Going to the zoo always compares to when you are waiting for your toast, and it pops up with that sudden alarming strike of shock-sound that makes you jump like you are being woken up by eight pale looking Japanese horror kids. It gets me any time of the day – just like the animals at the zoo. Due to my million visits to zoo’s I would think the sight of these not-everyday-animals is something that should be counted as a common happening in my brain depots. However, I seem to always end up gasping and breathing in that surprised “oooh” sound when I get near one of these majestic creatures.
Starring at the monkeys puts me in a paralyzed state where I can do nothing else, than just stand there and observe. Kind of like when you get stuck on YouTube watching cat videos. Monkeys always seem blow me away like I’ve just ended first season of Lost. I freeze up and all these extremely deep philosophical questions arise, and as my mind stresses out trying to find answers and come up with reasons my body pumps the feel of awesomeness.
It always surprises me how much they look and act like us, and somehow that is hilariously entertaining. One thing I wonder about is what it must have been like to live in the part of evolution where some of us were monkeys and the other part was human? They must have been some extremely patient homo sapiens and confused monkeys.
The genes of my family have proven to create extremely pale-skinned human beings. Life of a no-sun-tan individual has its advantages such as… That’s right, nothing. Even a taco shell achieves a higher bronze level in the sun than I do. Other than tanning like a lobster 2 minutes before the egg clock rings, the second unfavorable position pale genes puts me through, is the fact that I bruise like a peach left in a college room during a drowsy hour. (I imagine a peach left with college student tends to have a soggy formation leading them to bruise to a more extreme effect). In a reckless boozing adventure last Thursday, I slipped off the couch where I was busting ‘4 cocktails and 2 beers moves’. In the tragic attempt to slide down off the couch graciously, I smacked down, knees first to the floor. Like a boss.
The day after I found the evidence of my clumsy crime; my knees had transformed to bruise galore. It’s not like I fell down from Mount Everest, it was only a standard leather couch. Still, the state of my pale knees looked like a catastrophic fail of a ghosts attempt to tattoo the ocean on itself. Blue as f’ck they were. On the second day my bruises were in an even worse condition, it felt as Fat Joe had done a gig on my knee shells. While feeling sorry for myself I looked at my knees and wondered; how come bruises are blue, purple and yellow? What is it in the skin tissue that caused my knees to look like the knees of pornstar after a 14 hour shift? Are bruises just for humans or would a fish for example leave a colorful bruise if you punched it? Or can a duck bruise its beak by smashing it into another ducks beak? Cause if I can get a bruise under my nail, do the color of bruises have anything to do with my skin? I just don’t get it.
Taking a break from my addiction to watching cat videos on YouTube, I thought I’d give BBC’s Frozen Planet a watch, just to see how those Antarctic creatures were doing (being trapped under ice and such). Because David Attenborough’s voice sounds like fairies toe-tipping on summer clouds I was listening intensely. I suddenly crashed into delusion as he explained that Narwhals – The unicorns of the Sea don’t have any use at all, for their huge horn which is bashed through their upper lip. Now, hold your horses, my mind irrupted. So these whales have a 2.7 meters long sword speared through their mouth flesh for nothing?!
Mind blowing as it was I look down my own body and my eyes drops at my bellybutton leaving me in a surprised state, similar to when Harry Potter figures out that Voldemort is in town. This weird looking spiral of belly flesh leaves us in the exact same situation as the Unicorn Whale! (Leaving out what happens after the string is detached with a sharp edged instrument at birth, of course) I’ve walk on this planet now for 22 years, and not once have I been like “Hold on, I’ll just get my belly button out to for this particular situation”. So I do wonder, if we don’t need our belly button after the birth procedures, why doesn’t it grow back together leaving no trace, just like when your body heals itself from your clumsy/drunk moments?
Instead we have this hole with a dead-end flesh wall, which consumes fluff like the Cookie Monster consumes cookies. Like the Bermuda Triangle, it sucks in storage, and no one knows how it got there. Look down your bellybutton now, there’s probably a fluffy surprise for you there, and it’s not one of the good ones (like when you tidy up your room and find twenty quid). I bet that we could live without our bellybutton. Maybe we need it for magic in the future. Who knows.
Whilst others were digging their toes in golden sand and smothering themselves like beached whales in the southern sun, I had the delightful pleasure of visiting Cambridge. My boyfriend and I were sightseeing around the “do-not-step-on-the-grass” area somewhere at Cambridge University and suddenly we ended up in front of a door the size of King Kong’s six-pack. Giving each other a childish glance we agreed to open the door expecting to enter a wizard’s house. (I assume they always have huge powerful doors) What turned out to be behind the door was as boring as their “do-not-step-on-the-grass” sign, and we found ourselves awkwardly standing in a church with the sound of King Kong’s six-pack smacking shut behind us. Extremely devastating when we have prepared ourselves for a sight of magic dust, spells and goblins.
A few tourists’ were looking at the art in the church, but there was this one man who was appreciating it a bit too much. He was a spitting image of what a typical librarian would look like, the only difference though, was that he had a lust for art (or the act of pressing his camera button) like Russell Brand has for women during a dry season. Every time he took a picture he panted loudly as if he peeked into a sexual release. The acoustics of the church surrounded us as he tried to out-stallion I-don’t- know-who. Flash after flash went off and we heard him breathe rapidly in short gasps, after exertion of taking a picture. I felt like I had opened the door to Narnia, but that goat man was replaced with some other interesting creature that gets off by taking pictures. WHO DOES THAT?
The other night at work, an observation of mine teased my random outlet to suddenly distract me from doing my job. As a waitress I’ve found my imaginary shield (which keeps me from pounding up giggles or annoyance against guests lacking the graces and refinement of civilized life), significantly useful. I must come to admit though, that I wasn’t prepared for this certain incident.
I wanted to grasp my new mission of a table of two with supreme service, so I knelt down in front of the table to seem like a friendly underhuman. As I looked up to take their drinks order, I found myself trapped in a limbo of restrainable giggles and exposed fright. Having punished my brain (with remembering endless refills, check backs, birthday cakes, bills and all that jazz) it had expanded to a level similar to squeezing a bruised tomato with your hand so hard that gooey stuff starts to drizzle down between your fingers. Suddenly my brain expansion poofed like a zit on a 14 year-old teenage boy’s face which resulted in me forgetting all my duties I had stocked up.
My eyeballs tinkled as they witnessed the massive unibrow on this man. Kneeling on the floor his unibrow felt like the dark shadow of Mordor resting over me and it left my tongue paralyzed to mute for a few seconds. I worded an oral combination of chaos which led him to order drinks, but as astonished I was, his voice slow motioned into the sound of Darth Vader under water, and I couldn’t pay attention to anything but his massive unibrow. It was starring right at me, and when I tried to focus on what the man was saying I felt a ghostly lurk from the his one brow and I was forced to look at it. It was like I was in a bewitched trance as each hair transformed into tiny Chewbaccas wiggling. I could nearly feel his millions of brow hairs tickling my face, which caused me to stretch my forehead exceptionally tight to form a bizarre face position. With a confused look I picked up their menus, and walked away while thinking “Big Foot is in town, and he is definitely not going to tip me”.
The feeling of insignificance is never scheduled or planned for. To me it is frequently the tiny supplements to my daily activities that trigger my pole of annoyance to feeling insignificant. The other day I found myself creatively charged enough to use tape, and got excessively distracted as a little piece of tape kept sticking on to my nail. In a forceful reckless action I ripped the tape of my nail, like slapping a mosquito out of direction.
Bewildered as I was, I couldn’t understand how that little piece of tape could feel just like an insane event of The Incredible Hulk taking a shit on my nail; it felt so heavy and sticky! That sensation pushed me over the edge of fast building fury. It was a perception associated to your toe smashing in to the leg of a table that is placed just for your inconvenience. After this terrifying incident it occurred to me how silly I was being angry at the tape sticking to my fingernail, cause in other ways I guess it’s not really fair to get angry at a hen for laying eggs.
After that extraordinary moment of putting things in to perspective I shadowed myself around a brave shield similar to reading 50 shades of grey in public without feeling awkward. I purposely japped the tape onto my nail again, and ended up repeating my path to anger. I encourage you to try this at home so I can feel less of a dweeb. I wonder if dinosaurs ever got angry at evolution for having petite little arms. At least they didn’t live in a time of infuriating tape clinging to your body parts.
You know how whales drift off and get stuck on land left to flap on the sand until humans push them back into the sea – but until then the whales have a high demand to get splashed upon with water? Last weeks steamy summerweather gave me an urge about the same level as whales, to have a swim in water. My boyfriend and I decided to go to the local swimming pool, which ended up being as repulsive as when I watched Mysterious Skin by myself without knowing what Joseph Gordon Lewitt was gonna get himself in to.
I was childishly excited for our long awaited dip. Images of those commercials where attractive people drink refreshing juice to then fall down with a splash into water scattered in my head as I scanned the big pool like a younger, female version of David Hasselhoff in rescue mode. As we walked around my unlucky ways kicked in and I found myself stepping out of a pile of puke. Usually when I’m in a situation where there is a slight chance for me to step in puke, there would be loads of jägerbombs and music surrounding me, and I would be wearing shoes. In this case the sense of puke control was absent. I simply hadnt seen it coming. To get rid of the sticky gooey sensation under my foot, I turned to the great method of clever slugs. I heavily based my food upon the watery floor and carried on walking leaving a sticky trail, until it was all washed away. Sorted.
We finally get in the water and swam around for about half an hour until my boyfriend suddenly asks “what is that?!” while pointing at the water just in front of my face. With the awareness of him possibly tricking me, I slowly look down to find myself googleling at a little nugget of poop. If you take a second to look down, your bellybutton would be the same distance away from your face as the poop was to mine. I quickly move to one side like a confused salmon loosing its sense of direction to find another two nuggets of poop surrounding us in a viscious floating matter. Trying to escape without accidently swallowing them we swam to a non-poop area, where there’s no chance of being stabbed by shit. Lurking over the swimming pool we gasped at people swimming and diving towards all these nuggets floating around with their own personal “dum dum…. dum dum….” Shark soundtrack. It was horrifying. Based on the days events I felt as unlucky as a seastar. They lie at the bottom of the sea and the only hole they have works as both mouth and anal entrance. What a silly day.
Peter Pan is a tricky fellow. I actually think he deserves a spot in the superhero catagory for his brilliant forever-child feature, and in the imaginary who’s-power-would-you-have (yes, I still play that) I would definitely steal and seal Peter Pan’s, and never grow up. Just like Peter Pan, my bravery level had an invisible limit line.
I rememember those days when the feeling of a dignified airy blow between toes being something frowned upon. Lots of things have changed since those days. Everyone walks around in flip flops without finding the seperation of toes feeling mysteriously odd. (you have probably aready picked up on that this is not about flip flops. Sneaky mindtricks that came with my brainset) We simply look at things differently in the process of growing up. This incredible notion is not just based upon theories such as backing one out in your diper as a baby without feeling guilty, or getting tongue punched as a teenager without giving a hu-ha about romance. I would just throw myself into things like a dont-give-a-shit-angry bird, just for the sake of it being the first time of doing it. Now, I’m more like a superhero on a Sunday, who discovered the great sensation of cuddleling.
When I think back, I did a lot of crazy things, and the development of the ideas emerged from curiosity and the fact that my dad carries the Homer Simpson syndrome; an urge to challenge your kids to do irrisponsible things. My brother, sister and I, were challenged to run through the graveyard at midnight cause “we ain’t afraid of no ghost”. I got challenged to eat a spoon chocolate powder which is as horrible as the famously known cinnomon challenge, that makes you mouth feel like Sahara without the eventful view of camels. Holy cow, lots of reckless things went down, and I’m glad it did. Cause when the time for me to wear flip flops came – I was prepared to slide that rubber string between my toes. Just like Peter Pan would never think twice about putting on flip flops.
As an experienced daydreamer, I consume and produce lots of incredible day life events and questions that stick to my brain like a salamander in heat. There are times, though, where obvious knowledge doesn’t apply to where the act of ticking my box of obviousness doings does. I’ve been captured in cheeky situations, where my glorious brain sensations smear impulsive-dust over whatever triggered my confusion at that moment. Just like an unwary octopus defending itself with ink (= my brains impulsive dust) surprise-attacked by the spur-of-the-moment burst of a fish-fart-bubble. So when I was asked to cook Super Noodles the other week, a quick stream of previous noodle cooking moments got a good smear of impulsive-dust, and I intended to cook them just like Cup Noodles. In the act of doing so, a handsome man with a wooden spoon ran towards me with speed leaving dust like an Iron Man take-off. Apparently I was supposed to use this wooden spoon to stir the noodles in a bowl with hot water, until all water was out of sight. I didn’t consider the option of cooking them that way. Do I really have to start reading manuals? Sneaky manuals.
What about the things that doesn’t come with a manual though? My brain produced impulsive dust and I have agreed on one rule when it comes to situations like this. I call that rule WWACD. What would acaveman do? When I came up with this rule I knew that it had to be something simple and unwary of manuals. As fish seemed more complex with all their “air? Screw air, gills and water is the shit”, I decided on the cavemen. So when my air mattress came without a pump (who, okayed that idiotic idea) with an impulsive move, I picked up the first tool I had in mind. Blow dryer! A slight melted air hole and an aroma of burned rubber later, I had successfully pumped up my air mattress without a pump! Winning.
I turn to the WWACD technique every time I pick up those overly annoying Heinz Ketchup glass bottles of a restaurant table as well. The inventor of this legendary ketchup bottle must have thought; “Muhah, I will make the whole world an underhuman – and dumber by giving them this irresistible good looking non-squeezable bottle”! The amount of times I have witnessed poor ketchup famished guests being tortured under the power of Mr. Heinz’s glass bottle. This is what they do to the bottle: 1) stoke it like a furry cat. 2) Put the lit back on and turn it upside down while making a wish for the ketchup to slide out like a drunken vomit-supreme. 3) Start shaking it. 4) Now shaking it furiously 5) Flick the bottle in the air to look in the hole, no longer caring about ketchup inflations in eye. Well, they are not going to find the manual in there. Again, WWACD! – Tool! Find the nearest tool! Punish that bottle-condensed air with your knife while growling (this action has a better WWACD effect with just growls – no words). Now, ketchup is served. And for future references when confused about the need for a manual, just think; what would a caveman do?
When I wrote “a handsome man with a wooden spoon ran towards me” I thought of this random clip. Please enjoy!