Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Just Two Guys Wearing Bubble Jackets

"Look at that poor girl. She looks so insecure."

"Why would you say that? You don't even know her."

"Well it's just how she's standing. Look how she's got her arms crossed over her stomach and she's kind of slouching and not talking to anyone and looking around nervously. You don't think she looks insecure?"

"Oh, I don't judge people. It's wrong and people shouldn't be judged."

If you're one of these people who prance around spouting off this, excuse me, shit, then I suggest you take a stroll in the ghetto with money and crack in one of your hands and a small baby in the other at one in the morning and approach a couple of guys standing by a bench minding their own business and tell them you're from out of town and in need of a payphone. What? Oh, you wouldn't do that? Well why not they're just two guys wearing bubble jackets having a friendly conversation, that's all. Wait, what? Oh, you think it's dangerous? Oh, well why would you think that? Is it because you're judging? Is that what it is? Are you being a judger? Oh well I think you are a horrible person and you're going to Hell for that judgement you just made about the two nice men in the ghetto. That's right, Hell.

"Welcome to Limbo! Here is where we decide whether you belong in Heaven with God and Jesus and angels and all you can eat buffets or if you will be DAMNED TO HELL."

"Thank you. It's nice to be here."

"Now, let's take a look at your Life's Resume, shall we? Let's did community service for 8 years, good, good. You also donated 2 million dollars to an orphanage, good, good. You were faithful to your husband the entire 65 years you were married, you respected thy neighbor, you never once mixed colors with darks when you did the wash, highly impressive. You were never gluttonous, never had too much pride, never greedy, never envious, never slothy, never wrath-like, and you never lusted. Very good. Well, looks like you get to meet The Man Up T---wait...hold on a second...oh, dear. It says here you saw a cute boy at a party your freshmen year of college and you immediately assumed he'd have sex with you. You judged."

"I'm so sorry! It was an accident, I didn't mean to!"

"Looks like you just bought yourself a one-way ticket TO HELL!"

Judging is merely a part of our animal instincts. Or our learned shallowness. One of the two, it doesn't really matter. You can't HELP but to judge, so judge it out! I can tell I'm judged every time I walk into a comic book store. It's just that look. That look of, "You don't belong here you're not even wearing glasses or pajama pants!" That look of, "I bet you don't even own ONE action figure." That look of, "You think you're so cool coming in to our Comic Book Sanctuary and judging us like you're better than us all!" That's right. You judge someone, guess what? They probably judged you before you even judged them, not to mention the person you judged a second ago who had judged the last person you judged who beat you to the judging, not that they didn't beat that other guy who judged them because they admitted to having their mom on speed dial. ("He must be queer.") Or the girl with no shirt on. ("She must be a slut.") Or the guy with the empty handle of vodka in his hand. ("He must be drunk.") I mean come ON! What's the difference between a judgement and an inference? We don't just hear a name and think, "Oh, your friend's name is Sarah? She must be a pothead." Unless you hear a name like, "Susie Hope Ann Lou" where I think it's perfectly acceptable to assume that she likes her chicken fried and crispy. Which yes, would be judging. 

I call judging simply a matter of being aware of your surroundings, and to know whether or not that guy is cocky enough to avoid you all night but stare at you the entire time you're talking to someone else. It's okay. Don't feel bad. If you like to sleep with a teddy bear at night, I will make the judgement that you didn't get enough love as a child. And if you read my blog and hate it, I will make the judgement that you're a retarded moron who has no friends and no life. I judge. You judge. We all judge.

A Seventh Wind

Pulling an all nighter + going to school that morning + not napping when you get home + going out that night till midnight = ENERGY.

I know; it makes no sense. (The above equation does not include the two 5-hour energy bottles, the three Red Bulls, the tall cup of coffee, the one Diet Mountain Dew, and the one pack of that gum that has as much caffeine in each piece as a cup of coffee does. That may have factored into it somehow.) Plus, I had a lot of adrenaline pumping through my veins due to the fact that I just went to the midnight showing of The Watchmen. And I don't care what all you graphic novel worshippers have to say about it. How about instead of whining about how they mispronounced the 'a' in Rarshach, you move out of your mom's basement? It's a chiche, I know, but where do cliches come from? FROM REAL LIFE, BITCHES. So stop complaining because now not only do you look like a nerd, but you sound like a nerd, and one of those can make you cool but both of them? NO. (I mean, do I really care if the novel never said anything about the song, "Hallelujah" playing during that one steamy sex scene with all the sex? NO. Sure, the song was random, but if you were some ugly "but really nice" guy getting it on with some hot "but really hot" chick who normally gets it on with a dude with five hands then what would you be thinking? You'd be thinking, 'Hallelujah' that's what you'd be thinking.) Basically all I'm trying to say here is: that movie kicked ASS. 

Now when I say all of this equals "energy" I am in no way talking about energy throughout the entire day. IN NO WAY.

5:15 am

"This show is good."


"He's cute."

"Really cute."

"So is that other guy."

"They're all really cute."

"I wish all guys were really cute."

"They're not."

"I know."




"I think we should make some coffee now."


Willow begins to brew the coffee, as I sit staring intently at the coffee pot. I would call it more of a 'gaze.' Yes, I was gazing at the coffee pot, slouched so far down into the couch that one may infer that I was born without a neck. Or that instead of a neck, I had another chin where my neck should have been placed.

"It's done!"

"It's done!"



We would have ran to the coffee if we could have, but our legs were asleep. So we slowly, slowly, slooowwwllllly made it over there. Inch. By inch. By inch.


That line would be said in slow-mo if this were a movie.




"Fuck what?"


"What. What. What's wrong with the coffee. What is it. Willow, seriously. What. Really what. WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE COFFEE, WILLOW."

"There was already water in here from yesterday so when I put water in, it doubled it. Look."

"It's murky."

"Cause it's all water."


Slow-mo, as well. But with tears.

"It's cool. I'll make some more."


Have you caught on by now?





"There's no more coffee!"


"I used the last of it!"

"There's not one single ground in there."

"Not one."


Yes, slow-mo. But this time I just collapse to the floor.

"That's it. We're going to Starbucks."




"Help me up."

6:00 am

"I'm glad we came here."

"I know I feel SO much better."

"Yeah, as long as I'm drinking sodas all day I'll be totally cool. Like, I feel completely normal. And I'm gonna be normal all day FOR SURE."

7:00 am

"How was the movie last night?"

"Man it was so good there was this blue guy and when the movie was over these two girls were talking and one said did you like it and the other said i saw way too many blue dicks cause you know well I guess you don't know cause you didn't see it which you totally should though cause it's amazing but the guy is always flashing his dick cause he's naked and he's blue and so that was just really immature of that girl because that movie have you seen it oh yeah you haven't man I'm tired when I was little I used to sing Mary Had A Little Lamb to myself and cry whenever something died in the backyard like that one time I found this dead litter of bunnies in it, it being the backyard and so I sang that song and it was a morbid moment in my life."

8:00 am


9:00 am


10:00 am

"Ms. Hamlet, may I go buy a drink?"


"But the bell hasn't even rung yet!"

"I said no."

"Are you serious?"

"What is your deal, Natasha?"

"I'm just really thirsty and I don't see why I can't go buy a drink."

"Why are you spazzing out?"


"Okay you need to sit down right now and calm yourself."


"Obviously you have something going on in your life besides the drink."

"No. I'm just. THIRSTY."

"What is your problem?"

"What is YOUR problem?"

"Excuse me? You know you can't buy a drink once class has started."

"Wow that's so easy for YOU to say, you've got your Venti Starbucks coffee right there on your desk so you don't care if anyone else might need a drink cause you got what you want!"

"You're really pissed off and you need to calm down."

"You're the one pissing me off!"

"Get out."

At least I got to buy my fucking soda pop.

12:00 pm

"How do you feel?"

"Exhausted. How do you feel?"

"Tired, but I took a nap last period so I feel better."

"You took a nap?!"

"Yeah, it was so nice."



"You can't take naps! That's not fair!"

"You can take a nap, too!"

"I can't sleep in school I'm paranoid someone will stick a pencil in my ear like they did to Hannah Davis!"

"That's not my fault!"


6:00 pm

"I'm home!"

"Hey Dad."

"Have you taken a nap today?"


"And you expect to go out tonight?"

"Well yeah, I feel great!"

"You need to nap before you go out. That's final."

"DAD! I feel great! I just got a seventh wind!"

"You mean second?"

"No, my second wind was at about 6 am."

"I cannot have you driving out there when you haven't slept in 3o-something hours!"

"If I nap NOW, I'll wake up EXHAUSTED. But if I just stay up, I won't be tired. TRUST ME."


9:00 pm

THIS is the moment the equation equals energy. A couple foot races down the highway. Me attempting to monkey leap on to the hood of some lady's car as she's pulling out of a parking spot and her honking at me for a solid 4 and a half minutes. Me pretending to be an old woman with a hunch on her back for a good half hour. Going to a party. Getting into an argument with some dudes about whether or not I parked discreetly enough. Walking in to the party only to see an ex and walking out 23 seconds later. Only to face the pugnacious dudes again. Texting 17 people in my phone saying, "WHAZZZUUUPPPP!" Purchasing 2 more Red Bulls and sitting at Walgreens for 3 hours completely content with my life. Going home. Go to sleep. Not gonna sleep forever, though.

8:20 pm


Tuesday, March 17, 2009

The Scooping Stance

I'm not a hippie. I have friends that are hippies, but I, myself? Not a hippie. No dreds. (Though I've been told I could pull them off nicely. In other words, I've been told I have nappy dirty hair and I might as well doutch it in pungent wax.) No tie-dye. (Unless you count my Girl Scout days, which somehow goes from being really cool to really nerdy. Probably because 18-year-old girls shouldn't be singing songs about Joe who works in a button factory, which involves sticking your tongue out and bobbing your head up and down. That's only appropriate for minors.) No piece. (The last thing I named was a soccer ball. I named it, "Mayonnaise." Obviously if I caved under pressure in naming a ball, I would have no place in dealing with the pressure that comes with naming a marijuana-smoking device. What with all the "Freedom"s and "Virtue"s and "Liberty"s. You know, all THOSE highly original names. How dumb would I look running around with my gram and my "Dijon." Yes, Dijon as in 'mustard.' See? Caving.) Not only do I not match those hippie standards, I also don't smoke, so that automatically eliminates me. Ever heard of a hippie who doesn't go to Narnia? (as the 8th graders used to call it) Yeah. Didn't think so. The only hippie trait I possess would have to be the fact that no matter how many showers I take, my feet are constantly dirty. And that trait I don't exactly advertise.

Despite my lack of wax and lack of Dijon, I had what one may call a "hippie moment," just one week ago. I saved an animal. 

Okay, so I wasn't exactly "the one" that saved it. I basically did all the work only for some gonad to show up with a cardboard box and take all of the credit. But who was the one who sat with it for an hour? ME. Who was the one who started taking pictures of it with a cell phone? ME. Who was the one who realized it had no eyeballs? ME. 

Here's the story: I was dropping my sister's friend off at her house after school. And we see this blue jay. This beautiful blue jay just chillin in the street. And it's not moving. So we get out to, you know, scare it away or something, I don't know. And it still doesn't move. It's just looking around. So we're, you know, leaning in and daring each other to get closer ("I'll give you a quarter if you touch it's beak.")("Well I DARE you to touch it's beak.")("Well shit looks like I'm touchin it's beak then.") and poking its tail then running away because we're mature and animal-friendly. Then we realize it doesn't seem to be looking at us. So we look at its face. BAM! No fuckin eyes. Closest I've come to a Hitchcock moment, right there. The thing had no eyes, man. Were they gouged out? Closed shut? Nonexistent from the start? I don't know, I just know that the thing had no fuckin' eyes. So I dial up some Animal Awareness number, which by the way takes FOREVER. I mean I would have saved time if I had driven home and googled it and then driven back and then churned some butter and then helped the damn blue jay.

"Dial 1 for possums. Dial 2 for lizards. Dial 3 for mice. Dial 4 for raccoons. Dial 5 for kimono dragons. Dial 6 for unicorns. Dial 7 for Santa Claus."

I mean, seriously? It went on forever. As if anyone would even approach a kimono dragon. Hello? Haven't you heard about what happened to Sharon Stone's husband? By the time I got to 23, which was "baby birds" I just hit it. Which was stupid because all they told me to do was put it back in its nest or put it in a cardboard box. Hence the "baby" in "baby birds." Okay, yeah, I could have just hung up and started all over again, but I have something I like to keep on my hands. It's called TIME.

I got the info. We got the bird. Everything looks like it might just work out, then some dude pulls up in a red pick-up truck. Which of course is an automatic sign that this guy is probably a dimwit. 

"We're just trying to help this bird."

"That's a blue jay."

"Yep. We're trying to help it. It's blind."

"It doesn't have eyes."

"Yes. It's blind."

Then he leaves. Ten minutes later he's back with a cardboard box. Okay, so maybe he's not a dimwit. He approaches the bird from the side, in order to "scoop" it I would guess, but the thing is blind, remember now. So basically all it's gonna infer from the situation is that something is poking it from behind and it can't see what. So it takes off.

"Oh no! It's flyi---oh shit!"

And runs into a brick wall.

So Mr. Doofus decides to walk back up to the bird, and do what? Try the exact same approach, since you know, it worked SO WELL the last time, you know, the time the bird took off, flew into a wall, and fell down. Then hopped back up. It's not gonna hop back up every time that happens, buddy. You know how people say cats have nine lives? Well birds don't. Moron.

So he's doing the brilliant "scooparoo" and what does it do but take off again. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. Except this time it's heading straight towards my car. My sister happens to be standing outside of the car watching this bird fly towards it. I'm not sure exactly what she was thinking, all I saw was her calmly staring at this blind bird headed right towards her then---


The bird flies STRAIGHT into her neck, starts fluttering its wings all up in her face, she's screaming, cursing like a sailor, and sprinting towards some bushes waving her arms around her head like Olive Oyl


She stopped making sense due to the shock. The man with the box doesn't even react. Unless you count him looking over and smiling slightly, which is really just fucking creepy, and starts walking towards the bird again, and crouches down into his "scooping" stance. 

"Um, excuse me? Yeah, sorry. Maybe if you tried putting the box over the bird, that way it couldn't fly away? You don't have to, I just thought maybe it'd work."

"That may work. I guess."

Yeah since you and your notorious scooping stance has worked wonders. 

And guess what? It worked. Then the man got into his car, waved, and left. No, "Hey sorry I made that bird fly straight into your sister's neck at 30 miles an hour." No, "Hey thanks for the advice it really worked." No, "Hey sorry I smiled like a creepy stalker man when your sister was brutally attacked." He just left. Yeah, you could say "he" was the one who "saved" it, but I'd like to take all the credit here. I mean, come on, who's the one with the box idea? ME. Who's the one who called up Animal UNawareness? ME. All that doofus did was capture it, put it in a box, and drive it down to an animal shelter where it'll be safe and happy. Please. I think we all know who the true hippie was in this story. That's right, the one with the cell phone pics to prove it. ME.