Peace the eff out.

I think I figured out why I'm so tired of writing.

I'm not actually tired of writing-- I'm rarely tired of writing-- but I am tired of writing about myself. I have little to say when I'm happy and even worse things to say when I'm not.

So, long story short, I don't really want to talk about me anymore. At least not in a so in your face sort of way. I'm starting a new project over here. I know, I know, I change houses more than a hermit crab. THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE. See what this blog does to me?

I'd love to see you guys (all five of you) over at the new place. It's been real, All Caps.

...aaaaand break.

I'm tired of writing.

Everything I've written lately just seems to be lacking. I can't figure out what I want to say and everything I do want to talk about seems trivial and, well, lame. I'm not depressed or anything, I just am kind of sick of talking about myself.

So, I'm taking a break. I don't know how long or exactly what this break will entail, but I'm going to take it.

Until next time.

Etc, etc, etc

It was recently brought to my attention that I listen to a lot of bands with animal related names.

Wolf Parade, Wolfmother, Andrew Bird, Arctic Monkeys, Fleet Foxes, Band of Horses, Cat Power, Cat Stevens, Minus the Bear, Grizzly Bear, Flight of the Conchords, Pedro the Lion, Animal Collective, you get the picture.

I've got lions hanging out with wolves, cats riding horses while foxes watch and more bears than you can shake a stick at*. My iPod is essentially one massive zoo. Or Noah's Ark if there was a VIP section. Sorry, tortoise, you're not on the list.

*Additionally, why would you shake a stick at a bear? That's just bad common sense.
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Since I still have two weeks before College brings the late nights and $200 text books back into my life, I've been trying to do what smart people do and read. This time up it's The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams. It's the sequel to the very amusing, way better in book form than movie form The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I'm going to be honest, I only started reading Hitchhiker because I was rummaging in Red's closet looking for something to read and/or steal. I liked the first one, but wasn't really that invested in the series. It wasn't until I was at Border's and saw Restaurant on sale for $2.99 that I decided to give it another shot.

Um, Doug Adams is a badass. A badass in the goofiest way possible. The guy writes witty absurdist fiction and I have decided that in my next life, I want to be a cheeky, odd, slightly off, old British man who writes about dolphins and space. God, let's work this out. If not, I will settle for just being cheeky.
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In October, I'm flying to Portland to visit Thurber. You know when you're little and you count down the days to your birthday? You check the calendar every.single.day and it just doesn't ever seem like your birthday is going to come. Like you're in some sort of space-time vortex where not only is time not moving forward, you somehow have GONE BACK A DAY. What the fuck, physics?

That's how I feel about my trip to Portland. I'm so excited to see a city I've heard so much about, to visit my friend and to hike around that October just can't come fast enough.

Additionally, I met one of my co-worker's sons this weekend who happens to live in Portland. Upon hearing about my upcoming visit, he offered to show Thurber and I around.

"I guess if I had to sum up Portland in a few words, it would be be beer, salmon and hiking."

Seriously?! Why didn't anyone tell me about this? Everyone knows I love salmon, hiking and beer. That's so common knowledge it's pract---

Wait a minute. Beer. Salmon. Hiking. You know who else loves all those things?



Oh shit.

Life goes easy on me most of the time.

Things are still weird, but I'm doing a lot more of this:



Less depressing blogging to follow soon.

"Hopefully it won't take you as long to get there as it did to get here."

The funny thing is, it was meant to be a compliment. A sincere one with poor delivery, it hit me harder than I was ready for.

It's taken me a long time to lose the weight I have. Longer than I wanted, but as long as it's coming off, I'm happy. I am in a constant state of discomfort and insecurity in my skin. I have no idea what I look like. I know that sounds silly, but I honestly have no idea how much space I take up. It is unnerving and can really wear down a girl's confidence.

The truth is, I haven't felt like I've been giving it effort in quite some time. I'll work so hard at the gym only to come home and find all those burned off calories waiting for me in the fridge. I don't want to eat half the time because I don't know how to do it anymore. I don't know the difference between when I'm hungry and when I'm bored. I don't know what anger, frustration, joy, or elation feel like without food. I dread meal time because food terrifies me.

I don't know what I'm hoping to accomplish with this post. I'm just complaining mostly. I'm tired. I'm really tired and I want to stop worrying about calories and fat grams and whether or not my jeans are going to fit me today. I can't even explain how exhausting it is to feel like you're losing the battle. No, not losing, staying in the exact same spot. I am fighting so hard and making no progress. I'm frustrated with myself, angry with my body and disappointed that my brain can't figure out how to fix this.

I'm just tired, guys. I knew this would be hard when I started, but I didn't anticipate how much of my life it would consume. I'm not backing out on my commitment to myself, I just feel really overwhelmed. I just want to be normal sized. I don't want to quit. I just want...something.

Crybaby Threat Level: High

Once upon a time I had my tooth pulled. After saying peace out to Molar 4, I was given the consolation prize of some pain killers.

I took some yesterday after the anesthesia wore off and they made me sleepy. So, I resolved to substitute the prescription strength pain killers for some regular Joe ibuprofen.

Side note: I would make a crappy upper class housewife because I can't handle Vicoden. So long, New York socialite life.

Anyway, this morning when my mouth felt like someone spent all night hitting it with a hammer, I did what any smart person would do: I took a Vicoden (I convinced myself it needed a second chance) and then drove to work. All in a day's work, folks.

So now my tummy is aboard the nausea train, my mouth is sore and tastes like iron and I'm hungry but it hurts to eat food. In other words, woe is fucking me.

Thus, here is a link to the "Where The Wild Things Are" trailer because it makes me really happy. And because deep down inside, I know this blog post fits me to a tee.

Why I Now Want To Be An Oral Surgeon: A Short Essay.

Tomorrow, I'll be saying good-bye to an old friend.



That's right, after twenty-two years hiding out in my gums, good ol' Top Right wisdom tooth decided to make it's grand entrance. Trouble is, it wasn't so grand. Instead of being a lady about it and curtsying in what would've undoubtedly been a fancy dress, it ripped into my mouth like fucking Rambo and took some names.


This isn't Vietnam.

Lucky for me, my mouth only has one crazed wisdom tooth instead of the usual four. However, nobody told the oral surgeon that because he's still charging me a ludicrous amount of money to remove Top Right.


Not quite as ludicrous as this, but you get the point.

For one tooth it's costing me $512. FOR ONE TOOTH. I understand it's a rebel tooth, but, listen, it's not going to suicide bomb my entire mouth or anything. Is this tooth some sort of long lost reincarnated medallion that will unlock the mystery of life? No? Then why do you insist on me paying you like it is? WHY.

The moral of this story is this: grow up to be an oral surgeon. Sure, yanking teeth out might not be the most exciting thing in the world, but you could take solace in the giant piles of money that you fashioned into chairs in your gigantic mansion. God, so that's why all the girls want to marry doctors.

Top Right, you have taught me so much. Good-bye, ol' buddy. I probably won't miss you that much.