Letter the the Campbell's Soup Executives

To The Campbell Soup Company Executives:

No, I’m not talking to you, secretary in the main office reading this. I know those big execs have got busy schedules, but goddamnit, this is important, and you need to get this to them. Say execs from Progresso sent another letter and they’re talkin’ shit again and calling Campbell’s “shitty bullshit soup for babies.” If they point out that Progresso is a subsidiary of General Mills, tell them oh yeah, you meant the General Mills execs and to stop being smartasses and read the goddamn letter. I don’t care what you have to say, just get it done.

Oh, and, clearly, you’re gonna have to remove this front page from this letter. You know, so they don’t see my conspiring? Jesus Christ, do I have to spell everything out for you? This is first day shit! How the hell did you graduate from Secretary College anyway?

____

To the Most Notedly Esteemed Individuals of Whom the Upper Echelons of the Soup Business are Comprised:

First of all, allow me to introduce myself. Hello, my name is George Liberty Patriotism Freedom Guns Washington (it’s a family name). First time writer, long time eater. I have quite literally loved your product since nearly the moment I was born, as my mother was a sickly woman who did far too much meth, and her doctor was not much better. As I was being delivered 3 ⅓ months premature, the doctor realized he was using the incubator to keep his hot-dogs warm, so he just filled a bathtub with about three inches of Cream of Mushroom and plunked me in. Worked like a charm, as you can tell, and it hardly caused any cognitive disabilities at lkcjutter reverberavtions apifhf;;wewqoi 11984485 THE KING COME DOWN.

Anyway, I write not merely to praise you for your life-giving elixir of animal brine. Instead, I come bearing sad news of disappointment. You see, I am a college student, which leads to peculiar financial circumstances. In particular, to combat the costs of tuition I am forced to live off of microwaveable meals and whatever algaenous feculence I can manage to suckle off the toes of homeless men.

So, imagine my joy when I discovered that you, sweet, sweet purveyors of nutrition and sustainers of being, had a product requiring only the container and a microwave to consume, apelled most blessedly, “Chunky Chili. With Beans.” Why the FUCK had I bought all these  REAL bowls? Campbell’s, that meat-solution Deity, had already created a product WHICH WAS ITS OWN COMESTICATION APPARATUS?!?! And, even better: It proclaimed right there on that beautiful all-in-one, heat-and-eat container that it was Cooked with Care in the USA. I needed nothing more. I instantly filled my pants with ejaculate. I love the USA. Hell, I even live there! It’s like you knew I wouldn’t eat anything not made here, because MUH FREEDUMS.

Now, this sounds all great. But let me sidetrack here for a second. Clearly, you guys have got some serious gentlemen developing your product. You are an international food corporation: The stocks may say you’re only worth 1/10 an Apple per share, but I know that you’ve got to have enough bullion held back to make Goldfinger shit doubloons. In all likelihood, you’re nabbing engineers from NASA and Battelle left and right. These are people who probably get off on ensuring 800,000 gallons of tomato soup fall within .05% variance in viscosity. People who nuzzle their calculators to sleep and have an aneurysm when labels don’t all overlap to within ⅛ an inch of specifications.

Which brings me back to my main point, and my reason for writing: You have the finest team of soup-scientists this side of anywhere. Yeah, I’ll say it, you’re the best in the world. No, fuck Progresso. Did Andy Warhol paint fucking Progresso cans? No. So why, please, please tell me why, with an ensemble of finely tuned broth-container-designing machines, CAN YOU NOT MAKE A GODDAMN PULL-TAB LID FOR YOUR GODDAMN CHUNKY CHILI BOWLS THAT I CAN OPEN WITHOUT SPLATTERING YOUR ACIDIC MEATY-TOMATO SWILL ALL OVER THE GODDAMN FUCKING ROOM?!

I mean, honestly! Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ (family name), how hard can it be! I want to warm my chili and then put it in my mouth, I don’t wanna have it sprayed in a fine, hyper-speed mist across my face like I’m part of some Texan cuisine bukkake. My roommate can tell if I’ve made your fucking soup when he gets home because there’s a silhouette of my body in chili spatters on the opposite wall. I’ve blinded no less than three too-curious cats with your edible Mace, and I loved Mr. Tuffy-paws, you soulless bastards.

And it’s not like this is even a particularly difficult thing to remedy, because, I mean, COME ON. I don’t have to brave torrents of foul sugar water besieging my orifices when I crack open a Coke, and that involves popping a small piece of metal at high speeds directly down into the liquid. All your’s involves is peeling it slowly back like the world’s only edible tin of sardines, except at the last moment it’s like there’s a sudden spasm in the fabric of reality, causing like 50% of the delicious soup I paid for in hobo-bones to soak every piece of clothing I own in tomato puree and “caramel color,” regardless of whether it was in the closet at the time. It says “Roadhouse” on the bowl, but I don’t recall ever being at a roadhouse where the waitresses dumped the food in my lap instead of on the plate, and I’ve been to a lot of roadhouses because for a while I was certain my real father was a trucker and I was determined to find him. Actually, I have been to a roadhouse like that once, but I think that was the idea and also the waitresses were topless, so it was really somewhat more acceptable. Potential alternative to revising the can: package boobs with the soup. I would accept this as an alternative.

Alright, I’m spent. I have nothing more for you, you soup-dealing bastards. I hope you can’t sleep at night because the thoughts of the stains are haunting you, and I hope your families prefer ramen noodles.

PEACE.

-George Liberty Patriotism Freedom Guns Washington, esq.

The Importance of Being Cool

It had to come to this eventually, didn’t it? You had, in effect, caused yourself to be ostracized from the right group, the “cool kids” here at school, and the only way to remedy it now is a thorough breakdown of all various issues. You see, there are a number of things that we, the “in” crowd do that you do not, and a further number of things we do not that you do. That needs to change.
Let us address one of the most grievous issues first: It’s obvious you’ve been thinking. And not just idly thinking; you’ve been doing some real, solid introspection. Which is just WRONG! What were you thinking? I’ll tell you what you were thinking: something, and that is precisely what you shouldn’t be thinking. You are a person of thought, and of clarity, and that is inexcusable. Your contemplations may lead to legitimate creativity, deepening of character, and, worst of all, a progression and maturation of yourself.

In contrast to your obvious faults, allow me to introduce you to a perfect specimen of cool-ness: Chaz Chazzington. Chaz knows that the key to cool lies in an utter non-progression of personality, a stagnation of interesting features and thought and a reliance on pop-culture for new interests. When faced with the ghastly prospect of having free time to think, he assuages his mind with low-energy mental churnings regarding his social life, like his girlfriend, his other girlfriend, his friends’s girlfriends, and his “Bro-time.” He also makes absolutely certain to assault his eardrums with something so harsh and offensive to taste that it numbs him, utterly clearing his mind. That ensures he won’t be having any of that loathsome maturation today!

This leads us to our next point: Your tastes. You may think, looking over your “favorites” in all the different forms of media that you could be considered to have “good” taste. You would say you like good movies, good music, and good art. You would be correct, and that needs to stop. All forms of media are simply vehicles for ideas, and things considered to be in “good taste” are therefore obviously conveying good ideas intelligently. Which, come on, is obviously bad! Did we not just cover in the previous section the danger of your own, self-generated ideas? And now you want to expose yourself to the ruminations of the world’s great minds? Whatever is wrong with you?! What are you, some sort of insatiable idea-glutton, gorging your already dangerously clever mind with more brilliance? You obviously want to be left out of the “Cool” people forever. Cool people don’t want clever. They want genital-based jokes that insult whoever they have decided they dislike that hour.

Chaz knows this. He GETS it. What, you might ask, does Chaz like to listen to for music? He likes his bass loud, and his bass louder. Yeah, bro, he knows he said bass twice. That’s how loud he likes it. LOUD. There is not a single song on his brand-name music-playback device that does not degrade women or glorify sex/violence/money. The word “love” appears 6 times only in his 3000 songs, and twice it is followed by, “dat booty.” As for movies, he likes them raunchy, or shooty, or exploding. That’s it. Those are literally his only criteria for value in a film. Well, it does get bonus points if the attractive female lead shows her breasts. Chaz likes that. And art? Chaz thinks that he’ll just leave that for the gays, right guys? Hyuck. Hyuck.

There are many more fields in which your cool factor is painfully deficient, but there is one which should deal with most of them handily: your personality. It has come to our attention as a hivemind of popularity that you are being your own person an awful lot. You are making your own decisions based on personally formulated values, and expressing yourself the way you feel you most want to. To this, we have but one thing to say: “How dare you?” We are, frankly, offended by the ostentatiousness of your individuality. What are you doing, being yourself? Why aren’t you busy being us? Are we not worth being? You are pretending to be happy with your own characteristic style of dress, speech, and action. But we can tell that on the inside you are a shriveled husk of a human being, longing with all your withered heart to be cool, like us.

Chaz is like us. Chaz is cool. Chaz understand that the total obliteration of self is key to his happiness. And as Chaz perfectly mirrors our every facet, we are there not only as a collective of popular humanity, but also as that small voice that whispers in the back of his mind as he tries to sleep but still can’t. No Chaz, that isn’t hollow emptiness. Of course that isn’t an aching lack of self-fulfillment throbbing in your chest, Chaz. That’s victory. You’ve won, Chaz. You’ve won it all. You’re cool. And now you’ll always be cool, like us. Cool-ness is eternal, and your success in popularity now, in High School, will surely carry you over, satisfied, through the rest of your life. You are cool.

And that’s all that really matters.

One day I pooped

Three years ago, I shit in a gas station toilet.

To understand the context in which this tale exists, it’s necessary to enlighten you first and foremost as to my excretory tendencies. As my roommate might attest, I relieve myself of my solid-waste burdens more or less two times as frequently as any other person on the planet. That is, my body calls for a mandatory, everything-must-go anal purge on roughly the same timetable as Old Faithful, give or take a few minutes depending on my corn intake. This is normally.

On the fateful day which I describe to you now, it had been 2 days since I had last deposited my smelly bounty, and dreadful things were brewing. My gut had been aching on-and-off but I hadn’t, despite many efforts, been able to squeeze out the villainous shit-log which was determinedly gummin’ up mah works. But now, we were on our way home from Cedar Point, and about an hour into our drive I realized that 12 hours of consuming nothing but deepfried lard and sugar at the amusement park had finally awakened the horrorterror of fecal wrath which lives in my colon. Violent, stabby pains lanced my abdomen, and I suddenly was made aware that I needed to shit with approximately the same intensity with which an Orca whale floating several hundred meters above the ground must fall. My stomach gurgled in agony, and suddenly I knew what intestines sounded like when they wanted to kill themselves. I needed to make my plight known to the rest of the vehicle.

“Mother,” I announced, “Satan has gathered his armies at Hell’s Gate, and that Gate is my asshole.”

In short order, we stopped, and I waddled gallantly into the dingy Speedway and into the miserable rat hole they called a restroom. There were two urinals and two toilets. In the point .3 seconds it took me to whip into the nearest stall and de-pant, I noticed shoes in the adjacent stall. I felt deep sympathy for them but, as butt cheek met porcelain, within me I knew that it was all over. There was no turning back.

For a moment, I restrained the cruel tides of fate and ass-batter, and I knew then how the men felt in the Enola Gay, knowing that with one, subtle movement, Nagasaki would be no more.

My stomach crowed its dirge of loathsome apocalypse once more. I begged Nagasaki’s forgiveness.

“FOR NARNIA” I bellowed as I pounded the walls of the stall with balled fist. My genitals had long since retracted into my body like a dick-turtle out of pure terror at the coming crap-aclysm. For an instant, the compacted crap at the colonic exit held, too long dried and hardened to budge. But the white hot atomic fury of the incoming B.M quickly overpowered it. At t+ .04 seconds my sphincter was outclassing jet-liners in terms of thrust. My asshole had metamorphosed into a Space-Shuttle powered by Mach 5 shit and shame. The Sun has has solar flares which have ejected less material with less intensity than I propelled blistering diarrhea from myself. The tiles into which the toilet was bolted had cracked, the walls of the stall all shuddered and creaked away from the nuclear asstastrophe. The tank on the toilet exploded because it committed suicide. I knew precisely what the word “shitstorm” truly entails.

At this point in time, the infernal and eternal Eldritch majyyks which have clearly possessed my rectum begin flowing outward from my innards with the shit, a sewageous torrent of evil energies, promulgating bizarre events and upsetting the very balance of nature.  Dogs in the surrounding 4 counties won’t stop barking for two days. The Ohio river flows backwards for ten minutes, a seismograph in Belize registers a 2.4 and somewhere in Albania, a gastroenterologist begins to weep but doesn’t know why.

There is one ultimate, cacophonic explosion of shit which thunders from my now-gaping poop-chute, a concussive blasst which rattles silverware in drawers up to 3 miles away. In this moment, I am the peaceful eye of the hurricane, I am Nirvanic, I am bliss itself. My soul rests, having cleansed itself of the grimdark turd-taint which had infected it. As little dribbles of overflow shit glide down the exterior of the bowl, and the sewage stench of my criminal droppings waft throughout the bathroom, simultaneously I hear two things: My stomach gurgles once, and I realize with terror that it is not over. In fact, the worst has yet to come. And my stall neighbor says, and I quote: WHAT THE FU-

There’s no longer a Speedway there.

LOOK AT NIETSCHE'S FREAKING MOUSTACHE

THUS SPAKE THE ‘STACHE

A pondering on whiskers.

BEHOLD. Or, wait. Okay, here: Scroll to the bottom, BEHOLD for a little while, and then flip back here. I’ll wait. Okay...GO............we good? Cool.

ANYWAY. The staggering mass of philtrumnal follicles by which I am certain you have just been shocked into silence belongs to none other than the philosopher with whom I am reasonably certain you are familiar, Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche is perhaps most famous for his proclamation that, “God is dead.” Let there be no doubt in your mind that the extravagance of that lip-foliage which so broodingly lurked about Nietzsche’s talk-hole played a not insignificant role in this. You see, men are, by nature, feeble and cowardly. They quail from harsh reality, and appeal to divinity to comfort them. However, Nietzsche needed none of this. So proud and fuzzy a prow did he have perched upon his lip that he no longer felt any need for “comfort.” As the King of Moustaches would probably be unable to have been disproven to have said in the unlikely circumstance that there was such nobility (which there totally should be): “Dogs? Man, forget dogs. Moustaches are where it’s at. They are like these constant companions, Fur-Golems composed of testosterone and rage existing solely to be your best bro forever. It’s awesome.” Yeah. That’s totally something that hypothetical guy might say. imaginary royals of facial fluff aside, once our dear friend Nietzsche had cultivated what was essentially the effing Congo of moustaches, he found he had all the companionship a man could need. Not to mention, so coarse and rugged were the tendrils of masculinity he sprouted like a freaking face-farmer that his glorious mouth-drapes were essentially a multi-tool, eliminating the need for many tools. He could get down to scraping paint, grouting floors, cleaning fish, washing/waxing cars, and even ESPECIALLY stabbing vagrants, all with his transcendentally magnificent  ode-via-appearance to the Gods of Manhood.

It is also well known that it was Nietzsche who popularized the term, “Übermensch,” or “Superman.” A lesser writer might churn out a tired line about how Nietzsche’s moustache helped make him a “Man of Steel” or some such thing, but I am too cautious by half to fall for that. I know that would, in fact, be an insult, degrading the magnificence of the Master Philosophers Visage-Shrubbery by likening its coarseness to mere steel. Because it is actual documented historical FACT# that the first steel wool was made when Nietzsche nuzzled up against an I-Beam. Nietzsche often spoke of mankind evolving into a new, higher form with his Übermensches, but the sense in which he spoke referred to our collective mental, philosophical and cultural state. But make no mistake, he had already more than accomplished the evolutionary ascension to a higher form in a wholly physical way through the follicular protuberance his face rebelliously extruded, as though daring the world, “What. Make me.” This type of growth is more than just a shirking of grooming trends, this is an advance in the arts of Moustachery on a very fundamental level, this is less like facial hair and more like the horns of a Mountain Goat, a fierce and ostentatious declaration of the possessor’s superiority. Clearly our Dread-Lord of Face-Fuzz represents the pinnacle of human development, and the beginning of a new, greater species, Homo ‘Stachiens. I envision a glowing future where an entire society of brooding, nihilistic mustachioed super-geniuses tromp heavy-footed about, occasionally entering into fierce tussles wherein the loser has his (or her, I’m no sexist) beautiful, lush, but ultimately inferior crop of dense curly hairs ripped painfully from their face, whereupon they are shunned forever. It would be a utopia. And, certainly Nietzsche’s spawn would thrive massively in just such a culture, given how absolutely absurdly virile a man would have to be to extrude through his pores so luscious a mouth-carpet, and how powerful his genes must thereby be.

I mean, just LOOK at this mighty specimen of manhood. Walruses would shuffle home, sobbing and feeling like wusses after being confronted with whiskers so adamantly and furiously stupendous. There is a kind of thinly-veiled, rage of insanity lurking somewhere under the endless topiary maze of Nietzsche’s copious brows and prodigious ‘stache. There is an intensity to it, but also a crucial lack which makes it all the more terrifying: There is no remorse to be found in those eyes. This is a man gifted with one of the world’s most extraordinary intellects and driven by brutal, feral passions. Nietzsche states famously in “Beyond Good and Evil,” that “...when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.” I am tempted to say that this is precisely what has occurred to the man himself, thereby obliterating his soul to result in his terrifying gaze, but then I realize: That cannot be true. Not with this man. And then I notice that this phrase is in the second person. Nietzsche was clearly explaining what happens only to others when they try the abyss-gazing thing. Given the indomitability of the rabid wolverine he kept dangling just below his nostrils, it seems all too apparent that Nietzsche gazed into the abyss, it nervously gazed back, Nietzsche challenged it to a staring contest, it feebly declined, and then Nietzsche called it a pansy and beat the ever-loving crud out of it. There is just something undeniably awe-inspiring about a man who clearly went out, punched a Grizzly Bear in the face until it was almost dead, then ripped a piece of bear off and straight stapled that stuff to his mouth.

Think what you may of Nietzsche’s philosophies, but one thing cannot be denied: His moustache was incredible, in the way that seeing a dinosaur sipping tea with a Stormtrooper is incredible. To impress this point upon you one further time, I leave you with what I assure is a totally real, well documented anecdote#: Once a group of scientists showed a picture of Nietzsche to a group of Blue Whales, well known for the dense forests of hair-like keratin they keep in their mouths with which to filter feed, called a “baleen,” or, more scientifically, a “rockin’ Sea-’Stache.” According to reports, the whales stared at the picture for approximately 30 seconds, at which point one nudged its nearest companion, hesitated for a moment or two, and then said:

“BBBBBOAOAOAOAOAOAAAWAWAAAOAOAOAOAOWOAOWAOW.”

Which translates roughly to:

“I dunno, kinda seems like overkill, doesn’t it?”

THE ‘STACHE, THE LEGEND

             

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.