Rated I For Immature

Well let's just get straight to the point: I turned 21 too soon.

You don't believe me, do you? You're sitting there thinking that I am ready. You're wishing that we were face-to-face right now, as opposed to me here, writing this in your present but my past, and you there, reading this and yearning to tell me I have the maturity of Oprah, the wisdom of Lincoln, the swagger of Wayne. (As in John, not 's World.) I know, I know. But I'm telling you, I'm not ready. I may have the success of Gates, the punctuality of Loonette the Clown, and the determination of the Toxic Avenger, but none of these brilliant qualities matter. I can be The Shit at any age, whether it be 20 or 19 or 2. That's right, 2. I don't even need to be able to talk to be The Shit. I could be walking around in my shit and still be The Shit, but not at 21. You may be wondering why I say this. AND I'M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU.

Reasons I Shouldn't Be 21

(I lied about the whole "not telling you" bit. That in itself could suffice for Reason #1, Compulsive Unamusing Lying, but that one's on the house.)

1) I'm 21 years old now, and still 5 foot 4. I'd like to say I have come to accept it, considering the fact that I've been 5'4" for a good 6 years now; I'd like to say that I have come to accept that a sudden growth spurt is unlikely; I'd like to say that I have come to accept that a bag of Swedish Fish every day will not provide me with my daily vitamins and minerals, but I have not come to accept any of these things. I still buy my pants too long, waiting for that spurt to come, and I continue to believe that Red Dye #40 and Carnauba Wax provide me with all the Potassium and Vitamin C a growing girl like myself needs to get through the day.

(My renewed license says I'm 5'3". If you ever see my license, here are a few things you could say to really impress me):

"Your height on here is wrong. DAMN WRONG."

"You are an ENTIRE INCH taller than 5'3," fuck those ID-making bastards!"

"Holy shit, you've grown so much since this got printed!"

"That 3 must be a worn-down 8."

2) I'm 21 years old now, and am severely intimidated by bars. This used to not be so. Before being 21, I relished in the thrill of going somewhere I wasn't supposed to be, similar to that of sitting in the passenger seat of my own car. The environment feels right, but something is a tad askew. At the illegal age of 20, I had multiple bar stories that I will one day share with you, but at the legal age of 21, I'm at a whopping 0. Perhaps that's only because I got kicked out the last time I tried to drink in a bar...

"Get me a beer!"

"I can't, Natasha. He's going to ID me."

"Yeah, YOU, not ME."

"He's going to ID you, too, if you sees you drinking."

"Pshh. Please. Don't be a pumpkin pansy. Purchase me a pale ale, punk."

(Just recently saw Mr. Popper's Penguins, had to attempt the P-alliteration.)

"Alright, alright."

The bar is approached as 2 beers get ordered. Bartender looks straight to me, that sixth sense they all seem to possess when a child is amongst them, and my Legal Ally returns not empty-handed, but with a beer for himself, and for me, a Coca-Cola.

"A Coca-Cola."

"Yeah, he said he needs to see your ID."

"A Coca-Cola."

"What?!"

"We're about to participate in Karaoke Night, and the only liquid courage I have available is corn syrup? Is that going to convince me that I have the voice of Janis Joplin and the legs of Tina Turner? Are natural flavorings going to give me Joan Jett's attitude and the Big Bottom desired by Spinal Tap? No. They're not. I NEED A BREW, BREH."

"Just sip mine when he's not looking. I'm gonna go to the bathroom real quick."

"Okay, okay."

Four minutes later.

"Natasha!"

"Whaaaaaaaaat???"

"You drank my beer!"

"I had to drink it real quick while he wasn't looking!"

"I'm going to go get another one."

As the second PBR is sat atop the table, I glance to my left before grabbing the can. Coast is clear. As I tip the lid to my lips, one eye on the bartender the entire time, I see him steal a glance at me. Shit! I quickly put down the can and grab my mother-fuckin' Coca-Cola and start chugging, as if Coca-Cola was my absolute favorite beverage of all time. I even throw in a couple "mmmm's" and "ahhhhh's," but that doesn't stop the Fartsender from strutting on over. I continue to sip my ice-cold cola, exclaiming something along the lines of, "I'm gonna need another one of THESE heavenly-holders of artificially-colored bubbles!" but the Fartsender is nowhere near convinced.

"I'm gonna need to see your ID."

"There's an age limit for caramel-colored sodium?"

"I saw you drink out of that beer."

"No, no, you must be mistaken. That was my good ol' fashioned Cooka-Coola."

I hold up the can next to my face, slightly cock my head, and smile. I considered giving a thumbs up, as well, but decided that was something an intoxicated person would do, so I instead throw up the universal symbol for "Live Long and Prosper."

"I'm still going to need to see your ID."

"I'm not drinking."

"You picked up the beer, looked at me, then put it down when you saw I was looking."

"Uhhhh...............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

................

..........................................................................

..................... ..........................................................................................................

...................................no I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No, I was looking at you, reached for my Coca-Cola, looked back, realized it was someone's beer, put it down, looked to see if you had seen my silly mistake, then continued to sip on my favoritedrinkofalltimeohmygodcoca-colaissogood."

"If I don't see an ID, you're going to have to leave."

"Okay, I have to go out to my car and get it. Then I'll bring it to you."

Fartsender retreats to his homeland as I erratically start to put my things in their pockets, only to take them back out again, ambiguous as to what to do next.

"We're going to have to leave, Natasha."

"Bullshark! Not before I scramble a couple of that yolk-yodeler's eggs!"

"I'm not really sure what that means, but I'll be right here waiting."

"A-HEM!

Fartsender turns around, shoulders squared off, pecks pushed forward, scowl embedded, brow furrowed, penis tiny, unaware that I am standing there analyzing him head to toe. What, I wonder, will really get to this guy. I mean, REALLY push his buttons? I didn't walk over here to give him some humdrum "Fuck you" accompanied by my middle finger. No, I wanted to do something that would personally attack this guy. I wanted him to feel threatened, intimidated, terrified, and sorry. To sum that all up, I wanted him to feel T.I.T.S.

"ID."

"I don't have it, I actually just came over here to tell you that I've been here before, and you're the only one who's given me such a hard time."

"I need to see your ID."

"I completely understand; you're afraid of getting in trouble."

"No, I just need to see your ID."

"I understand, I have a boss, too, and I'm not scared of my boss, but I totally understand that you are. You're afraid of getting in trouble, that's absolutely understandable."

"I'm in charge right now."

"Right, but you have a boss you have to answer to, one you're obviously intimidated of, that'sfine, believe me. I feel so much pity for those who are insecure, trust me. I'm not mad at you, you just need to find that inner confidence within yourself to make your own calls."

"I do make my own calls."

He's beginning to fidget a bit, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with me. I must be getting to him. I decide to continue to challenge his manhood. And also lie a little bit.

"I mean, I used to be a bartender, and I didn't care about IDing everyone, because I was comfortable calling my own shots, but you must have a very scary boss, don't you? It's fine,really, not all men can answer to themselves."

"YOU NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW."

And so I left, cursing the Fartsender and vowing to myself that I would return with a vengeance once I turned 21, shoving my renewed license right up his tooter-shooter, yelling things like, "YOU FEEL LIKE A MAN NOW? DO YA? DO YA?!" followed by, "BET YOUR ASS WILL BE BAR-TENDER TOMORROW!"

But alas, it never happened, for as the eve of my birth year crept closer and closer, my urge to be of legal age became smaller and smaller, which brings me to my last reason.

3) I'm 21 years old now, and I spent my birthday bowling and TPing. That's right, I relived my tenth birthday, in which I went bowling, and following that, I bought 6 rolls of toilet paper, drove to someone's house, and threw the toilet paper in the trees, just as I did when I was 12 years old. (Mind you, this was not alone. I'll use toilet paper on my own, but I'm not going to go throw it around in someone's yard on my own.)

In fact, I didn't even buy the toilet paper myself. Someone else bought it.

In fact, I ended up using some of it to piss in a yard, so not even all 6 rolls were used on the house.

By the way - 6 rolls gets you nowhere. It wasn't even long enough to throw in the branches, so I indulged in simply wrapping it around the trunk of the tree, which is incredibly pathetic without even mentioning the fact that this was on my 21st birthday.

It was a calm, innocent birthday, exactly what I wanted. I didn't WANT to go out to a bar and get wasted, I didn't WANT to go into a liquor store and proudly present my newly-legal ID, I didn't WANT to do anything to cause any trouble whatsoever. I just wanted to spend time with my family, a couple close friends, and 6 rolls of toilet paper, and that's exactly what happened.

I also didn't want to get arrested 2 days later.

Unfortunately, that happened, as well.

To Be Continued.

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 people...persons...men...women...children...Carrot 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:

THE NEXT SENTENCE WILL BE THE STORY.

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?"

Hmmm...is 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?"

"Yes."

"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."

WOW I'VE NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT THAT! FEEDBACK FROM OTHER PEOPLE??? GOODNESS, WHAT A BRAND NEW IDEA TO PLANT IN MY INFANT-SIZED BRAIN!

"Interesting."

"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.

"HEY!"

"Hi?"

"What's your name?"

"Natasha."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"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! Just...in... thought."

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

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON! IS THERE A SIGN ON MY BACK? DOES IT SAY, "HEY, IF YOU ARE A SINGLE MALE, PLEASE TALK TO ME?" DOES IT SAY, "I LUGGED ALL MY TEXTBOOKS AND MY COMPUTER INSIDE THIS COFFEE SHOP TO PRETEND LIKE I'M HERE TO DO WORK?" DOES IT SAY, "I HAVE A LOW ALCOHOL TOLERANCE AND A 24-HOUR VAGINA?"

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? 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."

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

"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---"

"I'LL BE RIGHT BACK!"

"Wanna smoke firs---"

"SAVE MY SEAT!"

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'!