Of humiliation and hats

She felt as if their collective stupidity now gripped her slender brown neck to asphyxiate her.

This was one part of her extended family she never got: crass and humiliating in their unique ways.

She felt alone; the clichéd ‘even in a room full of people’ kind. She never understood why she had to put up with humiliation in the name of catching up with the family.

Oh what the hell, she thought.

Everyone seemed to tap into her she-assumed-was-hidden-in-her-closet insecurity. And oh how she detested that feeling. All her childhood years spent pretending not to hear taunts and sneer comments, they all gushed across her consciousness, washing away with them all she’d been sure of until now.

No mistaking it, she was beautiful, confident and quite the intimidating deal when it came to competition: she was the type who could kill a moose with bare hands. Except she ain’t no Sarah Palin.

But she did wear glasses, a pair of black librarians, the type an uptight, conservative girl living in a helm-till-the-knee parallel universe. Defying yet another constant, she lived in Milky Way! The helms were five inches and a quarter above the knee. She lived to defy her own initial definitions of stuff should be done: they were too small for someone who… Was her. As she grew up and formed a new batter of ideas, she baked a creamier cake and made it look pritty irresistible for someone who gets high on sugar too easily.

Such an infidel, aren’t ya? Enjoying while she’s stuck with the swine-headed? Wait till she attends another reunion this fall. For now, she’s sticking to positioning herself in another plane in a dimension in a parallel universe,

Edwin A. Abbott's Flatland is set in a world o...

Edwin A. Abbott’s Flatland is set in a world of two dimensions.

any other but this one, she swears, while the humiliation continues to fall over her head in fractal swirls.

The attention, the people never got away from her, making her feel lesser by the minute. It’s like the magic potion that made Alice grow smaller, but alas; how she wished she could fall down a rabbit hole! And meet a Mad Hatter! Hats were a wardrobe essential: the madder, the merrier.

Tides of faceless crowds ebbed and hit a high. Sometimes, they ceased altogether.

As she struggled to hold the fortress together, tears burned the back of her eyes. The catch in her throat made her wonder who was writing all of this.

Why did people exist?!

(Rhetorical, of course.)

No… Seriously. Now she wanted an answer or two. WHY?

Stupid schoomers who born to be human roadblocks to everything she did.

No, she didn’t hate people. She only wished they were nicer.

She never understood why people had to be two-faced and why they had to go raping everyone else’s dignities on a ‘Let’s-screw-SOME-PEEPS!’ rampage.

Or why they had to act like cold stale dough. Hard all the way through and sprinkled generously with a nose-punching stink.

Some say she was too naive. Others prefer dumb. She liked to think of it all as what made you human and likeable and affable.

Remember kindergarten? She sure did. How sharing crayons made two toddlers smile, how a slide would become a point of strategic discussion and planning for warfare.

You smiled because you wanted to. You laughed with everyone because you could, and everyone was nice.




Sometimes, people with XY chromosomes take a sharp left turn and decide to be different from their pool. Some prefer satin, but a lot of  them prefer moobs.

Yay boobies! Click to- erm. Just click.

… And then there’s the odd bikini-fetish guy too. GO.STEVE.KARDYNAL!

With an enviable and extensive collection of sizzling swimwear, webcammers are caught unawares (and I rhymed! I never do when i’m supposed to; such is life.) with a bearded bomb shimmying to Call Me Maybe. Nice moves, sister.

Which leads me to Gotye. If there ever was a song much parody-abused in cyber-public, Team Gotye probably stoned them to the first place with a badger. Why? Because badgers don’t give a flying poop.

A tech person at Forbes talks of all sins committed in Somebody’s name. Right up there with Rebecca Black, the original video makes me squirm in my chair- every flex of a muscle (yep, Kimbra’s shoulder) and the shiny wig and the notes and the lyrics… Had it been a little louder, it’d be my alarm tone.

Each time I visit Youtube, I’m haunted by the possibility of another parody leaking through. Continue reading

I am a writer.

I’m a writer. Not a bestselling, charts-topping one, not yet. But there are things I have seen, emotions that rage through me, there are questions with no answers that don’t let me sleep; they scuttle around like headless Medusas until they find a place of their own on a blank page. Those wicked things do not even ask for their answers to be known.  I’ve been wise, I’ve been immature; I’ve let go of things that mattered most to me and pushed myself against the wall in the name of standing up.

I have lost more than I thought I would, I haven’t had a place to hide. I face myself each day and sometimes, I see a new stranger. And in time, you read my work and you wonder what could’ve possibly inspired me. I’m a writer: I crystallize shards of my own experience and melt them all together in one big china pot… sure, the names are different and sometimes they have better cell phones and have no flatulence issues.

My written word derives itself from my life, from all that I have been, from what I continue to see and comprehend.

Every other dolt’s a writer?

You skim through those paragraphs, flitting from word to full stop, wondering WHY anyone would write poems that rhyme and stories that don’t. Juvenile plots, random spell errors, that predictable course of acceptance and irony… you don’t get it, do you?

You stroke your ego and think that maybe… you’re better. Or wonder what Continue reading