Dream Interpretation

I dreamed I went to school with Mr. Feeny. Yes, Mr. Feeny, the teacher from Boy Meets World.

Let's start from where I remember: for some reason I'm married, and I'm cleaning the house. It's a nice house, at least two stories, very spacious. All it has in it is the hand-me-down stuff I currently own and tons of my stuff shoved against the walls in piles, but I'm trying to clean those up before Mr. Feeny arrives.

When he shows up, I've done a decent job and I'm dressed nicely, except for the towel I've still got my freshly-washed hair wrapped up in. Don't ask how I managed to get dressed without noticing that. So we get ready to go to school together, which we've apparently done before, and we're all buddy-buddy as we walk out the back door.

Instead of a lawn, however, there's a busy street and a train going past where my house just was. There's also a guy chasing a fluffy white dog along next to the tracks, and I'm worried one of them is going to get run over. Then the dog changes into a little blonde girl, and so now he's chasing his daughter next to the tracks, and I'm even more worried. I want nothing to do with this. Then the little girl turns into a preteen boy who is walking along the edge of the street instead of using the sidewalk. That's a little less terrifying.

Anyway, Mr. Feeny is trying to hail a police officer. If we can get a ride to school from the police, he saves gas and time because he doesn't have to find a place to park. After a few minutes of this, I point out that it could take a while to do so, and that my car is parked along the edge of the street. I tell him I'll drop him off and he can run to class, and then if he'll just let my tardy slide... An attack of conscience quickly follows that request. How can I ask him not to count me tardy when I would be? In real life I'd have been all about getting that free tardy, but in the dream it offended my moral sensibilities. Go figure.

No clue what else would have happened there, since my alarm woke me up, but I did have another dream as well. I had waken up and was visiting family in a nearby town, keeping in mind at the time that my daughter was at school for the day instead of home sick like she has (in real life) been for the past couple days. I run some errands, and just when something incredibly important comes up, I realize that, as it's the last day before the holiday break, her school gets out at 1:30. (This is actually true. I often have dreams set in the day that will come when I wake up. I guess it lends more realism to the misery about to follow).

I panic. I tell my dad that no, I can't help my sister, I have to go now because my daughter has just gotten off school and the bus will be bringing her home in an hour. It's an hour's drive. I take off, and through traffic and road construction I make my way home, long after the bus should have shown up. I imagine that she's gone home and panicked because no one's there to let her in and the police have been called and I'll end up in prison for leaving a child at home alone. Then I realize that I didn't send her to school at all, and that she was asleep when I left. This gets me out of prison, but how much of a panic must she be to have waken up alone? She must be starving from not having been fed! In what horrible state will I find her?

The answer: Sitting on the couch reading a comic book. (She's been doing this a lot lately.) She's fine, though she wondered where I was, and she's hungry. Could I make her a bagel? I do so, in echoes of this morning, when she came in the living room, sat down with a comic book, and asked for a bagel. That dream is going to torment me all day.

So apparently I want to send her to school instead of staying home again for illness, and I'm feeling guilty about not going to school myself. And I want Mr. Feeny to come bully me into shape or something. I don't know, I totally made that up.

Exempt From Reading: A Ranting Post

If I could do so and live, I would tear my brain out right now and stick it in a jar on a shelf somewhere for a while so I could have some peace and quiet. My lizard light isn't pulling its weight, and I'm wary of sitting under 100% power for a full hour, but it looks like that's what I'll have to do in order to stay awake. Still, my brain won't shut off. I could easily fall asleep on the hand-me-down futon three feet away, with no pillow and only a throw blanket to keep warm, but I'm so tense right now that I could scream.

So one time, at the cheese factory, I don't know what the hell the people in the other room were thinking, but they came in with a giant piece of scrap cardboard on which someone had drawn a cartoonish picture of a person mooning the viewer. After telling them they were crazy to spend their work time on such a project, I pointed out that there was way too much butt showing to not add a tattoo. "Do Not Enter" was my contribution.

Back on topic, now that I've calmed some. I'm sleepy most of the time, no matter how much or how little sleep I get. That, in addition to unemployment stress, makes it difficult to hold a solid train of thought, which makes it difficult to keep myself on-track and searching for a job. I got stumped on a cover letter and did nothing for about three days trying to convince myself that I was, somehow, still a competent human being.

Perfectionism can be crippling.

"If you got a B and you were capable of getting an A, you might as well have failed," my mom told me, and though I logically know it isn't true, I still fight it. I couldn't think of anything genius to write in that cover letter, and the immediate first thought, after a few false starts, was that if I set it aside, I'd be able to do it later, when my brain wasn't mush. But my brain continued to be mush, and when I reasoned that a decent cover letter (as opposed to an epic one) was better than not applying for the job, that voice in the back of my head told me that it would be a waste of time and effort, both for myself and the hiring manager, if I sent in a cover letter that just got me tossed in the trash anyway.

Yeah, seriously. I see where the problem in that logic is, but I also see the somewhat twisted point. So, you're the psychologist, here. What the hell am I not paying you for? I need answers, dammit! Solve my problems for me while I'm over on the futon, all right?

Before I go, however, I'll give you an update on last time. I managed the Facebook message and did my best with probing questions, and an attempt at friendship was agreed upon. I was not offered the Trans-Siberian Orchestra on a platter this time, but this weekend we'll be watching a Harry Potter movie or two. From the futon. Which is calling me.

ZZZ Z Z Z zzz z z z ... . . .

The "F" Word

No, the other "F" word. The one that people don't like to hear from the subject of their romantic interest. Yes, that one. But let's go on.

The movie was great. I wasn't expecting the Harry/Hermione topless makeout scene, no matter that I'd been warned, then smirked at (a sign that H~ was serious and looking forward to being proven right). They did a good job of condensing a 500-page camping trip into something epic. You're not here for a movie review, though.

My date didn't look directly at me the entire night. I'm not unfortunate-looking and had been complimented via text-message on my Facebook picture, so I know it wasn't because my face was offensive. I looked pretty damned good, actually. I can understand not being as talkative in person as you are in text, considering I'm the same way, but you know the silence has gone on too long when your date turns on the car stereo.

Not to say we didn't manage to talk. At one point I was retelling the glory of Prom Night in Hollywood and Other Interesting Tales, and we compared the kind of history you learn in the Midwest versus the kind you learn in Southern California, but conversation aside, no sparks. Not one. Even if my date had nice teeth there would have been no sparks.

I'm grateful to the friend who tried to set us up. Texting was genius and I could see hanging out with this person again. No romance though, and that's why I haven't accepted a second offer to go see the Effing Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I am not shitting you, if you'll pardon the language. This person offered to buy me an inexpensive tv because mine is in storage, mentioned us stargazing at their place with their telescope, subscribed to my effing YouTube (which they'd have had to find first), and commented on three of my pictures.

Quoth a friend: That's what happens when you talk to computer savvy people.

The consensus is that searching someone is normal. However, most of us keep our searches secret. We go look at our blind date's photos, or maybe we even Google their screen name, and if we're a little crazy watch the videos they made five years ago, but for God's sake, don't leave messages on everything until you've known them at least a week. This person has now added me on Facebook, YouTube, AIM, and YIM, commented on the only three photos that don't actually have people in them, subscribed to my videos, and told me via text what they thought about these things they found. Add to that the fact that I get texted from noon until probably five, then again from about seven until I say I have to go to bed, and I'm feeling smothered. From someone I've seen in person once, known less than a week, and haven't ever made eye contact with.

So I've been looking for gentle ways to let this person down. We got along, but I'm not interested in romance. From them. The Almighty Internet says that we haven't known each other so long that an e-mail is a crappy way to send a tasteful note, but how can I do that when I just keep getting texted? I'd say stalker potential, but I'm counting on the fact that we live a good hour and a half drive apart to discourage that.

If it wasn't a mutual friend who'd set us up, this would be easy. I'd just send a text that they're great, but I'm not interested, and it would be done. I don't want to hurt my friend, though. She hand-picked someone, knowing how long it's been since I dated, and said, Here, I give you this, my friend, who I, your friend, find worthy for your attentions. She couldn't have predicted all this.

I usually make a huge deal out of things, but this is justified, right? Even after just one date?

Nervescitement

I am near puking with nerves/excitement, which I will hereafter refer to as nervescitement. (I totally made that word up, it doesn't exist on Google. Seriously.)

I am not antisocial so much as asocial. I'm pretty withdrawn, and I rarely seek company, which is a cycle that feeds upon itself. People know this about me, and so they don't invite me to things. I don't get invited to things, so I miss out on the social opportunity and continue to be unsure of myself in company, or at least I feel that way. Apparently I'm perfectly normal, despite the tension constantly coursing through my body.

But let's skip the potential diversion into Freud's theories and my childhood.

I don't date, which is mostly situational. Family still occasionally tell me they know someone, and I roll my eyes and they say that I should meet this person, then never mention it again or tell me later that it wouldn't have worked anyway. I'm talking extended family though, not the sibling and cousin who still occasionally threaten to buy me an hour's "entertainment" from someone of questionable moral character. I know, I could've said hooker, but I am completely in love with metaphors.

So when a friend texted me that they knew someone, I rolled my eyes. I was given basic information that this mystery person likes Harry Potter, classic rock, and the movie Labyrinth, and I gave the typical mhm, yeah, whatever type of response. I was told to look this person up on Facebook. Yeah, sure. I was told to text this person and then given a number.

Hold the phone, there. Text?

Texting is not intimidating. It's something I do regularly, and it gives me time to proofread before speaking and, if necessary, to censor myself. When you're face-to-face with a stranger and you're supposed to be making small-talk, when they give you a two-word answer, you can't go do something else for five minutes, then scroll through previous conversation for something amusing to refer back to. Or, at least, I can't.

I'm a master at dropping conversation when it's with someone I don't know well. Then, once I open up, I give mini-speeches like these. My sister rolls her eyes at my stories, as though she doesn't tell them, too. My friends, who I eventually realize have gone mostly silent, with the occasional witty comment, apparently enjoy the show. "It's cute."

But back on topic. Since texting doesn't intimidate me, I did it. I texted and was witty and charming and all the things I am online, with the buffer of the computer screen and the time to phrase things perfectly. The moment things began to slow, I said I had to go, leaving before the conversation went stale.

So after two days of this, I've been text-asked to go see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows this weekend. My mental conversation with myself went something like this:

me1: You don't know this person and you're going somewhere with them?!
me2: Yeah, that's what dates are for. DUH. You'll be perfectly safe.
me1: Unless they're a serial killer!
me2: They mod a Christian website, and a sweet, personable friend referred you. They've been screened.
me1: Meh. But what if I make a total nerd of myself?
me2: They like Potter, Star Wars, Star Trek, and Lord of the Rings. I think you're safe.
me1: Omg, they're a nerd. I'm so out of their league.
me2: You have recently decided that cosplay looks like fun, you hypocrite.
me1: Touché. But what if I get shy and come across as a snob, which you know happens a lot.
me2: Deathly Hallows.
me1: But...
me2: Deathly. Hallows.
me1: *can think of no further arguments*

So I'm going out. On a date. With someone I don't know. I won't tell you how long it's been since I went on anything remotely like a date (aside from the time I was tricked into a date, but that's another story). We may put away childish things, but the second someone from the opposite sex is involved, it's high school all over again.

OMG I AM GOING ON A DATE. WTF AM I THINKING? Do I need to clean my apartment? How long should I hide all of this from my family/daughter? What if I fall back into serial monogamy? (Which, for me, was insta-attachment, two years, then BAM!Over. Twice.) OMG I HAVE A FRIGGIN TWIN BED. Which is the most ridiculous thought of all, considering my personality, my values, this person's values as a good Christian, and that we haven't even met yet.

me1: OMG! I don't even go to church! I'm practically a heathen! I'm not worthy!
me2: Calm the hell down! Not all Christians think everyone but them is a godless sinner!
me1: But what if they expect me to go to Church?!
me2: OMG SHUT UP!!!
me1: *whimper*

So, making a mountain out of a molehill, but it's an adventure, right? :p

I am Not Dead; A Lizard Light Tale.

Despite what you may be thinking due to my mysterious and somewhat lengthy absence, I am Not Dead. I am, in fact, alive, though not with a Capital A, only with a lowercase a. I'm sure I've said something about not doing well with Midwestern winters, and though it's still technically NOT winter, as far as I know, it is only a technicality.

I've been using my lizard light to trick myself into feeling like it's daytime (and am sitting under its blue LED glare at this very moment), then going to take a nap. On Friday night I stayed up until 2 a.m. out of sheer stubbornness, then slept until 3 p.m. on Saturday. And this is after using my light regularly. This does not bode well for the coming months.

I would really love to move. I have my sights set on Southern California, where I grew up. "Winter" was a cool, wet season. The plants got droopy and a little sparse, there was the occasional three-day torrential downpour, and coat meant the same thing as jacket because, face it, your typical everyday Southern Californian doesn't need a real coat. Thirty-two degrees is freezing. Literally! Zero degrees is something which simply does not occur.

There is, however, little chance that I can leave the state. My child has another parent, and long story short, that other parent will not allow me to move. Again, very long story.

So one time, at the cheese factory, they wouldn't let me wear a ring because it was a hazard to have jewelery above the waist, but the palm-sized stuffed turtle I had clipped to my belt loop was fine. Go figure.

To the Batmobed!

I know, I haven't written in forever. You forgive me, right? I had a minor stress attack and abandoned everything to rebuild my sims bigger and better, denied myself naps, and used my lizard light. (Victory there, at least.) So my mind is working again, and at 2 a.m. I should be in bed fast asleep.

Why the hell am I up?

Easy answer: I remembered that I'm a kickass graphic designer, when I get into the zone. Which was about three and a half hours ago. BUT in those three and a half hours, I followed a poorly-written but well-executed tutorial and made myself a crystal ball.

I hate watermarks, so I didn't make one. I just outright messed it up, and it was fun so I'm happy. Besides, who knows when an image that says "Sucks to Be You" could come in handy?

But I digress. I played on Photoshop for three and a half hours and had to show off, and now I'm actually going to sleep. For a few hours. We'll see if I let myself nap again in the morning.

Diabetes and Bread

Do you ever consider eating something weird just because you're too lazy to prepare real food? No? Weirdo. ;) Kidding, I love you, you know that, right? Anyway, I was very lazy that day, and I had just read this awesome post. I had a moment's reflexive butter and honey sandwich? That's weird. before realizing that I like my bagels with butter and honey. In fact, I wanted a butter and honey bagel right now.

Unfortunately I was out of bagels, so I had to use regular bread. The thought of having buttered bread without it being toasted didn't appeal to me, and since half my stuff is in a storage unit, I don't have a toaster right now. I know I can put the bread in the oven to toast it, but that takes time and I was hungry. I didn't want to wait for toast. Plus, the idea of getting a butter knife, crossing the kitchen, opening the fridge, hunting down the butter, opening the container, then spreading on just the right amount before having to put everything away again just sounded like too much work.

Being a creative soul, when I opened the cupboard to get out the honey, the sight of the chocolate syrup sparked unnatural thoughts in my mind. What if, I asked myself, I put chocolate syrup on the bread with the honey?! The idea was both tantalizing and frightening. Who would do that to himself? Honey is awesome, chocolate syrup is awesome, but it doesn't go on bread! I didn't have anything else to put the chocolate on, so I figured I'd walk on the wild side and see what happened. If you never branch out you never truly live, right?

It was a party in my mouth. It was delicious, the zingy sweetness of the honey combining with the mellow flavor of the chocolate and sinking just so into the bread. It was victory, and it was happiness filtered into its purest form and transfigured into food.

It can't be good for me. It's got to be a one-way ticket to diabetes, and so I've only had a couple of these masterpieces since the first one. But it was soooo good, and I'd never have discovered it if I hadn't been lazy, hungry, and out of bagels.

My friends think it's weird, but these things get discovered somehow. The first time I dunked a fry in my vanilla shake was a series of events. The restaurant was out of chocolate shakes, my fries were too hot, and I was very, very hungry. I always eat the fries first because I'm not crazy about cold fries, but I can eat a cold hamburger and be okay. I suggested it to gross my sister out, and when she dared me to do it, I did. It was awesome.

Mock me if you must, as you eat your eggs with ketchup or your chili with beans. Weirdo.

If it's too loud, you're too old.

The neighbors below me have knocking issues, but at least those are during the day. I can't really fault the neighbors next to me for getting up and showering for their day(night) around the time I'm going to bed, but there's something not quite right about the people behind me and their nighttime parties.

It's almost 1 a.m. and they got started maybe half an hour ago. I should have been in bed already, but there was epic shit happening on the internet and I got distracted.

I've tried to wait it out before, but about 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning I usually give up. They have music blasting, people walking around outside who usually end up yelling at each other, and all I can think is, at the other university housing place, Public Safety would have shut them down by now. There are quiet hours, and there are quiet hours in the dorms, too.

*looks up at the title of this post*

Yeah, yeah, I'm too old, what of it? This is family housing, which means that there are adult college students here, at least several of which have kids in second grade and younger. Do they sleep? Do they study? Are there quiet hours here, or am I saving $200/semester to stay up two hours later at night? Admittedly, there's a lot less house to clean when you're in an apartment this small, so it's not all bad.

ZZZzzz... *snorts self awake and looks bleary-eyed around the page*

My bedroom is closer to the noise... I'm putting it off... I'm thinking about napping again. Naps are very nice. I have things to do, though. I need to get my portfolio online so I can get a job, since pursuing a Masters in Marketing isn't working out. Not that I'm lazy or I'm not smart enough, but Marketing isn't my thing. I thought I could force it since my school doesn't offer the degree I want (in fact, no school in the state does), but no. Cannot take my art degree and add math. Accounting has pwned me twice now.

I was going to write about awkward one-armed hugs and the possibility that a friend outed my online persona to my family, but I think I'll go attempt sleep instead. I'll turn on my waves-noise-thing-app especially loud and retire to my imaginary beach house. Maybe my friends are still having a bonfire celebration on my private beach, and I retired with a certain musician, worn out from the festivities.

I got the idea from my uncle, and yes, I know I'm rambling when I should have just stopped. He's one of those lucky few who falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow, because "I'm in my hot tub." The app that makes the waves-noises is better than a little hot tub. I have the Pacific Ocean, baby. I've had trouble falling asleep since I was a kid, and since I started the white noise and hanging out by the beach every night, I've been out in less than half an hour. BOO. YAH.

Goodnight.

I hate the way I love you II

I have been fighting The Sims for days, uninstalling, deleting mods and caches, losing families and abandoning experiments to do so, and I let it drag me away from job hunting long enough to obsess over something else for a while. Just now, I moved the Fire Department in Bridgeport, and the game works. If I may, let me repeat myself:

I can pretend I feel accomplished now.

Update: Never mind that feeling of accomplishment. It was a cruel joke and the game isn't working again.

Update: It's working. Please refer to above image.

Job Hunting

Okay, so maybe I'm not hunting for a job, per se. I am hunting for a Career, with a big C. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts, and despite the insistence of one friend that I should try McDonald's, I have not done so. Not for pride, though I have plenty of that, but because the last time I applied to a McDonald's, I was overqualified. In fact, I couldn't find a job anywhere because I was overqualified and undereducated, and that's part of why I went to college. Just a theory here, but I bet the addition of a degree didn't solve the overqualified issue in the fast food arena.

Apply for management, you say.

Been there, done that. Arby's took one look at my B.F.A. in Graphic Design and asked why in hell I wanted to be their manager. I smoothly replied that I'd like to work as a freelance Graphic Designer, not full time, because Graphic Designers are known to burn out. I took their million-page Are you management material? quiz, and they hired someone else. In fact, I took the same kind of quiz for Wal-Mart. It told me I passed, but of the three times I've applied there, it's never panned out. So I'm not unemployed because I'm picky or a snob, in case you were wondering.

I've asked people I know if they know anyone, and only one person excitedly said yes. They then sent me a link via Facebook to Monster.com and said cheerfully that they'd gotten their job through Monster, and they'd even had moving expenses paid for. Sounds pretty sweet, right? They get a brownie point for trying. I've been a member of Monster.com for many, many moons. Never gotten so much as a nibble.

I've been scouring job boards. Koda and Talent Zoo most recently, but jobs in the Graphic Design field want 3-5 years of experience (or, in one case, 35 years of experience. Whether that was a typo or not, I didn't qualify). There are internships, but most are unpaid and are looking for undergrads, which I'm not.

This is totally a bitching post, you know that, right?

Meh, yeah, I know. Sorry about that, it's just dominating everything else in my mind. I need to get my online portfolio set up, but it's so overwhelming that I can't seem to get started. That's the problem with being a perfectionist. I have a strong sense of If you can't be the best, then you may as well be the worst that I'm constantly fighting.

So hopefully this will end well for me. I've got about a month to find a "job" and a place to live, and find some way to pay off the hundreds of dollars I owe the utilities that make them refuse to turn on utilities for me at all until I've fully paid. The university is paying for my gas, water, and electricity right now, and since only water comes with the place, they're pretty butthurt that I never put the others in my name. Hopefully they can just take it out of my financial aid, and not turn the utilities off.

So this one time, at the cheese factory, we made balloons out of the latex-free gloves and played ball with them because the production line was stopped. Working the night shift has its perks. And now you can go away happy.

I hate the way I love you

I couldn't think of anything to write, so I went to play Sims. Unfortunately, something about installing the latest expansion/buggy patch botched everything up, and no amount of removing mods (or the latest expansion) could make the game work. Long story short...

I feel a lot better now, despite the fact that it's taking hours to reinstall the game from online. I don't really wish death on EA games or any of their employees, but that sure got out some of my aggravation.

The pieces of the above are not mine, I only put them together. This is my disclaimer. Painting by Delacroix. Gun from "Jailbird's Romance," ACG Comics' My Romantic Adventures, 1954. EA Games logo and Sims Plumbob are owned by their owners, who are not me. Just know, EA Games, that to inspire so much anger,you must first have inspired love. Or something.

The Nap-Wagon

You may have noticed that I didn't post anything yesterday. Or maybe not, because you're probably not even reading this (though you may be reading it, I can't count that out entirely). My sad excuse is that I fell off the nap-wagon.

This happens a lot during the fall and winter months. Midwestern winters do not agree with me, and no matter what I do, I spend at least part of each day struggling to stay awake. I have what I affectionately call my lizard light, which duplicates sunlight and keeps me from sleeping all day, but try as it might, there's only so much it can do. I want to nap.

Yesterday, after getting my morning routine out of the way, I was near quivering with excitement over the idea of taking a nap. I had only gotten six hours of sleep, so I could justify it! I came home and shuffled back into my pajamas, then snuggled down under a pile of blankets and fell blissfully asleep.

This wouldn't be a problem for most people. You're out for what, an hour or two? Then you wake up, refreshed (hopefully) and pleased with yourself for the novel idea of daytime sleeping. While everyone else was at work, slaving away, or maybe drowsing over their keyboards, you were in bed, or maybe on the couch or in your favorite recliner, refilling your energy bar enough to make the rest of the day a breeze. (If you think you saw a Sims reference there, you did. Sorry 'bout that.)

Napping isn't that easy for me. Or, rather, it's too easy. I can get my usual seven hours sleep, and since I do best on nine, talk myself into just a short nap to make up the other two. I set an alarm because even in moments of faux-optimism I don't trust myself, I wonder if the meager light filtering through the shades will keep me awake, then I go unconscious for hours. Three hours, five hours, and I end up waking some time in the early afternoon, vaguely aware of having surfaced enough to turn my alarm off.

Mmmm, naps.

This is not good for the functionality of my day. By the time it's two or three o'clock, I wonder if I'll have time to do any of the things I need to do. If I shower before I get dressed (which I should), my lazy side says that I won't have time to drive across town and get groceries before I need to be home again to wait for the school bus. I certainly won't have time to go downtown and see if I qualify for housing assistance so that when I get kicked out of grad school I have someplace to live. I'd have time to start laundry, but meh, carrying it all the way downstairs and to the community building next door is such a chore.

Naps are a duplicitous friend. On one hand, it's bliss sleeping, no matter how many nights in a row I do so. On the other hand, I find that I've just spent twelve of my twenty-four hours asleep. I should just accept the seven (or four-and-a-half) hours I get at night after talking to my friends, checking Facebook, and making sure my future-rockstar Sim gets in a relationship with the girl I made him. I was aware of the time, no matter how much I might claim otherwise. I glance at the clock at least every hour and a half, and I can't pretend I lost track of four hours, because I'll never believe myself.

I promise myself that I'll use my lizard light as soon as I wake up from the nap I intend to take. I'll sit under its angry glare for three quarters of an hour, and if I do so every day for a couple of weeks, I might be able to wean myself off morning naps and start feeling sleepy at night again. It's a vicious cycle, but one I'm determined to conquer.

Pavlov's Beotch

Remember how I needed to take out the trash Friday? Well, I didn't. I had better things to do, like Google what would happen if I left a Facebook group and make a girlfriend for my future-rockstar Sim. Those things may not seem vitally important to you, but if you could see how ugly the female Sims walking around Riverside were, you'd know it was a necessity.

Just now, a friend asked me if not liking the song Freebird made her unamerican. Of course not, I said, then went to look the song up to see whether I liked it or not and thereby not be a liar or anything. Actually, I do like it. It made me think of my dad and Sunday mornings, when my parents would put on their records, turn the stereo system up to EARBLEED, and we'd clean the house.

I fought it for about as long as it took to get through the first line, and by for I must be traveling on, I was excusing myself. The house is now trash-free, though the recycling still waits. Maybe later I'll throw on Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band or Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and get that taken care of. There was a lot of Pink Floyd, Prince, and U2, but I listen to those enough that I guess I've killed the conditional reflex.

Dear Downstairs Neighbors,

When someone leaves your apartment, intending to be back soon, please anticipate the fact that they will indeed be back soon. Do not go take a massive dump or whatever it is that makes it impossible for you to answer their summons. Do not ignore them or sit on the couch debating whether they'll give up and wander off or flatten themselves and slip under the door, thereby saving you the effort of motion. I never hear you yelling, Just a minute! I'm coming! or Go away! I'm taking a massive dump! though I can certainly hear you say hello when the door eventually does open, which seems to imply that you just aren't coming.

This happens several times per day, and sometimes at night. It is disturbing, and though I will admit that my stress level is already at an unhealthy high, I anticipate that most people would find the sudden pounding and yelling to be let in at least marginally unpleasant. If you have hearing problems, please locate a hearing aid or provide your house-mates (and perhaps your child) with a key. You may check out additional keys for the semester at the Student Housing Office.

Thank you for your consideration. God Bless,

Your Quiet Upstairs Neighbor.

Dear Guests/House-Mates of Downstairs Neighbors,

You have an impressive sense of rhythm. The funky beat of palm (or fist) against door has been enough to make me dance in my seat a couple times. In fact, now and then I think about trying to learn it so I can duplicate it. However, I would like to make one small request. Please hear me out, and know that I respect you as an amateur musician.

Although the beat is, as previously stated, funky and impressive, it loses its impact after five straight minutes, and with the knowledge that you are not practicing for anything. I have discovered this is simply your way of knocking on the door loudly and for an annoying amount of time to alert whoever is inside to your presence, and to the fact that you would also like to be inside.

If it isn't too much trouble, would you pass this information on to your friend who yells instead of knocking? That would be greatly appreciated.

With much hope for an easier entry,

Someone who never forgets a key when someone's actually inside.

Facebook's new groups are not my friends.

Anyone who's found themselves a member of a group they want nothing to do with gets where I'm coming from. That's right, if you missed the memo, any of your friends can add you to any group they're in, as easily as tagging you in a photo. And if you happen to have a few hundred friends because someone talked you into playing an app that you can not win at without at least 70 bazillion clan/order/neighbor/herd members, it could end in hilarity. FB's own founder was a member of a pedophile group for a while because someone added him. Google it.

But I'm not here to repeat what everyone else has written on their blogs. (Please ignore the fact that I just did. Thank you!) I'm here to entertain myself by writing. Wait. I mean, I'm here to talk about how weird it can be leaving a group you were added to. And if I entertain myself, even better.

I was added to "destroy those who threaten ur kids and pray on single moms" today. Talk about awkward. I have lots of respect for single moms. Tons, in fact. The subject is very close to me, and you guys who know me personally can feel free to have a smirk right now. Because you also know how much bad grammar, chatspeak, and misspelling kill me. I was an English major for a while because I knew I'd be good at it. It's ingrained in the very fiber of my being.

Thus began the mental war. Do I stay in the group because it's about protecting single moms and their kids? Do I leave because it uses the questionable word ur and the word pray instead of prey? If I leave the group, what will happen? Will it show up as a post in the group?

Lyric Frey has left the group. Lyric does not support this cause. In fact, Lyric wants to threaten ur kids and be very, very mean to ur single moms. Lyric is not in ur group supportin' ur cause.

No, actually, it didn't post that. It just took my name out of the "so-and-so invited these two people and 43 more" post. So I'm safe. Except I just totally posted it all here.

I'm so sorry I left your group over something as trivial as spelling and grammar! Still be my friend! We have a bunch in common and play some app together, which is why I added you! OMG I FEEL LIKE SUCH A TOOL!

I went through this the other day when a friend tagged me in some year-old Facebook photos. They weren't great pictures, but they weren't horrible. Still, they're a year old and I knew they existed. I chose not to tag myself because my name was written in the description. I spent two Facebook-days glancing at the announcement that I'd been tagged and debating un-tagging myself to get it out of my way. Then I left it. I figured it had been there two days, so whatever.

I'll try to write something that's actually interesting next time. Facebook so doesn't count as a worthy topic, no matter how much time I won't confess to spending on it every day clicking things and staring at the magic glowing computer screen. Soooo hypnotic...

P.S. I see the glaring grammar mistakes I've made, but fixing them ruins the casual tone of the post. I am such a hypocrite! Forgive meeeee!

Rusty Joints and the Hoop Ride

Remember that awesome power-walk I took yesterday while writing a kick-ass blog post? Well, I am now paying for my exuberance. It feels like all the joints in my lower body have had knives stuck in them, but not regular knives, no. Rusty knives, which then put rust in between my joints, and rather than breaking my bones apart or tearing out the cartilage, only deposited so much rust that I can't move without maximum effort. But instead of just creaking and moving slowly, there's pain, because face it, our bodies are not meant to be full of rust.

I have things I'm supposed to be doing. The trash needs to go out, and the recycling too, but I live on the second floor, and that means stairs. It took me long enough to get from bed to my computer that I'm thinking maybe the trash can wait just one more day, despite what the empty cereal boxes on the counter are telling me.

I'm also supposed to drive someone somewhere in my ghetto-mobile, but that's not looking like a good idea. The sky is looming in its ominousness (and yes, that's totally a word, though I rather like ominosity, myself). Aside from questionable windshield wipers, my left headlight is a traffic violation waiting to happen. The shield "fell off" at some point between my car getting fixed and a cousin bringing it to me, and now the entire thing falls out at random and dangles from the then-empty hole like some monster's eyeball in a bad horror flick. I really don't want to drive it on the highway for two hours.

Yesterday I had no choice but to go out as the sun was setting, and there were cops everywhere. Public Safety drove through the parking lot as I was getting ready to drive off, and I sat in my car looking at the time and just waiting for him to leave and knowing I needed to leave, but unsure if he'd turn on his lights and stop me from doing so if I pulled up behind him, or maybe he was sitting at the driveway not turning because he was watching me.

Eventually he turned, so I left as well, and on the way home, during a ten-minute drive, I saw something near ten police cars. Maybe it was closer to five, but ten sounds better. I'd have been in trouble, but they were all already pulled over, police out and standing talking to people. One place had two or three police cars all at once, lights blaring. And yes, I know, blaring is sound and glaring is vision, but when you're as paranoid as I am, the lights are indeed blaring.

I like the police. I like that they keep us safe, and that they put our safety over their own sometimes. They rock. But I have eight dollars in the bank keeping my account open, and adding a ticket to the rest of my unpaid bills wouldn't help my sanity level. I am so stressed that arguments over nonsense get my heart skipping irregularly and little sparks in front of my eyes from dizziness.

I do not know who created this Stress Reduction Kit, but I love it. I recommend not using it while it's pulled up on your computer screen, as the screen may become damaged. Also, I take no responsibility for any damages to anyone or their property or brain cells for actually using it. If anyone knows who created this particular kit, please let me know so I can give proper credit.

So there may not be much of a moral to this post, aside from stress being unavoidable and somewhat funny to talk about later. I'm going to make a phone call to get out of that drive, though. I know, driving is easier than walking, but I doubt sitting in a car for two hours (minus a two-minute stop) will do anything for my rusty joints. Maybe I should see my doctor about a tetanus shot.

Dreamsight is 20/20

I wrote something yesterday morning intending it to be worthy of my first blog, but in hindsight, it makes no sense. Therein lies the problem with writing down a dream. When I woke up, it was so profound that my entire life was about to change simply from the memory of it! I was going to become a better person, start building toward my waking dreams, to fulfill my full potential at last. I just needed to write it down so I could call upon my muse when I was fully awake! What follows is the masterpiece I wrote, copied for your enlightenment and the betterment of our world!

I would like to say that I had the most bizarre dream ever last night, but that would be a lie. (The one with the giant chicken was pretty damned weird.) No, it was like most of my dreams, in that it felt like it could totally happen. Sort of.

I was living with my family again, dragged back to high school. We resided in a massive house that never actually existed, and couldn't exist because it was stuck together like The Burrow from Harry Potter. There were walls missing in some places, stairs that went through walls and outside to go up to the next floor, a swimming pool in the middle, and who knows what else. It was awesome, really. If I had that house, I'd give tours for five dollars a person, and it'd be a bargain.

*house*

I was rich; very, very rich. So rich that my daughter went to private school and I had private jets and helicopters and several bedrooms. Yes, somehow high school was mashed together with the present, but I never question these things.

One dark and stormy night (why not?), two people tried to break into my house and steal it. I'm pretty sure they actually attempted to steal the entire house, and parts of it broke during the ensuing battle. I, being the epitome of wisdom, kindness, and patience that I am, realized somehow that they weren't actually after my house or my money. They were only poor and down on their luck, and desperate for salvation.

*angel*

Of course I immediately offered the lady thief's daughter a place at the private school and bought her her own house. She sobbed and thanked me, and all I could think was that I felt a lot better, considering my fabulous life was a sham. My house was missing walls and had a parking garage on the second floor, for chrissake! Not to mention my grandparents had just died and I had no clue where my family had gone off to. Thank goodness my daughter was in school and oblivious.

Anyway, I decided to invite my friends over. All of them, for an epic party. My dad was around again, and I was back in high school. But after the attempted burglary, at least the house had been repaired and was a proper mansion. I'd hate to have friends over to a messy house.

The first person to arrive was someone from halfway across the country. I seriously hadn't expected her because we've never met face to face, but there she was with a backpack, ready to go. I think her mom drove her. I was still recovering from the shock when another friend in that same part of the country showed up. Screw being shocked at this point. I was ready to have fun!

*party*

The possibilities were endless. We could mock the fact that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and just sit around talking and watching movies, or we could go out and make a public nuisance of ourselves, which I'd never bother doing alone. We could all go on a pilgrimage to Disney World, or fly off to some exotic locale, or my alarm could go off just when someone else was arriving.

*kill snooze*

NINE MORE MINUTES! I only had to fall asleep for nine more minutes to see who else would show up!

*desperate attempt*

Being as excited as I was, there was no falling asleep and I cursed myself for not having gone to bed half an hour sooner so the dream could have finished! But no! Then I'd have missed the friend I talked to before bed and it might never have happened! All I could do was treasure what I had, like a child who lost all but one marble down the grate.

*marbles in grate*

*save one*

*cuddle*

*stare*

*closeup, with dreamhouse*

Looking over it now, I don't think this is going to alter my life, though I do like the addition of directions. I think those were meant to become pictures. *shrug* I can pick through it all to find bits of truth, like the deep-seated fear of losing my home, and my wish for the means to help others the way I've been helped, but the dream is missing one important point; how the hell do I get there?


Update: I lost my marbles. Of all the metaphors I could have chosen... Seriously, how did I not notice that?

The Key Debacle

Part I

I have locked myself out of the house. You'll find once you've known me a while that things like this happen with striking regularity. I am Sod's Law embodied, absent-minded enough to miss things like the keys I keep by the door (so I can't forget them), yet focused enough to write a blog on my phone while walking to the student housing office and stopping, as appropriate, at all street corners and crosswalks to check for traffic.

Why not go find your RA? you may ask, since you apparently live somewhere on campus?

Ah, I reply. I don't live ON campus, not in a dorm, anyway. I live in school-owned apartments for non-traditional students. But we'll deal with that another time. Point is, no RA.

There's a Student Apartment Manager, but as I write, it's 8 a.m. and I'm not sure which apartment they live in. I suppose I could walk door-to-door, knocking and asking like I did during the summer, but somehow I doubt people will be very friendly and eager to help if I wake them from a sound sleep. I should probably have the S.A.M.'s number in my phone, but I don't, because I'm just that good.

I've done this before. The response is, Come to Student Housing and get a spare key. So I'm walking and I'm almost there, and at this point not only am I getting my month's worth of exercise, but I'm also determined to find a bloody place to hide my spare key outside, since the tape thing didn't work. Let me digress a moment.

I locked myself out of this very same apartment on Labor Day. This means that very few people were home as I walked through the stifling heat in sweats, a New Kids on the Block t-shirt, and flip-flops. I didn't find the S.A.M., but I did find someone who'd been a locksmith at some point, and after he failed to get my door open (the locks are sturdy here, nice to know, and cannot be fooled by credit cards), he called Public Safety for me.

Immediately upon getting into my house, I drank a ton of water. Then I got my spare key, went outside, and taped it somewhere so this would never happen again. Well, I live in the Midwest and tape doesn't like humidity. They key fell, and there was literally nowhere else I could hide it. My porch is slats of wood, so hiding it under a doormat (besides being the first place I'd look if I were going to burgle myself) would be a surefire way to lose the key entirely. And I'm not tall enough to reach the top of the door frame, so no putting it there. My spare key, therefore, might as well not have existed, and so I was fated to repeat history.

Part II

Did I mention that, aside from jeans and a winter coat (it's 52°F, but you know how it feels colder when you're sleepy), I'm wearing a fuzzy purple pajama top? Yep, fuzzy, purple, and very obviously pajamas. For those of you who haven't tried this, power-walking plus hardcore-new-plushie-flannel plus a coat equals sweat. 

It's a college campus at 8 a.m., everyone's in their pj's, take off your coat, you moron!

No.

I'm vain enough that bedhead is plenty. I can pretend that I have a really awesome, enviable mane of flowing locks, but the moment the coat comes off, I'd look like I was taking a Walk of Shame. I'd rather boil, because I hear enough about my imaginary sex life/preferences without adding fuel to the fire. I can see it now;

Oh my gooooosh, I haven't seen you in forever! What were you doing walking across campus half-dressed? *wink wink, nudge nudge*

See, I forgot my key in the...

Hahaha, riiiiiight.

No, seriously, I...

Mhm, just keep saying that.

Okay, fine, I was at some barely-18's dorm room, shagging them silly all night, and I sneaked out at dawn to creep home.

*eye roll* No, you weren't. And no, you didn't.

Uh-huh, and it was awesome because I'm an effing God in bed.

Nuh-uhhh.

Yeah-huh, and you wouldn't know anyway.

So why were you really walking around?

Grrrr! By the way, I have these imaginary conversations all the time, and no, it's not schizophrenic, though that's been suggested to me as well. Healthy imagination is a completely different animal. Apparently I have the most perfect reactions to being teased though, and it's soooo much fun. No matter how much I expect it, or how much I'm aware of it happening, I almost always take the bait. There are, of course, the odd occasions when I fight back.

So, since you're not gettin' any, me and your cousin thought we'd get you a gigolo for your birthday.

I'm saving myself for H~ (an out-of-state friend). We're in love, and you can't break us up.

*pauses, eying me like I just grew a second head, then turns to someone else for new convo*

Honestly, if you can't take it, don't dish it out, and yes, I see the irony in that. Hush, you.

Part III

I made it home and got into the apartment without a problem. I've been talking about making a blog for a while, and I guess I finally wrote something that entertained me enough to want to share it. Now I should be job-searching. While spell-checking the horror that was me typing all this on my phone as I walked, I got a phone call from the school reminding me that I owe them my soul, and they want it in monetary form now. I'm tired of school, but that's a story for another post.

I promise I'll figure out the formatting at some point so you can read these things, and here's to hoping your morning was better than mine, or at least that my adventure gave you a moment of schadenfreude. ;)