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.