[Something Cliche About Life]

Yo! I'm graduated or something like that. Or I graduated. Some people make "graduate" passive but, from an not-very-extensive google search, the passive form is incorrect and an "abomination," according to some guy on the interwebs. So you know it's legit. I don't like speaking in the passive. I think it sound weak. Unless you're using it for an intentional creative purpose, which I'm not. I could though. As if I were implying that I was forced to graduate by some strong-armed academic suit who refused to let me be a student forever, just for funsies. But I'm not. So, I graduated. In light of that startling fact, I drew something. I used crayons. Well, I used one Crayola crayon. I felt, given the subject matter, that using a child's writing/drawing utensil was fitting. 


Part 1:

 Part 2:

Like. A. Boss. I'm totally breaking out my Indiana Jones Legos and having an all-out war against those damn Nazis (and those damn snakes!). 


Also, on a totally unrelated note, I got cat-called while walking to my apartment. By walking to my apartment, I mean, walking from my car to my front door. You'd think that there wouldn't be enough time or distance to get cat-called 20 yards from your door but you'd be wrong. So, Mr. Landscaper, the rolling of your R's might be real fine but that doesn't me I will be ti amor. Neither will I be your mamacita. 


Question: can one ever have too much "Say Yes to the Dress"? Answer: yes. Ladies trying on wedding dresses and crying because, omgwtfbbq, they totally look just like a princess. Weep. You know what you can never have too much of? "Swamp People" Yes, "Swamp People" is a show about the very underrated world of alligator hunting. For 44 minutes, we get to be part of the action, watching almost unintelligible Southern gents (everyone gets subtitles on this show) shoot gators in the head and lug their big, fat, raccoon-filled carcasses onto too-small boats and then sell the dead and sometimes leaking beasts. So the answer is, I'd rather watch some dudes in the bayou shoot gators than pretty ladies with too much make-up try on satin dresses. (I know you guys totally wanted to know that. You were waited with baited breath, thinking, 'What does Alicia like to watch more, "Say Yes"  or "Swamp People?"' So, dear readers, now you know.)  

Brass Knuckles, or "My son's beard is super sexy."

Starting stories is always the hardest part. So, I’m going to just skip ahead a bit. Screw beginnings. They’re overrated.

So this one time (I should preface this by saying that I was home-schooled during high school and had little contact with normal kids my age), I was at this lady’s house. She taught a writing class in her home and I was a student but also helped out with a class of younger kids as well. This lady, and her three strange kids, was weird. Like, seriously. While I was waiting on my mom to pick me up, Mrs. [redacted] were making small talk. Like you do when you’re waiting in someone’s weird house for your mom, who lives, like right down the road. I mean, come on, mom. Hustle. Mrs. [redacted] tells me that her son, David, who is two years older than me (making him 18), has grown a beard. “It’s really sexy,” she said, looking intently at my face while I strained to keep my lip from curling up. This kid was weird. More than his mom or his creepy sisters. Like, psycho weird. At 16, I was interested in, well that’s not important. What is important, telling a young girl that you think your son is sexy and that his new beard is sexy is weird and not ok. “You’re so alike. You and David,” she said. Then I realized, “Aw, crap. She’s trying to set me up with her creeper kid! Damn it!” “It’d be so nice. Well, I’d really like it,” she stammered, “if David brought home a girl like you.” Ummm, no. Just no. Feeling my pulse quicken and a terrible embarrassing heat rise in my chest, my mind began to race. How do I get out of this? What kind of excuse do I give? He’s too pale. He’s weird and wears too much black. He’ll kill me in my sleep. No thanks, Mrs. [redacted], I’d like to live to see 25. “He isn’t home though, right? I mean, I didn’t see his Trans Am,” I asked, trying to reassure myself that I would not be kidnapped by these people and used as a breeder. “No,” she laughed, “but he’ll be home soon. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” Great. . .

My mom finally arrived but so did David. And while Mrs. [redacted] was talking to my mom about god-only-knows, she suggested David show me what his father had just bought him at the police auction. Oh yeah, his dad was a cop, who admitted in a rather cavalier manner that planting evidence was cool as long as the perp was guilty. Which they totally were. *wink* David sidles up next to me and in an extra deep voice typical of teenaged boys who feel the desperate need to prove to the world that yes, their balls have dropped, says, “Come on.” He’s totally not into what’s happening. Does he know his mom is fantasizing about what kind of Aryan children we’ll have with her matching blue eyes, blonde hair and pasty skin? We walk down a dark hallway. Modular homes always have poor lighting, partially due to the craptastic paneling. He opens the door to a room full of weapons. He’s got friggin ninja swords, Viking swords. He had (I’m totally not kidding) a mace on his wall. Awesome. . .  Before I can absorb his stunning arsenal, he swipes something out of his weapons case where the smaller knives, nun chucks and other miscellany is kept. “This is what my dad got for me. It was a present,” he says this as he cocks his fist back in, aimed at my face. Brass knuckles. But not just any brass knuckles. Oh no. I was face to face with a pale, clenched fist bearing a set of brass knuckles emblazoned with swastikas. “Um, those are really. . . something” I said, groping for something to say other than the obvious “Are you a Nazi?” “You wanna try ‘em on?” he said as he took them off and held them in his fleshy palm. “No, I don’t. I don’t think they’ll fit. I have, um, small fingers” and I really don’t want to touch anything that belonged to a skin-head freak, which obviously, those did.

We stood there for a bit. He showed me some more weapons. Then he asked if I wanted to borrow the CD of a Tolien tribute metal band. They wrote songs in Tolkien’s Elvish. Neat-o.

As my mom and I walked to our car, me clutching a CD in my sweaty hand, my mom with her eyebrow cocked said, “What was that about?” “Um, wanna listen to some music.”  

Also, I will be drawing more pictures. I have ideas. Big ideas. But I've been dead for a while. I may or may not be a zombie or a vampire right now. Zombies are out, I think. So, I'm going with vampire (god, I have got to stop watching True Blood).