Lock In

It's a shame to see all of the video stores in town shut down, losing to those little red kiosks, satellite dishes, and the great and glorious Netflix. My own soon-to-be fifty-five year old mother is a big fan of Red Box. I'll admit, seeing box office hits for $1 is pretty great...whenever they actually have them. But there's another side to Red Box--a B-side. B-rated movies that is. Tonight, I sat at home with my mom (as most college kids do on Friday nights) and watched Buried, a Ryan Reynolds flick that came out last year that somehow got a 7.2 on IMDb. It's basically, scratch that, exactly 95 minutes of a sweaty, bleeding, dirty (sounds hot, but it's not) Reynolds stuck in a coffin by Iraqi criminals, (and the US isn't portrayed as too helpful).

Anyways, for once in your life, Ryan Reynolds isn't the point of this story. The point is, it reminded me of my own claustrophobic episode as a child.

My mom remarried when I was five. Upon parting for her honeymoon, she left my twelve year old cousin in charge, along with my seventy-six year old, hard of hearing grandmother.

We spent the evening under a fort of sheets, giggling at our grandmother's lioness snoring. I didn't actually know if lions snored or not, but it's how I described it at the time. I'm certain it was a fantastic day overall, but I honestly can't give truthful details because the trauma of the night consumes the rest of my memory.

Do you recall the Chokey from Matilda?

I do.
(^That's called foreshadowing.)

--No, my aging grandma did not put us in some sort of iron maiden torture cabinet.
...we did.

And the torture cabinet came in the form of my own closet. Three-quarters of the 2X3 space was filled with a bookshelf. The rest was crammed with various ingredients to a little girl's My Little Pony fantasies, or whatever the hell it was I liked when I was a brat. And we were playing some game, running in and out of the closet.

It was all fine and dandy till we forgot the broken doorknob, and locked ourselves in.

Looking back, perhaps my cousin was closetphobie, 'cause immediately she was screaming and freaking the crap out. I, being so young, remained calm and collected.

But it didn't help. Cassie yelled and cried for, say, seven hours straight. I, being the princess I was (we'll save that for another blog), took a nap. Somewhere in the middle of my slumber, her screaming woke me up...along with my bladder. But don't worry. I was well-equipped.

Yeahhhhhhhh....

Anyways, with a little nap and a comfortable tummy, my brain got-a-goin'.

Of course, as if we were some Mafia house-breaking pros, this worked after about fifteen seconds and we raced to the other side of the house, where Grams was just getting out of bed, returning her hearing aids to their proper home.

I then left for a sequel.

It's Closin' Time.

It's that time again. The time where I hand over my $75 key to the RA, forever leaving behind Room 415C. Chills run down my spine as I take a last glance at the room that's been home to me since August. Those chills go through my cold heart and are pumped right down to my filthy fingertips, ready to chomp away at those online professor evaluations. 

For three months I leave behind my companions of Farris Hall et al. I will miss my bros dearly. I'd say I'll get to visit them soon, but I will be out of the country for five weeks…so maybe not.

On that note, it's time to introduce you to another triple C (close companion from college). When Alissa isn't sending me off the edge, it's thanks to my wise, green-haired Mexican. Yeah, I bet you've never been able to say that. Meet Melissa, and all she had to say regarding my nearing voyage (that's francais for trip) to Nova Scotia:

I've never been told such sage advice whilst eating lunch, not even from a fortune cookie. She's absolutely right. Which is why I'm not depressed about leaving my empty room at all.

I'M FUCKING FREE!

 FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST, 

THANK GOD ALMIGHTY I AM FREE AT LAST!

I was often told as a freshman that sophomore year is the absolute worst. They weren't kidding. While I've had more dreadful things happen to me in my life, I've never had a more terrible year as a whole. 

A year of physical ails, boy drama, greek drama, geek drama, family drama, friend drama, professor trauma, stress, tests, mental wars, a horde of suicide-planners, facing childhood flashbacks, financial excursions, and on top of everything else, being fucking late for a Gogol Bordello concert, and my body almost didn't make it. Despite these hardships, and the fact that I didn't learn anything I was supposed to be learning this year, I did take note of a few simple rules.

What I've Learned in College:

1. Standing up for what's right is more important than reputations. 
2. People are more important than grades.
3. Grades are more important than video games. Except sometimes. Sometimes, video games are more important than grades. 

I feel like those are valuable life lessons, perhaps even worthy of #214, #215, and #216. 

But college isn't all bad, and it's eventually worthwhile, if not for anything but the fact that you're then classified as now more "qualified" than someone else. I'd say more, but today I've got some eternal sleep to be catching up on, and a six year old to look after.

Yeah, I'm not so sure of his future profession either. But it doesn't matter. Now all that matters is the future of my magnificent summer, and the fact that the reign of Professor Jafar is over.

So now, I'm going to kick back, relax, and maybe étudie un peu le français in preparation for my fantastic trip in a week and a half. Until then, and I never thought I'd say this, I am:

Home sweet home.

The Neverending Story: A Tale of Three Notches

A month or two ago, I received a fortune cookie that said, "it is a silly fish that is caught twice with the same bait." Now, I know what you skeptics are thinking: psh, fortune cookies. I agree with you when it comes to most Chinese take-out. However, what you must realize is that this was no ordinary Chinese take-out. I drove all the way across town one day to buy a couple of fortunes for my friend and myself from this place. It has predicted a good number of things, including at least one pregnancy announcement.

Well…It was fucking right. [As a matter of fact, the only time I've gotten one from this place that hasn't made sense was when it told me something about a new pair of shoes might be a good idea. Then again, that may have something to do with the enormous holes in my everyday but-not-made-for-everyday flats.]

Segway back: It all hit me last night. I had made a deal with the devil, also known as the ex-boyfriend, yet again involving currency. This comes to Life Lesson #43: Never, ever let someone, particularly of the opposite sex, particularly if you've ever had sex, borrow money. This time it really is my foolish mistake, but for some reason, I thought I could he would be mature enough to handle it. I would say more on the matter, but I'm currently plotting my viscous revenge--my favorite game with him is to pretend to be a psychobitch (then again, does pretending to be one make you one?)--and I can't possibly have it spoiled. 

As for Life Lesson #57: Never continue to be friends with an ex that you don't actually like. Don't do it for amusement, and no experiment is worth it. I was lucky enough when the first two moved away. 

Perhaps you get where this is going. Perhaps you don't. I'm one of the latter.

You've been introduced to one of the main people in my life already in my previous blog. And I still agree you can generally judge a person by the people they choose to spend their time with. So, today we continue the series with: 

Bad Choices: One Female's Love(less) Life

Here's the part where I tell you I'm a cradle Catholic. Now, what that babble really means is that I was hatched in a cage whose bars prevent me from being the reckless child I was born to be. If you've ever seen Robinhood: Men In Tights, you might recall the iron chastity belt worn by Maid Marian. Basically, I had a full body chastity belt that said I couldn't date until I was sixteen. 

Enter Chris: The MySpace Age. I added him. We had mutual friends, and he seemed kind of interesting. I did my research, quoted some lyrics from a mutual favorite band through IM, and bam! he wanted me to be his "baby boo."

Chris is one of the whitest guys I know, but I'm pretty positive he thought he was the next Eminem. There is just something wrong about listening to A Fine Frenzy and BET's  current hit on the same mixed tape. Let me make a correction: CD, because this guy was a technology guru, and I have to keep my shit up to date.

Other than the fact that he became a high school dropout shortly after we started "dating," Chris seemed like a great guy (in his defense, he went back for his GED). As a Catholic, I was proud of finding a newly 19 year old guy who was totally against drinking, smoking, and drugs. Actually, he was really obsessed with sex, something that I think was correlated with him being an ex-fatty, but he never tried to pressure my abstaining-til-marriage self.

Having said that, because of his moral choices, he turned out to be more than a bit self-righteous. He, indeed, thought that every one of his choices in life made him some sort of god, since he certainly didn't believe in one. He claimed to be agnostic back in the day, but I feel like even then he had way too much of an opinion to be one of those "don't cares." This is the point where I like to drop in the irony of the meaning of names. 

Chris means Bearer of Christ.

HA. As if. I've never met a meaner atheist. I try to be one of those, everyone is entitled to their own opinion, people. However, I can't stand when someone is making fun of another person's beliefs. This guy spent his time posting bulletins online that made fun of bible quotes and all that jazz--drove me mad. He would also write long posts about how much he hated all of his different ex-girlfriends, and why. [It's funny; months later, all he said on my name was, "don't know what happened there, I see you with dude in Best Buy occasionally and you seem happy," or something like that.]

I guess that ruins that story, though hopefully you assumed there were more boys to come. Probably not because I make myself look like a total douche by saying you can judge a person by who they choose to hang out with, and then continue to explain how terrible some of them are. Anyways, it was not some religious argument that ended that beautiful relationship; really, we never went into that subject. 

I have Crohn's disease, and so for days I barely talk to him as I lay in bed sick. He gets agitated. Also, at this point, I still hadn't actually kissed him. Yeah, I was sweet sixteen and had never been kissed, give me a break. I think the combination probably pushed him off the edge to MySpace message me, saying may we should break up.

Most girls cry when they get dumped by their first boyfriend, but not me. What he didn't know is days before that I was literally sitting at a chair Googling how to break up with your boyfriend. I mean, it was terrible. Seeing that message in my inbox sent me jumping up and down on my bed with glee--again, literally. 

And thus came the end of the Three Week Reign of the Egotistical Bastard. Other than the occasionally computer question within my year warranty of breakup and a few times of him hitting on me, I haven't said much sense. He blocked me on MySpace after I called out his religious assholery, and then three and a half years later on Facebook for no reason whatsoever.

That was over winter break of my Junior year. Skip now to the summer, if you will, where I got my first job at our local Cinemark. Not many females worked at the theater, so all 'dem boys were tryin' to get 'em some. The competition was fierce, and out of all the nice boys there were, I went for the dorkiest one, and it probably had something to do with the fact that he was a good friend of one of my good friends. 

Enter Ian: The High School Employment Age. For once, I didn't have to do the work. I mean, I showed him where to get the best shaved ice in town, but in between an 8 AM employee meeting and our shift at 5 PM, he drug me around town and we spent hours at the Fun Park. Talk about free go-cart rides, 'cause he used to work there. 

It's funny I mentioned Men in Tights, because we watched that with his mother one night; that was kind of awkward. His family loved me, he loved me, I was overwhelmed. I guess I'll give him the sweetest award, since he knew what to say, and meant it. He played bass for a shitty "metal" band, fluttered around on the soccer field, and his face was covered in an acne mine-field. (That's mean, but look, we're talking about ex-boyfriends, here.) He still stole that first real kiss, so chill. 

Did I mention he was an ex-pothead? When I say pothead, I mean he was one of those "oh, but I'll quit for you" guys. One of those, "I only do it on special occasions anyways" guys. You know, to this day I don't know if he really did or didn't. Until more towards the end, that is. One day he came into work, prefacing me that he "accidentally" took too much of some medicine, and "not to be mad." Multiple times throughout the months, when he thought I might break up with him, he begged me not to.

This is where I'll add that all three of the guys that I've "dated" liked me a whole lot more than I liked them, but I don't have trouble figuring out why nowadays. 

Then there was this week where I really didn't see him…then out of nowhere he text me if I thought we should stay together, since in a few months we'd be graduating and he didn't want us to get more attached. It was November. I knew something was up, but he repeatedly told me it was only because of that. Of course, the day after we're technically broken up, he has a new girlfriend, and he'd been talking to her for a couple of weeks. 

Life Lesson #82: Don't assume the new girl is clever. As soon as you both realize he's been playing you both, and you share your anger, she will stay with him. She won. Honeychild is a dumb fuck. 

BECAUSE:

Life Lesson #13: If he'll do it for you, he'll do it to you. 

Now to my favorite part: Ian means God is Forgiving, but it ain't never said nothin' about Karen being forgiving. Despite the fact that graduation was only a couple of months away, silly mop-head tried to convince me to get back with him. But that was back in my smart days. I knew better back then. 

Ian had once drove around town going to various different stores until he found the fluffiest bear he could, as a present to me. When I found out he'd lied about the girl, I stabbed Mr. WhatthefuckeverIannamedhim and returned it to him after a failed attempted punch to the face. I guess I didn't have the heart to actually hurt the idiot. But he told me I "didn't have to do that to the bear." I'm sure he would've liked to regift it to the fifteen year old who would actually smoke pot with him. 

And thus came the end of the Three Months and Three Weeks Reign of the Acne-Faced Pothead. He's states away nowadays and I recently broke down and added him on Facebook, thinking I'd see what he's up to…and it's the same exact thing. He recently commented on some of my statuses. Don't come at me, bro. At least get some ProActiv first. 

You can go ahead and skip a year. And a half. That's right. I didn't get another "opportunity" until around spring break of freshman year of college. And as a matter of fact, I had a better choice of a guy this time around--I usually did. But this time it was obvious.

There was this sweet, smart, fun guy at my school who liked me. And I know this comes down to the, here we go again, girls always go for the bad guys, but in my defense, time really wasn't in that relationship's favor. There was only a month left of school, filled with stress and tests, and then for three months we'd be four hours apart, and that simply didn't sound like a thrilling way to start a stable relationship. 

Oh God. Here it comes…enter…Matt…Nelson…: The Facebook Age. Let's just get it over with. Matthew means Gift from God. This is when I knew, whoever came up with these name meanings was a sarcastic asshole. There is no such thing as a good Matt. Except one. I have found one out of the thirty I've known. 

Matt was the epitome of evil, and I knew it up front. He'd tried to commit suicide, he'd been in a mental hospital, he'd been to jail, he had stolen things, he'd been addicted to cocaine. Matt didn't have a job and Matt wasn't in school. Matt lived with his rich parents and drank every. damn. day. Matt chain-smoked even though he just had lung surgery. Matt slept in bed with his white, overweight pitbull, Lola. Matt was a 19 year old divorcé because his wife of two months cheated on him with his friend, so he cheated on her back with his friend's girlfriend, then he brought his wife a cake. Matt writes shitty ska lyrics, and his best friend is the guy who ruined his marriage. If you wanna ruin your life, who you gonna call? Matt Nelson. 

I date this man-child for a month before he decides he still has feelings for the girl he cheated on his wife with. That was the Thursday before finals, freshman year. Matt liked sending me "cute" pictures of him doing shit when we dated. The following weekend, Matt sent me a picture of him crying saying he was sorry for breaking up with me, would I please talk to him when I came home. Then he didn't really talk to me for a few days. And then when I came home, he was all up in my grille. 

He tried to get me to go back out with him, but I stayed strong. Kind of; I was bored, it was summer. Things were headed back to normal when he started going out with some other girl. When she wouldn't have sex with him during the week and a half they dated, she broke up with him, and he came back to me. That school year and summer is when I started having a personality change. I'd been exposed to a lot at college, and a lot outside of college. My values changed, and not because of him, I'd add. I still hadn't had sex with the guy either. But let it be known that it was around this time that I turned whatever small part of me that originally had a single spark of interest in the guy, turned into a kind of...experiment. 

Again, we had this off and on thing until he became interested in yet another girl, an older woman--turns out, he quickly realized she wasn't immediately interested in him. Did I mention I lent this guy money? A…lot of money? Like, a thousand dollars money? No, I'm not selling drugs, and yes, I'm an overtrusting idiot. So he came back. And then…she was interested, but this time I'd decided I was ready to drop all the bars and zippers, and let me tell you, it is overrated. So of course I was pissed when he began ignoring me as soon as I returned from an out of town trip. How the hell can a psychologist perform an experiment with a mute human? It ruined the point of any time I had wasted with him. I don't even know when they started dating, but I can say for two months the girl, a now friend, was on my side and had him saving his money to repay me. Then she dumped him, and then there was silence.

Except for the occasional times I came home from college, as it's now the fall semester in the story, and picked up money from him, and yes, he would hit on me--despite the fact that "neither" of us were attracted to one another. Yet it wasn't until Christmas break that I fell into that spiral again. But this time it was, at least supposed to be, cleaner, as this time, neither of us wanted a relationship anymore. We understood each other, or at least I, him. I'd buy stuff for him off the internet since he, obviously, didn't have a credit card, and he'd repay me--which is exactly where this rant began. We went to a concert together and we'd hang out. Basically, I was super nice to him because, that's just who I am, and he was mostly an asshole to me because, that's just who he is. I wanted to see if filling a person with kindness would maybe let some seep out of an asshole. I was attempting to do him a favor, if anything.

You can say astrology is a bunch of hooey (my best friend from high school used to be really into it), but one time I compared our birthdays in a relationship book and it said, and I quote, "it is quite possible for covert or illicit Cancer III-Virgo I affairs to continue for years, causing pleasure and pain alternately, but never either enough pain to break it off or enough pleasure to entice the partners into a permanent arrangement or marriage." Not a joke.

So this yearlong reign of non-beneficial friends by The Boy Who Thought a Cake Would Save His Marriage (as I like to call him) is finally coming to an end--as soon as he pays me off this last time. I guess I kept him around to see how much I could ruin my life in my boredom, and really as an experiment. It would be fun to play games that he didn't know we were playing. I'm a psychology major. It's what I do. I plan stimuli, I watch reactions. But don't do what I did. It's not worth it. You end up seventy bucks short with high blood pressure and ulcers in your stomach. 

I guess you've done the math of only three guys in the four permitted years, and that technically…I haven't been in an actual relationship more than six months of my life. I suppose I'd say I was ashamed if I were, but I'm not. I'm one of them strong, independent lady types. Since then, a few brave knights (who should have brought Siberian huskies, I'mma sucker) have tempted to tame the damsel, but they're mostly scared off by my intensive paranoia and early-on shy nature. Alissa says it's too bad that guys don't stick around longer. It takes time, but my greater qualities eventually turn up and stay, after they've cracked my "Cancerian" shell. Unless you're Matt Nelson. Then I just get my laughs out of convincing you I'm

MEGAPSYCHOBITCH.

So, about that whole, you can tell what a person's like by the people they choose to be around…I don't know if that's particularly true. But I do know I can't get out of here without addressing my own name's meaning: Pure. That's a joke now, too. 

I've tried those so-called greener grasses, and nothing's been as fun as it's cut out it be.

Except cursing like a fucking sailor. Now that's fun. 

Otherwise, all you need from the wild side is a glass or two of wine, chocolate, a back massage, and maybe just one hidden tattoo in a foreign language. Now you're classy. 

Oddly enough, after I wrote all of this and left my dorm room for the day--my nearly spotless, empty room I'm checking out of tonight--I found another fortune. It came out of nowhere, just chilling at the foot of my bed. It said, "To a wise man, everyday is a new life."

I should interpret this as a sign that I should not attempt to completely ruin my "ex-boyfriend's" life. But you see, that old proverb can be taken both directions. So, I simply spoke to the little slip of paper, "Why, yes. Yes it is."

<3<3<3

So you want a half-decent-looking female chock-full of kindness, a wit, and a killer sense of humor--that won't cheat on you?

[Just don't mistreat me where I'll transfigure your ass into a lab rat.]

Welcome.

Have you ever wondered where that word came from, aside from a medieval version of willed comer? (No comments, kiddos.) All those placemats? (By the way, autocorrect wanted me to say "placentas.") Is it like, "well, come on in old boy!"?

Well, come on in to the Internet's brightest, finest, freshest, au courant blog not on the market. That's right--I just popped this byte of cyberspace's cherry. Glad the gang could join in. 

Blogged, I have before. (And only recently have I finally experienced Star Wars, stormtroopers.) If you've followed me here, which you haven't, you'll know I tend to go off on side tangents: note that [brackets] and (parentheses) are red flags for said digression. I'm starting a new one because I finally have a title for the project I've been thinking about for a while--that is, obnoxiously, egotistically turning my life into collection of various kinds of media online. Though you should know this is more for me than you; I am in hypochondriactic belief that my 2.5-months-from-twenty year old body has Alzheimer's (and I don't take that disease lightly, mind you).

You, hopefully, can see the adroit title of this blog above. If you like it, I totally thought of it myself. If you think it's the dumbest shit ever, ma meilleur amie from college actually thought of it. I'll break the rules of creative writing and go extra-expository on you, giving you unnecessary auxiliary information: the reasoning for the pun of the title relates to the fact that I have been ad nauseum told that I look like the lead from My Life as Liz, an awkward show on MTV. 

My intentions, by the way, of these abhorrent, italicized "a" words (along with an occasionally French term you'll soon enough know the point of) is a mockery. I'm not actually an asshole. Then again, maybe I am. 

So the plan here is simple: turn my life into an electronic diary, if you will. A modern day version of Anne Frank. --Too soon?-- You could call me out as an asshole for not frankly saying blog, but that's not all this will be. Videos, drawings, memes, words, pictures--this is more than just a blog. This is the closest thing I'll ever have to a magnum opus. This is my precious. So follow me through technology.

Let's get to know each other a bit. I hear you can judge a person (because we're all God here in America, yeah?) based on who they spend their time with; after all, like they say, you choose your friends…right? And here at a university in the south, I spend three-quarters of my time stuck to the hip of whoever I got landed with as a roommate freshman year. Therefore, meet previously mentioned best (college) friend, Alissa:

While this comes off as posed, I assure you it was entirely genuine. I did, however, preface the video with: give me a sentence that sums up both your personality and our entire relationship. What happened next was: "Actually, I don't really feel like a Frosty. I'd really like to, you know, go to Sonic, where they have those mini-things--" her hands make a measurement about the size of her rat, Pedro "--you know…those…mini-things…"

I stopped Alissa right then and there. I had just taken my Psychology Research Methods final a mere four hours before, and I knew all about the foot-in-the-door technique. [I'm not even making that up. It's a real thing. Wikipedia it.] I was not falling for that trap; it had gone from 99 cents to Elaine-Stricht-knows-how-much. 

There you have it. My relationship with my BFF correlates with how much money she makes a jobless college student spend, along with how much she can make fun of her order in the Quiznos line--only to be knocked down by my psychopathic genes and words of spite. 

From now on, after this overweight first born child of an intro entry, I'll do my best to be a strong Solomon and trim the tasty fat off the edges, so you're more likely to bear with me till the end. Who knows? Maybe I'll have a story worth telling.