Miss Management?

I organized all of my bathroom stuff (toiletries, drugs, make-up) and cleaned the sink. It turns out the sink fixtures are a golden brassy color. Never would have guessed under all that rust and tarnish and weird layer of what I'm guessing was Comet residue. My building manager is supposed to show up tomorrow morning to finish the shit that didn't get finished before I moved into the apartment. I have a list, numbered more or less in order of personal priority. It's amazing how good I am at micro-organizing and managing certain things, considering it's after midnight and I haven't come close to finishing things that are due and past-due for school tomorrow.

Taming of the Shrew*

My mom was trying to park her car while my dad and I gave nagging unhelpful advice.
"You know," she said, "I'm actually a good driver, and it gets harder to park the more you say things, because it makes me anxious and unsure of myself."
"Amazing how that applies to so much of life!" I said.
She was also bitching a lot because we had brunch with her oldest brother and he still acts like her oldest brother and she doesn't feel respected as competent. Again I used the opportunity to point out how no matter how grown up and competent she is, he will still view her as his little sister, just like they (my parents) still view me as their baby and treat me as incompetent, and that it is very hard for the person who is trying to prove herself a grown-up.
I very much hope these things sunk in, since frequently it takes a person experiencing something themselves to understand the plight of others, provided they are capable of internalizing the connection. At least I have ammunition next time she starts treating me like a naughty child.


*Not that I'm calling my mother a shrew...

unstalkable

I get annoyed when I want to stalk someone online and they are not easy to find. How am I supposed to know Cute Boy from my wellness class's life story without talking to him? Yeesh.

Worth It

I just took my dog on a walk down the two block stretch of beach at the end of my street. I now do this several times a day, except the occasional instance when there are already a few leashless dogs down there playing. The sun is shining and the water is rippling just enough to make it sparkle. There wasn't a single other being out. My dog sniffed things and jogged around me and at a perfect 70 degrees out I decided to stick my feet into the water, just because I could.

I'm a bit behind on my school work, thanks to the move and my migraines. I'm trying to catch up, and I will catch up, but right now I'm having a bit of trouble finishing things and prioritizing. Poop.

Then Hot Dog Sam called. I'm glad she exists. After all, how crazy can I be if there's another person who thinks and feels the same things I think and feel? We're a two person support group.

I am completely out of my old apartment! Yay! Dropped off the keys and everything. Now to begin the terrifying process of turning my piles of shit into a neat, orderly home to which I can unashamedly invite people.

Word of the week: snarky. Snark snark snark.

PLEASE ADVISE!

So I'm exhausted and my old apartment isn't actually empty yet but it's ever so close and NBF is my moving hero and I'm back at my new apartment for a few hours of rest and homework and general putzing around before I go back and hypothetically finish emptying so I can have the cleaning service come in and clean the hell out of the place tomorrow and return my key and never think about it again.

In my general putzing, I started poking around The Onion Personals again and there's a person I may actually want to contact but as I tried to write an email I realized I have no idea what to say or how to say it. He is clearly very sarcastic and I want to show that I'm sarcastic without scaring him off. I guess the question is: how do I make myself sound interesting and show my personality without scaring boys away? Is it possible? How much do I have to temper my snarkiness? Help!

must...finish...moving

Head exploded. Help.

Long day. Lots to do for school and some of it I just have no idea what I'm doing (particularly coming up with the muscle and joint actions for a personal exercise plan for my wellness class and writing a review of something for my freelance class but having no time or energy to find something to review). I don't get to rest this weekend because I have to finish moving and write a ton of shit for my prose forms class. But after that things should start falling into place, settling down in my new apartment so I have the time and energy to complete my otherwise reasonable workload.
It is a beautiful apartment. Walking the dog tonight along the beach under the full moon was lovely. Totally worth the one hour each way commute three days a week. Now if I only knew where my other notebook went...

cutting remarks

While packing up on Sunday, my mother found a package of razor blades. She asked me why I had them in her subtly accusing tone.
“You mean the ones for my matt knife?” I asked.
“I guess.”
“They’re for my matt knife. I use it for crafting, when I make cards and stuff.” Pause for effect. “And for cutting myself.”
Sometimes, I just have to fuck with her, and I made it immediately clear I was indeed fucking with her. I don’t cut myself. In fact, I can’t even listen to other people talk about cutting skin, for self-mutilation, surgery, or by accident. But my mom has absolutely no faith in my overall sanity or ability to function, and any time I give her even the slightest hint that I’m not 100%, she takes the chinks in my armor as proof of my inability. For a long time I thought all this was in my head. My mother still insists it’s all in my head, yet it’s swelling up now to conveniently coincide with her newly empty nest. I’m pretty sure the last time it was this bad was when my sister went off to college. But obviously, it’s me. God I wish she liked pets. She needs a pet. Or my sister. My sister is much better at handling my mom’s invasive need to be needed.

Now my mom informs me she is coming out here once a week to help me organize for at least the next few months. This strikes me as an absolutely terrible idea. Having someone help me=good idea. Having my mother help me=bad idea. But she wouldn't hear it and told me point blank to just accept it and say "thank you." How many weeks before we kill eachother?

Too bad I also have a shitton to do for school right now. Watch me wriggle.

Welcome to the Nuthouse

I am about to spend my first night in my new apartment. It is awesome, which is all that's kept me all day from killing something. I am a total pig and I do not know how to organize or maintain order. When my mom saw just how bad my old apartment had gotten, she decided that there is no way a person could live how I was living without it being a sign of a deeper problem and that I need to go into therapy about my messiness as a sign of self-hate or something. But my cousin was there helping and was wonderful, both in getting shit from point A to point B and in maintaining a basic level of sanity. NBF came later to help get things from the U-Haul into the new place, and he was one part brawn, three parts security blanket. Once the U-Haul was empty, we all (two parents, NBF, cousin, Me) went out for Thai, and as NBF poked me repeatedly with a satay stick, my parents quietly freaked out and threatened his life if he physically abused me. WHAT? Yes, my parents are crazy. Either that or all of my more playful friendships are abusive and I should have been locked up in a padded cell years ago for my piggy disorganization.

I need a 1950s housewife. Someone to make sure the bills are paid on time and I remember my pills in the morning and prepare me balanced meals at regular intervals and walk the dog and keep my quiet company during my extended migraine troubles. Because there are some fairly basic things that I can't or forget to do when under the influence of my migraines and then the lack of those things (food, daily medication) makes the migraines worse and then I am fucked. Plus, I am stressing because I have to have everything moved out of my apartment in less than two weeks and my new place was supposed to be ready so I could start moving shit last weekend but they fucked up and I haven't started packing up here because I thought I would have three weekends to pack things as I moved them out. Then the migraines made me miss class and that always freaks me out and I was back in major pain yesterday and then I forgot my pills this morning so I'm all dizzy and woozy and unable to think clearly enough to calm myself down. So now I just want someone else to be in charge of me and my shit or better yet to stop my silly panicking and actually feel like I'm capable of being in charge of my own shit, because once I calm the fuck down I am capable of being in charge of my own shit, but I'm not quite there right now, so I will have my little tantrum and lay down and hope the pills hurry up and kick in and try to breathe and relax and not get stuck in my weird self-destructive self-disabling cycle.

My Family Guy Live experience

IFGP*: Hi person with whom I have only a vague connection, I’m IFGP.
Me: Hi, IFGP, I’m Annabell. Thanks for going out of your way to get four tickets and arrange backstage stuff for us. Too bad I’m only using two of the tickets at the very last minute so you can’t do anything about it. I also molested your children and punched your grandmother.
IFGP: That’s ok. I will treat you like an old friend anyway. Let’s go hang out with the rest of the cast.
[Labyrinth scene from The Shining ensues, but replace shrubbery with graffiti-covered walls, Jack Nicholson with bored-looking usher, and add 35 years and a pot belly to the black guy trying to help]
IFGP: Hi, fellow famous/accomplished people. These are my friends, Annabell and Greg.
Famous/accomplished people: Hi, nice to meet you. We will continue milling about and poking at the food and booze provided for us.
Seth Green: Hi. I’m wondering who you are because you appear to be a full-grown adult female who is smaller than I am and without any obvious malformities, but I will just shake your hand and then size you up a lot from across the room.
Me: Nice to meet you. You are a very attractive full-grown adult male famous person and yet I can look you in the eye without staring up your nose. I will continue my air of disinterest while I name our 26 tiny sarcastic blue-eyed Jewy children in my head.
IFGP: So, Annabell, you’re a writer?
Me: Yes! And since I am clearly the most interesting person in this room and this is clearly a great opportunity for you to hear about me, I will proceed to talk about myself until it’s time to find our seats.
IFGP: That’s totally fine. I will say meaningful, insightful things at key points in your monologue.
Me: I knew someone who knew someone who wrote for this show at some point.
IFGP: I met the person you know! Small world!
Me: Indeed!
IFGP: Let me give you my business card so if you are ever in LA I can continue to provide you with fabulous experiences, and enjoy the show!
Me: Thank you!
[Greg and I find our seats, which are completely fantastic, and watch the show, which is completely fantastic. I realize I am the only female in the audience and osmosis causes me to grow a penis. After the show I text message IFGP about karaoke bars before we leave.]

*Important Family Guy Person. I don't know if I really have to conceal his identity, and obviously I used Seth Green's real name, but the important part to know about IFGP is that he does both writing and producing things and is extremely high up on the totem pole but isn't Seth MacFarlane, who was one of the only people actually eating anything from their giant spread and was extremely friendly as well.

nonfiction

Functional but low-grade nagging migraine has been poking me for days. Very sore in the shoulders

I went to the dentist today for the first time in three or four years and still had no cavities and little plaque considering how long it's been since my last professional cleaning. At least my OCD tendencies are good for something.

Today is my parents' 30th wedding anniversary. Pity I'm doomed to die alone.

I walked into my Personal Wellness class on Thursday to discover my teacher is my personal trainer! He is awesome and the class seems awesome and awesomeness abounds. It's like an Oprah health guru, with exercise, nutritional, social, emotional, and intellectual aspects and personalized goals. I think at the end of the semester I should treat myself to a makeover and throw a party to show off the new super-fabulous me. It'd be totally TLC.
My other classes seem good, too. My Freelance class is basically designed to get us published and paid, which is exactly what I need. Then I'm also taking prose forms (with a bunch of babies, a very odd teacher,and King Overshare), and a reading-for-writing class in nonfiction. It's my nonfiction semester, and I heart nonfiction, so I am looking forward to it. I'll be busy, but doing good things. Maybe it will distract me from my clingy loneliness that crept up and started temper-tantruming again over the summer. Fingers crossed.

I made really fabulous chicken tonight. I rule.

Tomorrow is my first day of class. Good thing, too, since I'm BORED AS HELL.

I need to live on the East Coast.

That is all.

Death and the Science of Nostalgia

Note to self: don't marry anyone who will murder you.
My aunt's sister (so not an actual relation of mine, but her kids are my cousins' cousins) was stabbed to death a few days ago by her husband. She was 36. The kids, boys ages 2 and 4, were in daycare. The husband is claiming self-defense, but he stabbed her a lot of times for it to be self-defense. Totally fucked up. Apparently the husband called his father after he killed his wife to say "holy shit, I just killed my wife, what do I do?" and the dad had the sense to say call the police and do NOT pick the kids up from daycare, they do not need to see their dead mother on the kitchen floor. Just. So. Fucked. Up.

In lighter news, (move over water-skiing squirrels) I became a member at the Museum of Science and Industry today. They had a student rate and membership includes free passes to the Omnimax movies and special exhibits, so as long as I go one other time with a friend this year, it's worth it. Not that I really had $55 to blow, but I do love my museums. It also got us into the CSI exhibit, which was conceptually very cool but pretty lame when you got down to it. I dragged NBF with me, and he's ex-navy, so the whole navy exhibit and U-505 thing became more interesting for me with his bonus commentary. Some of you may remember from childhood when the submarine sat outside the museum and you had to go down this weird long hallway and you could look through the periscope and see Lake Shore Drive. Your tour guide was the one who told the story of the sub's capture and explained the enigma machine, which you could stare at while you waited in line to enter the hallway. Now, U-505 has its own big huge impressive (and entirely indoor) exhibit and they restored the ship and the story is all interactive but non-human and they charge an extra $5 to tour the sub itself and the periscope just looks around the exhibit room. Oh, the price of progress.
Another kick in the groin of nostalgia, the big sparkly thing that somehow used sunlight to spin around (the sunnier, the faster) in one of the stairwells is gone. I was terribly distraught, and asked a number of museum personnel what happened to it. They didn't know, but the museum changes exhibits more frequently than, say, the aquarium or Art Institute, because science tends to evolve faster than, say, art or fish. Still, I don't understand why they haven't gotten rid of the fucking circus exhibit. I hate that thing. It's stupid and dark and creepy and clown-laden. Fuck that shit, I want my sparkly back.

fathungryboredneedtostartschoolorgetlifeorgetfriendsorgetout

absolution

Recently, a number of people from my distant past have contacted me via Facebook. While all of these people have been Decent Human Beings, following links of friends-of-friends and whatnot yielded many people I'd rather forget. But with time and distance on my side, it's a bit easier to see why I was so miserable growing up: I went to school with some absolutely dreadful excuses for human beings. Those of you who read this who grew up with me know exactly what I'm talking about: we were surrounded by truly cruel, terrible children/adolescents with disgusting values systems. The Future Greek System Cookie Cutter Whores (male and female alike). The dim, shallow twats who weren't content to just be dim and shallow themselves but found it necessary to belittle and berate anything that didn't fit neatly into the box. God forbid you wore the wrong clothes or "acted smart" or thought independently. Every time I opened my mouth, they sneered and rolled their eyes and told me to shut it. Maybe I would have come out less scathed had I listened, but to me that was surrender, so I fought back tooth and nail. I fought just. so. hard. to be true to myself while they told me I was annoying and stupid and why did I have to be "like that" all the time and shut up, you fucking freak. I was aware of my parents' impotence by the time I was 7. Every time they tried to help (talking to the teachers or other parents or giving me advice on how to handle mean little children) it got worse. No wonder I didn't trust them with anything, taking the burden of my own pain completely on my own shoulders. No wonder I'm so inclined towards loner-ism in my sad, hurt, self-hating way. I learned very young that people were either mean or useless. It was the perfect recipe for a hard, thin outer shell and complete mush on the inside.
Self-help gurus and therapists are always saying to take responsibility for your own life and misery, but maybe my problem is that I've been taking that responsibility for the better part of 25 years when in fact it's an undeserved burden. Nobody deserves to be treated the way I was treated, and while I was fighting and fighting and fighting, I never accepted the fact that I was actually a victim. I hate the victim mentality, but at the same time, if I never recognize that they injured me deeply, I can never tend to my wounds. And I've been out of the thick of the shit for seven years now and I'm clearly not yet healed. I'm convinced people don't like me or shouldn't like me. I have a terrible time trusting people and it takes very little for them to hurt me a whole lot. And then I'm perpetually single because Why would anyone love me when I am so undeserving of love? The shit runs deep and it hurts it hurts it hurts. But no child deserves the mistreatment and burden I carried. It wasn't my fault. These were bad people doing bad things and I didn't deserve them. It wasn't my fault. It isn't my fault. My pain is justified and real and not my fault.

kvetch

Addendum to the personality test psych you/psych me thing: to "psych me" it will ask you to paste in the link I sent you. That link is
http://personaldna.com/psychyou-psychme.php?for=5d222b6ed639
so copy paste, baby.

The barometer in my head is going nuts. I hate this weather. My dog has also been less than happy, particularly when he saw the turtle wandering around in its cage.

My grandma called me yesterday to thank me for the little stuffed dog I sent her in the mail. Also my parents are on vacation so she didn't have my mom to talk to and I think she decided I'm the next best thing. For as much as I complain about my own mother, my grandmother is at least 100 times more difficult. I don't think I've had a single conversation with her in the past year during which she didn't bring up her greatest regret in life: never going to college. And everything she says is either a blatant or a thinly veiled complaint. I've learned to plaster her comments with Shiny Happy Optimism, but I think that's more to keep myself out of her self-enforced wretched abyss than anything else. After all, the woman has been saying "At my age, you don't buy bulk packs of toilet paper any more because, well, you never know!" for almost 20 years. In that time, she could have saved a lot on toilet paper.

Stupid stupid head. How many chemicals do I have to feed you before you shut up?

blah

We never made it to Lansing. After it took an hour and a half to go 9 miles on the Dan Ryan there was no way we'd get there in time for the wedding and maybe not even the reception. Disappointing after I was all ready for an adventure, but the weather was gorgeous and we went to a completely lame Middle Eastern music fest thing and then wandered around the Lincoln Park Zoo, so it was a lovely day with lovely company in Chicago.

I'm going through my old rejected greeting cards to submit them to other companies that pay $50-$100 for accepted freelance card copy. I still think I'm funny.

I've been infinitely tired today. I think I have scurvy because I am craving fruit, but I have no fruit. Perhaps I will put on pants and go buy fruit. Perhaps.

Also, I retook the test thing and this time it says I'm a benevolent builder. So I'm a little of both. More importantly, there's this lovely feature that lets you "assess other people's personalities, and ask other peopleto assess yours!" So assess me and if you want I'll assess you!

"Well, she has a great personality."

I'm going to Lansing. Crazy shit.

Also, I've taken many a personality test in my day, but I like this one becaused the way they split up categories and ask questions got closer to the heart of things for me than most. I tend to have a handful of paradoxical traits that end up averaging themselves out instead of explaining how I am on most tests (i.e. I am quite capable of shmoozing with strangers but I prefer to have just a few close friends and I absolutely need both alone time and social interaction, so the whole introvert/extrovert thing gets mushy). This test didn't have so much of that problem. Here's my report. Whats yours? You should leave it on my comments. Mostly because I want comments. They validate my typing into the void all the time.

Please Advise!

Earlier today, I called a male friend from high school who is in town to see if he wanted to do anything tonight. He called back around 8:30 to say he's too tired, but if had absolutely nothing better to do tomorrow, would I want to go to a wedding with him in Lansing, Michigan. I do, in fact, have absolutely nothing better to do, but is it too weird to drive five hours each direction to go to a wedding where I know no one? Sunny goes to school out there, so if I could see her for a few minutes, that would be excuse enough to go, and NBF said he'd stop by my apartment at some point to walk my dog so I don't have to worry about him (the dog) exploding. So it's very tempting to go, except is that completely weird? And what if it turns out my friend and I can't actually stand eachother for that many hours alone? Thoughts?

Like the Jackson 5 without any Jacksons

It's a party in my apartment. NBF is here playing his stupid nerdy online dork game because his internet at home is still down from yesterday's storm. Add to that me playing Chicken Invaders, NBF's dog snarfing at the turtle, and my dog snarfing at NBF's dog, and all you need are a disco ball and spiked punch.

My brain is misbehaving again as usual.

Party Animals

There is a turtle in my bathtub. I put him there. He is my brother's, but my brother left for college and never really cared for the turtle in the first place, and my mother hates animals. The turtle's terrarium thing (big aquarium with wood chip bedding and two plastic bowls that are supposed to look like they're made out of rocks) is still in my car, because five minutes after I drove away from my parents' house with the aforementioned turtle, it started storming. Then the tornado sirens went, and the radio news kept saying for people in areas moving ever closer to me should all abandon their cars and get into basements. Two seconds later black clouds swallowed everything and branches flew past and rain came down in sheets. I kept looking at the businesses along North Avenue for reasonable shelter and to the sky to see if it turned orange or green (it usually turns weird colors before an actual tornado touches down). Between the wet and the fact I was a little white girl with turtle in tow in the shittier parts of Chicago's west side, I decided not to stop unless the sky turned, and it didn't. Now, I am in my apartment and refusing to leave until the weather clears and my dog is freaking out (as per usual...he had a particularly rough night last night with the thunder) and the turtle is in my bathtub, hiding under his wood thing. It's a party.

geography

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from the Harder Than I Thought Dept.

I'm trying to make my mom's webpage not suck, but without knowing any more than the most basic HTML and not having access to the code or software that built what it looks like so far. This was so much easier when I was just trying to put together something from scratch for my phonesex using yahoo's free pagebuilder thing.

10 Things I Hate About Me

It's official: I'm ready to start school or something again. The freedom was nice for a bit, but now I'm losing it. With nothing to regularly force me out of the house and keep me occupied on a regular basis, the Vast Eternal Loneliness has kicked in. I spent much of last night crying at NBF and feeling unworthy of friendship and love. Good times. I still have a very hard time believing I am a likable person, and the constant paranoia that I'm just hanging around and annoying people and they don't really want to be my friends tends to loom long after they've proven otherwise. I guess I find myself annoying, stupid, tiresome, and not pretty or smooth enough to get away with it and still be liked. I want to like myself, but I don't know how without tons of really genuine, convincing external validation. It took a pair of highly judgmental, critical parents and a good 5-6 years of little kids constantly telling me I'm a piece of shit for it to really sink in, I just hope it doesn't take the rest of my life to believe otherwise.

I'll have the communications sampler, please

I'm bored. Play with me.

Does anyone know about submitting writing under a pen name? I want to use "Annabell" for the things I wrote about my family, but Annabell does not have a bank account or social security number.

I got a new phone today. It's totally hot. It has a QWERTY keyboard but is the size of a Razor and weighs less than my old phone. Also, I am now on my family's plan, so I have unlimited texting, but I have to be a bit more careful about my minutes or my parents will beat me. Basically, if you are not a Verizon customer, I am no longer your friend until after 9 PM. Ever. I don't care if you're dying, you can text me or shove it.

I said goodbye to my brother today since I'm not going to see him again before he goes off to college this weekend. My baby is all grown up. I just hope it's half as wonderful as he expects it to be and my mother gets used to her empty nest and doesn't start [s]mothering me to death instead.

I left my journal at a bar on Sunday. Not smart. Fortunately, they still had it when my friend who lives right there went back. I should probably be more mortified that they put it with the board games, but a) what do I care if a bunch of strangers read my dumb rambling shit and b) my deepest darkest secret gleanable from my journal is that I'm actually a boy-crazy flake, and that's not much of a secret. I tend not to have secrets. Hell, I don't even have discretion.

I'm going to go make out with my phone now.

"I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member."

uggos need not apply

Tonight I hung out with my friend who is the singularly most gorgeous male person I've known ever, to whom I am inexplicably not attracted. I've known him since we were in second grade, so that may have something to do with the lack of attraction, but I emphasize here that he is a truly beautiful specimen of a human being and a really great person, too. Tonight, he was hitting on me a lot and even though he has a girlfriend and we would never "tap" one another's "shit," it was infinitely flattering. Clearly, the opinions of beautiful people are worth more than the uggos. Gotta love external validation.

exactly

Just saw this on McSweeneys and thought it was fabulous:

Two Things That Aren't Covered by Your Friend With Benefits.
BY MATTHEW SIMMONS

Care for the bitter heartbreak and depression that will inevitably occur when your friend moves on to a real relationship with a mature partner actually worthy of commitment.

Dental.

for what it's worth...

...and it probably isn't worth much, but I was just filling out birthdays and such on my google calendar thing and I noticed how many of my favorite people ever are scorpios.So I looked up the Scorpio stuff on Wikipedia for shits and giggles, and lo and behold:

Scorpio is the eighth sign of the Zodiac and associated with intensity, passion, and power. Individuals born under this sign are thought to be complex, analytical, loyal, patient, keenly perceptive, humorous, inquisitive, hypnotic, and of great moral character. The Scorpio person is secretive, powerful, penetrating, determined, purposeful, deep, complex, resourceful, ambitious, magnetic, hypnotic, sexual, creative and mysterious. They can also sometimes be cunning, suspicious, compulsive, aggressive, jealous, and controlling and be prone to extremity, secretiveness, and possessiveness.

So then I looked up my own Taurus-ness:

Taurus is the second sign of the Zodiac and associated with material and emotional security. Individuals born under this sign are thought to have a calm, patient, reliable, loyal, affectionate, sensuous, ambitious, and determined character. Generally, there is something distinctly sensual about the appearance. The Taurus person is resourceful, thorough, dependable, responsible, placid, stable, comfortable, solid, earthy, strong, money-oriented, practical, productive, cautious, musical, and artistic. They can also sometimes be stubborn, indulgent, insecure, acquisitive, possessive, rigid, stodgy and slow, and prone to hedonism, laziness, inflexibility, habituality, jealousy, and antipathy.
Taurus is traditionally ruled by the planet Venus, the planet of love, desire, femininity, peace and harmony. Taurus represents the feminine sheath of Venus, and as such, is intensely magnetic. It is also the most feminine sign in the zodiac. The opposite sign to Taurus is Scorpio and the two signs are widely considered to be the most sexually responsive of all zodiacal members.

There you go. If you're a scorpio and my friend, it is clearly because fate tells me to like people conceived in February-ish. If you are not a scorpio, I don't want to talk to you ever again.

In other news, my body and I are fighting again for the first time in many weeks. It is unpleasant and I am out of food. You should bring me food.

I just more or less slept through today. Migraine induced, but still, a very strange feeling to wake up and notice it's late afternoon.

yes, I AM this nerdy

I checked on the crime stats thing...in 2005, Rogers Park and Lincoln Park had about the same total populations (63,282 and 64,320 respectively). Lincoln park actually had a greater total number of reported crimes - 3,719 to Rogers Park's 2,497. That's the thing that gets quoted all the time. But Lincoln Park's crimes are heavily property crimes (burglary, theft, motor vehicle theft, and arson) whereas the fun stuff like aggravated assault and battery and murder are much higher in Rogers Park.

I crunched a bunch of numbers from the 2005 Chicago Police Department's annual report because I am a huge dork. For those of you from out of town, Rogers Park is a neighborhood that's as far north as you can go along the lake and still be in Chicago and where I plan to move. Lakeview is where I currently live and is fairly yuppie, but it also contains Boystown (gay area) and Wrigglyville (frat-boy land). Lincoln Park is Yuppie Central. All the shops are boutiques and chains. It's very nice, but pure gentry. Austin is the lovely ghetto just east of where I grew up (Oak Park). It's a big sprawling piece of shit that's one of the worst areas of the city, arguably worse than the south side since it lacks any sense of cohesive community.

per capita crime rates
Rogers Park: 3.93%
Lakeview: 4.14%
Lincoln Park: 5.78%
Austin: 6.63%

per capita crime rate for crimes against people*
Rogers Park: 0.88%
Lakeview: 0.45%
Lincoln Park: 0.43%
Austin: 1.98%

per capita crime rate for crimes against property**
Rogers Park: 2.90%
Lakeview: 3.70%
Lincoln Park: 5.36%
Austin: 4.66%

per capita sexual assault rates
Rogers Park: 0.04%
Lakeview: 0.02%
Lincoln Park: 0.03%
Austin: 0.10% (with 117! holy hell, Austin)

...and what dorky stats project would be complete without charts!
(please pardon the craptacularity and inconsistent size and clarity of the charts...I made them all the same exact way on the same exact program, but thank you Microsoft Works for being a cheap piece of crap and thank you me for being a cheap piece of crap and refusing to pay for Microsoft Office)



*murder, criminal sexual assault, robbery, aggravated assault, and aggravated battery
**burglary, theft, motor vehicle theft, and arson

ohfortheloveofgod

For those of you who don't look at my comments, an anonymous person posted the following:

You should really keep an eye on this RP website. Good luck to you. http://morsehellhole.blogspot.com/

So I went to the website, and 90% of it is people bitching and moaning about and blaming the aldermen and local politicians for the "gangbanging and drunks" "plaguing" Rogers Park. Yes, there are gangs. Yes, there are drunks. Have a problem with it? Then fucking do something about it. I'm aware of "power of the pen," but this is just bitching and moaning with at most the power to scare away residents fortunate enough to have the time to sit around reading blogs. So shut up and/or do something. If you're going to complain about being afraid to walk home from the el at night, try to organize groups to walk home together (like a walk-pool instead of a carpool), or take a self-defense class, or just learn how to walk past people who probably want to have as little to do with you as you do with them. Because homeless people are not necessarily dangerous people. And neither are groups of more than two young black males. So don't be stupid, stop whining, and do something.

movin' on up

I'm moving! They were going to raise my rent by $45 a month so that I'd be paying $840 (including my $25 monthly pet rent and heat, but not gas or electric, which run me an average of $45/month). My apartment is tiny, an ok size for a studio in this area, but not a lot of room to breathe, and my neighborhood has become significantly more yuppie/frat boy in the two years I've lived here. I started apartment looking on craigslist and I also used Chicago Apartment Finders (it's a free service and I used them to find my current place), and then my landlord agreed to raise my rent to only* $815 and moving is a pain in the ass, but today I saw this place that is triple the size of my current apartment and completely beautiful and charming and half a block from the beach. It's way the hell north, up by the Jarvis stop in Rogers Park, but I like the feel of Rogers Park a lot and the immediate neighborhood is super-cute and the specific apartment has a living room and dining room in addition to a bedroom probably the size of my one room now. Oh, and the whole thing is like $800-$820 a month with all utilities and dog rent included and the building is wired for cable that most apartments can tap for free. And we met a number of other residents and they were all extremely nice and around my age (give or take) and I want it. I couldn't sign anything today, but theoretically when they open on Monday I'll get to stake my claim. Fingers crossed.

For those of you who have previously been afraid to visit me thanks to my current mess and dog, this apartment would allow me to keep my mess and dog in a separate room from company. I could have company! I could be social! Amazing!

All I need is love

I don't normally cry when I get pulled over, but tonight I was crying before I got pulled over, which is why I didn't notice the street switch to one-way. The cops were extremely nice and let me go with a "be careful and take care of yourself," so thank you to the three officers who recognized an honest mistake and a sad little girl.

And why am I such a sad little girl, you ask? Some combination of PMS, withdrawal from my College Try #1 friends and the wonderful time we had, an overabundance of being loved but not Loved by boys, and the usual self-doubt. It's a party in my heart and everyone's invited, just bring your own pitchforks and barbecue sauce, 'cause it's rare and tender in there. Yeesh, I'm such a kvetch. Things could be so much worse.

Too much to ask?

I want to be the kind of girl who can make people happy and whole again without even trying. I want to change someone's life, just by existing. I want to be the greatest thing to happen to a boy, ever. Do you think there's a class or a book somewhere that can teach me to be that?

Toying with God

Today on BBC.com, there is an article on the "faith-based toys" soon to be sold at Walmart. They're bible story action figures. I hope parents realize that it'll be a matter of hours before Spiderman, Optimus Prime, and G.I. Joe totally kick the crap out of Peter, Paul, and Darth Vadar in the epic battle of Dakota and Corey's backyard. Two days later, baby brother Logan will be rushed to the emergency room with Moses's staff lodged up his nose or choking on the disembodied head of Jesus. Another week or so and Paul will be riding My Little Pony home from work to greet his wife, Barbie, and their children, Baby Jesus and a Cabbage Patch Kid. I'm just saying...

And for the girls? P31 dolls, "based on the biblical teaching of Proverbs 31." Correct me if I'm wrong, those of you with more bible learnin' than me, but Proverbs 31 seems very "Woman, get in the kitchen!" And the fact that these dolls come "with an accessory kit, containing a Bible lesson (based on Proverbs 31:20), two cookie-cutters, a cookie recipe, and a list of exciting activities," makes me wonder if all of these "exciting activities" are domestic training. Doesn't bode well for the Future Feminists of America.

Quality Time on the Internet

and another thing

Emotionally, I get past things but not over them.

I am very jealousy-prone.

NBF: So you're a compulsive narcissist plagued by self-doubt? Wow. They should study you.

...and later...

NBF: I don't understand this feeling. I'm not depressed anymore, but I'm not happy either.
Me: It's called "being sad."
(Which, I would like to note, is a perfectly acceptable emotion and very odd to experience after depression. It's like, "Huh...I am unhappy, but I am not wallowing at the bottom of a dark pit of hopeless despair. How odd." Much like the handful of times I've gotten non-migraine headaches and marveled at the ease of functioning despite brain pain.)

...Romans, Countrymen

NBF has returned from London. I'm at his apartment and he is asleep, sprawled out with his dog. It's pretty cute. He's entitled, as it is 6 AM in his head. I'm glad he's back (though he's not), but I do hope I continue being social with people who aren't him. I'm just socially lazy. It's bad, because I enjoy it when I get out there and see people and make friends, but if I can get my human contact without actually bothering to extend myself, I do.

Last weekend, I went to Mr. Mustache*'s parents' house in Pennsylvania. Birdy and Kaufman* were there and it was awesomely amazing. I love them all nine times. And since they all mostly knew me during one of my bigger, badder, Dark Icky Depressions, it was really nice being able to see them with my head out of the pit. Once I'm done with this whole college thing, I need to find a job out in NYC or at least somewhere on the east coast.

My latest introspection and extro-spection: I have an uncanny ability to be completely and utterly adored by boys without them feeling any romantic attraction at all. I love having my boy_friends, but it would be nice if one occasionally had interest in me as a Girl. I do not understand it at all. Do I lack pheromones? That can't be it, since I have been known to attract Boypeople who don't know me that well. Perhaps my Innermost-Being is lovable but not attractive. Like an adored pet or family member. I don't know. Do you?


*Don't like your code names? Too bad. Unless you suggest something better.

updating

The Comcast people never came or called. I should have called them, but I am lazy and my computer is picking up some new random free signal, so at the moment I am internetted, though it could go at any minute.

So much to update...

This weekend I will be traveling to Pennsylvania via LaGuardia airport to see three of my bestest friends from College Attempt #1. They are all on the east coast and two were randomly going to converge on the third's house (and more importantly, swimming pool), and Birdy said half joking that I should fly out, and I laughed, but then I realized I had no specific obligations this weekend and how amazing would it be to join them? So I am joining them. My dog will be staying with my parents for the first time ever without me. I'm sure it will be fine, since he is used to them and their house and all they have to do is make sure he has food and water and open the door to their yard every so often when he decides he needs to go out, but my mom isn't thrilled at the prospect.

My One Night Stand of several weeks ago is now my Facebook buddy and we message one another with some frequency. I'm entertained but apathetic about the whole thing. Very much a que sera sera.

I am done with summer school (Bs in both of my classes, which is fine by me) and fall semester doesn't start until September. I have a big long TO DO list for the next month and a half, but I haven't been this free and non-stressed...ever? I have the random promo jobs and things to do, but I don't have to actively seek work and I don't have big fat due dates and deadlines. It's amazing. I couldn't go on like this forever (I'll probably start getting restless in another week or so), but for the time being, it's wonderful.

E and Sunny both had birthdays and I never gave them shout-outs, so here is their official shout-out. HAPPY BIRTHDAYS!

Taste of Chicago was right by my school so I spent a lot of time and calories there. I even ate the humus that gave people salmonella, but I was fine. Maybe I have enough other stomach problems that they canceled out the food poisoning.

A few weeks ago, I went to lunch with three classmates (Mr. and Mrs. Toothpick and King Overshare), and King Overshare earned his name by telling us stories about sucking his cousin's toes while his cousin slept and his devastation upon purchasing a "sex machine" that turned out to be too small. Since that lunch, it has been The Toothpicks' and my goal to get King Overshare drunk. He was out of town for the debauchery of my drunken hook-up night, but after the last day of class we all went to a bar and all I can say is holy shit. King Overshare is gay and out of the closet only in recent years, but he managed to make absolutely everyone uncomfortable. At one point he was trying to do a strip show for the lot of us, then later he stretched out across three of our laps and proceeded to lick our faces while we tried to squirm away. He got into a long debate with the token class homophobe over whether or not every person on earth wants his or her asshole licked and God's intentions in creating so many nerve endings in the butt. Apparently, after most people left, something happened with my classmate's male roommate that no one will talk about except to say if the roommate ever sees King Overshare again, he is going to kick his ass.

Saturday night I saw Ratatouille with my parents. Cute and entertaining, though certainly no Finding Nemo.

Sunday was the day of people I knew in grade school. First, I went to my elementary school BFF's engagement party, then another person from back then hosted this movie night and discussion thing, and then we met up with another girl who started at our school in 5th grade and I hadn't seen in at least seven years. The whole thing was much fun.

Monday night Mr. and Mrs. Toothpick from my Fiction II class called to say they were going to see a Thin Lizzy cover band, so I joined them and much drinking followed.

The last few days I have been riding the el in my PJs handing out fliers for the Pajama Men's show. It's easy and $10/hour, so I can't complain.

I'm sure I am leaving out major chunks of life, but this will do for now.

Story I Wrote

I wrote this for my Fiction II class. It's based on the events of June 29. Have
fun.

Holly GoDarkly


Holly, so called not because she resembled the character Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s but in honor of the awesomeness of the movie, sized up the corner table. Why were these children (all over 21, but children nonetheless) at her bar? Not only was their clothing manufactured this decade but it looked new on purpose.
“Well, Skeets, what do you think?”
The customer Holly asked wasn’t actually named Skeets, but she called everybody Skeets. It was her thing. All bartenders need a thing, and “Skeets” was hers.
“Whatever,” said Skeets. “They seem fine.”
“At least they’re not Emos,” said another Skeets.
“Fuck Emos,” they all agreed. Holly cringed. The last time wearing wrist sweatbands was cool was when they came with a hula-hoop and jump rope in the Get In Shape, Girl! toy set circa 1988. The creatures at the corner table were not wearing sweatbands or pained expressions. In fact, they looked remarkably normal, but for some reason they were filling her with contempt. Maybe it was just the male-to-female ratio: completely even at three of each. Her bar was a sausage-fest and she loved it that way. This was Boystown and her customers were boys, but straight boys. Boys who drank PBR and could be judged entirely by the awesomely lameness of their outfits and dis-genuine self-deprecation. They disparaged themselves to play down their true narcissism, a chorus of “I suck” trying to balance out the inner mantra of “I rule.” But this group in the corner was too female and too uncomplicated. If they said something, they probably meant it. No pretext or innuendo. Such simple little characters. Like sheep. Holly filled with pity-hate.
Holly’s paradigm temporarily shifted as one of her regulars, one of her favorite Skeets, warmly welcomed the Simples. Holly pretended to collect empty cups (something she never did but hoped the regulars wouldn’t notice) as an excuse to find out how Skeets knew these people. A younger sibling, perhaps?
“Hey, Skeets,” Holly cornered him, or actually, just sort of sided him, since he was walking away from the corner table.
“What’s up, Holls?”
“Who are your friends?”
“They’re my students. I teach a college class. Came out to see my show tonight.”
Then she asked the all-important question: “Can I still give them The Special?” The Special was equal parts bathtub moonshine, cheap high-proof grain alcohol, and general animosity. Regulars knew to order beer. The tap lines may not have been clean and all lead to the same keg of Keystone Lite, but it was a slow safe buzz that kept you going all night. Strangers to the bar who didn’t know any better would order hard drinks or off the list of “Managers Specials,” and that was Holly’s time to shine. Every bottle in the well, regardless of its label, contained The Special.
“Yeah, give ’em The Special,” said Professor Skeets. “What kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t make sure my students learned their lesson?”
Shortly, the Simples came up and ordered a round of Long Islands. Holly grabbed four different colored bottles from the well for show, adding Special to Special, and topping it off with Pepsi for color. She almost felt a twinge of guilt when the Simples tipped her well, but they probably could afford this tip and weren’t trying to hide it, so the guilt passed. She lined up six empty glasses on the back of the bar and put a cherry in each, then went back to doling out Keystone Lites. The regulars didn’t even bother asking for a particular type of beer anymore, ordering by “four beers” or “two pitchers,” although one Skeets still asked for MGD because he swore it was the coldest of the taps and made for the best tasting Keystone.
Twenty minutes had gone by since the Simples finished their first round when one of the girls flopped over.
“Lame,” thought Holly, reaching to the back of the bar and downing the cherry from the first glass. The Special’s first victim only weighed fourteen pounds and might have been pretty if she a) hadn’t come into Holly’s bar and b) didn’t look more like a hatpin than a human being. She was a toothpick. Mrs. Toothpick. She had to be a plastic bar toothpick, the kind other drinking establishments might use to spear olives and onions, but not the kind that looked like swords. Those were too interesting to be Mrs. Toothpick. She’d be pink or yellow and plain. Holly imagined herself holding a lighter to the end of Mrs. Toothpick and watching her curl up the way plastic does when held to a flame.
One of the boys (Mr. Toothpick?) started fussing over her, fanning her and bringing her water like she was some sort of swooning southern twat. He was barely a layer or two thicker and maybe a head taller than the Mrs. Holly could only see bits and pieces of his profile because the full attention of his face was squarely on the twat, but she knew even if she studied him for an hour she’d never be able to pick him out of a lineup. Generic White Boys all looked the same.
Mr. Toothpick finally coaxed Mrs. Toothpick out of her chair and out the door. Holly hoped it was only for a minute of fresh air, but when they didn’t come back, she knew they’d gone to one of their simple generic apartments where he would wait for her to regain consciousness before they had simple generic sex. They probably had to be extra careful not to snap one another in two, being toothpicks and all. Holly turned to the back of the bar and picked up the cherry from the second glass. Spotting Professor Skeets at a table near the stage sharing a pitcher with his band as a pre-show warm-up, she flung the cherry as hard as she could at his head, then flipped over both now empty glasses, slamming them down like a drunk film noir Bogie saying “Hey, Charlie, gimme another.” The four remaining cherries glimmered in the bar’s one ray of light.
“Your time will come,” Holly’s eyes glimmered back.
The Simples’ blonde member came up for another round, still “long islands,” but now there were only four to make. The way the blonde carried all four drinks in her blonde little hands made Holly wonder if this simple was a waitress or bartender somewhere. She choked down her twinge of empathy by noticing that The Blonde’s eyebrows were also blonde. Jesus Christ, even this chick’s hair is natural, she thought. If Holly’s hair was naturally blonde, she would totally dye it black or maybe auburn. Dark hair with blonde roots. That would be awesome, but no way would she let herself go through life with her real hair color.
When The Special finally hit The Blonde, her eyes lit up as she went into overdrive, darting about the room like the bastard child of a social butterfly and a ferret. She bounced from Skeets to Skeets, talking to everyone in the bar, or maybe just herself…it was hard to tell at this point.
One of the males came with Mr. Toothpick and now looked abandoned and dejected. He curled up into himself in the corner, and as Holly started to eat another cherry, she watched him revive as The Blonde made her way back to the table. He sleepily took The Blonde’s hand and pulled her into his lap. At first the Blonde looked trapped, like a gopher looking out of its hole, head darting about and sensing danger all around. His hands went sleepily up her shirt, but her wild eyes didn’t change, still canvassing the room and cheering as Professor Skeets’ band emerged and started playing their first song. In an instant, The Blonde went from watching the band and ignoring the boy to turning around on her human seat and desperately trying to suck down his entire face, running her fingers through his hair and grinding into him, hard. He stood up, lifting her with him, and pushed her to the wall, the two of them thrusting and clawing fully clothed. Holly ate cherries three and four with pride as the pair three the empty cups off their table and humped like hungry beasts while a small pool of spilled special soaked through the front of The Blonde’s shirt.
Holly barely even noticed the last girl. She’d been part of the head-count when Holly lined up glasses and cherries, she’d received one of the cups with each round of Special, but Holly really saw her for the first time in the by the light of her cell phone. The girl was texting furiously, her eyes illuminated by the glow of the screen. If Holly squinted, the girl looked like two floating eyeballs, like the Cheshire cat mid-disappearing act. Otherwise, Catgirl camouflaged into the chair and the wall of the dark corner. Catty chameleon. Holly wanted to call Boy George and have him change the words. Too bad she didn’t have a Culture Club t-shirt. Catgirl had an almost empty glass of Special in one hand and the phone in the other. Professor Skeets’ band was well into their set and the rest of the Skeets were ¼ dancing, ¾ maintaining their awesomeness to the music. Catgirl didn’t notice. She didn’t seem to notice the two of her companions two feet away from her giving the table a workout, either. Just texting texting texting.
“When I was your age…” Holly wanted to say, but first she’d need reading glasses on a chain and a gray wig done up in a bun. And one of those fancy walkers with tennis balls on the feet so they don’t scratch the linoleum. Maybe she’d call everyone Sonny instead of Skeets. She definitely didn’t have a cell phone ten years ago when she was the age of the Simples. Email, maybe, but none of this newfangled technology shit.
Holly wasn’t really looking at Catgirl anymore, but a sparkle re-caught her attention. Tears popped out of the floating eyes. Popped and sparkled and never averted from the cell phone. The eyes got red and kept popping and leaking. The band finished playing and the eyes kept going, kept texting. Holly shrugged and ate her fifth cherry. The sixth cherry still sat in its glass. Where did the sixth Simple go? Shit, had she missed it? The band was breaking down and a Skeets came up to her.
“Some dude is freaking out in the bathroom.”
Ah, Number Six. Normally Holly would have had no problem going into the men’s room herself, but this time she decided to send Professor Skeets. After all, they were his children. Catgirl and Holly walked up to Professor Skeets almost simultaneously. The eyes were still half-crying as they thanked him for a great show.
“You ok?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she sniffed, “I…was…supposed to crash at Erin’s tonight…but…she…went home early with Dave.” Ah, Holly thought, Mr. and Mrs. Toothpick.
“You gonna make it home ok? Got money for a cab?” asked Professor.
“No…my…parents…are on their way to pick me up.”
“Well, thanks for coming to my show.”
With that, Catgirl wobbled her teary way out the door.
“Only one left now,” Professor Skeets said, noticing Holly.
Holly looked around. How did she miss the exit of The Blonde and her humping post? But business first.
“Can you check on the men’s room? I think one of yours is in there.”
Professor Skeets gave a nod and she marched around to the back of the bar and flipped over three of the last four glasses. The cherry sat in the last glass like the dot of a question mark.
The door to the men’s room opened and a thick cloud rushed out, chewing through the cigarette fog that permanently filled the bar. Holly and the room full of Skeets instantly knew the smell.
“What is this, high school?” asked Professor.
“Hey, Professor, want a hit?” asked Simple Six.
But as the smoke went out of the bathroom the mellow of the marijuana gave way once more to the effects of The Special.
“Oh, shit,” the last Simple said. “Ohshitohshitohshit.” He couldn’t stop saying it and got louder and louder until he could be heard over the Skeetsy din. Now he was screaming and flailing his arms and pounding the wall.
Holly flinched. Holly never flinched.
“Out,” she said, regaining her veil of cool.
The attention of the entire bar was now on the screaming simple. He’d given up on words and moved to guttural growls and prolonged “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgggghhhs.” Professor Skeets managed to grab onto his torso in a way that incapacitated his arms and two of the bolder Skeets ran over to help, each taking a leg as it tried to flail free. The back door was still propped open from the band repacking their van, and Professor Skeets led the way out and into the alley. The left leg Skeets distracted himself trying to come up with a plan and that was all it took for the last Simple to wriggle loose and kick him in the face.
“MotherFUCKER!” Leftleg Skeets yelled. The other two Skeetses dropped the simple in surprise and jumped back. The Simple, like a mad dog off its leash, snarled and glared at them for a moment before breaking into a drunken hiccupy run and disappearing down the alley. As the Skeets walked back into the bar, Professor hoped his student would make it to class on Tuesday.
Holly examined the damage to Leftleg’s nose, which turned out to be extremely minimal despite the bleeding. She handed him a mostly-clean bar rag and grabbed the last glass off the back of the bar.
“Well done, Professor,” said Holly, offering him the final cherry.
“You too,” said Professor.
Tomorrow, Holly would start calling all her customers Professor.

Monday or Tuesday, Comcast is supposed to come install my internet. Then I can be whole again.

2-legit

I am awesome. The mess in my apartment is now shovelable, I just charged $5.64 at Starbucks to my credit card, and I still have a hickey from my Friday night drunken random hook-up.

Facebook is ruining the anonymity of the random hook-up. In a society that has trained us that "I'll call you" has the sincerity of a passing "Hi, how are you," I did not expect future contact with my drunken one night stand. I was proud of my own lasciviousness, perfectly content to stagger out the door while he slept, hail a cab and get home in time to puke some more. I didn't leave my number or even my broken $2 earring. I figured I was in for some gentle teasing from the mutual friend who, only a few hours earlier, was too distracted to actually introduce us in the first place. But that would be the end of it and I could go on patting myself on the back for letting go and allowing myself a rare indiscretion. Then my indiscretion found me on Facebook, sent me a message making sure I got home ok and apologizing for his half of the drunkenness. No, no, no! Where's the lasciviousness in that? Why legitimize one of my too-few acts of youthful freedom?
But now, thank you Modern Technology, he is human and has a last name and some sense of legitimacy. When I see Mutual Friend tomorrow, I can't just laugh it off. "Ha ha! Yeah, I don't know what happened! Ha ha! So drunk! Ha ha!" Because now there is a person with feelings and, if junior high taught me nothing else, anything said to a Mutual Friend can come back to bite me in the ass.
Birdy thinks I should marry the guy so we have to tell the story of "how we met." Thank you, Birdy.

Do you think there is a prize somewhere for over-analysis?

Dear Clio,

Please write my crap for me, because I can't concentrate and don't feel like writing this shit anymore.

Love,
Annabell

you waited almost a week for THIS?

Things that need to suck it:

• the internet
• school.

The internet is down in my apartment again and my nice fabulous neighbor who lets me steal his internet is missing. I am a bit worried, because last time he went missing he was in the hospital detoxing from his anti-anxiety meds (apparently he has really awful panic attacks). So my inconvenience is comparatively small, but that's never stopped me from kvetching before. And the internet cafe by me was inexplicably closed yesterday, so late last night I headed over to NBF's apartment (he is in London, but I have the key and am supposed to make sure it doesn't implode while he's gone) to use his internet, but I forgot he took his mouse with him and that made it more trouble than it was worth, so I crashed there for the night and waddled across the street to the internet cafe by his place this morning before 10 AM. That's right, I did something on a Sunday morning on purpose. It helps that I have two papers and an online test due by tomorrow - I end up too stressed to sleep late. Splendid.

It's been a very long-seeming week, even though nothing particularly happened. I spent much of it writing my parody of Bartleby the Scrivener for my fiction class. Otherwise, I mostly just went to class, wrote other random crap so my head wouldn't explode, and then Friday night I went to open knitting at this yarn store by my school. That was good, forcing me out of my cave and meeting new people and such. Good for me. I deserve a cookie.

My sister called me last night to ask what she should do about my cousins' dog who just ate chocolate while she was babysitting them. Fortunately it was only a little chocolate and the dog was fine, but this was after she herself went to the emergency room earlier that day to get 12 stitches in her finger she sliced instead of an avocado. Earlier in the week, American Airlines canceled her flight and then lost her luggage for 5 days while she had to keep buying underwear and borrowing clothes.

I saw an infomercial for the Tattoo Factory and now I want one, and though I don't actually think I'll get one, if I did, I would want this artist.

I am very addicted to coffee again.

Enough procrastinating. I need to be writing these papers. They're only 3-6 pages long, but one requires research that I know must exist but I'm not finding. Want to write it for me?

Bonkers

Last night I went out to Tru with my family for a combination of Mother's Day, Father's Day, and my siblings' graduations. I had a stressful time getting there (thank you motherfuckingCTA, rain, bad shoes, and my own frazzledness causing me to wander in circles for 15 minutes within two blocks of the restaurant), then ate too much fabulous food and drank too much fabulous champagne and wine. As a result, I spent today completely zonked out with a weird dizzy migraine. Around midnight I was functional enough to go get some iced coffee, and now I'm trying desperately to write my stupid paper for my stupid civil rights class. It doesn't have to be good or very long, but it's been four years since I've written an academic paper and I'm very slow and out of practice. It is due tomorrow (now technically today). Due by class time (1 PM) on Tuesday is a 30 page draft of my parody of Bartleby the Scrivener. And how many pages do I have of that, you ask? 5! So pulling an all-nighter to work on my stupid class instead of working on the important thing for my major seems completely ridiculous, but I've been working for hours with extremely minimal fucking-around time and I'm only about half way through the information I plan to include in this stupid piece of crap. It doesn't help that I'm still quite woozy (weather? migraine? coffee and drugs took the edge off but not destroy the fog in my head) and incapable of keeping a single thought in my head for any length of time. This is the shit that chased me away from school the first time. I hate this shit. But this time I will actually do it and turn it in instead of running away completely. I have no doubt that I will actually be able to finish the civil rights paper, and then the only things I am doing tomorrow are going to class, going to the gym (I'll have to make it quick), and working on the parody. And however many pages I have of the parody by Tuesday is perfectly acceptable because the final thing isn't due until Thursday and I won't have anything better to do before then. The real reason to have a full draft by Tuesday is to get feedback on it before turning in the final product.

Just. So. Bonkers. I may need to go puke now.

should vs. actually

Things I should have been doing over the past 4 hours:
-writing
-sleeping

Things I actually have been doing over the past 4 hours:
-making cards
-downloading fonts
-WordRacer


Punch me in the face, please.

overheard

A little girl was balled up in her mother's lap crying in a sad, drawn-out wail, "It's hard to be four."
"It is hard to be four," her mother comforted.

I thought that was great.

Grandly Fussy

You know when there's a person you really love but you're spending too much time with him/her and you just need a little space? That's how I'm feeling about myself right now. I'm annoying the hell out of myself and could really use a week's vacation away from me. I am a self-centered co-dependent. I'm a serial monogamist at heart, but I replace the significant other character with a platonic BFF. I am not an easy person to live with, particularly for me.

My brother graduated high school on Sunday. It's an extremely diverse and segregated school. Watching the kids go from alphabetical order into their groups of friends was like watching a fresh deck of cards being shuffled on rewind. I understand the desire to surround yourself with friends who are like you, but your racial/cultural background should just be one of the aspects of who you are. At my high school, it also dictated your interests and aspirations, and that's fucked up. The cheerleaders were all black. The drill team was all blonde (even the ones who weren't by genetics or peroxide had blonde souls). Most of the other official extra-curricular activities were white, except for the specific ethnic groups (i.e. Latin American Student Association). Chorus was mostly white, but there was a gospel choir full of black singers. This shit is stupid. Having a cultural identity is a good thing, but then why the fuck can't we reshuffle ourselves before dividing off into other groups of likes and dislikes. All the writers. All the artists. Split up by favorite color, favorite zoo animal, birthdate, ideal pillow firmness, favorite time of day. Divide by likes and interests instead of skin color. And then let me be selfish/self-centered and go through and find the intelligent, creative, open-minded, sarcastic writer-types and hang out with them. Maybe I'm fooling myself, but I truly believe that we'd have a much easier time finding strong human connections if class and color didn't seep in and separate us out. Fuck JDate, I want CreativepersonDate.

I need to be writing crap for class tomorrow, but I just want to have my temper-tantrum.

pro-histamine

I have a really bad cold. I was going to refrain from bitching about it on here since too much of this blog already is me complaining about my body misbehaving, but tough shit. I keep thinking "I'm sick as a dog," but my dog is not sick. I have no voice. I was way too sick to go to school today and I'm not looking forward to tomorrow since I know I have to at least go down to class long enough for my teacher to be the one to send me home (which, based on the quantity of mucus coming out of me and my crackly man-voice, he might). Someone should make me chicken soup from scratch and dab my face with a warm washcloth while sitting by my bedside with a worried expression.

America's Funniest Home Politics

I would like to be watching the presidential debate right now. Unfortunately, I do not have cable, and it would seem that the networks have deemed America's Funniest Home Videos more important than America's politics.

shhhhhh

Pondering for the night: Secrets. Particularly unnecessary secrets. We all have them, but why? Sometimes we think we're keeping someone from getting hurt. Sometimes things become secrets by accident, like if you don't tell a person something right away and then feel obligated to continue not telling them. My personal favorite of those was when I was in fourth grade and I went to a friend's house and her mom forgot that she had CCD class that day so I ended up going with her to the church and reading in a pew. I wasn't trying not to tell my parents, but they didn't ask me much about how the play-date went. A few days passed and something came up in conversation that made me want to say something about "yeah, when I was at Meghan's church," but it seemed like I couldn't bring it up now having not mentioned it before. Next thing I knew I had this weird little secret.

But my real curiosity for the night is when a person keeps secrets just for the sake of having secrets, like he needs there to be pieces of himself no one knows, even if they're completely mundane. I've noticed one friend of mine tends to do this, with different secrets for different people, and every time he admits some deep dark piece of himself, he ends up getting secretive and weird about truly asinine things, like plans to hang out with other friends.

Ok, so I am guessing at motivation here, but this is my blog and I get to be the narrator and within this little world, what I say goes. So this person's secret-keeping is a habit and a way for him to feel like he's in control.

God I love being the narrator.