It only gets worse, of course.

I took a nap in the library before class today, because I didn’t have to do anything in my first class, and what woke me up was somebody in a dream telling me, “Ginny, you’re going to be late to your history class.”  This jolted me awake just in time, in fact.

I headed outside where I sit with Corey (who was in D.C. yesterday, hence why he was not in class) and Know-It-All (and sometimes Katie) every day, and sometimes a couple guys from my history class, and they were all there, and Katie and I were cackling about random things, when all of a sudden, Dean the Mormon walks right around the corner.

I never see him at that time of the day on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and yet there he was, and so Corey and Know-It-All both greeted him, and he had a nametag on because he’d just come from work, and Katie said, in a semi-low voice, “Is that…?”  And I said, “Yes.”

“I can’t picture you kissing him,” Katie said, an evil tone in her voice.

“Shut up!” I hissed.  She continued to grin.  It would have been funny if it hadn’t been such a bad situation.  I looked up at him, and he sort of glanced at me, and then he immediately looked away, never said a word to me in the entire time that we sat there talking about class yesterday, (“L’Owen?” Katie guessed correctly) and never even looked at me.  (Katie, naturally, found this quite humorous.)

And then he walked away.  Never a word; never a glance.

Speaking of which, when he didn’t walk me to my car yesterday, he also neglected to say good-bye.  As I suspect, the only reason conversation was exchanged at all was because he had my book.

And then as we were walking into class, Corey noticed that something was wrong with me, and started interrogating me, but of course, what could I say?  I couldn’t say anything, so I didn’t.

I didn’t mention this yesterday, but when I got home, I made some comment about some hot guy on the TV, and my mom, who was holding the bird and speaking in her baby voice, said, “No cute boy for Sunshine…cute boy for Ginny, but not Sunshine.  Ginny has a cute boy; his name is Dean.”

I’m like, “Uhh…no.  No, she doesn’t.”

My mom looked up at me and said, “Why not?”

I gave a very brief explanation (I told him I didn’t want a commitment, so it was over) and she acted annoyed with me!  Why would my mom not be supportive of me!?  So then I just felt even worse, and reminded myself why I don’t like telling my family things.

To change the subject slightly, I also left out this story about yesterday in class when we were critiquing this one girl’s poem.  She works in a grocery store, and one day a drag queen called her up to ask for eyeliner, and then just started telling her about being a drag queen.  It was a really funny poem; anyway, L’Owen looks around at all the guys and says, “Have any of you ever dressed in drag?”  A couple of them had stories:  Randy had worn a dress once when he was eight, etc.

L’Owen to whom I was unfortunately not paying a great deal of attention, as I had other things on my mind like trying not to be sick and worrying about the gap between my desk and Dean’s, was grinning as he told this story about how he and his wife like to make fun of each other, and one time he put on one of her bras and started laughing at her, and I’m thinking, “I must have missed something here” and everybody’s looking around at each other oddly, most of them laughing…it was rather interesting.  I really ❤ the guy.


Psychobrat and Connecticut Yankees

I’ve been reading Connecticut Yankee very slowly, even though I’m totally loving it—I think I’m savoring it because I don’t want it to end.  Yes, I read it many years ago and loved it then, but I’m appreciating it way more now.  I’m catching a lot more of the humor—and the other day I realized that part of the reason it’s so funny is that Hank Morgan, the Connecticut Yankee, totally has Jerry’s sense of humor.  I’ll show you the lines that first made me realize that:

Hank is riding with Alisande (he calls her “Sandy”) on a quest to liberate a bunch of princesses from an ogre.  Sandy never shuts up, and she tells stories in such a Le Morte d’Arthur style.  (I suspect some of her stories might be taken right out of that book, or one like it.)  And he keeps griping about how you can interrupt her, and he does, he interrupts her many times with comments that of course she doesn’t get but which are very funny to us, and that she will pick the story straight back up as though nothing had happened, occasionally even starting completely over.  It’s all very entertaining.  Anyway.  The quote.

“…And so they ran together that the knight brake his spear on Marhaus, and Sir Marhaus smote him so hard that he brake his neck and the horse’s back—”

“Well, that is just the trouble about this state of things, it ruins so many horses.”

“That saw the other knight of the turret, and dressed him toward Marhaus, and they went so eagerly together, that the knight of the turret was soon smitten down, horse and man, stark dead—”

Another horse gone; I tell you it is a custom that ought to be broken up.  I don’t see how people with any feeling can applaud and support it.”

I read that twice, thinking, This reminds me of someone….  When I finally realized who it was, I just started laughing harder, and now as I’m going through, I just hear Jerry’s voice every time the Yankee speaks, because his sense of humor is consistent.  It’s 19th-century Seinfeld in the 6th century.  Interesting.

Last night, Mom went to the grocery store.  Psychobrat, apparently, needed to make something for her soccer team; she wanted to make brownies, so Mom brought home some mix that had been on sale.

There were nuts in the mix.  Psychobrat pitched this royal-ass fit about how this other girl was already bringing brownies and had already bitched at her for bringing the same thing as her, and how there was not one person on the entire team who liked nuts or would eat the brownies were there nuts in them—she knew.

Mom suggested she sift them out, but Psychobrat couldn’t do that:  The mix was too lumpy and it would take her all night.  Her voice steadily rose in volume and whininess.  Mom kept suggesting she just sift it, it wouldn’t take that long, but finally Dad blew up at her, too.  “She says nobody on her team will like it!  Why can’t we just get her some more!?” or something to that effect, and offered to drive the bitch to the store and get her some more damn brownie mix.

As soon as they had stepped outside, Mom went to sift the brownie mix.  She had gotten out both the lumps and the nuts in less than five minutes.  She called them to tell them so, but they didn’t care; Psychobrat wanted her expensive, nutless brownie mix, so they bought it anyway.  And now there’s just a bowl of brownie mix with saran wrap over it sitting on the kitchen table.

At least Psychobrat got her way and Armageddon was set back another night.

The other night, probably because I’m reading Connecticut Yankee, I dreamed I was jousting.  I’d say it felt really realistic, but I’ve never jousted before, so I guess I wouldn’t really know.  But the other jerk was cheating.  I’m not sure how; I just remember everybody complaining the whole time that he was cheating.  He also took the good helmet and left me with the really tight, claustrophobic one which had slits so big they didn’t do any good anyway.  The lance could go right through it.

A Psychobrat Story, Among Other Things

I was up doing homework last night until about 3:30.

At what felt like about 6 a.m. (well, it was still dark outside, at least), I was awoken by Psychobrat practically kicking down my door.


Of course, being awoken in this manner is very not-good-for-you, and at first I couldn’t even move.  Finally I managed to eke out, “Where are Mom and Dad?”

“I DON’T KNOW, THEY’RE NOT HERE!  GET UP, I’M GOING TO BE LATE TO WORK!”  Well, she was going to be late anyway.  It takes twenty minutes to get there.

“Why can’t your little boyfriend take you?” I moaned.

“HE’S SLEEPING!”  And what was I doing, playing cricket?  Certainly nothing I couldn’t be pulled away from.

“Call Mom and Dad; see if they can take you.”

She disappeared.  A couple minutes later, she came back to inform me that they were at the hospital; Dad had another kidney stone.

I’m not sure what happened after that.  She left and didn’t come back again, so I’m assuming Spidermonkey (the boyfriend) took her.  Of course, I couldn’t fall back asleep again.  Not after being woken up like that.

Dad is fine now, but he says kidney stones are supposed to be about as painful as giving birth.  So, the way he put it, “I’ve given birth four times in the last three months.”  Yikes.

Had lunch with Cortney and Nicole today, so I have to say that was the highlight of my week.

They finally gave me my Fridays back, and so I’ve been in a pleasant mood for several days.  I just haven’t had a lot to talk about; and then, of course, I’ve been busy with homework.

Anyway, I think I’d better get to bed.  Maybe there will be more news after L’Owen’s class tomorrow.  My portfolio is due for his class on Wednesday, which means I have to be finished with the story by then!  Okay…I can do that.  But first, I shall sleep.

I’ll end this entry with a bit of advice:  Pay attention to guys in glasses; you never know when one of them might be Superman.

Unrelated Things I Can’t Get A Title Out Of

Last night, while reading a bit of Goblet of Fire to Brother as he ate, I noticed something funny I never had before.  Ron is complaining to Hermione about him and Harry having to go to the Yule Ball with “a couple of trolls”, and Hermione suggests he take Eloise Midgen, whose acne “is loads better now”.  Ron looks at her disgustedly and says, “Her nose is off-center.”  I always just thought that was a really funny line, that he was coming up with this dumb excuse not to take somebody who didn’t interest him at all, when I finally connected the line with another one in Philosopher’s Stone, when they’re discussing some sort of spell or plant (I think it was a plant, because I think it was Sprout who said this) that was supposed to cure pimples, and Eloise Midgen used it wrong or something, “but they were able to fix her nose back on in the end”. I  can’t believe it took me so long to notice that.  It’s hilarious.

I was reading an interview with Danny Elfman about why he didn’t want to do another Spidey, and why he didn’t foresee himself ever working with Sam Raimi again.  Apparently, Raimi became really controlling and psycho during the filming of Spidey2; the term Danny used was “micromanager”.  He wanted to do everybody else’s jobs for them; Danny said he was never like that before, that he had changed since the last time they’d worked together.  Anyway, so they couldn’t agree on anything, and Raimi wanted Danny to write something like this one cue from Hellraiser, but Danny couldn’t get close enough, and he said he wasn’t going to fucking steal Christopher Young’s work, and if they wanted Christopher Young, to just fucking hire him.  So they did, but then Christopher Young couldn’t even get close enough to his own cue to satisfy Raimi, so they just bought the rights to that single cue and used it.  I found this hilarious.  I just had this whole image of this tyrannical Raimi going insane.  “Get me that cue!  I want it!  I don’t care if it kills you!  GET IT!!”

So I wrote an official note to Dann today asking for my old Sunday through Thursday schedule back.  Hopefully this will be granted.  Otherwise, I might just snap.

I’ve been writing a lot lately.  It’s kind of worn me out temporarily.  So I’m going to stop here for tonight.

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.


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.

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.