The Little Ghost

Within each child exists a small clock located beneath the gut. This clock is called the clock of rebellion. These clocks expire before the age of twenty and are triggered by parental actions or opinions a child strongly opposes or resents. Psychologists and doctors call the aftermath of a set off clock a “phase”.

“Don’t worry Mrs. Berry, Laura running away to the neighborhood playground is just a phase. She just wants to feel free and in control of her own actions without requiring an adult’s permission. I have seen this many times before, don’t worry, she will grow out of it.”

Another example would be, “Oh Mr. Herzog you have nothing to worry about! Didn’t you try recreational drugs when you were in high school? Natalie just wants to experiment like all the other kids. It is nothing serious, just a phase. Teenagers out grow these habits soon enough. Just sit tight and keep her out of jail. I mean, I did them and look at me now, I am a perfectly normal and successful doctor!”

These two children went through standard and fairly common “phases.” Both Laura and Natalie did out grow their rebellious habits. By out grow I mean they succumbed to parental pressures in one instance and moved on to other, more mature ways, to get back at their parents. (Not that all children continue to rebel, some clocks are one time deals with others turn into yearly or weekly alarm clocks.) Laura chose to go to a college out of state, the ultimate way to run away from home. Only this time she had a place to run to her parents agreed with, a fortress of education. Natalie on the other hand decided to date a man her Roman Catholic parent’s strongly disliked. For this reason and this reason alone, Natalie loved him.

My clock went off well before Laura and Natalie’s. In third grade I was provoked not by the lack of opportunities to explore the little person I was, but by the overwhelming amount of after school activities for which my parents enthusiastically signed my name.

“Oh Julian just look! Little Einstein flute lessons! We must sign Kellyann up! The ability to play an instrument helps with mathematical problem solving and balance! Mary Sue never signed Jimmy up for any musical instrument lessons and look at him now- an alcoholic living pay check to pay check! Do we want our little wonder to end up that way?”

“But Michelle, Kellyann has spirit choir on the same day. Unless we signed her up for glee club, then she could do both. I am sure she would love that.”

Clearly my civil engineering father and stay-at-home mother forgot to ask me what I wanted to do- or even look in my general direction. They were too busy tossing around pages of colored paper advertising all the extracurricular they could signed me up for to notice me sticking my index finger down my throat, rolling my eyes into the back of my head and pretending to faint at the mere idea of playing the flute. I didn’t mind glee club because I would sit in the back and pretend I was an opera singer. When the director would ask who was singing like that I would cough the name of the girl to the right or left of me.

I was one of those kids whose parents enrolled their daughter in every possible extracurricular just to make sure she could find what she was good at, what she liked, what she disliked. Or that’s the reason they told me.

“Mommm, why do I have to go to soccer practice? I hate that stupid sport. It’s so dumb. Girls aren’t even allowed to play soccer at recess. The only thing I want to kick is the shin of the dumb inventor of soccer. Soccer is stupid.”
“Kel Bel, Marie Claire often played soccer when she wasn’t in her lab. Soccer helps develop teamwork skills and appropriate means of communication in a peer group. Plus you are only signed up for three activities right now while all the other girls have at least five.” My mom muttered that last part under her breath. I don’t believe she majored in English in college; her ability to tally and keep a running score of what all the other children were doing was unnatural.
“I hate science. I hate teamwork. I hate talking! I just want to read and color.”
“Don’t be stubborn. We all know how much you love to talk.”

For the most part I lacked natural skill in almost all fields I tried. I had my mom write a letter to my soccer coach so I was exempt from playing goalie; I never got past learning “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the flute even with a private tutor and I quit Irish step-dancing before the recital (this particularly upset my very proud, very Irish grandma who saw my rejection as a personal stab at our heritage and a complete and utter waste of natural red curls).

My parents, my mother in particular, gushed to the other PTA parents how involved their daughter was, with her choir experience, skill with the flute (my parents must have been deaf) but it was never enough. Each week the moms of the “gifted” girls would meet in the school cafeteria to put together the students’ weekly envelopes. The packets consisted of a newsletter for the parents from the principle, the hot food Wednesday order form and of course at least three varying colored papers each with a different after school activity to be offered. When it came time to assemble those particular packets the smiling dimpled faces of the proud housewives turned into faces similar to the ones men on prison shows make right before they kill their cell mate with a shank they hand crafted from the elastic band of their underwear.

“My little Michelle will just love the new dance class offered on Thursdays! She has excelled in Irish Step dance beyond all the other girls her class. Ballet, tap and jazz will help to just keep her in shape for that.”
“Well you should just see Claire! What a delight! Always dancing up a storm while Jimmy- you know my youngest; the first grader who played Mozart in last year’s talent show- plays the piano. I am going to make them matching costumes out of crushed blue velvet!”
“Well that’s nothing ladies. Lauren has the lungs of Madonna. I am sure these dance classes will just help her become the triple threat she is destined to be! After becoming a lawyer of course.”
Now it was my mother’s turn.
“Cheryl, I heard Michelle was the best in her class because she was with the first graders, not the third graders?”
“Michelle just missed the deadline for her age group because she was at figure skating nationals in Texas. She got third you know. Is Kellyann even still in Irish step dancing?”
My mom blushed, but recovered quickly. “Kellyann thought it was too boring. She could practically be on River Dance! It just wasn’t enough of a challenge for her anymore. I am sure theses Thursday dance classes will be the same, besides she may decide to start taking Chinese on those days.”

Right mom, because deciding between dance class and a nonexistent Chinese symbol drawing class was my choice to make. If I had my way I would have been in the library’s reading club and taking a drawing class at the local community center. I asked my mother once to sign me up for either of these activities. The first was not developed enough so it would be a waste of time, she would make up a personalized reading schedule for me instead. Drawing class? That desire, ironically the strongest of all, was ignored. What could a girl do with art?

When my mom came home from envelope stuffing she had an announcement.
“Kellyann Marie, get down here! I have some wonderful news!” Maybe I was wrong; maybe I could finally do what I wanted to do. I had already taken a form of singing, dancing, and playing- what was left? I felt safe. I was wrong.
“You are going to be taking the new ballet, jazz, and tap dance class series on Thursday afternoons! All the other girls are doing it, you will have so much fun!”

I was cosmically screwed over, what horrendous deed had I performed in a past life to deserve such a serving of karma? Apparently Irish dance has nothing to do with ballet, tap dance, and jazz. My parents were thrilled. A sign! Oh their little baby girl still had some hope of avoiding middle class mediocrity and doing something she loved. By “something she loved” I mean something they selected, wished they had been able to accomplish in their childhood, or all the other “normal” girls my age were doing. The fear of having a daughter who was not normal often consumed my parents. I didn’t make any form of verbal protest. I accepted my fate and ran up to my room where I kicked my garbage can from my desk to my door. Maybe soccer was good for something after all.

There I was, Thursday afternoon in my school social hall, in my black tights, black spandex leotard, and matching Payless Shoe Source ballet slippers, surrounded by a sea of girls whose parents had the exact same thought mine had. Most of us were miserable; some of us enjoyed the lessons, some of us were just happy to get away from overbearing parents insistent that dance lessons lead to Harvard scholarships. More often than not I fell into the first category.

Ms. Wetzel was the instructor for all three fields of offered dance (all of which I was signed up). She was an old widowed woman who looked as if she had been sitting in a hot bath all day. Her pruned, wrinkled fingers matched nicely with the permanent scowl tattooed to her elastic face. She clapped bendy-straw fingers together, “My misfit gaggle of ugly prepubescent ducklings! Line up along the red line facing me, shortest to tallest. Let me see what I can do with you. Not all of us were born to be beautiful swans you know.” She finished her opening proclamation with a cackle that would make even the most black lungs filled with cigarette smoke cringe.
“My, my, my, what do we have here?” She was headed in my direction. I tried to pull the curtain of my red curls to hide my face.
“Little ghost, have you taken dance before? Your posture is très magnifique.”
Her French wasn’t fooling anyone she was so obviously German. “Yes ma’m. Irish step dancing. I hate dance, I think it’s stupider than Mrs. Robinson saying “catch-up not mustard when I don’t turn my times tables in on time,” I finished, crossing my arms and slouching.
“Well then! You will learn a thing or two in the back of the gaggle now won’t you!” With that she dug her yellow nails into my wrist and placed me at the tip of a triangle formation- me being the very back point so I could not be seen from any direction.

As much as I hated dance, I loved being the center of attention- my zodiac sign is a Leo after-all.
I do not think I ever looked that woman in the eye. For some reason unknown to my third grade mentality she felt the need to match us by wearing her own black tights and black spandex leotard. Her weekly costume also included a cane with which she used to keep the beat of the music, when she was not swinging it around like a bayonet. She had an assistant, whose name I cannot recall, who was much kinder than her. I think she was her sister. She left halfway through that year for reasons unknown to us girls. Some of the girls missed her and felt bad for Mr. Wetzel who was left all alone on Thursday afternoons. Being the stubborn smartass I was (and still am) I wondered what took her sister so long to leave and wished she had taken me with her.

“I want to punch Ms. Wetzel square in the face. Michelle, what snack do you have?”
“Celery with peanut butter. Mom says they will make me limbery, whatever that means.”
“Well they look gross, maybe if we leave them on the floor and ants come Ms. Wetzel will see them, have a heart attack and die! I wouldn’t go to her funeral.”
“Kellyann, why do you have such a violent thoughts?”
“I watch a lot of crime TV.”
“Huh?”
“After my parents go to sleep I sneak downstairs and watch TV, that’s all that’s on. We should have a sleepover at my house, then we can think of ways to kill Ms. Wetzel.”

When the ants never came I knew it was a bad omen. My fate was sealed. No one was going to get me out of those dance classes expect myself. I guess you could say my long overdue rebellion clock went off. My parents were clueless. It was little things at first. Forgetting my dance shoes so my mom had to come and drop them off for me. This action excused me from at least an hour of dancing, as I would sit along the wall, patiently waiting for my mother.

“Kellyann Marie Wargo if you leave your shoes at home again so help me I will take you out of dance class and you can do chores!” She would then throw the shoes on the floor and leave with that special PTA-prison-man-murder face of hers.

We both knew this to be an empty threat because I would have loved that. My mom learned this game and began packing my backpack for me. Damn it. I had to take larger steps. I faked a twisted ankle in a gym class soccer game when I was goalie. I went to the secretary who called my mom to come pick me up from school and waited patiently, frozen sponge ice pack pressed to my ankle, for my mother to arrive. That was only good for one Thursday, though, so more drastic measures had yet to be taken if I wanted to reclaim my freedom.

The secretary of the school’s office changed daily. Answering phone calls, making phone calls, and typing documents for the principle was considered a PTA activity. The parents who were not part of the clique with “gifted” daughters were left to fulfill this activity slot. This trend I noticed after twisting my ankle. The secretary I met when dropping off my class’s morning homeroom attendance sheet Tuesday morning was not the same woman as on Wednesday. Interesting. I had a plan and a week after twisting my ankle I put it into action.

I went to the secretary complaining of a stomachache, sore throat, feeling like I was going to puke at any time. She had no choice but to call my mom to come pick me up. In the meantime I got to nap on a hideous, brown, plastic reclining bed in the sick room. Of course I had no stomachache, no sore throat, and if anything I was hungry. I silently celebrated my great escape by making little creatures out of the paper towel by the sick bed used to clean up students’ puke and other body fluids. Whenever someone walked by the room I was sure to hide the small creation, squint my eyes, and curl up in ball holding my stomach. This time when my mom came to get me she was not upset, she was worried. My plan had worked. My mother’s sympathy did not impact my conscience. I had no feelings of guilt for tricking a low-rung member of administration, or for making my mom drive all the way to school during the day to pick me up.

The following Thursday I made another sick attempt. If I were to succeed this would be my third successful week of dodging dance- my own personal extracurricular. Another secretary, another illness- this time an excruciating headache that was making me so dizzy I could not walk straight. (If I pulled a stunt like this in high school they would think I was drunk.) I simply could not attend dance because my dizzy state would put the other dancers in danger with my flailing limbs and staggering step. More classes missed, more paper towel creatures made and stored under the reclining bed.

In fact I continued my charade for months. For reasons unknown to me, and unknown to my mother to this day, I missed almost every Thursday afternoon in the third grade academic year and got away with it. Ms. Wetzel did not notice my disappearing act, she had other young souls to deform and torture. The “little ghost” was the least of her worries when she was up to her neck (did she even have a neck under all the draping of wrinkled skin?) in ugly ducklings.

Then my mom became pregnant with my sister, Caitlyn. The fun and novelty of outsmarting my parents began to wear off when my charades were dismissed and replaced by shopping for a new stroller, crib; even little swatches of paint samples were more interesting than their first-born’s progress on her route to Harvard. Although Ms. Wetzel kept me in the back of the dance formation I could not have been happier and I knew my pregnant parents would still be able to see me because of my large mass of frizzy red curls- assuming they put down the Pottery Barn magazine down long enough to remember my recital. After all, my problem lied not with my crazy German teacher who smelled liked a kitty-litter sandwich sprayed with Chanel No. 5, nor with my parents who bought me footed pajamas until I was fifteen, no- my problem lived within my very own mind; I wasn’t making my own decisions.

I was back in class because I wanted to be, I actually wanted to be miserable. Why? It was my decision. That was my first and last real rebellion against my parents, the end of my “phases”. My clock stopped ticking after that. They no longer signed me up for after school activities with Kaitlynn on the way. They had a new soul to mold to their liking, whether my new sister liked it or not her fate was sealed before she was the size of a peanut. Although my years as the guinea pig had just begun so did the years of me doing what I wanted to do. I still do not feel bad about missing those classes. I have yet to take a dance class again and still lack rhythm and grace, but I am okay with that because I have a mean streak a mile wide.

intro to the story i am working on...

first paragraph of "If I Had A Dick I Would Tell You To Suck It"



If A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. Now lets apply this law of correlation to something I will actually use in life. If dating means a future , and a future means nothing lasts (inevitable ending) then dating equals the end. Boom, done. What’s the point of getting involved in something that will inevitably end dramatically in tears, torn up pictures, burned articles of clothing, slashed bike tires- more or less thousands of dollars lost in material possessions. That’s just the start of it! How about the years of therapy, girls’ nights, and the ever-increasing probability of becoming a lesbian?

How To Become A Writer

Read a lot. Start with Highlights for Kids, sports illustrated for kids, then find a book series. You are too young to read anything with sex and you don’t really know what sex is. The cartoon penis in the book your mom read you in the fourth grade, “Where Babies Come From” scares you. You do not see a real penis until your freshman year of college when you witness a drunken boy peeing on the side of a pizza place on your way home from a fraternity party. This only adds to your fear. You Google image search “penises.” When you are asked in a game of ten fingers if you have ever seen porn you answer yes. You give up eating hot dogs but couldn’t bear to part with popsicles.

In seventh grade you start writing poetry after reading “Where the Sidewalk Ends” the first line you think of is about the new girl who moved in down the street- I wonder if they wonder the way I wonder about them. You never meet her and the rest of the poem sucks, but you feel accomplished.

The same year your father’s boss at a civil engineering firm dies. You never met the man but you are torn up by the thought of death. You think about death constantly and in seventh grade you have convinced yourself you are suicidal. Crying yourself to sleep every night and eating orange sorbet with your stuffed bear Pinkie becomes a regular thing. You start writing poetry about death and loss, well, as much about the subjects as your seventh grade self would know. Luckily our mom is able to talk you out of your dark phase by explaining that your great capacity to feel others pain means you have a larger heart with an even greater capacity to love. This makes you feel good and you stop writing emotional poems. You fold the lose leaf notebook sheets into small rectangles and put them in a purple jelly pencil case that you hide under your elementary school diaries in your desk. You forget they are there for a few years and find them again your freshman year of high school you never showed your parents your writing and are very glad. After you read each poem a few times you realize your life would make a fairly interesting Lifetime or Hallmark Channel movie. You would like a non-coke whore version of Lindsay Lohan to play you, but she would have to cover up her freckles. You’re okay with that, she would look better without them anyway.

Join the forensics team. When people ask you if you cut up bodies like they do on CSI: Miami you tell them it is not that kind of forensics. Of course they ask what other kind of forensics exists. They are perplexed by the idea that there are more than one kind of something and that they do not know it, damn know-it-alls. You tell them what the dictionary says, the art or study of argumentation and formal debate. They think this sounds dumb and the other would like totally be way better, dude. You shake your head and will deal with this reaction for the rest of high school and even in college when asked what extracurricular activities you were once involved in. You love forensics more than volleyball and this breaks your fathers heart while simultaneously eradicating your coaches daughter reputation, thank God. Forensics allows you to perform what you read. You go to nationals with a prose piece by Sylvia Plath, but you do not break. You were not there to win- losing is a part of the experience too. In your category, Oral Interpretation, you have two pieces you read from a little black binder: prose and poetry. You only get to write your introduction but that’s okay because you like reading other people’s words more, they all see so much more put together- especially the authors who committed suicide.

While a member of the forensics team you start taking more English electives: Short Fiction, Women and Literature, Literature into Film, and Poetry. You dread Women and Literature everyday, mainly due to the fact that the teacher is a reality check to what you may be in the future if you stay the wild independent feminist you are. She is old, alone, the proud owner of seven cats, and spends her days dying her hair different shades of purple or reading the feminist prose canon. You shudder at the thought although nights filled with romantic comedy marathons and Chinese food sounds better than crying yourself to sleep when you find out your husband cheated on you with the babysitter/ secretary/ your daughter’s first grade teacher/ your best friend.

You are happiest in poetry. The class valedictorian sits across from you, future West Point graduate / President of the United State, and asks you for writing advice. This makes your head big but its okay because you are the best writer in the class, maybe even your grade, maybe even at your all girls private Catholic high school. You can write about anything except abortion, never abortion.

Apply to five colleges. A safety school, an ivy league school (for shits and giggles), one with a strong program of what your parents want you to do, one with a strong program of what you want to do, and a party school in a bad area. You end up going to the school you hated, the ones your parents wanted. You are an art and design major with a double minor in art history and history of art. You are going to be a museum curator. You have to be a museum curator. You have been asked this question millions of times and every time you have the same answer. At first you didn’t know what you wanted to be so you made up this answer. Now you have used it so many times you start to believe it yourself. Your greatest fear is the possibility of another answer, another choice. You are afraid of change. You write a short story about your fear of questions and answers. It is too good. You delete it.

Freshman year of college your fears subside when you take a college writing class. You read books, write essays, pretty mundane easy stuff. You get a B+ because you half ass all your essays. To feed your creative writing dragon living in your belly you write a poem every now and then about the change of seasons, a mail box, and leaf. The rumbling and aching subsides, but only temporarily. Feeding the dragon is when you feel completely electrically alive. This feeling scares you as much as it excites you. Take a calculus to remind you of what it feels like to be dead.

Over the summer you start a blog. You have no followers and the only person that views it is you. That’s your own fault however because you set it to private. You are not ready to own your voice so you start writing fan fiction, anonymously, under the pen name of Penny for the poorly written, directed, and acted Disney musical “Newsies.” Like romantic comedies, fan fiction follows the same plot- you would know being an expert on ro-coms, especially those starring Meg Ryan. This boy saves damsel in distress plot bothers you and you begin writing about serial killers. Your parents find out and make you stop, but they can never mute your voice. No one can.

Sophomore year you take a creative writing class, you do not need it to fill any requirements but you tell your parents you do. They would not like you taking credits that are not working towards something, towards your future, towards your Harvard prom date future mail order husband they want you to marry but you find lacks personality more than an IKEA dining room table. You enjoy the writing class more than your entire art and design course load. The dragon in your belly gets excited but you write a mediocre story called “If These People Go To Heaven I Want To Go To Hell” and it is full. The class makes the belly pains more frequent and intense.

Start reading again. Being single has made you gravitate towards Nicholas Sparks’ novels. You read the last page first just incase you die before you finish the book- this means you have a dark side. You learned this while watching “When Harry Met Sally,” a Meg Ryan ro-com of course. Being single has also inspired you to write about your ex-boyfriend. You never change the names of the people you write about. Like that bitch Taylor Swift people won’t be your friend or date you because they do not want to be written (or sung) about; or at least that’s the reason you tell yourself daily for not having many friends or lovers. You rather have a lover than a friend. You rather be a writer than a lover or a friend. This never changes. If you are a writer it is inevitable you will lose all your friends and lovers only to die alone with 50 cats. But at least someone knows you existed, for a short period of time because you wrote about it, and you never changed their names.

short dialogue assignment

“CUH-LAIRRRRE!” squealed a high pitch voice from a tall, thin blonde across the produce section.
“CLAIRE BEAR, I can recognize that walk from a mile away! Get that cute little ass over here and give me a hug!”
I did not respond. I acknowledge my Aunt Lisa’s greeting with a half-assed smile. When she wrapped her boney, lotion tanned orange arms around me I couldn’t help but cringe. That stuff always smells like fake coconuts mixed with insect repellant.
“Hey Aunt Lisa. I see you’ve been using lotion tanner lately. Smart move, you know how those UV rays will get you.”
“Oh honey, aren’t you the sweetest thing! Always looking out for others. You’re so much like your mother, god rest her angelic little soul!”
Clearly my Aunt had yet to understand sarcasm. I couldn’t make eye contact with this woman. I wanted so badly to be nice and sincere with her but I just could not bring myself to it. It was times like this I was glad my mother was not around anymore, she would have scolded me and made that face she always used to make when I acted “this” way. The one where she tilts her head down and to the side, lifts her eyebrows slightly, closes her eyes for longer than a blink and bites her bottom lip. Damn I miss my mom.
“Yeah. All right, well it was nice seeing you. Dad has me doing the groceries now so I really better get through this list. My algebra homework won’t do itself you know.”
I was just about to push my cart of junk food away (I lied, my dad made no list) when I heard her the click clacking of heels come after me.
“Where do you think you’re going pretty lady?”
“I have to finish shopping Aunt Lisa. I have homework.”
“Oh spare your favorite Aunt a few minuets! Tell me about your life. Oh to be young again! Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Any boys you like?”
“No. My high school is full of morons. My cat has more of a brain than any of them do.”
“Oh sweetie you have to stop hanging out with your cat and get some real human friends.”
“I have friends.”
“Just no boyfriend?’
“No. No boyfriend.”
“If you like girls that’s totally fine too! My friend Caroline has one of those lesbian daughters. I could get her number if you would like…she’s kind of manly looking…if you’re into that kind of girl and all…”
She trailed off as she rummaged around her knock off designer Coach bag for her rhinestone encrusted cell phone. She did it herself, an action in which she was for which she was far too proud.
“I am not a lesbian Aunt Lisa. I just do not have time for a relationship.”
“Looks like your don’t have time for that hair of yours either! Come on baby girl, let’s go to the cosmetic aisle. There must be something there to help us out with that bird nest on your head! No wonder that cat likes you so much, probably thinks a little robin’s nest is sitting on your head!”
“Look Aunt Lisa, I would love to stay and chat but I really need to get these errands done. Dad is kind of a mess at home, you know with mom and all, and he really needs me. You can give me makeover another weekend. Promise.”
I felt bad for playing the dead mom card but I had to. Sorry mom.
“Oh sweet you are so right! My little Claire Bear is woman of the house now! I totally understand. I felt the same way when my first husband left me., and the second.”
“I just knew you would understand.”
“I will see you later then for our makeover date! Tell your dad I say hello. Friend me on the Facebook!”
“Alright Aunt Lisa, I will.”
She blew air kisses to me as I pushed my cart as far away from hers as possible. She did get one thing right though, I was a lesbian. A big one, and my girlfriend just so happened to love my hair just the way it is- bird nest and all.

Whats Her DEAL?

I like to write. I have a lot of opinions. My teacher describes my tone as "funny, confident, yet-self deprecating." I like to blur the line between fiction and non-fiction. I use my friends names, my parents names, my own name. Do not assume the narrator is me, although it usually is. I can be cynical, pessimistic, bitter, witty, sassy, snarky ... and here it comes. I hope you get a good laugh out of this, do not take it seriously or literally- unless thats the only way you can take me seriously. But seriously, that would suck.

“If These People Go to Heaven I Want to Go to Hell”

“It’s good you have enemies, that means you have stood up for something in your life.” I once heard this quotation before, the author of this bumper sticker-worthy saying I do not know- but my inability to credit him (or her) is doing this person a great favor. What strong negative feelings you have, you must be thinking. Who cut her off on the way to class? Is she PMSing? Was she just dumped? My answers to this series of invasive questions should come as no surprise: no, no, and not exactly. But enough about me, this is not intended to be a laundry list of reasons that have made me the confident, funny yet self-deprecating young woman I am today. This (whatever this is) is intended to bring light to a few strong personalities out there that drive me absolutely nuts. In accordance with my opening quotation I would happen to fall into the “enemy” portion as opposed to the latter person who stood for something. In my defense, and on behalf of all the enemies out there, what you stand for really does not make a difference to me, how you present yourself and feelings is where my negative feelings lie.

I am not taking sides in some world war or defending the pure evil human beings that have inhabited this earth. Like I said I am simply calling to your attention a select few everyday, average, human beings most of us manage to encounter on a daily basis. We ride the bus with these people, stand behind them in line, and sit behind them in the movie theatre. You may know people who will fit the following descriptions, find comfort in knowing you are not the only one mentally plotting absurd and unrealistic ways to silence or otherwise maim them, and God forbid you actually are one of them- in which case I strongly suggest you change your ways to avoid the inevitable fate of Darwin’s natural selection. Now it is time to get you acquainted with these everyday characters, or should I say villains who I sometimes think God (or whatever God or higher being exists) put on this earth to drive me, personally, to a point of insanity or some other form of breaking point that would leave me curled into the fetal position in the dark corner of a room listing all the capital cities in the United States. I should point out that I am not addressing these types in any particular order because they all annoy me an equal and surprisingly high amount.

#1. At Least They Aren’t Cutting Their Wrists, Just Lines

The bus stop, a place where all kinds of people come together for a common purpose, united in their quest for mass transportation in the never ending battle to save the planet by saving gas and the harmful excretions those damn automobiles leave behind. I am not one of those people. I take the bus because a majority of my college classes are not on the same campus as my house. If I had my own way I would take a taxi to every class, every day, yet I lack the bank account for such action. I am not in any way leading the fight against global warming. This transportation handicap has turned me into quite the people watcher. Long minutes are spent at the bus stop waiting for one’s desired bus to arrive, the human content to exit, and then the violent daily tango students participate in to win a spot on the bus. It is the realm between waiting for people to get off and me getting on where my problem exists. If the world were a fair place the people who have been waiting for the bus longest should get on first, those who got there last should be last. But like the first lesson so many parents teach their children: life isn’t fair. This is where I begin my never-ending battle against daily injustice. The people who get to the bus stop the last minute, shimmy their way to the front of the awkward middle-school-dance-grinding cluster of students and get on the bus first make me want to drop kick a puppy the length of a football field. Since I am not a member of this horrible sub species of human I am not able to channel their warped thought process. “Oh you are running late for class?” Chances are the majority of students around you are experiencing the same thing! You have so much in common, maybe you should go talk about how you should have set your alarm earlier or not stayed up so late, in the back of the line, thanks. Dear sorority girls, wait your damn turn. Just because you have a vagina does not mean you get to cut in front of the 15 men who were waiting ahead of you. Do not argue that chivalry is dead since guys aren’t bowing at your sight or clearing the sidewalk for you to pass. Guys will not say something to you as you cut them off- coffee in one hand, blackberry in another- but if you cut me off I sure as hell will. Whoops, my elbow grazed your triple venti no foam low fat skim caramel macchiato that just happened to explode all over your white over-priced North Face jacket! Three lessons should be learned here: 1: Your stomach does not know the difference so I doubt you can taste the difference between whole and skim milk. Don’t act so picky, I saw you taking shots of whatever you could get your hands on this weekend. 2: Be smart enough to never purchase any form of white outer wear, I don’t care if Taylor Swift wore the same coat, you are not her and lets be honest, never will be. The last lesson is the greatest to be learned: do not least do not cut in front of me to get on the bus, or anyone else for that matter.

#2. The SLCUWTLC

Chances are if you have encountered a bus cutter you have also witnessed the atrocity that is the Super-Long-and-Completely-Unnecessary-but-I-Want-To-Look-Cool-at- Starbucks coffee consumer (SLCUWTLC for short). When did this become a trend? Having an unnecessarily complex coffee order is more unnatural than a grown man wearing a pair of folded, knee high, sand colored Ugg boots in public- who also happens to be your father. I order a tall mocha, that’s all there is to it. Adding low fat this, and cinnamon flavored that is an insult to the great makers of coffee and anyone with an order longer than two or three words should be slapped in the face. What’s the point of even having a menu if less than 5% of Starbucks customers’ even order something listed? Where people come up with these bizarre caffeinated recipes is beyond my comprehension and frankly something I never wish to fully grasp. Do they really know the difference between foam and no foam? Tom Hanks’ character Joe Fox in “You’ve Got Mail” put it best, “The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don't know what the hell they're doing or who on earth they are, can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self.” These “people” have completely eliminated an entire career field for me, barista. If I had to listen to high maintenance spawn who can afford to add fifty unnecessary ingredients twice a day to a twenty ounce beverage I would go so out of my mind I would start to drink skinny chai tea lattes no ice just chilled whipped cream on the side too.

#3. More Annoying Than Orange Cones

Like many middle-class suburban families I was raised in a neighborhood complete with white picket fences, paved sidewalks and built-in sprinkler systems. I may be exaggerating on the fences and sprinklers but we did have a sidewalk. What a neat invention! A sidewalk is like a mini road for mothers pushing strollers, Bobby and Susie on their bikes, and dad’s power walking route. Too bad the sidewalks in my neighborhood were never used. Next time you are driving through a neighborhood fortunate to have their dollars wasted on a sidewalk take note of how many people are actually using them. Mothers in packs of four create a human roadblock on my street.

“Oh, the sidewalk is not big enough for us to walk in a ten foot line to gossip about each other wearing our weight loss sneakers and pushing our state of the art aerodynamic strollers complete with dual side air bags and hovercraft capabilities.”

I am going to propose a law to my state’s congress- if a person in a vehicle somehow injures a person walking in the street when sidewalks are available the driver is not punished but the idiot dumb enough to walk their dog in the street is fined. Use the damn sidewalk. No excuses. The worst part is if my neighborhood did not have a sidewalk I am sure some moms or dads would be petitioning the neighborhood day and night for their installation. Not because they want to utilize the safety features and the plain common sense that a sidewalk is, but because what better frames a perfectly manicured lawn (thank you, built-in sprinkler system) than a geometric cement path? Every time I actually have to drive the speed limit in my neighborhood to pass a jogger or biker using the road when there is dust blowing across the sidewalk from lack of use I fantasize about running them over and yelling, “whoops! sorry! I would have seen you if you were on the sidewalk, but instead you were the road! You know, the place designated for cars!” Yet I never yell this. I slow down and resist the urge to press my palm to my horn until it runs out and instead use my hand to salute my friendly neighbor.

#4. Forgetful Flushers

This next group of individuals is a mystery to me. Although I share a house with some of their kind, I encounter this anonymous secret society more often in the public domain. This is one of the more open groups, for it includes men and women of all ages, races, and sexual orientations. There are no initiation rites, no hazing or membership dues; all an individual must do is leave their excretions exposed for the world to see. You know, the people who “forget” to flush. I do not know how many hours I have spent in my boring classes wondering how a person could really genuinely forget to flush. As an Art and Design student I can see the toilet as a product of industrial design. The handle to flush is located just above the seat within an arm’s reach and it is often a color different than a toilet. For the pure morons out there who would prefer to have the handle right in front of their face, the sound of a toilet flushing around them should be enough to remind them to turn around. Unless you are incredibly immature and have no respect for other peoples’ gag reflexes, flush the damn toilet. I don’t care how impressive the size or color of your bodily excretion is, and I doubt other people will be impressed as well. If you really want to show it off and are particularly proud of yourself take a picture of it on your iPhone, I am sure there is an app for that.

#5. What’s up? What’s up! What the fuck? What the fuck!

The way people greet each other has changed greatly over the centuries. Mankind has gone from “good morrow lad”, to “good day”, “hey there” and now “what’s up?” Now one of these does not seem to fit. The last one of these greetings is a question. A majority of humans who use the greeting are young men. Call me old fashioned but I like saying “hello, hey there” or on a good day “howdy.” All of these greetings end in an exclamation point, not a question mark. Isn’t it rude to ask a person a question as soon as you see them? That does not sound like a greeting to me, that sounds like the start of a police station style interrogation. When I see someone and the first thing they ask me is “what’s up?” I start to sweat. A tornado of questions wreaks havoc in my mind. Am I supposed to answer what I am doing? I mean I am walking home. … but that’s not interesting. Should I tell a story? If I am having a bad day do I tell them that what’s up is my life is spinning inevitably into a black hole? Usually I just ignore the question and keep walking. Does that offend them? What if he was trying to start a conversation with me? What if I just turned down my future husband? That is my thought process. Why can’t someone just say hello back, if you want to know more about my day ask about my day, do not ask what is up. Where does that saying even come from? What does it really mean? Besides the smartass answer of “the sky” I do not know the correct answer. I beg you to please stop saying “what’s up?” as an opening line because I do not know how to answer and then you just make both of us look stupid.

#6. If I Were Colorblind It Wouldn’t Matter

Different teachers have different grading methods and techniques. To receive an A on a paper students must fulfill answer a series of questions, have proper formatting, come up with a thesis that would boggle even Aristotle’s mind, jump through flaming hoops, and survive a being shot in point-blank range. (Nothing crazy sounds pretty standard to me.) For those idiots who cannot perform such mediocre and rather boring tasks, teachers have their own little way of letting students know that grading their paper is equivalent to watching the comedy channel with a bowl of popcorn. I like to think that teachers attended a “How To Destroy Student’s Souls 101” where the focus of the course was how to use the lethal weapon known as the red pen. I am no longer going to turn in papers in black ink but red. Maybe since my paper is already red the particular Nazi correcting what is so obviously wrong to them (because I don’t suggest a way to take over the world in my essay on the female nude in Baroque Renaissance art) will back off and save some ink. Unfortunately, teachers always seem to be one step ahead. My personal favorite are teachers who correct in green pen- because receiving a paper covered in green ink really makes me feel better than seeing red. I actually had a teacher who at the beginning of the semester passed out a packet with a list numbered one to fifty. Each number was a different error. For example, one is paper margins are off and fifty is not enough proof to back up a statement. He thought students rather have their paper look like an elementary school math worksheet than a million mosquitoes were smashed into the paper’s grain. Good thing I lost that packet at the beginning of the semester. With this teacher I would like to add up all the numbers and see how high of a score I could get. Lets just say I was the reigning class champion.

#7. I Am Using All of My Rollover Minutes In Public

Last but certainly not least is the “I am going to keep talking on my phone in the library/ bus/ restaurant/ when I am checking out at the grocery store because boring the person on the other end of the line and pissing everyone off around me about my below average life is the cross I must bear and when other people listen in or glare at me I am going to shoot them a death glare or ignore them because I am that selfish and self absorbed.” I would not call that being over dramatic either. Much like the people who make their own lanes on the highway these low rung humans put themselves before everyone else all the time. Chances are the cell phone talker is also the “I am going to get on the bus ahead of everyone else” kind. I am going to start carrying around a white board that reads “I do not give a shit about (blank)” and then I will carry it around with me and fill in the blank with whatever nugget of information I hear. Living one average life is enough for me, I do not need to feel like I am living yours as well and neither does everyone else around you. Text them, call them back later, or get the hell off the bus or out of the library. My response may be rude or inconsiderate but like Newton said, “every action has an equal and opposite reaction.” That is a law for a reason.

I am waiting for Darwin’s theory of natural selection and survival of the fittest to bring a reign of karma upon this series of subspecies. I may not be able to predict the future but one thing I know for certain, if on judgment day I am behind a person at the gates of Heaven talking on their cell phone for the saints to hear and the first thing they say is “what’s up” I sure as hell am not sharing a cloud with them and request a transfer to you know where.

#8. The Worst of Them All

Here is the twist you have been waiting for (the undeclared confession of love, the double agent, the resurrection). Right now you either love me or hate me for my extreme opinions. The truth is, it really doesn’t matter how I made you feel because you listened. I guarantee you read this all the way through. I hooked you, with my title; with my witty one-liners that you inevitably underlined as you read this (whatever this is). My trick is simple really, the only way to really capture an audience and leave them thinking about your words for hours is to have an extreme opinion and stick to it. People will love you or hate you for your opinion but ultimately they will respect you. Doesn’t matter what you take a stance on. You could claim the world is going to blow up in 2012 hours or that Tom Cruise really isn’t crazy, just stick to it. Lie, manipulate, do whatever you have to just to convince your readers you are right. Pick an easy target, use some big words; throw in a joke or two. Get them laughing. I like to call this the fast track to the top. This kind of person is more dangerous and ultimately more annoying than any one of the stereotypes I have created one through seven. This kind of person can uses words to get you to join their dark side. Who knows, you yourself could be a coffee drinking forgetful flusher and end up hating yourself, when really it is not a big deal at all. I just made it seem like one, and look at that, you believed me.

See you there; I’ll save you a seat.