Madfish?

Big. Big, squashy, and floppy. It’s like a dead fish in my hand—not that I would really know what that feels like but it is what I imagine it as. And yes, that does mean it is damp. I think I’m going to gag if I think about dead fish anymore, but he won’t let go. It’s not what I was expecting either—which makes it worse. See, if I was expecting the “Dead Fish” at least I have time to prepare before it’s thrown at me, unwanted, disturbing. But this, I was expecting more of a firm-yet-gentle-movie-worthy handshake. Will this torture ever end? My hand probably has some fish disease now, like, madfish (like madcow but invented by the fish . . . get it?). Not like madfish is actually real; it sounds more like a wrestling name. Or maybe it’s not fishy at all; maybe it’s more like . . . oh, I know! Raw meat. Okay, now I’m really going to gag. How is he still shaking my hand? It has been three millennium-long minutes, plus forty-seven seconds. Maybe not, but I swear the clock hates me. What is this guy saying; I see his eyes twitching back and forth between mine. His desert-cracking lips are twitching too, but all I hear is “Dead fish. Raw meat. Dead fish. Raw meat.” It is echoing. Louder. Louder. My heart pounding faster, acid itching up my throat, I’m about to blow chunks. He let go. He let go! I’m lightheaded. The blood is rushing to my abused hand, trying to heal it. 

Oh, the cleverness of me.

Occasionally I am boggled (try saying that word out loud, it’s slightly enjoyable) by how clever I am. And I’m not being cocky (or confident), just completely honest. Promise. See, I just crossed my heart. What is even more shocking is how my king-of-witty-comments-and-one-liners fiancé, Bobby, thinks I’m clever as well (only once in a while, but boy are those moments good). Yesterday was one of those days, it seemed as though everyone around me was making mesmerizing-the-crowd comments. Even grams made the à la mode remark that if I would only “mash up my potatoes and put more gravy on them, they would be kinda awesome”. Thanks for the tip grams.  Most of the time I am an observer, or a zoner—depending on what angle you are looking at my face. Of course, you might possibly see a smirk gliding across my face from the funny things my brain would like me to say.

Anyhow, later on I found myself inhaling—not literally—some mouth-watering Japanese food at the mall with my Bobby. Now imagine, what is the one thing that could totally ruin this awkwardly romantic trio moment with my fiancée, my Japanese food, and me? You guessed it, Justin Beiber. One moment I was thoroughly enjoying my trio, and the next Beiber blazes onto the speakers and the television screen in front of me, my gag reflexes did their duty. Okay, okay! I did not actually up-chuck, but it was a close one. Appetite gone, I glared a flaming hole through his not-so-flawless face.

Then it dawned on me. He is a clone, a copy-cat, a fake—well the fake part was already obvious. I turned to Bobby, “You know. He’s the Aaron Carter of this generation.” Now I have to say a few things to explain this brilliant comment. 1. I thought Aaron Carter was a disgusting fake just as much as Beiber, 2. This comment, however brilliant, is true, which leads to 3. It is extremely disheartening that Beiber is bewitching so many of our youth when he is not original, in any way, and his music is not real music. You might be thinking how horrible of a person I am for coming out with that bold statement. However, I will not change my mind.

Moving back to my cleverness, wow! Really, I think that comment was on the same awesomeness level as grams. Until that night. Bobby recounted the story and introduced it to some friends (thank you, thank you very much) by saying “You know, she had an awesome observation earlier.” Did you hear that, I’m intriguing! Which definitely bumped up that comment past the level grams was on. Sorry grams—you fought a good fight but in the end it wasn’t good, or clever enough. Oh, the cleverness of me.

Side note: I am not very clever; it was a golden moment for me, so I had to share it. 

Consider Yourself Warned

Sitting. Crunched in a backward "n" shape--if you are looking from a side view, anyway. I'm just outside the spotlights that shine harshly down, where the shadow is the darkest. But I guess this is my place. All I can see is the mocking lights, the mocking walls, rows and rows of mocking heads turned away from me. Voices--conversations sneak in and out of my ears quietly, like sneaking spiders over your bed at night. One voice louder than the rest echoes off those mocking walls and probably through all of those mocking heads turned away from me. My back--and backside, if I'm being honest--aches from the cold harshness of the deceptive wall and mush-pattern-carpeted-floors. A face, one face (attached to a body, of course, I'm not seeing floating heads or something, thank you) comes into view, turns in my direction and takes its place nearby. Your back--and your backside, if I'm being honest--is going to ache soon, too. But I warned you. Didn't you see the clear look of warning I gave you when you looked briefly my way? Don't say I didn't warn you. I guess this is your place, just like it is mine, this is the punishment--or not, depending how you look at it--for coming into class late. Oh, who am I kidding. It was worth this story.