Tuesday, April 2, 2013

In which I jepardize all of my future relationships by revealing my true morning-time colours

So for the past hour and a half, I have been deeply concerned that I am, in fact, a whiny-butt.

This stems from a comment made to me that I complain about living in Africa a lot, which I totally do, have you guys been here? IT'S LIKE THE WHOLE CONTINENT IS A LISSA-SPECIFIC DEATH TRAP.
Granted, I'm sure the comment was not intended as the criticism I interpreted it to be, but since I'm about mid-way into a pretty obvious down cycle I'm taking everything personally then dwelling on it for unreasonably extended periods of time.  I'm just a sucker with low self-esteem, oh yeeeeeeahhhh, yeah, yeah yeah, yeaaaah yeah yeahhhhhhh.

What I'm saying is, may God have mercy on your soul if you as much as suggest that these jeans make me look fat. 

Anyways, that's why I've been obsessively combing through everything I've recently written on the internet in an attempt to determine if I am actually a big fat complainer.  I know I'm no ray of sunshine (I thought about it just now, and in the world of weather-based personality metaphors, I think I'd be a desert thunderstorm) but I'm pretty sure I'm not that bad, comparatively speaking.


After excessive perusing and analysis, the conclusion I've come to is this: while I may not be a complainer, per say, I am absolutely, 100%, without a doubt, not a morning person.
In fact, I'd venture to say I'm basically the quintessential anti-morning person.

There are but few people I know who actually look forward to getting out of bed in the morning. I once had a roommate who continues to communicate solely through a series of grunts upon waking. Identifying one's self as not being a morning person is not exactly uncommon.

But in all of my 21 years of living, never have I encountered a fellow suffer-er of morning rage.

I say this honestly: there are few things in this world that piss me off quite as much as waking up. No joke, by the time I've managed to grope my way to my alarm clock, I'm frequently seeing red. I've tried several things to combat this- getting more sleep, increasing the natural light in my room, getting less sleep, changing alarm clocks, using different pillows, decreasing the light in my room, drinking tea, meditation, prayer- all to no avail. Sadly, this isn't something I can blame on meds, either- I've been this way for as long as I can remember.

Really, the only thing worse than being woken up by my alarm clock is being woken up by a fellow human being who is physically capable of receiving punishment for their wrong doing. Basically, if you wake me up, you are releasing the Kraken. And not the fun Juno Kraken, either. I'm talking old school sea monster Kraken, here.  Don't bring that on yourself, friend.

(How this relates to my being a whiner is coming, have patience.)

I once read an article online that had surveyed several women as to their morning routine- and I was surprised how similar most of the answers were. Wake up, meander into the shower, put on a pot of coffee, cuddle with a significant other, check phone for messages, etc, etc.

This is how I start my morning:

Wake up. Curse Florence + The Machine (my current wake-up band) until I can find my iphone and beat it into submission.
Then I get on facebook and wait for the innate fury to dissipate.

So, that's where most of my complaining comes from. I choose the absolute worst time of the day to arm myself with a keyboard, and then I attack with reckless abandon. Over the years I've developed the slightest of filters, which is good because I'm sure people would get tired of me virtually screaming "RAWRRR I WILL EAT YOUR SOUL," every day. But yeah.

Sadly, on top of that, lately I've been rising still tired and in a fair bit of pain, because evidently you don't just wake up better from serious illnesses. This just means that the situation escalates from some light morning grumbling to a full-fledged producers worthy freak fest. Basically every day.

I'm in pain and I'm still hysterical!

And now, a brief interlude where I speak directly to the ghost of boyfriends future:

Dear boy I have yet to love: if you have read this blog in it's entirety, you now know that in I'm a wee bit cray cray and also sometimes I eat worms. However, both of these (in my mind) pale in comparison turn-off wise to the all encompassing morning rage. Have no fear, though, for I have some words of advice for you-

If you are reading this in the future and we're already dating: this totally falls into the category of things that can be fixed with some light hair petting and a brief monologue about how pretty I am. On that failing, it can also usually be bribed away with frozen chocolate beverages. Ain't no thing.

If you're reading this in the present and you used to think that you might want to date me but now you're not so sure, because ain't nobody got time for that, etc: I get it, I do. So to even things out, you should probably know that I have it on good terms that I am an exceptionally talented kisser. I also like to think of myself as being in possession of a mind like a diamond and eyes that burn like cigarettes, which I'm told are also things boys like. So. Let that marinate on your mind a bit.

Anyways, most days by the time I've put my lipstick on and then consumed something of the food variety, I've about overcome the angryness. Just in time for the next morning feels to kick in: paranoia.

Guys, pre-noon Lissa is fairly convinced the terrorists are coming to get her.

In her (and my) defense, we do have some terrorists here. Like, more than one might prefer and stuff.
And yet I seem to be the only one in my family who is concerned by this.

More than once I have tried to convince my dad to translate and memorize the Taken monologue in French, but every time I bring it up he pretends like he doesn't know what I'm talking about.
I can only hope that when the time comes, my non-slutty attire will inspire my kidnappers to put me up for sale in an auction instead of letting me die of a drug overdose in a makeshift  brothel.
Either way, bet he'll be wishing he knew how to tell people he has "a very specific set of skills" in French then.

For the most part, however, my anti-terror regime predominately takes place on the walk to work.  Don't get me wrong, we follow most of the OPSEC stuff you're supposed to, varying time and route and what have you, but guys, I'm convinced the terrorists are sneakier than all that.

Plus the fact remains that we dress like total Americans. This can't be helped, to an extent. But then there are my shoes:

 "HELLO," they say, "HELLO I AM A TARGET."

Guys, the only culture that chooses to wear running shoes when not engaging in sport is ours. This is a fact. You can totally tell Americans by their shoes.

And, you know, if that weren't true, the fact that I pair them with a cocktail dress and a giant military backpack probably isn't helping anything.

But the fact of the matter is I have yet to master both walking through sand in five inch heels AND keeping up with my long-legged walking companion, so this is my only solution. So while he bounces along listening to NPR on his ipod, I am on self-appointed terrorist watch.
Basically I give the shifty eye to anybody who I think is following me. I have no idea what to do when somebody actually follows me, as I learned last week courtesy of some random creeper guy.

"DAD. Did you notice that guy who followed us practically the whole way here?" I asked.
"Huh. No. Well, if you see him again, then we'll be concerned," he replied.


Probably for the best, though. I mean, I have no idea what I would do with a terrorist once I caught them. Is there a hotline I can call for this? Do I bring them into the embassy? Because I can pretty much imagine how that would go down...

Marine: Is that the colonels' daughter? What's her face? Dragging a homeless guy in here?
Marine: Wha- How did you even do that?

I gave him a HA! And a HI-YA! And then a OUU-WA! And then I kicked him, sir.

Me: Well, here you go!
Marine: That is not a terrorist. That is a homeless man. Speaking very angry French.
Me: ...I don't speak French.

These are the things I think about, guys.

Anyway, my point here is that I'm like 57% sure I'm not a super complainer.

And now I'm going to go google how to catch a terrorist. That should yield some pretty concrete results, I think.


  1. Loved this blog post - I can totally relate to some of these experiences. And for what it's worth, I don't think you're a major whiny-butt. In fact, I know people here in Dakar who are MUCH worse than you!!

  2. I assume the experience you relate to is not knowing where to drop off your terrorists.
    And thank you.