College

I am now a college senior. While feeling elated, (I mean, this is a big step for most people) I am left wondering if I will once again be hit with senioritus. You know, that horrible disease where school doesn't seem to matter. You're going to graduate anyways...right?

I am hoping it won't creep up and strike me like it did in high school.

See, my senior year of high school went something like this:

Wake up, roll over, go back to sleep.

My high school was pretty much hellbent on getting every kid into college. I should amend that statement and point out that they were hellbent on getting a perfect University-bound senior class every year. I was part of a fifty-five student graduating class though, and when I decided to go to community college, I brought down our average. We went from having 100% of kids going to university to only 98%. While to me, and everyone else in the whole freaking world, that seems like an amazing percent, especially for a public school, my councilor was pissed.

In order to graduate, we had to get a signature from every teacher in the school, including the pissed off councilor. But in order to get her signature, you had to apply to a university. Of course, I had made my decision to go to community college already. I wasn't going to waste money on an application to a school I had no intention of attending. I was looking at a six thousand dollar difference a year by picking the community college. Not to mention that I wouldn't be paying rent, or for food.

So I went into my councilor's office and sat down. She asked me where I had been applying to. What universities had already accepted me? How many were out of state? What scholarships was I being offered? I rubbed my hands on my scruffy jeans, knowing she would be mad.

"I'm not going to a university. I am going to the community college." It was still college after all. Plus, she didn't know anything about having to actually be responsible for paying your own way for school or anything. Everyone knew about her filthy rich husband.

"Well, you really need to apply other places to see if you can get in." I could get in most state schools. I had a very low B average and scored a 26 on my ACT that I had forgotten I was supposed to take that day. It's not like I was dumb. I just wasn't ready for going away to college, the big university life, etc. I had been scared out going to a big university when I visited Indiana State University with my camp a few years back. I remembered feeling completely overwhelmed by the size of the campus, panicking when I got lost in a construction area and walking down a busy street at night. I wanted the safety of my city, my family, and my friends.

"I don't have the money to go to college." It was partially true. My dad and Sharon had agreed to help me if I wanted. But I honestly didn't want. With my financial aid, I was going to be able to pay for my schooling on my own for at least two years and not have to take out a loan on it.

"None sense, you can get loans." I was getting frustrated at that point.

"I don't have to. I can pay for my schooling at the community college with just financial aid alone."

"Well, looks like you won't be graduating then. I won't sign your paper until you prove that you applied to a real school." She had crossed her arms that time. She had made her way onto a list of people that I only reserved for people I really, really disliked.

I was so mad at my councilor. She bullied her way into my life that day. I was going to walk across that stage and get my fake diploma one way or another, and thirty dollars for an application seemed like a paltry sum compared to the twelve thousand plus I would save at the community college.

I never regretted going to the community college. I was accepted at the university I applied to, but I didn't go until just this last semester. Weirdly enough, except for the difference in what I pay for credit hours, ($88 versus $256) it is basically the same school. The teachers are similar, the classes are similar, even the kids are similar. I even know some people that go to the university because they went to the community college.

I just wish I had my thirty dollars back.

Slacking

So, I definitely haven't posted in a while. But it is mostly because I have nothing really all that interesting to talk about. (Weirdly enough, I haven't had really weird things happen to me lately.)

I did have this kid try to hit on me at the train station one night after work. It didn't really work out though... Because I wasn't interested in someone who was three years younger than me, and still (probably) in high school.

I did realize that I actually have money in my bank account. (YAY NEW JOB!!!!!)

Hmmm, I also had my little brother call me a "little cunt." He is so charming. Not.

Sharon took me clothes shopping for "work appropriate" clothes. That was very nice of her because I am still not making that much money.

I also was able to watch some more Battlestar: Galactica with dad. He has been sad after losing his dad, so I was letting him heal up some before trying to nudge him into a normal routine again. It was nice to spend some quality time together.

I went to my Uncle's May the Fourth Be With You Party. It was loads of fun after my dad made me like seven shots of I-don't-know-what. To say that Nathaniel, my step-brother, Dad, and I were the life of the party is an understatement. I am glad Sharon agreed to be the designated driver.

Other than all of those perfectly mundane things, I have been really good at being extra boring. I have been super busy working and going to school. But school will be done next week. So maybe I can get into some shenanigans that will liven my beautiful little blog up.

Seeing Spiderman

I don't mean the movie, or cartoons. I mean I actually saw Spiderman. Last night, after work.

It went something like this: I clocked out, fetched my stuff, and then went up the escalator. After avoiding the revolving doors, (hello, those are scary...) I went out under the valet parking overhang and towards the train station to get home. And then I just happened to look across the way and I saw him.

In a beautiful, man sized Spiderman costume.

I had to do a double take. Spiderman? Spiderman?

It was really him! A huge part of me wanted to yell out, "SPIDERMAN!!!" And then promptly run over and take a picture with him to immortalize on Facebook and here. But I didn't know when the last train was going to come exactly. So I headed on my way, missing out on a wonderful opportunity.

I regret not yelling out. My train didn't come for another twenty-five minutes.

I now have a new life mission: Get a picture with Spiderman!

My New Job

There are so many things I like about my new job. Firstly: AIR CONDITIONING! I fucking love it! Since my other job at the restaurant is outside during the summer, the hot commodity of being able to control my surroundings is simply a novelty.

The second thing: I am helping rid people of cancer. Albeit in a very tiny way, I still feel like I am sort of a super hero. Move out the way, I am a cancer curer!

The third: I am making BANK. Holy smokestacks, Batman, do I actually have MONEY? It is sort of a first in three years. It's nice to start working four days a week and actually have money after paying for gas and food.

The fourth: I am not the most awkward person there. These people I am working with are super smart, and thus, (for the most part) socially awkward. For once in my life, I don't feel like the weird person for enjoying working on a Friday night because I can then socialize without actually having plans to go out into the world. And I arguably have the best dance moves!

Fifthly: Ambria works just down the block sometimes! I might even get to visit her and say hi, which is far more than I have been able to recently.

Sixthly: Air Conditioning!

(Right, I already mentioned that...)

Seventh on the list: I actually USE things I learned in MATH CLASSES. I never (in a thousand, billion years) thought I would have to use math ever except to add. My bad, all my math teachers ever for arguing with you. My sincerest apologies, because you were right, and I was so very wrong. (Coordinate planes are sort of cool to me now.)

Eighthly: Well, I don't have an eighth yet, but I am sort of liking my new job. I genuinely enjoy being more of an adult than I did one month ago.

Who would have thunk it?

The Funeral

So, on Tuesday, we had Grandpa's funeral. I was debating all week if I wanted to write about this, (I mean, it is really depressing, but I can't think of anything else to write at the moment because this is such a big event in my life.) I had never been to a funeral, so I didn't know what to expect.

I got up at eight o'clock. It was raining and dark outside, which seemed more than fitting. After putzing around my apartment trying to find the clothes I wanted to wear, I sat on my bed just thinking about my grandpa. He was such a wonderful person, and I wanted to take the time to reflect on all of the things he did for me and my brother growing up. I was finally able to motivate myself after some good memories, and started getting dressed.

It felt weird to be dressing in all black. I am usually a pretty vibrantly dressed person, so wearing black shoes, tights, dress and sweater made me feel more sad along with the weather outside making me sad. But again, it was fitting.

I went over to my mother's house to collect Alex and head to my dad's. It wasn't pouring down rain, but there were little droplets from the fog collecting on my sweater and skin. It felt weird and cold.

Alex and I headed to Dad's house. I can't remember if we talked about anything or just listened to music. I always have music playing in my car, so I know we didn't sit in silence. When we got to my dad's, Sharon and Dad were upstairs getting ready. They had new clothes for Alex to wear so he would look nice. He got dressed, and so did my step-brother, Nathaniel. Dad and Sharon came downstairs and told us to meet them at Grandma's house.

It's weird, because now it is just Grandma's house. Not Grandpa and Grandma's house.

Dad and Sharon were going to go collect the cremains.

I took the boys in my car over to Grandma's house, where we sat and looked at stuff like her Time magazines and flowers. Dad and Sharon got there at almost the same time, but we still didn't have anything to talk about. We didn't have to be at the cemetery for another forty-five minutes.

Grandma kept telling us how nice we looked. I felt like I looked really spiffy, but dour. I didn't want to dress like I was happy, of course, but I wanted to feel less like I was depressed.

Finally, we made the move to head to the cemetery. Dad took Sharon and Grandma in one car, and I drove Nathaniel and Alex in the other. We followed my Dad to the cemetery. Grandpa was a World War II veteran, and was getting a veteran's burial.

It was beautiful driving into the cemetery with all of those white headstones. They are lined up so that from anyway you look at them, they appear to be in line with all the others. The grass was beautiful and green, which I knew Grandpa would appreciate. He loved a fresh cut lawn.

We went to the main office first, where we met the priest. Grandma and Grandpa are Catholic, so he was going to do a Catholic send off. (I say that like there is a Viking boat involved, but really it involves a church.)

The guy who was keeping the scheduling for the funerals that day asked if Grandpa would get the military gun salute. Grandma had decided that he wouldn't get one. I wanted Grandpa to have that honor; after all, he served our country. But she didn't. The man at the desk thought it was sad Grandpa wouldn't get it, but gave us a folded flag anyways.

The cemetery guide came out and explained that he would be taking us to the church for Grandpa's send off.

We all got in our cars and followed him, parking and heading into a church that was made during President Jimmy Carter's days. It was weirdly fitting. Grandpa had fallen off his bike almost seventeen years back and broken his collar bone. When the paramedics were trying to figure out if he had bumped his head, they asked him who the president was. He couldn't remember Clinton's name, but Carter was first in the alphabet and said "Carter," first. The paramedics had thought he had memory loss until he got to the hospital.

We went into the church and sat in one pew altogether. The priest started saying his things. There was a lot of "Thanks be to God," and "Hallowed be thy name." I wasn't really paying attention. I was staring at the box that housed my grandpa. It was about ten inches by fourteen by six. I couldn't help wondering how a whole person, all one hundred and eighty five pounds of him, fit into a eight hundred and forty square inch box. All that was left of him were ashes and memories. And that made me so sad.

I couldn't even follow what the preist was talking about. I caught somethings, like how he prayed Grandpa would be accepted into heaven, and blah, blah, blah. It didn't matter to me. It mattered to Grandma, of course, but to me, it was a lot of stuff I didn't understand, and didn't believe.

Finally it came time to hold hands and pray. At first, I was just left sad, but then I realized I knew the prayer. My grandpa had paid me ten dollars the year I turned ten to learn and recite the Lord's Prayer. It came back to me while I was in the church like I was still standing in the hallway under the mistletoe with my Grandpa, saying it back like a children's rhyme. I started crying then.

The cemetery guide after the preist concluded his sermon and offered my grandma the folded flag in honor of grandpa's service. It was so beautiful and touching that I wanted to hear the blanks being shot off out of the rifles. I wanted people to know that my grandpa was a hero. I didn't want to keep his service confined to the small room of the church. I wanted the whole world to know what an amazing person my grandfather had been.

We couldn't really change my grandma's mind now, though.

When Grandma took the flag that was so carefully folded, my dad kind of lost it. He was so sad, and was missing his dad so much. Part of me wanted to suck it and stop being sad, but I knew I didn't have to. I cried with him and my grandma.

When we finally left the church, the guide offered to take Grandpa, but we were all a little lost. We couldn't let this stranger, no matter how nice he was, take Grandpa. We asked if we could go to where he was going to be buried.

Nathaniel offered to drive, which was good. I was really teary.

We went over to where there were plenty of fresh graves being tended and created. Grandpa had a fresh hole in the ground. It drizzled as we walked out. Grandpa was handed to the guy digging the holes, and before I realized what had happened, he had already put all eight hundred and forty square inches of Grandpa into the ground and was pressing wet earth down on him. I felt hot tears running down my cheeks.

I wanted to tell him to stop, that I wasn't ready to say goodbye to him yet. But my voice wasn't working. I was so choked up, I could barely breathe. Instead, I stood there with the rest of my family and watched more and more dirt get piled on top of the box.

Finally the guy was done and he replaced the tag that let everyone know where my grandpa was and where his headstone was going to be. Sharon passed out red and white roses for everyone. One by one, we put our flowers on the pressed down grass and dirt.

I wanted to say goodbye, or to utter some kind of reassurance. I wanted to let my grandpa know that we all still loved him and cared about him and would always be there, thinking about him all the time everyday.

But my throat hurt so much. I couldn't even squeak. My face was hot with tears and flushed hot. I couldn't stop winging out my sleeves. Even though it was a cold day out, I felt like I was in a bathtub of hot water and steam.

We headed back to our cars and away from the grave. Nathaniel drove again, and I didn't stop crying until we were almost to Grandpa's favorite restaurant. I didn't have a kleenex, either, and ended up wiping my tears and nose on my wrung out sleeves. I knew my eyes were red and puffy, but I didn't care. I just missed my grandpa, and I was with my family that missed him, too. Somehow, that helped.

It's been less than a week, but I am not as raw as I was. Part of my wanted to skip the rest of the week of school, but the bigger part of me made me go. I even started me new job. Of course, the world continues on even with out my grandpa, but fo the moment, it definitely seems sadder. I know in my head it is going to get better. I just hope that my heart catches up with that line of thought soon.

Second Story Critique

I am in a Fiction Writing class, and part of the assignments given is to write two stories, with the total amount of pages for both being 25 pages at least. I successfully achieved that after turning in my second story, which is cool.

I had my story critiqued yesterday, and the reactions were... mixed. Some people were like, "Oh my gosh, it was so awesome!" And other people were like, "I am so confused."

Yes, it had science fiction elements. After all it was set in the future. But it really wasn't all that confusing when I added a HUGE note saying, "Hey, this is just a small part of a much longer novel I have been working on for a while now." It's not like I wanted to send the whole freaking novel to them, (minus the fact that it is mostly written in my head rather than on paper.) I just wanted to give them a glimpse of the little world I was creating.

Mostly the questions ranged from, "Why are all the soliders white?" Well, they weren't white. They weren't any denomination... so I can't really answer that.

"Why are there different races?" Because the little world I created there are three different kinds of humans. One with no genetic enhancements, one with some physical genetic enhancements, and one with genetic enhancements that change how their minds work. Pretty simple stuff people.

"That still doesn't answer why." <Face palm.>

"I'm lost... is this in the future? Because they are riding a train." Oh, my god. There are still trains. Why are you acting like they don't exist?

"So, like, your characters have similar names. There is like... a letter R in two of the character's names." That isn't really constructive.

"Is this an allegory about racism?" If you mean, is this about skin color? No. I am really unconcerned about skin color. Biologically speaking, medium toned people deal better with a lot of sunlight, which the soliders have to deal with. Too much Vitamin D leads to rickets. What good are soliders with rickets?

"So it's not an allegory?" I just said no.

"I am really confused... so there are like three different kinds of races? I didn't pick up on that." Each race has a name for themselves... that is used really frequently throughout.

"Can you like, write about the super smart race more?" Obviously I am going to since this is a part of a much larger work.

"I really like this line: 'His eyes were rimmed from alcohol.'" Okay. Cool?

"So, I am totally not interested in this story unless it is part of like a novel." <Face palm...again.>

Yeah... basically that was my class. I realize that sci-fi isn't for anyone, and not all of the things I write are sci-fi. In fact most things I write is more mundane, but this story seemed more fun and amusing. And far better than time-traveling kids trying to stop a magical dragon from being born.

Anyways, if anyone would like to check out my other blog where I keep my (mundane) writings, just click this beautiful, amazing link!

Apparently I Have a Huge Ass

So, at work today, it was a fucking nice ass day. Therefore, the restaurant was busy as fuck. And because it was warm, I decided to wear shorts. I don't like to get overheated, and recently I have been working these seven and eight hour shift, I get home with a fever and I feel like shit.

Except that today, my lady problems decided it was time to rear their collective ugly head. It started off on a Tuesday. There was this smoking hot guy at the library, and I had an intense urge to throw him onto the closest desk and bang him. I call this stage one of Mother Nature. On Thursday, the sort of mean guy in my English class seemed irresistible. I thought, I want this dude NOW.

Then stage two happened. That was today. I woke up with a little ache-owie in my side. At first, I thought that I had slept funny. But then when I finally did roll out of bed and start getting ready for work, all I felt was chunky and sausagey. I couldn't pull up a pair of pants because they were way too tight around my thighs. And my chin was breaking out. I went and found my looser shorts, put those on, and headed to work.

All day, that pain in my side was there, all sharp and annoying. And at some point; like four o'clock, I realized that it was those annoying ass cramps accompanied with the cycle. I stopped being so annoyed by feeling awkward and large, (the simple explanation: I get bloated.) and started to just focus on getting through the night. Once I got home, I could take some ibuprofen and sleep off the cramps.

Instead, all day today, my mother fucking manager was busy trying to figure out how to tell me that my ass was WAY TOO BIG for my shorts. Instead of just pulling my into the office and being like, "Hey, your shorts are too tight," he told the night manager to give me a heads up.

So, the night manager bumbled around not saying anything all night. Of course, he had to let me know somehow, or the day manager, would be annoyed. So my friend, Ron, the host manager, was leaving for the night and my night manager wrangled him in to tell me.

Now, Ron is gay. And loves to tell me what an amazing ass I have. I have a complex about my amazing ass. It's called "My Ass Is Amazing Complex." I believe that my ass is amazing. So Ron had no qualms with letting me know that my ass had been the topic of discussion all day.

"Manager says you can't wear those shorts anymore," he told me at the end of my shift. I, of course, asked why. Adding that these shorts were short but not super tight. "Well, he thinks there are too tight. I don't. You ass looks great. But her thinks that your ass needs bigger shorts."

"So I have a fat ass." I was really annoyed. I felt bloated and sausagey and oily and pimply and sweaty and gross. And apparently my manager thought the same fucking thing.

"Well, I think it's great. But he doesn't." Or he probably does think my ass looks great and it makes him uncomfortable since he has known me since I was sixteen. What fucking ever.

I was pissed. Not at Ron, of course. He dealt the blow with kind words and a hug. But my manager was obviously a sissy crybaby that couldn't deal with one fat-assed worker. What pissed me off even more was that I know of five other bitches on one hand I could name that wore shorts way tighter and way shorter than mine. And they were always sporting muffin tops and thunder thighs. So why the fuck was he picking on me? I have know idea, but I am basically really mad.

And I get to look forward to the "joys of womanhood" yet again. I will probably only succeed in feeling more fat and bloated and sausagey and like a chunky-freaking-monkey. Yay... stage three.

Fucking A.