Sir Digby Chicken Ceasar

I am really good at naming things.  Like, really really good.  With just one look I can tell you if a name is interesting or as boring as plastic-flavored pudding.  I have put my talents to use and started making a list of names so I am ready for the people, animals, or nameless vagrants I may need them for in the future.  I select these names based on the following criteria: how unusual it is, how fun it is to say five times fast, and how many nicknames I can make it into.  Names I’ve already come up with:

• My future dog: Sir Digby Chicken Caesar

• My future son: Ashley (after that guy from gone with the wind)

• My future fish: Rothbart or Doofinshmurtz

• My future daughter: Persephone

• My future husband (who will have to legally change his name): Bartholomew Safari Stevens

• My future cat: Kitty

Some people with boring names like Jane, Todd, Lance, Josie, or Tim (to name a few random ones), might be jealous of my superior names (I mean, come on, they are pretty fantastic).  But jealousy will not make their names less boring.  If a person is insecure about their dreary, washed-up names, if they have names, for instance, like John, Todd, Lance, Josie, or Sue (to put some totally random examples), they do have options that will help them heal.   There are, of course, ways to legally change your name to something more interesting, but if someone has neither the time nor the recourses to make the change, I’m sure there are all kinds of support groups that help people cope with their dull as dirt names.  If there aren’t support groups available, I may consider making it my life’s mission to start one.  It’s a noble cause that would relieve unnecessary suffering everywhere.

Besides, until I have my name legally changed to Castalia Euphrosyne Smith, I could use some healing too.

No Listening, Please

My friend and I were walking to campus today and we passed my religion teacher who said hi and remembered my name, which I thought was nice of him.  The timing of the encounter was not so great, however, because my friend and I were discussing the details of the January sale at Victoria’s Secret.  This may not have been as much of a problem if I didn’t naturally have one of the loudest voices ever, especially when I am discussing something I’m interested in.  No, really, it’s embarrassing.  My friends are considered loud people but they often need to remind me to please not shout in the movie theater.  Even polite people (you know, those girls who won’t say anything even remotely mean unless they look at their feet while they do it) will occasionally ask me to quiet down.

I don’t think I’m the sort of person who is bawdy, tawdry, or generally naughty, *snigger* but I do have pretty bad timing.  In situations like these I usually cope by imagining how it could have been worse.  For example: 

Other things that are not so great to be caught talking about in front of your religion teacher:

1.          How many times you have skipped church this month.
2.         Awkward moments in the girl’s locker room.
3.      Your lifelong goal to never spend more than half an hour writing your religion papers
4.     Your religion teacher.

And I’d like to end this post with a link to a youtube video that is hilarious (the video, not the link):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13RhSc-DaOI

Rambling

It’s the week before finals at long last.  That means I’m going online to do homework but really looking at blogs/facebook/pictures of dogs wearing hats.  Whatever I’m doing, I’m glad I’m not outside.  It’s cold outside!  People always ask me (like, every day.  It’s kinda weird) if I prefer being too hot or too cold.  When I say too cold they always point out that when it’s cold you can always wear a heavier jacket so it’s better to have it too cold.  Bullfeathers. 

Cold is the worst.  Heat just drools on you and makes you way too sleepy, but cold is downright mean.  Every time I go outside in the cold it sticks needles in my eyes and gnaws on my bones like a dog worrying a stick.  The amount of jacket doesn’t matter because the cold here can invade through the slightest kinks making your skin dry and flaky and turning your guts into knife-like shards of ice.  Blech.

This afternoon I wrote a paper for one of my classes (due today) and started another one (due tomorrow), but I was distracted by looking at pictures of me from high school.  They typically range from this:

To this:

To this:

Although thanks to my photographer friend, I do have a few like this:

And now I am continuing to avoid homework by writing this rambling blog post.  I suppose I’d better get started on my paper, which of course is code for “watch a Jimmy Stewart movie on youtube.”

The Pansy Princess and the Action-Flick Chick

I have several different one-dimensional personalities.  They range from “Sara the rapping gangsta” (she’s small, but she’s there) to “Sara the dweeb interested in the etymology of words like ‘phony’.”  These many different personalities often pair up to fight over the decisions I make on a day-to-day basis.  It is a bit like having a legion of shoulder angels.  Two of these personalities have risen to dominate the others on most issues, and they dictate the ways I emotionally respond to all of my problems.  I call them the Pansy Princess and Action-Flick Chick.

Pansy Princess is special.  She was meant for great things, and she knows it.  She just needs someone to go ahead bring her purpose in life to her because she is much too busy napping to find it herself.  Her favorite game is “playing the martyr” wherein she accepts every discomfort as due punishment for something bad she has done.  She spends most of her time in an ivory tower wallowing in self-pity.  Her first solution to most problems is to cry.  Her second is to complain that the tower is drafty and the stairs look a bit too dodgy for climbing down. She is happiest eating Cheese Nips and watching “Arrested Development,” and hates nothing more than getting out of bed.

Action-Flick Chick, unlike Pansy Princess, gets things done, and usually gets them done with grenades.  And machine guns.  And steel-spiked cleats.  She never sleeps and lives only on Dr. Pepper and Fear.  She isn’t around much because she’s too busy starring in hard-core action movies and beating up emo kids, but when she’s here she plays to win.  Her barbaric cry frightens gorillas and her fists know no mercy.   

Action-Flick Chick and Pansy Princess have very different ways of dealing with problems.  For instance:

Problem:  I completely forgot to write my paper that is due today.

Pansy Princess:  If only I had worked on it sooner!  If only I hadn’t spent last night eating Cheese Nips until I passed out!  Woe, woe is me!  I dream of the grave…

Action-Flick Chick:  Whatever.  It’s just a paper.  I bet if I chug some Dr. Pepper I could write that paper in ten minutes with my eyes closed. 

Problem:  A needle went through my foot.

Pansy Princess:  MY FOOT!  It’s practically been cut off!  I’ll probably get gangrene and die!  I- I- I think I’m going to… (Faints)

Action-Flick Chick:  Stupid needle.  Is that the best puncture wound you can inflict?  (Stabs own foot with spear)  See this? This is a REAL puncture wound.  Don’t mess with me, needle.

Problem:  Stuck in a boring movie.

Pansy Princess:  I am a terrible, horrible person and deserve to watch this movie.  It serves me right for accidentally shutting Stacy’s hand into a locker in seventh grade.

Action-Flick Chick:  I wonder how many popcorn kernels I can stick in the hair of the girl in front of me before she notices.  (Answer: all of them, because I am a ninja)

Action-Flick Chick was away for a bit making a movie about an octopus with swords instead of arms, but she came back, tied and gagged Pansy Princess, and drank a six pack of Dr. Pepper and a liter of Coke.  She is currently wrapping Pansy Princess in yard upon yard of cellophane to muffle her sporadic moaning.  I’d better go give her a hand.    

My Keyboard was Probably Lost or Something

I always feel conflicted about my font.  Does Calibri draw people in?  Is Times New Roman dismissed as cliché?  Is Ariel too stand-offish?  I think I need my own personal font.  I’ll have to call the font-designer hotline (I understand they’re like superheroes only much cooler and with better facial hair). 

I’m pretty sure my font is the only reason I slack off with writing and has nothing to do with my laziness or my love of youtube movies (I found two more to watch today).  Maybe I could design my own font:

I feel more professional already!  Now I just need black shoe polish and a monkey and the world will finally see me as a true professional.  Monkeys aren’t usually professional but this one would be because it would be a highly intelligent monkey-servant.  It would be trained to make beds and deep-fried Twinkies.  I could use me one of those right now…  In fact, I really think it’s necessary to my health and well-being.  There are some dark, scary caves of laziness that only a warm, plump Twinkie could tempt me out of.  I’ll have to go in search of one immediately.  There’s bound to be a state fair in driving distance.  I’ll try the state of Verdad first.*

*I should note that Verdad is not a real state but one that I made up.  It exists somewhere between Nevada and my house, and it is always having a state fair.

The Power of Friendship

Anyone who’s seen Charlie, Where the Red Fern Grows, or Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants understands that friendship is a valuable thing.  I learned this lesson anew on a trip I took this summer.  In the terminal, I had the good fortune of sitting near a trio of friends who were taking a vacation together.  I listened in on their conversation and was inspired. 

Actual conversation overheard at airport (names have been changed)

Voldy: Hey, Clover, would you mind watching our stuff while Watson and I go grab some food or something?

Clover: Yeah, that’s fine.  Go ahead.

Voldy: You sure you won’t mind?  We shouldn’t be long.

Clover: It’s fine.  Really.

Watson:  Okay, back in a jiff.

Watson and Voldy leave.  Clover’s phone rings.

Clover: Yeah, I’m at the airport.  No, it’s fine.  I can talk now.  Really, it’s fine.  Yeah, the flight should be on time.  It’s lame, though, because I’m really hungry, but Voldy and Watson left me with all their suitcases.  Yeah, they just left me.  I can’t go anywhere.  I’m just sitting here, bored out of my mind, surrounded by piles and piles of suitcases.  Yeah, they can really be jerks sometimes.  Uh huh.  Uh huh.  Ooh, gotta go; they’re coming back.

Watson:  Thanks, Clover.  Who was that on the phone?

Clover:  My brother.  He just called me, like, out of nowhere.  It’s not like I have better things to do, you know.  He can really be a jerk sometimes.  Is that sandwich for me?

Voldy: Actually, it’s for me.  I usually eat two sandwiches.  But we can watch your things while you get something. 

Clover:  I don’t know… You’re really going to eat both of those sandwiches?

Voldy:  Yeah, I get hungry.

Clover: Okay, yeah, I’ll go get something.

Clover leaves.

Voldy:  Wow.  Did you see that?

Watson:  Yeah, man.  It’s like she couldn’t wait to leave.

Voldy:  She can be a real jerk sometimes.

It's not Swearing if You're using it Correctly

I recently re-watched The Hunchback of Notre Dame, a family-friendly Disney movie about a perverted priest who is obsessed with a sexy gypsy.  Some fantastic writers read the Victor Hugo classic and thought, “Hey, this would make a great movie for kids!”  The carnal themes are carefully hidden and the movie is a delight for both young and old, with the added benefit of introducing some fascinating topics for the budding pre-pubescent to discuss with loving parents. 

Looking back, I’m not sure how the less-than-honorable intentions of the priest completely eluded me.  I just thought he loved Esmeralda a lot.  I can’t help but wonder how I interpreted some of the phrases in the movie.  I have a few guesses:

Original line:  Why I see her dancing there, why her smold'ring eyes still scorch my soul

My interpretation:  She is a nice, pretty girl.  He likes her lots.

Original line:  Like fire, hellfire, this fire in my skin.  This burning desire is turning me to sin.

My interpretation:  Wow, that fireplace he’s standing next to is probably really hot.  Did he say it’s burning his skin?

Original line:  And let her taste the fires of hell, or else let her be mine and mine alone.

My interpretation:  Something about tasting… he probably wants her to eat some dinner with him because he loves her.

Original line:  Now gypsy, it's your turn.  Choose me or your pyre.

My interpretation:  What’s a pyre?  It’s probably a French word for “papa” or something.  He probably wants her to marry him, which means she’ll have to choose between him and her dad. 

Original line:  I’ll find her.  I’ll find her if I have to burn down all of Paris.

My interpretation:  I can fit ten macaroni noodles in my nose!  What did he say about Paris?

I can still fit ten macaroni noodles in my nose, by the way. 

Nothing says it Like Gift Basket

For lack of a better topic, I’m posting a conversation I had with my sister via texting today.

Sister:  I gots the bus pass.

Me:  I love you.  I just kissed my phone because I love you so-o-o much!

Sister:  Um……………..

Me:  Now I’m licking it.  It’s pleasantly tingly.

Sister:  I’mma cut my pass in half, grossie

Me:  It’s my pass, baby, as soon as I cough up the forty smackaroos I owe you.  I’m gonna take that pass, I’m gonna own that pass, and then I’m gonna lick that pass. 

Sister:  You’re yucky

Me:  I don’t think I can pick my nose with the pass but I’ll give it my best shot.

I’ve never much liked texting.  If I must do it I tend to follow the basic rules of grammar, which can sometimes be taken the wrong way.  I suppose it’s the equivalent of going on a first date and addressing the other person as “thou” as in, “Art thou not famished, sir?  Forsooth the waiter is so wretchedly slow, I fear we shall never attain our sustenance.  Do not leave him a tip unless thou happens’t to have some bat droppings on thee.” 

It is so easy for texting to be confusing or boring.  If you ever wish to text me, here are some rules that might keep either of those from happening:

1.  No sarcasm, unless you indicate it with the sarcasm icon, which I am inventing (I’m thinking a tiny rhinoceros).

2.  No playing 20 questions or truth or dare.

3.  Easy on the emoticons.

4.  Keep exclamation points to a minimum.

But none of these rules will do any good if a texting conversation drags on like a small boy dragging a dog carcass to his elementary school.  Certain boundaries must be set by someone clever and possessing an amazing nose.  I am that person (obviously) and here they are:

1-2 texts = Succinct and to the point.  You can’t go wrong here.

3-6 texts = Pushing it a bit, but still likely to be reasonably interesting.

7-10 texts = Hard to keep it interesting at this stage.

11-18 texts = Only comedians and the Professionally Interesting should venture into this territory.

19-27 texts = Unless you are instantly shedding a pound every time you send a text, you have no excuse to be here.  Trespassers will be shot.

28 and up = If you ever make it this high, please send me your address.  I want to thank you with a special gift basket, which I have named “hatchet.”

Or was it the other way around?

Homework? What Homework?

School has begun again, which of course means I have a new bag of chocolate to eat (antidepressants, don’t ‘cha know) and a whole slew of homework to avoid.  I have also taken to staying up later.  I’m reasonably certain that this will not affect me to badly because I have cut fifteen minutes off of my morning routine, and fifteen extra minutes of sleep in the morning is worth at least two extra hours in the evening.

You’re confused.  You shouldn’t be.  It is a well-known mathematical principle:

(time in the morning) = (time in the evening)^5

(time in the morning) = (time in the evening)^500

(time in the morning) = (time in the evening)x10^23

I haven’t blogged for a while.  It’s harder than I remember, especially when I do it while comparing James McAvoy to Patrick Stewart as Doctor X and the Mr. Knightlys in three different versions of Emma.  I wasn’t meant for multi-tasking, which is why I’ve never tried to be a knife-juggling comedian.

But now Emma’s at the part where Mr. Knightly starts yelling.  I need to concentrate.

I'm Still Alive

So I haven't blogged for a while.





...




But I have been pretty busy.  Take my schedule tomorrow, for example:

6-8 -- Drag myself out of bed
8-12 -- Call a bunch of people and make them take a survey
12-6 -- Sell clothes to people
6-6:30 -- Spank a panda
6:30-9:30 -- Sell a bunch of sno-cones
9:30-11:30 -- Watch some kind of movie with some people

And by sell, I mean secretly devour.  But only for the sno-cones.  I'm not going to secretly devour any clothes tomorrow.  Probably.

This is a pretty typical day for me.  The saddest part of the story, however, is that I actually do have something mildly interesting to blog about, but it will have to wait for a day when I'm not so tired.  Here's a preview:

da da da.  da da da.  da da da DA-A-A-A!  Coming soon to a blog near you.

Superheros don't have Colds

The other day I inhaled a bug.  Breathing oxygen is a cinch, but breathing bugs isn’t so easy.  Apparently, you also aren’t supposed to inhale cereal dust, wood shavings, or floating dog hair.  Who knew?

Inhaling has become especially difficult lately thanks to my cold.  Or should I say thanks to my cousin who gave me my cold?  My cold is really inconveniencing the heck out of my life right now.  I don’t really feel sick, but I can’t donate plasma and I can’t do P90X, and it would be a shame to quit after three days. 

P90X will make me stronger, supposedly.  Could be false advertising.  But I would really like to be stronger.  I have weak little legs, and tiny arms that can only lift newspapers and the occasional book.  I’d like to be able to perform amazing feats of strength, like throwing pianos filled with lead to the top of a third-story building or beating Betsy Reeves in an arm-wrestling competition.  I will look less scrawny and malnourished and more healthy and super-strong.  Like this:

And then I will finally be a superhero.

Toilets are Scary

Last night I had a dream that I found a pony in my closet.  I decided to ride the pony, but the pony was so small that when we galloped up the stairs my knees kept bumping on the steps.  It probably means I’m going to finally achieve my lifelong goal of sticking to the ceiling using nothing but some peanut butter and my tongue.  Because hey, dreams can mean whatever we want as far as I’m concerned. 

Take the dream about my cousin, for instance.  In the dream, he was married with a baby but his wife and child fell out of his truck while he was driving across the desert.  When he finally noticed that they had fallen out, he drove back and searched for them, but they were long gone.  He left the desert an empty shell of a man.  His wife was eaten by wolves, but his baby turned up, somewhat worse for wear, a few years later.  He joyously embraced his daughter, swore he would never put her in danger again, and then took her hang-gliding. I’m pretty sure that means I’m getting a hang-gliding wolf for Christmas.  Is there anyone on this planet that would not want a hang-gliding wolf?  I submit that there is not.

But the kind of dreams I hate the most are nightmares.  I don’t hate them because they’re scary, although I don’t appreciate my subconscious making a fool out of me.  Stupid subconscious.  I actually hate nightmares because when I tell people about them later, they usually laugh.  Laugh!  There isn’t anything funny about the boy from school turning into a monster and offering me as a sacrifice to his hideous board game god.  There is nothing laughable about Indians chasing my around my house so they can kiss me with their poisoned lips.  There is not one iota of humor in my aunt trying to flush me down the toilet.  Those are all terrifying situations, and laughing at those is like laughing at Hocus Pocus.  (What?  That was a scary movie.)  Sadly, I know I am not the only one who suffers, because just the other day my friend told me about a nightmare she had and I laughed until my cheeks hurt.  It’s heartbreaking.

That’s why when you tell people about a nightmare you have, you should always toss in a few extras to make it seem scarier.  Tell people it’s about a tall clown hiding in a shower wearing a trench coat.  That’s scary.  Maybe throw in some of those winged monkeys from The Wizard of Oz, too.  And another Star Wars movie starring Hayden Christensen.  

And now I’m probably going to have a nightmare because it’s all I’ve been talking about.  Ah, well.

Why Bother?

It wouldn’t be Monday if I weren’t trying to start blogging regularly again.  Except if that were true there would be a lot of Mondays that weren’t actually Mondays.  Oh well.

So today I finished cleaning my room.  I had to stay up until ten to do it, but I’m done.  I always like finishing a cleaning project, except I find that when I’m done all I can think about is what else I could do to make it even more done.  I could still organize my closet, dresser, and the box under my bed that’s full of who knows what, I could wash the sideboards, dust the blinds, clean my bedding, paint my toenails, etc. 

I can’t help but start to wonder why I even cleaned my room in the first place.  It wasn’t so bad having clothes strewn all over the floor and a myriad of objects piled on my desk.  Besides, I could never compete with my sister’s room, which has a canopy, and antique-looking desk, and a huge bouquet of gorgeous dry flowers.  It is at moments like this when my lifelong motto “why bother?” really comes in handy.  It's a fantastic motto.  Seriously, I’m thinking of getting that in vinyl on my wall.  But that could be tricky, so maybe I’ll just write it in pen.  But even that sounds too hard.  Eh, why bother?

The “why bother?” phrase is excessively useful and versatile. I can adapt it to accommodate most situations.  For instance:

Q: Sara, do you want to come to my ballet recital?

A:  And sit in an auditorium for an hour?  Why bother?

Q:  Sara, there is a (insert awesome artist here) concert tomorrow and I can get you a ticket for free.  All you have to do is sign this fifty-word document.

A:  You’re asking me to read fifty words and touch your pen with my hand?  Why bother?

Q:  Sara, I’m terminally ill and will die tomorrow.  Would you mind giving the eulogy at my funeral?  I even wrote one that you can use.

A:  So I would have to use my lips and tongue to articulate words for five consecutive minutes?  Why bother?

Anyway, it’s getting late, and I’m reaching the exciting part on my book on tape.  Except it’s actually on my iPod.  I was going to come up with a snappy ending for this blog, but…

Why bother?

Pooped

I'm too tired to blog.  I'm not too tired to watch Criminal Minds or finish my book or eat some cheese or catch a spider for Gertrude.  I'm just too tired to blog.  But I'm trying to blog on a semi-regular basis, so here is a short excerpt from a list of things that make me laugh:

12. My cat
13. Spiderman 3
14. Texas jokes
15. Modern art
16. Novelty toenail clippers

And...I'm done.  Yeah.

MST3K

Okay, first of all, when I said I was taking a break for finals I really meant I was taking a break for finals/family visit/Mystery Science Theater 3000 marathon.  I didn’t mention the other two because I thought they were implied.  Learn to read between the lines, people.

My summer break has been going swimmingly so far (although I have not actually gone swimming yet).  For the past two weeks I have either been playing with my family or cleaning my room.  Sometimes I would multitask by making my family clean my room.  I am happy to report that the family ties are stronger than ever and my room is almost clean.  I mean, you can’t really see the floor, but the closet looks nice.  I believe rooms reveal something about our personalities, and I’m pretty sure my room means I’m outwardly spontaneous but inwardly organized.  Or I’m just messy but good at brushing my teeth.  Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.

I would like to take a moment to thank my followers, whom I love.  If it weren’t for you, I would still be watching Mystery Science Theater 3000, which is a bad, bad way to spend my time.  Or so I’ve been told.  And because I can’t think of a topic today, I’m writing each of you a shoddy poem!  Yay!  I’ll try and mix up the styles a bit, but that might be hard because I really don’t know that much about poetry.  Here we go:

Limerick:

There once was a boy named Sam.

He wanted to eat a big ham.

He caught him a pig,

And he named it Hedwig,

Then he killed it and ate it with “spam”.

Haiku:

Kelli is so nice

And beautiful like the wind

Refrigerator

Tanka (not tonka):

Chrisanne is my friend

Who took creative writing

So she also knows

How many syllables are

Found in a tanka poem

Blank verse:

Melissa is a girl I met

Over Christmas break.

We talked and laughed and ate some food.

Also? Hot-tubbing.

Cinquain:

Laura

Mom, nice

Reading, my, blog

Also makes cookies sometimes

Laurapalooza

Quatrain:

Brittney is in Costa Rica

She left Utah; she went away.

For some reason the ice and snow

Did not in Utah make her stay.

Free Verse

The sun shines dappled light through

Crayons paint the colors of my sad, sad eggbeater

The trees

Good lighting, this makes

Goo-oo-oo-d lighting.

Brianna has.

A camera and she

Summer rain falls on the unhappy

Clown-fairy

Wants to take a

Picture of the lighting

And the tree.

Senryu:

Alyssa

Your name has

Syllables

Epic song:

Brad bad um ba bum bum ba dum

He’s my dad bad um deed um dum dee dum

And the wizards and gnomes

Are dancing to and fro

Drinking magic pine-sap

Beneath the full moon’s glow.

Brad bad um ba bum bum ba  dum

I am glad bad um deed um dum dee dum

And the ritual occasion

Helped them beat an orc invasion

And their plus two magic shields

Suffered only some abrasion

Then Brad read a blog by Sa-a-ra!  (Insert guitar solo)

Epitaph:

My name’s Jess

I am dead.

Took a bullet

To the head.

(Really I was

Underfed)

Are you still reading this?  Why?  Go do something constructive, like watching Mystery Science Theater 3000.  Go on, shoo!

Finals

It's finals week.  I don't have to blog. PBBTTHH!!!!!

Tax Refund! Yay!!!!!

You know that question people like to ask where if you were to randomly given a hundred dollars what would you buy?  Well, thanks to my tax refund (yay, money!) I can now answer that question in a non-hypothetical format.

So here it goes:  What would I buy if I had a hundred dollars?

A REMOTE CONTROL WAND!!!!!!!

Duh.

Here is a picture:

Oh man, it’s going to be fawesome!  I’m going to change the channels on my TV with expelliarmus!  I’m going to change the volume with wingardium leviosa!  And of course I’m going to turn the TV off with avada kedavra and turn it on with arvadek adava (which I assume would bring a cursed wizard back to life.  Just sayin’…).

I finally get to be a real live witch!  YEEHAW!  (Are magical beings allowed to say yeehaw?  Of course they are, because I just said it.  That’s right.)

And with the remaining ten dollars I am going to buy Bad Kitty Gets a Bath, because no one bought it for me for my fake birthday.  Jerks.

Junkie

I love sleep, but sleep is very, very bad for me.  I know it is because I got around nine hours of sleep last night and I’m more exhausted than ever.  Sleep is a horrible drug, like marijuana or Chap Stick.  I can never get enough; it’s always more, more, more.  I am a sleep junkie.   

It took me a while to admit I have a problem.  I used to think I wasn’t dependent on sleep; that I could quit anytime.  Now I realize that without sleep, I feel like a zombie.  I start mumbling gibberish to people that don’t exist.  Simple activities I used to enjoy tire me out.  I wander around campus, listless and unfocused, unable to complete the simplest of tasks.  Sleep is my drug.

The other day I tried to quit cold turkey, and I started having serious withdrawals.  My hands shook uncontrollably and I had a pounding headache that no amount of Ibuprofen would subdue.  I tried so hard to stay on the wagon, but by the end of the second day I was passed out on a park bench.  I woke up much later feeling defeated.  I’ve tried to quit several times since then, but my efforts produced nothing but failure. 

Clearly, my problem is beyond self-correction.  I need professional help.  I’ve been seriously considering checking into a rehab clinic.  I searched for a clinic that specializes in sleep addictions online, but I haven’t found any so far.  I tried talking to a counselor, but he was just as addicted as I am.  He actually admitted to me that he gets at least seven hours of sleep every night.  His candid attitude shocked me, and I was left twisting in the wind, unsure of where to turn.

And now I’m craving sleep again.  But I will resist.  I will break this addiction even if it kills me.  I’m just going to lie in my bed and read a book or maybe close my eyes and meditate (I think of meditation as a nicotine patch for sleeping).  I’m sure I’ll manage to stay awake this time.  Probably. 

TWEETY BIRD IS A BOY! A BOY!

I don’t argue well.  That’s why I stay away from politics, debate clubs, and Twilight fan chat rooms.  Whenever I argue about anything, no matter what it is, I quickly become angry and then I escalate to a spaz attack (I respond to most strong emotions with spaz attacks). 

Typical arguments I have go like this:

Random Person:  Tweety bird is a girl.  I know it.

Me:  No, Tweety bird is a boy.  He has a girlfriend in one of the spin-off movies.

RP:  Whatever.  I still think she’s a girl.

Me (spluttering):  No, you fool!  He’s a boy!  How could you –   I don’t –   He’s a boy!

RP:  Woah.  Chill out.  It’s not that big of a –

Me (face contorted with rage):  NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU!

RP:  Um...  Are you okay?

Me:  ARRGHLERGLERRGLE!

And then I get some “quiet time” in my “special corner.”

True Love is a Fiancé with a Crazy Wife Hidden in His Attic

Okay, I just saw the new Jane Eyre.  And all I have to say is:  Best.  Movie.  EVER!!!  Seriously!  I think I died from sheer enjoyment, watched the movie as a ghost, and somehow died again.  It was that good. 

If you haven’t seen the movie yet, watch it right now.  You can always read this later.  Go on, watch it.  (Seriously, are you still here?)  If you saw it and didn’t completely spaz out about how amazing it is, you are a liar.  If you don’t know the story of Jane Eyre, repent. 

I think what I love most about Jane Eyre is that their relationship is fraught with serious problems.  That’s exactly how I want my serious relationships to be, but knowing my luck, I’m probably going to be stuck in a normal, boring relationship.  My proposal will probably go like this:

Joseph Gordon-Levitt: Hey, Sara?

Me: Yeah?

Joseph:  So.  We’ve been going out for a while now.

Me:  Yes.  Yes we have. 

Joseph:  And you know I love you more than you love “easy” cheese –

Me: Impossible.

Joseph: No, it’s true.  I love you so so so so much.  Which is why I was wondering…

Me: Yes?

Joseph (awkwardly shuffles feet): Would you, you know, um, marry me?

Me: Oh, Joseph, I knew all those years of stalking you would pay off!  Yes, I will marry you!

Joseph:  Neat!  Wait, what was that about the sta –

Me:  Um, look!  It’s a real live unicorn!  And it’s giving away free hotdogs!

And then we will have a nice, normal wedding and I’ll burn my stalking pictures and we’ll live happily ever after the end.  The problem with that scenario is that it’s bo-o-o-oring.  Where’s the betrayal?  Where’s the sacrifice?  Where’s the crazy wife hidden in the attic?  At a more exciting relationship, that’s where. 

I’m not saying I want my wedding to be like one of those soap operas where you accidently marry your brother who was lost in the Philippines for twenty years.  It’s more like I want my wedding to be like a really good soap opera.  Jane Eyre good.  I don’t think it’s too much to ask. I do, however, think it’s too much to hope for in a world where I can easily google my fiancé’s current marital status.  And what’s the fun in that?

Ah, well.  I could perhaps have Jane Eyre-esque drama in a simpler world, but ours is not a simple world.  And now if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time to make my customary Joseph Gordon-Levitt midnight phone call.  When he picks up and says hello, I’m going to scream and hang up on him.  So excited!

I Officially Protest Thursdays

Thursdays are horrible.  I abhor Thursdays.  I like Tuesdays, but Thursday is Tuesday’s retarded cousin.  Every Thursday when I wake up, Thursday tells me, “Hey Sara!  Guess what, it’s Friday!  Happy Friday!”  I jump out of bed (okay, that’s a lie; I’ve never jumped out of bed except for the time there was a spider on my face) eager for the activities I have planned for the weekend.  Usually it’s work and more work, but who cares, I think, it’s Friday!  Happy Friday to me!  And then, just as I am reaching the apex of my joy, Thursday jumps out of the closet and slaps me in the face, screaming, “You loser!  It’s really me!  Friday isn’t coming until tomorrow, loser.  LO-O-O-OSER!”

And the worst part?  I fall for that stupid trick every single week.  I hate you, Thursday.

Internet

Work is for losers.  LO-O-O-OSERS!!!!!  I will not do my homework.  I will not clean my room.  I will not clip my toenails, brush my hair, do my laundry, wear anything but pajamas, or do anything to make myself presentable to society ever again.  In a matter of weeks I will look like this:

Because instead of working or practicing good hygiene, I will internet.

Forever.

And now I’m off to bed.  But first I have to clear off all the junk…eh, forget it.  I’ll just internet until I fall asleep in my chair.

The Best Book Ever

I made a promise to post a blog every weekday.  I did not promise that the blogs would have to be good, or longer than a tweet.  Because they don’t.  And anyways, I have a book to read.  It’s called Bad Kitty Gets a Bath. 

Best.  Book.  Ever.  Hey guess what?  You should buy me this book, because…um…it’s my birthday tomorrow.  Really.  I will have the saddest birthday ever and feel neglected if you don’t buy me Bad Kitty Gets a Bath.  I would also accept:

Or

Or a can of “Easy Cheese.”  Your call.  Because tomorrow's my birthday.

Really.

Dead Raccoons

I don’t talk so good.  I’m probably one of the most awkward people on the planet.  For instance, the other day I was talking to this guy.  We were just chatting, you know, making small talk.  The conversation went as follows:

Him: So what are you going to major in?  Do you know?

Me:  Yeah.  I’m probably going to be an English education major.

Him:  Yeah?  So you’ll be an English teacher?

Me:  That’s the plan.  I’m probably going to be one of those crazy high school teachers and keep a dead raccoon in my closet or something.

(Awkward silence)

Me:  You know, because every good teacher has a quirk.  Like one of my teachers kept rotten plums in his closet.  He was a good teacher.

Him:  Because he kept rotten plums in his closet?

Me:  Well, I guess it’s more like a symptom than a cause of being a good teacher.  But, you know, if I have a dead raccoon in my closet I can at least pretend I’m a good teacher, even if I’m not.  Maybe I won’t have a dead raccoon.  That’s kinda gross, isn’t it?

Him:  Yeah, kinda…

Me:  Maybe I could just nail snakeskins to my door instead.

Him:  Ri-i-i-ight.  You know, I just remembered, I have to go…get my eyebrows waxed.

That kind of conversation is pretty typical for me.  The sad truth is, I’m much funnier in my head than I am in real life.  In my head, I’m hilarious enough to have my own show.  But to have my own show, I’d have to fill the audience with people who have the same low standards for what they consider to be funny that I have.  They’d have to think the word “banana” is one of the funniest jokes ever.  They’d have to think “getting dizzy” was a valuable pastime.  They’d also have to think my laugh is a tinkling giggle and not the braying embarrassment is really is.

But I don’t need my own show.  I already have one in my hypothetical life, which is going splendidly by the way.  I am the monarch in my own land, which I have appropriately named Saratopia, and my subjects love me and bring me cheese every day.  In return, I entertain my subjects with witty jokes and skits of my own invention.  I also have many other talents, including the ability to crotchet with my feet, levitate objects with my mind, and change my hair color at will.  It’s chartreuse right now, but I’m thinking of trying a nice maroon next.

Okay, I stayed up really late last night, and I’m on my way to biology, which is the perfect place to take a nap.  Frankly, I’m exhausted.  Maybe later I can practice carrying on a normal conversation like the average human being.  I’ve written a few rules for me to follow:

1)      Don’t talk about dead animals.

2)      Don’t mention Gertrude or Saratopia.

3)      Don’t talk about dead animals some more.

I’ll come up with more as I go along, but now it’s time for sleeping. 

Why-y-y-y.....

How can I blog when my heart has turned into a black hole that sucked up my favorite waterbottle?  I tried eating some bagle bites smothered in ranch, but that didn't bring my waterbottle back.  So I ate some Reese's Puffs, but now I just feel squeemish.  I can't go to bed feeling squeemish.  I can't do it.  I know I'll have that creepy dream about the clown in the trenchcoat trying to make me eat a pickle.  I hate pickles.  I don't really mind clowns as long as they don't wear trenchcoats or try and force me to eat pickles. 

It's Friday, so I'm cutting this short so I can hunt down a coke for my stomach.  Sara is out...Peace!

I Can Ride My Bike like a Big Girl

I rode my bike home from work for the first time today!  (yay!)  I forgot to use a headlight…or a headlamp…or any illumination of any kind.  This would have been just fine, except there is a stretch of unlit road on my way home from work.  Luckily, I nice young biker who had a headlight on the front of his bike and a red blinking light on the back passed me, and I was able to follow him down the road.  (Thank you, mysterious stranger!)

To prevent this from happening again, tomorrow I am going to buy:

1)      A headlight

2)      A headlamp

3)      A red blinking light to go behind me

4)      Another headlamp (I’ll wear both at the same time)

5)      A helmet

6)      Googly eyes to glue on the helmet

7)      Plastic Hermes wings to glue on the helmet

8)      One of those dorky vests with the reflectors on them that constructions workers use

I might also want to invest in some kneepads, but then again, I’ve always cared a lot more about my dignity than I have about my safety.  I don’t have much dignity, but what little I have I treasure.

But of all my upcoming bike safety features, I am most excited about the helmet.  The helmet is going to be awesome!  I envision it looking something like this:

Beautiful, isn't it?  Anypoop, I should probably go to bed.  I have to wake up early to write a paper tomorrow (boo!) and I am pretty tired.  G’night!

URL Explanation

People ask me, “Sara, your blog is amazing, but what’s up with the URL?”  Then they steal my shoes and make a run for it while I try to explain.  (Whoever has my sock monkey slippers, please bring them back.  They need me.)  To prevent this from happening again, I’m going to explain my URL right now.

My URL is Gertrude Malloy Mcbumferfumfer because that is the name of my best friend in the whole wide world.  I haven’t really talked about her yet because she told me that I’m not supposed to talk about her to anyone or she’ll punish me again.

Gertrude is a figment of my imagination.  I know she is because she told me so.  She said I imagined her because I was lonely and I like bats.  I didn’t know I like bats.  In fact, I used to be scared of getting one caught in my hair.  But Gertrude told me I like bats, so I must like them on a subconscious level.

Gertrude has grey, pasty skin and red eyes that can kill small animals with a single look.  She sleeps upside-down in my closet every night like a bat.  She doesn’t eat much; mostly bugs and the occasional mouse.  I once asked her if she eats bats, but she says bats are like family and eating them would be like eating her sister, which is still iffy because I know she ate her adopted sister and killed her brother with a pickle.  She told me that killing people with a pickle is not the most efficient way to get the job done.  She said it took her at least seven minutes.    

The best thing about living with Gertrude is that there aren’t any bugs in my dorm room, although lately a diet of free-range bugs has not been enough to sustain her.  So during the lean winter months, Gertrude and I sometimes go to the pet store and buy an assortment of bugs and rodents for her to snack on. 

I like running errands with Gertrude.  She’s not very talkative, but it’s nice to have company all the same.  The problem with going out in public places with Gertrude is that she spooks people sometimes.  No one but me can see her because she is a figment of my imagination (she constantly reminds me of this in case I forget) but people always seem uncomfortable and itchy when she is in a room with us, and animals can’t stand her.  It’s as if some primitive part of the brain senses Gertrude and understands she should be feared.  For instance, when we went to the pet store this morning, the animals went nuts and the boy at the counter kept looking at the door and shivering, but that could have been because the door stayed open a little longer than it should have when Gertrude came in behind me.  I once asked Gertrude why she was able to move objects by herself if she was a figment of my imagination, and she told me that my imagination is so good that I can sometimes move things with my mind.  Pretty cool, right?  I once tried to knock over a building with my mind-powers, but Gertrude said it doesn’t work that way.  My subconscious is so smart.

Anyway, I have to go.  Gertrude and I are going to watch a movie together.  She calls it “The Tape to Enslave Humanity.”  She is such a hoot!  She also says I get to wear these nifty clamps on my eyelids to help me keep my eyes open.  Apparently it makes the whole movie-watching experience at least ten times more enjoyable.  I can’t wait!

I Learned How to Insert Pictures All by Myself!!!!

You know what I hate?  When I’m approximately twenty feet away from the door and some polite person decides to hold it for me anyway.  I break into a sprint and gasp out a thank you while he checks his watch and looks over his shoulder a couple hundred times.  Now he’s probably late to a study group session and I’m left feeling responsible for not running fast enough.  Not cool.

So I took this survey online because it said it was going to save the Bengal tigers.  Tigers are cute, right?  I mean, who doesn’t like the color orange?  If you don’t like the color orange, please put your face close to the screen.  The intense pain you feel on your face was me sending you a cyber-slap, a new technique invented by Skor Wadaras designed to take cyber-bullying to a physical level.  But now they want me to take more surveys.  They keep emailing me links and saying that I could save entire species at the click of a button.  As if I have time for that.  I barely have time to delete all the junk they are sending, let alone spare a few seconds to save the planet.  Endangered animals are so selfish. 

I mean, look at this koala.  It’s laughing at me with its eyes, I can tell.  Do we really need a bunch of koalas hanging out on the planet doing whatever it is koalas do?  I mean, what have they ever done for us?  Are they even tasty?

And I’m not sure why they even need protection.  I mean , look at this one:

They’re making babies right now!  Right now, as we speak!  They can even make more than one baby at a time:

So we probably need to worry more about koala overpopulation than anything else. 

But as far as whether or not koalas taste good, I did manage to find an advertisement subtly implying that koalas taste like ham.



Koalas: They are Baisically Pigs that Live in Trees



I’m thinking of getting a couple of sandwiches imported from the local koala farm.  I hear they raise the koalas as their own children until they are old enough to be butchered, roasted, and made into delicious cold cuts.



"This one already smells like bacon" says Lucy McBigglips



Just looking at that picture made me hungry, and all I have to eat is baloney and potato chips.  I'm probably going to make a baloney and potato chip sandwich. 

Delish!

 And I wonder why my plasma has too much fat in it to donate...