Filed under: Blogs
I grabbed a bottle of Snapple out of the fridge and unscrewed the metal cap off, anxiously anticipating what absolutely inspiring snippet of information would be printed under it this time. And dang, this one really did not disappoint.
#359: A teaspoon contains 120 drops of water.
I kept wondering about the person who actually figured this “fact” out. With his little eyedropper, eyes cross-eyed on the little teaspoon trembling in his other hand, watching each little drop fall into the teaspoon, counting aloud while he was at it. In second grade, my teacher once told us to drop as many drops as we could onto a penny without it spilling over. Then she asked us what we learned from this activity and I replied we would really know how to drop eye drops into our eyes. Sad. If anyone knew about this he would probably be called a loser.
I must admit though, the number 120 is real pretty. 120 drops of water. Poetic, even. Easier for naive kids to remember and show off to their naive friends later on I guess. But frankly, I think Snapple’s getting a little desperate. Can’t wait to see what else they’ve got up their sleeve the next time I decide to twist one of those caps off.
Filed under: Blogs
Pushing through the glass doors, she entered the world of artificiality. The white fluorescent lights blinded her as she shifted her eyes towards the large and colorful menu above the cashier. Loud pop music blasted through the speakers as she approached the indifferent man behind the counter. Wearing his dirty uniform and a cap stained with sweat, it comforted her how he didn’t give a damn about how messed up her life was. He just wanted to finish his shift and get on with his own chaotic life. McDonald’s was the best place of escape. Nothing was real. Even the patties sandwiched between its burgers.
Carrying her cup of coke, she sat down on the plastic chairs and placed her tray on the table. Kicked out of the house at 7 PM with an extraordinary screaming session with her parents to usher her out was not how she wanted her Friday to turn out. But now, she had apparently been disowned and banished to McDonald’s, leaving her with only a backpack left in her possession. She unzipped her bag and took out her worn out sketchbook. Flipping through the yellowing pages, each sketch was an action of fury, of rebellion against all the expectations her parents burdened her with. Sketches of depression and frustration of being the lesser sibling unfurled before her with cities burning and children crying. But after all those strokes of disappointment at herself and resentment of her parents, the answer as to who was right or wrong she could never figure out. As she neared the end of the book, one pen sketch caught her eye. It was a girl with tears streaming down her face, skin and bones, unloved. This girl was the worst of her imaginations, the worst she could become. She wished it didn’t come down to this.
With a hopeless sigh, she closed the book, left her unfinished coke on the table and walked out of the glass doors into the rush of people pushing past her, faced with an unknown future.
–
Walking briskly in a stuffy black shirt and slacks, gripping her violin tightly, she passed McD’s, stomach growling ever more cruelly from skipping dinner so she could fit in some last minute practice before the recital. Suddenly, a girl wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, carrying a black book burst out through the glass doors barely avoiding a collision with her violin. The artist faltered a few steps back, watching curiously as the violinist continued her way towards a night of a potentially face-losing, humiliating, mind-blanking performance.
After ten years of monthly recitals, she still couldn’t perfect the flawless performance. The nerves never failed to welcome her the moment she stepped on stage, with the bright lights shining down on her and the audience sitting in the dark, waiting, waiting, judging. Her hands would become clammy with sweat and unnecessary thoughts would start to invade her mind and blur her focus. What if I blank out on that really challenging section? Gosh, those double stops sound so fugly. Bet you those harmonics won’t sound out. How am I ever going to get through this whole piece? It’s Sarasate’s Carmen. What was I thinking when I chose to work on this piece?
The long agonizing wait was always the worst, watching other students face their own imperfections as they stumbled their way through a piece, each mishap, a stab to her rapidly beating heart. But when the teacher called her name, she stepped on stage and took a last look at her mom; the perfectionist who pushed her so hard to become a person she didn’t want to be and yet created talent out of a talentless daughter. She raced through the notes, playing out hours and hours of practice. Years of failure, doubt, success. But this time, she wanted this piece to be her own. Not a piece handcuffed to the dreams of other people.
Adrenaline pumped through her, her hearbeat beated faster and faster as she sped through the last final stretch of notes, and with sweat trickling down her face, arms and fingers a blur, she pushed through the last three notes. With a final flourish, she took her final bow. It was her last recital.
It was the first time she performed flawlessly.
–
She plopped down in front of her laptop and turned on her stereo. Carmen. Showy piece. If only love was as filled with hope, excitement, anticipation as this perfect song of unexpected harmonics and thrilling stretches of notes. But unrequited love, it’s different. It’s a love so innocent, so naive. It’s a love that’s always in constant denial of the danger of not getting back what you gave.
As she waited for her email page to load she automically scrolled up her MSN list to see if he was online. With her face propped in her hands, elbows on the table, she waited, wishing so hard she would her the jingle of a new message from him.
She sat staring at the computer screen, bored like no other as the air conditioner hummed silently. As she opened up Internet Explorer, trying to figure out if she should go to nytimes or check out videos on Youtube, a new window flashed orange on her dashboard.
–
Insomnia enveloped her with an unforgiving grip. It plagued her every five minutes. Thoughts started to twist into peculiar dreams. Dreams began to morph into reality. College life spiraled into idealistic notions that were too good to be true. But it was only best to expect the worse. That was when insomnia created in her these alternate universes.
