A Whole Bunch of Mountain Metaphors

A couple of weeks ago I got a bad haircut.  Luckily it all worked out — it doesn’t look too bad, and I talked it down so much that I was showered with compliments when people saw that I had any hair at all.  (Keep expectations low, kids.)  But I don’t really want to talk about that right now, I was just trying to break the ice.

Ice broken yet?  Great, because we’re going to dive right in.  That’s right, today we’re swimming under the ice, in emotional territory.  It’s not a place I go often, sincerity, but hey, sometimes it happens to the best of us.

Today is my last day in New Zealand.  In fact, I’m waiting at the Auckland Airport right now, writing away my thoughts to pass the time.  (And to stay awake — I was falling asleep on a bench.)

If I were feeling humorous, I’d probably try to connect this farewell post to one of my first posts where I said I was coming to NZ for nine months to give birth to a secret love child at a nunnery or something.  (The child is healthy and will grow up to be a devout Catholic nun and then one day become abbess and take charge of a cathedral-building project and I just realized this has become a gender-flipped version of Pillars of the Earth.)  Regardless, I’m not feeling particularly funny right now (hence the PotE reference), I’m feeling sad.  Because I don’t like goodbyes.

Usually my move is the Irish Goodbye — just disappearing without a word, without a hug.  Just taillights in the distance and the soft sniffle of solitary car sobs drifting back on the wind.  But sometimes you just have to suck it up and sniffle it out right there.  Because goodbyes are sad, and sometimes you just have to feel something and deal with it.  (And this coming from a person so adverse to revealing her true feelings that she developed a fear last year that maybe people could read her thoughts.  Which is absolutely ridiculous. …right?)

I don’t love being sad.  Melancholy isn’t my favorite suit.  (I’m saying this as if it was an established phrase — I would like you to proceed as though it was.)  But the reason I’m sad today is because I’ve enjoyed the places I’ve been, and the people I’ve been with.*  Which seems like a pretty good reason to be sad.

This post is nothing very special.  Nothing more than the rambling thoughts of an overtired girl who’s getting ready to return to one home, while leaving another behind.  (Also, the girl’s hair is poofing like a mad scientist’s on the sides because someone cut it too short, but that’s another story.)

It’s only at the end of a journey that we see how far we’ve come.  You don’t know how hard it’s going to be to climb a mountain until you’ve done it.  And that sounds like a metaphor, but I mean that literally.  I have climbed mountains (okay, one mountain, get off my case) that I wouldn’t have dared start if I knew how challenging it would be.  So it’s probably a good thing I didn’t know about the steep stone steps, or the loose rocky incline.  I  never would have climbed the mountain at all.  And I might never have come to New Zealand if I knew how hard and exhausting my journey would be.  So I’m glad I didn’t know.  Because looking down from the top of this metaphorical mountain (now we are talking metaphors, keep up), I am so happy I made it all the way, and I hope I remember this view forever.  (Remember, we’re talking metaphors, so by “view” I’m really talking about the experiences I’ve had and the relationships I’ve made.  You know what?  Metaphors are too confusing, screw metaphors.  Let’s go back to straight talk.)

I can’t say that I’ve loved every minute of my time here, because I’m not a liar and we’re doing straight talk time.  What I will say is that there experiences worth having, and people worth meeting, that do nothing to move you toward your “goals,” but completely change your life for the better.  Never be afraid to have an experience for experience’s sake.  Take chances.  Climb mountains (real or metaphorical — climber’s choice).  Don’t be afraid to get close to people just because you’re afraid of heartbreak.  Sometimes heartbreak is worth it for all the heart…smiles?  What’s the opposite of heartbreak?  Ah, I suppose some would say that it’s love.**  Sometimes heartbreak is worth it for all the love you have in the meantime.

I told you this wasn’t going to be funny.  I really did warn you.  I told you that I’m feeling sad and sentimental and that I’m wearing my melancholy suit even though it’s too big and the collar kind of itches.  So that’s what I have for you today, my friends, a brain dump of honesty.

Now, if you came here expecting a witty monologue of sorts, and you neglected to heed my warning, well, I’m sorry.  But I don’t do wasted time refunds.  (The paperwork alone on that would require me to file my own suit and it becomes a vicious circle.)  Because I do feel bad about the unexpected tonal change for today’s post, however, I will wrap this up with a couple of jokes on the house.  I’ve got two short jokes and a long one.

Joke. Joke. J o o o o o o o o o o o k e.

Damn it that plays better outloud.

*EDITOR’S NOTE: “with whom I’ve been.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Will you just be quiet?  I’m having a moment.

**EDITOR’S NOTE: Of course it is you idiot.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Love you, you numbskull.
EDITOR’S NOTE: (Back attcha.)

Adult Supervision Required

There is a general expectation that youths are to be vaguely supervised by adults (you know, those taller versions of youths who are allowed to eat sweets whenever they so choose). This is so expected that often there are laws about supervision — humans of a certain age, in a certain city/state/country/space station must be accompanied by humans of a certain different age, usually one with more digits. I assume these sorts of guidelines (whether legally or socially constructed) are in place to deal with the fact that some of the newer humans have not yet figured out what to do with their poop, and most of them can’t acquire food without help. And I agree that supervising these youngin’s (that’s the plural version of youngin’ and not a wayward possessive) is generally a good thing to do. After all, who knows what kind of influential diplomats, inspiring artists, or professional celebrities they could turn out to be?! And they will never get there without some older humans helping them along the way, until they can figure out the poop and food situations for themselves.

But there comes a point in many humans’ lives when the supervising adult is no longer necessary to prevent certain death. Sure, the aged humans can still be helpful to have around, but the former-youth has at this point acquired the bare minimum skills needed in order to not-die when left unattended.

Apparently it does not look as though I have yet reached this point.

Just this past week I went on a trip with my sister, one that I was very nervous and excited about — a three-day tramp through Abel Tasman National Park. Although the trail was rumored to be doable for those of all ability levels, it was to be our first overnight hike, and the first anything always contains lots of uncertainties and pressure.

So it didn’t instill a lot of confidence that as we were embarking on our journey not one, but two, airline officials checked with the two of us to make sure we were over 15. That’s right, over 15-years-old. They thought that there was a possibility that we were an intrepid 14-year-old duo, off to have a grand adventure. The first asked us if we were travelling around by ourselves, and upon hearing the answer remarked, “Oh that’s fun!” (And it was.) But the fact that she first looked around us for our adult supervisor, for that person whose job it was to make sure we were fed and safe and had arranged for transport at our destination airport, that made me realized that we were our adult supervisors. We were the ones who had to get to our final destination, check into our hostel, get all the food we’d need for our trek, make it to the park, apply sunscreen in the mornings, and try to avoid dropping our fancy belongings off of cliffs. (*cough* Courtney *cough*)

It’s one thing to be the adult supervisor of someone else’s youths (something I do daily), but it’s quite another to realize that you are your own adult supervisor. It’s somewhat akin to walking along a tightrope, wobbling a bit, and going “Well, at least I’ve got that safety net down th– WHO MOVED THE DAMN SAFETY NET?!” (And then proceeding to curse out all the nearby circus employees as you try to crawl back to the platform sloth-style.)

For someone who has managed to acquire a reasonable amount of years while actively avoiding becoming whatever an “adult” is, it was a little odd to come to the conclusion that I may in fact be closer to that title that I thought. (Don’t worry, I’m definitely still in firm denial about my impending adulthood — if you’d like we can get together and not discuss it while eating nachos and watching The Muppet Movie.)

Is it ironic that being mistaken for a kid is what made me realize that I’m (almost part of the way to being) an adult? No. That’s not what irony is. Come on, we all know that by now. But I do think it’s funny. (That’s because I have a pretty low “funny” threshold — I also think dad jokes are hilarious, as well as phone cord-related slapstick bits, so you should take everything I say with a grain of salt. Or maybe a small pinch. Possibly a 1/2 tsp just to be on the safe side.)

I am the responsible(ish) (pseudo) adult. I am the one who gets me the food. I am the one who knows where to poop. (Everybody poops, guys.) I am over 15, and I can legally sit in the exit aisle. (But I’m going to be honest, I probably shouldn’t. Because I’m just shit when it comes to things with buttons and levers and hatches. It has taken me over 20 minutes before to fold up a stroller. They should really ask you about that before they give you the extra legroom.)

I am the adult who supervises myself. I am no longer technically in the “youth” category. I have moved firmly beyond childhood into that in-between phase where you’re in a chrysalis freaking out because it’s dark and you’re claustrophobic and what good could possibly come from mummifying yourself upside down on a branch. I am (in some circumstances and every other Thursday afternoon) a grown-up.

…Though if I can pass for 14 to get a student discount, you better believe I’m gonna do that.

** This mental breakdown was SPONSORED by semi-stale Oreos, that-tea-we-have-in-the-kitchen, and what appears to be a viral infection (i.e., the common cold) **

Once in a Lifetime

Every once in a while you come face to face with a once in a lifetime opportunity. And by “you” I mean me, and by “once in a lifetime opportunity” I mean modeling as a bride. Or make that, modeling as a bride who was left at the altar, for a bunch of older women who are amateur photographers. I mean, it would take someone with much less curiosity and much more of a social life to turn that chance down.

As someone with somewhat limited modeling experience (read: none), I was a tad apprehensive about the whole situation. I’ve never even been to a wedding, though that seems less important when one is required to model as a distressed bride — no happy blissful smiles or bridesmaids in dubious dresses for this girl. But speaking of dresses…

The week before the event I went to go find a dress to wear. At a costume shop. (Not my idea.) They’ve got a lot of things at costume shops, but classy wedding dresses on not on that list. Medieval frocks or famous politician masks, sure, but I would advise brides to perhaps check other establishments before turning to their local costume shop. Luckily (and we can question whether or not this was luck in our roundtable postmortem later), this particular costume shop happened to have exactly ONE white dress in my size range. It’s a spectacularly glaring white number (like when you stare at a piece of printer paper in direct sunlight), complete with glittery “lace,” a mid-chest rosette, and straps made of (all together now!) rickrack! (Well, some sort of sparkly ribbon/rickrack thing, but I think you get the picture — it would have made a lovely bow around a Christmas-y candle.) This tulle-laden anachronism of a garment may not have been my first choice, but it was definitely my only choice, so off I went with a plastic bag stuffed full with the remains of the 80s. (It should be noted that the lady at the costume shop very helpfully pointed out the beautiful detail work on the dress, and reassured me that the sparkles would photograph really well. Whether or no I agree with her is beside the point — even the most hideous of dresses should have an advocate, and I’m happy to report that this outdated trainwreck was no exception. “What of the older ladies photographing you?” you cry. “What did they think?” Hold your horses, Mom, I’m getting to that. Patience.)

This bag-full-o-dress sat in my room all week, mocking me as I walked past, taunting me with the inevitability of wearing it. I even had to go buy a strapless bra for the greedy thing! (Because sometimes when you move to a new country for nine months in a childcare capacity, you neglect to account for the possibility of modeling as a bride, and you leave your strapless bras back home.)

On Saturday morning I got my make-up done by my employer (like any fake bride on her fake wedding day), and was left alone to spend the rest of the morning staring at myself in the mirror and trying to recognize me. (This is what happens when you (meaning I) only wear a full face of make-up once a year, usually under coercion.) Then I did my hair, tried on the dress and the veil for a final check, ate a cookie, and drove to the event.

This event wasn’t any sort of traditional modeling shoot (as you should have surmised already due to the fact that I am not a model, and I was wearing a costume shop “wedding dress”). This was an event for an amateur photography society of some sort, where the members were to walk around this little historic village on some sort of photographic scavenger hunt. Oh right, did I forget to mention this whole thing took place in one of those little old-fashion villages? Basically the whole thing felt like a Wild West backlot, which added to the general surreal feel of the whole day.

When I arrived at the village, I was quickly given a rundown of my duties, then shown to the public bathroom to change into my dress. Now, Mom, I don’t know if you’ve ever had to change into something resembling a wedding dress in a small bathroom, but let’s just say that it was awkward enough that I was actually laughing out loud to myself as I tried to get dressed. (It’s possible that the solitary laughter was just due to insanity — don’t rule it out.) While I was in the bathroom someone came by and locked the door that leads into the bathroom hallway, and for a good minute I was fairly certain that I was going to spend the next two hours trapped inside. Then I realized I’m just bad at opening doors and I let myself out.

I made my way over to my little chapel, the site of my greatest fictional heartbreak, and just settled in while other “models” and organizers wandered around. I sat down on the stoop with my bouquet and my phone tucked away under my miles of skirt, and waited. (I brought Eats, Shoots, and Leaves with me as well, but it wasn’t as easy to tuck away, which explains my generally atrocious punctuation.) Suddenly I looked up and saw a man with a camera peeking between two trees, clearly taking a picture of me. “They’ve arrived!” an organizer helpfully informed me as the photographers came around the bend, flash bulbs blazing.* The next hour and a half consisted of me trying to look my gloomiest, and amateur photographers instructing me to tilt my bouquet while they fake-pitied me for my fake-failed wedding. (Yes, I know he didn’t deserve me! After all, I’m the one here doing all the work, right?) Some were content to snap whatever brilliant disenfranchised-bride pose I was giving them, while other had very specific ideas in mind. One lady asked me if I was okay with eye drops before pouring water into my eyes. She didn’t ask if I wore contacts, however, and I spent the next thirty seconds trying to blink them back into place as cold water spilled off my face and straight down my bedazzled bodice.

As I sat there, emoting my hardest, I started to get really pissed at this woe-be-gone nearly-bride. Why was she so freakin’ sad? Why wouldn’t she be mad and frustrated and on her couch in her sweats, or at the gym racing the treadmill? Why is she gazing forlornly at her bouquet, or looking down the church path for her ex-fiancé to return? After they agreed to spend the rest of their lives together (until she decides to focus on her second career and he struggles with his identity post-youthful bravado), he just went, “yeah…on second thought…” and TOOK OFF. Why isn’t she pissed?! Can someone talk some sense into this girl? I hate to be the one to repeat the twelve sexagenarians who said this to me, but “you’re better off without him! He doesn’t deserve you, sweetie.”

After the last devoted photographer took the last depressing picture of me in the sunny chapel archway, I gathered up my bags, grabbed my phone from its hiding place ( in a potted plant), snapped a few bridal selfies, and made my way down the small hill to a different public restroom where I transformed** back into a regular person and ended this run-on sentence. It’s hard to describe what I felt leaving that (then completely abandoned) historic village. Mostly because it wasn’t interesting enough to commit to memory. I know I felt warm (because I was finally allowed to wear a sweater), and my shoulders felt a little raw (damn rickrack), and I was quite hungry (all I had to eat in the proceeding six hours was a cookie and a tiny wedge of something sweet at our tea break). Besides that I was happy; proud of a job well done.*** But mostly I was excited to go home and eat nachos.

(Now I bet you thought I forget to tell you about the older ladies’ reaction to the dress, huh? Not so, my friend. Long story short, at least half of them loved it.)

*AUTHOR’S NOTE: My editor wants me to clarify that this is pure fiction for rhetoric’s sake. In reality, the pleasant weather and resulting dappled shade did not require flash until at least an hour later, at which point it was still just the photographer’s preference. (I maintain that this explanation is unnecessary.)
EDITOR’S NOTE: Fine, next time you deceive the public and see how they like it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Nobody even reads this!
EDITOR’S NOTE: …But they could.

**AUTHOR’S NOTE: There should be a word for “transformed” that can be used for thoroughly underwhelming occasions, like when dragons transform back into queens.
EDITOR’S NOTE: I’m on it.

***AUTHOR’S NOTE: I assume it was well done because nobody said otherwise, and as long as I never see those photos, I’ll continue to believe it.
EDITOR’S NOTE: I believe it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Really?
EDITOR’S NOTE: No.

The Land After Time

There’s a dinosaur bone on the beach.* Everyone walks by it as though it’s a washed up tree trunk. But I know better. It’s a giant dinosaur bone. Maybe a femur? Possible a spine… I’m not really sure.   My knowledge of paleontology ends with the pronunciation of the word. But if it’s not a giant dinosaur bone, then tell me, why does it look so much like a giant dinosaur bone?

…See? No answer. Which would lead me to believe that it is, in fact, some last remnant from a long forgotten dinosaur.

It’s possible it was one of those sea dinosaurs. You know, the ones that are basically the size of small island countries, and who used to rule the world when America was an ocean, and all that jazz? And then it died in the ocean, obviously, and its giant bones sunk down to the bottom where they were buried for millennia, until an earthquake shook them loose, and one giant bone, hollowed out by time, set forth on its journey through the ocean, as though it still remembered the days when it was the king of the sea. It floated along until one day it just bumped smack into a small beach in New Zealand and got stuck. And there it stayed, wedged into the sand, waves cutting away at it until it became smooth, and the choice toilet spot for a few discerning seagulls.

Alternatively it could be the femur from a land dinosaur, and it would be a BIG one at that. I mean, have you seen the size of that bone?! No, of course you haven’t. I suppose that’s why I’m even telling you all this. But I need you to take my word about this. I’m being very serious. Perhaps this massive creature of the land died fighting its mortal enemy (a ginormous pterodactyl-y thing that specializes in pecking eyes out), by the mouth of a volcano, where it was led by the devious flying devil. Upon its defeat/eye gouging, it fell into the mouth of the volcano, where all evidence of the massive creature would stay, until one day the volcano felt a bit of a rumbling in its tummy and all of a sudden — BAM! Out shoots smoke, ash, lava — the works. And that includes one fallen dinosaur’s femur, which lands in the nearby ocean, and then becomes a raft in a Joe vs. the Volcano situation, where the “Joe”-figure lands by the bone post-volcano ejection, and uses it to get to safety. And eventually the bone ends up on the very beach where I happen to walk quite often. (Who knows what happens to the “Joe.”)  And I see it. And I know, even though everyone else seems to ignore, or pretend, I know. It’s a dinosaur bone! How could it even be anything else? Why would it even be anything else, when it could be a dinosaur bone?

Nobody else seems to grasp the enormity of the situation. Though perhaps that’s for the best. I mean, surely there’d be a media frenzy should the truth come out. There would be experts, and pretend experts, and people who want to sound important by talking to experts, and curious kids, and mischievous teenagers, and tour buses full of half-interested tourists who basically just want to take a picture as proof that they’ve been there and seen the thing they were supposed to. And then I, well I’d have to find a whole new beach to walk on, now wouldn’t I? So perhaps it’s just as well that they don’t know. Or they don’t want to know. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I know. There’s a dinosaur bone on the beach.

It’s also possible that it’s just a washed up log. But what fun would that be?

*EDITOR’S NOTE: It’s good to have you back, buddy.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Aw, you missed me.
EDITOR’S NOTE: I missed the work.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sure.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Quick question — have you perhaps gone insane in the interim?
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Entirely possible.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Great.

TTT #3: Less Than Ordinary Mountains

The mountaintops were nothing special.  Nothing more special than any other magnificent mountaintop.  No, the thing about the floating mountains, as you might have at this point guessed, was the bit at the bottom where there was, well, no bottom.  As you make your way down these misty, mysterious mountains, the ground becomes less and less certain, until it’s not ground at all, but rather clouds.  If you want to know what’s below the clouds, that’s a oneway trip.  A trip that the inhabitants of the floating mountains were not willing to take.  And so the floating mountains, and those who lived upon them, slowly drifted solitarily through the skies.  Until the point when the mountains bumped into a very strange ladder.  Well, there was nothing strange about the ladder itself.  It was, much like the mountaintops, very similar to others of its kind.  The rather strange thing, about which the inhabitants of the mountain soon found themselves wondering, was what, exactly, this ladder was doing in the sky.

SNIPPET: Wet & Dry

It’s amazing how much drier one can get with a proper, fluffy towel, as opposed to with a dry-qwik travel one. It’s the sort of thing that seems like it would come in absolutes — one is either dry, or wet. They’re binaries, either/or. And yet, there tend to be varying degrees of both states, as one sometimes discovers rather much to one’s dismay. For example, the varying degrees of “wet”:

– “My, That’s a Bit of a Drizzle”
– “The Heavens Have Just Opened Right Up”
– “Well It Surely Couldn’t Rain Any Harder Than THIS”
– “I Was Wrong”
and
– “Oh Dear Now I’ve Walked Into a Lake”

On Solitude, Deep Thought, & Walden Pond*

Many people have ragged on about the clear difference between being alone and being lonely. I’m not here to discuss that. It seems like something that just about everyone could figure out with a twinge of common sense. And I trust you’ve already worked it out for yourself, Mom, you’re a pretty bright person. For those of you who have stumbled upon this blog by some unfortunate accident or another, and haven’t yet figured out how to leave, let me say, “Welcome!” and “I’m sorry” and “You might as well join us — we’re talking about solitude today.” For that is, Mom and Lost Internet Explorers**, what we’re going to talk about. At least until I inevitably veer off course.

Some people love being alone, and do it often. I, myself, am one of these people. In fact, I’m currently traveling alone. It’s a pretty selfish way to travel, because you can pretty much do whatever you want. If you want to walk an hour to the beach, there’s no one else you have to convince. If you want to head to bed early, do it. Want to wear the same shirt two days in a row — have at it.

It is a great gift to get time alone — you wouldn’t believe how much more you can think when no one’s talking to you. Without outside conversation steering the way, your thoughts can literally go W H E R E V E R. How cool is that?

But thinking’s not something for which people specifically carve out time. After all, you’ve got to go to work/school, make food, eat said food, work out, bathe occasionally, clean, and sometimes sleep. And then if you’ve got spare time, you may want to see friends, or read a book, or watch TV. I mean, there’s only so much time in a day! (Though, if you often find yourself struggling to squeeze everything you need to do into 24 hours, might I recommend you move to Venus? Sure, the planet’s roughly 863 °F, surrounded by clouds of sulphuric acid, and seemingly completely uninhabitable, but one day is equal to 243 Earth days. You could easily finish that PowerPoint presentation, type up the notes from that important meeting the other day, and then spend the remaining 240/243 of your day taking in the sights. Maybe you can catch some volcanic action!)

When did we decide to nix dedicated thinking time? Did we ever have dedicated thinking time?*** Just because we don’t have it, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Sometimes it’s hard to justify this time though.

“Want to grab a coffee this afternoon?”
“No, sorry. I’ll be thinking.”

“Can you make it to the recital, Mommy?”
“No, sweetie, Mommy’s got to think.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re bailing on your own wedding?!”
“I can’t give up my contemplation session for a little matrimony.”
“Oh, can’t you?!”
*SLAMS DOOR*

Sure, dedicated thinking time may ruin some relationships, but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, and that’s think. To avoid relationship-ending, thinking-related catastrophes, I like to combine my thinking with a walk. It’s easier to say, “Sorry, I’m going for a walk/run/kayak/ski/unicycle ride,” than, “Sorry, I’m going to have a bit of a think.” (Though the second version does sound terribly posh.)  Plus, BONUS: Physical Activity! Hooray! Two birds and all that jazz!

It doesn’t really matter how you do your thinking time, or when, or what you think about. It’s just taking some time to do the process. Like running oil through an old engine every once in a while to clean out that gunk and get it spinning again. (Disclaimer: I know nothing about machines and have no clue if the process stated above ever occurs. It just seemed feasible enough and applicably metaphorical.)  Sit in your room alone for 20 minutes, go for a walk, knit, wash dishes, fold origami, stretch, skip stones — just find some mindless activity that works for you. Then let your mind go. The possibilities are literally endless. (I’m assuming. Another disclaimer: I’ve never studied neuroscience.)

You’re welcome for all the sage advice I’m dolin’ out here today. I’m getting older every day (I’ve got the opposite condition to Benjamin Button), and I figure I should start sharing all this crazy knowledge I’ve got stored up in my cranium. I may have had my wisdom teeth removed last year, but as my sister recently said to me, “you can take my teethies, BUT YOU WILL NEVER TAKE MY WISDOM.”

* AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m sorry to inform you that there is no mention of Walden Pond nor On Walden Pond in this piece. But it felt snappy in the title, so there it is.

** AUTHOR’S NOTE: Internet browser joke!
EDITOR’S NOTE: Nerd!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Yeah, well you probably use Internet Explorer.
EDITOR’S NOTE: I use Google Chrome, for your information. Not that it matters.

*** EDITOR’S NOTE: Robert Jones of Ontario, Canada tried to develop a program to encourage purposeful thought in the late 1930s. It never really took, and he was soon banned from family functions due to his belligerent and drunken promotion of said program, and frequent table jigs.

SNIPPET: Commitment

I’m rolling out a new series* today, entitled “Snippets.” This series is basically just mini posts that aren’t worth 1000 words. Enjoy less coherence in smaller, bite size pieces!

————————–

I’ve committed. Let me be very clear here — I have not been committed. Not yet. No, I have committed myself to this breakfast, at this place. I found it online, looked up the address, read the blurbs. I walked too far, I stared at the outside menu too long, and was far too hungry to back out. Did I want to pay this much for breakfast? Not particularly. Will I enjoy it anyway? Well I sure hope so after what I just paid! Also yes, because there’s powered sugar involved.

*EDITOR’S NOTE: This is not a fancy blog, stop adding “series.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Oh really? Then why does it have an editor?
EDITOR’S NOTE: …Point taken.

Pack It Up, Pack It Up, You Got It, You Got It

I’m really quite a poor packer. I’ve mentioned this before. In fact, roughly 52% of my social media* revolves around this topic. This is because I’m actually the master of procrastipacking — the more I talk about the horrors of packing, the more I can avoid them. Or at least put them off until the time at which it becomes extremely necessary and stressful. Most college students are familiar with the principle of procrastination; you put off what you need to do until you absolutely can’t avoid it anymore. Sometimes it comes from laziness, other times from perfectionism, but the practice is the same. And this is where I find myself every time I head out on an adventure, staring at piles of clothes and an impossibly small bag in which to shove said piles. And yet, to get anywhere, one must first pack-up the appropriate belongings. So it all eventually gets done (I use passive voice here because I’m not actually sure who gets it done — my sister, myself, the elves who make the shoes…), and I head off on a trip absolutely exhausted. The moral of the story here is never leave your house and then you’ll never have to worry about packing and you’ll be happy and stuck forever.

OR you can just say screw it, throw some stuff in a bag, and just go. Sure, you might forget your underwear, but at least you’ll be going somewhere cool without underwear, and that’s what really counts.

*EDITOR’S NOTE: This has not been confirmed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: That’s your job, you idiot.
EDITOR’S NOTE: You think I was going to sort through years of your frivolous drivel?
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Solid assonance there. Redundant phrasing, but solid prosody work.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Thank you.

TTT #2: Y2K

Here’s the next installment of the story excerpt series* Tiny Tone Tomes. In the spirit of the new year, enjoy!

There were months of worry and weeks of panic. Everyone had a theory, had an idea, had a solution. Every one different than the last, but all born out of that same held desire to keep the lights on. To keep the world going. To avoid the future lurking in the murky corners of everyone’s mind – Death and Destruction in the Year 2000. So everyone prepared. They tested their computers and bought 2000 glasses. They stocked up on canned goods and loads of confetti. And then on New Years they rang it in with a twinge of dread and lots of glittery decorations and pop music. And it seemed to the world that the Earth could handle the year 2000 after all. So everyone settled comfortably into the new millennium. And then three weeks later — THEN it happened.

*EDITOR’S NOTE: This is still not a literary publication.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: (Shut. Up.)