Nearly one year ago, on November 15th, I began working for a local grocery store chain called Harris Teeter. Now, as I head off to college in a far-off state, I leave this job behind. But I take memories with me -- some good, some bad, and some spectacularly blog-worthy. Allow me to regale you with remembrances of customers long gone, of disturbances in routine, and of a job that I truly came to love.
I remember... "Mrs. Robinson."
Mrs. Robinson was one of my least favorite customers, though the first time or two I served her I thought her quite nice. It was on one occasion, after we had been chatting pleasantly for awhile, that I began having trouble with one of her coupons. Well.... make that six of them, each for $2 off, and most of them too blurred to scan. I called my manager over for help, and she took one look at the coupons and said "I'm sorry, but we can't take these."
Mrs. Robinson took them back without a fuss, then handed me a store card for her second transaction. But the card wasn't under the name Robinson, which my manager immediately noticed.
"That's my neighbor's VIC card," Mrs. Robinson said. "I'm buying these groceries for her."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's one VIC card per customer."
"But it's for my neighbor."
"She would have to be here, ma'am. Sorry."
Mrs. Robinson reached down and grabbed the arm of her two-year-old son, dragging him up to the counter. "He's a customer! You've got to let him use the card."
My manager argued with her a little longer, and finally Mrs. Robinson gave up, left most of the groceries for her "neighbor," and exited the store.
"Look at these coupons," my manager said, taking one of the coupons I'd managed to scan. "It's obviously photocopied from a magazine. We can't accept photocopied coupons, 'cause we don't get paid back for them. Also, we can't accept more than three of the same kind of coupon. And it's expired. You've got to be more careful when you're scanning these."
I was horrified to find that Mrs. Robinson, who had been quite kind, was in reality some kind of coupon con artist. No longer did the incident with the secondary VIC card seem like needless nit-picking from my manager -- I realized now that Mrs. Robinson had been trying to get double the deals.
A few weeks later I served her again. I wasn't sure at first -- the face was familiar, but the name on the card wasn't the same. But I knew her right away when she tried to give me the same huge pile of photocopied, expired coupons that she'd tried to pawn of last time!
I remember... the lady who got angry about my necklace.
A busy day, a customer with a WIC check for certain food items -- the first WIC check I'd ever had to process. I was already pretty nervous about it as I scanned the groceries that were not listed on the check first, getting that transaction out of the way before I would have to call my manager for help. As I worked, I noticed that the customer was giving my Celtic knot necklace a very skeptical look.
"What's it mean?" she asked abruptly.
"What?"
"What does that mean?" she asked again, pointing at the necklace.
"Oh, I -- nothing, really."
"You don't know what it means?"
"It's a Celtic knot."
She was not pleased with this response. "That like the KKK?"
I almost dropped the milk. "No! No! Celtic! Like... like Irish?"
She just narrowed her eyes at me and gave my necklace another skeptical look, as if she didn't quite believe me but didn't care enough to raise a fuss about my evil gang sign KKK necklace.
I remember... the mafia man who bought me Skittles.
It was fairly late that evening, and business had been moving at a goodly clip for most of my shift. I leaned against my register, taking a break, when down my line came the strangest customer I had had that day. He was tall and dark and perhaps handsome as well (in that rugged 50s sort of way), was sharply-dressed in a pinstripe shirt, suspenders, slacks, and shiny shoes... and was pushing a cart loaded up to full capacity with alcohol of every kind.
"Hello, welcome to Harris Teeter!" I chirruped.
"Hello, Elizabeth. What's your favorite candy?" he queried in reply.
I automatically replied "Skittles," took his store card, and began scanning his mountains of liquor. He, meanwhile, thoughtfully perused the candy until he found a pack of Skittles, which he handed to me to ring up. I did so, thinking nothing of it, until at the end of the (long) transaction he said "You can keep those."
I awkwardly thanked him and gave him his cart... then, when he had disappeared out the doors, I realized that he hadn't completed the payment process with his debit card! I raced outside, found him, led him back, and watched with red-faced shame as he finished up the transaction, stoically took his receipt, and left again with his inordinate amount of alcohol in tow.
I remember doing a grande plie in cheap khakis my first night and splitting them open at the seam.
I remember running across the parking lot in a heavy summer rainstorm to roll up the windows on my car.
I remember meeting a man who was an amalgamation of all the traits I find most attractive.
I remember making a break-time nest for myself behind the bags of mulch.
I remember folding tiny origami cranes from receipt paper during slow times.
I remember trading poetry quotes with a hipster customer.
I remember coming in second in the contest to sell donation cards.
Most of all, I remember how good it felt to learn to do my job well.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Pitfalls of high-falutin' language
The world is filled with writers of all kinds. Many are good, many are bad, many are mediocre. Usually it's not too hard to avoid low-quality writing; if it's awful, stop reading and go on your merry way, perhaps cleanse your palate with some worthier work.
What really becomes painful, however, is when otherwise good writers misuse words so blatantly that it sticks in your mind forever and festers there, like a tiny splinter from a seemingly varnished surface. There are a few misuses in particular that I see all too often, and that I wish to raise awareness about.
Don -- This is often used as a fancier-sounding synonym for "wore." In actuality, it is a succinct verb that means "to put on." When used properly, it saves a bit of space and can improve sentence flow. Improperly used, however, it becomes a distraction and a nuisance.
Wrong: Anna was donned in cashmere.
Right: Anna had donned cashmere.
Orb -- It's not so much the misuse of this word as the abuse of it that is truly irritating. Since the English language doesn't have a lot of synonyms for "eyes," many authors will use the word "orbs" instead, either to avoid repetitive language or to sound more romantic. Either way, it never ends up sounding quite right, and those who enjoy it might find that its plebian cousin serves them better.
Wrong: Ambrose's blue orbs flashed with ire.
Right: Ambrose's blue eyes flashed with ire.
Thee -- Quite a few authors, when looking for a bit of medieval flair, have fallen at once to using "thee" without any thought to its proper use or conjugation. The most common mistake is to use "thee" universally, when in reality it is merely the objective case of "thou."
Wrong: If thee hast finished thee tea, I pray thee, come.
Right: If thou hast finished thy tea, I pray thee, come.
O -- This is a little bit nit-picky, I'll admit, but not a lot of people seem to realize that "o" is even a word. Most of the time, people just use "oh." "O" is used mainly in old-fashioned writing, often in legend-form, and is commonly a form of address.
Wrong: Oh mighty dragon, heed my plea!
Right: O mighty dragon, heed my plea!
Bonus: a Southerner collective noun explained
Y'all -- A lot of people get this one wrong, and it's used in different ways in different places, but believe it or not, there is a proper way to use this word! It's a contraction of "you all;" a collective noun that refers to more than one person.
Wrong: Y'all sit down, Mr. Parson.
Right: Y'all sit down, Mr. and Mrs. Parson.
What really becomes painful, however, is when otherwise good writers misuse words so blatantly that it sticks in your mind forever and festers there, like a tiny splinter from a seemingly varnished surface. There are a few misuses in particular that I see all too often, and that I wish to raise awareness about.
Don -- This is often used as a fancier-sounding synonym for "wore." In actuality, it is a succinct verb that means "to put on." When used properly, it saves a bit of space and can improve sentence flow. Improperly used, however, it becomes a distraction and a nuisance.
Wrong: Anna was donned in cashmere.
Right: Anna had donned cashmere.
Orb -- It's not so much the misuse of this word as the abuse of it that is truly irritating. Since the English language doesn't have a lot of synonyms for "eyes," many authors will use the word "orbs" instead, either to avoid repetitive language or to sound more romantic. Either way, it never ends up sounding quite right, and those who enjoy it might find that its plebian cousin serves them better.
Wrong: Ambrose's blue orbs flashed with ire.
Right: Ambrose's blue eyes flashed with ire.
Thee -- Quite a few authors, when looking for a bit of medieval flair, have fallen at once to using "thee" without any thought to its proper use or conjugation. The most common mistake is to use "thee" universally, when in reality it is merely the objective case of "thou."
Wrong: If thee hast finished thee tea, I pray thee, come.
Right: If thou hast finished thy tea, I pray thee, come.
O -- This is a little bit nit-picky, I'll admit, but not a lot of people seem to realize that "o" is even a word. Most of the time, people just use "oh." "O" is used mainly in old-fashioned writing, often in legend-form, and is commonly a form of address.
Wrong: Oh mighty dragon, heed my plea!
Right: O mighty dragon, heed my plea!
Bonus: a Southerner collective noun explained
Y'all -- A lot of people get this one wrong, and it's used in different ways in different places, but believe it or not, there is a proper way to use this word! It's a contraction of "you all;" a collective noun that refers to more than one person.
Wrong: Y'all sit down, Mr. Parson.
Right: Y'all sit down, Mr. and Mrs. Parson.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Miss Monday's Traffic Ticket
Today was to have been one of my worst days in a very, very long time.
It was the day I was scheduled to go to court for the first time ever.
I was nearly desperate last night, reading about court procedures at a frenzied pace and fretting about where I'd get the money to pay the enormous court fees. I went to bed early, dreading the day and hoping fervently that it would be infinity times less horrible than I expected.
Against all odds, that's exactly what happened.
I got to the courthouse early -- very early. So early, in fact, that it hadn't even opened to the public yet! I was aware of the building's hours (having seen them on the website the night before), but I thought it was worth a try to get inside and out of the biting cold. (Note: fancy shoes are NOT made for keeping one's feet warm in such situations!) I was quite relieved to find the door unlocked and stepped into the warm interior.
"Ma'am, this building is closed to the public until eight. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
It was only 7:20. I couldn't stay outside all that time! "Can't I just stay here?" I asked, desperately.
"No, ma'am, this building is closed to the public."
Blinking back childish tears, I stepped out into the kind of day that makes you want to huddle deep under your covers and beg for mercy.
Fortunately, I spent only five minutes exposing my under-clad feet to the weather. I found an office building across the street with unlocked doors and slipped into a warm lobby, in which four black leather chairs were arranged around a little table. A brief stint in one of these chairs quickly convinced me that I was far too chilled to expose myself to heat-sapping leather. Besides, what if someone saw me and sent me away? I'd had that happen once. I didn't think I could deal with it a second time. And so, not without some inner amusement, I settled myself on the rug between two chairs and pulled out a book.
I was there for a full forty minutes and not one person noticed me. Or at least, if they noticed, no one remarked on my presence. Maybe I was better-hidden between the chairs than I'd thought, maybe they were too busy to bother checking to see if I belonged there, or maybe they took pity on a displaced little waif hiding from the cold. Whatever the reason, I remained undisturbed for long enough to thaw out.
As eight o'clock approached, I gathered up every ounce of my trembling courage and stepped out of the welcoming warmth of the unknown building.
One thing that I took away from my visit to the courthouse: it takes a great deal of lining-up to get people properly sorted! I stood in line to get into the building, stood in line to go through security, then went up in an elevator and down a long hallway to stand in line again so I could check in with one of the clerks.
The official copy of my ticket was placed at the bottom of a pile. When I came to the front of the line, it came to the top of the pile, and the clerk who picked it up called me forward.
"What was the offense?"
"I went through a crosswalk when someone was entering it."
He considered for a moment, then scribbled something on the ticket. "I'm going to let you go with a warning. They treated you pretty harshly." He glanced up and noticed my incomprehension. "I saw them send you back outside. You looked pretty miserable."
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Did he really mean it? No court costs or anything? "So, should I just...?"
"I would recommend you scoot out that door as fast as you can."
I duly scooted, and stood not upon the order of my going.
No guards stopped me in the long hallway. I wished a lonely-looking man luck as I passed him by, and we exchanged the smiles of strangers. I escaped into the elevator, stepped out into the lobby, marveled for a moment at the miraculous outcome of my first visit to traffic court, then skipped outside and sang songs of rejoicing to the winter sky.
It was the day I was scheduled to go to court for the first time ever.
I was nearly desperate last night, reading about court procedures at a frenzied pace and fretting about where I'd get the money to pay the enormous court fees. I went to bed early, dreading the day and hoping fervently that it would be infinity times less horrible than I expected.
Against all odds, that's exactly what happened.
I got to the courthouse early -- very early. So early, in fact, that it hadn't even opened to the public yet! I was aware of the building's hours (having seen them on the website the night before), but I thought it was worth a try to get inside and out of the biting cold. (Note: fancy shoes are NOT made for keeping one's feet warm in such situations!) I was quite relieved to find the door unlocked and stepped into the warm interior.
"Ma'am, this building is closed to the public until eight. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
It was only 7:20. I couldn't stay outside all that time! "Can't I just stay here?" I asked, desperately.
"No, ma'am, this building is closed to the public."
Blinking back childish tears, I stepped out into the kind of day that makes you want to huddle deep under your covers and beg for mercy.
Fortunately, I spent only five minutes exposing my under-clad feet to the weather. I found an office building across the street with unlocked doors and slipped into a warm lobby, in which four black leather chairs were arranged around a little table. A brief stint in one of these chairs quickly convinced me that I was far too chilled to expose myself to heat-sapping leather. Besides, what if someone saw me and sent me away? I'd had that happen once. I didn't think I could deal with it a second time. And so, not without some inner amusement, I settled myself on the rug between two chairs and pulled out a book.
I was there for a full forty minutes and not one person noticed me. Or at least, if they noticed, no one remarked on my presence. Maybe I was better-hidden between the chairs than I'd thought, maybe they were too busy to bother checking to see if I belonged there, or maybe they took pity on a displaced little waif hiding from the cold. Whatever the reason, I remained undisturbed for long enough to thaw out.
As eight o'clock approached, I gathered up every ounce of my trembling courage and stepped out of the welcoming warmth of the unknown building.
One thing that I took away from my visit to the courthouse: it takes a great deal of lining-up to get people properly sorted! I stood in line to get into the building, stood in line to go through security, then went up in an elevator and down a long hallway to stand in line again so I could check in with one of the clerks.
The official copy of my ticket was placed at the bottom of a pile. When I came to the front of the line, it came to the top of the pile, and the clerk who picked it up called me forward.
"What was the offense?"
"I went through a crosswalk when someone was entering it."
He considered for a moment, then scribbled something on the ticket. "I'm going to let you go with a warning. They treated you pretty harshly." He glanced up and noticed my incomprehension. "I saw them send you back outside. You looked pretty miserable."
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Did he really mean it? No court costs or anything? "So, should I just...?"
"I would recommend you scoot out that door as fast as you can."
I duly scooted, and stood not upon the order of my going.
No guards stopped me in the long hallway. I wished a lonely-looking man luck as I passed him by, and we exchanged the smiles of strangers. I escaped into the elevator, stepped out into the lobby, marveled for a moment at the miraculous outcome of my first visit to traffic court, then skipped outside and sang songs of rejoicing to the winter sky.
Friday, September 27, 2013
My epic tale of revenge
Have you noticed that a lot of heroes in stories nowadays are on a huge quest for revenge? Someone or something has murdered their someone or taken their something, and now they're out to get their own back.
Well, today I realized that I'm in the middle of my own epic tale of revenge.
When I was a little girl, a horrible Something stole my grandmother away from me. Now this Something has taken my mother prisoner, perhaps never to be returned.
I am currently in the middle of my training montage.
But the training does not consist of punishing physical tasks or sage advice from an aged mentor. No, my training is going on every day, little by little. I'm learning to use the only weapon that can fight this Something: science.
The montage isn't anything exciting -- it mostly consists of me doing math homework online or reading a book about biology and how it relates to memory. And it's slow going, especially since I haven't been giving my STEM muscles much work until within the past year or two, but I am moving, step by step, toward becoming the perfect Something-fighting warrior:
A neuroscientist.
And someday, when my training is complete, I will track down the Something to its forbidding castle with a band of ragtag scientists, and together we will face down the Something and find its sole weakness. And then a great battle will be joined, the like of which has not been seen for many a year...
And we.
Will.
WIN.
My own life will never be the way it was, but I will have freed others in the future from the Something, and with that knowledge I will find peace.
This is my epic tale of revenge.
It's just starting right now, but someday...
Well, who knows what someday will bring?
Well, today I realized that I'm in the middle of my own epic tale of revenge.
When I was a little girl, a horrible Something stole my grandmother away from me. Now this Something has taken my mother prisoner, perhaps never to be returned.
I am currently in the middle of my training montage.
But the training does not consist of punishing physical tasks or sage advice from an aged mentor. No, my training is going on every day, little by little. I'm learning to use the only weapon that can fight this Something: science.
The montage isn't anything exciting -- it mostly consists of me doing math homework online or reading a book about biology and how it relates to memory. And it's slow going, especially since I haven't been giving my STEM muscles much work until within the past year or two, but I am moving, step by step, toward becoming the perfect Something-fighting warrior:
A neuroscientist.
And someday, when my training is complete, I will track down the Something to its forbidding castle with a band of ragtag scientists, and together we will face down the Something and find its sole weakness. And then a great battle will be joined, the like of which has not been seen for many a year...
And we.
Will.
WIN.
My own life will never be the way it was, but I will have freed others in the future from the Something, and with that knowledge I will find peace.
This is my epic tale of revenge.
It's just starting right now, but someday...
Well, who knows what someday will bring?
Monday, September 23, 2013
Shirtroulette and solemates
After many, many years of being schooled at home, I've just now entered a public school for my senior year. It meets at a community college and you can finish up your high school credits while you take college classes, and it's freeeee!
Unfortunately, since I'm no longer in charge of my own schedule to such a degree, I have to be up and ready much earlier than I'm used to. For the past two months I've been getting dressed in the normal way, picking things out every morning, but I've spent more time deliberating over shirt choices than I really want to spend (and they're not even that different from each other -- "Should I wear the geeky t-shirt with The Princess Bride and physics or the geeky t-shirt with a DeLorean and a TARDIS?").
That fact, combined with a sudden lust for reorganization, led to the creation of shirtroulette.
All of my best t-shirts and tank tops have been rolled up so that they're practically indistinguishable to the touch. I've placed them all in a drawer, and every night I close my eyes, open the drawer, and reach in. Whichever shirt I grab is the shirt I wear, though I'm free to choose from a number of different pairs of jeans to go with it, or even some black pants if I'm feeling creative.
Each night I move the shirts around a bit after selecting so that the selection of a new shirt the next night is a bigger surprise.
I've just implemented this system, and so far I'm pleased with the results. It makes it a lot easier to just pick a shirt and it brings an element of adventure to getting dressed!
Then again, I feel there's an element of adventure to sitting on my desk backwards and putting my feet on my chair, so maybe I'm just very easily entertained. After all, I can personify almost anything and make it into a story. This comes in handy if I'm feeling bored and want to talk to inanimate objects, but it's less handy when it makes me feel empathy for lonely socks.
Last night, when I was putting away my laundry, I discovered that one poor little sock was missing its solemate. I tried not to think too much of it, just set the sock aside and kept putting things away. But then, when I was nearing the bottom of the basket, I found another lonely little sock! With much rejoicing, I held it aloft and cried "Laura, look! The black sock isn't alone anymore! I found its little friend!"
I'm trying to pretend the lonely black sock in the living room and the lonely white sock in the family room don't exist. Otherwise I'll start imagining their feelings and end up wearing blatantly mismatched socks one day so they won't feel so sad.
Unfortunately, since I'm no longer in charge of my own schedule to such a degree, I have to be up and ready much earlier than I'm used to. For the past two months I've been getting dressed in the normal way, picking things out every morning, but I've spent more time deliberating over shirt choices than I really want to spend (and they're not even that different from each other -- "Should I wear the geeky t-shirt with The Princess Bride and physics or the geeky t-shirt with a DeLorean and a TARDIS?").
That fact, combined with a sudden lust for reorganization, led to the creation of shirtroulette.
All of my best t-shirts and tank tops have been rolled up so that they're practically indistinguishable to the touch. I've placed them all in a drawer, and every night I close my eyes, open the drawer, and reach in. Whichever shirt I grab is the shirt I wear, though I'm free to choose from a number of different pairs of jeans to go with it, or even some black pants if I'm feeling creative.
Each night I move the shirts around a bit after selecting so that the selection of a new shirt the next night is a bigger surprise.
I've just implemented this system, and so far I'm pleased with the results. It makes it a lot easier to just pick a shirt and it brings an element of adventure to getting dressed!
Then again, I feel there's an element of adventure to sitting on my desk backwards and putting my feet on my chair, so maybe I'm just very easily entertained. After all, I can personify almost anything and make it into a story. This comes in handy if I'm feeling bored and want to talk to inanimate objects, but it's less handy when it makes me feel empathy for lonely socks.
Last night, when I was putting away my laundry, I discovered that one poor little sock was missing its solemate. I tried not to think too much of it, just set the sock aside and kept putting things away. But then, when I was nearing the bottom of the basket, I found another lonely little sock! With much rejoicing, I held it aloft and cried "Laura, look! The black sock isn't alone anymore! I found its little friend!"
I'm trying to pretend the lonely black sock in the living room and the lonely white sock in the family room don't exist. Otherwise I'll start imagining their feelings and end up wearing blatantly mismatched socks one day so they won't feel so sad.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Phobias II: This time it's personal.
So, I made fun awhile ago of random fears that seem completely ridiculous. Now that I think about it, though, don't we all have ridiculous fears? If I'm going to mock other people for being afraid of such things as beards, than it's only fair that I mock myself just as much, perhaps more!
Without further ado, here are some of my odder fears:
Disfigured letter F
I discovered quite recently that this seemingly harmless little symbol fills me with the same sick horror as extreme gore:
"What's that?" you may be wondering, and with good reason.
It's a partially-dismembered letter F.
"How can you dismember letters?"
I don't know, but apparently it's not only completely possible, but utterly disgusting. I get the picture in my head of the poor little letter having its face torn off...
And, before you ask: yes, 'F' is the only letter I anthropomorphize.
Open doors (at night)
Few things are quite so horrifying as an open door at night. It fills to the brim with shadows, which are somehow darker than the darkness of the rest of the room. Anything could be in there... anything.
Plus, if you leave your bedroom door open, it's way too easy for monsters to get in. And the more doors there are in a room, the less secure I feel. When I was staying with my sister there was a double closet door (the scariest of all), the main door (which was hidden behind a corner but was still frightening because I didn't know for sure that it was closed) and a door to the guest bathroom. Three doors is two too many. How are you supposed to barricade yourself in from nightmares with so many portals to guard?
Closed bathroom doors (at night)
Yes, I'm aware there's a bit of a paradox here. Thing is, a few weeks ago I watched an episode of Buffy called "Hush". It was an excellent episode, and I wasn't too scared at the time of watching... But then I let my imagination run away with me. See, the episode features these demons called "The Gentlemen", who steal the voices of a town, go in and cut out the hearts of seven victims.
They were attended by straightjacketed, demonic footmen, who held down their victims for them and moved in a heart-stopping, lurching sort of movement, flailing their arms in a puppetlike dance.
Soon after I had seen that episode, I was sitting in the living room of my sister's house. I was the last to bed and had been loitering there for quite some time, messing with my laptop and trying to convince myself I wasn't scared of the Gentlemen. Of course, thinking about how scared I was got me being even more scared than before, so that by the time I actually went upstairs and started taking my contacts out I was practically paralyzed with fear. I had started to sing to myself to try and divert my mind, but unfortunately this just made me think 'Oh no! I must be REALLY scared if I have to SING!'
This is when I started imagining that the Gentlemen were floating silently up the stairs... they were just beyond the door... they were going to come in.
The doorknob rattled, and I screamed bloody murder.
Of course, it turned out not to be mythical demons that somehow weren't killed by my singing. It was just my younger sister, DLL, who wanted to get ready for bed.
And that's why I leave the door open and pace when I'm brushing my teeth.
Any bed that isn't a bunk bed
I've spent most of my life sleeping in an upper bunk, surrounded by sturdy rails. You'd be amazed by how secure you feel in one of those! Unfortunately, it has left me less than comfortable with certain aspects of a normal bed. After watching the movie Poltergeist, I was terrified for weeks of that clown doll. Even now, almost a full year later, I still cringe when I drop something and have to bend down to pick it up, because deep inside I'm positive that the clown will be waiting for me when I sit up again.
Normal beds are pretty cool the rest of the time, aside from the knowledge that it's way easier for any monsters or enemies to get at you and you could very easily fall off if you aren't careful and all the shadows seem so very, very much closer...
In conclusion
My imagination is a dark, twisted place sometimes. Of course, this should come as a surprise to no one, considering I drew a man-eating unicorn once and started a blog because of it. Really, the things that scare me about the monsters I mentioned isn't dying by their hands (I mean, the Gentlemen are killed by human voices and that clown was destroyed by a little kid), but simply the idea of coming face-to-face with them. I'm not frightened by them, exactly, but by the idea of them. Like with open doors - - it's not what's actually there, but what might be there. The possibility of terror is far more frightening to me than the actual terror.
Where does Disfigured F fit into this?
I haven't the foggiest. I think that one can just be chalked up to my being a strange little person.
And, now that I've written about and found pictures of the things that scare me most, I'm going to go to bed and lie awake half the night listening for monsters.
Without further ado, here are some of my odder fears:
Disfigured letter F
I discovered quite recently that this seemingly harmless little symbol fills me with the same sick horror as extreme gore:
It's a partially-dismembered letter F.
"How can you dismember letters?"
I don't know, but apparently it's not only completely possible, but utterly disgusting. I get the picture in my head of the poor little letter having its face torn off...
And, before you ask: yes, 'F' is the only letter I anthropomorphize.
Open doors (at night)
Few things are quite so horrifying as an open door at night. It fills to the brim with shadows, which are somehow darker than the darkness of the rest of the room. Anything could be in there... anything.
Plus, if you leave your bedroom door open, it's way too easy for monsters to get in. And the more doors there are in a room, the less secure I feel. When I was staying with my sister there was a double closet door (the scariest of all), the main door (which was hidden behind a corner but was still frightening because I didn't know for sure that it was closed) and a door to the guest bathroom. Three doors is two too many. How are you supposed to barricade yourself in from nightmares with so many portals to guard?
Closed bathroom doors (at night)
Yes, I'm aware there's a bit of a paradox here. Thing is, a few weeks ago I watched an episode of Buffy called "Hush". It was an excellent episode, and I wasn't too scared at the time of watching... But then I let my imagination run away with me. See, the episode features these demons called "The Gentlemen", who steal the voices of a town, go in and cut out the hearts of seven victims.
 |
| Seriously, look at them. |
Soon after I had seen that episode, I was sitting in the living room of my sister's house. I was the last to bed and had been loitering there for quite some time, messing with my laptop and trying to convince myself I wasn't scared of the Gentlemen. Of course, thinking about how scared I was got me being even more scared than before, so that by the time I actually went upstairs and started taking my contacts out I was practically paralyzed with fear. I had started to sing to myself to try and divert my mind, but unfortunately this just made me think 'Oh no! I must be REALLY scared if I have to SING!'
This is when I started imagining that the Gentlemen were floating silently up the stairs... they were just beyond the door... they were going to come in.
The doorknob rattled, and I screamed bloody murder.
Of course, it turned out not to be mythical demons that somehow weren't killed by my singing. It was just my younger sister, DLL, who wanted to get ready for bed.
And that's why I leave the door open and pace when I'm brushing my teeth.
Any bed that isn't a bunk bed
I've spent most of my life sleeping in an upper bunk, surrounded by sturdy rails. You'd be amazed by how secure you feel in one of those! Unfortunately, it has left me less than comfortable with certain aspects of a normal bed. After watching the movie Poltergeist, I was terrified for weeks of that clown doll. Even now, almost a full year later, I still cringe when I drop something and have to bend down to pick it up, because deep inside I'm positive that the clown will be waiting for me when I sit up again.
 |
| You go the whole movie thinking 'It couldn't be any creepier.' WRONG. |
Normal beds are pretty cool the rest of the time, aside from the knowledge that it's way easier for any monsters or enemies to get at you and you could very easily fall off if you aren't careful and all the shadows seem so very, very much closer...
In conclusion
My imagination is a dark, twisted place sometimes. Of course, this should come as a surprise to no one, considering I drew a man-eating unicorn once and started a blog because of it. Really, the things that scare me about the monsters I mentioned isn't dying by their hands (I mean, the Gentlemen are killed by human voices and that clown was destroyed by a little kid), but simply the idea of coming face-to-face with them. I'm not frightened by them, exactly, but by the idea of them. Like with open doors - - it's not what's actually there, but what might be there. The possibility of terror is far more frightening to me than the actual terror.
Where does Disfigured F fit into this?
I haven't the foggiest. I think that one can just be chalked up to my being a strange little person.
And, now that I've written about and found pictures of the things that scare me most, I'm going to go to bed and lie awake half the night listening for monsters.
Monday, June 17, 2013
My talent: self-injury
And what a talent! I'm always hurting myself somehow, but never quite to the point of breaking something (which is a miracle, considering that my favorite game when I was little was seeing how many stairs I could jump down). Through clumsiness or haste or just bad luck, I have spent my whole life accidentally hurting myself. I am forever barking fingers against the insides of ovens, dropping scalding bowls of soup, slamming shins into steps, falling down stairs, walking into doors (when I expect them to open and they don't), catching my elbow on a retracting seat belt buckle (just yesterday!), breaking nails off below the quick... I have a nasty habit of just letting my nails grow, and grow, and GROW... and then I mishandle something and SNAP!
For example, just two weeks ago I was unloading groceries when my thumbnail broke, right at the edge of my finger. I wore a band-aid for several days, and just as I had safely removed it (leaving a jagged spur that I didn't sand away), I dropped a history book on it and it broke AGAIN, only this time there were no band-aids available and I had to beg electric tape from someone.
Oh, and I injured myself at a rapier class the other day.
Don't worry! None of the actual weapons were out yet when it happened!
That's right. I managed to hurt myself at a weapons class without the aid of weapons.
It happened thus: the class was starting out with some reflex games. I don't normally join in (I was there to watch my sister's baby for her while she helped teach), but it looked like fun, so I asked to be included. We were playing a game in which one person holds gloves in both clenched hands, which they hold straight out in front of them. The other person places their hands on the back of the first person's. The first person will then drop either or both of the gloves, and the other will have to try and catch them.
I did fairly well at first. Which is to say, I caught one once or twice and snatched awkwardly at the air the rest of the time. I also got into the unfortunate habit of trying to catch with both hands.
I'm sure you've got a guess at what happened next.
My partner dropped the gloves.
I grabbed for them with both hands.
The palm of the left made solid contact with the pinkie of the right.
And, hey presto! Suddenly I was in agonizing pain.
Blinking back tears (because there's nothing so humiliating as crying when you've caused yourself terrible pain), I quietly exited the room to run cold water over the offended finger.
Needless to say, I did not continue to participate in the class.
The next day my pinkie was purple all along the inside and swollen to about twice the size of the other. It wasn't broken, though, which was something of a relief.
Since then I've been learning to do things more with my left hand, since the right had both a badly-bruised pinkie and a broken thumbnail working against it. I've also discovered that it really hurts to shake hands with people when your pinkie is hurt, but not visibly so. You try to keep it out of the action, and for the most part that works, until you have to shake hands with Firm Handshake McGee, who gathers ALL your fingers into his enormous hand (in spite of your best efforts) and does his best to pop your bones from their joints.
But, hey! At least I'll be better at poker now! I've learned to smile when I'm dying on the inside.
For example, just two weeks ago I was unloading groceries when my thumbnail broke, right at the edge of my finger. I wore a band-aid for several days, and just as I had safely removed it (leaving a jagged spur that I didn't sand away), I dropped a history book on it and it broke AGAIN, only this time there were no band-aids available and I had to beg electric tape from someone.
Oh, and I injured myself at a rapier class the other day.
Don't worry! None of the actual weapons were out yet when it happened!
That's right. I managed to hurt myself at a weapons class without the aid of weapons.
It happened thus: the class was starting out with some reflex games. I don't normally join in (I was there to watch my sister's baby for her while she helped teach), but it looked like fun, so I asked to be included. We were playing a game in which one person holds gloves in both clenched hands, which they hold straight out in front of them. The other person places their hands on the back of the first person's. The first person will then drop either or both of the gloves, and the other will have to try and catch them.
I did fairly well at first. Which is to say, I caught one once or twice and snatched awkwardly at the air the rest of the time. I also got into the unfortunate habit of trying to catch with both hands.
I'm sure you've got a guess at what happened next.
My partner dropped the gloves.
I grabbed for them with both hands.
The palm of the left made solid contact with the pinkie of the right.
And, hey presto! Suddenly I was in agonizing pain.
Blinking back tears (because there's nothing so humiliating as crying when you've caused yourself terrible pain), I quietly exited the room to run cold water over the offended finger.
Needless to say, I did not continue to participate in the class.
The next day my pinkie was purple all along the inside and swollen to about twice the size of the other. It wasn't broken, though, which was something of a relief.
Since then I've been learning to do things more with my left hand, since the right had both a badly-bruised pinkie and a broken thumbnail working against it. I've also discovered that it really hurts to shake hands with people when your pinkie is hurt, but not visibly so. You try to keep it out of the action, and for the most part that works, until you have to shake hands with Firm Handshake McGee, who gathers ALL your fingers into his enormous hand (in spite of your best efforts) and does his best to pop your bones from their joints.
But, hey! At least I'll be better at poker now! I've learned to smile when I'm dying on the inside.
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