Wednesday, 20 February 2013

The Lonely Middle Sink...

I've been through six years of university. I've heard my share of drunken tales. I had a guy bang on my door in first year (almost to the point of breaking it down) demanding ravioli. I had another guy try and fly up our hallway, a friend who tried to swim up a hallway, and a slightly frightening night involving a very rowdy clown. The intoxicated mind goes to many a strange place. It's unpredictable, flighty, disturbing, hilarious, and so many other adjectives. And as I've listened to these stories all of these years I've come to realize that my mind, stone cold sober, has gone to stranger places than most intoxicated minds could ever hope to conjure.

Part of me would like to blame it on my crazy family. Everyone's got a crazy family, but my family is special crazy.

Regardless, I don't think I can blame this abnormality on them. As I was telling one of my friends the other day, I went into the washroom at work to wash my hands. I approached the middle sink, turned the faucet, and then realized that the soap was inconveniently on the far side of the two outer sinks. Rather than do what any rational human being would do - switch sinks - I stayed at the middle sink. Not only did I stay at said middle sink, I did so because I decided that because the soap and the paper towel dispensers were so far away, it was probably lonely.

The sink...



I proceeded to laugh at myself, realizing just how ridiculous I sounded (or so I thought). Yet, when I told this story to my friend, my commiseration for the lonely middle sink reached a whole new level of weird. I really think the poor girl was seriously considering my commitment to a psychiatric facility.

Okay, so I talk to/sing at inanimate objects on a regular basis. This I can blame on my grandmother. Rarely do I humanize those objects to the point of attributing them with feelings. Still, it didn't seem SUPER weird. As I have recently learned, however, normal people don't think about the middle sink being lonely. For about a millisecond I was distressed, until I realized that I've never been conventional. Anything but, really. And it's these strange little thoughts that make stories magical.

I am an avid reader of John Grisham, P. D. James, and Dan Brown (or at least I am when not trying to pull a thesis out of my butt). These guys, while incredibly creative and gifted writers, probably have never thought about the middle sink being lonely. They can craft a riveting mystery or weave a sticky web of intrigue, but they do so (typically) within the bounds of reality. They're imaginative.

I, on the other hand, am zany and tromp all over reality til all that's left is a fractured, jumbled mess. I think about lonely sinks, exploding flowers, and a little boy that can lift a mountain. I'm not the sort of writer that does well limiting themselves to the confines of reality, mostly because I'm not a person that does well limiting themselves to the confines of reality. I think this is the sort of eccentricity that leads to the inception of house elves, sparkling vampires, stain sniffing dragons, and smoking caterpillars.

Cool. :D

P.S. Don't forget to spread the sink love! :P

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