Christmas is a Jewish Conspiracy

Christmas is a pretty major part of American tradition. Everyone eats incredible amounts of fatty Christmas food, and buys each other presents, and remembers the birth of their dear, dear Jesus-man. The vast majority of the population stews in this Christmas spirit for months, preparing everything for that special day when they get to bask in their third world privileges. Before I go trashing Christians and America any more, I'd like to make it clear that I also fall into this category. I have been anticipating the crap out of Christmas for the past few months, and I am not about to let my own speculations ruin this beauteous time of year for me.

But for myself and the vast amounts of others like me, we think that the world stops turning on Christmas. All the stores are closed, all the streets are empty, and everyone is with their families eating hams and opening presents and getting piss drunk on eggnog. BUT THAT IS NOT TRUE! (And if' you've ever been scheduled to work on Christmas day, you'd know that these fantasies are a fallacy! Fantasy fallacies!)
There are restaurants still bringing in customers, and movie theaters are full and the streets are teeming...with Jews.

My mother and I were talking about this while she was cutting my hair, and I had been gushing with Christmas lovey goo when she brought to my attention that the universe doesn't stop for Christmas.
     "Christmas is so nice. Everyone just takes a break to be with the people they love and the world just kind of takes a break, you know?"
     "You know Alex, not everyone is inside their houses on Christmas. Some people have other things to do."
     "Yeah right, like who?!"
     "Well, Jews."
And that's where I stopped realizing, because I realized that Christmas is just a big Jewish conspiracy!
Allow me to explain: a large portion of the American population celebrates Christmas, leaving the whole country vacant for Jews (and others who don't celebrate pagan rituals). Preposterous you say? Not so! They get all the best seats in the movies, they get to eat out at fancy restaurants without having to wait 50 minutes to be seated (damn you Olive Garden!), and they get to walk through the department stores like they own the freaking place. It's all part of their plan to take over! They intentionally hype up Christmas in their stores and at their social gatherings, making sure that everyone will leave them alone on that glorious day.
     "Yesssss," they tell their Christian friends, "isn't Christmas just a lovely time of year? Time to be inside, away from the stores and parking lots." Those scheming geniuses!
They want to make sure that the streets are empty for them to prowl freely while everyone else is inside naively sipping Peppermint Schnapps out of a Santa Claus mug. --You know the one I mean.

Just to clarify, I am in no way poking fun at Jewish traditions, or insinuating that they are plotting to destroy the earth, or even suggesting that they are bad people. I love Jews! Have you ever had matzoh ball soup? Shaaaaaaalom. I'm just pointing out that they are a crafty bunch, and they have been tricking us Christmas celebrators out of good theater seats and Christmas day sales for YEARS! And if we are ever going to be the first ones in line for a hot apple pie, or a fresh Reuben sandwich, we had better start catching on to their little plans.
Because like I said, they are a crafty bunch.

Not A Survivor

I'm sure that you are all familiar to some extent with the theory of evolution. Whether or not you believe in evolution v. creationism is another debate that I'm not going to get into. All I'm saying is that I'm sure everyone is aware of this theory, yes? Ok, good.
So according to Darwin, species are able to evolve through the concept of "survival of the fittest". This means that if you are lucky enough to be able to adapt to new life styles, habitats, environments, or to stay alive in trying situations, then CONGRATULATIONS, you are a master of evolution!
This being said, I'm pretty sure that I am not a survivor.

As a prerequisite for evolution, all intelligent organisms are endowed with the "fight-or-flight" reaction. This means that when faced with any sort of crisis, most people and animals have the ability to either run from the issue (a popular choice for most species) or fight it off. When it comes to physical matters, I am not capable of this reaction. Instead of opting for either choice A) Fight, or B)Flight, I chose option C) Freeze in place and wait to die. It's like my instincts are actively trying to stop me from perpetuating my genes.

(As a caveat, I don't seem to have this issue when it comes to mental/emotional crises. I guess my instincts value my mind more than my body. Stupid body.)

You think I'm exaggerating? Let me explain to you my biggest evolutionary flaw.
The first time I realized that I lacked any sort of survival instincts was when I was about 7, give or take. I was playing around in the kitchen with my sister, and there was this reasonably big Ficus tree that my step-mom kept in a pot by the doorway. I was running into the kitchen and dropped to my knees to slide through the door, but misjudged my speed and went careening into the pot. Some how I ended up on my back with the Ficus tree falling in slow motion towards me. I had plenty of time to get up and get out of the way to avoid being smushed, but instead, I just stayed where I was and watched the tree fall on top of me. After a few similar instances where I was in immediate physical harm but chose to do nothing about it, I realized that this was not normal. Most people either try to get out of the way, or to try defend themselves. These options never even cross my mind when I am faced with physical crises. I just immediately accept my fate and wait to die. Trust me, I wish that my first thought when a car is rushing towards me is "Oh my God, I should probably get the fuck out of the way before I get smeared". But instead, it goes more like "Oh my God, this is going to hurt so bad. I wonder if this will actually kill me, or if I will just have to pay a huge hospital bill. I hope my mom's insurance will cover this."

It's amazing that I've lasted this long. Not only am I unable to cope with impending physical harm, but I seem to put myself in situations where good survival instincts would be helpful. (You can refer to my scary homeless man story.)
Since I seem to be able to cope more with mental and emotional stress better than physical stress, I've come to the conclusion that maybe I am just so highly developed that my body is no longer a priority. Maybe in the future, none of us will even have bodies; we'll all just be floating brains or personalities that interact telepathically. Maybe that's what I'm all geared up for, and my body is just keeping me from reaching my full potential. But seeing as we're all still walking around with skin and organs, I'd say that's a pretty gross misjudgment on my part.
And that is exactly the type of mistake a non-survivor would make.

I Am a Master Chef

So I've been making some seriously delicious food lately, and I decided that I would share my recipes with you.

FURST:
Rice Goes to Bollywood

De Rice:
1. Get a box of Basmati Rice
2. Take the measurements for water from the box, and replace it with 2 parts coconut milk, and 1 part water
3. Pour liquids and rice into a pot.
4. Add about a teaspoon of
        -curry powder
        -red pepper flakes
        -1/2 tsp of onion powder
5. Bring to a boil, stirring often and then cover and reduce to a simmer for as long as the box tells you to.
While your rice is cooking, start the other ingredients. When your rice is done, remove from heat and put off to the side for later.

De Eggz
1. Take about a tsp of olive oil and scramble 2-3 eggs in it.
2. Remove from heat and put them in a bowl for later.

De Vegs.
1. 1/4 cup of
        -red peppers
        -carrots*
        -chopped string beans
        -peas
2. 1-2 chopped chilis
*try to use frozen carrots so that when you thaw them, they will be soft and will cook faster
2. Put your veggies into your frying pan
3. Add about a tablespoon or more of olive oil,
        -2 tsp curry powder
        -1 more tsp of red pepper flakes
        -tsp of crushed garlic
        -tblsp of soy sauce
        - the LIIIITTLEST splash of sesame oil
        -a PINCH of cinnamon
4. Fry the veggies in this delicious sauce concoction until they are about half cooked, then add the rice, and then finally the eggs.
5. Mix together and put in a bowl and ENJOY THE CRAP OUT OF IT!

There are no pictures of the finished product because my boyfriend really likes coconut curry rice, but this is the type of rice I used. I realize it's not basmati, but this stuff only costs a dollar at the Fresh Grocer, and I use the packs of seasoning to fry vegetables for OTHER things. Smart.


SECUND:
The Incredible Mash

1. Chop up about 4 cups of potatoes so they are all reasonably the size of your nose.
2. Put them in a pot and fill that pot with water until the water just barely covers the top of your tatoes.
3. Add a few shakes of red pepper flakes, garlic salt, and pepper.
4. Bring to a boil and cook until you can poke a fork through your potatoes like they was buttah.
5. Remove from heat, strain, and put back in your pot so it stays warm.
6. Add more red pepper flakes to your preference, add more garlic salt and NO more pepper.
7. Add about a cup of sour cream, a few spoonfuls of cream cheese, and a few splashes of milk
8. MIX DAT AWL UP and mash your tatoes guuuud.
9. Eat that delicious motherfucker and enjoy how amazing you are.
10. NOW THERE ARE TEN STEPS!

Mmmmmmm Potatoes.

My "High Society" Post

As I was brainstorming my next post, I became aware of a connection between art and writing, which lead me to realize that I was disappointed in myself as a writer. Allow me to explain:

When you look at a piece of art, it can be considered "good" for many reasons. In my mind, they can be boiled down to aesthetics, and meaning. ("Meaning" being a very, very broad term.) So when you look at a piece of art, you can enjoy it for it's visual appeal through means of color, lines, etc. But if it doesn't represent anything or send any sort of message, then is it really worth anything? In other words, what else does it have to offer except being "pretty". This is the same thing with writing. When I write things, I don't want them to just be flowery words about my daily life. That would be the same as painting a picture of a lamp shade. It could be a very pretty lampshade, but that's all it's good for. When you create something, you want it to be appealing, but also meaningful and intelligent.

When you look at artists like Picaso and Dali, (cliched examples, I know) they take that visual appeal and create a piece of art. You know what I mean when I say a "piece of art"? I mean they transcend those aesthetics to create art that impacts a society and changes the history of art forever.

Let's look at Picaso's Demoiselles D'Avignon. In his original sketches, you can see that he wanted to create a brothel scene with women surrounding some gentlemen. His original idea was to create this really controversial scene and include his audience in it. The two men are meant to represent all men. The sailor is a very dominant and boisterous man who is fully engaged and surrounded by prostitutes. The journalist is reserved and sensitive and acts as more of an observer. Not only can any man project himself into this picture if he wished, but the painting actively draws viewers in by making them sit at the table that is jutting directly into the painting.

This scene, however, has been done before, at least in bits and pieces. Brothels have been cropping up in paintings and sculptures since their creation, and one of the most typical characteristics of the entire baroque style is to engage its viewers in the art. This painting is thought provoking and nice to look at and that's that. However, Picaso takes this sketch, and enhances it to create the most ground-breaking work in the decade, at least!

This final product maintains the controversy that was established in the first sketch, while adding Iberian and and Ancient Tribal influences, while also disregarding space and dimensions almost completely. Because of this change, the painting single-handedly spearheaded the Primitivist/Cubist movement. It was in this transition that he took his mediocre and visually pleasing sketch, and created a "work of art".

The same thing can happen in writing. If you tell me a story about how you went to the store to buy groceries and ended up saving a puppy from a forest fire and radioactive space bears, that would be pretty rad, but it's not going to change the world. When I think about how I've been essentially treating my blog like a diary, that makes me sad. While my stories might make you laugh, they're not going to make you think about the world in a different way, or challenge you as a human being. But on the other hand, if I wrote posts like this all the time, I have a feeling no one would be interested in reading my blog after a while.

My point is, when I write, I don't want it to be just words. I want those words to become questions and answers and hilarious awesomeness and STUFF. That's why I feel guilty about just talking about myself all the time and telling you stories about my life. I'm not saying I'm going to stop, because it's freaking fun, but I am going to try harder to maintain some literary integrity with posts like these. This way, I can continue to challenge myself, and hopefully challenge my readers, which is what great artistes like myself strive to do.

Creepy Stairwells are Prime Real Estate for Scary Hobos

I have a relatively small metal trashcan in my kitchen that needs to be emptied more often than I'd like. This is probably a good thing though, because my apartment has a habit of becoming intensely smelly in a very short amount of time. Usually I wait until it is positively overflowing with nasty, juicy trash before I take it to the dumpster. This is because I absolutely hate the back stairwell that leads to the alley behind my apartmen.

I am on the second floor at the very end of the hallway, which is right next to the building's back stairwell. Since this is the "back stairwell", no one ever made the effort to make it presentable. The stairs are made of wood which has severely deteriorated over time, and the walls are concrete cinder blocks. As you walk down these stairs, you have to be very sure not to let your head graze the bottoms of the stairs above you, seeing as they are almost always dripping some kind of goo. When you finally get to the ground level, there is this creepy area right by the door that always reeks of urine and has a giant rust-colored stain on the floor which I try not to think is most likely blood. Asides from the creep factor of these stairs, the door leading to the dumpster out back is extremely inconvenient. You almost always have to take your trash out on your way out of the building, because the door locks behind you and there is no way to get back into the building but to walk around the block and come back in the front doors. I should probably be thankful for this since it is clearly a safety measure, but it is indescribably annoying when you get locked out of your building with trash juice on your hands and you're in your pajamas. (Luckily, I have had my keys with me every time this has happened, so that I can get back in the front doors. Also, my keys don't open the back door. Another safety measure, I presume.)

But Alex, why don't you just prop the door open?

Don't think I haven't thought of that good people of the internet. But remember how I said that I usually wait until my trash is overflowing before I take it out? This is almost always a two-arm job, leaving me totally incapable of propping the door open. Also, on the rare occasion that I have an extra hand for propping, I can't find anything that I would willingly touch with my bare hand that would be heavy enough to keep the door open.
This brings me to my disturbing trash adventure story. Usually I don't encounter anyone on my way down the trash stairs, but every once in a while, there will be maintenance workers or bus driver hanging around the back alley, just chilling or talking on their walkie-talkies. There was one time though, that I happened across a particularly despondent old man squatting in the bottom of the stairwell. I was coming down the stairs and was already at the door before I knew anyone was there. It wasn't until I turned around to push the door open with my back that I caught him staring at me from a pile of blankets in the corner. I tried to disguise my surprise with an awkward "hello" before running out the door. I figured he was most likely harmless, but I still wasn't going to go through that door again that day. As I was circling the block to come back to the front of my building, I realized that I recognized the stairwell man. He was whom I had previously referred to as "Mattress Man" in my head.
The first time I had ever taken a walk down my block after moving in, I had learned that going towards campus is fine, but going towards the city = ghetto. (By my sheltered, suburban-grown white girl standards at least.) There is an empty lot on the end of my corner that is almost completely populated by weeds. I say almost because as I was taking my first observational walk around my new neighborhood, I found this old man laying in the lot on a pile of old mattresses. This appeared to be his home and I've seen him there from time to time.

As I realized that "Stair Man" and "Mattress Man" were the same, I became almost thankful that he had been resourceful enough to find a better living space for the coming winter, and that I should ask him how he managed to get in so that I wouldn't have to walk around the universe every time I locked myself out.

Then I realized that I should be terrified that some old hobo is squatting in the stairwell of my apartment building. It makes me nervous to think that I am responsible for my own life. And that is yet another reason I am not a survivor.

P.S., I have only seen Stair/Mattress Man in my building twice, so I would venture to say he has found more suitable--and legal--living quarters since our last encounter.

I Am a Concerned American!

There is a bill in the middle of being considered THIS WEEK that, if passed, could censor the INTERNET. Think about that. Seriously, think about that. The internet.
No more memes, no more forums, no more cracked.com, no more youtube, no more BLOGS.

NO MORE PORN!

If you want to use that innate American right to oppose the man and participate in your government, then for God's sake, FIGHT THE POWER!



I've censored the following, in protest of a bill that gives any corporation and the US government the power to censor the internet--a bill that could pass THIS WEEK. To see the uncensored text, and to stop internet censorship, visit: http://americancensorship.org/posts/6798/uncensor



I ████ you to ████ me █████ for our █████ to ████████ in our ██████████, and to ████ ████ the █████████ and ███████ of the ████████! NO ████ ██████████!

How My Wardrobe is Seriously Depleting My Credibility

I don't count myself among the many beer sluts that populate most colleges, but that doesn't mean I don't dress like one from time to time. I don't like to judge girls on the way they dress because wardrobe is not an all-encompassing representation of someone's personality. (However, I do believe strongly in what Mr. Chappelle has to say about the matter.) That is why I like to take the liberty of dressing like a skank every once in a while, just because I can. But ladies, there is a time and a place, and I will share with you the WRONG times and places for a sluty wardrobe and the possibility of a wardrobe malfunction, based on my own experiences.


1. Meeting With Your Professor

Last year, I had this one really skeevy technology teacher who was also the most incompetent technology professor in existence. (This man specialized in web design, and his favorite website is glittertextgraphics.com, and he doesn't understand how youtube works.) Thankfully, it was the end of the semester and we were all assigned different times to meet with him individually to discuss our final grades. On the day that I had chosen to meet with him, it was super hot so I chose to wear my loose denim shorts and a tshirt. I had always liked these shorts because they were kind of high-waisted and gave me this daisy duke look that I loved, but am loathe to admit. For this reason, I did not wear them often in public.
While I was sitting talking to him in his office, I noticed that his eyes kept wandering to the area of my crotch, and I just attributed this to his pervy disposition and tried to ignore it. It wasn't until I went to stand up that I felt a breeze around my crotch as the air left my shorts, that I realized there was a problem. I rushed to the bathroom to investigate. I burst through the doors and hiked one leg up onto a sink to examine myself in the mirror. Low and behold, my kitten-patterned underwear was clearly visible through the gaping leg-holes in my shorts.
Needless to say, I got an A in that class. (Also, it helps if your final project is this.)

2. A First Date

This incident includes the same shorts and the same type of problem, only I was wearing significantly less underwear this time. My boyfriend and I are still together over a year a half later, surprisingly. Only sometimes I wonder if the situation isn't indicative of his personality...

Shorts in question. Notice the giant leg holes. 

3. Your Nana's Funeral

I bought this flowy floral patterned skirt from H&M, but I never got a chance to wear it. The first occasion since the purchase of my skirt that called for anything more than jeans was my Nana's funeral, so I suited up. Since I had never worn the skirt out anywhere before, (this seems to be my excuse a lot) I was not familiar with it's tendency to catch the breeze. And to my misfortune, I had chosen to wear a thong that day. It's not like I'm stupid and wasn't expecting a skirt to react to the wind, but I had thought that funerals usually take place in a church or somewhere similar. But I was part of a small party that actually witnessed her burial, which was outside, in the wind. As we were throwing flowers onto her grave and saying goodbyes, a huge breeze caught my skirt and completely exposed my bare ass to my one cousin's entire family. I hadn't thought anyone had seen me until I heard my older cousin giggle in whispers behind me. Sorry Nana.

4. Painting Faces at a Country Club

I recently was asked to work with one of my friends at a Christmas party painting YOUNG CHILDREN'S faces. It was at a country club, and we had to dress nicely to pretend like we fit in. Naturally, I didn't have anything country club worthy, so my fashionable friend had to dress me. Unlucky for me, I am about four cup-sizes larger than she is, so her innocent scoop-neck shirt looked totally inappropriate on me. I didn't realize HOW inappropriate until I noticed that the kids lined up in front of me to get their faces painted were all boys, and my friend had all the girls. One of the moms came up to ask me about it, and I hedged that "it just seemed to work out that way". It wasn't until later that Lauren informed me that all the moms were tittering about how I had chosen the wrong place to "pop out of my shirt".

5. Babysitting

I used to babysit for this one girl that lived in the same neighborhood as my dad. She was about seven, and her Dad thought I was hilarious, so he continued to hire me pretty much every weekend. One day, the girl had one of her hyperactive ADHD emotionally damaged friends over, so I had to take care of both of them. I was called in last-minute because there was some kind of emergency, so I rushed over. The dad said quick goodbyes and gave rushed instructions and then was out the door. The girls quickly grabbed me and ran screaming into the master bedroom with me in tow. Since I didn't get a chance to check myself before leaving my house, I hadn't realized that my thong was sticking waaaay out of the back of my pants. That is, until the ADHD friend gave me the most awful wedgie I have ever experienced. Not only was I mortified and ashamed, but I had to diplomatically answer the girls' underwear and bra questions for the rest of my shift. I just hope that particular incident never got back to the Dad.

That list was much easier to come up with than it should have been, and now I am ashamed. Hopefully, it will take you guys less time to learn your lesson.
DON'T BE SLUTS!

Unless it's Halloween. Then you MUST be sluts.

Also, Christmas. These are both excellent opportunities for you to get drunk and show off your hoohoos.
Happy Holidays!

This is My Christmas Post

So I figured with Christmas on the way and everything, I would make an effort to write some sort of Holiday themed post. I have absolutely no plan for this, so we're just going to see where it goes.

I know this sounds cliche, but Christmas has always been so magical time for me. I have seldom a bad memory associated with the Holiday Season. The lights, the smells, the good cheer, the cookies, it's all so comforting and enchanting. When you sit by the fire in your Christmas socks listening to Bing Crosbey and appreciating the beauty of your Christmas tree, it feels like thousands of tiny fairies are kissing and hugging your soul, and warping your heart up in heating pads filled with cinnamon and joy.

However, in the past few years, my Christmas spirit has been missing the mark by a good month.
When the leaves start to change colors and the air starts to get crisper, I get all excited about fall and the leaves and the caramel apples and the pumpkins and so on. But that quickly melts into acute anticipation for Christmas. I start craving candy canes and B101 by mid October, and it tapers off right around Thanksgiving. (Since this is usually around the time that the people around me lose their tolerance for my Christmas excitement and I am forced to tone it down.) I usually try to rationalize with myself that I'm getting too crazed too soon, so I try to reign myself in. However, once I accomplish this, I lose my ability to conjure up the Christmas spirit for when it really counts.

So now I'm sitting here in my apartment burning pine scented candles, listening to Burle Ives and trying to regain some sort of Holiday cheer, but I can't. This is doubly depressing for me because my birthday is in a few days, and I'm not excited about that either. Which SUCKS!

Feeling excited about Christmas and birthdays is like everyone's God-given right. (Unless you don't celebrate Christmas or believe in God, in which case your equivalent holiday/entity can substituted for the sake of this rant.) To deny someone, or yourself for that matter, of feeling joy and excitement over these events is an atrocity. So I say, celebrate Christmas in July if that's when you feel like celebrating it. Invite people to your half birthday party if you're lucky enough to have friends who will play along. It is your right as a human being to extract every last ounce of happiness you can from these festivities, and if you happen to want to do that prematurely, then everyone else will just have to deal with it.

So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good BLOG!

Internet Lolz

I'm on the internet for hours almost every day, and I tend to come across some pretty fantastic things. I have a folder full of random little internet gems that I've discovered and accumulated over time, and I'd like to share some of them with you.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to any of these pictures, so do not assume that they are mine.

Just to name a few.

I hope you enjoyed that. I know I did.

Why I'm Not at the "Yelle" Concert Right Now

My boyfriend tries to take me to concerts with him almost every month, and I have declined his offers all but one time. It's not because I am some soulless robot who doesn't enjoy music or fun, I just don't like concerts. It's probably because the majority of my concert experiences have ended in pain and anguish.
(And when I say concert, I mean like going to see an actual band or person perform music. Not like an orchestra or a ballet or something. Those are always enjoyable if you can stay awake.)

The first concert that I ever went to was a sit-down Micheal Bubble concert in Philly, which was awesome. No hard feelings whatsoever.

The second was not nearly as enjoyable. It was at Festival Pier and it was the Soundtrack of Your Summer Tour. The bands that played were The Main, Boys Like Girls, Good Charlotte, and Metro Station. Naturally, it was full of screaming semi-emo girls and douche bags. I was initially excited for it because I was with my friends and we were girls and it was summer and blah blah blah teen angst. But as the concert dragged on, I realized how much I was going to regret this experience. During the first set, I had to change into a Piggly Wiggly tshirt because the sweater that I had worn got covered in orange soda. People thought it was funny to spend 6 dollars on beverages, take the caps off, and then throw them into the crowd. Idiots. By the time the sun set, they were starting to sell alcohol. (Which, in retrospect, confuses me. How many people who are of legal age to purchase alcohol would actually attend this concert? It is beyond me.) Anyway, Bud Lites were soon being thrown into the crowd as well, and there was a couple behind me smoking pot. By about 9pm, I was soaked in beer and orange soda and I smelled like a head shop, not to mention that my back was protesting in agonizing pain from standing pushed up against sweaty half-naked teenagers for so long. Finally, Good Charlotte came out. I say finally because they were supposed to be the second to last band to play and I was already ready to get out of there. Their music was so incredibly loud that I thought the sub woofers were going to give me heart arrhythmia. Of course, my more adventurous friend decided that she wanted to get closer, and inadvertently herded us into the center of a then-raging mosh pit full of kids with spikes on their necklaces, too many jelly bracelets, doc martins, and unnatural hair colors. I got punched in the back of the head several times, and was absolutely positive that I was going to die.

                                                                              Before

After

Eventually, the concert ended and I returned home to my father to face an interrogation on why I was covered in beer and soda and reeked of pot.

The third concert that I attended was actually more out of obligation than anything else. I had no real desire to go see the return of the Spice Girls concert, but I did end up going. (When you say "return of the Spice Girls" it sounds like a bad 50s horror movie.)

They're missing one...IT'S BECAUSE SHE'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU AAARRGGH!

Anyway, my step mom and step sisters were really into Spice, so my tickets were already bought for me before I could decline the offer. It was at the then Wachovia Center, and we had pretty bad seats. It's ironic that I say "seats" because I was not allowed to sit in mine for the duration of the concert, which I thought was a load of crap.

The last concert that I went to was with my boyfriend, which was actually kind of enjoyable. It was at the Plazza in Northern Liberties, and it was a free Matt & Kim concert. We went with a few of his friends and we met up with more once we were there. I had only experienced moshing once before, and so I was inadequately prepared this experience. Girls were crowd surfing, people were punching each other on purpose, and pushing around and sweating and yelling and tripping on acid. (Come on people, it's Matt & Kim. Really?) At one point, my boyfriend had to catch this one girl out of the air before she fell and broke herself. She looked at him like she had never wanted to bone anyone so bad in her life , and I had to be all "bitch, gtfo." (Not really though, because I probably would have gotten beat up and I am a wuss.) Anyway, I had to use my boyfriend and this other girl as human battering rams so that I wouldn't get totally destroyed by the giant men in front of me who thought it was the best thing ever to push people around and scream and punch at the air.
By the end of the concert, I was still intact and did enjoy myself a reasonable amount. We were meeting back up with the people we came with and were walking out of the venue when we realized that one of my boyfriend's friend's tshirts was dripping with blood.

US: OMG WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OK!?
HIM: What?
US: Dude, you're totally covered in blood.
HIM: Oh, man. That's not mine
US:...ew

All of these experiences coupled with the fact that I don't dance makes me truly dread going to concerts. Tonight, Yelle is playing at Union Transfer, and although I do enjoy her music, I made sure that I graciously declined my boyfriend's invitation so that I could stay here, safe in my warm albeit haunted apartment. And that's the story of how I became the biggest loser I know.

My Life is Like "The Shining"

So we all know how terrible I am when coping with scary stuff. This is probably a result of watching Unsolved Mysteries and A Haunting almost exclusively during my childhood. One of these episodes stands out for me in particular. It was when I was in 6th grade and my mom took my sister and I to Hawaii. We were watching some sort of ghost hunting/haunted house show, and it featured this boy who was followed by ghosts and spirits throughout his entire life. They called him a "beacon". This terrified me because not only did I truly believe that ghosts were real, but that you as a human could attract them all to you without even trying. This was some hard-core stuff. (Also, Hawaii has nothing to do with this story.)

For years, this idea still seemed valid to me. Whenever I'd be alone in my Mom's house, even if it was during broad daylight, I would get absolutely terrified of any little noise that I heard. (I should mention that my Dad's house is about 19874392734287 times more creepy than my mom's. Thankfully, I no longer reside at either since I'm a grown up.) I thought that when I moved into my apartment in North Philly, my only worries would be crack addicts or hoodlums trying to break in and kill me. Those are still on the list of things to be scared of, but as it turns out I am almost definitely a "beacon".

When I was growing up, I would always catching things like shadows and flashes of light out of the corner of my eye, or see something zoom really quickly across my field of vision. I just thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me. I didn't know that that wasn't normal until recently. There was also a tendency for things to fall or move on their own accord whenever I was alone in a room. I just told myself it was the wind, or it was on it's way down anyway. The more these things keep happening though, the more that seems unlikely.

Now that I am in my own apartment, and these things continue to happen, only with more regularity, I am forced to contemplate a few options:

1. I am most definitely a beacon for ghosts and lost spirits, and my powers have only intensified since I live alone, and there is no one else around to dilute my attractive powers. I will just have to hope that no demons or evil spirits find me. (As far as I can tell, it's only a matter of time.)
2. I am insane.
3. I am overreacting.
Since I am incredibly sound of mind, I feel that my only option is the first. Eventually I will draw in some evil joojoo and I will become possessed and haunted by some sort of poltergeist, or little girls with dripping long hair in old nightgowns will start crab walking across my ceilings.

Let me give you some examples of how I am being haunted to prove to you how un-crazy I am.

1. I was making tea the other day and the wire to the kettle kept wiggling back and forth even though I was not touching it and I had NOT touched it for about 5 minutes, meaning that my moving it had not influenced it's little demonic dance.
2. My closet door had a tendency to open every once in a while, even though there is no way that it could be the wind, nor is the door frame installed on an angle. (I checked.)
3. Every time I sit in my recliner, I see this shadow in my left peripheral vision that I can never focus on. And I have tried sitting in this chair with different lighting and positioning, and it is always the same!

I have yet to be attacked by my own dishes, or to be eaten by my bed and then exploded into a waterfall of blood, but I'm telling you it's only a matter of time

time...


time...









tiiiimeeee........

BOO!

Last One For Today, I Promise

This is why I love Personalized Ads.

The Story of How I Wet the Bed

Judging by the title, you might think that this is going to be a story from my childhood. Well, this is where you would be wrong, and also where I would thank you for giving me so much credit. Clearly, I don't deserve it. No, this is a fairly recent story. And by recent, I mean last year; my freshman year of college when I was 19.

It was the spring semester at Bloomsburg University, which is ironic because it doesn't feel like spring in the town of Bloomsburg until summer time by calendar standards. However, it was fairly late in the school year which had allowed me enough time to make some awesome friends. I had three best friends on campus, and they were all dudes. (As a caveat, I am using the past tense not because I am no longer friends with said dudes, but because I no longer attend school with them, regrettably. But that's a different story.)

Anyway, Ted, Dan, Matt, and I were a super awesome gang of amazing and we would get into all kinds of shenanigans including Busty Cops go Hawaiian, topless keg-stands, and arguing over who has better control of their butt-holes. Unfortunately, our shenanigans also included scary movie night. Which only happened once, and I'll tell you why:

My roommate was gone most weekends since her family lived about 15 minutes away, so I would have the room to myself. One weekend, after a midnight trip to the Weis, the four of us decided that it would be fun to watch The Zodiac Killer in my room, and then sleep over. Now, I don't do well with scary anything, but I figured since I would be in a room with three mostly grown men, it wouldn't be a problem.

We started the movie at around 12:30, and were talking and eating through most of the beginning. It wasn't until the creepy meadow scene that we actually started paying attention. Now, if you've ever seen the movie The Zodiac Killer, you'll know that this is probably the most disturbing movie scene of all time. I still have nightmares regarding this scene, and it's over a year later. Naturally, I was petrified for the rest of the movie that I was conscious for, since I fell asleep before the end.

As I'm sure everyone knows, falling asleep during a scary movie is probably the worst thing that you can do because you don't get to see how the movie was resolved, and you deprive your imagination of the closure that comes from an ending that makes things all better. But The Zodiac Killer is a long-ass movie, and I fell asleep before the killer was caught. (Actually, I don't even know if he ever was caught because I never saw the end. He could still be out there, waiting...with his goddamned creepy puzzles...)

The screams and intense background music faded into my equally turbulent dreams. I was in a constant state of running or hiding throughout my nightmares, and you know how in your dreams everything is a thousand-jillion times scarier, even if it's not really scary at all? Well multiply that by eleventy-thousand and you might begin to comprehend how insanely terrifying my dreams were.

At about 4am, I woke up and had to keep checking to make sure my arms were still attached. It was still pitch black outside, which meant that there was still a real possibility that monsters, serial killers, or orcs could come and kill me in my bed. I kept trying to tell myself that I was being ridiculous and that I should just go back to sleep, but I was having a hard time calming myself down. After about 15 minutes, I started to get tired enough to drift off to sleep again, but just as I was about to fall totally asleep, I was jolted awake by a loud, blood curdling scream.

Or at least that's what it sounded like to me. It turns out, my good friend Dan, who I had never spent the night with before, was a night screamer.

It took me a minute to realize that we weren't all in mortal danger and that The Zodiac Killer wasn't stabbing my friends to death and saving me for last. But by then, it was too late. I was laying in a puddle--a small, insignificant puddle, but a puddles nonetheless--of shame and failure, and I continued to lay there until the sun rose and all of my friends departed so that no one would ever find out the terrible faux pas I had committed.

Naturally, I gracefully declined invitations to all other scary-movie nights for the rest of my time at Bloomsburg.

-Explanatory Post-

So about a year ago, I made a tumblr in an effort to build up my hipster status. (I am convinced that they are resting aloof-ly at the top of the social hierarchy, and I am determined to become one of them.) However, I was treating my tumblr like a blog, which is what I thought you were supposed to do. Little did I know that it was for single white girls to post gifs that resemble issues in their lives, and then repost other single white girls' gifs and talk about how funny and true they are. It was getting out of hand. So I decided to move all of my work to a new home; an actual blog. Hopefully, this will be a better fit. I'm also going to try to blog at least once a week in an effort to become famous with my wit and hilarity. (Motivation by Hyperbole and a Half.) Also, because I'm a freaking genius and I wouldn't want to deprive the world of my brilliance. So as of today, alexal3x is now Alligator Teacup, in honor of my bangin' new alligator mug that I got at TJMaxx. (You may be wondering why I named my blog alligator "teacup" when the beverage vessel in question is clearly a mug. It's because Alligator Mug sounds lame, and I'm a hipster and hipsters drink out of teacups. So suck it.)

P.S. As evidence to show that this blog is not a total sham, please enjoy this picture of me enjoying tea from my vintage teacup that I enjoy very much. Enjoy.

Why "The Office" Makes Me Want To Die

You know how people associate certain smells and sounds with feelings? Well, I do anyway. The smell of cedar repulses me because it reminds me of cleaning guinea pig cages, and their milky disgusting urine. I don’t mind the sound of clanging metal because it makes me think of radiator heat, which is the best kind of heat. Whenever I drink DR Pepper, I feel like I’m at the beach, since it’s my beach beverage of choice. And so on.

But lately I’ve started associating The Office theme song with wanting to rip the skin off my face. (I’ll get to that later though.)

In the last week, I’ve been having the worst time getting motivated to get work done in time for the end of this semester, and I keep hitting walls. Especially with math.

I’ve never been good at math, but now that I’m paying for my own education, I feel inclined to give a shit. So I’ve been trying extra hard on finishing up work for that class, but that doesn’t mean I’m any better at understanding the work. 

For the past few nights, I’ve been sitting down with my rarely used math text book and going through all the homework and reviews and trying to get my assignments done. Concentration has always been difficult for me, especially since I moved into an apartment building with the world’s loudest upstairs neighbor. Every time he walks his fat self across my ceiling, the overhead light shakes and the walls rumble. After he walks back and forth from the kitchen to his living room a few times, I hear him turn on his TV. And his favorite show is The Office. 

A few nights ago, I was trying to finish a math take-home quiz for a section that I could not comprehend. (Let me also say that it was one in the morning at this point, after the longest and most painful day of my life.) I listened to Fatty McThunder Thighs pound back and forth and finally settle back into his couch to watch The Office. As I heard his couch creek under the weight of his supposed massive body (since I’ve never actually seen him, but I like to pretend that he is basically an ogre with body rolls and far apart eyes) I prayed that through some grace of God, he would keep the volume down. Silly me, of course he played The Office at its normal ear splitting volume.

I tried my best to ignore it, but the universe seemed intent on fucking with me. Every time I would get frustrated and overcome by tired tears of frustration, The Office theme song would blast down from my ceiling to mock me. I can’t tell you how many times this happened. I think he must have all of the episodes on DVD. 

It was about three in the morning when I finally gave in and let myself cry over the take-home quiz that was never going to get finished. (In my normal melodramatic fashion, I let my tears drip onto my quiz, staining the problems that I was sure to get wrong anyway.) Just as I thought I was going to be able to pull myself together, I noticed that it was awfully quiet…

DING NA NING. DING DA DING NA NING. DING DA DING DA DING. DING DA DING DING DING NA NA NA….

I used to like The Office. I used to think it was hilarious and unique and made me feel good about my life. Now, I associate it with failure and self loathing and fat ogres and their loud stupid TV habits. Now every time I watch The Office, I feel sad and tired. Now every time I hear The Office theme song, I want to rip my skin off. And I want to drown Fatty McKancle Face in the gallons of mayonnaise I’m sure he consumes on a daily basis. 

Thanks for ruining good TV for me.


P.S., I ended up getting a 19/20 on that quiz. And do you want to know why? BECAUSE I AM A FREAKING CHAMPION!

Life Lessons

After a successful 19 years of life, there are a few things I’ve learned about people, life, and humans in general, and I’d like to share them with you.

1. Telling someone to “calm down” usually has the opposite effect.

2. It will always rain after you hand-wash your car.

3. Doing push-ups makes your boobs like 10x better.

4. When it comes down to it, you really do get what you pay for.

5. Karma is real and it will get you.

6. If you work hard at a skill for a long time, and then take a break, you will be better when you pick it up again later.

7. Confidence is everything.

8. The power of the mind and your will is incredible.

9. When you can’t remember something, other people have a hard time remembering it too, even if they know exactly what they’re talking about.

10. When you realize something, the other person will realize it at the same time.

11. Stink bugs are demonic minions who have come to challenge us as humans.

12. Trying to be underground is now mainstream.

13. Paradoxes are awesome.

14. There will always be mysteries of the universe, and most of them shouldn’t be answered.

15. Don’t think too much.

16. Seriously, don’t think too much.

17. Turns out, you really will use that “shit” that you learned in math in middle school. How do you think I afford to go food shopping every week?

18. Babies like pretty people. If you’re ugly, babies won’t care about you.

19. Pretty people can do whatever they want. We pretend like they can’t, but they can.

20. Shoes, keys, phones, and wallets will always leave you when you most need them.

My name is Alex Morrison, and I approve the accuracy of this post.

A Very Vonnegut Day

A few days ago, I went walking through campus on my way to get some food. At the doors of the cafeteria was a large group of excited protesters. As I got closer, I realize it was a Fundamentalist Christian gathering, with signs everywhere saying “If you love Jesus, you will obey him!” and “YOU DESERVE HELL…but God will forgive your sins if you pray.” and so on. I thought it was actually kind of funny, seeing all of these people rioting, proclaiming their love for Jesus and the Bible. How narrow-minded and quick to judge these people seemed. Oh well, maybe I was wrong.

So as i was walking past them, someone with the likeness of a Neo-Nazi skinhead offered me a pamphlet on Fundamentalist Christianity, and said that I needed to bring Jesus into my life if I ever wanted to join God in heaven. Now, if you’ve ever worked in a produce store, or some kind of coffee shop as I have, I’m sure you’ve had countless older Asian women offer you booklets and CDs on how to be a “Good Christian”. I’d always hated that, and I’ll tell you why. I have absolutely no problem with religion, in fact, I respect the people with enough self discipline to follow it. However, I abhor those who try to shove their beliefs down other people’s throats. This being said, I decided to have a little fun with this man shoving fliers into my arms.

I looked at him, smiled, and as politely as possible told him “No thank you, I’m a
lesbian.” I wanted to see what would happen; to see whether or not he would still try to offer me “Jesus’s help” after he had just finished proclaiming that “Jesus loves all of his children”.

He spat at my feet.

So it goes.

Why I'm Sure I'm Going To Hell

Right now, I’m sitting in my dorm room where my roommate is hosting a club meeting. The club is called Jesus 101 and they study scripture in an abstract, literary, meaningful way. Or so I’m told. Personally, I’m convinced it’s some sort of secret gathering where they feed each others’ disdain for the “non-believers”. I mean, that’s what all Christians do, right? Obviously, I wouldn’t know, I was raised Presbyterian sort of. Regardless, this meeting has been making me progressively more uncomfortable, and I’ll tell you why. All semester, I’ve been weaving this tolerant facade so that I could sneak under the radar and be sparred when they decide to take over the world and force the will of God unto all. But I’m afraid that my mask is crumbling. It’s like how dogs and babies can smell fear; they can smell agnostics. So the more I sit here, exposing all of their secrets, the more I am sure they will soon find me out and take me as their prisoner. ALSO, it doesn’t help that hanging on my wall is a picture of Jesus hovering evangelically over an 18 wheeler. It’s hand-painted onto felt and hand-framed. Another priceless gem from the local Salvation Army.

So basically I have accepted my fate: I’m probably going to Hell. First of all, I’m writing this post. That should almost guarantee my trip to Hell in a hand basket. Also, my beautiful felt rendering of Jesus. (Which I have aptly titled “Jesus Take The Wheel.) Further more, I am a non-believer—or a skeptic at the very least—and I’m sure I’ve broken most, if not all of the 10 commandments. However, I take them less seriously now since I just recently read a Cracked articled on how Moses dreamed those up while he was tripping on mushrooms—yet another reason for my eternal damnation. (For your amusement:http://www.cracked.com/article_16532_the-5-greatest-things-ever-accomplished-while-high.html)

And last, but certainly not least, the leader of this group is hot and I totally want a piece of that. But here’s the kicker: it’s a she. So, Satan, signed sealed delivered I’M YOURS!

How I Got Into College: My Personal Statement

When I was 11 years old, my life changed when I saw a pig give birth. Not in the positive, awe-inspiring way one would think. It was quite the opposite, actually. Up until that point, I thought for sure that I had wanted to be in the agricultural business. The freedom, the rolling hills, the animals, the outdoors, it was all so enchanting. I was positive that this was the life style for me. My aunt had a farm in Womelsdorf Pennsylvania, and my sister and I would visit her there often. This is what spurred my grandiose dream to become a farmer. My entire life revolved around this ambition. That is, until the day my aunt took my sister and me to see her friend at her pig farm. “It was a very special occasion,” we were told, “that the pigs were giving birth that day”.  I was so excited. I had never witnessed anything so raw or miraculous before in my life. I could barely contain myself during the car ride.

When we got there, my sister and I were escorted into the huge pens where the pigs in labor were being kept. The smell hit me when we walked in the door, and almost knocked me over. I remember pulling my shirt collar over my nose and thinking to myself “I can handle this. If I want to be in the agricultural business, I would have to learn how to deal with the unavoidable things, like smells.” My sister was less devoted than I was. She covered her nose and mouth with both hands and immediately began to whine. We marched on. Deeper into the pens we went until we got to the very end where enormous bloated pigs lay on their sides, panting and grunting. My aunt’s friend was in the pen with one of the pigs, kneeling on the grimy concrete floor next to it. I stood right up against the gate, facing the business end of the huge pig. I wasn’t standing there for more than a minute before it happened. My amazement turned to disgust almost instantly. The smell, the slime, the responsibility, I just couldn’t handle it. I wanted to leave—I was heartbroken. For the better part of my young life, I had my heart set on becoming a farmer. It was then, standing in a puddle of amniotic fluid, that I realized I had absolutely no desire to become a farmer. In fact, that was probably the last thing I wanted to do.

From then on, I was more careful with what I set my heart on. I didn’t skip from career to career like most kids did. I went from wanting to be a farmer, to a teacher, with a long period of consideration in between. Through high school, I was exposed to different settings and have gained experiences that have helped develop my wish to teach. Several leadership positions and community service projects have solidified my desire to follow this career path. I believe that teaching is one of the most noble, and important jobs in our culture. I am very passionate about the idea of spending my life educating the youth of our country, and possibly others. If it hadn’t been for my set back 8 years ago, I wouldn’t be as sure of myself. However, because of my pig experience, I am certain that teaching is my one true passion, and I believe that Temple University is the perfect place to help me reach that goal.

The Real Ugly Truth

My mother has always been kind of a free spirit. She does deep breathing exercises, practices Buddhism, and practically swears by herbal tea. This attitude of hers lead her to make, and accept some pretty “eclectic” friends. When I was younger, my mom would have these friends over at the house all the time, one in particular. Her name was Gene. She was this massive black woman with a booming voice, and—as I had heard years later—quite a temper. (My father told me that she was arrested once for assaulting the local judge’s daughter with dinner plates. Charming.) Anyway, she would visit often and always make a scene about how “grown up” I was, or how “aDOOOHrable” I looked in a certain dress, etc. It was becoming too much to handle. So one day when I had caught wind that Gene was coming over to visit—again—I made the decision to rebel.

As Gene’s car pulled into the driveway, I ran inside, looking around desperately for a place to hide. I came into the living room where we had a big old-fashioned organ against the wall. Aha! I dropped to the floor and began to crawl over the pedals, making sure not to hit any of them and reveal myself. Once I was more or less comfortably concealed behind the organ, I began to listen for my mother. After a few minutes, the front door opened and the excited voices of my mom and her friend came tumbling into the living room. A beat of silence.

“ALEX!” my mother called for me. “COME SAY HELLO TO MS. GENE!”

I stayed stone still. Her voice lingered in the air as they waited for my reply. Obviously, it never came. Then, the real search began. My mother was up in arms, screaming for me. It was apparent that she was scared stiff. Soon, my dad, mom, Gene, and my sister were all running around the house looking for the M.I.A five-year-old. I knew I should have felt guilty, but I was actually very pleased with myself. I ended up staying behind the organ for about an hour until someone, Gene actually, had found me. I was immediately yanked from my hiding spot and passed to my mother, who hauled ass with me up the stairs to my room. After we were behind closed doors, she let me have it. It was the most traumatic experience of my life up to that point. Always having been a good kid, I never knew what it was like to get chewed out by your irate and recently scared-to-death mother. It wasn’t fun, I’ll tell you that.After my stern talking-to, I was marched back downstairs to make a formal apology to Gene. I was even forced into kissing her on the cheek. The horror.

All in all, it was not a successful ending to the day. However, everything up to that point was exhilarating; empowering, if you will. So, naturally, I got right back out there and found an even better hiding spot. It wasn’t because I was some demon child, or because I enjoyed scaring my mother, or that I was stupid. It was because I enjoyed pushing the limit, and also probably because I have never been good at associating consequences with actions.  So even though my mom, free spirit that she was, had put the fear of God into me that day, it didn’t stop me from continuing to act out. This leads me to the moral of the story: you should always beat your kids, because yelling at them doesn’t do a goddamned thing.

My Thoughts On Exercise

When you’re too tired to carry on, your body aches with every step, and your heart breaks with every beat, and your lungs burn with every agonizing breath you draw. When you find yourself at the end of your rope, you take solace in the idea: this can’t go on forever, right? You question the possibilities of an end as you force your tired body to continue. When your mind begins to contemplate the what ifs?—what if this never ends?, what if I continue to suffer?, what about the pain?, what if it never stops?—a deeper and more primitive part of the brain turns them off and forces you to focus on survival. But as you continue dragging yourself over the burning coals, you realize that with every step, you are getting closer and closer to  some sort of end. You find new vigor in this insight, and you suddenly are more than happy to suffer because you know that it will all be over soon, and that rest will come. The feeling isn’t quite so cliché as a “light at the end of the tunnel”. No, it’s much more powerful than that. It’s more comforting and simple, like if you take one more bite of your asparagus, you get a brownie. Two brownies. A hundred brownies. A hundred weed brownies. A hundred of the best weed brownies you’ve ever had, and then you get to sleep and watch TV in a leather chair forever. Such power comes from this gruesome truth: it will all be over soon. But your mind doesn’t let you think about the morbidity of your current situation. All you know is that however hurt you are now, however much you have to suffer, however much each second you wish you could die, it doesn’t matter because the end is near, and from where you’re standing, that’s a beautiful thing.

Lessons Learned

There was a boy named Tim in my fourth grade class. He was a short boy with flame red hair and freckles covered every inch of his skin. He was notoriously obnoxious and was categorized by his mischievous tendencies. It was just my luck that we were chosen to be lab partners for the year. Every time we were given a project, he would mess something up, or get the wrong answers. This bothered me to no end, so I would insist on doing all of the work, leaving him to his own devices.

One day about a month later, I was unfortunate enough to forget my lunch money. Luckily for me, it was Tim’s birthday. His mother brought in cupcakes to share with all of Tim’s class mates. What an opportune time to forget a lunch, I though. As she was passing them out, someone stopped her and asked her why Tim was covered in freckles. She smiled and said—in so many words—that every freckle was representative of an angle kiss. I laughed out loud. Naturally, I was sent to stand in the hallway for my less-than-graceful outburst.

 The year dragged on and I continued to work alone on our labs, but not grudgingly. Tim and I had become a team. He would talk endlessly about random subjects: firemen, power rangers, Jedi warriors. After a while, I started listening. He was actually very funny, and some of the things he had to say were quiet interesting. Needless to say, he started to grow on me.

            It was the middle of the school year, and the PTO had set up a school store in the cafeteria. It was filled with toys, school supplies, etc. So instead of buying a Twix bar that day, I bought a key chain. It was an orange flower with a yellow smiley face in the center. I displayed it proudly on my backpack for all to see. I got several compliments upon my return to class. We took our seats and I pulled off the key-chain and put it on my desk, gleaming with novelty. Then Tim came in. I watched his eyes light up when he found the key-chain. He sat down and asked if he could see it. I obliged him. Tim and I had established a friendship of sorts, and I trusted him with my things.  After playing with the flower for a few minutes, he asked if he could borrow it to show to his friend at home. I made him promise to return it to me the next day, and then naively let him take it home that afternoon. Unsurprisingly, I did not see it the next day, or the day after that. I asked Tim for it every day for about a month and never saw it. Was I devastated? Hardly. Rather, I was disappointed in Tim. I had been kind of rooting for him in my head, hoping that he would remember one day, and bring it back to me like the responsible boy I knew he could be. I had just about given up when one day, Tim came bounding into class with a big smile on his face. He marched right up to me, holding his hands behind his back. Neither of us said anything as he revealed the long-lost key-chain. I couldn’t believe it; Tim had brought it back perfectly intact, without a scratch on it. I was so overcome with pride that I jumped up and hugged him in front of the whole class. I realized later that I wasn’t just proud of him for remembering, I was proud of myself for believing in him—something that people rarely did with Tim.

To this day, I’m glad I met Tim, because he taught me a very valuable lesson: sometimes, it can actually be safe to trust a ginger.  

What is Fear? Assignment from my Creative Writing Class in High School

It’s gaining on you.
You’re trying to run, but your feet are stuck in mud.
Shadows start to close in on you.
Running.
Running.
Can’t get away.
Everything is black and your heart is pounding.

Open your eyes.



Everything is quiet and dark. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins and your eyes bug wide in the darkness. The only sound is your ragged breathing, and the clock ticking on the wall above your head.
Your brain chugs slowly to life as familiar shapes start to fade into focus, and you realize after a few seconds, that you are in your bed.
The cool feeling of relief washes over you as you slump back against your pillows.
A smile breaks across your face, as you contemplate your near miss.
A few seconds go by, and your smile starts to fade because you’ve come to a stark realization:
it’s dark,
you’re scared,
and you’re completely
alone.

It’s black everywhere you look. Shapes are only visible in the periphery, and even then, they are hazy. What’s hiding in the dark corner, or behind that door, or in the closet?
Quickly, you glance over at the clock for reassurance.
3:12am
Great. Four more hours until the sun comes up, and you know you are safe.
You assure yourself that you’re being ridiculous, and lie down and close your eyes, but you have a harder time controlling your ears; they perk up despite your best efforts.
If the neighbors opened a soda next door, you would be able to hear it.
You try to ignore the involuntary shivers, and the burning knot at the pit of your stomach.
Relax your muscles,
let your mind wander.
Peace.
Soft sheets.
Dark blue.
Stars.
Star fish.
Goldfish.
Sea monsters!

Oh shut up!


You try again.
Peace.
Warm breezes.
The smell of leather.
Sand.
Puppies…



Just as you feel yourself drifting into unconsciousness, you hear the wood floor creek outside in the hall.

Your eyes fly open and your heart kicks into overdrive. Sitting ram rod straight in your bed, you focus all your senses on identifying the noise.
How the hell are you supposed to hear anything with that damned clock ticking in your ear?
You consider taking it down, but you decide against it. It alone is guiding you to the safety of the dawn; it’s purpose is too great.

You spare it a glance.
3:27
Ugh.


It’s quiet for a while.
Just as you start to consider lying back down, another thump echoes in the hallway.
Adrenaline shoots back through your veins and your heart pounds fervently against your ribs.
You imagine a shadow, taking its time, only stepping every few minutes so the sound of its footsteps are spaced far enough apart to remain inconspicuous in the night. It makes slow progress to your room so that when it gets there, you’re sleeping unaware in your bed, vulnerable, and unconscious.
Another footstep.
It feels like your heart is going to fly out of your chest, and your stomach is going drop through your butt.
Quick glance at the clock.
4:34
Come onnn.

Seconds turn into minutes, which turn into hours. Sweat dews on your forehead, and your back is killing you from sitting stone still for… how long have you been sitting there?
3:58
You don’t know, a while.

The wood creeks again.
Though you’re still braced for attack, you’ve become desensitized to the noise.
(You’ve had a lot of time to think and rationalize.)
So you let your mind wander; only leaving half of your brain to keep a lookout.

Apple cider.
Hay rides.
Bon fires.
Shooting stars.
Lots of stars.
Planets.
The sun.
Two suns.
Eight suns.
A million suns.
Too bright.

You open your eyes.


Sunlight is pouring through your window, directly into your face. It’s morning, and you’ve survived another night. Surprise, surprise.
You roll over to check the clock and you hear your shoulder crack.
 !!!

You supposed that’s what you get for sitting like a rock in your bed all night.
You laugh at how stupid you feel; everything seems so safe and far away in the delicious light of day.
Contemplating clichés, one in particular finally resonates with you:

There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.