I’ll give you the bad news first.
I’ve lost my mind.
Let’s face it, that trumps pretty much any good news ever (excepting, of course, my meeting any or all of the Followills. but these kinds of things are implied.) So I’ll spare you the good news.
I still have hope that I will be able to lead a fairly normal life. In the first place, it’s a good sign that I’ve realized that I’ve lost my mind. I heard somewhere once that you’re alright as long as you’re worried that you’re crazy, because crazy people think they’re sane.
In the second place, we’re all crazy. Which makes this entire post completely pointless.
Like it wasn’t already.
(took a small break to dance around in my room to the Led Zeppelin song that came on. this has nothing to do with being crazy, it’s just fun.)
I began to realize my downward spiral into lunacy over the course of the last week by way of several phone calls with close friends. I realized that time and time again I was telling people about things I’d been doing and having them exclaim in surprise at my deviation from my normal craziness.
In short, I appear to have undergone some sort of personality shock.
I kind of like it.
Speculation as to the causes or effects of these changes aside, I present the following reasons as evidence of my having obviously lost my mind:
1- I’m a neat freak now. I don’t know what happened. All of the sudden, I need my space/things to be completely organized. All the time. I got home from work last night at 1.15am and proceeded to spend about 20 minutes getting my sheets out of the dryer and making my bed perfectly before going to sleep.
2- I have a job. As someone who was heretofore extremely dedicated to wasting space, I am now a productive member of society who has places to be and gets a paycheck.
3- I learned how to cry. I cried three times in the past two years until recently. It just turned on. I can cry over absolutely nothing. A song I love, seeing my favorite flowers, a dream, being in my car too long, anything. I am the quintessential crazy woman.
4- I’ve started telling people how I feel about them. This may sound like something that’s not a really big deal, but I have until this point in my life been a fairly emotionally reserved person (See: No. 3 on this list). My little sister recently called my lack of emotional expression “Stalin-esque.” (the real question: how does she know who Stalin is?! she’s 12! incidentally, I recently found out that she is actually 14) I used to have this habit of writing letters to people and then burning them. I think that sounds way crazier than it actually was, but there it is. It helped me vent. Recently, I read over one of these letters and decided to just send it. It felt really good. I sent four more, to other people. They were all nice (no hate mail, don’t worry), and it just seemed like the right thing to do. It can’t hurt for people to know that you care, or that you’re thinking of them, right? As it turns out, that is right. By and large, I have experienced really positive reactions. People just appreciate hearing that you care, even if they already know it, and especially if they don’t.
Which they sometimes don’t, specifically if you have a tendency to remind relatives of Joseph Stalin.
5- I like all of these changes. It gets a little messier once you factor in the causes and effects (which is why I’m skipping that, thank me later), but overall, I feel good. I like who I was and who I am and where I’m headed, and I’m confident that this thing (my life) will turn out well.
I’m just that kind of girl.
So maybe losing my mind is not a bad thing. Maybe the bad news is the good news too. Maybe it needs to happen every once in a while so that I don’t get stuck in whatever it is that I inevitably get stuck in.
Alternatively, it’s possible that I’m actually losing my mind and that this is just the beginning of the downward spiral.
That’s an entirely possible hypothesis.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Broken Foot Chronicles - The Incident
I was having a rough morning.
On Tuesday, April 11 I did not wake feeling up to par. I determined that McDonald’s hashbrowns would fix this problem and acted accordingly.
On an unrelated note, I still can’t figure out why college has made me gain weight.
This particular morning brought with it the stress of an unfinished paper that was due at 11. I dragged myself out of bed at 8, headed to McDonalds (i don’t even care. those are God’s hashbrowns.), and then went to my apartment to work on the paper. I had structurally finished the paper the afternoon before, and after forty five minutes I had filled out the required ten pages. I glanced over it (this always makes me feel better about the fact that I don’t actually read my papers once they’re done), determined that it was the best paper I’d written for the class**, and submitted it electronically.
I briefly considered showering but decided to pass. It was late, and I had only one class in which I was friends with absolutely no one. I could shower later.
I shifted my left leg out my cross legged position and stepped onto the floor beside my bed. What happened next was a dangerous move that ended tragically and that I have lived to regret.
I stepped onto my right foot.
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Do not be deceived. Unbeknownst to myself, my right foot was asleep. When I went to set it on the floor, I misjudged the floor and my toes curled under my foot. I look down just as I put all my weight on my right foot, just in time to see my foot bend diagonally (hard to explain because it should never, never happen) and hear the accompanying popping noise.
Imaginary readers, I hope to God that none of you ever have to hear that noise.
Possessing cat-like reflexes (and an unrelated hatred of cats), I did not fall down but stumbled and steadied myself on my newly injured foot. This hurt, so i proceeded to run around my room for about six steps before deciding to lay down on the ground.
Pain. A lot of pain.
My roommates were both in class and my phone was in the other room. I decided that maybe from now on I would just lie on the floor.
After a while I realized that lying on the floor indefinitely was not an option in light of my every increasing pain levels (remember JD’s chart? I was all the way on the right side). After considering the situation logistically, I decided to crab walk into the common room, keeping my right foot off of the floor. Go ahead, take a second to picture it. Laugh.
We’ve got nothing if we can’t laugh.
Five minutes later I had transversed the apartment and located my phone. I decided not to call anyone. I was going to feel really silly in half an hour when the pain subsided and I realized that it was nothing. I lied on the floor trying the “yelling for pain management” technique and shortly thereafter decided to call my mom.
I’ve make a huge mistake.
Calling my mom that is, not hurting my foot. That could’ve happened to anyone.
“Mom, I think I might have broken my foot.”
“AHHHHHHHH oh my - what in - how are - ahh”
“Mom! Probably not! I mean, I just stepped on it. It can’t have actually broken, that’s ridiculous. It probably just hurts right now. I’ll call you if I decide to go to the hospital.”
I hung up and moved from worrying about my foot to worrying about my brain function. Why in the world would I call my mother when I’ve known for years that the woman is seven seconds away from panicking at any given point in time? (don’t get her started on...anything. just don’t. those are dangerous waters.)
I called my friend Sima, who graciously skipped class and came to get me. I think she was a little stymied when she got to my apartment to find that I had called for her assistance but was now refusing to move.
It hurt.
Once Sima helped me find a shorts and a t-shirt to replace the dress I was wearing, (that’s right. I wear dresses even when I don’t shower. makes no sense) we approached the problem of getting me the to car. I will just say this: that was one of the most painful experiences of my life. We got me to the elevator and out the front door of the dorm, where Sima had a stroke of brilliance. She borrowed the reeve’s office chair in order to roll my across the quad and to the car.
Take a second to picture me being rolled across the quad in an office chair at 11 am.
Go ahead, laugh. That’s what I did the whole way across the quad. Of course, that may have been less making-fun-of-myself-laughter and more manical I’m-in-pain laughter, but that’s neither here nor there.
We got me into the car and drove to Student Health. Sima pulled up and told me to get out while she parked the car. I looked at her disbelievingly.
“How?”
She got out and helped me onto the sidewalk. I considered the situation and decided to lie down in the grass until she got back. A few minutes later a nurse and man with a wheelchair showed up and asked if I was alright.
I said yes. Again, I should have been more worried about my brain function.
They helped me inside and thus began the hours long process that ended in my finding out that I had indeed broken my foot by stepping on it. I was given crutches and an appointment to be fitted with a boot in a sports medicine clinic the next morning.
to be continued...
**As it turns out, my teacher did not agree with my assessment of the paper. It earned me an 83, the lowest grade I got on anything in the class. I really expected a few sympathy points. COME ON. (gob)
On Tuesday, April 11 I did not wake feeling up to par. I determined that McDonald’s hashbrowns would fix this problem and acted accordingly.
On an unrelated note, I still can’t figure out why college has made me gain weight.
This particular morning brought with it the stress of an unfinished paper that was due at 11. I dragged myself out of bed at 8, headed to McDonalds (i don’t even care. those are God’s hashbrowns.), and then went to my apartment to work on the paper. I had structurally finished the paper the afternoon before, and after forty five minutes I had filled out the required ten pages. I glanced over it (this always makes me feel better about the fact that I don’t actually read my papers once they’re done), determined that it was the best paper I’d written for the class**, and submitted it electronically.
I briefly considered showering but decided to pass. It was late, and I had only one class in which I was friends with absolutely no one. I could shower later.
I shifted my left leg out my cross legged position and stepped onto the floor beside my bed. What happened next was a dangerous move that ended tragically and that I have lived to regret.
I stepped onto my right foot.
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Do not be deceived. Unbeknownst to myself, my right foot was asleep. When I went to set it on the floor, I misjudged the floor and my toes curled under my foot. I look down just as I put all my weight on my right foot, just in time to see my foot bend diagonally (hard to explain because it should never, never happen) and hear the accompanying popping noise.
Imaginary readers, I hope to God that none of you ever have to hear that noise.
Possessing cat-like reflexes (and an unrelated hatred of cats), I did not fall down but stumbled and steadied myself on my newly injured foot. This hurt, so i proceeded to run around my room for about six steps before deciding to lay down on the ground.
Pain. A lot of pain.
My roommates were both in class and my phone was in the other room. I decided that maybe from now on I would just lie on the floor.
After a while I realized that lying on the floor indefinitely was not an option in light of my every increasing pain levels (remember JD’s chart? I was all the way on the right side). After considering the situation logistically, I decided to crab walk into the common room, keeping my right foot off of the floor. Go ahead, take a second to picture it. Laugh.
We’ve got nothing if we can’t laugh.
Five minutes later I had transversed the apartment and located my phone. I decided not to call anyone. I was going to feel really silly in half an hour when the pain subsided and I realized that it was nothing. I lied on the floor trying the “yelling for pain management” technique and shortly thereafter decided to call my mom.
I’ve make a huge mistake.
Calling my mom that is, not hurting my foot. That could’ve happened to anyone.
“Mom, I think I might have broken my foot.”
“AHHHHHHHH oh my - what in - how are - ahh”
“Mom! Probably not! I mean, I just stepped on it. It can’t have actually broken, that’s ridiculous. It probably just hurts right now. I’ll call you if I decide to go to the hospital.”
I hung up and moved from worrying about my foot to worrying about my brain function. Why in the world would I call my mother when I’ve known for years that the woman is seven seconds away from panicking at any given point in time? (don’t get her started on...anything. just don’t. those are dangerous waters.)
I called my friend Sima, who graciously skipped class and came to get me. I think she was a little stymied when she got to my apartment to find that I had called for her assistance but was now refusing to move.
It hurt.
Once Sima helped me find a shorts and a t-shirt to replace the dress I was wearing, (that’s right. I wear dresses even when I don’t shower. makes no sense) we approached the problem of getting me the to car. I will just say this: that was one of the most painful experiences of my life. We got me to the elevator and out the front door of the dorm, where Sima had a stroke of brilliance. She borrowed the reeve’s office chair in order to roll my across the quad and to the car.
Take a second to picture me being rolled across the quad in an office chair at 11 am.
Go ahead, laugh. That’s what I did the whole way across the quad. Of course, that may have been less making-fun-of-myself-laughter and more manical I’m-in-pain laughter, but that’s neither here nor there.
We got me into the car and drove to Student Health. Sima pulled up and told me to get out while she parked the car. I looked at her disbelievingly.
“How?”
She got out and helped me onto the sidewalk. I considered the situation and decided to lie down in the grass until she got back. A few minutes later a nurse and man with a wheelchair showed up and asked if I was alright.
I said yes. Again, I should have been more worried about my brain function.
They helped me inside and thus began the hours long process that ended in my finding out that I had indeed broken my foot by stepping on it. I was given crutches and an appointment to be fitted with a boot in a sports medicine clinic the next morning.
to be continued...
**As it turns out, my teacher did not agree with my assessment of the paper. It earned me an 83, the lowest grade I got on anything in the class. I really expected a few sympathy points. COME ON. (gob)
Monday, June 14, 2010
Vignettes from My Childhood - "Do I Need to Call an Ambulance?"
Growing up, my sister Brecken was minorly demonic. At least that’s what it seemed like.
Sure, there were the trivial albeit annoying incidents that were just bothersome enough to irritate but too ridiculous to complain about aloud. Among these were the numerous Barbie dolls on whose feet she had an inexplicable affinity for chewing, the stupid faces she made behind our parents’ backs, and her habit of locking me out of our shared bathroom on a daily basis. This is not to say that I did not complain about these habits aloud, only that the complaints sounded ridiculous and petty coming out of my mouth. Even I knew it.
She kept up her routine of general orneriness on a constant basis to the effect that I was more or less always at an elevated level of annoyance. I think that I have to thank Brecken in part for the fact that today I am relatively slow to become very angry. Though I like this about myself, it is a trait that was hard won with years of tears, sweat, and probably even a little bit of blood.
On those occasions that she did manage to get my blood boiling, those occasions that I threw my passive derision to the wind and attempted to go head to head with her, the outcome was rarely pleasant. She undoubtedly had the upper hand. Firstly, she was younger and smaller, which meant that if things ever got physical I was automatically the bully and she the victim no matter what the turn of events leading up to the fighting had been. Secondly, she used the evil powers that I am sure are imbued to people with huge blue eyes like hers.
All people with blue eyes creep me out. Sorry.
Sorry blue eyes are so creepy, that is.
I’ll abstain from detailing the events that led up to the middle of this particular fight, primarily because I’ve forgotten them. Even if I hadn’t, they’re irrelevant. It had gotten to the point where I had taken as much of her hitting, pushing, and pinching as I could without making my own move. I knew it would be my downfall, but I did it anyway. I pinched her back.
Her only reaction was the sudden devious glimmer in her evil blue eyes. I stepped back, puzzled. Something was amiss. What could she be planning? I knew that something bad was afoot, but I had yet to discover what.
I watched with a sinking feeling of cold dread as she stepped back from me. What was she up to? She slowly lowered herself into a sitting position on the floor, a chillingly creepy smile on her face. This could not be good.
She slowly lowered herself on to her back on the tawny carpet. Continuing to smile, she arranged her limbs in a splayed formation and settled in. I watched, utterly confused, as she reached her right hand to her left upper arm and slowly scratched it with all four fingers.
Then she started to scream.
Oh, hell no.
My mother came running.
“What is wrong? What is wrong! Brecken! Brecken talk to me! Brecken, can you talk to me?”
My mother is completely unhelpful when you’re actually hurt. You’re writhing on the floor screaming because of whatever tragedy that has befallen you, and she’s screaming in your face for you to explain what’s wrong. You usually can’t. First, you’re busy screaming. Second, you’re probably not lastingly damaged; we’re all pretty dramatic. To the injured party, it inevitably comes across as my mom being selfish. This, of course, is not her intention, but when you’re getting screamed at because you’re in intense pain and have not yet been so kind as to describe the situation to her, it seems selfish.
“Brecken! Brecken! Do I need to call an ambulance? DO I NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?”
I see where this is going. I lower my twelve year old body yo the floor. I have lost this fight. She is a cunning devil genius.
She makes her move.
She raises her tearstained face to my mother and points her shaking index finger towards me.
She is the devil.
“What did you do to her? What did you do to her! Ashton!? ASHTON.”
I debate the pros and cons of answering at all.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” I respond in a dull monotone.
It sounds ridiculous even to me.
She is the devil.
“Brecken what did she do to you?” My mother’s voice is reaching a fever pitch. Can she not see that her middle child, who is without a doubt known as the devious, dramatic trickster of the bunch, is fine? All limbs are attached. No blood is spilling. The most imminent danger is probably potential hearing loss on my part due to their combined decibel level.
Incidentally I have a tiny bit of hearing damage. My mother always complains at my volume preference when I’m watching television or playing music in the car.
Brecken points slowly to the red fingernail marks on her upper arm. The self inflicted fingernail marks.
She is the devil.
“Ashton Christine!” my mother gasps.
My mother has the ability to gasp like no woman I’ve ever heard. It is a sound of pure astonishment. She does it every time we hear a curse word on television, as if pretending that she is utterly shocked that something so despicable is allowed to be broadcast will serve to remind us that she does not approve of such language.
We know.
She trains her wide, astonished, angry eyes on me for ten long seconds.
“I cannot believe you would do this. She is eight years old. Go to your room. I will deal with you later.”
I have lost. I never had a fighting chance. I will no doubt be subjected to one of my mother’s yelling sessions that almost definitely will last until about ten minutes after whenever it is that I finally give in and cry. This generally takes about an hour.
It gives me a headache.
I walk slowly to my room, weighed down by defeat.
She is the devil.
-
Somehow mine and Brecken’s relationship has improved over the past few years. To be honest, it did not look good for a while. Such ploys as these did little to encourage sisterly bonding. Unbelievably, Brecken is about to start college, which is sure to be a good story in and of itself. I wish her the all the best. When we’re in the same town, which doesn’t happen that often, I try to spend as much time with her as possible, although wrestling her away from her boyfriend is a barely surmountable task.
However, I still do not intentionally cross her.
She’s still got it. You can see it in her creepy blue eyes.
Sure, there were the trivial albeit annoying incidents that were just bothersome enough to irritate but too ridiculous to complain about aloud. Among these were the numerous Barbie dolls on whose feet she had an inexplicable affinity for chewing, the stupid faces she made behind our parents’ backs, and her habit of locking me out of our shared bathroom on a daily basis. This is not to say that I did not complain about these habits aloud, only that the complaints sounded ridiculous and petty coming out of my mouth. Even I knew it.
She kept up her routine of general orneriness on a constant basis to the effect that I was more or less always at an elevated level of annoyance. I think that I have to thank Brecken in part for the fact that today I am relatively slow to become very angry. Though I like this about myself, it is a trait that was hard won with years of tears, sweat, and probably even a little bit of blood.
On those occasions that she did manage to get my blood boiling, those occasions that I threw my passive derision to the wind and attempted to go head to head with her, the outcome was rarely pleasant. She undoubtedly had the upper hand. Firstly, she was younger and smaller, which meant that if things ever got physical I was automatically the bully and she the victim no matter what the turn of events leading up to the fighting had been. Secondly, she used the evil powers that I am sure are imbued to people with huge blue eyes like hers.
All people with blue eyes creep me out. Sorry.
Sorry blue eyes are so creepy, that is.
I’ll abstain from detailing the events that led up to the middle of this particular fight, primarily because I’ve forgotten them. Even if I hadn’t, they’re irrelevant. It had gotten to the point where I had taken as much of her hitting, pushing, and pinching as I could without making my own move. I knew it would be my downfall, but I did it anyway. I pinched her back.
Her only reaction was the sudden devious glimmer in her evil blue eyes. I stepped back, puzzled. Something was amiss. What could she be planning? I knew that something bad was afoot, but I had yet to discover what.
I watched with a sinking feeling of cold dread as she stepped back from me. What was she up to? She slowly lowered herself into a sitting position on the floor, a chillingly creepy smile on her face. This could not be good.
She slowly lowered herself on to her back on the tawny carpet. Continuing to smile, she arranged her limbs in a splayed formation and settled in. I watched, utterly confused, as she reached her right hand to her left upper arm and slowly scratched it with all four fingers.
Then she started to scream.
Oh, hell no.
My mother came running.
“What is wrong? What is wrong! Brecken! Brecken talk to me! Brecken, can you talk to me?”
My mother is completely unhelpful when you’re actually hurt. You’re writhing on the floor screaming because of whatever tragedy that has befallen you, and she’s screaming in your face for you to explain what’s wrong. You usually can’t. First, you’re busy screaming. Second, you’re probably not lastingly damaged; we’re all pretty dramatic. To the injured party, it inevitably comes across as my mom being selfish. This, of course, is not her intention, but when you’re getting screamed at because you’re in intense pain and have not yet been so kind as to describe the situation to her, it seems selfish.
“Brecken! Brecken! Do I need to call an ambulance? DO I NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?”
I see where this is going. I lower my twelve year old body yo the floor. I have lost this fight. She is a cunning devil genius.
She makes her move.
She raises her tearstained face to my mother and points her shaking index finger towards me.
She is the devil.
“What did you do to her? What did you do to her! Ashton!? ASHTON.”
I debate the pros and cons of answering at all.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” I respond in a dull monotone.
It sounds ridiculous even to me.
She is the devil.
“Brecken what did she do to you?” My mother’s voice is reaching a fever pitch. Can she not see that her middle child, who is without a doubt known as the devious, dramatic trickster of the bunch, is fine? All limbs are attached. No blood is spilling. The most imminent danger is probably potential hearing loss on my part due to their combined decibel level.
Incidentally I have a tiny bit of hearing damage. My mother always complains at my volume preference when I’m watching television or playing music in the car.
Brecken points slowly to the red fingernail marks on her upper arm. The self inflicted fingernail marks.
She is the devil.
“Ashton Christine!” my mother gasps.
My mother has the ability to gasp like no woman I’ve ever heard. It is a sound of pure astonishment. She does it every time we hear a curse word on television, as if pretending that she is utterly shocked that something so despicable is allowed to be broadcast will serve to remind us that she does not approve of such language.
We know.
She trains her wide, astonished, angry eyes on me for ten long seconds.
“I cannot believe you would do this. She is eight years old. Go to your room. I will deal with you later.”
I have lost. I never had a fighting chance. I will no doubt be subjected to one of my mother’s yelling sessions that almost definitely will last until about ten minutes after whenever it is that I finally give in and cry. This generally takes about an hour.
It gives me a headache.
I walk slowly to my room, weighed down by defeat.
She is the devil.
-
Somehow mine and Brecken’s relationship has improved over the past few years. To be honest, it did not look good for a while. Such ploys as these did little to encourage sisterly bonding. Unbelievably, Brecken is about to start college, which is sure to be a good story in and of itself. I wish her the all the best. When we’re in the same town, which doesn’t happen that often, I try to spend as much time with her as possible, although wrestling her away from her boyfriend is a barely surmountable task.
However, I still do not intentionally cross her.
She’s still got it. You can see it in her creepy blue eyes.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Beginning of a Story that Hasn't Happened Yet
This story ends with my being murdered.
For those of you who either don’t stay in touch with me or don’t know me (I’m talking to you, weirdo internet pervs), at the beginning of June I moved back to Nashville after a three week respite at home in Jackson.
Respite may be the wrong word. It was really more of a three week series of challenges to my sanity that I can with disturbing accuracy compare to a run of the gauntlet, fight with a bull, or some similar test of endurance, mental acuity and sheer inner fortitude that you know ahead of time you’re really not up to. Then again, any of these comparisons may or may not apply to almost any period of time spent with my family exceeding three hours. Unless we all have to be in the same room, in which case it’s more like fifteen minutes.
I actually had an uncharacteristic bout of homesickness shortly before my return to Tennessee. I love Jackson. I love getting iced coffee with espresso ice cubes from Cups and chatting with my favorite barista, Eamonn. I love sitting at Julep splitting a ham and cheese sandwich with Lauren, a girl that I have been and will be friends with for my whole life. I love driving to Brent’s with Madeleine, getting chocolate milkshakes, and ridiculing everyone we see.
Ok, I mostly like eating there. Whatever. There’s no place like home, and all that.
So what was I doing spending what could be some of the last weeks that I’d live there with any degree of permanence galavanting about in Nashville where I didn’t even have a job yet, for God’s sake? Not that I was really worried- that would be quickly remedied upon my arrival. (dear past Ashton, you are an idiot.)
I pondered these things on a sunny Monday while applying sunscreen before going out to the beach until mother’s voice jolted me from my reverie.
“Ashton, last week in my Sunday school class we talked about girls who sin by showing too much skin.”
“Mom. It’s a bikini. There’s not exactly a turtleneck option. Plus, I’m about to go lay out. Showing skin is kind of the point.”
“In my Sunday school class, we talked about how those girls look like they’re selling something, and how it sends out the wrong message.”
“Mom, please stop calling me a prostitute.”
This to say, my brief foray into homesickness/dementia passed quickly and I was exceedingly happy to make my way back to Nashville. Jackson would be there when I got back.
As Miranda and I finished our nine hour drive back to Nashville from the beach (yes, the poor girl went to the beach with my family. not something a lot of people bounce back from.) I felt a peaceful, calm feeling set in. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being where you’re supposed to be, when you’re supposed to be there. I moved in to mine and Lori’s apartment (alt. title: The Love Nest), which we both adored despite the ever present multitude of reminders of exactly how weird the people we’re subletting from actually are. I can’t even get into the specifics of how weird they are right now, and Ben and Mary warrant their very own post anyway. I unpacked and arranged my room, which I love. I spent the next few days watching Arrested Development, going merrily about my job search (idiot.), getting together with friends, and reveling in the fact that I live a two minute walk away from everything in Hillsboro Village. Life was perfect.
Then I realized that I live next door to a murder house.
You might ask, as many people have, “What is a murder house?” Don’t. Don’t ask. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Use your brain.
The murder house is teal. Teal. It is surrounded on all sides by a tall fence. Despite the fact that the fence is too tall to climb over, the owners (read: murderers) opted to cover the entire expanse of their yard with chicken wire that is connected to the top of the fence as well as the sides of the house. The entire chimney is covered with an excessive amount of plastic wrap, which is then reinforced with approximately three entire rolls of duct tape. Some sort of weird noose-like structure hangs from the east side of the house. (fine, it’s just a long rope. but really. why.) No one goes in or out, and lights come on only at night. Sometimes, if you sit on my back porch late at night, you can hear a grinding noise for an extended period of time.
Murder house.
It’s the only explanation that fits.
Now, you may have an alternate explanation, some way to reason away all these tell-tale signs.
I don’t want to hear it. You’re wrong. It’s a murder house.
I’m really only interested in “constructive compliments” (Michael Scott), never constructive criticism, and never ever regular criticism. Act accordingly.
So there you have the beginning of a story that hasn’t happened yet. I don’t know the gruesome details of how it will pan out, but, come on- I live next door to a murder house.
This story ends with my being murdered.
For those of you who either don’t stay in touch with me or don’t know me (I’m talking to you, weirdo internet pervs), at the beginning of June I moved back to Nashville after a three week respite at home in Jackson.
Respite may be the wrong word. It was really more of a three week series of challenges to my sanity that I can with disturbing accuracy compare to a run of the gauntlet, fight with a bull, or some similar test of endurance, mental acuity and sheer inner fortitude that you know ahead of time you’re really not up to. Then again, any of these comparisons may or may not apply to almost any period of time spent with my family exceeding three hours. Unless we all have to be in the same room, in which case it’s more like fifteen minutes.
I actually had an uncharacteristic bout of homesickness shortly before my return to Tennessee. I love Jackson. I love getting iced coffee with espresso ice cubes from Cups and chatting with my favorite barista, Eamonn. I love sitting at Julep splitting a ham and cheese sandwich with Lauren, a girl that I have been and will be friends with for my whole life. I love driving to Brent’s with Madeleine, getting chocolate milkshakes, and ridiculing everyone we see.
Ok, I mostly like eating there. Whatever. There’s no place like home, and all that.
So what was I doing spending what could be some of the last weeks that I’d live there with any degree of permanence galavanting about in Nashville where I didn’t even have a job yet, for God’s sake? Not that I was really worried- that would be quickly remedied upon my arrival. (dear past Ashton, you are an idiot.)
I pondered these things on a sunny Monday while applying sunscreen before going out to the beach until mother’s voice jolted me from my reverie.
“Ashton, last week in my Sunday school class we talked about girls who sin by showing too much skin.”
“Mom. It’s a bikini. There’s not exactly a turtleneck option. Plus, I’m about to go lay out. Showing skin is kind of the point.”
“In my Sunday school class, we talked about how those girls look like they’re selling something, and how it sends out the wrong message.”
“Mom, please stop calling me a prostitute.”
This to say, my brief foray into homesickness/dementia passed quickly and I was exceedingly happy to make my way back to Nashville. Jackson would be there when I got back.
As Miranda and I finished our nine hour drive back to Nashville from the beach (yes, the poor girl went to the beach with my family. not something a lot of people bounce back from.) I felt a peaceful, calm feeling set in. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being where you’re supposed to be, when you’re supposed to be there. I moved in to mine and Lori’s apartment (alt. title: The Love Nest), which we both adored despite the ever present multitude of reminders of exactly how weird the people we’re subletting from actually are. I can’t even get into the specifics of how weird they are right now, and Ben and Mary warrant their very own post anyway. I unpacked and arranged my room, which I love. I spent the next few days watching Arrested Development, going merrily about my job search (idiot.), getting together with friends, and reveling in the fact that I live a two minute walk away from everything in Hillsboro Village. Life was perfect.
Then I realized that I live next door to a murder house.
You might ask, as many people have, “What is a murder house?” Don’t. Don’t ask. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Use your brain.
The murder house is teal. Teal. It is surrounded on all sides by a tall fence. Despite the fact that the fence is too tall to climb over, the owners (read: murderers) opted to cover the entire expanse of their yard with chicken wire that is connected to the top of the fence as well as the sides of the house. The entire chimney is covered with an excessive amount of plastic wrap, which is then reinforced with approximately three entire rolls of duct tape. Some sort of weird noose-like structure hangs from the east side of the house. (fine, it’s just a long rope. but really. why.) No one goes in or out, and lights come on only at night. Sometimes, if you sit on my back porch late at night, you can hear a grinding noise for an extended period of time.
Murder house.
It’s the only explanation that fits.
Now, you may have an alternate explanation, some way to reason away all these tell-tale signs.
I don’t want to hear it. You’re wrong. It’s a murder house.
I’m really only interested in “constructive compliments” (Michael Scott), never constructive criticism, and never ever regular criticism. Act accordingly.
So there you have the beginning of a story that hasn’t happened yet. I don’t know the gruesome details of how it will pan out, but, come on- I live next door to a murder house.
This story ends with my being murdered.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Yet Another Day One
I have three chief reasons for making another effort at blogging. First, I am unemployed and have a lot of time on my hands. Second, everyone else seems to be doing it. Finally, I like the sound of my own voice/whatever the technological translation of that sentiment is. Really though, I’ve made a few previous attempts at blogging in the past, all of which have floated off to wherever it is the projects that I start and inevitably abandon three days after eventually end up. I kind of like the idea that they’re all together out there somewhere, not getting too lonely or worrying about me thinking of them again.
So although there is no guarantee that I will ever post here again, I’m asking you (you being my imaginary readers, since i just realized that I have never even told anyone about any of the blogs I’ve started and, more importantly, I doubt anyone cares - not that they should. I have very little to say and will most likely ramble about myself. you should probably stop reading this, actually. Have you checked out stumbleupon.com? Great way to waste time.) to give it a chance. Unless you don’t want to, in which case you have no business here and I ask that you leave. Good day, sir!
I called this blog The Blank Slate because that’s kind of where I am right now. I won’t ramble ceaselessly about my life/issues, because I honestly want to hear about that less than you do. (But don’t get comfortable, any potential readers are not safe from my life/issues. No one is, really. Ask the guy who was the cashier at Fido on May 26 at 8am. Poor guy.) Regardless, I like the idea that you can always start over. In a rare but valuable gem of a real conversation that I had with my dad last spring, he told me that he thinks the key to being happy is never being afraid to change your situation and start over if you’re not happy. Whether that pertains to your career (ha), job (nothing to change there either), school, friends, or lunch choice, I think he had a point. For a series of reasons that I won’t divulge now (again, lucky you), I’m at a place right now where I have a chance to start over with regard to an overwhelming majority of the aspects of my life (don’t freak out, don’t freak out). And I want to do it. I’m going to go new places, hang out with new people, listen to new music (probably not, I still like mine better than yours), find new hobbies, and sleep on a different side of the bed (just kidding, wall side forever). If you are interested in assisting me in any of these endeavors, ask me. I’ll say yes.
If this blogging ridiculousness is to continue, there will be no format/theme/pattern. I have no structure in my life and do not see that any reflection of my life should be extended the courtesy of organization.
For today, I think I’ll give the aforementioned imaginary readers (none of which are gingers) an update on my current projects in the vain hope that the act of writing said projects down will make them somehow more real and therefore more likely to come to fruition. Do not be too optimistic, my success rate here is devastatingly low.
1- Finding a job - This is not going well. Yesterday I thought I had a potential hire in my net (Sweet Cece’s Hillsboro Village please, please please hire me! I will be so smiley and helpful! Please) but it may have swum out, as I have not received a call back today. Having previously been someone who is generally worthless in terms of contribution to the workforce/society, I was misinformed with regards to the level of difficulty involved in procuring a job without benefits like of any sort of talent or work history. P.S. thanks, woman who said she’d hire me as a nanny and then quit contacting me back/didn’t answer any of my emails. I’m not pretending to be a math genius, but I am learning a little bit about the effects using your debit card a lot without ever depositing anything can have on the bottom number of my regions.com balance checker. Oh well, it was about time to delete that from my toolbar anyway.
2. Starting a blog - BAM. goal achieved. Sort of. Technically I’m still writing this in Pages (long story short - my microsoft word committed suicide). But surely I wouldn’t write this all out and then delete it....Right?
3. Reading Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - This is one of two Spanish books on my summer reading list that I made for myself. (Don’t make fun, nerds need love too!!**) I’m pretty sure my reading comprehension in spanish is très far from where it should be, so I’m attempting to work on it.
4. Learn all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels - I feel like this is relatively self explanatory and indubitably necessitates action.
5. Working on the book I’m writing - I’m not going to say a lot about that right here. Suffice it to say, it’s going to be fantastic and is owed more space than a spot on a list in a blog. In fact, it needs a whole book.
6. Journaling again - I used to write all the time just about what was going on in my life. I never show it to anyone, but I love it. I love going back and reading what was important to me in mid april of 2007 or whatever. It helps me work out my endless conundrums (seems like there should be a cooler plural for that word) and generally just makes me feel calm. Sometimes I get a little freaked out by my life and can’t deal with thinking about how real it is for long enough to write it down; that may have happened lately.
7. Restart my picture a day project - This was a terrible project for someone who has such problems with commitment/continuity/consecutive brain waves. But I like it. I also have a lot of time and a new backup hard drive. And Nashville is absolutely beautiful right now, so there’s really no reason not to.
8. Do something artsy - I am not functionally artsy. That is to say, there’s an artsy pseudo indie girl inside me who is perpetually drowning in her artsiness because I have not provided her with any talent through which she could channel said artsiness. Regardless, I have some paints and paintbrushes, so maybe I will sit on the floor in my room and try. I’ll probably either throw it away or draw stick people on it and put it on our refrigerator and say my cousin made it. Note: of all the things on this list, this is the least likely to happen.
So wish me luck on those projects. My goal for the day is to work a little on all of them, as I am telling myself the job I interviewed for yesterday is going to call me back so I therefore have no responsibility to go look for new opportunities now (for real, Sweet Cece’s, I’m begging).
If you just read this whole thing, maybe you should make your own list of things to get working on. Just a suggestion.
**This is actually a lie perpetuated by nerds themselves in order to gain an advantage over their stronger, more street wise non-nerdy counterparts. Nerds do not need love. They are robots.
So although there is no guarantee that I will ever post here again, I’m asking you (you being my imaginary readers, since i just realized that I have never even told anyone about any of the blogs I’ve started and, more importantly, I doubt anyone cares - not that they should. I have very little to say and will most likely ramble about myself. you should probably stop reading this, actually. Have you checked out stumbleupon.com? Great way to waste time.) to give it a chance. Unless you don’t want to, in which case you have no business here and I ask that you leave. Good day, sir!
I called this blog The Blank Slate because that’s kind of where I am right now. I won’t ramble ceaselessly about my life/issues, because I honestly want to hear about that less than you do. (But don’t get comfortable, any potential readers are not safe from my life/issues. No one is, really. Ask the guy who was the cashier at Fido on May 26 at 8am. Poor guy.) Regardless, I like the idea that you can always start over. In a rare but valuable gem of a real conversation that I had with my dad last spring, he told me that he thinks the key to being happy is never being afraid to change your situation and start over if you’re not happy. Whether that pertains to your career (ha), job (nothing to change there either), school, friends, or lunch choice, I think he had a point. For a series of reasons that I won’t divulge now (again, lucky you), I’m at a place right now where I have a chance to start over with regard to an overwhelming majority of the aspects of my life (don’t freak out, don’t freak out). And I want to do it. I’m going to go new places, hang out with new people, listen to new music (probably not, I still like mine better than yours), find new hobbies, and sleep on a different side of the bed (just kidding, wall side forever). If you are interested in assisting me in any of these endeavors, ask me. I’ll say yes.
If this blogging ridiculousness is to continue, there will be no format/theme/pattern. I have no structure in my life and do not see that any reflection of my life should be extended the courtesy of organization.
For today, I think I’ll give the aforementioned imaginary readers (none of which are gingers) an update on my current projects in the vain hope that the act of writing said projects down will make them somehow more real and therefore more likely to come to fruition. Do not be too optimistic, my success rate here is devastatingly low.
1- Finding a job - This is not going well. Yesterday I thought I had a potential hire in my net (Sweet Cece’s Hillsboro Village please, please please hire me! I will be so smiley and helpful! Please) but it may have swum out, as I have not received a call back today. Having previously been someone who is generally worthless in terms of contribution to the workforce/society, I was misinformed with regards to the level of difficulty involved in procuring a job without benefits like of any sort of talent or work history. P.S. thanks, woman who said she’d hire me as a nanny and then quit contacting me back/didn’t answer any of my emails. I’m not pretending to be a math genius, but I am learning a little bit about the effects using your debit card a lot without ever depositing anything can have on the bottom number of my regions.com balance checker. Oh well, it was about time to delete that from my toolbar anyway.
2. Starting a blog - BAM. goal achieved. Sort of. Technically I’m still writing this in Pages (long story short - my microsoft word committed suicide). But surely I wouldn’t write this all out and then delete it....Right?
3. Reading Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - This is one of two Spanish books on my summer reading list that I made for myself. (Don’t make fun, nerds need love too!!**) I’m pretty sure my reading comprehension in spanish is très far from where it should be, so I’m attempting to work on it.
4. Learn all the words to Sorry, Mrs. Jackson by Outkast in order to increase my awesomeness levels - I feel like this is relatively self explanatory and indubitably necessitates action.
5. Working on the book I’m writing - I’m not going to say a lot about that right here. Suffice it to say, it’s going to be fantastic and is owed more space than a spot on a list in a blog. In fact, it needs a whole book.
6. Journaling again - I used to write all the time just about what was going on in my life. I never show it to anyone, but I love it. I love going back and reading what was important to me in mid april of 2007 or whatever. It helps me work out my endless conundrums (seems like there should be a cooler plural for that word) and generally just makes me feel calm. Sometimes I get a little freaked out by my life and can’t deal with thinking about how real it is for long enough to write it down; that may have happened lately.
7. Restart my picture a day project - This was a terrible project for someone who has such problems with commitment/continuity/consecutive brain waves. But I like it. I also have a lot of time and a new backup hard drive. And Nashville is absolutely beautiful right now, so there’s really no reason not to.
8. Do something artsy - I am not functionally artsy. That is to say, there’s an artsy pseudo indie girl inside me who is perpetually drowning in her artsiness because I have not provided her with any talent through which she could channel said artsiness. Regardless, I have some paints and paintbrushes, so maybe I will sit on the floor in my room and try. I’ll probably either throw it away or draw stick people on it and put it on our refrigerator and say my cousin made it. Note: of all the things on this list, this is the least likely to happen.
So wish me luck on those projects. My goal for the day is to work a little on all of them, as I am telling myself the job I interviewed for yesterday is going to call me back so I therefore have no responsibility to go look for new opportunities now (for real, Sweet Cece’s, I’m begging).
If you just read this whole thing, maybe you should make your own list of things to get working on. Just a suggestion.
**This is actually a lie perpetuated by nerds themselves in order to gain an advantage over their stronger, more street wise non-nerdy counterparts. Nerds do not need love. They are robots.
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