The lines by which he knows me

 This is part of a larger collection of short pieces I wrote for a class project about a month ago. It's still a work in progress (in fact I just re-edited this today because I absolutely hated some of the lines after revisiting it from the last time I read it.)

We’re sitting on a wooden bench in the corner of the bustling Hall of Justice. Men in black suits like resolute legal soldiers march urgently past us with their leather briefcases clutched close to their sides. Guards in navy blue uniforms with shining gold badges stand stiff like statues outside of courtroom doors. The elevator dings and takes on a group of diverse passengers – young men in button up dress shirts, women in pressed skirt suits, men in baggy jeans and large hoodies. A guy sits across from us clutching his hat; he stares at the ground, averting his eyes from the activity surrounding him. A woman walks past us towards the exit, a smile across her cheeks, eyes glowing with joy, with victory – she drags a child hand-in-hand behind her towards the exit.
            Pat pulls a pen out of his pocket and opens to a blank page in his little black sketch book, “look at me,” he says. My cheeks flush pink and I smile bashfully. His pen begins to work quickly; he traces the curvature of my jaw. The paper emits a musical whoosh, a swish as he sketches the streamlines of my hair. “I wish he would get here already,” he states, glancing up at my face, he pauses for a moment to examine his subject, and returns to the drawing.
            “Yeah, I um… It’s already like one thirty; doesn’t it usually end by two?” I ask, awkwardly trying to hold the expression on my face.
              His pen scratches across the paper effortlessly, elegantly like a musician improvising a song. His glance moves from me to the paper and he carves the almond shape of my eyes. “Yeah, he’ll probably be here soon, it’s fine,” he replies. His pen dances over the paper, crafting smooth and perfect lines around the waves of my lips. Drawing is his native language, the ink flows fluently through his pen, and he translates the images in his mind to the paper.
            He sketches a few final lines and closes the book. I snatch it from his grasp and turn to the page of the new drawing. Every line has life - the sketch breathes with my likeness and beats with the pulse of his hands. I gaze at him and smile, my chest fills with warmth, and I loop my arm through his arm. We sit in silence and continue to wait.
            A voice carries across the bustling room and a man wearing a bright purple tie shuffles towards us, “hey, Pat, look I checked and tried to get somebody down here, but they are having a graduation ceremony for the mental health court today so they aren’t doing screens. I recorded that you were here, you’re fine to go.”
            “Okay, thanks,” Pat replies, shaking the man’s hand while standing to leave. “Well that was a waste of time,” he directs to me.
            “It’s okay,” I smile.

The Journey to Adulthood

       I’ve been an adult for three years and four months now. Three and a third years. But that’s not really accurate – it was only recently that I began to look around at my apartment and my life and think to myself: “well…damn, I’m an adult now.”

      See, I’m starting to realize that it’s not one of those transitions that happens instantaneously like that 18^th birthday when you go out and buy a pack of cigs and a porno mag for the first time. Or like that first day you look down and notice weird things going on in your underpants and your body is screaming at you - “hey, you’re growing up!” The transition to adulthood has been more of a gradual thing, building up with defining moments such as the day that I finally convinced my parents to trust my judgment (aka back the fuck off) and the first time I had to schedule my own doctor appointment. (I still don’t understand all of this “health insurance” nonsense.) Also the traumatizing laundry incident when I accidentally dyed my favorite shirt pink.

This guy accidentally dyed his entire outfit pink - how embarrassing!

      I think the real defining moment that kicked off this metamorphosis, though, was the first time I went to go pee and the toilet paper was completely gone – not a single square of TP to be found in my whole house. And it stayed that way for a few days. And I resorted to tissues and paper towels and the old drip n’ dry method until finally I accepted that toilet paper was never going to magically re-spawn. I had to actually make a trip out to the store and buy it. But the life changing hysteria and confusion did not end there...

      Once I got to the store I was faced with the monumental decision of what kind of toilet paper to buy. It absolutely bewildered me – for something as simple as potty paper to wipe my nether regions, there were A LOT of choices. For the first time in my life I had to make this really earth-shattering decision between saving money and the cushy softness of the paper that I use to wipe my butt. It was a seriously jarring experience…

Don't even get me started on the mind bending decisions of cheese, paper towels, and shampoo

      Life as an adult is interesting. Rather, I’d call it my life as a pseudo-adult because right now I don’t think I’m quite there yet…even though I can legally drink alcohol and join the army and vote. I’m in this sort of transitional mentality where I’m beginning to understand my parents’ overbearing perspective yet everything is also terrifyingly new and I still awkwardly stumble over hurdles like managing my finances and leaving the grocery store with things other than alcohol, ice cream, and ramen.

      I think I’m also realizing too, that this child to adult cocoon doesn’t occur the same for anybody. I’m pretty helpless for a 21 year old; I’ve never used a lawn mower, I have no idea what those random blinky lights in my car mean, and at times my newly found independence is slightly overwhelming.

Hey guys! I just found out I don't have to ask my mom if it's okay to watch R rated movies

      I had the luxury in my childhood that I never had to worry about money or food or having a place to live. My biggest fear as a kid was losing one of my gazillion stuffed animals in a Best Buy parking lot. I was a materialistic little bugger! Not everybody grows up with that kind of carefree childhood lifestyle. And likewise, some people continue to have that worry free existence for their entire life.
 

      Growing up, I always had this idea that being a certain age, being an adult meant having everything figured out. The doctors and teachers and scientists – all of the adults were just “right” all the time. But as I have progressed into the stage of my life where I am now fully aware that I’m not away at summer camp anymore – I’m really living as an adult – I have realized how little anybody ever has figured out. The more I learn, the more I recognize how much I don’t understand. Every fact or lesson arises ten more unanswered questions.
 

      I’m starting to wonder if anybody ever really figures out anything…or if being endlessly confused and curious is just part of being alive. Maybe we form some delusion of understanding and hold onto the simple things so we can feel safe from uncertainty. Or maybe we are just supposed to fake it until the explanations emerge naturally.

(Yep...next time I'm going with the Charmin Ultra Soft.)

Introduction...

Hello! Welcome to my new blog area thing. It's been a long time since I have posted words on the internet, so we shall see how this goes. Here's just some random explanations instead of boring you with things that make sense:

I only have two fingers (lobster claws!) because Zoidberg.

There is a turtle in the heading picture because turtles are one of the only animals that I can draw. He has a party hat because originally he looked really sad and I wanted him to feel better.

I'm not uniquely clever - The name "Miss Leading" came from the band The Dear Hunter and their second album "Act II: The Meaning Of, And All Things Regarding Ms. Leading"

For Reference:

I should mention that the character "Ms. Leading" in this album is a prostitute (as you can probably tell by lyrics such as "I hate to tell you that I no longer need your services"). I, however, am not a prostitute. Though there are probably at least a few people in this world that may describe me as a "bitter fabricating manufacturer of lust." But that's not the point. I DO enjoy word play though.

It really is a great album. Has a great transition from naivete to this corrupted clear view of reality. But anyways, enough of that.

Welcome.