I might as well put it out there that I may very well occasionally be eight going on eighteen. I probably consume far too much coffee and far too little chocolate. I refuse to carry umbrellas and I haven't the foggiest idea how to use nail polish. Now that confessions are over - I'm glad you're here.
All in writing
The Daily Life Starter Pack. Meme-Free and hard to put your finger on. Although you probably shouldn’t try - that’s how we get Sexual Harassment suits nowadays. At once comforting and embarrassing. Yet, as impossible to deny as a video footage from last Friday night, and as permanent as a tattoo. What? No, nothing Mom.
I've been told once or twice that I could play Alice in Wonderland, and I guess we do have some things in common. We both have long blond hair. She falls down rabbit holes; I fall down the black hole that is Wikipedia. We both sometimes drink things we probably oughtn't. And, if her musing is true, then we're both expert-level when it comes to giving ourselves great advice and not actually following it. So... this is Late. I have no Very Important Date. But, dear Hypocritical Masha- here is a report card for you.
So, consider this a meek defense of the long-lost art of the phone call. Go read that motivational quote on Pinterest. Take a deep breath. Put on the coffee pot. Crack your knuckles- it doesn’t cause arthritis.
Phone calls. You got this.
Do you have hands? Excellent. That's a good start. Can you hold a pencil? Great. If you have a sketchbook, open it and start by making a line, a mark, wherever. Doodle.
- Chris Riddel
Hey! You!
Are you tired of feeling guilty? Tired of sitting at your desk, surrounded by a concerning amount of empty coffee mugs, fiddling with your pen, contemplating whether penguins have knees, and eyeing that Facebook tab? Dreading that Thing You REALLY Have to Do?
Well boy do I have news for you. It doesn’t have to be so hard! With the power of endless task-invention, you can lose the guilt FAST, and keep it off FOREVER.
With the power of endless invention, you, my friend, are FREE.
FREE to go check your email!
FREE to update your LinkedIn!
FREE to go clean your room! Who cares that it’s already more sterile than a horse mated with a donkey? Not me! You’re the one that’s acting like an ass.
You’re FREE to colour-code your Google calendar!
To check your email! Again!
FREE to go draw a Pinterest-Worthy habit tracker with a PENGUIN on it!
But wait, there’s MORE.
The power of endless invention comes with a Hundred-Percent Money Back Guarantee!
In the future, your credit card will get handed RIGHT BACK TO YOU! After it gets denied. Again.
And yet, I don’t really want to tell her anything. “Oh Honey” or not, she’s definitely a lot sweeter than I am. She knows how to train 5 hours a day and then come home and do physics homework. She spends hours teaching herself how to count cards. And she doesn’t say “Fuck” when she drops a pencil. She wasn’t afraid of having “stuff.” Besides, who on earth would want a 4’11’’ kid walking around spouting unenlightened wisdom everywhere? Sounds like a bloody nightmare. She’d be fun at parties.
Things I’ve always been itching to try, things I can’t get out of my head, desires that are hard to calm, those topics I want to jabber endlessly about to someone. Perhaps when desires stop being watery drops of sudsy, vague, unclear ideas that reside in a bucket and start being burning, impossible to ignore, occasionally frustrating itches, I’ll finally stop being so patient, and just scratch. A little Rash decision making is good sometimes.
As Masha walked to the subway station that morning, she realized that it’s been an awfully long time since she’d actually gotten a report card. And that’s a pity. In a way, I almost miss the adrenaline rush that came with handing over the Scary Manila Envelope to Mama and Papa, hoping to be deemed worthy of whatever science kit was the pinnacle of my desires at the moment.
So I figured I’d give myself one. Don’t worry, it’s 100% Serious and Legitimate. I used a red pen and everything. So, Masha, here it is. I’m handing this to you the same way I’ve slipped transcripts to my parental unit for years now: here’s the report, and here’s my personal disclaimer. Something about how the barometric pressure outside hasn’t been ideal for cognitive function. Maybe there have just been way too many Thursdays lately. You know, I’ve just been really, really busy.
We’re all craving a “detox,” but maybe it’s not to cleanse our bodies of nonexistent “chemicals” or to throw our phones off the Empire State. Maybe we just need to dump a day’s, or a lifetime’s worth of Little Things onto something besides a motion sensor. It certainly sounds less attractive than “Green Goddess” or “Australia, Disconnected.” I won’t get any dates by telling my friends “I’ll be your liver.” That’s definitely not sexy. But I can tell them that I’m fine with them cleansing their day’s memories with me. So Hey. How was your day?
(Credit for cover photo goes to the very talented Todd Shaffer)
“I don’t think you understand. You want me to tell you when you’ll be sitting in your economics class. I’m trying to tell you I don’t know if I’ll let you stand up tomorrow. All I know about your future is that it comes one day at a time.”
I’m not a fan of saying words changed my life, but that one sentence truly did.
From that morning on, Masha (who probably liked 5-Year-Plans and little red planners as much as Mao) refocused the lens she used to see her future. I see “Today.” “Right now.” Usually a “Tomorrow,” but beyond that, who knows. I can tell you that today, at 5 PM, I’ll be writing, or doing Law homework. I can also tell you that “Next Month” pages in planners make me uncomfortable, no matter how much pretty lettering and how many stickers they’re decorated with.
So, let me extend my wing out to you - I’m still a permanently exhausted pigeon after all. We may as well be honest - this haphazardly creative wannabe-hyperproductive insomniac won’t be altering her habits anytime soon. If I have to be Tired all the time, fine. So be it. But I’d rather be TIRED because I TRIED. Not because I wasted my time exhausting myself by scrolling 6.19 miles through the “inspiring” and “mindblowing” information that I secretly despise. Apparently, mistakes are a sign that you’re trying. But I think my phone’s equating of “tired” with “trying” might be a mistake in itself. After all (if I’m lucky) I may someday be able to conceal the ever-present bags under my eyes and showcase the results of my work. Something tells me that showing off my thumb’s pedometer (while sipping at the 3-shot espresso I swear I need) won’t have the same effect.
I wouldn’t doubt I’ve had a day when I’d walk down the street feeling like the Real Cool Kid, listening to the Arctic Monkeys while wearing naturally-ripped jeans, slightly worn shoes and an unevenly smooth jacket. And then, I’ll check my phone for the right address, walk up to that big glass building, and instantly feel like a five year old whose only trip around the block has been on a tricycle. And maybe that’s okay. We all want to seem grown and tough and experienced, and yet, I don’t want to be like that fake-vintage, fake-leather bomber for $12.99 from Forever 21. For a while, I’ll sometimes be stuck being a little stiff. Awkward. Creasing in the wrong places and very very unsure if I’m doing all this right. And I guess that’s okay. I certainly can’t expect my friends and those I care about to all be Mature and Classy and Professional, and thank heavens for that. When worn in, leather will move and mold with your body. I’m sure my world will move and mold alongside me, while hopefully retaining a capacity for stupid nonsense that I know I’ll always have. Maybe it’s a good reminder to me to not be afraid to befriend those who have stood the test of time. We like the idea of worn-in, well-seasoned things: leather, denim, cast-iron. Tough material showing it can take a beating. Some day, if I’m lucky, I might be “Worn in a Really Cool Way,” but until then, I guess I’ll have to wear my unwrinkled novelty in the coolest way I can.
“Random Acts of Kindness” remind me a bit of another kind of “Random Act” that I perform all too often. Let’s call them “Random Acts of Productivity,” shall we? I’m sure you can relate, or at least I sincerely hope so. It may be 3 AM and that paper may be due in four hours, but suddenly I’m the Housecleaning Hero. My floor needs sweeping! That month-old email needs answering! I must check my stocks! My notebook sits unopened on my desk, but you’ll find me in the kitchen making effing quinoa salad for tomorrow’s lunch. I’ll feel great looking at my spotless living room for a few minutes. Maybe feel a little less guilty for wasting the entire day doodling. But, really, I’m just avoiding something. Random Acts of Procrastination.
They say “Growing old is mandatory, but growing up is optional.” I think. Or, is it “Growing up is mandatory, but growing old is optional?” I’m going to be honest - I have no idea. I’m sure a quick google search could give me an answer, but perhaps it would be nice to leave myself one question that I could still try to answer even if my wifi is down. So, I flipped it around in my mind a few times. Once upon a time in the long-gone days of four years ago, Masha learned something about converses of statements. Now, a not-much-wiser Masha’s on a subway train wearing a pair of obscenely dirty Converse. I know what either means - someone else can prop open a logic textbook, and Buzzfeed can tell me my “Shoe Personality.” I’m just going to think.
Even someone as blonde as I am knows none of these mean anything without more concrete goals and accountability, and I've got some wonderful reality-checks in store for future Masha, so that ought to be fun. I'm honestly just very, very happy to be alive this year, and to have the ability to worry a little less about that being a given.
HAPPY NEW YEAR to all of you. If anything, you can always resolve to stop hanging around people who make New Year's resolutions.
According to Motivational Mug I Got For Secret Santa™ I’m supposed to “Live a Life of Colour.” Maybe there’s room in that life for calling someone a “bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkeyshine.” I’ve dropped my fair share of four letter words on those whom I love this year. Another favourite two-word sentence of ours is “I’m sorry.” I can always drop an f-bomb, I do love the smell of Napalm in the morning, but I also dropped a plate yesterday. Out of sheer sleep deprivation, after a very loud word that wasn’t “Oh Fudge,” I said to it, “I’m sorry.” The plate is still broken. I never want my mom, or my friend to be. No matter how much of a boil-brained bloody bastard I may think them at the time.
It certainly doesn't feel like it but, with the exception of two, all days in your life are 24 hours long. Sure sometimes your boss yells at you and you miss someone and you're cold and running late and the day seems to take about three and a half years. Other times, I'm pretty sure my day feels short enough to be a non-skippable Youtube ad. The 24-hour cycle hasn't changed, but the "days" are shorter now.
Life is similar to a roller coaster. Not in a "straight off of Pinterest" inspirational-quote way. At least not really. In an (ever so slightly) more objective way, the vaguely-forward-moving chaos that is my life and King da Ka have something in common.
