I used to spend a lot of time trying to come up with content for this thing. I didn’t want to come across as too sappy, or too emo, or too over the top. I should probably warn you that I no longer care. Sure, the ultimate goal is to share something humorous yet thought provoking… in theory. But the truth is, I’m just happy I feel inspired to put finger to keyboard again. So if I feel like writing something, I will write something. And if you don’t like it, shut your stupid face.

This week I had my first visit with a new therapist. I figured it was time for some maintenance. Plus I really really like talking about myself to someone who is required to give me their undivided attention…. as if you didn’t already know this.

It had been about 6 months since I have had any sort of official therapy and I had nearly forgotten how helpful it is. I truly believe that ANYONE can benefit from talking to an unbiased someone every once in a while. It really puts things in prospective. Granted, 9 out of 10 times – my sister, my friends, and my coworkers give me the same advice that the therapist gives me… but somehow it’s different when you pay someone to listen.

Since it was my initial visit with a new counselor, we had A LOT to cover. Three hours worth, in fact. Three hours of me giving her the rundown of every idiosyncrasy of my character, and every hardship I have ever endured. While it felt good to tell my story, it was a bit exhausting- to say the least. But it did make me realize something.

I’m dramatic. I’m emotional. I over-think and catastrophize every situation. I have a bad case of ADHD.  I have major sleep anxiety. I have general anxiety in nearly every situation in my life. I have a bit of an inferiority complex. I have absolutely no control of myself when I drink liquor. I’m constantly teetering on the edge of hypomania. I have a major case of body dysmorphia. I will probably never have a comfortable relationship with food.

I could go on for days about my emotional and behavioral issues, but what I realized was that I’m OK with it all. In fact, somewhere over the last year, I’ve learned not only to accept- but also to appreciate some of my issues… or at least the fact that I can acknowledge them and work towards dealing with them.

In the very least, they don’t freak me out as much anymore. The difference between this session, and the first time I met with a counselor last year is unbelievable.

That being said, I can’t help but imagine a world where I didn’t have to worry about keeping myself in check. Where I didn’t have to use “tools” like mindfulness and meditation to calm my nerves or talk myself down from cliffs. And especially where I didn’t act on such impulse all the time. Like, can you imagine if you could program yourself with your own, personal panic button that would prevent you from saying and doing things that you immediately regret?

Por ejemplo: Oh yay! Bob Schneider is playing my at my radio show’s Christmas benefit! He’s my favorite musician in the entire world. I should walk up to him and tell him about how much I love him.. and keep talking for about ten minutes until he looks like he might take off running in fear.

ACTIVATE PANIC BUTTON

Carissa. Take a deep breath. If you want to say something to your most favorite musician in the world, fine. But for God’s sake, he doesn’t want to hear your life story, or how you once drunkenly wrote him a facebook message proclaiming your love. Just. Stop.

Por ejemplo #2: I’m at a co-workers birthday party drinking a little wine. Just the night before I decided to swear off liquor because SOMEHOW I ended up waking up on the bathroom floor of a boy’s apartment who I actually really like. Boss hands me a shot. Boy, I sure do love shots. Especially warm cinnamony whiskey shots. And it would probably make me a lot more fun to talk to.

ACTIVATE PANIC BUTTON

Hey girl hey. If you take that shot, it’s all gonna go down hill. You’ll end up making an ass out of yourself in front of all your co-workers. Then you’ll proceed to call that boy you dig and ask, no beg him to pick you up. And THEN you’ll call your dad 10 times telling him you don’t know where you are. So, no… Don’t take that shot.

Sighhh… if only.

Instead, I have to learn these things the hard way. Stupid human body, unequipped with panic buttons. But I guess then I wouldn’t have anything to work on.

So until someone learns how to reprogram my head- I’m just gonna embrace my poor decisions and nutso brain.

ACTIVATE FREAK FLAG

Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms with acting a fool in front of strangers. I kind of thrive on those moments. In fact, in awkward situations with strangers, I tend to to start word vomiting up embarrassing and/or inappropriate stories about myself.

It’s a special talent really.

I figure if everyone is feeling as awkward as I am, I might as well make everyone feel a little bit better about themselves by letting them know that hey, at least they aren’t as big as a dumbass as I am. It tends to be a good ice-breaker. It also tends to give off a really awful first impression of myself.

That being said, I’ve realized in the last three weeks, that moving to a new city has really brought out the awkward in me.

I’m used to being the person that brings people together. In my old life, I had different groups of friends all over the metro-plex, who REALLY knew me. I was rarely in situations where I didn’t know anyone.

Here, I only know a few people, and most of those people are new friends and acquaintances, which I am very much  enjoying… but also lends itself for ample awkwardifying situations.

For example.

I recently started taking an improv workshop to brush up and get to know people. Last week, a guy in my class came in with a cast on his arm. I asked him what happened, and before he could reply I went into the story about how I recently fell asleep on my arm after a rough night at SXSW. When I woke up I had no movement in my hand. I did not regain movement in my hand for 2 months and had to undergo weeks of Physical therapy with a therapist that looked exactly like Jake Gyllenhall. Yes. I fell victim to a circumstance commonly known to old-man drunkards as “Saturday night Palsy.”

While a true story, this is not the kind of first impression I should be sharing with people whom I respect and would like to respect me. I have an opportunity here to exist in a world where this didn’t happen, but noooo.. I go and blab my shame-filled stories with could-be friends who will now be weary of sharing a drink with me.

Por Ejemplo numero 2.

Today, I was in a coffee shop chatting it up with a very David Grohl-esque barista. We shared the usual small talk. I’m new to town. He’s in a band. I’m all hopped up on the caffeine, pa and can’t seem to concentrate enough to write. He’s in 2 bands actually. I saw a band last night. What band was that?, he asked.

“Oh just one of my favorite bands in the entire world, Other Lives. It was a kick  ass show. Yeah, they play every instrument in the world. I think at one point they even pulled out a bazooka. I actually don’t know what a bazooka is… maybe it was a trumpet. And then this dude that made cool paintings started talking to me, and all his friends were really cute. I kind of wanted to make out with a guy in the band but that was stupid he was in the band and probably wouldn’t want to make out with me… I’m pretty sure he saw me pick a wedgie… so instead we went and hung out with these other guys. Yeah they were a Daddy’s with daughters meet up group.”

“Oh… hmm.. OK. Well nice meeting you.”

And then I hugged him goodbye.

I HUGGED him goodbye.

As if spewing a nonsensical, snoozefestivus version of my night wasn’t enough, I found it appropriate to two-arm hug a complete stranger.

And that’s not the first time I’ve found myself in the role of Uncle Creepster hug-girl in the last few weeks. No. It’s like I’ve completely lost my sense of barriers with strangers. I’ve found myself reaching out to hug a friend of friend’s mother after run-in at the mall. Rather than shaking hands at the end of an interview, I go in for a big embrace. “Hi homeless person, no I don’t have any money… But I will give you a giant sweaty hug to make you feel better for not having any alcohol. I feel ya bro.”

And every time I’ve been met with the same stiff armed pat on the back.

I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m loving being in a new city that makes me want to take every faux-relationship to the next level. Maybe I’ve just been feeling more insecure than usual and am asking the world accept me and love me for my awkward self. Either way, it’s very unlike me. In the past I’ve always had very strict rules about my personal space.

In fact, perhaps it’s time we review these rules and take note.

Hugging:  OK when greeting friends and family, saying goodbye to PEOPLE I KNOW, and meeting celebrities.

Not OK when greeting people I have not known more than five minutes, homeless people, gas station cashiers, sweaty people, or ex-boyfriends whom I dislike.

Shoulder massaging: OK anytime I’m the recipient or if there is a cute boy that I want to impress with my strong manly hands.

Not OK when I’m in the back seat of a cab and I mistakenly think that a massage will pass in lieu of actual payment.

Hand Holding: OK when crossing a busy street, playing Red Rover, on a first date at the movies, walking through a crowded music festival, or comforting an elderly person.

Not OK when I haven’t known you for more than five minutes or after I have had over three drinks under any circumstance.

Gently touching knees: Never appropriate. No. I don’t like it in a car. I don’t like it in a bar. If we’re sitting so close that our knees our lightly brushing against each other- back the eff off. It gives me the oogies.

Gently Tickling the inside of arms: I will never say no to this. Strangers, creepers, bums, hotties- BRING IT ON.

Tickling arm pits: I WILL PUNCH YOUR FACE!

Touching my butt: Only OK if you are boosting me up into a tree or over a fence.

So there.

I’m sure there are more but I will tell you if you’re over crossing any important boundaries. As for me, watch out, yo. My rule-breaking awkward ass is sure to hug you in the near future.

Yeah I’m one of those…

I don’t believe the people that say they aren’t afraid of death. The same people who claim to be OK with the fact that at any second they could cease to exist, will  claim to fear clowns, spiders and heights. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard  something like “I’m not afraid of reaching my expiration date, I mean it happens to everybody… but put me in a room with a rabid tiger and I’ll shit my pants.”

While I can admit that the image of a giant cat foaming at the mouth with Cujo eyes scares the bejeezus out of me, what I’m really afraid of is what’s going to happen once those demon teeth crunch my body in half. Even though I’m a little scared of the pain that this situation is going to inflict on my sensitive skin, what really concerns me is what will become of me after it’s all said and done. It’s death.

A couple of years ago I came up with this theory that every fear- no matter how minute or irrelevant it may seem- is actually a manifestation of a fear of death. If a person says they are afraid of spiders, they are actually afraid of getting stung and dying. When person is afraid of “flying,” what they’re actually afraid of “crashing and dying.” When someone says they are scared of rotoscope animation, they’re are actually afraid that the anxiety that those rotoscope freaks of art gives her is going to cause her to have a heart attack and subsequently die.

Even as a kid I was obsessed with all things “scary.” My mom got me fixed on horror movies at the ripe age of five.  ”Fixed” really is the best way to describe it, because it becomes an addiction, doesn’t it? When I wasn’t sitting Indian style  in front of the television watching Child’s Play or Pet Cemetary 2  for the thirteenth time, I was in my room in the dark, willing myself to really believe that there was a giant slug  like creature under my bed, just waiting for me to let one of my limbs make it’s way over to the side of the bed so it could slurp me up with it’s giant snake like tongue.

Looking back, it wasn’t really the “slake” that I was afraid of. At that age, I wasn’t yet jaded enough to assume that every ugly creature was bad. I’d seen enough film to know not to  judge a monster by his appearance. I mean really. The filmmakers of my youth were really quite obsessed with pushing my generation to fall in love with the monster. They taught me that a shriveled, turd-like alien could end up being my best friend. They taught me that that a fire breathing Luckdragon might just be my ride to safety. They taught me to be aware that if I ever came across a deformed giant while searching for buried treasure, he was more likely to crave nut-filled candy bars than my own flesh and guts.

But for all of the monsters Hollywood has taught me to love, it also taught me that for every Gizmo, there are 500 Spikes.

Which is precisely why I never let my legs hang over the side of the bed. I didn’t know whether or not I could trust it. I was scared of getting eaten to death.

 I still crave fear, but my fears have shifted over the years. While the idea of monsters and ghosts  still get my blood pumping, I no longer have to leap five feet to get out of my bed in the middle of the night just to avoid coming Slake’s dinner.  Gone are the days when I would push the pee out of me as fast as I could and run back to bed without wiping or flushing for fear that if I sit there long enough, the toilet monster will chomp me up until I look like the result of bad hangover.  What used to scare me, now excites me.

Now I spend my time thinking about more grown up scary things that might lead to my demise. I fear that all those doodle bugs in LA’s bathroom are a sign that a brown recluse is living in my house, just waiting to kill me. I’m scared that I’ll get eaten by a shark if I go out too far into the ocean. I fear that a tornado will come and rip me to shreds and scatter me all the way to Wyoming. And I’m scared that a man in a mask will come and shoot me death when I’m walking to my car at night. (Especially that last one since it almost happened. )

But mostly I fear everyday not-always-scary things. Every time I go to push an electrical cord into a socket, I fear that I have forgotten that I have just washed my hands, and that I’m about to turn myself into bacon. I can’t step out of the shower without imagining myself slipping on a puddle and hitting my head on the toilet, then I somehow manage to catch myself with the shower curtain… but when I grab it I slip again and the shower curtain wraps itself around my neck and I strangle to death. Every time I prepare to walk down the stairs I just know that I’m going to slip and fall, coming to a skidding halt at the bottom of the stairs where my head will hit an unforseen giant nail and I will lie there slowly dying in my own pool of  guts while my roommate’s Bassett Hound gnaws away at my legs because she’ll eat absolutely anything.

Actually, that last one about falling down the stairs almost happened last week. It wasn’t the greatest fall I’ve ever taken, but it was the greatest fall I’ve ever had without an alcohol shield.

I was carrying a load of garbage downstairs before work, and was still wearing my so called “no slip” footies when I lost my balance at the top of the stairs. I hit my head on the first stair, and on every stair that followed. As I fell, I had one of those moments they have in the movies when your whole life flashes before your eyes. I swear. I saw my parents, my dog, my sister, my 9th grade Science teacher and a grilled egg and cheese sandwich. When the momentum of the front door halted my tumble, I lay there in complete quiet for a few moments to access my situation. I couldn’t tell if I was dead or if it was just dark because it was 5:30AM and I hadn’t turned on any of the lights yet. I was afraid to try to move bcause I didn’t want to find out that my soul was no longer connected to my body.

Death I tell you, it really gets to me.

But alas, it turns out I could move. My head wasn’t bleeding and there was no dog eating away at my spilling guts. Besides a few bruised ribs, I wasn’t even hurt at all.

Since I survived, I figure I should tell you my near death revelation that discounts my whole “every fear is actually a fear of death” theory.

While I was lying there, I realized that there was something that I feared that wasn’t a fear of death itself per se, but it was more of a fear of what would happen happen the fact.

I thought, If I’m dead, and Shelby gets full before she eats every bite of me up, and the Dexter people are able to figure out that I died after taking a great fall down the stairs… then all of my friends are going to get to say “That Carissa, I always knew she’d die falling down the stairs. HAHA oh that Carissa.”

I wasn’t bullshitting when I said that I thought it was working.

Turns out though, that all the positive thinking in the world can’t ward off misery… especially when something happens that completely blindsides you. Waking up in the morning and telling myself  ”today is going to be a good day,” isn’t so helpful when a major part of the reason you were planning on having a good day just disapears from your life without a warning.

Only now that I can look back on the last few months, maybe I should have seen it coming. Maybe super-gluing rose colored glasses to my face wasn’t the best idea. Maybe I was so drunk on happiness and rainbows and music (and let’s face it, alcohol) that I didn’t see what was really going on.

It doesn’t really matter at this point.

 I can either continue to sit here with my bag of reeses peices and my glass of cheap pinot grigio with my arms in the air yelling “whhyyyyyy?!?” or I can end this pity party for one right now. I can recognize that I’m still the same independent woman who has never relied on a man for happiness. I can pick back up with where I was a few months ago, when I was growing as a person, on my own. I can recognize the positive that this relatonship has given me…and  that when I’m ready again, I deserve to be with someone who respects me. I can admit that I am attractive and confident and that while I still have a lot of growing to do, I have come so far in the last year.

And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

I know that it’s not going to be easy, but I don’t think it will be that difficult either.  I have so many people in my life who care about me, and I’m ready to embrace their support.

I even woke up this morning with Steve Winwood’s “Back in the High Life” stuck in my brain. I want to write again. More than that- I think I want to wash my hair for the first time since Wednesday. This could be a really good thing for me.

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So yes. It’s a beautiful day outside and I’m ready to go out, put on some Lady Gaga… and live.

Peee essss:

I just recieved a very humorous email from a future version of myself, telling me how much better things are about to get.

And that’s just one more reason that I love my friends.

Happy Labor Day!

I would go into all the details of seeing Michael Ian Black, two back to back nights of karaoke filled-fun including a rendition of “California Girls” with my MOTHER, and the lazy but oh so amazing day I had on Sunday… but I don’t remember the details of either Friday or Saturday night and I don’t feel the details of Sunday are appropriate for the internet.

However, I will share with you the videos that my mom put together. It’s bad though. Not the video quality- that was pretty spectacular (thanks mom!) but my singing? Not so much.

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My lord it hurts even watching this. I mean really Carissa? REALLY? Why must I always be so freaking dramatic? WHYYYYYY!!!!???? By the by, this was totally sung in the “Old School” “I fucking need you more tonight” version, but my mom didn’t want to have me say fuck on the internet so she edited it out. Weird.

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In other news, today is day numero uno of not smoking. I’m not sure I’ve mentioned it, probably because I wasn’t sure that I was actually going to follow through, but I think 28 is as good as an age as any to quit. It’s not going to get any easier after all but I think I can do this. I’m gonna be a grown up. I just hope I don’t turn into Mel Gibson in the process.

Well I was going to write more, but now I just don’t feel like it so excuse me while I go eat a whole gum ball machine.

Oh and one more thing. I saw this last week and haven’t been able to erase it from my brain.

Sleep well tonight suckers.

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I’ve always been a little sensitive, and that’s something that I think that I have really made a conscious effort to improve on in recent years, and I think I’ve really come a long way.

I remember when I was young, I was never really bothered when I wasn’t invited to a sleepover, or that I wasn’t the most popular girl in school. The things that had the most effect on me were the words that I suspect that no one else would remember or that others would have brushed off as a joke.

When I was in Elementary school I sometimes had to wear an eye patch because I had a lazy eye. I only had to wear it a few hours every day, so my parents usually allowed me to do my time after school hours. I also fell off a slide onto concrete and shattered my right arm so I had to have it attached to my body for several months. For the most part, neither the eye patch or the cast that made me look like I only had one arm were really a big deal to me. For the most part.

Back in those days they used to line the kids up for lunch or recess alphabetically. I’m not sure if they still do that, but it always really blew if your last name started with a letter in the middle of the alphabet, because you never got to be the leader. I always wished that my last name was “Adams” or “Zookeeper,” so that I would get to be at the front of the line. Why that was such a big deal back then, I can’t remember… but it was.

One day, I believe it was a Tuesday, my mom had forgotten to force me to wear my eye patch the afternoon before, so instead I had to wear it to school like an asshole. On this particular day, since I was in fact wearing a flesh colored patch (not even a cool black one) and was half gimp and my teacher must have felt extremely sorry for me, because for the first time in the history of my life- she decided to line us up starting with the letter “Mc.” (That’s me!)

So there I was, standing at the very front of the line, smiling my little booty off- when all of a sudden I noticed that the line that had formed in the classroom across the hall were pointing and laughing. At first I didn’t think much about it, because surely they were just laughing because someone had tooted or something, but it still made me a little self conscious. It wasn’t until I hear “It’s a one armed pirate!!!” that I knew for sure that I was the topic of discussion.

It still hurts a little.

As life went on, there are several other instances that I remember being particularly hurtful that I would (hopefully) laugh off today.

Like when my teacher asked us “how do you figure out (insert silly little word problem here)? Andwhen I called upon to answer, I replied “Well first you take a calculator….” At that point,  the class erupted into laughter, and my teacher told me I should have been blonde. In present time, I think that was a perfectly smart reply, because duh I’m going to calculate that shiz on a calculator. But at the time I really felt stupid. I even went home and cried about it.

I also remember a time when I threw up because Curtis Mack had a bloody nose at the lunch table, and everyone accused me of spilling my chocolate milk. I don’t know why I was so much more embarrassed about spilling my dirnk than I was of throwing up, but I was.

And then there was also the time when I was inexplicably jealous that Steven, who I had a crush on, threw up on my friend Kelly instead of me. Yeahhhh…. that was just weird.

But even now, as much as I’ve built up my armor, it seems that it’s still the little things- whether physical or verbal- that hurt the most.

Like…A couple of years ago, LA and I decided to paint ourselves up like Indians with a cactus fruit that we found at my farm. Who would’ve thought that we would have little pricklys stuck in our faces for months to come?

And then just this weekend, I got into my car to drive to meet my friends to get a margarita- and just happened to sit on a penny. A tiny little penny… well that fucker had been sitting in the Texas sun for 8 hours and branded the hell outta me!

This picture really doesn’t do it justice…

Happy Weekend people!! Let us all go out and create new wounds.

I feel like I have so much to update your faces with, but I really feel much more comfortable when I at least have a few complaints to mix in with this rare “life is good” post, and I really don’t have much to complain about besides the fact that my face is covered by gigantasaurus Everest-sized pimples.  I didn’t even have a major freak out  when my car decided to be a little bitch and  have a blow out earlier this week. Which is a major feat, this I promise you… especially when you know my history with cars.

So yeah, I’ll complain after all.

I’ve always had an extreme love/hate relationship with automobiles and the act of driving. And by love/hate relationship of course I mean:

I love: 1). That they get me from point A to B. (sometimes)

and 2). When other people are driving them and I get to be in charge of the music.

I hate: Everything else loosely related to driving or cars. I don’t know or care to know the difference between a toyota and an escalade, and I won’t even apologize if by chance those are one and the same. I hate driving, especially at night. I despise traffic. I hate the way my mom drives. I don’t like sitting in back seats.  I hate the fact that I’ve locked my keys in my car like 14 times in the last year. I hate that at least once every three months I end up stranded on the side of the road, which leads me to call my dad crying who is 2 hours away… which in turn causes him to get upset and yell “WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT!?” Which leads to huge fight. And mostly I despise that I have horrible luck with them.

I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I have had more flat tires than any other person in the entire whole wide universe, twice in my life I’ve had another car on top of my own (either by landing there after a wreck or by drunkenly driving on top of it,) and my vehicles have had more breakdowns than Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears combined. My dad insists that it must have something to the way I drive, but I don’t think I can be blamed for the fact that Ford makes really shitty cars or that curbs keep getting in my way, or that drunks insist on targeting my car as their landing strip.

Luckily it didn't do much damage...

I feel like even the best case scenarios that involve vehicles, (which is of course gettin it on in one,) can only lead to 3 possible disastrous outcomes. I, ahem, of course only know one of these don’t know any of these  from personal experience but from what I’ve learned from the movies it seems to me that any time you hook up in a car – you either get caught giving head in a park by a cop, get pregnant, or if you’re in transit- then it is quite possible that you will experience death by a fiery crash.

My first car was an 89 Cutlass Supreme Oldsmobile.

Oh wait. I take that back.

Technically, my first car which I drove all of 3 days was a 95 Mitsubishi something or another,( pictured above). Shortly after the repairs were made from this particular accident, I totaled it into my house. I KNOW. And no I wasn’t drunk… I can’t even really explain what happened, except that I will tell you that I will never ever again drive a stick shift. I pretty much suck at life. My sister was sitting inside and said she thought it was an earthquake, while my dad sat on the curb and cried.

After that it took about a year and a half before I got the nerves and the vehicle that would make it possible for me to drive again. My parents certainly weren’t going to trust me with anything of value- so THIS is where the 89 Cutlass Supreme Oldsmobile (that I dubbed Cuddy) came into the picture.

It was a maroon, and it was the largest two door car you’ve ever seen in your life. And it was a pile of junk.

To sum it up: In place of air-conditioning,  my dad had installed a mini-fan that plugged into my cigarette lighter that did absolutely nothing but stir up the scent of stale cigarettes and rotting food.  It had a digital speedometer that you had to fist pummel in order to make it “work,” and when numbers finally did pop up they were backwards and up-side down. The car had no antenna, and therefore had no radio. Someone had tried to steal the cd player so it hung there by a wire, serving absolutely no purpose for the majority of the time the car worked.

The driver’s side door didn’t work, which was quite embarrassing when the cute football player from freshman history class walked me to my car and insisted on standing there until I drove off… which meant he got to watch me dive in and wiggle across the seat, ass out in a jean skirt.

The worst part about it was that Cuddy died ALL THE TIME at the most inopportune times. Especially before I got a cell phone. Like one time, it died right when my friends and I were trying to make a get away after toilet papering this incredibly rude older girl’s house. We had to go to her next door neighbor’s house and call for a ride. But then again, the fact that it died all the time was the precise reason I finally was allowed to get a cell phone. My parent’s started getting nervous after about my 3rd hitchhiking adventure and finally gave in.

Anyshitmobile batman, I could go on forever about my vehicle history, but I’ll save that for another day. If you’re a curious to read more you can always read about how talented I am at removing a tampon whilst driving. That was one for the books.

My original point was, I’m actually NOT completely hating my car today despite the fact that I recently had a blow out which caused me (or…erghm…my mother) (thanks!) to shell out 200 dollars, because of COURSE they convinced me that I needed two new tires. ( This actually has a story that is worthy of it’s very own blog post so I’m going to hold off.)

Yeah usually I would be pissed. But not today. Today I totally relate to those car bangers. Only maybe I don’t want to have sex with my car… but I sure could give it a hug right now.

You see, I’ve spent the last 3 months melting away because my air conditioning was broke and I didn’t think I could afford to fix it. I found out yesterday all it needed was a little frion, so I’m back, baby! No more sweaty pits! No more sweaty underboobs! No more sweaty fupa! I kid…

I’m gonna try to catch up on a million blogs over the next few days, and my goal next week is to get back to regularly posting, but I have learned never to make any promises.

Home. All by my lonesome. For eight entire days.

With the exception of course of the seemingly semi-friendly ghost and my roommate’s Basset Hound, I will have the entire house at my disposal, and I’m not sure that is a good thing.

I actually kind of feel like the young Kevin McAllister. My feelings of being alone lie somewhere in between being really excited about having some much needed “me” time, and being completely frightened about what might happen.

Growing up, my grandparent’s lived across the street from me so I was rarely left alone. I had a friend who’s mom frequently left us alone until our peanut butter and popcorn cooking experiment nearly left their house in ashes. She eventually trusted us to stay there alone again, but then we literally tried to reenact the Home Alone movie, so her trust was short lived. Then there was the one time in high school that my parent’s let me stay home overnight unattended. Of course that was the night I decided to watch Event Horizon and ended up sprinting across the street to my grandparent’s house at 3 in the morning, head down, pants nearly soiled, and had to ask if I could sleep in their spare room.

It’s not that I don’t like being alone, I actually quite enjoy it. It’s just been forever and a day since I’ve had more than a couple of nights without at least one roommate around, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. LA works from home so she usually takes care of most of the cooking, which means that I’ll be living off of a diet of beans and chips and salsa this week… which is exactly what I lived off of last week out of poordom, so it’s really nothing different.

I plan on spending my nights taking long leisurely baths, reading, watching movies, painting and writing a bit… so that’s really nothing new either. The one major difference is that I won’t have someone calling to get me to watch all the good parts of shows and I won’t have the background noise of LA crying during Grey’s Anatomy or Gossip Girl. But I do have the freedom of playing my music as loud as I want, as late as I want (and I’m totally NOT listening to the Bieb-meister)… which is pretty cool. Maybe it will drown out the sound of gunshots in my neighborhood, which I haven’t heard since last week and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the gangsters don’t know that I’m on to them.

I actually lived alone for an entire year before I moved in to my last house with my four roommates, a house which I now affectionately refer to as the “rainbow house.” Aside from being the most miserable and lonely year of my life, living alone wasn’t so bad. I typically stumbled home from happy hour, ate a huge bowl of ramen noodles, and drank wine whilst mowing my way through the entire Netflix library.

Oh and I almost burned down the apartment complex, twice.

The first time could have happened to anyone. Anyone with a gigantic gray cloud following them around, that is. Ever since the time I caught fire to the Thanksgiving table by half hazardly throwing a table napkin down on a candle, my grandmother has warned me that I’m not the sort of person who should keep candles around in the house. Of course candles are pretty much my favorite thing in the universe besides John Cusack movies and ketchup, so I never thought to heed her advice. The night in question was a particularly stormy night, so I naturally wanted to light every single one of my one-hundred candles to set the mood. I then opened the porch door so that I could hear the storm, and settled into a bubble bath with a glass of wine. I had no idea the storm was such a windy one, but luckily my head was above water to hear a ginormous gust knock over about ten of the candles. Luckily I was able to grab a towel and nakedly whip the fire out before they caused too much damage.

The second fire I almost caused also happened when I was in the bathtub. I cooked something that I can’t remember but I’m sure was of the pasta variety, and once again got into the bathtub, only to be rudely interrupted about ten minutes later when the building’s fire alarm started sounding. I knew the fire was coming from my kitchen before I even grabbed a towel. There was smoke everywhere and I went into full panic attack mode. When I got into the kitchen I found that I had left a stove burner on, and had accidentally thrown a dishtowel on top of it, which had caught on fire. Luckily, I’m a quick thinker and threw a pitcher of iced tea over it, and batted out the rest of the flames with my towel. I’ve occasionally wondered why I don’t have any towels, but I’m now realizing that I’ve used the majority of them to put out fires. After putting out the fire, I grabbed a blanket from my futon to cover myself with and ran into the hallway shouting that the fire was out and not to panic, which I was clearly still doing.

I also wondered why none of the neighbors wanted to be my friend, but thinking back it was probably because they knew me as the type of person who started fires ran around in nothing but a leopard print blanket.

And there was also the time I woke up in a fever with no power and knocked on every door on my hallway claiming the world had come to an end, but that’s an entirely different story.

Tonight I will be lighting no candles, and I’ve already checked 8 times to make sure the burners are off so I should be OK. But send me some good juju just in case.

Oh and also, I’d like to go ahead and let you know that I wrote this entire post while naked. Because I can.

(LA if you’re reading this… I am in your chair, but don’t worry…I’m sitting on a towel.)

Guns don’t always scare me. I’ve shot them from time to time, and I’ve actually enjoyed it. I am from Texas  after all.

I do however, have an extremely deep seated fear of being shot with one, despite the fact that  (Mom, Auntie Linda, and P.J.) please skip over the next sentence) I once played a game of indoor Human Duck Hunt- a game where my friends and I shot each other in the backs with a BB gun.

I can actually pin point the exact moment when my fear came along, and as jokey as I might be whilst telling this story, you have to realize that this was, quite literally, scariest moment of my life.

A few years ago on St. Patrick’s day, a few friends and I went to a bar in Ft Worth that was in walking distance from LA’s apartment. There was a patio out back, and we spent the night drinking green beer and having a blast. A few of our guy friends decided to take off a little early, but LA, Moops, Sally and I all decided to stay back and have one more drink.

By the time we left, we were all quite tipsy… or if I’m really honest, we were down right drunk. We stumbled out the door and proceeded to make our way across a dark parking lot towards the apartment complex. When we were about half way there, LA and I, in our usual fashion, started hitting each other with our purses. Every once in a while, when the moon is right, we are struck with the desire to wrestle, (don’t get happy boys) for entertainment purposes only. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw 2 people walking toward us, but I didn’t think much anything of it at the time.

By the time they approached us, we were so caught up in seeing who could de-foot the other first, that we didn’t get any weird vibes from the two. In any right state of mind, one of the four of us would have thought it strange that the two young people who were not wearing green were standing uncomfortably close to our circle. But no, we kept right on laughing and swinging our purses like drunken asshats.

When one of them tapped me on the shoulder, I assumed it was someone who Lauren knew. I laughed and casually slapped  their shoulder, thinking they were just enjoying the show. After a few more seconds I finally realized that Moops and Sally were laying on the ground, belly down, and one of strangers were standing above them.

I was about 2 sticks away from being this naive.

It wasn’t until saw the gun that I truly realized what was happening. From that point, everything started moving in slow motion. I saw then that they were both holding large, silver guns, and that they didn’t look happy. There was a boy and a girl, both in their twenties. The girl was wearing a large sweatshirt with the hoodie pulled over her face, and the boy was wearing a beanie low on his forehead. Just as I started taking it all in, the girl put a gun up to LA’s head and demanded that she hand over her purse. I watched dumbly as she quickly followed her directions without a protest.

I was then the only one left standing. I can’t remember who, but one of my friends grabbed at my ankle and angrily whispered to “get down.”

“Gimme your purse and get on the ground,” the guy demanded.

Even though I knew what I was supposed to do, I couldn’t make myself move. When I finally remembered how to make my arms work, I struggled with getting my new Beatle’s purse, which had been tightly wound around my wrist for the fight, loose.  When I got it free, I had the thought that I should retrieve my credit card before handing it over. Making what could have been the dumbest decision of my life, I slid my hand into the purse, grabbed the card with my cupped hand, and swiftly put the card in my pocket before thrusting the clutch in their direction.

The guy robber asked me angrily if I had taken something out, and I shook my head to say no before I got on the ground. Luckily they believed me. As we all lay on the ground, the robbers stood over us for what felt like an eternity. Even though my eyes were tightly closed and I couldn’t hear anything except for my own heavy breathing, I could feel the burning of the gun on my back. I was sure that every second would be my last.

After what felt like an eternity, LA shouted  “RUN!” and took off. She was halfway to the gate before the rest of us had even gotten off the ground, but we all followed quickly behind her. I was roughly 250 lbs at the time, but I ran faster than I had ever ran in my life.

Once we were in the apartment, we all got quite emotional. One of my friends who had left the bar early was quick to call one of our stolen phones. The mugger answered and some words (that I won’t repeat) were spoken. The police came and our cards and phones were cancelled.

Looking back, it was quite funny that in the short time it took us to cancel our phones, rap song ring tones had already been purchased and downloaded.

You can bet your sweet ass that none of us slept that night, or slept easy for many nights to come.

So you can probably understand why I got so freaked out when I heard a loud bang out my window the other night. Within seconds LA had rushed out of bed and met me at the office door.

“That was a gun shot, I’m sure of it,” she said.

I screamed something like “OHHOLYFUCKINGSHIT” and ran to the hallway where I slid butt first to the ground. “GET DOWN AND DUCK!!!!”

LA stood above me and calmly told me to get up. “It’s not a drive by, it was just a gun shot. I’m calling the cops.”

So I got up off the ground and dramatically tweeted that gun shots were being shot in my neighborhood. LA went back to bed and I sat up for hours fantasizing about the dramatic shit that went down just across the street. When I drove home for lunch the following day and a moving man and about 4 men mowing the lawn and moving stuff out, I’m pretty sure I was right in my conclusion.

I don’t know the details, but if my imagination serves me correctly, the scenario involved a midget, some drugs, the CIA, and an underground sex tape. I hope I’m wrong.

Wowsa. When did life get so cray cray? Ohhh it seems about 2 months ago, and it just keeps getting faster and harder to keep up with.

This wekeend was one of my BFF’s graduation from GRAD SCHOOL! Yes, I have some smart mofo’s in my life. I was really bummed that I didn’t make it to meet up with a bunch of local bloggers, but when it was all said and done I just booked too much for one day. Plus after grad-party numero dos, it would have been detrimental to put me out on the streets, or even around people who don’t know me and love me unconditionally.

And luckily my friends love me lots. Although I’m pretty sure LA didn’t want to be my friend for about 5 minutes when I told a group of strangers about how she once performed an enema on me. We heard later that it started a very in debth conversation between a group of girls, and I’m always glad to be a conversation starter (or ender) so I don’t feel so bad. Plus I always let LA tell lots of stories at my expense, so all was equal in the world. Or something like that.

So we spent the majority of the weekend in Denton, and it’s always a blast to go back. Plus, (even though I missed the busting of it) she had a pinata with mini-tequilas and shot glasses in it. Have you ever heard of such a thing?! Have you ever heard of a more genius idea??? After the party we made our rounds to all the local bars, and I have to tell you, I did something that I feel very, very, VERY embarrassed about. Which, I can’t believe that after telling strangers about my enema that I had the ability to be embarrassed by anything.

The first person that I saw, and recognized when I walked in was one of my favorite movie bloggers. No big deal, right? No. I made a very big deal about it. I pretty much cornered him and oogled him and I probably would have told him my ten top favorite movies if he would have let me. But alas, I think he was very scared, and rightly so. At some point after I proclaimed my fandom, I took a nap in the car, and somehow woke up alive in the morning, although I am still missing a bit of my dignity, about 200 dollars, and about half of the items in my purse.

Speaking of graduations, my little sister  is graduating from college next weekend. I can’t believe it. My little sister is all growed up and she is so smart and I’m so proud I want to squeeze her until it hurts. Not only is she graduating, but she is getting a DOUBLE MAJOR in BIOLOGY AND PSYCHOLOGY! Seriously!? Even in my smartest days when I used to take adderol I couldn’t even get through a biology class, much less a whole bunch of them. Although I have to say that her love for bugs has really rubbed off on me.

 A couple of years ago my sister and I went on a bug collecting expedition which was one of my favorite times ever. We spent the day at my farm collecting all sorts of weird bugs and soaked them in alcohol and put them up on a styrophome board with pins. It sounds all sorts of nerdy but it was actually really cool, until I woke up in the middle of the night to see that this gigantic huge moth that was supposed to be dead was flapping it wings like a madman with a needle through it’s heart. I screamed bloody murder and spent the next week feeling sure that I had caused  some sort of mothman prophecy and that I was going going to go crazy and start drawing weird pictures and then, you know, die.

Oh I got way off topic there… Back to my sister. She definitely got the smarts out of the family, and she is making all of the men in the family proud by following their lead and getting her degree in something science related.

Did I ever tell you I come from a long line of scientists?

My grandad is a chemist and is one of the guys credited for inventing kiss-proof lip stick, and that is just one of the reasons why he is amazing.

Then you have my dad, the geologist. Besides giving him a free pass to wear tye-died t-shirts and cut-offs to any public event, it also means that I had the most awesome rock collection of any girl on the block. Also? I had really good stuff to sell. Other kids on the block were selling lemonade and homemade brownies from cardboard tables on street corners, but I walked around the neighborhood with a radio flyer full of hand painted rocks, and actually made about 4 bucks total in three years.

I’ve been thinking of taking it up again to make some supplental income.

The only downfall to the fact that I was brought up as a rock-lover is that now I have to lick them all the time. I know it sounds weird, but it’s something I have to try really hard to resist.  I think it’s because my dad used to quiz me on my rock collection, and the easiest one to guess Halite because it tasted like salt. Now I have the urge to see what other rocks taste like, and mostly so far they just taste like dirt. But one day when I find some rock that tastes like ketchup or cheese cake that no one has ever thought to taste, and I’l be famous and all of you will also want to taste my rock.  

This weekend also made me recall my college graduation, which was what I set out to blog about but seeing as how I have already novelled this post,I think I’ll save that for another time… So stay tuned!

Also congrats to my friend Julie for grad-yee-ating last week. You make me proud!

Oh and.. I still love John Cusack. ( I’m losing steam on the google searches so I thought I’d throw that in there)