Weeds

I don't think I've written anything in over a week, and that's because I'm so creatively blocked that I feel like it would be pointless to even try to write anything. That's why I posted a picture of a cat I drew. It was a nice cat, though, so I guess it's kind of okay.

I had some ideas for topics, but I forgot what they were. I probably wrote them down somewhere, but I can't remember where that somewhere is.

Also adding to my procrastination and block is that for the past couple days I've been watching the show Weeds on netflix. So far I am almost at the end of Season Four, and I must say it's pretty awesome. The dialogue, characters, plot, and all those other things involved in making a TV show are done very well. It does make me wonder, though, if women in suburbs really are that slutty.

My only problem with the show isn't really a problem with the show, but with my ability to use Google. While googling actors on the show (there are random guest appearances by pretty famous actors, who I just couldn't place), Google suggested "Weeds season 7," and I thought "Oh wow! There's a season 7?" and I got a little too excited and selected it. Now I unfortunately know some terrible spoilers, and I am terribly disappointed in myself.
I won't say what they are, in case other people are watching Weeds from the very beginning, and hate evil, stupid spoilers!

I know I say this every single post, but hopefully when school starts my ability to write sentences will increase, and I'll stop using "and" so frequently. Maybe, too, I'll have more things to write about.

Maybe next time I'll write about my and my sisters' wonderful world of Playmobile that we used to have in our garage.
I don't know.

I DREW THIS CAT

You're welcome.

Things

My cable is out for no reason, and the only thing I can find on Netflix to watch is The Last Song, so I can't watch any shows or movies right now. My attention span when rated on a scale of 1-10 is 3, so I can't read The Magician's Nephew, like I've wanted to do for a week (I'm on page 13). So. I will write something that is hopefully semi-amusing.


As most of you should know, I am a Creative Writing major. I like to write things. When I write things that are graded, they have a lot better structure, there are less commas, but still somehow less simple sentences. Pretty much, what I write for school is grammatically perfect and pretty goddamn beautiful. I have an essay about notes written on hotel stationary that will make you forget what a bitch I am.

But this isn't school, the last book I finished was The Perks of Being a Wallflower like two months ago, and I still don't know how to use whom and who correctly (I recently mastered effect and affect. Hazzah!). Because of these factors, my writing is all over the place and probably doesn't make all that much sense.

I don't know how to transition to this next paragraph, so....

When people find out what my major is, they always ask "What's your favorite book?" and I'm sure they're expecting to hear a classic like Pride and Prejudice, or Moby Dick, or Pretentious Book Title Here. The truth is, though, I don't have a favorite book. I don't remember most of the books I've read because I read them so long ago, that I can't compare them to the book I read most recently. So usually when asked "What's your favorite book?" I think of the book I read most recently, and The Perk of Being a Wallflower isn't an acceptable title to come out of an English Major's mouth (And neither is one of the Harry Potter books, unfortunately...). Especially when she's nineteen years old, and that book is targeted toward freshmen in High School.

What I usually say is Nine Stories by JD Salinger because that's a fantastic collection of short stories, but now that I think about it I don't even know if that counts because it's only a book because it's in book form. It's not a novel, which is what people are looking for. I wonder if it's kind of like when you ask someone what their favorite food is and they say cherry lollipops.

Jumping around without proper transition again, I can't read books because like I've said eight-thousand times, I have a crippling short attention span. So few things are interesting to me that when I'm waiting to get my oil changed, I can't sit still unless I'm doing something like playing Pokemans, and even then I get bored of that, so I slump into my chair and think about how bored I am, probably sighing every two-or-so-minutes.

So expecting myself to look at a black-and-white page for hours and hours, when the story's not super-captivating because this particular story isn't about wizards is a lot to ask.

In an attempt to read more this summer, I checked out a ton of teenage summer romance novels from the library. I thought Teenagers get bored amazingly easy! These books have to be interesting! WRONG. Those books were stupid, boring, and badly written.
One of the books I checked out was about a peach orchard, and was cleverly named Peaches. It was about three girls, one of which was named Birdie, which should have immediately turned me away. These three girls were completely different, but through the power of peaches, they were able to become BEST FRIENDS WOW THAT'S SUCH A GOOD PLOTLINE. WOW.
I stopped reading at around page one-hundred, when one of the Mexican orchard workers got a car, and the slut main character girl was all "YOU GOT RIPPED OFF, THAT CAR'S NOT WORTH THREE-THOUSAND DOLLARS OR SOMETHING, BUT I'LL STILL RIDE IN IT WITH YOU BECAUSE I'M A SLUT AND THAT'S MY MAJOR CHARACTER FLAW, BESIDES STEALING." And I wanted to throw the book against the wall.


I'm hoping that when school starts again, I'll read something especially inspiring, and I'll stop writing about things that are stupid, like how I can't write about anything not stupid.



BAI.

School Starts Soon!

Kind of.
A month feels like it's not too long, when summer is four months, and you've spent the first three months sitting around, feeling like a giant frump.

In preparation for school, I bought lots of notebooks, paper, and crayons at Walmart. I don't need crayons, but at 40 cents for a pack of 24, why would I not buy them?! Also, I found it odd that the 8 pack of crayons cost more than the 24 pack, and the 12 pack cost more than triple what the 24 pack cost! Amazin.

Since I'm in college, and there's no teacher to check my stupid binder, and I really don't take notes ever, I have no reason for ten notebooks. At 20-40 cents each, though, why would I not buy them?

Another thing is that when I'm in class, and some other student is like "Can I borrow a piece of paper? I don't have any," I will be able to smugly hand that student a sheet of paper, knowing that I am very much stocked up on notebooks. Ha!



On a more exciting note, I am no longer unemployed. I got a temporary  job at the bookstore at school.

For Rush and textbook season, the bookstore hires two-hundred people. Before the end of ninety days (how long a temporary job can last), there are evaluations, and if you're better than most people, you will get hired. As a very, very competitive person, these next couple of months will probably be stressful.

To help get through it successfully, I'm going to try to think of it as Survivor. Only with more people, the prize is less money, and I'll be able to bathe or eat oreos whenever the hell I want. So there.



On a less exciting note, I watched that JK Rowling movie on Lifetime today. I don't remember what the real name is, and I don't feel like looking it up. Google is too far away.

It was a nice movie.

It inspired me to not want to be a writer because I'll most likely have to live off of the government, not be able to afford wine because I want that cool new type writer, and go crazy when anyone opens my secret box of manuscripts because I'd never do a thing like that to them!!!! Rrrrrrr!


I'm getting increasingly bad at ending posts, so, here's a picture of Ginny Weasley

I Watch Stupid Shows

Most of my favorite shows are really stupid and made by ABC Family.
These shows are The Secret Life of The American Derp, Pretty Little Liars, and Switched At Birth. However, I will NOT watched The Nine Lives of Chloe King, because that looks even worse than any and all of the shows above. Which is saying a lot.


I really like to watch these shows because they are so ridiculous, that they're accidentally hilarious. For example, one of my favorite lines from Secret Life is "Get out your dream catcher, 'cause you're dreamin' again." One of the dumbest fathers in the history of TV said that to one of the dumbest, weirdest mothers in the history of TV. I can't imagine anyone actually saying that in real life.

The Secret Life of The American Derp is pretty much a huge, obnoxious PSA. Almost every single scene focuses on sex, or unborn babies, or some girl who wants to have sex, but her parents won't let her, and she's so eager to please them, and she tells her parents everything, so openly.
 It is so awesomely unrealistic.

If I drank, my favorite drinking game would be called "Take a Shot Every Time Someone Says Sex," and I would get smashed in ten minutes.

And this is the best scene of all time, from any show, ever.



"We're all robots and 'musicians!'"


And in the weird, fantasy-land school that these sex-crazed people go to, no one has class, ever.
The entire school day is spent standing around in the hall, listening to what everyone else is talking about, and gossiping with the guidance counselor.

In the comments section of an episode of Secret Life on Hulu, someone asked "I live in [some place, I don't remember], and I've never been to America. Is this how people act in America?"
This made me sad. ABC Family is sending out a terrible message to other countries, and this message is somehow even worse than the message that Americans themselves are sending.

I can't think of a proper way to end this post, so,


BAP

What I Am Doing With My Life

Since I don't have a job, I've already applied to 25+ places, I'm pretty poor, I don't like to leave the apartment... ever... and my attention span is too short to read books, I play The Sims 3. A lot.



The Sims 3 is an amazing game where you can design your characters' looks, personality, "Lifetime Wish," get them jobs, let them have children, etc.


All I ever do, though, is make a one-person-family, use a cheat to get lots of money, build a pretty house, and get their skills up really high so I can feel superior to all the other sims who live in tiny houses and are "Automated Spell Checker Checker," or something way less cool than "Renaissance Sculptor" like my sim is. And they don't even have 500,000 simoleons like my sim does. Or a super fast car like my sim does. And all the other sims gossip about my sim saying things like "Did you know so-and-so is filthy rich? I never would have guessed!" (they actually say that).

Occasionally my sim will have a husband, but I usually kill him by trapping him in a room with nothing at all, so he starves to death and that way I don't have to take care of him and make sure he's happy. One of the Lifetime Wishes is to actually see the ghost of their spouse, so sometimes it pays off (This lifetime wish is called something like "Gold digger").

More often, though, my sim will have a baby. I'll use the magical birthday cake to age it up from an infant to a toddler. Then I'll hurry up and teach it the only things toddlers need to know, apparently, which is to walk, talk, and use a potty. I'll then use the magical birthday cake again to age it to a child, and ship it off to boarding school until it's a young adult. If by that time, my main sim's almost dead, or I'm bored with her, I'll start playing her offspring, maybe killing my main sim, maybe not.

Basically I just do the same thing over and over, because this game offers instant gratification, which is "lol she made a pretty sculpture!" or "look at this pretty house I made!!" and that's all I need to keep myself entertained for eighteen hours a day.

Balloon

I painted this ballon
in MS Paint.

 

It took me four hours, so I hope you like it.


Also, I haven't felt like writing anything lately, so :(

Maybe when I see Harry Potter, I'll be overwhelmed with sadness, and I'll write some stupid, emo poem, and everyone can laugh at it.

Big Butts

Last night Jason and I watched that special on ABC about Jaycee Dugard, that girl who was kidnapped when she was 11 by some crazy man, and held captive for 18 years in his backyard. And also raped. And also, she bore his children. And also that man was a convicted sex offender, who was on probation, whose probation officers suck at investigating anything, and don't know how to go in a back yard. Oh, and also, neighbors reported there were children living in the back yard in tents, and the police were all "Nahh, it's cool."

BUT, I think one of the creepiest things about all this is that the crazy man's wife was just okay with him being a pedophile.

I've been thinking about it, though, and I decided that it'd just be like if your husband liked big butts, but you didn't have a big butt, so you were like "It's okay, sweetheart. Just go kidnap and rape a woman who has a big butt. Maybe tomorrow we can go to McDonald's and pretend we're filming you singing but actually film the ladies with the big butts."

And when you think about it like that, it's totally understandable.

Boat.

I painted this boat
in MS Paint.

Hurray!

Longest Concert Ever (Right after Woodstock)

 This post contains what some might consider "a lot" of swear words.

You have been warned.



Last November, on the day before Thanksgiving, I think, I attended The Second Longest Concert of All Time with Jason, and some other people whom I don't remember. It is only the second longest if Woodstock is actually categorized as a concert, and not a giant-unclean-sex-and-drug-festival-with-some-music-sometimes.

What I am trying to say is that this concert was really fucking long.


Now, the band who was supposed to headline, I guess, was Mayday Parade. I love Mayday Parade in that I can listen to their songs only sometimes, but when I do it is a wonderful experience, and I love it (Excluding "Black Cat," because no one knows what the hell he's talking about). The other headlining, I guess, band was Breathe Carolina. I love Breathe Carolina in that I can listen to them sometimes, but only when I feel like listening to music that I should dance to, but of course don't, because I don't dance.

So anyway, both of these bands were headlining (I guess) because they merged two tours. That is right. They took two perfectly normal-length concerts, and they put them together. I did not know this. On the website for the venue, where I bought the ticket, it only listed seven-or-so bands. Not thirteen. I think they did this on purpose, because once you enter the venue, you can't leave and come back. You have to freaking stay there, and eat their seven-dollar chicken fingers, or five-dollar slice of pizza if you don't want to starve. And you have to listen to the terrible bands targeted toward fourteen-year-olds if you want to get to the "headlining" bands.




Jason and I left my mom's house at about 2 PM because the life-sucking music festival began at 3 PM, and I have to be on time wherever I go. Also, I didn't know they were going to trap me for seven and a half hours. I was trying to get Jason to hurry up, saying we couldn't be late! because what if a good band plays, and we miss it? And what if they won't let us get in after the concert starts (I didn't understand anything at all, I guess), and what if they yell at us for being late? My fear of authority and whining powers convinced Jason to leave earlier than anyone ever should to attend such an event. 

On the way there, it started to rain. I was afraid we'd die because some little asshole threw a water balloon at my windshield once, for absolutely no reason, and the left wiper broke and barely worked at all for over a year. So Jason, the driver, could barely see, and I could barely see, and my bladder was quickly filling up because I probably drank eighty-five cups of coffee that morning, and seventeen glasses of water, and all I could think was that if we got into a wreck, where the hell would I pee? 

We got there, though, and I was excited to finally urinate.

We started up the parking lot, in the rain, toward the restrooms outside the venue. I was sort of running, because I had to pee so badly, and sort of walking, because it was raining and if I slipped and broke myself I definitely wouldn't be able to pee. However! We were stopped, by some poor soul trying to sell us his band's CD and merchandise. Jason, being the kind, patient person that he is, stopped to speak with this unforunately-dressed young man. I, on the other hand, told him "I HAVE TO PEE," and hurried on.

Once inside, we literally just missed one of the only three acceptable bands that played that night. And it was the Free Credit Score band. I shit you not. 

We met up with the others and went up stairs to where all the merchandise for the bands was being sold.

I was scared. Why were there so many booths? And better yet... why were there so many twelve year old girls? And why were they with their parents? And oh, God, is that old man with his arm around that little girl's waist her father? 

Me: I hate it here!

Jason: What?

Me: I want to leave! Can we go downstairs?

Jason: I want to hang out with [other people that were there].

Me: *whine a lot*


Eventually, I pouted enough to make Jason go downstairs with me just so I'd shut up. We found ourselves a nice little seat on the edge of some raised-floor (I know of no other way to describe it), and listened to whichever terrible band was currently playing. I'm not sure who it was, so I will give the general description of practically every band that played that night: Really big poop that makes you want to curl up in a ball and cry.

To pass the time, I complained and made weird noises to entertain myself.

Oh my God, why did we get here so early? I hate everything in the whole entire world. 
Why are there two tour posters on the wall?
Will you go ask that man in that booth thingey for the set list pleeeeease? Uuuuggghhh.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Buuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
OH SWEET JESUS, THEY MERGED TWO TOURS? WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT, WHY? I HATE EVERYONE.






Three or so hours in, Hey Monday started to play. I'd heard of them, but up to that moment, I had no idea how much I'd grow to hate them.

 The songs are repetitive, the girl wears way too short skirts, and thirteen-year-olds love them so much that they feel they have to scream as loud of their pre-pubescent lungs allow.
The children in the "pit" did their version of moshing, which is nudging each other every so gently, and jumping occasionally.

After Hey Monday did their rendition of Jay Sean's Down (I actually prefer the original. That is how bad it was), some person from some other band announced that it was the girl from Hey Monday's mom's birthday! And she was THERE, WOW. IN THE BALCONY. HEY, SPOTLIGHT GUY, PUT THE SPOTLIGHT ON HER, LOL. HEY EVERYONE, TELL HER HAPPY BIRTHDAY! LOL I BET YOU'RE SO EMBARRASSED, MRS HEY MONDAY LADY.

All the middle schoolers yelled "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
But I didn't.
Instead I muttered "Why didn't you give birth to a person who can sing better, and doesn't feel like she has to jump around all the fucking time? HUH? WHY?"
Of course she didn't answer. She was too busy being overwhelmed by all the loud noises and bright lights in her stupid face that I resented so very much.

I wanted to die, and I said so, about every fifteen minutes.

I wanted to leave, but I was trapped. If I left, there was no coming back, and the only two bands I cared about weren't playing for another four hours. I didn't know this, though, so my night was filled with hoping that one of them would be next, only to be crushed emotionally when I saw another band like The Ready Set come on stage.

I wanted food, but I wasn't going to pay the ridiculous prices for three chicken fingers, when Christmas was coming up, and I'm in college and unemployed, so I wasn't in any position to go around spending seven dollars on a tiny amount of food, when for all I knew, I was going to get to leave, and therefore eat reasonably priced food soon.

So I sat. I didn't kill myself, I didn't leave, and I didn't eat. I sat.

Three and a half hours later, Breathe Carolina was all set up and ready. It was so exciting, mostly because I knew the thoughts of suicide would stop for at least half an hour.

Jason wanted to mosh, or "mosh," depending on how much dying you believe ought to happen in a mosh pit. But I wanted to stand somewhere in the back and maybe sway to the music, or something a little less dangerous.

Jason: Well, I'm leaving. You can stay here or come up with me.

Me: But I don't want to die!

Jason: You won't die. And I want to enjoy the music, so I'm not staying back here. They're one of my favorite bands, and you know I like moshing.

Me: Moshing is stupid, and I will too die.

But he left me, abandoned in the back of a mosh pit, all by myself.
I stood next to some guy who looked like he wouldn't let me be crushed by falling fat men, and stood awkwardly. I couldn't even enjoy the music because I felt like everyone was judging me for being alone and --
OH GOD, I WAS ALMOST CRUSHED.
Luckily, I chose who to stand next to wisely, because he pushed the big fat man away, and I was not dead.
(I realize the irony in not wanting to die, when it was only roughly half an hour earlier that I was figuring out how to kill myself using only the hoodie I was wearing, the banister behind me, and my flip flops.)

I decided that if I wanted to stop feeling awkward, and actually listen to the music, I was going to have to somehow get Jason to stand with me.
I texted him, and convinced him that he would be able to kind of dance, sort of, and maybe sway to the music if he stood with me. Also, we could stand on the edge of the "mosh pit," that way he could still feel the violent energy.

We stood on the outskirts of the loud, thrusting circle of testosterone, and I buried my face in Jason's shirt for protection.
A shoe hit me on the head.

Me: A fucking shoe just him me on the head!

Jason: Awww *sad face*

Me: Why is this fun? Do you like being hit in the head with things?

Jason: That doesn't normally happen...

Some random girl stand next to us (to her friends): Oh my Gaaawd, I can't find my BlackBerry! waaaah

Me (to Jason): How do you lose a phone?

Jason: lololol

Me: If someone gets crowd-surfed over me, I swear to God I'm going to punch him in the fucking balls.


And I did just that. Not even five minutes later, some kid, who was probably only two or so people behind us, expected me to help lift him over the crowd, and to wherever people expect to go when doing that.

By the way, that reminds me of the time at Day Glow, when some stranger on ecstasy kept pushing his way through the crowd, and I told Jason "If he pushes me again, I swear to God I'm going to fucking pinch him," and I did just that. He looked around, confused, but then got over it because he was "On fucking e, maaaan!"

The next band was apparently the band of the former lead-singer of Mayday Parade. That's all fine and dandy, but I didn't care at all, because was he going to sing "You Be The Anchor The Keeps My Feet On The Ground, I'll Be The Wings That Keep Your Heart In The Crowd?" No. He wasn't. So as far as I was concerned, I wanted to kill myself.

I endured six hours of mediocre "music," getting hit in the head with a shoe, almost starving to death, having my hand so close to some kid's balls that I was actually able to punch them, seeing a man be uncomfortably close to who was probably his daughter, and seeing at least twenty cougars.

I was ready for some fucking Mayday Parade.


They got on stage, and the lead singer guy came out with his weird body-suit, which just makes him look like Slender Man, holding an umbrella. Then some "poetic" thing was read out to us, and he look off that weird mask thing and was like "LOL U GUYZ READY FOR SOME MAYDAY PARADE? U GUYZ ARE SO PATIENT." And I said "YOU BETTER PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC BEFORE I KILL MYSELF, AND YOU GET BAD PUBLICITY FOR HAVING A GIRL KILL HERSELF AT YOUR CONCERT."

And then they played "Jamie All Over," because why wouldn't they play the song people quote all the time, and sing randomly, and annoy everyone with?
But whatever, as long as I wasn't watching emo Justin Bieber sing some song about woah-oh-oh-oh-ohhh-oh-oh-oh, I was good. Plus that song's fun to sing along to. And he's good at drowning at the sound of twelve-year-olds.


Then I said to Jaosn, "I wonder if they're going to play Black Cat? I hope they don't, because it makes no sense." And Jason said "I bet they will."
And then Mr. Mayday Parade said "Here's a song about a black cat!" and I said "He described it like that because he doesn't even know what it's about."

 And I waited, impatiently, for them to play "You Be The Anchor..." because that is one of my favorite songs of all time, and I won't ever be able to see The Beatles perform, so I have no chance of hearing my favorite song live.
And guess what? It was the last song they played. The last song. So I couldn't even leave before everyone else did, and run to the potty like I do for everything.
It was okay, though, because I waited seven and a half freaking  hours to hear that song, and I wasn't going to get all upset about my bladder when I was singing about sand castles falling, and cigarette ashes, and stuff. I just wasn't. I was going to enjoy that three minutes, and it was going to be wonderful.

And it was. It was three of the most amazing minutes of my whole life, and let me tell you, it was not worth seven and a half hours. And I would not do it again.
Sorry, Mayday Parade.

At 11 PM, we left that cursed venue, and I felt a lot less depressed, having heard one of my favorite songs of all time.

Jason and I then drove to Saint Cloud, where we met people I actually remember at ihop, and I got a BLT that was awesome at the time, but turned out to be evil because I got food poisoning, and had to write a final research paper on the freaking mummification process, because that was the easiest thing I could think of while I was passing the weight of my entire body through my butt (ha, I bet that made you uncomfortable because you didn't know girls pooped ever) and crying.

And I got a 98% on that paper. But that is a story for another time! 

ALLERGIES.

I am allergic to things. I didn't figure this out until I moved out of my mom's house last August.

From the time my sister got her cat, Noah, to when I moved out of my mom's house, I had a "perpetual cold." My face was constantly stuffy, I sneezed at least twenty times a day, and I had a terrible cough. When I went to the doctor when I was fourteen (I think), for some crazy skin virus that causes big, blotchy, red sores every time I get stressed, my mom asked the doctor WHY I was so sick all the time. She put her stethoscope up to my back, told me to breathe in and out, and said "You just have a little cold. You need to drink orange juice and then you'll be alright." My mom and I told her that I had been like that for over a year, and she was still like "DRINK SOME ORANGE JUICE."

So I drank orange juice and took cold medicine, and I did not get any better.

Four or so years later, I moved out of the house and into an apartment where there were no cats, and I stopped sneezing twenty times a day, and having a cough that sounded like I had been smoking for the past thirty years of my life.

It is my firm belief that that doctor was not a very good one.



I am also allergic to neosporin, or any anti-biotic gel thing. I think. That's what I decided, anyway. I'd go to the doctor and ask about it, but she'd probably tell me to just pour orange juice on my wound next time.

The reason I think I'm allergic to neosporin is that this happens whenever I put it on an open wound, such as a burn

And then it doesn't heal for over a week, and looks like this

And then two weeks later, it's a big, puffy scar.


I'm really disappointed in myself for forgetting about my self-diagnosed allergy, because now I'll never be able to be a hand model. Since I can remember, I've been looking for the right company that might be interested in my weirdly long, knobby fingers.
Now there's no hope. Skinny, oddly-shaped fingers, sure. Those are fine. But not scarred ones.


I should have just allowed my burn to heal naturally, free of anti-'s and gels, and whatnot.

Going Back To School Tomorrow!

Not really. I'm going back to my apartment in Orlando. I don't even know when the Fall semester starts....

I decided that since I've been at my mom's house for almost a whole week, I should probably go back to where I actually live. Once I get back, if I don't feel too depressed about not having a job, I'm going to go out and look for a job.

Yea, I know that not applying to places because I'm too sad about being unemployed is counterproductive and stupid. I have been battling my severe case of Counterproductiveness for years. It's the reason I wait until the night before an exam to study for the first time, and I spend most of that time being stressed out because I waited until the night before the exam to study. And then I do it again for the next exam, and the next...


OH WELL.

I suppose I will try to feel less poopy when the time comes.

When I don't want to apply anywhere, or call any stores, I like to try to be more like Ke$ha. She once sneaked into Steve Tyler's house (I think it was Steven Tyler's house. I don't know...) to give him her little sample CD thingey, or whatever it is "musicians" give to people they want to sign them. Sure, her craziness probably played a part in giving her the courage to do that. Sure, she may have even taken drugs to ease her nervousness, but if Ke$ha is going to inspire you for something, it should be her drive! And as a bonus, that is one of her few characteristics that does not require glitter.


Anyway, I'm going to go get my moping out before tomorrow.

Needing Food Is Inconvenient

Most of the time, I look at eating as an inconvenience. An expensive, fattening inconvenience.

I will be doing things that actually matter, like playing The Sims 3, and I will go hours and hours without even thinking about food. Then! Out of nowhere, my stomach feels like it's being pushed in at both sides, and someone is pouring acid down it.

Apparently my body doesn't like to feel a little hungry. It is either perfectly content or DYING OF EMPTINESS.

In addition to this being unhealthy, because bodies need food, obviously, it makes me fat.

My poor tummy is worried that it's not going to get food again for another 24 hours, so it holds on to that poptart, or that piece of pizza. And that is bad.

The reason I eat things like poptarts and pizza is that they are easily accessible, and poptarts can last for a really, really lost time. Since I forget to eat, and I often forget the produce that I bought even exists, I need food that takes longer than two days to expire. There have been many times when I buy bananas, forget about them, and am very disappointed when I find them rotting on my shelf four days later when I remember to eat.


Sometimes, though, I don't feel hungry at all.

Today, I woke up at 11 AM and hurried to get dressed so I could rush to the hospital to help my sister and her fiance go home with their baby. I had to leave thirty minutes after I woke up, because they were supposed to be discharged at noon, so I wasn't going to eat anything. However! I've been staying at my mom's house, and she is fantastic at making sure no one dies of starvation. She made a smoothie for me in three minutes, and was even making me cinnamon toast, until I told her that the texture of bread makes me throw up if I eat it right after I wake up.

It wasn't until about 6 PM that I realized I hadn't eaten anything all day. I left my sister's apartment, came back to my mom's and ate a sandwich. 

The point is, I wasn't even hungry. I did drink a couple cups of soda, though, so I wonder if my body is able to live off of caffeine, high fructose corn syrup, and strawberries for almost a whole day. And I think all I ate yesterday was a sandwich at about 10 PM, and I only ate that because I saw my mom eating a sandwich and I thought Oh hey, I haven't eaten today....

I probably won't eat again until tomorrow afternoon, when my mom scolds me for not eating anything today, Haley, Gawd!


Weird things like this make me think I'm dying.

The Fourth of July!

Happy (late) Fourth of July!
Yesterday was definitely my favorite Fourth of July of all time. I spent five hours with my sister, her fiancé, and their adorable, cuddly, perfect baby. I rocked her, and petted her tummy, and kissed her beautiful head.

Anyway, I figured I'd talk about the Fourth of July.

I really never liked it. I don't like loud noises, or bugs, or crowds, or sitting on grass. Or even hotdogs! So this holiday never had much to offer me.

A couple years ago, the city of Kissimmee decided they weren't allowing parking on the lakefront, or something, so my mom, my grandparents, and I drove to a creepy Albertson's parking lot so these creepy city-run buses could drive us to the lakefront.

I hate buses. Every single time I get on a bus, I am suspicious that the bus is going to drive us all to a concentration camp. I feel anxious the whole ride, even if it's two hours long. I stare out the windows, wondering Could they hide a concentration camp back here...? Will people be able to hear us dying? 

I don't know where this paranoia comes from, but all I can think of is that I'm 1/16 Jewish. 


Not all of my Independence Day memories make me feel sad and scared for my past self, though. My favorite memory, other than the one of tonight, is of when my dad and I went to the lakefront all by ourselves, for the first and only time, and watched the fireworks. Earlier that day he bought me a little sketchbook, because I used to believe I could draw, and I took it with me. I drew some fireworks and palm trees. I asked him to draw something for me.

Usually my dad doesn't do things like draw, or paint, or color. That night, though, he drew me an Ewok. I didn't know what an Ewok was because I was probably six years old, and my attention span was way too short to watch Star Wars. I really only liked to watch Blue's Clues, Busytown, and Toy Story. Star Wars was, and is, way too long. I don't think I've ever fully watched any of the movies.

So anyway, I don't even remember the fireworks, or the horrible loudness, and the itchy bugs and grass. I remember my daddy drawing me a little alien-thingey.



I apologize for being mooshy again! I held my niece for over and hour today, and I'm still filled with love and happiness. She has soft skin that smells like baby and adorableness.
Also! In The Baby Place of the hospital is this coffee/hot chocolate/tea machine, where you can get unlimited, free, magical hot beverages! I figured out how to make cappucinos, so I made lots of them and drank them alll! I'm sure that if I didn't hold the baby so much, they would have thought I visited just for the free drinks.

New Baby!

I'm not feeling funny or entertaining today at allll because I'm distracted by baby. And I apologize in advance for being mooshy.

My older sister had her very first baby at 2:21 this morning, which means that I was up until about 6. Then my mom and I went to the hospital at 4 this afternoon, bearing gifts and love to share with our brand new, perfect family member. And by "perfect," I mean there is absolutely nothing wrong with her, and she is perfectly happy being passed around to be cuddled and Oooooh'd at. She is a perfect little person who impressed us all with her ability to do smart things like look around and sneeze adorably. We are already sure she is a genius.

So anyway, if I thought of anything funny within the last 24 hours, I don't remember what it was. At all. If there was any chance of me having any recollection of these funny things, that chance was destroyed when I first saw the baby and cried for twenty minutes.

You try looking at your freshly born niece, who you have been waiting to meet for nine months, and try to remember exactly how you expressed your opinion of Half & Half.
You won't.

Changed the layout!

Hello!

I changed the layout of the blog.
Now, instead of Hermione (That MS Paint drawing was Hermione), it's a picture I took of some of my unicorns. You're probably thinking Why does she have so many unicorns...? Well, guess what? That's not even one-third of them, so stop judging me. If you're going to judge me, do it properly, and know the correct number of unicorns.
You can't do that, though, because I don't even know how many I have. I just know that it's a lot, and I couldn't even take all of them with me to college. There are still so many of them at my mom's house that almost every time I come over she says things like "Take some more stuff back with you!" As if she has things just waiting around to be put on the shelves in my bedroom.

Anyway! I hope it's not obnoxiously bright now. I know before it was pretty neautral-y, and now it's very pink-y, which is a big change. I hope no one hates me now.

If you do hate me, though, I guess you can tell me. Maybe I'll change it back.



Oh, hey, also, I guess there are six cats that eat the food at my house.... I saw one today that looked just like Captain Falcon, and it didn't have a collar. So I went outside to put a collar on it, because I thought it was Captain Falcon, but it ran away under the house! Mommy Kitty was there, and she watched it run under the away, then looked at me. I asked her "Who was that?" And she replied with an ugly hiss, so I told her to stop being so ungrateful, and if she wants to be rude, she can go live under someone else's house.

And! There's a treehouse in the backyard that has two stories. The first story used to be a chicken coop, when we had chickens last year. Now it's a play area for the kittens. Which is awesome.
I'd take a picture, but apparently Mommy Kitty has taught her kittens to be equally ungrateful because they run away every time I go to watch them.

Five Cats

This post starts out boring, but gets kind of more interesting, and a lot more creepy.


There are currently five cats living at my mom's house. These cats are named Captain Falcon, Mommy Kitty, Baby Kitty With a White Face, That Other Baby Kitty, The Baby Kitty Who Doesn't Come Out much.


CAPTAIN FALCON.

Captain Falcon is the only cat who is supposed to be here, and he's only kind of supposed to be here.
Falcon is the cat that I got Jason for Christmas in July of 2009.

We were in some summer volunteer program because, even though it was absolutely annoying and it made me hate everyone, the "100%" Bright Futures required we "give back to the community." In this program, a representative of the SPCA of Orlando spoke to us volunteers about animals, and how there are a lot of them, and how everyone should spay and neuter everything so they don't get more of them. I think there were pictures of cats.
Anyway, the man told us that there were so many cats that they lowered the price of the cats. The SPCA doesn't euthanize animals; they put them on sale.
I wanted one. Actually, I wanted all of them, but it was more likely I would get one.
I asked that man so many questions that by the end of his presentation, he seemed kind of annoyed, and he kept laughing at me.
Sometimes, this stupid volunteer program would take us on "field trips," that were usually hot, gross experiences that made me want to cry and take advantage of my self-diagnosed anemia. But! There was one day, after the man talked to us, when we were all going to go to the SPCA, and some animal sanctuary thingey. This is the day Jason and I, ironically, missed to adopt his (OUR) cat. 

We went to the wrong shelter, though, because apparently the SPCA is right next to the actual Orange County Animal Shelter, where they do euthanize animals. Initially I was annoyed. We're going to end up paying more because there isn't a sale here!! Then I remembered that poor Captain Falcon probably would have DIED if we'd gone to the SPCA instead because he's just a regular boring-looking tabby, and he also sneezed when we got him (He had a kitty cold from being in a shelter, and it cost me over $100 in vet bills and special cat food and baby Tylenol and nasal spray). 

Since Jason and I were seventeen years old, we couldn't adopt a pet from the shelter. After begging my mom, and convincing her that our new cat would definitely come with us to college, she reluctantly agreed to sign the adoption papers.
Unfortunately, animal-friendly apartments cost a lot more, and are a lot less convenient for students than non-animal-friendly apartments. So! I waited until the right moment to ask my mom if she'd take Falcon in.... What she said in response to this question was "I don't want to, Haley, but my name's on the damn adoption papers." What she meant was "I love kitties, and I will not let a poor kitty go hungry, or back to a shelter where he could DIE."

 A year later, Mommy loves Captain Falcon and says things like "Who's my pretty boyyy?" as she scratches his head.


MOMMY KITTY.

Anyway, Mommy Kitty and her Babies.

These kitties were discovered (kind of) last Saturday, June 25th.
Jason and I went to my mom's house and I saw a little, adorable, grey-and-orangeish cat go under the house when we walked through the gate.

Me: Mommy! There's a stray kitty out there!

Mommy: Yea, it's been here for a while. It eats Falcon's food.

Me: It had a scratch on its leg!

Mommy: Falcon cornered it a couple of days ago.

[Later, I looked out the kitchen window and saw it on the porch, eating Falcon's food.]

Me: IT'S ADORABLE. And it looks like a girl! And it's tiny! Mommy, look! She has orange eyes and she's so pretty!

Mommy: No! I don't want to!

Me: Because you'll feel bad and feed her!

Mommy: [Looks] Aww, I hope Falcon didn't hurt her!

Me: You should catch her and get her fixed so she doesn't have babies. You can get it done for free since she's a stray.

Mommy: I don't have time for that.



KITTENS.

 After a couple days of my mom feeding the stray kitty, it is discovered that there are babies. There are three babies, and they are adorable, and fluffy, and two of them prance around sometimes, and one of them stands on the steps to the back door and looks around a lot during the day. And they eat all of the food. Because they are growing, and it's adorable.

Earlier tonight, while mommy and I were watching Modern Family, I said,
Isn't it adorable that the kittens probably followed their mommy to our house, so there were kittens walking in a line, like ducks, to the house?!

Mommy: They were probably born here. Ken's kids found a skeleton outside.

I was horrified.

Me: ..What.

Mommy: Yea, she probably had them here. That was probably the runt.

Me: You think she killed her baby and ate it?

Mommy: No, I think she let the runt die. It was weak, and she had to feed the other babies.


Me: You think she let her baby die and then she ate it?

Mommy: I don't know, Haley...

Me: You should have saved it! You should have known there were babies! You could have fed it kitten formula from a bottle, and it would have been so cute!

Mommy: Haley, how could I have known? I didn't even know they were here until a week ago.


Me: We could have raised a baby kitten! Now I'm depressed!

Then she told me to "stop thinking about it, then!" because apparently it's just that easy. Apparently people can just stop thinking about mommy kitties eating their baby to produce milk for the babies she chose to not let DIE.

And now I'm afraid to go outside and look at the kittens because I know the mother cat is capable of neglect and cannibalism, and I am terrified.

Really, though, I think the most disturbing part in all this is how nonchalant my mom was about it. Like Oh, yea, you know that cat you think is so cute? Well, she ate her baby. And then she left its skeleton there to be found by small, innocent children. But whatev, it's no biggie. Also, you'll probably have nightmares later.

         The cat on the left, on the blocks, is a baby. The one on the right, in the grass, is the alleged cannibal.

Still Unemployed

I am still jobless!

I know what you're thinking! Apply to a theme park! They're always hiring! Well. That would be a fantastic idea, if I didn't practically have an anxiety attack every time I had to drive somewhere that's more than five miles away because my car likes to break down for no apparent reason. Really. It has been looked at by my family's mechanic at least ten times, and being the honest, non-evil mechanic that he is, he tells us that he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't just pick some random car part out and say "This is broke," and justify the $800 charge by saying "The reason the labor is so much is that I have to go inside the car, and use my eyes to look at it. And also I have to, maybe, go under another car part, and I'll probably have to use some tools to do it..."

So anyway, I'm pretty poor. My dad has been supporting me this whole summer because he's proud of me for going to college for my probably worthless Liberal Arts Degree, and he feels bad for me because I require food to live. I feel guilty about this because, even though he's not poor, he's still not rich. He can't do cool things like buy diamonds in bulk, or fly to France just because he wants an authentic crêpe. Although, I was once told that since there are two bathrooms in his house, he is rich. Maybe he is rich! Maybe I've been rich my whole entire life, but I was too used to the idea of two people being able to pee at the same time, that I never realized.

There are four bathrooms in my apartment, so we must be incredibly rich. I should probably start wearing gold chains and diamonds on my face at all time so people know She has more than one bathroom in her home. Sure, at the same time I'll be ordering off the dollar menu at McDonald's, and wearing flipflops I bought at Old Navy for $2.50, but they'll know. They'll know that my roommates and I can all pee at the same time, and that is what matters.