I don’t usually come here to write. I come to talk. Not specifically to people, or at people, but just talk. The same way I’d point something out to myself in the bathroom mirror; not really caring about the language or its relevance to anything that has just occurred. Like for instance, I was hanging out with a group of people yesterday, and as usual I was the shortest person there. Then I got stuck sitting on a high ledge and I had to hug my friend and they carried me down, because the ground was too far away. It occurred how it might feel weird if I shot up all of a sudden one day, I’d probably spend a couple of days wiggling like an anaconda every time I attempt to walk.
It’s rather inexplicable having to look at people all the time, body language claims that people react positively to people looking up at them, because they mind link it to a child looking up for guidance. But maybe I don’t want to be a child. I don’t like having to look up at people all the time. I’ve only had to look down at 5 year olds, and 5 years olds don’t really give a fuck if you’re eyeballing them, they have better things to do with their life. They’ve only been around for 5 years and there are a lot more interesting distractions than a mutant. I remember tho, kids tend to listen to me. Ironic, since I am not really exhilarated about the idea. A year ago, I think, I got into a church service that required you to mainly keep an eye on the kids and make sure they don’t wander off where they can’t get out. We couldn’t let them out of a certain square area, and there was this little kid, a boy, who kept crying. A lot of invigilators tried to comfort him, but nobody quite seemed to get the hang of it, he’d back up and cry his eyes out at the ceiling, glimpsing at the door like boogeyman is about to pop out. I don’t really do kids, I really don’t. But anyway, I thought I’d give it a try. I went over to him, and got on my knees, so that I’m actually shorter than he was. And I asked him what’s wrong. The kid took a minute looking at me and then at the other adults. Then he came forward. I asked him again, and he replied. He thought they were getting injected; apparently he’s had some sort of phobia from hospitals. I explained to him, in serious simple language, that’s we’re far far away from any doctor there is in the world! And how these stupid adults are gonna take turns telling stupid stories that even the kids can tell better. He smiled. Then he stopped crying and went back over to his friends. I felt like god. I had a purpose, kinda, that nobody else was able to manage. I was a midget with a mission. Needless to say, 5 seconds later he forgot I exist. I relate to him tho, I know how it feels when you’re trying to say something and nobody quite seems to hear or want to hear you, and I remember thinking every time that maybe if I was a little taller and more buff then maybe, just maybe, they would’ve thought twice before looking ahead through the expanse of vacuum that would have been my head. There isn’t really a point to this post, there never really is. I’m not gonna have an epiphany, trash tall people or draw an imaginary feel of awesomeness about having short people genes. I’m just short, I’m actually taller than my grandma, and my mom. They seem to be just fine. My grandma has to look up at people all the time too, and the last time I asked her about it she said: “Well, it’s better leverage to get out of cleaning upper ornaments, I used to get your grandpa to clean most of the house, w makansh byfta7 bo22o.” Then she’d have one of her hindsight-invoked tight-lipped smiles and embark on another battle of her many to try and feed me. So yes, great, the only good thing I’m getting out of this is a very scary thought about being a housewife, and not even being up for that. Grghh, this took a wrong turn. <shudder>
No comments:
Post a Comment