Irreparable Damage or Harm to

Don’t drink the soda yet—the bag broke and I dropped them all. I’ll say "I dropped them all” and not “they fell,” because I’m taking responsibility for bagging them all together.

I ruin everything. All my clothes are worn with rips and stains. I burn cigarette holes in my car upholstery. I let friendships either fizzle out with neglect, or I find a way to smother them. My nails, I manage to chip right after painting. I leave food in the microwave for too long, or more often not long enough, and eat it cold, because well, I’d just ruin it anyway.

“A well-crafted essay is thought-out and universal.” I’m a terrific writer, I know, because I’ve always been the top student in English classes, or not far off. I’m not bragging, I just know I can write, by conventional standards anyway. I’m a grammar slut and neurotic with word choice and vocabulary. But I’ve always been a poor storyteller.

I tell the punchline too early, or forget about the most important detail. I have a terrible memory mostly, never could remember movie quotes like my friends, or who starred in the films, though film is my favorite form of entertainment, except for music. I guess film is my favorite form of active entertainment, because you have to pay attention.

People dread when I try to summarize a movie or tell a joke, for “um,” and “uh,” litter my speech and I usually lose my audience somewhere before the first act’s over. 

So the idea of universal is a tough one, because how can I relate? I can tell you my story if you’re interested enough to look past the um’s and uh’s and characters for whom I cannot do justice, and the details I forget to include, or introduce at the wrong time. But even if you look past all those flaws, can you identify with the ruin I’m trying to share without believing I feel sorry for myself? Or is it all in vain? Do you even understand what I’m getting at?

I don’t call myself “a writer.” I feel like you need to be published by some reputable publication to say that, or have written a novel or something. I think I write every day now, but I’m not a writer. Since I’ve graduated and lost the title “student,” I have no idea what I am. I mean, I’m a secretary, and a minimum-wage employee at the mall food court, but that’s not really who I am. I’m nothing right now, and that’s everything, and I hope I’m not ruining it all before it even happens because I have a habit of doing that too, and everything is tainted before I know it. 

A Catch in the Current

Every so often, a little speck of grey mold comes out of the water cooler in the shop and enters my bottle as I fill it. It looks like dust, but dust when wet doesn’t stay all one whole fleck, so I think it’s mold. Usually when this happens, my water bottle is too full to empty it down the drain, because, well, the world is running out of water, so why should I waste it? At least that’s how I see it from taking Kay Williams Conservation of Natural Resources 108 in Rolland 200 a few years back. No one liked that class—prof. was pretty old-fashioned—but I got something out of it, like to flush the toilet less and shower quicker.

Sometimes I try to drink the water all the way down to the last sip without ingesting the mold. Sometimes I don’t care and slurp it down as soon as possible to decimate the agonizing worry that I might drink down the mold. I guess it depends on my mood, or rather my degree of apathy. Apathy is a funny word for me; it signifies relaxation and a sense of calm, yet also represents a piece of me that didn’t really appear until my college years.

I mellowed out a lot when I settled for my second college choice, a Pa. state school that was cheaper than the privet St. Joe’s U. in Philadelphia, where my heart and mind truly fancied. Everyone knows this story, and it's not that I'm complaining or I regret the decision, it's just 100 percent a part of who I am now, kinda like the crown on my front chipped tooth or my squinty left eye. 

I fell in with some West Philly hood rats my first year away, (they were familiar and they talked like me,) and learned how to roll my first blunt, but still maintained Dean’s list… for the first 3 semesters.

Then came the apathy, for reasons none of your business, but it was every sign of depression shy of extreme disparity, and I left that spring for home, my car crammed with lamps and trashcans and comforters and the like. I left behind my apathy though, and brought home a new major, a new outlook, a new start.

From then on I was back—I was motivated to get involved, I kicked aside the regret of that dropped class sophomore year; I took it as a learning experience. 

I rode the high though this past summer, the summer after graduation, applying for what few jobs were available in my career path, while working part-time with my uncle at as a secretary at an auto body shop.

Now I’m panicking as tens of thousands of dollars loom over me darker than any cloud I’ve ever seen, even darker than that blockbuster Twister picture, with Helen Hunt? Or was that Jodie Foster…

Who cares? The summer's over, and I took back my old job at the mall to help with bills. I drink spirits just about every single night, and I drank the mold the other day without a second thought.

After Sundown and Before Sunrise

Her bathrobe always hung on the back of her door, the lighter, longer, pink one that was probably cheaper than her green puffy one, but she got hot easy and besides, summer had just ended. After falling asleep prematurely that evening, she awoke in a flit to see what she missed out on during the prime Thursday night hours, courtesy of the nearly 20 text messages she'd snoozed through. She was starving, but no one in their right mind eats in the middle of the night, so after a long debate she settled for putting on the bathrobe and heading out for a smoke, instead of risking an argument with her father and leaning out the window.

A little blaze would do her good right now, but she left it at her friend's apartment, and there was no use thinking about what could be under the bright, almost-full but receding moon. She smelled a nearby skunk and thought how her friend could tell her what phase of moon it was, its proper name and all, and she'd never remember it, but she'd adore it. Her friend could tell her almost anything, and if she believed it, she'd absolutely adore it. 

Fingering the old burn hole near her pocket, from ancient times she thought were through, she finished up her cigarette pondering the kindness of men she never wanted, or never thought she wanted anyhow, and words she could never say, and went in for a glass of water, debating spilling it all and crying. She couldn't see the moon's glow anymore from inside the house, and she couldn't smell the skunk anymore but those things were still there. 

If no one in their right mind eats at this hour, she thought she probably should, because it would only prove what she already knew and at least she could finally be honest with herself. It seemed too harsh to think it, but that's as far as she ever got to this point, and if she never went through with the spilling and crying, then that's as far as she'd ever get, though she thought maybe thinking, under the moon she couldn't identify, that was honest enough. But thinking about it under the bright almost-full moon, it was no use. It would go on shining, and the skunk, on spraying, and the water would get cleaned up and be forgotten forever, so she hung up her bathrobe and went back to bed with her cup like a child and prayed to know what the moon was called without having to ask.

How to Avoid Getting Pulled Over: Part 1

No one wants to get pulled over, whether you’re blatantly breaking the law or unaware of your trespasses. In either regard, there are surefire ways to avoid the stress of those red and blue flashing lights in your rearview mirror. Fortunately for you, reader, I’m the queen of getting pulled over, and I’m here to share my advice. Before you face ticket fines and court appearances, take the time to review how not to get pulled over, part one in a two part series.

What kind of car are you driving?: According to Forbes.com, a common misconception is that a bold car color is more likely to get pulled over than a less dramatic hue. They’ve determined that the type of car you drive has more of an impact on your chances of facing the law. Sportier, “younger” looking cars are pulled over at a 4x higher rate than SUVs and minivans. Male drivers (sorry,) have worse luck, too. So be a girl and take out mom’s soccer mobile and you can avoid the headaches of dealing with the po-po. Or be me and drive an old gold grandma Chevy Malibu, your choice.

Know the hot-(fuzz)spots: Traveling the same way to work/school/errands every day, you should know where the cops hang out and wait for you to be caught speeding. Don’t speed around bends and hills on the highway or anywhere that you can’t see far ahead of you, like past bridges or tunnels; I’ve known a lot of state troopers to post-up in these spots. Keep your speed low enough over the limit not to be a nuisance; I’ve been told officers tend to leave you alone if you’re going only 15 m.p.h. over the posted limit. If you’re really running late, keep your eyes open for the good-samaritan opposing-traffic drivers flashing their lights. But if you’re pulled over speeding, be prepared to pay the price (a.k.a. hundreds of dollars and can't nobody afford that, no, not now.)

There’s an app for that: While some radar systems can stand alone, there are kinds you can link with your iPhone, (the equipment syncs with your cellular device and alerts you to cameras at stoplights, speed detecting radar, cop cars, etc.). There are also shady business kind of apps that are strictly on your iPhone and rely on other driver/passenger testimonial-- I can’t find much info on these because the internet is a shaaaaayyydayyyy place these days, but I’ve know people who’ve used these and ratings are varied. Can’t hurt to try though.

Keep your car in-check: You’re driving it--for your safety and that of other drivers, make sure brake lights (actually tail lights as a whole,) are fully-functioning, mirrors are intact and in position, tires are full of air, and nothing is dragging, like, say, your muffler. For one, broken car parts just scream suspect, and also, you need to keep a good visual of your environment. If your windows are tinted darker than the atlantic (well, the Jersey shore portion,) you’re not going know what’s going on. Same goes for the other senses; if you can’t hear the cop pulling you over because the volume your subs beating out of the trunk exceeds normal human capability, you probably could lower the volume. Think about what you look like from the outside looking in after you hit that McDonald’s drive-thru.

Don’t drive by the same cop twice: Unless you need their help, there’s no reason to pass a cop more than once. It’s suspect if you drive back and forth, just go where you gotta go and take a different way home.

This is pretty common sense stuff, but you’d be surprised how many people I know that could have avoided the annoyance of talking to police just by taking basic precautions and driving smart (including myself.) Join me next time for part two in the two part series: What to do Once You’ve Been Pulled Over.