If I were a superhero, my power would the be ability to make anyone, anywhere, feel awkward about
anything. I mean, I'm incredibly good at it. With just a few choice words flung from my lips, I can make a situation turn frosty, full of sideways
didshereallyjustsaythat glances and false laughing at my
incredible wit. I'll think something in response to someone's question or comment, and I'll blurt it out, often without giving it time to solidify into actual proper English. Instead, it emerges at speeds of up to over 90000 mph as mangled gibberish it'd take a speech pathologist twenty minutes to figure it out. Then, to make things worse, I'll try to explain what I meant. This usually goes one of two ways: either they somehow understood what I said, and my attempted explanation is met with more blank stares, or I end up totally ruining the whole situation by confusing everyone more. Then I usually quiet down, and feel ashamed of myself for thinking I could engage in witty banter with these
demigods normal human beings, who seems to have no problem at all making themselves understood, and usually getting roaring laughter in response to their observations. Of course, I'm not talking about everyone. Some people just aren't as funny as others. But these verbal slip-ups seem to occur when I'm most self-conscious about what I'm saying, because I want them to think I'm funny and therefore attractive. Not attractive in the "let's find a dark corner to make out in" but "Hey, you're a cool person and I like you" way.
Anyway...now that I'm done
whining contemplating my existence, I'll tell you darlings what brought about this bout of angst. I was in the gym today during 4th period instead of sociology, because we juniors got a reward "day" (even though it was 1 1/2 hours) for doing well on the state tests last week. A large group of kids who I'm kind-of friends with most of the people in (wow, that was confusing. Ok, to clarify, there was a large group of kids. I'm kind-of friends with most of them and good friends with one or two. moving on) were playing 4-square. Now, I'm not very athletic (obviously), but I love 4-square. When I'm not playing with uber-competitive track team/volleyball/cross country/swim team stars who unmercifully slay me with their mad skills on the court, that is. My love for the game came about the summer after 7th grade, when I first went to TIP. During breaks, my class would venture outside. Heather, our TA, came up with the idea of playing 4-square on the brick paths instead of languishing in the hot North Carolina sun, or risking injury by crossing the paths of Ultimate Frisbee players to get to the denser shade. Anyway, flashback over. I had awkwardly (!) joined the group of people, since nobody specifically said "Hey Katherine! Get your awkward butt over here and play some 4-square!" I just kind of sidled on over because I had abandoned my previous group because I didn't want to listen to them debate the pros and cons of the stoner kid who sits next to me in class, because a member of said group
laaaaiked him. At least, that was my impression. Anyway, so we go a few rounds of the game, I get out without touching the ball, and a kid who will remain unnamed came up to me and talked to me, asking about my grades. When I answered him (saying that they were abysmal, 'cause they are) I used the same swearword he'd apparently used the sentence before, and he said I wasn't allowed to use his own swears against him! So I said something stupid and used the previously described word-vomit all over this kid and the conversation just died after that. So here I am, sitting and thinking about it 7 hours later.
When I do this (and it's often, believe me) I just console myself with thinking about how in 10 years, I could be living by myself on a ranch in either Montana, Utah, Wyoming, or Arizona. Somewhere out West where there's not a lot of people. And I mean by myself: no bratty kids, no obnoxious husband, no irritating neighbors. Maybe with a couple of dogs and horses. And sheep. And goats. And chickens. I like farm animals, can you tell? I guess living in semi-rural Kentucky has finally brainwashed me, and lately I've had the urge to don cowboy boots and unflattering flannel shirts. I think it would be cool to be an earthy lady--not like crazy environmentalist, but don't-have-to-go-to-the-grocery-store-for-everything lady. You know? I could illustrate as my main gig and just send my prints to my editor or whoever in their office in the city, and enjoy a peaceful life out West with my animals.
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