The Inner Condition

Fate makes a mockery out of me, that far I’ve assessed in my life as a person living in a small country where I can’t find any outlet for my creativity.

The past year, I’ve fallen into more existential crises than I can possibly count. It involves questioning my presence in this environment, questioning authority, not respecting my elderly and debauched consumerism to validate my existence. It used to be a repeated joke whenever I used the word ‘existentialism’. “Oh, what is a chair!” I dramatically asked whoever would listen to me as I purposely smacked my bottom to the floor, “WHAT IS A CHAIR?!”

But the more I discovered what I want to do with my life (working in the entertainment industry, constantly picking my brain to find any creative juice to be penned into a story, performing stand-up comedy) the more I wondered, “How the hell was I destined to live in a country that has no outlet at all for these needs?!”

The restriction isn’t a governmental clamp down or anything. There’s just no space for it. There are no open-mics clubs, and there’s nowhere I can go to rant or tell stupid anecdotes about my traveling pattern at (which includes several ballgowns on a beach holiday.) The more I watch comedy videos of my favourite comedians, the more frustrated I grow, which in turn transforms into vocal anger that no one wants to listen to.

Recently, I’ve taken my rants to my sister, who responded with a “suck it up”, which angered me immensely. This ‘suck it up’ attitude is damaging; not just for myself, but also for everyone. It’s akin to the ‘life give you lemons, make lemonades’ ideology. After lemonades, what do we do? How come we don’t consider the consequences of the lemonades? What if I don’t like lemonades?! What about the diabetes derivative from too much lemonades?! And why do people keep using this term and ends up making the most terrible jokes I’ve ever read in my life?

Some people are forced to “suck it up” but I just don’t see myself falling into this category of acceptance. It restricts personal liberation because you’re forced to be satisfied with your life despite your discontentment. When I try to “suck it up”—with all these balled up unhappiness—I become extremely grouchy, which leads to a sky-dive towards the pits of depression (they serve tea there!)

I admire people who tell me they are fine with where they are: secure job, future of picket fences with children and grandchildren  surrounding their feet as they retell tales of the good ole days when: 1) cartoons were better, 2) exams were more difficult, and 3) [insert imitation of the dial-up here]. When I “suck it up” and try to imagine that as my happiness, it doesn’t compute.

It doesn’t compute because my selfishness comes first. I want to know what it’s like to do stand-up comedy, to write with people who have similar creative outflow, whose main aim in life is to make people laugh, and who laughs at something normal happening in front of them but inside their head, a whole ridiculous storyline develops from the normalcy. I want to grow up and still enjoy the pleasure of using a toy gun that squirts water.

This is the second summer I’ve moved back home with my parents and this is the second summer I have realized all of the reasons why I need to be employed immediately after I graduate. While I am incredibly grateful to have a place to live rent-free, moving back home is like taking a time-travel vacation back to childhood. I reside in my same too-pink bedroom that is cluttered with artifacts from high school. I am reduced to doing chores of manual labor.  I am stuck eating at designated times, with the same people, in the same location. I am going crazy.

I have learned many lessons while living at home. The first lesson is to not take up very much space. This lesson is key. My parents have gotten used to living without me. They have gotten used to occupying a space without my items scattered about. I have discovered that when my belongings happen to extend beyond their designated bounds, my parents’ functioning is greatly hindered. My parents are always kind enough to let me know when I am taking up too much of their space by yelling at me.

I have also learned that my college habits of drinking and going out with friends cannot continue while living at home. My house is like the dry freshmen dorm. My souvenir shot glasses are tucked away in tissue and are hidden out of sight. I refrain from making any casual references to getting hammered. I try to forget about the days when I forgot about all of my worries with several gin and tonics. However, it would be nice to drown out my parents with a bottle of gin, or better yet several bottles of gin.

The confusing thing about being at home is while I have matured and gained many skills as an adult, or at the very minimum, a pseudo-adult. However, as soon as I step back into my childhood home, all of the skills I have gained are gone. I wear my kindergarten clothes again. I am treated like a child. I rebel against this, but the more I act out, the more I am treated like an infant. The more this happens, the angrier get. When I come home, my persona is exactly how I left it; the persona of a child. It is frustrating and infuriating. My parents will never be able to see how I have grown up. That will always the problem with moving back home.

ENDNOTES: Rae Warren is looking for tips on how she can peacefully live with her parents for a few months. If you want to see how she is surviving you can check out her tumblr at http://sweatersandsass.tumblr.com/

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Two weeks ago, I finished my first year of college. After some debate and endless mental revisions, I decided to write the following a few hours before I left on the inside of my sliding closet door.

“Dear Newest Resident,

Welcome. Chances are, you and I are nothing alike. In all likelihood, the only things we have in common are your current situation and Room 301. I initially hesitated to write a note because I wasn’t sure who I would be addressing. In all honesty, your character determines the nature of my advice to you; I will not pretend to be your friend. So, if college is a haven for you to live unashamedly and without restriction, a place where you can divulge fully in baseless happiness and fun, then I am afraid I do not have much else to say to you. Go on with your life and take it as you will. Good luck.

If you aspire to more than these things, however, then I ask that you keep reading.

Dear You,

It will not always be easy. People are stupid more often than they are special, but if you are anything like I hope you are, maybe you already knew that.

Take it slow and think about the future. Focus; it will matter in the long-run.

Surround yourself with people you respect, but do not depend on them and do not change for them. Your strength and independence are some of your greatest assets and they will matter more than any weekend night.

Being here is a privilege – treat it as such. Love what is offered to you and fight for what isn’t.

And lastly, experience and enjoy. You’re still growing, and stuff.

- Good luck; hopefully you are special.”

I didn’t sign it. No name, no date.

END NOTES: Consider this my advice to any of you who find yourselves in this current stage of life. Personal blog where I am less often a judgmental ass: http://thehalfanese.tumblr.com/

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The summer of 82 was both tumultuous as it was wonderful. In many ways it was a defining moment of change for me. I was eleven and very much straddling that fence between understanding the outside world and discovering myself. My Father had been sick for the entire winter, camped out on our living room sofa suffering from some mysterious illness that later would be identified as Aids. He would die that spring, a month shy of my Eleventh birthday bringing sweeping changes in our family dynamics. It was also at that time I discovered writing, and the power of self expression. I really didn’t discover it so much as it was introduced to me. I was a precocious child often preferring adult company over those of my peers, so I had just as many adult friends as I did friends my own age. One lady in particular would invite me to her house after church services for snacks and to play with her own children.

One rainy afternoon she pulled her electric typewriter out of the hall closet and set it up for me to play with while she baked us something yummy to eat. Whether or not she did it on a lark or from some planned idea to educate me about the written language I will never know, but I soon fell in love with the way the tiny letters stamped themselves into the crisp white paper leaving behind their perfect little fonts, and the way the spool of ribbon released its inky scent when struck. I became enthralled with the whole process of writing, from making sure the paper was lined up in the roller correctly to clicking the lever on the carriage and watching it glide back to the next line every time the bell chimed.

She encouraged me to do more then just bang on the keys, she encouraged me to tap into my imagination and to express my thoughts, and feelings. She introduced me to Robert Frost, and Edger Allen Poe. In doing so she opened up my eyes to concepts, and possibilities I hadn’t know existed. Before then reading and writing was strictly a school function that I despised. I didn’t excel in school, mostly from lack of interest. Just about every report card brought home ended with the statement, does not apply herself, and is not living up to her full potential. What they had failed to realize was that I didn’t see the point in applying myself to something that no one else around me showed any interest in, and that reaching any potential was difficult to do when you didn’t see it in yourself. Seeing my words written across a piece of paper changed that.

Not only was it something that held my interest for more then thirty seconds, it came naturally,they were just waiting for me to see their potential. Suddenly the world look differently. Opening up, and expanding into new and exciting possibilities. Every leaf unfurled into an idea, every blade of grass inspired, every flower blossomed into a story. There was no limit, or end to the worlds I could create through writing. Here was something that was fully my own. Something that I could take, and mold, and shape into what ever I imagined. I didn’t need special training for it, I didn’t need anyones permission to engage in it, I didn’t even need a typewriter, all I needed was a piece of paper and I was free to express my feelings whether good or bad.

My first poem was about my hatred for my sister. At eleven our sibling clashes were epic, as was my hatred towards her, as was hers toward me. It read very simply, My sister is mean, shes always green, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. Minus the apostrophes of course as I hadn’t mastered the finer points of punctuation yet. I suddenly had an outlet to release all of my pent up frustrations, with out getting punished. That was also the summer Jeremy Lonsdale kissed me behind the bushes down by the river. All that summer he made my adolescent heart flutter with excitement helping to ease my grief. That summer I came into my own, gaining more maturity. That summer I found my voice, expanded my horizons,and discovered my own potential. The following summer we would move to a new town, I would leave behind friends, and memories, and Sunday afternoons typing, but not my love for writing or self expression.

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I work in a particularly hectic, intense, capitalistic company that is composed of A type personalities who often find themselves forgetting about their basic human needs of eating and peeing and instead focus on the war of business. Most of the day, we run, we shout, we rush and sometimes, if time permits, we chat. 

In the midst of a hectic work day, I decided to sit in the company’s Zen area to balance out my sense of normalcy. This so called Zen area is made up of a few tables that stand right in front of the plant wall adding some nature to the very computerized and tech based work days.

I began reading a project brief, while typing an email on my blackberry and vaguely enumerating in my head a to-do list for the rest of the day.  As I am juggling several tasks, I become distracted with a shuffling plant noise near me.  Could it be a snake in the building?  I was mistaking, it was the famous plant lady.

Her grayish hair indicated her middle age range while her attire projected the complete opposite. Her pink rock t-shirt, coupled with jeans, joined by her framed stylish glasses hid her older age and transformed her into an Avril Lavigne looking teen.  Her converse shoes with beaded sparkles completed her outfit and she became who I like to call the famous plant lady.

I forgot what I was in the middle of doing and instead geared my gaze towards her.  I was intrigued by her sense of contentment during her plant cutting task or should I say, during her pleasure. She seemed to be so relaxed and fulfilled that nothing in the world could break her happiness.  I became increasingly captivated by the plant lady and found myself sucked into her peaceful bubble and disconnected from my daily craze.

The plant lady, completely oblivious of my presence, ignited a sense of doubt in me. Her serene composure made me start to question my life, my future, and basically everything. I started to wonder if I wanted to continue to live this crazy hectic, stressful lifestyle while earning decent money, or if I simply preferred to be content with a small mediocre job and stereotypically earn less money.  

Her concentration and deep attention and care for her plants continued to astonish me, but her seamless smile and her cheerful humming made me admire her. 

I want to be happy and content like her, I thought to myself.

Her sweet humming continued to resonate in my space and her gaze finally crossed mine accompanied by her genuine smile. 

I contemplated, I contemplated; should I smile back (pause), or should just kick her in the chin.

I smiled.

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By their very definition, summer jobs tend to not be very glamorous or very fun (then again, most jobs fit into this particular category). Most summer jobs are minimum-wage retail gigs, working that store or fast-food joint you love, thinking “hey, wouldn’t it be awesome if I worked at my favorite store?” Of course, most of these statements end in accepting the miserable truth that by the end of the summer your favorite place usually becomes your most hated.

This is not that typical.

Circumstances out of my control have forced me to take a full-time temp job for the summer, which I did last year and am doing yet again. The job is at a warehouse 5 minutes from where I live, 5 days a week, usually 8-10 hours a day, no sick time, no benefits, no time off, nothing. I show up, do my job, sweat and suffer because the warehouse isn’t air conditioned, and wait for my paychecks to have something to show for this special kind of misery. As part of that whole no days off thing and the extreme hours I work, I have almost time (let alone energy) to do anything or going anywhere, so basically, I sacrifice my social life for a summer, just what every young college kid wants to do.

I know I have very little to complain about considering I actually HAVE a job when some kids struggle to even find one, but I often find myself questioning its worth. Sure I get paid well and all that, but shouldn’t I be seeing the world? Having new experiences? Doing all that stuff kids my age do, within reason of course! But it still does really get frustrating when you have to pass on every concert and midnight movie premiere that comes your way.

That said, there are benefits.

I started working this past Wednesday (as I write this on a Saturday night, just for frame of reference), and worked a different job than normal. Normally I pick orders, take them off the shelves and get them ready to be boxed and shipped out, but this week I worked imports, which is basically the opposite of what I do. I take the new merchandise off the trucks and put them on pallets to go into the warehouse. Here I thought order picking was hard, this was a workout like I’ve never had! With help, in one day I unloaded an entire 18-wheeler trailer. I started with a full trailer of light fixtures, and by the end of the day, it was empty! Not bad, right? After this was void filling, which is a fancy name for stuffing packing paper into boxes and taping them up using the big tape machine o’death. Now’s probably a good time to mention I almost lost a finger in this machine, so, yeah, I don’t like the tape machine.

I think if there’s one thing to take out of this whole experience, it’s that sometimes with the right push you can break your own limits, and sometimes reach a pretty impressive accomplishment. Never did I think I would be able to empty a truck the way I did, but even though I reeked and was covered in sweat, dirt, and lord knows what else, I still did it! Sometimes the scent of success is a little sour, but it only means the reward is that much more worthwhile in the end.

ENDNOTES: When he’s not working himself to the point of exhaustion and delirium, you can find David at http://dailyrebellion.tumblr.com

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Have you seen the sky when it bleeds into the blue? There is flesh beyond the pale swash of clouds that dresses a sunset, and that bright red eye is the point of the scapel, cutting to the outside from within.

If I could, I’d tell the wielder of the knife to drive the tip down far into the center of the earth, making a wound that would spray light and blood like a fountain. Why does empty space repel you so? Is it the chill you feel at the edge of nothingness that prevents you from making progress in your escape? Are you too weak? Do you have the heart?

For now, I watch the sun as it bleeds into the horizon, giving me goosebumps as mosquitos cling to my furry skin. Behind me, a trapped fly bumps against the glass, screaming in its own little way, trying to get at me and lay its eggs somewhere warm.

I just sit and sigh. Perhaps, sun, you are just a little fly, bumping against the glass, trying to suck the magma from the Earth’s kernel. But, lo, that is too simple a guise. Are you a flashlight from another world, peering into my eyes through a curved, magnifying lens?

Nah. Too dystopian.

Are you a grapefruit, but just super big, and we’ve revolving around you? I mean, that’d be crazy, sure, but I just think that an explanation is required for why the sky is bright red, glaring at me for the wrongs I’ve done.

So I sit, and I stare back, hoping my message will be recieved.

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Important Text One: “Your uncle just got married”

Sender: Mom

This was on Election Day in 2008. I had just turned 18 and I was really eager to use my new powers for progress. I was sitting at lunch with my friends and the guy I was dating at the time. When I got the text I yelped and ran out of the cafeteria. All of my friends thought that the guy must have grabbed me for me to react so strongly. They were wrong. I was just in complete shock.

My uncle told me the previous summer he would never get married. He said he didn’t believe in it. I was confused as to why he decided to get married all of a sudden. I wouldn’t understand his reasons until later.

After school I voted. Then I planted myself in front of the television in order to watch the live election results. This was a big deal because even at the age of 18, I was not allowed to watch TV during the week. I listened as the various analysts projected the election results. I would tune out, as they would report on other state-specific issues. Except for one issue. Prop 8 was up for vote that evening; an amendment in California that would prohibit gay marriage.

My uncle, who didn’t believe in marriage, decided to get married to his partner on the last day it was legal to in California.

That night Obama was elected. That night Prop 8 was passed. That night my uncle was able to go home with his husband.

Important Text Two: “Your dad is flying down to Texas to see your grandpa. He is getting quadruple bypass surgery. They don’t know if he’ll make it”

Sender: Mom

I got this text during my grammar class the winter of ’09. I wasn’t given any details, any notice. I almost started to cry in class, but I knew that if I did so, I would be admitting to breaking one of the core rules of the class and my cell phone would be taken away.

I was in shock. At nearly 80, my grandpa could still make 20-mile bike rides into Mexico. He was in better shape than my dad. He was still active. He mowed his acreage and had no problems with any of the housework.

Little did we know, my grandpa would never recover from his surgery. He would never be able to make a bike ride into Mexico again. And those wheezy remains of his heart surgery were not a result of his recovery, but rather symptoms of his undiagnosed ALS.

Important Text Three:

“We’re not friends”

Sender: The high school boyfriend

I didn’t cheat on him, but I crossed a line. So we fell apart without really discussing it. One day we just stopped talking. We began to avoid one another in AP Biology. I made no plans to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance.

One day I texted him because something reminded me of him. This text started a two hour-long textual fight. We argued, we insulted one another, we tried to hash everything out without the privilege of faces and intonations.

We didn’t speak for at least four months after that.

Important Text Four:

“Sorry”

Sender: Freshmen year, second semester “boyfriend”

I was getting back together with a guy from earlier in the semester. We got more distant over spring break and, true to form, began to see other people without discussing it.

One night I got drunk and decided that the best idea was for the two of us to get back together. I went back to his place and we talked for hours. I think I cried a lot. I don’t remember what I said. None of it was really important.

He said that right now, I was too wild for him, but we could probably work out if I stopped partying so much. Eager to please any guy, I made a list on ways to change my actions. I began to spend all of my time with him. All of my meals, every free period, each study hour, we were together.  

He said he wanted to take it slow, so he could know that I was serious about getting my act together. It, however, didn’t stop him from making any moves on me. Desperate to show him how I changed for him, I decided to stay on a Friday night to study. He had to go out as an obligation to friends.

He got smashed. I stayed sober. He got laid. I didn’t.

I tried to talk to him about it in person, but he refused.

Two days later, he sent me a one-word text during my Sociology final, as if that could make up for anything.

After that moment, I began to hate text messages. I spent the rest of my summer avoiding my phone.

Text Five:

“We Need to talk”

Senders: My ex-boyfriend and my close friend/future(now ex) roommate

The we need to talk text is the worst text message anyone can receive. It always alerts the sender to a problem. Oftentimes the receiver of the message will not realize that there is a problem.

My former boyfriend send me this message a day after I moved back into my college apartment, a week after I had met his parents.

I thought everything was going well. He didn’t alert me to any problems. Then the text came.

My stomach sunk and I prepared for the words, “It’s not working for me”.

 We don’t talk anymore.

The roommate I had planned to live with also sent me the text message. After receiving the infamous four-word text I asked her if I should prepare for anything. She said that I didn’t. She however, should have warned me that I was going to need to find a new place to live because she decided that living together wasn’t a good idea. I panicked for a week as I scrambled to find last minute housing. I paid more than I wanted to, but I realized that living alone is preferable to living with someone who doesn’t like you.

We don’t talk anymore.

ENDNOTES: Rae Warren still hates text messaging and rarely checks her phone. You can check out what else she is up to on her tumblr: http://sweatersandsass.tumblr.com/

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As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a writer (see what I did there?) – I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t easy. I free fell through school, college, I’m about to finish uni, and I’ve a journalism course set to start in a matter of weeks. There’s only one problem in all of this; writing doesn’t seem to come so naturally, anymore.

It’s funny, people always told me to make sure I finished my studies so I didn’t end up trapped in an unfulfilling job, working solely for money. It seemed logical at the time, but what they all failed to realise was just how much formal education sucks the life and joy out of whatever you do. After three straight years of having to write my way to a degree (five, if you include college) do you really think spending the rest of my life doing the same still appeals to me? I’ll give you a hint: UP MIDDLE FINGER!!!

It started out just fine, but nowadays it’s nothing but a chore. I stare at blank pages which mirror my expression… there’s no passion, no excitement, no inspiration – just emptiness, and a deep-felt longing for my PlayStation 3. This extreme resentment is a whole new type of writer’s block for me; it’s like I’m standing in the middle of a darkened tunnel, with a torch low on batteries, wondering if it’ll miraculously recharge along the way. It’s not a comfy feeling, I’ll tell you that much, but I’m too far in to turn back now.

In a way, it seems I’ve landed myself in the same position I worked to avoid, but with about £15,000 worth of debt to my name. Ironic, ay? You gotta love it.

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Contrary to popular belief, I do not wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy. It’s more like Velma from Scooby Doo when she loses her glasses, only substitute ‘glasses’ for ‘everything important and/or fragile I happen to have in my room.’ Jenkies! I have to work out what I’ve lost before I can attempt to find it! When I was 14 years old, I got my bass guitar for Christmas. After spending all day making the house vibrate with my sweet riffs, I refused to have it in my room with me when I went to bed. I didn’t know what state it would be in when I woke up. Have you guessed what it is yet? I sleepwalk!

Ever since I was little, I’ve gone on little night rambles. I know this because the baby gate at the top of the stairs has never been removed; and the last one to bed closes it behind them, just in case I should fall down them on my way to rescue Princess Koala from my Year 3 teacher. Or something. Fortunately, Sleepwalking Al seems to be more spatially aware than I am when I’m awake, and I’ve never had any mishaps. Apart from the time when I tore pages out of books. Oh, and when I hid my beloved Lamby in the airing cupboard. And let’s not forget the night in which I cackled like a witch as my sister walked past my bedroom on the way to the bathroom. Sometimes, I wake up because I’ve smacked myself in the face. Other than that, though, I’m a fairly peaceful somnambulist.

My favourite sleepwalking story happened about four years ago. My parents are extremely light sleepers, and my Mum heard me walking around on the landing between my bedroom and the bathroom. Naturally, she got up to see what was wrong. She told me that I was standing with my hands cupped in front of me, as though offering something to her. When she asked what I was doing, I replied somewhat gruffly that she was in my way, and that I needed to give Gwen Stefani her cake. Mum told me that I could give it to her in the morning, and I shuffled back to bed.

Going to university was a big worry for me. My cousin began to sleepwalk quite badly when she started her degree, and I thought that moving to Aberystwyth would exacerbate my own night terrors. I was scared of walking out of my flat in my sleep and not taking my keys with me, and waking up half-way out to sea. Well, that’s a little exaggerated, but I was pretty nervous about it. Fortunately, any sleepwalking I’ve done recently has happened within my room. I’ll get ready for a lecture at four in the morning, or sit bolt-upright and shake imaginary spiders from my hair. However, there is always the potential for Asleep Alice to do something for me to try to piece together the next day, which is why my daily routine begins with a role-call of material possessions. It’s not exactly Dexter, but it could be worse.

ENDNOTES: Please check out my Twitter at https://twitter.com/#!/AliceTheElf, where I pick apart my soul in 140 characters or less.

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