Now imagine kicking the clock.

An image passes through my mind: taking the big clock above the hearth, and flinging it across the horse pasture in my backyard. It gets even funnier when I imagine stepping on it and breaking the glass.

I'm in sweats, I probably smell, and my hair is tied in a really painful knot. In fact, I'm pretty uncomfortable all around. It's hot enough that I can feel my heartbeat in between my eyebrows, but I won't get up to turn the fire off. I should really reposition myself so my back stops aching. If I don't stop squinting at my computer, everything's going to be blurry for the rest of the day. I was watching Seinfeld, but the disc ended and the other discs are all the way over there. Oh yeah, and I should NOT have eaten that whole entire box of Panda Express.

Gee wiz, I'm a utter mess. A disgrace. No, disgrace sounds... too classy.

I'm gross.

I'm disgusting.

I've got three days to truly live it up until the new year gives me enough momentum to make it to April. Nay, TWO AND A HALF DAYS to be awful and eat nasty food and sleep in! That's not enough time!

You don't like how lazy you start getting this time of year. Or how lazy anyone else gets, for that matter. Because when the new year comes, it passes by exactly the same way that every other second in all of history has passed. It might be just as exciting as the night before your birthday at 11:59 when you want to stay up to see how it feels to be one year older, but feel no different once 12:00 comes... and no one's awake except for you either. The more practical and wise part of you begins to think that, if you're this excited for the new year because of how good you'll feel, why don't you just start being better now?

1. Set your alarm tomorrow to have enough time to go running in the morning.

2. Clean your car because it, like you, is disgusting.

3. Throw away that crap you were going to eat in the next two days, and also contact all the local pizza places to roundhouse kick your face if you set foot in their restaurant.

4. Start brushing your cat more often because he loves you for it.

5. Go up and make your bed. (I actually don't know why, kids, but I think it's good for you.)

6. Leave your haiku poems in the change thing in vending machines. Sure it doesn't make sense, but it'd be funny to watch.

7. Realize that your phone is how people contact you and stop resenting it.

8. Memorize the table of elements so you're not blind-sided watching jeopardy tonight.

9. GET UP, and take a freaking shower.

Yeah, stick it to the man, man!

"...and furthermore, I've never actually even made new years resolutions before let alone kept them," said the tortoise.

"You don't need a new year to start being a better person. You just need a new hour," explained the tortoise's creator and convinced the tortoise to stand up and find it's running shoes.

-rae

What is happening?

My hands are so cold. I notice they're tanner though... but no, that's purple. I know they aren't going to warm up until summer. Which I can't fantasize about coming any more quickly than usual because it hasn't even snowed yet. And tomorrow is Christmas Eve. My shoulders are really bitter. And maybe resentful, too. Dr. Mister couldn't realign them yesterday and told me that sleeping on my back will make me feel better. I've also had to stop chewing on my lip because for some weird reason, it gives me headaches. So the slight increase of comfort comes only at the cost of my quirks.

I can also hear my heartbeat. This isn't that annoying because, at the moment, my brother-in-law's guitar and my sister's stories from elementary school give me something else to focus on. But whenever I try to go to sleep, it's never in sync with the clock I set next to my ear. Wait. My sister just asked me to back her up about something and I have no idea what she's talking about. I'm not focusing that well. My ears have been buzzing for the past few months so I can barely notice that anymore. Shoot... until I do notice. The way that my grandma, mom, aunt, and sister tell stories is so similar.

Things are pretty messy. More cluttered, actually. Mom didn't get a tree as big as the one's she usually gets at Christmas, so none of the furniture is moved to accomodate. That means that the presents are essentially sprawled all over the surrounding floor and meld viciously with my sister's jewelry supplies. I see these necklaces and earrings and bracelets and wish that I were woman enough to wear them elegantly. These presents are wrapped so prettily, but I didn't wrap any of them.

I can't really accumulate enough information to write about the last two senses. Those are my least favorite of the five anyways. It may be because I haven't eaten much today and can't taste anything, and also, my nose is too stuffy to smell anything. Ha! Nevermind... Cat just jumped up next to me. His breath reeks.

Okay, one more. I taste.

I taste...

I taste raspberries.

I'm really not fond of raspberries.

"... so, I'm a burden," said the tortoise.

"Not true," said the tortoise's creator, and continued listening to the tortoise's concerns until the tortoise fell asleep.

-rae

Also, the fly... if you could take care of that too, please.

My back and neck hurt from poor posture. I thought that ten years of piano lessons would beat that out of my system. I could sit up straight, but I don't like the cracking noise.

One year for career day I dressed up as an architect. The curious reader should know (I've been reading Swift) that I was under the impression that an architect actually physically built houses. This desire to swing hammers and eat lunch on scaffoldings came from my growing realization--and pride--of my strength and general lack of girlyness. I silently viewed with the possible amount of contempt that an elementary school student could even possess at several of my friends who had dressed up as teachers.

It's fascinating when people discover something about themselves.

Like an obsession for Nutella, not knowing of it's existence until having a meal plan that allows one to buy near endless amounts of it during Freshman year.

Or a love for squished pennies because they are so compact and stylish. Disregard the fact that one pays near a dollar for it.

Or an inability to sleep without a clock next to one's ear.

Or a preference of bedspreads and blankets to clash with each other.

Or the revival of a routine in the best time in the world--the earliest.

I've missed my mornings

because I've found that this is the only time I can very truly have to myself. This and running. Not even to do anything crazy or personal; just to notice the quiet and the peace and think to myself for a few hours before the rest of the world wakes up.

I would normally cringe at the idea of waking up this early without anything to do, as unoccupied time leads to an uncontrolled thought process which never ends well for me.

This is fortunate because I, of which mini elementary-school-agéd me would disapprove, am in school to learn how to be an English teacher.

Or the discovery of one's calling.

Glory--there are still those mornings that no amount of reading and homework can keep me from thinking too much:

Dear...friend,

I'm trying very hard to come back. Thanks for helping despite my being undeserving of your help. I love and miss you.

-rae

I'm pretty sure chivalry is dead because people like me killed it.

I accompanied a fellow to a wedding reception last night. After he introduced us to part of the family, the father of the bride shook his head and repeated my name a few times before lifting my hand to kiss it.

Here's the thing: I love me some classy times. This reception had jazz music and toasts and blue raspberry saltwater taffy.

But it may or may not be obvious at this point that I am not a romantic... (even having the car door opened for me makes my teeth chatter). An exchange of this caliber, though, is a prime example of many other similar situations that just make me uncomfortable to the point where I have no other choice but to create an awkwardness so pervasive that it effectively kills all the lovely moments.

Regardless, I was so unbelievably flattered and couldn't help but think that this "enchanté" hand-kissing business does not happen enough anymore.

-rae

First, II, 3rd

There aren't any words for this. I lean forward and squeeze my head to make it stop.

You've tried taking a nap but your foot won't stop shaking and your eyelids won't stop snapping open. Think about it. Think about it--what do you need?

I need a nap. I'm so tired.

The wall behind me has started shaking because of a vent in the building or something. My foot is still shaking but I can't shake it as fast as the wall. It's driving me crazy.

No, not crazy.

...I'm being oddly sympathetic with myself today. It's unsettling.

Maybe it's because now is not the time to be pushing yourself. Not the time at all. And besides, you have work in a little bit. You like work. You like the people you work with. How much more unsettling is that?

Jude chides in at this point:

Taking something for granted and taking advantage of something can easily be mistaken for the other.

Taking something for granted almost always produces regretful or even resentful feelings in the subject. For example, if the sun were to shine brightly all day, but one were to stay inside without knowing that the remainder of summer would bring rain or storms or possibly an alien invasion, then one would find oneself slouching in the rain or snow or falling martians, feeling regretful or even resentful for taking the previous day for granted.

On the other hand, if one were to take advantage of the sunny day, one may not feel as much sorrow in being showered with rain or pelted by hail or probed by aliens because at least they got a pretty decent tan.

So, to say the least, she immediately took advantage of this kindness, and within the next minute, she successfully retreated into the front of her mind. (The back, in her opinion, was not worth tidying up at this point.)

She settled in her sanctuary, a word which here means "a safe haven in which she could temporarily feel Nothing and not have Nothing berate her for it."

At least until you see the mountains again.

-rae

Don't Walk On Me

I might steal this and wear it around my neck.

"Plankton: 1% evil, 99% hot gas." Shout-out... you know who you are.

Last night I was conversing with my dad about a lot of things. I don't know how, but we got into the subject of probability, and I was like those one dogs that lock their jaws and won't let go.

Ten years ago, I entered my name in a drawing at the parade of homes. When we came back, I waited by the phone (it sounds so cliche, but it's true) and waited for them to call me and tell me I was the winner. My mom found me.

I explained the whole situation to her, and, unfortunately, she explained it right back at me (in a caring, 'don't-want-to-break-it-to-her-but-have-to' manner.)

"There are probably thousands of names in that drawing," she told me. "You don't have a very high chance of being picked."

But I didn't understand. "I have the same chance as everyone else though."

"Yes, but somebody else is going to win most likely."

"What makes them so special? Aren't they thinking the same thing, that they have no chance? Why will they win?"

"Because somebody has to."

"Why can't it be me though??"

I was really frustrated.

To this day, I still can't comprehend probability. It's just one of those things, you know? Some people don't understand eternity, some people don't understand fate vs. free will... I don't understand first grade math.

Person A could put their name in the bowl 99 times, and Person B may only have one entry, but Person B could still get picked. It's not right.

I find it difficult to communicate my frustration. My dad explained it very well, and I'm happy enough with what he told me.

Out of 100 students (nice number, huh?) in my geography class, the teacher took MY name out of the pile of index cards to get spotlighted.

Thanks to dad, I was able to look past my frustrations concerning probability and appreciate the irony.

-rae

Most Dangerous Hybrids

The Rhinocosquirell:

Rhinoceros + Squirrel

Lives in your backyard, most likely.

Super fast.

Really mean.

Leaves scratch marks from it's horn on just about everything.

If this is a problem, go ahead and use that spray stuff that is supposed to keep cats from scratching the furniture because we all know it doesn't work on the cats.

Do Not Feed This Animal

The Kangalion

Kangaroo + Lion

Fortunately, only lives in some obscure jungle in Africa.

Extremely smart

Very resourceful.

Is both a carnivorous and... that other word for animals that eat plants.

If you happen to take a trip yonder sometime, bring a camera, as this animal won't charge if there's a great picture opportunity... I mean, look at that pose.

Do Not Feed This Animal

The Great White Seagull

Lives near all water sources and trashy areas.

Very uncoordinated.

Extremely stupid.

Generally very creepy looking, especially when it's flying.

Though this isn't the brightest of the hybrids I'm highlighting today, It will be set off into a frenzy if it can smell either blood or day old bagels near-by. Go ahead and kick it if it gets too close for comfort.

Do Not Feed This Animal

The Spork

Spoon + Fork

Lives in school cafeterias and silverware/napkin packets at company picnics.

Not sharp at all.

Really flimsy.

Generally, this isn't going to help you accomplish anything, e.g. EATING. Really, the cantaloupe chunks just slip right off. No defense against this hybrid unless you don't mind eating with your hands.

Will Not Feed The Animal. (Sorry.)

-rae

P.S. ... it's a very weird morning.

Well... here you go.

April 13, 2011

The contact in my right eye is always blurry. And how do M&M’s have a pickle aftertaste? It’s such a bad taste that I’m sure nothing else but brushing my teeth will get rid of it. Not even Dasani.

It must have been raining because you can hear the cars driving on a wet street, but you’re not sure because you’ve not been writing your paper and blasting any kind of warm music you can find. And not writing your paper.

I am perpetually cold.

Especially my pinkies. I don’t think they get enough blood in them.

I start thinking about how important pinkies actually are. I had that one life science course in Jr. High that gave the class the assignment to not use our thumbs all day. Only then did we realize how important thumbs are—yaaada yada yada. I try to not use my pinkies now.

You’re already getting bored.

You hear another sound in between the cars driving on the wet street.

I am perpetually cold.

You shiver; the other sound is a train whistle.

I try to remember how close the closest train tracks are. They’re not close at all. Like, not even close enough to… they’re just not close. Then I wonder if sound travels any slower when it’s raining. Wouldn’t sound waves run into the raindrops? It’s hard for humans to move fast in pools of water, too.

You know sound waves and humans aren’t the same thing, right?

Duh.

And pools of water aren’t the same as raindrops either.

…

I take my contact out and wash it out with solution. When I put it back in, my eye is all wet and when I use my thumb and pinky to pull my eyelid down to get all the bubbles out of the contact, my fingers come off my eyelash and they’re black.

I wipe it on my roommate’s towel by the open window.

I am perpetually cold.

Every other room I’ve been to in my building looks empty because they are empty. People are starting to pack up to go home.

You look around your desk that still has everything on it. Jars of sand. Jars of rocks. Jars of stuff. Pictures your best friend drew and doesn’t know you kept. Records from your brother.

You thought they would be worth looking for. They were.

Yellow tambourine that you suddenly wish was green.

If only I could get my ears to stop ringing.

Advertisements that you found stupid mistakes in. Paper maché Christmas lights that you want to rip from the wall. A Pepto-Bismol pink hospital bracelet that you do rip from the wall. The trash can is full. Nothing but chapstick in the pencil cup. Jars of knick-knacks.

There are different types of thirsty, I think. There is the dry thirsty and there is the bad taste thirsty and there is the sticky thirsty. I have the second one. The last two almost seem the same, so they’re lumped together now. And I still have the second one. Nothing helps. Not even Dasani helps.

I am perpetually cold.

You want to take all the stuff off of the walls and shelves. Like the jars and the pictures and the animal keychains. But you did take the bracelet off so you go ahead take the basketball bracket down as well. Two down… and just a lot more to go.

That’s really frustrating. Because you don’t like having seventy-nine percent of this stuff ninety-seven percent of the time.

Yes, I begin to realize. Very frustrating, but...

You really hate that you love stuff because stuff slows you down. It makes you late for class a lot and then you have to clean that stuff sometimes too. You feel like you have to throw away stuff so you do, and then you feel like you should save stuff but that stuff always ends up in the wrong pile and you throw it away by accident.

And you know that in like a decade or two or three when you’re ten or twenty or thirty years older, almost none of this stuff will matter. Like the artistically painted earring rack. Or the vintage watch holder. Or the handmade ring box.

For someone who wears the same jewelry everyday, I sure do have a lot of it.

You wish your stuff would disappear. Or be taken from you, that’s good too. Because then you wouldn’t have a choice, the option to say, “no actually I want to keep this stuff because I like this stuff.” Don’t ask me why I like the stuff because I don’t know.

You're really fighting to not take the paper maché lights down now. Because that would be one more thing gone. One more empty outlet.

…Now that’s three down… and still a lot more to go.

My nails are too short though to pull the staples out of the wall. And then there are the leftover staples from someone else that I’ll feel the obligation to take out as well. And there is too much stuff to try and find a place for now.

Jars of ocean water.

You are perpetually cold. And I feel sorry for you.

My first guest blogger

So I think it's high time I allow myself to follow one of the trends I've noticed in many other blogs.

I like cats a lot.

I have one, and I'm going to call him Cat here because I want a cat named Cat, but Puma is still a pretty cool name for a cat... (that's the name of my cat) I just don't use real names on here for some reason.

Huh.

Anyways, even though I just learned that I shouldn't put chap-stick on and then kiss Cat's head when he's shedding, (grooooooss gross gross gross) I love him to death.

And--oh this is so sad--he's been an absolute overachiever in every aspect that a cat can overachieve.

He is my best frie--uh... feline.

How I was talking about the blogging trend before, I've seen many blog posts done by people's dogs and babies and hair straighteners. It's clever.

So Cat will--hang on one second. *blech!*... (hairball)--so Cat will take over the rest of this post:

nnnnnnneraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

egaaaaggg

er

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Fifteen minutes

My mama says things like

"Colonoscopies: no ifs, ands... only butts."

And I try very hard not to give in and laugh.

Dear Mama,

You're always funny. Trust me.

-rae

He was single first.

Um... what?

-rae

For those who have EVER been carsick

Every family car trip of my childhood:

Brother takes the whole middle set of seats.

Sister wedges herself in the space by the window.

Mom reads John Grisham and eats beef jerky.

Dad grudgingly shares his coke with her.

Oh yeah, and none of them change the radio station for me.

So I chill in the back of the car, content with the fact that I can be preoccupied for hours with just the thoughts in my head (which I later learn can be written down. Huh...)

But then we start driving up the twisty, rocky, vomit-inducing road up the mountain. Did I mention we're going to the cabin? We're always going to the cabin.

My stomach turns, the coke and beef jerky smell becomes absolutely repulsive, I lose the ability to swallow properly, and the AC can't seem to be cranked up high enough because everything but my pinkies rises in temperature.

The pinkies get colder... I don't know why.

So at this point, I decide that I'm going to take this bout of car sickness and make it into as big of a deal as possible so I can make up for the other attention that had been withheld.

Some campus art to keep you going.

Brother tells me to stop whining and tough it out.

Sister suggests that it's all in my head and that I can make myself not be sick.

Mom calls me "Moan-aaaaaa... waaaaah" and offers me some coke.

Dad gets really nervous and gets ready to pull over at any given time.

Oh, but no.

The relief of expelling whatever is having a raspberry chipotle cream cheese fiesta in my stomach is too easy of a way out.

No, I just need one thing. But how can there possibly be NO water left in the car whatsoever?

My bottle is empty... where did it all go--? Oh. That was that Maverik stop an hour ago.

Mom offers me her coke again. (gross)

Brother and sister hide their Sobe. (gross)

Dad keeps asking me when he needs to pull over and let me out. (not necessary)

I lean over and squeeze my head and see something on the floor.

Oh for the love...

Yes, it's what I need, but it's that arrowhead water bottle that has indefinitely taken residence underneath all the car seats from who knows how long ago.

I pick it up. The plastic is all soft from being roughed around so much, there is hair stuck on the place where the label peeled off, and it's about a gulp full of hot water that no doubt has that tangy aftertaste of "natural spring water."

And I have no other choice.

So now, I'm staring cautiously at the water bottle next to me with the promise, "ENHANCED WITH MINERALS FOR A PURE, FRESH TASTE.

This is why water bottles have been and will be denied my trust for my entire life.

-rae

Bumblebee. Bumblebee.

Today is interesting.

I am not ecstatic.

I am not devastated.

I am not happy.

I am not sad.

I am not content.

I am not blue.

I am zero.

My voice teacher used to tape record warm-ups during my lessons.

On the recorder, there was a button that would make some moving numbers next to it turn to zero whenever I pushed it. I eventually figured out that it was a kind of bookmark. (I just looked it up, it's really called a tape counter.) Like if I set it to zero when my teacher started warm-up number three, I could fast-forward or rewind all I wanted and warm-up three would always be at zero.

Most of the time, I started the tape over, so I didn't have a use for this little gadget.

Except I played with it a lot.

I pushed it at random times while singing and pressed it rapidly when I rewound or fast-fowarded.

You don't understand how pleased I was to feel the little shift when the wheel reset itself to zero.

It was remarkably satisfying.

Except the wheel eventually couldn't reset itself as easily as before.

It would either take a few tries or it would slip back to the number it was at before if I didn't hold it down.

I was a little bummed about my new toy being broken, but then my lessons ended and I forgot about the tape recorder until... now.

Today, I have:

gone on a run,

watched a movie for class,

received bad news,

chatted with several old friends,

received great news,

read Great Expectations,

napped in the JFSB,

missed French...

Like my old tape recorder, it's apparently very simple for someone to just toggle with my counter as well... because whether each of these activities brought me joy or discontent, I can't tell you, as someone keeps zeroing my counter.

And I can only sit here neutrally and hope that they don't break it.

-rae

Crestfallen is a juicy word.

Little Women, which I’m supposed to have read over a week ago, is still sitting in my bag somewhere. The book has such a weird shape, and the laptop case I carry around really can’t hold much more than, well, a laptop, so it’s stuffed in one of the back pockets.

Before I left this morning, Jude started speaking to me. (Jude Law’s voice is my conscious/narrator.) Rae, he said, Little Women is a classic, praised all over the world for it’s… well, actually, I’m not sure why. But that’s because you don’t know why. I don't even like this book either. Why don't you look it up on SparkNotes? You’ll have to figure out some way to avoid all the ads—

He never sounds right when he voices my thoughts. They get too distracted and, more often than not, are superfluous to what I had intended to tell myself in the first place. He stopped talking for my sake, which really didn’t help. I mean, there’s a reason I chose his voice to listen to all day.

I’m looking at the mountains and the grey sky as I type this sentence. Like, right now I’m staring at them. They remind me of why I started writing and how gloriously talented I am at ignoring that book.

I really want to eat my fish crackers, but it’s too quiet.

I push the button on my computer that tells me what the weather is going to be like for the next week: little raindrops inside the snow.

Splendid.

That’s on the next day, too.

Spectacular.

And then snowflakes… snowflakes… snowflakes… the word ‘crestfallen’ pops into my head for some reason… snowflakes. In a cheap way, it’s kind of ironic that all the snowflakes look the same.

…

…

…

Jude laughs.

-rae

Honestly. Vile. Abhorrent. REVOLTING.

Whenever my parents went on one of their many trips to Europe, I would stay at a friends house.

She would play The Nutcracker so we could go to sleep dreaming of sugar plum fairies, despite the fact that it was summer outside.

The Nutcracker is very relaxing.

However, my friend falls asleep super fast.

I don't.

So I would lay (or is it 'lie', anyone know?) for hours listening to lovely trilling flutes and all that jazz (not jazz. Classical...)

BUT

on the first night I slept over, I found out that when The Nutcracker CD ends, it's replaced with...

Simon and Garfunkel.

And not just Simon and Garfunkel,

but the song Mrs. Robinson.

Just MRS. ROBINSON.

Over and over and over again MRS. ROBINSON.

I would lay/lie/lye awake every night, listening to that dreaded intro to the song with the twangy guitar and the "dee dee dee doo doo doo..."

You can hear it, can't you?

Only now am I realizing that I really really love Simon and Garfunkel's music.

Especially Sound of Silence.

Though I'm not a fan of Cecelia.

And I still refuse to listen to MRS. ROBINSON.

I haven't even seen The Graduate, but I almost sure I already hate Mrs. Robinson with a passion.

See, isn't it annoying seeing her name over and over again?

You really wouldn't think I would still be bitter about it, but I still hear the song when I'm just barely falling unconscious.

Which may finally give us an explanation for my issues with sleep.

...and Dustin Hoffman.

And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson...

I REALLY hate you more than you could know.

-rae

P.S. (Wo, wo, wo...)

Put a BIRD on it!

My mom is really into holiday decorations:

I'm really into this game on my iPod called Word Warp:

Yes. They do live.

-rae

Imma Git Chooooo!!!

In the midst of a Facebook discussion of proper comma usage, an interesting term came up:

"Serial Comma."

Other names are apparently "Oxford Comma" or "Harvard Comma," which sound significantly less menacing than...

serial comma.

SERIAL COMMA

When you finish your essay on the romantic elements in Wordsworth's poetry...

When you proof-read too many times for a grammatical error to somehow slip through your keen eye...

When you exasperatedly figure out that you did NOT have literature class this morning and are grudgingly sitting in the basement of the JFSB and are wondering what classroom the friends you walked here with might be in and you have nothing else to do so you read your essay again and suddenly you find such errors in your essay and of course you have plenty of time to fix it but it turns out you have no means to print it--

,

IT GETS YOU.

-rae

P.S. Yes, that last sentence was supposed to look like that. Thanks for catching it.

MISERABLE WRETCH! FOUL DAEMON!

I am currently sitting in my favorite study spot on campus.

There's a wide window where I can see the mountains right in front of me which only made this experience all the more... well, just read on.

This spot was a little more inhabited than usual, but I sat down anyway in the only available seat and resumed my reading of Frankenstein.

I am about to make what I have recently learned is called tangent:

I hated this book in high school. My tenth grade English teacher made me read it and he (along with what seems like every other English teacher) completely exhausted me of any appreciation I might have had for the book prior to his class.

The list of detested books also includes The Great Gatsby, My Antonia, and The Chosen, all of which are probably outstanding works.

Well... maybe not My Antonia.

To be honest, I didn't even finish Frankenstein the first time.

Anyways, the book just pops up on my reading list for British Literary History (the history about literature from Britain) and I curse this professor that I haven't even met yet.

Well, the first time I felt like an idiot was on the first day of class

BECAUSE

the teacher whom I thought must be terrible to assign the reading of such an abhorrent book turned out to be one of the most passionate and sincere and donut-providing teachers I've ever had.

But hold on, I'm shamed even further.

(Tangent ceased.)

I actually did finish reading Frankenstein the second time.

I didn't really realize what was happening until the kid next to me tapped me with the highlighter I must have let drop from my fingers.

I took it and then looked at him.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he said and continued to look at me strangely for a few more seconds before asking, "are you okay?"

I blinked in confusion, and then felt something wet on my face.

No... I couldn't actually be crying-

Oh, for the love...

I turned my face away quickly and showed him the book.

"Ah," I heard him say in understanding. "'Nuff said."

That was the second time I felt like an idiot. And not necessarily because I was crying in front of someone, which was bad enough, but because it was this story, this once despised, disgusting monster (haha no pun intended) of a book that had made me cry.

"No creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man."

No, that's not how I felt.

It was just a good quote.

-rae

Poam in the Loam

My ears are ringing like a high-pitched dog whistle.

My eyelids are pulsing like cocoons in a thistle. (That's really gross...)

My head is pounding like beginner's percussion.

My mind's in turmoil, because I have a... uh...

um...

...

...

...

*snore*

-rae

I Cheated The Lion (I.C.T.L.-Idiotic Contraptions That LOSE)

Explanation of Title: 'I Cheated the Lion' is a self-invented band name if I were ever sufficiently rad enough to be in a band worthy of the name 'I Cheated the Lion.'

'I.C.T.L.' is the spontaneously-created acronym (from the self-invented band name) that embodies this post oh so well and is also what I tagged a few other posts with; do you remember the emergency paper towel dispenser? Or the misinforming instructions for throwing away trash? (Those were links. Click on them. WHEN YOU'RE DONE READING THIS ONE.)

Now, on to business.

There are very few things that makes sense to the average human.

There are even fewer things that make sense to me.

This example, however, makes sense to absolutely no one:

This may look like an average toilet paper dispenser, and it totally is.

But just look at it.

I mean, really look at it.

I don't know why I never considered it before...

It's locked up.

The toilet paper is locked-I just...ugh.

"I payed two whole dollars more for this two-ply-mega-ultra-downy-soft-bare-OR-bear-bottom-worthy toilet paper. I don't take the protection of public hygiene products lightly man... why are you shaking your head?!"

Toilet paper padlock, I present to you a well-earned *face palm.*

Though holding the camera still while laughing so hard at this overlooked issue was hard as it was, the real problem was trying to cover the noises of the camera taking pictures and loading up with that *ta-ling-a-la-ting!* sound.

Awkward presumptions, my friends.

-rae

P.S. Don't have noobish tendencies and tell me what the point of the lock is. I'd rather be entertained than enlightened. (In this case.)

P.S.S. (I know I always do this. I just don't want to interrupt the flow of the the post.) As careless and indifferent as I may seem (which I actually am most of the time) I really do enjoy reading your comments and having new readers/followers! Please spread the word! You know... if you like reading my blog...