A Mature Conversation

Aaron

Just because I enjoy a good laugh, at the risk of accidentally maybe, possibly hurting someone, does not mean I am some immature douchebag trying his best to get some attention. And I'm not vapid. And I'm not stupid. I can construct a well-devised sentence and defend myself from a dull lifeless person's wrongful criticisms. No offense. And I know the difference between something appropriate and something horribly foul. I did graduate from Dartmouth. At the top of my class! I mean, I don't expect you to understand anything concerning humor and liveliness. You, most likely, associate happy and hilarious with death and pollution...no offense. It's just, I think you really don't understand that this is the reason people think you're a depressive downer. And that Melinde from accounting believes you to be a stalking pedophile. You do remember the Take You Daughter To Work Day incident? Not that any of that matters or pertains to this conversation. Or would you rather call it a debate? As I understand the only thing you participated in at that belligerent, overly-callus and overly-expensive private school which was poorly named, Livelihood Manor, was debate. And you pride yourself on that fact. Which you should I mean obviously you were this angry young man who was analyzed as the weirdly asexual and dense pale-eyed loner, so you had to take your frustration out with something, and I guess debate was your ticket out of your own personal hell. No offense. I know I keep saying "no offense", and you may think of that as annoying, and I'd agree but, I just don't like being insulted by a man who describes cough drops as "candy by another name". I mean what makes you think I'm this immature loser who threw an inappropriate party in the office? I got this job because of  my maturity level, and my mind-blowing degree. I'd expect another Ivy League graduate to understand my want for a nice party. Also your comment about workmanship and contribution...unfair. It's pretty generous to concern yourself with my work ethic, and wonder about my contributions, but I think I'll be okay all on my own. Also, I'd bet my next five pay checks, which would be about $150,000, that I contribute a lot more to this workplace in the past three months than you have in your last three influential years. And that's not me being egotistic about my monstrous paycheck, it's just me telling the honest-to-God truth. See, I'm not some immature monster who uses ball point pens. I' just a regular guy that knows how to chill out once in a while. I'd suggest you learn to do the same.

Terry

First of all, I do not like the fact that you feel the need to pronounce all of my shortcomings just to display my seemingly horrid inability to "have fun" or "chill out". It is offense. And I am not a depressive, nor a downer. I simply find the idea of a wild and ridiculous, haphazard party being in a workplace of which there should only be professional and expert behavior...redundant. And as an Ivy League graduate, whom should have learned this fact, I am disappointed. But then again you did go to Dartmouth. I mean no offense, but everyone knows that the only Ivies are the Holy Trinity: Yale, Princeton, and Harvard. And ball point pens should be banned from this whole entire country. You are aware of the failing penmanship all over these great states. Especially, California. Dull and lifeless. How dare you? And to bring up an ounce of my past is an insult, not only to me but to anyone involved. I was an angry young man, but I have grown out of that...foolishness. And the fact that you have the audacity to proclaim your own "monstrous", over-blown paycheck is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous! As if your better than anyone. This is why I and some unnamed others see you as an ignorant, immature arrogant. Like your new. There is nothing new under the sun. Your workmanship is questionable and I do have to admit you have made a great amount of contributions to this workplace, no matter if most of them being inappropriate. I can only imagine your unfortunate behavior as a result of your pretentious overworking. Overworking that only an immature and under confident and ignorant young man, such as yourself can do. And it is a pain. I myself have been looking forward to seeing you drown under all the pressure your new job has brought you, but I am also trying my best to behave in an easing manner. It's a shame that after my three years of faithful work the I still have the common man's salary, while trash like you walk into this office and quickly gains a near six figure salary. It's truly quite a disarray. The blatant disrespect that spews from your mouth on a regular basis is concerning to me. I don't think you belong in an office with others way beyond your own maturity level. You have the open ability to be more than a blabbering, callow child with a salary bigger than your overgrown ego. Have you any recollection of how important the work is that we do here? This isn't just a place where we goof off and try to pick up the working women. And for the record, I couldn't give two craps or a damn if Melinde thinks the worst of me. She's a struggling divorced single mother who cheated on her husband with two thugs, and now trades sexual services over the internet as a cyber-prostitute to support her kids through the same farcical private school she attended and graduated from at the bottom of her ridiculous class. It's a shame that most of the women here are doing the same, not to mention Eric. Can anyone say, ironic? I'm sure I am not the only one who knows about Melinde's sex-capdes around the internet. Be clear that I'm not making judgments. Melinde is a woman as superficial and unattainable as they all are. And my sex life does leave much to be desired, but it is none the less nothing you need to be concerning your bird-sized brain about. I have sympathy for Melinde. And Phillis. And Eric. Poor souls. They'll be working here for the rest of their lives. At least they are efficient enough to do so. But you...I feel as though you will soon run your course. I do believe that you are rather popular around the office, but you have to be sure that you have loyalties. Which you don't. Your work is mediocre. You are hellishly unorganized. And you do seem to wear the same suit every other day. Not enough suits? Have to keep room in your closet for your ripped blue jeans and undersized graphic douche tees, no doubt? They way you're going will get you there, but it won't keep you there. And to be frank, under all of that humble exterior, lies a little loser with extremely low self-esteem, who also has a tendency to run to the men's lavatory and silently cry in a stall whenever he is rejected by a woman. I'm sorry...that was kind of out of line. You are a vapid, vapid young man. And I honestly think you have no idea how everyone in this office views someone like you.

Pacey's "Dark & Twisty" Thoughts During Graduation

Hell. That’s what I see it as. Home. School. Life. I just don’t find it too appeasing. Does anyone? Being one of the many people that cannot stand any kind of deficient individuals, I found myself kind of alone seventy percent of the time, which was fine by me. I like my private time. I like my quiet. I like my thinking time, and I am extremely content with it. They talk so much and are overly aggressive. These people my age, are not the people my mind says they are. They are the people I despise. Immature and obnoxious. Untamed and, more times than not, driving me insane. To my dark side, to say the least. Why is he talking so loud? Shut up. I hate you! I shouldn’t say such a thing, but it’s how I feel, so why the hell not. It’s not a sin to hate someone you don’t even know, but is causing you a considerable amount of mental torture. Everyone’s excited about today. It’s graduation day, and I just want to get out of here. Finally. I’m standing next to a stranger who used to be one of my best friends. What happened? I don’t even care anymore. I feel like I should say something. I’m not though. We don’t even make eye contact. If we made eye contact I would have to say something. We don’t. That bitch Mrs. Fredrickson is making her slightly readjusted speech from five years ago, and she’s stammering. She’s probably thinking about her upcoming divorce. It would be high-larious if wasn’t so sad, and the school wasn’t gossiping about it. Could anyone think of why she was crying her eyes out in her office three weeks ago. The person to my left is a person I’ve wanted to talk to all of my high school career; Josh. And by God’s good grace, he would be the poor bastard to sit next to me on the day of which I call, “The Unnecessary Judgment Day”. Not so much as judgment as it is unnecessary. Josh…is fucking beautiful and I have gotten a slew of hints from him that he was somewhat enamored with me as well. Too bad the only kind of verbal interaction we’ve ever had was in eleventh grade English class, when we were all assigned to do a project in the most awkward and unfortunate group I’ve ever had the displeasure of being a part of. Josh being there was the only “pleasure” I got out of it. This cannot be over quick enough. The guy behind me is still being a dick. I turn around to see who this person is and I am actually pleased to see Michael. As happy as I am to see him, I’d still like to punch him dead in his mug. Save the silence. Why is she still talking? Sit down. Ponder your failing marriage instead of glamorizing the idiots graduating here. Here on this unnecessary day, full of malice and over indulgences in the feelings of achievement and the taking in of knowledge that will all seem to float away during the summer. She doesn’t realize, I am impatient. The day in which I sit between two people I’d like to talk to but will not. And not just because my social anxiety is acting up, but because I am that dark person that sits in the left corner of the room and laughs randomly at semi-amusing events that happened over three years ago. It’s stupid that we have so many ceremonies that glorify the passage of time, when really all we are doing is celebrating our own inevitable deaths. Shut up! Right now, I don’t consider Michael a friend. He called me Dark & Twisty.

Dark? I’m not dark. Twisty? I’m not twisty. If I am any of those things it’s because I am just slightly anti-social, and I have brief suicidal tendencies. They don’t last long, it’s just a thing. I’m sure I’m not the only one to think or do so. The mind wonders is all I’m saying. You put yourself in front of a Picasso painting and tell me it doesn’t make you think. Then again, most people don’t ponder  like I do. I could be described as having a fuster-cluck mind of Ayn Rand, The Mad Hatter, Lord Byron, and Nikola Tesla all put in one poorly misshapen body. Feeling uncomfortable in my own skin is the usual for me, do to severe annoyance with humans and frustration with how my left shirt collar is pointing slightly more upward than the right one. Zone in. She continues to talk. Zone out. I wonder when the schmucks from my father’s side of the family will leave. They’ll probably hang around a little while longer just to see if they can figure out another way to critique my mother’s parenting. Randall is probably aching for a drink. Gloria is most likely pondering a final solution in which she will finally move out of her parents house…for good. My grandmother is realizing that I wasn’t as dim witted as she once thought, or she maybe thinking of what to sing at choir rehearsal on Sunday to please her priest and her man. My grandfather is no doubt dreaming of some young fine thing from the Red Fox; a truly foul and shameless club, famous for handing out woo-hoo jobs and God almighty dances. It’s like a family tradition actually. My father, my uncle, my cousins (whom I am sure I do not remember at this time), and my grandfather. I’d rather not. Save the Chippendales, please. I’d rather salvage all the woo-hoo jobs & God almighty dances for those who might actually pay for some coked up bimbo to do what she does to her filthy boss. And also save the gunshot wounds that are found lodged in the fat folds of the coke whore’s thighs. I wonder if Gloria ever went there. What if they ask me to go with them tonight? I have that feeling that they will. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. “It’s a male’s right of passage.” Yeah, for a straight man. No sorry, a shameless straight man, which most of them are. But what about a sexually independent male’s right of passage? I’d want both guy and girl. Nothing is this black and white. Wow. There’s a white cow in front of me. And a black horse in the back. I’d love to turn around and see if Astrid is wearing her dainty little headband like she usually does. She’s not. Zone in. She’s still talking. The hell? Zone out.

Falling on stage would be a problem. A funny one. I’d like to see someone drop. The hilarity of it might make me feel a little better. Crap, I’m laughing a little. Hope no one can see this awkward ass smile being bestowed upon my face. I wipe that smile away. What if I fall? Everyone will see--POP! Some whore behind me is popping gum. For a second it reminded me of that time I kept blowing up balloons after seeing the movie about the house and the old man and all the colorful floating things he used to pilot his home. What hues of blue and yellow could do to a debauched mind such as mine. And what did happen to that old man after my mother and stepfather’s wedding. I’m sure he has not fallen to the other side of life yet. If so, then good for him. Who the hell wouldn’t want to be in the place that is really our home. I wonder if I believe in heaven or hell. I do. I believe in heaven. Not so much hell. I find myself doubting a lot of what religious officials say. I mean when you’ve got cults and pedophiles as holy saviors, things are not going to pan out a-okay all the time. When the Christians are beating the frightened homosexuals, you have to stop and think. Yet no one does. “If the bible says it, it’s true to me.” I think we all know who wrote these bibles. The lord himself did not, neither did his wonderful son, so am I going to sit here zoning this wretch of a woman out, and having a debate in my la cabeza or am I going get my skinny ass up on the stage and get that diploma, and get the hell out of here? The latter of the two gives me great pleasure to even visualize on. “Get your ass up there, bitch.” It’s Kevin. I zone in. “Oh.” I’m really tired, and my mood swings are catching me off guard. I can’t pretend not to want to curse his name. Yet I pride myself on some kind of leveled maturity. I get up and walk to the creaking stairs and across the hollow stage to the vulture handing out the little scrolls that, in my mind read: Screw your life.

We Are Not Happy, Glowy People (1)

We are not happy, glowy people! And it's understandable. With the world as it is, it's quite understandable to have the Dark & Twisties, and because it's easy as opposed to pushing through grasping ahold of the bright and bubbly, which is at a minimum in the wonderful place we call the world. If everyone were happy, glowy people, then there would be congregated in peace and the word so many people fear to mutter; Love, would be proudly spoken. There would be no signs of a single "Dark & Twisty" thought. It's a good thing. But with the immortal sins of man, we have to deal with the emo, the "Dark & Twisty", and the lack of the best word known to man. I for one, am not a martyr or a person to preach presh potskins relationships and rainbows and crap, but I do promote the "Bright & Shiny", no matter the amount of "Dark & Twisty" I have encountered, staying on the positive side of things can keep anyone from seeing things just in black and white. This whole world needs a spoonful of that. God will only know if everyone would be able to swallow it. Or force it down, only for it to come back up again. Happy. Glowy. It's a good thing, but as people, all we do is cause trouble. Obviously this is a charm about the human race that we seem to take pride in since we have yet to change anything about it. Another charm about the human race; our repetitive history.

Happiness and Glowiness is a virtue, because I don't know about you, but I would love to see a lot more Ellen DeGeneres's in the world.

Go ahead and marinate on that for a minute.

Fruit

"Fruitful Conversation" is what this post was previously called, but lets all leave that in the back of my mind for now. I didn't want to attract any readers to this in the first place, I mean it's not like I get any reader because this place is as empty as Death, but whatever. No one will read this. No matter how many times I post it on Facebook. No one will glare into these unfortunately awkward words I will type onto this digital white canvas that will just take up valuable internet space. How fun! If you're still reading. No? Okay then. I will digress, now.

At an event, that I had graced everyone with my showing up to, I came across a group of wonderful elderly Caucasian women who also graced me with their conversation. Their conversation of fruit. And oh, it was as marvelous as you think it was. Oh, yeah I forgot. No one is reading. However, in all cases, the absence of a reader or fellow blogger is not needed to tell the fable of "Fruitful Conversation", which is nothing but completely unfortunate. Fruit doesn't define who you are, and thank God, because otherwise I'd resemble a gargantuan grapefruit. According to certain Facebook quiz. Those things are evil. Those things are Death. Thank God no one is reading this or I'd be "hella" embarrassed. In any matter, it was quite the hour-long convo. I had no idea that elderly Caucasian women could go on and on about purchasing, eating, cutting, grinding, serving and maiming fruit. It was great, and very insightful. I lift my hat to them. A full hour of sitting down with young-looking elderly Caucasian women and chatting about the graces of fruit. Especially, muscat grapes. If there is one thing an elderly Caucasian woman knows, it's her muscat grapes. They are quite the grapes! Powerful too. The convo was high-larious. I love the fact that they were so open about what they do with their fruit. The stories of fruit purchases were the best. I just wanted to yell, "Oh, presh potskins!" But that would have further complicated things, so I left that on this unread blog, which I am thoroughly embarrassed about. I mean who uses three coupons to pay for four apples. That is a child that wants to save money, and who wouldn't in these awful economic times. Free apples is what I believe in. "Hella" yes.

You haven't read anything yet. The best thing is what my imagination came up with when such thing were being said; such as me imagining my own "ridunkulous" grandmother using a chainsaw to cut up her cantaloupe or kiwi. That is something to behold, which you could only understand if you know my grandmother. Also with me sitting down with the wives of elderly Caucasian men, things were quite unfortunate for me. And can I just say, that I think elderly Caucasian women love conversation with young African American boys such as myself, because everywhere I go, I either experience it or I witness it, and it is pretty much the definition of "So Much Love". The dwelling on "Fruitful Conversation" is not a wonderfully productive way to spend time, but it is rather informative. You learn an abundance of things! It's "ridunkulous" how much "Fruit Knowledge" you will obtain. Was it biblical? No, but it was an epic conversation. And I value that very much. I have a new appreciation for fruit. What more can you ask for, especially from elderly Caucasian women? But I'm just going to keep "Fruit Conversation" in the back of my head for now, because no one will read this glorious post, with all the words. And not only because this country (USA) is getting more and more lazy everyday, but because I cannot, for the life of me find out a way to end this in a graceful, and on-topic manner.


I think that if you shake the tree, you ought to be around when the fruit falls to pick it up- Mary Cassatt



And boy did I catch some falling fruit!