I stayed at Regina's house last weekend and stayed at my dad's house this weekend in order to avoid my brother who was supposed to be coming in from Washington or Iowa or something. But every time something came up, so I have been avoiding my home for absolutely no reason.
That is regardless of the point, though. Since I was staying at my dad's house, I needed a pretty good reason to just stay there. I told him that I was working on a project with Regina, but because her grandparents were in town, I couldn't stay there. The project was a lie, the grandparents were true.
On Friday, I went over to Gina's to keep up the ruse. Then I came back home and acted like everything was normal. On Saturday, after I got done with work, I got to dad's and took a shower, then explained how I really needed to work on that project. But then Sharon tempted me with a movie, (The Grey).
The movie was greatly amusing. Of course, there were some inconsistencies, with regards to how the survival went, and then the actual wolves... But still, I was really enjoy action/suspense... and movie theatre popcorn.
So I blew off the "project" that night, and decided to really buckle down for Sunday.
So I told Gina to come over. We went out to my house, and I still believed that my brother was in town, so I left quickly, dragging my guitar along with me.
Gina and I then got back to my dad's house and proceeded to watch The Notebook, play guitar, and bump around on Facebook.
It was after almost two hours of playing around that I decided to make a fake powerpoint... just in case.
Turns out, it came in handy. Sharon walked into [my] room asking about our project.
"How is it going, girls?" Sharon asked.
"Pretty good," I said, and flipped the computer around to shower her my slide.
She didn't read the whole slide, just saw the title and assumed we were hard at work.
"Good job girls!" She congratulated us. "Keep up the good work!"
I have never thought faking it was a good thing... until now!
I freak out about a lot of things. Like the fact that my apartment is always never clean. I never do anything about the chaos, but still, I sometimes walk in the door and I say, "God, what the fuck is wrong with me that I can't keep this space clean?"
Other things that freak me out: When I am sure that I left the bag of chocolate chips on my futon and they mysteriously end up on the counter. When I realize that I am fifteen minutes late to watching Criminal Minds and I have missed a very shirtless Shemar Moore. When I stick my feet into the wrong slippers, (they are dog heads, and the one that has one eye definitely goes on my left foot... I think.) When someone says, "Turn left," I look at my hands, see which way they want me to go, and turn right anyways.
Those things generally make me freak out, put my hands on my face and go, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" While others may find this reaction highly amusing, it is a true freak out on my part. Sometimes I go even farther and stomp my feet or grumble loudly but incoherently about whatever my problem is. I have even been known to smack my forehead and leave a veritable mark.
But the thing that freaks me out the most is when people send me text messages out of the blue with, "We need to talk."
There is NO point in time that that is a good way to start a conversation.
Dad: "We need to talk."
This was his way of telling me that we needed to discuss the fact that I was rarely ever home, and that if I want to keep using the car, I needed to buy it. That was a huge money suck.
Mom: "We need to talk."
This is her way of telling me that she might, maybe have skin cancer. That was a cool way of finding out. (Turns out she actually did, just not the super serious kind. It was just a few patches of basal cell carcinoma.)
Regina: "We need to talk."
Her way of telling me that she has done something that is possibly tremendously stupid and while her parents are in earshot.
Chris: "We need to talk."
His way of telling me that he wants to break up with me because he doesn't love me the same anymore. Then again to tell me after said break up, and while he is with a new girl friend that he definitely still has hardcore feeling for me.
Like I said, at no point is "We need to talk," a good thing.
So, please.... PLEASE don't preface any conversation with me as a "We need to talk," conversation because I can guarantee that I will be freaking out until you tell me what it is you wanna say.
And as an extra side note, if I say something like, "I don't like it when people preface a conversation with 'We need to talk,' because it is foreboding, and is relationship ruining words." Do not tell me NOT to worry about it, because I will worry about it until I have hair falling out, I am sweating all the time, I get a fever, and have chewed my nails down to nubs.
Seriously people. I am secretly neurotic!
I am a full time student at the community college, and therefore I get to take classes I enjoy as well as the more difficult classes. Currently, I am enrolled in a creative writing class, (because in case no one noticed, I like to write.) One of our assignment was to recall our first writing experience, which I think is just humorous enough to be shared here on my blog.
When I was about six or seven, there was a competition from the Kraft Macaroni and Cheese company. Basically kids had to write a story the was one hundred words or less that incorporated Kraft Macaroni and Cheese into it. Feeling particularly creative, I sat down with a pencil I had to sharped, some wide-ruled paper, and got to work.
In my head, I had an elaborate story. The story itself may have spawned from watching one too many SyFy alien movies and television programs, but that was regardless of the point. In my little six or seven year old brain, sitting at the round table in the dining room, the sun streaming through the sliding glass door, I had dissertation to write for Kraft.
I began my story with an introduction of my characters. I was, of course, the star of the production. My friend Alyssa took the role of faithful side kick. I grew my setting, the peaceful Missouri countryside during a particularly hot summer. Finally, I dropped in my conflict: an alien invasion.
I can't recall exactly how dark this story was. Looking back on it now, I feel like maybe I didn't win because Kraft didn't want to be associated with an alien invasion. Nonetheless, it was still a fabulous story.
See, the aliens were invading because they were extremely hungry. And they weren't hungry for just anything. They didn't want sausage, not were they interested in bread. Pudding was not on the menu. (Coincidentally they were not after human brains, so maybe six/seven year old me didn't make the story dark enough.) These aliens were after huge bowls of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and would stop at nothing to get it.
Naturally, I realized exactly what the aliens were after. How story me knew this information, I don't know, but that is when I started to incorporate the resolution.
Alyssa and I quickly went into the kitchen and started cooking up a storm, making bowls and bowls of the tiny elbow macaroni, coating it in the weird cheese powder and milk substance, and delivering it to the aliens' disc shaped ships. Finally, after our shirts were stained with cheese, empty blue boxes covered the floors, and our stove had run out of gas, the aliens had enough macaroni and cheese to be satisfied for a lifetime.
The thanked Alyssa and me in their weird alien way and their ships took flight into the dark expanse called the Milky Way. The world was saved, and I was to thank.
When I typed up the story, (and was four words over one hundred,) I asked my mom to help edit it. She read the story though, shortened it to ninety-six word because there were some obvious redundancies, and we mailed it to Kraft.
They sent back a letter several weeks later explaining that while they liked my story, it wasn't what they were looking for.
I didn't know what that meant at the time, so I was a little verklempt. I eventually got over the snub deciding that Kraft was full of crazy people and went on to write several short stories for school and myself. I have yet to have another alien invasion, but I am sure I have one up my sleeve.
That would have been me:
So, as girls often do, I decided to dye my hair yet again. This time though, I decided I should try to get back to my normal color. To say that it didn't work is a bit of an understatement.
The story really begins with me in Target picking up boxes of hair dye and holding the various colors to my roots. "Is this close?" I would ask Gina.
"It's still too light," She would answer until I held up the right box. I think it was labeled "really dark brown." Which is what my hair is.
So I brought the new hair dye to Gina's. Originally, Gina was going to dye it, but we didn't have enough time before dinner and Gina's late church time, so I headed home. Mom was cooking me dinner, so I asked her to do it.
"Tomorrow?" She asked. She was too busy tonight. I agreed, but when I showed up the next night for chinese food, I had completely forgotten, and therefore had left the box of hair dye at my place.
"Tuesday," I suggested, forgetting I had Glee night to attend at Carl's house.
After class on Tuesday, remembering my previous obligation to Carl and the sacred Glee night, I decided to dye my hair myself. How hard can it be? I thought. My step-mom does it all the time.
So I proceeded to follow the directions on the box, and then began dying my hair. I had dyed my mom's hair multiple times, (by which I mean nigh on a hundred times) so I knew what I was doing. I just had to make sure to really cover the back.
I got to work, doing the under layers first and making my way up my head. When it was finally all covered, I used a clip to keep it up and waited for 25 minutes until I could wash it out.
Now I don't know if I did my math wrong or if my hair is just a super absorbent kind of material, but when I hopped in the shower and washed the dye out, conditioned it accordingly, and rinsed that out, I was left with black hair.
In a state of shock, I looked at my very dark hair. It was like I had put the night sky in my head. Concerned, I towel dried it furiously, (because I have yet to buy a hair dryer) and hoped it would get lighter.
It didn't.
I didn't look in a mirror for over an hour. I couldn't decide if I liked it. It was black. Really black. And black was sexy.
I am not so sure I am that sexy.
I can do cute, (I got the glasses, all the geeky minutia, a huge cheesy smile), but sexy is kind of a once in a while kind of thing.
Even after many people have told me how much they like my hair, I am still kind of unsure. I think it will grow on me, (literally, since it is hair).
