The Rules of Perspective: Part 2

The unexpected always seems to take me by storm.

When unexpected things happen to me, they aren’t little things, they are amazing and/or horrific, considerably extravagant, ridiculous events that spiral my life out of control.

As passionate as I am about randomness and spontaneity, I like to know what’s coming most of the time.  I like to plan, analyze, classify, and re-analyze just about everything.

I’m beginning to see things differently.  I wish I could stop classifying most things. Some things are better left unclassified.

I’m stressed, I’m scared, I’m ridiculously happy in certain moments.

What worries me is that I don’t understand it.  But that’s because I over-think everything. Maybe there’s nothing to think about.  For the first time in my life, I’m trying to not think.

One day at a time. Here I go.

The Rules of Perspective.

Damn.

No Surprises Here.

I’ve spent the better part of my life proving the majority wrong.  What most people said I couldn’t do, I tried to do.  Sometimes, I succeeded.  Actually, most times, I succeeded.

All my life, most people have told me that I’m useless and that I’ll never go anywhere.  They told me I was a failure.  Not at anything in particular, but in general. A plain, old, run-of-the-mill, all-purpose fucking failure.

I fought it for the longest time and typically came out on top.  Not any more, I’m behind, I’m losing, I’m failing.  There’s no sense in carrying on an argument when you know you are wrong.
I bet on the wrong team, the tiny team that said I would go places, that said I would achieve my dreams and that I could do anything.

I lose. I fail at life.  I guess the majority wins, as usual.
Today, I admitted defeat. Today, they won.  Today, the last bit of me that cared enough to fight, died a miserable, painful and lonely death.

Congratulations on your sweeping victory…Really, I should have known it was no contest.

Confucius says: “You fucking suck. And not in a fun way.”

So I came across a fortune cookie recipe in a cookbook I had gotten for Christmas, and I decided that I wanted to make fortune cookies. Why? Because I can and they’re fucking cute, okay!?

Little did my pathetic brain take into consideration that I would have to come up with fortunes.  And me being me, I didn’t want any of those craptastic thingies you get at Chinese restaurants. (Fun fact from your very own Wikiwhore: Fortune cookies are pretty much unknown in China. They were invented in San Fransisco.)

If one more cookie tells me that I will live an adventurous life or that I’m caring, I’m gonna fucking snap. So why not make some believable (okay, a little bitchy) fortune cookies?

Be warned…they range in what they say. Some are strange. Some are downright bitchtastic. If you take things personally, then you’re not getting a fucking cookie, got it!?

Fortunes a la Gabby(Some swiped from random sites that I didn’t bother documenting…oh well. Most were inspired from random crap or my crazy friends):

-A clear conscience is a sign of a bad memory.
-The greatest danger could be your stupidity.
-That wasn’t chicken.
-You are unfit to live without constant supervision.
-Help! I’m being held captive in a Chinese bakery.
-Avoid large, heavy objects travelling at high speeds.
-I can’t help you. I’m just a cookie.
-If you live a long life, it will be a testament to the self-control of those around you.
-The best years of your life have already been lived.
-The next fortune cookie you read will be better then this one.
-Don’t turn around. Seriously.
-Don’t take it too seriously when people laugh at you…in bed.
-You will be hit by a bus.
-You’re a big kid now. Prove it.
-Bite me.
-Strangers have better candy.
-Don’t eat me. I love you.
-Watch where you step. That’s not dirt.
-Consider getting sterilized.
-I’m watching you.
-Your mom should’ve swallowed.
-Go fuck yourself.
-Everything you do is wrong.
-You look better in the dark.
-Your face will get hit by a Mack truck. Oh sorry, too late.
-You’ve just been drugged.
-I have something to put in you…a cookie, you pervert.
-Remember: down the river, not across the street.
-No one really gives a shit what you think.
-You will make a name for yourself…in bed.
-You will have bad sex and bad pizza. In that order.
-Your guardian angel just got laid off.
-95% of the things you worry about will never happen. The other 5% will kill you.
-They faked it. Often….in bed.
-You’re special. Yes, in that drooly kind of way.
-An opportunity will present itself. But you’ll blow it. Good job, dipshit.
-There are good things in the future. Just not for you.
-If at first you don’t succeed, take the fucking hint.
-Your dreams are other people’s jokes.
-Trying is the first step to failure. Just stay in bed.

There’s all 40. Now I have to bake the fucking cookies. Yay, insomnia.
I’ll be baking cookies at like 2 A.M. Why? Because I’m cooler then your mom.

Catch 22

I had originally intended to celebrate this year’s birthday with the biggest bash imaginable. Let’s just say that is no longer my plan.

I’m sure it’s normal for some people to feel this way, and I guess it would be normal for me. I’m young at heart, I don’t want my age to keep climbing. But maybe, I do.

I intend to hide in a dark room and wait for the phone to stop ringing, ignore all the Facebook messages wishing me a happy birthday, skim mindlessly through the e-mails, and try not to kick the people who say happy birthday to me, and may the heavens help their soul if they fucking sing.

I don’t want to be 22.  It’s a double-digit. A landmark. And I have nothing to show for it. Fuck.

I’m not well travelled, I’ve never had a great job that I liked, I don’t have any special talents, I’ve never had a substantial relationship, and I’m not finishing school this year.

All this may seem trivial. In fact, I’m sure it is trivial but I can’t help but let it all get to me.

I hear friends and family talking about where they’ve been and what they’ve seen. Hell, I hardly even remember Toronto because I haven’t been there for 10 years.  I want to see the world.  But still, even though I’m only turning 22, I feel like my days are numbered, and I’m just not going to make it.  Ah well, if I live until November, I’m going to Mexico to lay on the beaches, drink tequila and talk about the most random drunken crap I can muster.

There are people who are just working their part-time jobs and love it. Others are already out of school, and have a job they love.  And most others are heading for careers in something they are passionate about.

I’m not particularly good at anything. I’m not musically inclined(I can’t play an instrument, and despite the fact that I try to sing, I just can’t do it), I’m not artistically gifted(I draw/paint but it’s not phenomenal, and let’s face it, I’m not the best writer), I’ll never be featured on the Food Network (call me Martha Stewart all you want, I’m just following a fucking recipe, plus I have a tendency of setting things on fire), I can’t knit, crochet, dance, convince, nothing…I’m not good at anything.

My longest relationship was 6 months long, and the only reason it lasted that long was because it was an open relationship for 3 of those months.  I’ve never had a great love, though I’ve had my heart broken.  It would be nice that I could say, that at the age of 22, I’ve actually believed someone when they said they loved me, but alas, I never bought a single word of the crap that came for those boys’/girls’ mouths.

 Everyone else my age that I went to high school with, who doesn’t already have a job, is graduating from University this year. Me? Not so much. I’m in college and I’m still not sure where I’m going. Like a college diploma, or three will get me anywhere.

I don’t know what the point of this ranting is. I don’t want to be 22 and a nothing.  I have no big news, no fantastic life changing experiences…

I feel like I’m not living anymore, I feel like I’m just surviving. I feel like I’ve become every useless human being I swore I would never be like.  Fuck 22.  Fuck the world. And don’t you dare give me cake.

Happy fucking New Year, bitches.

So it’s 2008.

The beginning of the year after 2007.

Twenty-oh-eight.

Eight years after the world was supposed to end and people scrambled to find candles and unplug their toasters for fear that they would turn into psychotic, instantly intelligent, murderous beings, that would burn you and then eat your brain.

Yeah. Well, so far it sucks.

Fuck you.