Friday, July 9, 2010

Confessions of an Optimistic Pessimist: Life, Love, & Other Absurd Forces Chapter 1

Dear Bloggie,
So this is the first chapter of Confessions of an Optimistic Pessimist. I'm not totally happy with chapter two yet or I would have posted it. Maybe soon, but themmI'm at almost 7,000 words so soon I'll be posting on inkpop anyways. Hope you like it.

P.S. I know, the cover is corny, but whatever. I couldn't find any pictures that went with what I had in mind, so I just made a simple cover.

Saturday June 5th, My bedroom, 5:00pm

There are ten things I must achieve throughout my sad, sad existence before I die of loserdomness:

1. Stop only being known as Nate or Philip’s little sister.
2. Get Ethan Stanford to notice that I’m alive, not to mention stalking him like a homeless puppy.
3. Figure out a way to look boy ready while playing soccer like Kimmy does.
4. Get my hair to stop having a mind of its own; if I wanted to be a frizz ball I would exchange Dad for Cousin It.
5. Convince Mom that just because she chose the vegetarian lifestyle, it doesn’t mean I did or that I want a burger any less. Go meat!
6. Stop biting nails
7. Stop biting lip when nervous
8. Become popular
9. Get a boyfriend
10. Grow a freaking chest before I’m mistaken for a guy!!!!! (My long hair has prevented this from happening so far, but with guys growing their hair longer…who knows.)

Saturday, My bedroom, Bored

There are ten reasons I will never accomplish any of these goals:

1. Nate and Philip are sport stars while I trip over my feet merely walking. Or breathing.
2. Ethan is only two years older than me but could pass for a college student. Any Good Samaritan might mistake him for pedophile if we ever went out. Maybe. Probably.
3. As stated earlier (reference number one on Why Not list) I fall over too much. That takes a serious toll on a girl’s hair.
4. Genetically speaking, I might as well be related to Cousin It.
5. Mom would faint, die, and come back to haunt us for eternity if she heard Dad and I went for emergency McDonalds runs at least twice a week.
6. Life sucks, might as well take it out on my nails.
7. Biting your lip makes it pinker, like at natural lip stick…
8. Loserdomness is deadly.
9. Guys are afraid of catching loserdomness so they stay clear.
10. If Mom, Aunt Jeanie, and Aunt Justine are any indication, bosomsness skips every other female in my family. Cousin Missy has enough for all five of us.

Still Saturday, Still in my room, Still bored

I really need to lock my bedroom door. My parents complain about my grades, but when you live in a zoo – minus the flying poop thank god – how are you expected to concentrate? Let me explain to you how very sad my life is.
“Did you touch my equipment?” Nate asked, storming into my bedroom quite rudely if you ask me.
“No, sorry but I don’t believe in incest.” I answered never looking up from Mom’s Cosmo. No wonder she hides it away from me, it’s all about sex. It’s sad to know that my mother reads this inappropriate filth. At least I have Lindsea’s mom for a proper maternal influence.
“Whatever dweeb, just don’t touch my stuff.” he grunted.
“It’s impossible for me to be a dweeb, I’m a woman.” I said with a smirk.
Of course Nate was all “What do you mean retard?” in his loving brother way. Well, being myself and being unable to keep my big mouth shut, I explained to him – in simple terms and without any big words so he could understand – what the real meaning of dweeb is.
Sadly, my comeback backfired because now Nate and Philip think I’m a pervert. And all I did was point out to Nate that I can not possibly be a dweeb since “dweeb” is acronym for the phrase “dick with eyebrows”. Even Urban Dictionary says so! Ok, maybe that's where I originally got it from, but still, that’s not the point.

Saturday, World War III Zone, 6:00pm

Parents are useless. Not that I didn’t already know that, but now it turns out that Dad “borrowed” Nate’s soccer equipment for his the Prime Ninjas (yes, that is really their team name. It’s prime as in-the-prime-of-their-life. Yeah that’s a joke) practice on Thursday. The problem is that Dad has the memory of a pea and left it there. I would go see what color Mom’s face is, (red, blue, purple?) but I’d rather paint my almost-nonexistent-nails right now.

“How could you be so irresponsible Jonathan…?!?”
Red or Pink? Hmm, red nails are classic…
“It was an accident Janet! It’s not like I just decided to leave the bag there!”
Nah, black would look better.
“It’s an accident that will cost us. With Philip starting college in September we need to save our money! Nate is almost a junior; soon he’ll be off to college as well. God knows time flies by quickly so before we know it four years will go by and Ange will be off to college too!”
Or will black make me look too emo? Maybe I should – what the hell?

“Some of us are trying to paint our nails without hearing the elderly fight over who eats cream of wheat, and who gets cream of corn!” I screamed down the stairs at my parents.
“Ange, this doesn’t concern you, go back to your room and–.” Dad yelled, before I slammed my door cutting him off.
My family needs professional help.

One minute later
Cat once told me there was a psychology/self-help book for everything. I wonder what the title of my self-help book would be.

Three minute later
What To Do When Your Parents Are Fighting Because Your Dad Has The Memory Of A Pea That Has Been Mashed Into Soup And Your Brothers Won’t Talk To You Because They Think You’re A Pervert Since You Know The Real Meaning of “Dweeb” Even Though You Have Found Porn Sites On Their Search History Many Of Times And Have Never Commented

Four minutes later
Surprisingly they don’t have any books with that title or content. Who knew? Now what am I suppose to do now?

Thirty-three seconds later
Still don’t know what to do. Maybe I’ll just write a self-help book. There is bound to be at least one other person in the world with my problems. Maybe right this moment, out in the world, in a far-far-away in a place like China or Indiana or even Utah – though if she lives in Utah she has bigger problems than my book could help her with – there is an emotionally and mentally distressed teenage girl because there is no self-help book to aid her effort to deal with her own escaped-from-a-mental-asylum family too!

Thirty more seconds later
Crap, I smeared the polish trying to type. Well there goes my idea about writing a book. It would have taken too long anyways. Now, where the hell is the nail polish remover?

Why can I never find anything in our house? You would swear I don’t live here. I must have been switched at birth. Why couldn’t Dad be a proper father who wears a suit and type to work and fixes things around the house? Instead of a middle-aged mental patient who plays soccer and basketball with his ‘home dogs’. Yes, he really says that. Now you see how truly sad my life has become and why I will never reach any of my goals on the list.

Saturday, 6:15pm, Kitchen

War World III has ended for the time being since Dad went in search of Nate’s balls, so I ventured out of my safety pod and into the Kitchen for a snack seeing as you never know what time dinner will be served in this house. Mom can burn water so normally Dad cooks. Not that Dad can cook either. But after Mom used the microwave to reheated dumplings from the Chinese takeout place down the street – still in its tin container –, we never let her near our food again. Though, seeing Dad in his ridicules “Kiss the Cook” apron is almost worth another visit and basic fire safety lecture from the fire chief. Mom had bribed a six-year-old me to say that I was the one who didn’t know metal plus a microwave equals a fire hazard. In truth I did know and had even said so, but nobody listens to me around here.
“Why does Dad play with the Prime Ninjas? It’s so embarrassing. Why can’t he play golf and fix things like Lindsea’s dad?” I asked Mom who was eating raw carrots. I never understood why people liked them. I barely can take them cooked, never mind cold and on the verge of frozen stiff.
“Angela Lawrence Ellis, you should be proud of your father. He’s one of the best players on the team.” Mom reprimanded, but I saw a faint smile playing on the corners of her lips. I rolled my eyes. I hated being called by my full name since I got stuck with my great-grandfather can-not-be-feminized-if-my-life-depended-on-it name for a middle.
“You know I’m right. Mom, he calls Uncle Jack and the rest of the team his ‘home dogs’!” I whimpered.
“He’s trying to feel young again Angie. He’s just having a midlife crises. It’s normal for men his age.”
“You say midlife crises, I say mental breakdown.” I muttered retreating to my room before whatever disease my family has rubs off on me.

Safety Pod that is my bed chamber, 6:30pm

It just dawned on me that eighth grade is almost over and that next year I’m going to high school. Thank god. I mean, I’ve been attending Saint Boniface School (SBS) since I was three, and I swear Principal Sister Mary Charles Borromeo has it out for me. Only I would get on a nun’s bad side. But truthfully I don’t believe she has much of a good side.
It’s probably based upon the numerous times I visited her office when I was in preschool and kindergarten. Up to the age of six, most of the school faculty thought I had ADD. I was just one of those kids who couldn’t take a nap or sit still if their life depended on it. Except for one time when I was so tired that I took a nap. I woke up to find the teachers so happy that I got an unicorn sticker, which is still stuck onto the wall behind my bed. Yes, I need to redo my room badly.
But as I was saying earlier before I rudely interrupted myself to ramble on about unicorn stickers, weirdly overjoyed teachers, a much needed room redo, and hateful nuns, SBS has been my prison for most of my life. Getting my diploma on June 11th is like a death row pardon right before they flip the switch on my eclectic chair. But at least I have inmates. And not the raping type you would find in a real jail. At least I hope not.

Saturday, 7:00pm

What a healthy meal Mommy Dearest prepared for us. Romaine salad with ranch dressing on the side, served with meatless spaghetti. Yum. NOT! Since Dad was already out looking for Nate’s equipment, he picked up a pizza. Extra cheese. Some broccoli. Good news: Uncle Jack found the bag right after their practice and was holding in until Dad realized his folly. Bad news: My parents are trying to kill me by an extra cheese induced heart attack. Those flimsy pieces of broccoli aren’t fooling anyone.

Why did I eat eight slices? Now my stomach feels like I went on one of those upside down thingies they have at Six Flags. What are they called?

What are they called!

This is really going to bother me if I can’t remember.

Roller coasters!

It’s pathetic that it took me fifteen minutes before I finally had to look up what a rollercoaster is, isn’t it? But then, that’s the story of my life in the Mall of Patheticness. It could be worse; at least I only live in a house that is the Zoo of Patheticness. The rest of my life (i.e. school and friends) aren’t as sad. I’m not popular, but at least I have my own little niche in the school with the coolest people on earth. Well, in my opinion they are the coolest people in the whole world even if society refuses to reform what is considered “cool” and what is considered a “loser” to adhere to my view. But then the majority of society sucks.
Just like it is totally unfair how women make only seventy-seven cents for every dollar a man makes. Do the acts of the women suffrage mean nothing?
Oh God! I’m starting to sound like Aunt Justine!

I feel tired, but Old Mr. Sandman can’t make me go to sleep with his magical sand today. It’s Saturday, I look forward to staying up for hours on end. Watching the sunrise before going night-night. The birds chirping me a lullaby. Dear Mr. Owl joining me.
I just realized that it sounds like I live in the Hundred Acre Woods instead of Connecticut. And I sound like some sick, pervy, owl molester.
And to think at one time I was quite normal. Back in my toddler days I dreamt of being a princess who lived in a giant white and gold castle with my prince. At the time nobody told me that 1) I wasn’t from royal decent 2) We have no royal family in Connecticut to marry into and 3) That the golden “castle” of my dreams and numerous car rides was really the state house.
But those were the good old days where Teletubbies were my favorite show and I hadn’t realized that the green one is black and has a “pimp hat” as Cat puts it, the purple one is gay, the yellow one jumping on a big ball could be taken in other ways, and that the red isn’t a dude.

Sunday, 3:00am, Bed

I just woke up from a nightmare that I was being hunted to the death by Teletubbies. The Girly Tubby’s ball was being thrown at me, except now it was the size of a boulder. Gay Tubby’s pink bag was filled with bricks while Black Tubby’s hat had turned into Oddjob’s steel rimmed hat from that James Bond movie, Goldfinger. Not that I’ve actually ever watched any of the James Bond movies. I’ve really only seen the James Bond specials on Myths Busters. Whatever.
I didn’t see where Tranny Tubby was, but I have a feeling she was going to be the one to off me. It’s always the cute little ones you have to watch out for. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get to sleep now. Maybe I’ll just lay here and wait for everyone else to wake up…ZZZZZZ.


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