Recently, I decided to get contacts. It was a simple decision. One a person would make whilst sitting at breakfast with a bowl of cereal and then, as the milk is being poured in, gets a splotch of the substance stained on his/her glasses. “Goddamnit!” this unnamed person exclaims, and quickly schedules an appointment with the eye doctor to alleviate the issue.
I hate glasses, but I think– no, actually, I’m damn positive that I hate contacts more. Immediately after asking my doctor to test them out, I regretted the decision. She somehow managed to get them in my eyes, despite all of my body’s attempts to thwart her efforts and then her nurse had to help me take them out. There, in a tiny, fluorescent office, this poor nurse had to spend a good chunk of her time helping an unbelievably incompetent girl try to pluck a piece of plastic out of one of the most sensitive regions of her body. Then the other eye. Then yet again to the arduous task of putting them back in.
At this point, I was so freaked out I wanted to ask her if she could help me take them out again, and that I would try this again in a couple of years or decades (give or take) from now, but I thought about how relieved she must have been that this whole process was over, and decided to remain silent. I collected my papers, left, and took them out the second I got home because I was afraid I would forget how to do it later and that those little pieces of plastic would morph into tiny transformer bots and go to war with my pupils.
Today, I tried putting them in again and gave up. Yeah, I just said, “Fuck this,” and watched several clips of Conan O’Brien’s Clueless Gamer segment on YouTube.
This entire experience left me to ponder about the state of how things are in the life of Lisa Flickamicktapelous (that is either a pseudonym or my real name; you decide). After not very much thought at all (I have the attention span of– oooh! A fly!) I decided I could describe it in one word: meh.
Actually, that’s not even a word. It’s an apathetic expression bored dads give when they’re forced to shop with their wives. My life can be summed up in a monosyllabic blurb!
Yes, everything about me is so stale you can’t even cut it up into little cubes and make croutons anymore. The only thing to do now is to throw it out with the expired pop-tarts and moldy cheese. Meh.
And I don’t mean to complain. Nothing is really that bad about my current circumstances. In fact, I’d say it’s probably a lot better than 60% of the world. It may be “meh” but at least it’s not “Holy shit, Abdul! We have to pack up and run again because the terrorists have moved into the city!” or “This piece of bread should last me and my family of 10 a week…” or “I’m running against Hillary Clinton in the Democratic primaries.”
I understand that, but even so I feel that as an adolescent girl living in a first world country, with access to the internet and social media, and lucky enough to have too much time on her hands, it is my obligation to tell the world (or the 0 people who read this blog) how tough I have it still.
Sure, I may not be stuck out in a desert refugee camp wondering where my parents are, but I’m stuck in a cramped, little house in the middle of nowhere for the whole summer with two loving albeit very annoying parents. In many ways, the two are quite similar.
Not wanting to have a completely nothing-filled summer for yet another year, I started job-searching. By that, I mean I started sorta, kinda thinking about getting jobs and imagined how great it would be to work somewhere like Forever 21, telling young, impressionable girls they look “Great in that crop top!” but really thinking they look disgusting.
I saw some signs for available jobs at a local gas station fairly close to me. After putting it off for a few days, I looked up the application and started to begin a new era of adulthood. On the front page was a little notice stating that it would take 30 minutes to do and include a math section.
Excuse me? Sorry, unnamed chain gas station, who do you think you are? I’m sorry, but I can’t see how I would need to be a pro at numbers to sell someone a couple gallons of gas and a box of condoms.
After that, I, once again, said, “Fuck this,” and made myself a nutella sandwich in frustration. And as much as I would like to aim all of that frustration toward unnamed chain gas station, I knew that a majority of it should be aimed at yours truly.
I say that too much. “Fuck this.” Not always so literally and very rarely out loud in public, but I do have that defeatist “Fuck this” attitude. This, I figured, is the reason for the meh-ness.
I’ve “fucked this” so many things that everything cool and awesome that could have happened to me, or that could of happened to me because of that thing, has already been fucked. Again, not literally of course. My life isn’t that exciting, remember?
My point can best be illustrated by a short-ish list of things that I have failed at and currently cannot do:
Put in contacts (as of recently and probably for forever)
Ride a bicycle
Make a messy bun
Finish everything on a to-do list making the entire point of making one pointless (I do it anyway)
Stick to a good exercise schedule
Make any dent upon the dating world
Defeat the terrorists
Some of you non-existent readers (at this point, I hope all my readers are not existent, as this blog has just been a shining example of my pathetic-ness) might look at this list and be shocked. “How,” you may ask, “Has she not learned how to fight ISIS already? She’s almost 20!”
There are many reasons for this, not all of which were entirely in my control while some definitely were. For example, while I never got a bicycle to practice with, according to my mother, I never showed a lot of interest in my four-wheeled, scooter/bike-like thing either (not sure exactly what it was, but it had Tweety Bird on it). Disregarding all the social pressures and set childhood milestones of American society, she decided that this child was useless and that any attempt at teaching such an incompetent human would be futile. So I guess my mother gave me my first “Fuck this.”
But it’s not just things I haven’t learned to do, it’s also things I’ve began and haven’t finished.
A look at my computer documents paints this pretty picture clearly. Since I like to write, and have had aspirations of becoming a writer ever since I was in 1st grade, I have so many unfinished story drafts on so many different hard drives you would think I was insanely prolific– until you open up one of those documents and see that only a paragraph has been written, and it sucks.
So to writing, I “Fuck this” a lot. I had an idea for a story once, but the moment I opened Word, I had no idea how to begin it. After minutes of staring at an empty screen and typing, and immediately deleting, some cringe-worthy sentences, I literally typed “Fuck this,” onto the page and exited out. I entitled the document “FUCK THIS.” Yes, I saved it.
This leaves me to wonder how different everything would be if I didn’t give up so often, if I didn’t shy recede into the safety of my bed and comforts of YouTube videos to avoid facing the difficulties of life. Maybe, I think to myself, if I stopped fucking this and that, I could actually change my entire life for the better. I could be an organized, fit, romantically capable cyclist and swimmer who eases tensions in the Middle East in my free time and has the sassiest messy bun of all the basic bitches in the nation.All while not having to wear stupid glasses!! If only I could take the first step to do something and possibly create a new and improved Lisa Flickamicktapelous…
Your beloved blogger,