Saturday, March 9, 2013

Maturity Levels: Off The Charts

          So, I'm the youngest kid in my class. Nobody gets born after June these days, it's all Januaries and Februaries and Marches and Aprils and Mays. That's it. Some are even an entire year older than me. Anyway, bottom line is, I'm the youngest kid, and my birthday is always after school is over. A few years ago, it was the day just after the last day of school. That's my luck. But that gives me some leeway as to how immature I can act. Thing is, I don't look young. Very much the opposite, actually, So unless I go around telling everybody that I'm born on June 11th, the expect me, by some universal law unbeknown to me, to act mature. The fact that most of my teachers were born in  - and still live in - the 1800s, no offense to them, doesn't help. Which means no laughing, no talking, which means that they don't even have to expect you to raise your voice because you don't even talk in the first place, and especially no giggling. Anything that reminds the teacher of your existence is forbidden. I'm exaggerating only a little tiny bit, I promise. Except, when it comes to homework, classwork, and tests, the presence of your paper is mandatory. Still nothing about your presence, just the paper. When a student makes a sound - a peep - the teacher turns around from the chalkboard, like he's the terminator and he's not afraid of you running away, uses that chalky index finger to push up his thick, yellow glasses, glares at you until the room is so silent it becomes unbearable, then turns back to the chalkboard, and you can hear the squeak, a high-pitched screech of the chalk against the blackboard, and the occasional, cringe-worthy brush of his nails against it as he writes. So I go to school, and act all prime and pristine, my tight corset making it hard for me to breathe, the thick layers of my petticoats and skirts daring my body to sweat all over, the chair underneath me hard and uncomfortable. 

          Maybe I exaggerated a little more than just a little bit. I know teachers who are still young and fun to be with, who giggle along with the class and make jokes. But, sadly, I'm not blessed with any of those. Besides my 1800s teachers, though, the modern world is all a little immature. Gone is that uptight strictness of the Victorian era and in is the aloofness and goofiness of whatever era we're in now. Which should, theoretically, blur the line between what is official and what's friendly. We are in the age of smoothness, so there should, theoretically, be no tension between random people. One should just pass the other and be all cool, "hey dude" or something like that (even though I hate both the word 'hey' and the word 'dude'). But in modern society, the state of communication is quite different indeed. In mature audiences, one must act mature. Only when everybody within a five mile radius is 5 years younger than you are you allowed to giggle. 

         I have the maturity level of a five-year old. I giggle a lot more than a five-year-old, actually. But the problem is, everybody surrounding me, all my peers, have a serious case of immaturity. My pets have a serious case of immaturity. Even my window is immature. Maybe not my window. But how am I supposed to act mature when I live in an immature world. Yet, I manage to defy all odds and act mature when in proper company. The protagonists in the YA books I read have a serious case of immaturity.  

Here's what I think a person should not do/be to be considered mature:
  • must not be a child
  • must not be a teenager (this is soo age-ist < (like rasicist except judging on age rather than race)
  • must be an adult
  • must be tall (so they look menacing)
  • must be wide but not fat or pudgy (also so they look menacing)
  • must have a deep voice
  • must make a lot of thoughtful pauses when speaking
  • must not whine, beg, or grovel
  • must listen, not talk (then who does the talking?!?!)

Actually, I have no idea were I'm going with all this, but it took me two hours to come up with it, while I could have been reviewing for my science test or something, so it feels to good to delete. Just like when you kind of want to cut your hair because you're getting split ends but you've been growing your hair out for so long it physically aches to let go and cut it. So I know all the stuff written above is rambling, but I spent to much time thinking about it, and I mean, who even comes by my blog? Pretty much nobody, so I guess it's OK to ramble. You know, that was what I was going to call by blog. Random Ramblings. But then I tried it and the blogspot name was already taken, so I tried Random Nothings, but that was already taken as well. So I went with Just Simply Nothing, and I had that as my blog name as well, not just the blogspot URL, but it was too long to do anything fancy with it, plus it started feeling drab and plain. So I though up of something special, and "The Cherry On Top" fit like it was made to be. I tried changing the URL, but the domain was already taken by some person who posted only one post on that blog, and that was way back in 2003. Personally, I think that's the worse thing about Blogger. There should be a rule that if the blogger doesn't blog for five years, his/her blog will be automatically removed, clearing the domain name for another user. I mean, what if the blog author died. Now you have no way of contacting him, even if his e-mail was in plain view, because he wouldn't be alive to respond. I'm not even going to get into those people who don't leave any contact information. Paranoid much? Not every person who looks at your blog is a stalker or an assassin or has spent the majority of his life plotting the revenge of his great-great-grandparents from your great-great-grandparents, which coincidentally means that....I don't even know what that means.

          Ok, so I messed up this blog post, and I bet even those of you who unknowingly stopped to read my blog are promising yourselves to never trip by this place again. I'm sorry, but I have a lo of thoughts all jumbled up, and the funnest way to set them free is to type them out. And share them with the world, obviously, because I have a bunch of word documents and those do me no good. There was a lot of jumping from idea to idea, because I told you, these thoughts are like butterfly, and each time I catch an interesting thought, I let it fly away as soon as I spot a more interesting butterfly. That metaphor was messed up. I imagine dictionary puke to somewhat resemble this post. It's interesting, until you realize that it's the remains of digestion. And then it stops being appealing and starts turning nasty. Ok, I have no clue what that metaphor even meant. I'm comparing my writing to dictionary waste, I think. But I really appreciate my writing and I think you should too. Now Bye Bye. 

If this post was not interesting enough, Google up Daniel Rozin. His stuff is cool. 

          Oh, and I have some really good news. Amy Bartol, author of the Premonition series, will be swinging by over here soon. Hopefully. Yay!