It's just any other day... It's just any other day... Nothing special about today... Nothing out of the ordinary... Just gonna pretend it's any other day... And I don't think I'll cry today...
Happy July Third.
Dreamed last night that I was going to live in a "house on the water." And when I went to look at it, it was literally IN the water. You had to walk to it across a path of stepping stones. So, I went out there, and it was this perfect house... A whole huge house. With hardwood floors and dozens of rooms. There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms, and a sort of covered patio outside, floating on the water. And the whole house was built to be in harmony with the water; the water supported it, and flowed through parts of it, so you had to step carefully from room to room.
...And then John Travolta was in the living room. He was wearing this old Winnie-the-Pooh shirt of my mom's. I laughed at him, but he got really serious. Said something like, "don't worry about a thing."
It was really weird.
I have NO idea what any of that means.
I'm a weird person, I guess.
Spent the morning lying on my back and singing along to old Annie Lennox songs. I love Annie Lennox. Maybe, if I were stranded on a desert island (come to think of it, is there really such a thing as a DESERT island? If it's a fucking island, it's going to rain, and if it rains, it's not going to be a desert for long... right?)... If I were stranded on a desert island, maybe I'd have to have some Annie Lennox CDs with me...
Got on the bus downtown.
This guy wearing a "Bat Boy" shirt sits near me. I've always liked the "Bat Boy" shirt, but everybody who wears it seems to have something sort of wrong with them. I didn't say anything to the man, henceforth referred to as Bat Boy.
He spoke to me first: "I like your necklace."
Cripes, I'm only wearing FOUR of them.
"The one with the ankh?"
"Yeah, thanks." My hand instinctively goes to my throat. Generally, when people "like" my "necklace," it's their way of saying, "Please ask me about my alterna-religion." I used to get, "I like your patches," when I had a rainbow patch stitched to my bookbag; that was people's way of saying, "Please ask me about being gay."
Bat Boy says: "I have a necklace too. It's Thor's Hammer."
"Pretty cool," I reply.
"So... Do you go to Evergreen?"
"I did." I smile.
"What... what happened?"
"Well... I graduated."
"Really?"
"Yep."
"What's your degree?"
"English major, with a philosophy minor."
"So you're going to teach?"
"Guess so. I've got to get my teaching certificate first in order to teach what I want to teach, but I think it'll be worth it."
"I think you'd make a great teacher," says Bat Boy. "I mean, not to be stereotypical or anything."
Now what the fuck is THAT supposed to mean? What on earth had given this man the impression that I would make a good teacher? He'd been talking to me for less than four minutes on an Intercity Transit bus, and he'd spontaneously come to the conclusion that I would make a good teacher? What makes somebody a good teacher that can be spotted in four minutes on public transportation? I really think Bat Boy was just looking at my tits and thinking he'd like to learn anything they felt like teaching him.
Ah, for the days of being an unnoticed B-cup... Fuck.
I said: "Meanwhile, I'm just gonna keep writing."
(Usually, they ask, "what do you write," and then I give a synopsis of my book, which usually causes them to ring the "let-me-off-the-bus" bell prematurely, and run for the hills. This guy didn't ask...)
"So," he said. "Are you going to tranfer to a four-year school?"
"I HAVE," I told him, getting a little harsh, "a four-year degree."
"Well... I was just meaning that... a lot of people, when they graduate, they go on to, like, another college, so that they can be, um... I mean, so they can go to four-year schools... Like, um... like a university."
"Sir," I said. "I WENT to a four-year college. And I graduated. I am DONE with four-year schools."
"Oh," said Bat Boy. He looked perplexed. I think he was breathing sort of funny. He stared at my tits again, and that seemed to calm him.
"Yeah, I know," I went on, "That I look like I'm about fourteen years old, but I AM actually old enough to have gone through college."
I've been getting a lot of that lately. People ask me if I'm in school, and I tell them I've graduated, and they ask me where I plan to go to college. Fuck, people! What the hell? You'll offer me a smoke, but you don't think I'm out of high school yet? Happily, though, when I'm fifty, I'll look thirty. That'll be nice.
Bat Boy said: "You look sixteen. But I bet you're... hm..." He stops and thinks about this. He's grinning, like he's a six-year-old trying to fart. "I bet you're twenty-five!"
I say: "Mm." I'm playing with my CD player. I'm going to put the headphones on ANY second now in the hope that it'll get this dumbass to leave me alone.
"Well," says Bat Boy proudly, "I am thirty-six. Almost thirty-seven."
Well, good for you. Is your mommy around so that she can give you thirty-six spankings? I'll give you one to grow on, if I can do it with a wooden plank.
I am such a bitch. Oh well.
Bat Boy just isn't giving up, despite my silence. He says: "So who was your commencement speaker?"
"I don't remember the woman's name," I said honestly. "I was pretty tired during the ceremony. I just kind of wanted to get my diploma and go." This wasn't exactly the whole truth. In actuality, I REALLY had to pee for, like, four hours, and was miserable during the ceremony because of THAT. But I didn't want this man to imagine me with my pants around my ankles on a toilet. And I KNEW he would, if I were to mention having to go to the bathroom. Nasty. I didn't like Bat Boy.
"There was quite a stir up at Evergreen a few years ago when they had a convicted cop-killer speak at graduation."
He was talking about Mumia Abu-Jamal, who spoke, via video, at Evergreen a few years before I moved here. Now, I've read enough about Mumia to figure he probably didn't DO what he was convicted of. I'm not going to sit and argue about that with some guy on the damned bus, but inwardly, I was rolling my eyes. Anyway, so what even if the guy did shoot a cop? Some people rape eight-year-olds. Some people shoot their wives. Or husbands. Some people stab high school students, have sex with their dead bodies, cut them into bite-sized pieces, and strew the pieces all over Route 79 in Lisle. I'd rather have a guy who shot a cop talk at graduation than a homicidal necrophiliac. Especially a pretty well-spoken guy who shot a cop. Right?
Bat Boy goes on: "Well, I think that's wrong. I wouldn't want to hear a CRIMINAL speak."
Well, that was enough for me.
"How do you know I'm not a criminal?" I asked.
"What?" asked Bat Boy.
"How do you know," I said slowly, "that the person sitting here right now -- me -- talking to you... how do you know that I don't have a criminal record?"
Bat Boy's eyes get HUGE. He pauses. "Did you... kill somebody?"
"I guess you're not going to know, now are you?" I asked, and put the headphones over my ears. When the bus stopped at its destination, Bat Boy fled as fast as he could away from me. He pushed ahead of me, even, to get away.
I was really, really amused.
I don't actually have a criminal record. That's more a matter of luck than a matter of my innocence and purity. If I'd been born in 1979 instead of 1980, I might have a kidnapping charge on my record. Maybe also "attempted corruption of a minor." Probably also an "Obstruction of Governmental Administration in the Second Degree."
And yeah, technically, I did it, although that's really a story I don't feel like getting into at the moment. Except that I didn't corrupt her. She was the one who got me smoking Camel menthols, damn her. But I guess technically, if I'd been 18, I would be responsible for several crimes.
I also stole some stuff from restaurants. Okay, a LOT of stuff from restaurants. As in, I could have furnished my cupboards with stuff from restaurants. Except the pans and stuff. I bought those, mostly.
And I smoked before I was of legal age.
And sometimes I used to put graffiti on various things that didn't belong to me. What the hell am I saying, "used to"? I tagged a picnic table less than a month ago.
And I've smoked marijuana. That's illegal. Seven times, as a matter of fact. The eighth time doesn't count. Ohhhh... and one time, I had my very own plant! It had the prettiest little white flowers! I didn't DO anything with it, and then Greg smushed it because he was a mean old asshole, but I did still cultivate a drug. Woo-hoo! It was even my idea. Yeah! Helena and her criminal mind!
Sometimes I jaywalk, too.
And by the way, it's technically illegal to purchase, possess, or consume a lollipop in the state of Washington. I have done that. I think I've even consumed one of those big spherical ones that cost four dollars and take about ten years to eat.
I am a criminal. Just not a convicted one.
But I prefer "Outlaw."
This has nothing to do with anything, but... last night, when I left campus to get some groceries and have some dinner... guess whom I ran into in the grocery store? Yep! I ran SMACK into Satan. He was passing through the greeting cards and heading toward the booze.
Dude, I REALLY think this guy is following me. He's EVERYWHERE I am. He didn't even have a basket with him in the grocery store; I think he was just there to see what I was buying. And to maybe put a curse on it.
I've been microwaving all my food before I eat it. Except the ice cream bars. Take that, Satan. Your curses shall not affect my dinner!
I'm inexplicably hyper. I'm going to go now.
~Helena*