Just a barfly, baby

I will be home on Wednesday. It will have been 98 days since I left home. In this, I am able to find comfort, knowing that I have gone 98 days without seeing my parents, or coming home (not that it was an option), and that I am still alive. That is, to say, I can survive without them. At least, for the most part.

Even last year before I came home, I had really intense dreams. Dreams about losing things, or faulty plane rides, people with contorted faces, loud noises. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's simply my brain settling down.

But tomorrow I'll give a presentation. I plan on bribing my classmates with Airheads so they'll pay attention. I'll go to my Creative Writing: Poetry! class and my Spanish class. I'll pack. Routine things, you know? Print out a plane ticket, make a mixed CD for long drives through Indiana streets, worry about looking nice for family and friends. Silly stuff, really.

But not so silly that I still don't love it.

"'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have been carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'"

Sometimes I forget that this is not Tumblr. Pictures, be damned! Except for this one.

It's a tad on the dramatic side, but it's comforting to know that while my personal life appears to be in woeful shambles (except it isn't), my academic studies have not suffered. "Everyone makes misteaks!" always makes me chuckle. Sure it's meaningful, and probably true, but tell that to my guilty conscience. I'm not even Catholic. Therefore, take a look at this wonderful chart I made with my mad Photoshop skillz. I've been paying attention in Astronomy.

Senora Parnell, luz de mi vida, te adoro.

This semester I enrolled in a class aptly named Global History. Historia de Mundial. Que fresca! It was something I needed to get out of the way in regards to my general ed requirements, and it sounded half-way interesting. With a title such as "Global History" one would assume that the class focused on cultures around the world and their impact on western civilization. As a matter of fact, I'm almost positive that was listed under the "Course Objectives" on the syllabus. Que insensato fui!

The first day of class our instructor, a woman of slight stature with large gums and frizzy hair, swept into the room and with a toothy grin insisted that we call her "Tami."

"Darlings! Mrs. Parnell is my mother! I'm not dead yet!"

She immediately jumped into a lengthy description of her summer vacation rife with misfortune (the death of her cat), her bout of depression (as a result of the death of her cat), her highs (playing Playstation), and loneliness (she lives by herself in a cabin in the woods).

She then proceeded to tell us how this Global History class "isn't like the other ones" and that we would be dealing with "serious subjects" such as Atlantis, 2012, aliens, and discovering our personal energies.

I have come to the conclusion that she is certifiably crazy. Like, really, really nuts. Her values in life come from New Age trash found in paperback novels and it's quite obvious that there is not a skeptical bone in her body. Everything is taken at face value. What's scary is that she's trying to pass it off as academia. Since the second day of class I have jotted down things she has said. They are as follows:

"I thoroughly believe that each one of us sitting in this classroom in a reincarnation of someone who perished in Atlantis."

"It's a proven fact that the members of Atlantis built the first pyramids. Egyptians were simply copycats."

"Never try self-imposed hypnosis. Trust me."

"I think UFOs are humans in the future coming back to steer us in the right direction."

"Dinosaurs were using up all the energy when they roamed the earth, so after they became extinct that energy was used to create six billion people."

"Praying is the same thing as believing in fairys."

Today was an especially exciting day. At the beginning of class she mentioned that she has been to an accupuncturist two times a month for the last ten years. Her first experience, as she recalled, allowed her to rid herself of all the evil energy and bad memories stored up inside her body for the last forty years.

"Afterwards, I couldn't sleep for thirty days!"

At this point her eyes were wild.

"It was like I was in a strange dream state where I was watching my entire life on a video camera! Insomnia, I tell you! It plagued me! During those thirty days I also suffered from a terrible rash that ran the length of my body. The Chinese healer said it was the negative spirits draining from my limbs!"

A boy in the back of the class laughed.

She stopped dead in her tracks. The look that shot from her eyes was evidence that every shred of evil had not been destroyed.

"Excuse me? Is something funny?"

The kid looked around and said, "I mean, no offense. A lot of this stuff sounds like pseudoscience. I just have a difficult time believing what you're saying. That rash was probably an infection from the needles he used."

Here is where things got awkward.

She stared him down, clenched and unclenched her fists, and walked slowly back to her podium. Tami opened her book and started the lesson with another question.

"Does anybody know what a snake handler is? You in the back. Mr. Pseudoscience. Can you tell me what a snake handler is?"

Her voice was entirely too strained. Her face was entirely too red.

"Someone who works at a zoo?"

A few giggles slipped from the mouths of the girls around him.

And this is where everything came to a final explosion. It was such a beautiful, beautiful explosion.

"OH, LOOK WHO WE HAVE HERE, CLASS! A GENUINE, GRADE A, SMART ASS! I SIMPLY LOVE THE SMART ASSES! BECAUSE GOD KNOWS IT'S TOO HARD TO BELIEVE IN SPIRITUAL HEALING! GOD KNOWS NOBODY CAN BE HAPPY FOR ME!"

'Sup, image that creates unattainable standards and turns me into a weepy mess? How you doin'?
Good?
Me, too.

"How incredibly sad that you would call a size '8' a 'zaftig.'"

I don't fool myself into thinking that this blog is viewed by thousands of visitors each day. Well, sometimes I do. Not often, but sometimes. It's more than likely to be on those days where I stand in front of the mirror and practice my Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech. Or Academy Awards. Or both.

I should really learn how to stay on point.

However, I re-read an article today that, in my personal opinion, should be re-blogged.

It can be found here: http://jezebel.com/5346154/why-is-normal-eating-so-hard-to-define

Or, better yet, this section stood out the most,

"Normal eating is going to the table hungry and eating until you are satisfied. It is being able to choose food you like and eat it and truly get enough of it-not just stop eating because you think you should. Normal eating is being able to give some thought to your food selection so you get nutritious food, but not being so wary and restrictive that you miss out on enjoyable food. Normal eating is giving yourself permission to eat sometimes because you are happy, sad or bored, or just because it feels good. Normal eating is mostly three meals a day, or four or five, or it can be choosing to munch along the way. It is leaving some cookies on the plate because you know you can have some again tomorrow, or it is eating more now because they taste so wonderful. Normal eating is overeating at times, feeling stuffed and uncomfortable. And it can be undereating at times and wishing you had more. Normal eating is trusting your body to make up for your mistakes in eating. Normal eating takes up some of your time and attention, but keeps its place as only one important area of your life."


Thanks, pint of Birthday Cake ice cream! You made me really, really happy.

Hey there, Ms. New Booty

To be more involved at Appalachian, and to make the most of my college career, I joined the A.P.P.S. Heritage Council. One small section of the overall A.P.P.S. organization, the Heritage Council is responsible for planning events that celebrate Appalachian culture. We schedule contra dances, story tellers, fiddle conventions, documentaries, and the ilk. It's something in which I have loved being involved, and it's honestly something for which I have a great passion. Southern culture to me is fascinating, and there's this piece of me that wants to gobble up everything possible.

That's not the point.

Tonight I was in charge of hospitality for our second contra dance. It only required making coffee and getting dinner for the band. Nothing difficult. Plus, I got in for free.

I went to one contra dance last year. One. A lady I was partnered with sort of ruined the evening as she was pushing, pulling, shoving, and tossing me across the floor. That might be a tad exaggerated, but it wasn't something I considered "enjoyable." Tonight, however, I was with a group of people that share the same interests as I do (they are all a part of the Heritage Council), and I honestly think the fact that I'm not a freshman was a major factor in the amount of fun I had.

That's not the point, either.

At one point during the night I had to find a new partner. It reminded me of middle school dances and how people wander aimlessly about in hopes of being chosen. That's what I found myself doing until this guy asked me to dance with him. He was good looking. I mean, like, really, really, unbelievably good looking. And he smelled nice. And he had a great smile. And he was taller than I was. And he was surprisingly light on his feet. Overall, if I were to give him a kindergarden grade, it would be S1. Though, in this case, instead of the 'S' standing for "Superb" it meant "Smokin'."

So we danced.

But halfway through the line I took a good, hard look at his face. I had seen him somewhere before, but with all the twirling it was hard to think straight.

So we danced some more.

By the end of the song I was racking my brain thinking of every guy I ran into last year. And then it hit me.

This guy, so wonderfully charming was David.

The snot-nosed, drunk musician who pinned me against the wall at my first party.

Fail.

There are some days where I'm quite productive. I'll finish all of the chapter reading for a class, write a few pages for an essay that's due, climb up the hill that leads to Quinn and ride a few miles on the stationary bike, or seriously consider my design concept for the environmentally friendly Lick 'n Stick band-aids.

Then there are days like today. Which, sadly, are becoming all too common. I'll paint my nails, color pictures of Daniel Boone, watch Planet Earth for hours on end, start friendship bracelets with no intent of finishing, and have an lengthy discussion with my roommate about our potential wedding dress styles.

Or, I'll stare at pictures and dream about decorating my room for next year.

A List of Things of Which I am in Need:

1. Pens
2. Nail polish
3. An able-bodied, humorous, floppy-haired, musically-inclined, God-fearing man with a passion for living.

Some are more readily available than others.

It's twelve thirty, and I should be in bed. At this very moment I should be packing up my computer, walking across Main Field, defending myself from vicious opossums, sneaking into my cabin, and laying on top of a lower bunk that has been damp since the second week of camp. I should be, but I'm not.

This evening I went to a hookah bar. It was uninspiring. In my head were grand visions of men with dark mustaches offering flavors in ancient golden boxes or bellydancers hypnotically twirling around the table. In reality it was a hole in the wall where shaggy-haired hipsters sat hunchbacked in wooden chairs. I guess they were modern day Aladdins.

And as we were sitting in the "party room," I looked around at the rest of the group lounging on giant pillows underneath huge wall tapestries. All of their faces were illuminated by the backlight from their cell phones. They were sitting right next to each other and never spoke a single word. Inhale. Text. Inhale. Text. For some reason I became incredibly sad.

A lot of things I build up in my head. The hookah bar is just one example. For the past few days, while listening to Wilco's "Impossible Germany, Unlikely Japan" on repeat during rest hour, I've daydreamed about driving out to California. It's not going to happen. I've daydreamed about leaving school to ride the rails. I've daydreamed about deserts and palaces, villages and jungles. I've daydreamed about flying, of sleeping, of loving. It all seems there. It all seems just beyond my grasp.

I have neglected all forms of writing for the past two months and nine days. Forgive me. I've become slow and cumbersome, dull and thick. My conversations for the last eight weeks have revolved around which Jonas brother is the cutest and if pizza or grilled cheese is being served for lunch. I don't feel sharp. There's no eagerness to write.

But perhaps that isn't entirely terrible. I've come to notice that I am an observer. It'll play into writing somehow, I'm sure.

I've also fallen in love with the likes of Steinbeck and Whitman. Along with Capote and Harper Lee, John Steinbeck successfully managed to paint a picture in my head. And his words made me cry. It was a gut-wrenching cry, too. I've always dreamed of being able to have the power, the ability, the audacity to make people lose control of their emotions. One day. One day I will.

And until then I'll continue to write. I'll continue to observe. I'll continue to pretend that the things I think need to be said would like to be heard by someone else.

And until then I'll keep making Shrinky Dinks. I'll keep worrying if my girls are getting enough water, enough sleep. I'll keep dancing to the Cha-Cha Slide every Friday night. I'll keep going.

Common brands include: Wyler's, Goya, and Kallo

My parents are both out of the house for a good chunk of the day, so I'm left to fend for myself. True, I'm nineteen and should be able to entertain myself until they both arrive home later in the evening, but most of the time I wander aimlessly around the house looking for something to do. Thankfully the trees in front of the house are the perfect distance apart. My love for hammocking has traveled 800 miles.

That's not the point.

"Fending for myself" means making lunch. Usually I skip lunch or eat a piece of fruit. It's a strange habit I picked up while living in a dorm and having a class schedule that interfered with the normal lunching hours. Plus, we don't really have any food in the pantry save for some crackers and olive oil. But today I found the Holy Grail of quick, easy, mess-free lunches. A Totino's Cheese Pizza.

I took it out of the box, ripped off the plastic, and started making the necessary changes: adding garlic powder and pieces of dried onion. A regular cheese pizza seemed to blase, and I had just finished watching Rachael Ray.

But as I was taking out the bottles, I noticed a tin of bouillon cubes. I was instantly taken back to second grade and the time I spent the night at a friend's house.

Before dinner that night we were standing around in the kitchen waiting to be told to sit down. While we were shuffling across the floor, said friend flew over to the cabinet and took out a perfectly shaped cubed wrapped up in the most beautiful shade of gold my tiny eyes had ever beheld. It was breath taking. It was intriguing. It was essential to my being to find what was hidden beneath that shiny piece of foil.

At last the cube had been unveiled. Marvelous! Majestic! Mercy!

Oh, I tell you now that it looked so delicious. She popped it in her mouth, put the lid back on the container, and started to walk back to the table. I didn't understand. Was I not important enough to have whatever she was having? Was I not a guest in her house? So I glared at her. Then my glaring eyes turned to ones of pleading.

"What...what is that?"

"I dunno." She was smacking her lips.

"Could...could I taste one?"

"No."

I've hated her ever since.

Not really.

Kind of.

I finished sprinkling the extra toppings onto the pizza and slipped it into the oven. I opened the cabinet door and took out the tin of bouillon cubes. I took off the gold wrapping, popped it into my mouth in the same way she did twelve years ago, and immediately spat it into the trash. It was the nastiest thing I've tasted in a long time.

I hope she still eats them. That way her sodium levels will be through the roof and she'll be a candidate for diabetes and paralysis of the lung muscles.

Only joking.

Kind of.

I must be in California

So I'm sitting here, right? It's 1:30 in the morning. If I had stayed up this late for an exam in high school I would have started crying fifteen minutes ago.

Instead, my roommate has decided to sing Britney Spears' "Circus" at the top of her lungs. I have decided to draw on my face with marker. We both won't go to bed until 5:00.

But these things I don't mind. There will come a time during the night when our little eyelids will start to droop and the last paragraph of a textbook will be read without a single thought being registered. We'll wake up tomorrow morning, take our tests, come back and sleep well into the night. Our lives have morphed into some freak combination of total contentment, cat naps, summery mountain air, and long drives to nowhere.

I could ask for nothing more.

The sound of runnin' is always on my feet

I'm practically done with my freshman year of college. Next week we go until Wednesday, Reading Day is the following day, and finals start on Friday. I don't really know what to make of it just quite yet. It certainly didn't feel like nine months, but I guess it never will. For once it doesn't seem like I am required to feel some sort of emotion. In high school I felt like I needed to have some great fear of the unknown, and to some extent I did. But here I simply feel comfortable. I'll take a break for a few months, and then I'll come back to the mountains where I know I'm supposed to be. I'll come back to the Blue Ridge, and to my slacklining, Chacos-wearing, banjo-picking, rock-climbing, salvia-smoking Mountaineers.

Anyway, so I have a lot of free time on my hands now. That leaves a lot of time for hammocking. And getting myself into uncomfortable tight spots. Or sleeping. I just woke up from a five hour nap which, I'm pretty sure, it technically called "sleeping." But it's probably one of the greatest naps I've had in a long time. Not because it's sticky and thundering outside, and there are few things that I love more than a good thunderstorm, but because my dream involved Jeff Tweedy. And that, dear friends, might be enough to get me through these last few weeks of school.

Rave on, I say, "Rave on"

Tonight I scribbled a letter on the back of an Old Testament worksheet. I then transcribed it to a lined piece of paper. After that, a card. It's sitting nicely on my desk, nestled against a three-hole punch and a case of Suede & Nubuck. I doubt I'll gather up enough courage to send it. Though things would be much easier if I did. I doubt I'll ever write another one. Though things would be much easier if I did. So instead I'll sit here listening to M. Ward with sleepy eyes and a cramp in my hand.

I'm really glad that I'm a girl.

Cherokee people! Cherokee pride! So proud to live, but so proud to die!

"March 20, 2009

Dear Delainey,

Over the years we have been blessed with many outstanding staff here at Camp Tecumseh YMCA. I am confident that you will become one of them! I am pleased to offer you the position of Equestrian Counselor for the summer of 2009."

Wait, what?

Equestrian Counselor?

I haven't been on a horse since first grade when I took riding lessons from a woman named Tiffany. Her farm across from Mary Brian Elementary was demolished in order to make space for some cookie-cutter houses. Now I'm expected to teach tweens for 10 weeks about proper riding techniques for these behemoths?

I'm thankful, though.

Anything is better than returning to Dirty/Trash Queen and making Oreo Brownie Earthquakes for people who are already the size of Percherons. I'm also sure stables are much cleaner than the backroom freezer, and that it wouldn't be hazardous to my health to touch a horse, unlike a majority of the people I worked with.

Bring it, Camp Tecumseh.

Bring it.

One day I'll dare to write about this song
and how essential it was to my childhood.

I'm comin' up, so you better get the party started

This past weekend I went to my first college party.

And, if I do say so myself, I looked fierce. Really, really fierce. New top, dangly earrings, boots, luscious hair. All the makings of a next top model. Minus the attitude.

I'll start by saying that this was the first college party I've been to. Let's not pay attention that it's been eight months since school started. I've always been a late bloomer. I've also never thought of myself as a big party person. As a matter of fact, last Saturday night was gross. Weather-wise, I mean. It was rainy and humid and foggy. It's a miracle that my hair didn't turn into a mushroom cloud immediately upon walking out the door.

But that's not the point.

It was crummy. A part of me was extremely excited about going to a house party that, according to one girl, was "off the hook." That should have been my first warning sign. Nobody says, "off the hook" anymore. At least not people who are ultimate party-goers. The other part of me wanted to stay inside, take a long shower, paint my nails, drink green tea, and watch Juno. Looking back, I wish that part of me won.

We left around 11:30.

That's when Home Improvement is on Nick at Nite. Just a little tidbit.

A few of the girls had already had a few drinks before joining the rest of the group (pre-gaming?), so they were a tad on the boisterous side. We walked all over campus picking up stragglers, ruffians, and general ne'er-do-wells, finally making our way over to the "awesome house party!"

We had to walk down King Street (Remember? It's like Broadripple but five times smaller!), and as we came to the crosswalk I noticed a worm on the pavement. Poor nematodes never get the respect they deserve, so I stepped over it, wanting to spare its life for the night. I thought that maybe deep down inside his pseudocoelomatic heart he would thank me for allowing him to enjoy the rain and the wet pavement. Throughout the entire night I kept thinking back to that worm. I'm pretty sure the meat-head walking behind me stepped on it.

The gang made it's way over to Green Street and started its half-mile trek up an unnervingly steep hill. It was sketch, but my juvenile heart was too excited to notice my surroundings. If I had been paying attention, then I would have noticed the rusty cars and and houses with boarded-up windows, trashcans with bullet holes and several dead bodies poorly hidden beneath plastic bags.

We finally reached the top of the hill. I was on the verge of squealing. However, there was no awesome house party that was "off the hook." As a matter of fact, there was no house. In its place was a small apartment complex with broken windows and chipped paint. We got to the front door, and people dutifully paid five dollars per cup. I managed to slip in without paying. It's not as if I was trying to be sneaky, but chances are he didn't notice me anyway.

The wooden walls of the apartment were covered with Bob Marley tapestries and a sad looking hand-written birthday card that said, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASSHOLE" in black ink. There was a long line to the keg in the kitchen. Girls sloppily poured in massive pitchers of beer and kept giggling at this ogre of a man with a striped polo shirt and backwards baseball cap. I stood against the wall while my friends went to get something to drink.

There was prime people watching that night: people passed out, people dancing, people groping, people peeing, people throwing up.

At one point a gaggle of grungy looking hippies filed into a back room. Fifteen minutes later they emerged bleary-eyed and smelling like burned peanut butter. I caught the eyes of one of the girls coming out of the room. She sits in front of me in my Math 1010 class. She smiled.

It seems like pot and dreds go hand in hand.

A couple of guys walked over and started chatting us up. One of the guys had a dead tooth. The other had snot coming out of his nose. I tried my hardest not to laugh. Somehow he managed to pin me against the wall and stare into my eyes while talking about his band. All I could look at was the snot. All I could think about was the worm.

We left after thirty minutes. It wasn't fun. In my head were pictures of a house party a la Mean Girls style. This party was just dirty. Dirty and loud and smelly.

I'm glad I kept my five bucks. I plan on buying dinner with it tomorrow night.

The world has its ways to quiet us down.

Last year we had a FOCUS party, and for some reason the memory of it keeps playing in my brain. We all got together, watched the season finale of American Gladiator, played Guesstures, and ate chips. A pretty simple evening spent with a lot of great people. But my favorite part, the part that seems to be on repeat, is when we were all laying on our bellies, scattered across the floor listening to Jack Johnson while it rained outside. I'm not going to say I live for those moments. But I do cherish them. It's like they're tucked away safely in the back of my mind, touched by no one. I like that.

So who's the girl wearing my dress?

The other day I posted a survey on Facebook that described twenty-five random things about my life. I failed to mention that from the time I was five until the time I was fifteen (nineteen), I firmly believed that I could specifically remember being inside my mother's womb. I remember the colors, the sounds, and thinking to myself, "I'm ready, world." This is all a bit far-fetched, and it's more plausible that it was a dream rather than a real life occurrence, but a part of me still believes that I was an exceptionally rare infant.

I also failed to mention that almost every week I would perform a nightly news segment or some form of puppet show or palm reading. All of these things involved our ab cruncher, a sheet, handmade tickets, dimmed lights, and a legal pad full of jokes. One puppet show in particular featured a large piece of white faux-fur accessorized with google-eyes and a pipe cleaner mouth. The gist of the story line was that my Ken Doll was going through puberty and started growing hair in every nook and cranny on his body at a rapid pace. He eventually turned into a white monster and went crazy.




But one of the things I did mention in the survey was that I am, and probably always will be, a big cry baby. Seldom a week goes by where I don't cry at least once. It's not necessarily that I'm terribly upset, or that I'm terribly sad, but I just cry. Most of the time the tears are unnecessary. Like when I'm watching The Office, or listening to music, or staring out my window. It's all pretty cheesy. I do it anyway.

This is going somewhere.

Last night my friend and I went to see the good ol' rom-com He's Just Not that Into You. It was predictable. It had some serious logic flaws. There were some funny parts and parts that made me hate my gender. If anything, it was two hours and nine minutes of sugary sweetness. Nothing satisfying or Oscar-worthy, but then again, we weren't expecting anything brilliant.

But I was so embarrassed that I started to cry towards the end. Like, I literally stomped my foot in protest. As we were leaving the theater I told my friend that even though I could have told her the ending from the opening credits, that the entire basis of the movie was a bunch of relationship garbage, that the movie played up stereotypes and hokey lines, I cried. I cried like a little girl.

I guess it's because somewhere deep down inside my overwhelmingly girlish heart I want my life to play out like a movie. I have faith in my ability to distinguish reality from fantasy, but every once in awhile I get caught up in the idea that relationships should be simple and cute and fuzzy and easy. I trap myself by giving my mind away so easily. So, so easily. It's a scary thing to do, actually. Scary and dangerous. My mind of all things.

For the past nineteen years I've always kept my heart guarded. I haven't been in love, and my outlook on romantic relationships leans towards pessimistic. I have very little faith in people. And it's difficult, you know? It's difficult to have these hopelessly romantic ideas about the future, but to have an outlook that's so negative. Just call me Delainey Downer.

Maybe "negative" or "pessimistic" aren't the exact words. They aren't even close, truthfully.

I have come to no greater knowledge about this situation. If anything it's that I've come to realize that I'm constantly thinking about dating, or guys, or the way guys perceive me. I understand that relationships aren't supposed to come wrapped up nicely in a box. I understand that maybe I'm talking out of my ass when I'm trying to give my grand philosophy about love. And I understand that I have to be patient. That doesn't make it any less of a struggle.

No perfect conclusion. Just a trip. Kind of messy. Kind of not. So it goes.

"I just want you to be more than that. You have got to be the voice inside your head and heart that makes the choice to be louder than the one that tells you what's wrong with you, what is supposed to happen, that relationships should be simple and cute and fuzzy and easy. It is a choice. Be louder with the truth than the world with its lies."

(Again, thank you.)

"It's just the wind, Arthur!"

Wouldn't you believe it? At 11: 35 pm on Friday night we decided to move.

To get up and move. So we left the dorm, got in the car, and drove five hours to Charleston.

We saw the sunrise on the beach.

The beach.

Maybe I'll expound on this later.

But, lord, I'm so happy I got to see the beach.

There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind.

I turned nineteen the other day. I practically have one foot in the grave.

I also refuse to believe that I'm paying $19,000 a year to learn how to make bar graphs. My teacher, Mr. Grubbs, is a man of very, very small stature. He talks very slowly and stands on his tip-toes to reach the top of the board. I'm pretty sure he's the nicest teacher I've ever had. Ever.

I'm also pretty sure I'll minor in Appalachian Studies. Because seriously, I don't want to leave the south. Except when I come back when I'm twenty-one to get my drink on at the Thirsty Turtle.

I spelled it "tirtle."

There's something sad about not writing for awhile. Refusing to write. There have been things on my mind, like always, but I'm finding that I have little to no patience for writing. I love it. Don't get me wrong. I mean, I'm majoring in Creative Writing. But that doesn't really mean anything. I don't have the patience of a writer. I don't have the skill or determination to sit down and pound out a novel.

So I throw all of these thoughts together. There's no point for transitions. Maybe for papers. Maybe not. It isn't apathy. I swear. Cross my heart. Maybe it's time. Maybe it's talent. Maybe.

Most days I just have the desire to hammock. Hammock and drink sweet tea and get diabetes. Or play the harmonica. Or climb mountains. Or boulder. But mostly get diabetes.

"I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"

My brother is an artist.
He is creative.
Images rattle around in his brain.
He makes.



I'm so proud.

Hey, ain't it great for us to be alive?

I could write a small novel about the things I witnessed last night. The tight pants. The plaid shirts. The keffiyehs. The beards. The music. In general, hipsters hating the fact that someone might be enjoying something. Anything. But, for the life of me, the only thing I can clearly remember, besides the smell of cat piss and cigarette smoke, is this girl's perm. A perm.




Perm.





I'm probably just jealous.

She had really cute clothes.


gladkingonowhere (11:29:16 PM): But it is tiring to constantly be reminded that you're not as cool as someone who hasn't taken a bath in days and is fickle as the wind.
gladkingonowhere (11:29:39 PM): And be reminded of that from that person.