Cold Canned Creamed Corn Crazy

Sometimes, this is what I think you’ll see if you peek into my living room window: me, in a flowy skirt, twirling to music available only to me and the 16 or so other inhabitants of my brain, holding a half-open can of cold, slightly congealed, creamed corn. And a plastic spoon. My hair is in knots sticking out from my head in multiple directions, but I am smiling the blissful, contented smile that only crazy people seem to genuinely possess. Outright oblivion. Ah, to be oblivious. But. I have no such luck to free fall into tuned-out crazy. My crazy is conscious.

I have a few traits that I know are abnormal. Crazy, if you will. For instance, I sincerely dislike not being able to get my point across. I don’t like feeling like I’m not being listened to. You don’t have to agree with me, but you do have to at least acknowledge that my thoughts and opinions are valid. There is nothing worse than leaving a conversation feeling as though you haven’t gotten your point across or, that what you got across is wholly devoid of what you intended.

I have a horrible OCD-like habit of rehashing things in my mind, turning over various scenarios, imagining different outcomes. I obsess about alternatives to conversations, other ways to get my point across, to receive validation that my feelings are important. This can become quite draining, this conversing with people who don’t know we’re conversing. Especially when the conversation keeps changing, when in my mind, you aren’t saying what you’re supposed to be saying.

I imagine do-over conversations. These are for the times when I’ve said something dumber than usual and don’t have an opportunity to clean it up. I have a friend who I think is the muse behind the title of this post. Even though there isn’t (that I know of) any specific thing I did, we’ve come to a crossroads of sorts. I’d just like a do-over there, at least a get to the bottom of it all conversation (mind you I’ve already had this conversation in my head hundreds of times, so I already know how it ends).

I imagine anticipatory conversations. These are conversations I want to have. Michelle Obama, in my daydreams, adores me and my Cool Whip topped sweet potato pie that is really Mrs. Smith’s. I’ve also formulated multiple conversations with the parent of my oldest daughter’s part-time bully. I imagine the conversation being amicable at first, but going downhill fast. There’s always some sort of physical altercation where I get the upper hand because I’m the underdog (because the mother is a biggun). In my mind I kick her ass!

Equal to my distaste for not being listened to is not knowing “why.” It doesn’t matter the situation.  I have whole conversations mapped out to find out the why for whatever is going on. Refer to the do-over conversation above. Sometimes, though, I contradict the need to know why. For example, there is a girl who was sleeping with my boyfriend in 1991 (I was a senior in high school and so not putting out yet (hee hee: putting out)). Yes, it’s 20 years later and the conversation — the way I want it to go — still occasionally plays in my mind. Your point?

Anyway, I’ve seen said boyfriend humper a few times in recent years and each time she rolls her eyes and continues on her way. I’m not sure if she actually recognizes me or if she’s just a generally evil person who rolls her eyes at random women all the time. Regardless, in my mind, I let her explain herself, explain why. But most often, I corner her and call her an ignorant, adolescent twit and then I walk away, taking away her ability to offer a retort or explanation. I think I flip my hair. Oh, and in this dream I am of course dressed way cuter than her. 

What it boils down to is I simply don’t like being misunderstood. I suppose most people don’t, but I am unable to simply accept that someone thinks something about me that is inaccurate. Or that someone doesn’t fully grasp the point I’m trying to make. Most often I speak up for myself and can sometimes be referred to as outspoken on issues I’m passionate about. But sometimes…sometimes I lose my voice and when I try to find it, it doesn’t always go my way. I don’t like that. I am a genuinely nice person. I am friendly, I am a good friend. I listen. I support. I don’t judge. When I start to feel like a person thinks I am not the person I know myself to be, I get frustrated. And resort to eating cold, congealed, creamed corn. From a can. And inventing hundreds of scenarios to tell you why you’re so wrong about me.

I need someone to invent an OK Thanks for Listening, But I’m Moving On Now button.

Previous Post Next Post

You Might Also Like