Nnekay.com

Hi Everybody-

Apparently, my blog has been a  movin’ and a shakn’ , because I’ve been getting some “stranger comments” (you know, comments from strangers- duh). This baffles me, because while I’ve managed to advertise (in a very minimal and lazy way), I still figure my blog is a dime a dozen and I can’t really see the appeal in reading a stranger’s rants about weird things like coffee and leaf blowers. It is an ultimate dream of mine to become a writer, and these comments are an itty bitty light on what happens when people you don’t know start to read your stuff, especially non-fiction autobiographical stuff.  These stranger comments, not only make me feel pretty damn special, but also manage to make me feel pretty damn shitty as well.

“You sound like a very rude person to be in a Public Service position.  The aim of the library is to be inclusive of all classes of society  .  If you have issues with certain segments of society, you definitely should not be in public service.  There are many more librarians to take your place who can help all patrons without such vitriolic judgement.”

Vitriolic is a very good word.

Never thought it would ever be applied to me, but you know, I was judgemental in my last post. I’m not going to deny that.

After first reading that comment, I became deeply embarrassed. I did not want to seem like an elitist snob. I wanted to say that I was a nice person, who treats people with respect, and never has had any problems with certain segments of society. Yet, somehow backpedaling like that seemed almost as bad as a saying how much you love your one black friend after being called out as a racist. The thought of erasing the whole damn blog crossed my mind, but I didn’t want to shy away from the situation, at the time I was sick of being treated like shit (which happens a lot as a Public Servant), and wanted a way to expel the anger without applying it to the patrons. I said these things and I was going to stick to it, prompting a, ”Fuck you. It’s my Blog,” type of response, but just as I’m entitled to my opinion, so is the rest of the world, which is why librarians fight so strongly for freedom of speech. So I decided to keep both the post and the comment- and yes, as a proper librarian- I invite discussion, because without discussion nothing gets solved. In fact, I made a promise to myself to keep all comments (except for spam or the grossly offensive), opinions are valuable to me, as long as you allow me to express mine, yours will always be welcome.

I hope one day, I will become a well received writer of some sort, and I have to realize not everyone is going to give me praises, in fact, I’ll probably wish for the simpler days of being called “rude” or “judgemental”. Just by having this dime a dozen blog I’m putting myself directly in the line of fire for personal attacks. Some of which will allow for inward reflection, while others I’ll just dismiss as Crazy Talk. It’s kinda of funny that I’ve devoted this blog to a comment posted by someone who probably only read that one post and will probably never read anymore, but I do thank who ever you are, you’re making my skin that much thicker, and getting me ready for that upward battle towards becoming a published writer.

A fifteen minute segment of my day:

I’m at the Reference Desk in the Magazine and Newspaper room.

Woman rolls ups to the desk- she’s wearing a saggy tank top that showcases her teddy bear prison tattoo… how do I know that it’s a prison tattoo? Well, it’s splotchy, the only kind of splotchy you can reason by saying, “I paid for this with 5 cigarettes”.  She’s equipped with a  ponytail schlacked to the side of her head and trailed by a sloppy teenager holding a sloppy baby. She’s being cryptic about what she wants to look up on the microfilm machine, but she has a specific date. This could only mean one thing: obituary. While I’m showing her how to manipulate this ancient machine, she’s “yes-ing” and “uh-huh-ing” me along, like she’s a pro or something. I don’t care, because I know for a fact she has no clue how to work it. I make sure she knows all the basics including how much it cost for prints: 15 cents.

Meanwhile, sloppy baby runs away and sloppy teenage says, “get your goddamn ass back here… shit…” but manages not to move from her seat.

I figure my job is done and waltz back to reference desk. The minute I sit down, this dude cruises by the desk starring at me with such intensity- I feel like he’s not only undressing me, but probably dissecting me with his bloodshot eyes. I shake off the gross ju-ju and shuffle some papers on the desk. Sloppy baby runs by, sloppy teenager casually saunters after it. Sloppy teenager gives me a look to communicate that all knowing, “kids… whatcha gonna do with ‘em,” face, but all I can think about is how this all knowing teenager was probably born in the late ’90s. Teen picks up the baby, and Pervy McBlooshot comes back requesting headphones for the computer. He’s not friendly.

No smile.

In fact, there isn’t much life in his eyes, and this creeps me out. I hand him the headphones, and he deadpans,

” You know girl, I wanna get to know you… take my card,” then hands me a po-dunk business card. Apparently, he’s a ”house specialist” or whatever. I don’t smile to match his weird deadpan, but I take the card to get him out of my face. He continues, “You know girl, I gave you my card before…” I know this… but I don’t say anything, “you never called, but I would still like to get to know you. So, I’m gonna hope you call me this time.”

“ok.”

“Can I be sure you’re gonna call me.”

“no…”

“Well can I get your number so I can call you.”

“no…”

“Well are you gonna call me.”

“I dunno, we’ll see.” Obviously the answer is no, but I don’t feel like going on and on in this perpetual loop of insanity. He sucks his teeth, then continues back to the computer lab. This exchange pisses me off. First of all, you shouldn’t be allowed to hit on me while I’m at work, unless of course you’re highly attractive and sane, but this combination is a rare bird in the magazine and newspaper department of an urban public library. Secondly, if you already gave me your card and I didn’t call you, why the hell are you trying again?! Do you think you’re that hot that you can force/pity me into calling you? Nope. Third and final flaw in the situation… if you gave me your card twice and I’m still hesitant to calling you… seriously, you think I’m going to give you my number? Plus- would it hurt to crack a smile?

Immediately after Pervy McBloodshot left, the lady at the microfilm machine shows up with two prints of… yup… death notices. She then says, and I quote, “I didn’t know that these copies cost 15 cents… what the hell am I supposed to do?!” This statement is so incredibly insane, I swear I might punch a wall.

1. I told her the prints cost 15 cents

2. Within her statement she has told me how much the copies cost

3. This is the worst ploy I’ve ever witnessed for trying to wiggle out of not paying for copies.

For fear of causing a brain meltdown… I decide to let the 30 cents slide.

Thus concludes a 15 minute segment of my day.

Yesterday, I was walking with a friend of mine. During our stroll we started to casually discuss the weird quirky changes ones goes through as they become apart of the adult world. One of the things we settled on was the Coffee Rite of Passage. There are several stages of coffee consumption a lot of people go through, but none are as significant. As a teenager you might have spent a good portion of your time hanging out in coffeeshops- but that’s because you’re too young to hang out in bars… in the afternoon and evening coffeeshops turn into meatmarkets for youth. 

Yes, you might have spent a good amount of time talking about bullshit and thinking you were an intellectual as a college student in a coffeeshop, but later found these bloated conversations to have no place in the “real world”. True- discussing the situation in Darfur over Chai Lattes seems romantic enough, but come on… were you really going to do anything to help the situation? We all know that majority of college students leave coffeeshops, go home, smoke pot, and get laid. The rare few activist were merely in it because a hot activist solicited them to join. Don’t get me wrong activism is wonderful, no matter how you get involved, but seriously, college is about looking cool, and getting to the sexn’.  That’s why online programs suck hard ass.

But back to coffee…

These coffeeshop encounters are just mere preparation for the Coffee Rite of Passage, a journey we all must go through before transforming into adult participants of the world.

So the previous coffee examples are only useful if there is a shop involved. Half the time during these youth prowls or bullshit-a-thons, coffee is never consumed. Tea, Hot Chocolate, Mexican Chocolates, Chai, cookies, cake, beer, but hardly you’ll witness a person actually getting a stone cold cup of coffee. Yea, I’m not talking the fluffy variety either (double mocha shot with a lemon twist on the side, and a kiss from a fairy princess). Nope. Black. Maybe a little sugar and half n’ half to cut the bitter. I remember distinctly ordering real coffee during my bullshit years, and was met with looks of horror from my other pseudo-intellectuals.

Nah, the Coffee Rite of Passage does not need a shop.

If you want to witness people experiencing the Passage in a shop- you’re gonna have to go before 10 am on a weekday. Unlike in the afternoon/evening when everyone is stroking their egos and relaxing in soft chair… the seating will be virtually empty- but the place will be packed with weary individuals, in a huge line, and angry.

Because the fact remains- Coffee is the Elixir of the Weary.

When you’re going through the Coffee Rite of Passage you want your coffee quick. Grab, go, and savor. No time for Coffeeshop silliness- you got a job to go to. But like I said, this passage does not need a shop. Many times the rest of us find clicking on the coffee maker a regular morning routine. The familiar gurgles and clicks, leading to that wonderful smell. A smell that will help inflate the portion of your brain which collapsed during your sleep. For many, the day doesn’t begin until that first sip… it’s almost as if your worldly perspective has been steamed and fogged over, and it takes coffee to rub away a little circle so you can peer out. When you feel this connected to coffee… you have entered the Coffee Rite of Passage.

I was embarrassed to admit to my friend during our conversation that coffee helps me think. I was ashamed that my brain was dependant on this damn beverage, but then again it is a stimulant… so it only makes sense. This shit makes my breath stink, stains my teeth, and gives me headaches- but oh do I love it so. As do so many other people around the world. Just walking down the main drag in my neighborhood, there is a Pete’s, Starbucks, local coffee shop, local tea shop, and various food joints which will happily supply you with java.

Once you’re in the Coffee Rite of Passage, you no longer view “coffee” as a primary means of social activity, but a necessity to be social. Coffee can still be enjoyed with folks, but more importantly by yourself. Now, it makes sense, when you hear some one say, “All I wanted was to sit, read the paper, and enjoy my coffee” or watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee is seen as a romantic private getaway for you and only you.

There are the few that have been through the passage and eventually gave up the stuff, but they still understand the power. Then there are those who pride themselves as “non-coffee drinkers” - yea, it’s cool that you’re healthy and stuff… whatever, but must you have that smug little grin when you coolly say, “oh… coffee… I just don’t need it.” Not all of us, can function on Green Tea alone.

So to those of us who still indulge in the brew, I tip my glass to you and promise to not disturb you when you curl your lips around that beautiful first cup of the day.

Currently, I work at a public library and now two community college libraries.

Yes, I have a lot of jobs, I know… but this post is not going to focus on being a librarian- no, this post is going to focus on how fashion trends are shifting, and I feel like I walk the line between Teen Queen and Fuddy Duddy.

As I sit here and watch all the adolecents and early twenties walk by I can’t help, but feel… not old, but older. I look kinda like these young people, but I’m no longer in the same style bracket…. and the sudden feeling of adjustment is a little bit like a shock to the system.

I guess this is probably a valid complaint of most mid-twenties… and honestly, I don’t really think of it as a “complaint”… more of an observation of how being a young adult- seriously a young adult- not the euphemism for teenager- can be a slippery slope of what you can and can’t wear. There is also the question of when young adulthood ends… I’ve always considered 30 to be the point of maturity. Yet, lately I keep hearing more and more people referring to folks in their 30s as young. When I reach my 30s I’ll probably feel the same, but as of right now… 30 still sounds like the start of getting your act together… and you know… wearing sedate shoes.

The thing with being in your 20s you can get away with wearing stupid ass trendy clothes… sorta. You’re still a step away from being in your teens- so I’ve assumed that taming down the trends makes it acceptable- but this notion is changing every year I get older. These changes have come as a surprise, because I used to figure by the time I reached my twenties, I would virtually be the same (just grayer and fatter) until I kicked the bucket. I thought every ten year interval in my life the advancements would become less and less obvious.

1-10: you learn to talk and not poop on yourself

11-20: grow hair, height, awkward hormones, have shitty life discoveries, etc.

21-30, 31-40, 41-50: you get old.

That’s what I pretty much assumed- but I’m wrong. So far I’ve completed half of my twenties and Jesus… 20 is so different from 25. True, I didn’t grow, my motor skills have remained the same, and I should be at the same reading level… but my perception of the world and my place in it has changed. so.  much.

I’ve discovered this from my fashion choices.

Just last year, my favorite shirt used to have a jolly little bee on it with outstretched arms proclaiming to “Just Bee Yourself!”

Now, I feel like an idiot, when I put that shirt on.

It’s not like, I’m now going to dress in gray muu-muus and part my hair down the middle- but something (probably Father Time) is telling me that I can’t really get away with cutesy T-shirts anymore… I don’t look like I’m in my teens- so I shouldn’t dress like I am. But Dammit- I don’t look like I’m in my thirties either! It’s a weird stupid balance I can’t seems to grasp. Here I am (being a librarian doesn’t help) sitting at the reference desk wearing a  beige cardigan and slacks- but for some reason I decided wearing multi-colored funky sneakers (with zipper pockets) would be a good idea. I’m like business on top and dumbass down below… or school marm on top and Binki the clown down below.

Honestly, I’m extremely glad that I’m having these feeling now. Everyone knows that one special person that doesn’t understand the fact that they are old and dressing wildly inappropriate for their age. Old guys with pony tails and earrings, mature ladies who sport midriffs and clear plastic shoes.

Oh lord, if I ever become that, please take me out to the pasture.

For me these folks are a clear example how fashion isn’t just about personal style- but personal perception… and obviously, theirs is skewed. By wearing these clothes they think that they are holding on to youth. When you’re holding on to something… it can’t be healthy…

Just listen to that phrase… Holding on- to hold on… it must mean that whatever you are holding is pulling away. I would much rather “keep” something than “hold on” to it.

Of course, I’ll find a balance of some sort and hopefully, by the time I reach my 30s that balance won’t consist of sedate shoes…. just age appropriate.

Of late I’ve noticed a disturbing set of trends… I find that a staggering number of my female friends are locked in non committed relationships. These are smart, beautiful, and motivated ladies. On top of that- they are caring, loving and would make the best girlfriends around, but the jackasses that they are dating can’t/won’t commit… i.e. give these wonderful beings the title they deserve.

I know what you’re thinking, come on Nnekay, you call yourself a modern liberal woman?! Why must you need a title if you know in your heart that the relationship is exclusive and there is plenty of love flowing between both of the individuals. To that I reply with- The Girlfriend Clause, my imaginary questioning friend. On the simple level, it just make things easier. Take for instance introductions- before the Girlfriend Clause chance encounters that require introductions are incredibly weird (Hi Fernando! This is my… um… friend…Marcus), sometimes the option of no introduction occurs, leaving the other party just standing there, feeling somewhat like a prostitute.

The Girlfriend Clause also allows both parties to feel justified for doing weird relationship things with each other. Would you rather wax your boyfriend’s back or your friend’s back. For me it would be neither, but maybe that’s why I’m happily single.

Then there is the most important part of the Girlfriend Clause- Section 7- Subset 12B- NO WIGGLE ROOM.  You may talk on the phone 12 times a day, go to expensive restaurants, take trips to Napa, sleep in the same bed every damn night, but if you never get the Girlfriend Clause squared away, you might get slapped with a response like this, “Yea, I slept with Roger, I never said that you were my boyfriend.”

So obviously, for the commitment phobe, the Girlfriend Clause can be a scary…scary thing.

I’ve had a few up close and personal experiences with Commitment phobes… and yes, it’s annoying but not as annoying as what a multitude of my wonderful friends seems to be collectively going through: A guy who once committed, but got fucked over by some crazy lady, and now is scared to death of committing again. This creates a huge shit storm involving all parties… except for that dumb-ass chick who created the whole mess.

With Commitment Phobes, the blame stays in one place- they can’t, haven’t, and probably will never commit. But the scorned man… that’s a tough one. He can, and has committed, but got so jacked up in his past relationship he no longer has the ability, even if a fabulous normal woman is willing to help him over come his past.

I’m a firm participant in the “Rah-Rah Woman Power Club” so when I hear the crazy ex-girlfriend excuse, my first inclination is to think… yes, women can do crazy things in the heat of passion, but enough to destroy your ability to commit to a completely different chick? Cop out excuse #1 from the school of I Don’t Like You Very Much.

Yet, in each of these circumstances- and I’ve witnessed at least 6 in the past year- I can honestly say that these guys really do like my friends. There are no gigolo tendencies in these men. They are nice, likable, good guys- but with one problem… their weirdo ass ex-girlfriend still has a well manicured finger hooked around their ear.

So… who the hell are these crazy broads?

Of course each horror story is different- but there is still some commonality between the lot. Number 1: They did the dumping- but can’t seem to leave the guy alone, and Number 2: There was some complete heinous bitchy act that was executed during the relationship that seemed to have come out of no where.

It’s easy to get pissed at these women, because they seem to be the road block to a successful relationship- and honestly as the sideline friend, I wish they would just go away- but the men in these situations are no more innocent, because if your ex is bitchy and you truly don’t want anything to do with her, then you wont have anything to do with her. Seriously… don’t pick up the phone and cut the ties especially if you’re with someone else.

BUT

Like many things in life, this is easier said then done. It’s been said before and it will be said again: Girls like Assholes and Guys like Bitches.

I hate hate hate hate hate this phrase, but dammit it’s true. Since the media is overrun with the male perspective- it’s common knowledge that “nice guys finish last,” this statement is true with women. Except in another way, while the “nice guy” gets completely overlooked for the pompous asshole, the nice girl is dragged through the mud, many times taking the form of:  the stable wife (who gets cheated on), the across the country girlfriend (out of site out of mind), or the previously mentioned “kinda girlfriend”. Basically guys like to have a reserve stash to come back to when their psycho lady inevitably flips out. As a “nice girl” I find that I’m constantly being humored by guys for a little while then passed over for- slutty, mean chicks. What the hell?!

And here’s the shitty part- when I’ve been pushed to the limit and have to be mean to a really annoying, jerky, or wet rag of a guy- I can’t shake them…

I was watching the self-absorbed Tyra Banks Show the other day- because nothing else was on- and she was featuring a variety of freaky fetish people. One dude liked it when women would literally walk on him… especially with heels. Apparently this fetish is common, and I wasn’t shocked at all. It’s just the physical manifestation of a bitchy broad.

I’m not saying that we nice ladies should go out get stilettos and a leather pantsuit ala Sandra Dee in Grease, we are nice for a reason…the world would be a terrible place if it were filled with crazy bitches and dumb assholes… then again there is the question of perception… you may be a perfect angel to one- and jackass demon wench to another.

Yet, if you do find yourself whining into a frothy beer about how your nice attitude keeps getting the shaft- there is something to learn from our meaner more intriguing counterparts: confidence, not settling, and understanding that when you get something great- relationship, job, fancy car…. you deserve it.

Sure, being humble is an awesome way to live- but a little pat on back can’t hurt. Many times the things that attract us to crazy jerk people is the sheer attitude these freaks poses- next time you find yourself with a mean asshole type, take a minute to ask them if they think they are awesome- 9 times out of 10 they’ll say “fuck yea!” They may not totally mean it (bigger the ego lower the self-esteem), but acting goes a long way… and eventually convinces the actor himself or herself.

This blog totally veered from what I was setting out to state… I guess no one is innocent when it comes to dating… it’s just a whole muddle of gray. After reading the previous statements one would thing I could pass for a junior Dr. Phil… but I, like Dr. Phil, have no idea what the hell I’m talking about… just observing. Honesty I can barely follow my own advice, but it seems that a few have found some of the answers to maintaining non-destructive psycho relationships… maybe we should all observe them. I do know one things for sure- being nice definitely has a part in it.

The majority of the time I’d like to consider myself a rather focused person.  It may seem like I’m spacing out, but I’m probably more likely thinking about 5 different things at once. These things could range from a persistent wedgie to how many Katrina victims are actually receiving aide.

When I do find myself spacing out it usually consist of a structured game I like to play called, “what could have been…” Starting with a given situation in my life and imagining what life would have been like if the exact opposite (or another option out of many) would have happened instead. Yea, it sounds a little like dwelling in the past, but it’s not a regret game, but more of like a “choose your own adventure” of my life.

First I usually start with things I wasn’t given the option of. Since I was a little kid I’ve always thought it would be fun to imagine what life would have been like if I were born a boy. I’ve spent hours (probably now racked up to days) pondering the “opposite theory”- If born a boy, I would be of the opposite sex, does that then mean I would be of opposite personality…you know, other side of the mirror trippy shit.

This is pretty much why I don’t do drugs… I suppose I don’t need them.

Anyway, after I tackle gender, there’s economic status, nationality, and mental health. All except for the “If I was born wealthy”- have allowed me to appreciate my current life, which is probably why I continue with this type of daydreaming.

On the other hand, when I dive into the “roads I was presented, but decided to take another path” segment of the game, things become a little murky. Knock on wood… nothing terrible has ever happened due to my quick or even slow and thought out decisions… but sometimes I secretly wonder if life at the rival high school was better than the one I attended. Lucky for me, I tend to trust myself and figure any decision I made was pretty solid. So like the circumstances I couldn’t alter, I stay pretty satisfied with my choices.

The scenarios that really jack me up are the ones where I could have gone in one path, but was prevented by someone from going down the road I really wanted to. Which brings me to my latest question: If you really want something to happen…will it eventually happen?

Yes, there are people that believe if you put out good energy you will receive whatever you desire (I wish I had some glitter to blow in your face after that sentence). Yet, the catch to that statement is- someone can always respond your failure as “you just didn’t put out enough energy”. Which can basically be translated to, “oh well, Loser”.

I have always liked writing, yet, it seems like the forces of the world have been hell bent on preventing me from achieving any success as an author. I was a weasley liar kid, but that always makes for a good storyteller- but my spelling was (and still is) out of control retarded. My parents were instructed that I “had a problem” when I was in the third grade. Looking back it was a harsh thing to say about an otherwise smart 8 year old, but now I can honestly say- yep, I am probably missing the spelling segment of my brain- which is fine by me- I rather miss that than say, the pooping control portion of my noggin.

Due to my spelling, I started to back off from writing- even today I have to take breaks from writing because my spelling frustrates me. Though my breaks from writing could last from months to years, I always seemed to go back to it.  In middle school and high school I would write stories and read them to my friends (because an un-shared story simply doesn’t make sense), but I would never let anyone else read them, because I was so embarrassed by my horrible spelling.

Then college hit, and the magic of spell check saved my life. I discovered literature and immediately bonded to this bullshit major- while math and science weren’t terribly hard for me, I found it easier to solve a problem by being long-winded in an essay. My sophomore year I decided to try out for the creative writing major within the literature degree. I had a few stories under my belt, and submitted them to get into the intermediate class. To up the suspense there was a mixer so all the students could eye their competition. I thought I had a pretty good chance- many of the girls looked as if they would have died for a JR Tolkien and Anne Rice threesome, and the guys pretty much refused to look anyone in the eyes- except for that lone wise cracking nerd who has no idea that he’s a nerd. This type of person has managed to worm his way into pretty much all the segments of my life. I don’t care how many obscure authors you can rattle off… you’re still a nerd. I left the mixer thinking I had a shot, and was met with complete shock when I was rejected… and rejected again the following year- my last chance to become a creative writing major. I said, “fuck it,” and a big “fuck you” to the creative writing department, and stopped producing stories.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I got into that damn class. I eventually picked up writing again (duh), so does that mean I’ve been putting out good writing ju-ju energy? Or is it just a matter of finding a way to carve out time to enjoy and participate in the things you really desire to do? There’s also the factors of luck, talent, and connections. My friend Sheiva got me this blog, if it weren’t for her I’d still be writing on my Myspace blog- but it was the MySpace blog that gave her the idea to give me this gift… and I had been writing on that for years. I would eventually love to be a famed sexy writer, complete with awkward headshots on the back of my books. It would also be great to get Oprah to like me too… maybe she’ll replace her BFF Gayle with me. I’m sure she would rather me replace her empire than Tyra (who is trying WAY too hard to be Oprah). But in order for me to get to that level, I have to keep writing, which I intend to do.

Yesterday, after my previous post about Wartman, a gentleman had a seizure in the computer lab. The computer lab attendant ran to get help while I was instructed to call 911. Needless to say it was an incredibly stressful situation. This was the first seizure I had ever witnessed, and for those of you who haven’t experienced this event, let me tell you… it’s damn scary.

For about 15 minutes it was insanity: the staff was yelling back and forth, the noises the guy was making, the rush of employees, and finally the stamped of EMT, rushing in to save the day. By the time the guy was strapped up and wheeled away (hooked to what seemed to be a car battery) I felt like I needed a minute to catch my breath and sanity. Yet, I the crazytown patrons of the library didn’t allow it. The minute I got off the phone with the 911 operation, while the man was still on the floor convulsing, a very nonchalant patron came up and requested that I print him the latest Financial Times article on wine.  Of course I did it, but it felt incredibly surrell because I could still hear the gurgles of the seizing man, in the background.

After the wine exchange, I began to realize how many people in the library could care less about the traumatic events that just occurred.  When the man started to seize, there were no gasps of shock, when the computer lab attendant came running to tell us about the incident, only about two people looked up from their newspapers, magazines, or from staring at the wall. While a bunch of staff members heaved the man to the floor and moved computers aside to avoid harm- all of the other patrons continued to clickity-clacking away looking at Myspace, e-mail, or porn… not even a blink.

We as a public have formed bubbles around ourselves. More and more it seems that people turn the other cheek when witnessing something traumatic. If it doesn’t involve them or a loved one, they do not want any part of it. I don’t know when this started to occur, but I believe this wasn’t always the case.

Granted the library is an unusual reference point, because many of the patrons are half comatose as it is, but more and more I continue to hear stories of seemingly normal individuals not doing anything to help a given situation. Recently, my father’s house was robbed during the day while the across the street neighbors were home, also a pregnant woman at a friend of mine’s work tripped and fell while a student employee didn’t even bother to ask if she was okay. I’m not asking people to be nosey, but I’m starting to get the sinking feeling that nobody cares about the well being of others any more.

About a few months ago, I happened upon an episode of Oprah, where actors faked traumatic situations in public to see if everyday people would come to their aide. The people that came to assist the actors where applauded and given the hero’s reception, which I believe was warranted. I just wish the act of helping out another human being wasn’t so shocking.

I’m not exempt, there have been times where I could have done things to help, but fear got in the way. Fear plays a huge part in avoidance, hate, and even violence. The fact of the matter is- we as a public are afraid, and when you boil it down, we’re mostly afraid of the unknown. Well shit, get to know it!

I can’t answer or solve big ticket problems like this, but if I try to step out of my own bubble once in a while, at the very least my own perception of my surroundings wont seem so scary.