Being Selfish

I am so losing my drive.

I was doing so well with my homework, every single night, I’d come home, do it, and go to sleep.  That’s how every day went—wake up, get ready to go, go to class, go to work, do my homework, go to bed, start over.  I’m still doing that, but I screw around with my homework more and more now.  I keep thinking, Oh, I can just do that tomorrow, and then do.

Last week I couldn’t even concentrate in class.  I just sat through all my classes, for all those hours and fifteen minutes, staring off into space, thinking about goodness knows what.

Tomorrow I have to know what I’m going to be writing my five-page essay on for my Makings of Memory class.  I’ve had a week to figure this out.  I still have no clue.

I’d been kind of working on a rewards system—I kill myself every day of every week and then the weekend comes and everything is wonderful for two days, and now I just found out that I will only have one weekend with The Mormon for this entire month.  (And let me reiterate–weekends are the only times that I see him at all.)  So now I’m doing all of this work and there is nothing at all to get me through it or console me.  Just the promise of a weekend where I’m stuck at home with my angry father and with nothing to do.  I am so depressed.  Why does being so busy make me depressed?  It’s always like this.  Nobody else gets like this.  Other people are just like, yeah, I’m busy, whatever, life goes on.  It doesn’t work that way for me.

I’m being so selfish.  I’m always so selfish.  Why am I so selfish?  Fuck.

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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?

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.

Mini-Golf, Go-Karts, and Zim

I would like to apologize for my long hiatus; Psychobrat is always hogging the computer these days, which makes updating or anything else quite difficult.

I went to Adventure Landing with The Mormon and his friend Phil and his friend Phil’s friends last night.  It was lots of fun; I hadn’t been there in over a year at least.  We played mini-golf for free because Phil had tickets, and The Mormon and I both sucked about equally.  There were ten of us, and we were all playing together, guys vs. girls.

When The Mormon called and asked if I’d like to go, he said, “Are you ready to attempt to beat me at mini-golf?”

“I bet you suck, don’t you?” was my response.

“Pretty much, yeah.”  Hee.

Then we rode go-karts, and the entire time I just felt like yelling stuff like, “PEACHY!” but there was nobody to yell it to who could possibly have heard me, so I didn’t bother.  It was all so much fun, especially in the less-than-sweltering evening temperature.

When we went inside to play games, I collected tickets just to give to random little kids, which is usually quite fun, but the only kids who were there that late last night were ungrateful little bastards, so after that I gave them to the other people in my group.

Got an A in my English class.  Just thought I’d point that out.

I dreamed about Zim last night!  It was so funny!  What I can remember is that I apparently lived with Dib in my house in Virginia.  Or at least, I was staying there, because I didn’t really have a room.  Dib lived in my parents’ bedroom upstairs, while I was staying downstairs in one room on a sleeping bag, and Zim was living in the room next to mine, my mom’s office, in another sleeping bag.  (It’s strange, because there were quite a few rooms upstairs that would have worked as bedrooms.)

Dib unlocked the front door and we walked in, and Zim, for some reason, took one look at my fleece sleeping bag and freaked out.  He pointed this little weapon thing at it and tried to…do whatever that weapon would do to it.  But Dib stopped him.  I thought this outburst was really funny; on the other hand, I didn’t trust Zim at all–I was sort of afraid he might do something to my brain while I was sleeping–so I couldn’t fall asleep, either.  I was all stretched out on the fleece sleeping bag later, and I knew Zim was in the next room, and I thought it would be easier to sleep if I knew that Zim was too afraid to work on evil plans.  So I decided to make him really worry about the fleece sleeping bag that had so freaked him out earlier.

I walked out of the room I was in and stood at the foot of the stairs, which is right next to the door of the room that Zim was staying in.  And I proceeded to yell up the stairs.  “DIIIIIIIIIIIIIB!  THE FLEEEEEEEEEEEECE!  THE FLEECE IS SCARYYYYYYYYYY!  DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIB!  DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIB!”  No answer.  So I started again.  I kept at it for a while, all the time trying not to laugh out loud, because I could picture Zim under his own sleeping bag, his eyes huge as he contemplated whatever he thought my fleece sleeping bag could possibly be doing to me.

After I thought I had yelled sufficiently, I returned to the lab.

The next thing I knew, Zim was standing precautiously by where I lay, his lower lip protruding hilariously as it does, sort of quivering in fear, staring at my sleeping bag, saying something to the effect of, “WHAT is HAPPENING with your FLEECE?”  And I just burst out laughing, and I couldn’t stop.  It was too priceless.  OMG.  I’m laughing now.

Identity Theft, a Cute Mormon Baby Story, and the Roanoke Poison-Dart Frogs Colony

Psychobrat set up a Victoria’s Secret credit card…in my name.

See, my parents waited until she was born to get my social security number, so they’re only two digits apart.  My mom, for some reason, has always found this funny and ironic and tells people about it.  But I always tell her, “Don’t say that in front of her; I don’t want her to know my number!”

“Oh, she’s your sister,” my mom always says.  “She isn’t going to do anything.”

So why the fuck is there a Victoria’s Secret credit card in my name!?

Psychobrat’s story is that she accidentally applied for the card.  She didn’t mean to fill out the credit card application.  Um…right.  And then, even though she filled out all of her information, it just mysteriously came up in my name.

When I become an independent, I have to change my social security number.  There’s no way I can go through life with her having it.

When I was out with The Mormon’s family the other day, his aunt was saying how when he was small enough to wear diapers, he used to play in her flowerbed and pretend it was a sandbox.  I grinned over at him and said, “Really?

He already had his face in his hand and said, “This is going to come up in the blog or a conversation with Katie, isn’t it?”  Mwahahaha.  I love when they tell me cute baby stories; he’s so cute the way he reacts to them!

Milo told me an interesting story yesterday.  We got smoothies, went to UNF to find my classes, and then to the museum where he works, then later to his apartment because I still hadn’t seen it.

At the museum, we were looking at those little walled-in aquariums where reptiles usually stay, and he showed me an empty one that apparently used to have poison-dart tree frogs in it.

“They weren’t poisonous, because we weren’t feeding them what makes them poisonous.”

“What makes them poisonous?”

“Ants.  We were feeding them crickets.”

“Where are they now?”

He looked straight into my eyes.  “Nobody knows,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“One morning when we came in, they were just gone.  And there’s no hole where they could have escaped; it’s really weird!  There were two little brown ones left, kind of hiding in a corner, but all the really bright colorful ones…just gone.”

Weird!” I said.  “It’s like the Roanoke colony!”  I was tempted to scrawl the word “CROATOA” above the tank.

Apparently this happened about two months ago, about a dozen disappeared, and no dead frogs have shown up in the museum.  I didn’t consider this possibility, but when I told my mom the story, she said, “It sounds like they were stolen.”

I guess that is the most logical scenario.

But my imagination had to make it more interesting by creating this psycho killer who breeds poison-dart tree frogs to attack people with.  That’s who stole them.  …If they were stolen.

A Thunderdome

I have a story that’s about a week old, but I’m going to include it now because it was funny.  When we were headed to the Mormon church for somebody’s wedding reception last week, I was asking The Mormon all these questions, like is a Mormon church called a church, and do Mormons consider themselves Christians?  Because I really didn’t know.

When we walked in the door, I saw a painting of Jesus and suddenly remembered that it’s only called “the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints”.  Duh.  I shared this enlightenment with The Mormon, who said, “Yeah, when you asked me, I was seriously considering telling you it’s called a thunderdome.  But then I had visions of you going up to somebody and saying, ‘You have such a lovely thunderdome!’ and…I couldn’t do it.”

I’ve been keeping my mom up to date on all the Personal Ad stuff, and last night I told her my latest plan–the one to forget his name–and she looked shocked and said, “You would hurt somebody like that?”

I was flabbergasted and didn’t really know how to respond, and she said, “I just can’t believe you would knowingly hurt somebody.  It makes me sad.”

I was like, “Mom!  He’s a stalker!”  There are no rules here!  I’m trying to ward him off!  What does she want me to do, be polite?  Be friendly to this creep?  I’m sorry, but that isn’t going to happen.  I’ve no intention of encouraging the advances of someone who frightens me and most of my friends.