Thursday, September 30, 2010

I apologize for this in advance

There is really no point to this post other than to tell you guys that I suck at posting.

Sometimes I get super jazzed and excited about my blog and I'm all "I'm gonna kick butt and post and stuff!" and inspiration hits me like a tidal wave of awesome and everything's great and my stats are wonderful and then...

I'm like...."never mind."  For no good reason.

Sometimes my brain says to me "Hey, you're never going to be successful if you don't actually post on your blog" and I say "Well, brain, if you weren't so easily distracted..." and my brain says "SILENCE! Let's think about space pirates" and I'm all "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT."

Also, someone found my blog by searching for "DJ Tiesto" which is mildly flattering, but mostly I'm just pretty sure whoever that guy is was wildly disappointed.  He was looking for techno beats and he got bee phobias and unicorns.
Someone also found my blog by searching "stairs doug pants jeans awkward keys helpful" which I understand, except for the "helpful" part.  I'm probably the least helpful person I know.  99 percent of what I write is junk.  1 percent is actually probably useful.  Not that I've ever written about anything explicitly useful, per se, but I'm sure that something, somewhere in the archives could be misconstrued as helpful.  There are probably some kind of survival tactics or zombie-slaying methods around here somewhere.  Probably disguised as an awkward drawing or covered in glitter.

On a happy note, according to the poll, most of you either get super excited when you read my blog, or you are at least entertained.  Unfortunately, four of you have stabbed your eyes out.  I'm very sorry that I caused such premature vision damage.  (I'm assuming it's premature.  If you're blind, you probably didn't even know what you clicked, so it's kind of ironic that you said I make you want to stab your eye.  In fact, you can't read this.  I could totally make fun of you.  But I won't, because making fun of blind people isn't funny.  At all.  Except sometimes.) (Not gonna do it though.) (....Oh but I so could.) (Don't worry.  I didn't say what I was thinking.)  Anyway.  A couple of you apparently ended up here looking for Twilight.  If that's the case, you probably want my Twilight post for people who didn't like Twilight and just wanted an explosion or two. 

Or you might hate it.  Your call.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Awkward things that hurt my soul.

Living away from home has brought up some serious issues in my day to day survival.  As it turns out, I actually require many things to survive never before considered.  Surprising things, like laundry.  I wake up and say "I know exactly what I need!  I need new socks to put on my feet!  I shall open up my sock drawer now!" and alas.  No socks are to be found.  Dirty laundry is to be found, but no socks.  (That whole scenario originally involved underpants, but I actually have plenty of underpants.  So if you were thinking about giving me a gift, socks would be better than underpants.  If enough people give me socks, I'll never have to wash the dirty ones.  You should buy me socks.) 

Half the time I find myself yelling "What do you mean I need money for that?  Give it to me!" or "Why are you standing in the hallway where I need to walk?" or "WHY IS THERE SO MUCH SHRUBBERY??"  There are no clear answers.  However, regardless of all my new-found responsibility, there is one other more pressing matter.

Some day to day occurrences are so mind-bogglingly awkward, I look up at the sky and whisper "whyyyyy?!" except I don't whisper very quietly and so most people stop and look at me and hope I don't have a knife on my person because I look like the kind of unstable psycho that might have a knife and use it irresponsibly.  Like for incorrect buttering.  Or stabbing.

Being unable to care for myself in even the most basic of fashions has led to an apparent inability to deal with normal occurrences with any degree of fortitude.  My awkwardness has increased about 3487 percent.  That's a rough estimate.

Naturally, I'm an awkward person.  It's one of the weapons that the Universe uses in its vendetta against my general health and well-being.  Recently, however, this has multiplied with my new level of responsibility to create my current method of dealing with life.  I am incapable of any kind of adult reaction.  This has led to very immature, anti-adult, reactions.  Such as stomping on inanimate objects.  Especially stairs.  I don't know why I do that.  Stairs don't care if I stomp on them.  In fact, that's more action than stairs have probably seen in a while.  Stairs are probably all "That's right, stomp harder!  Is that all you got, you little wuss?" and then stairs invert gravity for a moment and alter their molecular shape, causing me to fall.

Which brings me to point number one.

 Stairs that are either too short or too long for feet.

You probably know exactly what I'm talking about.  These stairs completely exacerbate my awkwardness. Stairs usually work like this:

Stairs, when properly designed, allow the user to walk comfortably downward or upward without much thought.  Any falling, tripping, or various methods of pain and death are direct results of the user's own physical failings, such as clumsiness or allergies.

Meet Stairs of Doom:

The above stairs are an example of perilous death.  These stairs are either a cruel joke or were built by people with extremely tiny feet and incredible balance.  These stairs cause you to topple down them mercilessly.  You will walk down them cautiously.  You will feel the slight pitch in gravity indicating your imminent fall.  You will brace yourself, and attempt to regain precious balance by flapping your arms uselessly and possibly uttering a grating shriek.  You will then hurtle to the ground.

When you are crumpled into a pathetic heap of shame and imbalance at the foot of the stairs, every bystander in the area will freeze for approximately three seconds before composing themselves enough to offer assistance.  You will pretend to be invisible.  It will become clear that you will be unable to pretend you are invisible.  You will raise your worthless carcass into a sitting position, mumble feebly that you are okay, and walk away as quickly as possible, registering the various bruises and abrasions now splashed across your elbows and knees.  You will hope that no one from the "stair incident" will ever see you in any other setting.  (Kind of like how I feel about Doug.  Doug works in the library.  Every time I see him, I wonder whether or not I should mention the fact that I almost ended his life on our first meeting.  I generally talk about it until things get awkward, which is immediately, and then I regret bringing it up.  Good times.)

Falling down these stairs will create a plethora of Dougs for your enjoyment.

Then there is this abomination:

These stairs are awkward and probably feel really insecure.  The steps themselves are very long, making the staircase stretch on into infinity.  When you use these stairs, you will not know how to walk.  Should you take two short steps on each stair, or you should you take extremely long steps and try not to faceplant?  Which will make you look less idiotic?  The answer: neither.  No matter what, you will look stupid.  These stairs were specifically designed to make you look as awkward and ridiculous as possible.  You will not descend with grace.  It's best to get it over with quickly.

Getting locked out.

Living in a dorm isn't all that bad for normal people.  You go to class, you shower in a stall, you return home and gossip with your roommate while watching various chick flicks.  For the regular, socially confident, not psychotic populace, it's a pretty good deal.  Then there's me.  My first week living in the dorms, I was locked out twice on accident after leaving my key inside the dorm, and then once due to my inability to perform simple functions like not lose my keys.  It didn't take long for every staff member who was even tenuously linked to keys to be able to recognize me on sight.

My mental well-being usually relies on the certainty that I am not burdening any strangers with my existence.  I have this guilt issue.  For example:  Last night I had a dream that I got hit by a semi-truck, damaging the truck in the process.  The driver got out of the car and yelled at me for ruining the truck and as I sat there on the street, I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt.  I felt guilty for causing minor damage to a semi-truck that had just flattened me.  Moments like these make me think I probably need to reevaluate my priorities.

Anyway.  The point is, I've been locked out a million times, and have to choose one of two options.  I either have to wait for my roommate to return, or go find someone with a master key to open the door for me.  I agonize over the decision, weighing the pros and cons, seeing only cons in both options, and finally I decide to find someone to open the door for me.  This always, without fail, leads to awkward conversation.  I live on the third floor.  The office is on the first floor.  I walk up seemingly endless flights of stairs next to someone who is as uncomfortable with making small talk as I am.

Me: ...........
Helpful Key Person: .......So.  Locked out, huh?
Me: Um.  Yep.
Helpful Key Person:  Yeah.  [Silence as we continue to climb the stairs.]  So.  Third floor?
Me: Uh huh.  Third floor.
Helpful Key Person:  Okay.  [More silence.  More stairs.]  It sure is a long walk to the third floor.
Me:  Yeah, the third floor is about three floors up, I think.
Helpful Key Person:  Yes I think that's about correct.
Me: ...............
Helpful Key Person: ................ 
Me: ...............[Still more stairs.  Finally, third floor hallway.  A long walk to my door.]
Helpful Key Person: Okay here we are.  [Opens door]
Me: Okay, um, thanks a lot.  [Worries for the rest of the night that Helpful Key Person hates me and I'll never be friends with Helpful Key Person and now the state of Utah is going to explode and it will be all my fault for losing my keys.]

Pants in general.

I often wonder what pants' problem is.  What the heck, pants?  Who invented you, anyway?  Why are you so annoying?  Especially jeans.  What kind of a person decided that jeans were a good idea?

Pain is fun!  Shimmying like a disabled lemur is awesome because it helps me get my pants on.

My favorite is when it takes twenty minutes.

The dreaded double-double door.

This is a double door:
 This is a double double door:

In theory, these doors aren't all that difficult to use.  You just walk through one set, then proceed through the next, and carry on your merry way.  This concept works very well until you throw in polite people.

Invariably, some kind-hearted soul will hold open the first set of doors.  "What a nice gesture!"  I think to myself as I carry on through the open door, saying "thank you!" loudly to Nice Guy.  Nice Guy then enters behind me, and we find ourselves at the second set of doors.  Having entered first, I am closer to the second set of doors than Nice Person.  I awkwardly reach for the handle.  Nice Guy awkwardly reaches for the handle, intent on continuing his kind deed of the day.  At this point, there's chivalry to think about.  Should I let Nice Guy hold open the door for me again?  If he does, do I mumble "Thank you" again?  Does the first "Thank you" carry over here, or should I ecstatically say it again?  Or should I hold the door open for Nice Guy?  What if Nice Guy expects me to?  What if he wants to be chivalrous, though?  What if opening the door tells him that I didn't appreciate the first door? WHAT IF NICE GUY DOESN'T LIKE ME ANYMORE?!

At this point my face usually betrays my inner turmoil.  99 times out of 100, Nice Guy is perfectly normal and simply holds the door open for me a second time, smiles politely, and walks away.  Nice Guy probably doesn't think about this at all as the day goes on.  I am not so lucky.

I usually end up knocking over a desk or something later though, so that gives me something else to agonize over.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Greeting cards for people who don't really like greeting cards

I like to look at the greeting cards whenever I go to the store.  Sometimes the cards are funny.  Sometimes they're sweet.  But I often wonder why card makers aren't catering to the greater needs of the people.  The people being me.

Have you ever wanted to say something just right, but you couldn't find a card that could express your feelings accurately?  Well I'm about to solve your problem.

You're welcome.

Suck it, normal cards.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

A brief word about advertisements

If you are looking for bees, simply scroll down a little bit. 

Anyway.  I've added ads to my blog because one day I want to make money blogging so that I can stay at home and never change out of my sweats or go outside.  When you click on an ad, I do get paid.

However!  Don't just go clicking on them because you like me or, more likely, because you feel sorry for me.  That's called fraud.  Apparently. 

Only click on an ad that interests you, cause that's what they're for.

Here.  I drew this.

Who will win?!

Monday, September 13, 2010

This is why bees are murdering crack dealers. At least, I assume they are. It's inferred.

I have these ridiculous fears, sometimes fears that go all the way back to childhood.  Some of them developed completely randomly, like I wake up one morning and say to myself "today, I am afraid of (insert irrational object/place) for the rest of my life starting now and forever and ever shall I fear this thing forever.  Amen."  I'm always told to conquer my fears.  Yeah.  You wanna know who tried to conquer fear?  Abraham Lincoln.  And he's dead.  (At least I think it was fear he was conquering.  Or maybe the  Pretty sure it was fear.)

Traumatizing thing that scares me: Bees.

Bees are the Universe's way of telling me it wants me to die a slow, painful death.  I'm not allergic, so actually I probably wouldn't die if I ever were confronted by bees, but it's the principle of the thing.  I would feel like dying.  I shriek and cry every time I see one.  I hate all bees, including hornets and yellow jackets.  I know they aren't real bees, per se, but they're just as freaking terrifying, so I don't really know why there's a distinction.

And why are they called "bumblebees"?  That sounds adorable.  When I hear the word bumblebee, this is what I picture:

I am adorable because I am a bumblebee.

This is an actual photograph of a real, live bee:

I am a real bee.  I shoot lasers out of my antennae.  I will maul your family with my ability to kill you.

It's dangerous, calling this kind of monstrosity a bumblebee.  It's misleading and will probably cause death.  It's like if I called a grizzly bear a wugglesbear.  It's like saying boogleygator.  Or a great white I just want to love you shark.

When I was a kid, my family went to a park as a fun outing.  I don't remember the details of the day, except for sheer terror.  My brother and I took turns rolling down a hill.  It was very exciting.

Immediately traumatized.  Especially vivid in my memory is the image of several bees implanted in the skin of my waist.  They were out for blood, venom sacs pulsating rhythmically, each pump saying "Hello, I am currently poisoning you, please die now."  I screamed and I cried and I will never recover from the terror of that day.  B-day.  But...not like "Birthday."  I was making a clever reference to D-day.  But with bees.  Except...just the letter...  I swear I'm funny sometimes.

And you know what else?  Besides being absolutely horrifying, bees are liars.  They break their own rules.  I was older when I discovered this.  Now, when I was a kid of about ten, I thought I was so cool that ice was produced in my brain.  Except cooler than that.  Like, if my brain made ice, and the ice was magic and granted you three wishes, and one of those wishes was always one million dollars plus a pet velociraptor all in one wish and you still had two more wishes.  That's how cool I thought I was.

So one day I was entertaining a group of six year old children, telling them how brave and fearless I was.  My mother had tried to calm my fear of bees by telling me that if I didn't move, they wouldn't sting me.  I took that to heart.  I worshiped that rule.  I was safe from the tyranny of bees forever.  No bee could harm me!  This I explained to the wide-eyed children. 

Me: If you just don't move, the bees won't hurt you because they'll think you're a tree or something.  I don't know.  But they won't hurt you.
Kid: Really?  You aren't even scared?
Me: Nope!  I'm very courageous because bees will never get me.
Kid: Whoaaa, tell us all about how awesome you are!
Me: Well, I am so---

At this point, a bee landed directly on my finger.  I had been motioning grandly with my arms in order to emphasize how unbelievably awesome I was.  As the bee descended upon my innocent appendage, I shuddered to a stop.  Even my expression froze in place.  I was a statue, a heroic statue gazing upon the enemy.  I was confident.  I was going to win.  I was about to demonstrate my power. 

I stared at the bee.  It stared at me.  It had tiny little fangs and I'm pretty sure it whispered "I hate you and all that you stand for."  And then it stung me.  Twice.

I screamed and screamed and screamed and cried and cried and cried and had to be physically lifted off the playground, surrounded by a group of traumatized six year olds.


Bees aren't supposed to sting you if you hold still.  It's part of the bee code.  Everyone knows that "if you leave it alone, it will leave you alone" because "it's more afraid of you than you are of it." 

I just don't know what to believe anymore.

I haven't been stung by a bee since that incident, but I'm pretty sure my mind has dramatized the memory of pain to the point that if I ever were to get stung, I would go into shock and die, because that's exactly the kind of thing I associate with bees.  Shock and DEATH.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Monday, September 6, 2010

I've considered giving a peace offering to the Universe. Does that show weakness? Or is it my survival instinct?

My birthday was last Monday, and I had come home from my new dorm to sleep over on Sunday.  The plan was to return to school on Monday for the first day of class.  Which sounds like a pretty good plan until you consider the fact that I'm an idiot and was all "hey, you know what sounds like a good idea?  An accelerated Portuguese class at eight o' clock in the morning.  WOW GOOD IDEA."  So I'm all ready to leave my house at a ridiculously early hour, so as to make it to school with time to get ready for class and such.

As it turns out, there's this boy Doug who is somehow related to my mom's boyfriend in some obscure way.  He goes to the same school as me, so I'm set to give him a ride back since it's on the way.  Poor, poor Doug.  (He's not dead.  I didn't kill him.  Almost, but not quite.) 

I drive out in the wee hours of the morning, I'm all jabbering about how it's my birthday and OHEMGEEEE I'm 18 now, can you believe it DOUG?!  Also, Doug, do you KNOW how OLD I AM?!?!  GUESS, DOUG!  Just guess.

And he's being all politely interested as we zoom...right past the freeway entrance.  No fear!  I shall simply flip an innocuous u-turn up yonder!  It shall be a frolic!  A breeze!  Perhaps we shall laugh airily whilst our hair billows in the completely harmless wind which happens to be accompanied by rain and booming thunder!  Tra la la!

Ten seconds later, my beautiful car is totaled and Doug's all "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!" except he was too polite to do that so mostly inside his head he screamed "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!" but what he said was "'s not so bad."  What a guy.

Two policemen and an interesting phone call to my mother later, Doug and I are on our way to school again, but this time in my mother's car.  We dropped Doug off at his apartment, then I started to feel kind of odd.  And not odd in the normal way that I usually feel odd.  More like in a "Hmmm, I physically feel crappier than normal" kind of a way.  Neck, why won't you move properly?  Eyes, focus!  Balance, you seem to be even more absent than usual.  Methinks something is slightly off.  I expressed this concern to my mother, who promptly started driving in the opposite direction of my dorm room, and soon we ended up at a hospital.

We walked into the emergency room, and I was kind of disappointed because no one rushed up to me and started yelling "STAT!" like they do in movies.  I assume it's because I wasn't bleeding.  Except maybe in my brain.  But you can really see brain-blood right away, so the doctors were probably like:

Doctor 1: Hey, Richard, an emergency patient!  Hurry, get your STAT! ready!
Doctor 2: EVERYONE, PREPARE TO STAT!  Where is she bleeding?!
Doctor 1: Um well...oh I guess she isn't bleeding.  Maybe she's delivering girl scout cookies.
Doctor 2:  Oh!  I love thin mints.  Alright, false alarm, everyone.  Save your STAT!  No, Teresa, I said SAVE IT!  [Camera pans out the window to a scenic sunset] We don't need it...not today...not right now.  But there's always the threat of tomorrow.  [Theme music plays, credits roll, and they don't even show my visit to the E.R.  Those JERKS.]

(Doctors totally say STAT! right?  I feel like you can't say the word STAT! without caps and an exclamation point.  It would be a misspelling.)

Anyway, I very anticlimactically entered the Emergency Room and this lady took me to a room and pointed at a poster of a bunch of faces with expressions on a scale of happy to sad, which was supposed to indicate my level of pain.  She told me to tell her which face was most like my pain, and I was kind of confused because she could see my face better than I could, and if she wanted me to tell her which face matched, she could at least have given me a mirror or something.

So finally I get into my "room" and they made me lay on a hospital bed which was much less cool than you'd think.  Except maybe no one would ever think that was cool but me.  The guy in the room next to me was yelling and going "UUUNGHHH Aaaheihoi! Gurglejwoiphwoi!" and I felt the blood drain from my face because it occurred to me that they might put needles in me. IV.  Or something.  And suddenly it didn't seem so bad that maybe I had a concussion.  A concussion isn't so bad, right?  It's just a little bump from the world to say "be more careful next time!  Here's a lollipop, kiddo!"

The nurses and doctors came in and out of the room for a while, and then a nurse came in and tried to make me wear a neck brace, but that didn't work out, partially because I didn't want to wear the "pretty birthday necklace" but mostly because the adult size didn't fit me.  So the nurse came back and strapped on a brightly colored child's size.  Apparently my neck is the size of a six year old's.  Good thing I went to the Emergency Room, or I would have never known that crucial fact about my neck.
The nurses and doctor were all very nice, and listened to me rant about how it was my birthday and AM I GOING TO DIE?!  Except I had more composure than that, don't worry.  Well, the wonderful staff gave me a little plastic tub full of birthday candy and goodies, and they all signed it.  It was a very nice little souvenir.

After that, a nurse pulled up the bars on my bed and pushed me in to the CAT scan room.  She wheeled me in and whispered "stay here."  At that point I was pretty confused and I wanted to whisper back "where am I gonna go?'" because I was wearing a neon neck brace and hospital gown, and I'm pretty sure that if I'd left the hospital that way, I would've been back PRETTY DANG QUICK.

Apparently nothing was wrong with my brain, and I was surprised they didn't mention the obvious crazy.  Maybe they were just trying to be delicate.  They did, however, ask me if I was pregnant at least three times.  Maybe they get a lot of pregnant chicks coming in for CAT scans.  I can understand that.  If I were pregnant, a CAT scan would be the first on my list of "things I should do."

My mother and I sat in my hospital room for an hour waiting for various paperwork and CAT scan results and such.  My mother walked up to my bed very nonchalantly.  That's how I knew she was about to do something crazy.  She looked out the open door, made sure no one was watching, and then gave the bars on the bed a violent shove.  And I was all "I'M SORRY ABOUT THE CAR" but it turns out she wasn't punishing me.  She was just fascinated by the bars.  She spent about twenty minutes yanking, shoving, and (my favorite) kicking the bars trying to get them to come down.  Meanwhile, I laughed hysterically.  Every twenty seconds or so, she'd look out the door at the nurse who obviously thought there was something wrong with us, and smile innocently.  And wave.  And stand awkwardly.  Born actress, that woman.

Four hours after coming to the hospital, I left, nothing whatsoever wrong with me except this horrible, terrible thing called "whiplash."  As long as I live, I will always hate whiplash.

I went home to my dorm, and then the ridiculous continued.  The next morning, I couldn't turn my neck, and therefore had to turn my entire body when looking at anything not directly in front of my face.  It was very normal and no one stared at me at all.

The next few days went like this: I lost the key to my dorm, lost the key to my mailbox, lost my school I.D. (which happens to be the only way to access my dining plan=NO FOOD FOR MEGAN), lost my class schedule, lost my campus map, got lost after an evening class on campus as a result, wandered around for two hours, seriously considered sleeping on the concrete all night, dragged my aching body back and forth from my dorm to the last place I'd seen my keys over and over, and then finally had someone working in my dorm let me in my room.  Then I paid for all new keys and I.D., only to receive a message from a very nice person saying "HEY I FOUND YOUR STUFF" and so now I have copies which is cool except they're changing my locks just in case a psycho had found my keys and tried to break in and steal all the Capri Sun from my mini fridge.  Also, my computer decided to refuse to connect to the internet, despite the purchase of an expensive anti-virus program and an ethernet cord, because I need to "update" my computer, so I DOWNLOADED EVERY STUPID UPDATE and it still doesn't work.  Then I got offered a much needed job, had that job cruelly taken away from me by no fault of my own (for once) and did not get to ride on a unicorn.  Again.

I've come to the logical conclusion that I'm not very good at college.