Merry Christmas- or whatever you want to celebrate.

I'd like to report that I have made it through Christmas Eve, repeat, I have made it THROUGH Christmas Eve.

Now I have to go deal with Christmas.  Oh Goodie.

I hate socialization.

Unfortunately, if you rearrange the letters in "Christmas" it spells "Socialization".







I really hope that no one tried to do that.  It's a lie.  It doesn't spell that.  It's supposed to be funny. Gosh.

I know this time of year is all about family and giving and love and crap like that.  Alright. Cool.

Except I actually have to be around people to participate in that.

It's not like I mind, for the first couple of days.  It's fun... I get to see my aunt and my grandma (who I do love very much, despite my characterization in the fairy tale I wrote).

And then it explodes into an uncomfortable amount of socialization.

"Hey, I haven't seen you in a year....and it didn't bother me that much.  Do you want to chat?"

............yeah.

Hell, I don't even mind that, as long as it's not prolonged.  Wrap it up in an hour.  That's a good amount of time for me..  I won't break out in hives if out before an hour is up.

It's the day-after-day HOURS long socialization that wears me out.  Like literally.  I find myself crashing in bed from exhaustion the moment it's over.  Sometimes before it's over.  Whatever.

It's not that I hate everyone, it's that I'm just not built for socialization.  It brings out the awkwardness in me that I have tried to stamp down into a loose pile of abused mush all year.

All that hard work, out the window.  Because of a socialization overdose.  Every year.

At least I don't have to come up with a different New Year's Resolution.

I'm cuddling with Fox Mulder...

...the guinea pig.  Tehe.

That, my friends, is a Guinea Pig Butt.

Also known as Cavia porcellus buttus.

Justtttttttt kidding.

He likes to cuddle with me while I read fan-fiction and watch shows on my computer.

I've really got nothing to say right now.  I'll post a witty and entertaining blog later..............

It'll give my boyfriend time to get over his jealousy at me cuddling with Fox Mulder. 

I have to do creative writing for Mythology...

So I thought I would let you guys critique.  It's supposed to be a modernized version of a classic fairy tale.  I won't tell you which one, it should be obvious:

Bread.  And here I thought chicken noodle soup was the staple.  Who transports bread in a basket?  My Martha-Stewart-Wannabe mother, that’s who.  No, that’s not even right.  She’s not slugging it across the city.  I am.  Or so she thinks.  I don’t want to go see my grandmother.  So what if she’s sick?  All I’ve ever gotten from that old hag are deprecating looks and “constructive criticism” concerning my lifestyle.  So excuse me if I don’t wear stockings to church, or rather, if I don’t go to church at all. 

            “Rose, get your shoes on.  And for the love of all that is holy, please change into something respectable.  You know how much your grandmother hates that coat!”

            That, mother, I think derisively, is exactly why I’m wearing it.  My tattered red leather jacket is a sticking point to my grandmother.  You could say my mom would rather see me in a pretty pea coat. Maybe a nice wool fabric: with a herringbone pattern.  Maybe she’s afraid I’m ruining her perfect “Suzy-Homemaker” image.  It’s not like my jacket goes with her adorable little picnic basket with its adorable little dishcloth with its adorable little tea set.  I throw on my Chuck Taylors.  The sole is coming off of the left one.  There is nothing like a pair of broken-in Converse…

            “ROSALINE!  You should have left 15 minutes ago! Stop dragging your feet and get your sarcastic, snotty self down the stairs!”

            She’s on a roll today.  Sarcastic and snotty?  I’m loving it.  I lumber down the short staircase at my own pace.  I smack my feet hard against each step, grinning at the exasperated sigh that the action begets from my mother-dearest. 

            “I’m here Mom---”

            “Go upstairs and change this instant! Rosaline, I will not have you deliberately baiting your grandmother---”

            “That will take me at least another 20 minutes.”

            I smile as her face turns a lovely shade of crimson.  This is probably my favorite game.  And of course, I do just love the color red.

            My smile fades as I’m handed a basket full of gourmet bread and wine, for my ailing grandmother.  I’m still trying to come up with a reason we should be trying to help her. I think the whole “sick and dying” look is a good one for her, personally.

            I cough as I open the door and breathe in New York City.   It’s not something my mother wanted, but it’s not my fault her neurotic behavior drove my dad away and we couldn’t afford to live in Albany anymore.  The city suits me.  It’s dangerous and exciting.  It’s the smog that I’m having trouble adjusting to.  I start to breathe through my nose.  That’s better.

            I smile as I watch a hot-dog salesman feed stale buns to a stray dog.  I’ve always liked dogs.  It’s probably because wolves are my favorite animal.  They’re so sleek and intense.  Dogs aren’t wolves, but it’s the closest I’m going to get for the time being.

            I’m bumped out of my thoughts by a rushing business-woman.  Unfortunately, I was bumped to the ground, hitting my head hard on the curb and getting stepped on a few times before I felt myself being forcefully lifted and dragged to the other side of the sidewalk.  

            I felt the earth swim around me, I felt as though I were flying.  I felt something hot and warm.  Sticky.  Somehow I open my eyes. The world is rose-tinted and blurry.  I prefer the world rose-tinted.  It’s colorful, happy.  I do love the color red.  As I blink the color fades and the world regains its original color palette.   As this happens sounds begin returning, and an angry throbbing starts in my forehead.

            “Hey girly.  Come on. I don’t even know where the hospital is, so you’re gonna have to sort yourself out. Look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?”

            Right.  I was dragged to the side of the sidewalk; hence I’m not alone. I look up.  There are 3 fingers.  They are full of auto grease and I can see the start of tattoos leading down his forearm and disappearing into his motorcycle jacket.    

            “There are three.”

            “Oh hey there.  Nice of you to come back.  Can you get up?”

            I nod and stand, leaning against the brick 3-decker.  I get a good look at my “savior” for the first time. 

            He’s lean.  His hair is grungy and falls into his eyes.  He’s got a slightly predatory smile, but it works for him.  His shirt is a grey V-neck that is tattered and stained.  It shows off a tattoo that is reaching up to his neck.  He doesn’t look to be much older than twenty.  He has blood on his hands, a detail that I didn’t notice before.  The red looks good against his skin.

            It’s my blood, I suddenly realize.  I brush a hand through my hair and feel it matting.  I wipe across my forehead and feel a sharp sting.  We have a winner!  I lean down and take my mother’s cutesy little dishcloth out of the basket and hold it to my forehead.  The bleeding is slowing down.

            He grins down at me.  He’s rather tall. 

            “Sorry about your shirt. I got blood all over it”

            He shakes his head and grins.  He asks where I’m heading.  I wish I could say I hit my head hard enough that I didn’t remember, but it’s not true.  He notices my disdain, and extends an invitation.

            Come with me instead.  Simple words. I laugh. I’m not stupid; one doesn’t just go with strangers in New York City.

            He frowns. 

            “I don’t feel comfortable letting you walk 10 more blocks to your grandmother’s loft.”

            What?  This isn’t happening. 

            “Listen: Prince Charming.  I’ve got this.  A little blood never hurt anyone.  It’ll make my visit more enjoyable anyway.” I smiled as I thought of my grandmother’s reaction to my bloodied appearance. “I’m already late, but now I’ve got a good excuse.”

            “Let me walk you.”

            It is happening.  Despite his appearance, I seem to have found the one New Yorker with a heart.  If only I was actually looking. 

            We start walking.  The niceties are observed.  Rose; Cam.  18; 20. Student; Starving Artist/Auto Body “specialist”. 

            Let me make this clear: he is in no way mysterious.  He is a little awkward, despite his tattoos suggesting otherwise.  When he talks he doesn’t know where to put his hands, so they end up running through his hair, or in his pockets, or gesturing so wildly that people often duck to avoid him.  He acts as though he would tell his life story if I was interested.  His “predatory” smile is due to a lack of braces as a child, which left his teeth looking more fang-like then normal.  He is in no way a predator.

            We make it to my grandmother’s.  He leaves me at the door.  I turn, and hand him the bottle of wine.  He smiles broadly, tips me an imaginary hat, and walks down the street.  I brace myself for the sheer amount of pretentiousness I am about to endure, and press the buzzer.

            I emerge an hour later exhausted and irritated.  I have been thoroughly lectured on the dangers of the city and have had to apply horrible smelly cream to a cut on my forehead.  It’s a family secret apparently. 

            I stumble over a pair of shoes on the doorstep.  Shoes connected to a pair of feet and legs. 

            Cam grins up at me, and steadies me before I can fall.  He holds up the bottle of wine. 

            “It didn’t feel right drinking alone.”

            Maybe he is a predator after all.  He’s got me interested all of a sudden. I follow him.  He’s got his own flat, and it’s the typical bachelor pad.  As I polish off that bottle of wine with him that night, I think of all the ways that this is going to upset my mom tonight.

            If I go back tonight.

Ugh. I am the socially awkward penguin.

Warning: foul language ahead.



In fact, I bet many of you are.  If not you wouldn't enjoy my blog so much.  But without further ado, my favorite "socially awkward penguins"

.....I just looked through the library of socially awkward penguin memes, and I had to cut myself off at 13.  Jeesh.  It's worse than I thought.

This is the worst.  One: I don't need a friggen' partner.  Two: why do I always travel in odd numbered groups?  And why am I the one that's friends with everyone but not like "BFFS!" with one so I definitely have a partner?  No, that's ok, I'll totally work with the one kid in class that might just be more awkward than I am.  

This happens to me all of the time at the lunch table.  You see, Becker College is so small that I still have to deal with lunch table drama despite being 3 years out of high school. And quite frankly, I avoided it for awhile.  But this year I've been more social, and that results in me being my usually brilliant self, combining with my awkward self, and having my comments "re-posted" only to get wayyyyyyyy more laughs than I would have ever gotten.  Last time I totally called the people out on it........I'm not sure they heard me. 

This used to be the worst, but I've learned to get over this.  Especially if the person has to remember what I said and say it back to me.  I've come up with the ultimate "SCREW YOU ICEBREAKERS" response.  I tell everyone "I have a lizard named Ulla Inga Hansen Benson Yanson Tallen Hallen Svaden Svanson".  And no, I don't say it slowly.

Again, I've learned to get over this.  But for awhile, I was self conscious of my obvious brilliance.  Now, I waltz right up. Haters gonna Hate.

This might be because I'm a dog person, or because I am programmed to avoid any and all eye contact.  I get teased for it all of the time.  Maybe I don't look at you because you're ugly.  Ever think about that? Huh? No? Well.  Whatever. 

I got nothing.  I'm not deaf, I'm just a really bad listener.  And there are just only so many times you can ask "what?" without looking like an idiot.  Which is a very small number, I can tell you that after around 2 times it's awkward.  From experience. I can tell you that from experience.

Yeah.  Did you know about half of the population doesn't know how brilliantly funny I am because they are so self absorbed they don't have time to even listen to me?  Or wait, hear me.  And when I am heard, as mentioned before, I'm plagiarized. I can't even repeat myself because I'm not willing to risk the chance that they did hear me and just didn't care.  

Ask anyone, I'm a jerk when it comes to phones.  If you're driving and someone calls you and you want me to pick up, not going to happen.  I have to rehearse everything before I call.  I hate using the phone. So yeah, when it goes to voicemail, and I don't know you, I will totally read off a sheet of paper, so I don't ramble on like an idiot, and I don't make a fool out of myself, or so I don't forget about what I was calling for, or so I don't accidentally call you by the wrong name.  That was me, rambling.  Thank your lucky stars the phone went to voicemail, because in that alternate reality, that word vomit does not occur.

This is very similar to one of the ones I posted before, but I have to say, icebreakers are the majority of what makes up RA training, and they kill me.  I die.  Literally.  It makes a good conversation starter.  You know, for other people.  No one talks to me anyway.

This is simple.  People are stupid and I need to maintain at least a 3.9 minimum GPA.  I can't afford people's stupidness.  And I don't like to talk to people, that too.

This happens so often I literally can't stand it.  Why am I such a know-it-all?  Oh yeah, I'm a friggen smartie-pants.  It happens so often in Law class that the teacher exhausts all of his other options and then just kinda nods towards me, and I succinctly provide the class with the answer I've had in my head for the past 5 minutes.  The right answer.

I don't even know if I want to talk about this.  It's upsetting.  But it goes back to- why do I always hang out with people in odd-numbered groups?  I do this to myself don't I?  You know the solution? Don't hang out with people.  

I'll leave you with this wonderful explanation for everything I do:

Damnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn Straight.

My god you might as well throw them over your shoulder!

PUSH. Up. BRAS.

Ladies.  What the hell?  Where do you put your boob when the whole bra is filled with packing peanuts?

It's crazyness.

When I go bra shopping, I feel the inside of each bra to make sure there is a home for each of my boobs.  Much of the time there isn't.  It is occupied by "memory foam" or "cooling gel" or "contour padding" or some other bullcrap.

Here's the deal bra companies.  It's false advertising if a girl parades around with what looks like double D's and suddenly the bra is off and she's a negative A.  Literally.  They're imploded.  Picture that oh great readers.

There's multiple was to accent your friggen' RACK.

Example NUMERO ONE:

The Chicken Cutlet:

I would worry about salmonella being absorbed through my boobs.

Example NUMERO DOS:

The Tissue:

It's like using tissue paper to cover up a gift.  But less fun.  And no pretty colors.

Example- Number 3:

The Wonder Bra. Nuff' Said.  Two extra CUP sizes? Come on.

But I will give you a picture, mostly to satisfy the guys:

I promise: those aren't mine.  

They're from the advertisement for the American Eagle brand, which my friend says raises your boobs to your chin.  You could take a nap on those suckers.  

And really, who could confront you about taking a nap on your boobs?  That's just an awkward conversation.  Or a sexual harassment case.  Your pick.

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Boobs.  Remember when you would type that out on your calculator and you thought you were oh-so-cool?

Success Kid is always cool.

It's not so fun when the calculator has a full text pad.  That's not an original thought.  I saw it in a web comic.  Hold on.

I can't find the comic.  But I didn't put that much effort into it either.  If it doesn't come up on Google you're out of luck.
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What's the last way to accent your upper feminine anatomy?

Have good boobs to begin with.

Tehe.


Look what happens after I watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion show.  At least I'm not parading around saying I'm going on a diet.  I just start ranting about boobs.  I'm a little special.

Where's my friggen' bubble pipe?

Because I got my big fluffy bathrobe people.  I got it.

Insert bubble pipe here.  Commence Pretentiousness.

Also, it ate me.  It's that fluffy.

All in all: Pretty good haul for my birthday.  What else did I get on my list?

NOT A FRIGGEN JEEP.  But anyways.  I did get my llama.

And I got iTunes gift cards.  Not a metric crapload, but a good amount.

Also, nail polish in fun colors: and not orange.  Observe:

It doesn't really show how sparkly it is.  Trust me.  IT SPARKLES.

I also got some other fun stuff with a kohl's gift card, and I got some clothes, and a cute little box with doves on it with earrings in it, and a pretty diamond necklace from my lovely boyfriend.  I got a pastel art set from my dad, and tea mugs from my sister.  I got a pretty cool hoodie from my boyfriend's parents, which is nice.  I like hoodies.  And some other stuff but I'm done listing.

I'm tired.

What is so special about that seat in front of me?

Huh?  You have plenty of seats to choose.  Plenty. And yet, every single freaking time I need to be looking at a powerpoint/stage/show/movie screen/presenter you sit in front of me.

YOU.  The tall/fat/big hair/smelly or the-awkwardly-shifting-side-to-side-the-whole-time-person.

Always.  Without fail.  You're right there.  Wherever I need to direct my line of sight.

It doesn't help that I'm short, I know.  Or that I would prefer to slouch in the seats of a theater.  Some of these things are my fault.  But seriously, if there's a whole row of seats, and you choose the one directly in front of me, every time.

It's not just one person, or one instance.  Just to make this clear.  This happens to me all of the time. All of the goddamn time. 

Now I understand the powerful draw to want to be around me.  But seriously.  Sit behind me.  So I can see.  I don't particularly like the view of the back of your head.

Especially when I need to be taking notes.

I move to the side.  So do you.  I want to strangle you out of frustration.  I move again, so do you.  So I stay still.  And you settle in.

...And I feel as though I'm being tormented for a reason; one that I can't quite put my finger on.

Soon I'm going to need a neck brace from having to stretch my neck to see around you.  And for the love of all that is furry- wear less cologne.  I feel like I'm in a jet stream of the horrible burning scent of desperation.

This is my view of the world.  It might be worse than being color blind.

I mean, look at it.  It's like 50% of my vision is impaired at all times.  

The next time this happens I swear I will silly string the back of your head.  Mostly because I like silly string.  And I imagine it would be funny.  To me anyway.  I HOPE IT WOULD BE DEVASTATING TO YOU.

I'm done ranting.

It's MAH BIRTHDAY!

And I have to go back to school.  Ugh.  Gee thanks birthday.

So I had two parties already to circumvent the fact that for 2 hours on my birthday I'm going to be in a car going back to Becker.

But today....I am 21!  And all I've had is two glasses of wine with dinner over at my boyfriend's house.

I'm such a lush.

.....about that.  I'm not all that excited to drink.  At first I thought I might be but as soon as I got home and away from other people, I discovered......

I actually much prefer sparkling apple cider.

Anyway.  So I'm opening my presents and of course I get this shirt and it's covered in animal print and it says "Bite Me".

I'm glad my family takes note of my charming, friendly and relatable personality.  Also, my love of anything animal.

So my sister asks what it says...and I tell her "Bite Me".

She is quiet and then she says,

"No, what does it say?"

Apparently me just saying "Bite Me" to a totally routine question is a plausible occurrence.  I proceeded to die laughing.  I then explained that the shirt actually says "bite me".
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Alright, so I was just looking on Google to find a picture of birthday-stuff so it shows up in the thumbnail for this post and I found this:

Ah, uhm.  Ok.  I will?

......Hahahahahaha.  there are so many things wrong with this.  Numero Uno...did he just fall out of a sit-up or something?  What is with that pose?  And for the love of.....why are his hands like that?

And that looks like a girl's shirt.  It's TOO V-Neck.  

The font.  That also gets to me.  What would you do if I wrote my whole blog is heart-font? 

Just as I thought:  You'd throw your computer out the window and declare your life OVER because you couldn't bear to read my wittiness any longer.

And of course, the last thing wrong with this: Sparkly Vampires have nothing to do with magic.  Harry Potter FTW.

Well.  That's pretty much that.  I got a bunch of cool stuff for my birthday. 

And now it's back to Becker.

Touche Aunt Sue, next time I will be more specific...

...and specify that I actually want the llama for me.

For those of you that I haven't already told: My aunt sue bought me a llama.  I got an email about it the other day.

So I'm looking at this email and it says...
"E-Card from Aunt Sue".

Now that's just not her style.  Aunt Sue always gets us the coolest gifts.  For her to just send an E-Card would be bizarre.

So I click on it.

"Gift Card from Aunt Sue"

That makes more sense, but really still isn't quite right.

So I click on the link.  And this is what I find:

For those of you that didn't catch that, it says that she bought me a llama.
 No big deal or anything.

WHAT?  SHE BOUGHT ME A LLAMA? WITHOUT ACTUALLY BUYING A LLAMA?!?!?!!?

I'm pretty sure I just got trolled by my Aunt.  

But all joking aside, it's a really really cool present.  Somewhere a family is getting a llama to support them.  Free.  Because it's MY birthday.  And quite frankly, it's very creative of my Aunt to see me jokingly (not so much, I mean, I still kinda want one...) asking for a llama and actually finding a way to buy it without having to worry about livestock codes and how the hell I'm going to take care of it.

And Llamas are BEASTS.  They do pretty much everything except supply meat.  They provide actual work, pulling carts and such.  They also provide fiber for cloth-work, everyone who's ever worked with llamas knows that.  They also provide milk.  And they're awesome.  That too.  They're the best.

The Heifer Project supplies these animals under the condition that when the animal breeds one of its offspring must be passed on to continue the project.  So really, I just supplied A LOT of llamas.  

Now I'm thinking about baby llamas and having a cute overload moment.  My brain is about to short out.

OMG Knobbly Knees!

CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE

Little Coats for Little Llamas omgaskldfjlaskdfj MAKE IT STOP

TEH CUTEEEE *dies*

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That's it.  That last picture really made me die.

My shoes are filled with astroturf...

...because I played football.

Alright, flag football. But I still played.  If you actually know me, you know that's a start.

Now, get this.  Get ready.....I scored a touchdown.

Because I was in the right place at the right time and I caught the ball. And then I just stood there, because I wasn't sure if I actually just scored a touchdown.  I MISSED MY OPPORTUNITY to do a stupid dance! Gah.  Some football player I make.


I'm pretty sure I looked like this the whole time:

Yes I know there's no one behind me.  I run that fast.  Not.

I just don't have time to copy and paste football players into it.  Get over it.

So I apparently can pretty much catch the ball but throwing it is another story. 

That and getting through a whole line of ACTUAL football players.  

I took an epic dive to get a flag off of one of the girls on the other team and bloodied up my knees.  This is what happens when you get overloaded with environmental testosterone.  You do stupid shit and get injured.

Overall I guess it was fun, but I was panting the whole time and my body was screaming at me for pretending to be an athlete for two hours.  

And I looked like this after:

I'm almost as red as my sports bra.  Ew.

Now I'm all showered and rested.  Good news?  This is officially my 50th POST!

Yay 50th Post! Throw me a party.
Also, it's my birthday coming up, if you needed another reason.

If I don't write this down...

...my thoughts will go stale.  Like bread.  Exactly like that. I don't know if anyone can relate, if anyone else is a journalist or a blogger or a writer, but when you have a thought pop into your head you should really get it down quickly.  Otherwise it will deteriorate and literally go stale in your mind.  3 day old thoughts are not nearly as funny as 3 minute old thoughts.

But here goes:
My blog thoughts for this week, as documented in my planner:

• Stupid Internet Quotes
• Lane is Haunted
• No one looks good in a Fedora
• Imma let you finish...

Alrighty! So let's get started! (I think there was more enthusiasm in those two sentences then I've expressed all week)

Stupid Internet Quotes.  We've all seen them.  We've seen also, the backlash to them.  But why do they persist?  We all know they are stupid.

Like this:

Usually handwritten, you know, to make it more "personal".

Well.  Simply put it is because of hormonal girls that are trying to be "deep" about their petty little life situations.

Why do we need these to pop up on our StumbleUpon or you know, all over our Facebook news feed?  Because these poor people need validation that their life is difficult but they are oh so brave and wise for the way they tackle it.

Well you're life probably isn't all that bad, and putting up random quotes on the internet isn't much better than running away from your problems. Just saying.

A more proper approach might be to actually address the situation.  Just a thought.

Moving on.  That's really all I have on that.  Internet Quotes are annoying!

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So Lane Hall might be Haunted, even though I still tell myself I don't believe in that crap.  

But lately there have been things happening that I can't explain.  At all.  

Oh, is that the answer? Who knows.

Let's just go way back to the beginning of the year, and make our way to the present.

So I'm sleeping in Lane for my second night, and I hear this noise in the ceiling.  It starts in one corner of the room and travels to the other.  It's a "whoooooooooooooooosh THUMP", as if something is being dragged and then picked up and dropped.

So me, being a non-believer of things like souls and ghosties (I know people too well to think we all have souls), decides that it is the fan.  Right.  So I go turn the fan off. 

As if to mock me, the sound starts again.

"whooooooooooooooooooosh THUMP"

Well I didn't think that was very funny.  I went back to bed.  And the stupid sound continued ever 7-10 minutes for the next two hours, approximately 2-4 in the morning.  Now remember that time frame.  It's important.

So the next morning I got up and put a chair on top of my desk and lifted the tiles of my drop ceiling to check out the pipes.

About that.  There were none.  

So I huff and walk upstairs into the room above me.  There's heating units but none have been turned on by Maintenance, as it is still 80 degrees some days at this point in the year. There's nothing in the room that would be dragged across and thump at the other side.  And my reaction to this?  To scream under my breath and stomp the floor in a mini-tantrum.  Whatever it was, it was keeping me up, and I was pissed.

Luckily, "whoooooooooooosh THUMP" stopped a few days later.  So I figured I could sleep. Right? WRONG.

Then the goddamn dryers started going.

Let me explain.  So it's between 2-4 in the morning.  I wake up to someone banging the dryer door in the basement back and forth and generally making a huge racket.  So I grab a pen and paper and proceed to go downstairs to write-their-ass-up: whichever resident thought it would be funny.

I get down there and the dryer and washer doors are just idly swinging back and forth.  Well then.  Hilarious.  I'm down in a cold dark basement in my pajama shorts to yell at no one.  I angrily stomped back up the stairs and went back to bed.

The next night the noise happened again.  Stubbornly, I just stayed in bed and tried to sleep through it.

The next night it happened AGAIN.  This time I'm sitting in bed, seething.   I have a right to sleep too dammit!  So I stomp my way down the stairs, and lo and behold, the doors are swinging by themselves again.

Now, bear with me.  I'm sleep-deprived and pissed.  I let out another frustrated scream and slam both of the doors shut.  I may have even kicked one shut, but hey, I was angry.  And then I said, to the totally empty basement "AND THEY STAY THERE!"

...That went well I think.

So I woke up super early the next morning.  Meaning I got about 2 hours of sleep. I go in the basement.  Who is going to be doing laundry at 5:30 in the morning?

AND THE GODDAMN DRYER DOOR IS OPEN.

AHHHHH! GODDAMN DRYER GO EFF YOURSELF!

Now, most normal people would scream and run back up the stairs, thinking some horrible ghost is hot on their heels and they wont make it out of the basement alive.

Me?  I threw another mini-temper tantrum and slammed the door again.  I don't like being screwed with.

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Moving on.  So the dryer/washer door slamming stopped after that, and if it didn't, I've learned to sleep through it.  

I'm sleeping.  It's between 2 and 4 in the morning.  I actually think it was around 2:20 am.  I wake up to my music BLASTING.  (Stacey's Mom by Fountains of Wayne, if anyone was wondering.)

I rush out of bed and go to turn it down.  As soon as I reach my speakers my door flies open.  

Well well well...

I turned my music down.  I looked at the door.  It's not moving or anything.  I shut it.

Then I allowed myself to think about the situation.  My first thought is that I must have woken up the whole house.  My speakers must have been turned all the way up.  

...But I didn't have them turned all the way up.  I was writing a paper late into the night, past Quiet Hours.  So I had turned my music down to just where I could hear it while I wrote my paper.

Why was my music turned up?  When I looked on my laptop control it said it was turned down.  But when I looked at my speaker controls it was turned up all the way.

I know I hadn't done that.  

I must have looked pretty stupid to the ghosties, if there really are any, sitting in a T-Shirt and undies and messing with the volume controls on my computer at 2, almost 3, in the morning. 

Eventually I concluded that my computer had updated during the night and it had turned my Pandora on.  Even though I know it didn't and if it did it would have been the same volume I had it at when I went to bed.

Sometimes lying to yourself is good if it lets you go to sleep.

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So I let it go.  Whatever.  I'm not hurt, just pissed.  Life is good.

My residents are saying that they hear footsteps going up the stairs.  One even said that she thought I got locked out of my room, because she heard someone messing with my door.  I hadn't.  Interesting.

One says she hears windswept voices, just enough to catch the tenor and tone.  I don't know what to think of that.  I just laugh and say that they are polite ghosts that like to say "Good Morning".

Ahem, I mean

"Goooooooooooooooooooooood Morrrrrrrrniiiiiiiiiinggggggggggg"

Haha.  Well.  It was funny to me.

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So nothing really happens for awhile.  My door to the kitchen has a habit of flying open, but other then that it's pretty quiet in my room.

I'm coming home from classes, and I shut my door behind me.  I don't slam it, I'm not pissed off.  I've had a good day.

All the books on the top shelf of my bookshelf go flying out.  For once, it makes me jump. 

And then I get pissed.  I have to put all of those back.  

So I do.  And then I try to rock the bookshelf, slam the door and open the window and slam the door to recreate the incident. 

Nothing.  My books are in there.  

That's not normal.  

I back up and sit on my bed.  What just happened?  It's bizarre and for once, just a little upsetting.  

Later, it might have been that night, I go out with my friends and we get some hair dye and have a hair dying party in Lane.  One of my friends claims she is sensitive to ghosts; her whole family is.  She tells me she's genuinely afraid of what is in the basement, and the thing in my room feels like a little kid.

Well that's just great.  I hate kids.

She tells me that the little kid is attracted to that side of the room because it probably likes my drawings.  She says she particularly feels energy around the one I am working on of Duncan, and around the corner where I have three paintings hung.  

In a bizarre change of roles, I tell her that if there is something in my room, it's not malicious.  She agrees with me, but says she can't say the same of the thing in the basement.

So I tell her the dryer story.  She doesn't seem to that I went into the basement by myself at 3 in the morning.  

I generally just listen to them go on about ghost stories while my hair is being dyed.  It takes awhile, I have long hair.  I take it all in and think about it.  

It could be possible, except I still don't think I believe fully.

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It's about 3 days after I've dyed my hair, and I'm looking for my wide tooth comb.  I need it bad.  My hair is being ridiculous.  

I can't find it.  I haven't been able to find it for over a week.  I'm pissed.

I give up, and I go to pull a bin off the top of my wardrobe to put some of my summer clothes in.  

And there it is.  Along with my pick, something else I had been looking for.  They were both centered in between my bins, on the top of the bureau.

I didn't put them there.  I have to get a chair just to look there.  No one else has a cause to look for those combs.  Why the heck were they up there?

I forget about the friggen' bin and grab my combs and look at them.  What the hell?

At this point it's still un-explainable.  I know for a fact I didn't put them up there.  I certainly didn't put them up there centered on the top of the wardrobe and stacked neatly one atop the other.

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I guess "No one looks good in a Fedora" and "Imma let you finish" are going to have to wait.  It took too long to explain why my hall is messed up.

Did I mention it used to be a funeral home?

Sometimes I question...

...how I am not in a mental institution talking to myself yet.

People do this to me.  PEOPLE. And stress. Caused by people.  And other things-but mostly people.

See here's the thing.  People are competitive little crapheads.  That's a word...and if it wasn't...it is now.

I try to do my best.  I engage in undercover competition.  You know, comparing my own accomplishments to my previous accomplishments, goal setting, etc.  It's the kind of competition that doesn't annoy the crap out of other people, because I'm not bragging and flexing all of my competitive muscles.

And the internet swoops in again, to remind me that I am not alone.

Another interpretation:

This is what I think you look like when you brag.  It doesn't look good does it?
THAT'S BECAUSE YOU LOOK STUPID.
Just in case you weren't getting my point.
Also, MUSCLES.  Long caption.

Dude, you look like you had a fight with the tanning bed and lost.  Stop it now.

But it's people like that that become so self absorbed that they have to brag.  THEY HAVE TO TELL EVERYONE.  Dear friggen people: I don't care.

And when I do, it's not about what your bragging about- it's about my mental state should you continue bragging and deteriorating my brain activity.

By the way...

...This is actually what you look like.  I like this picture better.

See...I don't find it necessary to brag incessantly simply because I know I'm awesome.  Oh yeah, I have my moments of low self esteem.  Ask my boyfriend, he'll tell you.  

I'm not an overly self-deprecating or an overly self-absorbed person.  I'm somewhere in the middle.  I'm confident.  In some things and not others, like most people.  Like average people.  People who have nothing to brag about.

And the thing is, I'm confident enough to not have to brag to everyone about every little accomplishment.  Because trust me, they are there.  But let's be honest- you don't care.   You're not likely to care now, or later, or ten years in the future.  So why bother?

I'm a generally content person that gets done what they need to get done. Sometimes I do it well.  Sometimes it really is nothing to write home about.  And that's okay.  Because I've come to terms with the fact that no one cares about my silly little life and my silly little accomplishments.  Because really, if they did, we'd all be carrying resumes everywhere....

"WORKED AT SUCH-AND-SUCH FOR 3 AND HALF..."

"COMMUNICATION SKILLS"

"GOOD TEAM PLAYER"

"EXPERIENCED IN FRENCH FRY MANAGEMENT"

Can you imagine what a mess that would be?  All that competition?  Everyone's blood pressure would be through the roof.  And we would have no one to blame but ourselves (and possibly McDonald's).

Plus, I feel like my resume/brag sheet would read more like an epitaph:

Jenny Wallace

Did a whole bunch of crap and died before people cared.

1990-?

Ain't there some truth to that?  Who ever did anything that people acknowledged before they died?  Let's face it- being dead is "in" for art, literature, whatever.   You know why that is?  Maybe the work was good while they were alive, but giving them recognition would give them cause to brag...and no one wants to listen to someone brag.  No one.  That's why we wait until you're dead to assign an exorbitant amount of worth to your artwork. Duh.

So bear with me.  I'm going to get all of my bragging out at once....

Totally off topic... but hey it's MY blog...

Everyone seems interested in my new hair color too. Big friggen deal.  But As you can see, it doesn't look like much from the webcam.  It goes red in the sun though, which is pretty sweet.

But still...

It's just hair.

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I'm still waiting on my llama.

JENNY'S BIRTHDAY WISH-LIST

I am now aware that even my family reads my blog, so when they protest that they didn't know what to get me- I will see straight through THE LIES.

So, I'm turning 21 in 21 days.  

I'm not bar-hopping or anything.  I'm enjoying Thanksgiving, with my family and with my boyfriend's family.  I'm drinking wine with a nice homemade Italian dinner.

It makes bar-hopping look like a rather grungy way to celebrate the big 2-1 huh?

That's alright.  We already knew I was classy.  Sometimes.  When my filter is working- and when you can get me to actually wear something besides jeans and a hoodie.

GAH.  I'm classy on the inside.

Anyway.

I will be celebrating at home, which is of course my first birthday wish.  However, I will be back at Becker that night, so I guess it's the best of both worlds.  

My other birthday wishes:

I wish...

• For people to leave me alone when they are clearly not wanted.  
• For a Kindle.  Either that new one or one with 3G. But mostly the new one- the Fire one.  But I really want 3G- Oh I don't know.
• For a fun shopping trip.
• For nail polish in fun colors.  But not orange.  Ew. Orange.
• For permission to have pets in the residence halls (inside joke with RAs).  Never gonna happen.
• For hair that doesn't knot.
• For a metric crap-ton of iTunes giftcards.  It's time for some new music.
• For less headaches and more sleep.
• For stupid people to realize that they are stupid and actively make changes..Like buying me iTunes giftcards.
• For a Jeep Wrangler in a bright color.  Automatic.  Please.
• ...You know, it could be any color really....
• ...And I might be able to learn stick-shift if you actually got me the Jeep...
• Oh- and a full tank of gas in the Jeep would be pretty cool...
• For a new pair of plain black flip flops.  BECAUSE MY OTHER PAIR GOT BROKEN BY SOMEONE. Grr.  
• A poster of Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds.  And Fox Mulder from the X Files.
• A really fluffy bathrobe.  FLUFFY.
• A llama.  
• Horseback Riding Lessons. Preferably private so I can pester the instructor about training and behavior.
• A bonsai or cactus garden for my room.  They're so pretty.

You got it.  Make it happen people!

Not one of these Jeeps.  Do it and you will regret it.  I have no shame and
 no problem forcefully throwing kids out of my new Jeep.

Because you only turn 21 once, just like every other age...

Don't forget my llama.

The name of my blog...

...is a song lyric I heard and liked.  For a number of reasons.

1. I like Linkin Park, and it's from a Linkin Park song called "Forgotten".
2. I like the visual it creates.  Think about it, in a dark area, a beam of light makes it's way through.  That crap is powerful.

Why do I think so?

A small spot of light on the floor is where a dog turns to take a nap.  You know how they always manage to find sunbeams.

Light on the floor in a dark room, it's like something to hold on to.  And I know as long as I can let the feelings out SOMEWHERE---I guess writing acts as a tether to my sane self.  Because I frequently border on the insane.

The following is not funny in any way shape or form: please feel free to skip it.  Just jump to the second set of stars.

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I find I have a lot of those ropes tying me down.  One of them is the song "Endless Night" from the Lion King soundtrack.  I've mentioned it before.

I know that the night must end
And that the sun will rise
I know that the clouds must clear
And that the sun will shine

I've been told that's a strangely optimistic view for such a pessimistic person.  Whatever.  There's another line in that song:

I'm trying to hold on....To end this nightmare...

Strangely fitting, for someone who has gone through bouts of depression.  Maybe that's why I get so upset when people try to mold me into an unhappy person. Figures.  Labeling----don't do it.

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Still with me?  Anyways, off of the tangent.

I guess I liked the name of the blog because I knew I was starting a blog, couldn't think of a name, and it started to get incredibly frustrating.  Like- really frustrating.  I hated everything I heard, despite my Pandora playing, and I'm not nearly original enough to come up with something on my own that hasn't already been taken or isn't just plain stupid.

So there you go.  That's where the name of my silly little blog came from.  And despite it being silly, I still have people reading in Slovakia, Latvia, and other crazy places like that.

While I should be flattered- I know I'm not QUITE that interesting....

What is wrong with you people?