So, it's been a while. I know, I know, I don't have any followers. Why should I care if it's been a month since my last post? The answer to that question is simple and is as follows:
I apply feelings to inanimate objects--such as this blog. I start to think, 'Oh, it's feeling neglected' (I have yet to think of a gender for it, but believe me, I will soon), and then that oh-so-familiar fiend GUILT (boom!*) will weasel its way into the back of my head, down my throat, and into my chest cavity where I will feel its power resonating throughout my being with every beat of my heart.
*That was supposed to be thunder. Like in scary movies when the murderer's name is uttered and there's that loud crash? Yeah, I didn't think it would come out clearly, either. But you gotta try sometimes.
Anywhosits, this guilt eats away at me until I am reduced to an insomnia-induced posting frenzy at (checking time*) 2:41 in the morning.
*Checking the time should only take me a millisecond. After all, all I need to do is glance at the top right hand corner of my screen and VOILÀ (correct accents? Jesus Christ, I'm a goddamn French major and I can't even tell if the "a" is correctly accented. Ah well)! I've got my time. But no. I have to do the "cool" thing and try and "ask" my Mac what time it is. Because it has feelings, and it doesn't get to talk very often, and if I have the ability to grant it use of it's precious technological vocal chords, then dammit, I'm going to. Short story even shorter, it takes 7 requests (each at different volumes and with different intonations) before the Mac responds. Total time: 6 minutes and 48 seconds.
It's Christmas day. So I'm pretty psyched. I don't know what it is about this holiday that magically transforms me into a rambling five-year-old, but it does.
My one qualm with Christmas? I never know what to ask for.
And if I do, it's really weird stuff that no normal person would ask for.
For instance, last year, I really wanted jersey knit sheets for my bed. I know, sheets? But my I had gone over to my friend's house and she had jersey knit sheets on her bed and she was all, "My sheets are like a t-shirt," and I felt mistreated. Why didn't I have t-shirt sheets? What kind of parents did I have, who would subject me to regular sheets?
Days later, I was faced with my mother's yearly query: What do you want for Christmas?
She was incredibly perplexed when I told her of my desire for t-shirt sheets.
Mom: But Molly. You have perfectly good sheets on your bed. Wouldn't you want something more... (she was looking for a word that meant "normal" but didn't have her negative connotation*) more useful?
Me: What could be more useful than sheets?
Mom: Mol, you're 17. If you want sheets you can get them yourself at Wal-Mart. What do you want for Christmas that you can't buy yourself?
Me: A Transformer. A real one.
Mom: Confused and annoyed Molly. Be serious. Can you, for once in your life, not treat everything so nonchalantly? ...
[Here, my mother went off on one of her "responsibility and you're-almost-an-adult and what-will-you-do-when-you're-in-the-real-world rants that I never bother tuning in for].
*My mother randomly applies negative connotations to perfectly normal and PC words. Like, "stringy" or "hollow." I'll write a post about it.
My mother still didn't quite understand my need for these jersey sheets.
Christmas morning came. Along with it were several "useful" (and some admittedly enjoyable) presents from my mother. Then my father handed me my present from him.* I slowly peeled away the wrapping paper (again with the feelings. I can't just rip into the paper. That would hurt it and I'm so not going to do that to the poor defenseless wrapping paper). To my sheer delight, it was grey jersey knit sheets. I immediately went up to my room and made my bed.
*That sentence doesn't sound grammatically correct to me. I'm a freshman in college. I should know this grammar shit. Whatever. It's 3 AM. I don't give a flying rat's ass. (Weird phrase? I just realized how weird that might be. Rats don't fly.)
I spent the rest of the day gleefully anticipating night-fall, when I could fall into my new t-shirt sheets (and my god, were they like a vintage t-shirt... the answer to that riddle is YES).
Back to the present, it's been a year since that fateful Christmas, and I still use my jersey knit sheets. I still love them, HOWEVER--
In all of the t-shirt sheet excitement (what I'm calling Jerseyfest Oh-Nine), it never dawned on me that the sheets would stretch just like a t-shirt. They're very elastic. And while this makes sleeping even more comfortable, it's quite the quandary for someone [read: me] who never makes their bed. Because after a while, the top sheet gets completely pulled out from it's place under the foot of the mattress and then it sort of starts shifting on top of the mattress. And then I'm too lazy to remake the bed, so it just keeps shifting and bunching until a large hunk of it is hanging onto the floor. And then at 1 in the morning, when I'm trying to get a glass of water because I'm thirsty and I can't sleep when I'm thirsty because thirst is not a comfortable thing to experience, I stand up and my foot gets caught in the stray corner of the sheet and it becomes pythonosheet and wraps itself around my ankle and I trip and hit my head on my computer desk and my parents yell up the stairs to see if I'm okay because my room is right above theirs and the thump my head made woke them up and they're annoyed because "IT'S ONE IN THE MORNING, DAMMIT!" And I am too embarrassed about letting my bed get into such a horrendous unmade condition, so I just respond with a weak "Nothing!" and am left with the task of thinking up a good excuse for the bruise the size of Montana currently forming just over my left eye.
When all of this happens (I apologize for that spewed paragraph, beeteedubs. I just couldn't stop, and now lack the energy to edit), a spot of resentment sort of punches me in my right ventricle and I think, this wouldn't happen with regular, non-stretchy sheets. But then I look at my sheets like they can read my mind and this little voice pops out of nowhere and is like,
"You don't really mean that, do you? Haven't we been good to you?"
And all I can do is lower my eyes to the ground all shameful-like, because, yeah, I kinda did mean it but, dammit, those sheets have been good to me. Then I apologize to the sheets because I'm a big bowl of crazy salad with a side of deranged vinaigrette on the side.
Sorry. That was a horrible analogy and I can do way better. I promise.
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