Looks: A deceiving truth

Everyone has a passion. Whether it is the faith you have in a protagonist on a TV show, or a passion for studying the come-about of grammar, you have a passion nonetheless. Lately I’ve developed a passion of creating scenarios for different people I encounter. These people can be a variety of characters: the lady at the grocery store that is ringing me up. The policeman at the scene of a major accident. The president of the United States. The 5 year-old boy on the playground, asking my brother what his name is. You get the idea.

 

Do you ever put yourself in other peoples’ shoes just to slightly imagine what their situations may be like? Do you ever wonder if the mentality you are upholding is right or wrong?

 

Maybe this is a side-effect of judgement on my part, but really, I don’t study people in a way that is derogatory or questionable. Rather, I read their body language to understand where they’re coming from. I noticed the whereabouts of my new passion as I was sitting in my phlebotomist’s office, waiting to get my blood drawn. One look at a person, and my mind goes haywire. For instance, the lady that was sitting across from me looked like a single mother; she had bags under her eyes, and was wearing old sweat pants.

 

Her children, a boy and a girl, were sitting beside her, quietly arguing. I wondered: why is she here? Is she a patient in the hospital? Are her kids sick? Is she the sick one? 

 

So, my over-worked mind started making up a scenario: Her name was Kelly; she was here because of her recent scare: her cholesterol was high. Her mother had just died six days before, which would explain the bags under her eyes. Her kids, Marty and Austin, were arguing over who would get to play video games when they would arrive back home. Kelly was a single mother, and had been since Austin’s birth. She was content, however. Her kids were her everything.

 

Upon my intricate thought process, I was interrupted by the calling of my name into the office. I never get scared of blood work. On the contrary, I had always sort of been accustomed to it. I like seeing the blood naturally flow out of my arm, and into the test tube. My passion for gore has always been a strange quality of mine. 

 

Three test tubes later, I thanked my phlebotomist (as if she had done me a favor), and headed out of the office. 

 

Almost out of reflex, my head turned toward the family of three, which had grown to five (while I was gone, I had guessed). Next to Kelly was an older woman, whom the kids had been calling grandma, and to the other side of her was a middle-aged man, whom I had guessed as her husband, by the intertwining of their fingers. 

 

I smiled and exited the office. Had my passion for creating people’s scenarios let me down? No. Kelly (who could have possibly been Anne, or Leona, or Emily, or even Dawn) had a happy family next to her. Looks are extremely deceiving, I have discovered in the past few weeks of studying people. The apple could have been a nectarine. The orange, just a larger tangerine, and so on. 

 

Don’t let someone’s looks be the catalyst of a bad opinion, but instead, take the time to become accustomed to what is inside. And if your passion lets you down once, don’t give it up, but rather uphold it until it proves you right.

Parallel Universe: A Story of two friends, and an opposite occurrence

How often do you wish you lived in a parallel universe? How often do you say to yourself “I wish I lived in a parallel universe; this would have never happened?”

I’ve been hearing this phrase quite often lately, and I’ve been putting some thought into the whole idea. In a parallel universe, would I be a rebellious, crazy, party-going teenager? Because, surely, that is most definitely how I am right now. And, in a parallel universe, would all the bad things that have happened to me turn into positive things? I’ve realized that people really don’t know what they are getting their minds into when they use such a phrase. But regardless of the situation, let’s pinpoint what my life would be like, had I suddenly turned into Parallel Universe Alex (I’m going to call myself Sandra in this instance; I love the name).

“UGH! I. HATE. SCHOOL,” I shouted at the top of my lungs, upon receiving my failing grade in English. What do I even need English for? I hate writing, and I already know how to speak the language. I had always been the loner; the outcast of the whole school. My hair was black, dark red lipstick, heavy bangs, but an exquisite sense of style consisting of black, black, and more black.

 “Sandra, what are you thinking about?” I hear Ariana ask me. The thing about her was that I liked her more than anyone else in school. She was a happy spirit, with a poetic twist. Although completely different from me, I actually enjoyed her presence.

 Ariana’s parents had spilt not too long ago, but she avoided the topic. She was into the anatomy of the human body, and weird things like English and Journalism. I had known her for two years; since high school started, but I felt like maybe I had known her for an entire lifetime.

 “I hate school, and I hate essays. What is the point of even writing them? Analyzing Shakespeare’s 144th sonnet will have nothing to do with what I want to do in my future. The fashion academy has nothing to do with Shakespeare’s 144th sonnet. I hate this class, and I hate school,” I said with an exasperated sigh, bracing myself for Ariana’s reply. Her answers were always creative, poetic soul-healing statements.

 “Hmm, his 144th?” Ariana thought for a second, “Oh! His 144th. Yes, the one about his dark lady. Two loves I have for comfort and despair. Goodness, Sandra, the man was a genius. Tell you what, you can come over after school and help you with whatever you need,” she gave me a quick smile, and headed toward her Journalism II class.

 I wished I could be more of a friend to Ariana, and help her with whatever she needed, just like she did when I needed someone. I wished I could tell her more than just my view on the world, and help her with whatever problems she had, but I simply could not. I had far too many occurrences with friends that stabbed me in the back, and I though to myself that in a parallel universe, I could be a fantastic friend.

 In a sense, I had an old friend like Sandra. And maybe in a parallel universe, this friend might’ve been kinder to me. Maybe in a parallel universe, my Sandra would have been more understanding and more helpful. But the thing about people like Sandra is that even though we believe that they are fantastic people, they’re not. People like Sandra will hurt you, and will just leave you hanging endlessly. Yes, in a parallel universe, Sandra and Ariana would have been the best of friends, but face reality: the universe we live in is full of deceiving people, whether you are in a relationship with them, or just friends.

Let go of your Sandra.

Something Every Parent Should Read

Freedom. The word consists of seven letters, which more times than not comes up in American conversations. Oh, the American Dream. Something that people in the 50’s desired and would walk the earth’s perimeter just for it. 

But, when freedom is brought up in teenage-related conversations, the expressions of individuals’ faces change from sweet to sour. Have teenagers really done that much as to creating a negative connotation for themselves? Have we really proved to our parents and families that excellence can only be achieved after puberty? First thing is first. Just like Miranda Priestly said in The Devil Wears Prada, “the blue in your sweater was picked out by some of the people in this room.” Andy adapted to fashion, and so should the so-called grown-ups around us all. The lack of freedom that was granted to teenagers around us caused the possibility of fashion. Yes, I said it. Fashion. F-A-S-H-I-O-N. Every single piece of thread in your clothes is made of teenage-inspired ideas which sparked in the 20’s (thank you, Great Depression, jazz music, and flappers), and carries on to today. You’re welcome.

Ridiculous, right? Because aren’t teens the ones that make a parent’s life a living hell? I mean, after all, in This is 40, the mom decided it was okay to call her puberty-enduring daughter a bitch. Poor daughter! Do you remember how bad puberty was? I do. I am still living with it. UGH. And then I started to wonder if our parents talk behind our backs as much as we talk behind theirs. Thus, revealing the point of today’s rant. Around me, my friends talk crap about their parents as if tomorrow didn’t exist. Which, I do too. I don’t know any better; I am only a teenager, right?

Wrong. As a parent, you should listen to your child’s needs, and not scare them away. Because, parents, in a point of weakness, us “teenagers” jump at the first chance we get to receive what we want. Hah! So, the connotation you’ve created for us is quite simple: a needy, unrealistic, pimple-faced, baby fat-infused, awkward, unsociable, sad, always tired, always sleeping, weirdly tall, always texting, uninteresting child who will do nothing but ask for money and things we never put to good use. Congratulations, parents, the message was received and put to exquisite use by us 12-17 year-old kids. And boy, oh boy, are we using it quite well, if I do say so myself.

Don’t fret, though, like all problems, a series of solutions could be presented. One (1). Do not tell us to come “hang out” with you when you are going to disregard us or talk about us in a negative way (this contracts the “always texting” characteristic. By the way, after technology’s winsome advancements, we could be possibly tweeting, instagramming, vining, emailing, FaceTiming, horoscoping, tumbling, snapchatting, facebooking, or, in the rarest times, we could in fact be texting. In which case would make your accusation 10% accurate). Two (2). No, we do not always sleep. This would obviously contract the “always sleeping” characteristic. Let me let you in on a little secret: sometimes, we’re really on our phones, except, we slip it under our pillows and pretend we’re sleeping when we hear you approaching our rooms. Why? Well, I really don’t know, but ask your kid if that has ever happened. If they say no, they’re lying. Three (3). When we tell you about something we would like to accomplish in the near future, don’t laugh at us. Sparking the “unrealistic” characteristic, this is just our imagination speaking. And, I am more than sure that your bill-paying, grey, lifeless, seriously un-charming, dull, uneventful, imagination could use a little pop of pink and purple here and there.

Need I continue? I guess all I am trying to say is that when you, a parent, go out with us, a teenager, you should stick up for us instead of thinking we will refuse to talk to you. I mean, to defend the rest of the teenage world out there, nine times out of ten, we may not talk to you, but it is that one time that you should hold on to. And maybe a stupid little blog post isn’t going to change the sweet-to-sour expressions teens get from the grown-up world, but think of it this way: In a few years, us teenagers will be out of the house and passing over to the bill-paying, grey, lifeless, seriously un-charming, dull, uneventful “grown-up” world. 

So, just as we appreciate (perhaps deep, deep, deep, deep down inside) what you do for us, show appreciation for our needy, unrealistic, pimple-faced, baby fat-infused, awkward, unsociable, sad, always tired, always sleeping, weirdly tall, always texting, uninteresting existence while you still can. 

And always remember that no matter how much crap we talk about you, and no matter how many times we have rolled our eyes at your “make sure you clean the house” requests, we still love you so, very much.