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?

 

 

And who in this world isn't fearful of rejection?

I know I am.

I know the most acute feelings of hurt and shame come after rejection.  Not necessarily by boys either- usually in a professional setting.

Because I like to think I work hard.  I like to think I'm smart, and that I do a good job.  But sometimes people think otherwise.

I know some of the opinions I can throw out.  Some of these people are too proud and refuse help even as they watch their endeavor sink.

They can go jump off a cliff for all I care.  I watch myself struggle, telling myself that there's many furry reasons that I need to stick with it.

But screw them.  I decided this past summer that I have cut off all ties and associations.

Because here's the issue.  I can't go home and be used and then treated like crap.  It's painful and not worth my time.  But also, I can't have that happen and then return to Becker where the kennel treats me so well and values my work.

The contrast makes the rejection all the more painful.

It's not like it hasn't happened before.  This past summer was so painful for me that I started counting down my return to Becker almost 2 months ahead of time.

The years before it had been dreading return and denying the inevitability until it slapped me hard across the face.

A lot of the time I find myself wondering "What if?" and doubting everything I do.  My mom hates that.  She always tells me- "Not 'What if'......What IS".

But I will always be the person asking what will be.  And what if I find more rejection?  That's a pretty crushing thought for someone graduating in a year and a half.

I remember a time where I went to my mother, crying, saying how I will never make it into the history books.  I was going to die not having made a difference.

I've gotten over that since.  There was a poem a friend showed me freshman year, about starfish:

Once upon a time there was a wise man

who used to go to the ocean

to do his writing.

He had a habit of walking

on the beach

before he began his work.

One day he was walking along

the shore.

As he looked down the beach,

he saw a human

figure moving like a dancer.

He smiled to himself to think

of someone who would

dance to the day.

So he began to walk faster

to catch up.

As he got closer, he saw

that it was a young man

and the young man wasn't dancing,

but instead he was reaching

down to the shore,

picking up something

and very gently throwing it

into the ocean.

As he got closer he called out,

"Good morning! What are you doing?"

The young man paused,

looked up and replied,

"Throwing starfish in the ocean."

"I guess I should have asked,

why are you throwing starfish in the ocean?"

"The sun is up and the tide is going out.

And if I don't throw them in they'll die."

"But, young man, don't you realize that

there are miles and miles of beach

and starfish all along it.

You can't possibly make a difference!"

The young man listened politely.

Then bent down, picked up another starfish

and threw it into the sea,

past the breaking waves and said-

"It made a difference for that one."

And many rescue groups use that.  Really.  So I understand that if the rejection in my life gets so utterly terrible that I make no known difference, I know I can still work in rescue, as painful as it can sometimes be.

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Wah. Poor me.  That's enough of that crap.

And my trick for today....

I'm gonna make you laugh.  Or rather, this picture is:

Click the picture, you NEED to read the text at the top.

Yeah.  I died laughing.  And the more I look at it, the more I laugh.  While I don't really condone the language, I can't help but see the guys point.  

Well.  That's that then.

Now I'm gonna get all pissed off.  Leave if all you wanted was the cheap laugh.
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Still here?

So we all know that I can be a pissy, grumpy, bitchy, all-around-complaining type of person.  But I can also be a happy, hyper, smiling and active person.

And that's what people don't want to see.

Going back to the Dance that I mentioned last post: it freaked people out that I was having fun.  Why?  Isn't that what you're supposed to do?  Why is that so terrible?

There's this one person that just can't handle it.  He wants to mold me into the "grumpy Jenny" that he THINKS he knows.  Well let's get something straight here BUDDY:

1. You don't know me
2. You don't deserve to know me
3. There's a reason I'm always pissed off when I'm around you

So this guy has the audacity to approach me while I'm having an absolute blast at the dance and pull me aside to tell me how he's glad to see me happy because I almost never am.

Excuse me?

In THAT condecending voice?
In THAT pity-ing manner?

Warning: Foul Language Ahead.

Now- maybe it was playing right into his hands to be pissed off- but COME ON.  What a jerk!

So I whip around and tell him that there's a fucking reason that he always sees me pissed off.

To which he replies "Oh good, glad to see you're back".

I wanted to punch him in the face.  How dare  he?

I decided to just turn around and keep dancing.  I proceeded to win a dance off and impress the hell out of my residents.  I know I earned a hell of a lotta respect in Lane Hall that night.

So fast forward a couple of days.  I'm sitting in a classroom with some people after an Animal Health Club meeting, and talking to another girl that I sympathize with greatly. I would say I was sitting with some friends, except Major Mood-Killer was also present.

Anyway- this other girl, she maintains a 4.0 just like I do and understands what a disappointment a 3.9 is.  I start to mention that I do have my mental breakdowns- but they are also scheduled- 3 a semester.

And he interjects "3 a day".  I look at him and say- quite clearly I might add- "No, 3 a semester."  I then turn to continue my conversation, and he chooses to stick-foot-in-mouth and reply yet again-

"No, 3 a day"

And then that piece of crap laughed.

Well well well.

I turned to him, and said:

"You know (name omitted), there's a reason we don't get along".

I said it in my most disdainful voice, while trying to maintain indifference.

It got rather quiet after that, so I just continued my conversation with my friend.

I haven't really talked to him since.  He's attempted to talk to me, but I'm at the point of ignoring him unless he really has a problem.  And then, I only do that because I'm obligated, and I in fact, DO have a heart- despite what he thinks.

In fact, it shows how much of a heart I have when you look at the amount of time I put up with his bullshit antics.

Just because I'm usually stressed, doesn't mean I don't have a heart.

In fact, it usually does.

It stresses me out when people come to me, having a tough time, and they cry.

Because I care.

It stresses me out when my family is struggling because we are losing puppies due to parvovirus.

Because I care.

It stresses me out when I realize I may have hurt a friend.

Because I CARE.

Not all stress is bad.  If I didn't feel stress because of these things, I wouldn't have a heart.  Maybe I'm stressed and I'm not always happy because I really do care about other people, and I don't like them to hurt.

Maybe you can be happy because you don't care to carry that on your shoulders.  Maybe you've found the magic way to hear all of these things and not care--shrug them off--- but I haven't.



I've made an effort this year to be more social, to be more active and engaged, and to drop all the guards and be just a little bit more myself.

...and some people have noticed.

My stalker friend admitted to his friends that I'm much better this year.

Well you are too, stalker-friend.

I guess that's why this kid upsets me so much. I've tried so hard to just be a little bit open, a little bit more free.  Did I mess up his world- being myself?  What the hell is wrong with me being happier?  Why the hell do people think they have a say in my personality?

I like having fun.  I just don't have a lot of time for it.  I like being with my friends.  I'm just so busy.  I like being happy: but I have a lot of stress.
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I guess this is getting long.  Ranting has a tendency to do that.  But hey, I have a right to be upset just as much as I have a right to be happy.


It's usually not a good thing if you make it onto my blog.  Because I know that I bitch and complain.  Well, welcome to the club kid.  You are officially on my bad side.


You're not alone.









Funny stuff next time, I promise.

I don't like Maracas.

You know.  The "instrument."  The Noisemaker commonly used in Mariachi Bands.

Grumble Grumble.

I went to the Dining Hall the other night and there was a Mariachi Band.  Also, my friend NICK was there, and NICK wanted to be personally mentioned on my blog.  There you go NICK.

So I thought the drums I heard were coming from a particularly loud stereo system on the first floor of Knight Hall---but as I entered the dining hall it became very clear that the music was coming from INSIDE.  Gritting my teeth, I walked in confused and a little annoyed.  The music was too loud.

I spot my friend NICK as well as some other friends, and start to eat my crappy dinner.  Now, food at the dining hall is normally crappy- that's a given, but today they had a burrito bar that looked delicious.

So what's the problem?

The line for said burrito bar did not look nearly as appetizing.  

So I had a lukewarm burger. EW.  But a girl's gotta eat.  

I explained to my friends why I don't particularly like Mariachi Bands.

I went to a restaurant with my boyfriend.  A Mexican restaurant in Litchfield called Senor Panchos.  Which is funny, because my boyfriend's parrot is called Pancho.  Also, it's not really my boyfriend's--it's his dad's-- and Pancho hates my boyfriend.

ANYWAY: I was at the restaurant, enjoying my nachos (my boyfriend and I have a thing for good nachos) and there was a live mariachi band in the restaurant.  As opposed to the dead kind.

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This band was going table to table and asking for requests.  I dreaded the moment they made it to ours, and when they got there- I insisted I didn't know any mariachi songs.  So my boyfriend throws his hands in the air and yells "La Cucaracha".

Countdown to Embarrassment:

5, 4, 3, 2, Embarrassment Imminent, 1

The Band put the friggen' sombrero on him, gave him a set of MARACAS, and went to town playing "La Cucaracha".

Now, I look back and think I was a pretty good sport.  I even laughed about it.  But I bet you I was bright red and I know I wanted to sink into the floor. 

Hence- I don't like maracas, mariachi bands, or "La Cucaracha".

And I'm sitting at the dining hall, and I'm thinking, of all things we could bring in to enrich the dining experience- my first choice would be better food. 

But that's not an option so my second FIRST choice would be those Hibachi stations.  My imitation of a Hibachi guy cracked NICK up.  I admit, it was a little wild.  But it was much more entertaining than the mariachi band.

Woo FI-AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

See what I mean? WAY cooler.  Knives everywhere, fire that looks like dragons, and food that tastes good because it is made by a chef.  IN FRONT OF YOU.  So you can see what he's trying to pull.  Which at the moment seems to be to burn your food to a crisp- but it's ok because it's awesome.  

After my friends left, I went to go sit with other friends, because I was still on a quest to get a decent dinner.  I really really wanted a bagel, but the toaster was situated a little to close to the band, and I had two of my guy-friends threatening to force me to dance if  I made a dash for the toaster.

So I never got my friggen' bagel.  

But back to the main issue: which I need to think about for a second.  I mean--I was hungry---but what the heck?  Making me dance?  Really?  

I did go a little wild at the Halloween Dance.  But I'm allowed to do so.  And it was a DANCE.  Not a grimy dining hall with a crappy mariachi band and an EMPTY STOMACH.  

I'm starting to think my hunger was the root of the issue here.

They never did get me to dance.  That's the way the world works boys-  I dance, but not to Mariachi.

Want to see a pic of me ready to go to the Halloween Dance? Sure you do.  You're on MY blog.

You can't see really, but my hair was curled-POOFED-and teased.
You know, because Hermione Granger has bushy hair.

And I did dance at that dance.  Freaked people out.  They didn't know I could be such a fun person.  Also, they didn't know that I knew the Soulja Boy.  OF COURSE I know the Soulja Boy.   There's a white-boy tutorial online. The things me and my boyfriend do when we get bored.  

I just went to find the tutorial, and I can't find it.  Too bad for you.  

BACK IT UP- do you know how insulting it is to be told that "I didn't know you could be this fun"?

It is.  I am a fun person.  Just because I don't choose to share it with you so often doesn't mean I'm not fun.  So there.

More about that later.