in which there are few words, but many trailers

Out of all the side effects this post-terrifically sick business has brought me, I'm thinking the loss of the ability to take liver-destroying mood stabilizers is the worst. And that's saying quite a bit, since I've also pretty much given up eating food during daylight hours. You live every day like it's shark week, I'll live every day like it's Ramadan. And, okay, also shark week. 
What I'm saying is, we're back to square one of my having an absurd amount of feelings and no idea what to do with them. Seriously, how do people deal with emotions in a healthy way? This is a legitimate question. I've taken up running, which is effective, but I can't spend every waking moment pretending to be chased by zombies. I mean, I could, but I feel like at some point the asthma would kick in and most of my inhalers got stolen out of my suitcase on the way over here, so that ultimately would not end well. So again I wonder, am I falsely assuming the general population functions without harmful vices, or is everyone else just that much better at life than me?

Anyways, when I'm not berating myself for not knowing how to be filled with emotions without attempting to drown them in nyquil, I'm usually crying.

I cry all the freakin' time now. It's ridiculous.

I cry at homeless kids and ruined clothes and any time Jeff Buckley comes on my work playlist.

I am Bedazzled's Ellitot vs. that darn sunset.

Coincidentally I also sing the dolphin song on a fairly regular basis.

The other day I was explaining the end of Brigadoon at the dinner table when the very thought of Gene Kelley losing his soul mate to the Scottish mist made me tear up. And I don't even believe in soul mates, guys. So that made me cry, then someone noticed I was crying and said "Oh crap, did someone bring up the titanic again?" (The Titanic has a history of bumming me out. Don't ask.) Which made me think of the Titanic, so then I started crying harder, which led to the following bit of dialogue:
Dad: Wait, are you crying because you're sad about the Titanic sinking, or about the movie Titanic?
Me: *sob* Well, both, now...THEY WERE SOUL MATES *sob sob sob*
Dad:....
Me: *sob sob* AND IF ROSE WOULD HAVE JUST SCOOTED OVER THEY COULD HAVE BEEN *sob* TOGETHER *sob* FOREVER *sob*
Dad: Lis, if Leo had gotten on the door with her, their combined weight would have caused it to sink.
Me: *sob* no *sob* it *sob* wouldn't have *sob sob* they proved *sob* it *sob* on  *sob* MYTHBUSTERS!!!

So that happened.

To be clear, I'm not knocking on crying, wear your tears like salty badges of emotion or whatever, I'm just saying it's really weird for me. Usually I only cry when I'm thinking about dumping someone or watching a particularly good movie trailer. Not a movie, mind you, but a movie trailer- the pinnacle of all that is good in the editing world. So for your viewing pleasure, I'm linking some trailers that have made me well up even when self-medicated to my preferred state of almost dead inside.

Elizabeth: The Golden Age
Confession: I was not actually terribly impressed with this movie. Damn good trailer, though.

I cried when: "I TOO CAN COMMAND THE WIND, SIR! I HAVE A HURRICANE IN ME!!!" I know you do, Cate Blanchett, I know you do.

The Great Gatsby
I love Baz Luhrman, I love the Fitzgeralds, and as was implied earlier, I love me some Leo. Throw in that soundtrack and I am sold. (I mean, Jack White covering Love is Blindness? j'adore, j'adore, j'adore.)

I cried when: It varies. Some days it's as soon as Gatsby steps in from the rain, but I'm always crying by the time Daisy wishes she'd done everything on earth with you. Too beautiful! Too doomed! Too much!

Whip it
It's like six different cliches, but I just can't help myself.  I love Ellen Page, I love Drew Barrymore, I love Roller Derby, I love Weezer, I love COMING OF AGE in awkward places, I could go on and on and on.  Basically, great book, great movie. I now own and watch this one frequently, despite its setting unrealistic expectations for making out underwater.  Additionally I would still like a
 T-shirt that reads "Final Slut Pro," but will probably never get one because I broke up with the dude who promised to have one made before it ever materialized. AND LET THAT BE A LESSON TO US ALL.

I cried when: The victorious throwing of arms in the air at the same moment the dad wants his daughter to be happy and weezer doesn't give a hoot about what you think. Followed, of course, by the pretty swimming pool sexytimes shots.

Les Miserables
I know I'm hardly alone in saying this, but Les Mis is primarily responsible for getting me through the super awkward years. I would say Les Mis taught me how to feel, but obviously I still don't know how to do that, so that's clearly a lie. Suffice it to say that in the eighth grade, newly chemically imbalanced Lissa used to walk alone at night in suburban DC listening to "On My Own" on her walkman, because 13 year old Lissa was a) brimming with musical angst,  b) very, very stupid. For years I've loved the book, loved the musical, and the day it was announced I knew I'd love the movie- and I did.
(But I wouldn't be too sad if Cosette was the one who died, because ugh, Cosette, guys.)

I cried when: Honestly, it was straight up ugly cry time from the opening notes onward.


Too many feels, guys, just too many feels.

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.

...Right?

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.

GREAT ADVICE FOR SOMEONE WHO LITERALLY CANNOT REMEMBER WHAT PEOPLE'S FACES LOOK LIKE.

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?
Me: LOOK YOU GUYS I CAUGHT A TERRORIST.
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.
Marine: WELL THAT'S NOT VERY GOOD OPSEC, NOW, IS IT?

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.

in which I offer more life advice for the barely-functional

I think technically today I don't quality as barely-functional, since I'm on my fifth episode of Grey's Anatomy and I have no plans of stopping soon. It's also four PM and I'm still in my jamjams because they are comfy and smell like laundry soap and I've given up on shame. Additionally I've found myself unable to form a coherent thought over the past three days that wasn't wildly offensive, so, there's that.

Here's a picture of a puppy being scratched on the head by my phantom hand. Alas I did not find this activity particularly rewarding, not sure if it's because a) I have no soul, or b) it's not a kitten.

But you know what they say, those who can't do, teach.

So here's another tip for the barely functional:

"Shathing," or as I prefer to call it, "Vesper Lynn-ing."

Baths have long been a happy pastime of the barely functional.

Let's stop this; baths are gross. Baths are essentially transforming yourself into a big tub of people stew, which is disgusting. Say no to baths.
However, I totally get the need to spend a lot of time immersed in hot water, and that standing up for a long time is really better suited to the fully functional.

Instead, let me present the following alternative:

See? Vesper Lynn-ing

 

 

It's like everything you've ever wanted rolled into one! YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF!
(You should, though. It's really better if you take your clothes off, because then you don't have to figure out what do with all the wet clothes. Bet you didn't even think of that, huh?)

Plus, if you stay in there long enough, someone might come along and give you a cuddle!

James Bond delivering on the awkward head cuddles. That's nice and all, but clearly what the girl needs is a full body cuddle that could more accurately described as "wearing a skin suit" than "a hug." But that's just my interpretation.

Equally effective after a bad case of murder-shock, ala our good friend Vesper, as it is after a bad day.
Plus, hygiene is absolutely a great step on the path to being a functional human being.  Bring some shampoo and a toothbrush in there with you and you've won half the battle already.


Mkay, well, I'm going back to the Grey's Anatomy now. Interns are secretly removing each other's organs. Those crazy kids!