You know, I always thought I was different. When I was little, I thought it was because I had some sort of untapped magical power. I spent countless mornings lying in my bed wondering if today was going to be the day that I would discover that I could fly or become invisible or move things with my mind. When I was 10, I read the Harry Potter book series and was convinced that on my next birthday, I would get a letter from a giant with a a tattered, pink umbrella.
These things, clearly, never came to pass. Instead, I found myself playing dress-up in my mother's clothes when she wasn't looking and playing the captured princess in my brothers' make-believe games. When I went to school, that's when things really began to come into focus. Making friends with the boys was clearly more difficult than making friends with the girls. I wasn't interested in the same things as the boys, though for the life of me, I did try. On the playground, I would try to get into their games of tag and football and baseball. But the girls just looked so happy in their tea parties under the jungle gym. I didn't understand why it was strange that I wanted to join them. "Why can't I just do what makes me happy?" I thought. When I was four, my grandmother had crocheted a blanket for me. It was lovely really; green, white and pink. When she gave it to me, I spent hours just staring at the intricate needlework, poking my fingers through the weaving. That spring, I discovered that if I tied the blanket around my waist, I looked just like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Sure, the color was off but I was four, my imagination would fill in the holes.
Every morning, I would wake up, eat my cereal and then tie the blanket around me and spin and twirl around my room. Jacob, the brother that I shared a room with, never seemed to notice my alleged strange behavior, but, he was 6 after all. Jacob was never one to create conflict in the family. Always willing to do whatever everyone else wanted to do, always the one to sacrifice his happiness for the happiness of others. Growing up, he was my best friend. We were inseparable. He was the one that taught me how to pick my nose without making it bleed, how to use the toilet, how to tie my shoes. And when I asked him if he wanted to play make-believe, and told him that I wanted to be the one he needed to rescue, he was all too happy to play my knight in shining armor.
It was never romantic, him saving me, purely make-believe. There was never a kiss shared between us or him sweeping me up in his arms. It was more about him slaying the dragon and chopping the lock that kept me in my cage which was really our mother's laundry basket. And typically, after he saved me, I would suddenly develop some sort of magical power that I would then use to defend us against our enemies as we escaped the castle.
At the age of 5, I had my first experience with shame. I was playing in my room, my blanket tied around my like a skirt and my mother's best friend came over for lunch. I have always loved her. She was a large person; she seemingly was so tall that if she turned her nose to the ceiling, she could lick the tiles. But not only was she large in stature, she had a personality that seemed to fill the room and infect everyone in it. So naturally, when I heard her voice booming from the kitchen, I excitedly ran to her...forgetting all about the pseudo-skirt I was wearing. When my feet touched the linoleum of the kitchen floor, and I saw her eyes widen and look me up and down, I became all too aware of what I was wearing. I remember standing in front of the two women, my mother and her friend, and feeling my face turning as red as a beet, trying my hardest to quickly untie the knot around my waist. My fingers fumbled and clawed in embarrassment.
"Oh! Isn't he darling?" my mother's best friend exclaimed with a wide smile. Her ability to look past the skirt and see something sincerely "darling" caught me off guard. I stopped fidgeting and stood there looking at her. She just laughed, swept me up in her arms and hugged me hello. To this day, I'm not sure why I felt ashamed of what I was wearing. Maybe it was because for the first time in my life, someone had seen a part of me that was reserved for the privacy of my own room. Or maybe it was because I knew that the skirt didn't match the shirt I had paired with it. Who knows? But that afternoon, I took my now very worn out blanket off, folded it carefully, placed it on the floor of my closet and never touched it again.
When my family moved from Dallas to Houston the next January, I didn't even bother to pack the blanket. I just left it sitting in the bottom of my closet, a distant memory of something I never fully understood.
March 26, 2011
My Body, I Love
I love my hair. Sometimes, it falls in the perfect way and makes me smile. The color can be a vibrant blond or an even, soothing brown. It's a chameleon. I love my eyes. They're expressive and give away my every emotion. I love my nose and the way it turns up slightly at the end. I love my lips and the way they curl into a smile when I'm truly happy. I love my teeth and the fact that they're perfectly straight without dental work.
I love my shoulders and the way that you can see my clavicle which gives them an interesting shape. I love my arms and how, when I'm all alone and needing love, they hug my body and remind me that even if it feels like no one loves me, I love me.
I love my chest and the way that it rises and falls, keeping time to my life. I love my stomach, especially my bellybutton. If anyone were to have an attractive bellybutton, I would have one.
I love my back. I love that when the world is crushing, and I feel like I can't carry any more weight, it takes the brunt of it and allows my mind to relax just a little bit. I love my bottom, a much needed cushion for my life.
I love my thighs. I love the way that funny feeling I get when the muscles sways back and forth when I jiggle my legs. I love my knees, the way they allow me to run...either from things I fear or to my heart's desire. I love my calves and the fact that if I try really hard and I'm wearing the right shoes, it looks like my knee swallowed a grapefruit. I love my ankles and how they were instrumental in causing me to fall in love with dance. I love my feet, my base, the thing that let's me continue on. They are the things that keep me going when everything is pulling me back.
I love my body.
I love my body.
I love my body.
I hate my body's perfections.
My Body, I Hate
I hate my hair. It never does the crazy things I wish it did. It lies flat on my head, plain, and boring. I hate the shape of my head. It's skinny...almost too skinny. And the circumference is enormous which means that hats are almost always out of the question and cute sunglasses are impossible to find. I hate my eyes. They're not the vibrant shade of green that I want. They're more like murky brownish-green. I hate my nose. It constantly breaks out with acne and is perpetually covered in blackheads. I hate my lips. They're too thin, almost only the idea of lips. I hate my teeth, stained with too much soda, coffee and tea. They're filled with cavities because I refuse to go to the dentist. I hate my chin. It's anything but defined.
I hate my shoulders. They're slender and effeminate. I hate my arms, gangly and weak. They can't even reach down to my toes and can barely lift anything. I hate my chest. It's completely flat and nearly hairless. My nipples are gigantic saucers on a pane of white. I hate my stomach. It bulges forward, jiggly with fat and lack of exercise.
I hate my back. It's plagued with acne and eczema. It hurts constantly and gives me poor posture. There is a distinct lack of dimples right above my bottom which I find so attractive. My spine sticks out in places, which is awkward to look at and to touch.
I hate my thighs. They're rotund and weak like my arms. Sometimes they can barely even lift my body. I hate my bottom. It's flat and shapeless, looking like only an extension of my thighs. I hate my knees, knobby and strangely hairy. I hate my calves. The hairiest part of my body, they're nothing special with little to no muscle definition. I hate my ankles, constantly dry and cracking whenever I walk. I hate my feet. Unnaturally small with hairs on my toes that I can never maintain.
I hate my body.
I hate my body.
I hate my body.
I love my body's imperfections.
I hate my shoulders. They're slender and effeminate. I hate my arms, gangly and weak. They can't even reach down to my toes and can barely lift anything. I hate my chest. It's completely flat and nearly hairless. My nipples are gigantic saucers on a pane of white. I hate my stomach. It bulges forward, jiggly with fat and lack of exercise.
I hate my back. It's plagued with acne and eczema. It hurts constantly and gives me poor posture. There is a distinct lack of dimples right above my bottom which I find so attractive. My spine sticks out in places, which is awkward to look at and to touch.
I hate my thighs. They're rotund and weak like my arms. Sometimes they can barely even lift my body. I hate my bottom. It's flat and shapeless, looking like only an extension of my thighs. I hate my knees, knobby and strangely hairy. I hate my calves. The hairiest part of my body, they're nothing special with little to no muscle definition. I hate my ankles, constantly dry and cracking whenever I walk. I hate my feet. Unnaturally small with hairs on my toes that I can never maintain.
I hate my body.
I hate my body.
I hate my body.
I love my body's imperfections.
March 18, 2011
Censors
In my junior year of high school I realized that I was a writer. My English teacher, Mrs. Dozier, pushed and pushed me to do better. To find my voice, to be as descriptive as possible, but mostly to be proud of my written words. She was the type of teacher that never gave an A unless she felt the student had truly written to the absolute best of their ability. She never settled for mediocrity and forced everyone of her students to work for their A.
Weeks went by and the highest grade I received on my assignments was a B+. I listed after her coveted A's. And it wasn't until our first assignment of the spring semester that I saw my chance. We were challenged to find a political issue that hadn't already been exhausted by the media (abortion, civil rights, higher/lower taxes, etc.) and argue one side of it. The issue I was destined to write about took a week after we received the assignment to smack me in the face. As editor in chief of the school newspaper, I had been challenged with creating the main story or "the spread" of the newspaper. Having just attended a conference for high school reporters, and hearing hundreds o personal stories of traumatic childhoods or troubled teenage years, I created a spread entitled "the loss of innocence."
I included 5 stories in which high school students from all over Texas recounted stories from their that emotionally changed them forever. One accounted sexual advances of a father to his daughter, another a story of a boy losing his little brother to cancer, and in the middle of the page, was a story written by me about when I was 13 and I thought I was loved and ended up raped. All the names had been changed to protect the writers and I was the only one who knew the real names so I was only slightly nervous to include my story.
My adviser thought the pieces were powerful and moving so I submitted it to the administration for review. Three days later, I got their edited version and right over my story was a giant red X with a sticky note that said "see me." I immediately walked nervously to the principals office, holding the newspaper in one hand and a note pad for comments in the other.
I sat opposite of the principal, the newspaper spread widely across his maple desk. He gave me a look of complete seriousness, knowing exactly what I came to talk about.
"We can't include a story about homosexuality. Especially gay sex. It's just not appropriate." as he spoke his voice grew quieter and quieter, afraid that someone might hear him.
"So how do we fix it? The paper goes to print today. We don't have time to find a new story."
"Well, why not just keep it heterosexual? Should be simple enough, just change the name; it's already written in first person."
I sat shocked. We could include a story about rape but not homosexual rape. I didn't know what to do or say so I just left the room. Back at my desk in the newsroom, my advisor was pressuring me to send her the final copy of the paper to send to the printer. I knew that if I didn't change the paper, the administration would simply shut us down and there would no longer be a paper but how could I change the story, censor myself because what I had to say wasn't "appropriate?"
I sent the paper with the principals changes. I hated myself for it. I immediately got to work on my paper for Mrs. Dozier writing about censorship in schools and how unfairly students are treated because they're minors. I got my A but the paper still printed the wrong story. Everyone congratulated me on such a moving topic and told me how it really opened their eyes to the situations of others. I took the praise with a sort of half smile, knowing that I had failed myself and gave into my oppressors.
Thinking bak on it, I should have done whatever to took to print the real story. The school would hve done abything to prevet a lawsuit and I probably could have made life easier for other openly gay students. I still hate myself for not standing up to the principal and demanding my rights. But that was five years ago and there's nothing I can do about it now.
Weeks went by and the highest grade I received on my assignments was a B+. I listed after her coveted A's. And it wasn't until our first assignment of the spring semester that I saw my chance. We were challenged to find a political issue that hadn't already been exhausted by the media (abortion, civil rights, higher/lower taxes, etc.) and argue one side of it. The issue I was destined to write about took a week after we received the assignment to smack me in the face. As editor in chief of the school newspaper, I had been challenged with creating the main story or "the spread" of the newspaper. Having just attended a conference for high school reporters, and hearing hundreds o personal stories of traumatic childhoods or troubled teenage years, I created a spread entitled "the loss of innocence."
I included 5 stories in which high school students from all over Texas recounted stories from their that emotionally changed them forever. One accounted sexual advances of a father to his daughter, another a story of a boy losing his little brother to cancer, and in the middle of the page, was a story written by me about when I was 13 and I thought I was loved and ended up raped. All the names had been changed to protect the writers and I was the only one who knew the real names so I was only slightly nervous to include my story.
My adviser thought the pieces were powerful and moving so I submitted it to the administration for review. Three days later, I got their edited version and right over my story was a giant red X with a sticky note that said "see me." I immediately walked nervously to the principals office, holding the newspaper in one hand and a note pad for comments in the other.
I sat opposite of the principal, the newspaper spread widely across his maple desk. He gave me a look of complete seriousness, knowing exactly what I came to talk about.
"We can't include a story about homosexuality. Especially gay sex. It's just not appropriate." as he spoke his voice grew quieter and quieter, afraid that someone might hear him.
"So how do we fix it? The paper goes to print today. We don't have time to find a new story."
"Well, why not just keep it heterosexual? Should be simple enough, just change the name; it's already written in first person."
I sat shocked. We could include a story about rape but not homosexual rape. I didn't know what to do or say so I just left the room. Back at my desk in the newsroom, my advisor was pressuring me to send her the final copy of the paper to send to the printer. I knew that if I didn't change the paper, the administration would simply shut us down and there would no longer be a paper but how could I change the story, censor myself because what I had to say wasn't "appropriate?"
I sent the paper with the principals changes. I hated myself for it. I immediately got to work on my paper for Mrs. Dozier writing about censorship in schools and how unfairly students are treated because they're minors. I got my A but the paper still printed the wrong story. Everyone congratulated me on such a moving topic and told me how it really opened their eyes to the situations of others. I took the praise with a sort of half smile, knowing that I had failed myself and gave into my oppressors.
Thinking bak on it, I should have done whatever to took to print the real story. The school would hve done abything to prevet a lawsuit and I probably could have made life easier for other openly gay students. I still hate myself for not standing up to the principal and demanding my rights. But that was five years ago and there's nothing I can do about it now.
Of God
I'm a pretty nostalgic person. I've saved every letter, every note my mother and father have given me. I have movie tickets from every movie I've seen since I was 14 years old. It's kind of ridiculous really. I know that I need to throw it all away and only keep things that are truly meaningful to me but that's the part that gets me; it's all meaningful to me. So I keep it all in shoe boxes in my old closet at my parent's house.
Before I connect my nostalgia to my main point of this story, you should know that I'm not very religious. I say I don't believe in God or any part of Christianity but I find myself praying that things work out okay. I suppose if I'm being truly honest, the only reason I can give to believing in a god is to give you hope that they can control the things you can't. But I digress, I'm not religious but I used to be...and so did all of my friends.
I was raised Catholic and believed in God my entire life. When I got into high school, I started hanging out with kids from my church and this only strengthened my relationship with God. I became highly active in the youth group which was more or less an excuse to hang out with my friends all the time. We went on retreats, attended bible studies, went to mass, and even got together on our own to sing praise and worship songs. We loved God immensely and it bonded us tightly. And frankly, being openly gay, a sexually active gay man at that, was a constant struggle for me. But I was in high school and like every other teenager, I was doing my best to fit in. I stopped having sex, pretended that my feelings for other men didn't exist and poured my everything into religion. I constantly fought an internal battle of "if acting on gay feelings was a sin, why did God allow me to have them." I often got the reply from the leaders of my church that "it all comes down to free will." but to me, being gay isn't a choice and I knew that I've had these feelings my whole life. I might not have understood them at first but they were there. I felt confused, frustrated, and alone. I felt like no one else understood my struggle to understand God and they could never understand what it was like to have such polar opposites fighting within their body. I felt like a token friend; someone people was nice to because they thought it made the a better, proactive person because of it.
Eventually, I went to college and discovered that The Church wasn't as welcoming without my group of tight knit friends there to protect me. I fell away from my faith and was only reinforced by the fact that my friends from my golden days with the church were slowly losing their faith as well.
Now, as I listen to songs about Jesus or the love of God, I remember those times fondly. I feel nostalgic for the times when I could spend time with all of my friends enjoying the things that bound us so tightly together. I don't miss the fight going on in my head, I don't miss the guilt or the sense of obligation. But I miss the simplicity of that life. I miss how easy it was to blame everything on God, good or bad. I literally had no responsibility for my actions. I felt free to do as I pleased because I trusted that God would take care of eveything. I only realize now that I was extremely lucky.
Before I connect my nostalgia to my main point of this story, you should know that I'm not very religious. I say I don't believe in God or any part of Christianity but I find myself praying that things work out okay. I suppose if I'm being truly honest, the only reason I can give to believing in a god is to give you hope that they can control the things you can't. But I digress, I'm not religious but I used to be...and so did all of my friends.
I was raised Catholic and believed in God my entire life. When I got into high school, I started hanging out with kids from my church and this only strengthened my relationship with God. I became highly active in the youth group which was more or less an excuse to hang out with my friends all the time. We went on retreats, attended bible studies, went to mass, and even got together on our own to sing praise and worship songs. We loved God immensely and it bonded us tightly. And frankly, being openly gay, a sexually active gay man at that, was a constant struggle for me. But I was in high school and like every other teenager, I was doing my best to fit in. I stopped having sex, pretended that my feelings for other men didn't exist and poured my everything into religion. I constantly fought an internal battle of "if acting on gay feelings was a sin, why did God allow me to have them." I often got the reply from the leaders of my church that "it all comes down to free will." but to me, being gay isn't a choice and I knew that I've had these feelings my whole life. I might not have understood them at first but they were there. I felt confused, frustrated, and alone. I felt like no one else understood my struggle to understand God and they could never understand what it was like to have such polar opposites fighting within their body. I felt like a token friend; someone people was nice to because they thought it made the a better, proactive person because of it.
Eventually, I went to college and discovered that The Church wasn't as welcoming without my group of tight knit friends there to protect me. I fell away from my faith and was only reinforced by the fact that my friends from my golden days with the church were slowly losing their faith as well.
Now, as I listen to songs about Jesus or the love of God, I remember those times fondly. I feel nostalgic for the times when I could spend time with all of my friends enjoying the things that bound us so tightly together. I don't miss the fight going on in my head, I don't miss the guilt or the sense of obligation. But I miss the simplicity of that life. I miss how easy it was to blame everything on God, good or bad. I literally had no responsibility for my actions. I felt free to do as I pleased because I trusted that God would take care of eveything. I only realize now that I was extremely lucky.
Reading reading reading
Since I was little I've had this affliction for reading anything and everything. I truly believed that it was the gateway to everything. Often I would sit in the car and read every single sign we would pass. I'd crane my neck and stare behind us in order to read signs we had passed. Eventually, I resigned to just reading the signs that caught my eye which were inevitably street signs due to their bright green shade and clear Helvetian font. As I grew older I began to notice the advertising ploys of certain companies. For instance the arrow in the word FedEx to imply speedy delivery. Or the two people eating a chip over a bowl if salsa in the Tostitos logo. I also noticed perceptively unintentional typography like the fact that in the Jack and the Box logo, the "o" and the "x" were connected to look like a fish. I grew apt at recognizing logos even without the brand names on them. I knew the shapes of every fast food restaurant logo and can recognize nearly every clothing store brand symbol. It's completely nerdy and useless but whatever.
I noticed another unintentional message similar to the the Jack and the Box fish the other day at my stop downtown. A catering truck was parked across the street with the phrase "the preferred foods of chefs." but there, in the middle of it all was a red line underlining the letters "err." maybe because I'm so used to reading everything or maybe because I used to e an English major but I took this to mean that for one reason or another, their food was flawed in someway. I couldn't shake the message that choosing them would be an error of some sort. I giggled at the logo and imagined the ad executives that designed this laughing as well as they sent their tiny red line off to be printed all over the merchandise, quitting the next day.
I noticed another unintentional message similar to the the Jack and the Box fish the other day at my stop downtown. A catering truck was parked across the street with the phrase "the preferred foods of chefs." but there, in the middle of it all was a red line underlining the letters "err." maybe because I'm so used to reading everything or maybe because I used to e an English major but I took this to mean that for one reason or another, their food was flawed in someway. I couldn't shake the message that choosing them would be an error of some sort. I giggled at the logo and imagined the ad executives that designed this laughing as well as they sent their tiny red line off to be printed all over the merchandise, quitting the next day.
March 2, 2011
Orange
One of my favorite things to do us eat mono chromatically. And one of my favorite colors to eat is orange. There are a million foods that are orange in color and no one ever notices. But only the best ones cone covered in some sort of sugar or fake cheese product.
After a pretty lucrative day at work, I walked across the street to the convenience store and picked out a snack: Cheetos, orange soda, and orange slices. I was elated. Not only had it cost me less than four dollars but now I had reason to skip lunch and eat a late dinner with my roommate, S.
When I left the store, my orange meal in hand, I spied a particularly attractive hipster sitting on the bench at my stop. Ashamed, I shoved my food into my bag, slid my green plastic sunglasses over my exhausted eyes an did my best to look cool. He had long, unkempt hair that barely touched his shoulders. His bright orange shirt displayed some band I had never heard of but the best part was his skin tight black jeans. It was all I could do to keep from sitting uncomfortably close to him and stare openly. I couldn't help but make the correlation that he was wearing an orange shirt and the fact that I loved to eat orange things all the time.
He got on the bus that came before mine and it was as he stood that I noticed his many flaws. He was about a foot and a half shorter than me and as if to mock his deformity, his apparent skin tight jeans were only skin tight because he had been sitting on the folds of fabric. Now they hung loosely from his hips like giant cylinders ha replaced his legs. As he waited to board the bus, his now extremely baggy pants billowed in the breeze. His face underwent a complete transformation going from smooth and impeccable to a face covered in blackheads and dirt. I was astonished at how quickly he had become unattractive. And also how shallow I was being. But I didn't really care; I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a bus window and saw how stylish and cool I looked and I knew: I'm a hottie and he's not so it's my job to judge him.
After a pretty lucrative day at work, I walked across the street to the convenience store and picked out a snack: Cheetos, orange soda, and orange slices. I was elated. Not only had it cost me less than four dollars but now I had reason to skip lunch and eat a late dinner with my roommate, S.
When I left the store, my orange meal in hand, I spied a particularly attractive hipster sitting on the bench at my stop. Ashamed, I shoved my food into my bag, slid my green plastic sunglasses over my exhausted eyes an did my best to look cool. He had long, unkempt hair that barely touched his shoulders. His bright orange shirt displayed some band I had never heard of but the best part was his skin tight black jeans. It was all I could do to keep from sitting uncomfortably close to him and stare openly. I couldn't help but make the correlation that he was wearing an orange shirt and the fact that I loved to eat orange things all the time.
He got on the bus that came before mine and it was as he stood that I noticed his many flaws. He was about a foot and a half shorter than me and as if to mock his deformity, his apparent skin tight jeans were only skin tight because he had been sitting on the folds of fabric. Now they hung loosely from his hips like giant cylinders ha replaced his legs. As he waited to board the bus, his now extremely baggy pants billowed in the breeze. His face underwent a complete transformation going from smooth and impeccable to a face covered in blackheads and dirt. I was astonished at how quickly he had become unattractive. And also how shallow I was being. But I didn't really care; I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a bus window and saw how stylish and cool I looked and I knew: I'm a hottie and he's not so it's my job to judge him.
Packed bus
the bus was incredibly packed today. Every seat was filled and at least a dozen people stood, clutching the rails. A man with braces on his teeth but no wire to straighten them. A sphere of a woman. I wished I had picked darker sunglasses. I wanted so terribly to openly stare at these strange people but every time I did, I felt their gaze on mine. I settled on staring at a woman on the opposite side of the bus from me. All I could see was her hair but that's all I really needed. It was fascinating. Jet black and plastic looking. She had braided it into a zillion tiny braids but oddly enough, only part of it. Small, smooth locks pushed themselves between the braids. I wondered if her hairdresser just hadn't finished the job or got lazy halfway through and decided it was a new look that this woman was now destined to rock. Unfortunately however it looked as if she had cut it herself. The layers were chunky and jagged. The way her hair all came to one point on her head made it seen like it was a wig. I could see her, sitting in her tattered nightgown, her wispy hair matted down onto her scalp with sweat, slowly cutting her wig in front of her vanity mirror. As if she came up with a new hair style everyday to impress her friends with.
"why Courtney, your hair is always a vision!" they'd say. They'd compliment her on her ingenuity, her ability to completely adapt her hair to every situation.
I used to think I had this ability, constantly dying my hair, cutting it and then growing it out long. But after one too many hair cutting mistakes and after nearly chopping off an ear, I resolved to only allowing someone with a professional license touch my hair.
It was even more packed in the afternoon. By the time the bus reached my stop at the mall, there was standing room only. It made me think if there were regulations on how many people can board the bus before it's considered a hazard. Anyway, as I was doing my best to watch people without them knowing, I happened to glance down at an elderly woman sitting to my left. She was dressed as well as can be expected: Hawaiian shirt with jeans that rode up her leg when she sat, casual tennis shoes with no socks, a black bag slug over her neck and her hair was pulled up and on top of her head with a scrunchie. I was thinking about the last time I saw a scrunchie and how it must have been at least fifteen years ago, when I noticed a woman to my right. She was dressed entirely in black with gold jewelry. The neck of her dress scooped low revealing a large portion of her breasts. There was a sliver of red poking out the neck of her dress, it was lacy and nearly transparent. Her thigh high boots said "fuck me now" as opposed to the "I like things comfortable" retort from the woman's shoes to my right.
My eyes volleyed between the two women. I was loving the juxtaposition of their outfits and how completely opposite they were. Suddenly, as the old woman was putting a tissue in the breast pocket of her shirt, the top buttons separated revealing her large breasts nestled in a flesh toned bra. At first she didn't notice but after a moment she shrieked and clutched her shirt together. The woman across from her laughed and the woman next to her drolly glanced over. "my shirt's come undone." she whispered to the woman next to her. Trying to help, she held up her backpack in an attempt to shield on lookers while she buttoned up.
"you don't have to hold that thing up, honey. Ain't no body gonna look at that geaser's titties." the woman to my right cackled. Everyone ignored her but she was persistent.
"were you looking, sweetie?"
It took me a moment before I realized she was looking right at me. I couldn't breathe. This is the EXACT reason why I put on my headphones and sunglasses. I didn't want to be bothered, asked for anything or touched. I looked around at the other passengers for help, answers. They just looked back at me with the same blank expressions. I said the first thing that came to my mind.
"mango." what the fuck? Why the hell did I say mango? That's not even close to yes or no or any of the numerous answers I could have given.
"excuse me? Did you say mango?" the slutty woman was staring me down with one eyebrow raised.
"um... No I said, 'hell no.'" I sputtered out the words as if I were an old jalopy about to break down.
"see, Hun? Ain't no body looking at your titties so you just let them air out if they need to." the slutty woman told the still embarrassed woman, seemingly to forget exactly how many people were crammed into the bus. She smiled and sat back in her chair, "now these girls," she added to the sleeping man beside her, pushing up her voluptuous breasts, "I bet he WAS looking at." She looked me dead in the eyes out of the corner of hers. I could feel my face flush and I was beginning to become just like the elderly woman. Again, I resorted to the first thing I could think of: I stared straight ahead and started making a grocery list...
- milk
- plastic bags
- not mangoes
"why Courtney, your hair is always a vision!" they'd say. They'd compliment her on her ingenuity, her ability to completely adapt her hair to every situation.
I used to think I had this ability, constantly dying my hair, cutting it and then growing it out long. But after one too many hair cutting mistakes and after nearly chopping off an ear, I resolved to only allowing someone with a professional license touch my hair.
It was even more packed in the afternoon. By the time the bus reached my stop at the mall, there was standing room only. It made me think if there were regulations on how many people can board the bus before it's considered a hazard. Anyway, as I was doing my best to watch people without them knowing, I happened to glance down at an elderly woman sitting to my left. She was dressed as well as can be expected: Hawaiian shirt with jeans that rode up her leg when she sat, casual tennis shoes with no socks, a black bag slug over her neck and her hair was pulled up and on top of her head with a scrunchie. I was thinking about the last time I saw a scrunchie and how it must have been at least fifteen years ago, when I noticed a woman to my right. She was dressed entirely in black with gold jewelry. The neck of her dress scooped low revealing a large portion of her breasts. There was a sliver of red poking out the neck of her dress, it was lacy and nearly transparent. Her thigh high boots said "fuck me now" as opposed to the "I like things comfortable" retort from the woman's shoes to my right.
My eyes volleyed between the two women. I was loving the juxtaposition of their outfits and how completely opposite they were. Suddenly, as the old woman was putting a tissue in the breast pocket of her shirt, the top buttons separated revealing her large breasts nestled in a flesh toned bra. At first she didn't notice but after a moment she shrieked and clutched her shirt together. The woman across from her laughed and the woman next to her drolly glanced over. "my shirt's come undone." she whispered to the woman next to her. Trying to help, she held up her backpack in an attempt to shield on lookers while she buttoned up.
"you don't have to hold that thing up, honey. Ain't no body gonna look at that geaser's titties." the woman to my right cackled. Everyone ignored her but she was persistent.
"were you looking, sweetie?"
It took me a moment before I realized she was looking right at me. I couldn't breathe. This is the EXACT reason why I put on my headphones and sunglasses. I didn't want to be bothered, asked for anything or touched. I looked around at the other passengers for help, answers. They just looked back at me with the same blank expressions. I said the first thing that came to my mind.
"mango." what the fuck? Why the hell did I say mango? That's not even close to yes or no or any of the numerous answers I could have given.
"excuse me? Did you say mango?" the slutty woman was staring me down with one eyebrow raised.
"um... No I said, 'hell no.'" I sputtered out the words as if I were an old jalopy about to break down.
"see, Hun? Ain't no body looking at your titties so you just let them air out if they need to." the slutty woman told the still embarrassed woman, seemingly to forget exactly how many people were crammed into the bus. She smiled and sat back in her chair, "now these girls," she added to the sleeping man beside her, pushing up her voluptuous breasts, "I bet he WAS looking at." She looked me dead in the eyes out of the corner of hers. I could feel my face flush and I was beginning to become just like the elderly woman. Again, I resorted to the first thing I could think of: I stared straight ahead and started making a grocery list...
- milk
- plastic bags
- not mangoes
Crossing the Street
I've noticed that when crossing the street at a non intersection, everyone walks like a crazy person. Constantly starting and stopping, zig zagging between cars, it's as if we've never walked a day in our lives and must now manuever these strange extremities attached to our hips.
We constantly look from left to right and back again, never looking ahead for when the curb approaches which will inevitably send us careening onto the median in front of nearly 100 people. It's embarassing, crossing the street. Everything about the act is horrifying and shameful. No one but suicidal lunatics can cross the street with grace, confidence or assurance. It's the lunatics that walk across without looking, not caring if every car has to swerve and slam on their brakes to avoid hitting the loon.
We constantly look from left to right and back again, never looking ahead for when the curb approaches which will inevitably send us careening onto the median in front of nearly 100 people. It's embarassing, crossing the street. Everything about the act is horrifying and shameful. No one but suicidal lunatics can cross the street with grace, confidence or assurance. It's the lunatics that walk across without looking, not caring if every car has to swerve and slam on their brakes to avoid hitting the loon.
On Writing
I write everyday. Everyday. That's how I know I'm a writer. I wake up and jot down my dreams. I have my coffee and write down how jittery I feel, if some grounds made it into the cup, if it's simply too hot to drink. I write about how reading the paper makes me think of my mother and watching the morning news reminds me of my father. I eat my breakfast an write down the witty banter between me and my roommate. I get on the bus and write about the freaks I encounter and how the views of the city from the highway make me feel like an adult and wish for an office job. I come home and take my dog for a walk and write about the extravagant houses I see and talk about how you can tell a lot about a person by what they put in their front yard. After dinner, I write about my hopes and dreams, telling myself that if I'm not already a celebrity, then I surely would be within the next ten to fifteen years. And as I fall asleep, I quietly take notes on the darkness of my room and how funny the shadows being cast by my window are. I am a writer because I don't know how to speak, eat, breathe without writing it all down first.
Dream day
I was late for my bus because I was intent on finishing the movie I was watching. It wasn't even all that good: Alyssa milano was torn between to guys, an ad executive and a writer. She ended up choosing the writer....okay, I loved the movie but that's neither here not there. The point is, I was late. As I left my apartment complex, I saw the bus pull up to my stop and pause.
"oh thank GOD someone needed to get on." I thought and ran for it. I barely made it, taking my own life in my hands and running in front of the bus before it could pull away. When the driver opened the door, I saw a large black woman in jeans, cowboy boots and a black western shirt, the kind with lassos embroidered on the chest. I reeled back. Where was my usual bus driver? The sweet old man with salt and pepper hair that always smiled and greeted me good morning? The woman just looked me up and down and asked, "well? On or off baby because I ain't got time to wait on your skinny butt." was this the right bus? Did I run to the wrong corner? Where was I? I double checked the bus number and tentatively got on. I dropped my quarters in the machine and muttered an apology for no reason.
At my transfer stop, I had to run again which was unusual. Typically my buses are at least ten minutes apart giving me ample time to walk casually to my stop a block away. But not today. I ran quickly and luckily the bus was stopped at a red light. I gently tapped on the door and the driver, a thin, greasy looking man just stared at me.
"can I get on, please?" I begged through the glass. With a huff, he opened the door. He too wasn't wearing the typical uniform of firmly pressed black slacks and a starched white shirt. He wore a pair of sweatpants, a plain gray tshirt with a bright blue windbreaker. Was today real? Or was I still sleeping in my soft bed back in my apartment? Was I late for work? Why didn't my alarm go off? Everything seemed real but just a little off, just enough to make me question the truth of the situation.
I was staring out the window trying to figure out if I was awake or asleep when I saw a man walking down the street. His wore his jeans down low on his hips, not in a stylish way but in a "these pants are four sizes too big" kind of way. He didn't have any shoes on but he WAS wearing a pair of bright pink polka dot boxers and had curiously taken off his shirt and draped it over his right shoulder. It was a nice day out so I suppose I could understand the want to remove as much clothing as possible and let the light breeze come over your chest and make your nipples go hard with pleasure. I could also understand the need for pants that fit and shoes. Today was definitely a dream day. Freaks.
"oh thank GOD someone needed to get on." I thought and ran for it. I barely made it, taking my own life in my hands and running in front of the bus before it could pull away. When the driver opened the door, I saw a large black woman in jeans, cowboy boots and a black western shirt, the kind with lassos embroidered on the chest. I reeled back. Where was my usual bus driver? The sweet old man with salt and pepper hair that always smiled and greeted me good morning? The woman just looked me up and down and asked, "well? On or off baby because I ain't got time to wait on your skinny butt." was this the right bus? Did I run to the wrong corner? Where was I? I double checked the bus number and tentatively got on. I dropped my quarters in the machine and muttered an apology for no reason.
At my transfer stop, I had to run again which was unusual. Typically my buses are at least ten minutes apart giving me ample time to walk casually to my stop a block away. But not today. I ran quickly and luckily the bus was stopped at a red light. I gently tapped on the door and the driver, a thin, greasy looking man just stared at me.
"can I get on, please?" I begged through the glass. With a huff, he opened the door. He too wasn't wearing the typical uniform of firmly pressed black slacks and a starched white shirt. He wore a pair of sweatpants, a plain gray tshirt with a bright blue windbreaker. Was today real? Or was I still sleeping in my soft bed back in my apartment? Was I late for work? Why didn't my alarm go off? Everything seemed real but just a little off, just enough to make me question the truth of the situation.
I was staring out the window trying to figure out if I was awake or asleep when I saw a man walking down the street. His wore his jeans down low on his hips, not in a stylish way but in a "these pants are four sizes too big" kind of way. He didn't have any shoes on but he WAS wearing a pair of bright pink polka dot boxers and had curiously taken off his shirt and draped it over his right shoulder. It was a nice day out so I suppose I could understand the want to remove as much clothing as possible and let the light breeze come over your chest and make your nipples go hard with pleasure. I could also understand the need for pants that fit and shoes. Today was definitely a dream day. Freaks.
February 23, 2011
Watermelon and Tangerine Avenue
Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the Vicodin, or maybe it was a combination of both but downtown was gorgeous one night after a long shift at work. The people were smiling, moving around as if someone had hit the mute button, the lights were dazzling and twinkled in time with my music. I think the music was the best part. It perfectly drowned out the obnoxious sounds of the bus. It was just me, the lights and the quiet voice of Damien Rice.
The bliss of downtown even distracted me from the throbbing pain in my broken finger. I had hurt it at work a few days ago when the security window for the To-Go area fell on my hand, breaking my little finger and causing me to get 5 stitches. I drifted in and out of day dreams of being a real superhero and getting a call from my agent (that I didn't have) saying that I needed to pack right away for my national book tour. Once and a while, I'd check the scrolling marquee to see if I was nearing my stop and sometime after imagining myself winking at a hot guy waiting in line for me to sign his book, I looked up and saw this scrolling by: "**\££?"
"What the fuck. Where the hell am I?" I thought to myself. I'd certainly missed my stop and was now hurling into the mysterious abyss where buses go after people are done riding them. I half expected to grow an extra eye that was completely useless, located in my arm pit. Because, you know, that's what happens when you find yourself hurling into mysterious abysses.
I frantically started moving about in my seat, trying to squint hard enough to read the street signs whizzing past me. Shit like this always happens to me . I'm enjoying a plesant time ignoring the world and I miss my stop and end up riding into an oblivion. I did my best to tell myself not to panic but it had already set in. My heart was racing, as was my mind trying to figure out where I was, wishing that I had taken the time to learn the layout of the city I've lived in since I was 6 years old. It was a good fifteen minutes of sweaty panic before I thought to pause my music and try to listen to the gravely voice that announced the stops. The first announcement sounded something line "Watermelon and Led Go." I took this to mean that we were in the farmer's market district of the city which also meant that I was well past my stop. I mean, where else would they have street names like "Watermelon?" The next one cane out sounding like "Watermelon and Congruence." Well, at least I knew I was on Watermelon. I squinted harder at the street signs and finally figured out that I was at Washington and Commerce. That made a lot more sense.
It also meant that it would be another 45 minutes before I reached my stop. With a sigh of relief, I drifted bak into my day dreams which just so happened to be about watermelons living on Tangerine Avenue and the irony of it all.
The bliss of downtown even distracted me from the throbbing pain in my broken finger. I had hurt it at work a few days ago when the security window for the To-Go area fell on my hand, breaking my little finger and causing me to get 5 stitches. I drifted in and out of day dreams of being a real superhero and getting a call from my agent (that I didn't have) saying that I needed to pack right away for my national book tour. Once and a while, I'd check the scrolling marquee to see if I was nearing my stop and sometime after imagining myself winking at a hot guy waiting in line for me to sign his book, I looked up and saw this scrolling by: "**\££?"
"What the fuck. Where the hell am I?" I thought to myself. I'd certainly missed my stop and was now hurling into the mysterious abyss where buses go after people are done riding them. I half expected to grow an extra eye that was completely useless, located in my arm pit. Because, you know, that's what happens when you find yourself hurling into mysterious abysses.
I frantically started moving about in my seat, trying to squint hard enough to read the street signs whizzing past me. Shit like this always happens to me . I'm enjoying a plesant time ignoring the world and I miss my stop and end up riding into an oblivion. I did my best to tell myself not to panic but it had already set in. My heart was racing, as was my mind trying to figure out where I was, wishing that I had taken the time to learn the layout of the city I've lived in since I was 6 years old. It was a good fifteen minutes of sweaty panic before I thought to pause my music and try to listen to the gravely voice that announced the stops. The first announcement sounded something line "Watermelon and Led Go." I took this to mean that we were in the farmer's market district of the city which also meant that I was well past my stop. I mean, where else would they have street names like "Watermelon?" The next one cane out sounding like "Watermelon and Congruence." Well, at least I knew I was on Watermelon. I squinted harder at the street signs and finally figured out that I was at Washington and Commerce. That made a lot more sense.
It also meant that it would be another 45 minutes before I reached my stop. With a sigh of relief, I drifted bak into my day dreams which just so happened to be about watermelons living on Tangerine Avenue and the irony of it all.
Buildings of hope and hate
I couldn't focus on my book this morning. I didn't know if it was the music I was listening to or the complicated prose of John Knowles but for whatever reason, my mind was somewhere else. I resolved to staring out the window, and as we approached downtown, I was struck by the symmetry of it all. All of the buildings seemed to be exactly the same size and laid in a perfect, quiet grid. Each of the tiny windows appeared to be the same size and filled with the same 5'6" people. Everything was the same in every possible way. I also couldn't decide if the sight of all of these buildings was incredibly sad or full of beautiful hope. Am I ever meant to work in offices like those? Or will I be in part time jobs for the rest of my life? At 23 I'm in an interesting position. I'm experienced enough to land a job as a receptionist or maybe even a project manager with a little experience. But I don't have a degree, preventing me from jobs such as...well, pretty much anything. And as much as I hate my job at the restaurant, I'm not really ready to go back to school. For some reason, I'm jaded and still resent school for something it never did.
I feel like I dwell on these buildings a lot. On what they represent to me, to others. How they affect my everyday of my life. But in reality, they're just buildings. Just places for people to conduct business. Steel, glass and nothing else. But I suppose in the Earth that I've concocted in my head, these places hold more than men, women and paper. They hold my hopes, my promise, my potential. Some days I revere them for that and others I despise them.
It's an interesting dynamic, if you think about it, despising a building. Despising anything inanimate, really, is quite strange. But I suppose the truth of the situation is that when you despise something that isn't alive, you're really despising yourself and the things you have done that you associate with those things.
I tell everyone that I don't regret my decision to leave school in the slightest. The truth is, I hate the decision most days. No doubt it was the right one to make but that doesn't mean I have to like it. And as easy as it is to say "Just go back then. Reverse the whole situation," it's ten times harder to actually do it. There are just too many unanswered questions and then there's the shame of admitting defeat. I thought I could do this: leave school and really make something of myself. Going back now would be admiring that I've been wrong all this time. I suppose I'm too proud for that.
I feel like I dwell on these buildings a lot. On what they represent to me, to others. How they affect my everyday of my life. But in reality, they're just buildings. Just places for people to conduct business. Steel, glass and nothing else. But I suppose in the Earth that I've concocted in my head, these places hold more than men, women and paper. They hold my hopes, my promise, my potential. Some days I revere them for that and others I despise them.
It's an interesting dynamic, if you think about it, despising a building. Despising anything inanimate, really, is quite strange. But I suppose the truth of the situation is that when you despise something that isn't alive, you're really despising yourself and the things you have done that you associate with those things.
I tell everyone that I don't regret my decision to leave school in the slightest. The truth is, I hate the decision most days. No doubt it was the right one to make but that doesn't mean I have to like it. And as easy as it is to say "Just go back then. Reverse the whole situation," it's ten times harder to actually do it. There are just too many unanswered questions and then there's the shame of admitting defeat. I thought I could do this: leave school and really make something of myself. Going back now would be admiring that I've been wrong all this time. I suppose I'm too proud for that.
Too much coffee leads to plans for the future
On mornings when I drink too much coffee, I'm so jittery that I want to leap out of my skin. And the vibrations and jostling of the bus don't usually help much. I do my best to calm my nerves before work but it never works. I'm just as shaky when I walk in as I am when....I'm.....standing in a paint mixer...what? From there I can tell what kind of day I'm going to have: one from hell. I do my best to distract myself by making plans for the rest of the afternoon.
I reminded myself that I HAD to look for another job today. My mother made me promise that I would job hunt for half an hour each day... That was four days ago and I have yet to send out a single resume. I hate job hunting; it's full of too much rejection. Who in their right mind looks for a job with eager eyes? "yes! I get to be told 100 times that I'm not wanted! Oh let my joyous strains ring out unto the mountain tops!" ridiculous. Everyone hates that.
I've decided that looking for jobs is particularly hardest for the youngest of the family. In my years of haphazardly reading about birth order and how it affects the mental development of children, I've discovered that the youngest child spends a lot of time begging for attention and acceptance. So naturally, we do not deal with rejection well. It sends us, well me at least, into a dizzying spiral back to our childhood when our older siblings wouldn't let us join in their reindeer games. Instead of hearing, "I'm sorry, sir, you're just not right for this job." I hear, "ha ha ha! You can't play with us!!!" and I want to die.
One of the hardest lessons I've ever learned in my life was that not everyone wants to be my friend. And looking back, I still wonder if I ever really learned that lesson. I can accept that I can't make everyone like me but I feel like I should at least make everyone tolerate me, right? That should be a power that I possess, shouldn't it? And with risk to tooting my own horn, I AM particularly good at making friends. I just know how to make people like me; I've had a lot of practice. Anyway, so when I go on job interviews or call in for a phone interview, I'm nearly certain that I'll be offered the job. It's just getting to that interview that causes all the trouble. In person, I'm bright, friendly, witty, and eager to please. Essentially, I'm a puppy. But on paper I'm a college drop out with sparse work experience and a lot of fluff words. It's practically impossible for me to come across half as well on paper. And trust me, I've sent my resume and cover letter to loads of people trying to get myself to come off better. But it never works. I'm shit on paper and a fucking gold mine in person.
I reminded myself that I HAD to look for another job today. My mother made me promise that I would job hunt for half an hour each day... That was four days ago and I have yet to send out a single resume. I hate job hunting; it's full of too much rejection. Who in their right mind looks for a job with eager eyes? "yes! I get to be told 100 times that I'm not wanted! Oh let my joyous strains ring out unto the mountain tops!" ridiculous. Everyone hates that.
I've decided that looking for jobs is particularly hardest for the youngest of the family. In my years of haphazardly reading about birth order and how it affects the mental development of children, I've discovered that the youngest child spends a lot of time begging for attention and acceptance. So naturally, we do not deal with rejection well. It sends us, well me at least, into a dizzying spiral back to our childhood when our older siblings wouldn't let us join in their reindeer games. Instead of hearing, "I'm sorry, sir, you're just not right for this job." I hear, "ha ha ha! You can't play with us!!!" and I want to die.
One of the hardest lessons I've ever learned in my life was that not everyone wants to be my friend. And looking back, I still wonder if I ever really learned that lesson. I can accept that I can't make everyone like me but I feel like I should at least make everyone tolerate me, right? That should be a power that I possess, shouldn't it? And with risk to tooting my own horn, I AM particularly good at making friends. I just know how to make people like me; I've had a lot of practice. Anyway, so when I go on job interviews or call in for a phone interview, I'm nearly certain that I'll be offered the job. It's just getting to that interview that causes all the trouble. In person, I'm bright, friendly, witty, and eager to please. Essentially, I'm a puppy. But on paper I'm a college drop out with sparse work experience and a lot of fluff words. It's practically impossible for me to come across half as well on paper. And trust me, I've sent my resume and cover letter to loads of people trying to get myself to come off better. But it never works. I'm shit on paper and a fucking gold mine in person.
February 14, 2011
Frozen Downtown
My stop downtown on my way to work is different than my stop on my way home and I've decided it's where warmth goes to die. I stand on the corner of Smith and Polk, doing my best to cover myself from the winds that focus so intently between the buildings. The giant, glass towers peer over me and I can almost hear then laughing at my quivering frame. Sometimes I imagine that I work in one of those buildings. I'm in my nerdy suit with my bag full of files and my lunch slung over my shoulder. I swipe my security card to pass the front desk and take the elevator to the 12th floor. I casually greet the early comers to the office and switch on the coffee pot. Booting up my computer, I situate myself comfortably in my chair, getting ready for a day of answering the phone, picking up lunch, directing colleagues and clients to the correct offices. I love it. My boss can't function properly without me and he shows this by his generous bonus at Christmas and the nice pen he buys me for Secretary's day (which he feels is important to recognize even though the others in my office could care less.)
But it's just a fantasy. And before long, the 82 to Westheimer arrives to take me to my real job of shoveling food into Styrofoam boxes for uppity business men and women that don't tip.
But it's just a fantasy. And before long, the 82 to Westheimer arrives to take me to my real job of shoveling food into Styrofoam boxes for uppity business men and women that don't tip.
Under the bus
Sometimes the best things are stored under bus seats. There's the usual trash: discarded ketchup packets, ripped up receipts, a piece of gum adhered to the tacky blue fabric. Pretty standard stuff. But every once and a while, you'll come across something really good. Once, I found an entire camping tent. A whole tent just hanging out beneath my seat. It made me wonder what could be in the lost and found box at the main office of the bus system. Hell, there's probably a whole room of stuff. I imagine it to be full of things like strollers, rings, purses, cell phones, and umbrellas. Lord, I'm sure they have a while ROOM full of umbrellas. Black ones, ones with patterns, child sized ones, any umbrella you could think of, I'm sure they had it. I bet they could furnish enough umbrellas to provide props for Singing in the Rain 18 times.
On the bus one Thursday, I sat behind two war veterans talking about when they were enlisted and why Uncle Sam owed them 10 times the amount they were given. I did my best not to listen. Even though my brother is in the army, I just can't bring myself to support anything to do with warfare. I hate everything about it: the violence, the guns, the hatred.
While I was listening to the two men talk I realized two things: 1) If you put your headphones on but down turn on the music, no one realizes you're listening to them. And 2) anyone that openly talks to strangers on public transportation are liars. The man directly in front of me was telling the other about how he did most of his acid trips in Vietnam and that's the only way he made it through. But after the war, he was at St. Thomas University with a press pass because he worked for a local newspaper and that's where he met Jimmy Hendrix. It but it wasn't until after he was done telling a story of how he used to get high with "Jim" all the time, that he mentioned that he attended St. Thomas an thats where he really got his press pass, working for the campus newspaper. The other man jut smiled and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile, I was questioning if he even was in the military at all. Then he stepped on my foot and I decided he had a death wish...all liars have a death wish, don't they?
On the bus one Thursday, I sat behind two war veterans talking about when they were enlisted and why Uncle Sam owed them 10 times the amount they were given. I did my best not to listen. Even though my brother is in the army, I just can't bring myself to support anything to do with warfare. I hate everything about it: the violence, the guns, the hatred.
While I was listening to the two men talk I realized two things: 1) If you put your headphones on but down turn on the music, no one realizes you're listening to them. And 2) anyone that openly talks to strangers on public transportation are liars. The man directly in front of me was telling the other about how he did most of his acid trips in Vietnam and that's the only way he made it through. But after the war, he was at St. Thomas University with a press pass because he worked for a local newspaper and that's where he met Jimmy Hendrix. It but it wasn't until after he was done telling a story of how he used to get high with "Jim" all the time, that he mentioned that he attended St. Thomas an thats where he really got his press pass, working for the campus newspaper. The other man jut smiled and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Meanwhile, I was questioning if he even was in the military at all. Then he stepped on my foot and I decided he had a death wish...all liars have a death wish, don't they?
My Best Friend, part 1
There are a lot of things to tell about my best friend, S. She's....a character. And I honestly mean that in the best way possible. There's not a single thing about her that I want to change. And she might hate me for telling these stories about her but they're the things that make me love her 100 times over.
One of the most notable things about S, is sometimes she has night terrors. And I don't mean the "wakes up, startled and a little freaked out" kind of terrors. I mean the "wakes up screaming bloody murder, neighbor's call the cops" kind of way. I have yet to experience this but it's always in the back of my mind as I'm slowly drifting off to sleep.
"Will tonight be the night that I wake up to her terrified screaming? What will I do? Call the cops? Ignore her? Shake her until she wakes up?"
I often find myself thinking about her, considering her feelings and life when I make decisions for myself. Not only with big ideas like "should I finish my degree?" or "should I move out of my parents house?" but with the little things too. Last Valentine's day, she bought me a box of chocolates. It was a really sweet gesture; she knows I like candy and wanted to get me something for the holiday. But as I sat on my bed and opened the box, I read the top and considered "which ones will she like best?" They were my chocolates! She gave them to me! I didn't have to share them but I knew that I would end up doing so anyway. And furthermore, instead of eating the ones that sounded best to me, I was willing to sacrifice them on the chance that she might want them. It seemed silly but I did it anyway.
I guess that's just what 5 years of friendship does to a person.
One of the most notable things about S, is sometimes she has night terrors. And I don't mean the "wakes up, startled and a little freaked out" kind of terrors. I mean the "wakes up screaming bloody murder, neighbor's call the cops" kind of way. I have yet to experience this but it's always in the back of my mind as I'm slowly drifting off to sleep.
"Will tonight be the night that I wake up to her terrified screaming? What will I do? Call the cops? Ignore her? Shake her until she wakes up?"
I often find myself thinking about her, considering her feelings and life when I make decisions for myself. Not only with big ideas like "should I finish my degree?" or "should I move out of my parents house?" but with the little things too. Last Valentine's day, she bought me a box of chocolates. It was a really sweet gesture; she knows I like candy and wanted to get me something for the holiday. But as I sat on my bed and opened the box, I read the top and considered "which ones will she like best?" They were my chocolates! She gave them to me! I didn't have to share them but I knew that I would end up doing so anyway. And furthermore, instead of eating the ones that sounded best to me, I was willing to sacrifice them on the chance that she might want them. It seemed silly but I did it anyway.
I guess that's just what 5 years of friendship does to a person.
February 9, 2011
The Worst
Today was absolutely the worst day of my working career. At 12:30, just as our lunch rush was coming in, every single computer in the restaurant freezes. Can't take orders, can't run credit cards. Nothing. We did the best we could.
For a solid 3 hours, I had a line of customers, each yelling at me for one reason or another. My boss was frustrated with the entire situation and was making comments like "I'm shutting down To-Go (my section) forever. I can't deal with this crap." and "I'm so tired of To-Go..." How was I supposed to take that? I was certain she was going to fire me.
After being yelled at by a line of customers, To-Go was shut down. I did my best to clean up and organize everything, closed as many checks as I could (we ended up giving away a lot of free food) and went to face the music. My hands shook and my eyes couldn't lift themselves above the floor. I braced myself for the inevitable words: "You're fired."
My boss told me, in as calm a manner that she could, that she was too frustrated to speak to me today and that we'll have to discuss this tomorrow. Great. Now I get to go home and fester on my imminent doom all night long. I couldn't take it, I just started to cry. I did my best to tell her that I was sorry and that I did the best I could. I told her that I understood that she didn't really want to talk about it right now but I'm just so afraid that she was going to fire me, I couldn't take it. So I stood there and sobbed.
My boss took me by the shoulders and explained that she wasn't going to fire me. I took a deep breath. But, she went on, we were still going to have a talk tomorrow.
On my way home from work, I stood at the bus stop in a daze. If I wasn't crying, I was staring down the street, adding up the money left in my checking account, savings account, and the cash in my wallet (a whomping $89.42 by the way.) I reached into my pocket for my phone to call my mother and tell her that I give up and I'm moving back home with her where money doesn't exist for me and I just live on the couch and wither away but inside my pocket, I pull out $4.92....all the tip money I made that day. To make matters worse, I still needed 8 cents to make it home...
Luckily, I had hidden an extra $5 in my bag for just such an occasion. When my bus came, I paid the fair and picked a seat. My iPod was probably too loud and I'm certain that everyone on the bus could tell I had just spent the last half hour sobbing but I didn't care. All I wanted to do was disappear. I was so distracted that I got off my bus a good 4 blocks early. When I realized it, the bus had pulled away; I looked down the street and said "Well, I might as well walk. What else could go wrong?"
I didn't even notice the walk, to be honest. My mind was delightfully blank and before I knew it, I was standing at my stop in the middle of downtown, watching the corner for the bus. A woman with wild, kinky black hair waved a caramel colored hand in front of my face, forcing my mind to focus.
"Excuse me, do you have a dollar?" she says, plastering a fake, but hopeful smile.
I reached into my bag where I kept my money and pulled out $2. I flip back one of the bills and put it back in my bag and hand her the dollar.
"God bless you. Thank you " she says and walks away.
The only thing I can focus on is....why didn't I give her both dollars?
For a solid 3 hours, I had a line of customers, each yelling at me for one reason or another. My boss was frustrated with the entire situation and was making comments like "I'm shutting down To-Go (my section) forever. I can't deal with this crap." and "I'm so tired of To-Go..." How was I supposed to take that? I was certain she was going to fire me.
After being yelled at by a line of customers, To-Go was shut down. I did my best to clean up and organize everything, closed as many checks as I could (we ended up giving away a lot of free food) and went to face the music. My hands shook and my eyes couldn't lift themselves above the floor. I braced myself for the inevitable words: "You're fired."
My boss told me, in as calm a manner that she could, that she was too frustrated to speak to me today and that we'll have to discuss this tomorrow. Great. Now I get to go home and fester on my imminent doom all night long. I couldn't take it, I just started to cry. I did my best to tell her that I was sorry and that I did the best I could. I told her that I understood that she didn't really want to talk about it right now but I'm just so afraid that she was going to fire me, I couldn't take it. So I stood there and sobbed.
My boss took me by the shoulders and explained that she wasn't going to fire me. I took a deep breath. But, she went on, we were still going to have a talk tomorrow.
On my way home from work, I stood at the bus stop in a daze. If I wasn't crying, I was staring down the street, adding up the money left in my checking account, savings account, and the cash in my wallet (a whomping $89.42 by the way.) I reached into my pocket for my phone to call my mother and tell her that I give up and I'm moving back home with her where money doesn't exist for me and I just live on the couch and wither away but inside my pocket, I pull out $4.92....all the tip money I made that day. To make matters worse, I still needed 8 cents to make it home...
Luckily, I had hidden an extra $5 in my bag for just such an occasion. When my bus came, I paid the fair and picked a seat. My iPod was probably too loud and I'm certain that everyone on the bus could tell I had just spent the last half hour sobbing but I didn't care. All I wanted to do was disappear. I was so distracted that I got off my bus a good 4 blocks early. When I realized it, the bus had pulled away; I looked down the street and said "Well, I might as well walk. What else could go wrong?"
I didn't even notice the walk, to be honest. My mind was delightfully blank and before I knew it, I was standing at my stop in the middle of downtown, watching the corner for the bus. A woman with wild, kinky black hair waved a caramel colored hand in front of my face, forcing my mind to focus.
"Excuse me, do you have a dollar?" she says, plastering a fake, but hopeful smile.
I reached into my bag where I kept my money and pulled out $2. I flip back one of the bills and put it back in my bag and hand her the dollar.
"God bless you. Thank you " she says and walks away.
The only thing I can focus on is....why didn't I give her both dollars?
February 3, 2011
Riding the Bus and other things
I like to keep my bus stop clean. I'll spend a good ten to twenty minutes picking up trash and pushing dead leaves and sticks into the sewer drain nearby with my foot. I just like having a clean place to exist while I wait for my bus. One Monday, I had to clean up an entire newspaper left out in the rain. It took me nearly 30 minutes to pick up all the little ads and inserts they're always stick in the Sunday paper and by the time I was finished, I had to run from the trashcan a block away to catch my bus on time.
Sometimes I do such a good job of cleaning my stop, the next day there isn't anything to clean up, so I just sit quietly on my bench and read a book that I've checked out of the library 7 blocks down from my apartment. It's nice, sitting and reading quietly at my stop. It reminds me of when I was in school and I only had a handful of friends on account of the fact that I constantly had my head stuck in a book. For most of my life, I lived in a literary world. My friends were characters and my God was the omnipotent voice that narrated all of the stories. I loved it. Instead of growing up in Houston, Texas, I spent the first ten years of my life living with The Who's in Whoville. My years in middle school were spent solving crimes with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I fell in love with a girl named Catherine and sat back and watched as she fought with her brother and fell in love with a boy named Heathcliff. In high school, I traveled around the world in 80 days, dove 20,000 leagues under the sea, went whale hunting, lost my sanity on a river in the Amazon, and even traveled with a midget to a volcano to save the world from an evil wizard.
I stopped living my fictional life and started living in reality when I entered college. I simply didn't have time to read. I was spending all of my time drinking, smoking pot and not going to class. It was awesome. I forgot all about my friends Ana Karenina and Mr. Darcy. Sometimes, I'll glance over their hardcover homes and remember all the adventures we've had but to visit them now seems futile and silly. They're mystery is gone. I am like the god I created in my head, I already know what happens to them in the end.
Now I browse the shelves of the library in search of new friends. In the two weeks that I've returned to my literature world, I've grown up in North Carolina with David Sedaris, pet the mice by the river with Lennie and George, and sobbed over Matthew Shepherd's mangled, murdered body.
Yep, the life I live at my bus stop is a simple one. It's not until I board the bus when things get complicated and interesting.
Today as I sat staring at a business man jog across the intersection in his expensive suit and black leather briefcase, a man from the back of the bus shouts, "Ma'am!....Sir, sorry. There's someone running for the bus." He wanted the bus driver to stop and wait for them. I wanted him to keep going. I was already running late for work and didn't feel like being even more late because someone else couldn't bother to show up at their stop on time. The driver stopped anyway and on walked the most monochromatic man I've ever seen in my life. He wore dirty tennis shoes that probably were white in the store but after months of running for nearly missed buses, have turned a dingy gray. His blue jeans were equally faded to the point of turning a dull blueish gray. And of course, his shirt was striped with two shades of gray. In an almost comedic fashion though, his hair was dyed a brilliant shade of highlighter yellow but I could see his roots growing in, dusty, gray roots.
Sometimes I wonder if people own mirrors. He seemed like a pleasant man, happy with his life and his choices. But I couldn't help but giggle slightly, picturing him standing in front of his mirror, taking in his entire outfit and saying, "Yep, this looks good." To be fair, he wasn't the worst dressed man on the bus. An elderly woman in a jacket, hat and t-shirt, all three different shades of pink, and bright purple, nylon pants got on shortly after him. Another man, rolling back and forth in his seat as he slept, was dressed in a white business shirt with a mustard stain on the collar and drool was dripping into his pocket protector. Attractive. I really shouldn't judge these people. I'm no fashionista either. I wore the same pair of jeans and black polo everyday. There were no doubt blotches of food and thin white lines of deodorant on the shirt. And I'm certain there was a quarter sized white spot on the back pocket of my jeans where a pen had exploded and leaked ink all over my wallet, leaving me forced to throw out the wallet and try to bleach the ink out.
Riding the bus is kind of like living in a cartoon. People don't seem to be real, acting and dressing like people you'd only imagine to appear in Peanuts or Foxtrot. Every once and a while, an attractive hipster or sexy businessman will board the 50 to Downtown and I'll spend the entire ride either staring at them over my book or glancing at them every five seconds in hopes that they'd look back at me and we'd both smile, introduce ourselves and spend the next 30 years together. Of course, more often than not, they'd either catch me staring and move to the back of the bus or wouldn't even take notice of me and quietly exit the bus at their stop and continue on with their happy, sexy lives.
The people, while entertaining, can also be the most annoying. If I've learned anything since I started using public transportation, it's the 6 Rules of Riding the Bus:
1) Always have exact change. Waiting for someone who's waiting to receive change from the machine is akin to waiting for the grass to grow or the paint to dry.
Once, after thoroughly cleaning my stop, I stood behind a woman that appeared to be in her mid-thirties, waiting to board the bus. When it was her turn to pay the $1.25 it cost to ride, she proceeded to take out a sandwich sized plastic baggie of nickels...the lowest form of currency the machine would accept. And instead of having it all counted out already, as the rest of us did, she needed to count out all 25 nickels. And occasionally, she'd pull out a euro and say to herself, "That's not a nickel! I must have put it in here by mistake. I just got back from England, you know." I wanted to scream at her, "No one cares, lady! Just pay the fucking fair!" But, because of rule number 5, I was silent. Which leads me to rule #2.
2) Don't ask too many questions. You may ask the driver one question before people start looking at you like you're a complete idiot, so you better make it good. While riding the bus, I almost always sit near the front. It's the most efficient seat; you get on, sit down as quickly as possible and get off just as fast. And one time, I overheard a man, in a very thick Armenian accent, asking the driver so many questions that the driver was forced to close his doors and drive on, leaving the man to cling for dear life to the pole directly beside the driver seat. I was amazed as his tenacity, gripping the pole and continuing his line of questions as if it would save not only his own life but the lives of the other 15 people on the bus.
3) A] If you're traveling alone, bring something to distract yourself, a book, a sandwich, something. If you forgot your distraction, sit by the window and watch for any exciting car crashes that might have occurred during morning rush-hour. If there isn't a widow seat, either stand and stare off into space or sit in an aisle seat and count the fibers in your seat. Do anything but stare openly at people. Through years of peering over books and eavesdropping on my brothers' drinking and smoking in their bedrooms, I've become good at watching people without them knowing about it; only attempt if you think you can get away with it without getting shot (because let's face it, that happens on buses.)
As I rode on my afternoon commute home once, a man got on and sat beside me, it wasn't the big if a deal, the bus was full and I was just getting to the good part in my book. But all of the sudden I felt a pair of eyes on me the way someone feels after reading a crime novel about a peeping-tom. I glance over at the man and his right eye appeared to be staring peacefully out the window but his left eye was situated directly on me. I was startled at first, not quite expecting the man to be staring both at me and the business buildings of downtown at the same time. I did my best to go back to my book but every once and a while, my eyes would find themselves checking back on the eye to see if it was still staring at me; it always was. I wanted to stab his lazy-eye out with the pen in my bus-riding bag.
B] If you happen to be traveling with another adult, you may do your best to try to sit together but do not ask someone to move so that you can sit next to your travel partner. That's just rude.
C] If you are traveling with a child, please follow these instructions carefully. Wrap the child tightly using your strongest arm to prevent such things from happening as: running, jumping, skipping, or flailing. With your other hand, place it firmly over their mouth and pinch their nose closed with your first finger and thumb. This will cause them to fall into a delightfully quiet, coma-like state, allowing other passengers to enjoy their ride without sobs, shrieks, or incessant babbling. If you fail to do this and your child insists on making a spectacle, the other passengers will insist on glaring at you with daggers in their eyes and attempt to quiet the child themselves by any means necessary.
After a long weekend losing myself in the thudding lullaby of the local clubs, I was looking forward to catching a short nap on my commute to work. At the stop after I got on was a large, round woman with frizzy hair and an exhausted expression...toting behind her two children, one boy an one girl. The girl wasn't too bad at first, sitting quietly beside her mother, making her two dolls kiss over and over. Then the bus started moving, unhinging a nerve in the girl causing her to wail in terror the entire time she was on board. The woman did nothing. Meanwhile, the boy began wandering around the bus, climbing into empty seats and startling passengers by popping up behind them and making dinosaur noises. After he grew tired of this, he began racing his imaginary friend to either end of the bus. Growing steadily annoyed and after getting my foot stomped on a few times, I politely asked the mother if she could ask her child to sit down and be quiet. The mother scoffed, "Like I can control him." and then I made my decision. As the bus pulled up to a stop, and the boy raced to the back of the bus, I stuck out my foot and tripped him. He proceeded to burst into tears and roll on the floor holding his now bloody nose and I proceeded to exit the bus a full 10 blocks from my stop.
4) Always. Always always always bathe within the 12 hours prior to boarding the bus. If you wear cologne or perfume, limit yourself to 2 spritz's at most. No one wants to sit next to Pigpen from Peanuts nor does anyone want to sit next to a Bath and Body Works medley.
After a double shift at work, I boarded the bus, happy to be headed home. When I got on, I realized there was only one seat remaining next to a stick thin man in a dirty t-shirt and athletic shorts. I had just spent 8 hours standing so I took the seat beside him. I'd rather sit awkwardly next to someone than stand for one more moment. The minute I sat down, I thought, "I should have stood." He smelled like a 12 year old boy who's sweat glands just developed and had yet to discover deodorant. On top of that there was a musky, unidentifyable stench about him. I was doing my best not to vomit all over him and reach for a pole to cling to so I could stand for the remainder of my commute when he swiftly exited the bus, leaving his wreaking aura behind.
5) Never, under any circumstances are you permitted to engage in a conversation with someone. You may exchange poliete nods and maybe a quiet "hello" if you're feeling particularly kind. The only exception for this rule is if you are seated in an aisle seat and someone is beside you and you need to pull the cord for your stop. You may then, in as few words as possible, ask the person next to you to pull the cord for you. But it is preferred for you to merely tap their shoulder and then meekly point to the cord.
My very first day of work at my job, I was seated opposite a man in nice slacks, a white business shirt with a argyle sweater vest over it. He seemed normal enough so I passed him a kind smile. I suppose he took that as an invitation to find a new friend and proceeded to tell me his entire life story. Unfortunately, his stop was the same as mine and so his tale continued well after we disembarked the bus. The next day, I took a different route.
6) The last rule, and this is more of a personal rule than a generally accepted rule: only relinquish your seat for the disabled, elderly, or the attractive. And if someone approahes that you know is about to break any of these rules, spread your things out in the seat next to you and think wide thoughts.
I have but three words for this rule as to explain it's existance: seemingly homeless man.
As much flack that I give to the people riding the bus, nothing is more annoying than the voice that comes on over the PA system announcing the stops. While inteded to be helpful and a very nice courtesey, it's more like listening to a throat cancer patient trying to recite Shakespeare. The street names come put in a garbled, robotic tone with curious pronounciations. Instead of stopping at Washington and Center, we stop at "Wallowshingmom and Centaur." Luckily, the bus has a scrolling marquee, that, if in working order, displays the stop we're approaching. Some days it a series of lines and dots as it was my first day riding the bus. Since I didn't quite know where I was or where I was going, I freaked out only a little. I ended up leaning over to the man next to me and asking, "Do you know morse code?" Unfortunately, he didn't so I was forced to squint and peer out the windshield of the bus to read the street signs as they whizzed past; another perk to sitting near the front.
Today the man behind me smells heavily of weed reminding me of my glorious college days...I wonder if he'll share....
On my days on the bus, I work at a restaurant located on the bottom level of a very large mall near downtown. It isn't too bad; our customers are mall shoppers and businessmen and women that work in the nearby buildings, so the tips were usually sonehwere in the $80 - $100 range by the end of the shift. The restaurant is located in a prime people-watching spot. Right beside the public bathrooms and facing the ice skating rink. You can only imagine what type of people I watch on our slow days. Among my favorites are the people returning from the bathroom. You can always tell who didn't wash their hands. Usually putting their hands in their pockets or trying to busy themselves with small tugs to the hem of their shirts; I stare at then like they had just smeared feces all over themselves. On occasion, someone would catch me staring and instead of immediately looking away, I'd just stare them down and make them as uncomfortable as they had made me by knowing that they didn't wash their hands.
But if I'm being perfectly honest, you can only glare at feces-hands for so long. After a while, I'd turn my attention to my favorite form of entertainment: stroller collisions. Not only were they violent enough to warrent a screaming match between parents but sometimes the kids would go flying and one would end up ontop of the other.
A mother was pushing her screaming brat past the skating rink one lazy Monday afternoon, talking on the phone and paying no attention to anyone in front of her. She nearly took out a teenager, no doubtly skipping school to peroose the mall. And she definitely didn't see the other mother pushing her twin boys in a side-by-side stroller as she window shopped. The crash was amazing. Both strollers toppled over sending the three children sprawling in the aisle. The first mom dropped her phone while the other's purse emptied itself beside the children. Immediately, without care to the well-being of their children, the women began screaming at each other blaming the other for a cracked phone screen or a stepped on lipstick. It was a good 2 minutes before either of the parents bent down to check on their child. The parenting skills exuded by these two sent me reeling. For once in my life, I felt bad for the kids.
I stopped living my fictional life and started living in reality when I entered college. I simply didn't have time to read. I was spending all of my time drinking, smoking pot and not going to class. It was awesome. I forgot all about my friends Ana Karenina and Mr. Darcy. Sometimes, I'll glance over their hardcover homes and remember all the adventures we've had but to visit them now seems futile and silly. They're mystery is gone. I am like the god I created in my head, I already know what happens to them in the end.
Now I browse the shelves of the library in search of new friends. In the two weeks that I've returned to my literature world, I've grown up in North Carolina with David Sedaris, pet the mice by the river with Lennie and George, and sobbed over Matthew Shepherd's mangled, murdered body.
Yep, the life I live at my bus stop is a simple one. It's not until I board the bus when things get complicated and interesting.
Today as I sat staring at a business man jog across the intersection in his expensive suit and black leather briefcase, a man from the back of the bus shouts, "Ma'am!....Sir, sorry. There's someone running for the bus." He wanted the bus driver to stop and wait for them. I wanted him to keep going. I was already running late for work and didn't feel like being even more late because someone else couldn't bother to show up at their stop on time. The driver stopped anyway and on walked the most monochromatic man I've ever seen in my life. He wore dirty tennis shoes that probably were white in the store but after months of running for nearly missed buses, have turned a dingy gray. His blue jeans were equally faded to the point of turning a dull blueish gray. And of course, his shirt was striped with two shades of gray. In an almost comedic fashion though, his hair was dyed a brilliant shade of highlighter yellow but I could see his roots growing in, dusty, gray roots.
Sometimes I wonder if people own mirrors. He seemed like a pleasant man, happy with his life and his choices. But I couldn't help but giggle slightly, picturing him standing in front of his mirror, taking in his entire outfit and saying, "Yep, this looks good." To be fair, he wasn't the worst dressed man on the bus. An elderly woman in a jacket, hat and t-shirt, all three different shades of pink, and bright purple, nylon pants got on shortly after him. Another man, rolling back and forth in his seat as he slept, was dressed in a white business shirt with a mustard stain on the collar and drool was dripping into his pocket protector. Attractive. I really shouldn't judge these people. I'm no fashionista either. I wore the same pair of jeans and black polo everyday. There were no doubt blotches of food and thin white lines of deodorant on the shirt. And I'm certain there was a quarter sized white spot on the back pocket of my jeans where a pen had exploded and leaked ink all over my wallet, leaving me forced to throw out the wallet and try to bleach the ink out.
Riding the bus is kind of like living in a cartoon. People don't seem to be real, acting and dressing like people you'd only imagine to appear in Peanuts or Foxtrot. Every once and a while, an attractive hipster or sexy businessman will board the 50 to Downtown and I'll spend the entire ride either staring at them over my book or glancing at them every five seconds in hopes that they'd look back at me and we'd both smile, introduce ourselves and spend the next 30 years together. Of course, more often than not, they'd either catch me staring and move to the back of the bus or wouldn't even take notice of me and quietly exit the bus at their stop and continue on with their happy, sexy lives.
The people, while entertaining, can also be the most annoying. If I've learned anything since I started using public transportation, it's the 6 Rules of Riding the Bus:
1) Always have exact change. Waiting for someone who's waiting to receive change from the machine is akin to waiting for the grass to grow or the paint to dry.
Once, after thoroughly cleaning my stop, I stood behind a woman that appeared to be in her mid-thirties, waiting to board the bus. When it was her turn to pay the $1.25 it cost to ride, she proceeded to take out a sandwich sized plastic baggie of nickels...the lowest form of currency the machine would accept. And instead of having it all counted out already, as the rest of us did, she needed to count out all 25 nickels. And occasionally, she'd pull out a euro and say to herself, "That's not a nickel! I must have put it in here by mistake. I just got back from England, you know." I wanted to scream at her, "No one cares, lady! Just pay the fucking fair!" But, because of rule number 5, I was silent. Which leads me to rule #2.
2) Don't ask too many questions. You may ask the driver one question before people start looking at you like you're a complete idiot, so you better make it good. While riding the bus, I almost always sit near the front. It's the most efficient seat; you get on, sit down as quickly as possible and get off just as fast. And one time, I overheard a man, in a very thick Armenian accent, asking the driver so many questions that the driver was forced to close his doors and drive on, leaving the man to cling for dear life to the pole directly beside the driver seat. I was amazed as his tenacity, gripping the pole and continuing his line of questions as if it would save not only his own life but the lives of the other 15 people on the bus.
3) A] If you're traveling alone, bring something to distract yourself, a book, a sandwich, something. If you forgot your distraction, sit by the window and watch for any exciting car crashes that might have occurred during morning rush-hour. If there isn't a widow seat, either stand and stare off into space or sit in an aisle seat and count the fibers in your seat. Do anything but stare openly at people. Through years of peering over books and eavesdropping on my brothers' drinking and smoking in their bedrooms, I've become good at watching people without them knowing about it; only attempt if you think you can get away with it without getting shot (because let's face it, that happens on buses.)
As I rode on my afternoon commute home once, a man got on and sat beside me, it wasn't the big if a deal, the bus was full and I was just getting to the good part in my book. But all of the sudden I felt a pair of eyes on me the way someone feels after reading a crime novel about a peeping-tom. I glance over at the man and his right eye appeared to be staring peacefully out the window but his left eye was situated directly on me. I was startled at first, not quite expecting the man to be staring both at me and the business buildings of downtown at the same time. I did my best to go back to my book but every once and a while, my eyes would find themselves checking back on the eye to see if it was still staring at me; it always was. I wanted to stab his lazy-eye out with the pen in my bus-riding bag.
B] If you happen to be traveling with another adult, you may do your best to try to sit together but do not ask someone to move so that you can sit next to your travel partner. That's just rude.
C] If you are traveling with a child, please follow these instructions carefully. Wrap the child tightly using your strongest arm to prevent such things from happening as: running, jumping, skipping, or flailing. With your other hand, place it firmly over their mouth and pinch their nose closed with your first finger and thumb. This will cause them to fall into a delightfully quiet, coma-like state, allowing other passengers to enjoy their ride without sobs, shrieks, or incessant babbling. If you fail to do this and your child insists on making a spectacle, the other passengers will insist on glaring at you with daggers in their eyes and attempt to quiet the child themselves by any means necessary.
After a long weekend losing myself in the thudding lullaby of the local clubs, I was looking forward to catching a short nap on my commute to work. At the stop after I got on was a large, round woman with frizzy hair and an exhausted expression...toting behind her two children, one boy an one girl. The girl wasn't too bad at first, sitting quietly beside her mother, making her two dolls kiss over and over. Then the bus started moving, unhinging a nerve in the girl causing her to wail in terror the entire time she was on board. The woman did nothing. Meanwhile, the boy began wandering around the bus, climbing into empty seats and startling passengers by popping up behind them and making dinosaur noises. After he grew tired of this, he began racing his imaginary friend to either end of the bus. Growing steadily annoyed and after getting my foot stomped on a few times, I politely asked the mother if she could ask her child to sit down and be quiet. The mother scoffed, "Like I can control him." and then I made my decision. As the bus pulled up to a stop, and the boy raced to the back of the bus, I stuck out my foot and tripped him. He proceeded to burst into tears and roll on the floor holding his now bloody nose and I proceeded to exit the bus a full 10 blocks from my stop.
4) Always. Always always always bathe within the 12 hours prior to boarding the bus. If you wear cologne or perfume, limit yourself to 2 spritz's at most. No one wants to sit next to Pigpen from Peanuts nor does anyone want to sit next to a Bath and Body Works medley.
After a double shift at work, I boarded the bus, happy to be headed home. When I got on, I realized there was only one seat remaining next to a stick thin man in a dirty t-shirt and athletic shorts. I had just spent 8 hours standing so I took the seat beside him. I'd rather sit awkwardly next to someone than stand for one more moment. The minute I sat down, I thought, "I should have stood." He smelled like a 12 year old boy who's sweat glands just developed and had yet to discover deodorant. On top of that there was a musky, unidentifyable stench about him. I was doing my best not to vomit all over him and reach for a pole to cling to so I could stand for the remainder of my commute when he swiftly exited the bus, leaving his wreaking aura behind.
5) Never, under any circumstances are you permitted to engage in a conversation with someone. You may exchange poliete nods and maybe a quiet "hello" if you're feeling particularly kind. The only exception for this rule is if you are seated in an aisle seat and someone is beside you and you need to pull the cord for your stop. You may then, in as few words as possible, ask the person next to you to pull the cord for you. But it is preferred for you to merely tap their shoulder and then meekly point to the cord.
My very first day of work at my job, I was seated opposite a man in nice slacks, a white business shirt with a argyle sweater vest over it. He seemed normal enough so I passed him a kind smile. I suppose he took that as an invitation to find a new friend and proceeded to tell me his entire life story. Unfortunately, his stop was the same as mine and so his tale continued well after we disembarked the bus. The next day, I took a different route.
6) The last rule, and this is more of a personal rule than a generally accepted rule: only relinquish your seat for the disabled, elderly, or the attractive. And if someone approahes that you know is about to break any of these rules, spread your things out in the seat next to you and think wide thoughts.
I have but three words for this rule as to explain it's existance: seemingly homeless man.
As much flack that I give to the people riding the bus, nothing is more annoying than the voice that comes on over the PA system announcing the stops. While inteded to be helpful and a very nice courtesey, it's more like listening to a throat cancer patient trying to recite Shakespeare. The street names come put in a garbled, robotic tone with curious pronounciations. Instead of stopping at Washington and Center, we stop at "Wallowshingmom and Centaur." Luckily, the bus has a scrolling marquee, that, if in working order, displays the stop we're approaching. Some days it a series of lines and dots as it was my first day riding the bus. Since I didn't quite know where I was or where I was going, I freaked out only a little. I ended up leaning over to the man next to me and asking, "Do you know morse code?" Unfortunately, he didn't so I was forced to squint and peer out the windshield of the bus to read the street signs as they whizzed past; another perk to sitting near the front.
Today the man behind me smells heavily of weed reminding me of my glorious college days...I wonder if he'll share....
On my days on the bus, I work at a restaurant located on the bottom level of a very large mall near downtown. It isn't too bad; our customers are mall shoppers and businessmen and women that work in the nearby buildings, so the tips were usually sonehwere in the $80 - $100 range by the end of the shift. The restaurant is located in a prime people-watching spot. Right beside the public bathrooms and facing the ice skating rink. You can only imagine what type of people I watch on our slow days. Among my favorites are the people returning from the bathroom. You can always tell who didn't wash their hands. Usually putting their hands in their pockets or trying to busy themselves with small tugs to the hem of their shirts; I stare at then like they had just smeared feces all over themselves. On occasion, someone would catch me staring and instead of immediately looking away, I'd just stare them down and make them as uncomfortable as they had made me by knowing that they didn't wash their hands.
But if I'm being perfectly honest, you can only glare at feces-hands for so long. After a while, I'd turn my attention to my favorite form of entertainment: stroller collisions. Not only were they violent enough to warrent a screaming match between parents but sometimes the kids would go flying and one would end up ontop of the other.
A mother was pushing her screaming brat past the skating rink one lazy Monday afternoon, talking on the phone and paying no attention to anyone in front of her. She nearly took out a teenager, no doubtly skipping school to peroose the mall. And she definitely didn't see the other mother pushing her twin boys in a side-by-side stroller as she window shopped. The crash was amazing. Both strollers toppled over sending the three children sprawling in the aisle. The first mom dropped her phone while the other's purse emptied itself beside the children. Immediately, without care to the well-being of their children, the women began screaming at each other blaming the other for a cracked phone screen or a stepped on lipstick. It was a good 2 minutes before either of the parents bent down to check on their child. The parenting skills exuded by these two sent me reeling. For once in my life, I felt bad for the kids.
December 22, 2010
Daydreams are more like Nightmares
Before I begin, I must say: I am a terrible blogger. I haven't updated in WEEKS. Mainly because it's been a busy life and a lot of things happened very quickly. I got 2 new jobs (youtube and ChaCha) and I'm moving in with S. Expect more entries about her in the coming months.
But this blog is not about why I'm terrible at blogging (as interesting as that would be.) It's about how my daydreams usually turn into nightmares. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't suddenly jolt out of my daydreams screaming and dripping with sweat. No, but I do often daydream about terrible, terrible events.
For instance, recently during a road trip with S, we pulled over for gas as can be expected. And as she was pumping gas and I was walking inside to use the restroom, I got this image in my head of the gas pump some how spontaneously exploding in a fiery terror, consuming S completely. I saw myself feel the blast, duck out of instinct but also turn around as if in slow motion. And when I saw S consumed in flames, screaming for her life and in tremendous pain, I imagined myself falling to the ground with my mouth gaping open, yelling at the top of my lungs as well. I was in complete shock. What else could I do?........This image disturbed me so much that I stopped dead in my tracks and take just the quickest glance back to make sure that she was still alive and fire-less.
And this happens all the time. I imagine myself diving into a pool, striking my head on the bottom and never surfacing again. I see all of my friends in chic black outfits, standing over me at my funeral.
I imagine my mother perishing in terrible car accidents caused by my brothers' reckless driving.
I see my cat getting into the medicine cabinet and accidentally overdosing on Advil.
Does anyone else see how disturbing this is? I shouldn't have thoughts like this; constantly paranoid of death or dying. Sure, I'll go on the occasional Wikipedia-spiral about various famous massacres or terrorist attacks (Columbine, Oklahoma City Bombing, Waco Siege, etc.) But why do I imagine these terrible things happening to the people I love? Am I that desperate for drama in my life? Do I require tragedy to make my life feel interesting?
Nah...I think I just need to stay away from Wikipedia for a while...
-K
But this blog is not about why I'm terrible at blogging (as interesting as that would be.) It's about how my daydreams usually turn into nightmares. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't suddenly jolt out of my daydreams screaming and dripping with sweat. No, but I do often daydream about terrible, terrible events.
For instance, recently during a road trip with S, we pulled over for gas as can be expected. And as she was pumping gas and I was walking inside to use the restroom, I got this image in my head of the gas pump some how spontaneously exploding in a fiery terror, consuming S completely. I saw myself feel the blast, duck out of instinct but also turn around as if in slow motion. And when I saw S consumed in flames, screaming for her life and in tremendous pain, I imagined myself falling to the ground with my mouth gaping open, yelling at the top of my lungs as well. I was in complete shock. What else could I do?........This image disturbed me so much that I stopped dead in my tracks and take just the quickest glance back to make sure that she was still alive and fire-less.
And this happens all the time. I imagine myself diving into a pool, striking my head on the bottom and never surfacing again. I see all of my friends in chic black outfits, standing over me at my funeral.
I imagine my mother perishing in terrible car accidents caused by my brothers' reckless driving.
I see my cat getting into the medicine cabinet and accidentally overdosing on Advil.
Does anyone else see how disturbing this is? I shouldn't have thoughts like this; constantly paranoid of death or dying. Sure, I'll go on the occasional Wikipedia-spiral about various famous massacres or terrorist attacks (Columbine, Oklahoma City Bombing, Waco Siege, etc.) But why do I imagine these terrible things happening to the people I love? Am I that desperate for drama in my life? Do I require tragedy to make my life feel interesting?
Nah...I think I just need to stay away from Wikipedia for a while...
-K
December 2, 2010
Social Networking
Recently I have come to accept me addiction to the internet, specifically social networking sites. And since I feel I am addicted to this.......thing, I have earned the right to review them. And I will do so now.
YouTube
Ahhh, my first love. I've recently been partnered on YouTube which means that they'll now pay me to put ads in and next to my videos. I love YouTube. I really do. I feel it's a great way to connect and interact with people all over the world. It's a source of entertainment, news, fashion advice, technology advice, even education. YouTube is one of those phenomenons that kind of explodes out of no where...and it's because of that immediate popularity, I wonder just how long it will remain popular. Will it fall into the realm of slap bracelets and gigapets? Or will it prove to be lasting like denim jeans or Google? Either way, I'm giving it 5/5 stars.
*****
Facebook
Oh Facebook. I got my facebook back when you still needed a ".edu" e-mail address. And I watched as it opened it's arms to any active e-mail address and watched as it sold it's precious digital acres to ads and added games and fan pages. Some people find the personalized ads to be creepy and freak out over the privacy settings of their accounts. As for me, I welcome the ads centered around my lifestyle and interests. I can't tell you how many times I've deleted an e-mail because it said, "Interested in larger breasts?" Uh....no. Thank you. I like my "breasts" the size that they are...As for letting any Tom, Dick and Harry make a facebook account, I can't say that I'm against it. The creators (Mark Zuckerberg and his college roommates) of Facebook made a VERY good business choice when they chose to do what seemed like selling out: putting ads on facebook. It didn't take long for Mark to realize the potential of Facebook and I'm sure he saw how much money this could make him. So he did what every other American in his position would have done: went for the dough. I keep my facebook very private, practically unsearchable. And I use it to connect with people that I genuinely care about and have met in real life. For this, I give it 5/5 stars.
*****
Twitter
Twitter is something that I admitingly came into late (and I've already discussed this in this post.) But I quickly became adept at using and have gone through what I like to call the 4 Phases of Twitterdom. Phase 1: You tweet once just to see how it all works out and marvel at your creation. It probably says something along the lines of "Hello!" "So I decided to make a twitter account..." or "Testing....testing..." The people in this phase are the newborns of Twitter. They don't do much, barely opening their eyes, occasionally making a noise. They're cute and need to be coaxed out of their little homes. Phase 2: OBSESSIVE TWEETING! Those people caught in phase 2 tweet every 5 seconds about every thought that comes into their head and every movement they make. They're the toddlers of Twitter. They're just so excited about the world that they have to share every piece of it with everyone they know. They're annoying and seemingly loud and often get unfollowed. Phase 3: Angsty Tweeting. Of all the phases, this one is skipped most often. It's the phase where the tweeter only tweets song lyrics or movie quotes. No original thoughts because "words just aren't enough." These are the teenage years of Twitter. These people find the 140 character count limiting and annoying. They're also often unfollowed due to their lack on interesting things to say. Then Phase 4: Just Relax. This phase is the most pleasant and sought after phase. These are the adults of Twitter. They tweet when something funny happens or exciting news. They tweet provocative thoughts or perhaps something embarrassing that they're willing to share with their friends.This is what twitter was designed for.
All in all, Twitter is actually very useful and entertaining. It's efficient and has yet to get boring. In fact, when I find my Twitter feed starting to bore me, I just go and find new people to follow and that seems to vamp it up enough to seem like a brand new website. But again, I must ask the question: will it last? To be honest? I don't think so. I think it'll last until a new generation finds something else to be cooler. For that, I give 4/5 stars.
****
MySpace
I have but a few words for this website: old. MySpace tried to maximize it's potential by giving the users what they wanted: personalization. However, they took it too far and it forced people to leave to Facebook. I remember it took what seemed like HOURS to load someone's MySpace page due to all of the pictures and backgrounds and music they had put on there. It was ridiculous. MySpace is even trying to do a mash-up with Facebook to try and get more users to come back. Let me tell you, FAIL. 2/5 stars
**
Tumblr
Tumblr, in it's conception was a great idea. And when I started my account, I didn't quite know what to use it as. It seemed like a more complicated version of Twitter but without the perks of getting it sent to my phone. Sure, I could record audio tracks of me speaking and post them but....why do that when I can just text in what I'm thinking to Twitter? It just seemed like another venue for people to post porn and blog about their feelings....which no one cares about. 2/5 stars.
**
Formspring
Again, a great idea in it's conception. A place where people could ask questions to each other in hopes of getting to know each other. But I found that the less people that use this website, the less fun it becomes. Sure, it was GREAT to wake up and have 9 or 10 questions waiting for me. But when it got to be about 1 or 2 questions a month, I was over it. I didn't feel motivated to check the website. And I figured "Maybe I need to ask questions to get questions!" So for about two weeks, I regularly asked people questions. But did I get the same courtesy? No. All I got was an empty inbox and answers that I didn't want to know in the first place. Nice try, formspring. Come back to me when you're more viral. 3/5 stars.
***
DailyBooth
Honestly? I think Dailybooth is a genius idea. They took something that people loved doing (taking pictures of themselves) and allowed them to share them with the world. Some people feel that because of the title, they need to post pictures everyday. And if followers are what you're after, then yes, you should. But if you just want to post goofy pictures of you and your friends and could care less about who sees them, then that works too. I personally use it as a photoblog. I started a photoblog back when I was a sophomore in college about brushing your teeth. I'd take a picture of me posing with my toothbrush in my mouth every day. It kind of fizzled out when I ran out of ideas. But when I discovered Dailybooth, I decided it was time to revamp my old blog. And I seem to have gotten a good response to it. I often get responses of people brushing their teeth in a similar manner. It's fun. It's new. It's goofy. 4/5 stars.
****
MeetUp
This is not a well-known social networking site...yet. But I have a feeling that it has the potential to explode. MeetUp is a website where people can find others of similar interests, lifestyles, etc and, you guessed it, meet up. It's amazing for making new friends in a city where you don't know many people. I use it to find the hidden gay men of this city (there aren't many of us) and to find local YouTube Gatherings. But again, it's a website that gets better with more usage. For that, 3/5 stars.
***
VYou
I've saved this site for last because it is my most recent discovery. VYou is a website much like FormSpring where complete strangers (or people you know) can ask you any question you want and you respond with a video of yourself answering the question. I feel that this has GREAT potential. It's combining two of my favorite things: making new friends and making videos. The only drawback is you HAVE to have a webcam to do it. You can't record your videos on something else and then upload your responses. The website is still in Beta mode right now so uploading may be a feature in the future (say that 5 times fast.) But so far? I love it. 3/5 stars for not really knowing much about it.
***
I hope you enjoyed my reviews and if you've made it this far, you must be a true fan and for that, I love you. I really do. Let me know what you think of these sites. Who knows? You might change my opinion.
-K
YouTube
Ahhh, my first love. I've recently been partnered on YouTube which means that they'll now pay me to put ads in and next to my videos. I love YouTube. I really do. I feel it's a great way to connect and interact with people all over the world. It's a source of entertainment, news, fashion advice, technology advice, even education. YouTube is one of those phenomenons that kind of explodes out of no where...and it's because of that immediate popularity, I wonder just how long it will remain popular. Will it fall into the realm of slap bracelets and gigapets? Or will it prove to be lasting like denim jeans or Google? Either way, I'm giving it 5/5 stars.
*****
Oh Facebook. I got my facebook back when you still needed a ".edu" e-mail address. And I watched as it opened it's arms to any active e-mail address and watched as it sold it's precious digital acres to ads and added games and fan pages. Some people find the personalized ads to be creepy and freak out over the privacy settings of their accounts. As for me, I welcome the ads centered around my lifestyle and interests. I can't tell you how many times I've deleted an e-mail because it said, "Interested in larger breasts?" Uh....no. Thank you. I like my "breasts" the size that they are...As for letting any Tom, Dick and Harry make a facebook account, I can't say that I'm against it. The creators (Mark Zuckerberg and his college roommates) of Facebook made a VERY good business choice when they chose to do what seemed like selling out: putting ads on facebook. It didn't take long for Mark to realize the potential of Facebook and I'm sure he saw how much money this could make him. So he did what every other American in his position would have done: went for the dough. I keep my facebook very private, practically unsearchable. And I use it to connect with people that I genuinely care about and have met in real life. For this, I give it 5/5 stars.
*****
Twitter is something that I admitingly came into late (and I've already discussed this in this post.) But I quickly became adept at using and have gone through what I like to call the 4 Phases of Twitterdom. Phase 1: You tweet once just to see how it all works out and marvel at your creation. It probably says something along the lines of "Hello!" "So I decided to make a twitter account..." or "Testing....testing..." The people in this phase are the newborns of Twitter. They don't do much, barely opening their eyes, occasionally making a noise. They're cute and need to be coaxed out of their little homes. Phase 2: OBSESSIVE TWEETING! Those people caught in phase 2 tweet every 5 seconds about every thought that comes into their head and every movement they make. They're the toddlers of Twitter. They're just so excited about the world that they have to share every piece of it with everyone they know. They're annoying and seemingly loud and often get unfollowed. Phase 3: Angsty Tweeting. Of all the phases, this one is skipped most often. It's the phase where the tweeter only tweets song lyrics or movie quotes. No original thoughts because "words just aren't enough." These are the teenage years of Twitter. These people find the 140 character count limiting and annoying. They're also often unfollowed due to their lack on interesting things to say. Then Phase 4: Just Relax. This phase is the most pleasant and sought after phase. These are the adults of Twitter. They tweet when something funny happens or exciting news. They tweet provocative thoughts or perhaps something embarrassing that they're willing to share with their friends.This is what twitter was designed for.
All in all, Twitter is actually very useful and entertaining. It's efficient and has yet to get boring. In fact, when I find my Twitter feed starting to bore me, I just go and find new people to follow and that seems to vamp it up enough to seem like a brand new website. But again, I must ask the question: will it last? To be honest? I don't think so. I think it'll last until a new generation finds something else to be cooler. For that, I give 4/5 stars.
****
MySpace
I have but a few words for this website: old. MySpace tried to maximize it's potential by giving the users what they wanted: personalization. However, they took it too far and it forced people to leave to Facebook. I remember it took what seemed like HOURS to load someone's MySpace page due to all of the pictures and backgrounds and music they had put on there. It was ridiculous. MySpace is even trying to do a mash-up with Facebook to try and get more users to come back. Let me tell you, FAIL. 2/5 stars
**
Tumblr
Tumblr, in it's conception was a great idea. And when I started my account, I didn't quite know what to use it as. It seemed like a more complicated version of Twitter but without the perks of getting it sent to my phone. Sure, I could record audio tracks of me speaking and post them but....why do that when I can just text in what I'm thinking to Twitter? It just seemed like another venue for people to post porn and blog about their feelings....which no one cares about. 2/5 stars.
**
Formspring
Again, a great idea in it's conception. A place where people could ask questions to each other in hopes of getting to know each other. But I found that the less people that use this website, the less fun it becomes. Sure, it was GREAT to wake up and have 9 or 10 questions waiting for me. But when it got to be about 1 or 2 questions a month, I was over it. I didn't feel motivated to check the website. And I figured "Maybe I need to ask questions to get questions!" So for about two weeks, I regularly asked people questions. But did I get the same courtesy? No. All I got was an empty inbox and answers that I didn't want to know in the first place. Nice try, formspring. Come back to me when you're more viral. 3/5 stars.
***
DailyBooth
Honestly? I think Dailybooth is a genius idea. They took something that people loved doing (taking pictures of themselves) and allowed them to share them with the world. Some people feel that because of the title, they need to post pictures everyday. And if followers are what you're after, then yes, you should. But if you just want to post goofy pictures of you and your friends and could care less about who sees them, then that works too. I personally use it as a photoblog. I started a photoblog back when I was a sophomore in college about brushing your teeth. I'd take a picture of me posing with my toothbrush in my mouth every day. It kind of fizzled out when I ran out of ideas. But when I discovered Dailybooth, I decided it was time to revamp my old blog. And I seem to have gotten a good response to it. I often get responses of people brushing their teeth in a similar manner. It's fun. It's new. It's goofy. 4/5 stars.
****
MeetUp
This is not a well-known social networking site...yet. But I have a feeling that it has the potential to explode. MeetUp is a website where people can find others of similar interests, lifestyles, etc and, you guessed it, meet up. It's amazing for making new friends in a city where you don't know many people. I use it to find the hidden gay men of this city (there aren't many of us) and to find local YouTube Gatherings. But again, it's a website that gets better with more usage. For that, 3/5 stars.
***
VYou
I've saved this site for last because it is my most recent discovery. VYou is a website much like FormSpring where complete strangers (or people you know) can ask you any question you want and you respond with a video of yourself answering the question. I feel that this has GREAT potential. It's combining two of my favorite things: making new friends and making videos. The only drawback is you HAVE to have a webcam to do it. You can't record your videos on something else and then upload your responses. The website is still in Beta mode right now so uploading may be a feature in the future (say that 5 times fast.) But so far? I love it. 3/5 stars for not really knowing much about it.
***
I hope you enjoyed my reviews and if you've made it this far, you must be a true fan and for that, I love you. I really do. Let me know what you think of these sites. Who knows? You might change my opinion.
-K
November 23, 2010
A few of my favorite things...
So today sucked. Like...worse than any other sucky day I've ever had. That's not to say that today was the WORST day of my life, that'd be pathetic and extreme. No. But of all the sucky days I've had, this one sucked the worst.
So to put myself in a better mood, I'm going to list a few of my favorite things:
- kissing boys (surprisingly, I like this more than sex with boys.)
- social networking
- reading a classic novel
- laughing
- the sound of my typewriter
- making desserts with my mother
- watching television with my best friend
- sleeping with my head on someone's lap
- tying my shoelaces
- clean sheets
- going to the movies
- buying books
- eating candy
- catching up with old friends
- lying to strangers on planes (I might have to do a separate blog post about this one.)
- holding my nephew
- blue pens (as opposed to black pens)
- watching the leaves filter the sunlight
- snow
- my stuffed bear
- wrapping presents
- Christmas lights
- coffee with milk and sugar
- British accents
- the color green
- simply existing in the same room as someone that I love
What are some of your favorite things?
-K
So to put myself in a better mood, I'm going to list a few of my favorite things:
- kissing boys (surprisingly, I like this more than sex with boys.)
- social networking
- reading a classic novel
- laughing
- the sound of my typewriter
- making desserts with my mother
- watching television with my best friend
- sleeping with my head on someone's lap
- tying my shoelaces
- clean sheets
- going to the movies
- buying books
- eating candy
- catching up with old friends
- lying to strangers on planes (I might have to do a separate blog post about this one.)
- holding my nephew
- blue pens (as opposed to black pens)
- watching the leaves filter the sunlight
- snow
- my stuffed bear
- wrapping presents
- Christmas lights
- coffee with milk and sugar
- British accents
- the color green
- simply existing in the same room as someone that I love
What are some of your favorite things?
-K
November 21, 2010
On Death and Dying
I have been to exactly four funerals and six grave sites in my life. I have buried two pets. I've watched countless movies and television shows where people have died and been put into the ground or had their ashes spread at various sites. Not once have I cried.
I always feel a little weird when death enters my life. I feel like I should feel sadder. Like I should be a sobbing mess on the floor or hiding in my bed with no apatite or will to move. But usually when I find the need to pull out my black slacks and tie, I find myself gently patting someone on the back and handing them a tissue. I find myself stoic and robotic.
It's not that I'm emotionless...in fact, it's quite the opposite. The most recent funeral I went to was that of my Uncle C. He was the second eldest brother of my mother and the father of two of my favorite cousins. At the funeral, I sat beside my brother, J. Not one for seriousness, J was cracking jokes and trying to get everyone's mind off the sadness that overwhelmed them. Me? I found myself thinking things like, "Did my phone just vibrate? If it did, it was probably twitter. I wonder what S is doing right now. She's probably sleeping. Jealous. I wish I was sleeping. I wonder if I'll have time to nap after this. When does Grey's Anatomy start? Next week? Next month? What happened in the last episode? What day is it? Tuesday? Shit, I've gotta make a video for Thursday." Death just doesn't effect me. I don't know if I emotionally cut myself off enough that the loss of their life is not something that brings me to tears or if I just haven't been close enough to those that have died for me to have a true reaction.
I find this to be especially true for pets. Recently, I awoke one night to my mother holding my cat, B, in her arms and sobbing. B was twitching all over and looked scared out of her wits. I asked my mother what's wrong and she said that she didn't know but B was having seizures. At first we didn't know what we were going to do. We couldn't think of what could have possibly happened to the cat to cause this and it came to us that B just might die. My mother, the animal lover she is, sobbed uncontrollably. Me? I just sat there. Petting B, thinking about where we were going to bury her and what we were going to have to say to my brother who was asleep at the time. (By the way, it turns out that my mother had accidentally given B the wrong flea medicine and we took her to the vet. She's doing just fine now.)
Don't get me wrong, I love my cat. I really do. I pet and love on her every day. I snuggle with her in the afternoons and play with her in the evenings. I even give her a proper bath about once a month. But the idea of her dying just really has no effect on me. I suppose something taught me a long time ago that death is a natural part of life and it isn't anything to cry over.
Still though...it'd be nice to feel something at the idea of losing a loved one.
-K
I always feel a little weird when death enters my life. I feel like I should feel sadder. Like I should be a sobbing mess on the floor or hiding in my bed with no apatite or will to move. But usually when I find the need to pull out my black slacks and tie, I find myself gently patting someone on the back and handing them a tissue. I find myself stoic and robotic.
It's not that I'm emotionless...in fact, it's quite the opposite. The most recent funeral I went to was that of my Uncle C. He was the second eldest brother of my mother and the father of two of my favorite cousins. At the funeral, I sat beside my brother, J. Not one for seriousness, J was cracking jokes and trying to get everyone's mind off the sadness that overwhelmed them. Me? I found myself thinking things like, "Did my phone just vibrate? If it did, it was probably twitter. I wonder what S is doing right now. She's probably sleeping. Jealous. I wish I was sleeping. I wonder if I'll have time to nap after this. When does Grey's Anatomy start? Next week? Next month? What happened in the last episode? What day is it? Tuesday? Shit, I've gotta make a video for Thursday." Death just doesn't effect me. I don't know if I emotionally cut myself off enough that the loss of their life is not something that brings me to tears or if I just haven't been close enough to those that have died for me to have a true reaction.
I find this to be especially true for pets. Recently, I awoke one night to my mother holding my cat, B, in her arms and sobbing. B was twitching all over and looked scared out of her wits. I asked my mother what's wrong and she said that she didn't know but B was having seizures. At first we didn't know what we were going to do. We couldn't think of what could have possibly happened to the cat to cause this and it came to us that B just might die. My mother, the animal lover she is, sobbed uncontrollably. Me? I just sat there. Petting B, thinking about where we were going to bury her and what we were going to have to say to my brother who was asleep at the time. (By the way, it turns out that my mother had accidentally given B the wrong flea medicine and we took her to the vet. She's doing just fine now.)
Don't get me wrong, I love my cat. I really do. I pet and love on her every day. I snuggle with her in the afternoons and play with her in the evenings. I even give her a proper bath about once a month. But the idea of her dying just really has no effect on me. I suppose something taught me a long time ago that death is a natural part of life and it isn't anything to cry over.
Still though...it'd be nice to feel something at the idea of losing a loved one.
-K
November 19, 2010
Getting Dressed
Like any homo worth his salt, it takes me FOREVER to decide what to wear when I'm aiming to look cute. Granted, sometimes, I can get ready in five minutes or less but that's usually when I don't feel like trying and have resorted to literally throwing things on and hoping they land on the correct body parts.
However, recently I've noticed that it takes me a lot longer to get ready when I'm going out. Today I pondered on this fact for a while (also while staring at my closet trying to imagine each and every option for an outfit that I own.) And the only reasoning I can come up with is that I so rarely wear real clothes nowadays. I wake up (usually in my underwear) and put on my work uniform. After work, I come home and put on sweats until about 10pm where I strip down to my undies and get ready for bed. I'm either sporting a red polo and black slacks or my sweatpants. The opportunity to wear jeans and a t-shirt or a cute sweater or some amazing layering or even my tennis shoes comes so rarely that when I DO have the opportunity, I find myself overwhelmed with the possibilities.
I'm finding that I'm starting to wear the same 4 shirts when I go out. I mean, it makes sense; they're soft, adorable on me, current, and I make them look pretty effortless. But I can't keep wearing these same 4 shirts! I mean, sure I can mix up the colors but it's basically the same outfit and I'm fairly certain that my friends will see right through that. I only hang out with TWO people in this town and they can't keep seeing me in the same stuff all the time. So here I stand, staring blankly at my closet, imagining every piece of clothing I own on my body, trying to come up with a new outfit that no one's seen me in before. Being a homosexual is exhausting sometimes...
-K
However, recently I've noticed that it takes me a lot longer to get ready when I'm going out. Today I pondered on this fact for a while (also while staring at my closet trying to imagine each and every option for an outfit that I own.) And the only reasoning I can come up with is that I so rarely wear real clothes nowadays. I wake up (usually in my underwear) and put on my work uniform. After work, I come home and put on sweats until about 10pm where I strip down to my undies and get ready for bed. I'm either sporting a red polo and black slacks or my sweatpants. The opportunity to wear jeans and a t-shirt or a cute sweater or some amazing layering or even my tennis shoes comes so rarely that when I DO have the opportunity, I find myself overwhelmed with the possibilities.
I'm finding that I'm starting to wear the same 4 shirts when I go out. I mean, it makes sense; they're soft, adorable on me, current, and I make them look pretty effortless. But I can't keep wearing these same 4 shirts! I mean, sure I can mix up the colors but it's basically the same outfit and I'm fairly certain that my friends will see right through that. I only hang out with TWO people in this town and they can't keep seeing me in the same stuff all the time. So here I stand, staring blankly at my closet, imagining every piece of clothing I own on my body, trying to come up with a new outfit that no one's seen me in before. Being a homosexual is exhausting sometimes...
-K
November 17, 2010
Sometimes, these things happen.
Not for the first time in my life, I experienced bigotry. Hopefully, it's the last time I experience it in the work place.
Before I hurl myself in to a ranting story of what happened during the dinner shift at the restaurant in which I work, I must tell you, in case you weren't aware, that in the state of Texas, I can be fired for being a homosexual and I may not sue them for it. However, thankfully, in the cities of Houston, Dallas, El Paso, San Antonio and Fort Worth, I cannot be fired because I'm "different." (They passed individual laws protecting their citizens from bigotry like this.) This doesn't have anything to do with the story as my experience deals with a bigot "guest," as we're required to call them, and not with any of my co-workers.
In my place of work, I am a host. I greet people at the door, welcome them to our establishment, and walk the party to a predetermined table to wait to be fed like swine. I rarely engage in conversation with the patrons of the restaurant for one reason and one reason only: I don't care. I don't care about your movie plans, I don't care about the hurry you're in, I actually don't care that your clearly overweight child is "starving" and beginning to throw a fit because you've stopped shoveling food in it's mouth for five minutes. It's not my job to care. It's my job to pretend to care long enough for you to get out of my face and continue being the wasteful glutton you are.
During a particular bad rush one night, I was manning my post at the host stand, greeting "guests" happily, taking down their names and handing them black squares that vibrate and light up when their table is ready. In walks a large, serious looking man with an accent so thick, I almost didn't understand him....and I'm from Texas. He grumbles something about how long the wait is and as politely as I can, ask him "For how many?" (Side note for idiots: the larger your party, the longer you'll have to wait.) He mumbles THREE times to me a number after which his wife, annoyed at my inability to understand her knuckle-walker of a husband, steps up and shouts in my face "HE SAID SEVEN!" I take a step back, smile and write down their name and hand them a black cube. They step back about one giant step and stare at me as I continue to take names. In most locations of the restaurant that I work, the largest tables we have available seat 6 adults...slightly uncomfortably but in a rush, it'll due. And so as I'm seating people, I consciously keep from seating two of these 6 person tables so that the moment they're clean, I can pull them together and seat the neanderthal and his wasp of a wife.
I had quoted the party at just under 45 minutes and after half an hour, the wasp flits over to me. Her large head looked as if it were about to topple her entire body, or snap her back at the very least. "Uh...how much longer?" she asks, her giant head wavering back and forth with attitude. I explain to her that it'll still be at least another 15 minutes and that I'm trying to seat them as fast as possible.
In every hosts' life, there comes a time when you have to skip over a large party to seat other smaller parties on the list. It happens. It's not our fault you decided to bring your entire fuckin family to a restaurant at 8:00pm on a Saturday. Anyway, so I skip over the family of 7 and seat a kind old couple in a tiny booth made for two people off in a corner. When I came back to my host stand, the knuckle-walker of a man was fuming, tapping his foot and giving me the quick up-down. I ask him with a smile, "Is there something I can help you with sir?" Here was his response....with reality added in parenthesis.
"UH, YEAH! WE WERE HERE A FULL HOUR AND A HALF (40 minutes) BEFORE THAT COUPLE! AND YOU SAID IT WAS GONNA BE 2O MINUTES (30-45 minutes.) WE COULD HAVE SAT IN THAT BOOTH (no they couldn't.) THEY SHOULD MOVE (continue eating their dinner in peace) AND SEAT US THERE, YOU FAGGOT (genuinely nice person who's just doing his job.)"
As difficult as it was for me, I smiled. I grinned like a fucking idiot. As if I didn't even hear what he had said to me, what he called me....in front of a restaurant full of people. As kindly as I could, I told the barbarian that I would go get the manager and see if he could rectify the situation. The man stomped back over to his wife who was beaming with pride at what her husband had just done.
I retreated to the back of the kitchen where I explained the situation and what had happened to the manager on duty. The moment I told him what the ignorant man had called me, the manager smiled and said, "I'll handle this." And led me back to the host stand.
I only WISH I could have heard the entire conversation that went on between the man and my manager but I was busy seating people and taking down names. I did, however, catch the end of the conversation. My manager asked the man repeatedly if he had, indeed, called me a faggot. After asking about 7 times, the man finally relented and said, "Yes, I called him a faggot. I mean, look at him." My manager did, smiled at me, and turned back to the man. I held my breath. Depending on what came out of my managers mouth next would determine if I was going to quit on the spot or owe a ton of gratitude towards him.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Needless to say, I'm grateful to have such a caring manager and one who's not afraid to stand up to bigotry and recognize that words like these should never be used, in any setting and in any company. You just never know who you're going to piss off. But I understand, that sometimes, these things happen....I just refuse to take them lying down.
-K
Before I hurl myself in to a ranting story of what happened during the dinner shift at the restaurant in which I work, I must tell you, in case you weren't aware, that in the state of Texas, I can be fired for being a homosexual and I may not sue them for it. However, thankfully, in the cities of Houston, Dallas, El Paso, San Antonio and Fort Worth, I cannot be fired because I'm "different." (They passed individual laws protecting their citizens from bigotry like this.) This doesn't have anything to do with the story as my experience deals with a bigot "guest," as we're required to call them, and not with any of my co-workers.
In my place of work, I am a host. I greet people at the door, welcome them to our establishment, and walk the party to a predetermined table to wait to be fed like swine. I rarely engage in conversation with the patrons of the restaurant for one reason and one reason only: I don't care. I don't care about your movie plans, I don't care about the hurry you're in, I actually don't care that your clearly overweight child is "starving" and beginning to throw a fit because you've stopped shoveling food in it's mouth for five minutes. It's not my job to care. It's my job to pretend to care long enough for you to get out of my face and continue being the wasteful glutton you are.
During a particular bad rush one night, I was manning my post at the host stand, greeting "guests" happily, taking down their names and handing them black squares that vibrate and light up when their table is ready. In walks a large, serious looking man with an accent so thick, I almost didn't understand him....and I'm from Texas. He grumbles something about how long the wait is and as politely as I can, ask him "For how many?" (Side note for idiots: the larger your party, the longer you'll have to wait.) He mumbles THREE times to me a number after which his wife, annoyed at my inability to understand her knuckle-walker of a husband, steps up and shouts in my face "HE SAID SEVEN!" I take a step back, smile and write down their name and hand them a black cube. They step back about one giant step and stare at me as I continue to take names. In most locations of the restaurant that I work, the largest tables we have available seat 6 adults...slightly uncomfortably but in a rush, it'll due. And so as I'm seating people, I consciously keep from seating two of these 6 person tables so that the moment they're clean, I can pull them together and seat the neanderthal and his wasp of a wife.
I had quoted the party at just under 45 minutes and after half an hour, the wasp flits over to me. Her large head looked as if it were about to topple her entire body, or snap her back at the very least. "Uh...how much longer?" she asks, her giant head wavering back and forth with attitude. I explain to her that it'll still be at least another 15 minutes and that I'm trying to seat them as fast as possible.
In every hosts' life, there comes a time when you have to skip over a large party to seat other smaller parties on the list. It happens. It's not our fault you decided to bring your entire fuckin family to a restaurant at 8:00pm on a Saturday. Anyway, so I skip over the family of 7 and seat a kind old couple in a tiny booth made for two people off in a corner. When I came back to my host stand, the knuckle-walker of a man was fuming, tapping his foot and giving me the quick up-down. I ask him with a smile, "Is there something I can help you with sir?" Here was his response....with reality added in parenthesis.
"UH, YEAH! WE WERE HERE A FULL HOUR AND A HALF (40 minutes) BEFORE THAT COUPLE! AND YOU SAID IT WAS GONNA BE 2O MINUTES (30-45 minutes.) WE COULD HAVE SAT IN THAT BOOTH (no they couldn't.) THEY SHOULD MOVE (continue eating their dinner in peace) AND SEAT US THERE, YOU FAGGOT (genuinely nice person who's just doing his job.)"
As difficult as it was for me, I smiled. I grinned like a fucking idiot. As if I didn't even hear what he had said to me, what he called me....in front of a restaurant full of people. As kindly as I could, I told the barbarian that I would go get the manager and see if he could rectify the situation. The man stomped back over to his wife who was beaming with pride at what her husband had just done.
I retreated to the back of the kitchen where I explained the situation and what had happened to the manager on duty. The moment I told him what the ignorant man had called me, the manager smiled and said, "I'll handle this." And led me back to the host stand.
I only WISH I could have heard the entire conversation that went on between the man and my manager but I was busy seating people and taking down names. I did, however, catch the end of the conversation. My manager asked the man repeatedly if he had, indeed, called me a faggot. After asking about 7 times, the man finally relented and said, "Yes, I called him a faggot. I mean, look at him." My manager did, smiled at me, and turned back to the man. I held my breath. Depending on what came out of my managers mouth next would determine if I was going to quit on the spot or owe a ton of gratitude towards him.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Needless to say, I'm grateful to have such a caring manager and one who's not afraid to stand up to bigotry and recognize that words like these should never be used, in any setting and in any company. You just never know who you're going to piss off. But I understand, that sometimes, these things happen....I just refuse to take them lying down.
-K
November 14, 2010
Trendsetter
Okay, as much as everyone likes to label me as the vain, self-centered gay man, I really don't see myself that way. And honestly, I don't really see myself as Holier-than-thou in the slightest but...there is, on occasion, evidence to the contrary.
Like most people my age, I had to wait until I got a college e-mail address to get my facebook and so by the time I got onto the site, nearly every college student in America had an account. But I know for a fact that I was the first in my circle of friends to get their account and set it up completely. I experienced a similar event with LiveJournal, Xanga, and MySpace. All of these I got at least two months before I knew anyone that had an account on these websites.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that I was late to Twitter. I really was. Thousands of people had Twitter accounts before I ever did. However, I only knew (irl) of one person that had an account and she was actually the one that convinced me to get one. And it seemed to me that the WEEK after I got my account, everyone I knew had a Twitter account and were tweeting all the time and coming to me with all these questions about how to work all of the sites features and such. It was kind of surprising.
And as much as I'd like to think that I don't have this much sway over my friends, I can't help but recognize that none of them were willing to join these sites until after I had established my account. And ironically, as I write this blog, I'm noticing more and more of my friends just happen to also want to start a blog.
Do I really hold this much sway over my friends? Or am I just by happenstance slightly ahead of the curve? No one could know for sure...
-K
Like most people my age, I had to wait until I got a college e-mail address to get my facebook and so by the time I got onto the site, nearly every college student in America had an account. But I know for a fact that I was the first in my circle of friends to get their account and set it up completely. I experienced a similar event with LiveJournal, Xanga, and MySpace. All of these I got at least two months before I knew anyone that had an account on these websites.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that I was late to Twitter. I really was. Thousands of people had Twitter accounts before I ever did. However, I only knew (irl) of one person that had an account and she was actually the one that convinced me to get one. And it seemed to me that the WEEK after I got my account, everyone I knew had a Twitter account and were tweeting all the time and coming to me with all these questions about how to work all of the sites features and such. It was kind of surprising.
And as much as I'd like to think that I don't have this much sway over my friends, I can't help but recognize that none of them were willing to join these sites until after I had established my account. And ironically, as I write this blog, I'm noticing more and more of my friends just happen to also want to start a blog.
Do I really hold this much sway over my friends? Or am I just by happenstance slightly ahead of the curve? No one could know for sure...
-K
November 9, 2010
Straight guys
One thing I'll never be able to wrap my brain around is why straight guys seem to think that because they are male, every gay man will find them attractive and will come on to them in a very aggressive manner.
Most people will say that it's ignorance. But I can't help but wonder if it's just arrogance mixed with insecurity. Guys that think they're god's gift to women probably think that they're god's gift to gay men as well. And for those that are insecure, they've probably got some sort of repressed feelings. Those I feel the most pity for. I know how hard it is to hide in the closet. And I know how scary it is to finally crack the door and take a step out.
But to those that think that because they're hot, any and all gay guys want them...let me shed some light:
1) You're not my type. The fact that you like pussy automatically makes you "not my type." I like guys that like guys. Not guys that like girls. Liking guys that like girls doesn't make good business sense...if you know what I mean.
2) The fact that you think of yourself as "totally hot," makes you totally ugly. There is beauty in humility.
3) If I'm nice to you, it's because I feel like you're a cool guy, not because I want to get in your pants. My goal isn't always sex. Sometimes I like to make friends. But because of your paranoia, I don't want to be friends with you any more.
4) I can find you attractive and still not want to do anything sexual with you. I find women attractive and still have no desire to go to bed with them. I like beautiful things, I can't help it. So get over yourself.
5) Sometimes, when I'm really really really REALLY REALLY drunk, I may make advances. Don't take this personally. When I'm that drunk, I'd make advances at a good tree. You're not special and I won't remember in the morning. Just politely remove me from your lap and tell me to go to bed. I'd do the same thing to your girlfriend if she were making passes at me...just sayin.
6) Yes, I'm best friends with your girlfriend. Yes, I've seen her in her underwear (or less) and yes she tells me everything. Here telling me these things is no different than her telling her female best friend. If you're embarrassed about something, take it up with your girlfriend, not me. I didn't tie her down and force her to tell me.
6.a) Being jealous of me will not make your girlfriend love you more. In fact, it's probably a big turn off. It's best to just try to stay away from the situation and try to ignore it and any feelings it brings up.
6.b) If you haven't seen your girlfriend in her undies and I have and you're jealous, I want you to think back to that weekend y'all spent at the beach. Swimsuit is the same as a bra and panties. So you've seen just as much as I have.
7) Trust me, I'm handling AT MINIMUM 75% of her crazy. If I didn't exist, there's no way you'd still be with her. If anything, you should be taking notes.
8) Sometimes, I will want to do manly things (e.g. play baseball, watch football, drink beer) and if I invite you to do such things with me, it's your duty as a decent human being to not make fun of me while we are doing so and to pretend that this is completely normal and fun.
8.a) This is not a two-way street. If you ask me to go shopping with you, I will make fun of your lack of fashion sense and I will tell your girlfriend of all the crazy shit you tried to buy. However, I will help you and I will make you look at least 50% better.
I hope this has been helpful. If you found this helpful, please feel free to forward this post to any and all of your friends.
-K
Most people will say that it's ignorance. But I can't help but wonder if it's just arrogance mixed with insecurity. Guys that think they're god's gift to women probably think that they're god's gift to gay men as well. And for those that are insecure, they've probably got some sort of repressed feelings. Those I feel the most pity for. I know how hard it is to hide in the closet. And I know how scary it is to finally crack the door and take a step out.
But to those that think that because they're hot, any and all gay guys want them...let me shed some light:
1) You're not my type. The fact that you like pussy automatically makes you "not my type." I like guys that like guys. Not guys that like girls. Liking guys that like girls doesn't make good business sense...if you know what I mean.
2) The fact that you think of yourself as "totally hot," makes you totally ugly. There is beauty in humility.
3) If I'm nice to you, it's because I feel like you're a cool guy, not because I want to get in your pants. My goal isn't always sex. Sometimes I like to make friends. But because of your paranoia, I don't want to be friends with you any more.
4) I can find you attractive and still not want to do anything sexual with you. I find women attractive and still have no desire to go to bed with them. I like beautiful things, I can't help it. So get over yourself.
5) Sometimes, when I'm really really really REALLY REALLY drunk, I may make advances. Don't take this personally. When I'm that drunk, I'd make advances at a good tree. You're not special and I won't remember in the morning. Just politely remove me from your lap and tell me to go to bed. I'd do the same thing to your girlfriend if she were making passes at me...just sayin.
6) Yes, I'm best friends with your girlfriend. Yes, I've seen her in her underwear (or less) and yes she tells me everything. Here telling me these things is no different than her telling her female best friend. If you're embarrassed about something, take it up with your girlfriend, not me. I didn't tie her down and force her to tell me.
6.a) Being jealous of me will not make your girlfriend love you more. In fact, it's probably a big turn off. It's best to just try to stay away from the situation and try to ignore it and any feelings it brings up.
6.b) If you haven't seen your girlfriend in her undies and I have and you're jealous, I want you to think back to that weekend y'all spent at the beach. Swimsuit is the same as a bra and panties. So you've seen just as much as I have.
7) Trust me, I'm handling AT MINIMUM 75% of her crazy. If I didn't exist, there's no way you'd still be with her. If anything, you should be taking notes.
8) Sometimes, I will want to do manly things (e.g. play baseball, watch football, drink beer) and if I invite you to do such things with me, it's your duty as a decent human being to not make fun of me while we are doing so and to pretend that this is completely normal and fun.
8.a) This is not a two-way street. If you ask me to go shopping with you, I will make fun of your lack of fashion sense and I will tell your girlfriend of all the crazy shit you tried to buy. However, I will help you and I will make you look at least 50% better.
I hope this has been helpful. If you found this helpful, please feel free to forward this post to any and all of your friends.
-K
November 8, 2010
The gym
Ironically, of all the places in the world to spend my time, the last place I want to go is the gym. It's not that I'm lazy, I'm really not. But working out puts me in a bad mood. Always. Every time. Without fail.
It took me many a work out to decide what it was that put me in a bad mood every time I worked out. And eventually I figured it out: I think too much. Like when I do most mindless activities, and yes working out is mindless because of it's repetition, I tend to let my mind wander and think through things. Usually, this is a delightful break from ignoring my problems to deal with them later. But when I'm working out, I tend to think about all of the problems in my life: work, my lack of a boyfriend, my choice to leave school, a fight I had with my best friend, etc. And nearly every time, I never come up with a solution. So I complete my workout, without figuring out any solutions only to dwell on my problems for hours later.
So, instead of feeling rejuvenated and all of the pleasant endorphins that I'm supposed to feel, I am sweaty and frustrated, a combination no one wants.
I've tried numerous things to try and change my mindset while working out. I listen to upbeat, peppy, motivating music. I try smiling throughout my workout. I even tried attacking the entire situation with a positive attitude.
But without fail, my mind wanders to the problems of my life and puts me in the worst mood possible. I simply cannot explain it. Soon, I'll try completing the Couch to 5K workout regime. I'll try to employ all of my tricks and tomfoolery to keep myself in a good mood. And I'm hoping that doing this won't make me hate my favorite music. So here's to not hating something that everyone loves doing.
-K
It took me many a work out to decide what it was that put me in a bad mood every time I worked out. And eventually I figured it out: I think too much. Like when I do most mindless activities, and yes working out is mindless because of it's repetition, I tend to let my mind wander and think through things. Usually, this is a delightful break from ignoring my problems to deal with them later. But when I'm working out, I tend to think about all of the problems in my life: work, my lack of a boyfriend, my choice to leave school, a fight I had with my best friend, etc. And nearly every time, I never come up with a solution. So I complete my workout, without figuring out any solutions only to dwell on my problems for hours later.
So, instead of feeling rejuvenated and all of the pleasant endorphins that I'm supposed to feel, I am sweaty and frustrated, a combination no one wants.
I've tried numerous things to try and change my mindset while working out. I listen to upbeat, peppy, motivating music. I try smiling throughout my workout. I even tried attacking the entire situation with a positive attitude.
But without fail, my mind wanders to the problems of my life and puts me in the worst mood possible. I simply cannot explain it. Soon, I'll try completing the Couch to 5K workout regime. I'll try to employ all of my tricks and tomfoolery to keep myself in a good mood. And I'm hoping that doing this won't make me hate my favorite music. So here's to not hating something that everyone loves doing.
-K
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