I’m doing something risky this week. I’m openly mocking last week’s story…to drive the point home.
I’ve never toyed with this particular trick before. Turning one of my characters on the narrator. On myself, I guess. But it felt like it fit.
Also, Vye was positively giddy with delight at the idea. She wouldn’t stop bouncing, reading over my shoulder as I wrote and pointing at the screen. Eh, she’s gets into her job.
As for possible deeper meaning, yeah, there is some. No, I’m not telling you what it is. Apply your own. It works on many levels.
No prompt. No longer series. Just these two parts.
I hope you enjoy it. As always, your comments are welcome.
weather girl, part two
So you read ‘part one’, huh? The ridiculous drivel that makes me sound like I’m some kind of poetic marvel. Like walking around in my own personal monsoon is a metaphysical experience.
I mean, I get it. It’s a writer’s job to make even the most mundane thing sound magical. The sun doesn’t shine. It pierces the sky in a thousand rays of incandescent brilliance.
But really, it just shines.
I don’t fault the story tellers of the world for creative flare, but you should know my life’s not like that. In fact, hearing one of my greatest personal challenges described as if it’s a mystical wonder leaves me a little irritated. Peeved, even.
Now there’s a word that doesn’t get enough airtime. PEEVED. Say it five times fast and try not to smile. I dare you.
Oh, and bringing Simone up was too much. I’m not going to say anything else about her. I can’t. Or don’t want to. Whatever.
That was…so wrong.
Anyway, my point is there’s creative license and there’s reality. If I want to look normal, I have to study forecasts and memorize stuff down to the hour. Every. Single. Day. And if I don’t, I look weird.
Like, someone-get-a-straight-jacket weird.
Sure, a girl who experiences her very own alternate universe in the form of personalized weather patterns sounds like a kick-ass idea for an independent film, but it’s not a fun phenomenon to actually live.
So what if it’s 93° out for everyone else? I get to roam the streets in a blizzard. So I dress in layers and avoid eye contact, because people stare.
Oh momma, do they stare.
You wouldn’t think clothes would be such a big deal, but they are. We size people up based on the packaging. Wear the wrong thing, something everyone else thinks is well outside the norm, and you might as well be naked.
Scratch that. Naked would be easier for others to process.
I honestly think I could put together an outfit made entirely of banana peels, dental floss, and Walmart bags and people would be more accepting. You know, as long as it was seasonally appropriate.
Because we’re talking about The Weather. It’s a universal thing. Everyone (else) on the planet shares it.
No one in the history of ever has asked, “How’s your weather today?” People talk about The Weather. Like there’s only one way to experience it.
Then here I come. Enter psycho, stage left. I walk in and mothers start clutching their young protectively. The girl whose appearance fails to fall within the acceptable range just has to be a few sandwiches shy of a picnic.
Yeah, I don’t get invited to a lot of birthday parties.
[Insert heavy sigh.]
Some days I try to fake it. I think maybe if I can pull it off, at least I’ll fit in. Everyone else is into blending. It can’t be all bad, right?
I read up on the expected high and low, the predicted precipitation. I dress the way I’m supposed to (even if it’s wildly uncomfortable), and I roll. Then everyone else is comfy cozy with how I look, and I’m miserable.
It’s a lot of things, this bizarre condition of mine, but it’s not the epic experience our narrator friend made it out to be. It’s more like eating soup with a fork.
In front of an audience.
Of people who work at a spoon factory.
But there was one line I liked. I’ll admit that. It was the last bit. “Perhaps today her sun will shine.”
And here’s the thing. That line? Oh, it’s cheesy as hell. Seriously, when you read it there should be sparkly unicorns along the edges of the page and “All You Need Is Love” should be playing in the background.
But its Velveeta-tine nature aside, it’s a nice sentiment. Also, sometimes it’s true.
There are days when every asshole I cross gives me a weird look, and I should be painfully aware of the fact that I’m a freak, but I’m inexplicably happy. All the sour looks, judgment, and condescension in the world can’t compete with the quiet beauty of sunshine on your shoulder.
In those moments, the simple-minded fuckers of the world with their narrow concepts of normality cease to matter.
Those days are the good ones. They keep me going.