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.