Blog

I resent the term Blog.

It sounds too new-age, too chitzy, too much like the something you’d pull out of a pool filter when the Creepy isn’t picking up dirt anymore. Or what the inside of a Port-A-Potty looks like right before they empty it. It sounds like some computer whiz sat around trying to come up with something clever for his little invention, sneezed into his hand, and came up with the word Blog.

Which is probably what happened, now that I think about it. Gross.

When I tell people I Blog, I always feel the need to add on that it’s more of a journal, more of a dumping ground for thoughts that simply no one cares about, including myself, and therefore must be cleansed from my brain. It’s a collection box for things I’m done with, for things I don’t know what to do with, for things I can’t figure out, and for things I need to postpone further thinking about. It’s also a place where I put the random musings that I think might entertain people. Blog just doesn’t cover all of that.

So now I’m on a quest of sorts. To find a new name for the Blog.

Suggestions welcome.

What I want for Christmas

I. Want. A. Dog.

There are three major problems with this: 1. My mom hates dogs, 2. My mom hates dogs, and 3, my mom really hates dogs. She doesn’t understand the extent of my desire only because I’ve completely given up on owning a dog while I’m still under her roof.

But when I move out, this is how things are going to go:

I’m going to come home to my crappy little apartment after a hard day. My boss has chewed me out for something I didn’t do, my coworkers hate me, and I will have dribbled coffee down the front of something white. My vacation has been canceled, my friends forgot my birthday, my car has been keyed, and my phone keeps self-dialing my ex boyfriends phone numbers at random intervals of the day. Life will, on this hypothetical day, suck on a level of epic proportions. I’ll open the door and drop my bag. Things will break and sprawl all over the floor. I’ll throw a fit, scream profanities, and kick things across the room.

And then my dog will come into the room, eyes wide and concerned, tail between his legs. He doesn’t want me to be mad. He doesn’t look at my formerly white shirt and think Ugh, look what the cat dragged in. He doesn’t threaten to fire me on a daily basis. He wouldn’t even dream of putting me in the awkward situation of talking to Joe or Bob or Alfonso after he knew the relationship was over.

(I have every intention of dating someone named Alfonso, just so you know.)

He’ll just look at me with those soupy brown eyes and think, with all his heart, I Wuv You Chloe. Don’t be mad, please? I just wuv you sooooo much!

And I’ll put on his leash, and we’ll go for a walk. He’ll jump around and pee on bushes, and everything will be okay again.

Blurp

That’s the noise my brain made when I finished the US History Final.

Hi…Bye

This is a post for Jorge.

I didn’t know him very well. But I’ve watched so many people cry over the past few days that I can see what a huge impact he made and what a large, gaping hole is left in his absence.

I was pretty sure it wasn’t an overdose.

You know how?

Because I remember how popular it was to tease the life out of our helpless bus driver in middle school. Then Jorge drew a picture of him yelling at us to SIT DOWN DAMNIT, and the moment he tapped the picture to the front of the bus, everyone stopped being so ruthless.

Because I remember watching him hug his guy friend while the friend cried, and flip off the other guys who were laughing.

Because I remember the Friday before he left he helped me snatch my notes that had caught in the wind while the other students just stepped on them.

And I was right.

RIP Jorge.

Hueco

Again, words fail me.

A reminder

The real world exists.

You can’t say WAIT A MINUTE and actually expect time to slow down for you. It just keeps coming, and the more you wish it wouldn’t the faster it goes.

Three finals stand in my path to freedom and reunion.

Three finals that I intend on destroying.

Mentally.

…Or physically.

another list

no time to edit. excuse the informality.

make things okay with her: check

study: half a check, as this is a work in progress

pack: NO CHECK HOLY CRAP

finish painting the set: NO CHECK but im trying to remain calm

see danny: NO CHECK ONLY 13 DAYS!!!!

birthday party: no check… as i go the priority level seems to plummet

eat: half a check

sleep: quarter of a check

breathe: phew thank god i wrote it down i would never have remembered

The Big Oil Award

There are actually multiple names for it. Popular among them are The Dick Cheney Big Oil Award and The Sarah Palin Drill Baby Drill! Award.

Guess how many people in my house voted for Obama?

Basically, the first person to turn on the heater receives the Award for being the most un-environmentally conscious family member of the year. The first year of the Award went to my dad, who gave in to frostbite in our tiled house (that is frequently colder than the air outside,) on December 7, 2007. The following year it was my brother Mickey, who lasted a week longer.

And today, on December 3, 2009, the name in the golden glitter pen is once again Dad. The ceremony will be postponed until the weekend for those of you who would like to attend.

New phone

It’s the second phone I’ve ever owned. In comparison to the one I’ve had for the past three years or so;

It’s shiny and red. (Old phone: 0, New phone: 1)

It has sixteen less major scratches and two less dents than the old phone. (Old phone: 0, New phone: 2)

It holds a twenty four hour charge for more than three hours. (Old phone: 0, New phone: 3)

It does not turn itself off randomly. (Old phone: 0, New phone: 50)

I don’t know how to work it. (New phone: 50, Old phone: 1,000,000,000,000,000)

There are a lot more Russians in China Town than I thought

Confused? Ask RiCastle.

Still confused? Ask the author. Whoops, that would be me, and I’m the one messing with your head anyway.

OH CRAP CAP LOCK STUCK ON.

Fixed it.

Look!  *  <- see it? Do you see it? It’s snowing!

Imagine:

Flyfisher standing knee deep in icy water. He can’t really feel his toes anymore, but his art distracts him. His line is set. Slowly he arcs the pole over his head, then faster and faster. The line moves, invisible in the pink morning, slicing the air into fine sheets. The fly at the end comes alive again, flitting over the water as if it could fly, live, and breathe for another moment. Some unsuspecting fish would eventually mistake the fly for a snack, and then the game would be won. But that wasn’t the point. The flyfisher doesn’t need to catch the fish. He’s a magician, whirling a magic wand over a crystal body of water. He’s an artist, painting a picture with invisible ink in the sky. A shimmering fish would just be the icing on top of the worlds most intricate cake.

A frog sitting on the bank of the river sees the treat soar by him multiple times. The hundredth time, he snatches the fly off the catch with his tongue. Lunch. With a tiny propulsion from his legs, he hops into the water with a content paloonk, satisfied with the days work.

***

I can’t get the red stain out of my hair, the one from the Koolaid experiment at midnight in Sammis bathroom.

We left his Welcome Home sign up long after he left. Those ridiculous colors look terrible with Moms lovely paint job. If I could find where the tape begins, I would take it down right now.

There’s paint all over every article of clothing I own. I’d complain about theater and how it’s ruining everything, but I’m guessing it’s about time to suck it up and trudge ahead. Even if it is snowing.

Snow.

Snow and flip flops.

Snow and flip flops and Hubert the snowman.

(He’s my new boyfriend. I left him on the mountain, because I was afraid he would melt if I took him in the car with me.)

Swine Flu Count

Nine cases.

RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!!!