In Lieu of Brighter Prospects

Here is an idea of the places I wouldn't mind working at:

• Pet Store
• Vet Clinic
• Pharmacy
• Bookstore
• Library
• Clothing Store (I guess...)
• Coffee Shop
• Certain Resteraunts (Buffalo Wild Wings?)

I know it's not the greatest, but it's the list I've compiled of things that I:

• Can do
• Wouldn't mind doing
• Enjoy myself doing
• Won't be heartbroken to leave (if necessary) on short notice

Can anyone think of a spectacular job opportunity in Springfield, Missouri that I haven't mentioned? Please, please, all input is appreciated.

Robby-of-the-Day

rObStEr: i have a cold
sunnyfnday: aww
rObStEr: i can't breathe
rObStEr: i called into work
sunnyfnday: if i were there, we'd sit on the couch and fight for room and call each other names and watch the little mermaid and snuggle
rObStEr : lol
rObStEr : it's so true
rObStEr : :-(
rObStEr : why do i miss you more when i know you're gone
sunnyfnday: poor buddy
sunnyfnday: cause
sunnyfnday: my shining beacon of light is gone further than the borders of wisconsin
sunnyfnday: that's why
rObStEr : i'll give you a beacon
sunnyfnday: HAHAHA
rObStEr: beacon your face
rObStEr : :-)
sunnyfnday: lol
rObStEr: mmmm... bacon...
sunnyfnday: mmm..lmao
rObStEr: lol

Poor bird didn't stand a chance..

The carcass.

A pre-dinner smoke..

A little pre-dinner refreshment.

Look at that ham. Isn't that the most gorgeous ham you've ever seen?

Some of the tasty dishes in the oven.

Grade School Songs

I remember singing quite a few. It might have been because I went to a Catholic school (one of a million Sacred Hearts, I'm sure), but I don't think so. Last night, I remembered a great one, one we even danced to, in second grade. I think it was the Spring Program, or some more creative name. We stood on the stage of the gymnasium, with yellow circles taped to our hips, and gyrated to:

"Oh, Banana-nana-nana-nana, Nana-nana-nana-nana, Nana-nana-nana-nana SLUG!!"

Musical genius, that one. In kindergarten, there was a song about a triceratops that I remember the tune to from time to time, and there are some (unfortunate) pictures of a Christmas pagent, in which we all dressed up as elfs--complete with pointed paper hats--and dragged our parents out to dance with us.

I remembered the slug song last night because I've come to discover that in Missouri, there actually are slugs. Many, many slugs. They live all around our apartment complex, and they're sort of fun to watch. For someone very unladylike, they might be fun to play with. As we all know, I've never fit that description, and I find them fascinating.

When I was little, there were a few slugs I got to play with, but that was a rarity, and they were little tiny things that I found in the garden. Here, it seems that they're in a much more slug-friendly climate, and they grow much bigger. The ones from my childhood were maybe an inch long; some of these are longer than my little finger. It's great!

Seems like the wonders of Missouri will never cease. Hopefully I'll get a chance to take some pictures (bear with my tomboyishness for a little while, will you?). I hope they'll stick around, so I can play with them again, it's a bit colder here today, it actually snowed for a bit. Tomorrow it's supposed to be 80 degrees again, which just goes to prove that they're right. If you don't like the weather here, wait 2o minutes, it's likely to change.

Do any of you remember the strange things they made you sing about in grade school? What were they?

Fluffy bunny cute happy kittens

This has got to be the most embarassing story I've read about my home state in a while. I say "in a while" only because of this guy and this other guy, neither of whom is winning our state any grand awards for honor.

The only bright spot (and it's more of a faint glow, really) is that they describe the guy as coming from "the Minneapolis area", and we all know that they're crazier by far than most Wisconsinites.

Side note, I was told by my mom to check the news, because there was something bad that had happened. Naturally, I assumed it wasn't too serious, and ignored her. I could not, however, ignore the conversation happening in the gas station about Wisconsin. According to the counter girl, the guy from Wisconsin went crazy, fighting over a tree-stand, and shot another guy. He then proceded to shoot a bunch of other people who ran to the aid of the first guy. That's gas station news, though, and gas-station-news from two states away. If you want the real story, click the first link. Or you could click here, or here. You could click on all three, if you really want carnage.

On the other hand, if you want something a little lighter, click here, which is what I got when I googled "fluffy bunny cute happy kittens". Enjoy.

This is a whirly-gig (yes, correct terminology) that my dad took when I was little - the school was throwing it away.

Even Mac tried the steak-floaty-beer. Ew.

I know it's on B's blog, too, but the steak-dunking was too alarming to let slide without a double-post.

I was slightly alarmed at their methods of drinking beer.

Here's me and Sam a few days later, after the redheadedness took effect.. that's B over there, too absorbed in the game to notice his hot fiancee.

Here is me blonde and looking nuts at my new place.. Bruce's old place.

... But It's Not.

I hate it when I come in here, wanting to put something down, some great thought I just had, and I get side-tracked commenting on other people's stuff, and end up looking like a doofus on a section of a couch, trying to get back my monumental, lightbulby thought that made me come in here.

On a side note, I think that my posts are a lot like snot. Bear with me, it can't get much worse than that. And a little portion of it actually does make sense, I promise.

When I'm sick, my body makes a lot of snot. It seems to work itself healthy again by producing vast quantities of mucous. The same holds true for my head, when it comes to my participation in my own blog. When my head feels crazy, it seems to get rid of some of the lunacy by giving it shape, hence your reading pleasure. More insanity = more reading pleasure. Great, huh?

Ok, you caught me, I just wanted to compare something to snot. Anything. Creativity works a little better than my bank for things to compare, that's all.

Between the Lines

I've just found a strangely perverse pleasure in one of my everyday activities. I'm a reader, I do it for fun, for leisure, and for complete pleasure. I've been reading an old read of mine--one I have read before, once, but probably 6 years ago, give or take a few months--and I have come across a great game of mine, one I've been playing for as long as I've been re-reading novels, but without knowing it was a game until today.

Since before I can remember enjoying books, I've turned the pages down. I dog-ear my books without my own knowlege--at the finish of any, there are at least 30 turned-down pages, folded back to the original state, but never quite the same--and I know I'm not the only person who does so. It's a natural phenomenon, one requiring no apology or explanation - the easiest possible way to mark one's page. I've tried other methods, and fallen short of the ease and comfort of the habit I've earned. It's how I do things, other users be damned. Thing is, until tonight, I never realized that the user might not feel damned.

I turned down a specific page tonight, on a trip to the bathroom, and realized that it'd been turned down previously. By myself. The passage after which I turned was:

"Very interesting," John said. "Very intersting indeed." He took a mozzarella stick from its grease-stained bag, broke it open, and looked with a kind of fascinated horror at the clotted white gunk inside. "People up here eat this?" he asked.

"People in New York eat fish bladders," I said. "Raw."

"Touche." He dipped a piece into the plastic container of spaghetti sauce (in this context it is called "cheese-dip" in western Maine), then ate it.

"Well?" I asked.

"Not bad. They ought to be a lot hotter, though."

Yes, he was right about that. Eating cold mozzarella sticks is a little like eating cold snot, an observation I thought I would keep to myself on this beautiful midsummer Friday.

A wonderful thing finally connected in my mind, when I turned that previously-turned page.. I'd done it before. It was a beautiful thought, and I remembered the strange pleasure I'd felt in re-reading books in years before--a great sense of having done this before, at this same exact point. It had a sense of cyclical wonderment that I'd never been able to put a finger on before. Amazing is the best word I can think of for it, and that's not really enough to give the form to it that it deserves. Does anyone else know the feeling? That "I've-peed-at-this-same-passage-before" feeling? I hope so. The emotions go as far back as my first library card, when it wasn't me who had peed (or gotten a refill, or stopped to discuss an idea with their classmates) at the same time as I did. It's connectedness, with the world.. or at least one other person. Maybe it's better when the other person is yourself, six years previous, but maybe not. Maybe it's the best when someone you will never know is the person turning down the page before you do. Maybe it's the most perfect then.

I closed the night of reading off with this passage, which I thought I'd also share. It's only a few pages later, but it's equally as good:

Matties old Scout was parked in one of the slant spaces behind the war memorial, which in Castle Rock is a World War I soldier with a generous helping of birdshit on his pie-dish helmet. A brand-new Taurus with a Hertz decal above the inspection sticker was parked next to it. John tossed his briefcase--reassuringly thin and not very ostentatious--into the back seat.

"If I can make it back on Tuesday, I'll call you," he told Mattie. "If I'm able to get an appointment with your father-in-law through this man Osgood, I will also call you."

"I'll buy the Italian sandwiches," Mattie said.

He smiled, then grasped her arm in one hand and mine in the other. He looked like a newly ordained minister getting ready to marry his first couple.

It's a great passage too, but I really put it in there to give you guys clues. The author should be totally obvious by now, but the first person to guess the title of the book will win a hug--after they fly me to wherever they live, of course--and also my unending adoration. That is, if they haven't already earned it.

Clean Plate Kid

Have you ever been in the middle of a project, be in new or long-standing, and been touching it up, cleaning it up, fixing the edges a bit, or making the whole thing look a little more.. coiffed? Have you ever done a little too much, and tried to fix it, only to make it look a little.. lop-sided? Did you ever just take a look at it, decide it was too much trouble, and just start fresh, from scratch, decide you need a clean slate from which to start? I have. Just now, in the shower.

I can only hope my fiance appreciates it, even just a little bit.

In a Handbasket

I'm getting old.

Most of the blogs I read are dark-on-light, which I appreciate beyond belief. However, some have turned into (or always been) light-on-dark, and my freaking eyes won't let me read them anymore. I just can't. I feel a migraine coming on every time I try. Is it age? Does anyone else have this problem?

I would read MPH's blog, if it weren't for the light-on-dark. Marc is barely within my reading power now, and that's only because I've known him for a while and I force myself to check and read. Plus, he's funny and has very few spelling errors. I used to read that Fromage guy, but I can't anymore, the writing makes me all headachy. Is there something I can do? Is 24 the magical age where my eyes will go to hell? Are there reading glasses designed for people whose eyes malfunction the way mine do?

Someone help me. I need it.

This is where I used to type from. And B's finger. And my face, looking weird.

Feeding the Ducks is one of my favorite passtimes. Honestly.

When Lisa and I were in high school, I used to drive her home from work sometimes. This was on the way, and obviously, being an animal freak, I wanted to stop. She and I would feed the ducks/geese for hours, and she got in trouble for it once. Her mom thought we were off getting high or something. She wasn't allowed to get a ride home with me for a long time, and I only found out about a year ago that she hadn't been mad at me - just embarassed that her mom would think that. All that grief over feeding the freaking ducks. LOL

My Hometown Lake

The Incredible Drunken Duo!

I Love This Picture, I Really Look Sunny.

A Fine Day for Meeting the In-Laws.

Taxi

I made friends with a cab driver last night. We were waiting for our poor friend Cam at the airport. After about an hour, I went outside for a cigarette. The man started feeble conversation from 20 feet away, "If I'd a known this, I'da brought a jacket." That seems to be the way a lot of my conversations have started in Missouri. For some reason, I attract a little attention.

Last weekend, we walking into Barnes and Noble, and the same thing happened. An older man did a double take at me, and said something like, "That's what happens when a person gets old, I guess", and literally clutched his jacket around him. I was wearing a long skirt and a tank top.

I've been explaining to these people that I'm from Wisconsin. They get a knowing gleam in their eyes, because they think Wisconsin is constantly under 18 feet of snow. That might not be the case, but when it's 71 degrees in mid-November, I personally don't feel the need for a sweater/jacket combo.

It happened once before, too. When I was living in Minneapolis, taking german. Our class was small, and we all got along very well. I trudged into class, depositing my bag and my jacket on the back of my chair. Someone was looking at me, I could feel it.. I looked up, and caught him in the act. Jonathon was staring at my shirt. Literally. He stared for a few more seconds, as I stared at him, incredulous. Finally he shook his head a little bit, and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry.. it's just that I haven't seen a tank top in months."

From what I remember, I blushed furiously and tried not to look pleased. I've got a slight vanity problem.

Somebody Congradulate Me

I'm finally one of those girls that everyone wants at a party.

Cam and Bruce and I went out on Saturday night. We drank and laughed, Bruce went to Wendy's and brought me back a cheeseburger - It was great. I sang some karaoke (doesn't happen, ever), and made some friends. We closed the bar, and I realized that that's what I love about closing a karaoke bar - by the end of the night, everyone is joining in a group sing-along.

We went to Cam's new 'plex. I know this because I remember them telling me that's where we were. It seems nice. I think it's nice. I fell asleep on the couch a few minutes after we got there. I woke up on the same couch a few hours later, Bruce was waking me up. I was a little displeased.

Eventually things came together in my mind, and we left for our apartment. We talked about it in the morning, though, and decided that I'm the best girl ever.

Cam, I wanted to tell you this now, so that you don't give someone else the title - I'm the first girl to be naked in your new house. Ha!

I, in my drunken wisdom on Saturday night after everyone was asleep, decided that I would really give my fiance a treat, and come back from the bathroom in the nude. Yes, I really did that [Honestly. This weekend? Let me talk to Bruce, not sure if he's got any plans.]. Very sneaky, I know.

When he realized what was going on, the bestest guy in the whole world woke me up and tried to get the location of my clothes out of me. Unfortunately, I was in complete denial, trying to convince him that I was not, in fact, naked, and please, just go back to sleep. We managed to make it home fully clothed - minus my shoes and purse - hopefully without Cam's knowlege. I know that to get back on the couch, I had to practically jump right over him. Yeah, I know, that's a pretty picture. I can't stop laughing.

Wearing Their Hearts on Their.. Trunk?

For those of you fortunate enough to be outside of the spectrum of this particular vehicular trend, I'll enlighten you a bit. The cars without a sticker ribbon adorning them are becoming fewer and farther between. In the Patch, it seems to have taken over 8/10ths of the cars on the streets.

These ribbon/stickers (I'll be calling them rickers, because it sounds like a terrible disease, and that's how I view them - a cancer) are being sold under the guise of supporting funding-for-breast-cancer/our-troops/veterans(?). They are huge. They are being sold at Walmart. That's strike #1.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for the support of all of the above. I think that it's great that so many people care about these causes. It's really being showcased in the number of god-awful-ugly stickers accosting my eyeballs the last few weeks. Heartwrenching, really. Gagworthy, mostly.

They're for sale at Walmart, people. Share the wealth, give to charity, of course. It's a wonderful thing. But your need to plaster your concern all over your method of transportation makes me want to go balistic with a paint scraper.

Is everyone that full of themselves? If so, wouldn't an investment in a giant, portable marquee be more cost-efficent in the long run? You could program it to say different things, one for every month of the year. In Februrary, you could type in, "I love black people. I know some black people, and they say I'm cool. I am a charitable person, as well. I plan to watch at least 1 hour of The History Channel this month. Doesn't that make you like me more?"

On second thought, I'm pretty sure that most of the proceeds are going to Sam Walton's prodigy. And we all know that they can really use the charity.

Question to Ponder:

Which would you prefer, if you had to choose?

• Caller ID
• Voicemail/Answering Machine

The differences are huge, when it comes down to it. One of them lets you be totally neurotic, and log all of the incoming calls you get, no matter how mundane (eg: MCI, Friend #1, Friend #29, etc.), and the other lets you filter the call-backs (if someone didn't have enough to talk about to actually leave a message, what's the point in giving them a call back?).

Fortunately, there is an element of screenage available with either option. I'm an avid (if somewhat ashamed) call-screener. I like to know who I'm talking to before I answer the phone. The answering machine makes you wait out the ringing, which is a minus, but the caller ID is a pay-as-you-go function, and I'm more inclined to a one-time-only fee.

If you had to choose, which one would you pick?

Insects

There are some strange differences that a person will notice when they move 700 miles south. Until a couple months ago, this was as far south as I'd ever been. The weather was smoldering, the people talked funny (some of them, mind you), to name a few. These are all things I'd been prepared for, at least a little bit.

One thing I wasn't prepared for was the difference in the local wildlife. By that I mean bugs. It's not so noticable, if you don't look for it, and I'm sure that Wisconsin makes up for their lack of bugs in their frozen-tundra-esque winters, but I've seen it. It's not so much that they're grosser than our bugs, just that they're bigger.

For example, our fruit flys are the size of a teensy dot. The fruit flies I've seen here are the size of 10 teensy dots. I guess it's the little things that endear you to a place. I'm not joking - I like it better this way, they're easier to spot.

Georgie Porgie

I'm on vacation, of sorts. Spending a lot of time reading, some time sleeping, and even less actually doing productive things in (my) Bruces apartment. I'm feeling guilty about it, even though I know that he would think it's a silly thing to feel guilty over.

I don't want to seem useless. I need to find a job, even if it's a few hours a week. I need to do something. I still feel like I'm on vacation, no matter how much I try to think of this as my home. It's not Bruce, it's me. I can't seem to shake the feeling that this is all a very elaborate dream. All of it, not just the so-good-it's-unholy bits.

So many people to meet, so much to do. I'm looking forward to it all, and yet it's scary. Weird to think that I'm meeting new, important people every single day when I'm still at this stage - the stage where nothing seems real.

The most real it feels is when he's here with me, or when I'm there with him. There are more efficient ways to say that, I know, but I've just woken up from a nap, and I couldn't care less. Well, maybe a little less. I suppose.

From Pops, I got a pretty hillarious link: fuckthesouth.com. Sorry for the dumpy post leading up to the hillarious climax. No, wait, I'm not sorry. I likes to keeps ya on your toes.

A Horse of a Different Color

All summer long, I managed to pull off the blond look. It settled well, surprisingly, a few people were surprised that it wasn't my natural color. After a few months of letting it become more and more apparent that that isn't the case (can we say "roots"?), I've decided upon a winter color.

I'm uneasy about the switch, because although I've done red in the past, it's been a while, and I'm not sure how deluded I was when I thought it looked good on me. There's also a troubling little icon on the box I bought that says "Warm". Troubling because the blond I've been sporting was apparently a "Cool". Whatever that means.

I remember some tidbits from the afore-mentioned girlie magazines, scenarios involving both a white shirt and an off-white shirt, and complicated experiments. However, having never actually owned both a white and an off-white shirt at the same time (barring discolorations due to poor laundry decisions - and I'm pretty sure that by "off-white", they don't mean "accidentally-pink"), I was never able to decipher which color grouping I fell under.

Hopefully, my common sense is correct, and the stupid magazines are full of shit. Cross your fingers for me. Hell, cross them for yourselves, because I've got access to a competent digital camera nowadays. And as we all know, I am my favorite subject.

In Which I Ramble Without Real Intent

I have always felt a need to change my appearance. Alter myself somehow, to fit what I feel on the inside. When I was younger, and more insecure, it felt like a mask. When I was 12, I wanted to rid myself of anything that made me - in my own eyes - less desireable, less than the girl that everyone would find acceptable.

I have a confession to make. Since the age of 9, I have been reading girlie magazines. Not the kind with naked people in them, mind you - excepting infrequent ads portraying perfect, hairless bodies with arms hiding the notorious portions of themselves - the kind that told me what to wear, what to say, who to talk to.

The unspoken theme in all of these magazines was one of warning. There were so many rules to abide by, in order to be the perfect girl. I can't believe how many of them still apply in my daily life. I find myself thinking about what I should be wearing, what I should(n't) be eating, and how much more I should be caring about what I look like less and less frequently, but it's still there. You see, even though I've moved beyond the boundaries of honestly caring what They think of me, I still have the guilt over not being perfect.

Perfect being, of course, blond, leggy, tall, skeletal, and boy-crazy. The only one I've seemed to master is the last, and that's always been pretty limited. I can't seem to be crazy over more than one guy at any given time. It's also a huge relief to find out that the guy who makes me the craziest wants to marry me. The added bonus is that he doesn't seem to think I'm all that insane.

I'm not looking to be that "perfect" girl anymore. The only reason I worry about it is because I want to be the best me I can be - both for me and for my fiance. I want him to be able to be proud of me. I know it's silly, as he already (inexplicably) is, but still, the thought is there.

I think I'm going to end this post and move on to the subject I really wanted to talk about. My hair.

Springpatch

I think people are nicer here. It might just be the change of scenery, or the fact that I probably stick out like a sore Wisconsinite thumb, but everyone is treating me very well. Things seem, for the most part, more relaxed. That might be my employment status talking.

Either way, we've had a great weekend. It's been a little draining - what with all the repetitive motion, the grunting, the heaving, and the aching body parts - but it's been well worth it. Who ever said moving was easy?

It's so incredible, waking up next to him. Waking up next to him, and not having to do a mental countdown - 3 more days of waking up with him.. 2 more mornings of this.. etc. Now I wake up and think, "God, I have to listen to this guy for the rest of my life?"

All kidding aside, it's been fantastic. It's already feeling more and more like home. My stuff is here (albeit unpacked), my books on the shelves, my Buffy in the DVD player.. it's great. Bruce has been wonderful - but then, who would expect anything less of the guy I picked? ;)

You can read what he thinks of having me here,here. I've got some groceries and other miscellanious shit to unpack.

Also, I'm making lunch for him - trying to maintain that aura of "bestest fiancee ever" for as long as I can until the screaming banshee within me bolsters through. Wish me luck.

Tell Me:

Can someone, somewhere, please give me a logical explanation as to why so many people are against gay marriage?

I'm serious.

Don't give me bible-thumping here, give me pure cold facts as to why this is a bad idea. Tell me why gay marriages are any worse than the 2/3 of straight marriages that end in divorce. Tell me why two people should not be legally recognized as being in love. Inform me, please, why SEX has anything to do with marriage at all.

Don't we all know how things go? Sitcoms tell the whole story, in black and white. Marriage is (apparently) 90% sex for the first year. After that year, we (of heterosexual tendancies) would almost rather sleep in seperate beds. Heterosexual couples have no obstacles - don't you think maybe that the ease of it might be a part of the problem?

If the heterosexual population is going to make a farce of the whole institution that is marriage, who are we (as a group) to deny people of other sexual tendancies from being a part of that same farce?

And who's to say that they will? Personally, all of the gay people that I've known have been extremely conscientious of their partners, and whom they choose to be with. This might change slightly (hopefully) as the years go by, as others become more open to the idea of same-sex relationships, but in the meantime, I have to say that most of the gay people I know put much more serious time and thought into their relationships than do the straight ones.

That doesn't include me, obviously.

My question, I suppose, words best as such: Who are you to decide upon the fate of someone else's happiness?

Yes, I'm a Stupid Ass

Hrmph.

Apparently the alarm clock needs to be set for AM, not PM, in order for it to go off at the designated 7:10 AM.

Bastards.

Somewhere inside my brain is a spiderweb. The web is made of tiny threads, almost invisible to the naked eye. My brain spins these threads to catch information. It's a highly efficient process. My brain connects all sorts of facts; orchestrated to perfection, the thrum(s) of said facts join in harmony, my thoughts being the resounding tune. The tune changes, from day to day, and grows, with my knowlege. It expands and contracts according to my mood. It flows with a grace that no man has yet been able to fully explain. My conciousness is the harmony that resounds within me.

[And sometimes, a big-ass dragonfly of a thought fucks up the whole beautiful process, leaving me incapable of decyphering what that glowing green dot next to "PM" is supposed to mean.]

I Say Hello

I was going to post a big, melodramatic post about all of the things I'm going to miss in the next 5 months, and then my internet crapped out on me.

To be fair, it didn't so much crap out, as find a bunch of new adware that it wanted to delete, and I okayed it.

334 New Critical Objects.

You folks wonder why I'm not posting as much recently. It's because all of my computer was bogged down by shit like Bargain Buddy. Never in my life have I so wanted to strangle a "buddy" [Barring the times that my "buddy" slept with my boyfriend, or got that freaking song in my head. You know the one. "My Buddy (My Buddy!), My Buddy (My Buddy!).. Wherever I go, Heeeee goes! My Buddy (My Buddy), My Buddy! My Buddy and Meeeee!"]. In any case, those ads suck. They suck major ass.

I've got most of it taken care of now, though, as evidenced by the fact that this page loaded in less than 10 minutes. Dial-up. Yes, I do live in the stone age, do you wanna make something of it?

In any case, most of you will be incredibly relieved to note that I didn't waste my time whining about how hard it is to move. Nor did I spend eons discussing with you the probability that some of my favorite customers are going to totally die within the 5 months that I will be out of the state. And I graciously accept the thanks of those of you who did not want to hear about how I might have single-handedly saved the Kmart corporation, through my work in store #3769. It was nothing, really.

I can say that because all of my whining was (by the grace of all that is holy) eaten up by the internet before I had the chance to Save as Draft.

Instead you, faithful reader (and I mean that literally, as my readers have dwindled to 1 lately), get to hear about all the fantastic stuff I am looking forward to doing in the next 5 months.

Here is where I would post a bunch of stuff about all the wonderful things I will be doing, were I not lazy. I'll boil it down to one thing, the most important thing: I'm starting the rest of my life. Luckily for me, that life includes both "waking up next to" and "falling asleep next to" the one person who I was meant to be with forever.

Civic Duty

For some reason, I got slightly high off of performing it today.

I registered to vote back in July, at a tailgating party in Milwaukee. I gave a girl my information, and was shocked at how easy it all seemed. She told me that I'd have to bring my ID with me on November 2nd, and I'd be able to vote. It seemed really strange, for some reason I thought there would be more steps. Like at the DMV. I thought there would be a mountain of paperwork to sort through. Nope, turns out all I have to do is tell them that I live at an address, and all of a sudden, I'm a voter.

I'm used to the song and dance, I suppose. I'm used to things being so electronified that they almost cease to work. I was shocked to see my name in the little booklet, actually. The little old ladies found it with almost no problem. Very nice ladies, by the way.

The machine was one of those contraptions that they made such a big stink out of last go-round. One of the women showed me what to do, which levers to push what way, and I went in. When it's all right there in your face, when it's just you and a giant Wizard of Oz-esque switchboard, it's almost too simple. Despite that, things closed down in my brain. I suddenly realized the need for the huge amount of campaigning. I was caught in there with no memory at all of anything either one of the cantidates claimed to stand for. There's all this stuff that they force-feed you, and over the course of the last year, I thought that if I heard one more cantidate say one more word, my head would explode. At the same time, though, when I was actually in the booth, it all faded away and seemed rather useless. I pondered for a minute. Feingold was a no-brainer, of course. Anyone who actually read the Patriot Act before voting (against it) deserves being a senator. Period.

As for the other guys, I almost couldn't decide. So many issues, so many policies, so many.. well, everything. Alone with the switches, it all seemed really trivial. It was a game of picking out the name that looked the most attractive. I'm sure we can all agree that it was just a matter of time before I came to my senses and voted for Bush.

She looks crazy because she was drunk, but here's Lisa. 

November 2nd

I have to:

1. Go to the DMV with appropriate paperwork, get title switched to my name, get temporary plates.
2. Do laundry, pack the majority of my clothes - the stuff I'm bringing, I mean.
3. Get oil for oil change, dad will do it for me.
4. Fill out change of address form for post office.
5. Figure out how to tell the greatest person in the world what they mean to me.

Oh, and so no one kicks my ass:

VOTE.

Late

I hate waking up and looking at the alarm clock, only to realize that inspite of not being an idiot, and knowing how to set it, you're late. I hate that I was clever enough to not change the time, and still set it for the appropriate hour, and it still didn't work. I hate that I vaguely remember it going off the first time, not wanting to wake yet, and hitting snooze. Thanks, Alarm Cock, that was one hell of a fucking snooze.

On the plus side, in all of the responsibility I've learned, I haven't lost the ability to get ready in 10 minutes.

Oh, piss on it, I'm still cranky.