Even now, months later, I still have new stories about The Bad Date.

This is just unbelievable.  Remember The Bad Date?  So Monica and Lisa went back to the Jax Alehouse the other night to meet up with Wesley, the cute waiter (which didn’t work out)–and The Bad Date, of course, was there.  Now, I was not there, so I got this story second-hand; therefore, if there are any mistakes or discrepancies in it, I blame them on that.  But I will try to be as accurate as possible.

At first, Monica and our friend Michael, who used to be friends with The Bad Date (he isn’t after this most recent incident; although I have trouble figuring out how he still managed to remain friends with him after hearing about the date to begin with) were playing some DeerHunter video game thing.  The Bad Date came in and stood behind them and made comments about ways Monica could improve her playing (because she admittedly was not doing very well).  When the thing came up for her to put her initials in, she somehow put in, “CCM” instead of her actual initials, and The Bad Date commented eloquently, “That looks like ‘cum’.”

Cum?” Monica repeated, disgusted.

“Oh, I love the way you say that,” he said.  Does this guy not just get more and more unbelievable the more you hear about him?

Later, he went to the bathroom, and then Michael followed a minute later (this was uncoordinated; apparently guys don’t operate in the same sly ways as females).  They did, however, walk out together, and Michael reported the conversation thusly:

The Bad Date commented that Monica was really hot.  He said she was kind of short, but he could work with that.  He then asked whether Michael thought he should give Monica his phone number.  Michael replied that it would not be a good idea because Monica only likes Filipino guys.  (This is a blatant lie; in fact, Monica, despite being Filipino herself, prefers white guys.)

But The Bad Date, of course, paid no heed, and went to his table, grabbed a napkin, and started writing on it.

“What the hell is he doing?” Lisa said.

“I don’t know,” Monica said.

They found out a moment later when The Bad Date moved over to their table and slid the napkin (which read something along the lines of, “Hey, call me sometime” and his number) over to Monica.

Monica pretended not to see and slid a bit further away.

The Bad Date pushed the napkin closer to Monica still.

Monica, still pretending not to see, planted her elbow right on top of it and continued talking to somebody in the other direction.

The Bad Date got up, came over to Monica, tapped her on the elbow, and handed her the napkin.

“Yeah, I got it, thanks,” she said coldly (or at least, so it came out when she was telling me the story–I hope that’s how she said it to him, because it was funny).

He then asked her if she ever went to Ruby Tuesday.

“I used to go all the time, but I haven’t been in over a year,” (for obvious reasons), she told him.

“Did you ever go in there with two girls?” he said.

Monica exchanged a meaningful glance at Lisa and said, “I’m sure I did.”

“Was one of them a girl named Ginny with glasses?”

She said truthfully, “I don’t have a friend named Ginny who wears glasses.”  And I do, in fact, wear contacts now.

“Oh,” he said, “it must have been somebody else.  You just reminded me of someone.”

Now keep in mind, I was there about two weeks ago, and he definitely saw me more than once with them, and he kept staring at us.  He definitely knows.  He’s known all along.  But he won’t come right out and say it.

The Bad Date then took Michael to the pool tables to point out his fuckbuddy, who seemed to want nothing to do with him and even flirted with Michael right in front of him.  The Bad Date then poured out his entire sexual history to Michael (this was not extensive, as I cannot imagine there are many girls out there who would actually want to have sex with him).

As they were leaving, he kept trying to say good-bye to Monica, who kept trying not to say good-bye to him.  So finally he flicked her hair playfully (*shudder*) and walked away.

I told The Mormon I am never returning to the Alehouse unless he is there with me.

“I can do that, babe,” he said.  “I will be there to kiss you right in front of him.”

“Good,” I said.

“Maybe not an open-mouthed kiss….”

“It had better be an open-mouthed kiss!”

He laughed.  “Well, then an open-mouthed kiss.”

So I’ll go back if he is with me.  I wonder if The Bad Date would approach us.  I played this whole scene out in my head where he tried to approach us and inform The Mormon that I was cheating on him with Gary–that he saw us (my gay friend who was pretending to be my boyfriend because The Mormon couldn’t go with us that day).  I could see him doing something really dickish like that.  I don’t know that he would be afraid to come up to us; after this latest incident, I think if he saw me again, with or without a guy, he would try something.

I told my mom this latest story, leaving out the most sexually perverse details, and she said, “Poor guy.”  My mom’s thinking baffles me sometimes.  How she can feel sorry for the freakiest of freaks…I guess it’s sweet, but still.  She always takes the side of people who have been harassing/stalking me instead of mine, and it’s kind of hurtful, to be honest.

Who knows where this could lead?

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Crazy First Night of Work, Crazy Psychobrat, and Crazy Notes

Here is another example of why Psychobrat is named Psychobrat.  She was making sesame cookies the other day, and when I walked into the kitchen, there was a sheet of them about to go into the oven.  I reached over and pinched a tiny bit off the top of one, with my hands that had just been washed.

“NOT OFF THE SHEET!” Psychobrat screeched, and took the little glass bowl she had been holding in her hand and threw it into the sink, shattering it into bits.  Just thought I’d share.

Work was insane tonight, and it will only be worse for the rest of the week.  It won’t get better for a while.  There are only three of us servers, which…I don’t know how they expect that to work.  It won’t.  So hopefully that means they’ll have to get Sandra back.  But I have a headache now, and I expect with each day for the remainder of the week being ridiculously long and tiresome, I’ll have one each night, too.

Here are some more old notes from my classes.

In my earth science class, I observed about our teacher to that girl I no longer speak to because she betrayed us to The Bad Date:

“I think he looks like Bill Murray.”  He did.  He really did.  It was pretty funny.

I wrote this really sucky paper for the same class, which I shall be happily disposing of, in which I got rather low marks because my science was bad, but the prof still thought to point out:

“I must say your grammar and sentence structure is far better than many of your peers.”  That’s one of those things I said would have to go on my resume.  I need to actually write that resume.

On the same paper (it was about how scientific the movie Dante’s Peak was), I ended with the line, “And in the end, James Bond and Sarah Connor lived happily ever after.”

He replied, “Until Dante’s Peak 2, where they had to battle the Goldfinger cyborg.”

Again in the same class, we were discussing waves and tides, and how the moon affects the tide.  I wrote as a note to the same girl who later betrayed us:

“So it’s kind of like the moon is giving the Earth a big hickey.”  And a little further down, I wrote, “Moon pulls on the oceans and Earth.”  This was the actual note.  Connected to it by a dash, I wrote, “moon gives Earth hickey”  And then another actual note, the definition of spring tide:  “Sun and moon work together”.  And connected to that by a dash:  “Moonage a trois”.  I can be quite witty when I want to be.

Again from the same class.  We were doing this thing in our workbooks that involved a satellite image of Cape Cod.  And I wrote a little note on the side of the page for the prof’s benefit, because I knew he would get it:

“Cape Cod looks like a parasaurolophus.”  When he walked by, he turned his head sideways to read what I’d written, laughed, and said, “It really does!”  When I got the paper back, he had written next to it, “Raptor claw?” with an arrow drawn to a small neighboring island not shown in the picture I posted here.

I think that’s it for tonight.  I’ve got half an hour left–going to bed exactly at midnight so as to hopefully wake up in time for class tomorrow.  I’m leaving an hour and a half early to attempt to get a parking space.  Hopefully no one will double-park me tomorrow.  Fuckers.

It’s all in the mind.

WTF?  So I’m sitting here waiting on the laundry as I do every Saturday night because it’s the only night I can do laundry without pissing off Psychobrat (for now, at least).  But my parents also do laundry on Saturday for the same reason, and it’s usually in there all damn day.  So just now I said, in a perfectly calm and rational voice because I was not pissed off, “Dad?  Did you get your clothes out of the dryer?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but you could have found a nicer way to ask.”

“What?” I said.

“I just don’t like how you asked the question.”

“What other way is there to ask the question?”

“I don’t know, I just figured from a journalist, you could have found a better way.”

…???  What did I do wrong here!?  I don’t understand!  And why is it suddenly about attacking my chosen profession?  Somehow things always end up attacking my chosen profession when it comes to conversations with him…that’s why I’ve changed my mind about half a million things I wanted to be in the past.  Fuck, it isn’t like I’m not self-conscious enough about it.

I start back to work tomorrow, and school the day after that–full-time for the first time since December.  I’m a bit anxious.  No–I’m very anxious.  And the only reason for that is because when I lack free time, it gets me really worked up inside.

I’m not going to see The Mormon for two weeks if he can’t get out of his class on Friday.  That doesn’t really sound like a lot, but I just didn’t want to let go of him when I left his house tonight.  I almost felt on the verge of tears.  I’m PMSing.  It makes me overly-emotional.

I’ve been reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  I don’t honestly like it very much.  In fact, there have been several occasions when I have nearly thrown it across the room in frustration and given up on it.  But now I only have about 54 pages to go and there’s no way I can quit it now.  I actually found this quote in it that I like.  From the 1974 Bantam paperback edition:

p. 220:  You go up the mountaintop and all you’re gonna get is a great big heavy stone tablet handed to you with a bunch of rules on it.

I thought it was funny.  But here’s something interesting–while checking the publisher on the spine, I noticed the word, “non-fiction”.  This whole time, I didn’t realize this book was non-fiction.  Suddenly I have way more respect for it.  Seriously.  Now that it’s almost over.

Actually, it taught me something.  I was reading in it about the philosophies of David Hume vs. Immanuel Kant, and it totally reminded me of in Yellow Submarine, when George keeps saying, “It’s all in the mind.”  Suddenly I realized that that was what it was referencing, was Hume.  That line never fully made sense to me before; I always knew there was something deeper behind it, but I didn’t quite get it.  But the next day I watched the movie again, and when George said the line, I really got it.  In fact, this time it was laugh-out-loud funny.

See, George is driving Ringo’s car back and forth in front of him, and Ringo is trying to prove that it is his car with a description, and he says he knows it is his car because it is red with yellow wheels.  The horn honks, and suddenly it is blue with red wheels, and George says, “It’s all in the mind.”  And it was really funny this time.

To further that topic, this morning my parents were looking at photos on the computer and arguing about red-eye, and finally Mom said, “I’m not seeing the same thing you’re seeing”, meaning, from the conversation following that, that it looked different to her because it was an old computer screen and he was standing up tall and she was sitting directly in front of it, so the picture looked blurred to him.  I said, “It’s all in the mind,” and thought it was profoundly clever; I don’t think they heard me, but I managed to amuse myself.

In other news, the other day I actually experienced sleep paralysis.  When I woke up at first, it was really sudden, and I found that I couldn’t move.  At first I thought it was just that being too tired to move thing, but then I realized that I literally could not move.  And then I noticed that my chest felt heavy, like there was pressure on it, and I was having trouble breathing.  But I knew exactly what was happening, because I’ve read so much about this before, since I already experience hypnagogic hallucinations from time to time.  I warily opened my eyes to see if there was a hag sitting on my chest, but nothing.  And suddenly I was aware of how frightening that sensation must be, just because you couldn’t move.  I think the reason I didn’t hallucinate was because I knew what was going on.  So I kind of just laid there calmly and let it wear off and didn’t worry about it.  Then, when I could move, I freaked out and started kicking my sheets around.

I went to my 9:00 a.m. meeting at work yesterday in pajamas to make a statement.  “This is what I think about 9 a.m. meetings,” I intended to say.  I don’t know if they got it.

Dann told me Sandra isn’t coming back.  I am so going to miss Sandra; she was such fun to tell stories to.

This is a super-long entry, so I’m going to end it here.

A Wake-Up Shout, a Clone, and a Mad Hitman

I went to bed early in order to get a good eight hours of sleep and get up by 9, but was unfortunately awoken two hours earlier at 7:15 by the sounds of my extremely homophobic father shouting at Brother about what going to jail really means.

“THERE ARE A LOT OF MEN IN THERE WHO HAVE BEEN SEPARATED FROM THEIR GIRLFRIENDS FOR A LONG TIME!  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!?  TELL ME WHAT THAT MEANS!”

I am not hearing this, I thought, attempting to go back to sleep, but this, unfortunately, was not possible until about two hours later, so I ended up sleeping until about 11 anyway.

I had two dreams last night–well, this morning, really.  In the first, Cortney went home to Illinois to visit family for a bit, then came back and told me there was this guy there I just had to meet.  So I took her word for it, and she and Nicole and I went up to Illinois for about a week.

While there, we took a trip to Sam’s Club, or something similar to it, where there was this guy working whom Cortney had met and spoken to for a while.  He looked and talked exactly like The Mormon, and even had the same name.  That was why Cortney had wanted me to see him.

When she introduced me to him, he said, “This’ll sound really strange, but you look exactly like my girlfriend.”  How weird is that?  So we followed him around, and I kept trying to hold hands with him and stuff, and finally I just thought, Why don’t I?  This guy is The Mormon.

Then we were writing all the stuff we were going to purchase up on this chalkboard, because their cash registers were broken or something, and I woke up (to Dad’s yelling) trying to rub chalk off of my hands.

The next dream was after I went back to sleep; I dreamed that Michelle, Adrianna, Turtle, Peck, and I were all hitmen for…somebody.  I don’t know who.  And Turtle was also crazy–he deliberately killed the wrong guy, laughing all the while.  For some reason, that whole Christian group that we had over the summer was in the cafe again, and Turtle killed one of them.  So then whoever we worked for sent me after Turtle, but Turtle knew this and kept trying to shoot me.  (This took place in the parking garage at UNF.)  And he kept laughing maniacally–it was really freaky!

When I saw Turtle tonight, I said, “I had this dream you were trying to shoot me and kept laughing creepily.”

He said, “Is that why you looked at me funny at first?”

“That’s why,” I said.

Something else of interest, completely unrelated to dreams–remember how I was griping about the old van in the previous entry? So this guy came to the door just today offering to break it down so he could have the parts. He even had the wrecker right there. My dad wants to get pictures of us all in front of it first, since we’ve had it since the year I was born (he gets weirdly sentimentally attached to objects), but after that we’re going to call the guy and get rid of it. Cool how that works out, huh?

And that’s pretty much it on news/stories for today.

Psychobrat, the $250 Hoop Skirt, and the Video Game

I’ve got some Psychobrat stories for you this morning.

First of all, Psychobrat, who demanded a car out of my parents, finally did get her way, of course.  And of course, she cannot afford to make the payments on it, so my parents are doing that for her.

But Psychobrat, who cannot afford her $150 car payments, also demanded a $250 prom dress from my parents, and got that, as well.  $250 she doesn’t have on a dress she will wear once.  It isn’t even attractive; it greatly resembles a hoop skirt.  (Just to show that I’m not being hypocritical here, my parents did buy me a car, but I have always made all of my own payments on it, and I used my own money to buy myself an $80 prom dress.)

So she’s been swishing around the house in her $250 hoop skirt, and I’ve been snickering behind my hand.

So there’s that.

Then there’s the matter of MarioKart.

When I got back from Cortney’s, I had this serious hankering to play MarioKart, so I went digging out our Nintendo and the few games Brother hadn’t sold and sat down to play it.  Two days later, I was about halfway to beating the game, when Psychobrat informed me that she was taking it to Spidermonkey’s house because they had nothing else to do but play this game.

I informed her that she wasn’t taking it, because I had dug it out of the spot it had been sitting in, unthought of, for the past three years, for me to play it, not her.

As everyone reading this probably knows by now, it doesn’t matter what you say to Psychobrat, because she will always have what she wants.  She walked straight into my room, took it (with plenty of assurances that it would be back that night) and left.

So yesterday, knowing perfectly well that MarioKart would stay at Spidermonkey’s for all eternity, because it now belongs to her and I can’t get to it there, I said, “So where’s MarioKart?”

This was when Psychobrat informed me that, as punishment for my being a bitch, it was still at Spidermonkey’s.

I, trying not to explode, walked into my room to call Katie, because I knew that would calm me down before I blew a fuse.  Katie wasn’t available, so I left her the following voice mail:

“Hello, how are you?  I’m just calling you to bitch, because according to PSYCHOBRAT!!!!!!, that is what I am.”  I paused here, because I was listening to Psychobrat call calmly from the other room, “Are you talking about yourself?”

“So…have a nice day,” I said, and hung up.

I love my sister.

What else has been happening lately?  I’ve spent a lot of time with The Mormon, which has been awesome, of course.  The other day he bought me a little stuffed kangaroo (that’s one of my favorite animals) just because.  How cute is that?  So I named them Stacia and Oswald (the mother and baby respectively) because those were the first two names that popped into my head.

Oh, speaking of The Mormon, I remembered another dream.  It’s kind of stupid, actually.  I dreamed I made him watch this horrible movie from the ’50s (it wasn’t real) that I realized about halfway through I had actually seen before, but we still kept watching it.  I had read this review that made it sound phenomenal, but later realized that the review was actually mine–it was here on my blog.  I had written up this whole phenomenal review of a completely detestable movie, just to see how good I could make it sound using double-talk or something.  It was so well-written, but the only thing I remember about it now is that at one point I used the phrase, “lovably loathsome” to describe a character.

All I really remember about the dream-movie is that it seemed to be about some stupid cop and a bunch of teenagers who kept getting the best of him as he chased them around town.

And I remembered, oddly, the tagline of the film, and wrote it down in the middle of the night so I wouldn’t forget:  “There’s nothing funnier than Lt. Don Chodiedrel.  Except the loads-funnier Sam don’t-remember-his-last-name.”  (The cop’s last name, despite the odd spelling, was pronounced ‘ka-DEE-drul’.)

The things my subconscious gets up to.

In other news…I feel like it’s been forever since I updated here, but that is because I am hard at work on an original novel–the first in a trilogy, in fact.  And yes, my main character is unabashedly based on myself and thus technically a Mary-Sue, but above the level of Bella.  Far…far above.

Anyway, I’ve been making some aesthetics to inspire myself, so here’s your very first hint of what I’m getting up to:Dean Aesthetic 2

The Mormon, Work Anxiety, Some Black Licorice, and a Luncheon Meeting

First of all, I would just like to say welcome to my new readers!  Thank you very much for following.  Please don’t be shy; feel free to drop by and introduce yourselves sometime!

I’m not going to school this semester.  Not by choice—just because the school and the doctor’s office are both run by incompetent gits.  So I now have four months to give them both hell.  I will be going next semester.  Of course, by that time, I will be the equivalent of one year behind schedule.  Brilliant.

I did start back to work again this week.  So I mean, I won’t be a complete loser for four months.  Oh, but I’ll feel like it.

For the past couple months I’ve been rather silent on the Dean the Mormon stories, but no more.  I’ve decided I’m way past the don’t-kiss-and-tell stage now.  (He’s my boyfriend; we kiss.  There.)  So now I can tell stories as they arise without feeling guilty or having to put the lock on, which I dislike doing.

So…speaking of Dean the Mormon…we went to St. Augustine the other day just to be tourists.  I got lost on the way to his house.  (He lives about an hour away from me, and see, I suck at finding places on the first or fiftieth times, and I suck at giving directions.  I’m just not good with this kind of thing.  As I was trying to explain to him, when I learn to drive someplace new, I have to learn it in both the light and the dark, because they both look way different to me, so it’s like two completely different routes.)  Also, I’d never seen it in the light, and it was light while I was trying to find it.  I did manage to find my way out in the dark later, which is saying something, as there are very few lights out where he lives.

We were headed into a bookstore a few minutes after we arrived, and there were some other people headed into the store, coming from the other direction, when The Mormon paused and had that look of, ‘Hey, I know you’ on his face.  Then they paused, too.  And when I saw that they had a baby, I knew that this must be Trask and Co.

Trask is one of The Mormon’s best friends—the one who lives in Gainesville with his wife and their baby, whom, when he came out, Trask said looked like something out of The Dark Crystal.  (Apparently he’s grown out of that stage, because I couldn’t really see it.  And believe me, I looked.)  Trask is also the one who calls dozens of times during two-hour make-out sessions because he knows that when The Mormon isn’t answering his phone, that’s what’s going on.

So they just happened to be going into the same store as us on the same day at the exact same time.  I love weird coincidences like that.  Anyway, so as we parted ways, Trask shook my hand and said, “It was lovely to finally meet you; I’ve heard great things.  This guy has really fallen head over heels for you.”

We went into some candy store later and argued for a while over whether black licorice is good or bad, and then we got a bag of various things, and I put a scoop of black licorice in it, and so then I stuck a piece in my mouth, and he informed me coolly that I was not going to get kissed for an hour.  I laughed and ate more licorice.

We went to the fort, the name of which I can’t remember, but…you know…the fort…and joked about the two-hundred-year-old graffiti on the walls (I’m serious; there was stuff carved from like 1800-something) and some General or Commander Pratt.  And then we made Pratt jokes for the rest of the time we were there.  (Example:  There were several spots where you could, even now, quite easily fall from the upper level to…way far below, and I wondered aloud how often that must have happened back in the day, and he said he didn’t know but it must have happened, and it must have sucked, and I looked down below in this mournful sort of way and said, “Oh, there goes Pratt.”  Stuff like that. ‘Twas fun.)

Then we went to this 50s diner where they actually played all 50s music (which was really cool because I knew every single song, some of which I hadn’t heard in…well, many years).  And back to his house again to watch Say Anything, this kick-ass British show called Spaced, and a little Battlestar:  Galactica.  At one point, he stepped outside to smoke, and his brother came out and said, “Where’s Dean?”

“Oh, probably outside smoking,” I said.

“That was enthusiastic,” Jeremy (the brother) said.

“Ha…yeah, well…I’m just going to eat more black licorice to get back at him,” I said, and ate about six pieces.

I checked the caller ID this morning and discovered that yesterday, while I was out, another stalker called me.  For the first time in months.  This guy liked me back when I was in my journalism class a year ago, and he liked a few of my friends, too.  He did a story on HP fandom, and asked for some of my friends’ names to interview them.  Then he started stalking Katie.  He’d come up to me and ask if I knew where any of her classes were, or when (I very coldly informed him that I did not), and then sent her an e-mail, which I actually still have.

From April 1, 2017…April Fools’ Day, go figure:

“Hey there,

Just wanted to say that it was nice talking to you and thanks for your oppinoin [sic] on the new Harry Potter book.  Also, if we can meet up sometime next week, can u tell me what u look like.  Maybe that way it will make it easier for me to find u.  For me, 6’1”, dark short brown hair, glasses, 150 lbs. hazel eyes.  I like HP, photography, paintball, watching tv, playing my Game Boy, going to the movies, listening to HP audiobooks.  What do u like to do?

Thanks, Colin”

This guy was really weird, if you haven’t already guessed that.  He had this creepy, halting sort of speech, really slow, with odd inflections.  Like a poorly-made robot.  He tried calling both of us several times after that, and neither of us ever answered again.

Tell me, what is with these people, and how do I keep meeting them?

So I went to lunch with Milo today…hadn’t seen him in a few weeks…and this scary thing happened when I got out of my car.  We were walking into the restaurant, side by side, and I don’t know, I guess obviously there’s some pent-up stuff inside, and now I’m not afraid of hand-holding like I was two months ago…anyway, as we were walking in, I tried to grab his hand.  I don’t know what was going through my head.  But I brushed against his arm with mine and reached down for it, and that was the exact moment I realized what I was doing and jerked my hand away again like I’d burnt it.  I don’t think he noticed—I sort of played it off like I’d just walked too close and then lengthened the distance between us.  But then later we walked over to Target and I did it again!  So I just crammed my hands into my damn pockets and kept them there.

(I would just like to say, for those of you who are wondering, that no matter what my feelings for a certain other concerned party, I would never cheat on The Mormon, because for one thing, I’m just not like that, but for another…he’s a really freaking great boyfriend.  I couldn’t ask for better, and I like him a lot.  And even if Milo finally came to his senses all of a sudden and realized that he should have been with me all along…I’d make him wait indefinitely.)

So afterward I went back to The Mormon’s to watch more of Spaced.  That show totally kicks ass, I’m telling you.  Like I said, it’s an hour drive, and I knew that it would be really difficult trying to find his house in the dark, so the entire way there, I felt like I was trying to outrun the darkness.  As I explained to him, I kept checking the rearview mirror, and I could see the sky behind me getting darker and darker, and I was going faster and faster, when at last I hit the traffic on San Jose, and the darkness was coming much more quickly.  But I actually made it just in the nick of time, when a sliver of light still hung in the air.

And now I s’pose I’m finished for the evening.  See, I told you there was a real entry coming soon.

Some Sort of Something Going On

So The Mormon met the parents yesterday.  It was a nerve-wracking experience (for me).  Just because…you know.  You know how my family is.  I love them, but things can be…awkward.  But everyone was on their best behavior, so…good.

I confessed as we were stepping out the front door that I was so glad the awkwardness had ended, and he said, “Why? It was fine!”

Later at dinner he asked if I thought they’d liked him, and I said yes, from what I could tell.  Hope so.  That will make any future mention of him at all much less awkward.  They didn’t say anything, though, so I’m assuming it’s all cool.

Oh, here’s something.  I was sick on Christmas, and just sort of lying around all day, too weak to stand.  At the end of the night, Psychobrat (who had been a complete bitch all day, of course) stomped into the laundry room, threw open the washer, threw open the dryer, and immediately made one of her noises that are supposed to show her annoyance and instead make her sound like she’s attempting to gargle her entire throat.  This meant that my clothes were in the dryer.  (I’d neglected to take them out the night before when I’d gotten sick.)

Well, as I was lying on my mom’s lap on the couch, still too weak to stand up for long periods of time, and since, you know, I do her laundry all the time, whether I’m waiting for the washer or I just happen to be awake while it’s going…I just do it…I didn’t think asking her to simply take everything and dump it on my bed in a heap would be too much to ask.

Oh, but it was, apparently.  She gargled her tonsils for a while, and finally screeched, “NO, I WON’T DO YOUR LAUNDRY!”

Now, here’s the actually remarkable part:  My dad said, “Oh, damn it, [Sister], you can be so selfish sometimes!” and went in there and got my clothes for me, took them into my room, folded and sorted everything, and left it neatly on my bed.  I’m lying there on the couch thinking, This is awesome.

She responded with something like, “WELL I’M TIRED AND CRANKY!” to which he replied, disgust evident in voice, “Yeah, that’s obvious.  Go to bed.”

It was wonderful.

Like I said, though, she was a bitch the entire day.  Mostly about the computer.  (Apparently it was “her day”, as she told us.  It couldn’t be, like, you know, the Savior’s day, or anything like that.  It was all hers.)

And of course, a dream.

It kept alternating between a modern, American setting and a faerie tale, Cinderella-ish sort.  I was working for this really rich family, as like…the maid, or…the nanny, or…something?  But in the other reality, it was a charming prince and his bitchy wife and their kids.  It seriously had this whole Cinderella feel to it.  Except the woman was a complete bitch.  The children?  Also bitches.

My younger sister and brother also worked in the castle/mansion.  I took care of them, too.  I’m not sure how old we were, or how we got there.  Anyway.

I started to fall in love with the prince/man of the house.  He was falling for me, too.  Probably something to do with the fact that he could see how different I was from his wife (probably an arranged marriage—she so didn’t deserve him).  (He was also completely aware of the fact that his own children were miserable little devils.  It was wonderful.)  This was a genuinely nice guy, whom you could only feel sorry for for being stuck in this marriage with this god-awful family.

Anyway, so the wife eventually found out there was some sort of something going on between me and her husband, and of course, I’m basically a peasant girl who isn’t worthy to look at her as it is, but when she discovered that, she decided to kill me.  Freakishly, she let her kids in on this idea.  They were all for it.  (Not completely sure how old they were, either.  There were somewhere between two and four of them.  I’m not really certain.)  But she had them well-trained to carry out her evil bitchiness.  He found out about the plot and warned me.

So…I think she was planning to poison me and my brother and sister.  But when she found out I knew about this (I fed the food to one of her evil dogs right in front of her, out of spite), I had to flee.  Into the woods in the giant backyard.  (I think the faerie tale version was an enchanted forest.)  (And I’m serious, the dogs were evil…they would…bark and stuff, to let her know that I was with Prince Charming.  They went snooping.)  But yeah.  I threw the plates at the dog, and she dove to retrieve it, but the dog was quicker.  The dog turned belly-up, and I screamed, “You witch!  You evil witch!  Don’t you realize I have powerful people on my side!?”

I was, of course, referring to her husband, which she knew.  (He had warned me, and we had already made plans to run away together the next day, into another kingdom where no evil witches would throw anything between us—death or themselves or anything.)  That’s when I grabbed my siblings’ hands and the three of us ran into the forest.

I was hiding somewhere that I could still see what was going on.  She was distributing daggers to her children, making it all seem like a fun game.  “Whoever finds them first gets extra dessert,” or something like that, in this really sweet voice.  They were all creepy-looking little things with malicious grins.  (I think she was actually Tilda Swinton, with long hair in the faerie-tale world and short hair in the other one.)

Anyway, so there I’m sitting, brother and sister alongside me, behind a pile of chopped firewood, I do believe—a large pile—when her other dog comes running up, barking and snarling.  I was sure everyone had been alerted to our hiding place, when suddenly, the husband’s cat (which looked an awful lot like our family kitty) pounced on the dog, hissing and biting and clawing, and distracted it, and they took off fighting.

But we went running, anyway.  I waited until they were all deeper in the woods (or so I thought) and went running with the kids back towards the front, straight into the arms of Prince Charming.  (Well, I didn’t mean to.  He just appeared there.  I kind of collided.  Actually, I thought it was her at first.  But no, she was behind me.)

He said we had to leave instantly.  We were just embracing, when little sister screamed, “There!  She’s right there!” and there was the bitch, coming right at us, bonfire in her eyes.

But he drew his sword, pointed it at her, and informed her that he could end it all then and there, if that was what she wanted.  She hissed like a snake and backed away a few paces.

“Then go…run with them, if that is what you want!”  Uh…a bit creepy.  But anyway, as his coachman was right there, we didn’t need to be told twice.  (Fortunately, the coachman was loyal to the prince, and not her.  He thought she was a bitch, too.)

So then when this ended, it still wasn’t completely over—then I dreamed I was lying in bed next to Dean the Mormon, having apparently fallen asleep at his house, and was telling him about it that morning, and he was very entertained, and said, “So did everybody live happily ever after?”

“Well, you would think so, wouldn’t you?” I said.  “But no—” and I proceeded to tell him all the things that went wrong with it.  Namely, that Prince Charming actually ended up being a complete dick anyway, and…oh, there was a whole list of things.  I can’t really remember anymore, but everything went wrong.  (Apparently.  I didn’t know about those bits until this part of the dream.  It originally ended with us riding away in the carriage at the end.)