The Dutch, in general, prefer their french fries with mayonnaise.

I am...sitting in an incredibly white bed, looking at the computer screen but not really seeing it. Actually, I just lied to you. I've had my eyes closed since the moment I thought to type the comma of that first sentence.

How does it feel to be lied to?

You already know the answer to that. We all do.

I read something once about Cancers, the sign not the rebellious mitosis (or is that meiosis I'm thinking of?), but back to being a Cancer (and that I am), how one of the worst things you can do to me is lie to me. No, no one's lied to me today (or have they?) and no, this isn't an angry rant. But it's just a thought. No, I don't like being lied to—but not telling me the entire truth or finding loopholes, that's just as bad. 


Back to the bed. No. That wasn't an invitation.


Seriously, this bed is heaven, and I didn't pay to rent it out. How odd of a thought is that? That when you stay in a hotel, you're renting a bed that has been rented (and hopefully the sheets bleached to a crisp) hundreds of times before you by people you'll never meet—or better yet, you will meet them, they might be your best friend, and you'll never know that you once shared the same bed as them, and flipped the channel to the same exact TV show as they once did.


They might have had to pay the $250 cleaning charge because this is a non-smoking room.


They may have done repulsive things in the shower, which I might need to use if my dorm's water is going to be out for longer than they're saying (it's that time of the year again: pipe problems—you'd think they'd have fixed it one of the first twenty times). 


They might not have done anything. Except killed a man. Or themselves.
Don't worry. The maids will have painted over the ceiling. You won't see a thing.


It's kind of like when you buy a used car or sit on the loveseat they came in your dorm.


What have the people before us done?


What about with people? When you start dating someone, let's say. Before you've come whistling along, how have people used that person? Was their daddy an abusive alcoholic, their ex a skank? Did they get their heart broken? Better yet, how did they treat that rented bed? How did they treat the people they borrowed for a while? People go in and out of our lives constantly. We go to elementary school with people we may never see again. We change friends throughout high school and college constantly. We date someone for a few months and they move across the other side of the country—and it didn't end all that great, but even if you're over it, you never end up saying anything to them again. They're just gone (in which case, you may be curious as to how they're doing every now and then). 


But you don't have to date them to wonder.


(Evidently, I won't be dating anyone anytime soon. Next creep that talks to me, I'm going to stuff sweaty gym socks in his mouth.)


It could just be a cashier you're judging. Yeah, maybe they weren't the most polite person in the world to you, but maybe that was just today, and even if it weren't, they could be scarred to. A maid just painted over the blood ceiling. She just bleached and steam pressed the sheets.


I guess we're all some rented bed. 
Used by one person for one night, maybe a whole week. And when we're traveling across country, or through our lives, and we come across a used computer that we think might be worth investing in (sometimes as replacement for another), we've no idea how it's previous owners treated it, or what websites are in its history, what experiences it's been exposed to. The good, and the bad.


<3<3<3


I've really realized lately that, despite how overwhelmed I feel, I have it a lot easier than other kids my age. I have some friends going through really tough times, some of them with unimaginably huge life decisions, sacrificing ones that they don't have to make, but do. 


I complain about my eighteen hours and lack of a life, but I'm chillin' in a plush bed in Little Rock on a Thursday writing a blog (let it be known that I did do: my honors journal, some research, poetry/talking points, & part of part I for my health behavioral change project; constantly justifying myself).


I'm about 19 years, 3 months, 20 days, 20 hours, and 12 minutes old. (I'm here, by the way, visiting my mother who's in town for an art teacher conference. She just came in to drop off a crafted hand. It's quite interesting.) I'm about to be 7,053 days old! And I really don't have anything to show for it. I have a few nice things and a full ride to a public Arkansas university. I have a few nice friends and family members. I've seen several incredible movies and read many enchanting books. I may have even spouted out a line or two of wisdom in my lifetime, that went unrecorded. Now, I might have longer than the average 80 years, I mean, my grandmother is still 89 and kickin', but I have pretty terrible health for my age, so probably not. 


I just want to do something. Even if it's not impressive to the world, as nice as that would be, but something that I personally feel fulfillment from. How marvelous would that be? Or to be really and truly happy, for a while. People can stay in fairly constant status for long periods of time, but you're really only insanely joyful on something like your wedding day. How does that even out? I want to live in a constant bliss for a bit. Guess I couldn't take that being ripped out from under me.


I want to do something.


I want to create.


I want to share.


<3<3<3


Let me know if you ever sleep in Wyndham 2091. I promise that I didn't do something grotesque in the bed, but I can't speak for those who've come before me.


Time's a tickin'.