“That diet’s, ah, not workin’ out so well, is it?” heckled the toaster.

“Oh, shut up and cook my bagel.”

“You know, maybe you could just skimp a little on the cream cheese this time,” the refrigerator offered timidly. The coffee pot just laughed.

“I don’t think I asked for any of your opinions, thank you.”

The Tupperware decided to pipe up, “They have a point, you know. If you lost a few pounds you could go out more, meet a nice guy, maybe settle down. I’ve seen you watching those Lifetime movies. You cry like a baby. It’s unhealthy, and frankly a little pathetic. We’ve all been quiet for a long time now, but we really felt it was time to say something.”

“I don’t even use you!”

The George Foreman grill scuttled out of its drawer, “Knock out the fat! Make something lean, healthy, and delicious! It’s easy! Straight from the King of the Grill!” and, with one last disdainful look before disappearing back into the cupboard, “And for God’s sake, man up!”

The lazy Susan slowly revolved around, groaning on its axis, to say ponderously, “I thought I was laziest one. Guess I was wrong.” With a slow yawn it began to turn back, knocking cans of long-expired tomatoes to the floor, who could only manage a wheezy chuckle through the rust.

It's just my face.

As I've gotten older I've started to develop this fixation on looking happy enough at appropriate times. I completely blame this on all of the different teachers I've had throughout my life who have called me out on looking unhappy. It's happened to me a lot, with several different people. I've been called out of class by a math teacher, called up to the desk by a health teacher, asked if I was okay by a psychology teacher, talked with by a drama teacher, and on and on and on. And every time it's happened I have to try to explain that I'm really not unhappy, it's just how my face looks. My sad, sad face.
It was particularly bad at work. I would always worry that the customers would think I looked upset or unfriendly so I would become unnaturally peppy and enthusiastic about getting whatever it was they wanted. Probably in trying to compensate for my natural down-beat expression I ended up looking completely off my rocker.
"You want a sample? Sure thing!!" etc.
Birthdays and holidays are even worse.  
I love figuring out the best present to give to other people. However, any kind of gift-receiving gives me terrible anxiety. Even if I like it, I feel like I can't look or act enthusiastic enough. I end up trying to look doubly as excited as I am, which, in the end, probably just makes it look like I'm faking it completely. Birthdays are especially bad for creating this kind of situation. I dread the let's-sit-in-a-circle-and-watch-your-face-while-you-open-things ritual.

Mr. Brown woke up incensed. Forty years later he died.

Mr. and Mrs. Normal stood on their front steps, arms linked, breathing in the cool air of the glorious new day.

“It’s gonna be a great day, honey bunch,” Mrs. Normal remarked, kissing Mr. Normal on his freshly shaven cheek.

“It sure is, muffin, it sure is.” He pulled her closer in an affectionate squeeze.

At that moment the paper boy rode past, his basket filled to the brim with today’s news, and hit Mr. Normal squarely in the face with the latest edition of Normaltown Gazette.

“Ho ho, that’s quite the arm you’ve got there, son!” Mr. Normal chuckled, staunching the flow of blood beginning to trickle down from his handsome nose.

“Golly, I’m sorry mister! Really, I am!” Neither rain nor snow nor bloody noses could distract young Tom from his duty, however, and with a cheerful ring of his bell he was off down the street, where just a few blocks later the friendly but impaired milk man’s truck would prove more effective at stopping his progress.

“Swell kid. Someday we’ll have a whole passel of tots just like him,” mused Mr. Normal, pressing his free hand over his wife’s rounded belly. “How would you like to go take a stroll around the park, whatdya say?”

“You read my mind!”

Mrs. and Mr. Normal, hands clasped, stepped in sync through their immaculate green yard and onto the well-tended sidewalk. It was a beautiful afternoon, the autumn colors of the trees made a brilliant canopy that watched over the town square, occasionally dropping leaves that danced in the breeze and scuttled across the road. Along the way the couple saluted their neighbors and friends with politely tipped heads and hearty smiles.

The park was alive with activity. Mr. Normal bent down to pet a sociable little dog.

“What do you think, sweetie?” He tilted his head up and turned his attention back to his lovely wife.

“How about that one over there?” She gestured lightly at an unattended toddler securely strapped in his stroller.

“Oh you, you’re always the best at spotting them,” he said, already beginning to walk in the direction of the unsupervised infant, Mrs. Normal close at his side.

With hands firmly grasping both the stroller and one another’s sweaty palms, they began to casually stroll back to their charming home.

He was the kind of kid whose nose was always running. His clothes were spotted and wrinkled and you got the impression that whoever was at home didn’t really care one way or the other. His ears could break your heart- they were perfect awkward satellites, standing at odds with uncombed shocks of blonde hair, so pale that you could count the tiny violet veins. Despite all outward appearances, he wasn’t lacking any kind of self-confidence. Teachers were always sending home notes admonishing his womanizing ways- chasing the girls on the playground, sneaking kisses behind the swings.

“I’ve destroyed Santa!” she wailed, visibly distraught. The red paint she had intended as a cheerful glow for the porcelain Santa’s face now looked more like he was a sweaty lush.

“No, no, he’s fine. Maybe just tone it down with some white?” He was beyond repair, it was pretty apparent, but I was already reaching for the brush, trying to hold off the inevitable emotional breakdown about to ensue.

“Just forget it! Everything’s ruined! I’ve ruined it!” Fat tears plopped onto her sweater, leaving sad blotches on Rudolph’s woolen face.

I’ve never known what to do in these kinds of situations. Do I hug her? Do I pretend I don’t notice she’s crying? Awkward shoulder pat’s good.

“Look at all these we’ve done though, it’s just one. Come on, don’t worry about it.”

She turned to look, utterly woe-begotten, at the pile of elves rendered dragqueens with too-rosy lips, misshapen reindeer, and angels with droopy eyes that had begun to run down their cheeks, then began to cry harder.

Who taught our generation...

...that apathy is the way to go? I hate hearing people cut themselves down. I think idealism is beautiful. It makes me happy when people get genuinely excited about something.
And that's all I've got to say about that.

Dust shimmered in the wan beams of light shining through the ceiling beams, which had become gapped like crooked teeth. The windowsill had a single line through the grime where a wandering finger had wiped it clean. That tell-tale line was the only indication that anyone had been in the basement for years, and who would want to? The cement floor was blotched with stains, dark and irregular, and there were plenty of dark spaces for any passing ghostie or ghoulie or long-legged beastie to take up residence. An occasional group of kids would find their way into the house to tell horror stories by flashlight, and when they were sufficiently close to wetting their pants there would be the inevitable olympic dash back up the wooden stairs, shoving and shrieking, all of them secretly hoping that they weren't the slowest, already making the unspoken decision to sacrifice heavy-set Jimmy, huffing behind, if it came down to it.

Ed poured a little white mountain of table salt into his palm, and was brandishing it like it was a new discovery or a prize he’d won.

“Taste it. Go ahead, try it. S’nothing like it.”

I couldn’t help but wonder how long it’d been since he’d last washed that hand, and where it had been in the meantime. Little tracks of dirt had worked their way into the calloused cracks and under the too-long nails. A careful dab, and,

“Yeah. Good stuff. Salty.”

“No, no. Really taste it. It’s potassium salt, it’s different. I’m telling you, man.”

He was something like 1/20^th Native American, but he played it up for all it was worth. He made dream catchers in his spare time, for God’s sake. He whittled little creatures out of the stunted trees in his backyard and used the splinters to pick his teeth. He was as passionate about Jesus as he was about alcohol, which in the end would probably buy him a ticket to meet the guy a little faster.

As of late, his new hobby was arguing. He was good at it, too; he had no trouble getting offended before you even said anything. It made even the most casual conversation akin to taking a stroll through a field of landmines.

“So what’ve you been doing with yourself lately? Got a job?”

It was readily apparent that this, like everything else, was a touchy subject.

“I package lightbulbs. Now, you may not have a real appeciation for how important a job that is, most people don’t, but trust me-- someday you will. Lightbulb burns out, what are you gonna do, light some pansy-ass candles? Nah, man. You need yourself a new lightbulb. I’m the man that wrapped that shit up. Think about that.”

“What if I had a flashlight?” Suicide. This was as good as suicide.

“Flashlight? A fuckin’ flashlight? This guy, I’m telling you. A flashlight. Jesus H. Christ. Am I talking to a wall here? Am I getting anywhere? I don’t think I am.” Spit was beginning to fly at this point, he was grabbing at his collar, loosening it, barely able to contain his indignation.

“Don’t take it personally, I’m just saying think there are more important careers. Doctors, firemen, you know. You get what I’m saying? I’m not trying to offend. I’m just saying.”

“Alright smart guy, you so smart, you tell me something now. How’s a doctor gonna operate in the dark? Huh? I tell you what, he’s gonna be stabbing all around just looking for the patient, kill the fuckin’ guy. You can’t operate in the dark, come on!”

“Yeah, okay. You win.”

“You’re damn right I do.”

He looked skyward, longsuffering. Breaking the silence of Ed’s martyrdom, the screen door slammed open, leaving a fresh black scuff on the wall. Enter Ed’s crazy girlfriend. She was a posterchild for trailer trash with her leathery, sunken face and crispy blonde hair. A cigarette stained with her day-glo pink lipstick dangled precariously from her mouth.

“Ed, you know this ain’t no party house. You can tell your little friend it’s time to go home.”

“I know baby. Go on man, get outta here.”

…

The walk home was all dirt roads and farmland. Everything was a uniform shade of brown that rolled into flat fields and continued on for miles. The only thing that cut through the tedium was the occasional sweet acrid smell of roadkill. There were little ramshackle houses and farms along the way, but never any sign of inhabitants. It was strange, then, that somebody had stopped not too far ahead.

The stranger had planted his feet on the side of a yard and was watching a riding lawnmower roam in a looping circuit, the owner’s head having fallen onto the steering wheel at just the right angle to keep the mower going in lazy donuts around the yard. His lifeless puppet body and the steadfast mower were being dutifully pursued by dogs, their yapping through the perpetual game of catch coupled with the hum of the motor were the only sounds besides occasional birdcalls for miles. The stranger shook his head, shot a thin stream of brown saliva onto the road, and took one last look at the bizarre procession before continuing on.

“Hey! Hey wait!” I ran to catch up, stirring up tiny dust storms.

He turned around.

“Is that guy okay?”

“Naw. He’s dead. Died on the lawnmower.” Obviously scornful at my lack of perception.

“Should we do something? I mean, should I go tell whoever’s inside or call the police or something?”

“Ain’t gonna make him any more alive, is it? I gotta get going, now. ”

Quick note!

I write most of these on a word document before I copy/paste them here, and somehow in the transition the fonts have gone completely wild.

The thing about Alice was that she was singularly talented in hindsight. Life, for Alice, was a trial. She would wax poetic about that thing that happened last year, and how much better things had been that one time that wasn’t now, despite the fact that she had been miserable about them then too. It seemed that for Alice the absolute zenith of her life had occurred at birth, and everything that followed had been a bitter disappointment. I don’t mean to imply that Alice hadn’t been dealt a fairly rough hand, she had, the woman looked like an angry bassett hound and had limbs so doughy, paper white, and deeply lined with varicose veins that they likened a road map. In short, she wasn’t attractive, far from it, and she deeply resented the universe and the powers that be for it. They had done this to her, and she would exact retribution by being powerfully unpleasant.

There's nothing quite as bleak as this. A table full of middle-aged men with pockmarked noses, cheeks rosy with drinks, and too-loud laughs. They've forgotten their inside voices and their tact. They're swapping dirty jokes and inwardly remembering how long it's been since their wives last let them touch them. Tables nearby glance at them, embarrassed, talking in hushed tones and shaking their heads. Tomorrow they'll go back to their desks with headaches and bloated bellies but tonight they feel like kings, like comedians, reckless and foolhardy and everything they used to be but somehow lost along the way.

He’d poured a little white mountain of table salt into his palm, and was brandishing it like it was a new discovery or a prize he’d won.
“Taste it. Go ahead, try it. S’nothing like it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder how long it’d been since he’d last washed that hand, and where it had been in the meantime. Little tracks of dirt had worked their way into the calloused cracks and under the too-long nails. A careful dab, and,
“Yeah. Good stuff. Salty.”
“No, no. Really taste it. It’s potassium salt, it’s different. I’m telling you, man.”
He was something like 1/20th Native American, but he played it up for all it was worth. He made dream catchers in his spare time, for God’s sake. He whittled little creatures out of the stunted trees in his backyard and used the splinters to pick his teeth. He was as passionate about Jesus as he was about alcohol, which in the end would probably buy him a ticket to meet the guy a little faster.

Gooooooal

I want to make you laugh, I want to surprise you, I want to make you angry, I want to make you think. I know I have the words, but it's hard to pin them down.

I'm trying to figure out what it is I want to say, and how I want to say it. I'm constantly battling with my own self-consciousness and the voice in my head shouting, "DEAR GOD, THAT'S PRETENTIOUS". I am a little white girl from the suburbs. I feel unqualified to tackle any great subjects, and anything I took from my own life would feel too twee and insignificant to subject anyone to, but I'm going to try to make an effort to write something every day, no matter how self-indulgent or uninspired or just simply bad it may be. So this blog is my experiment. Anyone who cares to follow it, and I don't flatter myself that that would be many people, bear with me and excuse a little clumsiness.

Run! Don't walk! From the following:

I've been reading excerpts of people's writing that they post on various message boards (I don't sleep at night. This is the kind of thing I do.) and I've picked up on three very clear warning signs of really, really bad writing.

1. Including the word "mother" anywhere within the first paragraph. Particularly if said mother seems to be dead or inexplicably missing. I've never heard anyone refer to their mom in casual conversation as mother, and if they did I get the feeling it would usually not be followed by an onslaught of cryptic allusions.
Examples: "Mother always said..." or "Mother would have loved the..." followed by anything. Anything at all. The more absurd the better.

2. Mentioning the narrator's eye color. This is usually used in conjunction with very colorful similes, and makes its way into the first sentence.
Examples: "As I sipped the milkshake, my piercing amber eyes glimmered like a tiger in the black of night."

3. Excessive adverb love, especially after dialogue.
"Does this look like a morgue?" Brenda challenged sassily
"Why do you think we gave you goody bags?" He cheerfully bubbled
"You should know by now I'm allergic!" she spat

The alarm continued its unrelenting bleat as she groped for the switch. Last week’s laundry, this week’s laundry, and tomorrow’s clothes, which had been fraternizing on the floor beneath her bed, tripped her as she stumbled her way towards the door. It didn’t matter, no one saw it. The mirror in the bathroom revealed that her hair had staged a coup overnight, and the makeup she’d been too lazy to remove had also artfully rearranged itself. Maybe that was glamorous. Maybe she looked like Courtney Love’s sad deranged cousin. Whatever.