What Happens When I Get No Sleep

I have resolved to become the next UFC champion. People keep scoffing at my dream, but they won't be able to scoff when I guillotine their stupid faces/pay someone to kill them with my millions in prize money.

On a maybe somewhat actually-now-that-I-think-about-it-not-at-ALL related note, I got to wear a real for reals police badge last night, and almost got to fire one of their guns.
I realize I'm wearing a traitor hoodie, but you cannot comprehend how cold it was at 2 a.m., nor can you comprehend how tired I was. Also, it is blurry because no one can figure out how to operate my phone (which is a theft deterrent, I suppose, or a frightening commentary on the ineptitude of the American public/police force).

This Is How It Works

This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

Ground Control to Major Tom

Our apartment has chinchillas (a.k.a. chalupas, chimichangas, enchinchilladas, sqrabbits), and they're pretty much the cutest little rodents poop machines ever invented. Major Tom is a fat spaz, and Ziggy (Stardust) is a naïve little pooper, and they are both so much fun. Witness the chinchilla love:

There's a chinchilla in my pocket!



Jaela and Major Tom

They like to eat paper, the weirdos

Dirty Money

Money is so dirty. I mean this quite literally, because I handle money all day, and every night I come home feeling grungy. Think of all the people who touch it all the time: people who don't wash their hands, people who work minimum-wage construction jobs and come home exhausted and covered with mud, fingering their freshly-won bills, people who, you know, snort cocaine....

So money's pretty dirty. Especially when an old, fat man with a pockmarked face and arms covered in open sores comes in to my place of business, scratches at his arm, then pulls out a $10 to pay for his purchases, and expects me to actually touch the thing. This was right after one of our assistant managers got a fever blister IN HER EYE, most likely from not carefully washing her hands before she put in her contacts. I do not want a fever blister in my eye. I do not want to catch whatever leprous cousin that gross old man had. At that moment I hated my job and my life and the entire world populated by people who were so base as to have open sores and then to go merrily about, spreading them to people. At that moment I felt a little bit of what Agent Smith must have felt.

I don't think a college degree is worth this.

The Transfer Is Complete

As of right now, I am finally, officially, an SVU student. It didn't come with registering for and attending classes, applying to the school, or even moving to the area. No, I finally own an SVU hooded sweatshirt, and that is what makes a student a student.

That, and spending $396 on books for one semester. Screw that, I'll WRITE my own textbooks.

Day 6

The internet in my apartment is still broken. I've heard that when people bleed to death, they start feeling like they're melting. That's sort of how I feel, I think.

Somber Thoughts While Packing

I'm flying to Utah tomorrow. Well, that's the plan anyway. I've been semi-freaking out all day: What if I can't get through security, what if there's bad weather and my flight gets cancelled, what if my e-ticket e-explodes and they refuse to let me on, what if what if what if. Strangely, I'm not at all worried about the plane crashing or nonsense like that. If that's how I die, then there it is; I want to die in a fiery explosion anyway. (A little morbid for you? I'll be flying to Denver on United 491, then to Salt Lake on United 391 - scan the news for those numbers, if you like. THAT's morbid.)

I found out tonight that my cat will probably have to be euthanized. The bloodwork comes back on Friday, and if she has diabetes, like the vet suspects, then my mom has decided to put her down. There's no sense in putting that much care and money into an old, sick animal. But this was the cat who'd curl up in bed with me on those terrible summer nights when I'd crawl shaking into bed, utterly inconsolable. She's soft and beautiful, and she has such a big personality, and I love her. I'll miss her; I don't even know how to say goodbye. I tried holding her a little bit, but she wanted to explore the house. She doesn't know that she could be gone soon. I guess to her it doesn't really matter.

Right now I just feel slightly ill. Tired of worrying, tired of feeling, just tired. These are the times that I most want to be a vagabond, owning little, wandering about from town to town and country to country. That's no life, though; I'd never make any friends, and the ones I have now would move on and only remember me in dusky stillnesses - my name coming to them suddenly, in the middle of another thought that had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with me.

I don't run, though, no matter how much of a coward I wish I could be. I wish I could give it all up, say that it's too hard for me, and just keep moving around so nothing sticks - because it's easier that way, with nothing to care about. Thoreau would be proud of me, though I'd be travelling by car, and I don't know how proud he'd be of that. But I have to care about all of this and more, I have to keep slogging through school, keep working a menial job just to pay the bills, keep studying til I want to cry from frustration, keep meeting people and meeting and meeting, and keep hoping. Just keep hoping.

New Years Resolutions Are For

Ah, the first post of a new year. Smells fresh, eh? By 3 p.m. on the afternoon of the first, I'd already taken a nap, so I'd say that this year is looking up already.