Sand in the Vagina

Sometimes I am amazed by the lack of responsibility I seem to possess when it comes to caring for inanimate objects. Awhile back, I decided to fuck up my car. While turning my car on ice, I overcorrected my steering and slid sideways into a curb, thus obliterating two tires, two tire sensors, and two wheels. Throw in a screwed-up suspension and you have one hell of a sweet bill from your local car-fixy-place. It's also fun when your insurance adjuster calls to confirm where you have sent your broken car one morning only to not show up at confirmed location and therefore sticking you with the bill. However, car was seemingly fine after repairs and life went on...

Until about a week and a half later. Once again we find our heroine driving her beloved brand new car in wintry weather. Well, it wasn't exactly wintry at that moment but the remnants of the precipitation from the day before were still lurking. Enter in "big flying ice chunk" from semi a couple hundred feet up the interstate. "Big flying ice chunk" nosedives into the front of my vehicle on the passenger side. I worry about my tire once again being annihilated, only to discover the tire is fine but that a chunk of my front bumper around my fog lights is missing. A little part of me dies every time I walk by said damage. With any luck I'll still be alive next week.

Today, I tested out my new Christmas present: a vacuum. Please, please, hold the applause. For the first ten minutes this apparatus was among the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Enter random strand of Christmas lights I run over with the vacuum. The air was saturated with the scent of death. When the vacuum powered down, I realized there had been two casualties: the lights and the vacuum. The vacuum is fixable as it just needs a new belt, but there will be no joy in vacuuming for me until I go retrieve said belt from a store.

Along with my dog having the runs, having no food in my fridge, and having to return to work once again tonight, I feel like someone would might they have sand in their vagina. Minus the physical sensation and much more of the angsty, emo-ridden, piss-and-vinegar-coursing-through-the-veins state of mind.

Captain Jerkface

It's getting to be that time of year when my isolationist tendencies seem to get the best of me. For most of my life, I've probably fit of the profile of someone who is a "loner." I'm not a sad, emo "loner"; rather instead I'm just someone who has become extremely comfortable and accustomed to doing things on their own. I live alone, for the most part I'm sleeping alone, I'm eating alone, I'm watching TV alone, and I do other stuff alone. When my schedule allows for it, I socialize with friends. Granted it's the same three to five people I socialize with every time, but this typically doesn't bother me.

The last time I went back to my parents' house in my hometown, it dawned on me that none of the people I was hanging out with were there because of me; they were there to see my brother. This is fine as I have purposely not kept in touch with more than a handful of people from that town, none of whom are still in that area. However, it was also then I realized that the one good friend I still had there was someone I hadn't spoken to in what's probably closing in on one year.

Long story short, I am terrible at keeping in contact with others. Everyone promises to write or call or whatever and that lasts about one go-around before you never hear from them again. I am notorious for putting the burden of friendship maintenance on the other person, a quality that has caused some to label me as distant or indifferent, neither of which I purposely intended to be.

What is the protocol for trying to reconnect with old friends? Is there x amount of time that passes by before you should just accept bygones as bygones?

Why won't you like me?

And why can't I accept the fact that it's really okay if you don't?

Hidden talent

I am addicted to Wii Fit.

I've been using it for just over a month. I haven't lost as much weight as I would have liked to just yet, but what can you do? I love the verbal abuse it offers me when my weight has shifted up 0.2 pounds. It gets upset when I don't weigh in at the same time everyday. It knows when I've skipped a day. Basically, I'm answering to a little white box with a brain. Hell hath no fury like a pissed off Wii.

During my foray into interactive fitness, I've stumbled upon an activity I gave up a long time ago: running. Okay, it's not really "running". It's jogging or something like that. Essentially I'm moving at a slightly elevated pace compared to walking. I was in track in middle school. I wasn't even a runner then; I just threw shotput and discus. Take that back; I ran the 800 once.

One of the activities on the Wii Fit is a Free Run. In this exercise you are allowed to run jog at your own pace. On the screen you can see yourself running on a course along side other Miis. I don't know if it's trying to make me feel better by having this ridiculously uncoordinated Mii fall down every five minutes, but whatever, at least I'm not that guy. You jog in place for a set time limit. I set it for 10 minutes the other day, thinking I'd either grow bored or hate the exercise with the fire of a thousand suns.

To my surprise, I liked it. Much of this must be credited to my iPod, but afterwards I felt as though I'd done something really good. My legs were not the Jell-o jigglers I thought they might be. I felt invigorated and moderately satisfied. I dare say I might have actually been a runner in another lifetime. I'm not quite sure if this feat could be accomplished without my iPod but I'd certainly give it a try. My goal is to work towards maintaining a steady pace and by next spring, I might just try the real thing outdoors.

In the mean time, I'll be the idiot running in front of my TV, trying not to trip over the other Miis who fail to stay upright for two minutes at a time.

Cognitive upchuck and the like

At last, I have returned. Call it a mental hiatus if you will, I wanted to take the last month and a half off from overanalyzing things. Due to some family complications, this hiatus wasn't as continual as I had hoped for. The following brain vomit is what I have been needing to write down for some time; my apologies for the sheer "suckiness" that ensues.

There was a death in my family. Death is a part of life, or so that crappy cliche goes. I personally think there is nothing natural about death and truth be told my death is something I have always feared. Blame this on my "lack" of spirituality or whatever you wish; I just know I like being in control and death doesn't really let you call the shots. Perhaps if Death came in the form of the animated grim reaper on Family Guy would I feel a little better about it.

Anyway, that last paragraph was garbage. What I really meant to say was that I lost one of the most meaningful people in my life last month and I am falling far short of being "okay" with it. Memories of this person cloud my thoughts every single day. I have so many questions I cannot answer, let alone the questions I'm not even sure how to ask. This death was his choice, not a rational choice in my opinion, but his choice. I am not sure if I have ever felt so betrayed or angry with someone. I want to tell him what a fucking chicken shit he was for doing what he did. Sometimes my ill-conceived notions of heaven allow me to think that he is watching over this world and that he can see my family unraveling. He can see my confusion and the mental clusterfuck that has made permanent residence inside my head. It is rare when I encounter an empathetic moment where I try to imagine his life leading up to his death. Sometimes I just don't care how bad he hurt because not even Machiavelli could argue that "the ends justified the means."

The good memories I have of this man are clouded by the negativity surrounding his death. My head knows that there is no point in being bitter because person I'm directing my anger to can do not a thing to respond. Dead, dead, dead, dead, done. He is gone.

I hope to someday put this behind me but for now we're both running at a steady pace, side by side. My anger and memories of him are my constant companions. His death has made me even more selfish than usual. I have pushed away friends and family who have tried to comfort me when any solace they could have offered should have been welcomed with open arms. What do you say to person who has lost someone because they just didn't feel like living anymore? The subject is so taboo in society that I don't even feel this blog is appropriate to share. However, I have to get it out and if I can't say this to someone's face, at least it is out of my head.

I miss him and for the first time in my life I've realized that hate and love are not on two different continuums but the same one. One of my relatives accurately described it as going from "a hug to a slug" in about 0.2 seconds. Many are the times I want to slug him, and hopefully more often will I feel the need to want to hug him.

So really, welcome to the event that has defined my life for the past month or so. However, the gloom and doom ends here.

No name

Today I remembered it was the birthday of one of my best friends from college. At one point in my life, she was numero uno; someone who knew all of my secrets and still wanted to be my friend. Despite being two extraordinarily different people, we shared common threads that paved the way for our transition into college life. There are few memories of my freshman through junior years that do not involve her. She was probably the closest thing I've had to a sister.

As most friendships go, we had squabbles every so often. The big one came at the end of our junior year. I was hurt, she told me she was sorry, and I came around to forgiving her. However, soon after this incident I became exceedingly aware that our differences were catching up to us and the bond of friendship started to crack. We both became busy with our own lives and doings and before we knew it, the cracks had become a rift, then a fault line, and eventually to what I would describe as a small canyon today.

Our attempts to bridge things back together haven't paid off. There have been the occasional "How are you"s and attempts to hold a conversation, but nothing substantial. It has been over a year since we've even seen one another.

There was a long period of time where I struggled with the notion that someone so connected to my sense of self for three years was just not there anymore. There was a point where I had convinced myself that she had pushed me away only to be followed by more overanalyzing that made me feel as though I was the one doing the pushing.

Having kissed away that guilt not a moment too soon, I sat down by my computer, logged into Facebook, and left her a simple "Happy Birthday!" message. The middle-school kid inside of me remembered I hadn't received such wishes on my birthday, but thankfully the 23-year-old me was finally able to tell that middle schooler to fuck off. Yes, a simple birthday message is really all I felt the need to say to her. This may start some sort of interaction between us that essentially goes nowhere and it's okay. There's a strong chance we will eventually lose touch with one another. I guess I welcome whatever open-ended communication happens between us.

To say she is no longer a friend is a big pill to swallow and for practical purposes possibly true. However, she will never be just another person I see walking down the street or some mutual acquaintance. She fills a capacity for which there really is no proper name, and perhaps that is what I struggle with the most.

Twenty-two going on twelve

Today I was regaled with the news that another one of my friends has become engaged. Being the self-absorbed piece of crap that I can be on a frequent basis, I turned this situation into a "woe-is-me" story, rather than being a decent human being and friend and feeling happy for my friend who has found...umm...happiness. I don't feel like using a thesaurus right now.

Instead, I started to count how many of my friends are engaged or married. I was actually kind of shocked by the number; I definitely wasn't expecting as many. Then I thought about how many of my friends are in relationships. Then I realized it's my day off work and that keeping my brain workload to a minimum might not be a half bad idea. I decided to count my single friends. Out of the three groups, my single friends (and I'm counting people I talk to semi-frequently) are the only group in the single digits. When, oh Alpha and Omega, did that happen?

It's no big secret that I've been checking the "single" box for a few years now. This is partly of my own doing; I place a high value on independence and self-sufficiency. However, as I age ever so gracefully, I realize this pattern is not the most socially accepted as you add on more candles on the birthday cake. Seeing as how I have less than a quarter of a century of birthday candles on my cake, I don't think there should be a rush...at all.

Maybe I don't really have anything to worry about. I think sometimes I get a little frustrated thinking that if my friends and I were playing the game of Life (TM) that I would be losing by quite a bit. I'm a pretty competitive person so you can only imagine my outrage at this absurd situation.

Bat-shit crazy grandma doesn't like it when I joke about becoming an old maid, especially while my seventeen-year old cousin brings her boyfriend over before Christmas dinner to meet the family. My mom, the ever-endearing fountain of cliche, says that loves comes when you least expect it. She also told me once that love is awesome and that if I were a lesbian she'd be okay with that. Thanks Mom, but I don't think switching teams is going to help my batting average.

The Spanish Inquisition

Imagine you are sitting at a corner booth in a restaurant where everyone is sitting on one side, you in the middle with two people on either side of you. You, the heretic and non-celebrator of Ash Wednesday, are facing the crowd that has gathered around you (a.k.a. the other restaurant patrons), while members of the high court, err, your family flank either side. To your far left is the grand matron of the court, your bat-shit crazy grandmother. (You can say that because you love her and she is bat-shit crazy). To your immediate left is Father; to your immediate right is Mother; and to the far right is the Aunt you love dearly but drives you nuts because no one should ever be that emotional (at least when intoxicated.)

It's not to say you don't enjoy the magic show otherwise known as your family, because really, where would you be without them? It's your grandmother's empty (or not-so-empty) threats to everyone about eating meat on a holy day that kind of make you feel a little guilty about not stepping foot into a Catholic church for five years but also tell you to keep your mouth shut unless you really do want her to breathe fire. Your quest for some type of faith is not something unknown to your parents and they seem okay with your journey, although you think they would secretly like you to find your way back to your homeslice Pope Benedict and maybe even Jesus if you feel really ambitious. Then there's your mother, who in some way you feel as though you are never going to measure up to. You can't even be confident in the food you're ordering off of the menu because you feel she might be judging you and biting her tongue at the same time, a skill she's excelled at ever since you left for college. Your father, is well your father. You have his eyes, his nose, his big mouth, and his temper. It's a wonder you don't hate one another.

Dinner with the family is usually fine, but rarely without something that goes awry. Like when your grandmother leaves the table for the moment and gossip ensues about which member of family she's hating this week. Apparently it's your uncle, because your aunt has noticed that their wedding picture was face down and backwards among the many others in Grandma's living room. Or when Grandma starts talking bat-shit crazy again and has lovely racist comments to share with all. Then you just wish she'd actually take her bat-shit crazy pills.

Alas, you've escaped dinner unscathed, but maybe you won't be so lucky next time. Maybe it's time to get on that job search or the diet you've put off for about 10 years. Next thing you know you'll be sitting in time-out on Grandma's picture shelf.

Emo Boy

Last week was kind of a sad week for me. Said goodbye to a job I didn't exactly want to leave and to some coworkers that I kind of miss already. I also said goodbye (unofficially) to Emo Boy.

Emo Boy, for starters, is not really emo. He has emo-like black glasses, but he's possibly got a bigger beer gut I've ever seen on an emo person. He seems like he hates his job enough to be borderline emo. Emo Boy works at Subway. I thought he might be a manager, but in hindsight, he might have just been a plain ol' Sandwich Artist.

Why do I bring Emo Boy up? In all honesty, I'm not sure. In a very non-emo-ish way, he was unconventionally cute. He liked to run his big mouth and became big fans of my coworker and I, as Subway became our weekly lunchtime destination. My coworker exuded homosexuality and quite frankly, I thought it was great. Although there are few feelings more awkward when a group of straight men can hear your friend checking them out. While I one day wish that this would become a little more of a social norm rather than taboo, I don't think it is today, or even last week at our last visit to this Subway. Emo Boy never cared when my coworker hit on him and was pretty nice to him, even giving us a discount one time. Woo! I'd like to think the discount was for me since I was paying that day but maybe Emo Boy was actually hitting on my coworker.

There is no point to this blog other than I associate my old job with Emo Boy and since I miss my job I guess you could say I kind of miss Emo Boy. Yes, that's right, I have a mild attraction to the Sandwich Artist that perfected my Roasted Chicken Breast on Monterrey Cheddar with provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and lite mayo. Case in point: I'm really not that cool.

Martha McSloptit

It seems to me that everyone has at least one thing they would change about their appearance. For the lucky few, it's just that one thing. For others (names seem unnecessary), the list could go on like no one's business.

While I was enjoying delectable (a.k.a. low fat healthy barf) chicken soup for lunch today, I got to be in a bit of hurry. It's bound to happen when you only have a half hour to break bread with the coworkers and bitch about the day's events. Unbeknownst to me, a large, solitary drop of broth landed right on the ladies. Leave it to my gay male coworker to notice.

I wish I could say that this wasn't even close to be an everyday occurrence, but what kind of proud card-carrying "shelf" club member would I be? Not a good one, my friends. To us, spilling anything to attract even more unnecessary attention to the chestal region just comes with the territory. As does buying giganto-bras that you could swaddle a small child in. And yes, these bras only come in Grandma's Wrinkly Skin beige tone.

So, as I was walking around today with this seemingly HUGE stain on my shirt in a not-so-good spot, I got to thinking how much I loathe my own chestal region. It's just there, sticking out, waiting to ogled or stared at and even envied some days by people who if they were smart would realize they're the lucky ones for being so flat. If they dribbled toothpaste on their shirt, someone would just say "Oh, they dribbled toothpaste on their shirt." Not so for members of the shelf club, where the toothpaste stain seems to take on a life of its own and starts doing a conga line consisting of toothpaste, salivary amylase, and whatever product the person tried to use to get rid of the stain only to make it even more noticeable.

Maybe I'm just mad because I made a boo-boo and someone pointed it out. I hate screwing up and I hate it even more when people point it out to everyone at the lunch table. Yet just another sideshow attraction in my freak show of a life.

Le commencement

"Le commencement" (literal translation): The beginning. Thanks AltaVista Babel Fish.

I took four years of French and I racked my brain over how to say "the beginning". Then again, I also took four years of French and I still don't know what "Feliz Navidad" means. Ugh. Maybe someday, when this blog has its own cult following I'll elaborate on the previous statement.

I've been delaying the debut of this blog for some time now. Perhaps I just needed to be at the right point in my life to start writing again. My seventh grade English teacher always said I'd be a writer; granted she couldn't remember my name for shit but oh dang could I write. I was such a literary prize at the ripe age of twelve or thirteen or however old I was that many light years ago.

Writing is neat. I don't know if I can call myself a "writer" though. My writing consists of my regurgitating my own thoughts in a carefully twisted way, dripping with sarcasm much like a leaky faucet only much more annoying. However, here goes my crude attempt at creative expression. Consider yourself warned.