I am an odd girl. Also, a naive one. This is me, meme-ified:
I got better after my twentieth birthday or so. But still, the oblivion’s somewhat apparent, enough for people to joke about when I’m not in the room. Also, in the room.
Engaged in yet another contentious forum discussion, I was referred to by another poster as an “imaginative little troll.” Maybe. I’m not exactly sure what contentious discussion he was referring to. I’ve engaged in more than a fair share of scuffles.
Imaginative. Yeah, my mom grew tired of that. I would always tell her of my latest ideas or thoughts on how the world worked. And she’d look at me and sigh. That’s fine.
Venturing into crowds of similarly tiny children at age five, I shared my ideas with others. They’d roll their eyes at me and say, Oh, Kristine.
About these ideas:
- Britney Spears spends a year in the Philippines
I am surprised B. Spears has not made an appearance in any of my posts. I will mention her sometime again. I will always love B. Spears, pre-2001. I have a Youtube playlist with all of her old interviews and international appearances. I’m particularly drawn to her times in Asia. Reality TV was starting to get popular among the babysitting folk in the late 1990s. Consequently, the first reality show I watched was on (surprise, surprise) MTV in 1998. I think it may have been some earlier form of True Life. The episode was called “I have AIDS.” Of course I didn’t know a damn thing about that.
Anyway, I told my cousins of an idea I had where Britney Spears goes on some Mother Theresa-like trip to the Philippines, living a life of good through humanitarian deeds, connecting with the people of my mother’s country in kaleidoscopic jeepneys. My cousin Emily was the first to react with a loud face palm. Oh, Kristine.
- A documentary featuring “Teller” from the Vegas-famed duo, Penn and Teller
I remember asking a friend, “Why does Teller from ‘Penn and Teller’ never talk?” Her answer of annoyance: “Because he’s Teller.” She and her boyfriend were sitting with me at a cafeteria table in the midst of standardized testing week. I went on and on about how it was so unfortunate that Teller never spoke, how there must be some evil corporate conspiracy that explained his silence, and how we had to start a “Save Teller” campaign. I proposed the idea of a Teller cam, where viewers join Teller in his daily happenings. The boyfriend emailed me a set of Youtube links, with “Scooped” as the subject line. Teller apparently has a loyal following and a pretty successful video diary. Oh, Kristine.
- A film in which a Mormon missionary falls in love with a prostitute, who teaches him the “true meaning of faith”
I once had a Xanga, filled with adolescent shit-stirring and schemes to pay for college. If I could still access it, I would gladly post screenshots of my worst posts. I clearly remember posting an outline of this. The missionary doesn’t meet the prostitute at her door. Rather, they’re on a park bench. She’s crying because no one will accept her lifestyle, she inquires about the missionary, makes histrionic sexual advances, and BOOM. Torrid affair. My debate partner bluntly commented: “To be frank, it sucks. Someone gets stabbed too, huh? Does everyone have to write about sex and murder?” Oh, Kristine.
(I’m still rather drawn to the general idea, as a piece of writing at the very least. One day I shall revisit this.)
- The Adventures of Kreepy Kristine
Often I was told I’d make the perfect private investigator. “You’re definitely creepy enough for it,” said more than one person. I always wanted to be that lady within a company who digs the dirt on job candidates, vets the truth in resumes, unravels some secret record, if any existed. I’ve also been very astute to my surroundings, and “watch out, she has a really good memory. So, my advice to you, as her boyfriend, is to remember that she will always remember your screw-ups” (2009 discussion between first boyfriend and childhood friend). In social events with ice breakers, I never had issues recalling people’s names and the oh-so-special facts about them. But my recitation didn’t impress. It disconcerted.
I grew to embrace the discomfort I caused, and together, my friends and I thought up a simple concept after my first breakup. We’d go into my empty apartment as I waited for my move-out date, get a camera and tripod, turn off the lights, and film me, my face aglow with a flashlight beneath my chin. No, it wasn’t original. But I was to whisper, say weird things, read awful erotic poetry written on a whiteboard taped to the wall. We were also going to film a “Director’s Cut.” Simply, a camera recording a camera recording the future town loon. Or maybe the current, unknowing town loon. Oh, Kristine. So creepy. That’s kreepy, with a “K”!
I’m still reluctant to throw these ideas into the trash. If I can refine them somehow, I’m sure I will in time.