It's getting hot in here. Farenheit 9/11, that is.

There are no words.

Holy Whore, Batman! It's Miss Massachusetts!

So I get up. BFF calls. We go to Massachusetts. Easy enough.

After driving for about 4 1/2 hours on what is supposed to be a 3 1/2 hour drive, I get cranky. My sister drove. Her friend rode shotty. BFF and I horsed around in the back seeing Backstreet Boy tunes. Life was good at that moment, I thought.

We have arrived. Shopping was the plan of action for the 2 of us, while sister & sister's friend went to thier beloved Madonna concert. There was a woman outside, dressed like a Christian slut with a sign that read, "The only Madonna is the Virgin Mary" Sister's friend got all up in her face with a camera. Anthony and I had plans of our own. We were going to dress up as Crayola crayons and protest a Maroon 5 concert saying that "the only color is white, and that is the color of God." Racist crayons rule the world.

We didn't take into consideration that it was Sunday. Sunday = Everything is closed. All 5 malls, the outlets, the movies. Now what to do? Shit, we had time to spare. We could ask slutty nun to save our souls, but I didn't have any cash on me so that was out of the question. What else is there to do?

Buy cheapo Madonna tickets and pay a visit to the virgin herself.

I am not a huge Madonna fan. I can dig some of her music, maybe even her attire, but when it comes to personality she's full of shit. I've watched her go between accent to no accent, doing it in a church to Kabbalah. This woman is brings new meaning to the word fickle.

Anyhow...

We go. We get better seats that the 4 die hard Madonna groupies. Kickass.

Diva comes on stage looking amazing. She's ripped. The dancing was incredible. The costumes were my favorite part. She had kickass dancers, kickass shoes, kickass effects. Life was good for the two hours, sans the slow songs and her attempts at guitar. It got hot after a while, but I managed to shake it anyway. I think it was the ambience created by each homosecual in the audience. They were at thier temple. They were praying to thier God. And she answered them by playing her awesome 80's muzak.

At one point she looked in me and BFF's direction. Like, right at us. Now, what's the protocol for that type of situation? What are you supposed to do? Here I was, gawking at the sight of a woman who I saw on TV basically my whole life. My first tape was a song by her. I used to kareoke to her in front of my bedroom mirror. And there she was. I thought aboutflashing her. But then I thought about my sister a few rows behind me. Bad idea.

I saw so many people in the audience who looked like a mirror image of Anthony and I. Girlfriends and thier fag hags.

I'm not going to lie, I had a good time. And seeing a Madonna concert was worth the drive, more so than a trip to a movieplex in Mass to see "White Chicks." I mean, I could see that here. Or never.

To see BFF's accounts of this trip go here.

 

My Weakness

Look at him. I find it hard not to love him. He's amazing. Gorgeous. Hilarious. I could eat him. In fact, I find him hard to resist. Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to...my weakness.

What I wouldn't give to be whatever he's laying on. He's 6'5" of pure goodness and I would prophesize each inch.

Marissa Vaughn. Sounds good, no?

I am a living example that girls actually doodle their names in hearts with boys last names. My notebooks are filled.

My Encounter with a Spider

I am deathly afraid of spiders.

So, you can imagine my horror when my mother asked me to do laundry this morning.

Mother, who is paralyzed with a broken back (as I am typing this she's screaming to me to help her get up from the floor where she's been laying) is unable to do the laundry because our washer & dryer is down in the basement.

I know what you are thinking.

"Your mother still does your laundry?"

Everyone says that in utter disbelief.

So, to clear that up...Yes, my mother does my laundry. In fact, she makes my bed too. I am a 19 year old college student who has an inability to take care of herself. I could see how you would think that.

My valid arguement? I don't care whether or not my bed is made. It's just not important to me. Yes, I could see maybe once a week washing the sheets, which means, stripping the bed and I don't have a problem with that. Sometimes I don't have time to make a bed in the morning. I don't care to. My mom wants her house "tidy." We don't have unmade beds in this house, she says.

Oh yeah?

Back to the laundry---

So, I head down there. First with no shoes, but by the third step I realize I realize I'm going to battle without a rifle. I put shoes on.

I head down, fear is crippling me. Taking over my every step. My heart is in my chest.

I reach the ground. The smell of must and mold permeates my "iron shell" in which I hoped to protect myself from any sort of spider invasion with. Mission abort! Abort! I screamed as I ran back up to my mother.

"I'm sorry," I say with tears in my eyes, "I can't!" 

"You have to! I can't move! Now GO!"

Reluctantly I sigh and huff and puff and stomp my feet to the door. I go again. I take a deep breath when I reach the floor, and calm myself..."ABC123 123ABC" (I saw that on an episode of "Family Matters")

"The spider is smaller than you. You can kill the spider." I tell myself.

"No I can't! The spider will eat my face off and lay eggs in its open festering wounds!" I argue.

I run to the machine. I spot 3 spiders. One in every direction. You think I'm lying? I wish I were, friends. 2 are dead, I know right off the bat. My mother leaves their rotting carcasses there after she nukes them with her mini laser beam she keeps in her laundry basket. Ha! The living one scurries across the the other side...it's now in the between the washer and dryer, in a foot wide space. Staring at me. It's a showdown.

I hear the music. Wah wah wah. Wah wah WAH. A bale of hay rolls by. The wind blows my cowboy hat right off my head. I smile, baring one blacked out tooth. The spider smiles, rearing it's venomous fangs.

Let the games begin.

I stare for five minutes. Shaking in my boots. Frozen with fear.

I run to the hamper. I sort colors and whites at a frantic speed. I dump a buttload of colors into the machine, add soap, turn on, close lid. Then I shuffle my feet over an inch and peer over the side of the machine. He's still there.

And I'm not quite finished yet.

I go to the dryer. He sees me. He inches toward me.

I scream. A blood curdling bloody mary scream. I feel my nose tingling, my face reddening, my eyes tearing. I run to the steps. My mother is blocking the doorway. She somehow managed to crawl across the floor and grab the broom, to shoo me away from the doorway until I came with laundry in hands.

I go back. I hear chants from my mother, "You can do it. You're bigger. He's scared of you..."

I run to the dryer. Grab the clothes. Throw 'em in the basket. And run for dear life.

I run up the stairs and over my mother.

"Did you kill it?" She asks as I rip my clothes off and jump into the shower to cleanse myself from the evilness. "No!" I whine.

"How could you?!" She screams. "Now it's going to lay eggs in the damp clothes. Man, I can't get a days peace! My back is breaking and..."

I try to help, but it does no good. Sometimes you just can't please the unpleasable.

So now I'm sitting here. I feel them crawling all over me. I look like I'm having a bloody episode.

 

I failed to mention my whereabouts for the past few days. Sunday, BFF and I went to Massachusettes with my sister and her friend. That was an adventure in itself. And a story all its own. I will post later along with a link to BFF's account of the happenings.

Good day.

Dinner with the Folks

My parents and I went out for dinner tonight. This isn't unusual. In fact, this is the 5th meal in a row that I've eaten out. But tonight was unlike any other meal I've experienced.

We walked into the resteraunt, the smell of roasted lamb and pretentious filled the air. We were placed at the bar until our table was ready, with the other "stuffed shirts" and their drunk loud mouthed wives. Twas interesting.

My parents thought they'd be cute and nominate me to be DD for the night, seeing as how I'm not "of age." So, I sat there with my Shirley Temple in front of me, silently flirting with the cute bartender as my parents got wasted. I was debating on whether or not I should say ..."as they slowly got wasted"... but this wasn't the case. Within 15 minutes they were finished with drink #2 and ordering up #3. Well, gee, they didn't waste any time. I had never really gone out with my parents when they were drinking...this much. They both became chatty, with each other, with me and with everyone that passed by them. They had blushed cheeks and goofy grins on thier faces. I'm in for a great night, I thought, as I sipped away on my one and only Ms. Temple.

A half hour later we were seated at our table. When my mother tried to get off the barstool she nearly toppled over. It seemed after only one sip of her first drink she began slurring her words. She was giggly, giddy almost. My dad, on the other hand, seemed to be holding up alright. He was more talkative than usual and even became quite the little jokester.

The waitress brought us our first round of rolls (my parents kept begging her to bring more) and within the second, my mother's had disappeared. Obviously, she devoured it. My dad said, "What's the matter? Where's your roll? Did you drop it or something?" Boisterous laughter erupted from my seat. Ah, good times.

The waitress poured us some water and offered us lemon pieces to go along with it. She motions one toward my mother, who says, "What? What do you want me to do with this, Lady?"

I buried my face in my crisply folded white napkin.

By the time our salads came, the table was a disaster. There were crumbs everywhere, silverware strewn about, drips and splatterings of soup on the tablecloth. I looked at our surroundings, at the 6 other tables and their "prim and proper" inhabitants and felt utterly out of place, but happier that way. I'm glad my family isn't perfect. I'm glad we're quirky and unpredictable. I'm glad our dinnertime conversations aren't dull, ever, and I'm glad that we can talk openly about our bodily functions over a good bowl of spaghetti. It takes alot more to do that than it does to talk about politics or money.

Three hours after walking in there, we left. Our bellies were full and our hearts were light. They may not be perfect, I thought, but I wouldn't change them for the world.

Whoa Nelly!

May 26
"The unpleasant truth is that President Bush's utter incompetence has made the world a far more dangerous place and dramatically increased the threat of terrorist attacks against the United States." -- Al Gore
May 26
"Al Gore’s attacks on the president today demonstrate that he either does not understand the threat of global terror, or he has amnesia." -- Jim Dyke
Sources: AP, CNN, GOP.com

 

Hey there, Jim Dyke...ever wonder why global terror was so forth-coming during Bush's presidency?

Of course you didn't.

Because your head is too far up your ass to even see the light of day. Perhaps you should spend less time criticizing God, I mean, Al Gore, and get a job as a parttime contortionist or something. I don't know many people that can bend that way...and still talk a bunch of crapola.

 

 

**Editors Note: Sorry about the political entries. Regular scheduled blogging should return tomorrow. Unless of course, some political genius says something ignorant again by morning. Perhaps it's in the forecast. I'd say theres a 90% chance, wouldn't you?

Monica Lewinsky is a Republican.

Monica Lewinsky accuses Bill Clinton of lying.

Of course she did.

Monica Lewinsky begs to differ. The former White House intern scorned Bill Clinton's explanation that he had an affair with her ''just because I could,'' and accused the former president of failing to correct the record and make clear their relationship was mutual in his new memoir.

In her first public comments on the book, ''My Life,'' Lewinsky accused Clinton of trying to destroy her with his characterization of the affair as something dirty and wrong, and argued the liaison was one of mutual affection.

First off, let me start by saying, if she's so concerned that it was mutual, why is she barking up every tabloidical tree looking for an apology?

And if she's looking for "mutual affection" she shouldn't be running to just any guy, let alone a married one with a stature such as President Clinton's.  She wants mutual affection? Go get a dog!

I'm suprised she looked up for a moment from her cutesy handbag biz long enough to even notice what's going on in politics, now that her name has been deleted from teleprompters everywhere. It was until the release of President Clinton's memoirs that she shows her dirty little face, after a year long hiatus to hide out at Jenny Craig. Take your beret and stuff it.

I'm sure more than half of the sales of President Clinton's books were in utter anticipation of "what really happened" in the oval office. And this just goes to show the shallowness of the American people. Since when did having sex becoming a national issue? Oh, wait, I know when. When the good ol' republican white men congregated at a Tasty Creme for a little sorbet and democrat bashing.

In the voice of Sean Connery: Well, word on the street is...little Billy is gettin some on the side! This will be grounds for impeaching!

Newcomer Republican Jr. in the voice of Peter Brady during puberty: Well, wait, it says here that those aren't, um, actually, grounds for, ughhh impeachment...sir. Sir.

Sean Connery: The day is mine! You have a lot to learn, kid! Now, lets enjoy our ice cream while we demolish that dirty little democrat's reputation!

Evil laughter ensues.

''I really didn't expect him to go into detail about our relationship''

Oh no? You didn't? Looks like someone sucked their way into that internship. You definitely didn't get there with your smarts. Or your good looks.

Americans have nothing to complain about anymore when we are generalized as bunch of "fat, stupid bloodsuckers." If this is why you bought the book, you give the rest of us a bad name. And by the rest of us I mean the ones who look past Clinton's "faults" and see what a (blank)* President he was.

''Instead, he talked about it as though I had laid it all out there for the taking. I was the buffet and he just couldn't resist the dessert,''

Funny. Sounds like someone I know. Could it be you? And since when have you been known to pass up free dessert? Or free fellatio at the Oval Office Grill and Bar?

''It has been so difficult because of so many of the lies that he has told about me and about what happened,''

Oh, I bet it has. But it's good to know that you have moved on from that whole belittling experience. Or have you? Doesn't sound like it to me. Purses couldn't possibly take up that much time. We all know that you are "much better than that."

GO HERE for a little chuckle. Parental Advisory.

 

* I didn't want to force feed you any of my opinions. **

** I didn't want to force feed you any more of my opinions.

 

 

To you it's nothing, to me it's the world.

Can the past be undone?

I stumbled onto a rather large piece of my past today. Having a journal is good for logging the past, therefore it's always only a click away.

I don't know what made me do it. I don't know if I wanted to "catch up" or what. Reading it was like a slap in the face. Again, I am back where I started.

You may all be wondering what I'm babbling about, but I am afraid, for reasons to sustain the nameless, I cannot go to deep into detail.

Going back quite a few months I got myself into a little mess with someone I was very close to. Little is an understatement. I sent out one of my indiscreet personal attacks and got one in return. If only I lived by the Golden Rule, instead of Murhpy's Law.

Do people change? Is there really such thing as forgive and forget?

I don't feel like I can answer these questions. I find myself at times feeling bitter and angry and have always had a hard time "moving on" after a fight or a "falling out" as my Gram calls it. She likes to 'nice it up.'

That little mess has returned. It's back to bite me in the butt, or the stomach, whichever way you want to look at it.

Many lessons have been thrown at me in my years but I'm not quite sure how many I have learned from. Maybe that's what tomorrow is for. But there might not be a tomorrow. (No, I'm not starting rumors about Armageddon again. I learned my lesson the first time.)

I tend to run around in circles. I think it reminds me of the Merry-Go-Round. I'm not sure.

My heart feels heavy and I feel somewhat lost. I know the past can't be undone. I know once words are spoken they develop a tangibility, a realness.  They are in the air and hang around us each second of our lives. I wish I knew what regret felt like before I said those words, before we created a tiny hole that would become the burial grounds for years of a friendship---and more.

This entry isn't to undo whats been done. It's to attempt to give me piece of mind for a sorrow thats been looming over me for months. And even more so recently, given the possible circumstances. And I know one miniscule entry is a drop in the bucket, but one entry filled the bucket when it was running on empty a while ago.

I feel like my life hasn't been anything short of repetitive and stupid mistakes. I'm the dog chasing it's tail. I'm the proverbial equivalent to a caveman. When will that silly caveman learn that when you play with fire, you will get burned?

I don't want to look back with this troublesome burden on my shoulders of all the things I could've done differently. Of course I look back now, with some lessons I've learned along the way, and would like to have handled things differently. It comes with the new experiences and personal growths I've encountered. But how do I keep it from eating away at me? One day, I will have consumed my entire face, and I will still be asking myself the same question. Again, I am chasing my tail. Or my face. Whatever. I don't know.

Save me.

 

 

Weekend Assignment #11 : Summer Tunes

Weekend Assignment #11: Tell us what you think is the perfect Summer Song. And you know what a "summer song" is, of course: The song that seems to promise sunny fun from the first chords to the final drumbeat, the ones that are just made to be played in a convertable as you're cruising your way to that beach party.

Extra Credit: Tell us what you think is the best song for the last day of summer. I imagine this could be anything: A big "last blast" party song, a meditative love song about changing seasons, or anything in between.

Ok...

Let me just start off by saying "Summertime" by the Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff is way at the top of the list here. It straight up reminds me of cruisin' around in a droptop, hitting on the ladies in short shorts...not. It reminds me of a bad rap song gone awry, ala Willenium.

And also, I didn't even consider any of the Beach Boys songs. They all sound summery but unfortunately we are forced to hear them all year round. With a name like Beach Boys, you can't really have much other material.

The song that reminds me of summer more than anything that is not a Beach Boys song (which doesn't leave many to choose from) has to be "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini"   ...that she wore for the first time today...

Funny story... when I was in 6th grade it was imperative that I participated in the "Spring Fling Choir Concert" even though I had a crippling fear to appear in public, wearing a goofy dress, singing on a set of unstable risers. The whole thought of it made me nauseous.

But being absent from choir class the day before the big concert, I wasn't there to defend myself when the entire class took a unanimous vote to nominate me as the "Itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini" girl. But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is this:

It was a cardboard bikini. Cardboard. 

And...can you believe it? It gets worse!

I had to stand in a kiddie sized pool on the stage! In the cardboard bikini! And sing the song!

So you'd imagine my humiliation. And now you understand why I'm taking a Public Speaking class. It's not only time to get over my fear, it's time to move past the public humiliation of being the "girl in the cardboard bikini." Did I mention they also threw water at me? Classic.

This song not only reminds of summer, but it makes me cringe in the process.

And for the extra credit---- although I should get Extra Extra Extra credit for telling my totally embarrassing story....

The song that most reminds me of the last day of summer would have to be..."Walking in the Sand" by the Shangri-Las.

It's got everything. A love story. The end of summer. It's bittersweet and heartfelt by the 3 Shangri-Las and you can really feel and relate to their doo-wops in the background. I can just smell the hot dogs grilling and the sand in my teeth...on a beach where cold cola flows like wine. Ah, summer. Wasn't it great?

Up until my cardboard bikini got soaked.

Home

Driving in from Syracuse last night, Gina said "There's something about this place that just lets me know I'm home. I'm kind of scared to leave it."

This struck something within me.

I, too, am planning on leaving my hometown at some point in my life. Will I come back to it always and feel home? I feel quite ambiguous toward it now, but perhaps thats because I haven't really left. Ever.

I've been away from home on vacations, of course, but having my family there with me always provides me a strong sense of security and home. Being 19, I've only been truly away from home 3 times, without my parents. The first time being when I was 16 and diagnosed with MDD (major depressive disorder) and was hospitalized for a few weeks in Syracuse, which, is only about an hour or so away, and even then my parents visited almost every night. The second time I went on my very first weekend away to Alfred University to visit Justin aka The Minstrel. I was gone for 3 days and had an amazing time. I didn't really want to come back home, but then again, I wasn't gone a long time. When I returned home, I felt bummed that I was back there, to be completely honest. And lastly, a few months back I spent a weekend with Steve in Syracuse and that was a blast! We ate buttloads of takeout and watched movies and went shopping. What's not to love? Again, I returned home feeling blah. These were some of the indications that let me know I was ready to think about transferring to an out of city, or out of state, college.

Utica, New York, where I live, is known for its many inhabitants that "want to get out." They come in two forms: those who dream of leaving and go on to accomplish thier dreams in non-Utica places and those who talk about it all the time and live vicariously through the ones aforementioned. I am afraid that, in the likeness of my family, I will be the latter of the two. I wish I had a driving force or destined fate somewhere that isn't here. I want to get out. Let me out.

This dream is hard to embrace when there are so many factors contributing to my resistance. One being my family and another being lack of fundage/ mobility. I don't have my own car, I cannot travel solo. I may use my parents cars whenever I need to, and pretty much have at my disposable, as long as I bring it back....with less than 100 miles on it. It's hard to be independant when your parents give you mostly everything you need. And it's even harder when, because of that, your desire to go out and earn money is nonexistant. I've had jobs before and I didn't do very well. I'm trying to hold out for something that holds my interest. And there isn't many opportunities here for a college student, that isn't in the mall or at a fast food resteraunt. And I feel like it's better to have no job than get fired from a lot of jobs. Where's the happy medium here? It certainly isn't with the Happy Meal.

I want to go away to college and be able to afford car insurance and car payments and books and a dorm, all the while still looking so fabulous with new clothes and shoes....but I'm feeling sort of pensive toward that whole dream of mine. It may just turn into one of those cartoon bubbles...and then pop. I should find something, I know, to at least save the money I earn while I still have a roof over my head and a car to use whenever I need to. That way, I can have an awesome savings to blow on my education and independant life lessons, which always end up to be priceless anyway. Or so I hear.

Another factor is my parents. They don't want me to leave and they barely support any ideas of mine. I'm sure that if they were behind me I would have at least a tiny bit more motivation to get a job and to pay for myself. It gets kind of embarassing when you run into people you know and they ask in thier usual bullshitting way, "So where are you now?"

"What do you mean where am I?" I ask, unknowing, "I'm right here. Where are you?"

"Ha, no, I mean, working."

I nod my head and turn away, "I don't exactly have one..."

"Ohhh." They say. I feel their eyes burning a hole right through me.

And some of the older people I've talked to always give me a guilt trip or try to make me feel bad about it. I'll throw in my excuse "I'm a college student!" And they always reply, "When I was younger...."

Blah Blah Blah. No one cares.

So this is my home. And judging by the pit in my stomach when I say that, I think it's time I left. Or at least built a future now by perhaps getting a job. A job. God, I hate the way that sounds. It doesn't even sound fun. All the negative connotations associated with that one word is enough to make the unemployment rates skyrocket. I know, I shouldn't see it as a job. *Sighs* I miss Barbies and dress-up. ((((I hear my mother's voice in my head "Dress up? You still play dress up!"))))

Leave me some words of wisdom on the workforce...help me get my butt into gear! It's been almost 2 years!

Just popped in to say hello...

Check this equation:

Marissa + Math = DONE! No more 10:00 class!

I went shopping yesterday. Allow me to introduce you to #83 Glare.

I would like to thank Steve Madden. And the Academy.

I had a grand time getting lost around good ol' Syracuse with BFF, Harley and Gina. 'Twas a pleasant time had by all. Though it would've been extra kickass if Steve (friend not Madden) was available for playtime. But alas, I suppose some people have to work. (not me!)

That's my teensy update until I find the words I'm at a loss for currently.

Until then----

 

I think she's got a gun. Stay away.

I hate computers and the wubbulous world of technology. I hate the viruses that erode their circuits (or whatever) and I hate the popups that fill the screen. I hate the use of internet lingo and I hate that people leave their away messages up for days at a time. I hate the sentences get misconstrued, thus igniting a battle between screen names. I hate the sounds the pc makes while downloading. I hate ctrl-alt-delete. I hate when computers crash. I hate it when printers run out of ink. I hate it when there are "printer constipations" aka "paper jam." I hate it when they freeze and then you start click click clicking away and you close the screen. I hate spam. Lawd, do I hate spam. Both the canned meat and the other bullshit. I HATE CAPSLOCK. I hAtE cUtE tYpInG LiKe tHis. :) And sideways smiley faces. I hate chat rooms. I hate pay porn sites. Free is always better. I hate that there's crust stuff in my keyboard. And that I have to share with 2 other people. I hate that there are fingerprints and toeprints on the screen. And papers strewn about with stupid doddles on it all over the desk. I hate that my cd burner is broken and that Napster went under. Oh, how I loved Napster. I was a pirate, not gonna lie. But I love my journal.

I hate it all.

But this just goes to show, that, like humans, machines aren't perfect.

That doesn't make me any more forgiving either.

How would you like to be a cow? - Mom

I went antiquing this afternoon. Yes, again. I know, I know....but I just love it so much.

And you know what I would love even more?

If I had money to buy things! Or a house to put em in!

I had the weirdest night last night. I had these strangely vivid dreams, that actually left me sweating...I woke up around 6 all sweaty and I got up to stand near my window and I was freakishly dizzy. I had a dream about "He who must not be named" (No, not Voldemort) and it was completely uncalled for. The left me dazed for a few hours but I moved on, seeing as how I had a math test at 10. 2 more days and I'm officially finished with Math. Thank the Lawd.

 I also went to an art show and felt a bit inspired...I haven't "arted" in a while, perhaps I will return to my once so artistic ways.

\\\\\\\La la la la ti da///////

Tis all for now. Check ya later, homeskillets.

Bill finally reaches the big O

I watched Bill Clinton on Oprah. I was expecting so much more and all I got was Oprah interrupting Mr. Pres every two seconds to say something completely idiotic. I certainly wasn't tuning in to listen to her talk about herself. But I suppose I could do that any old day.

Billy seemed nervous. I caught glimpse of shaky hands a few times and he stumbled over words alot. A man who was once so eloquent with his public life and speeches, was now nervous on Oprah.

Which brings me to my one and only thought after watching the show:

Bill Clinton seemed like an American Idol more than anything else. Walking out in a nice suit into a crowd of screaming "fans."

It doesn't take much of a background anymore to make you eligible to write a best-seller autobiographical account of your first job at Long John Silver's. Or your first trip to the local correction facility. Or that time you got your hair stuck in a mechanical bull.

Everything is gold, these days.

Note the sarcasm. And with that---

Good day.

Let me hit you up with some knowledge...

My speech didn't go over so well. Well, I suppose you could say I didn't do it justice. And I didn't. At all.

You'd think someone who is so vocal from their seat could find it rather easy to get up and speak. But I don't.

She assigned us our next speech. 20 minutes. It must be demonstrative. I'm going to demonstrate a crippling fear that consumes your entirity with it's public teeth. Shouldn't take longer than a minute or two until I sponteanously combust. No wait, spontaneous combustion is totally overrated. I want to be different. And unique. Hmm....

I know! I will swell...and swell until I can swell no more. In the likeness of that bluberry chick from Willy Wonka, but I will not float away, as she did. I will explode. My innards and eyes will cover the walls, sinew and tissue all over the desks. That ought to teach her that not everyone is designed to give a speech.

My computer has contracted some sort of STD. It's called the "Trojan Virus" nonetheless. So many jokes, so little time.

I have a test tomorrow and a final on Friday and then I'm finished with math. Goodbye, stout little man with array of gel pens. It's been real.

The whole studying bit isn't going too well. Here I was thinking I was a mathmatical genius of some sort, but I was wrong. Oh, so wrong. My calculator is trying to sabotage my elite skills, that, or it's my "itchy trigger finger" that presses all the wrong shit to give me all the wrong answers. I'm moving to Timbuktu.

No wait. Timbuktu is overrated. Hmmm...

Zanzibar.

Yep, that's where I'm off to.

Driving home from school, it started to rain. It just seemed so fitting.

My next speech, due Monday.

          The first time I went downhill skiing I was beyond nervous. There were no words to describe how I was feeling as I stood in the parking lot of the ski lodge; I could feel myself shaking in my boots. The mountains seemed too tall and standing in front of them I felt so tiny, so insignificant. I was bundled up in a marshmallowy parka, some snow pants with layers of sweatpants underneath, mismatched gloves, a tattered old scarf and a hat that didn’t quite fit right. I was beginning to wonder if it was even mine.

            My two friends and I began sloshing into the freshly fallen snow toward the chalet. It was wooden, with a stream of thick gray smoke flowing through the chimney. Just looking at it made me warm. I knew that hot chocolate wasn’t too far away and that was always a comforting thought. We opened the door and an overwhelming blast of heat embraced my face, and a strong scent of coffee filled my nostrils. I remember thinking “this isn’t so bad” but then I remembered I came here for a reason, and sitting on my snow pant clad ass in front of the warm fire wasn’t one of them. My mission that day was to embrace the cold side of Mother Nature, instead of seeking shelter at the first signs of chilly weather. Once inside, we purchased the overly expensive all day passes, and I, being the “ski virgin,” as they called me, had to rent skis.

            Moments later I appeared in the doorway, looking frazzled while trying to sustain a steady balance while holding two antique looking skis, and child sized poles. My feet were already sweating in the ski boots and I had developed a runny nose at some point during the trek from the car to the lodge and the ski fitting. We weren’t there for more than a half hour when I began to wonder why I even bothered to come in the first place. I am not an outdoorsy person. I don’t camp, I don’t hike and up until today, I didn’t ski. I belong in a mall somewhere, shopping during a blizzard, or perhaps, at  Starbucks, warming up over a steamy cup of coffee, I thought, as I fumbled with the doorknob. And with one clumsy turn, I stepped outside, took a deep breath…and almost passed out from the frigidity. I felt my insides turn to ice. I have arrived, I thought, as I threw down the aged skis with a shrug. “Can we leave yet?”

            The wind at that moment was ungodly. I felt Mother Nature’s finger pointing at me, mocking me in all my naive glory. Here I was, a tiny girl in an oversized parka, with two of my best guy friends, both of who have been skiing practically their whole lives. I skied once in my entire life. It was cross-country and even then I somehow managed to sprain my ankle. The future at that moment seemed incredibly bleak.

            Oh, I spoke to soon. Bleak was an understatement. Bleak was the old 1980 Pontiac Bonneville amongst a lot full of Dodge Vipers. It took no less than 20 minutes to latch my discolored boots into the rusting latch of Susan B. Anthony’s skis. By that time, we had been there almost an hour and none of us were happy.

            We glided toward the chair lift. I felt the snot gluing itself to my face and thought to myself, “Great. There goes any chance of meeting a guy here.” I was almost positive this day was going to turn out to be a bust.

            After much persuasion and a promise for hot chocolate later, I got on the chair lift. I felt most of my uneasiness drop into my dangling feet as I marveled at the sight around me. I felt like I was in a snow globe. The evergreen trees were below me, snow capped and dancing in the slight breezes. Tiny snowflakes drifted past my cheeks and stuck in my hair, until they reluctantly melted into wetness. The cold didn’t seem to bother me at that particular moment and I didn’t find anything unnatural about being outdoors in this type of weather, as I was so obstinate in my thinking that it would.

            As we neared the top, my thinking wasn’t as philosophical. “Shit!” I yelped, “How are we supposed to get off of this thing?” My nerves again became bundled in my stomach, and my hands began to sweat. I remember a distinct feeling of panic prickling in my face and at my temples. My breath had escaped me.

            After a quick lesson on exactly what to do from my friend, and assurance that it “wasn’t the hardest thing to do,” I mentally prepared myself for nuclear war. The questions that were racing through my mind were enough to make Picabo Street rethink her entire career.

“Just stick your poles in the ground and push off,” He told me. So what did I do wrong that made me fall out of the chair and slide down the tiny hill into a small bush? I ask myself that very question everyday.

It took another 5 minutes to regain my formerly upright position before we could even begin skiing to the hill. When we got there, my friends began giving me a crash course of skiing 101, using The Southpark Method. The Southpark Method is from the TV show Southpark, in which Stan tries downhill skiing for the first time. He receives lessons on foot positioning, which were aptly named, Pizza and French Fries. Pizza was the technique used to slow down, where your foot positioning came to a point, but didn’t cross. “You must never cross your skis,” my friend told me, in a voice much like that of Darth Vader’s. French Fries, on the other hand, or, foot rather, is the technique in which your skis are parallel to one another, mostly used for speed and aerodynamics. The combination of the two, my friends explained, is probably the direction I should go in, seeing as how I’m a ski virgin and all. With a few more words of wisdom, we headed toward the edge of where my sanity ended and my journey began. And it was only the bunny slope!

Without even pushing off, I started to set out on two skis that had a mind of their own. I tried to incorporate pizza/French fries as much as I could but found it nearly impossible to keep my mind on technique as well as direction. As I began to gain some speed, I started to scream. My friends were still at the top of the hill, watching as I literally flew down towards the abyss. Before I knew it, I was going faster than I ever thought possible. The wind burned my cheeks, tangled my hair and thrust the hat right off my head. I could barely keep my eyes open as trees and fellow skiers rushed by, blurring themselves into nothingness. I felt them beginning to tear up as my screams of sheer panic turned into those of utter joy. As I started to embrace the pure elation that took over my body, I was bombarded with the harsh reality that lay before me, the parking lot. And it was growing closer and closer with each passing second.

I tried to move my legs, to put pressure on one, then the other, to try to slalom or even to stop. But nothing worked. And I was running out of time fast. Into my vision came a tall snow bank, a thick white barrier between me, the out of control skier, and the parking lot, the icy enemy.

With one swift motion I was one with the snow bank. I watched as my two skies slid underneath the mounds of heavy, wet snow and laughed as I was thrown into it, and then back by the force that was against me. As I lay there, sprawled about in a sheet of white, my poles clutched tightly in my hands, my knees bent upward in a nearly impossible angle, I cried. Not because I was in pain, the pillowy parka prevented that, and not because of the tremendous fear that I experienced while traveling down that hill, but because I had never felt such joy as I did at that moment. My friends came not too long after and helped to dig me out. My laughter at that point was unending. I could feel my insides aching from laughing so hard. When I finally was back on my feet again, my friend asked me if I wanted to take a break and get some hot chocolate. And I replied through streaming tears, “Not yet.”

 I think I was beginning to warm up to the cold side of Mother Nature.

lol.

BFF and I went to the mall today. We wore are shades in, because, let's face it, our future is so bright, we need shades. Clad in Salvation Army mixed with various Gap and Garage Sale items, we strutted our stuff, looking like a million bucks. Well, more like a million bucks in Monopoly money, considering most of the stuff we wore was dirt cheap. We're five flavors of fabulosity.

We were at the mall on a mission. We went to go see "Dodgeball" with my mom. My mother has a problem with saying things correctly so she kept calling "Dawdgeball" needless to say, we made fun of her. (Hey, it was clean honest fun.)

BFF sat in between mother and I, so poor kid really got the shaft. He had to dodge our constantly moving hands, getting popcorn, swapping sodas...and every now and then he had to be stuck in the middle of a conversation during the movie. "Mar! Isn't that so naughty? This movie is so fresh!" Giggles Mother Merry.

"SHHHHHHHHHHH" I reply.

"F*ckin' shut up, both of you miserable c***s!" mutters Anthony.

Anyway......

I loved the movie. Both my mother and BFF hated it. I swear at times I was the only laughing in the entire theater. But that's usually how it goes, whether it be in a theater, school....on a playground. Whatever.

I am bored. And in dire need of some high carb nourishment.

I am talking to an old friend online right now. I am not reminded of the many times spent with him, nor am I making plans to see him again. I am silently aggravated by his online vocabulary.

Him: Sup?

Me: Nothing. What are you up to?

Him: Chyllin 'n' stuff. lol.

 

Christ. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.

And then...it almost always eludes to something sexual. I could be having a completely normal conversation and somehow these guys turn it into a freak fork fest. Example.

Boy: What kinda car u drive? lol.

Me: Jeep Liberty

Boy: u r soooo sexxxxay.

I met a boy at school last semester, we exchanged phone numbers and talked a few times. I am not embellishing when I say that he liked the fact he was "loaded." i.e. buttload of moola.

We were on the phone this one time and he said "Can you call me back on my house phone? Here's the number." So we hang upand I call the number and some woman answers.

"Hi, is Joe there?"

"Oh, sweetie, this is his mother. We're in our beach house in Delaware. Here's the number to the condo where Joe is staying."

Another example. I see Richboy in the parking lot at school.

"Can you help me find my car? I can't find it." He says.

"Well, what does it look like?" I ask.

"it's got...blahh blah blah....Oh! There it is! Silly me!" He walks over to a fully loaded luxury vehicle.

Money won't buy you my love. Though it will come close.

Boy: I spent $300 on my exgf and then da bitch cheated on me. I boughtsded her like diamonds and shyit..."

Me: You're f*ckin' stupid.

I have a new gray hair sprouting atop my head. I will name it "lol."

But for some reason, I am not laughing out loud.

Music Quiz

MUSIC QUIZ

1- What was your favorite decade of music? 80s! Even need to ask?

2- What is your favorite genre of Music?  Um, not gonna lie, I like it all. Give me rap, give me blues, and even country...and I can dig at least one thing.

3- If you were stuck in a jail cell for 24 hours and had to listen to one cd over and over or face death what would you listen to? Bon Jovi "Crossroads" I've listened to it most my life, I don't think 24 hours in a row would kill me. Lou Bega, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

4-What's your favorite song to remember things by and what does it make you remember? What? Oh, well..."Stuck in the Middle With You" by STEALERS WHEEL (ass) "Spread" by OutKast remind me of Mario. We would listen to 'em on a loop while we drove around aimlessly during our breaks at school. 'Twas loads of fun while it lasted. "Rush" by Big Audio Dynamite reminds me of my exboyfriend Anthony. It was my favorite songs on the buttloads of mixed tapes he'd make me. I'd dance to it constantly. Perhaps I should incorporate that into my Lose the Flab program. Hmm. There's an idea. "This Magic Moment" reminds me of exboyfriend Mike. Funny story. We leaned in for our first kiss on our first date, and as soon as we locked lips, that song came on. I knew it was corny at the time, but I wish I took that as a sign to get away while I can. "My One True Friend" by Bette Midler reminds me of my dad. Not only because he's a closet case and die-hard Bette fan, like myself, but because he is my one true friend. "And when I  left, it's you who stayed, you always knew that I'd come home again."

5-What is you favorite song that has recently come out? Contrary to BFF's passion for the new Avril song, (gouges eyes out with a fork) I'd have to say that I really like..."Roses" by Outkast. I don't know how new that is, but I never listen to the radio therefore I wouldn't know any new songs. Most new songs suck anyway.

I found this lovely little survey, over here at the former Random Ramblings : TheDoubleRRanch   Check it out. One of my favorite pieces of literature. If I could bring it into the bathroom with me, I would.

A Low-Carb Entry

This low-carb crap has got to go.

If I knew that carbs were remotely that bad for you, I would've stopped eating wicker furniture a long time ago.

On a food run a few days ago, BFF and I sat amid a bunch of "carb watchers" and joked endlessly about the stupidity of it all. "Excuse me, yes, is this low-carb water? Well, take it away then (shooing motions with hands) I can only have low carb water. My low carb doctors orders." Stated matter of factly. Of course this did not cause an uproar of any type. It's pretty standard nowadays.

"Smoking or Non" has now turned into "Carbs or non?" And there even is special seating areas for those on the low carb diet. It includes: every table in the resteraunt. The Non Carb section has one seat reserved in the broom closet in the back, for that one black sheep who has to be rebellious and denounce any idea of no-carb foods. It gets pretty lonely in there, I must admit. Not lonely enough to make me stop indulging in carb-filled foods that I love, though.

I feel like I'm losing BFF to it more and more everyday. He has always been "conscious" of what he was ingesting, but I catch him glimpsing at the low-carb-no-carb menu from time to time. Traitor. Benidict Anthony.

I need my carbs. I need my energy and my fat like everyone else. Don't listen to the media. Don't listen to your doctors. Listen to me, trust me. I may not be a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that it can't be that bad for you if we've been eating it forever. And lets face it, we're all going to die one day. If carbs are that bad, it'll just speed up the process. And who would want to live without carbs anyway?

Fat isn't bad. Sure, anything in moderation is good, but ditching carbs and calories and foods you love and trading it in for a heavy exercise routine daily, is pushing it a bit. Embrace your carb-filled rolls. I know I do. If you think having a little extra gut hanging over my pants stops me from wearing low rise pants you are sadly mistaken. It will not!

This carb madness needs to stop. Dieting is bogus. And of course, in the likenss of reality TV shows, someone always has to push it too far. Low Carb sodas are the "Who wants to marry my dad?" of the soda drinking world. It's just too much. Just leave it alone, it's fine the way it is. Leave yourself alone, you are fine the way you are.

I am going to chew on some low carb gum now, while I type my low carb speech and live my low carb life. Too bad I won't have any energy for some low-carb clubbing later, as I will pass out from a carbohydrate deficiency. But I must go while I'm still feeling energized. It'll only last a moment or two.

Have a low-carb day. 

Duck? What Duck? - Famous Last Words.

I dont know what will become of this entry. It's 12:02 and I know for a fact, that my children aren't even an idea yet, so I couldn't possibly know where they are.

Speech #3 is a self narrative. I doodled my ideas down like a studious little thing and came up with an interesting story about my first time skiing. Hopefully the class finds it as exhilarating as I do. It was either that or another story about Garbage Picking. Or maybe even a little tale of Marissa's fear of vending machines.

BFF and I are planning a summer road trip for next year. We plan on hitting every Salvo's in the NYS region. No tourist traps, no rest stops, no dingy motels...just us, some musty clothes and the open road. Ah, life, isn't it just the most? To say the least?

I'm waiting for sleep to come knock on my door. It's been a while.

I decided I have a weird obsession. Well, many, but one in particular that I've noticed. I look at people---I'm a people watcher, if you will, and I love trying to decide which celebrity they look like. It's fun. I'm usually entirely way off. Everyone looks like someone famous. For example, I look like Rachel Leigh Cook (going by what people tell me) but it's probably just the hair, I don't know. Anyway, Rachel Leigh Cook is the product of the marriage of Jon Lovitz and Geena Davis. They also have 2 other children; Tracy Bonham and a young Tom Hanks. Also BFF looks alot like Enrique Iglesias with the right hat and shades. Although he, and everyone else, begs to differ. BFF's family tree is also quite renowned for their work in Hollywood. He's the lovechild of Dustin Hoffman and Goldie Hawn.

And with that, I will go to my bed and lay there restlessly until dawn. Unless of course, I concoct that Nyquil smoothie that's all the rave here in U.

Later.

A Rant? A Rave? Maybe both?

I am on edge today.

I went to my message board today, just to see what's going on and it's nothing but depressing shit. A bunch of depressed women, upset about the loss of some jerk.

I don't sound sympathetic, I know. It's because I am fed up with it. Stupid love. Stupid human nature, stupid instincts. I wish we all just needed ourselves and that's it. Who needs someone else to make you miserable when you do a great job of it yourself?

It's hot and I'm cranky. Sleep hasn't visited in a while, and when it does, I just have little visions of Mario-plums dancing around in my head. They are mocking my stupidity. Who could sleep with all of that going on anyway?

I feel like I'm running in circles. And running on empty. To sound like Chandler, "Could it take any longer?" Seriously. Enough is enough. I'm angry. Enter: Bitterness.

Ha. I just got in a fight with a boy who claims I am "too immature" for his liking. Gee, I wonder how he figured that out through our 2 day instant message relationship. What a tool. Then he has to go and wax vindictive in his away message he posted through his teen angst rage : "haha, hum lets all say stuff we dont know about...rreeeeeaaaalll mature ha now i know why im leaving"

I sure hope I told him to EAT IT before he put that up. Ass.

In other news----

BFF and I exchanged words last night. Them words weren't the kind kind either. Maybe we could cross journal to that??

I've decided to campaign in hopes of building a "screaming gym" at the end of each corner. That way, you can go down the street, and scream, and exercise your anger and frustration there. With other angry people. Who knows, maybe I'd find the man of my dreams there. Yeah, a real winner.

"Went to a cashew festival the other day. Yeah? It was nuts."

EAT IT!

Link to BFF

To check out BFF's take on the Sunday Rummaging, go here : http://www.livejournal.com/users/blacktiltwolf/16547.html

Let's get Physical, Physical

As part of my "lose the flab" program, I have incorporated some new and awesome exercises that I myself made up!

First of all, in order to really get in the mood, you must, must put on some 80's groove tunes. In my cd player right now is "The Best of the Flock of Seagulls" "Candlebox" and "Cinderella". Next, you must pick out your awesome exercise outfit. Mine consists of a black tank top, a zebra print thong *blushes*, leg warmers and some really terrific (there's that word again!) sunglasses. Cowboy hat optional.

Open the windows. It will get hot.

First in the routine, I like to do all the "techie" stuff. i.e. lift 6lb. weights in reps of ten, 100 crunches, 1 pushup because that's all I can do, 100 more crunches. Feel the burn.

Now, turn the muzaaaack up extra loud. Make the pictures on that wall vibrate. Get in the mood.

Now shake it, girl! Shake that groove thang!

I don't dance like everyone else. I can't dance. But when I'm doing my 15 minutes of cardio, I must shed my inablity to boogie and get on with it.

I do jumping jacks, shimmies, arabesques, the lawnmower, the catepillar, the monkey...in my room, anything goes! I may look like a damn fool but it's great fun! And I'm always recruiting new members!

And don't forget, you must exercise your voice as well....so sing at the top of your lungs! For example, listening to--and singing along with-- "I Ran" but the Flock of Seagulls, I run at what feels like full speed, when in all actuality, I'm just standing on my green shag carpet! Visualizing the scenery also helps, and is interesting.

I usually pretend I'm on "Supermarket Sweep" searching for the lost Swiffer Wet Jet in order to take home the dough! In the end, I always win! And I get my heart rate up there, nice and fast, and can feel my pulse race. It's exhilarating.

When you are finished, consider lowering the music a bit, in consideration for the sleeping folk, if anything. Lie down on your green shag carpet (cardboard boxes, whatever) and relax. The next step? Sleep. Ah, sleep.

Now you know my secret! Join the club! It's held every night in my bedroom, in front of the mirror. Regrets only.

 

 

Transition, what's that?

I had my speech class tonight and delivered a 12 paged doo dad on the works of Maya Angelou and Langston Hughes.

I may begin a career in the field of public speaking. It isn't so bad after all. Although, I must say, my heart felt like it was going to explode by page 9. I was shaking, but hid it much better this time. My eye contact deserves a Pulitzer Prize, or at least a low grade tee-ball trophy if anything.

I began reading a book from my childhood today. I found it in my mother's closet and thought the timing was impeccable. "The Lives of the Presidents" it's titled, and obviously, that's what it's about. It only includes up until Clinton (who cares about good ol' dubya anyway?) and I read up on some interesting tidbits of good ol' RR. He seemed like a really swell guy.

Spoke with a boy last night, the one who commented in the entry below, and as you guessed it, that would be the infamous him I speak of. There's not much to say. I think our time has passed.

I'm jittery, probably reprecussions from the speech. So many of my classmates were just amazing. I mean, the literature they chose was brilliant in itself, but the delivery was terrific. (Oh my Gad, I just said "terrific")

At any rate, that is all for now, folks. *Bows* Thank you, thank you.

A stick in the mud.

If you keep pushing hard enough will it ever go away?

That's my Carrie Bradshaw question for this eve.

You may ask, "What is this crazy girl talking about now?"

Well, I'll tell you.

As you all know, or may have gathered through my various postings, I am amid "getting over" someone.

It's not what you think.

We were never together. Though at times, I must admit, it felt like it.

So blah blah blah. Shit happened. Enter: my boo boo heart.

We aren't speaking for various reasons. The main one being, it's probably not healthy for either of us. And, as I have learned through many an experience, I must watch out for me, first, so that's what I'm trying to accomplish.

"How's that going for you" You might ask.

It's going pirty well, I must say, although I do experience some minor setbacks. One being, I can't control my thoughts. He pops in every now and then. Sometimes it will be because something truly us-esque will happen and I will want to tell him about. But can't. And sometimes I'll wake up from a really warm dream about him, and BOOM! in sets harsh reality. Okay, it's not that harsh, but still. Another is mention of him. It used to have an adverse affect on me. I used to love hearing about him. Now it's sorta "Well, ok, this is a crappy feeling."

Tonight a certain song triggered these floods of emotions. And a certain memory to go along with it. So now I don't know what to do, so going back to my inquiry above: If you keep pushing hard enough will it ever go away?

I want to say yes, but that seems to idealistic. Sure, feelings fade, but will they spark up again as soon as you bump into that someone? Going away is pretty permanent, and I mean, feelings are there for a reason. And feelings like these are hard to push back. Every now and then I still get a little twinge of hope that fate will keep him in my mind when he deals my next hand, you know?

And if I said no, these feelings will not go away, what am I even trying for? Will I keep setting myself up for the kill? Jesus, that sounds quite hopeless. No, no...that's not it. They will go away. Maybe I should give it more time?

And here we are at my next frustration: time.

Marissa is not a patient girl. I've waited this thing out long enough, I think...it's been, God, I don't know, a month? No, maybe a little less. It feels like forever. Who has time to just sit around and waste precious days and days mooning over a lost cause?! Well apparently I do!

I wish I could move on. But at the same time, I don't want to because I really don't want it to be over. (Though it already is) Maybe that's my problem. I have to realize there is no more and then I can truly move on (whatever that means) and perhaps then I can go back to having normal dreams and thoughts. Without him.

I feel like I'm getting too old for this. Or maybe I'm still too young? I'm torn between "Sex and the City" and "Saved by the Bell."

Lalalalalala...so hey you, if you are out there...you are still on my mind.

Goodnight and wish me dreams sugar and spice and all that other nutmeggy crap.

Rummaging with Anthony and Marissa: No one gets out alive.

As you may have already read, I went to a rummage sale yesterday and came home empty handed...

So allow me to update!

Today, BFF and I went back there on a mission. I had heard rumors floating about saying that today, the last day of the sale, was $5 anything you can carry out the door. So we went. BFF was looking for musical instruments, as he is the very finest pianist in town, and I just went along for shits and giggles.

Well---------------it turned into piles and boisterous laughter!

The place was nearly empty, except for some neglected glassware in the corner, and mounds upon mounds of clothes! There were racks and tables and hangers and boxes full!

We went through everything!

We both left an hour later with huge garbage bags filled to the brim....but that's not the best part! There's more!

We didn't have to pay!

Since we stayed and helped "close the place up" (according to Rick, Rick and Dick (and their other friend we'll call "Paul Simon lookalike")) no one even noticed that we dragged our bags right out of there to the car, without even paying!

No, I know what you are thinking, and we did not steal it, thankyouverymuch!

There was simply no one around to pay, even if we wanted to. And really, who would want to?!

BFF got some awesome suits and such, and I got a buttload of belts, some pants, some extra-wonderful pants, a skirt, a shirt, some boooots (hello 82! I bought 81 last night. That's 3 pairs of shoes in 2 days. I mean business.) a scarf, a puffy shirt (if you ever seen that episode of Seinfeld,) another shirt, a sweater, a vest, rollers (yes, that's right, I bought used rollers!) a garment bag (SO handy!), a glass dish, a sunglasses case and a jewelry box.

IT WAS ALL FREE. Unbelievable. But true!

Imagine what I would've came home with if all of the tables were still set up?! It would've been complete and utter insanity!

And, to top it all off, BFF gave me his old arm bands, which fit me as legwarmers! Oh, life is grand! La ti da di da! *HUGE SMILE*

In other news------

I am hungry and am going to get some food.

Have a lovely night!

"How would you like it if someone taped your funeral?" -Mom

It's 4:00 on a Saturday afternoon and what do I have to show for it?

Nothing!

Last night I decided to peel myself away from anxiously awaiting the arrival of RR's corpse to Simi Valley and go out with some friends. So i did what any other obsessed dead Pres fan would do! I taped his funeral! Isn't that sad? And a little wrong at the same time?

On to today...

I got up at 9 this morning to rush to a rummage sale in a nearby town. The line was absurd! No way was I waiting in that on an empty stomach! So I ditched being "the first one there" for a little corned beef hash.

Feeling a bit more refreshed at 11-ish, I head back over and pay the $2 to get in. Almost instantly I was swarmed into crowds and crowds of homely people, some of who reeked of BO like nobody's business! Anyway, that's not the moral of the story.....moral is:::: I got soooo aggravated I left without buying anything! What the hell!?

There were only a few nice things anyway that I really liked. Most of which were already sold anyway. Some girl picked up this darling polka-dotted dress I was mooning over and tried it on over her clothes right in front of me! I was happy to see it didn't zip, but was infuriated when she forced it to and it ripped! I felt my heart ripping out as I watched her! My face turned red and I'm sure if you looked close enough you would see cartoon smoke coming out my ears! I stomped my feet and clenched my fists as I walked over to the mounds of furniture recklessly piled ontop of each other. This was my next adventure. After chatting prices up and down with the 3 men working there (their names were Rick, Rick and Dick, respectively) I finally got flustered to the max and hightailed my cute little self right out of there!

Fork that.

So, I came home, took off my new shoes* and and plopped down on the couch for a little Queer Eye and A&E's biography of Bette Midler.

And I think that just about brings us up to speed here.

 

*I bought my 80th pair of shoes yesterday. They were orignally $80 and I got em on sale for $14! Life can be gooood sometimes. But alas, like most great shoes, they pinched my feet. So I just pinched 'em back and moved along!

 

 

 

"You're Next!"

I find myself glued to the TV. Yes, even an I, am insistant on watching the funeral for an Ex President.

I always felt a bond to good ol' RR being he was in office when I was born. (This is actually not true. Up until a few moments ago, I believed it to be Bush Sr. who was in office when I was born, but alas, a little research can go a long way.)

Anyway...

I find the services (all of them) to be beautiful. The combination of the music, the flags, the salutes...everything, is just a very special way to be remembered.

In the cathedral, the Ex Presidents were lined up to pay thier respects to their fallen brother. I couldn't help but giggle a little at the terrified expressions of President Carter's, President Ford's and President Bush, Sr.'s faces. It's like they knew that they were next. That death's pale finger was pointing at them, "You're next." The Ex Presidents are no longer invincable. And you can see them shaking in thier orthepedic shoes.

This struck a conversation between my mother and I on death. I told her I wanted my funeral to be like RR's or Kennedy's even. (Now, Kennedy, there's a president I can relate to. We were born on the same day!) I want to go out with a big bang! Of course the bands and such could play different music, perhaps "Only the Good Die Young" by Billy Joel (or, hell, if he's still alive he can play it. Forget the military bands!) And instead of an American flag on my casket (extremely large shoebox, I'm going in style!) perhaps we could put just a nice designer dress or something on the top of it...Vera Wang, or Versace. Depends on my mood.

Of course I will want the same airtime Reagan is getting. A week at least. But I say it now, and I will say it again, do not, I repeat, do not, fly my corpse around and parade it through various states. If they want visit me, they can board the plane themselves and make the trip. I do not want to be having a bad case of jet lag when I reach those pearly gates (or whatever). I intend to be refreshed and dazzling.

There will be no horses.

And if Bill Clinton wishes, he can nod off during the eulogies as he did during Raegan's. I don't mind, really.

I intend to have the same amount of coverage as well. I already have plan with Barbara Walters to interview me as I lay on my deathbed, looking as gorgeous as ever.

My mother, on the other hand, being as whimsical as she isn't, says matter of factly, "I want to be cremated and scattered over the ocean."

"Which ocean?" My sister asks, obviously planning to make a joke, "The Arctic?"

"Hardy har har." Laughs Mother Merry.

"At least we'd get a nice trip out of it!" I exclaim, running over to the other couch, so Mother Merry doesn't try to spank me. (oh, yes, folks, it's true!)

I'm still watching it and will most likely gape at it all day. It's history on television. We know we'll all see a few more in our lifetime, but never again will we see Ronald Reagan's.

Another thing I have noticed is the apparent idealism that is shown after one passes away. He wasn't the greatest president, but they make it out to be. Perhaps it's out of respect.

I'm sure Clinton's funeral will be just the same, with no mention of his inablity to keep his presidential stapler in the presidential drawer in the oval office.

I won't be too far from the television set today.

It's times like these that I have faith in my country. That I can actually see history and understand that it was real and really, aside from a few tattered history books, that's all I've got.

...more to come...

Somewhere in the Distance, a Train Whistle Blows

A storm is passing through.

My dark room turned a bright yellow all at once. It's warning pouring through shut windows, drenching everything it touched golden. I knew what was coming.

I laid on my bed, my head spinning. I closed my eyes to relieve the pressure (migraine) but it didn't help. My heart is feeling a bit heavy, too. I feel like it's been forever since I've had contact with another human. Not generally speaking, but a human---a person---to touch me, to love me. I'm not feeling particularly unloved, I am feeling a slight longing to just be near someone who is capable, able to look past my imperfections and to hold me.

It hasn't been long since I've been with someone...but it's been forever and a day since I've had someone hold me, like that, or kiss me, like that. The type of contact that isn't shallow, or in vain. The type where it's a tangible bead of feeling, that's being shared between two people with a strong bond. And by bond---I mean, an unshakeable feeling of intensity that washes over everything, drowning anything else out without a second thought. It's been a long time.

I can wait. I'm learning that patience is a virtue. But there are times when I feel this way and now is one of them. It's a time when "getting your mind off things" doesn't work. Where you feel so incredibly moved by an idea that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can hinder your train of thoughts to something less destructive, so to speak.

I am drunk with stillness. Unable to move an inch without wondering why. Just why. I can smile and laugh, with these tears, because they aren't sad, nor are they happy, they just are.

As you can tell, I get in these moods once in a while. And sometimes,like this, they are triggered by being moved at just the slightest, simplest things. And other times, its when I'm in a pit of despair, clinging to thoughts of hopelessness, as I lie on the bathroom floor.

I am a thinker. An idealistic girl without an outlet at this time, to release my inner demons. So I type meaningless words on a screen, to attempt to demonstrate the inexplicable (ironic, isn't it?) thoughts running throughout my entire body, in hopes of temporarily recreating a feeling that may cease to exist in the future. But I know me, and I know this will be back.

In a way I'm a train wreck. Messy and inconvienient, broken down and tired. But I still blow my whistles. Sometimes I'm crazy like that.

A look back at yesterday, today.

It's 97 degrees here today which is why I'm huddled here in front of my pc in the air-conditioned house. Contrary to the stifling, borederline unbearable heat outside, it's -40 degrees in here. I'm not happy.

I went to Planned Parenthood yesterday to get tested for STDs and HIV. I figured I should get tested every now and then to keep mysef clean. So I go, wait for what seemed like years, until finally it was my turn to use those infamous stirrups. I stripped waist down and lunged myself forward towards the gyno and, in trying to make light of the situation, joked "No offense!" She didn't get it, nor find it funny once I explained "we barely know each other!" I didn't find anything funny when she started scraping various objects against my vaginal wall, either. In fact I may have shrieked a little.

I get my results in 3 weeks.

On the way out, the Christian fundamentalists with thier WWJD signs offered my friend and I a pamphlet. We declined politely, then proceeded to cross the street, only to nearly miss getting hit by a car. "Excuse us, sir, do you happen to have any pamphlets on crossing the street? Thank you."

And in response to their WWJD---Jesus was a man! Jesus wouldn't get pregnant! Ha!

In other areas...(pun always intended in this journal)...

I have a recurring dream. It's about Mario and I in a car. Each time we end up professing our undying love for each other and proceed to kiss, rather passionately. (I watch way too many movies I know.) This dream, at first, was nice. It was my escape from the reality being we couldn't be together. But now, it's aggravating. Up until yesterday I felt I was accomplishing alot and moving on but then there he was.

BAM! Right in front of me! I didn't know what to do.

There he stood in all of his beautiful glory...lookin as foxy as the last time I saw him. I stared for a moment, in disbelief. Then I looked away, as fast as I could, and tried to catch my breath. How do you react to situations like this? What's the protocol for running into a feeling you're trying to avoid? Well, I did what any other smart girl would...call your best friend, upset, near tears. So I did. And what do I get?

"Did you honestly think you'd never run into him?"

Thanks for that. Need to keep it real. Not. "Of course I didn't plan on running into him! ARRGHHHH!" (or something to that effect.)

So here's to moving on again. Hopefully my subconscious is with me this time. It's hard to forget about something that's always there, though it's fading fast. I guess it's a blessing in disguise though, it did cure me from that poetic dry spell I was amid.

And then I mounted my horse and rode into the sunset. *

Good day.

 

*Editors note : Got some to get my mind off things. **

**Editors note: It didn't work.

 

 

For the 1st time ever, Ladies and Gents...

BFF Anthony and I will cross journaling!

To what he is responding to, or, sharing his own personal account of is this: (A previous entry I have reposted for you convienience)

 

Friday, May 28, 2004
2:52:00 PM EDT
Feeling Silly
Hearing "Pancakes give me the runs" by The Suicide Twins  

"Mariss, shut the F*** up!" - Anthony

 

I'm sitting here, hunched over, at my keyboard. "Hunched over?" You may ask. Yes, hunched over.

After a particularly drunken evening last night in celebration of Harley and Marissa's birthdays, I woke up with quite a few aches and pains, not to mention bruises, that I have no idea how they got there.

I'm not a regular drinker. In fact, this may be only the 3rd or 4th time I've done this, but this was by far the most gone I ever was. Oddly enough, I do not have a hangover. I still wear the sunglasses, despite the clouds, however, to cover my sleep deprived eyes. Everything on my body hurts that was numb last night thanks to Raspberry Bacardi and some man's beer he mistakenly left on the table. Oops, sorry sir, I think I may have just accidentally drank your alcoholic beverage. Thats aaaabsolutely my bad.

Oh, but wait! There's more! (Always is, with you, Mariss!)

My BFF was sweet enough to trade in those initials for some new ones: DD to his drunk best friend. Thanks again, I couldn't have made a fool of myself alone. (Au contrair...)

I will leave you with a personal favorite moment of mine last night. 

Anthony, being the bestest best friend ever! assisted both drunk Harley and Marissa downstairs to the restrooms. I told him I didn't need to go but he found it completely necessary to shove me into the dark bathroom and close the door anyway. How nice. I do a complete 360, like dogs do before they sit, and, being the part-time kickboxer that I am, feel the need to kick the door open. That's not even the best part. Anthony was standing right in front of the door! WHAM! I HAVE ARRIVED!

....WAIT!....THERE'S EVEN MORE!.....

We follow the muttering-to-himself Harley down yet another flight of stairs to the boy's bathroom. Anthoney takes the stall, Harley acquires the mirror (as usual, girlfriend) and I stand in puddle near the urinal. "Is this pee?!" I ask, unimpressed. I stumble into the corridor and bump into an acquaintance of a neighbor of mine. "I need to pee." He says.

He walks past me into the room where Harley is gazing ever so lovingly at his crimped hair (oh yes, it was 80s night?!) and stands at the urinal. Meanwhile, I am mosey-ing about in there, touching Harley's hair, licking his hand, etc. all while this poor boy develops stage fright. "I'm pee shy." He exclaims and walks back upstairs.

'Twas a good night.

 

You can view his story here : Can I take my shoes off?

Mushroom Soup for the Soul

It's 90 degrees outside and I have never felt so inclined to eat soup. I don't know why it is, but I just had a strong, insatible even, desire to eat some Cream of Mushroom soup. And so here I am...sweating my female body parts off, sitting in front of the computer, with a bowl of soup.

On an even hotter note, my neighbors hired some men to install their new driveway and lets just say the view from my window is perfect. So not only do I get to have my soup, I get to slurp it too. With a great view of some rockhard bodies with bulging muscles dripping with sweat...

Ok, I'm back. Sorry. Is it hot in here or is just me and my soup?

It's just me, I know.

Such a Babe

He rocks my world. God Bam it.

The Art of Garbage Picking by Stocky Thunderdumps (my pen name)

As I promised----

We've all done it. At one time or another, we've seen something interesting on the curbside on garbage day and picked it up, and, even if we didn't, we wished that we had. Garbage picking, also nicknamed Dumpster Diving, is the active search for fascinating and sometimes valuable merchandise that others have purposely thrown away. Not only do Dumpster Divers pick up stuff from off of the curb, but they also as the name implies, dive into dumpsters in apartment buildings and behind shopping centers, in hopes of finding something worth saving.

Garbage picking is a type of reincarnation for inanimate objects, so to speak. They are tossed out without much of a second thought and probably immediately replaced. Material possessions have become somewhat disposable throughout the years with the constant desire to revamp and upgrade and improve once perfectly ordinary items. It can also be quite profitable; especially in areas where aluminum cans have return deposits. In more cases that not, items found in the trash can be sold at rummage sales, pawned, or even sold for scrap. It’s not exactly a career, but, surprisingly enough, in some countries it is.       

In several different areas around the world garbage picking is as natural as walking down the street. Argentina, in particular, has an estimated 40,000 to 120,000 trash scavengers that depend solely upon collecting and selling other citizens rubbish to make money, either for themselves or for occupational organizations, which pay anywhere from 80 cents to $4 dollars a day to sort, gather and resell unwanted waste.            

Argentina, as well as other countries, America included, has resorted to garbage picking due to economic crises, war and financial depressions. Even during economic upswings, trash scavenging is a regular refuge for the desperate throughout the developing worlds. In Cairo, Egypt, citizens use donkey-drawn carts to collect garbage to transport home to refurbish and then sell. And in the Philippines, people even purchase recyclable trash from residents.        

 Laws have been passed in different regions regarding the sanitation of peoples trash, stating it must be reduced to a minimum, to not infect or contract any diseases or germs to those who may stop by and rummage, in hopes of finding anything that will sell, in order to feed themselves and their families.   

Garbage picking has also been viewed as more publicly accepted since the laws were approved. Both sides of the spectrum in favor of and against the legalization garbage picking have resulted in communal acceptance. The more liberalized officials have recognized that garbage pickers are living proof that the poor are honest, hardworking people with limited opportunities. The right, more reactionary types, once aggressively acclaimed criticism of garbage pickers, naming them as potential thieves who tarnish the public with their unethical behavior, now see them as a form of the poor, who are trying to make ends meet, despite community criticism.

Though it may be quite socially accepted due to current events in areas such as Russia and Mexico, it’s still relatively frowned upon here in the United States.On one of my usual Tuesday night quests through East Utica, I found that carousing in other peoples trash was not only upsetting to the trash-owners themselves, but as well as the police officers that routinely patrol the neighborhood. I was asked politely to leave and I did without much fuss, but not before grabbing a, what appeared to be,  seven hundred year old lamp, still fully intact with a light bulb and everything.                                                            

 The art of garbage picking isn’t a very hard skill to ascertain. There are three qualities you must master before embarking on your first rubbish-filled evening on the town. One is that you must be very quick. Owners of the trash generally don’t feel comfortable with a complete stranger digging throughtheir garbage cans and recycling bins, trudging through their leftovers and odds and ends in search of gold. They also don’t like the idea of a “garbage picker” hanging out on their lawns for too long. If there’s nothing out of the ordinary, move on. Chances are it’s just a bunch of real garbage anyway. Two, you must be confident in your work. Don’t be timid or embarrassed about what you are doing. Be proud. It takes a very open minded person to be able to poke around in someone else’s rubbish. Think of it as buying things on the clearance rack. If it’s in decent shape, go for it. And don’t forget the manners your mother taught you. They still apply in the garbage-picking field. Ask before you haul it away and say thank you, even if they slam the door in your face. And three, you must have a strong gag reflex. There’s no telling these days what folks are throwing out. Hold your breath, puff out your cheeks and dive in.

Garbage picking isn’t just for those who are homeless, or less fortunate, as they say. “Street shopping” is becoming more and more frequent in areas everywhere, including right here in America. Think twice before turning your nose up at the sight of one of these street spendthrifts, and if it’s me, stop and say hello.

It seemed to go over pretty well. I got some laughter from the class, despite my obvious nervousness. But hey, I have about 6 more speeches before the end of the class in July, so I have alot of time for improvement. Now for that math test Wednesday...keep me in your prayers. And if you're of the agnostic faith like myself, keep me in your pocket for safe keeping.

Shoop this, silly Ho.

I know, I know...I've been busy, what can I say?

I have a 5 minute speech to write for tonight, which equals out to be about 5 or 6 pages long. It's supposed to be informative, so I've decided to educate my fellow classmates on the Art of Garbage Picking. I've mastered it, it's about time they did, too.

I celebrated my 19th and one week birthday this past Saturday with some friends at the casino. There was a buffet involved which always proves to be a fantabulous time had by all. I took my fork and went straight up there...I paid my damn $15 so I was sure to get my money's worth. It was truly a beautiful spread. I believe I may have cried into the salmon's dill butter sauce. And of course, no birthday is complete without public humiliation! All the little waiters and waitresses caroused out holding candles and cake and blah blah blah...Yes, thank you, thank you. Now give me the damn cake.

I was pleased however, at the mega-turnout of the partaaay. Billy Joel and Elton John both serenaded me via radio while I indulged in some starchy food products (potatoes, rice and mac & cheese) But then an unexpected guest showed up---Whitney Houston---and for the record...she was aaaabsolutely not invited. She could shoop shoop herself right past he roulette tables and out the door.

Anyhow, I must shoop shoop myself off line and straight into Microsoft Word. No more procrastinating for me. If I'm going to teach my peers how to Dumster Dive, I want to do it right.

Have a good one.

Shut the Damn Door!

This is me procrastinating. Hello, excuse.

I should be writing a 6 page speech right now on "The Art of Garbage Picking" for my public speaking class. No, the teacher did not assign that particular one to me, I chose it all on my own!

I don't really know what will become of my little essay for spendthrift college students but I am hoping it will get me a very good grade, as well as cure me from my stage fright. Though, I must admit, I'm not so nervous about it, as I am friends with most everyone in the class (all 10 of them) and I'm generally pretty vocal from my seat, hopefully at the podium it will be just as easy *crosses fingers*

When I am finished perhaps I will post some of my speech here, to share with all of you.

On a completely unrelated topic, I saw the third Harry Potter movie today and it was amazing. Trust me, it was so good I didn't even need popcorn or a nap (I have been known to nod off during movies, especially Lord of the Rings. But that's only because its 3 hours! 3! The insanity of it!)

And I leave you with this great quote from my infamous Math teacher concerning winter in upstate NY.

" Utica chooses to use the rather passive solar method for snow removal. They just wait for it to melt. "

The Wubbulous World of Polygons and Stout Men with Bubbly Personalities

My math teacher for this summer is the quintessential example of a teacher...he's squat, balding and quirky. His glasses are constantly sliding down his nose, only to be pushed up forcefully with a finger and a shrug.

"Do you know what a decagon is folks? A decagon is a polygon with 10 sides! Sorry to interrupt the previous turns of events but I know for a fact that you wouldn't be able to go on without knowing that tidbit of information. It's vital to your existence."

It is, I thought. Why, without knowing that a decagon has 10 sides I would not have made it very far at all!

Anyways.......point is this....He's a Milton/ Newman lookalike. Milton of Office Space fame and Newman from Seinfeld. Uncanny.

I was suprised to walk into my class on the first day and see him standing there, pleasantly, his hands folded on the desk. He wore a pair of cargo shorts with a tie and had an array of gel pens in ever color imagineable in his shirt pocket. He seemed nice enough. When I raised my hand, later that class, and answered a question incorrectly (which is exactly why I don't do that anymore) and he exclaimed, after a short pause for dramatic effect, "NO! You're wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MWAHAHAHAHA" 

It's true. Actual, real life evil laughter. It sounds cruel, but I wasn't offended. I had to laugh. He's hilarious.

And he's the reason I roll out of bed every morning at 8:30 am, though reluctantly, to rise only to mess around with my calculator and go home 2 hours later. For 3 credit hours, it's worth it.

 

 

 

It's not Space Dementia, I'm just messed up.

It's 2:00 on another overcast day. What does a girl have to do for a little bit of sunshine?

The other day I read quite a few journals that AOL has to offer. I went from link to link and found some really great little blogs and instantly added them to my favorites list. I will post them here when I get more time. (I'm in between classes right now)

Something hit me last night, as I closed the last page of the 2nd Harry Potter book, that being that after all I have been through in the last 6 months or so, there is one thing that is still constant and ever present in my mind. I want to go on with college to get my bachelors. (I'm working on my associates. Graduation next May *crosses fingers*) Not only do I want to finish college, but I want to do it ANYWHERE BUT HERE! Yay for me leaving this place! Sayonara!

Yesterday I spent some time with Anthony and Amee`. We experienced the end of the world together. Or that's what we thought was happening.

Picture it---

A lovely day with 3 friends chatting it up and all of a sudden.....BOOOM CRASHHHH BOOOOOM! Thunderstorm? No, it couldn't be! It was just 75 degrees and a perfectly blue sky! We run out to the porch and wouldn't you know it.....what appeared to be one massive gray cloud blanketed the sky....but only half of it. The other half was still a vibrant blue. And then it began to hail. Haillelujah, I said. And then I ate some.

"It's so nice to spend the end of the world with you guys." I proclaimed, removing my shoes and running into the street. I splashed in some puddles until I realized it was sewage.

Happy Armageddon, everyone!

Goodbye.

It goes as follows:

So this is it. I am done now. Last night was my reassurance that this isn't going to work. I've held onto the hope for too long now and I am finished with it. I want to say thank you, first, for the wonderful days and days we spent together. It will be something I will hold close to me for a long time. I won't forget you, that's a promise. I wish it didn't happen this way. I didnt want those memories we made tarnished and tainted with prolonged agony of letting go and they somewhat are. You are beautiful. You are amazing, despite everything that happened between us. You are a good person. I am not good at goodbyes or moving on, but I must learn how to and the journey begins now. I am sorry we couldn't be friends and even more sorry we couldn't be "together" (in that way.) I spent many many many nights lying in bed, wishing you were there holding me, even though I knew you weren't thinking the same thing. And thats where I went wrong I suppose. I'm not going to cry, this time, I'm holding 'em back because I don't want to say that I cried over losing something that was never mine to begin with. I will miss you, and the idea of us. I'm getting off this roller coaster and stepping back onto solid ground where I can catch my breath. I am tired. I don't know what else to say. I have nothing left in me to give you, or to try to give you. Goodbye. Don't forget me. And I will give your movie to Ant to give to you, so don't you worry. Take care of yourself and I hope to see your name on the Oscars list for Best Director one day. You'll win. Sometimes you can just tell these things.
                                       
                                          Marissa

 

So Goodbye, again.