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.

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*
     

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.

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.

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.