From the Annals of a Scatterbrain

I’m horrible at critiquing other people’s writing, so I just did a totally half-assed job of it.  L’Owen’s going to bite my head off in class tomorrow.

I did a—well, not even a half-assed essay for my history class last night.  I guess I just don’t feel much like doing homework these days.  I blame it all on work.

I can’t really remember what I dreamed last night—something about sewing this really cute skirt “by hand”—meaning, with nothing, not even a needle.  So…magic, then.  And I did something else the same way.  Then I woke up with “I’ve Got No Strings On Me” stuck in my head.  I know it was somehow related to the dream, but I can’t remember in what way.

Wal-Mart refuses to sell black jeans that I like, and I wore out the pair I got from them when they were cool.  I’ve got to go to the mall to find more.  They will be expensive, because Wal-Mart’s the only one with decently-priced jeans.

I’ve been so busy half-assing my way through homework I haven’t seen the new Once Upon A Time yet, so I have no idea if it’s good or not.

Sorry for my scatterbraininess tonight; I feel sort of unfocused after my homework.

Last night we had that weird chicken cordon-bleu again—the kind that’s just fried chicken with a slice of ham and melted cheese on top.  Everyone always stares at it like, “What the bloody hell is that?”  As I said to Sandra, it’s like how Superman wears his underwear on the outside—it’s backwards.  I’m going to start calling it Superman cordon-bleu.

Then we ran out of fried chicken, so Bob started bringing out this skinless stuff, and I said, “And look, now Superman is naked.”  Sandra could not stop laughing for a very long time.

Bedtime.

Advertisements

Griping and Boy Dilemmas

Dean tells me that he and I are on L’Owen’s list of 6 strongest writers in the class.  Kick arse!  I honestly never would have expected that, but it’s cool.

So I finally found this book that I’d been looking for for yearsThe Experiment, by John Darnton.  My dad got it on tape for us to listen to on a trip to South Florida my 9th grade year, but, not being a very great listener, I decided to stop listening (despite being way into it) and check it out later instead.

Well, not knowing the author’s name, it took me a lot longer than expected to find it, and when I finally did, then it was a matter of the book being there when I was and me remembering to look for it.  I finally did, and I really enjoyed it.

Work is driving me insane.  I think I mean that literally.  I have this habit of, when one aspect of something is annoying me, finding all these other things about it that always irritate me.  That’s what’s happening at work—they won’t give me a second day off, and so every little thing is driving me up the wall.  Like the fact that we have taco night three times a week, and every single person coming through my line pisses me off just for being there.  I want to scream obscenities at them all, and am quietly doing it, too, under my breath.  A couple of times I’ve come very close to actually swearing at a customer.  I feel like having to stand there for another two hours really takes something from me, and must keep repressing the urge to get up and just walk out.

Scot (one of the bosses) came through the line tonight, asked for jalapenos, and I gave him quite a few, and he said, “Are you trying to kill me?”  I said, “Yes.”

I won’t smile at people anymore.  They piss me off too much.

I really feel like the weight of the hopelessness is driving me down—like, physically, even—I’ll stand there and feel like I’m totally going to pass out because I cannot handle it.

I swear, everything would be fine again if they’d just give me the damned day off!

Maybe things will get better.  Maybe the dishwasher will actually like me back.  That’d be something, a light through all the hopelessness.  A secret tryst that nobody else would really care about, but which would make me feel like I was somehow rebelling against the establishment.

Dishwasher!  I need a life!  Help!

Duuuude!  Just as I was about to post this, my first date ever texted me out of the blue!

And after the conversation we had, I’m thinking, “Hey…I still kinda like this guy,” and he still likes me, too…so…right.  I like Patrick, too.  And now I don’t know what the hell to do.  Obviously, I guess, get to know both of them a bit better, and find out what happens.  At any rate, two Saturdays from now I am going on my first second date ever with…my first first ever.

I’ve got to go to bed.

And suddenly, a long-forgotten stalker returns from the grave….

Talking in my sleep has been frequent these past few days.  I have no idea what the hell I was dreaming this morning, but I woke up either in the middle of this, or during it…I don’t know, but I was saying it in my sleep:

“You keep looking for solutions to new scientific problems.  Understand the formulaic approach that science can never explain itself, and you’ve basically got it made.”

…!?  I don’t even know what that means!  I mean…what is that!?

You will never believe who called me today.  I hardly believed it myself; it had just been so long.  In fact, I think it’s been about two years since I heard from this person.

It was Brown Mucus.

I wasn’t home at the time, fortunately; my dad let me know, when he came back, that she had called.  But wow…the irony.

I realize that most of you have no idea who Brown Mucus is—it’s been that long.  Allow me to fill you in.

During high school, two of my stalkers were female.  Brown Mucus was one.  I met her through a few of my other friends.  She was always an oddball, with dirty, greasy hair, weird, unkempt eyebrows, and…well…she resembled a mouse, basically.

Brown Mucus’ favorite topics of conversation (the only topics, apparently, she knew how to discuss) were her boyfriend, her ex-boyfriend, the Jonas Brothers, whatever teeny-bop magazine she was currently reading, her period, and how sick she was.  Brown Mucus was always sick, and she always went into detail about it.  (Incidentally, the very name “Brown Mucus” comes from the time she informed me that she was headed to the bathroom with stomach issues, came back a few minutes later, and declared that she had thrown up the substance.)

She also had rapey tendencies and used to try to force me to make out with her boyfriend, and it was very frightening having her calling me obsessively all the time, even after she had moved to…Massachusetts, I think it was?

But I started avoiding her calls.  I was never home or never available when she called, and eventually she just sort of…gave up.

Now—oh, the irony of it all—now that I have another very real stalker, suddenly, she’s back.  Oh joy.

Procrastinating

We were just reading people’s works aloud in class today and pointing out ways to improve them, what we liked about them, etc….  Then we ran out of time, and The Third Wilson Brother was handing them all back to us, and suddenly he looked at me and said, “Oh, Ginny!  I wanted to read one of yours,” so he put the Monica perspective up there and said, with this big enthusiastic smile, “This is a story.  I’m eager to know how this turns out.”

Like I said, of course the entire class knows that it’s completely true, and everybody’s pretty eager to know what’s going to happen.  So The Third Wilson Brother’s reading this, and then he interrupts himself and says, a delighted grin on his face, “I love what these two girls did to this guy,” and I laughed, and he said, “Is he still calling?”

I explained that the last time he’d called was Sunday, and expressed my hope that that meant it was over.

The Third Wilson Brother considers me for a moment, amused, and says, “You know what’ll be freaky, is when he shows up here on campus, right outside this classroom.”

Well, for one thing, even though the guy isn’t going to school this semester, for some reason he’s been showing up on campus just about every other day—Kristen keeps calling me and saying, “Mark stopped by my class today!”  What the hell?  Who does that?

So I just said, “Oh, Goooooddd….”

The Third Wilson Brother (I really need a better nickname) said, “Don’t worry, Ginny…we will all beat him up for you.”

I was instantly reminded of that movie I watched last week, The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, and how at random moments, when Shirley Temple gazed at Cary Grant, there was a white light shining over him and he was wearing a suit of armor.

Work’s not so bad; I just miss having two days off per week.  I feel like all of my time (when I’m not procrastinating by updating this thing) is spent with homework.  Not that most of it isn’t enjoyable or at least easy…just that I don’t have a life anymore, and it bothers me.  Last year, when I didn’t have to work Friday, I was very well disciplined; Friday was my homework day, and it was all I did all day long; and then I could spend Saturday chilling in whatever way I desired.  Now when getting up in the morning, after getting a shower, I do homework; I go to school; I come home and do homework; I go to work; I come home and do homework; I sleep.  The weekend is spent entirely in homework (because the weekend consists of Saturday and nothing more).

But while I still miss Tinny, of course, I do now at least get along quite well with the other three servers.  Even the one who seemed evil at first—I think she was just shy.  We have more in common than I would have assumed.  She’s a Potterhead.  Among other things.  And Adrianna actually knows who Danny Elfman is.  And Sandra…oh, here’s an interesting story….

Tonight I passed Sandra something—a bucket of soapy water, I think, and she said, “Thanks…uh…Ginny,” and I assumed she was just distracted, but then she said, “You know, you really remind me of this woman I used to work with.  You look just like her!  Just exactly like her; she could have been your mom.  So now I always want to call you Leslie.”

I’m like, “HUH!?”  Haha.

Not my mom, though.  Somebody who worked with Sandra at Blue Cross twenty years ago.  WEIRD!

Of course, I’m used to being called Leslie by people who know my mom; I’ve gotten that my entire life.

Oddly, though, I can also remember being called Leslie by a few people I know never met her; I remember asking her if she knew these people, and she didn’t.

Maybe there’s this random Leslie floating around out there who looks exactly like me and is bumping into people who will one day know me so that they’ll get me confused with her.

Er…something like that.

Oh, remember that other evil girl, in The Third Wilson Brother’s class?  She sits by herself, against the wall, and is quiet?  I decided to attempt to befriend her.

So when I was walking out of the class, I ended up not having to—she actually approached me and said, “Hey, nice bag.”

We have the same bag, which I had actually noticed on the first day—she just has the backpack style, rather than the over-the-shoulder.

So then we just started discussing random things, and she seems like quite a nice person, really, and she smiled.

I had a really freaky dream yesterday morning; all these people kept coming up to me and repeating the words, “We have no homework.”  I must have heard it at least thirty times in a row.  I’m serious, this was weird.  I think I may have been chanting it in my sleep, too, because I finally woke up when a Hispanic person came up to me and said, “No tengamos—” and I woke up saying the word, “tengamos”.

It was so weird, though; I think it took places in other locations than just the café, but all these people were coming through my line and saying those words—all these sorority/frat kids, and they’re creepy enough as it is.  Weird, I tell you.

I have to do my homework now.

Ruby Tuesday and Teeth Trauma

I’m not a vain person.  I’ve never considered myself vain in any way (come on—with hair like mine, you can’t be)—and I never would have thought I was vain about anything at all, until today.  While brushing my teeth, I noticed that my top teeth—the two next to my very front ones—are growing…crooked.  I had an effing cow.

My teeth can’t get crooked!  My top teeth are perfect and always have been and I love them and I want them to stay perfect, damn it!  My smile is my trademark.  It is.  And this didn’t really mean anything to me until today when I noticed the slight slant of those two teeth.  Suddenly, my entire life flashed before my eyes.  (Okay, I exaggerate, but different random things did pop in to my head!)  My smile’s my best feature; I know it is.  That’s what people always tell me—“you have such a cute smile”.  Even Milo said so.  If my perfect upper teeth get crooked, I’ll flip out.

Those damned wisdom teeth have to come out!

I picked up Psychobrat from work tonight, and she was telling me she’d gone to Ruby Tuesday for lunch.  I knew Mark was working a double shift today, so he had to have been there, and so I said, “Your waiter wasn’t Mark, was he?”

“I don’t know; what did he look like?”

“Oh, tall, dark hair, not bad-looking, really….”

“Did he look like a young Brendan Fraser a little?”

I hadn’t thought that, but I could maybe sort of see where she’d get that idea.

“Yeah, a little, I guess,” I said.

She told me how he’d pulled up a chair to their table and sat and talked to them about everything under the sun, and I’m like, “Yeah, that’s him.”

He called tonight.  Left a message, because I, of course, did not answer.  He explained that he hadn’t called before because he’d worked double shifts today and yesterday, but that he wanted to know if I could hang out next time I’ve got free time, and if I didn’t get the message tonight, he’d just call tomorrow, no problem.

#nope

Weekend Uproar

Of course, we had one of many Weekend Uproars this morning (oh, SNL is starting in a bit, isn’t it?).

Here’s the scene:  I’m in the rocker reading a deliciously funny book; my mom’s on the computer studying the budget; my dad’s trying to fix the handle on the sliding back door again, because it’s constantly being broken somehow.  The kids are both out.  Everything is calm and quiet.

Suddenly, my dad throws down the tools angrily and stomps through the kitchen, to the garage.  He yells loudly, “FUCK IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  And then we hear crashing sounds, like things being thrown around, knocked over, and broken.

Then he stomped into his room and was singing something in a loud, taunting, annoying voice.  I couldn’t make out any of the words.  And finally he came out and said in that Voice of Pissed-Off Arrogance, “OOH, he was a REALLY nice person, WASN’T HE!?”

We’re like, “Who?”

“JOB!” he said.  “JOB was a really nice person!  Oh, but he loved God, though, didn’t he?  He went through ALL those tribulations, just because he loved God!  And God REWARRRRDED him in the end, didn’t he!?!?”

Neither of us said anything.  That’s pointless in these situations.

And then he’s back with the tools and the door, just muttering, “Job loved God so much, he killed his whole family, and God blessed him for it—gave him another one!  Just gave him another one.  He was a really nice guy.  God loved Job!  So this means that if somebody came in here and started abusing all of you, oh well that’s fine, I should just let it happen, because God’ll give me a second family, a better one this time!  Ohh, we have a really good God, don’t we?  Some God.”

I’m Ginny, and this has been Weekend Uproar.  Tune in tomorrow—the stories never end.

Second Day of Classes and Random Moping

Second day of classes.  The first one was Intro. To Lit. with another of my favorite teachers.  The guy is still as cheesy as ever—gotta love him.  I really think I’m going to enjoy this class.

History, too.  It’s going to be, as I expected, the same things we learned about in American History, except from the European point of view.  So excited about that.

The Know-It-All guy (the one who lacks social skills) is in both History and Creative Writing with me now.  Then in History there’s also this guy in the History class I dropped over the summer.  He’s another of those nerds who doesn’t quite know how to get along with other people…in fact, I call him Gune, because he reminds me of that really weird and creepy little round alien from Titan A.E.  Not only does he act like Gune, but he looks like him, too.  It’s…scary.

gune_from_treasure_planet_by_espioartwork31-d5opo5m
So there’s the two of them. And Kara’s in there; she sits next to me.  The teacher is so sweet; I love her, too.  I like being in classes with three of my favorite teachers.  It was really funny; about 95% of the class is from my high school.

I neglected to mention this yesterday, but The Third Wilson Brother asked me what I’m planning to do after this, my last semester at FSCJ, and when I told him I’m majoring in English lit., he said, “Oh, you’re going that route, huh?”  And at first I thought he meant this in a bad way, but then he said, “That’s what I did, too.  So you gonna join a fraternity, all that?”

“That sounds like fun,” I said.  And I meant it.  Joining a fraternity would be fun.

I feel really scatterbrained tonight.  I’m not really staying in order of anything that happened…not really.  Tonight, after the initial fight between the parental units had calmed a bit, I headed into the room, and Dad asked if I know what I’m planning to do with my future.

Well, for the first time ever, I’m sure.  And I told him so.

He said, “If you want to be a writer, don’t you think you should be writing now?”

And for the first time ever, I could actually, legitimately defend myself.

“I do write,” I said, “it’s about all I do anymore.”

I felt bad when he said he’s never seen anything I write, and he’d like to.  I mean, he is my dad…but I can’t show him or my mom this blog because of some of the content….  Just…no.  And besides, I complain about him and Psychobrat on more than one occasion in it.  So I just…didn’t say anything.

He asked, “What kinds of things do you want to write novels about?”

I wasn’t really sure how to answer that.  Because some of the main ideas I have right now are autobiographical.  And of course, I feel panicked every time I say that I want to be a writer, because I’ve never, ever believed that I’m really a good writer.  I’m like…how the hell am I supposed to make it out there?  I can’t!  I can’t do it!  I have self-esteem issues.  I always have.  But I know perfectly well that my ideas don’t extend past my own life—which shouldn’t be a problem, because I have plenty of stories about things that I’ve done, and things I’ve dreamt.  I don’t know…I’m a good judge of character, yeah, but I’m not too versed in the ways of the world.  That’s not good for one who wants to write novels, I wouldn’t think.

Of course, that’s not even going to be my main profession.  I’m going to be a journalist; but even that worries me.  Even though I got an A in that class, and I didn’t have much trouble with it…that was easy stuff.  How will I continue to think up story ideas constantly?  I mean, I can’t always rely on an editor to give me ideas, or…he or she would get frustrated with me quite quickly, I would imagine.

I stress a lot.  It’s because I don’t believe I can do anything.  Ever.  I don’t know if I can ever change that mindset, because I’ve been this way for as long as I can recall.

So there’s this evil girl at work.  Well–I don’t know that she’s really evil so much as just wannabe-evil.  The comments she makes make it sound as though she’s trying.  It’s quite annoying.  Like tonight, while watching the news:

Evil Girl:  I just remembered my step-sister was just going through Texas.

Me:  Oh, my god—

Evil Girl:  Oh, *laugh* I don’t care, I’m just saying….

I just turned around and went back to my dinner.  But then I suddenly remembered that Bridget and Jason had been living in NO…so I called Bridget’s cell first thing when I got home tonight…and got some guy named Isaac, who very pleasantly told me that I must have the wrong number.

They probably weren’t there.  They’re both in the Army now, I think.  They’ve probably moved by now.

I dropped my Management class.  It was unnecessary; and I’ll be getting money back for it.  That’s more of a necessity now.  Especially since one of my more substantial forms of monthly income is now gone—no more $120/month from Watson…the manager I worked for just quit.

I’m going to just start giving my parents all of my money, except what I pay for my car.  They need it more than I do—besides, it’s really all theirs, anyway, when you figure in gas, cell phone, and…*sigh*…insurance.

I feel like Oliver Twist.