Two more hours

Back to the grind.

Is that the saying?

Another day another dollar.

Okay, I know that one's right.

I've only finished my first class and I'm already committed to having a bad attitude for the rest of the day until I can go home to try and find something to eat other than Nutella and pistachios. And frozen waffles.

I'm sure there's some significance involved with the moment I stopped calling my house my home.

Huh.

Anyways, I'm listening to this song in hopes that the earth-shaking bass will jar me awake. Or shift my brain back into gear. Or just a normal spot for that matter. That'd be excellent.

But it's just making my forehead tingle.

Did you know that the space between your eyebrows is called a glabella? I have some very stubborn wrinkles there. These are mostly from frowning, but also from squinting all the time.

Is it possible for a 19-year-old (and 5 months and 5 days) to have cataracts? What about bad knees? I feel like an old person.

Last night, I was teased for watching Jeopardy every night on KJZZ.

I kind of have an old soul. I know this and I've accepted it. I don't like partying and I like prunes and I enjoy the company of other old people. I don't think I even need to grow old now. I'm already there.

Know that I'm not being an annoying kid who thinks they've experienced all they need to and also thinks they know everything... I'm just scared of getting old.

I'm scared of realizing, 50 years from now, that I spent so much time getting music and money and boots, and I won't like that music anymore or the boots won't fit anymore--no, I'm scared of regretting the time wasted.

I'm scared of The Christmas Story on TBS not airing anymore because all the parents whose lives were like that will be gone--no, I'm scared that the next movie won't be as good.

I'm scared of the fact that I'll probably be calling my old home 'the house' for the rest of my life--no, I'm scared that all my other homes will never live up to it.

I'm scared of not being ready to die because I didn't leave anything behind for the world to remember me by--I'm scared of this mattering.

I didn't mean for this post to turn out the way it did.

"... and I'm not scared of losing my family and friends, I'm scared of missing them," said the tortoise.

"I'll look out for them. And I'm not leaving, so you don't have to worry about missing me," said the tortoise's creator and sat back listening to music with the tortoise and massaging the lines between the tortoise's eyebrows until the tortoise had to get back to work.

-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

"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

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

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

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