I Know, Right?

No one likes a know it all. And usually people stop respecting them quickly after being torn down by their intelligence much like a mansion is demolished by a tsunami. After you make someone feel stupid it’s all they can think about and somehow it makes the evening news. But what should we do with these cheeky bastards—keep them underground for breeding purposes? That would break some laws. Why is it they’re smarter than us? Is it a lack of father? Maybe better breakfast cereals? They know it all and all we know is them, who keep nagging and nagging until we’re super pissed.

What to do with Nothing

Eventually I will stop making mistakes but by then I will be too dead to notice. In the mean time I plan to live it up. Somebody once said, “There’s no day like today,” I’m just not sure who—maybe it was those punks from High School Musical or the crackheads from Rent. Nevertheless, when life gives you nothing thereby forcing you into the muck of existence keep trucking onward or die. It’s whichever. I stopped trying long ago and I thought this would give me a sense of completion because I then lived up to my own standards but I keep blundering my way; I’m never attaining perfection. You say I’m being too harsh? What do you know? I’m sure you’ve microwaved aluminum foil before or left the curling iron on resulting in a small fire—everybody does it. Better to do and die than to be a loser. Nothing will always get you nowhere.

Because it's all in a Name

There are two truths I hold self-evident: I am not a writer and this is not an essay, oh, and whatever pollen-emiter you’re growing will smell the same no matter what you call it. Someone important said that a lot better than me—what was his name? Wait, does it really matter? The words hold truth no matter who wrote them. And I’m just trying to make a name for myself. But what does that even mean? My mom totally already named me. But I bet people would think I’m cuter if my name was Molly or smarter if my name was Vivian. Either way people judge you and you judge things based on their names. It’s all programmed into a person’s hardwire: you will judge unjustly. All cows are the same and died for the same price so why do handbag prices fluctuate? Oh yeah, because you pay for the brand, the logo, the prestige—it’s all in a name. Guess Shakspere, Francis Bacon, or that other dead guy missed the boat a bit.

What is the Past but a Timeshare?

Your baggage doesn’t define you; you define your baggage. Even “classy” women who lug around Prada, Gucci, or Coach decimate the aesthetic of an expensive purse if they aren’t wearing a bra or lack several important teeth. Not to give the impression looks are important, but it’s easy to allow a minute kink to demolish the entire operation or in this sense degrade the fashion statement. Your life’s baggage is only as heavy as what you choose as a carry on. Victimizing yourself because of what happened in your past impedes your future. Like a lily you must grow from the shit you begin in.

Mastering the Art of Tongue-in-Cheek

I love those people who complain about people who complain a lot. The ones who can’t see the irony in griping about a griper. And I say this all with a smile. Why perpetuate a nefarious circle? It makes sense to express irritation over the things people do or say, but grumbling about Sara because she hung out with you and incessantly fussed about her new hair cut, how wretched her life is, or her lackluster beau only solicits a tantrum from your listener. Even if you fail to bring insightful thoughts to the conversation empower yourself to rise above unproductive conversation.

Read Me

I am stuck. Awaiting your return on the shelf where you discarded me, I feel a little melancholy, slightly cheated, and quite forgotten. Surrounded, yet I’m still alone within my bindings—dusty, untouched, unnoticed. At some point my status changed from “important” to “decoration.” What am I?

My story is quite fantastic you know, but no one inquires within. No one cares to scour the delicate lines inside this cover. So, I am dusty. A dusty, thick volume left on the shelf. I could transport you anywhere if you would just let me—maybe on an adventure hunting treasure, a perilous journey with magical beasts, or to 18^th century Britain. Undoubtedly, my contents contain useful knowledge about the world or life.

But all that binds me is a leathery, warm brown, utterly plain save a few filigree on the spine, so you surf the internet, watch TV, or go out dancing. Your life is an amusement park, vastly more enticing than any imagery I may produce. You live, but I still wait for you. With an unappealing exterior, I surely have pictures of quaint scenes inside—I’m not sure I’ve never looked. I probably have a story or message, and I possibly have pictures, but you’ve never even peeked.

You take me entirely for granted. I’m useful when you need the window propped open, have to squash a bug, or yearn for a paper weight, but you neglect that I’m perishable.You assume I have no feelings, but all I scream is "Read me!"