Rules to Live By: Part 1

I love creating systems of rules to live by. Simple ones, of course, but they’re structured, dignified, and classy. I don’t expect everyone to follow these, but I strive to.

Social Media Rules:

First of all, never post on Facebook more than once per hour. I try to keep it at a daily occurrence, but sometimes you just need to broadcast. Any more than that, and you look crazy. Twitter allows for more often, but don’t be crazy.

Have a lot of Facebook friends, but never too many. If you’re between 300-900, you’re all set. Any fewer than that and you look either picky or antisocial, which is fine, but we better be best friends, otherwise I’ll wonder why I made the cut. Any more than that, and you add everyone you come into contact with. That’s a little excessive.

You should interact more than post solo. If all you do is broadcast, then you should just get a blog. (Oh wait…)

Conversation Rules:

Strive to avoid swearing and cursing. Obviously, both have their place, and can be very effective. Don’t go halfway with symbols or non-ironic weak words, (sugar snaps is probably my favorite phrase) but swearing makes one appear immature, and that is not classy.

Talk about yourself for less than 20% of the conversation. Seriously. If you’re not worried about looking self-centered, then think about spacing out your achievements. I could spend an afternoon telling a person everything I’ve done, or spend 10 years surprising that person with all my great stories.

Be honest, then sincere, then polite, and then shut up. If you’re talking with someone who you’re great friends with, you can be honest. That means saying the positives and the negatives. Always. For people not that close, always be sincere by saying positive things only when you mean them. For people even more distant, politeness is the key. If you really can’t stand a person past that point, then it’s best to zip your lip.

Food Rules: (Yeah it does)

Eat what you like and like what you eat, but be ready to like the person you’ve become after eating.

I like to eat more green than anything else. I used to make fun of my grandmother for eating certain foods together “for the color,” but nowadays I’d rather not eat just a white meal. I’ve figured out that if I make my plate mostly vegetables, I can fill with meat/starch and be satisfied, but if I reverse that I just end up with too much food.

Ice cream is a right, but all other desserts are privileges.   

It's Morphin' Time!

Children always want to emulate their idols in the media, it’s a fact of growing up. I should have noticed that all my idols had striking similarity, but what attracted me to them was that they were so far different than I was, and am. My superheroes, or super heroines really, got me through some of my darkest times. They were my joy, my education, and my saviors. Super heroines gave me the impression I could fly away from loneliness, or escape the wicked witch. Even though I have grown up and away from them, they still hold a lasso around my heart.

From the moment I flipped on the TV’s channels, I locked on to the Pink Power Ranger. She was extraordinary. She was so cool with her snappy catch phrases and her girl power persona. I wanted to be her: to be spunky, spirited, and stylish. I guess it was not the norm to be Pink, but it was just right for me. She made me want to grow up, to be a gutsy teenager doing whatever I wanted, but still be respected. Most kids wanted to be a Power Ranger, to save the world and still have time to finish their homework, but I wanted to be something more. I wanted to be the damsel that turned around and saved the hero. I wanted to be brash, and still be beautiful.

With the introduction of literacy, my thoughts turned to a higher grade of super powers. Wonder Woman was everything I needed. She is the epitome of the greatest female. As a bold woman, she shines as the example of human perfection. Super strength, flight, and the ability to make all tell the truth, what is not to love? She does what she wants, when she wants without the trifling of men. I discovered Wonder Woman when my parents had separated, and I remained with my mother. Wonder Woman showed me that I did not need my father to be great; I could fly on my own.

During middle school, I struggled. I was so flamboyant that I walked with a lisp, and every day I faced extreme harassment and humiliation. However, everything changed for me when I went to high school. Hatred flew from my mind faster than a speeding bullet. I was tired of being rebellious and distant, I just wanted acceptance. I came out of the closet late my first year, and I opened the door to a new team of heroes: The X-Men. Their leader, Charles Xavier, teaches a message that I can connect with so very deeply. One does not choose who they are, but one does choose how they shall treat others. Whether it be sexism, racism, or even homophobia, love and equality shall prevail.

I know now that I will probably not fly without the help of machinery, or crush a villain in my hands, but my heroes’ beliefs will always stick with me. I know that I can be strong on my own: I do not need anyone to hold me down. I know that whatever my choices are, the world will love me for them because I am the one who made them. I can be whatever I want to be. I do not have super human powers, but I know now that I do not need them.

One Day in Reverse

I turn my alarm off, hoping I haven’t woken up my roommates. I snore. I laugh at my silliness. I lay my head on my pillow, and try to let my entire consciousness flow from my body, leaving a pile of serenity. I get up from off the floor, and dust my knees off. I pray beside my bed the same prayer I’ve been saying since before I knew I could talk. I turn off my desk lamp. I say goodnight to my roommates. Good, there are no bugs. I sip water from my orange cup that sits on my desk, after I check to see if anything is in it, of course. I turn off the ceiling light. I enter my room and lock the door.

I get dressed in comfortable clothes. I look like a maniac. I try to dry my hair as quickly as possible by shaking my head back and forth with my towel. I dry my whole body with my large green towel. I grab my towel from the towel rack, shivering from the cold air of the restroom. Reluctantly, I turn the hot water off. I think it’s an old wives’ tale. As my shower ends, I turn the water down to cold because it’s supposed to make my hair shinier. I use my favorite shampoo and body wash that smell delicious; it’s like a mixture between strawberries and vanilla crème. I step into the shower and turn it on so it’s nice and warm. I undress. I leave my room and go to take a shower.

I close my textbook and put down my pen. I finish my last few notes while typing to Cindy. I get distracted. I laugh at Joan’s commentary on her roommate’s activities. I try to read fifty words from my textbook for every hundred I read of Facebook. I turn my laptop on while getting out my notebook, textbook, and a pen. I begin to study.

I come downstairs from Cindy’s room, and am delighted that no one’s in my dorm room. I run back to grab my laptop from Cindy’s room. I realize I’ve forgotten my laptop at Cindy’s. I trip on the rug as I leave Cindy’s room, saying goodbye to her and her roommate, Rebecca. I decide it’s definitely time to start studying. I raid Cindy’s refrigerator and being eating her baby carrots. After watching videos online, I realize I’m hungry. 

A Look at the Studious Procrastinator from a Side View

My first memory of the bookcase was when I moved into my house in New York. My brothers shared one room, and I had my own. However, they were special because they got a bunk bed, while I slept on a simple twin mattress. As compensation, the bookcase was put in my room so I could have more furniture.

I remember staring up at it and being amazed at how tall it was. It looked as though it could have touched the ceiling and still stretched farther. I can still see my childish books lining its shelves: The Mitten, Blueberries for Sal, and The Hungry Caterpillar. I cannot count how many times I tore apart those shelves, searching for the one book I wanted, carelessly tossing around the others that seemed unimportant and burdensome. 

 

I was lucky when we moved from that house; I was too small to do any of the packing or lifting. I do remember seeing the bookcase being carefully brought down the stairs as the movers tried to avoid hitting the walls. Looking down at where the bookcase stood, I saw the deep track marks in the carpet from such immense weight and pressure of the heavy hardwood. My task was to vacuum the tracks until they evened out, and it seemed like forever until they did. Even after it was removed from the house and shipped to its next location, an impression of the bookcase was still in my room in New York.

In our next house in Pennsylvania, my parents put the bookcase in my room. The light oak looked out of place against the hideous green carpet, so I took it onto myself to make it appear cozier. Using watercolors, I tried to paint the wood so it looked artistic. Splotches of blues and yellows flew onto the shelves, the books, and the carpet, making quite a mess for a delighted seven year old. Disregarding the brush, I used my fingers to squish the paint between the shelves’ cracks, only to be thorough of course. 

For the few years we lived in that house, my mother cringed when she would take a book off the shelf. Choosing between The Hobbit and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe for our bedtime story was not as difficult as not having nice things. When we finally moved out of that house, the bookcase was one of the only things we decided to take with us. We had little room for our other big furniture, and after a messy divorce, there was no need for sentimental value. As the movers lifted the bookcase off the ground, my paint stains glared up from that ever-putrid floor. Those stains served as an ugly reminder of our life in Pennsylvania, and certainly reinforced an embarrassment for us not to return.

After a few more moves and even more stains, the bookcase found itself a home in North Andover, where it had stayed in one place the longest. While a copy of Pippi Longstocking could be seen on the bookcase, it was most likely nestled between Richard III and The Scarlet Letter. Years of transportation and child abuse had certainly left its mark on the bookcase, but it still stood sturdy there in our back hall. Looking at how small and angular the staircase was, I was puzzled at exactly how the bookcase got to where it was.  

With the summer dwindling and my family packing up the house to make yet another move, I looked at our bookcase. I saw where I had used permanent marker to clumsily write my name, circles of what appeared to be rotten egg, and at least eleven candy wrappers. As I started packing my copies of The Holy Bible and War and Peace, I realized the bookcase was too big for me to move out of the house. Years before I had no idea how the behemoth got upstairs, and years later I still did not. The bookcase would not be coming to my next house with me, as it had done before for all of my life.

I left the bookcase in North Andover; there just was not a way to bring it with me. I thought it would break my heart as we drove away from that house on our way to Salem, but I guess I knew North Andover was where the bookcase was destined to remain. Although I will never put another book on its shelves, or write another letter on its sides, I know it will still stand just as sturdy and strong as it always has.      

Annoying Habits, Part Two

So, I've been kind of lazy with posting for the past month recently, so I sat down and came up with a few more things people do that really upset me. If you don't remember last year's lists, here it is. This semester, I've had the joy of meeting new people with the ever greater misery joy of learning all their little habits that make them the devil delightful. Also, I really enjoy using the scratch out feature tonight, so look out for it.

People who change the topic/ask questions/exist at inappropriate junctures/times. (Side note, I’ve never written the word juncture…) This one might be a little difficult to convey, but you’ll probably get it if you try. If I say, “High school students find it difficult to study,” and someone else responds, “Oh, what high school did you go to?” I cry on the inside. And the outside. I mean, there’s no need for that clarification. If I said, “my high school had 11 pools,” then sure, ask me where I went. Otherwise, stick to the discussion we’re on. Seriously.

Artist note: Drawing a hand is hard. Also, no thumb?

People who complain about other people doing their jobs. I’m completely biased as a student, so my examples are lame, but you can interpolate for your own background.

Side note, I’m 99% sure that’s the incorrect use of “interpolate,” but I really wanted an excuse to use it because I heard someone else use it and I haven’t figured out a good context… so forgive go me for sounding stupid AND wicked smaht.

If a teacher/professor assigns work, it’s probably because they’re supposed to. This may seem like a given, but apparently many people forget that there are people in the world that have responsibilities other than ourselves. We wouldn’t yell at a fireman trying to put out flames as they eat away at our soft flesh, but a few of our classmates think it’s acceptable to groan when their instructor makes sure they aren’t complete idiots. 

I don't know why he freaked out, it was just charred skin.

It’s even worse when it comes to complaining about police officers. Yes, police brutality exists, and it’s a terrible crime to humanity, democracy, and all that stuff. Profiling exists, whether it’s based on race, perceived economic income, or age, and that’s truly truly terrible. (True).

However, for the most part, the police are not out to harass the citizens of the United States. (To my international readers (most of you being French,) I’m not sure what’s going on with your country, so good luck with that.) Police officers might be a little brusque, but that’s because they’re making sure you’re coherent and not, I don’t know, inebriated. So, act really boring. Boring people never get arrested, you want to know why? Because boring people don’t commit crimes. 

(Side note, I said “boring” not “quiet.” Quiet people are the ones that do heinous crimes like coloring mustaches on the faces of their sleeping victims. Watch out for them.)

Easiest picture. Ever.

People who join in private conversations. This one's pretty loaded, so let's go easy into it. If I'm discussing politics with a fellow companion, and someone overhears us and decides to put in their two cents, (or a whole dollar) then by all means, let's have them go for it. We live in a time of Facebook and Twitter, where all conversations can be commented on and discussed, regardless of acquaintance. However, if someone ever dares to interrupt me without a huge apology and something really interesting to say that somehow makes up for their arrogance, I shall curse the day they crawled onto this world. 

The first time this happens, it's usually quite all right. Context is given, introductions are made, and usually I'll forgive them for being a terrible person. However, repeated offense is worse than roasting mice over campfires, and will never be tolerated. If I find someone insightful, I'll invite them to join in on a conversation. If I don't, I will ignore them in the strongest way possible.

I'm on the left, pure evil is to the right.

Just so we're clear, there are some things that people do that I really like. I like when people hold doors for each other. I'm sure there's other things... but the door thing is pretty big.

Habits that Should not Exist

I wonder, as I am apt to do, why the world is full (or is it filled?) with annoying habits that I “creatively” name my “pet peeves.” There are just some actions and habits that people in this world do/have that make me feel like a murderous crocodile on crack, and that makes me very sad. Furthermore, these actions, these pet peeves, bother me even more so when I realize that I too do some of these actions. I've compiled a short list that will keep growing, and I'll let you decide which of these actions I do, and which of these actions, I've noticed some of you doing, too.

I see what you did there.

People who wear sweatpants. Okay, I’ll let you know right now, this opinion of mine is completely pompous and unwarranted and silly, AND I don't wear sweatpants. In fact, when I see people wearing sweatpants, I think all a manner of evil things about them. Either they are lazy, unfashionable, or some weird mixture of both, but boy do I think evil things. Now I'm not saying this from any standpoint of work ethic, or fashion sense, or personal dignity. I’m pretty lazy when it comes to dressing myself and any measure of “work.”

Depicted: Me working. Notice the open eyes?

But for some reason, when I see sweatpants on someone who is not exercising or dressed in their form of pajamas, it's hell on earth for me.

People who tell the same story repeatedly. I might admit to doing this once in a while, if once in a while means all the time. However, this does not mean that it excuses other people who do to tell the same story time and time again. I feel like a courteous “Hey, have I told this story before?" can go a long way. If you tell me a story, and then we are with a bunch of friends and you tell the same story, just acknowledge that I have to sit through this again, that's all I ask for in life.

Hahahahahahahah FUNNY STORY!

 People who won’t stop telling a story. This peeve is related to the previous one, but is deserves its own category. If someone says, “Oh I saw my baby cousin this weekend! He’s so cute: he was wearing a cowboy outfit,” there is no need for further clarification. But, when said someone continues with, “Yeah, my aunt decided to dress him up as a cowboy because their whole family loves cowboys. He was so cute with his little cowboy hat and denim shirt. It was just so cute, because he’s a little kid, like a toddler, you know, 3 or 4 years old, wearing a cowboy outfit. I mean, he couldn’t be a cowboy, because he’s only a little kid.”

 

Look for the signs!

Did you keep reading? Because I’m not going to go back and proofread that because it was an actual conversation I had this month that I can’t erase from my memory, and I have no wish or want or desire to relive it again by reading that passage.