Archive for September, 2009

Randomique & The Lawyer: The Vengeance

Posted in Random Randomness by Randomique on September 10, 2009 by Randomique Jester

People tend to complain my posts are too heavy, probably because they are.

One of the readers even asked me if I was happy with my life and it sounded like he was about to give me the number for the Suicide Hot Line.

Well, first of all, yes I am content with my life, thank you for your interest. And second of all, a lot of you don’t realize that when I don’t write profound thoughts to an imaginary audience I lead a real life, in which I act like a 10 years old 90% of the time.

I throw tantrums, I play pranks, I do silly little dances in my cubicle and one of my favorite ways of spending my lunch hour is people watching.

Oooh, Randomique, you lead such an exciting life!- you might say, sarcastically. But before you judge, think about this: would you be reading this blog if YOU were leading exciting lives? No, I didn’t think so.

And as a matter of fact, people watching can be very fun.

The other day I saw a tall businessman on a bicycle, he had thick square glasses – the type serial rapists have on “Wanted” ads – and he was eating a sandwich with one hand and awkwardly maneuvering the bike with the other. He also had this demented smile on him (since he was clearly too busy to eat tuna on regular days and this was an exception) and all the while he had mayo dripping on his tie and chin.

A smiling businessman on a bike might not seem amusing to everyone but my perverted mind works in such mysterious ways that the white, dripping mayonnaise around his lips made it so much more comically enticing; I couldn’t help but let my imagination run a marathon and I eventually started giggling like the 10-year-old girl I emotionally am.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he rolled by like a fat kid on Christmas who got a giant cake made from… tuna. And since I have really bad social skills (as you can tell) I didn’t bother pretending the source of my amusement was anything other than the Tuna eating biker. I might have even pointed and yelled “GEE, LOOK AT THE UGLY DUDE ON THE BIKE!”.

Okay, so I didn’t yell and point, but I did laugh like a hyena in heat. The skittles in my lap rattled and spread on the ground and people looked around wondering if someone let a Capuchin monkey lose.

Alright, since we’ve grown rather fond of this businessman we might as well make it personal and call him… Harold!

Well, Harold threw an angry look at me and even twisted his neck to look behind him in search of the maniacal laughter.

Uh-oh, a lawyer!*

* The Lawyer is an angry beast from the underworld whose behavioral patterns often involve lecturing others grandeloquently about their insignificant role in society when compared to those defending murderers and sex offenders in the court of law. They are self-righteous, obnoxious and wear funny looking ties (often stained with mayo as it appears). They are likely bitter about the fact they’ve spent 8 years of their life in University, without having a social life and feel those who dress casually should pay for it with their brain cells.

I knew he was going to turn around and lecture me because it happened before. Lawyers have another favorite snack for lunch and it appears to be me. They lecture me in lines to the movies, at bus stations, at supermarkets (when I used to work in one) and in this case, when I laugh at them.

So Harold turns with a vengeance, his stained tie blowing in the wind like an antenna detecting 21-year-old, billing clerks. I knew he’s going to pull the Cop routine, where he self-importantly stops inches from my face and takes his time, with a grave demeanor, to get off the bike as he prepares to lecture me about working in McDonald’s for the rest of my life (even though I rarely eat there let alone work there). Lawyers assume that anyone who doesn’t wear a tie is likely to work for McDonald’s and according to this logic the entire corporate world is divided into law officials and McDonald’s workers.

He turns with a screech and does a little spin around the fountain, all the while staring me down with his angry, beady eyes. People snicker. I look like a puppy about to get executed. The closer he gets to the bench I’m lunching on the wider his sex offender smile gets.

Inches away from me he… begins to waddle. Still maneuvering one handedly he is unable to stabilize the bike; he looks on the ground on my army of darkness – the colorful skittles, viciously scattered around my bench, protecting me from the wrath of lawyers.

The next happens rather fast so I’ll spare you melodramatic description.

He looks down. He looks up. He is confused. He looks at me. I grin. He looks at his sandwich: should he throw it and spare himself embarrassment? No, it’s too darn good. He waddles again, afraid he’ll fall to the left, he leans to the right. And he falls like a beached fish who got a lethal heart-attack.

There is a momentary silence as all the lunching employees from the neighboring office buildings, gathered in little hierarchal groups stop their chatter and stare. The only sounds heard are that of chirping birds, intermittently passing cars and the water fountain.

I bite my lip down.

I grin.

I frown.

I smile widely, a smile full of teeth.

And I burst with my loud childish laughter for the next five minutes.

Suddenly aware of Harold scowling on the ground, I collect my belongings and I rise from the bench completely forgetting about the skittles in my lap (once again) and let them fall and scatter around Harold who’s still lying intertwined with his bike.

Feeling the hostility rise from the ground like poisonous gas I hasten my steps, but before I get too far I turn to Harold and I ask nonchalantly and probably insensitivity: “are you a lawyer?”

He just stares at me with immense hate and I take it as ‘yes’.

It happened a week ago and I haven’t seen Harold again even though I take my lunch on the same bench pretty much every day. I wonder if he’s too embarrassed to come back or if he even works around that park.

But sometimes I like to imagine, maybe out of masochism… I like to imagine and shudder at the possibility that somewhere, Harold is waiting for us to cross paths; with his glasses illuminated by a rusty street light, his horrible smile, bearing yellowish crowded teeth and his chin, dripping with mayo he is waiting for me in a dark, abandoned alley.


The Pursuit of Perfection/ Randomique in Wonderland

Posted in Random Randomness by Randomique on September 9, 2009 by Randomique Jester

alice,in,wonderland,films,alice,film-daaf98f939d869dcce68ef60e83a09fe_hThe pursuit of perfection is fruitless.

I find myself comfortably (numb) in a made up world that accommodates every one of my finicky desires. I have conjured up every little detail of this imaginary world, no matter how filthy and dystopian it might be. My characters are not happy people picking flowers in the fields, they’re deep, tortured and righteous individuals.

Some things remain the same. The mass media could never be anything other than what they are – hungry vultures, tearing flesh from limb on a quest for their own survival.

Rock stars are still idolized, celebrities are worshipped.

There are ugly people and there are beautiful as much as there are those who commit crimes and those who don’t. However the line between good and evil is blurred indefinitely and my favorite heros and heroines, driven by intense passion and self-conflict, kill not only for self defense but for sport.

And I like it just fine.

My world is magnified, it’s as intense and as righteous as my raging emotions; it cannot be bound. I find myself swept sometimes, not realizing the limitations of the “real”, fake world I am forced to (physically) live in.

My moralities are challenged and I find myself breaking all the rules and disregarding those I cherish, perhaps because they don’t have a place in my world, just a vague presence that is never explored. It is most likely because my world revolves almost entirely around me :]

And yet, I never seem to get what I want. Which makes me wonder, do women really know what they want? Would they still want it after they’ve gotten it or would they feel trapped and pursue something else? Or worse, would they try to change what is beyond their reach (i.e other people)?

I am content in exploring these questions in my version of utopia. I don’t like it here. I don’t like the imperfect aspect of this world. I hate the mind-numbing stupidity, I hate being misunderstood or inhibited, I can’t stand being oppressed by those who are louder (not wiser), I hate how our value is still judged by the exterior rather than our intellectual and emotional qualities.

This world isn’t my kind of ‘fair’. I am too righteous to be able to walk among these absent minded creatures and not feel assaulted by every word, every action whether it’s directed towards me or not. I’ve always thought my desire to flee from every place I grew accustomed to was genetic, but my mother had her reasons too I’m sure.

I know it isn’t normal to live in a world you despise, or isolate yourself even from those who love you in their dysfunctional way but… no, scratch that. I DON’T know that, I only know that because I was told my genuine necessity to be left alone – is not normal.

Do you blame me for wanting to escape? Perhaps be a permanent resident of a world in which I am not only normal, but celebrated, understood, cherished and revered?!

Going back to the subject of my life needing to showcase some sense of irony……. Everything I do, all of us in fact at least to some extent, we do to please and impress this enormous, faceless body called “Society”.

But who is society? What are her hobbies? Who are her friends? Did she ever stutter in front of a crowd? Was she embarrassed? Did she stumble on the way up the stairs? Does she lie? Does she cheat? Will she understand and relate to you as a small insignificant part of her?

The short answer? No.

The long one? Nooooooooooooooooo.

Society is far too rigid. It is heartless. The ‘crowd’… it can’t be bothered to be more specific than a stereotype not does it like being apologetic. You fall where you may, into neat little shelves, where you are to be dissected and scrutinized – such is the man made monster called society.

And it grows bigger.While I still, fall between the cracks.

I can’t be dissected and though I should be relieved to have escaped, to have slid by, unnoticed, I feel underprivileged… like an innate right has been taken away from me… like I’m not “normal” for not being classified, for being the “odd number out”…

I slip through the cracks,


I fall,

like Alice

in my own wonderland.

And I’m happy there.

The Game That Is Life

Posted in Random Randomness by Randomique with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 5, 2009 by Randomique Jester

Why can’t we keep our thoughts to ourselves?

We need twenty different aliases, seven other personalities, hundreds of facial expressions, thirty-five different reactions, three different names and at least two email accounts.

We’re spreading ourselves over uncharted territory but instead of celebrating our particular, complete personality we’re dividing it into little aspects of ourselves that can’t define us.

People who met me in person, my friends, the readers of my various blogs, co-workers and school-mates – are all familiar with distinct but separate aspects of my personality. And if they all got together in one room they would argue, vivaciously I’m sure, about the kind of person I truly am.

We tend to hide behind a facade that is particularly appropriate in a given situation. I mean, you can’t express how cool and cynical you are by making nonchalant comments to your boss; even though he might appreciate these traits in different circumstances.

I’m sure there are people who wear their hearts and personalities on their sleeve  and they act the same way as they would in the office, with their friends and at home. Doing just that requires confidence. You have to feel like there’s nothing about you that needs hiding or should be toned down. It also requires being monodimnesional.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe we were never meant to be cautious of what others might think of us. Maybe these social standards are impeding our expression. Maybe we should wave one big middle finger in the air and not worry about being imperfect.

Maybe, but his is impossible for me to do. As a perfectionist and self-critic I like the little barriers I build between me and the rest of the people in my life. And what I like the most is the beautiful, inspiring notion of being able to make a brand new impression on a new set of eyes.

I thrive on this notion because wherever my failed attempts at self-transformation lead me I feel like I can wipe the slate clean and be that perfect, admirable role-model to someone.

But I also lack any shred of hope that this might be true in any period of time. How can anyone be considered admirable or perfect? Even celebrities with their perfect bodies and million dollar smiles wear make-up and have a photoshop expert at hand. Their actions and behaviors are mostly amusing rather than reverence inspiring. And yet, we want. We want our neighbour’s grass and the gnomes that come with it.

Surely, anything could be better than this. Other people must have it easier with their white picket fences, their sparkling teeth and shiny hair, their trained dogs, their trophy spouses and their polished yachts sailing in waves of cash.

If only it were that easy.

We were programmed to want more. We were brewed to never be satisfied. It doesn’t matter what cards we were dealt with or how we got to our next venture and weather we have succeeded. The happiness and the satisfaction is momentary. Love is fleeting.

It is sadness and trauma that have a lasting effect. I don’t know about you but the first things that surge from my past are painful memories even though I have a tenfold more of happy ones. But the happy memories are vague and blurry and indistinguishable from past every day routine. While these little tragedies are so shocking to our systems that they are instantly engraved in our minds and dictate our lives from then on.

Wow. I’ve managed to depress even myself.

I’m hopeless and I live a bleak life.

But I do hope that in time I disprove myself, that I will be able to look at myself and look at my life and think that I could die tomorrow and wouldn’t have a single regret.

I wish it were true, that life was just a game and if you were ever loved – you most definitely win.

The Irony

Posted in Uncategorized on September 5, 2009 by Randomique Jester

I think it’s ironic how someone who craves attention so utterly would have a blog that has been swallowed in the vastness of the web blogging community. Ignored, lonely, odd, random and now neglected – such is my poor little Live-Journal blog.

Don’t get me wrong, it was personal and I would dread it if my mom stumbled upon it (by some cruel twist of fate) and discovered that instead of New Year’s resolutions her only child is writing angry poetry and discusses masturbation. But… for someone as opinionated as I am, being unheard is… unheard of!

I have no point. Nor does this blog really.

Or maybe there is?…

I haven’t written anything worth reading for years, maybe it’s time to rekindle my love for writing. Whatever trauma it was that inhibited me from pursuing anything recreational (except for drugs) has been crippling me for too long. I feel like I’m wasting away.

Food has lost its affect on me. I hate everything I write, draw. I never bothered buying that E string fro my electric. I dare not leave the house without makeup. I like to live my life mostly through noble TV characters; I identify with their neurosis, I defend their oddities, I celebrate their triumphs but I neglect my body (because I loathe it), I obsess over how society precieves me (which I rebel against) and I go against every grain of fundumental belief, every second of every minute of every day.

I am the all-American singing dancing crap of the world.

Why? As if it isn’t obvious. Fear. Say it with me, dear members of the jury. FEAR.

And it’s all your fucking fault.

Yes, I blame society. Because society has taught me to blame everyone else. The FDA, the senators, Bush, our parents, corrupt cops, bad doctors, alcoholics, murderers, scum of the earth. But there really aren’t any bad people are there? There aren’t any good people either. There are two polar sides and it’s up to you to take one. The blaming game is the basis of the legal system and it will always be part of human nature to be right, lazy and selfish.

Am I right or am I right? Well, I’m still lazy and slefish. Two out of three ain’t bad.

I think I need some ass kicking. I’m 21. Every little goal I’ve set myself and (quite miraculously) accomplished made me run the other way. Every time I was two steps away staring success in the face I… panicked, and the adrenaline rushed through me like poison and instead of remaining patrified (still, immobile) I took a turn the other way. I flunked, I failed, I made a scene, I’ve lost the best things I’ve ever had and then I got a stupid smile of satisfaction on my face. Now, my life is no longer a perfect, boring routine- I can start over, I can have something to do.

Problem is, I never did. I’ve remained in mourning. The memories and the regrets keep me chained to the floor. Now I lead an even more boring life; a hunchbacked hermit, with a patch and an alcohol problem…

Ok, I’m exaggerating now. I’m a writer goddamnit! Sorta. Kinda. Am I? Ha. I’ve ran so far into the other direction I am now unsure of who I really am and what I want to be. What is really ironic is that I’ve had my life planned out carefully since I was eight and the closer I got to university the more unsure I was of it all.

Am I good enough? – is something I keep asking myself. And my answer seems to be always “no”. My writing ‘skills’ are average at best, ameteurish. I’m probably average looking, putting aside my bf’s exclaims about the perfection of my ass, I’ll never do great things, or be someone… So why bother?

Excuses. A waste of my time while I should be doing something. I know all this yet all I can do is write this stupid blog post about a seemingly random topic: “irony”.

Isn’t that ironic?


Is it? Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think? Does the irnoy slap you in the face like a wet fish? Do you rage, do you pity my poor defenseless, senseless blog and its inevitable, tragic destiny? Do you feel like I’ve wasted five minutes of your life (go back to YouTube, asshole)? Do you wish you could stop reading this nonsense but you can’t, it’s like 9/11 all over again – horrifying but a very captivating subject that can be squeezed and dissected without merit?

Or do you wonder, is this but a ploy to get someone to read my LJ blog other than my bf when he’s trying to figure out my cryptic behaviour (and getting even more puzzlement instead)?

Do you find it ironic, perhaps, that nothing I have mentioned is in no way ironic?

What do you think of Alanis Morisette anyway?

– Randomique