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!"

Favorable Flavorful Food

As we converse the dirty jerks on the slogan team for Lay’s potato chips scoff at me. Why you may wonder? Because similar to their catch phrase I find it difficult to “eat” or rather choose just one fond memory I have with food. And to be quite honest I can’t eat just one of those devilish potato chips either. But potato chips are gum wadded disgracefully under a shoe in comparison to my favorite foods.  

At a young age I already possessed a keen understanding of the fantastic functionality of food; how you could crave, even lust after just a taste of fried squash, a nibble of chocolate pie, or a hefty helping of mashed potatoes. Lucky enough for me I was born into a family heaping full of culinary artists. My mother mastered the spatula serving up delectable deliciousness at every meal, but her staple is salsa. Seriously. This is salsa like you’ve never dreamed, prepared in a way you can’t fathom, with a taste that causes you to shout “Fantastico!” Just thinking about the fresh tomatoes, onions, peppers married in a union of awesomeness makes my mouth water. And that fried squash I mentioned? Mmmmm. It’s the perfect combination of flour  and squash, which creates a delicate balance of flavor and crunch. Her fried okra is the same way—none of those precooked frozen okra balls like you get at “steak houses,” this stuff is real okra lightly breaded and browned to a crisp. Yum. And all of these foods are wonderful, but upon reflection I’ve found one provision standing out among the crowd—Malt-O-Meal.

It never fails sickness or health Malt-O-Meal comforts me. It all undoubtedly derives from my first rememberable Malt-O-Meal experience on a cold morning at my grandma’s house. The first thing you should know is that when you look up amazing in the dictionary my grandma’s picture is there. Secondly, you should appreciate how everything about her was golden, glorious, sublime. She didn’t just make food; she crafted it with instinct and her culinary senses, if you will. And I loved it all. Hence, I was sitting in a straight backed chair at an uncouthly early hour in a small but gently cozy house, which was situated on the moderately populated outskirts of Seminole, Oklahoma, watching the butter slowly melt as I churned my hot breakfast cereal. Sadly, after eating I caught the bus for school, but this memory always stuck with me because it signifies a love my grandma shared with me in everything—not just her cooking, which was wonderful (my mother had to get it somewhere). Here it is 2011 and a piping bowl of Malt-O-Meal could mend a broken heart, ease a cluttered conscious, and ultimately put me at peace.