the strange thing

is that, undeniably, and with deliberate forward motion, I have moved from losing touch with high school friends to losing touch with college friends. Maybe not, though; I have actually kept in much better touch with some of my college friends than I did with my high school friends (and this week there was new hope for better in-touch-ness in the future with an old HS friend.. encouraging.).

But maybe what I mean is that I have moved from losing touch with high school to losing touch with college. And maybe what I really mean is that, undeniably, I have moved from losing touch with who I was in high school to losing touch with who I was in college. It's a weird habit of mine - to run away from who I've been rather than to run with it. It - those past me's? Haven't they all been me? Of course, but I'm not the same, not at all. In fact, what parts of me have remained unchanged? What is a person, an individual, if there is not a part of him that cannot be changed? If every part of her can be changed? So, I am the same, of course. But the person you meet now is vastly different than the person you met 5 years ago. 10? Unrecognizable. My name is the same, my lips; my size hasn't even really changed that much. Then what is it that gives a person her driving qualities?

I could probably start telling you. I could recount the past 10 years and tell you the vast differences in my life now and then. But that would really turn out to be quite a bore, quite pedantic. I can only say that I really don't think we were ever meant to stay the same. No, not at all.

16-year low

This is funny.

Remember that this is an article in the v. serious Business section of the Charlotte newspaper (v. esteemed.. think Washington Post, except Charlotte. and Observer.), alongside v. serious articles such as, "Housing construction hits 16-year low", "Once-bucolic N.C. 73 in throes of growing pains", "Christmas clubs dying, not dead", and "EarthFare coming to Rock Hill".

4th paragraph down:

"This can be smart if the people on whom you are modeling your behavior know more than you do. But in many situations, no one knows very much. When you follow people who don't know what they are doing, and other people follow you, the resulting feedback allows small events to trigger huge and irrational changes in group behavior." [bold added for indication of favorite and most true part]

oh, society, wherefore art thou?!

penultimate paragraph:

"Yang said that although many investors recognize the problem of contagion and herding behavior, this does not keep them from following the herd, possibly because they feel less regretful about bad decisions if they know many other people made the same mistake."

I want to become a professor so I can make lots of common sense statements, and then be quoted in thousands of articles by underpaid journalists all across America. I will send out e-mails daily to a random selection of lucky journalists with ready-for-print quotes to supplement their paltry instant ramen diets. e.g.:

"Laura said that although many pigs recognize the problem of crap hanging from their butts and herding behavior, this does not keep them from following the crap-covered herd, possibly because they feel less regretful about being covered in crap if they know many other pigs are just as disgusting and ignorant."

As a professor, I will have lots of common sense to apply the same theories (sentences) across a variety of different issues. e.g.:

"Laura said that although many teenage girls recognize the problem of anorexia and herding behavior, this does not keep them from following the vomit trail to the bathroom, possibly because they feel less regretful about bad decisions if they know they'll one day be skinny enough to make even worse bad decisions."

first-name basis, you'd better believe it. only my friends are allowed to call me by my last name.

i'm not saying you're doing a bad job, but could you put a little more effort into it?

wow, that last post is even worse than i remembered. my poetry, it appears, is more forced and hackneyed than the advertising tactics used in local car commercials. And, because of the content of the poem, I can't edit it. Sad.

Anyway, I guess i was trying to say that i'm sick of trying to figure out life. i'd rather kind of just do it (hey, it's Nike's fault that that's hackneyed, not mine). But i'm not really sure how to do that either. which is v. stupid and backwards, that i think i have to figure out how to stop figuring out life. i mean, jesus christ.

Though last night (this morning), i dented my head on the glass door to my entertainment center trying to put in Scene It, so i'm not sure, really, that just doing anything is a good way to go for me.

long sigh

we are such a cursed being, I think, to have to think about what is, rather than to just be it.

the tv in the background.
tell it to play me something sweet
sweet surrender
to a metal box
not metal
more than metal now
materials I don’t know
don’t understand
how their collaboration
plays me something sweet

a holiday movie
the lifetime special
my sister’s favorite
why not
feel good, be good
be god
play god
pray to him
her?
it
[latin it]

ramblings
the tv in the background
playing
politicians debate
60 seconds
to answer an
unanswerable
thank you
sir
thank you
you’ve said enough
we’ve cast our judgment on you
god’s cast his judgment
its judgment
her judgment

not worthy
no second date
thanks for trying
thank you
you’ve said enough.

but we’re not done
I’m not done
I’m still here
asleep
awaken
rude.

ramblings,
noise
I’ve always hated poetry
bizarre
how bizarre
the pieces of our life
that come together

an old song
from high school
my old school
her new school
he wasn’t even in school
yet

can you edit
poetry?
seems like it would lose
its
charisma

Microsoft word
just uncapitalized
the ISMA in charisma
it also capitalized
Microsoft
(I did it that time)
and squiggled my
uncapitalized.
again.

dave matthews
is going to drop the
devil
to his
knees.

i
am going to drop the
gods
to their
knees

with my
tenacity
whatever that is.

I think I am going to make that first sentence, a thought that arose while reading page 296 of my Dial Press Trade Paperback version of Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions, the title to that poor excuse for a poem. Maybe I like poems after all. They’re v. quick to write.

projectile

an initial thought – really? why did so many people think it was a good idea to put halloweeen pictures up as their facebook profile pictures? I question this for the pure principle of it, knowing that I risk offending many - too many - acquaintances. And, yes, of course I’m afraid of offending acquaintances but not friends, which strides hand-in-hand with the paradoxical ease in which i fight with those closest to me over toilet paper roll replacement, as opposed to the nonexistence of me fighting with an acquaintance over…well, practically anything except maybe how much Heidi & Spencer make me want to projectile vomit all over your coffee table (your coffee table, not mine; I do not watch that show voluntarily, though I concede that I recognize its pop culture significance; I add that we seriously need to try learning a new language or something rather than supplementing our already pathetically dramatic lives with more pathetic drama; though, if it keeps girls away from cross stitching, so be it. Cross stitching is really such a useless, useless hobby. I have finally come to terms with that.).

so, do not be offended; just listen: you’re taking the one pictorial part of your profile that is supposed to be representing you, and instead you’re putting a picture up of you … representing… something else…?

Am I not rightfully concerned about this undoubtedly short-lived phenomenon? Does it reflect a lack of people’s self-awareness? self-loathing? things to do? OR, by showing off their dick-in-a-box costumes, are they trying to reflect to facebookers everywhere their fantastically original sense of humor…? Hopefully the revelation of the wayward reasoning on that one is instantly apparent.

let’s not even delve into profile pictures of:
dogs
kids
ultrasounds
cartoon characters
ribbons
other inanimate objects

I mean, I know you own things like kids and whatever, and that you watch things and stand for things, but come on – it’s FACEbook for chrissake.

anyway, I am tired of writing about stupid facebook and also concerned that, after such a long blog hiatus, I have returned with… this. Ah, I have missed the liberation of word vomit that no one is required to read. or agree with.

And I do apologize to the masses (think: autistic person’s definition of “masses”) for not blogging for some time now. I blame it all on the nascent acquisition of a boyfriend. it’s definitely been cramping my style. I mean, I actually have someone to physically talk to now, though I have to admit that nothing clever ever really comes out of my mouth. The inversely correlated amount of making out that I have done compared to blogging has taken a toll on my intelligence; he begged me to write something again so he could be assured that my IQ wasn’t really falling at a rate that would cause him to break up with me in exactly 8 days (I have brains, not boobs; don’t act like I don’t know what I’m working with here.).

No, obviously I’m kidding. But he did want me to write about him, so there it is. Ok, fine. Also, he’s a really nice guy. Some would even say really, really nice.

twins?? nice work, abc.

the bachelor. is back. and tonight, among other things, I thought, wow, it is really quite tragic to, all in one and one half hour (though it is my personal game to see how short i can make the episodes, which involves v.precise fast forwarding right at the first hint of chris's "when we return" and resuming play a few seconds after you think you should. I can usually cut out about 1/3 of viewing time):

know that 25 women, who are parading around this random mansion in mostly cheap-looking gowns, are being completely and utterly dehumanized by other (less and more attractive) women all across America who are, like me, sitting on their couches in their dimly lit living rooms eating popcorn and/or pretzels and/or leftovers (and sure, maybe at least one is actually eating bonbons);

watch at least half a dozen women dive headfirst into self-inflicted humiliation… (always the ones in the cheap-looking gowns);

watch at least 1 woman turn into a drunk bumbling idiot (and lose her boobs..);

watch the facial expressions of 10 women discounting their self-worth based on the absence of receiving a silly red dead part of a plant with petals;

watch Chris flounce around like he is the master of some bizarre paradisiacal universe where bachelors rule polygamous random mansions.

so, um, yes, I love this show.

as ‘adults’ who have to pay bills and go to work every day and .. you know, do stuff, we are all allowed our guilty pleasures.

i rationalize many things in life.
i also do not know why i am NOT tired at 1am on a school night.

alas, I am not the 'bach' expert:
HERE for true commentary.

would beauty transcend?

i swear this always happens to me. i get dead tired. and then i don't go to bed. i still need a mom who will yell at me to brush my teeth and just go to bed already.

anyway, THIS, that is a great article. I hate to laud too much praise on it because opinions will vary, but I was impressed by the author's ability to keep me engaged throughout, despite the article's length and the breadth of its philosophical, social, and simply contextual scope. add to that the nice intermittent background music and the mere fact that he throws in words like epistemological and encomium with casual suitability, and i'm in for the ride.

Plus, beauty - its existence, its concept, its cause, effect - has always intrigued me. That being said, I probably would've passed right by...

apropos of nothing

aimless thoughts.

I have had a mortgage for about 4 months now. I have paid .4188% of it off. Yes, that is a preceding decimal AND a percentage sign. I have spent an equal amount on HOA dues. And quadruple that in interest. Probably quintocttupple that in property taxes. And people wonder why I’m for the transit tax.

has been worth the money to be able to get to work in 8 minutes flat (this = extra 20 mins snooze time) and to be able to stumble home at night. i'd like to say that the former is strictly applicable during the week and that the latter is for the weekend, but they tend to mix and mingle with the same unabashed frivolity as freshman girls at a frat party.

I don’t think my friends really have all that much in common.

Except that they all think they’re going to win the lottery.

and here just imagine a totally apropos of nothing story that i got a little carried away with and just <--Backspaced to nonexistence.

new fad diet!

so. i'm still at work. about to leave, so i thought i'd leave with a bang.

a friend sent me this at work today:
http://www.absolution-online.com/confessional/

and.. well, first, disclaimer: This blog respects all humans, regardless of race, religion, sex, sexual orientation, marital status, intelligence, appearance, eating habits, and hybrid car ownership status. It may have a problem with people who honestly think the Big 10 is better than the SEC. But that's it.

so anyway, i have to admit i had a really fun break at work with this link (could be testament to how much fun i was already having.. debatable). i honestly thought it was a joke at first, but it ended up being a really fun game. The first time, i confessed 2 A-level ("Most extreme and serious with no mitigating circumstances") sins, and it said i had to fast for NINE days. i think i would commit a lot of sins trying to fast for 9 days.

7 deadly sins to the A-th power will get you 656 hail marys and 20 our fathers and 13 days of no eating! AND just 1 "I'd rather watch tv than go to church" will get you 5 days of no eating, which led me to believe that catholicism might make a serious comeback as a fad diet.

My goal over the course of busy season is to try it once every day to figure out what egregious tv-watching/gluttonous/sorcery combination will yield the most hail marys.

of course, 2 friends sent me this today:
http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/eticket/story?page=southernfootball&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab1pos1
which i haven't read yet but which looks really good, and i'm mainly just putting it here for selfish reasons so i remember to read it later. hm, selfish reasoning. that probably cost me at least 2 days of eating.

oh, and no, i do not get paid enough. unfortunately, i do not see "Gradually reducing college-educated employees' pay to minimum wage while making them work with monkeys until they themselves turn into monkeys" in any of the sin categories.

don't you think?

i think i find it a little ironic that one whole continent can be trying to lose weight while another whole continent is starving. Ironic that i can spend my whole day wishing i were outside while the window washers scattered around my building probably spend their days wishing they were inside. Ironic that conquering one problem only brings another.

is it ironic that i enjoy making friends with fresh, new, interesting people who have fresh, interesting outlooks and ideas that seem to open new worlds as much as i enjoy staying friends with familiar, good, loyal friends who are familiar and know me and know what i've done and sometimes what i'll do, which is comforting and powerful and seemingly essential? ironic that i love home as much as i love to be away from it? ironic to love routine as much as spontaneity?

Ironic that octogenarians wonder what if? while adolescents wonder what will be? (prepubescents only wonder if people like them. ok, i do that too. whatever.) Ironic that i can write about a few things that are actually slightly ironic and gain pretty much nothing from it, while alanis morrisette can sing a whole song about things that aren't ironic at all, ask the leading question, 'don't you think?', consequently have the whole American population think to themselves, 'yes, i do think!', and gain millions. of dollars, that is. not even ironic dollars. REAL dollars.

so maybe then i'm switching to: i think i find it a little unfair that ________.

blank could be: see above. good things don't always get rewarded. bad things don't always get punished. OJ was acquitted. The bridge fell. Elvis, michael, whitney, britney, et al. all let bad decisions get in the way of making good music. One was incomplete and another was a touchdown.

maybe it's not ironic or unfair. maybe it's just _____. maybe it's just some word i don't know.

maybe it's time for me to go to bed.

i will always

think flossing the night before will fool the dentist

forget birthdays

forget names

pop zits

think i’m better

think i’m worse

eat more fries even though i was full 28 fries ago

love the 2 cheeseburger combo at mcdonald’s

not like the way i look

not like the way i am

know the words to left eye’s rap in “Waterfalls” (yes, i just recited it out loud to make sure)

think I deserve more

think I deserve less

hate lights that turn yellow just far enough away to make them un-run-able

try to think of the way with more right turns than left

be ambivalent

eat my eggs with ketchup

hate shrimp

want to travel

wonder what if

prefer reading a good book to reading the WSJ

be sleep deprived

rely on music

be ignorant

be simple

be disappointed

want more

know that always is too strong of a word to use in a title for a list

like a record, baby

life is this revolving door. no, life is like going through this revolving door that you can never get out of, and it can be fun, if you make it fun, but more than anything you kind of just want to be out of it, but centrifugal forces or some obese security guard won't let you out, and for a while you do actually still want to be revolving in the revolving door, but then you get bored again, and you just want it to be done. humans, they want ends to things. I want to clean my place and be done cleaning, forever really, but it’s never done. it’s done but then next week it has to be cleaned again, though not till the week after that is when it will actually get cleaned, but nonetheless it has to be done again, and it’s just this revolving door that you can never get out of, and it can be fun, the parts that don’t remind you of a revolving door, but the parts that do, you just want them to be done.

did I mention (in a complete shift to non-simile, literal world) that I hate revolving doors? they stress me out and involve timing and quick, door-squash-avoiding movements and awkward staggering amongst moving groups. and do not get it wrong – I am not afraid of revolving doors; I just, more simply, dislike them. for their lack of contribution to society, really.

her war. his world.

so i found 3 quotes in 2 articles in 1 magazine to be somewhat amusing.

1st article is about how female college acceptance rates are lower because, essentially, universities strive for 50:50 girl to guy ratios; girls do better in school and are more likely to go to college; thus, more female applicants than boys. Said article was written by Alex Kingsbury, whose gender presumably = M.
Quotes:
"Across the board, girls study more, score better, and are less likely to be placed in special education classes."
and then:
"The problem is that while women have made dramatic progress, men have not..."

2nd article is much shorter - more blurb-ish, really - about the link between heart disease and neurological diseases. Said article was written by Nancy Shute, whose gender presumably = F.
Quote:
"Wearing helmets when bicycling, skiing, or doing other high-speed sports substantially reduces the risk of head injury."

humm... i mean, i don't even know what to say. 1 step forward, past the Special Olympic contestants; 5 pedals back, lightyears behind Lance.

in conclusion, you should go see Transformers. the dialogue and character development = eh. (except, claire and i agree, for "Autobots, ROLL OUT!" and really anytime Optimus Prime speaks. My favorite interchange might be:
Optimus Prime: "Megatron!"
Megatron: "Prime!")
but the movie itself is PHENomenal. our generation had the BEST cartoons.

What Is Written

I was at home in Johnson City this past weekend, reading the paper, drinking coffee, eating fresh-cut strawberries on a lazy Sunday morning, knowing why I once was in such a hurry to leave home but, all the same, wondering how feasible it would be to quit my job and come back as a permanent fixture in my parents’ house. I’d be a good maid/dogsitter if need be, I think. I wouldn’t even mind being interviewed for one of those articles titled something like, “Dealing with the Un-empty Nest” or, more to the point, “When You Can’t Get Them to Leave”.

Back to the paper. Got to the Insight section, read an editorial by my parents’ new neighbor, Rep. David Davis of Tennessee’s one & only 1^st district (I discovered I really enjoy the fact that, if I really wanted to, I could walk 2 doors down, knock on Mr. Davis’s door, and ask, very deliberately, “So… which House do you like better: this one … or … that one??”), saw that he voted against the congressional pay increase, and was about to turn the page when I glimpsed the bolded words, “What Is Written”.

What followed were 3 bullet points:

1. Jesus can save you from sin
2. Jesus can save you from death
3. Jesus can give you life

At the end was some tagline along the lines of (no pun int.), “Don’t you want to welcome Jesus in so you can enjoy his gift of life?” Again, with my total lack of a photographic memory combined with enough dignity left to not take camera phone pictures of things I have a vague notion of wanting to write about later, that is totally paraphrased, and I’m sure What Was Written was more like, “Jesus loves you; you love Him; we’re a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won’t you say you love Him too?”

Back to the “What Is Written”. Because it wasn’t so much the bullet points or tagline that caught me off guard; it was more the lead that I thought to be awfully beguiling. So … you’re saying that, because it’s written down, it’s truth? Because it’s written, it’s more likely to be valid? Or because it was written some time shy of 2,000 years ago, it bears more weight than contemporary writings? Or because it’s consistently a bestseller and has been published in 80 gazillion different languages, versions, countries, and colors – is that what proves it’s true?

If so, then I’d better watch what I write. If I copy/paste my last drunk ramble onto enough people’s social networking pages and blog comments (in varying fonts), in another 2000 years, people are going to think my dad is God and that He makes you strong through margaritas. And the numbers 7, 1, & 2 will be v. profound, but only if the 7 comes first. And “I like typing” will be everybody’s favorite – verse Laura 7:21. Nice ring to it, I do proclaim.

i swear to god my dad makes the strongest margaritas. i swear to god i'm about to pass out. and it's...... its only 712 721 pm. holylord. why did i come down here.. oh to get cd. oh there it is! i like typing.

the age of innocence

you know what really sucks about getting older? is that slowly -- slowly to the point that, at first, you're not conscious of it (this is my job - to make you conscious of it) -- you stop being able to say, "gee, when i grow up, i'm going to be _____."

blank could be (could have been?): a rocket scientist. famous. a ROCKSTAR. better. an astronaut. Rich. tiger woods. tiger woods' caddy.

but alas, eventually, we'll be there - grown up, i guess. And we'll look to the left of us and the right of us and forward for a second, and finally behind. And we'll wonder when we got so tall.. when the future stopped seeming so endless. and all of us wizened and murmuring to ourselves, "well, then. that was interesting."

well, maybe not. we could get hit by a bus first. one really big bus.

ace

i had something terrible happen last friday (sarcastically terrible; no worries), which i wanted to recount, but right now am surrounded by digital HOTness. mark philippoussis?? wills and harry?! NBC, I forgive you for the terrible overall concept of ‘Age of Love’ and also for telling the 20-somethings to hula hoop in their sports bras and 4” heels. and then also for casting 20-somethings who would compliantly hula hoop in their sports bras and 4” heels on national television. Stop trying to appease the male viewers. The only men who are watching the same shit we are are the ones who are being forced to do so by their wives/girlfriends and who fall into the 1-television-per-household demographic.

NBC, I even forgive you for the deceitful editing and the crappy cuts to commercials. (who still messes that up?) Why – 1) because my infatuation with boy tennis players makes me smile like a school girl with a crush every time you (sloppily) cut to Mark’s pretty Greek face, and 2) because of Wills and Harry in HD. They are a tribute to Princess Di’s (god rest her soul) overarching beauty, considering that the other half of their DNA came from someone who reminds me of a political-cartoon-sketched W crossed with Mr. Rogers (god rest his soul). Also a tribute to her overall goodness, in all seriousness.

So, I will even forgive you for ‘Deal or No Deal’ (that wholly brainless, talentless, lacking of any substance, only evoking the same thought in Americans cross-country: ‘I really want to watch this because I have to see WHAT is in briefcase #5 my GOD what if it is the million! but maybe she should just take the deal good lord that girl’s bulimia problem make her fake tits look HUGE and red would be a superb color for a traveling choir of playmates OH it’s the million haa sucks for her I would’ve guessed so much smarter.’) if you make a new episode of Age of Love and put Novak Djokovic on there (if you look him up, just remember that tennis has this fantastic way of making everyone look like mentally disabled amoebas in action shots) and cast me. I’ll let the 20-year-old help me with my backhand slice, and I’ll do his taxes. BAM, I’m impressive.

in an uptown world

goals since moving uptown:

- procure futon so do not have laborious duty of blowing up air mattress while intoxicated

- strive to convince all friends to also move Uptown, so as eventually to form the Yuppie College-Has-beens Campus. YCHBC.

- try not to look so much like a yuppie when walking past brothers sipping on paper-bagged alcohol

- actually make it to the polls to show undying support of no new property taxes (vote for sales tax! residents shouldn’t be penalized!! and the light rail is NOT a waste! it’s cool, if nothing else.)

- find as many ways possible to get to Alive After 5 without walking past the transportation center (DEATH trap)

- lobby for an Uptown Cook Out (at least a Wendy’s? with frosty’s??)

- overcome fear of hand seats at Bfast club. some call it irrational. I call it innate.

24

well, I have commenced my mid-20s with my first official black out. crazy, I know, that I have been gone so many times before, but that I have never really blacked out till last night. Sure, I have forgotten pieces of prior nights, but this is the first time that I have absolutely no memory of a block of my life during waking hours. it is a little scary. actually, a lot scary since apparently Black Out Laura does stuff that even Drunk Laura wouldn’t do. (obviously I can’t get my act together enough to have better prefixes for myself. look at Barbie: Malibu Barbie, Hollywood Bound Barbie, Red Hot Reviews Barbie, the Ingenue Barbie... I, on the other hand, have to give myself prefixes for my varying levels of drunkenness. I’ve come so far. really. i’m even still comparing myself to Barbie. christ, when does it end?)

things I do remember:
- grilling out twice in one day. so clutch.
- making mojitos for the first time. ashley, they were awesome, even if only in theory. and stephanie, thanks for bringing over emergency sugar even though we ended up using Splenda.
- the list that was taped to my back and contributed to my blacking out, as the thought of having to pull chest hairs off the hairiest man in the bar made me drink much faster pre-bar.
- jesse throwing kristen’s miller lite out of my window. jesse, we retrieved it this morning and plan to give it back to you for your birthday. you’re welcome.
- being really excited about seeing Tanya drive by while we were walking uptown and then at B&B! SO happy you came, diva!
- requesting MMBop when I first got to the bar

things I don’t remember:
- anything after that. at all.
- doing the other 2 (out of 10, I know, I suck) items on my list? and the one that wasn’t but that I received a Sharpied checkmark on my hand for?
- brad peeing out my window. so inexcusable. I have 2 bathrooms now!
- dancing? I don’t remember dancing. I can only imagine how awesome I was at it, then.
- who I saw
- what I said to people I don’t remember seeing
- when I left
- how many shots I took (vague recollection of a number somewhere around: a LOT)
- what I drank in general
- did I ever have to pee while I was there? I am a little perplexed by that, as I can’t see how I would’ve done so without falling over.
I woke up this morning (barely – 11:45) with everything I had on last night still on, except my shoes, my shorts, and the necklace I somehow broke. oh, and the list that I, at some point, ripped off.

But thanks to everyone who helped me celebrate it (including cruise, pf changs, drinks on thursday, & lunch on friday) and helped me get to black out stage. I’m almost positive that I had a ton of fun, and I’m always amazed at how good my friends are at making my birthdays fantastic(ly blurred). also for christening my new place with its first “small gathering”. special thanks to k-diz for knowing when to take me home to avoid me being that girl and for holding me up on the walk home. and thanks to those who sent birthday wishes. wish you all could’ve been here!

I also apologize to anyone who I saw last night … in general. For whatever I said or did, whatever I didn’t say or do, i offer my deepest blanket apology because I’m unsure of whom exactly this apology applies to.

And I guess I have to apologize to myself, after reading what I wrote 4 days ago:

I turn 24 in 3 days. crazy. I’m already used to the idea. is that strange? but I have. I’ve already convinced myself that the 23-year-old me was immature. 24-year-old me will be so much more mature, beautiful, loving, good. 23 is so young. 24 is a year of opportunity. I’ve spent the last 2 years giving myself away. now comes a year to take some of it back. god, I hope so.

ha! somehow I failed to see that 24 hours of being 24 doesn’t really make a difference. maybe i'll give myself 24 more years. god, that's weird. i can't even imagine how many more appearances Drunk Prefix Lauras will make in the next 24 years.

time out

you know what I just remembered? as savvy eighth graders, my friends and I used to set alarms on our Timex fabric-band watches (mine was army green) so that we would know exactly when it turned 12:34 (maybe for you it was 11:11?) … since, obviously, 34 minutes past noon was a magical time at which the numbers happened to align in such a way on our Timex fabric-band watches that they appeared consecutively, starting at 1 and ending at 4. It’s crazy, I know. Sometimes… just sometimes, though, I can happen to catch it like that even now.

I just don’t get how people find the courage to procreate these days, knowing how overwhelmingly idiotic we were in puberty. bone-chilling, really, the thought of a mini me roaming the halls of junior high wearing braces and Scruncis and Noxzema cream and a half-heart pendant that says, “ends forever” all at once. I’m gutless. Hats off to the midgets. you know, for reproducing even with the probability that their kids will be midgets too. Oh, not PC? sorry, I meant “little people”.

THE list.

so, the question is… how does one “keep track” of his or her list? yes, that list. I guess there are really only 2 options – do you write it down? or is it enough to keep a silent inventory in your head? I guess you could call upon a friend to help you remember, but I mean, who seriously wants to remember someone else’s list, let alone be required to do so? it’s either mentally or emotionally hard enough to remember our own. And I realize that the relevancy of this question will vary among people depending on things like the size of the list and the importance to the person of knowing the contents of the list (i.e., a tally will likely suit some people just fine).

but in search of an answer, I just wrote mine down, which I have never done until now. and I can already tell you 2 things that bother me. 1- I’m almost positive it’s out of order, and 2- one name on the list is, well…. more of a descriptive pronoun rather than a name, per se. So, considering that these 2 faux pas could have been avoided by maintaining this list with the same discipline that I keep my “books I’ve read” list, I’m initially inclined to advocate the write-it-down option.

however, as it stares me in the face, I’m not sure how I feel about it being written down, on record… possible of discovery. it would be my luck for: my mom to happen upon it one day (I have had similar such luck before); for her to ask me what it is; for me to respond with something completely ill-fitted (since the synapses in my brain seem to be suddenly attacked by Ritalin when faced with the command “think fast”) like, "oh, it’s a, um, list of boy names I really like"; for her to really really enjoy one of the names on the list; and for me, XX years later, to be reminded of premature ejaculation every time I call my son’s name.

I’d like to say that thinking about that possible scenario has made me erase my list, but I’m really just kind of looking at it like it's some little green alien with which i don’t know what to do. now that it’s here, should I keep it? if I keep it, where do I safeguard it? how do I feel about the contents of this list? i can't decide if it says a lot about me or nothing about me at all. one blog experiment later, I have no answers.

all I know is that I’m sneezing all over said list, and my eyes are so red that I look high. damn allergies. but it is otherwise delightful outside. gotta take the bad with the good, the good with the bad, the good in bed, the bad in bed.

NoSpace

does anyone else feel like much of life is spent driving up and down aisles of various parking lots, tetchily looking for a space, not being able to find one, and cursing, 'goddamnit, if only i were handicapped...'

?

Nosce te ipsum.

“know thyself” in Latin.

it’s pretty, isn’t it? the kind of phrase you’d like to caption yourself with, figuratively or, nowadays, literally.

it crossed my mind. a pretty phrase to attach to me. but I don’t. I can deny almost anything, but I can’t go so far as to deny that. for instance, when did I start saying fuck so much? I used to cringe at my dad's slip of the word, anger behind it, preventing a substitution stupidly euphemistic. now I hear it fall from own mouth, word vomit. a reflex, really, and I see it out on the ground and just have to let it lie there.

I think I do. sometimes. then I catch myself flattering when flattery is ingratiating and vacuous, laughing with my mouth when my eyes are not, agreeing with things I find wholly disagreeable, trying to meet expectations that someone I don’t know set out for me with grandiosity.

yeah, it’s pretty, but it isn’t it. it can’t be. i’m comfortable that I could go through my whole life and not know my/thyself. i change, equivocate. yeah, comfortable with that.

dos & don'ts

watching the grammy's has prompted me to post a short list, just in case anyone gets the urge to make my life complete.

boys i would do even if it meant giving up chocolate for life, devil buying soul, getting stuck doing Zumba class at the Y, etc. (i mean, it IS called a climax for a reason, right?):

• john legend
• andy roddick
• john krasinski
• wentworth miller
• ashton kutcher

and, for good measure, boys i would NOT do, despite their success, even if i got to buy the devil's soul (i wonder what that even means):

• john mayer
• snoop dogg
• quentin tarantino
• joakim noah
• nickelback (chad kroeger)

or, alternate way to make my life better - procure a nuclear reactor for me. Apparently that and some evil communist intent (ohhh, maybe that's what i could do w/the devil's soul) is all you need to get $300M around here.

because... i am.

is anyone else perplexed that:

• the freaking View is one of the most controversy-creating shows on television? a show where middle-aged women sit around a table, drink coffee, and yap at each other for an hour? no sex, no violence, no R-rated language… just menopause. I guess that’s all it takes.
• the democrats haven’t blamed cold weather on the republicans yet? hello, global freezing? a new movie deal for Howard Dean… An Even Less Convenient Truth? I would’ve thought the crazies would’ve been all over that.
• anyone still replies to “did you get your hair cut?” with “no… I got them ALL cut!!!!”? i mean, ok, I get it; the question is grammatically incorrect. But, for god’s sake, give me a break. it might’ve been 16% funny when you heard it the first time in 3^rd grade from your cheesy dad/grandpa/history teacher. But I am just completely perplexed as to why anyone would voluntarily use that response to any audience past the age of 8. maybe 7.

i like pink.

thank god for boys. sometimes I present myself as being somewhat boy-minded. I like football, I hate shopping (I like buying things, not shopping for them), I am a bad multi-tasker, and I am not overly talkative. However, I do like the color pink, I cannot consume 5 Big Macs in 1 sitting, I enjoy dressing up, I crave chocolate hourly, and, as demonstrated the past few days, I know very little about electronics.

so when my crappy tv broke, I was aided by several notable boys:

1-5: I consulted my group of guy friends by asking the simple question, “what kind of tv should I buy?” Oops. What ensued was a beer-infused i-know-more-than-you-do quasi-argument. But I got good information out of it, such as the difference between plasma, LCD, and DLP (maybe not-so-technical, e.g., “plasmas get hot fast”, and when I asked what DLP was, they said something about mirrors, and I said, “ohhhh, the girl and the elephant thing; yes, I know that.”).

6-7: I also consulted another knowledgeable friend and my dad, who both provided invaluable information on comparing brands, types, the differences between 1080P and 720P, and what kind of hdmi and kjpdrxwwwX cables I needed, etc. (a little more technical, e.g., “I bought a Sharp and love it” and “Uncle Dave bought a Sharp and hated it”).

8-10: looked around at Best Buy and Circuit City, where several boys “helped”, i.e., confused me more when the Circuit City guy tried to convince me to get a DLP tv after I’d convinced myself I wanted the LCD at Best Buy.

11-12: Then was the actual buying, for which another one of my guy friends accompanied me. The hot 19-year-old UNCC student with Versace glasses at Best Buy (who did tell me that Sharps did, in fact, suck, but have improved to top notch quality) and my friend helped me decide which one to buy (in helping, my friend would let me decide and then tell me I was making the biggest mistake of my life; if I then changed my mind, I was informed that I was still making the biggest mistake of my life) and helped me get it from the store up 2 flights of stairs into my apartment.

Finally, I wake up this AM hungover as all hell but excited about watching my new TV, so I set it up AND… cable doesn’t work. figure, hm, should check DVD. oh yes, it works – through all of Wedding Crashers, it works so well. 3 hours later, I check cable again – no luck. sulkily call dad, as now I am getting antsy since playoffs start in an hour. Conversation is something like,

“OK, well what cord is going from the cable box to the tv?”
“a black one?”
“Laura. Seriously. what kind of cord?”
“Daaaaaaaaad I don’t knowwww, it’s black! it worked with the other tv!”

Eventually, we manage to communicate within the bounds of the cell phone-transmitted English language, and he becomes my miracle worker by guiding me through the menu to fix my TV. voila! transmission!!!!! into my home!! such beauty! anyone who does not know beauty does not know a fixed TV.

as such, am v. indebted to all of the above (it only took a dozen of you), esp. those who were not being paid hourly to help me. Gracias. I love my boys.

and … COLTS WON!

don't buy Philips TVs.

2 things i love:

1) exhibit A - the view from my couch
yes, i took a picture, so you can be as amused as i am. After only 3 days of extolling the wonderful, magical powers of DVR, my tv breaks. In Exhibit A you see the 110 lb. tv on the floor and the 2" tv from my bedroom in its stead. Last night, the DVR's bright red light showed that it was, in fact, recording American Idol, though I had no tv to WATCH IT ON (the 2" tv, surprisingly - since it was purchased circa 1942, has no digital outlety thingy). In conclusion, i am buying a flat screen (<40 lbs.) sometime soon (tomorrow) from a reputable brand (Sony).


2) exhibit B - Neutrogena Hand Cream
what i love about it: the only real selling point on the whole tube is Norway's flag with the words "NORWEGIAN FORMULA" written under it............... OH yes, how could we have forgotten?! the Norwegians are certified EXPERTS on hand cream. of course. Just like mathematics and France, Americans just do not get hand cream like those 'wegians.

conclusion foregone

so, i think hippies moved into my apartment building while i was gone. 2 hints:

1) a gaggle of them were playing hackeysack in the yard behind my building when i got back. and by lumping all hippies into hackeysackers, i mean only to assume that hippies don't mind stereotypes when they go out of their way to embody them.

2) there was something that looked like this:



















hanging from a tree in front of my building when i got back. yes, a rainbow fish windsock.....

hmmmmmm.


maybe i'm mistaken, and they've been there all along, but i'm a little miffed at how they afford living in my apartment complex. i thought hippies were all capitalism eschewing, undiscovered artists? of course, maybe the whole gaggle live in one apartment. but then, wouldn't i have smelled the pot by now? oops, stereotyping again.

tell me how this ends

I am such a stupid girl. I come back to my (dorm) room early from our little training "casino night" so I can pack it in early and get a good night's sleep, unlike last night. But instead of picking up my easy Bitter is the New Black book to read before bed, I decide to finish reading the Washington Post I bought on Sunday at Panera (bought for $1.50 , mind you, while wearing the same clothes & make-up from the night before. if churchgoers and teenagers who think it's cool to have Sunday lunch dates are going to gawk at me for blatantly having "shacker" written all over me, then I might as well confuse them and buy a newspaper. oh, the slut can read? how novel…). (for the confused, I'm outside of DC for training for the week and spent last weekend with a friend in Fairfax. and, Saturday night is a blur.)

Silly me. Of course I would come across an article about the "surge." Ah, the surge. How I am already sick of hearing about the gd SURGE, and George hasn't even made his speech about it yet.

Before the Bush-aphiles (are there any left? … er, right?) turn off on me, a warning: you can support George all you want, but this (this - encompassing his handling of the Middle East) is stupid, and there's nothing I can do for you when the world finds out that he's fed us a crock of shit once again. If you had a nickel for every time George said we were winning that war when we most certainly were not, then .. THEN I wouldn't fault you for supporting Bush because you'd have a shitload of money that the reds would help you keep. I mean, in May of '03, George even dressed up in his little flight suit outfit and proudly declared, Mission Accomplished. Good show, sport. maybe he'll do the opposite of Schwarzenegger (yes i had to look up how to spell that) and star in crappy movies after his political stint (come now, you know they were crappy).

This is the thing. Bush is probably about to declare his surge as the next move towards winning the war in Iraq, if winning is even possible anymore. But surge is a verb, an action. And action has gotten us nowhere but deeper in debt, more hated by insurgents, and 3,000 more Americans dead. Perspective - let's move away from comparing to Vietnam and compare to WWII and 9/11. For the U.S., the war in Iraq is already longer than WWII and more deadly than 9/11. Already.

We don't need another action. Remember "shock and awe"? Yeah, that was pretty awesome, wasn't it? Shock and awe - I will always remember picking up a newspaper in England and seeing the front-page picture of a huge cloud of smoke rising above a flame-red city; i remember going back to my flat and staring at the picture and crying. I didn't know why I cried back then, but I think I know now.

We need a strategy. Everything I've heard and read that has been said by the actual men in Iraq has been akin to saying, Yes, of course we have plenty of work to do here, but we don't really know what we'd do with more men, because we already don't really know what we're doing with what we have. What kind of strategy? Now that is beyond anything I might know about foreign policy, diplomacy, war, etc. I really don't know anything about that; it's not my job. But it's mine to be upset that America is making a fool of itself, tripping over its own feet.

And I think the part that pisses me off the most is that I'm sitting in bed writing this goshdarn rant because I can't even sleep without saying my piece of mind first.

This is not a Bush bash, a leftist tirade (pointless rhetoric - ok yes probably); it's me saying I see something wrong and thankfully have the right in this country to say so. In the words of Lt. Gen. Petraeus (Bush's choice to become the top U.S. military commander in Iraq), said in 2003 on the initial march to Baghdad,

"Tell me how this ends."