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!