Sharted. That stands for shit and farted. When I see that word, I remember exactly who told me the meaning, how embarrassed I felt because of how loud the girl who told me the word was laughing, and how ridiculous the whole conversation was. I don’t think sharting is a common occurrence for a lot of people. It happens about as often as a blizzard. But the word makes me think of a shark simply because of how close these words sound. Who knows? Maybe sharting happens more often for sharks. J slash K! If you’re a non-smoker I’m all in. The girl had black hair. Actually I don’t know what to call it anymore since apparently there’s no such thing as black hair. Pocahontas! She had blue highlights as well.
There’s a feeling you get when you know something is about to happen. But then again, something may not happen. So you question it, back and forth like a pendulum. It’s a little like nervousness and it’s a little like throwing up. I know I’m not describing this feeling very well, but I don’t think there’s a word out there for it yet. I guess you just have to be in my body feeling what I’m feeling to really know what I’m talking about. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
You’re not going to ever feel exactly what I’m feeling. But it’s okay because I’m not ever going to feel exactly what you’re feeling either. There’s not another person out there exactly like me and there’s not another person out there exactly like you. Isn’t the world a wonderful place? So knowing this it makes me sad to think someone would feel so unworthy to be in existence they end their life by their own hands. Or someone would cause physical harm to themselves. People have seriously made life a lot more complicated than it is, but then again, maybe the way I experience reality is different from the way you experience yours so who am I to judge you for how you live? But if I don’t voice it out loud, I’m still going to do it in my head whether I notice it or not. You know what I mean?
Show interest is what they said. But I would tell them there are certain moments in life you really wish you were inside a soundproof room so you could scream all your problems away. Or at least rid yourself of that nasty feeling in the pit of your stomach that seems to nag at you in the least convenient way possible at the most awkward moments in time. How do you do it?
There’s no way someone could see through to your thoughts. You have to express them in words, but what if there are no words to describe what you are going through? What if you must use dance or pictures, but you have none at hand and no footloose skills? Time. Someone would need to observe you when you don’t know they are watching. At the very least they would be able to deduce whether you have integrity or not. When you’re driving on the highway are you one of those who slows down as soon as a cop is driving by? Or do you follow the speed limit no matter what?
Don’t be too of anything. Too smart. Too skinny. Too boring. Too broken. We’re all broken though. Show me someone who’s not broken and I’ll show you someone who’s lying. Show interest is what they said. But I would tell them grab a parachute and just jump already.
We’ve forgotten who we are. We’ve forgotten where we come from. We’ve forgotten what makes us US. That’s why all this messy stuff is happening. And it’s sad, but it’s also something that will happen over and over again. You can’t make everyone happy no matter how hard you try. Humans are complicated. Trying to herd them is like trying to herd cats. Yet we are not cats. Duh. Except it feels like only cats get the ‘duh’ part.
I really need a Dyson vacuum cleaner. If only to remember the one who told me about it. It was at work one day when I was talking about the hairs in my carpet. “This will solve your problem,” she said. And that’s all she needed to say to get my attention. I went to Target the following weekend to check it out and realized it would set me back more than I had to spare, more than I was willing to give. But that’s why I really need it now. To know I can set myself back $500 and it will be an investment, not a dent in my wallet. I need something that will carefully pick up every mistake I have ever made and suck it into oblivion. I will think of her every time it wipes my slate clean. And Anne as well with the carrot-colored hair. For a slate that ended up on Gilbert Blythe’s head. Maybe I’ll find a lost earring or two in the carpet. They are my Lost Boys. Once I get them paired up again, I’ll go fetch Wendy. If a Dyson can do that, it is worth every penny.
I like to save pretty things, like words written in cute fonts, in case I ever want to use them for a DIY or something. Or bookmarks with butterflies on them. Or ribbon with ballet slippers on them. It’s like I want to make sure I’m surrounded by only the positives in life and cut out anything that doesn’t belong. I wonder if I’ve been doing this all my life? Acting like a horse with blinders. Life is messy. We can’t photoshop our way out of it, but thinking about my favorite things is what gets me through the rough parts.
Tonight I’m getting only seven hours of sleep again. I function best on eight, but that’s not what this rehearsal schedule is dictating. One more dress rehearsal and then four shows this weekend. Work during the day and with the cold coming on like the end of a vacation in Cancún, stomachaches keep my Starbucks company, the red holiday cup kind. My hair is air-drying and I’m thinking of all the mistakes I made today I can’t let go. Yeah, I’m one of those people, the annoying perfectionist ones who put one mistake up on blast in their heads until a new one is made. Obsess like a Gollum. My stomach knots up at the slightest peculiarity in thoughts, plans, or pathways. I stare back at the novel I just put down last weekend and yearn for a few drops of water, it never ends.