I shared this picture, and asked friends (from Facebook and Instagram), “What can you tell about the owner of this bedside table?” The responses show that many of my friends are very perceptive and, perhaps, slightly insane. They suggested the owner is neat, artistic, eclectic, spends a lot of time in bed, likes fishing, is a bohemian sci-fi gel pen collector, has a dark side, likes writing, loves Gothic things, has dry skin, values ordinary things, reads a lot… One response made me smile in a completely non-insane manner: a friend said the owner of the bedside table is “someone who likes to control and manipulate—in a good way.”
I smiled because I enjoy knowing that the way I treat my things tell a story that match my inside. I am, indeed, controlling… and manipulative… in a good way. I never try to control other people (since that’s unethical and tends to suck the energy out of everyone involved). But I use every skill and charm I possess to make sure that I can control my reactions to the way people behave towards me. It’s a powerful defense mechanism, my Wicked Luvs. The same is true about my kind of manipulation. I use that particular skill to crush the resolve of anyone who is silly enough to think they can shame me.
You are probably asking, “Where are you going with this, dearest?” Well, about two weeks ago, while a dear friend visited New York City (more on that soon), I wore my purse after not having done so for months. It was a final experiment. And it failed. My left side began to throb less than an hour into the trip, and my right shoulder was useless for days. Conclusion: must continue getting cozy with my wheeled bag and buy a hip purse (or thirteen).
I have yet to buy a hip purse. So, yesterday, when I got ready for a long walk, I packed my wheeled bag (medications, user-friendly toilet paper, water, a bit of food…). Then I realized that the damn thing was too big for comfort. I decided to rig my regular purse into a, yes, hip purse. I tightened the shoulder strap around my hips, but the strap was too long. I fed a sash through the loops that connect the purse to the strap, and secured the whole thing around my waist. I was ready… and quite proud of my crafty rig.
Halfway through my walk, I stopped at an office supplies store—a girl always needs more red pens. While I waited in line, I heard chuckles behind me. I thought nothing of it. Then a woman said, “Crazy hippies.” I was smiling inside. Crazy hippies are very cool. Then another voice, one that has never heard of the benefits of whispering, said, “If I ever go outside looking that stupid, hit me.” I turned around. And I’m not quite sure what made me do it. But… staring at the woman who had just spoken, I widened my eyes, and let my smile stretch until it became a mad grin that showed every single one of my teeth.
The woman backed into a display of notepads, knocking the whole thing to the floor. I laughed… And, perhaps, took the tiniest of jumps in her general direction. The gesture inspired her to move away from me and my teeth and walk quickly out of the store. I stopped laughing. But my grin was still mightily toothy when her friend looked back.
I walked home with an insane grin on my face, thinking, I should definitely add “Enjoys intimidating random excuses for human beings—in a good way” to my résumé. Now, if I could only figure out how to whip out the mad grin on command.
…my awesome rig…
I liked the effect of the flash, so I left it on.
Also, I took the photo right after I got back from my walk,
so… I had to protect you from mad-grin residue.
*mad cackles-infused giggles*