You Have Got To Be Kidding Me

Over the past few days I have encountered numerous strange people and gone through some awkward occurrences. Let's list a few things that I have unfortunately experienced, greatly affecting my already jaded perception of reality:

1. This isn't so odd but by golly it's frustrating to see job posts with more misspellings than a dyslexic five year old's spelling test. If you don't know the difference between your and you're then why the hell should I?! And if I see one more scam job I think I might explode.

2. I was eating brunch and out of the corner of my eye I see this guy yapping away to himself with a haphazard, willy-nilly contraption on his back that had a rod that dangled a camera in front of his face. AWKWARD. I asked the friend I was with if this dude was crazy and he said no, he's just filming himself. I on the other hand am a little apprehensive to proclaim his sanity.

3. I had an interview at a place and was asked why I haven't worked in my field yet and thankfully before exploding with anger I calmly said I don't know instead of HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING IN THE SAME AMERICA I'VE BEEN LIVING IN?! YOU KNOW THAT THING CALLED THE ECONOMY?! IT's REALLY NOT DOING TO HOT WHICH IS CRAZILY ENOUGH HAVING AN ADVERSE AFFECT ON EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITIES!!! AHHHHHH!!! But I didn't say that. I should've, but I didn't.

4. There's this homeless guy that has set up shop near strand who I've been meaning to write about not because I think he's crazy or strange, but I have this weird admiration for him. Every time I see him he's reading something. Be it a novel, a newspaper, a magazine. He's always entranced by the words, ignoring the bustling world around him. He has a little, nonobtrusive piece of cardboard that politely asks to show some kindness and spare some change. I have a kind of disgusting, romanticized admiration for him, but I still haven't given him money yet. Errr....


If I remember more things I'll be sure to add them!







I'm out.

Fiction: part 2

She thought about it for a while. Weighing the pros and cons heavily. It felt like hours as she sat there wondering how she would explain checking herself in to an insitution to friends and family, who have no idea what she's been facing for months. She wondered how her mother would react. A simple woman with mild interest in her daughter's affairs and irresponsible with her own. She would probably encourage the break from society in hopes she would not have to deal with her daughter's detachment from reality herself. She would idly suggest a vacation or a nap. Laughing to herself, Cyrille dismissed the thoughts and decided to make the phone call. Looking at her phone thoughtfully she began to dial the numbers that would hopefully lead her to freedom and tranquility.
"New York State Psychiatric Institute. Beatrice speaking, how may I help you?" Her voice was warm and inviting. Cyrille almost hung up immediately but there was something in Beatrice's voice that made her stay on the line. She wondered if Beatrice was hired for that particular reason.
"Hi. I'm- uh..." She struggled to find words. This was the first time she spoke aloud to anyone about her ailments, "I have a problem. I would like to check myself in and was wondering what the procedure was?"
"Now, there is no reason to be nervous. I will gladly assist you. How are you feeling right now Miss-"
"Temple. Cyrille Temple."
"Yes, Miss Temple. How are you?"
"I feel absolutely insane." She blurted.
"Well, sweetie, where are you?"
"Home."
"I can send a vehicle to pick you up."
"Please." Cyrille was near tears. After exchanging information Cyrille hung up and began packing her belongings. Shortly after putting some jeans in a duffel bag she stopped. Everything seemed so futile. She would be wearing the same thing anyway and the though of changing outfits everyday made her nauseous. Clothing was a reflection of self and she had no idea who she was. A pair of jeans became a threat. A t-shirt was a mocking gathering of fabric and jewelry was diminutive, useless clutter. So she decided to sit and wait in the dark instead. Listening to the wind blow through buildings outside, wishing she felt as free as the air penetrating the city.



to be continued....

I'm out.

Fiction: part 1

She thinks about the decision she made. Mulling over the pros and cons as she sips her hot chocolate staring out her window onto the street. She smiles, realizing that this is what she wanted all along, accepting that this is what needs to be. The sweet, warm drink soothes her throat. After crying for days it is a welcoming sensation. Cars drive by noisily, honking their horns, the drivers yelling profanities. It's music to her ears, a melodious intermingling of mechanical voices and urban salutations. She looks back at the computer screen at listings wondering who wrote them and what the circumstances were that lead to particular job openings. That company lost their marketing manager to a drug habit and an existential crisis, or this company's art director left after realizing his passion for music and nonconformity. The world is constantly changing, a fluidity reminiscent of spilled milk flowing over counter tops and splashing onto the floor, spreading freely, thickly, without calculation, but with purpose. She shifts in her chair. Trying desperately to focus on her task at hand. She closes the classifieds window and opens the page she's been trying to avoid since she sat down. New York State Psychiatric Institute. She looks over the website with terror and contempt, but also understanding and longing. The voices haven't stopped in weeks and her sanity seems to be flickering on and off in her head like fireworks, a burst of clarity and then a slow fade into the unknown. For weeks she's tried to function like everything was okay, going to dinner, going to work, going out, but all with a pang of regret. Happiness was now a distant memory she thought she could recreate by ignoring her incomprehensible feelings and embracing the simplicity of complacency, but her quick-fix emotion betrayed her. Ignorance was most certainly not bliss. She clicked on Looking For Treatment, her hands shook as she scrolled through the information. Filling out the form for clinical studies, she prayed there would be one to fit her needs. She briefly thought about just calling the hospital and checking herself in without telling anyone...



to be continued...


I'm out.

SHARK WEEK

There are quite a few things that confuse me when it comes to hipster culture. This month one in particular has been circling my consciousness- SHARK WEEK. Is there some sort of Wes Anderson reference buried deep within the marketing that is reminiscent of a dog whistle that only hipsters can hear? Is the reference Life Aquatic? That would make sense. Or maybe some obscure philosopher made some hearty claims about how sharks represent nihilism and embodied cognition. Perhaps it was some ethereal novel that spoke about sharks in relation to societal deconstruction and ultimately eventual, universal compassion and concord. Shark week, your popularity has eluded me and trying to figure you out makes my head hurt. Sigh. I guess everyone's partiality for Shark Week probably comes from the fact that sharks are just plain bad ass and watching them tear through things is really fascinating. I mean Jaws. AmIright?!





I'm out.