on liking things and strong opinions

I've realized something: I am not particularly a person of strong opinions. In fact, I am easily malleable in my personality. If you spend enough time with me, you can probably make me into a little duplicate copy of yourself. If you have any particularly strong opinions, I will share them with you, most likely, if I don't already have an opinion on that subject.

I have, therefore, no taste of my own. I am a simple creature. I like being made to laugh; I like being made to cry; I like pop culture. I think I avoided it for so long not because of snobbishness or because I was too highbrow but because I knew that if I gave in, I would give in totally. I appear to have no taste whatsoever.

Oh, there are things that I like. There just aren't things that I dislike, not unless they are atrociously bad. We saw Alex & Emma the other day. My friend hated it, despised it, said it was crap. Talked about the cimematography. My opinion, if you'd asked for a totally honest assesment, would have been,( spoilers for Alex & Emma )

. I'm not sure this is such a bad thing. Being happy is important, right?

And sometimes I get to be happy.

I am NOT just a superficial idiot, right?

killing bugs

Warning: if you have an ounce of human decency anywhere in your being, read no further.

Tonight I killed bugs. I stood on my computer chair wearing a pink nightgown. I was sweaty, hot, tired, angry. My brow was wet, I was dripping in more ways than one. My head ached. The bright lights made me ache. My ceiling was covered with bugs. Awful, malignant little black beasts. They don't sting or carry dangerous poison or eat through books. But they are vile, just the same. Evil bugs, awful bugs, covering my ceiling. So I held a tissue, wadded up, and crushed them. I would kill them with my fingertips, but even I am too squeamish for that; though I have done so sometimes, when they fly arrogantly across my computer screen. I chase them with a wide, greasy thumb that leaves rainbow smears on the monitor. I want to lop of my breasts to get rid of this excess of sweat beneath them. Staring up at the ceiling only makes my head hurt more. A dull, throbbing ache behind the temples. I think I should go to bed. But I know I will swallow hundreds of the nasty things in my sleep. That's the irony of it. No matter how many hours I spent crushing them--and oh, how I love to hear the soft, clear crack of exoskeleton beneath my fingers--there will only be more tomorrow. There is not getting rid of them.

I think there are two kinds. The slow, lumbering ones are bigger, and easier to kill. They can fly, but they don't, not as often as the others, small and brown and flighty, who are impossible to catch and who have the audacity to play on my computer screen. I don't like them as much; they are more difficult and not as satisfying to kill.

I smell. I can't tell if the itching is from bug bites or bugs playing on me or just my own sweat and hair. I think I will take a shower, though the bathroom is also infested with bugs. I hate them. I despise them. They are ugly and cruel and un-suburban. They are very rural. I hate them; they remind me that my family is sloppy and lazy and not-quite-proper.

They make me feel ashamed. So I will kill them, as many as I can, without remorse. There is no other way to get rid of them. They won't be gotten rid of. They are a plague.