How to Survive Gym Class

Ten Rules to Survive Gym Class as a Freak, Loner, or Outsider.

1. Playing with the minds of others is the only way to keep your own sanity. You must accept this, the sooner, the better.
2. Find a buddy. You won't get out alive by yourself. They'll help keep you sane.
3. Gym teachers have no passion nor mind-capacity for any creativity beyond pinny colors. Their methods are predictable and methodical. Learn this. Being split into teams generally consists of grouping shirt colors or counting off by threes.
4. Create hand signals. If, by chance, you and your buddy (refer to Rule 2) happen to end up separate teams, these can be essential. Keep these big and simple, so they can be understood from across the room. Remember the basics, for instance "Heads up!" "I'm proud of you!" "He's showing off again." and "I hate this sport!"
5. Chose one sport to be awkwardly competitive about.
6. Giant foam q-tips, while generally useless and unwieldy, are always good to have on hand to challenge duels with.
7. Learn to growl and hiss when others come near you.
8. Insanity is the most intimidating card you have to play. (Refer to Rule 1) Trying to distract an opponent? Cock your head to the side, laugh menacingly, and do NOT break eye contact.
9. Fake interest. If, by some chance, the ball/frisbee/shuttlecock/anything gets near you, don't panic. Instead, try saying something along the lines of, "Oh look! Here it comes, oh, oh dear. There it goes. Bummer. Missed it. Maybe next time."
10. Either downplay or overreact to EVERYTHING. Get hit? You have two options. Shrug it off, or fall screaming to the ground.

In the Mirror

The sweet pink of the tights swallows any shade of skin, painted on comically.
The pure black destroys any previous idea of shape,
creating for itself new curves and dynamics.
Locks of curly hair have been pulled back, tied tightly into a sleek knot, and plastered in sprays and glues.
A new face has been painted on, paler, with dangerous angles.
The pink slippers are tied, lacing their way up the legs like snakes,
twisting in their concentric circles.

I have no idea who this girl is,
or what business entreats her to stand inside the mirror.
But she cannot possibly be me.
She holds an air of grace I do not possess.
Reflections tempt with the dangerous option to pretend to be anything but who we are, yet she seems so familiar.
She cannot possibly be me. I am short, I am childish, I am clumsy.
She is graceful, powerful, and her eyes hold a dangerous fire.
She glares at me, and I lean closer to stare back. I can see her foot slip before I feel it.
Her form shatters, and she crashes to the ground. The pain shoots up from my legs, crumpled beneath me. Clumsy now, disheveled on the floor. And there I am.

To Those Who Give Second Chances

To those who give second chances,

Do you hate yourselves as much as I hate myself right now? Do you beat yourselves up and bite your lips to keep from crying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I write this in realization that I'm one of you. That I give second chances. That I'm moronic for doing so.
People do not change. They may promise to, and plead forgiveness, but they do not change. It is impossible to change who you are. Our essences, our beings, are unalterable. And some people hurt others, and will continue to do so, no matter how many chances they are given.

Perhaps it feels worse, to be hurt the second time, subjected to the preceding pain all over again, all whilst knowing that it's our own fault, for trusting someone so hurtful again. After all, insanity is said to be doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

But you, dear reader, you are not insane, nor stupid, nor to blame for giving second chances. No, dear reader. You are brave. You are marvelously brave. Trusting and being hurt is part of being human. We must accept those who deserve no chances at all, cherish the lessons they can teach you. Without trust, dear reader, you have nothing. It's the foundation for all interaction.
Thousands of people will go through life without trusting. Without loving. They haven't lived, they're scared to.
Trust, love, it's a marvelous and magical thing. You're lucky, reader, for being able to give second chances. Do not hate yourself. Do not regret. There may only be a handful of people you'll ever be able to trust completely who deserve it, love them for it, but there are many people who you owe your trust to for no reason other than to learn something.

Trust me.

Clean

Every week, she's there. In the Costco Foodcourt, she's lost in a flurry of people, pushing, shoving, grimy and methodical. Every week, it's the same routine, the same order. She's beautiful, short, heavy set. Yet, I've never heard her talk. She hides behind the register and employee vest, which boasts a cheerfullness she doesn't posess. Her eyes are heavily made up in blacks and blues, shying away from attention, but what drew mine were her lips. Perfectly colored in a deep maroon, which by the end of the day, worn and chewed on, faded to nothing more than an outline. There is a sadness lingering in her eyes that I could not place, both amplified and hidden by her careful eyeliner.

This week was different. This week, I couldn't find her, when I suddenly realized she was directly in front of me. With no make-up at all. Her face seemed rosier, her eyes, bigger and brighter, and her lips, so pale and naked, smiled. She spoke. Softly, in a gentle, unplacable accent. She was smiling, and her eyes, previously so full of sadness, seemed to be lit up.

I do not know what prompted her to wash off her sadness, but perhaps, I must do the same. I haven't blogged in a time, perhaps because I didn't want to think about the gathering darkness in the corners of my mind. But with this, I purge OrganizedChaos, and I smile too, gratefully welcoming back the light.

Talking

I talk to myself. I rant and rave and vent to the air around me. But once I talk, my words are lost. So I decided to use my microphone to dictate them here, to you, dear reader, in case you cared enough to read them. This is me. Word for word.

We underestimate the need for venting, for talking. It helps us to sort our thoughts, to let go of them. Say something. Outloud. Right now. Anything. Cast it into the air, and watch it fade away. It feels good, doesn't it?

Recently, I find myself more often than not, dropping everything to listen to someone. To try to comfort someone, to help them, to take as much as I can off their mind. And for awhile, I was jealous. Jealous that nobody asked to listen to me. But then I realized, I didn't need to talk. I needed to untangle my thoughts for myself, before I could put them into words.

I have words, dear reader. And here, I can talk, if you care to listen.
Talk, reader. I implore you, I beg you. Talk, vent, scream. As loudly as you can. Even if it's completely meaningless. Untangle your thoughts, weave them together, and let them go. Do not be encumbered or bothered by them.

Open your mouth, open your heart, dear reader.

New Website!

Hello there! Thanks for reading OrganizedChaos.
I have a new official website for theater, http://www.reaganhenke.com, feel free to visit it!
Any posts or updates related to theater will be linked there.
However, seeing as everything will still be able to be found on OrganizedChaos, it doesn't affect you much.
But hey, it's cool, right?

With love,
Reagan

Memory

Flipping through the flimsy pages, the comics suddenly catch my eye. Black and white, a simple cartoon of a man cracking walnuts, and I'm suddenly flooded with a memory I can't name. A memory, but not enough of a memory to have words, and a description. A feeling. Warm. Happy. Like I've been reminded of something, a story, a picture, I saw when I was much younger. But the more I focus on the picture, the quicker the feeling fades away, and I scramble to grab onto a scene, a word, anything. Closing my eyes, I allow the fleeting, half developed slips of thought to collect, like water in a puddle, and as gently as I can, trying not to spill, I pour it into words.

Checkers, anyone?

It doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on.

We would Skype each other every day after school.
We'd challenge each other to hangman, sending secret messages in the hidden clues, we'd play tic-tac-toe, all star bowling, everything mini-games had to offer.
But my favorite was checkers. Checkers, we could play for hours.
Skype checkers forced you to jump one another, so we'd dash around the board, avoiding the other color. The checkers grew legs and eyes, and walked themselves wherever you clicked. I'd laugh out loud when my pieces smiled at me.

But the best part?
The best part. The best part was that he always let me win.

I wonder if he knows I sign on every day, hoping that maybe, we could play. But it doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on, but I'm still waiting.
Checkers, anyone?

Peanut Butter

It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. I didn't think much about opening the door. I could smell the freshly baked bread from where I stood, the crinkly brown bag in his hand. A delivery between our parents. Nothing more. He was popular. I was me.

I took the bag, retreating back into the sugar dusted kitchen. I invited him in. Why? I still don't know. Why he followed is an even deeper mystery.
He sat across from me, on the tall stool, the one with the wobbly leg. I plunged my arms elbow deep into my confection, a glorious mix of peanut butter and powdered sugar and chocolate. He laughed as a plume of sugar burst into the air.
"What in the world are you making?" he asks, laughing.
I smile into the bowl as I whisper,
"Peanut butter bars."
They are, and will, and have always been my guilty pleasure.
"I love peanut butter," he tells me.
I don't know what happened next. But we finished the rest of that jar of peanut butter, with two spoons and a lot of bad jokes. It was late by the time he left.

I saw him in the cafeteria the next day. I couldn't bring myself to say hello. As he walked by, one of the girls with him started coughing. It's funny how many people's coughs sound like they're saying, "Loser." They laughed as they walked away.

It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. He passed me again that day, and as he did, he smiled, leaned in, and whispered, "peanut butter."

First Day

It's the same school. Same hallways. Most of the same people.
The English room is on the other side of the hallway.
It's a different window. A different view.
But I can't help but smile.
Outside is a world of bursting green, promising and full of life. And on the very edge? A tree that has just started turning for fall. A splat of a strong orange-red on the edge of the flawless green. Threatening, waiting.

About to set my world on fire.