Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Personal Revelations in the End Times

I'm going to miss all of you. Well, some of you. If really pressed, I'm sure I could probably come up with a couple of people I'm going to miss as soon as the world blows up/dark planet smacks into us/fire and brimstone rains from the sky/all the real 'Murricans get raptured/planets align creating massive gravitational forces/sun sends off face-melting rays. No matter what the cause of our impending doom, I've had to come to the realization that I only have few precious hours remaining to speak to you, my fans. It would be most selfish of me not to reveal my current festering thoughts to the world before computers and phones stop working from the electronic disturbance of the magnetic poles switching. Firstly, as you are crying from the sting of radioactive gasses, feel free to focus on this image as the last bit of earthly beauty you see:

I'm muggin' ugly in front of a Christmas tree
I couldn't tell if duck face was better with eyes open or closed so I did both. HOTT.
The above picture was from a party I crashed a few weeks ago. It was the event of the season, I tell you. My celebratory senses were tingling as I started walking down the street and happened upon* a school filled with energy and delight. Students, staff and volunteers were gathering to share breakfast victuals and good cheer in the cause of raising funds for community programs such as the food pantry. I wasn't exactly thrilled by the lack of mimosas or dubstep but this "Santa" phenomenon was such a novel idea I had to get a picture from his delightful throne. I removed him first as he kept getting into my shot and that certainly was not acceptable as although reds and other jewel tones are in this season, fur is murder unless I'm wearing it.

Another surprise from the day was that a well-loved professional soccer player from a local team embodying greenery made an appearance to sign memorabilia and take pictures with the attendees. This player was unfortunately traded later, but now that makes everything he signed so exclusive! As we know, exclusivity is everything. Shame on him though for doing selfless things when he had packing to do. I bet he rushed everything so his clothes are all wrinkled now. Certainly helping to raise money for people in need of food and other entitlements is secondary to assuring a seamless move to God's favorite state.

In retrospect, the only aspect of the gathering that could have been better would have been the safety. In light of recent tragic events, I did a minimal amount of reading and sniffed once or twice at the lamestream media before finding the best information on Twitter, facebook, and Fox News. Now that I'm aware that more guns (rather than adequate mental & physical health care and education) makes us safer, all of the people at the event should have been packing heat. I don't want caregivers around children unless they have a weapon on them at all times. As a former teacher, although I often worked with special needs children and couldn't even have any earrings on or loose hair since both were frequently ripped out by those children, I realize now I still should have had a gun on me. All of the other teachers should have, too. We should have been required to buy weapons at our own expense, gladly pay for the training in their use, and bring them around our precious children on a daily basis. Nothing is more safe than having multiple emotionally charged people spraying bullets in all directions instead of just one irrational person doing so.

I don't know about you, but my reasoning and aim is always best when the adrenaline's flowing and the children I'm trying to protect are running everywhere, without my even having the benefit of being experienced in weapons or law enforcement. I would enjoy having to make quick judgment calls about whether or not that angry dad is getting out his gun, a phone or a business card. Sounds good to me. It's so easy to live with the guilt of killing someone, intentional or accidental, and that should just be another part of the role of a responsible educator.

A note from a teacher that doesn't know what she's talking about.
With the fifth complaint you get a free note.
On a lighter note, here is a sweet note I received a couple of weeks later after I continued to crash school functions every day:

The reason I went to go hang out with these kids every day was to have them create a cyclone of destruction throughout every room in the school. It's preposterous to think I would feel any responsibility for keeping my impact to a minimum, having had my own classroom in the past and remembering just slightly how it felt when someone else used the room. You're right. I have told those kids to get in your desks and just TEAR. SHIT. UP. Guilty as charged!

I laugh maniacally while ordering the children not to sweep up or spend 10 minutes picking everything up at the end of our pure senseless chaos. I have never notified the custodian after we left if there was something I just couldn't clean up. I have also not started taking pictures of the classroom when we enter and when we leave so I have evidence of the difference. That would be insane because those pictures would in no way show how messy all your classrooms are when we get there and that the clutter was actually yours and your students'. I would be completely irrational to be deeply insulted by your repeated complaints to me or my supervisor if I had one. Of course, I wouldn't expect any of you would actually have your students clear off their desks or anything so there wouldn't be the possibility for anyone to accidentally displace their precious items just in the course of using the space, because you don't have any way of knowing via a regular schedule that we are coming to destroy your room. Now I'm just being ridiculous.

By the way, what I really enjoy and hope you will all continue doing, is make phone calls or have meetings while I'm in your room doing wreaking my havoc and roll your eyes at me because that lets me know I'm doing my best. Again, you certainly had no idea I was going to be there or anything and I love nothing more than being able to inconvenience you. How I wish I remembered what it was like to be one of you so this situation could even be more hurtful than you know.

*Note: this is most certainly not a school at which I have happened to become employed. That sounds silly. I promised I would never work in education again, forsaking all reasonable and valiant activities for the lifestyle of a wandering drunkard. This sounds like something my terrible impostor might do! In her responsible way, she would likely remove identifying information and change names as not to cause friction in the course of her sad, frustrated, disappointed ranting at the end of the world. Think no more on this.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

The Most Fabulous Accessories You Can Never Own

Yes, I know you want them, but you can't have them. They are all mine. After I spent endless hours callousing my fingers in the creation of my beautiful hats and related accoutrements I have decided I simply cannot part with them. I once thought you may have enjoyed buying a horribly overpriced fashion accessory with my name on it merely so you could attempt to capture a small part of my brilliance for a fleeting moment, basking in my glory as you weep at your reflection, but it is not to be. Sucks to be you.

A cat wanders through a pile of crocheted hats
Hatterday enthusiast GB peruses the most exclusive fashion house in Portland

I arrived at my conclusion after an extended period of research and contemplation. The design and construction of jewelry and other accessories, afghans, quilts and some basic clothing has been a consistent hobby of mine over the years. I had become quite talented in the production of my wares and thought that perhaps I could make a slight bit of income from them instead of just bestowing them as gifts.

Working feverishly to complete a sufficient number of hats for stock, I was driven by the thought my success would be soon at hand. Fortunately, my handler had a line in to a festive event where I could place my wares on a table and my fans would come by and throw endless wads of cash at me. I went into the endeavor fully conscious of how spectacular I am, equipped with impressive works that everyone would cherish as much as I do.

For two days, I sat in a frighteningly white and chilly room, populated by mulleted or poodle-permed women selling such delights as "NASCAR potholders", "scripture bookmarks" and things having to do with the fine art of "scrapbooking". Of course, all of their sales paled in comparison to the cackling coven of witches peddling their evil. I wish I could forget what they were selling, but it was difficult to when every waking moment they screeched at anyone within a two mile radius, "CUPCAKES! CUPCAKES! CUPCAAAAAAAAAAAAAKES! ONLY A DOLLAR! CUPCAAAAAAAAAAKES! OOOOOOOHHH! AND SNICKERDOODLES! YUUUUUUUMMMMMMMY! CUPCAKES!"

Wait, I lied. They didn't screech that at every moment. There were a few times in the ladies restroom or at the sales floor when in not-so-hushed whispers they would discuss the horrendously high cost of my hats and why I wasn't selling anything. I truly wish now that I had known previously to the bazaar that people in East County do not have any money for a hat that would last a lifetime and help them try to look fabulous while keeping warm, but they do have plenty of funds available for multiple cupcakes and trips to Burned Coffee Mermaid Land and the vending machines each day.

hats with bling, crocheting, lots of holiday colors
Not yours.
Even the lady that came by and asked me to make two custom hats overnight for her found a way to let me keep those, too. I had attained measurements from her, procured materials, crocheted like a beast and brought them in the next day after little sleep. She never returned. I now know that a $20 total quote for two handmade hats was unfair of me, because I should have tried to sell them to her for even more of a loss. Selfishly, I just wanted to be able to say I sold something and at least break even on the materials. I should have tracked her down, given her the hats, and bought her some cupcakes for the trouble of having to talk to me.

This year, I attended a sale at a religious school near my home. Every* person that walked past my table picked up a hat, commented on how beautiful/cute/well-made/stylish/fun they were, placed it back down, and kept walking. I just couldn't swindle the horrendous $25 dollars for a crocheted hat adorned with beads or crystals out of their purses. The exorbitantly priced $10-$15 textured baby hats elicited many cries of joy, but none as exuberant as mine as I came to the conclusion that I wouldn't have to give them up and could take them home to where they would truly be appreciated.

I consulted with my fashion magazines and realized that the most sought-after fashion tends to be the most unique and exclusive. And what could be more exclusive than accessories from a line no one is able to purchase? From now on, I will be making them only for my own enjoyment and bragging rights. Why attempt to get money to survive when I can certainly sustain myself merely on the jealousy of others? I did see some very plain hand crocheted hats this weekend at the Giant Downtown Book Fort being sold for even more than what I was charging. However, they are made in the exotic country of Indonesia so I'm certain it's best you keep sending all of your precious hat money out of the country either at the Book Fort, Cheap Shit Workers' Hell or Nonsensical Ancient Military Allegory.

Thank you, all, for helping me find my path to true enlightenment. I am the only one awesome enough to wear my creations and no amount of begging will ever change my mind. I'm certain of it. Fairly certain.

*Special thanks to the woman that informed me of the fact people with curly hair don't wear hats. You do learn something new every day.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Stop Putting Horseface on My Magazines!

A calico cat puts her ass on a scary issue of Elle
Daisy says no to Horseface and yes to tuna.
My cat Daisy shares my sentiments when it comes to the world of fashion and the coverage of it. Yet again, I open my mailbox and stand aghast in horror as I see Horseface on the cover. Seriously, again with the Horseface? WHY?!? Is there some reason of which I am not aware that you are compelled to force her down my throat?

Are there no other people considered fashionable anymore so that you must frequently return to the same stable? I find that so hard to believe, considering that I myself know at least a few more than twelve people. Although they would not look as fabulous as I do, they would still be able to provide some variance to the medium. You fashion folk have an entire network at your disposal that I do not, so it now seems that you are simply trolling me.

On one of the other magazines that arrived a few days earlier, I had to endure That Other Girl from Twinkly Religious Propaganda Castrated Vampire Movie, which is only slightly better than Boring McOneExpression from Twinkly Religious Propaganda Castrated Vampire Movie.

Of course, I could have even been subjected to even more Boobage O'Drugbutt Fame Whore or Heiress vagFlash vonUseless, so I should really count my blessings. Hell, at this point I would even welcome more SadEyes Escapey DeBeard than these chicks, just because I'm happy her ignorant butt finally woke up and fled from her ex-husband Cult Shillington the Vile.

Fashion is a dynamic, ever-changing realm where ingenuity, creativity and innovation are essential and yet historical reference and tribute is also apropos. Why then is it, that nearly every month, the same faces are staring back at me from the fashion magazine covers? I used to subscribe to far more of them but was forced to discontinue my loyalty when I was tortured by repeated exposure to actresses, models, and celebutants for whom I could, how you say, give a "nary a shit".

Please, for the sake of all that is holy, find some new faces (that don't look like Skeletor, either) that could use the exposure and simultaneously help move the industry forward.

PS: I have been six feet tall since I was twelve, and according to your standards, I have always been plus size, even after I had mononucleosis and lost 10000 pounds in a month. Everyone thought I looked dead, not sexy. Hint hint.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Let's Talk About Dreams

Many years ago now, back in the days of responsibility, I met a magical dream guru. Whenever I saw him at parties, he asked about my dreams but then didn't really comment on them besides nodding, humming or moaning in a peculiar way. He also likes to talk about cuddling a lot. Fascinating, but since he couldn't do much to help make me into the super-famous ultra-celebrity I know I'm destined to be, I stopped dreaming altogether so I wouldn't have anything to talk about if I ever saw him again.

Unfortunately, I started dreaming again a few nights ago and I am terribly conflicted by the messages I have been receiving. Since dreams are prophetic visions delivered straight from God I know that I must take each one of these messages very seriously and devote a majority of time figuring out their meaning and accordingly implementing changes into my life. I am not interested right now in talking to my magical dream guru so it'll have to be all me. Good thing I'm amazingly brilliant so this won't take much effort. Additionally, I've only had about three hours of sleep in the last week so I've got that working for me. I'll still try my best to dumb this down for you, my dear fans.

Dream #1:

I was on a ratty yet comfy couch and did nothing but watch an episode of CSI. Not the horrible NY one that makes me want to claw out my eyes or the Miami one whose untimely departure I still lament, the original Las Vegas one I still watch religiously. It was a fascinating episode involving the return of Gil Grissom, but yet his facial hair looked like that of Colonel Sanders and he had put on about 400 lbs. Is this the true fate of William Petersen? I think Manhunter probably wouldn't have had the same effect on me had the Fat Colonel been on the hunt for The Tooth Fairy. With the Taco Bell Chihuahua as Hannibal Lecter: "Yo quiero human flesh."

Anyway, the CSI episode was about how Sara Sidle got pregnant and Grissom wanted her to go on Maury for lie detector and paternity tests. I think this dream means that no matter how popular I become, I must always be ready to whore myself out for any occasion because there's no such thing as bad publicity. Duh. Stupid waste of time dream.

BRB, taking a break to make some 'Sketti for lunch and then barf it all up.

Okay, I'm back.

Dream #2:

I was sitting at a dressing table, looking in a mirror, putting on my three inches of face plaster, when I noticed something odd about my chest. It was covered in stubble. Seriously. I had about three days growth of hair all over my chest and torso. This was clearly a nightmare. As you know, I would never have stubble like that on my chest because I wouldn't shave it, I would wax it. This is probably the most unbelievable scenario I could have dreamt,because the stubble was also grey and I only have grey hairs in my eyebrows and beard. The ones on my chest are black.

Perhaps this dream means I should stop applying Propecia to my chest even though my stylist said it would increase my ability to be cast in an episode of Grimm. I think the show is about princesses and fairy tale crap like that and although I've never watched the show or know what the hairy chest part is for, I usually trust his sage advice in my career choices. I'm still confused, though, so I'm going to still keep applying it for the time being until I have a clarification dream.

Dream #3:

I don't have much time left before my nap so I can only dictate out one more for now (my cat is typing as I sip my coffee [I type real good meow help me she's crazy send help now meow]). As you can certainly remember, I am a WAG. My husband plays football in an over-40 league (reminder: that means the elite league, they score over 40 goals each season), and this is yet another way I am better than all of you. There are many reasons, yes, but this one is pretty much one of the best. The dream involved a discussion with my footballer husband regarding how he had been ignoring me for six months so I was going to go to Las Vegas to cheat on him. I was packing for the trip and removing clothes from an old suitcase. Once I pulled those clothes out, I lifted up the top of the bed and inside the mattress was a pool of water. I put the clothes in and then put the lid of the mattress back down.

I was then all of a sudden in Las Vegas, in a very low quality room without windows. All over the casino there were Icee machines filled with root beer liquor. This certainly had to be another nightmare as root beer is for simpletons and peasants. If this is a prophetic dream and I do end up in this hellish type of place someday, I'm going to put bleach in the toilet before I go in it and try to gas myself. I've tried it about 20 times before but I'm certain I will someday be able to make it work. Since all hotels stopped cleaning the toilets years ago the final addition of my alcohol-dehydrated super ammonia concentrated urine will cause an explosion of epic proportions. What an awesome obit that will be and the classy people will clap for me the most when I'm in the In Memoriam thing at awards shows.

Any and all dream interpretations welcomed, mine or yours.

PS: Dear Russian visitors, I see you. Welcome. I can always use admirers from all over the world.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Impostors! Scandal! Drugs! Entitlement!

It's come to my attention that a most egregious crime is afoot, as someone has been attempting to impersonate me on the internet and allege some horrific claims. My dear fans, let me assure you that my personal presence on the internet medium is to be increased from this moment forward, as when my absence is noticeable, that's when my impostor makes itself known. Fear not, I will clarify numerous points for you so that you may determine at any time if indeed you are hearing from me, or the devious rascal claiming to be me. How this deviant found a way to use my Twitter account when I leave it logged in all the time with my Firefox browser window open and my computer logged in by fingerprint I shall never know.

The misconceptions refuted and my personal goals upheld and expanded:
  • The rapscallion claims that I have once again become employed in the noble pursuit of educating children, incredibly enough mainly in the sciences and arts. My tears of embarrassment well up merely at the mention of such a notion, as I gave up that endeavor long ago, when the development of our youth no longer seemed as important to me as doing body shots of Goldschlager. I'm sure you can empathize with my plight. Please, if you hear about me performing any sort of noble deeds, please take them with a grain of salt, and tequila and lime.
  • My lack of updates is most definitely not due to new employment or being otherwise occupied with various activities, it can solely be attributed to my discovery of a fabulous new drug upon which I have become immediately dependent. Called "The Cet", "Zert Magic" or "SneezSlepe", this concoction has done more to encourage an out-of-body experience than anything I've ever tried. Within an hour of ingestion, I am already feeling myself lulled to sleep by any repetitive sound such as a clock ticking, cats meowing, or the dulcet tones of a leaf blower. I'm out like a light. Brilliant. I wake up not knowing where I am, who I am, or why I have an amazingly powerful nosebleed. Miraculously, I have noticed a stop to my sore throats and sneezing fits; what wonderful side effects! My dealer charges exorbitant fees for this drug so one day when he wasn't looking I found a bottle of it amongst his personal items and the medical name is Cetirizine. If any of my fans could hook me up with a cheaper dealer I would appreciate it.
  • I was in the deliberation stage of adding a new goal to my Rules of Engagement, that of aiming to be re-tweeted by a reality star, when my shameless impersonator accomplished that very goal with something I NEVER would have said. Adrianne Curry, 1st Top Model Winner and now undoubtedly my biggest fan, RT'd a statement regarding patriarchal oppression in religion. My true fans know that I would never had uttered such a statement, knowing that I have no interest in discriminating against religions by telling them to stay out of my life and basic rights. I welcome your control of my lady parts, because as soon as I am mega rich I won't have to worry about it any more anyway. I just have to find an old white guy to bankroll me and society's rules no longer apply to my life. I don't understand why other women haven't come to this conclusion, either. If you are pretty and he buys you lots of sparklies, remember to vote against rights that poorer women might want because it will motivate them to find an old rich white guy, too. We all win. Hooray sparklies!
  • In relation to the last point, I must take a moment to discuss entitlement as my impostor has an unfortunate liberal conspiracy agenda (and is probably a communist socialist). During this election season, I have come to the realization that I would be far more successful as an adult if I hadn't been given the entitlements of reduced school lunch or the gluttonous amounts of rice, milk, and actual government cheese when I was a child. I would have been far more motivated to make something of myself, working even more than the two jobs at a time, if I had been taught the important lesson of starvation. Of course my parents were working incredibly hard to support us, but it clearly wasn't enough because the children beating me up for wearing thrift store clothes were not impressed. If only my parents had found a way to either become job creators or receive the blessings of one and buy me designer clothes back then. Of course, I prayed constantly during this time for us not to live in a decrepit house with mostly non-functional heat, but I must have been sinning in some yet unknown way to not deserve the basic things in life. I am reminded every day on Facebook that I am immensely blessed to have the opportunity to vote for a lack of change to continue and to in fact expand these horrific circumstances for today's youth, because what an exceptional motivator utter despair truly is. 
As an addendum, please enjoy this look into my current redecoration hobby. I have been watching a lot of reality TV shows and one constant I have come to understand is that no one ever puts anything away when they move into the mansion/beach house/castle and they just leave everything out all over the floor and beds. You clear a patch on the bed when you bring someone back to smush or clear a path on the floor when you need to get to the bathroom to vomit or sit on the toilet with the door open. I've been making progress on the bedroom and I'm quite proud.

The biggest mess of a bedroom
I'm available for decorating consultation; email me anytime.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Slummin' It... Camping at Detroit Lake

In the second installment of the newest internet sensation, the Slummin' It series, our heroine discusses more aspects of a life without sophistication. This week, I elucidate on the experiences at Detroit Lake, from the second half of my week long camping trip. The first part of the week is here: Slummin' It... Camping at Silver Falls State Park.

clear blue day view of detroit lake swimming area
There aren't very many pictures from my time at Detroit Lake, as except for the couple of occasions I went floating in the actual reservoir or took quick sprints to the restroom*, I spent most of my time hiding in the tent. This was not due to to the fact it was breezy, or the squirrels too friendly, or the gravel making it hard to walk in heels. It was because I was certain at least one of the campers around me was a serial killer. Maybe all of them. I'm not sure. But this tranquil location is certainly an accomplice to disaster as it lulls you into a calm, false sense of security and then, BAM! Your throat is flapping open in the wrong place and you're gurgling like a bathtub drain. I thought camping was supposed to be a relaxing experience. I was supposed to be out connecting to nature to decrease my anxiety, not increase it in the fear of waking up without a face.

Here's the site where we set up our temporary home at detroit lake
My refuge. If I had been staying in a cabin by the lake, I'd be dead already.
I couldn't take any chances with my safety. All of the signs of impending doom were there: a campsite in H Loop had a full size refrigerator plugged in on the driveway, there were a lot of massive red trucks covered in Romney stickers, and a bird shat all over my publicist's chair. Even the campsite of frat dude bros was not likely to be a safe haven, for although they were fortifying themselves with plenty of Vitamin R, I knew that the killers in our midst would likely search out the bros first as they were listening to Bruno Mars and Justin Bieber for some reason full blast on a boombox. The inside of my tent with its half-deflated mattress and sandy sheets was far more of a safe and secure location. I even had chemical warfare devices at my disposal: the new issues of Elle and Marie Claire were loaded with perfume ads.
The suspects:

Screaming Grandma, Screaming Mom, Barking Dog, Sad Children: This site housed a woman that looked like Large Marge, her even larger and louder daughter, all five of the daughter's kids, a trailer, and about 70 tents. The children ranged in age from an approximately 14-year-old boy, who was expected to act like the man of the house, all the way down to a three-year-old girl. The eight-year-old girl was screamed at constantly by her mother, for various reasons such as not keeping the three-year-old's dress from getting dirty, not rinsing the dishes fast enough, and for not sweeping out the trailer. The large dog was apparently named Shut Up, as all day long that's the only phrase anyone ever said toward it. Screaming Mom really likes her coffee and snack cakes and if you get in her way you might not live to see the sunrise. Perhaps Shut Up could escape and gnaw through your stomach to fill his emotional hunger inside that can't be sated by food. Or maybe little 8-year-old Cinderella would beat you with a broom as she screamed, "Why does her dress need to be clean? We're camping at a lake, stupid!" So many possibilities here.

Rastafarian Knicks Fan and Little Dude: The stoner group arrived after dark, turned on their headlights to set up the campsite, and cranked up the Bob Marley. The laughing never stopped, except to shout at Little Dude, "Hey, Little Dude, don't walk on the tent poles." "Little Dude, don't get in the fire pit." "Little Dude, don't release the emergency brake and run us all over in retribution for when we used to blow smoke in your face when you were in your crib." At some point around two a.m., the gentleman in the Knicks jersey with the Jamaican flag colors on it stumbled over to the frat dude bro site and crawled into one of their tents. One of them wholeheartedly protested, and Knicks Fan merely replied, "Whoa, I've never slept on an air mattress before!" Will Little Dude stab you with a broken bong? Perhaps the Knicks Fan smothers you in your sleep and then eats all of Screaming Mom's snack cakes? Will the ghost of Peter Tosh wail at you endlessly because you only listen to Bob Marley?

The Quietest Family I've Ever Seen: Dad about 55, pregnant mom about 38, one boy ten, other boy nine. They were SILENT. The campsite was immaculately kept, the folding chairs were never moved, everything that was dirtied was immediately wiped or washed, but all was done so SILENTLY. I was self-conscious every time I opened or closed the car doors because it seemed so extremely loud in comparison. Every once in awhile the family would head out with the parents walking and boys on bikes, but there was no sound. They would come out of their tent and I would have no idea that they had even come back. This proves that they could have gotten behind me with a piano wire at any moment, just to feel the intoxicating power over my insignificant existence, and then slip away again to chuckle at how close I was to death, any time they wanted. Oh, there was the one time the dad spoke to the ten-year-old, hissing, "YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU," but I'm sure that has nothing to do with anything at all.

Glow Stick Juggalos: Um, they were Juggalos with glow sticks. Isn't that enough?

Although I managed to survive, situations like this could happen again anytime, anywhere. Discussion is always welcome on the Do-Nothing Blog (anyone can comment without registering), but it is even more appropriate today. Please tell me which of these people you think would be more likely to drag you out of your cabin and into the woods, and hang you in a tree by your entrails. Perhaps there are some scary folks you remember from a camping trip of your own. Education and vigilance just might save someone's life. Maybe mine, which is the most important.

*I didn't have to worry about counter space here to put in my contacts as unlike at Silver Falls, no one at Detroit Lake washed their hands after going to the bathroom.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Slummin' It... Camping at Silver Falls State Park

Welcome to the first installment of my wildly popular new series, Slummin' It. This series will detail my attempts to ironically enjoy activities I used to do as a youth, before I became the gorgeous, sophisticated socialite I am today.

Me looking like a doofus in front of a waterfall
Yes, that's vodka in my bottle.
The first location I thought of while trying to come up with a regression to simpler times was that of Silver Falls State Park, right here in Oregon. Although this site is cursed with many exhausting and sweat-inducing trails, freezing cold waterfalls, and thousands of varieties of stinging and biting wildlife, I remember this place mainly because this is where my mom found a poop in the shower and where I lost a quarter inch off my little toe when a boulder trapped my foot.

My handler and I imagined that a return to this nightmarish vacation spot would provide a slight bit of needed aversion therapy. If I faced my fears here, I might be able to face other fears later, such as talking to dirty-looking people or having to drink house label champagne. We packed up everything in the house, Tetrised it all into the car, and then unpacked it into a much less sturdy version of the house, where I slept on the floor in a mix of blankets and dirt. To blend in with the local population I wore some clothes I found on the MAX and rubbed soot in my hair.

Yes, majorly disconcerting about this trip was the fact I wouldn't be able to wear my typical dress or cake my face in its customary beautifying sludge. I didn't even pack any exfoliant. Imagine my surprise, then, the first morning I entered the ladies' loo to find three fabulous women taking up the entire sink counter with their own cosmetics and various hair burning devices. My jealousy overwhelmed me when I realized they were expertly applying enough mascara, eyeliner and shadow to successfully avoid a raccoon attack (if you do up your face to look like them, they invite you into their family). I knew that my needing to put contacts in my eyes was not as important as their blowouts, so I gratefully waited for 30 minutes to have counter space. I was additionally happy at realizing how kind these ladies were to prevent me from putting in my contacts for that much longer, as any amount of time I could spend not being able to see my imperfect reflection was truly a gift. The bitches that kept trying to cut in to wash their hands had better check themselves next time, too.

I'm burning things to eat
I can still hear the chattering.
The smell of propane hurts my delicate senses so I sipped at a fine vintage bottle of MD 20/20 to gather up enough courage to conduct all cooking over the wood fire pit. This can often be time consuming, so after trapping the young squirrels I would just place the traps directly on the grate. Fortunately, the smell of their roasting brethren kept the rest of the furred menaces away from our site, leaving my just-woven basket of fresh croissants and beignets untouched.

The main objective of this trip was to find the exact waterfall--there are ten in this park-- where I lost part of my toe as a child. In my more studious and responsible youth, I broke away from my character for a moment and decided to climb under one of the waterfalls. It was a inviting scene: a waterfall of reasonable volume, a smallish pool, and direct access that allowed me to wade into the water and directly under the falls. The pool came up to my chest and the refreshing and exciting falls cascaded over me. I was greatly enjoying myself until the boulder I was on shifted slightly, and caught my foot in between itself and the adjacent rocks. I attempted to dislodge my foot, but it was tightly wedged, and I couldn't simply pull it out of my shoe, because I had already removed my shoes on the shore.

It took approximately ten minutes of focusing away my panic and shifting all of the boulders with a rocking motion until I was able to yank my foot out of the water. I made my way back to shore, thoroughly frozen by now and shaken from the experience. I jammed my feet back into my shoes and started back down the trail with my family. Approximately fifteen minutes later I was feeling a strange dull pain in my right foot. I looked down and saw my white canvas shoe was now bright red, and leaving even more liquid redness on the trail. Upon removing the shoe I discovered that my little toe on my right foot was shorter than it had been before and had no nail; I hadn't felt the injury due to the cold water. My nail actually grew back six years later, strangely, but the toe is still slightly stubbier.

Anyway, my publicist and I traveled the entire system of trails until we found the devil falls. I was disappointed to not find my toe piece, as I know a really good plastic surgeon that could have certainly reattached it the next time I went in for a forehead sandblasting. Returning unsuccessful to the campsite, I desired some level of productivity so I again visited the restroom. This time, I found the sinks available, yet the outlet still was not. A teenage girl stood next to the wall with her iPhone plugged in, despite the fact there was no signal remotely near the park. I admired her devotion to her cause as she stood in that bathroom and watched her phone charge for the next four hours. Oh, the sights, sounds and smells she must have witnessed, that brave girl. Perhaps in 20 years she will return to the park and reenact her trauma, as well.

This installment is merely the first half of the camping trip. The second installment will outline the second half of the week, which was endured at Detroit Lake. I'll upload that adventure for my fans soon enough.

I'm pointing at the waterfall where I lost my toe
The scene of the tragedy.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

What I Learned Over Summer Vacation

I've learned such a great deal about myself and the universe I live in over the last few weeks. As I do not have the time today to compose a truly eloquent treatise on the subject, I shall elucidate my experiences using the classiest of forms, the bullet point. Enjoy.
  • My name is Jennifer, and I'm an adrenalholic. It's quite frustrating when beginning your new life of leisure to realize you're not healthy enough yet to be incredibly self indulgent. Apparently living on lots of work and little sleep, loads of caffeine, occasional sugar binges, too much exercise and too little food (especially protein) can make these tiny things called "adrenal glands" implode in on themselves; mine nearly created a quantum singularity. And seriously, there's nothing like a good, old fashioned panic attack every day to get the heart racing like you've just done the Ironman but without all of the silly Power Bars stuck to your bicycle. I should be able to enjoy the fear of death on a relaxed, fun, casual basis, not with endless blinding hysteria. Now I have to amend my secret plans to include schemes in restoring my adrenals before I can set about destroying my liver. This involves nutrition, meditation and lighter exercise. I have already begun eating four times a day at regular intervals with measured portions of actual foods. It's so exhausting, but I have already ceased experiencing my rampant anxiety. This means I can do shots this evening, right?
hot glued rhinestones defacing a USL Timbers Army scarf
Hot glue burns never felt so good.
  • My scarf still didn't have enough bling. I fixed that.

Feet up in the exam room
What do you mean I don't need the stirrups today?
  • Never attempt to break one's toe merely to fit a foot into a pointy toed shoe. Perhaps I could mention that I broke my little toe slamming it into a box spring that was sitting on the floor as I exited the bathroom whilst half-asleep, but that's not glamorous at all, dear fans. In order for my devotion to fashion to sound more impressive, I will claim the first story as truth and add that I subconsciously did it on purpose since I was bored. 

  • I don't know anything about soccer. Silly me, I thought you were supposed to hold onto your best players and build from the back, but have good service from your midfield that connects with your strikers, and then you actually score goals while keeping out your opponents'. I have this thing all wrong, apparently. Good. I actually have no need to be smart at anything anymore.
  • Michael Phelps was the only person at the Olympics. Wait a minute, I'm wrong. Costas and Seacrest were there, too.
  • Feral cats like to abandon their runts in my yard. One precious mama had six children on my covered patio, and only took four of them with her when she moved house. The other two were left behind and by my observation she did not attend to them. She returned at one point and watched them cry, but left again without them. They became increasingly sad and lethargic, and had been neglected for 24 hours when I finally went to retrieve them; I believed they couldn't wait any longer. I now have the most wonderfully erratic sleep schedule and the constant pleasant aroma of kitten milk replacer about me, but it's all worth it knowing that I can eventually provide a couple of chic accessories for someone. I raised my own dear grey boy Broots by bottle 13 years ago when his mother left him in the front garden and was then hit by a car. He is currently too big to fit in a bag smaller than a rolling duffel so I need to put him on Atkins or The Zone. Right now, the new ones could fit in a clutch.
Two little kittens on a heating pad
Manipulative attention whores.

Friday, July 27, 2012

Week in Review: Favorite Naps Countdown

After a few weeks of starting my new, fabulous lifestyle, I began to experience a strange phenomenon that at first deeply concerned me. During the day, I found myself becoming drowsy, with my eyes urging me to allow them to close for longer than their regular casual blink, and I was losing control of other assorted motor functions. This would seem to occur most often in a comfortably warm location, with soft surfaces on which I could choose to repose. It came to me one gray, misty afternoon, as I slowly began to recall a long-forgotten luxury I used to enjoy on occasion in my youth: sleeping during the day. I believe you people call it a nap.

During this last week, I endeavored to take as many naps as possible, considering I had nothing better to do, and that I really had no choice as my adrenal glands are 4000X overstimulated after living go!go!go! for 24/7/365/17. The following is a ranked order of my day sleeps with scandalous details and valuable tips for optimizing your own nap experience.

Cats in a basket
Unfortunately, this nap was over before it began. I had noticed that a couple of my furry accessories quite prefer this basket as a location for their frequent respite periods. I mistakenly believed they might allow me to share the comfort of their fur-covered blankets and faintly urine-scented pillows, but no, these greedy little bastards had no room for their weary guardian.


Too much fur on this damn couch
Face into the couch for maximum skin creases.
This slumber fete occurred on the shredded brown leather couch, which is now surrounded by a splendidly fur-enhanced Sure-Fit cover, so it is the closest possible experience to that of the cat nap that I could manage. I should also mention that the State of Oregon throw blanket is also completely covered in cat remnant, providing maximum warmth and odor potential.

I decided to forgo a pillow and merely placed my head against the rock-hard armrest, resulting in a very uncomfortable yet sassy head tilt for the remainder of the day. For a better sleep interval, I would recommend ear plugs so that you don't hear the ambiance of your neighborhood. Although, that means you may miss out on such wonderfully soothing sounds such as leaf blowers, the loudspeaker at the fruit outlet you can hear a block away, the extra intense car stereos, and the couple across the way at the apartments having their biweekly shouting match about money and leaving them kids alone.


Face down in the grass like a pro
Stabilize yourself with pointed toes as to not roll down the hill.
Last Sunday, I spent a fine evening at a gathering for my husband's football team. This gathering happened to be at a winery, which is a perfect location for a posh WAG like myself. My footballer husband plays for an over-40 squad, a designation that means each player scores over 40 goals per season. As you can surmise, this makes me quite famous already. I will further develop this WAG identity as part of my new life.

My red vintage purse was surprisingly comfortable as a head rest for my impromptu slumber. Make certain to choose a soft portion of grass for your nap, as upon my inspection, the ground between the rows of vines themselves are dusty and that can dull even the shiniest of lip glosses. Be ware.


Holy crap look at all that drool
A high thread count is essential.

I could immediately tell this was my favorite nap of the week, because although it had lasted a mere 30 minutes, it provided an overwhelming sign of enjoyment. Any physical activity that results in a fluid release immediately goes down as a winner in my book, I dare say. Stay hydrated, my friends.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Becks, I'm Afraid We're Through

I could have been doing many important things over the last couple of weeks, such as visiting my best friend and her newly-expelled infant, cleaning up the aftermath of what seems like a tornado's destructive path through my home, or attempting to tame the savage overgrowth surrounding my abode, but no, I had something much more significant to attend to: preparing for the arrival of my true pookie poo, David Beckham.

I used to love Becks
I'm certain Becks can sense me when I wear this.

There was just so much to do in the days leading up to when the LA Galaxy were coming to play footsie with the Portland Timbers. My Manchester United shrine with my 2002-03 kit hadn't been dusted in a whole day and the candles had to be replaced. I needed to practice my endless shrieking, knowing I'd have to compete with so many other females uttering the common mating call. My headband collection had been stolen in a previous burglary, so I had to go shopping for some more to bring for him. I also needed more glitter spray because I only had six bottles remaining and that simply wouldn't do since I was sure to use all of it when I painting my stomach with the Burger King logo.

On a serious note, my relationship with David began in 2002, when I moved to England to teach in an elementary school. This was when I was still doing things of consequence and attempting to change the world. My classroom had experienced many troubles before I arrived and I endeavored to find a way to gain their trust. The bonding began after I asked the dear little ones about what they enjoyed most in the world. The top two answers were West Ham United and Manchester United, with David Beckham himself mentioned due to his play for Man U and being captain of the England national squad.

I soon found myself enjoying far too many hours sitting in front of televisions at home and in pubs, and racing back to school to talk to the children about the magic of football. The fact that on match days, seemingly everyone I saw was wearing a kit or scarf, only made the world of football more inviting and exciting. When I moved back to Portland, I spent nearly every weekend watching matches at the Horse Brass. Unfortunately, West Ham was spending one of their many spells in Championship level play and they weren't on television here, and Beckham had moved to Real Madrid, so my only outlet was watching Manchester United with Ruud van Nistelrooy and trying to focus on his legs so I wouldn't have to be scared by his face.

David Beckham and I are breathing the same air
This very moment defined my entire life.
One day at work at one of my many jobs in 2004, the UPS guy told me about the Timbers, and that I should go to a match. I immediately knew in my heart that if I went to a Timbers match, that some day they would move from USL to MLS, and that Beckham would also someday come play in MLS, so all I had to do was wait. I also knew I had to get with someone who would write for a news organization, so then I could get press credentials, and then I could be on the pitch with Becks.

Of course, all of this occurred according to plan and I first got to breathe the same air as my dreamboat last year when he took a corner kick right next to me. Our minds became as one and I suddenly felt inadequate as a devotee. I just wasn't shrieking enough to get his attention. I should have fainted. I should have asked him to sign my chest. I know he was disappointed that I wasted our time together. I then plotted that when he came back, things would be different.

The couple of weeks prior to the match were the most strenuous and agonizing. What would I say? What would he say? Would I have prepared amply to attract his attention? Have I watched those Burger King commercials sufficiently? Have I practiced not smiling enough, since he seems to find that alluring? Despite hours of practice, my duck face look still seemed flawed and not suitably off-putting.

Game day arrived and I threw up even more than I usually did. I arrived at the park and took my regular position on the pitch in the North End. I had done my hair and makeup even better than their ordinary brilliance, with Sharpies and everything. This was about to be epic. But guess what? It turned out to be the biggest letdown of my life. Sure, he looked in my direction a couple of times, but did he ever come over and say, "Keep screaming, I love it." or "I'm leaving my wife for you." or "I made sure my hair was extra greasy the way you like it." or even, "Hey Jen, you don't look as fat as last year."? NO! I guess I lost those 40 pounds for no reason, then, huh? Did you even see the duck face I was doing? It was freaking hot! Your loss, pal. I'm done. Have fun with your new best pal Landon. You guys totally deserve each other.
It's like David Beckham doesn't even see me.
I didn't think it was all over. It is now.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Happy Birthday, 'Murrica... Gresham Style!

Rockin' it hard in the neighborhood
Pickup trucks, BBQ, blowin' shit up: welcome to Gresham

Although I usually like to party in exotic faraway places, I decided to go bestow the charming, hardworking 'Murricans in my East County neighborhood with appearances at their festivities. Of course, to fit in, I was going to have to go with something a little more simple for the evening: little black dress and pearls!

The first gathering I dropped in to left me with quite a puzzled impression of my area's youth. Numerous young lads on bicycles seemed to have a major problem with my manner of dress and the fact I had brought along my cat, Mingette (it's French), to mingle at their function. Assorted adults also appeared to disapprove of the shaker of martinis I brought along to enhance the evening.

Mingette drinks straight from the shaker
Martinis and Mingette
As I reluctantly departed from the first event, I encountered a darling little old lady, who slowly walked down the street with her stylish bamboo cane and scrunchy, angry face. I greeted her in my customary way of inquiring if she wanted an autograph, and she responded with a compliment for our community.

"Damn idiot fools!" she said, wobbling in fury, "They're going to burn everything down!" How charming, my new friend, you dear sweet lady. Truly, what a treat that would be for us all. Mingette meowed sadly that her buzz was wearing off and I gave her a sip of the martinis.

Tripping through a parking lot looking for money
A quick stop at the ATM
The shaker was soon depleted as I sojourned from house to house, watching the residents of my area set fire to everything in sight. I was pleased to see fathers handing their nine-year-olds lighters, educating them in the delightful tradition of explosive digit removal. This value of this type of bonding and education must never be underestimated.

I admit, I had been somewhat dismayed at society's current propensity for downplaying the importance of a father figure in a youth's life, but what I witnessed repeatedly this evening gave me a renewed sense of hope. The influence of my own father essentially assured that I would someday be on my current path to righteous do-nothingness. Filled with pride and optimism for the future, I headed off to find some more money for the next round of martinis.

The regular fireworks social hotspot, the middle school track, was a strangely desolate place. This was disappointing as I so looked forward to tripping over the endless spent fireworks all over the running surface the next day during my laps; it's become a special annual tradition. Fortunately, a family poured out of their minivan and started dancing with Roman candles in the parking lot, so all was not lost.

Mingette finds corn-on-the-cob in the gutter
Light meal for my purse pal
On the way back from the middle school I joined up with a jovial group of my neighbors that choose to perform their incendiary arts in the driveway of their apartment building along the high street. I was surprised that unlike the last 10 years, the smoke cloud did not envelop the entire block.

Further disappointment began to taint my celebratory mood, until I noticed that a kind resident had left a scattered meal of a piece of juicy steak, a half-eaten corn cob, some delectable BBQ chicken, and fine utensils and a platter on the ground for little Mingette. I helped her out of my handbag so she could take advantage of the bounty. Tempted to join her, I then recalled the handful of Special K I had dined upon earlier, so my kitty had to feast alone.

I arrived back to my posh abode to spend the evening listening to the outrageously loud explosions, the resulting car alarms, and the assorted other bangs and gunshots. In total, this year seemed far noisier with a great deal many more rockets exploding in the sky than years past. Let's hope the trend continues and my assistant remembers to buy glow sticks for me. I also need to get started on planning my outfit and signature cocktail for next year. Kisses, everyone!

Hee hee. Really dead tired.
My handler says my nap "Looks like a Hollywood crime scene."
It certainly is a crime I'm not in Hollywood. Seriously.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Title Change and Weekend in Review


I've had to make the decision to change the blog title. Although I had been writing under the title of A Jenny for your Thoughts in some way since 1996 or so, there are simply too many other people with my name, diluting my impact. Some dear thing even bought the .com. How rude, indeed. My own .com will be appearing soon.

In response, I've renamed my project with the term bestowed upon me right after I graduated college. In celebration of all my hard work, family hosted a swanky soiree at the fabulous Village Inn, where I devoured a top notch breakfast skillet and was referred to as "Do-Nothing" by dearest Grandmother. Although I was greatly insulted at the time, I must have been blind to not recognize the universe was revealing my destiny. I will stop wasting time and willingly accept your challenge to in fact, do nothing.

Weekend in Review

Saturday, June 30 was a day filled with sleep, style and social engagements. In the afternoon, I awoke refreshed and even more beautiful than the day before. As a rare treat, I enjoyed an exquisite bowl of Chocolate Chex. I vividly recall the bag whispering its blessings to me as I peeled it apart to reveal the delectable treasure within. The morsels dropped into the bowl, creating a symphony not unlike a classical pianist's masterpiece for a just departed lover. A quick splash of Silk soymilk completed the feast and provided me with my complete caloric needs for the day.

That evening, I was to attend a private viewing affair, that of the Portland Timbers at Colorado Rapids. Although I am somewhat aware of this whole "soccer" phenomenon, I had accepted the invitation mainly to keep up my stellar public profile.

Standing in front of the bar, chugging like a loser.
Paparazzi follow me everywhere.
After a beauty regimen involving an obscene amount of glitter that would do any girl dancing her way through a pre-med program proud, I pre-funked at the most exclusive ultra lounge in town. The owners, knowing full well how my frequenting of their establishment provides them with such advantage in the realm of publicity, ensured that the champagne was flowing.

My driver kept me reasonably on schedule and assured that I arrived to the main destination a punctual one hour late.

I don't remember much of the actual Timbers match as the goals started happening in the wrong net again and I found solace with some crisp Viognier.

Hey, it's a silly drunken selfie
Living it up in the VIP section at Rock Band Beatles show.
After the carnage had subsided, I was treated to an excellent performance by the Rock Band Beatles. They played all of their famous ones like that one song... na na na and such... and the other one, too. It was marvelous. The band seemed so enthusiastic to perform with such a distinguished guest as me in their midst. I am slightly confused as to why their guitars had brightly colored buttons instead of strings on them, but I'm sure it's all Ringo's fault as usual.

My white vintage clutch served as an ideal accompaniment to my navy blue dress and red heels; it was also a perfect location to store the assorted nuts and sweets I found in quaint little dishes on the bar.

All in all, the evening proved to be quite a success and I always love meeting new fans. Who knows, perhaps sometime you will see me grace your festivities. Until next time, my lovelies.
Taking a nap on the patio
I was merely getting a start on my beauty sleep.

Friday, June 29, 2012

The Rules of Engagement

As I sit here daintily sipping my glass of blush wine, eyes casually surveying the brilliance that is Fashion Police, I can't help but let my thoughts drift over to the many possible trivialities to come in my sure to be disastrous future. Although I am choosing to keep most of my plans clandestine, an elementary delineation of the basic ground rules for my new life plan seems to be in order. This will likely to not only prove valuable to myself, as my oncoming fame will certainly be swift and blinding, but also to my family, friends and acquaintances so that they may know best how to assist me in my quest. Please know that although I care for all of you greatly, as I do all of my dear fans, my focus shifting overwhelmingly to myself may, in fact, require you to contract the services of a mental health professional or narcotics dealer so that you can cope with the jarring change in our relational circumstances.

First, what I refuse to do no matter how jaded I become:

1) Make a sex tape with a D-List celebrity. This will not happen not because I'm married, but because I feel it's cheating in the game. The rise to stardom would occur so quickly, I would not have time to accurately vet my publicist, lawyer, stylist, and hair and makeup team. Priorities, people.

2) Be photographed in a short dress without knickers. I think this is something we as a society are seriously finally over. I wouldn't get the same attention as I would have gotten a few years ago so it's not even worth it.

3) Carry a small dog with me everywhere I go. Although I personally think using a canine as an accessory is cruel and ridiculous, the act itself would not be noticeable in Portland; most people cannot even attend a funeral without bringing their pooch escort.

4) Get a DUI or go to rehab. Not even funny. Not happening.

Now, the few aspects of my plan I can reveal:

1) Never go out in public unless well put-together, with fab clothes and makeup. This means that I must look ready for photographs or personal appearances anywhere, anytime. The only exceptions to this rule are workout wear, as exercising in heels is dangerous and counterproductive in the long term, and when I'm arriving at the airport after a 12 hour flight wearing my track suit and giant owl sunglasses, because my eyes will look super puffy after all of the free chardonnay in first class.

2) Get things for free. This is one of the best parts of being famous. I've never quite understood how the people who get expensive items for free usually tend to be only people that could afford them in the first place. I will have absolutely have nothing to spend at all on anything fabulous at the start of my adventure, so I will simply have to assume that the world's financially endowed will continue their rampant generosity and willingly let me join their ranks. I am certain they will be more than happy to do the same for anyone else of my caliber.

3) Drink champagne. I will pop open a bottle and make toasts at any time I wish, for any reason at all. In addition, I am required to drink any glass of champagne someone offers me. The exceptions to this rule are that my husband has the right of override, so that he can refuse to allow me a delicious sparkling beverage if he thinks I will evacuate my stomach all over myself or drift into unconsciousness in a public location; the other exception being that I start urinating under stairs, in alleys, or in potted plants.

4) Start a trend, launch a fashion line, or create a perfume. I will choose one and move forward with real plans. More details to come at a later date.

5) Photobombing. I will find my way into nearly every picture being taken in this town. Believe it.

6) Attend 90% of social engagements I am invited to. However, I will be late and act offended if anyone doesn't know who I am. I have had to turn down most invitations to gatherings and events in the last decade, but since I now have nothing better to do, I suppose you will now be graced with my presence.

7) Document everything in a visual medium. This is fairly self-explanatory but I assure you there will be plenty of pictures and film to accompany my written accounts.

That's enough for now. It should be enough to keep my fans happy. Chelsea Lately has started and my glass is empty. Time to send my husband for a refill and contemplate my look for tomorrow.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

A Reintroduction

This blog was once an exercise in the absurd, in the sense I would transcribe my dreams and embellish some details for dramatic effect. At the time, I was merely working at one place of employment and felt the overwhelming sense of relaxation that provided. Since the age of 14, I had always been employed in some way; after 16 I was full time and beyond. I usually attended school, worked full time in one place and worked at least 20 hours somewhere else at the same time. Sleep was truly a luxury. At the time of my first blog post, I was thrilled to finally have time to return to my creative roots, but only a few months later I would be working upwards of 80 hours a week. Exhaustion soon set in and my diverting enterprises were long forgotten.

A deep sense of responsibility and drive to assist others had always made most of my decisions for me. I took any AP class I could in high school so I could enter PSU as a sophomore. I took overtime classes and worked two jobs to finish my undergraduate courses without any debt. My social life suffered but I assumed I could make up for lost time in the future. I worked & volunteered at non-profits, then spent years as a teacher (first in England and then in Beaverton), edited grants, and then performed data collection for educational projects. I always wanted to make sure that what I was doing made a difference in someone's life. The sad part of this is that somewhere along the way I stopped enjoying it. As much as I could do, as hard as I tried, it just was never enough. There was always someone to complain, someone to demand more, someone to comment on how different I was at how I did things, no matter how well I did. I struggled with remaining altruistic.

My last place of employment started to decrease its number of hours available and yet involved a great many hours of driving to far away schools. I enjoyed it but I was spending a significant amount of time in the car and too much money on gasoline. I found a job ad for something entirely different, where I was certain I could do a great job, and applied. It was near mass transit yet only 15 minutes from my home by car if I chose to drive. It involved working closely and forming relationships with all sorts of different people but yet would allow me to take full benefit of my extreme need for organization and attention to detail. I was truly excited to apply and further delighted to have two interviews and my references were called. The future looked fabulous as I could earn a great living working at *gasp* one place not far from where I lived. I sent an interview thank-you letter and waited. And waited. Annnnnnnd waited. To this day I've heard not a word.

As the weeks went by, I was more and more reminded of all the hundreds of job applications I submitted for teaching jobs, all the interviews I attended, all of the "we've decided to go in another direction" letters I've read over the years. I also remembered all the parts of myself I've ignored and let die while being concerned about the world and everyone in it. A couple weeks ago, I awoke from my fitful slumber with a splitting headache and a terminal case of the "fuck-its". A few days later, my mother fell unexpectedly ill and I needed to take her to the emergency room. After she was admitted to the hospital, I spent the next few days ruminating on how fortunate it was that I didn't get that other job, because I wouldn't have been able to handle everything. I took it as a sign from the universe that it was okay to take a break and I tried to get my brain to understand the concept of a course diversion into funtown. A couple of panic attacks later, I think I've just about accepted my destiny:

I've decided to become the most famous person ever for doing absolutely nothing. In a time where anyone can become a celebrity for absolutely no good reason at all, I will be the champion of doing the least. I'm going to perform exercises in pure indulgence and revel in every moment of my newly useless existence, all while sharing every moment of my non-inspirational journey with you.

I have deleted my fictional compositions on this blog and have left the first post only as a reminder to myself how it could have been, how it should have been, and how it's going to be. Get ready world, this is going to be TERRIBLE.