Adventures with Princess Cliché: Part 1

Once upon a time there was a cliché. Not the one I just used, but a princess locked in a tower in the middle of a forest, alone, with an evil stepmother keeping her inside. A spell was cast over this tower. This tall tower made of steel. Any attempt to jump out of the window or crash through the door was thwarted by a tiny garden gnome who had been enchanted to life by the evil stepmother. He held a giant fork and spoke in German. He stood at the tower day and night, humming train songs and clanking on the fork singing the blues. The princess would always hum a long getting to know the songs the longer she stayed trapped. Not knowing how to speak German, the Princess made up her own words to the tunes:

At vulnerable moments she wailed:
“Trapped up inside,
Of the rusty old tin.
Won’t someone find me,
And save me from this.
But I’ll keep surviving,
Through rain, sleet, and snow,
Because my prince is coming,
A man I don’t know.”

At moments of rage she screamed:
“If I were a snake,
I’d slide right through the rail.
I’d bite that damn gnome,
And I’d poison that wench.
But since I am trapped,
Forver I’ll sing,
Songs sung in German,
That don’t mean a thing.”

In those rare moments of joy she cooed:
“I’ve got sunshine
Glowing from my skin,
And when it is dark,
It lights up this den.
Even when I cry,
My tears turn to love.
My eyes turn to stars,
And I feel warmth
up above.”

Days within this cold tower dragged on. Where 24 hours felt like years, and months felt like eternities. Nearing her 19th birthday, the princess grew restless and made a plan to escape. One night, while the gnome moaned his moody blues, she grabbed a loaf of bread, a compass, a flask full of water and a warm jacket and attempted to open the 2nd story window, on the opposite side of where the gnome sat. In an old brown dress, all drab and stringy, the princess lifted the skirt to her knees and slowly, right to left, lifted her legs over the ledge and jumped. She fell for what seemed like more than an hour. When she finally landed she found herself on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.



“Ahoy ther me lady!” bellowed a man to her left.

She jumped with surprise and saw a one-eyed pirate, parakeet and all, smiling his toothy grin and looking straight at her.

“Squawk! Ther me Lady!” the parakeet repeated.

“What the hell is all of this?” she cried, obviously confused and a bit scared.

“No need to get mouthy. You are aboard Captain Cardioid’s ship. And I just so happen to be the one in which they call Captain. Nice to meetcher! And this here is Pogue. Say Hello Pogue!”

“Sqquuuuuaaaawwwk, Hello Pogue!” cried the parakeet.

“Um, I don’t understand. I was just in a tower a. . . and I jumped and now I’m here on this ship and it all just doesn’t make sense. And the garden gnome, the one who speaks German, he was singing his songs as he always does and I just, I, don’t understand it one bit!”

“Wee bit hysterical ther Miss,” the captain said, and quietly he said, “And a wee bit nutty too, huh, Pogue?” he said to the parakeet, making his eyes twist around and swirling his finger by his temple, making the sign for crazy.

“Squuuuuaaaaawwwwkkkkk, a wee bit nutty!!!”

“Stop it! I am not crazy!” the princess exclaimed, stamping her foot. “If I’m so crazy, then tell me, how did I arrive on this ship?”

“That’s easy lass, you were just, well, you were just. Umm. And then you. . wait. Well you came from . . . wait, no. Daggum. Pogue! How much rum did I drink today?”
“Squuuuaaawwwkkkk, the rum is all gone!”

“No Pogue, no. Wh . . Why is the rum gone? Nevermind that. Thar is your
answer lady. I be’s a drunken sailor and have lost track of me mind.”

The princess stared at the Captain, her eyes narrowed and eyebrows high.
“I’m not buying that for one second Captain! First off, you are NOT a sailor, you are a pirate—“

“Arrrrrrrgggghhhh!!!” interrupted the Captain, “I be no such thing you vicious shedevil!”

“Oh yeah?” she replied, “Well, what is the meaning of that?” she said pointing at a black flag with a white skull and crossbones and the word ‘Pirate’ written across the bottom blowing from the back of the ship.”

“Argh, the lady has caught the Captain in a lie, but I be’s a poor drunk pirate. I forget me place.” A sound jumped from the Captain’s throat, something that sounded like a small yelp or a failed attempt at a fake hiccup.

“Well, if you’re so drunk Captain Cardioid, then let me smell your breath.”

“Pogue, this nutter lass is a strange one indeed.”
“Squuuaawwwwk, strange one indeed!”

“Just let me and then we can settle this here and now, and get back to the more important business of how the hell I wound up on your ship.”
With her arms crossed and pursed lips, the princess waited for a reply from the now nervous Captain.

He walked closer to her as she now noticed the wooden rod posing as the Captain’s right leg. He waddled as he trudged closer to the princess, step, clomp, step, clomp, he opened his mouth, but before a large breath could be blown a loud ‘BANG’ interrupted the interrogation and shook the entire ship. Strips of wood and large waves of water flew across the deck.

“AAARRRGGGHHH matey!” screamed the Captain as he and the parakeet dove to the floor. “Man the cannons Pogue! We are under attack!”
“Squuuuuaaaaawwwwkkkk, under attack!”

“Whar is the nutter lass?”

Overboard, in the green waters below, the princess was being tossed back in forth in the waves of the Mediterranean. “Help!” she cried as she gulped a large mass of salty sea water. Being overtaken by the sea, the princess began to sink into the depths of the pristine waters. She sank, for what seemed like 2 hours. Everything went black.

When she awoke, drenched and coughing uncontrollably, the princess found herself , not in a steel tower guarded by a German gnome, or on a ship with a pirate going through an identity crisis, no, the princess was somewhere entirely different.

“Are you ready to rock??” exclaimed an unidentified voice.
Rubbing her head and sitting upright, the princess looked around, “Uh . . Where am I?”

To Be Continued . . .

Anarchist Hippies Want to Save Your Babies!

I've never thought past 18 until I was forced to. I remember as a young girl I would ask myself, “I wonder what it would be like to be 18-years-old. What will I look like? Where will I be?” and most importantly, “Will I be dating Brad Pitt?” I kind of already knew the answer to that last question, but as a child, 18 was the age I thought about. I didn’t much think about life past 18. I mean 21 was a passing thought. The legal drinking age is always a pivotal moment in a young person’s life. But as a little girl, I cared not a thing about the perks of legal alcohol consumption. No, I just wanted a good-looking boyfriend and to not be fat or unattractive at 18. Because that’s where life ends and begins when it comes to future aspirations.

The adult life just seems like some comical myth. Something you know has the possibility of fleshing out, but not really. Reaching that age is like climbing Mt. Everest, fucking impossible. Oh, the naivety of youth.


Maybe this is why 23 is such a strange stage to be at. I’ve passed both of those age mile markers of 18 mph and 21 mph. And now the road isn’t even a road any more its more of a wide open freeway; no lanes, no signs, no speed limit, just a chaotic exclamation point of twisting and turning and shouts of “What are you doing after you graduate?” and “What are you going to do with your life?” and “Hey! You’re getting old!”

But am I really getting old? I mean in the grand scheme of things I’d say I’m pretty young, unless I’m about to die in the next few minutes, otherwise I am pretty old because my pre-determined lifespan is a sad timeline of 23 years. It’s even weird to tell people my age because I've never thought I’d make it to this point. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m at a fantastic stage of life. Some would say my peak. I say, screw those encompassing the “some” who think they can equate your life to the opinions that they so surely mark as truth. Yeah buddy, I’m talking to you who has already passed their peak at 21, my peak is my demise, so fuck you. I don’t want to hear your sad loathsome bullshit about what I need to do, what you’re saying is what YOU need to do, so fucking do it. And leave me be.

I’m starting to get the feeling that this free spirited, take life as it comes at me way of life isn’t just some 3 year phase I’ve been going through, I’m thinking it’s a permanent fixture. I think my friend (use that term loosely) Matt said it best in one of his Facebook posts, “It’s really difficult to rewire a brain.” I’ve been called a “hippie” so many times over the past two years I can’t even keep up with who said it to me. But I don’t understand that evaluation at all. I looked up the definition of the term on Dictionary.com and here is what it said:


Hippie = [hip. Eee] a person, esp. of the late 1960s, who rejected established institutions and values and sought spontaneity, direct personal relations expressing love, and expanded consciousness, often expressed externally in the wearing of casual, folksy clothing and of beads, headbands, used garments, etc.
Oh shit. That’s kind of true. . . . . I did grow up in 60s and I wear head bands, like, alllll the time. I’m not being sarcastic, man. No way.

But I also looked up the definition of anarchist partially because it’s pretty much the opposite of hippie (at least I thought) and because it’s just random and the third definition of this term kind of sounds similar to the definition of the hippie:
Anarchist = a person who promotes disorder or excites revolt against any established rule, law, or custom.
The key difference between the anarchist and the hippie: rejection and revolution. It’s debatable whether these two terms are interchangeable.

So, I’m a Hippie-third-definition-Anarchist, but let’s check out the meaning of bipolar. I’ve gotten that staple a couple times. Let’s see what the bipolar personality really means.

Bipolar disorder = an affective disorder characterized by periods of mania alternating with periods of depression, usually interspersed with relatively long intervals of normal mood.

Holy shit son, I think this is me. Maybe I’m in my manic stage right now. Who the hell knows? But I’ll take this deduction and use it as my own.

Jessica: The hippie-third definition anarchist-bipolar girl. That’s got a nice ring to it. I think she’d make one hell of a super hero. Wearing a peace sign cape, saving your baby, and then throwing it on the floor whilst head banging to a Dead Kennedy’s record. Oh yes, my future is bright indeed.


So, what is my point in all this? There is no point. I’m just rattling on because I got inspired to write after watching James Franco masterfully portray Allen Ginsberg in the film Howl. I’m sitting at a bar called The Manhattan Café in Athens, Georgia, alone and sipping a cup of Kahlua and coffee just because I can and because I’m old enough to do that and most importantly because that’s what I enjoy. Drinking hot alcoholic beverages and doing things on my own. Oh, the things I wish I could do but I don’t do. How does one erase F.E.A.R. and just D.O.? Maybe that’s what life at 23 will be about. Erasing fear and replacing it with action. I know one action that will be immediate. Cup of Kahlua number two. Let’s get it pumping. Oh and I know, I’m just so Hawaiian because I opt for Kahlua instead of Bailey’s. You don’t have to tell me. I already know. Did you also know my favorite fruit is Pineapple? I’m so authentically Hawaiian.

The 23-year-old Hawaiian hippie third definition anarchist bipolar girl: She wants to be your friend, won’t you let her??

Read Howl. It's cool. Bye Bye.