50mg

Comic Book Deadline: Sequel

2011-03-31T21:48:00.000-04:00

So here is the reality. I am never good at both drawing and writing at the same time. Not really. Not when it matters. When I studied art in NYC, all I could or wanted to do was write. I filled notebooks. I filled sketchbooks with descriptions, haikus, rants. When I was in lit classes, I had coloring books and crayons.

So now, when I have both writing and drawing to do? I'm hating it both. Them. Them both. I'm hating them.

I'm sucking at writing.

There's no nuance. It's just static sentences. Bad grammar. Fragments. Incomplete thoughts about... stuff.

I'm sucking at drawing.

I think maybe I'm trying too hard to make everything perfect. So instead of everything being perfect, it's just everything being unsatisfactory.

And me being unhappy.

And my work being unfinished.

Because everything sucks

and everybody's stupid

and I'm useless

and other things.

So I'm thinking I should take Marilyn Kallet's advice from January Rez: there's no such thing as writer's block. Just lower your standards.

StickLaura's Guide to Getting a CAT Scan

2011-01-24T23:30:00.000-05:00

To be continued...

Post Essay Life

2010-12-03T22:06:00.000-05:00

Comic Book Deadline

2010-12-02T20:02:00.000-05:00

Why Passports are Important

2010-07-08T14:42:00.000-04:00

It all started out simply enough with me spending weeks blaming myself for being a passportless philistine, causing the tragedy of us having to meet on the American side of Niagara Falls. It was that or everybody abandoning me to frolic on the other side, eh.

"Bye Laura! See you in a few hours!"

"Have fun, everyone. I'll just... stay here... alone... I'll maybe find some seagulls to look at... And be lonely with..."

But then somebody Official said it was worth a shot to try to get to Canada without my passport. I had my license, after all. I could answer a fuckton of questions about the United States. What do you want to know?

August 18th, 1987. Hamilton. Patricia. William. Harris. Debt collection. Obama. Prop 8 sucks. Haven't eaten meat in years. Elmira College. Green. Millard Fillmore.

No, seriously, I was on this.

So, feeling naughty, I pass through the epic gate of death and dismemberment. No, seriously, the gate onto the Rainbow Bridge is iron. It's spiky. It's coated in barbed wire and has unfriendly signs tacked to it. I passed through it and did a little happy dance. I was well on my way to Sessa's country!

Half way across the bridge, right where the flags meet and there's a pretty line, midway across the river, I straddled the international boundary line and giggled. I was in Canada. Without a passport! Bwahahaha I'm a badass!

We get to the Canada side and the guard lady eyeballs our group with practiced disinterest.

"Passports please."

Vanessa gives hers.

"Where's your passport?"

"Oh," I stumble, "Well, a guy on the American side said that even though I don't have a passport, it was worth a shot to try with my driver's license."

"Give me your license."

I expected more difficulty than that. I give it to her, almost dropping it.

"What is your citizenship?"

"I'm from New York," I stutter, nervously.

"No," she glares at me. "Your citizenship. What COUNTRY are you from."

"Oh! The United States. I'm..." I can't get words to function right. "I'm American?"

"Where were you born?" She's looking from my driver's license to Vanessa's passport.

"Which one?" we ask together.

She glares at me. "You. SHE has her passport."

"Oh. Well. I was just confused, since you were looking at her passport when you asked."

"WHERE WERE YOU BORN."

"Hamilton, NY. Community Memorial Hospital. I can call my mom if you want to know more."

"WHERE DO YOU LIVE NOW."

"Madison."

"Madison where?"

"New York. Madison, NY."

"Are you carrying any weapons?"

Yes! A question I know the answer to! "Yes! I have a pocket knife on my keychain."

"No other weapons?"

"Just the pocket knife that's on my keychain. Do you need to see it? I don't want it to be a surprise for anyone later. That I have a knife, I mean. On my keychain."

"How much money are you carrying?"

"What? Oh. Um. Ten dollars."

She raises her eyebrow. I want to plead that I'm a dirt poor grad student. That I wasn't going to try to go to Canada but somebody said I could. That I love Vanessa and wanted to go to her country. That I'm not creepy, I promise.

"How did you two meet?"

Vanessa and I panic. But we panic in a self-contained manner. We look at each other.

"In college?" I venture.

"HOW DID YOU MEET. WHAT I'M ASKING IS HOW SOMEBODY FROM SUDBURY, ONTARIO MET SOMEBODY FROM MADISON, NY."

We look at each other. And we look at Christian, who's from Germany, and the four Finns, and Kath, from England. And we really don't want to say we met on the internet.

"We're all... We're all part of a literary discussion forum."

"WHERE."

"Online." I mumble.

"WHAT?"

"On the internet." I'm a little braver since she hasn't killed me yet.

"WHEN DO YOU MEET EACH PERSON?"

Vanessa and I both try to speak at once. "Well, it kind of depends-" "Different members joined at different times-" "Known since 15" "We actually just met her family today"

Finally the woman tells me to not come back without my passport, and to have fun in Canada.

I do a happy dance outside, safely on Canadian soil. The sun comes out, chasing away the stormy weather we've had all day.

We explore Niagara Falls, Canada.

We go back.

We have an adventure with quarters.

The man on the American side demands my passport.

"I... well, Canada let me in without one."

"THAT'S ILLEGAL."

"It's... well... Canada said I could." I say kind of lamely. "They said not to do it again."

"Well what ID do you have?"

I give him my New York State driver's license.

"Where were you born?"

I'm excited, because I know this answer. I tell him.

He asks me a few more questions and then starts yelling at me. He tells me that since I'm over 21 I can be charged with a felony for trying to sneak across the border without proper travel documentation.

"Canada let me" doesn't seem to assuage his rage.

He asks what I've got on me that could be used to identify myself.

I say, kind of helplessly, that I have a ten dollar bill and my car keys, and nothing else.

"RIGHT NOW YOU COULD BE FACING YEARS IN PRISON FOR A FELONY AND YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT YOUR CAR KEYS? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? SOMETHING THIS IMPORTANT, YOU TRYING TO BREAK A LAW FOR FUN, AND YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT YOUR CAR KEYS?"

I withhold the whimper that wants to emerge. I know he's just doing his job, but he's being so mean about it.

After I answer a bunch more questions, he lets me through.

"I never want to see you again without your passport," he growls.

I nod, properly rebuked. Vanessa and I run outside to the safety of America.

It starts raining again.

Based on a True Story

2010-06-10T20:51:00.000-04:00

Ever felt like the people you're trying to teach just completely missed the point?

So did he.

Trust me, I have a degree in this shit-

2010-05-30T22:02:00.000-04:00

Chris Burden Edition.

Dude's a reasonably contemporary artist. I also have reason to believe he's batshit insane, and so is the world of art that spawned him.

Allow me to demonstrate.

1971:

Lesson learned?

Three years later:

The torrid love affair...

2010-05-30T21:19:00.000-04:00

My Day; or, The Accident

2010-05-25T15:19:00.001-04:00

Prologue:

Some time passes.

Today occurs.

Epilogue:

Fashion in Moab

2010-05-23T22:38:00.000-04:00

The nature of fear:

2010-05-08T20:15:00.000-04:00

Me right now:

Me really soon:

Trust me, I have a degree in this shit-

2010-05-04T22:46:00.000-04:00

Literature: J.R.R. Tolkien

Trust me, I have a degree in this shit-

2010-05-04T17:12:00.007-04:00

Contemporary Art History Part 1: Damien Hirst

Trust me, I have a degree in this shit-

2010-05-03T21:14:00.007-04:00

I didn't draw this. They did:
But I friggin love it.

Because Byron really was all up for sex with anything that would hold still.

Like... Anything.

No really.

Anything.

Okay, well, maybe not anything. But 'anyone' isn't so far off the mark.

Mary Shelley: "So then I decided to have the scientist assemble body parts, and-"

Byron: "And fuck them?"

Mary: "Um, no. No, he brings them to life, through science, and-"

Byron: "THEN he fucks them?"

Mary: "No, Byron. He doesn't fuck the monster."

Percy: "Monster, ponster, clonster, shonster, O! the poetry!"

Byron: "Dude, what's this bitch writing?"

Percy: "'Tis nothing of note. Just girlish fancies. Really, Mary, fucking is all the rage. That's why we've never cared about petty things like adultery or venereal diseases."

Byron: "Oh yes, nothing to worry about. I've had the lot of them!"

Mary: "So AS I WAS SAYING, there's a monster that's brought to life through science, and there's the scientist, and I keep having dreams about my dead baby."

Byron: "Is the monster naked?"

Mary: *headdesk*

Next best seller:

Opportunities for Advancement

2010-05-02T21:32:00.003-04:00

Usually emo people feel like this. It's typical. Nobody understands this burden I carry. It's so lonely. The fate of everything rests on my shoulders and I'm failing. I'm bent under the weight. Woe is me. Sadness. Deep sigh. Eeeeeeeeemo.

That's not me. I don't carry the world.

I don't want it.

For one thing, there are like two creatures on the planet that don't secretly wish that you'll fail. I don't know this for sure. I'm being generous. There surely must be at least two. The whole world can't be out to get you.

Oh wait:

Sure it can.

I do not wish to insult people in the industries I'm about to bitch about. Eh, fuck it. Be insulted if you want.

1. I want nothing to do with changing diapers. I want nothing to do with lactation. I'm not interested in chasing your snotnosed brats around while you're busy tossing a salad and pretending like you're an awesome mommy because your yuppie lifestyle accommodates hiring other people to do your job.

2. Restaurants are disgusting. They're dirty. The food is the cheapest shit you can possibly find on the market, mass produced and left lurking on burners until people eat it. Odds are good the produce has been chilling in the walk-in for a week before you see it. There's no telling how many people have handled your dinnerware, cutlery, or even food. And god knows when the place was last mopped. I will not fucking waitress again for people that believe that tipping is optional- if you're unaware, waitresses make far less than minimum wage because it is assumed that they'll 'make up for it' in tips. If you're a stingy prick, chances are some single mom's kids don't get enough to eat this week. I will not wash dishes and have to squeegee food particles out of the drain so the industrial sized sinks will drain.

3. I'm not patient enough to help handicapped people. I'm sorry. This probably makes me a bad person. But I'm barely patient enough to deal with self-sufficient people. I'm sure as fuck not cut out to be a home healthcare aid.

4. I don't want to work in healthcare. Gaping wounds I can deal with. Punctures, needles, and ripped off fingernails? I cannot. Maggots? Nope. Parasites? No. Puking? No. No no no. I can't even handle digging the giblets out of a chicken in order to roast it. I had a panic attack unwrapping frog legs in a restaurant. A literal one. A hyperventilating in the bathroom panic attack. Because I could see the veins and the ligaments. Do you really think I can deal with health care?

5. My brain shuts off when I see numbers. And I'm ethically opposed to anything relating to the stock market.

Dear CNY: your employment opportunities suck.

Dear the world: you, as a collective whole, are an asshole. No, really. You've bred species that seek to destroy themselves and others. You've evolved creatures hellbent on the end of existence. You somehow managed to genetically engineer a freakishly powerful group of creatures that have no interest in self-preservation as a species.

Fuck you, world. Fuck you.

To be continued, maybe...

I didn't die, but my internet did.

2010-04-24T12:19:00.007-04:00

Don't get me wrong, I love my grad school. Love love love.

But does anybody actually think that what I'm learning actually has anything to do with what I want to do with my life? The job that I have to have this degree to get?

Who the fuck had the bright idea that in order to get a job, you have to have a degree that has nothing to do with it? It's like telling somebody that before they're allowed to have a sword, they have to prove they can ride a horse. You know, instead of teaching them how to use a sword and then gifting them one.

Teacher training:
Professor training:
If you become proficient in your field, you'll totes know how to teach. You'll walk into a classroom for the first time.

You'll stare around at your slackjawed hungover miscreants. One will be asleep and drooling. Some mama's boy nerd douche will be in the middle of the front row. You'll resolve to stare past him all semester.

Half your kids will be late. They'll saunter in. Nay, they'll *trickle* in so that you have to repeat the first few words of your introduction five times. You'll vow that your next class, which starts in 45 minutes, you'll start talking the second the clock ticks the time and if they don't hear your speech, fuck 'em. This is college. It's their own goddamned fault.

You'll repeat five or six times that you want to go by your first name, not Miss or Mrs or whatever. If they really insist, they can call you 'Professor.' No, you don't have your doctorate. Yes, they can call you Indy. Yes, I AM old enough to be doing this.

There will be a paper due every two weeks. I will give you time in class to work on it. If you do your work instead of fucking around on Facebook, you'll never have homework for me. Each paper will have a specific theme you're going to learn about. By the time we reach the research paper- Yes, come in. Sit. What's your name? Yeah, you're late. You get two more before I drop you by a letter grade. Unfair? No, unfair is being so disrespectful toward people who care more about your future than you do that you can't be bothered to haul your ass out of bed and get to class on time so that the teacher doesn't have to repeat herself and waste the rest of the class's time. In the future, if you think you're going to be late, just don't come. Yes, I also track absences. Get your shit together and act like a grown up.

You know, I wasn't going to be a bitch, but if you guys are going to act like kids, I'll treat you like kids.

Do they teach you in grad school what you're supposed to do the first time one of your students stares at you blankly when you give instructions and then proceeds to do the opposite of what you just said? Do they tell you how to deal when you get a pissed off student all up in your face?

As a person, I'd say, "Back the fuck off." and if they didn't I'd shove them away and if they took a swing I'd break one of their delicate bones. Nose or fingers. Can a prof assault a student? Dunno. Nobody ever told me.

How about how to deal with students that sexually harass you? Colleagues?

Do they teach you how to memorize your students' names? Because frankly, they all look the same for half the semester. And you feel like shit when you only know two students' names and the rest of them are just, 'Girl that draws skulls on notebooks,' or 'Heavy chick with plastic glasses,' or 'Wears same hoodie every day.' I mean, how are you supposed to save face when a student gets your attention somewhere off campus and they're wearing real clothes instead of sweatpants and you can't figure out who the fuck they are even though they're all, "Did you grade my paper about legalizing marijuana yet?"

How about a list of supplies you might need? You know how in second grade, teachers send home lists at the end of summer that are like, "Pencil case, #2 pencils, eraser, ruler, three notebooks, two folders, right foot in, left foot out, hokey pokey..."

I want one of those. I want a fucking list. You want to be a professor? Here you go:
Grade/Attendance book
pens
um....

Do you need shit? Dunno. Too busy oogling adjectives and nouning adverbed verbs to know anything practical.

Most importantly, how do you deal with this:

I wouldn't know. I'm too busy learning my subject to learn how to do my job.

Dear John

2010-04-14T09:38:00.002-04:00

First you should know, I was playing Mario. In my dream. Except for the minor caveat that I was Mario, and that this isn't the first time I've been Mario. The first time I could fly. This time, the level I was working on required crouching while walking, so that I would look like the indestructible baddies that were waddling around. Now this wouldn't be so hard if in the middle of the level, Mario didn't get appendicitis. But that's part of the level. See, you have to use the appendicitis as a way to get the Boss to fake wanting to help you, and just when he goes to rush you, you've got to SPIN REALLY FAST and shoot him back against the wall of the cave you're in.

Well, I didn't get the timing right, and got game-overed.

So then I'm no longer Mario, but I'm in a desert. Not any real desert. More like a Legend of Zelda desert. And there's a castle made of sand. And a wizard, but he's kind of a toolbag, and there's at least one goat. And based on a proscribed Epic Occurrence, the castle is about to flood. And when the sand castle floods, the sand labyrinth in front of it will also fill with water and I'll be able to see the Important Pattern (and probably be able to save the world. It usually goes like that.).

Well, there's a problem. One is that the little kid/monster that's hanging around with me and the wizard steps into quicksand. The Sand Castle is equipped with booby traps.

So we have to drag him out. I think he's blue. Like Devin. Hell, maybe he's also Devin and I just hadn't gotten far enough for dream!Devin to tell me his role.

But anyway, he's in quicksand, and the wizard's being a bit of a prick and refusing to acknowledge the fact that little blue monster/kid is sinking rather quickly, and our mini-model of the full sized castle is flooding and showing us what happens (it's just like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Arc where Indy's got the staff and the mini city...) but we can't see it because we're busy getting our compadre out of the sand pit!

And then the goat requires attention, and we're all going to die.

And then.

New dream.

I'm at my dad's garage of employment with Kelly and Sibling. The bay doors are all open. The weather's great.

I go to go outside, and see an army of what are probably ghosts. They're on the other side of the road. And I look around to see what they're waiting for.

And I see these two little kids.

Now, 'little kid' seems to give entirely the wrong idea that they looked at all non-creepy.

They looked fucking creepy.

Because they were mirror images of each other, for one thing. Except for the fact that they actually weren't. But never mind facts, they were mirror images, dammit. They were also in grayscale. Which was just weird. The little girl was wearing a white Victorian nightgown. The little boy was wearing a gray old fashioned school uniform. You know, the little shorts and jacket combo that terrifies people watching horror films with creepy little children in them? Yeah, that one.

And here's where it gets weird. They were walking like zombies, totally slow-mo, toward us. While tearing up books and eating them.

So my logical conclusion is that I must distract them from wanting to eat us by way of throwing pages of books at them so they can eat those instead.

I grab a book. It's a Very Important Book, but frankly, more important is getting out of this situation alive. They also have fangs.

I rip out a page, crumple it, and lob it at the little boy.

He picks it up. He inspects it. His dead white face contorts with rage. Slow motion is no more. He fast forwards into super speed, rushes me, and clamps his fangs around my ankle while I freak out.

Somehow while fucking up my ankle with his teeth, he informs me that I've just destroyed a book and that's Very Bad.

So somehow I get away from his teeth, and I'm running the fuck away while trying to explain that I didn't want to destroy it, I was just scared of him and his evil twin.

And he starts to weep that I've destroyed a book and he'll never get to read it, and he continues following me in zombie/ghost mode whilst nomming pages from a novel.

And as it would turn out, the way he reads is by consuming pages. So I make an agreement with him to provide him with new pages from new books, and I won't crumple them any more, as long as he doesn't kill me.

So then I'm saddled with a creepy ghost-kid bibliophile for the rest of my life.

The end.

Seeking Bodyguard

2010-04-11T12:17:00.005-04:00

They were great shoes. I've got three blisters and my ankle now cracks when I take random steps, but my god they were fabulous. See?

I mean, even somebody that knows nothing about footwear can look at this shoe and realize that the way it contorts your foot is in no way a way that your body is designed to carry weight.

But when I want to rock a look that screams, "I'm really talented AND hot," I don't give a fuck about sensible footwear. If I wanted to wear sensible shoes, I'd wear my stupidly expensive hiking shoes:

Because unlike the heels, the hiking shoes are actually designed to be worn while moving.
The heels? They are not walking shoes. They are barely standing shoes. They only count as standing shoes if you have exceptional balance. They are sure as fuck not OH MY GOD IT'S RAINING AND COLD AND WHY'D IT HAVE TO BE RAINING AND COLD WHEN IT WAS HOT AND SUNNY TWO HOURS AGO WHEN WE LEFT? Oh, PS, I'd have taken them off sooner and run barefoot if the ground wasn't coated with an army of massive half-drowned earthworms.

Anyway, they're not walking shoes, but I had to both walk and run in them.
And at one point when I had to walk, Stick and I were accosted by a creeper toolbag.
You know the type. You're minding your own business, and you're aware there are footsteps behind you, and suddenly you hear, "Heyyyyyyy ladiesssss."

So you don't acknowledge because you don't want to encourage, and under your breath you mutter, "Kill me now." and you keep walking, even though walking's kind of a bitch because you're wearing ridiculous shoes and you had to park a block away.

And it's a little breezy, and you're a bit worried your skirt's going to go all Marilyn Monroe on you.

And you're hoping, just hoping, that the toolbag's going to follow you to your destination. You're hoping, because you're a bad person, and you're meeting somebody that will not be happy with a scrawny teenage ass hat following you around while babbling attempted pickup lines. You know that if the dude doesn't leave you alone, there's a solid chance that within thirty seconds, he'll be pinned to a brick wall by the throat and you'll be surrounded by nice large men that treat you like a delicate flower.

Thirty seconds, you think. Just keep walking, and if he follows, he's going to be in pain.

"How you doooin'?"
Ignore. Twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. The shoes hurt. If you were wearing sneakers you'd have been there by now.

Thirty seconds, I think, and problem solved. God I love the boys in my life. I should never dress up without a bodyguard.

"You ladies wanna come do somethin' with me?"

And finally, rolling my eyes, not looking at him, I say, "Go away."

And he turns on my friend. "You want me to go away too?"

And she says yes. Good answer. I luvs her.

And oh my god, the douche bag goes away!

So yeah, I'm sad, because I'm a bad person and would have enjoyed watching him get slammed into a wall by an angry man that doesn't like seeing me bothered by sketchballs. But I'm also happy because I know I'm a bad person and this guy not getting injured means I don't have to feel guilty about enjoying his pain.

Mostly I'm just glad he went away, because if I had to fend for myself in stupid shoes, I'd be a bit fucked. Still shocked he just went away.

The end.

The Easter Bunny

2010-04-04T09:41:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, when Laura was bite sized (a bit less bite sized than this, but still itty bitty), she was promised that the Easter Bunny was coming, and that he would give her candy and presents and then he'd bounce off to the other houses to give presents to the other children. Like Santa, only a mutant.

I don't think I had trouble falling asleep, but I know that in the night, I woke up sleepy. Or I was dreaming. Hard to tell in retrospect.

I emerged from my room because I heard Noises.

Stumbling noises. Grumbling noises. Trying to be quiet late at night noises.

And there, on the stairs, looking up at me with his demon red eyes, was the Easter Bunny. He was massive, about seven feet tall, man shaped and sturdily built. White fur. His ears stuck straight up. This wasn't no floppy eared sweetheart, this was a fucking ninja bunny of death that had crept into my house, made it past the downstairs neighbors, up the stairs to our place, had woken me up, and here I was confronted.

Staring eye to eye with a rabid mutant bunny and the worst part was, he was in the apartment and Mom and Dad didn't know it. I'd always slept soundly before then. I knew I was safe. Dad was tough, and Mom was a mom. Nobody fucks with moms.

But no. A giant fucking mutant bunny was walking through the place and M&D were just sleeping, like there wasn't a malicious stranger prancing around, sneaking into their helpless children's rooms after hours.

I did what any sane little kid would do: booked it for my room and shut the door and curled up in bed hyperventilating that I was about to be murdered.

The next morning I woke up and saw scratch marks all over my headboard. Places where the stain had been gouged off. I went and found my mom, whose mom-ness I was now in serious doubt of.

Me: I think the Easter Bunny was in my room last night.

Mom: Of course he was. Didn't you find the candy?

Me: *terrified*

Mom: He went in all of your rooms.

Me: YOU KNEW ABOUT IT AND YOU LET HIM ANYWAY????!?!??!

Mom: WTF?

Me: He had red eyes, and he was really big, and he was really mean. He growled at me. And he left scratches on my bed. Mommy, the Easter Bunny was in bed with me.

Mom: WTF? No, baby, the Easter Bunny is a nice bunny. He hops around and leaves presents, like Santa.

Me: He came into my room while you slept and you didn't come to save me.

Mom: Oh shit.

Me: He left scratches on my headboard.

Mom: Hunny, those were there before you fell asleep. They've been there since that bed was mine.

Me: NO! THEY'RE NEW! THE EASTER BUNNY DID IT!

Mom: Baby, the Easter bunny... isn't real. It's just me and Daddy giving you candy. Nobody was in bed with you, and the scratches-

Me: YES HE IS I SAW HIM AND HE'S EVIL AND NEXT EASTER YOU HAVE TO STAY UP ALL NIGHT SO HE DOESN'T GET INTO MY ROOM AND RUIN ALL MY STUFF AGAIN!

Mom: Laura, really, he isn't real. He's just a story we tell to make Easter more fun.

Me: YES HE IS DON'T LIE TO ME!!!

And then I ran away from Mom, because here I knew damned well that the Easter bunny was a scary mutant motherfucker that yelled at me to go back to bed, and then was creepin' in my room probably gonna kill me, and then instead of calling the cops, she lies to me?

WTF, Mom. WTF.

Needless to say, I do not like Easter.

Addendum: The 'in bed' part was my deductive reasoning that in order to scratch the shit out of my headboard, the bunny would have had to have been on the mattress or he couldn't reach.

Tomorrow is naught but pain...

2010-04-02T22:24:00.002-04:00

1) I woke up today and decided it was a super epic awesome brilliant idea to eat breakfast and work my butt off. No, literally. Working out. So I'll love my butt again. So I work out. The nerdy way. My Wii thinks insulting me is the best way to inspire my cooperation. And I'm angry because the damned thing is right. First it called me by someone else's name. Then it suggested that I was fat. Today it insinuated that I'm a lazy hack for not using it yesterday. Wii Fit you goddamned fascist! Anyway, I work my butt off.

I feel great. No, really. I feel so great I take a short shower instead of lingering for a solid half hour, molting and feeling worthless. A short shower, and I get dressed, and I do my hair, and I even put lotion on my legs. I'm on top of the fucking world. And then,

2) Sibling convinces me to go to the gym with him.

I run a mile. I get ridiculously excited that I've run over a mile and I'm not dying. I'm running and I've got a shit eatin' grin on my face and in my head is, "Too easy Drill Sergeant. Could do this all day!"

So I run, and then I do a shoulders and biceps workout, and it HURTS. In a good way. And then I remember that I hate my butt, so I go do some butt exercises. And then I remember how jiggly my thighs have been, so I do some thigh stuff.

And I'm friggin stoked because I'm being FIT. I'm being awesome and responsible and I'm the kind of grown up that is organized both at work and at home, and I exercise enough to make Obama proud. I've exercised TWICE today. I'm a fucking star. And then,

3) After work and whatnot, I go hang out with some of the clan up th'Farm. And at some point around the bonfire, I decide I'll shimmy up a sapling like the boys are doing, and see how far I can climb before my weight bends the tree over.

The answer is, three shimmies worth of climbing.

The tree was skinny, and two tall boys had just climbed it first. Non-gym sibling made it up the highest. I'd like to think that if I'd climbed a new and interesting tree instead of one predisposed toward collapsing sideways, I'd have made it substantially harder. I can't be sure, though, since I don't know if I've ever actually climbed a branchless tree before tonight.

In any case, 1, 2, and 3 add up to tomorrow, my body is going to be shrieking at me.

You climbed a tree, Laura. You climbed a goddamned TREE. You ran, and you went to the dentist. You put oil in your own car and nothing has yet exploded. You went to the bank and didn't hyperventilate. You worked out TWICE in one day. And you climbed a goddamned tree.

I'm a masochist.

Who climbs trees any more, anyway?

Rationality be damned,

2010-04-01T20:01:00.005-04:00

I'm an ugmo.

I must have done something wrong in another life to deserve being caught in the merciless death grip of a massive hormonal jag at the same exact time I've got a freakish amount of writing due.

So not only does my writing currently go something like:

I really liked this book because um... well, it was kind of cool, you know? There was this part that was kind of nice. And the characters did some stuff, and I can haz good grade plz?

Not only that, but my hormone death brain is currently convinced I look something like this.

Now can I just ask HOW THE FUCK IT'S FAIR THAT I'M HORMONAL AND STRESSED OUT ABOUT SCHOOL AT THE EXACT SAME TIME?

Because really, it's just not cool at all.

Like, when my mom walks into my bedroom and hands me a bag of cookies, it assures me two things, maybe three:

1) my mama loves me
2) my mom noticed I need some love
3) my mom is not nearly as concerned as I am that my butt is about to become a planet.

And when my brother hands me tea and says, "Don't worry, sis, all girls hate their butts at least once a month. You'll be fine in a few days," it assures me that my super epic OH MY GOD I STILL HAVE TO WRITE AN ESSAY AND EDIT TWO STORIES IN THE NEXT FOUR HOURS + OH MY GOD IS THAT A ZIT?!?!?!? has not gone unnoticed.

What's that I just heard from the peanut gallery? I just posted about beauty, and bashed people for getting lipo and botulism in their faces, and now I'm complaining that all my jiggly bits are emulating Jello more than is normal, and I'm afraid I'll break my nose if I go jogging. Hypocrite, Laura, you're such a fucking hypocrite saying that NATURAL is beautiful and everybody should be okay with the way they are.

You know what? Natural IS beautiful.

Having your body get all bloaty and angry and pimply and sticky outy because it's busy going:

That's only beautiful if you're some sort of nature loving hippie that celebrates the newfound womanhood of poor traumatized girls that are pretty sure they're dying and/or eternally screwed over by Mama Nature.

According to John, guys don't get it. So says he, "I wouldn't know about hormones making me feel crappy, because our hormones usually make us more douchey."

You know what? My hormones don't make me douchey. They make me self-pitying.

They make me tired. They make me want to do absolutely nothing but put on oversized sweatpants and curl up with Harry Potter books and left over pasta until I stop wanting to cry every time I think of the phrase 'thesis statement.'

Because I faked my way through college. Successfully, yes. But do I know how to write a paper? No, not really.

I can give you the last two sentences I wrote in the spots where thesis statements usually go. Do I know if they're theses? No. Do I care? Not really.

1: " The narrator, through the simple metaphor of a piece of broken glass, illustrates the idea that an artist's creativity comes from looking at the world through the lens of pain and prior experience. "

2: " But I find that 'Cities & Eyes 5' on page 105 shows the characters and the prevailing sense of insurmountable difference most effectively: “From one part to the other, the city seems to continue, in perspective, multiplying its repertory of images: but instead it has no thickness, it consists only of a face and an obverse, like a sheet of paper, with a figure on either side, which can neither be separated nor look at each other.” "

Nope, no idea. I know that in the first paper I ended up talking about primary colors and how blood - by being red - is a good thing. In the second one I talk about how two characters are making shit up, and it's pleasant.

But you know what? Those essays weren't half as much fun as hormonally illustrating myself in profile and full frontal.

I have issues. Oh god I have issues. Why must it be that I procrastinated to the point that the only time I now have available to write in is time in which my uterus is super extra happy not to have a baby in it?

HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU, UTERUS? NO!

Botulism in your FACE

2010-04-01T12:48:00.002-04:00

I'm going to quote some beauty 'experts' on the 'best' beauty procedures they've ever had. And then I'm going to verbally abuse them. See original article here. All women are either beauty editors of major magazines or have otherwise established credentials as people who apparently know what beauty is and/or how to get it.

Newby Hands, 45

"Botox is one of the best inventions ever - I've had it for ten years and I think it's fantastic. I have it three times a year [...]. I've also had a bit of hyaluronic acid filler on a line between my eyebrows that the Botox wasn't getting to - if done with care, it can look great."

To my dear Ms. Newby: What the fuck is wrong with you? I saw the picture. You're really quite pretty. Why do you need to inject poison into your face? Are you not aware that the 'tox' part of Botox refers to toxin? Toxic! Toxic! Why are you letting people shove a needle into your face and squeeze in toxic goo!? Also, if the toxic goo you're shoving into your face doesn't 'get to' a certain line between your eyebrows, you may wish to consider the fact that it's a lost cause? Seriously, if it can't be fixed with a toxic goop that has a sole purpose of paralyzing your FACE can't make a wrinkle go away, just say fuck it and embrace it. Or, you know, don't inject TOXINS into your face because you're already beautiful?

Alice Hart-Davis, 46

"I replaced the shrivelled [sic] fat-pads in my cheeks and beneath the eyes with the hyaluronic acid-based gel."

I'm not even going to bother. I'm not.

Olivia Falcon, 35

"I started going [for Botox] when I was 31 to prevent ageing. [sic] [I go] about once a year (costs from £250), though it is just for maintenance."

What is wrong with aging? Might I mention that 31 isn't old? 35 isn't old either. 'Maintaining' your skin is supposed to be about nutrition. Diet and exercise. Wearing sunscreen so that you don't look like a baseball glove when you're 27. It's not supposed to be about paralytic poison gel.

Jenny Dickenson, 31

"a laser is used to liquefy the fat, which is then sucked out through tiny incisions. [...] The worst bit was when the saline solution bleeds out over the first 24 hours. But I was back to work two days later, wearing a corset-type garment."

Again, not going to bother. What is beautiful about your body oozing foreign substances from incisions made to suck fat out of?

Alessandra Steinherr, 34

"But my advice is to get it done only when the doctor uses a syringe in a gun, not a freestyle needle."

Great advice. I'll be sure to look for someone that has a gun at the ready.

Eve Cameron, 43

"My legs were pumped full of anaesthetic, then a laser was passed up into my problem veins, which closed them without bruising or damage. Now I've got pretty perfect legs, and no longer have to wear trousers in the summer."

Perfect = healthy. Perfect does not equal frickin laser beams. And don't you NEED veins?

Catherine Turner, 45

"After that, the practitioner uses an electrode microcurrent to actually shape the face - they do one half first to show you the difference."

YOUR FACE ALREADY HAD A SHAPE.

There is one person on this list of people who are experts on beauty who I don't think is a raging lunatic.

Jo Glanville Blackburn, 45

"Don't be afraid to age gracefully."

As my best buddy says, "Gravity always wins." There are some physiological constants.

And they're NORMAL. The human body is NORMAL. It's okay!

So what if my thighs jiggle? So what if I have an unsightly scar or two or ten. So I'm not a huge fan of my boobs and lately I'm pretty convinced my butt is expanding at an alarming rate.

That doesn't mean I'm going to shoot toxic matter in or suck important stuff out. It just means maybe I should stop eating as much junk and walk more places.

I thought beauty was supposed to be about health, naturalness, making the best of what you have.

I didn't think it was supposed to be about thousands of dollars of 'cosmetic' procedures. It's not supposed to be about twelve year olds looking at themselves in their bathing suits and decided to go on a diet. It's not supposed to be about sixteen year olds going out tanning. It's not supposed to be a thirty year old having a panic attack over her first wrinkle or gray hair.

Fuck this shit. If you're worried about aging, you should be more worried about heart attacks and diabetes and less worried about weather or not you're displeased with the shape of your lips.

Who taught these women what beauty is, and why are we letting them be the teachers of our girls?

Oil Leak: The Saga Continues

2010-03-30T22:59:00.003-04:00

As does my descent into abject poverty.

When I went out to my truck, cowering from the pouring rain, glad that my dinosaur backpack is basically waterproof, since it usually contains all my work files as well as my Mac, I jumped over the gigantic puddle that stood between me and the driver's seat of my truck.

In one almost fluid motion I swung my dino backpack across the center console, slid my butt into the driver's seat, and shut the door. I love rainy days only when I don't have to go outside. They're great painting days. They're great reading days. They're complete and total shit when I have to go places, when the rain is pasting my windshield and people have forgotten that it's a law in NY to have your lights on if your wipers are on, so you'll be cruising and SUDDENLY THERE'S A FUCKING CAR IN YOUR LANE THAT YOU DIDN'T SEE BEFORE.

Oh, and how about when you're driving home from work at night and the glare of your headlights on the wet road means you can't see the lines on the roads? Yeah, that's fun. If I didn't know these roads by heart I'd be screwed.

Anyway, I get into my truck, and I swing my dinopack across the console, and I see that Da's left me another metric measurement of oil. Because he's more or less measured it that I'm losing about one container a week. So I think I'm up to owing Dad's boss money for six of these nice plastic bottles?

I feel all warm and fuzzy, because my daddy's making sure there's a spare thing of oil in my truck at all times, and he keeps doing things like checking the oil for me, so I still haven't needed to figure out how to open my hood (there's a latch inside, but then I think I have to reach under it and perform some sort of magic?).

But then I feel all scared and pukey because there's something wrong with my truck and it's pissing my money out on the ground under my engine, and I don't have any extra money for my truck to be wasting on me.

I don't even have enough money for myself to be wasting on me. I basically make enough money at work to drive to work and back.

I am literally incapable of imagining what it's like to make enough money to cover expenses. Not "I can't imagine being rich." I can't imagine being not-poor. Rich ain't shit. I'd be happy with not-poor.

Anyway, I go to work, feeling half pleased that Dad's got his eye on this oil crisis, half distressed that it's costing me money I don't have, and I start talking with a guy there.

And he's all, "I usually fix my own vehicles, since it costs so much to have it done."

Me: "Yeah. Well... computers and cars and stuff... they're kind of all the same for me. They work, and I use them. They stop working, and I get disproportionately distressed."

Guy: "Do you know what's wrong with it?"

Me: "Oil leak. Dad said something about... ... ... um..."

Guy: Names the exact part of my engine Dad was talking about.

Me: "Yeah, that! He thinks it might be that."

Guy: Looks at me like I'm an idiot.

But the thing is, I'm not a car person. I'm a person that works for nonprofits, is conceptually opposed to the stock market, is offended by the idea of 'investing' in general, likes to paint stuff, and doesn't eat animals I consider cute.

Some day I'll explain to you how it is I settled on which animals I'm willing to eat.

Anyway, I'm not a car person. I'm a puzzle putter-togetherer, but only two dimensional pictorial puzzles, or word puzzles. Logic puzzles. Brain teasers.

As soon as there starts being gears or converters or transmitters or gauges... I get nervous. My brain shuts off.

I can balance a dozen tasks at once. I can be polite to a fucktard that insults me to my face and tries to make it sound better by adding, 'respectfully,' as an afterthought. I can memorize the major and minor points of every book I've ever read without trying.

But I'm totally freaking destroyed by my oil leak.

Google suggests to me that my oil leak is on the valve cover and is dripping onto the exhaust manifold. And I hate it. I got a degree in words and sentences. I know all those words. But they don't mean anything to me except for:

I'm going to starve to death
I'm going to die poor
My truck is going to burst into flame while I'm driving it
I'll have to quit my job because I won't have a car
I'll end up pregnant and living off of dumpster food behind McDonalds
A shark will eat me.

Shoes

2010-03-29T22:53:00.002-04:00

I'm not going to tell you how many pairs of shoes I own. Partly out of laziness: I don't want to get out of bed to count them. Partly out of self-preservation: I don't want you to judge me.

I can say that I know I've got at least four pairs of real Converse sneaks as well as a pair of cute stripy hightop knockoffs ($6 at Target! How could I not?). I think I'm down to one pair of flip flops. Which is probably for the better, since I don't really want to think about how my knees and ankles are going to feel in twenty years after I've spent so long stoically wearing shitty footwear...

But the point is, I have a lot of shoes. Another point is, I'm pretty solidly regretting that I didn't spend the $5 on the really fabulous pair of epically on sale lime green strappy stilettos, since they'd have looked great with the brown dress that nobody saw under my college graduation regalia. It's a great dress. I bought it for $20 at a boutique in Ithaca, NY, with the blessing of the flamboyantly sassy shopkeep who spent much of our time there happily singing, "Boys, boys, boys."

Shopkeeper: "Damn, girl, I have NOT seen ANYONE rock that dress the way you just did. You ARE going to buy it, right? Your boobs look phenomenal, and your legs! Girl, your legs!"

Great dress. But what shoes do you wear with it?

It's brown, so wearing my strappy black heels is out of the question. Black and brown... Verboten. What do I have for brown shoes, what, what what? Well, there are the caramel colored knee high boots I recently bought... Very urban cowgirl. I could rock it, but I'd look soooo out of place in my little tractor town. There's nothing urban about our local cowgirls. I'd just get pitying stares from the people who can't figure out why I'd be so dumb as to wear boots with such high heels with such an equally impractical dress. When I could be wearing FLANNEL.

Don't get me wrong, I love flannel. But how can you look couture glam in a Carhardtt and lightwash jeans? Oh no. You can't.

So no caramel boots. I've got the steampunk granny boots, and they're downright fab, but I also bought them online and they've got about as much tread on them as a thirteen year old Firestone. They're pretty rocking if I'm outside or on a carpet, but should I come in contact with anything smooth and/or slippery? Bad news.

And if I wear the gorgeous Steve Madden skin tight ho-boots I snagged at Burlington Coat Factory on a shopping therapy excursion with Glenys, I'll look like a ho. You can only rock ho-boots when your cleavage and thighs aren't exposed. And yeah, the dress is down to my knees, but still. Showing skin on my legs, and showing cleavage? No no no. So boots are out of the question.

And the dress is too casual for sneakers. And it's cut just slightly wrong enough that it's all wrong for flats. I'll look frumpy. My wannabe-nun great aunt would approve.

How do I compromise footwear choices?! I don't want to look like a tramp, but I don't want to look like a Mormon. I want my legs to look longer, but I want to be able to walk. I'd like not to sink into lawns, but I'd like to click when I walk. The colors should match, and the style should be appropriate with the style of dress. You don't wear gladiator sandals with eyelet lace. You don't wear cowboy boots with your wedding dress. Shut up, Say Yes to the Dress. That was a bad life choice and you shouldn't have encouraged her by filming it.

Oh my god, the decisions are ridiculous! Seriously, this is why I end up with so many pairs of shoes. That and sales, and the fact that bra shopping traumatizes me, but my feet are a very average size. Can't find my bra size? Well, I'll just skim the shoe section, see if anything's on sale.

I'm good on matching tops with bottoms. You have to balance volume, color, texture. Flowy tops need more fitted bottoms, or you look like a balloon. Vice versa. You don't pair flamingo pink with fire engine red. Unless you're a Reno harlot. Silks and flannels don't combine effectively most of the time. You coordinate. Not necessarily match, but coordinate.

And how am I supposed to coordinate a black cotton dress with an asymmetrical hem and cream lace edging with shoes? The dress is sleeveless; it stays on basically because you tie some pretty ribbons to create 'shoulder straps.' Cinch it at the waist with another ribbon. It's casual meets glamorous. Very black and white photography. Very silent movie. Very punk rock royalty cleans up pretty for a garden party. What the fuck do you wear on your feet with that sort of dress? I don't know. I don't.

Closed toe shoes are too grown up, too 9-5, too business casual. Boots don't match the summery feel of the fabrics. Flats don't play off of the lace trim. Heels make me ponder the word 'osteoporosis' and broken ankles.

Should I wear black shoes? Is that too bland? Should I wear colored shoes? Doesn't that distract from the subtlety of the dress? Oh my god, what do I do!?!??!

I don't understand the girls that can just effortlessly pick a pair of shoes to go with a dress and not be plagued by the thought that everybody is judging the inappropriate color and style of their footwear!

Shoes are possibly my best friend, and possibly my worst enemy. God damn them. They confuse and delight me. They literally pain me. They're so damned charming. So useless and useful. How the fuck am I supposed to choose?

Boondocks

2010-03-28T16:11:00.004-04:00

I live in the sticks. I don't always intend to live in the sticks, but for now, it's home. I grew up here. I learned to drive here. It's rural.
See how you can't see any town there? That's not just because it's kinda blurry, that's because there are only a couple houses tucked into the valley. The rest of it is farm land and some trees. The real town is up the hill. See how you can't really see that either? Take a guess as to why.

That being said, it shouldn't surprise me that this is the view outside of my bedroom window right now:

Yes. Those are tractors. And they are only some of the many tractors currently parked in the parking lot of the bar. The two bars, technically, since, though you can't see them, I can tell you there's a bar on either side of that big white building. The parking lot is full of farmers who drove their tractors to the bar so they could drink and compare tractors.

Like I said, it shouldn't surprise me. Look at the map: it's all fields. Something's gotta plow those fields, and I'm lookin' at it.

Spring is in the air, and tractors are on the road, and everything smells like thawing roadkill and poop. My dad is standing in the living room window with a beer looking all sad and left out that he hasn't driven his tractor over to keep the others company. His is in the driveway in front of the stick shift car none of us can drive except Dad. The stick shift car that he tried to teach me how to drive.

Dad: "Now remember, Laura, you can only use one pedal at a time."

Me: "Um... Okay." And then I try to figure out how to deal with the brake if my foot is on the clutch and I'm only supposed to use one pedal at a time but I'm shifting gears to slow down for the stop sign and OH MY GOD I just rolled through the stop sign.

Dad: "You just rolled through the stop sign, why didn't you stop?!"

Me: "I was having trouble with the clutch."

Farmer on tractor: laughs.

We drove around a huge circle. "Around the block." So the farmer got to laugh at me a lot.

So then I'm coming up a hill. The road curves a little, and there's a stop sign at the top of the hill, so when I'm sitting there with my foot on the brake, there's a pond RIGHT FREAKING BEHIND ME.

Dad: "Okay, now let up off of the brake."

I let off of the brake. The car rolls backward toward the pond. I panic. The car stalls. I whimper.

Dad: "Okay, turn it back on, try again."

I let off of the brake. The car rolls backwards again.

Dad: "You've gotta hold down the clutch AND the gas without rolling backwards."

Me: "But you said only one pedal at a time!"

Dad: "No I didn't."

Me: "Yes you did! Besides, there are three pedals and I only have two feet!"

Dad: begins to explain how transmissions work while I'm sitting paralyzed with my foot on the brake on a big hill with a pond right behind me.

Me: whimpers.

So I think my point is that I don't fit in well here. I can't drive stick shift and I don't drink beer and only a few dozen yards away from me are a lot of people that are drinking a lot of beer and are about to drive tractors home. The only time I ever drove a tractor I nearly took out my teacher's kneecaps because he wasn't paying attention when I asked for clarification. As it turns out, if you hit the clutch instead of the brakes, a large tractor will uh... hiccup... in the direction you're trying not to go. He didn't make me drive the tractor any more.

He let me play with the school bunnies instead. My school had bunnies. I used to take a baby bunny with me to science class and pet it while I did homework.

Hick school. Tractors and bunnies.

Hick town. Farmers in the parking lot.

And I'm curled up in bed reading about spies and international diplomacy, drinking organic African tea. It's okay, though. I like most of my neighbors anyway. It helps that rural areas have a loosely defined concept of 'neighbor.' If they live in the same school district, I'm pretty sure they still count.

I think I just heard someone holler.

Two Party Systems are Bullshit

2010-03-26T15:05:00.002-04:00

Yes, this is a political rant. No, this isn't about Obamacare, socialism, abortion, NRA, name your poison.

When my place of employment decided to acquire a library lizard, they held a contest to name him. They invited all of the 'constituents' (ie: the community) to offer up suggestions on the name. You know, sort of like how when Democrats have an idea, they invite Republicans to offer suggestions, and when Republicans have an idea, they yell, "Fuck you, Democrats!" and tote around NRA affiliations?

Well, the community got super extra crazy excited. And they responded, because the library (analogous to the federal government) was doing something they cared about! And, like the government, there were multiple parties responsible for big decision making.

As I was informed, this group of people that determined the fate of the world/library comprised of the Director, someone on the village board, a community member, the library programmer, and possibly a kid. I don't remember if it was really a kid, but I know there was a fifth member.

Because they wanted to make absolute certain there wouldn't be a tie. They wanted a solid majority. And they wanted more than just a couple people because when you only have two people trying to make a decision, you don't have very many ideas, and if you disagree, you're fucked.

Bring in the United States on a larger scale.

You can complain all you want that I'm wrong when I say we are a two party system. But what about Ralph Nader!?!?! But come on. No, seriously. The Green Party? Not real. The Libertarian Party? Aren't they just Republican-lite? You know, conservative but not crazy? Not sure. You know why? Because they don't count. The Constitution Party? Bet you haven't even heard of that one. You know why? Doesn't count.

Did you know the Prohibition Party has been going strong since 1869? Yeah, neither did I.

Because nobody gives a flying fuck, and that's a problem.

Let me give you an example:

How familiar are you with Bob Barr, Chuck Baldwin, and Cynthia McKinney?

I thought so. They were on the ballot with Obama, McCain, and Nader. And yeah, you know who Nader is, but do you take him seriously?

No. Because we are a two party system.

We have a system where people snicker while saying, "It's not a two party system!"

And this is a problem.

At the level of a small town library, people were able to reason that having one person make a final decision on the lizard's name was giving one person too much power. That having two people would result in a likely tie-vote with no veto power. And people are bad at compromise, unless you're Twilight characters trying to name a kid after all the grandparents at once. We'll just portmanteau the kid to death!

Three people? That's better. Because then you can't possibly have a tie vote. You have multiple view points and the ability to form either consensus or majority.

The library could have gone with three voters on the lizard's name, but they went with five just to make sure enough different opinions were heard.

The federal government, responsible for far more important decisions than a gecko's name? More or less boils down to two 'people' arguing.

If a small town library can figure out how to hear and support everybody's opinions without having to do the bait and switch method of appealing to the extremists to secure their vote and then feinting to the middle to please a couple people and then yell at the people heckling you because adult Americans have about the same level of maturity as middle schoolers in Queens...

You see my point?

Democrats and Republicans are all stupid because by the very nature of them labeling themselves thusly, they're continuing a system that will always, by definition, result in nothing ever getting done properly.

/rant.

Selective ADD

2010-03-23T12:41:00.003-04:00

I've been arguing for years that kids don't all have ADD (some do), they just have boring teachers and parents that don't say no to them.

Let me reiterate: ADD / ADHD is legit.

But let me also reiterate: it's perfectly normal for your mind to wander and for you to get painfully fidgety and distracted when you're bored shitless.

Where do I come in? Well, it occurred to me just now that I can paint for pretty much ever, especially if somebody provides me with unlimited coffee or soda while I'm doing it, and occasionally gives me candy. For example, last Thursday I painted for five hours straight, pausing only to refill my coffee cup, and the only reason I didn't keep going was because I realized when everybody else started going home that I'd been there a while and had other stuff I should probably be doing. Oh, and everybody was gone but me. Oh, and it was 4:30pm and all I'd had to eat all day was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I inhaled in the car.

But the story I just decided to edit? It's only twelve pages, because I can't really handle writing stories that are more than fifteen pages long just because I get distracted somewhere in the middle, lose complete track of important things like pacing and continuity, and otherwise just stop noticing what the fuck I'm saying. I know it's probably pretty well written, and reasonably amusing, but do I know what my story is about? No. Because I stop remembering what I've written.

And this story I decided to edit? I got to page five and checked my e-mail. Pet my dog. Had a pseudo-conversation with my mom (parents don't charge rent + feed me = moving back in with parental units post-college).

Mom enters room with clean, folded clothes. Sets down clean clothes. Holds up thong underwear.

Mom: "I'm not sure what happened to the rest of your underwear. Maybe it got torn off in the wash or something."

Me: *waits for pseudo-conversation to end*

Mom: "All I know is I'D never wear something like this."

Me: *awkward silence with raised eyebrow*

Mom: *flings thong down onto bed and leaves*

So anyway, my point was that I don't have ADD / ADHD. I just have a selective attention span.

When I'm painting, it's all like, "Ooh, I can touch it and it feels all REAL and like I'm DOING something," and I get all stoked because it's like, "And if I paint the three fairies' outfits in primary colors than if the person reading to the kids wants to teach about color theory it's built right into the mural YAYYYYY!"

But when I'm writing, it's more like, "Wait, so what did she do again? Wait, I just had her in boots... Did I remember to have her take her boots off before I had her run barefoot? I think I'll go make tea, this is gonna take a while."

And then I go make tea, but then I find something to snack on.

And as soon as I open any packaging, my dog-beggars are all, "We're so hungry you never feed us look how skinny we are even though we eat ALL THE TIME *sad face*" so then I have to love and huggle my dogs.

And then I sort of realize my feet are cold, so I go check the temperature and lo! It's only 63 inside and it's like 46 outside and my feet are cold but none of the socks in the laundry pile are matched, so then I end up folding clean clothes and matching like a hundred and fifty odd socks and somehow there ends up always being a mitten and a potholder or something, and some random long ribbon and like twelve dryer sheets, so then I go to put everything where it's supposed to go, and then I put on my socks and realize I've got a chipped nail, so I trim my nails because if I don't it's just gonna rip off and it'll be ridiculously annoying to have a jagged fingernail catching on everything I touch.

Then I sort of remember I was writing, but by then I realize I've forgotten what it was I was in the process of doing, so I have to start over, but by then my tea is cold. And then I check my Facebook and maybe talk to somebody, and next thing I know four days have passed and I still haven't edited the story.

Somebody please explain this to me.

And please don't explain it in a way I don't like, because you should bear in mind:

I like hanging out with writers way more than I like hanging out with artists, but I like painting more than I like writing.

Under no circumstance should you suggest I alter my life plans.

History of College Part II

2010-03-22T20:24:00.002-04:00

An example of feedback on lit paper entitled, "Tennyson's 'Sir Galahad':

L: Well, I found myself enjoying some of this, though I'd enjoy it more if it were in an article in a magazine of Sybyl or wherever. But it doesn't tell me that you've read "Sir Galahad" very carefully or care about trying to tell me what Tennyson thinks about Galahad and the Grail Quest. To be honest, it's more about what you think of having to write an analysis about a literary work for this course. Some of it is amusing but to be honest, long before the end, the essay grows contemptuous of the assignment itself. By all means, resent Tennyson and Victorians if you want, but don't confuse saying that with performing a literary analysis of this Victorian poem. Keep Keats for MEAII and try to zero in on what a poem actually says instead of trying to impose some overgeneralized rant about Victorianism onto a poem that isn't about Victorianism. This has some interesting points and is generally pretty well written, both of which save it from getting a REALLY poor grade. As far as I can tell, you take it for granted that you understand the poem, but there's so little actual analysis of it that I can't tell whether you do or not. But your contempt for it is all too clear. You're too smart for this.

Yes, if you're wondering, that was all hand written on my paper. He had to go onto the back to have room for it all. And he whited out the D he originally gave me.

What's important here, so that I don't sound quite as much like a cocky little shit, is the fact that in the paper I wasn't trying at all to analyze Tennyson, nor was I trying to make any points about his poem being about Victorianism. The point of my paper was clearly stated at the end of my first paragraph: "If I were to teach [a Victorian poem] I would surely teach [a Romantic poem as well], because it is easier to learn when you have a reference point, and the framework set by the Romantics paved the way for much Victorian poetry." (Pay no attention the grammatical upfucks.)

The point? If I was gonna teach Tennyson, I'd teach Keats at the same time, so that students could compare and contrast to see what the fuck the big difference was, since MOST STUDENTS DON'T CARRY WHAT THEY LEARN IN ONE CLASS INTO THE NEXT CLASS. I never said Galahad was about Victorianism, I said that in order to contextualize a poem written during Victoria's reign, so that the poem and the society makes sense to the kids you're trying to teach, you should provide a grounding in what led up to it. And then I spent the paper exploring the differences in a pair of similar poems, using the differences to illustrate and highlight the creative norms of the times in which they were written.

So him being all, "Tennyson wasn't writing about Victorianism" resulted in me being like, "No shit, Sherlock. Did you READ my paper? It was about how to get dumbfucks to understand poetry, not about stanza two, line three's alliteration."

OOH FOUND IT!

Here's where I solidly impressed myself:

I've taught Romantic lit for 25 years and never sensed anything quite like this. Frankly, I think it demeans Romantic writers to no purpose.

But come on! Read up on the romantics, Prof. They were all up in each other's naughty bits, and lived life like it was going out of style.

(The sentence he so objected to was, "I adore you, you're wonderful, I'm going to die!")

Because, come on... They really were all dying of STDs and drugs, and their poems really were about rocking out, kicking ass, and fucking a lot of women.

If he missed that part of Romantic poetry, he clearly hasn't been teaching effectively for those 25 years.

This, by the way, is why I aced art classes and had pretty straight Cs in lit classes.

A brief history of my college experience:

2010-03-22T19:48:00.003-04:00

My uniform for life in college was paint stained jeans (often the same pair three weeks running) and a black t-shirt. Chucks. Black hoodie.

I shaved my head in college. Because I didn't give a fuck. Actually, because I wanted to see what it would feel like. (Answer: fuzzy and/or like a sable brush). (Actually, Kelly shaved my head.)

I also dyed my hair magenta in college, because I figured I could do it then and not lose my job[s]. (Actually, Kelly dyed my hair.)

I'd stumble my way to lit classes with a massive caramel cappuccino, color in my Justice League coloring book until the profs finished talking about war poetry or swords-symbolize-sex or, "Laura, that is the single most disrespectful paper I've ever read in my life. How dare you suggest that the Romantic poets didn't give a fuck because they were all going to die of syph or the clap by the time they were thirty anyway?"

Then, still in my dirty paint clothes, I'd freeze half to death crossing campus to get to the studio. Then I'd paint for practically ever. Eventually I'd eat. Occasionally my prof would be all, "Laura, have you eaten?"

Me: "Um... I had a latte. There's some nuts in my coat pocket."

Prof: "I'm taking you to lunch. I'm meeting some friends at a local restaurant. Grab your coat."

Me: "I don't have any money."

Prof: "Don't be stupid."

And then I'd meet some of Teacher's weird artist friends - they were all quite delightful and odd - and I'd leave the meal with magazine pictures of Mick Jagger or something.

Artist Friend: "Are those real Chucks, or fake?"

Me: "Real."

Artist Friend: "Is the paint all over your jeans from you or did you get them that way?"

Me: "I was kind of in the middle of a painting when Teacher dragged me out for food lest I faint in his building or something."

Artist Friend: "Want to see my painting of Frankenstein's monster? It's on my cell phone."

Me: *eats pancakes*

Artist Friend: "Here, have a picture of Mick Jagger."

But I'm not in that crowd these days. I miss it, because of the sheer amount of dyed lemonade and crackers and shit you end up eating. And the fact that you are dressed appropriately when you wear jeans with gaping holes in them and blood stains on them.

And if you reveal that you stole half your wardrobe from unsuspecting people? So much the better.

I'm gonna go looking for that one paper about the Romantic poets I got verbally abused over...

Not Funny

2010-03-21T12:19:00.003-04:00

I used to get told I'm funny all the time. Usually when I had no idea I was being funny.

Teacher: You're a really good painter.

Me: I am?

Teacher: You're funny, you know that?

Me: *baffled*

Or I'd have an apartment full of people dying of laughter, mostly I think just because I tell stories so fast they don't have time to comprehend how not funny they are?

I mean, worst case scenario I just suggest that I'm going to be eaten by a shark, and start giving all of the reasons why I know this is true.

1) Sharks eat artists.

OH MY GOD

Subject change.

Because this is way more important.

My truck has an oil leak!

Now, I don't really know how this works, because last I knew my truck had a lot of oil in it. Like, enough that it went up to the second line on the dipstick when Dad looked and pointed to the second line and said, "This is good."

Me: "When is it not good?"

Dad: "When it's below this line."

Me: "Okay. And is there a reason my brake light keeps coming on?"

Dad checks brake fluid. Shrugs. Dad: *shrug*

Me: "Okay, well, I'm going out of town, so..."

Dad: "See ya then."

And that was only a week ago when I was assured that my truck had plenty of fluids and wasn't dehydrated or anything.

This morning: Wait. No. This afternoon (just because I haven't been awake long doesn't make it morning):

Dad: "You've got an oil something something pressure something something didn't your light come on?"

Me: *traumatized*

Dad: "Something something mechanic talk oil driveway dripping something something."

Me: "OH MY GOD WHAT DID I DO WRONG!?!?!??!"

Dad: "Your light should have come on."

Me: *confused* "Um... No lights came on."

Dad: "Well, your truck's leaking in the driveway and you won't be able to drive it anywhere until I put more oil in it."

Me: "How do I make it all better? Oh my god, what do I do? WHAT HAVE I DONE!??!?!?!"

Dad: "I'm gonna go find some oil. Don't go anywhere."

Me: *internally celebrating that I don't have to go buy laundry detergent* *traumatized that I've broken my truck through negligence I didn't know I was negligencing, and THIS IS WHY I SHOULDN'T HAVE CHILDREN: THEY'LL LEAK AND I'LL HAVE SOME STRANGER COME UP AND BE LIKE, YOUR CHILD IS LEAKING AND DEFECTIVE AND YOU'RE A SHITTY PARENT!*

Dad leaves.

I spaz out to Kelly.

Siblings get home from breakfast at Grandma's that they didn't invite me to because nobody loves me and I'm a failure at car ownership.

K: "Is your hood always a little open?"

Me: "MY TRUCK IS BROKEN OH MY GOD OH MY GOD."

K: "?"

Me: "Dad was all something something oil pressure something leak."

K: "Oh, that's just something something hose pressure gage something spare rubber something connect something something."

Me: *whimpers*

W: "What's wrong with your truck?"

Me: "I have an oil leak."

W: "Well yeah. It's been leaking for ages."

Me: "WHAT!??!?!?"

W: "Yeah. There's always an oil spot on the driveway where you usually park, and since it's not my truck leaking, it must be yours."

Me: *panic* *realize this is probably the cause of the burning smell I've been meaning to tell Dad about* *realize this is probably why my truck was making such a weird noise the other day on my way to work*

But I didn't tell Dad about it because

1) he's usually asleep in the chair when I get home from work so I tell myself I'll tell him in the morning but then by morning he's at work when I wake up and the whole cycle starts over again, and

2) it doesn't ALWAYS smell, and it just did that noise thing once and then stopped so I figured it was maybe just from parking on an incline or something.

Oh my god I'm the worst car owner ever.

Hungry Tired Laura Goes Shopping

2010-03-19T20:57:00.003-04:00

Okay, so the truth is, I'm really freaking awful at functioning. No, really. I am. The only reason nobody has caught on yet is because in the .05% of the time that I'm functional, I get everything done that should have been done up to that point. Kind of like how a cat sleeps like 18 hours a day but then goes on a spastic yarn chasing rampage the rest of the time? Yeah, that's me.

Today, I needed to run some errands before work. When do I go? In the morning? No, sillies, I didn't get up until like noon. Right after lunch so I'd have plenty of time? Wrong again!

I went off to do shit about an hour before I had to go to work. Why'd I have to do stuff then? Because I needed certain things for work. Why didn't I do all this some time in the past month when I knew already I'd need it? Because I'm dysfunctional. Because I figured I had plenty of time. Because I had other things to do. Because I ADDed out.

So I leave. Grab my purse and go. Put my windows down because 50 degrees is a fucking heat wave after winter, and last week we still had about three feet of snow, so 50 degrees is new and awesome. No jacket, windows down, sunglasses on, stereo turned WAY up, singing along ("Ah hurt mahself tuhday t'see if ah still feel!") and I suddenly realize that my eye hurts.

Not just hurts, stings like a motherfucker. Like there's something stabbing me right above the lashes on the inside corner of my left eye. So like any logical person, I rub my eye because if there is something there, I obviously want to grind it in further. It's of no use. My eyes are getting all watery and stupid, probably because I can't remember when I bought that waterproof mascara, but I couldn't find my normal mascara (it's on my desk) when I was getting ready.

So I get to the drug store and I scour the aisles for Twilight paraphernalia. No luck. I'm really stoked that they haven't given in to the crazy, but I'm also sad because I didn't have an easy answer for work.

I decide that since I'm already in Hamilton, I should put gas in my truck, since I really needed to do that (driving around on E makes trucks unhappy) and I could use my mom's Price Chopper card for a discount ($0.60 off each gallon makes for paying $2.31 a gallon). So I go inside to prepay and realize I've forgotten which pump I'm parked at, so I have to describe it to the irritated looking cashier. "You know, the farthest one from here, right next to the road, and it's the one that's to our right right now. The black secret service SUV. It's the only freaking car out there right now." And then he's like, "Credit or debit?" "Doesn't matter." He hits debit. I realize I've forgotten my pin number. He irritably runs it through as credit instead. I sign my receipt. Fill my tank.

Go to a different store in search of Mike & Ike for the sibling and for chocolate to bribe my kids at work with. Find adorable undies two for $3! Wait for an ancient lady to find exact change. Gouge at my stabby eye. Try to run my card through as credit (I have one dollar cash, and it's in my truck, not in my wallet).

Cashier: "I'm sorry, we can't do Mastercard as credit. Only Visa. Can you do debit?"

Me: "Um... yesssss... But I've forgotten my pin number because I'm hungry and I'm tired and I haven't had coffee yet."

Cashier: "You haven't had coffee!?!?!?"

Me: "It's in my truck. Too hot to drink." Because I bought a massive mocha from a fabulous cafe that ran my card through under credit.

Cashier: "Well, if I remembered my math classes I could come up with the permutation for how many four-digit options you've got for your pin..."

Me: *glares at evil debit card swiper of doom*

Other Cashier: "It's only like four numbers."

Me: *tries 3535*

Cashier: "Declined."

Me: *swipes and tries 2511*

Cashier: "Declined."

Other Cashier: "I think if you get it wrong again they cut off access to your account."

Me: "I know. I did that one time the day before I moved to Brooklyn for a month and then had no access to my money for a solid week when I really kind of super needed cash."

Cashiers: *look at me like I'm a credit card thief*

Me: "I'm just gonna... not. I'm gonna not try again. Because a $6 purchase isn't worth having to go to my bank."

Cashiers: "Okay."

Me: "I'm really really really sorry I just wasted your time! I'm so sorry I suck at life."

Them: "It's okay. Go drink your coffee."

So I go get in my truck and rest my head against the steering wheel and remind myself that at least my gas tank is full. Then I realize that I haven't washed my steering wheel since I bought it, and my car guy probably didn't wash it when he bought it, and I have no idea who owned my truck before me, but what are the odds they disinfected their steering wheel? So I frantically remove my head and try not to touch my face because my hands have been ALL OVER my steering wheel in all of its sketchy grubbiness.

I start to drive home. I spot Price Chopper. Flash of brilliant! I bet they'll run my card through as credit!

Power walk my way through the grocery store. Realize I parked on the opposite side of the store from what I'm after (chocolate).

Get my chocolate. Whimper because it was way cheaper at the other place. Power walk toward the cashiers. See a table of Easter candy. More expensive than what I'm holding, but containing like eight times as much chocolate. Being that person, instead of just leaving the chocolate I didn't want, I power walk back to the home of the Hershey's and leave it on the shelf it belonged on. Look at my watch. Realize I've gotta book it if I don't want to be late for work.

Stand in line. Little ancient lady with a million purchases does not invite me (with bag of candy, pack of gum, box of Mike & Ike) to go ahead of her. Wait for her million purchases to get checked out. Watch her write a check.

REALIZE I COULD HAVE WRITTEN A FUCKING CHECK AT THE LAST PLACE!!!!!

Angrily whip out my check book. Pay for my three items.

Practically sprint to my car.

Intermission: I go to work.

At work: I realize I still don't have a grand prize for the Twilight trivia contest. Remember that I was supposed to draw Edward Cullen last night but didn't because I was tired and figured I had plenty of time to get it done.

Drew an IOU instead. Was indecently proud of my IOU.

Mostly I'm proud of it because of the labels at the bottoms. The ones that suggest that the person receiving the IOU isn't smart enough to figure out that the stick figure with fangs is Edward Von Cullenpire and the one with girl hair is Bella 'I'm an ugly duckling!' Swann (whose name translates to BEAUTIFUL SWAN).

Come home from work. Collapse into pathetic ball of I Suck At Life But At Least People Like My Art.

And I know people like my art, because I just got an e-mail saying this duck painting was accepted into a show at a gallery in a town I rather like.

Which means now I have to price it, because I'd kinda like to sell it and I'd kinda like to make enough on it to reimburse myself for the cost of shipping it. Though I won't lie, if somebody wants to buy it and they tell me they want to buy it BEFORE I mail it to the gallery, I'll mark it as NFS and then sell it to you on the sly, which is kind of unethical, but means that I get all the money instead of having to shell out a 50% cut for the gallery. So sue me for being a bit unethical. The idea of handing an institution a shit ton of money for doing something that they'd do for free if I wasn't selling isn't really cool with me. "We gave you exposure. We deserve a cut." They're gonna give me exposure whether or not I sell, so I may as well get the exposure and get the extra three weeks of gas money. Like I said: so sue me.

Dreaming I'm Gonna Die

2010-03-19T12:07:00.002-04:00

For those of you who don't know, I'm medicated all the time. It's kind of a complicated issue, but I described it to J when I was off my meds (left town; got an hour and forty five minutes away; remembered pill bottles were on my desk; swore colorfully) like this:

Imagine you're outside. And it starts to rain. Not just rain, the worst storm of your life. There are raindrops smacking you in the eye. Your hair is soaked and is practically wrapping itself around your neck. It's windy. You realize you're naked. It's cold, and the rain drops are alternating between so massive they explode on impact and so small they sting. Leaves keep getting ripped from the trees and pasted to your body. Or they whip past you close enough to sting when they flick you. Twigs are flying past. Branches are cracking. Cars are going by and it's all headlights and rain and thunder and lightening and OH MY GOD I'M OUTSIDE IN A STORM NAKED.

Now imagine you're inside. And it's storming, and you're in bed, snuggled under blankets, listening to the thunder grumble, and the raindrops pelt your window. You can look out into the elements and see what's going on, but you're not soaking wet and shivering, completely overstimulated by the fact that you're OUTSIDE IN A STORM NAKED.

That's kind of the difference.

Because I can't shut my brain down without help. Like, you know how you go to bed and you fall asleep? No. I was off my meds when I started this blog. Because I'd been out of town, forgot my meds, and was all cracked out because my brain kept being all

HEY WEREN'T YOU GONNA START THAT PAINTING
OH MY GOD YES!!!! WAIT OUT OF PHOTO PAPER
I SHOULD GO BUY PHOTO PAPER OH CRAP I HAVE NO MONEY FROM THAT OVERDRAFT THING GODDAMN I HATE BANKS BUT BANK OF AMERICA JUST KILLED THEIR OVERDRAFT PROGRAM IF THEY WEREN'T ALL RESPONSIBLE FOR NOBODY HIRING PEOPLE RIGHT NOW I'D LOVE THEM I SHOULD GO CLOSE MY BANK ACCOUNT AND SWITCH TO A BANK THAT DOESN'T HATE ME OH SHIT I CAN'T CLOSE IT WHEN I'M STILL NEGATIVE A HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS OH YEAH I WAS MAKING MAC AND CHEESE I HOPE IT DIDN'T BOIL OVER YET HEY I HAVEN'T LISTENED TO THIS SONG IN FOREVER MY GOD IT'S SO NICE OUT
OH HEY I FORGOT I WAS GONNA START READING THIS BOOK I BET IT'S GOOD I LOVED HER LAST BOOK FLIP THROUGH THE PAGES NO I CAN'T START A NEW BOOK I HAVE TO GO TO WORK IN TWO HOURS AND IF I LOVE IT I'M NOT GONNA WANT TO LEAVE BEFORE I'M DONE AND THEN I'LL BE ANGRY WITH WORK
OH YEAH MAC AND CHEESE
HEY J I WAS THINKING ABOUT MY BOOBS AND HOW IF I EVER GET PREGNANT THEY'RE GONNA GET EVEN BIGGER AND THEN THEY'LL JUST SIT ON MY BABY BELLY LIKE IT'S A SHELF AND THAT'S JUST ONE MORE REASON NOT TO HAVE KIDS, RIGHT? BUT I WISH I HAD A KID I COULD NAME WREN, I JUST HATE THE IDEA OF YOU KNOW UTERUS AND SQUEEZING OUT THROUGH VAGINA AND THEN HAVING TO KEEP IT ALIVE AND NON-RETARDED UNTIL I DIE
OH GOD THE MAC AND CHEESE IS BOILING OVER IN THE KITCHEN
OH HEY I FORGOT ABOUT GIRL SCOUT COOKIES
THAT'S LIKE THAT TIME I SAID I WAS GONNA EAT A BROWNIE AND A SAID THAT WAS WHY HE BECAME A BOYSCOUT AND I LAUGHED EVEN THOUGH IT PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE FUNNY
GOD I MISS HIM IS HE BACK IN TOWN YET? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE HE IS WHY THE HELL IS HE SUCH A NINJA WHEN I'M INCAPABLE OF KEEPING SECRETS? MAYBE IF I PRACTICE MY MAD NINJA WHY ARE THERE FRUIT FLIES HOVERING AROUND MY FUCKING FACE?!?!??!?!?!

And long story short, I figured out coping skills for my brain being on crack all the time. I mean, I couldn't have managed a bachelor's degree in a double major (one of which included substances that cause cancer in the state of California) and actually finished it. Yeah. I went to college with my brain doing that all the time. Because I wasn't medicated until after college.

But I got stuff done. Had to, you know? But the thing is, my brain being incapable of shutting the fuck up likes to transfer into me having really elaborate and often traumatizing dreams that I can't tell apart from reality. And after like six years of having nightmares every single night and getting to the point where I cried because I was afraid to go to sleep, and started having panic attacks every fifteen seconds because I was so sleep deprived, and being all starved to death from being poor and also from being sleep deprived...

I gave up on my, "I don't want to live my life on a pill that changes who I am, because how will I know who I am any more? What's gonna be my emotion and what's gonna be the medicine?"

Because that's a valid pair of questions and everything, but equally valid is wanting to go to bed and fall asleep and not have paralyzing fear of dreaming.

Which leads me to, I was gonna tell you the dream I just woke up from.

Yes, I'm back on my meds (note to self: call doctor for prescription renewal BEFORE it runs out), but I was off them a few days and I'm still readjusting, plus my body also likes to punish me for sleeping too late. Like, if I wake up and it's light out, and then I go back to sleep? Nightmare. Versus if I just stay asleep all night, I'm usually good now.

But I woke up at like 7:30 because it was hella bright out, and went back to sleep. And so:

I'm a senior in highschool and as our senior trip, we go to the zoo. And it has a few things in common with the Utica Zoo, but only if the Utica Zoo was on a property that looked suspiciously like that of my aunt's ex-husband, and only if my uncle's house managed to contain like four stories and actually be the size of a large mall that contains J.C. Penney's, Macy's, a shit ton of stores I've never heard of, CVS, and the Museum of Natural History (which is apparently the same thing as the zoo).

So I'm walking around with Sharon and it's wicked nice out, and I've got my camera, and we go up to the cage that has a lion named Alex and an irritable female tiger in it. And I start taking pictures, and Alex is actually a polar bear, but that's cool because even though the lighting sucks, he's holding still and I've got a sort of tripod thing to lean on so my pictures are coming out okay.

But then the tiger is all, "RAWR!!!!"

And I'm like, oh yeah, angry tiger. We'll just move on. Yeah.

So we look at some other stuff.

And then somehow we're back at the lion/tiger cage, and for some really stupid reason, the fence consists of one wooden split rail fence and then one barbed wire fence. So it shouldn't really surprise me when the tiger crawls under the split rails and is about to jump over the barbed wire.

Clearly Sharon and I turn and run as soon as we see that the tiger's about to escape.

We get a bit separated as we run, but I manage on my way to the mall area to hustle an old lady and at least two small families into buildings without unduly alarming them, but while still impressing the importance of staying inside on them.

I get to the mall part and, go figure, I can't find a single zoo official. Only about ten thousand random zoo visitors that are being all, "Let's go see the tiger!"

I flip shit.

I'm taking elevators and stuff trying to find the Museum of Natural History part of the mall, and Rune's in one, and Kelly's with me (as some point Sharon and Kelly became the same interchangeable person), and Rune's like, "Hey guys!" and we're like, "Not now!"

Finally I run into my highschool principal, who we always used to call Dr. Dre, and he's like, "Did you alert anyone?"

And I'm like, "No I can't find anybody to alert!"

And as it would turn out, he's vaguely affiliated with the zoo, so about fifty of us all go up to see if the tiger's still in her cage.

And we get to the top of the hill (the lion/tiger cage is on top of a hill) and we stop short. Because sticking out from behind a big zoo sign is THE TIGER'S TAIL!!!

And never mind the fact that it's spotted like a leopard, it's totally the tiger, so we all start to back up slowly as she makes a dramatic entrance like she's a velociraptor or something and knows her buddy's about to kill us from the side.

So then Dr. Dre pauses in all of his ginger glory and is all ready to take one for the team (very Muldoon from Jurassic Park) and Sharon's next to him and I'm like NOOOOOOOOO but at the same time they're like, "Go tell the zoo officials. We'll hold her here."

And I can't really figure out why we didn't tell the zoo officials in the first place, but whatevs, so I run down the hill.

And by run I mean I'm moving so fast my legs stop moving and I'm just controlled sliding like I'm on a snowboard, except it's just my feet and the dirt, but whatever, because it's working and I'm going REALLY FAST.

I get to the bottom and OH MY GOD there are more school children getting out of buses to visit the zoo! And, way worse, apparently everybody and their brother brought their pet anaconda.

And I don't care how many times you tell me snakes are more afraid of me than I am of them, I can tell you YOU'RE MISJUDGING THE SEVERITY OF MY FEAR.

So I'm trying to figure out how to climb the ish50 steps to get to the entrance to the mall even though there's an anaconda next to the stairs and there's one on the stairs, but then that guest judge from this week's America's Next Top Model (the one that was all, "I would put that picture in my salon. Let me describe to you in my fabulous accent what the purpose of a salon is." while wearing a raptor claw around his neck.) whips out his Harry Potter wand and wingardium leviosas the friggin snake out of my way!

So I go alert people that work at the zoo, and then Sharon/Kelly and I go and lock ourselves in one of the bedrooms. Because there are bedrooms now.

And then Tara (ie: freshman room mate in college) joins us and is all, "They found her. They're gonna put her in with the lynxes."

And I'm FREAKING OUT because the lynx enclosure has a glass wall that looks into the bathroom, so now I'm thinking that jesus, this fucking tiger that wants to eat me also gets to watch me pee? Bad planning, zoo officials.

And then a mom with two little boys joins us and is like, "Mind if we stay here until all the animals are safely enclosed again?"

And of course I mind, because people keep opening the door and next thing you know the tiger's totally gonna find out I'm here, but instead I'm just like, "No, of course, you have to stay, here, let me give up my seat so your grubby fake tattoo covered children can sit there. Do you need a snack or anything? Do you need to borrow my phone to let anyone know you're safe?"

So then a few other people end up joining us, and I stamp a fake peace sign tattoo onto Kelly's hand, and then GUESS WHAT!?

Time for an awkward dream transition into one where pirates/Romans/people who don't approve of Payless shoes are trying to kill us all.

Or maybe they've already done the war thing and we survived and now we're trying to make sense of it? Anyway, most of the dream takes place in a giant sized store that contains Payless shoes in one aisle, Halloween wigs in another aisle, glow in the dark stars and fairy magic wands along the wall, and a vast amount of ribbon.

And abutting the Payless part is a series of interconnecting rivers, and on the islands are kilns.

Because apparently the bad guys were going to use cave-based ceramics kilns to do their dirty work?

So we're going from island to island to try to find the last of the kilns where it's entirely possible they've left either buried treasure or hostages, and one of them's flooded, so we know it's not that one, and then we're on our way to find the one where we're pretty sure the bad guys in their boats left something of epic importance (we don't know what it is), when I start walking around the store being like, "Oh my god these shoes are so cute and they're on sale for $2.99!"

But then my brother and his ex-girlfriend are like, WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, LAURA, WE HAVE TO SIT ON THE FRONT LAWN OF THIS BUILDING AND THROW A BROWN SHOE FROM ONE PERSON TO ANOTHER.

But then I'm back on the boat and it's actually very Gilligan's Island. We're headed to this place for a lovely vacation or something, and oh my the weather is fine, and all of this stuff, and then we get to the island and all the power goes off.

And it's bad.

It's very bad.

Not because anything bad is happening, but because I realize I'm reliving an epic adventure from like ten thousand years ago and I can sort of foresee parts of it.

And I realize that the lights are all out because there are glowing slugs in the soil under the trees, and we have to lure them out and kill them all to restore peace and prosperity to the land.

And the only way to lure them out is with lights, since they're so opposed to light they'll come out just to kill it.

So we've got our weapons (mine's a stake and a hammer) and my boss is there, and Devin (who is a blue twelve year old that is first mate on the boat and has Special Significance Later) and at this point I remember that I have the two halves of a broken golden key in my pocket, and somehow this broken golden key holds Special Significance Later. But I haven't foreseen that part yet, so I just go on a whack-a-mole mission looking for evil glowing slugs.

And then it kind of fades to black, but I assume at that point we kill them all, since then we're on the boat and I realize I still have the halves of the key in my pocket, and even though it's sunny now and the power is back on, clearly the adventure isn't over yet.

And then. Then I realize. I realize that I have to make a decision about how to end this fiasco. Because all the dead slugs come together to form a lock that looks kind of like a space ship, and if I fit the key in it, it'll asplode into nothingness and the world will never have to deal with evil glowing slugs again.

And then. Then I realize. I realize that I can't make the choice, because this has happened before, I'm just reliving it, and the choice has already been made. I have no choice. I have no free will. I am fated to NOT kill the slugs. And I realize all at once that because of fate I am required to damn the world to the tender mercies of evil glowing slugs for all eternity, and at that point I shout, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

And everybody is confused, because they thought we just beat the slugs.

And then Devin cuddles me and says things like, "You knew it had to happen this way. It's not your fault. You are a vessel of fate, and fate is eternal."

And I whimper a lot because I don't like being a vessel, I like being a person that can choose to annihilate an evil species of slugs that turn off electricity and are creepy. But on the plus side, I guess, Devin's also a vessel of fate and while I have to keep being reborn into a different person that has to keep fighting the evil slugs throughout eternity, he's an immortal blue twelve year old that has been around since the dawn of the slugs and he'll always be there to guide me on my quest.

And that's more or less why I always wake up super tired. I spend my nights off adventuring, like Batman.

Why the Gym is Dangerous

2010-03-18T20:11:00.002-04:00

I had a productive day. No, really. I really did. I painted.

Not all of that today. I'm not even that fast, and I paint faster than anyone I know. But most of the rocks are new, and the tree is new, plus the frolicking fairies, and the butterfly on the goat's butt. And probably some other things I've already forgotten I just painted.

And then I went to the gym.

You gotta remember how long it's been since I've gone to the gym. Pretty much not since I started my new job (three months) and had to go to work at almost exactly the same time W headed off to the gym. And since I get in free on his membership, it's not like I can just go without him when I've got spare time. Which it's not like I ever really have spare time.

So I go to the gym. And there are all your typical guys.

Douche Bag in Backwards Hat

Douche Bag that Benches while Wearing Gold Jewelry

Douche Bag with Barbed Wire Tattoo

Old Guy with Shorts so Short You're Scared You'll get a Junk Shot

Guy (Probably Douche) with Giant Neck Triangle and Roid Rage

Guy Talking on his Cell Instead of Working Out

And the typical girls.

Tramp Stamp, Fake Tan, Doing Squats

Heavy Middle Aged Lady Walking while watching Oprah

And then there's me and W.

We're not there to chat, though I occasionally embarrass him with public jazzercize displays. Or Thriller demonstrations. You know, with the zombie raptor arms? Yeah. I do that while W's lifting free weights so he can't really stop me.

Of course then he has to go and be all, "So how long were you on that stair stepper, Laur? What, two minutes and thirty-two seconds? Bet you DIE when you go hiking/camping in the desert and try to CLIMB THE GRAND CANYON!"

Fucker.

It's different outside. For one thing, there's all these brand shiny new things, like rocks I don't see every day, and little lizards I can take pictures of, and pretty views, versus climbing on a machine at the gym is just me feeling all awkward and bored while tramp stamps power climb next to me with their gazes fixed on The People's Court. Oh, and don't forget the dodgy middle aged guys that ALWAYS pick the machines right next to mine to set up camp. There could be like twelve machines open, and do they pick the one far away? No. They set their overweight sweaty selves in their too short shorts and their too tall tube socks RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

And then they look at my stats. And they see that I'm only on like level five resistance and I've only been going for like a mile and a half and they start pedaling and in like three seconds they're way farther than me because they jacked their resistance up to like 20.

The gym sucks.

And maybe I should also mention that I break all the freaking time?

Well, last weekend I drove three hours in a pair of three inch heels, and I hadn't figured out how to function my cruise control yet. Or, as my dad calls it, The Automatic Pilot.

So my ankle is all cracking every three seconds and shooting pain toward my little toe every time I do something.

So I humor W by doing all the upper body workout stuff that he - being male - loves. Maybe if I'm lucky the chest exercises will make my boobs perkier? And then we do the leg stuff, because it's Thursday, and Thursday is Leg Day, and if I wander more than five feet away from W, all the gold chain pimp daddies in the gym start eyeballing me with naughty dirty sinful thoughts.

I mean, they might still be having naughty thoughts while I'm lifting free weights with the sibling, but at least they don't have the cojones to overtly undress me with their eyes. Because W looks all angry and eight inches taller than me and lifting way more weight than me. I mean, half the exercise I get is taking my five pound weights off the stick thing and hoisting a few forty-fives onto it as we take turns and he's all, "You're doing it wrong."

And then I try to explain to him that my tendons like to go all over the place when I move. My body is not a well run machine. My body is like all the chromosomes in M&D decided, "Hey, let's all team up and make something that looks a lot more functional than it is!" So like, my joints are all hyperextended and my tendons all like to go walkabout while I'm in the middle of holding heavy things, and he's just like, "Man up."

So when W decides it's time for leg exercises, I'm stoked, because it's lonely being the only tattoo-less girl chilling by the gigantic robot arm exercise machine things, having my tendons move around and nobody cares.

So he does a set and I go to do a set and my knee starts shrieking in agony. Okay, so maybe it didn't shriek, but if my knee had a mouth it might have. Because the webby part on the back of my knee (you know that part you always nicked shaving when you first started shaving, because 1) you sucked at it and 2) your mom bought crappy razors?) felt like it was about to rip.

FOR NO GOOD REASON!

So at this point my ankle is doing shooting pain stuff, my elbow tendons are feeling super stretched out and not good, and my behind-the-knee is epic failing.

Oh, and question. Is it normal after your heart rate goes up (like say you're on a stationary bike for a while, after you've been on a stair stepper) for your gums to feel like somebody injected carbonation into them? Like maybe your teeth turned into poprocks in the bottom or something? I'm gonna go with no, since when I tried to explain it, W just looked at me like I'm a pathetic whiner that spontaneously breaks into dance in public places.

But does anybody know why my mouth gets all tickly and tingly after I've been running? Because it's awkward as shit and I'm certain I'm not just imagining it.

Really. I swear.

I should maybe go put ice on my ankle...

10:48 am

2010-03-18T10:47:00.003-04:00

So I set my alarm for nine because I was totally going to get up and eat something (nevermind that the only food in the house is designed for fat carnivores or Italian chefs, and I'm neither of those, so breakfast is always a scavenger hunt for Laura-friendly food; and if we remember yesterday's lesson, hungry-Laura is stupid enough to drive past work and then have to sit at three stoplights behind a tractor towing another tractor (it really happened) in order to get back to work).

So I set my alarm, and then my alarm goes off. And I hit snooze.

And then when it goes off again, I think about how bright and sunny and beautiful it appears to be outside, and I reset my alarm for ten, because I'm not supposed to go paint until eleven anyway, and I can't call Y to see if we're still on this far before eleven, because it's her morning off and what if she's sleeping? Yeah, of course she's sleeping, and it would be douchey of me to wake her up. So since I'm already mostly asleep...

So the house phone rings at 10:30. And I'm phobic of phones. This explains a lot of it. But I've also been conditioned to understand that if the phone rings, it is someone that wants something from me. Either my mom asking if I've done the laundry yet (no) or some telemarketer asking if I want to buy windows (no, but I feel so rude just hanging up, because they have to deal with jerks all day, and maybe my being polite will keep them from going home and slitting their wrists in the bathtub due to the suckiness of their day), or lately it's people being all, "Do you want health care reform?" or "Governor Patterson's trying to sell wine in grocery stores!" Or, of course, collection agencies.

It's never exactly my fault that all my shit goes to collections. I mean, I didn't plan to sprain my rotator cuff and then rack up hundreds of dollars of physical therapy fees my insurance didn't cover. And when you don't make any money, it's kind of hard to pay any bills.

And the Verizon thing was not my fault because when my computer crashed and I had to shell out $600 to fix it (technically Kelly shelled it out on long term loan because I had no money and the 'rents were like, "You don't really need a computer, undergrad English major!")... Well, that's when M&D were all, "Don't worry about your phone bill, hunny, we'll take care of it. But then they hit a financial shit storm too and couldn't pay it, but they didn't tell me because they didn't want to worry me.

And so I'm finally basically out of the whole people calling every day for money thing when lo! Last summer I end up in the ER twice in two days in Boston. Uninsured. And I was unemployed at the time. And I was unemployed for about a half a year after. Do the math.

So phone calls? They're never good.

But I'm waiting on my eye doctor to call and tell my my new glasses are ready, because apparently things aren't blurry just because I'm tired? No. I'm nearsighted now. Except in my left eye, where I'm stupidly far sighted. You know what the incongruity means? IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO EVER SEE A MAGIC EYE!!! And 3D movies don't work their magic on me. Watching them just feels like I'm super drunk, because the images are moving around on me.

And I can't ignore the phone if it's the eye doctor glasses lady calling to tell me they're ready, because I've been waiting forever because Medicaid won't shell out for shatterproof lenses without prior approval, so there's about a month's worth of paperwork and snail mail to deal with... And remember how my left eye doesn't work? It's a lazy eye. That doesn't mean that if my right eye ever died on me, my left eye would get up off the couch and pick up the slack. It means that when I was little and my brain realized everything was blurry as shit in my left eye, but totally clear in my right eye, it cut off contact with my left eye like my left eye was a money stealing Sketchy Uncle that Hugs Too Long. So my left eye isn't busted, exactly. It sees. It has solidly reliable peripheral vision. It just doesn't focus on anything closer than like a mile away. Not even if I close my right eye and try to force it to focus. It just gets all, "Why are you doing this, idiot? You have a perfectly good right eye." So long story short, 2/3 of the purpose of me getting glasses is so that I've got a pair of fashion-forward safety goggles at all time, because if something ever happens to my right eye, I'll be legally blind. And totally screwed.

So I NEED the shatterproof lenses, and I need the glasses (plus I've gone slightly near-sighted, remember? So my perfect right eye is already crapping out on me. So screwed.), so I need to answer the phone.

"HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT HEALTH CARE REFORM!?!??!?!"

Well, telemarketer guy, the reason I'm phobic of answering the phone stems almost entirely from medical emergencies that I had no insurance to cover, or which my insurance didn't cover, and the only reason I just answered the phone is because I'm going slowly blind and Medicaid doesn't care.

You know how I feel? I feel like becoming a Canadian citizen. D and V would take me in.

That's how I feel. Like we're all so fucked at this point that the only alternative is to just call America quits like a bad relationship. It was good while it lasted. But we had nothing in common. Not even the original concept of everybody equal, or liberty and happiness. Nope. We've got a shitty class system that the education system is designed to keep in place, and people are capable of making money just by having money, and children are hungry, and grad students have to sleep with blankets burritoed around them to keep anything from touching them in their sleep.

Oh, and Sarah Palin is taken seriously by some people.

We'll just call it quits. Canada can have us. We can say "God save the Queen" even though I'm atheist and think that the only monarchy is an absolute monarchy. Canada can deal with how broken we are.

11:11. I will not make a wish. You know why? Because that's like making New Year's resolutions. If you were really resolved to make changes in your life, you'd just do it. New Year's is an excuse to be lazy until then and then to crap out on your goals within a month just because, "Oh, haha, well nobody takes that seriously anyways. There's always next year."

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS BREED LAZY PEOPLE.

And wishing at 11:11 is like saying, "I don't wish this enough to just wish it, I have to have an excuse!"

So I'm not wishing.

Nope.

I'm not even gonna shower. I'm just going to get dressed. And I know that's scuzzy of me but if I'm supposed to go paint, I don't want to get all clean and shiny new and then get covered in acrylic paint the colors of rocks and tiny people and have to get all clean again.

So I'm just gonna eat and wait for my phone to ring. My cell phone, not my land line. Because on my cell phone, I can see if it's Y calling, and can ignore it as needed if it isn't.

Because caller ID is proof that no matter how effed up the world is, somebody loved me enough to know that I only want to answer the phone if I know it's you calling, and you're somebody I like.

1:34 AM

2010-03-18T00:51:00.005-04:00

Maybe first I should explain to you the process involved in me falling asleep.

1) exhaust myself mentally. Doesn't matter if I'm physically exhausted.

2) pajamas. With warm socks. Only zombies and Kelly can sleep with cold feet.

3) turn on electric blanket even if it's a completely reasonable temperature out, and even though I've got enough blankets that I could ration them out during war time and keep like five families warm. Turn it on because I spent so many goddamned years sleeping in a room with no heat and a broken window that if I don't have a heated blanket cranking warmth into me while I sleep I'll most likely dream I'm drowning in Arctic water as narwhals frolic around me, playing tag with their beluga friends as I sink deeper and deeper into frozen despair.

4) pile pillows properly so that my bony shoulder doesn't have to fight with the hard mattress all night, but so that there's still pillow between my shoulder and head. So yes, at least two pillows under my head, plus at least one to snuggle with. And yes, me laying here typing requires at least one pillow to prop me up so that I don't sprain my rotator cuff again trying to lay on my stomach but still use my hands. Because that really happened.

5) layer blankets properly so that there aren't any spots that are heavier than any other spots, but so that there's an even weight distribution so that sleeping-me doesn't wake up in a panic that my right shin is more vulnerable than the rest of me. Make sure edges are tucked in so that arctic temperature bedroom air doesn't sneak into my bed. Also so that the boogeyman that my brothers swore lived outside our old house (and was somehow associated with the very orange streetlight outside of Evil Neighbor #1's house) can't get me. Also so that Kodi and Thai (dogs of otherwise excellent attitude) can't wake up at some godforsaken hour and think, OH HAI I'MA WAKE UP LAURA BY SLIMING WHATEVER BARE AND FREAKISHLY TICKLING PART OF HER I CAN REACH LOOK A FOOT!

6) snuggle into bed-nest. Shut off light.

7) realize I've forgotten to take my meds. Turn on light.

8) realize the glass sitting on my desk has been empty for a while and hasn't actually been clean for about three days. Get up to get water.

9) decide I should probably go pee while I'm up, otherwise I'll wake up at like four and zombie my way to the bathroom while W and K are all kibbitzing over breakfast because W goes to work before the sun is up and K is nocturnal, and try to do the mental acrobatics necessary to answer the question that one of them might have just asked about that guy at K's art school that corners me to ask me about video games every time I'm on campus. Pee. Realize for the umpteenth time that I'm irrationally afraid every time I start peeing that I've either forgotten to pull my skivvies down or forgotten to put the lid up, even though neither of these things has ever happened to me.

10) wash hands while wondering if I'm washing my hands good enough then looking at the mirror and thinking maybe I should floss. I should floss more. I always feel guilty at the dentist like they're going to be all, "How often do you floss?" And I'm gonna have to hedge and be like, "Oh, you know, about the normal frequency." And they'll be merciless and be all, "And how much is that?" And I'll be like, "FINE I ALWAYS FORGET TO FLOSS EXCEPT FOR PRETTY MUCH ONLY THE TIMES WHEN I HAVE TO DIG FOOD OUT OF THE GAPING HOLE THAT RESULTED IN MY MOUTH WHEN ONE WISDOM TOOTH DECIDED TO GROW SIDEWAYS INSTEAD OF UP, DON'T FUCKING JUDGE ME." I skip flossing, and feel guilty about it.

11) pour water. Go back into bedroom. Take pills.

12) reorganize pillows and blankets to form perfect nest.

13) listen to the tell tale noise of Thai ninjaing his way through my closed door (it's a sliding sideways accordion sort of door, so it took Thai-ranosaurus Rex all of about thirty seconds to figure out that it couldn't withstand the onslaught of his noble bulk if he wanted to sleep in my room or just see what I'm doing. And he always wants those things.

14) pet Thai so he doesn't think I don't love him. Close eyes.

15) think, WAIT I forgot to set my alarm because TOMORROW IS GOING TO BE THE DAY I GET UP EARLY AND START JOGGING!

16) realize that based on my body's superhero metabolism and psychotic inability to maintain even blood sugar, in order for me to run without passing out or sobbing I'd have to get up extra early and have a massive breakfast to fill in the calories I've burned just by being asleep. You think it's awesome that I've got high metabolism, don't you? Bet you're thinking I'm so damned lucky for eating whatever I want whenever I want and fitting into size 3 jeans no questions asked. Tell me I'm lucky when I'm picking myself up off the kitchen floor because I walked to the bathroom too fast before I had any breakfast and my body short circuited. Tell me I'm lucky then and you'll be lucky if you don't get bitchslapped. Tell me I'm lucky when I'm sitting in a subway station shaking because I forgot that Starbucks adds enough sugar to a caramel macchiato to take down a diabetic elephant. Or when I drive past my workplace because I'm all, "Hey, I haven't eaten anything since those two slices of mushroom pizza, plate of french fries, and bottle of water I had two hours ago. Must be it's time to GIVE UP ON FUNCTIONING LIKE A HUMAN!" Or when strangers are all, "Are you okay? You just got really pale really fast." Yeah, that's because if I don't eat every two seconds, I DIE and if I try to do anything requiring the burning of calories before I put any new calories in my body, it's sort of like... well... It's like a bad simile I'm not gonna bother finishing. Anyway, me + jogging = needing to consume way (I mean WAY) more calories than usual (I'm talking like all my normal meals plus like a glass of orange juice, two bowls of oatmeal, bowl of mac and cheese, and a turkey sandwich and maybe some Greek yogurt) or I DIE.

17) realize that if I eat enough food to fuel my body through a bout of jogging, I'll be all queasy from running around with a fridge worth of food in my stomach. While I'm tired. Before I've showered.

18) remember also that Evil Neighbor #2 might kill me with his car if he sees me on the road, because he's batshit crazy and hates my family (and by default hates me). Remember that even if they don't intend to kill me, there's a solid chance the rednecks that speed down my house-less road will whip around the turn by the creek and collide with me as I gasp and bounce my way down the cracked and potholed pavement in my super crazy elaborate sports bra / athletic tank top and gym shorts combo while my effed up knees swell up from the tendons pointing the wrong way (yeah, they do that) and my shins are all HI I'M SPLINTING and my ankle is all, "Remember that time you thought jumping off a roof wouldn't hurt upon impact, because, and I quote, 'It's not a very high roof'?" Decide tomorrow will be the day that I get up early and play Wii Fit Plus because I still SUCK at that juggling balancing game.

19) try not to think of how long it's been since I've played. Get angry because the stupid little Wii dude is gonna be all, "Haven't seen you here in a while, Laura. Have you been keeping up with your exercise?" And I'll have to be like, "No, not really." And then it'll be like, "Did you eat yet?" And I'll be like, "Yes!" and I'll feel really proud of myself for being awake and fed and WORKING OUT and then it'll be like, "You've lost weight. Are you sure you're eating right?" And I'll be like, "DON'T JUDGE ME NINTENDO YOU FUCKING FASCIST BASTARD!" because it's not my fault my metabolism is pretty much reverse-retarded.

20) decide maybe the best thing to do is just set my alarm for 9am (that's early-ish, right?) and see what happens.

21) start a blog instead of going to sleep.