Five Minutes in My Mind
by Samantha Myers

Dive into my mind for five minutes and this might be what you find, the things I carry and they way I think. It’s amorphous, yes, but in a way it makes sense, to me at least. But that’s all that matters anyway.

Minute one:

Give me a subject and I could quite possibly talk forever if I’m interested. If I have nothing to talk about I’ll just mutter mindlessly to myself. Not really thinking. But on the other hand muttering something means I’m thinking about something, even if it’s unclear. I usually have no clear vision of what I’m thinking, so go ahead try to guess. Your guess is as good as mine.

Most of the time thoughts just come when I stare off into space, and then I can’t retrace where they came from or what could have possibly spawned them. Now see to me my mind moves at 4 times the speed of light. I’m constantly thinking of new things for one reason or another. I swear if you chop my head open and take a peak inside, there would be nothing but blurs of thoughts. Disappearing. Reappearing. Running into each other. Running away from each other. Thoughts dying. Thoughts spawning new thoughts.

If you put a different colour on each individual thought, my whole mind would be a ball of different coloured Play Dough— after a toddler got through with it. But in any matter it’s my mind and I love the way it works.

I’m constantly thinking and having conversations with myself or thinking about what I’d say if I met someone new. Dr. Hood, my sophomore English teacher, made a reference about someone last year having a conversation with himself about cars and the like. She said he would stare off into space and just think. I do that a lot. A whole lot. I could be sitting at my computer— my music blaring in the background—doing my homework when

I

just

stare

off

into

space.

Usually I’ll be thinking of the answer to a problem and I’ll just stare while the music drowns out my thoughts. When I finally come back to reality I somehow have the answer in my head and my music has skipped ahead 5 or 6 tracks. I can’t remember the other songs ever playing and I don’t even remember thinking about the homework problem. Just staring . . .

. . . and sometimes I can’t even remember what I was staring at. I know; I’m weirdo like that.

Minute two:

I love English class. I love writing and reading and linguistics and all that good junk not too many other people I know care about. I guess you could call me weird. I am. No offense taken. Really. Oh, there I go staring off into space again. So as I was saying, I like reading books with mystery and horror and mythical creatures—something my English teacher doesn’t care too much for, at least that’s what I think. She likes nonfiction. I absolutely despise nonfiction. Of course, I am writing nonfiction now and it’s pretty okay. I just hate reading about boring people’s lives— things I don’t care for.

I like authors she hates. She likes authors I hate. I like books she hates. She likes books I hate. She loves Huckleberry Finn and all those "classics".

I don’t.

I love all the Sci-Fi and mythical books she doesn’t care too much for. It's not that she doesn’t like them; they’re just not her first choice.

We do agree that some books are good like The Lovely Bones, and The Things They Carried. It’s mutual in a way. We could argue all day on what’s better, but we’d never get anywhere.

She likes the fact I’m writing a novel. I love to write, as I’ve said. I repeat myself all to often. Sorry, I was gazing off again. It’s just an annoying characteristic of mine.

A habit you might say.

Minute three:

One of my most annoying habits is snapping and popping my gum. I find it soothing. It’s a mindless idiosyncrasy of mine. People hate the POP. POP. SNAP. POP. CRACK. POP. SNAP, that I do all the time. I like it. Others don’t. Some don’t mind. My grandmother does it too. I guess that’s where I got it. I hope I don’t have her social habits too. Sorry, I was thinking again. Just wondering if I do have her social habits. She has this way of talking to a complete stranger in the supermarket and acting as if she hadn’t seen them in 20 years. Although I guess it’s true, she hadn’t ever seen them in 20 years. But she just walks right up and states her mind. "So what do you think about rice in china?" It’s weird really, but you get used to it. Kind of like green vegetables . . .

I used to hate broccoli, but I love it now. Uncooked mind you. I hate steamed vegetables. I always make my mom leave some carrots out of the pressure cooker when she cooks so I can eat raw ones instead. I guess another annoying habit of mine is skipping from subject to subject mindlessly . . . and gazing off into space . . .

Minute four:

I have so much crap floating around in my head. I just want to sort it all out. I need to get my head a file cabinet—something labeled for: Sports, Movies, Games, Friends, Family, etc. so I can put thoughts in there and access them when needed. Not whenever the heck they feel like coming out and annoying me. Not that it will ever be sorted out though. Thoughts always seem to find a way out. No matter how deep inside my head I bury them, they’ll come back up. Guilt doesn’t get me as much as regret, but I guess they go hand in hand. Two peas in a pod.

I used to hate peas.

My mom would make me eat the nasty green boogers, when I was five, and then I’d go throw them up. I don’t anymore. I eat fine now. It’s my brother who doesn’t eat right, constantly stuffing his face with sweets. "Mom can we get this?" he’ll ask as he shoves cookies and candies and other fats in the shopping cart. And yet, he’s not over weight. Just sick sometimes. That lucky fool. I wish I could do that . . .

Speaking of lucky fools, I’m great at Monopoly. I always get the utilities and the railroads, which in my opinion represent power. People can’t seem to stop landing on them. Ha ha ha. Unlucky fools.

Oh, well, more money for me.

It’s funny how much money I make in a game, because in real life I’m flat broke. Not a dime to my name. Well, maybe a dime, but nothing else. As my brother shoves candies and cookies into the cart, I sift through all the CDs I can’t afford.

Minute five:

Music is my God. Well, not exactly. That’s blasphemy. But close too it. It sooths me.

" . . . It takes my pain away! It’s a lie, kiss me with open eyes, and she’s not breathin’ back. Anythin’ll bother me. It takes my pain away! Never mind, these are hard times. Hard, oh oh. I can’t let it bother me . . ."

When I am deprived of music, I go crazy.

"Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely. I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue. I knew you'd love me as long as you wanted, and then someday you'd leave me for somebody new . . ."

Well, crazier than usual. I’m always a little zany. I’m so spontaneous. My friends don’t know when to "know" me, or when to duck and cover. If I do something that they don’t want to be associated with, they claim to "not know me."

We could have been going to a ball game— me being sane all night— but just as we leave I shout my lungs out to someone I don’t even know that "They’re so sexy". Of course the person regards me as mentally insane, but it’s refreshing.

I do that at restaurants too. I’ll be behind someone at the counter. They’ll say to the cashier, "Yeah . . . can I get . . ." and I’ll just blurt, "No." They look at me funny and continue their ordering. I don’t care. It makes my day.

So there’s five minutes in my mind. Scary, yes, but awesome. Speaking of awesome, I . . .