The Sob Story Template and Other Vicious Circles

I don’t like the phrase, “There’s nothing new under the sun.” I really don’t. I feel like it’s an excuse to limit creativity. Granted, I’m sure said-sun is bored to tears watching Planet Earth make the same decisions since the dawn of time and then think that it has discovered some clandestine secret that the rest of the universe is oblivious to. I can imagine Sun making a tsk, tsk noise while wiping the sweat from his brow, thinking that if we would have just cracked the book of Proverbs, we would have had the answer all along instead of widening our eyes and feeling like the most pretentious little philosophers ever.

How can we ever be individuals if we are told that everything we do or think has been done already? I love my fellow humans, but please - I cherish my identity. I prefer to think that repetitiveness is actually just expounding upon a template. Take Cinderella for example. That story has been done to death. If Drew Barrymore and Hillary Duff think that they are the pioneers of the Prince Charming world, then I hope they suffocate in their pumpkin carriages. But think outside the Cinderella box for a sec - isn’t every love story (or any story for that matter) the basic outline of the underdog heroine rising to challenges she’s been told she couldn’t overcome, and then overcoming them? There is nothing resounding with this scenario; it’s the job of the author to create common ground, to invent personality, to insert emotion, resonance, and forcing me to bury my face in a box of Kleenex by the end of the story, even though I already knew the outcome.

But this excuse has been forced so much that it’s now endorsing ignorance instead of apathy. Fashion trends, for example, are vicious circles. The sixties sported pedal pushers until the seventies conformed them to bell bottoms, and then the eighties morphed everything into tapered jeans. The nineties scoffed all these faux pas in their boot cut jeans, and then when the twenty first century busted capris, skinny jeans, and flares on the scene, society applauds this new discovery in the fashion world.

What do you people think “vintage” means?

This stretches into the literary world as well, which sucks for a girl like me, who is trying to break into the publishing industry. No one wants to publish fiction anymore; the new thing is memoirs. Wow, who invented this new concept? IT’S AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, FOLKS! Now every rape victim and abuse survivor is knocking down the publisher’s doors with their personal version of Cinderella.

Maybe I’ll take Cinderella and change her into a Mermaid and name her Arielle. No, no - she’ll be a beautiful country girl and Prince Charming will be a ferocious beast. Or better yet! I’ll throw her in a beautiful mansion, and toss 20 different men in their and let them vie for her attention and then she can make the final decision herself by voting them off and then giving the winner a rose while I document everything on film and insist that nothing is scripted...

I Close My Eyes and Dream that I'm Awake

I don’t understand how people can blog when they can’t sleep. Especially when they put it as their status on face book. “Tits McGee is wide awake and doesn’t know why.” 4:28 am. Seventeen insomniacs like this.

I definitely do NOT have that problem. In fact, I’m falling asleep as I write this, and it‘s five in the afternoon. I apparently utilize blogging as a lullaby. But for the sake of pre-nocturnal amusement and my defiance towards these freaky-deaky Narcoleptic tendencies, I’m going to plunge through this.

So the rain has given me two reasons to pronounce yesterday and today official FML days, as yesterday I was supposed to go running con mi primo and today I was going to lay out at the pool. So now I’m stuck being fat and pasty. FML. And the rain.

I finished reading A Thousand Splendid Suns today, and I finished The Other Boleyn Girl about a week ago. I need to stop reading history-based novels involving the beheading of the female protagonist. What’s sad is that Anne Boleyn and Mariam were the most opposite of women, yet they both ended with the same fate, thanks to the imbecilic men.

Blah, blah, blah….

I think the erratic chaos that is my life is becoming monotonous. That’s really bad, if that’s the case. Today I got to work and I walked through the hall and out the backdoor, and was greeted with the sight of one of my coworkers laying hands on another coworker, praying over her, holding a broom in her other hand; both were standing in a pile of sand. I yawned, scratched my stomach, and wondered how I would look with shorter bangs.

Twice I was beckoned by different people to supervise their job because they had explosive diarrhea. Ho-hum.

I find myself saying incredibly vile sentences like, “Why is Chef naked and twisted around the faucet?” and, “What’s wrong with you? Why won’t you eat the headless cats?” and the only thing that gives me any inkling that what I said is abnormal is the fact that some of those words are difficult to pronounce next to each other, considering I’m probably the first human being ever to make those concoctions. Try it. Say the Chef sentence and tell me it’s not hard to say. See? It just doesn’t roll off the tongue smoothly.

I would like to believe that I’m not becoming accustomed to and bored with my crazy life; I like to think it’s the Narcolepsy. Even though I’m not even Narcoleptic. I’m not in denial, either it’s just that I’m ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……………..

Place: Kitchen. Time: Five Minutes Ago.

Robert and I were discussing - and for the life of me, I don’t know why - the fact that the words “Mussolini” and “fart” don’t rhyme, when I grabbed Robert’s glass of water and took a swig.
Robert: Why do you drink like that?
Me. Like what?
Robert: With your mouth like that. Did you know you do something weird with your lower lip when you drink??
Me: No, I don’t. (I run to the mirror and watch myself take a drink) Oh, weird! I had no idea I did that!
Robert: Yeah, every time I see you drinking something I watch you do that and wonder how you can even drink. Then when you’re not looking, I try and drink like that and I can’t.
Me: So for the last 4 and a half years of marriage you’ve been harboring this secret? I hope no one else has noticed that I do that.
Robert: Probably not. No one observes you like I do.
Me: (snickering) You have no idea.
Robert: Who?
Me: I’m not telling you, it’s none of your business.
Robert: Fine, then I’ll just go to Tao and observe the large breasted woman.
Me: You do that anyways. And while you’re there, take a picture of them and tell her that your wife needs it to give to her plastic surgeon.
Robert: No way, hers are way too big. I can't even see her face. I look at her and all I see are boobs.
Me: Isn't that all you men see when you look at women anyways?
Robbie (sitting at the table playing with Play Dough): Baby is sitting in my seat!
Me: Someone call the American Embassy!
Robert: Is he in a foreign country?
Me (who had just stepped on a hundred little balls of play dough): Robbie you’re dropping your balls.
Robert: That’s called puberty, honey.

Then I went on to the couch and finished eating my strawberries, wondering to myself, why can't I have a normal marriage and/or kitchen experience like everyone else?

Random Thoughts, Probable Scenarios, Topped with Rainbow Sprinkles

Tampa sunsets are much more magnificent than Miami sunsets. On the west coast, any body of water promises you an evening of vibrant reds and oranges simmering above it, and a fiery warm sun plunging into it. And you can sit on the powdery white beaches and reflect on whatever the heck you want to reflect upon, because Pier 60 is right there to your left and some poor college sap is proposing to his girlfriend over to your right, and Rita’s Italian Ice doesn’t close until ten o’clock.

And you can do this eeeeverrrryyyy niiiiiiight. Ooohh, yeeaahhh.

Until, of course, you do something like move. To Miami. Then you get to stare at the blinding sun shrinking behind some huge concrete building while you’re stuck in traffic, listening to reggatone blasting from some punk’s Mazda and his chonga girlfriend sitting next to him.

This speeding orbit of 66,660 miles per hour is making me old…but has never been so radiant.

Ever since I was three or four, my dad would bring us Cadburry Cream Eggs around Easter time. As I got older, I would hold the very first egg of the year in my cupped palm, feeling cheated and swearing up and down that they were making them smaller and smaller. Until after about five or six years, when I realized it was actually my hand that was getting bigger and bigger.

Time flies and you learn to appreciate, and you gain discernment for what’s genuine and what’s absolute bull. You start choosing paths for different purposes, and look back at paths previously chosen and inhale through gritted teeth at the blatant mistakes they turned out to be.

Some people get overwhelmed with life and all its questions that don’t have answers. Other people take those questions and turn them into answers. Then they create their own questions for those answers. I prefer the latter route. Because bitterness sucks.

But I have to understand that she won’t realize this overnight. She might have to stand in that circle, shifting her feet because she’s light headed from whatever it was they just passed her. I’ll have to wait until she’s stamped her one-way ticket to Rock Bottom before I swoop in. Maybe I won’t have to swoop in at all. Maybe God is keeping her from this altogether.

I can’t believe Anne Boleyn died almost 500 years ago. Long live manipulation!

And then there’s the one who just doesn’t know where she fits in. She’ll figure it out soon. But then she’ll grow up, get a career, get married, have kids, and lose her social life. Then she’ll begin wondering again where she fits in. It’s a vicious circle. I don’t know if it ever ends, because I’m on my second round of this, and I don’t know the outcome.

I have been looking for a good dry cleaner for about four years now. I finally quit going. We’re just going to have to not-dirty our nice clothes so badly.

And speaking of clothing, someone really needs to teach me how to make Ropa Vieja.

But then they break up, and sometimes they continue talking and sometimes they don’t. And one always fairs better than the other, because they were mismatched to begin with. That’s probably why they didn’t last. Sometimes they think about each other. Sometimes, years later, she picks up her phone and scrolls down to his number, her thumb lingering over the “send” button before she tosses her phone on the bed and tends to her real life. He writes out a whole email, asking her how she’s been, telling her he’s back in school. Working towards a music degree. He hopes to make it big someday, but he’s not getting his hopes up. Besides, he’s Minoring in Business, you know, just have something to fall back on. He ends his email with, “I think about you often, and wonder what would have happened if… do you ever think about me?” before he clicks the delete button and picks up his guitar to jam with his buddies.

Everyone has a love story; everyone has a tragedy. And don’t disregard the small things. They always end up playing huge roles. Never underestimate the supporting cast. Because it includes everything that happens under the sun. Even a sun that is plummeting into the ocean, displaying its reds and oranges.

And all this at 66,660 miles per hour.

For the Whole Fam Damily

Remember Marshmallow Man from Ghost Busters? You know, that massive, fluffy, giddy blob that stomps around with a gloriously stupid grin, causing immense amounts of turmoil to the city folk? He was just a ginormous angry sugar concoction. He had crazy eyes, for goodness sake. And people still pissed themselves at the sight of him walloping down the street.

Well, I kind of feel like that’s how love is. Well, my love anyways. Oh, unscrew your face and keep reading. It makes sense, I swear…

I have a talent (or curse, as I like to call it) for loving fiercely. I don’t mean this BS, “Oh, I love your hair!” or “I love this song, it’s my jaaaaam!” or, “I absolutely love sushi and crème brulee!” (which actually is my favorite meal and dessert, by the way). I mean LOVE. FIERCELY. FEROCIOUSLY. I harbor love that needs to be tamed, because it is wild and if not properly domesticated, I find that it tends to morph into this gooey slap-happy monster that escapes and ends up incredibly out of place.

Having that said, I’m very selective with whom I extend this dangerous passion. There are only a handful of people to whom I dedicate my heart’s motives, and truly say that I love. Obviously the man and the spawns; they are my life. But other than that….

Buddha said, “He who loves 50 people has 50 woes. He who loves no one has no woes.” Hmm…sounds intriguing. Sounds inviting.

But I just can’t. I have to love. I have to hurt over the ones I love. I have to get on my knees every morning and pray for you, cry over you. And look out if a situation arises in which I need to give my life for you. Because I will make an immaculate swan dive into my grave and do the breast stroke all the way to heaven, all the while belting out the song from Toy Story, “You’ve got a friend in me.” I’ll probably mess up a lot of the lyrics, but at least I’ll nail the raspy voice part. It’ll be a stellar rendition.

And so, to those of you who have awarded yourselves with my unconditional and irrevocable love, thank you for loving me, and for making me one of your own. You are my family. And rest assured, knowing that as long as you are centered in my ring of fire, I will do everything in my power to keep any harm from you. What is mine is yours, and I promise that I will always tell you the truth. And one more thing…

…Stay Puft.

Why I "Flitted" Off the Twilight Bandwagon

I’m guilty. I have to admit - shame-facedly - that I purchased and read every single Twilight book. I have something else to confess. I watched the movie. Twice.

Why did I self-inflict such a literary catastrophe? Well, it’s like any other sin. It’s enjoyable for a season, but when all is said and done, you’re left with an empty void in the pit of your stomach and a disgraceful aftertaste…like you’ve been sucking on a handful of dirty nickels.

Despite the fact that Edward has the personality of a paper towel and Bella, the disposition of a day-old biscuit, I somehow succumbed to the Stephenie Meyer Spell; I couldn’t put it down. Maybe it was the fact that it was such an easy read. Maybe it was the whole vampire/werewolf love triangle. Maybe it was my sensual attraction to Jacob Black…whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to keep me from getting nauseated at the amount of times I had to be subjected to Edward’s “smoldering” eyes and Alice “flitting” down the hall.

Now what I’m about to admit is being growled through gritted teeth, tightly closed eyes, and clenched fists: Stephenie Meyer obviously did something right, considering she’s a multi-millionaire, a world-renowned author with five published books under her belt, boasts of a 4-movie contract, and is selling royalties like a 4th-grader sells girl scout cookies. She is one rich and famous Mormon.

Now is the time I unclench my fists and thrust my arms towards the sky, tear my eyelids open, and tip my head heaven-ward while shrieking, “WHY, GOD? WHHHHHYYYYY!”

For the sake of time and my sanity, I’ll spare you my critique of the entire series. I just want to briefly vent about the last book before I spew my final thoughts. Breaking Dawn was one of the worst books I’ve ever read. I am convinced that she refuses to edit her books. On top of the mountain of grammatical errors I stumbled through, I could actually envision her writing this book - sweating over her computer, having no idea where she was going with this highly-demanded series conclusion. The wedding held no emotion whatsoever, and since it was at the very beginning, it killed the entire love triangle that she had been building throughout the entire series. But then when Edward was going to have Bella and Jacob sleep together to reproduce, I got really excited. It was scandalous, it was hot, it was controversial…and then nothing ever happened with that. She went in a completely different and ridiculous direction. EDIT, STEPH! EDIT!

And don’t get me started on the fact that male vampires can reproduce but female vampires can’t. CONSISTANCY, STEPH! CONSISTANCY!

And lastly, the book concludes with a stand-off on the baseball field, some fightin’ words, and the Cullens coming out victorious. Where have I read that before???? Oh that’s right - THE REST OF THE TWILIGHT SERIES.

Don’t be mad at me. I understand that I am a minority in this Twilight-crazed society. And like I said, I drooled over the books myself. But as a writer, I have no choice but to bad-mouth this charmingly cheesy series. I do have to thank Steph for one thing, and that is her creation of Jacob Black. Again, I know I’m the minority because I’m pulling for the underdog (no pun intended, well maybe a little bit). But Jacob Black is the best character she created. He’s hot, he’s funny, he’s genuine, and he’s got personality.

Lastly, and with all due respect to Meyer…please don’t - EVER - compare her to J.K. Rowling. This is a blasphemous comparison. J.K. is untouchable. To refer to her as a literary genius is an understatement to the point of an insult. Obviously Stephenie is one of the most beloved authors of this time, but her static characters, her repetitive story lines, and her shallow themes...come on. Forks will never hold a candle to Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

So consider this your warning. If I ever hear the names Stephenie Meyer and JK Rowling in the same sentence, I will wait until Jacob Black comes to my bed in the middle of the night, and while he is mauling me and whispering hot and sexy nothings in my ear, I will tell him to hunt you down and kill you.

Mastering Step One.

I'm not gonna lie. I'm gonna utilize this blog - a lot - for feminist rants and self-confidence motivation. I'm apalled at the amount of beautiful young girls I know who are wasting themselves because of their lack of self confidence. It's painful to watch creepy little boys take advantage of them and inflict such emotional abuse on the superior gender.

Our one downfall - our reliance on emotions. Men don't have emotions, therefore, it is impossible for them to hurt the way we do. Because we hurt vicariously as well as personally. But I'm not going to get into all of this now. You can read it and agree whole-heartedly, but I've realized I'm not going to change the world one girl at a time until I first instill this into them:

YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.

I know you don't believe me, and that's what this post is going to change. A gorgeous woman can walk into a party and every man in there will oogle over her, and she's so intimidated over other girls around her and how she looks that she's none the wiser. So here's what you do: screw every other person at that party. You need to walk around like you have an invisible crown on your head. You just might be the most insecure person there and can't even fathom mustering up one iota of self confidence. So - FAKE IT.

If you fake it long enough, you'll soon see that it begins to come naturally, and the facade will be easier and easier to pull off - because it's morphing into a reality. So here is your first homework assignment:

At least two to three times a day, you need to stand in front of your mirror and tell yourself that you're beautiful. You stand there and repeat it until you believe it. You need to eliminate all "competition" - i.e. - "that other girl has prettier eyes than I do, and the other one has a better body than I do, and what's her name has a better personality"....let me tell you something. You will NEVER have Other Girl's eyes, body, or personality, so drop it. Focus on perfecting what you do have. Flirt with your eyes; speak with your eyes. Dominate with your body. And enhance your personality.

Don't overwhelm yourself; I'm finished. For now, anyways. I've done my job, now you do yours. Get off your computer and go look at yourself in the mirror. Look at your face from all angles and repeat after me: "Wow, I'm hot."

It's not going to change over night. This might take a couple of days before you start believing it. And don't ever feed yourself the lie of "no one thinks I'm pretty."

Because I do.

Now go. Stop wasting time.

Telecommute! AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was looking something up on Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary and I noticed a fun little link in the corner called Word of the Day. I clicked on it, my mouth watering for an exciting new vocabulary word (I'm actually serious, and I'm sorry - I am apologizing to you), and this is what I saw:

telecommute • \TEL-ih-kuh-myoot\ • verb
: to work at home by the use of an electronic linkup with a central office
Example Sentence:Marie recently installed a high-speed computer line in her home so she could telecommute two days a week.

This is absolute bullcrap. I'm offended. I'm actually stupider now, and my IQ is plummeting as we speak.

WTH?!?!?

Remember on Peewee's playhouse when they had a word of the day, and every time someone utilized it they would bellow like a bunch of ignorant neanderthals? That's what I feel like doing right now. Because that's what I've been reduced to. Only mine would be out of frustration, and not out of blissful stupidity.

Telecommute? Are you serious? What ever happened to words like diaphanous, epistemic, and recrudescence?

I never would have wanted to live in the 18th century. The lack of medical inginuity, the condescension of women....but this is for a whole other blog. One thing of which I am envious is their intelligence and their intellectual dispositions. Don't believe me? Pick up the book called The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton. If men today talked like that, they would actually intrigue women of substance intsead of these flakes who will drop their panties at any little compliment a man spews during his neverending quest of talking about himself.

On the other hand, maybe it's a good thing men don't talk like that now, because then I would be the panty-dropper. We can't have that. So having that said, I'm just going to bask in my literary recrudescence, and ignore the rise of diaphanous behavior and these epistemic limitations.

Telecommute.
Geeeez.

How To Effectively Make Me Cry

I have a pretty high pain tolerance, so physical abuse will only piss me off and probably land you up dead by decapitation. So you can try it, but it probably won't work to your advantage. Discussing death and sad things will only put me in a wistful and meditative state, and I will close myself in my room and write a book. You can betray me and I'll just add you to my ever-growing list while eating a turkey sandwich. If you really want to make me cry, show me pictures like this:

I have no idea what it is about a single tree in an open meadow, but the nostalgia is overwhelming. I think this is the most magnificent and breathtaking sight. And throw in some dandilions like this and I'm a lost cause - I'm talking fetal position, weeping and wailing. Especially that last picture...excuse me....

Channel 129: The Homosapian Channel

I would love to make a National Geographic video on the mating instincts of humans. It really is comical. I mean, animals are natural, instinctive, and straight to the point. You know, hunting their prey, knowing (and accepting) their places in the circle of life...What humans do is ridiculous and so saturated with arrogance, that it's not even genuine, and not a lick of it is natural. It's a joke. Basic scenario as follows: eh-hem. Boy sees Girl, and his curiosity is spiked. He begins sniffing around her, which Girl notices and starts puffing up because after all, Boy is interested in her, and therefore, she must be the most desirable and hottest female homosapian on the planet. Boy sees that Girl is enjoying his attention, and he disguises himself with a humble facade. "Girl doesn't want an arrogant SOB. She wants something down to earth and someone to treat her like royalty," he says to himself, knowing full well that nothing about him is down to earth, and he truly is just an arrogant SOB. Nothing more, nothing less. So he begins persuing Girl, doing sweet little things for her, giving her gifts, surprises, etc. Girl's pride swells to all new heights because Boy Wants Her. Boy snickers. He knows what he's doing, even behind his humble facade. Boy stays dilligent until Girl falls into his trap. Sometimes, this is the end. Boy moves on. But there are rare cases where Boy and Girl make it official. Statuses begin shifting. Boy owns Girl, and subtley removes his humble facade. In the meantime, Girl has fallen head over heals for Boy, and she notes his changes and doesn't like them. She thinks she's going to lose him. Her pride plummets while his is on the rise, and soon the tables have turned completely. Girl is chasing Boy around, striving to keep him, and Boy has won his prize and feels the need to flaunt his talent. Because after all, Boy persued and obtained, and therefore, must be the most desirable and hottest male homosapian on the planet.

Alright, I have my script. Now I just need my video camera and a couple of unsuspecting jackasses.

The Motive

L'esprit de L'escalier is a french phrase that translates, "The wit of the staircase," which depicts that super crappy situation where you think of the perfect comeback...five minutes after the conversation is over. You know, when you find yourself slapping the steering wheel and cursing through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to grab your phone, hit redial, and scream something like, "THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID LAST NIGHT!" Mm-hmm. We've all been there. But although I'm boasted of being able to rock a sarcastic comment or unleash my sassy retaliations in a heartbeat, I'm guilty of 'aftermath analyzation.' What I mean is - I find myself pondering minute scenarios long after most people would. Or should, for that matter. Sometimes I'm so caught up in what's happening at that moment that I miss out on the underlying meaning. Hence, my new blog. Maybe I'll be reading a book and 30 minutes later I find myself obsessing over one certain part...maybe I'll have had a conversation with someone and two days later, I realize that something they said (generally just a short 5-7 word sentance) was incredibly profoud/one of the sweetest comments/absolutely hilarious, and I had overlooked it. (I'm currently pondering one of these right now, actually, and I really should address it to this person soon...) Anyways, I found that doing this exercises my writing capabilities, and for some strange reason, people like to read them. And so, bon appetit.

Blame every bar soap and STD commercial ever made for the reason I refuse to rattle off all my titles and my plethora of responsibilities. I am everything, anyways. Everything. Google it.