My friend is still an asshole

This is the previously mentioned asshole who made me drink that energy drink that made me lose my shit. He likes getting on my facebook and changing my status to make me sound like a terrible person... or more awkward than I already am. I don't need help with that.

Here are some gems from the past:


penispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenispenis

I love cheese (later adding) I now realize I have a fetish for cheese. I need help

taking a bath, poured a ton of jello mix in the water. Yolo

I like big butts and I can not lie. *sigh*

ass ass ass ass 0-okp[,ljo[pi;'][;po,l;o[l;[o  (me trying to get the computer back)

chillin on a mountain of cocaine sippin on some malt liqa- feeling sexy

kicking a cat is great way to release anger

selling tea today, might try selling drugs tonight

big booty bitches are my kind of bitches

just shaved the hairs under my feet, feelin good

the cow says moo motherfucker



This has been happening increasingly over the past few months. I fought it and deleted the terrible ones, but I've given up almost entirely. The funny/sad part is now my friends can pick out the ones he's been writing. They either immediately ask if it was him or tell me I really need to log out of facebook.

He says it "makes me more interesting."

Asshat.


He's changed my cover photo twice. The first time:

aaaaaand here's the second one:

He thinks he's so funny. I need to hit him the next time I see him.


Another jerkwad "friend" at work (who regularly uses my phone to play songs on youtube) also posted a status.

I shat in the corner of the room... just thought everyone needed to know that. :-)



I give up.

One of the reasons I'm so awkward

There's a definite scale of laughter volume:

silent (but still smiling, maybe a shoulder shake)
a slight "I think they're laughing"
somewhat louder (within normal range)
normal volume
loud



... then there's me.

It's not like I have a weird laugh, it's just far too loud.The truly unfortunate thing about this is that it's an enormous contrast to my everyday speech. I'm fairly quiet, which makes this even more startling. I've had people stare at me in public for my explosive laughter.

I made one of my nephews cry- several times- because my laughter scared him so badly. I think he's gotten used to it, but I still try to hold back a bit. This isn't the one who cried at the ugly faces I make. That was a different one. I'm such an amazing aunt :/

There's also my strange, often inappropriate, sense of humor. After 20+ years I've just barely started to catch myself before I make a death/corpse/hell/heaven/jesus/zombie joke at funerals. I don't realize how many times I reference any of those on a daily basis until I say something horrible that will send me to hell. There! I just mentioned going to hell. I shouldn't be allowed to talk.

For instance- I commented to my friend about Paris being the absolute worst place for a zombie attack because their entire city is built on dead people. Mountains of them, thanks to the black plague (seriously, look it up. Galveston as well, thanks to the storm of 1900). Even the way I phrased that proves I'm a terrible person. I made a "joke" that I'd definitely be the first to be killed in a zombie attack...

I said this while we were physically in the cemetery at a funeral.

For her aunt.

Cause I'm an asshole.

I'm unbelievably grateful that she wasn't offended and loves zombies. We stood off to the side and discussed what we would do if the attack happened at this exact moment. I still feel like an ass.

Back to my volume control problem- aside from the occasional stares in public, I can come across as insincere or like I'm a suck-up. There was a job interview where the boss made a joke- it was funny- but it was one where there was only need for a slight laugh. My laugh was quiet by my standards, too loud by their standards.

I get that comment "it wasn't that funny" a lot. Thanks for making me feel even more uncomfortable than I do on a regular basis.

I have to be very careful about what I read/watch in public if I think it's getting too funny for me to control myself. There's this one book ("Let's Pretend This Never Happened") that I truly wish I hadn't read in public. It was hilarious. I nearly died trying to keep myself in check. Don't get me wrong- I still looked weird as shit. I was rocking back and forth, shoulder shaking, couldn't breathe, unnaturally large smile. Basically either epileptic or the mutant in a horror movie bursting out of the human it was possessing. Terrifying.

Now I have step back from whatever hilarious situation I'm witnessing and give myself enough time to stop laughing unnaturally hard or loud. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Lately I only look insane. Baby steps.

dumb kid

So...I've fallen down the stairs three times this month. Ok, slipped and skidded, but still, three times is impressive for anyone over the age of five. My feet are stupid.

Let me tell you the story of how I broke my foot. It's pathetic and kinda funny.

Again, stupid feet. Stupid kid too. I was 8 on a church mission trip to Galveston. All the other kids were at least 5 years older than me, so I had no friends for an entire week. I was the tag-along little sister to everyone there. They were nice, but I could definitely feel the vibe of "ok, I didn't agree to babysit." The adults were adults, so they always did boring adult things. For the majority of the week I was awkwardly trying to be involved with anyone else or awkwardly by myself... much like now. Cue the world's smallest violin.

We all went to the beach and no one wanted to stay in the shallow end with me (especially since I did and unfortunately still do scream with seaweed touches me). I ended up wandering the shoreline for a while. The specific stretch of beach where we were had wooden bridges over massive sand dunes. Weird, I know. They were about 100 feet long, 4 feet high and a flat railing on the top:

So naturally I had to climb on top and walk up and down the railing. When I got tired of the balancing beam act and actually got my footing I felt so tall.

Like everything stupid and inevitably disastrous, it started off fine and harmless. After a few jumps it lost its thrill. I backed up a few feet and did a running jump (Don't get ahead of me here). Awesome, but like an addict, I needed more danger. I backed up a few more feet. Repeat the process until I was doing halfway down the railing running jumps. 

Then my go big or go home moment. Even I knew this was going to be amazing or stupid, though not logically thinking of the consequences. I was totally channeling Pocahontas. It was a glorious jump. 

I don't know how I had been landing before this, but this time I was going for a gazelle-like leap. If Pocahontas could do it so could I! I couldn't. I landed on the top of my right foot, kind of landing on each bone individually and rolling onto the next one until my entire foot was on the ground. The rest of me just fell on the sand like a sack of flour.

I didn't feel any pain or panic or need for help. I just knew that something was wrong and I should probably not move for a minute or two. The adults stopped their adult things and came running from the campsite (which was pretty far away). The theory at the time was just that it was sprained ankle or a bone bruise- whatever the hell that means- and that I should keep my shoes on since it hurt way too much to take them off. No one guessed broken anything.

This was day 3. I was piggy-backed by different people for the rest of the trip.

When we got back home, my foot still hurt too much to walk more than a few feet. As it turned out I broke one bone and fractured the two next to it in the middle of my foot. Lime green cast for 6 weeks and I lied about not trying to scratch under the cast.

Aaand that's my broken bone/actual injury story. Everything else has been minor or boring.

synonym for intolerably clingy?

Ok, this has been my past week. I tried to condense it, but...

Friday afternoon this guy awkwardly sat next to me on the campus bus and said he had to talk to me because I'm "super cute."

Saturday morning he texted and set up a date that night. I, like an idiot, had given him my number. I still haven't learned to whip out the "I'm dating/have a boyfriend/am a lesbian" thing. I think I've learned it now. It was the classic movie date. He bought the tickets and the drinks (this is important later) and I thanked him (also important later). It was all slightly awkward. Okay really, if the movie hadn't been as great as it was, the night would've been terrible. There was no food involved.

Sunday morning he asked when we could hang out again and said that he woke up thinking about me.  HE WOKE UP THINKING ABOUT ME. It hadn't been a full 48 hours since we met and he's already pulling this crap. Are you fucking serious?!

Monday- asked if/what time we could hang out again Tuesday. Thanks for smothering me. I was getting an increasingly weird vibe from him. I had to end it.

Tuesday- his text "Good morning. Sorry if I sound all mushy lol, but you're really beautiful."

Ugh. I am not- nor have I ever- been a romantic. Too many compliments and I automatically think this might be phase one of a serial killer. I know my shit; I watch Criminal Minds.

I met him later in the day to break it off in person because I'm nice like that. Ok, because I'm an idiot. We started having a normal conversation and I was trying not to blurt out "you're clingy and weird and I don't want to date you." Out of nowhere he asked if I was a virgin. (Literally. Like 'Do you think it's going to rain?' 'Probably. Are you a virgin?') Why the fuck would you ask someone that?! That is not the time or place to have that conversation. Keep in mind, this is 5 days after we met. I don't know if there's a way I can emphasize that immense level of creepiness. I don't talk about that part of my life. Ever. Even stating that here made me uncomfortable.

Shortly after that awkwardness, I said I didn't want a relationship of any kind- even dating- with anyone right now and I didn't want to lead him on. He said ok, I thought we parted as friendly acquaintances. There was still a part of me that couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

30ish minutes later he texted and asked if there was a possibility of dating in the future; I'm the only girl he's liked in 3 years; I'm so smart and beautiful that he'd wait until I wanted to date ... He continued, asking if it was that I wasn't interested in him or just that I like being single. Then he asked if it was because he was a virgin. I don't know how the hell he thought that was even slightly relevant. Out of desperation, I used the lame "you're not my type" line.

I haven't responded to him since that. It's been a roller coaster of emotions with him from that moment on- I'm not his type either, he just thought I was interesting; he was just being nice when he said I'm beautiful; he's sorry he was mean, he was just upset; you're not physically beautiful at all.

Wednesday- He pulled some crap about it being a "small favor" to pay him back for the movie, especially since I never thanked him. Bitch please. I am not refundable. Go jump in front of a bus.

Thursday- Again, he asked for the money, saying I could meet him in a certain building at a certain time outside of the girl's bathroom. That's the most "I'm going to rape you" thing I've ever heard... aside from "I'm going to rape you." So no, that didn't happen.

Friday-Sunday- No contact. I thought he'd given up. Lured into a false sense of security.

Monday- he texted a very long, groveling apology. The question now is either continue to ignore him or call him a dick and say don't talk to me again... I'm still deciding.

I've had so many friends/family offers to kick his ass. Thanks. I love you all.

It's fantastic to be plastic

Despite my rants, I'm a non-confrontational person and my anger dissipates fairly quickly- within five minutes, usually. If it's longer than that I just need to vent and have another five minutes and then I'm fine. Anything beyond that means shit just got real.

So I was on facebook and a friend of a friend (who I've met in real life and am cool with) posted a picture of classic Barbie next to a shorter, thicker one. He captioned it with "they gave barbie a beer belly so the fat girls won't feel so fat."

For serious. I had to re-read it multiple times to make sure he really said something so dick-ish. That's a direct quote. He was just that much of a dick. It struck a chord in me.

Like most little girls, I had thought Barbie was the prettiest and I wanted to look just like her. I had even considered being a blonde because there weren't many brunette dolls, obviously meaning blondes were more valued. I consoled myself with having the same blue eyes.

Puberty screwed me up. My hips exploded overnight and I got a booty soon after. I no longer had the stick-straight figure I took for granted. Barbie didn't have curves. No one explained my hips were a result of my skeletal structure- my pelvic bone would always be the same width and nothing I could do could change that.

I spent years thinking I was fat and feeling like I was ugly since everything I tried didn't make that part thinner. All through middle and high school I was convinced: wide hips = fat.

Seeing him diss the "beer belly Barbie" made something in me snap. I had read about this barbie a few months back and fully supported it. She didn't have a beer gut; she wasn't fat. She was a normal woman. The artist had taken the statistics of the average 19 year old American girl and scaled it down to create a realistic doll.

At first glance she does look chubby and awkwardly short in comparison (with a really big butt). Everything about her looks more exaggerated until you think about the women you see on a regular basis. Ever since I can remember I've heard people talk about how unrealistic Barbie is, but to see how drastic of a difference there still took me a second to process. Do I seriously look like that? The more I thought of it, the more I agreed with the modern version... especially the butt.

I couldn't let go or stop myself. Here's what he got:

"the whole point of this version of barbie was to show the proportion of the average woman so little girls won't compare themselves to an unobtainable standard of beauty and feel like shit about themselves."

I added this link:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2308658/How-Barbies-body-size-look-real-life-Walking-fours-missing-half-liver-inches-intestine.html


Perhaps I was too harsh with my comment. Actually, no. I was nicer than I wanted to be. Much, much nicer. He's lucky I took moment to calm the fuck down. It didn't work. I read his post and tried to brush it off. I came back an hour later and had to respond. I tried to be as diplomatic as I possibly could- I can get really fucking mean if I give myself permission to go into full-blown bitch mode. Sometimes heartless.



It's been three hours and he is always on facebook.
One of his friends liked my comment.
He has yet to respond.

I fucking win.





For the record, I'm comfortable with my body now. Ironically, I think my hips are one of my best features.

Bullshitter Extraordinaire

My favorite slacker story- the summer before last I had to take ballet to fill my P.E. credit. I'm not super coordinated, so I figured I'd be bad at it, but anything is better than running. I never run. I would be the first to die in a  zombie apocalypse.

As I predicted, I was bad and not nearly as flexible as I thought. That being said, I actually liked it. I almost bumped into people when we were "learning" the choreography (which I really sucked at remembering) but it was pretty cool.

The shit thing about this class were the research papers. It was a month and a half course and we had 2 papers. I think I tried on the first one because it was really short/not supposed to be as detailed. I don't remember what it was about, so either I worked on it the honest way or it wasn't worth bullshitting. The research paper though. GAH. 5 pages on a famous ballerina with I don't remember how many sources.

I hate everything about research papers. Literally everything. I purposely avoided the super famous ballerinas (Isadora Duncan, for instance. Practically invented modern dance, had an unfortunate love of scarfs) because there's far too much info I didn't want to have to sift through. I went to the Houston opera website and picked a random person. I thought it'd be cool to see her in a performance later if I ever got the chance.

Amy Fote. I found where she went to school, that she was graceful, she was the star of a particular ballet. That's all I had. That's not even half a page of information and that's all I could find. I tried writing it multiple times, fully intending on being an honest student, but I couldn't stretch that little amount into five pages. So I did what any other college kid does in that situation- I procrastinated and did it the night before. Rephrase- the morning of.

Yep. I started the paper at 6am and bullshat 5 pages in about 5 hours (mostly because I have annoyingly high standards for myself, so everything had to be perfect). I said she was a beautiful, graceful dancer at least ten times. It's all about synonyms. Find a part you like and just rephrase it again and again and again and again and again until you have enough of that one thought. Move on to the next piece of info. Rephrase that one again and again and again...

I ran out of information to bullshit on, so I had to look up and explain- in great detail- what her most famous role was, how that character fit in with the story, what the story is actually about. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I don't think I made up any sources though.

I finished the paper right at the time I usually left and I thought my heart was going to explode. I've never done anything so close to the deadline up until that point and didn't have time to second guess myself. I just hoped for the best.

A week or so later the professor gave the papers back. I miraculously got a 98. She only knocked points of for getting someone's job title wrong, mostly because the person to whom I was referring to was a giant dick and a personal enemy of my professor.

After class, she asked me to stay behind and talk. I knew I was dead. She was going to murder my face off so hard.

Amy Fote is her son's best friend's girlfriend. They talk regularly. They've known each other for years.

She said she called the best friend to let him know one of her students wrote a paper about his girlfriend. It was really cool hearing that...until I remembered just how much I made up. I offhandedly asked if she had let Amy read it. She said no, but did joke that now Amy is famous.

I'm still a bit surprised it worked, but now I have another BS tactic. Small world though.

giraffe(purple/x) < 17-3.754*daisy= SHUT UP

I hate math. Passionately hate it. I'd rather slam my head against a wall until I lose consciousness. That'd be great.

So, when I transferred to this new college, my counselor at the previous one assured me that I was done with math once I passed college algebra. It took several attempts to get through it, but eventually I did. I was so happy/relieved when I was free of it all.

She lied.

Bitch.

I got to my new school and the new counselor (who is directly in charge of my major, unlike the other one who was just a general one) said I still have to take another one. Hooray.

Of course, I've already forgotten a lot of the stuff I had somewhat memorized (but not fully understood). The other fun part is this is largely based on vocabulary and the definitions are awkwardly worded and are overly complex. It's as if they need to make it as lengthy as possible to justify it being a college class instead of high school geometry part 2. This class is even called "Math Reasoning"...

"an angle bisector is a line that starts at the vertex and extends outward to separate an angle into two smaller angles with equal degree measurement for each of the new angles."

Put a line through the middle of the angle. Now those two are the same size. Boom.

I should be in charge of writing math books. Short, sweet, to the point. When you get someone that likes their subject, they explain in far too much detail. Don't ask me about history or english. I can go on for a while. Ask someone who hates the subject- they will always give you the shortest, easiest answer to get through with the conversation as quickly as possible.

For instance, I had a geometry teacher in high school who openly admitted she always hated math growing up. She found and taught the short-cuts because she had tried everything herself. "Think of each problems as a puzzle; it'll make it tolerable." She was definitely one of my best teachers (as far as things I learned. Her personality was a bit abrasive. We got along, but her personality was very different than my own). I will never forget the quadratic formula, thanks to her creating a song.

>to the tune of pop-goes the weasel
(x is equal to the opposite of B, plus or minus the square root of B square minus 4AC, all over 2A.) And yes, I did sing that in my head as I was typing that... because I'm a huge dork.

My other frustration with my current math class is that my book still hasn't come in. It's been a week and a half. The website said 5 days. I hate everyone.

Sadly enough, I'm not a hateful person. I know my constant ranting throughout the previous posts show otherwise, I just have the timing of being irritated when I'm on my computer.

There may or may not be a correlation between the two on that one...

Uncomfortable Email Skank

Here's a post to distract myself from how much I hate everything school related. Why do I have to sign up for 5 different websites to turn stuff in? Why aren't ANY of these bastards letting me log in? Yeah, I'm pissed. Anyways...

I'm going through my spam email (something I've never, ever done) and I have one from someone named Adriana. I don't know her; she clearly has the wrong person. I am definitely not a dude. It's both funny and weird. All typos from this point on are entirely on purpose. It's painful.

Essentially, she's moving RIGHT EFFING NEAR me and I'm the only person she knows, aside from 3 cousins, but she cant chill with them. "We've" talked about chillin before and now that she's single we can. "I" told her she was cute and she "thoguth" I was cute too. She's 23, a virgo (thanks for including that. Horoscopes are the only valid way to summarize personality), has a cat, and is "a super horny gurl... ilove p0rn."

Awkward. It gets worse.

When she moves down here enxt week she needs a job- do I have any hookups? Right now she works from home and even though she CULD continue with that job she has, she'd prefer anythign for a change. She's on one of those nude webcam websites doing exactly what you'd expect. In her own words:

"i figure iim horny anyways why not get paid to chat with people and play with myself heheh...anyways i hope u dont look down on that and NO THATS NOT WHY IM CONTACTING U RELAX URSELF lol"

She then proceeds to give me a link for 3 free codes to "chat wit her" since it's the only way to contact her these days, but said if I login  "ill shoot u myc ell number and u can gimme yours.." But she warned if I shared that code with anyone else "ILL KICK U IN THE BALLS INSTEAD OF LICK U IN THE BALLS WHEN IS EE U"

Obviously this negates the whole pretense of giving the code to only chat, not see her get naked and...

She signed off by saying xoxox Adriana.




So yeah...that happened.

Creepy Sleeper

I've always talked in my sleep. Literally always. I still do, quite a lot, but I've started sleepwalking again. I used to do it all the time as a kid, but it's fairly rare these days. That's probably why it's particularly disturbing.

For instance, a few years ago my mom found me standing in the bathroom with my forehead against the wall. It was about 4 am. My eyes were open, but it was obvious I wasn't awake. She asked if I was ok, I said I didn't know, and she led me back to my room. I didn't remember anything the next morning.

Fast forward to the present- my friend has been living with me for the past two months for school. Unfortunately for her, she is a very light sleeper. This means when my bizzare antics start she is 100% captive. I will sit straight up in bed and not do anything for several minutes- my hair covering my face. Sometimes I will make noises or speak while this is happening. You get used to this. Eventually.

The first few nights I was either silent or not noticeably doing anything out of the ordinary...which is flailing. I have always/will probably always flail. After a few nights I started quietly mumbling incoherently. That's when things went south.

One night I walked across the room and jabbed her very hard in the arm repeatedly. I shook my finger at her and yelled "WHAT IF?"..."WHAT IF?!!"and went back to my bed, laid down... immediately sat up again and yelled "WHAT IF" again. I slept for a few minutes and yelled out of nowhere. No words, just a shout.

In another recent incident I had slept over at a friend's house and stood on the bed. Not next to, ON the bed. I walked in place, nudged her with my foot repeatedly, lost my balance, fell off the bed, got back on, stared at her, then continued to nudge her. Just as quickly and abruptly, I laid back down and cuddled uncomfortably close to her. I let out a huge sigh into her ear before I went back to a normal people sleep. She said she thought I was possessed. She couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

It's not all bad though; I am a very affectionate person. I love cuddling and spooning... but the draw-back in that is I will do it whether you want it or not. I will follow whoever it is to be next to them, no matter the size of the bed. Being in that awkward situation is better than the alternative though.

I already mentioned I flail constantly, so the only way to stay safe is to stay within spooning distance. Deal with excess body heat and personal space invasion or deal with pain. My ex usually went with the second option and told me horror stories in the morning. He stopped mentioning the kicking since it was practically every night. After a few months he even stopped telling me I slapped, punched, or elbowed him. He did tell me about the few times I shoved him into the wall or off the bed.

It was his fault for not spooning.

Apparently it's getting worse than it's ever been. In addition to talking and sitting up, I've been walking around the house, just disappearing downstairs for long periods of time.

I'm not longer surprised at all of the mystery bruises I find or the times I wake up more tired than I went to sleep. I just hope it doesn't get to the point where the doors have to be locked to keep me from escaping in the middle of the night :/

My computer is a whore

Or my internet is a bitch. Whichever, probably both.

Wireless internet is great in theory, and if you have a good system it's fantastic. Mine can go to hell. Seriously. I'm two feet away from the "wireless" thing and I have half a bar. It's like the stars have to be in the right position for it to do its job correctly. This is bullshit. My attention span isn't long enough to wait twenty fucking minutes to watch a four minute video. I need stupid cat videos and music videos and endless hours of facebook! I need uber fast speed and multiple tabs open in the off-chance I'll quickly do something productive (e-mail?) in the midst of my shenanigans.

It doesn't help thats it's two in the morning, so I'm tired and everything is pissing me off more than usual. And my big fat fatty fat fat cat Danny got in my lap- who I love- but he only used me to scratch his face. Of course he's never satisfied with what amount of time I'm giving him, so he claws my damn hand to keep me there. I don't know how or why his claws are so sharp but dear god! The cool part about that is I'm anemic, so those scratches will never ever heal...

Thanks to mr. fat here taking my hand, I've been typing one handed. When HE decided I was done scratching his face, he just slumped into my hand, not even trying to hold himself up, and has been putting his whole damn weight in my hand. This entire post has been one-handed. I've had to switch once, but I haven't written any with both hands- not even the title. I'm just that dedicated. Or pissed. Who am I kidding? I'm Irish- I'm always double dedicated when I'm pissed.

For the record, this has taken 24 minutes to write, thus far.

... Will there be food involved?

I hate parties. Ask anyone- I'm not a particularly social person, so parties aren't my thing. I don't have the energy. I can fake it for a while, depending on crowd size. A rough estimate:

A small group of close friends = 8-10 hours.
A large group of good friends = 6 hours.
Large group where I know one or two people = 4
Small group with one or two acquaintances = 2 1/2 (tops)

Though there are some deciding factors:

Alcohol. This can make things better or worse... drastically. There's the amount available/ consumed and how people react at different levels of intoxication. Luckily the majority of my people don't get super drunk, or at least can keep their shit together. Only one that I immediately thought of is an angry drunk. Most are happy, non-assholes.

Dancing. Depends on the music. Or age group of people. Or my mood.

Karaoke. I have a love/hate relationship with karaoke. I love singing and I'm pretty good, but I'm really bad at karaoke. My friends always insist- forcefully- that I sing. I'm not a loud person, so when I get the mic, the sound guy thinks there's something wrong with the machine and tries to fix it. Things get awkward.

Animals. If there is a pet involved I will stay longer. Yes, I am that person playing with the dog instead interacting with humans. I have stayed at social gatherings if I hear that there is some animal somewhere in the area in the hopes that it will be released soon. Yes, I am that pathetic.

Food. Truly, this is the deciding factor in party going if I am on the fence. The have been times where I purposely didn't eat in preparation so I would be forced to attend something I didn't want to for the food. Terrible motivation, but it almost always works. Though I will admit, once I was avoiding a social thing so bad that I almost passed out from not eating. It was not one of my prouder moments...

If there's anything I've learned in my life thus far, it's that parties can be tolerated for food. I have the soul of a fat kid.

I'm going on a throat punching spree.

For serious. I'm just gonna start throat punching everyone in charge of anything on campus. Guess who fucked me over this time? Phi Theta Fucking Kappa. AGAIN! How many times do they have to fuck with me? Don't they have someone- anyone- else to jerk around and royally piss off?!

Remember my backstory of sneaking into the original ceremony, trying to pay to be official, getting shot down, fighting those bitches for a fucking year to get in only for my dad? Yeah, let's add to that.

So, I had anticipated having to pay for the nerd club stole/tassel/whatever shit because nothing is ever free anymore. I hadn't expected it to be as expensive as it is- the stole is $20, the fucking tassel is $10. How do you justify charging that much for a wad of string and a plastic tag of the year? Those together are almost as much as the cap and gown were. I can't not get them because, just like being in the nerd club, is important to my dad. I feel guilty spending that much on this crap that has no sentimental value for me, but... it is what it is.

Back to the bitches- I have to be given a fancy membership card and number to log into the stupid website where THEY (the manufacturers) double check to make damn sure you're really in PTK. I have to be approved by the counselor woman again, even though I already paid and am a member. She has to verify it before the PTK people will let me buy their fancy crap.

Just shove it.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

...I could do it for you. Your choice.

Also, while I wait for the shit-head office person to verify they FINALLY let me the fuck in, I'm losing time from the website. That's right- I have to order this shit online from that one fucking site. Then, because those PTK bitches didn't tell me I couldn't buy the decorative stuff from the campus bookstore (like I could for the cap and gown), I'm going to have pay a lot more to get rush delivery and just hope I get this crap in time.

I have 6 days (including today). I can't buy anything until I can get them to verify, but I have to wait until Monday to sort this out/buy the crap with hopefully next day shipping. It is Saturday. Graduation is Friday. I have 5 days and I'm not sure if they have rush delivery.

I hate those fucking bitches.

Also, they won't announce me as Lauren Waitforit McCaskill, as I had written in on the graduation announcement paper. It said "your preferred name." That is what I preferred. Again, you may shove it.

The ONLY thing that takes me from 'kill mode' into 'violently maim everyone mode,' is that they will announce that I'm PTK, despite not really being in when I was told that I technically graduated. So, worst case scenario, dad will hear I'm in the nerd club, even if I don't look fancy.

But the pictures with the fancy crap makes it look official. I won't have to explain this long ass story of really being accepted, sneaking in, rejected, blah, blah, blah... It'll be at a glance I'm fancy.

In summary- fuck you bitches and shove it. Hard. Cross one more line and I will maim you.

Hypochondriac

I'm always convinced I'm dying. It's pathetic, really. I've gotten better, but for the longest time stomach ache = cancer and exceptional headache = brain tumor. I do have legitimate migraines, but that explanation didn't sound dramatic enough. The internet is a dangerous tool for hypochondriacs.

Recently I firmly believed I had a kidney stone. This wasn't just me being a whiney brat. I resisted going on webmd for the longest time, trying not to move as my lower back felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. It hurt to breathe and even my shirt touching me was horrible. I was damn near crying by the time I texted my brother's girlfriend (who has had kidney stones on 2 separate occasions) to ask how it felt. She said uber pain in mid to lower back and that standing/sitting made it worse. She said call mom and possibly go to the hospital.

Mom and dad were downtown with their friends and hadn't taken their car, so they were stuck. Mom said call someone to drive me to an emergency clinic. Luckily my friend Courtney was available. We got to the place and she had to fill out the paperwork for me.

As it turns out, kidneys are further up than most people think- the bottom of the rib cage, more or less. Mine was bottom of rib cage down to my hips, all the way across my back. This wasn't a kidney stone, just severe back muscle spasms. Either way, this shit wasn't cool. I got a painkiller shot in the butt that helped a little... after a while. I always thought people were whining about that shot hurting. How much worse could it be than a normal needle? A lot, that's how much! Admittedly my pain tolerance is on the low scale, but Courtney said the needle was huge and the nurse left it in longer than necessary.

That helped just enough so walking didn't feel like death, but I still opted to lay down in Courtney's car on the drive home. I got two bottles of pain killer/muscle relaxers and a mystery bottle I still have no idea what it's for. I only used them for the first 2 days afterwards, mostly sticking to a heating pad and not moving.

The bummer is I'm (truly) anemic, so that spot where I was shot bruised and still is... a week later. Almost a month ago I tripped over and fell on (in one flailing motion) my nephew's walker and bruised the shit out of my knees. They're still there. Faint, but there.

This means my butt bruise is never going to heal :[

Pet Peeves

I need a moment to bitch about everything and everyone. Some things in no particular order:

• Go the speed limit or faster. Seriously, it's Texas people. Speed limits are a suggestion- go the fuck faster.
• Don't talk during movies. I don't care if it's in public or at someone's house, just shut your face and watch.
• Don't chew with your mouth open, smack when you chew, or talk with your mouth full (unless you cover with your hand, I can accept that).
• It's liBRARY, not liBERRY. You can't eat it.
• ASK, not AXE.
• Seen verses saw. 
• Your, not UR. Also, your is vastly different than you're.
• Definite and defiant are not interchangeable. 
• Angry birds. I don't know why, I just do.
• Jersey Shore, 16 and pregnant, and any reality show vaguely like that. 
• Religious zealots. It doesn't matter which religion, don't cram it down my throat. If I have questions about yours, I'll ask. Likewise, if you have questions about mine, I'll answer. I have a religion; you have one. Congrats and go away.
• Vanity plates. Way to be a douche.
• Bumper stickers. I hate them almost as much as vanity plates. I'm not sure why on that one either.
• Homophobes. I'm straight, but I have several gay friends that are fantastic people.
• Don't tell me the end of books.
• Don't break spines of books. Also don't fold a lot of pages. A few is fine, but if it's every few pages, get a damn bookmark.
• Saying gay or retarded instead of shitty or terrible.
• The words fag, pussy, or cunt. I felt uncomfortable typing them, honestly.
• If people don't hold the door open for someone else- especially for old people or women with children/strollers. I judge very strongly on that. If a person doesn't say thank you to the person holding the door (especially if it's me).
• Joan Rivers, Jimmy Kimmel, Tom Cruise and Jimmy Fallon. I'm not fond of Katie Holmes.
• Twilight and Stephanie Meyers.
• Twilight fans. Go die please.
• People who are mean to waiter(esses) for no reason.
• Girls dressing like sluts.
• Kim Kardashian

I'm not an angry person. I'm sick, so everything that irritates me is coming out full swing. It's like every 2 weeks I get sick, better, sick, better, sick... 

Alright, I'm done ranting. I'm going to go die now.

I graduated?

So... apparently I graduated in December and no one told me. I was under the impression I had to apply for graduation so the people in the office wouldn't have to do their jobs (which is usually the case) or it wouldn't go through in time or some nonsense like that. Considering I had to fight for TWO semesters to have my ballet class count as a PE class, I expect the worst when it comes to anything that might be bureaucratic.

I went to the main office today with two goals- be officially accepted into Phi Theta Kappa and apply for graduation with a paper that says I'm in the nerd club. For the record, I really don't care about being in phi theta kappa. I really really don't. The scholarships are cool and people who care about gpa and other nonsense will be impressed that I'm "super smart." In reality I started college with no life and am generally a good bullshitter, evidence to follow.

Why would I find the need to be accepted now? Because my dad already thinks I'm in. He'd be crushed if he found out I'm not a documented super nerd. In truth, I have been invited almost every semester, I just never paid. If this sounds like I'm bragging, I'm sorry. It isn't my intention. This is just to provide validity to this story.

See, what had happened was I snuck into the PTK commencement ceremony a while back. The computer the announcer people were using completely died and the pamphlets already had left several of the *actual* paying member's names off. The opportunity presented itself and I went for it. Someone said my name, I walked, I signed the book, and I am in photos. Originally, I went to support my friend who was there for the legitimate reason. She off-handedly commented how disorganized everything was and how someone could lie about being a part of it. She created a monster without realizing her mistake.

The next day I tried to pay and fix my lie, but the woman in charge told me there was no record of me paying (duh. I then lied about having issues with my bank and being willing to pay at that moment) and she basically told me the deadline was over and fuck off.

I dropped the issue and was content with only having my story and various evidence of my bullshit. I told mom (and my brothers, everyone thought this escapade was hilarious), but then she said dad can't find out or he'd be disheartened.

Today I paid and am officially in the nerd club. I talked to the graduation control woman and she said I already graduated. It took about five minutes to clear the confusion. The school just computes the classes you've finished in whatever degree you registered with and if you passed. I'm retaking my last class, but since I passed last semester the computer decided I was done.

The bummer of this situation is that because I hadn't paid last semester while I was still technically a student, I don't get the fancy PTK stamp on my diploma. The good thing is I can still wear all the decorate crap when I walk at the graduation ceremony... which they only have in May.

This kinda killed my thunder for graduating. There is no excitement. Granted, I hadn't expected an emotional outburst, but still... I don't have any discernible reaction. There should be something, but I don't know what. I know I don't have it though. I'm going to get my actual diploma in the mail, supposedly end of next month- like a late birthday present!

None of this will feel real until I actually do the whole "walk across the stage in a long, boring ceremony where everyone wants to go home." Even then...



[update: I just got my diploma in the mail today. The school timeline is far different than my own.]

Ferris Wheel Day

Commonly, today is Valentine's Day, V-day, Singles Awareness Day, Let's Get Fat Day, Let's have Crazy Sex Night, whatever. I feel somewhat obligated to voice my opinion on the matter.

I am not a romantic, so loving Valentine's Day isn't an option. I'm single, so I can't say I hate it (or that I don't even like it) because then it's an automatic assumption that I'm just bitter, perhaps even a bitch.

For the most part, I am indifferent. I have moments during the day where I either love or hate it, but neither feeling stays long enough to make a significant effect. The only times I've even been measurably happy is when a special outfit or fancy food is involved. Case in point- a super cute skirt one year in high school when everyone thought I was weird and no guy had the slightest interest in me. I looked very pretty the first year with my ex-boyfriend; the following year I made a kick-ass cheesecake for us. Last year one of my best friends took me on a picnic because we were both single and she decided she would be my valentine in a non-lesbian way.

Bad V-days are pretty generic, so none of those stories matter. They all just blend together. I've never been dumped on this day, so at least there's that.

The only clear-cut good thing about Valentine's day is my dad. He always- without fail- gets me one of those heart shaped boxes of chocolates and a cute card. Even terrible V-days have that one bright moment.

So this year, as with every year, I'm going to end up eating too many chocolates at once so I get a stomach ache and make some cavities. I suggest doing that.



Today is also Ferris Wheel Day. I prefer that.

Great Awesome Resume Time

So I've never had the balls to send off the kind of resume I have always wanted to write. This is pretty much what it would look like:

Lauren Wait-For-It [Last Name]

Objective
It should be obvious I want to be eye candy for your business. I mean, seriously, just look at me. I'd totally take me home.

Cool Shit I Can Do

• I have a mesmerizing smile. Reread that "eye candy" part.
• I can name all 50 states in under 30 seconds. Alphabetically. Suck it.
• I can bake like you wouldn't believe- bread from scratch. I made cinnamon buns that were so fucking awesome my brother thought they were store bought.
• Need someone to make ugly faces? Look no further. I made my nephew cry.
• I can be so awkward I scare annoying customers off. I will only use this skill for good though (you know, with great power comes great responsibility).
• I'm responsible.
• I know the difference between your and you're; their, there, and they're.
• I can cuss like a champ when I'm pissed off.
• I make awkward faces when I laugh that make other people laugh. My laugh is also very loud, which makes the workplace seem better than it really is. Or more uncomfortable. Whichever.

My Amazing Life Thus Far
Research Assistant

• assisted with research...
• looked up facts and important things. From books, not just google. BAM!
• entered that info in computers in between facebook and youtube

Secretary

• put papers in places
• had conversations with people on the phone AND in person
• sent non-death threat emails

Retail (no one cares what kind, it's all basically the same thing)

• sold stuff
• pretended I cared
• smiled and looked pretty

Still Not Convinced?

That's ridiculous. You already know I'm hands down the best- nay, the ONLY person for this job. Burn all the other resumes. They are not wanted. Ever. Tell those people they will never match my level of awesome and they should give up their hopes and dreams.

I'll be back tomorrow so you can hire me on the spot. Btw, I look great in red.

Clubbing Adventure

This is quite possibly the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me.

So, Marvin and Naomi took me out clubbing for my eighteenth birthday- my first ever clubbing experience. It was the usual scene- crammed with people, women dressed like skanks, men with too much cologne, a plethora of drunk people, etc...

We got on the dance floor and after a few minutes this guy came over and danced with me.  I think he showered in cologne; there's no other explanation as to why he would've thought it was a good idea to wear that much. He kept trying to get me to put my hands on the back of his neck so he could be even more uncomfortably close. I went with it just so I could control my personal bubble and make sure he wouldn't get all up on me. After a song or two, I couldn't decide if he was really sweaty or if he had too much hair gel.

A minute later I decided it couldn't be hair gel. It just was not possible. That left him being the sweatiest human being alive. It's at this point he tried talking to me. Notice I said talking, as in regular conversation level talking. You're lucky if you can have a shouting conversation in a club where the people involved don't have to repeat themselves several times and still only have a vague idea of what was said.

To make that worse, he is talking to me in spanish. I can pick out a few words on a good day... assuming I can hear it. I kept yelling NO HABLO ESPANOL. I wasn't even sure if I should say hablo or habla. That's how bad it was.

(whisper spanish)
NO HABLO ESPANOL
(more spanish)
NO HABLO ESPANOL
(spanish)
NO HABLO ESPANOL
(more stuff)

I gave up. I couldn't get over how incredibly sweaty he was. He was like a damn fountain.  I was getting more and more grossed out by him. I was about to wipe my hands on my pants when I glanced at them and realized they were far too dark for my pasty skin. I really looked down- My palms were covered in blood.

For serious. Blood. My hands (heel to fingertips) were covered in blood. I couldn't make that up if I tried. Blood all over my hands. I just stared for a very long few seconds unable to comprehend it. I looked at him, looked at my hands, looked at him, looked at my hands. I held my hands out to him, speechless, as if to say "WHAT. IN. THE. FUCKING. FUCK?!!!"

My friends looked over at that moment, just as confused as I was, if not more so. I don't even know if they saw the blood. They probably just thought that guy was a douche and I was telling him off. I stormed off to go wash my hands and filled them in on what happened. Then I saw that he had also gotten blood on my shirt... a lot of blood. All down my hip, in fact. They both kept asking if I was alright; I made sure I didn't have any cuts or anything. I have no idea where the blood came from, but the important thing was that it wasn't mine.

This was literally within the first fifteen minutes of being there. I opted not to leave, purely out of stubbornness that I wouldn't have this be my only clubbing experience- it would just be an unbelievably bizarre story. Okay, it was also about the $20 admission and I was strapped for cash... We just avoided that side of the club for the rest of the night. The plus side of the rest of the evening was Marvin taught me how to salsa.

So now, anytime I go out and have a miserable time, I always tell myself "At least no one bled on me."

me + caffeine = death

I am exhausted. I have no idea why. All I know is it really sucks. I managed to stay awake all day today (miraculously), but yesterday I fell asleep twice during the day, three times the day before that. I have finally been able to sleep lately, but it isn't helping at all. Fuck this.

Have some coffee. Get an energy drink. Do various drugs.

I wish, I wish. Except the drug thing; that's not me. That also isn't my point. Normal people can and usually do one of those things to stay awake. I am not normal- I can't handle caffeine. For serious, I can't. I want to- I really, really do. Life would be so much easier, but I can't. I lose my shit. No one ever believes how bad I say I am when I have caffeine.

I. LOSE. MY. SHIT.

My friend (let's call him Asshole) had been bugging me for almost a month to try this "all natural, non-energy" energy drink. So this one day he's over while I'm trying to write a very important paper for class and he won't leave me alone. I eventually drank the damn thing just to get him to shut up. This was quite possibly the worst decision of my life. It didn't kick in for about ten minutes, but when it did I couldn't stop spazzing out. I became a fucking psycho. I was twitching worse than I can describe and shout-rambling the same thing at a thousand miles an hour, over and over and over and over.

"HOLYFUCKWHYDIDYOUDOTHISTOMEYOUASSHOLEINEEDTOFINISHTHISPAPERANDICAN'TSITSTILLINEEDTOEATSOMETHINGTOBALANCETHISBUTIDON'TKNOWWHATTOEATBECAUSEMYTUMMYHURTSINEEDTHEPAPERTO...

I'd stop mid-sentence and space out entirely for a few seconds before continuing...

"DOWEHAVEOATMEALIT'LLABSORBTHISI'MTALKINGTOOLOUDLYANDICAN'TSTOPWHYHAVEN'TYOUHITMEYETWHYDIDYOUDOTHISTOMEASSHOLE..."

Repeat that another six times... at least. The first few minutes Asshole thought it was great and the best thing ever. Mom told me to calm the fuck down (those exact words). She tried force feeding me, but my stomach hurt because of that stupid drink. After about fifteen solid minutes of that intense rant, Asshole realized the seriousness of his mistake. I couldn't shut up. My heart was exploding. Asshole apologized for not realizing I meant I physically can't handle caffeine.

Mom glared at Asshole, pointed at me (practically seizing) and said "this is your damn fault. Look what you did. You're responsible for that now. I hope you're happy." He apologized to her and then again to me.

At some point I forced myself to be somewhat quieter, but anyone could see there was something seriously wrong with me. Mom almost cancelled her dinner plans with her friends just so she could make sure I didn't really lose my mind. This made me feel terrible- emotionally, I was already feeling terrible physically- and I tried talking as slowly and distinctly as possible. It was infinitely weirder than the yelling thing.

"noooo moooooom III aammmmmm fiiiiiiinnnne. I wiiilll bbbbeeeee OOOOOOOOOOOkaayy. Eye'm aaaaallreadyyyyy bbeeeeter."

She stared at me, shook her head, and turned to Asshole again and said it was his fault and that "space cadet" (me) is his responsibility. He apologized again to both of us. She left and he helped me sit on the couch, where I immediately curled into the fetal position. I could talk normally by that point; I told him I hated him, he apologized. I told him he should've listened, he apologized. Then Asshole apologized again... and again. I started blabbering and ended up crying. Literally, borderline weeping.

In the span of a few hours, I went from non-stop yelling and twitching -> talking like an idiot -> crying in the fetal position.

Granted, this is with a very large dose on an empty stomach, but this has happened with smaller amounts on a somewhat smaller scale. However, I'm fine with soda or half a cup of coffee (maybe a third of a starbucks tall). That is my absolute limit before things get weird. This is only funny in retrospect; it was scary at the time for everyone involved.

"hey sexy mama...wanna kill all humans?"

There's this new game on my phone I am absolutely addicted to called "Plague Inc." It's the passive aggressive way to kill everyone you hate and then some!

Allow me to back up and explain that like a sane person. You name a disease and unleash it upon the world. The more people it infects, the more points you get to either make it spread faster/better, make the symptoms worse and more deadly, and/or prevent it from being cured. That's a pretty bad description, but I recommend it. 

The point is, you win when you kill all of humanity. It's disturbingly gratifying when you think about it. I think part of the appeal for me is being able to name what kills everyone. For example, here is a list of the names I've used, highest to lowest score. I lost after the first few.

sunshine
Dafuq
Icky
Love 
Rawr!
cookies
stop fart
UberNo
rawr
kindness (I was so disappointed I didn't kill everyone with this)
Noooooooo
new stuff
oh snap
shit (also wish I had won this)
sickyface
dinosaurs
rape (my friend was playing, he named it)
sarcasm
cum (the same aforementioned friend)
tired
time kill

...I have insomnia. Don't judge me.

I'm waiting for when I get to be absolutely amazing at this game so I can name the disease after myself. "Lauren has wiped out humanity."

I meant for that to sound funny, but my sense of humor doesn't always translate well in written form. That just sounded unbelievably fucking creepy. It's also made me seem like the biggest dick on the face of the planet before, but... I can't stop myself. So as a warning, if something seems like a terrible thing no human should ever say, there's a very good chance I'm being sarcastic. 

On a completely unrelated note- I have a guest spot on my lovely friend's blog you should check out if you are so inclined:

my guest blog