Don't, Don't, Don't Bite Your Friends!

I am a normal, healthy girl. I have some meat to me, but I am not obese. The holidays are among us and gah knows how many photos will be taken, so I want to lose a few pounds. I have already, but I want to lose just a few more.But, I have come to the realization, in my quest to be skinny, that friends make you fat. I live in a city that is often called boring, but we have lots of things to do. We have an ice rink, roller rink, parks, libraries, malls, yada yada yada. We also have an abundance of restaurants. So, when it's a cold, winters night, and you want to do something, where do you go? One of two places, if you are a member of the Clean Quarters:*a friends house or a restaurant. At our friends house, Eytukan of the Na'vi Tribe, his mother, Ellen Gellar, always makes us smoothies and bakes us cookies, basically feeds us everything in her house. Ellen is like a cool, non-robotic, non-evil, non-remote control version of a Stepford Wife, and I mean that as a compliment. Now, if we go to Carrie's house, we eat there. If we go to Sweet's house, we eat. So, let's head to a restaurant, and eat. They make me fat. 

Tonight, I went to Eytukan's house, and Ellen offered me cookies, brownies, smoothies, Bosco sticks, spinach and cheese filled pazones, and these little balls of chocolate filled with caramel rice crispies in them.  I turned them all down. Then we decide we want to leave. We have no where to venture to, so we go to this cute little Mom-and-Pop restaurant called Frank's. I got tea with rice pilaf that had this marinara sauce that I know was bad for me. I can go all day and be perfectly fine, but if I go out with friends, gah help me. Friends make you fat.

*All the cool kids have this awesome nickname for my group of friends, but remember, due to privacy and crap, this name is changed.

BREAK TIME!

Okay, so I was going to write another Creeper McCreeperson story, but first I thought I'd share something with you.

A good friend of mine, (who never reads this blog, so don't tell 'em...) posted this status four hours ago:

Anastasia Beaverhousin* thinks sprinkles are pretty much the greatest thing ever.


Let me explain why this wrong. Let's first examine what sprinkles are. They're made of sugar, cornstarch, vegetable oil, and food coloring.

Yummy.

Now, sprinkles have been described as life's confetti. I always hated confetti. Confetti gets everywhere. I went to a New Year's Party once, they had confetti. I found some in my toilet, three weeks later. (The party was not at my house, and it was not before I sat down...) Sure they make things look pretty- for half a second! Then they just lay there. Sure, thrown in the air adds a bit of glammor, but if they get wet, they stick to everything and then whatever color they were to turn that color. I don't like seeing purple pee! It ain't right.

Back to sprinkles. They are practically tasteless. They never all get on what you want, ya know? Your counter always has some that spilled on it. So you scoop your hand and slide it into your other, but you feel bad wasting it, so you put it on your cake anyways. Then when someone says their pretty frosting tastes a bit salty, you should just brush it off, and hope that they didn't get any of that cat food residue that was laying on the table before you started frosting.

Ten Ice Cream Toppings That Kick Sprinkles Ass
10. Chocolate Syrup
9. Carmel
8. Whipped Cream
7. Frosting, (Oh yeah, you should try it.)
6. Cherries
5. Fudge
4. Hot Fudge
3. Strawberries
2. A Candy Bar, (of your liking.)
1. Melted Peanut Butter


Sprinkles suck.

*Remember the whole name change thing? Was that Obvious enough?

Creeper McCreeperson: Pastor Dan, (also featuring Lying McWeird Face)

My Intro to Sociology course turned out to be Intro to Social Work. This class has taught me only one thing: I don't want to go into Social Work. It is (klakfkjdflf) interesting. The people I have met in the class are (lfhdsajfkldjf) interesting. The first day of class, we had to interview one member of the class for forty five minutes, after which, we would report what we learned. This creeper girl was desperate to be my partner. We walked to the hall and before we even sat down, she started telling me about how her brother is schizophrenic, how she was raped, I think by multiple people, along with what she told her rapists. She told me about how her dad died and what she did to cope. I feel really bad about all of this, but I sat there in shock. I really didn't know what to do. When it was time to interview me, what did I have to say? My favorite color, food, movie, oh and TV show! I told her about how I probably watch too much Sex and the City, Castle, and Bones. She told me about how she loves Teen Mom. Now I hate that show, but I didn't want to be mean, so I just said, "Oh yeah, I've seen it." After she asked me if I had a "boo?" I assumed that was a boyfriend, and I told her no, that I prefer to just go on a few dates with guys not get into relationships. Please note the key word, prefer. As in, I choose to be single. 

Time to report to the class! Of course she wants to go first. She tells the entire class I'm a sociology major who wants to be on a jury. (What?!?) She tells them that I've never had a boyfriend, (not telling about how I don't want one right now,) and that all I do is watch TV. At this point, I say aloud, that I do go out and that I do have friends. People giggle, then she continues. She tells the class that we both love Teen Mom. This starts some intense discussion about how bad this show and how negative it is for kids to watch it. My teacher began lecturing to me about how I shouldn't watch this show, THAT I DON'T WATCH! When it was time for me to talk about my partner, what could I say? She was raped... Yeah that'd go over well.
Oh first impressions.

Okay, so this date I had not very long ago was with an agoraphob*. I didn't realize it was a date. I was kinda trapped into it. He is from my Social Work class. I call him Pastor Dan, not because his name is Dan, but because he wants to be a pastor, and if you have ever seen Raising Helen you'll probably know my reference. Let me tell you something about Pastor Dan, he has NO game, what-so-ever. He leads me to believe that we will studying, when instead he turns it into some "date." We go to our college cafeteria, (classy,) and he begins to start some kind of banter. At least, I think he thought it was banter. Really he was just calling a loser and a transvestite with a man voice. Flattering in what way? He also told me that I have pretty eyes, but hearing me speak kind of over-shadows them. He said, I talk too much and with a man voice, it makes it even worse. He told me about how not too long ago he couldn't leave his bedroom for months because of his intense fears. He still has some issues with leaving. As y'all know, I'm a psych major. I know how debilitating that can be. I hope someday I can be trained in helping people with this, among many other disorders, but when comes to a first date, gimme a break. He told me about how he's the "Son of God, like Jesus' brother." Direct quote. And he wasn't saying it in a, "We are all brothers and sisters of Jesus," kind of way. He was saying it in a, "I'm the next messiah" kind of way. Yes, an agoraphob who wants to be a pastor and says he's Jesus' brother thinks I'm a transvestite. Hmm. 








*Agoraphob; Short for Agoraphobic: verb; Fear of open spaces, large crowds, being alone in public situations. This often restricts people to a single place, such as a home, and in extreme cases, a single room.

Creeper McCreeperson: Briefcase Boy

Last year, I was in an English class. There was this guy who was in my class. He had that bad boy look. Dark hair, tan skin, tattoos, five o'clock shadow; the whole works. The only thing, (at first at least,) that I thought was weird was that he carried a steel briefcase. He would also pull out mango's and eat them. Yes. A mango. If you have ever seen the show Sex and the City, you will realize how strange this is.* But besides that, he was hot, and he had a personality. He was smart and funny. Seemed great.

One day, he moved his seat from the other side of the room to right next to me. My lucky day. We were reading our papers aloud in a small group for it to be critiqued. He and I started writing notes about how bad it was. We got flirty and blah blah blah, he gave me his number. I took it, thought that I would wait a whole two days to text back, because Allah knows I have better things to do with my life than to text the hot guy in class, or at least, that what I wanted him to think. Basically, after the longest two days of my life, we start texting. Everything was great... So I thought.

After a little bit, I ask, "How old are you?"

His response?

"Guess." Ahh, HELL NO! Red flag! Red flag. If a guy plays this game, he's old. But, my naive heart didn't want to believe it. "No, just tell me." I don't want to play games, I just want a guy to be straight forward. He responses with a question, "Well, how old are you?" I thought I'd give a hint, going back to childhood with, "I asked you first." After way too many back and forth texts he finally admits, he is twenty-seven. Mmmhmm. I was eighteen at the time. I decided I should lie so he would back off more easily. I told him that I was only seventeen. As I waited for a text that was full of shock and embarrassment that he was going after a minor, (even if in reality I wasn't, I was close enough,) he just texted back, "Well, 10 years ain't that big of a difference."

AHH FUCK NO! Nope. Not doing it. Not taking part of that, child molester! I responded with, "Well, this makes me uncomfortable," and he just thought I was stupid. How do I know, because he then tried to convince me that he was lying and he was only 21. Nope. Not falling for that one, buddy. He continued to text me for a little while longer, because he wanted to be "friends." He even invited me to hang out once. What was his idea of hanging out? I quote, "You should come over to my house, we can lay on my soft blanket by the fire, as I read to you from my favorite book and you listen to my favorite radio station by candle light. We can share a nice big bottle of red wine."

I flat out responded, "I don't want to date you. And I'd like you to stop hitting on me." The funny part is in his response: "I wasn't hitting on you. I just thought that'd be fun for two friends! Get over yourself."

BAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!! Poor old man, did I hurt your ego? Sorry, why don't you find some old lady at the home who is a little more your speed? Maybe one who's wheelchair has a motor! Ohhh!

Anyways, after all that, the class got awkward. Once, we were both late for class, I was on an important phone call with a friend in the hall and he was just late. He saw me, winked and went into class. My prof, who loved me, asked where I was, and Briefcase Boy answered for me. But, later I found out that he designed women's gowns out of leather. I died laughing. Learned my lesson. Well, not really. But I have yet to trust another person with a briefcase.




*The episode, Hop, Skip, and a Week to be exact. The episode where during jury duty, a man pulls out a mango from his briefcase. Same thing. Just as weird.

Creeper McCreeperson: Intro.

I am an avid user of Facebook. I've been on numerous social network pages, but none seem to compare to the glorious Facebook. It connects me to people who I would otherwise never be connected to. It reconnects me with old friends. A good friend of mine throughout high school was talking to me on Facebook Chat. She was venting to me about the idiocy of her ex-boyfriend. This friend has dated some real numbers, but then again, so have I.

This is an introduction to the weirdest guys I've even gone on a date with/ been creeped on by. This will be a multiple posting blog. Ladies, be prepared. If you have any better stories, feel free to comment, I'd love to hear them. And fella's, take note. Don't ever act like these guys!

Are you ready? Here we go...

Remove Child Labor Laws! (not really...)

I like to think of myself as a Carefree Girl. It has been used to describe me, but only by people who don't know me very well. All of those who really do know me, know that it's really the opposite. I have many cares. More importantly, I have many worries. I mean, if you knew me, I'm an over weight, average looking girl of average intelligence. I'm not saying I'm bad or ugly. I'm just nothing truly special. I'm no model who could rock the catwalk during Paris' Fashion Week nor am I some genius who has the potential to cure the common cold. I'm a girl who has a nice smile, bright eyes, can sometimes photograph well, and who has thousands of questions flowing through her head, with the inspiration to learn all she can about psychology. Nothing show-stopping or award-winning. Just me.

I actually wish that someone would have told me at a young age that I wasn't going to be anything special. That I would be an average American. That if I worked hard, then I can get the things I want, but nothing in life would be handed to me. I think that as a child I excepted that. In fact, as a young child, everything was. I wanted that Barbie Jeep, I got it. I wanted a seventh birthday party with 15 screaming girls, I got it. That dress, that puppy, dance lessons, baseball, whatever. I got it. I didn't have to work for anything. Just flash a smile, and if that didn't work: I cried. Oh, how far that gets a girl.*

But, if I was taught to work hard, then maybe I would be different now. I would be someone who isn't procrastinating that essay. I could be someone who has conquered the world and been more kick ass then Sally Field! I could have been some quad-lingo, world class painter/gymnast who's running out of room for all of her Gold Medals! Who the fuck am I kidding? I could never be a gymnast, I'm too tall and my double D's would get in the way!

So, who wants to make a contract with me? Let's all agree that from an early age we won't instill in our children that they can do or be anything they want. Let's agree that we won't give them toys unless the work for them. And yes, this includes those youngsters! Habits form early! Let's agree that our children will need to have jobs to get rewarded! Just like in the olden days! (Those factory working kids know the value of a dollar!)  Let's get down to business, to defeat, not the Hun, the ignorance!

*Okay, so I still do this, but not often! It still gets you far!

I Should Have A Show On HGTV

I am currently redoing my room. It's hell in four walls. I first had to fill in the holes in my walls, from push pins and such. There were more than 300 holes, (I hung a lot of stuff up.) Whatever. I did it. Then, I had to empty out my room. NBD! (That's "no big deal" in teenage girl talk.) I am getting rid of my dresser and bringing in some old stuff that my aunt has. So, my brother and I were taking it out of my room, and we're about to take it down a single flight of stairs. Then, my arm cramped up and the dresser went sliding down the stairs and broke in half. You know what sucks more than having to take a dresser to the Salvation Army? Trying to throw out a broken fucking dresser! Whatever. I got rid of it.
After this it was time to bring in the vintage furniture. We are starting to bring it up, and Butterfinger Magee drops this one, too!! Luckily we were only a few steps up, but I went stumbling back, hit the wall, the dresser hit me, full on. I had the wind knocked out of me. I couldn't breathe and now it hurts to walk. Finally we get the dresser up and the mirror, although the foot on it is broke and it lopsided.  My paint tipped over on the carpet. My beautiful silver carpet now has a giant dark purple spot, smack in the middle of it. The curtains are currently not wide enough, and look foolish. Basically, my room is a fucking mess.*


*None of this actually happened. I haven't even begun to paint yet. I just have nothing else to blog about.

The Fucket

In my Intro to Philosophy course, we watched a comedian's* sketch. It's short and funny. You should watch it, other wise you will have no idea what I am talking about. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4u2ZsoYWwJA**

We watched it because the daughter asks the philosophical question of "Why?" Well, something he said in this clip he repeatedly said, "Fuck it!" Well, I have recently taken this on, but it's now a noun. It's The Fucket. The Fucket is this entity that solves all of your problems. Forgot to study for your test. Fucket. Problem solved. Late for work. Fucket. Car break down. Fucket. Political debate. Fucket.  Dying. Fucket. PROBLEM SOLVED! The Fucket solves everything. 

*The dude's name is Louis C.K. He's freaking hilarious, despite the fact that he is a balding ginger. But, he will come back.

**"Eric you fucking asshole... Joe, eat a bag of shit, cunt-face!"

And The Best Actress Goes To...

Sally Field is mother fuckin' boss. Excuse my language, but seriously, she has to be one of the best actresses of our time. She is beyond incredible. Seriously. If you are not up to date with how amazing she is, then let me fill you in. In 1976, she was in this made for TV movie, in a role that Natalie Wood and Audry Hepburn turned down. She played this young girl that had Dissociative Identity Disorder, (more commonly known as Multiple Personality Disorder.) If you live under a rock, the title of this movie is Sybil. Because of her, the movie was nominated for a Golden Globe and won four Emmy's, including Best Leading Actress in a Drama or Comedy Special. Which makes complete fucking sense. She had to jump characters in an instant. And I don't just mean that she had to change emotions. She had to adjust her voice, her facial expressions, her demeanor, along with emotions. And in an instant! BOSSILY! I can't even begin to describe how amazing her acting job was. I can't. So just watch the movie.*
What else, you ask? Well, despite the fact that Tom Hanks took the spotlight as a mentally handicap man who had could teach the world quite a few great lessons, Sally Field played his mom, and she was awesome. She won a SAG Award and a Kid's Choice Award. Yeah, even kids know how bossily Sally is. She also had one of the best monologue I've ever seen:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EjNa8Ukg_0

Okay, it cut half of it off, but you can still see... Freakin' awesome. Along with being in Mrs. Doubtfire, Where The Heart Is, and along with a bunch of other movies, and she makes the TV show, Brothers & Sisters, what it is.

So, do you get it? Sally Field is a mother fucking boss.

*Fun Factoid: Joanne Woodward, who plays Dr. Wilbur, played Eve in one of the first media portrayals of Multiple Personality Disorder in Three Faces of Eve.

I've Got The Magic In Me! Well, at least I did.

I came to one of the most devastating realizations today. Let me tell you about my day before I elaborate on this tragedy. Today, I woke up at 7. I ate, got myself ready and went to class. I had a stimulating discussion on Plato and what is real and not-so-real in my philosophy course. Then I went to Intro to Social Work, a class that I have some sore feelings for, where we watched the most boring movie about the history of social work and then watched an old State of the Union with Obama, yes, the ENTIRE thing. I don't tend to watch anything on C-SPAN, so I don't know how State of the Union is suppose to go, but this particular one, everyone- wait, I take that back- the democrats would stand up every other sentence and applaud. After which, we had a mere five minute conversation about the similarities between the two videos. After class, I had to rush to work. Now, it was a very rainy day today, so I made sure I had my umbrella. Well, that piece of shit kept breaking on me. I got more wet because this devil of a contraption would flip upside down and collect water then go back to and dump it on me, and then the arms got out-of-whack and I wasn't even getting any coverage. I know I looked like a fool walking with a broken umbrella, getting soaked. Well, then I arrived at work.  At work we were doing floor-sets so we were busy. I left work at 9 and made my way home. I barely remember the drive home; I was on auto-pilot. See, when you do the same thing multiple times, your brain makes shortcuts with new neural pathways.
So, what's my devastating realization? Patiences young Jedi. Before I tell you I have to tell you at little bit about my philosophies growing up. I used to think that I was something really special. That their really weren't a lot of people like me. I always felt like I was lucky because I had this gift of being able to be inspired constantly. I saw the magic in everyday life. I would be in awe from the smallest blade of grass that made it's way up between the cracks on a sidewalk to the beautiful silhouette that skyscrapers make when the sun is at just the right angle. I felt special because I was inspired by everything. I have notebooks and sketchbooks full of everything from quotes to poetry to drawings of life's everyday beauties.
My devastating realization? I'm not special. In fact, as kids, we are all inspired by the little things. I've been lucky because I've noticed the magic as long as I have. But grown-ups don't see it. They just remember all of the hustle and bustle of life. Time is ticking for grown-ups, but kids have all the time in the world. I have realized that I'm losing it. I'm growing up*. I have a job and I go to school full time. My room is clean, and is staying that way. I run errands, like going to the bank, grocery store, getting gas or tampons or milk. I have bills to pay and places to be. I can't spend time noticing the true beauty of a song or a flower. It sucks. Growing up really sucks. Magic is real, until you stop noticing it. I don't want to stop noticing it, but how can I? Sure, I might take note when big things happen. You know, weddings, funerals, babies being born. But, then it will fade away. We noticed the magic more after that horrific day in 2001, but now, nine years later, it's gone.
Growing up sucks. I want to be a Toys R Us kid forever.

*To quote Grey's Anatomy, "We're grown ups. When did this happen??"

Is There Anything I Can Help You Find Today?

I work in customer service. I am a sales associate at a small volume store in a large mall. Working there at times can be boring, like beautiful days when no one wants to step inside a mall, and yet I'm forced to stand there refolding the same pair of jeans for my entire shift. While I work, I need to find some way of entertaining myself, (not in that way, perv.) So, I have created some games, like Mom or Girlfriend. It's pretty self-explanatory, but for all you slow-pokes, when I see a woman come in with a young guy, I try to figure out if it's his young mom or his cougar girlfriend. Fun, huh? I also play: Foreign or Retarded, (sometimes it's both!) and Deaf or Bitch, (I got it wrong the other day, I felt bad for my glares at the poor girl.) I also play Dad or Kidnapper, but that one kinda freaks me out a little.
Sometimes, though, we actually get customers in our store. Now, let me tell you something about customers: They are stupid. Let me share some quotes:

"What does the one before the zero mean?" "It means they are a size ten."

"When will you be getting that size in?" "Oh, we don't know. Just whenever they ship it to us." "Okay, but when will it come in?" "We don't know." "Well, do you know when they'll ship it?" "No." "What about when they'll come in?"

"How old do you have to be to work here?" "Sixteen." "What if I'm fifteen?" "Then you can't work here." "Oh. Really?" No I'm freaking lying. "Really." 

Yes. Those actually happened. They are exact quotes. Stupid.

Now, I know what you are thinking. When you go shopping you don't ask stupid questions. You're not stupid! Okay, not all are stupid. But, the ones that aren't are just bitchy. Example, you ask? One part of my job is to greet people as they come in.

 "Hey, how's it going today?" Silence. "Is there anything I can help you find?" Silence. "Are you shopping for anything in particular?" Nasty Look. "No." 

What the fuck man? Do you think I want to be asking you all these questions? Do you think I enjoy talking to complete strangers about what they are shopping for? I mean, they aren't paying me to do this or anything. I'm there spending my Tuesday nights talking to some store's customers for nothing. Just a fun past time. Whatever. Just don't be such a bitch. Whatever happened to common courtesy? And just so you know, when you act so bitchy, I'll return the favor. I won't leave you alone. I'll keep coming up to you every two minutes and ask, "Are you still finding everything okay??" Or, "Can I help you find certain size in that??" Until you leave. Or when you want a fitting room. I purposely make sure I keep you waiting. Bite me and I bite back.*

I guess I should also include the customers that aren't stupid or bitchy, those would be the perverts. Yes, I get those, too.  The ones that don't realize that I have eyes or the ones that open the fitting room with out a shirt on, even if they are only trying on jeans. You know, the ones that step a little too close, popping the comfort bubble or touch you arm while laughing, or the ones that want you to measure their inseam. Perfect example is this short conversation I had with an old man:

"These come with a zipper-fly." "Oh, no no no no no! That too dangerous!!" 

Pervert.

So, next time you are shopping or getting fast food or at about to tip your waitress or whatever, be nice. Don't ignore, give glares, hit on, or ask stupid questions, because despite that quote, there are stupid questions, so just keep them to your self and Google it if you have to!


*Nomnomnomnomnomnomnom.

It's not a whorehouse- It's a sorority house!

"A brothel, also known as abordello, cathouse, whorehouse, sporting house, gentleman's club." (Gotta love Wiki.) I live in Wayne County, Michigan. Now, Wayne County has laws, like everywhere, one of which is that brothel's are illegal. Understandable. I mean who wants a house full of dirty whores soliciting their bodies to dirty old men? Not me, at least. The dirty old men probably want it, but not the rest of society. Did you know that brothels are legal in Nebraska as long as they have a permit? CRAZY!*  So, what is Wayne County, Michigan's qualification of a brothel? Six or more women living together. Yep. That's the qualification. Hence why University of Michigan Dearborn can have all the frat houses they want, but a sorority can't have one. Unless the sorority only has five members, but I don't think that really qualifies as a sorority. I mean, I was knew sorority girls were whores, (okay, Carrie, Hanna and Sweets, I don't mean you guys!) What if my six best girlfriends and I decide we want to room together. We get a house. We live together. Um. FAIL! What happens when we get arrested? I know we can be slutty, but we aren't whores. I know that we really wouldn't be arrested. I'm sure they don't enforce it, unless it's a real whorehouse. But really? Why would a law be that six women can't live together? And I'm not so sure, but is it six females? Because if it is, does that mean that a single mom and her five beautiful girls can't live together? What if a guy lives there? What if he's the father of the six girls? What if he's the pimp? What if he's one of the dirty mistresses love child? If you can answer and of these questions, I'd love it!

*Okay, not that crazy, but kinda weird. And of all places, Nebraska?

Yackity Yack- Don't Talk Back!

 Time to share about my living situation. I live with two roommates. A guy and girl. Very nice people; I've known them for as long as I could remember, but honestly, living with them sometimes makes me crazy! I think we would all be much better friends if I didn't live there, but frankly, rent is cheap and it's close to everywhere I need to go.
 Why do they push me to brink of insanity, you ask? Well, I have the perfect example for you, and it happened only a moment ago. Today was my day off. I didn't have school or work. I did have a little bit of homework to do and a few loads of laundry, but I really just wanted a day to relax. So, I felt lucky when my roommates told me they were going out with some friends for dinner. I was going to get to just sit back, watch movies, and relax. I had Carrie over and we watched Dustin Huffman's gayest performance ever, (and I mean that literally) in Tootsie, and just we had a few laughs. Then she had to part and I was alone. I was looking forward to see a young Renée Zellwegger in Nurse Betty. Not two minutes after Carrie left, my roommates waltz through the door. Fine, whatever. They live here, too. I guess. But, who goes out with friends and is home at like 9:30?  Whatever. Well, my male roommate decides to go to his room. YAY! I have the living room to myself... Oh wait, no I don't my female roommate decides she's going to use our home phone, (yeah, not her mobile phone, which is called a mobile phone because it's, well, MOBILE!) And talk with some friend from work. Now, she is starts talking right as the opening credits start. Now, at that point I should have just taken the dvd out, gone to my room, and watched it on my itty-bitty laptop screen, but nope, I stayed and watched it on our 52inch high def. tv, (could you blame me?) So, she just started yackin' away. Loudly. I repeatedly tell her to "Shush!" and turn up my volume, but that prompts her to yack even louder! I just waited, figuring a half hour -tops, she would be on the phone. Nope, she yacks for 109minutes and 31 seconds. How do I know this exact time? Because the movie was 110 minutes and she stopped right at the Where are the characters now part. You know, the part that's typed up on the screen? The part that you don't need to hear, because you can just read it.
 Now, was that rude? I feel like that was rude. I missed half the dialog because of my roommates yackin'. While she was yackin', I began to imagine myself ripping the phone out of the wall, throwing it to the ground and silently returning to my movie. Let me just say this, she's lucky it was just an alright movie, if it had been some kick-ass movie, I would been to a new level of pissed that even drunk Mel Gibson wouldn't have ever seen.




*A fun game for my readers: How many times did I say "yackin'"? Winner gets a surprise!

Hello Ms. Bradshaw, can I wear your Manolo Blahniks for a mile or two?

 The other night, my friends and I, in a desperate attempt to do something remotely fun in our extremely boring town, went to a park after hours. I know, nothing scandalous, but where I live, this can be a big deal. If the cops come, you can a good scolding. So, as we laid in the middle of a soccer field with Snuggies*, glancing up nervously, ready to bolt with every car that drove by, just in case the po-po we on to us, we had a deep conversation. We just stared at the few stars we could see, (thanks damn light pollution,) and spoke freely. During these moments what we say seems to just glide out, without control, as if secrets were balloons in a child's hand on a windy day, in the blink of an eye, they'll be floating into the sky without hesitation, and before you realize that they've been let go, it's too late to get them back.
 So, what was my balloon? Well, one of them, that I am willing to share with you, Internet World, is that I often I envy others. Maybe, envy isn't quite right, I want to be other people. It's not my own insecurities that over-shadow my positive qualities; it's not a self-esteem thing. I love how people have just these special qualities that make so unique. Okay, after I wrote that I realized how cliché that sounded, but seriously. People are so different, no matter how similar they seem, despite the similarities in how their raised or their socio-economical status, or even in their clique. People are never the same. How they deal with things, how they express emotions, what they find relaxing, among thousands of other things. It's cool. So, sometimes I wish I could experience how other people live.
 But, I would really love to lead the life of a character. I'll see a TV show or a movie, and I just melt. I put myself their shoes. From any character in Sex & The City, (I mean, who wouldn't want hot sex with gorgeous guys and the most beautiful shoes in the world?) to Sandy Bullock's character in The Blind Side. I know she was a real person, but come on, Sandy played her beautifully! And I know you may be wondering why I am calling her Sandy, well in interviews, all of Bullock's coworkers and friends, call her Sandy. I have always imagined that if I ever met her, we would become very best friends, hence calling her Sandy. Anyways, I put myself in these character's shoes and I just imagine what my life would be like. If I got to be the one that "Choose me. Pick me. Love me." to McDreamy. Or if I could have been telling a group of men full of testosterone and pent up sexual tension that the first rule of Fight Club is that you don't talk about Fight Club. How cool would that be? I mean, it would be really cool. Like really cool! 




*Yes, I own Snuggies, but they were gifts! I did not buy them for myself, let me make myself clear!

Vita Nova

For the past few weeks I have been dreaming. Not unusual. In fact, according to psychologists and people who do sleep studies, we dream multiple times a night, it just doesn't tend to be anything worth remembering. Well, lately I have been remembering a lot of my dreams, and they all have one common factor: someone is pregnant. Not me, but someone close to me. My mother was pregnant, along with my grandmother, and last night, two of my closest friends were pregnant. Strange if you ask me. I haven't been pregnant in any of these dreams, just other people. And there is always some challenge. My mom said she was too old and she wanted to abort, my grandma had to travel far to get to a hospital to have the baby, and Carrie and Hanna* were going to have their babies a day apart (for some reason, in my dream this was a really bad thing. It was a dream, just go with it.)  So, I decided to go digging into my subconscious and look up what my dreams were trying to tell me. I'm not saying that dreams have meaning and I'm not saying they don't, I just want to know what Freud thinks my subconscious is trying to tell me.

So, I went to the most reliable source I know, the internet, knowing that whatever I find must be true! Most websites were telling me the same thing, that in dreams pregnancy means new beginnings. They are telling me this is positive. I am about to start my new life, my Vita Nova (Latin for New Life). Now, does this mean that since I was seeing everyone else pregnant that I feel like everyone is moving forward, starting something new, while I'm some hamster on a wheel running, and getting no where fast? Then again, some dream-analysis people will tell you that everyone in your dream is a reflection of some part of yourself; so am I about to embark on some new life? 


Let's take a peak at my life: I am starting my sophomore year of college. One of my closest friends, Samantha*, just moved two hours away for school. Not horribly far, but for someone with school and work and a car that can't go on the expressway, so it would take even longer to reach her, it makes things a littler harder. I've begun to mature my routine. Wake up early, shower, meditate, eat right, do whatever needs to be done, and be in bed before midnight. Let me tell you why this is not me: I sleep in late, until at least one in the afternoon, mainly because I am up until 4am the night before, watching movies, talking with friends, yada yada yada, not being productive. I shower at night to relax me enough to go to sleep, not will me to wake up at an unbearable 7:30 am. Meditation, how great it is in theory, is really hard. It's suppose to help you clear your mind, give you better posture along with being a relaxed, more tolerant person. Instead, I just go all A.D.D. and start twittling my fingers, and begin getting pissed off because my back hurts. And finally, eating right is the worst thing that is good for you. I hate it. I decided that with a new school year, I will cut out delicious drinks, and consume only water. No more snacking for me, just three meals, that only seem to be keeping me satisfied for like an hour. And I'm eating good foods, but I used to eat A LOT! (Quick tell all your friends, the Freshman 15 is real.) Oh, also, I added working out. One word: ouch. So, now, I'm hungry, tired, sore, cranky, and lonely. Vita Nova, right?


*Names have been changed for the privacy of my friends. But, names have been chosen from a character, (TV, movie, book, etc.) that best represents them.