Monday, November 29, 2010

Stupid Laundry

After several days of trying, I have finally reset my sleep clock. It's almost one in the morning, I am exhausted, and ready to climb into bed. (It only took two days, six miles of walking while running on four hours of sleep, seven episodes of Sailor Moon, and wanting to pull my eyes out to do it... but it is done.)

But I am not in bed, am I? Oh no, I'm sitting in my new jammies, waiting for the dryer, which is full of Not My Clothes to be done. Why? Because I need to put My Clothes in the dryer, so my hoodie will not be covered in cat hair, I'll have clean panties, and so I 'll have more than one pair of jeans around.

But no. The dryer--it won't be done. It just REFUSES to dry the clothes. Or the clothes refuse to be dry. And no amount of coaxing will convince anything otherwise. Like;
"Oh little clothes. Don't you want to be dry? Don't you want to be all neatly folded (read: thrown on top of the dryer as they are Not Mine) and worn to be seen in public?... No? WELL FUCK YOU! You're CLOTHES AND YOU DON'T HAVE A DAMN CHOICE! FUCK! JUST BE DRY!"

The dryer just merrily keeps spinning, as though daring me to stop it yet again to check my things.

"Go ahead, Taima. Open me. You know you want to. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO."

And I do. I do hardcore. At least I can say with certainty that the three pairs of panties in there that ARE mine ARE dry. My things are always much better behaved than anything else!

My eyes are trying to close. Trying to convince me to forget it, go commando in my new jammies to school, wear my full length wool winter coat to school, even though it isn't cold enough for that. Just look like a freak! Who cares! You'll be in Oscar the Grouch jammies anyway!

Fuuuuuck me. I just want this to be done with. I'm so tired.

I also used my Magic Hair Remover Wand! while tired. Now I look surprised. By everything. :(

Eating, Uniklubi, and NaNoWriMo

I finished NaNoWriMo--National Novel Writing Month. This makes five years I've participated in that madness, and four years that I've won. I know that "winning" here is a relative term. I don't win anything other than a picture to put up on my Facebook and the satisfaction that in less than thirty days, I wrote a fifty thousand word novel.

This year, it took me about eleven days. I have this nice little novel, one of four, just sitting on my flash drive. I've sent it, and the accompanying soundtrack, to some friends. One has read it so far and told me how much she loved it. Another friend asked for a hard copy, which I am happy to provide.

There are times when I feel like I've had little support with the whole "writing" thing from my friends. My best friend has all four of my novels and has never read one. Never. My other best friend hasn't even said if she started it, and I had another friend say he wanted to "finish his fan fics first." Well, hell, the novel only runs 73ish pages. It isn't going to take that long to read if you don't have to sound out the words!

And yet, these are the people who come running to me for help. It makes me not want to help them. Why should I bother? If they're not going to give me feedback (other than to say "You're such a gooooood writer!" OKAY!) why should I spend time trying to help them?

It's petty of me, I know that. I should help out of the kindness of my heart, not for the hope of reciprocity. Still, I get kind of irate. It'd be nice to have a little feedback and not just; I liked it. Okay, what specifically did you like? What didn't you like? What worked? What didn't?

I've been listening to Uniklubi a lot tonight. I dreamed of Finland last night. I'm dying to go there, but things are so iffy with work, I don't think I'll ever save up the money. I wish I could even just have a Finnish penpal.

Know what's been pissing me off lately? Eating. Food. I've been in that hungry-kinda-nothing's good stage lately. I also just got over a nasty flu wherein I vomited profusely. The last thing I had to eat before I ate was chocolate covered pretzels. I won't be enjoying that snack anytime soon.

I don't want Ramen, I don't want pizza, I don't want spaghetti. I think I want steak, but no one else does. Ugh.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

North Korea's Sad Panda Man and THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!

This may be ignorance, but I always thought Kim Jong-Il looked like a sad panda. It really bugs me. Maybe if he smiled a little more, he'd be cheerier and we wouldn't be in such imminent danger of a war.

Which is pretty sad, wasn't it just last year that we had the Doomsday Clock set back so it was six minutes from midnight? If we start this now, we're going to lose that minute. We're going to lose all our minutes.

We're going to lose everything.

I guess what bothers me the most is that I don't really SEE anyone getting too worried about it. Like everyone shrugs and just figures that someone else will take care of it.

HELLO PEOPLE! We are the ones that are going to have to take care of it! And I have the feeling that whatever we come up with is not going to be too brilliant. We're running out of options, time, places to hide, things to do, things to say.

But no one seems too worried. Instead they're all up in arms about that TSA pat down. Well, to be honest, I don't like it either. Do you know why we have to have that gropetastic pat down? Do you know WHY we need that radioactive full body scan?


Remember last Christmas when that dude went in with his underoos all full of explosives? And everyone got all pissy and oh hooooow could that have been missed? Well, now that's being fixed. Seriously, is there nothing that can be done to make anyone happy here anymore?

In the first place, I won't deny that pat down is a little--sexy. It's for your safety. And for everyone whining about radiation from that damn full body scan? Fuck off, it's not enough to hurt you. You get radiation flying across the country, did you know that? You get radiation from your damn television.

Radiation ignorance pisses me off.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

The Taste of Cement

It would have been so easy to kill her. He had been watching her for the past two weeks, when it started getting dark so early. She was always riding the bus at the same time every day, a book bag at her a feet, a laptop case on the seat next to her. She was wearing the ubiquitous white earbuds, but the machine that fed them was small and cheap.

She never looked up, never spoke, instead keeping here eyes down at the crocheting project in her lap. When he first saw her, climbing on the bus in those ratty jeans and the tattered hoodie, he had known she was for him. He had known that he would slip off the bus after her, follow her down her street. He would reach for her elbow, rip the earbuds from her ears.

He would bend her backwards, a romantic dip that so many women found so enchanting on the dance floor. In this context, most began to scream. But she---she looked like a fighter. She would fight, but she wouldn't scream. He found himself looking forward to having her nails digging into his skin, ripping up the flesh and making his blood, sweet and thick down his cheek.

But when he saw her with that crocheting project only half done, he lost the nerve. Shouldn't she at least finish what she was making?

So the next day, he rode the bus, for the chance to see her again. And she was a few rows farther along. Again, she spoke not a word, was silent except for the breathless thank you to the driver as she hopped off and started on her trek home.

But tonight, she was tying it off, with an intricate knot. The small blanket lay lacy and expensive looking across her lap. She folded it up and shoved it in the book bag. He watched the strands of her hair falling out of the bun at the back of her skull. He watched her flick it impatiently back.

It would be so easy to kill her. What a shame to do away with those clever fingers. He could keep her of course. Could make her one of them. He would have those clever fingers with him forever.

She smelled like sunlight and strawberries. His heart wrenched. She wasn't suited for immortality, and yet she was not suited for death. She was not suited for him. She pressed the buzzer for her stop and rose, gathering her things, checking her pockets, changing the song in her head.

To be in her head, he thought. To hear those songs. To hear her voice.

The bus rolled to a stop, and she began her hurried walk to the door. She passed by him, her eyes flicking upwards.

She smiled.

Friday, November 12, 2010

My Breasts

Last month was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I am slow, and so I have made this post Breast Cancer Awareness Post. Because it is my blog, and I am allowed to do that! Read 'em and weep.

Breasts. I have them. They're a size double D, the average is a C. I'm finally above average at something! I've been growing my breasts for twenty one years now.

When I was young, I barely knew they were there. Because, honestly, they weren't. I didn't get breasts until I was about eleven years old. And then over night, I shot up from a nothing at all to a B.

At first, I was overjoyed! I was finally becoming a woman! The only problem I had was--well, they didn't really stop growing. B--C--D--DD. I'm sure they'll only get bigger.

Sometimes, they're in my way. They make shirts fit funny. God forbid I wear a tank top on a hot day, they'll be all people see. They make it almost impossible to find a decent dress.

But today, I am claiming my breasts. I am owning them. They belong to me, and they do wonderful things for me.

I love my breasts because... they fill out some tops nice. Not t-shirts, or hoodies, but some of the women's blouses.

I love my breasts because... of the pleasure they have given me when I have been rolling and tumbling between the sheets with someone.

I love my breasts because... they make everyone who looks at me aware that I am a Girl. I am not just a girl, I am a Girl. It radiates off me.

I love my breasts because... when I give people hugs, their heads instantly nestle there. I've had several people tell me that it's comforting to put their head on my breasts. It isn't sexual, it's just--something that makes them feel secure. I like giving that to people.

I love my breasts because... sometimes they're a joke. Anything that makes people laugh is awesome!

I love my breasts because... one day, they will feed my children.

I love my breasts because... they remind me of the fact that all the women in my family have them. We are all Women Together, and having breasts is part of that.

It might seem weird that I've written this entry, being that it doesn't actually go with anything else that I've written here. But I wrote it because, well---I do love my breasts. For all that I whine and bitch, I love them and all they've done for me and will do for me.

Breast cancer has touched my family (like most women). And I write this for all the women that it has touched, either because they were ill, or a loved one was ill. Some of them don't have breasts anymore. This doesn't make them less of a woman. It just makes them stronger.

So I have my breasts. And instead of slouching forward, I will pull my shoulders back, so people can see.

I love my breasts.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Cost of College

I go to Community College, as I've mentioned many times. As I've recently realized, I don't want to get a career that is offered to me there. I need to make my way to another place of learning.

So I've been looking into the colleges near me;

There's the Christian College (that I don't want to give my money to, they have a problem with 'teh gays' and rules that I don't feel like following)that's an hourish away from me;

Tuition: $19,996 (at 12-15 hours per semester)
Room/Board: $7,254 (based on a 19-meal plan/non-village residence)
Fees: $540* (does not include application fee)

There's the University about two hours (?) away from me that I liked touring:
Full-time (24-32 credit hours)tuition and fees $9,006
Room and Board (15 meal plan) $7,895
One-Time Records Initiation Fee $300

Total $17,201

There's another university about forty five minutes away from me (I could theoretically still live at home, because my mother works fifteen minutes from this town. It'd suck, but it could be done, especially if I could do a two day a week schedule):

Gen Ed Courses per credit hour: $479
My Specialty per credit hour: $63
Let's just stop there because it gives me a headache. They go up higher as you go higher level in school (WHY DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?).

A school roughly an hour and a half from me (also Christian, also no go on teh gays and rules I don't feel like following):
Hard to figure out, I'd have to calculate ever single freaking class I was going to take, BUT I could take classes at my community college...
Thirteen thousand.

So, so far, the other Christian college is my own mildly affordable option. I just don't think I have that money, it was pulling eyeteeth to get my loans for this semester, and that was only for five thousand (the max amount).

The fuck...

Out of state, I was looking at West Chester University:
Eight thousand in tuition.
Two thousand for room.
Two thousand to eat.

I am so screwed.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Slow Me Down

One of my friends gave me a song today.

Slow Me Down by Emmy Rossum.

Isn't it lovely? Go ahead and listen to it. I've had it on repeat.

I've been thinking a lot the past couple weeks, since the confidence giver left me. I've been thinking about what I want out of life, where I belong, what am I going to school for.

I've been doing a lot of praying and a lot of soul searching. I have to say that this one of those Bigger Than Me things. Well, I got the response from my Higher Power. It just wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear.

Social Work. Really God? Really? Fine.

I think I want to be a Patient Advocate. For those of you not in the know, this means that I basically explain to a patient what a procedure is, why it must be done, how to fill out these insurance forms, what questions to ask. And I would go to a doctor to go to bat for the patient, about why they wanted something or didn't want something. There's more, but that's the very basic of it.

It's a pretty new field, but it's going to grow. Just about everything in health care is supposed to, actually. There aren't a lot of programs specifically for that, but social work is a good place to start.

Social work. Which was what I wanted to do when I was sixteen and got discouraged from. It would figure. We always end up where we start, don't we?

Friday, November 5, 2010

Open Oven; Insert Head

I just can't win with my friends this month.

I had one friend who gave me a poorly spelled TYPED love letter. Why types a love letter? Isn't the point that it is hand written? Either way, at the beginning of this letter, my friend stated that he knew he shouldn't give it to me.

And yet he proceeded to. It bothered me because I have told him quite nicely several times that I am not interested, and I never will be. It bothered me because he knows I am not over the confidence giver, and I have stated that even if I were, I'm really not into the dating scene right now. It bothered me because he stated in the letter that he would even "tape his mouth shut" so I would enjoy our date.

Well, if you have to do that, should you really be going out with me? Not that he would have to. I enjoy hanging out and being his friend. And that's all. He knew this very well. He also knew that I'm working through so much of my own drama, I just can't handle anyone else's.

I put our friendship on hiatus after I told him all this. I told him I needed time away from him, to work through my anger. I told him he clearly needed time away from me, to get over what I had said, and to think about some other things.

Well, we had gone bowling together the night he gave me this letter. Everyone in our party received a pass for a free game. Lovely, yes? It was good for about two weeks or a month. I don't remember. The Love Letter Guy and another boy had given me their passes to put in my purse. Fair enough. I still have both of those and mine.

One of the other boys I had gone with asked me tonight if I want to go tomorrow. Sure, that's fine. I have nothing else going on. I said I wasn't inviting Love Letter Guy. If they want to, go nuts. I just wasn't going to.

"Okay. Can we give (Love Letter Guy's) pass to (other guy's friend)?"
What? Can I just give away what doesn't belong to me to someone else? All nonchalantly, with malicious intent.

"It isn't mine to give." I said stiffly. "You'd have to ask (LLG)."

"Well, you're the only one who doesn't want him to go!"

"I never said that. I said I wouldn't ask him. Don't put words in my mouth." my friend apologized. "What does that have to do with giving away what isn't mine anyway?" which was the crux of the matter.

"But I can't contact (LLG)." my friend protested, like he suddenly forgot how Facebook worked! I gave him LLG's name, which he knew very well, and he messaged him. I'm not sure what the conversation entailed.

LLG then posted a status update about how he had "earned" the pass (we got them for a broken lane), and how it was being "given to someone else." I was quick to tell him if he wanted it, he could just say so. Nothing would be given away without him saying it was okay.

He went on to state in a much injured way that he wouldn't go because he didn't want to upset me. Well, I don't own bowling, and I told him so. I'm an adult, and if I'm not comfortable with who goes, I won't go. Problem solved! So I told LLG that.

He got pissy when I told him not to be a martyr and said he wanted to go. Awesome, fine, go. He made a comment about me "screaming like a stray fighting over tuna." I told him to knock it off and grow up, and added 'kid'.

He apologized then carried on to say he resented that.

I said I adored that he didn't just let it go and KEPT GOING ON AFTER HE SAID HE DIDN'T WANT TO BOTHER ME.


Thursday, November 4, 2010

And When Did It Become Protocol?

It's been something of an interesting week. I got kicked out of my best friend's house. Mainly because his fiancee started swearing and screaming at me. I told her that she shouldn't talk to me like she knew what she was talking about when she didn't. She told me to "shut up and get the fuck out" and that it was "my apartment, and I'll talk however I want."

For the record, I don't have a problem with the fact that she thought she was right about something that she wasn't. I had a problem with the fact that she took an attitude with me when I gently told her she wasn't right.

So I left. Because if you're going to pretend that you can talk to me however you'd like, that's perfectly fine. But I don't think I should have to put myself through that if I don't feel like it.

Since when did it become protocol to treat your company like that anyway? I always thought that when you had people over, you were supposed to treat them with respect so they'd like seeing you and want to come again. If they said something you took umbrage to, you needed to say it in a respect way.

Sure it's your house. They're also your company that you invited over and wanted to see, ostensibly. So why would you treat them shitty and then be shocked when they took your advice and left? If you're really that bothered by something says, you should just ask them politely to leave.

She did apologize by the way, but was then upset when I merely accepted her apology and didn't want to discuss the matter. Why should I? She apologized, I accepted, and made it known that for the time being I would no longer be placing myself in her home if that was the way she felt. She said she understood, then was certain to tell me that she was concerned for mine and my best friend's relationship.

Well, honestly, I don't think that's her damn business. Her business is her relationship with me. If my friend wants to see me, he knows all he has it do is tell me. He and I can figure it out. That's the magic of being an adult! She also said she didn't think it would be over until I discussed it.

Why? Because she wanted to unburden herself, rehash it, or get in one last dig? Or better yet, wanted to know how I felt so she could make sure to tell me I had misinterpreted everything, so she didn't actually have to feel bad?

Yeah, fuck you! I know it seems like I'm holding onto things. And you know, I probably am. I don't care. I don't feel like I want to subject myself to that if that's the way she's going to act. And I don't have to! ONCE AGAIN, THIS IS A PLUS OF BEING AN ADULT! Huffah!