in which the Shortest Route Home is not.

you may one day find yourself in a situation where you need to deal occasionally with a Friendly Neighbor. you may realize that although you can conceivably avoid the block on which the Friendly Neighbor lives and rarely strays from, you cannot bring yourself to eschew the Shortest Route Home that you diligently timed last spring allowing for aberrations in weather conditions and/or sidewalk construction projects. on principle, of course. not because you are that stubborn about something as petty and ridiculous as a fucking route home. no way.

you may listen to the Friendly Neighbor's diatribe on the oscars, even though both he and you know that you did not watch the oscars, have never watched the oscars, and would rather watch seven bollywood movies with no intermission than talk about/listen to/overhear any conversation relating to the word oscar, unless it's about that boy in the "east l.a. papis" video you rented the night prior.

you may be knee-deep in BestSupporting verbiage before you realize that there is no lifevest, no rapunzel hair, not even one of those extremely frightening orange blowup swimmie things that little kids wear in urine-drenched swimming pools. There Is No Polite Out. like our beloved harold, you're going to have to just pick up your crayon and draw your own motherfucking way home.

that's when you may bring up, out of nowhere, with absolutely no Tie-In, Jump Off, or Lead In, your pathetically needy little doggie and how much you love his wittle puppy face. though it pains your digestive tract to speak of your hard.core. dog with such nauseating and chickensoupforthesoul terminology, you know it is a necessary sacrifice to return to your happily oscar-free world. you are certain that there are few things more vile and repugnant to the majority of the human population than people and their pets, because you have studied this and confirmed that there is no other topic that combines with perfect balance the Extreme Interest of the speaker with the Extreme Disinterest of the listener(s).

'well, i'll see you, kid. i think i just heard my sock fall off the couch. gotta go check on that sock. it's fragile, you know. i've had it since before that damn peanut farmer got elected. stupid farmer.'

in which The Post is briefly usurped.

everything started off brilliantly. a handshake, some non-witty light joking. there was even some generic but heartfelt criticism of The Asshole that enriched into a momentary sense of political camaraderie. i was into it. what happened?

i know that what you must have interpreted as my attempts at professionalism are a mockery to Real professionalism. i am quite aware that both my lack of years old and my secondhand puffy vest made any comparisons between myself and the rest of your customers an exercise in laughter restraint. but there's no need for restraint, really, it's cool. you see, anything with the word Power in it, be it PowerSuits, PowerLunches, and/or PowerPencils, i'm just not feeling them for myself peronally. i'm going for the suave, informal look, involving lots of amiable eye contact, shaking of hands, use of intelligent but unpretentious words. that's why i wanted to help start this new business. so i could work in the jovial company of puffy vests and cords. and so i could update my blog at any given point in the day, routinely pissing off the 3 people who check this site regularly.

(high-pitched little excited voice enters carrying Surreptitiousness and Mischief in her hot little mitts)

i'm just So crazy and spontaneous!!!!!!!!!

(high-pitched little excited voice exits dejected after enduring intensely blank stares and nervous coughing)

not that i suffer from any delusions of superiority over people that prefer to don the Gear Of Professionals. i'm just saying that i don't suffer from a sense of inferiority towards those individuals either.

underneath this red knitted cap is a big juicy brain that Does Not Enjoy Condescending Banter. see? here it is. i'm sure you wouldn't have interpreted your remarks that you were treating me similarly to college students that come in for a tour as Demeaning and Insulting. i'm sure you thought you were just supplying helpful information to someone who needed it. but i know what i'm doing.

i totally read like 4 whole books about this business before i started. 4 is a hell of a lot of books. and book learning totally makes up for any lack of years old or veritable experience in anything. academics say that shit all the time.

so no more judging books by the covers/puffy vests they happen to have, dammit. behind that cover there may be as many as 3 other books back there.

full of glossaries. that i perused. once. six months ago.

in which capitalization overreacts.

being able to work in an apartment with free radiator heat has many advantages. i will now boldly list one of them: i do not have to shiver while making Highly Professional Businesslike Phone Calls.

when i have coffee in the french press i drink it long after it was made, because no one can drink that much coffee and not reap the bathroom consequences. i dislike bathroom consequences of any type, which explains my whole and complete disavowal of Bran. about halfway through the consumption of the pot, the overarching and defining adjective to describe how the little coffee molecules taste would be Tepid. or maybe Lukewarm. but after extensive testing, it has been concluded by numerous Experts in health-related fields that Tepid coffee molecules are indeed better tasting than those which are Burnt, the Burnt quality having sprung from the fact that i am the easiest person to distract ever.

i need a reheating device with a slow hand. i need a reheating device with an easy touch. that, friends, is the trusty radiator: in just under 2.587 hours, i can safely reheat the little coffee molecules, altering them dramatically from Tepid to Slightly Warmer Than The Temperature Of The Average Human Mouth-Tongue Area. with absolutely no twinges of Burnt. as a bonus it makes that cool Water Being Heated In Metal Pipes Sound. awesome.

in which wetsuits conspire against an innocent little girl.

before Dyke Training School, i fervently attended SalvationInc, the southern baptist division. i learned multiple lifelong skills there, not the least of which was how to make a manger for the baby jesus using only synthetic paste and popsicle sticks. as part of this extensive preparation for the Ungodly World, akin to the marine corps training program in its Seriousness, The Youth were required to take a Sanctified Youth Group White Water Rafting Trip. more important than the thrill of icy hypothermia-inducing waters swishing around a raft made out of canvas, yellow plastic, and air was the fact that The Crush was attending. if The Crush was there, i, like, had to be there. taking a shocking sledgehammer to stereotypes, The Crush possessed a penis, and yes, it was a genuine Crush. not to be confused with the Cover Up So No One Will Know Your Queer Queerness And Stop Eating Lunch With You In The Cafeteria Crush, of which i have had plenty. during the mostly uneventful Sanctified Trip, the raft, with me in it positioned strategically across from The Crush, happened upon a very large boulder. this boulder reminded me of the boulder that they rolled in front of jesus' tomb after they stashed him there to make him stay put and it overwhelmed me with its glory. no, that's not really true, this boulder really just scared the shit of me and i peed my pants.

'kid, peeing your pants is an embarrassing act, made all the more horrific by the presence of The Crush, but it's fairly Stealthy. no one probably even knew you had peed your pants at all. this story blows.'

i hear you, i really do. but this is what those Guest Speakers in your history class were talking about when they asked you to hold all questions/comments until the end.

because, see, it was november, and rafting in november in this section of hemisphere requires wetsuits. nothing but wetsuits and wool sweaters for us. so while pee in normal clothes would be absorbed into the sweet cotton/poly fibers relatively quickly, pee in wetsuits gets trapped for a little bit longer. and the november part means, you guessed it, steaming hot pee coming out of my urethra and down my legs right in front of The Crush's sacred, dreamy eyes. did you catch the part where i told you it was steaming? the lord at SalvationInc smote me that grey, loveless day with pee that steamed. The Crush, being a few years older and consequently much more mature than any of us could have imagined, promptly dropped his oar so he could laugh more thoroughly. this caused others to stop their own paddling so they wouldn't miss out on the humorous event that The Crush was apparently witnessing, and all 8 rafters joined in with holy joy.

of course our Professional Raft Guide steered us clear away from the boulder in no time, so that the fact that i peed my pants would be even more hilarious to our christian soldiers.

i didn't decide that SalvationInc wasn't for me until 5 years later, but i like to think that the first kernel of doubt was planted right then and there, in that goddamn freezing river.

in which Hello is magnified.

when you have a neighbor who has dogs much in the same way that you have a dog, there is little reason to ignore one another. especially when that neighor is a dyke, much in the same way that you are a dyke, lives only 1/2 block from where you live, and frequents the same dog-ish parks that you do. so you decide, 'by god, the next time i see this neighbor of mine, i will make the most confident and friendly eye contact that has ever been made in this town, and i will utter the universal greeting of good will. i will say Hello.'

i decided all this a week ago. since then i have not seen this neighbor anywhere, which has had the effect of pushing me unwittingly into QuasiStalker Mode. i am so determined to say Hello that i search up and down that 1/2 block, i scour the streets for the station wagon i casually noticed her getting out of awhile back. i did not even remember that i knew what kind of car she drove until i convinced myself that Hello needed to be said, and it was i that needed to say it. and now i find my brain flooding with useless facts about her. for instance, that her scarf is grey and black striped. my eyes have retrieved this piece of information from the icy depths of Longterm Memory and have done a transformer act into machines. machines designed only to search for anything grey and black striped, in depressing similarity to Where's Fucking Waldo. i need to come across that neighbor soon, and i need to say Hello.

in which Perfection is attained, but not without Great Consequence.

i am a perfectionist. selectively, of course. life would be even more pervasively anti-social than it is now if i didn't learn to let some things go. for instance, in bold, sharp and refreshing contrast to most perfectionists, i care little for Neatness. it's just not that deep for me whether the organisms in my dishes are performing live on the stage of evolution a mere ten feet from where i rest my weary head. as long as there is not a certain Mouse scuttling about dragging its black heart behind it, i'm not concerned with the making, distribution, or multiplication of Mess.

in Dyke Training School, we learned to be meticulous about trimming our nails, a habit i take to perfectionist extremes. i just feel a little off if all the clipped edges aren't smooth and in a semi-circle fashion. it causes me to stutter slightly when speaking to strangers. yeah, that's why i do that. it's the nails.

but if you'd been a spider or ant or something happily munching away at the Messy crumbs from when i ate bread with more carb-consuming joy than has graced the planet in the past three, maybe four years, you would have seen something that would have permeated your exoskeleton with great emotional intensity. you would have cried little bug tears into the bread crumbs, and then you would have compained that the bread got all soggy and gross, and you would have cursed me and blamed me for always causing you to cry. your feelings would have been completely valid, but i would have reminded your that words like 'always' and 'never' are not constructive when dealing with conflict. i would have asked you to use a more respectful, less accusatory tone and to really see beyond this specific issue so we could talk about what's really bothering you.

and you would have sobbed into your bread crumbs, 'it's you. you, sitting there holding a ruler up to your laptop to see if the columns really are lined up correctly. you know the computer does that automatically, and yet you didn't trust it. you needed to be sure so you actually held a ruler up to the screen. i saw you grab a wooden ruler that was on the desk first, and when you realized that wood may not be as straight as you need it to be, i watched you hunt around for the metal ruler that you knew you had around somewhere. you completely fucked up my meal. look, these bread crumbs are ruined. just ruined.'

and i would have rubbed your tiny boneless legs in an attempt to comfort you, shaking my head with shame and remorse.

in which poetic ideas turn banal. on a dime.

aw, it's raining, kid. that nice, not too cold but not anything resembling hot rain. it's pittering and pattering all against the buildings outside. everything's all shiny. you love that shiny thing that happens. look, you can pull your chair up to one of the open windows, stare out of the apartment with a steaming cup of freshly pressed coffee. smell that smell of the rain and the breeze. listen as that perfect rainy day cd flows around you. think those centered, focused and relaxed thoughts. how poetic. how european.

but you see, kid, you sentimental fuck, in your intense concentration on that one key change that happens right after the third chorus in track seven, you have allowed yourself to get soaked. fortunately, the large area of cold wetness is limited to the part of your body that you strategically planted against the window in order to smell that smell. well, smell you did, brilliant one. now go change your damn clothes.

in which silence oppresses.

i like silence. my obsessive tendencies where music is concerned may be standing up right now on their tippy toes screaming 'no she doesn't! no she doesn't!' but you can't hear them and therefore they do not make a sound. much like that ill-fated Tree in the woods.

but i was talking about silence. it helps me think, makes me more sensitive to my surroundings, et cetera.

the thing about silence is, when there are a significant number of people in a space where there are significant numbers of people they do not know, it deftly morphs into its ugly cousin, Paralyzing Silence. if you so much as shift in your seat, you can be certain that the section of people in the general area where you are located will know about it, and they will indicate to you that they know about it, usually in a disdainful manner. it is very important that you know that they know about it. if you do find yourself in an emergency situation, you need to have a look on your face that is as apologetic as possible. there is no coughing, no sneezing, and definitely no awkward chuckling with the one person you actually do know about how awkward this silence is. the herd will Focus on you, and you will be embarrassed.

the best thing to do, should you find yourself in the clutches of Paralyzing Silence, would be to hold your breath. however, if Paralyzing Silence decides to viciously last longer than you can hold your breath, you had better let it out really softly. Definitely Not in the way where your cheeks get all puffy with the held-in air and then you have no choice to let it out and it comes out Significantly Louder than it would if you had really Focused on letting it out softly.

you need to Focus. learn a lesson from our friend Tree: it was Focused enough to fucking fall in the woods soundlessly, with all those crinkly leaves everywhere and those annoying chirping birdies getting annoyingly chirpy. let Tree inspire you to do the same.

in which poop needs to be reminded of its Waste quality.

in which Entitlement stealthily conquers.

i am pirating my neighbor's wireless internet. i know, it's immoral, unethical, and unsavory. at first i resisted, with clenched teeth and sweaty palms. but like artax, i cannot resist Swamps Of Sadness, also known as Invisible Seas Of Wireless. i turn my computer on and the little grey indicators tantalizingly light up to black to show that i have a strong connection. i cannot translate into words the strong magnetic strength of those little indicators on the taskbar. they are that strong.

i gave in. i cancelled my subpar dialup account, banking on the Consistency of Invisible Seas Of Wireless. i knew this was Risky, but i bathed myself in the fresh spring waters of Invisible Seas Of Wireless, rubbing its invisibly fast internet connection all over my keyboard. it was magical. i learned to let go, let love take over, not be so detached and awkward. i grew emotionally as an individual.

that's when the expectations crept in. they started small. i would feel just slightly miffed if Invisible Seas Of Wireless weren't there when i wanted to talk to it at four am. but these expectations, they have collectively become morbidly obese. this afternoon, during a 3 hour downloading binge, Invisible Seas Of Wireless had to step out for a minute. i cried real tears of disappointment and rejection.

i think we need some time apart, Invisible Seas Of Wireless. so we can learn to come together, to be mutually nurturing. i really think it's for the best. maybe we can make a time table together, to decide when it will be healthy to see each other again. maybe in our Time Off Period, we can work on a list of issues we'd like to address with each other. maybe we can depend on our respective friends to give us guidance and advice about how to Break The Cycle.

i really think our relationship is worth rising to this level of commitment. you?

in which Personal Space gets relative.

if i'm walking in a pace that indicates that i'm not exactly in a hurry, but i'm not just strolling either, you can go ahead and absorb that as a Sign. this is fun, this little exercise in Signs. another Sign would be the gigantic headphones i have on and the offensive noise-violating sound seeping out from around the ear area. since you asked, i really need to be rocking it out hardcore style to my newest mix cd, listening for Bad Transitions or Incongruous Songs that need to be adjusted before the mix can heartily strap on the adjective Complete like a really cool indie rivet belt. mixes are Serious. i know you personally would not categorize your query as an intrusion. we can differ. maybe you didn't pick up on the multiplicity of Signs i was trying to give you, and i'm okay with that. i'm just telling you now, so you can tuck in that little knowledge nugget for future reference.

i'm sure you thought a little arm touching would be a great way to coax me into meeting your very specific need. just a little rub of the forearm, you know, for emphasis. i trust your assertion that you were in no way Looking For A Confrontation.

there are rules about stranger touching. i'm surprised that a distinguished gentleman of your aroma and obvious stature in society has not learned this important lesson by now. it wholly startles me to hear that 'no one else gets mad.'

i confess, i'm not so good with Collective Thinking, Not Putting An i In Team, or Working Well With Others. i admit that i prefer The Cave over most social interactions/outings. remind me to tell you about that some time.

but no, you can't have your pen back.

in which Outside is not fooled.

no matter how much i want it to be Gleeful Cheery Springtime, it is not happening right now. i need to be honest about that. because these last few days there has been a marked lapse in the frigidity, and i have shown my appreciation by wearing Springtime clothing. this generally consists of a single collared shirt, a single sock on each foot, and most importantly, No Coat/Jacket/Puffy Vest. but no matter how much i think i have any semblance of Power Of Suggestion over Outside, wearing the right wardrobe for the season i want it to be will not make it be that season. Yesterday i caught Outside laughing at my amateur attempts at manipulation. 'everyone knows the youngest sibling is always the Manipulated, not the Manipulator, dumbass. it is a law of nature, not to mention that all older siblings get automatic scholarships to the Camp of Sneaky Mindfucks while the youngest sibling is being weaned. you think rubber nipples were your mother's idea? oh no. that was your older sibling's first homework assignment: replace the youngest sibling's sweet, nurturing real nipple with a bitter, impersonal synthetic one, just because you can.' and i had no choice but hang my frozen head with a resigned knowing.

in which books take abuse.

reading in the tub has many advantages. you can multitask, letting that Profoundly Deep Conditioner stuff get really Deep. it's brilliantly escapist, combining the inherent escapist qualities of a book with being enveloped in the cradling pillows of water several dozen degrees hotter than your body is equipped to handle. but my absolute favorite part is the Risk. there's always the chance that Ol' Sturdy Hands will malfunction and the book will plunge into a watery grave, thereby changing the book-tub experience into a frantic-cursing experience. and then i'll have to go around reading an bloated, crinkly book fiercely determined to exhibit to anyone within earshot the unspeakable abuse it has endured by Ol' Sturdies. people can pronounce all they want the book-tub experience as being the most relaxing activity in this world, but they're hiding The Truth. and while i make it a point to keep Ol' Sturdies snuggled far, far away from any shards of Truth-Telling, lest the ghost of ayn rand should sniff out the Truth-Telling and make elaborate body-snatching efforts, being that Truth-Telling eluded her for her entire lifetime and she's bitter, i have to speak The Truth. it is this: reading in the tub, it's Risky.

maybe people build little shelves that run the width of the tub to place the books on. maybe they cover the whole top of the tub with plastic wrap, or aluminum foil. maybe they suspend the book from string hooked onto the ceiling. but not me, oh no. i'm a Risk-Taker.

in which the Mad Lib plagiarization is shameless. shameless.

i personally am anti-fur usage for clothing and accessories. so, youthful and impassioned members of peta, i feel you. i really do. you are completely right for feeling self-righteous towards people who wear baby (insert adorable animal here) as easily as i wear this thrift store hoodie with the hole in the pouch. i'm sure you imagined a really successful protest where others from the street would join with you in chanting that really inane rhyme you guys had going. i was particularly impressed when you started doing rounds. that takes Planning.

problem is, there were only 3 of you. and while i can sympathize with your politics, 3 of you screaming with your jugular veins all pulsing with the blood of righteous indignation, well, it's sad. in a really really funny kind of way.

i wasn't trying to diminish your passion or threaten the status of your soapbox when i passed you stifling my laughter with a few gloved fingers. i wasn't there to cause trouble, only to laugh at the already existing trouble your teeny-weeny protest had in making its Voice Heard. you're right, i wasn't trying very hard to hide it.

but c'mon, Bunny-Murdering Bitch was a little harsh.

in which mirrors get fiesty.

Sideburns had to go. while they were starting to curl around my jawline in a very manly fashion, thereby increasing my Gender Ambiguity Quotient, i was having trouble hearing things clearly through the filthy black jungle covering my precious ear parts. early one morning i found myself in a cathartic state, boards of canada blaring, incense burning, with a pair of scissors in my hand. i was going to take down Sideburns, with the help of my trusty mirror.

that's precisely when i reminded myself that mirrors aren't trusty in any sense of the often-misused word. i spent the entire duration of the cd moving the scissors back...no, no the Other Way...okay, just a little bit this way...shit, no This Way...ah, fuck it. hearing isn't really worth all this. but, truth be told, it was memory that held me back. in fourth grade when i felt mature enough to trim my bangs, the tricky mirror optically illusioned Longer into Much, Much Shorter. i had to spend all spring in a misshapen black hat that had only been worn once before, when i was trying out my Magician Skills. it turned out Not to be a magic hat.

in which Hate, well, it gets a little out of hand. my bad.

being the Highly Talented and Educated kid that i am, and living in an era in which Highly Talented and Educated kids are cheaper than that quarter i found a few weeks ago on the sidewalk, i have worked, until recently, exclusively at Serial Service Jobs. much like serial killers, Serial Service Jobs don't just stop at one. you quit/intentionally get fired/unintentionally get fired from what you safely categorized as The Worst Job I Will Ever Have and another one pops right in front of your face, in the guise of that stupid Toadstool from super mario brothers 2 coming back to defecate on your Potential. it always was the worst character in that game. Princess for life.

anyway, you think, 'well, shit. it'll only be Temporary. it's easy, i can make money and job search for more meaningful postions Not In The Service Industry at the same time. and i'm tough, i learned from that last one. it will not transform me into a bitter, depressed, and intellectually stunted individual This Time.' but while you're busy Helping Customers and cursing the time clock for always being 10 minutes slow, it sneaks in and starts rusting from the inside out everything you hold dear. that paper you wrote comparing men's 19th century attitudes towards women to their attitudes towards the receding natural landscape? gone. that really fascinating book you read by...what the fuck was it...
...
...
gone. no plotlines, no characters, no thesis, not even 'this book is dedicated to...' nothing. might as well have never been written, as far as you're concerned.

and no amount of on-the-job theft will restore any of it to your parched, parched brain. tried it. doesn't work.

that's why i nurture, why i feed fucking multivitamins to my seething rage for my Former Places Of Employment. and why, to keep myself from imploding at the thought of the months/years/weeks wasted at each respective Cauldron Of Neuron Murdering, i have a rule: once i have been unintentionally fired/been intentionally fired/quit, i must never never Step A Single Calloused Toe Into The Wretched Establishment Ever, Ever Again.

so sorry, i can't make it to dinner tonight. but you guys have fun.

proof that beloved Pants may indeed survive this most recent trauma.

had Pants for Awhile. one day while frolicking carefree, the entire right side of the pocket displayed before you ripped to expose my Pasty rear. some mourned, sure that Pants wouldn't make it through the night. doctors wore their patented Concerned Faces in front of relatives, then laughed it over with each other on their smoke breaks. but then the kid did something no one thought possible: she actually sewed something. Pants is worth the inevitable bloody fingers that the characteristically Not Nimble kid jabs a needle into whenever Sewing takes place.

i love you, Pants.

those of you wishing to point out the other potentially hazardous hole on the left side of Pants' pocket, suck it. there's only so much one kid can do. i mean, it's just a pair of stupid Pants.

i love you, Pants.