20,000 Leagues of Done with the Sea [open]
Jul 22, 2014 9:35:43 GMT -5
Post by cici on Jul 22, 2014 9:35:43 GMT -5
channary keever
life's too short to even care at all
The bell above the door rings as I enter the little, hippie convenience store at the end of my street. I give a short nod to the shirtless man working the counter, whose attempts to be appealing are in no way effective. Did everyone just decide to stop wearing clothes once they realized they had a fucking beach in their backyard? I immediately grab a blue “District Four” t-shirt with a faded picture of a fish on it from a rack near the front – I really doubt that District pride can get any more lame – and toss it towards the shirtless employee. “Trust me, that look is not working for you,” I inform him, before turning down the food aisle.
There are only a few other people in the store, which is surprising enough as it is, considering this place is usually dead as a doornail. By the way, yes, I just quoted classic literature. Try and tell me I’m dumb now. Anyways, I grab a bag of chips – of course, they only carry the rip-off brands here – and a soda before sitting down on the tile in the very back of the store to have my little meal.
My mom always told me it was wrong to steal. Thanks. Cool. Great. You know, I really can’t stand those kids who talk about their mother as if she’s some sort of Confucius come to save us all with her words of wisdom. Considering that my mom stole enough of my childhood and replaced it with hours and hours of training to hold swords as steadily as my older siblings, I’d like to argue that parents are merely hypocrites who care about nothing more than their image.
I don’t think my mom realizes that confidence is the epitome (yes, I sure do know some big words – not as stupid as you assumed, huh?) of a positive image. If you at least look like you know who you are and what you’re doing, then you do know who you are and what you’re doing, and no person in their right mind is going to question it.
I pull a thick book out of my backpack called “Why the Goldfish Went on Vacation: An Extensive and Thorough Analysis of the Origin, Evolution, and Psychology of the Human Lie.” Considering how many fucking lies the Capitol plants in our tiny worker brains, I can see why they don’t put this book on our summer reading lists. In fact, I can see why this book was stored on the books-that-are-probably-banned-but-nobody-cares-enough-to-read-them-so-we’re-going-to-keep-them-so-it-looks-like-we-have-a-big-successful-library shelf. All of the books we’re forced to read for school are the same lame thing over and over again – I mean, I haven’t actually read more than the first seven pages of any (which probably explains my D+ average), but if I can’t feel invested in the first seven pages, I think I can vouch for the rest of the novel.
It’s the same thing with people, really. There are people you don’t like and there are people you do like, so why waste time trying to get the people you don’t like to like you if you’re just going to be miserable in the process? Chances are they’ll like you more if you stay the hell away from them. Actually, that’s the strategy I usually slide with. Most people like me because they don’t know me, at a far enough distance away to idolize and admire my pure independence, never stepping close enough to examine whatever flaws I may have. According to my mom, I have several of those, but who can really judge? If I wanted to be a different person, I would be a different person, but nah. I like myself…and I also like this book, so please shut up and let me read, Stacey. Stop your obnoxious flirting with the store clerk. You’re not even doing it right.
I try to find a comfortable position and groan when I realize I’m sitting on a whole trail of sand from someone else’s shoes. If any District Twelve kiddos want to come experience whatever beach party fantasy they think we have here, I’d happily transfer to some poverty-ridden shack right now: anything to get away from this district full of pretentious asses. It's no surprise the goldfish went on vacation; what sane person wouldn't want to get away from here?
Now excuse me while I read.
There are only a few other people in the store, which is surprising enough as it is, considering this place is usually dead as a doornail. By the way, yes, I just quoted classic literature. Try and tell me I’m dumb now. Anyways, I grab a bag of chips – of course, they only carry the rip-off brands here – and a soda before sitting down on the tile in the very back of the store to have my little meal.
My mom always told me it was wrong to steal. Thanks. Cool. Great. You know, I really can’t stand those kids who talk about their mother as if she’s some sort of Confucius come to save us all with her words of wisdom. Considering that my mom stole enough of my childhood and replaced it with hours and hours of training to hold swords as steadily as my older siblings, I’d like to argue that parents are merely hypocrites who care about nothing more than their image.
I don’t think my mom realizes that confidence is the epitome (yes, I sure do know some big words – not as stupid as you assumed, huh?) of a positive image. If you at least look like you know who you are and what you’re doing, then you do know who you are and what you’re doing, and no person in their right mind is going to question it.
I pull a thick book out of my backpack called “Why the Goldfish Went on Vacation: An Extensive and Thorough Analysis of the Origin, Evolution, and Psychology of the Human Lie.” Considering how many fucking lies the Capitol plants in our tiny worker brains, I can see why they don’t put this book on our summer reading lists. In fact, I can see why this book was stored on the books-that-are-probably-banned-but-nobody-cares-enough-to-read-them-so-we’re-going-to-keep-them-so-it-looks-like-we-have-a-big-successful-library shelf. All of the books we’re forced to read for school are the same lame thing over and over again – I mean, I haven’t actually read more than the first seven pages of any (which probably explains my D+ average), but if I can’t feel invested in the first seven pages, I think I can vouch for the rest of the novel.
It’s the same thing with people, really. There are people you don’t like and there are people you do like, so why waste time trying to get the people you don’t like to like you if you’re just going to be miserable in the process? Chances are they’ll like you more if you stay the hell away from them. Actually, that’s the strategy I usually slide with. Most people like me because they don’t know me, at a far enough distance away to idolize and admire my pure independence, never stepping close enough to examine whatever flaws I may have. According to my mom, I have several of those, but who can really judge? If I wanted to be a different person, I would be a different person, but nah. I like myself…and I also like this book, so please shut up and let me read, Stacey. Stop your obnoxious flirting with the store clerk. You’re not even doing it right.
I try to find a comfortable position and groan when I realize I’m sitting on a whole trail of sand from someone else’s shoes. If any District Twelve kiddos want to come experience whatever beach party fantasy they think we have here, I’d happily transfer to some poverty-ridden shack right now: anything to get away from this district full of pretentious asses. It's no surprise the goldfish went on vacation; what sane person wouldn't want to get away from here?
Now excuse me while I read.
Don't worry about it!
