A 5'4 girl with a bandanna over her curly brown hair inserts the key in her corner single and pushes open the door. She turns on the slightly illegal Medusa lamp in the dormer window, dumps her bag on the floor, and takes off her coat. She takes her well-used, beat-up Soap box out of the closet, and lets it thump to the floor. Then she stands on it.
I'm getting really comfortable up here, and I'm not entirely sure this is a bad thing.
I'm also beginning to wonder if there is more of a personality connection between me and my sister than previously decided. Her Facebook status sums it up quite nicely for me: A whole lot of cranky with a heaping side of snark today.
My inner snark? Oh, damn, yes in full blast. Hell, I don't even need a microphone while I stand up here. Quite honestly, my day didn't start well, and it surely didn't end well. Through no fault of you lovely people, but quite honestly I am sick of humanity at the moment. I am sick of working with people.
Honestly, this is no surprise. When I was in middle school, I used to get sick of dealing with the same people at the end of the year, and usually wound up beating somebody up. They were usually boys, who I was sick of hearing relentless shit about myself and all that was lacking through the year, and so, usually on the second to last or the actual last day, I would just snap a little. Enough to literally hoist one up by his lapels and slam against the fence around the tennis court at the middle school, slam a finger in a locker (and he called me some truly interesting names after that, and we were only in sixth grade - but we had an understanding of each other after that), and some punches when the teachers weren't looking. I had to be kind of careful about the girls that would annoy me, mostly because I had to play sports with them, and that was a certain disasterful clusterfuck in itself. Absolutely ridiculous in some instances, and the limit of my patience (already thin on the best of days) was stretched.
Anyway - tangent as usual - I get sick of dealing with people. It's a personality flaw, coupled with the brutal honesty that usually comes from my snark-tastic brain through the small filter, and out my mouth. And, contrary to popular belief, having a brutally honest outlook on life (and mouth to go with it) doesn't mean that you're immature in any way. It doesn't mean that you can't keep your mouth shut, it just means that when push comes to shove you're not going to sugarcoat things that might...well, probably should be sugarcoated. This is how I operate. In the cases where I'm not saying anything, it's because what's rolling around in my head is probably more offensive that I can really care to admit at that point, and I'll keep it o myself, thanks. But that doesn't mean that I'm not thinkin' it.
And once again, when push comes to shove, if you need to hear it and actually listen and take it in, sit down, shut up, and open your ears. I apparently know my ass from my elbow [thank you, E], especially if it's something that you're not really inclined to believe about yourself but need to hear anyway. I might be an optimist, but I'm not a flailing idiot. Expect the worst and hope for the best.
That being said....to my theater professor who thinks that I'm going to start skipping physics labs to show up to rehearsal in the early stages when I haven't even read the script and started to figure out what sounds go where? You're off your freakin' rocker. Let me put it this way: Science labs in this college are mandatory. You miss a lab without a damn good reason, you are going to fail your science course. This is non-negotiable. So, in Louise's grand scheme of priorities, doing sound as a project for Stagecraft (project, while semi-mandatory, still not quite to the level of the science lab) Devotion to the Cross (seriously? You want college kids to come to this, right?) is sitting toward the bottom of the list.
Perspective. Priority. Louise's To-Do List. These things, while they mix accordingly some days, aren't always fully miscible. That's a science term, if you couldn't guess, coming from the Chemistry major.
She crouches and then sits on the box, instead of standing. Brings her legs up to sit cross-legged.
I like this a little better. It's a little more informal and less like I'm more or less screaming at people. I don't like to scream, contrary to popular belief. I do try to keep a lid on that temper that comes from my mother's side of the family, the one that we all have but will deny until we're blue in the face. And while I consider myself more toward my father, personality and temperament wise, you piss me off and we're going to have issues. I've gotten better about not throwing punches (I have no desire to be a Jim Kirk in a bar brawl), but I've got snark, wit, and in most cases, paper and pen to do my dirty work.
It's times like this that I'm glad I live alone. Because this side of me, while an integral part of who I am, isn't entirely...attractive to some people. Not quite...endearing. And I can be charming and endearing, usually.
I'm really tempted to continue this and begin to really rant and rave, and that's my choice. Whether or not you'd really like to read about the incredible amount of shit in my week that's made me quite nasty today...well, that's your choice.
I'll keep this short and sweet.
At the end of the day, you have to be true to yourself. And you have to realize that you're not perfect, that you have character flaws, and that's the whole shebang. So, this part of me where I need to level with people, call them on their shenanigans and, when the time is right and it's necessary, admit that I'm wrong, is still going to be there in the morning. This part of me where I tell you the honest truth with no sugar because you need to hear it, even though, yeah, I'd really like the best to happen, that's going to be there when I wake up cursing at my alarm clock. And the moment you lose any of that, to try and please other people, to try and keep your flaws under wraps and on the lower end of the smile that you show the world, you're not only selling yourself short, but you're screwing the customer in the process, too, since they're not getting their money's worth.
And nobody wants to drink Keystone when they paid for Glenora.
She stands up, off the box, and slips it back into the closet.