Saturday, September 24, 2005

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet

What's in a nickname? I don't know about you but I have been called a number of things in my life, some nice things, some, well, not so nice. At work, you can hear the intercom phone ringing in the fitting room. If you pick it up, and D.C. is working, you'll usually hear, "Hey fergie, we need you to ring." On the ski slopes, hanging out with K.S. and M.T. you can usually hear them calling after me, "Hey Kamakazi, are you okay?"
In my opinion, a nickname isn't just something incredibly out of the blue; It holds a piece of who you are. Like Kamakazi. When my friends call me that, I tend to get a little crazy on my skis. Or Ah Man. Mr. Acosta's little nickname for me captures my last name, and even though I hate the name, I love it when people refer to me by it.
In each nickname, a little bit of my attitude lives. Fergie is reclusive; Blondie is, well, blonde; Kamakazi loves to be crazy, if not a little insane. Shortie looks up to everyone, and Gullible falls for other's words.
When people ask you for one word that describes yourself, what do you tell them? Interesting? Sexy? Intelligent? Challenged? My answer is "How can I pick just one?" How many people are living in you?

Monday, September 19, 2005


The other day, I was in line, waiting to check out at the grocery store when an unnamed tabloid caught my eye. It displayed Rene Zellweger and Lindsey Lohan on the cover, sporting titles like, "Look at Lindsey's new curves" and, "Trouble in paradise? An inside look at Kenny Chesney and Rene Zellweger's breakup". Do the people who write these awful things about our celebs not realize that their All-American idols are people too, and have the same rights as us, stating that we shouldn't exploit the hell out of them?
Now, I don't know about you, but I know quite a few people who act just like these columnists, who tell the bogus stories about "So-and-so's alien baby". These people, it seems, have no intelligence. And it doesn't stop there. No, they spread out to other peoples' lives, telling eachother about their best friends' being abused, their pregnant teenage daughters, their drug dealing sons. You could almost swear that these women are still in high school, where their drama would equal HUGE popularity points, gaining them acceptance into the Upper Crust.
So what would you do if you were on the receiving end of a piece of this juicy gossip? Would you turn to the person closest to you and pass on the disturbing tidbit? Would you squash the rumor and tell that person to talk to someone who cares, or to mind their own business? What would you consider to be the right thing to do in this situation, and an even more important question, would you do it?

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

How Do I Take This?

About an hour ago, I had my heart ripped out of my chest, thrown to the ground, and stomped on repeatedly. It all started after the last bell rang for the day. I had to finish a group project in the library this afternoon with a few of my classmates. Well, I saw S.S. on the way there and followed her out by the buses to wait for C.G. with her. C.G. finally comes hobbling down the front steps and I avert my eyes from them to avoid witnessing the hug/kiss that the two share when parting and reuniting. Hence, five-inch stiletto number one.
I take off to meet my group members in the library, but nobody showed up. So I head down to the intervention specialist's office and she gives me some pamphlets that should help me out with the project. I needed to see if I had any stuff in my locker that I needed to take home and down the hall, I see C.G. and decide to go talk to him, since we haven't had a ton of time. I get there and am not so shocked to discover that S.S. is still with him but she looks pissed. She leaves to go inhabit "her spot" by the side of the school and C.G. tells me that it was Casey, not me, that made her angry. I follow C.G. to hopefully give some comfort to S.S. but somehow, the conversation led to her sleeping with him, and whether or not she was planning to. She gave me this look that said it all. Then C.G. and S.S. kiss without warning. I get up and tell them that I'm leaving, heart stinging from the sight. C.G. says, "What? You go and ask that question and now you're leaving?" I replied, "Yes, her face told me everything." and I spun around before he could say anything or read any emotions that my mask might not be covering. He's always said I suck at hiding it. Steel-toed boot, number two.
I'm planning on catching community transit to get home and as I'm walking past the other stop, T.M-F. saunters up to the guy waiting there with his new fuck-buddy. Probably the one that he used when I was away at my father's and abroad. This time I want him to know that I'm hurt. "Hey!" I yell. He turns. "Is that your new fuck-buddy?" I question. He, of course, nods his head. I think he was just disregarding how I feel. I mean, you don't screw around with someone like me and expect them not to get attached. That's just not how it works. Introducing heavy astronaut boot number three; the boot that most made me feel the rocks on the pavement, the other cracks in my heart from other occasions, some deeper than others; the fact that no one is perfect, like the glass from broken beer bottles; the heaviness of the realization that everyone has the opportunity to add another crack, especially your friends.
So tell me, how do you keep letting people in? How do you keep trusting if everyone is capable of breaking you? We all know that it will happen eventually, so what are we waiting for? Why do we still feel, even though it hurts bad enough that we're numb? C.G. was right. Heaven isn't here.

To: C.G. You Know Who You Are

Everyday, first period
And lunch.
We sit together
Yet we're miles apart.
I wish I knew your thoughts.
Things aren't the same
You say everything is "fine,"
But we don't talk anymore.
We used to get in-depth
Simple-minded topics
Is all this is composed of,
Are you lying?
To me,
To yourself,
To the world?
Been pondering your advice
The comment on my blog.
I might take it and date N.A.
But what if I crave more?
Someone to make me happy
Until the apocalypse.
I can't watch you with her.
I glance away when you kiss,
When you hug.
I notice that you can't
Look me in the eyes
When she is present.
Do you think it hurts me?
Four years is a long time, Love.
But seven months is eternity!
You won't choose me next
And we both know it.
I challenge you
To choose someone else.
I don't blame you for trying
To place some distance between us.
How many years will pass
Before the "fucking hard times" pass?

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

He's How Old?!?

So, yesterday, I was working and after everyone left, with the exception of Stephanie and me, a guy came in to shop our awesome sales with two women in tow, as well as a girl and a boy about my age, and a guy who appeared to be about twenty-six, judging by his face and the numerous tattoos on his biceps.
The group starts to make a pile at the register, shopping all the sales rounders. Everyone brings something up, and there is a lot of stuff for an unseen guy, named Joe.
Every time someone said something was for Joe, the whole group started ragging on him. I said, "Man, you guys must not like Joe very much." They would assure me, "No, no, we love Joe." Then the tattooed guy piped up that Joe was single and they all gave me that conspiring glance. Everyone started talking him up to me, saying how great he is and how he's such a sweet guy, all the while, giving me that look.
I asked, "How old is Joe, exactly?"
"Oh, about thirty-nine, forty, maybe," Tattoo Guy responded.
"And do you have any idea how old I am?"
They size me up, trying to guess how old. The woman finally asked, "How old?"
I told them. Everyone looked taken aback and finally someone said, "She's a youngin!"
They all gave eachother this look that could mean nothing but I never would have guessed that age.
Tattoo Guy finally turned to me and said, "Well, Joe needs numbers, so can we get yours anyway?" I have a good feeling he was just messing around though.
Turns out the older man owns a dental office in Lynnwood and the two women as well as the MIA Joe are his employees. The kids my age are his children and Tattoo Guy is his godson. Don't you love feeling older? I'm told the feeling goes away after thirty years old.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Try This On A Telemarketer

The phone rang as I was setting down to my anticipated evening meal and, as I answered it, I was greeted with " is this Wilhiam Wagenhoss" not sounding anything like my name, so I said who is calling?

The telemarketer said he was with The Rubber Band Powered Freezer Company or something like that and then I asked him if he knew Wilhiam personally and why was he calling this number.

I then said off to the side, "get really good pictures of the body and all the blood" then turned back to the phone and advised the caller that he had entered a murder scene and must stay on the line because we had already traced this call and he would be receiving a summons to appear in the local courthouse to testify in this murder case.

I then questioned the caller at great length as to his name, address, phone number at home, at work, who he worked for, how he knew the dead guy and could he prove where he had been about one hour before he made this call.

The telemarketer was getting very concerned and his answers were given in a shaky voice. I then told him we had located his position at his work place and the police were entering the building to take him into custody, at that point I heard the phone fall and the scurrying of his running away.

My wife asked me as I returned to our table why I had tears streaming down my face and so help me, I couldn't tell her for about fifteen minutes. My meal was cold, but very enjoyable.

I recieved this in an email. Those of you who know me, you know why you're laughing harder than the average person. For those of you who don't, I used to be a telemarketer myself. Have a good one.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

The First Day of School

Yeah. You know what I'm talking about. That chilly day at the beginning of September when all kids, ages 5 and up, gather their paper, pens, pencils, backpack, ect. and head for that big brick building that some look at like a prison. Children grades 7 and up dress in their flyest fall clothes and board buses, or hop into their new cars, keys in hand for some. Everyone arrives at school in the allotted time and the bell rings. For elementary students, there is one teacher and one teacher only for the whole year. Most middle schoolers find themselves wandering around the halls, looking for the classes they were assigned. The high schoolers, in some cases, got to choose the teachers and classes they want so they already know where they're going. Hallways are packed, as well as counselor's offices. You want to drop a class because it's too hard. You have a missing period. You can't stand the teacher who's teaching the class. Regardless, the first day of school (and often the day before) is chaotic. For some, this is their element. For others, they feel lost and somewhat stupid. The higher grades recieve books, and lockers to house the books, as well as assignments that are to be completed by the following day. Students meet their new teachers, and dish to their friends later about the ones they like, the ones they don't, and the classes that are time wasters. Lunchtime rolls around, and like usual, the lunch ladies rob you and your parents of all your free cash for a meal that's known as "meatloaf surpise". Girls get together and gossip. Guys get together and eat... girls and guys get together and make out. Yum yum... "Your saliva tastes delicious!" Hell continues, teachers hand out their class syllabus, and before you know it, it's time to go home. "Have a great day, children," the 1st grade teacher gushes as she helps her kids onto the bus. High-school teachers call out last minute assignments and reminders as you walk out the door, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Friends wave good bye to eachother and you head home to do your homework and chores. You fall into bed that night, only to wake up eight hours later and do it all over again.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Definitely Maybe

I met a girl named Tara,
And she lived in the heart of America,
She liked black caddies,
Listened to Puff Daddy,
Danced until her legs were sore.
She worked around the corner,
At a diner with a grouchy owner,
And her boyfriend's shady,
Dates another girl named Katie,
He loves her,
Definitely maybe.

Don't think I can take it,
Wake me when it's over,
Seems so far away,
I wish that it was closer.
I see her everyday,
I'm too scared to go over
Wonder what she'd say,
I barely even know her.

How much longer?
Will this keep getting stronger?
I wonder what she's doin' when I'm singin' myself to sleep.
He's a faker,
So see ya later,
I wonder when you'll realize that you mean a lot more to me.

I saw you in the hallway
when my last class was just over
it was friday
school was out tonight
everything seems to be alright
I said yo are you going to the party at the cove she said he's picking me up at six again and i dont wanna disappoint my boyfriend.


And she's starin' at his picture hangin' in her locker
She's tellin' all the girls about all the things that he bought her,
I saw what really happened all those times he went for water,
When we were at the movie theater watching Harry Potter.
He had his hands on,
Every single girl he laid his eyes on,
Hate to break it to ya,
He's a pylon,
And even when he kissed her,
He was lookin' over starin' at her sister.


I met a girl named Tara,
And she lived in the heart of America,
She liked black caddies,
Listened to Puff Daddy,
Danced until her legs were sore.
She worked around the corner,
At a diner with a grouchy owner,
And her boyfriend's shady,
Dates another girl named Katie,
He loves her,
Definitely maybe.

-F.M. Static