Halloween '14

So like most twenty-something adults I hit the bars with my friends Friday night for the Halloween festivities. One small incident from said night has been weighing on my mind, tell me if I'm over-reacting (which I probably am).

While standing out on the patio with my group a woman dressed in, well some sort of sexy-Doctor-Seuss-type costume, came and stood next to us. Now this was only the second or third bar we had visited so I am claiming that I was mostly sober at this point and not swaying back & forth. Not like this Lorax in a bikini or whatever she was supposed to be. She promptly lit up a cigarette, dropped it once on the sidewalk, retrieved it, and stuck in back between her fingers. Next, while trying to adjust her costume she leaned into me sticking her lit cigarette against my hand and burning me. I jumped, and yelled "Fuckin' ow!!? Holy shit!", like a normal person would. If you've never been burnt with a cigarette you're a lucky person, it hurts like a bitch. This woman then glared in my direction and said "Well obviously that was your fault." At the time I ignored the woman, dusted that cigarette ash & burnt skin off my hand, and went back to drinking with my friends.

But now I'm pissed. That obviously was NOT my fault, but hers. So if you know a brunette smoker who was dressed as some sort of slutty-children's-book-character Friday night tell her to meet me in the parking lot after school. I will be kicking her ass.

But the rest of the night was wonderful. Hope everyone had a fun & safe Halloween!

Long time no write.

Hey there Internet-People. Just thought I'd let you know I haven't forgotten you. Things have been... well crazy. I should be continuously blogging again soon. Just give me a little more time.

Bad BAD Writing

In my Advanced Imaginative writing course this semester the first assignment was to write something as bad as possible. This is my terrible masterpiece. 

My long, dark, straight hair hangs in front of my right eye. It keeps the world from trying to see who I really am. It is my shield of protection, my knight in shining armor. If only I really had a knight in shining armor. But no boys at this school even look at me. I’m too skinny. My tan is too even. As I turn to walk down the crowded hallway I step on my own shoelace and fall to my knees and drop my books. That’s me, always so clumsy. As I start to gather up my books someone kneels down and starts to help me.

            “You really should be more careful,” he says quietly.

            “Well you –“, but as I look up to tell him to go away, our eyes meet. His eyes are deep brown, with flecks of gold surrounding the rims. I fall into them. He is pale; pale as I have ever seen. He dark hair is spiked up in the front, his brown leather jacket is faded. I realize my mouth is open. He smiles a brilliant smile and I feel my heart explode in my chest. I instantly fall in love with him.

            “Are you ok?” he asks quietly and hands me my last book. I stand up too quickly and start to fall backwards. Immediately he is behind me, catches me, and cradles me in the crook of his arm.

            “I got you.” He smiles his amazing smile.

            “Nobody gets me,” I say.

“I get you,” he says. 

Fight Club Instead of Midol.

Now usually I am the least angry person you'll meet in an average day. But around the full moon my hormones get cranking and this peaceful pacifist turns into a raging ball of fury and fire.

This morning as I took a drink of coffee, I burnt my tongue. As the fury erupted inside me and my eyes turned to red and my ears began to smoke, I had a brilliant epiphany. I would really like to beat the shit out of someone. And then, an idea! Fight Club.

Now first rule of Fight Club, you don't talk about Fight Club. But in this Fight Club, we gotta talk it out. At least until the fists start to fly.

I will open a facility, it will appear to be a gym for just women. Like Curves. But instead of being a peaceful and secure room full of women wanting to exercise in peace, it will be a rage-fest basement setting full of female hormones allowing the violence you know we all crave. We will have an event each weekend where women experiencing their monthly kick in the vagina can actually go and kick their fellow women in the vagina. There will be different woman running the facility each weekend so each weekend group can align their flows. Obviously it will become a nation-wide phenomenon. I'll open facilities all across the country. Women will be happier on a daily basis knowing they can take it all out during their monthly fight-fest. It'll also be an awesome work-out program. Crime rates will drop. And I'll get filthy rich.

Oh and obviously there will have to be some sort of day care system. But someone else can handle that. Kids are gross.

Left a carton of milk on my counter all day.

As an environmentalist-greenie-yuppie-granola type I try and buy organic and local foods. This is always tough since I work for pennies a day. A few days ago I bought myself a little $5 carton of milk that was from happy, local cows that hadn't been pumped full of antibiotics and growth hormones; or so the carton said. And I'll admit I felt pretty good about myself and my purchase.

This morning before my classes I cranked up my miniature espresso machine and made myself a double vanilla latte, with my happy-cow milk.

Just got home a few minutes ago, and my little carton of milk was still out on the counter. Right where I left it. Unfortunately this isn't a happy ending and my happy-cow milk was poured down the drain. Oh woe is me.

A very fond retail memory.

When I moved away from home and started my college courses I got my first job. I was hired at a bookstore/coffee shop. I got hired as a barista in the coffee section of this hellhole. Let us just call them Coffee-Place.

Now this was one of those "fancy" coffee houses that had both an indoor section and a drive-thru. College and high school students could bring their books and pretend to do homework. Local homeless people would sleep on the cracked, leather couches. Old men with newspapers would scowl at everyone and complain that about their coffee being cold. Now Coffee-Place also wanted to please the crazy-suburbanites in their mini vans with their ten children and "I NEED COFFEE NOW" facial expressions.

So on my second day at this fine establishment my manager pulled me aside and said, "Now Kira, you're doing awesome. But I've got some place to be. So stay here and keep doing what you're doing and I'll be back in a few minutes." Being a young, grateful, new employee all I heard was "Blah blah, Kira, you're doing awesome. Blah blah." Unknown to naive little ol' me, a few minutes really meant a few hours. Alone. With the demons of hell and caffeine addiction clawing at my eyeballs.

I managed to make it an hour, very slowly, but steadily and with minor injuries. But then, the drive-thru started drawing menopausal-demon-women like moths to a flame. Thus began my demise as a barista.

A woman pulled up and started to order, "I need four cheesecake frappes with extra whipped cream. One raspberry, one New York, and two key lime. And I'm in a hurry." At this point I might as well had been boxing Mike Tyson for the title with half my ear already in his mouth. Indoor customers were demanding bagels, homeless men were hogging the bathroom, and all the blenders decided to quit working. I hurriedly tried to mix drinks, thinking "What the holy fuck is a cheesecake frappe!?" I dug through the recipe book and found out a cheesecake frappe is a grotesque mixture of 6-8 ingredients, each needed to be blended twice, and the all-knowing customer got to pick what flavor they wanted.

At this point, five minutes had probably gone by since the woman in the drive-thru ordered. I had forgotten what flavors she had requested and opened the drive-thru window to ask again. But she was gone. "Looking for me?", I heard coming from the front door. She stood there in front of me, arms crossed, foot tapping. Bleached hair pulled back in a messy pony-tail. Children clamored behind her. Her hot-pink-sequined-track-suit, too tight, and then, she came at me. She screamed and yelled. She stomped her feet. She threatened my job. She questioned my intelligence. She insulted my looks. Dragon-fire burst from between her teeth, her manicured nails grew sharp and jagged, her track suit became scales, and she was only getting started.

I was publicly humiliated for about eight to ten minutes. And then she left, claiming that she would never visit Coffee-Place again. My manager came back about an hour later and took my tips for the night for herself. I went home and cried myself to sleep.

Moral of the story? Well anyone who has worked retail knows it sucks. You get paid minimum wage to lick the asshole of society, all with a smile on your face. So with the holidays coming, try and remember that person ringing you up is in fact a PERSON. And treat them with some god-damn dignity.    

So the whole day started with a spider on my back.

Ever since I moved into my own apartment, I have become a very light sleeper. If the faucet in my kitchen drips I'm out of bed and down the hallway. This morning, a little past 1 AM, I felt a small tickle on my lower back. My brain was instantly awake and filtering through the possibilities of this tickle. My cat nuzzling me awake? No, I don't have a cat. A gentle lover playfully waking me? No, I am utterly single. It's a god damn spider.
 I shot out of bed like a ninja on speed, glasses on, light switch up. The stunned spider stood still on my sheets. There was a stare-down; we both were frozen. The spider, its clever plan foiled, had no idea what to do next, and decided to just stand still. I, having just flown out of my bed at a rapid speed, tried to decide what to do next. Time slowed, crashed, and ripped apart. I then remembered there was a spider in my bed.
I grabbed a tissue from my bedside table and smashed the fucker.
I slept the rest of the night on my couch.