Birdhouse In Your Ceiling

Let me preface this by saying that this is quite possibly just one of those things that you have to bere there for. I wouldn't know; I was there and it was funny enough to me, but I can't un-there myself to look at the story objectively, so I'll just cross my fingers and hope that it all works out in the end.

A few days ago now, I think, my friend Art heard some scuffling in the cieling tiles of his kitchen and swore he saw a bird trapped up above one of the flourescent light fixtures. He thought he'd gone crazy until his roommate Mike saw it. Art told me about the bird Sunday night, and I laughed, but for someone reason didn't expect to have any contact with it.

Today I was sitting on one of the couches; Mike and Matt were on campus doing there thing, and it was just me and Art and JJ in the house - except I heard someone rustling around in the kitchen. My response was to ask no one in particular if someone were in the kitchen. "It's the bird!" was Art's gleeful reaction, so I bolted out to the kitchen to see if I could glimpse it.

Sure enough, there was a bird hopping around on the clear light fixture tile. I took one of the clear tiles out of the ceiling so the bird could get out. Art said something about that being a terrible idea, as it would release the bird into the main house, but I really didn't see another option for freeing the bird. Sure enough, the bird found its way over and out, and it started flying frantically around the kitchen, looking for a way out. Art opened the kitchen window, but realized it had a screen. We darted into the living room to look for a screenless window, while the bird was still flitting about the kitchen. Art found an open window, but the bird had meanwhile made its way into the living room, and over to the window under the projector, right where JJ was. Art told us to chase the bird to the open window - yeah, right. A wild, crazy, half-starved bird? It was flying into the window, and JJ tried to catch it, but he was afraid it would bite him. We almost collapsed laughing when JJ made a grab for the thing, and it darted at him, and he very very audibly expressed his dismay and displeasure and general fear of the large and sharp beak. Finally it flew over to the open window - and crashed into the unopened upper part of the window. By the time it finally flew free, we were beside ourselves with laughter and excitement. First of all, we'd freed a trapped bird - and how many times does a wild bird get into a house? Second, the thing was CRAZY, and it kept darting around and going all berserk all over the place. Third - I dunno, there's not really a third. But there was a BIRD. Flying around the HOUSE. That should really be enough.

Fairytale Wishes and Nursery Rhymes

"Curly-Locks"

Curly-locks! Curly-locks! Wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine;
But sit on a cushion, and sew a fine seam,
and feed upon strawberries, sugar and cream!

I'm waiting to hear this from someone. Especially considering I'm mothering a house full of boys - including washing their dishes and making them macaroni and cheese. It's not that I don't enjoy it, because I really, really do love these kids; girl needs a prince on a white horse from time to time, though.

Everything Is Temporary

Last night I was bored at work, and no one was in the store, so I decided to organize the colored containers that our change comes in. Most of them are grey, but we have a few blue ones, and I hate for them to just lie scattered randomly. I usually just make a repetitive pattern out of them and move on to something else, but last night, I decided to stack all the tubes in a pyramid and then organize them so all the blue tubes would (if I had numbered each of the tubes, starting at one and stretching on to forty-four) fall on prime numbers.

That's right, I organized change containers into primes BECAUSE I WAS BORED. And then I sat and examined the pattern, because it was beautiful. It looked like music.

I realize that no one who works with me at the store would ever recognize what sort of pattern I created; I'm fairly certain that most of them couldn't name even five prime numbers, or could tell you what a prime IS. I was getting all giddy yesterday because classes were starting soon (today), and I was excited for my metaphysics class - and they all just patted me on the back and were excited because I was excited. Which is enough for me, I suppose, to be surrounded by people who like me and accept me, even if they can't have an in-depth conversation regarding the ontology of being with me. That's fine - but I refuse to apologize for one single part of who I am, or feel lessened because it's not who they are. I like to think that I represent myself fairly well, at least on a superficial level, to everyone I meet. I share my passions with people, and I don't change from group to group to group.

The thing is, I've heard some people apologizing for who they are, or for who they like, or for what they believe. There needs to be more acceptance - on all sides. It wasn't until I took this job that I became okay with people who just...don't know stuff. For instance, in no way does it bug me that none of my coworkers would know what a prime number is; I love them anyway.

So maybe that's what I'm supposed to be learning right now.

Superhero Preferences

JJ asked me last night if I'd rather go on a date with Superman or Batman. Immediately I replied "Batman," which JJ countered with, "You're lying." He kept trying to convince me that Superman was the more dateworthy superhero: he can fly, for one, and he has pretty cool laser eyes, whereas Batman is an emotionally damaged, non-flying kinda guy.

I can see JJ's point, but it only made me realize that, yeah, Batman IS way more appealing to me than Superman. First of all, Superman's an alien, and there's no way I get involved with extra terrestrials. My lifelong fea of E.T. and my childhood fear of ALF confirm my feelings on that front. Second, I go for crazy, and yes, emotionally damaged. Why? Because it usually makes someone more compassionate; and if they've already been there, already trod that path, then when I open up and expose my own emotional damage, etc., they're a lot more likely to be able to deal with it, instead of running away scared - or even worse, listening but never coming to an understanding. I'd rather have someone run, honestly.

I'm not looking for someone with plasticly perfect hair and a charming smile, who can do awesome stuff for me (like fly me around the world, which I agree, is intensely appealing.) It's not about bringing me presents from the four corners of the earth or showing off feats of strength to impress me (I'm not really impressable anyway, so good luck with that, Superguy). I'm much more simple than that. I just want a guy whose story interests me and whose understanding reaches me.

And it doesn't hurt that Christian Bale IS Batman. Because I've had a thing for that kid since he was Jack on Newsies.

Money, It's A Hit

I would really, really love to know how most college students can survive by only working 20 hours a week. How do you guys have enough for rent, and food, and everything else?

Oh yeah, food. That's what I forgot to calculate in my how-few-hours-per-week-can-I-work-and-still-get-by worrying spree of this morning. I'm probably forgetting a lot of crucial expenses, and I'll only come to realize it when I need to pay the bill and come to find I only own four cents and a few long lashes to bat. And since everything's digital now, I can't even count on flirting to reduce the cost of anything - hmm, maybe if I sent the insurance company a little winky-eyed emoticon, they'd reduce my rates. It's something to consider, anyway.

Let's just all pray that my car doesn't explode, or at least if it does, that I'm in the explosion and therefore able to both, A. fulfill my desire to die in a fiery explosion, and B. get out of paying for anything.

Some Life Plans

I bought a car today.

I figure if I leave it at one sentence, there's not much opportunity to go rambling on and mess anything up. Some days, I simply cannot write anything good - and since I'm a writer, that depresses me. And I cannot deal with anything more at the moment, not even something as slight as sentence flow - this is how overburdened I am.

I believe in greatness, and not just in admiring it. I believe in sculpting greatness out of this flawed existence I hold, but the demands of such are more than I'd imagined. I remember a time when someone I love told me I was going to save the world. I haven't been able to forget that, or been able to ignore the inner drive pushing me toward...something.

It's a puzzle that I'm starting to find the edge pieces to, and that's both exciting and terrifying.

I Can't See Me Stalking Nobody But You For ALl Your Life

A police car pulled up to Alexander's Ice Cream Emporium tonight. A police car with me inside.

How's that for a dramatic beginning to a post? As it turns out, the police officer was Randy, a friend of mine, and I was sitting in the front seat and entirely devoid of handcuffs. As it also turns out, I was riding in the police car because another police officer came in to the convenience store tonight with Randy and informed me that some pervert was stalking me, and that I really need to be careful and take a different route home from work, etc. etc. and maybe just get a ride.

How's that for an even more dramatic ending to a post?

Apple Spice Cinnamon Something

I never really understood the fascination that so many people had with scented candles. I mean, there are stores that sell NOTHING ELSE, and women seem to flock there. I always assumed that it was some part of the womanly genetic code that just hadn't recoded into my personal genetic material and left it at that.

But then I noticed that the store I work in sells smallish jar candles for $1.50, and I purchased one the other night. I figured that I've done absolutely nothing to domesticate my bedroom (not even putting up those gorgeous movie posters someone gave me - tragic, really), so this could be a step in the right direction.

I lit it, and realized why people love candles so much. The warm glowiness, the homey scent of melting wax, and oh dear heavens, the wick has a FIRE on it - it all felt pretty great. Maybe it's a small step toward appeasing that inner, intense desire I've had for nine months now to just torch my apartment. I don't know why I feel that way (Freud would say "sexual frustration," and between you and me, Freud would be right. For once.), because I don't hate the places I've lived, i just want the excitement of watching something go up in flames. At my hand.

And now I'm starting to wonder if I'm going criminally insane.

Update On The Ronnie Story

Randy came into work yesterday (Randy is a cop in town - yes, I know him by his first name) and told me that our "little problem" was "taken care of." Apparently dear old Ronnie was arrested yesterday morning. Randy couldn't tell me why he was arrested, but my guess is for general creepiness.

This Is What Comes From Working At A Local Convenience Store

Let me tell you about Ronnie. Ronnie invited me over to his place to watch Top Gun with him (this is of course after I shot down his going to see it in the theater idea when I pointed out that the movie was highly unlikely to be showing at any theater in the country).

Ronnie is also bipolar, has severe temper issues, and thinks he's a Scientologist. Oh, and he has a nineteen-year-old daughter (for those of you keeping score at home, I'm twenty-one - old enough to be his child).

What luck.

Some Cardinal Rules, Revisited

I'm not a sucker. I am not a pawn for an ego trip, nor am I a porcelain doll to be sat upon a shelf and admired. I am not stagnant, I am not typical, and I am not too demanding.

But I do demand respect. I do demand that I be treated like the person I am -- and the more you understand that person, the more I demand you respect me. I will not be shouted at, I will not be belittled, I will not be made to look small so you can impress your friends, I will not be objectified, I will not be forced to be uncomfortable, I will not be told to turn my conscience off, I will not be bodily dragged into the kitchen to cook meals, I will not be called crazy, I will certainly not be made to feel crazy other than by my own hand or the hand of God, and I will not let you talk, even in jest, of physically harming me, ever.

I will be loved, though. That, I welcome.