Lazy Day

It;s cold and snowing outside, and I have put on my hoodie and weekend socks for the day. My feet are warm and so is my torso, and I begin my lazy day. I plug in my phone to my alarm clock and play an audiobook. I feel pretty dorky, but I really don't care. I want to finish the huge cross stitch I started at the beginning of this summer, and listening to an audiobook and doing it in bed is the best way for the time to pass quickly. I have to stop at noon, when I will eat lunch and then do homework. It's quiet in my room, and the dog is leaving me alone, and I am peaceful and content. I have gotten the majority of this color done, and I look at the clock and it's twelve thirty. I've been cross stitching for three hours. Oops.

Fair

It has been a while since anyone has been unfair to me, and so I really don't have any memories of unfairness. The truth is that I have never really cared. For every bigger version of something I c . ould select, I chose the one that hadn't been chosen. The thing I realized when I was about ten was that the world wasn't fair, and that caring only caused more difficulty.

I think that before I was ten I was just big, fast, and strong enough to get the smaller, slower, and weaker kids out of my way, and I always got more and so everything was fair to me. I also have no siblings, and so everyone in my house was, to me, my equal. When I first saw my mom cry, I recognized that she was human and our family was fair.

Thanksgiving

"Mister cat...," Bami's voice trails off as she enthusiastically combs the tiny nursing home apartment for the angry, disagreeable, and biting cat. "Oh well. Shall we start eating?" We all nod, and awkwardly sit there, silently trying to determine who will make a plate for GG, my great grandmother. We all stand up, and immediately find a room with exactly five chairs and no floorspace to be much too small for all of us. My parents quietly slide to one side of the buffet table, and Bami and I slide to the other. I already know that half of this food will be amazing, and half of it will be either terrible, or tastes like a different food from what it is.

Dinner is delicious. GG surprised us with the most delicious cranberry sauce I have ever had, and I made pies that were my best yet. GG complemented my pies, and I was proud, because she pretends to hate everything. She might not even be pretending most of the time.

Music

I hear the receding crunch of my parent's tires as they drive away, and I immediately connect my phone to the bluetooth alarm clock in my room. Pressing play, the song I'm listening to begins to blast. It's guitar heavy and aggressive and makes me want to dance inside. I don't dance externally. I start sewing, and laugh a little, because the irony is so obvious. Pink Thule and metal really don't go together, but I design best when there's yelling and guitars blasting my eardrums. The needle flies through the synthetic fabric as I perform a straight end even,(let's pretend here) backstitch.

photo credit: Rodrigo Moraes  via photopin cc

Flight of the Conchords

Currently stuck in my head...

Let's take my body and we'll

Cover it with honey,

Stick some money to the honey,

Now I'm covered in money-honey.

Wow. There's some serious songwriting talent there. That's all I have to say. Yes it is a real song. Sometimes I can only listen to some weird, weird music. This is my favorite song right now. I love this band. There is also a TV show in which this band stars, called Flight of the Conchords. Fabulous.

Grandma Dearest

          She's going to be here soon. My unevenly trimmed nails dig into my palms, disgustingly moist and paint splattered. My oddly fitting braces burrow into my cheeks. I feel unworthy, useless, unnoticed, a worm wriggling under her sharp laughter. There will be no laugher today, only pain on my behalf, and perhaps hers as well.

          I've got the jitters, and my feet can't stop moving, pulling my jeans into the zippers of my boots. I'm so anxious about seeing her, telling her, that I'm shaking. No songs would work for this, and even if  I could write them, I couldn't perform them.

          I twist my earbuds into place, and press play. It's the type of music she hates, she would judge the vocalist for being in this type of band. I turn the music up much too high, and then wrench the earbuds out, almost breaking them. I put on my bronze colored vest; it always makes me feel warmer and more human, and more safe.

          I walk outside, Grabbing a tennis ball out of the tube. I dribble the ball, tossing it against the garage door harder and harder until the ball bounces onto the roof and gets stuck in the gutter. I hear brakes. I wipe my hands on my pants and head inside. My hands are in my pockets and my head is down; she's here.

Does she like me? The question is better yet described by the swirling of the stomach, the churning, pulling ache of joy and anxiety that comes with this need for companionship. This comes to all young people as they experience that feeling, the joyful exhilaration, of that first crush. That awkward, I want you, yet… All ending in, does she like me?

My real day began with my phone buzzing, and I grabbed it, shaking, hoping, it was from her. Her smell drifts into my memory, and I inhale it. I miss her the second she leaves me. I press the power button, the pads of my fingers seeing her skinny shoulders as I poked her. I see the familiar shapes and characters of her name, and I race to swipe down my screen. She is asking me if I can sleep over.

My palms get sweaty, and I close my eyes, and puff out my cheeks, blowing in and out like a drunken puffer fish. I have to calm down. I don’t have the words to tell her how I feel. I will try, even if it’s all I can do. Subtlety is my downfall. I will ask for help, write a song, try and survive the thought that she might say no, that she does not like me back. I swallow that stale lump and force myself to imagine that nail biting, hot cocoa crying session, as a possibility. I could move on. I can get over her, if she wants me to.