In junior year AP English class, we studied the Scarlet Letter. Afterwards, we had to come up with our own letter that we thought represented us and write a short essay about why we felt that way. We also had to make a physical representation of the letter. Actually make what it would like sort of. Here’s the essay I wrote, including the short description I included of my letter. I’m not changing the puncuation, because depite what my teacher says, I think it’s just dandy.
Some people say I’m smart; some say I’m stupid. Some people say I’m fun; some say I’m “cantankerous”. Oftentimes, it’s because of my obsession with football. I’m football smart. I’m stupid because I like football so much. I’m fun because I understand football and can actually talk football. I’m fun because I think others can follow my football talk. I’m cantankerous (annoying to deal with) because of my football obsession. Ask someone my name and you’ll get: “Britt-the Cowboys fan” or “Britt-the football fanatic”. That’s who I am. Football (sadly) controls my moods. Football interests me in ways nothing else can. People say I’m obsessive, but don’t we all have something we’re obsessive about? Mine is football. The fact I’m so open about it makes me open to ridicule and laughter. You could put a scarlet letter on me but there’s really no need. I talk football; I walk football; heck, if football were a food I’d eat it any way it came. I can relax talking about football, about my favorite Miles Austin, my favorite team the Boys, my rivals of the NFC, my least favorite rules or penalties. I love the way the turf looks with the clean white lines making the yards. I love the sounds of plastic hitting platic during a tackle. I love the smells of popcorn and sweat and sticky-sweet Coke of the games. My spirit goes up and down with the teams. My heart speeds up and the adrenaline pumps. During offseason, I’m like a dormant bear — waiting to be awakened anew by the sweet promise of victory and a good long war. I hold grudges against other teams and their fans. Forget the 13th admendment, all Philidelphia Eagles fans should be slaves. I enjoy the betting, the gambling, the rush of every game. I enjoy arguing that my team is the best. It is. When players hurt, I hurt; I cry. When players are mad, I’m mad; I yell. When players are happy, I’m happy; I dance and laugh. Sometimes I feel guilty about how much my life is devoted to football. But I need a place for my passion and frustrations to go. Football is the place I can let go. Football is the place I feel comfortable in no matter what. I am football. (Go Cowboys.)
My letter is black on one side because sometimes football consumes my life leaving no room for anything else. The other side of my letter is blue, bright blue, because football gives me joy and helps me enjoy life. Also, blue is the Cowboys’ color. My letter is small and simple because it is really not necessary; everyone know I love football. I chose to hang it around my Miles Austin bear because he is my favorite player on my favorite team of my favorite sport.
Wow, I seriously needed some puncuation lessons. My writing sounds so cavemen-like. There was no made up wordiness. Barely any commas to the top. Altogether, very childish. Thank God for English teachers. Whaaaaat.
So, today I decided to do this fast thing. Basically you eat nothing and drink this disgusting lemonade mixture and laxative teas to wash all the crap out of your system and yada yada yahoo…. I did it over the summer for a short period of time before giving up in favor of mac and cheese. Four days without food is hard people. And you are supposed to do it for like a ten day minimum. Some people have even done it for 40 days. One chick thinks it cured her of cancer. Surely I can do the minimum right? So I started out this morning with the salt water flush. You drink a liter of salt water really fast and it makes go to the bathroom. A LOT. Except, I didn’t drink it fast enough. I got right down to the last few gulps and…. blew chunks. So, I brushed my teeth and drank a laxative, crap-tasting tea instead. After a couple of hours I drank the foul lemonade, and got a major headache and heartburn. A couple of hours later, I chugged down two more servings of the poison in order to finish in time to go house-hunting with my parents and Trinity. BASICALLY, after going seven hours of intermittent puking, nausea, headaches, and heartburn (my least favorite) I gave up and ate some mac and cheese from Cracker Barrel. And shrimp. And biscuits. And okra. And maybe some mashed potatoes. My mom laughed and said, “Wow. You made it a whole, what?, five hours?” No, Mother. Seven. Seven. That’s a lot for my attention span. And stomach span. And taste span. And mind span. I’m kind of hungry now.
I digress, as I mentioned above, we went house-hunting today. We being my mom, dad, Trinity, and me. There were some houses my parents had found online that they wanted to look at by Denton. ANNNNNNNNNNNNDDDD… WE HAVE A WINNER!!!!
There was this really pretty portable home found on the edge of town. Now, I’m sure most of you don’t think of portable homes as pretty or exciting and what-not. But, I fell in love with it the second I saw it. Trinity kept trying to tell us it was super old (and hence unlivable). But, even just looking around outside I started to get excited and hopeful. There was a big yard in the front and the back. And I just loved it for some reason. The house and I, we zinged you can say. And we hadn’t even seen the inside. Which was awesome and in amazing shape.
My grandmother on my dad’s side (biological dad that is) lived in a portable town as well. They lived outside of a small New Mexico town called Tucumcari. Off of old Route 66. I spent a lot of time there, and when I can get away with it, I say I mostly grew up there. Most of my memories from my childhood are at that house. There was an ostrich ranch just across the street from behind her house. They had loads of land. There were fruit trees, snake holes, and chicken eggs all over the place. My grandma used to sit me down in the front yard in my own little lawn chair, pull her chair up beside me, and say, “Let’s sit and see how many big trucks go by on the highway. You can see it all the way out there. See?” And I’d start counting how many semis go by the highway, way out there. Sometimes I’d be playing in the yard, and grandma would come out and tell me to chase off Jesse’s darn goats that were eating up her grass again. I’d go get the broom and run out there determined to get those darn goats. I’d get over the fence that separated what I liked to call the grove from the rest of the front yard. I would start sneaking (or what I thought I was sneaking) towards the goats, broom in hand, only to run back towards the safety of my grandma when I got halfway there. She would laugh and tell me it’s okay. She would tell Jesse herself.
Whenever my grandpa came home from work (he was a truck driver), he would take my grandma and me out to eat at a Mexican restaurant called El Torro. I would always get the tacos. And grandpa would get us all sopapillas afterwards. Anytime my grandpa said something about going out to eat, I would say the Mexican place where I get tacos and there’s a picture of a bull on the wall. I loved that picture. We sat at the same table over and over. I would look and look at that painting. It was a simple painting that people have probably seen many times. It was a matador brandishing a blood red cape and a bull in the background–pawing at the ground. I remember asking about it one time and my grandma explaining the sport to me. I thought it was so fascinating. When we didn’t go out to eat, I could always count on my grandma having cheddar cheese (which I loved) and my grandpa’s everlasting supply of Fig Newtons. And of course there was always the trips to the grocery store. It was a small, simple store. Grandpa would always let me pick out a donut to take home from there bakery. Yup, I was spoiled.
But those weren’t the only things we went into town for. Grandma repeatedly went in to go see her hairdresser. I loved going with her. I would go play with the toys she had in the corner for children, doing the same wooden bear puzzle over and over again and listening to them gossip about the lady’s partner and other going-ons of the small town. I used to know the hairdresser’s name, as well as her son’s. She didn’t like the lady who did the nails. But, I remember thinking she wasn’t too bad because she did my nails for free. I really liked the hairdresser lady too. She would do my hair in all sorts of pretty braids and buns. I loved going into town with grandma.
Grandma had a dog named Sissy. My parents found Sissy one night, before they had split up and everything hadn’t gone too bad yet. She was a mutt. She was black and white, short, and had long hair. She was my grandma’s dog, and I loved her. I would help my grandma brush her hair out so she wouldn’t get tangles. I would help her feed Sissy her dog food. The same moist dog food. Over and over again. But, it was all Sissy would eat. She was spoiled too. When my grandmother couldn’t take care of Sissy anymore she became my dog. She was around for just about as long as I was. I loved taking care of her, and all the time I think about it, I wish I had tried harder to keep her inside to take care of her. She died of old age. My brother went out one afternoon and called me over. I still cry.
My grandpa had a horse and a couple of dogs. I don’t remember much about the dogs. Just that they caught hold of a stray cat one time and grandpa literally had to pick the intestines of the cat up and go throw it away while my cousins and I gaped. The horse I do remember though. I loved helping grandpa feed her. She was a pretty dappled silver horse named Shadow. She was the last horse left. Grandpa used to have a lot more. There was a lot of room at the stables for more, but dad said Grandpa had either sold the rest or they had died. I remember my grandpa letting me ride Shadow one time. I was wearing my old cowboy hat with a bird feather sticking out of it that I had found playing outside. I remember him smiling and speaking softly, giving me instructions on how to hold her and how to sit. She was around for the longest time, then one summer she just wasn’t.
Most summers I would spend a week with my grandparents by myself. Then over the weekend, the family would gather together. Not only would my dad and stepmom come, but so would my cousins and aunts and uncles. Most of them anyway. I remember four cousins, though I know I have more, Marco, Austin, Ashley, and Maria. Maria and Ashley were quite a bit older than Marco, Austin, and me. Whenever us five got together there ended up being a definite separation between us and them. They would go off on walks and just talk. Us younger three though, we were the cool ones. We would be superheroes and spy on them from behind grandpas trailer, and go around throwing rocks at all the eggs to break them (under Grandma’s blessing, she didn’t want those chickens around), and playing in the old, rusted trough. They were so lame for just walking around wanting to talk. We knew where the action was.
Grandpa gave us all Ferbies when we were young. I had quite a few at one point, but I’m not sure what all happened to them. He would also give us those little Techron cars that you could get at those gas stations. My cousins and I would play with those all the time. Marco, Austin, and I would anyway. My favorite part of playing with my Ferbie was feeding it. I loved the face it made when I pushed it’s little pink tongue down.
As I get older I see the resemblence between my grandma and me more and more. She loved listening to Elvis Presely. She would put her old records on and clean the house as I sat in her rocker chair. Now, I love listening to Elvis. There has yet to be a time when Elvis couldn’t make me feel better. Grandma also loved for me to play Phantom of the Opera for her on my cd player; I now know every song by heart. Grandma had an extensive collection of Native American decorations, porcelain dolls, and those stuffed bears you could buy at a department store at the end of the year, the ones with the year printed on its foot. While my collections are no where near as extensive as hers had been, I do enjoy them and recall them fondly. Something that wasn’t passed down that I wished was, my grandmother painted. She had a couple of paintings she had done framed around the house, I have never been that talented.
My grandpa died when I was very young. He was a hopeless smoker. Even when he got put on an oxygen tank, he kept right on smoking. I remember only a few details about him. I remember one particular shirt he wore. It was a blue and black plaid cowboy shirt. He always wore dark, Wrangler-looking jeans. When he came home, he would sit in the same chair at the kitchen table, on the end where he could see into the living room. He would put his boots by the cabinet Grandma kept her dolls in. I remember sitting in his lap and him telling me he had a snake in his boots. I also remember going and looking in. When he didn’t sit at the end of the table he would sit in his rocker and watch TV with Grandma and me.
I didn’t watch TV too often when I was there. I enjoyed playing with my toys outside. But, there were some shows we watched every day, when Sissy and the cat didn’t accidentally meet in front of the TV and start barking and hissing. Every afternoon we would watch Madeleine and Wheel of Fortune. I would then entertain myself untl the news was over. The All in the Family came on. I looked forward to watching the show. I thought it was funny. I would sit in the middle of the floor and watch it, even singing along with the theme song. Grandma was also the one who introduced to the rest of those old shows later on in life, shows like I Love Lucy, Happy Days, and I Dream of Jeannie. “Archieeeee!!!!”
I don’t remember the name of the cat anymore, but grandpa had one. She mainly just sat in a chair seat underneath the table and avoided human company.
I remember one time my grandpa and grandma taking me fishing in Chama. Grandma loved the color the leaves turned during fall.
They also took me on the train ride that went to Colorado. The Cumbres and Toltec Railroad. It took you on a scenic tour. There was a big bear that would stand outside and wave at everybody while wearing a striped conductor’s uniform. Grandpa got me a train whistle as a souvenir.
When I got older and couldn’t go visit them as often they started coming down to visit me. They would always bring a gift of some sort. One time they brought me a Barbie Jeep to drive around. We only got rid of it a couple of years ago. Every time they came down, they would take my dad, stepmom, and me out to eat at Furr’s. I think it was one of my Grandpa’s favorite places to eat. On the way there Grandma would always ask me what I was going to get. I would say, “The same thing I always get, Grandma. Fried chicken leg, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, bread, jello, and pie.” And I would.
Sometimes Grandma, Grandpa, or both would come and pick me up straight from daycare and take me to Tucumcari. If it was just Grandma, she would come in her car and make me sit in the back. If they both came, or just Grandpa, they would come in his big red truck. I remember they would have pens in the front with my grandpa’s name on them. I used to be confused because some of them said Bobby and some said Bob and I thought they were different names. Grandma and Grandpa loved to listen to the country radio station. There was one particular song that was popular back then. I remember always singing along to it when it came on, sometimes Grandma joining along. I don’t remember how it goes now, and I wish I did. I know it has something to do with a man counting the reasons why he loves a girl or something like that.
I apologize for the rambling memories. Sometimes they just pound me over and over again. I think I’m scared that if I don’t put them somewhere, the memories of Bobby and Shirley Beth Lowry, they’ll keep fading and disappear. And quite frankly, it’s the favorite part of my life. I can’t lose them. So I guess what I’m saying is, if you’ve read this far, all 2510 words, thanks. But I guess this was more for me than you.
Before I get into the amazing, harebrained night my siblings and I had, I would like to make a quick update. Remember in my last post how I said I wouldn’t be able to reenlist even if I wanted to because we couldn’t have all the adults in our new apartment being full-time students? Well, turns out the family’s income is too much to qualify anyways. Which of course means that we won’t be moving there anymore; which of course means I won’t be put in that situation. When I heard that today, I couldn’t help but ask God what he’s playing at. And maybe a couple more signs at where I should be going within the next few months. But, it’s like I’ve always said: Don’t eat the last marshmallow.
With that said, on to the fun stuff. Every Friday night in our family is considered family night. Of course, we have to behave ourselves. For the past month or so, my brother and I have gone to the dollar theatre to watch a movie, occasionally with Hannah coming with. Hannah used to go with us all the time we went to the theatre, but recently she had been showing interest in going and then backing out saying she was tired, or didn’t feel good, or didn’t want to see the movie. Tonight, however, Hannah came. And it was amazing. It felt like reuniting. I’m sure you’re wondering about the whole Phatts-thing. Well, the youngest three are called the Stooges. And us older three are called the Phatts. It’s kind of childish if you stop to think about it. A 13, 15, and 19 year old, giving themselves a nickname…. A kind of lame one at that, but that’s why you’re not supposed to think about it at all. Because if you keep thinking about it, you realize how much of a child I really am, and I’m one of those people that just doesn’t really grow up. So quit thinking right now. Right now.
I digress. Phatt’s reunitation!!!! I was super excited when Hannah showed interest in coming in the first place. She’s been grounded recently, and neither she nor I was sure whether or not she could come. But, because we have smart and sympathetic parents, she was indeed allowed to be in my custody for a couple of hours to come with us. And even if she changed her mind and decided she didn’t want to come, I probably would have dragged her out the door anyway. She has been way too reclusive for my liking. But, thank God, she came of her own will.
So, the Phatts went off to the theater singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of our lungs. Vibrating the glass with our awesomeness. Well, Hannah and I sang. Nathaniel watched in awe, and maybe a little fear. After getting there on time to actually see the beginning of the movie for the first time EVER, we watched Hotel Transylvania. Which was hilarious by the way. And as I told by brother, “five times” according to him, it has one of my dream casts. Definitely one for all ages that you just have to see. It was great to see Hannah laughing at something besides me falling because I wore socks.
After the movie, we got back in the car (as most people do after walking out of the theater) and cranked up the music. As we are driving down the theater, we start dancing and singing along. At one point we were even bobbing our head in a sychronized way. (No worries you grown-up people, I kept my hands on the steering wheel.) Then we come to the stop light. And I take the opportunity of a red light to look towards Hannah and sing my heart out and dance my heart out to some really stupid song with no real meaning, only to have the guy stopped next to us in a minivan start staring at me. At which point, Hannah turns around–guess she wanted to see what I was looking/laughing at–and I really ham it up. I go wild and smile real big for him. I sort of hoped he would start dancing too. But he just kept staring. So I faced the front and sang and dance at the stop light in hopes I would make it turn green instead.
So, there are a few things that you can take away from this story tonight.
The Phatts are unstoppable and will cause spotaneous awesomeness and joy where ever we go. As long as we are complete with all three parts.
I cannot be in a car with my sister without getting really hyper.
If you see a strange, young, attractive woman dancing and singing and smiling: humor her, dang it.
Nathaniel does not sing anything outside of the word “pinecone”. (And it makes me chuckle and giggle.)
Hannah is the battery of the Phatts.
Brittany is the of _______ the Phatts.
Nathaniel is the _______ of the Phatts.
Feel free to fill in the blanks. Feel free to dance and sing spotaneously. Feel free to spread your joy with the random strangers around you. And feel free to be a child.
As the new year comes around, I realize how close it is to March. I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this before, and if I have it’s been a while anyways, but I am eligible to reenlist in the Army in March. For the past month, I thought I had made my decision and decided that the Army was not for me. But, as the date gets closer and closer I find myself thinking about it more and more. If I could just get a few health things worked out (*ahemloseweightahem*) and maybe a temp living situation in Amarillo, I could easily do it.
But, I have reservations about it, of course. It seems like anything I decide I have reservations about. Including which socks I should wear. No lie people. I think I’m really scared that something will happen like last time and I won’t have a place to go again. I don’t want to end up stuck in Amarillo. Especially not Canyon. And… well, that’s basically all my reservations right there. I’m scared.
I have looked into college while I’ve been in Dallas. At one point, I was actually going to go except for the whole meningitis-shot-being-a-whole-lot-of-money-I-don’t-have-because-I’m-not-married-to-Miles-Austin-yet thing. And I decided that I didn’t want to.
Oh, I just thought of something. We’re moving into apartments where not all of the adults can be full-time students. Both of my parents are full-time students. Crap.
But, ignoring the facts that basically just made my decision for me, I really enjoyed being around the other future soldiers and my sergeants (some were just good to look at). I loved learning all the lingo and traditions and how to march and turn and all the commands. I loved hearing about boot camp and stations and forts. I loved the history. I loved just walking into the station and hearing a loud chorus of, “Heyyyy… It’s Private LOW-ry. Hu-up!!!” We could insult each other and still respect each other. My sergeant could look me in the eye and say, “You’re wrong. You screwed up. I’m right.” And I would love that they could do that so confidently and be willing to explain why. Only once was I ever yelled at, and I didn’t even mind because I knew I deserved it. We covered each other; we partied together; we helped each other; we shot each other with nerf guns; we played ulitmate frisbee together; we ran together, went to a rodeo together, got called persistent-assholes together for our recruiting efforts…. I have never felt so … … … at home. Peaceable.
Sure, I know boot camp is hard. Grueling. They get in your face. And I wanted it. Yeah, it’s not all fun and games. Your purpose is to protect America. People die. But, honestly, I wouldn’t mind dying around those people. I wouldn’t mind dying with those people as my family. Surrounded by the people who made the same commitment as me. Even the people I couldn’t stand, I could respect. And it went both ways.
I’m starting to think the timing was all wrong. I just wasn’t mature enough to handle it in high school/right after I graduated. I’m ready now to do what it takes though. And I know I can. A part of me has to, whether I enlist or not. A part of me itches to go outside and run, time my pushups, learn the history. I need to know I can do it. I need to know that I can walk into that station in March and look my Captain in the eye and say, “I was wrong. I screwed up. But now I’ve fixed it, and I’m ready to go.” To feel that companionship and pride and stability and adventure of being a part of the United States Army.
I sit here before you with my eyes watering, nose running, lips chapped, and body burning. It sounds like hell, doesn’t it? Mainly because it is. It is also referred to as a cold.
I’m such a wussy when I get sick. Probably because I hardly ever do. So, the few times I actually do get sick, well…. Let’s just say everybody knows. Haha. Hopefully the modern miracles of Zyrtec, Halls, and Kleenex can fix this. Though I think I’m about to go to the alternate medicine of homemade cough syrup. I actually like the way it tastes.
While my body is sick, my mind is starting to clear however. I see that I have trusted a lot of people too much and believed every word they said, refusing to see the lies. Because of my blind trust I have come across a lot of pain and I see now how to fix it.
But, I’ve also noticed how messed up I am as well. I keep justifying the things I’m doing saying it will benefit me now. Never thinking about the long term. This is good if the zombie apocalypse is upon us, but since I have had to come to face the stark reality that life will forever be un-zombied and (unfortuantely) caught up in the Kardashians, I see now it has come time for me to grow up and start realizing that while tomorrow may never come, odds are it will. And am I really prepared for it? I guess you could say I’ve made some resolutions after all, though most of these goals I do not want to accomplish within the next year, but as soon as possible.
My last post was cut off by an unfortunate circumstance last night. For the sake of privacy, I’ll just say my bunny died. When something major happens to someone you love, it’s kind of weird how it makes you stop and consider things, don’t you think? For example, after I got over my initial shock and anger of, hey my bunny died, I was started to think. Is it my fault? Did I unconciously provide the means or motive for such a thing? Did I make it seem okay somehow? Here I am thinking I told my bunny not to die enough times he wouldn’t, only to find he did anyways. It just makes a girl stop and consider that maybe what you thought wasn’t an issue is, and maybe you contributed to that being an issue whether you wanted to or not.
When those questions arise you have to stop and think, “Should I have even been around my bunny? If I had let it be, would it still live?” Next thing you know I’m starting to think of all the other things I’ve been doing wrong that may or may not have been connected to my bunny. Everything from how I eat to whether or not I need to block Cameron’s number. All these questions and ideas start swirling around in my head, like flies–just annoying enough to make you want to kill them all. Make them stop flying. Make them leave you alone for good. And like a leaky faucet, the only way that it will stop annoying you is if you grab the stupid toolbox and just fix it.
Fly numero uno: the whole Cameron situation has gotten out of hand. For too long have I been at his beck and call. For too long has he plagued my blog posts. For too long has he made me look the fool. For too long has he plagued my kingdom. And if I’m too weak to just ignore him or say no, I’ll just make it impossible for him to even ask. I’ll block his number. Actually, my parents will because I don’t know how and I’d be nice to keep it that way. That way I can’t just undo what I’ve done.
Fly Beta: My paycheck comes, and it goes just as fast. I complain about the meningitis shot being so expensive, but in all reality, I would have had enough money to get it if I hadn’t been so careless with my finances. Now, I’m not going to go see an Edward Jones advisor and be a crazy investment tycoon, but I could open up a savings account and start putting all of my money in there that I don’t use to pay for my bills. Obviously you can still withdraw money from a savings account, but just the very fact that it’s in there will make me more likely to keep it there.
Fly Three: I have been relying on other people for too long. It’s time I play my own game and do what I need to do to advance personally in my life. Not stand sit on peoples’ coat tails and hope they’ll be able to pull along my fat butt. The way my sister put it one time, “You’re nineteen years old, living with your mom, and your not even in college.” Obviously I’m not in the position that I can just move out right now and be okay. I’d end up homeless. But I can start realizing that I can’t just stay here forever and claim I’m “trying to help out”. At some point, if I’m not already there, I’m going to become a burden. I do not know exactly what needs to happen, but it is something I finally realized needs to happen, and I am certainly seeking out the best plan of action.
My bunny can never come back to life, but maybe I can move on and never let something like this happen again.
This weekend I made yet another trip to Amarillo to go get my little sisters from their dad’s where they spent most of Christmas break. While I was looking forward to the chaos of having all eight people home again, this is probably one of those trips I would like to just tack up to depressingly disappointing and forget it. But, since I have a lack of anything nice to say to people in general, I will just spread the depressingness.
The trip didn’t necessarily start out bad. However, what happened before the trip certainly set the mood. My grandmother and aunt took my mom, sister, and me to all go see Les Miserables. While the movie was ridiculously awesome and filled with some of my favorite people (Wolverine, Bellatrix Lestrange, Little Red Riding Hood, and Princess Mia just to name a few) it was also so depressing I think my body legitimately ran out of tears. And as I’ve menitoned before, I don’t cry. After an unintentional teary farewell, my mom and I were on our way.
First–it took a depressingly long time to get there. Everything seems longer when you’re in the passenger’s seat.
Secondly–turns out that Sunday is no longer the holy day of football. No, two of the playoff games were played on Saturday. Weird. Unnatural. Wrong. Then to top of the horribleness of it all. Not only did the freakin’ stupid Texans have to win, but so did the dumb Packers. I hate both. I swear to the caramel popcorn sitting in front of me, that I will blow chunks if Green Bay goes to the Super Bowl. I will eat a goldfish if the Texans do. Then I will blow chunks.
Thirdly–I become completely and irrevocably sick. I was sleeping in my Meeme’s wonderful, soft bed and memory foam pillow only to wake up at 4:30 because of lack of nasal breathing. After getting up to take a potty break and get a drink, I go back to bed only to be awoken out of the twilight zone between sleep and awareness by a text from our good friend…. Cameron.
Yeah, I’m stupid I know. Oh, and warning, it’s about to get high-school-teenger up in here. He called my Thursday night and we talked for a while. He told me he wanted to see me. And I told him I would be coming into town soon. But, after a few more minutes he said he had to go and that he would call me back soon. Well, he texted me while I’m sulking in my misery of Les Mis and being sick. At five o’ clock in the morning. I was so confused. After telling him it was typical and to be expected of him I went to sleep. Only to be awakened at the butt crack of dawn (8:30) by dear, lost Cameron calling me. I was so confused I actually answered. Then I just stared at the phone until I realized I should hang up. Later he said he still wanted to see me (not picking up the hints), so I told him he could eat lunch with my mom and me before we headed out. Typical Cameron-style, he didn’t show and hasn’t talked to me since then. Why do I act like a three-year old when it comes to him? Anyhow, I’m done.
So, tune back in people. I also found out a couple of interesting things about my siblings while I was on my trip. Apparently my brother has been lying to his girlfriend about being CANADIAN and that he went to Canada over winter break to go to a funeral. As far as I know, he has never even been to Canada. It just makes me really sad that something like that would happen. I used to do the same thing when I was in junior high. When my friends told me they had been to some cool place and gotten something for me, I decided to pretend I had to and would give them something from my room. Junior high I figured out what I was doing wrong and came clear with my friends. I told them everything. Thank God they were understanding and forgave me. It certainly caused a lot of trust issues between us though. It also makes me wonder if all the stories he told me are true. Just really sad-making.
And now I’m going to go. I have some pondering to do.
After feeling the need to blog but deciding you guys probably didn’t want to hear about all of my theories on cleaning house (since that’s basically what I’ve done all day), I decided to check my spam. And I proceeded to laugh and feel entertained and laugh some more.
To the people that tell me there must be something wrong with my computer because YOUR computer won’t load my blog fast enough for you…. Well, first let me tell you that in America we have this saying. “Patience is a virtue.” I.e. You need patience. I appreciate you waiting long enough to read my blog, but really, I don’t want to hear it. Leave the whining for you mama. Oh, I almost forget (squirrel!!), don’t be trying to tell me how to make my blog more Google friendly. I don’t want, nor care if my blog is “Google-friendly” or not. IT IS WHAT IT IS. Se lavi.
To the people that keep telling me that if I keep up the hard work, they’ll follow my blog. What makes you think I want you to follow my blog? I will get no satisfaction from it. I don’t care if you’re the freaking Queen of England or whatnot. Where does a person get off on telling someone that if they “keep up the good work” on their CREATIVE outlet–where hard work doesn’t really matter–so said person can follow them. Follow me or not. That’s your own business. But don’t think I’m going to try harder to please you. Mainly because I never try. And if it’s hard I make up my own way to do it.
And lastly, dear people who speak to me in a foreign language that must be related to elven, I SPEAK TEXAN. Thanks for deciphering though. I appreciate your efforts.
Oh, people of spam. You make my day an entertaining one for sure.I’ve never really been big on the whole “constructive criticism” thing that I’m sure ya’ll people think you’re doing. I don’t believe there is such a thing. There is tough love, and sugar coating. I prefer the tough. Unless it comes to my meat. Then I like it nice and tender. And juicy. One time I had this really GOOD, juicy, tender, flavorful smoked steak. It made me cry at its perfection. I knew from that day on I would never be able to be a real vegetarian. Also, a good MLT is really nice. Where the mutton is really tender…
But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Or behind. I stopped to smell the roses. I suppose you can see I ended up digressing. But it’s only because a dinosaur bit me in the nose and I had to go on a quest to get it back. It involved a stapler, Nolan Gerard Funk, and maybe a little bit of the bow and arrow action. But that’s a different blog all together.
And now I can smell an even better meat cooking. Mainly because it is the meat of mexican food that I shall put on my burrito. You know, the meat of the Mexican variety. So, with that I say adios. Keep up the good work people. Then I might follow you. Or care.