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.
       

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.

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.