Irony: an outcome of events opposite to what was expected
Is it "ironic" that it is difficult to forget someone who has forgotten you? Or does it just suck, in its own non-ironic way?
Forget: to cease or fail to remember
Maybe "forget" is the wrong word.
"Ignore."
"Cease to contact."
This is not a break-up. It was not a relationship. It was barely a friendship. You meet someone, you kind of like them, you spend a lot of time together for a few weeks and then.... where did he go? No texts, no phone calls, nada, zilch, bleh. He's just not that into you, apparently. Clearly.
You're just left to wander around, being zinged by random bits of memory floating through your conscious. Zing! Ouch! Ka-pow! They come at inopportune times. Lame. Pathetic. Stop dwelling. I'm not dwelling. I just need to keep busy. Find something, or someone, to occupy my mind and time with.
This proves difficult when you'd rather stay hidden inside, watching crappy TV (old re-runs of the Kardashian sisters taking over Miami. All the sisters are married now, damn these episodes are old).
Have to make phone calls for my freelance stories and grocery shop and shower and clean out my car and get my car inspected and find out what the hell is taking Best Buy so damn long to isntall the damn motherboard on my laptop and ask my mother for help with rent a-damn-gain and get the check and figure out how the hell to make an extra $500 a month to pay off my credit card when the interest-free period ends in December and....shit. I will accomplish none of that.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
life
A new, tiny, miniature goal of mine is to write something every day. Every.single.day.
From a single sentence to a novella.
Here goes.
Life is crazy. News to no one. Things change slowly, and they change fast. Our minds twist and bend in exotic ways until we read a journal entry from tne years ago and roll our eyes, blush with embarrassment and, hopefully, chuckle. Christ, I'm only 22. I'll probably roll my eyes at this tomorrow, because I NEVER feel like I adequately express emotion with words, spoken or written. And I'm a writer. Or, I want to be. I'll always write, even if I'm never paid a dime. I freelance! Does that count? Sure! Stream-of-conscience, A.D.D.....The rain stopped!
Oh, yes, I'll be rolling my eyes at this.
Tuesday I took my mom out for her (belated) birthday dinner, and we both realized the last time we'd been to that restaurant was last year, for her birthday. And while some things have changed, too many things are still the same. Which is a tired old broken record I am sick to death of singing/hearing.
Change: I moved out!
Same: Same job. Same person.
Occurrences: I went to Iceland! And Harry Potter World! I lived a summer in a basement with one of my most favorite people! I did stuff!
...But I'm still the same. I'm still me. Sometimes, I think, I haven't changed at all.
And the sad stuff. That I can never bring myself to mention outright to friends and acquaintances, so I tuck it into a tiny box, hoping to forget.
Why is it that when you're alone, the sad stuff is all that you think about? My head always writes the sad story. It dwells, it takes forever to let go. My head is a bitter old person, harping on the past and how she was wronged. (Yikes. That was a terrifying sentence.)
I'm struggling with the idea that who I want to be and who I am are drastically different, perhaps separated by an uncrossable chasm. I am impatient and unsympathetic with others because I am impatient and unsympathetic with myself. I am stuck. So stuck.
I know life will get better eventually, and I also know that it will happen when I make it happen. It's just the when. When. When. When will I get up off the couch and change myself and my life. When will I demand better for myself? When will I make things change?
From a single sentence to a novella.
Here goes.
Life is crazy. News to no one. Things change slowly, and they change fast. Our minds twist and bend in exotic ways until we read a journal entry from tne years ago and roll our eyes, blush with embarrassment and, hopefully, chuckle. Christ, I'm only 22. I'll probably roll my eyes at this tomorrow, because I NEVER feel like I adequately express emotion with words, spoken or written. And I'm a writer. Or, I want to be. I'll always write, even if I'm never paid a dime. I freelance! Does that count? Sure! Stream-of-conscience, A.D.D.....The rain stopped!
Oh, yes, I'll be rolling my eyes at this.
Tuesday I took my mom out for her (belated) birthday dinner, and we both realized the last time we'd been to that restaurant was last year, for her birthday. And while some things have changed, too many things are still the same. Which is a tired old broken record I am sick to death of singing/hearing.
Change: I moved out!
Same: Same job. Same person.
Occurrences: I went to Iceland! And Harry Potter World! I lived a summer in a basement with one of my most favorite people! I did stuff!
...But I'm still the same. I'm still me. Sometimes, I think, I haven't changed at all.
And the sad stuff. That I can never bring myself to mention outright to friends and acquaintances, so I tuck it into a tiny box, hoping to forget.
Why is it that when you're alone, the sad stuff is all that you think about? My head always writes the sad story. It dwells, it takes forever to let go. My head is a bitter old person, harping on the past and how she was wronged. (Yikes. That was a terrifying sentence.)
I'm struggling with the idea that who I want to be and who I am are drastically different, perhaps separated by an uncrossable chasm. I am impatient and unsympathetic with others because I am impatient and unsympathetic with myself. I am stuck. So stuck.
I know life will get better eventually, and I also know that it will happen when I make it happen. It's just the when. When. When. When will I get up off the couch and change myself and my life. When will I demand better for myself? When will I make things change?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
traffic court
I’m driving my friend home after a cheap dinner at Denny’s. We’re almost to her house, but still in the middle of conversation, so she suggests we keep driving. One block later, siren lights swirl in the rearview mirror. Shit. Pull over.
“Are you aware your taillight is out?”
Yes, the last officer who stopped me told me.“Oh, really, it is? I had no idea.”
“License, registration and insurance card, please.”
I pull the mini folder out of the dashboard compartment. Is this it? No. Is this it? Expired. This? Expired.
“You know what, don’t worry about it,” he says, and takes my license and registration back to his squad car, only to return fifteen minutes later with two summons in hand. One for the taillight, one for not having insurance. Excuse me, sir, what exactly does “don’t worry about it” mean to you?
I’m pissed. My poor friend, who listens to me yell. My poor mom, who I call up and scream at her having the audacity to not know the insurance status on a car she never drives.
I get the taillight fixed the next day (as instructed, because I am an obedient lil’ citizen), and obtain a letter and current insurance card from the company. Mail and stamp all documents and……..........…receive a letter for a traffic court date.
The hell? Then why did I have to mail anything? And spend $10 on getting Certified Mail?
Court date: Apr. 26th. Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.
Last night. Show up. Judge is friendly. A.D.A. confirms the car is insured and taillight is fixed. She confirms this not by looking at any of the documents I brought with me, but taking me complete at my (honest) word.
Alright.
Charges dismissed.
Fist pump.
“Are you aware your taillight is out?”
Yes, the last officer who stopped me told me.“Oh, really, it is? I had no idea.”
“License, registration and insurance card, please.”
I pull the mini folder out of the dashboard compartment. Is this it? No. Is this it? Expired. This? Expired.
“You know what, don’t worry about it,” he says, and takes my license and registration back to his squad car, only to return fifteen minutes later with two summons in hand. One for the taillight, one for not having insurance. Excuse me, sir, what exactly does “don’t worry about it” mean to you?
I’m pissed. My poor friend, who listens to me yell. My poor mom, who I call up and scream at her having the audacity to not know the insurance status on a car she never drives.
I get the taillight fixed the next day (as instructed, because I am an obedient lil’ citizen), and obtain a letter and current insurance card from the company. Mail and stamp all documents and……..........…receive a letter for a traffic court date.
The hell? Then why did I have to mail anything? And spend $10 on getting Certified Mail?
Court date: Apr. 26th. Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.
Last night. Show up. Judge is friendly. A.D.A. confirms the car is insured and taillight is fixed. She confirms this not by looking at any of the documents I brought with me, but taking me complete at my (honest) word.
Alright.
Charges dismissed.
Fist pump.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
or so they say
Happy Easter.
A celebration of life, a resurrection, a parent’s love for a son being usurped by His love for all humanity. Or so they say.
I’m deep in the black trenches of The Black Cloud, or whatever they call it. It doesn’t really need a name, that swirling. It’s like a vacuum, sucking all the energy from you, and you can only stretch out and stare at whatever brightly-lit screen compels you. Forget reading a book – at the end of the page you won’t remember what was on it.
But laptop, O Glorious Laptop, with links and videos and short, condensed paragraphs. Games to play and pretty pictures to see. Why, I only rarely tire of you.
This time last year was different. I had just returned from my week-long trip to London, visiting my friend studying abroad for the semester. A week of sleeping on the dorm room floor and showering in her flip-flops, too small on my size 10 feet. A week of trekking through London taking pictures of Big Ben and his sister, the round, spinning Eye. The Tower of London, Millennium Bridge, Tower Bridge. I flew across an ocean to meet my friend I hadn’t seen in more than a year. I stamped my feet down foreign streets, through sunshine and drizzle. I came back to a New York spring.
I came back to optimistic dreams. I came back to possibilities. Or so I thought. Really, I was blissfully pulling the blindfold over my own eyes. I had no plans for the future, no interviews, no job prospects, only a faint idealistic dream that an apartment and well-paying job would magically present themselves to me. Wrapped up neat. In a shiny bow.
What have I learned in the last year? Things don’t happen unless you work for them. “Wishing” is just about the lamest thing you can not do, because it really accomplishes nothing. Travel will always be an excellent salve on unhealed hurt. People can disappoint you, also, people lie. This includes you. Nothing ever, ever turns out the way you expected it to. Honesty is usually the best policy, but it turns out, being honest with yourself can be incredibly difficult. You don’t always know the right answer
You are but one tiny person in a sea of billions. Our lives are so small when put in context.
I say I’ve learned things, but have I, really? Sure, I crossed some milestones, but if anything, I feel just like the girl I was in high school, who hid behind the crowd and was too afraid to do anything, let alone raise her voice. The girl who didn’t know who she was. Lost. Maybe the biggest ‘learning stone’ is that we can DO anything, cross off everything on our mile-long bucket list, and still be the same person, not having learned a damn thing.
It is a curse, and sometimes a blessing.
Maybe we can all start over, cleansed of past misdeeds and sins. Maybe we can all resurrect ourselves, if we recognize that we hold that power.
A celebration of life, a resurrection, a parent’s love for a son being usurped by His love for all humanity. Or so they say.
I’m deep in the black trenches of The Black Cloud, or whatever they call it. It doesn’t really need a name, that swirling. It’s like a vacuum, sucking all the energy from you, and you can only stretch out and stare at whatever brightly-lit screen compels you. Forget reading a book – at the end of the page you won’t remember what was on it.
But laptop, O Glorious Laptop, with links and videos and short, condensed paragraphs. Games to play and pretty pictures to see. Why, I only rarely tire of you.
This time last year was different. I had just returned from my week-long trip to London, visiting my friend studying abroad for the semester. A week of sleeping on the dorm room floor and showering in her flip-flops, too small on my size 10 feet. A week of trekking through London taking pictures of Big Ben and his sister, the round, spinning Eye. The Tower of London, Millennium Bridge, Tower Bridge. I flew across an ocean to meet my friend I hadn’t seen in more than a year. I stamped my feet down foreign streets, through sunshine and drizzle. I came back to a New York spring.
I came back to optimistic dreams. I came back to possibilities. Or so I thought. Really, I was blissfully pulling the blindfold over my own eyes. I had no plans for the future, no interviews, no job prospects, only a faint idealistic dream that an apartment and well-paying job would magically present themselves to me. Wrapped up neat. In a shiny bow.
What have I learned in the last year? Things don’t happen unless you work for them. “Wishing” is just about the lamest thing you can not do, because it really accomplishes nothing. Travel will always be an excellent salve on unhealed hurt. People can disappoint you, also, people lie. This includes you. Nothing ever, ever turns out the way you expected it to. Honesty is usually the best policy, but it turns out, being honest with yourself can be incredibly difficult. You don’t always know the right answer
You are but one tiny person in a sea of billions. Our lives are so small when put in context.
I say I’ve learned things, but have I, really? Sure, I crossed some milestones, but if anything, I feel just like the girl I was in high school, who hid behind the crowd and was too afraid to do anything, let alone raise her voice. The girl who didn’t know who she was. Lost. Maybe the biggest ‘learning stone’ is that we can DO anything, cross off everything on our mile-long bucket list, and still be the same person, not having learned a damn thing.
It is a curse, and sometimes a blessing.
Maybe we can all start over, cleansed of past misdeeds and sins. Maybe we can all resurrect ourselves, if we recognize that we hold that power.
Friday, January 14, 2011
maybe you should take a stand for something that ACTUALLY matters?
*This happened at the beginning of December, just as the holiday craziness was beginning.*
I am tired and patience is running on empty. A woman comes up to pay for a shirt. It’s $15.99, plus tax. $17.67. She’s holding her credit card.
“I had a coupon for 10%...” she trails off. Customers love the trail-off, hoping I will fill in the ending for them.
“OK,” I say, and wait.
“This is a new card,” she explains. “When I got it in the mail, they said I could get 10% off.” There is no such thing. The new cards have a few features, including tracking purchases to reward loyal, big spenders with coupons. But I have never heard of this 10% coupon, and I’m not about to honor a woman’s random claim.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you need the coupon.”
“Yeah, they told me I couldn’t use it down there [at the other register]…” Which is why you came down here, even though an employee already told you no?
“I’m sorry. If you find the coupon and bring it back with the receipt, we can do a price adjustment,” I offer. I know she won’t find the coupon. It doesn’t exist.
I ring up the shirt and swipe her credit card through.
“Can you please sign?” I ask.
She stares. “How much was the shirt?” she demands.
“$17.67.”
“No. The original price,” she snits.
After the credit card is swiped, a window opens on the screen, waiting for the customer’s signature. I cannot access the list of purchases until the customer signs.
“I can’t see it,” I try to explain. I show her the screen. “I can’t see it until you sign.”
“Well, if I sign, the purchase goes through,” she snits again. This woman is dancing on top of my already-frazzled nerves.
“Fine,” I huff. I cancel the sale, take the shirt out of the bag, and re-ring it.
“You’d think you’d be happy people are shopping in your store.” Snit.
Ring. Original cost: $40.00. Sale price: $15.99. Total: $17.67. So glad we learned all that. I swipe her card again. She signs. I hand her the bag. She throws it back on the counter.
“You know what? Return it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Return it. I don’t like your attitude.”
I stare at this woman. I am not about to fight with her over a $16 shirt. If she wants to indulge in the delusional belief she is taking a stand over the snooty salesgirl, let her. She wants to think her $16 sale makes one iota of difference in this business conglomerate, let her. We don’t want you here anyway. Go back to Walmart.
I tap out the necessary buttons. Return. Scan receipt. Scan shirt. Swipe card. I take devilish pleasure in demanding that she sign again. I staple all the receipts together and hand them to her.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t solve your problem today,” I say, and move onto the next customer.
I am tired and patience is running on empty. A woman comes up to pay for a shirt. It’s $15.99, plus tax. $17.67. She’s holding her credit card.
“I had a coupon for 10%...” she trails off. Customers love the trail-off, hoping I will fill in the ending for them.
“OK,” I say, and wait.
“This is a new card,” she explains. “When I got it in the mail, they said I could get 10% off.” There is no such thing. The new cards have a few features, including tracking purchases to reward loyal, big spenders with coupons. But I have never heard of this 10% coupon, and I’m not about to honor a woman’s random claim.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you need the coupon.”
“Yeah, they told me I couldn’t use it down there [at the other register]…” Which is why you came down here, even though an employee already told you no?
“I’m sorry. If you find the coupon and bring it back with the receipt, we can do a price adjustment,” I offer. I know she won’t find the coupon. It doesn’t exist.
I ring up the shirt and swipe her credit card through.
“Can you please sign?” I ask.
She stares. “How much was the shirt?” she demands.
“$17.67.”
“No. The original price,” she snits.
After the credit card is swiped, a window opens on the screen, waiting for the customer’s signature. I cannot access the list of purchases until the customer signs.
“I can’t see it,” I try to explain. I show her the screen. “I can’t see it until you sign.”
“Well, if I sign, the purchase goes through,” she snits again. This woman is dancing on top of my already-frazzled nerves.
“Fine,” I huff. I cancel the sale, take the shirt out of the bag, and re-ring it.
“You’d think you’d be happy people are shopping in your store.” Snit.
Ring. Original cost: $40.00. Sale price: $15.99. Total: $17.67. So glad we learned all that. I swipe her card again. She signs. I hand her the bag. She throws it back on the counter.
“You know what? Return it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Return it. I don’t like your attitude.”
I stare at this woman. I am not about to fight with her over a $16 shirt. If she wants to indulge in the delusional belief she is taking a stand over the snooty salesgirl, let her. She wants to think her $16 sale makes one iota of difference in this business conglomerate, let her. We don’t want you here anyway. Go back to Walmart.
I tap out the necessary buttons. Return. Scan receipt. Scan shirt. Swipe card. I take devilish pleasure in demanding that she sign again. I staple all the receipts together and hand them to her.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t solve your problem today,” I say, and move onto the next customer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)