Oregon Trail

I have a tendency to get a head of myself. I exaggerate. I like to make bold statements that usually hold little to no likelihood of ever transpiring. Take for example, sophomore year when I told all of my friends after the first day of class that I had met my future husband during Spanish.

I think the conversation went something like this.

While standing in line at Kyoto for happy hour sushi, all discussing our first days.

Friends: (the obligatory)So Caroline, how were your classes?
Me: Well, not bad...except that I MET MY HUSBAND IN SPANISH!!!! He held the door for me, THEN sat next to me in class, AND laughed at all of my sarcastic quips about the ridiculousy of the spanish language.
Friends: ....

Spoiler alert: I'm not married, and as it turns out, I have over active gut instincts.

I HATE to admit it, but I'm secretly still like that. Not proclaiming every man I meet to be my husband, rather, thinking I have enough life experience to predict HUGELY important life events way ahead of their time. I digress...

I'll admit that I would like to live in world where things are that simple. I remember, BELIEVING that when I met the person I would love more than I love pineapple pizza, I'd KNOW it was right. There wouldn't be a question. Everything would fit. No complications. No heart break.

Flash forward 5 years. Naive childlike view of the complex infrastructure of <3luv<3 = dunzo. In order to calm the intense cognitive dissonance that resulted from my silly fantasies and my actual reality, I threw in the proverbial towel. What kind of ninny ACTUALLY believed that even the purest of loves could exist without difficulty? This ninny.

BUT WAIT. After spending the better part of 2 evenings reading a blog re-telling the story of how a woman met her husband, I hate to admit that I am hook, line and sinker back in favor of the idea of simple, perfect love. I know I am grossing everyone out, but you have GOT to read this story. It's about a woman who graduated from USC (total LA city girl) moved home, met a cowboy in a bar...he called her FOUR months later, they go out, FALL IN LOVE AFTER 10 DAYS, and are married and live on a ranch in Oklahoma. What you'll realize after reading this story is what it's missing. It's completely absent of games, manipulation, and any other type of plague so common in relationships today. He says what he feels. He is straightforward. He doesn't make things complicated.

The point is, I'm back. I've retired my once pessimistic, cynical outlook and replaced it with one full of rainbows and butterflies. Anybody who wants to tell me how childish I am can suck it. I'm not from Oregon, and I won't settle..unless it's on a farm with a cowboy.

http://thepioneerwoman.com/blog/category/black_heelstractor_wheels/the_night_i_met_marlboro_man/

I'm crazy. See Below for PROOF

So. I'm behind. My life is happening and for some reason I'm struggling to write about it. I may or may not have convinced myself in the last week that blogging is lame and makes me less of a human. I'm not sure exactly how that happened because I'm not one of those overly critical, high self-monitors who lives in constant fear that my life doesn't mirror the picturesque lifestyle of my friends, nor do I make certain that every single part of my existence coincides with the norm. To put it bluntly, and possibly ruin every claim I've spouted about this blog not being utilized as a medium to promote narcissism..I kind of think everything I do is great. For example, I'm listening to Miley Cyrus' 'Party in the USA' on repeat so I can memorize all of the lyrics, watching Reba on TV (it's muted..I just like seeing her feisty expressions every now and again), weighing the level of ostentation the pink color I chose for my fingernails suggests, and having absolutely no cognitive dissonance about the fact that I'm a 21 year old behaving like a pre-Joel Madden, Hillary Duff.

I guess what I'm saying is it's out of character for me to even consider that writing in a blog makes me a weirdo..because even though it does, I wouldn't care. However, the truth of the diminishing level of my usual oozing, self-confidence, remains. I think it has a lot to do with what I've been wanting to write about recently..myself..shudder.. I refuse to treat this blawg like a desperate cry for attention, not dissimilar to a facebook status crafted solely to incite curiosity and subsequently, the label 'pathetic loser'. HOWEVER, writing is cathartic, and recently all I've wanted to do is be analytical and write sweet nothings about my existence..not to incite curiosity or find myself guilty of TMI, rather, just because that's where this writer's block as taken me.

In an ideal world, my blogs would be centered around hilarity and truth, and I want to acknowledge that I'm not doing that. I'm talking about things I'd probably deny to half of the people that may or may not read this. BUT.. it is, as all good things are, my prerogative. It's the way the cookie crumbles, the cake I'll have and eat too, the bed I've made and try to sleep in. ahahaaha. In the words of Miley: I'm Nodding my head like, 'yeah!' Moving my hips like, 'yeah!' You're welcome.

The Diary of Anne Frank

Journaling is a complicated hobby.

On the one hand, my rampant, and questionably odd, obsession with tangibly written things makes journaling quite rewarding. Call me geriatric, but I love flipping through old notebooks scrawled with illegible Texas history notes and reading 5th grade notes written with gel pens about how Callie Henthorn needs to wear a bra.

I don't delete text messages that I think are particularly funny and to this day re-read the "Dobie is on fire." text, circa 2007, from my RA in San Jacinto and laugh out loud. ..I don't generally think arson is humorous, but it was really unexpected and the circumstances surrounding it are silly. ANYWAY.. needless to say, an obsession with the written word is a two-way street. Similar to the way I like to read things that have been written, I also like to be the one who writes tangible items. I keep old to-do lists and LOVE writing e-mails. I don't mind sending thank you notes and refuse to take my computer to class because handwritten class notes are a lost art. [..that last example was a shameless mind-trick to try and convince myself that owning a 14 lb. computer really isn't the most annoying and impractical part of my existence]

MOVING ON..I also have a tendency to journal. It's narcissistic and totally self-involved, but I do it. It helps me think. It lets me vent. It permits me to demonstrate poor grammar without fear of correction. I don't do it to make everlasting memories about the time I tripped down the steps in front of the tower while eating powdered donuts and smashed one of them into my denim shorts giving me a powdery, white, sugar ass. If anything, that's why I don't journal. I HATE feeling stupid when I re-read something I previously scribbled about. I HATE reliving moments that shouldn't ever have to be relived. But I do it. I do it, and I hate very minute of it.

This is a little off topic, but my current biggest fear is stagnance. Living life in freeze frames. Not changing thoughts, experiences and the like in lieu of remaining completely resolute in current thoughts, experiences and beliefs. I would be living a nightmare if I was the exact same person my whole life. SO.. reading things from years ago and finding myself feeling oddly similar to the words that I wrote is terrifying. I refuse to believe that I am the same person I was my freshman year of college. It's absurd to even entertain the idea..but when you have it in writing, it get's complicated. ERGO: Journaling is a complicated hobby. I kind of don't have a cute, simple, comforting thought to end this post with. Most of the time I can brush off my ridiculous exaggerations and forget about them. I may or may not choose to dwell on this. ..But I also might go watch Kathy Griffin my life on the D-list, eat kettle-corn, listen to Cher, write about it, and go to sleep. Call me a fireman, but I'm going with the latter.

Lauren Conrad is my homegirl

Not to assume that anyone reads, let alone REMEMBERS, what I blabber about..but recall that renewed perspective I was bragging about last week? Dunzo. The past few days my life has been like a bad episode of The Hills. Horrible analogy.. every episode of The Hills is bad. I'll try a different approach, the events of the past few days have been like a Dominos pizza delivered without cheese.. tolerable, but so completely absurd you don't know whether to laugh out of the insanity, or scream out of disgust, because there is an establishment that is still allowed to exist after crafting a cheeseless pizza.

You following? I thought so. The point is, I think perspective is jinxable. I'm really writing to warn EVERYONE. If you think you've got it, don't tell anyone, because before you know it you'll be eating cheese-less pizza and watching reruns of Laguna Beach because company policy doesn't allow Blockbuster to rent The Hills to drug-dependent drag rats.

In other news, this is mostly just for show. I'm having a super great time living with two of my best friends and swimming and drinking $1 beer. Life isn't worth it if you can't sometimes compare it to The Hills, right? Right.

avril+legally blonde = unstoppable

Hi friends.

It's probably presumptuous to use a word like friends as it's doubtful that everyone reading this is in fact someone I associate regularly with. I should say Hi peeps. It's more encompassing.

Time for a confession:

I sincerely enjoy it every single time I hear Avril Lavigne's 'Complicated' playing on the radio. I turn that shit up and I belt it out. It isn't pretty. Maybe it stems from my crazy, private-school, 8th grade teen angst years, but listening to Avril, a misunderstood, punk-rock, free-spirit, rebel, really brings me back.

In other news, I should be reading my history book. I have to take a 'test' tomorrow, and truthfully, I'm being generous when I say test. The word test usually indicates an evaluation of knowledge has taken place, but at ACC it's different. Tests are a pathetic attempt at reassuring individuals seeking inferior educations that despite all the signs, they really do have expectations to meet, regardless if a new born baby could spit up all over a scantron, turn it in, and receive a B, if for no other reason because baby starts with B. ANYWAYS. I have a test to take, and take the test I will.

Time for another confession: I watch Legally Blonde everysingletime it is on TBS. I think it's both hilarious and unquestionably endearing. The soundtrack is totally jam worthy and I think Luke Wilson is just adorable sometimes. Who cares if the dialogue is less than stimulating and that the 'Bend and Snap' is the most over quoted movie scene in existence?

So I've made my case for both Legally Blonde and Avril Lavigne and needlessly bashed the junior college education system. I'd say I've done my part to better the world for one day. :) Happy Sunday!

night night

It's pitch black. My ceiling fan on the 3rd highest speed. Cell phone alarm clock is checked, and double checked. My mouth guard is in, so yes, read this post with a horrible lisp, because that's how it's being typed. (I'm a grinder, what can I say?) And yet, those elusive ZZZ's I desperately crave seem to be in hiding.

I had one of those weekends that reminded me how blessed I am. No, I didn't win the lottery or find myself mysteriously cured from a terminal disease. I didn't visit African tribes laden with poverty or converse with drag rats and their starving dogs on Guad. '16 and pregnant' wasn't on Lifetime and our Post Secret books remain untouched on the coffee table. So, there's really no reason this little morale boost kicked in. Truth be told, I think I just kind of remembered who I am, where I am and who I have.

Not to sound effusive and mawkish, because, trust me, my cynicism and horribleness are still rampant, but is there anything better than inexplicable renewed perspective?

Nope. There just isn't.

English is my second language. Awkward is my first.

I talk a lot. In doing so I prefer to say things in a round-about manner, I like to meander. Getting to the point without convoluted sentence structure and foregoing needless comma splices is to be expected. Give me a subject and a verb and I'll give you your grandmother's almanac. The following are a list of words and phrases that I have knowingly misused this week, all for the sake of being wordy, and the responses that each have received.

1) Burden of proof

Origin: While I was reading about affirmative action in my government book this week the term 'burden of proof' was used when talking about who's responsibility it was to prove discrimination..blah blah, the point is, 'burden of proof' has a nice ring to it, so I've been trying to find room for it in my daily interactions.

Situation used: In a conversation with my bosses boss at Gregory gym.

Bosses Boss: (Explaining to me why patron's get angry when their ID cards don't work..and how to handle it)"Caroline, nobody likes being told they don't have access to the facility, when in actuality they have paid for it, it's just the computer's error. It puts us in an awkward position and.."
Me: (cutting her off)..Right, right, I completely understand, it's a burden of proof.
Bosses Boss: ..long pause.."Yeah?..but.."..continues on with some convoluted point.

It just slipped out. I found it relevant and insightful. Bosses boss..not so much, she kind of just unabashedly stared at me until I silently recanted by looking down and embarrassed.

2. Learning curve

Origin: Candice was the first person to misuse this phrase while speaking to me on the phone earlier this week. I made a mental note to try my hand at using it as well.

Situation: I was taking a test at the testing center at ACC Rio Grande and waiting on the results of my scantron to be processed.

Test proctor: "Wow, great job and you finished that test fast. I bet all the people in there taking calculus tests hate you."
Me: *Polite laughter.. "Ya..well you know how learning curves are...If I had to take a calculus test I'm sure it would be a negative slope! (insert tone of voice that implies a joke was made, but realizes quickly that said joke is unidentifiable)"
Test proctor: *Hands me my scantron in silence.

Before you X out this page and resort to googling 'jk wedding entrance' for the billionth time, I swear I'm not a complete idiot..all the time. This time, yes.

3. Compartmentalizing

Origin: There is no logical reason I keep saying this word. I just started saying it this week to describe the new theorem I am applying to my daily life, in my own inaccurate way.

Situation: Talking to Candice on the phone about life events

Me: "Listen, all I'm trying to do is compartmentalize. I'm not at fault. Non-compartmentalizers are to blame!"
Candice: "Hahahaha, compartmentalize? Of Course!"
Me: "Okay, I know that doesn't make sense, but thank you for proving your loyalty and not questioning it."

In closing, it takes a while to further your vocabulary and impress others with your graceful speech. I'll learn, until then I'll continue to bear the burden of proof often found within the learning curve for compartmentalization.

Tuesday Chronicles

I couldn't be more bored. As I sit slumped in my office rolly chair, I'm pretending to draft an email and typing nonsense into excel spreadsheets. I'm also listening to the light rock musical selection of my intern director, trying to decide just how noticeable it would be if I take a quick roll around the office in said chair just to see what everyone else is doing. I think it would kill at least 9 minutes. I prefer rolly chairs to stationary ones, there's something about the option for movement that just feels more spontaneous than a chair without wheels. I imagine it's a feeling similar to the way immobile geriatrics feel about their walkers

I'm on my third piece of gum since arriving here at 9 a.m. The burst of flavor livens things up for 3-4 minutes. And, fingers crossed, I might be able to 'accidentally' get a bubble or two in just to drown out jazz keyboards and Kenny G solos for a few brief seconds.

Less than hour until I can leave. I always feel better when the time that needs to elapse is in minutes. Minutes I can handle, hours make me want to punch a hole in my computer screen. I think I could do it.

Secret Lover is now the song I'm listening to whilst furthering my opportunity in the business realm at this 'internship'. Seriously, nobody gains valuable experience for the future when being forced to hum along to 'Secret Lover.' NOBODY.

I've used the bathroom 4 times in 3 hours. 3 of these times were false alarms. I drink a lot of water while I'm here just to better my chances of that needing a reason to get up and take a break from staring blankly at Microsoft Word documents.

9 minutes till I can gracefully and professionally get the hell out of here. I think I'll even things out and chew one more piece of gum and use the restroom one more time.. Then peace out. It's been a good day at the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Accomplished my tasks in the first hour and a half I was here, and analyzed my potential as a contributing member of the workforce for the rest of it. Good day I'd say.

Horrible

I know I know, I'm a horrible blogger.

BUT, in my defense, I actually have been writing a lot this week, but every time I think 'I should put this in my blog' I decide it is no longer relevant or worth anyone's time but my own. So you should THANK me, I'm only posting the best and the brightest of my thoughts.

On that note, not only am I a horrible blogger..but I'm secretly kind of a horrible person as well.

I know, most of you are sneering in disbelief, throwing your hands up in disgust and laughing at the sheer ridiculousy that I could call myself anything but perfectly charming. Nevertheless, it's true, I'm kind of horrible.

For starters, I'm socially blunt. If I don't like you, you probably know it. I don't waste a lot of time with false pretenses because I don't really see the point. Therefore, I'm kind of horrible because it's so obviously common decency to lead someone you detest to believe you approve of their existence, and I just don't play that small talk game.

Example: If I were to see Jared Fogle on the street and I happened to be eating a subway sandwich, I wouldn't giggle at the irony and give him a quick 'Hello, there Jared, you're looking quite trim!" I'd throw whatever remained of my 6 inch turkey at his face and then laugh whole heartedly at the ranch dressing dripping down his 44 inch waist jeans.

Similarly, if I have a strong opinion about something, which quite honestly, doesn't happen a whole heck of a lot.. I prefer to keep moderate opinions about a lot of things just to avoid confrontation and to secure my 'laid back' persona...ANYWAY, if I just so happen to have a strong opinion about something, I'm going to tell you every single detail about why the way I feel about that thing, concept, Hanson song, is right, and why yours is, well, not.

Example: You think Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, sans Patrick Swayze.. exceeded the perfection of the original Dirty Dancing? No dice. You're an idiot. I can't even have a mature discussion with you about this, because you have butt all over your face.

Finally, the last and probably most compelling reason that I'm sort of horrible..I am a complete elitist. Which is traumatizing to admit, but it gets worse. I'm a closet elitist. I HATE admitting it. Even as I type this, I am convincing myself that it's just for the sake of blog interest that I'm saying it. I need to clarify however, that I'm not an elitist about EVERYTHING. I'm not a music elitist, just peruse my iPod, you'll be horrified. I'm not a food elitist, if you want to chow down on 50 cent Jack in the Box grade E beef tacos, it's your perogative. I eat kettle corn at least once a day, who am I to criticize your jonesing for a mcflurry? I am not a fashion elitist. Not to say I don't talk a substantial amount of shit about what people wear, I am woman and it's in my blood.

I'll just say it. I'm a personality elitist. Not to say I have named myself the sole heir to the greatest personality in all the land, ..not that I'd be opposed..I mean, if there was a true competition of course, I'm just saying I think I'd have a shot. All I'm trying to say, in the least horrible, but notably horrible, way possible is that I think everyone I associate with is better than everyone else. Whew, it's out there. MUCH BETTER. Just stop reading if you're horrified..because I'm not taking it back. As a personality elitist, I have a low tolerance for the bland. No understanding of the timid. And a complete indifference to anyone who isn't hilarious, intelligent, outrageously fun, and anything else I decide I want in a friend at any given moment.

Example: "What's that? you don't understand the hilarious joke I'm attempting to make because you're sense of humor is so underdeveloped it's alarming? Not a problem, I can recommend a great Dane Cook stand up act certain to suite your fancy..and then never speak to you again."

The point is, I can't help it if I'm a horrible person who just can't seem to 'see the good in everyone.' If you're lame, I'll find out. It's science.

gremlins in the park. watch yo'self.

oh HELLO there.

as an act of grammatical rebellion i may or may not type this post using entirely lowercase letters. who knows, maybe i'll runafewwordstogethertoo. just for FUNSIES.

ya know, i started this post having something to say i think..i might have just wanted to write the word funsies in a public arena. it's really anyone's guess. i'll say this though, this may or may not be about to turn into a post where i make a bulletted list of things that are on my mind/that i want to say. who's down for some incoherent nonsense?! aweeesome.

- i've had a ear-curdling cough for the past two weeks. it's starting to worry me, because as a middle child i'm pretty sure my parents were negligent about the timeliness of my vaccinations, specifically whooping cough.
- this is more of a shameless plug actually, but can everyone i know please use twitter? it's really inconvenient switching back and forth from social medium to social medium all damn day and it would make it A LOT easier if everyone could just tweet their lives to me. okaygreatthanks.
- i'm going to see the movie gremlins in the park in like 9 minutes. i just googled gremlins and am AMAZED at how similar to furbies they appear to be. makes me want to teleport to my attic in arlington and bring one of those little guys with me..ya know, to cuddle with.
- it is RIDICULOUSLY hot inside my home right this moment. i'm leaving in 5 minutes, but i just removed 3 of the 5 articles of clothing i was wearing because it was INTOLERABLE.
- it's like, happy hours are really great..but i'll be honest, any drinking before 9 p.m. just makes me want to fall asleep. i have a lot of respect for alcoholics, i mean to be able to drink all day long and not have it affect their sleep patterns, it's just remarkable. it's inspiring, truly. hats off to you.
- a few of my all time favorite people are gracing me with their presences tomorrow annnndican'tfreakinwait.
- ok, this is coming to an abrupt close because, let's face it, gremlins waits for no MAN. or woman.

"a majority of things are permissible...but come on, let's not get ridiculous"

It's been a good weekend. I love July 4th. Sure, you've heard it all before, but I've always been a huge proponent of excessive lounging, bodies of water (kiddie pools, in this year's case) and needless to say, fireworks. It was so perfect hanging with an assortment of my favorite peeps and watching people I hardly know put all pride and thoughts of self-preservation aside to chug brews and fall on their asses playing dizzy bat. Not to mention, drinking 5 out of the 7 seven days this week made me feel a lot like an American, don't ask why, it's obviously twisted logic.

Despite the impressiveness of how wonderful this weekend has been, I shouldn't trick you innocent readers into thinking it wasn't without its minor glitches. For similar to the birth of America, in all her glory, she wouldn't be the country we know and love, without tyrannical King George and buffalo hungry Native Americans (I rarely make racist remarks in this blog, please don't hold it against me.) Anyway, tears were shed, shoes were lost, territories invaded, all leaving me to analyze one of the more pressing matters of my life. Since when have I retired my mature womanhood to act like a FRESHMAN?

Allow me to elaborate. I've been in college for three years. Three wonderful years. I've 'grown', 'matured', 'found myself' 'become the woman I am today' and lots of other trite cliches that you're supposed to do whilst becoming educated. It was a process mind you, a series of trial and error, living and learning. I mean, one doesn't turn 18 and in the blink of an eye become a refined sophisticate, there are stages.

Freshman year for example, is what I like to refer to as the 'anything goes' stage. It's the year you spend losing your dignity and gaining story material. It's common knowledge as a freshman you can't be held responsible for your actions. Every poor decision, drunken regret and slutty halloween outfit is easily shrugged off because let's face it, you're 18 years old, in the grand scheme of your college career, it doesn't matter. You can attend Delt Mekong dressed in camo, drink hidden Smirnoff from your dorm fridge and makeout with someone you've known for 2 hours, all without shame or fear of repercussions. Well..at least nine months of no repercussions. If the constitution has taught me anything, it's that as an 18 year old, acting ridiculous freshman year is an inalienable right.

Luckily, for the sake of our livers and self-respect, freshman year is just that, one year. Sophomore year comes, and with it's arrival, a certain element of experience is achieved and freshman indiscretions are a thing of the past, never to be revisited again. But wait..

What happens if the cycle is disturbed? What if, in Robin Williams like fashion, the board game Jumanji is reopened releasing killer monkeys, life-sucking plants and enraged rhino's into your once civilized environment? IE: What if after three years, as a 21 year old, you find yourself exhibiting similar behaviors and actions of an 18 year old idiot girl..or boy? Maybe it's summer. Maybe it's being legal. Maybe it's new found freedom. All I know is since I've turned 21, I've been acting more like a freshman than I did when I was actually 18.

The problem is that there's something mildly disconcerting about the thought of behaving the same way I did during my 'anything goes' phase. It's not that I'm TRULY worried about it. I'm not accidentally drinking punch laced with muscle relaxers and crashing Kappa Sig late nights, but I am casting aside my better judgment in lieu of living in the moment. It honestly doesn't sound half bad when I put it that way. And come to think of it, maybe it isn't half bad, maybe it's just another 'stage'. Maybe the summer before your senior year is the "a majority of things are permissible, but come on, let's not get too ridiculous.." stage. It's kind of like, I've already learned the lessons, most of them the hard way, so now it can just be a refresher course.

Whew. Freak out averted. Close one.

i'd like to drop kick jared fogle.

You probably shouldn't mess with me today. I'm feeling particularly combative. Just ask the checker at HEB who called me 'sweetheart' or the man running next to me at 24-hour whose glance lingered just a little too long. I didn't want to put all of my grocery's back in my basket and switch lines or make a production of moving all of my stuff to a treadmill a considerable distance away from creepster, but it's one of those days. It might just be the inevitability of Monday's arrival. Or maybe it's something deeper, but let's be honest, I'm too flustered to try and figure it out. All I know is if I didn't have to work in an hour I'd probably try to find someone to rumble..I mean, somebody smaller and weaker obviously, maybe with vision impairment. I'm not really in the mood for a challenge, just an easy target.

I don't think I've been in a fight since 11th grade, and that didn't really constitute a 'fight' anyway. It was basketball season. I was purposefully elbowed in the face and I retaliated. It hurt like hell, it was only fair that I kick her in the shin and sucker punch her in the stomach while 'fighting for a rebound.' Biatch didn't mess with me again.

I should get in more fights. I generally avoid severe confrontation and prefer to use my vicious rhetoric to tear people a part. I'll be honest though, sometimes written words aren't satisfying. I don't have very much experience yelling at people, to their face, and I have to admit, I think I'd love it. As much as I spout about 'passion' and 'saying what you feel' I don't think I practice what I preach very often. Maybe that's what I get for being a 'bottler.' I hold in all of the combativeness, and then have days like today when all I want is to assault strangers. Luckily, if you must know the truth, I'm all talk. I don't want to fight anyone and I don't want to yell. I want to listen to 'the rest is still unwritten' by Natasha Bedingfield and write in my blog until I'm not angry anymore. Jared Fogle better thank his lucky stars...

Disclaimer: I'm currently overmedicated.

So, I'm writing right now, not because I have something to say, rather, to 'mind over matter' (oh yes, that's to be read as a verb) the grandmotherly desire I have to fall asleep right now. I find it difficult to justify going to sleep early after spending all damn day in my bed watching syndicated sitcom reruns on TBS, using the commercial breaks to wonder just how many bags of kettle corn constitutes 'too' many.

In my defense, I'm currently battling a life threatening illness I've affectionately, and perhaps deceivingly, been referring to as an upper respiratory infection. Fancy, right? Lord knows if that's what it is. I have a fever and headache, coming from the UPPER part of my body. I've developed a severe cough, and when I cough, which is often, it's difficult to breathe via my RESPIRATORY system. And I find the word virus to sound much more fleeting than INFECTION so that's what made that decision. Not to brag, but I'm pretty sure this is more serious than that Swine Flu hullabaloo everyone was crying about last month. The point is, I'm ill. I can't very well be gallivanting around the city of Austin, 'living' and 'being productive.' No no, it's much wiser to continue my recovery from a secure location, taking the medicine my physicians: David Spade, Kevin James, Matthew Perry and Ray Romano, recommended. Laughter. Stop groaning, you knew it was coming.

In other news, I found out today that I'm one of those people that laughs along with laugh tracks during sitcoms. Great. This illness has reduced my sense of humor to that of the stereotypical simpleton. I giggle at potty humor like the word 'poopy', slap my knee when someone trips down the stairs and laugh hysterically at just about any witty exchange between characters. I'll say this though, Arthur (Jerry Stiller), from King of Queens, is hands down the funniest character on any poorly scripted sitcom. Ever. Also, I can stop this charade, it's 10:59. A PERFECTLY acceptable sleep time for a working woman such as myself. Thank my later for wasting your time with this entry.

smooth seas do not a skillful sailor make

it's that time again! the time when i post things i've written in previous lifetimes, ie: last semester. this little number originated in my 'feature writing' class. it was a personal essay assignment. topic: favorite place in the world. enjoy it. or hate it.

I hate clichés. I find them trite and corny. In my opinion, clichés epitomize the very essence of the words boredom and complacency and should be promptly eliminated from the English language. Unfortunately, there is no way to articulate what I want to without use of the idiom I just verbally thrashed. So with my hatred of clichés in mind I proclaim that I view the city of Galveston through rose-colored glasses. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that I view Galveston through a pair of glasses projecting the shade of three dozen roses, but then it wouldn’t be consistent with the cliché I love to hate.

Galveston is perfect to me. The murky, brown ocean, laden with seaweed and deceased jellyfish feels like an exotic oasis when I stick my feet in it. The shell-less sand, littered with glass and housing the occasional sand crab is the perfect canvas to craft the seven story sand castle that I’ve been mentally designing. The humid, salty air, so strong it knocks over chairs and carries sand into the eyes of innocent beach dwellers, acts as a catalyst making me feel invigorated and alive.

Galveston is perfect to me, it always has been. Since I was a small child my family’s annual trip to my grandmother’s beach front home was the highlight of my summer vacation. Complete with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings, the trips were a family affair akin to the size of a reunion. The five hour car ride seemed a small price to pay for five days of wave jumping, searching for sand dollars, hunting crabs and playing fierce games of monopoly with my cousins. The trip was a family institution, symbolizing the beginning of a new school year for me and reminding my parents why one family vacation a year was enough.

There were things we did every year like crabbing, shopping at the strand and visiting the water slides a few miles away from my grandmother’s neighborhood. There were things we tried once, like horseback riding on the beach, visiting a Titanic exhibit and cooking the crabs we caught at the bay, ourselves.

When I think about Galveston it’s impossible to pinpoint the exact reason it is my favorite place in the world. A flood of memories overtake my mind and I think back to an afternoon in Galveston when the sun was nowhere to be found. It was raining and my brother was sitting in a rocking chair playing a handheld video game; my sister lounged on the floor configuring the edges to a 1,000 piece puzzle with a box boasting a picturesque harbor scene. My mom and grandmother were in the kitchen taking orders for sandwiches and my grandfather had drafted my dad to help him outside on whatever project he had invented to keep busy.

I was downstairs, swinging on the wooden porch swing beneath my grandmother’s sea-blue house, clad only in a swimsuit and clutching my pail and shovel tightly. I would be the first ready when the sun decided to return from its hiding place behind the clouds. I remember dreading the moment my mother would remember she’d forgotten to apply my sunscreen before we headed to the beach, after the rain stopped. It was no use, she always remembered.

Auf Wiedersehen!

Not to be overly dramatic and emotional, but I just cleaned out my Jetta, in preparation for it being ripped to shreds, part by part by greedy auctioneers and farmers insurance personnel, and I feel strangely at a loss. Encountering weird high school memorabilia, like mix cd's, senior pictures of Matthew Winn, my softball glove, even my rear view mirror squirrel felt so strange, like I'd disturbed things that should have just been laid to rest with the Jetta. I know that getting new cars, trading them in, and the like is a somewhat common practice, but it's just kind of weird. Something I've seen almost every single day since I was 15 will be gone in the morning. I'll never ride in those horrifically stained cloth seats ever again. Today is the last day I'll lay eyes on the chipped black exterior and impossibly dull head lights of my 1999 Volkswagen.

Not to be nostalgic, but I remember the first time I drove it. I was still 15 and I was following my dad back to our house after picking it up from the car lot and I noticed that the breaks were much more sensitive than the first time I drove it. I was a little concerned, especially when I noticed the faint smell of burning rubber after I put the car in park. Very quickly my father had realized I forgot to release the emergency brake. Truth be told, I think that first encounter is extremely representative of our time together.

On the bright side, I'm all for fresh starts. Cars are strange. They take you places, physically and because I'm being sentimental, emotionally. I remember my 16th birthday driving to CiCi's during lunch with my first boyfriend and him showing me how to get gas for the first time. I remember driving to Haley's house after hitting a squirrel, bawling my eyes out and swearing I'd never drive again. I remember Abby bumping into the back of me on our way to lunch one day and laughing about it because she couldn't stop crying. I could probably go on, but I'm certain no one wants me to retell all of these beautiful moments. The point is, yes there is ALWAYS a point, I think I'm ready to let go. Good riddance Jetta. La Bufanda Milagra is ready to fill your not so reliable shoes.

i'm a nutcase

Hi.

I have a strange urge to speak to someone right now, but there is no one I really feel like calling. I've been on the phone too much today, begging for donations from businesses at my internship, talking to family members about nonsense, apologizing to friends for drunken behavior, the usual. My point is, if I were treating this blawg like a phone call, these are the things I would say.

-LYKE OMG HI! itz bin sOoOo long sinz i've tawlked 2 u!! ..paha, but seriously..
- I got too drunk last night, unintentionally. Beer, apparently, will continue to get the better of me despite my efforts against it. Oh well, it was fun, from what I recall.
- I'm really sad about the construction workers dying on 21st street. I hope the lesson learned is that buildings should never be that tall, until humans learn to fly.
- When I was eating an apple earlier today the first bite I took formed a perfect C. It was beautiful, but I finished the apple anyway
- Summer is restoring my soul. I mean this much less deep than it sounds. I just feel good, and it isn't just because I'm intoxicated more regularly. I've always wondered how to tell the difference between experiencing true happiness and superficial or circumstantial, happiness. It's really hard sometimes, maybe just for me, but I think recently it's gotten a little easier to figure out. It isn't that I'm happier, because I'm usually pretty happy, I mean, domino's is a flourishing business, Hanson will continue to make beautiful melodic music and I have really funny friends. I think it's that I feel more joy, which yes all of you thesaurus natzis, is different. I sound like an idiot girl probably, but, this might be the joy talking, I don't care. I'm so pleased to be where I am right now, and I honestly wouldn't change a thing. That's true happiness I think. This turned strangely reflective.

Sorry didn't mean to talk your ear off! What's that? ..I didn't know you had a parakeet. No, No, I understand, You have to go walk it..it's cool. We'll talk soon.

freaked out?

So. It isn't generally my style to write in this blog regularly. I like to keep the public wanting more, not dissimilar to the way Chik-fil-A is closed on Sundays or the way Patrick Swayze only made a cameo in Dirty Dancing 2. However, I can't stop wanting to ramble aimlessly in this silly text box, and I'm kind of in a 'do what I want' phase currently..so I put two and two together.

Today I spent my afternoon swimming amongst Austin's finest at Deep Eddy Pool, surrounded by babies, toddlers, and whatever other classifications of children there might be. While doing so, hanging with the peeps, I remembered something. It's not profound or life changing, more of a simple, comforting thought. I remembered just how damn young I am. I don't have a baby. I don't drive a mini-van. I don't have a full-time job. I don't have a mortgage. Hell, I haven't even acquired a taste for red wine. I'm obviously a child. Needless to say, it was the best feeling I've had in awhile. Sure I have friends who are graduating, getting married, and becoming people..but as a 21 year old, I've only lived 1/4 of my life. 1/4! So, despite the never ending anxiety, decision-making and adult situations..I'm a child in a world of adults. This post needs to end now because I'm going to go get drunk with some more peeps. In true youthful fashion..

paint with all the colors of the wind

I'm blogging. I'm blogging and I should be sleeping. Here I sit, typing at a cross-roads. Caught somewhere between the burden I have for fulfilling my responsibility as an esteemed blogist (I'm much too unique to refer to myself as a 'blogger') and my commitment to providing excellent, alert, customer service at Gregory at 6am. It's just so hard being me.

Sarcasm is sometimes difficult to detect through non-verbal advanced mediums.. like, blogs, so, I'll help you out. It's not really hard being me. In fact, aside from the pressure I face daily concerning my unsurpassed humor, it's easy. For the past four days I've been living in an unbelievable fantasy world of birthdays, sun, dollar beer and hilarity. It has been picturesque. If I could paint a giant painting that reminded me of what the last four days has entailed, there would be the following:

1. A wise, homeless saint who reminded me just why it is important to "not talk about it, just be about it."
2. A stomach, sunburned only around the bellybutton.
3. A beer can, with no label..just a dollar sign, and a 1 next to it..like so: $1
4. A strawberry.. the new shot glass for hip, youthful, scenesters to take shots of rum and whipped cream out of.
5. The single word HA.

So I think you get my point. Sometimes you just need to sit down and figure out what in your life you would paint a mural of. It really puts things in perspective.

In closing, This is one of my more profound posts. Re-read it if you feel you've missed something. Over and out.

sleepless in seattle

Alright ALRIGHT, I know what you're thinking. No, I'm not in Seattle. Rain on my parade if you must and subsequently ruin my adorable movie reference. The point is, I can't sleep. In true Tom Hanks fashion I sit on my bed, wide awake, listening to an obscure radio host speak the truths of my life and hypnotize me as he/she coddles me with his/her optimism, ultimately resulting in aiding my father's search for true love, ending with a timely reunion atop the Eiffel Tower. It's going to be a busy night.

In other news, no I'm not delusional. I know my life does not mirror the Sleepless in Seattle plot line...yet. I'm just a bit on the thoughtful side, not to say I'm doing nice things for people, more that I'm full of thoughts. Some good, some not so good, some absolutely ridiculous. Here's a sampling. Good thought: This weekend is going to be really great. An assortment of 21st birthday celebrations to attend, lost of boozin' and boatin' AND I'm only working on Sunday. Bad thought: What am I going to do this summer. Yes, I'm taking classes, working, babysitting, interning..but what am I going to DO? Hopefully things. Ridiculous thought: I should get another hamster.

ONE

It was one of those days. A day started with purpose. A morning full of genuine positivity for whatever lies ahead. With the night ending dismally abrupt with said positivity replaced with unpleasant reality crashing (an ironic line, you'll soon understand) all around.

You can see I'm being dramatic. But I have a right you see, for without drama everyday life becomes dull. A mindless exchange of pleasantries laced with practiced motions so familiar you don't even realize their existence. (More drama, needless, but fun.)

I got in a wreck today. My first. I'm fine. The other driver was fine. Everyone's fine. Except my poor, pathetic, nearly geriatric, 10-year-old car. A companion since I was 15 (I shouldn't say loyal, seeing as to how it has often left me stationary in my time of need..), my Jetta has been through it all. Blown out tires, catalytic converter catastrophes, a smashed windshield via pumpkin, rear ending my sister's car, stalling in the middle of roads, and now..it's current injury. Body damage from a car driving at approximately 30 miles an hour and t-boning me in the middle of an intersection. No need for details, it was my fault. Let's just say babies truly will be the death of me.

It just sucks. No one likes getting yelled at and being chastised to tears in the middle of a neighborhood, juxtaposed to a smashed car. (I never said drama was kind..) The point is, yes there is always a point, I find it so interesting that on days I VOW to be positive, days I SWEAR not to be anxious, I am so quickly tested. So suddenly asked to demonstrate my commitment to my arbitrary promise. Needless to say, I failed. I forgot for just a moment (by that I mean until just now..) that my life is charmed. Good thing I am remembering it now. Whew! That was a close one.

It's not that I think anyone truly cares to read the things I have to say, it's that if, on the off chance that there is a person who fits the above description, I can't bare to withhold my brilliance from them. So you're welcome ghost-readers.

In addition, I can't help that it's just what I do. I'm always secretly impressed with people who keep journals and daily diaries with no intention of sharing them. I find when I write things for only myself to read they are painfully cynical and much too self-involved to do any good. But when I write things on obscure Web sites that hold only a small possibility of readership, my ramblings are usually a bit cheerier, and who doesn't need more cheer? Exactly.

I have something to say. It isn't funny or ironic or entertaining in the slightest, so quit yer' readin' now if yer' bored.

What I have to say gives testament to a principle of the world I oft' forget. A simple reminder that I am cursed with the blessing of eternal good fortune. Stop rolling your eyes, trust me, I'm just as big of a believer in the 'jinx' as the next person, but this is bigger than a case of accidental simultaneous speak. It's my fate. In my life, everything just works out. Not immediately, not in the blink of an eye or the twitch of a magical nose (Bewitched reference. you're welcome). It isn't about timeliness or evading suffering. I'm a HUGE believer in the proverbial sentiment, time heals all, and I detest individuals with trial-free, picturesque lifestyles. My point is, the difficulties, the seemingly impossible experiences,the difficult classes and projects, the ridiculous nonsense..always, forgive the repetition, works out.

Case and point: I lost my, very expensive, Jetta car key in January. I was pretty sure I lost it at a bar downtown, but I never had the desire to check, what were the chances it was there? Minuscule. To be blunt, there are episodes of Rock of Love that I have cared more about than this occurrence. I had a spare, (not electronic) and I sucked it up and used this key for the past 4 months. Last night, downtown, I went into the bar, walked up to the bartender told him what my key looked like and in zero time, he handed it to me. Boo ya.

ttttypical.

yes, i've officially made this blog an excuse to post things i have to write in class. so yes. this essay was in response to the prompt, "My biggest fear in the world is.." enjoy the ridiculousy.

I usually dote on the idea that I am not scared of anything. I love nothing more than the window seat on an airplane. I see nothing wrong with humans and cockroaches coexisting. And I live for shark week on the Discovery channel. I obtained my black belt in Tae Kwan Do at the ripe age of 12, so I have pretty much always had a sense of reassurance in terms of my ability to protect myself from a majority of the dangerous perils of life. However, due to the thought provoking nature of this assignment and generally not having anything else to trouble myself with, I came to realize that I am scared of something. A fear so appalling that even as I think about it now, I shudder at the thought.

I am scared of the word typical. To clarify, this is not a simple case of onomatophobia, an irrational fear of certain words and sounds. It runs much deeper.
I guess I could start with the phonetics. Think about other words that end in ICAL: cubical, cynical, tyrannical, stoical, not exactly an exhaustive list, but I think you get my point. Words that end in –ical, are critical (sorry, last one). Without giving it another thought, I can say that aside from its spelling, I am horribly terrified of the very essence of what ‘typical’ stands for. More specifically, I’m scared of myself, being typical.

Whether it is in relationships, my outward appearance or during a conversation, I live in constant avoidance of things that are negatively connotated as typical. I cannot surrender to acting needy, I refuse to purchase Sperry’s and I avoid small talk whatever the cost.

It is an irrational fear, as most are, and even as I think about it further, images of bear attacks, thoughts of accidents that render me paralyzed and the overarching inevitability of death, don’t faze me in the least. It is the present. It is today. It is the notion that I could squander the infinite creative potential that is inherent in each new day I am given by being content with the status quo.

There is comfort in the familiar, convenience in the simple and practicality in the ordinary, but what about the beauty in imperfection, the excitement of the unknown and the inspiration of the original? It isn’t that I find fault with those embracing normalcy, it’s that from my perspective, the very thought of living a life that’s anything but my very own is maddening.

In kindergarten during the week spent learning about individuality, the fun fact that no two people’s fingerprints were the same really blew my mind. Everyone is unique. No two people are exactly alike. Those are just words, until you can prove it.

SPLOTCH

...so i had to write a personal essay for a journalism class, and this is what happened, it isn't biting, or sarcastic, or cynical..i kind of hate it.

I don’t believe that love conquers all.

If it did, an action movie featuring a juiced-up Cupid battling personified depictions of relationship killers like infidelity and criticism would be getting the Academy Awards. I know I run the risk of an untimely death via lightning bolt by blatantly disagreeing with a belief that the 'author of love' was pretty straightforward about in his good book, but the truth is life as I’ve experienced is more complicated than that.

I fell in love for the first time at age 16. When I close my eyes and try to revisit memories from a past that feels nothing like my own all I remember, apart from saved AIM conversations with quotes like “I don’t know…what do you want to talk about?” and shoe boxes crammed with folded notebook paper scrawled with words that have no meaning to me now, are the splotches.

It was genetic, or so my mother, who had no formal training in DNA coding, reassured me. A by product of intense emotion, embarrassment and generally awkward situations, the splotching was ‘genetic’ and this explanation alone was left to comfort me. At their worst, I looked as though a class of kindergartners had been given a splatter-painting art project using only fire-engine red paint and the target of their creative genius was my face, neck, arms and stomach. It was horrifying.

There was absolutely nothing I could do to control it; no amount of positive thinking, silent pleading, cold wash-cloths or in my desperate moments, deep breathing rituals, could accelerate their disappearance from my usually porcelain skin. I was rendered powerless. A slave to their unpredictability and victim to their calloused indifference to my suffering, time was my only savior.

I can’t actually claim the splotching was responsible for any physical pain, unless you consider the pain of heart break I experienced every time they joined me, uninvited, for a dance, a date or a phone call.

Nothing was private. No sentiment my own. I always had a silent laugh when I heard the expression 'to wear your emotions on your sleeve' because I knew the truth. Sleeves covered with emotion don't make you vulnerable. A face emblazoned with anxiousness, an arm showing anger and a neck exposing excitement was true transparency.

They were the worst when I was with him. When anxiousness mixed with uncertainty plagued my entire being. The touch of his hand holding mine sent proverbial butterflies to my stomach and as if on cue, red splotches to my face. He knew them well. It was a topic left undiscussed, an unspoken agreement to ignore the bright red spots painted strategically across my chest when he would arrive to pick me up.

It is no secret that there is nothing more attractive than a self-assured woman, shining with confidence, envious of no-one and threatened by nothing. It is also no secret that no such woman has, or ever will have existed.

I was a volatile creature prone to over-anaylization and self-destructive tendencies. Every facet of my personality aided in the widespread epidemic that plagues the female gender. The haunting sensation I could work my whole life to eliminate, the single underlying factor that contributed to the demise of my relationship, insecurity. My heart was broken for the first time at age 17. The love I had so assuredly experienced proved to be as erratic and suffocating as the deep red splotches. With silent anger I cursed her sociability, the way she could flirt with him egregiously without fear of bright red consequences. It was maddening. With each day that passed, I became number, as evidenced by the return of a consistent pale color to my skin. Time was my only savior.

I fell in love for the first time at age 20. My heart is full and at any moment could burst from its sometimes sickening, happiness. I want to remember everything for a future that is beginning to feel a lot like my own. Upon discovery of a love that feels right, I am beginning to feel a little bit like that self-assured woman I described above, splotches and all.

rip arachnid friend

And in an instant, with a swift slide of hand, clutching my formerly worn strapped black sandal now housing the juicy remains of a moderately sized spider once crawling freely across my wall, only to be remembered now by the small green stain that appeared as a result of his crushed lifeless body...I sit.

I have to admit. I'm a horrible blogger. It's been 6 months or so since I've 'posted' which I'm SURE, is much to the dismay of the very large following this brilliant blog has inevitably developed.

Though not analytical by nature, I've recently tried to discover what emotion it is that leads me to put my pen to paper, or in this case, hands to keyboard. I find it interesting that after I, perhaps prematurely, force an innocent arachnid to take its last breaths, I'm triggered to write. I have to wonder which specific events give me the desire to outlet my thoughts. After months of tiresome research, I've come to the conclusion that I do not write when I'm happy. It never occurs to me during the times that I am most content to record my innermost victories however simple or complex they may be. Whether it's writing 6 paragraphs about the 3 bags of kettle corn I just ate and the episode of Kathy Griffin that made me piss myself laughing..or the amazing weekend I had wit da peeps, it is only during times of insecurity, moments of complication, and horrifying annoyance that I want to remember every anxiety ridden thought I am thinking.

Alas, since this discovery, I am attempting an experiment. A series of tests, if you will, to determine if I can indeed produce coherent thought in the times of my contentity. (totally made up word) For the record, my current state of existence is not one of perplexion or hatred. I couldn't be more relaxed..lounging in my room listening to the sweet melodic harmonies of Cat Stevens and anticipating greatly the rest of the week

Life is exciting when you have so many non-specific things to look forward to. It's different from events, that build anticipation..but are over..so quickly. Like this spring semester for example, I recognize, completely, how horribly nerdy it makes me to anticipate school beginning again, but I can't help it! I love the blissful, carefree spring, with its lack of commitments and abundance of birthdays and spring breaks..I just can't get enough. Call me a narcissist, but I feel like March is MY month, and its very existence is enough cause for celebration.

So there you have it. I wrote something. Is it coherent? Mildly. Is it interesting and relevant? Not in the slightest. But that's what blogs are for, writing nonsense that no one cares about but yourself. I love it. I bid thee farewell.