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Imagine: you’re in a stairwell, it’s dim, empty, grey. You would use the elevator, if it was more reliable, but you have places to be. So you descend the concrete steps for a while when you hear something. Eerie whistling echoing throughout the stairwell. You can’t tell where it’s coming from. Above you or below? Nevermind, you try to ignore it and carry on, down, down, down. Then you come upon them, fellow users of the stairs. You realize one of them is responsible for the whistling.Except there’s something off. Many things are off. A quick glance would have told you the source of the whistling and nothing more. But you steal more than a quick glance and now you can’t help but keep your gaze on them as your eyes catch on each thing wrong about your neighbours.
Their eyes are the wrong color, unnatural. And with the whistler, the irises are too big, they cover too much of the whites. All three have unsettling smiles, as though drawn on, but in such a way that you can’t tell if they’re happy or sad. Especially with their brows, seemingly paralyzed in an upturned shape. Their makeup, their clothes, all are made up of happy, bright colors. But the setting, the dingy stairs, the grey walls, the echo-y whistling drains the life from the rainbow collected before you. Yes, something is very wrong. It may be a saturday, the start of the weekend where stairwell traffic wouldn’t be much of a surprise. Nor would three individuals decked out in bright clothing and makeup. And it’s October, ‘tis the spooky season. But it’s only the twenty-fifth, not halloween and the halloween festivities would be on the coming friday night and saturday after. Not on an afternoon a week in advance. So why, in your descent of the almost empty stairwell, are you now face to face with three clowns? Why did the whistling suddenly stop? And why did they start staring like that…at you…in unison? You can shriek in fear now. It’s okay, they understand. No, but like, straight up, could you imagine?! That would be freaky as hell. Luckily, when we were in my stairwell, decked out in clowncore glory, there was no one to hear my companion whistling. As far as we know. There was definitely no one who came upon us though whilst we took strange, unhinged photos. Were that to occur, it would be a simple explanation, but whomst knows if it would be simply understood. The Princess Party was odd enough to explain, let alone the Clown Party. I forgot to come up with a theme when my birthday came round, but we had something planned for the friend who came next. So naturally, we went about town, the mall, and Boston Pizza as a quartet of clowns. We got questioned. We got glances. We got weird ass photos in the dark of my unlit apartment. And we got cupcakes and pie. Themed parties are really one of the greatest things we remembered we could do. And honestly, clowncore is a vibe, a fun one. It’s hard to be casual about it, but we would all definitely be down for another random clown day. It’s the spice of life, looking like a fool, and we go about it like Olympic champions. You may have been lucky not to run into us, with wildly painted faces, in the stairwell of my murder building, but I can’t guarantee you won’t stumble upon our strangeness in the future. You may very well see the artificial eyes, red noses, and bright colors coming towards you and whomst knows what might happen next?
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There is a house. It’s a simple house, one storey ranch, built in the eighties. It’s nothing spectacular but it has nice yards, a bay window, fruit trees. It’s a dream, a hope, a wish, this house. Something near yet too far away to reach. But it’s fun to imagine nonetheless. It’s fun to picture how I’d decorate my room, what furniture we’d fill the place with, where I’d park my plants. We can paint the walls any color, fill our garden with any seeds, choose our cabinet handles, our preferred shape of mirror. The limits are without limits.
There are so many little things that I think about at random times of the day such as changing my pillow cases each season as well as the dish towels, what all cutlery I can acquire, what is the most aesthetically cute way to store my stuffies. I remember wallpaper is a thing, and rugs, and accent chairs. All the different types of storage solutions fill my brain way too often. But it isn’t just dreaming of the house itself, it’s the lifestyle that comes with it. I start imagining the hobbies I’d pick up whilst living in this house. I’d take up barbequing, maybe do some backyard kickboxing and tai chi, I’d house bees. I see myself sitting on the deck and crocheting or knitting, perhaps sipping a cup of tea whilst watching the sun set. I see myself tending to a colorful garden, growing grapes, harvesting pumpkins. Maybe I could make a little chicken coop and keep fluffy chickens, consuming their eggs for breakfast each afternoon. Somehow, I’d create a wee contained utopia of sorts and live my best life in this house. This house that I don’t have in person but have in my heart. I could get a cat, or two. Figure out how to play the violin in the garage so I don’t make my neighbors hate me. Maybe I’d somehow become really savvy with handiwork and do minor house repairs and renovations. There’s this part in my brain that keeps telling me, this is the place where things get better, where they improve and heal and repair. Having a dishwasher and laundry machines within my reach, on the same floor seems unreal. Being able to see the night sky without all the downtown light pollution, impossible. Breathing fresh air, unsullied from pot, cigarettes, crack, and bodily fluids, is otherworldly. It feels like another life entirely, an alternate universe, the possibility of living in that house. Whether or not it happens, it keeps me hopeful for the future, any future. Hopeful that things will look up in time, I just have to wait it out and hold strong. Nearly a fortnight ago, our Princess Party commenced. It was a thrilling, silly occasion that included frolicking stupidly around a park. A very useful park, for it had all the whimsy a princess needs: ducks, squirrels, flowers, ponds. As well as things we could have used less of, like the old man with the fancy camera taking pictures of us or the tourists with their phones out taking pictures of us or the senior people walking past taking pictures of us. You know, if you just ask, we’d almost certainly say yes. We’ve had people do that before, it would maybe be a bit uncomfortable for us but we appreciate the asking permission. It’s also quite flattering to see people so enthralled with our Saturday get ups.
The Princess Party Saturday was sure to receive looks and questions which we were wholly prepared for. It would be pretty damn stupid to go about in public, the five of us decked out in pointy hats with billowing tulle and flouncy skirts, and not expect a side eye here or there, or a “is there a special occasion happening?” It would be foolish, cocky, dare I say ignorant of the behavior of our fellow humans. However, I am troubled by the audacity people have to take pictures of strangers, without said stranger’s permission, as though they’re at a zoo. This happened when I was a child, swimming around the local pier with my friends. We paddled to a floating dock a little ways away and as we basked in the sun, we noticed the horde or tourists… photographing us… children in swimsuits. Sure it’s legal or whatever, public place and all that, but it’s fucking weird too! None of those people were our parents and we weren’t any of their kids so why are photos being taken of our soggy asses? Why are people compelled to do that? I don’t like the fact that a random old dude has however many pictures of me and my mates in our regal getup. I don’t like the fact that I have no information about what was captured. He was so unapologetic about it too. They all were, no one trying to hide or be discreet. I’ve seen plenty of brides and their grooms out and about and I’ve looked in their direction. I try to stare only when they aren’t looking or I’m not in their view but that’s where it stops. I stare, I admire, I move on. I don’t whip my phone out and start snapping up shots of spiffy people I have never met. Hell, the amount of cool ass outfits I’ve seen people wear have tempted me greatly, but I don’t give in because it’s weird. I simply collect the image with my eyeballs and stow it away in my brain. Maybe I’ll be able to recall it again one day, maybe not, but it brought me joy for some time nonetheless without making anyone feel violated. I’m almost certain I did a whole log about this but I am going to reiterate anyway, strange looking people are not attractions. Unless we’re clearly performing on the street, we are not seeking attention. We are just living our lives in our silly little outfits. We aren’t asking for anything, just like pregnant people aren’t asking for everyone around to get all handsy with their midsection because it’s practically spherical. Or, or when folk be walking their dogs, like, that doesn’t give you sudden permission to just go up and act like you’re best friends with that dog. I don’t know if it’s a lack of patience or a sense of entitlement but humans aren’t humaning right in this department I feel. Just… be a normal person and ask. There’s such a simple pleasure in receiving a fortune cookie with your meal. Even though much of the time it’s an incredibly basic fortune or not even a fortune but a random quote, it’s still fun to crack open that little cookie and collect the paper inside.
Such was the mindset my friend had going into hers when we were sat at a table in a mall food court. She cracked open her cookie and the four of us leaned in, anticipating what might be written. It was instructions. It was instructions to go online to the fortune cookie’s website. My pink friend said she wouldn’t even bother, but the owner of the fortune cookie was in too deep, she had to see what was up. The site had the audacity to request her email before she went further, but she gave it nonetheless. There was a mystery to get to the bottom of. I believe she typed in a code that was on the “fortune” paper and that’s how she got her result. Sorry, better luck next time. I beg thine absolute most genuinely pure pardon? HUH? If I could skillfully type in a sputtering way, I would, but you’ll just have to imagine it. How’m’st is that all she gets? All of those extra steps and not a fortune whatsoever? Since when was that a thing? No quote? No list of lucky numbers? Just a “sorry, try again” message? IS THIS THE WORLD WE LIVE IN NOW? The third friend who was there hates apps, er, to be more specific, hates that everything has an app now. And I’m inclined to agree. This took that kind of nonsense to a whole nother level. Why, in the name of all that is unholy, do you need to go online to figure out what your fortune cookie wants to tell you? Is it solely just so that company can send you spam emails? Is that how desperate people are these days? Like, what are we doing? Upon reading that result, our gasters were flabbered. Our gobs were smacked. Our boozles were bammed. We truly are living in a dystopian hellscape if a girl can’t even get a fortune out of her fortune cookie. They printed out a slip of paper to plop inside and everything. Why could they not just type out a “you will see good things next week” message or something? It’s just so godsdamned insulting, utterly disrespectful. It’s hard enough to find joy these days and now fortune cookies have been ruined by corporate weirdness! This was not the blog I was going to write initially but this situation was just so absurd that I had to. What a bizarre timeline we’re in, eh lads? |
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