"We're just crossing our fingers it doesn't assert itself and become rude and large".

I'm writing a story with The Boy. The way it works is I write 500 words, then give him the last two sentences and he writes 500 words off of them. Continue ad infinitum. The only reason I'm putting it here is because I wrote this at work and I don't want to save it on the work computer because that would be weird and I'd probably forget and the next person who uses this computer would inevitably find it and just think "what the fuck?" and while that would be amusing I would just rather not. Plus I can't access the work computer from my house. I don't know if this will become a thing or not. Here's the first part:

“In any case, it’s still a lost cause”. Barnaby Wilke stared down into his destroyed garden, flower petals strewn about it like tiny delicate corpses on a bloody battlefield, the weeds holding their spears and pitchforks high in victory.

“What about the perennials, though? They’ll just pop back up next year”. Amelia Jean looked up at her father.

“Then I suggest telling Mrs. Kershluck to watch for tulips next spring, because the bulbs are on her lawn”. Barnaby pointed at the boxy grey house across the street, in front of which at least twenty tulip bulbs were lying.  

“Well we can fix it!”

“It’s done, Amelia”.

“So you’re just going to leave our entire front yard looking like this?” Amelia waved a hand over the chewed up soil and broken plants. Suddenly, the snapped marigolds sprung upright; the petunias got up and replanted themselves; Barnaby watched as a sunflower waddled over to a patch of forget-me-nots and stood them all up straight at once. As everything began to settle down, Amelia crouched to peer up close at one of the daffodil. It swayed a little as she exhaled, but other than that made no move. As she stood up, she noticed the tulip bulbs lying immobile on Mrs. Kershluck’s lawn. Picking through the garden path, Amelia made her way to the curb in front of the boxy grey house. Feeling ridiculous, she flicked her hand over the bulbs and watched them roll their way across the street and back into the soil.

Amelia’s father stared at her as she walked back up the driveway. “Well fuck”.

***

“I’m not letting you cut into my fingertips!” Amelia slammed her hands down on the table.

“But how else are we supposed to figure out how this happened? There’s got to be something here to find!” Barnaby stirred his pot of macaroni faster and faster until elbow-shaped noodles were flying out and sticking to the walls.

“That’s not the point! I’m not a science experiment. Take me to a doctor! Tell them I hurt my hand and need and x-ray to see if it’s broken. Look at my fingerprints through a magnifying glass, I don’t care. But you’re not cutting me open”. Amelia took the cooking spoon away from her father and resumed making the macaroni at a more normal pace.

Jeremiah Wilke sat at the counter, watching his daughter and husband argue. He had arrived home from his rock-polishing class to find Barnaby and Amelia yelling at each other in the kitchen, Barnaby waving about the macaroni pot in frustration. Upon hearing about the incident in the garden that afternoon, Jeremiah had promptly pulled up a chair to watch the hilarity ensue. Amelia slammed the lid on the pot and marched around the counter to her father. “Dad. Do you honestly think you’ll find anything if you look in my fingers? Really?”

“I might. That’s the point. I don’t know”.

“Well you’re not cutting me open”. The macaroni began to boil over.  

Blankety Boo

I don't understand why sleeping with a blankie is considered childish.

Okay, well, I do understand. Sort of. Babies sleep with blankies. Children sleep with blankies. And after you reach a certain age, you start thinking that you want to be a grown-up. You start wanting respect from the people you admire. You start thinking that you have to be strong and mature and that being strong and mature means immediately ceasing any and all behaviours associated with being a child. Including sleeping with blankies.

I think that when kids start going through this, what they don't realize is that being an adult doesn't make you this impenetrable wall of security, because often times that's all they see. They see their parents. They see their parents deciding what to make for dinner and telling them that there is nothing under the bed and that the massive gust of wind won't actually pick them up off the ground. They see their parents being secure, because that is what their parents show them. A parent doesn't generally show their child the bills piling up in the mailbox that they won't be able to even start paying until Thursday; a dad reads Cinderella to the kids until they fall asleep and then cries himself breathless because his wife is having an affair she thinks he doesn't know about; or maybe she's not having an affair but he thinks she wants to but she says she doesn't but he doesn't believe her because how could she love someone as insecure as him? You don't show your kids that shit. You don't want to scare them, or hurt them, or have to try to explain something to them that is uncomfortable and that you probably don't even want to think about or that you maybe don't even fully understand. And so children grow up believing that adults don't need help, that they've all had security permanently stuck inside of them in an official Growing Up ceremony that gave them all the answers when they turned twenty-five.

Blankies give comfort that children trying to grow up don't think they should need. But everyone needs comfort. I think at some point everyone realizes that adults are still confused, only with bigger consequences. We realize that there is not going to be a moment in our lives where we are suddenly sure of everything and will feel completely safe for the rest of time. I'm still half hoping. But once you realize that, how can you think it shameful to need a blankie? Why is it only okay to fall asleep holding something if it is alive? We cuddle our friends and our loves and our pets and our parents, but what about when they aren't around? Are we supposed to just suddenly shed our need to be close, to have something or someone to hold on to? I think that's stupid. If I'm in bed alone and panicking and need something to remind me that I'm still attached to the earth, I will squeeze my blankie against my chest and feel safe.

Would You Like to Play Again?

I think I need to reset myself. It's been a while since I've spent any substantial amount of time alone, and that's not necessarily a good thing. That's not to say I don't adore the people around me; I do. But, being the type of person who doesn't know how to be around others without trying to gain everyone's attention, I tend to get more crass and obnoxious the longer I go without time alone. It's like time by myself allows me a chance to do things that I enjoy as an individual, and doing those things gives me substance. The more time I spend around other people, the more that substance starts to deplete; I use it up having good conversation and making banter. The less I have, the more self-conscious I get about people finding out and, consequentially, the harder I have to try to hide it. That tends to result in my becoming increasingly crude and obnoxious, classless, if you will. Apparently, in my logic, my increased volume will make people more inclined to listen to what I am saying. And I think I hate it. Therefore, I think that I need to enforce a certain amount of alone time every week. Regardless of what others are doing, my homework still needs to get done. There are books to be read and singing to be practised and poems to be written. Neglecting those is not going to make me happier, and it certainly won't make me a more interesting person to spend time with. I don't know whether I want to be better more for myself or more for other people. Whatever the reason, it still needs to happen. 

My Logic

I do sweet bugger all day long. That's code for "nothing". No really, I am a champion procrastinator. I'm sure you already know that though. It seems to be a theme within these blogs. Me whining instead of actually doing anything to resolve the issue. However, I come to you on this fine morning not to complain, but to validate. Because I have officially come to terms with the fact that I'm always going to be the type of person who works best at the last minute, who works best in the dark.

My whole world is awake during the day. The people that I interact with face-to-face are up and about, the Sun is shining (on those precious days when the rain doth not tumble), and there is much to experience. Why would I spend those bright hours doing work? I can do work just as well when the rest of the world is asleep, and then I can do it without missing out on the reading of The Philosopher's Stone happening in the quad.

I can handle being a little sleep deprived. Yes, I know it's rude to doze off in class. Yes, I know that it's not particularly fun to feel like your eyes are too big for your head. But it's manageable. And in return for losing some sleep, I get to spend time with the people around me, get grades that won't warrant my father slapping me across the face, listen to a bit of slam poetry, and maybe even do something spontaneous.

So as I see it, while sleep would feel good, it wouldn't feel as good as it does to be awake.

I'll Take My Data Plan in an I.V. Please

If you want to be somewhere else, be somewhere else. If not, put down your phone, and be where you are. You don't need to check Facebook at dinner. "Nobody's talking to you." you say? Well, maybe they would be if they thought that you were at all interested in what they had to say. Maybe you should actually engage in the conversation, and jump right in there when you actually have something to contribute.

Unless someone close to you has just been admitted to the hospital in critical condition, there is no need for you to be checking your phone for updates while you are spending time with another person. And if that's the case, why are you not at the hospital right now? Get your priorities straight.

Whatever you are texting about, there is a very good chance that it is not nearly as important as you think it is, and that it can wait the twenty minutes it will take you to eat dinner and show the people around you that you actually give a shit about them. If it really can't wait-if you need to solidify plans RIGHT THIS INSTANT OR THE WORLD WILL IMPLODE-then at least try to be discreet. Keep your phone in your lap, type fast, and make up for it afterwards by not gazing around like an aloof asshole, just waiting for your phone to ring or buzz or beep again and distract you from the obviously inferior company surrounding you.

It's called a watch. Checking it when you have somewhere to be is much less obnoxious than staring at the digital clock on your phone.

Too much or not enough

I have this story that I really want to write.

I think that it's a good idea, and that it could be wonderful and unique with the proper touch of a pen. But I don't know how to write it. I don't know how to progress plot in a way that is compelling and I don't know how to think things through and I don't know how to focus on one thing long enough to grow with it and improve it and make it perfect.

I'm afraid that I'll never be able to. I'm afraid, so I don't try. I'm lazy. I'm scared and I can't and I won't.

It's the "I won't" that upsets me the most. Fear can be conquered. Inability can be overcome through education and effort. But unwillingness to try? That cannot be fixed. Wait, typo. What I meant to say was "That cannot be fixed by anyone but me". No person can instill in me the will to try. My parents can pay for my education. A teacher can show me a plethora of ways to approach what I am doing, introduce me every skill they possess. A friend can encourage me and support me and tell me to get over myself and just write the damn thing. But only I am able to want to try. And that scares me.

Maybe once I've gone to school for a while, I'll feel more capable, more worthy of writing something. Maybe I'll stop giving up whenever what I'm writing feels more like a self-indulgent diary entry, and instead know how to start over from a different angle. Maybe I'll be able to differentiate cheesy and pretentious and trite from poetic and deep and true. Maybe I'll write to impress myself, and not anybody else.

Maybe I'll get over myself and write the damn thing.

Seconds turn into years, and then you're all like "Whaaa? Where am I? Why do my fingers smell like soup?"

It is distinctly unsettling to wish your life would go by faster.

It's one thing to have goals for the future for you to work toward in order to make yourself as happy as possible. It's another to wish away what you have right now by continuously thinking that the future will be bring you divine satisfaction, and therefore the present is somehow inferior.

Your life is every second you are alive, not just the memorable moments.

 If you are at work, that is your life right then. Regardless of how mind-numbingly mundane life feels for the duration of that shift, the only way it will be a waste is if you allow yourself to adopt the mindset that you should just "wait for it to be over". That is literally saying that you do not wish to be present for every moment of the oh-so-limited time in which you are bestowed with the privilege of consciousness. You could not possibly be so audacious. You are most likely there to make money so that you can be a functional member of first-world society. You have to be there, for all intents and purposes. That job may not be the first thing you would wish to do with your time. It may not even be on the list. But you are there. And wherever you are, it is important to be present. Smile at people. Tell somebody what you like about them, for no reason other than giving them permission to do the same thing for somebody else. Compliments from people who don't owe you anything are usually the most genuine. Be aware of the thoughts inside of your own head. If there aren't any, think some. Sing songs to yourself. Feel yourself breathe. Whatever you do, don't wish for that time to be over. All of those tiny bits of time that you bide away being dissatisfied add up, and if you're not careful the compost under the sink will get clogged with all of the seconds you mistook for rotton carrots. And then the sink will explode, and your kitchen will flood, and there will be a mess everywhere. And you wouldn't want that, would you?