Or, we could call it: shit I am so done with.
It takes me about 15 minutes to get to school in the morning. This morning was a little longer because there was a fair dusting of snow on the roads, but generally it's a good fifteen minutes.
On the Old Crow Medicine Show CD in my CD player, that's about 4 songs. But when I'm not listening to that, it's about 2 and a half MPR stories, depending on whether they have a news blip or just some features.
This morning I listened to a bunch of shit--boring, stupid shit--about Alex Rodriguez, the latest asshole in the baseball/steroid hype.
Fuck this baseball/steroid hype shit. This guy had a news conference, everybody's asking all these questions--should he get to play, what did he take, what should we fine him--
when the answer to the question is obvious: WHO CARES.
Are you kidding me that this is the shit that's taking priority on MPR during prime commute time? Some guy reporting back from Rodriguez's press conference? Dude. All you have to do is kick him out of baseball. How about we make it that simple. Should he get to play? Fuck no. He broke the rules, he's a bad role model. What did he take? Who cares. It was illegal, and it was a performance enhancing drug. What should we fine him? I don't know--a lot, maybe? Maybe his year-long salary that could then go to feed a third-world country?
Why are these even questions we're asking? This douche bag's job is to hit a ball with a stick as far as he can and then run around bases. He gets paid more than the president to do this. He gets paid more than, like, my whole school district to do this. He cheated. He did the one thing he's not supposed to, and that was take steroids. And he knew there was drug testing. He should not only get fined for taking drugs, but for being a fucking moron.
There are a bunch of people waiting for his job, a bunch of little boys whose dream it is to hit a ball really far with a bat and who don't take steriods to cheat. Give them his place, and let him take all of the money he's made so far as a bar player and retire to a little farm where all of the other steroid-players live, where there's lots of nice free space to run around in.
Sarcastic moment: Oh, Rodriguez, you were under a lot of pressure? A lot of pressure, huh? You just wanted to be as good as everybody else, and you thought the only way to do that was with drugs that made you bigger and stronger, huh? Aw. Poor little fella. You just wanted to be good at baseball. [tossles hair] Now, you get outta here you little scamp, and don't go around sticking yourself with any more needles, okay? It's such a rough world out there! You poor little bugger.
Tune in next week for Jeano's gratuitous anger! Our topics: spilling coffee on my shirt, full-sized pick-up trucks with tiny little car tires, and students.
Same shit, different outfit.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
I hate when there are bones in my whiskey.
You'll notice, when driving east on 37th street, right before you hit the Hwy 63 intersection, that one of the poles that marks the low lying median is dented.
That was me. That...was me.
Not drunk, of course not. Who knows what was going on last night--maybe I was just that tired, maybe I was daydreaming, maybe I fell asleep for a minute and didn't realize it. But all of a sudden a short yellow pole was directly in front of me, and then I ended up in the other side of the median, and thank God no cars were coming or I'd be in big trouble. I just went off full coverage insurance a couple of days ago, down to liability. What a weird moment. Also: Minnesota--reflective paint on the roads? That'd be pretty fucking awesome. Let's give that a try. I drove back over the median, to the right side of the road, and then went on my way as though nothing happened, as though every other car on that road wasn't like: what the fuck and writing down my plate numbers.
I got to Whiskey Bones, the Tony Sims Rochester venue and checked for damage. None. Now it's funny. I ran into a pole, like smack center. Alright. I can deal with that. It takes a special kind of retard to run into a pole with her car, and a special kind of talent to minimize the damage when you hit it at 30 miles an hour.
The TSB was the TSB in half, missing Smokey and Dave (who Tony said had something "gay" to do), and drinks were two for one, but I only wanted one, so I gave Ryan the other; I got there at 9:00, sat with Melissa, right next to the dance floor, and spent the next couple of hours in a night that was a hazy version of a Thursday at the MMC. Rochester drunkards, it turns out, are no different than St. Paul drunkards.
And why wouldn't they be. Notably, though, was the woman who was drunk--wasted, annihilated, trashed, barely knowing her name--by 10:00. She wandered the dance floor alone, trying to pull men out to dance with her. She stood in the middle of the floor while Tony was playing and screamed what is wrong with you people! to the entire crowd, and when Tony was done talked to him (I said to Melissa, I knew she was going to talk to him) and reminded him that she changed out of her pajamas to come here tonight, and wouldn't someone just dance! and Tony announced this--because, why not!--and asked her if she'd been at home with hot cocoa, too, all snuggled up, and she said I bought your CD! and he said I knew I liked something about you.
Of course, before and after this, she'd spent her time harassing Melissa, among all of the other women on the floor. Melissa decided she was probably into girls. I decided we'd call her the Lurking Lesbian.
Who was in charge of this woman? And how did she get home, I wonder. How did she not trip over a bar stool and wake up this morning with a black and blue face and mascara running down into the corners of her mouth, as though she was wearing Kiss makeup gone wrong.
I miss the MMC; I always miss it. It's the TSB, but it's the people watching, too. Melissa and I talked about the ones we remembered--turns out that mine and Shannon's first "nickname," Crazy Cheetah (Melissa--that was here name, I'd thought it was something with a leopard, but now I remember it was most certainly Crazy Cheetah--Shannon and I were often fans of alliteration in our nicknames...Crazy Cheetah, Sleepy Stripper)--anyway. Her alias is Mustang Sally, another suiting nickname for her ridiculous, gratuitous enthusiasm during that song.
Shannon: remember when you saw Slutzilla at Target buying makeup? Silly Slutzilla. They don't sell makeup for green, scaly dinosaurs. Nor moisturizer. And how does one put on eyeliner with such short tyrannosaurus arms?
Last night a man played harmonica from the floor while the band played. I couldn't tell if it was air harmonica or a real harmonica, but either way it should've at least been in the key of A. If you bring your harmonica to a bar, do you bring your whole set, or just a couple of keys and hope for the best? The big questions in life.
If you bring your air harmonica, do you leave your medication at home, so you don't have to carry too much in your pocket?
Tony has promised to start a blog, and I'll harass him until it happens. There will be a link to his blog here, soon, because he has promised to start a blog. Because Melisa says that the drunkards in Atlanta are much like the drunkards in Rochester, who are much like the drunkards in St. Paul. The world needs to see these people. They need to be nicknamed. Women who remove their pantyhose at a wedding by extending a leg high up and over on a table, and by pulling at the toe with thumb and index finger need to be acknowledged for their wonderful gifts. Especially if these women are flashing the whole wedding crowd and aren't wearing under-panties.
Tony: blog. Don't you need someplace to tell Minnesota that Hotlanta is a frigid 40 degrees some days? That there are, at times, 100 degree differences between us?
**
I'm house/dog sitting this weekend, sitting in a Lazy-boy, in the den, in the house where Sue lives. Three day weekend, thank you Presidents' Day, and I haven't done a damn thing other than run a good five miles and avoid grading papers. There are 65 of them to grade, there are two full weeks of lessons to plan for each class, more literature to read and comprehend before teaching it to the juniors, an autobiography to finish, a couple handouts to create, a paper to design, copies and copies and copies to make. It's been difficult to get motivated. I have a resume to revise, a cover letter to write, a letter I've promised myself I'd write to my father, two tutoring sessions to plan for the week, plans to consider for next week when I won't have time because of Bockfest--Bockfest, next week, praise all to be praised for Bockfest.
Not until you write it down do you realize you'll never get it all done. Gulp. Good thing I've got a new CD to listen to, new itunes that I've downloaded, too. Happy Sunday, all, don't call me in hours, because I'll be literally drowned in teacher-work, coughing the tiny vocabulary quizzes out of my lungs into spitballs on the floor.
That was me. That...was me.
Not drunk, of course not. Who knows what was going on last night--maybe I was just that tired, maybe I was daydreaming, maybe I fell asleep for a minute and didn't realize it. But all of a sudden a short yellow pole was directly in front of me, and then I ended up in the other side of the median, and thank God no cars were coming or I'd be in big trouble. I just went off full coverage insurance a couple of days ago, down to liability. What a weird moment. Also: Minnesota--reflective paint on the roads? That'd be pretty fucking awesome. Let's give that a try. I drove back over the median, to the right side of the road, and then went on my way as though nothing happened, as though every other car on that road wasn't like: what the fuck and writing down my plate numbers.
I got to Whiskey Bones, the Tony Sims Rochester venue and checked for damage. None. Now it's funny. I ran into a pole, like smack center. Alright. I can deal with that. It takes a special kind of retard to run into a pole with her car, and a special kind of talent to minimize the damage when you hit it at 30 miles an hour.
The TSB was the TSB in half, missing Smokey and Dave (who Tony said had something "gay" to do), and drinks were two for one, but I only wanted one, so I gave Ryan the other; I got there at 9:00, sat with Melissa, right next to the dance floor, and spent the next couple of hours in a night that was a hazy version of a Thursday at the MMC. Rochester drunkards, it turns out, are no different than St. Paul drunkards.
And why wouldn't they be. Notably, though, was the woman who was drunk--wasted, annihilated, trashed, barely knowing her name--by 10:00. She wandered the dance floor alone, trying to pull men out to dance with her. She stood in the middle of the floor while Tony was playing and screamed what is wrong with you people! to the entire crowd, and when Tony was done talked to him (I said to Melissa, I knew she was going to talk to him) and reminded him that she changed out of her pajamas to come here tonight, and wouldn't someone just dance! and Tony announced this--because, why not!--and asked her if she'd been at home with hot cocoa, too, all snuggled up, and she said I bought your CD! and he said I knew I liked something about you.
Of course, before and after this, she'd spent her time harassing Melissa, among all of the other women on the floor. Melissa decided she was probably into girls. I decided we'd call her the Lurking Lesbian.
Who was in charge of this woman? And how did she get home, I wonder. How did she not trip over a bar stool and wake up this morning with a black and blue face and mascara running down into the corners of her mouth, as though she was wearing Kiss makeup gone wrong.
I miss the MMC; I always miss it. It's the TSB, but it's the people watching, too. Melissa and I talked about the ones we remembered--turns out that mine and Shannon's first "nickname," Crazy Cheetah (Melissa--that was here name, I'd thought it was something with a leopard, but now I remember it was most certainly Crazy Cheetah--Shannon and I were often fans of alliteration in our nicknames...Crazy Cheetah, Sleepy Stripper)--anyway. Her alias is Mustang Sally, another suiting nickname for her ridiculous, gratuitous enthusiasm during that song.
Shannon: remember when you saw Slutzilla at Target buying makeup? Silly Slutzilla. They don't sell makeup for green, scaly dinosaurs. Nor moisturizer. And how does one put on eyeliner with such short tyrannosaurus arms?
Last night a man played harmonica from the floor while the band played. I couldn't tell if it was air harmonica or a real harmonica, but either way it should've at least been in the key of A. If you bring your harmonica to a bar, do you bring your whole set, or just a couple of keys and hope for the best? The big questions in life.
If you bring your air harmonica, do you leave your medication at home, so you don't have to carry too much in your pocket?
Tony has promised to start a blog, and I'll harass him until it happens. There will be a link to his blog here, soon, because he has promised to start a blog. Because Melisa says that the drunkards in Atlanta are much like the drunkards in Rochester, who are much like the drunkards in St. Paul. The world needs to see these people. They need to be nicknamed. Women who remove their pantyhose at a wedding by extending a leg high up and over on a table, and by pulling at the toe with thumb and index finger need to be acknowledged for their wonderful gifts. Especially if these women are flashing the whole wedding crowd and aren't wearing under-panties.
Tony: blog. Don't you need someplace to tell Minnesota that Hotlanta is a frigid 40 degrees some days? That there are, at times, 100 degree differences between us?
**
I'm house/dog sitting this weekend, sitting in a Lazy-boy, in the den, in the house where Sue lives. Three day weekend, thank you Presidents' Day, and I haven't done a damn thing other than run a good five miles and avoid grading papers. There are 65 of them to grade, there are two full weeks of lessons to plan for each class, more literature to read and comprehend before teaching it to the juniors, an autobiography to finish, a couple handouts to create, a paper to design, copies and copies and copies to make. It's been difficult to get motivated. I have a resume to revise, a cover letter to write, a letter I've promised myself I'd write to my father, two tutoring sessions to plan for the week, plans to consider for next week when I won't have time because of Bockfest--Bockfest, next week, praise all to be praised for Bockfest.
Not until you write it down do you realize you'll never get it all done. Gulp. Good thing I've got a new CD to listen to, new itunes that I've downloaded, too. Happy Sunday, all, don't call me in hours, because I'll be literally drowned in teacher-work, coughing the tiny vocabulary quizzes out of my lungs into spitballs on the floor.
Friday, February 13, 2009
I pretty much know karate.
I've started a happy journal, full of happy thoughts that I'm not writing on this blog, for the most part, but if you feel let down that I'm keeping a journal that you don't get to read--a secret journal--I'll let you know that it's full of things like told a student today, when he came to class early to show me "how high he could kick" that it was cool but that I'm better because I took karate lessons when I was 12, so I pretty much know karate. And today I am grateful for: all the Olsons I know, the cohort, and also beer.
It's days like today that I need this happy journal, days when life is such a fucking mess that I can only wonder if I'm really me in my body. It's days like today when I get out of a meeting and say, to Mr. O., which drug do you think I'll be addicted to when I become a fulltime teacher? I was thinking coke. And Mr. O says, well, you gotta have a variety.
What is all this about. Last night I went to bed thinking: you are going to wake up tomorrow and be a different person. Last night was one of those defining nights that changes who you are, how you look at life.
Last night I changed how I thought about teaching, how I approach everything in this program--differently. Last night the cohort expressed how human we are, together. Over drinks of course. In a bar filled with men wearing overalls, drunk, eating peanuts. Next to the nightclub that looks like a spaceship and where James told me, the most people get stabbed in Rochester. But I don't care that I drank beer next to the spaceship club. I just care that we said what we've needed to say, only to confirm what everybody wants to hear, always, and forever: I understand what you're saying. I fucking understand what you're saying.
But that's not about this either. It's not about the buzz I had all night, the trip to Target with a little beer clouding my thinking--leading to the pounds and pounds of candy I overbought for the freshman today. It's not about the district budget cuts, the superintendent who bought a $5000 desk and approved, with the school board an $18,000 cell phone budget for our district when they've also decided to increase elementary class sizes by three students. (THREE.)
In fact, I don't know what it's about.
But something sort of religious happened to me last night, when I was talking to my dad, sort of drunk. I called to ask about something trivial. He said: If I don't talk to you, Happy Valentine's. I said: You too, and Happy Anniversary tomorrow. I said you should buy mom flowers. Are you doing anything to celebrate?
He went on about why not, and then he said: well, she can buy her boyfriend a Valentine, but not me. It's...it's the same guy. She says they're friends. It's the same guy.
I try to clarify this. Let's just call this conversation a lot of etcetera.
You know she doesn't love me, he says.
I have to go. I've arrived at my destination, and someone is waiting. All I can say before I say, I'm so sorry, dad, I have to go, is: Do what's best for you. Please just take care of yourself.
I have no idea what's going on. My dad hung up so quickly, like a shamed child, like he couldn't believe what he'd just confessed.
But here's where the situation lies: I care, but I don't care. My parents should be divorced. They should so be divorced. But for some reason, they aren't divorced. I think this reason has to do with church, or with failing, or with--whatever, but if people don't love each other, then they shouldn't be married. I know that looks pretty simple as a sentence (even though that's a complex sentence) but that's how it should be. I mean, duh.
If I could post a giant sign that the whole world could see right now, it would say: DUH. Fucking duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.
Does my mom have a boyfriend? Is my dad paranoid? I don't know. But I do know that the only thing about this situation that has me worried is whether or not my dad will be okay. Why the fuck he stays in this, or my mom stays in this--whatever. Is it church? Because it might be church. This is part of the reason that I don't really feel guilty about not going to church anymore. (Oh, God, am I the poster child for R.E.M.'s "Losing my Religion." Am I going through the experience that high schoolers go through, but just really late? Gross.) But: church stops people from making rational decisions. It's like religion, sometimes, takes place of the rational part of the brain. He'll go to hell if he gets divorced? He's in fucking hell right now.
Anyway. Last night I had sort of a moment of truth, where I realized that the reason I write everything down all the time, why I always have so much to say over and again, is because it's the only time I get to say anything. My family doesn't talk about it. If somebody tries to talk about it, nobody listens. All I can do is write it down.
Look at me! Who even fucking needs Freud.
David and I aren't friends anymore. We in fact, ended it bad, and it's still bad. But I don't feel guilty about it anymore, no matter how much he tries to make me feel that way. I found life was easier, and I was happier, without him treating me like a piece of shit, so I cut that part out of the picture.
Has my heart hardened, hard core? Have I given up a lot of what I held so close to me just to be rational? Am I being selfish because I'm just too busy for all of this?
I don't know. IDK. I don't know the answers of any of this shit today. I just went to bed with a headache on the right side that I tried to drink off last night, almost successfully. And I woke up today after this conversation with my dad, after watching people become close by sharing struggles. I just. I just. Do what it takes to make you happy, but do it without fucking anybody over. Is that too simple for a life philosophy? Or maybe too complicated. I should've written this down last night. It made more sense when I was drunk.
Can I tell my parents to get divorced? Can I just call them and say FUCKING DUH WHY WOULD YOU STAY MARRIED? It didn't work when I said: fucking duh, just kick Amanda's boyfriend out of the house.
I don't know any of the mom's side from this, but I'm just trying not to think about it. There are a lot of things about my mother that I try not to think about. She and I are very different people, and we always will be, and that's how it is. She's my mother, and that is what she is.
But my father's my father, and he's such a fragile man right now. He's the one who will listen, sometimes, when I talk to him. He's the one who needs to find a way out, who needs to realize that change can happen, he is the one. Everyone in my family takes advantage of that man. He's become so frail and angry and drunk. That is where my energy, in any of this, will lie.
But it's not any of my business. You know she doesn't love me. Everybody fucking knows.
Maybe this is too much. Maybe I'm airing out my family's dirty laundry on the internet, for all to see. But I don't fucking care. I'm so done. I'm so done with not talking about stuff, with keeping it all in, that I just don't fucking care anymore. I'm done not talking about it. I'm done with the cloudiness surrounding every decision every one makes, I'm done with people not thinking for themselves, done with them not deciding what makes them happy and I'm fucking done, done, done, done, done, done, done with people not finding out how to get what makes them happy without plowing other people down in the fucking process.
I am not the same person I was last year. Not even the same person I was yesterday. There's been so much thinking going on. There's been so much re-prioritizing.
Imagine you're on a beach At one end of the beach is a piece of cake, and in the middle of the beach are a bunch of sand castles. You want that cake so, so, so bad. In fact, you are certain that that piece of cake will bring you so much happiness that you need to get it as quickly as possible.
All I'm asking, is that along the way, you don't kick over every person's sandcastle in your path. All I'm asking is that you walk around them. You can have all the fucking cake you want. I don't even care if you don't chew, I don't even care if you lick your goddamned fingers clean. Just please, please, please don't knock over my sandcastle on your way there. Please, just consider my sandcastle.
I can't get mad when the tide comes in and fucks it up. But I can get mad as fucking hell at you.
Anway. I'll try to sum this up: hold on extra close to the people who make you happy, no matter how they manage to do it, or for how long they've done it. When they stop making you happy, you owe it to yourself to let them go--in some way. You don't have to cut them away or drown them like unwanted kittens, but use the opportunity of despair when you do let them go to grab on tighter to the ones that continue to make you happy. Life is about relationships, all of them. Keep the good ones. Imagine if you died in the middle of a bad one, any bad one.
Duh.
It's days like today that I need this happy journal, days when life is such a fucking mess that I can only wonder if I'm really me in my body. It's days like today when I get out of a meeting and say, to Mr. O., which drug do you think I'll be addicted to when I become a fulltime teacher? I was thinking coke. And Mr. O says, well, you gotta have a variety.
What is all this about. Last night I went to bed thinking: you are going to wake up tomorrow and be a different person. Last night was one of those defining nights that changes who you are, how you look at life.
Last night I changed how I thought about teaching, how I approach everything in this program--differently. Last night the cohort expressed how human we are, together. Over drinks of course. In a bar filled with men wearing overalls, drunk, eating peanuts. Next to the nightclub that looks like a spaceship and where James told me, the most people get stabbed in Rochester. But I don't care that I drank beer next to the spaceship club. I just care that we said what we've needed to say, only to confirm what everybody wants to hear, always, and forever: I understand what you're saying. I fucking understand what you're saying.
But that's not about this either. It's not about the buzz I had all night, the trip to Target with a little beer clouding my thinking--leading to the pounds and pounds of candy I overbought for the freshman today. It's not about the district budget cuts, the superintendent who bought a $5000 desk and approved, with the school board an $18,000 cell phone budget for our district when they've also decided to increase elementary class sizes by three students. (THREE.)
In fact, I don't know what it's about.
But something sort of religious happened to me last night, when I was talking to my dad, sort of drunk. I called to ask about something trivial. He said: If I don't talk to you, Happy Valentine's. I said: You too, and Happy Anniversary tomorrow. I said you should buy mom flowers. Are you doing anything to celebrate?
He went on about why not, and then he said: well, she can buy her boyfriend a Valentine, but not me. It's...it's the same guy. She says they're friends. It's the same guy.
I try to clarify this. Let's just call this conversation a lot of etcetera.
You know she doesn't love me, he says.
I have to go. I've arrived at my destination, and someone is waiting. All I can say before I say, I'm so sorry, dad, I have to go, is: Do what's best for you. Please just take care of yourself.
I have no idea what's going on. My dad hung up so quickly, like a shamed child, like he couldn't believe what he'd just confessed.
But here's where the situation lies: I care, but I don't care. My parents should be divorced. They should so be divorced. But for some reason, they aren't divorced. I think this reason has to do with church, or with failing, or with--whatever, but if people don't love each other, then they shouldn't be married. I know that looks pretty simple as a sentence (even though that's a complex sentence) but that's how it should be. I mean, duh.
If I could post a giant sign that the whole world could see right now, it would say: DUH. Fucking duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.
Does my mom have a boyfriend? Is my dad paranoid? I don't know. But I do know that the only thing about this situation that has me worried is whether or not my dad will be okay. Why the fuck he stays in this, or my mom stays in this--whatever. Is it church? Because it might be church. This is part of the reason that I don't really feel guilty about not going to church anymore. (Oh, God, am I the poster child for R.E.M.'s "Losing my Religion." Am I going through the experience that high schoolers go through, but just really late? Gross.) But: church stops people from making rational decisions. It's like religion, sometimes, takes place of the rational part of the brain. He'll go to hell if he gets divorced? He's in fucking hell right now.
Anyway. Last night I had sort of a moment of truth, where I realized that the reason I write everything down all the time, why I always have so much to say over and again, is because it's the only time I get to say anything. My family doesn't talk about it. If somebody tries to talk about it, nobody listens. All I can do is write it down.
Look at me! Who even fucking needs Freud.
David and I aren't friends anymore. We in fact, ended it bad, and it's still bad. But I don't feel guilty about it anymore, no matter how much he tries to make me feel that way. I found life was easier, and I was happier, without him treating me like a piece of shit, so I cut that part out of the picture.
Has my heart hardened, hard core? Have I given up a lot of what I held so close to me just to be rational? Am I being selfish because I'm just too busy for all of this?
I don't know. IDK. I don't know the answers of any of this shit today. I just went to bed with a headache on the right side that I tried to drink off last night, almost successfully. And I woke up today after this conversation with my dad, after watching people become close by sharing struggles. I just. I just. Do what it takes to make you happy, but do it without fucking anybody over. Is that too simple for a life philosophy? Or maybe too complicated. I should've written this down last night. It made more sense when I was drunk.
Can I tell my parents to get divorced? Can I just call them and say FUCKING DUH WHY WOULD YOU STAY MARRIED? It didn't work when I said: fucking duh, just kick Amanda's boyfriend out of the house.
I don't know any of the mom's side from this, but I'm just trying not to think about it. There are a lot of things about my mother that I try not to think about. She and I are very different people, and we always will be, and that's how it is. She's my mother, and that is what she is.
But my father's my father, and he's such a fragile man right now. He's the one who will listen, sometimes, when I talk to him. He's the one who needs to find a way out, who needs to realize that change can happen, he is the one. Everyone in my family takes advantage of that man. He's become so frail and angry and drunk. That is where my energy, in any of this, will lie.
But it's not any of my business. You know she doesn't love me. Everybody fucking knows.
Maybe this is too much. Maybe I'm airing out my family's dirty laundry on the internet, for all to see. But I don't fucking care. I'm so done. I'm so done with not talking about stuff, with keeping it all in, that I just don't fucking care anymore. I'm done not talking about it. I'm done with the cloudiness surrounding every decision every one makes, I'm done with people not thinking for themselves, done with them not deciding what makes them happy and I'm fucking done, done, done, done, done, done, done with people not finding out how to get what makes them happy without plowing other people down in the fucking process.
I am not the same person I was last year. Not even the same person I was yesterday. There's been so much thinking going on. There's been so much re-prioritizing.
Imagine you're on a beach At one end of the beach is a piece of cake, and in the middle of the beach are a bunch of sand castles. You want that cake so, so, so bad. In fact, you are certain that that piece of cake will bring you so much happiness that you need to get it as quickly as possible.
All I'm asking, is that along the way, you don't kick over every person's sandcastle in your path. All I'm asking is that you walk around them. You can have all the fucking cake you want. I don't even care if you don't chew, I don't even care if you lick your goddamned fingers clean. Just please, please, please don't knock over my sandcastle on your way there. Please, just consider my sandcastle.
I can't get mad when the tide comes in and fucks it up. But I can get mad as fucking hell at you.
Anway. I'll try to sum this up: hold on extra close to the people who make you happy, no matter how they manage to do it, or for how long they've done it. When they stop making you happy, you owe it to yourself to let them go--in some way. You don't have to cut them away or drown them like unwanted kittens, but use the opportunity of despair when you do let them go to grab on tighter to the ones that continue to make you happy. Life is about relationships, all of them. Keep the good ones. Imagine if you died in the middle of a bad one, any bad one.
Duh.
Monday, February 9, 2009
That's it. It's over. I can't go on pretending I'm something I'm not.
For my entire life I've been trying to convince myself that I am something that I am not, nor that I was ever intended to be. For 26 years (is that how old I am? Sometimes I forget) I've presented myself as an entirely different person than I truly am.
I thought of it yesterday, for a bit, but I wouldn't let myself think too hard--I couldn't face the truth on a Sunday. But today, as I walked up the stairs to CHS, past the students, past the area at the top of the stairs where a couple of students once put a fart machine with a sensor that went pfffffffffffrrrrrrrttttttt everytime someone walked past it at the top of the stairs--as I walked up those stairs, two briefcases in one hand, one bowl of fresh oatmeal chocolate chips in the other I finally admitted it to myself:
I fucking hate raisins.
I hate them. All this time I've pretended that I liked them, ate bread pudding with ease, scarfing up each raisin and leaving an empty plate of brown sugar wetness. I've even eaten little boxes of sun-maid raisins. I even claimed once that oatmeal raisin cookies were my favorite. I used to say that. I AM A BIG LIAR. They aren't my favorite. Oatmeal chocolate chip are my favorite, because I love oatmeal. And I love chocolate. I also would probably enjoy a nice oatmeal butterscotch or white chip. And I'll eat an oatmeal raisin cookie, I really will. But it's only for the oatmeal. If if were socially tolerable to spit out the raisins to the side, I would.
Because raisins are gross. The texture is weird, the taste is sour and nauseating, and the fact that people consider a raisin a snack or even a dessert is downright appalling. Ants on a log? Sure. Without the ants, please. Anytime you eat a trailmix? How about we just have peanuts and m&m's, please. Leave the fucking raisins out, and especially don't think you can put a ridiculous ratio of raisins in there, so they dominante the entire treat.
Fuck you, raisins. Why can't you be more like Sixlets. I love Sixlets.
I thought of it yesterday, for a bit, but I wouldn't let myself think too hard--I couldn't face the truth on a Sunday. But today, as I walked up the stairs to CHS, past the students, past the area at the top of the stairs where a couple of students once put a fart machine with a sensor that went pfffffffffffrrrrrrrttttttt everytime someone walked past it at the top of the stairs--as I walked up those stairs, two briefcases in one hand, one bowl of fresh oatmeal chocolate chips in the other I finally admitted it to myself:
I fucking hate raisins.
I hate them. All this time I've pretended that I liked them, ate bread pudding with ease, scarfing up each raisin and leaving an empty plate of brown sugar wetness. I've even eaten little boxes of sun-maid raisins. I even claimed once that oatmeal raisin cookies were my favorite. I used to say that. I AM A BIG LIAR. They aren't my favorite. Oatmeal chocolate chip are my favorite, because I love oatmeal. And I love chocolate. I also would probably enjoy a nice oatmeal butterscotch or white chip. And I'll eat an oatmeal raisin cookie, I really will. But it's only for the oatmeal. If if were socially tolerable to spit out the raisins to the side, I would.
Because raisins are gross. The texture is weird, the taste is sour and nauseating, and the fact that people consider a raisin a snack or even a dessert is downright appalling. Ants on a log? Sure. Without the ants, please. Anytime you eat a trailmix? How about we just have peanuts and m&m's, please. Leave the fucking raisins out, and especially don't think you can put a ridiculous ratio of raisins in there, so they dominante the entire treat.
Fuck you, raisins. Why can't you be more like Sixlets. I love Sixlets.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
look at these fucking pictures
You've been photo dumped! I haven't uploaded pictures since fall. And look. We end in green grass.Tuesday, February 3, 2009
minnahsoda trys to raze $
As I pulled into the parking lot this morning, an MPR announcer started a broadcast about Minnesota's defecit. Our state needs some money, but how do we get it?
I'm serious. How does a state raise money?
All I could think of was this:
Minnesota has a bake sale. We sell enough cupcakes at 2 million dollars apiece, and we'll have our roads fixed in no time. Of course, the bake sale would rely on Texas' and Wisconsin's fat asses to buy enough cupcakes. And we'll have to make all of those vegan cupcakes for Oregon. Maybe it's not worth it.
But how about...
Minnesota mows your lawn! What a great way to raise money. This will work if you have a lawn mower, or Minnesota might be able to bring his own lawn mower over and then charge you extra for gas.
And if you don't have a lawn:
Minnesota is gonna have a car wash. Not only can you support local cheerleaders, but you can support your state. We'll have a minimum dontation of one billion dollars--and then, we'll bridge that defecit in no time!
I'm serious. How does a state raise money?
All I could think of was this:
Minnesota has a bake sale. We sell enough cupcakes at 2 million dollars apiece, and we'll have our roads fixed in no time. Of course, the bake sale would rely on Texas' and Wisconsin's fat asses to buy enough cupcakes. And we'll have to make all of those vegan cupcakes for Oregon. Maybe it's not worth it.But how about...
Minnesota mows your lawn! What a great way to raise money. This will work if you have a lawn mower, or Minnesota might be able to bring his own lawn mower over and then charge you extra for gas.And if you don't have a lawn:
Minnesota is gonna have a car wash. Not only can you support local cheerleaders, but you can support your state. We'll have a minimum dontation of one billion dollars--and then, we'll bridge that defecit in no time!But the only way to save education is: 
making prostitution legal. If we legalize prostitution and then put a tax on that shit--the tax alone could save our schools on 8 billion an hour. And, of course, Minnesota will get lots of clients. Most certainly Kentucky is coming up for some of this. We will be competing with Nevada, but I heard that Nevada has syphillis. No big deal, no big deal.
making prostitution legal. If we legalize prostitution and then put a tax on that shit--the tax alone could save our schools on 8 billion an hour. And, of course, Minnesota will get lots of clients. Most certainly Kentucky is coming up for some of this. We will be competing with Nevada, but I heard that Nevada has syphillis. No big deal, no big deal.Monday, February 2, 2009
TMI? FU.
I think I'm cute and organized sometimes. Shannon bought me little spice jars for Christmas, and I put all of my pills in there. All of the whites and shiny fish oil ones and ones that make you sleep and ones that make you hyper.
Of course, they don't have any labels. I'll remember what they are, I said one December evening.
Last night I went to take a laxative (I know, I know that's gross) but I ended up taking a sleeping pill. So goes the entire night, and so goes today. Exhaustion, stomach-ness that involves lots of weird grumbling sounds.
I haven't had a lick of caffiene today. I had a cookie for lunch, and now I feel fat, and the last thing I want to do is go to the gym, even though that's what I should be doing, and today I had a weird mix of a million things to do and nothing to do, and then, right before class started 8th hour, I had a ridiculous almost-anxiety attack and I had to try and hide it. Which was a fucking nightmare. Absolutely a nightmare. Have you ever had to do that? Literally hold your hand down with another hand to prevent yourself from doing something insane, like run out of the classroom and out the door downstairs for some air. Have you ever had to dig your fingernails into your palm, making those embossed moon shapes in your skin. And what if it's worse next time? And where did this anxiety even come from? What's happening, here.
So, I'm not going to the gym today, and I hate myself for it, like I really, really hate myself, but I also hate the bitter cold wind, and it's not fair after such an amazing, warm weekend. I am so fucking sick of winter I want to die, and sure that's insane because spring is right around the corner, but fucking seriously, until I can run outside without getting frost bite, I am going to suck at everything I do.
Happy Monday, then, I'm tired and can't poop.
Of course, they don't have any labels. I'll remember what they are, I said one December evening.
Last night I went to take a laxative (I know, I know that's gross) but I ended up taking a sleeping pill. So goes the entire night, and so goes today. Exhaustion, stomach-ness that involves lots of weird grumbling sounds.
I haven't had a lick of caffiene today. I had a cookie for lunch, and now I feel fat, and the last thing I want to do is go to the gym, even though that's what I should be doing, and today I had a weird mix of a million things to do and nothing to do, and then, right before class started 8th hour, I had a ridiculous almost-anxiety attack and I had to try and hide it. Which was a fucking nightmare. Absolutely a nightmare. Have you ever had to do that? Literally hold your hand down with another hand to prevent yourself from doing something insane, like run out of the classroom and out the door downstairs for some air. Have you ever had to dig your fingernails into your palm, making those embossed moon shapes in your skin. And what if it's worse next time? And where did this anxiety even come from? What's happening, here.
So, I'm not going to the gym today, and I hate myself for it, like I really, really hate myself, but I also hate the bitter cold wind, and it's not fair after such an amazing, warm weekend. I am so fucking sick of winter I want to die, and sure that's insane because spring is right around the corner, but fucking seriously, until I can run outside without getting frost bite, I am going to suck at everything I do.
Happy Monday, then, I'm tired and can't poop.
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