Now that I've finished my third self-indulgent memoir, I am at a loss of what to write next. Should I discuss politics or literature? Should I write an articulate rant? I considered writing another memoir; perhaps about something that has nothing to do with amusement parks. I have also considered editing all my memoirs, for I feel that they do not have enough semicolons. I do not know why I treat these memoirs with such reverence. Perhaps it is the amount of detail and work I put into these, taking days or even weeks to write even a single entry, editing and re-editing them. I certainly don't put as much effort into my other entries.
If I wrote another one, what would it even be about? One idea I had was that I would write about a trip my father and I took to The Shelburne Museum. I've also thought about writing about another amusement park trip, but I was afraid I would make myself redundant.
Normally, my mind is swimming in ideas about what to write, ideas I quickly forget due to the fact that I've got the attention span of a squirrel. But lately, I've been having some 'writer's block'. I don't know what ideas to use (if I can even conjure any to begin with) and when I do actually start to compose something, I begin to doubt its quality. Am I using too many details or not enough? Is my grammar correct; where do I put a semicolon? Did I use that semicolon in my last sentence correctly?
It seems of late, that my anxiety has gotten worse and worse. Every aspect of my life is fraught with intense feelings of anxiety and nervousness. My mind overcrowded with screaming obsessive thoughts. Then, the depression and the despair sweeps through. Nothing seems right, and everything my friends do or say annoys me.
I've had a lot of unwanted drama in my life lately, most of it of my own making. Things I should have left unsaid, now out in the open. Misunderstood words coming back to bite me in the ass. It feels like my life is falling apart, and at this point, I'm willing to let it. What else can I do? There does not seem to be much I can do to stop fate, so I am going to have to take things as they come, and learn to accept the inevitable.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Fox and Squirrel Pt. 11
This is the final chapter of my longest, most self-indulgent memoir. And this time, I mean it. I don't know what I'm going to blog about after this. I might start another memoir, or I might actually blog about something other than myself. Who knows? Also, I'm tired of writing this, so it might be a little bit sloppy.
Part 11: Time To Go Home
As you already know, we had chosen The Flying Trapeze to be our final ride. Since it was the end of the day, there was virtually no line. So we got on the ride much quicker than usual.
We selected our swings, and fastened all the safety restraints. While we waited for the ride to start, we swung ourselves back and forth, just like one would on a regular playground swing. I think a lot of people do this whenever they go one one of these rides.
The ride began, lifting us into the air, then us spinning around. It was pretty fast, though not as fast as the swings at Hershey Park (which are prettier as well, thanks to the art, which features Victorian women right out of Godey's Ladies Book). The view was pretty amazing though, one could see the setting sun, and The Boomerang Coaster. I could hear the kids behind us, talking about The Boomerang. Then one of them idly mentioned, that whenever they ride the swings, that they're afraid that the chains of their swing are going to snap off and send them flying to their deaths. I laughed, I have that exact same fear myself. I'm terrified that one day, I'll be riding one of these things, and the chains are just going to snap, sending me flying out to my certain doom. This is of course, very unlikely, since the chains are generally very strong, and one would have to be immensely heavy in order to make them break. You'd have to be, like 500 pounds in order for this to occur. But it's unlikely a 500 pound person would even be on one of these swings, because the seats would be unable to contain their ass, after all. Also, I think most rides have weight limits.
When the ride was over, it was time to go home. The park was closing, and crowds of people were navigating their way to the park's exit. We joined this great herd, which moved slowly, as if everyone was reluctant to leave or just too exhausted to move quickly. The latter is more logical. By park's closing, most people just want to get home, or to their hotel rooms and collapse. Amusement parks take a lot out of you.
Usually, whenever I leave an amusement park, I take a moment to muse upon its fading magic. During the day, an amusement park is loaded with magic. Its loud noises, its bright colors, the way they draw you in and enchant you. At night, when all the lights turn on and the place sparkles, there's a different kind of magic, but a magic all the same. But then, when the park closes, the fey glamor of the place wears off. The rides are still and silent, the concession stands no longer give off luscious smells. The place is going to sleep, and when it's sleeping, it can't work its magic on anyone.
But as we left, I was not musing upon these thoughts. I was just too tired, too sore and too uncomfortable to think. I just wanted to get out of this crowd, get to the car and go home. I wonder how Acacia felt. I think she was just as tired as I was, and probably not looking forward to driving all the way home.
We entered the little International Village, where, as you already know, the parks entrance and exit are located. We'd had our picture taken there that afternoon when we walked into the park, and meant to pick up the photos (supposedly they were free if we presented the ticket that the photographer given us). We never even got close to the photo kiosk though, because it was so crowded. It was as if every single park guest had rushed to that kiosk at once, and so we decided to head on home.
We exited through the gift shop, stopping to admire a few things, but since we had no money to spare, we moved on pretty quickly. After all, we really wanted to go home.
We made the long trek back to the car, our bodies sore, our legs unwilling. Up the ramp, over the bridge and into the vast parking lot. I wished we hadn't parked so far back. My bra was chafing my skin and my feet were hurting.
When finally we made it to the car, Acacia and I stripped off any garments we found uncomfortable. I whipped off my bra, for the under wire was poking and irritating my skin, the straps cutting into my shoulders. Acacia rid herself of those damp shorts, which she had been wearing all day without any complaint (though she had declared earlier that she would not wear them for the ride home). We threw our stuff into the back seat and got in the car. I peeled off my shoes and socks, and let my feet breathe.
The ride home was subdued. Every part of my body hurt, and I fell asleep quickly. I only woke up when we stopped at the Stewart's gas station. I had to pee, plus it was my job to pay for gas, seeing as Acacia was clad only in a t-shirt and bright orange underwear, and would not put those shorts on again for anything. So, I pulled on my sneakers without putting my sweaty socks back on or even bothering to lace them, and got out of the car with the rest of our cash.
I felt awkward, stumbling into Stewart's without a bra on. I'm very subconscious about my breasts (you would be too if you were my cup size) you see, and felt uncomfortable going into the station with them in their unbridled state. So I crossed my arms over my chest, as if trying to keep them from wandering away, and shuffled over to the bathroom.
It was occupied. Of course it was occupied. It's a well known fact, that whenever you're at a gas station and in a hurry, the bathroom will be occupied, or the line will be ridiculously long. Whenever you're in a hurry, there will always be some obnoxious obstacle.
Eventually, the man in the bathroom finally vacated (and naturally, it seemed like he took an eternity. It's as if they do it on purpose you know, because they know someone is waiting, and want to be a total dick about it.) and I had my turn. Then I went to the counter and bought our gas. It was my first time buying gas, and I had no idea how to do it. We didn't have enough money for the amount Acacia wanted, so I had to ask for as much gas as our money would buy. I don't even remember how much money it was nor do I remember which one of us pumped the gas. I think it must have been me, because in her pants-less state, Acacia could not get out of the car. I had to have her guidance of course, seeing as I don't know how to pump gas, much less even drive a car. The whole experience at the gas station was very surreal.
The rest of the ride home was very much a blur. I dozed on and off, my body screaming in pain from the day's excursions. At some point, we passed the state borders. We were back in Vermont.
But we weren't home yet. We still had aways to go, for we were on the west side of VT, and home was on the easternmost edge of the state. Luckily, we were in the narrowest part of the VT. But the ride still seemed to last forever, and not in the exciting way our ride to the Great Escape had been. After all, we were very tired. Also, I felt strangely melancholy, as I often do after a fun trip. There's all the emotional build-up and excitement. Then during the event itself, there's a kind of emotional climax. It's like being high on my own feelings. When it's all over, and I come down from this high, I find myself drained and depressed.
That's what I was feeling at the moment. Usually it goes away after a couple of days filled with feelings of uneasiness. But for some reason, after this trip, I sunk into another depression, which would land me in group therapy.
When we were approaching Chester, Acacia asked if I wanted to stay another night at her house, seeing as she would be too tired to drive into Bellow's Falls. As much as I adore Acacia, I didn't feel like staying another night in an unfamiliar place, and begged her to take me to my own home. I wanted to see my mother, and to sleep in my own bed. Kindly, she agreed, on the condition that I hand her a Rice Krispy treat to give her enough energy to get us both home. I obliged and we continued on to Bellow's Falls.
We pulled up in front of my house. I knew it was late, but I didn't know what time it was, only that it was dark. It may have been anywhere between 10 PM and Midnight. I gathered my things, my overnight bag, my backpack, the tote full of food and the cooler. So much stuff to drag inside! Then Acacia and I said our farewells, and I staggered into the house.
The end of our adventure is rather anticlimactic, I'm afraid. As soon as I got in the house, I dropped all the bags on the nearest chair, and changed into a pair of pajamas. I told my mother all about my day, describing rides, telling her how expensive it everything was.
I was exhausted, my body ached and my throat was hoarse from screaming on the roller coasters. Emotionally, I felt a little drained, the excitement of the day being over and all
And as I went to bed that night, physically and emotionally worn out, I knew one thing for certain.
I was going to write about this day in my blog.
Well, that's it. The damn memoir is finally finished. Maybe now I can write about something meaningful. Or, I can just write another self-indulgent memoir.
Part 11: Time To Go Home
As you already know, we had chosen The Flying Trapeze to be our final ride. Since it was the end of the day, there was virtually no line. So we got on the ride much quicker than usual.
We selected our swings, and fastened all the safety restraints. While we waited for the ride to start, we swung ourselves back and forth, just like one would on a regular playground swing. I think a lot of people do this whenever they go one one of these rides.
The ride began, lifting us into the air, then us spinning around. It was pretty fast, though not as fast as the swings at Hershey Park (which are prettier as well, thanks to the art, which features Victorian women right out of Godey's Ladies Book). The view was pretty amazing though, one could see the setting sun, and The Boomerang Coaster. I could hear the kids behind us, talking about The Boomerang. Then one of them idly mentioned, that whenever they ride the swings, that they're afraid that the chains of their swing are going to snap off and send them flying to their deaths. I laughed, I have that exact same fear myself. I'm terrified that one day, I'll be riding one of these things, and the chains are just going to snap, sending me flying out to my certain doom. This is of course, very unlikely, since the chains are generally very strong, and one would have to be immensely heavy in order to make them break. You'd have to be, like 500 pounds in order for this to occur. But it's unlikely a 500 pound person would even be on one of these swings, because the seats would be unable to contain their ass, after all. Also, I think most rides have weight limits.
When the ride was over, it was time to go home. The park was closing, and crowds of people were navigating their way to the park's exit. We joined this great herd, which moved slowly, as if everyone was reluctant to leave or just too exhausted to move quickly. The latter is more logical. By park's closing, most people just want to get home, or to their hotel rooms and collapse. Amusement parks take a lot out of you.
Usually, whenever I leave an amusement park, I take a moment to muse upon its fading magic. During the day, an amusement park is loaded with magic. Its loud noises, its bright colors, the way they draw you in and enchant you. At night, when all the lights turn on and the place sparkles, there's a different kind of magic, but a magic all the same. But then, when the park closes, the fey glamor of the place wears off. The rides are still and silent, the concession stands no longer give off luscious smells. The place is going to sleep, and when it's sleeping, it can't work its magic on anyone.
But as we left, I was not musing upon these thoughts. I was just too tired, too sore and too uncomfortable to think. I just wanted to get out of this crowd, get to the car and go home. I wonder how Acacia felt. I think she was just as tired as I was, and probably not looking forward to driving all the way home.
We entered the little International Village, where, as you already know, the parks entrance and exit are located. We'd had our picture taken there that afternoon when we walked into the park, and meant to pick up the photos (supposedly they were free if we presented the ticket that the photographer given us). We never even got close to the photo kiosk though, because it was so crowded. It was as if every single park guest had rushed to that kiosk at once, and so we decided to head on home.
We exited through the gift shop, stopping to admire a few things, but since we had no money to spare, we moved on pretty quickly. After all, we really wanted to go home.
We made the long trek back to the car, our bodies sore, our legs unwilling. Up the ramp, over the bridge and into the vast parking lot. I wished we hadn't parked so far back. My bra was chafing my skin and my feet were hurting.
When finally we made it to the car, Acacia and I stripped off any garments we found uncomfortable. I whipped off my bra, for the under wire was poking and irritating my skin, the straps cutting into my shoulders. Acacia rid herself of those damp shorts, which she had been wearing all day without any complaint (though she had declared earlier that she would not wear them for the ride home). We threw our stuff into the back seat and got in the car. I peeled off my shoes and socks, and let my feet breathe.
The ride home was subdued. Every part of my body hurt, and I fell asleep quickly. I only woke up when we stopped at the Stewart's gas station. I had to pee, plus it was my job to pay for gas, seeing as Acacia was clad only in a t-shirt and bright orange underwear, and would not put those shorts on again for anything. So, I pulled on my sneakers without putting my sweaty socks back on or even bothering to lace them, and got out of the car with the rest of our cash.
I felt awkward, stumbling into Stewart's without a bra on. I'm very subconscious about my breasts (you would be too if you were my cup size) you see, and felt uncomfortable going into the station with them in their unbridled state. So I crossed my arms over my chest, as if trying to keep them from wandering away, and shuffled over to the bathroom.
It was occupied. Of course it was occupied. It's a well known fact, that whenever you're at a gas station and in a hurry, the bathroom will be occupied, or the line will be ridiculously long. Whenever you're in a hurry, there will always be some obnoxious obstacle.
Eventually, the man in the bathroom finally vacated (and naturally, it seemed like he took an eternity. It's as if they do it on purpose you know, because they know someone is waiting, and want to be a total dick about it.) and I had my turn. Then I went to the counter and bought our gas. It was my first time buying gas, and I had no idea how to do it. We didn't have enough money for the amount Acacia wanted, so I had to ask for as much gas as our money would buy. I don't even remember how much money it was nor do I remember which one of us pumped the gas. I think it must have been me, because in her pants-less state, Acacia could not get out of the car. I had to have her guidance of course, seeing as I don't know how to pump gas, much less even drive a car. The whole experience at the gas station was very surreal.
The rest of the ride home was very much a blur. I dozed on and off, my body screaming in pain from the day's excursions. At some point, we passed the state borders. We were back in Vermont.
But we weren't home yet. We still had aways to go, for we were on the west side of VT, and home was on the easternmost edge of the state. Luckily, we were in the narrowest part of the VT. But the ride still seemed to last forever, and not in the exciting way our ride to the Great Escape had been. After all, we were very tired. Also, I felt strangely melancholy, as I often do after a fun trip. There's all the emotional build-up and excitement. Then during the event itself, there's a kind of emotional climax. It's like being high on my own feelings. When it's all over, and I come down from this high, I find myself drained and depressed.
That's what I was feeling at the moment. Usually it goes away after a couple of days filled with feelings of uneasiness. But for some reason, after this trip, I sunk into another depression, which would land me in group therapy.
When we were approaching Chester, Acacia asked if I wanted to stay another night at her house, seeing as she would be too tired to drive into Bellow's Falls. As much as I adore Acacia, I didn't feel like staying another night in an unfamiliar place, and begged her to take me to my own home. I wanted to see my mother, and to sleep in my own bed. Kindly, she agreed, on the condition that I hand her a Rice Krispy treat to give her enough energy to get us both home. I obliged and we continued on to Bellow's Falls.
We pulled up in front of my house. I knew it was late, but I didn't know what time it was, only that it was dark. It may have been anywhere between 10 PM and Midnight. I gathered my things, my overnight bag, my backpack, the tote full of food and the cooler. So much stuff to drag inside! Then Acacia and I said our farewells, and I staggered into the house.
The end of our adventure is rather anticlimactic, I'm afraid. As soon as I got in the house, I dropped all the bags on the nearest chair, and changed into a pair of pajamas. I told my mother all about my day, describing rides, telling her how expensive it everything was.
I was exhausted, my body ached and my throat was hoarse from screaming on the roller coasters. Emotionally, I felt a little drained, the excitement of the day being over and all
And as I went to bed that night, physically and emotionally worn out, I knew one thing for certain.
I was going to write about this day in my blog.
Well, that's it. The damn memoir is finally finished. Maybe now I can write about something meaningful. Or, I can just write another self-indulgent memoir.
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