Category Archives: Life

But I’m Not The Only One

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I find myself writing this from my very favorite green chair, a chair I’ve had since I was 17, that is stationed firmly up against a wall in Dan’s room. It’s weird seeing my things here, because this place is so familiar, and my things are so familiar… but together they are different. Together my chair, my paintings, my tea box, and Dan’s room all make up something new. I’ve been here so many times, but tonight I’m not just visiting… and I can feel it. As he set his desk up in a different corner of the room to accommodate my life inside of his he asked me, “how am I going to set up this microphone?”, and I answered with “we’ll figure it out.” Earlier today he told me he doesn’t like “We’ll figure it out”, because it may sound nice and reassuring, but it really just means something hasn’t been figured out yet. I like it, though.

I figure this is significant in some way, but I’m not quite sure how to go about analyzing the evidence.

 

I’m comfortable not having plans. I’m comfortable having plans to eventually have plans. Most people want to map everything out, be in control of all the variables. Me? I more or less operate my life with a vague outline of what I want and how I want to get it, rather than taking that extra step and fleshing out a draft. I don’t believe in 5 year plans, nor do I believe that you can plan for everything. This keeps me optimistic, I think, since it allows me to believe that everything is still possible… even if it isn’t. Maybe I still want to be a princess when I grow up. I haven’t thought about all the reasons why it could never happen, or everything that could go wrong along the way, I’ve only thought of all the reasons why it would be awesome.

I guess… you could say I’m a dreamer.

In fact, I would say I have more dreams than goals. The difference between those two being that dreams are the things people usually give up to achieve their goals. The sad thing is that the world that we live in is designed to let people do that. My freshman history professor once said to my class that the world is full of dream killers, and it’s resonated with me through out the years. To me, this doesn’t necessarily mean that there are a bunch of people out there who are actively trying to keep others from being what they want to be, but there will always be people around to tell you why you can’t do something. Sometimes it’s someone as close to you as your best friend, sometimes it’s someone you barely know, and sometimes it’s yourself.

You see, we were told that we could be or do anything, but life isn’t actually set up that way.  They send us to school for 16 years, and somewhere between learning to drive and throwing your tasseled hat in to the air, you have to decide what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. There’s never any real time to sit down and actually think about the decisions we’re making; we’re just rushed in to making them. I didn’t know what shoes I wanted to wear when I was 18, let alone what productive role in society I wanted to fill. We spend our whole childhood preparing for our life to start… but when is that exactly? Does it start after high school, after college, after you get married and buy a house, after you have a baby? I’ve come to realize that the answer is relatively simple. Life isn’t some big grand thing that we have to be on a list to get in to. Life is apparently what happens when you’re busy making other plans. This is it. Lion King had it right. Life starts “the day we arrive on this planet.”

I don’t want to be too busy making plans to realize that I’m living.

So yeah, we’ll figure it out. Assurance may be safe, but it’s boring, too. I don’t know where I’m going to be in my life next year, but I know that I’m out here taking real risks for the first time in ever. I’m young, I’m in love, and I’m not going to bother with noticing the dream killers anymore – not even the one in myself. Looking back, that’s probably what my history professor was hoping we’d get out of that lecture. The truth is that the world is actually full of possibilities, but it’s only as full of them as you let it be.

It occurs to me that I’m writing an unintentional homage to John Lennon, and though I’m not the biggest fan, it’s okay. I suppose the guy said some cool things from time to time.

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Conjunction Junction, Serve That Function!

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Throughout my life, I have loved different people and things, and I’ve gone through phases and trends like any other normal person my age. Now that I’m older, though, I have whittled my passions down to only four. That isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy other activities or people, but I know what is nearest and dearest to my heart. Those things are, in no particular order: my family, Dan (Boyfriend Scott unveiled), tea, and writing.

For those of you who haven’t noticed, writing is sort of a hobby of mine. Ideally, I’d like to channel my love for writing in to a career, but opportunities in that field are few and far between; especially for a long suffering college student who still hasn’t managed to pick up her degree. In any case, it’s something I love to do and happen to care a lot about. Also, to clarify, when I say “writing”, I actually mean an all encompassing arena that includes both reading and researching. It’s all part of the same package. To write well, you have to know your subject. To know your subject, you have to research it… which means a lot of reading. Even if it’s not something a person enjoys or is good at, I believe that writing in general aids tremendously with intelligence and vocabulary.

Unless, of course, you refuse to acknowledge the importance of our language.

If that sounds a little silly to you, congratulations. It should. Language is certainly important. It’s how we communicate; it’s how get our points across. It effects how others perceive and understand us. It may not be as universal as math or science, but if it weren’t for words, we’d be reduced to grunting monosyllabically and drawing pictures in the dirt. Which is fine, I guess, if you’re in to that sort of thing. Also, by fine I actually mean “sad”.

As with most things in life, English comes with its own set of rules. I know it’s part of human nature to rebel against rules and question authority, but when it comes to writing, I ask you this: What exactly is the point? What is the point of spelling words like a child inclined to scrawl his letters backward? What is the point of leaving out punctuation when punctuation does, in fact, help people to understand what the hell you are trying to say? I promise to whoever is reading this that I am not big on judging, and I am by no means a grammar snob. If someone doesn’t want to take the time to write well, or if they have not received the kind of education that would lend itself to their writing savvy, it is certainly not for me to condemn. When someone decides to publicly insult those of us who do take care when penning even trivial things (such as “status updates”), however, I believe the topic becomes fair game.

No, Facebook updates are not “research papers”. In that, at least, the anonymous Facebook user to which I am referring is correct. As to his other claim that people who use proper spelling and punctuation are douche bags, though, I must disagree.

You see, I love my language. English and I go way back. This is why you will never see me abbreviate “you” to a one letter ambassador of its former self. You will never see me abbreviate whole phrases to unnecessary acronyms (i.e. “OMG”). That’s just not me. As a matter of fact, since I am so accustomed to writing things correctly, it would take more thought not to. Muscle memory and habit being two reasons for that. I fail to see how this makes me a douche bag, and I am left wondering if this Facebook user is acquainted with the guy who thinks I’m an asshole for not eating chicken even though I’m a vegetarian. It doesn’t make much sense to me. It just so happens that an appreciation of grammar does exist outside of school. It is less and less common, though, which I feel is kind of a dismal social commentary. Personally, I am proud of my skills and of my education. If my parents don’t yet have their daughter’s degree to show for all the billions they’ve spent on my schooling… well, at least they can have this. I can write and speak well, and I can represent myself and my family with graceful aptitude. Since I can, I figure I might as well.

That doesn’t make me a douche bag. That just makes me awesome.

Now, the truth of the matter is that my opinion on the subject is much harsher than I’m really willing to voice on a blog.  I will say that I think writing is becoming something of an old world art, and that this is having a profound impact on how we interact with one another.  It’s beginning to translate to other areas of our lives, and it’s exactly forums like Facebook where the break down starts. We stop taking care with little things, and then the bigger things don’t seem as big. Messages are getting shorter and less personal. People are forgetting the importance of presenting themselves with class and poise and, to be honest, I find it to be a bit tragic.  I will always believe that eloquence and cleverness recommend a person better than most anything else. I’m not perfect at this, but I do put in an effort every day.

If you are not like me and happen to not take these things to heart, I am not trying to put you down. Like I said, I really don’t judge. Different people do different things, and not everyone is passionate about writing like I am. It’s perfectly acceptable for it not to be your cup of tea. I will never get on your case for it, much the same as I will never get on anyone’s case for eating meat. As is often the circumstance, it’s not my place or my business. So, for those of you who feel similar to the Facebook user who thinks people like me are douche bags, fine.  Just keep quiet about it and let me do my thing, and I’ll let you do yours.

Just don’t pick a fight with me about it, because I’m better with words than you are and will likely come out on top.

The One Where I Decide To Give Up Vegetarianism Forever…

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Oh, yes. You read the title right. Unless you didn’t… in which case, do that real quick and meet me back here.

Oh, yes. You read the title right.  I’m giving up vegetarianism forever.  With Thanksgiving having just passed and Christmas quickly approaching, a few things occur to me. One is that I just missed out on mostly everything on the dinner table on Thanksgiving. Again. Just like last year.  My aunt made some yams which smelled like what amazing might smell like if it had the inclination to smell like anything.  I was pretty excited about that until, of course, she poured an obscenely sized bag of mini marshmallows on top of them.  I watched as my beautiful orange dreams disappeared under a mountain of harsh white reality.

Now, if you’re not a vegetarian, you might not understand why those marshmallows had ruined my life.  It’s because they’re filled with animals.  Specifically, gelatin.  Gelatin, as we all know, is hydrolyzed animal collagen. Putting aside the food holidays for a moment, let’s consider ALL the other things that are rendered inedible to me because of that cheap and readily available product: gummy bears, gummy anything, starbursts, cheesecake, yogurt, pop tarts, jello (duh), and basically everything else ever made that I want to put in my mouth when I’m angry, PMSing, or sitting on the bed watching Boyfriend Scott play League of Legends when it’s cold and I want to cuddle the heat out of him.  Don’t get me wrong; I like watching him play, and if I was able to power down some pop tarts, maybe my body could manage the energy to make its own damn heat.

But that’s just gelatin. There are also the enzymes. Oh, the dreaded enzymes.

Now, I always knew cheese was not vegan. That only stands to reason seeing as how it is made with a substance that you have to coax out from a cow by rather unseemly means, but I didn’t know until two years ago that cheese was not even vegetarian.  You can credit a very special episode of Jeff Corwin’s “Extreme Cuisine”, wherein he was describing the ingredients of cheese, for my realization of this one.  I believe his exact words were “enzymes from the lining of a cow’s stomach”.  It makes sense, of course.  Enzymes catalyze chemical reactions, and in this case the product is cheese.  Which, thanks to Jeff “has no business being on the food channel” Corwin, I can no longer eat.  Milk bothers me enough as it is, but I’ve always been able to muscle through the knowledge of what it is and where it comes from.  As a vegetarian, however, I can’t actually go around consuming cow parts, no matter how small they may be.  That meant that cheese was out.  It’s only after you can’t eat cheese that you realize it’s in everything.  It’s in your bread, it’s in your crackers, it’s in chips, it’s in your toothpaste*, it’s in your dreams, and more importantly, it’s in your nightmares.  It’s everywhere, and once you know something, you can’t un-know it.

Enzymes showed up one  fateful day on my TV, and have haunted me from then on… because, as it turns out, they are also used in the production of countless other tasty things that I had to resign myself to an empty life without.

Until now. This Christmas, I am headed out of my little corner of the planet and off to Boyfriend Scott’s corner in Iowa, and I know everyone he’s ever met in his life is going to offer me food. The prospect of having to turn everything down, and worse – having to to explain to a brand new batch of people my vegetarianism, makes me sad and tired. I want to say, “yes!”. I’m eating pie and cookies, and I’m not asking what’s in them. By God, I’m eating everything.

Why, yes, Boyfriend Scott’s Mom, I would like a piece of that honey glazed meat-stuffed animal piece of art. What’s that, Boyfriend Scott? Would I like some of that macaroni and cheese? Yes, I would. Thank you for asking. Oh, hot chocolate with marshmallows? Of course!

And while I’m at it, I’m going to eat a cheeseburger, chilli fries, a burrito, a meat sandwich with EXTRA meat, every starburst on the face of this world (and other worlds if I can get my hands on them), teriyaki chicken bowls (SEVERAL BOWLS), a horse (I hear they’re good for when you’re hungry), and, I don’t know… some orange juice or something. BACON orange juice.  Then I’ll sit back and enjoy the inevitable psychological torment, the first time I’ve been full since I was a little girl, and Boyfriend Scott’s arms as he gently carries me off to the hospital.

Which is an interesting segue to the actual point of this blog post. I’m going to quickly debunk a common myth: that vegetarianism is always better for you. Vegetarianism is not necessarily a healthy choice for some people because most people don’t know how to be a vegetarian.  As I’ve exhibited rather theatrically above, it’s difficult to find things to eat. I was once told by a doctor that he considers vegetarianism an eating disorder, because it is about restriction to a certain extent. Either people will restrict too much, or they won’t be able to find ways to make up for the lack of protein, iron, vitamins, and various etceteras in their diet. It can be a little on the unsafe side.  I’ve been a vegetarian for decades (sounds so much more official than “20 years”), and I still suck at this sometimes. Boyfriend Scott routinely hides walnuts in my food to aid in the matter.

Sigh. Vegetarianism, you cruel and beautiful mistress. I owe it to you to keep trying.

Aw, you didn’t really think I was going to give up being a vegetarian, did you? Hell no. I’d have to change the name of my blog. I’m much too lazy for that.  I just like to fantasize about being a normal person sometimes.  Which brings me to the second point of this post… Meat eaters, go easy on your vegetarian friends during the holidays. Especially if they seem extra angry, because what you’re mistaking for grumpiness is actually just jealousy and hunger.  I’m just glad I won’t be home this year to be asked, yet again, if I want every meat product on the table by my father, and be forced to do that thing where I’m half playfully annoyed and half actually annoyed. Anyhow, if you want to be a vegetarian, do the research and be safe. Which hipster-vegans aren’t, because they’re still doing everything exactly wrong.  It’s definitely a healthy life style choice if you’re doing it right.

Or just eat meat like a normal person.

*There’s no cheese in toothpaste. As far as I know.

How Much Are You Worth, Anyway?

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It has been pointed out to me quite frequently over the past 2 months (by Boyfriend Scott, an Iowa native) that I have spent my whole life living in a tiny corner of the world which, though true, has never really occurred to me so much.  I’ve been surrounded by the same street names, the same antique stores, and the same parks and sidewalks the whole time I have been on this planet.  I know only what I have seen, and I suppose I haven’t seen much.  I’ve been sheltered, and to be honest, I still pretty much live like a teenager.  So, in that way, perhaps it makes a little bit of sense that I am still always surprised by the depth of pure disgusting to which people can sink.

Now, I’m just going to throw this quick question out: When you imagine a struggling family packing their whole lives away in to boxes and having to leave perhaps the only home they’ve ever known because the bank has taken it away from them, is your first instinct to laugh? It really shouldn’t be, and you want to know why? Because, hi there… it’s not actually funny.  Now, the cynics in us may want to rail away and exclaim, “well, they shouldn’t have bought a house that they knew they couldn’t afford!”.  Which, all right, wouldn’t be a completely unfair assessment. There is a level of irresponsibility involved when it comes to people trying to have something for which their budget will not allow.  It’s kind of the law; you can’t have what you can’t pay for.  Unfortunately, there is a very human face to this problem.  Not to mention its variable nature, wherein sometimes unforeseeable things happen (like, say, a homeowner losing his/her job) and a once payable molehill becomes an overwhelmingly daunting bill mountain.  We can’t really blame these people, can we? And in situations where we can blame, who are we to judge or laugh?

Steven J. Baum law firm, can I admonish thee enough?

There are certain professions of which I am convinced that the desensitization of the people working within those fields becomes necessary.  Healthcare, for instance.  Crime scene investigators, for another.  These men and women need to get past various emotions that most of us have the luxury of being able to feel, because if they didn’t… these emotions might break them down.  I can understand a doctor trying to dismiss a death on their table, consoling themselves with the idea that they’ve saved countless others… but lawyers? Lawyers making light of people losing their homes?  This doesn’t actually make much sense.  People don’t need to be desensitized to that, and we certainly don’t need to make fun of it.

Which is exactly what Steven J. Baum and company did at their cute little halloween party.  The employees thought it would be great fun to dress up as homeless people… as in,  people who had lost their homes. Not only is that not funny, but it’s terribly cavalier if not almost a little sadistic.  I’m fairly certain that “kicking people while they’re down” isn’t actually in the dictionary, but if it were – there might be a picture of this party next to the entry.

Which, anyway, brings me to my point.  It seems like we’re living in a society where simple human decency has become null and void.  We don’t need to be decent to people anymore, guys, because apparently it’s not cost effective.  It won’t make you any money.  The important thing, now, is to learn how to be as inconsiderate and cold hearted as we can be… otherwise, we’ll fall victim to those who have already learned.  Think I’m joking? Maybe we should talk to the guys over at that airline who spent money on research to find out if it’d be more expensive to fix a defect on their planes, or pay out to the families of the victims if something were to go wrong. For the record, they fixed the defect. Because their research showed it would be cheaper.

Scary, isn’t it? Our lives are in the hands of people, every single day, who don’t look at us as human beings… they looks at us as numbers and bottom lines.  What’s a couple laughs over kicking someone out of their house when it got you that huge paycheck, anyway? Nothing. Just like voting one right away is nothing.

It’s always nothing until it’s something.

Which makes sense, don’t you think?

Listening To Michele Bachmann May Cause Mental Retardation

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Firstly, internet, I believe the time has come for a good, old fashioned, vocabulary lesson:

fact |fakt|
noun
A thing that is indisputably the case.

So, knowing this new word as we now do, what can we immediately cross off the list of what can be considered a fact? If you said “unsubstantiated claims”, you’ve just won my little word game! Prizes will be sent out in three to six weeks and the recipient will be responsible for all taxes and shipping fees.

But how do we know if a claim is unsubstantiated? The problem is that, most of the time, we don’t know.  We don’t know unless we take the time ourselves to look in to the claims and arguments, and look in to the research, or the science, or the studies, etc…  Which, honestly, most of us won’t do. Most of us will hear something we’ve been told and will believe it for no other reason than that we have no reason not to believe it.  This is where all those snazzy lessons in critical thinking can finally come in to play, I think. Maybe we’re too lazy to look in to the real facts, but we should all have something of a rudimentary tool box for identifying ridiculousness when we hear it.  In any case, the real problem comes when people start repeating mere claims as facts.  It’s bad enough when we do this in our normal every day lives, but I think it becomes a markedly larger issue when someone with a very public voice comes out and begins to spew her special brand of ignorance.

Hello, Michele Bachmann.

Now, I’d be lying if I said I knew all the facts here.  I don’t.  I’m merely a lowly psychology student trying to make my way through the waves and ripples of life.  What I do know, though, is that Michele Bachmann’s statements that the HPV vaccine causes mental retardation was not only incorrect, but it was all manner of irresponsible as well.  This claim, however wrong, will not just go away.  It’s been dropped in to the public consciousness right a long side such great myths as, “humans only use 10% of their brains”. When pressed on the matter, and here’s where those red flags should start going up from those old CT classes, Bachmann tried to excuse herself by asserting that she didn’t know anything about it, really.  She was only repeating something that had been told to her.

Yes.  She was only repeating something that had been told to her.

This, here, is where misinformation catches up with us.  One person told her, and she then turned around and told EVERYONE ELSE.  HPV is a very serious virus that can lead to cervical cancer and now, because of this woman’s deeply ignorant remarks, there will be a negative impact on how the vaccine that can help prevent it is viewed.  Let’s just hope Bachmann never has lunch with Jenny McCarthy, otherwise the whole world might divide by zero in to a deep, dark pit of disease and stupidity.

Yes, I know, there are risks with vaccines.  I admit to understanding that they’re not exactly perfect.  However, with the chance of sounding like a utilitarian here, they help more people than they harm.  Minute risks are scary, but cancer’s scarier.

Moral of the story, folks? Well, don’t believe everything you hear.  Also, don’t take candy from strangers… that’s just always good advice.

Dear Alyssa Bereznak

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On this particular planet that most of us find ourselves living a day-to-day kind of life on, I find that there are layers upon layers of social norms to adhere to and social stigmas to avoid.  For much of my life, I have unwittingly failed at adhering to any kind of social norm, which has consequently left me with a kind of ineptitude in avoiding social stigmas.  For instance, did you know that online dating was looked down upon?  Apparently it’s embarrassing.  Here I thought that meeting someone in a venue completely disconnected from any kind of physicality, and therefore a place where you would have to actually get to know one another, would be generally regarded as a good idea.  I mean, God forbid getting to know someone on a purely intellectual level! What does personality really say about a potential dating partner, anyway?

Apparently it says less than a man with his hand on his back pocket willing to fork over copious amounts of cash to pay for whatever insanely priced drink a girl asks for… just so she’ll bat her glittered eyes at him one more time.

Such was my ignorance to any of these circumstances, that I signed up for a dating website on purpose.  Yes, on purpose.  No one suggested it to me.  I didn’t do it as a joke.  I didn’t hide it from anyone.  I went on OkCupid one day, filled in the register box and quickly filled out an awkward profile for myself.  I merely wanted to meet and talk to new people.  I wasn’t even drunk.

Now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get my fair amount of decidedly “creeper” status messages from men who were either supremely desperate, or supremely scary, but it wasn’t overwhelming.  To be honest, most of the messages I received were very polite and even, in a lot of cases, intelligently written.  Now, what conclusion can I draw from this? Sadly, that, for some reason or another, friendly and intelligent men are being overlooked IRL. Creepy men are also being overlooked, as it turns out, but I feel less sorry for them.

Out of a grand total of three days on the website, I had spoken to a few very well spoken men including a law student, a medical student, a volunteer who worked with children, a legal secretary… and then, finally, a teacher with a masters degree in engineering.  They all made me laugh, they were all friendly, and I enjoyed talking to each of them in their own way.  I can’t imagine having met anyone nicer or smarter in a bar or at a club any more than I can imagine falling in love with the guy being cheered on for his amazing beer pong skills.

Of course, of course… you always run a risk.  I admit I would be remiss if I conveniently ignored the possibility that “John the Medical Student” was actually “Big-Dog the Escaped Convict”, but the risk is there with anyone regardless of how you met them.  People don’t need a computer screen to hide behind or to lie to you.  Having said that, I am also kind of an accepting person.  Admittedly, serious jail time would probably be a deal breaker for me, but finding out an awesome, intelligent, and funny guy is… I don’t know, say, a gamer, perhaps?  I don’t see a problem.

I don’t even see a reason why this would be a problem.

There I go, though, with my inability to avoid social stigmas.  Did you know there was a stigma attached to online gaming, to gaming in general? No? Then you’re probably like me, and don’t feel the need to label someone a “nerd” or be put off by a person just because they have a hobby that doesn’t necessarily involve tubes of alcohol and glow sticks.  Not that I’m saying the two preclude each other, but then I’m not a gamer.

I do, however, date one.  Proudly.  He’s a teacher with a masters degree in engineering.  His name is Boyfriend Scott.

Yes, Internet.  I went on an online dating website called OkCupid, got to know a guy completely based off of his ability to write emails (very well, might I add), and didn’t find out until after I met him how important gaming was in his life… and I’m completely in love with him.  As far as I’m concerned, gaming is just one more facet of his personality that makes him who he is, and he’s a truly amazing man.  Also, playing games is pretty damn fun.

If this is a social stigma, I don’t want to be a norm.  I’ll leave that to judgmental Gizmodo editors.

Single judgmental Gizmodo editors.

I Don’t Drink… Except When I Do

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There’s a thought that keeps cycling it’s way through my head today, Reader.  I have mentioned before that I have recently read the Scott Pilgrim books, and one thing that I noticed through out all of them, is that he’d always say, “I don’t drink”, but then you’d see him drinking.  It’s strange, though, because every time he said he didn’t drink – I forgot that he did drink.  How is this at all relevant to life? I don’t really think it is… except in that I am moderately hungover at the moment, but I don’t drink.  Except I guess I do.

But I don’t really.

I didn’t start off my day yesterday planning on getting drunk.  I didn’t even start off my day planning to drink.  There were plans of school and of running, and of meeting a friend up for lunch.  Well, by the time the “meeting up for lunch” portion of my afternoon came around, a few things had happened.  Firstly, school – a constant irritant and source of misery in my life – had gotten to me once again.  I now find myself wondering on a daily basis what the hell I’m doing.  I don’t want to be a psychologist, do I? I had bigger dreams than that, I think.  I don’t remember them now.  The Second did everything he could to stamp out any real aspirations I had for my future by trying to mold me to fit his. He wanted: Terin+degree=riches. I wanted: Terin+passion=happiness.  I still want that, but time’s ticking away… and I still find myself alone in cold classrooms, wondering if all this is for me.  I want to be educated.  I want to know things.  I want to know everything… but why does it have to be channeled in to a career?

Anyhow, yesterday was one of those days – and that was only the “firstly”.  I think I set up the “secondly” to be worse with that statement, but it’s not.  Secondly, it was so hot yesterday that I melted during my run.  I melted and was dead. Eventually a kind samaritan came along and funneled me in to an empty water bottle he happened to have with him, and sometime later I was alive again and taking a shower. Sometime even later than that, I was sitting in a booth across from my friend staring down at a menu of which nothing looked appealing.  Cue flashback to cold classrooms and textbooks.

“Friend,” I started.  She looked at me, bright blue eyes shining as always.  “Do you want to get a drink instead?”

The blonde’s eyes laughed even before she did, and the wide smile on her face said “Yes!” before she spoke the word herself.

Sometime after that (and, also, after buying a super cute pair of boots), Friend and I were sharing drinks and tales of woe.  Also tales of extreme hilarity.  It was around 5 by then, and I was gone.  I knew I was gone.  I know nothing of drinking etiquette, but apparently 5 in the evening is not the most classy time of the day to be drunk during, and I don’t think I scored myself any points with the other patrons at the restaurant.  I also didn’t care, Reader.  I was drunk.  Cue embarrassing and over affectionate text messaging to Boyfriend Scott.

Somehow, though, Friend and I found ourselves braving the Sepulveda Pass on our way to Boyfriend Scott’s apartment, forever miles away from where our initial adventure started, for dinner and more drinks.  Which, when we found ourselves there a million days later (more like an hour, probably), we had.  Boyfriend Scott made Friend and I some amaretto sours, and then we all headed out on an adventure down Ventura Blvd for some food.  I think someone just pointed somewhere random and said, “let’s eat there”.  So we did eat there.  “There” was a very pleasant vegan restaurant (which I’ll be writing a review for on Yelp sometime in the future), and “There” had some very delicious vegan wanton soup.  I was pleased, overall, with the state of my night.

Saying goodbye to Boyfriend Scott later was kind of hard which, even in my still semi-drunken haze, scared me a little.  However, he said something to Friend as I hugged him that pretty much sent any unhappy thought or feeling away from me…

“Thank you for bringing my Terin up to see me.”

The strange and awful headache I endured later, the weird stupor I’m experiencing now, the mild embarrassment at having been stupidly drunk? All worth it to hear him say that. I kind of love this guy.

But then, you probably already knew that.

Until next time.

Open Hearts and Scott Pilgrim

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I am interested, Dear Reader, in not being a hypocrite and in being a good person.  I think I can do this.  While the execution may, admittedly, be lacking at times… I believe the idea is sound.  I never want to hurt anyone on purpose (or on accident, for that matter).  I never want to make anyone uncomfortable or unhappy.  I want to train any trace of vindictiveness out of my personality.  It’s there, of course.  As mentioned in your intro course to Terin, I am only human.  I am currently going through a phase where I would love to hear that The Second is failing in all his endeavors, but I’m certain it will pass.  I am, as luck would have it, not a grudge holder.  If you’ve wronged me in some way, I will never turn down an apology.  Even if you don’t apologize, I find, I will still forgive you anyway.

The problem, though, is that this is really a great way to get walked all over.

Perhaps therein lies the flaw in anyone’s quest to be a nice person.  We have to choose, don’t we?  Between opening our hearts and letting people in, and closing our hearts to keep the pain out.  Every slight dealt to us by clumsy hands makes it that much harder to forgive and forget.  This really isn’t the fairest of setups either, seeing as how the next person to come along in our lives will invariably be made to carry the brunt of a hurt that they had no part in creating.  So, what do we do? Do we trust indiscriminately through the pain? Do we make the decision to not be embittered by past events, and just believe with some kind of blind faith that not everyone can be bad?  That not everyone will hurt us? Ideally, yes. The truth, however, is that we rarely have a choice in how we feel.

In any case, I don’t want to be bitter.  I want to always have an open heart and mind, and I want always to be able to forgive someone when they say they’re sorry.  I’m not there yet, obviously, but I’m working on it.

Also, in a completely unrelated side note: I’m dating Scott Pilgrim.  I know that I’m dating Scott Pilgrim because I’ve read the books and have been awed by page after page of uncanny similarities between the written character, and my boyfriend. Could it be a coincidence? Maybe.  Could it be that these books were really written about my boyfriend?  I find this far more likely.  I guess that makes me Ramona Flowers… which, I mean, is fine as long as I don’t have to get that haircut.  Anyhow, The Third will hereafter always be referred to as Scott.

Until next time.