Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Shakespeare's Schizo Sister

Allow me to let you in on a little secret - writing isn't as easy as it seems. Another little secret of mine is that I have no laundry basket. That doesn't seem like much of a secret, does it? Well it does when you're rummaging through my bookshelf and find a pair of smelly socks in between the pages of a book. It does when you reach your nosy little hand in the glove compartment of my car looking for a lighter and instead you pull out a rolled-up pair of leggings infested with mildew. It does when you need 2 cents and you reach in the change pouch of my billfold and unknowingly pay for your purchase with a wadded up ball of dirty underwear.

I had written only one sentence before carelessly revealing where I keep my panties, reinstating my previous point of: writing isn't as easy as it seems.

Now, I'm not talking about the physical aspect of writing. Obviously. If you thought that I was revealing to you the trouble I have with pushing buttons and watching the pretty symbols magically pop up on the screen after pressing said buttons, please stop reading now. You've deeply offended me and I've severely overestimated your intelligence.

On the contrary, I'm not talking about the mental aspect of writing, either. Hello? Have you read my blog? Does it seem as if I've spent days and days on a post, or does it seem like I just sit down and GO? Does it seem like I'm trying to write an award-winning essay, or does it seem like I let my train of thought wander aimlessly with my fingers following closely behind? Does it seem like I give a shit, or does it seem like I think whatever I write is going to be the shit nonetheless? Granted, I am a natural, quoted in the New York Times as "Shakespeare's Schizo Sister" as well as deemed "Emily Dickinson's Aborted Baby" by the Chicago Tribune, not to mention the Wall Street Journal handing me the title of, "Darwin - Before He Evolved." But enough boasting, I could brag all day, making writing incredibly facile, just as it always is.

Writing has recently introduced me to a new obstacle, the one that gave birth to my secret of writing not being as easy as it seems. Humans.

ICK! The very word of humans makes me sick. Those mortals...those homosapiens...those bipeds...those Top...they all are just horrible and need to be gone! Gone, I say! For it is these individuals who will not. Let. Me write.

You're confused, I see. Patience, young grasshopper, I'm getting to my story now. I could have just jumped right into the story instead of stating, "Hey, I'm a-gunna till y'all my here story book now, wish it had summadem peek-churss." But I sensed you were a bit lost, and I was only looking out for you. To make it even more simple for those of you simple-minded simpletons, I give you this:


I'm sitting at a coffee shop.

My current habitat lacks wireless internet, making it toilsome to drive an hour away to write at the only 24-hour-coffee-shop I am aware of, but, being a writer of such dedication and passion, I found myself departing from my present home, suddenly filled with an urge to drown myself in my own literary rants, hence the statement above.

I'm sitting at a coffee shop.

I felt completely in character, sipping on my joe, sitting at my laptop, swearing like a sailor. It was beautiful, a complete immersion of Man vs. Mind. My fingertips were Flying like a Kite, my happiness like A Spoonful of Sugar, I felt like i was on a Jolly Holiday, exclaiming Chim-Chim-Chiree as I Stepped in Time and Stayed Awake. Until he came along.

"Excuse me, will you watch my stuff while I go buy a drink?"

"Yeah, sure!"

(That exclamation point on the end of that sentence was a word all on its own - that's how good of a mood I was in.)

He came back, sitting a chair away from me. Okay, so picture that for a second: there's me, being awesome, an empty chair to my right, and then him, being lame. I didn't automatically assume he was so, but it was only 2 seconds after he sat down that he says:

"This chair is wobbly, I'm going to sit in this one."

First of all, man, I don't give a shit if your chair leans one way more than the other. Good for you. Your chair is at a bit of an angle. That's great. I don't need to hear the status of your seat.

Second of all, THERE ARE A TOTAL OF 4 SEATS TO YOUR RIGHT. Why, WHY, must you choose the ONE seat to your left? Do you see how I opened up 2 textbooks, neither of which I'm even glancing at, and put them on the table space to my left? Do you observe things like this? Do you have eyes? Do I look happy closing these textbooks so you can sit? Is this really a free country? Not when I'm here, bitch.

"What're you working on?"

And now you want to have friendly chit-chat. GREAT. THAT'S REALLY JUST GREAT.

"I'm writing."

"Oh, really?"

Shit! Seem busier, seem busier, seem busier....

"And doing a Statistics test and finishing Math for the Liberal Arts homework and designing a Geology powerpoint and working on the cure to cancer."

Yes, those are some of the actual classes I'm enrolled in. Yes, I know those are the General-Education classes students take their first year of college. Yes, I do realize I'm in my THIRD year of college. Yes, I am aware that I should be graduating in a year had I stayed focused. Yes, you can fuck off now.

"Yeah, I have a lot of work to get done as well."

Whew! What a relief, I thought this guy was going to want to talk to me all night. How wrong of me, to assume that I was the only busy one on this planet. I have realized my mistakes, and shall ask for forgiveness. We are both here to do work, and do work we shall! I can be so conceited at times...

"So what are you drinking?"

"Uh...Blue Moon."

Alright, alright, so I had a beer. But that was AFTER my coffee and I was only going to drink ONE. It was also the first time I had bought alcohol since turning 21 two weeks ago, a story I will share once the chaos of it all has blown over.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" it just me or is this crossing the "small talk" boundary? Am I just socially behind? Has, "nice weather we're having tonight" been replaced with "I'll be having you tonight?"


"Oh...because I was going to say that if you didn't have a boyfriend, I'd buy you a drink."

"Um. Ha. Hahee. Hoo."

I have this tendency to awkwardly fake-laugh whenever I don't know what the hell to say.

"Because he probably wouldn't like that."

"Hee hoo ha ha."

"Unless he wouldn't mind, then I'd be very happy to buy you another one of those Blue Moons."

I bet you would, BallBag.

"Thank you but I won't be able to coughcough GET ALL THIS WORK DONE coughcough if I keep drinking beer."

"What is it you're writing exactly?"

Come on, man. How many hints do you need? One? I told you I have a boyfriend. Two? I declined your offer to buy me a beer, a very tempting offer to a broke girl. Three? I've been literally speaking, "ha ha ha's" as opposed to genuinely giggling. Need another, do ya?

"I don't like to show anyone until it's a finished product. Once it's finished, you can see, but I need to FINISH IT first."

"Really? Hmmm. I don't believe in that. I'm a writer, as well. It's good to get feedback from others while your work is in progress."



"So, we have something in common, don't we? We're both writers."

Finally, my soulmate has found me. Another wannabe-writer. Another person who wants to earn a living by talking about whatever the hell they feel like talking about. How rare.

"Yep, we are!"

I was being short, but I'll admit, I wasn't being rude. I wanted to be, believe me, but I just couldn't force myself to completely humiliate this guy by being an asshole. Therefore, I blame myself for the following bullshit I had to endure.

"I'm a poet, actually. I write poems."

Is he suddenly speaking in a British accent?

"Ay jus' luff poe-imms, indeed ay doo! D'yoo fancy yore-seff summ poe-imms?"

Yes, yes he is.

"I like poetry, yes."

"Want to read some of my poems?"

At least he's back to an American accent.

"Ay doo buhleeve you'll foynd thim quite love-a-lee."

Scratch that.

"Alright, sure."

See, this is where I should have said GO STICK A RAINBOW UP YOUR ASS AND SHIT OUT SOME FLOWERS YA DAFFODIL-DICK, but I didn't. I said exactly what you see above. "Alright. Sure." Sometimes I can really piss myself off.

So after reading not one, not two, but FOUR of his lengthy poems, with him staring at me the whole time I was reading them, he decides he hasn't impressed me enough, so he pulls out an entire play he's working.

One. Giant. Poem.

"I'm going to get another drink first. I'll be right back."

See, most people would take this as hint #822, the fact that I need to get a little more drunk before suffering through Old Mother Hubbard On Ice. Most people would not read a stranger their unique version of Hamlet, starring Little Jack Horny, Little Miss Muff-Diver, and Peter Peter Blumpkin-Eater, but this guy was proving to be a one-of-a-kind-kinda-guy.

I ended up just going outside to stand and reflect, contemplating what the hell kind of maneuver I would need to escape Edgar Allen Poe-Me-Anotha-Drank (that was a hit AND a miss, if such a thing exists), when all of a sudden I get approached by yet another stranger, an employee at this coffee shop, the one I had completely misconstrued as a quiet, subtle environment.



"What's your name?"


"How old are you?"


"Have you always lived in Nashville?"

"Mostly, yes."

"Were you born here?"

"I feel like I'm being interrogated!"

"Sorry, I'm Milo."

"Hey there Milo."

"I've seen you around here a lot recently and I always want to come talk to you but I can never think of what to say and you always look really angry."

"Yeah...I get that a lot. People always tell me I look pissed off. I'm not though! thought."

"Well, wait right here, I'm going to come back and talk to you some more."


Back inside I go, to confront The Poet and tell him I did NOT come here to read a random dude's poems on the hidden love beneath snowflakes of sorrow. But before I can say anything, he opens his mouth.

"Give me a topic."

"A topic?"

"Yeah, you see, I have this gift. If you give me any topic, anything at all, I can write a poem about it right here on the spot. It's my talent."

I was too angelic to tell him that that very exercise is one I used to do in the first grade, but in my head I challenged myself to make sure I wasn't just being arrogant.

A Poem On How I Want To Leave This Coffee Shop
by: Natasha Ferrier

Cornered by a horny queer
Trying to quickly finish my beer
Alas, I need to get the fuck outta here
Let me know when the coast is clear
I can't believe this Blue Moon was 4 dollars.

Point proven. Nonetheless, I gave The Poet a topic.

"How much you suck."

Just kidding.


"Winter? Winter! How PERFECT. I could kiss you right now."

"Ho hoo huh-huh."

"No, really, I could kiss you right. NOW."

"Huh hee ho ha ha hardy."

"I mean, if you wanted me to."


"Cause if you want me to, I'll do it. I'll kiss you right now."

"HAAAAAAAA AAAHHHHHHHHHH I need to go to the bathroom."

One abrupt getaway later and I'm hiding out in a bathroom stall. This is NOT why I came here. I did NOT come to HIDE beside a fucking TOILET. I could do that at HOME, if the urge ever struck me. I came here to write! To WRITE, god dammit! To stimulate my mind, not to stimulate the blood flow toward a stranger's main vein! I had had just about enough. I returned to my seat and began packing up my things.

"Wait - are you leaving?"

"Noooooo, no no no, OH no, I'm just going to get a couple more textbooks out of my car to bring back here for my homework."

"I could watch your stuff for you."

"No no no, thats okay, I need my bag to put all my textbooks in because they're heavy. I'll be right back."

"Well, do you smoke? I was about to go outside and smoke a cig---"


"Wanna smoke firs---"


And I literally jogged out, never to return to that coffee shop again...

Okay, that's a lie. I've been back multiple times, but I've learned to put headphones in, whether I'm actually listening to music or not, because one thing I've learned is - people don't fuck with people with headphones.

Well, there you have it, the sad truth of why writing can be difficult. It's a solo-activity, and some people just mistake "solo" for "group" while others say they want to kiss you because you said one of the four seasons. I guess you could say I could have avoided that whole situation, I guess you could say I'm blowing the whole thing out of proportion, I guess you could say I need to grow a stronger appreciation for poems THAT DON'T EVEN RHYME, I guess you could say that the fact that I was unable to write because some guy was switching back and forth from a British accent to an American one doesn't make much sense, but then again, neither do I. Writers as vividly brilliant as myself tend to not make much sense. As the Washington Post once said, "Natasha Ferrier puts the "Cum" in E.E. Cummings." They wouldn't say that for nothin'!


stevebezan said...

One of the reasons I sit around patiently drumming my phalangeal's waiting for your next bit is that, unlike common humanity, you ignore 'stream of conciousness' and go straight to 'stream of id'.
Since you have confessed to still being associated with an institution of vague higher learning perhaps you can help with something that puzzles me. I am teaching a class in Anatomy & Physiology; why do the guys always go to the Visible Body on the first day and ogle the INSIDE of the female body???
ps - I don't know about you but when I turned 21 it took 80% of the fun out of drinking

Natasha said...

I've thought about your question for a long time, typing out multiple responses even, but ending up deleting them in an effort to not deeply offend the male species. What I do have to offer is a brief but sincere response - All they need to know about the inside is that we have eggs that can't be scrambled.

p.s. I'd go with a solid 85% on that one.