Anecdotal Evidence

Shit I Found in My Room: The Story of the Shit I Found in My Room

To clarify, I did not find literal shit in my room, although it’s not beyond a reasonable doubt since my cat definitely has irritable bowel syndrome. Rather, this is about the random objects that litter my life / room and the story behind them. Don’t worry, I edited heavily so I won’t subject you to details about the five half-full glasses of water by my bed, the dead cactus, or the *giant glass head I stole from a high school drama teacher. You’re welcome.

Now, let’s begin.

Cardboard Pancakes

Many moons ago, I went to a rave with a couple friends. It was as expected, meaning my eardrums exploded and strangers touched my face a lot. At 1 am, I found myself in the cold, cold streets wearing my tried-too-hard rave attire and shivering violently. A group of guys came along, and one offered me his sweatshirt (Sweatshirt Guy), which had paint splattered up one sleeve. The other made a Star Wars reference (Star Wars Guy) and thus I immediately trusted them. So at 1:30 am we went and got pancakes at a late-night diner. I ended up keeping the sweatshirt.

Through the beauty of social media, I found out that Sweatshirt Guy was an **artist, and not of the shabby or cliché variety. Literally 5 years later, I decided to buy a couple of his pieces and lo and behold, he sent pancakes as well. I like to think that if he becomes the next Picasso (nice topical reference) I will make billions off the rare work of art, entitled (by me), These Pancakes Taste like Cardboard.


Moral of the story: Stars Wars trivia shouldn’t be your sole criteria for trusting strangers, but you might get pancakes if you do. Just to be safe, pack mace.

Flamboyant Dinosaurs

I went to the Crafty Shack and was surrounded by 4-year-olds painting the Mona Lisa (nice topical reference #2) on soap dishes and butter plates. That inexplicably pissed me off so I decided to show them what a real 4-year-old should paint like. Also, I love dinosaurs and have no skills with a paintbrush.


Moral of the story: Don’t lose your dinosaur. 


When I travel somewhere new, I usually snag a rock and bring it home. I’m not saying I have piles of graphite and sandstone in the corners of the room, it’s more like I accidentally tracked in dirt. But whenever I feel anxious or sad, I hold a rock tight and close my eyes and picture myself back in the place where I found it. I imagine all the feet that walked on it, and all the time and weather that shaped it, and it gives me an infinitesimal amount of strength. Sometimes that’s enough.


The rocks also remind me of my favorite poem by Charles Simic called, The Stone. READ IT! (Sorry for yelling.)

Moral of the story: If you’re mean to me, I’ll throw rocks at you.

Who Moved My Cheese (For Teens) ???

It’s normal for me to have ever-growing piles of books in my room, but the other day, beneath a tower of fiction, I found Who Moved My Cheese (For Teens). Like, was there too much nudity in the adult version? I don’t know! For those of you whose father’s favorite books aren’t The Fountainhead and Who Moved My Cheese, I’ll fill you in. The story is about two mice named Sniff and Scurry and two mouse-sized people named Hem and Haw. Hem and Haw suck and can’t adapt to change, but the mice are killing it, and find new cheese left and right. ***SPOILER ALERT: Ned Stark dies.


I can’t help but think that the mice have the advantage of four legs, and frankly, Hem and Haw’s parents doomed them the day they named them Hem and Haw.

Moral of the story: Don’t resist change, and don’t eat cheese if you’re lactose intolerant, even if you really, really want it.

Scrabble and Scratch

I’m not a bookmark kind of girl. I bunny-ear pages like a maniac because I like my books lived-in. And so I was surprised to see a make-shift bookmark sticking out of a little book of Pablo Neruda poems. I pulled it out and found a quote I must have liked and written down (underneath a to-do list). It’s times like these that I thank God for my shitty memory as it was kind of like finding a letter to myself.


In case you can’t read my handwriting (I both paint and write like a 4-year-old), here it is: “There are no magic or elves, or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must wizard a track through our own screaming weed.” – Gwendolyn Brooks

Moral of the story: Life may not be a fairy tale, but we have our own special brand of magic to help us through the rough patches.


*At a high school dance recital, I got rather attached to a glass head in the dressing room (A.K.A, the theater department closet). I named it and took it home. That should teach people to leave giant glass heads lying around where anyone can take them. Plus, I think Giselle is happier with me.


** These are the pieces I bought from Sweatshirt Guy for real. Beautiful, huh? Check him out!


***If you didn’t already know that Ned Stark dies, I don’t even want you reading my blog #TheNorthRemembers

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