Right now, I’m supposed to be working on an essay, that was due last Friday but my teacher said we wouldn’t get in trouble if we didn’t have it till tomorrow. So naturally I left it till tomorrow, and enjoyed my weekend however I could, which did not include doing a fuck-damn essay about socialization and evil or something. It’s a position essay I’m supposed to be doing, and thus far I cannot think of anything short of “YES.” which I would put into about 200pt font and print off to hand in. It goes without saying that I am not doing so well. My evening has consisted of this:

1) Leave Tonya’s after hanging out with her, Brynn, and Jimmy.

2) Get home, whine about having a pie ON TOP OF MY EFFING DINNER, then proceed to heat up and eat dinner, followed by pie.

3) Walk around house.

4) Announce that I am going upstairs “to write an essay” and then skip upstairs.

5) Go on 4chan.

6) Get ready for bed.

7) Attempt to do essay, specifically coming up with a title.

8) Draw many things (Pokémon, faces, arms, cats, etc.) to Jimmy on msn, while he tries to do his scholarship essays.

9) Attempt once more to do essay (writing two [count 'em, TWO] sentences.)

10) Decide to blog to see if it will help get my creative writing juices flowing.

I don’t exactly know where these juices are supposed to come from, but apparently those who use creativity a lot secrete them. Perhaps I should kidnap a famous painter or musician and collect all the fluids they ooze, hoping to make myself infinitely creative and unstoppable. Though I doubt that’s legal. Evidently my own creative juices begin their own oozing once I write about something deeper and more profound than “yes.” although pulled out of context, “yes” is somewhat profound.

Yes, they say, as you accept your diploma and step down from the stage, a smile on your face and a fire in your heart.

Yes, they say, as you are admitted to the club, where activity awaits and the scent of alcohol and the sound of bass lure you in.

Yes, they say, as you get up off your knee and take your new fiancé’s hand and connect in a kiss so passionate it resonates.

Yes, they say, as you stand up in utter relief and excitement as you are offered a hand to shake and a job to accept.

That happened to me, kind of. Well, the job-getting part. Good times. I work at Sears now, in electronics. It’s so effing cool. Iron Man 2, Shrek 2, Transformers 2, and Ice Age 3D are always on, along with the Discovery Channel OR The Dog Whisperer, so I don’t get bored when nobody comes in. I’m so happy I got the job.

At this point I start debating whether or not I should actually DO this essay. I just thought about it. Avoiding the essay would be more work than it would be to do the essay RIGHT NOW. I would have to pretend to be sick AGAIN tomorrow, and get my mom to call in, making her suspicious about why I was only sick for first period, then eventually come after first period, then I would have to do it tomorrow night, when I’m tired as hell and possibly working, then I would get docked at least a few marks for it being extra late, if not getting a big fat 0 and contributing to the cause of me not going to get into university!

Basically I’m going to go do it now. Happy Birthday Courtney! I’ll have crusts for you tomorrow!

As I finish my dinner, my stomach full, I get up to put my dishes away. I walk around the counter, and there I see it: the dishwasher. Dread fills every fiber of my body, because of what I know is now unavoidable. Hesitantly, I reach for the handle. It clicks back, releasing the hold it has on whatever demons lurk within its horrid, decrepit insides. I gasp in a last, refreshing breath to tide me over until it is finally safe. Then, my moment of action. I wrench out the sliding tray, the target for my projectiles. I then grab all of my dishes at once; fork, knife and plate. As fast as I can and with as much precision as I can possibly muster, I launch my dirty dishes into the disgusting gray metal box. Triumphantly, I slam shut the awful beast I’ve just fed, and breathe out. That’s when I realize: I’ve forgotten my cup. Horror and alarm fill me, and I grab the forgotten cup. Once again, I release the latch on the beast, but it’s too late. I can’t hold my breath any longer. My lungs being contracting and expanding in my throat, and I have to breathe in. I finally gasp, cup in hand, cup tray half extracted. A gag climbs up through my throat as the warm, milky, spicy meat gas escapes to burn my eyes and assault my nostrils. I fight back vomiting as I slam the cup down to join its filthy brethren, and as it bounces I swing closed the metal beast’s lower jaw with my foot, and it pushes in the cup’s new resting place. I run from the kitchen, gasping as I stride, searching for fresh, clean, cool air.

This happens every day. Perhaps we should run the dishwasher thrice a day.

I don’t know why, but often I feel bad for not using certain things. Like they feel neglected if I don’t use them on a regular basis, or at all for that matter.

Take for example, the chair in my bedroom. It was donated to my house by my grandmother, who shall henceforth be referred to as my nan. My nan donated two beige, swiveling chairs in total, both of which were accompanied by a small footstool of the same style as the chairs, which, incidentally, matched.  One of these chairs, I like to think the second of the two, has a large tear in the stubby arm rest. Because of this malformation, it was repaired originally with tape used for packing, which then came undone (I suspect by Graham and Frasier) and was replaced by Duct tape, then moved into the basement. Most often, when something is replaced in my house, it is moved to the basement, where it is usually (ab)used by my brothers, and myself on rare occasion. (See: the four outdated TVs that currently reside there.)

Now, the chair in my bedroom sits companionless in the corner, where I originally intended for it to be a reading chair, while the footstool sits beside my laundry hamper, often used for sweaters or towels. Unfortunately for the supposed reading chair, the lighting in that corner is sparse, with my two lamps being located on my desk, and the opposite site of my bed. In addition, the chair has lost most of its reclining and swiveling abilities due to the fact that it is located in the corner, and would have to be moved out of the triangular trap to be of any use. Call me crazy, but for some reason whenever I see it there, thoughtfully holding a blanket and extra pillow off the floor, I feel guilty for not using it. Not guilt towards my nan because she donated it, but guilt towards the chair itself, and its trusty sidekick, the footstool, because I don’t regularly use it for its “life purpose.”

I feel as though all things should be used regularly for what they were intended, or else they were possibly a waste of money, which is one of the last things I want an object to…feel. Okay, now I know I’m crazy. Is the personification of regular, everyday objects such as chairs and footstools normal? I think I heard that was a symptom of OCD or something, but I can’t remember. It probably isn’t. Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s a symptom of BSC. Bat-Shit Crazy, for those of you who can’t make up useless little acronyms for yourselves, or understand mine for that matter.

Inspiration for this blog: I’ve just powered through half of The Year of Secret Assignments by Jaclyn Moriarty and I’m feeling quite inspired to write, such as I feel when I read fan fiction or other such stories. Also, I was rather perturbed by the return and pestering of my father from work, and could not stand to be on the same floor as him any longer. So, after he made some sarcastic remark about how God forbid I talk to my own father, I gathered my iPod, cell phone, and book to venture upstairs to the sanctity of my own bedroom. I do quite like my bedroom.