoy some homemade sour cream as an afternoon snack.
So I have this thing where my limbs flail uselessly in erratic patterns the minute I want to impress anyone at all who I could ever possibly care to dazzle in any lifetime. Except this time, the only thing dazzling about this situation was the specks of glossy berry chunks bubbling to the surface of my yogurt. Yum.
For about two months before this, I had my eye on a certain guy in the dining hall. To be specific, a dining hall at the university in England where I previously studied abroad. We would make obscenely frequent eye contact across the hall as he sat in a similar spot every day, across from the table I sat at with my mixed breeds of study abroad friends. He dressed in a European chic manner that I so frequently coveted. I mean offense to all when I say how American men know not how to adorn their bodies. Sandals? No. Tanks? I have little interest in your knotted armpit hair. He, on the other hand, wore maroon and mustard scarves with suede loafers and lush sweaters. Even though he wore them each a million times, he always looked great.
I had been thinking all semester how I could possibly approach him. I even thought I would just go up to him and his friends and exclaim something along the lines of: "you know what? I see you, you see me. I'm Katie." That would have been nice if I hadn't intentionally derailed myself to take a nonexistent phone call...three times. And anyways, this was a two-way street, right? Did he not have legs that could move in walking formation? Toward me?
As the semester was about to conclude, I counted down the days I had to approach him. Sometimes if I went to breakfast at 8:37 I could catch him on his way out as we collided while awkwardly handling bowls of cereal sliding around on slimy trays. I hadn't dropped anything yet, plus my eye contact was steady and calm. I even think I almost came off as collected in his eyes. I usually wore my grandma's fancy Canadian coat that combined black suede and fancily braided wool. I wore this with a nude leather backpack, Doc Martens, and the same knitted gray scarf. Plus my hair was red. Maybe I looked cool? My mom thought I looked like a punky troll doll. So did I.
Back to the last day at the dining hall. I woke up, smeared on my face, pulled my same coat over my shoulders, and made my way to breakfast at 8:20. Maybe this time I could sit down and stare at him. Maybe he would stare back at me and we would both throw our hands up in a "well, shit. YOLO right?" kind of way (the use of that stupid acronym is appropriate here. I will now never use it again). Oddly enough, one of my English friends came into the dining hall and started...speaking to the guy?? What was this? How did I not know of this connection? After replaying a facepalm motion over and over again in my mind, I stood up. As soon as I did, my friend sat down to eat with me. A minute later, the guy also sat down. This was his way in. A few minutes after that, my English friend left and I was sitting alone with the guy I had been staring at all semester. My voice began to shake, I started laughing too much as I do when I get nervous, and I lost all sense of coordination. How wrong could I really go with only toast and a yogurt on my tray? The answer as we all now know is this: the wrongest of the wrong. Upon digging the spoon into my yogurt, I made the equivalent of a skateboarding kick-flip with my utensil and watch half of my yogurt spray not only on my pants but all over my face and the ground. I then watched as the yogurt cup splatted to the ground. How. How did this happen.
Of course as soon as this all happened, my face turned red, and my guy felt uncomfortable. Four of my friends just walked into the dining hall, all aware of my enormous crush, came over, and started cackling like buffoons. Although I made some serious light of the situation, this guy wasn't having it. He was too cool for me. But, at the end of the day, if he was too cool for me, it wasn't meant to be. It was almost better as a fantasy inside my head. If I ruin printed pants with sour yogurt while on a date with any of you, laugh or we're done. Actually, I'm now lactose intolerant. Let's skip the yogurt thing and go for vegan cupcakes.
Out.
So I have this thing where my limbs flail uselessly in erratic patterns the minute I want to impress anyone at all who I could ever possibly care to dazzle in any lifetime. Except this time, the only thing dazzling about this situation was the specks of glossy berry chunks bubbling to the surface of my yogurt. Yum.
For about two months before this, I had my eye on a certain guy in the dining hall. To be specific, a dining hall at the university in England where I previously studied abroad. We would make obscenely frequent eye contact across the hall as he sat in a similar spot every day, across from the table I sat at with my mixed breeds of study abroad friends. He dressed in a European chic manner that I so frequently coveted. I mean offense to all when I say how American men know not how to adorn their bodies. Sandals? No. Tanks? I have little interest in your knotted armpit hair. He, on the other hand, wore maroon and mustard scarves with suede loafers and lush sweaters. Even though he wore them each a million times, he always looked great.
I had been thinking all semester how I could possibly approach him. I even thought I would just go up to him and his friends and exclaim something along the lines of: "you know what? I see you, you see me. I'm Katie." That would have been nice if I hadn't intentionally derailed myself to take a nonexistent phone call...three times. And anyways, this was a two-way street, right? Did he not have legs that could move in walking formation? Toward me?
As the semester was about to conclude, I counted down the days I had to approach him. Sometimes if I went to breakfast at 8:37 I could catch him on his way out as we collided while awkwardly handling bowls of cereal sliding around on slimy trays. I hadn't dropped anything yet, plus my eye contact was steady and calm. I even think I almost came off as collected in his eyes. I usually wore my grandma's fancy Canadian coat that combined black suede and fancily braided wool. I wore this with a nude leather backpack, Doc Martens, and the same knitted gray scarf. Plus my hair was red. Maybe I looked cool? My mom thought I looked like a punky troll doll. So did I.
Back to the last day at the dining hall. I woke up, smeared on my face, pulled my same coat over my shoulders, and made my way to breakfast at 8:20. Maybe this time I could sit down and stare at him. Maybe he would stare back at me and we would both throw our hands up in a "well, shit. YOLO right?" kind of way (the use of that stupid acronym is appropriate here. I will now never use it again). Oddly enough, one of my English friends came into the dining hall and started...speaking to the guy?? What was this? How did I not know of this connection? After replaying a facepalm motion over and over again in my mind, I stood up. As soon as I did, my friend sat down to eat with me. A minute later, the guy also sat down. This was his way in. A few minutes after that, my English friend left and I was sitting alone with the guy I had been staring at all semester. My voice began to shake, I started laughing too much as I do when I get nervous, and I lost all sense of coordination. How wrong could I really go with only toast and a yogurt on my tray? The answer as we all now know is this: the wrongest of the wrong. Upon digging the spoon into my yogurt, I made the equivalent of a skateboarding kick-flip with my utensil and watch half of my yogurt spray not only on my pants but all over my face and the ground. I then watched as the yogurt cup splatted to the ground. How. How did this happen.
Of course as soon as this all happened, my face turned red, and my guy felt uncomfortable. Four of my friends just walked into the dining hall, all aware of my enormous crush, came over, and started cackling like buffoons. Although I made some serious light of the situation, this guy wasn't having it. He was too cool for me. But, at the end of the day, if he was too cool for me, it wasn't meant to be. It was almost better as a fantasy inside my head. If I ruin printed pants with sour yogurt while on a date with any of you, laugh or we're done. Actually, I'm now lactose intolerant. Let's skip the yogurt thing and go for vegan cupcakes.
Out.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
I Is Awkward, Hear Me Roar
It's funny how being "awkward" has become the new, coveted cool. People actually take quizzes to prove their awkward-ability to their friends and take comfort in knowing that Marie Claire magazine has declared Taylor Swift to be just as awkward as anyone else (I mean that's a total lie). The truth of it all is, when someone is actually awkward, it doesn't work that way anymore. For instance: me. I used to be painfully awkward to the point where I knew not what to say to people in new conversation aka smalltalk ever. I would jump right into the most random corner of conversation possible before saying "how are you" or "what did you do last night." Although those things bore me, they aren't things that most people are comfortable skipping (refer to my last post where I speak about how geniuses must first master the basics). Not to declare myself as a genius, because I clearly just disproved that theory, but I like to think I was unique in being assuredly, consistently, painfully awkward to the point where there was such a thing as a "Classic Katie."
In today's world of Lena Dunham and celebrities such as the self-proclaimed "real" and "super awkward" pixie named Jennifer Lawrence, awkward is on the rise. Gone are the days when Audrey Hepburn and all of her perfection are the accepted, nay coveted, norm. In rush the days when embracing the extra five pounds and extra scraggly tooth around your eyebrow are widely accepted. Fine, teeth don't grow on eyebrows (huh?). This is all okay and funky and cool-tastic until one event happens: when someone proudly declares themselves awkward, they are no longer awkward. The very thing about being awkward is that you are often unable to accept or realize the fact without admitting that you tried to be otherwise. If you know that what you do is weird, the bubble has been burst...and I only chew Double Bubble Bubble Gum so that is quite impossible. But see, this puts me in a quasi sort of lame limbo (maybe that explains the lightheaded feeling I had earlier today). While I realize I have awkward tendencies, I am no longer as ashamed of them. Although, when someone who I don't know is only able to experience my awkward tendencies without being in the presence of the awesome ones, this creates a problem. I am no longer Jennifer Lawrence, saying awesome things then tripping over ballgowns; I am just awkward. And everything I say from thereon out will be seen as only rendering everyone in the room instantly uncomfortable. I have been told I have a gift for doing so (was a painful day). This true awkward is an isolated "herp" in a sea of "herp derps." The use of the entire phrase, aka awkward with funky, is understood by the gaggles (gaggles of geese and humans alike). The use of just "herp" just becomes weird, as is the awkward without the nifty-with-a-twist of cool.
So this is why Taylor Swift is not truly awkward. It's not that she is beautiful or even graceful that removes her from this category. As a matter of fact, she used to be awkward and it was because she was blissfully unaware not of the fact that she was but rather of what it was about her that made her be perceived as awkward. She has been groomed by society and expensive hairdressers etc. to comb the awkward right out of the mane that is her (ew). So when Marie Claire tries to call someone who has been so standardized by society as an "awkward" individual just to make the public feel more comfortable with themselves, I say nay. Calling someone awkward makes them feel more human and closer to the rest of us, but we don't realize is that not all of us are truly awkward.
I suppose the moral of the story is something like this: I suppose I should be glad I am awkward in a society where this is growing in acceptability (awkward wording lol) but hope I can remain that way while developing my suave self. Though this has yet to come out in full, I hope that one day, one year, in my fourth feline life, that I will be able to ask someone what they did last night.
In today's world of Lena Dunham and celebrities such as the self-proclaimed "real" and "super awkward" pixie named Jennifer Lawrence, awkward is on the rise. Gone are the days when Audrey Hepburn and all of her perfection are the accepted, nay coveted, norm. In rush the days when embracing the extra five pounds and extra scraggly tooth around your eyebrow are widely accepted. Fine, teeth don't grow on eyebrows (huh?). This is all okay and funky and cool-tastic until one event happens: when someone proudly declares themselves awkward, they are no longer awkward. The very thing about being awkward is that you are often unable to accept or realize the fact without admitting that you tried to be otherwise. If you know that what you do is weird, the bubble has been burst...and I only chew Double Bubble Bubble Gum so that is quite impossible. But see, this puts me in a quasi sort of lame limbo (maybe that explains the lightheaded feeling I had earlier today). While I realize I have awkward tendencies, I am no longer as ashamed of them. Although, when someone who I don't know is only able to experience my awkward tendencies without being in the presence of the awesome ones, this creates a problem. I am no longer Jennifer Lawrence, saying awesome things then tripping over ballgowns; I am just awkward. And everything I say from thereon out will be seen as only rendering everyone in the room instantly uncomfortable. I have been told I have a gift for doing so (was a painful day). This true awkward is an isolated "herp" in a sea of "herp derps." The use of the entire phrase, aka awkward with funky, is understood by the gaggles (gaggles of geese and humans alike). The use of just "herp" just becomes weird, as is the awkward without the nifty-with-a-twist of cool.
So this is why Taylor Swift is not truly awkward. It's not that she is beautiful or even graceful that removes her from this category. As a matter of fact, she used to be awkward and it was because she was blissfully unaware not of the fact that she was but rather of what it was about her that made her be perceived as awkward. She has been groomed by society and expensive hairdressers etc. to comb the awkward right out of the mane that is her (ew). So when Marie Claire tries to call someone who has been so standardized by society as an "awkward" individual just to make the public feel more comfortable with themselves, I say nay. Calling someone awkward makes them feel more human and closer to the rest of us, but we don't realize is that not all of us are truly awkward.
I suppose the moral of the story is something like this: I suppose I should be glad I am awkward in a society where this is growing in acceptability (awkward wording lol) but hope I can remain that way while developing my suave self. Though this has yet to come out in full, I hope that one day, one year, in my fourth feline life, that I will be able to ask someone what they did last night.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Get It
Get It. Those two words imply that one should thrust themselves at another individual interested in emotive confrontation. When I think of Get It, I think of some sexy version of a ready-to-pounce praying mantis strutting its mantis self across the mantis bar and in front of another mantis woman/man/however you want to swing that night. Now, here's why it makes no sense. How can "getting it" be comprised of angst, drive, and confidence when, in reality, we are a society addicted to playing Hard to Get? Get It (all of the puns)? If staying away is the very thing that attracts people the most (entirely different argument I will get to in a few minutes after casting my fists down in frustration at a similar scenario within which I currently reside...)...then how is directly, intentionally, and blatantly getting it gonna "git-er good" (may have just made that partially up)?
Here is a hypothetical "for instance." While I realize it is no longer hypothetical upon its morphing into a true-life Katie tale, I want to call it that for the sake of my pride and only a golden third of my diminished dignity. I wanted a guy. The End. Just kidding. I wanted a guy, I didn't know how to get the guy, my friend told me to go up to the guy. I did. And at first, he was very into the fact that I had mustered confidence enough to fool him into thinking I had a minute amount of swagger. Besides the fact that I immediately slipped on an ice cube and caught his shoulder on the way down, it was not that that eventually rendered him disinterested. If we're being honest, that only upped the interest. I mean really...who wouldn't want someone's frantic talons digging into their shoulder on a Friday night? Anyways. I began to text MooMoo (let's call him that, if not only to emasculate him, but at least to add humor to this sad tale). We texted back and forth back and forth. Then the texts became fewer and farther between. Was it because my text messages were sent four seconds too soon? Must I measure the thought put into each message in teaspoons of nervosa? Can I make nervosa a tangible thing so that I can measure it out with a spoon meant for stirring tea into sugar? The I started to text less.
Here's the problem. If you like someone, how do you "approach" them in a way that comes off as you "not approaching" them and being "disinterested" while being definitely and definably "interested?" Wut. While I realize it is customary within English society (those Brits) to wait quite a while before asking someone out, 'Merica is no place to hold feelings back. When people say Americans are forward, they are both wrong and possibly foreign to Earth. And I don't like to share my food with aliens so...leave. Americans are hesitant to discuss feelings of love and warmth and gushy stuff and things that make you feel like a guffawing, de-shelled armadillo but have no problem attacking you with fangs and stiletto heels if you accidentally cut them in line to get into Liv (for reference, I have not gone to Liv but, as a species foreign to said club, I can only imagine that, aside from wearing skirt/belt/invisible articles of clothing, these are activities club goers take part in). People will flip you off from cars and cut you off with baby strollers as you stumble to grab the wallet you just dropped (yes this did happen to me) before they tell you that you look not sexy, hot, or "smoky-dizzlin'" (this also happened), but pretty. And, if someone does call you pretty, the authorities must be alerted because oh my lord, Voldemort has a cousin and his name has just been mentioned. And so, in such cases, where people are afraid of interest, kindness, and eyeballs that look at not just their owners' phones but also at your eyeballs, what must one do?
Well...I don't know. I know little about things (definitely not vague). But what I do know is that I need to learn about balance. I too lose interest when the other party gains interest. Societal conditioning: please die. I need to learn both how to play "hard to get" and how to rise above it. Speaking of which (this is relevant...I swear)...my professor, who I commonly have a strong distaste for, said this: "Once you have mastered the basics, you can then move onto the genius." Funny how so may geniuses come off as having gone their entirely own, crookedly carved out, quasi path, but in actuality have skid down the same road as everyone else (Van Gogh is a true exception to this rule). This also applies to "gettin' it." Once you have learned the traditional manner in which one might acquire a lady/man friend/person, you can then go on to lure others in with methods other than the traditional "hard to get." Stupid how "hard to get" has become tradition, right? This is when the direct confrontation comes into play. The people who can pull that off have probably already pulled the weasely side nonsensicality (definitely not a word) of "hard to getting." The irony of this situation is this: One would think that learning to confront people/problems/large lizards head on, they could then use those methodologies to manipulate people from afar (literally). What I have found is...not that. Learn the back roads then you can make the dash to the home stretch.
And so, as I begin to remember a dream I had last night (somehow including a super-old Brad Pitt), I realize that, it is possible to get Brad Pitt. I might be 90 when I do, but if I learn how to play hard-to-get, maybe by then I will realize what to say if I walk up to him in a bar...if those still exist when I'm a prehistoric rag. Good night and good luck to all those tryna get-it-in as I lazily rock myself asleep to an episode of Scandal.
Here is a hypothetical "for instance." While I realize it is no longer hypothetical upon its morphing into a true-life Katie tale, I want to call it that for the sake of my pride and only a golden third of my diminished dignity. I wanted a guy. The End. Just kidding. I wanted a guy, I didn't know how to get the guy, my friend told me to go up to the guy. I did. And at first, he was very into the fact that I had mustered confidence enough to fool him into thinking I had a minute amount of swagger. Besides the fact that I immediately slipped on an ice cube and caught his shoulder on the way down, it was not that that eventually rendered him disinterested. If we're being honest, that only upped the interest. I mean really...who wouldn't want someone's frantic talons digging into their shoulder on a Friday night? Anyways. I began to text MooMoo (let's call him that, if not only to emasculate him, but at least to add humor to this sad tale). We texted back and forth back and forth. Then the texts became fewer and farther between. Was it because my text messages were sent four seconds too soon? Must I measure the thought put into each message in teaspoons of nervosa? Can I make nervosa a tangible thing so that I can measure it out with a spoon meant for stirring tea into sugar? The I started to text less.
Here's the problem. If you like someone, how do you "approach" them in a way that comes off as you "not approaching" them and being "disinterested" while being definitely and definably "interested?" Wut. While I realize it is customary within English society (those Brits) to wait quite a while before asking someone out, 'Merica is no place to hold feelings back. When people say Americans are forward, they are both wrong and possibly foreign to Earth. And I don't like to share my food with aliens so...leave. Americans are hesitant to discuss feelings of love and warmth and gushy stuff and things that make you feel like a guffawing, de-shelled armadillo but have no problem attacking you with fangs and stiletto heels if you accidentally cut them in line to get into Liv (for reference, I have not gone to Liv but, as a species foreign to said club, I can only imagine that, aside from wearing skirt/belt/invisible articles of clothing, these are activities club goers take part in). People will flip you off from cars and cut you off with baby strollers as you stumble to grab the wallet you just dropped (yes this did happen to me) before they tell you that you look not sexy, hot, or "smoky-dizzlin'" (this also happened), but pretty. And, if someone does call you pretty, the authorities must be alerted because oh my lord, Voldemort has a cousin and his name has just been mentioned. And so, in such cases, where people are afraid of interest, kindness, and eyeballs that look at not just their owners' phones but also at your eyeballs, what must one do?
Well...I don't know. I know little about things (definitely not vague). But what I do know is that I need to learn about balance. I too lose interest when the other party gains interest. Societal conditioning: please die. I need to learn both how to play "hard to get" and how to rise above it. Speaking of which (this is relevant...I swear)...my professor, who I commonly have a strong distaste for, said this: "Once you have mastered the basics, you can then move onto the genius." Funny how so may geniuses come off as having gone their entirely own, crookedly carved out, quasi path, but in actuality have skid down the same road as everyone else (Van Gogh is a true exception to this rule). This also applies to "gettin' it." Once you have learned the traditional manner in which one might acquire a lady/man friend/person, you can then go on to lure others in with methods other than the traditional "hard to get." Stupid how "hard to get" has become tradition, right? This is when the direct confrontation comes into play. The people who can pull that off have probably already pulled the weasely side nonsensicality (definitely not a word) of "hard to getting." The irony of this situation is this: One would think that learning to confront people/problems/large lizards head on, they could then use those methodologies to manipulate people from afar (literally). What I have found is...not that. Learn the back roads then you can make the dash to the home stretch.
And so, as I begin to remember a dream I had last night (somehow including a super-old Brad Pitt), I realize that, it is possible to get Brad Pitt. I might be 90 when I do, but if I learn how to play hard-to-get, maybe by then I will realize what to say if I walk up to him in a bar...if those still exist when I'm a prehistoric rag. Good night and good luck to all those tryna get-it-in as I lazily rock myself asleep to an episode of Scandal.
Friday, February 14, 2014
This Post Is For My Class And Is Long And Weird (version 1)
"Looks like I went from partly-professional to soaking wet in under three minutes!...[nervous giggle]." I was dressed in a too-hip, loosely-swept, oddly-draped red and blue plaid shirt, a lightly-patterned pair of cropped, skin-tight, nude pants, and pointy, snakeskin flats with a chunky ankle strap. After running frantically through the rain with my bright red raincoat and shoes in hand, I had arrived at the Career Symposium. The Woman at the front was dressed in a sad-looking black suit atop a black shirt. The Woman did not take kindly to the joke I made upon materializing before her to receive my Symposium badge. She might as well have been clutching a Poisonous Scepter of Doom within her pointy claws, although this image might flatter her a bit more than intended. And so, after watching The Woman smoothly slide my name tag into the casing that I would later accidentally steal, I pranced along as I felt her laser vision pierce through my backside. I began to skim the perimeter of the third floor as I attempted to penetrate the border that was seven skeptical employees. These narrow-eyed humans proved quite weary of my apparently inappropriate dress. Their eyes slithered from left to right. Rinse and repeat.
I walk into a large, sterile ballroom and take my seat amidst a small and probably-never-growing crowd of suit sporting creatures. They donned, just as The Woman at the front, black suits with black or perhaps white ruffled obscenities for shirts underneath. A "girl" to my left exhibited a pair of round-toed Mary Jane shoes with a flowered belt buckle choking the fat of her feet. I, again, was wearing...not that. My pointy shoes, patterned top, and soaking wet existence were loud enough to shove enough noses in the air for what could be a lifetime. A small Indian man eventually appeared to the side of the stage. The Woman then materializes before us in an untimely manner. Not good, Woman, not good. "And I am here to introduce a very important man. Please do graciously welcome our wonderful speaker for the evening, Sir Blah Blah." Now, I must keep this name as Sir Blah Blah for two reasons. One: this is a fantastic name, but no, he is not a knight. Two: If anyone were to read this and see his actual name, I might be brutally slain by The Woman; she has her ways. Plus, her nails were uncomfortably long. Anyways. The Woman then proceeds to trip backward upon exiting the stage that Sir Blah Blah decides not to use. "My voice is quite enough," says the Sir. Six crickets appear, mate, and exponentially multiply in number. Actually, that was just the increasing sound of awkward I felt as this man began to futz with a poorly constructed powerpoint. Swivel Swivel. I take a gander to my left and right to find two things. One: a balding man who, wait, why are you here? And two: a meek, mousey graduate student who apparently thought a hiking backpack would bring out the boring in her eyes. Lights fail to dim, and here we go.
Now, let's get some background on our dearest Sir. This man, about five and a half feet tall, walks in at a pace that must be too slow for the age that he appears to be. His back has a developing hump that is masked only slightly by his oversized jacket. A man of class and creativity, you say? He stands up to reveal a blue pinstripe shirt worn beneath a green and orange speckled tie. School spirit? Absolutely. Mismatched? Probably. He reaches his wrinkled paws toward his necktie to loosen the portion that is pinching his neck fat. His hair is thinning and a combover does it little justice. This is a man who worked at Fed-Ex for years developing all sorts of "creative" modes of operation for the company. Needless to say, he was both behind the scenes and very much in front of them. The man worked with brown boxes and sticky labels. He travels around the world giving talks about how to become creative and how you can then go on to be like him...in order to travel around the world...while telling other people how to become creative...all courtesy of the Sir himself. After casting a slew of fancy brand names in our general direction and asking us to identify fancy monuments from places he visited all over the world...is that an ice cream cone? Suddenly I see over thirty businesspeople clutching ice cream cones and roasting on revolving spears. They are cackling in excitement about their monthly outing from the office. Someone even told me they got to brush their teeth! Someone else told me they would rather get the last ice cream cone than use this break to empty their bowels and I...*bang.* I raise my head up in baffling confusion. Did I actually just fall asleep? Not possible. I remember being slouched back but I do like to keep up a few professional appearances. After all, I did tape my eyelids back in preparation for this riveting escapade. It seems that I have just pulled a Walter Mitty and that I fantasize about roasting haughty businesspeople as they devour sweets. Good.
As I gently awaken myself and remove the metaphorical drool of boredom that departed from my mouth, Sir Blah Blah opened his mouth to speak. Sir Blah Blah is Indian. He speaks in a thick, acquiescent accent that will convince one of absolutely nothing. He begins his talk with "this talk is on how one can unleash one's creativity with one's self within one's mental temple." Oh boy. Wait a minute-this goofy goober was about to tell me how to be creative? As I sat there with my "Studio Art" badge plastered to my bosom, my mind began to wander. I did sign up for this talk, even if it was just to get great blog material. Rude. ...*Shakes herself awake*...The four criteria that must be met to unlock the golden chest of creativity, oh boy. This is it. My mind is about to be blown and subsequently re-synthesize into golden platelets of chocolate knowledge. And who doesn't like both of those things? One: More dots. More dots? How eloquently you have phrased this golden pellet, Sir Blah Blah. Apparently this has something to do with the desire to pry and well, think more. You know what, I really was planning on thinking less so, thank goodness I arrived before His Graciousness on this monsoony day. Two: Imagination. Doesn't that mildly coincide with step one? Are they even steps?? Must I perform these feats in order?? Explain, Sir Blah Blah, explain!! Step three: create nominal stress. This one really got me going. According to our Graciousness, this has to do with creating an ideal amount of stress in combination with a state of relaxation in order to "become creative." It's something like the top achievement in meditation or...me successfully slaughtering someone's ass in a sort of silent Kung Fu. Now, this is my problem with this artificially created "nominal stress." Part one: if one is truly creative, they are usually somewhat deranged. My mind goes as far as the moon and is as cratered as just that. When I think of ideas, I bolt up in the middle of the night, sweating, after a long night of painful thought. There is no fra-la-la and a warm shower, not too hot as to sear my precious dermis. Part two: if my mind is clear, that means there are no ideas. The very reason I went to this meeting was to clutter my mind with ideas that could mix with ones I got from a trip to Burger King as a gluten-intolerant fool last night. Sir Blah Blah proceeds to speak of those "a-ha" moments one has in the shower. I mumble to myself, "doesn't freakin' happen to me." Uh oh.
Sir Blah Blah takes a step in my direction, nods his pointed noise toward my face, and swivels his neck. I really should internalize my reactions more frequently. "You do look like a creative individual," says the Sir. "Do, tell me what you have just said. It says here that your major is...studio art?" He gazes toward me as though looking over spectacles grazing the tip of his pointed schnoz. *Gasps from the crowd of somber business aliens.*
If this was a movie, I would have just made that a cliffhanger. Unfortunately for me, the only sense of cliffhanger I can provide is the one where I push "enter" and then "spacebar" enough times to form what would have been a "tab" anywhere but on my Blogger website. And...continue. Upon craning my remorseful neck in his general direction, I opened my mouth to speak. "Well..." I look around to see that the back three rows of people actually stood up to see what sort of mongrel was producing words. "It's just that...I seem to create ideas in times when my mind is sort of distracted. Oddly enough, thinking about how I should be thinking actually makes my thinking time less...thinkful." Based on sky-high eyebrows, it seemed that "thinkful" was not a proper word of choice. "Self-induced tension also doesn't really work for me. If I'm in an incredibly boring class, my mind spews out ideas for just about everything...which I guess could be a problem if being creative is my job, because, you know, I can't do boring things just to come up with cool things for the rest of my life. That's just wrong, yeah? But also, when I'm at my looniest and feel the crazy coming on, I don't stop it. I embrace it. This is only something I've learned to do recently, but it is device that I will employ for a lifetime." Now, let's back up a little. This man came to my university to talk to a bunch of gray-minded people about how to get in on what he thought was "his little secret." Then, this soaking wet excuse for a partly-professional woman is giving her opinion on his miniature book (it actually is miniature; I'll go into detail about that fantastic bit later)? After seeing the ever-emotive and eloquent Malcolm Gladwell speak, I was barely taken by his response. "You see," says the Sir, "I myself never used to be creative. Then, I began to work for Procter and Gamble and..." *snooze.*
After being individually lectured by this boring blob of a man, I shot my head to the left and right, searching frantically for a clock. This talk was only supposed to go on for 45 minutes, 30 of which were taken by him telling us what places he had traveled to and why he thought he was so awesome. But, for some reason that I am still unable to define, these fifteen minutes must have been at least another 40. My mind decided to cringe in repudiation of his reiteration of his four steps to creative wisdom. I catch another glimpse of a roasting businesswoman to my immediate left, the meek hiker to my right. It was get-er-done time at the slaughterhouse and I just punched in my card. This time, our Good Sir was enjoying a nice marshmallow and The Woman kebab, The Woman was laughing gleefully, as she was finally able to partake in his golden stream of creativity.
Upon terminating his speech, Sir Blah Blah told us that we would each be receiving a copy of his book. His book, just as our attention spans, had diminished in size. He held it next to a regularly sized book of his saying, "this one didn't quite sell out." Right, because making your book smaller will win you a following of both large and small-handed people alike. That's like, double, you know? And, if you count all the left-handed people who can now read his Hebrew and Chinese versions, well, let's consider this World Domination. As I walk out of the meeting, I knead the moisture out of my hair and sling my drenched, bright red backpack across my rear side. I walk into the bathroom, peel off my pants, slink into some gym shorts, and begin to roll my pants up sushi-style into a wad of paper towels. Wash my hands, smear the makeup from my face, good to go. Look to the left, nod in approval to the talking marshmallow kebab as she scornfully smirks in my detestable direction. And goodbye to that piglet.
I walk into a large, sterile ballroom and take my seat amidst a small and probably-never-growing crowd of suit sporting creatures. They donned, just as The Woman at the front, black suits with black or perhaps white ruffled obscenities for shirts underneath. A "girl" to my left exhibited a pair of round-toed Mary Jane shoes with a flowered belt buckle choking the fat of her feet. I, again, was wearing...not that. My pointy shoes, patterned top, and soaking wet existence were loud enough to shove enough noses in the air for what could be a lifetime. A small Indian man eventually appeared to the side of the stage. The Woman then materializes before us in an untimely manner. Not good, Woman, not good. "And I am here to introduce a very important man. Please do graciously welcome our wonderful speaker for the evening, Sir Blah Blah." Now, I must keep this name as Sir Blah Blah for two reasons. One: this is a fantastic name, but no, he is not a knight. Two: If anyone were to read this and see his actual name, I might be brutally slain by The Woman; she has her ways. Plus, her nails were uncomfortably long. Anyways. The Woman then proceeds to trip backward upon exiting the stage that Sir Blah Blah decides not to use. "My voice is quite enough," says the Sir. Six crickets appear, mate, and exponentially multiply in number. Actually, that was just the increasing sound of awkward I felt as this man began to futz with a poorly constructed powerpoint. Swivel Swivel. I take a gander to my left and right to find two things. One: a balding man who, wait, why are you here? And two: a meek, mousey graduate student who apparently thought a hiking backpack would bring out the boring in her eyes. Lights fail to dim, and here we go.
Now, let's get some background on our dearest Sir. This man, about five and a half feet tall, walks in at a pace that must be too slow for the age that he appears to be. His back has a developing hump that is masked only slightly by his oversized jacket. A man of class and creativity, you say? He stands up to reveal a blue pinstripe shirt worn beneath a green and orange speckled tie. School spirit? Absolutely. Mismatched? Probably. He reaches his wrinkled paws toward his necktie to loosen the portion that is pinching his neck fat. His hair is thinning and a combover does it little justice. This is a man who worked at Fed-Ex for years developing all sorts of "creative" modes of operation for the company. Needless to say, he was both behind the scenes and very much in front of them. The man worked with brown boxes and sticky labels. He travels around the world giving talks about how to become creative and how you can then go on to be like him...in order to travel around the world...while telling other people how to become creative...all courtesy of the Sir himself. After casting a slew of fancy brand names in our general direction and asking us to identify fancy monuments from places he visited all over the world...is that an ice cream cone? Suddenly I see over thirty businesspeople clutching ice cream cones and roasting on revolving spears. They are cackling in excitement about their monthly outing from the office. Someone even told me they got to brush their teeth! Someone else told me they would rather get the last ice cream cone than use this break to empty their bowels and I...*bang.* I raise my head up in baffling confusion. Did I actually just fall asleep? Not possible. I remember being slouched back but I do like to keep up a few professional appearances. After all, I did tape my eyelids back in preparation for this riveting escapade. It seems that I have just pulled a Walter Mitty and that I fantasize about roasting haughty businesspeople as they devour sweets. Good.
As I gently awaken myself and remove the metaphorical drool of boredom that departed from my mouth, Sir Blah Blah opened his mouth to speak. Sir Blah Blah is Indian. He speaks in a thick, acquiescent accent that will convince one of absolutely nothing. He begins his talk with "this talk is on how one can unleash one's creativity with one's self within one's mental temple." Oh boy. Wait a minute-this goofy goober was about to tell me how to be creative? As I sat there with my "Studio Art" badge plastered to my bosom, my mind began to wander. I did sign up for this talk, even if it was just to get great blog material. Rude. ...*Shakes herself awake*...The four criteria that must be met to unlock the golden chest of creativity, oh boy. This is it. My mind is about to be blown and subsequently re-synthesize into golden platelets of chocolate knowledge. And who doesn't like both of those things? One: More dots. More dots? How eloquently you have phrased this golden pellet, Sir Blah Blah. Apparently this has something to do with the desire to pry and well, think more. You know what, I really was planning on thinking less so, thank goodness I arrived before His Graciousness on this monsoony day. Two: Imagination. Doesn't that mildly coincide with step one? Are they even steps?? Must I perform these feats in order?? Explain, Sir Blah Blah, explain!! Step three: create nominal stress. This one really got me going. According to our Graciousness, this has to do with creating an ideal amount of stress in combination with a state of relaxation in order to "become creative." It's something like the top achievement in meditation or...me successfully slaughtering someone's ass in a sort of silent Kung Fu. Now, this is my problem with this artificially created "nominal stress." Part one: if one is truly creative, they are usually somewhat deranged. My mind goes as far as the moon and is as cratered as just that. When I think of ideas, I bolt up in the middle of the night, sweating, after a long night of painful thought. There is no fra-la-la and a warm shower, not too hot as to sear my precious dermis. Part two: if my mind is clear, that means there are no ideas. The very reason I went to this meeting was to clutter my mind with ideas that could mix with ones I got from a trip to Burger King as a gluten-intolerant fool last night. Sir Blah Blah proceeds to speak of those "a-ha" moments one has in the shower. I mumble to myself, "doesn't freakin' happen to me." Uh oh.
Sir Blah Blah takes a step in my direction, nods his pointed noise toward my face, and swivels his neck. I really should internalize my reactions more frequently. "You do look like a creative individual," says the Sir. "Do, tell me what you have just said. It says here that your major is...studio art?" He gazes toward me as though looking over spectacles grazing the tip of his pointed schnoz. *Gasps from the crowd of somber business aliens.*
If this was a movie, I would have just made that a cliffhanger. Unfortunately for me, the only sense of cliffhanger I can provide is the one where I push "enter" and then "spacebar" enough times to form what would have been a "tab" anywhere but on my Blogger website. And...continue. Upon craning my remorseful neck in his general direction, I opened my mouth to speak. "Well..." I look around to see that the back three rows of people actually stood up to see what sort of mongrel was producing words. "It's just that...I seem to create ideas in times when my mind is sort of distracted. Oddly enough, thinking about how I should be thinking actually makes my thinking time less...thinkful." Based on sky-high eyebrows, it seemed that "thinkful" was not a proper word of choice. "Self-induced tension also doesn't really work for me. If I'm in an incredibly boring class, my mind spews out ideas for just about everything...which I guess could be a problem if being creative is my job, because, you know, I can't do boring things just to come up with cool things for the rest of my life. That's just wrong, yeah? But also, when I'm at my looniest and feel the crazy coming on, I don't stop it. I embrace it. This is only something I've learned to do recently, but it is device that I will employ for a lifetime." Now, let's back up a little. This man came to my university to talk to a bunch of gray-minded people about how to get in on what he thought was "his little secret." Then, this soaking wet excuse for a partly-professional woman is giving her opinion on his miniature book (it actually is miniature; I'll go into detail about that fantastic bit later)? After seeing the ever-emotive and eloquent Malcolm Gladwell speak, I was barely taken by his response. "You see," says the Sir, "I myself never used to be creative. Then, I began to work for Procter and Gamble and..." *snooze.*
After being individually lectured by this boring blob of a man, I shot my head to the left and right, searching frantically for a clock. This talk was only supposed to go on for 45 minutes, 30 of which were taken by him telling us what places he had traveled to and why he thought he was so awesome. But, for some reason that I am still unable to define, these fifteen minutes must have been at least another 40. My mind decided to cringe in repudiation of his reiteration of his four steps to creative wisdom. I catch another glimpse of a roasting businesswoman to my immediate left, the meek hiker to my right. It was get-er-done time at the slaughterhouse and I just punched in my card. This time, our Good Sir was enjoying a nice marshmallow and The Woman kebab, The Woman was laughing gleefully, as she was finally able to partake in his golden stream of creativity.
Upon terminating his speech, Sir Blah Blah told us that we would each be receiving a copy of his book. His book, just as our attention spans, had diminished in size. He held it next to a regularly sized book of his saying, "this one didn't quite sell out." Right, because making your book smaller will win you a following of both large and small-handed people alike. That's like, double, you know? And, if you count all the left-handed people who can now read his Hebrew and Chinese versions, well, let's consider this World Domination. As I walk out of the meeting, I knead the moisture out of my hair and sling my drenched, bright red backpack across my rear side. I walk into the bathroom, peel off my pants, slink into some gym shorts, and begin to roll my pants up sushi-style into a wad of paper towels. Wash my hands, smear the makeup from my face, good to go. Look to the left, nod in approval to the talking marshmallow kebab as she scornfully smirks in my detestable direction. And goodbye to that piglet.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
The Double-Click Mating Call
This post is going to be an absurd fusion of ideas I've had over the past week. I am ultimately declaring my state of lethargy and will proceed by only half-writing a post. Hope you can follow (that wasn't an insult; I'll be surprised if I can make sense of this nonsense whilst reading it back).
I've recently spoken to my roommate and Best Friend Rachel about certain "isms" I practice. A prime exemplification of this deals with how I speak. People know me to speak in odd terms, usually ones that make little sense to those unaccustomed to ancient Sanskrit (also another thing I joke about). Allow me to list a few (though this might be a bit difficult to explain internal reactions to an outside crowd of physical humans).
1. If something funny happens, I usually tell Rachel. Upon disclosing this information to said friend, I tell her that I was "laughing on the inside." This sort of laugh is not hysterical in nature. It is more of an internal smirk, a partial "guffaw" and a mild snort, if you will.
2. I've recently developed the habit of using the number "zero." For instance, "I've done zero homework tonight." Or, "I know zero about nut muffins." Or, "There are zero reasons why I want to scale dangerous cliffs today-but only today."
3. I compare people to animals. Whether it be their personality, their unfortunate disposition, or even the angle at which their lips drip downward into an unsharpened jawline. Or, if you consider Elmo to be an animal, Rachel recently deemed a friend of mine she had yet to meet as one who, in her mind, looked like Elmo. What does that mean? Only my gluten-intolerant gut can tell.
4. The double-click, mouth mating call. What on Mars is that, you ask? I wish I could properly answer this question. I can't even recall when I began making this dolphin-esque noise. Regardless, it remains within a strict pattern of "eyebrow-raise, click, click, pop." I do this when motioning for someone's attention, while showing someone where to look, or simply as a reaction of approval or potent confusion. Upon hearing this noise escape my esophagus, people tend to snap their necks back in my direction. I've used it while speaking to friends, strangers, and teachers and have grown dangerously accustomed to using this as an appropriate manner of expression. Oh, God.
Anyways, I am currently in a three-quarter haze that won't allow me to recall more of these golden "isms," though I do pledge to introduce more to my overwhelmingly large audience in weeks to come. Wait a minute...what audience?
Onto something else...just one absurd oddity from the acting class I am currently taking for random funsies. So...my teacher is enthusiastic. He is unabashedly flamboyant though claims to have a "wife." He requires us to "warm up" for class with a series of squat-breathing-wide legs-arms jolt motions that induced many "pffftssssss" for the first all of classes. He warns us not to "adjust our costumes" or "touch our butts" upon completing our regular breathing exercises. This man is just plain weird. And so, as unexpectedly expected, one day, he had us jumping. After intentionally taking out a few ceiling tiles with the help of a basketball and baseball star in our class, the prof. told the class to start jumping. The idea was to "reach our objective," something we had learned about in a required reading...for acting class. Anyways, we began jumping. We kept jumping. He told us not to stop jumping. About three sweats in, I looked around the room. I suddenly triple-taked upon watching a certain classmate. This girl sported thickly-lain makeup, reflective sunglasses paired with a mushroom-like bun atop her head, and a tight tennis skort on her bum. Instead of jumping like a human creature, this girl was holding her skort down with one hand, flailing her useless limbs around, and jumping all of one foot in the air. She jolted her hands up, down, backward-diagonally, and even straight out in front of her in a whiplash action. Bones? Joints? What are those? Flail. She looked like a boneless squid or one of those sticky octopi toys I used to slap against my parents' bedroom walls. I immediately broke out into laughter and doubled over. This was easily one of the most ridiculous things I had seen in a long while. Girl was jerking her eyeballs around as she flung her phalanges outward and double-bounced her bum like she was tripping on an electric jump-rope. At this moment, I knew this was worthy of a blog post.
As I am dozing off into oblivion, I choose to end this post now. Hopefully I will finish documenting my recent incidents, always imbecilic in nature, as I wake up, roll over, and drool on my sorry excuse for a creative writing textbook. And with that run-on sentence, I am off.
Out.
I've recently spoken to my roommate and Best Friend Rachel about certain "isms" I practice. A prime exemplification of this deals with how I speak. People know me to speak in odd terms, usually ones that make little sense to those unaccustomed to ancient Sanskrit (also another thing I joke about). Allow me to list a few (though this might be a bit difficult to explain internal reactions to an outside crowd of physical humans).
1. If something funny happens, I usually tell Rachel. Upon disclosing this information to said friend, I tell her that I was "laughing on the inside." This sort of laugh is not hysterical in nature. It is more of an internal smirk, a partial "guffaw" and a mild snort, if you will.
2. I've recently developed the habit of using the number "zero." For instance, "I've done zero homework tonight." Or, "I know zero about nut muffins." Or, "There are zero reasons why I want to scale dangerous cliffs today-but only today."
3. I compare people to animals. Whether it be their personality, their unfortunate disposition, or even the angle at which their lips drip downward into an unsharpened jawline. Or, if you consider Elmo to be an animal, Rachel recently deemed a friend of mine she had yet to meet as one who, in her mind, looked like Elmo. What does that mean? Only my gluten-intolerant gut can tell.
4. The double-click, mouth mating call. What on Mars is that, you ask? I wish I could properly answer this question. I can't even recall when I began making this dolphin-esque noise. Regardless, it remains within a strict pattern of "eyebrow-raise, click, click, pop." I do this when motioning for someone's attention, while showing someone where to look, or simply as a reaction of approval or potent confusion. Upon hearing this noise escape my esophagus, people tend to snap their necks back in my direction. I've used it while speaking to friends, strangers, and teachers and have grown dangerously accustomed to using this as an appropriate manner of expression. Oh, God.
Anyways, I am currently in a three-quarter haze that won't allow me to recall more of these golden "isms," though I do pledge to introduce more to my overwhelmingly large audience in weeks to come. Wait a minute...what audience?
Onto something else...just one absurd oddity from the acting class I am currently taking for random funsies. So...my teacher is enthusiastic. He is unabashedly flamboyant though claims to have a "wife." He requires us to "warm up" for class with a series of squat-breathing-wide legs-arms jolt motions that induced many "pffftssssss" for the first all of classes. He warns us not to "adjust our costumes" or "touch our butts" upon completing our regular breathing exercises. This man is just plain weird. And so, as unexpectedly expected, one day, he had us jumping. After intentionally taking out a few ceiling tiles with the help of a basketball and baseball star in our class, the prof. told the class to start jumping. The idea was to "reach our objective," something we had learned about in a required reading...for acting class. Anyways, we began jumping. We kept jumping. He told us not to stop jumping. About three sweats in, I looked around the room. I suddenly triple-taked upon watching a certain classmate. This girl sported thickly-lain makeup, reflective sunglasses paired with a mushroom-like bun atop her head, and a tight tennis skort on her bum. Instead of jumping like a human creature, this girl was holding her skort down with one hand, flailing her useless limbs around, and jumping all of one foot in the air. She jolted her hands up, down, backward-diagonally, and even straight out in front of her in a whiplash action. Bones? Joints? What are those? Flail. She looked like a boneless squid or one of those sticky octopi toys I used to slap against my parents' bedroom walls. I immediately broke out into laughter and doubled over. This was easily one of the most ridiculous things I had seen in a long while. Girl was jerking her eyeballs around as she flung her phalanges outward and double-bounced her bum like she was tripping on an electric jump-rope. At this moment, I knew this was worthy of a blog post.
As I am dozing off into oblivion, I choose to end this post now. Hopefully I will finish documenting my recent incidents, always imbecilic in nature, as I wake up, roll over, and drool on my sorry excuse for a creative writing textbook. And with that run-on sentence, I am off.
Out.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Stalker Child
That's what I call them-Stalker Children. Aside from the fact that my
days come at the expense of normality, they are also supplemented by
the rarities induced by forces outside of my own intenstines. Because of
this, I must regularly assume the position of Stalker Child. My eyes
jolt around so violently and frequently that I'm sure they come with no
strings attached (get it?). My eyes assuredly don't deceive me but
definitely peruse the scape of my anomaly-rich university campus. My
eyes water, roll, and unwillingly sunbathe as I yank them open to
collect data worthy of documentation. My eyes-sometimes my roommate
tells me to take them out and "shut them the fuck up." It's true, I'm
not good at that. Am I creepy? Yes. Am I a stalker? I've been questioned
a few times. Am I insecure? *Slouches in chair*
Aside from continually scanning the surface area of life, I inevitably stumble a few times myself. Exhibit A, other wise known as Exhibit BackFlip: I was sitting in Jamba Juice, enjoying my specially-ordered, dairy free, chocolate mixed thing of a smoothie as my hand swung out a bit too far in gesture. Yes, I gesture when I speak. No, I don't know how to not do that. Yes, I did just knock over my shake. But, as one would think, it didn't end up in my lap all over my white skort from Zara that I begged Mommelah and Daddelah to Hanukkah for me (yes I just used that holiday as a verb). Instead, it did a flip, a flip so unique in nature, one that required it being surrounded by two napkins and a soon-to-be-bent straw, that it wound up back on the table. Now, on a scale from one to no, what do you think were the chances of this white skort leaving the table unaffected? I'm gonna go with "no." Meanwhile, my roommate was yelping in horror and excitement as my cup pulled the anti-gravity stunt that left me with my white skort.
On another note...here's something to do with someone who is actually a Stalker Child. This past Sunday, I went to Chili Cookoff. I went to Chili Cookoff and I met a man. In predictable fashion, I put my eyeballs on display. Imminently after, tis man made me realize that I should put my eyeballs away if I don't want the attention of members of his species. While in line to get a turkey leg, that man walks up to me. Wait-this can't be a man. Wait-it most definitely was. This man was not just any man. This was a gangly man wearing pants so oversized I was terrified they would pull his tightey wighties down, even if they were well above his belly button. Either way, they were too large for his boy-sized body. Dude walks over to me, peels off his sunglasses, and reveals a sun-stained face smeared with a thin film of dirt, or soot, or whatever happens if you simply insert yourself inside a chimney. Unfortunately, it wasn't even his body or face that I noticed. It was his mullet. Bobby Boy, as I would soon come to know by said name, slicks back his hair with an invisible coating of spit, nods his head in my direction, winks his crusty eyelid, and flashes what should have been a toothless smile. "Hey girl, you want summa dis?" No. Regardless of this nonexistent answer, Bobby Boy comes over and proceeds to put his arm around me as I cringe a cringe so hard that my spinal cord practically crushes. "Hey, hey, hey...was just gonna get my turkey leg and walk over....." As I say this sentence, both I and my sentence trail off quickly into the far, far distance.
This note is quite different in nature. This is a note about what someone may have perceived about me. As I walk through the breezeway at my university, I usually smack my sunglsases onto my face, falsely fidget around in my backpack, and pretend I have someone to potentially, in the near future, or in my head, talk to. Although I am clearly very busy, papers happen. Papers are thrust in my face by people who probably were forced to give them out during their lunch hour. "You sure look like you'd enjoy X." This is exactly what people don't do. You're a Moroccan Antarctican? Join Jew Club anyways. Love to sail in the outdoors? Cave Club seems perfect for you. Although most people don't take a moment to consider what those passerbyers might want, I have a really freakin' weird feeling that my paper suitor did. Boy A looks me up and down from a distance and I walk over. I ask him what his flyer says before he has a chance to beat it down my esophagus. As I find out the pamphlet is about HPV and how I can prevent and control it, he smiles and gives me this look of "you know what, looks like you could really use this. Have a terrible day." Thanks. Please go inject yourself with spoiled milk.
Aside from continually scanning the surface area of life, I inevitably stumble a few times myself. Exhibit A, other wise known as Exhibit BackFlip: I was sitting in Jamba Juice, enjoying my specially-ordered, dairy free, chocolate mixed thing of a smoothie as my hand swung out a bit too far in gesture. Yes, I gesture when I speak. No, I don't know how to not do that. Yes, I did just knock over my shake. But, as one would think, it didn't end up in my lap all over my white skort from Zara that I begged Mommelah and Daddelah to Hanukkah for me (yes I just used that holiday as a verb). Instead, it did a flip, a flip so unique in nature, one that required it being surrounded by two napkins and a soon-to-be-bent straw, that it wound up back on the table. Now, on a scale from one to no, what do you think were the chances of this white skort leaving the table unaffected? I'm gonna go with "no." Meanwhile, my roommate was yelping in horror and excitement as my cup pulled the anti-gravity stunt that left me with my white skort.
On another note...here's something to do with someone who is actually a Stalker Child. This past Sunday, I went to Chili Cookoff. I went to Chili Cookoff and I met a man. In predictable fashion, I put my eyeballs on display. Imminently after, tis man made me realize that I should put my eyeballs away if I don't want the attention of members of his species. While in line to get a turkey leg, that man walks up to me. Wait-this can't be a man. Wait-it most definitely was. This man was not just any man. This was a gangly man wearing pants so oversized I was terrified they would pull his tightey wighties down, even if they were well above his belly button. Either way, they were too large for his boy-sized body. Dude walks over to me, peels off his sunglasses, and reveals a sun-stained face smeared with a thin film of dirt, or soot, or whatever happens if you simply insert yourself inside a chimney. Unfortunately, it wasn't even his body or face that I noticed. It was his mullet. Bobby Boy, as I would soon come to know by said name, slicks back his hair with an invisible coating of spit, nods his head in my direction, winks his crusty eyelid, and flashes what should have been a toothless smile. "Hey girl, you want summa dis?" No. Regardless of this nonexistent answer, Bobby Boy comes over and proceeds to put his arm around me as I cringe a cringe so hard that my spinal cord practically crushes. "Hey, hey, hey...was just gonna get my turkey leg and walk over....." As I say this sentence, both I and my sentence trail off quickly into the far, far distance.
This note is quite different in nature. This is a note about what someone may have perceived about me. As I walk through the breezeway at my university, I usually smack my sunglsases onto my face, falsely fidget around in my backpack, and pretend I have someone to potentially, in the near future, or in my head, talk to. Although I am clearly very busy, papers happen. Papers are thrust in my face by people who probably were forced to give them out during their lunch hour. "You sure look like you'd enjoy X." This is exactly what people don't do. You're a Moroccan Antarctican? Join Jew Club anyways. Love to sail in the outdoors? Cave Club seems perfect for you. Although most people don't take a moment to consider what those passerbyers might want, I have a really freakin' weird feeling that my paper suitor did. Boy A looks me up and down from a distance and I walk over. I ask him what his flyer says before he has a chance to beat it down my esophagus. As I find out the pamphlet is about HPV and how I can prevent and control it, he smiles and gives me this look of "you know what, looks like you could really use this. Have a terrible day." Thanks. Please go inject yourself with spoiled milk.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Characters
So yesterday was the last first day of school for me. It could be for ever but might be just for now-we'll have to see about grad school. I hope I go to grad school. If we're being honest, I like school. I enjoy going to new classes, learning random crap, and deciding who will annoy me, who I want to be my friend, and who should just jump into a hole and fail to resurface within a jiffy. I crave the recycled four months that define each new chapter in my life. When will I ever get to dump a new job or boring friends every four months without hobo-ing or receiving hate mail in the near future? The answer: never. I cherish the stomach pangs that will, upon entering a "real" workplace, be turned into blinding monotony. I mean, really-I'd rather have to go to the bathroom than want to electrocute myself solely to feel something, anything.
Speaking of these new classes, I've really seen some interesting people in the last couple days. This post is pretty random and unorganized. Probably. But, as you might have realized, so is my mind. I am enrolled in wheel throwing. We pin the teacher to a dart board and chuck things at her. No. Instead, we perform acts of pottery on a spinning wheel, allowing the wet clay to slap us in the face at the sobering hour of 9 a.m. We do this as a tiny Russian lady lectures with a droning absence of tonality in her voice. I mean, really-our supposedly short syllabus class turned into two painful hours of her reading each and every assignment aloud. Because I'm obviously going to remember what the final exam is. Because I'll never see a copy of the syllabus on my own. Because we will not be able to ask her what the assignment is before each project anyways. Because, as she does the demonstration, we will sew our eyes shut to ensure we have to remember the assignment on our own, without her help. Ok, done with the "becauses." After hearing two hours of these absurdities, she went on to introduce tools for another half hour. And, just as I was ready to rip my eyes out, she announced that we were to go on a tour of the art facility. Upon exiting the building to view the outside kiln, heaven happened. We arose from the darkness like a flock of squinting chiclets. Hurrah, and amen.
Onto the next improperly placed paragraph. Entrepreneurship class happened. I walk into the room to find a man wearing a fat suit. Actually, he just had flab overextending past the acceptable point of his pants. This man was futzing around, asking how to control the school's "damn Mac crap." "I ain't drinking the Kool Aid and you kids suck it down like honeybees on drugs." Ok, that's cool. Then, he begins to tell us his life story. This was when things got good, better than good. Though I am unable to remember the exact details of this ridiculous biography, it went along the lines of this: "I dropped out of college, joined the military, started learning about electronics, was sent to Germany, learned German, taught troops how to break past enemy lines with technology, learned Polish, went to Poland, learned French, went to France, learned Greek, went to Greece, went to spy school, worked for intelligence, started over 20 businesses, went to business school, served on the board of the best international business school in the world, came to UM. What. So, this man who claimed to understand nothing about computers, a man as boisterous and unrestrained as a gnarly chihuahua, hustled us like a herd of double-taking doofuses. *Everything takes one fell swoop over the heads of humanity* His outgoing personality struck me as that of a simple-minded dunce. Wrong I was. Wrong...I was. I always figured that you were either a socially awkward genius or a socially competent moron. Again, wrong. He had the personality of a life-winner capable of schmoozing to anyone with or without a pole up their patooty. I want to be him. I'm staying in the class.
Next paragraph time now. Fiction writing. When ever in your life will you be able to take a fiction writing class with a Hawaiian man so enthused about his life and work that he makes you put your desks in a square? Exactly. I sat down in this class expecting a throng of hippies to materialize before my eyes. I was definitely not wrong. Girl with damn braid down to her knees shimmied past me as her hair slapped me in the face. Bet she hasn't washed that for a decade. *cuts tail off of her face* After a few snotty playwrights and some comic fans introduced themselves, I became intoxicated with vigor. The small Hawaiian professor and my classmates began to talk about every book and series I had never heard of. But, I definitely pretended to know what was up so that I would not seem out of the loop. Favorite book? Named one I read about a year ago. *whew* Some morsels of prerequisite problems arose but were soon taken care of, again, as I pretended to have taken the no-longer-needed prerequisite. *double whew*
Then, art history happened. Then, a somehow douche-bag hipster of a philosophical body-builder felt as though it was his duty to enliven us with his take on contemporary art. This was not the professor. Instead, the professor was a meek woman with great cheekbones. Though she could have easily spoken with a commanding Italian accent to grab our attention, she stuck with the like-a-lamb American countenance. Her choice. I was about to slam my face on the edge of the rounded desk, but then, she said something interesting. She said something that sounded like me, like something that would come out of my twisted noggin. The class shortly spiraled into a series of Katie discussions that I was relishing within. The douche-bag hipster gave counter arguments and I fabricated all of the false correlations I could think of. What a release. I love art and usually hate art history, especially the colorless drones that talk in circles. I don't care about the significance of lemons and the angles of toes within a painting-ever. This time, I did. I wrote down responses, pages of responses, words spilling off the cringing pages in my notebook. My syllabus is now defaced and I am one happy Katie. I shall not continue to talk about all that is nonsensical within my mind, but will instead leave you with a partly conclusive paragraph.
I didn't even include my acting class. But, it was great. And, I will write about it in another post because I am about to go to bed and feel my face tiring and my mind wrinkling. My classes are turning out to be more enjoyable that I expected. They could of course turn sour; I'm willing to take that risk. I also might consider taking the risk of 18 credits the second semester of my senior year. I deserve to be smacked with a spiked mallet. *harsh*
Good night. *omits re-read and editing entirely*
Speaking of these new classes, I've really seen some interesting people in the last couple days. This post is pretty random and unorganized. Probably. But, as you might have realized, so is my mind. I am enrolled in wheel throwing. We pin the teacher to a dart board and chuck things at her. No. Instead, we perform acts of pottery on a spinning wheel, allowing the wet clay to slap us in the face at the sobering hour of 9 a.m. We do this as a tiny Russian lady lectures with a droning absence of tonality in her voice. I mean, really-our supposedly short syllabus class turned into two painful hours of her reading each and every assignment aloud. Because I'm obviously going to remember what the final exam is. Because I'll never see a copy of the syllabus on my own. Because we will not be able to ask her what the assignment is before each project anyways. Because, as she does the demonstration, we will sew our eyes shut to ensure we have to remember the assignment on our own, without her help. Ok, done with the "becauses." After hearing two hours of these absurdities, she went on to introduce tools for another half hour. And, just as I was ready to rip my eyes out, she announced that we were to go on a tour of the art facility. Upon exiting the building to view the outside kiln, heaven happened. We arose from the darkness like a flock of squinting chiclets. Hurrah, and amen.
Onto the next improperly placed paragraph. Entrepreneurship class happened. I walk into the room to find a man wearing a fat suit. Actually, he just had flab overextending past the acceptable point of his pants. This man was futzing around, asking how to control the school's "damn Mac crap." "I ain't drinking the Kool Aid and you kids suck it down like honeybees on drugs." Ok, that's cool. Then, he begins to tell us his life story. This was when things got good, better than good. Though I am unable to remember the exact details of this ridiculous biography, it went along the lines of this: "I dropped out of college, joined the military, started learning about electronics, was sent to Germany, learned German, taught troops how to break past enemy lines with technology, learned Polish, went to Poland, learned French, went to France, learned Greek, went to Greece, went to spy school, worked for intelligence, started over 20 businesses, went to business school, served on the board of the best international business school in the world, came to UM. What. So, this man who claimed to understand nothing about computers, a man as boisterous and unrestrained as a gnarly chihuahua, hustled us like a herd of double-taking doofuses. *Everything takes one fell swoop over the heads of humanity* His outgoing personality struck me as that of a simple-minded dunce. Wrong I was. Wrong...I was. I always figured that you were either a socially awkward genius or a socially competent moron. Again, wrong. He had the personality of a life-winner capable of schmoozing to anyone with or without a pole up their patooty. I want to be him. I'm staying in the class.
Next paragraph time now. Fiction writing. When ever in your life will you be able to take a fiction writing class with a Hawaiian man so enthused about his life and work that he makes you put your desks in a square? Exactly. I sat down in this class expecting a throng of hippies to materialize before my eyes. I was definitely not wrong. Girl with damn braid down to her knees shimmied past me as her hair slapped me in the face. Bet she hasn't washed that for a decade. *cuts tail off of her face* After a few snotty playwrights and some comic fans introduced themselves, I became intoxicated with vigor. The small Hawaiian professor and my classmates began to talk about every book and series I had never heard of. But, I definitely pretended to know what was up so that I would not seem out of the loop. Favorite book? Named one I read about a year ago. *whew* Some morsels of prerequisite problems arose but were soon taken care of, again, as I pretended to have taken the no-longer-needed prerequisite. *double whew*
Then, art history happened. Then, a somehow douche-bag hipster of a philosophical body-builder felt as though it was his duty to enliven us with his take on contemporary art. This was not the professor. Instead, the professor was a meek woman with great cheekbones. Though she could have easily spoken with a commanding Italian accent to grab our attention, she stuck with the like-a-lamb American countenance. Her choice. I was about to slam my face on the edge of the rounded desk, but then, she said something interesting. She said something that sounded like me, like something that would come out of my twisted noggin. The class shortly spiraled into a series of Katie discussions that I was relishing within. The douche-bag hipster gave counter arguments and I fabricated all of the false correlations I could think of. What a release. I love art and usually hate art history, especially the colorless drones that talk in circles. I don't care about the significance of lemons and the angles of toes within a painting-ever. This time, I did. I wrote down responses, pages of responses, words spilling off the cringing pages in my notebook. My syllabus is now defaced and I am one happy Katie. I shall not continue to talk about all that is nonsensical within my mind, but will instead leave you with a partly conclusive paragraph.
I didn't even include my acting class. But, it was great. And, I will write about it in another post because I am about to go to bed and feel my face tiring and my mind wrinkling. My classes are turning out to be more enjoyable that I expected. They could of course turn sour; I'm willing to take that risk. I also might consider taking the risk of 18 credits the second semester of my senior year. I deserve to be smacked with a spiked mallet. *harsh*
Good night. *omits re-read and editing entirely*
Friday, January 10, 2014
Shiny Toasters and Disappearing Ball Gowns
I was watching the news. Yes, I do this sometimes. And, it wasn't Stephen Colbert-promise. I was watching something about some people in some country in crisis. In this country, war and religious leaders, proletarians and aristocrats alike, wore clothes. I, too wear clothes, but, not this type of clothing. These people were wearing knitted garb and adorned head-pieces. They played instruments that weren't made by robots and bore toenails too long for my liking. These people were partaking in a foreign concept defined as "culture."
This is my take on smog and powdered noses: if there are fewer powdered noses, there is more smog in the air. This may be one of the most indirect correlations ever drawn up, even for me. ....Huh? Allow me to 'splain. As industrialization began to take place, culture began to weasel its way out of our lives. Once machines took the place of dirty hands and tools so rusty even Purell couldn't save you, standardization began. No more far-fetched head pieces and especially no more ball gowns. Cinderella didn't walk outside to inhale factory smoke, but luckily, every citizen of China and Wilmington, Indiana gets to. It was the toenail sculptures and back-hair monuments that once defined the metaphorical centerpieces of societies. Or, maybe clay figurines and golden sarcophagi. Same thing. We now allow functionality to take place of artistic exclusivity and are paying the price in the form of ugly Wisconsin suburbs.
The iPhone. I suppose if it were to unite us through a system of central control that summoned us to weekly sacrifices and engrossing decapitation ceremonies, we could call ourselves amalgamated. Instead, these toy rectangles come from no one and no thing in proximity to our neighborhoods, our villages. Local delicacies, unlike this, are experienced by Anthony Bourdain and dirty backpackers (me). Though there are some things unique to Philly, such as slimy steak subs, and to England, artery clogging fried fishies, there ain't much more. The nitty gritty of true culture has been replaced by striped t-shirts and socks-with-sandals. Ew.
I don't feel like writing a conclusion to this post. Instead, time for Mad Men brainwashing. I lose as a member of society.
Out.
This is my take on smog and powdered noses: if there are fewer powdered noses, there is more smog in the air. This may be one of the most indirect correlations ever drawn up, even for me. ....Huh? Allow me to 'splain. As industrialization began to take place, culture began to weasel its way out of our lives. Once machines took the place of dirty hands and tools so rusty even Purell couldn't save you, standardization began. No more far-fetched head pieces and especially no more ball gowns. Cinderella didn't walk outside to inhale factory smoke, but luckily, every citizen of China and Wilmington, Indiana gets to. It was the toenail sculptures and back-hair monuments that once defined the metaphorical centerpieces of societies. Or, maybe clay figurines and golden sarcophagi. Same thing. We now allow functionality to take place of artistic exclusivity and are paying the price in the form of ugly Wisconsin suburbs.
The iPhone. I suppose if it were to unite us through a system of central control that summoned us to weekly sacrifices and engrossing decapitation ceremonies, we could call ourselves amalgamated. Instead, these toy rectangles come from no one and no thing in proximity to our neighborhoods, our villages. Local delicacies, unlike this, are experienced by Anthony Bourdain and dirty backpackers (me). Though there are some things unique to Philly, such as slimy steak subs, and to England, artery clogging fried fishies, there ain't much more. The nitty gritty of true culture has been replaced by striped t-shirts and socks-with-sandals. Ew.
I don't feel like writing a conclusion to this post. Instead, time for Mad Men brainwashing. I lose as a member of society.
Out.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
The Immorality of Choice and Cut Grass
Over the past few years I've developed a syndrome. This isn't just any syndrome-this is "Grass-Is-Greener-Syndrome." This syndrome is a catastrophically tolling illness that induces "gulps" and eyeball-widening in any individual. GIGS is not curable but treatable. It produces paranoia and double-taking alike. It is triggered by perceived missed opportunities and is exacerbated by nostalgia and overthinking. The presence of the words "it" and "this" themselves is enough to make someone want to jump over the fence and plummet right into this "greener grass."
I am uncertain about many things. This never used to be the case. I made one impulsive decision after the other, came crashing down or surpassed expectations, and got right back up. I skinned my knees twice over and ran into a salt bath before giving up. What happened between this time and today I do not know. Nowadays, I look at every. Single. Freakin'. Option. I choose one thing and want to make absolutely sure I will not be missing out on something else. I want to live everyone's lives and all of them. I must become the Princess of Yugoslavia and follow the destiny of a small, crafty, humpbacked village woman before I can move on. Prom dresses and cheap bracelets alike give me problems. What happened to picking the wrong bracelet, snapping it into twelve dangerous pieces, and happily "pfft-ing" it off as dust rolls frictionlessly off my shoulder?
Regret is also a common symptom of this syndrome. It cancels out gratification and turns my fractions into ones with a denominator of zero. As I slide down the side of a cliff, I realize how I will never reach the top. I won't even hike my foot up to the next rock. If we're being honest, I'm terrified of heights and wouldn't even try-not the point. Climbing the cliff halfway and sliding down might as well count as zilch. If you change cliffs every 5 minutes, you have done nothing except build up the swelling blisters on your poor hands. Those poor, poor hands. Damage is done yet no progress is made.
And so...the solution. Parents are afraid of impulsivity (probably a made up word) and strongly advise against this treasonous act. In this case, I'm a country and apparently I just assassinated my ruler. Weird. Doesn't matter. Whether it is the wrong decision, I need to make moves. I need to damn hoist my foot up until my leg snaps off and I'm hanging by my mutilated core to the top of that cliff (yum). In with the blind perseverance, still out with the wishy washy nonsense that hurts people and causes frustrated unibrow wrinkling. Go for the gold and polish your silver. If I make one more metaphor I might actually smack myself.
Out.
I am uncertain about many things. This never used to be the case. I made one impulsive decision after the other, came crashing down or surpassed expectations, and got right back up. I skinned my knees twice over and ran into a salt bath before giving up. What happened between this time and today I do not know. Nowadays, I look at every. Single. Freakin'. Option. I choose one thing and want to make absolutely sure I will not be missing out on something else. I want to live everyone's lives and all of them. I must become the Princess of Yugoslavia and follow the destiny of a small, crafty, humpbacked village woman before I can move on. Prom dresses and cheap bracelets alike give me problems. What happened to picking the wrong bracelet, snapping it into twelve dangerous pieces, and happily "pfft-ing" it off as dust rolls frictionlessly off my shoulder?
Regret is also a common symptom of this syndrome. It cancels out gratification and turns my fractions into ones with a denominator of zero. As I slide down the side of a cliff, I realize how I will never reach the top. I won't even hike my foot up to the next rock. If we're being honest, I'm terrified of heights and wouldn't even try-not the point. Climbing the cliff halfway and sliding down might as well count as zilch. If you change cliffs every 5 minutes, you have done nothing except build up the swelling blisters on your poor hands. Those poor, poor hands. Damage is done yet no progress is made.
And so...the solution. Parents are afraid of impulsivity (probably a made up word) and strongly advise against this treasonous act. In this case, I'm a country and apparently I just assassinated my ruler. Weird. Doesn't matter. Whether it is the wrong decision, I need to make moves. I need to damn hoist my foot up until my leg snaps off and I'm hanging by my mutilated core to the top of that cliff (yum). In with the blind perseverance, still out with the wishy washy nonsense that hurts people and causes frustrated unibrow wrinkling. Go for the gold and polish your silver. If I make one more metaphor I might actually smack myself.
Out.
Friday, January 3, 2014
The Thing About Manipulation
I've been watching Orange Is The New Black recently. Aside from the material, so irksome in nature it makes even the paper script feel uncomfortable, there is this thing...a thing about how girls behave. Girls are manipulative, dirty fighters. They triumph over "burns" and aim to achieve "Kelso" (from That 70s Show) status to the power of ten...then 12 times more malignant and crude in nature...also square that amount. This=girls.
Something I did realize while watching the show, again, besides how far my ears could crawl inside of themselves as my eyelids superglued themselves down to my chin, was what manipulation feels like...but from the inside. While many girls do it, know it, relish in it, and repeat, others end up face down in a puddle of "huhs" and slippery confusion. The unknowing actions of one unassuming fool-girl come off to others as intentional acts of girl-country treason. For instance: if you love two people and have to choose, you are automatically going to come off as a people-user and foul-natured snake to someone. It might be both people, but it will definitely be at least one. You will be pinned to the same board as fellow sticky notes named "deceit," "blech," and certainly "scoff." You were a user and a liar, an all-knowing eel and a too-slick mofo. But...what did you really even do wrong? You loved two people. *Sin to the heavens and back, mercy, mercy* Truth telling only digs a deeper hole and, at this point, you're already knee deep in poo.
While this came off as manipulative to the person on the outside, all you really did was...absolutely nothing. The very fact that you existed automatically put you on a rolling donkey cart with a definite under-the-bus trajectory. No one listens to the other person's stories on this TV show, let alone in real life. I dig my newly-removed talons deep into my thigh in frustration as I watch these simpletons play out a far too common nightmare-tale.
I serpose the moral of the story remains to be this: instead of staring blankly with ears unwilling to listen, put your hand down, retract your nostrils and fangs, and listen. Truths should only hurt for the right reason. Listen to peoples' "excuses" and you might see that they are reasons justified enough to get someone out of prison (hah..because I'm talking about a prison show). Why am I at all qualified to be saying these things? I most certainly am not. I mainly write on this blog to channel frustration and joy. Oops.
Out.
Something I did realize while watching the show, again, besides how far my ears could crawl inside of themselves as my eyelids superglued themselves down to my chin, was what manipulation feels like...but from the inside. While many girls do it, know it, relish in it, and repeat, others end up face down in a puddle of "huhs" and slippery confusion. The unknowing actions of one unassuming fool-girl come off to others as intentional acts of girl-country treason. For instance: if you love two people and have to choose, you are automatically going to come off as a people-user and foul-natured snake to someone. It might be both people, but it will definitely be at least one. You will be pinned to the same board as fellow sticky notes named "deceit," "blech," and certainly "scoff." You were a user and a liar, an all-knowing eel and a too-slick mofo. But...what did you really even do wrong? You loved two people. *Sin to the heavens and back, mercy, mercy* Truth telling only digs a deeper hole and, at this point, you're already knee deep in poo.
While this came off as manipulative to the person on the outside, all you really did was...absolutely nothing. The very fact that you existed automatically put you on a rolling donkey cart with a definite under-the-bus trajectory. No one listens to the other person's stories on this TV show, let alone in real life. I dig my newly-removed talons deep into my thigh in frustration as I watch these simpletons play out a far too common nightmare-tale.
I serpose the moral of the story remains to be this: instead of staring blankly with ears unwilling to listen, put your hand down, retract your nostrils and fangs, and listen. Truths should only hurt for the right reason. Listen to peoples' "excuses" and you might see that they are reasons justified enough to get someone out of prison (hah..because I'm talking about a prison show). Why am I at all qualified to be saying these things? I most certainly am not. I mainly write on this blog to channel frustration and joy. Oops.
Out.
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