so lame

So I think I'm moving this bitch to Tumblr. There's more funny stuff for me to look at there, and I can't keep up so many things at the same time. Plus, there's an app for tumblr. Sorry blogspot.
Tumblr confounds me, but feel free to watch me crash and burn at irrelephantsays.tumblr.com !

In sum: I don't know how to internet. Peace.

Some Intense Feels

So hey. I'm all college'd up now, going to classes and making friends and shit. Quick life update: quit my horrendous job at Chipotle and had a hard time not sobbing when I told all the people there I was leaving because I love them. Wifey's in yonder-far-land and I've caught the sads. Rooming with another person's cool except when it's not, and I find myself rolling over more than I told myself I would.

But the whole making friends bit? That was the relevant  part of that previous paragraph, not my conceited ass rambling. My RA is really big on getting the people in Jones tower to be friends and be social, instead of letting our floor look absolutely deserted all the time, so we do shit together and we're actually friends, as far as I'm aware.

This is literally what the hallways in Jones felt like last year when the RA wasn't on his game. Deserted. Also? Dr. Who episode, "God Complex". Weird as fuck, and also where I got this hallway image. 

The thing is? All the people on my floor are fucking all stars, and that's not exaggerating. The guy next to me plays guitar like a total boss, and has other random miscellaneous instruments in his room all of which have names. So he's pretty rad. I'm on the international floor, too, which means that people came from places like China and shit. Wow, I can drive home in 20 minutes, and any further than that and I would probably not be able to survive.

Seriously RA, if you weren't here, who would force these amazing people to hang out with me? You da best. 

And then there's this guy. He is saturated in interesting, and has done everything at least once, it seems like. He plays the ukulele like a pro. He goes to cons and makes badass cosplays. He's awesome at telling stories. Even the shit in his dorm is fascinating.

This is how my brain reacts in this man's heroic presence. And other parts of... nvmd.   

People are just amazing, I don't even know how to deal with anything. The chick I met in my art history class? She's got all her shit together in life, and that just confounds me. HOW.
And then there's me, the awkward girl who lists her job, her major, and her year when asked to share three interesting facts about herself for an icebreaker. No interesting talents besides the lame "I like to write..." or "I'm pretty creative, I guess." (For further elaboration, see my first day at Chipotle. Manager: 'What's one thing I should know about you? Skills, whatever.' Me: '...uhm. I'm good at smiling?')

new mandatory Life Experiences regarding sleep

So today I learned things. And I don't mean things like the capital of Alabama or how to spell 'discombobulated'. I mean valuable life lessons that are crucial to my continued survival on the least possible amount of sleep necessary to sustain life. I'll start at the beginning. Or as close to it as I can remember.

Life lesson numero uno: Commission a real live person to wake you up in the morning if you fall into bed already asleep two hours before dawn the night before. Alarms are not to be trusted with this responsibility, as they will balk and allow you to turn them off as a sleep-zombie. They will then sit quietly and watch you snooze on through any obligations you had that morning. Bastards.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ghlc77E_2E
...that's a picture, I swear. Not really. But please, click that. I think I would murder myself. Every morning.

Life lesson deux: Monster tastes way better than red bull (which tastes even worse than medicine, I've been meaning to ask them how they managed to do that) even though it's still pretty gross. Sublessson deux: Taste doesn't matter when you're already tired and you know that you need to stay awake. It also helps if someone  else buys it for you.

FUCK YEAH, FREE MONSTER ...oh, um, thanks man...

Life lesson... three: Dubstep is amazing for keeping oneself awake. Not only is it amazing for matching your stride or head bobbing to, it's just obnoxious enough to keep your focus, thereby not allowing your mind to wander to subjects like how much you would rather be in bed. Sublesson three: It's even better for those who can't study and/or read with music in the background, because there's no real words in dubstep to distract you from the shit you're trying to read.

Uncannily similar. 

Also very comparable, though it would be much harder to focus on homework if there were transformers having sex in your living room. I mean, your entire house would be in smithereens by then. 

Life lesson IV: Don't work at Chipotle if you don't want to work. Hard. All day, every day. Or if you have terrible or even moderate people skills. Sublesson IV: Try the salad dressing. It's delicious.

also try the purrito. It's a new special. 

Blog because you have nothing to blog about.

So I guess it's been a while since I've said anything on here. I suppose I should rectify this. It's just that since I've gone on summer vacation, I've been so uninspired. It's like my brain needs the pressure and despair and fatigue and stress of school in order to function at optimum capacity. Huh. It's not that I have a lack of things to talk about, I guess, it's just that I don't... feel like talking about them...

This is you while reading that intro. I suppose it could have been written a bit more intriguingly.

I've gotten a job at Chipotle. The employees there are amazing, though the customers have arrived unanimously at the decision to be as obnoxious as possible in every conceivable fashion. Meh.

There was a huge storm a week or two back that knocked down a tree across my driveway that the neighbors and I brought to justice with hand saws. There's another one still just chillin on the ground in my backyard. I could talk about ho utterly incapable one of my neighbors is with a chainsaw and his life in general, but meh.

I just started obsessively watching Adventure Time, which is a problem because I'm also obsessively watching Angel (a spin-off of Buffy the vampire slayer). Just because they're at two opposite ends of the spectrum of television genres doesn't mean they are equally as lovable by someone as challenged as myself. But that pretty much sums up the entire topic, so meh to you sir. 

 I just read a book that contains but is not limited to a hostile, room-sized cube of flesh, government conspiracies, french-kiss-induced amnesia, liberal usage of the word 'graft', and a sexy vampire that looks like Grell Sucliff. (I think its called The Rook, if that flesh cube is just too tempting to turn down. And spoiler alert, it's sentient and sprouts muscle-tentacles. Oh baby.) But if you were interested in that, you'd read it yourself. So meh to that too.

So please bear with me until my brain is restored to its usual, harried and top-performing self. I go back August 22, please be patient until I return to my... regularly scheduled programming?

I like books! And stuff!

I'd just like to say that today was a complete and total social disaster. I had to go to Half Price Books, to see if they had considered my application yet. I submitted it Sunday, and Stephanie of the handshake-that-parts-shoulder-from-socket sect told me that the manager would be back Tuesday, and an underling would start calling people to set up interviews Monday.

I'm not really sure how this picture applies. Uhm, you would remember your potential killer's name too if... she'd... Vulcan nerve handshake-d your hand? ...I like Spock.

 So I walk in today, sell some books, and ask the lady at the counter if they had looked at the apps yet. The manager was also standing there, and he was like "Ohp, we only had one summer position open, and we filled it last week! Sorry." Well, thanks, manager jerkface, for letting me know that I should stop holding my breath. Oh wait... you didn't. So then I bought a few books, and he had to follow me out into the parking lot because he forgot to give me the money he should have for selling my books. The books he watched me sell.

Completely unbiased portrait of this manager. I'm not bitter over his inability to let me know I didn't have a chance of getting hired and making me keep hoping I did, not one bit.

 So, equipped with the knowledge that the job I had been waiting on was no longer an option, I applied to a few other places. One of them was Barnes and Noble. I walk in, fill out an application, and go back to turn it in, and the guy is like "All right." and skims it, and then asks "And why do you want to work here?" completely off hand. Little did he know that he has just asked me the question to end all questions. My brain shuts down, systems on red alert. I have not planned out an answer to this inevitable question! I have nothing to say besides 'because I'm poor'! ABORT ABORT

Wait, you have to actually talk to people and convince them of your worthiness when you're applying for a job?

But the guy was still staring at me. I had to answer. "Uhm, I would like to work here because I like books, and I read a lot, and books are interesting, and I go to college so I'm around books a lot, and reading is fun, and I like books, and yeah so that's why I would like to work here. For the books." All higher brain function had shut off. I was stranded.

I like books so much I even know how to use them.

He just said okay, and I sensed the dismissal for what it was and beat a hasty retreat. Right into a girl I knew in high school. Sayanora, speedy retreat. I was doomed. And then, when I'd completed that awkward social encounter, I tried to buy a book and get the hell outta dodge. "Uh, miss? Don't forget your keys!" I'd left them on the checkout counter.
To top off the complete social incompetency? The books I bought today are as follows: Black Butler, a manga, two Star Trek books, and a book called Atlantis God (the description included nazis.)
Hello, My name is Brittni, and I am an utter social failure. (Hello, Brittni.)

Too lazy to think of a title? Why not Zoidberg?

So I've been absolutely motivated to make something recently. I have all this free time on my hands, with the sudden commencement of summer vacation. So I want to do all the things I've been meaning to do all school year; write a story, draw a picture, sew a hat, weave a basket underwater, anything.

This is what I expected to be. A masterpiece-creating artistic genius. And black.

So I sat down at my computer today, all prepared to write something full of witticism and intricate life lessons. Aaand... nada. I had absolutely no ideas. Mind was blanker than usual; not even a wayward line of song lyrics to be found. I had the will to write, just no muse. No single point of inspiration upon which to focus my genius. I closed the word document in dissapointment.

Perhaps my muse was just this frog, and he was too tiny for my creativity to sense.

How is it that during the year I can be struck with inspiration so acute that I am forced to dig furiously through my backpack for my moleskine at the most inopportune times, and during the summer when I have all the time in the world my creativity is struck dumb? Someone should really work on that. I think it has something to do with the fact that my brain is melting out of my ears because of the heat faster than Michael Jackson's nose melted off his face. I don't want to do anything when it's hot, besides stand in the shower mindlessly, so it is only logical that my imagination is equally as unproductive.

This is me. Imagine this ten times less productive, and that's me during the summer.

(I was going to put a picture of the aforementioned nose, but i googled it and it creeped me out too much.) With any luck, my imagination will kick itself back into gear soon. And if not, well, I guess that's why I'm an art history major, not a fine arts major.

Edit: I was watching that gif after I posted this entry, because I thought it was hysterical the first time I saw it. But then I started thinking about the circumstances behind the octopus's listless tumble and realized that the poor creature is probably suffering. Now I want to track down its owner and demand clarification. Anybody got a pitchfork I could borrow?

Don't even remember his name. Does this make me a bad person?

So I'm currently sitting next to this guy, probably a junior, in the hall before class. Currently. This is real time, forgive any spelling mistakes [lol, I couldn't just leave them there after the conversation was over, now could I.]. So we're sitting, right, and he's immediately talking about his escapades with this 40 year old Korean lady who has apparently taken a shining to my dear compatriot here. He told me an endearing story about how they're making out now, how they've moved past the 'friends who talk all the time' stage they've been in since the beginning of the year.

 

And then he's all bent out of shape because he forgot his charger in his car and-oh wait, it's in his backpack! He was worried because a girl just texted him. Oh, not the Korean lady, and not the chick his friend's mom is trying to set him up with, a different one (Oh, he's a sophomore). Like, what are you attempting to gain by telling me this? Or are you just bragging about your exploits? Because I think you might want to reconsider your audience. I'm just making fun of you, not impressed at all. 
 So now he's telling me all about his tactics he's learning in his ROTC training for the army or something. Ohp, we're back to his texts. Oh, just kidding, he's on Reddit now, and literally giggling. "Lol, someone glued googly eyes to this dildo :D" 

 

Cool story, brah... I think it might have been funny if... it wasn't you telling me. (That's kinda more judgmental than I want to appear, but YOLO! HAHAHA I hate myself.) Oh, you have more to say? "Oh, yeah, I pretty much solely date Asian girls. I feel like I know I'm handsome, and so... Well, I mean, I don't really even think of myself as handsome, really, but if you know what you like and how to get it, then go for it and more power to you."

 

Just lay it out, I've got a goddamn ruler. Oh, he just showed me how to make a paper longer, in Microsoft Word. You replace all your punctuation with size 14 font rather than 12 or 11. It literally increased a paper I'd had pulled up from 4 1/2 to like 5 1/4. Too bad college assigns length using word count rather than page numbers. Dumbass.
The sad part is? I knew he would talk to me when I saw him coming down the hall, and I thought to myself Okay self, prepare for some high-endurance social interaction, you've got like half an hour before the doors to the classroom even open. Focus. You don't want to look like a dumbass in front of this admittedly attractive male, despite his dubious conversation history. Apparently, he had no such qualms.

P.S. So this guy really isn't that bad, seriously, though I won't deny that he's got a... healthy ego. I just like to exaggerate. Adds a sense of adventure. Or something.

Thank you Mark Twain

Not sure if I've mentioned it on here yet, but I bought a 12 pack of those cheap-ass Bic pens at the beginning of this quarter and I have been using the same pen, the first one I pulled out of the pack, since then. I was absolutely determined to use every bit of ink from that pen before moving on to the next one, and so on, until I'd used every drop of ink in that whole pack of pens. You know how that never happens? You never completely use up those pens, and then you lose them and they inevitably disappear somewhere.
I was determined to keep those 12 poor pens from the terrible fate of pen island (hurr hurrrr, penis land), the place where perfectly good pens go when their owners inexplicably leave them somewhere, decide they are no longer worthy of being used, or otherwise forget about them. Here is an explanatory diagram courtesy of google:

Those poor pens.And so close to penis land, too, how humiliating. So, in dedicating myself to this cause, I had moste valiantly saved those 12 expendable Bic pens from this terrible fate! Or so I thought. My attempt at heroism was violently thwarted Saturday by a vicious beast with jaws that bite and claws that catch. Also known as my beagle, Josie. She decided that it would be a splendid plan to gnaw on that pen, that pen which had been so lovingly carried around by me all quarter long, and that was less than a centimeter from being out of ink. I debated laying out a crime scene in my living room when I discovered what had transpired, but I already knew the killer, so a crime scene investigation would have been moot. Josie's such a sadist: Exhibit A.

Imagine my absolute despair, my rage, the onset of a spiraling depression when I realized how futile all my efforts had been. I had tried to save this pen from pen island, but condemned it to a fate far worse! My thoughts were a jumble. What would happen to the other pens I had bought? Would some horrific fate befall them as well? Are cheap pens not meant to escape pen island at all? Or, worse yet, is it their desired destiny to meet up with all their forgotten brethren on that island? Am I holding the other 11 pens from pen island against their will? Would it be better for me to lose them all on purpose? Or to not use them at all? Or would that destroy their dreams of fulfilling their ultimate purpose in life? I became more and more overwhelmed the more I thought about this.

As you can see, I am going through a tremendous upheaval in my core beliefs right now. It has been two days since I discovered the mangled body of that pen, and I still have no answers to these essential questions. Who knows what will come into question next? The thought is not comforting. I am wary of everything, lest it poses another life-shaking question I am unable to answer.

View mah complete profile, y'all!

I waste a lot of my time on StumbleUpon. A completely ridiculous amount of time. Time I don't really have.  But it's how I do things, so the world and my homework and my college career can SUCK IT. So, it would follow that I would find some pretty mentionable stuff in all the time I spend sorting through the mediocrity of the internet. I'm not sure what that previous sentence really means, but what I'm trying to say is that I found some pretty rad shit, bro. It's called the Dialectizer, and you'll never guess what it does. ...What's that? It tells you how to talk in different accents, you say? NO! That would be too interesting and potentially hilarious! This website converts the contents of a web page or a block of text into different dialects! Cockney, Elmer Fudd, Swedish Chef, and Moron are among your (albeit limited) choices.

 (Not that chef.) Here, have a sample. It's my 'About Me' section, for reference.

Thin's thet may o' may not apply: ah's currently studyin' histo'y of art in college, an' is considerin' an English mino' t'further solidify mah future in a cardboard box on th' side of th' road, cuss it all t' tarnation. ah like cats better than houn'dogs. ah have two fish, a few cacki, an' a marimo (ten points eff'n yo' knows whut thet is). Mah favo'ite colo' is yeller, an' mah favo'ite animal is an ockopus. ah's a professhunal procrastinato', mah socks nevah match, ah can trip on over ennythin', ah's nerd-tastic, ah make fleece hats, an' ah fancy mahse'f an artist. ah carry a molehidee notebook on account o' ah reckon it makes me look intellyjunt, but mostly on account o' ah went through too menny sticky notes an' napkins an' scooted outta room on mah han' too menny times an' finally bought one. Mah brain is full of thin's thet try t'murder me eff'n ah doesn't write them down, as enny fool kin plainly see.

That last sentence is my personal favorite. Enny fool kin plainly see, even me! Yo' kin tell thet ah's a fool on account o' of th' way ah talk! Hurrr hurrr hurrrr!

In other news, 'Call Me Maybe' by Carly Rae Jepson is the new song that impersonates a merry-go-round in my brain. The merry-go-round from hell, whose devil operator who has nothing better to do but keep the poor children that stole candy from babies and then died stuck on the ride forever. Around, and around....
In other other news, the Avengers is better the second time around, and I didn't think that was possible. My brain literally had to restrain itself from exploding because it wanted to watch the entire movie again. As well as the end bit, at the shawarma bar. I wonder if shawarma bars have had a sudden spike in popularity and in customers dressed like superheros...

Aw, no, it's cool bro, we're the Avengers. We just saved all your asses and shit. Sorry about your store... So can we maybe have some food? It's just that I've wondered about this place for a while now, and you kinda owe us, and all.

The day I thought was going to be godawful

So today I suspected was going to be terrible, but so far its been kickass. First some background: i was awake until 1:30 or 2:00 last night attempting to finish these peer reviews and study for a stats quiz.

Well, make a notecard for the stats quiz, I have no idea how to study for math. Might explain my utter destruction regarding... anything to do with math. But I digress. I thought today was going to be shitty, because of sleep deprivation and the fact that my first class starts at 7:30 and because attendance was required.
Well, my first class was all right, minimum of effort, and my coffee kept me awake. Stats was less of a fail than I expected, but I'm assuming I'll get it back and get a T for troll anyway. So whatever about that. But then I was sitting outside the Science and Engineering library (Because it has a cafe inside, not because I read either of those subjects on a regular basis), on this lovely bench. Just sittin' and eatin', alone like usual, whatever to that as well, and this guy walks up and smashes his cigarette on the trash can and then blows this huge lungful of smoke right in front of me like a fucktard.

I thought 'What the fuck, man? You just made that bite of this delicious sandwich taste like a crematory.' Immediately after the thought completed itself, he tripped over an electrical cord strung across the walkway. 'OH MY GOD I'M HARRY POTTER!'
Yeah. I just released a snake on Dudly cause he was being a bitch.

So after controlling my inner monologue and determining that I would keep my magical prowess a secret until my latent Hogwarts letter arrived, I got up and moved to a picnic table on the Oval (big central blob of grass on campus) because it was a little bit closer to the library that I had to eventually get to anyway. It was lovely. Someone was cutting the grass, so it smelled good, it is the perfect temperature outside, my sandwich (that I have dubbed the Jesus sandwich, its catching on) was scrumptious. Another piece of evidence that today is not entirely wasted.
So now I'm siting in the library, pretending to write this page about a play that is due at 1:30. ...I really should get on that. But if I finish that on time, then this day will have been a success rather than a dismal failure. Hooray!

Edit: OH MAN! How could I have forgotten this major detail? This day got even awesome-er when I was this dude who looked like a professor on the top, button up, messenger bag, glasses, the like, but he had on a fucking kilt! and knee0high green socks! And looked like he wears these things on a regular basis! He is my new hero. A kilt. Who would have thought. He was like this, but old. Which made it even better.

I would have taken a picture of the actual guy, but I cant pretend like I'm texting because i cant get pictures off my phone onto my laptop. 

Damn you, wimpy old person.

My grandmother, man. Love her, but sometimes I'd like to take a nice drive to the grand canyon and chuck her over the viewing platform. Maybe Niagra Falls, it's closer. Less time for her to make me want to think of worse ways to off somebody. Today, when I came home from my real house (and taking care of my post-op mother like a boss, by the way) she said that she'd like me to empty the paper-recycling box in the house into the one in the garage and take it down to the street. Sure thing, no sweat, grams. Then she said that she would like me to wait until she had read the paper, so I could recycle that too. Sure, whatever, you crazy person. Why you put that off until Sunday evening every weekend so I have to wait to bring out the recycling every weekend I will never understand. Just wait till next week's recycling goes out. You're still only recycling one at a time. But whatever. She's insane, and has undiagnosed OCD.
So I go upstairs to start writing my paper on the propagandist aspects of the Stele of Hammurabi. Ten points and a cyber cookie to anyone who knows what that is. I then realize I've got online stats homework due tonight, so I attempt that instead, and after consistently failing through half the questions, I go back to my paper in a pissed-off mood. Bitch level is hovering at around 30%, thank you statistics. About an hour later, at 9pm, she comes upstairs and tells me that she's finished the paper. Just long enough for me to forget that I had to bring it to the curb. Bitchyness increases by about 5%. She tells me not to just pick the bin up directly, but to use a little dolly thing and wheel it down to the curb, because carrying it is bad for my back and shit.

I hate that dolly. It's way more trouble than it's worth, and she only things the paper bin is heavy because she's 150 pounds of pure fat, no muscle mass at all. Bitchyness increase of 20%.
I go grab the inside-paper bin, dump the contents as ferociously as possible into the outside-paper bin to try to punch out some of my bad mood, and then stand there for a solid minute debating whether or not to use the effing dolly. I finally kick the inside-paper bin across the patio, strap the outside-paper bin to the damn thing, and drag it jerkily down the driveway. Bitch level increase another 5%. I dump the bin at the curb, drag the dolly back up the driveway, kick the inside-paper bin again for good measure, then bring it back inside. "Thanks honey." Yeah, yeah, fuck you very much. "Welcome."
I return to my essay. I like my topic, so it's kinda nice. My bitch level decreases a solid 5% as I start the intro. Then to my dismay, Grama comes and stands in my doorway like 10 minutes later. She never talks until I acknowledge her presence, which is just something she's always done and has irked me since she started. Just talk, dammit, if I'm doing something important, I'll say so. So I say "yes?" and she asks in her stupid beat-around-the-bush way that wastes 10 minutes to move my car so she can be the one closest to the bottom of the driveway, because she has to leave earlier that I have to in the morning.

Never mind that I said I'd be awake before she has to leave, so I'd be there to move my car then. Never mind that I was just downstairs, and could have done it then. Bitchyness increases by 15%.
So we move cars, I go back upstairs, and start writing this stupid post, and my bitch level is going up more because I realize how much of a bitch I've been to her. I mean, I'm living in her damn house. Can't I just reign it in or something?

...well fuck me, I probably do. That most likely should have occurred to me sooner.

Nailed it.

Friends. Romans. Countrymen. I have just won at life. A small aspect of life, and in my life specifically, but nevertheless, I have won it. So it's Friend's birthday tomorrow. Friend, whom I see almost every single day. We were talking about what she wanted yesterday in her dorm, and she told me that she had a random list of things she wants on her computer. (I have to reign in my resentment that she owns a mac because she's my friend. Supposedly.) I scoffed, thinking "How presumptuous, having a list of things you want people to buy you!" Now? People with lists of shit they want who are willing to share it with people who have to buy them shit are my favorite kind of people. It's way better than buying things for people that they might not want. This method takes out a little bit of the surprise factor, but there is a one hundred percent success rate of the victim liking what you got them. Anyway, so I scrolled through all the video games and stuff that there was no way I would ever be able to afford, until lo and behold! Friend wants leather-bound copies of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass!
My brain immediately rejoices. More mead, for tonight we feast! it says. My mind is a strange place... But I digress. I had bought a book a year ago because I thought it was pretty and would make me look like the kind of person I wanted people to think I was if I owned it. I've never evened cracked the spine, or flipped the gold-edged pages. Its title? Something like The Completed Works of Lewis Carroll. Score!
That's the good news. The bad news? I live with my grandmother because she's closer to College than my house is. This book? Back at home, gathering dust on the bookshelf. Immediately upon exiting Friend's general vicinity, I whip out my cellular device. My dad works right near campus, so how awesome would it be if he could bring The Book to me? Kickass, that's how awesome. I call him up. He's in. Kickass. 
All that was last night. So true to form, Dad dropped The Book off about an hour ago. But I couldn't 't just give this random book to Friend and be like 'Happy birthday...' and awkwardly shuffle off. No. Absolutely not my style at all. So, I ask Grandmother if I can use some wrapping paper. She's like 'Sure!' except with a lot more words 'cause she can never just answer the question without launching into a speech about something else that may or may not be related. So I wrapped this book like a boss with the limited Christmas-themed items that were available to me in my grandma's stash and an onigiri sticker that I found in my desk.

Next order of business was a card. I look in my desk again, and I find only thank you cards. What the hell, she can deal. The finished product? "Thank you..." printed on the outside, "For being awesome!" written on the inside. Nailed it.  So, overall? I just spent zero dollars on a birthday present I found out about two days before the 'due date'.

Hello all you people who read this in my dream world! This is gonna be a quickie, 'cause I have a mid term in approximately 23 hours that I really need to actually study for. So I just finally buckled down and opened a lozenge from hell aka a cough drop, cause my germ finally decided that coughing sounded like a good substitution in for the body aches that stopped sometime yesterday. But on the halls wrappers, the logos and stuff are printed in this gross mustard yellow. Not the bright yellow mustard, the brown mustard that only that one obscure uncle in your family actually likes but a jar of which every family owns. It pretty much just exists to lurk in your fridge. Anyway, the point is the regular print is gross yellow, but there are these random chunks of like 4 words in dark blue. I wasn't going to read them. I was going to stick it to the man and resist their capitalist propaganda. But I was not strong of will, and I caved.
"Seize the day", it told me. "Nothing you can't do" "Buckle down and push forth!" "Be unstoppable" "Do- Waste a min-" (That last one got cut off, but I'm an equal opportunity employer so hey). Yeah. Even my death candy is telling me to get off my lazy ass. Well you know what'll inevitably happen as soon as I actually attempt to make a go at life? Something akin to what happened to this guy.

Thanks a lot, wrapper, for wanting me to crash and burn.

Edit: What is it with me and forgetting titles?! Is there an app for that?

So I've been sick, since like 4pm on monday. It's now ...haha, 4 on wednesday, how ironical. I came home directly after class, a rare thing for me because I like to keep the grandmotherly contact to a minimum. Not because I loathe her or anything, simply so I can appreciate her finer points without becoming overly... ah... annoyed? Enraged? with her presence. So anyway, I came home today and she says "There's a surprise waiting for you in your room!" She's glowing. My immediate reaction? 'Aw, daaaayyynng it. She cleaned it, didn't she?'
 Lo and behold! My room had been cleaned. I hate it when she does that! Despise it! Now all my piles are NOT in any sort of chronological order at all. They actually don't exist anymore, now isn't that going to be problematic. I don't have a before picture, but here's the after:

Except that the bed wasn't made. She left that for me. Wow, thanks! Can you see the smug little sparkles that bounce off every newly-revealed surface? The new trashcan-turned-laundry hamper that just screams "There are strings attached, now you owe me"? Because they are glaringly obvious to my practiced eye.  ...Do you want to know what the biggest infraction is ? You know, besides the grossly obvious invasion of privacy and the very apparent nosy-ness? This.

Winston is ON. the FLOOR. Next to the TRASH, to add insult to injury! HOW DARE SHE! I CANNOT BELIEVE aw fuck it, I'm done.

Yes. If it had met my grandmother, it most assuredly would.

Edit: I just realized the time down there? at the bottom of this post? says I wrote this at like 1 or something. At first I lol'd, like 'my computer is so fucked up!' and then i realized that you all ( I say that like there's people reading this) would think I'm a huge liar. I'm not, pinky promise.

Edit: Oh, fuck, I forgot a title.

So. I'm sick. It's terrible. It snuck up on me yesterday, when I was all unsuspecting and feeling awesome 'cause the professor who's class I was avoiding in my first post cancelled class. (Why does spell check think I spelled 'snuck' wrong? That is a word, isn't it? MY LIFE IS A LIE) So I was sitting in my friend's dorm, reading Black Butler online, having a splendid time. Grell makes my life, just sayin'. Before she left for class, Friend said "Why are you wearing your sweatshirt? You look like you're leaving." Or something like that. I said I was cold, that I get that way when I don't move at all because I'm too busy staring at Sebastian's face. And when I'm laying on the floor. Little did I know that this coldness was an omen. A terrible sign of the plague that was just making itself comfortable in my body after inviting its rude self in.
Friend left for class. I continued reading. Looking back, I realized that it would have been better to start making fortifications. Or talking to miss Fish-Moor, my high school A.P. Bio teacher. I'm sure she could've intimidated the germs right out of me. I decided that I was tired, and grabbed up a blanket to sleep. But everything touching my neck made me want to puke- even my lovely necklace that has my name on a grain of rice. I must have been delirious by then, because I thought that was normal.
I eventually figured out that it was, in fact, not normal at all, so I left Friend's dorm. The front desk people stopped talking when I left the building with my hood up and my hands shoved into my pockets, but that may have just been them trying to contain their laughter until I passed rather than in concern for my well-being. "Haha, look at that fluffy white chick trying to be a gangster..." No. I'm dying. Stfu.
The plague had set in by the time I'd returned to my grandmother's house which is my current place of residence. She hovers like a boss when I'm sick, which is actually pretty annoying. "I'll check back in an hour..." No. I'm dying. Gtfo.
Also, I had a draft for an English paper due at 5 pm today. I'd talked to my professor earlier that day because I can't make my idea have a thesis, and he gave me some pretty alright ideas, but by the time I got home implementing them was beyond me. So I submitted the shitty thing I'd already had written before I'd talked to him, and then added an addendum to the bottom that basically said 'All that was a lie. Here's what I'm really going to do.' The worst part? A group of people in my class has to read that shit. And that's the impression they're going to have of me. Awesome.
There's not even any outside media in this post. I could attach my draft... but I won't subject you to that. Just all my woes and thoughts of death, is all. And this.

Deplorable.

All right. I know that I have already posted twice today, and posting a third time is like calling the girl five minutes after you dropped her off at her front door after the first date to set up the next one and saying 'i love you' before you hang up, but I have seen something. A something that is in no way shape or form deep or epic or applicable to anything, which further tarnishes my reputation as a blog-person. Or something. But look, and you'll understand.

Do you see that blemish on that banana I so unwittingly bought at the store the other day? (Ignore the homework in the background that I swear I'm going to do someday.) That's right, kids, it's one of those take-a-picture-of-me-with-your-newfangled-iPhone-and-I'll-send-you-to-a-cool-website stickers! ON A FREAKING BANANA! Your nanners are no longer safe. I happen to own a trac phone, the kind you buy individual minutes for, and I'm claiming phone-ism. A banana with an iPhone-sticker-link-thing on it is appealing to the thin upper crust of phone technology. Stupid-phone owners eat, too! I want adorable stickers on my bananas that I can stick on my calculator, not THIS rubbish! (If I see an iPhone-thing on a package of ramen, I'm boycotting food.) And what link to technology can a banana possibly warrant? Well, there was the address of the website on the sticker too, so I went there. Yonanas.com. Apparently there's a machine that turns frozen fruit into something that resembles ice cream. Woo, a glorified blender! JUST what I need. A bit of advice from the webpage? Something like "Don't freeze the bananas with the peel on. Peel them, then freeze." Just throwing that out there for your contemplation.

Edit: I clicked this tab up, and looked at this banana, and thought that maybe I should take a picture of ALL the iPod link-thingies I see because they piss me off so much, and they seem to breed on campus. Then I imagined me walking around and whipping out my camera  to take a picture of one, and someone telling me 'You're supposed to use an iPhone for that'. You don't say... but I'm not going to take those pictures now, on any account. Not even to the ones that only give you the stupid little ink blot and nothing else. Not even a web address. I won't even take pictures of those ones.

Edit squared: Did you know you can get necklaces with those things on them? A hunk of metal around your neck that random strangers can come up to you and be like "Oh, can I iPhone-picture that ink blot on your necklace?" And you'll say "Sure random stranger, that's what it's there for!", and they'll get an awesome shot of your cleavage and run away.  Seems like poor planning.

Eureka, a discovery!

So I just made this blog, as none of you know because no one knows about it.But lets say that someone was reading this. They would know that i just made this blog. So I was thinking about blogging, and a thought slowly rose to the top of my brain: Haven't I already made one of these? So through sheer ingenuity and the act of googling 'blog sites', I found my old blog. There were two posts, one that was a sentance long stating that I was, in fact, 'new to blogging', and another one about a dream I had.

... Dreams can be very realistic. From what I remember, I started off lying in a small, sterile bed in a nondescript room, with a searing pain in my hip. I knew that the man standing just out of my peripheral vision had hurt me, had stung my left hip with his scorpion tail. I knew that I had been poisoned, and that I didn't have much longer. I think I must have asked him, because then I knew that I had 18 minutes left to live. Not 20, not 15, exactly eighteen minutes. So I lay there, slightly hyperventilating, and then I looked over at my teacher. She had been sitting there, facing away from me at her desk from senior year English class all along, grading or doing something equally important. She turned around in her swivel chair, motherly and concerned, and I asked her self-consciously if she would tell my family that I loved them. When she said 'of course' in her sweet way, I asked if she would tell my parents that I loved them, tell my  friends. I guess I was finished speaking then, because she looked at me, reassuring and sympathetic and mournful, and turned back around to her desk to continue her work. I turned my head back and lay there, thinking of what else I would have said to her had I thought of it while she was still turned around, and then the man with the scorpion tail came into my line of vision. He walked around to the left side of the bed from the right, passing my teacher's desk, and smirked at me; though I wouldn't call his expression cruel. So he smirked, said "Eighteen minutes left...", lay down on the bed next to me. I was surprised, shied away. What was he doing? I wanted to ask, but before I could finish my first word, his scorpion tail had snapped out again and pierced me for a second time in the hip. "Plea-" was all I got out before indescribable pain ran throughout my pelvis. I think my back arched, and then I was dead.
But I was also awake, eyes stretched wide in the darkened room. I was so utterly grateful that I had not died at the hands of the scorpion man, so completely filled with relief that I would have another chance at my last words, that I cried. ... You know what's funny? The day before, I'd fallen down the stairs in my rush to get to class on time... I have a huge bruise on my left hip.

So there's most of the post. I realized that I have always been melodramatic, and peculiar. After that initial thought, I wondered what made the infamous last words of a dying person so vitally important. Shouldn't their entire life speak for them rather than a few lungfulls of words spoken in the last seconds? Maybe we're all just kind souls and want to comfort the living once we're gone. Or maybe we've got a vendetta to settle, or something, and blurt it out when push comes to shove.  I dunno, and I suppose I won't find out until I'm about to die. And by then it'll be too late. Maybe my last words will be about last words! I shall be famous upon my death, for finally clearing this debate up once and for all! ...

The post I should delete but I can't because it's the first one

So, I was walking on campus the other day to a class I kind of dread, and I was taking my sweet old time getting there when I happened upon a bed of tulips. All of them were this deep purpley color, with white edges. I remember this because I stood there and examined them, so as to avoid extended contact with this class I was slowly making my way to. I'm sure the people walking by thought I had some sort of problem, staring at the flowers so intently that had been there the day before and the day before that, too. That's beside the point, which I assure you this story may or may not have one of. So I was staring at these flowers, and I saw that one single tulip was yellow. The bright, cheery kind, standing alone in this sea of dark purple. I waxed philosophical in my mind for a few moments about individualism and the struggles of those who are different. What a struggle it is, to walk to the beat of your own drum in this constrictive society! How brave, that little flower, for standing up for itself and showing its true colors! (dramatization). And then looked at the time and saw that I had a minute and something like 38 seconds to get to class. But that flower made such an impression on me that the next day, I brought my camera.

Not as exciting as you were imagining, right? That may be in part due to the fact that I can't take a decent picture to save my life. But it struck me, in that moment, as really monumental thoughts that needed to be shared with the world, lest they live their whole lives without discovering them! The rest of this blog will probably be like that; me talking about something that happened or something I saw or heard or read that seemed like too huge of a thing to overlook, but that seems absolutely inconsequential when anyone else reads it, or even when I go back to it later. Even now I'm debating deleting this entire blog right this second and actually dedicating myself to the English paper due tomorrow on Orwell's 1984. But I already put so much time into this thing, choosing the background and all...