unceremonious

On New Year's Eve 2002, I met my mom's boyfriend, Ken. This was a surprise. My parents recently told me and my sisters about their impending divorce (years later I found out that Ashley actually met Ken prior to New Year's Eve) but this was still a bit of a shock to ten-year-old Haley. Looking back, it is absurd. Mom and Dad were at work, and there were my sisters and I at our grandparents' house a few blocks from our own, uncomfortably sitting next to a man with a thick Rhode Island accent as he casually drinks beer and eats cheese and crackers. Surprise! This man who pronounces "pizza" with an "-er" is your mother's new boyfriend; don't tell your father you met him; be nice to this stranger and don't question anything.

I remember very little from that night, aside from an intense gut feeling that I had to be polite to him or I'd be in trouble. Why did I feel that way? Why was I so concerned with being nice to this interloper? Despite this instinct, I was still frustrated and confused, so I was not as nice as he hoped. One little snippet from that evening has always stuck out to me: he asked me if I could ever say anything nice to him, and I said "I like the wrinkles around your eyes." This man must have been 34 or 35 years old. In present day, I have friends that age and I can't imagine them dating a married woman with three children, expecting the children be nice to him on their first meeting, much less demanding it.

It rained that night, flooding our neighborhood and my mom's van. She recruited not only Ken to help, but also my dad. My dad is not a saint, but I think it's pretty bold that my mom called her boyfriend and her husband to help navigate her flooded vehicle, though for all I know my dad was more than happy to help. He has always made very Provider Dad statements like "I just want my kids to be happy," all while having no more than five conversations with me my entire childhood.

From there I actually warmed up to Ken. Mom drove me to his home for hangouts (he lived with his parents, naturally). Unbeknownst to Dad, he visited our home, oftentimes cleaning it and saying "Don't tell ya fathah I was here." The absolute audacity of that man. 

Several times Mom set us kids wild in Wal-Mart so she could chat with Ken on a pay phone outside. When pestered about wanting to leave she would shoo us away, giggling, a lovebird smitten by a recent divorcee with four young children of his own. "Ken's ex-wife is crazy," she'd say. "Once when he came home from spending time with friends, she threw toilet paper rolls at him. She didn't even tell him when their youngest was born. " Gosh. I'm sure he was innocent in all of this. 

Looking through my 2021 glasses, it's easy to see that when someone calls their ex "crazy," it's because they themselves are an asshole. Unfortunately, back in the nineties and early aughts, Janice was still terrorizing the gang on Friends and wasn't it hilarious? So, what's the best protection against anyone ever accusing you of being a Janice? Believe everything a man tells you about his ex. 

After god knows how long of sneaking Ken around us kids, Mom and Dad finally got divorced. The State of Florida required we attend a workshop on divorced parents, where we watched Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen's 1995 hit It Takes Two, a film about twin strangers coming together to stop the Wealthy Twin's Father, Steve Guttenberg, from marrying a 90s Evil Stepmother, Jane Sibbett. They succeed, and instead Wealthy Father gets with Orphan Twin's... Orphanage Caretaker, the now-disgraced Kirstie Alley. I think the state employee in charge of pressing play on the VCR may have asked the group if we had any questions, but aside from that I don't recall there being any discussion around the film, particularly whether mistreating one's stepparents and manipulating one's parent into dating the caretaker of a long-lost twin sister is an appropriate way to dealing with the emotions stemming from a parent's changing romantic life.

I want to say our beautiful Sunshine State handles these things better now but, based on the way everything else is going... I'm reluctant. 

The day Dad moved out, I played on the family computer while he packed up his Toyota Tacoma with the few personal belongings he would bring to his brother and sister-in-law's home. On his last trip he paused at the front door, small cardboard box in hand, and said, in his low, scratchy voice, "Bye, kids." 

I regret not getting up to hug him. I wonder if my memory has erased my mom and sisters from the scene or if they really were off doing something else, meaning he left his home of ten years with so little fanfare that he might have been going to the gas station for milk. I do know that my relationship with my dad was little more than polite up until just a few years ago, when I became a somewhat interesting adult and he became more comfortable with texting. We now talk regularly: exchanging jokes, food pictures, and recommending books to one another. Between the divorce and my sisters aging out of visits with Dad, it was I who cared enough to leave a voicemail every other week, asking when he would be off work next. To this day, the only way I can remember his phone number is by reciting it in my head in the musical voice of Sprint PCS' voicemail robot. 

SORRY, I don't believe in expiration dates.

Recently I was offended by a friend's rejection of my three-month-past "best buy" date of my 1.7oz dulce de leche spread six-pack. "I'm not feeding [daughter] expired milk," she said, with a chuckle. One might have even interpreted the chuckle as smug, if one were feeling particularly sensitive in relation to her expired sugar products. 

"Fine!" I said, louder and shriller than necessary. "I'll eat them!" 

And guess what! I just ate one and it was delicious. I used a teeny tiny spoon from the package, which was both adorable and functional. Aside from the impending sugar crash, I am certain I will be A-OKAY, suffering no ill effects from eating barely "expired" cooked milk and sugar.

I'm getting worked up again. Which leads me to the point of this post: why was I offended? 

I do not believe in expiration/"best by" dates and this challenges by beliefs.

I've been known to eat bread well past the "best by" date, though to be fair I freeze all my bread. Perhaps a bit less reasonable, I'll cut the fuzzy part off a block of hard cheese and eat the rest. Definitely less reasonable, I'll scrape the moldy part off a blob of soft cheese, eat the rest, and lie about it while discussing expiration dates with friends months after. 

I once read that expiration dates for things like bottled water are only printed because certain states require consumables to expire. I think I saw that on Reddit and I'm not in the mood to find a real source, so you're just going to have to take my word for it as I did with the original internet stranger. I even have a vague memory of packages having different expiration dates for different locations. That's how laws are! Why? I don't know. I'm not a law scientist.

ALSO (and this is super important) "best by" means just that: BEST BY. You can still eat the caramel, my friend. Anyone who tells me different is just wrong. Any attempt at a real discussion would undoubtedly involve actual scientific data, which I'm not interested in supplying. It's just not worth the time. I'm happy with my maybe-old cheese. 

Okay, yes, food can and does expire. I am not denying that. But I'm not going to blindly follow silly things like printed dates or spores that weren't there yesterday.

I felt silly and embarrassed for offering old food to someone who so clearly is above old food, and my reaction was to lash out.

Too good for some expired milk, are we?! Plenty of people eat out of garbage cans and they're FINE. OKAY? FINE. I'll eat it myself!! Your loss! 

A combination of spending most of my time in my house for the past seven months and being on anti-depressants has protected me from feeling really any form of embarrassment for quite some time. Nowadays I just sort of exist alongside my husband and the pets, not caring if I say something stupid or forget which foods are socially acceptable. Jason wouldn't judge me for eating a piece of toast that fell on the floor, and the cats and dog would envy me for eating a piece of toast that fell on the floor. 

This friend rejecting and chuckling at my offer of food that I considered perfectly acceptable forced me to, very quickly, question what I have become. Was that not a normal food to offer? Was it not kind? Thoughtful, even?? What else am I doing that might not be considered socially acceptable? Are tacos still popular? Is water still okay? We're still against single-use straws, right? Socks still go on feet, yes?

I'm looking forward to the day--if ever it arrives--when we can all readjust to being together after spending so long in isolation. What habits developed in quarantine will awkwardly show up in the real world? Nose-picking? Wedgie-picking? Not wearing pants? How many office workers will sneak booze into their travel mugs, after all those months of mixing a drink in their kitchens at noon? Fortunately I've been able to come to the office at least once a week, giving me a weak grasp on reality and some small semblance of normalcy. This isn't to say I'm not used to napping in my comfy bed during lunch, just that I haven't forgotten how to tie my shoes. When things return to "normal" I'll still eat questionable food and I'll... probably be worse at hiding it than before.

Death.

Lately I've been struggling with the idea of death, which always leads me to struggle with how unoriginal and boring my struggles are. People have always struggled with loss! I'm not experiencing anything new and special. I feel like I should be able to call upon the emotional wisdom of my ancestors and just... get over it. People die, Haley! Animals die. Plants die. Everything dies! MOVE ON. You're going to die, even. Sorry to tell ya, bud. I sure hope you're enjoying not being dead and that you stop spending all your time obsessing over death. 

Though I've always felt... uneasy about death, my current issue with it is that I've recently lost someone who meant a lot to me. Let me clarify: she died. She isn't lost; I know where she is, which is nowhere. But everywhere, because she was (is?) such an incredible, genuine, kind, wildly smart person who left a deep impression on everyone in her life. The impression she left on me is making it difficult to accept that she is gone. How could she be? How can someone who I loved so much, who I saw nearly every day, be gone from my life? From the world? Unfathomable!

That's not true, though, that I saw her nearly every day. I haven't seen her since The Before Times, in March. When COVID-19 began to look like a real threat to us Floridians, she stopped coming into the office because she was At Risk. Then I stopped coming into the office, and didn't start coming into the office until a couple months ago. 

Then she died.

So what I am having difficulty accepting is that someone who has been in my life for many years, who was there even when she wasn't, is very much physically not here anymore. I think not seeing her six months before her death has made it even harder, as I'd grown accustom to simply imagining her in her home, reading or working on her laptop. My brain is telling me she's not dead, she's working at home and is too busy to talk. Is it unhealthy to allow my brain to think that? Or should I force myself to acknowledge that my friend is dead? Should I write it down one hundred times? Would that help? Or is it okay and perfectly healthy to use my imagination as a coping mechanism? Is that the point of heaven? I'm not a religious person so I don't really know. In fact, I've dismissed heaven as a way for religious people to deal with death because they don't want to accept that someone they love has simply stopped existing. 

Having never lost a part of my daily life before and having lived most my life as a smug asshole who wanted only to show weakness when it could be used as a tool for manipulation, I thought everyone could and should simply move on, as I said earlier. Believing your beloved to be "in a better place" was a sign of weakness to me, the asshole. 

I don't think I've ever seen Proper Grief. When I was seven or eight years old, my mom's younger brother was shot and killed at a party. He was much younger than her, so he would have been 23 or 24. If I'd ever met him I have and had absolutely no recollection of it, and all I remember from his death is that my mom locked herself in the bathroom and that my paternal grandma took us kids to Disney World. I don't know if this trip was planned ahead of time, or if our grandma took us so our mom could grieve in relative peace. I don't know if Mom would have preferred having her kid nearby. Truly, I'm not sure if it actually happened like that because memory--particularly the memory of a child--is unreliable and I'm certainly not going to ask about it. Even if it didn't happen that way, it may as well have because the impression it left on me is this: grief is not to be seen or shared, it is to be locked in the bathroom while everyone around you goes to Disney World. 

When that same grandma died in the fall of 2017, the funeral was put on hold due to a hurricane, then my family scheduled it while my dad was to be on a cruise. I think it would have cost money for him to cancel or reschedule the cruise and he was of the mind that the funeral had already been delayed once, so why can't it wait another week? I believe she'd been cremated so there wasn't a body sitting around. We didn't really talk about it. We don't really talk about anything. My sisters and I did not attend the funeral, in solidarity with my father and for the simple fact that no one invited us. I actually only learned the time and location of the event from some pictures an aunt posted on Facebook. I told my dad that once he returned, we'd have a small get together at his house where we'd share our favorite memories of Grandma, but he didn't bring it up and neither did I and it never happened. 

As with my friend, since I didn't see Grandma every day it is easy to imagine her at home, sewing a quilt. Is that her heaven? Or, at least, the heaven I've imagined for her, which for my sake is the real heaven?

So my experience in dealing with death is this: Don't. 

Hi there.

My last post was made over seven years ago, as you will see below. I'm not sure exactly why I stopped (probably combination of regular stress, school stress, social stress, everything I write must be perfect and hilarious stress) or why I'm writing this now. I don't know anything, frankly. 

Anyway. 

Despite not writing for years, the blog remained bookmarked at the top of the browser, along with my work email, The Sims Medieval tips, a recipe for bacon and eggs savory cupcakes (which I have never made??), a Buzzfeed article on "31 insanely easy and clever DIY projects" (of which I've never made any??), and a dead link I'd named "Blog with patterns n stuff." Are there people out there who delete bookmarks when they're done with them? People who don't have to scroll alllllllll the way to the bottom to find pages relevant to their present-day lives? I wish I could be like that but I have trouble letting go of things like... insurance information from my employer's Open Enrollment period five years ago. What if I need it one day? What if I want to compare it to this year's insurance or maybe print it out for paper crafts?

Earlier I said I don't know why I'm writing now, which isn't quite true. Recently I listened to Samantha Irby's most recent book of essays, WOW, NO THANK YOU on Audible, delightfully read by the author. She is funny in the way I want to be funny! I was reminded of my sporadically updated blog (THIS ONE), dreaming of becoming successful for writing funny things about my boring life and my lower-middle (middle-middle???) -class upbringing. (Though, honestly, Irby can write more freely than I'd feel comfortable doing because both her parents are dead.) As I usually do with books I like I suggested the book to my sister Ashley, who let me know she'd been reading Irby's blog BITCHES GOTTA EAT for some time. So I read that during my night time outside time with my dog, rather than going on my usual Reddit doomscroll. (Unfortunately I've fallen back into the doomscroll as a result of some... things happening in the world.)

But that's not all! Allie Brosh's much anticipated, long awaited second book Solutions and Other Problems came out last month and boy is it a funny, heartbreaking piece of ART. She inspired me to create this blog originally. I wanted to be her! I even made some bad drawings, some with my mouse and some with the Wacom tablet I convinced myself I'd use, despite rarely drawing with a regular ol' ink pen or pencil (which is much easier for my brain to understand than drawing on a BLANK SURFACE and seeing it appear on a COMPUTER SCREEN. Where is where?!). 

Brosh addresses depression, uncertainty, general sadness, having weird thoughts, loss, beginnings, childhood. So many things. I can't list them all so you'll have to see for yourself. She's also been posting photo albums on Facebook, as sort of companions to her book, to fill in the seven-year gap during which time she was missing from the internet. The context it gives her book makes me want to reread it, despite just finishing it a few days ago. 

So how did this all inspire me to get back here? Hm. I think I'm feeling... freer to post insignificant things without the pressure to impress anyone. And maybe I have some things I want to shout into the nether that is the internet. I keep a journal, but this is different. This is the illusion of talking to someone. Is that sad? Maybe! But who cares? Internet is HUGE. And being sad is okay. And maybe someone else out there will find comfort in something I write, no matter how insignificant it may feel to me. 

I just have a lot of thoughts and would like to get them out. Or not.

Goodbye.

Helpful Advice

You Are So Smart and Awesome

If you have limited knowledge on a subject, do not let that stop you from correcting anyone who says anything about that subject. You are an expert, with your very limited experience. Make sure everyone knows that.

If someone else has knowledge on an obscure topic, such as the mating rituals of the flamingo, question how they acquired such knowledge. Look down on their understanding of such a topic, and do your best to make them feel badly about it. Furrowing your brow and frowning works well, as it often causes said person to question themselves and makes you, the genius, look so much smarter and much more beautiful. Later, when you are home alone, basking in your own brilliance, find as much information as you can on the mating rituals of the flamingo. No way is that commoner showing you up again.

Smart phones are extremely useful nowadays for finding information. If some peon thinks they know more than you about anything, prove them wrong. When they’re busy drooling and trying to remember how to blink, whip out your fancy iPhone right there and use that Google app, which was created just for you, you super smart, magical human. “Do flamingos really start breeding when they are five years old?” Haha, NO! It’s when they’re six years old!! Say this loud enough so that bumbling idiot can hear you over the sound of their own heavy breathing, and with a tone that says I totally already knew this, but I waited to say it so you’d feel good about yourself for once in your life.

If ever another person makes a generalized statement, such as “I think that, by now, all American adults know where cow’s milk comes from,” disagree with them. “Actually,” you’ll say, “A lot of adults living in America don’t know where cow’s milk comes from. You would be surprised.”* When the peasant looks confused, smile and tilt your head to the side, so they can actually see your amazing intelligence seeping out of the glorious pores that have the privilege of making up your face.

Has someone done something creative, like recreate a battle from The Civil War, in 3D, using just an old hardcover book and an X-Acto knife? Roll your eyes and ask this artist “How do you have time for that?” Then, sneering, go back to reading that article on how flamingos do it.

Did someone just make a joke you don’t understand? NOT FUNNY. Make sure they are aware of this. Narrowing your eyes and shaking your head does wonders.

When in class, speak up as much as possible, even if what you have to say is not related to the discussion. It can be your person opinion on Starbucks' blonde roast, what your genius cat did that morning, how often you change your Egyptian cotton sheets, the A+ you received in high school algebra, the fact that you read Life of Pi before the movie came out (and you thought it was totally unrealistic, but you get the metaphors), anything. Everyone wants to hear you speak, all the time, always. Everything you say has true value.

Playing a video game and losing? Turn the system off! If the Wii doesn't remember you lost at Mario Kart, no dumb humans will, either.

Remember: You are super fantastic and amazing! Everyone loves you and can find no fault in anything you do! You are the really big, expensive Christmas gift to the world, and everyone else is just those shitty gas station chocolates that parents put in their kids' stockings to make it look fuller.

  

*Even if you do not know, per se, that a lot of people living in America don’t know where cow’s milk comes from, you should still say this. Most likely you’re right, because you are always right. 

Things to Not Say Part One

*Edit: Where are my eyebrows?? I do not know.

Super Important Update!

REALLY EXCITING.

I Am an Adult

I’ve been a legal adult for almost three years now, but there’s something about my appearance, I don’t know what, that makes people question my adulthood in the strangest of situations. I’m not saying that it was weird when I was carded that one time I bought cigarettes for my mom when I’d recently turned eighteen; that is a time when I absolutely should be questioned because that’s standard procedure and the law. No, I am assumed to be a minor when I’m doing things that I’ve never heard of anything being questioned or carded for doing, and it’s usually confusing and awkward for everyone involved.

The first time it happened I was nineteen years old and shopping with my mom in the Publix by her house. I was wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and flip flops, and I’m not saying I looked incredibly mature but I also wouldn’t say I looked like a child. As my mom made her purchases, I went over to the vending machine that sells scratch-offs, next to which a Publix employee was doing something with the dry ice freezer. I decided on a scratch-off that costs $1 and was about to put my dollar bill into the machine when the woman turned around, looked at me accusingly and said “Uhh, do you have your ID?”

I’d never been carded at a scratch-off vending machine before, so I was a bit confused, and I know it showed on my face because I have problems hiding my feelings. Because I make no effort to do so. “Uhh, yes,” I told her as I took my driver’s license out of my wallet. “I’m nineteen years old.”

She took it out of my hand, looked it over, and her expression quickly went from doubt to embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and I smiled at her as I put my money into the slot.

I told her it was okay and went on my way. Of course I didn’t win anything.

It does make sense, I guess, to card someone at a scratch-off vending machine because they’re still playing the lottery even if they aren’t interacting with a human when making the initial purchase. If I weren’t of-age, though, I wouldn’t be able to cash the winning ticket in, so it seems kind of silly to assume I am legally a child as I’m spending my money on a scratch-off dispensed by a robot.

The second time I was presumed to not be an adult also happened last year when I was at the county fair with a friend. We were in the exhibit hall around 10 PM, looking at the winners of the craft contests, when I woman who worked there approached us. “We’re about to close,” she said, her eyes narrowing like we were planning to swipe a little cottage made of popsicle sticks. “And isn’t it past your curfew?” she added, crossing her arms.

Well, that was new. The only curfew I ever had was that I could not legally drive after 11 PM when I was sixteen years old, or after 1 AM when I was seventeen. Never had I had any rule enforced on me saying that I wasn’t allowed to be out after 10 PM, so I have no idea what age she thought I was. Twelve, maybe? I don’t know.

“No,” I told her, looking confused, again. “We’re twenty years old.” This was a lie on my part because, like I said, I was only nineteen but I wanted her to feel even more wrong than she really was, and it was faster than saying “I am nineteen years old, and he is twenty years old.” I wanted to let her know she was mistaken as efficiently as I could.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said, a look of bewilderment spreading across her face. She uncrossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. “You look a lot younger.” Her tone had changed since she learned she was talking to an adult and not a child; her voice was a lot cheerier and less critical. It really was interesting to watch these people’s attitudes change right before my eyes.

“I know,” I told her, and we headed for the exit.

The third, and most recent, time is the weirdest of all. Buying scratch-offs, fine, that’s a legal issue and the store could have gotten in trouble if it was discovered they sold to a minor. Staying out past my curfew, that makes a little less sense because it was a Friday and what curfew is at 10 PM? But the building was about to close and we were still wandering around, so okay. Asking a twenty-year-old if she has an adult with her when she reaches for a tiny pastry sample at a Costco? What??

            Costco gives out free samples of whatever products it is they’re trying to push on people that day, and on a Saturday this January, small, frozen, pink cakes was one of those products. I’d taken plenty of other samples that day: crackers and fancy cheese, carrot juice, some kind of crabmeat cracker topper thing that I keep meaning to buy but that continues to cost $8, and I’d visited that same store at least four times before, which made it even more surprising that this one woman was questioning me.

            I was with my boyfriend and our roommate, Louis, in a crowd of at least ten middle-aged-to-elderly patrons. I reached out my hand, plucked a little cake off of the tray, and was about to put it in my mouth when the Costco worker looked me in the eyes and quickly asked “Do you have an adult with you?”

            Confused and taken by surprise, I panicked, putting it in my roommate’s hand. I thought that maybe it had alcohol in it, which doesn’t make any sense because, for one, I don’t think Costco even samples alcoholic things, and second because why would just having an of-age person with me mean I could consume it? And if I thought I could consume the liquor-filled cake, why did I give it to someone else?

            “Uhh??” I stammered, looking back at the woman as I left the cake between my roommate’s fingers.

            “Oh, no, you can have it, you just need to have an adult with you,” she said, putting her own hands up, in a sort of defense.

            “Uhh??” I said again, looking at the woman, then Louis, then the woman again.

            “She’s eighteen,” Louis said, which is also wrong. I don’t know how he forgot my age. I look younger even to someone I live with, I guess.

            Finally realizing what was going on, I took the cake out of his hand and put it in my mouth. “I’m twenty years old,” I told the woman, composing myself. Then I watched her face do the same thing those other ladies’ faces did as she gradually looked more and more embarrassed.

            “I’m so sorry,” she told me. “You look a lot younger. It’s a compliment!”

            As I walked away from the sample station, the older people in the crowd laughed and found it all very amusing. It was sort of funny, but only because I had a metal rod going through my left eyebrow, which should be a pretty good indication that I can make very basic decisions for myself, like whether or not it’s okay that I eat a piece of baked sugar. I was also wearing a t-shirt that said “UCF Knights” in a large, bold font across the front of it, which should be another helpful hint that I am at least eighteen years old.

            In hindsight, perhaps this situation was reasonable. Perhaps Costcos are frequently audited, with people from corporate going undercover to catch employees giving out samples to seventeen-year-olds, which would undoubtedly cause all kinds of havoc because what if that teenager has a food allergy that only his or her parents are aware of, and that teenager dies on Costco property because a piece of chocolate has a peanut in it?? Then Costco gets sued for millions of dollars and every parent of every child with a food allergy is now afraid to shop at the wholesale store, losing them even more money?? What if that happened, huh?

            Really, though, they should be more concerned with the employees not checking IDs when people are purchasing alcohol, because that happened with Jason and Louis.

            So anyway, I still don’t know what it is that makes me look like a child. All three of the times this happened I had my eyebrow piercing in, and while in the state of Florida you’re allowed to get a body piercing done at the age of sixteen (with a signed, notarized document from your parent or guardian saying it’s okay), I’m pretty sure every high school in the area has rules against visible body piercings, and it’s rather difficult to hide one that’s right above your eyeball. It could be that I have an ever-present look of teenage angst on my face, but that’s just my neutral expression, and it doubles as a “bitch face.”  Perhaps it’s my choice in attire and I should make an effort to wear more pantsuits. Whatever it is, I foresee it sticking around for a long time because my mother was carded when buying cigarettes until she was forty years old, and I won’t hit that age for another nineteen years. 

Welcome to 2013!

I'm a little late, considering it's the beginning of June, but that's okay. I haven't posted on this blog in over a year, and the reason for that is I've been busy procrastinating in every aspect of my entire life (besides gaining weight. That has been happening at a steady pace. Congratulations, me).

Since I've been gone, there have been many changes in my life:
- I've moved to a house.
- I've changed my hair color at least a dozen times.
- I've stopped being angsty about my romantic situation (See: "Happy LOL You're Alone Day"). Mostly because I don't have a reason to be. I hope.
- I've started exercising. This is significant because I no longer become winded when climbing the four flights of stairs to get to my job.
-Oh, right, and I have a job. One of the many things that I complained about last year was that I didn't have a job. Now I do. Goodbye, moneyless Haley. Hello, Haley Who Can Afford McDonald's.
- I don't play the Sims 3 anymore because my laptop doesn't allow it. What's ironic is that my laptop can't run the Sims 3 because it has too many Sims 3 expansions on it.
- I've fallen in love with "Game of Thrones" (The show, not the books. Those require a certain kind of patience that I do not possess).
- I've acquired two cats, four fish, and one water frog.
- I bought a blender and now I make smoothies, sometimes.


Since I've been gone, there are many things in my life that have not changed:
- I haven't stopped singing Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" in my head every time I say the words "Since I've been gone."
- I'm still working toward earning the probably, most likely useless degree in English with a focus on Creative Writing.
- I still don't read as much as an English major probably should.
- I still don't like papayas.
- I still sleep lying down.
- I still have more piercings than my mother approves of.
- I still make a lot of lists.
- I still have difficulty writing blog entries, even when they're as simple and insignificant as this one.
- I still get winded when climbing five flights of stairs.
- My face. I've still got one. (I hesitated writing that because I don't want to jinx it. See: Any bad joke on the internet about the new drug "bath salts."*)
- I still really, really love French fries.



Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the important stuff.

I turn twenty-one in sixteen days. In sixteen days I will be able to legally drink all the alcohol my body can tolerate (which is very little, so I'll never have to worry about going over the legal limit. Thanks, acid reflux!). To quote a very wise Jason Delarosa, in sixteen days "No one can tell me 'no.'" In sixteen days, I'll be able to take advantage of free entry into all the clubs that I have very little interest in entering. In sixteen days, I can purchase all the cheap, bitter, vomit-inducing wine I want because I can.

But then what? What happens in seventeen days, when the novelty has worn off and I'm pretty much over being twenty-one because that means I'll be expected to chip in for the alcohol at parties because I might not have cash, but I can always use my card to buy stuff since I can. What happens in seventeen days when I have no more milestones, age-wise, to look forward to until I'm fifty and I get my AARP card in the mail? What happens in seventeen days when I realize I've done almost nothing with my twenty-one years of life and I crawl, hungover, to my bathroom to puke in the toilet, make a huge effort to stand up, reluctantly peer at myself in the mirror and think "Look at you. You're pathetic. You should be studying or writing or applying to internships. Now brush your teeth for the eighth time today, you monster," then I dramatically collapse onto the cold tile and cry because my stomach hurts, but the Pepto Bismol is all the way in the medicine cabinet.

What happens then?


Anyways, happy hurricane season, ya'll!


_________________________________________________
*Edit: That drug isn't new anymore. I have no sense of time.

My Homework-Doing Process

This is some thing I wrote for Creative Writing, then put it on here. Wooooo! The directions were to write a scene about something that I find boring.

     Pretty much anything that is required of me is boring. Homework? It’s awful, and everything on the internet is more interesting. Cleaning my bathroom? Why can’t there be more dancing and show tunes involved? Cooking for myself? That’s so uninteresting, I think I’ll just starve instead. I’d rather stare at my ceiling and find shapes in the little popcorn texture things. Who needs food when making it is boring?

      When I have homework, reading something terrible for my lit class, for example, I put it off until I absolutely can’t put it off any longer because it’s midnight of the day it’s due. Because it’s so boring and awful and I hate it. Why do I care about this thing that someone wrote that I’m going to completely forget about a day later? The answer to that question is: I do not care. I just don’t.
      Because I don’t care, this is what usually happens the night that I have to do homework:

7 PM
Me: I should probably start reading that thing….
The Internet: Guess what I have! Pictures of cats! :)
Me: Oh, man! I love cats!

9 PM
Me: Oh yea! I have homework! I really better get on that.
The Internet: Have you checked Memebase today?
 Me: No, but I really should do this homework….
The Internet: But… there are funny things for you to look at.
Me: Funny things? I love funny things!

11 PM
Me: Alright. I need to read that boring thing now.
The Internet: lol why would you do that? Your facebook “friends” are doing and saying things you don’t actually care about! You need to read about that. Also! Tumblr is looking pretty good rite about meow.
Me: Oh, Internet! You always know what I should do.

1 AM
Me: Oh no! I’m tired and I still haven’t started reading…. I have to hurry up and do that before I go to bed!
The Internet: Youtube….
Me: There’s nothing that interesting on Youtube! I need to do my homework!
The Internet: Hey! Look what I found! A Wikipedia entry of that thing you were assigned! And I found Youtube!
Me: Wow, cool!

3 AM
Me: I need to read, forreal. That Wikipedia entry wasn’t good enough, I need to actually experience the reading for myself.
My Bed: I miss youuuuuu.
Me: Awww, okay.

       This actually sums up how I handle anything that’s boring.

Happy LOL You're Alone Day!

       SURPRISE! THERE'S A SHIT TON OF PROFANITY IN THIS UP IN THIS BITCH.

       Valentine's Day is tomorrow, and you know what that means! If you're in a relationship, you'll probably be receiving some generic stuffed animal and required "love making." If you're single, you'll probably be receiving some "Happy Valentine's Day!" texts from friends who don't know how to check your relationship status on your Facebook. And if you get drunk, you might wake up the next morning to "YOU'RE HIDEOUS AND NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU," written on your bathroom mirror in red lipstick.

       If you're alone (LOLLOLOLOL) like me, try to remember this: You're saving yourself at least $15 worth of candy, and at least five minutes worth of card writing time. That's a success, if I've ever seen one. And I have.

       Here are some tips for getting through Valentine's Day as a single gal:
1. Don't give a fuck. That's what I do. Every day of my life.
2. Hang out with a single, female friend, go to the movies to see a romantic comedy, and scream "THIS MOVIE IS FEEDING YOU LIIEEESSSSSSS!" Also, don't give a fuck.
3. Get drunk. But not too drunk. See the first paragraph of this post.
4. Tell yourself that Valentine's Day is a "fake holiday made up by the greeting card and candy companies."
5. Fly a kite (I don't know. I'm just hoping it'll be windy tomorrow. I like kites).
6. Cake your face with makeup, sit in the tub with the water running, and cry your face off. Still, though, don't give a fuck.
7. Remember how much money you're saving. At least a dollar, probably. That's a lot. We're in a recession, people.
8. Write terrible poetry on your bedroom walls in crayon. Or your own blood. Whatever works for you.
9. If you see anyone holding any flowers, at all, rip them from that person's hands and stomp on them. If you can't be happy, NO ONE CAN.
10. Give yourself a manicure. Your cuticles have been looking terrible lately. How are you supposed to get a date with hands like that? No wonder you're single.


      These tips should help you out a lot. Even if you're a guy, you can probably use them. Especially the kite-flying one. And instead of caking your face with makeup, just put a lot of product in your hair, and cry in the shower.

       You're welcome!

Hurpy Ner Yur!

Happy New Year's, everybody!
I feel like this is really going to be my year, and I mean that in the most cliché way possible. The reason for this is that I'm going to get all my resolutions DOWN. I'm going to be the most accomplished girl in my entire bedroom.


Here is my list, in no particular order:
1. Eat food every day, on at least two separate occasions. 
2. Remember how to spell "occassions" "ocassions" "occasions."
3. Wake up on December 22nd.
4. Exercise for at least two minutes a day.
5. Stop consuming so much caffeine. 
6. Use relative terms to your own advantage more often.
7. Read some books, sometimes.
8. Be less of a bitch.
9. Stop cursing so goddamn much.
10. Write at least five posts for this blog.




I'm already doing pretty well on a few of these, so I can really see myself sticking with them.


I've never made any new year's resolutions, ever, so I feel kind of crazy starting out with such difficult goals. I believe in myself, though. 


The energy I get from consuming food should cancel out the energy I lose from not consuming as much caffeine as I'm used to, so I should still be able to focus on not telling people to shut the fuck up while I read a book and run on the tread mill.

So 2012 is going to be my year. I guess it can be your year, too, but you'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands. And good luck doing that because I'm going to be so fit and positive and alive on December 22nd, that you might as well not even try. There will only be ten days left in the year, so what is the point, really? 


I'd work on sharing more, but there's just not room on my list. I wanted to keep it simple at ten items, and all the others are so important. So, yea. Sorry.

Presents!

The Holidays are only about two months away, and that means it's time to bother your friends and family for a bunch of stuff you'll probably never use again.

If you can't think of anything, you are in luck! I've put together a list of the tools that are apparently all you need for some particular skills and hobbies. These are great because you could potentially make back the cost of your gift and buy the friend who bought it for you a cup of coffee or something else fancy.

You're welcome.

Photographer
- SLR camera
- Fisheye lens
- Black and white filter
- Photoshop
- A Flickr account
- A Facebook page for your photography skillz. This one is essential (Maybe even more so than the SLR camera. We all have phones, amirite?) because it will help you book jobs like your mom's best friend's wedding, and your dad's cousin's dog's birthday.

T-shirt Designer
- MS Paint
- A Threadless account


Hair Stylist
- A pair of children's craft scissors
- A comb
- The internet

Fashion Model
- Every season of America's Next Top Model on DVD.
- A face

Artist (lyk with paint)
- Paint
- A canvas
- Paint brushes (This one is actually optional! You could always use your         hands, or even your face or butt)
- An Etsy account

Writer
- Notebook (As in a small laptop)
- A black beret
- A black turtle neck
- $500 Starbucks gift card

Singer
- Karaoke Revolution  
- A webcam
- A Youtube account

Blogger
- A computer
-The internet

BONUS!!!

 How to earn the title "Genius"

-Acquire a solved Rubik's Cube and show it to everyone you know. 





I hope this helps everyone!

"I'm going to kill you."

Since the first time I took a standardized test I knew that when one person coughs in a quiet room, everyone does.

When that first person coughs, who is genuinely in possession of an irritated throat, almost every other person in the room realizes that Wow, my throat is also full of phlegm. HACKHACKHACKRRRGRGRGRRRGGGRLLLLLLL SNIFF SNIFF SNIFF.
The number of people whose throats are clogged gradually increases every five or so seconds.

At first its just one person. Then it's three. Then it's six. Then it's ten. Then it's twenty. Then it's sixty.

And then I want everyone to die.


I don't know why this happens. I also don't know if it has an official name, so I will just call it "Why Are You Doing That? Please Stop Living."


This phenomenon is seriously distracting. Chemistry is already incredibly boring, so how am I supposed to pay attention when there are seventy people in the room "HACKHACKHACKBLLLARGHRRGRGG"ing every two seconds? How am I supposed to not cry loudly in protest?

I'll tell you how I'm supposed to not do that!

Well, I'm not supposed to pay attention.

I'll tell you how I'm supposed to distract myself from sobbing into my notebook!
By drawing pictures like this:

 

Yes, I drew that.
With my own hands.
Can you believe it?

Probably not.

And yes, I am the only one in my class with hair.


Anyway, I also distract myself by fantasizing about tossing hundreds of cough drops into the air in all directions, in hopes they will fall into those terrible people's open mouths, asphyxiating at least all of them.


If this sounds violent and hateful to you, you've obviously never experienced Why Are You Doing That? Please Stop Living. You are welcome to attend my chemistry class any Tuesday or Thursday. Perhaps we can share tips on holding back tears of both rage and despair. Perhaps we can take turns whispering "I'm going to kill you," to the people nearest to us who are participating in this horrible event.

Perhaps we can leave early and get some tea.

Whaaaaaat

Remember when I said I'd have more things to write about when school started?

Well, I was wrong!

Everything's as boring as usual!

My days now consist of waking up at around 11 AM, getting to the bus stop by 11:30, going to class for an hour and fifteen minutes, maybe stopping by The Florida Review to do stuff, then riding the bus back to my apartment. I then sit in my apartment, maybe I clean sometimes, maybe I occasionally open a textbook or do some homework, but most of my time is spent avoiding things I have to do.

But! I don't do things that would prevent me from maybe doing the things I need to do, if I did feel like doing them.
For example, I don't like to read books when I have homework to do because it would be difficult for me to put down the great book and do homework, but it would be easy for me to stop looking at memebase and do homework. If I wanted to.

I never want to, though.

If that doesn't make sense to you, it's probably because you're not hugely lazy and weird like me.
Congratulations!

Anywho, I dislike responsibility! And deadlines!


When I have more than four assignments due a week, I get nervous and stressed out.
I'll have to spend at least five hours doing school work in only one week, and that is too much! How will I live? How will I find time to sit around, procrastinating? What will my sims do without me? What if there's a re-run of How I Met Your Mother on TV that I haven't seen yet? Will this work over-load KILL ME?

I unintentionally devote most of my time to worrying about how I will get the assignments done, rather than spending that time actually doing them. This results in last-minute online quiz-taking, and very little, to no (most often no) studying. 


In fact, I have an exam tomorrow in Communications1000 (I have no idea if that's what it's actually called) and I've read, maybe, one out of the four chapters I will be tested on. I am positive that I will spend the night frantically speed-reading in hopes that I will absorb enough information to not fail. There will be tears, harsh words will be said to the textbook ("Oh REALLY, textbook? Because I don't CARE ABOUT THAT. I hate you!"), and things will probably be thrown. The night will end with me declaring "I'm not going to remember what I read when I'm tired anyway, so I might as well go to sleep," and then I will spend three hours watching television. 


Also! I have a midterm exam in Chemistry in early October that I should absolutely be studying for already, but chemistry is stupid and I hate it.

The end!



By the way, the title of this post has nothing to do with the post itself. Hurray!
(Other than Whaaaaaat is up with the spacing in this post? I don't even)

Unemployed Again

Remember when I said I had a job?
Well, I don't anymore.


That was a temporary job, and really only for the textbook season at the bookstore at school ("Textbook season" is about three weeks. During orientation, the training lady made it seem like even the temps would be staying until mid-October. I definitely would have applied to places already if I knew it would last for 1/3 the amount of time I had planned). I could have been hired as a seasonal employee, but I wasn't. Why? Well, I don't know because the email that let me know I would no longer be working for them was like "Don't ask why you were not hired as a seasonal employee." Which is super awesome. I love not knowing how or why I failed.

The way I found out I no longer have a job is pretty awesome too.

The weekly schedule is sent out every Wednesday, and this Wednesday's email said that if you're not on the schedule, with or without a shift, you are not being considered for a seasonal position.

I was not on the schedule.

The email said that maybe the reason people weren't hired is that their availability isn't what the bookstore needed, but that's not good enough for me. Especially since I'm not even allowed to ask.

It does kind of make sense to me, though. They hire about thirty temporary employees, and keep maybe five or ten of those. They don't want twenty or twenty-five people coming to the store and bothering them about why they were essentially fired, and honestly the managers probably wouldn't even recognize those people.

But at least a personalized email would have been nice. Not just a mass "Look fer ur name! If it's not there, we dont want u lol."

It made me feel like a not-person.

And the dumbest part of this all is that I was scheduled for today. I was supposed to work four and a half hours, after I learned that I am unwanted.

It's like if your boyfriend dumped you right before a movie and said "Don't even ask why. You knew I was seeing other people and that I probably wasn't looking for commitment," then asked you to stay and keep him company during the movie.

And you really wanted to see that movie, so you stayed, but you didn't put effort into talking to him or giving a shit.

The movie is money, and the not giving a shit and not putting in effort are the same in both situations.



I went to work because I want money, and also because I was just raised to be considerate and generally do what is asked of me.
I didn't put in effort, though.
I was pretty slow, and when people were rude to me I was like "K?" because what were they going to do? Complain and get me fired. LOLAIGHT.

It really just doesn't make much sense to me that they let me know I wasn't going to be employed there anymore, but expected me to work and be good at it.



ANYYWAAAY.

This middle-aged lady tried to buy a textbook with her husband's credit/debit card. You can't use someone else's card when they're not there, because how the hell do I really know you're his wife? Or maybe you are his wife, but he never said you could use it.
So no.

(SIDE NOTE. Someone's roommate used their card to buy $1000-ish worth of textbooks from the bookstore at school, so he could sell them to buy drugs. Forril.  The druggy even had the guy's ID, but apparently they didn't even look alike. The guy whose card got stolen came in and complained and the bookstore was like "OH SORRY.")


I told the lady that she could use the ATM outside, if she knew his pin, and get cash to pay for the book because whatever they do outside the store has nothing to do with us.


Lady: NO! I'm not going to pay $5 to use the ATM!

Me: Yea, that is annoying that it costs so much.
 [Actually I think it's $3, but whatevss]



Lady: Well I have a test tomorrow.

Me: I'm sorry, I can't let you use it unless he's here.

Lady: The OTHER bookstore let me use his card.

Me: They're not supposed to....

Lady: Fine. I'll just fail my test then!

Me: Sorry...

Lady: [Stomps off because she's a dumb brat who would apparently rather fail a test than spend $5 to use an ATM] You just lost a $200 sale!

Me: I don't care...


She didn't hear that last part because she had already stomped out of earshot.
I wouldn't have cared if she did, though.
It would have been awesome if I got reprimanded by a manager, so I could say "Fire me, then."


Other than being generally slow, wandering around sometimes, and just not giving much of a shit, I was a good employee. My drawer was off by one cent, and I'm pretty sure that's just because some fell on the floor when I was trying to get them out of the roll.

I cleaned up, asked if there was anything else to do, and got my bag checked before I left.

And I didn't even tell that fat, rude cashier that she's fat, rude, and shouldn't be wearing capris because they highlight her cankles.

THE POINT: I'm a pretty awesome employee, so whoever made the decision can go punch themselves in the butt.

THE END.

First day of my Sophomore year of college...

was STUPID.

The only kind good thing about today was that my math professor (actually I think she's a T.A.) seems really nice, and the class seems really easy. BUT. For half the class I had to pee so badly that I would have left, if I had sat in the back.

OH, AND NOW IT'S GONNA RAIN.


I'm probably going to yell at some stranger today because they do something like accidentally step on the back of my flipflop.

"WOW, I HOPE YOU'RE GOING TO BUY ME NEW SHOES BECAUSE YOU JUST DEFILED THEM WITH YOUR SHOE, YOU DISGUSTING SWINE."

When I'm angry I sometimes demand people buy me things.

I worked from 7:30 to 11:30 and that was mostly pleasant. I didn't even get one annoying customer telling me that the bundled price is less than the books separate, but we're out of the bundled package and WHAT THAT'S SO WRONG HOW COULD YOU BE OUT WHEN SCHOOL'S SO SOON. IT'S NOT LIKE PEOPLE PROBABLY BOUGHT THOSE BECAUSE THEY GOT HERE EARLY BECAUSE THEY'RE NOT IDIOTS.

So that was nice.

I came home from class and was going to watch something on Netflix, only to discover that it's not streamable on my computer. Oh, but I could watch it on a Netflix enabled PHONE, or an IPAD, so that's cool. Because I have those.

At first I was pissed because I PAY FOR THAT NETFLIX, and it doesn't even WORK.

But then I remembered that I don't pay for that Netflix.

I thought I had a meeting from 3:30 to 5 for The Florida Review today, but I DON'T. So I took the stupid, hot bus to campus and walked in the hotness, and climbed eighty stairs and almost DIED, only to discover that the meeting is tomorrow.

I came home on the stupid hot bus, walked to my car, and drove the the main office in my apartment complex to get a form to defer my rent until I get financial aid. There are about ten sets of speed bumps on the way there, and every time my car goes over one of those speed bumps, or turns slightly, it makes a horrible popping sound that make me feel physically ill.

After I got the form, I drove around and around the complex, looking for the gate that opens up to the little set of stores that has the Subway in it. When I got there (approximately five sets of speed bumps later), the gate was locked. I wanted to kill every one in the entire world.

But I DIDN'T, because I'm NICE.

I can't park in the parking lot of the set of stores because there's a Moe's there, and oh my GAAWD it's Moe's Mondays, so you can save two dollars or some shit on a burrito, and every one in the entire world needs to get a freaking burrito so badly that they'll park on the SIDEWALK to do so.

When I got home, subless and angry, I checked the status of a package I ordered about a week ago. Now, when I went to the mail center earlier today, the angry little mail center man was like "NO YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING." And I was like :(

But according to the USPS website, my package was delivered at 10:11 AM.

I almost walked over there and punched that liar right in his face, but then I remembered that it's hot, and I'm lazy, and I wouldn't do that ANYWAY.


I have to go back to the bookstore to return my books that I ordered online, and buy them BACK, so I can use my 20% discount or whatever. I don't even know if that's going to work, since I used financial aid to buy them, and I don't think that it's magically automatically refunded to my account when I return something.
If it doesn't work, though, someone is going to get punched, or ordered to buy something for me.


I would make a fantastic diva.

The Help

I want to see that movie.
So I ordered the book.
That makes sense, right?


Today I did things that mostly consisted of sitting in Jason's car while he drove, and we both yelled things like "WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT, YOU BIG STUPID IDIOT? DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW TO DRIVE?"  
The answer is no, I don't think most people do know how to drive.


Last Saturday, when I was staying at my mom's house, I went to a hookah bar for the very first time with some friends. 

When we got to the "bar" there was only one spot in the whole parking lot that was for five establishments. Unfortunately, this spot was in the very back, right across from a garbage can that probably had a dead body in it. Not wanting to get car jacked, or raped, we drove to the Walmart across the street and parked there, waiting for the others to arrive so we could all walk to our destination together.


Once inside I was instantly hit by a wall of smoke and not-good music, but it was cold inside and hot outside, and I see these people maybe once a month so I was going to endure the atmosphere.

We picked two tables next to a giant fountain that had bubbles in it, for some reason, and ordered some sort of flavor hookah that I don't remember. To me they're all just tablets of firedeath, anyway. I ordered a Pepsi even though it was $2 because I was out on the town and wanted to live a little. Also I was pretty sure I was going to be murdered that night when walking back to the car, so what was $2, really?


Half an hour or so after sitting down, we were served our beverages, and almost immediately after that half our group left. One of them had work at nine in the morning, they said, but actually I believe they just wanted to leave before the scary rapist criminals left their holes and vans with blacked-out windows. 


Fearing for our lives, since the two boys left our group and only four of us girls remained, we asked the server (I use that term lightly because I know what a good server is, and she was poop) if she could just cancel our order because we wanted to leave.

"Oh, you leave now? But why...? It is right here," she said, pointing somewhere behind her. Really, though, I believe she was lying and hadn't even set it up or told anyone we'd ordered it at all.

Us being polite ladies, we told her alright. We would wait.

Fifteen minutes later she brought it out.

After waiting forty-five minutes plus, I expected some magical contraption to come out, so I was disappointed when a regular-old hookah pipe thingy was placed on our table. It was kind of teal-colored, but other than that it was boring. It wasn't even at all sparkly. I rubbed it a little bit, even, and there was no genie.

Everyone else was smoking, and initially I was going to try some because sometimes I like to be impulsive and do things I usually wouldn't, but that's how my hair ends up brown. Most importantly, though, I'm allergic to smoke. I bet you're thinking "THEN WHY'D YOU GO TO A  HOOKAH  BAR, STUPID?" Well! I'm allergic to cats, but I can be around one and hold one. I just can't rub it on my face or inhale its dander.  
There's also the thing about how tobacco is bad for you, and even though there's not nicotine in hookah, it's still not good for your body. So, really guiz, stop saying "IT'S NOT NICOTINE IT'S OKAY." No, it's not. Stfu.
I'm destroying my body enough by drinking soda and eating fresh fruits and vegetables maybe once a week.

After they finished, or got bored, I don't know, we walked to the car as fast as we could, keys in hand, ready to stab an attacker at any moment! Ahha!
 
We weren't attacked, though, and we all made it home alive, unraped.
 
Success!

NOTE: Don't you legally have to be eighteen years old to do hookah? Because that lady didn't card any of us, and some of us look like children. This contributed to the shadiness.


BAI.

 

JOB

I have one of those.
A job.
It's exciting.
To have the job, I mean. The job itself isn't that exciting. Especially since it's probably only temporary, so I MIGHT get hired as a seasonal employee, after Rush and stuff. It all depends on how good I am, and how much everyone else sucks.
Not that I hope everyone else is really bad, necessarily. I just hope I'm better.
It's kinda like when there's a really cute cat that you and everyone else want to hold. You don't want the cat to scratch everyone's faces and pee on their wounds, necessarily. You just hope the adorable kitty hugs you instead of those other less-worthy people.
Actually, that's exactly what it's like.

Anyway, I'm a cashier. I don't know why.
I interviewed for a cafe job, but they didn't want me to work with them, I guess, so I was hired instead as a cashier. On the application I was supposed to select any jobs I was applying for, but I think I was supposed to number them from what I wanted the most to what I wanted the least. I just put X's.

I'm not saying I have a problem with being a cashier. It's super awesome to have a job, and I'm grateful. BUT. Dealing with money makes me very nervous because sometimes I can't even count it. I lose track because I get distracted by anything and everything, and then I have to count all over again like twelve times. This is kind of okay when I'm counting it to hand to a cashier who I'm making a purchase from (even though they're glaring at me because I'm an adult who can't count to $35.76), but I don't think it would be okay when you're counting change back to an angry customer who thought that that shirt was $15, but actually it's $18, so they're already angry AND NOW I'M COUNTING WRONG BECAUSE I'M STUPID AND SHORT.

Math is hard.


Luckily, though! most people will be paying with their credit cards or magical Financial Aid because books cost hundreds of dollars.
I think if someone hands me $600 in cash, and it's not in mostly one-hundred, fifty, and twenty dollar bills, I'll have a panic attack and pee myself.
BECAUSE COUNTING IS FREAKING DIFFICULT.


So.
Since they hire very few seasonal employees, and so many temporary ones (around forty), for them to want you as a real employee your cash drawer has to be perfect all the time.
And today after my shift I counted my drawer wrong and thought I was off by a dollar. (NUMBERS ARE HARD) I was so nervous and embarrassed that I almost asked if I could just put in a dollar of my own.... What actually happened, though, is that there was just a dollar bill stuck to another dollar bill.

And now I'm afraid that when I give change back to someone, a dollar bill will get stuck to another dollar bill.

Now I'm nervous and I hate myself.

Also the buttons.
Some of the buttons are confusing and there are so many.
And the bagging of items... How do you bag and scan things at the same time? I know cashiers do it, BUT HOW? I am confused.

I don't know how to make this more interesting.

Here are some ghosts I drew a while ago... Two of them are pregnant and two of them aren't.
Yes, ghosts reproduce. Duh.