Regette is a butterfly, and always has been..

I’ve had quite a few people ask me “What is going on in that head of yours?” and I feel I should address this pressing issue. What is going on in my head, beside approximately normal blood flow and a caffeine high? My seriousness and reluctance to contribute meaningless sound to a conversation does not mean there is a three-fingered alien in my skull, as some may believe.

I hold my silence in most public scenarios for two reasons: firstly, until very recently speaking in any social setting of more than two people made me hopeless, tongue-stopping anxious. Secondly, I do not speak to people other than my friends unless I have something important to say. Contrary to popular belief, yes, I have an opinion but ,no, I don’t feel it’d benefit the immediate situation if this opinion was heard. Yes, I can hear what everyone is talking about and no, I’m not dgaf-ing in the back of the room.

I have an inkling that if my interrogators knew what I thought, they would be disappointed. My cognitions consist of the commonplace worries of school, sports, and work. I think about what I’m learning (except I don’t think about statistics), and I think about whether or not I left the stove on. I think about Denny’s and Graduation and the future and dog food and quesadillas and terms of endearment. I think about blogging a lot.

Sometimes I wonder about death and life. I try to deduce a meaning of it all. I try not to be bitter. I ponder the feelings of clouds after a good rain--Are they relieved from dropping the burden of the heavy rain? Are they puffy and swollen from the tears? I chastise myself for once again personifying the inanimate objects around me. I believe for a brief second I may wake up a butterfly that dreamed she was a human, instead of a human thinking of a butterfly. I give my dog speech “You so happy! Hi mommy! Baby says hello?” I realize that her thoughts are probably incomprehensible, even if I read minds. Her brain is alien to mine, like trying to play a DVD in a CD-ROM drive.

I’m never thinking of interesting things when I’m asked what I’m thinking of. With still nothing to say, I respond with a trademark sneer and eyebrow raise that I hope adds to the mystery shrouding the enigma that is me. What else did they expect? Did they seriously want to know that I was thinking about Jamie Bell in 1800’s attire, re-enacting the famous Colin-Firth-Darcy-after-a-swim moment?

Always your butterfly,
Regette "au contraire" Henesey

P.s. Still want to know what I think of? Here is a present--A stream of consciousness. Happy Un-Birthday:

“Breathe in, breathe out,” said Mr. Miage. What if I don’t want to breathe? Feesh don’t breath air. “What if I want to be just nothing,” I said once. Mommy laughed. Now I feel like crying. Pen too slow for thoughts. Less a stream, more a flood. Stream. Streamers. May poll. Mommy said when she was little there was a holiday for single childless women. How terrible. I don’t want a child. But I don’t want to be alone. Scratch that. I want a 3-year-old, tow-head blond boy with blue eyes. Meg says genetics make this impossible. My leg hurts. A clot? Nah, I’m such a hypochondriac. The Dish Network logo never quite hit’s the corner of the screen. Grandma and Grandpa cheered for it to hit that corner once. Tick-tock. Damn-Clock. Ding-Dong. The witch is dead. I remember when grandma gave mom a book on better mother-daughter relationships. Doggy at the window. Is he home? No. Frog goes ribbit. Maybe it’s one of those frog-toad hybrids that are around here. Wrist cramp. Carpal tunnel? Hypochondriac. No. No. Not him. English and a glance. I don’t care how you’d run the world you rat-bastard. Dog looks at me quizzically. Dish Network logo reflects B.A.M.F.edly off my cell phone. Heater roars on. Bre and I’d theoretically run the world differently. “Get rid of” everyone who disagrees. Discussion on Orwell. Good essay on “Politics and the English Language.” Chili’s tomorrow. Maybe see ... NO. I don’t care. See Summer surely. Concert thing with grandma. Is my brother going? Card for Sayuri. I said not to. People saying they understood made me mad. Cards made me want to cry. Text. Sunday night football theme. No, Monday. Made. Made. Made. Made me cry. Check text.