Stare-sation

As classic would have it, I ran into my older brother's ex girlfriend at Forever 21. Y'know, the crazy one. The really crazy one. Browsing through blouses, there she stood in the corner of my eye. Being one of those insufferable people who must consider every possible outcome of saying hello until it's too late, out of my mouth came her name in a loud whisper. Why did I whisper? Cause I'm dim and out of ideas. She looked at me, just looked, with her overlarge insect eyes. I know I'm being mean. Let's allow it for now since it's always been my specialty. Anywho, she's one of those people that doesn't make facial expressions. I tried to make conversation in your typical bullcrap way ("I really like your hat!"). "I got it here..." she mumbled, her words becoming one with the boppy music of consumerism. As I proceeded to explain my reason for being there (to return a vest I wore on Halloween so I could get store credit - guilty as charged), she stared at me with her inactive insect eyes: the blankest stare I had ever encountered in twenty two years. She could win an award for blank stares. I, the freak who normally has rubbish to say spilling out of my pie-hole, was so appalled at this godawful stare that I'm pretty sure I just stared right back for at least four seconds. "Best Blank Stare of 2009."

Since nothing of interest or consequence came out of that conversation, I'll move on to the next thing, which is Halloween. Yes, I'm well aware it's already Thanksgiving time. I ended up at a Beatles Rock Band party with my boyfriend and some of his buddies. We were the only people there younger than 30: perfect. It was a dress 60's/70's type thing, so we were forced to adhere but the highlight was when Harry Potter showed up. Harry Potter, among a sea of middle-aged people dressed as hippies. Naturally, there was some elation in seeing this Harry Potter, so naturally I made him take a picture with me.

Yes, Halloween was fun. For abysmal footage of me singing Just a Girl, click here.

In other news, my cousin Jones and I were bombarded by two male senior citizens leaving the movie The Fourth Kind. As we entered the theater, they were waddling out and verbally giving the movie a D+. Jones mistakenly asked if it was any good, and from there we stood eating our snacks while the senior citizens educated us for 15 minutes about the three types of aliens, top-secret government videos we'd never see, and how one of them used to work at Area 51. They were those kind of people that stand too close to you when you're talking. No matter how many times you step back without trying to draw attention to it, they're somehow 2 inches away from you again, breathing on your face. For people like me, thoughts like "how many times am I going to have to wash my face tonight?" and "did I remember my antibacterial gel?" take flight at this point. It was sort of like a pre-show, though. No complaints here.

Whose Monkey Arms? My Monkey Arms.

It's often when we are utterly alone that our true selves come out. This is the thought that blossomed in my head last night after it had been knocked silly by the corner of my computer case, skewing my glasses and stinging my eye in the process. How, you might ask, did this computer case charm its way into my eye and a resulting headache? Because, dummy, I was holding it. Frequently, objects left in my grip will somehow find a way to harm me physically, and it's always my own body that betrays me to these injuries. My arms, for instance. My clumsy, swinging, monkey arms.

Now we've gotten that out of the way, I'll just tell you what's happening now. I'm in the kitchen because this is where the food is normally stashed, and my mother is in the other room watching Glee. She's hollering the plot at me as it happens, although I don't watch that show. It's like we have our own television discussion group, but no one is a part of it. What?

So what are you guys going to be for Halloween? It's one of my favorite holidays but I still don't know. I demand original costumes but so far I don't have any planned. Also known as: it's too late. I might as well be a white sheet ghost. Or like years 1-11 of my life: put on an Easter dress and call myself a princess. Torture.

My excuse for those years is, of course, that it was primarily about candy back then. Well, candy is still a substantial part of it. If there's no candy at the party, I'm outta there.

Some of my previous Hallowenic (not a word) exploits have been fun. But that was when I less clumsy, spacey and negligent.

Here is me as Dora the Explorer last year. Yes, I know all the songs. Yes, including the one that goes, "Backpack, backpack. Backpack, backpack... YEAAAAH!" Yes, I did return the Dora Backpack I bought for a full refund after the party. Yes, I'm a bad person.

My friend D and me as the Tweedles (obviously I was Tweedle Dee):

Here I am at my 20th Disney-themed birthday party. Had to have one at some point, y'know.

This was for my friend's superhero birthday party. I was Jubilee from X-Men.

And then here is a picture of me as Link from Zelda. Just kidding, it's my face on Link's body. You would never have figured it out, I know. My cousin Chris did it for me because he knows what types of thing make me really happy. Things that are really, really dumb.

I'm Just a Girl. Lucky Me.

It's my birthday.

I was peed on by my gramsie’s new Japanese chin a couple days back. I went with her to pick it up and as I held it on the way back it kindly wet my t-shirt, warm and sudden.

Walking mindlessly around the kitchen this morning, I discovered the fridge. I discovered the pantry. I discovered incessant eating, for the millionth time. It's my goddamn birthday, why shouldn't I eat?

Depression has always been on-again/off-again with me. I'll date it for a while, then it breaks up with me. It's a subtle break up, but a wonderful one. Eventually it'll slide right back in like the scummy villain of a 1980's teen film. Birthdays have not always signified a depressed state, but they have recently started to. It began in 2006. I woke up in my little bed in NY, looked out my window onto the fire escape and the gorgeous solid wall beyond it, and I realized I was truly glad to be there. I did not, however, understand why sadness overtook me when I knew I wouldn't be happy in California either. I went to Bloomie to get a manicure. I repeatedly stole quick glances to my right, where Carla Gugino was also enjoying an elder asian woman's soft touch. The family I lived with took me to breakfast at 202. I then took the liberty of meandering round the city with little or no thoughts until I felt so inclined to eat again. And again. And then again at my favorite Thai place, where the waiters wore kilts with china-flats and called me, "hun."

The next year I woke up in my Gramsie's house in my mother's old bedroom, having no desire to enter the world where I knew there would be people waiting, despite the smell wafting toward me from the kitchen. My gramsie had made blueberry pancakes; I ate them slow and fixed. I stared at things. I knew I was staring at stupid stuff, like little canisters of salt, but I couldn't stop.

This year, I'm going to Disneyland with my dad the minute I wake up in 7 or 8 hours. I'm not sure how this'll affect me. But that's the plan and it won't change, though I'm already sensing a morbid irony. It'll be interesting, if absolutely nothing else. Since I'm a season passholder, I get a gift card on my birthday! Hello, sweet deals for 2009.

A couple minutes ago I arrived home from my boyfriend's house where we ate snacks and he gave me HP years 1-5 on blu-ray disc. He cheerfully handed the parcel over to my rotten, depressed looking face. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve to be handed blu-ray sets of any kind, not even if it was something awful like The Hills.

But listen. I've got Haribo Sour S'getti, SoBe Green Tea, Pokemon Pearl Edition, 5 entire blu-ray HPs to watch (all of which was provided by the supernice boyfriend), and a psychiatric appointment coming right up. Who the hell can be sad after all that treasure?

On Weekend Work & Spiders

Spiders. Why do they exist? If solely to scare the crepes out of me the second I spot one, shame on the earth. But really, in recent years I have become so afraid of spiders that I can't rest after I've seen one until I see someone kill it or I am over 20 feet away. Leaving Teep's house the other night, there was a giant black widow near the front door. I freaked out and a small conversation followed.

teep: "Have you ever seen a sun spider, though? They're so big they'll make your dick fall off."

j: "I don't have a dick, teep."

teep: "Yeah, because you saw a sun spider."

There's a reason Samwise Gamgee hates Shelob. There's a reason HP and Ron Weasley hate Aragog. It's because Shelob and Aragog are spiders.

Erratic/perfect message of the week: My boyfriend texts terribly. The other day he sent, "i mis i" and then "moss u i meant". So I just told him I mossed him too. He is the best in the best ways.

The past couple weekends have been especially interesting in a work related sense. At my 'hula girl' party a week ago, in the middle of my balloon-crafting, one of the little

customers stuck around to watch me at work. I had crafted a turtle balloon for her a little earlier on, so she held it and watched silently for some minutes. After being ignored for a while, she just started poking me with the turtle balloon anywhere she could, saying "nom, nom, nom. nom nom. nom, nom nom nom" repeatedly as if the turtle balloon were taking unrealistically sized turtle-bites out of my body. This did not end until I left the party. I suppose I enjoy being nom-nommed occasionally, but she was in her awkward stage. She didn't know when to stop.

A while back, I had a bubble party at one of those wealthy neighborhoods where you have to be on a special list to get inside the gate, and the mansions dot the mountainsides within the community. Therefore I was not surprised to be slapped in the face multiple times with a star shaped bubble wand drenched in bubble fluid; insanely wealthy children often think they can injure adults with little or no consequences.

There are, of course, times when a child is cool. Mostly, the cool ones are the smart ones. Yesterday I had a 'Princess Cindy' party, and the little girl realized, "....I don't think you're the real Cinderella 'cause the real Cinderella has blue eyes." to which I said, "Well, I think she only has blue eyes in the movie. In real life, they're brown! Just like yours." After this, she and I were best friends and she was sad to see me go.

I always claim that I hate children, but I guess there's a soft spot in there somewhere for the ones that are being raised correctly. The other day at the 'Princess Jasmina' party, all the girls would continually hug me and tell me how much they loved my sparkles, my hair, my outfit, and my earrings. One of them actually kissed me on the shoulder after saying simply, "I'm glad you are here." I love the ones that are innocent. The ones that have been disciplined and that appreciate people and things, and the ones that state things solid and true instead of using roundabout ways of communicating. It's almost like they're further along than most adults in their psyche.

I guess that must be a rule. When you're a child you know what's up. When you become an adult, you become a blithering idiot, to use Cruella's term.

Jeero-in-Glasses

The Pushies

It's always astonished me how pushy people can actually be.

As a child, I was glad to run around in a bathing suit to be roasted slowly by the sun, burn my feet as a result of the sun, and dive back in the pool with delight. But as I grew older, I realized I didn't enjoy being half naked in front of that many people anymore. Not that there's anything wrong with being half naked in front of that many people, just that it doesn't exactly thrill me. This is the simple and logical explanation for my avoidance of pools. But some people are so pushy that they don't think it's a logical excuse; what's interesting is that I shouldn't need an excuse not to go swimming. It's swimming, for the love of string cheese. You know, one of those optional activities for people who actually like summer (which is not me)? It's not fantasy-genre novels. It's not breathing.

Then there are the kind of people who are so "summer-loungy" that they abbreviate the words swimsuit or bathing suit into just "suit."

"Hey, did you bring your suit? Gonna go swimmin'?" No, creepy man with hairy chest. I did not bring my suit. Sorry but I seem to have forgotten my suit. It's like something a middle-aged swinger would say to a naive under-aged girl. But thanks to paranoia, I don't remember the last time I've been naive nor will I ever be that foul trait that has never helped a living soul.

Someone actually told me today, "That's a bullshit excuse. Next time you'll swim." Oh, will I?

This is the point where I just have a laughter-fest inside my head and do not speak. These laughter-fests are primarily the reason why people think I'm crazy. They see this look on my face and they don't know whether to get as far away from me as possible or stay just to see what I might do.

But I'm glad to know that I have someone who really cares about these things. I mean, without these pushies, who would ever go swimming? Who would ever build sand castles? Who would ever have picnics? God forbid people stop having picnics. Who would the sun have to damage in that case, rodents? No, the sun needs human flesh to emit its deathly burning rays onto.

When, pray, did the mandatory swimming law come to pass and why didn't I get the memo? These pushies, they treat it as a.) a cult and b.) a crime if you don't join. "What, you don't SWIM???????? Ya don't like to SWIM??????? Do you even have a SUIT??!?!?!??" It's the kind of statement that, on its departure of your mouth, suddenly makes the pushie person deaf for five minutes while they stare at you incredulously. This person does not swim in pools, they think, horrified expression eclipsing their face, this person is a criminal.

Today, I passed the point of putting up with these pushies. I listen to a Harry Potter podcast. I read Lord of the Rings. I do not swim wearing a suit. While you're all out there welcoming sun damage with open arms in a world that is reducing me to ash every time I walk outside, I'll be in here watching Gurren Lagann, the anime myboyfriend just introduced me to, and writing snail mail or something.

In other news, I recently received two text messages from an unknown number. One of them said, "Re deke in burrito en el refri" and the other said, "Y las haves del Carrol Negro estan abajo del tapete del carro." As you all know, my main language is Elvish. These text messages did not compute.

"That's S & M! That's my abbreviation for Super and Magical!" -Kenneth, from 30 Rock

Quoteth

Since you're reading this, you're probably dying to hear about my most recent clumsy moment. I wish it was peanut butter 'n jelly time, but it's clumsy time. When I got home last night I felt my way through the living room and toward the fridge as usual. I refilled my water cup, snagged a straw from the pantry, and turned out the light. As I stumbled through the rest of the kitchen in search of the hall, my knees (both of them) collided with the biggest damn fan you have ever seen. Well, I couldn't see it at all.

As I plunked down on the floor in pain, chanting "ow. ow. ow. ow. ow," I wondered whether I would still have knees by the end of 2009. I ended up on my bed with ice packs on my knees and watching that documentary about the Harry Potter fandom, We Are Wizards, feeling as sorry for myself as that time I flung my avocado-topped bagel right atop the keyboard, mushy avocado sinking its way into the tiny gaps between keys.

So here's a first hand example of how much of a grammar snot I am. After my little brother Jesse's soccer game tonight, one of his friends came over for dinner. My mother had made pasta, and as he shoveled it down his throat with feeling, he said, "Spaghetti and pasta are like the best thing to eat before practice." to which I said, "Spaghetti and pasta, huh? Well isn't that great and cool."

But I think in other ways, I'm becoming a nicer person. I don't know how I feel about this yet, but I'm pretty sure it's disdain. I was clicking through someone's facebook photos when I came across one of those pictures where everyone looks hideous except the one person who somehow got lucky in the crappy lighting. So I commented, "Why does everyone in this photo look absolutely terrible except Renee?" and Renee commented later, "j, that's two genuine compliments you've given me in the last two days... tell me.... are you feeling alright?"

I am no longer a secret hermit. Maybe I never was. But my friends have been talking about it. My twitter message maybe a week ago was "It's time for my date with myself" to which one of my best friends, V, replied "That's silly. You're alone all the time."

Maybe that's why my friend Teep told me a couple weeks back, "Talking to you is sort of like talking to a semi-sentient radio." And maybe that's why I take pictures of my bed buddy, call it Jeero In Glasses, and get a serious albeit pathetic kick out of it. This is when I stop quoting, slap myself, shut my laptop, lie back and listen to the soundtrack to The Fellowship of the Ring. I'm going to crazy land. What?

Brennan Failed

To start, I'll just go ahead and admit that on walking into the midnight showing of 'Inglorious Basterds' on thursday, I ran into a wall. You might recall my last post, when I ran into a door. I did not simply graze the wall, no no no. The wall met my face and knee with brazen impact. My knee and brain were on fire for the entirety of the Nazi-killing. If that alone did not make me feel like a fool, it happened because I was looking down at my borrowed Nintendo dsl. My eyes focused on the little screen, gathering force gems in order to open the next chamber & shooting phantoms in the back with my bow and arrow, I forgot that if you don't want to run into walls, you must look at where you walk. Not to say I don't run into things when I am looking at where I walk, but usually I can count rigid walls out of the picture when that's the case.

The most interesting part of this preposterous event is that I was asked by at least three people, when I told them what happened, "what'd ya do that for?"

Well I was merely most intrigued by the wall's solid nature and was wondering how it might feel to crush my kneecap and skull right against it to the point of seeing stars for numerous minutes. OBVIOUSLY.

More important than that atrocity, though, is a description of my new neighbor and what happened when we met.

I arrived home sometime in the middle of night. I saw him lingering out by his car. His spiked blonde hair shone among the midnight sky. Never a good sign after 1996. He had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, but he was one of the people who DO NOT look cool when smoking. Intending to walk straight into my house without a word, I strode confidently past his house and toward my own. Sensing his goal but dreading it, out it came desperate and disgusting. "Hi. I'm Brennan." And although multiple feet away, I give a sort of halfhearted "Oh hello... I'm j..." over my shoulder. "So how old are you?" came his inevitable reply. "I'm 21." No kindness was in my voice. Even when there IS kindness in my voice, most human beings cannot sense it (or so I'm told). But on he went, "So you are 21? That's cool, j... you like to go downtown, j? A bunch of my friends like that.. we like to go down there... do you ever go down there for bars or anything?" "I'm not much of a partier..." I said. "Yeah, me neither," he said, taking a gulp from his cup, the smoke from his cig drifting over the hedges. "But seriously," he continued, "would you wanna go downtown sometime?"

There was a point in my life when I decided that it was okay for me to be blunt, even though I'm simultaneously praised and despised for it (but mainly despised). At that point in the past, I discovered that there is no point in putting up with downright simpletons. I don't have to deal with idiotic children my age who do not understand what it means when someone doesn't want to speak to them and who wear oversized Bob Marley t-shirts that they probably bought in union square on their family trip to NY, sag their pants, hang out next to their car with the beat up fender, drive terribly, and prey on people who obviously don't give two cockroaches who they are or where they want to go because when it comes down to life in general, they want to go nowhere.

So I said

"No. I hate downtown." which was entirely true, and as he stood there speechless I went inside.

On a fabulous note, I got to hang out with my accomplice the other day. I call her my accomplice because she's my right hand lady cousin. We rip up the mall with our dweeby antics, and we stay in victoria's secret dressing rooms for far too long.

PS. I'm sorry if anyone likes Bob Marley... for some reason the oversized Marley shirt is too much for me to handle. It may also be because my older brother's hippie moron of a girlfriend always wore one... the same one... every day while she was living in his twin bed and feeding out of our refrigerator like a parasite. Sometimes explanations are important.