Much Ado: Alternate Reality

I’m convinced that I have lived some experiences of my life in a different reality than anyone else.

I know that I’ve lived in a lot of different places, and that I have a lot of obscure interests and whatever, but at some point, somebody has to know what I’m talking about sometimes…right? I’m not that strange.

I’m sick of people looking at me like I’m crazy when I start a “You remember when…?” conversation. Nobody ever remembers. Where were you people? Where was I? Was I even anywhere? What are we even talking about? Does anything truly exist? What are memories anyway? If I can’t trust my own mind, what’s the point of anything???

I just want somebody, anybody, to remember the same things that I remember. I’m questioning my own sanity here.

There used to be a show…

There used to be a show on VH1 called Acceptable.TV. It only lasted eight episodes, but it was great. In my opinion, the concept was just ahead of its time. Acceptable.TV would run five short sketches per episode, and viewers could vote for the one they enjoyed the most. The sketches with the most votes would return with a new episode the next week, along with 3 or 4 totally new sketches to then vote for again.

For all of the Community and Rick & Morty fans out there, it was created by Dan Harmon.

I loved that show, and every now and then I try to reference the two long running sketches on there, Mister Sprinkles and Operation Kitten Calendar, but nobody I talk to has any recollection of this show ever existing. I know it was only 8 episodes, and it was almost a decade ago that it was on the air, but c’mon guys. NOBODY? I can’t talk to anyone about the hilarity of this show? I was a pretty sheltered kid! I had crazy restrictions on the media I was allowed to consume, and I was always left out of whatever talks of pop culture happening among my friends. And on top of that, VH1 in my town shared a channel with C-SPAN. If I managed to catch this show, there is no way I was the only one. I never voted for any of the sketches to return! I wasn’t allowed to use the Internet for anything that wasn’t homework or neopets. SO THERE ARE OTHERS OUT THERE. WHERE ARE YOU? Are you dealing with the same thing? I REMEMBER ACCEPTABLE.TV! I REMEMBER! LET’S BE FRIENDS.

There used to be a candy bar…

One year way back when, I think I was a freshman in high school. My dad is the Vice President of a college, and around the end of the school year, he was preparing for the graduation ceremony, of which he was put in charge of ensuring staff and volunteers for the event were well cared for during set up and tear down. He took me along one day on his errand run, and we went to Sam’s Club to get snacks for the crew. We grab granola, fruits, bottled water, juices, etc. Then we walk down the candy aisle. We grab a box of assorted candy bars, like Snickers, 3 Musketeers and Milky Way. And then we see a box sitting all by itself on this one shelf. It said Twix Java.

“Java?”

“Huh?”

“Like, coffee?”

“That’s what the box said. Coffee caramel.”

“Coffee…flavored Twix?”

“No, I’ve never heard of that. We would have seen a commercial for that or something.”

But it was there and we read it correctly. Twix Java. We were intrigued.

“We should get it.”

“No, it’s too weird. And I have the school’s credit card.”

“…Okay.”

So we left it there, and we headed to the register to check out. Made our purchases, headed to the car, and just as we stepped outside, my dad stops.

And he looks at me.

I look back at him and nod. “Java.”

We went back inside and bought that last, sole box of Twix Java. We barely got back to the car before pulling one out of the box and trying it.

It. Was. Magical.

“I’ll pay the college back, I’m not taking these in to work.”

All ours. All the Twix Java are belong to us. I ate so many of those things. Yet somehow the taste never got tired. The just right amount of coffee essence coming through the chocolate and caramel, like a perfect complementing combination of everything that I love. I brought them to school and started dealing them. Nobody had ever heard of them before. And nobody would ever hear of them again…

You couldn’t find them anywhere in stores. It was just our one box. And one day it was gone. We had depleted our stash. And life has never been quite the same.

No matter where I go, I have yet to encounter someone else who had been graced with that limited edition flavor. From coast to coast and city to city, nobody knows what I’m talking about. And I just swear I hop dimensions and can’t retain the memory of the travel, but can remember experiences from beyond with every transition. Nothing else makes sense, and I’m so frustrated. Take me back. I don’t like it here.

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Much Ado: Get Your Own Pen

Don’t ask me for a pen.

You’re not getting one.

Never.

Never ever again.

I don’t care if it’s somehow a matter of life or death. You better ask someone else.

And you can thank all of the awful thieves that have left me bitter and jaded. I’m not getting over it and don’t you dare tell me I’m overreacting. I want my mother{expletive}ing pens back.

I’m a writer. I care about pens. I always have one on me. Actually, I always have at least four or five on me of assorted colors. I need those. Every. Last. One of them. Have I shown you my notebooks? Here, look at a page.

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I also color code my life so it’s easier to see what I need to do in a day in my agenda book. Writing and blogging gets written in light blue. My knitting projects are in dark blue. Work is green, because money. My internship duties get written in red, because they’re time sensitive. School stuff is orange, because orange is very meh. Fun things are pink, and errands are black. Guess which one is MISSING? Only the most important, the pink one. Is this what you wanted rotten thief? To take all of my fun away? No fun for me? Thanks a bunches! I do you a favor and this is how your repay me? Noted. You hear that? NOTED.

What absolutely infuriates me about things like this is at some point, it’s my fault. I’m the one who keeps putting my faith in inconsiderate, forgetful morons. Expecting them to return my belongings. I know better than that.

People prove to me every hour of every day that they aren’t worth my trust. And worse than being mad at inconveniences like this one, is the self awareness I’m cursed with that shifts the ultimate blame onto myself.

The only joy in being angry is directing it at something or someone.

You can sit there and think about how they’re the worst. How you’re pretty much a saint for trying to aid them in their unpreparedness; oh the poor, lost soul who can’t think of possibly needing to write something in a day. How much you suffer for the sake of literacy and preserving language. How much better you are than them because you would have returned a pen you borrowed. You’re a thoughtful person like that. You know the pain of having your belongings snatched away from you, and you’d never bring that kind of pain upon a fellow man. The world is lucky that people like you still exist.

But I can’t be angry at anyone but myself. That takes out all of the sick pleasure of being mad and that’s just depressing. So now I’m mad, and self loathing, and I have no outlet because it’s not like I can write, because where the fizzityuck are my pens???

You know when the naive among us ask why bad things happen in the world?

Well, I have a theory…