randomness

As I was standing in line a few minutes ago waiting for my mocha to be prepared, I remembered something. Several years back, I was frantically searching for a birthday present for Kevin, and my indecisiveness was shoving my mom towards the ravine of insanity. We went into this toy store in a nearby strip mall, where I discovered with avid fascination a stuffed monkey in a plastic cage that rattled and screamed repeatedly whenever its sensors picked up a loud noise. Today, if I saw that toy while in a mall and heard its ear-piercing screeches, I'd either bust up laughing and wipe the mirthful tears from my cheeks, or I'd drop-kick the damn thing in the hope that I'd somehow managed to crack the batteries from its horrible little stuffed skull.

And for a short intermission, I just heard the following verses on the radio: 'Would you dance, if I asked you to dance? Would you run, and never look back?' As I switched the station grinning smugly, I knew immediately that I'd choose option B, which, in this case, would be saving my soul from a flimsy pop artist, whose pants are duct taped to his sweaty body, whimpering in a breathy voice that he wants to be my hero.

So yeah, anyway, back to the isolated squealing monkey in its plastic cage. Being the impressionable young child that I was, I instantly wanted it. I asked my mom to buy it for me, but she refused, saying that I was at the mall in order to by a present for Kevin and not myself. In order to invert the decline of death, I developed a plan, you see. I claimed that I had changed my mind, that I wanted her to purchase the monkey in the cage for Kevin and not for myself. My mom reluctantly agreed and hacked up the necessary cash for the godforsaken thing, and as soon as we exited the store I began tearing the caged monkey from the entrapment in its cardboard box. My mom asked what the hell it was that I was doing, and I replied, as if it was painfully obvious, that the monkey was for me, that she had somehow misunderstood my intentions of giving it to Kevin. Not only did it piss her off, but every time she sneezed, the damn monkey shook violently and let loose a thread of raging yelps.

Then this other time, I walked into my house, dropped my sled to the floor, and began unraveling myself from all of my winter clothes. My mom approached me to greet me, and when she was in view, I chirped, 'Hey, Mom, guess what!' Then I elaborated on how I had somehow managed to collide into a tree while sledding and busted my head open, leaving a sizable, bleeding welt in its wake.

On the way home from Starbucks tonight, I recognized a piece on the radio from a computer game I once owned, Treasure Mountain. It was the song that played as you waltzed around and up the mountain, not to be confused with the piece that played when the end-of-game boss was confronted (which, in this case, was a wall with lots of ladders and abominable gnarled hands). I learned how to play the latter on the piano, consequently entitled Solfeggietto and composed by one of Bach's sons, whichever one it is that has four names. I don't know why the hell it is people are given four names, I have enough trouble keeping track of the three of mine. The other day when I was at Starbucks, the woman behind the counter asked me what my name was so she could label my drink and thus not confuse it with the drinks of the other patrons.

'Uh, Kate,' I supplied eloquently. I then realized it wasn't a good sign that I hesitated with my own name, especially since it only contains four letters and whatnot. Sometimes it severely alarms me when I misspell my last name, considering it annoys the living fuck out of me when others misspell it, more so when the said 'others' are close friends.

Speaking of failing to remember the spelling of my last name, this chick who was formerly bestowed the title of my best friend, Steph, couldn't remember my birthday to save herself from my formidable and occasionally lethal wrath. February 25th doesn't seem all that obscure to me, for whatever reason. If people can remember Christmas, why the hell not my birthday, huh? And hey, February, that's the month of flowers and hearts and frilly lingerie with lace, so all you have to do in order to recall the month of my birthday is think about what month is polar to my personality. The only thing easier than that is cooking Easy Mac. You can always be assured in the belief that something is simple to cook when I can make it without causing my house to explode in a raging inferno.

Meanwhile, would someone, Canadian or otherwise, humor me and explain to me what Boxing Day is? I keep picturing large cardboard boxes and packaging tape. That, and if you perhaps value your life, leave me a note. I'll be your friend forever.