Sunday, October 11, 2009

Memories of Nonna on her 92nd Birthday

Today is October 11, 2009.

Today I turn exactly 19 and 1/2.
And today, Nonna, the very bravest and strongest of women
that I have ever known and will ever know, is 92.
I don't know if I like to say, "She would have been 92"
Because her body is 92. And will continue to add years on.


Today I will visit her grave.
I will sit either alone or with family
Beaneath the beautiful mausoleum.
I will bring her flowers.
I will bring her a birthday card.
And I will bring her this:

You’re the one that gave me family
The one that showed me life.
The very most of loyal
As a Nonna, Mom, and wife.
The one that brought me laughter
‘Til my face was cherry-red,
The one that showed me honesty
In every word she said.
I miss your ever-loving voice,
I miss the words you’d say,
I miss the love you gave to me,
I miss you every day.
You were never once unhappy
Just so long the house was full,
And having some one by your side
Was your only simple rule
You’re the one that persevered in times
When things did not look bright.
The one that always beat the odds
And pushed along through life.
Not a soul that walks among the world
Not a person on the Earth
Not a breath upon this planet
Could compare to you from birth.
That’s why you’re with the Angels now
And with your husband too
‘Cause you deserve to be amongst
The ones that are like you.

Happy Birthday Nonna.
I miss you so much.
10/11/2009





.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Reflections of a Former Waitress







My first job was in a restaurant. I was 16 and legally old enough to:
1) get a job, and
2) drive


And I couldn’t do 2 until I started at 1, so sophomore year, I traded in my pom-poms for a name tag and an apron and got the first job I applied for: seating hostess. Sports were over and work had begun…how else was I supposed to get a car?


My first day was horrifying, the way the first day of kindergarten is horrifying. Even in the first grade, you still get kind of scared on the first day, but you know what to expect. You have made friends, and a name for yourself that you can always default to. But not in kindergarten. In kindergarten, you are brand new, fresh meat, right off the boat, a foreigner. You know nothing more about language arts than the coloring books and magna-doodles you are so used to playing with and nothing more about people than the ones that have always been around you.


It was the same way with my very first job. I didn’t know what to expect, I didn’t even know how to act! I didn’t know when it was appropriate to ask to go to the bathroom (or if I even had to ask), what time I would be off of work, or when I would be getting paid?
I was never one to be afraid to ask questions, but suddenly I was petrified. What if they had already explained that part to me and it had simply gone right through me? Would they yell at me? Would they fire me? Would they hate me? I couldn’t stand to be hated. .


So, as what normally happens when I let my fear get in the way, I learned my lessons the hard way. I messed up orders. I went to the wrong tables. I said stupid things and I slipped in the kitchen many times. And I did get yelled at. And I think some of them did hate me.
But I didn’t get fired.
I never got fired.


It took a few months, maybe more than that. But eventually I learned the ropes. I learned names and I learned the rules. I knew where certain things were and how to clean up at the end of the night. I knew how to talk to guests and I knew most of the menu. I knew how to set a pager and I became more and more accepted as new employees began to start work after I had.
And soon, I was promoted to better things. Positions that made more money. Positions that offered power. Soon, I was taking to-go orders and making extra tips, nightly. And within time, I was the coordinator. The head host. And I ran the host stand all on my own. I determined how long guests would wait for a table and which table they would go to. I would tell the hosts basically what to do. I decided where they would seat a guest, who would set up which table, and who would check the bathrooms. I was the one who said when you could go home and when you could take a short break.


I loved hosting. I loved my job. I loved everything about it. I loved going into work and seeing my friends (aka, my co-workers), I loved my boss, I loved working. My job was fun. It was a job that was a lot harder than it looked. It was a challenge, but it was a rush. I was allowed to laugh and have fun, but I was also allowed to be bitchy and short-fused when I needed to be. Because people understood that my job was hard, and it took months of practice to acquire the skills I had to be a coordinator. It was no easy task.


A few months before I turned 18, I spoke with my managers and explained that I wanted to be promoted to waitress after my 18th birthday. They told me that they would think about it. It would depend on how many girls they could train in my place, and how well they could get the job done. Were my superior skills at my perfect job suddenly back-firing?! Was I too good at what I did? They couldn’t afford to promote me?


As my birthday drew nearer, my bosses tried to avoid the topic of promotion and would try to persuade me to remain a coordinator. I felt that it was so unfair. After all I had done for the host stand, and all the effort I had put forward. They just wanted me to stand still.
A month before I turned 18, I sat down with my bosses and offered them an ultimatum; they would promote me to server or I would quit and wait tables elsewhere. I got the news a week before my birthday that I would be training as a waitress shortly. I turned 18 on April the 11th and began my training on April the 14th.


Now, waitressing is much different than hosting, on many different levels, good an bad. The number one perk of waiting tables over hosting is the money. At times, I made more money in one night of serving than I made in a week of hosting. There was a lot more guest interaction and a lot more responsibilities. Hosting was a big team working together through the night, and serving was more like a one-man show. Anything I did was on my own. I didn’t have help. I didn’t make very many close friends waiting tables, as I had hosting. My mind grew somewhat lonely, even though I never admitted it to my co-workers or managers. As far as they were concerned, I LOVED serving! Yeehaw!


But it was not always fun. Sometimes it made me cry. There was once a time when I stopped to the table to pick up my tip after the guests had left and they wrote “spick” on the receipt and put two pennies on top… and I’m not even Hispanic! There was also a time when a woman yelled at me because she was offended that I hadn’t checked her ID. There were times when people would try to walk out on me without paying (of course, they never got away with it). But it was quite a job. It was a lot harder than it looked, especially in such a fast-paced restaurant like the one I had worked for.


But there were also many kind people that crossed my path. There were people that would make jokes, tip well, and even pull me aside to tell me that I was an excellent server. They would go out of their way to say nice things to me. They were warm, and polite, and used phrases like;
“When you have time,” and
“If you wouldn’t mind…”
And those things made my night better. The people that were nice to me, helped me to be nice to the rude ones.


I enjoyed my time serving though. Interacting with the guests was fun, and for some time, I enjoyed working for the money I made as opposed to making a fixed salary. Many days, I was highly motivated and ready to work. Others, it was quite the contrary. Sometimes, I had panic attacks at work and got sent home. Once, I was carried away in an ambulance. Many things happened in that steakhouse. It was a large piece of my life.

I made a lot of memories. There were many dreadful nights; rude guests, crap tips, and disagreements between workers. Sometimes it seemed there were more bad nights than good ones. But surprisingly, I only remember the good ones. I remember laughing with my friends at the host stand and training new employees. I remember the funny things that we would say in the kitchen and the crazy nights when we thought we would never see our clock-out receipt. I learned so much from that place. And even though I’m not sure where I’m going to work next, I know that I can smile at a guest when I want to yank their eye balls out. I know that I can have a bad night on Monday and a great night on Tuesday. I know how to lift a heavy tray over my head with one hand. And I know how to have a job.

Oh yeah, and I did get a car somewhere in there :)
.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

I Do Not Speak the Language of God Fluently


It was not until I started learning other languages that I stopped questioning my religion . . .

I grew up Catholic. I went to Catholic Church.
Sit. Stand. Kneel.
Peace be with you..

I have always been a loyal catholic. My family went to church every single Sunday. If we didn't go, we read from the Bible, or watched that amazingly interesting channel that had the recording of an entire mass. I admit, those things could get boring. It was not my favorite thing to wake up at 7:00 am to go to mass, half sleeping. In fact, I often dreaded it.

But, I have always stuck up for my God. I have never let anyone bash or talk negatively about Him in my presence, not without a fight. I think of my relationship with God to be a lot like the one that I have with my little sister;

My sister is my sister.
She always has been,
And she always will be.
I cannot erase her from my life,
And I never would want to.
Sometimes, I don't talk to my sister for days.
In unfortunte times, I do not talk to her for weeks.
I do not always respect her the way I should.
I am not always as nice to her as I could be.
I don't spend as much time with her as I would like,
And when I do have the time,
I do not always take advantage of it.
Sometimes, my sister is my best friend,
And in others, she is completely absent from my mind.
But I will always be there for my sister.
I will always defend her.
I will let no one ruin the name of my sister.
I will let no one hurt her.
I will let no one talk bad about her.
And if anyone dares to do any of the above
In my presence,
They will have to face me.
I am here to protect her. . .

..As I am here to protect God. The same goes for Him. I will always be here for Him as He always has been for me. I may not always show how much I care. I may not always show up to church. I do not always pray as much as I ought to. I do not participate in class as much as He would like.
But, as He has carried me when I was weak,
as He has held my hand when I was frightened,
and as He has been there for me when I was in lonesome pain in an empty room,
I too, will always be there to protect Him. I will be there to defend Him when He cannot do so Himself.

But I have always had my questions:

How can God watch everything?

How can he handle everything on His own?

What is Heaven like?

Who created God? Where did He come from?

Why is there so much world suffering if God is watching over us?

Why can't things be better since He is oh-so OMNIFICENT!

I think and I wonder.
I ask and I ponder.
My heart is filled with unanswered questions and my thoughts overflow in my head with so much curiosity and fear that I may never know. . .

.........................................................................................................................................................................


Over the last few months, I have started to take classes to learn foreign languages. I have already studied Spanish for three years. This year, I took up Italian and French.
At the same time.
It was....an experience.

I enjoy learning languages. I enjoy sounding international. I enjoy hearing the beauty in my own voice of each vowel in the Italian words connecting to sound like a song made of silk and powder. I enjoy not just saying French words, but using their accent to be more correct, to seem more fluent. Making my 'R's sound more like 'W's. I love being able to communicate with others in a different language. And, I love learning the culture of other countries.



BUT!


But

But

But

But

.

.

.

.


Every language has it's rules. Rules that are very hard to comprehend. Rules that have me contantly asking "Why, though?"

Especially for one who speaks English, one of the toughest languages in the world to learn, it is hard to make your mind think in a specific way in order to know WHY a language acts the way it does.

For example, in English, why do we say "Up" attached to every other word? Does anyone know how confusing this is to the uncomprehensive foreigner? Isn't "up" just the direction towards the sky? So how can someone:

button up (a shirt)
slip up (and tell a secret)
fix up (an old car)
straighten up (a messy room)
shut up (or be quiet)
get up (off a seat)
zipper up (a jacket)
clean up (a room)
wash up (your face)
eat up (your dinner)
mix up (the playing cards)
walk up (the stairs)
fill up (the gas tank)
call up (my mother)
finish up (my homework)
drink up (your milk)
mess up (the bed)
kiss up (to your boss)
plug up (the toilet)
wake up (the baby)
stir up (the stew)
screw up (our plans)
hang up (the phone)
push up (or exercise)
cut up (the vegetables)


So naturally, there are many things that also do not make sense to me..
Why in God's name do the Italians say everything backwards?

Why do they say "What of it did you think?"

Why is it that they can say "You like apples"
and that can be the same sentence as "Do you like apples?"

Why do they "have" years? Why aren't they __ years old?

Why do the French address someone formally the same way they would address many people?
Why is it polite?

If I go up to the French president and I say, "How are you guys doing today?" that is proper, polite, and utmost expected.

Why? Perche? Pourquoi? Porque? Warum? Giati? Preco? Sebep? Tai Sao?
WHY WHY WHY???

And finally, my question was answered;

"Because. It just is.
Because you are American.
You think like an American.
You think in the only way you know how
And you think
-In your logical little American brain-
That there is not other way possible.
But there is.
And the rules will remain
Even though you SAY
'it does not make sense that way' "

.........................................................................................................................................................................


This was my....."OOOOOOOH!!! NOW I get it!!" ...moment.
This was when I knew that there were answers to all of my religious-related questions!
I knew there was a way.
I knew there was a rhyme or reason,
or perhaps there WASN'T one!
And that would be just it!
There is no rhyme or reason!
It doesn't have to make sense!
It cannot make sense!

I am a human. God is . . . God.
I am American and He is South African.
We do not speak the same language.
I do not speak the language of God.
Our lives are different. Our cities are different.
The people we know are different. Our laws are different.

Perhaps God could not IMAGINE why the rules in my country are a certain way, because they would never be that way in His. No one would understand. But that does not mean that they do not exist. My language remains as is no matter what God or any other African thinks of that.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

On This The Day





On this the day, May 6th, I reflect.


15 years ago today was the end of my reign as the only child, the only concern. The Princess of my Palace. On this the day of May 6th, my life hath changed forever. 15 years ago, on this the day of May 6th, everything would be different. It was not just me anymore. It was no longer MY room, it was our room..


May 6, of 1994 I was given my built in best friend, someone that I would be able to trust for my whole life, with my whole life, with anything that could ever possibly happen. Yes, there would be more lifelong friends to come, but this, the first, would be special in its own way. It is the first. It is most sacred. It is that of which none can compare.


Fifteen years ago, on this the day of May 6th, the day my first sister was born, I hadn't an inkling of a clue of what I was about to become a part of. I knew only what I knew from the movies. I knew that the big sister is the boss of the house. She is the boss of her things and she says what and where everyone will play and when. She is basically the second one down from the mother, like Vice Woman, with an oath to follow:




If for any reason

The Mother of the House is in absence

Or is unable to fulfill her duties

As the Boss of the House,

The Big Sister is then obligated to step in

And take her place as the Woman of the House.

She is pledged to tell everyone what to do

And what the rules will be.

She is the One that will take care of the youngins

With whatever they may need
And she will do it with the ease and second nature

of the Sacred Mother of the House.




I was 4 years old, and I did not know rule 1 of being a big sis. All I knew was that I was potty-trained and she wasn't!


Our indestructable bond did not start off as such right away. In fact, it took years for me to even see it. I mean, the girl was pretty much useless for the first 3 years! All she did was laugh and point and pee on my lap. She grew curls like crazy! And not like slight wavy curls! These things were huge Shirley Temple in hot-rollers-like curls, that were perfectly cylindrical and bouncy! She was really a funny baby.


But she grew over time, and inevitably so did I. Soon she started walking, and saying things and then she started to understand. She started to become fun to play with..


And then before I was aware of the time, she was going to school with me too! We were riding the bus together, and I had to protect her. I began to have to stick up for my sister, when she would get picked on, or bullied, or when others would call her names. Small things began to happen.


And with a little more time, my little sister was helping me out, when I needed someone. She was there for me when I started getting a little older and I was growing out of my childhood and started to become an adolescent. As a child, my sister was giving me adult advice. She was there to listen when I started to become an angry and lonely teenager. She was there when I was diagnosed with panic disorder and I had no one in the world to trust. She never judged me.


She was most often the happiest part of my day. She understood everything I ever went through even though she had never previously experienced it. We laughed about the same silly things that went on in our house, like how Bianca can sleep standing up or how absolutely dead set our mother is about NOT having her nose touched.


And when we would fight, there was more passion than a Fourth of July Sky. We would always bring up issues that were deeper than the root of the disagreement. And it never lasted more than 15 minutes. Because we knew we were still best friends.


I can't believe my little big sister is 15. Sometimes she calls me every 7 seconds for help and other times it feels as though she doesn't need me at all.


But I know that whatever happens in my life, no matter how good or how bad, regardless of how old I get or how young I feel, and despite who else I have in my life at the time, I know that I will always count on her to give me advice, send me help, or laugh hysterically at whatever time of day whenever I come before her.


So here's to you, Angelina M.


Happy Birthday.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Dips, Dips, Condiments


Having been a dedicated waitress for the past 2 years (as well as a dedicated eater for the past 20), I have spent a lot of time around food. I have relished and savored many wonderful concoctions and gulped down a few dishes that were more than disappointing. However, there always seems to be this issue that comes up with many (not all, but many) meals that are served on a regular basis. And that issue is, what kind of sauce or dip one is going to use to better the flavor of this already delicious OR less than satisfying meal?

Hence, I have decided to speak aloud my personal thoughts on all these little extras that are added to our every day foods and what is so great (or so awful) about each of them.
Shall we?

Ketchup: Let's start with the All-American Basic Condiment; Ketchup! Formally known as 'catsup' but only the elderly use that term nowadays. Ketchup is that red, sometimes tangy but sweet condiment that we all know and love. It is mainly essential for burgers, hotdogs, and french fries, but is often used for other foods, like chicken and some fried appetizers. Now, for some God-awful reason that has yet to be explained to me, ketchup is also used to better satisfy the taste buds of steak, eggs, and even macaroni & cheese eaters! Come on, people! How can you take the most basic condiment and turn it into something so repulsive? I think mixing ketchup with macaroni or eggs is a given. Even those of you who like to eat it know it's strange! But I think that some people were simply raised improperly when they were allowed to put ketchup on their steaks as a child. Sadly, they never grew out of it as an adult. Overall, ketchup is a "Yes, use it, but use it properly, thank you."

Mustard: Ahh, mustard. Ketchup's best buddy. The pepper to the other's salt. And quite literally. Isn't it true that ketchup is needed in more situations than mustard, and salt is needed more often than pepper? They both usually go together, but most often if the more popular of the two is at the table throughout a sitting, quite frequently, no one will notice that the other is missing. Every once in a while, someone might whine, "Hey, where's the mustard?", but no one else will really care where it is, nor make much of an effort to get any...because many people do not need pepper, just like they do not need mustard. I, personally, like to use mustard on many things, usually burgers, hotdogs, and sandwiches. Also, after Thanksgiving is over and there's tons of leftover turkey, I like to take that cold turkey out of the refrigerator and dip it into a small cup of mustard. I find it delicious. Otherwise, mustard doesn't really get that much of a workout...

Mayonnaise: "My friends call me 'Mayo' "
Now, whomever invented Mayonnaise was clearly bored with the happy world of red and yellow condiments and decided to make something that tastes just as monotonous as it looks, just so we could take the color down a bit. Whatever the reason was, I still cannot find the point in using mayonnaise. I never see it used for anything more than sandwiches or burgers, and even then it seems pointless. I do say, I've tried mayonnaise before, on more than one occasion, and every time, I feel as though I only notice it is there because I can physically feel the creamy mayonnaise on my food, not because I can taste it, not because I can savor the flavor. To me, mayonnaise is that fat friend that follows everyone around and thinks he deserves all the popularity and glory because he is cousins to Kathy Ketchup and Michael Mustard . People try to like him, because he seems nice, but he doesn't really have a personality, you just notice him because he's there. I think mayonnaise is an "Ok, use it if you like it" but not a must-do for virtually any food worth eating.

Barbecue Sauce: Oh good o'l B-B-Q! Here's the thing about barbecue sauce; I love it, but I only love it sometimes. What I mean by that is that there is such a variety of barbecue sauces out there, it's close to impossible to really say that you LIKE barbecue sauce in general, because unlike the rarely changing taste of ketchup, yellow mustard, or yes, even "Call-Me-Mayo" Mayonnaise, barbecue sauce often has a distinctly different taste depending on where you try it and what brand and flavor it is. Is it Original? Honey Barbecue? Maybe it's Smokehouse. Or maybe it's Teriyaki Barbecue! Perhaps it's a store-brand sauce or homemade by the restaurant at which one is dining. When people ask me if I like barbecue sauce, I often feel like questioning, "What kind?"

Tartar Sauce: Now I can honestly say that I am not an expert on tartar sauce. It has not been until recently that I have started to really even eat seafood, and even now that I do eat it, I still don't use tartar sauce. However, when I used to wait tables, I would have to take a container of our in-house-made tartar sauce each day and scoop out small portions of the sauce into little cups to be served. I must say, having done that each day may have scarred me for life. The way it looks alone is enough for me to say "No way!", and I am often not one to refuse food for its appearance. Tartar sauce, to me, looks like somebody with the figure of gluttony stuffed themselves with a feast of mustard, Mayo, green beans, relish, and potato salad and then regurgitated. The sauce is chunky, smelly, and offensive to almost all five senses. Thumbs down for tartar sauce.

Horse Radish: Perhaps one of the most offensive-smelling foods on the face of the earth, horse radish has me stumped on how it is even existing in the food-eating world. I do not understand horse radish in the very least. I know that it is most often used for prime rib and roast beef, but the reasoning behind it is beyond me. Horse radish gives off a horrendously strong odor, yes odor, that reminds one of b.o. and gasoline. It has a wet, yet spongey, yet gritty, yet slimy texture and, in my experience, is impossible to get down the esophogas without heaving. Thumbs down for horse radish as well.

Creamy Horse Radish: Taste-wise, I do not know the difference between raw and creamy horse radish. I usually don't notice as much of a distinct smell as I do in the raw version, but there is definitely a significant variation in physical appearance. Creamy horse radish surely looks like it had more time with the cook. It looks whiter, maybe even a little gray, with more chunks and less water. It's as if raw horse radish is the cancerous version of its creamy friend. Creamy HR reminds me of an almost perfect mixture of tartar sauce and raw horse radish, but with less color and less smell. Even though it is probably not as bad as the previous two, I still say that creamy horse radish is a no-go.

Aus Jus: You either know how to say it, or you don't. Aus jus is that hot flavorly "steak broth", (s'il vous plait) that is used to "juice up" a prime rib. In my opinion, it is absolutely delicious! I could sip this stuff alone, like soup, or maybe even with crackers. I don't honestly know how they make aus jus, but I'm sure it would not be difficult to find out since I work in a restaurant. Regardless of how it's done, the A-J is certainly one of my favorite add-on sauces, even though it is primarily only used for one food.

A1: Before we start here, let's just get one thing straight; I do not generally believe in steak sauce. That being said, if you must use steak sauce, either because the chef did not properly season your steak or because you prefer the less-than-glorifying taste of any temperature above medium rare, yes, I recommend A1 sauce. It is flavorful and steak-like. It generally makes a steak taste more like a steak. It's a great way to cover the awful taste of an overdone ribeye or poorly seasoned New York strip. However, this sauce should be used sparingly, as the citizens of the United States erstwhile spoil that already delicious flavor of an accurately cooked steak (usually with ketchup or cheese on top).

Heinz 57: I find no need to buy Heinz 57 when it is easily homemade. Simply mix A1 sauce with an equal ratio of ketchup, and voila; Heinz 57. The PERFECT "steak sauce" for those of you steak ruiners! Need I say more? I think I ought not.

Cocktail Sauce: I think...that cocktail sauce....is an acquired taste. To me, it is absolutely disgusting, BUT...I do not customarily eat cold shrimp. However, I do know that it is made from raw horse radish mixed with the proper ratio of ketchup. What is a fancy way to say, 'Ew'? If you can think of one, please let me know and send it to me, that way I can sound like a smarter writer! Back on topic, this stuff is an awful and pungent mixture of sweet ketchup and overly bitter horse radish to make for one hell of a foul-tasting dip.

Relish: Since I am not a fan of sweet pickles in the least, I have never willingly used relish to better a hotdog (I think that's the only food it's used for). I guess if you like your franks to be sweet and slimy, by all means. But I feel like relish gives off an arrogant odor, by preference, and has quite an odd texture to the tongue. Does no one else feel as though they have to bite through several layers of juice-squirting relish to get through a tiny morsel? I think I'll stick to onions..

Tabasco Sauce: OK.
I think. I like Tabasco Sauce.
I don't know what I like it on.
But I think I like it.
I have recently acquired a taste for "hotter" and spicier foods.
Lo, I have warmed up to Tabasco Sauce.
Had I written this piece l'anno scorso
(last year)
I would have written an awful review.
Not much to say about something you like,
especially when you do not know what you like it on.
But yes.
Thumbs up for Tabasco Sauce.

Ranch Dressing: I know that this is a "salad dressing," if we are being politically correct, and I know I have prejudicely discriminated against all the other dressings by not including them, but I think that over the decade, ranch dressing has slowly but surely began to count as a 'dip'. I see it every day. "Can I have ranch dressing for my fries? My chips. My chicken fingers. My pizza crust," ..to infinity! To be honest here, I use ranch as a dip too. And oddly enough, for anything EXCEPT a salad! Ranch was primarily created for salads (correct me if I'm wrong). I was personally raised on Italian dressings, or oils and vinegars, something thinner or more diluted. Otherwise, I think that ranch dressing is a zesty alternative to a ketchup, barbecue, salsa, or any other quote-on-quote "dips dips and condiments" (Andy Beehart) that one might use to better or worsen their dish!


Please let me know of any more condiments, dips, or sauces that you would like me to critique, or if you have a rebuttle to anything I have said thus far!

Thanks!

-AndyB.

Monday, April 27, 2009

A Toothy Epiphany Indeed


As a normal human being, I too, have many insecurities. I always think, "Boy, I wish I could have her hair," or "My, how I want a figure like that" and I try to think of the things I could do to become that way, because once I have those perfect abs, then, THEN is when I will be happy.

But today, a funny thought came to me, at a funny time, indeed. While sitting in my monotonous anthropology lecture class, I, for some reason began to play with one of my teeth, and noticed with my pointer finger how oddly traingular both of my "fang" teeth really are. And I became so disturbed at this thought, that I started imagining myself with a chisle, filing down my teeth so that I could have the most perfectly shaped smile. And at the same time I was imagining this, a girl in my class raised her hand and began making a very excellent point to the professor about something that isn't even relevant now. But as this was happening, I became so jealous and thought how badly I wish I could think that way.

And because these two incidents happened simultaneously, I had a bit of an epiphany. What I realized is, that even if we humans did have the power, to paint, thin, chisle, cut, erase, or liposuck our every flaw and make ourselves into exactly how we think we should look or be, there would still be someone with better ideas of what they could make themselves into. Someone that would think of a cooler hairstyle or a better body type.

Even with the power to do absolutely anything we wanted, we would be unhappy. And as humans, we ought stop wishing we could be and have other and "better" things, because we will then, never be satisfied.