Schmreedom Isn't Schmree

  I don't like Independence Day. Never have. I'm not patriotic. America is the greatest country in the world, and I'm lucky to have been born here, but I'm not patriotic. The government can't send me to hell for not flamboyantly celebrating (in my opinion, of course).

  It's not about America anyway, it's tradition. Traditionally, every Independence Day that I've taken any part in, in any way, has sucked. I've had some fun 4th of Julys, the years that I stayed home, oblivious to the festivities. I prefer all of the other holidays. It goes back as far as I can remember. In the beginning, I wasn't independent enough to be left unsupervised, and so a rebel was born. It's not the nation's fault, it's the series of other than fun events that have occurred on this particular day, and most of those events aren't even festively relevant, aside from firecracker wars. Sure, I don't like the sun, and get bored easily, and I confuse impatience with anxiety, and staring at shiny colors in the sky for an hour strait is wicked amazing, but that's not the half of it. It's the average everyday aggravations that for no clear reason insist themselves upon this day of all days, if I choose to celebrate. I'm usually able to avoid all obstacles, so I'm sure you understand why this is upsetting for me. 

  I'm bad at frisby. I don't feel left out, that's not my thing. Even more so, I don't want anyone feeling that I feel left out. If I want to do something, I will. If anything, I feel rude for choosing to do my own thing over socializing. I don't like barbecues, but I kindly will eat your leftovers. 

  I like s'mores. There were s'mores for Halloween, it's a fine time of year. I was a bird. 

  I started this life with a fresh slate, embracing possibilities with open arms, and grasping at each day with a child's hands, but the thorns of my county's birth dug deep. This insufferable day has tainted me with scars and it's poison, and alone is the root of my every mental and emotional infliction. 

  I need to surrender myself to it completely, and accept America into my heart, but if that were true, it would also mean that country music should hone some sort of value. The theory contradicts itself. I'll think on it a spell. 

  What can I do for my country? Stay out of it's special day, and let it play as  it will. Maybe paint a picture of my pinkish hand shaking a red white and blue hand. I'm not going to buy it anything. 

  The pledge of allegiance gives me the heebie jeebies, but I was forced to chant it anyway, because I'm not religious. I did it standing up though, this is America, damn it. I'm not bothered by the "under god" part. I respect and appreciate historical preservation. If I ever write anything of significance, I can only hope that future people won't remove my beliefs from it. What creeps me out is pledging allegiance to a flag. Really? A flag? Why, that's so crazy, it just might work. 

  I have nothing to say about the confederate flag, because I didn't read the facts, and my vote doesn't count. 

  My father is an immigrant. So, I'm one hundred percent sure that I can be no more than fifty percent responsible for slavery. It's a good feeling. It'd be better if I held zero guilt, but what are you gonna do? 

  Thus far, it's been a lovely summer. I'm not going to let anything ruin it, especially freedom. Freedom's just another word for having laws in place that prevent you from being murdered. I'll sit tight until everything dies down. It's not my war, I just live here, in my home sweet home. 

  I can't make it to the party, but I hope you have a rip-roaring day! Best wishes, USA. Let your freak flag fly. Or not. I don't care. Go get 'em, cowboy. This blog's for you. 

The Clam Scam

  If I concentrate hard enough, dig extra deep, hypnotize myself, and retrieve lost memories that may or may not have happened, I'm sure I could find lots of reasons for why I'm such a jerk. Anyone could, but some people take a higher road, and chose to use their experiences in life to water their harvests of kindness. I'm a good person, I am, but I'm no river of kisses.

  The media urges that I be myself, but the media hates jerks more than anyone. That phrase has caused me more confusion than guidance. Like most developing minds, I used to over think problems. "Be yourself", "be yourself", was everywhere, all the time. If everyone in the world needed to be constantly advised of this, then logically, being someone else was a threat worth precaution. Having seen many other humans, and not noticing that they were not themselves, gave me the idea that one's self is a thing not of looks or personality. It must be more internal, like the soul. So, my true self is probably my soul, which is my awareness of myself, and my feelings. Being in the process of defining myself, leaves the awareness of myself part undefined, which left me nothing to define myself by but my hormones. So then I thought and thought about my feelings, and strained my youthful little brain, but there was no identity to be found. Either I was too stupid to find myself, or there was nobody solid to find, or being someone else was not a plague, but has merely been glamorized because it happened to a celebrity that one time. I never figured it out, but eventually found comfort in the decision to only be myself for attention. 

  I'm not trying to defend my benevolent honor, I'm just trying to fill out this blog. There's nothing to defend, I haven't done anything that I care about. To quote a song that I wrote, but never produced, "I'm not a runner. I'm not a driver. When I get high, I walk away." There's other lyrics that are easy to guess, but the moral is whatever. I have no agenda, I've got nowhere to be. I like positivity, it's good, I like good things. I'm no more negative than I am everything else, but in this new world where negativity is dropping our children like flies, it stands out. It labels me. Oh no!! 

  Sarcasm numbs the pain. The last time I kept it real, someone laughed at me. I'm sensitive. So sensitive, that I've had to restrict myself from indulging in the stronger stuff. My system can't handle it. I'm cut off. I used to cut myself, until I was teased for it. Never again. 

  I try not to personalize too much. It's empowering to suspect that everything has me in mind, but I've been down the paranoia slide before, and it gets scary fast. My sensitivity isn't what makes me a jerk, it's yours. This is about you now. You'll read anything. I'm sorry. 

  The last thing I want to do is hurt you. I don't know you, but you're alright by me. If I ignored you it was only because I was busy with every other stranger on the internet. Internetting is hard. 

  I hope you enjoyed visiting my blog, and thank you for hanging in there so far. I enjoyed writing it. If you were misled to believe that your kindness would be returned in the form of views to your own pieces of work, my apologies, fellow blogger. Favors that expect favors in reward are no favors at all. My honesty will save you from wasting further effort, but alas, again, I'm a jerk. I'm writing, not reading. I know that means a lot less likes, but they'll be earned, not bartered. I post with dreams of views, not devious schemes of pleasantry. 

  A famous actor once said, "Shit on my dick, or piss on my balls." It's the worst thing that I've ever heard in my entire life. Why it stuck with me wasn't the words, but how he just came out and said them. Save yourself from embarrassment, and risk that you die unsatisfied. Never be afraid to be yourself. Those who don't love you don't matter. 

  I'm the kind of girl who posts a blog, and then accuses you of being selfish for clicking onto it. Confusing right? Have some sympathy. I've been spiritually lost since the moment I discovered it as an option. I'm pouring out my heart and soul because I don't understand their value. I think it's funny. The consequences will be startling. 

  If I could be anyone on Earth, it'd be whoever's happiest. I wonder who they're being. Probably a clam. There's surgeries to make you beautiful on the inside, and I assume they're clam related, for females at least. It's a trending controversy. If you're not going to share this blog, consider spreading your clam awareness. It's the right thing to do for clams. Just take a few minutes out of every day, it could really make a difference. I can't because I'm a jerk. The clams are in your hands... 

  

http://princessgarbageface.blogspot.com/2016/03/emily-everychild-precautionary-tale.html

Not Too Shabby. I Hate It When It's Too Shabby.

  My birthday snuck up on me, that sneaky sneak. Last year, I turned thirty, and it was a milestone. A milestone that was a diversion, a diversion that made me feel like somebody. I had the same feeling when I turned eight. Well aged beyond my imagination. I'm like the oldest person ever. How could I possibly have come this far? I'm not surprised that I survived, but relived that I could harness such patience. The patience to wait through infinite moments that must pass to travel through time. Not that I don't enjoy time, and I'm certainly in no hurry to have it all pass away, but it demands constant attention. I know what time it is now, and about what time I'll do the next thing I need to do, how much time is in between the two, and how much time until another thing, and the best times to do things tomorrow. It's been a struggle since the beginning. A disease like gambling. It's important to keep a positive attitude. The future is now. I'm proud of myself. 

  Above all else, it's my special day. I want to wake up early to make the day longer, but I also want to stay in bed because I know that there's no rush. I usually don't do either. My special day makes me special. People ask what I have planned, and afterward, they ask about what I did. I plan on being special. I have it all worked out. 

  I stopped being stupid around the age of twenty-eight or nine. I could literally feel personality flaws leaving my body, being replaced by fresh new things to be used until new standards are raised. In enough time I'll be stupid again. Serves me right. I judge others for what they say and do, and that's wrong. It's also wrong to judge others for what they've said and done. Good people don't form opinions, and that's how they should be judged, long as they like and share. I haven't evolved enough to understand why it's a big deal, but until I have an army, I wouldn't worry much about me. 

  Me!! Mature and such. I got my first period exactly one week before my tenth birthday. It was a magical time because it meant that I was finally allowed to shave the braids from my armpits. I've been mature for quite a while. Menstruating and shaving do me justice, but real women go through the change. I consider myself a matured girl, or young woman, but never a grown ass woman. People say miss, not ma'am. But, I'll always be so many years old, not young. I don't age in reverse, don't patronize me, sonny. 

  If I live enough years, I'll be cute as a baby again. I'll say the darnedest things, and everyone will laugh because I'm dying soon. Every day will my special day. I just need to be patient. 

  Birthdays sure are something though. Measure your life, hurray! I should've accomplished more, but my parents never hit me. There was a sixth grade Social Studies teacher who wanted me to believe otherwise, but it's hard to take someone seriously when they're flirting with your friends. It's nice to reminisce, and reflect, and be thankful for right choices. I could have worse regrets. I've seen crappier people. I'm not single, and I eat my vegetables.. Not too shabby for thirty-one. 

  Thursday I'll be somebody, and Friday it won't matter. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, but live it as if it's your last. Take comfort in those close to you, unless you keep your enemies closer, I'll refer you to my food taster. Stay thirty, my friends, it's all downhill from here. 

  Oh, and if you have a birthday too, high five!