Chapter: Resilience

The last 12 months have fumbled by with such a determined, graceless speed that I literally do not know what month it is until I've received my monthly subscription.

In one year I have had enough developments for a lifetime. I got dumped by the man I thought I was going to marry (read: first love), I was sent to Asia for one job therefore taking a temporary leave of another, I was told by my roommates that they were moving out of the area and therefore I would have to find a new apartment on my own (a good and bad thing: good - cause they were the worst roommates ever, bad because getting your own apartment in l.a. is not exactly an affordable task at this juncture), I came back from Asia after deciding it was not a good fit and was unable to get back my old job, I lost my favorite uncle in New York, cleaned out my savings account to fly across country to see my youngest sister who was unexpectedly diagnosed with renal failure in Philadelphia - an event that took place after she visited California and was dragged away by police because of our worse-than-a-storybook-evil-stepmother who felt like upping her crazy bitch points, which subsequently caused me to break my rule about never going over to my fathers house to go search for my sister and then call every hospital and police station in Orange County until I found her in a lockdown facility where my stepmother was going to let her stay to rot without telling her family...(pause for breath).

I left my modeling agency because they were lazy, signed with a new agency who didn't end up matching my enthusiasm or believe in me nearly enough, signed with a management company knowing full well that up until this point I had zero acting experience or frankly even a desire to act at all, became a title holder and a Miss California, USA 2012 contestant which put me under so much stress that I became obsessed over every freckle, pore and hair follicle on my body,  my computer acquired a virus and crashed, I reconnected with an ex-boyfriend I had not seen since I left him in Germany over 3 1/2 years ago - it turned out to be a bad idea, discovered that my mothers new beau was in fact my fathers best friend from the navy - a secret I was expected to keep while she ceaselessly attempted to set me up with his man-boy son, My father cancelled my medical insurance out of spite but decided not to tell me until I had racked up thousands of dollars in hospital bills, I was accepted into a local university as a transfer student for the Fall and then in the Summer discovered they had "rescinded" my acceptance after first cashing my registration check, and of course during this time one of my best friends decided to go to Saudi Arabia for a year for work experience, my transmission died while I on the freeway and given all of the aforementioned events I have unable to acquire the funds to fix it and on and on I go with my tail of woe. 

I have always been a tenacious person. I was met with extreme opposition at a very young age and at one time I even questioned why I was so afflicted during a time where everyone else was so carefree. I eventually concluded that it was all preparatory for something greater. I figured that if I was to do something great with my life that that would come with a price and that I needed to ready my backbone, and spirit for such a tremendous responsibility. 

I have since lost that optimism. 

Moving to L.A. and seeing the suffering and struggling around me made me believe that sometimes great suffering comes with no gain and no fortuitous agenda. 

But even as I type this I wonder if that mentality in itself is defeat. 

Is living on the street with no roof over your head a struggle - a moment of extreme opposition to get through, or is it the cards you've been dealt? Is it the entire picture? Are we homeless because we have given up or are we homeless because that's our lot in life? Have we folded too early and so we accept our situation as our permanent condition and allow ourselves to fall categorically into an affliction that might have been temporary? Is it not possible for it to simply be "the way things are"?

I see how easy it is to give in. How easy it is to wonder what it's all for and to finally decide that the universe is conspiring against you and you concede that the path of least resistance is the one where you sit down on your stoop and die. 

There are two major theories when it comes to life's choices. One is that if it's supposed to happen then it will - the universe will conspire to help you fulfill your own personal legend. Then there's the idea that if you are met with enough opposition and hardship then it is a sign that you are on the wrong path and you need to be going the other way. 

This seems incomplete. What if what the universe has in store for you is to face that opposition head on. To suffer greatly and face sky-scraping challenges, to tell you with all it's weather and natural disasters to "turn back" but pulling your heart and will forward. Can't it in fact be true that maybe your personal legend is to battle daily? That there are no "signs" only the will to survive? To survive outside of your circumstances? To not accept "that's the way things are"?

If that is indeed a possibility then I believe I am in that category. I have not seen a green patch or the 9th cloud ever since I can remember. With every mediocre opportunity comes a contract with the devil. 

Maybe it seems like I'm being glum - maybe I am. But I reflect so often upon my life soberly and carefully that I wonder if maybe glum is my virtual avatar.  

I want to believe that most things are out of my control. And that with the billions or people, the earths unpredictable tendencies, politics, economics, and disease that not everything can simply change because I wish it. That sometimes my failure is not a result of a single choice but of a network of choices made by a network of people. Still it is up to me to take responsibility for my own life. To decide that I am going to be the head of the network and braid it to let out on the road I choose for myself. As far as the opposition, and the signs, and the gloom what choice do I have but to recognize their existence and continue to prepare myself for the day where all that muscling actually builds a life for myself. 

Estrogen Sonata.

February 2006 - a market roof collapsed in Russia killing 56 people

March 2006 - More than 200 wildfires in a 24-hour period destroyed 15 homes, killed 10,000 cattle and horses, and burned 191,000 acres.

April 2006 - terrorists set off 3 bombs in the Sinai Peninsula resort city of Dahab, killing 18 and injuring 85.

June 2006 - an overloaded bus plunged into a ravine in Tanzania killing, 54 people.

November 2006 - a fire swept through a home for the mentally ill in Missouri, killing 10.

With events like these my own personal "natural disasters" are horrifically  irrelevant. However, to a 19 year old girl with man troubles these news headlines don't even appear on the radar. It's spring 2006, and I am almost a year into a relationship that would end up lasting 3 years. Of course I knew at the beginning that this partnership wasn't going anywhere - but being the headstrong post teen that I was - I did it anyway. Now those of us good with arithmetic can gather that investing 3 years in a relationship going nowhere is quite the time-suck. However it would seem that although I had the wisdom not to start attaching his last name to my Christmas cards I couldn't convince the rest of me that I wasn't 100% committed. 

100% commitment: My gift, my curse. My passion, my blight. I had been living under the harsh impression that if you don't go big, you go home. And home was no place I wanted to be. 

So I committed 100% of my time and attention to an idea that at 19, I had no right to have. I continued my lifelong endeavor of assigning myself every single extracurricular activity out there and pairing it up with whatever class would give me the most homework all so I would never have to go "home". Since homework at the collegiate level is more of an "optional" thing - I gave myself case studies. My relationship was my homework. My woman-cave. My escape. 

I was reminded of this fact after an impromptu laundry date with my best friend in my room this evening. Pandora has once again failed us by being so damn stingy with their allotted 40 hours/week free listening gimmick so we had to result to..*cd's (*definition available on wikipedia). Since we just moved here there was still a full box in my room, this box was full of photo albums and burned discs. I pulled out a cd in an attempt to sountrack our folding session and I was mortified to listen to what I thought was an acceptable mixed tape back then. After a few failed tracks I would change one cd out for another and then I started noticing a theme. 

Not only was 2006 a complete disaster for my love life it was not good for music either. 

I mashed up Carrie Underwood's - "You Won't Find Me" with Lifehouse's - "Whatever it Takes" and Angels & Airwaves - "Lifeline", and of course, OF COURSE I topped it off with 1994's Hootie and the Blowfish - "Let Her Cry". Woulda been a sin not to, (if you're going to play a country singer opposite a blink-182 frontman you might as well go for the gold). And then various worship songs about Jesus for filler. 

I'm STILL listening to this cd - and I'm thinking, "what in God's name was I on?" I realize, often too late, how hard I am on myself. I was a young girl with normal estrogen levels trying to figure out an adult relationship way above my maturity level. I wanted to feel and experience things I couldn't really even identify because I never had them, in ANY  capacity. I was so intrigued by love and the concept of 2 people doing life together that I had no real grasp on what kind of life I wanted for myself.

I eventually torpedo'd that relationship and found myself in the aftermath. And out of of all disasters in 2006 and the years following - I am lucky to have been reunited with my  core and be among those counted as a survivor. 

Six Chunky Monkies.

It occurred to me today, for no particular reason, that it has been six months since the fated end of my last relationship. Here it is, the festive day of Patrick the Saint and I am awake...blogging...about my "x".


Stick a half eaten carton of “Chunky Monkey” in front of me and I would make a perfectly sad cliche’. (Chocolate Chip is in the freezer, so that makes me ahead of the curve). <— This is what it takes to make me feel superior. Wow.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Some time later - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In an effort to widen the gap between me and every other sad dumpee who pours their heart out to their online diary - I’ve taken to distracting myself in a hip, young, intelligent, “it’s not me, it’s you”, sorta way. 

a la “How to: HTML” 

• Widen gap ftw

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - even more time later - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

But what if it IS me? 

I mean I’m pushing 25 and the world is going to end soon and I haven’t had my roots done in at least a month which could be a clear indication that I’ve “let myself go”, and the fact that i’m in this phase where I think my grey wife-beater goes with everything, (everything), isn’t helping my case for “it’s you”; and he might have sensed all along that I was this mess of a person! 

Either that or he found out I’m not a real blonde…

Nah.  

He knew I would one day wear wife-beaters for days at a time over my yoga pants and traipse around Los Angeles under the half-implied impression that I was always coming or going from an intense yoga workout.

It IS me! 

Well fanfuckingtastic. That damnable phrase about “coming full circle” applies. 

Gap Narrowed. 

• Double Chocolate Chip.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - you now gather what the dashes mean - - - - - - - - - - -

There’s really nothing to be said. And since that person I call my best friend has started counting my calories for me (yes, it’s like that), I can’t eat my feelings either. So i’m forced to confront them. 

6 months at a time. 

Fortunately I can’t fit it into my schedule at present.

All I know is that from time to time I catch myself moving forward, but thinking backward and my mental odometer is getting confused.

Paulo Coelho has been my literary Xanax when he wrote in the Alchemist “If what one finds is made of pure matter, it will never spoil. And one can always come back. If what you had found was only a moment of light, like the explosion of a star, you would find nothing on your return.” 

There’s something nurturing about that statement. Even more so when read in context. I may not have the time or even the wisdom to decipher what any of my internal communicators are telling me about love, life, and growing up - but for now I just have faith and a Coldstones punch card, and that’s good enough for me.

It would seem that even if I circle, and circle, and circle and step forward then back, then forward again; I’m in this calm place where I’ve learned to: 

• appreciate things more (colors brighter. flowers prettier. grass greener. etc.)
• adopt “only time will tell” into my phraseology  
• conceded that patience really is a virtue (and not necessarily one I will ever attain). 
• set a new standard for when, how or if I enter into a relationship. 
  • I know, choosing to be single on purpose during my early (I can still say early) twenties when the pickings are good is brave/stupid/cat-ladyesque.
•  learned to value love, via loss, but still - deeper meaning attained. 
• and I’m still being taught about all the little nuts and bolts that make up my composite.

Whatever lost, whatever (to be) gained - there are things that are building and abiding and I’m going to cherish that. Always.

"I think you're just what I needed!" (Sorta)

12:30am: just a few minutes more and the phone will ring. I’m not waiting for it. OK I’m waiting for it, but not in a fingernail biting sort of way - I just know its coming.

12:34am: the phone rings. It’s my “Mr. Sixteen Minutes”. There are precisely sixteen minutes between the time I answer the phone and the time the train arrives to take him to his language school in Germany. What will we do with today’s precious sixteen “tick-talking” minutes? Tread water seems to be the surest answer. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful for every moment I have with him, even if those moments are spent at the deep end of a pool, they are happy ones.

Lately I seem to have developed a case of immedicable worrying. I worry about everything. And although it’s new to my personality it feels completely natural! I mean I can now have anxiety attacks with little to no effort from my cognizance! Be jealous.

I wouldn’t say it’s gotten out of hand quite yet. It doesn’t keep me up nights, my eating habits are fairly consistent and my hair is still intact despite what excessive bleaching has done to it. All in all I would say I got the long end of the worry-stick. Although I’m fairly certain “Mr. Sixteen” would politely disagree, but that’s why he isn’t being interviewed for this particular blog. I’ve given him the night off of disagreeing with me.

Frankly, I’m afraid what my new nemesis is going to do to my new(er) relationship. There certainly doesn’t appear to be room for both of them and although I would gladly show worry to the door – she’s a stubborn broad who is more inclined to nest than to venture out into the world and meet new people. That offer would have easily worked on me. Apparently my new enemy can’t be bought quite so quickly. (I guess I’m cheap & easy?)

2:55am: So maybe my sleep pattern is a little off – but it isn’t because I’m up the night worrying! I get some of my best work done at late hours. It’s when I feel my calmest and most focused. I can reflect on the day and begin my planning for the next and then after I’m satisfied and completely exhausted from pointless planning – I sleep. Tonight, however, I read - I avoided making any sort of plans. In fact, I’m taking a vacation from plans. A hiatus, as it were, from jotting down little reminders to myself. Because honestly, it stresses me the fuck out and my pores just can’t handle it right now.

I’m thinking of writing again. Although, I should mention that I lack the patience to commit to such a task. All the storyboarding, plot and character development blah blah blah. I’d rather just string together a series of incoherent thoughts and then call it “The Works of Tina Ayden Vargas”. Seems to be profitable for Sedaris and Vonnegut*…so maybe?

(*Note: I make no personal comparison, merely draw personal inspiration. End Note*).

Maybe.

Perhaps I should start with poetry. I’m considering doing a free-verse called something like “fire & ice” that will casually reveal the details of my often smoky-communication-impaired conversations with “Mr. Sixteen”. On paper, we’re a recipe for disaster. I meet his often reserved yet surprisingly vocal disposition with Latin feist and octaves. Neither one of us are submissive and both posses a misguided passion toward things we haven’t and perhaps can’t ever fully understand. But then when is passion ever fully given a scholarly explanation?

I’m crazy about the guy. He can do no wrong – even when he’s wrong – he can do no wrong. I’d forgive him anything. I know more than a few people who would protest this sort of star treatment, but all I can say is – I can’t help it. If the man wants snow in July, he’ll get snow in July.

You would think this type of “anything you want baby, it’s yours” attitude would make me quite fortuitous in my current relationship. Well, somewhere between the English, the Spanish, the Korean, the Atlantic Ocean and the Berlin Wall…something is lost. I only wish it were my cell phone bill.

3:52am: Good morning optimistic side. If such a side of me exists (I was born a cynic, I will die a cynic…only with more validation), this is as close as it will ever get: it is possible that nothing is lost, that really over an average amount of time and a generous amount of patience and understanding that all the elements will gel into a sort of cement. I appreciate the fact that we are not one of those “we just clicked” couples and that it took a couple drinks, a couple convincing conversations, a diversion, a good night sleep and a hangover to get us to be on the same page. A page that I look back fondly on and laugh at the absurdity of our unlikely encounter and our even more unlikely union. Yet here we are, and here we plan to stay.

In the unfathomable event that I don’t know everything there is to know about love, life and the universe there is this: maybe we aren’t the people we thought we wanted but as far as I can tell we’re the people we need. And if I may excuse myself from the carnage fest that is my never-quite-satisfied gluttony for “want” and “desire” I will instead support the “need” cause. I’m beginning to think that if we can take stock of our life, kiss off everything that’s holding us back from happiness, and start the long, hard process of deciding what we need and what we truly want that we’ll learn that “want” and “need” are just one of many harmonic 4-letter words.

So here’s to enjoying the ride and the loopier the better. So long as there are proper body restraints and multilingual safety instructions.

“For your safety, remain seated and keep your hands, arms, feet and legs inside.”

“Para su seguridad, permanezca sentado con las manos, brazos, pies, y piernas dentro de vehiculo.

Thank you. Gracias. Danke. Komawoyo.

Fuzzy Pantry.

(I Define)

*To be stagnant (adj.): to be stale - to be hard, crusty and moments away from developing an eye watering odor. To be so still (and not in meditative efforts but because of absolutely NO effort) that you grow a fuzzy blanketed layer that's comfortable at first and then fatal at last.

(I Bellyache) or (I Piss & Moan)

This state of being does not sound especially appealing. I am not comfortable with being fuzzy.

But every now and again I'll imagine myself as a giant Puerto Rican peach: extra fuzz, prim for picking but instead stagnant and molding; predestined to find my niche and then pigeonholing myself so that I can live out my glory days in harmonious fruity ravenousness.

I want to look back to this place in 5, 10, 20, 30 years and be completely dissolved.

Yes, obliterated. I'll build upon my ever concentrated pith and make it the bedrock of my being, (with slightly more esprit) but the rest of me...let it explode! I want to rub elbows with the constellations without dragging my aging dispositions along with me, clouding the atmosphere.

(I Dramatize)

Somehow I envy Drew Barrymore's charachter in 50 first dates - to wake up each morning and be completely vacant of who you were or what you did the day before. What freedom! What excitement! What terror!

In essence she was the same person she'd always been - if she hadn't it would have made it impossible for Adam Sandlers, albeit tenacious character, to fall in love with her, not just once, but daily. Her memory was damaged but her spirit, her core, her pith - remained unchanged. Relentlessly, he pursued her heart and she chose to surrender it.

The balls it took to surrender her life, her mind, her entire composition with just a gentle reminder that she was exactly where she was supposed to be, exactly where she WANTED to be, with who she wanted to be. I envy her faith, I envy her courage, her marrow. But more than that I envy the consistency of her spirit. To be, despite all obstacles, to be. And in "being" it wasn't the forgotten argument the day before (although I'm sure she would have loved to remember it strictly for score keeping purposes) that was recorded and replayed - it was her, it was her relationships. She woke up each day in panic not knowing where she was, who she was or how she got there (I can relate), but everything that happened the day before didn't matter. She accepted her position, processed the sudden change and moved forward. BRAVA MADAME, BRAVA!

(I Digest)

1. "It is not good for man to be alone." Genesis 2:18

2. Change: it's inevitable. Go with it why don't you.

*definition found at the bottom of my iced tea cup and a vanilla pudding "snack pack" - won't hold up to Webster's.

tick, tock - why'd your heart stop?

I need to say something. I need to say something right now, and I need to say it as loud and as clear as I possibly can. I need you to hear it coming through your speakers, I need you to see it come alive from your screen & I need you to feel it from across the room.

You are breathtaking & intriguing. Please stop trying to fix everything about yourself. It bores me.

Whatever it is that you just find so repulsive about yourself that makes you feel the need to hide in a protective shell, WHATEVER IT IS - you are not broken. You do not need fixing. There is a purpose to everything you have and will go through.

Why are we hiding ourselves from people? What are we hiding from? Shame, guilt, embarrassment, fear, rejection, a reality tv comparison?

Stop hiding! Stop covering yourself up! We're all messy in one way or another - but this should bring us together not make us go into isolation. I can't tell you how many people I've lost in my life because they felt they needed to hide away the things that made them unique, the things that they went through - their hurt. When an opportunity came for them to share the deepest part of themselves they ran in the other direction. We don't hide our success or joy so why do we hide our disappointments and pain?

To what gain do we do these things? To pretend we have it altogether? To pretend we don't need anything or anyone? To prove that we are self sufficient?

Well let me be the first to give up the jig: I don't have it all together, I need people, and I am not nearly as self sufficient as I would like others to believe. I am a mess and in my messy state it would be nice to be among the human race that at one time had emotions, feelings...imperfections just like me.

What planet is this? We were created as emotional beings. No not just women, people. People were created as emotional beings. I don't care on what point you fall on the emotional graph - that doesn't change the simple fact that emotions are not a source of shame, weakness or femininity, but of a higher capacity to be alive than any other creature on earth.

Where are you oh people who feel? Why have we abandoned our heart for the sake of our face? Why have we detached ourselves from the very thing that gives us life? Too painful? Too difficult? Too distracting? Too crippling? Too weak? Too humiliating?

Deal with it. "This is your pain, This is your burning hand, it's right here! Stay with the pain, don't shut this out. The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes, like the first monkey shot into space. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing." Don't go hiding into your cave..."Don't deal with it like those dead people do, come on! What you're feeling is premature enlightenment - this is the greatest moment of your life and your off somewhere missing it. Our fathers were models for God, If our fathers bailed - what does that tell you about God." - Fight Club

Stop cheating yourself out of the experience of life. The greater your capacity to feel, the greater your capacity to love, and therefore the greater your capacity to feel pain. Why is this bad? What kind of life would I have if I couldn't feel extreme love and therefore extreme pain? What would it all have been for? This isn't a pleasure cruise - this is a dangerous adventure, full of twists and turns and nausea. Stop with the precautions, the curtains, and the charade.

I need you, people, I need you. I need to see that what makes us different from other living things is our ability to feel. Your heart is the most beautiful thing about you. The hell it went through, the joy it's felt - that's beautiful. That's unique. And it is needed.

We can put up pictures of people who have our face, but we can never put up a picture of someone who has our ticker. Doesn’t that mean anything? That your experiences, your life, your triumphs, your failures, everything you’ve gone through has lead up to this moment where you finally realize that the world needs you, people need you, we need your perspective.

I am woman, I am invincible, I am tired and I refuse to give up on the human race and all that it is capable of, all that makes it beautiful. I need to believe that there are broken hearts out there just like mine seeking repair and comfort in knowing that it’s okay to “come as you are”. This isn’t a black tie affair, leave the ball gowns and the tuxes in the closet and join my ranks among the searching, the lost, the desperate, the needy, the starving, the imperfect, the loveless…the beautiful.

This is an invitation to life. Don’t just do a coat check, bring the boxes, the baggage, the ugly furniture, come in, unload, unpack, stay awhile and we’ll throw out the bull shit together.

A lyric that bares repeating is from The Postal Service: “I am a visitor here, I am not permanent.” My life without you, without people, is meaningless. There’s a shortage of feeling, emoting people out there. And there’s an intangible amount of moments for each of us. Without you I would be living for myself - breathing in life and breathing out toxins. I wish to create not destroy. I want to be apart of something bigger than myself and that something is all of you. My heart is open and full of all sorts of things, but it is still going, and as long as that’s true – I know I am worth something.

We recite catchy sayings about love, life, the universe and everything else to help us escape the pain and suffering in the moment; some nice little ditty that helps us cope with the choices we've made and the things that we choose not to deal with in the moment. But I reject the boomerang theory: that if you let something/someone go and it comes back to you – it’s yours for keeps. What you let go of is exactly that. It is gone – and if it comes back it’s so that it can whack you in the head with increased velocity. We can’t take for granted the people in our lives, we need to show our truest selves to each other, we need to say the things we mean and need to say. We need to be loved and give love. And we need to do it now. If there’s a road we need to travel alone – we need to not destroy the bridges that help us along the way.

While I’m here I mean to live on purpose - with purpose and exposed as the truest version of myself. Anything else would be a waste of time.

generic.

It's the peak of fall which means it's also the climax of my personal allergy Hell.
For some of you an allergy is a pesky sneeze from time to time and maybe a slight topical itch. We're talking dream affliction compared to my nightmare.

Me? I have no ordinary allergy.

I am completely and utterly useless during this time and remedying the problem has proved to be a fruitless endeavor. I've gone at this from every angle, taken extreme precautions, and fought the good fight against dust, leaves, and cats for as long as I can remember.
There's no stopping mother nature's untidiness.
She insists on sweeping her crap in my general direction - using a Herculean sized fan pointed at my face as her choice brooming method.

Dear Great Mother, please meet my favorite tactile member.

Therefore, since the universe has declared war on me - I am declaring war on IT! I am hereby advocating today - and every other day in this season of infamy - as a homo sapien hibernation. I will spend my time in bubble baths and knitting hypoallergenic wool.
There's no two ways about it. I've taken every drug out there recommended to numb the pain and NOTHING works.

Currently I pop the CVS rip-off of Benedryl. You can't possibly mistake it's intended purpose. It says ALLERGY MEDICINE in big pink block lettering. I've experienced several high and low points while on these pink demons. I've learned that when taken on an empty stomach they can alter your behavior to a point not unlike insobriety (this was the high point I mentioned earlier). I don't recommend doing this before morning meetings, ESPECIALLY if you work in the health-care industry emphasizing in geriatrics. I read that somewhere, it was a disclaimer or something...

But not to despair - your self medicating practice is not all in vain!

We'll forget that in your hopeless desperation for clear nasal passages and a throat not made of thistle, that you soon give up and give in to the power of the pink pill and fall into a bizarre sleep and when awakened you feel neither rested nor on the mend - just horribly, horribly confused about where you are, how you got there, why you're missing your pants and if that vivid memory about goat herding in the Swiss Alps was a dream or not (and this was the low point...).

We won't mention that you speak incoherent sentences that leave sales clerks morally obligated to ask you if "[you're] okay to drive". And let's not talk about the blogs you write at 2 in the morning paying homage to your allergy medication. And we certainly don't need to discuss the other elite residents in the bathroom cabinet, such as "Aspirin" from the 99cent store and "Pain Pills" from Wal-Mart.

Oh the (generic) lives we lead.
These labels clearly demonstrate the superiority of our reasoning skills; without them where would we be? Stuck between the Ben-Gay and the Zyban, that's where. Personally I am thankful that my medication doesn't pretend to be anything else. It doesn't need to be fancy like "Tylenol" or clever like "DayQuil". It is simply "I am allergy medication, and I am pink". And for that extra step it's saved me from reading it's .4 font label on the back indicating it's medicinal qualifications, I am grateful.

I really need to learn to knit.