Hi I'm Sporadic

  As I skip out of my bed and zoom into my bombastic hot pink jacket, my booty starts to boogie to the bright tunes. "I'm Blue Daba dee daba dye, daba dee daba dye..."  

"Oh yeah, poof up that hair a little more girl, grasp that eighties look, work it, work it!" One last look at the mirror... "Big earrings... check. Bright eye shadow... dazzling! Little cleavage... scandalous. Foo Foo Juice... oh, I almost forgot!" I spritz myself twice with my tantalizingly scrumptious perfumé and TA DA!! "Let's go kick some honey buns!" Yup... got a little "Mulan," the movie going on. 

"Let's strut this joint shall we?" My walk's gotta have a spring to it. Skip enough and that mane of mine gets that rhythm that POPS. "Bounce curls, BOUNCE! Yeah.. you too bubble butt, do a little hick-up for mommy. Girls!!! You better not get lazy on me... perky and playful! Gotta shine up this gloom." I sashay my way to class, sit front and center at the end of the table, give my lips a taste of that liquid morning gold: Grande toffee nut, caramel, soy latte. "SUGAR! Go through my veins. Explode orgasmically into my brain. FEED ME! ENERGIZE ME! Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!" 

"Oh!" By the way. "Good Morning Kat! Good Morning Richard! Good Morning..." I tap my foot through the timed session and glaze my eyes over on behalf of saving battery. ZIP! "Bye, Bye stuffy cage, hellllllooooo freshly baked fun! Well, for thirty minutes..." I grab my extravagant lunch and high-tail it to secretary life. 

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. "Arts and Sciences, this is Kayla, how may I help you?" My fingers find the volume on the radio, "Girl's just wanna have fuu-uun! Now we're talkin!" File, File, head bob. Copy, Copy, spin. Sign, Sign, Shake! Ring, Ring, "On my FINGER! HAHA!" I open the front door and plunge head first into the enticing crowd. "Let's get out of here... where you taking mother... ice ice baby... Yeah It's too cold."

 As my chattering comes to an end, my tummy growls. Round the cafeteria food; dull, dreary... oh but what lovely cookies. Pace myself, look for opportunities... and who might that be in front of me?  "Oh yes, Richard's gonna get it." I tip toe behind him while he's twaddling in line. One. Two. THREE! Squeeze both sides! CURPLAT!!! 

"Oh Shit." 

Noodles paint the carpet and Richard adorns a rather bewildering stare. 

"Oh Poo... I'll clean it up." 

The UC is stifling. A spoon clanks against its plate. Snicker, Snicker, get my pink face on. Point, Point, smile back. Joke, Joke, resume my bounce. 

On Tampons

"Kayla!! Come swim with us!" Swim... Swim... Swimming entails me to be in water, which in turn, makes my absorbing pad a dangerous device that could embarrass and expose me. This gosh darn period of mine always has to get in the way. I'm only thirteen and I've had to deal with this "trick of nature" for over a year now. OVER A YEAR!... I have had to say no to swimming for a week out of every month for OVER ONE GOD DAMN YEAR!

 I don't think you understand. Swimming is my life at this age. My grandparents own a swimming pool, I live right next to a river, all my friends swim, I SWIM, that is, when I'm not literally "riding the white horse." Sure, I've heard of tampons, but my mom doesn't want me to use one until I'm absolutely ready. Well, dammit woman, I'm freaking ready to swim! 

I go on the mission of finding that little cotton plug while my friends get their feet wet. I open the cupboards while Amanda climbs the ladder to our slide. I tear open the wrapper; "Cute. The tampon company thinks they can disguise the scary complexity of a tampon by making it look like candy. Brilliant. You can't fool me. No sir, this is a freaking weapon. I KNOW IT!" As the soft, pink plastic becomes exposed, my friend outside hollers my name again. I look at the box for directions: 

-Decide if you want to sit or stand during tampon insertion. If you choose to sit, the toilet is a good place. Spread your knees apart and insert the tampon into your vagina. If you’d rather stand during tampon insertion, prop one foot on something so that leg is higher than the other leg; the side of your bathtub is good for propping your foot on.

"I'll sit, thank you." 

-Place the tampon applicator tip into the opening of your vagina and push it

 towards your lower back.

SPLASH!! My friend just slid down the slide into the welcoming waters outside. 

-Continue pushing the tampon back until you can feel the end of the outer tube just at the opening of the vaginal canal.

Ok... ouch... Ouch... 

-Next, push the inner tube into your vagina until the tampon inserts fully, and the inner and outer applicator tube ends meet.

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! People do this on a regular basis?! 

"Kayla!!? Come on! What are you doing?!"

-For proper tampon insertion, make sure the two ends of the applicator meet just at the opening to your vagina. Gently pull the applicator out of the vagina, while making sure that you can feel the string hanging out from the bottom of the tampon.

YANK! Ok I'm good. I can swim now. 

"I'm coming!"

As I run out the doors, sandpaper starts rubbing inside of me. The tampon was initially made by the Egyptians with softened papyrus and the Greeks used sticks with lint wrapped around. It wasn't until 1929 that the applicator tampon with a removal cord was invented. It doesn't mean shit, I don't care if the tampon first started out with women sticking twigs up themselves, this freaking hurts and we should have better technology now so that it doesn't rub me raw! 

SPLASH!! "Water, oh how I love you!" After my perfect canon ball, I scurry out of the water to go down the slide. (Rub) I'm gonna enjoy every moment of this. (Tampon) SPLASH!! I kick with my back feet and dive deep into the depths. (TAMPON) I hold my breath as I sit on the floor. Aww... no movement equals no tampon rubbing. 

Tampons offer discretion and freedom to women such as swimming to continue without interruption. Unlike sanitary pads, menstrual blood is not exposed to the air with the use of tampons, so there is limited odor. There is no way to see if a woman is using a tampon when she is clothed, unlike sanitary pads, which have outlines that can sometimes be seen through fabric. 

I push off up to the surface, launching out of the water with an agonizing groan. What is wrong with this tampon? 

 "Are you Ok Kayla?" 

"No. I think I have a stomach ache. I'm gonna get out for a bit."

I waddle to the bathroom with a broomstick caught between my legs. I reach the sanctuary of the bathroom and pull down my swimsuit. Well folks.... I only succeeded in putting the tampon in halfway. 

After that day, I didn't convert back to the tampon for another few months. It was a traumatizing experience, but I'm glad to say that tampons and I have made up. They are more convenient than pads in a lot of ways, but many researchers have discovered that some tampons have bleach in them, which can make a woman bleed more. What a horrible sales pitch, huh? 

There is also the risk of TSS (Toxic Shock Syndrome) which can hospitalize women and could possibly lead to sterility. This is only if you leave in the lovely little plug for days, but still, it is a serious side effect and makes the proper usage of our little friend the tampon a little more respected, at least by me. 

     

Good Night Bed

One can hear it calling from miles away; it's tantalizing reminders scream at you when you're seconds from collapsing with exhaustion. Those words vibrate within your body when you're trapped in a stressful situation and the only escape route for your mind is by releasing your head upon those fluffy clouds. It whispers little temptations of fun, hell, when horniness arises, the only vision you see is of those sleek sheets and strong wooden posts. 

The blankets are like mosquito nets for our secrets; the way we sleep is of utmost confidentiality. Our kicks throughout the night get absorbed by the gentle cocoon, our obnoxious snoring never awakens it's loving embrace, and when our conversations escape our dreamland it never laughs with amusement. As you swish and sway and roll back and forth, it keeps you within your boundaries, trying with all its might to not let you fall. It is one of the best kind of friends because of this.  

Whether it be a twin, a full, a queen, or a king; it will never let you down. Whether it be round, filled with water, hard as a rock, or soft as a feather; it will welcome you every time you enter it's domain. Whether it be pink, purple, black, or green; it will never say no to a good sex  session. It is the first thing and the last thing we see and touch. It is the one object within the house that allows us to completely let go and recuperate. It is the prized possession of a couple and the cherished piece of furniture for the family. 

Sometimes a TV is placed at the foot of its throne so that more time can be spent on it. Through this, it suggests the ultimate sleepover and groans with pleasure when several bodies lay upon it and utilize its powers. It doesn't mind if popcorn is nestled between its crevices, nor does it snub the boy who farts unexpectedly. The sleepover is just another task it must undertake as it becomes a trampoline for the rascals who wish to fly to never never land. These adventurous pupils encounter the wonders that its springs can offer as they get higher and higher with each jump. Does the mattress explode with rage or open up its great mouth and swallow the kids up? Never. Do the pillows turn to rocks so that the fights are found less desirable? Unlikely. This is when you realize that you have found the perfect babysitter. 

Within your room, it begs for your autograph; its frequent exposure through film has made it a movie star. Its fame allows you to envision it even more when lust comes knocking at your door. Any kind of love can be seen by its comforters. The ocean becomes jealous of the movements from the bodies within the sheets as they become in sync with the mattress's capabilities. This is when the heart of your room can be vocal; it can thump against the wall or moan with its springs. It can jump slightly upon the floor as it vibrates to life. It's sexual intelligence becomes richer with every position that it witnesses and as the night grows longer it begs for more sweat. As the climax is reached the conversation between man and furniture becomes deafening. While the roller coaster slugs to a halt, the breathing can only be heard as the mattresses settle around the worn out bodies, patting them on the back for such a good show. As the morning sun arises, you find your furniture has moved throughout the night as if its posts became moving limbs. This is when you realize how wild your friend can become.  

There is a dark side to this lovely object, for beneath its strong composure, there is a black world that holds all the nightmares of children and adults. It swallows up your important items that you look for all day long and it collects the dust bunnies that multiply constantly. This becomes the reasons for allergies and lateness to work. As the clutter builds up under its skirts, the boogie man becomes even more vivid as the lights go out and the child crawls under its covers, trying to relinquish the idea of a monster. Since the unknown is beneath you, your fears become trapped under your blankets. The patterned cloth creates a shield for the child, to ward off the guy with the grotesque physique lurking and disturbing the tiny tot's slumber. This is why we should respect and fear this furniture all at once.   

Throughout the world it completes a home and allows mankind to dream. Those dreams then turn into ideas, into art, and into actions; which, in turn, become our legacy. But once those dreams are through with and our goals have been accomplished, we then turn to our treasured furniture; in hopes of it being our vehicle to the next life. For, what better way to end, then to close your eyes for the last time, upon the one thing that has never left you throughout your journey: "Good Night Bed." 

You Are What You Drive...

The sun was beating its penetrating rays down onto our scantily-clothed bodies, as if to remind the people of The Dalles that wearing less doesn't really keep the sweat at bay. We were meandering along the busy sidewalk, just sipping our iced teas and trying to enjoy the pleasures that accompany the hot July afternoon when I began to wonder if my little sister and her friend were even coherent to the world around us. 

"Oh my god! That is such a beaner car!"

"No it's not! It's a ricer car!"

As my sister and her buddy battle out their bizarre argument, I look to my left and watch the little tricked out Honda drive past us with music blaring in all directions. 

"It's a beaner car if it's visually pimped. It's a ricer car if it's loaded under the hood." 

What the hell does that have to do with beaner and ricer? As their banter comes to a close, I start wondering how much a car symbolizes a person in our society. 

We constantly are exposed to commercials that proclaim "You're a manly man if you drive this Ford pick-up." "You're a sexy individual if you're caught in a Bentley." Why though? Is a person seriously a hick if they pull up in a beat up Chevy? At first glance, ninety percent of most people would probably go with their first impression and agree with society in saying yes, that person is a hick. But then, why don't we ever leave it open to the driver to decide if the car expresses who they are? That person in the "Ricky Bobby" truck could very well be the hick we're thinking of, but on the same hand, the driver could be a broke college student, receiving a hand-me-down set of wheels. 

When I look back to the "beaner" and the "ricer" idea, it seems almost racist. Who are we to categorize a culture through the way a vehicle is decorated? When my sister and her friend declared their branding of the car, it was almost in a tone of disgust. Implying that this kind of a car is undesirable and trash like, thus making the "beaner" and "ricer" reference of Mexicans and Japanese degrading and insulting. The person driving the "beaner" car could, in all actuality, be a Caucasian female that has kids at latch key; she just happens to like huge spoilers, spinning wheels and hydraulics; doesn't mean we need to classify that type of a car as one that Mexicans would drive.  Just on the flip side, a hispanic person could love to drive something completely different and more conservative. Thus, making one type of a car represent a minority of people, pointless; we all have different tastes. 

 I grew up out in the country, with horses and muddy roads, and yet, I own a little red Toyota Celica. I wasn't going for practicality, I just liked the way it looked and how it made me feel. When I first purchased the car, everyone was shocked; they were expecting me to come home with a little pick-up truck. The truck would have suited their overall assumption that they had of me, but the truck wasn't who I was. Every person has their own taste, their own way of expressing themselves, but just because I have a little red Celica, doesn't mean I'm not a country girl too. 

I guess when people see expensive cars, they're automatically going to assume the person is rich and when a Hummer is out in the parking lot, one would see someone like Arnold stepping out of it with a gun slung over his shoulder. These assumptions all tie back into our society and how we are exposed to media and how we were raised. It's up to us to decide whether to actually presume that since that little Honda is all tricked out, it obviously must belong to a hispanic individual. But when it actually comes down to it, would you still holler out "What a beaner car!" if it drove past you and your friends?