Hello to all wheat fields, crash cymbals, forgotten pencil-crayons under old jazz organs, and the number four. Today, as I sit in my basement cut off from all human life, I want to talk about Social Things.
Social Things is a general category: basically, I mean, ‘anything and everything I don’t want to face that involves people.’ This could mean the girl at the Starbucks, or the guy at the Rogers store, or the man with the mustache that I don’t like for some reason at the Pizza Hut. Basically, I’m afraid of every single person on this earth, with the exception of friends and family– and my cat. And my dead bamboo plant. I wasn’t afraid of him– in fact, he was my best friend– and then he died.
So anyway. You could say that ‘Oh, a lot of people are awkward in social situations.’ You’d be right, but you wouldn’t be at the heart of the matter– which is I am awkward in ALL social situations, and more than just a little awkward, a LOT awkward. Sometimes, rarely, I manage to get through a scene of sociality without saying anything weird. Sometimes I can talk to the Starbucks people without wanting to hide. But most of the time, I’m not too good at this aspect of life.
For instance. There are a lot of instances, but I’ll name just a couple of them. Once, I was walking the wrong way from school, (see other blog entries), and I came across a girl from Science class. She knew I hadn’t been to school in a while and– since it was obvious I was walking the wrong direction– I knew she would think this was just a little weird. (Note: This is the girl I weirded out in middle school by putting a clothes-hook up my sleeve and pretending it was my hand. I thought it was funny, but she just smiled and nodded nervously.) As we passed each other, I tried to say ‘Hello’ but instead of a nice clean Hel-lo it came out a croak, somewhere along the lines of ‘Haey.’ And she just stared at me. That was a good job securing my sanity right there.
Another time, I went to Starbucks, and I wanted to order a green tea lemonade. I walked up to the cash and the lady said, with a smile, ‘Hi.’ And I can’t even remember what I said to that– if anything. I might’ve just stared– or, more likely, smiled in a twisted nervous way or tried to offer some kind of croak meant to be ‘Hi.’ Anyway, she said, ‘What would you like?’ and I said, ‘Um, I’d like the lemonade tea thing.’ ‘Which one? Passion fruit?’ ‘Oh– no– the green lemonade one.’ ‘The green tea lemonade?’ ‘Yes, that, please.’ ‘What size?’ ‘Medium. No, I mean– grande.’ And then I dropped all my coins.
Okay, I’m not always that bad. With my friends I’m usually good, and if I know the person I’m talking to it’s easier. I also find talking to people as shy/more shy than me is easy, too. But once you put me up against a stranger who isn’t as hopelessly shy and awkward as I am it becomes like a gladiator pit fight and I’m some poor slave from the country with a toothpick against a very big, muscled gladiator who has killed like, thirty lions in one month and is swinging a really big sword through the air that will not only crush my toothpick, but me, too. I’m just not good with socializing, or talking when I have to. Also I have this suspicion that I stare at people. It’s not that deer-in-the-headlights kind of staring that some people might give you, or even the haughty eyeing of the popular kids. It’s like a ‘I am thinking deeply about you’ kind of stare, and I think on more than one occasion I’ve embarrassed some poor kid. Usually they don’t notice. Thankfully. Because it’s really weird. I only kind of noticed I did that a few months ago, after staring deeply at the poor bass-saxophonist in music class. He started turning redder and redder and I only looked away after I remembered I had a book to read in my bag, so I could enjoy myself that way and not listen to our Nazi drill sergeant music teacher.
The staring at people thing is probably another bad social skills type thing; I don’t think it’s normal, or if it is actually a natural inclination to do that, then nobody else does it. I’ve stared at my share of people over the years; developed back stories about kids sitting in class around me; and stared so deeply at my friends at times that it’s hard to believe they really haven’t noticed. Or maybe they’re just really, really polite, or oblivious. It’s not a bad sort of staring; and I stare less at people the more I know them, and the longer I’ve been around them (a heads-up for my friends reading this, I don’t stare at you guys that much anymore! That’s good, right?) But anyway. I’m surprised that the bass-saxophonist didn’t explode, because during music class I used to stare at him a lot. And why? He wasn’t even good-looking or anything. But he must’ve known I was looking at him. And how do you explain that to someone if they ask you why you’ve been staring at them for months? If my answer was ‘Sorry, I do that to everyone’ I wonder if he’d believe it.
Anyway. The ironic thing is that all these social flaws don’t really matter, since I haven’t lived much in the outside world for a while now. I’m wondering– kind of fearing– if my return to the World of the Outsideness will be bad, like, REALLY very bad, because I’ve been out of the social loop for so long. Normally I’m passably sociable to survive school and the world with reasonable ease, even if sometimes I’m horrible, but I have this bad little feeling returning to the world will be a nightmare. It might even make the news. ‘Girl returns to Outside World, elephants rampage city streets, downtown fires destroy dozens of buildings; government in crisis; army called in, plea to other countries “What the heck are we supposed to do with this?”‘.
Er… well… Dig yourself a Onceabasementdog-Returns-to-the-World-Everyone-Might-Die shelter now!
(Very insincerely, Onceabasementdog.)
Archive for February, 2012
Hello to all plastic flowers on lawns, books in bookcases, keyboard people, CDs under entertainment units, and long-forgotten boxes of tea.
I thought Jane Eyre would be at least sort of interesting, but it isn’t. The movie might be better, but if it’s ever made again, I’ll not only try to get them to let me play Jane but I’ll also suggest I get a sword and kill Mr. Rochester, and Mrs. Fairfax, and etc. Jane Eyre turns into ‘Serial Killer Jane Eyre.’
Anyway. I’m starting to lose faith in the classics– not like I’ve read them really, but I’m just saying. I tried reading Wuthering Heights, and I SWEAR, I might as well have been reading the tales of Gibberish Land with people who speak this weird language that’s almost English, sort of. Jane Eyre at least makes sense, even if it’s chronically boring. The only reason I’m still reading it is that I really like Jane and there’s a crazy lady on the third floor.
Oh, and don’t even get me started on Great Expectations. My expectations were not ‘great’ to start out with, but by the time Pip was wandering around in Mrs. Havisham’s house my expectations were ‘not remotely great.’ Nothing happens! IN ANY OF THESE BOOKS! For God’s sake, where are the dragons and goblins and like, interesting conversation? ‘Come for tea at six, Jane.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Well, then.
Am I bitter? It just occurred to me.
Well, listen, if I was a writer in the nineteenth century, my novels would be less confusing and dull. The first chapter wouldn’t be ‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day, and therefore, no possibility of anything exciting happening to me, so I’ll just go inside and think about things and a book will be thrown at my head. To me that is very exciting. In fact, it is the most exciting thing that will ever happen to me, but more on that later, after three hundred pages of descriptions of thoughts and loneliness…’
Maybe the main reason that all the classics seem so boring to me is that they’re hard to understand, and also that I can’t enjoy anything that doesn’t have swordfighting and demons and things. Even Frankenstein couldn’t be interesting, and that’s saying something I think, since it’s about a giant monster and a terrified village and all that.
I might argue that books these days can be just as boring, if not more boring– at least Victorian novels have an air of romanticism and melodrama– so maybe it’s just me, unappreciative of anything without bloody gory demon fighting and vampire slaying and etc., etc.
Anyway, back to Jane Eyre– non serial-killer Jane Eyre– I’ll go. Yours truly, sincerely, non-sincerely, and untruly, Onceabasementdog.
Hello to all… oh, fudge, I’m too annoyed to think of a bunch of quirky things. You know, I thought I’d be happy today, since I got to spend most of it staring avidly at my grandparents’ new, ginormously beautiful computer– oh, it’s so much better than the old one, which was screaming in its last moments, “BZZZZUUUU!”– and it’s a lonely, spring-like, blue-skied day, the kind of day I usually really like. But I’m suddenly annoyed, and I’m not sure why– it might be because after cutting down a hundred stupid trees my tree-cutting level is still only twelve, (it took FOREVER to get enough levels for canoe-making, holy CRAP, I’m telling you!) and besides my lowly tree-cutting level, my fire-making level, and my cooking level are all still pathetically novice. The only thing I have a good level in is my ‘constitutions’. Who freaking cares about that? So I haven’t murdered innocent people, apparently my constitutions benefit from this. But the upside is that the cool black wizard hat was only two coins and it looks cool on my bearded, handsomely digital adventure man.
Who understood all that? I’m sorry if you’ve already lost interest, but I had to get it all out. I’ll explain– I’ve been living in the world of Runescape for much of today and all of Sunday. This, to the unlearned, is an online roleplaying game where you cut trees and eat crayfish and slay vampires and things. It’s a nice way to spend Solitary Confinement, (see previous blog entry-thingies), and it’s pretty engrossing, all that tree-cutting and canoe-making and constitutions-enhancing. See, I started out as a thief, but I couldn’t bring myself to kill innocent people and steal things, so I shifted over to the side of good-constitutions adventurer who doesn’t kill chickens like the rest of the Runescape people. I don’t kill calves, I kill the grown-up cows when I need cowhides to make into leather; I don’t murder innocent people, either, except once by accident I swung my battle-axe at some lady, though I ran away quickly and felt bad about it.
Anyway, in the future I aspire to enhance my tree-cutting level so I can cut down those stupid oak trees and willow trees that I’m never a high enough level to cut down. (Here the blogger shivers with suppressed rage.) I’m also still seeking the evasive shield shop, because I need a better shield since my current shield is a dumb wooden square. I’ll find it one day. And I’ve been buying weapons like mad– first the iron longsword, then I sold it and bought the black longsword, (I shouldn’t have, it was a fortune, but it looked so pretty). After that, a sickle-type thing, and just a few hours ago a lovely iron battle-axe, which I accidently sliced the lady with. The wizard hat was my most productive buy, and it looks just plain amazing on the head of my adventurer man.
I’ve got a chicken to turn back into a man, a vampire to kill, and cowhides to turn into leather… so I’ll sign out now.
Yours very untruly! Onceabasementdog.
-I’m sorry about all that… I’m sure there was something so much more interesting I could’ve written about; but it evades me yet. The next entry will blow your mind! Blow! Bllllllow it!
Hello to all crashed computers, never-purchased banjos, lint-people, cat-dog hybrids, and packets of vacuum-sealed Craisins.
Valentine’s Day flew by– in fact, it flew by so fast I thought it was still today– (well, excuse me for not knowing what day or month or year it is, being confined in my basement for so long. So long, jeezum… anybody want to give me a free one-way ticket to some pretty place like the meadows of England or the windmills of the Netherlands?) But anyway, it went by already, and I had no admirers or valentines showing up at my door. Well, I just might have admirers if I ever left the house, and if I threw around my address in public places. ‘SHOW UP AND BRING BOX OF CANDY FOR… CHARITY? YES, FOR CHARITY.’ But anyway. I should get to the main topic of this blog entry, which is Niagara Falls and the Wallendela guy or whatever his kind of funny name is.
I heard on the news that this guy from the outside world is going to walk across Niagara Falls on a tightrope– it’s located in the outside world, also– and I thought it was interesting. I have vague recollections of a grainy black and white video of some guy in tights crossing the falls, and of course all those ‘I’m going to fly down in a barrel and die’ stunts, too.
It’s fine that he’s going to give it a shot– but the thing is it’s already been done. Why doesn’t he try to cross the Grand Canyon on a tightrope? Or has that been done too? Or what about the Atlantic ocean? He could hang himself by his ankle when he wants to rest, or something, and have boats throw up little packets of food as he goes. It just seems to me that the ‘Crossing the Falls on a Tightrope’ thing is kind of boring since it’s been done already. I would suggest he go across on a flaming tightrope, or have people fling knives at him.
But anyway, that’s just me. I find it interesting that I mentioned Niagara Falls for some reason in the other post and now it was all over the news. Maybe he reads my blog and had the idea? Who knows? Well, Wallendeladoo, if you’re crossing the falls and you’re reading this, I wish you much good fortune!
So that’s it for now. Stay tuned. Don’t turn off your computer. In fact, stare at the screen and refresh it every few minutes until you see a new blog entry.
Yours forever untruly, OnceaBasementDog.
Hello to all guitar-playing-ninjas, cats from outer-space, dust bunnies, forgotten pennies, and chameleon-men.
Solitary Confinement continues. And the sun rises in the east. And the Niagara Falls keep… falling. Or whatever it’s doing. Pouring thousands of tons of water and being misty and making a lot of noise and having people in barrels go flying down it.
I don’t have Cudgel with me, (see small yellow bird of previous blog entries), so I’m lonely. All I have are those real people to talk to. Yeah, I don’t think so. Anyway, tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day, as all you gushy couples know; and I will not be at school to witness what happens. In a way I’m kind of glad I’m missing the pink-and-red lovefest that makes me cringe so, but in another way I’m not– what if somebody has a flower for me? What if there’s a box of chocolates some lovely thoughtful person has bought for me?
Hm, but no. Probably not. The only people that would get me flowers and chocolates are characters of my own creation devised from a lonely wistful imagination; and I can’t eat thought-chocolates, now can I?
Anyway, that four-foot-something karate master I was talking about came over after school and we talked for a very long time about various things; but the best part was when he walked in with a little paper heart and said, ‘Here you go.’ And I said, ‘What’s it for?’ And he said, ‘All the boys got these. You’re supposed to keep them until you talk to a girl, and then give it to her. Here you go.’
Funny how this was after six hours of school. I still felt kind of pleased, anyway.
In other news, while I’ve been sitting in my cold, damp little basement hunched over the computer thinking desperately of new blog ideas and pulling out my hair when the stupid freaking ancient old man computer dies on me constantly, I’ve been playing Coldplay songs incessantly. I’m not a musician, but I do have a guitar and I can sing sort of. But I have some weird little quirks– when I sing in the high register my voice turns French and I can’t sing my own style on other people’s songs, so I end up sounding like a weird girly Win Butler. Anyway, I’ve been going through my favorite Coldplay songs, with various degrees of success– ‘Yellow’ sounds silly even to my own ears and of course my voice goes French for some reason every time I hit the high notes there.
So…uh-huh, that’s it. There’s nothing else to say, really, unless you’re interested in my pinball scores on the computer and all my opinions on daytime soap-opera actors.
Yours truly, all the most terribly bad, and kind of okay, OnceaBasementDog.
Hello to all fervent can-openers, dog-people, mermaids and mermen, aliens, tree-men, computer viruses, and Sith lords.
Solitary Confinement stretches on, for the second month now. When will I finally loose my mind for good? The bets are in! Starting at three weeks, anybody for three weeks…? Three weeks, we have three weeks! Four weeks, anybody for four weeks? (If you’re interested in making some quick money… well, there are LESS reliable stocks than the When-She-Loses-Her-Mind Stock to invest in!)
Anyway, the highlights of Solitary Confinement, week 15 are, as usual, few. The most important one is the arrival of a certain yellow creature I have named Cudgel. Cudgel is a small, slightly disfigured chick. His eyes were glued on sideways and his little plastic beak is open in a permanent exclamation of, ‘EUUGH?.’ If you look at the photo you’ll know what I mean.
Anyway, Cudgel’s kind of sweet. He just kind of sits there and looks funny.
So! What else? Well, the Star Wars aficionado I mentioned last blog is apparently going into epileptic fits of rage over the fact that I haven’t been to school in two months. Oh, poor little friends; they’re breaking down without me, apparently. I’d better get to school before they start killing each other. It’s nice that they miss me, and a sword fight between the guys I like seems kind of interesting. Maybe I’ll find a way to set that up. Hmm… Cudgel, any ideas?
You know how there’s a ‘parliament’ of owls, a ‘murder’ of crows? Well, a group of pigeons should be called a ‘curmudgeon.’ A curmudgeon of pigeons. Don’t you think so? When they sit on a rooftop or hobble around in the park, don’t they look curmudgeony to you?
Other highlights? Well, actually, the other day I flooded the rink at the park near my dad’s house. It was really cool– and very satisfying to stand there with the hose and watch the water pool out and freeze over the messy old ice. I also lugged the hose from the building and back again, shoveled off the ice, and ordered around some college-age hockey guys. Yeah! (“GET BACK HERE and shovel, Mr. French Dude with a bad haircut!”) I didn’t actually say that to him, but I wanted to. He didn’t even shovel, he just skated off and went away with his buddies. Bleh.
Now– as another blog nears its end– again, what is the interest here? Not much, maybe. I’m not groundbreaking, nor very insightful or fascinating.
But, I AM funny! Ha ha ha!
Er… anyway. I wish you all the best, all the worst, and you know, all the normal in-between, OnceaBasementDog.