Pay Me No Nevermind
Something in life always has to go crazy. -_- Make that several somethings in different areas. May talk about it later, but not now. I have to think about it all first.
I've got some pent-up tension I need to get out somehow: primal screaming, drunken debauchery, cupcake scarfing marathons, fire burning on the dancefloor, etc.
Another significant part of me just wants to be this pathetic, whiny puddle of "woe and agony and woe and did I mention woe?" because I'm cramping, and that's just not productive. This isn't even bad. I have vague memories of life before birth control, and what I took for granted as normal then would probably have me considering hospitalization now.
Seriously though, dear Pandora, WHAT is up with the sad, lovelorn, lost and alone, breakup music playing one freaking song right after another? Are you trying to depress me, to tell me something? Seriously? 'Cause you're doing a most excellent job. At this point I'm almost ready to declare that I shall neither love or be loved ever, EVER again and never deserved what I had before anyway, burst into tears, swallow a heaping handful of sedatives (because obviously I have no intrinsic value or purpose), and settle down for a nice long sleep. Why have you gone emo on me, Pandora, why? And why don't I just close your window? Where's my happy music? I like happy music too! You are tempting me to request songs like "Barbie Girl" so, truly, I have hit new lows.
Speaking of, I was in Wal-Mart today doing a bit of grocery shopping (anybody else know ketchup-flavored potato chips existed?) and picking up some kid-type birthday gifts. There are "Barbie Loves Toy Story 3" dolls in which Barbie wears a shirt featuring her character of choice, and I think they come with keychains or something. Doesn't really matter; they're cute enough. But! Somewhere a modder with a dirty mind is in spasms of joy over the "Barbie Loves Woody" doll. I had to stop and do a double take because I certainly didn't read it correctly the first time around.
On a related tangent, meet Gay Bob. He's a real, "anatomically correct" doll from the 70s, and his existence pretty much rocks my world.
I've gotten friend requests on MySpace (which I've all but abandoned and never liked much anyway ::insert snootiness here::) recently from "heavygrinder" and "artist on artist." You can perhaps understand that I expected nothing good to come from such associations. Oh yeah, mind went there, even though they turned out to be innocuous enough. I rather enjoyed ranting and raving at the computer for a bit about failures in subtlety though.
I am relieved to report that my TB test came back non-reactive, and I don't have consumption, so I'm safe to work around kids and can finish up the application process for my fall internship. More on that some other time. In short, I will be interning 20 hours a week at a center specializing in dealing with domestic violence and child abuse in addition to my normal full-time job at the university. This will last from late August until next May. Then hopefully, after almost 5 years of academic hell, I will finally have my master's. They may have to award my degree posthumously because it may just kill me. Should've studied something else. I could've been a doctor of something by now.
I have intentions to write over the summer. We'll see how that goes.
I've got some pent-up tension I need to get out somehow: primal screaming, drunken debauchery, cupcake scarfing marathons, fire burning on the dancefloor, etc.
Another significant part of me just wants to be this pathetic, whiny puddle of "woe and agony and woe and did I mention woe?" because I'm cramping, and that's just not productive. This isn't even bad. I have vague memories of life before birth control, and what I took for granted as normal then would probably have me considering hospitalization now.
Seriously though, dear Pandora, WHAT is up with the sad, lovelorn, lost and alone, breakup music playing one freaking song right after another? Are you trying to depress me, to tell me something? Seriously? 'Cause you're doing a most excellent job. At this point I'm almost ready to declare that I shall neither love or be loved ever, EVER again and never deserved what I had before anyway, burst into tears, swallow a heaping handful of sedatives (because obviously I have no intrinsic value or purpose), and settle down for a nice long sleep. Why have you gone emo on me, Pandora, why? And why don't I just close your window? Where's my happy music? I like happy music too! You are tempting me to request songs like "Barbie Girl" so, truly, I have hit new lows.
Speaking of, I was in Wal-Mart today doing a bit of grocery shopping (anybody else know ketchup-flavored potato chips existed?) and picking up some kid-type birthday gifts. There are "Barbie Loves Toy Story 3" dolls in which Barbie wears a shirt featuring her character of choice, and I think they come with keychains or something. Doesn't really matter; they're cute enough. But! Somewhere a modder with a dirty mind is in spasms of joy over the "Barbie Loves Woody" doll. I had to stop and do a double take because I certainly didn't read it correctly the first time around.
On a related tangent, meet Gay Bob. He's a real, "anatomically correct" doll from the 70s, and his existence pretty much rocks my world.
I've gotten friend requests on MySpace (which I've all but abandoned and never liked much anyway ::insert snootiness here::) recently from "heavygrinder" and "artist on artist." You can perhaps understand that I expected nothing good to come from such associations. Oh yeah, mind went there, even though they turned out to be innocuous enough. I rather enjoyed ranting and raving at the computer for a bit about failures in subtlety though.
I am relieved to report that my TB test came back non-reactive, and I don't have consumption, so I'm safe to work around kids and can finish up the application process for my fall internship. More on that some other time. In short, I will be interning 20 hours a week at a center specializing in dealing with domestic violence and child abuse in addition to my normal full-time job at the university. This will last from late August until next May. Then hopefully, after almost 5 years of academic hell, I will finally have my master's. They may have to award my degree posthumously because it may just kill me. Should've studied something else. I could've been a doctor of something by now.
I have intentions to write over the summer. We'll see how that goes.