It's not you, it's me. Actually, it's 2:36 a.m.

The Best Part of Waking Up

Is definitely not having a giant, arm nipple as a result of ant-nibbling in the night.

I don't know why the one thing I'm allergic to has to be everywhere. At least peanuts don't assault people.

Then again, at least ants aren't in the things I like to eat. Most of the time.

Star Trek Voyager and baking and art--OH MY

I effing love you.

7 of 9 is my Borg heart-throb.

Tuvok is a mind-melding whore.

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We also have jack crap to do on a Saturday night, besides the aforementioned stuff, and so we went for a...WALK!

That would be more impressive if I told you that we were all legless stumps, but really we're just lazy. We don't go outside a lot. So we walked down to campus and attempted to go to the Secret Garden, but there was a bit of a hootenany going on, so we headed back. Kinda pathetic.

However

We did get to see a really wonderful art mural of sorts that is on a brick wall by the Physical Education East Building. Last time I saw it, it made my day, and it has only gotten larger.

If you're near the ASU Tempe campus, I'd suggest checking it out.

My Lifestyle Choice

Dear stuff,

You say goodbye, I say

Hello,
I love you,
and when times get tough
let's keep it off the epidermis
and shred paper instead
or punch a pillow
or a wall
or pull the heads off dolls
instead of squishing everything down
into that icky sticky worn-out spot
at this terrible horrible no good very bad moment
that we catch like clockwork

because
Hello?
I love you.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
And all those dangerous thoughts
they'll be the death of us
or so I've read
but I pinky-promise
we can soak up our crazy
and wring it out
with
streaming
screaming
snot-nosed
wretchedness
and let it run together
until there is no next time

but let's just stop
ok?
let's just not

this time

let's just not
go down the thin, glinting edge
of that graffiti-scarred road

and we can pass electronic notes
instead
when we feel like pouring out the contents of our heads
into the oven
or across the wall

because Hello,
I love you.
You're my favorite kind of trouble
and I'd love to be your sidekick until the end of time
but you kind of have to be there
and if we make a date
I promise to make it, too

because Hello,
I love you.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
and I'd like to see
if the rumors are true
and everything could be ok
even if we are just a couple of weathered
badass bitches at the end
there could be a double rainbow at the end of this shit-storm
That's one for each of us
so you'd better meet me there
or maybe we'll carpool
'cause you can't drive anyway.

Apparently

I like Everclear.

"Strawberry"

"Pale Green Stars"

"Summerland"

"Wonderful"

"I Will Buy You A New Life"

"Father of Mine"

wtf how did I not know this before now?

Looking Forward

I keep having dreams about graduation/post-graduation.

It's coming more quickly than I'd like to think. So I've got to start thinking: after December, 2011 what are my plans going to be?

I had thought that I'd be applying to high schools for a job, but now I'm not so sure.

Once upon a time I had slightly different goals--orchestra teacher, scientist (maybe science teacher), writing, and possibly Ph.D.

It seems terribly disappointing to give up on all of that, even if not giving up just means accomplishing some of that.

At any rate, if I did go to more school I could perhaps get another more marketable degree to add to my English and education background. The job market certainly isn't easy.

Besides that...I'm not sure I want to hitch myself to Arizona teaching just yet, you know? It's a lot harder to get going again if I find a teaching position and settle down.

I didn't venture out much in my undergrad career, and that was my own fault. Perhaps I should consider doing more before I call it quits?

Hrm

It's all in the details, really

What's the difference between an English Lit. Major and an English teacher?

(other than all that Grad school debt)

F Yes

That was today.

In other news...

Grad school is pretty interesting. There should never be 5 hour long classes, though. Internship (I have one of those now) is going well.

Going to the Counselors In Training Center for some cost-effective counseling. Let's hope that's not too shabby.

**EDIT** LOL JK NO COUNSELING HERE. We'll see how this sorts out.

Dane Cook makes a good point.

Birfday Birfday!

Today is my birthday, if you ask my first birth certificate (the no name one) or the federal government.

Tomorrow is my birthday, if you ask my parents or my schools or bank.

Birthdays are so nice, I had to do it twice.

EXTERMINATE

Karaoke karaoke karaoke
so fun

woo posse

"I touch myself" FTW and every other song we all sang together. except we were probably annoying. ah well

In other news...

registered for classes boo yahhh

AND Sunday or maybe Saturday is my b-day, depending on whether you're the government or tradition.

But I have stuff to do on both days

ohhh snap

You take high road, and I'll take the low road.

I love you, David Tennant.

Lefty Loo

Lefties FTW!

Can I just say as a southpaw there are a few things that bug me:

• Right-handed people coming up to me when I write or do something with my left hand and asking, "Ohh, are you left-handed?"

Do I come up to you and ask if you're right-handed? Nope. Do I come up to other people using their left hands to ask if they're left-handed? Nope. That's just weird.

• Scissors

Scissors are a bunch of bullshit. It's hard to cut when you're left-handed. And when I was younger, the only left-handed scissors were shitty, all-metal pieces of crap that wouldn't cut anything. I had to watch while all those right-handed kids had their snub-nosed, plastic-handled, super sweet scissors that actually cut things and try to jab at my paper in the hopes that I could stab it in the right shape.

• Smudges while writing

It's nearly impossible to write left-handed without smudging the ink, pencil, etc. on the paper and one's hand. It gets frustrating, and quite messy.

• Chalkboards/dry erase boards

I love to write on these things, but damned if it isn't one of the hardest things to do. Sure, smudges were already listed, but chalkboards and dry erase boards are even worse. The words don't just smudge, usually they get totally erased!

And most of all...

• Handshakes

Shaking hands is terrible. We're trained to go in with the right hand for the right hand, but my instinct always shouts "use the left, go for the left. left left left!" And when that happens, who has to change what she's doing? Me. You righties all look impressed when you see me writing with my left hand or using chopsticks with my left hand, but when it comes to hand shakes, you do not want to see a left hand doing anything. Well, that's a bunch of malarky!

Being a lefty is the bomb diggity. It means I can write backwards super easily just like Da Vinci and amaze all your right-handed brains :P

Socks

notebook and pencil!

converse socks

Therese Raquin, anyone?

Pandas!

Pirates!

These socks are effing fantastic!

Sweet Caroline

You know what's weird?

Once time I met a boy who was friends with a boy my friend was kinda dating.

And we sorta became friends for a sorta short while before we sorta stopped talking.

In fact, there are very few memories that stick out tied to this fellow in particular:

*Dancing with him and singing "Sweet Caroline" at the bar we karaoked at

*He told Rachul "this song is for you" when Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" came on

* We watched Repo with Rachul and Devin

and that's that.

But then he died. And I don't actually know how he died, just that he did.

And when I found that out, I cried a lot. Even though I'm not exactly sure why, because I didn't exactly know him.

And last Thursday at the Stray Cat someone sang "Sweet Caroline" and it made me happy and sad, because that was a good time.

How weird is it to have good times with strangers for such short whiles?

Some insects are just rude as hell.

Dear Cockroaches,

Hi. Please stop being fifty feet tall and stomping around the dumpster when I go to take my trash out.

It makes me look crazy when I leave with garbage and come back with garbage.

Also, if I keep all my trash in my house, you'll try to move in here, too.

Don't you realize that nobody likes you? Not even your mom.

Sheesh. Do us all a favor and fuck off. Far away.

Sincerely,

Amanda

Guess what

I went to karaoke with people from work.

What up?
>
Two cidres tsil does me in.

>.>

The most evil of the pond creatures

Ducks are just fuckers.

Also: geese, swans, and water-chickens

Mah Hand Hurts

As we all know, The Van is a big, green hazard on wheels.

I visited home to hang out with the BB before she left for summer camp 2010, and we ended up taking The Van to Walgreens to pick up some pictures.

Except, I haven't ridden in the back of it in a while, and I'm pretty sure BB is a little violent when she drives anyway.

And I ended up falling over, but breaking my fall with my right hand--like ya do.

Except instead of having my hand hit the floor of The Van, it hit a chunk of The Van which happened to have a screw sticking out.

So my right hand got screwed and now it's got a little hole and a smallish bruise which hurts and makes me feel nauseous when it gets touched.

Eff The Van.

/bitching :D

College Was Bumming Me Out

So that second half is gonna have to wait.

But maybe that will mean I post more, and Betsy won't be the only daily blogger, eh?


And so I give you a poem:

Choco taco crunchy delight
remnant of a childhood reward
sweeter than a cinnamon twist
and all from Taco Bell on Power Road
by the places I once went
preceded by a Nachos Bell Grande
that seems too dry now
Weren't you better before?
Or was that simply the novelty
of a chocolate ice cream taco
with the only sauce I ever wanted
more chocolate
and were there nuts on top?
or was that lettuce
I'm not sure
But choco taco,
you're like Hawaiian Shaved Ice
or Pie from Village Inn
You're a deep-rooted desire
like test tubes and brand new rocks
and all my dreams are sure to come true
if I just take a bite of you
and remember how it felt
when I held you in my little hand
as we drove away
triumphant
and bell-shaped bushes marked the path to success

We Interupt This Program For An Urgent Message

Dear Betsy's Uterus,

WTF, dude? I understand that when you get all sheddy, you get kind of grumpy. And hey, if I were losing a layer of myself I'd probably be grumpy, too. That makes sense.

BUT, maybe you should lay off Betsy a little when you're doing that. She's doing stuff, too, you know.

Be a little considerate. She does keep you warm and full of oxygen and shit.

Love,

Amanda

Sophomore Year Me

Sophomore Year Me wasn’t quite as overwhelmed by the ASU sensory overload as Freshman Year Me was.

Sophomore Year Me knew how to get around campus while avoiding at least some of the flyers and petitions and yelling religious folks.

Right before school started, Sophomore Year Me sprained my ankle because I saw a roach. SO, Sophomore

Year Me was supposed to be on crutches and in a weird, ankle bracey thing, but crutches suck. Instead of

listening to the ankle doctor, Sophomore Year Me just walked around slightly gimpy for a while, which kind of

messed up my ankle.

Totally worth it, right?

On moving day, Sophomore Year Me took all my stuff to the Cholla Apartment Dorms, which were located

approximately 5 billion miles away from campus, then crammed it in a very tiny, very slow elevator, and shoved it

all in B 201.

Betsy and Rachul did the same, and in order to celebrate our newfound roommatery we decided to munch on

some food Rachul had brought from last semester. It was Honey Bunches of Delight—the kind with delicious

granola chunks that totally doesn’t even need milk to be good, which is awesome because milk is disgusting.

The kind you just eat right out of the box, except we didn’t. We poured a bowl so that we could easily access what was going to be a crunchy, munchy, honey bunch of yum.

Except it wasn’t. It was Honey Bunches of Bullshit, because Rachul brought a box somehow turned into a cockroach graveyard.

I don’t even think there was any cereal in there anymore. It was just a bunch of crispy, crunchy, fall-aparty cockroach corpses.

As someone who sprained her ankle as a result of trying to flee from a bug earlier this summer, this did not bode

well.

I was extremely suspicious of Rachul for about a month after this incident.

Man, that bowl was the best idea anyone ever had. Ever. Fuck you, wheels and electricity or airplanes.

You never kept me from a handful of bug corpses.

Then I met Savannah. She was the person with whom I was actually sharing a room.

She seemed pretty cool at first. Kind of weird, but that’s usually a good thing. I thought I had probably got the better end of the housing deal, since she seemed pretty laid back I figured it’d be like Lisa all over again.

Have you ever been so wrong about something that you just don’t understand how you came to that assumption

in the first place?

Savannah was one of those things.

Sure, things started out innocently enough. We both liked Nightmare Before Christmas and went together to get

free smoothies at the Dutch Bros right by the dorm. We discussed ground rules for visitors and they were basically, “sure, do whatever” on both ends.

She joined a sorority and Sophomore Year Me almost joined it, too. See, Sophomore Year Me went through a

phase getting involved with something on campus seemed super important. Why a sorority sounded like the way

to do that, I can’t tell you. Probably because Savannah was in one and she didn’t seem like a typical ASU

sorority chick.

Sophomore Year Me even went
to one of the college parties she
got invited to and drank shitty
keg beer and slept on a stranger’s floor after venturing
out into a weird neighborhood
to a 7-11 for nourishment in the
middle of the night.

Well, things changed. And fast. At first Savannah made fun of the other sorority sisters because they were dumb

as hell.

Her sorority actually had one of the lowest GPAs in the school. Slowly but surely, though, she began to

assimilate. Maybe they were the Borg and the whole sorority thing was just a front.

Actually, I think she had an ocular implant and there was definitely an alcove underneath her loft bed.

She also nurtured a severe hatred for my boyfriend. Sophomore Year Me didn’t find out about this until much

later when she got really pissed and exploded, but apparently the “do whatever” rule was not working for her and

she felt Devin was around too much.

He was around a lot, but the entire fight thing probably could’ve been avoided if we had talked about it before she hated his guts. Or maybe made better rules.

Eventually, it got to the point where Devin and Sophomore Year Me had to sleep in the living room when he

came over and then she and I would have a night and day of bitchy text message fighting.

Since tensions were running high in my bedroom, Sophomore Year Me used to hang out in Betsy and Rachul’s

room a lot.

We went to a Wizard Rock Concert and made crazy YouTube videos and beat up Guitar Hero 3 bosses together.

We de-stuffed the couch cushions and used them to play as sumo wrestlers in the hallway.

The three of us would sit

around and IM each other

about the various things

Savannah did.

Was that weird?

Probably.

But it kept us entertained.

From the various frat boys that spent the night, to the mysterious wine box which then turned into the mysterious

wine bag that we ransomed, to the many arguments she had with her sorority sisters and mom, Savannah was

having a lot of issues, especially with her mom, and somehow it came down to this:

I WANT A HAMSTER! NOT A GOLDFISH!

I think maybe it was about university housing versus living in the sorority house, but whatever the case having a

hamster, and not a goldfish was some serious shit.

Later, I found out she was probably as irritable as she was because she was on really strong anti-depressants that

weren’t working pretty much at all.

I fact, I found that out because I felt it was important to inform her when I got on my anti-depressants that I might be acting crazy for a month.

See, Sophomore Year Me went bat shit crazy.

It was a pretty stressful life, afterall.

Sophomore Year Me was a full time student with a part time job who was living with a really grumpy Borg.

Sophomore Year Me couldn’t eat things that were baked in an oven unless I went elsewhere, because the crazy,

Cholla oven burned half of everything.

Sophomore Year Me couldn’t sleep very well at night because B 201 was right next to the gate leading out of the

dorm complex.

That gate had a delightful little mechanism that made it bleat like a goat that died from eating 5 fire trucks but instead of digesting the fire truck alarms, they just sat in its stomach and wailed when Sophomore Year Me was trying to sleep.

This was to let everyone know that the gate was not shut so we wouldn’t get killed and turned into skin purses by

hobos who had a need for murder and high fashion.

Except no one really cared. And if you were standing outside of the gate without a key or a Sun Card to let you in, someone would let you in or prop the damn door open so that it could bleat all night.

And bleat it did.

Sophomore Year Me had a shitty job, a creaky and kinda crappy relationship that wasn’t going very well (we

even broke up for a whole week), an angry roommate, lots of homework, a really boring oral traditions class, a

strict schedule of bussing to get to and from work and my boyfriend’s house, and all those same worries from

Freshman Year.

Except now because there were cockroaches in my cereal and scary hobos everywhere and the change machine

in the laundry room never worked and someone puked over my balcony when we got drunk and we de-stuffed

the couch cushions to sit on them better so maybe we were going to get charged for that.

And we played Guitar Hero all night so maybe Sophomore Year Me was too tired to go to class.

Or trying to figure out how having a job would change my financial aid.

Or how to find food that wasn’t McDonalds.

Or a million other things.

Yeah. Sophomore Year Me really went off the deep end.

After a mixture of crying all the time, semi-paying attention in my Religions of the World class (mostly I was

ogling Professor Matt Correa. Seriously. If you go to ASU, check that guy out. Mmmph. Also, he teaches well),

and being lectured by my family doctor on the pressures of pre-marital sex and its effect on a young person’s

sanity, I ended up here:

Citalopram 20 mg, a generic pill for depression and anxiety.

I also got a tattoo.

And let me tell you, both of those things hurt like hell for the first month I had them.

Sophomore Year Me thought I
was crazy before getting on
medication, but it was nothing
compared to that first month of
“adjusting” to the pills

Sophomore Year Me didn’t even know wtf I doing on these pills since they seemed to be making things worse.

Sophomore Year Me was nauseous and angry and a little fatter and it felt like there was a fuzzy blanket on all of

my smarts and creativity and emotions.

And Sophomore Year Me
couldn’t write. As an English
major, this was problematic.

Whenever there was an essay
due, Sophomore Year Me
would skip a few pills and then
crank out an “A,” but it was a
bitch on my moods

These pills were a pile of suck that turned into a pile of Don’t-Give-A-Fucks. But, maybe that’s what it took to

get through another crazy year of college.

All in all, it was a big, crazy bunch of crap mixed with a lot of really awesome stuff.

It was my favorite year of college.