Oh, bother.

An open letter to a boy I'd very much like to date, but who, right now, is just plain pissing me off: 


You're a "sad panda," are you? Seriously?


Well, you know what would help with that? Talking to someone. Someone who really cares about what you feel and think and desperately wants to be there for you and help you NOT be sad. You DO realize that moping around and being sad on Facebook achieves two things: 1) It makes you look pitiful and 2) It makes me feel EXACTLY LIKE YOU'RE FEELING... except with some anger and active frustration mixed in. The only person making you a sad panda is YOU, because I sure as hell want to make you happy. I certainly cannot force you to be interested in me, but damn. You should be. It would sure solve a lot of our mutual problems. So give me a break and quit being an idiot. If you're going to persist in not being interested, the least you could do is man up a little and TELL ME you're not so I can quit wasting my energy being smitten with you. I feel like can't do any more than I already have: I drove a lot of hours to see you for not much time and support your endeavors AND give you presents... and I have heard nary a word from you since then. I think you are simply delightful and, frankly, pretty much everything I have ever been looking for, so QUIT BEING RIDICULOUS and whining about how no one cares about you and get with the frakking program. If there is something I should be doing that would make a difference, I really wish I knew what it was. I live to serve.



 -me






 
via

Stolen!

Have you ever had someone steal something from you? Even if it wasn't yours- they are holding the thing that you handed them, and then, suddenly and without warning, they literally take off running as fast as they can away from you.


It's weird.


At first, I felt totally responsible. Then, I felt not responsible for it at all! Then I worry that my delightful bosslady is going to think I'm irresponsible.

It would have been SO much more convenient for the douchbag to steal from one of the other two, very seasoned associates that I was working with at the time. It happened so fast that it would have gone the same way with them, I feel. Oh well, we'll just see what happens tomorrow morning when bosslady and I open the store.


Best. New Employee. Ever.

Fields of Gold

Fields of Gold - Eva Cassidy




pics via and via

Here comes emptiness crashing in

I am feeling highly whiny this morning, and there really is no venue (save this little bit o'internet) that I can whine to, so aren't you lucky? You get to read about how bummed out I feel this morning. Hey, look on the bright side, I'll probably give you a pretty/sad picture and a nice, depressing song.

You ever just have days where you feel... gross? Like, sad gross. I just cannot feel good this morning. I have weird voice issues and I can't do anything right at home to make my roommate not hate me and this new boyfriend thing is weighing on me, too and it's just... it's making me feel gross. Now I'm at the church and I really need to be working on the bulletin for Sunday, because it's going to be our first one in a new format, but I don't want to do anything but just go somewhere else with people I like that like me and just bask in the friendliness.

Sidebar- it's ironic that after I have (another) disheartening conversation with this new boyfriend, this time about his atheism versus my loving the Jesus, I want nothing but more church and I have all this ushy-gushy Jesus love and I want to sing hymns and learn about being a better Christian and yada yada, and who can't I tell about all this because it's sort of antagonizing? Oh right- the person I really should be able to talk about it with.

Alsoalso- I have talked about the stupid crap people do to each other before, but can I please just talk about for a second how it baffles me further how people can't be nice to each other? Why? Why would you be mean to another person? I am mean, I really am. And frankly, I enjoy being mean. But, if the target person is my friend, or even just someone I have to deal with on a semi-regular basis, why not be civil? No one gets any more out of the interaction when one is mean. And I am kind of a pushover, because when people I have to deal with are mean to me, I just lay down and take it, mostly. Because I don't like being mean (Again, in this particular sense), and it really messes with me when people are mean to me.

Anyhow, whine whine whine. And a song and a photo, as promised:


Another Lonely Day - Ben Harper

Another pretty song and me whining about crap

Blargh.


I know I keep saying, "I'll start posting again, soon. I promise," and then vanish for weeks? I had my fingers crossed, I guess. Sorries. And there's nothing to report, really. There may be soon (with pictures and everything), but for right now, it's just time to get through the rest of the semester and find out about this stupid boy.



It's always a boy, isn't it?

ugh.

Corner - Allie Moss

Dear Old Love indeed

I read Dear Old Love as often, or more so, as I read TFLN. I find it both interesting and ironic that I have had several published only recently, since I have been submitting them for a while.

Kudos to you, Dear Old Love, for being able to tell when I was making it up and when I really meant it.

People, please.

Ok, time for something that drives me insane:


When people post every single solitary photo taken for an event/photo session/whatever on Facebook or some other social media.


Guys. No one (except maybe you) wants to see every photo. Cull the herd and pick the best ones, and some of the worst ones (because those are funny), but for pete's sake, the rest need to stay on your hard drive or just be deleted for all eternity.

I'm a little more lenient if we're talking about candid shots at a shower or wedding or something because pictures of random people doing random things have a certain degree of entertainment value. However, I do not need to see the 6 photo progression of you picking up the piece of cake to put in your new husband's mouth. Just pick one, and whether you pick the one of you about to put it in his mouth where you look all innocent and sweet or the one where he has icing and cake bits all over his face and you look like a terror, is completely up to you.

I'm mostly talking about engagement couple photos, bridal photos, baby photos, senior picture type photos, HEADSHOTS (gah. Kill me.) and other such set-up photo session groups of pictures. If you wore 4 different shirts throughout the course of your headshot session, pick, say, 3 or 4 from each different option. I don't need to see 30 pictures of you looking awkwardly at the camera in each shirt. I appreciate the value of getting other people's opinion on which of your brand new headshots to use, but you can narrow the choices simply by looking at them and picking the ones that make you look not retarded.

Also: I fervently hope that when (please, Jesus God, when) I eventually have children, I will be lucid enough to realize that all babies look like weird grapes when they come out, and they look like weird grapes for at least some time afterward. Even though I will think that my baby is the best baby ever, I am mentally prepared to still see the grape-ness. There will need to be pictures, obviously, but for my child's sake, I will only show the inevitable alien baby pictures to friends and loved ones that will laugh with me at my grape child.

Anyrant, I like seeing people's photos of stuff. I really do. I just like seeing less of the ones that don't matter. But it does give me fodder for this blog, I suppose, so not all is lost. And don't even get me STARTED on the people who think that they're a professional photographer just because they have a nice camera. That is truly a rant for another day, as that is a subject that needs a entire entry devoted to it.



I was going to do a mosaic of photos that exemplify the qualities in this rant, but all the absolute best ones I could think of were people that are my Facebook friends, and more often than not my actual friends... so, you get a girl and a camera instead.


Pic via PaperTissue

Wedding pictures are exhausting.

You ever get into a circle of just really unproductive and unhealthy thoughts?


Example:

Why, hello, Facebook. What do you have for me today? Aww, her wedding pictures are pretty

*clicks through pictures*

Look at those dresses! I want dresses like that at my wedding

*keeps clicking*

Gah, if I ever get married

*stops clicking to get up and get a pint of ice cream. Resumes clicking*

And those little flower girls... Hm, if I never get married, I guess I'll never have kids, either

*click, click, click*

Look at how happy they are. My life is hopeless

*Cries a little into ice cream and finishes pint. Pops popcorn. Back to click-a-thon*

What am I doing with my life, anyway? Do I even want to sing opera? I have no direction at all.

*chokes on last bit of popcorn. Slight anxiety attack*

I only have a semester left in school, then what? You don't even know, do you? Nope. Husband, kids, house, life? Good luck.

*Eats several Babybels and keeps crying.*

I think I'm going insane. I hate my life. I have no goals...




Several hours later, I regain consciousness and survey the devastation of a depression buffet of popsicle wrappers and empty bags of potato chips, and realize I have been playing WoW mindlessly for the last several hours.

At least I won't have a hangover...

I'm obviously retarded.

I am so not tidy. I occasionally compulsively tidy my surroundings, but I am not an inherently organized and neat person.

My roommate (to be clear, this is not Rümmi; she went to live with her boyfriend in July) likes for her surroundings to look like a Pottery Barn catalog, and I'm trying to not be such a big crazy mess.

Well, I just got this text from her:



Courtney I love you but what is up with leaving trash in the middle of the floor...



I was crying I was laughing so hard at work. What I had done was taken the last bottle of water out of the 24 pack and, I kid you not, so I wouldn't forget and leave it in the house, I put the big empty package in the middle of the living room.



I forgot it.

I'm trying, I really am...

Not so nice

As tends to happen, I started to write a comment back to GingerMandy and it turned into a whole blog post.

When I was first dating the ex-fiancé, we had a conversation about how mean I was am and that I needed to change myself fix it.

ex-f: When I tell people I'm dating you, they are always surprised. I never knew why until I saw the way you acted at {whatever function we were attending}. You turn into this mean, sarcastic person and that's unacceptable (He may or may not have said "unacceptable," but it was pretty close).

me: Well... yeah. That's just how I am. I've always been like that.

ex-f: No you're not. Not when it's just you and me. I've seen how you are when you're with your family or just with me, and that sarcastic, mean person isn't you (Read: It isn't what I want you to be).

me: Oh.

ex-f: I used to be like you (Did I mention that he was a bit holier than thou?), and what my {dad, minister, mother, coach (I don't remember)} told me to do was that before I said anything, I should think, "Could this possibly hurt anyone?" and if it would, or you're not sure, don't say it. Whatever it was. And you might miss out on some good comments or jabs, but it will be better in the long run.

So in the name of keeping a boyfriend, I did. Everything out of my mouth was moderated and filtered. And you know what? People liked me. It was astounding. That was the only year I was elected Band Sweetheart (That's nerdtalk for I was the popular-est that year) and that has never happened before or again. You know what else? I was totally miserable. I felt like a different person, but not in a "I'm changed! I love it!" sort of way. The following fall semester, I worked with a dear friend of mine in the band office and she fixed me. She was is smart, gorgeous and mean. I LOVED working with her because I could be myself!! I hadn't been able to voice all these nasty, horrible, mean, sarcastic, judgy and wonderful comments to anyone because I was too busy trying to not "hurt anybody."

So as I write this, I am wondering: was it better to be nice to everyone or be myself? I'm a mean and sarcastic person, and ... ha, well, I was going to say "it's usually all in fun," but that's a lie. I'm mean, and it's mean, and I am not messing around. But at the same time, is that really a way to be? I see where you're going with this, GingerSweetPie, I really do. I'm just warning you, being nice is really hard work. However, if you're willing to put in the work, it legitimately yields results. It also makes you nice. I'll still love you, MandyPants, but as a rule, nice people make me ill.

I guess that's my answer. I honestly just like mean, sarcastic people better than nice, smiley ones. Maybe it's because it's just easier to be mean, but I'd like to think it's because it takes a honed intelligence to be mean. Anyone can be nice. It takes a special kind of person to be mean and sarcastic, but still lovable. Don't take this the wrong way, but if we're friends, it's probably because you're mean. And lovable. So... kisses to you all!

Should have been you first

Holy Crap. My friends Charmaine and Dalton got married 2 years ago today (Congrats, guys!!). In my perusal of the Blogs of MySpace Past, I read this entry from way back then. I feel like I've grown since then, but it's interesting to remember those old times.

- - Even though it's a long one, you might should read this post from a while back so that this makes more sense. - -

Saturday, July 14, 2007

"It should have been you first!"

Current mood: discontent

This is what Charmaine's mother said to me twice today at the wedding. Twice. She looked around, indicating the wedded bliss around us, and told me that it should have been me first. I guess in her world that's not considered a horrific thing to say to someone who was engaged...... and then wasn't. The wedding was beautiful. It was simply superb to attend and to participate in something so absolutely stunning. It was very good for me to see something as wonderful as the marriage of two completely made-for-eachother people. It restores the faith in good things and helps foster the knowledge that there are good men left in the world. I mean actual good men. Men that will put forth the effort to sweep a woman off her feet and make her feel like a princess. Although, at this point, I would be glad to just see a man that won't lie to my face. I will never understand how a person can be so completely different than who I thought they were. But I digress... There are lots of girls want to get married. After seeing today, the getting married part could be fun. That's not really what I'm interested in anymore. I used to be, many moons ago. The white dress, the cake all of that. Nowadays, I really just want to be married. To wake up next to someone that is on your side 100% of the time. Someone that you can have every bit as much fun sitting around not doing anything as you do when you're out on the town. I see these photos of my friends that have found their person and their happiness is visible. I just want to be able to be a team with someone who will actively participate in the relationship in general. Clearly, this man for me is not here. This is ok. I am leaving this city. And not with a goal of finding someone, but instead with a very strict list of things that I will no longer tolerate in someone that I spend time with. I wasted a ton of time trying to be something other than just myself, and that was a hard habit to break, but it's better to be honest about who you are than to try to keep up a façade. No sooner than I learn this lesson, I allow someone else to absolutely walk all over the real and honest me and I, stupidly, still believed in the good that I thought I saw in them. I have now turned naïve and gullible into an art form.

Basically, I'm tired of playing all the games. I give. Uncle. Whatever. I don't care that it wasn't me first.




I just want to meet my husband.

Yessss, emo girl. Everybody heave a big ol' *SIGH* now.

---

Though, confession: I have been planning to post this for a while because I thought it would be entertaining, but I've been feeling all emo today, so it's kind of apropos. Maybe I'm hormonal or something retarded like that, but I feel psychotic and crazy and it's probably nothing but every little retarded thing is just making me go all batty and I hate it and I wish it would stop and it's making me stay up all night and toss and turn and the more I think about everything the more I really hate it. Anyway, I have to be at work in 4 hours. True to form, here's a song:




Invisible - Taylor Swift

(This is excessively emo. I realize this. I just feel all affected and sad and stupid shit. I'll look back later and either cry A LOT or laugh at my idiocy. Just the usual. This is almost as bad as the Bonnie Rait episode. This kinda sucks)

TMI: Or possibly Not Enough Information... (NEI)

As per last week, this is not quite typical of a TMI, even though it does have some sex in it (Woo hoo!) and it IS embarrassing. Even so, that geriatric boobie grabbing gets me every time!

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, "how many readers can I estrange THIS week??" TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else's!***





Against my better judgement, I'm going to embarrass myself. Usually, if I have the option to embarrass myself, or NOT, I choose not. But I'll throw myself on the sword this TMIT and tell everyone about my sexual naïvety as a young, but not so young, person.

We learned last week that I was one prude somebody for the majority of my life. Still am, really (in case you're freaking out, Dad), but there was a level that even I look at now and think, "What was wrong with me?"

Example: For a while in early high school, I had this totally absurd relationship "rule", if you will, that there was no kissing for, I think it was a month, or something equally ridiculous. I'm a little foggy because it didn't really stick around, but to clarify: From the time we started being BF-GF ("Will you go out with me?" Lawl), there was "supposed" to be a MONTH that passed before we kissed. I think I even lost one BECAUSE of that. Not that I blame him. I was a gal that stuck to her guns.

Anyprude*, I'm here to address my sexual idiocy, not my general idiocy. When I was in late elementary school, the schools did "Hot Topics" in Health class where they talked about girls getting their period and boys becoming men (Whatever that entails specifically. They split us up...) and you had to have your parents sign a permission form so you could even HEAR this really special, ultra-secret, grownup information. I had this week-long event every year for 3 years. So it begs the question:


How in the world did I have no idea what "the sex" really was?


Y'all, I'm not kidding. I knew it had to do with kissing, and it was in a bed and I was pretty sure it had to do with the parts that a bikini covered becoming UNcovered (I had gathered this much from movies, I guess), but that was as far as I got. I don't know where I came up with this, but I really, honestly and actually, I'm-not-making-this-up thought that these were the steps to having a baby:

1. Get married. (Because people that aren't married don't have babies. Duh.)


2. Make an appointment with God. (Still not making this up, people)


3. Have baby. (There! That was easy!)

I can't remember exactly when the whole P-in-the-V connection was made, but I vividly recall thinking, "What? No way. In? Like... IN in??" and being somewhat horrified. I'm sure it didn't exactly help that the diagrams I had been seeing for the past "Hot Topics" sessions looked like this:







I just have to think that surely... SURELY someone at some point had explained that the P goes IN the V, but I either was asleep or wondering what that scrotesticlepenis was or who even knows, and I didn't get the memo. I really think that even when they said it, I looked up at that flaccid line drawing and just dismissed the statement as unimportant.

3 years.

3 different "Hot Topics" presentations.


HOW did I not know?! So tragic.



*That's for you, Sassyginger!!

TMI: Kissing and Your Number

This is a different sort of TMI, but because I think the old lady boob grab picture is awesomesauce:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, "how many readers can I estrange THIS week??" TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else's!***





hehe... ok anywho... (Again, this is not your typical TMI; fair warning for you guys looking to read about how girls pee standing or poops that destroy industrial toilets, you ought to read those lovely ladies' blogs :) )

So I had been dating this certain boy for a little while, maybe a couple months, maybe not even that long. As newish couples often do, we were talking about past relationships and whatnot and he cheerfully asked me, "How many people have you kissed?"

"Um..." (I'm thinking, naïvely counting)

He's looking less cheerful now. "You don't know?"

I jokingly ask, "Should I count shows?" (I've been in several, and kissed a few boys by way of the stage)

"Yes. You still kissed them."

"Oh. Ok, uhh..." (Still counting. Sheesh. I wasn't expecting The Spanish Inquisition)

I finally gave him what I considered an accurate number. He gave me a giant poutfest. His number was like, 3 (counting me! Ack.) and mine was... somewhat higher...

Let's just say that throughout the relationship, my "number" as it were kept resurfacing in the most annoying ways. Usually just to remind me how sullied my past was (*gasp!* KISSING!?) since his was so sparkly clean (read: it wasn't).

NO GOOD comes of knowing the numbers of things like that. How many people you have done whatever with can just stay between you, yourself and potentially your girlfriends. The dude in your life just does not need to know. It doesn't matter if these numbers are low or high or whatever. It's just TMI for them. End of story. (See what I did there?)


Yeah, yeah, I know. There wasn't poop or boobies or weird sex related stories in my TMI, but honestly, the old lady boob grab is about as exciting and entertaining in that realm as I get. Maybe someday I'll have a really good/gross story to regale all you fine readers. And regale I shall, but only in due time. Besides, this is my very first TMI ever. Even if I did have some really juicy ones, I wouldn't lead with them. Gotta leave somewhere to go!

Duh!

Ok, confession: I have read this entry about fourteen times and I still can't decide if it's even what I want to say. This is actually the first time I feel this way about an entry of mine. Since the logical thing to do would be to take it down due to the relative uncertainty I feel about it, I'm going to leave it up. So there! Suck it, blog-o-whatever! I will post all the uncertainty I want! BOOYAH!!

*sigh*
what...?

Roll me away

In the continuing saga of purse/car/apartment change, I stopped by the bank at lunch to be informed that they (unlike the bank back home where I worked) virtually require change to be rolled for them to take it. Otherwise they have to send it off...?

I have no idea.


I'll let you guess what I was doing after lunch today:



And a little GPOYW (Gratuitous Picture of Yourself Wednesday) for ya, too


Pre-rolling


All rolled up.


So I'm going through the drive-thru to get real dollars after work. Yippee!

One of those damn days

I feel SO whiney today. Everylittlething that happens is just irritating the CRAP out of me.

Example:

When I come into work, if there are messages on the phone, when you pick up the phone you hear *blip, blip, blip, blip* instead of the usual dial tone. There are never more than, like, 2 messages, but that *blip, blip* noise just makes me NUTS!

This is not world ending, it is just annoying. But it's also pretty much the only thing I actually DO at work: returning calls and fixing their little problems.

Ok, this needs a list-


How you can be certain that today sucks:

• Messages on the phone so there's that noise...



• The bandaid on my thumb keeps falling off. This is driving me crazy. (I gave myself what amounted to a mutant papercut... but I did it with a knife, so I guess that makes it a knife wound. Whatever. It was all for the rainbowcake.)



• I have no money to speak of, so I am checking my mailbox twice a day for my IRS refund check. Dad paid for my taxes to get filed, but my sister messed it up, so we had to file a correction or something, and it's taking FOREVER.



• The absence of the refund thing is seriously disappointing about twice a day, but it's almost as bad to have nothing in the mailbox at all, which is also usually the case.



• My fat pants fit. :'-(



• I have to sit at my work work (the office job) for the afternoon and then immediately go to Victoria's Secret (which is much harder work, actually) and stay until who knows when because since Semi-Annual Sale started yesterday, the place is going to be a wreck.



• There is no drinking water at work. I even brought a little snack. What did I bring? Salty chips. I forgot water, so no snack and I'm thirsty.



• Back to the no money thing, I have been subsisting on pasta for a while. On the surface, this looks like a great idea, as pasta is arguably my favorite food ever. This morning, I literally didn't want to eat pasta at all, ever. This is distressing.

Uugh. I have pictures to post of Rainbowcake (which was a great success, by the way), but I don't feel like it.

I am in such a funk!! I'm sorry, guys, but that's all I have for you today: a buttload of whining. This is one of those days that I want to just get through it, then go home and sit with the boy until I go to sleep (Won't get that either. That's a looong drive...)

Anyway, I'll give you a song that sounds like how my day feels. I didn't even look at the lyrics, I'm talking about the sound of it.



Everblue - Mandy Moore

Avoiding a Fatal Car Wreck

So I got some really crappy school news yesterday (which I am not EVEN going to elaborate upon because it makes me so angry) that I hopefully can remedy in one semester instead of having to take AN ENTIRE EXTRA SEMESTER to finish this gorram degree. In an effort to not have my head explode right off of my body, I am going to apply the same logic to this that I apply to my life sometimes when I am running late:

God is a big guy, and I am of the opinion that everything happens for a purpose; even if it sucks really bad. On a small scale, for example, is running late. I mean, yes, you're not going to get to wherever it is on time and you might get in trouble or at least frowned at sternly, but I like to think that if I was on time, I would be driving however many seconds or minutes earlier and I might be in a fatal car wreck because of it. So, when I run late, I just remember that God does stuff like that on purpose (even my lame ass inability to be punctual) and even though it sucks, it's going to be OK. Sometimes even better than OK. Sometimes (more of the time than not, really) it's exactly the way it needed to be.


"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

- • -

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him...


Safe Keeping

Jer. 29:11 & Rom. 8:28
Photo by Samantha Lamb

So I found some Bunny Ears...

And I have been cleaning in them. Rümmi didn't even notice for about 5 minutes. I'm not sure what that says about her observational skills, but that's okay. She was helping me go through my last bit of unpacking. She's aresome (not a typo). :)

100th Post!!

Wow! I can't believe I've already posted 100 times. Geez.


Well, to celebrate this occasion, I feel I should blog about something that means a lot to me. Something that changed my life forever.


a potato.


Not just any potato, friends. This was a life altering spud of epic proportions. I'm not kidding when I say that for weeks after this potato incident, I couldn't go more than 3 days without mentioning it. People, this tuber consumed my thoughts. It's story time:



Over Thanksgiving, my Li'l Brudder and Seester and I went to southish Texas to see my Dad. Not ON Thanksgiving, but the day before, we went to this small town eatery for lunch. It was some manner of barbecue place and so they obviously had baked potatoes. They had something I had officially never seen before, but I was so intrigued, and it sounded so delicious that I ordered it. (Looking back, I am SO glad I did and yet I also have a healthy {ha, healthy} amount of regret tied to the experience. Mainly because after I ate it, I wanted to die. So much potato... anyway, back to the story.)

The potato I ordered ended up being about the size of a softball and a half. That is not remotely a small potato, or even a medium one. This potato meant business. It had my standard potato trappings of butter, cheese and sour cream, but here's where the magic happened: There was a chicken fried steak on, nay, in this potato. A whole chicken fried steak. On/In this mammoth potato. And white gravy, because you can't eat a chicken fried steak without white gravy.

That's the part that I look upon fondly. The actual potato. Eating the whole thing? I don't exactly look upon that with the same sense of nostalgia and general happiness associated with good food memories. *whew*

Anyway, to you who read this and see my delightful potato as an abomination to food everywhere, I am sad for you. Maybe it's just my general Southern upbringing that makes me particularly susceptible to the wiles of foods of this nature, but either way... that potato affected my life more than some people, and for that, it gets its own commemorative blog post.




And now a picture of a lizard on a chaise lounge (because this is what I found when I was trying to find a graphic of the number 100):




hahahahahahahaha


Hiliarious. Explanation here.

Oh, Weepies....

"I only think about you
if it's raining...

...or it's not.

I am not a scholar.

Clearly, as what I was deeming a "kickass" paper just got ripped to shreds and didn't even get a passing grade (Yeah, sad story- I'm going to talk to the prof tomorrow). In trying to figure out how I could possibly have so grossly misjudged my paper and its worthiness, I have sort of stumbled onto this truth:


I am not a scholar.


This is not really news to me, but it hasn't been so apparent (and annoying) until recently. Lots of my prof's comments on my not-so-"kickass" paper are things like "why?" and it's sort of been like that (though much less) before. Also, my presentation sort of went down that way, too, with everyone asking why things were like that or why they did it that way. Here's the thing... for me, personally, I don't care why most anything is anything else. Most of my beliefs about... well, most things (most, most, most) are that way. I don't feel the need to know why, why it is the way it is, where it came from, about.... anything. Basically, I'm of the opinion that if it works, it works and that's all I need to know. Honestly, the way my brain processes things is a lot of the problem with regard to this specific class. I simply do not approach the information in this class the way I'm supposed to, and I don't think I can, either. Not without hand holding and lots of help because, I have never been trained to think about anything like this and probably even less helpful for the purposes of this class, since I have no desire to be good at this, it's impossible for me to even try to figure it out. Call it lazy if you want. I can only view it as an intense waste of energy, as I just have a really hard time with it and it will be of little (if any) use to me in the future.

It's sort of like me and subtlety. My whole world is basically the opposite of subtle. So when, in art of any kind (music, film, visual art), the point, the part I'm supposed to "get," is subtle... count me out. If you tell me what the point is, I can go, "Oh, yeah. Cool," and I will understand it, but I will rarely, if EVER, get it on my own. That's just the way it is. I have accepted this and it doesn't bother me. I just know this about myself. This concept feels like this class, where when he explains it to me, I understand it and know why it was wrong, but I would NEVER have seen that initially, which is why I turned whatever assignment it was in at all. If I had known that it was terrible, why would I have turned it in, or generated it in the first place?

The moral of this story is that if I'd wanted to be a scholar, I would have gone to a different school. I want to be a performer, and that is something they teach here pretty effectively.

Sad paperclip here

This was kind of lengthy. Sorry. However...

I'm about to watch a movie with someone a timezone away, which always makes life feel better.