sneeze-teased

This might sound weird, but do you ever get sneeze-teased like I do? It's when you feel that tickle or itch that tells you, hey, time to sneeze and get rid of this shit... but the sneeze never happens. You're left with this strange tingling itching sensation in your nose and you know you've already made it apparent you need to sneeze or have a heart attack by making a face similar to this:

Classy, no? How's that for a first photo of me?

And then you become highly embarrassed and try to pretend it never happened but end up wigging out over the strange feeling in your nose.
It's almost like being denied an orgasm or something.
For me this is compounded by the fact that I have extremely loud and violent sneezes. I've had a whole room full of people turn and stare at me as my brains return from feeling like they were shoved into my eyeballs to their proper place. Even stifled, my sneezes try to explode my brains out my ears. Last week I was sneeze-teased all damn day and it drove me insane. Even blowing my nose didn't help.
A friend of mine has it worse though. She sneezes like a cat; short and in rapid succession. And she always sneezes at least three times in a row. Once she sneezed something like 10 times in a row. This is terrifying if you happen to be driving with her, you know, since you can't see shit when you sneeze. The idea of someone having their eyes closed for that long on a curved highway at 65 mph is mildly terrifying.
At least I don't sneeze from parmesan cheese like my Dad does.

The Princess Bride Drinking Game

So I mentioned that we played the The Princess Bride Drinking Game over Thanksgiving break. These are the Rules:
Drink when:
1. Anyone says "True Love."
2. Wesley says "As you wish."
3. Vinzinni says "Inconceivable!"
4. Fezzik rhymes.
5. Inigo says "Hello, my name is Inigio Montoya..."

6. Scene cuts back to the boy and Grandfather.

7. The Six-Fingered Man is mentioned.

8. The Dread Pirate Roberts is mentioned. 

9. Any time Wesley defeats a new foe. (i.e. Inigo, Fezzik, fire swamp things.)

Please do note that I counted the times they say "True love" and it's fifteen. Don't ever play this with liquor, you'll die. Or at least vomit everywhere. 

By the way, this is my favorite movie EVAR. I will watch it anytime, but especially if I'm feeling down. Cheers me right up! 

I also have a couple other games... to Labyrinth and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (the latter you can really only enjoy if you play the game to anyhow - Willie's character is unbearable!) While playing The Temple of Doom one I drunkenly invented a new rule on top of the others called "BEEFCAKE!  HARRISON FORD NOT OLD RULE." which is exactly how I wrote it down. My favorite in the Labyrinth game is one we didn't even realize we were missing until 1/2 way through: drink when you see the owl. You'd be drinking through all the credits at the beginning! We were very glad, sitting there with our wine, that we did not use that rule. There's also an Epic sounding game I haven't convinced anyone to play yet: Lord of the Rings. (weighted for the Fellowship movie.) So many prompts. Would be so good. Especially with extended edition! I generally find that around 7-9 prompts is quite enough for the average movie. Especially for one like Indiana Jones. 

The time Boyfriend's cousin reminded me of Miss Crazy-Pants.

So for Thanksgiving I was invited to go "Up North" with Boyfriend's family. For starters, I thought this meant driving the 3 1/2 to 4 hours to Boyfriend's house, then another 2 or so north. Oh, so, so, wrong. It was another four from Boyfriend's house, not two. So that means around... eight hours of driving in one day. Literally in the car all day. Luckily I was not driving for the second half. I showed up at Boyfriend's house, went pee, loaded up Boyfriend's brother's car, and was on the road again in 15 minutes. Then we began an joke that would run through the whole trip. Boyfriend's parents had been all nerves, apparently. Parents said 1:30, so He'd told me to get there by 1:30, so I planned accordingly. But the parents? "Oh, when is Sam getting here?" and "Have you talked to Sam yet?" and "Where is Sam?" all the way up to the point where I walked in the door at 1:30 on the dot. No shit, on the dot. Boyfriend had responded "I said 1:30 Mom!" Every time they asked. Thus, any quiet moment or to make some silly point during the trip they'd say "When's Sam getting here?" to much giggling.
Anyways. Up North we went. And I mean UP NORTH - it was like we drove into winter. Snow on the ground when back home it had been 60 degrees the day before. Plus another two inches the first night. Oh and there's a Ski place up there called "Nub's Nob" which we couldn't resist for all kinds of jokes. So much fun.Boyfriend's Aunt has a condo up there and a neighbor let "us kids" stay in their rental condo, with the result of much videogaming and imbibing. Much Call of Duty zombie map, Waterfall, movies, Outburst, and Heroes of Might and Magic III. Four days of vacation bliss. Mostly.
The last night we were there, Friday night, it went as normal until 3am when Boyfriend, Cousin 1 and I were playing the drinking game to The Princess Bride. (Rules later.) It was around 3am that Cousin 2 came back from the other condo, drunk as a skunk and loud. Cousin 2 has been to Iraq as a soldier. This has resulted, as can be expected, some crazy-pants trouble, aka PTSD, which is Legit. War, PTSD, makes sense. What didn't make sense was how much he channeled Miss Crazy-Pants. You have to understand that it was 3am, we were all under various influences. This just made me that much more unprepared to deal with the SUDDEN INFLUX OF CRAZY in the condo. Cousin 2 made with the repetitive over-share, telling us exactly why he was so messed up because of a certain horrible thing that happened in the War. Then it was with the questions. That's the most horrible part of Miss Crazy-Pants type of crazy, because no matter what you say, it's not right. You can't dodge, they're insistent. Even when you say exactly what he/she wants to hear, it's not enough. The crazy train keeps rolling. Even if you repeat what they want to hear. I tried to dodge. Mistake! Sitting next to Boyfriend, I ended up cowering against him because Cousin 2 was leaning over me, invading my personal space (which is actually somewhat hard to do) and loudly asking me his questions. Far, far too much for my substance-addled brain and emotions to handle. Cousin 1 got him to back off by distracting him and I fled so fast to Boyfriend's and my room. Then Cousins 1 and 2 (brothers) stayed up until 5am talking, wrestling, boxing? and generally being loud.

So my real question is not wtf is wrong with Cousin 2 - because it's easy to infer PTSD - but more... wtf is wrong with Dad's girlfriend that she acts like someone with PTSD??

Aside from that one night of Mister Crazy-Pants I had a lovely time hanging out with Boyfriend's family and eating delicious food. I'd go back again even risking a little crazy.

The time I lost a bird in my house.

This is said bird.

A few weeks ago my roommate and his fiancée came inside and we're chatting normally, then he asks out of the blue for "a tupperware we don't use anymore" and I am immediately suspicious. I had no idea how right I was to be so. I gave him one we'd lost the lid to and he marched outside for some unknown reason. That reason was to bring a stunned wild bird into the kitchen. 

If that's not a bad idea I don't know what is. 

Since the bird didn't resist him picking it up and generally wasn't moving, we just put a paper plate over it with something heavy on it and let it warm up and gather it's senses. Then Roommate and fiancée go to Kroger for something or other, leaving me with the bird on the counter, blinking at me.

Of course, what do I do? Decide it should have some bread. What should happen when I lift the top? EXPLOSION OF BIRD AT MY FACE. I, of course, screamed and lost sight of the bird after it smacked into the wall and fell somewhere. I spent the next 5-10 minutes looking for the god-damned bird all over my apartment. Even upstairs. Because, you know, birds can fly. No success. Finally I opened the door hoping it would see the light and go for it. I was right. When on my next round of frantic "oh god there is a bird in my house" searching I moved the door, it flapped up again and landed on the screen door. Screaming a little again, I slowly opened the screen door and shoo-ed it out - it promptly flew right across the lawn straight into the neighbor's window and fell into a bush. What the hell. When Roommate and fiancée returned and I told them the story, he said something to the effect of "fuck it, that bird is suicidal. Darwin." 

Psh. And he wouldn't let me bring the poor friendly cute cat in the house but he'll bring in a crazed suicidal bird? Where, I ask you, is the fairness in that?

Why I don't visit my Dad much.

Today was supposed to be a normal day. I visited Dad after visiting a friend of mine but.... Miss Crazy-Pants girlfriend exploded. Completely. I had Dad that page of photos and she just totally lost it. She was drunk at 3:30pm when I got there! She saw the photo page and just BURST into tears, sobbing and weeping, it was absurd. Weird happy-sad crying out of nowhere. It didn’t end there either.... just, oh my god, that visit right there, that bizarre uncontrollable unreasonable crazy, was one of the biggest factors in just needing to move out so desperately. So glad I live in this apartment and not with Miss Crazy-Pants now. Also I left there with a plant. I’m still trying to figure out that part – though I have no recollection of this, the spider plant was apparently once mine? All I know is that I’ve got one now. The other highlight of this visit was just before I left, when she said she had something to ask me before I went. Which was “Do I have your permission?” natural confused question followed: “For what?” Response: “To still be with your Dad, do I have your permission?” .... what. “You don’t need my permission, that’s between the two of you, I don’t have a say in this.” Her: “Yes. Yes.” I mistakenly though she was agreeing for a moment. “Yes I do need it! Do I have your permission?” When she gets like this it’s best to just go with the flow, because any attempts to reason with this weepy insistent beast will simply further enrage the beast. “Okay, yes, if that’s what you need, it’s fine, you can have it.” But somehow this seemed to be the wrong answer also! Tears filled her eyes and indecipherable high-pitched noises emitted from her mouth and – this is the kicker – she wrapped her arms around my neck like a vise and sobbed, literally wetly sobbed into my shoulder. I don’t think I would have been able to pry those skinny little arms from my neck with a crowbar. She did let go finally (Dad is actually sighing and slightly mortified in the background here, saying “She’s determined to annoy me today.) Dad and I chatted a bit more briefly before I left, but oh god did I get the hell out of there fast once I could. 

All of that, plus the cigarette smoke, is the Primary reason I do not visit my Dad as often as I should. 

Green Lantern Cake!

So we tried to surprise our friend for his birthday but then he ruined his own surprise party by inviting people out for drinks. Asshole. Anyways we all hung out and I made him a cake:

In brightest day, in darkest night...

It's a fun-fetti cake-in-a-box under there. It was going to be a Spiderman cake, but then I didn't have any food coloring but I had leftover green... so Green Lantern yaaaaay! He's a comic book fan all around and DC is doing slightly better things these days than Spiderman anyways so.... I made the lines for the symbol with chopsticks and the lid of the icing tub. I felt pretty good about it. 

And then he drunkenly fingered the cake

See the fun-fetti?

And then we call ate cake with spoons stolen from the ice cream place after three people bought milkshakes right before they closed and a good time was had by all.

Observe decimated cake.

And then I ate cake for the rest of the week.
The End. 

Just so anyone can see how horribly tacky my Dad's Crazy-ass girlfriend is, I have photo graphic evidence:

The horrors inflicted upon this poor bookshelf!  

So, yeah, she also has a cow obsession. And is overly patriotic in a bad way. It made me realize that yes, there is indeed a market for all that tacky crap you see in gift shops around the world. It's just one of those things you look at, shudder, and run away from quickly. Clearly the mind that would collect so many cows cannot be sane.
Not pictured: the cow objects in the kitchen, such as the paper-towel holder and Giant 3-foot-tall Cow Centerpiece.

Okay, so, I'm going to grab what I wrote last night for my 100 Words a Day Challenge in an effort to have something up here:

Day 18.

Well I’m mildly irritated with Boyfriend for going out to his friends' house so he could work in the district near there tomorrow and then cancelling it... to get drunk with his friends there. Great choice, dude. Complain some more to me about how you have no money, then tell me you’ve cancelled a day to get drunk, and see how well I react. He’s going to get an earful when I talk to him next. Okay, I’m not going to bitch him out per say, but I am definitely going to point out his inconsistencies, because he definitely points it out to me all the time. That place is terrible for him! I was excited when the “white-house” was falling apart and people were all moving away... but then several of them moved in together again at this place. Dammit. I’m frustrated with the whole situation. I am not feeling very in love at the moment, I am feeling angry. You can’t just fuck your best friend and go back to the way things were. I don’t want you near her, why do you seem to be forgetting this again? And I had a conversation about big scary “The Future” after graduation with that guy one of the grad students told me to talk to and I mentioned the whole situation with Boyfriend... He expressed great surprise that we’ve been together two years and he’s been able to move but hasn’t. I said honestly that I’m done making excuses for him, and if I do continue with school but he doesn’t move down here, then... I don’t know. I don’t want to deal in absolutes today. It’s hard enough letting/convincing myself that yes, I do want to teach high school Latin, just GO FOR IT ALREADY, don’t be afraid to say YES, this is what I want to do! I have to want this, I have to strive for it! It’s time to care about something, it’s time to want something and want it for myself! I have to say Yes, I Will Do This, and then chase it down, figure out how to get there, figure out what more I must do. Time to be BRAVE goddammit and stop with the tearing up, the shaking, the rambling when you’re nervous... it’s gotta go. Pep talk! Rah! Anima mea libera est, nihil potest superare me! Remember, it is etched in your skin forever. If that is not dedication, nothing is. No more saying “I don’t know.” It is time to start knowing; you are beyond a college senior! You know what life can be. Grab it by the balls and say your demands!

By the way I did talk to Boyfriend about my concerns. He explained that in fact he is doing okay for money at the moment. Has his credit card paid off till January, is about to pay a bit on his loans, and "has his head above water" as next week when we're off in the middle of nowhere visiting his family he won't be paying for anything, really. I still think his friends' place is bad for him. 26 years old and still sleeps on somebody's couch occasionally? Yeeeeaaaah. Starting to take issue with that. Still love him though, can't deny it. 

Oh, and I haven't done my homework for today in Latin. Worked last night and didn't go any homework beforehand. Once I got home and tried to look at it, it was all just gibberish, so I gave up and went to bed. Now I'm waiting for coffee to kick in and looking at 9:46 on the clock and thinking about how much I want to lay back down instead of run off to class at 10. Mostly because I have the feeling I'll just be late again. Stupid goddamn buses. I swear I see the one I need pull away just as I hit the parking lot every time. Ugh. I've been late like all this week. Plus I've lost my knee brace somewhere in the apartment. Oh dear. At least I finally found my ticket scrapbook when I was at my mom's last weekend!

Write every day?

Well I refuse to just let this blog die like so many other journals/diaries/sketchbooks. I'm terrible at a constant schedule, but, I'm back and I'm trying. First post for November, eh? Mostly here to tell you this: I'm doing a 100 Words a Day Challenge. But I haven't been writing it here... I've been typing it up neatly in a word document, sitting in the window next to this on my computer, beginning to feel guilty that nothing was here. I think I meant to post pictures of some kinda related to Halloween and my cupcake adventure, because it was a bit dramatic there for a minute, but I failed to find the will to do it. But the Challenge. I don't think I really want to post just a paragraph a day, nor do I want to confuse people (what people? no one reads this, I'm aware.) with my idea brainstorming for a story. Because it won't make sense. I can put some of the other bits up though.
Like the first day:

Begin with an outline. Are you writing a story? How to write an interesting story that hasn’t been done before is a big challenge. So how to break it up into smaller, manageable bits? Write a bit every day. You must choose a theme or a genre to begin with, of course, which is hard, because you don’t know what you want to write. Fantasy or Science Fiction or comic books are what I know, of course, my wonderful dork world is filled with all sorts of them. I love to read, I devour books, I read like my life depends on it. Does it follow, then, that I should be able to write as well? Can I hold that many different things in my mind at once to create a world, can I communicate what I really want, what I see in my head? I can get totally lost in the world of a book to the point of not knowing that someone is speaking to me. I have more bookshelves than other furniture types, or used to for a while anyways.

It's basically my brain vomiting on the page, vaguely sentence-like. 

The second day, a little more interesting:

Many say “write what you know.” Well... I know that’s often meant to be “write from your life in someway.” But what about “write what you know” meaning write like what you read? I’ve got a whole bookshelf dominated by SciFi, fantasy, and comic books. But then the problem is trying to not copy what someone else has done. And also don’t just write a “fanific” because those are often horrible and they won’t get you much of anywhere. It’s hard to create your own world, it is. You can’t force it, it needs to come organically. I know I could be a writer, maybe not for life, but for fun... I’m always composing my thoughts into writable sentences in my head. That has to mean a little bit of something. It’s putting a new twist on something, it’s finding something just different enough that it’s new but not to different that no one will buy it. Mistborn, great series I read recently, created a new world (literally, in part of the story) which had a very different type of “magic.”

This is a problem I've noticed. So many people advise you to "write what you know." I don't think it's necessarily good advice. I mean, if people like Terry Pratchett, one of my favorite SciFi/Fantasy writers, wrote what he knew, we would probably never have any of the Discworld books at all, and that's a great shame. After all, the world really isn't flat, carried on the backs of four elephants, on the back of a turtle, flying through space. It's a little more of the round variety. 

Anyways. I've written at least 100 words already I know, but it doesn't matter. It's the writing every day. Oh also this idea came from A Splintered Mind, his response to NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo. If ya don't know what those are, google em if you really care to know. A good friend of mine has done NaNoWriMo since, oh, high school? She's also graduated from art school and lives in New York with her girlfriend. Overachiever, psh. "graduating." Who needs it? (er, me.) NaNoWriMo has always been intimidating to me, and I don't know if I'd ever be able to handle it - partly because I never remember that it's going to be happening, partly because I can't figure out what the hell to write about. That's another reason I started a blog but I've been floundering. I don't really know what to write about. All the interesting things are taken. And when I write about stuff happening in my life...? Well mostly I get inspired to do that when a) really weird shit happens like the bird in my house last night or b) Shit is bad and depressing and I need an outlet and it's not very funny. I guess it's all in how you read it, but still. Watching me freak out about money, my long-distance boyfriend and graduating I'm sure is only entertaining for so long. 

I feel like I might be running out of steam for this post, and I need to go to class soon. 

I guess in the long run I'm just trying to figure out what I really want from my life, what I want to be doing, where I want to be, who I want to be with... I'm 22, these are the big questions we ask, I know this; it doesn't help me find the answers quicker though. I don't know if I want to teach, or do something in the history field, or go to grad school, or, or, or.... with so many options how do you choose one? Over the past two days I've been toying with the idea of getting my masters or a second Major in Latin. It come to time and money and wanting to be able to move... would I want to go to some other school? Can I afford to? Do I really think I can comprehend that language enough to teach kids the subjunctive, double dative, and past-contrary-to-fact grammar, answering their questions... do I even understand things now, in my Latin class? Yes I understand I have two more quarters to get it, but that's only seven months or so... oh well I guess that is a good amount of time, isn't it? I just don't know. I haven't made any plans to take the GRE ever, so I may have already screwed myself out of the grad school option. I could just stay, I guess, get my masters... I just feel like a medium fish in a gigantic pond the ocean. I guess it is challenging me to be better, to try to stand out a little... I don't know. I just don't know what I want to do. I wish my boyfriend would just be willing to move down here for a little while. Maybe he would see that the city isn't so bad, my state isn't so bad... (at least our roads aren't falling apart as much as his.) And I hate the cold. I don't really want to move more north, where he's wondering why it hasn't snowed yet... early November and he's wondering why it hasn't snowed. Guh. Noooo thank you. I like my happy medium of a little bit of everything weather-wise. 

And now it's time to leave for class so that I am not late. Again. 

Midterms and Halloween!

Okay! I got through midterms. I studied my butt off last weekend! ALL WEEKEND. I didn't go to DnD, I didn't go see Obama on my campus (actually somewhat regret that, but the crowd was around 30,000 so maybe not my cup of tea there) and I sat upstairs while a bunch of people in my living room giggled and guffawed while watching a movie. POWER TO MY BRAIN! Also I am in the process of having coffee this morning so I'm VERY AWAKE. All that remains after two essay tests and a 6 page paper... is waiting for the grades. But I know, know, that the studying I did of those 30 freaking cities in Latin America paid off for that Geography quiz, because I filled it out instantly and had to sit for five minutes with half the class agonized over it some more. Hooray! I feel accomplished! And I still remember all the countries down there. I had to get some mail from my Dad's house and Miss Crazy-Pants freaked out when I listed all the countries to my Dad. She thought I was speaking a foreign language. But...but they're just places! They exist! Cripes. She also is making rather obvious attempts to harass my Dad into marriage. It's terrifying. TERRIFYING. That is one of the last things I would wish on my Dad. She also repeated herself several times about how she'd gone to the doctor for the first time in like 20 years. I shit you not. 20 years. This woman is grossssss.... She's younger than my Dad by almost ten years be she is the one who has dentures. Dentures. In her forties. The level over hygiene this woman has (lacks?) repulses me occasionally. And she is very huggy, and it's always at the opposite point in time that she should... bah. Why did I let this turn into a rant about her? Oh, right, because it's so easy. Seriously I will never run out of fuel for that fire. So crazy.
Anyways.
I am having a Halloween party this Saturday and I'm so excited! I'm going to make pumpkin cupcakes with cream cheese frosting! I shall post pictures! I'm actually going to have a party at my own place with real people and the place will be full and I'm so happy about it! And I am making friends with the people in my Latin class and I think a couple of them are coming to the party, we had lunch yesterday and chatted and did Latin and such. I'm looking forward to seeing the costumes... and my costume is almost done. I'm being a firefly/lighting bug! I've made my antennae and my yellow butt, still need to make the wings-cape. And then I wear black. Simple and cute! And my Bestest friend will help me clean and make decorations on Saturday, and I'll make the cupcakes, far too many of them. This should be an excellent weekend.

Yay Dinner

Last week we had a nice impromptu dinner gathering. My friend Woz walked back to my apartment with me, where we found my Bestest friend still there playing video games on the giant-ass TV. I was contemplating dinner as Bestest and Woz chatted about games which sounds like a foreign language to me. I realized I had an overabundance of eggs from various "I'm making this thing! Oh it needs eggs, I don't have eggs, I'll just grab some eggs here..." which happened for three different things recently and resulted in three different cartons of 6 or less eggs chillin out in the fridge. What the hell to you do with that many eggs when you don't want an omelet? Make quiche, that's what. Having never made a quiche I decided it would just be the newest step in my culinary adventure and I embraced it wholeheartedly. (Granted I haven't made much of anything, so pretty much anything is a culinary adventure, but I like it that way.) Woz and I went to the store while Roomate was on his way home from his real-person job. I got an onion, mushrooms, and swiss cheese. And threw in the rest of the leftover broccoli for some color. Oh and hooray for pre-made pie crust. It doesn't sound like my idea of fun to mess with the lard or shortening necessary for good homemade pie crust. Eugh. I'm such a wimp. Whatever. Quiche takes a while to make, by the way. We were all pretty ravenous by the time it was done... also note that in typical me-fashion I also managed to have too much filling (resulting from too many eggs in the first place goddammit) so I made two quiches. It's just TOO HARD to cook in small portions! It's just impossible to cook for just one person some days. Augh. I eat like crap mostly because of that. Anyways Woz had bought a cake at the store (it was cheap and looked good at the time) so roommate, bestest friend, Woz and I had quiche and cake for dinner. With Virgil's root beer, also provided by Woz. 

I was practicing my cake-writing skills. They have not improved. 

The quiche might look like nothing special in this picture and more like vomit-pie, but I am assured it was quite good. Well until a few days ago when my Roomie and Bestest informed me that the quiche gave them stomachaches. Woz and I escaped this somehow. I don't quite understand. I think they are stomach-wusses, because Roomie takes meds for serious-business heartburn and Bestest gets tummy aches from fake pancake syrup. That, or Woz and I have the Iron Stomach feat, and get +2 to poison resistance. 

Oh, I pull Dungeons and Dragons references to real-life situations all the time, by the way, so if you're not interested in that sort of thing, you should probably not read this here bloggy thing. 

Don't mind me, just a little romantic mood...

All these people getting married around me and all I really want is to be able to hug him.
We've been doing long-distance for 2 years and 3 months so far. We've been to five weddings together and hypothetically have five more to go next year. You can imagine there is a lot of subliminal peer-pressure going on here. Statistics are saying fewer people are getting married; I disagree, I say the marriage age is dropping. People are getting married far younger. Why, that wedding we went to in September? They were both younger than us. And my boyfriend is 26 now.
Today I just really miss him. I finally got this nice double bed right at the end of the summer... when school started up and we had less time, longer times between seeing each other. It was a chilly morning and that just made me wish he was here even more. I wish I could just slip back in bed with him and ignore the world for a few hours. Wake up slow, like we did this summer. Put on some coffee, wander the internet, and laugh at his latest crazy hair morning. But weekends go by so quickly now, especially when I have to work one of the days.
But big changes are coming. I'll be graduating this Spring, just before June. It's going to be the moment of truth. Realizing that I'll be moving again this summer makes me even less likely to put things up in my room... But it's going to be the time were we decide what the hell we're doing. Who is moving out of state? Where are we going to live? Who is going to get the job that determines that? ....will one of us find something in time? My Roommate basically said he wants me out by August so he can "start my transition to married life." Yeah, he's getting married too, great isn't it? Granted he's getting married to my Bestest Friend and we've known they would for years, it's that the timing fits in just the wrong way with everyone else. The "out by August" was a tiny smack in the face making me realize I gotta get my act together. So you're graduating. Now what? History with Latin? What'cha gonna do with that? Well fuck if I know.
I just wish it were simple, sometimes. That I found a guy who lived here. So much less strife. But it wouldn't be Him, it wouldn't be My Guy that I have now. And I love him. So I'm willing to go to hell and back for him. And I'm a stubborn idiot about things and I'm not giving up so easily dammit.

Epiphany

I don't think I can begin to say how much of an Epiphany I've had today, thanks to two bloggers I've stumbled upon.
http://thesplinteredmind.blogspot.com/
and
http://daddyscratches.com
Have just led me to some important moments of self-realization. The latter blogger led me to the former, and his myriad of posts about being an adult with ADD. This was the first I stumbled on:
http://thesplinteredmind.blogspot.com/2007/05/hallowell-and-rateys-diagnostic.html
I fit so many of those things... I've always had problems with procrastination. I never want to get started because I know I won't do it as well as I want, that I'll be bored and hey, well I'll be a monkey's uncle, if those aren't more indicators. Sense of under-achievement regardless of what you've actually accomplished and intolerance of boredom. So much of this speaks to me I can't even express it! And it's all resonating so much today because I took two exams today and just beat myself up about it the whole time and worried and spazzed out. Which is another thing on that list! "Tendency to worry needlessly, endlessly; tendency to scan the horizon looking for something to worry about, alternating with inattention to or disregard for actual dangers." God, that explains so much of my behavior. So many problems I've brought to my relationship with my boyfriend, when he thought I was pulling things out of thin air... maybe I was, or maybe I just looked so hard for problems, so much expected there to be some because I expect myself to screw up (those self-esteem issues, another indicator) that I found some. This can probably explain why I get anxious in an empty house, without people around for too long; not enough stimuli for my brain. I have crippling bouts of self-doubt about nearly everything in my life! No wonder I've struggled in school even though I understand everything perfectly. Between ADD and mild dyslexia and nobody really telling me outright that I have them and not having good ways to cope... it's a wonder I didn't just give up and drop out or something. It makes sense, too, looking at my friend with severe ADD. She keeps herself ridiculously busy, or did while she was in school, and she loved it. The need to always be doing something... my mind is racing on everything I've just read faster than I can put into coherent thoughts. 
And now I've just wandered back to his writing, and found another amazing piece of helpfulness: How to Write Daily. Or close to daily. And that writing in your head thing? That focusing on a turn of phrase? God do I ever do that. Sometimes I interrupt my whole train of thought just to focus on changing the way I just said something to myself in my head, changing the phrase so it sounds better even though nobody but me is going to hear it. 
Ah. I just have to get this out there. I disengaged partway through but here's my truncated thoughts for you. 

Well, there's this thing called Dagorhir...

I wonder how long I will ignore the pain in my knee before I actually bother to call and go to physical therapy...
The pain started about last year in the winter and has really just gotten worse. It's because I play Dagorhir which is a Medieval-style foam sword fighting and combat game. It's like a sport for dorky people and I love it to pieces. (I did meet my boyfriend through it, after all.) Dag (for short) was originally inspired by Lord of the Rings, but it's become its own beast these days, with Romans, Narnians, and Orcs all in the same game. There's also groups all over the country and even in Puerto Rico. (I'm friends with one of them on facebook, and he's always posting about Dag in Spanish which is cool but always throws me off a little bit.) There are other groups that have branched off from Dag as well, like Belegarth (rules-lawyering led to a big fight between the founders and there was a split between the groups over a few choice rules, but plenty of people participate in both.) or Amtguard or... I could go on for a while, there's a lot of groups these days.
But anyways. As a result of trying not to be a wussy girl, I've pretty much always used a sword and shield combo. This means I get my leg "chopped off" on a regular basis and have to take a knee, which is a large amount of repeated impact. This has led to... well, I'm not sure precisely what is wrong but my Doctor originally said it was arthritis. That's right, arthritis at 22! Awesome! I went back to her again recently because the pain has become more frequent and worse, so she wrote me this prescription for physical therapy... but I be poor, and having of very little time, so I have no idea when I'll get around to it.
Man. This post doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of what Dagorhir is or what it means to me. I guess I'll have to talk more about it later, when I'm not trying to study my face off and write a 7 page paper by Tuesday.

Adventure in boxed cake

I decided to make a cake for my boyfriend's birthday last week. I've never made any sort of cake before, and since I was short on time, I figure it would be better to make the boxed type rather than from scratch in case I were to mess it up. So I went and picked out a nice box of chocolate mix and some vanilla icing and some green drawing-icing. And more eggs, because I forgot that we still had two other containers of eggs from previous incidents of "oh this recipe calls for eggs, I don't have those right now." Obviously they made these for stupid people, which is great, since I don't know what I'm doing with cake. Dump all ingredients in bowl, mix. Grease pan, that's probably important, I'll do that too. I hope my oven likes me today, doesn't burn my cake... I've learned now that I set my oven slightly below what it says, and put the timer for possibly even less than the recommended time, and slowly add time on until it's done or it even the littlest burn becomes a screechy-fire-alarm problem. It's interesting cooking here. Stupid electric oven. But the cake came out fine. Granted it looked like a small hill rather than a nice flat sheet cake, but whatever. I waited to ice it, because that's what you do, right? I even waited longer than I really had patience for. Alas, even with my extra patience, I failed at icing it nicely. It just picked up all the crumbs and distributed them even thru the icing, making it look as though there were sprinkles on my cake. Sigh. Then the "happy birthday!" Turns out that's hard too and sorta blobbed at points... it it's the thought that counts when making a surprise cake for someone, so it really doesn't matter, especially since my boyfriend will eat just about anything.
Cake:

I don't know, I think it looks edible at the least. I thought it tasted fine. For boxed cake.

What almost was a very bad idea.

So the second or third day of classes this year I decided I would roller-blade to the bus stop. Seems like a harmless idea. But then, after putting on my blades and wrist-guard-thingies, I stood up shakily and remembered that I hadn't roller-bladed in years. I overcame the small wave of panic and took off. I immediately almost crashed. There are these weird deep footprints in our sidewalk from when some idiot walked across it while it was wet. A few of them have been filled in, but most haven't. Trap #1 narrowly avoided.
I rolled down the little ramp to the street, didn't get run over, and was on my way. The route I take to school is through the apartment complex across the street from me, and they take pains to make sure no one speeds from one end to the next. I.E. speed bumps. (Or speed humps, if that amuses you more.) There are two of them directly in my path... Trap #2 successfully passed by slowing down and bending my knees and squeaking in fear. Then I power through the small hill and into the next parking lot. Trap #3: big puddle. This I had no idea was a trap until after I was through it and nearly did the splits because of my wet skates. Onward down the sidewalk... time to cross another road! But wait... Trap #4! Gravel on both sides of the road! Awkward walking-scuffing-shuffle and I'm still on my feet. Next parking lot. There's a little more gravel, but I'm all pshhh whatevah I got this. Then I nearly fall on my face from a full-stop jerk of my right leg as a twig is caught in the wheels. Nearly. Trap #5 now watched for keenly as there is other random debris on the road/sidewalk. From there it's smooth sailing. I make it to the shuttle bus stop, take off the skates and throw on my flumpy shoes, and head to class.
But in the end it wasn't the small amounts of terror on the way to school that made me not want to skate to school again. (Plus slightly larder amount of terror going down the hill too fast on the way home.)  It was the carrying the bastards around all day on campus after I got there.

Looking back on the decision to skate, it was probably more of a bad idea than I thought. I remember some traumatic events with those very skates...
My best friend from middle school and I both got these new skates, and wanted desperately to go be fools outside. So we suited up - helmets, wrist guards, skates - and went off down the paved bike path. It was going fine for a good while, but she got a good bit ahead of me, so I decided to hurry up. Then I Spectacularly crashed and smeared my flesh on the pavement. A nice long slide. She didn't hear me fall and kept going. I was wearing shorts. NEVER ever EVER do this while skating unless you want hamburger for legs. I immediately started to cry. Some kind passerby stopped and helped me sit on a nearby bench until she came back. She was horrified and helped me skate painfully back home to get cleaned up. And if I hadn't been wearing those wrist guards? Probably would've seen bone on my hands. The gouges in the plastic are pretty deep. I had hardcore roadburn for a couple weeks.
This event probably should have put me off skating forever, but kids bounce back well. Another friend and I decided to skate from my house to her house. Which is over a mile. Plus up and down many hills. It took us twice as long to get to her house as we thought, and her Mother was super pissed. At one point to stop myself I wanted to pull a really cool move like in movies, where people use stop signs to swing around. Well I swung around. And around. And around until I was flat on my butt. Luckily I didn't hurt myself and we giggled insanely about it.
I should probably never try to be athletic in any way. I'm just not cut out for it.

Bad luck with cars.

Well not really bad luck entirely. More like mixed-bag car luck. Because while I've gone through three cars, I haven't been hurt. So that's a plus. Yeah, by the way, three cars, only 22 years old. WTF, you might ask? Well!
My first car I just loved despite the fact that it was a total lemon. It was a used Honda civic, and I think the previous owner just drove the thing into the ground. Part of the driver's seat was ripped, so I used my super-powers (sewing) to lovingly fix my dear car. Pretty much the whole passenger side didn't work right. The window never rolled down the entire time I owned it. Before we had it fixed, when you tried to open the door it would lock, so you had to hold up the lock while opening the door to get out. Oh, and the engine died on me. You think that would be the the end, but no, we replaced it. Should have given up then, but damn did I love having my little red car.
Then one day I was on my way home, paused at a red light, fiddling with my necklace. I had maybe two seconds to look up into my rear view mirror and have the realization "he's not stopping?" Then next 1/2 hour is a bit of a blur. But what I have pieced together is this: drunk-and-medicated-man rear-ended my car into the car in front of me. The airbag went off, punching me in the face. I dazedly manage to turn off the car because the car was filled with smoke. (power from the airbag.) I got out of the car (forgot to put the car in park, but it was so fucked up it wasn't going anywhere on its own anyhow.) Friends of mine coming from the same place stopped to help me out, thank whatever higher power might exist. Mr. Fuck-up was out of his car too, stumbling over, head bleeding, eyes glazed over, to ask if I was okay. I was like, yeah I'm good, but you're bleeding dude. At this point I still hadn't realized I couldn't see because the airbag had punched my prescription sunglasses into oblivion off of my face. It gets fuzzy from there but I remember sitting in the grass by the road for a good while, cops showing up, paramedics showing up, and the failed sobriety test by Mr. fuck-up. Then the tow truck, and going home. Looking at the back end of the car, it seemed like the tailpipe has tried to become a part of the rear axle, and the whole thing tried to be part of the trunk. I would put a picture up from this, but I don't know how to get things from my phone to here yet.
Edit: Hey I learned! Here 'tis: 

  Complete with man-yeti Dad!
Then I acquired my next car from the insurance money. Nice little silver Kia, very cute, no immediate problems. I had it for about a year before the breaks sort of failed on me on the way to school. On the highway. And then I drove home again. On the highway. Because I'm a safety-minded person like that, I guess. Then in the winter, while I was a commuter student, my car decided it didn't want to let me in. I tried everything. Hairdryer on the door, lighter on the key, defrosting stuff on the lock, even body-slammed the door. It remained resolutely frozen shut. I went back inside and emailed my Latin teacher "Um. Frozen out of my car. can't make it to class. Can I meet with you tomorrow to go over the homework?" That happened maybe three times or something.
Then one night, sounds asleep, I am woken up by knocking on the door. It's 4am. Who the hell is knocking on the door? I go cautiously into the living room, and see the reflections of red and blue cop's lights. Oh god, I think to myself. Some shit has gone down and now the cops are here. What in the hell is going on? So I woke up my Dad. Then we answered the door, it was of course a cop. "Is this your car out here?" I hurry outside and look to where my car should be, to the right of the driveway, and slowly pan left, so where my car actually is, on the left side of the driveway. From that angle I don't see why it's over there. Then I run out barefoot, in Winter, to my poor car, and see its right driver's side mangled beyond belief. There's a giant spring just sitting on the ground, glass everywhere, and half of the other guy's bumper. Unfortunately, not with his license plate. We figure a drunk driver came along and smashed into my car, freaked out, perhaps because he didn't have insurance, and drove off. How you would be able to drive away after hitting a car so hard it moves 35 feet I don't know, but the asshole managed it. Needless to say my poor little car was toast. But the good news? I wasn't hurt this time either. Mostly because I was asleep in bed. One of the funny parts about this was that the old license plates from the Honda were on the Kia too. The back plate of the Honda was the front plate of the Kia... I declared that plate CURSED and got brand new plates for the next one. But as you'll see... it's not the plates, it's me.

 See the giant spring on the ground to the left of the tire?

Then came my third car. Light blue Saturn L300. Sunroof, 6-disk CD player, seat warmers (required when you have leather seats), the works man. But of course... I get a hold of it... the engine overheated on a trip out of state one day. In winter. It overheated in winter. So I'm stuck in a random-ass tiny town, get towed to a little bigger college town, and have no idea what to do. Eventually I realized I had a friend who went to the college, so I called 'em up and crashed there for the night, missing two shifts at work, which sucked. But the car recovers and I get to go home. Then there was the problem with the brights not staying off, then there was the problem with the breaks, and then there was the problem with the hole in the oil pan.... and then finally on the way home, again, the car broke down for the final time, and so close to the border of my state too. Well I still had three hours left to drive but at least I was almost in my own state. This time the timing belt broke.

Notice all the terrible little red and yellow lights? That means bad news, folks. 

Which meant death for the engine, because the pistons hit the valves and there was no compression and it was just came over, son. There was no way for me to afford a new engine this time, let alone a new car, being a poor college student, not a privileged high-school senior. So I scrapped my car for $100. Pathetic. Still bitter about that. The new oil pan on its own cost $600, not counting the labor they charged to put it in...
And now? Well for some reason, despite my poor track record, my wonderful, amazing, generous Mother is loaning me her car for the year, while she drives my Grandpa's truck. Dear god you have no idea how paranoid I am about this car. My road rage has increased to record levels and I have nightmares about hurting Mom's car. Literal nightmares. I've only had it about a month and already something... oil leak. Granted it was the fault of the oil-change place for not screwing in the oil filter properly, but really? I think it's my Anti-Technology Field. Just glad that nothing bad actually happened this time.
And that whole mess, my fine friends, is why I should never, ever, be allowed to own a car.

Why working at an ice cream store is not as fun as it might sound.

This might be more of a rant than a story. I have a crap little minimum wage job at this particular ice cream place. I don't want to mention the name in case there is the possibility of getting in trouble with the Big Bosses. The ice cream itself is delicious and I've loved it for years, but working there isn't so much about the "eat ice cream for free on the job" and more about "corporate says we need to do this." Recently we have promoted a couple movies. Forced to hand out little activity booklets, put a poster up in the store, etc. The first one made sense, because there were little cat and dog picks to put on kids' ice cream. Okay, fun, yay! But the second movie was about owls. No owl-themed things for the ice cream, just extra b.s. they make us hand out and point out. When did we start caring about things not-ice cream or candy related? It just makes no sense and every time I just want to go "New job!"
However that's not as bad as my coworkers and boss. My manager still, after many months, has not gotten the hang of scheduling. When classes started this fall, he scheduled me 1pm-7pm, when I had given him my class schedule which said I wasn't even out until 3:18pm. But I didn't get as much of a raw deal as my coworker did. He scheduled her the exact opposite of the days she requested off for highschool sports. Bravo, dude, bravo. Plus my boss is just generally a huge spaz as a person, so giving him high levels of pressure and responsibility is just not a good idea to me. He really only got the job because he'd been there for seven years or something. He needs to get out of the place... almost all the workers at the store are 16-18 year-old high-schoolers. I got asked to help at a different store once. I answer the phone: "Hello?"
"Hi, I want to leave a message for (name)?"
"Um this is she speaking."
"Oh, sorry, I thought you were a high-schooler and I would be talking to your parents."
Mentally I'm just screaming "NEW JOB! I'm 22! Need new job!" but I ended up working over there. Never again will I help close somebody else's store. The people were bizarre and the store was just totally backwards from mine and all the people were the rich type that live in that area who buy expensive things but won't tip you for shit.
Plus my pants don't fit so well any more after a whole summer of working there. I have developed a booty and still don't know what to do with it. I keep knocking things off of shelves and tables with my ass because I'm not aware of how big it is. This wouldn't be such a bad thing if I wasn't kinda too poor to buy new pants. Goodwill time I guess?
I am tired of smelling bad from this stupid job... mop water and old ice cream and bleach and whatever else... But I'm sure I'd hate working at the grocery store across from my house more.

Pie is superior to cake.

So I made a pie on Monday. And by that I mean two pies, because I didn't know that one can of Libby's pumpkin makes two pies. Sheer luck that I got two pie shells at the grocery store beforehand rather than just one. I'm going to put this out there: I was terrified of making pie. Our oven at this apartment tends to burn/crisp up  unwatched things and set off the shrieking fire alarm so I have to hold the big box fan at it until it shuts up. Plus I've never made a pie before, ever, not even watched someone make a pie. Please understand my fears here, as the most ambitious thing I've made in the dessert world before was cookies. It's not that I don't think it'll be fine really, it's just that I create these horrible pie-death-house-fire situations in my head that I get a little worked up about sometimes.
Surprisingly? Pie is not that hard. I mean. I haven't tried making it from pumpkin that I cooked myself yet, and I didn't make my own crust, and... oh. Well those are the hard parts, basically, so I just took the easy way out and ended up with perfectly passable pie. I only had small problems. I ended up with just a little too much of the actual filling and had nothing to do with it (aka didn't know what to do with it) and dumped it sadly down the drain. Then as my first pie was baking, a third of the edge crust fell off and took some filling with it. I narrowly avoided alarm-sounding burning and scraped it off the pan I had smartly placed under the pie tin. (I get to pat myself on the back for that one. Yay common sense baking!) Then I wasn't exactly sure what a pie should look like when it's done, so I poked it half a million times with a knife. It ended up like this:

 But then I kind of knew what I was doing and my second pie came out like this:

Second pie much prettier. Who to give the pretty pie to?! WHAT DO I DO WITH AN EXTRA PIE? Good problem to have, but a problem nonetheless. I thought, I shall give it to my best friend's family! They have done so much for me, and they would like a pie! I shall surprise them with my pie skills! (cough cough) I was very joyful.
And then her mother made pumpkin pie on Tuesday.
I have eaten far more pie and ice cream in the past three days than I ever have at a single Thanksgiving.

Why Dad Really needs a new girlfriend. Or just not this one.

Today I went over to my Dad's house and had an actually normal interaction with my Dad's girlfriend. Some people might ask why that would be noteworthy. And my response is that she is a little bit less than a whole lot of crazy.
For starters. The way my Dad and Miss Crazy-pants met is bizarre and creepy. She dialed the wrong phone number, switching the last two numbers, and instead of calling her nephew ended up with my Dad. It's a little unclear to me what happened next, but suddenly they're talking all the time over the phone and my Dad is the happiest he's seemed since the divorce. I think she may have said once that "he has a really sexy voice." Not something you want to tell the daughter of your boyfriend. Ever. The mental images that arise unbidden in my mind, as I curse my vivid imagination, are horrifying and filled with droopy over-tanned flesh and grey furriness. Because my Dad looks like bigfoot and she's a over-tanned tiny person akin to a bag of bones. With dentures. Because she's "from the South Side, honey, we didn't have it like that." which apparently means they didn't have dental hygiene on the south side of the city. Who knew?
Next thing I know Dad is upset and mopey. Turns out, they were going to meet at a hotel and Miss Crazy-pants chickened out and wouldn't let my Dad into the room. So she calls to apologize and he's all upset and I ended up with the phone somehow, demanding "What are you doing to my Dad?" My interference patches up their "relationship" and smooths over the incident. How my Dad didn't see the "WARNING: CRAZY" signs all over this I don't know. Lonely people do such strange things. They resume regular conversations, and eventually (obviously) did meet up and hang out and had a good time.
Fast forward to the part where she moves in to our tiny 2-bedroom Duplex two years ago.
This, for me, is when the shit started to hit the fan. Then I see just how much they drink and smoke cigarettes (part of the reason Mom eventually left him) and enable each other. Miss Crazy-pants thinks Dad has the hots for the neighbor, brings it up in conversation, and makes it extremely uncomfortable for everyone. The neighbor stops visiting. Then there was the short phase she thought that the neighbor was my Mother.
Miss Crazy-pants has a tendency to repeat herself, and harp on one thing that bothered her at work for the 5-7 hours she and Dad are awake at home together. Or repeat the same phrases on a regular basis, such as "I'm not Miss-Suzy home-maker" in reference to not running the vacuum for three weeks. Or the "I love your Dad, you know that? Are you okay with me being here?" And she asks those sorts of questions when there are as many people around as possible, so it's impossible to say "Uh, not really" without making a huge scene which no one wants but holy shit do I wish I had done earlier. (Because by the time I did make a big scene it was already way, way too late.)
There was this one horrible, cruel, mean, and only funny to people-not-me joke that Dad and Crazy-pants played on me and her son (1 year younger than me.) They gathered us together, sat us down, and said "We have an announcement to make." Oh god. They're getting married. No. They smile gleefully. "...What is it?" we ask. "I'm pregnant!" she bursts out. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, NO! I deadpan. He son isn't having any of it. "No way." says he. She takes a sip of her beer. "Are you serious?" I ask. "Because if you're serious give me that beer right now." they continue the charade, giggling. I grab her beer and take a huge swig, which increases the giggles. "No way mom. You had your tubes tied, you can't get pregnant." You little... I left the room. Thank all that is holy she had just an ounce of enough sense to get that done after her son was born. She actually panicked and apologized and made me tell her it was all okay and forced a hug on me. See that's another thing about her. She invades your personal space like no other I  have ever met.
So last year Dad decided that they should buy a house. Not get married, thank god, but buy a house.  I was still living with them at this point. I think this may have been the point of no return. This is where the true crazy came out. The Story of The Salt Shaker.
It had gotten to the point where I hid out in my room constantly when at home. (I made efforts to be at home as little as possible.) I needed to do my laundry, so in order to achieve optimal contact-avoidance I took my laptop into the basement with me. Yay wifi. My laundry is trundling happily away as I browse the net when I hear from the kitchen above me: "You think you're funny? You think you're fuckin funny?!" I assume Dad said something stupid again to upset her. (It's easy.) I ignore this until Dad comes down into the basement to ask me "Did you open the top of the salt shaker all the way?"
You can probably guess my reaction.
"...what?" he repeats. "....um. No.... why?"
"She went to put salt on her pizza" (who the hell does that anyway?) "and it dumped out a whole bunch. She thought I was playing a joke on her."
"okay...."
"so you didn't do that on purpose." has her insanity infected his brain too?
"Nope."
And that should have been the end of that.
But when I went up to my room later for something I had forgotten to put in the laundry, I met her accidentally in the hallway. "Did you open the salt shaker all the way??"
"Um, no, why would I do that?"
:I don't know, (my name), why would you? Do you not want me here? Do you want me to leave?" um. jumping leaping over buildings in a single bound to conclusions much? 
"What? No. Why would I do that? That makes no sense."
"I hope not (my name), I hope not. I love your Dad." at which point she went in the bedroom and slammed the door, leaving me in a completely bewildered state, and not for the first time. She pulled a similar stunt over the location of the potholders when I said it made no sense to have them completely across the kitchen from the oven. Himalayas out of molehills?
And those are some of the reasons that Dad Needs a New Girlfriend. There are more, but I think that should be enough evidence for now. The December Fight is its own chronicle related to why I needed to get the fuck out of my Dad's house.

And now I remember why I am a cat person.

I don't like being licked, snuffled, drooled on, peed on, jumped on, or humped. I don't think I'll ever really be a dog person. But today I tried. I went over to my buddies' place to play DnD today. (Dungeons and Dragons, for those unschooled in such  dork knowledge.) Upon arrival I was given my usual greeting "Come on in!" from the upstairs window and excited wiggling from the small dog Allie-may. So I decided, for whatever stupid reason, that I would embrace the excitement of the dog. I set my things down, wiggled my butt and went "AlliemayAlliemayAlliemayAlliemay! PuppyPuppyPuppy!" with a stupid grin on my face, leaning over to pet her. She proceeded to wiggle-wag her way over, crouch on my foot, and release her happiness at my arrival right there on my foot. Immediate and complete reversal to sad day face. I loudly proclaimed my unhappiness and the dog scampered off. My friend came downstairs, joined my sad party, and put the dog out. Then he gave me a clean sock and we adjourned to the living room to play DnD.
Allie-may and I did make up later, and she sat nice and calm on my lap. I thought, "this is nice. sitting on my lap and letting me pet her, not licking me or anything." Just like a cat. So as my best friend has said before: "You only like dogs when they're like cats!" It is true.

Sometimes I am a pushover

My Saturday started off just marvelously by waking up at usual weekday time, because I had an Eye Doc appointment. The Doc was nice, the grad student was nice, and my pupils didn't have to be dilated to the size of quarters or anything. But them came the "HERE, come buy a backup pair of glasses because you Need them!" and before I knew it I was handing over my card for 105 dollars of  new, completely unneeded glasses. Unneeded, because my prescription had not changed since I was there last.... two years ago. I swear I handed the card to her without even hearing the words she actually said. Only on the walk to the car did the sense of impending financial doom hit me. Nice pit-of-stomach feelings. I drove over to CVS, in need of laundry soap, and didn't even walk in, so shaken up was I by this. Instead I went to the bank to deposit my paycheck, already financially freaked, to find I managed to overdraw my account by $5 or so. Luckily I was putting in money so there was no overdraft fee, but I had some more serious fuel to the Panic-Fire. So this time when I got back to the car... "WAHHH MOMMY!" I cried to her on the phone for a bit, fully realizing panic-mode, and figured out what to do. I went back and canceled the idiotic glasses order, got comfort Chinese food from my favorite place, bought my laundry soap at Kroger, went to my best friend's house, and stress-ate my heart out. She even gave me chocolate. Much love. Then I shoved my laundry in her washer and tried to do homework but only succeeded in discovering that my Cities of the World Geography textbook is full of percentages and very little else. I nearly fell asleep also, but She yelled at me, since She is very tired of her house being the Place of Naps and Sleep. We all tell her it's because it's simply too comfortable, warm, and dimly-lit, but she still gets in a tizzy if someone is nearly falling asleep.
Then I went to work at my lovely (see: sarcasm) minimum-wage Ice Cream job from 4pm-midnight. It leads me to hate people very much some days; mostly I hate the middle and high school crowds, unannounced sudden sports teams groups, and small screaming children and their terrible parents. Yes, it's great that I can eat ice cream whenever I damn well please, however, my pants no longer fit because my ass has gotten too big. I forgot my shoes at home so I had to grab random smelly-athletes-foot-icecream-crusted shoes to put on. My feet inform me that my memory needs to improve when it comes to the shoe-related sector.
But now I am home, with clean sheets on the bed, roommate snoring gently from the next room, and two shots in my happy tummy for sleepy-time.

Naming Difficulties

Yeah, two posts in one day, don't get used to it. I figured I should explain why I chose the name that I chose for this blog. Well first it's damn hard to choose the name of something when you have no idea what you're writing. Second, it's that I have this view of myself as being "in the middle." No, not the Jimmy Eat World song. Being in transition, being part of the in-between times. Whenever you think of a certain generation or a certain decade there are fads and trends and the counter-culture as well. I've always felt I'm somewhere in between generations that are more defined. Being born in 1988, I figure it must be somewhat accurate, since it puts me on the cusp of one generation. Even in school, a simple thing as what grade I was in; a guy born a day before me was put a grade below me. It's not a feeling left out sort of thing anymore, but more of a create my own niche that I can be happy in. I'm not a Bro or Sorority type, but neither am I a hipster. (My city has a rather bad hipster infestation. My good friend is one. I love her to death, but she's a fucking hipster. Also. Check out latfh.com if you don't get it.) I guess I could be part of the nerd/geek revival, but competing to see who has the biggest nerd-knowledge-cock gets old. Just not as quickly as listening to my Engineer friends chat about science-nonsense. (I am a History major with a Latin minor. Math is my Achilles heel. No really. I have dyslexia pretty much only with numbers at this point.) But, um, back to the point, while I somewhat remember what it was. It remember when the internet didn't matter. Now it's everywhere. I am part of the generation that has to learn what to do with all this new crap. We don't know the etiquette for the internet and social interaction. The Undiscovered Country.
And of course at this point in the night a lot of my pre-thought out stuff is lost to me out of exhaustion. I'll probably edit this sometime in the future, figure out what I was really trying to say.

Obligatory Introductory Post

Starting a blog is intimidating. You know your first words need to be enticing, grab the reader and pull them in. And because of that I know I'm just going to fail terribly at this. I know I won't be interesting for quite a while. But whatever, this is mine now, so I can say whatever I like, and you can read it or not.
So. First off. Be prepared for rambling that strays from the original point and may never find it again.
I am 22, in my 5th year at college, living in my own place. Dear god do I love living in my own place. I do have a roommate, but we're basically on opposite work schedules so we really don't see each other, so I can walk around naked almost whenever I want. My mom says I'm a secret nudist. I don't think it's really a secret to my friends at this point, but I'm really only a nudist in the summer. The Midwest is far too cold for casual nudity in the Winter and Fall. Spring is okay-ish.
My parents are divorced, have been since 2007, right after my freshman year in college. Whether this was good timing or bad timing, I'm still undecided. Mostly because my life went a little insane right at the same time. My parents are pretty good parents, all things considered. Since I'm an only child I did get a spoiled, but I didn't take it overboard and become a huge brat. I didn't go wild with the freedom they gave (i.e. no real curfew) because I cared too much about Marching Band in high school. Plus I was a huge wuss and totally afraid of most adults. My Dad kind of freaked out about the divorce though, and it terribly bitter about the whole thing and especially bitter in regards to my Mom. Who I happen to look nearly identical to from her college days, which is when they met. This has led to some unfortunate incidents with my Dad, which is one reason that Dear God I Love My Place. My Mom on the other side, was my best friend, until she semi-abandoned me by moving to Arizona. It was traumatic at the time and some of my friends' mothers still resent my mom for it, but my mom has since moved much closer (only one state away now.) She's taking care of her dad, who is 92 and still kickin' it pretty good. He's a great snarky old guy with hilarious stories. You know how old folks can get.
An important point I should make is that I have a bizarre mixed-bag of luck with cars. I'll tell you the full stories later, but I'm on my fourth car. Which isn't even really mine, it's my mom's car. I got my first car when I was 16 or so. I swear. I have an anti-technology field that surrounds me. You want technology to break in new and different ways? Send it over to me!
One more thing I'm sure to write some tales about. My Dad's girlfriend is crazy. Yes, this is an overused and misunderstood word. But she seriously needs some psychological help. Wait until I tell you how she freaked out over a salt shaker once.