Right now, I am “livin’ the dream.” I just graduated college with an actual, usable degree and teacher license. Instead of using this actual, usable degree, I am traveling around the country (actually, the freaking world) playing with a band that is getting a decent amount of buzz. We are on tour on and off (more on, than off) for the rest of the year, with no end in sight. Yes, it is fun. Yes, it is crazy. But it is also tiring. Tiring in a way that I have never experienced. Staying out all night, every night. Driving all day, every day. And repeating this daily routine for a month or even longer. All of my friends are off getting promotions, going to medical school, or nesting in their new grown-up apartments, while I am just getting drunk and playing violin. Okay, it sounds awesome when I type it out like that, but I can’t help but feel like I am on permanent playtime (and I don’t mean that in a good way). I keep telling myself that this is what I want to be doing, but it is hard to remember that fact, when I am nearly broke from not being able to work a steady, normal job. I can’t help but be jealous of my friends that sleep in their own bed every night and eat regular food.
Speaking of these friends, its not like I actually have time to see them anymore. As a single gal, my friendships are very important to me, and I have been neglecting them. These friends of mine keep telling me how cool it is that I am out being a rock star, when really I am craving a life more like theirs. Immediately after graduating college, I moved back in with my parents and started touring with the band. There was no time for me to settle anywhere or make a life that is my own.
That said, I cannot wait to get back out on the road. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side.
I had never wished death upon others before working retail. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it could be that I have some type of character flaw… possibly a kindness chromosome that I’m missing, but I’d like to the think that working at Urban Outfitters has been the catalyst in making me despise people. All people.
Prior to my employment, I never found it pleasurable to envision the brutal stabbing of young, pretty girls shopping with their mothers. I never purposely bumped into people, jabbing them with my elbows. I never came close to homicide or suicide, but in the past year and a half working in the retail environment this overflow of anger has completely taken over my life.
It’s not just a mental thing that I can coax with a couple of “count to tens” or any other anger management exercises. Lately it has become a physical thing as well. My heart immediately starts racing at the sight of someone dropping off unwanted clothing where it does not belong. I start sweating and feel my entire body go tense while witnessing customers destroy perfectly manicured stacks of t-shirts. If some bratty teenager leaves piles of unwanted clothing in the fitting room- I literally begin to shake, and after a busy Friday or Saturday night, the sale section gives me a full-fledged panic attack.
The beach was full. Surrounding the beach were rocks from all parts of the world. In the middle of the beach though there was no room to move. The lines had been drawn, almost as if a battle were about to ensue. On one side sat the white tips and on the other side sat the brown tips. What these two were fighting over is really insignificant, especially if you are just a cigarette butt. However, during the summer it looked like we were ready for war.
Really, the only reason the battle lines of the cigarettes were drawn that way was because of where my roommate and I sat when we smoked our cigarettes on our patio. I would always prefer to sit on the classy loveseat purchased from Goodwill for $30 (the highlighter stains on it were freebies!), and my roommate, Chad, would tend to sit in a chair that faced more towards the left of the ash tray.
One evening in mid-June (ironically) I noticed how there was essentially an invisible line drawn right between the middle of the ashtray. For some reason, I found this to be a very neat and a very depressing thing. I found it neat because of the symmetry. I’ve always loved symmetry for some reason I cannot explain, and having all the white cigarette butts on one side and all the brown cigarette butts on the other side really pleased me. It made me feel like an artist or perhaps even an inventor who accidentally stumbles upon something great by accident. “I didn’t mean to create great symmetry it just happened and now everyone loves me.” I prepared that quote for the local newspaper, but surprisingly they never showed up to interview Chad or me. I see that as their loss, definitely not mine. Continue reading
Holy shit, I am gonna write about poop.
Forever I have been shush-shush on pooping. My family never talked about it and my friends were girls, so we didn’t poop. (It is very un-ladylike.) Living in the dorm made it worse with community stalls with absolutely no privacy. I went days without pooping until we found the creepy handicapped bathroom with a private door.
I couldn’t even say the word “poop.” I always said crap, and if in the right company, shit. Now I love the word poop. Poop poop poop, so childlike and innocent. Poo is cute too. Feces can be hilarious, if used appropriately.
I was always grossed out when I saw magazines or books placed by the toilet. I couldn’t fathom sitting on the toilet long enough to need something else to do. Also I imagined tiny feces particles could fly in the air and land between the pages and then I’d have a contaminated book. I had a roommate at one time that kept her laptop by the toilet. I found it unsettling to know someone could be looking at my facebook while sitting on the shitter! Someone once had the nerve to tell me to stock up on new magazines because they had read them all; like, I need to go on a special trip to the store to buy bathroom reading. Now, I do realize how important bathroom reading material is. (Geeze, there’s actually an entire book series out there for it.) It can be a distraction and sometimes, it can just be a nice break. Continue reading
“Who wants a quarter?” I can still hear my mom asking that question to my sister and me when we were kids. When I was that age, there was something so magical about a quarter. A quarter could buy just about anything a young child could want. The problem with the quarter was that it sometimes felt like death by options. I mean, do I want the big gum ball, a handful of the small pieces of gum, the jawbreaker, or do I want to get a little toy (although let’s be honest with ourselves, the little toys normally cost at least two quarters.). If I happened to be in the right place at the right time, I could invest that quarter into playing one of those neat video games where you got to hold a plastic gun and shoot the bad guys on the screen. Oh the possibilities! It was enough to make my head spin. I would sit and debate, just what I wanted to get with that quarter, and after I made my decision, I always knew I should have gone for the other thing.