Stop Requested, a preview...

It's September 11th, 2001, about 8:35am. I have just taken my first sip of Colombian drip, light and sweet from Starbucks on Harvard Avenue in Boston. At the ripe age of 17, on the bus headed toward week 2 at the Art Institute.... I gaze out of the window in awe of this picturesque city I have so willingly turned into my new home. Coming from a place like Long Island, I never would have imagined being surrounded by so much history and deceptive beauty. Life changes dramatically in the events to follow on that beautiful morning.

Lets call her a plus sized woman. With nappy blonde hair and rainboots. She fills the coin slot and announces to the #66 bus, Scrunchies are back. Well, she didnt actually say the words out loud but her -Jan Brady- pony flip and offensive dye job said everything that needed to be said. Statements without words are far more effective if you ask me.

I vaguely remember the scent of potent coffee in my left nostril and feel of the single strap gap bag buckling to my chest as if it knew there was something terribly wrong with this scenario. I wished nothing more than diarrhea on this unfortunate soul standing before me. My teenage angst and judgemental disposition would never be the same. I had finally had the "ah ha moment" Oprah raved about season after season. In this moment of absolute scrunchie induced rage, I accepted the fact that my mother had ruined me for all eternity. Yea, ok it's a stretch but you'll get to know her and understand why she is the reason my life was turned upside down by a tacky piece of fabric attached to the abomination that was this deamon spawn woman's head.

As we continued down Harvard Avenue I became transfixed with the scrunchie. I needed to understand in it's entirety why this woman had experienced such despair in her life that she felt like a scrunchie was just an acceptable part of her everyday life. It wasn't like she was unattractive. She had something going for her... I mean, I don't remember what that was because... FUCK! That scrunchie was revolting. But who broke her heart? Where did her self esteem go? What was the meaning of life? Gross, scrunchies ruin perfectly beautiful days.

I press the piece of yellow tape against the wall of the bus as I approach Brookline Avenue. "Stop Requested" lights up above the windshield on #66. I sigh and think to myself, "Ugh! This is the worst morning of my life."

Altthough, there was something about that light, "Stop Requested." I didn't understand it or really think too much about it at the time but, you know that deja vu feeling you get and it's almost indescribable? Yea, that's how I felt for weeks while taking the 66. It happened on the trolley as well. Every time, without fail. Happiness would consume my soul every time I was the one to illuminate that light. Most people go about their lives with the push of yellow tape, dreading that the are going to work the second they step onto the sidewalk. Me, on the other hand... something exciting, unexpected waited for me every time I pushed that tape. Something to see, learn, experience was on the other side of the doors and I couldn't wait to find out what it was.

Down the doughnut hole....

I've spent the past few weeks enjoying life and allowing in creative inspiration with the help of two good friends, Kettle and Pot. They each inspired me in much different ways. The kettle says, "Be aggressive. Pour every last drop of insanity and sexual energy into your passion." The kettle and I have a special relationship. She and I became close friends back when I realized I was spending much too much time with some bottom of the barrel bitches who made me feel bad about myself. I used to spend days feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt and anguish. Sometimes even nausea, all at the hand of these cheap losers. Kettle somehow showed me a side to life I knew I deserved. But as Kettle and I have progressively been falling deeper in love, Pot has been telling me some really nasty secrets Kettle has been hiding. Pot says to me the other day, "Kettle is a product of incest. She tries to make you like her using false pretenses of warmth and euphoria but she'll never tell you what her real motive is, seclusion."

I took all of the things Pot told me into account, all the while noting secretly to myself that he tends to be a bit paranoid. Pot and I met a few years back when we were introduced in High School. We really didn't get along too well at first but when we ran into each other years later in San Diego, I found his laid back demeanor elating. Pot has encouraged my sensibility and creativity in ways no one ever has or can. The one thing that I know I can count on Pot for though, would be his ability to ruin a perfectly good conversation with a single thought. He intentionally provokes really dark ideas in the middle of a perfectly good evening. The last one for example was a rant about North Koreans taking over the world with one swift flip of a switch. He had me believe that North Korea would invade the world in a guerrilla type fashion while donning sombreros, forcing humanity into a fog of communism and hypnosis. While I appreciate his sense of theatrics and banter, he doesn't truly understand the impact he has with the level of confidence he conveys in each statement. Sometimes it takes a night of anxiety stricken sleep and a moment with fox news to remember that I live in a different type of fucked up unreality than previously described.

Taking all of these thoughts and experiences into account, I knowingly put Kettle and Pot into the same room to see what may happen. They flowed for a while, singing along together to the likings of Tina Turner. They spoke about pop culture and even snacked on mini powdered doughnuts. We laughed, we cried, we played scrabble.

The evening shifted when I said it was time to turn in. Both Pot and Kettle ganged up on me, insisting that I was abandoning them. They agreed that I have become complacent with their roles in my life and didn't feel as though I needed them as strongly as I once did. I ignored the insults and childish cries for attention as I rinsed the exfoliant from my face and brushed my teeth, then crawled into bed. Nothing could have prepared me for the events to follow. Kettle swooped into my room and aggressively spun my bed around like a propeller. I never knew the strength that girl had until I was sitting there frightened like a drag queen in direct sunlight. In came Pot, blasting his iHome with a song entitled "North Korea - Hell March." They became a blur as I was being taunted by the bass and violently spinning until I finally screamed in fear, unable to control the projectile vomit that showered the once crisp white walls and 1,000 count Egyptian cotton.

Alas, Kettle and Pot disappeared.

 Leaving me cold and alone with nothing more than a mess and a really fucked up story.

KONY 2012

I love how well thought out and executed this entire idea is. I feel like we're all going to look back one day and remember KONY as being the first of many events that changed our culture(s)