Saturday, August 18, 2012
Meeting Media are created during actual and very important meetings while I really was paying attention. Names or other identifying information, or inappropriate comments about my boss, have been blocked out to protect the illusion of innocence.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
The suit is dry-clean only.
Not many people realize that.
Every super villain with a hidden lair in the sewer just makes it that much harder.
Gashes, burns, bullet holes... I may be indestructible, but the suit is another matter.
I’m not made of money here. It's not like there's an outlet mall, with phenomenal prices and seasonal sales, specializing in stylish unitards with matching capes and utility belts.
How am I supposed to explain these expenses if my secret identity ever gets audited?
The tailoring fees alone are starting to make me question my commitment to saving the world.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
I just don’t feel it.
My desk at home is disorganized, what with being covered in six journals and twenty four writing utensils, in different colors and sizes.
I need things around me I can touch while I’m thinking: my favorite puppets, my plush moogle, a small rubber ducky.
I also keep a plush purple octopus near my keyboard; sometimes, when I write, I wear it as a hat.
“Adulthood?” What does that even mean?
My desk at work isn’t any better.
Beneath a Harry Potter poster, I’ve placed a Greedo bobble head, a plush Koopa Troopa, and an unsolvable Rubik’s cube (it’s got to be defective).
In the top left drawer, I keep my marbles (don’t want to lose those).
I also keep a plush blue dragon near my keyboard; sometimes, when I edit the library website, I wear it as a hat.
I wake up every morning in a house that I allegedly own still grumbling about getting out of bed. “Why does morning have to come every day?” I cry.
After thirty freaking years.
My Netflix Instant Queue looks like it was programmed by a twelve-year-old: Doctor Who, Phineas and Ferb, several documentaries about dinosaurs, and seven different anime series.
I recently had a riveting discussion about Transformers. With a five-year-old. “Riveting” isn't an exaggeration.
The last time I tried to watch a mature, intelligent movie, I fell asleep in the middle.
I watched some TED talks this week, but they were all about sex so they don't count.
I exhibit all the usual signs of being a grown and real person.
I pay bills. Really – I’ve seen them! They’re in my name and everything.
I’ve shopped for cars, and furniture, even my own clothes!
When I buy groceries, most of them are actually edible.
Contents of my purse: sunglasses, lotion, chapstick, Kleenex, two reusable grocery bags, empty granola bar wrapper (formerly known as “emergency granola bar”), notebook, five pens, lucky rock, voodoo doll, one pin. I try to be prepared.
But I haven’t got it figured out yet. I’m seriously just fumbling along here in a cosmic game of catch-up. Everyone else looks like they know something I don’t.
I feel like I’m getting left behind.
Can I confess some things to you?
Scariest thing in the world: the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who.
Scariest realistic thing in the world: the crabs at the beach that come out at night.
Scariest existential thing in the world: what if I was meant to be a marine biologist rather than a librarian?
Scariest nightmare I’ve had recently: Weeping Angel Crabs.
I’m fully aware these fears are irrational. They’re still scary as hell.
I just can’t get over the feeling that it’s not real, you know? Someday, somebody is going to call shenanigans.
“Hang on a tick!” they’ll say. “Who let you out on your own?”
They’re going to demand my Adult Card and I won’t have it.
I DON’T HAVE ONE.
I dance in the shower.
I sing in the car.
I talk to my cats as though we’re actually having a conversation.
I’ve spent more time planning my survival in the event of a zombie apocalypse than I’ve spent planning my own retirement.
I lie awake at night wondering things.
I wonder about religion because no matter how Zen I try to be I still want to slap people almost daily.
I wonder about politics because other people really seem to care about politics and I just don’t care.
Should I care? Am I supposed to care?
I wonder what I’m doing.
I wonder what it’s all for.
But, mostly, I wonder: who’s with me?