After 5 and a 1/2 grueling months, I have religiously watched and TiVo'd Jeopardy to watch in anticipation of Ken Jenning's fateful day, and who knew his 75th would be his last! On such an easy question too!
I bet he gets shoved around on the playground now because he lost to a girl! Eww cooties!
Another long night at work. They said they had to cut hours, therefore those lucky ones like myself have to work short-staffed and stay an hour later than scheduled to rework the entire store so it's in presentable order. Its at times like these, when I'm rushing around with cart after cart of reshops, an hour after I was supposed to be home, that I am so dumbfounded as to the incompetence that is the human race. May I ask you, what is so hard about putting the potted silk poinsettas back where you found them? Howabout just as a general rule, we start doing that. Like "eye for an eye," only "from one worker to another, cut me a little slack."
So now here I am, in the sleeping house, my feet absolutely stenching of Doritos, or some other highly salted snack food, with a pounding headache, depression and a sense of worthlessness.
If it wasn't for that sweater vest, I think I would've killed myself tonight. Or at least overdosed on Sex and the City. You know, whichever.
So you know how I was completely underprepared for school in the previous entry? Apparently that was the truth. However, it appears that I was completely prepared for a full day of shopping and eating with my mom! So I've officially been out of school for one week. Well, three days. The rest of those were Turkey Leftovers that they allowed us to break our chains temporarily for a little bit of post-turkey recovery and extra study time for upcoming finals. (Sorry Kathleen! I had to mention 'em again!)
But on an extremely lighter note - - - though the shopping bags were heavy - - - my mom thought it'd be nice to treat me to new clothes! I'm gon' be ultra nerdy chic tomorrow in my sweater vest. I will look sexy, yet studious (see above picture). Irresistable yet modest. Until I open my mouth. Then no doubt the modesty levels will plummet. See, that's what people don't know about me. I'm totally full of myself. I'm so fabulous I pee glitter.
Well, I 'spose that's actually because I work in a craft store, but I digress.
These past few days have been nothing but tiring and depressing. If you thought my outlook on life was bleak before, wait until you read on.
Working in the retail business during the holidon't season has taken a toll on my sanity, well, what was left of it anyhow. I've realized what chumps people are. They want the world handed to them on a silver platter, and they don't care how much the silver platter costs; just put it on the Visa, they'll say. They don't even bother looking around for what they want. They all flock right over to customer service, or better yet, someone in a red apron whose heading to the break room. Always headed toward the break room. It's like they don't want you to eat or give you the chance to pee. They must think it's funny watching you squirm as you show them where the Gloss Your Own Christmas Balls sets are. I'll give 'em a set of balls to gloss. Their own. And then I'll tell them where to shove them.
A woman yelled at me while I was working. She told me to do my job. Excuse me? I wanted to say. Do my job? Howabout your job of being a respectable human being instead of a total asshead? Instead of losing my cool - - -and we all know I have tons of that - - - I killed her with kindness, so to speak. With a voice two pitches higher than normal.
But to even things out, a woman came through my line and blessed me. No, folks, I didn't sneeze. She was, and I quote, "a messenger of the Lord." I was taken aback, but I remained calm as I packed up her red feather boa and hemp jewelry kit and thanked her kindly for passing God's good cheer over my way. I made sure to shower when I got home. I don't want to catch your religion.
I've been getting home so late these past few nights that no one has even been up when I get home. I make myself some reheated dinner, usually T'giving leftovers, and sit and stare at the wall as I sit alone and eat. And then I go to bed. Rinse and repeat. If I knew this is how life was going to be I wouldn't have ever signed up.
And as for friends, well, we know how that goes. Not only is Marissa a trainwreck in the relationship department, but make that ditto for friends. I don't evenknow why I bother sometimes. Friends that have showed promise for always being around haven't been around. In a long time. One friend hasn't even spoken to me in about 3 months now. And it's not like I haven't tried, I call and leave messages but to no avail. And if I mean that little to him that he can't even bring himself to tell me what's up, then I need to cut the ties and move on. I could use my Verizon minutes elsewhere.
I've also been realizing that I'm a bit of masochist when it comes to emotional relationships. The poison levels keep rising and I just keep going back, like some sort of addict. They should have a Betty Ford clinic for love fiends. I wish I could tear myself away once and for all and never go back. Ever.
I have three college applications sitting in my room, waiting anxiously until I cash my paycheck to pay the hefty application fees that go along with it. I don't understand why I have to pay $40 now for a college I don't really even want to go to. Or $50 to the one college I really want to go to, considering they'll be getting $36,000/year of my hard earned money for the rest of my life. It hardly seems worth it. And a degree for what? Writing? Look, I'm doing that now with an ASS degree. I earn the OCIATES part of that degree this May.
I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the amount of money people spend in my store. I rang up a person for $450 today, and they bought nothing but garland. I wouldn't even pay that for Judy Garland. And somewhere down the street I'm sure there's a man with no home and no food in his stomach, but at least the man's house he sleeps in front of is decorated nicely. Priorities.
Class starts up again tomorrow. Two more weeks until finals and I am nowhere near ready. Nor do I feel like being ready. That depression thing is kicking in full speed again. Anthony and I went to Barnes and Noble last night and I made my maiden voyage into unchartered territory. The self-help section. I know it's time for some help. I picked up the latest edition of Depression for Dummies and turned to the front cover. It had a checklist of all the symptoms and traits of depression and guess who got a 17/20? That's right. Yours truly. Here I was beginning to think it was all in my head. Who knew I'd be right?
I am beginning to wonder, however, if it's not just a chemical imbalance or a mood disorder, perhaps it's a bad case of PMDD? I think that's something worth looking into. I've noticed there are times when I feel worse than others, usually by mid-month and I'm not sure about a hormone imbalance since I've started using birth control, which gives me small extra doses daily of my hormones. I wish I could just find the answer. But I do know that going to a therapist again would be nothing more than expensive.
That's it for now. My bed is calling me and fortunately, I cannot think of better place to be right now. Unless of course, it was happiness. I hear it's better than air.
My drug.
Here's a list I put together for all the things I'm thankful for this year.
1 - Breakups. They get a bad rap, but sometimes it just needs to happen.
2 - Journals. What would I do without mine? I'd have to tell everyone what I really thought of them instead of just posting it here. Thank God for technology.
3 - Anthony. He's beyond good to me.
4 - Sangria. It's what got me through family time today.
5 - Carrie Bradshaw. It's good to watch someone other than myself mess up for a change. And she does it with such style.
6 - Amber. Could her accent be any cuter? She took the word "creepy" right out of "we met online."
7 - Cute men.
8 - Self-expression, no matter what its form, if its yours, its you.
9 - Fool-proof methods of birth control. There's no greater present than knowing you're not pregnant for the holidays.
10 - AOL JOURNAL COMMENT ADDED Alerts! Love those!
11 - Bill Clinton. I find the least bit of comfort in knowing the world wasn't always this screwed up.
12 - CSPAN. It's good to know there's always good TV waiting for me when I can't sleep.
13 - TiVo. With my new crazy schedule, it's hard to catch Jeopardy everyday.
14 - Electric Blankets. Dante never mentioned the inferno was this good.
15 - The 80's. Do I need a seperate number for Top Gun?
16 - Coffee. That columbian man is in for some sexual favors if he and his horse ever come to my window.
17 - The Backstreet Boys. Loving someone who was too famous to actually hurt me was probably the best kind of love I could have.
18 - Friday mornings with my dad. We go out and get coffee and Italian pastries before I go to class and he goes to work. We sit and talk and when we leave, I kiss him goodbye and thank him for our date.
19 - That the holidays are almost over.
20 - Me. I am thankful that I've made it this far and that I couldn't have shared with anyone better.
Feels great to sit back and relax in front of my computer after another grueling day at work. I must remind myself to enjoy tomorrow as much as I possibly can, since it's my only day off for a long time. Let the meloncholy begin.
My head aches and my stomach is wrestling with the huge pulled pork sandwhich I just ate (yes folks, I do realize what time it is and what I really wanted was a pushed pork sandwhich. HAHAHA.) I can't wait to fully digest and crawl into my bed. I spent 6 hours baking today, and 6 hours working. That's 12 hours I feel I could write off for tax season next year as a donation of my time and services. I even stayed late at work to help get ready for that disgusting holiday Black Friday which is rapidly approaching, to my utter dismay. I just don't see the appeal here people. What is it about EVERYONE being out shopping that makes you want to join in? What happened to all the social misfits and hobbits of the world? How did you get them to come out? Free samples of Zoloft and a flyer for Best Buy? Gee, why didn't they think of that 10 years ago!
Come to Michael's everyone! It's your one-stop for everything craft, including mac & cheese! There's a gift for everyone here! Howabout a nice stationary set for those on your list who don't like moving gifts? (Get it? Hahahahah!) No? What do you say about a Stuff Your Own Teddy Bear Kit! Your wife said she wanted a Teddy this year! And if she gets mad and throws it at you, just remember to keep your reciept and within 30 days you can exchange it for that glue gun you've been eyeing. Don't know what to get your bratty kids? How about a muzzle. We don't sell them here, but you can go right next door to Pet Supplies Plus and get one there. Might as well pick up a kennel and a leash while you're at it. Don't know what those little bastards have on their minds. Still confused about what to get dear old mom? Howabout cake decorating classes? Tell her how much you she means to you but let her down gently when you tell her her frosting flowers look like shriveled gentalia. She'll keep you at the top of her list next year.
For all of you out there who plan on going out on Black Friday, remember, as long as your patient and respectful to your cashiers, they will be to you too.
Operation Optimism isn't going so well today. I think holidays were invented as a ploy to make people buy all sorts of high blood pressure and depression medications, back massagers and recreational drugs. If holidays all over America were cancelled, I'm sure drug use would be at an all time low, as well as intramural MAOIs. Communist places like WalMart and Target would be forced to close down, due to low enrollment in Christmas shopping and holiday spirit. With the elimination of holidays, the world would be a much better place. Not to mention safer for Elmo fans everywhere.
I've baked 3 of my 5 goods for the feast tomorrow. It's alot of hard work just for some quality family time, which, when you think about it, should be everyday anyway. Do you really need a butchered bird stuffed on your table to show your love and gratitude for everyone? It's silly when you think about it. Whatever happened to sending a Thank You card to show your appreciation? Who made mounds and mounds of fatty foods essential to togetherness? I don't think that's what Squanto and Gang had in mind. I think homeboy was just hungry from all the traveling. I bet somewhere down the road, holiday authorities met up with representatives from the McDonald's industry and just decided that eating yourself into oblivion would be a better way to spend time with your family. Eat so much turkey that you pass out and don't have to deal with gossipy grammies and loudmouth uncles. Thank god for those Nyquil nutrients infused in the turkey. Now that sounds like a holiday to me.
I don't know when it was that I stopped caring, rather, stopped caring that I didn't care in the first place. I've become absent-minded toward all the things I once considered important, priorities. I've become sucked into my own self-destructive behaviors and thoughts that I forgot that I used to have a life. There was a time not too long ago that you could see my floor in bedroom, it wasn't covered in piles of meaningless papers and dirty clothes. And at that same time you might spot a smile on my face every now and then, or in the midst of creating something all my own. But now my pen lays wordless at the side of my poetry journal, the blank pages staring at me so emptily, mocking the shambles that have become my existence. You coould look forever to find the light in my eyes but you may never find it. I'm sunken into myself, I'm tired of this. I'm the only one that hurts me. I'm the one who holds the dagger close to my sides, feeling it's lack of warmth stick to my skin. It reminds me that I am human. It reminds me that I'm alive. I don't feel sorry for myself, I know any hole that I am trying to crawl back out of is one that I've dug myself. And I know that any anger or bitterness that I hold is strictly my pain. I'm the one allowing myself to feel those things. It's no one else's fault. However, I do take comfort in knowing that I'm not that gone where I can no longer feel, regardless if they happen to be detrimental to my sanity. I thought today about the possibility of there actually being possibilities for me, instead of the impossibilities that douse my spiritual flame, that curdle each of my dreams at their core. I'm torn between who I feel I really am and who I think I should be. But I can't help but to feel unreal despite the reality that slaps me in the face every so often. What changes do I need to make to turn this whole mess I got myself into around? Is my attitude whats holding me back from contentment and an ounce of sanity? I think that I need to let go of all the negative feelings of contempt and anguish I hold so close to me everyday, that I've been letting it define my existence, as well as my actions. I don't want to be my own twisted marionette, I don't want to be my own demon. I have crashed into a pile of my own past. I need to own my shadow. I need to become my own saving grace. I need to fix this huge mess I've gotten myself into.
But first I need to set things right.
I'm sorry.
There are times that I don't know where I'm going. And sometimes I can't figure out how I've become so jaded into my way of thinking. Once upon a time, I was not like this. I don't know what's happened in the last few months, but it's definitely not that personal growth thing. Trotting back to October of last year, I realized I needed time for me, in which I could grow into my own skin, so to speak, so I can do things and create things and become who I know I am, somewhere deep inside. But just as she was beginning to surface, something happened to make her hide herself again. I know she's in there somewhere guys, you just wait and see.
I had woken up this morning with a semi-good outlook for the day. I planned on skipping school along with my partner in crime Anthony and drive to Syracuse to see my cousin who was home from college.
We had a fairly easy drive up there, complete with Ashlee Simpson and good conversation, and met up with my cousin and our friend Heather downtown. We ate and laughed, alot, hit up some stores before heading back home. But it was a weird day, too.
The sun was out, it was 60 degrees, an oddity, and I drove with my window down. It felt like deja' vu`. I had done this before, though in different company.
Think 6 months back, in the mid-May, spring just beginning to unravel and wrap its warmth around the city. Mario and I drove up to Syracuse together, donuts in hand, spirits high. Together we painted the town red, in the truest sense of the word, with laughter and light-heartedness. We went shoe shopping, movie shopping and ate at the BBQ. We'd done just about everything. We even hit up the fertility clinic!
I can't lie about the feelings I had that day just like I can't lie about the feelings I have now. I've been around long enough to know that this isn't something to pass up. You know that old saying, "People come into your lives and leave footprints on your heart when they leave," (or something like that) well, he didn't leave footprints. He left something a little more than that, I guess you could say.
From the moment we met we were instanly swarmed into this plethora of emotion, that goes beyond definition. Never once had I felt an intensity such as this, a connection stronger than the one we shared. I can replay certain things over and over in my mind like a movie and like that, it all just comes back like it was yesterday. An irresistible force was present each of those random run-ins, to the planned ones. You could physically feel it in the air when we were together. And trying to fight that off is trying to tell the earth to stop turning. I've stopped trying.
I do believe in fate. I believe in the random collisions of molecules forming chemical reactions, and I believe in the random collisions of people forming chemistry. I don't think anyone quite understood how shook I was. I don't think I quite understand it. But I don't need to understand it to believe it.
On the drive home I was smiling as I listened to my newly purchased Tom Waits album (Mule Variations, check it out!) and I was beginning to feel good about the day ahead, since it was still fairly early in the afternoon. And it was sunny.
Something happened though. I slowly began to feel my rare good mood slipping through my fingers. I had tried so hard to take Amber's advice and think optimistically, but I was faltering. Maybe pessimism really is my schtick.
Come on up to the House - Tom WaitsWell the moon is broken
And the sky is cracked
Come on up to the house
The only things that you can see
Is all that you lack
Come on up to the house
All your cryin don't do no good
Come on up to the house
Come down off the cross
We can use the wood
Come on up to the house
Come on up to the house
Come on up to the house
The world is not my home
I'm just a- passin through
There's no light in the tunnel
No irons in the fire
Come on up to the house
And your singin lead soprano
In a junkman's choir
You gotta come on up to the house
Does life seem nasty, brutish and short
Come on up to the house
The seas are stormy
And you can't find no port
Come on up to the house
There's nothin in the world
there's nothin in the world
that you can do
you gotta come on up to the house
and you been whipped by the forces
that are inside you
come on up to the house
well you're high on top
of your mountain of woe
come on up to the house
well you know you should surrender
but you can't let go
you gotta come on up to the house
It has become apparent to me that the infamous Battle of the Sexes is slowly turning into World War III, present company included. Being a Sex and the City addict and watching a couple episodes a night is starting to take a toll on my hormone levels. What should be the regular daily amounts of the female hormones estrogen and progesterone are nearly tripled while watching the girls find love, lose love and bitch about love, all in one night. It's a bit excessive, I know, but in a world that's obsessed with finding, and more importantly---keeping love, it's all I'm getting for the time being. I know you all probably think I'm the Queen Mum of Man Hating, but you are sorely mistaken. And here's my disclaimer to prove it: I don't hate men.
But it's not just the women who are drivin' the tanks, men are just as busy packing their muskets (or whatever guns are used during wartime these days) to prepare to fight back the opposite sex. A friend of mine turned the tables on the usual man-bashing and created his own female-bashing, after being forced to watch, gasp, Sex and the City, episode after episode on a bus trip to New York City. I don't know if he hated it to serve and protect the ego of himself and his fellowman from the subject matter of girls having lunch or if he truly hated girls, after watching them be honestly represented within the four main characters. The truth is, not all women are like that, however, most are. Maybe it was the harsh truth of what we were really like that offended him and that he could no longer view us within his masculine perception of what a woman is and should be. Maybe he should tune into Desperate Housewives for an encore.
It's hard for me to believe that the rift between men and women is widening, yet again. Instead of fighting over every last nickel and penny, we should be standing together with the freedom provided to us to do everything we want to do, regardless of what's between our legs. When will we realize that we're not so different after all? We all share the common forces of human nature that drive us to do crazy things, like fall in love.
We are not perfect. And I'm certainly the prime candidate for imperfection. I'm moody and jealous, selfish and sad. I eat inbed and don't shower on a regular basis. I have too many pairs of shoes, holes in my jeans and watch Roseanne. The list could go on and on and on, but my point is, perfection is not love. I know how to love and I know how to be loved and I want a man who can do the same.
Normally I would end this by saying such a man doesn't exist but I want to get off the train to Bittertown, USA and board one to happiness instead.
I'm not in the writing mood right now. So a quick update:
Work work work work work.
Until then...
As I prepare to embark on yet another journey to see Bill Clinton (though this time doesn't involve standing in the subzero temperatures of Upstate NY for a glimpse of the former Pres, I'm talking about ABC, baby!) I wanted to make a quick visit to my journal to spew about an encounter I had today at school.
There's a kid in a few of my classes, Brian, and him and I got to talking on the mere basis that we're both social misanthropes, so to speak. (Oddly enough, we were reading "The Misanthrope" by Moliere whilst we discovered this.) He walked me to my next class today and we stood outside talking for about 20 minutes about how much we hate this, criticize that...blah blah blah. Apparently I have a reputation as a sort of crank, it has been brought to my attention, not only by my classmates, but by myself. Hearing myself talk about "pro-suicide" and "Dr. Kevorkian's mistress" and "You suck at life," kind of makes me want to cry! (And I'm not just saying that to make me sound like a good person!) I never realized I hated life that much. But for once, I didn't have to feel bad about going on and on about my theories of "personal darwinism" and doing lines of Zoloft to make it through the day, because Brian understood.
Do I really hate life?
Yes and no. Yes when I'm utterly frozen with anxiety and overwhelmed with sadness. No when I'm amid contentment and peace. Where is there that happy medium?
I'm not ready to give up my life and display acts of hermitism by never leaving my cave. Yet I don't think there's enough out there to support my depressive ways and bring to a point of sanity.
How do you end an entry like this? Should I just use a farming device and talk about Bill Clinton again?
Ok, we'll do that.
Bill Clinton will be on in 20 minutes, I must prepare! Until then!
Driving home today, I was listening to one of my biggest guiltiest pleasures, "The Buzz," which is like an late 80s - early 90s classic rock compilation cd. Yes, I know, bad taste in music, but whatever. Anyhow, I came across this song that I LOVE! Now, I didn't really like it when it first came out in circa 97', however, while tryin' to "get in the mood" (if you will) the other night, Cuddle Buddy over thurr' put on one of his exceedingly eclectic mixes while we hopped in the sack, and wouldn't you know, after Vanessa Carlton (rolls eyes), "One Week" by The Barenaked Ladies came on. Nothing says "do me" more! If you have never heard this song, I suggest you become a pirate and download it. You simply haven't lived.
Barenaked Ladies
One Week
It's been one week since you looked at me
Cocked your head to one side and said I'm angry
Five days since you laughed at me saying
Get that together, come back and see me
Three days since the living room
I realized it's all my fault, but couldn't tell you
Yesterday you'd forgien me
But it'll still be two days till I say I'm sorry
Hold it now and watch the Hoodwink
As I make you stop, think.
You'll think you're lookin' at Aquaman
I summon fish to the dish,
Although I like the Chalet Swiss
I like the sushi'cause its ever touched a frying pan
Hot like Wasabe when I bust rhymes
Big like LeAnn Rimes
Becasue im all about value
Bert Kaempfort's got the mad hits
You try to match wits, you try to hold me
But I bust through.
Gonna make a break and take a fake,
I'd like a stinkin' achin' shake
I like vanilla, its the finest of the flavours
Gotta see the show, 'cause then you'll know
The vertigo is gonna grow
Cause its so dangerous,
you'll have to sign a waiver
How can I help if I think you're funny when you're mad
Tryin' hard not to smile though I feel bad
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Can't understand what I mean? Well, you soon will
I have the tendancy to wear my mind on my sleeve
I have a history of taking off my shirt
It's been one week since you looked at me
Threw your arms inthe air and said you're crazy
Five days since you tackled me,
I've still got the rug burns on both my knees
It's been three days since the afternoon
You realized its not my fault, not a moment too soon
Yesterday you'd forgiven me,
And now I sit back and wait till you say you're sorry
Chickity China the Chinese chicken
Have a drumstick and your brain stops tickin'
Watchin X-Files with no lights on
We're dans la maison
I hope the Smoking Man's in this one
Like Harrison Ford I'm gettin frantic
Like Sting, I'm tantric
Like Snickers, guaranteed to satisfy
Like Kurasswa, I make mad films
Okay I dont make films,
But if I did, they'd have a Samurai
Gonna get a set a' better clubs
Gonna find the kind with the tiny nubs,
Just so my irons aren't always flying off the back-swing
Gotta get in tune with Sailor Moon
Cause that cartoon has got the boom anime babes
That make me think the wrong thing
How can I help if I think you're funny when you're mad
Tryin' hard not to smile though I feel bad
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Can't understand what I mean?
Well, you soon will
I have the tendancy to wear my mind on my sleeve
I have a history of losing my shirt
Its been one week since you looked at me
Dropped your arms to the sides and said I'm sorry
Five days since I laughed at you and said
You just did just what I thought you were gonna do
Three days since the living room,
We realized we were both to blame, but what could we do?
Yesterday you just smiled at me
Cause we still got two days till we say we're sorry
It'll still be two days till we say we're sorry,
It'll still be two days till we say we're sorry,
Birchmount Stadium, home of the Robbie.
Yesterday was my second day back at work and I was kind of excited to see some of my new coworkers. It was us 4 girls up at the front and closing for the night. We sat around and looked through bridal magazines (gag me with a spoon! ACK!) since there was NO ONE in the crafty mood on a Wednesday night, it seemed. We decided to call ourselves "Sex and the Craft Store" since we had a redhead, a very uncanny Charlotte, a girl who idolizes Samantha and, wait...what's this? I'm Carrie? No complaints here! I have the shoe collection to prove it!
Two of the girls have boyfriends that they are "soooooooo in love with. We're practically married already." And as they smiled about this, inside, I silently felt sorry for them. What's wrong with that? Should I really be denouncing and feeling pity for someone whose in so-called love? Am I just so beyond bitter and angry at my own unfortunate turn of bad relationships that I cannot even pretend that I want that again?
But if I take a step back, it's plain to see that the one thing all of these dead-enders have in common is me. Maybe it wasn't them. Maybe it was me.
I can sit here for hours and list the things that are wrong with me. But this is my journal, not a red leather couch in a shrink's office. And what's the use drowning in my shortcomings? I should just use my time management skills a bit more wisely and try to fix these things.
I mean, when something's broke you fix it, right?
Anyone ever get that infamous break-up spew, "It's not you, its me" ?
Isn't that some good old fashioned bullshit? Why don't you just say, "You're so (insert adjectives of praise here), but I just don't want you."
You know what I say to that? Instead of feeling like a big ol' doggy steamer, you reply with a coy, "You're right! It's not me! It is you!"
That ought to get them for sure. And take their cocky attitudes by suprise as well. Laugh silently as they muster up the ego to say, "Well I didn't really think it was me...God, you don't have to be so harsh."
"Harsh? Why, was that harsh?" Ask in your sweetest voice possible as you bid them farewell.
That ought to teach 'em for next time they try that good old fashioned bullshit on some other poor, unsuspecting female.
Baby.
The weirdest thing just happened...
I don't know if I'm possessed or if I'm goin' postal or what.
Here I am, 7 o'clock, sitting in front of my computer writing 1 of my 4 papers due. I'm typing away, typing my little heart out, so to speak.
Type type type.
I go back to reread what I just wrote, normal enough, right?
Wrong.
Something didn't make sense. There was an extra word in the sentence, that struck me as odd and completely out of place. It had no business in that sentence. If that word was removed, the sentence would've been flawless.
The word was HELP.
And I don't remember typing it.
The above-said sentence read as this : More contemporarily speaking, in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, the fact that the object of the entire movie was so to document the relationship help between the two main characters and to not have them end up together in the end was slightly unnerving, as a viewer.
This is what I read (to the tune of the Psycho shower scene): More contemporarily speaking, in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, the fact that the object of the entire movie was so to document the relationship help help help between the two main characters and to not have them end up together in the end was slightly unnerving, as a viewer.
So here I am, sending myself subliminal messages of free association. What does it all mean?
I knew I was cracking under the pressure of 4 papers , but this was just eerie.
Help?
Do I need help?
So I finalized my schedule de' crapola for the semester of ruin today. Turns out, although a Biology sequence is strong preferred, doesn't mean it's required. Guess which science Marissa dropped like a bad habit! Holla! However, a sequence was still needed, so I boarded the train o' advisors yesterday and paid a visit to my dear balding Bio teacher.
"What's the easiest science I can take?"
"Environmental Science aka Rocks for Jocks."
"Well, I'm no jock, but that gives me promise of some fine lookin' men to study while I poke around the igneous rocks. Thank you!"
And I was on my merry way.
With the deletion of Biology, I opened another slot for the class I really wanted to take, Playwriting.
I am taking 21 credit hours next semester. Someone wish me luck, I'm gonna wish I was never born.
Wow, with all this school talk I am reminded---I have class in 10 minutes! And I'm sitting here in my underoos with no breakfast in belly and no soap on m'body.
Did I mention my classes begin at 9 am next semester? 9 am?! Jennifer, I'm turning out to be one of those students you hate. For that, I'm truly sorry. And exhausted.
Nice rocks you got there. You can sediment my tary anytime. ;) (Just a preview of coming attractions in Rocks for Jocks)
Since it is my one year anniversary, I began thinking about time today. I began adding and subtracting, counting and recounting. The figures I've come up with are mind-boggling and give me bit of a headache. Here's what I've got so far (with a little help from GOOGLE):
I've been an AOL Journal user for 525,600 minutes.
I've been a proud owner of a single life for 404 days.
Last time I enjoyed a good ol' roll in the hay? Less than 24 hours ago.
If I paid all of my application fees for each college I'm applying to, I would need about $350.
If I paid my $40 application fee to the college I want to go to and got accepted, my tuition per year would be $36,040. A year.
If I worked 8 hours every single day of my life, (assuming I live until the ripe old age of 100) at the base rate of minimum wage $5.15/hr, I would make $54,888,700.00 Again, assuming I didn't work February 29th of every other 4 years. And that alone would give me 20 personal days of my 80-year workshift.
Did you know that the average American spends 2-4 hours in front of the TV Mon-Fri? In a typical lifetime, of about age 75, that's 1500 hours, or 62.5 days. Think three times 62.5 days, you can build a Habitat for Humanity House for a family in need.
I once spent $40 at Denny's.
I have 97 pairs of shoes. Think if each pair were an average of $40, I'd a spent $3440 on shoes alone in the last 4 years. With that $3440, I could've bought a dinner at Red Lobster for a special friend as well as a plane ticket to go see another long-lost pal on top of a road trip from NY to WV to meet my dear Amber, which is mileage that I just cannot figure out.
In the last 11 weeks of school, I have devoted about 4 hours to studying Biology. In the last 11 weeks. And I wonder why I can't get anything above a D.
My birthday is 6 months and 14 days away.
My half birthday is 14 days away.
The average woman has 12 pairs of shoes in her closet, according to Harpers Bazaar. Well, on behalf of all the writers and staff at Marissa Bizarre Life, we feel bad for that woman.
I am 39354.8 millimeters tall, or, 5 feet, 1 and 3/4 an inch.
At least 1 in 4 sexually active Americans will contract an STD in their lifetime. Considering my number of partners, 3 may have had it.
Tonight, 147,000,000 of you are relaxing with the peace pipe. And I know 1 of 'em!
150 people worldwide kicked the bucket due to Mad Cow Disease, while 3% of all deaths is caused by choking. Whether or not its on a big juicy mad cow burger, we don't know.
It is reported by the Kinsey Institute that sexually active Americans between the ages of 18-29 have sex an average of 112 times a year. That's 253 days of the year sex-free, 60 of those days may be due to "that time of the month," and I'm assuming women spend an average of 193 days with a headache. Which, would take 386 extra strength Tylenol to cure, in turn leaving 40% of you hospitalized due to liver damage.
I've spent 1,265 of 1,826 days in 3 dead-end relationships from the age of 14 to 18.
50,000,000 little swimmers from 1 ejaculation could, in essence, impregnate each fertile, ovulating woman in the world. That's a lot of child support.
There are twice as many women than men enrolled in college in the United States.
$102.9 billion dollars was raked in in the fast food industry in the year 2003. As seen on the advertisement below the golden arches : Over 58 million Americans overweight. Consider yourself served.
Number of minutes that President Bush, Vice-President Dick Cheney, the Defense Secretary, Donald Rumsfeld, the assistant Defense Secretary, Paul Wolfowitz, the former chairman of the Defense Policy Board, Richard Perle, and the White House Chief of Staff, Karl Rove the main proponents of the war in Iraq served in combat (combined): Zero.
240,000 women per year are diagnosed with breast cancer. 1 out of 8 women will experience breast cancer at one point or another in their lifetime. 33% of women haven't had a mammogram in 2 years. 40,600 women die each year from breast cancer. http://www.breastcancer.org/
Presidentially speaking, Ronald Reagan held the highest position in 3 rankings: Oldest to enter office (1 month shy of his 70th birthday) Oldest to leave office (1 month shy of his 78th birthday) and Oldest to die (93 years, 4 months.)
8 of the 43 Presidents died in office; 4 due to assassinations.
3 of the US Presidents died on the 4th of July. While our nation was busy giving birth, Adams, Jefferson and Monroe were all busy being unoriginal and trying to go out with a quote unquote firework. (I just realized I could actually use the quotation marks, instead of writing quote, unquote.)
Beerly speaking, 7% of the Irish barley crop goes to the production of m'favorite beer, Guiness.
1 out of 4 women shoplift. The Bible is the most stolen book in history. Mathmatically speaking, we can infer that alot of nuns are cloest kleptos.
One in eight men snore. How did I get stuck with one of those 8?!
In 1987, due to the popularization of the Martini on dry land, 1 olive elimated from each salad served on an airplane saved airline companies $40,000.
And one more:
5 more minutes until my 367th day of journaling.
Something happened this morning.
I came upstairs to sign on as usual, to get my daily reads. And I saw the date in the corner of my AOL WELCOME screen. November 15th.
What's so important about this date you ask?
If you scroll down a little bit and look toward your left, you will see that...
It's my one-year anniversary!
Ah, it seems like just yesterday I started this little doo-wop. And it hasn't always been this great. For those of you who've read my journal from the beginning, which besides me, was like a total of one (thanks Anthony!) know that it wasn't always this great. I guess we all have to start somewhere on the suck spectrum.
Now, as for me, I'm goin' to celebrate with some toaster struedels and a Bio test.
Here's to another year.
WOOHOO!
Are you okay? They ask.
No, I'm not okay. Does this look like the track record of someone whose okay? For every one light-hearted entry there's an entire issue of Depressed Digest.
It reminds me of one of my favorite songs: this living shouldn't be called living if it's really only half alive.
And that's what this is.
I remember a time when I reached the proverbial endless pit of sanity. My brother and sister-in-law had just lost their unborn daughter. We were all shaken, however, I was shook in a different way. I remember wishing desperately that my Mikayla survived, even if it meant that I didn't. I wanted to give her my life. To give it someone who wanted to be there to live it. To give it to someone who would bring meaning to the word alive. I was never and will never be a candidate for alive.
Sure, I could learn to live. Hell, I've done it for 20 whole years, whats another 80? Another 80 years in Depress O'Clock is well over 1,000,000. It's like what Anthony said over there to your left, "The flowers all have bloomed, they are just waiting for you to notice."
When will I notice? Why haven't I noticed so far?
I can certainly enjoy a lovely sunset as much as the next gal, but there's a little more to life than watching as Mother Nature lays down her head to sleep. Half of living is wanting to do all the things life has to offer. Without that, it's like going to a shoe sale with no money. Or, no feet.
I've heard that life is what happens while you're busy making other plans. Maybe I should start making plans, too.
To live.
Here's a little diddy I like to call I Hate School.
Just when I'm getting all psyched to finally graduate in May with my handy-dandy associates degree in Liberal Arts (which means nothing) turns out as just as I'm nearing the end of my journey at good ol' MVCC I've basically taken all of the classes and end up with a plate of leftovers.
For example, let's take a look at my upcoming semester schedule for January:
In order to fulfill my prerequisites I need:
Bio 102 - major suckfest part deux.
Health and Wellness, which is a book form of a gym class because Marissa hates getting sweaty, though apparently she likes to talk about herself in third person.
Modern Literature - shouldn't be as bad as Hamlet, I hope. Maybe we'll get to read about the adventures of Hamsteak instead.
And, since I'm awesome and am exempt from 2 years of languages, I need to take 2 electives to take its place, on top of another elective to finish-up the bullshit class area of my plan of study.
Urban Sociology - learning what goes on in the heads of homies.
Adolescent Psychology - learning what goes on in the heads of lil' homies.
American National Government - learning what goes on in the heads of political homies.
Fabulosity at it's finest, no?
So I went to go visit my advisor today. He's a burly man with a crustache and bad fashion sense. By bad fashion sense I mean corderoy jackets, jesus sandals with Hanes 3 for 1 socks and jeans. All goes perfect with that bright orange mop on his head. He's not even my real advisor. From the moment I entered that school, I was the victim of an unfortunate game of musical advisors and ended up getting the ringmaster. He was also my teacher for 2 semesters and like most people, he grew a liking to me (c'mon! it's inevitable and you know it!). Well, maybe liking is an understatement. I don't know what to call it. Borderline obsession maybe? Take the other day for example:
BFF and I and one of our mutual friends are sitting on a bench outside talking to each other, minding our own damn businesses. Enter advisor, clutching his overread magazine I Have Daddy Issues in his arms. He catches my glance. I turn away. I know whats coming.
Lookin' good! Sizzle sizzle!
The three of us watch in utter disbelief as he stalks away. I could only imagine the image of us on the bench, our mouths in the shape of an O. We must've looked like we were caroling or something. BFF interrupts the aura-of-shockedness by retorting, "OH MY GOD!"
Oh my god is right. Not to mention that one time he had a bit too much to drink at a school function and came over and ever so gracefully brushed my breast with his hand. And then laughed about it. Have another one, you lush. ANYHOW...back to my story. Talk about a mile-long tangent. Although you did need the background info for my more current and up to date story about this afternoon.
I walk into his office and he's sitting there amid dusty back issues of I Have Daddy Back Issues (haha!) and torn Elephant Man posters, among cartons of old chinese food and pizza boxes ( did I mention this man is a COW?) I drop my books and take a seat. "Hey Honey."
"Hey yourself."
To an outsider it must sound like he's having an extra-marital affair with a student. But can you blame him? He's married to an oversized Ken doll that wears Jean Nate` and gold fanny packs.
He does my scheduling for me (no, seriously, by scheduling I mean scheduling!) and offers to walk out with me. As he gets up to grab his coat I sneak an eye roll and a half and a silent UGH to the bad alignment of the advisor planets. Just what I wanted, burly butch lesbian man to walk me to my car.
And I thought that would be the bad part.
As we walk down the hall together, my hands strategically placed in my pockets so he doesn't try to be all married-boyfriend-man like and try to hold it while no one is looking, a girl walks past us, seemingly normal, right? Wrong.
"She was checking you out." I smell old man wood.
I almost vomited.
I chose the stairs instead of the elevator. I figured if I were to yell "RAPE!" it would echo and someone would come to my rescue, as opposed to him pressing the emergency stop button for an emergency quickie with a student. If you saw the word CREEPLE in a dictionary, his picture would be next to it, smiling with orange Cheetos dust surrounding his piehole.
How do I get into these messes?
At the bottom of the stairs, I could hear his heavy-breathing not far behind. What's the matter big advisorman, I thought to myself, out of shape? But I already knew the answer to my silent question: Unless your shape is BLOBULAR.
Thankfully he had a detour en route to my car and I ditched him like beef during the mad cow disease threat.
Jennifer, if only you were my advisor.
And Sidebeards, I fixed my journal controls and found the prob, thought you might like to comment on this one. 
Weekend Assignment #33: You can have any person, past or present, sing any song for you that you want. What is the song, and who is singing it for you?
Extra credit: Name a singer you wish you could sing like, but can't. So that means even those of you with excellent voices have to pick someone you can't sing like.
Oh, the choices. Just reading this triggered a fantasy I've always had, for m'dearest singer/songwriter serenading me with my favorite song of his.
"She's Always A Woman To Me" By Billy Joel, high on the corn factor indeed, but rings oh so true of me, if I do say so myself. And I do.
Check 'em out! It's like he wrote it for me after that hot night we spent together.
She can kill with a smile
She can wound with her eyes
She can ruin your faith
With her casual lies
And she'll only reveal
What she wants you to see
She hides like a child
But she's always a woman to me
She can lead you to love
She can take you or leave you
She can ask for the truth
But she'll never believe you (chances are because you're lying)
And she'll take what you give her
As long as it's free (some like to call that freeloading, not Billy.)
Yeah, she steals like a thief (just a few times. Okay, I steal my lunch everyday)
But she's always a woman to me
Oh, she takes care of herself
She can wait if she wants
She's ahead of her time
Oh, and she never gives out (yeah, right.)
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind (quite frequently actually.)
And she'll promise you more than the Garden of Eden
Then she'll carelessly cut you
And laugh while you're bleeding
But she'll bring out the best
And the worst you can be
Blame it all on yourself (always, I can do no wrong.)
'Cause she's always a woman to me
She is frequently kind
And she's suddenly cruel
She can do as she pleases
She's nobody's fool
But she can't be convicted
She's earned her degree (in the process, but you get the jist.)
And the most she will do
Is throw shadows at you (I don't get it?)
But she's always a woman to me
Hopefully in due time he will be able to sing this to me, if he doesn't crash into another tree on a pizza run in the near future. Here's hoping.
And part deux:
If I could sing like anybody in the whole wide world, I would like to sing like Kim Carnes. Don't know who she is? Here's a hint: She's got Bette Davis Eyes.
He's so crapping fabulous.
Does anyone else see the resemblence of Kim and Judith Light pre-shaved-head for default role in a lifetime movie about battered women? Uncanny. She's got Judith Light Eyes.
First George Dubya re-musters up a way to get into the White house and now this:
Marissa re-enters the workforce.
Marvin Gaye asks, "What the HELL is goin' on?"
You and me both, Marv, you and me both.
Marvin Gaye urges all of you craft-lovers out there to go buy your fake holidon't poinsettas from Marissa at Michaels Craft Store. She'll be the one in the red apron making the wooden reindeer cutouts do dirty things to the Santa cutouts.
I went to church yesterday.
For those of you who know me, I know you're waiting for the catch and here it is:
Church was actually Hamilton College and I was going there to pay homage to my one and only God, Mr. Bill J. Clinton. (God plays a saxaphone!) He was going there to give a speech on how truly amazing he is and how he should be able to run for 50 more years.
Little did I know...
Other people had the same exact idea. Like, alot of other people. Thousands of other people. For a room that seats about 4500, I was sure of myself that I was going to be sitting up front, sharing winks and sweet nothings with m'beloved. So I waited for 2 hours, in 20 degree weather, the smell of hot dogs filling the chilly air. We barely moved within those hours and I had made friends with other Bill J. worshippers, who made the time move a bit faster. I also started selling tissues for $1 a piece to those whose snot was visibly crusted to thier upper lips. I felt I was doing my country the best favor I could, I was making them look presentable for the former Pres. And if I helped one person remove that bat from the cave, I did my job.
The doors were to open at six. Six came and went. Six turned into seven and still, we were no closer. They even had the evangelists walk around telling us that we probably wouldn't make it in. I scoffed in thier faces as, being the secret agent that I am, decided that it was a person from the back of the line just trying to scare people off, so that they could get better seats. Ha! "You might choke Artie but you won't choke Stedman!"
And then in it happened. We were officially turned away. I began clip-clopping in my frostbitten boots to the shuttle buses that would take us down to our cars. My feet were so frozen that I actually fell trying to hop onto a curb. I smell lawsuit. And it smells like Dr. Scholls. In the bus, the heat was blaring but still didn't defrost my toes. I could feel the pain start to come back in my little toe.
I listened to all the disappointed people on the bus. Among those turned away was entire busloads of out-of-towners who had nothing else to do but turn around and go back. There was also a mass of elderly sitting the in the front and I couldn't help but feel sorry that, in lieu of the flu shot, they were all going to die waiting for Bill Clinton. And then I saw children. Yes, there were children here. And I'm sorry, I'm a little bitter, keep in mind---I don't think anyone who wasn't alive during the administration should be allowed in, unless they are sitting on their parents laps or are properly placed in a kennel. And then I had a vision---no, not of sugarplums---of a bunch of children, sitting indian style, or the PC term, Native American style, around Bill Clinton, singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider. Meanwhile, the elderly, Marissa and Donna, the nice woman I met in line, are sitting on the bus, mulling over the fact that we'll never get to hear Clinton's explanation of why the international rift is widening. Oh, bloody life!
The bus grew silent, all of a sudden, as we were all devastated at the realization what had happened. We were not going to Mecca. The bus was turned around. I could smell something burning. It was my pride.
There were a few non-English speaking people on the bus with us as well. And, my bitterness clouding my vision again, all I saw was Bill Clinton standing in a large room wearing a babushka and enjoying some pierogies, while talking to his Air Force 1/2 pilot, the only other English speaking person in the room about "Wife Swap" or some other third world reality show. I'm sorry, I don't think I'd wait in line for 2 hours in subzero temperatures to listen to Mikhail Gorbachev talk about his liver spot. It looks like someone spilled red wine on a white carpet. I wouldn't necessarily listen to a speech about it.
My nightmare was interrupted as I felt a sharp pain in both of my lower extremities. It felt like I was giving 10 births out of my toes. I instantly removed my boots and socks to look at the damage and what I saw when I peeled back my penguin sock was too much for me to handle. For the first time all night, I started to cry. On the bus. Gripping my swollen toes. What was happening? All I wanted was to kiss the feet of my savior, and instead I was kissing my toes goodbye.
We made it back to where our car was parked, still another 10 mile trek in itself, and a green fog of defeat rose over the Charter bus. We were silent as we walked back to the car, the only sound that was heard was coming from the small girl with no shoes on and a scarf wrapped around her head. She was crying.
He's like the James Dean of Presidents.
I keep deleting what I'm writing. I don't feel it's good enough or happy enough for all you. A once funny journal has gone awry in the name of depression, as has a once funny girl. Ah, who am I kidding? I'm still hysterical. Just depressed and hysterical, that's all.
The word depressed is defined by Merriam's as : 1 : low in spirits : SAD; especially : affected by psychological depression
I feel the more it's used the less meaning it has. Go out anywhere, my bet is you will hear just about anyone say "I was sooo depressed," in reference to that time they puked in a litter box or peed their best friend's dad's pants (just a few of my own personal selections.) C'mon now, is that really something to be depressed about? Having bad bladder control? This is serious stuff, this depression crap.
I'm worried its used so openly and freely that it's meaning is no longer validated, as if to say, how serious people take you when you drop the "I'm depressed" bomb. Maybe I'll just make up a new word for it. Hmm...
Ok, that reminds me...in an episode of The Golden Girls, Blanche was mentioning how she was feeling sort of in a slump and called it her MAGENTA period. That's what I must be in. Magenta. Not quite red. Not quite purple. Not quite pink. Not quite anything, yet completely everything that is wrong.
Magenta.That's what it is.
It feels out of my control. That I have no grasp over my own emotions and my own actions. I know I shouldn't do half the things I do, but I allow myself to glorify it in hopes of instant indulgence to my ever-craving id. Freud would hate me. Fork Freud.
But then again, this all seems like deja` vu.
I wonder why.
As you may have noticed, my font size changes depending on my mood. It's size 12 when I'm in an utter pit of despair, and it's jumps up to 14 when I'm feeling cynical, empowered or content. What I need right now is a size 13. I'm in between. Moderately on the verge of overdosing on sappy movies and Lilith Fair music and somewhat okay in the fact I'm a complete nutcase. It's 1:15. I took another day off of school. I'm not showered, my teeth aren't brushed, my bed is unmade and my mother is at my throat. I don't have it in me to tell her that I'm not okay.
Maybe it's because she'll ask why and I have no answer to give her. I don't know why.
I have a tremendous urge to throw all of my things on the lawn with a huge FOR SALE sign in front of it. Take it all, I don't need it. I want to free myself. There's one month left of school and I can safely and honestly say, I worked my butt off. Just a little bit more and one more semester to go. My deadline I gave myself on finding a school is drawing nearer and nearer by the minute. I don't know exactly where I want to go yet, but I do know that it's what I need, regardless of my convictions and apprehensions. I have also finally chosen a major. And a minor. Go me. A major in English or Journalism with a minor in Psychology. Let's see if I actually stick with that though. I know myself so well that I know not to get to sucked in in making choices and decisions and that nothing is set in stone with me, it's more like written in the sand. An unsuspecting tide may wash it all away, and that'd be okay with me. There's always something else out there.
It stopped snowing. The sun is out and the sky is the bluest of blues. But if I look far enough into the distance, I can see an enormous black cloud coming this way. Weather is funny like that sometimes.
Here everyone can watch as I spin so far out of control that my feet are barely touching the ground. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I can't move. I can't talk. Leave me alone. alone. alone.
I am drowning in worthlessness, hopelessness, anger, fear, bitterness, sadness, madness, insanity, emotion sickness, dread, hate, possibilities, impossibilities. There is no drug to cure me. There is no one to say it's okay. Because it's not. And I know it's not.
Thats alot to wake up to in the morning.
And on top of that, I just looked out my window. It's snowing.
It's one of those nights.
I'm lying there, watching TV waiting for sleep to visit, when I get an insatiable urge for someone to talk to. It's not so much as being alone as it is lonliness. And let's face it, sometimes that visits more than sleep. I am not longing for companionship...I was looking for an adult conversation. I wanted to talk to someone who could wax poetic and wax philosophical until the wee hours of morning with me, to keep my spirits company, in a sense, to give me hope that maybe someone in my cellular phone book is doing the same exact thing, wanting to talk.
I went through the names. Sleeping. Away at school. New number. Not friends anymore. Drunk. Spent the whole weekend with, probably is sick of me.
That narrowed the list down some.
I know who I was looking for.
I know who I wanted to talk to.
I know I deleted his name and number. But I remember both.
Here's to the night.
It's happening already.
I've been home no more than an hour and my mood is already starting to plummet. I don't know why it is. I don't know what to do with it. Do I really hate it here that much? Is it this place that I call home the core of my depression? Is that even possible?
I walked into my bedroom, dropped my bags on my floor and felt an overwhelming sense of nothingness. It was lonely in there. It was dark and untouched. My clothes were piled neatly upon the freshly made bed, thanks to Mom, and my curtains were drawn shut. I closed the door behind me, took a seat on the edge of my bed and sat, looking around at all the knicknacks that define different chapters of my life, collecting dust. Those things aren't important to me. I hate souvenirs. I hate thoughtless last minute gifts. I have too much stuff, maybe thats why I feel trapped. The rest of my family was sitting in the living room, but I didn't feel much like socializing. My wanting to be alone has left me here, gazing effortlessly at this computer screen. I have no idea where I'm going. I have no idea what I'm doing. This past week was like a siesta from my depression. I left it at home, on my nightstand. I was kind of hoping it'd be gone when I got back. It's not. The song remains the same.
My emotional outlets are overloaded a bit, get a few drinks in me and all of a sudden love doesn't look as bad as I make it out to be. Fast forward to the morning after, tune in to Marissa's Top 100 Reasons Why Love Sucks, the VH1 special with commentary by Mo Rocca. Tune in tomorrow to see a train wreck.
Maybe it's going away to school that will be the cure for everything routine. After 20 years, this place isn't looking so wonderful. Mundane is more like it. And I'm everything but.
But, tonight, it's back to Sex and the City and my electric blanket.
Gon' to rub one out.
So, BFF and I made it back from our maiden voyage on the Shitanic! 'Twas fabulosity at it's finest.
We hit the open road only 2 hours later than expected, with less than 3 hours of sleep between the both of us. While he was trekking the streets of NYC late Friday night, I was airing out my roast beef curtains, so to speak. Like Lionel Richie says, all night long.
Our destination was Elmira College, to visit my cousin Ron for the weekend. Little did Anthony and I know, Elmira is nowhere near where we live. It was not an hour and half drive. It was not near Syracuse. For most of the ride there, I desperately was wishing I had picked up the travel sized Operation game. There would be nothing more enjoyable for me to mess up a kidney transplant by rewiring our patient's pee bags to his heart. BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. And the look on Anthony's face would be priceless. I can almost gaurantee he would've thrown it out the window.
We arrive. I'm sucking down an iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts as we are welcomed by Ron and his ultra-uber-crunk cuddle buddy Brian. Let me just take a moment here to say how completely CRUNK this kid is. With his flaming orange hair, torn jeans and scruffy face...I couldn't help but be completely thankful for the homosexual community. I am so appreciative.
After a tour, an entire history lesson of all the buildings and a simulated oral sex job on Mark Twain's statue later---Ron brought us up to his dorm room to meet his roomate, Roland. (My cousin's name is Ronald. His roomate's name is Roland. I was waiting for a Donolar or possibly an Orlando to show up. God, how unoriginal can you get?! It's like me, Marissa ,and my best friend Sarisam.)(Oh yeah! Ron also had these other floormates whose names were written on their dorm door, "George" and "Michael." As in, George Michael. You know the resident assistants did ALL of that on purpose.) Anyhow, Roland was sleeping when we got there, but being curious and a single female, I walked on over anyway and peered into a mass of sheets and saw possibly the cutest boy ever.
He was so pretty I could cry.
I didn't get to see him awake until a few hours later. And when I did, I was shook. Not only was he beyond adorable, he was so charismatic and funny and smart. But wait---there's more. Get this: he's pre-med. Ugh, tiny orgasm.
Around 11:30, we decided it was time to head out to Elmira's local gay bar, Angles. We show up, walk in and are instantly swarmed into a plethora of techno, disco balls, strobe lights and sweaty bodies. The five of us hit the dance floor like silicone on Pamela and took to a night of dancing.
Since Brian was viewed as Buddha of the Gay Bar there, he spent most of his time dancing on the one of the many stages on the dancefloor, leaving Ron and Roland and Anthony to me. Holla.
I decided to be my ultra-fem hot self and go and get all up in Roland's grill. He wasn't having it. "I have a girlfriend."
Of course you do.
Somewhere between Love Shack and I Get So Emotional I got over it.
We danced until 3, when we finally headed back to the dorms. After being up for more than 24 hours, I was still hanging in there. We get there. All 5 of us. And all 2 of their beds. Greaaaaat. Girlfriend was not about to sleep on the hard floor.
Brian and Ron were obviously bunking up and they had brought in an extra mattress for me and Anthony. I was a little bummed, seeing as how I silently planned sleeping with Roland. Scratch that. He was outside on the phone to his girlfriend. Mhmm.
I decide I am not sleeping next to Anthony. I know he snores like a beast. I will not have that. Roland comes in and insists I sleep in his bed.
I could hear wedding bells.
"I'll sleep on the floor." He says.
Followed immediately by the death march.
After the proper "Are you sure? No, you sleep there, it's is your bed afterall...." I plopped down. Nighty-night!
The lights went off and I was still not tired. I decided to keep Roland, who was sleeping in a crevice between the two beds on the floor, company. Him and I talked for a while about stuff, then we get talking about his girlfriend, and while he was doing that...
I fell asleep.
Whoops.
Here I sit, moments before embarking on me and BFF's solo maiden voyage to visit my cousin at college. I am running (though very slowly) on 2 hours sleep, tops. Thank you, Seanie.
I am starving and overall a bit anxious. Not about getting food or getting to the destination, just anxious.
For the time being, (being Anthony is beeping outside m'house) this is my update. I will try and post a real entry on Monday, since my computer is back up and running. Holla. Technology is a real bitch sometimes.
Don't start pasting my face on the milk carton just yet----I'm still alive. My AOL is not working properly therefore I cannot update until I get it fixed. Grrrrrr.
Some quick updates:
I voted.
Passed 2 of those 3 tests (last one today).
Just finished my lab report due last Friday yesterday.
Going on a little vacation with Anthony this weekend.
Had a dream about my ex-boyfriend, break-up is still on and I hate him tremendously. (More on that later.)
My guitar and I have recently bonded over Green Day's new album.
I still love shoes.
I'm late for class as I'm typing this.
I miss you guys!
I have the largest zit in the entire universe smack dab on the middle of my forehead. I considered going into the Witness Protection Program until it goes down.
It was about 30 degrees here yesterday and I parked in a field on the opposite side of campus and enjoyed a brisk 10 mile hike to my first class. Not on purpose. There was nowhere to park. Later Anthony walked with me to my car and we drove to his car, in his PUH-RIME parking spot and he pulled out and let me park there. Holler.
Sex & the City is still in my DVD player and something tells me it will be staying there for a long, long time.
Depression? Yup.
Until then...
*crosses fingers for AOL to reconsider working soon!*
