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.

Crazy

It seems like a while since I've come here. Why? Because these days, I spend the majority of my time grinning like a fool and listening to music that I can't relate to.

Example: last night, I was driving across town with the last of the Arizona sun warming my face, smiling the smile of the hopelessly happy and listening to old R&B on the AM radio. I'm basically a one-woman cliche.

I haven't really wanted to write about it because I'm afraid of jinxing it. I haven't felt good about myself or my life in a while and I don't want to scare away the good fortune. The beginning of the year was rocky for a variety of reasons. My demons came back for me and for the first time in a long time I didn't see a way out. I thought it over plenty of times and was just beginning to accept the fact that I was meant to be unhinged when something happened. I can't quite pinpoint what changed or how I got out of it, but I noticed one day that my head was a little clearer. Yes, the static and depression and overwhelming urge to obsess and control were still there, but the ideas that scared me so badly were now just speaking to me instead of shouting.

A while later, I realized that I wasn't so concerned about how I was going to make it through the day. Before, I had to have a firm plan of what I was going to do during the day, down the hour, because having free time to be alone with my thoughts was too risky. Suddenly, I had the free time that I dreaded so much and, very surprisingly, I wasn't afraid of it. I started to embrace it and it felt familiar. I realized I missed having time to myself.

These days, I can't quite remember what it the first four months of the year felt like. I remember what I was doing and saying and how damaging both tended to be to me, but I can't identify with the feelings anymore. It's like my brain re-arranged itself one night and I woke up feeling new. I went to work and my eyes weren't glazed over. I started caring about myself and things I deemed important. Funny thing is, after I started to realize that I wasn't crazy, things just started to fall into place. I'm two years away from being a college graduate, my relationships with my friends and family have proven to be stronger than I ever expected, I met The Boy and, while I'm still some way from my weight-loss goal, I am absolutely confident that I will make it to where I want to be.

Like I said, I don't know what changed. I still have moments where I don't know if I'm allowed to be this happy. It doesn't feel real a lot of the time, but instead of spending a lot of time questioning or analyzing it, I'm just accepting it. Every single thought that kept me crippled during the beginning of the year is still there; I don't think those will ever go away. But they're quieter now and don't interfere as much. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I've beaten it. I don't need a label, especially that label, to define who I am and what I think about.

This isn't at all what I intended to write about, but I guess it just needed to come out. Funny how that works.

It doesn't have to be New Years for a resolution.

I'm having trouble with myself.

I've tried writing a few sentences to elaborate, but it all boils down to that one statement. I can't get myself to do what I want. Things have been going so well for me that I have essentially said "eh, forget it" to most of the things I was working on. My weight loss efforts have pretty much fallen by the wayside, I feel lost without a school project to work on, my job is testing the limits of my patience and I am right smack in the middle of numerous unfinished projects. I feel very cluttered.


Pictured: my insides.

I have the rest of this week and all of next week off from work (insert hallelujah angels here), so I've decided it is going to be a kick-off to de-cluttering my life. Does that sound too Oprah-ish? Oh God. I promise I'm not going to go buy her book of the week or anything. Eff Oprah. Yeah, I said it.*

Because I need to see it in writing and I can't say no to a good list, here are some things I'm planning on doing during my week of freedom.

1.) Crafts. I haven't knitted in ages. I guess it's because nobody needs a wool hat or scarf in the desert in the middle of July. Who knew? I have also been wanting to re-do my room because it's my favorite room of my house. Hello, narcissism, how do you do? I bought some blank canvasses at Michaels (shout out to 2-for1 deals!) that have been sitting against my door for the past month. I guess I really should have thought about the fact that I have the artistic talent of a first grader before I committed to purchasing canvas and paints, but we'll see what I can make of it.

2.) Exercise. I haven't done much of this for the past few weeks because, well, it's fucking hot. I somehow don't look forward to having a trainer yell at me to "push it!". Yeah, I'll push it alright. I'll push it all the way to the goddamn Cold Stone Creamery. You don't know my life, YMCA trainer.

For realsies, though, I need to get back on this bandwagon. I have the combination gross/lumpy feeling that can only come from leaving a permanent ass print in the easy chair. I've found that I like the solitude of jogging, but I get really uneasy doing that in front of people. Oh don't mind all the jiggling, folks, just trying to jog a couple miles without hacking up a lung. I found a nature trail that's not too far from my house, though, so I want to do a bit of trail running. Although it's a gravel trail and birds can run it, I'm still counting it as trail running.

3.) Not watch (as much) TV. I know, I know, it's blasphemy. But I've noticed that I can't just watch TV. I'll read a book, play on the laptop, try to get Simon to chase his own tail or any other thing I can distract myself with while watching TV. So, why not just cut it down all together? There are so many other things I could be doing, which brings me to #4.

4.) Get the hell out of the house. I love my house and all the comforts it provides, but I gotta get out more. Usually, when I'm at home, I put on some sweat pants and prepare myself for a rigorous day of lounging and lay downs. It's hard work but someone has to be the lazy hobo of the house hold. That sofa isn't going to nap on itself. I usually would probably say "screw it, it's my vacation and I do what I please", but I'm bringing in reinforcements.

My younger cousins, ages 9-16, are coming to spend the week with me. Why? Does one ever need a reason to hang out with a badass cousin?** My cousins are all active, imaginative, creative and absolutely needy people. They need to be entertained and guess who just signed on to be the figurative magician at the birthday party?


Sadly I don't have a segway.

It should be an interesting week.

So, there is is. The 4 things I want to get accomplished next week. Will I do it all? Can I survive all week on one tank of gas? Will I end up strangling a cousin in the process? Only one way to find out.

*Oprah, please don't send your housewife assassins to murder me and re-arrange my living room.
**Answer: no.

Surprise Visitor

Guys, I have a confession to make. Today I did something kinda bad.

See, when I came into work this morning, there was a surprise waiting for me.

"Hellooooooo handsome," I said. My surprise practically winked at me.

We flirted for a bit, me and my surprise visitor. I felt a little guilty. I've been seeing The Boy for a few weeks, but this surprise visitor and I are old friends. We have a history, see, and a saucy one at that.

Finally, when I could take it no more, I took my surprise visitor into the conference room. I made sure we were alone before sinking my teeth into my surprise visitor.

"Mmm, I missed you," I said. My surprise visitor was just as sweet as he'd always been and it felt so familiar and comfortable to have my lips right where they belonged.

Then, to my embarrassment, the door swung open and Deskmate uttered an, "Oh, um, sorry."

My surprise visitor tried to get the mood going again, but it was ruined for good.

"We can't meet like this anymore," I said. My surprise visitor tried once again to meet my lips, but I had to stand my ground.

"No," I whispered. "It's probably best if you leave."

And, with a heavy heart, I showed my surprise visitor the door and prepared to bribe Deskmate to keep my dirty secret.

Good-bye, Surprise Visitor.


I'll never forget you.

Tuesdays are okay in my book.

Usually the day after I write an angry blog, I feel bad about it. I'm like, "Shit son, I need to get my temper under control otherwise people are gonna start calling me Ike."


You gonna get it.

I don't feel bad about what I wrote yesterday though. It still rings true today. But, I do regret letting one situation affect my entire day. I was upset throughout the day, but my friends and family came through and punched my bad day in the face. Punched it in the face with RAINBOWS AND AWESOME.

First, good ol' Thurber drew me a cake with llamas and penguins around it. Then, NE wrote a super sweet blog post that made me blush and smile wider and weirder than The Joker on crack. Some friends of mine showed me some b-day love on the Facebook, MySpace and Twitter. Mama D and Poppa D took me for the largest strawberry daiquiri I've ever had the pleasure of putting down the hatch. The Boy gave me a lot of laughs and blew my mind by ordering a little something called a pie shake. Oh, that's right, a pie INSIDE a milkshake. Someone needs to call Criss Angel because my mind has been freaked.


On second thought, don't. Nobody wants this.

I usually tend to focus on the negative instead of the positive. Like I said before, the bad things leave a bigger mark than the good. The thing is, my life is going well. Good and exciting things are happening. I've gotten used to always having something wrong, something to fix, that I don't really know how to react when there is nothing that needs fixing. I seek out problems instead of just enjoying all the good fortune that has come my way. Days like yesterday have shown me that it's alright to feel good about something. I'm not going to apologize for all the good things that have been happening to me lately and I'm sure as hell not going to seek out misery.

I'm starting a change today. I am purging myself of all the dead weight in my life. I'm taking a break from being meek and not defending myself. I am going to take concrete steps towards being a good friend. I am going to be more assertive and not feel bad about getting things that I want. I'm going to be a little bit more of a bitch, in a good way, of course. Why? Because it's about goddamn time, is why.

So, yeah. Suck it, Monday. There's a new day of the week in town.

Please don't be so passive, be aggressive.

I have no clever way to start this because, well, I don't particularly care for being clever at the moment. Why's that? Because my brain is so full of rage that I can barely see straight.

Without naming names or specific incidents, I'd like to formally call bullshit. I'm calling bullshit on toxic and lame people. I'm calling bullshit on situations that I can change, but for whatever reason choose not to. I'm calling bullshit on all the things that make me want to surrender and go home.

"You never stick up for yourself," is what I heard on the other end of the phone. At the time, I was prepared to call bullshit on that too. But, as it turns out, it's true, and that makes me angrier than I could ever express. I don't stand up for myself because I'm so terrified of rocking the boat that it just doesn't seem worth it. I can stand up for my friends and family, but I can't do that for myself. I hate that. I'll let myself get beat up by friends, family and co-workers because, hey, they need to vent and the world could always use another martyr and I can handle it. That's what I tell myself; they get to be assholes because they need to let it out and I'm strong enough to handle it without taking it personally.

Well, I'm not going to stop doing that. I love my friends and family enough that I understand that sometimes, you just gotta let your inner dickhead have a go at the world and that occasionally that takes place all over your friends and family. But what I will stop doing is wearing myself out over friends and family who just don't deserve it. That might sound like an asshole thing to say, but I really don't give a shit. Maybe I am an asshole after all. An asshole with a broken heart who is tired of repairing the same wounds over and over again.

When asked what I wanted to do today, my answer was nothing. I don't want to do anything today because I'm too worn out. It bothers me that some very recent bullshit completely overshadowed some pretty fantastic events. What can I say? Hurt lasts longer than love and, baby, I got a lot of hurt today.

The Kids Are (Probably) Alright

When I was a little girl, I never really thought about kids. I had a few baby dolls, but I never felt the urgency and longing to be a mother like some of my estrogen-laden peers. Honestly, dolls weren’t really my bag; I was too busy being afraid of their lifeless marble eyes to braid their hair. You can just forget it if you think I was going to wrap them up in my favorite blanket and cradle them to my chest. It wasn’t until I saw a real baby that I became fond of them. Well, "fond" might be overgenerous; I was fascinated with them.

I was twelve when my cousin Lisa was born. My family was gathered at my aunt’s house and everyone was passing the baby around more than a half-smoked joint. Tias and tios took turns holding Lisa and brushing off their baby voices. (As an aside, I never understood why people speak to babies in incoherent high-pitched voices. Everyone does it, myself included. What a strange first impression of the world to get. The first word I said may have been “ducky”, but the first words I thought were probably more along the lines of, “I didn’t have to deal with this in the womb.”)

After everyone was satisfied with their turn, my mom asked me if I wanted to hold Lisa. I was petrified. Me? I wasn’t sure if I could handle being responsible for another human life for five minutes, but I agreed because I was so excited that someone trusted me with this responsibility.

I sat on the couch as my mom set up pillows on either side of me before putting one on my lap. Secure in my pillow fort, Baby Lisa was placed on my lap. She squirmed a little before yawning and looking at me. I wrapped my arms on either side of her and stared at her. It was a stare-down; me against baby, baby against me. I should have remembered the way she smelled like powder and formula. I should have commited her big, brown eyes that were complimented by a full head of hair into my memory. I should have spent more time understanding that this tiny human, who wasn’t even a part of the earth a few days ago, was spending part of the first week of her life on my lap. Instead, all I remember was wondering when the hell someone would take this baby off of me.

It wasn’t that I didn’t immediately love Baby Lisa, it was that I was terrified that I would do something to harm her. I was worried she would stand up, salute me and dive out of the pillow fort and onto the beigh carpeting that lined the floors. I was even more scared that I would shift slightly and somehow accidentally roll over her, making an accidental couch-baby burrito. I spent that five minutes with my arms around Lisa and not moving, not even breathing deeply, lest a rabid dog sneak up and snatch her away from me when I wasn't looking.

Ten years later and I still have essentially the same fear: I don’t want to hurt my kids. I’m not concerned about physically harming them (I still have many a pillows to construct a fort), but emotionally harming them. My worst fear when it comes to having children is that I will spend my entire life raising them and they, in turn, will spend their entire life in therapy complaining about me.

“She told me she doesn’t know if God is real,” I can hear my non-existent sixteen-year-old saying. “So I stopped believing in God and started believing in Joe. Our first kid is due next month.”

I like to think my parents did a pretty good job of raising me. I’m in my early twenties and have no major felonies, DUIs, children with uncertain baby daddies, drug abuse history and only a few instances of teenage rebellion and bitchery. I’m a relatively adjusted and compassionate person, regardless of whatever you’ve heard ’round the internets. While I can sing the praises of my parents all day, I can’t say that I understand how they did it. I don’t understand what makes me different from my friends, my cousins or the guests on “The Maury Pauvich Show”. How did my parents manage to raise my brothers and I into three well-adjusted, pretty normal non-felons?

I don’t know. I don’t even think they know. From what I can gather, parenting is a club nobody is prepared for. Sure, you can read the books and talk to the Parenting Club elders, but each circumstance is unique. Nobody has the exact same childhood, although many people have similar experiences. There is common sense that every parent learns first hand, like don’t leave permanent markers and toddlers alone. It only takes one Sharpie mustache on your baby's upper lip before you make a mental note to add that to the “Things To Remember About Parenting” list.

For the most part, however, it seems like parents are just winging it. They make up some rules and their children, out of love or fear for their parents, go with it. When I was younger, my parents’ word was the law. Everything they said was, had to be, true because why would my parents lie to me? When I was a teenager, I realized that my parents can, have and will always lie to me because they want nothing more than to ruin my life. Now, as a young adult, I realize that my parents are just playing a game that didn’t come with a rule book. They have nothing but my best interests at heart, even if I still occasionally think the only joy they get out of parenting is having someone to pass the unwanted chores to. The fact of the matter is, my parents were no more ready for parenthood than any parent. New parents can prepare for a child forever. They can read all the books, go to all the classes and talk to all the other parents, but they will be just as unprepared when that baby comes as if they just woke up one day and thought, “I think I’ll have a baby today.”

As I start to reach the age where my peers are having children or wanting children, I can’t help but have babies on the mind. I wonder if I’d make a good mother. I wonder if I’ll ever find someone I want to have children with. But, most of all, I wonder if I’ll ever feel prepared for motherhood.

M and Garland are currently expecting their first baby, and while I am excited and already filled with love for my unborn nephew, I can’t help but revert back to the same twelve-year-old girl who was terrified to hold Baby Lisa. I start to get the same nervous feeling, but then I stop to think about M and Garland. M, while he may have secretly always wanted to be a father, never publicly expressed a desire to have children. Garland, on the other hand, has stated on numerous occasions that she wants a family. She is the type of woman who sets her mind to something and accomplishes it; no fuss or theatrics, just impenetrable emotional armor and determination. When she said shortly after their wedding that she wanted to have kids, it was only a matter of time before one came along.

During one of our conversations about my nephew, Garland confessed that she was scared. She was excited at the prospect of having a child, but her excitement was mixed in with a healthy shot of fear. My unborn nephew, a defenseless six-month-old fetus, had cracked Garland’s armor. I listened in awe as she explained all the reasons she was nervous about having a child. I had no advice to offer because, well, I don’t know anything about children or raising them. But it suddenly dawned on me that regardless of whether someone is ready to be a parent or not, that’s not going to stop people from having kids. People have been recreating for thousands of years and, unless there is a serious uterus shortage in the near future, will continue to do the same thing for thousands of years to come. Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I won’t make a good parent. I'm just going to have to have faith that my parents set up a good enough example that I won’t completely screw up my child.

I have no doubt in my mind that M and Garland will be excellent parents. And, while I may always be nervous and unready to have children of my own, it won’t stop me from being the best tia I can be to my nephew.

In three months when my nephew arrives, I’ll set up my pillow fort once again. Though this time it won’t be completely out of fear, but rather a reminder that I want nothing but comfort and safety for my children, whenever it is I decide to have them.

Vocabulary.

There is this site that will tell you the words you use the most on your blog. I'd just like to say that the word "monkey" made it onto my list of blog words. So did "van", "fuck", "bathroom" and "eyebrows".

It really leads me to question what I talk about on here. And why you continue to read. I guess we're just two peas in a really odd pod.

Uh oh, emotions.

OH MY GOD. I hate everyone so much and stab in face and punch in head and I spit on your shoes and GODDAMNIT YOU ARE A WORTHLESS MACHINE.

Ahem, let me start from the beginning.

Deskmate has been in rare form these days, or maybe it's just me. But, guys, I'm dying over here. Don't believe me? Here's proof:


Why yes, I have been called a modern day DaVinci.

I don't want to sound ungrateful for my job, especially in these times, and I'm not. My co-workers are very relaxed and I like my job for the most part. But it's really easy, like second graders or monkeys or monkeys with a second grade education could do it. I really think it speaks volumes when you fail at a job that second grade monkeys (who probably took a break from throwing their own feces) could do.

I was wandering down the hall towards the printer, trying to get the hell away from Deskmate, when the printer starts beeping at me. It's not a friendly "Hey buddy, what's up?" beep either; it's a "I'm self aware and my only purpose on God's green earth is to annoy the holy hell out of you". What. The. Fuck. Printer. I thought we were pals. We've had some good times. I've printed out many a clip art riddled flyers on you. Do you know how much of my soul I had to repress to add clip art to those flyers?! I thought you liked all the colors and pictures of flying cakes. But you were pretending all along, weren't you? You heartless, lying succubus.

That's fine, Printer. You broke my heart. BROKE IT. And now? Now I'm going to break you.


Back up in your ass with the resurrection.

It is on, you fucking dinosaur. Welcome to the Axis of Evil, there's a seat over there next to Tyra's fat ass.

Anyway this goes down, someone is getting the stank eye from me all fucking day.

Lazy, baby.

You guys, let me tell you a story about my weekend.

I was selfish. I did EXACTLY what I wanted and it was delightful. I've always been a team player. Need someone to take one for the team? Sign me up. It's not always pleasant or what I want to do, but I get satisfaction from seeing my friends and family happy, even if I'm not. Sick, right?

I'm not sure how it happened, but this weekend I turned it off. I had things to do, things I should have done and things I already committed to, but I didn't want to do any of them. I've been under pressure from all aspects of my life recently; school, work, losing weight, making new friends, maintaining older friendships, saving money, tuition, Vegas, parties. The summer is jam packed and although I'm looking forward to all of it, it doesn't change the fact that I've been a busy bee. This might be normal for most people, but here's a little secret about your buddy KV: I'm lazy.

There, I said it.

My ideal day consists of nothing more than eating take out, going for a walk, napping and lounging around watching movies. That's all I want out of life sometimes. I do realize, though, that's really impractical and mostly impossible.

Not this weekend, though. This weekend I had the privilege, nay, the luxury to say "fuck all that lame bullshit I don't want to do" and instead do everything I wanted to do.

Pedicures with Mama D? Hell yeah. Shopping with Red? You know it, girlfriend. Walks with M and The Boy replaced worrying and planning for the future. Chats with Garland and Thurber eased my worries about work, school and scrounging up money for a college I can't afford. Spending Sunday with my dad, watching "Rocky Balboa" and reading Cormac McCarthy relaxed and made me happier than I've been in a long time. It was as close to a perfect weekend as any other I can remember.

Today, as the last remnants of the weekend fade into the past, I feel a little nostalgic but refreshed. There same problems that I was able to tune out for two days were waiting to greet me this morning. They still suck and I'm still no closer to a solution, but I understand that my problems aren't the only things that matter in life. They are important, no doubt, but not unsolvable.

What has proven to be unsolvable is the laziness that courses through me. This weekend, however, I didn't mind it so much.

Vital information for your everyday life.

Hello kiddos. I gotta get a new nickname for you readers. Kiddos sounds like I'm trying to entice you into my windowless van. I mean, like if you wanna come into said van and eat ice cream off my waterbed, I wouldn't say no. I digress.

Today, because I feel like oversharing, I present to you 20 things you didn't know about good ol' KV.

1. I am obsessed with my eyebrows. I pluck, comb and trim them on a daily basis. I've made my lady cousins, Mama D, one of my aunts and Garland swear that if I am ever in a coma, one of them has to come pluck my eyebrows. They can get very out of control very quickly. They're like a cobra, except hairy and on my face.

2. As far as I'm concerned, I am a deaf-mute in the bathroom. No conversations shall be had while business is being handled. Just call me Helen Keller, baby.

3. I sometimes slip into accents during regular speech time. I have been known to pepper my sentences with a Jamaican, Mexican, Matisyahu, Minnesotan or Sarah Palin accents. Sometimes, during the glorious drunken hour, all the accents will combine to form one powerful, incoherant Super Accent of Drunkeness, also known as slurring.

4. I don't like it when people are angrily shouting. I start to feel sick to my stomach. Confrontation scares the shit out of me.

5. I love being loud. I know that pretty much just cancels out what I said for #4, but it's my blog and I do what I want. I especially love it when I am with my family and the decibel level rises by 50. Put a board game in the mix and someone is going to get shouted at in drunken Spanglish.

6. I judge someone based on what movies they like. I once bailed on a date because the guy didn't know who the Coen Brothers were. Check, please.

7. I hate being in college. I feel like I'm wasting my time and money. I would quit school if I had a better idea.

8. I hate that #7 is true.

9. I would shoot myself in the face if I didn't have an iPod. I realize I'm spoiled and I'm cool with it.

10. I time most things. Almost everything that I do is counted out (for example, I won't drink milk left out for more than 10 seconds, won't wash my hands for less than 6 seconds, won't brush my teeth for longer than 2 minutes, etc). Sometimes, when I have to do an unpleasant task, I count how long it takes me to do it.

11. A cold iced tea will pacify me in almost any situation.

12. I am a comedy snob; if someone can't make me laugh and/or doesn't laugh at my jokes, I will not like that person and subsequently convince myself that they are stupid.

13. Most of the time, I honestly do not understand why people like me.

14. I know exactly who my bridesmaids would be even though I am nowhere near ready to get married.

15. I don't care so much for celebrity gossip anymore. This is heresy for my friends, I'm sure. But, listen guys, I'm starting to find Perez Hilton more irritating than anything else. I'll turn in my lady card now.

16. This should probably be called 15a or be some sort of contiuation of #15, but I love gossiping. I'm not even sorry. I don't say anything behind someone's back I wouldn't say to their face and I never spread mean or hurtful secrets. I can, however, keep my lips shut when it's important.

17. I don't really care for cake. Again, here is my lady card. Just take it.

18. It's not important to me to have biological children. The more and more I think about it, the more I'd rather adopt.

19. I fall in love with a song or album and listen to it continuously until I never want to hear it again. I try not to do this often as it will completely ruin albums/songs for me.

20. I have an unnatural urge to be an audience member during a taping of "Maury". I just want to scream at slutty underage girls or good-for-nothin' baby daddies.

So, there you go. 20 things you know about me that will help you get into my good graces. Please use them wisely and not for blackmail.

Ouch.

Yesterday was so laughably terrible that I had no other choice than to, well, laugh at it all. I spent the first part of my day drenched in the stench of mediocrity and dirty feet at the DMV, followed by numerous phone calls to unexpectedly helpful banks. Thanks for not screwing me on this one, Wells Fargo.

After spending the day running errands, I made some soup and called it a day. Poppa J came over and we rented some movies. I was enjoying just hanging out with Poppa J and Red, but I couldn't shake the headache I had. I started rubbing my temples, but that just made it hurt even more.

Oh well, I thought. It's probably because I'm wearing a hat and I've had a stressful day. I'll just sleep it off.

This morning I woke up like most other mornings: groggy and craving a muffin. I got into the shower and praised Jesus for warm water. After steaming up the bathroom, I wiped the mirror clean and saw this:


Not pictured: Ike Turner.

What the holy hell?! Where did that come from? I searched my noggin and suddenly remembered what happened. There is a shelf above my bed where sometimes things are put. Heavy things. And sometimes said things fall DIRECTLY ONTO MY HEAD.

Hello, Klutziness? It's your old friend, KV. Glad you could drop by.

I tried to cover it up lest my co-workers think I'm cooler than I am by sporting a black eye on a Wednesday.


Also not pictured: emo tears.

Sorry guys, no bar fights over here to speak of. Just a laughably terrible Tuesday.

Smashing Good Time

Editor's Note: Today I'm taking a cue from one of my favorite blogs, Letters and Lists and writing a letter to some people who, unfortunately, are now near and not so much dear to me.


Dear Shitheads Who Stole My Purse Last Night,

Hey guys, what's up? I hope you're really enjoying the contents of my purse. It was so awesome the way you totally disregarded human decency and smashed The Boy's car window to steal my purse. Super cool of you. It actually works out well. I mean, I wouldn't have known what to do with my entire paycheck anyway. You guys really know all the good places to spend someone else's money, like Best Buy and the grocery store. I hope my 80 hours worth of work got you something really cool there, like the complete "Jackass" series or an iPod.

Oh, which reminds me, I hope you enjoy Rex Grayskull, my $300 iPod. He had like 2500 songs on him, so hopefully there's something on there that you'll like. Please excuse all the Abba and Justin Timberlake. Had I known someone would be stealing him, I would have loaded him up with Yanni and myself saying "fuck you in the face" over and over again. I in no way whatsoever hope he shorts out and electrocutes your ears. I would mention that sometimes the earbuds can indeed shock you, but I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

Boy, you guys sure did surprise me by stealing my wallet, work badge, car keys, house keys and The Boy's camera. You must've known that I wanted to feel stupid, guilty and incredibly frustrated all at the same time. Thanks! Also, just so you know, it only took me an hour at the DMV to get a new ID. And it's only going to take me one entire work day to close my accounts, open new ones and change the locks. Can you believe it?! Only one day where I have to push everything aside to deal with this. What a steal! No pun intended, cause it's obvious you guys already know so much about steals.

So, in conclusion, I hope karma drop kicks your face sometime in the very near future. Also, enjoy my favorite ghetto gold hoops and new peppermint chapstick. I hope you get rabies.

Peace fuckers,
KV

Jesus, dude, none of us know what to do with you.

Wow, that last blog post was a week ago, eh? Whoops.

Guys, I have a confession to make: I'm burnt out on the blogging.

It's not that I don't enjoy it (where else would I spout out my random thoughts?), it's that I don't really feel like I have much to write about.

Things have changed a lot in the past few weeks and, if I were a good blogger, I'd write about them with such zest you would think I was a lemon. (Lemon zest! Get it? Anyone?) But, here's the thing, I'm so excited and happy to be living it all that I can't properly sum it up afterwards. I feel like if I take the time to write about everything, I'll miss out on what's happening in the present. At this point, I care more about keeping the memories than writing about them. Barf, right?

Maybe I can find a way to make my new found zest for life co-exist with the writer inside of me. Compared to how rough everything was a few months ago, it's still new, exciting and pretty damn scary that everything has seemed to just fall into place.

So, because I feel like I'm completely butchering what I'm trying to convey, here is my horoscope for this week. I feel like it sums up a lot of what's been happening lately.

Cancer (June 21-July 22): In honor of the karmic cleanup phase of your astrological cycle, I invite you to do the following exercise: imagine a pit in the middle of a desert that holds everything you've ever used up, spoiled and outgrown. Your old furniture is here, along with stuff like once-favorite clothes, CDs and empty boxes of your favorite cereal. But this garbage dump also contains subtler trash, like photos that capture cherished dreams you gave up on, mementos from failed relationships and symbols of defunct beliefs and self-images you used to cling to. Everything that is dead to you is gathered here. Got that vision in your mind's eye? Now picture yourself dousing the big heap of stuff with gasoline and setting it on fire. Watch it burn.

Yep.