tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3684844068858117332024-03-13T08:04:27.116-07:00Noodles&PieLife, Liberty and the Pursuit of Fancy-ness: a perpetually displaced third culture kid trying to get it together. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-39991865859126880292014-02-02T21:48:00.000-08:002014-02-02T21:48:03.771-08:00In which I offer yet more life advice for the barely functionalI've said it before and I'll say it again: February is the absolute worst.<br />
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I can't think of any clever and titillating introductions to that fact because for the past week it's been like the electricity inside my body has been cut off and my tongue is weighing heavy in my mouth and everything I do or say is dull and monotonous and uninspired. It's been winter for entirely too long and the smog that hangs over the city is beginning to penetrate my soul; I am a swirling vortex in a thousand shades of grey: I will swallow you whole. <br />
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I also feel obligated to state that this has nothing to do with the presence of Valentine's day- I mean, I hate V-day in a creeping, passive kind of way- but that's more of an effect of the Februaries, not a cause of it. Sort of a, I DON'T WANT TO CELEBRATE OUR LOVE RIGHT NOW, I CAN'T FEEL ANYTHING type situation. I am totally down to eat chocolates from a heart-shaped box, should you feel inclined to give me one.<br />
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I also also feel obligated to state that I am perfectly okay right now. I'm sitting in bed making last-minute casting notes and eating my weight in babybel cheese (WHICH YOU CAN BUY IN BULK FROM COSTCO, DID YOU KNOW) and debating whether or not Scott Kardashian is, in fact, a sociopath (my vote is yes.) When I no longer want to consume dairy and limit my theater expertise to quoting 'Night, Mother, then we worry. Right now, it's just February.<br />
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Because I am overly fascinated with my own opinions and absolutely in the "People Who Suck At Life" category again, I have decided that now is a great time to offer my fellow barely functioning humans some life advice.<br />
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But first, here is a classic piece of visual inspiration:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XNXF1rE19WQjCcy0xeLoZVNZaESUqaJ2FHZtpDKY6i0j_J6YU1idcAMHAqEOjahrrukmTc54kw_5PQStXPRY-M5hceYUliflv0jVWFRKFdWhmC62Lu_-3p8czdW-kLW_YcjMmWHRkKQ/s1600/brittany.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XNXF1rE19WQjCcy0xeLoZVNZaESUqaJ2FHZtpDKY6i0j_J6YU1idcAMHAqEOjahrrukmTc54kw_5PQStXPRY-M5hceYUliflv0jVWFRKFdWhmC62Lu_-3p8czdW-kLW_YcjMmWHRkKQ/s1600/brittany.jpg" height="285" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>I find the fact that she is wearing pearls to be particularly impressive. Way to keep it classy, Brit.</i></div>
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Let us all learn from dear Britney's example. </div>
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Now, depending on how closely you follow my online presence, you may have noticed I haven't mentioned bathing in my own salty tears for a while. Actually, even if you do follow my online presence closely, you still may not have noticed this- I post a crap ton of stuff online. Especially facebook statuses. I have no doubt this will contribute to my divorce/firing of the future. </div>
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But I digress. </div>
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About a year ago I talked about crying all the time, all the time, because it was a novel and confusing experience. Because I no longer talk about it, we can deduce that this is something I no longer do. </div>
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HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH JUST KIDDING.</div>
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(also the first time I typed that it came out as JAJAJAJAJA, because sometimes I like to agree with myself in German, enthusiastically.)</div>
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No, I totally still cry. All. The damn. Time. </div>
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Again, there is absolutely nothing wrong with crying. Apparently it's one of the body's way of ridding itself of toxins- though that may not be true, given my therapist said it when she was trying to persuade me into tears. However, when you are pretending to be a normal grown-up and you continuously burst out sobbing, people find that fairly off-putting and usually want to talk about your feelings for a long period of time. Nothing wrong with that either- but this is frequently a thrice daily occurrence for me, and ain't nobody got time for that.</div>
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So without further ado, I give you this Lissa approved guide to spontaneous weeping like a grown up:</div>
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<b>Step 1: Never let them see you cry. </b></div>
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Actually, this is probably the only step. And I may want to rename it to Cry on the Sly, because alliteration. </div>
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<b>Only Step: Cry on the Sly.</b></div>
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Better.</div>
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<b> </b></div>
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If you know you have a chunk of free alone time coming up, try and get all your crying done then. Like in the shower. Or the car, if you can still navigate the road safely while being blinded by your own bodily fluids. So maybe not the car. The idea here is that if you get it out of your system while you're in control of the setting, you may be less inclined to an outburst later on. </div>
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Alternatively, you could just reduce yourself to a constant state of dehydration, so that if you do start crying there are no tears and you're just gasping like a sad fish. That should confuse people to the point where they leave you alone. </div>
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My latest and most effective tactic if you think you are going to cry is to abruptly walk away. This is a very adaptable technique- if you are at work, just casually pretend like you need a bathroom break. Immediately. That may last twenty minutes. Okay, your coworkers will probably suspect you may be suffering from some sort of intestinal issue, but better that than know you have feelings, amiright?</div>
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This is also perfectly employable within the confines of your own home- the only issue is that you are usually expected to return to the situation you are walking away from, so you should come up with a good excuse. I once walked away mid-conversation to return ten minutes later claiming I remembered I had to turn off a light upstairs. This was obviously not a good cover, because it does not take that long to walk up and down stairs, and because everyone who knows me knows I prefer all the lights in the house be on all the time always. I am probably single-handedly responsible for global warming. Sorry. </div>
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So...don't be like me in that aspect, maybe. Pretend you had some dishes to wash, or something. Maybe some jelly you have to take off the stove. </div>
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It's surprisingly easy to do this when you are out of doors- oh, you just brought a me a thoughtful gift and I am responding emotionally? Excuse me while I walk down the street a bit to look at...something. I will be back. Probably. </div>
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The most difficult situation in which to pull this move off successfully is if you are mid-way through a date, and you've just realized you're sick of pretending to laugh at their jokes and you're really tired and OH CRAP THE TEARS, THEY ARE A-COMIN'. The key to a smooth execution is to pretend like you're just too damn cool to stick around any longer, then you casually put your jacket on and insist that you will be walking home, in the freezing rain, like the exotic and mysterious being you are. Boom. Cryin' on the sly. </div>
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And there you have it, internet. A useful, one-step guide to hiding your feelings from everyone you interact with. You are welcome. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-42644559349535750152014-01-22T22:47:00.000-08:002014-01-22T22:47:35.609-08:00What my OkCupid profile would look like were it not INUNDATED WITH LIES. It would basically be this picture:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIBgse-Y9rD6BB3e_yk_XjSgig41-I0IMNrVYTse6aq3Y6ryQjG_xUNbAqczfLQbdgZmoB1qwiC-zAIVxgb5a74T29bD9n7KA_WlyEoxGOQVHDqVw164D61OK95lMwGNwQYjM71V-64c/s1600/1501785_10151886847728800_807834474_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIBgse-Y9rD6BB3e_yk_XjSgig41-I0IMNrVYTse6aq3Y6ryQjG_xUNbAqczfLQbdgZmoB1qwiC-zAIVxgb5a74T29bD9n7KA_WlyEoxGOQVHDqVw164D61OK95lMwGNwQYjM71V-64c/s1600/1501785_10151886847728800_807834474_n.jpg" height="320" width="301" /></a></div>
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<i>And let's be honest, #2 is being generous.</i></div>
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Disclaimer: If we share DNA, if we work together, <i> </i>or you have ever dated me, you might want to stop reading right....here. </div>
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But first, a brief introduction as to why I have an OkCupid profile, and why it is now disabled:</div>
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Online dating makes a huge amount of sense if you want to actively date. I'm totally serious. I think in recent past there has been some stigmatization implying that online dating is for people who are not capable of finding people to date otherwise- I don't think this is the case. The world is full of lovely people you can hit on and subsequently court, marry, and reproduce with. However, that takes a certain amount of time and effort, and I am lazy and would rather be taking naps or eating sandwiches.</div>
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Furthermore, in order to meet people, the media has taught me that one must be in the right place at the right time, such as at work, in your local coffee shop, on the train, etc. etc. </div>
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For work I teach small children theater and sell diamond rings. Everyone I see is either an underage aspiring actor or looking to get engaged, and neither demographic really appeals to me romantically. </div>
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As for the coffee shop idea, if I have not already received my beverage I am probably midway into a caffeine withdrawal rage spiral. If I have already received my beverage, I am fully focused on taking long drags from my cup between deep, shuddering breaths. Not really a situation conducive to flirting. </div>
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I do take public transit. I also read on the train. Sometimes people try and start conversations over this. It usually goes something like this:</div>
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Well-Meaning Boy: What are you reading?</div>
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Me: The Lonely Polygamist.</div>
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WMB: What's it about? </div>
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Me: A polygamist. Who is lonely. </div>
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Me: *pointed glare*</div>
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WMB: Oh. </div>
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Me: *silence*</div>
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So that has yet to result in any marriages. Shocking, I know. </div>
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Let's see, where else... I do occasionally attend church-type things when I'm not working, but any time nice Mormon boys get friendly, I want to pet them gently on the face and say something mysterious along the lines of "Oh, honey...I'm no good for you." And then smile sadly. </div>
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Also? Flirting at church is very tacky and probably annoys Jesus at least a little bit. Just don't do it.</div>
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Basically what I'm saying is my personality is detrimental to reeling in the menfolk when that is not my primary focus, so okcupid seemed like the logical solution to meet lovely people with whom I could cultivate a variety of life-changing relationships. </div>
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Okay, so that's partially a lie. </div>
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What actually happened was I moved to SLC this summer with a heart full of hope and love and dreams and stuff, ready to date new people and have a myriad of adventures.</div>
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I also had a job that gave me maybe ten hours of work a week, so even with selling my body fluids for money I was barely making rent. I still had (and have) the body of a tiger mauling victim, so stripping was out of the question (to the eternal relief of my father, I have no doubt.) Desperate times called for desperate measures. </div>
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So...I signed up for OkCupid. In the hopes that I would go on dates with wealthy people who would buy me food. </div>
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TO BE CLEAR: This was a TERRIBLE idea and I am not proud of it. It also proved to be wildly ineffective because, as it would turn out, other people spending money on me in an attempt to curry my favour makes me incredibly uncomfortable. This also rules out my back-up plan in the sugar baby industry (again to the relief of my father, I am sure.) </div>
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Interesting sociological observation: Every boy I have told about this plan has reacted (understandably) in horror. Every girl I have told about this plan was either amused or impressed. Read into this as you will. </div>
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But I digress!</div>
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So I did that for about a week until I could save up enough money to buy a case of ramen, which was nice. Shortly thereafter I got my teaching job, which was even nicer, because at that point my hair was starting to fall out again. </div>
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However, I kept the dating profile because I really did want to date a lot of people. </div>
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Fun fact about dating profiles: They are essentially a sales pitch accompanied by a few choice photographs. </div>
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Fun fact about me: I'm not exactly terrible at sales. </div>
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And, okay, <a href="http://www.cracked.com/blog/4-things-i-learned-from-worst-online-dating-profile-ever/">you don't exactly have to make an effort</a> if you have the good luck of being a girl online. But my profile was a gem of succinct wit and charm bundled into an attractive package! Enough to pique the attention of an endless string of 26-year-old software engineers! It was glorious!</div>
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And today I disabled it. </div>
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My reasons for doing so are twofold: </div>
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1) It's the end of January. Historically speaking, I am a particularly insufferable bitch this time of year. And this is coming from the girl who glares at well meaning strangers on trains, and signs up for online dating with the intent of using people for food. <i>And that was during the good part of the year</i>. So, I think it's really in the best interest of civilization for me to politely bow out until spring. </div>
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Plus I should really think about my life and my feelings and other things for a bit, probably. That's usually a good idea in my case. </div>
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2) While everything on my profile is absolutely true, attempting to live up to the best, most witty parts of yourself is...tiring. Though "inundated with lies" is a major exaggeration, it's still not an accurate portrayal, really. </div>
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This would be much closer to the truth:</div>
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<b>My Self-Summary</b>:</div>
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I am your average 22 year old white girl. Nay, I am the quintessential white girl. Every stereotype about white girls? Absolutely applies to me. I like my iphone and starbucks and brunch. Really, you could google "things that white girls like" and you'd pretty much have me covered. </div>
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And yes, the self-loathing that comes with this knows no bounds.</div>
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<b> What I'm doing with my life:</b></div>
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Oh dear lord how I wish I knew. </div>
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<b>I'm really good at</b>: </div>
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Baking Pies. Taking naps. Entertaining people with self-depreciating humor. Cuticle care. Hanging out with small children. I sing really, really loudly in the car- it does not sound good. The impressive part of the car singing is the volume. And maybe the enthusiasm. Honestly, it detracts from my driving abilities, which are lacking to begin with. If you date me, I will be overly vigilant in ensuring you are properly hydrated at all times- doubly so if you drink alcohol. I can swear in seven languages but I try and stick to English- it offends a larger audience. Given the opportunity I will try and rescue ALL OF THE STRAY CATS. If it were legal I'd totally do the same thing for babies. Cats and babies, man. Cats and babies. My blind hems are pretty impressive. I know a lot of stuff about theater. I can walk for six hours without getting bored, assuming it's nice out. I can make a cheesecake in a country with no cream cheese- it involves doing unspeakable things to yoghurt and I don't want to talk about it. If you are sad or upset I will try my best to listen to you but I'm horrible at advice, so I will probably share some inappropriate jokes, procure you some food, and offer you the number of a good counselor. And then I will make you drink water. I give pretty good head scratches. I'm an okay kisser. I read really fast. Multiple people have commended me on my playlist making abilities. </div>
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<b>The first things people notice about me:</b></div>
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I'm a terrible first impression. And second impression. Third usually isn't great either. I'm really mean when you meet me- I do not have a warm and welcoming personality. I would be a terrible diplomat. </div>
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The other day my home teacher- who I had never met- came to my house. I answered the door holding two bottles of alcohol and then sat in silence on the couch eating a burrito. This is pretty close to the standard procedure for when you show up at my house unannounced. I'm also really loud. I am, however, weirdly good at job interviews as of late.</div>
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<b>Favourite books, movies, shows, food:</b></div>
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I read the memoirs of people I find hilarious, novels with interesting covers, instructional manuals on skills I wish to develop, and the occasional number written in a foreign language. </div>
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I also read a lot of reddit but that's not a book. </div>
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I watch an absurd amount of beautifully sad movies to make myself feel less alone. It works wonderfully. I highly recommend it. </div>
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I watch entirely too much TV because I can't stand the quiet and dialogue is less emotionally involving than music. Sitcoms are awesome. I've seen the entire series of friends a million times- a couple of those viewings have been in french. Weirdly this did nothing to improve my french. The only British TV show I could ever get into is the IT crowd. Orange is the new black was awesome. When I find myself asking what those wily Kardashians have been up to, I know it's time to seek medical help. </div>
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The existence of delicious food I have yet to eat is always in my top five reasons not to kill myself. (I also think everyone should have a fallback list of reasons not to kill themselves, and I think food should be on every list.) I don't eat a lot- my quadrant of the fridge is comprised of primarily beverages and salad. Buying groceries and cooking for just one person usually results in a lot of it going to waste, so I've gotten really lazy, which is sad, because I do actually like to cook. Except for meat- I do not like to cook meat. I don't know how and it tends to make me really sad, because I start thinking about all the lovely cows I have known...unless I'm particularly anemic, in which case I'm just like STEAKKKK. I also really really like to eat, and will do so with reckless abandon when given the opportunity- particularly if cheesecake, sandwiches, burritos or pizza are involved. Basically I'm JLaw but people don't find me nearly as endearing. </div>
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<b>Six things I could never do without:</b></div>
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1. The internet. Duh. </div>
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2. A decent sized public library. Libraries are hallowed ground and I refuse to live anywhere that does not have one. It is also unlikely that I will ever let you accompany me to the library because it is my sacred happy place and should not be disturbed by people I don't love. Ugh. I love the library, guys. </div>
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3. Grocery stores. I need to have access to grocery stores. Even if I can't afford food, I like to be able to visit food in it's place of origin because it is reassuring to me to see that it is still there. </div>
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4. Chapstick. Never get caught without chapstick. </div>
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5. Drinkable water. Also vitally important. </div>
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6. Memory foam pillows. I can sleep essentially anywhere assuming I can bring my own pillow. I had to go like three months without it last year and I swear that's why I got sick- okay, not really, but still. It was miserable. </div>
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<b>I spend a lot of time thinking about:</b></div>
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Traveling. What I'm going to eat next. How I look. If Amanda Bynes is really okay. If my family members are really okay. If we date I will spend a substantial amount of time thinking about whether or not you are okay. Food in general. Global affairs. How to explain difficult subjects to hypothetical future children. If my hair is ever going to grow all the way back. Water.<br />
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<b>On a typical Friday night I am:</b><br />
With my friend John eating food that starts with a B and having deep important discussions about things that annoy us. This is a standing, high-priority date. I mean, we do reschedule occasionally, but mostly this is what my Friday nights are spent doing and it's lovely.<br />
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<b>The most private thing I'm willing to admit:</b><br />
I'm bipolar and scared of invisible monsters and I rap in the shower and freak out every six months thinking I have cancer. OH WAIT THAT'S ALREADY ALL OVER THE INTERNET. <b> </b><br />
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So on that note, if you're climbing all over yourself to date me I will be back on the market in March.<br />
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In the mean time, I'm going to make myself some ramen. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-37989288712193108742013-04-24T15:07:00.001-07:002013-04-24T15:07:59.977-07:00in which there are few words, but many trailersOut 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. <br />
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 <i>that much</i> better at life than me?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I cry all the freakin' time now. It's ridiculous.<br />
<br />
I cry at homeless kids and ruined clothes and any time Jeff Buckley comes on my work playlist.<br />
<br />
I am Bedazzled's Ellitot vs. that darn sunset.<br />
<br />
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<i>Coincidentally I also sing the dolphin song on a fairly regular basis. </i></div>
<br />
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:<br />
Dad: Wait, are you crying because you're sad about the Titanic sinking, or about the movie Titanic?<br />
Me: *sob* Well, both, now...THEY WERE SOUL MATES *sob sob sob*<br />
Dad:....<br />
Me: *sob sob* AND IF ROSE WOULD HAVE JUST SCOOTED OVER THEY COULD HAVE BEEN *sob* TOGETHER *sob* FOREVER *sob*<br />
Dad: Lis, if Leo had gotten on the door with her, their combined weight would have caused it to sink.<br />
Me: *sob* no *sob* it *sob* wouldn't have *sob sob* they proved *sob* it *sob* on *sob* MYTHBUSTERS!!!<br />
<br />
So that happened.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Elizabeth: The Golden Age</b><br />
Confession: I was not actually terribly impressed with this movie. Damn good trailer, though.<br />
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<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<b>The Great Gatsby</b><br />
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.)<br />
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<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
<b>Whip it</b><br />
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<br />
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.<br />
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<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<b>Les Miserables</b><br />
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.<br />
(But I wouldn't be too sad if Cosette was the one who died, because ugh, Cosette, guys.)<br />
<br />
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I cried when: Honestly, it was straight up ugly cry time from the opening notes onward. <br />
<br />
<br />
Too many feels, guys, just too many feels. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-56273402285654501102013-04-02T14:44:00.000-07:002013-04-02T14:44:44.980-07:00In which I jepardize all of my future relationships by revealing my true morning-time coloursSo for the past hour and a half, I have been deeply concerned that I am, in fact, a whiny-butt.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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 <i>that</i> bad, comparatively speaking. <br />
<br />
...Right?<br />
<br />
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, <b>not</b> a morning person. <br />
In fact, I'd venture to say I'm basically the quintessential anti-morning person.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But in all of my 21 years of living, never have I encountered a fellow suffer-er of morning <i>rage</i>.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
(How this relates to my being a whiner is coming, have patience.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
This is how I start my morning:<br />
<br />
Wake up. Curse Florence + The Machine (my current wake-up band) until I can find my iphone and beat it into submission.<br />
Then I get on facebook and wait for the innate fury to dissipate. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<i>I'm in pain and I'm still hysterical!</i></div>
<br />
And now, a brief interlude where I speak directly to the ghost of boyfriends future:<br />
<br />
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-<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Guys, pre-noon Lissa is fairly convinced the terrorists are coming to get her.<br />
<br />
In her (and my) defense, we do have some terrorists here. Like, more than one might prefer and stuff.<br />
And yet I seem to be the only one in my family who is concerned by this. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
Either way, bet he'll be wishing he knew how to tell people he has "a very specific set of skills" in French then.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Plus the fact remains that we dress like total Americans. This can't be helped, to an extent. But then there are my shoes:<br />
<br />
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<i> "HELLO," they say, "HELLO I AM A TARGET."</i> </div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"DAD. Did you notice that guy who followed us practically the whole way here?" I asked.<br />
"Huh. No. Well, if you see him again, then we'll be concerned," he replied.<br />
<br />
GREAT ADVICE FOR SOMEONE WHO LITERALLY CANNOT REMEMBER WHAT PEOPLE'S FACES LOOK LIKE.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
Marine: Is that the colonels' daughter? What's her face? Dragging a homeless guy in here?<br />
Me: LOOK YOU GUYS I CAUGHT A TERRORIST.<br />
Marine: Wha- How did you even do that?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZ0UkBlI9juQMT138I8_28iptE6SBOlTdAOTEhgdiS3CD4KJq2TanLZPWaI0MihAjaLmaAhAqB0cQht_CfR0RE2i0qljOUsXJfq3-rwXZbSOKTWc0z2M-63bnEkzh7rbyN3Li2RZOyVE/s1600/bartok.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZ0UkBlI9juQMT138I8_28iptE6SBOlTdAOTEhgdiS3CD4KJq2TanLZPWaI0MihAjaLmaAhAqB0cQht_CfR0RE2i0qljOUsXJfq3-rwXZbSOKTWc0z2M-63bnEkzh7rbyN3Li2RZOyVE/s400/bartok.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I<i> gave him a HA! And a HI-YA! And then a OUU-WA! And then I kicked him, sir.
</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Me: Well, here you go!<br />
Marine: That is not a terrorist. That is a homeless man. Speaking very angry French.<br />
Me: ...I don't speak French.<br />
Marine: WELL THAT'S NOT VERY GOOD OPSEC, NOW, IS IT?<br />
<br />
These are the things I think about, guys.<br />
<br />
Anyway, my point here is that I'm like 57% sure I'm not a super complainer.<br />
<br />
And now I'm going to go google how to catch a terrorist. That should yield some pretty concrete results, I think. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-77212328812369161862013-04-01T09:33:00.002-07:002013-04-01T09:33:36.690-07:00in which I offer more life advice for the barely-functionalI 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.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFH2iNS5P6CsqV7O2QtBBwHCruL0TQSgect2pDaJL0LlNLZXieikLFv9GgIP_bT5iVz01OSNqlZq7BL3TwxTrPnhRAhyphenhyphenEFivVlKYL5XvdQxkvIlI2NzJWSVtB1S91aPIjEfD4z16HBEdo/s1600/puppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFH2iNS5P6CsqV7O2QtBBwHCruL0TQSgect2pDaJL0LlNLZXieikLFv9GgIP_bT5iVz01OSNqlZq7BL3TwxTrPnhRAhyphenhyphenEFivVlKYL5XvdQxkvIlI2NzJWSVtB1S91aPIjEfD4z16HBEdo/s320/puppy.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>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.</i></td></tr>
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<br />
But you know what they say, those who can't do, teach.<br />
<br />
So here's another tip for the barely functional:<br />
<br />
"Shathing," or as I prefer to call it, "Vesper Lynn-ing."<br />
<br />
Baths have long been a happy pastime of the barely functional.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Instead, let me present the following alternative:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgyIzw3wUYoKiNWqyW7CTe404X10NkrbXDy-vghGlEkGod629Nyzp_gPkzmXImMfHJ241aDSjKd4Vdx0puitpUj50yLpYaHjXeYodLRPj7EIg30o0sEGjAhUnr8I0CLJMZslRjTEKf9Q/s1600/vesper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgyIzw3wUYoKiNWqyW7CTe404X10NkrbXDy-vghGlEkGod629Nyzp_gPkzmXImMfHJ241aDSjKd4Vdx0puitpUj50yLpYaHjXeYodLRPj7EIg30o0sEGjAhUnr8I0CLJMZslRjTEKf9Q/s1600/vesper.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>See? Vesper Lynn-ing</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's like everything you've ever wanted rolled into one! YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF!<br />
(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?)<br />
<br />
Plus, if you stay in there long enough, someone might come along and give you a cuddle!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyncblHqZWpvgZykO4KYDwWYu65z-78iMgCi2nolzXkl7EHYrDQfF17ejwZ9N4_pwMtEfqFHDICea6ktKizbMVYsFfpR6I9zwfiXGhbXe3_hONiBRBQzD-O8tpjlWcLhNX2Jl0k2A_lpA/s1600/vesper2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyncblHqZWpvgZykO4KYDwWYu65z-78iMgCi2nolzXkl7EHYrDQfF17ejwZ9N4_pwMtEfqFHDICea6ktKizbMVYsFfpR6I9zwfiXGhbXe3_hONiBRBQzD-O8tpjlWcLhNX2Jl0k2A_lpA/s1600/vesper2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>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. </i></td></tr>
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Equally effective after a bad case of murder-shock, ala our good friend Vesper, as it is after a bad day.<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mkay, well, I'm going back to the Grey's Anatomy now. Interns are secretly removing each other's organs. Those crazy kids!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-46345816935976654932013-03-22T14:46:00.000-07:002013-03-22T14:53:32.154-07:00in which I do three thingsGuys, I think I should write a self-help book. It will be called "<i>How to not suck at life (even when your life sucks): a guide for the barely functional</i>." It will be marketed to those of us beyond the point of saving by the seven habits of highly effective people, or whatever. The main demographic of purchasers will be well-meaning relatives who give mildly insulting gifts. Like, the same people who buy you gym memberships you don't ask for. <i>Those</i> guys.<br />
And then after the raging success of my book, I'll follow it up with a workplace speaking tour entitled "<i>Teamwork, B*tches</i>." It will be equally successful, of course. <br />
<br />
Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm pretty sure if you move back in with your parents and switch from a four year university to community college you kind of take yourself out of the running for writing self-help books.<br />
<br />
But if I were to write one, this would be among the primary advice given: do three things you're proud of every day.<br />
They don't have to be big things, or resume worthy accomplishments. Just...three things that you yourself are proud of. If you can do that, the day is not wasted.<br />
<br />
On the super dark days, when playing the role of self-loathing wrapped in misery, brushing my hair, brushing my teeth, and changing into daytime pajamas totally counts as those three things. If you've been there, you know what I'm saying.<br />
<br />
So, with today being on the lower end of mediocre, here are my three things:<br />
<br />
1. I finished making a baby blanket. I'm planning on donating it, so double bonus points for me there.<br />
<br />
2. I went swimming.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjtp_PdHDn1PYXGR1514m7LvoN9ZM76t3m4yy9VlmzP89si5cVhn1aqiZwkrQ_Sr68bxcbffp9Iwu3q6eEGB8D7xXSfth0eItWJyr_1Y2LVT73IBe8b4mx2Voc4DHDi0kKVL_zT8j_Ow/s1600/602816_10152745471470651_1986051093_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjtp_PdHDn1PYXGR1514m7LvoN9ZM76t3m4yy9VlmzP89si5cVhn1aqiZwkrQ_Sr68bxcbffp9Iwu3q6eEGB8D7xXSfth0eItWJyr_1Y2LVT73IBe8b4mx2Voc4DHDi0kKVL_zT8j_Ow/s400/602816_10152745471470651_1986051093_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Obviously instagrammed photo of my feet and the pool.</i> <i>And yes, my toenails really do sparkle. That's why God made diamond shine topcoat, friends.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Everyone should swim. SCIENCE DEMANDS IT.<br />
So that's technically a minor exaggeration, but I read a study once that stated the meditative benefits of both running and swimming, and it's totally true. The quiet and repetition of movement clear your head like nothing else, plus it's a killer workout. Okay, I've been told running does the same thing, but running just makes me wheezy and sweaty and gross and it's pretty impossible to prentend to be a mermaid while running, guys.<br />
(Also I swam 80 laps which is 2 kilometers. DID YOU SWIM TWO KILOMETERS TODAY? NO? GUESS I'M JUST AWESOME.)<br />
<br />
3. I wrote this blog post which was both uneventful and unfunny and I un-care, because BAM three things.<br />
<br />
So. Today is officially a success. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-44780456165843677592013-03-21T15:09:00.001-07:002013-03-21T15:20:18.803-07:00In which there is an excess of projectile vomiting. So, quick medical background info: my insides are still kind of a pill. I mean, I'm pretty much living my life normally now, complete with an excess of JUST DANCE 4 and running up stairs like freakin' Rocky. Occasionally throughout the day it feels like a small animal is trying to tear its way out of my stomach ala the movie Alien, but since it's only occasionally I can totally deal.<br />
The only thing that is not back to normal is eating- I'm still having a crazy hard time with food. Anytime I eat anything, or even drink anything that is not water, I know sucky times are on their way. So right now I'm pretty much living off of two fist fulls of food a day, and that seems to be (sort of) cutting it.<br />
<br />
I've also decided to go vegetarian- not that big of a deal for me, I was veg all through high school and vegan in most of middle school. I have several reasons for going back to this lifestyle- first and foremost, if I'm only eating a lil' baby bit, I dang well want to get the most nutrition out of those calories. I personally can accomplish this easier when vegetarian. I'm also pretty paranoid eating anything out of Africa, but as man cannot live by imported doritos alone I figure I can cut down on my parasite risks by cutting out the meat. Additionally, I've been reading a lot on how a plant-based diet can help bring down cancer, and while I'm not entirely sure I buy into it I'm dead serious about getting my 20+ years of living time, so I figure I'll give it a try.<br />
(It should also be noted that when your boyfriend says he's got beef, I'd like to tell him that I'm a vegetarian and I'm not freakin' scared of him without it being a lie. So there's that.)<br />
So I'm once again a fully fledged, menu-planning, sprout-growing, meat-abstaining vegetarian. Yay.<br />
<br />
Like everything else in a third world country, maintaining a vegetarian (or any!) diet is hard. I've been back in country for five days now, and the thing I miss most so far, other than my new Germany friends, of course, you guys are awesome and I love you, is the grocery store. O! Commissary, with thine aisles of delectable treasures! May your bounty never run dry!<br />
<br />
Getting food here remains to be expensive and a general pain. No news there.<br />
But yesterday.....yesterday, we found broccoli.<br />
You guys, I freaking love broccoli. I'd write a short poem about how much I love it, but I feel like after that bit about the commissary it would be overkill. So suffice it to say...I really really love it.<br />
As I've mentioned before, broccoli here runs super expensive. The last time I think we had it was on my birthday, because it tends to sell for between eight and ten dollars a stalk. Multiply that by a family of seven and it adds up fast. But this broccoli was a mere six dollars, so we decided to splurge.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to lie to you guys, it was delicious. I had a massive helping. B decided she was not feeling the greenery, so I greedily scooted her serving onto my plate.<br />
<br />
That's about the point when I noticed the worm.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnknQkRf-fNBWKeyjQ7eln1Q979FCuXsxugO_xCL20ufxFR9zwa4Owc5pZuSFY0UKAMMPc0hF7YgOxSALq0ReQBaWUhHhHMkWhV_hPbjc7lSsvC8u1bwdApzQXh6Um202JHs-zurtJp4/s1600/Photo+on+2013-03-21+at+15.25+%232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnknQkRf-fNBWKeyjQ7eln1Q979FCuXsxugO_xCL20ufxFR9zwa4Owc5pZuSFY0UKAMMPc0hF7YgOxSALq0ReQBaWUhHhHMkWhV_hPbjc7lSsvC8u1bwdApzQXh6Um202JHs-zurtJp4/s400/Photo+on+2013-03-21+at+15.25+%232.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I love you, so there will be no worm pictures. Instead, here is my face of abject horror/hiding in my shirt picture. Unrelated note, I can't stop wearing my ugly comfy clothes and it's making me feel like a huge hypocrite but they're just so comfy?</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Still being on the<i> parasites will kill you/worms are nastay</i> freak out train, I had a little baby melt down with some swearing and out loud wondering if this continent is trying to kill me, etc. Admittedly cursing at the dinner table in front of the impressionable little babies is not a cool move, but I did apologize and in my defense I still think it was dramatically less cussing than the situation actually merited. <br />
So: to sum up, ate some broccoli, it was delicious, found a lil' baby worm, had a lil' baby freak out, calmed down.<br />
<br />
And that's when we noticed the rest of the worms.<br />
<br />
The broccoli, for lack of a better word, was infested. At this point my darling father nobly launched into a speech about how in parts of this very continent, worms like these were a delicacy! Many a time had he eaten such worms before!<br />
He also went on to purposefully eat some worms, theoretically in an attempt to normalize the situation and convince the rest of the family (we were all freaking out at this point) to please not abandon him in Africa like we're always threatening to do. In reality I think he just did it because he's a boy and boys like to do things to make girls squirm, regardless of age. <br />
<br />
However, I missed most of this because by then I'd realized just how much of the broccoli I had eaten and was projectile vomiting up the entirety of the food I'd consumed today. I've said it before and I'll say it again, generally I'm a pretty graceful lady-puker. I could probably give lessons at this point. Tonight, however, was a holy-crap-I-hate-myself-and-also-Africa-and-also-worms-which-I-ate-so-gross-ew-ew-ew fast and furious, out through the nose upchuck. Never before have I thrown up so violently, and hopefully I never again will.<br />
<br />
The moral of the story here, guys, is that sometimes when you think you've given up animal protein, the universe surprises you with juuuust a little bit more.<br />
<br />
Also I replaced the lost calories with some old-fashioned FDA approved Ritter Sport, because feelings, guys.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-807585848314742082013-03-20T11:14:00.000-07:002013-03-20T11:15:01.662-07:00in which I briefly touch on my body issues<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 18px;">27. What is your favorite part of your body and why?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: small;">This is so awkward- I've literally started this over three times now. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: small;">I have no idea how I feel about my body. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: small;">Let me just say that this is not a thinly-veiled request for compliments. Don't get me wrong, I love it when people say nice things to me, but now is not one of those times. </span> <br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I just..I don't even know. I regard my physical appearance with a mixture of apprehension and confusion.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">For one, I cannot remember what I look like.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The way my brain processes visual information simply does not allow that to happen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I can describe myself on paper very easily- my waist to hip ratio will always be drastically different from my waist to bust ratio, my middle and pinky toes point into each other, there is a scar on my bottom lip, a birthmark on my right forearm, a freckle on my left cheekbone, less eyelashes on my right eyelid, etc, etc, etc. I know all that. I can visualize each of those statements as they actually appear on my body. However, I cannot string them together in a way that I can remember. And because of that, each time I look in the mirror I'm genuinely surprised by what I see. Ultimately this oddity proves more uncomfortable than anything else: I can't look at myself for any period of time without feeling like I'm having a staring contest with a stranger. It's just...uncomfortable. There is no other way to say it. Anyone who's ever witnessed my getting ready may recall that I cannot do so without cocking my head slightly to the side; I do this because I feel it gives me a more nonobjective, disembodied viewpoint that makes so much mirror bonding time possible.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfBTmCnvd7cRWIqpCfTDyWaCUTRCAyuSmwGjYNiDiA3GTsc2QgDuIpeZYNGIATOJSsmF4ulNbBSGTI03FMdYWyxyXkT5rDb46jvggZu2xTkLPJZ-8m78eB3NnLJdBr6fuvlJmiCl578FE/s1600/face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfBTmCnvd7cRWIqpCfTDyWaCUTRCAyuSmwGjYNiDiA3GTsc2QgDuIpeZYNGIATOJSsmF4ulNbBSGTI03FMdYWyxyXkT5rDb46jvggZu2xTkLPJZ-8m78eB3NnLJdBr6fuvlJmiCl578FE/s320/face.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>This is what I look like today- you know, slightly cropped and from an angle. </i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Furthermore, this also applies to other people- I'm great with names, but I can't remember faces for the life of me. If I really like you, or if I'm attracted to you, I can generally commit one feature to memory for recognition purposes, but that's about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm also never sure if I'm "pretty" or not. This is in part because of my having been raised in several drastically different cultures: what some people consider the socially acceptable standard of beauty, many others do not. Additionally, I've come to learn that when someone says you're pretty, they are rarely stating a fact- in most cases they want something in return. That is no longer an exchange I care to engage in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I've also noticed that most appearance compliments are based off of fluctuating features- a hair cut, a weight loss- and that also confuses me. Am I supposed to like myself better now? Or before? Do I want to lose more weight? Or grow more hair? Which parts of myself am I supposed to hate? Which parts am I supposed to like?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">And then there's the inside of my body- a collection of organs and bones and blood all libel to fail at any given moment, topped off by a chemically imbalanced brain I've never trusted. I feel like a machine that can only function when properly balanced, and that balance is so hard to maintain that I'm falling apart more often than not. Even though that may be the case, I'm still amazed at what it can accomplish.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQjXUc_gISJqEX0QVmyBMTNbrTyie2pRU-NhsrbdksLTQfvipUWRVo6-AEN9cjh1eqTqDD3noRT8LB1DkEZQW4ixVB3d3z1ghObN20tjNiege-QzdSeI_ZWLJI5kdNfF1ka2QenBHHVzw/s1600/IMG_0724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQjXUc_gISJqEX0QVmyBMTNbrTyie2pRU-NhsrbdksLTQfvipUWRVo6-AEN9cjh1eqTqDD3noRT8LB1DkEZQW4ixVB3d3z1ghObN20tjNiege-QzdSeI_ZWLJI5kdNfF1ka2QenBHHVzw/s400/IMG_0724.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>This is what my stomach looks like today- you know, slightly cropped and from an angle. Softness and scars included, I'm pretty pleased with what it does. </i></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">So I guess what I'm saying is this: I have a body. It baffles and overwhelms me on a daily basis. So while I don't have a favourite part of it in particular, I'm glad it's there. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-73532734783184264882013-03-18T03:48:00.003-07:002013-03-18T03:48:50.557-07:00in which I am back in Africa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6cCyRzw4D_tA-0qmpgyxwWdDyBUq4mIMqogFmwFl9ScNrOGGQiQDzaUe0lSXbAh4qhBCjTFbY-JyfsQZW-FnTZCdPpu2vggk3WUEdeUdLliL4ebrpbI7So9hLVHFoRfqLF870Y7NkCTU/s1600/wing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6cCyRzw4D_tA-0qmpgyxwWdDyBUq4mIMqogFmwFl9ScNrOGGQiQDzaUe0lSXbAh4qhBCjTFbY-JyfsQZW-FnTZCdPpu2vggk3WUEdeUdLliL4ebrpbI7So9hLVHFoRfqLF870Y7NkCTU/s640/wing.jpg" width="480" /> </a></div>
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<i>Last look at Europe.</i></div>
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There's something indescribably emotional about airplane rides for me. </div>
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Well, not indescribable. <i> </i> Just complicated.</div>
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Because every flight, no matter how short, has to encompass the entire process of mourning the place you are leaving, and swallowing down the apprehension you feel towards your destination. </div>
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I've had a lot of panic attacks on planes, but not because I'm scared of flying.</div>
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Ultimately this one wasn't so bad until about ten minutes before landing, when I kind of lost it. </div>
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Me: Dude. We're about to land. In Africa.</div>
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Me: Uh, yeah, I know.</div>
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Me:WHY. WHY WHY. </div>
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Me: Because we live there....?</div>
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Me: LET'S NOT LIVE THERE ANYMORE. LET'S GO BACK TO UTAH.</div>
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Me: Uh, no. That would be a poor life choice right now.</div>
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Me: NO IT WOULDN'T IT WOULD BE GREAT A GREAT LIFE CHOICE OF GREATNESS</div>
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Me: I'm sorry, do you have a job in Utah?</div>
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Me: No...</div>
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Me: Or a husband?</div>
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Me:....no.....</div>
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Me: Or a bed?</div>
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Me: well, not exactly..</div>
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Me: THEN HUSH YO FACE.</div>
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Me: But Africa is bad! It's trying to kill us!</div>
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Me: Well THAT is not a rational thought..</div>
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Me: KILLLLL USSSSSSS</div>
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Me: That's an unreasonable number of consonants. Get a hold of yourself. </div>
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Me: EVERY TIME WE GO THERE BAD STUFF GOES DOWN.</div>
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Me: Oh, that doesn't mean anything. This time will be different!</div>
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Me: What is it they say about doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results...?</div>
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Me: You're having a fight with yourself and you want to question my mental stability right now? Really?</div>
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Me: Well....LET'S JUST TURN THE PLANE AROUND. </div>
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Me: That's impossible.</div>
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Me: [string of expletives]!!</div>
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Me: [string of expletives]?</div>
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Me: [expletive]!</div>
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Me: [expletive]. </div>
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Jumping ahead to the end of this feelings-fueled Gollum freakfest, I'm back in Africa. </div>
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The trip wasn't that bad, actually. While AirFrance seems to be the chosen airline of the French hipsters (ew.) they also have a spectacular cinematic library, so I watched a crapton of movies, including Looper (so intense!) Hitchcock (so adorable!) and The Silver Linings Playbook, which I actually did not think I'd like. I was kind of anticipating it to be J Law as the manic pixie dream girl who rescues Bradley Cooper with like, bubbles. Or whatever. I'm kind of super over manic pixie dream girls. </div>
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But that wasn't how it went down, so that was good. I can't think of any way to convey how much I loved this movie without giving the whole thing away, so...I don't know, guys. But now I really want to know if all bipolar people chuck books with stupid endings, or if it's just me and Bradley Cooper..?</div>
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I'm sure it's normal. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-61561871236852162752013-03-16T08:15:00.000-07:002013-03-16T08:18:31.077-07:00in which there are pictures of the MutterlandSo on the off-chance you don't follow my every move on facebook, this is what's been going down for the past two months:<br />
<br />
In January I got sick. Really sick. <br />
As I've mentioned before, I have a delicate lady tummy and a delicate butterfly immune system, so it wasn't a huge cause to worry in the beginning. After about a week or so, though, I couldn't eat food or stand up so much anymore, so I figured I'd check in with the health unit. Basically all my organs were going to crap. So I had an emergency-ish appendectomy in Dakar, very much against my will. (NEVER HAVE SURGERY IN A THIRD WORLD COUNTRY). I did not get better. At one point I thought my intestines had turned to liquid and were coming out of my incision, which is TMI, I know, and what happens when you get a bad infection at a surgery site. So the health unit patched that up. And I did not get better. Eventually my darling mother and I medevac'ed to Germany, where it turned out my organs were still going to crap and I also had a parasite and also cancer.<br />
So. That was mildly terrifying.<br />
But then I had more surgery and a crap ton of meds and lost 30 pounds and now I'll probably live for twenty years or more.<br />
(Also: if you think 20 years is a short amount of time, bear in mind that's literally the length of my life minus one year, so to me it seems like infinity. And I'm pretty psyched about that.)<br />
<br />
Oh! And we also learned that when you take me off the cray cray pills and put me on an excess of percocet, I end up doing my velociraptor impression through the aisles of a convenience store at night. I am such a wildly good time, guys. <br />
<br />
So that's pretty much what happened there.<br />
<br />
Anyways, that was really just my transition into what's really important, namely, the fact that we've been in Germany for almost six weeks.<br />
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My relationship with Germany is complicated to explain. By my father's definition, which necessitates being born and graduating from highschool in that place, I am "from" here. However, saying I am from Germany is an inaccurate statement, in my opinion. While I speak decent German, and went to German school, love German food and the German people, I've really only lived on American bases- which we affectionately refer to as "little America." However, I hold more emotional ties to this country than I do any other, including the one printed on my passport. <br />
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I was watching something once- couldn't tell you what now if I wanted to- where the pretentious ex-pat character said that America was their country, but Paris was their hometown.<br />
Horribly pretentious, right?<br />
Now that I'm old and wise and have spent more than a consecutive year or two in my home country, I kind of get it.<br />
America is my country, but Deutschland ist meine Mutterland.<br />
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So that being said, here are a ton of pictures of our brief outing to Stuttgart. They're mostly of food, because I love food and people the most, but neglected to tell anyone we were coming.<br />
Sorry about that, friends in the Stu. I was all full of radiation and you really shouldn't have spent time with me, anyways. I'm sorry. I love you?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7IOcYcofnCelzd8fTBMxlvuWHeCUuX9NcOSdcS9PSbJg5-ZYJXXbtiuYw-0rJBGjzpUK8hj_WrZFA2WFnc21pbUpRdVV_kLL6q6VoMotBnKuAjNKuSa4iV18uL1HOFXpgURkeNy1lWLA/s1600/IMG_0542.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7IOcYcofnCelzd8fTBMxlvuWHeCUuX9NcOSdcS9PSbJg5-ZYJXXbtiuYw-0rJBGjzpUK8hj_WrZFA2WFnc21pbUpRdVV_kLL6q6VoMotBnKuAjNKuSa4iV18uL1HOFXpgURkeNy1lWLA/s320/IMG_0542.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Z-P-X3FxBcTNNmLyshOK7b7MCIX9lVPCw9VjSIWHdWQFkE7tUXS_Xf4tOe0DKFbKdvKemMqJYhMdYk1E48Adbh6BDWpDNaWs0MkkFn6upbKACS9TRv3sJkAc-9FRHGeXNPuJFdrn6rI/s1600/IMG_0544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Z-P-X3FxBcTNNmLyshOK7b7MCIX9lVPCw9VjSIWHdWQFkE7tUXS_Xf4tOe0DKFbKdvKemMqJYhMdYk1E48Adbh6BDWpDNaWs0MkkFn6upbKACS9TRv3sJkAc-9FRHGeXNPuJFdrn6rI/s320/IMG_0544.jpg" width="240" /> </a></div>
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<i>In our family, if you get a vaccine without crying you can have a candy bar. If you get cancer and two surgeries and a parasite and only cry four times you get to go wild at the Ritter Sport factory.</i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3zCDMwFO66I2nGbRGLGICmp0kH8qv6nQNavI0wLu-TJ3IyecdS5DCVBzB4ucODETHaCMyICxMTy4P9q2JULkbsOdhQXZOtyMdu9E_i7IGzF2ApjUg03CAlG82ye2t13JVo96P5dkwyQ/s1600/IMG_0545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3zCDMwFO66I2nGbRGLGICmp0kH8qv6nQNavI0wLu-TJ3IyecdS5DCVBzB4ucODETHaCMyICxMTy4P9q2JULkbsOdhQXZOtyMdu9E_i7IGzF2ApjUg03CAlG82ye2t13JVo96P5dkwyQ/s400/IMG_0545.JPG" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<i>Field between the base and Plingingen- home to lots of walking and filming and biking and other various activities. </i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOdsa5cVcDnixPIQ4VQuHBCgb4JKD66N0vS-X2-qu5Rz3w2oYOWKaL1OjavygfyXTuai81DS9Mtqo89u3B56L7twYwFlmr_HM9Kvali7DpYmHb5YV2aaA5x6Q0oXQZTDBVHfSqlspF4M/s1600/IMG_0547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOdsa5cVcDnixPIQ4VQuHBCgb4JKD66N0vS-X2-qu5Rz3w2oYOWKaL1OjavygfyXTuai81DS9Mtqo89u3B56L7twYwFlmr_HM9Kvali7DpYmHb5YV2aaA5x6Q0oXQZTDBVHfSqlspF4M/s320/IMG_0547.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiwC_89QtchvFcu55ZPw_3Ka6GXjq-xMEeIP2cSZuAe3KRKoTaH-KixjLzcajga-eTuRFnixEPLoM0EQUFngz_kQaQzCLV6ZXyHj5ppD2WyRzgBhG7XUwLlrWE7Uwj08U-hg2NeLL8jR8/s1600/IMG_0549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiwC_89QtchvFcu55ZPw_3Ka6GXjq-xMEeIP2cSZuAe3KRKoTaH-KixjLzcajga-eTuRFnixEPLoM0EQUFngz_kQaQzCLV6ZXyHj5ppD2WyRzgBhG7XUwLlrWE7Uwj08U-hg2NeLL8jR8/s320/IMG_0549.jpg" width="240" /> </a></div>
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<i>Two of my favourite theaters in town- the SI and Kelley.</i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9QfBW7wBcGL8w2FhYQ2ZHgttFIj0NmdgJ5qcc-EAcJqSzP6btmo3pL-7Or5Ru5_b-ITVPvmAaAFIkKNWzuq-UvCl2bX6naRPJRzA7QHb9dcgk7V_swYoBgYMNgFl9mft3v0QP2pwIY0/s1600/IMG_0548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9QfBW7wBcGL8w2FhYQ2ZHgttFIj0NmdgJ5qcc-EAcJqSzP6btmo3pL-7Or5Ru5_b-ITVPvmAaAFIkKNWzuq-UvCl2bX6naRPJRzA7QHb9dcgk7V_swYoBgYMNgFl9mft3v0QP2pwIY0/s400/IMG_0548.jpg" width="300" /> </a></div>
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<i>One of my many bus stops.</i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5DeDlRwhjbobE3lk4zFDXpR_Ew9um_S6TCftASF8y-rKc-ZL1cTzhie_fq2L6dzUArtagcMEpzrI8ELL-NbGl3aC3YJDuQi-CboLdPwke5XMxqTOYpQnVK4tdXgXVPXSYup2SAuubKQ/s1600/IMG_0559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5DeDlRwhjbobE3lk4zFDXpR_Ew9um_S6TCftASF8y-rKc-ZL1cTzhie_fq2L6dzUArtagcMEpzrI8ELL-NbGl3aC3YJDuQi-CboLdPwke5XMxqTOYpQnVK4tdXgXVPXSYup2SAuubKQ/s400/IMG_0559.JPG" width="400" /> </a><i> </i></div>
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<i>I have lived longer in this one building than I have anywhere else in my whole long life. </i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KR8hSWRDNGPFJy0OwpkaxVWXQOyeB9n36fFEUopdbGNkYec-X7-yYBseR-Pzv595A9FavlwVgULGgcD_O78MNzRZTR_AaJYQjYHEMD39ZqOToYbhQpnHyh_Q5hjC30x47_FGtHQMX3M/s1600/IMG_0565.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3KR8hSWRDNGPFJy0OwpkaxVWXQOyeB9n36fFEUopdbGNkYec-X7-yYBseR-Pzv595A9FavlwVgULGgcD_O78MNzRZTR_AaJYQjYHEMD39ZqOToYbhQpnHyh_Q5hjC30x47_FGtHQMX3M/s320/IMG_0565.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Outside the Imbiss</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg5nWMixR1OKNEREA5n5uKTgynaxtF7JTMP0wgZhzoZTxiyqQlFTKSlG9MLxWd7uVas7I9gPYO-iZLpO3drGSZ0Phne_Sv0qOWxjC83h6v8g364xw83H_U_je445y8DbJzeSUU4Y7g6Kk/s1600/IMG_0566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg5nWMixR1OKNEREA5n5uKTgynaxtF7JTMP0wgZhzoZTxiyqQlFTKSlG9MLxWd7uVas7I9gPYO-iZLpO3drGSZ0Phne_Sv0qOWxjC83h6v8g364xw83H_U_je445y8DbJzeSUU4Y7g6Kk/s320/IMG_0566.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTZfTs0i0jG2PRWKjAxJLK5lB13kjZl30ZYEvx5J_q9mCXYwDRmDLq6NcA3M13MAhEfSpZa2bigerAzGq6eyPzHTmo0kSx5JFM0Z0cbc6nzpy7ZhR8VhD67xU1_OCPcC8q96iZF9TuLE/s1600/IMG_0569.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTZfTs0i0jG2PRWKjAxJLK5lB13kjZl30ZYEvx5J_q9mCXYwDRmDLq6NcA3M13MAhEfSpZa2bigerAzGq6eyPzHTmo0kSx5JFM0Z0cbc6nzpy7ZhR8VhD67xU1_OCPcC8q96iZF9TuLE/s320/IMG_0569.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgho57AB2qdxxKiW4sLa6sGufh5rbzmaw-P8O7URIaVOuaOc1j_tBCEE4StnRRaHDzHdMXeXLp3kKzR7YnszL9kxra1N3TUzF-ZUtTQbS7vwEMbgDEF3P-w6jOiDlS9c0tHBMLTkKXsx5g/s1600/IMG_0570.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgho57AB2qdxxKiW4sLa6sGufh5rbzmaw-P8O7URIaVOuaOc1j_tBCEE4StnRRaHDzHdMXeXLp3kKzR7YnszL9kxra1N3TUzF-ZUtTQbS7vwEMbgDEF3P-w6jOiDlS9c0tHBMLTkKXsx5g/s320/IMG_0570.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdVlGuvMMF15LJDoErdFfPhSuLAqUDiLSuFAns0wgq4duJoEIsA-rNDo32gtAEQYrQsShz6nsjvFsQK6Fn1qywLkWx_QOFyHbyiFTa0m_wLi4NSfZwJAcd70V1ajP67rrVw1c0CoPe5Q/s1600/IMG_0572.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdVlGuvMMF15LJDoErdFfPhSuLAqUDiLSuFAns0wgq4duJoEIsA-rNDo32gtAEQYrQsShz6nsjvFsQK6Fn1qywLkWx_QOFyHbyiFTa0m_wLi4NSfZwJAcd70V1ajP67rrVw1c0CoPe5Q/s320/IMG_0572.jpg" width="240" /> </a></div>
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<i>Getting an Elizabeth burger, AKA the best burger EVARRR. It features potato patties and chocolate sauce. <3<3<3</i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_Cs6ewFxgaH7HW2pQsXLOnW6eKalv2RLzovDkeN3Knse_qtFXYGuSyqz6skKDCfHcK-hERcQUlvHMjJaY-me4-PKTdZwtAxNo5pnnB92l3GdijEeqVCO7S3TKGu0qFvoVlpHew79jgk/s1600/IMG_0580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_Cs6ewFxgaH7HW2pQsXLOnW6eKalv2RLzovDkeN3Knse_qtFXYGuSyqz6skKDCfHcK-hERcQUlvHMjJaY-me4-PKTdZwtAxNo5pnnB92l3GdijEeqVCO7S3TKGu0qFvoVlpHew79jgk/s400/IMG_0580.JPG" width="400" /> </a><i> </i></div>
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<i>Favourite couch in the library.</i> <i>On which I have never been reprimanded for PDA. Ever. </i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2fVWnguGI-R-hNao_Mfwra9N4Mq2wGbDlmnw9dfSTK8Rl3OThw09-eL4KA-vFF1r5VQhbjc-fLNjZW84jLptwyciDCl0hudehh3lDo4otzLlAC3vT67aSRZeAeiU2bXrszCQ2kfGXQ4/s1600/IMG_0585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt2fVWnguGI-R-hNao_Mfwra9N4Mq2wGbDlmnw9dfSTK8Rl3OThw09-eL4KA-vFF1r5VQhbjc-fLNjZW84jLptwyciDCl0hudehh3lDo4otzLlAC3vT67aSRZeAeiU2bXrszCQ2kfGXQ4/s400/IMG_0585.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Reading the Domino Book of Decorating (again) in the <span style="font-size: small;">teen section of the library, aka my home away from hom<span style="font-size: small;">e in high school. </span></span></i></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchZg7WgTNTN1ql9Abq69Xq7XK40wrHy6cl88UgY7YlmkZo8w9SrB1TZebEHigCtlCTkOio4Bisf9hAF34q-O7IpcgcdW-jnxW1FpFeQZScK30kLNi7WJ8FIJLkHiN4kd_JhP6B0wcz54/s1600/IMG_0576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchZg7WgTNTN1ql9Abq69Xq7XK40wrHy6cl88UgY7YlmkZo8w9SrB1TZebEHigCtlCTkOio4Bisf9hAF34q-O7IpcgcdW-jnxW1FpFeQZScK30kLNi7WJ8FIJLkHiN4kd_JhP6B0wcz54/s400/IMG_0576.jpg" width="300" /> </a></div>
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<i>Store within walking distance of my Realschule that turned a blind eye to kids cutting class.</i> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-TCzoSSIugm1BReClXtAUci8JseOFzpYt3vsbTqJeuHHkENT9K7aamEbjpWR6Rb_7h3dEeRvA0dcN1gu31-Ww2Y4f8LcLjtBRfMQu4ucnnIb7eWEiliKPfq5F2rKiWAO0ZTAR3yAKNiQ/s1600/IMG_0593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-TCzoSSIugm1BReClXtAUci8JseOFzpYt3vsbTqJeuHHkENT9K7aamEbjpWR6Rb_7h3dEeRvA0dcN1gu31-Ww2Y4f8LcLjtBRfMQu4ucnnIb7eWEiliKPfq5F2rKiWAO0ZTAR3yAKNiQ/s320/IMG_0593.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">BEST <span style="font-size: small;">gelato- extra dark chocolate, cherry vanilla and lemon. Under appreciated by both of these weirdos. </span></span></i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2osDmnWuUdAIm54FOQ8lc_B0DU05PyqklwlDcMn2dk6i0d_d2lRq46KW6pbNeZv_B5eWBWdB6LWd60Am4FYWuc00gxUXra3-H3SqwMB-f4hsLzHbgOp8GFyeA-9_KIBl9edpQgW_aiY/s1600/IMG_0589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2osDmnWuUdAIm54FOQ8lc_B0DU05PyqklwlDcMn2dk6i0d_d2lRq46KW6pbNeZv_B5eWBWdB6LWd60Am4FYWuc00gxUXra3-H3SqwMB-f4hsLzHbgOp8GFyeA-9_KIBl9edpQgW_aiY/s400/IMG_0589.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Exhibiting six times more enthusiasm than I did the entire time I went to school here. </i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwLruMKkTmoVYyw8XIOqooykm7FYHZ5lr4w_bAt2vGOEQagXshA5r5NzM14G2ZfOoa5btPcjE2x3DeLxSmk1NtIIaGGpYUNgRyjfQTITh29ypxoPVY433jy3fomxR5jqbtUJu170pFLk/s1600/IMG_0595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzwLruMKkTmoVYyw8XIOqooykm7FYHZ5lr4w_bAt2vGOEQagXshA5r5NzM14G2ZfOoa5btPcjE2x3DeLxSmk1NtIIaGGpYUNgRyjfQTITh29ypxoPVY433jy3fomxR5jqbtUJu170pFLk/s320/IMG_0595.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Nanu Nana!</span></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></td></tr>
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<i>Engaging in the sacred ritual that is Noodling. </i></div>
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<i>Falafel!</i> </div>
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<i>Basically the Mecca of toys. </i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXLDQOc1QBSeHEiYOp834GCOitVYpyft3PH89jgdixA-hQx0xfqCC2sGRj6lyIBebIPD-Z3L-PdF_V83DG8HB_aPp49VtBLP0Og2bNvZN-b5YzwDdPbtOcqaTkLbP-O_QLm8j_TTvapw/s1600/IMG_0615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXLDQOc1QBSeHEiYOp834GCOitVYpyft3PH89jgdixA-hQx0xfqCC2sGRj6lyIBebIPD-Z3L-PdF_V83DG8HB_aPp49VtBLP0Og2bNvZN-b5YzwDdPbtOcqaTkLbP-O_QLm8j_TTvapw/s400/IMG_0615.JPG" width="400" /> </a><i> </i></div>
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<i>An army of Bessie the Cows.</i> </div>
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<i>Playing in the toy store.</i> </div>
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<i>Schlossplatz.</i> </div>
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<i>Maultaschen</i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>STARBUCKSSSS</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-o1mvmi9rl1oGlFr-ZcNLX5oxRIMHnclNAx05uu7kxtVwztcwzJqCvENcpDrieqeLbc5087yarHU09bktR-1XTLJI31OKsI2Nboj4OdXRd7qe0lXNO9RGEk1uzeCwM4SofEYedmRrDU/s1600/IMG_0654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-o1mvmi9rl1oGlFr-ZcNLX5oxRIMHnclNAx05uu7kxtVwztcwzJqCvENcpDrieqeLbc5087yarHU09bktR-1XTLJI31OKsI2Nboj4OdXRd7qe0lXNO9RGEk1uzeCwM4SofEYedmRrDU/s640/IMG_0654.jpg" width="480" /> </a></div>
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<i>Attempting to consume my body weight in Frappucino. </i> </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A Farewell to Stuttgart.</i></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-77487722153163839092013-02-28T12:43:00.000-08:002013-02-28T12:45:40.845-08:00.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; line-height: 18px;">22. Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 10 years? 15 years?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; line-height: 18px;">I don't like this game. I've never liked this game. Because in my mind, the rule of this game is that you can only project into the future based off of where you are in the present- as if nothing in your life were to change but the progression of time. You can't give yourself dream jobs you aren't preparing for. You can't pretend that you're simply going to wake up ten years in the future well-adjusted and happy if you aren't right now. So usually, when I answer these questions, my responses lean towards the bleaker side of the spectrum- clearly, I'm not exactly what you'd call optimistic. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; line-height: 18px;">But while I usually- and generously- describe myself as a realist, tonight all my thoughts are solidly negative. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; line-height: 18px;">I guess that's what happens when you have to stop taking your crazy pills. And then you get cancer. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Tonight I wonder if there will be 15 more years. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">So here's what's going to happen instead:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I'm going to write something in this blog, because....because. Tomorrow I'm going to go to the hospital. Maybe again the day after that, and the week after that. I'm going to get better, lots and lots and lots of better. In a few months I'll move to SLC and live in a cheap, meaning crappy, apartment. I'll find a job that doesn't involve being yelled at all day, I'll finish my degree. I'll make friends. Lots of friends. I'll go to concerts and clubs and potlucks and parties. I'll get another job- a better one, one with people and pretty dresses. There will be bad days. There will be good days. There will be a boy who calls me pretty and laughs at my jokes and wants to hold my hand just all of the time. When we get married, I will wear my mother's dress and my hair will look great in the pictures. We will laugh a lot and we will dance in the kitchen. We will have four children. The first girl will have my middle name. We'll move- maybe to Boston, give our children an accent and a baseball team. I'll paint the kitchen yellow and the living room blue. There will still be dancing- always dancing. There will be church on Sunday and fireworks on the fourth of July. There will still be bad days and hard times- but in the end, we'll be furiously happy. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">And that is what's going to happen.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Because that is what has to happen. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-66362085644597913952013-01-12T07:04:00.004-08:002013-01-12T07:07:42.093-08:00In which I return from a month of radio silence to talk about eating cake naked. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">New Rule: Anytime you switch crazy pills, you get to take a month long break from blogging. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">And on that note, I feel better than I have in years, so YIPPY KI YAY MOTHER-F...riends and visitors. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">25. If you could have a dinner party with anyone in history, who would it be and what would you eat?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Okay, why is this such a common question? I mean, I get that it's supposed to reveal what your ambitions and interests are by the people you select, but why a dinner party? Have ya'll ever thrown a dinner party for strangers before? They totally suck.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Granted, a few of you may be thinking to yourselves "But I totally met you at a dinner party you threw!" and for you I present the following two questions: 1) did you sit on the floor and 2) did you eat some sort of mix-based soup as the main course? The answer to both of those questions is undoubtedly yes , and therefore it was not a proper dinner party. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Also, there's a big difference between having strangers over for dinner and having strangers over for a dinner party. I'd delve deeper into that particular intricacy, but on behalf of my country, I won't. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">So I'm changing the question. Dinner Party's out. Instead, let's do Saturday Brunch, but at like 2.30 PM because I like my sleep. And I'm only inviting the currently living, because I do not want to spend the whole time explaining Iphones to Joan of Arc, amiright? So that being said, here's my guest list:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://brittanyherself.com/">Brittany Gibbons</a>, because I think she's hilarious, and I love the work she does to promote healthy body image, and she makes me excited to be a mom, and I think we'd be excellent friends.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://thebloggess.com/">Jenny Lawson</a>, because I think she's hilarious, and I love the writing she does to help combat the mental illness stigma, and I think we'd bond over our mutual love of awesomely named cats. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://elnabaker.com/">Elna Baker</a>, because I think she's hilarious, and I loved her book so much that I passed it around like the village bicycle in high school, and we'd have great chats about sex and Mormonism and theater and being raised all over the world. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">(On that note, ya'll should read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Regional-Mormon-Singles-Halloween-Dance/dp/B003F76C7A/ref=la_B002JVHB46_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1358001462&sr=1-1">her book</a>, it's just pages and pages of INSIGHT INTO MY LIFE, really.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lenadunham">Lena Dunham</a>, because I think she's hilarious, and so talented it makes me cry inside. But mostly because anyone who <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PItNqKh8DW8">eats entire cakes naked in bathroom stalls before the Emmys </a>is someone I want to be friends with. Naked cake eating is where it's at, my friends. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">And because the table reservation is leaning towards "Ovaries, party of five," I'd also invite Ryan Gosling, because...because...</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsjbPAK3fJ4gWbkMsFbkHKkNlXTuuGCCLPNkjIrIvo5-ixwQT8deGzKZXgDl4P_inOhOFQUVbb3I_nLOzaSQLTencm2YWk3dL4B76SnM1P2sgJ-A73N97B4FaiaDoX9a0md3JnCUElIE/s1600/Ryan-Gosling-ryan-gosling-22881383-1280-960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsjbPAK3fJ4gWbkMsFbkHKkNlXTuuGCCLPNkjIrIvo5-ixwQT8deGzKZXgDl4P_inOhOFQUVbb3I_nLOzaSQLTencm2YWk3dL4B76SnM1P2sgJ-A73N97B4FaiaDoX9a0md3JnCUElIE/s320/Ryan-Gosling-ryan-gosling-22881383-1280-960.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><i>Because look at that face, that's why.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">BUT I would still only make reservations for five people, so when we got there, they'd be all like "Oh no! We will have to find you another table!" and I'd be all like, "It's okay, don't worry guys, I'll just sit on Ryan's lap, problem solved." Also that way, if Ryan turned out to be a particularly dull conversationalist, whenever he started to speak I would delicately place a single finger on his lips and say "Shhhh, sweetie, shhhhh."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Side note: I'm secretly deeply worried that Ryan Gosling is an idiot. I don't think he is, but the slight possibility is very concerning to me, because no matter how beautiful he is about three months into our relationship I'd just be very fed up with him all the time, and our conversations would start to sound like this:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"> Me: "Ryan. It is so cold in here, I am freezing. In fact, if you notice, I am shivering like a delicate baby bird."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Ryan: "Baby, if you're a bird, I'm a bir-"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Me: "SHUT THE HELL UP, RYAN."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">And no one wants that. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">Oh, and I'd also invite Kyle because that kid is my favourite, obviously.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">So that's my fantasy brunch guest list, and I assume we'd all eat pancakes and bacon and drink mimosas, except for me, I would drink chocolate milk.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">The End.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-12888928238718802312012-12-18T07:39:00.000-08:002012-12-18T07:39:13.550-08:00in which there is poorly shot iphone videoSo...it's been an interesting week. And by interesting, I mean ROLLER COASTER OF FEELINGS AND EMOTIONS, and switching meds, and realizing once again that my brain is, as Jenny Lawson so eloquently puts it: "A g*dd*mn mess up there."<br />
(I censor because I love you, delicately eyeballed sister, and for no other reason.)<br />
<br />
Basically, I've been absent from the blogging world because I've been too busy stress-eating, and stress-dancing, and stress-painting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYctj6rYWZXfAFv_Uyts3tqpRxBevDG_u74Q3pbYNh91YIUTkkvI8LIfmyDVhnCyu_CVM5loHaIXlpeObUFd6j47U1PBzM_JMqpqYnXzceCQ3p3Oe50Xk7hMEWy0GOkRnEFmLr_cWmE3s/s1600/IMG_0156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYctj6rYWZXfAFv_Uyts3tqpRxBevDG_u74Q3pbYNh91YIUTkkvI8LIfmyDVhnCyu_CVM5loHaIXlpeObUFd6j47U1PBzM_JMqpqYnXzceCQ3p3Oe50Xk7hMEWy0GOkRnEFmLr_cWmE3s/s320/IMG_0156.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>If you think this is bad, you should see the dancing. </i></div>
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However, as I spent most of this morning engaged in an involuntary feelings-purging nap, I think things are under control again. Also, if you've never taken an feelings-purging nap, you should get on that. Or don't get on that. Sleep is a bitter form of refuge. Your call. Moving on. </div>
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Anyway, as I don't yet feel capable of saying anything new or interesting, I'll give you some video clips I took on my phone on the drive into work yesterday. It's really impossible to tell what's going on without being told beforehand, so I shall enlighten you: There is a stretch of beach I'd say is maybe the length of a football field called "University beach" where all the Senegalese dudes work out, apparently. Basically they all run back and forth on this same stretch of beach. Sometimes it gets to the point where there are literally hundreds of them, running back and forth over the span of about 100 yards. Which wouldn't be so weird, were it not for the fact that they literally have MILES AND MILES of beach available to them, and they pick this stretch. Oh, Senegalese. You so silly. </div>
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They also have a weight lifting area where they pick up tires and stuff. It's like the Dakar version of Muscle Beach. They've recently acquired a nautilis-type weight machine, rumored to having been dumped there by the special forces in the middle of the night, which they haven't quite figured out how to use yet. It's great. </div>
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Also if you listen closely you can hear my dad explaining the finer points of Apocalypse Now, so...Bonus!</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwM3EynH9CfvQpO6fNXDaWUCl9inFGzr5ZNBlV-3LvVZ7AANWVqyM8I653E8qCM-5cfbvoODSWGu8HqJHWd5w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwsNgqaqjZY_PALri4wBSbitMdDlK9tSaPEaVQstXyJZkOVygV0nxB4P9v17ghA_fk-o7VmrqPJiBGTx5K94g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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TIA, body builders, TIA. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-8790097904668250102012-12-10T03:04:00.000-08:002012-12-10T03:09:16.967-08:00in which I give the gift of cookiesFor many of us, this week is finals week.<br />
What this means for me is that I'm splitting my time into 1 part studying and approx. 8 parts hating myself.<br />
Next week I'll spend registering and unregistering for classes while weeping uncontrollably.<br />
<br />
College, holla!<br />
<br />
So today I'd like to talk to you all concerning the ultimate comfort food, too often neglected this time of year, frequently replaced by horrible grocery-store replacements.<br />
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Friends, I'm talking about the chocolate chip cookie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pMq-piIAV5KgsuVTgOrhKqFYdPma3MhGrumdWRZA34aPdObvriL6sO204DHPN-iQy2AyaAx_2jzGN6Yg5wT4ZG2v8pAMHryRioTtgtB4yzNHdx9Q-nQA-VKlp-vBySn9BIt7UkQRbh0/s1600/Photo+on+2012-12-10+at+09.39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pMq-piIAV5KgsuVTgOrhKqFYdPma3MhGrumdWRZA34aPdObvriL6sO204DHPN-iQy2AyaAx_2jzGN6Yg5wT4ZG2v8pAMHryRioTtgtB4yzNHdx9Q-nQA-VKlp-vBySn9BIt7UkQRbh0/s320/Photo+on+2012-12-10+at+09.39.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>I had five of these for breakfast.</i></div>
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<i>GOOD MORNING, I AM EATING MY FEELINGS.</i></div>
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There is an odd phenomena I have noticed among my food-eating fellow humans. Everyone believes that they have the best recipe and method for cooking 1) a steak and 2) chocolate chip cookies. </div>
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Now, I'm not saying my pan seared in garlic butter steak is the best. It's pretty good, but I'll allow for the possibility that you can make one better. </div>
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However, I've been making these cookies since I was six. They are the best. There is no doubt in my mind. And I have eaten a LOT of cookies over the years. </div>
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They are always chewy. They have like, this slight carmel-y thing going on. Also, chocolate. </div>
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If you're wondering why I haven't made these for you personally over the years, the answer is because I'm lazy. But now, as I grow old, I am once again awakening my cooking skills in the hopes to add another charm to my trophy wife bracelet. To be clear, I do not actually own a trophy wife charm bracelet, nor am I sure that such a thing exists, but now I totally want one. I'd use it to seduce men, probs. </div>
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Anyways, because it's Christmas, because I love you, and because there's no way I'm the only one who needs to drown her sorrows in calories right now, here is the recipe. </div>
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I've doubled it, and doubled it makes about three dozen cookies the size of your head. If you think you need less than three dozen head-sized cookies, it may be time for us to re-evaluate our friendship. </div>
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<b>THE BEST CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES OF ALL TIME FOREVER.</b></div>
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<b>FOR. EV. ER. </b></div>
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ingredients:</div>
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2 cups butter</div>
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2 cups white sugar</div>
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2 cups brown sugar</div>
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1 tbs vanilla</div>
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4 eggs</div>
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4 1/2 cups flour</div>
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1 tsp salt</div>
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2 tsp baking soda</div>
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2 bags (24 oz) chocolate chips- usually I'm all like, MILK CHOCOLATE BIZNATCHES, but these are so sweet you probably want to go with semi sweet, or even dark chocolate. Your call, though. I trust you guys. </div>
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directions:</div>
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Okay, first you should put on your june cleaver apron equivalent to protect your clothes and make you feel like a lady. If you're a dude, you should do the man version of this. I still haven't made my mind up as to what that is, but it is not taking your shirt off. <b>Friends, just say no to topless oven work. The scars of the second degree burns on my stomach agree with me</b>. So I'm thinking the manly version may be a tool belt looking contraption, but again, it's really your call.</div>
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Next, put your butter in a larger-sized saucepan and melt it. As soon as it shows signs of browning, throw in all of your sugar. Feel like Paula Deen. Stir. Remove the pan from the heat and set aside. </div>
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In a small bowl, combine your eggs and vanilla, then whisk them together. Set aside. </div>
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In a big bowl, combine all of your dry ingredients, stir. </div>
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By this time your butter sugar concoction should have cooled some. You're probably already eating it with a spoon. Stop doing that. It gets better, I promise. Go ahead and throw your eggs/vanilla business in there, mix that in as well as you can. </div>
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Now you can add your sugary goodness concoction to your flour. Stir it up. Stop eating it with your fingers, you won't have enough for your cookies. Add in your chocolate chips. Eat a little more of it with your fingers. </div>
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At this point, you're supposed to put it in the fridge for an hour so it can harden up a little. I don't have that kind of patience, so I say chuck it in the freezer for the duration of a How I Met Your Mother episode and pre-heat your oven to 375. </div>
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Then you go ahead and plop your cookies onto an UN-GREASED sheet. I use a melon baller because, again, I like mine-head sized, but it's up to you. In theory you cook them for ten minutes, but if you have a janky third world oven/ obscenely large cookies, it may end up being more like fifteen. Basically, the moment you can scrape them off the pan with a spatula in one piece, they are done. </div>
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Finally, eat the cookies until you feel better about your life or throw up. Whichever comes first, really. </div>
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aaaaand you're done!</div>
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YOU ARE WELCOME, PEOPLE OF THE INTERNET. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-11054930056521202742012-12-07T08:28:00.000-08:002012-12-07T08:28:06.466-08:00in which accidents happen10. Describe your most embarrassing moment.<br />
<br />
Let me preface this with some fun facts about myself:<br />
<br />
I don't really get embarrassed. I have a sneaking suspicion the part of my brain that is supposed to get embarrassed is currently being squished by a cyst/ too busy memorizing song lyrics. Lots of embarrassing things have happened to me, sure, I just don't typically classify them that way. I mean, I flashed like a zillion people a week ago and followed it by saying "meh, boobs."(Follow up story! My crutches have managed to snap the underwire in ALL OF MY BRAS, so if that incident repeats itself, it's going to be a lot more National Geographic than Mean Girls, if you know what I'm saying. So prepare yourself for <i>that</i> blog post, my friends.)<br />
Basically, I'm the girl you send to buy your tampons because the cashier's too cute, or whatever- I get that things are supposed to be embarrassing, I just...don't really feel it.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This is a face that knows no shame</i></div>
<br />
So this is really more of an anecdote I think people will relate to as being embarrassing- but it wasn't my most embarrassing moment, persay. If you find it does not fill your embarrassing anecdote needs, I will be more than happy to tell you about the time I puked at walmart (twice!), walk of shamed in front of my then-home teacher (college!), or ugly cried in like, six different countries (snot!).<br />
<br />
But first, a continuation of the fun facts!<br />
<br />
As I've mentioned on numerous occasions, I drink a lot of water. The estimation of an average 5 liters was by no means exaggerated- I totally drank a liter of water while writing this.<br />
I also have a delicate lady-bladder, so I end up sprinting to the bathroom many, many times a day.<br />
<br />
I also really love road trips. Actually, that's not totally true- I love grown-up road trips. I love children, I do not love being in cars with them for extended periods of time, and furthermore I don't believe that anyone does. So, I love grown up lady road trips, where you can listen to the explicit version of Some Nights on repeat for six hours to perfect the four part harmony instead of Barney's greatest hits, or whatever.<br />
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I am also a notedly terrible driver. I will be the first one to admit this. At the earlier point of my driving career, it was the responsibility of the passenger to yell "It's okay, we're from Europe!" out the window after my traffic infractions. My most frequently cited reasons for wanting a man are: to drive me around, kill spiders, make out on demand and occasionally assure me that I'm not crazy. Luckily three out of the four can be accomplished by gay guys, but that's a story for another day.<br />
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In order to survive driving during the aforementioned road trips, I've perfected a formula over several bouts of trial and error: Driving mix CDs played at full volume, a constant rotation of energy drinks and water, and a route of planned bathroom stops along the way.<br />
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The only flaw in this glorious formula is that between the excessive water drinking and the caffeine from energy drinks, I sometimes need to, ah, make some additional bathroom stops. Which wouldn't be a big deal, if it weren't for the complete lack of civilization in most of utah -where the majority of my driving took place- and the fact that I have never mastered peeing in the wild. So more frequently what happens is I'd pull into the nearest building I thought will have bathrooms, park in a manner that would make Jason Bourne weep at my recklessness, and throw myself into the the building like a cannonball on fire, disregarding all who might work/live there until my needs are met, or rather, relieved. It's for this reason that Vegas houses multiple casinos they would really prefer I not visit again- sorry, security guard at Circus Circus! Maybe you should mark your fire exits from the outside, too!<br />
<br />
Anyways, there came a night when I was driving from Vegas to Cedar City by myself at around 3 AM. I actually prefer to make long drives at this hour of the night- less traffic. However, this also led to my drinking more energy drinks than usual, and taking more breaks than usual. I thought I was doing okay, and making good time at that, about twenty miles outside of Cedar. I figured I'd stop at the walmart on the edge of town, and I'd be good until I got home. Ten miles later, I realized this was not the case. Luckily there's a nice rest stop about six miles outside of the city- why I'm not sure, there aren't exactly any big tourist attractions there. Empty venom cans rolling at my feet while lady gaga sang about not wanting to be friends, I swung into the lot and started running for the building.<br />
<br />
I did not make it.<br />
<br />
My friends, I totally wet my pants. In a big way. Had I been in kindergarten, this would have merited a call home and request for dry clothes. Honestly, this is not the firs time I've done this, I'm sure it won't be the last (lots of water! delicate lady bladder! poor timing!) and it wouldn't even be noteworthy, except at that point I heard a car door close behind me.<br />
<br />
I turned around to see an entire family of Asian tourists who had evidentially witnessed the entire event. To this day, I'm still not sure what they were doing there- again, it was three in the morning- but I did what I had to do.<br />
<br />
"Welcome to Southern Utah!" I said, "Enjoy our picturesque mountain views!" And I waddled back to my car to change.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-3858848565920634692012-12-06T03:02:00.000-08:002012-12-06T03:02:44.402-08:00in which ambien is turning sleep-me into a horrible person.To be clear, ambien is still mana from heaven and keeps me sleeping through the night like a well-trained baby.<br />
It's just....my dreams are really weird. And violent. And kinda racist.<br />
<br />
First of all, the fact that I'm having dreams at all is kind of an anomaly- usually people on ambien don't dream. They occasionally sleep-walk, sleep-eat, and sleep-set-things-on-fire, but they don't usually dream. I mean, given those options I'd pick horrible dreams anyways, I'm just saying...it's weird.<br />
<br />
Second of all, I'm a nice person, I swear. These are not the kind of story lines I scheme up when I'm awake. Just....sleeping. And only recently.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This is basically how I wake up now.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
Okay, so three days ago I woke up freaking out because "the gays ate my baby" which is probably the most horrible sentence I have ever typed. I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST HOMOSEXUALS. Several of my absolute favourite people are gay. Even though I occasionally say wildly awkward things to them, we're all pretty tight as a general rule. Furthermore, no one I actually know was in this dream.<br />
Anyways, I dreamed I was living in a house with my baby, Rachel, who had glorious flowing red hair and looked adorable in a little wool coat and beret, and a gay body builder named Mike. Also, while I have nothing against gay individuals, it should probably be said that body builders freak me the hell out. Like, why on earth would you want to make yourself look that creepy. I don't even comprehend. Anyways, then Mike the gay body builder kidnapped Rachel and took her to his gay body builder cannibalistic cult, who had a giant cauldron of water which they danced around ceremoniously, as cannibalistic body builder cults are no doubt wont to do. And then they ate my baby. It was horrible.<br />
<br />
The next night I dreamed I was in some sort of hunger games/gladiator fight, where the prize for winning was a new iphone. It should be noted that I have a perfectly functioning iphone, which I knew in the dream, I just had to have a new one. Dream me is a materialistic bastard. More so than conscious me, that is. Oh, and the arena was filled with the family and friends of the apple workers who committed suicide. So. Hordes of angry asians, basically. And then I rode into the arena on the back of a lion (which was awesome!) and bludgeoned everyone to death with my old iphone (which was NOT awesome.) At least I won? I guess? HOPE THAT NEW PHONE IS WORTH IT, YOU MURDEROUS HAG.<br />
<br />
Last night, however, was particularly violent. First of all, my best friend in the world called me at three in the morning, in real life. I didn't pick up because it was three in the morning and I was too sleepy and stuff. I'm still not actually sure why he called then? (It was not an emergency though, because he left a voicemail saying as much.) So then I went back to sleep. And dreamed that I was trying to teach him a lesson for calling so late. By murdering him WITH AN AXE. Like IN THE SHINING. It was HORRIBLE.<br />
<br />
So...yeah. I'm a terrible person when I'm asleep.<br />
Love me anyways?<br />
<br />
....<br />
<br />
Please?<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-82665802446039894722012-12-05T05:01:00.001-08:002012-12-05T05:09:11.797-08:00in which I write the Obligatory Birthday PostFriends, there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who think birthdays are a time for quiet introspection, possibly accompanied by an intimate celebration, and those who go all out in a happy explosion of self-obsession.<br />
I'm somewhere in between the two, so I guess that means there's three kinds.<br />
<br />
BEHOLD THE STORY OF MY TWENTY FIRST BIRTHDAY<br />
<br />
I awoke at the sunny hour of Five AM, and by that I do mean I accidentally woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, so I spent the next fifty minutes looking at discount wedding dresses online and smacking my face against the keyboard (an attempt to lull myself back to sleep, not an expression of my relationship status). Alas, by six I gave up and put some clothes to go to the Embassy.<br />
<br />
I had a nine o clock appointment at the embassy health unit (for the usual complaints: "I think I have cancer/aids/sleep apnea, may I please be med evac'ed to Germany?" and "CAN I STOP USING THE CRUTCHES NOW?") but since the embassy is so far from our house- half an hour- I went with my mother and father at the same time he goes in for work (seven fifteen sharp, or God help you).<br />
<br />
In our family, on your birthday it is tradition that you may pick any breakfast your heart desires, usually of the pastry variety. I wanted pain au chocolat from the fancy downtown bakery, which my mother went and bought. They were delicious. She also got some kind of savory croissant that was markedly less delicious. Oh, Senegalese bakeries, you're so weird.<br />
<br />
The doctor's appointment basically went like this:<br />
<br />
Me: PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD CAN I STOP USING CRUTCHES?!<br />
Dr: Let me see your foot.<br />
Me: [shows foot. foot looks kind of corpsey and gross, it is still covered in bruises. I have tried to mask this by painting the nails a charming shade of mango, ended up looking like the decomposing hooker foot they find on CSI, or something]<br />
Dr: [dying on the inside]<br />
Me: So....no more crutches, then?<br />
Dr: I don't know. Let me poke your foot in a manner that would be painful on even non-broken toes.<br />
Me: [biting back screams in the hope my hardcoreness will result in the loss of crutches] So...good?<br />
Dr: Actually, I think your foot is EVEN MORE BROKEN THAN IT WAS BEFORE!<br />
Me: So..crutches. Yes? No?<br />
Dr: Have you been putting weight on your foot?<br />
Me: Not really...except for when I fall on it.<br />
Dr: [audible gasp] WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?<br />
Me: What part of "I have the upper body strength of a squirrel and I keep falling over because of these crutches" did you you miss before?<br />
Dr: Well, you need more X-rays. And more crutches. Probably for the rest of eternity.<br />
Me: WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO<br />
Dr: But here's a nice Ace bandage for you! Also you don't have cancer, stop asking.<br />
<br />
So. No trip to germany or regular mobility for me. Alas, Alas, Alas.<br />
<br />
After we got home we had lunch- I wanted to go out for sushi, but I'm po, so we had grilled cheese instead. Grilled cheese is amazing.<br />
<br />
The main activity of the afternoon was shopping for my birthday presents. But first, a few words about birthday presents.<br />
<br />
Of their own accord, no one in my family would remember to buy anyone presents ever. Those family members who are reading this and protesting, hush your collective mouths, you've only gotten that way after YEARS AND YEARS OF CAREFUL TRAINING. Basically, any time anyone in my family has a birthday, I compile a list of things I think they would like and send them out to the rest of the family several weeks in advance. I then spend the remaining weeks hounding them to make sure they actually get something.<br />
And that is how the members of my family have presents on their birthday.<br />
<br />
Of course, to repeat this process for presents for my own self would be tacky, so instead I compile a thoughtful pinterest board of items I would not mind possessing, and distribute it about six weeks before my birthday.<br />
And yet, at least half the family came up to me yesterday morning and asked what I would like for my birthday.<br />
<br />
And that is why we went shopping.<br />
<br />
(also because shopping brings me insane amounts of joy)<br />
<br />
Obviously, shopping in Senegal is not quite the same process as shopping in the states. There is no walmart here, friends. Instead, most of the shopping takes place in markets or "boutiques". The contents of the tiny, un air-conditioned boutiques are the same as those of the market, just better organized and more expensive. So we went to the HLM market, instead.<br />
There are three main markets in Dakar, each specializing in different things, so far I have been to two of them. This market- the HLM- is mostly fabric, but also has a lot of jewelry, shoes, and bags. The siblings were looking for pillowcase fabric (homeschooling a sweatshop, remember) Lark was looking for more dress fabric, and I wanted a bag- so HLM made the most sense.<br />
<br />
HLM- pronounced "aschelem"- is a catacomb of narrow dirty streets and poorly lit warehouses. I'm all over that as a general rule, but it's CRAZY hard to navigate with crutches. We also had our guest missionary in tow- in the country to get his visa straightened out, didn't speak a word of english- who, in addition to a crutch, also had a false leg, which made me feel like a total pansy.<br />
We walked all over HLM for about two hours, found a lot of fabric, but no bags that I liked, so we started heading back to the car when TADA I FOUND ALL THE BAGS I COULD EVER WANT.<br />
I got this one- the tag on the inside claims it's a Fabrizio Poker, which, I'm sorry, sounds like an Italian sex toy to me.<br />
Whatever, it's fabulous leatherrrrr.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I like it because it looks like a tiiiiiny doctor bag.</i></div>
<br />
After the great HLM adventures, I went upstairs and took a tiny baby nap- which is what grown up ladies do when they've had four hours of sleep and can't feel their arms anymore after walking on crutches for so long.<br />
<br />
For birthday dinner we had steak, potatoes and broccoli. Food of the Gods! Also the first time I've had red meat since I've been here. Or broccoli.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The broccoli cost more than the steak. TIA.</i></div>
<br />
However, the best part of the meal was cake and ice cream.<br />
<br />
If you've never lived in Dakar, you do not understand the value of good cake and ice cream.<br />
Seriously, you don't.<br />
I've mentioned this on facebook several times- ice cream here is expensive. Obscenely expensive. We've found a brand of chocolate ice cream we can occasionally afford- I think we've had it three times in the three months I've been here- the name is "super budget chocolate!" and the first ingredient is water, which I think paints a pretty accurate picture right there. But for my birthday we splurged at the French grocery for a tiny container of amazing mint chocolate chip.<br />
I've also never had a decent cake here- though admittedly I've only tried maybe three before giving up. Besides, I don't have regular cake on my birthday- I have cheesecake. Have for the past five years, at least.<br />
But there is no cheesecake to be had in Dakar. There is not even cream cheese with which one can make her own cheesecake.<br />
I'm going to go ahead and say this is the new qualifier for third world countries- if you have no cheesecakes, you are a third world country. The end.<br />
<br />
HOWEVER- after a recent trip to Italy by a member of our family, a glorious cheesecake may or may not have made it's way into our freezer. Suffice it to say there are better uses for diplomatic passports than smuggling drugs, my friends.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Hello, they say, Hello I love you.</i></div>
<br />
I almost cried.<br />
<br />
The original plan for after dinner was to put the little kids to bed and watch Drop Dead Gorgeous (one of the funniest movies OF ALL TIMESSSSS) but I'm not embarrassed to admit I was way too tired for that. I'm a grown up lady with possible cancer/sleep apnea, remember? So instead I painted Celia and Riah's toes to match mine (I'm calling the color "dead hooker mango" now) and the three of us watched an episode of My Fair Wedding, then retired for the evening.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Cilia, Myself, Riah</i></div>
Happy Birthday to me.<br />
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<br />
<br />
(more thought provoking birthday post in the works)<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-36840930863343838882012-12-01T07:54:00.003-08:002012-12-01T07:54:49.159-08:00in which my boobs don't discriminateJust got back from the international bazaar with my family- it was lovely. The Austrian Embassy hosted, around a dozen different countries represented by selling goods and foods from their nation- further solidifying my desire to have beautiful things from all over the world.<br />
I may or may not have conned Brianna into buying me some bejeweled Indian flats for my birthday [which is on tuesday, but I will accept presents throughout the remainder of the year] because, you know, jewels.<br />
My own dear siblings represented by hawking their handmade pillowcases- because what is homeschooling if not an excuse to open a sweatshop? They're actually pretty cool, they make them with local fabric. So far they've sold pretty well.<br />
I'm sure my mom's got pictures, I should commandeer her camera and post some of them..<br />
<br />
I also learned that when not tucked into something, using my crutches causes my shirt to ride up.<br />
Like, all the way up.<br />
Which wouldn't be that big of a deal if I was still rocking the sports-bra-and-running-shorts-under-everything look, but today I decided I should actually make an effort with my clothes, so it was really something more along the lines of this:<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And you thought I'd post the whole thing. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I AM A LADY, INTERNET.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So now, in addition to the Americans and Senegalese, I've pretty much flashed every culture represented in Dakar.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
You're welcome, Africa. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-31967873265571174732012-11-30T13:47:00.000-08:002012-11-30T13:47:05.233-08:00in which I share five happy-making things number five of <a href="http://noodlesandpies.blogspot.com/2012/11/30-things.html">my thing that I'm sort of doing. </a><br />
<br />
5 things that make me happy right now:<br />
<br />
5. This video:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/F6ImxY6hnfA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
To be clear, I'm not really a big fan of infidelity music -Robyn, you home wrecker, you- but I've totally been replaying this for the past fourty eight hours. It sounds like a reject from the original footloose soundtrack, in the best way possible. Although honestly, is it possible for a song to sound like it belongs on the footloose soundtrack in a bad way? I would argue, no, it is not.<br />
Furthermore I'm pretty sure she planted hidden cameras in my home to capture her choreography inspiration. Rolling around on the floor is MY move, Robyn. MINE.<br />
<br />
Plus, I totally want her outfit. I'll just make a sweater from my own hair, but I'll get <a href="http://blackmilkclothing.com/products/jellyfish-leggings">these</a> pants instead.<br />
<br />
<br />
It will be excellent.<br />
<br />
<br />
4. Blistex fruit smoothies chapstick, <i>but only the green one</i>.<br />
<br />
Friends, I will be the first to admit I have a chapstick problem. I love chapstick. And lipstick. And lipgloss. And lipstain. And lipbalm. I could say something about oral fixation issues, but I know the jokes that will come of that.<br />
Anyways, I buy a lot of chapstick. Burt's Bees (the peppermint one!) and Blistex's melon medley are my favourites. Burt's Bees makes me feel like a magical ice princess, Blistex makes me feel cool and artistic (Melon Medley was the chapstick of choice for the artsy girls in my middles school). Oh, and the Blistex tastes delicious. Just in case you have to kiss someone. Perhaps in an Emergency. You know.<br />
I brought three tubes of this with me to Senegal, and I've already used one up. It's kind of a problem.<br />
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<i>You can buy these <a href="http://www.blistex.com/products/fruit-smoothies">here</a></i><i>.</i></div>
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3. My super janky iphone</div>
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Oh man. I get how people get addicted to their smart phones. I don't think I'm quite there yet, but I love it. Best hundred bucks I've spent in a long time. (It's a 3g with a sticky home button, hence getting it on the cheap) If it is stolen/ breaks tomorrow, it will have totally been worth it for the ability to still text and call people stateside fo freeee- because ultimately, there are few things that make me happier than a phone call from a good friend. </div>
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2.Water</div>
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My mom made our driver drag our old culligan dispenser upstairs so I could have delicious beverages and not have to die of dehydration or [literally] drag my butt downstairs.</div>
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WATER IS THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. I drink upwards of 5 liters a day (hopefully this is not a symptom of cancer, or anything). I'm totally serious when I say drinking a liter of water will make you feel better. It is the universal cure for all ailments! Closely followed by chicken mc nuggets, which I really miss.</div>
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1. Living with my Family</div>
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While I do admittedly miss having an identity beyond "Col. Jones' daughter," there are a lot of things I love about living with my family again. (No worries though, still moving out in August) Getting psyched about Christmas again? Awesome. Talking for an hour with my mom after dinner? Very awesome. Right now I'm watching 10 Things I Hate About You with my sister and dad. It's such the greatest. </div>
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Basically, for all the time I spend whining about my life, there are a lot of things in it that make me happy- and yes, some of them are pretty materialistic. I think that's okay. And for these and more, I am grateful. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-27373419716340548102012-11-29T07:14:00.001-08:002012-11-29T07:22:50.102-08:00in which I offer some bedroom advice(Note: by bedroom advice, I'm not talking about sex. Beds are for sleeping. <i>Couches</i> are for fooling around. [juuuuust kidding {sort of}] )<br />
<br />
Kids, my advice repartee is limited. It's basically restricted to "Drink more water," "Be nice to animals," and, if I'm really worried about you, you may get a come to Jesus talk along the lines of "Don't drink/Do drugs/Sleep around so much" or "Counseling could be very beneficial to you!"<br />
But today I'm adding a new one: "Don't take your ambien and then watch American Horror Story."<br />
<br />
But first, some background:<br />
<br />
Getting ready for bed is my favourite time of day, easily. I don't know why this is. I have a very set routine that I follow, and I find it very relaxing. It's also no big secret that I love sleeping, so that's probably a factor too. Basically I change into my pj's-aka boxer shorts and hoodie- wash my face, put on my night time sunscreen (okay, it's lotion, but it has spf in it) and chapstick, take my meds, drink a liter of water, crawl into my mosquito net of solace and log my food and feelings for the day into my phone (shout out to my iphone- you make me a better person and I'm sorry I dropped you on the floor). Then I basically watch friends until I fall asleep around 22.00, 22.30. It's marvelous.<br />
<br />
However, as I've mentioned before, my sleeping habits of the past few weeks have not been stellar. A fabulous combination of insomnia and waking up at 3AM, added with the fatigue side effect I've learned to anticipate from my meds, means I've been really tired all the time. In and of itself, that sucks. It also makes me even more emotional, and believe me when I say I have more than enough feelings to go around. But it was getting to the point where I couldn't be awake and form thoughts at the same time, so I convinced my brain doctor to give me a sleeping pill.<br />
<br />
Children, listen to me. Sleeping pills are tiny pieces of mana from heaven.<br />
<br />
BUT<br />
<br />
Like all medication, they should be taken properly. If your doctor says only take a tiny little sliver that you carefully chop of, then you only take a tiny little sliver. Do not take them with alcohol, ever. Do not take them back to back in order to black out for as long as possible. As the killers so eloquently wrote, sleep is a bitter form of refuge. Do not take them- even your recommended dose- and then go about doing things that are not sleeping. BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN TO YOU. Also you'll probably make some weird confessions to people, and God help you if you find a phone, I swear it's worse than drunk dialing. It's like, being drunk but then blacking out and then thinking all you did was take a refreshing nap, or something.<br />
IT'S LIKE THE AIRPLANE SCENE FROM BRIDESMAIDS BUT IN REAL LIFE.<br />
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<i>"She's dressed in traditional Colonial garb..."</i></div>
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Because I am now a responsible grown-up lady, I take my sleeping pills in a responsible grown-up way, at the same time I take my anti-malarials. I mean, see my above bedtime routine. I'm thirty one flavours of responsible. </div>
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However, last night I was all excited from book club (I am nothing if not easily excitable, after all) and I thought I would change my routine up a bit by finishing an episode of American Horror Story in place of my usual friends. </div>
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Basically, at one point I thought my computer was on fire and the nazis were coming to kill us but I was too tired to do anything about it. </div>
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And that is why we dont' take our ambien and then watch American Horror Story.</div>
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(Oh! and I'm totally less tired now. Mana from heaven, I say!)</div>
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Also- anytime I think of computers being on fire, I go straight to that scene from the IT crowd. </div>
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Also Also- does anyone else watch American Horror Story? If so, can you please explain to me why you like it? I haven't made up my mind on how I feel about it yet. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-69592030324455701512012-11-27T07:18:00.002-08:002012-11-27T07:18:57.871-08:00TIATIA = This is Africa.<br />
It's a quote from Blood Diamond, which I have not actually seen, but they did film it in a country where my dad was then working and Leo Dicaprio had to go into the embassy to get a visa issue ironed out and my own dear father could not be bothered to WALK DOWN THE HALL to go and see him. DOWN. THE HALL. TO LEONARDO DICAPRIO.<br />
I feel this is an accurate portrayal of my father's work ethic and lack of appreciation for beautiful men.<br />
I mean, he could have at least gotten me an autograph.<br />
aisch.<br />
<br />
Anyways, here are some of my thoughts about Africa today:<br />
<br />
-I keep forgetting this is a muslim country, which means they have delicious food to be had here. (Greek chicken wrap from the embassy caf, I am looking at you, my love.) They also totally have polygamy, which I keep forgetting about until I overhear conversations debating which wife should be invited to events. I'd say bring all the muslim sister wives because<br />
a) I love me some sister wives, and<br />
b) Ladies love to be invited places.<br />
Then I realized that would not work out, as there would be no one left to babysit. Sorry, sister wives!<br />
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-To the toubab girls in booty shorts and mini skirts:<br />
GO HOME AND PUT SOME CLOTHES ON. <br />
If we were in your home country, I'd be all like, yeah! wear whatever you want! girl power!<br />
BUT WE ARE NOT IN YOUR HOME COUNTRY. You are being disrespectful to your host nation, and your home nation. Shame on you.<br />
(I am looking at you, French hipsters. You know better than that.)<br />
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Oh, also I've been walking down stairs on my crutches wrong (apparently you're just supposed to hop?) and I've been putting my life in danger THIS WHOLE TIME.<br />
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bonus african iphone picture:<br />
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<i>Go home, Dakar taxies. You are drunk. </i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-52700434684812061862012-11-25T14:25:00.000-08:002012-11-25T14:25:00.320-08:00in which I speak vaguely of hard things and forgiveness and GodI seem to be awake at three A.M. a lot these days.<br />
It's probably a side effect of meds, but I'm having a lot of trouble falling asleep. If I take a pill to fall asleep, I still wake up at three in the morning.<br />
<br />
I think about a lot of things at three AM: what I'm going to eat for breakfast, what homework I need to do, this damn 30 days list.<br />
<br />
On the off chance you haven't noticed, my plan to write things every day is not going so well. It's not for lack of free time, or even lack of commitment- the problem is that I don't want to answer some of the questions on this list I chose myself.<br />
Well, one question in particular:<br />
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Number eighteen- <i>What has been the most difficult thing you have had to forgive?</i><br />
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This is a question that I think about at three AM; but not because I don't know the answer.<br />
<br />
So now I'm going to skip ahead and try and answer this question, because I think maybe I need to, and because I'm allowed to break out of order on my own blog.<br />
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This is me, speaking vaguely of hard things and forgiveness and God.<br />
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If you've known me for any significant period of time, you probably already know that I'm quick to offend and slow to forgive. I've probably expected you to mutually hate someone with me based off a minor miscommunication. Basically, I have the social skills of a middle schooler, and it's likely that I always will. However, once I've forgiven a wrong-doing, whether actual or perceived, it's like it never happened. I've always considered that to be one of my better traits.<br />
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But there is one thing that, no matter how much I feel I've forgiven, I keep coming back to.<br />
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When I was fifteen, I experienced an injustice that threw my world off of it's axis. I'm not going to go into detail here- this is not a event in my life I like to talk about with anyone, no matter how much I love them. Not even myself.<br />
I was the victim of other people's choices, and in a way I was robbed of the right to make my own.<br />
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I don't know if I will ever fully forgive this.<br />
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For a while, I really thought I had- I'd tried to rationalize the actions of my transgressors, tried to understand the social, political, psychological, and emotional aspects that would drive someone to those actions. I thought I had it figured out, thought I had let it go.<br />
<br />
And really, I was okay for a while. But after a few years, I started running into triggers- a name in a book, an overheard piece of conversation, a familiar scent- that would set me off, and I would completely lose it. If you're looking to test your conversation skills, try explaining to the management of your gym why you've spent the past ten minutes in their locker room, sobbing so hard that you can't breathe.<br />
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I may always be one word away from rage, from paralyzing fear, from a sadness so deep it will swallow you whole.<br />
<br />
That's one of the bigger things I struggle to forgive- not that I was hurt, but that I was hurt at a time in my life that would effect my entire adult being. I once spoke with a woman much wiser than myself who had experienced a childhood trauma, and one thing she said in particular stood out to me: <i>"Maybe I would have been someone who laughs."</i><br />
Maybe I would have been someone who trusts. Maybe I would have been someone capable of maintaining a healthy relationship. Maybe I would have been someone who laughs.<br />
<br />
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There are countless resources I've pursued in my search for forgiveness: a lot of books, a hell of a lot of therapy, God.<br />
<br />
Oh, God.<br />
<br />
I was once a devout and unquestioning Mormon. Granted, I was fourteen at that time, so I think that hardly counts. But I was. I believed that I was born to experience hard things, and that belief helped me cope with several aspects of my life, from moving every few years to my quickly blossoming mental illness. I believed that how I reacted to these things would ultimately lead to blessings and happiness later in life.<br />
<br />
When I was fifteen I believed that I was born to experience hard things; things so hard I would not know how to handle them on my own. I believed that when the time came, I would be able to turn to my religion to get through them. But when I sought my religion out for support, it did not come through for me. <i>God still loves you</i>, their mouths said, while their actions screamed: <i>But we do not</i>.<br />
After a while of finding no relief, my beliefs shifted. I still believed in God- I always have, I always will- I just didn't think he was particularly concerned with me. I'd be lying if I said I don't still feel this way, some days.<br />
<br />
I also started to think that if God wasn't worried about me, maybe I shouldn't spend so much time worrying about him. I still went to church most of the time, but I also started to seek relief from other, ultimately harmful sources. I thought a lot about suicide.<br />
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<i>This is what I looked like at fifteen. I loved scented lotion and mystery novels and sufjan stevens. I also tore tiny holes in my skin and tried to think of a way to kill myself without having to make my whole family fly back to the States.</i> </div>
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I'm twenty years old now, twenty-one in a week in a half. I am once again a practicing Mormon. I still believe in God. </div>
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I also have a folder of tattoo ideas, and when I'm not respectfully restraining myself I swear like a sailor. I don't think this makes me a bad person. I don't even think this makes me a bad Mormon.</div>
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I believe in a religion of justice, and mercy, and love, and forgiveness. </div>
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I know those qualities are not always reflected by the members of my religion. I am becoming okay with that. I still occasionally walk out of a meeting being governed by opinion and not doctrine, but I am trying. </div>
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I believe that the God I pray to views our actions on a case by case basis. I believe the God I pray to is one of ultimate understanding and forgiveness. I personally don't think the God I converse with would be inclined to send someone to hell for drinking coffee, or marrying a person of the same gender, or even for hurting someone the way I was once hurt. </div>
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I still don't understand why I've had to experience certain parts of my life. I am still learning to forgive. </div>
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I believe that I was born to do hard things. </div>
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<i>What has been the most difficult thing you have had to forgive?</i></div>
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<i>I know we had this talk at three this morning, but I forgive you, God. </i></div>
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<i>In the Sun- Michael Stipe & Chris Martin</i></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-59122019567234105592012-11-23T16:32:00.003-08:002012-11-23T16:32:27.172-08:00in which I am on twitter<a href="https://twitter.com/NoodlesAndPie">https://twitter.com/NoodlesAndPie</a><br />
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Follow me, boys, follow me, pick them up, put them down, and follow me...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-55955418321603774562012-11-21T14:19:00.000-08:002012-11-21T14:19:02.410-08:00in which we interrupt our regularly scheduled blog post to bring you a PSA on hair washingLadies and Gentlemen, for the first time in two weeks I can say with the upmost certainty that my hair is clean.<br />
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Before ya'll get too grossed out, please remember that I broke my foot at the Marine Ball Saturday before last and have had a ghetto cast on my foot since then.<br />
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<i>Here's a visual reminder for you. The cast is the bit that looks like it's growing out of my shoulder.</i></div>
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Anyways, since then I've pretty effectively been lazing about, because crutches are REALLY HARD YOU GUYS. And before you start thinking back to the time when you had crutches and were just fine, in fact you could to handstands on them, gee aren't crutches fun, I would like to raise the following two questions to you:</div>
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1) Do you currently have the upper body strength of a woodland squirrel? By that, I do not mean the amount of upper body strength proportional to the amount that a squirrel has, I mean do you have the upper body strength of a lil' tiny baby squirrel in your human sized upper body?</div>
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2) Are your balancing skills on par with that of a broken weeble wobble, aka, a weeble that wobbles and then falls down and can't get up?</div>
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If you answered "no" to either of those questions, then please hush your mouth because you obviously don't know my problems.</div>
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As I was saying, my hair has been super grody [spellcheck says "grody" isn't a word, I'm still going with it] since then. To be clear, I've still been washing it- though I did throw around the idea of no bathe November, because I hate your facial hair and think you should be punished for it- but no matter how you cut it, washing your hair while straddling a bath tub while trying to keep six towels wrapped around your leg is just not that effective. This has also led to my having to explain a whore's bath to my mother. She did not find the title amusing.</div>
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However, today I was particularly depressed and whatnot, going through my mental list of things that usually cheer me up (by this point I had already watched grey's anatomy and cuddled a cat, so those were out) and I decided that the time had come for my hair to be thoroughly cleansed. Because clean soft silky hair cheers everybody up, my friends.</div>
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So, I took off my cast.</div>
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Before you freak out, it's not a full cast. It's like, three quarters of a cast plus multiple ace bandages. Though my Dr was all like, you still can't walk on it, and I was like, I wouldn't dream of it, and he was like, I just saw you walking on it like five seconds ago and I was like, yeah, but that was the part of my foot that ISN'T broken, and he was like...sigh....</div>
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Honestly though, the man moved my crutches and then expected me to sit still for twenty minutes without getting my book. I didn't have any other options, if you think about it. </div>
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Anyways, I took off my cast, it hurt like crap, my leg looks super janky, I did not take pictures. There's also this super sketch bruise around the base of my toes that makes them look like they are about to fall off- is that normal? I'm too chicken to google it. </div>
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AND THEN I TOOK THE MOST LOVELY SHOWER OF ALL THE SHOWERS IN THE LAND.</div>
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Ordinarily I'd actually classify it as a pretty mediocre shower, also I kinda slammed my broken foot down, so that hurt, but still. GLORIOUS. Exfoliating and singing songs that degrade women and everything. Side note, I sing really offensive songs in the shower, I do not know why I do this, also I have mad rapping skills. </div>
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(Drop it drop it low, girl)</div>
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So the moral of this story is that my hair has been thoroughly washed, and now looks like this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVuFKPQJhEnAhDgrjVhZxxLply8639NZTbvZKBikXrGbk5E2UmSvdLKHEEV4UnJP1G7jsdo0zFAV-ga2obaUP5gWGRfY7Fu5irCpSIfhZGdRwo_38zOMkge3Hn4wD1DJF34Kg-c_tCEQ/s1600/shower+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVuFKPQJhEnAhDgrjVhZxxLply8639NZTbvZKBikXrGbk5E2UmSvdLKHEEV4UnJP1G7jsdo0zFAV-ga2obaUP5gWGRfY7Fu5irCpSIfhZGdRwo_38zOMkge3Hn4wD1DJF34Kg-c_tCEQ/s320/shower+hair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Shower fresh hair and crutches. This is my life now.</i></div>
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As I was taking my shower of all showers, and enjoying my squeaky clean hair, I marveled at my own grooming prowess and decided to bequeath you all with my beauty wisdom. </div>
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So without further ado, here is Lissa's guide to washing your hair properly:</div>
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1) Don't do it.</div>
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For reals, you are probably washing your hair wayyyy too often. Even if yo stanky self needs to shower twice a day, every day (also bad for your skin, nbd) you do NOT need to wash your hair that many times. At the most, you should probably be washing your hair about three times a week- if you think your hair would be a total grease ball by doing this, you're probably wrong. It's very likely that your hair is over producing oil to compensate for the over washing you are currently forcing it through. Wash it less. Your hair will adapt. </div>
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Ideally, though, you should wait as long as humanly possible to wash your hair, like that one week when you decided you couldn't stand your roommates and played musical beds and wore a lot of hats until you finally had the place to yourself long enough to deep condition (college, amiright?) No, but seriously, wait. Throw some baby powder around up there, nobody will know the difference. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfiXUosCy_YWZ502A_Nm7Aa11dNU1jfhBAmMjJA8N6g4ZbTEOqs5EtPCTcHn-qt-RRA4dIHN5WS0CKNvo1s9vFGmXlFewudglUXrj56UxcA8nudEGzYHTGBkyvPq_4Mg6Tb6cgr7a8ns/s1600/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTfiXUosCy_YWZ502A_Nm7Aa11dNU1jfhBAmMjJA8N6g4ZbTEOqs5EtPCTcHn-qt-RRA4dIHN5WS0CKNvo1s9vFGmXlFewudglUXrj56UxcA8nudEGzYHTGBkyvPq_4Mg6Tb6cgr7a8ns/s320/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.00.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Baby powder. </i></div>
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<i>Also, I've started wearing a sports bra and running shorts all the time.</i></div>
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<i>It makes me look sporty.</i></div>
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<i>It also helps me not flash people when I fall down on my crutches.</i></div>
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<i>Which I do like six times a day. </i></div>
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<i>This picture caption is ridiculously long. </i></div>
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2) Shampoo the crap outta your crap.</div>
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Fun fact: you only need to shampoo the roots of your hair. If you're shampooing anymore than that, you are wasting product and money. Speaking of money, go buy yourself some nice shampoo and conditioner, guys. You're now only washing half of your hair, and you're doing it half as often, ergo you're using 1/4 of the product and can afford to buy shampoo four times as expensive that will actually make your hair look nice. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFbrAnEkqXOYYZUo2niDpVLeqQsgrZemgiXc9GEgltaS4ZjmsGt9kMXSrTaYjym4ohuLUdO8HPE-4aC85Uv3R2s0JJ6d_soSIMWlYdtVuq7QDQZc5ITyniQE_YsewCidYqIcFf1Rj_qsY/s1600/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.07+%232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFbrAnEkqXOYYZUo2niDpVLeqQsgrZemgiXc9GEgltaS4ZjmsGt9kMXSrTaYjym4ohuLUdO8HPE-4aC85Uv3R2s0JJ6d_soSIMWlYdtVuq7QDQZc5ITyniQE_YsewCidYqIcFf1Rj_qsY/s320/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.07+%232.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>The best shampoo money can buy!....at walmart. I'm still poor, guys. </i></div>
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Also, get yourself a really big box of baking soda. I'm pretty sure there is nothing baking soda can't do. It's got like 15 different uses as a beauty product alone, it's awesome. If you like your hair super clean, shampoo your hair twice: the first time you should combine equal amounts of baking soda and shampoo into a glorious hair cleaning paste. It's super awesome at removing product buildup and campfire smell and the beer that got spilled in your hair and other stuff that usually requires multiple showers. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYV8PtJQZgP40L8lA__Da2q7Ebl3XFVs5HKvh0zhw-n_OGvcKFxtndEM3gmuD-rZBYODqGPoQkFApPQSYFCqJAzmLPunXxmDv6a7RIiYroyueWnod7D0aC4o2VYemtvoYzqKEQTiGyfjg/s1600/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYV8PtJQZgP40L8lA__Da2q7Ebl3XFVs5HKvh0zhw-n_OGvcKFxtndEM3gmuD-rZBYODqGPoQkFApPQSYFCqJAzmLPunXxmDv6a7RIiYroyueWnod7D0aC4o2VYemtvoYzqKEQTiGyfjg/s320/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.08.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Here is a huge box of baking soda!</i></div>
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3) Condition your crap.</div>
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Fun fact: you only need to condition the ends of your hair, your natural oil takes care of your roots. So basically, slather a ton of that in your hair, comb it through, pull it back if your hair is long enough, do other shower things. Shave your legs. Wash your face with your baking soda (double points if you use a sonic brush). Sing the real slim shady. You know. Regular people stuff. </div>
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Once you're done with your other shower stuff, rinse it out. Marvel at the smoothness. Ideally, you should rinse it out with ice cold water to close the cuticle of your hair, but I know some of you are babies and won't do that. I pretty much take cold showers to begin with because they're super energizing, and because I did swim team for years and years which means I'm hardcore and impervious to cold water, basically. </div>
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Also, get yourself a jug of apple cider vinegar. It's like two dollars. Like baking soda, it also has a bajillion uses as a beauty product- but don't try to combine the two to try and save time, trust me, I'm speaking from experience. Anyways, to make your hair super shiny and soft, mix about 2 tbs with 1/4 cup of water, rinse your hair with it once you're done with your conditioner. It's awesome and you won't smell like a salad, I promise. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOD6cg_LBpT9CliZfnH5MfhoIPlqqWqm24BWPex4xZVqb8okvobhGQylPMEmWXkmCufKFp3mrqxe8FEJj4Bn7AhbdKAkQMv6JMYl_Ul8PIgQPCfcp9BQYCA6k-kBvpi7ackrwzPUb6Ds/s1600/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.08+%233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOD6cg_LBpT9CliZfnH5MfhoIPlqqWqm24BWPex4xZVqb8okvobhGQylPMEmWXkmCufKFp3mrqxe8FEJj4Bn7AhbdKAkQMv6JMYl_Ul8PIgQPCfcp9BQYCA6k-kBvpi7ackrwzPUb6Ds/s320/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.08+%233.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Here is a huge bottle of vinegar! </i></div>
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<i>Also I've quit putting on makeup because it's too much standing.</i></div>
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4) Bonus step- Deep condition your conditioned crap.</div>
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Like once a week, dump like a fistful of deep conditioner in your dry hair and sleep in it. Your hair will be silky silky silky. I use orjon oil because I freaked out and splurged on it after I bleached my hair and fried the ends this summer. In all honesty, coconut oil works just as well and smells a heck of a lot better. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikL7npe0E6w8vTsbvm-pZKsqCXaW6XoHETKy4fbKyfySqDwMouGHU82WltPBVEPDJueWJRDMqZtYEnPQ4FypUUFe9sh3vSbPhVEdy634R6scPO8F8KZJ2oEr38wQwknjLXNvR-8K7K-DY/s1600/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikL7npe0E6w8vTsbvm-pZKsqCXaW6XoHETKy4fbKyfySqDwMouGHU82WltPBVEPDJueWJRDMqZtYEnPQ4FypUUFe9sh3vSbPhVEdy634R6scPO8F8KZJ2oEr38wQwknjLXNvR-8K7K-DY/s320/Photo+on+2012-11-21+at+22.10.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>I was going to take a picture of my deep conditioner but it's all the way in the other room.</i></div>
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<i>Here's a sample size bottle of hair spray! It's so cute!</i></div>
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Thus concludes my guide to hair washing. Maybe next week I'll teach you to put on chapstick, or something equally as mundane. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-368484406885811733.post-87487418349102511792012-11-20T07:06:00.000-08:002012-11-25T11:38:51.366-08:00in which I am afraid of 3 things<a href="http://noodlesandpies.blogspot.com/2012/11/30-things.html">Day two of my thirty things</a><br />
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I'm having a hard time thinking of three things I consider myself afraid of. There are plenty of things I'm not particularly excited to experience, but I don't think I'm afraid of them. Dying, for example. I'm not in any real big hurry to die. I would be deeply sad if any of my family or loved ones were to die. It would suck, and when the time comes, it's going to suck, but I don't think being afraid of it will prevent it from happening, or help process it better when the time comes. I'm not saying I choose not to be afraid- I'm just...not.<br />
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There are lots of things I'm not afraid of anymore- some of which I have control over, some of which I don't. I'm not afraid of the dark, of what's underneath my bed (all the stuff I can't fit in my dresser, mostly), of being raped and murdered (but please don't rape and murder me), of losing my mind.<br />
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However, there are still a few things that really creep me out; here are three of them:<br />
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1. Parasites.<br />
I am terrified of another living, moving creature inhabiting my body. The very idea of getting mango worms super freaks me out, which my mother uses to her advantage whenever she humanly can (it's not funny anymore, MOM.)<br />
Yes, I am aware that this might make my ever getting pregnant super awkward. No, I don't know what I'm going to do about that.<br />
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2. Being Paralyzed.<br />
I'm not sure if this stems from reading Johnny Got His Gun (EXCELLENT book), or that reoccurring nightmare where no one can see or hear me. I imagine complete paralyzation would be something like that.<br />
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3. The Monster from Forbidden Planet.<br />
Forbidden Planet is a sci fi movie from the 1950s that my dad showed my sisters and I when we were 8, 6, and 4 years old (one of these three children would refuse to leave her room at night for years because of this movie. just saying.) It features an invisible monster that keeps dismembering members of the space ship crew- and the only time the monster is seen is when it crosses into the field of the electric fence.<br />
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Ultimately it's revealed that the monster is controlled by the subconscious desires of its creator, the scientist who lives on the planet. </div>
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Basically, SCIENCE WILL KILL YOU. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17594742633916941676noreply@blogger.com0