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. ;)