Air Service.

image

I walked into the UPS store with package under arm, ready to get in and out. I was being forced there - the U.S. Post Office had rejected me. “Are there any liquids or perishables we should be aware of?” they had asked earlier. 

“Liquids.” 

“What kind?” 

“Beer.” The postal clerk smiled in an apologetic way and gave me a look that said, “sorry you’re so dumb…” 

“Can’t take it. You can’t mail beer.” 

“Really?” (Why I was surprised is a mystery.)  

“Yup. You’re gonna have to take it to UPS or FedEx. They might do it.” 

“Great…” But it wasn’t great. The post office is marketably cheaper, plus they have a much more pleasant color scheme. None the less, the beer needed to be sent so I had to give in, and off I went to the brown and yellow building. 

“Just this?” the UPS guy asked as I slid my package towards him. 

“Yup. That’s it.” 

“Alright, it’ll be 19 dollars to get there by 7 o’clock on Monday, or 59 dollars, and we can guarantee it’s there by the end of the day tomorrow.” 

I was confused by his words because the package was only traveling to a place fifteen minutes away. “It’s only going in the city. It won’t get there tomorrow just because?” I asked. 

“No, m’am. To ensure next day delivery, we have to use air service.” 

“…air service?” 

“Yes.” 

“But it’s IN Austin.” 

“I know.” 

“So why would you use air service?” 

“It guarantees it gets there on time.” That was all he offered.  

“But it’s not going anywhere that needs a plane.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“I just… I don’t understand. How doesn’t that matter? Don’t you need a plane to do air service, and it’s IN Austin. So why is air service even involved? How would it be?” I looked down and saw an Iron Man keychain on his hip. Maybe that was the answer to the riddle. Iron Man was the Austin air service, and would personally deliver my package! Which, if that was the case, UPS could have my 58 dollars (and my heart).  

“If it’s next day, that’s what we have to use.” He wasn’t budging, and gave not even a hint he might explain the situation further. If I was standing on the other side of me, observing my facial expression, I’m sure there would have been a mixture of, “I’m-so-confused,” “What-The-Fuck,” and “You’re-Making-Me-Angry,” there. I spoke slower next time. Maybe I was the one confusing him. 

“So you’re telling me… it will be 59 dollars… to get somewhere fifteen minutes away…by tomorrow?” 

“Yes. Because of the air fee.” 

In the depths of my eyeball somewhere, I felt the throbbing of a vein about to burst. 

“Okay, give me back my box.” I snatch it off of the counter in a huff. “This is fucking absurd.” As I left, the other employee of the store watched me like he was afraid I’d tear down their racks of boxes on my way out. Twenty minutes later, I found myself at the post office again. This time, at a different location. 

“Do you have any liquids or perishables in here?” they asked. 

“Nope, none!”  

The Single Safari.

How the hell am I going to get out of this situation?

This is all I’m thinking as the date I’m on turns from awkward to unbearable. I knew it was breaching horrendous when he began brushing my hair back and asking, “is this making you uncomfortable?”

What kind of question is this? How can I answer this honestly?

Dating somehow became relevant in the mid-twenties. At twenty-one it’s about going to a bar and eye-fucking someone until you make out in the back of a Chevy. Now at twenty-four an emotional clock begins to tick as thirty years and the possibility of dying alone approaches. We go out, employ coy flirtation and initiate actual conversations to exchange numbers and set some generic date like cocktails or an early dinner. Within three years dating habits mutate from fuck-me-now to fuck-me-only-if-we-have-four-dates.

“No, it’s not…” I half laugh as I answer because it’s a ludicrous lie. Of course I’m uncomfortable, but I’m also polite. He takes this as a gateway to my personal space and thirty seconds later my upper lip is being chewed on.

Whoa. Whoa. Okay, Carly. Think. What would someone smooth do? How would a seasoned dating pro extract from this? Can I just pull away? Is that too rude? God, this is awful. I need an exit strategy. Now.

How do people do this regularly, anyway? This is fucking stressful.

I’ve never really dated before so the concept is new and I feel like a city slicker on an African safari, gawking at everything I see. What kind of animal is this and how do I approach it? Do I stand still if it stalks me or flail around to scare it away? How much distance should I keep? Is it going to bite?

I already answered the last question tonight. I try to run through excuses to leave in my head as my lip starts to hurt from the force of his jaw.

- I have to let my imaginary dog out.

-  I can’t do this! I can’t cheat on my imaginary boyfriend! I’m sorry!

- I have to check my email. No, you’re computer won’t work.

- My shuttle is leaving for the moon and I’m the only person who can pilot it. If you don’t hear from me, ever, don’t worry. I’m saving humanity.

Even if I pick one, how do I deliver it? Do I blatantly state the excuse or is there some cliché “oh, look at the time…” line I use? God this sucks. Maybe my asshole ex-boyfriend will take me back? Being manipulated has to be better than having my face mauled.

He finally releases me and we sit awkwardly for a minute.

“I have Netflix in the other room…” he says. The “other room” is his bedroom. He clearly didn’t get the four-date-minimum notice. “Unless, do you have somewhere to be?”

This is my chance. I jump up and check the time.

“Well, um, what time is it?” It’s 8:50 p.m.

“Oh! Oh god I’m glad you said something because I totally… I have to… my one little cousin is sick so I told my aunt I’d be over around 9:15 to put the other one to bed…”

What the fuck, Carly. This is so not believable. But does it matter if it gets me out of here?

He accepts the answer whether he believes it or not and I’m thankfully thrown back to my world of lunches for one and lonesome evening strolls. I feel baffled but not disheartened. Some evolutionary instinct must kick in at some point so I can tame this beast with perfect poses, sharpened wit, smooth transitions and, most importantly, better exit strategies. 

The Coder.

Hubert opened his eyes slowly, wincing through the acute pain in his forehead. Everything around him was dark. He blinked to make sure his eyes were really open even though it didn’t matter. Reality was black.

 

“Wha? What’s going on?”

 

“Hello, Hubert Van Winkle,” a voice responded from the abyss.  

 

Hubert had no idea who The Voice was or why it would know his full name. From what he could tell he was strapped to some sort of table, staring up at what he assumed would be a ceiling.

 

“Who - who are you? Where am I?”

 

“You know exactly where you are, Hubert. After all, you infiltrated us.”

 

“Infiltrated? I don’t know what you’re talking about! You got the wrong guy or something!”

 

“Don’t give me that!” A noise broke the air and The Voice suddenly had a hand grabbing up Hubert’s face.

 

“You’re here for it! You’re here for what we’ve been working on and it’s not finished! We emailed the company, we told them to wait! Yet here you are!”

 

The Voice violently released him and Hubert scrambled to find his last memory through the spiked discomfort in his head. He knew he had left his job at the payroll office earlier that day…

 

He had been making rounds dropping off paychecks to local businesses. Today he had an extra stop; Bob, who usually delivered to the tech firm iHype, hadn’t shown up to work in weeks and Hubert was charged with taking backlogged checks to them.

 

“I… I had the checks…” Hubert murmured.

 

“An admirable distraction.”

 

Hubert had rang the bell to the office several times to no avail and, after five minutes, made an executive decision to walk in, uninvited. There were too many checks to just leave. How had no one missed thousands of dollars, anyway?

 

“You… you had no money…”

 

“Money holds no meaning here.”

 

When Hubert cracked open the door, he was immediately blinded. The overhead fluorescents were turned up supersonic and he grimaced as his eyes adjusted. When they focused, he saw a long, metallic table in the middle of a windowless, rectangular room. Six people sat along each side, hunched over laptops and wearing padded headphones. No one had responded to his entrance.

 

“There are more of you….”

 

“The many are one.”

 

He walked up and tapped one on the shoulder and almost instantaneously, the man jumped up, startled - frightened even – and the disturbance caused the others to surface from their computers in jerked unison.

 

“Uh, hi. My name is Hubert and I’m here with your payroll from BestChecks. You have quite a few…”

 

The man stared at him crazed and suddenly screamed -

 

“AHHHHHHH!”

 

“AHHHHHHH!”  The worker’s yelled in unison. Before Hubert could react, the man jumped on top of him and took him to the floor, whacking his head on the ground. Then it was black. And still was.

 

“I don’t understand,” he told The Voice. “All I did was walk in to give you your money…”

 

“I would have thought the brilliant minds at Pear would have invented a better story. ‘Tech industry leader’ – what a joke! Our software is what gives those gadgets of yours any use.”

 

Hubert heard rustling footsteps and then, in one click, every overhead fluorescent came on. In the light he discovered he was laid on a table between two rows of laptops, their cords stretched across the surface to bind him down. Each worker stood stoic in front of his or her rolling chair and stared with unrelenting eyes. One from the far end spoke; he was The Voice.

 

“We told Pear the Worm-Hole software wasn’t ready weeks ago but they didn’t want to listen, did they? We thought the disappearance of their last bounty collector would have sent a message….”

 

“Bob?” Hubert asked. “Do you have Bob?!”

 

“Never mind Bob. He’ll be just fine. You, on the other hand…we’re not keeping you. You’re going back with a message they’ll be sure to get. Brandy! Get me, ‘The Coder’.”

 

A woman on the left stepped back and disappeared for a moment. When she returned, she was holding a small black box and brought from it a device that looked vaguely familiar to Hubert.

 

“You see, Hubert, we have a way of dealing with people who try and rush us.” The Voice flicked the bottom of the device and it sparked into light-blue life.

 

“Is… is that… oh god!”

 

“Just lie still,” The Voice crooned.

 

The workers clasped Hubert down with clammy hands as The Voice bent over him. A hiss emitted, a scream occurred, and the smell of flesh was slightly evident. They moved away as Hubert whimpered, and felt no compassion but only satisfaction as they observed the red imprint on his forehead:

 

<HTML> FUCK OFF </HTML>

 

How To Avoid a Horrible Relationship.

This is something I wrote for fifth graders.

——————————————— 


How to Avoid A Horrible Relationship.

INT. Brightly lit kitchen during nighttime.


A man sits forlornly at his kitchen table, looking at a cell phone in front of him and checking it from time to time. He sighs and looks to the camera.

“Kids, there is something fundamental you’re going to have to learn in life. It’s not going to be easy and it’s going to take some trials but hopefully… [With emphasis] hopefully if I guide you now it will be easier down the road.”

His cell phone chimes and he grabs it quickly. He sighs and puts it down again.

“Do you see what I’m doing here? I’m checking my phone like a lunatic and it’s all because of one thing: the opposite sex. I get what you might be thinking – ‘no way! Not me!’ God… I remember when I was young…”

The screen fades to a 1970’s playground. Children mill about swinging on monkey bars, going down slides, playing hopscotch and double-dutch. The camera focuses on a boy running up to a girl. They stop and look at each other and he pushes her down.

“Hey! What was that for?!

“Because you’re STUPID!” He runs away.

The screen cuts abruptly back to the kitchen where the man is still at the table, shaking his head.

“Boys, this is not how you will treat women later in life and girls, you won’t have to deal with this. But this… [He picks up his cell phone and shakes it angrily] THIS is what you will have to deal with sometimes. What ‘this’ is is me waiting for my girlfriend to call, which she said she would do hours ago. [He laughs manically] She does this all the time. All the time!”

A montage (four cuts) of the man doing various things such as making a sandwich, standing in line to buy coffee, etc. plays. In every scene his cell phone chimes to have him rush to grab it but he sighs and puts it down sadly each time.

The camera cuts back to him with his head in his hands. He looks back up.

“It may seem pathetic to you, I know. But what can happen is you fall into someone’s trap. The people who will treat you badly are also going to be the sweetest, most charming people you will ever meet. They will care for you like such gold 30% of the time that you forgive the other 70% when they don’t. Fortunately, they’ll have certain characteristics you can look for…”

The screen switches to a photo of a highly attractive man in nice jeans, a tight graphic tee and trendy shoes. His hair is spiked and he has one earring. You hear the man from the kitchen narrating.

“Girls, this is ‘The Smooth Talker’. He will most likely have the following…”

As he states each piece, an arrow points to them.

“Stylishly gelled hair. Designer jeans. A too-tight t-shirt. One or maybe both [a regular arrow points to one ear and a flashing to the other] ears pierced. And most importantly, his compliments will always be the sweetest things you ever hear.”

A voice over of another man’s voice plays.

“Baby, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I can’t even look at anyone else.”

The camera cuts back to the man and he points at the camera.

“Girls, remember this – don’t trust a man who is never awkward around you. Now boys, for you…”

The screen cuts to a photo of a model-esque woman in a trendy dress and high heels. She has a designer purse on her arm. She is unnecessarily tan and has very blonde hair.

“Boys, this is what I have dubbed ‘The Man Killer’. This is what you can look for…”

Again, an arrow points as he lists.

“Obviously dyed hair. Expensive looking clothing. Heels they never take off. Designer hand bags. And, most importantly, they think everything you say is hilarious.”

A voice over of a woman’s voice begins.

[Laughter] “Oh my god! I love you, you silly-bear!”

The camera cuts back to the man and he’s looking away and shaking his head.

“’Silly-bear’…”

He looks back to the camera.

“Why do I like that nickname? Because it’s adorable. And she is always adorable. Which brings me to this: boys, a girl who is always adorable is faking it.”

The phone chimes and the man grabs it up immediately. He puts it down sadly.

“There will be people who won’t look the exact part but still act in the same ways. There will be signs you can look for…”

The screen cuts to a whiteboard and as the man states each sign, it imprints onto the board.

“1. They compliment you NON-STOP. 2. They never call when they say they will. 3. They periodically ‘miss’ your calls. 4. They flirt with others in front of you. 5. They will always be deeply, deeply sorry. 6. When you get mad, later you will never remember why.”

The camera cuts back to the man and he’s in the process of grabbing a soda from the refrigerator. When he’s done, he walks and talks.

“I don’t give you this advice to scare you away from relationships; they are great things and you should give everyone a chance because being in love is one of the most wonderful things in life. There are just certain people who will need to go sooner than others and these types… [He shakes his head] these types will not work.”

He sits back down.

“And there’s one final thing you need to know…”

He’s cut off by his phone ringing and he smiles wide. He looks directly at the camera.  

“Well… the bottom line is this: if you know all these things, don’t be like me and let it continue. But I’ve gotta take this…. Hello?”

The scene ends with him answering the phone.

 

Comically Challenged.

This is a rewrite of my last post.  Feedback welcome. 

—————————————- 



Comically Challenged.

 

I’m unsure of why I’m here - perhaps an insatiable curiosity, maybe a touch of destiny. Whichever it is, I don’t feel like I belong and it’s apparent in my movements. Ducking between racks and burying my nose into books until my face is almost hidden, I’m on the look out.

 

What if someone sees me?

 

Of course, they’d be in the same boat. They came into this small Mecca of art, dialogue and convoluted plot lines willingly.

 

Unless they see my car?

 

Maybe they’ll only walk in to mock me. They’ll probably even do hand flexibility exercises in the car to shape their index finger into a cannon of judgment and contempt.

 

The natives know I don’t belong too. They stare at me from pelts of second hand t-shirts and give me quizzical looks. I throw nervous smiles around and tip my head from time to time but never keep eye contact for long for fear of being confronted. It always goes like this in my mind:

 

“What are you doing here?” he would ask (I’m usually the only female in the store).

 

“I’m… I’m looking for Captain America comics.”

 

“I think you’re here to spy.”

 

“Sp-spy?”

 

“Did DC put you up to this? You know this is a strictly Marvel store.”

 

“But I’ve never even read a DC comic…”

 

“That’s what a spy would say.”

 

The vision stops with me being chanted out of the store in some type of rhythmic manner. I can’t tell you why I think of comic book readers as aboriginal or why I believe they will shun me. Maybe it stems from my hesitant aura; I’ve stumbled into their village uninvited only to snub their ways and now it’s time to get pitch forked out.

 

My cycle of shame shopping always ends the same way. I run to my car with three hardback compilations in hand and throw them into the backseat before the hoard of imaginary people can mock me. I go home and read greedily, indulging in the dark corner of my room with the voracity of a bulimic swallowing Ben and Jerry’s.

 

Why am I so ashamed? What is wrong with me? The comics are great. They are beautifully illustrated and riveting, a triumph of creative collaboration. Who cares what other people think? This just makes me interesting, damnit!

 

These small moments of empowerment are abruptly halted by reality.

 

I care. I care what other people think because I can be meek and insecure. Which, oddly enough, are traits ascribed to comic nerds.

 

Today the shop realizes my greatest fear and unleashes it - one of them approaches me. Was this it? My neurosis flares. Was this the confrontation?! Is he going to tell me to leave because no one appreciates my silent mockery??

 

“Hey,” he smiles genuinely.

 

“Hi,” I squeak.

 

“I’ve uh, I’ve seen you in here a bunch. I notice you always get an Avenger character to read.”

 

I blush.

 

“Yeah. I guess I’m a sucker for super heroes.”

 

“Well they are super…” he grins, amused by his own lame joke. I enjoy it too and it’s an unsettling feeling. Have I caught their sense of humor? Does it permeate this air like some kind of deadly spore and I’m finally exposed to the point of infection?

 

“You know, I could recommend some great issues to you,” he says.

 

“Maybe some other time. I’ve… I’ve gotta go.” I turn too quickly and run my knee into the corner of a low shelf, curse under my breath and hurry out of the store in a panicked huff. I have to be quick. The imaginary hoard is coming! They were ready to laugh in my face, let me die alone and even worse - defriend me on Facebook.

 

“Hey! Hey wait a minute!” The door to the comic shop flies open and my attacker approaches the car. “You forgot to pay for your comics!”

 

I feel the hoard closing in.

 

“Oh, uh, here! Just take them back!” I start shoving them out the driver side window and he looks severely puzzled.

 

“What is going on??”

 

The stress of it all - the imaginary hoard, the binge reading and cloaked addiction - I couldn’t handle it anymore! I break.

 

“I can’t deal with this, okay?! I can’t handle the shame, the sneaking around! I can’t read in the dark anymore! They’re all judging!”

 

“…Who is judging?” He looks around. The shop is in the back of a strip mall you can only access through one driveway and we’re the only people in the parking lot.

 

“The hoard,” I sniffle.

 

“Do you want to come back inside? I bet Cap will know how to handle this.”

 

He’s so nice, so endearing. He’s so… normal. I begin nodding my head methodically.

 

“Okay… okay… yeah.”

 

“You’re pretty strange, you know that?” He smiles crookedly.

 

“I do now.” 

The Comic Style.

I finished getting ready and looked in the mirror –

“Not too shabby, Carly. Not too shabby.”

I had taken an entire hour to perfect my appearance so I was the best 7.5 version of myself I could be. I needed to look fantastic because that day, I was going to neutralize a stereotype.

The cliché I wanted to destroy was one that had begun to haunt me. Caped in bad 80’s shirts and masked by pimples, it was of chubby men in musty basements who reeked of perpetual bachelor and Rogaine.

It was the comic book nerd.

I found the reputation unfair. I read comics. I was fascinated by Captain America and adored Hawkeye even though I didn’t have a gut sticking out of a stained tee.

My first visits to the comic shop made it clear the stereotype held a certain truth. I looked to fellow browsers seeing nothing but tightly tucked shirts and snug too-high pants and despite their meekness, they intimidated me. Could that be my fate? Would I eventually gain 10 pounds, get a front-butt and tuck it into wide-legged, scrappy jeans?

I shuddered at the thought. Something had to be done.

The day I arrived primped and pretty, I stayed longer than needed. I browsed with precision and made sure to smile coyly at people staring with “what are you doing here?” looks. I basked in my clever, attractive glory and for the first time in my life experienced the sweet nectar of what it was like to be a complete, full-fledged number 10.

The feeling was addictive.

What began as an innocent errand to serve others turned into a selfish act of ego. I started showing up once a week and would stay an hour at a time. It was a space without competition or insecurity, only a no-question-about-it, skin-deep superiority. I hung around in my fashion forward wardrobe and relished looks I received until one day I was approached.

“We need to talk to you.”

The speaker was a string pole of a man in a Garfield t-shirt and Goodwill reading glasses. He was the only person I saw.

“Uh. ‘We’ who?”

They appeared from amongst the shelves, silent as thieves. Decked in second hand band tees and smelling of Rogaine, the commies surrounded me.

“Oh! This must be when they tell me how much they worship and appreciate me,” I thought.

“You have to stop this. You’re ruining our image,” the string pole demanded.

“…Come again?”

“You keep coming in here walking around like sex incarnated and it’s running our image!”

“Seriously? Y’all are into this ‘those guys die alone’ thing?”

“Hey! I had a wife once, little Ms. Snarky. It’s not my fault she didn’t understand…” his eyes unfocused and he trailed off for a moment. A portly man in Sketchers rubbed his shoulders.

“It’s not your fault, Rick,” he comforted.

“Yes. Yes I know…” he shrugged the man off. “But that’s beside the point! Do you think we accidentally dress this way? This is an anti-style we’ve been perfecting for years and suddenly here you are trying to change it! It’s unacceptable.”

A chorus of “yeas” and “that’s right” mumbled throughout the crowd.

“I… I had no idea. I was just trying to help.”

“You can’t help something you don’t get. Just like you can’t tell me which issue of Detective Comics Batman originated from, you imposter.”

“Number 27, Rick! You tell her!” someone yelled from the back.

“You’re right! I don’t understand. Why choose to be thought of as slovenly nerds who live through computers?” I asked, deliriously.

“It helps keep our numbers down and protects us from people like you! People who only read them because of movies,” String Pole Rick cried, jabbing a finger towards me. “We even had ourselves written into The Simpsons to finalize it. You can’t un-do us – not if you want to be one of us!”

“But… I… don’t you think I’m pretty?”

No one answered and they stared apathetically at my sundress and strappy sandals. Suddenly I felt like a 4 and the validation vanished. I sulked out to the dim noise of high-fiving.

Within a week I began to miss the dusty smell and feel of a flimsy issue in my hand. I had to go back. I threw my hair into a messy ponytail and put on reading glasses and tattered old Converses. My Fraggle Rock shirt still hugged my chest but the faded color took away from the goods underneath. I even stopped and grabbed a cheeseburger to give my tummy a little extrusion.

I walked in and String Pole Rick was flipping through an old issue of Spiderman in the front. I stopped and smiled nervously as he observed my appearance before he spoke.

“You look like her…” he remarked, breathlessly.

“Who?”

“…Never mind. Welcome in.”  

Kung Fu Carly.

I bound into the room in a fit of glee, waving my hands and smiling as if Joseph Gordon-Levitt knocked on my door and proposed marriage.

“Guys! Guys! Guess what?!”

My roommates look perturbed and eye me cautiously.

“What, Carly?”

“I DID IT!”

“Did what?”

“I became a fucking ninja.”

Their glances flat-line and I see them exchange looks wondering, “Are you gonna call the nuthouse or am I?” I understand their trepidation but they do not yet grasp the gravity of what happened…

It all started a few afternoons ago on a trip to the dry cleaners. The ancient press was compacted in a strip mall on a forgotten side of town; pushed together with Family Dollars, florists and other businesses with yellowing signs yielding to disrepair. There was one sign, however, which caught my eye.

“FREE KUNG FU LESSONS.”

Could this be?

It hung over a karate studio whose front window had medals hanging over trophies. The doubled up objects of glory told me Chuck Norris caliber moves must of happened. I stand there for a moment. Do I go in? Do I unlock the secrets of thousands of generations of little Asian men in cut off white sweat pants? (I could rock those pants if I got a better tan.)

A few days later and hours of lying by a pool I arrive. The door creaked uncertainly as I opened it.

“Hello?” I call to a dimly lit room. The studio mirrors are dingy and the floor mats have occasional rips. To anyone else this may be a bad sign but walls and racks and shelves of trophies distracted me; the fake gold glittering blinded me. I heard a soft rattle and a shriveled man appeared from behind a beaded doorway.

“Yes?”

I bowed dramatically.

“I am here for free kung fu,” I stated. He eyed me incredulously.

“And what makes you think you are worthy of the kung fu?”

I tried to conjure any dialogue from all karate movies I had ever seen before I answered.

“I come with resolve and heart!”

“You come with fantasies! Kung fu is for the wise.” He began to turn away.

“Sensei! If you doubt my intentions, just look at my pants.”

He turned slow. My cut off wrapped and draped white cloth spoke for itself.

“Let us begin.”

“Yes! One second! I have to grab something from my car.”

I came back with a boom box I found at Goodwill and set it down.

“We’ll need montage music,” I explained.

To understand what occurred, take every moment from Karate Kid and Kung Fu Panda you own. My leg struggled in the air, my balance faltered and my insides were unsteady! I floundered in the face of training until finally – finally! – Mind conquered matter and sensei watched proudly as I round house kicked the grains out of a wooden board to a tasteful 80’s soundtrack.

“You have done well, Grasshopper,” he told me as we sat cross-legged on the mats.

“Why give this all away for free, Master?”

“At the end of life, one begins to think of their own legacy. How can you live on? I knew I must through my teachings.”

“But you have enough trophies in here to live on in landfills for like, trillions of years.” He chuckled.

“Those trophies are not mine…”

I cocked my head and walked over to one of the racks. Cobwebs wound the metallic curves and I brushed dust away from a placard.

“1ST PLACE IN HAND TO HAND COMBAT: CHUCK NORRIS.”

I stumbled away, shocked.

“No!”

“Is it so.” He bowed his head.

My roommates are staring at me as I finish the tale. They look like they’ve just watched gnomes ride a unicorn through the living room.

“Carly. I’m going to ask you something and I want you to answer truthfully. Have you taken any hallucinogens today?”

“What? No!”

“This is just… honestly I have no idea what to make of this.”

“Maybe she’s running a fever,” the other suggests.

“Should we take her to a hospital?”

They continue to speak as if I’m not there. Silently I rise. I place my feet together, coming into standing crane, flattening my palm, turning it into the sword it is about to become and slice it straight down into our IKEA coffee table, breaking it in two. They jump back as I begin walking to my room.

“What the fuck?!”

“How the fuck?!”

“I told you…” I pause for effect. “I’m a fucking ninja.” 

The Chemical Chronicles.

I’m spinning in a chair across from him, listening to everything he says with what feels like a blank expression although I know it’s dripping with my insides. There’s a diagram in front of me and he’s pointing to a place in-between the words “manic” and “depressive”.

“When you fall here in the arc… well it means you’re not always high, you’re not always low… but you hit those points in, lets say, a different fashion than most.”

“So you’re thinking I’m bipolar,” I say. Cut the shit, doc.

“Yes. You’re bipolar.” Does this mean I’m sick? I don’t feel sick…

“Well, what exactly is ‘bi’ about it?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“When you use the word ‘bi’, you’re implying two right? Like bi-sexual people? ‘Cause I’m telling you right now, there are not just two fuckin’ emotions I go through.”

“It’s just the term. We know there’s a spectrum.”

“It’s a little outdated,” I tell him. “Just sayin’. Maybe you should revolutionize it. Call it like… tri-di-sexa-centi-quadringenti-polar.”

He sighs as he beings to write out a prescription and ask if I have any questions. I go through the important – will I gain weight? Can I drink? Will it kill my sex drive? Can I sell them? – then ask the question haunting me most.

“I won’t become a shell, will I?”

“What, like a zombie? Oh. Yes.” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Zombies are what we strive for,” he continues. “I like zombies. They do my bidding when I ask, file my paperwork. It’s really quite convenient.”

Is he serious? The secretary did look a little out of it…

“Um,” I don’t know how to respond.

“I’m joking. You won’t be a shell. It’ll just help keep you level.”

“Okay. Level… level sounds nice.”

“So what’s your next move?” he asks.

“Honestly? I’ll probably milk the shit out of this. Go off on people for no reason then say ‘sorry – just had an episode!’ Or when people start to piss me off, lean in real close and whisper… ‘you don’t want to do that. You don’t know what I’m capable of.’”

“Um,” he doesn’t know how to respond.

“I’m joking. C’mon doc – you taught me how to do that.”

I leave the office to find my boyfriend waiting in the car, like he’s been doing for the past two hours.

“So, how’d it go? Did you get some meds?” he asks.

He thinks I might be clinically depressed because this is what I had thought. He handled the news of having a sad-sap for a girlfriend well… but this was different. I was now a sad-sap-happy-yap-all-over-the-map kind of gal.  I look over at him almost in pain, wishing there was anything I could tell him besides what I was going to.

“Yeah… but they aren’t anti-depressants.”

“Okay…”

Jesus I’m about to get dumped…

“I have mood stabilizers… I’m… fuck. I’m bipolar.” Does this mean I’m sick? I don’t feel sick…

Nothing changes on his face.

“Sam, your girlfriend is bipolar. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’m Mexican. Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

He says this like they’re lunch buddies, like culture and disease can sit in the same waiting room. They may both manifest from genetics, but to my knowledge no one has to be medicated because they’re Mexican. At least not while Obama is in office.

“It’s not the same,” I say. “Doesn’t everyone just automatically associate ‘bipolar’ with ‘crazy’?”

“Who cares about everyone? You’re too concerned with being ‘normal’, Carly. Like what is ‘normal’? Who decides that?”

I know he’s right. ‘Normal’ is one of those terms none of us can define although we all strive to achieve it. There’s no Old Testament scripture, no laboratory test, no infallible equation to map this idea. It’s a concept we define ourselves, leaving us to strive and meet our own standards (or as I like to call them – the hardest, harshest, most impossible standards to meet).

My standard never included a daily mood stabilizer. But now here I am. A twenty-three year old chemical reaction.


“You know what’s cool?” I ask him.

“What?”

“I can totally milk the shit out of this.”

“…How?”

I smirk. Devilishly. The way a child sociopath smirks right before he blows up a frog.

“With fear,” I reply. He widens his eyes and gives me a sideways whatthefuck.

“You… what… how the fuck are people going to fear you?”

“Oh. Just you wait, honey. Just you wait.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeahh… I feel like that name will come up a lot when people deal with me from here on out. They’ll go – ‘Jesus Christ, woman! Are you insane?!’ And I’ll get to look them dead in the eye and say – ‘funny you should mention that…’” 

The Bloggiest Blog.

This is the bloggiest blog I’ve ever posted. A pure textual conception of what I’m thinking. Why not, right? Isn’t this concept where blogs were born?

If you follow me, you know I’ve been diagnosed with being bipolar. This is no shock to me. It’s a bit hard to swallow, accepting there’s something off in my brain chemistry, but I know I’ll be able to live normally with it now that I’m seeking help.

In fact, there are even several things I’m looking forward to with this diagnoses: 

- Cheap bar tab. Mood stabilizer + one drink = happy time. 

- Getting away with being an unnecessary bitch. “God, Carly is being such a bitch. She must just be on one of her down swings.” 

- People being less inclined to confront me. “No, don’t do it! You wouldn’t want to set Carly off.” 

- No more complete and utter confusion. Instead of focusing on why my mood can change drastically from day to day, I can focus on how to make it stop. 

- Being able to move towards success. With mental blocks being treated, I’ll no longer have anxiety that keeps me from moving forward. 

- Scaring the shit out of people. If I don’t like you and you step on my toes, I may or may not stage a fake episode. In your face. 

- The feeling. I’ve felt every emotion under the sun. Can everyone say this? 

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