Dreadful!

Legally, I’m an adult now. As such, I find myself a little unbelievable at times. Today, for example, I had a biology lab. The tables you sit at for this lab have power outlets on them for microscopes and stuff. As I sat there, I had to talk myself out of sticking my pen into the light socket just to see what would happen. I should be mature enough not to even think to myself that I want to stick something in the light socket.

Because I’m lazy, I had to make fourteen copies of a six page story for my creative fiction class today. Even though I put my own staples into the stapler on the desk next to the copier, I felt like people were watching me and judging me for using so many staples.

Last night I dreamed that I was the Joker and I shot Batman through the chest with a grappling gun. Like all the way through. He pulled it out with this wonderful wet ‘shchloorp’ sound and came after me.

I’m tired of my lower back hurting.

I’m also tired of my sister’s stupid cat eating ribbon. He threw up for fifteen feet the other day, and I had to clean it up. I don’t know how an animal that only weighs eight pounds can vomit so far, but he did it.

I can’t be the only person who hates it when people cough and wretch and make phlegm sounds around her.

My grandmother used to say dreadful a lot, and I think we should bring that word back. Like Randle in Clerks II, only mine’s less offensive and no one will care.

Catchin' Walleye

Sometimes when a new class begins, they have everyone announce something interesting about themselves to everyone else. There are variations of this game--it could be a “fun fact” or something no one else in the class is likely to say about themselves, or perhaps we tell our something to someone else and they introduce us. Regardless of petty differences, it’s the same game, and I don’t like it. There is a part of me deep inside which rebels at the idea that all there is interesting about me can be summed up in a sentence.

Now, I know that they aren’t asking for everything which is interesting about us, but that’s what it feels like. It’s also hard to come up with something on the spot like that. There’s an instant reaction of, “There’s nothing interesting about me!” Then there’s the panic, “That’s not good enough!”

For me, this means that I end up saying something funny to get a laugh.

I am seeking a conditioner that will actually condition. I want my hair to be full of shine and bounce.

I used to have a toe ring, and I enjoyed that. I think I want to get another one. Not the adjustable kind, but the kind that’s actually a ring.

Every night for almost a week I’ve been torturing myself with nightmares, and last night, it got worse. That Kid Rock song about Sweet Home Alabama played in my head all night long.

And I suffered.

Candy Guns

Every night for the last four or five nights, I’ve had nightmares. Last night my dream was horrible. In it, I was riding in this truck through this town which was built on a smaller scale than the real world is. I think I was in Europe. Anyway, I got off the truck to go into a building, and there were zombies everywhere. I was in a small building with a counter that might once have been a store. It had huge glass windows, so it was some sort of business, anyway. I jumped up on top of a shelving unit, and this man started to walk towards me. Now, in this dream, there was another man who was still alive who was with us in the truck, and he’d come into the building with me and my mom. Anyway, he took a pair of nail clippers and clipped the air passage of the zombie which goes from the nose to the eye (note: I don’t think this really exists). The zombie looked a little surprised, and made that air-escaping-a-balloon sound, and then frowned at me, and pointed at my feet.

He only wanted my candy-bar.

I burned myself with a glue gun at work the other day. Someone dropped something loudly right behind me, and I jumped, jamming the metal tip against the back of my index finger. When I pulled the gun away, there was glue on my finger, which I peeled up. Frowning at the spot, I tried to pull up the rest of the glue.

Then I realized that was my skin.

The low heat glue guns are not actually low in heat.

Peas and Literature

I used to think that there was this big joke being played against me and that every grown up person was in on it. This joke was, of course, called literature. Before I could read, I was convinced that There were secrets being kept from me in books and magazines, and I was obsessed with finding out what they were. So, I learned to read fairly early, and without much prompting by parents or teachers. It very rarely happens that something is actually as good as it is anticipated to be, at least for me. I am often let down (by pastries, films, clothing, coffee) and so I have developed a slightly cynical view of the world.

Literature didn’t do that.

As a young child, I realized that books were even better than I thought they were--there was more in them than I had ever imagined. Eventually I realized that there was no conspiracy against me, but that didn’t matter because of the wonder that was reading.

In lecture this morning, I felt like I needed to buckle myself in to my seat.

Despite my nightmares last night, I woke up feeling really good. My shower only took a few minutes, which is strange, because in the early morning it usually ends up taking a lot longer.

Yesterday I planted my little pea plants.

That’s not the beginning of the story though. A few weeks ago, in my biology lab, we had to boil little baby corn plants to death to show that they stop breathing once they’re dead. This made me feel guilty, so the next day I went to the hardware store and bought the little paper cups and seeds and soil to plant a vegetable garden. I planted peas and peppers and basil and so on.

Unfortunately, it was very windy between then and now, and something happened to most of the little baby plants (who’s leaves had not yet come up). The pea plants, though, did not get destroyed. So, yesterday, I planted them, finally. I hope they do well.

I love shoes.

Plastic Fish

My lovely boyfriend gave me three gifts this week, which is unusual. He gave me a bouquet of fake flowers, which he wire-wrapped together, a cherry scented candle (which I wish were a food, it smells so good) and a bottle of the best lotion ever (even if the name is completely silly). The flowers, which made me deliriously happy, are, I admit, very silly. They’re very pink, and very fake, and wonderful. Anyway, he gave them to me, so I love them. My mother, on the other hand, took it upon herself to tell me (although not exactly in such terms) that the gift was frivolous and stupid. I didn’t reply to her, but for some reason the comment stuck, and it’s been bothering me.

Of course the flowers are frivolous and stupid--that’s the point. My boyfriend knew that when he gave them to me. He knew that I don’t need plastic flowers that don’t really match my room! That isn’t their purpose. They’re to remind me that he thinks about me when I’m not there, and that sometimes pretty things don’t have to be expensive, useful, or ceremonial (because, after all, there isn’t some holiday this week that he could be acknowledging with the gift). They’re just meant to be a silly reminder of him, for me, and they do serve that purpose very well. They make me smile every time I see them, and even if my mom thinks they’re dumb and wasteful, I still love them.

Last night, my sister stabbed me in the foot with a steak knife. Of course, it wasn’t on purpose and while I bled a little bit, I’m not actually injured. Still, it hurt pretty bad. The strange part, though, is that last night, I had a dream where she took my computer and printed out all of my privet documents. I became angry, in the dream, and tried to beat her face, but I felt like I was moving through water instead of air, and so I wasn’t able to really hit her. It was very dissatisfying.

On Sunday, I was at work, and I was taking old price stickers off merchandise with a dull box cutter, and my thumb hurt from pushing the blade. My feet hurt from standing. My back and shoulders hurt from hunching over the little craft supplies, and I was grumpy. I didn’t really want to be at work, and I let myself acknowledge that, and instead of bringing inner peace, it made me more grumpy. Clutching a miss-priced spool of ugly ribbon in my hand, I slapped the blade down, and worked it under the green sticker which proclaimed, “SALE-- $1.44,” in chunky, blurred black letters. Then I realized something.

I was mad because I felt like they were stealing my weekends from me.

Then I realized something else.

They weren’t stealing my weekends from me, they were buying my weekends from me. And I was selling my weekends to them. Then, while standing at the center island of the moderately sized craft store, tired and a little sweaty, I worked out just how much I was selling my weekends for, and realized that (ignoring government taxes, because I, shamefully, do not know exactly how much they take out) I was selling my weekends for $96.00 each.

The more I thought about this, the more I realized I thought this was a fairly fair price, given that really, I was just selling my mornings and afternoons, and not selling my evenings. It wasn’t like I was doing really backbreaking or mentally demanding work, either. I was more cheerful after realizing all of this, until my boss asked me to work the next day, too.

I have twenty six cents, a ukulele and a depressing number of papers strewn across my bedroom floor, and it makes me feel conflicted. Deep down, I have a strong desire to live a life with minimal stuff near me, and I think this is why I don’t allow much to be kept in my bathroom. On the other hand, I like having the stuff, and I am lazy, so things, especially papers from last quarter, tend to sit near the waste bin until I empty my trash. There they sit, making me feel cluttered and disorganized, and I wish I knew how to motivate myself to create a clean and clutter-free environment for myself.

I’ve long had this feeling that there is a system which, if only I could stumble upon it, would make my life suddenly snap into place and force everything to be easy. I’m starting to think that perhaps that doesn’t really exist and that looking for it is as foolish is trying to find skill-free make-up tips.

I also need to clean out my fish tanks. The water is fine (that is, the ammonia levels and all) but there is some algae growing on the sand in my larger tank. I’m thinking that I want to get some more fish for that tank, too, and I think I want balloon mollies (or is it mollys?) I’m shallow enough, though, that I’m worried they won’t match my lovely pearl that I already have living there, so I’ve been thinking about just getting a cloud of glo-light tetras for now. We’ll see how that goes.

Dreams and Blowfish

My mom bought me the most amazing gift today. It’s a little ceramic dish (tiny--it might old a quarter cup of liquid) that’s shaped like a blowfish. It’s so perfectly cute, and I can’t wait until I move out someday so that I can use it to serve salt at my dinner table with.

I have been having very strange dreams lately. The other night I dreamt that there was a terrible zombie apocalypse and I was living in this post-zombie world compound. Unfortunately, I was the one who had to live in the room facing the zombie menace. My room was open on two sides, with my bed about a foot and a half from the rickety fence set up to keep the zombies out. Periodically I had to pick up my strange scythe-pick combination tool and smack it into the heads of the moaning undead who were reaching through the fence into my room. I then went and tried to rescue this girl who I’ve never met, who rejected my help with a startled, “But who are you?”

I was pretty matter of fact about this, until we were invaded by other living people who had the advantage of coming from above on this hill, so I crawled out and hid behind a truck, and sniped their leader. He tumbled down from the theatre spotlight he was working on the crowd of refugees I had been living with, and the people took us back to live with them at the zoo. They assured me that there were no zombies, and I believed them until the moment before I woke up.

Then, the next night I had a dream where I was a seagull who lived on an ocean the size of a boxcar.

Last night my dream was about the unfairness of multiple choice tests.

Sometimes I sit in class, taking notes on my computer, and write passive aggressive things about the people around me who are disrupting my learning.

Last night I was going to add a couple gallons of water to my fish tanks. I filled the bucket and wrestled it down the hallway to my room, where I was to add the stuff that neutralizes all of the nasty chemicals in the tap water which make it safe for us but dangerous to fishes. Unfortunately, the top came off of the bottle and the entire thing dumped into the bucket, rendering it unusable. I was too lazy to fix the problem and now I have a bucket of water I need to pour out next to my fish tank.

I think I need to get some of those foam earplugs to wear to lectures. That must sound awfully silly, but my ears hurt all the time anymore. Whenever there’s someone nearby who has a cough, I end up feeling like my ears have had hot oil poured down inside them for days. It’s terrible. I am actually afraid that I might go deaf sooner, rather than later. My sense of hearing is awful. It makes me want to learn sign language.

I love receiving flowers.

I think that people who come into a retail store to buy non-essential items and allow their babies to wail the entire time they’re in the store without making some attempt to quiet them are awful, terrible people. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t think inflicting a screaming toddler on forty other people while you browse the selection of stickers we have available is acceptable. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to say anything to them while I’m at work. I do, however, leave stores which have screaming children in them.

Speaking of screaming children, my cousin is coming out with her two daughters this Friday and I’m interested to see them again. It’s funny to watch someone that much younger than me grow up. It really does happen quickly.

Chocolate Muffins and Devastation

It was blustery and cold this morning, and even armed with my fancy-dancy London scarf and my newish wool coat, I was chilled by the wind on my way to class. So, I stopped by the library and used four of the quarters in my pocket to buy myself a hot chocolate from a vending machine. Happy, I marched to class, my head held high and my hands tight around the paper warmth of the cup. I marched right through a planter and caught my toe on the cement edge. I almost went down. There was much wind milling of the arms and yelling, but I didn’t fall. Glancing down at myself, I realized, miracle of miracles, I hadn’t even spilled my cocoa.

I laughed to myself and pranced down a short ramp for the handicapped, and without tripping over anything poured about half my hot chocolate down the front of my coat. Grumbling to myself, I stomped into my classroom and sat down. Because it’s a large lecture hall and only about 2/3rds of the class ever bother to show up, I placed my remaining cocoa on the desk next to mine, and opened my backpack to pull out my homework which was due at the start of the lecture. As I handed it to the person next to me, I checked my backpack once more to make certain that my twelve page paper, due in the next class, was still where I had left it. Assured that it was, I pulled out my day-planner and started planning my day.

When the lecture began, I reached to shove my planner back into my backpack. As I did, my elbow jostled the desk next to mine, and in slow motion the half-filled cup of hot chocolate spun, and fell perfectly into the compartment of my bag, directly on the cover page of my twelve page paper. I let out a small gasp, and after a moment of shocked disbelief, I pulled the cup out, and then the paper. The first several pages were totally and utterly soaked. So I stood up and marched my butt back to the library, thinking that since I had the foresight to email the essay to myself the night before I would simply print out all fifteen pages again (the twelve page paper plus the coversheet and two pages of references). Then I reached into my pocket and realized I only had $0.60, and each page would cost $0.10. After a brief panic, I prioritized my essay, and printed out the pages that were worst hit by the cocoa and took it to class.

My professor found my story deeply amusing, and laughed harder when I went to the bathroom to wash out my backpack.

I now owe my sister a new copy of Pearls Before Swine.

In other news, I couple weeks ago, I was trying to make these amazing chocolate chip banana muffins (from scratch). I measured the ingredients, mixed them, put the little papers into the muffin tins, dolled out the batter with the ice cream scoop and dropped the entire tray upside down on the hot oven door.

I was devastated.

Today I have righted that wrong by mixing up a new batch of muffins which are safely out of the oven, golden brown, and delicious.