Up too late



It has been a long time since I've been wired and awake at four in the morning for no reason whatsoever. I didn't go out tonight or anything, just had dinner with my dad and then chilled out by my lonesome in my Ikea 350-sq-ft showroom. Which, now that I think about it, may be the problem. I should have at least gone for a walk or something to get out some pent up energy. As is, I've been too hyper to make laying down and lying still and regulating my breathing and emptying my mind a plausible possibility. At this point, I've pretty much given up on the idea of sleep, since I need to be up at 6:30 anyway. Up all night! Blech. The thrill is gone. I'm not 19 anymore.



Less than two weeks till my TWO-WEEK vacation. I couldn't tell you the last time I had a two-week vacation. I was probably 17, and I don't think 17-year-olds really understand the joy of two weeks with nothing to do but chill.



I'm even more excited thinking about what the future will bring in five months. Five months and I will be a college graduate (finally!), leaving Atlanta (finally!) to meet my destiny. And it's gonna be good.

###

Technology woes



I thought I'd posted a youtube video of one of the new Bruce Campbell Old Spice commercials a few nights ago with fabulous commentary by me. Youtube promised me it would post shortly. Three days later, and I'm beginnig to think youtube is that guy who asks for your number, making you feel all flattered and giggley and beautiful, and then he never bothers to call. You can't toy with my emotions like that, youtube. I can't handle it.



In addition, my iTunes is not working AT ALL. I've tried updating, I've tried completely uninstalling and reinstalling, I've tried ignoring it for 48 hours. Nothing helps. If anyone has any suggestions, let me know.

###

Coriandrum sativum



CV has a great talent for figuring out what Star Wars character a person is, or what breed of dog you might be, or what actor would play you in the movie of your life. So when we wandered down a ridiculous conversation path that involved an anecdote about someone saying their favorite Spice Girl was "You know, the other one...Spicy Spice" when what he really meant was Scary Spice, it was only a matter of seconds before CV was explaining what spices various acquaintances of ours would be.



"She's cinnamon because in large doses she's just awful, but mix a little bit of her with some sugar and you've got something good. And I'm cumin. Because I really like how it sounds. Cumin."



"Well then, what spice am I?" I asked.



CV thought a minute - with a very serious looking thinky face, I might add - and then said, with all the gravitas and authority of a woman who is about to pronounce one an item commonly found in the cabinet just to the left of the stove, "You are cilantro."



"Why?" I asked, intrigued.



"Because cilantro is a little bit exotic, but it's still good in lots of things. You can put cilantro in Chinese food, but it also goes in Mexican food. Cilantro is just exotic enough."



Speaking of cilantro, I'm going on vacation to Mexico in less than 3 weeks. No, I'm not going anywhere near the beach, but there will be lots of old towns built in the Spanish colonial days. I look forward to cobblestone streets, majestic Catholic churches, and burros. Preferably all at the same time.

###

On quiet guys with beards



Somehow the conversation at work today came around to me describing my weakness for dudes in bands.



"Not the badass Tommy Lee-types," I explained, "but the quiet guys with beards who are kind of, you know, dopey looking."



This set off a round of guffawing and giggling amongst those in the cubes nearest me. Sometimes it's fun being the baby in the office, because I totally get to remind everyone of their younger, more transgressive selves. The women laughed because they used to totally fall for the dopey bearded quiet guys too, and the men laughed because they used to be the dopey bearded quiet guys.


I then added that a guy didn't have to be in a band for me to fall in love with him; he could, after all, be an artist specializing in hideous installation pieces, or a socially awkward writer with torn jeans and ink-stained fingers. The possibilities are nearly endless, so long as he doesn't have the kind of job that might allow him to "climb" any sort of "ladder of success." The guys I find attractive just don't have careers. They have jobs, menial employment that allows them to pay the bills most months. They live in aging bungalows that would be cute if someone kicked out the five dudes and their musical equipment, picked the empty beer bottles out of the yard, and completely gutted the place. The guys I like are quiet where I am loud, reserved where I am in-your-face. Mostly, they don't talk much.



They don't talk much. I can't emphasize this enough. When your life is as full of words as mine is, there is something so wonderful about a man who doesn't say a lot. I know I really like someone when I feel comfortable enough being completely silent with him, not saying anything, my mind not racing in its habitual thought circles, but devoid of anything but the feel of the moment. What can I say? I'm a sucker for the dopey silent type. They get me every time.


************************************************************************************************************




New cell phone



The 19-year-old bimbo at the cell place, the one with the bad highlights and heavy eye makeup and pink acrylics, totally talked me into getting the 200 txt/video mssg + unlimited internet(!) + unlimited tv(!!!) plan for $19.99 a month when I went in there this evening to buy a new phone. It started out innocently enough, with me staring bug-eyed at the wall-o-phones while stating the awkwardly obvious ("I don't know which one I want. They just all look like...phones."). I soon regained enough of my senses to stay far, far away from anything over $100, and quickly decided on the next-to-cheapest model, which also happened to be sleek and stylishly black and incredibly lightweight.



Then I made my fatal flaw. I told Ms. Pink Acrylics that I needed to add a txting package to my calling plan, and that's when she got me. She took a deep breathe and looked straight into my big brown eyes with her big baby blues, smiled, and said, "We have a special right now..."



Assured that, if I decided I didn't want or need unlimited internet(!) and unlimited television(!!!) on my phone, I could cancel at any point after 30 days, I signed the paperwork. My phone isn't fully activated yet, but just as soon as I receive my confirmation txt I will be a woman with full 3G capabilities, totally ready to take on the world. Or at least watch it on my cell phone.

###

I can't hear you now



This weekend was packed full of social goodness and partying and fun and all sorts of stuff. (It's going to take me a while to process it all.) But, being something of a loner at heart, I'm now ready to go underground for a while.



Conveniently, though entirely coincidentally, my phone has decided to stop letting me hear phone calls. I guess I'll go buy a new one tomorrow, although the temptation is currently strong to put it off for a few days.



Please dont get me wrong, I loved spending time with everyone, and probably made some beautiful memories that will sustain me when I'm old and all alone on my goat farm. But the non-stop presence of people can be a bit much for me to handle sometimes. Blame it on being an only child, blame it on my neuroses, blame it on whatever you want. The point is, I need alone time in order to function well.



And, of course, by "function well" I mean "be a moderately nice person."

###

I need to return phone calls and study and take a test and...



The point is, I'd rather be blogging.



Also, I forgot my phone was still on silent and so I missed a ton of calls. Work was very busy today, and I had to meet up with my dad and also do grocery shopping, since now that I don't drive I tend to put it off until all that is fit to eat in my place is a single serving of Easy Mac. I have a strange, occasionally itchy red splotch on the right side of my face that is either a heat rash of some kind or a mild allergice reaction to something or other. I am woefully unprepared for the test. I'm tired of living in such a tiny space, and miss having a proper kitchen.



And it seems all I really am fit for this evening is whining.

###

But what if your mom IS a stripper?



Strange men love to say things to me. Sometimes it is polite ("You wanna sit here?" on the train); sometimes it is annoying ("I just need 87 more cents to buy a bus ticket"); sometimes it is insane ("And then I told the dog jumped why yodel Jesus snork! Damn whitey!"); sometimes it is drunk ("Yo baby, what's up?"). About a month ago, strange men saying strange drunk things to me hit a new low. A low right down there with the woman who told me not to breathe while I made her drink, many years ago when I worked for the Green Giant.



So anyway, I'm out with a female friend at the club, to see a dj from the UK who's here for one night only, etc etc. On the dance floor, my friend starts talking to this guy who was very nice and polite and generally housebroken. He is soon joined by a friend who is (of course!) not as attractive as the guy talking to my friend, but not a total Barney (NATB) either (haha, love how I just randomly decided to revive some Clueless-era 90s slang?). I'm not exactly thrilled about playing wingman, and would prefer to just dance by myself while my friend and NATB's friend chat it up. But, NATB wants to chat. Or rather, yell at me from a distance of a foot and a half, which if you've ever been in a club, you know means I had no earthly idea what the hell he was saying. Our conversation went something like this:

NATB: !!!!!!!!!!

Me: What?

NATB: !!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: I can't hear you!

NATB: (finally figuring out he needed to talk into my ear): Where are you from?

Me: Here.

NATB: HUH?!

Me: HERE!!

NATB: Oh yeah? Where do you go to school?

Me: *Named school*

NATB: Oh yeah? I went to UF/Florida State/someplace in Florida.


Me: Ok.



I'm not having it. Awkward dancing ensues. Suddenly, NATB shouts into my ear: YOU DANCE LIKE MY MOM!


NATB is drunk. He's a wingman. Plus, he went to college in Florida. Clearly, dude isn't all that bright, so I decide to give him a chance to backpeddle out of the horribleness he just created.


Me: I'm sorry?

NATB: You dance like my mom. You're way too hot to dance like that, baby.

Me: (about ready to hit someone): WHAT did you say?

NATB: You heard me, you dance like my mom. You're too sexy to dance like that, all uptight and shit.


I decided to exit stage right and go stand on the far side of my friend. I'd already been harangued by a guy who wouldn't take "I don't want to dance with you. Now. Or ever." without getting huffy, and then this joker comes along with his "You dance like my mom" bullshit. I was really not having it. Where did this crowd come from? Gwinnet county?



Well, naturally, "You dance like my mom" has become a running joke amongst some of my friends. I mean, who says that? It's damn funny, especially since it came out of his mouth THREE TIMES and he had no idea why saying something so fucktarded pissed me off. (On a side note, his housebroken friend did apologize for NATB.) One of my friends let it be known that some guy once told her that she danced like a stripper, and she'd take dancing like a mom over dancing like a stripper any day. Which begs the question, What if your mom IS a stripper? Think about it. It takes "You dance like my mom" to a completely different place.



******************************************************************************************************


Slight personal news update



I dropped the creative writing class. My workload in my two required classes is too heavy (communication law, what?). Also, while I always admire the slacker dudes who are students in a writing workshop, having the professor be the slacker dude was more than I could handle. But the cool thing is my week enrolled in the course forced me to work on a story idea I've had for a long time, and I now have some words on paper.



In conclusion, my aborted mission from God proves that either a) God doesn't know what he's doing when he sends me on these fool's errands or b) I don't listen too good to God.

###