The Repellent Theory

Part 1: Before 1

     I look down at my checklist and wonder why I made one at all. It's not like I'm going to stick to it anyway, especially since this is one of my favorite stores. Granted, I didn't have many favorite stores so Wet Paint is not truly competing for my love. It is a small, light blue store on the corner of Morell Street. If you don't know what you were looking for, you are more than likely to miss it. Another reason why I love it so much, only a few people were milling around. A few as in four or five, which was the way I like it. The owner, an auburn-haired midget, Cassie Martin, was someone I had become quite familiar with over the years, our conversations maintained with curt nods of acknowledgements, smiles on occasion and her one sided conversations. I could add that to the ever-growing list of reasons why this store is the best. But the best reason of all, the reason I could never walk down Morell Street and merely pass it was because of what it contained. Although it is a tiny shop, it's filled to the brim with every paint, pencil, marker, brush, journal one could ever want. I was here way too often, even on the days when my self-control succeeds and I walk out empty handed. I always left with a hidden smile, and most would say I never truly left empty handed.

     I give my checklist another glance before I throw it in the nearest bin. I'm not supposed to be here, actually, but I also wasn't supposed to be fighting with Alania, my 24-year-old aunt who lives with me. She was one of the people I hate fighting with no matter what. So instead, like always I just ran off. She'll probably call me when she cools off. I walk past the journals, all of them speaking to me quietly to pick them up. Sliding my small backpack off my back, I open it and take out my even smaller current journal. It's the perfect size. It fit in my small backpack and I could always take it wherever I went. It was sort of an art/mind dump/sketch journal? I'm not very sure but it does whatever it's supposed to do I guess. I flip to the last page I used. I only have about ten pages before it's completely full. That's got to be a good enough reason to get a new one, right? I hope Alaina thinks so too. I pick up another small journal that was similar to my original one and look it over. A light gray 8.5cm x 12cm journal with a metal spiral binding. Basically, it's perfect. This calls for a new pen too right? I mean why not?

     Walking over to aisle nine, I let my eyes wander over all of the glorious writing utensils. I do have most of these, but one can never have enough pens, it's just that simple. The fifth shelf holds the most amazing pen I have ever seen. It's perfect for my weird, unusual small hands, but of course it has to be on the sixth shelf. Looking up and down the aisle, I don't see anyone. I should probably just ask one of the employees or Cassie to grab a stool and get it for me, but that is too much work. Throwing a glance down the aisle once more, I climb up the first three shelves and viola, I jump down with my desired pen in my grasp. I was sort of a climbing prodigy as a child, going through that phase that most toddles go through. Except mine didn't stop at five. At age twelve, I was still climbing trees. I'd found many different ways to escape situations over the years and climbing trees somehow made it on that list. I have to stop myself from skipping to the cashier, excitement bubbling inside me, a new journal and a new pen waiting for my use. I make myself wait three minutes, take a breath, and slowly made my way to the front of the store. Any emotion, no matter how insignificant could always get the best of me, resulting in my constant neutral and content state. Anything else can send me spiraling in the wrong direction.

          "Did you find everything you needed, Londyn?" Cassie asks me politely. I nod, sending her a small smile. She nods back at me, her auburn curls shaking lightly as she takes my credit card from my hands. She slides it across the pad and hands it back to me with a bag and a receipt.

          "Have a nice day now," Cassie tells me, as if she's almost demanding me to make sure my day reached the achieved goal of "niceness", whatever it is. But she means well. I merely nod again and head out of the door, the chime above the door jiggling with noise on my way out. Before I'm completely out of the door, I ditch my receipt in the nearest bin, my checklist and receipt now joined together at the bottom of the bin.