Stories

I think that you can view people as stories.

These stories intersect, certainly, and entwine and affect and shape each other, but they are still each a story all their own. Sadly, a vast majority of these stories are those trash romance novels you find in bins at a garage sale for twenty-five cents apiece. Now, they parallel romance novels not, of course, by their content, for most people's lives are rather boring on the romantic front. Which may be why they end up unknown, small, crummy, tattered paperbacks who've never even been in eyesight of any Best Seller list. But they're romance in their formulaic-ness. They all tell a very similar story. A story of working by, maybe with a few minor challenges, and a few highlights over a multitude of years. They perhaps get into the college they dreamed of since they were young, do something which gets considerable notice of the media, lose a loved one far too early. 

Yet even though these stories are all completely original, no two alike, they are still boring as snot. It's just a fact, everybody responds the same way as in a billion other stories, no one does anything substantially out of the ordinary or has any supremely distinguishing features. Of course, there are the few brilliant shining star novels, which come out in multiple editions with different bindings, and sometimes added footnotes and commentary, that have dozens of analyses done by grad-students and published by professors all over. But these are clearly the exception, not the norm.

Of course, I realize that I will most likely not be a Best Seller. I will probably end up in someones front yard in the discount bin, along with all the rest. But still I want to distinguish myself among all those others. I want my life to be fresh, interesting, different.

I want to be the dirty old type-written stack of pages bound with masking tape that sits at the bottom. 

It was written by God knows who, and has been revised all over in a thousand different colors of ink, faded from the years. The person running the garage sale doesn't know where they got it, or how it got into that bin, but they sell it to you nonetheless. You plunk your quarter down, and drive home, the story sitting alone in the passenger seat. Walking in your door, you kick off your shoes and stride over to your chair. Turning the T.V. on for a little background noise, you flick on the lamp next to you and begin to read this filthy manuscript. An hour passes. Two. You read and read and when you finish, you look up to find that the day has disappeared into the ether, and it's four of the next day's morning. You get a little bit of sleep before heading off to your job, but the story stays with you. The twisting plot, the unorthodox writing, the characters themselves keep you thinking all through the day.There wasn't anything unusual about anything in the story on the surface. Plain setting, plain people. But the main character. They thought like no one else. The way they live their life and the way they thought changes you. Imperceptibly at first, you begin to fell the book's impact on the way you are. You shift slowly, but you change over time to the point that you are almost a completely different person, living the way you think people should live, not the way you are expected.

And then one day, you notice a friend. They live in a small bubble, never working beyond what is expecting, what other people want. And you want to help them. 

And you remember the story. 

And you introduce them to it. The sum total of people who know about this story increases to two, only two, but regardless, the world is a different place due to it. Maybe not different for the good or bad, just different. 

That is what I want my story to be.

Wake Up.

The beginnings of a story. Though I know I'm not currently talking to anyone, I figure I might as well say something. I'll probably do this from time to time, post some chunk of story, or song lyrics, or a poem that I've written. It's entirely because I'm vain and like people looking at my writing, yes. Anyway, here it is.

    Wake up to alarm. Flick it off without really thinking, flop out of bed without really wanting to. A short trip down a cold hall to a bathroom. Truly wake up in the shower, still tired. Try to remember when you woke rested, fail. Sigh and emerge dripping. Towel, quicker walk down the same, now colder hallway. Dress in whatever, don't try to match. All you have is brown and black and grey, it all matches with itself. Squint into a computer monitor for half an hour waiting until it's time to leave. Grab book bag full of homework you couldn't be obliged to do. Into the car, a silent drive to school, no music, no wind because the windows are closed, nothing but your thoughts, which at this point are practically nonexistent. Arrive, park, same place as always. Walk in, same door as always. Sit down, same place and friends. As always. Casual conversation, no bounds broken, nothing of importance exchanged, nothing important risked. A bell, a slow meander to a class. Sit, same seat, greet, same people, take out, same stuff, bask, same atmosphere. Slip into role for this particular period. Is it class clown, genius, brown nose, rebel, quiet, cool, slacker, idiot, overachiever, who cares. Just do it, like everyone of those bright monochrome t-shirts are telling you to. Homework, not done, but that's nothing new. Every period, different role, different people, different feel, same instructions. Do it again, and again, and again, same same same. No issues, riding the curves. End of the day, a distinct difference from elementary. Back then, palpable anticipation clouds every child's ability to sit and focus and learn. Now, nothing. Transitions are abrupt, there's no build up. But neither is there surprise at the change. Everyone knows it's coming, so no one reacts when it does. Just another day. Swift drive home, maybe music, maybe not, there's no difference. Arrive back at home, complete several obligatory chores, lose self in thought while performing menial tasks. Reflect on intellectual and artistic impotence, note disparity of former to perceived potential, resolve to alter. Forget and fall to television, or computer, or book, or bed. New things seen, but nothing gained. Bed. Rinse and repeat.

    Alexandra Williams wakes up to an alarm. Flicks it off without really thinking, flops out of bed without really wanting to. A short trip down a cold hall to a bathroom and truly wakes up in the shower, still tired. Another day, same as anyone else. Then, May 15th, Year Undisclosed, Alexandra falls out of the perpetual orbiting repetition of the world. Alex truly wakes up. 

    My name is Alexandra Williams. I will not tell you my gender, as I assume you could infer it from my name. If this little test is too much of an intellectual struggle for you, I suggest you leave. This is not just a story. This is not meant to be just about the silly little events within a teens life, with boyfriends and girlfriends and drugs and sex and all that lovely garbage that the librarians think will really encourage thoughtful reflection on our part. Those problems are not what this book about. This is less 'a book of teen discovery,' more 'A Book About Life and Its Meaning and the Consequences of Being (and also the protagonist happens to be a teenager).' 

<span> </span>That being done with, if perchance you desire a little intellectual stimulation and hopefully being provoked to reflect on something other than your relationship and all those drugs adults think we're indulging in, come on in. I cannot guarantee that I'll be able to provide that, but I shall certainly do my best to stray far from the cliche and overdone.

    Back to me, then, I suppose. Once again, I am Alexandra Williams. Sophomore in High School, for however much that matters, and supposed intellectual. The title intellectual was not one applied by myself. It was one applied by the social system, as higher tests scores and a tendency towards literature landed me firmly in the 'geek' caste, an untouchable. Of course, my preference for alone time and making stupid jokes that only I really got did not aid me in that regard. I did not care about others opinions. I did not care how others dressed, spoke, ate, acted. I was me, a transgression utterly reprehensible in middle schools the nation over. I was rational in a way scarcely seen, in that I did not allow emotions to rule me. In truth, I did not notice many emotions, very little anger or love or sadness. I was numbed somehow, and isolated by my inability to connect and relate. I did not understand how other people thought. I did not speak with boys. I barely spoke with girls. Partner activities in class were loathsome, half due to my hatred of working in conjunction with someone and not being allowed to just pound it out, and half due to my consistent inability to find a partner. Though the moderate public shame of it bothered me very little, the irritation and chaos in getting someone who wasn’t bafflingly stupid was frustrating. The primary way I entertained myself was finding new ways to startle people, as their reactions were highly varied and enjoyable. I found that simply by being genuine and true to my desires I could startle and awe the world, and so I did so, often.

    Being odd became intuitive, and I developed a preference towards standing out. In short, my formative years in Elementary and Middle school primarily served in molding my current state by firmly entrenching an abhorrence of convention, and a desire to upset traditions and make myself known. By the end of middle school, I began to get a firm grasp on society. I was better able to predict reactions through observing them repeatedly, though I still didn’t comprehend. I had been in theatre, and found a group of people who instinctively were okay with anyone in their group. I was a functional person, able to move through the social network, albeit a tad awkwardly.

    High School began a new time. I really began meeting people and experiencing. Suddenly, an entire universe of people opened up. In middle school it had only been that one grade, that one group of people who went to classes together. In high school, there was blending, meeting people of different ages and different ones in every class. I was able to talk and hang out with people older than me, some who seemed more like me than I was used to. I grew more and more comfortable with my role. I still upset convention, defied the tides, but was more at ease doing so. People were okay with me, I could talk to whomever I chose. I was good at school, tests being natural to me, though I didn’t make fantastic grades due to my refusal of homework. Days rounded out, became more routine. They filled, with after-school activities, theatre, choir, sometimes people, housework, and, predominantly, the Internet.

    Ah, the web. The place where everything existed, and everything could become something else new and unknown by the next time you looked. I instantly clung to it, adored its infallible stimulative abilities.

    And so my life fell into place, no longer did I have long hours wondering what to do, or wondering about anything. I just flopped gently into the computer chair and sat, gazing in wonder, at the world. I took in, and took in, and the world sputtered in protest as I did not return. I promised myself that one day I’d do something, write something, make something, be something, and the entire world would rock on its heels in wonder of my glorious mind and abilities. And then it was put off. Again, and again. Feeble attempts started, abandoned because they lacked instant gratification. I began noticing how pathetic it was that I never truly did anything. As I rode on buses or in cars, I gently hoped that it would crash, just to provoke a change. I never thought I could do anything on my own. And that pattern led me round and round in a circle to the middle of spring, freshman year.

    I woke as though it were any other day, my phone shrilly badgering me into consciousness. I reach for it where I left it lay beside my bed, only to paw at the empty bedside desk. I lift my head up and peer into darkness, and see that my phone is laying on the ground, some six feet away. I own no pets. My door was still closed. This was unusual. But I shrug that off because it still whines like a small child who has not been fed, and my raw morning-psyche cannot handle that this early. I am irritated by this disturbance, as it has woken me more than I like before being assaulted by steaming liquid, and I stagger into the bathroom. I flip the light on and reach for my contacts, when I catch a glance of the mirror. A single piece of ripped notebook paper is taped in the very center, something written upon it. I bend in and squint at it. It reads, simply, “Say yes.” Odd. Very odd. My parents have been known to leave notes in places like this before, but they’re generally very clear, lengthy, and finish with Love you –Mom and Dad. This note means nothing to me.

    Wait. Wait. What the fuck. No. Seriously, my brain is way too fuzzed out for this. I refuse to believe that that is my handwriting. Not okay. It’s a trick of the lighting, and I’m tired, and confused, but I did not write that. No. I consider for a moment if perhaps I’ve finally gone a bit crazy, if my persistent mild depression and self-loathing have caught up to me and I’ve snapped. Quickly I rip off yesterday’s shirt and shorts that were slept in, and hurl myself into the shower, which I turn on even though I know it will be frigid. I ride out the agony, settle in for the warmth, and fully shake myself awake. I step out steaming, pink and fully lucid. Contacts in with unusual swiftness, and I stare at the note.

    It’s still there, so if I’m insane at least I am mad with some consistency. It still reads the same thing, and I still register the handwriting as my own. Not girly or loopy like the other females, but not a guy’s chicken scratch. Swift, slanted, and fluid. Same sharp right angle off the bottom of the ‘Y’s. It’s definitely mine, it’s too distinctive. What does that mean for me. I decide that I shan’t be figuring out anything relevant stark naked, so I fly quickly back to my room to dress. Blue jeans, plain black shirt, black converse, my normal attire. Matches my black hair. I slip my wallet into my pocket, no money of course, me not receiving allowance, only a school I.D. and a debit card. Also into my pockets go two black Gel pens. I always carry a pen. Always. You never know when you’ll have occasion to use one, but it’s surprisingly often and it’s nice to have a good one. I stroll back into the bathroom for a second to brush my hair out. It curls up all funny if I don’t brush it then let it dry in my face. That’s the one downside to going with the shaggy, 'scene' look, I suppose.

    I slink downstairs, down to the computer, but I don’t sit down. The time is six. I still have three quarters of an hour, so I decide to step outside. Not something I normally do, but this already is not a normal day. I emerge from my abode into the cool morning air. The sun is just beginning to rise over the horizon, and the air smells fresh. I begin a walk about the block. Very few people up at this time, my parents included, and so I feel deliciously with myself as I stroll. I’m not sure how to set about tackling this problem. There’s no real logic to be thought through, just confusion. I can’t come up with any sort of a rational explanation, so I just walk and don’t really think about much of anything.

    And then, up ahead, a kid my age. That’s odd, with it being so early. It’s a boy, shaggy-ish brown hair and dressed almost identical to me, jeans, black shirt, black shoes. But his shirt has something written on it in white. “Heritage High School Presents: the Sound of Music.” Weird. That’s my school, and we did that play. I was Elsa. Why do I not know him? I know everyone in theatre, actually everyone. 

    He is hurrying down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, moving quickly, and suddenly he looks up. He looks straight at me. He looks pointedly at me. I stop walking, and expect him to move on. You don’t just stare at people in the street. But he changes direction now, and walks on a diagonal right for me. I’m not sure if I should back up or run away, but I just stand still. Something about him seems okay, like I understand that I don’t need to worry.

    He’s standing in front of me, not four feet away. He looks...a little intense. But somehow trustworthy. I am frozen with uncertainty, and seeing this, he gives me a quick smile.

    "Hello. This isn’t going to make much sense right now, but I have to ask you to come with me. I sincerely apologize for the dramatic air that creates and the cliché it seems to uphold, and pardon this next bit of hackneyed repetition as well: I need you to trust me. I can’t explain right now, but it is vital that you come. What do you say?”

    My mouth is hanging slightly open from his pointedness. I scramble for reason, try to think through, but all I can think of is the note. That note. ‘Say yes.’

    "Erm, well, yes, I guess.” I say, eloquent as always. I frown briefly at my inability to sound reasonable, but the boy smiles.

    "Good. Now close your eyes.”

    "Why?”

     "It makes this less confusing.” He pulls out a small black rod from his pocket and gives it a squeeze. I close my eyes as I feel a whirling nausea build out of nowhere. He grabs my arm and I explode into a million pieces. 

    Blackness. Not the black you get when you close your eyes, but the type of black you get deep in caves when it makes no difference whether or not you open your eyes. Not that I had any eyes to open. I no longer truly existed in any substantial form, I was a thing of the ether, no feelings, no sensations, just thought. And currently, there was only one thought, one which consisted of pure confusion. And then, a tingling, and a shifting. I felt….removed. Not just moved to one side or the other in the traditional way, but a full alteration in my placing, like my mind had been pulled inside out. The feeling began to come back to my body, in pieces. I regained knowledge of bits and pieces slowly, a toe here, an elbow there. A SNAP and a gradual increase in the light, I was whole again. I opened my eyes.

    I am in a blank white space. I’m not sure if it is a room because I can’t tell if there are walls. There is no furniture, no colors for as far as you can see. I can’t even tell how big this place is. Infinitely, I guess, that would make as much sense as anything else. The boy stands next to me, and he sighs like he’s just returned home from a long trip. He walks out a few feet from me, and collapses. I nearly cry out with surprise until a chair spawns immediately beneath him before he hits the ground. It’s a garish thing, large and bright sickly yellow, very deep and low to the ground. He looks at me and gives me a little smile.

    "You look rather surprised. Never seen anyone conjure up a place to sit out of the ether before?”

    I babble incoherently for a few moments before gathering my wits for a response. 

    "What the hell is going on here? Where are we? How did you do that and who are you?”

    "He laughs slightly. He’s much more relaxed now than he was moments ago, before we got here.

    "What’s happening might be a little much to start off with, so I will answer your second question first. We are Between. I am not cruel so I will not look at you expectantly for you to ask the obligatory ‘between what?’ We are between two planes of reality. Between dimensions, I suppose you could say. This space is just nothing, so it becomes what you want of it. We as humans can’t truly comprehend nothing, so we’re presented with the closest we can get: A blank white room, stretching forever. From there, we can shape it with our minds, which brings us to the first part of your third question. I didn’t really do anything. I just expected there to be a chair there and there it was. That’s how this place works. It goes with what you are looking for.”

    "Well,” I say, “You certainly know how to condense the information. Isn’t this supposed to be the part where you are really vague and I have to figure out how things are on my own? To expand my mind or something?”

    "He holds his hands out and shrugs, a nonchalant grin plastered across his face. 

    "I never was very good at following the format. Which brings us to the latter part of that final question: I am, for lack of a better way to say it, you. From a different ‘dimension’ that is. We two are fantastic representations of the multiple-universe theory, the one that states that for every possible difference in everything, there is a different universe, so every decision and chance and random happening has spawned a different universe, with theoretically infinite universes. Well, our universes ran parallel for quite a long time,”

    He holds his arms in front of him, elbows bent so he’s pointing up. He appears to be making sure that they’re parallel. “Billions of years in fact.”

    He focuses on me for a moment. “Given the number of possible alterations, that’s damn impressive.” 

    His gaze flicks back to his arms. “And then, dearest father presented mommy in my dimension with a Y chromosome, and in yours with an X. And so we departed ways.”

    "He bends his wrist off to an awkward angle. “And from there spawns every difference in our universes.”

    "I look at him expectantly. “Okay. Is that it?” He looks at me as though impressed."I’m very glad that you were able to keep up.”

    I roll my eyes. “Come now, I’m no stranger to the scientific and science-fiction worlds. You should know that if you are a different version of me. I’ve gone over this all before. A good question, however: Are we like the normal storybook duo, alike in every facet save for gender and a few personality quirks that make us incompatible?”

    "He smiles knowingly. “I’m highly appreciative that you went there so fast. That has been the primary issue in all the books, hasn't it? If it was a different sperm cell, we should be different otherwise as well. But no, we are not the same.” He rises from his xanthous monstrosity and strolls over to me.

    “A quick overview: Your hair is black, mine brown, you are slender, while I am broad, you have a thin face and mine is rounded.”

    He leans in a bit. “However, due to our having the same egg, we do share plenty of mother’s traits. I see you have the poor eyes, and I assume you have sub-par teeth. I wouldn’t be surprised if an above average intellect and affinity for bread soaked in milk and chocolate syrup lurked in there somewhere.”

    He’s dead on. My teeth had always been an issue, and the Milk-Bread-and-Syrup thing was handed down from my mom’s dad. He’d recognized that I had noted our differences and was waiting for proof of who he was. Well, he’s supplied it. I sigh.

    "Well, let’s get down to business, shall we? Let me just whip up a chair, and you can explain this damned mess.”

    I envision the couch from my living room behind me, and go to sit down like I have every time, letting my muscle memory do the work. Sure enough, as my butt expects cushions it gets them, and I lean back into the coziness.

    "Well done,” he praises with a hint of patronization. “Apparently quick learning is a maternal trait.” He glances over to the chair and it *pops* over to a spot slightly to the left and front of where I am, and he takes a seat. “And you are very correct, it is time we get down to business. Allow me to explain for you all this ridiculous fucked up shit.”

Pessimism and Me: How Expecting the Worst Makes me Happier

The public perception of the average pessimist is anything but pleasant.

People expect some dour, constantly frowning jerk who grumbles at everything and hates the world. Certainly they don't picture anything like me, talkative and energetic to the point of idiocy. I am so ceaselessly chatty and pointlessly pleasant that I sometimes seem more the product of a highly successful lobotomy than a real person. Yet, I am a pessimist, through and through. I approach even the slightest indication of good-things-to-come with a skepticism reminiscent of a teenage boy being informed that he can make money by doing nothing but watching television.

And so one is left to wonder, how could it be possible that a constant negative outlook translate into the sort of nearly boundless cheer and affability that I possess?

Well, it all lies in precisely what I'm pessimistic about. You see, outlooks on life are not necessarily all-encompassing, despite what most people assume. Being a nihilist on a large scale does not preclude one from being a hedonist on scales much smaller. My outlook is split not by scale, but by timeframe.

I'm actually rather optimistic about the Present. I look at what I have and go, "Eh, I've 'ad worse." Instead, I expect disappointment and sorrow from the FUTURE. And here's where the interesting bit lies: A pessimist of the future will constantly be pleasantly surprised about how mild and tolerable reality is. An optimist will suffer constant disappointment. And that's it. That's the entirety of the secret of staying happy. You expect people to be rubbish, and things to turn out as poorly as they possibly can, and when you arrive you encounter, "Oh, this isn't so bad at all. I can definitely handle this." And so, in summation, I can do nothing but highly recommend being whiny and depressed about the future. It lies in your favor.

The Start of Something Grand and Stupid

In recent times I have often felt a sort of vague inclination towards the creation of something, be it music, art, or stupid little stories that don't go anywhere. The only real issue with this is that I don't seem to be able to focus on anything long enough to create something worthwhile. Which is where this blog comes in. I don't have to spend tons of time on anything in particular! If something arouses my interest, I pound out something in twenty minutes and I'm golden! So here I am, sitting at the cusp of my exciting foray into the world of being an internet persona. This is certain to be utterly pointless. Woo!