Thursday, July 28, 2011


To me, there is nothing more terrifying than a sharp, black-tipped eyeliner pencil heading straight for my unprotected, struggling-not-to-blink eyeball. To my best friend, Missy, there is nothing more amusing.
Sure, from where she’s standing, it must be fairly comical, I’ll admit. Not only are my eyes welling up with tears, partly from the overwhelming stress of the situation, partly from being stabbed repeatedly with that jagged, hateful pencil, but my head, in one last-ditch effort to save itself, keeps trying to escape the pencil by slowly easing itself further and further away. So, by the time I feel ready to face that black tip of death, my head is facing upwards toward the ceiling, like I’m waiting for a dentist to come prod and poke my gums with his sharp, sadistic instruments. The only element separating my dear friend Missy from a dentist, at this point, would be the mask. I’ve always had this theory that they wear masks so that their patients won’t see how horribly disfigured and fluoride-deprived their own smiles are. Anyway.
We were discussing the worst moment of my life: eyes staring helplessly at the ceiling, noticing a curiously-shaped brown stain, while Missy towers over me with a look of triumph on her face, pointing the eyeliner pencil directly at me like an accusatory finger. Triumph, because she now knows I have nowhere else to go, unless I want to topple backwards over the chair, where, with my luck, I would probably fall face-down and my eye would be pierced by a piece of shrapnel, or something. Stranger things have happened.

damn french ... fries

I never want French fries until I see someone else enjoying them. I smugly choose a salad, smiling at the checkout girl, who looks at my tray and thinks, “Wow. She’s eating a salad. She looks like someone I would like to know.”
No matter that this salad is literally swimming in French dressing and cheese.
What is it with the French, anyway? See, they are the reason Americans are obese. It’s not the fast food joints lurking around every corner; it can’t be the fact that we consider watching sitcom reruns for five hours exercise; no, it’s those damn French. Them and their cigarettes and hairy underarms.
Halfway through the meal, my salad abandoned, my brain registers that there are French fries in close proximity. Not close, even. Right on top of me. I could reach out a quaking hand and touch the salty devils. My lunch partner smirks at me, dragging three of the delectable delights through a ridiculously large mound of ranch dressing. Rolling my eyes, I spear a piece of lettuce, or what my father refers to as "rabbit food", on my fork and pretend, as I take a tiny bite, that I'm having the tastiest dining experience of my young life.
“Damnit, Alyssa, just take a French fry,” she states, with equals parts exasperation and amusement.
Now, I have often been told I should have focused my studies on something of a more theatrical nature than writing. I widen my eyes convincingly, sputter incoherent statements of denial, and, to put the cherry on top, I crank out a few well-placed tears. Which causes Missy, whom I often wonder why I am friends with, to laugh. Not just any laugh either, but her annoyingly obnoxious, squinty-eyed, louder-than-all-hell laugh. Which startles me so much, my tears stop completely. The moisture halfway down my face gets so frightened that it attempts to flow upward, back into my eye.

Monday, July 25, 2011

food for thought

Through the slits of my bedroom shades, I can see that my neighbor is enjoying an episode of The Simpsons. The television set has been on since 5:30 pm, alternating from cheesy sitcoms to obviously-rehearsed "reality" specials. And although I have two fans blasting cold air, the whirring hum reminding me of a landing helicopter, I can still faintly hear the pumping bass of the upstairs residents' blaring music. It's nearing 12:30 am.

I can't sleep. Not really because of these distractions, although they certainly aren't helping. A textbook over-thinker, I'm finding many things to ... over-think. The ever-looming uncertainty of the future, each day creeping closer and closer to the present, is daunting when I realize I don't have anything figured out.

Maybe I'll write a book. Well. Maybe not.