Ten Things I Know to Be True

11:15 AM 0 Comments

I've never been very big on lists, but lately my mind has been a bit stuck in the field of creative writing. Speaking of abrupt segues, the following is a list of ten things that I know to be true.

1. I spend more time on the computer than I would like.
2. Sometimes I make fun of people because they have qualities I wish I had.
3. I can be impulsive, but not as impulsive as I make myself out to be.
4. Motivation is hard to come by, and even harder to keep.
5. If you are over 250lbs and not crazy ripped, you probably shouldn't wear any of the following: spandex, speedos, skinny jeans, and belly shirts.
6. I would rather be too cold than too hot.
7. I could live with the weather being cloudy 24/7.
8. This is the point during this list where I am stuck and have to think hard about my answers.
9. If you are an English woman with glasses who loves to read and play guitar, I may ask you to marry me.
10. Sometimes I am accidentally flirt with people, and that gets me into trouble.

I suppose those were more confessions than facts, but there they are. Enjoy. 

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6 Simple Ways Smokers Can Stop Being Self Centered

7:47 PM 0 Comments


 One of the most common benefits I hear about living in the United States is the ability to choose. Regardless of what is shoved down your throat every day at the bus stop or on television, we can ultimately choose the music we like, the clothes we wear, the deity we worship, and even the fastest way to destroy ourselves. The great thing about self destruction is that there's always someone willing to help, no matter where you are. Its beautiful in an American sort of way.

 That being said, smokers can be assholes. Generally I think that making blanket statements like that is an awful idea. This is different. The act of smoking directly affects the people and vice versa, therefore the two are inextricably linked. I'm all for self destruction, but smoking is a social offense with many innocent bystanders. At one point is was socially acceptable, but times have indeed changed.

 Now that I have that small rant concluded, please take to heart the following suggestions to make your smoking experience more pleasant for everyone involved:

1. When laws prohibit smoking within a certain distance from doorways, it is not merely in place to inconvenience you. Many people are allergic, uncomfortable, or just plain hate the smell (that's me). Please keep these people in mind, both inside the establishment and passersby.

2. I ask that you kindly cease smoking while you are still outside. The established distance from the doorway is not meant as a challenge. Please please do not inhale, hold your breath, and exhale as you are entering the building. Note that this defeats the purpose of any limits whatsoever.

3. Everyone loves concerts and outdoor events. Parades, drive-ins, coronations...how can anyone resist that? All of those people are there, like you, to enjoy the spectacle. You know what's not fun? Having a thick cloud of throat scorching death forced into your lungs as you inhale to encourage the performer or generally express your feelings about the occasion. Please, save the smoking for another time. I'm not saying you should never smoke outside, but I'm fairly certain you can wait a few hours in order to make the experience pleasant for everyone. Don't be so selfish.

4. Smoking is known to leave your lungs coated with all sorts of tar-like chemicals. What isn't mentioned as much is how disgusting your hands are immediately post cigarette. My stepdad would always smoke at the computer while he played online poker. All other flaws aside, our white keyboard was a diarrhea shade of brown within a matter of days. To those who choose to smoke I beg you - please wash your hands frequently. Before you touch your office phone or door handles or (especially) shake hands with another human being - WASH YOUR HANDS. It takes not more than a minute or so and it had the added benefit of protecting against harmful bacteria.

5. Hygiene is important, perhaps more so for smokers than most. I would direct the read to item number 1, wherein it is mentioned that a lot of people hate the smell. The logical conclusion then is that those same people hate the taste. If you are going to smoke, please brush your teeth afterward. I realize the combination may not be all together appetizing, but if done correctly it may drastically increase your sex life.

6. I know this has been said many times in the past, and its really more of a comment than a request, but smoking does not make you look cool or sexy (unless you are Audrey Hepburn, and even then...). If you will smoke, do it because you want to or because you can't stop. If you are thinking of starting because it makes you look tough or enigmatic, please reconsider.

 The most important point to remember is to be considerate of those around you. If smokers follow these very simple rules, the outside world would be a pleasant place for smokers and non-smokers alike. Please do your part to make this human condition with which we are all inflicted a little more bearable for the masses.

 Thank you.

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Writing Exercise #2

9:41 PM 0 Comments

Name: Pella
Location: Church Parking Lot
Dialogue: "What is your problem, Derek?"
Object: Red and Black Plaid Bandana

   It was dark outside. Pella could see the warmth of her own breath drawing nonsensical patterns on the driver’s side window. It was getting colder by the minute. In her right hand, an old flip phone made unconscious circles around her palm. It had been ten minutes since she found the plaid bandana, red and black accentuated with stripper red lipstick and a hint of black eye shadow. She had pulled into the first parking lot she saw. It was a funny coincidence that it happened to be the parking lot of the Holy Trinity Baptist Church.
Her face was lit by the faint glow of the digital clock on the radio. She watched as it changed. Another minute had passed, ticked slowly away and took with it any hope of salvation for her broken marriage. How long would she stay here before deciding on a course of action? She moved her left hand to her mouth and fought back years. She knew she had to call him, but crying would make things worse. She told herself to be strong about it.
Another minute passed in silence. The clock was taunting her now. She had to call him. There was no way around it. They had been married for six years. There was so much between them, so many memories and shared experiences. Experiences Pella couldn’t have with anyone else. No matter what happened tonight, no one could take those away from her. An unexpected pain hit her index finger. She pulled her hand away and saw blood between her first and second knuckle. Pella hadn’t even noticed that she was biting her hand. This had to happen now.
She opened the cell phone and held down the number one. His number showed up on the display. Derek had been first on her speed dial since they met. She had always hated people who use the phrase “love at first sight.” She hated even more the first time she used it to descibe him.
“Hey where are you?” the familiar voice echoed from the cell phone speaker.
She tried her hardest to think of the words “calm” and “collected”.
“Hey. I’m on the way.” Her voice was weaker than she would have liked.
“Is everything ok?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said. “I was just wondering if you wanted me to pick up anything for dinner.”
Be cool, she thought.
“Of course Pell.” His laugh came through the speaker. “I was so worried. I thought something might have happened to you. You’ve been gone for ages.”
She couldn’t help but to laugh.
“Whats so funny?” He asked, laughing along with her.
Calm. Relaxed.
“Nothing I just…I love hearing your voice,” she lied, an ironic smile on her face.
“I love you do you know that?”
Go to your quiet place, she told herself. She thought of all the excuses and lies that must have went into his infidelity and only grew more upset.
Tranquility.
She thought of how often he said ‘I love you’ and wondered when he stopped meaning it. She thought of all the times they made love and wondered how often he was thinking of someone else. What was it about her that made him find comfort in the arms of another woman?
Serenity.
“Are you there?” How long had her leg been moving up and down like that?
“What is your problem, Derek?” The words burst from her mouth like a balloon that had taken too much pressure.
“What?”
So much for calm and collected. “Make sure to tell your girlfriend not to wear lipstick next time.”
“My girlfriend? Pella what the hell are you on about?”
Ah, the part where they feign ignorance. She had nearly forgotten about that part. Now was the time when she provided proof. He would inevitably deny it or make excuses, but in the end he would come clean. “I found your plaid bandana in the car.”
“I must have left it in there, so what?” he asked.
“Did you also leave lipstick on it?” Her voice was full of knives.
“Oh…”
“Yeah.”
For several minutes no one said anything. She could hear the sound of his breath quickening as he struggled for words.
“It’s not what you think,” he managed.
“Oh? Because what I think is that you’re an ass who thinks about no one but himself.” It wasn’t true. Derek had always been considerate. She had referred to him on several occasions as the most wonderful man she had ever met.
“Really Pella, just listen to me,” he said, his voice panicked. She was glad of the sorrow that diluted his voice. It comforted her to know that he was at least hurting too.
“You want me to just sit here and listen to you tell me about how she doesn’t mean anything or how it was just a one time thing,” she said, fighting back the tears she had held off for so long. This game played out for her dozens of times in the past, obviously with men who weren’t Derek. “What is it Derek? Are you having some sort of mid life crisis? Is it about time to trade in for a newer model that runs off of grapes and tequila? Am I not exciting enough for you? Please, I would love to hear this.”
“The lipstick is mine,” he said as soon as she stopped.
Again she laughed. She had to give him points for originality. “Ohh why didn’t I think of that? I should have known that these lipstick stains belong to my husband. Come on Derek. If you’re going to humiliate me, at least don’t insult my intelligence.”
She heard a sudden inhalation of breath followed by a slow exhale.
“Pella I’m serious. I think we need to talk.”
For a moment she sat staring at a man and his dog walking through the parking lot. She must have been yelling because he turned away as soon as they made eye contact. “You’re serious?” She didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“How long?” she couldn’t believe this was happening. She wouldn’t.
“About six months,” he said reluctantly. “I meant to tell you. I swear I did.”
“What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
“What?”
“Dinner. You wanted me to pick up dinner.”
“Can we talk about this?” he asked.
“We’ll talk when I get home,” she replied, almost catatonic.
“I love you.”
“I’ll be home soon.”
She closed the flip phone and turned on the car. There was a cloud of smoke at every exhale, but she didn’t feel cold. Her eyes stayed fixed on the man walking his dog as he turned a corner and vanished from her sight. For several minutes she did nothing, the silence broken only by the gentle hum of the engine. Tears fell silently from her eyes. She adjusted her mirror, wiped her eyes, and turned the gear shift to Drive. She spent the whole ride home wondering what she was going to tell her children.

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Writing Exercise #1

3:47 PM 0 Comments

   
 Place: An abandoned fairground
 Dialogue: "They told me it couldn't happen"
 Object: A mug

    Silence is a beautiful thing in small doses. Necessary even. When I’m reading or sleeping or on the toilet, please give me quiet. For the love of god please say something.
“Did you hear me?” I ask him in a choked whisper. My mind contemplates then the horrible things that dwell behind his beautiful sea green eyes. I remember the first time I looked into them. I knew then that I would likely let him go all the way, or at least get to third base. There were times when I could tell exactly what he was thinking from his eyes. They spoke volumes when he never would. It is one of the things that I love about him. Now I see only a faint reflection from the light that illuminates his skin.
He looks around like he is expecting someone else to tell him how to respond. Please say something. Anything.
“I love you,” he says to me, his brows furrowed deeply. I’ve seen similar expressions on the faces of those alien-looking men in weight lifting competitions or when athletes try to come up with witty comebacks. It's not attractive and most definitely not a face that you want to see coupled with the words ‘I love you.’ He sighs then and looks down at his worn converse sneakers. I see the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth when he sees the note I wrote to him last month on the sides of his soles. The smile vanishes before my heart has a chance to find It's way out of my throat.
“Is that it?” I ask, trying my hardest not to sound irritated. I love you to death Andy, but sometimes you have the emotional range of a dish towel. I don’t say that to him of course. It wouldn’t help anything.
“What else do you want me to say? They told me it couldn’t happen.” He turns and starts walking past the broken down tents toward the abandoned carousel. I pause for a moment before following. In truth I’m not entirely sure what I expect him to say. Maybe a little excitement or support.
“I don’t know,” I say once I’ve caught up to him. I don’t want to put him on guard so I walk beside him. “You could be a little supportive. Who told you it couldn’t happen?”
“My church group.” He stops at a movement in the grass and reaches for something too dark for me to see. I strain my eyes against the darkness to make out the small object in his hands. I see the rubble from the shattered tent. There are stuffed bears and old trinkets all around. It's the sort of place I would imagine to be in a post apocolyptic film with Edward Norton, directed by Michael Bay or the guy that made the movie Hostel. He offers the mug to me and I take it. It's a small ceramic mug, the kind you might get as a prize for popping the most balloons or picking the right duck from a row. It's a black mug with a magnifying glass. Underneath in ornate gray writing are the words Get a Clue. The irony makes me laugh out loud.
“What is it?” he asks with an amused look on his face.
“Why do you like it here so much?” I ask, avoiding his question. Best not to damage his ego too much in one night.
“I don’t know. It's quiet. I like to imagine that where I’m standing could be the happiest memory from someone’s childhood.”
This is why I love him. He isn’t vapid or sanctimonious. He is just himself and he makes no effort to be anything else. It's also what I hate most about him.
“I’m pregnant,” I say to him again, this time avoiding his fierce and uncomprehending stare.
“I heard you,” he says. Nothing else.
“And?” My heart is pounding now. Naturally I assume the worst.
“And I love you.” He smiles.
“You don’t have anything else to say about it?”
“What else do you want me to say?” I don’t know, maybe that you will stay with me or that we can do this together…even some choice insults would be better than whatever it is that I’m getting now. Andy is a doll, but sometimes he’s oblivious. Now is one of those times.
“I don’t know,” I lie. What else can I do? If he doesn’t want to help me raise a baby, no one is going to force him.
“Have you told your mom yet?” he asks.
“No.” The reply is filled with more sobs than I expect. “I don’t know how.”
My mother is Catholic. As far as she knows I don’t even know what sex is, let alone how it feels. When I turned fourteen, my older sister brought her gay friend to my birthday party. My mother couldn’t stop talking about it to all of the other moms. She started by asking my sister’s friend when she decided to become gay and mentioned how appropriate it was that she grew up in Detroit, which is what she imagines hell to look like. It was awkward.
“Make sure to bring plenty of tissues,” he says.
My heart sank. There was so much in that seemingly insignificant statement. That’s it then. He wants me to do this alone. Of course he does. He is only seventeen. What high school boy will volunteer to raise a child with a girl you’ve only slept with four times. We’ve only been dating for five months. I don’t know what I expected. My eyes swelled and stung with salted expectations.
“I will,” I say, trying to sound stronger than I felt. He looks at me and I see sympathy written in decorative letters on his forehead. His eyes are wet too, but he will never mention it. This is it then. We had a good run. Five months in high school is like two years in the real world. It will be good for him in the long run I think.
“I love you,” he says again. There is no irony in his voice and I know that he means it.
“I know.” It's all I can think to say. “I should go.”
“Yeah.” He kisses my forehead.
I look at him for what I know is the last time. He looks at me and smiles a bittersweet smile. I wave at him and remember the old dirty mug that is still in my hand, which are covered with mud from the cup, but I don’t care. I turn away and slowly walk through the wreckage of brightly colored hot dog stands and giant rotating tea cups. I suppose these things happen to everyone, I think as I make my way home, wondering how on earth to tell my mother.

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