We all have those moments where we feel creatively charged, where pellets of ideas devour your brain. Kind of like when boys after a game of ‘Skyrim’ use “I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took an arrow to the knee” as an excuse to get out of stuff. Thinking about the roots of creativity – I first thought that the rise of our creative ideas was of toilet visits. Don’t know if it’s something to do with the physical means of the human body. You know – if something comes in – something must come out. In this case it would be spectacular ideas. It just seems like people always come out from the toilet like “Do you know what I just thought of?!”
Anyway, I came to the conclusion that we can’t all have great ideas such as Disney doing Star Wars, or making inflatable unicorn horns for cats. But when I smash though a great idea, it has usually been something that premiered of the wonders of my unconsciousness. 70% of my dreams consist of underwater adventures with killer whales. (These dreams gradually evolved after visiting SeaWorld last summer). In by dreams I can Expelliarmus Kristen Stewart for being as boring as listening to paint dry if it could speak; “Ehm, just getting there… oh no not yet. I’m still a bit moist… maybe now, aw still not dry”. In my dreams, I can touch MC Hammer, and phone home like ET.
While you are snoring away, you are on a level of awesomeness with Samuel L. Jackson when he brought “I’ve had it with these motherfucking snakes, on this motherfucking plane” into the world. You world is unconsciously your oyster! This is when these mysterious thoughts came into my head. The reason my unconscious mind can create anything, does probably have something to do with me knowing what everything looks like. So what about blind people? If they have been blind since they were brought in to the world, how do they know what anything looks like? So if they dreamt about a dinosaur trying to paint its house, what would they see? Maybe they can actually create things in their mind themselves, so a dinosaur painting its house could actually look the same as a salmon flapping colors with its tail on a snails shell, and still be the same thing! They don’t give a shit – they just create things as they want them to look like.
Rumors spread from the lips of one human to another can be rather interesting if they turn out to be unexpectedly true. When they’re not – and you hoped they would be, the feeling of disappointment takes me back to when my sister shamelessly ripped off the beard of Santa in front of my 9 year-old sore eyes. Just like when the news claimed a lion had broken loose in Essex, and it turned out to be a cat. What douche can’t tell the difference between a giant jungle cat and fluff-ball with eyes like the moon. I sometimes speak louder to blind people, but I’m pretty sure if Simba and Puss in Boots stood next to each other I’d be quite successful in singing ‘Hakuna Matata’ to the right one.
This week I gained possible intellect when a heard a particular rumor. It was one of them rumors that instantly puts your mind in a glorious wondering play. Not one of those, ‘Lady Gaga has got a dick’ or ‘Loch Ness has been found’ on-going rumors that keeps coming back like herpes stapled to a boomerang thrown by Steve Irwin. (Double-effect. Boom.)
No, it was one of them rumors you actually desire to be true. So here it is – Bananas help you hold your pee. Who would have ever known?! So that is my next project now. I will simply drink oceans until I feel an uncomfortable urge to let the water works run – then forcefully prison my pee while awkwardly eating a banana, and letting it digest in my cave of a stomach. We should all add a loaded banana to our bags and pockets – let’s be honest, we all hate when we get stuck in a situation where there’s nowhere to pee. Bring it to weddings, the cinema, lectures with no breaks; even strap it to your bikini when swimming. Extremely useful!
When the case of me going to town arises, I always wander along the river Thames, and it is always an adventure in the league of Bilbo Baggins’s adventures. I’ve witnessed lots of action both in the air, water and ground walking along that river. One night bats were scattering around. Another day I saw this weird penguin looking bird disappearing under water for a period long enough to have swam to the Titanic – flicked Jack on the nose, and then swam back again. In a staring gaze I investigated it on its return. Who knows – maybe I had just discovered a weird fish-bird which would make up for no one ever finding Loch Ness. Happenings on the ground are ruled by the water rats. I’ve seen a rat eat a banana, I’ve even seen a rat climb a tree. When did rats start climbing trees?! They climb in that ninja way that squirrels do. I’m honored to have witnessed that.
On a wander the other day though, one particular question raised in my bubble of a brain. It was raining, and as I looked up in the sky I noticed a good amount birds flying around in the drizzle of raindrops. I wondered; how do they fly to a destination successfully when they have rain bashing into their eyes every half a second? I assume even Harry Potter throws on a pair of goggles in a rainy game of quidditch. But these birds, they just speed away through wet drops directly pointed at their eyeballs. Without blinking all the time to avoid eyeball rape, how do they fly to the direction they had planned to? How do they prevent sky-high bird stew from happening? You know sometimes when you are “fat slobbing” on the couch, abruptly shocked because a bird flew into your window, well it’s not because they can’t see the damn glass, the rain kept getting in to their eyes, causing them to lose their sense of direction! Poor birds and their eyeballs.
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.