I am feeling intellectual tonight. Maybe it’s the dreamy music I’ve been stuck on, maybe its my hormones.
Maybe its the constant reminder I give myself to act as if my life is a movie. Grand gestures are important, and so is an overly complicated dramatic inner monologue.
An inner monologue voiced by someone much braver than the person I portray to my loyal fans (Ha!). She is three inches taller, twenty pounds lighter, and naturally has dark, shiny hair. She smirks knowing that at least one person got a glimpse of it. She moves in slow motion, blinking long and thoughtfully. Laughing at everything and everyone around her. Maybe she is evil. Maybe she is what we all want to be.
I am her biggest fan. The little girl who puts her white collared shirt and chucks on every day. I smirk to myself, as to not provoke anyone. I make jokes to literally make myself laugh, and when nobody gets the joke, it amuses me even more. I am the girl who stood her ground to an ugly human with dead eyes, but was trembling while handing a nice woman her change, whispering to myself, “you sounded confident, I don’t think anyone can see that your hands are trembling.” I am THAT girl that locked herself in the dressing room so that the dead eyed man couldn’t see me shed three tears.
I wear some of my monologue lady on my sleeve. I plot my escape almost every day while I wander the aisles straightening the clothing. But it never happens. I hide between the evening gowns counting the beading on what looks like something Whitney Houston would have worn on stage. I talk to the few intellectual customers that come to my register for as long as I can.
Then there’s the big sliver of me that just likes making things weird. I ask my co-workers while trying to hold a smile in, “Hey, did you see that someone took a shit in the parking lot?” Nobody laughs. At least twice a week I proclaim, “I just heard that old lady rip the biggest fart.” But everyone that surrounds me at work already has the light sucked out of them. I will never NOT find farts funny. Am I immature? Maybe.
Things I have asked my co-workers at a Christian thrift store that I have only known for two and a half months:
Do you like to party?
When’s the last time you had sex?
Do you believe in god?
Don’t you think (insert name here) seems like they have a really weird life outside of work?
I live to get a reaction out of people, maybe thats why I want to be a writer.
Pro tip: pretend you’re in a movie.
side note: this blog post seems really narcissistic and self centered. But hey, I am a writer after all.