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.