I like green. The color green makes me happy.
The color yellow, which (and no one was more surprised by this than I was) has been steadily turning up in my mind, as something pleasant, not revolting, makes me happy.
I like red.
Being wrong makes me happy. And, as I'm usually wrong, I guess you might say that I am usually happy, but it doesn't work that way.
And, just to be clear, only as it occurs in nature. Yellow, I mean. Like yellow flowers. Or autumn leaves. So, even though I officially hate yellow, I don't hate yellow.
It's a dilemma.
Plus, there are so many strange, nearly mystical facts pertaining to yellow. For instance, did you know that butter is yellow?
And, the other day I realized that almost always, without fail, when confronted by bees, I yield. And both yield signs and bees are yellow.
And consider (given that):
bees + people = yield
(and) bees + yield signs (as well, butter) = yellow
(it must be that) butter + yield signs = people
It's science. And (!) it's yellow school busses. Not green school busses. And the fact that the shade of yellow used on school busses (and, for that matter, pencils, as well those dashed and solid lines that are painted on streets that, though, I don't altogether understand their purpose, I know that they serve a purpose) matches the shade of a particular leaf on a particular tree from a particular part of Wisconsin, has not particularly escaped my attention.
Pencils. Bees. Lines on streets. Parts of Wisconsin: these things, they are not blue.
I like knee socks.
I both like and dislike mysterious people. I'm on the fence. To be sure, they present one with something to think about. And when you're bored and you hate the book that you're reading, and there's nothing on channel 23, a truly mysterious person can be quite a fun puzzle to unravel.
Is it a Pandora's box style riddle with no end in sight, like a hedge maze, or something more like a crossword puzzle? That's the thing. And, bottom line, are they feigning their own mysteriousness? Because, although it's frowned upon, it's still ok. Because it's so funny. Anyone working in the magic industry would be suspect for feigned mystery. And, by default, I find that I treat all mysterious people as fakes. It's a defense mechanism. It's, ..please, your ploy to get my attention has failed.. don't try to mystify me, I'm tired..
But, sometimes, someone from the other side of town sees something in the mysterious person, beyond their mystery. Sometimes that person is always doing things, like raising an eyebrow and bringing our antihero, the mysterious person, pieces of chocolate, french fries or cupcakes as gifts. It doesn't matter which. And then, the whole town is up in arms. What the hell happened? We were all minding our business, rotely and cruely ignoring this mysterious person (an interloper to be sure) just as we always do. Because it's what we do. In this town. And, here, someone has gone and brought the mysterious person cupcakes. Probably chocolate cupcakes. What the hell.
Believe me, I know. It happened in my town. In Chicago. And everyone is still talking about it.
He or she, with his or her (unprecedented) cupcakes, has wholly rejected our unspoken yet well established policy of shunning mysterious creatures. And, really, how dare he or she?
And I like cupcakes. Just individual cakes unto themselves. All the same size. So fair. So just.
I like a lot of things. I like names like Agnes, Marie, and Mud.
I like changing my kitten's name. I did it today. It was easy. No paper work.
I just suddenly realized (right in the middle of doing something at work that required all of my attention) that Scout's name is not Scout.
It's Mona Lisa.
This realization came to me less like an epiphany, and more like drawing an ace from a deck of tarot cards. As they (with their sudden and shocking floating hand without an arm or body) bring one opportunity, ideas, or inspiration. And sometimes money (just useless coins from Renaissance-era Middle Europe, but still, it's nice, getting money).
It all happend so fast. I thought, Mona Lisa, dropped everything and went directly home.
And, from the moment I got in the door, I yelled (in a voice that is slightly higher in pitch, embued with enthusiasm, and used exclusively for communicating with cats)
All the way up all four flights of stairs and down the very long (currently very dark, lightbulb free) hallway, until I was finally inside my apartment.
..Mona Lisa..! Come out..! Little Mona Lisa..! Where are you..?
This became louder and quite a bit more insistent over the hours. She never did respond. I don't think that Mona Lisa gets it.
I do believe every person in my building gets it, though.
It's ok. I'm moving soon. In the meantime, it's all about throwing one's heavy combat boot across the room (and sometimes up at the ceiling) when ones gets home. Because it's fun. And loud.
Them. They do that. Not me.