It’s kinda hard to be defiant if you cry every time someone yells at you.
I did, in fact, cry at the most unfortunate times. But not anymore. I often find myself not able to conjure up emotions, and much less cry on account of them. What I’m saying is, once I got older, I found a new way to go through life.
Once I got older.
They said everything would get better once I got older. That all my problems would be solved once I got older. In some ways, yes, I have found a way to block anything that even comes near my limbic system, not commonly known by its name, but commonly put to action with heartbreaks, funerals, and the occasional tv show.
And when people yell at you.
If you haven’t guessed it by now, the limbic system controls your emotions, more or less. And if you also haven’t guessed, mine is most certainly broken.
I do not understand people. One day, they stand there telling you how great you are, the next they can't bear the thought of you. Because of this, I do not entertain the fact of having platonic, romantic, or any other sort of relationship. I’m on my own, have been since the Lord Almighty thought me up- if you believe in that sort of thing.
People-watching is the only thing to do that is somewhat pleasurable at the park. I put names to people by their characteristics; their smiles, their pouts, their hee-hees and ho-ho’s. As I write here, the zit-faced teenager sits on the swing, pushing back and forth with his lanky legs. I am guessing he’s around 15 or 16, middle class, definitely has no taste buds-- concluded by his sandwhich staurated with mayo-- and is here alone.
The spray-tanned granny is sitting on the bench beside the popsicle-eating-toddler. She seems to have brought an assortment of PB & Js and fruit snacks smushed in her small, snake skin purse.
The boy with the blue shirt has a brown, spiky haircut- it defies gravity- but I didn’t get a good look at his face. He was running, facing his younger sister, leash in hand, a German Shepard at the end of it. I caught him giving me a glance as he passed, but I didn’t return it.
I just don’t work like that.
From what I saw, he has a small, triangular chin that is, at most, a half inch long. It was curled at the edges, and if I looked up more I’m sure I would’ve seen a smile on his thin, flaky lips. I didn’t catch what he said, but I did see his sister’s head out of the corner of my vision bob up and down in reply, and a tiny grin spread across her face. When she smiles, her nose crunches up, making her eyes squint. I could only guess that he said something pleasant.
The little girl with the blue eyes had- presumably by her blonde hair flying out of her rainbow helmet- been at the skate park for at least two hours. I used to have blonde hair. But that was changed simply with cheap black hair dye and a pair of oversized plastic gloves. It makes you wonder, does anybody’s hands actually fit the excessively wide (apparently “one size fits all”) gloves?
I often look at these people and wonder what got them to this place. What made them look at their worn-out Thomas the Train basketball shorts and think I better wear that. What made them go to the store and pick out a neon yellow t-shirt with Just Do It sprawled across the front. Did their mother pick it out? Was it a christmas gift? Maybe birthday? Who knows, but that’s what I try to discover.
I am good at being invisible.
I am sitting on the curb at the edge of the playground. I conclude that this is the option with the least human interaction. I suffer the butt pain from sitting on the dirty concrete because not only is nothing worse than a chatty 7-year-old with boogers crusted on his nose sitting next to you on a splintered, bird-poop covered bench, but it also gives a perfect view of the entirety of the park.
As I said before, I am very capable of not being seen. At least twice a day I experience a biker almost running into me, claiming they “didn’t see me there”, or a rogue dog running off its leash, sniffing me to its heart's content until it’s owner claims she, again, “didn’t see me there”. Being alone has its disadvantages, but it has some gain, too. For example, when the man with a t-shirt two sizes too small and belly hanging out had a heart attack, I was able to slip away into the women’s bathroom until the commotion had ceased. When I have a pizza, I can eat the entire thing without feeling guilty of not sharing. If I do something illegal and need to lie low for a while (entirely theoretical), I won’t have pesky ‘friends’ telling the police where they saw me last.
In the end, people always fail.
That’s what my mother always says.
People always fail.
No exceptions. No second chances. No changes of heart. They always fail.
The great Michelle Hopthorne. She is what she is; a good time. That’s how her party-friends would describe her. How would I? Well, in her short twenty nine years she's been living on this earth, she's a drunk druggy who never had enough money for rent, but always enough spirit for a “good time”. Because of her antics, my dinners consist of Froot Loops and Spaghetti-Os. I’ll plunder a maple bar from the gas station on occasion, but I can’t do much of that or the owners get suspicious. I’ll tell you this much. You do not want to cross paths with the 7Eleven security guard. Why they have a security guard, your guess is as good as mine.
At the end of the day, I do a pretty good job of taking care of myself, and I don’t need anyone else to interfere.
Comments (0)
See all