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Sunday, April 24, 2011

Suggestions and 30 Rock!

This is quite possibly the first television series I have liked on my own. Don't get me wrong, I love suggestions. Well, not movie suggestions, no one seems to suggest movies that I can watch without falling asleep. Let me rephrase that, very few people suggest movies that I enjoy. It's always, "YOU seem like you would just love this, watch it!"

I had someone mildly force me to watch a really long black-and-white movie. I hate black-and-white movies. See, if you don't watch it, and they quiz you the next day, you have to be really weird about it. Anyway, I'm still waiting for The One. That one perfect suggestion that will blow me away. This is the sort of thing women sigh about while looking out of windowsills.

Now, music is completely different. In this case, very few people have disappointed me with their musical suggestions. Music is just different.

*FACT: I have never ever been able to spell embaressmant or dissapointment. And yes, I know that those two are incorrectly spelled. Spellcheck tells me it is embarrassment and disappointment. Two r's, two s's. Two p's.*

Now, television shows are just... they don't... suggestions don't ever work. Except with True Blood, I did fully enjoy True Blood. And... and various anime series suggestions, five at most, back in the day. Yikes, I am straying away from my anime-loving habits. That's why 90% of other people's suggestion do not earn my approval.

Suggestions often do the exact opposite of their intended purpose. It's like, if everyone likes it, my mind dislikes it before I even experience it. So, movie-wise or show-wise, if you wish  to suggest something to me, say you hate it.

Three weeks ago, I bought a book because I overheard a conversation between two friends discussing how much they hated it. I'm reading it right now and I love it. So yes, books work that way, too.

But 30 Rock is new (to me)! Liz Lemon is surprisingly easy to relate to. It could be because of the junk food obsession or her social awkwardness. Oh, and she sings and dances. What can she not do? I have yet to find out. I'm currently on season 3, and I plan to catch up by tomorrow. The episodes are only about twenty minutes long! That's three shows an hour.

Also, Sesame Street made a parody of it and Alec Baldwin...'s power is slightly attractive. His eyes are really pretty. I don't know what that statement reveals about me but it's ok because it's normal to have TV-crushes on older men. What else can I fangirl about without revealing too much? Uh, hm, the men Liz finds vary from total douchebaggedness to knee-weakingly perfect. But no one's perfect, so shhh.

I'm excited. I don't usually use ALL CAPS for many things (I am about to), nor do I go on rants about how pleasant something is. If there is someone out there who enjoys it as much as I do, please contact me so we can frizz about it. I think frizz is the right word. And... it's not a suggestion, but just tell me if you do check it out.

WHOO, TINA FEY AND ALEC BALDWIN. That is all.

Again... Happy Easter!

Armadillidium vulgare

Good news: I'm calm now. Better news: I have free time because all necessary homework is finished. The best news ever: There is an abundance of chocolate syrup.


I killed an Armadillidium vulgare today, better known as pill bugs,which are better known as roly polies, which as better known as the second best insect aside from a dead, but pretty butterfly. Actually, no, not really. It's not an insect. Wikipedia told me. "The more you know..."


Well, yes, I killed it. I was brushing my teeth earlier this morning and saw it on the floor. For reasons that continue to boggle my mind, we do not have bug spray within an arm's reach in our bathroom. (Not that it would work, because HA, Armadillidium vulgare are not insects! They are ISOPODS) 


You wanna know how I killed it? Shampoo. There was no bug spray, but there is always shampoo. Once, we had a shampoo shortage because I was to lazy to request to pick up another bottle. I heard that washing without shampoo is better for your hair, anyway. So true, because my hair was shinier without being greasier!
I let it get itself into a corner and then I formed a ring of death around it. Then I let the shampoo fall directly on it. It stopped moving. It died. 

I considered picking up the remains with tissue, for it was a disturbing sight. I have this... thing, though. I have to psych myself up before handling small living things with more than two legs. One time, I stepped on a roach with just a sock on. I mean ,I was wearing the sock, not the roach. I didn't feel it, but my dad told me it was there. I closed my eyes... psyched myself up, and ran. My face has also encountered a roach. My face. 


It's not an irrational fear, it's totally justified. I had problems looking up the scientific name of pill bugs to impress you guys because Wikipedia does not censor images of "bugs." I have yet to conquer my fear of pulling up the Wikipedia page for cockroaches. The pictures, man, the pictures...


I don't like insects because the underside of the feels like a chip broken into pieces, but it moves independently. That's exactly how it felt. AAAUUUEEGH. 


We got rid of our roach infestation four years ago. Ok, it wasn't a total infestation. They appeared in pairs every two weeks or so. I think an infestation would be waking up to the smell of bacon only to find out it was a hefty pack of roaches carrying bacon in front of you in a line on your bed. So ours was sort of a passive occupation. But no. They don't pay for any of the utilities nor are they related to the owner, so they did not have our welcome.


Turns out, Borax and baking soda was the key to it all. We just sprinkled it in the dark, moist corners of our house. No more! Not even the "teenager" roaches who were significantly smaller. So you can imagine the shock that came when I saw a roly poly! 


Yeah, so it's still there. but I'm not completely lazy, it's still in my mind. I'm going to pick it up now. 


On a lighter note, HAPPY EASTER! I hope that you all have a very nice one. My brother went egg-hunting yesterday, so perhaps we shall inspect his collection. I'm a sucker for those eggs that are like M&M's but they are really eggs. Ok, I'm really not trying to make this sound like I am dissing religion because I included it with a post about crawling things. That's not a joke. I had to make that clear. I'm not trying to be ignorant. So...again, Happy Easter. 

I Support Gay Rights.

It's true and I am firmly standing behind it. It's part of the reason I do not follow major religions. It's part of the reason my father and I argue so much. I just don't see anything wrong with two people loving each other. How can people be against love? Damn it.

It doesn't matter what your sexual orientation is, just support whatever the heck you want to. My father, my very own father says that homosexual relations are on the same level as murder. His reasoning? No sin is greater than any other. I outright asked him if he thought two gay men living together is on the same level as murdering someone, and he hesitated and said yes.

Oh yes, clearly. Clearly someone loving someone of the same gender is as bad as someone killing someone out of hate. This is ignorance. Total ignorance, and I am very mad. Some of the best people in the world that I have had the honor of meeting and befriending are not straight. And to hear that my very own father thinks that they are committing a sin that is on the same level as murder infuriates me.

I offered to have him meet some of my friends. The "sinners." Those who are definitely going to burn in hell. I want him to see how "evil" they are. I want him to see the impact they have made on me. I guess I'm going to hell, too, for supporting them and considering them my family.

Then again, I wouldn't want anyone to have to face the judgement of an ignorant person. My father is a great father. He sends us to schools, feeds us, cares for us, he loves us, tries to make us follow the right path. But if that path means hating those who are not straight, I'm not doing it.

I need to calm down. While I am doing so, let me just break apart this whole deal. What is your definition of love? Is your definition completely backed by the Bible? Is love something that is meant to be determined by someone else? Can you control who you want to love? No. No. I don't think so, I know so. Yet my dad thinks that homosexual people choose to love who they love.

When he talks about homosexual people at his workplace, he doesn't talk of them like they are human. What is so fucking different about them? How are they hurting society? How are they affecting HIM? How do they impact his life? What causes him to hate them for loving?

That's the main reason I drifted away from being completely religious. Some humans are putting limits on the purest form of humanity in existence. I understand if you disagree. I encourage you to argue your opinion, while respecting both sides.

I want to scream. I hate people sometimes, I really really do. I hate how judgmental they are. And I promised I wouldn't bring up race, but now I will. My father talks about how black people are hated for their skin color. Something they can't control. You can't control who you love. It's like racism. I find this extremely hypocritical of him.

When I was growing up, he drilled into our heads that homosexual people were evil. He'd tell us stories of how men would try to hit on him. Or so he thought. He'd call them "funnies." And for a while, my sister and I would do the same thing. It was like we were talking about a different species. It was exactly like racism.

This lead me to do a really terrible thing in middle school. I mentioned it in my very first blog post, and I guess now is the time to tell it. I had a best friend. I won't say her name on here for privacy. We would give each other gifts and do other best friend stuff. She was the only person I felt comfortable with in middle school in 6th grade. We talked on the phone a lot, and we were always paired up for teams and all of that.

She called me once, and invited me to her house. It gets a bit weird here, because my memory is fuzzy. But I will tell the whole truth and not try to cover things up to make me look better. I know other people used to do this when they were little...bathing with their own siblings and whatnot. For some reason, we were talking about that. And no, it did not have to do with the invitation to her house, because that needs to be noted. It was just a conversation. Yes it was rather weird, and I don't remember how we began that conversation.

The following week, I told people at school that she invited me over and wanted to take a bath with me. I twisted her words. I ruined her. I ruined her life. Everyone talked about her, and she could hear it. I don't know why my bitch-ass self did that. The teachers somehow found out. My English teacher took me aside and offered to have me move seats. I don't remember how I felt.

You know what? She was still trying to be my friend. After my utter betrayal and lying, she still sat with me, she still talked to me We just never spoke on the phone again. She sat next to me during our 6th grade "graduation." She kept telling me that she blushed when the guy she liked was looking at her for a few moments. She didn't come back the next school year.

I talked to my Speech teacher during my freshman year of high school about it, because she also served as a counselor, of some sorts. She said that I should try to find her and apologize. I did find her on Facebook. I typed up a long apology. I hesitated before I sent it, but if I didn't do it, she would never know how sorry I was for ruining her.

Today I sifted through all of my Facebook sent messages to find it. I apologized on July 17th. She's alright about it. She forgave me. She is the better person. I don't want any one to say otherwise. It was a very stupid experience that should never have happened. She forgave me.

I hate my 6th grade self.I hate her so much. I hate the stupidity, rather. I hate my 6th grade self's actions. I hate my father's beliefs on homosexuality, but I don't hate him. I do... say I hate people, but I just truly can only hate their actions.

You don't learn this sort of thing in schools. You don't learn how to treat others. You just sort of come across it, with a bit of guidance from parents and other influences. If I happen to have children, I will not instill a sense of hatred in them. I will teach them how to love others and not immediately strike back when others hurt them. They will get hurt. We all do. They will not care about race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, the amount of money someone has. The only thing they will judge a person on is their actions, not things they cannot control. My children will love. They will be raised in an environment in which injustice towards those who are different will not be tolerated. My children will hopefully grow up and spread those beliefs around. It is all I can do to make up for ignorant people.

Or course, I sort of dread having children, because childbirth is supposedly hell. I can still say "hell," right? Even if I am not your traditional religious person who doesn't support love-related freedom? Good.

Bucket List 4: Conn a Ship. No.

No. I'm not even going to try. The title is misleading, and for that I apologize. But I have another story that is possibly more interesting than the conning of ships.

StumbleUpon is such a great time-filler. I won't say "waster," for time is only wasted when you don't get anything of it the time you spent "wasting" it. It made so much sense in my mind. Anyway, after about 15 Stumbles yesterday, I came across what can best be described as the "whipped cream of the Internet."

(Click with caution, mine didn't open in a new tab, and it was frustrating) The Revolving Internet. Jesh, click it if you please. I don't know if your Blogger automatically opens links in new pages or tabs, so take heed.You will be greeted by a home page, most likely Google. Or perhaps it depends on what you set it as... I have yet to find out. Oh, also there is a beautiful song that accompanies it. It's so peaceful, and makes internet browsing so freaking classy.
Let's call each instance of it being open a "revolving tab." And whoa, I'm not so sure about that sentence structure, but go with it, hm? So at first, I only had the first one, and it was spinning around on my Google homepage. I just let the song play as I watched and freaked out. Then I decided to double the intensity. I typed in "revolving internet" in the spinning Google thingy to click on the second revolving internet link. It's like that movie I've never seen but a dream is in another dream and it has Leonardo DiCaprio with squinty e-INCEPTION.
No, the world did not implode and puppies did not vomit gold. Yeah, not much of a change... but it seems to be going faster. And there are now two songs with a delay of about a minute and a half of them. Are we done with this internet experiment? Hell no. I've gotten up to three revolving tabs and a cup of milk, let's do this.

Ok. So there are slight typos, thanks to Google's Autofill...feature.
This is not going so well.
I wanted to take it a step further and try YouTube. 
Broken. I broke it.

At this point, there was just... too much. Too many sounds. So many circles. Blank chunks of white are showing up for no apparent reason. It's exactly like whipped cream, and I'll explain why. One or two spoonfuls of whipped cream is alright. It makes boring foods edigasmic. But three...four...seven spoonfuls is pushing it. Once you've finished the whole tub of it, you're on the floor weeping and regretting it. Your future with whipped cream is ruined because you've had too much. However... you can never get enough of that cherry on top...
Oh, and the classy music continues to play!

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Bucket List 3: Butcher a Hog

Perhaps Robert A. Heinlein does not mean this in the literal sense. I live in Houston. I will not come within 100 miles of a hog until the Rodeo comes around again. Damn it, I would have butchered a hog during Freshman year, had I been in the right Biology class. Perhaps Heinlein does mean a fully-grown hog. Well, I could visualize it…

I would casually walk into a pigpen. Sorry, hogpen. Nonono, wait, the home of the person who dr-that's extremely rude of me, I'm sorry. So, stroll into hogpen. Oh, whoa, no. Hogs are vicious. Stupid, stupid, I know. Okay, I would maintain a nice distance of 20 feet from above from the hog in question.

I would obtain a brick. Or a large rock...stone...boulder. Or maybe a water balloon to stun it momentarily. They'd never see it coming. I heard that pigs...hogs...can't look up. So. I would lure it in my general direction with hog calls. And once it is oriented towards me, I strike.

Let's assume I miss at least three times, because that is very likely to happen. This will give the hog time to charge. But that won't help because I am 20 feet above it. After I release the cheap ammunition, we can expect it to get tired of my stupidity and maybe totter away. Then we have to bring in female hogs.

I don't know what hogs look for in a mate. The leathery skin… the dripping snout… inability to sprint long distances...that works for humans, but what...what about hogs? Or maybe it's horny season and they'll take anything they can get. Humans do that, too.

So I'd lure both of them back after somehow setting them up through a series of wingmen and blind dates. And slaughter them with bricks. BRICKS.

I do not have the mental strength to pull through with this. This is one task I simply cannot complete. It makes me less human. Or does it? Does it really? PSYCHORANT TIME!

Are humans really reliant on our ability to kill other things? Perhaps. We function from the dysfunctions of other species. Meaning, if they cannot defend themselves, they taste good, and the FDA approves, we can eat them. I'm sure humans taste wonderful, but we do not meet the other requirements. Perhaps my opposition of killing a hog stems from my gender...but no. No.

Do you think this is a good reason to just take this of the bucket list? It is a minor redaction. REDACTION. There is a little tub of frosting by my foot!


Bucket List 2: Plan an Invasion

YES for consistency, and NO, I'm not talking about oatmeal! Oatmeal consistency is important, though. I know it rather late but damn it, I will actually finish something for once in my life. 

We've planned picnics. We've planned parties. We've planned car trips. But most of us have never planned an invasion. And by invasion, I mean total infiltration of the target population.

RULE 1: Choose a challenging enemy.

This is crucial. This decision is going to affect your overall success and the amount of time and money you spend in preparation. This process should take some time, but don't worry. Who can you safely invade with a minimal amount of resistance? Who can you obliterate with the least repercussions? Whose walls will be the easiest to overcome? Whose invasion will look better when you brag to people over a glass of wine and cheese cubes at a future college social?

Pygmy zombies.


I know regular zombies are appearing everywhere in the media. Yet pygmy zombies are dead and gone under the radar, so to speak. I guess they were falling beneath the height requirements for society's entertainment. Or perhaps, the concept of fame and glory just flew over their deteriorating heads. It's time to bring them back into the spotlight. And invade them.

RULE 2: Know the area. Know the inhabitants.

I'll need to know the layout of their fortresses. They tend to reside in heavily wooded areas, along lesser-known rivers. They definitely know the area better, so I should probably hold back on bright uniforms.

RULE 3: Don't go with "pretty," go with functional.

Pygmy zombies love glitter. Who doesn't? That's why you must not wear any.

It would also be stupid to head in there without a vague idea of what the surroundings are like. That's what Google is for. It's risky, but I feel that Wikipedia's information on foreign environments and creatures will suffice. Just to be safe, I'll check out the links at the bottom of the page for additional information. This portion should take at least two weeks. This seems like a no-brainer, but Google Streetview is your best bet. Granted, the area will not have any streets, but the 3-D feature is helpful.

Don't be afraid to simulate the environment. Get familiar with their culture, try their cuisine, listen to their music. This sort of thing doesn't have to be totally serious. Don't you want to be able to look back on this and smile? You could even start a fad in your hometown with catchy slogans on t-shirts with all of the fun stuff you've learned.

After that, I suggest gathering supplies. You should know at this point what it takes to bring the population to their knees. Hopefully no one assumed that the goal of this operation was to eliminate pygmy zombies. Oh no, this is nothing like that. We only want to hear them surrender. Anyway…

RULE 4: Always gather more supplies than you think you will need.

Be sure you have your basics. Enough food to last at least three weeks. Water, water, water. Ropes of various sizes. Maybe some teen magazines to keep you interested during break time. Also, any weaponry if they try to strike back. It is to be expected, in any invasion.

You may think you have all you need. But you are missing one crucial thing. It's so common that we tend to forget about it.

RULE 5: Battle music.

Ladies, I cannot stress how important this is. Imagine heading into a basketball game or an academic event without proper pump-up music. I suggest assigning one of your group members the position of Musical Arrangement Director. They should have at least fifteen songs, two of which are instrumentals. This is a personal preference, but if you want to be a part of my pygmy-zombie-invading group, you must have a love for "The Final Countdown." 

The following rules apply depending on the outcome of your initial attack.

RULE 6: In the case of failure and capture, do NOT taunt pygmy zombies about their shortcomings.

RULE 7: Maintain a calm and professional attitude.

RULE 8: If you get a chance to run away, take it.

RULE 9: Try not to watch any more zombie horror movies on the weekend, because they will only inspire you to write things like this.

RULE 10: In fact, don't watch horror movies at all after 10PM.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Interpretation of a Music Video.

I'm confused.

I've been trying new things. It's a part of that new philosophy mindset. So, y'know, starting small. I won't do anything drastic yet, like stop eating junk food. Should I? What if it makes me happy? Do I have to? No. Small steps. That's right.

This little ordeal started out during one of my hot dance parties. It was actually hot, our AC doesn't work. Plus, my dancing wouldn't be able to arouse 7th graders, if we're talking that kind of hot. I hear 7th graders are pretty damn arousable. I was crumping to disco music on the side of my bed, because the laptop (source of music) fit and allowed slack for my headphones. Yeah, I don't dance with music playing out loud. It does, sadly, add to the embarrassment associated with the possibility of getting caught.

The disco music was coming in from my beloved YouTube. Sweet, tender loins of Youtube. For a while, I was content with the echo-ishness of disco music, and I was actually enjoying the hair. One thing led to another, and I was listening to "Big Booty Bitches." I don't blame the guy...everybody loves a big booty bitch. So this lead to watching other viral videos that had somehow escaped my internet-eye. "Nyan Cat." I saw "Nyan Cat." And...and I saw "Orphan Tears." I regret nothing.

Eventually I clicked on "Seek Bromance"(YAY, it's a link) You know what a bromance is, yes? Guys aren't like girls. They can't just go around hugging their bros, sitting on other bros' laps, humping other bros like girls can. Well, they can. But we live in a world that is afraid

of acceptance.

So when guys go out and do guy stuff with guys that goes beyond the normal social conventions, they are involved in a bromance. For some girls, watching guys do guy things with and to each other is arousing. I could go on another inexperienced psychological rant about this. But in all honesty, that is not why I clicked it. I clicked it because I was searching for new things to listen to and it was under the "Electronica" section.

This is where I get confused. There are two guys who are really cool with each other. You could tell that they had known each other long enough to be able to touch each other's shoulders. That's a big deal. They were laughing and taking acid, too. Just what you would expect from a video with "Bromance" in it, right?

But the whole freaking time, there was a blonde chick in clothes that looked like they had been pulled through a meat processor. The whole video, I wondered WHY she was there. She was messing up the bromance, brah, and that's so not funky fresh.

I would feel like a third wheel, in that case. There's this one part where they are driving and they have to make a stop because she has to pee. So she's out of the car, and the two guys slowly drive off... they would have been able to get away, but her meat-processed-clothed self was chasing them.

And then they had a three-way. The comments are nothing but interpretations of the video, some saying the girl is a figment of their imagination, others saying it demonstrates the "bros before hos" policy.

I just think it's a prime example of how people should be more aware of getting in the way of a relationship. If your male road-trip buddies have mentioned homosexual tendencies, and you are not of that same gender, and you hear hesitation in their voices when you ask if you can go last-minute, and you catch them staring at each other during a Las Vegas hotel threesome... you are a third wheel. I hope this long sentences makes up for the many choppy ones.

It's been a very unproductive, yet enjoyable day...

I'm sorry if it sounds aggressive...

Monday, April 18, 2011

Fountains.

They are supposed to relieve stress, fountains. They are supposed to calm you down, they are. They often inspire weird sentence structure from writer-blocked writers, yes they do. So my father recently bought one. He's at work now, and my sister is at her learning institution, so...

I decided to set that thing up.

It came in a little cardboard box. The box had been sitting on our kitchen counter, which lead me to assume that my dad wanted to set it up in the dining room. It certainly would match with our decor. Anything would match with our decor. Because we have no decor. It's just a room with a table and 4 mismatched chairs, in front of a windowsill full of business magazines, black magazines, and black business magazines. There's the occasional crayon. It's not cluttered, it adds variety to the room.

So I'm like, "yeah...this will look nice in here. Maybe I can finish up WebAssign next to a little bitty fountain." I said that out loud because no one was there, and it's healthy to talk to yourself every now and then. By now, I'm motivated. This is the last day of this pleasant weekend, man, I'ma get some serious stuff done. I didn't say that out loud, though.

I bring the fountain out of the box. It appeared to be stuck, but I yanked the tiny contraption out eventually. I though I broke it at first. The top of it came off and the base was still in the box. "Damn it." I said that.

I sort of reunited the two part in a way that made sense. I don't know if it was the correct way, it just looked like it worked. Then I found the instruction manual...s. There were about 4 separate documents. Some looked plain and they were not even glossed or colored. I looked at the exciting ones first. They were coupons. Total waste of time.

Something told me to actually read the instructions, so I did. As small as this was, I knew it required some skill or intricate know-how to operate. So I skimmed over it. I mean, I read it. I assembled all of the parts. The booklet told me to "familiarize" myself with the fountain. I totally did.

I think the most fun derived from that assembly session was adding the water. The base seemed to already have mineral build-up. That's pretty classy. I filled it up with distilled water. I would have gone a step further and use bottled water, but bottled water is not that special.

I plugged the thingy in, full of confidence that this moment would change my life forever. I planned on telling people at school tomorrow about it. It really was exciting. It didn't work.

The "pump" wasn't pumping anything. It was fueling my confusion, sending pangs of rejection into my dejected soul. I may 'ave mumbled something at this point. I consulted the instruction booklet once more. This went on for a good 15 minutes. I remember thinking about how this was causing more stress, instead of relieving it.

It turns out, all I needed to do was change outlets. See, some would credit the instruction manual for "troubleshooting" but I feel like intuition was all that was necessary. So it's finally working, but the stream is sort of weak and it sounds...well, it honestly sounds like someone urinating. Don't be all, "how would you know?" I do. You do. So I'm being calmed by 6 streams of colored water. Yes, it is working. Name suggestions?

I went to my room to get my computer to start WebAssign, but I ended up blogging instead. In about 5 minutes, I wrap this up and hopefully finish up that last 30%. This weekend is going to end wonderfully with a 30 Rock marathon. I have a newfound, admittedly late, admiration for Tina Fey. I've seen one episode so far. I seldom finish series unless it's really captivating, and so far it is captivating. Also, on a slightly creepier note one of my teachers resembles her. Somewhat. Only somewhat.
WHAAAAZZZZZZUPPPPPPP, HOMEDIC FOUNTAIN OF STRESS ALL UP IN DISSSS. 

Saturday, April 16, 2011

"Reason Vs. Emotion"

That's a phrase one of my favorite teachers brought up. It has to do with Jane Eyre. Jane has a lot of passion, and she likes to let it show. So do I. So that last post may have been a bit too much. I don't want others to think my father is a horrible person. He is not. He's my hero in a lot of ways. He is a product of his environment, like everyone else. So I'll explain all of that later, but I just wanted people to understand that one thing. My father is not a mean person. Now I'm the ungrateful daughter. Damn it.

For now, I will breakdown my...emotional breakdown. That tends to happen a lot, whether I welcome it or not. When I wrote that last thing, I was just...angry. I was mad. I was hurt, above all. The people who are supposed to love you hurt you the most.

Can I just be frank here and say that I despise being a girl at times? We're moody. We are very very moody. Something in that second X chromosome gives us the ability to lash out at anything that does not biologically possess female genitalia. Men can do that too, but that's rather douche-like.

So I'm a moody little bitch. My day was a quadruple-humped camel back of emotions. It started off lazily, I went on Reddit and laughed at some stuff, then I saw Tangled and cried for a while. Then I went on Facebook and felt like a shitty friend. I went back on Reddit to laugh. And then I cried some more. Next I winced at Bear Grylls. Cried again at my failure as a child and here I am.

I don't "feel" much. I feel calm. I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything else. Not even happiness. That's just unrealistic.

I can, however, obtain milk from my fridge. Yes, I drink my problems away. Not excessively. Milk is just calming. (Go figure.) I'm proud because it will probably lower the risk of osteoporosis. I hear that's common for some reason in "women of African-American or Asian ancestry over the age of 40-or something" according to some commercial. I fit two of those requirements, so I'm not taking any chances.

I know that some girls out there count calories in every single thing they eat. I'm not going to oppose them, because I did it, too. I'm just saying that every girl has a breaking point. I would not count calories while crying.

Damn, son, you better believe I will sit on my bed with a half-gallon of Bluebell ice cream and not have any regrets. I'll take care of the chocolate-marshmallow mess after I clean up my soul. I would like to shut off all contact from people at this point, because although I am filling my face with foodstuff, I will not miss a chance to attack you verbally.

Look for the tell-tale signs. I will put my hands on my head a lot. Sigh annoyingly. Roll my eyes. Make a rude passing remark. Not make any attempts at humor.

These are indicative of the storm that may or may not come.

Sorry.

My arm is itching and I probably have an allergic reaction to one of the bracelets. Hm. Also, does anyone else sneeze a few times when they wake up? I'm sure someone out there does. I know it. I Googled around and I guess it's because our horizontal position lets the mucus pile up, and in the morning, the sneezes try to get it out. 10 times every morning. Tonight I might sleep upright, propped up with a pillow with milk by my side.

I really like milk.

Bucket List 1: Changing a Diaper

CHECK!

I have changed a diaper. There are several qualifications for a successful diaper switch.

  1. The user of the diaper must be a child who is incapable of changing his or her own diaper. Otherwise, we're crossing into fetish territory. Not that it is a bad thing…
  2. The diaper must be full of waste. Bonus points for each wave of odor that hits the diaper-changer's nose.
  3. Let's be honest, urine-filled diapers are too easy, since most of the wetness is absorbed. If you want more than recognition, go for the second situation.
  4. Completing the "third" situation earns you the utmost respect, as well as a small neighborhood block party with that quiet guy from middle school as your very own DJ. Also, that bitch who didn't put the goddam charger in your hand after you asked for it will serve you drinks through a bendy straw. (Dropped it on the floor and walked away, when my hand was open. Yes sir, she did.)
  5. The old diaper must be disposed of properly. It should be folded in a trapezoidal manner in which no substance can leak out. The smell, as a result, will be masked.
  6. More bonus points if your hands and upper arms remain clean.
  7. If you are dealing with boys, you must be skilled in dodging streams of you-know-what. Streams of piss, if you were questioning…
  8. Powder. Or diaper ointment. Apply with care.
  9. The new diaper must be nicely fit. Not too tight, not too loose. Juuuust right.
  10. Smile softly while you are doing this.
  11. But not creepily, for the parents may ban you.
  12. Even if you are related.


This is rather graphic. But it is one thing I can cross off the bucket list. It is rather exciting.

In other news, I made a promise that I would never ever compare my children to someone else. Especially when the "better" person is the same damn age or younger. Do parents realize how much that hurts? Today, my dad was fan-boying over a young African-American kid. The race in this case is rather important to note, because that is why my dad was happy.

Apparently, this kid went to college at the tender age of 15. Oh yeah, my age. He then went on to Rice University. So, he's telling me this. And at this point, I am aware that he is smarter than me. I can't deny it. I'm making D's and whatever in chemistry and writing about diapers and watching Bear Grylls drink camel dung juice, and this kid is going to Motherfucking Rice University. And he's black, and my dad loves to go on about how hard it is for "us" to get ahead in life.

He then says something that made me feel unworthy of being his child.

"I'm so proud of him."

Fuck it. Fuck it all. He had never ever said something like that to either one of his daughters. Every fucking day he comes home and he groans at us to wash dishes or clothes. He threatens to cut off the internet when we don't pick up one little napkin on the floor, in the middle of my WebAssign. He blames my mother yet praises all other Asian races for being so smart. Yeah, y'know, why can't I inherit the smart Asian skills? Fuck. When I won an award for something, he smiled for a moment, said "congrats" and went on.

And he just praises a kid he has never met before in his life for being a successful black person.

Fuck. This.

I know I'm not in the top 5% of my high school. Does he not think I am trying?

He tried to soften the blow, because he knew my sister and I heard him.

"I'm proud of you, too."

We don't need the "too."

We don't need any of that.

Dad, I'm sorry I have failed you as a child. I'm sorry I can't play tennis like you want me too. I'm sorry I didn't get that St. Agnes scholarship. I'm sorry I didn't pick up that thing on the floor. I'm sorry I'm getting D's and C's on things. I'm sorry for failing you. I'm sorry I was born a girl.

But I will not apologize for wanting to live my life. Yeah, I might purposefully apply to Rice, and if by some miracle I get in, I will show the letter to him and tear it.

But that would ruin my life, right? And he should not have that impact on me. That's my own father.

"I'm so proud of him."

Friday, April 15, 2011

Bucket List!

Yes. I have a bucket list. Or, I will start one. I wish to accomplish all of this before I die. It's based off of this:

"A human being should be able to
change a diaper
plan an invasion
butcher a hog
conn a ship
design a building
write a sonnet
balance accounts
build a wall
set a bone
comfort the dying
take orders
give orders
cooperate
act alone
solve equations
analyze a new problem
pitch manure
program a computer
cook a tasty meal
fight efficiently
die gallantly
Specialization is for insects." -Robert A. Heinlein

Let's do this. I want to become an honorary human being. I'll go through one of these per entry, and hopefully in a month or two months, I will complete this. Of course, the last one will hopefully be put off for a while. Oh, and these will be done enthusiastically. No half-assing. That would make me half-human. 

Maybe this will inculcate a sense of persistence. My next years of schooling would be so much easier if it did. And maybe I'll add some more of others or my own. Feel free to suggest ideas!

I can't put this on my resume or college applications, but this is more geared toward self-assurance. If I can accomplish at least 75% of these, I will die happily.

I invite you to do the same. Maybe this'll turn into one of those blogging memes. That'd be really cool. Robert A. Heinlein would be proud. 

Damn It.

I hate it when I get mad at the people I love. The ones that do so much for me. They aren't the ones I should get mad at, not at all. But I do it, so often, and I don't know why. I'll admit that most of the time, I will be able to "blame" it on hormones. Or something like that. But in the end, I realize that it's myself.

It starts off as mild annoyance. Every burst of emotion I have starts off as annoyance. Then it turns into silent frustration. I've noticed it happens when no one is paying attention to me. So maybe I'm a bitch who does this crap for attention. I want to figure it out so I can stop it.

I'm an emotional person. Those who know me are aware. I'm not particularly proud of it. But at times, it's what keeps me human. I don't just have the "base" feelings of anger, sadness, and happiness. I guess they come in different varieties. There's mild anger, where I'm a bit pissed at some small thing. And deep sadness, where I "hate" life and "hate" the people in it and "hate" myself. And pure happiness. And at the very extremes of these emotions, the tears fall. I wish people would understand that and accept me.

I cry. Some people think it's weak. I've gotten that before. To my face. Since primary school. If those people are so keen on stopping me from crying, they probably shouldn't say that. I'll cry. I am weak. I know it. What keeps me strong are other people. That's why I rely on them for so much.

I would not be able to make it through this year if it weren't for other people. I don't know if they realize it yet. I haven't really told them. I hope that when I state how amazing or beautiful they are, they believe it, because it is true. That's my small way of saying how much I appreciate them.

That's why it's so stupid for me to get mad at them. When I'm in the act of tearing them apart, emotionally, I don't think. I seldom think when I'm caught up in emotion. I just become a weapon. Barely human, yet entirely so.

You wanna know what the worst part is? Those moments afterwards, where I am alone and have time to think...about..how stupid I was. The regret. The desire to apologize and make things go back to the way they were. The crushing feeling of remorse because I have severed the ties with someone that held onto me the most. And then, what's left is mustering up the courage to ask for forgiveness, and move on. That's hard. It wouldn't have to happen if I actually thought about it.

This is basically dedicated to anyone I've hurt through this... most recently my mother.

I hate, and I can truly say "hate", going to sleep angry at someone. Or going to sleep knowing that someone thinks you hate them. It sounds so overused. But it's true. I hardly see my mom. She has another family and I want her to have a better life and focus on that. So I should cherish the moments I do have with her. I may say a lot of things about my parents. But I will never ever ever call them a disappointment. I figure, once I say that, or once I type that, I won't be able to live it down. Parents make mistakes. So do children.

I'm going to call her soon...

I wish I would have apologized before she left my house. I hate having divorced parents mainly because you never know if one parent is sleeping soundly at night. You can't see them. You don't even know if they made it home safely. If I get married, I am making sure that my possible children don't have to go through that.

My head hurts. Humans are destructive.

AGH, let's be a bit more positive, yeah? I plan to start my "Bucket List" posts soon. Yes. It is excited. Feel it. Breathe it. Slice it into little pieces throw it on your salads.

But if you don't like salads, you can throw it on ice cream.