Just another day in the IE.

First of all...

And to add insult to injury (because I'm just such a nice person)

The end.

Historia De Un Amor TRUNCADO.

When I was in high school, my first real crush was this guy I knew from church. He was tall, thin, and quiet, with large brown eyes and a warm smile. Best of all, he was an amazing guitar player. To this day I have not known someone who could play as well as he did...all he needed was to hear any song a few times before he could play it himself...he played guitar for the Saturday choir, of which his younger sister (a friend of mine) was also a member, so I saw my in. My plan in getting to know him better didn’t work out that well though, seeing as how he NEVER TALKED. I tried, I joked, I even tried to flirt (yes, try to imagine me ‘flirting’ at the age of 15. It wasn’t pretty. STOP LAUGHING!). This was your basic, run of the mill, HARDCORE crush. I daydreamed about, like, ohemgee, we would like date and be in luuuurve and...I don’t know...ride unicorns and file our taxes jointly and stuff. I thought I was all stealthy too, like, NO ONE knew about it and I was so smart and sneaky. I might as well have tattooed it on my forehead.

Or worn a sandwich board.

While he didn’t take the bait, he was unfailingly polite and never exploited my feelings or made fun of me (to my face anyway). Which is saying a lot. Like most high school crushes, it was pretty epically cringeworthy. Once, for Valentine’s Day, I sent him a Crush Gram through my AVID class. How it worked was you sent someone a bottle of Crush soda, then they could pay like 50 cents or something to find out who the sender was. I was a wimp and left it blank. So not only was I a tease, I cheated him out of his money.

Now that’s true love.

The next time I saw him I resolved to find some shit out with some mad sleuthing skills.

Me: Sooo, did anyone get a Valentine’s Day gram? Those are so lame. (nervous laughter)

Dude: Someone sent me one of those soda ones.

Me: reaaaalllly? (feigned shock) did you find out who sent it?

Dude: I went to look. They didn’t leave their name.

Me: oh, what a shame. (Recon mission TOTALLY nailed. I’m a ninja.)

The romance never came to pass, and my stalker-esque devotion remained unrequited. I moved away to school and life went on. On my visits home and when I finally moved back after graduation, we would periodically see each other, more frequently when my mom babysat for him for a few months. At one point we actually exchanged phone numbers, more out of necessity than anything else. This, along with the couple of times he pocket-dialed me or called (on purpose) would have been enough to send my 15-year old self into a fit of hysterics. By that time, however, he had taken up the spot in my mind as a casual acquaintance that I could actually have a normal conversation with, without blushing, smiling like a vapid moron or collapsing into nervous giggles.

What’s the point of my wistful recollection, you ask? There is a point. I was getting to it. Come in, sit down. Would you like a cookie?

Let me paint a picture for you. Of unrequited love, a story more romantic and tragic than Romeo and Juliet.

My youngest brother is somewhat of a metro. Seriously. He actually spent an hour in the bathroom yesterday complaining that he couldn't get his hair quite right. I guess we all have our battles. Anyway, a few months ago, a girl at school professed her undying love for my little brother, who we'll call Mr. Sexy.

Seriously, who could resist this dreamboat?

Not only is he not allowed to date (Damn skippy, yo), his schoolwork, volunteering at church and baseball leave him almost zero time for anything other than food, sleep and an occasional dump. It is my understanding that he told her as much, and let her down as easily and gently as he knew how. I believe this because we didn’t raise no fool.

This, apparently, did not go over well. Mr. Sexy is now this horrible heartbreaking Casanova who trifles with poor unsuspecting girls’ feelings and leaves broken hearts in his wake.

That trifling casanova!

Because I am nosy and can’t leave well enough alone, I went on trusty Facebook and sure enough, our forlorn and heartbroken heroine has poured her heart out to the Internet world. She ranged from song lyrics, her own poignant ramblings when she fancied herself a poet, to the purposefully misspelled text that these young’ns are so fond of.

Maybe I don't see how '"wonderful" he is because not thirty minutes ago, he admitted to me that he knew all the words to Rick Astley's " Never Gonna Give You Up". Followed by a full demonstration.

He then farted.

The bracelet in question. In case he ever forgets what his name is.

This girl is obviously destined for Mensa.

She is also a poet.

Ride on what?? The boy doesn't have a license. He has a bike. With a flat tire.

It's not his fault he's almost blind in one eye! He wears contact lenses now.

GODDAMMIT! It's FATE!!!!

Finally, after roughly two months of trying to tactfully reject this girl’s advances, she laid it all out there. Via email. On Facebook. Romantic, ain’t it?

That’s right, kids. She was in love because she "can’t talk to other guys".

I can think of a few other countries she’d be right at home in.

At this point however, our young Romeo had had enough, and finally just gave her the cold shoulder. So she gave up and got a new boyfriend a week later.

I guess ‘forever and a day’ in teenager speak is a week and a day.

Dianetics.

A few weeks ago, my good friend Brian came over to hang out. We had pho, saw The Adjustment Bureau (don’t worry, we only paid $2.00) and, like most of our outings, ended our adventure with a trip to Yogurtland.

(By the way, they have Cinnamon Toast Crunch as a topping now. Awesome. )

It was a warm night, so we sat outside on the patio. We had just begun to dig into our frozen treats (did I mention Cinnamon Toast Crunch?), when we heard a random voice say in too friendly a voice: “Heeeey, Yogurtland!”

We both looked up to see a middle aged man with his hands folded behind his back, wearing a button down and slacks, and the look of someone awkwardly trying to inject themselves into your conversation. Brian and I quickly glanced at each other, wondering what this guy wanted. He sounded like P. Allen Smith, and if you know who P. Allen Smith is you’d know that he talks in a creepy child-molester way, like someone who probably has people buried in his garden and drives around in a van filled with candy and puppies. This guy even looked like an older version of P. Allen Smith, too. I briefly wondered if we were going to get raped.

“Hi, I’m P. Allen Smith, and I’m gonna murder you and eat your face”

Random White Guy: “Hey guys, I wanted to invite you to come see a movie with us. “

Me: (in my head) we are so gonna get raped.

RWG: “We’re going to be playing out movie here nearby, it’s totally free, you can even bring your ice cream if you want.”

(I’d like to take this moment to point out we were not having ice cream, we were having Yogurtland. With Cinnamon Toast Crunch.)

Random White Guy then put two tickets on the table. Right away I noticed the headline.

I don't hurt the people I love, I just trip them.

There was a young woman with him too, around our age, enthusiastically nodding and encouraging us to come, because it’s a Friday night, and all the hip young kids go to the movies on Friday night!

My mouth full of cake batter yogurt (with CINNAMON TOAST CRUNCH!! Did I mention this?), I automatically racked my brain for the best comeback.

• "I used to be an athiest until I realized I was God."
• "Nothing personal but God told me to set you on fire."
• "BURP."
• "Na na na na na na na na LEADER!"
• "I'm Catholic! HISS! Away, evil one!"
• Speak in tongues.

The last one would have been somewhat feasible if I knew how.

Being much quicker (and much more mature) than I, Brian quickly threw out an excuse.

“Oh, we can’t. She has to work tomorrow. Really early.”

Girl: “Oh, no! Where do you work?”

Me: “Sturbucsh. I haff tah be derr at 4 am.” (I’m talking with my mouth full because I’m such a classy dame.)

Girl: “Oh wow, that’s REALLY early! Well, if you guys change your minds, we’re just down the street, hopefully we’ll see you there?”

Brian: “Uh, yeah! Sure.”

Creepy McCreeperton and his sidekick, Mary Kay Letourneau's cousin, walked off in search of more schmucks to ambush and have awkward conversations with.

Brian: “Uh, did that really just happen?”

Me: “Yes. Can we go? Please oh please? Come on, it would be HILARIOUS!”

I tend not to think things through completely. It’s how I live.

Brian: (laughing nervously in that way he does when I suggest something stupid) “Uh, no.”

Me: “Fine. Guess not. They’ll probably stick an E-meter in my butt and sell my soul to Xenu.”

Oh, I’m sorry? Did I say soul? I meant Thetan.

Tom cruise would be so pissed.

I love a fat, lazy bastard.

This is Baloo.

Baloo is lazy.

and apparently, he is also a drunk.

Heart of a lion Baloo does not have. He basically has all the qualities no woman would ever want in a man-he's lazy, fat, needy, sheds hair like there's no tomorrow, eats constantly, has no sense of personal space, and has horrid breath. I love this useless lump beyond words.

Two days ago, he was scheduled for a check-up and a Rabies shot at the vet. Sounds simple enough right?

Nope.

First order of business was getting Baloo, all 105 pounds of him, into my teeny car. The easiest way to do this was to say his favorite word (second only to 'cookies' and 'Mom'):

"Walkies?"

The simple act of uttering these two syllables is enough to get Baloo all a dither. Despite the fact that he has a huge yard in which to run, sleep, pee, and poop, Baloo's favorite time of day is when we snap on his well worn, once-red leash (complete with grocery bag turned pooper scooper tied to it), and take him for a stroll around the block. A 'stroll' usually consists of letting Baloo drag you from mailbox to lamppost to fence to parked car so he can sniff and pee on it, all the while you're losing the feeling in your fingers from holding onto the leash so tightly, despite the fact that one good yank will pull your arm out of the socket.

I felt a tad guilty, deceiving my poor mutt, letting him think he was going for a walk when really I was about to shove his ample butt into my car and drive him to a scary, stagnant cold room where there is nothing to pee on.

In any case, it did the trick, and once I opened the back car door, he jumped right in. Before he could change his mind, I tossed in the leash and shut the door. Right away I could see a look of concern cross his face, as the wheels in his head began to turn. This was bad. Car rides led to The Bad Place which led to a nap which led to owwies which led to wearing the stupid cone, while everyone in the house laughed at your eunuch ass.

"Aww, shit. What are they cutting off this time?"

Once my backup (Chris) had gotten in the car, we headed out. The fact that Baloo was moving, not under his own power, was quite perplexing to him. When the car would stop, he'd peek out the window and try to make sense of where he was, and when the car moved, he'd hunker down like Dorothy in a tornado and whimper quietly to himself. I could see him coming in and out of view in my rear view mirror. It was like watching a Whack-A-Mole game.

Our arrival to the vet's office was the hardest part. Chris opened the door, and I nonchalantly tried to walk in without making a big deal out of it. As soon as Baloo saw where we were headed, he dropped to his belly and refused to go any further. I then did something I never do.

I begged.

Me: (patting my leg and trying to sound a sickeningly cheery as possible) "C'mon, Baloo, c'mere boy! Come on!"

Chris: (doing the same) "Go on, Baloo, it's ok! It's ok!"

Baloo: (in his mind) BAD PLACE! BAD BAD BAD PLACE! DO NOT WANT! NO LIKE!!!

Random Lady In The Corner: "He looks like I do when I have to go to the dentist."

This went on for quite a bit. Finally, he inched his way in far enough that the door closed, but he shook like a leaf and waited for the next time someone would open the door so he could bolt out again. Resigned and feeling like a major asshole, I finally grabbed him around the collar and dummy-dragged him across the linoleum floor to the hallway. This proved to be both good and bad. We had made progress, but now Baloo knew that I would do all the moving for him and he wouldn't have to do anything but quiver like a chihuahua in 70 degree weather.

Thankfully, the nurse was kind enough to give us the room closest to the waiting area, where Baloo got his exam (healthy dog!) and a shot in the rump, which he barely noticed. We then dragged him back out of the office, where he cowered by my feet while I paid the bill. Chris then opened the door and called for Baloo. He didn't move until I gave his leash a little tug and said, "let's go home". At the mention of 'home' he bolted out the door like he was escaping from jail, and desperately circled my car, smart enough to know that the Big Red Thing would magically take him back to where Mom and food was.

He then spent the rest of the day sulking about the terrible, horrible, no good very bad morning he'd had.

Worst. Adventure. Ever.

Hooray for not being dead.

Is there an award for Worst Blogger?

If not, I'm going to invent one. Right now. But I'd probably still not win it. That's how bad I suck at blogging.

Simon Cowell says I suck. My life is now without purpose.

Enough with the self-flagellation. Time to get back on the bloggin-wagon.

Oh my god, I just invented a new phrase. I'm awesome.

ANYWAY, for those of you who actually read this tripe, I had an asscrapload of stuff to do in the last month. Observe.

1.) I MOVED!

My lease ran out, and in order to go month-to-month I would have had to pay an extra $200 a month. Considering the fact that I lived in Da Hood, Sunday mornings I'd get woken up by the old lady who thinks she still lives in Mexico and yells, "tamaleeeees" as loud as humanly possible while slowly ambling up and down the next street, and I'd lost count of the number of times I nearly shit my pants from when the maintenance guy slams the door shut on the storage garage, on top of which my apartment was so conveniently located, terminating my lease and going back to Chateau MomandDad was an easy decision.

So one grey and overcast morning, I rented a UHaul, called a few friends who still like me for reasons unknown, and packed all of my stuff into a storage unit like so many bits of Tetris blocks. I kept only a couple of suitcases of clothes (I have since gone shopping. I swear my mom just needs to be my personal shopper FOREVER. Otherwise I'd be running around in a burlap sack), some shoes (I will not say how many. I luuurves my shoes), my bike and my laptop. It does suck because now I'm far from Orange County (land of Botox and bolt-ons), Boyfriend, and there is not one day that goes by that I don't wish I had [some random item that's in storage] on me.

2.) I got tested.

Thankfully, I don't have herpes.

:P

A few days ago, I headed out to one of the many industrial parks in Anaslime to take the GRE. Once there, I followed the obvious signs to the testing center (they obviously don't think much of the people taking the test), where I was met by a 30-somethingish dude who had obviously rolled a fatty to go with his morning Frappachino. For medicinal purposes, obviously.

Breakfast of champions.

Anyway, I spent about 3 hours slogging through math problems I haven't seen since 9th grade and reading essays about the evolution of the lungfish for reading comprehension. I felt like my brain was the quiet little village with thatch-roofed huts and this stupid test was a boatload of vikings washing onshore to pillage and burn the whole fucking place to the ground.

What's in your wallet?

With the knowledge that my essays were going to be read by dry, stuffed-shirt professor types, I wrote my argumentative essay on...wait for it...Harry Potter.

Is my nerd showing? Sorry...it slips out from time to time. Satisfied that I had stuck it to the man (heehee) for making me PAY to sit through that bullhonkey, I submitted my scores and made my way to my favorite coffee shop to read the inspiration behind my GRE writing.

2.) I has boyfriend now.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the biggest factor behind my falling off the bloggin-wagon (it works on so many levels!). Boyfriend and I met back in November through a mutual friend, initially because I had applied to his company and I needed pointers for the interview. We met at a Starbucks, I asked questions, he answered them. I took notes. We shook hands, wished each other luck, and I left. I don't think either of us even removed our sunglasses. I was more preoccupied with getting to Long Beach afterwards for drinks at Tequila Jack's with Ig, Uli and Rudy.

I have my priorities, after all.

Needless to say, I failed the interview. Dismally. I texted Not-Yet-Boyfriend-Still-Just-Platonic-Acquaintance as soon as I walked out, bemoaning how badly I had done. We met, picked apart the interview, and just decided that I wasn't meant to work there. Texting correspondence continued, and in December he for some reason decided to take me out in public. He asked me to go with him to his company's party, and I said yes, thinking he just needed a dance partner. I obviously didn't think much of myself at this point.

After said outing, Not-Yet-Boyfriend decided to hang out with me. Again. And again. And again. It took a few weeks for me to convince myself that this really was dating and he wasn't just using me as a research subject (he's a Ph.D. student). Now he's just Boyfriend.

Fear not, my ickle beasties. This doth not meaneth that I will wear big girl pants and act like a grown-up. In fact, in the last seven months, Boyfriend has had to come to terms with the following:

• If someone burps, I will laugh. Especially if that someone was me.
• He has to refer to my car as a 'he'. And call him by his name.
• I will frequently forget to fully charge my Ipod, leading to a dead battery in the middle of a work out, leading to a very angry Hobbit.
• I hate talking on the phone.
• I am always willing to make an ass out of myself in public. Especially when sober.
• Instead of slutty Girlfriend-In-Her-Skivvies pictures, he will get this:

*breathes heavily* Luke, this is your girlfriend.

Well Who Knew?

According to my stats, one person in Russia read my blog, along with two in Europe. I've gone international!

(This is just from a listing of my page views. In all honesty, these poor souls probably stumbled upon my poorly written crap and their lives will forever be damaged. I choose to think the more optimistic fantasy that strangers actually read this shit.)

DON'T RUIN THIS FOR ME GODDAMMIT.

I have friends! Yay! I feel slightly less loser-rific!

Standing on the verge of some great truth
Where I’m finally in my place
But I’m fumbling still for truth
And it’s cluttering my space
Casting shadows on my face.

I live my life by music. My car is full of CDs and the radio is always on. I can’t work out or run unless I have my IPod, and I have 10 years of choir under my belt. These past two years, I slowly put together a playlist of songs that resonated with pretty much every emotion I felt. It was usually what I listened to when I’d lie on the couch in a ball and cry, stare blankly at the ceiling, or (and I confess this with difficulty), lie in bed at night and contemplate the possibility of not waking up, and thinking it wouldn’t be so bad. (*NOTE* Don't freak out on me people. No one needs to be talking me off of a ledge anytime soon. While I did wish to just go to sleep and never wake up, it never crossed my mind to take a proactive approach to it. Calm yo ass down.)

And though I have the strength to move a hill
I can hardly leave my room
So I’ll sit perfectly still
And I’ll listen for a tune
While my mind is on the moon

One in particular is a song I heard in an indie flick, Away We Go, with Maya Rudolph and John Krazynski. Pretty much as soon as we left the theater, my sister and I went and got the soundtrack (translation: she bought it on ITunes, and I subsequently stole it in one of my periodical pillages of her laptop. Shut up.). Anyway, the name of the song is called Wait, by Alexi Murdoch. To me, the song asked the all-important question of, when the shit hits the fan, and I just can’t be this awesome person for you, will you still be here for me when I need you? Will you wait for me?

If I stumble, and if I stall
And if I slip now, and if I should fall?
And if I can’t be, all that I could be
Will you, will you wait for me?

I loved this song when I first heard it on the soundtrack. And it struck a chord in me later when I asked someone that very question, and his answer turned out to be no, he would not. For a time he feigned attempts to stay in my corner, but truthfully he was slowly backing out of my life until he finally turned tail and ran. And that’s regrettable. Devastating at the time, but I have grown so cold and distant to that particular chapter in my life that I can’t help but feel only distant anger mixed in with pity.

‘Cause everywhere I seem to be
I am only passing through
I dream these days about the sea
I always wake up feeling blue
Wishing I could dream of you.

At the same time, there are others who I asked the same question, and their answer was (and I get the feeling it always will be) that they would. If I have learned anything these last two years, it’s that you truly do find out who your friends are when you are at your lowest moments. The ones who force you to go to the gym and sweat out your misery (Buckner), the ones who surround you with new faces and new possibilities (Therese), the ones who go out and get ice cream or cheap steak with you at midnight (Rick-Nachooooo!), the ones who will drive through LA 5:00 traffic just so you can see the bench from 500 Days of Summer (Brian), the ones who will listen to you on the phone when you call with hysterical tears (my fabulous Nino!), the ones who invite you over for dinner and let you cry on the couch (Anne, Vanessa and Lucy). Even those who, if they didn’t live in Oregon, would show up at your door, slap you in the face and tell you to quit being such a whiny pendeja and shut up already (do I really need to name names with this one?). Anyfuckingway, before this gets all Oscar-Acceptance speech-ish (it already kinda is. Should I be wearing a dress instead of a Transformers T-shirt and jeans I've had since high school?), All of the party people I just named are full of The Awesome. There is a special place in my rotten, dessicated little heart for all of them, and as soon as I win me the lottery, I will buy them all some hookers and booze.

So if I stumble, and if I fall
And if I slip now, and lose it all?
And if I can’t be, all that I could be
Will you, will you wait for me?

(Ed Note: Don't ask me what brought this on all of a sudden. It's a temporary moment of insanity where I show emotions for some reason so just take it as is.)