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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| New xanga confuses me...
old xanga was better. "write something" "look what other people wrote" "THE END"
This is like shitty myspace.
but
the real reason i started this 'new weblog' was to say
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
why am i such a dumbass?
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| I love scratching my own back.
I can reach every part of it, because I try hard. I am of the opinion that everyone who owns a back scratcher needs to try harder.
Also, I love washing my hair in the sink lately.
Want some fun facts?
I was one percentile short of being a National Merit Scholar.
Every scholarship ever invented wants me in the top 10% of my class, and I am perpetually in the top 11.3%.
In order for KU to acknowledge my existence, I need a 32 on my ACT. I have a 31.
I live one county too far away to be considered for most of UMKC's financial aid.
Having all of this on paper before me the last few months has brought to light the pretty consistent longterm trend in my life of being perpetually great and simultaneously just shy of everything and everyone I want.
In conclusion, college is depressing. For today.
I have a little picture taped to my notebook of a stark white, but kinda dirty, baby sheep loping in a bright green meadow. I stare at it when I feel pointless, and it always makes me feel like the baby sheep. Like I can just let go of society's expectations of me and its too-high numbers and gallop off into the friendly abyss wilderness.
But everyone knows that if you actually do that, you eventually die of starvation or hypothermia.
Also, I cut the picture from Gourmet Magazine. Ahem.
Sometimes when I cuddle my comforter for too long I feel like swimming in feathers.
Sometimes I sit down to blog about something in particular and forget what it is halfway through and end up talking about magazine clippings and things you can't swim in.
Some times... are bed times.
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| I got my wisdom teeth out on Thursday, and at this point I can probably handle solid foods, but I keep eating pudding and jello because I like them, and it makes me feel a little special. That's a pretty accurate metaphor for the way I handle a lot of my life.
Let's count things!
I have 1 semester of high school left. I have about 2 months to decide where to go to school after this one shoves me out. I have 2 1/2 weeks to get into the best shape of my life. I have 2 phone numbers and 1 email address. I have 1 cat. I have 3 friends who are not related to me. I have about 4 cups of water going right now. I have 0 tolerance. I have 5 messages on okcupid. I will read 4 of them. I will respond to 0. We have 5 million cookies at our house. Eat some. I can't, I've got to eat all this jello.
What I have the most of right now is cookes, water, messages, and friends.
Things are going good.
Yeah. Good.
Stare at the internet time is over. Back to pet the cat time.
I'm making that up. I couldn't organize my time if I tried.
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| Rice krispies are a given, but oatmeal is excellent.
It's staring at me from the table. It looks gross now. I don't really want to eat it. And it took like 13 minutes to make. Oatmeal is time-consuming. I, being a relative oatmeal noob, had no idea of the time commitment involved, and so was forced to make a sort of oatmeal vigil by the stove, paranoid about my tendency to leave the room and forget I am cooking and in doing so burn the project beyond recognition, especially in situations where I am not exactly sure of the cook-time (ie, anything that is not ramen noodles).
And so I stood.
And eventually it started to boil.
Yeah. It was a long fucking time. For oatmeal that is now tepid and filling me with regret, not full-tummy feelings.
BUT- this is the point of the story- I discovered, alone in the kitchen with my oatmeal, that it sounds like horses. Hear me out- so serious. Make oatmeal, let it boil for like 5 minutes, and then turn down your shitty music and put your face really close to it (note that this must be done in relatively short spurts, as oatmeal steam could potentially burn you). Sounds like horses. Prove me wrong. Specifically: 2-4 horses trotting-galloping (depending on ferocity of boil) in barely melting snow on grassy to muddy ground.
And now imagine patriots, any kind of patriots, on the horses, and they aren't on a mission, they aren't doing anything patriotic at all actually. But it's so early in the fucking morning, and they've had a really hard night full of patriotism and yelling important things and maybe a gun battle and now the 2-4 of them have decided that it is time to get the hell out of wherever they are because it's winter and they are COLD, and so they coax their tired and restless steeds into a reluctant trot-gallop and head to camp for some warm oatmeal. And actually wish that instead of nasty oatmeal they could have a good cuddle with their wife or childhood labrador but they can't because they are patriots. In a horse war. They get oatmeal.
They can have mine.
I really do not feel like eating it.
And I wish I had a labrador.
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| I love my job. SO MUCH
I work at Fabric Corner in Fairlawn Plaza, for $8/ hour, Sunday& Saturday afternoons. It's as if this job was tailored around my life (pun intended).
I spend the majority of my time helping 30- 90 year old women, who are trying to keep busy in their empty nests and retirements, find coordinating colors and patterns with which to make table runners, clothing for grandchildren, and, primarily, QUILTS. Who knew there was such a thriving subculture of quilters? It's exciting. People come in all the time, and when I ask if I can help them with anything they say "Oh I just came in for a little inspiration."
It's refreshing to constantly be around people who routinely decide to go somewhere just so that they might be inspired, even if the somewhere is just a pretty nice fabric store, and the inspiration rarely results in anything other than an intricate blanket, albeit a blanket made with the upmost in love.
I am always the youngest person in the store, besides babies. On my first day I wore a tanktop, and Doreen, whom I have discovered has a penchant for passive agressive comments said "Oh wow I am just cold, I'll go find my sweater I think... You're just not wearing anything are you?"
She's the one who's always there to tell me when I've put a certain green bolt of fabric in with the rest of the greens as opposed to with it's specialty line. She keeps me on my toes, and perpetually nervous. Moureen, on the other hand, acts like me, only 40. We have a good time.
The store regulars spend more time in Fabric Corner than I do in my own home. They are constantly pulling bolts of fabric and changing their mind, and then asking for opinions. Whenever me and Moureen have the same opinion, we high-five.
Coleen is the alpha. Which makes sense, because she is the boss, and what a boss she is. She's like.. omnipresent. She's one of those sneak-up-behind-you people. You don't even know she's there until she's uncomfortably close and hugging you around the shoulder in a sort of motherly way. "How's that goin? You saw those were polyester threads, good. When you're done with that I'm gonna hook you up with Sharon and she'll give you the Applique schpeal."
I love it there. I'm a really tactile person. Whenever I get a break I walk up and down the aisles of the fabric forest pretending to straighten bolts when really I just like to touch the Minky and stare at the trippy Batiks.
Now everywhere I end up with rows of repeating anythings (trees on a street, cereal in a grocery store, people waiting in line) I pretend they're all bolts of fabric. It's an interesting thing to dwell on.
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