Kidnap the Crazy Claus.

Yet another Christmas has disappeared within the hours of the day. It's so strange how something that was once so magical as a kid is so simple when you hit puberty. The little ones, after a long day of beating (me, not them), fall asleep in bed, and we all put the gifts under the tree, build the train sets, hang the stockings by the chimney with care (except not really because they're far too heavy for that). How the kids manage to open presents longer than anyone because toys (can be/are) so cheap. Adults get a few decent sized gifts and then it's done. Then you eat lunch. Maybe watch a movie. Or spend the afternoon doing crafts with a friend like I did...and then work for 6.1 hours for time and a half. Cater entertainment, representing yourself as the only open business in town.

And then before you know it, you start writing a blog until it's the 26th of December.

It's strange not having all your brothers and sisters around for the whole day...or even to not have them there at all. For them to disappear right after lunch. For them to arrive late. To not be the youngest squirt running around beating people.

This year, I dub Casual Christmas.

<3<3<3

I don't know what to talk about so I'll take this excerpt to gripe more on the subject of honesty. I am a needy person. What is it that I need? The whole truth.

I'm not someone who just hates being lied to, though that of course is one of the worst things you can do (especially when I announce the truth and you just deny it). I'm someone who wants all the facts. I'm not that person who "doesn't want to know." I am a big girl, world.

I can handle the truth.

I can handle a lot of things.

<3<3<3

Self-exploration, we could talk about that more, right? Jesus, I always talk about the same seven things. I guess telling people on the phone that "yes, we are indeed open, that's why I'm answering" all day wore me out. (I'm a wuss. Some people have actual jobs and I should shove it.)

Yet anyways. It's funny, realizing the changes you go through.

Most people naturally transform, and I did up until recently, until I decided to take control.

People talk about a poetic license when writing...I like to think I have a writer's license on life. I use it as my excuse to try anything I want. Anything. Whether, you know, that's something like diet pepsi (argh, diet!) or a new skin. Ha, let me tell you, I have a blast trying on a new skin.

I am an introvert (hear me roar). So it's hard, the new skin thing sometimes.

But I also had a high school drama teacher for a mother.

I can successfully pretend to be anything I want. And sometimes I'm so good that I let people know I'm pretending so they won't really know when I am. They'll think I'm obvious.

I like catching people off guard, collecting their reactions in my safe.

I like convincing teachers I'm quiet and a rule-follower.

I like convincing strangers I'm more interesting than I really am.

I like convincing acquaintances to rapidly adapt their first, second, third impressions of me.

I like convincing my friends I have some sense.

I like trying on good and evil for size.

I really like convincing people I'm insane.

I like to think I'm this pretty sensible person, actually (and maybe that's the reason I'm not). But I had a crazy father growing up. I've watched all these Lifetime movies with my mother with these fascinating characters. I've often wondered what it would feel like to be crazy.

So I don't do it so obviously that someone's going to throw me in a mental ward, but very slyly, one of my many experiments.

I like watching people squirm.

Life is boring. I like laughing. So I make it interesting; at least for myself. Not everyone enjoys it, and by everyone I'm referring to the receiving end.

You know, it seems like the criminally insane are some of the most ingenious people ever. My father, that man's a declared sociopath, but I won't deny his wit. Not only is he extremely good at chess (that's only half-meant to be a joke, because I'm serious), but he can bug your house and stalk you better than Richard Ramirez (because that dude got the death penalty and my "daddy" just got breast cancer).

All those freaky psychopaths, sick and twisted and demented as they come...they're quite brilliant.

But have no fear, friends. This is not me admitting to being crazy. I'm just a writer. I just like trying things. Like diet pepsi and new skins. (Not of other people. I'm not Buffalo Bill.)

I'm just an actor in training. I'm learning to deceive you like you all have deceived me. I am the most sane person you might ever meet. I am a future psychologist. I love people. I love messing with people. I love butterfly effects.

Anyways, the most insane thing in the world is a person who's not the least bit insane.

So does "pretending" to be crazy make you crazy?

Good question...I was born on the day of the convincing storyteller.

Let them hate, so long as they fear.

I don't have anything to say today. I did. But I lost it a couple of hours ago, through the need of a pill that will make me not want to sleep all day.

So, I'll just do what I always do, eh?

<3<3<3

I have a kleptobession. With hats. Why?

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Have you ever wondered what you've done to someone? To make them...dislike you, lose respect for you, whatever it may be. This is the story of my life, and yours, and your sibling's.

Were you ever walking around the gym during PE in middle school, had a future meth-addict point at you and say, "I hate that girl" (even if you're a boy; especially if you're a boy)? I have.

But I'm (biologically) a girl, so it's not as weird.

We live in a strange world, kids. I'd leave it to everyone "judging a book by it's cover," but man, nowadays, they don't even bother checking out the cover half the time. We're all getting sized up. Seriously, I can't tell you how many times throughout the public school system I heard of people "hating" others...ones that they had never spoken to.

In one version of the story, it's due to reputation. Some guy screws a girl over, and sure, her friends are going to hate this guy whether they'd met him or not (or screw him, that is). That's what friends are supposed to do, I guess. You know. Have similar interests. Similar hates.

In the other version, though, I constantly see people claiming to hate one another for no reason. Maybe it's because they fit a certain group's description, like a friend of mine who hates hipsters, or Hitler hating the Jews. I guess that falls under reputation, kind of. I won't lie. I've thought about hating those teenagers that come to the movies on Friday and Saturday nights and cause a ruckus.

Sometimes, I guess it's just bad vibes. Someone forewarned me about a future roommate once, and this roommate probably didn't do anything to that person. It's our God-forsaken right to simply dislike someone.

Isn't it?

...isn't it?

Yeah. Yeah. If disliking someone makes you happy, albeit, you're on your pursuit (at least you have that government-forsaken right where I hail from). As long as you don't like...jump on them and pull a Mark Wahlberg in Fear and kick their ass for it. Actually, that's not really related, but my mother decided to get me some Lifetime movie at a garage sale and call it an early Christmas present. Makes me think she thinks I'm going to get in some abusive relationship like her, her bottle-feeding me all these LMN movies since I was a baby.

[To bracket a side note before a tangent, she should know better. I'd never stay with an abusive bitch. First strike, you're out, hoe. She should know by now I just keep dating losers anyways. Ha, people who've given me a reason to dislike them. Although, that's not totally true. Recently attempted to add the whopping three of them on Facebook. I think I'm more over their shit than they are, too, man. So I don't really dislike any of them that much (though I do find them all at least slightly pathetic, but that's more than not of the people I know, including myself [especially myself]). I've come to realize people are people, and we're young for a reason (to abuse our youth! and selves, so we can get wiser and stuff, right?). I enjoy watching people transform, as I seem to mention a lot. Best friends, family, and "significant" others are the best to do so with. Family knows you for forever, naturally. Best friends, you learn all about their past and spend future times with them. And those others, ha, you get that story in an hour (whether that's the entire and/or wholly truthful story is something else entirely), and go through phases as quick as possible: you meet them 'cause they're nice to you, date them 'cause they stay nice, dump them 'cause they're not, and if you're lucky, you can see that they still have lame troll profile pictures like the stuff they were into when you met, or they're an even bigger ass and won't add you at all ;); and maybe run into them several years down the road when you've got these beautiful kids and they've got AIDs. Transformations in a jiffy.]

Eh, back to haters hating, though.

We just don't give anyone a chance anymore.

I have this philosophy. (I have many of those.)

We could all get along, if we met each other at the right place, right time, under the right circumstances. Isn't that what happens with friendships and lovers anyways? Really, that was just your lucky draw. You could have had the same lucky draw with the person sitting next to you in your Writing Composition class, but the stars just weren't quite aligned.

Technically, we're all actually compatible. But because we're always so quick to judge, it doesn't always work out. All that person has to do is not hold the door open for you, or say thank you when you do. The goth and the cheerleader could've been best friends, until some simple misunderstanding and a cat fight to follow.

When you're in the perfect circumstances, anything could work out. Say you meet somebody in a speed-dating thing (a friend threatened to set me up with that, by the way), and you're...soul mates, or some shit. Perhaps one little thing could have changed it and you would have never seen them again. Say you just got out of a relationship and weren't ready (although for someone else that might would be exactly what you need). I don't know, I do know that I'm making no sense, and I'm not articulating this well.

My point that I can't back up is that no matter how different (or similar) two people are when you look at their charts, if the circumstances are just right, they match up.

But the circumstances aren't right, and you just got a speeding ticket which put you in a bad mood, so you just got a customer complaint from someone who, in another time/space continuum, could have been your best friend.

All that matters in this world is circumstance.

All that matters is chance.

Because you can't control circumstances.

<3<3<3

Which makes me think of something else.

You can't control people either. You can't control their choices. Your circumstances and theirs must line up for the best results.

I have learned that through trial and error. No matter how hard I will someone to do something, to say something...they don't.

Because life is not my story to write, apparently.

And you, you aren't my character.

<3<3<3

Wish I could write a blog without using the word(?) I for once.

<3<3<3

There's a lunar eclipse tonight, and I hope you see it.

Lady Sing the Blues So Well.

Number One: I hate Crohn's. I don't even have enough time to write this right now without a break.

Number Two: I hate insecurity. You've all been lookin' for my roots, and here's the truth that I've finally found: no. No one wants it to be a competition: it shouldn't be. But it is. And I always lose. [You can win, you can lose, you can just not play, and the last is worst than the middle. (So I'm rewriting the rules.)]

Number Three: I hate you. You is not you-the-reader-you. You is someone that I refuse to childishly outright call by name, and therefore result to childishly beating around the bush like any old girl.

And one of those numbers is wrong.

Because I don't hate anyone. I really don't. There are people I can barely stand, and people I can't respect, and maybe even people I'm scared of. (They tell me you're not supposed to end sentences with prepositions. That's why I'm an ex-English major, but not really.)

But buddy, let me tell you. (Oh sheer irony to be understood by no one, here. That wasn't on purpose.) I want to make you suffer. Because I'm not nice like they all keep saying. Because I'm bitter. And I am so bitter, so cruel, that I am not going to call you out on it. And I'm not going to let you apologize.

I'm going to make you call yourself out in front of everyone, because that's the worst thing I could make you do.

Merry Christmas, boy.

<3<3<3

Dear world: Please show me honesty.

Seriously. Strip yourself down to the core. (Speaking of strip, wearing no pants in this house was a mistake.) You can be as terrible as you want, I don't care.


Just spit it out. Don't lie about it. Lemme study your upchuck, word for word.

I am an investigator. I want to know everything.

Enlighten me.

<3<3<3

Oh, and dear USPS?

I don't even know if I'd rather my Lexapro or bass get here first, or even that classy Vinyl that's supposedly heading my way, but could you step on it?

<3<3<3

I've heard two contradictories today: Cynicism is sanity. Optimism is sanity.

I am optimistically cynical.

<3<3<3

As if I mean this.

Walt Disney had musophobia, which is the fear of mice.

Be forewarned, I have nothing to say (as usual). I just, for some absurd reason, thought it was a good idea to blog in the tub.

Now, it's not as sexy as that sounds: I'm not stupid. I'm not going to kill my laptop, nor myself.

I'm actually sitting in a dirty tub full of toys not meant for water, one ran by a five year old.

I am here to hide. In these walls of stone.

What is louder than college, you may ask? Two abnormally loud TV's, occasionally three (four if I would use mine) [we try to keep it American around here]. On different channels. One's always on the news or a horse race, maybe the occasional SNL or Cops. The other is either on a talk show, HGTV, or some Lifetime movie.

But that's not the problem. Nor is the constantly ringing self-employed business phone.

The problem is the King of the Tub.

He is loud, and he made a flour pool in the kitchen.

I hear him banging his trucks around in the living room now, through the walls with pipes, insulation, and tile. He is the terrorizing dictator of this household, and here I am, hiding in a dirty bathtub full of toys. Call it the ghetto.

Yet I'm not Anne Frank, and I don't have a tale worth telling in this electronic diary.

I'm just here, man.

<3<3<3

I don't know why I interrupted, there. I don't have a new point. I have nothing to say.

I watched the Expendables a bit ago with some good company: I've realized that action flicks are often even cornier than chick flicks.

Bodies don't work like that in those scenarios; oh, trust me. I know.

<3<3<3

You know, I really miss those pills you used to drop in a full sink that would turn into dinosaur sponges. I'm staring at some now; mom never used to get me those all the time. Kid cuisines either. Grandkids are different.

So I guess I found my topic.

Kids, man. Why do we all think we're worthy of reproducing? Who made our heads so big that we thought it'd be a good idea to have little replicas running around? I mean, when you think about it, we're either all brainwashed copies of our parents (with a little variety from society/government), or we smarted up (maybe) and became complete opposites.

Why does the semi-obvious purpose of life seem to be to reproduce?

Often times it seems the people who shouldn't are the ones who do so the most.

How many times have you been in public and thought to yourself, what a terrible parent? Ha, let me tell you, never tell your sister-in-law that (refer to Thanksgiving post).

These poor future generations.

People talk bad 'bout all these designer babies and what not...but man, aren't our own kids our little experiments? We just try out our "parenting skills" on them, make notes on how they turn out. Taste test at the end (sounds bad but) do we like them or not?

We don't need to keep putting more kids in the world. We seem to forget the ones that've already been cooked in the oven, their dough is a'risin', and no cook's a'there to watch 'em.

So let's adopt one a dem overpriced Chinese girlies and "experiment" on them.

Maybe a douchebag like myself can teach her some sense, show her the world, shining shimmering splendid--and that's the problem; we all think that. We all think we'd make a better parent than someone else.

And personally, I have little patience. And those Health class videos have scared me for good. Me no make good mom.

I think sitting in this tub is getting to me.

Why is the American dream to have a good job, spouse, kids, and house? What made that ideal? I mean, job/house=security, and family=love...but who's secure anymore, and where is the fucking love? Have you checked the divorce rates?

No one hardly loves anyone anymore.

So here we are, stuck in this autopilot, and we keep going to school and marrying and getting a job and reproducing and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and retiring when we're too old to do anything so we can die.

We crabs like security, brosef. [I don't want to hear it; your local paper's astrology may be shit, but the stuff itself is real, you don't even know. Not saying you can predict your future but my birth chart's been pinned to a T, and they know me better than I do. We all believe in something, right? Even if that belief is not to believe in anything.] And I hate that.

This semester, I've been trying to abandon a bit of that classic American dream. I've been trying things, living things, cutting strings, being young (you know, before I'm responsible for my little Chinese kid). It's not who I am. Better, it's not who I was. It is who I am. It may not be who I am tomorrow, though. Only time will tell that.

And it isn't amazing, honestly, letting loose.

But it's better.

I asked this once, and I'll say it again: Have you ever became (what you would consider) a worse person, and liked yourself more? 'Cause man, I have.

I'm young, and I think I'll fall right back into the pattern of that American picket fence in two and a half years if I'm not careful...so for now, I think I'm going to try and enjoy life.

They talk about those rebel kids, but unless they cross the line of another person's pursuit of happiness...there isn't anything wrong with what they do. They're testing out their shells. They're writing their stories and experience. They're seeing just how much they can take. I mean, they're living. What's the point of life but not that journey "they" keep talking about? If you're the same person along the way, what the hell kind of journey is that?

Honey, this shell's in a constant morph.

<3<3<3

Then again, this world just keeps getting more and more text, more and more information. The Library of Congress, the limits of the internet, they're all filling up. It's all because we think we all have something worth saying, especially ladies and douchebags. Ladies can't keep their traps shut, much like my nephew, and douchebags have that ego where they think everything they say means something.

We do all have something to say.

Just not everything we have to say is worth hearing, and with all of this piling up, Google keeps giving me crap results that I have to sort through 'cause some 12 year old from Nebraska decided to blog about it. Even ChaCha can't give me a decent answer with all the shit it has to browse.

So I'll stop mine now.

Saw on Facebook (^I lied, didn't I?) some kid's mouth being an asshole cause all the shit that comes out of it. Time to bleach it like Bruno, baby.

Lost & Found

I lose things a lot.

For instance, my ID card. My keys. My sanity.

Important things, like my car insurance & sentimental jewelry.

Sometimes I lose hope.

But I usually find things, I guess with a little ole help from St. Anthony. I'm pretty sure he just needs to adopt me. Trade places with my shadow.

I was writing a blog during health class a week ago, after a deep talk with a friend (she will be utterly disappointed to know she could have added another blog about her), and I had some good thoughts (I tend to lose those too before I can find a keyboard). They were dismissed by impeccable pictures of charmingly tasty STD's; you know, those slides they show in class, on TV. It was exactly like that.

Not only did I lose my train of thought then, but apparently I lost that word document, which I assure you could have potentially been more entertaining than this one.

Who am I kidding?

But I lost that one too.

Thing is, I usually find things; this time auto-save didn't have my back. Stupid Mac's.

I lose money a lot, because I'm too nice.

But I figure I deserve it, because I'm not really that nice of a person, contrary to popular belief. Then again, maybe this is just my self-deprication kicking in. I do believe I left my Lexapro in the dorm, after all.

My mom, she loses things too, and she usually blames me. Maybe two out of a hundred times it is, but hey, that 98% of the time has to count for something. Let her in on that.

She finds stuff too, maybe less frequently than me. So maybe I should rephrase. I "misplace" things quite often.

But to the point, that I never seem to get to (indeed, I'm always beating, right 'round the bush, folks)...is that my mother found something pretty cool.

See, my brother, Chris, died when he was nineteen years old; I was four. I think people overlook that because of my age, but no matter how old you are, when exposed, we all must deal with death. But that's not the point (again). Every December 12th (for that was his birthday), my mom gives a "Chris present." I wasn't here then, but tonight I unwrapped Pan's Labyrinth. That isn't the cool part, though it is a pretty excepcional movie (get it?).

We reuse things around these parts: like Christmas bags. She was digging around, emptying out an old bag, and after all these years, she found a tag in his writing, addressed "To: My Karen, From: Chris." My cousin called it a hug from heaven.

It makes me think of something an old friend mentioned today. Something 'bout them Christian people. And how everyone thinks they have to believe in something, and that this friend does not. The belief is not to believe. Which makes no sense to me, however, but goes on to add that they always say "they know where they're going when they die."

I don't know if my brother knew where he was going.

I think he knew when though. I get the feeling we get the feeling before we go.

(Ha, I was once called an old soul. At times I feel wise, and at times I feel plain silly. Today I feel both, but 95% silly, and this blog's probably full of it.)

And I don't know where my brother is. My eyes managed to lose sight of him.

But I think that wherever he may be, heaven, black holes, skeletons six feet under, whatever your theory is: he is, and he's somewhere where he can see me. So he can say hi.

I'm not sure why he chose to say hi now.

I've said hi to him a few times; I'm that crazy girl in the Catholic cemetery with an ever-changing hair color. Hell, I'm that crazy girl in general.

I'm only sane enough to recognize the fact.

But we talk about how we've "lost" our relatives x-amount of years ago.

Anyways, I don't think we can lose people.

We can lose faith, cellphones, and Christmas tags, and we can even misplace people.

But they're never really gone.

<3<3<3

I usually post a video of sorts, and I've been slacking lately, but sometimes when things you read get you down, you should just let them. And if you still need a pickerupper go to your local booze joint.

I guess this ex-english-major will go get a tumblr so I won't keep losing the things I mean to say.

I'm a female, and I need to learn word economy.

I'm a "writer," and I need to learn how to use words.

You can marry a dog in India: legally.

And finally … how to fall in love Find a complete stranger. Reveal to each other intimate details about your lives for half an hour. Then, stare deeply into each other’s eyes without talking for four minutes.

How does a shark find fish? It can hear their hearts beating.

It was today, in 1865, that the 13th Amendment to our Constitution was ratified, banning slavery. Can I get a "thank the Lord"? I can't imagine ever thinking that another human being is less than myself...how terrible it is to imagine. To mistreat someone in that way. To think of a person as property.

Disgusting.

Really. To think of yourself as better than anything. You aren't. You're just you, and you of all people know you aren't perfect.

Brings me back to my AI class, and how we wonder how the relationship between human beings and robots will be. Will they come to realization that they're our slaves and rise up? Is it immoral to have robot slaves? Do they have rights? Will we have the same kind of wars for the metal race?

And to think of those movies, where they go on without us. There Will Come Soft Rains and WALL-E. How they can just keep going...long after we're gone. Kind of scary, huh? Got me wonderin'. You know, I'm a big believer in we all gotta have a creator, right up until you get some sort of supernatural being. What if that's what's happened? What if we're God's creation, and he's just gone, and here we are...going on without him?

I know a lot of people feel like He isn't here anymore.

And I have to wonder, if he was so in-contact with them peeps from the Old Testament, why isn't he talkin' to little ole me, hm?

<3<3<3

I'm an impatient person. I mean, I feel like I've been patient. But a whole semester has passed by now. Plus half the summer. Hell, it's been 19 years, 4 months, and 22 days.

I'm going to be so pissed when I find you.

You're late.

<3<3<3

One of my professors once had a pretty kick-ass kid. This is what he did.

And you know, he's right. All you need is a little inspiration.

So inspire me. Dear World, that is your mission.

As for my Christmas break mission? I want to force myself to learn to play a few songs, at least. I want to earn some money to make up for my expenses and fender bender. I want to buy my textbooks for as cheap as possible, and actually read the winter assignment like a good mentor. I want to make a huge posterboard of to-do's spring semester. I want to teach myself about good movies and literature, even music. I want to make gifts, and I want to spend time with the people I care about. I want to cook and experiment. I want to decide on, possibly even start, my sophomore lecture. I want to paint. I want to be thankful. I want to come to closure (again?).

So keep me pumped.

<3<3<3

I've decided that when I'm not living in a dorm room, I'd like an odd pet.

Art & Artists are Different Things.

TGIF.

I've always heard people be thankful of Fridays. When do you ever hear they aren't?

When they've got a twelve page paper due the following Wednesday...and they may or may not have exactly had time to begin it yet...That is, on top of all of their other homework and many projects due during the last week of school. Oh my. The last week of school.

Next semester will be so beautiful.

However. That's only if I live through these next couple of weeks to see it.

I went to a soapbox today, addressing the "end of the world, 2012" phenomenon. I can't remember the exact quote, and he couldn't either...but he did mention something about it's a shame not to have seen it all when you go.

And therefore, I'm going to make a list. A big, lovely posterboard. And I'm going to list the things I want to do next semester. (Because sadly, this semester...there's just not a lot left.)

First, give me energy.

But I will say no more and attempt to do some homework so I won't feel guilty for typing this to you later.

Static Electricity is the Closest Thing We've Got to Magic.

Elevators.

I read once that (if you live/work in a big city) you will spend three months of your life riding elevators. And occasionally we have that sole thirty to sixty or so seconds to our lonesome. A whole moving box with just little ole you in it. But really, that brief elevator ride is just one of the many times you will be stuck alone with someone, whether you know them or, more likely, they're a complete stranger.

And how many times is that little box filled tight with awkward silence?

We need to prepare ourselves for elevator conversation. Sure we might smile, say hi, perhaps even ask "what floor?" if we're feeling particularly feisty. (PS: I can't tell you how many times I've broken the i before e except after c rule today.)

But just think about it for a second...there are billions of people in the world. When you think about the ones that actually enter your life, there are relatively few. Let's make the most of it. I know I've blogged before about people entering and leaving our lives all the time and then never hearing from them, whether it be a childhood best friend or a guy you dated for a couple of months, and how that's a shame. Well, let's bring that down on an even more miniscule scale.

The person you get on the elevator with tomorrow has the potential to be your best friend, and you don't even know it. And even if it's not a stranger, say it's your dorm room...don't you want to be friendly with your neighbors?

Let's stop being ants. I challenge you to prepare elevator questions.

Do you know how hypocritically hard it is for me, an introvert, to challenge you to this? So let's do it together. If you bump into someone, ask them a random question. When the cafeteria lady swipes your card, don't just say thanks and walk away (unless perhaps there's a line). Throw compliments at people. Approach people. Tug those headphones out and your chin up when you walk to class.

Basically, don't care what the other person thinks. Don't have expectations. Just go out on a limb, put yourself out there, catch them off guard, and break the script, just for fun. Make people think. Ask someone for their life story.

Let's get real.

Which kind of reminds me when some friends and I were at the book signing for the man who wrote Everything is Illuminated. Instead of signing it, my friend asked him to draw a five second picture, something I had joyously encouraged her to go for. Her friend teased her afterwards, saying he probably hated her, how he probably thought to himself, "I'm a writer, not an artist."

But this is the kind of thing I'm talking about. I think her friend is reversing exactly what people need to be doing! When you're a writer, sitting and signing a thousand books, they have to get tired of hearing "I love your work" every seven seconds. I want to be caught off guard. People need to be caught off guard.  Because for one spare moment, something new and unexpected happens. They wake up. The routine has been broken, and you just might leave them with a smile.

I had to encourage the same friend to talk to a kid she found interesting (and by encourage I may mean slightly black mail). He sat in the cafeteria during our lunch hour by himself every Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Nothing may come out of it, no, but the point is that she stepped out of her comfort zone and made a small connection to another one of the billions of people in the world. She wasn't an ant with her antennas bouncing off the colony. She stopped and talked to another ant about something other than the mundane routine of worklife. She interacted. She lived.

So if you're passing someone on the sidewalk and neither party seems to be in too big of a hurry, and you're curious to know their life story...maybe you just need to ask them: Hey...do you like flying kites?

<3<3<3

I am pissed at Hollywood as much as I am thankful for them. In one respect, I hate them for giving me unrealistic expectations and brainwashing the world into thinking people really work this and that way and that things do always work out. Which is one reason I loved the movie 500 Days of Summer...despite the lead male loving the lead female, she didn't love him back, and though they had their fun, nothing happened in the end. And in Little Miss Sunshine...Olive doesn't win, and her brother can't be a pilot. That's real. It's bittersweet. But that's a real representation of life. And it shows the beautiful bonds of a typical dysfunctional family.

But I'm also thankful of them when I'm not bitterly brooding about how no guy will ever act that way. Because like a book, movies are an escape. No, fantasy books aren't realistic, but you'd never see me criticizing them. We're silly for thinking the movies have to be realistic. That's not what they're for. They're for the extremes. It's a visual escape for people who aren't big on reading. For that 100 minutes you sit engrossed on the couch, you don't have to think about the world.

<3<3<3

I was angry to find that my milk had gone bad this morning, and I'm sitting next to a soggy bowl of Cinnamon Toasters that needs to be dumped. If you don't know, that's the cheap brand, cause that's how a college kid like myself rolls.

But I was just sitting here next to it, on this purple plastic chair the school has provided for my ergonomic comfort.

I have long arm hair. I'm a girl with hairy arms and peeling fingernail polish and faded exes on my hands, because my skin is easily stained with permanent marker. I realized that the hair on my hairy arms was standing tall, raising up to meet the purple plastic chair the school provides. With my right hand, I began to raise my hand up and down, moving the hair without touching it. I even started to play piano, watching the keys move like a ghost piano.

How I wish I could still play.

If honeybees never sleep, does that mean I am one?

“Mamihlapinatapai: A look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start.”


<3<3<3

Wow. The things to be thankful for.

It can all be summed up by a simple statement: a not-so-constantly boring Thanksgiving break.

For example:
1) Fender bender
2) Deserved apologies
3) Talking in a Russian (among others) accent at work
4) Having my sister-in-law attempt to attack me

That's right...





I did talk in random accents at work. Both to the customers and to my fellow employees, and also with one of my fellow employees. Some people understand. He was better at it, was the problem. I kept slipping up into...I don't even know what kind of accents they were sometimes. It made the last three hours easier after the first five and a half.

Which brings me to rule number 37 in life: Any job, no matter how much you dis/like it, can be made better by faking foreign accents.

I stopped one girl in particular in her breath--"wait, what?"

<3<3<3

And yes, I finally received the respect I deserved from someone through their own semi-self-deprication and possibly even genuine, certainly random, apologies. Though already passed forgiven stage, it was nice to get the apology, even if it was in reverse order of how it should have been.

Now just a bit more cash and I think that chapter of my life can be finished.

<3<3<3

Okay, yeah, so I waited til the end, and won't go into detail here because that seems a bit childish, but how could I not mention the big event that occurred after the enormous, scrumptious lunch today? Forget about the Cowboys losing another game.

My mouthy sister-in-law was yelling her opinions at my family, who all just so happened to be on the other side of the fence in the matter, and she didn't like it. Things got real ugly, and finally I had to say something: I was tired of her yelling in my mother's face, so I said my bit, and she lunged.

If you've seen some shitty Hollywood movie where a human transforms into a werewolf, that could be compared to this.

Before she could scalp me as she surely wished to do, both of my brothers were on her, and my mom. Luckily for her, my step-dad was asleep and step-sister was out of town, otherwise she may not have been sitting in a truck outside afterwards. The sad part is my poor dear 89 year old grandmother was not only in a wreck with me this break, but now witnessed this incident. That lady's heart is made of steel. I don't know how she's never had a stroke. But the beast attempted to claw, bite, and kick. And her husband's foot was already broken as he tried to peel her off.

Have a very merry redneck Thanksgiving, y'all.

<3<3<3

I just hate that I have to work the majority of the day the next two days. I can't even crash a movie or anything, it seems.

But maybe all these things are happening for a reason.

Maybe I'm getting wrecked, getting attacked, getting worked, getting stuck here this summer, and not getting a chance to get ahead on homework because something good's going to happen before school ends yet.

Maybe I'll meet another incredible person or maybe I'll make straight A's easy breezy.

Haha, the latter was a joke, because I have Stats; get it?

But stuff in life, that's supposed to even out, right? Even if you have a whole lot of little bad things happen, you get a few extremely good?

I guess we'll have to see, huh? No pessimist, here, but I'm definitely still waiting for that latter. I guess I'm spoiled to think that, though, and that I should really open up my eyes to see what I really have to be thankful for.

Like a family that'll pull a crazy bitch off me.

Much love, and too much turkey to ya, readers.



As for myself, I've learned to get over things. And on another note, this is the definition of frat parties.

The roar that we hear when we place a seashell next to our ear is not the ocean, but rather the sound of blood surging through the veins in the ear.

But sometimes it's better to believe in magic.

<3<3<3

A wonderful beginning to break. Before I could even get out of Benton, I managed to rear-end the lady in front of me. I was already pressing my brakes, the traffic was bad...wasn't speedin', wasn't tailin', wasn't talking to my grandma. Just suddenly, they were stopped, and I slammed my brakes the rest of the way down, but it wasn't quite good enough.

I could have started this off with, "I got in a fuckin' wreck today." But I'm going to continue in this manner, because it's the week of Thanksgiving, and sometimes we're just not thankful enough. It's a shame we limit ourselves this thankfulness to one day of the year.

I had precious cargo in my car. I remember thinking this before the accident. I remember feeling like my 89 year old grandmother's "guardian," I was chauffeuring the "president," so it felt. It was a big responsibility. I've done it before. And what the hell did I do but get into a wreck with her in the car? I've never been involved in a multi-car accident (yes, yes I did spin out on some country road the winter I got my car).

Therefore, I am thankful that she wasn't hurt, as well as the other driver and myself.

I'm thankful it wasn't worse than what it was. Sure, I bet it's gonna cost me another $500 like the first time (Civic's are an expensive body-fix), but I drove away from the wreck. (As a matter of fact, I nearly got in another one when the policeman had us get off on the next exit. Blind spots and embarrassment.)

I'm thankful that if I had to hit anyone in Benton, it was the lady I hit. She was so sweet. She even said she was going to tell them it wasn't my fault, that it wasn't really anybody's fault. She asked multiple times if that was my grandma/is she okay/are you okay? She bid me a good, safe holiday afterward.

I'm thankful I had a canceled class and meeting today. And also that I don't have Tuesday/Thursday classes so I could go home today.

I'm thankful I didn't get murdered when I stopped to use the bathroom on the way home.

I'm thankful both of my brothers will be here for Thanksgiving.

I'm thankful I have awesome friends who are good at touching up my roots so I don't have to pay eighty bucks.

I'm thankful my nephew is adorable...even when he makes fart sounds with his mouth to the Tom Cat on the iPhone.

I'm thankful for this blog, so I can put whatever terrible thought that crosses my mind onto the world wide web. Talk about cyber landfills.

I'm thankful that I still managed a close 90 on my french test even though I barely studied. PS: It's hard to learn a language.

I mean, these are just a few occurrences of the past 24 hours.

I could mention the kids who've held the door open for me. The fact that I didn't sleep in; no, I even had breakfast. That I found a parking spot by my last class. That I didn't get a speeding ticket. That I'm having a conversation with my brother that I never talk to, via facebook or not.

You can find something in everything if you just look at it with the right view: you just have to make yourself sometimes. The glass is always full. It's half air, right? No black hole of nothingness.

As much as I want to cry and sob and blah blah blah sometimes...sometimes you just need to slap yourself in the face. Life really is what you make of it. It is bad if you think so. It is good if you think so. Whatever we believe is true. Maybe since I believe in a heaven, that's where I'll go when I die, and when you believe in no god, you'll just die. We both get what we want. If you truly believe you can be a writer, whatever it is...you can make that happen. But you're going to see what you want to see. If you want to live life through rose colored glasses, you'd better put them on.

My grandma just said Kris Allen sounded like a woman. Her hearing is bad, and my mom's showing off "cool" iPhone apps. But he's right, man.

We don't say I love you enough.

A fetus develops fingerprints at 18 weeks. 18 weeks is all it takes to achieve individuality.

You know, people sure do go in and out of our lives a lot. We meet so many people, and then never see them again. I mean, some kid named Charlie wanted to have sex with me in like the second grade. Haven't seen him since. We spelled it out, back then, never said the three letter word.

I've even had people in my college classes, some of the very few that I ever even spoke to during class. I see them out sometimes and neither of us acknowledge the other.

I've had pretty good friends in my younger days...and we don't even talk anymore.

You can "date" someone, have an intimate relationship, and after the fall out, you'll never speak again.

We seem to send little pieces of ourselves off when we don't keep up with people. I'm not saying people need to drag things out or anything in certain cases, but isn't it weird? Just think about some of the people that you've even spoken to and haven't seen in years.

And someone's (not necessarily first) impression, that's what we're left with. It can be many impressions. Mainly, it's the impression of the age and mindset they were in when you knew them. When people don't stay in touch, you miss something really cool: the transformation.

Let's face it, people change. Maybe it's just me being a psych major, but it's fascinating to me, the metamorphosis of the human. Take some douchebag old boyfriend: you didn't know him when he was a sweet kid that would curl up in his mom's lap and tug on his sister's hair. You meet him in a semi-charming phase, turns out he's a young prick out to live his youth, and then you never see him telling his son not to pull his sister's hair, or when he takes his grandchild fishing in his wrinkly age where his arthritis hands can barely hold the fishing pole.

We go through stages as we live. I was the naively happy baby in a dysfunctional household, to a loud, sweet, spoiled brat, to a shy kid that never messes up, to the awkward I don't know where I fit in middle school stage who loved A's and still hated bathing, to the awkward I still don't fit in high school stage but I'm going to listen to emo music anyways, to the finding myself stage, to the off to college and it turns out I still don't know who I am but I'm gonna philosophize stage, to a major transformation stage where beliefs and morals and everything else about who I thought I am gets altered: and I'm still rather in that one. I'm different from my seven year old self.

I was cooler then.

But there are kids from high school who wouldn't recognize me now. And not just because my hair is yet another color like it always seems to be, but just me as a person. Not that most of them knew me then.

When you don't stick around, you miss the transformation of what people turn into and what events cause them to act that way. It's something I kind of love about having attended the same school K-12 (one of the few things I did love). I watched all of these kids mold themselves together and differently. How when one attended this girl's slumber party, her life took a sudden turn and by high school she was captain of the cheerleading squad. How the kid who realized athletics just wasn't for him, he's off playing in some band smoking pot. How one little thing like going to the popular girl's birthday or dropping junior high sports can change the direction of your life. And you can either know them as the misfit who sucked at pee-wee or you know them as the pothead who plays a mean guitar, but very few get to experience both...like his mother.

Just from 5 to 9...my mother's siblings probably didn't understand. I was this untalented cute girl who wore fairy clothes and hopped up on the ottoman "singing" songs I'd learned at school into a bright lime green and orange plastic microphone, not this quiet little kid in the corner with her nose in a book. Personally, now I'm kind of a mix.

But people go through all of these stages, all of these phases, and it's kind of kickass, especially if you're there to experience it all. Like being the cool godparent, cause being the actual parent is just stressful. God's job must be pretty cool, getting to watch all these movies and seeing how people take what He dishes out. Grab the popcorn, cause this part gets good.

But yeah. The point is we typically only get to catch a scene or two of someone's life. We don't get to see the epilogue, the prelude. We just get that one story in between. Maybe with a few flashbacks.

Guess that's what Facebook is for.

<3<3<3

Just stumbled upon a 12 year old internet translator. I said, "Hey friend, how's it going? I'd really love to discuss Socrates with you sometime. " and it translated to: "HAY FREIND HOWS IT GONG?!????!?! OMG WTF LOL ID RILLY LUV 2 DISCUS SOCRAETS WIT U SOMETIEM!11!! OMG WTF"

See? Transformation.

Life's too short...

for the wrong job.

Don't put your life on hold.



<3<3<3

EDIT:

I'm really trying to not allow myself to sit and write a long rant as usual. But I can't resist saying something.

Today, we had our radio show. My friend brought up the idea of No Bra November, to which a student manager stuck his head in and made the cut signal.

You can say bra on the radio.

You can disrespect women as much as you want in a vulgar way as long as you don't use cuss words.

My brotha, if you tell me I can't talk about an item of clothing in a non-sexual manner on the air, I'mma slap you next time for your hypocrisy. I'm no feminist (equality!) but I feel like this takes away from my rights, man.

But you know what? I'm not going to go around cussing on the radio, however, I do have an opinion of curse words as well.

WHO THE HELL DECIDED ANY WORD IS BAD?

I agree, descriptive words used in a bitter tone can be hurtful.

But seriously. Who the hell invented the idea that certain words should be banned?

I was raised a cradle Catholic by a well-mannered school teacher and I'm pretty polite to everyone I come in contact with. But I'm a fucking writer, and I love words. And swears, they inflict power and description. Screw socially acceptable. We all say it when we stub our toes. Even my 89 year old grandmother hissed "shit" when she realized she let all of the water burn out of the boiling potatoes. Yes, some people overuse them. But if we have the freedom of speech, we should be able to stop censoring ourselves. I can see why GD is offensive: you're "taking the name of the Lord in vain." But other than this, people need to let gravity slap their noses back down to the Earth.

Because unless I'm disrespectfully cussing you out and saying horrible things about you, I don't want to hear it. No, people should lower their voices in McDonald's. But quit covering your mouth when you read some "bad" word in a story. It's just text like any other word here.

Shit, man.

I breathe parataxic distortions.

Today, you may call me Awilda. And tonight, I stole the silence from the air.

Let me tell you, Mondays are long (though not as long as Wednesdays; what, you thought every day lasted 24 hours?). I don't have any free time (unless you count the hour I print homework in the forum, or like today, sold hot chocolate for Haven House) until dinner, which usually happens at 5:30. So basically, six heures le lundi soir is when my day truly begins. This particular Monday, I travelled round the grounds with a friend, where we hung signs, crashed the party in the music building (meaning we "played" on the piano for a few minutes), and sung Britney Spears at the top of our lungs (with a long pause in between the outdoors and the elevator for a grand finale). We also ran a tres amusante video through our credits. This all happened in about an hour or so. It's fun evenings like these that make me smile: I'm not asking for the world, am I?

I should really be catching up on homework...seeing how I should probably spend all of tomorrow studying for a French exam I just found out about. But that's just not how I roll. Not since middle school. I used to be such a responsible kid.

How times have changed.

I am about to go on a tangent about other people again. I feel it in my fingertips.

People are so cool! Hatah's gonna hate. You can be baby in the corner with your hair hanging over your face talkin' about how much you hate the world all day, but no, you're wrong: there are some pretty cool people in the world. Not everyone "sucks," believe it or not.

Everybody's misunderstood. Everybody's got somethin' good about them. You may not be able to stand someone, but I highly doubt that they haven't done something kind in their life. Or impressive.

Take the Green House (the coffee shop near campus: Baridon Street, ya'll). A group of students are running this fantastically remodeled house, they've made it into a non-profit college community coffeehouse; they live upstairs. It kicks ass, guys. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was shocked as hell when the cashier handed my friend an empty cup when she ordered a black coffee (self-serve on that one, friends)--but it's still great, and a wonderful atmosphere. Some college kids got together and are living in and running (some volunteer-working-it) a business that promotes community while going to school.

I sold rocks once. I'd paint them and charge my uncles ridiculous prices.

This was before I had art lessons, too, by the way.

Or hell! The first Vortex reading was held at this snazzy house called la Lucha space, which is a "community space that hosts and encourages the sustainable exchange, production and consumption of local food, art, music, and information in general." Basically, this couple from some fancy city opens the doors to their home where there's no prices 'cause there's no menu. They cook whatever they're up for and host all kinds of cool events like shows and readings. Donations are asked for, since you're basically eatin' their groceries, but they're so chill...and again, the place looks fantastic.

People yap all the time about promoting community, but very few actually seem to do this. I mean, people opening their homes for a continuous (casual, not frat) party that never ends (though does occasionally take a break)...how fresh.

I want to learn to cook, to really cook--probably like some of the classy dishes la Lucha cooks up...maybe when I'm not saving up for Europe (potentially). Maybe I'll do this once a week next year.

But back to the cool people of the world. They have something I don't have. Not only just passion, but:

Dedication.

Like Schiller. This guy was found dead by his prison guards in the nineteenth century, and they found seven straight pins on him, all with the Lord's Prayer carved onto the tiny heads, too tiny to be seen by the naked human eye. 25 years and 1,863 carving strokes later, he went blind. Brosef was dedicated.

Talk about patience.

<3<3<3

I'd like to share the story of my life, sparing no details.

I saw that on a bucket list once.

I think I'll do it one day soon, on a webcam. Think it'd be fun. If only I could remember more.

Which reminds me...man, everybody's got a story to tell, you know? They should get handed the mike and everybody should listen, just once.

I was watchin' that "documentary," where people in London were stopped to ask, I suppose: if you could wake up anywhere (tomorrow), where would it be? I mean, this could be a place like your own bed or Tahiti. It could be a time, like during some civil movement or the roarin' twenties. It could be as a different person: a richer one, a smarter one. You could choose to wake up happy. You could choose the same thing as it is now, you're fine where you are.

I'd like to take people by surprise like that, you know. I'd like to stop college kids as they pass by the Student Center and ask them a question that they have to think about.

Just like I love this. I love giving people the gift of a smile.

I want to make someone going through their daily routine, pause.

People tell me..."Karen, you're too hard on yourself," in some form. I've been told more than once. And maybe I am. But I know I wasn't born to lollygag around. I was born to do something. I'd rather not be another soldier in the march, a robot in the production line. No, I don't need to be famous, don't need to have my name in a history book like I used to say...but at the end of the day, I'd like to be happy with a few little projects I've done.

I mean, there are basically two kinds of human beings. I heard once, rather read, "We'll be remembered more for what we destroy than what we create." And also, the priest in church yesterday said something along the lines of how we'll be thinking about all the things we didn't do, more than the things we did. 


And tomorrow I'm'll be wishin' real, real hard I had done homework instead of stumbled and babbled for hours. 


I go on and off of bucket list obsessions. I've never really finished a whole one myself. But suddenly, I'll be in the mood and start writing one...one that's very similar to what seems to be on a lot of lists, like skydiving/snorkeling/swim with dolphins/publish a book/learn to really cook/learn a language. I think I've learned that you can't really have a general list that could be anyone's bucket list. And I'm sure with time I could come up with some equally as long as others with unique ideas in place...and I think that I could make a "are you really living" chart with points given for assorted tasks. But I mean, as killer as it sounds to swim with a dolphin...I also think that I can die happy without doing that. There's a box for keep, trash, and sell/donate when you clean out your house. I think you can do a similar thing with bucket lists. Divide them in a hierarchical system. Things I NEED to do. Things that would be cool if I get the chance to do. 


Also, goals deal with different lengths. Long term and short term goals. 


Right now, I feel like it's time to focus on short term goals.


And this week, I want to be the cause of a genuine smile.


Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo. Wish I could play some stringz.

There are more chickens than people in the world.

It's amazing how many times you can think you've got your life figured out before the doubt hits. I guess the only thing we'll ever be completely sure of is the fact that, yes, we are going to die at some point. Just like in church today, as my mind wondered (as it always does), and I again began doubting my major. I was thinking about how I could never go to grad school for several more years with psychology...I just want to start my life. I suddenly started thinking about being a book editor: I hate workshopping to some extent, and have never considered this before really.

I mean, throughout my life I've considered: rockstar, actress, teacher, writer, therapist, director/editor, lawyer, now book editor, even dreamed about owning my own Underground Pub or downtown restaurant (how cool would that be?). It's being thrown into a game like the sims with no real/known objective/goal. There isn't a big bad boss to defeat at the end. You just have all of these possibilities and options. You could do anything if you really set your mind to it. And as soon as you think, no, you've finally figured out what you want to do with life, another idea pops into your head. When all you want to do is know what you want, know you'll succeed, and chase after it.

We're always going to doubt ourselves.

Just like I think a lot of the time many people just jump in and get married to the first person they really fall in love with...but I've never believed you should just marry someone because you love them. We're capable of loving all kinds of people, who says that's "the one" you're really going to have a successful, happy life with? Which is why I'm afraid when that day comes, I'll be doubting that too.

I hate doubt. Hate indecision. Hate all the choices I have to make. By the end of the week, no, I don't want to decide where we're all going to eat.

But, in a paradox, don't I love these choices as well?

<3<3<3

I mentioned being in church, of course. A different priest today, he brought up people's bucket lists (which, ironically, I was in the mood to work on one last night), things that people will be able to be happy with their lives if they've gotten to do these things, and how it took one man sixty years to get as far as he did on his list, and yada, yada, yada. How some people dream of these things and chase after them. How others are too afraid to leave their shop in the hands of another person so they can go live and chase after their dreams: some people are content with living in their dreams alone. Some people go through the work to achieve them.

I've realized lately that I'm not very good at talking with people. There are always lots of awkward silences. Unless I know you really well and we've got a thousand inside jokes in our backpockets and many months of friendship under our boots, I don't know how to converse. I love knowing about people. I just don't know what to ask, what to say.

Sometimes I'm just not even comfortable asking.

Take my grandma, for instance. I eat lunch with her after church and do my laundry every Sunday. She's seventy years older than me. And honestly, I sadly don't really, really know how to talk to her. So we maybe mention a couple things I did the past week, maybe discuss what's going on back in my hometown, and then she keeps me up to date with all my aunts, uncles, cousins, etc.

However, I was curious. But how exactly do you ask an eighty-nine year old woman about her bucket list without maybe offending her? Hey, your time's probably comin' in the next decade, didja do what you wanted with your life? But eventually I managed to ask in my own short way.

The answer (which I'm sure to butcher) was rather sad.

To sum it up, she didn't know really if she could say she was happy. She admitted to being content. And she was thankful not to have kids or grandkids messed up in drugs, as some people "have to deal with terrible problems like that." Yet she went on a rather long rant that basically talked about all the problems of her children and what they were going through; how she wished "this" married couple got along better, how she wished "this" grandchild hadn't gotten himself into the mess he was in, how this kid took advantage of this parent, how she hated that the three of us had Crohn's, etc. She would be "happy" if she could go back out to California and see her son and his family once more, but she wasn't so sure that she was much up for getting in a plane and going over there again.

In a sense, this is very wise and kind. The troubles her family goes through take a toll on her heart and worry her as well.

(To give some backstory, my grandma is from Indiana and chased my grandpa down here to Arkansas where they had five kids and he hardly worked and eventually they divorced. She was a city girl and lived in a little old house on a farm and her husband took advantage of her. She was a nurse who wasn't home a whole lot. She used to go on some touristy trips to Branson, take swimming aerobics and was on a bowling team, went out for bingo...in the last few years she might go play a game of cards with her elderly neighbor. She has to go out to visit her kids and gets calls from the out of town ones. She goes to church every Sunday but can't hear a darn thing the priest is saying. She goes for a walk around the block, tends to her plants, watches some news, and reads lots of books. She's by herself and doesn't want a dog; she does like dogs, though.)

However, isn't it a shame to be 89, sitting in your rocking chair under a skyroof, munching on a vanilla wafer cookie, telling your youngest grandchild that you're merely content? That you didn't do anything in your life you felt big enough to point out as a cool achievement? Aren't you supposed to have all kinds of stories to tell to your grandchildren? My grandma never has. The few she's shared I had to awkwardly ask her about as well.

To be 89 years old, and "content."

I feel like that's the road I'm on.

It's time to flip a coin and get off on an exit.

I want to do something with my life.

Let's not be wasteful here.

<3<3<3

Hipsters are everywhere.

We all forget almost six years of our lives; I mean, that's the average of what we spend of it dreaming.

I think I’m starting to understand why we have to carry that albatross around our necks.

To pressure us into movement. To motivate us.

What do we accomplish in the summer when we’ve got little responsibility and stressors?

A whole lot of nothing.

Maybe if the writers in the sky toss enough stress into our lives at once, if they keep doing that—maybe eventually, we’ll get it. Maybe eventually, it will sink in, and we’ll take advantage of all the free time we have when we have it the next go around.

<3<3<3

My neck hurts. Probably from the classic headbanging, among other dance moves, that occurred yesterday evening in a garage, where two (the two out of three that were allowed to play before busted) bands were surrounded, circled by fifty hipsters with ironic haircuts (some of which were very cool). I had a blast. Those couple of hours, though they began awkward, indeed, were among my top hours this semester.

Maybe they deserve that spot, or maybe I just need to get out more, but I'm going for the former. Eh, the latter, too. I'm makin' plans and do(uchin' sh)it. It's time to get out more. 

It's time to make bucket lists, but better yet, it's time to make "now lists."

And I feel like I always blog (a.k.a. rant) about the same few topics.

Oddly, I'm okay with that.

And I'd tell you about one of the amazing plans, but it's to be kept on the downlow.

Which brings me to today. And before I start off with that (I'm an ex-English major because I've now started at least three sentences with "and."), I'll say that, you know, I like talking about making a lot of plans, and then when it's time to actually do them, I don't want to because I realize I have a lot to do. I think I'm getting better about that. I realize that I need to chill out. Just like when I tried to make straight A's in middle school so I could go to college...I go further when I have to. Like how you don't have to make a hundred on everything to get an A in the class. I'm learning to not always give it my best shot; maybe that's not a good habit to pick up, but it's better than smoking, right? I'm learning to breathe. 

And (#4) I tried having lucid dreams like the past five times in a row I've fallen asleep. I suck at this. And (#5) I need this to happen so I can write my script!

It's funny that I'm pointing out all the "and's," when I've used some form of "I" at least 38 times already.

But today. Today I had the wonderful gift of my little taking me out on a date. She drove me to Little Rock, where I ate at Vino's for the first time (and had a scrumptious pepperoni & mushroom calzone). We proceeded to walk through the windy, beautiful downtown, where we bought wonderfully warm beverages from the River Market and soaked up all the delicious smells from the mini-restaurants. We looked around at all kinds of handmade crafts (like in Ten Thousand Villages, an awesome fair trade store with mindblowing handiwork), and my wittle even bought the cutest stuffed glove dinosaur named Rex (soon to be renamed). We took a few pictures, enjoyed the scenery, and checked out the local bookstore, where I resisted the urge to buy a coffee mug with a disappearing Cheshire Cat (since I don't drink coffee & it was $10), but not to buy the records Night at the Opera and Tapestry (the latter for my mother for Christmas [which hopefully she will never read this blog]). There was wonderful conversation and fun music (like the Vitamin String Quartet and Nuttin' But Strings and Ludo).

I'm a mentor to all of the freshmen...but I couldn't have asked for a better little. I mean, this girl bought me lunch for our first date. But I don't love her just because she spoils me, something I'm totally not used to (and I have to think of a way to do something insanely cool for her). She's so inspirational and unique. More and more, what I find that I love most about my college experience (as stressful as it is and the more I realize I don't do just a whole lot), is the people: I have met (and creeped on) a variety of diverse, opinionated people with amazing ideas and personalities. It's an experience, alright. 

(Plus, she shared about a girl who's staying for a few days who, when she was sixteen, set up this awesome learning program for girls in Africa about their feminine hygiene, among other things, and just now a mere eighteen, got back a couple weeks ago from getting to see her program in action for the first time; why haven't I done anything spectacular?!)

Anyways, back to why I adore my little. (You know, for a "writer," I sure do have a hard time most of the time trying to put what I have to say in words.) Not only is she an incredibly sweet and kind person, who easily points out the everyday things in life she loves (like blackbirds on old drooping wires and driving on bridges tall enough that let you feel like you're driving among the treetops), but she's passionate and educated. She wants to make a difference in the world, give people pure drinking water (along with a really cool project that I mentioned I had to keep on the DL). She knows how to cook and she can tell you about all the secret cool places in town. Her words are strong (check out her slam sometimes), she's well-read, funny, and artistic (very talented, might I add). I can't wait to share a laugh with her next weekend. 

She amazes me.

People amaze me.

So hang that albatross 'round my sore, partied-out neck. I need to bear it until the motivation sinks in. I want my name down for adding something to this world. 

They don't kid. Diggin' holes builds character. 

Because I want to travel the country, and out of it. I want to have a fun, shitty band. I want to write, because I can't run out of ideas. I want the only reason that I want to go to sleep to be because I've mastered lucid dreaming (and not because of depression). I want to have a close relationship with my family. I want to know everyone's story and shut my own trap every once in a while. I want to compile my own list of likes. I want to start painting again, and become a better pianist than I've ever been, and make a copy of all of our home videos for my parents. I want to get everyone special Christmas gifts that mean something. I want to have a hipster dorm with illegally stolen signs (shh). I want to write a book, and I'd like to save a life (mentally or heroically shoving them out of the way of a bus). I want to see everyone's favorite movie after they tell me why it means so much to them. I want to have time to read again (I think I was smarter and more creative then). I want to clean my room; maybe not.

I want people to think of me like I think of them. Walk away impressed, and maybe even a little envious. Not because I'm obsessed with what people think of me--but because I want to have that self-satisfaction of living a life worth living. Being a role model. Being a source of inspiration. Doing something with each breath I steal. Living in a stone cottage with a wine cellar and handmade Chinese dishes in the kitchen and the most beautiful, healthy kids in the backyard. 

It's funny I keep writing about how much I'd like to live...but are you really living if you just sit around writing about it all of the time? Maybe, maybe not. But maybe if I put this out there where someone could see it if they wanted to, it makes me feel like I have to do it now.

I should probably stop procrastinating now.

Time to do that homework so I can live in the now, right?

Who is Kyle XY? Alfred Hitchcock.

Welcome to college, she said.

It's the sophomore slump, he said.

Let me tell you a little about my day.

After a long Monday of classes, mentor meeting, and then (finally) some dinner in the caf, my body decided it wanted to repeatedly throw up and leave me laying in bed all evening listening to my neighbor's bass beats. This left many tasks to prepare for on Tuesday, on top of the radio show, normal homework, and still not feeling well. Ah, plus listening to a required poet's reading and Q&A session.

(WARNING: Skip next paragraph to avoid ranting.)

Today, I couldn't convince myself to get up early even when my body natural woke me up. I decided to skip French. I never skip class. She gave a quiz. I figured she would, but I figured that's almost better than being there when I didn't have time to study the material anyways. Then I fought with a printer for twenty minutes trying to print out my presentation notes after grabbing some delicious caf cereal. I tried studying for my stat's test, but I couldn't hear myself think over the third floor of McAlister. So I gave my presentation. Some people told me it went well, but people seemed pretty bored, so perhaps this is yet another example of people being too nice. Luckily, afterwards, I had a slightly smushed (but delicious) chocolate muffin to eat since I was skipping lunch; I had prepared by grabbing this with my cereal. I bombed the Stats test, though I tried to study, and he even switched the format to multiple choice. Then I came back to start this blog when I realized that I had to draw a map and write a reflection essay still for my New Tech project that's due at 3. Did I mention I forgot to finish my French homework last night? And that I assumed my stats teacher would move the homework that was due (he usually does before tests) and he didn't? I still have to hunt down a manilla folder, print off my health behavior project and stick that inside, and, oh, actually take the health test tonight that I've barely glanced at (me making more assumptions, more like prayers, that it'll be common sense). I'm hoping to maybe eat some food as well. But then tomorrow's just as busy: multiple meetings, a journal, a quia, maybe an aplia, and a creative writing reading. And I have to wake up at 5 AM to register. Hopefully my classes are still open. I've been too busy to check. That didn't work out either, so let's just not go there.

I know I'm making my next semester easier. Hallelujah, no more 18 hours! I didn't know how to spell hallelujah. I'm Catholic. Thank you, technology.

<3<3<3

Things I am happy about today. That chocolate muffin was scrumptious, my teacher wanted my sim to be his new profile pic, a friend let me borrow their calculator when I forgot mine, and because the cheesecake was on sale at Walmart the other day (because it's past its best by date, like me), I'm about to insert another heart break to enjoy a slice. Chocolate or classic?

<3<3<3

I had half of both because I couldn't decide, and I wanted to save some for later.

You know, my teacher said something about writing that essay in four thirty-minute sessions as opposed to one two hour sit through. I wonder if she'll realize I wrote it in under twenty minutes? One hour til doomsday.

I don't have anything interesting to talk to you about. My brain's a little fried. Actually I typed friend and then corrected myself; that's how fried it is.

Today during my "discussion," I mentioned how Etchy joked what if we are Sims?! and then, seriously: sims are code, algorithms. With each new series, the sims become more individualized, complex creatures, capable of many different things, mirroring us in every way.

So what if that's all we are? Really complex, unfathomable codes? With a randomizer.

Well, I'd say my code, my chemical balances of the brain, are a little screwed up. Which is why someone with a PhD gave me Lexapro samples. I've started week three. I'm not sure if they're helping, but I'm just imagining what things would be like if they are...I'd be half-dead by now, you know? I just need a vacation. I think schools should just run one intense class at a time, instead of multiple ones spread out. I want to go for a drive with a couple of good friends, not really knowing where, and have fun doing...something. But I don't have the gas money for that.

I just keep telling myself: two weeks from now and you'll be home for Thanksgiving (probably working on that twelve page paper and working at the movie theater on a full stomach). You're going to pass all your classes. Maybe not with flying colors. But in a month, you'll be taking finals. You'll be done with this terribly busy semester. You'll have a lighter load. You'll get to hang out with your friends more, and make new ones because of new classes.

But we can't always keep looking towards the future, can we? I mean, being hopeful and ambitious towards something, that's great. But when do we live in the now if we get through our days just by telling ourselves repetitively, it'll be over soon?

A sim is happy when it reaches it's goal/wish, though it normally requires some sort of work to get to it. I guess I'm doing the same grinding, grueling desk job here. I'm getting through the tough to get the final code that says: yay, happy mood points, you got your wish!

They say college is learning time management...but if you ask me, life is time management.

I have to divide it all up. Maybe not to precise measurements, but I definitely have to devote some time in my day to basic needs like bathing and pissing, eating, I have to study and build skills to get promotions and past tests, I have to talk to my friends to get my social boost, and I have to chill out and play a video game or write a blog to have some fun and relieve some stress, gain comfort points. Most importantly, I have to sleep.

Oh, the things that I could accomplish if I didn't have to recharge. What if I were just born on 100% battery and died when it was all gone? I guess I should be environmentally friendly and thankful to be rechargeable.

It's just, I keep talking about wanting to "live in the now" and...have "fun" basically. But what even sounds fun? What doesn't sound like work? What sounds like fun work? Starting a band, making a movie, ranting and raving this here blog, mindlessly watching films in a comfy armchair, laughing over inside jokes with friends, looking through pictures of the "good times," Christmas shopping, harmlessly vandalizing cars, making dinner with friends, dressing up, walking downtown, learnin' how to ride a bike, massages, craftin', meeting cool people, listening to live moosak---yeah, that stuff sounds like fun. What's funny is that even in my "free time" (aka: procrastination), all I do is refresh web pages, and that's not even fun. You'd think I'd at least kill time doing the previous mention things.

But I don't have time for that, it seems. I was going to say, yep! That's what I'm doing this weekend! Maybe a little. But there's a neverending world of work I'm carrying on my shoulders.

We build strong bones so we can see how much weight we can take in this world. Building endurance. That's what the hokey pokey's all about.

I'm not being fair to anything. I don't give friends my time. I don't give family my time. I don't give myself my time. I don't give my studies my time--and it's because of other studies, you know? I can't truly learn French, because I'm too busy trying to bullshit my way through stats...but because I'm only bullshitting I'm not really learning that either. Why be a jack of all trades? It's nice to know a little something about everything, but why not be really great at a couple of things?

<3<3<3

On a final note, people's compliments, random words of love, and caring about your well-being...that's the stuff that lets me smile at the end of a day like this. Thank you all. I wish I were as good at it as you. It just doesn't come naturally to me. I envy you.

You know.

I'm gonna start a kick ass shitty band. I'm going to live up to all those great female rockers, be a combination, a tribute to 'em.

I'm gonna help make a kick ass shitty movie, too. But it's gonna be funny, because of inside jokes, and it's gonna be fun, because I'll make it with my friends.

And I'm gonna have a kick ass shitty life. Because at the end of the day, despite everything the world keeps adding on my shoulders, I have all of you.

Go have an epic life. We can't pause, can't fastforward, can't redo. Every move you make is marked in a book, in ink. You're on continuous save mode. Carpe diem. Have no regrets. Be able to ask yourself.

When Albert Einstein died, his final words died with him. The nurse at his side didn't understand German.

So, I JUST realized that this handy dandy blogspot here doesn't have the nice notification system like Facebook that alerts me when I get comments. Or I'm dumb. Probably the latter. But to my two subscribers, I love you both dearly :) I didn't think anyone would actually want to read my rant here. I read you guyses 'cause you actually have something to say. I'm just silly!

<3<3<3

Ahhh, registration time.

Ahhh, how classes don't work out in the order you'd like them too. They are offered at either: the exact same time of day, with very big gaps in the day, not the ones you wanted being offered, are already full before you're allowed to register (seriously, can we start having some gladiator wars over who gets to register first or something?), etc, etc.

Either way, I get to meet with my advisor tomorrow, who also happens to be my (terrible at teaching) stats professor. Whoo. This is a busy week. Several projects due, a couple of tests; nothing like college, my brethren.

<3<3<3

I was raised a cradle Catholic. And while things are all up in drama in that departemanteh right now, for me, I do go to mass every Sunday with my 89 year old grandmother, who gets around quite well for her age. Actually, she gets around better than me. If you've ever heard a Catholic joke, you've probably heard something about the sit, kneel, stand agenda. Well, let's just say, my grandma can kneel longer than me. I eventually have to give my achy joints a rest in the wooden-backed pew.

But the point here is not that my grandmother is better off athletically than me.

The point, friends, is that today the priest talked about silly bands. (Also, it's reasonable that few American men are willing to give up the luxurious American, sinful lifestyle to be ordained as priest...which leads to many foreign priests in America...which is why I actually kind of like church here...a mere three-hour drive home away, and I've got some guy from Nigeria or something reading the gospel and I just sit in silence out of politeness. I can't possibly understand him. I even asked God once, could you just make me talk in tongues like those other crazeh churches or something, I could at least understand the guy. God didn't think I was funny. The point is. Here, we have a kid fresh out of the seminary, where they study holy stuff, and instead of the thick overseas accent, we have this (almost adorable) bumbling, stuttering man with a bit of facial hair (what is this?!?!), who pauses not for dramatical priesthood effect, but because he can't quite remember the lines because he isn't old enough to have said them enough times yet.))

I'll start a new paragraph since all but one of the previous sentences were in parentheses.

Yes. My ginger priest did mention silly bands today. How important they are to children. He even called one up to show him his silly band, which turned into a kickass sword. He asked to keep it. He was turned down. That's how important they are to children.

And one day, silly bandz won't be all that important to us anymore, we'll find more important things. We'll trade that silly band in for a wedding band, and we won't want to give that up either. Because marriage is so important to us. But we won't be married in heaven. So if you want to be an example now, if you hear the calling into priesthood or...anyways, I paraphrased.

I just wanted to say that the priest talked about silly bandz today.

<3<3<3

You know what. Some people are terrified of dying. Some people are terrified of hell. Some people aren't. And some people aren't because they know they've accepted Jesus into their hearts, and they know where they're going.

I think I'm terrified of Heaven.

Is that weird?

<3<3<3

I'm really looking forward to some good pie, which I hope to start digesting within the next hour. At Stoby's with good people. Stoby's apparently won 2nd in a world cheese dip contest. Some friends and I were wondering who Stoby's went up against. Like, this little old lady and this little young girl.

I don't know, I'm tired.

I'd say I enjoyed that extra hour, but I still got up early. I went to fill my tank before church and dumped out some old french fries while I was at it.

My companions are thankful.

<3<3<3

My step-dad started a couple of tree houses when I was a kid.

The keyword was start.

Promise me that if you promise to build your kid a tree house, you'll finish.

Let's stand up as a generation and not let our kids down. Let's not get too busy, America.


I want to compile a list of things I want to do the rest of this school year. Make me.

But it's pie time. See ya! Keep creepin', San Diego.

Pogonophobia is the fear of beards.

There is something about silly TV shows, where we just can't stop watching. For instance, my roommate has Spongebob on right now. I like to watch TV while I eat. I finished eating a while ago. I can't stop watching. Cue mesmerization.

Tonight, I'm supposed to go to some sort of semi-formal dance in the Student Center, which costs a grand total of something like $7.5, quite a price for a college student. I have not been able to find information on this. I do not know who's putting it on. There's a small chance that it doesn't exist. But if it does, at eight o'clock this evening I might be listening to the student jazz band, watching other people who actually know how to tango and waltz. Call me Wallflower.

Last night, however, I did a number of things. Guaranteed procrastination of homework, yes. I delighted in some live music with a group of Christian folk called BYX and their friends. Well, and my friends. I wondered why some were there. I indulged in some lukewarm chocolate. I took part in partial viewing of V for Vendetta, and savored some pepperoni-less pizza. I creeped, I saw. I also watched Saw II. (I finally viewed the first in the series the 29th of October.)

Based on someone who's only recently the first two of seven films in the series, I appreciated them more than I thought I would. I figured it was just a gorefest (and indeed it was) but it was still quite suspenseful, sending chills up my spine, enjoying the twists and turns. But more than anything it makes you focus on the work of Jigsaw. It's brilliant.

But what I worry about is that someone, a man a few years older than me, came up with the idea.

A sad reminder that our world is full of potential maniacs.

The most insane thing in the world is someone who isn't the least bit insane, like I always say.

But whew. People are so capable of doing these crazy, terrible things; some of them do them.



My father was pretty...something. Well, he was a sociopath. And he told the counselor, many years ago, to tell my mother that he wanted to bury a trailer with her in it, and put another on top for him and the kids to live in.

It's in my blood, you know. I have the genetic chemical imbalances to become schizo. I have the smarts to invent "games." What makes me different from the rest?

It's funny, how we all have the potential to be so many different things, and the life we end up living, which potentials we choose to work with, how we choose to use them.

Kind of like how I had the potential to become anyone I wanted at college, where no one knew me. I could have been a sorority girl, an athlete, a mathlete, a drama queen, an anime nerd, a Chi Alpha junkie. I mean. I could have been a lot of things.

And it's funny how I pretty much ended up just staying with a very similar reputation I had in high school. Maybe reputation isn't the right word. The aura I give to others.

But I'm just me. Kind of going along, rolling along, doing my thing. Freaking out about the future but really taking it chill and mellow at the same time.

Here I am.

But I'm so different than before.

<3<3<3

I danced.

Horribly.

And scared a couple of guys.

And a room full of people.

But you know.

I had fun.

I'm glad I don't care so much about getting embarrassed anymore.

That might be lie.

Don't forget to set your clocks back.