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.

20150325_182716

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…

My Face

A few weeks back, I did a photoshoot with one of my friends. No reason. We just thought it’d be fun, and her co-worker is a pretty cool photographer. And it was fun, we had a great time taking pictures. Her co-worker sent us the finished photos the other day. They were awesome, my friend looked super cute and classy in her frames. He did a great job on mine too, but no editing magic can fix my face. It made me realize, I’m not cut out to be a cutesy person. It just ain’t happening, no matter how hard I try.

It’s my face. I don’t have a face capable of cute expressions. I have taken and deleted enough selfies in my life for me to conclude such things. I can think of kittens playing with balls of yarn made of cotton candy amongst a meadow of daisies where unicorns and dolphins frolic into the Teletubbies baby sun, and the resulting picture would still make small children cry. My face doesn’t move much, and is affected by nothing.

the epitome of all things cute and totally not creepy…right?

The only facial expressions that seem to register well on camera for me are the smug, sarcastic ones. Research of my life on the Internet proves this. The pictures that feature me smiling receive less attention than the ones where I’m merely smirking, or staring blindly into the camera. The happy, smiling pictures of me that receive any recognition apparently only work if it looks like I’m laughing at you on the inside. That was put to the test a couple of times when I blitzed friends’ pages with likes. One of the many reasons I shouldn’t be up past 11pm, I used to like posts on a friends’ facebook page for months back. The next day, all my poor friends would see in their notifications was my smiling face 99+ times…seemingly mocking them.

fb spamming

 

It’s not just in pictures though. Anytime I have to make an avatar for some game, like the Sims, or that weird Wii person (Mii’s aren’t they called?), they end up with the features that most closely match that condescending smirk face that epitomizes Maya Stormy Ray. Not even digital me can be friendly-looking, because the second I put a smile on its face, or big, happy eyes, it immediately stops looking like me.

 

Well hey, I can be a model still, right? Jerk can be my signature look and I could become the next thing! There are plenty of campaigns that need people to stand and pout on a beach or something! There’s hope for meeee!

 

No, no hope. Not for Storm.

 

On top of having an unnerving still photo smile, I suffer from Kardashian dead-eye syndrome, and can’t express emotions to save my life.

Kourtney Kardashian

 

If all the happiness in the world were condensed into one photograph…

I mean I don’t have many feelings to begin with, therefore my eyes are left with either manic happiness or apathy to work with, and they usually veer towards the latter. Sorry Tyra, I’ve failed you with my inability to smize!

On a side tirade, one time I was in LAX and I saw Jay Manuel.

This guy

I was with my mom and we were leaving the airport after landing. He was entering the security line on the other side of this glass divider. We stopped when we recognized him and my mom said to me, “Oh my gosh, his shoes are right in that bin! You should take one!”

I looked at her, like…WHYYYYYYY?

“Just take his shoe, tell him ‘see you next year’ and run back!”

I was 17 at the time, and you need to be 18 to apply for America’s Next Top Model, fyi.

“That’s crazy. You’re crazy. I’m not stealing a man’s shoe!”

“You aren’t stealing. You’re borrowing. You’d give it back to him when you get accepted to the competition!”

He saw us standing on the other side of the glass by then. He looked kind of confused, but he smiled and waved. We waved back and walked away. It was for the better, I wouldn’t have lasted long in the competition anyways. I’d be that girl they always yell at for not smiling with your eyes, I just know it. Oh well.

Cool story, bro. I know, I get it. But I felt like sharing, sue me.