Random Thought #23

January 31, 2010

I know this ten-year-old kid who doesn’t go to school. He hasn’t gone for a couple of years. The other day I asked him why he doesn’t go to school anymore, being “still so young”. He said he got kicked out. I asked him what he could have possibly done that was so horrible to get kicked out. “Bunking” he told me.

Wait!

Let me get this straight, as punishment for a kid that bunks school too much they… kicked him out?! That makes no sense to me! Wouldn’t a better punishment have been to FORCE him to go to school every day?


Random Thought #22

January 28, 2010

You just never know! I mean you never, ever, never, NEVER, EVER know…until you know. And even then, you still don’t really know.


Random Thought #21

January 28, 2010

Some days are destined to be wet, sticky armpit days; rush out of the shower, slime on some deodorant, rush out the door, take a brisk 30 minute walk to the train station, climb on the packed train… They really don’t stand a chance those armpits.


Random Thought #20

January 28, 2010

Life is actually really nothing like a box of chocolates!


Random Though #19

January 28, 2010

I am pretty sure my laundromat uses body odor as soap and burnt rubber as fabric softener.


Random Thought #18

January 27, 2010

Strangers really and truly can never know what goes on inside your head; the thoughts, the pain, the love, what you’ve been through, what you’ve done, where you’ve been, where you want to go. But their judgments sting. Maybe we should remember that when we send our judgments back at them.


Random Thought #17

January 25, 2010

“If I Were A Boy” by Beyoncé has got to be one of the most emasculating songs for a man to get stuck in his head, with “I’m Every Woman” by Whitney Houston following close behind.


Random Thought #16

January 22, 2010

Sometimes it’s better to see the world through the eyes of a child. Last night I looked at the stars and the words of the famous children’s song came to mind, “Twinkle, twinkle little star. How I wonder what you are…” But I didn’t wonder. Because I know stars are big balls of burning gas. The mystery was gone. But I still enjoyed looking at them.


I’m a Racecar Driver

January 22, 2010

The other day I had a random conversation with a person I had just met. I am wracking my brain to remember who the person even was but I can’t remember. I think it was a kid. But who the person was is not really relevant to this story. I will just call the person Bob. So Bob asked me what I do. I told him I am a social worker, working mostly with youth at risk, and I am a writer.

As the words “I am a writer” came out of my mouth I immediately wanted to grab them back as they hung there in midair. Bob didn’t notice. But they hung there, and my inner voice shouted loudly, “What?! You are a writer? Since when?” and I did not have an answer. But Bob’s conversation had moved on from that point and I had to catch up. I watched his mouth move as my inner voice continued to grill me on my qualifications, “Your grammar sucks and you can’t even spell!” Thankfully Bob did not interrogate me on my credentials.

Sure, I like to write and I do it quite regularly. But I had never called myself a writer, and it felt awkward. At times, some friends and family have even given me the label “writer” and it felt just as awkward then. But my random outburst to Bob made me think more about what it means to be a writer. I began to wonder at what point a person becomes a writer. I know people who have graduated with degrees as writers, people who I would not necessarily consider writers even though they have a piece of paper that proves they are. Likewise I know people who come by it naturally, people I would consider writers but do not consider themselves writers.

Does a person have to get something published before they can be considered a writer? Or to be a writer does a person merely have to put words together in a beautiful way which moves people; or what about just putting words together? I know, at this stage in my life, I take great joy in writing, and it seems to have become more of a predominant theme in the past few years of my life. But I also enjoy driving, and I do it quite regularly, and that definitely does not make me a racecar driver, though I guess it makes me a driver.

Is a person who randomly puts paint on a canvas a painter? Is a person who can just play the guitar at a mediocre level a musician? I really don’t know. What I do however know is I do not feel comfortable calling myself a writer, and I am still a little confused about why I told Bob I was one. Maybe one day when something I have written has been published, and I am definitely not counting self publishing, then I will be able to confidently call myself a writer; but not now. It’s too weird. For now, I just like to write, and I will continue to do it quite regularly. I am not yet a writer. For now, I am a racecar driver.


The Blackhead of Blackheads…

January 20, 2010

I had a pretty crazy dream the other night. As far as dreams go, on average, I think mine are consistently pretty crazy! But this one was the weirdest and most memorable one I have had in a long time! The first moment I recollect from the dream, I was standing in front of a mirror looking at my face. I saw I had a blackhead on my cheek. I leaned closer and poked at it a bit. Yep, pretty normal blackhead. I decided to squeeze out that waxy stuff collected in the pore; something I must admit getting great joy from. Blackheads are so much more fun, and less messy, than zits! Anyways!

I assumed the usual blackhead pinching position, placing the fingernails of my two pointer fingers on either side of my tiny nemesis. I pushed them together. At first, like any blackhead, a normal amount of latte colored wax squirted out. But then, almost immediately, the little squirt doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled in size! It got thicker and thicker and it just kept coming out! They best way to describe it (though disgusting) is it was the width and length of an average, heathly-sized, solid piece of poop. I know, pretty disgusting. And there I stood, for a few seconds, in complete shock, holding this long, thick, waxy, snake-like object that had been excorcized from my face.

I immediately pulled my cellphone out of my pocket and called my Mom (Right! Of course I did! Doesn’t everyone phone their mom first to tell her about disgusting bodily excretions?!), and the dream got progressively weirder as I excitedly went into a room full of friends to show them the wax snake. The one friend took it out of my hands and ended up smashing the wax snake totally flat, making a shawl and wearing it around her shoulders as a joke. I am not so sure what happened after that. But, besides my friend with the apparent fashion sense to turn even blackhead gunk into a stylish ensemble, the most memorable part of the dream was the relief I felt getting that junk out of my face.

I literally could feel a relief in my face from pain that had been there. The peculiar part is that I did not even know the pain was there before it was mitigated. I wasn’t aware my cheek was sore prios to squeezing out the record-breaking blackhead. I was numb to the pain. I didn’t feel it. Maybe I had gradually grown accustomed to it. But I was totally unaware of it. It was only after I was relieved of the waxy junk filling my cheek that I felt the relief of the lack of pain. The lack of pain felt good, even if I hadn’t realized it was there in the first place. I felt refreshed, alleviated, and lighter. I wondered how long that junk had been there, how I didn’t even notice the pain the junk was actually causing me, and how on earth it was possible for it to have built up to the level of being anaconda-sized excrement.

I have thought a lot about that dream. It think it is like life. As we go through life the junk, gunk, dirt, and mess (Though I know blackheads are actually caused by excess oils that have accumulated in the sebaceous gland’s duct, and they are not caused from dirt. Whatever!) get caught in our pores, most of the time unbeknownst to us. It builds up, and builds up, and certain situations and experiences are conducive to causing more build up. We don’t always see it building up right there under the surface, but it’s there. And it hurts, and is uncomfortable, whether we feel it or not. The build up may be so gradual we don’t feel it, or we may just be totally oblivious. We either become calloused to the pain, or possibly don’t even know of its existence. But it is up to us to be proactive if we want to feel that wonderful sense of relief. We have to find the spot, squeeze out the junk, and then we will feel the satisfaction of the lack of pain we were not even aware we were carrying around.

I guess the difference between blackheads and real life pain is, (according to Wikipedia) blackheads don’t have to be squeezed out and they can be left, but unsqueezed-out pain…I am pretty sure, if left unattended it grows and grows, becoming more and more painful.