a · musing

The problem with a boring narrator is that the audience won't like him. Or her. Gender doesn't really matter. Anyway, if the audience doesn't like him/her/parrot, then they won't emotionally connect in a way that will make them continue paying attention. Or at least that's the way I usually respond.
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What was I saying again?
Ah! Right, boring narrators. So, the journal's author was a snooze even though the owner was a lark. What's the easiest rememdy to this problem? Well, you could inject the author with a hallucinogen. Slightly illegal, but at least you'd have an interesting story to take into your cell. I'll get back to the actual story later. Just remember, author=/=owner. Ponder class, and return with theories.

I want to start a band. I'm sick of talking, talking, talking about it. We've planned, discussed songs, discussed instruments, discussed people for instruments. There comes a time when you need to stop talking and start doing. If we're going to do this, then we need to get off our asses and actually do it, otherwise we need to just stop talking about it and move on with our lives.

I WANT TO START A FUCKING BAND!

I like BBC news. It less biased than American based news sources are and you can usually find some interesting pieces worked in with the more boring 'grownup' articles. (another rant for another time) Interesting pieces like a court's nixing of a digital retelling of the three little pigs, called The Three Little Cowboy Builders. Now, we're all familiar with the three little pigs. They're pigs, they're little, and there are three of them. It's a charming little story the teaches children the merits of being wary of strangers, making certain that you live in a secure environment, being able to rely on family, and that it's okay to roast your enemies alive if they're foolish enough to climb down your chimney. Like I said, charming.

So, what's the horrible problem with the story? It features pigs. Which could be culturally offensive to Muslims.

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I'm sorry, I think I need to repeat that. The three little pigs features PIGS, which are offensive to Muslims. What. The Fuck. Burning someone alive is fine, but pigs. Are you nuts?! Muslims can't eat them, so why the hell would you even consider putting them in a book. Because Muslims won't be able to eat the books if the subject matter revolves around pigs...

Oh, and it's offensive to cowboys and construction workers too! Apparently "the judges criticised the stereotyping in the story of the unfortunate pigs: "Is it true that all builders are cowboys, builders get their work blown down, and builders are like pigs?""

According to the article "the book's creative director, Anne Curtis, said the idea that including pigs in a story could be interpreted as racism was "like a slap in the face"." I think Ms Curtis was onto the perfect solution to the 
'problem'. Somebody needs a good bitch slap. Or maybe I'm wrong, maybe we should take this further. You know who else doesn't like pigs? Jews. And you know what else Jews don't like? Shellfish. We need to get The Little Mermaid recalled, stat! It might upset someone!

So, what's my big point? Well, like many other people before me, I've observed that political correctness has been taken quite a bit to far. Yes, certain things are inappropriate, but we need to learn when to draw the line on drawing the line. Seriously, the world would be a better place if we just loosened up. And to the court, all I can say is that I'd love to sit down and talk to that judge over a nice, delicious dinner of pork chops.

I'm drunk. Actually, I'm pretty much completely trashed which is probably the only reason I'm writing on this thing again after over a year hiatus. I don't hate myself. I'm a pretty cool person, in a particular translation of that word-cool, not person; I'm totally human. Sooo,  why can't I talk to people when I'm sober...I'll stand there awkwardly and let them walk all over me, but the instant you put a drink in my hand I start acting the way I would around people I know with strangers. I need to figure out a way to transition the confidence that I have when drunk into me when I'm sober. Maybe it's just that I have an excuse when I'm drunk-don't pay attention to anything I say, no matter how embarrassing it might be, I'm just drunk. I want to be able to talk to people like a normal human being. Why can't I? 

Happy Jessy? I blogged.

First things first, I'd like to apologize for my lack of activity lately. Real life has been attacking with a vengence these last couple of weeks, and my online life has been almost nonexistent. My biggest 'I'm sorry' has to go to cryice. I know I promised to read your fic forever ago, and I swear I'll do it. I'll try my very hardest to make time for it sometime in the next few days. (BTW, congrats on the Disney internship.)

According to the flow of the subject line, my explanation should go here...

Anyway, I have a very tentative, but potentially huge, yay. The other night, my family was celebrating the holidays with some neighbors who have basically adopted us, and we ended up talking about books. My mom likes talking about books, because it gives her an excuse to brag to anyone who will listen about my reading habits. I enjoy talking about books, because I've inhaled them ever since I first started reading. On average, I read between two to three novels a week, and that's when I'm busy. My personal library has over a thousand books in it-most are purchased from thrift stores and library book stores, so they're cheap. But I digress. We were talking about books, and I said, completely in jest, that reviewing books would be a perfect job for me. I read faster and with better comprehension than most people, and I love telling people my opinions about things I've read. As it turns out, the neighbor's son, who we only see a couple times a year, has some connections at Random House. He's going to pass on my contact information and try to get me an interview. *insert happy dance here*

Right now, I'm trying very hard to keep from getting too excited. Any way you look at it, I just don't have the experience that would make me a first choice for something like this. The only jobs I've ever had are babysitting and two years as a hostess at a 'family' restaurant. It'll be at least three and a half more years before I have a college degree of any kind. I've won and placed in a few short story contests, but the only 'real' writing experience that I have is when I wrote for the student page of the city's newspaper my senior year of high school. It's hardly an impressive resume, and there's no guarantee that I'll even get an interview.

That being said...

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I HAVE A CHANCE AT A JOB AS A BOOK REVIEWER! SCORE!

So, as you might have guessed from the lack of posting, I've been busy. However, I'm now finished with exams, and am plotting to write a parody of a trashy romance novel. I've been taking myself far too seriously lately, and I think that a really silly project is just the thing I need right now.

In other news, I'll probably be competing in a voice competition this February. Here's hoping that I don't throw up on stage or anything. My stage fright has gotten a lot better, but I'm a bit hesitant after how badly I blew my voice jury. Catching a cold the weekend before wasn't a good move. Oh well. It'll get better.

I visited the Pit earlier tonight and left one of my rare reviews for a story. Well, I wouldn't exactly call it a review, but I don't think it quite counted as a flame either... Okay, so it might have been a flame. It wasn't the worst one I've ever written, and if the guy has a twisted sense of humor, then he might just get a few chuckles out of some of my quips...Okay, yeah, he's probably going to flood my inbox with hate mail. He wrote a Mary Sue. I feel vindicated.

So tired! I really need to get back on a better sleep schedule.

Moo with me!

I dozed off at my computer just now, and had a dream about him. We were sitting at a table, eating waffles. My subconscious is a bit twisted, huh. It's been about a year and half since I've been able to see and speak to him everyday, not that I ever had the guts to talk to him when he was there. The last time I saw him was graduation. I have no idea where he is now. Last I heard, I think he was in North Carolina?

I still have some of the mannerisms that I picked up after watching him for a year. If my hair's down and I get frustrated, I'll run my fingers through it, and I keep catching myself spinning my pens and pencils without realizing it. It's kind of funny in a pathetic sort of way.

It's not like there aren't other guys in the world. I can think of a couple off the top of my head that I wouldn't mind dating, but...it's not the same. None of them have ever made me feel as alive as I did when I was near him. Nobody has.

I loved his intelligence, and that damnable arrogance of his. I loved how passionate he was whenever he spoke about things he cared about. I loved his sarcasm, and twisted sense of humor. I loved how gentle he could be, and the explosive expression he would get whenever he was angry. I loved listening to his voice, regardless of whether he was speaking or singing. I loved the spicy scent of his cologne, and his perfect, graceful hands.

I hate that I still love him.

If he showed up right now, and asked me to give up everything I have to be with him, I think I'd say yes. Of course, that would never happen, but still...

At least I don't have to feel guilty about the legal aspect of it anymore. That's the sort of thing that would bother him. But, I'm not a minor anymore, and the age difference isn't as bad as it could be. 

I miss him, but what really hurts is that I know he doesn't miss me. If I ran into him on the street, I don't think he'd even recognize my face. 

Do I know how to pick them or what? Of all the people I could have fallen for, why did it have to be him. Why couldn't it have been somebody I could have had a chance with?

I remember when he first came to the school, I laughed about all of the girls who had a crush on him because he was cute. I didn't want to be like them. But then when I had to be around him, and I started to realize the sort of person he is, I just couldn't help myself. I never had a chance.

Happy Halloween, all! Grab yourself a sugary snack, and try not to fall into a coma!

Also, don't forget! Tomorrow is the start of NaNoWriMo!

Thus concludes another exciting entry from coffeebuddha! What will happen next? Will she actually manage to complete the fifty thousand words? Will she come down off of her sugar high and start using periods again? Will these questions ever end? Tune in next time to find out all that and more!

I've been feeling rather introspective lately, which is never a good thing. 

I like college. It's not exactly what I was expecting, but, overall, it's been a fairly decent experience so far. Still, while I can't really say that I regret choosing to go to school out of town, there are some things that I still miss. 

I guess the biggest adjustment is the lack of physical contact. I hate the idea of touching people that I don't know really well, or even having someone close to me, parents excluded, touching me without my initiating it. Actually, it makes me feel physically ill. It's probably some leftover psychological problem from something that happened to me when I was younger, but that's neither here nor there. 

The point is, while I may not be the type of person who's constantly touching the people around me, there's always been a part of me that needed that contact. My mom used to complain about how clingy I was when I was little. I suppose I'm still like that, albeit to a lesser degree. It's strange, not having someone to go to for something as simple as a hug. I suppose I could ask one of my new friends, but, to be perfectly frank, I'm not that comfortable around them yet.

I have a lot of trouble trusting people. Even when the person's my friend, I'm constantly afraid that any little thing I do or say will turn them against me. Maybe it goes with that saying, 'once burned, twice shy.' God knows I've been burned enough times to warrant a little paranoia. I used to wonder what it was wrong with my that I never had a real best friend. I was lucky as far as army brats go, since we only moved a couple of times. Still, it made it hard to form any long lasting friendships, and I never was any good at keeping in touch with people I didn't see every day. Well, not until Whitney. Even though we stopped going to the same school after that first year and a half, I was still friends with her longer than I ever was with anyone else. Of course, now that friendship's over. She initiated it, but when the opportunity to reconcile came along, I didn't take it. She hadn't trusted or believed me, and I wasn't willing to pretend that nothing had happened, like she seemed to be.

For the longest time, I honestly believed that Whitney and I would be best friends for the rest of our lives. Looking back, I suppose we were naive. Was that such a bad thing? How long has it been since I talked to her? Has it really been over a year? I'm not angry with her any more, but it still hurts that she didn't trust me. More than anything, I'm sad. We were drifting apart before, but I never really wanted to accept it. It's only been in the last few months that I realized how much of my personality I'd been repressing to appease her. Even if I had the chance to go back and change things so that we would still be friends, I don't think I'd take it. I feel more like me than I have in a long time. We outgrew each other years ago. 

I still miss her. I didn't realize exactly how much I really do miss her until I put it in writing. She was the one person I could just sit with for hours without feeling that I needed to say anything. I miss her, and, if I wanted, I could call her, but I won't. Even if I did dial the number, I'd probably hang up before anyone picked up. I'm afraid to find out what kind of person she's become. She was already changing so much. We both were, and the new me didn't like what she was turning into. I'd rather just remember her as my wacky, but good hearted, best friend. 

When did the topic turn to Whitney? Heh, lack of sleep and the painkillers must be taking their toll if I'm actually willing to talk about her. Jeez, when did I become this emo?

I feel like a hollow man (Or should I say woman?). There's too much straw in my headpiece. I think I'll go pretend to sleep for a few hours.

Please forgive any glaring errors or incoherent babblings. I'm pretty sure that I gave myself a mild concussion earlier (the symptoms certainly seem right), and I'm still feeling a bit...out of it. The pain killers probably aren't helping any either. XP

To put it plainly, today was bad. Really, really bad. It not only made me wish that I had stayed in bed, but that I could actually never leave my bed again. Nobody died, although I nearly did, but in my small slice of the world, that was about the only good thing.

I know that I tend to slack when it comes to math. I don't like it, and I'm not good at it. We had a test today. I wasn't aware of that until I was sitting in my seat staring blankly at a paper that might as well have been written in Russian for all that I could read it. Out of the fifteen questions on the test, I'm confident that I got about five right. Maybe seven if the teacher's generous with partial credit. Thankfully, she's already told us that she'll replace our lowest test grade with our final exam grade. I just wish that I hadn't wasted it on this test, which I probably would have done decently on if I had remembered to study. 

So, after turning in my pitiful attempt, I left the classroom, located on the second floor, armed with my almost full 12oz cup of hot coffee. It's been raining recently. I was too busy wangsting about the test to notice the wet spot on the stairs. I slipped. I fell. Hard. I didn't just feel the edge of the step connect with my head, I heard it. It sounded like the universe laughing. Probably the only reason my head didn't crack open is because I had my ridiculously thick hair up in a bun/twist, and it served as a bit of a cushion. Thanks, mom and dad. Your genes just saved my life. I swear, I'll never complain about how frizzy and thick my hair is again (until the next time it's humid out). Still, the bump is huge, and, several hours later, my head is continuing to pound like really bad techno music. 

Now, those of you who are the observant type might be wondering about what happened to that coffee I was carrying. Well, the half of it that didn't run down the stairs fell on me. My habit of wearing bulky hoodies probably saved me from a few serious burns. I have a couple of burns on my thighs, as well as some on the backs of my hands, but it could have been much worse. 

A huge thanks to the girl who was just entering the stairwell when I fell. She was nice enough to drop everything she was doing to make certain I was alright, and helped me clean up the coffee. 

So, since math is my last class of the day on Wednesdays, I headed home, intending to do math homework, and maybe have a good cry. I worked on the math from about three until four thirty, at which point I was more than ready for a break. M*A*S*H was on, I had found the last diet cherry soda in the fridge, and Wickett (my cuddly, comfort cat) had curled up on the back of the couch by my head, and was purring, which was doing more for my headache than the painkillers I had taken. All was good, until Annie (older sister's demon dog) started to 'play' with Wickett. I left the room for about three minutes to check something on my computer. When I went back into the living room, my (once again) nearly full soda was not on the side table, where I had left it. It hadn't simply been knocked off, either. Oh no. That would have been asking for too much. After one of the animals had knocked the can onto the carpeted floor, Annie had picked up the can, and started to play with it. It was everywhere. It took about an hour to get the living room presentable again. It still smells like the soda.

I think I'll go have that cry now.

As those who know (and hopefully love) me can attest, my memory for names is very...not good. It doesn't matter how long I've known you, either. I've called some of my oldest friends my cat's name, which is only made worse by the fact that the cat is a boy, and the friends are all girls. I've had moments where I just stared at my parents for a few minutes before I realized that the word I was looking for was 'mom' or 'dad'. My mom does the same thing, although to a much lesser degree. 

It might not be so bad, except that I'm also horrible with faces. It turns out that the roommate of one of my friends is a girl that I sat with at a scholarship dinner a few months ago. When I first ran into her in her dorm room, she started talking to me. She knew my name, my major, and a few pieces of random trivia, like the fact that my sister barrel races. For ninety percent of the conversation, all I could do was stare at her and think, 'How the hell do you know me?'

So, you might be wondering where exactly I'm going with this. Honestly? I have no idea. I suppose it's just to prelude this: I'm considering just telling people that I no longer believe in proper nouns, and from now on, I'll just be calling them 'hey you'. I wonder how it would go over?