Post-Mortem Modernism

Nature shoved its face into my world, uninvited, and I didn’t like it one bit. I popped into the break room to grab my morning Diet Dr Pepper and after I had put sixty cents into the machine, there is was. Staring at me. Twitching it long inelegant limbs, twirling its antennae. Mocking me with its very presence, daring me to do something drastic, like move at all. A bloody huge white praying mantis was in my break room, crawling up the side of the soda machine and making its way to the buttons on the front.


No, I didn’t have any sappy reactions, like being struck by it’s alien beauty, and the sight of nature and the cold office world side by side didn’t make my lifestyle seem hallow. No no no, I was thinking what the hell is this doing anywhere near my perfect, pristine, not-remotely-tied-to-nature world? Except that sentence had a lot more profanities in my head.

What I did next is a pretty telling statement about my personality—don’t ask me what it tells, but I’m fairly certain it’s significant, whatever it is. What I did next was: nothing. I didn’t squish it, I didn’t gently catch it up in a cup (yeah right, like that great beast of an insect would have fit) and set it free, I just slowly pushed the Diet Dr Pepper button (with my extended toe, keeping hands and face as far away from the machine as possible), grabbed my soda, and ran—well, stumbled rapidly down the hallway in my heels—back to my cubicle, telling no one of what had happened.

I’m sorry, but I couldn’t touch it! If I had, I would be completely incapable of working right now. I’d be going through some sort of weird cleansing ritual over and over, or trying to scratch off the top layer of my skin, either way making myself like unto an insect. If you touch them you become like them, and that’s what they want!! I had to stand strong.

As a sidebar, the effects of this encounter are insidious in their far-reaching impact. As if it wasn’t hard enough to keep my legs smooth after shaving when I wear a skirt to work in a frigid basement, after this morning’s invasion I’ve just given up. The prickly legs aren’t going to be stopped, what with me thinking about that unholy praying mantis (pun partially intended) and every time getting covered in goose bumps by the thought. Also, I'm quite caffeine deprived.

This entire incident is reminding me of the X-files episode “War of the Coprophages.” David Duchovny and I had very similar thoughts on bugs. Mmm Mulder is so my man. That epic X-files marathon I had this summer has possibly done some permanent damage to my brain. Nothing serious, I just go weak at the knees if the combination of a strong jawline and a vague conspiracy theory presents itself.

I don’t know why I’m suddenly becoming more prolific on this here slice of the blogosphere. Maybe it’s the oncoming of fall that is restoring rigor to my blood and brain. Maybe it’s the books I’m reading. Or maybe it’s the so-early-morning-it’s-late-night two hour commute to work that gets me so bored I’m forced to think of abstract subjects to distract myself. That's right, thought other than motor functions has apparently become a last resort.

But this schedule is pretty much opposite of what my life was like all summer—sleeping in until four, realizing the time, showering just in time to show up at the diner, work until I’m stupid with tiredness, watch TV until dawn, sleeping again. Didn’t really leave much room for ponderings or philosophizing, which is how I got into the bad habit of allowing the status quo to rule my head.

But that's all changed now! Once again, I think everything that passes through my consciousness has a kernel of profundity and even if it doesn't, how can we be sure until we've shared it? I’ll let you decided whether or not that’s a good change.

Or maybe we can blame all of this on the return of Becca to Provo! Maybe she’s my muse, like Xanadu! Except she doesn’t have cankles like Olivia Newton-John. I can guarantee that Becca would be very embarrassed/distressed if she knew I was accusing her of being my muse, but that’s what a best friend gets when she takes a stand against ever ever reading my blog. What a punk of a muse.

The world needs order! In this chaotic time of strip searches at the airport, an economy crashing around our ears, a political climate about as friendly as the surface of Mercury, and a decade that seems entirely bereft of my favorite childhood snack (graham cracker Dunkaroos with the chocolate frosting), I cling to any semblance of a Grand Plan. And I promise you, if there is any grand plan, not only would it have me swimming in a lake the Dunkaroos frosting, The Plan would make sure that my box of paper clips would not constantly be meshing together to form one huge net of paper clip bunches.

When I have a deadline to get wires out by the end of my shift and I still have twenty different papers to collate and send hither and thither, the very last thing I need is to try to detach eight different paper clips from each other in order to finish my job. We aren’t making office jewelry, people! If we can split the atom, then we as a society can get the right people on the job to figure out how to store paper clips in a way that they won’t be tempted to join together and, I don’t know, mate or something. Maybe that’s why my paper clips always come in assorted sizes, they’re self-perpetuating. Gross. Paper clip sex.