Truths

A Day In The Life Of A Not-So-Normal Alien

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I have never spent longer looking for a bag in my life.

Never.

Today I stalled. I stalled because the anxiety is still there sitting its skinny ass near my nerves and having a nice nibble on them. I knew I needed to get a medium sized gift bag and I knew in order to do that I must step into the human’s world.

Humans are weird. They’re frantic and very inconsiderate of personal space. I’m sure glad I’m not one.

Their arms are flimsy too. And their faces are stupid. But all of that is beside the point.

My cover to go into Rite Aid and look for one is that I’m really going to look for facial products. There are a lot of people in line, I peeked through the doors before I entered, so I ignored the entire front of the room to avoid their eerie human stares (I heard they can turn our brains into mush if we make direct eye contact) and headed straight for the face 41mzhy5jz5l-_sl500_aa280_-jpgproducts. Of course, everything on the shelves of chain drug stores have millions of human chemicals in them, so I had no real interest in them. I got some Tea Tree oil.

You see, rather than spend forty five dollars on a “mostly natural” moisturizer for my alien facial skin that reacts very badly to man-made chemicals, I harvest Aloe Vera Leaves with a special alien utensil humans would call a “knife”, squeeze the inner goop out, drop a bit of Tea Tree oil in it, mix it all together, and refrigerate it into a gel. Scar treatment/Moisturizer for under ten human dollars. I’m a clever little alien.

Rite Aid had no gift bags. So at risk of looking like a not-so-clever little alien, or a thieving alien (I have not-so-light alien skin so you know what that means), I also bought some Honest tea.

The humans walk around with their physical head on their shoulders, but their mental head up their ass. Deep, deep up their ass. So deep, they very well may break their neck in the process of lodging it up there. They take a flashlight with them and lose it on the way because the flashlight comes to its senses and gets the hell out of there. They enjoy being up their ass too, because they never willingly come out.

A side effect is blindness. Total blindness. They stand centimeters from your body and think it’s okay to breathe in your ear . . . which honestly is an achievement given the fact their head is lodged in their small intestine now that I think about it.

I went into a store called Palace Arts. Their gift bags were about as attractive as the inside of someone’s ass.

I went to good old trusty Walgreens and avoided the acid stares of humans in line yet again. Their gift bags were nice. I grabbed one and some decorative tissue paper. And an ice cream cone.

Humans may have their heads up their asses but somehow they still manage to make some decent icy treats.

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It’s making me think twice about getting the chocolate flavor, though.

I sat in my car hoping for a moment of peace. It had been an hour already. An hour of bobbing and weaving between frantic husbands and boyfriends shopping last minute for the perfect decorations and bags of candy. Everyone seemed like they wanted to touch me today, like they wanted to be close and personal and loud, like they wanted to see me drop everything and rush from the store or crouch to the tile and cover my hands over my ears like an overwhelmed Autistic child.

Honestly, those children have the right idea. What else are you going to do? Sit there and let the noise bother you? I’d rather cover my ears too.

Everything was loud. The mothers screaming at their children were loud. The children screaming at their mothers were loud. The employees were loud, the customers were loud, the floor was loud, the packages on the shelves were loud, the hair products were loud (and sassy girlfriend), the candy was loud, even the gift bag I was holding was red and loud and I felt like it attracted more acid stares.

Anyway, I always park my car beside the green Hybrid car charging station reserved spot no one ever uses because  it’s right by the door and who the fuck wants to charge their hybrid at Walgreens?

Some motherfucker, that’s who. 

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No, he didn’t even charge his huge ass Toyota 4Runner-looking partial Hybrid S.U.V. He just parked there for the privilege.

The worst part is I didn’t even hear him park next to me.

I just glanced over and flinched in my seat at the gray wall with windows that had appeared beside me.

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News flash, ass-hat; there are seven other parking spots right by the door. You have no damn privilege. Fuck your hybrid.

Love you, Tesla. 

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I Wouldn’t Mind THIS Parked Next To Me. Tesla Is Love; Tesla Is Life

Then another wall appeared beside me. This one I heard. It was twice the size of the ass-hat hybrid and they could spear their acid stares through my passenger window and into my private (messy) den without my permission. The man’s wife stayed in the car and kept staring at me. She should have put her head back in her ass.

So I left. I left with my red gift bag shouting at me all the way home.

I was very overstimulated today. But I survived.

I’d like to switch lives with someone without anxiety, just to see what they say life is supposed to feel like. The funny thing is, I’m 110% sure I’d ask for my anxiety back after a couple hours.

I’m very easily bored. 

 

 

About AlishiaDee (372 Articles)
Alishia D. is a blogger, a beginning novelist, and a counselor at 2nd Story Peer Respite house where diagnostic labels and the culture of mental health is long forgotten. She's a mental health peer who has bounced through as many labels as she has doctors, and enjoys being sarcastic when she can. She also hates writing in 3rd person.

2 Comments on A Day In The Life Of A Not-So-Normal Alien

  1. Funny thing is a really dislike shopping for a lot of the same reasons you highlighted…I find it hard to tolerate most human beings. I also hate waiting in checkout lines, especially when the person in front of you keeps needing to get price checks. Why can’t these multi-million dollar store chains program their cash registers with the right fucking prices!?!…Then the freaking, time wasting questions you get once it’s your turn to check out…are you a rewards member? (first time they asked me that I said sure give me my reward), then for some devious, conspiratorial, evil capitalistic reasons they always seem to ask me for my zip code & phone #, which I always answer with” fuck off!”, (at least in my head I do). I guess with me the anxiety of dealing with small or large groups of brain dead robots, posing as humans, is the real reason I dislike going out in public. At least that’s what I tell myself.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I nominated you for the “Miranda sings award” on my blog! Feel free to check it out

    Liked by 1 person

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