Tag Archives: ramble

Paper, Plastic, Perspective

She was ahead of me in the checkout line on her phone and snapping her gum and orders at the cashier, all while looking as if standing there for five minutes was the end of the world. The cashier tried to make small talk, but was dismissed with a brush of this customer’s hand as she swiped her credit card through the reader.

I was annoyed just watching her.

When it was finally my turn to move up, the cashier began with the normal pleasantries as she started to scan up my order. I told her I was good and smiled, but made that little “eyebrows raised while looking at the back of the bitchy lady” face to let her know I felt her pain.

It was lost on her. She continued on with, “I’m great! How can you not be happy? It’s just always nice to talk to nice people.”

Now granted, I know for a fact from past experience that this cashier is a little bit “special,” and I mean no disrespect in that way. But seeing as she also tried to put canned goods on top of my bread, it’s possible she didn’t notice that woman’s rudeness. Maybe she did and she just didn’t care.

It was all a matter of perspective.

The bitchy woman was bitchy regardless, and while the cashier could have taken it personally or let it affect her mood, instead she just kept smiling and doing her job. 

As she continued to clumsily bag up my stuff, we continued our conversation about how it doesn’t take much to be nice, how just taking the time to smile can make all the difference in the world. 

This stuck with me.

There are moments when I focus on the bitchy woman instead of the smiling cashier, when the one negative thing out of my day will serve as the catalyst for a downward spiral.

I’m getting better with that externally, but I admit that I often see things that happen to other people through some sort of filter that inexplicably doesn’t apply to me. Anything positive is deflected when directed my way, but anything negative—real or perceived—is often absorbed and dwelled on in moments of doubt.

When I’m stuck in my head for whatever reason, I become blind to the simple things that could help pull me out, or at the very least, make me smile. 

Not cool, Abby, not cool.

So I suppose it’s a matter of realizing—no, not just realizing, but accepting the fact that (sometimes) I am a good friend, a good writer, etc. and that I do have great friends that care about me, even in those moments when I might not care about myself as much as I should.

Yes, that’s kind of cheesy and I’ll always be more sarcastic and snarky than sappy, but it’s all about those little reminders and perspective. If they can see the good in me with all my quirks and issues, then I want to try and see the good in almost everyone/every situation I face.

Except that bitchy lady. She was seriously rude and gave me the stink eye when she incorrectly assumed I was encroaching on her allotted grocery space. She can go fly a kite.

Anyway, everyone but her and those like her. The point is that kindness can go a long way—not to just other people, but also to yourself. I’m good at the former, and working on the latter.

Each day is a new chance to try.

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Riding Out the Wave

The other morning I woke up to birds chirping and sunlight streaming through my blinds. Instead of contentment, I immediately felt that both were seemingly mocking me.


I wanted it to be raining, to be dark, to have the universe send me a sign that it was okay to feel anything but sunny or happy and light.

Tempted to simply pull up the covers and block it all out—the sun, the sounds, the world—I knew that I wouldn’t, partly because I have a hard time being lazy and wallowing but also because I honestly didn’t have the luxury or the choice to do anything other than pull myself up and prepare for the day.

It went along as normal, and after the responsible things were all done I knew I could go one of two ways—self-destruction (common default) or self-care.

So I thought, “I should write. I should try and write something funny.”

I wanted to (attempt to) be funny, as writing those posts gets me out of my head and it stops me from feeling so shitty. Plus, people like to laugh or talk about themselves more than being faced with the reality of someone else’s struggles—me included.


But sometimes the weight presses down and the funny is squashed under shit.  There’s not some “big event” that brings it on, which makes me feel even worse, like I don’t deserve to feel so numb and disconnected.

It simply sneaks up and bites me in the ass and I find myself longing for any kind of escape. It drives me to literally run myself into the ground as I try and run away from it all (an entirely separate post I’ll probably never publish.)

Anyway, I was still at my computer—trying for a “healthy” escape—and thought that maybe I should write some artsy post in a way to pretend that I’m really just being creative and not on the low end of the wave.

Well, I tried, and I failed miserably at that, too.

It was at that point that I decided that was a shit idea anyway. The reason I would be doing that wasn’t to be artsy, but rather to hide behind a mask in an effort to make myself look a little bit better than how I really was in that moment—seeing the sun but yet stuck in the dark.

So I ended up with this post, one I probably shouldn’t publish. It’s not funny, it doesn’t really have a theme—it’s just me oversharing a bunch of things with cute pictures from Hyperbole & a Half because they fit and I read people like pictures in posts.

But also because I know that when I get this way I narrow my world down to the bare essentials in an effort to make myself feel safe.


That’s not good.

I reminded myself that this blog is important to me because it’s the one thing that’s allowed me to finally let people in instead of mistrusting them and blocking them out. So instead of worrying about what people think, I figured an emotional purge was a better than the alternative, so here you go.

And don’t worry.

This too shall pass, as it usually does. Sometimes in the same day I hear the birds and smile while 10 minutes later  I want to get out a pellet gun and mount the feathered bastard on the wall—metaphorically speaking of course.

I’m envious of those who don’t have to deal with this shit and can just be “okay” without so much effort, but that’s (my) life. And it’s one thing to be envious, but it’s another to be ashamed.

You should never be ashamed.

Unless you’re an adult who uses the word “adorbs” in conversation (topic of a future post.) 

Then all bets are off.

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