Cynicism At Its Mediocre.

I could complain all my life, every second of the day (which, and lets be honest, I already do,) and bring to light all imperfections that you may hold onto your personal attire or look (which, again, lets be honest, I already do, you just don't know it) but really, will it get me anywhere? When all the layers have been peeled away and a flashlight has been taken to this suspicious crime scene, what would people really find?

To be honest (I'm all about the honesty), you'd find a big pile of chum, livers, bodily parts and fluids; maybe a heart turned blue, skin, and muscles. What else would you find under all those skin cells, anyway?

You don't see meanness, or hurt, or jealousy, or sadness, or whatever shit emotions you see fit to insert here, that's for Booth to decipher. You see the physical crap, all the blood and gore stupid horror movies seem to obsess on showing you over.

If you really wanted to so what was inside my body, imaginatively, become a freakin' psychologist.

So maybe, this marble-slab appearance I seem so fond of is just that, a slab of wall. So maybe all you'd need is a common mallet from the Leather's room to crack it, but seriously, become a psychologist. It's becoming a fashion statement.

So here's where I'm supposed to state my whereabouts, like a classroom, the mountains, a hostel, the Hostel, somewhere near a hostel, a brothel, strip club, home, whatever, right? That'd be a fine idea, but then, say, theoretically, I say I don't know where I am? Then I'd go one bludgering about how I'm lost and the trees – have I already seen that one? – all blend together - and oh my gosh, is that a rapist? – making for a very confusion journey that could extend the courtesy of a mind's meeting.

But, theoretically, I am not lost. I am not stuck between two trees hung like that one creep in that one show, about to have a bullet shoved through my chest from Willow, I am not strapped to a chair, with a pointyness slowly being slipped into my ear canal, either.

I take up space with pointless words.

I'm in a car, just entering Lethbridge limits, the Old Man river frozen just enough to walk across it with a huge rock being thrown in front of you. We Albertans, we know how to test ice. Professionally.

The sign, still there from 2006, announcing special guests for Whoop-Up Days, the grooves filtered with fresh snow that had graced our plains just few hours ago. The roads were slippery with few patches of black ice; cars were crawling along like my great-great-great grandmother on Sunday.

The radio was a pingpong of assumptions and clarifications, on everything from gas prices – overused – Barack Obama – yes, he's going to make a difference, I unerstand – the pending law of should it be illegal to not shovel your sidewalk in Calgary and Edmonton – how silly – and the fact that we're bad Canadians for not voting – puh-lease.

All these topics had been worn out by busy-body wannabe office workers, work-at-home moms and provincial government officials.

Nothing that would win the Pulitzer prize if put into text.

Everything was makeshift fort. Ignoring the actual replica of the fort in our town. The towers, for those who better themselves from us common-folk, the barrick grounds that sit between wooden walls and doors, filled with commoners, begging for the upperclassman to free us from upperclassman debauchery. So to speak.

Everything else went to the dogs – literally, there were a lot of strays here.

I realize – what a bitch – that my reference lacked any substance, and was, at best, something that could be used effectively as mocking material.

But I was about as good at metaphors as monkeys are graceful.

The snow was already lightly coding the front windshield, the black blurs move from one end to the other and back again, streaking out once perfectly un-streaked window. Nothing screams imperfection like window wipers.

I once referred to myself as 'forensically induced,' which, I admit, doesn't make much sense, and evn if I were to explain everything on said topic, it still wouldn't make sense. With my jibber all placed into one sentence, it just created even more of a jibbery mess. Like, a pad full of cows. Just imagine.

I may have been wrong in doing so, but I liked to consider myself the martyr in every fight that has engaged my presence. Trying to prove my point so pathetically, one has no choice but to fall to their knees at my default exaggerations.

That was my second layer.

My first layer would be a coldness easily distinguished but easily ignored by the ignorant – fits. The equally default mood that comes with being put farther down on the totem pole, resulting in the blasty-ice wind I personally just sent you with down here in Eskimo land.

This said coldness only came when I thought one deserved such non-existent viciousness. Though, most often, this stated viciousness was not intend needed, but really, was just a fabricated lie I told myself to shield myself from potential pain.

Alas, another one of my defaults.

Druther, faults.

But what can one do, when their life’s inner workings are so jeopardized by little faults made by someone else, not noticed by said fault-having person.

But truly, could I blame anyone but myself for having such prejudices that concerned other people’s misdemeanors, for hell’s sake, I didn’t even know them and I was already mistaking people for friends and calling them friends but pretending they really weren’t, ignoring my own conscience and pretending that I really didn’t care for them.

But we all know where this was going.

You can see it now,
Girl alienates ‘self for ownself. Self obsessed, self righteous. Self, self, self.

Oh yes, I’m not really such a self-induced, self-righteous, self-bitch kind of girl that I like to bring out in myself.