"Never Opened Myself This Way"

Breathe. Just breathe. Slowly, slowly now, and don't look down at your arm. Stare at the white expanse of the wall in the hallway; focus on the big number 2 to the left of the open doorway you can almost catch a glimpse of. And breathe -- don't forget that. Now you're done, and the needle is coming out of your arm, and the white tape over cotten is going to help you. Focus on the white cotton. Don't look at your blood in the vials. Don't think about how sick you feel. Carefully out, and they're saying something to you, something about having a nice day, and then there's sunlight, and the car. Unlock the door, sit down, turn the key, crank the a/c way up. Turn some music on -- loudly. Concentrate on the music, concentrate on your breathing, and now EAT. Slowly. Yes, good. Lay back for a while, it'll help your dizziness. Light-headedness and swimming vision and spots subsiding, now time for home. Pray you don't faint on the way and kill someone. The music will help you, and the cool air, and the breathing. Oh, listen to that, Metallica has just come on, you love this song. No singing along, it's too far, just quickly get home, park, don't worry that it's crooked, get out and up the stairs, open the door, brother there with the phone. It's Mom. Of course it's Mom, you knew that when he handed you the phone, it's why you answered in your funny voice. She's saying words, she won't go, you need to go, you need to go, you need to go, goodbye and click. The phone misses the table and hits the floor. Get down, on the ground, feet up, slow breathing. Lay there for a while. Don't get sick all over. Don't lose consciousness. Mind over matter.

Never again.

"I Should Be The One Behind The Wheel"

This week wasn't my best week ever, so I'd like to thank the people I finally broke down and called or IMed or e-mailed or wrote or hung out with, who dropped what they were doing to listen to me. Really, thank you. I had to siphon it off.

But I'm good now. I just needed to have people care, and care they did. So don't worry.

Actually, you might possibly want to worry. Because, okay, Dallan is in New York for the next couple of days. This isn't why you should worry, I'm just starting off the story. Dallan, in New York. He's a good friend of mine, that Dallan -- I don't know if I actually have clearance to say that, but I'll say it anyway, because of what I'm about to tell you. If it's not good friendship (or craziness, but the two usually go hand-in-hand), I don't know what is. See, Dallan has a car; Mr. Saturn as he identified it. But Dallan did not drive to New York from Virginia (Virginia being his usual habitat, at least for now). He flew. From Dulles. So he drove up here, had me drive him to the airport, and let me take his car back to my house for the weekend and a bit. Nice guy, right?

It gets better. The car is manual. I don't drive stick. So he not only let me drive him to the airport, he let me learn to drive stick while taking him to the airport, then trusted me enough to take the car back, all on my own.

I have not exploded. The car has not exploded. We are all fine, and joyriding around town. The last part might be a lie, but the night is still young, my friends. Anyone up for some cruisin'?

"Slowly I Begin To Realize This Is Never Going To End"

Went away for the weekend again. That drive to BV is getting way too familiar to be any good for me (not only COULD I drive it in my sleep, I probably have, at least a little), but I can't help it. Not while there are parks to play in. So my weekend was a lot of fun: a lot of trips to Blockbuster (ah, memories), a lot of claiming my spot on the couch, a lot of MacGuyver. Hehe, that MacGuyver, always saving the day.

I got back Monday evening in time to shower and drive to Jefferson to pick Megan up. We headed back to Frederick and caught Batman Begins. I am NOT going to be like the 13,268,749 other women who have blogged so far saying things like "mmm mmm, what a hottie." Please people, you are trivializing him. Can we not focus instead on the way he OWNED his character? He is Batman. That is all I should have to say -- Christian Bale is Batman. Also, go see the movie. Also, leave me lots of IMs telling me all about it and how I should see it. Nick (hi, Nick!) is basically the perfect friend in this regard. Everyone, be like Nick.

Then it was time to go back to work. That was yesterday. Yesterday, I died. Eight hours of having my soul stripped from my bones is quite enough, thank you, did we really have to make it TWELVE? I came home and speech was too far for me. I showered, said hi to some people online, napped (thank you to everyone who left me a sweet message), woke up and snatched the computer for my own, and ruined everything. I have a habit of doing that once every few weeks or so. This is why I am not the ruler of a major country. Yet.

I dragged myself onto the floor this morning and went to work and ruined everything still further and worked and worked and FINALLY FINISHED. Today = not so hot. But tonight I'm going out with the whole family to celebrate my older brother's birthday. Maybe. Part of me is considering begging them to leave me at home to get much-needed alone time, but I would probably just hop online and talk to people because I am a six-year-old in too many ways sometimes.

I have no good way of ending this. Um, I have to go do stuff now. Bye.

"Oregon Is Bad, Stop It If You Can"

I've never trusted the Pacific Northwest. A bunch of tree-hugging, coffee-swilling hippies who mostly can't pump their own gas. Plus, they have a shady look about them; probably from the way their beady little eyes dart around. All of this put together, though, isn't concrete enough to express my distrust.*

Now, though -- now, I've found something I can put my finger on. I can put my finger on it and say "Aha! THIS! This is why I'm glad to have been banned from the region! This is why I sleep with one eye open, an aluminum baseball bat curled in my arms in case that crazy Oregonian I live with gets any ideas! This is what has caused my deep-rooted phobia!"**

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you... the lingonberry.

What the heck? I was at IHOP last night with Gene, getting pancakes for dinner, and I wanted crepes, so I was looking at their selections. Well, they offered Swedish crepes with lingonberries and lingonberry butter. Um, no. Do not offer me imaginary food. There is no such thing as a lingonberry. I mean -- really? I've heard of strawberries and blueberries and raspberries and boisonberries, but LINGONberries? What is that nonsense? So I texted Google (thank goodness for unlimited texting), and found out I could buy 14 oz. for $6.50 from somewhere. Okay, thanks for nothin' Not Quite Real Google On My Phone. I almost asked our waitress what a lingonberry was, but, well, the interviewing process for waitressing positions at IHOP isn't quite exactly EXTENSIVE if ya know what I mean (read: she was just plain dumb; sweet, but dumb), and then I almost asked her if she could just maybe bring me one, but I am a wimp and never asked.

So I googled it for reals this morning, and turns out it's a dried ground cranberry.

Okay.

Crazy dried ground cranberries and those crazy Pacific Northwesterners that "consider this fruit to be an important diet staple."***

* It's sad that I have to point this out, but I'm just kidding. For those who get way too into their Pacific Northwesterness and can't realize someone is joking.

** I'm still just kidding. I'll let you know if I ever stop. Though my roommate (hi, Jennifer!) really is crazy.

*** http://lingonberry.com/info.htm

"I Woke Up In A Car"

What's happened to me?

Well, sometimes you go away for a weekend. And while your destination might be filled with computers and internet access, you're not really interested in hopping online.

And then sometimes you come back from said weekend getaway at 4 a.m. And have to work at 8 the next day. Which is painful enough by itself.

But sometimes your irresponsibility continues, and you might sometimes go seventy-five hours on only ten hours of sleep.

Then sometimes your body orders you to Take A Nap (Now Now Now!) before it starts freaking out and spasming and falling asleep at your desk or behind the wheel or something scary like that.

So then sometimes you spend your lunch break, instead of eating, finding a good spot to take a nap in the backseat leather of your car. It's a good thing cell phones have alarm clocks on them. Here's a hint: windows down, in the shade. Glorious.

And because sometimes you spend your lunch break hunting for a spot and then using said spot, you might be jolted out of a fifteen-minute nap by your cell phone alarm clock and realize you haven't eaten and your body is Not Pleased. It was the body's decision in the first place to take a nap, but the body isn't too bright. Still, it gives the orders around here.

Once receiving orders from your body, you might sometimes start your car in the dull panic that only critically low blood sugar can bring, with the shaking and the weakness and the wanting a McFlurry. Okay, body, you can have a McFlurry. We're trying to gain sixty pounds so we can weigh as much as Art anyway. (And do not tell me that that won't happen. My Wendy's order might be minuscule, but every little bit helps.)

And then sometimes you return back to your office and apologize to the internet for your absence. The body and I have missed you.

"I Can't Relate To Your Constant Static"

The static is driving me crazy.

The static on the radio, as the song flickers in and out, the radio that keeps me sane, that provides a strange companionship, the radio that sits next to me day after day and plays the same freaking songs over and over and over. Don't ask me why I'm even listening to it, but it doesn't feel as empty as playing CDs from my own collection.

The static play of life, as I realize that nothing ever changes fast enough to satisfy me. Maybe I'm demanding, but I'm getting tired of playing the same roles over and over with people, a stilted dance with the moves carefully scripted. I'm going to break out of the circle and get some punch for a while or something. Except make that punch some water (not too cold, no ice -- I'm picky). Perfect, thank you. Where were we? Oh yeah, I was standing on the sidelines watching everyone dance. From my vantage point, I can see that you're all crazy.

The static cling that builds up in the dryer and just reminds me that I have a pile of clothes to fold and put away and so little time to do it. This doesn't bother me, it's the translation to life itself that bugs me. All my assignments and obligations and jobs are the clothes, and I'm the tired-out twenty-year-old sprawled on the floor next to the basket pleading with the garments to just fold themselves. They never do.

The end.

"If It Has To Do With Attitude, I'll Pack Up And Get Lost"

A friend of mine and I were having a discussion a while ago, and agreed that bad things happen when you begin to take yourself too seriously. It's so true: Life is a grand and frightening adventure, and if you begin to take seriously everything that happens therein, you're heading for a Prozac prescription and hours of therapy. Laughing is a good way to keep that at bay. Irony appreciates the people who can laugh at it and consequently doesn't work them over as badly.

On that note, I'd like to offer that I very rarely do anything on purpose. I'm certainly not funny on purpose. If you ever find yourself laughing at something I've written or said, chalk it up to Pisces lining up felicitously with Pollux and Castor, or fate, or your own sanity issues. One time I was actually funny on purpose... in HIGH SCHOOL. My friend Gene gave me a high five. It was pretty awesome. (Needless to say, I have burned that memory so far into my hippocampus that I will forget my name and my aversion to math before I forget that moment.) I also can't hit on someone on purpose. I know I've hit on people before; I'm not an idiot. But while I'm flirting with a guy, the things that come out of my mouth are just as surprising to me as they are to you or the boy being hit upon. So while we're out having fun, don't ask me to go hit on someone for you because you admire my "expertise." Please, YOU'RE the funny one. I have no idea how to flirt, and I maintain that. I'm the kind of girl who looks down at her feet, sees they have shoes on them, and wonders how the heck they got on there. That's me -- I guess I'm always preoccupied with plans to save the world or take a nap or something of that sort. It's good to know I don't take life seriously enough to bother with noticing that it's going on around me, and I think it gives me an illusion of mystery or something, when really, there's nothing.

But if I did things on purpose, I can promise you I would not walk out of the house with unzipped pants.

"We Become Fireflies Just Flashing In The Air"

The blog's getting moldy, so I thought I'd visit again, write a little something, just kinda see what happens.

Answer: Nothing. Nothing at all. Oh, well, at least I tried. And at least it's a beautiful day when I step outside. Well, or night. But you know what I mean, the temperature, the pressure, the windspeed, the dew point, everything is just absolutely fabulous. Plus, there are fireflies. I might go catch some.

There's really nothing like catching fireflies on a warm, moon-lit June night. Except catching fireflies with friends on a warm, moon-lit June night. You guys should come.

"It's The Writing On The Wall"

I've heard of places that have instances of two Starbuck's being located right across the street from one another. People are frequently baffled by this occurence, but it makes sense to me: if there's enough business to keep two Starbuck's open, why not have them so close? You know they wouldn't be building without the business to support it, and that way, people can see which line is longer, and there's no interruption to their routine or pattern. Well, I've found something kind of like that, except different, and baffling.

I saw it while I was on the prowl for lunch. Just to give you a little backgrounf, the excitement of the summer is the low low price of gas in the area. Less than two dollars a gallon is TERRIBLY exciting, especially after last summer's eyebrow-raising, checkbook-stripping prices. I can definitely get used to these prices. Well, I was trundling along down the road, and, spotting a gas station, I checked out the price. $1.99. Not bad, not bad at all. Of course, not as low as Wawa, which has my love and fidelity forever and ever, amen. (Unless they decide to raise their prices, in which case, forget that I was ever loyal. If they're going to betray me, I feel no qualms about pulling a Benedict Arnold on them.) Anyway, I registered the price, then glanced across the street (remember this bit of information, it's important -- ACROSS THE STREET) at another gas station. Their lowest price? $2.09. Wait, what?? That must be a typo. Maybe the part of the sign with the 87 octane had fallen off. Maybe I was getting my numbers confused. But no, I looked closer, and their cheapest gas was on sale for $2.09. Across the street from $1.99. How is that EVEN possible? I mean, I know Sheetz has delicious sandwiches and wraps (or "wrapz" if you're Sheetz and trying to be trendy or something), but that's certainly not enough to make up that outrageous price difference! I hope they go out of business and die, the overpriced jerks.

It's not like it affects me directly (as I said before, Wawa has my love and my check card PIN), it's just the principle of the thing. The light turned green shortly thereafter, and I continued on my way back to my workplace, but I was shaken, shaken I tell you, by this terrible occurence. How? HOW??

I just decided, everyone needs to update their blogs more often. I'll count this as my update, 'cause I'm going off to dream sweet dreams while letting the warm breeze float in through my window. Be jealous. Be oh-so-jealous. And then update your blog.