Death suits you well, darling.

A 6-photo story starring Taj Sivertsen, Jordan Geyerman and Henry the skull.

The lady at Walmart thinks I'm artsy

This story is true. I'm not sure if it's a social commentary on the culture of the people of Walmart, or if it's just a piece of prose I wrote to amuse myself. In any case, I feel obligated to memorialize it. If not for your sake, then mine.

The other day I felt the need to print some photos I took. So I ordered photo prints online through Walmart. Unfortunately, my photos usually end up over-saturated when I print them there. This dampens my spirits momentarily. But then I remember how inexpensive they are and I cope because I am a poor college student.

I also felt the need to purchase a book I've desperately wanted to read for quite some time now. I was surprised to find that Walmart sold it online, and through its Site to Store Pick-Up, I could buy it for a cheaper price than anywhere else. So I did.

On a Saturday afternoon, I traversed to this magical place to collect my treasures. I quickly bought some groceries so I could sooner start the fun part: retrieving my photos and new book. Bananas, strawberries, avocados, wheat pasta, almond milk, guilty pleasure chocolate protein shake. Check.

I hurried to retrieve my book from the Site to Store Pick-up section of Walmart, where a tall brunette man materialized from a back room. I revealed my intentions of picking up the book. His eyes reflected subtle surprise, and he informed me that people hardly ever order books at Walmart. He gladly gave me my book, I gladly received it, and I was on my way to the photo department.

The Lady sat. The Lady sat in her apathy. The Lady sat in her apathy until she mustered the will to ask, "Can I help you?"

I smiled and said, "Yes! I'm here to pick up some photos under the name of Kristina Smith."

The Lady found my photos amongst her files. She pulled two of my photos from their sleeve and asked "where I got them." I told her I photographed the images, because I did. She gave me a pointed look that undoubtedly carried the subtext: "AND I'M THE QUEEN OF SHEBA." The Lady returned the photos to their sleeve without a word, acting like she'd let me slide on this one.

I asked The Lady why she questioned the origin of my photos. She replied, "Well. they look kinda like...artsy. So if you got them online [here she paused and gave me accusing eyes], they're probably copyrighted or something, and you're not supposed to print them without permission."

I reiterated the fact that I took the photos. I even told her the shots' locations. A smirk sat, fastened indefinitely to her face.

The Lady clung to her opinion like a tiny starfish on an artificial boulder. However, as she married her opinion, she also entertained her apathy. Drenched in her indifference, she ultimately permitted me to print photos which she presumed I stole from the Internet.

As I walked away from this strange scenario, I was mildly ruffled because of my inability to penetrate The Lady's mind with truth. However, feelings of amusement and even gratification prevailed.

I don't how much fulfillment a human being is supposed to feel when a Walmart employee deems their photography to be professional in quality. And I don't know what it says about a person when they feel flattered in such a scenario. But for a good five minutes, I felt pretty good about myself.

The lady at Walmart doesn't know it, but she thinks I'm artsy.

An average night in the Smith household: junk in the trunk, The Perfect Eldest Brother, and an eerie angel voice

Here's an average night in the Smith household.
After re-reading what I wrote here, I realize that Justin is somewhat the star of the show. Not intentional. I guess it just happens. Anyway, read away.

It begins as a still Sunday evening. Justin and I wander aimlessly throughout the house, not sure how to entertain ourselves in this house which used to be our home a few years ago. We decide to play a game as a family and to eat dinner shortly after-- the game is some variation of Scrabble, but in card form. It's fun, but has a short run. Justin quickly wins three rounds and insists that we all vocally acknowledge his victory.  We admit this subserviently and move on to the next game, Loaded Questions.

In the game Loaded Questions, a question is asked, each player submits their written personal answer, and another player guesses who put each answer. It's great fun. Always guarantees huge laughs and sometimes, spilled secrets. At one point as we play, the question is asked: "What is one character trait you wish you had?" Naturally, Justin's answer is "junk in the trunk." After some hearty giggles and helpful explanations of modern terminology to a few less cultured folk, we move on to other questions. Here and there, Justin makes simple and silly comments that send our laughter through the roof-- we laugh for his silliness, we laugh for his wit, we laugh for his unfiltered love for life and all things potty humored. We laugh, we look at each other, we laugh again. There's no stopping it.

In this moment, nothing in the world seems more delicious than laughter. Laughter is something so sweet and ripe, something you unknowingly crave for a lifetime. In this moment, we get to indulge in it shamelessly. I want to gather it all and keep it in a locket, close to my heart. Laughter with loved ones is something to live for.

We suddenly recognize just how famished we are and realize that it is way past the time that we thought we'd eat dinner. My mom and I reheat the food and make last minute dinner preparations as the boys laze comfortably on the couches. Finally it is time, and we eat like Smiths. Mom eating delicately and mindfully; Scott eating delicately and absentmindedly; the rest of us eating like we are just now discovering this miracle called food.

Throughout dinner and the rest of the night, there are many more mentions of "junk in the trunk." Justin says he loves the fact that he can continually get away with saying it in our household. At some point, someone suggests we go around the table and say what we like about each member of the family. They talk about me first. Scott says something about my teeth being white. Everyone else says slightly more meaningful things. We continue, saying things we like about each family member, present and not. Dad genuinely cares about people, Mom loves learning, Spencer is thoughtful in gift-giving, orderly and diligent, Scott has attention-locking eyes and a good sense of right and wrong, and Justin...well, we all know Justin. Along with his craziness and hilarity, he is also a very just person, and kind.

When we get to Ryan, I go first. "What I like about Ryan is that...HE'S PERFECT. The end." We make several jokes about the perfection of Ryan, this eldest son. When it's Justin's turn, he says he's glad Ryan doesn't pinch him anymore, like he did here and there in their youth. I suddenly realize that THAT counted as a flaw, but then I remind the family that Ryan only did that before his baptism, before his sins were washed clean, so he's good to go now. We all laugh, and I relish in the victory of making an acceptable joke, realizing for a moment how it must feel to be Justin. Then we start discussing how incredibly intelligent, talented and perfect Ryan's children will probably turn out, and Justin suggests that Ryan's whole family will probably get translated. He describes how one day, Ryan's family will be eating dinner, and suddenly their whole house will begin floating, straight up to Heaven. I wouldn't doubt it for a minute.

After dinner, the house is alive. Dishes rattle, Scott's trumpet pierces the air, voices converse. I sit down on the family room couch with my laptop, to write. It's an L-shaped leather blue couch, and Justin sits on the other side of the L. I don't pay too much attention.

But then, he is singing the Lord of the Rings theme song, using gentle "ah's" to slide from note to note. Normally, in these types of situations, I avoid eye contact. I usually don't want to egg him on. However, in this instance his voice is eerily on pitch and angelic-sounding. I look up from my computer, and am surprised to find Justin looking straight ahead, with pure enjoyment written on his face as he sings. I had expected him to be staring in my direction, breaking into silliness at any moment, waiting for a reaction. But instead, he is simply staring ahead, singing like an eerie angel of an 1800's boys' choir, and enjoying life. His eyes dart my way as he realizes I am staring at him, and we both laugh. He continues to sing, relishing in the victory of this moment. Justin smiles triumphantly as his voice reaches each note with clarity and ensuing vibrato; not only has he penetrated my indifference; he has amused me greatly. Once again, Justin has won.