There I was: immersed in this ego-driven society of self-exploiting youths, who's social life had become almost entirely dependent on updating a Social Networking site. Hours were wasted staring at a computer screen, repeatedly hitting the Refresh button in hopes of seeing an updated status of any kind. Like many others, I was hooked on finding out what was going on in other people's lives -- one to three sentences (and maybe a song quote) at a time. To tell you the truth, I can understand the allure of being privy to people's events and thoughts. Still, no matter how hard I tried to swallow these small portions of intimacy my peers were offering, I couldn't get over the fact that this was what I had traded outings at the diner and live social interactions with. I felt that people had, in their desperate attempt to reach out to their peers and find some sort of emotional reward, been cheated somehow. In the grand age of communication, technology seemed to have had a stunting effect on genuine interactions. The generation coddled with instant gratification had begun to live instant lives. Who could blame them? It was easy.
I had grown too lazy to write anything. Sometimes I'd take a stab at writing a journal entry. I'd get all worked up and excited over a new notebook. However, no matter how I tried, I just couldn't get myself to produce the quality works of my earlier years. I even left entries unfinished -- a cardinal sin in my book. I was the worst kind of traitor to my self; I just couldn't believe that I was letting years' worth of precious memories become condensed into a few one-liners -- or worse: forgotten altogether.
I was suffering from my worst case of writer's block.
Ever.
One random day, I finally decided to listen to that nagging voice inside my head.
"FTW?" I spat the question that had been haunting my mind for years, festering in the far reaches of my nether-conscious. "If I can devote hours to staring at the same status updates for an hour, or play eighty rounds of Rainbow Unicorn Attack! (so addictive, mind you), ignore people's Farmville/Coffeeville/WTFEverville requests, and still have time to poke a few blokes, why the fuck can't I manage to find any time to do the things I used to do?" I did have the time, and I knew that. I had just lost my motivation, and that, ladies and gentlemen, sucked balls.
These beloved and long-neglected activities had once included: drawing, reading up on anime or another geeky subject, reading more books, teaching myself another fantasy language, text-based RPing, and of course Writing. Writing anything. I'd gotten to the point where filling half a page on a small micro journal had become a chore. The most I'd written was a few songs for my band, and even those had been hard to muster up. Out of all the hobbies, I missed writing most of all.
"What the shit!?" I'd often bemoan. "I used to be able to write about anything, everything, and nothing! Writing was my thing!" Yes. Writing was my "thing." It was the one art that I could effortlessly do, and I didn't need A's to tell me I was good at it (though they did reinforce the notion, lol). It used to be easy, and I loved it. I always had.
To this day, I still remember afternoons spent sitting on the counter of my dad's store on Broad street, verbally dictating stories to my mother, who would write them down for me. I'd even add illustrations to my works. All of this when I was but a wee lass, new to speaking. I wager that good old Anansi* had a laugh watching me spatter epic stories about the adventures of my favorite Japanese man in a monster suit. I'm referring to Godzilla, of course. See, no matter how old you are, you recognize a true B.A.M.F. when you see one and to me Godzilla was the most badass dinosaur around. Fuck Barney.
***
Undoubtedly, it makes sense to say one of the main reasons I took so well to writing was that, put simply: I loved talking to people. Verbal or written, I wanted to share my thoughts with the world around me and listen to their stories. The human mind and spirit fascinated me, people fascinated me, so I made it a point to meet them and learn as much as I could. I wasn't always pro at my approach, though.
I remember this one time when I was a kid, I was wandering around McDonalds greeting absolutely every person there. Most people humored me since I was small and adorable, and patiently returned my salutation warmly. I had received many hellos and was feeling quite pleased with my accomplishments when I suddenly ran into something wearing camouflage -- well, someone. I looked up at the huge tower of green uniform in front of me and was confused, horrified, and yet completely fascinated all at once. I might as well have run into a Yeti. Keeping my eyes carefully fixed on the questionable humanoid (in case it made any sudden motions to eat me), I toppled sideways over to my mother and urgently begged to know what "it" was. My mom stifled a laugh and explained that it was a person in the service. A soldier. After having my mother reassure me a few times that this soldier creature was friendly and safe to approach, I mustered up what cheeky gusto I had, marched up to soldier and offered my cutest smile/enthusiastic "Hello!" combo.
Stern silence...
I figured the soldier type didn't hear me the first time. No problem! I'd just say it again a bit louder for them. The ears were all the way up there, after all. "HELLO!" I called again and threw in a wave.
Again, though, I was met with silence.
This took me aback; there was no way she hadn't heard me this time. Using my early critical thinking skills I quickly deduced that I must be being ignored...but why? My childhood mind couldn't wrap itself around the concept of someone purposefully ignoring a friendly gesture -- especially from cute little me. What reason was there to reject such a simple, happy gesture? The confusion quickly turned itself to an indignant Angela pulling on a soldier's pants while insisting she inform me why this was so. Mom came swiftly to the tight-ass's rescue, though, and pulled me away before soldier could offer any comment on the matter.
This was the day I learned that not everyone's a social butterfly -- and that some people are just assholes who can't say hello to little Puerto Rican kids at McDonalds.
Whether this thirst for social interaction could be attributed to communication-oriented planet, Mercury, being Gemini's ruling planet, or simply because I'm an opinionated female-type [already famed for their proven ability/curse to trump almost any man's attempts at conversations about everything and nothing*] with too much hot-air capacity, I have always been eager to engage my fellow man in discussion. My extroverted personality has made it simple to engage both friend and complete stranger in any variety of discussion with little to no hesitation. I thrived on communication, and thus made it a point to find as many ways as I could to express myself and reach out to others.
Trouble was that at first I didn't really have someone to talk to. There was only so much I could talk to my parents about. I was an only child who was kept inside. So in the days before I learned my ABC's, my kingdom of toys, an imaginary friend named Skeleton Joe, and my imagination were my conversational companions. Then, one glorious Christmas Eve, I received my first diary and began the first recorded chapter of my legacy.
I received my first diary at the tender age of nine. It was a small book, with dreamy stationary featuring a pattern of blue skies with puffy white clouds floating across its span. The cover displayed a colorful splash of Dolphins drawn up in the then-popular "Lisa Frank" style (I was a huge fan; just sayin'). A nifty lock and key had even been included for assured privacy! How awesome! Of course, the gift was immediately put to use. I made quick work to fill the pages with as much as I possibly could about my days, especially ramblings about the other gift I'd received that year: a demanoid pug pup we'd christened "Chiki."
Finally, I had a way of remembering all the small but pleasant details of my daily life! I wrote about the toys I'd saved from the "Monster Cloud,"** Chiki's latest streak of evil (she was a mean little fucker), the latest video game I'd played, school, and the latest punishments I'd received. Unfortunately, the latter soon became a disturbingly reoccurring topic of discussion as my Mother slowly began her descent into the deepest catacombs of Depression.
* The trick is that women, being more emotionally driven in nature than men, tend to add details like feelings and all that extra fluff. In the other corner of the spectrum, the rational and more logic-driven (not always sound logic, granted >P) average guy tends to be more concise with his stories. Dave Chappelle does a great sketch about this concept; YouTube it sometime for lolz. ;P
**MONSTER CLOUD: My arch-nemesis, who was responsible for all scary thunderstorms. According to my legends, during storms, the Monster cloud used his lightning bolts to snatch up and kidnap many innocent toys. He'd then continue his tyranny by binding them with wires and sealing them away in plastic packages, sending them to stores. There they'd be forced to watch helplessly as their decoy replicas were bought into freedom, fearing eternal slavery! I, however, was gifted with the ability to tell which toys were the "real" deals. It was my civil duty to get my parents to buy said toys, thus liberating them from his evil clutches!
0 comments:
Post a Comment