I love reading but sometimes, my budget just doesn’t cut it. I mean, I only have to step inside a bookstore and I’ll come out of it wanting to buy 75939076 books. But one look at my wallet and I can only bite my knuckles to stop myself from sobbing out loud. All those books that I wanted right then and there but can’t have! I once bought about five books in one go and I had to reduce myself to having crackers and water for lunch.
I’m kidding about the crackers and water part, but not not the one about wanting to buy 75939076 books all at once. Which makes me wonder: Even though I can book shop ’til I drop, there are still books in my collection that I tend to go back to time and again. It’s not so different from going back to that one guy who you know is bad for you but you’re stupid and emotional and did I say stupid? So you keep coming back. Except that with books, it’s healthier. I mean, sure the ending of “Allegiant” doesn’t change and it still tears me up inside each time I read it, but re-reading it doesn’t make you stupid. Just emotional. And scarred for life.
MASCOT – (noun) a person, animal, or object used as a symbol to represent a group (such as a sports team) and to bring good luck
The other Thursday and Friday were days that consisted of many emotions and occurrences. How odd is it that at one day, my dad was buried and then the next, I was getting hit on? By a mascot. I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in. Got hit on. By a mascot.
I had been laughing about that mascot bit then, and I am laughing about it now. There I was, sitting on one end of the resto bar’s table when the mascot appeared and started dancing. We all laughed, me and my family. Suddenly, the mascot grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. He gestured for me to dance with him. I was emotionally exhausted from what just happened that same week, but I could still appreciate how funny that moment was. The other waitresses and waiters were cheering us on. Even my family joined in on it. The mascot was still burning up the floor with his (admittedly good) dance moves. Heads from the other tables turned to look at us, I kid you not. I was laughing, the mascot still clutching my hand. In my head, I was thinking, “Gawd, why do things like this keep happening to me?” I always try to stick to the sidelines, practically kissing the figurative wall so that no one will take notice of me. But then something like that scene happens. It was funny, though. Laughing, I told the mascot that no, I am not going to dance. To which he responded by twerking. To which I responded by laughing even harder. A twerking mascot. Now that’s something you don’t see everyday. I finally sat down after that. I gobbled some of the food laid out on our table. Only to have the mascot back at our table again. And again. And again. I lost count of how many times he grabbed and held my hand as he danced. But I was impressed: He was never with the same dance move each time he stopped by. (My sister showed me a video of one of those moments. Let’s just say there is no way I am posting it in social media.)
In between reading about writing, writing about the supernatural and playing “Dragon Age 2” for the third time (because I kept dying on my previous attempts, if you care enough to know), sometimes I pause long enough to entertain questions and issues that are pooling inside my head. And those thoughts are not something so mundane that it only warrants a yes, no, maybe, and the hell I care in order for me to stop thinking about them. They are more like those people who show up on your front door without warning. People you don’t even like. You’d rather spend an eternity chopping onions and crying rather than spend more than five minutes with them. Because beyond those five minutes? Well, who’s to say what you’re NOT going to say or do to them?
Mortality, fate, the fear of a loved one dying, losing your job, getting into an accident, the ongoing wars, the things they do to their hostages, the recent Fallen 44… The list goes on and on. And the longer I think about these things, the more I feel like throwing up. Continue reading “A Piñata Story, Sort Of”