Nnekay.com

Heeeeey Boys and Girls!

Wanna feel like your about to get mauled by a pack of wild beasts?

Try fixing a paper jam, at a college computer lab, 20 mins till close, on the last day of finals.

It’s a totally blast!

It’s late, and once again I’m awake knee deep in my insomnia. During these hours, I usually find that I’m too tired to be productive, yet too awake to… you know… sleep. So what am I left with? My thoughts. Mostly they’re semi insightful and fully self absorbed:  

“why wont so ‘n so call me?”

“geesh this hairstyle sucks”

“must I be the center of attention all the time?”

“who the hell is whistling out side… are they coming to kill me?”

Tonight while in the midst of a mindless ramble of thoughts, I kept zoning in on one key factor: None of this was intelligent or meaningful. Now, I understand that middle of the night sleepless zombie thoughts aren’t stuff you can lead a nation on, but with further pondering, I realized my conversation skills, writing ability, and just plain diction had decreased significantly since I left college. Simply put, I don’t feel smart anymore.

I know I’m not a dipshit, yet when trying to think about the latest conversation I started about current events caused me to pause… it had been a while, a long… long… while. Most noteworthy news stories are about some person in a position of power acting like an idiot. I get bored with talking about idiotic people who shouldn’t be idiotic. I also get frustrated with people who do not know what they are talking about, trying to explain why these people in power are idiots, making them seem like, yep you guessed it-  idiots. I deeply despise this idiot vortex and try desperately not to be apart of it. Yet, this means my conversation tactics wouldn’t be considered “stimulating” to those who consider themselves smart- causing me, to appear as exactly what I would rather not: an idiot.

UCSC was a breeding ground for a multitude of mini idiot vortexes.

You would find various protest about any given injustice, but when the protester was asked about the cause, 9 times out of 10 it was explained in an incorrect manner. I left UCSC, bitter and replaced all of my previous militant concerns with that of “who can I date?” and “where is my next drink?” Slowly killing my mind with alcohol and retarded first date conversations. This slow march to stupidity, eventually landed me to present day, where I don’t feel like an imbecile, but not whip sharp as I once thought I was.

Sometimes, I wonder if I have a brain tumor or really early set Alzheimer’s, but now I realize that the lack of frequent stimulation causes not Brain Death, but Brain Malaise. My old quick wit is still in there, just now she’s kinda tubby and needs a work out. In college, my brain was being stretched into new territories of knowledge, whereas now… well, I watch Daisy of Love. I need intellectual exercise, but it’s so easy to get distracted with the glut of information fast food.

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Even TLC (the LEARNING channel)- has pumped me so full with Jon and Kate bullshit, I might have sacrificed my ability to accomplish long division for room on the memory card in my noggin.

I need to get fit and start ingesting healthy information, but with all the junk news out there today, who’s to say what can be trusted. Almost like trying to eat a carrot, only to find it’s made out of marshmallow.

I’ve recently moved from an apartment to a lovely duplex across town. It feels weird saying, “across town” because the city I reside in is about the size of a toenail. Strangely, as small as this city is, it still has a good side (where the white and asian people live) and a bad side (where the black and latino people live). Now if we take a large city like um… say Oakland or San Francisco, if you wander into the bad side of town, yes, you might get shanked or offered a lovely hit of crack. Now, in my city… the bad side usually means some teenager is going to look at you funny while they wait for the bus. Ooooooh spooooky. Needless to say, I’m not too worry about my “down grade” in neighborhoods.

The strangest part about moving is all the crap you find while digging through lost boxes. Why do I have a meat thermometer? A ceramic scarecrow? Who is Samantha and why did she write me a thank you note? More so, why did I keep all this shit?! Currently, I’m starring at a television set that may or may not be broken… I’ve had this tv for the past two years, but never once thought to take it out of the closet to test it out.  Next to it, is a giant blue Tupperware bin (I could fit a large child in it) with stuff my mom unloaded on me. It’s contents include: diaries,  more ceramics, symphony posters, pictures from middle school, disney oboe sheet music, and my high school diploma. This is basically Rubbermaid Blackmail… a nerd file, if you will, and it’s sitting in my room like a giant reminder of my humble past. Let’s take a look at a random passage from my early writing selections:

7-8-93

Today I went to the girls club, I was playing around, then fell down. My hip hurts bad, and just now the back of my head is starting to hurt. I hope I feel better tomorrow.

Nnekay

Clearly the early work of a genius.

High heels, pumps, stilettos, wedges, platforms.

All torture contraptions in my opinion. Yes, I do agree that they are quite pleasant to look at when strapped to another poor souls feet, but when I’m teetering around on these horrible jokes of foot protection, I feel like a drunk Frankenstein on holiday. Is this really how it should feel to be sexy and sophisticated? Really?! Noooooo…

I hate the fact that women are taught from an early age that she must suffer for fashion and beauty, while men get to flop around in loose pants, comfy shoes, and low impact haircuts. Remember jellies? Talk about the roach of children’s fashion. I’ve heard women representing generations from the 70s, 80s, and 90s recalling how much they wanted the plastic shoes, glowing about their first pair, then promptly complaining about how uncomfortable and sweaty these bastard shoes were to wear. WHAT THE HELL?! Why didn’t any of these generations learn that this is an inane invention of style. Guess what folks, they’re back… and for toddlers:

Thanks Mom! I just learned how to walk, and now I get to experience of wonders of horrible foot sweat and the pain of walking on plastic for hours. Hooooorraaaaaay! I heart being a girl!

“Oh these are my sit down shoes.”

“Yea, I never plan on walking much when I wear these.”

“OMG, I wore my flats all day when I really meant to put on my heels when I go to work!”

Have you uttered any of these phrases? Yes? Of course you have, because you’re a woman. I have, and you know what? It’s stupid that we even have to string together words to form these annoying explanation for such a silly concept. OBVIOUSLY, this trend is  not gonna go away, and as much as I would love to just be free and jiggly, I can’t and will buckle down to slap on a bra and a pair of heels when needed, because pendulum boobs and Crocs should be outlawed no matter how comfortable.

I just ask for a little appreciation, please. Yes, the obligatory, “you look amazing!” is wonderful, but I want more. When I get suited up in sexy armor I want to be praised for my ability to withstand pain. I once played a prostitute in a college play- being a non realistic college play I was notgiven jean hotpants and neon boob tube- no, I was dressed as a rather Julia Roberts-esq “french maid” ho. Meaning, I was more sexy hoochie, than cracky hoochie. This outfit consisted of a wig, corset, butt hugging skirt, fish nets, and yes, (the bane of my existence) red power bitch pumps. Slapping on a the rest of the get up was one thing, but I actually had to rehearse while wearing the pumps to get used to location, speed, and height. Instead of being applauded for my courageous attempts to act with such a debilitating prop, I, instead was laughed at because apparently I looked like a zombie hooker in my first attempts in the red stilts.  Now, once the whole outfit was on… not only did I have to recite my lines in believable street walker fashion, I had to make sure my wig did not fall off, my boobs didn’t pop out, my breathing was steady, and my booty cheeks didn’t show all while effortlessly gliding across the stage in stilettos. It was a mess, not to mention I had to rap (college… was such a strange time).

It was worth it, though… I was hot… really smoking hot, probably the hottest I’ve ever been (and will ever be). So hot, that I had to convince a few people that it was actually me, proving that aesthetic beauty is 90 percent construction. As the compliments came pouring in, I appreciated the fact that people thought I was pretty, but desperately wanted a pat on the back complimenting the strength and balance I had to maintain while looking that way.

So ladies, wear the heels, carry the band aids, get the blisters, and hobble your nights away, because the union of pain and fashion will never divorce. And guys… instead of laughing at how ridiculous a woman looks while attempting to run across the street in heels, remember that she is currently withstanding the pain of a thousand daggers in her soles.

I’d like to see you try that with some fake eyelashes slapped on.

The summer of 2001 was an awkward one.

I managed to score a job at a local card and gift store after my 3 year gig at Hallmark went belly up. Knowing that I would be leaving in a few months, I spun a rather lengthy and elaborate lie only worthy of some scheming sitcom character with a built in laugh track. I was semi honest… I did say that I got into UCSC, but (here’s the lie) unfortunately was not able to get the proper financial aid, so alas I was to go to the community college until I could earn enough for tuition. The was plan was to announce (about a month in) that I received a fabulous gift from some mysterious relative and would be going away after all.

It worked.

It worked so well that, I was able to have a job on tap whenever I returned on breaks, and 8 years later, even under new ownership I still have a key to the store and occasionally cover a shift or two.

My lie was so airtight that half the time I thought I would be attending the junior college. I would drop little planned tid bits about possible finance leads, or how I was looking into different courses at the local school.  Of course I felt horrible about the lie, even though I suspected that they knew all along. When the towers toppled to the earth, I couldn’t help but feel that my lie had something to do with the bad karma that could have caused that catastrophe, but of course I realized that this was a self-centered thought, and shrugged off my unnecessary guilt.

Four days later, I found myself sitting cross legged in a grass clearing with twenty other saucer eyed 18 year olds. First of all, I couldn’t believe that I was actually supposed to be here, a piece of me still thought I should be taking the Fine Art of Hair Dye at the JC. Not to mention the past 4 days it had been nothing but 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11 9/11- and still didn’t really let the magnitude of what happen sink in. So to hear:

“yea… everyone gets naked and runs through campus on the first rain of the year,”

was rather jarring.

This is how I was introduced to the one of the weird traditions of UCSC- lazily thrown in between dinning hall hours and alcohol enforcement in the dorms. As our Orientation Leader tried to move on with her speech, we freshmen couldn’t help but continue to back track to “First Rain”

“Wait, wait… students run  naked?!”

“Like, you get to see boobs?!”

“You won’t get in trouble?!”

Being the first day of orientation, none of us had gone through our “hippie transformation” so the thought of nudity, drum circles, and incense still seemed rather freaky. Still holding on to my jaded anti-cheerleader bookworm persona of high school, I quickly scoffed and dismissed this whole “first rain” as an urban legend or a way to make freshmen look like assholes. As the first few weeks of school turned in to a month, I got used to peeing in co-ed bathrooms (but would never get used to pooping), made a significant group of friends, found some older sleaze to have a crush on and basically adapted to my new surroundings. Once the indian summer of California finally subsided, talks of this mysterious “First Rain” began to pop up here and there. Slow on the up take to my hippie freedom, I found myself becoming the only one left who actually scoffed at the idea of running nudie through wetness. To finally confirm the possibility of this event occurring, I consulted my sleazy older crush, who in return replied with a deep and breathy,

“yes, will you be participating?” Immediately, I felt my face turn hot, and excused myself from his dorm-room.

I don’t remember the exact date, but it was definitely towards the end of October. The weather had steadily become gloomier, and while we piled on sweaters and scarves, it was only in anticipation to take them off when the clouds would finally break. It was a regular week-day, yet the word quickly moved through campus that it would indeed rain that very night. I didn’t have that many classes this day, and found myself hanging out in the quad of my dorm with other waiting students. Some were even wearing bathrobes to add to the effect. Streaking was the only thing people seemed to be willing to talk about the whole day… and with each increasing dark cloud the anticipation grew even thicker. Some frustrated students gathers by a tree with a rain stick, thinking that they could possibly convince Mother Nature with various shaky leg dances and loud chats of “NAKED, NAKED, NAKED” If I were Mother Nature I would probably make the sun come out, just to stop them from embarrassing themselves. The freshmen had a class that evening in the dining hall, we were supposed to watch a video on Vietnam. Many had stated that they would rather skip the class because they were too excited. Being close to 8 pm, it was already getting dark, and I let good old high school goody-goody take over. As I sat in the quiet half empty dinning hall watching the depressing movie, I heard a clap of thunder. The majority of us nerds, casually looked at each other, shrugged and continued watching the movie. With the second boom of thunder, the double door entrance to the dinning hall flung open, and there stood a man stark naked, drenched, and beaming with excitement. He screamed, “IT’S RAINING!!!!!!!” Without missing a beat, we all scrambled out of our seats and began to frantically run towards the exit, some stripping as they went. 

Once outside, I was surrounded by naked insanity. The majority of the students had already taken off through campus, leaving pockets of groups who either were too lazy to run the entire length or already completed the run. These pockets managed to form an elaborate drum circle of buckets, pots, rain sticks, basically anything one could bang. They eventually formed a make shift conga line and circled the flooding quad while chanting,

“BANGBANGBANG NAKED! BANGBANGBANG NAKED! BANGBANGBANG NAKED!”

I stood with my modest group of friends and simply watched. I was surrounded by private parts en mass, and not just ambiguous private parts… my neighbor’s strangely skinny penis, my study buddy’s bulbous breast, my dinner friend’s bubble butt. It was all there, out in the open and no one seemed to care. Not wanting to feel completely left out, me and friends decided we would take off our shirts. So there we stood, in wet bras, feeling sorta like outsiders, but still enjoying the exposed madness.

After a while, I found myself in a rather strange predicament. I was watching naked people, and I, was not. Needless to say this, this was an everyday happenstance, so like any self respecting normal person in a non-normal situation, I started to feel like a perv. I wasn’t (and still am not) comfortable with being naked. Even while by myself, I like to at least have a robe on, so I marched my clothed fanny back to my dorm, to tuck in for the night. From my room, I could still hear the festivities, and thought I would share. I called my parents, shoved the phone out my window, then proclaimed, “They’re naked!” Which was probably not the ideal thing a parent would want to hear about an institution they were shovelling thousands of dollars at.

As the years wore on, the tradition stayed the same, but the shock wore off. Junior year, I was saying hello to some of the streakers I knew as I walked up stream on my way to class. Senior year, I rolled my eyes as my naked boyfriend flopped his penis by my window. By the time I was thrusted back into the real world, it was almost shocking that I didn’t see at least one naked person on a regular basis. As the years separated me from my college experience, I recently found myself in conversation with a friend who participated in a naked bike rally in Portland. To my surprise, I found myself staring saucer eyed and proclaiming,

“wait… wait… you rode naked?!“