P.P.S. Let's make out.

Dear BootsandBirdcages:

Am terribly sorry I haven’t posted in ages. Life, you know. It likes to kick people in their most important bits. To be honest, I’ve been a bit disillusioned with the idea of posting again on a blog I’ve abandoned for so long. It's as if I've become one of those parents who pretend they have no child until one morning they find Jesus in a piece of toast and realize that they can’t fill the baby-shaped emptiness in their soul with cocaine and cigarettes.


That's why criminals don't return to the scenes of their crimes. It smells like shame and poor decisions.


Also, they might accidentally step on one of the pointy, broken-off pieces of their soul they've left behind. And really- who leaves bits of fucking soul just LYING around, waiting to be stepped on?


Inconsiderate bastards, that's who. That shit hurts worse than Lego. Asshole.


Definition of shame: Imagine successfully ninja-ing out before dawn after a one-night-stand, making it home, sneaking back into your bedroom without even waking your parents up, finally drifting off into that special,extra-restful type of sleep only people with no morals or sense of responsibility can really achieve...

.... and then realizing you don't have your wallet. Or your ID. Because they're still under some fucking car seat. In a town about an hour away that you have no reason to go back to. 

... And you're going to have to explain this somehow to your parents, because you don't have your own car yet because you're still a damned teenage idiot...

...

... It happened to a friend of mine.

... 

So I guess what I’m saying is sorry? For, y’know, abandoning you for months.

Roses mean I love you more than paying rent

Here, I got you flowers.

...

PS. Ur hot :)

Maybe in my next dream, I'll be in rehab.

My day went splendidly today. I woke up from a weirdly-realistic dream in which I was about to get my ass handed to me in little, bite-sized pieces by a bunch of angry mobsters because I was too stupid not to wander into their crime scene. To be fair, I’d had an exceptionally shitty dream-day- my brother somehow crippled one of my friends at the bottom of a ski hill and blamed me, and then no one let me drink the beer I bought to fill up the gaping despair-hole I developed as a healthy coping mechanism. Of course, the only rational response to THAT was to become a raging drug-fiend and steal wads of money from a bunch of unfortunately well-connected crack-addicts. And then wander back into “their turf” because I was tired and had forgotten my favourite shirt (worst day ever) at home which I clearly saw had been broken into and WENT IN ANYWAY because what’s the worst that could happen?

Then I woke up on someone else’s couch. I think I spent ten full minutes glorying in the fact that I hadn’t been hacked apart by drug dealers. It’s an exhilarating feeling, not being hacked apart by drug dealers. Makes you feel alive.

Thing is, I'm one of those nutbars people who believe in things my dad might refer to as “New-Agey voodoo crap.” I even keep a dream diary YEAH. I’M ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. I’m usually very present and involved in my dreams, which mean I tend to remember them vividly. So strangely complicated dreams unnerve me- little details somehow seem extra-important, and I end up feeling like there’s something I’m missing out on, like a warning or a useful bit of insight. Still, I haven’t really put a lot of effort or thought into dream analysis- I mainly keep the dream diary because of how useful it is for creative writing- so I’m taking the “ignorance is bliss” approach to this. That seems the smartest thing to do, right?

In other news, I started running again. Not very far or fast, and probably with the worst technique since that Friends episode where Rachael tries to take Phoebe running with her, but I’m giving myself a unicorn sticker and a bunch of sparkly eye shadow for effort.

Study sessions are no place for Miley Cyrus.

Why the fuck am I listening to such terrible music? The *hell* is wrong with me? I’m pretty sure I’m not on any illegal drugs right now. There is no excuse for Miley Cyrus at 1:30 AM unless there is some heavy drinking going down. I AM AT DENNYS DOING HOMEWORK AND LISTENING TO HORRIBLE FUCKING MUSIC AT 1:30 AM. SWEET. LOOK HOW ROCKIN’ I AM, EVERYONE.

...

Eh. Bit of an angry re-entry into blogging regularity, but I’ll make up for it in a day or so. I’ll blog about fairies or something like that. Glass-half-full types of things. Right now, I feel like someone pooped in my head.

Is a shitty feeling.

.... ha.

BACK FROM THE DEAD. I work at a fruit stand now. Go me.

I know. I wanted to blog at least a few times a week, but apparently I suck at regularity. My “time of the month” is whenever God wants to fuck up my workout schedule. Just for funsies I cramped up for an extra week this month. It was awesome. Those “Turbofire” workouts are so much better when you can’t lift your legs without spraining your ovaries.

Anyhoo.

Am cold. I work at a fruit stand. It’s not completely outside, but it’s missing a wall and has a massive walk-in cooler that takes up a full quarter of the store. Awesome in the summer. Kind of like living next door to Antarctica in the Fall. I’m pretty happy there is basically no fruit left besides apples, pears, squashy tomatoes and pumpkins- there’s nothing left in the cooler to go hunt for. I’m starting to enjoy that crushed look people get when I get to tell them their entire day is ruined because “I’m sorry, we don’t have any plums left.” THEY’VE TURNED LEFT FOR NOTHING! THIS FRUIT STAND IS A LIE!

Oh, by the way. We don’t have any plums left because I ate them all. You can have an apple, though. Mmmm. Hollow substitutes are delicious.

...

P.S. Also, I think I have pink-eye. Or eye cancer. Jesus Christ, this is a fun day. I’M DYING OF SOMETHING STUPID.

Nobody laugh at me.

Meh. Not like I really needed mine anyway.

YEE-HAW!

BREAKING NEWS: BRAS CAUSE BREAST CANCER!

New studies! Scientists! Toxins! There is research backing this!

`

"three out of four women who wore their daytime bras to sleep contracted breast cancer"

- STATISTICS

Saggy tits? Blame your parents!

- New Jersey College of Medicine (a REAL place!)

http://www.chetday.com/breastcancerandbras.htm

*THE MORE YOU KNOW*

Just because I CAN, doesn't mean I WANNA

I need to shut the hell up. For some reason it really bothers me when I'm the most outspoken one in the room- I feel like I'm talking too much. It's like that idea that there's always someone in each class who just keeps going on and on and won't let the class progress because the world will cease to exist if they don't get every little thought out of their heads. I feel like I border on being that person, even though I try only to contribute to what's actually being said, and I try to make sure there's absolutely no one else who wants to say anything before I raise my hand at all. I'm not that bad of a public speaker- I don't get twitchy or sweaty, and I've never been prone to fainting or even getting a bit light-headed. Being in front of a group of people makes me uncomfortable, but I'm usually okay about it- I've always kind of thought being in grade 10 drama class was the height of any public embarrassment I'll ever experience, so why get upset about sharing an actual opinion or reading off a piece of paper at the front of a room? It can't be any worse than improv-ing something so awkwardly even the teacher feels bad for making you go on stage. I honestly think people who do stand-up are some of the bravest people in existence. I've got a friend who started doing it recently, and he's brilliant at it- I'd love to have that kind of stage presence. Somehow I always end up feeling bad for saying anything. Although I've heard that might be why comedians are so good at their jobs- because they already know how much everything sucks, and they give up on silly things like feeling bad about it. That's a frigging awesome way to look at everything. But I still hate saying things in class. I'm too suspicious of everyone in the room to trust they're not willing me to shut up silently, and I'm too insecure to not care about it at all. Apparently my head is still in grade 5.

... like pregnancy, but without that awful baby-part.

WHAT?!

It should not be possible for someone to eat an entire 2 lb bag of baby carrots in half an hour. Seriously, who the hell gets "carrot cravings?"

... and am now feeling a bit like a bloated rabbit. Because of fucking CARROTS. THE HELL?

This is why I don't keep peanut butter around. Or soy cheese.