I'm giving up... again
So, since yesterday was my birthday and all, a few things changed.
One, I quit smoking. The Wellbutrin is some good shit, and I haven't had a craving, nervous twitch, or anything like that since I threw my cigarettes in the trash. Which, is kind of sad. I should have smoked them all before I quit. But I didn't want to kill myself even more so than I did before. But yeah, I quit yesterday. And so far, everything is okay. I'm kind of jittery right now, but other than that, it's cool.
I also cut my hair. Now, you'd think this would be an ordinary thing, something that people do all the time. But let's just say when I cut my hair, it all goes at one time. There's no half-assing it (because my parents always told me if I was going to do something, I should do it right the first time. At least, I think they did. They probably told me it was okay to make mistakes too.) So thus, I have no hair right now, unless you consider hair that stubble that is on my head. I'm not leukemia patient bald, but I definitely feel about three pounds lighter without the hair.
And now, I've upset Jess. Of course, I knew it would upset her that I cut my hair, but I am an individual. And it's my fucking hair. I don't tell her to cut her hair. So how can she tell me I can't cut mine? It's not something I'm really mad about, or trying to be an asshole or anything, it's just well, kind of sophomoric in some ways. It's my head, and I'll do whatever I want with it. Except for piercings and tatoos. So I hate needles, shoot me if you don't like it.
Overall though, my birthday was good. Especially a conversation Jess and I were in on the phone. We were talking about names we'd want our kids to have (I've not been too creative on the girl's side, but I've decided that William, John, Paul and Peter would be good names for boys. Girls range from Elizabeth to Mary, but eh, whatever. I'll get there.) And I asked her...
[Me] "So, what's your grandmother's name?"
[Jess] "Which one?"
[M] "You know, the one you live with. The one that looks kind of like a troll."
[J] "Oh yeah, right. Her name is Jesus." (Spanish pronunciation is "Hey-Zeus" as far as I can tell. Correct me if I am wrong.)
[M] "So her name is Jesus."
[J] "Yes."
[M] "I didn't know girls could be named Jesus."
[J] "Yeah, in Spanish cultures they can." (Or something like what she said. At this point, I was thinking...)
[M] "Isn't she a bit belligerent to be named Jesus?"
(What a line. I'm actually proud of myself for saying this. It'll need further explanation, so just give me a second.)
[J] "Oh man, I'm so telling my mom that. She'll love it."
OK, so to explain a bit here. Jess's great-grandmother lives with them. And she is around 90, small, wrinkled, and troll-like. Hence the expression that she looks like a troll. Now, the other problem with her is that mostly the only thing she does now is mumble in Spanish (to me, incoherently) and look out the window (when she's not sick and in the hosipital.) And from what Jess tells me (because I don't speak but about four phrases in Spanish, so thus I am a failure at life once again) she is mean, and not just regular mean, but wicked mean. The type of mean that makes people hate god. So thus, when I say that she is a bit belligerent to be named Jesus, I'm being sarcastic and honest all at the same time. Wow, that was too much for one good line.
But in hinesight, last night was a decent wrap up to my birthday. I'm 20 years old. Twenty. It just feels old saying it. Too easy. I need a number after it now, like twenty-five or something. At least it takes more than a syllable to say it. Well, two syllables. Whatever.
Well, I should probably get back to looking like I'm doing something important. And since the Wellbutrin feels like it might take a few minutes to kick in from the dose I took this morning, I'm going to go twitch around for a while now.
One, I quit smoking. The Wellbutrin is some good shit, and I haven't had a craving, nervous twitch, or anything like that since I threw my cigarettes in the trash. Which, is kind of sad. I should have smoked them all before I quit. But I didn't want to kill myself even more so than I did before. But yeah, I quit yesterday. And so far, everything is okay. I'm kind of jittery right now, but other than that, it's cool.
I also cut my hair. Now, you'd think this would be an ordinary thing, something that people do all the time. But let's just say when I cut my hair, it all goes at one time. There's no half-assing it (because my parents always told me if I was going to do something, I should do it right the first time. At least, I think they did. They probably told me it was okay to make mistakes too.) So thus, I have no hair right now, unless you consider hair that stubble that is on my head. I'm not leukemia patient bald, but I definitely feel about three pounds lighter without the hair.
And now, I've upset Jess. Of course, I knew it would upset her that I cut my hair, but I am an individual. And it's my fucking hair. I don't tell her to cut her hair. So how can she tell me I can't cut mine? It's not something I'm really mad about, or trying to be an asshole or anything, it's just well, kind of sophomoric in some ways. It's my head, and I'll do whatever I want with it. Except for piercings and tatoos. So I hate needles, shoot me if you don't like it.
Overall though, my birthday was good. Especially a conversation Jess and I were in on the phone. We were talking about names we'd want our kids to have (I've not been too creative on the girl's side, but I've decided that William, John, Paul and Peter would be good names for boys. Girls range from Elizabeth to Mary, but eh, whatever. I'll get there.) And I asked her...
[Me] "So, what's your grandmother's name?"
[Jess] "Which one?"
[M] "You know, the one you live with. The one that looks kind of like a troll."
[J] "Oh yeah, right. Her name is Jesus." (Spanish pronunciation is "Hey-Zeus" as far as I can tell. Correct me if I am wrong.)
[M] "So her name is Jesus."
[J] "Yes."
[M] "I didn't know girls could be named Jesus."
[J] "Yeah, in Spanish cultures they can." (Or something like what she said. At this point, I was thinking...)
[M] "Isn't she a bit belligerent to be named Jesus?"
(What a line. I'm actually proud of myself for saying this. It'll need further explanation, so just give me a second.)
[J] "Oh man, I'm so telling my mom that. She'll love it."
OK, so to explain a bit here. Jess's great-grandmother lives with them. And she is around 90, small, wrinkled, and troll-like. Hence the expression that she looks like a troll. Now, the other problem with her is that mostly the only thing she does now is mumble in Spanish (to me, incoherently) and look out the window (when she's not sick and in the hosipital.) And from what Jess tells me (because I don't speak but about four phrases in Spanish, so thus I am a failure at life once again) she is mean, and not just regular mean, but wicked mean. The type of mean that makes people hate god. So thus, when I say that she is a bit belligerent to be named Jesus, I'm being sarcastic and honest all at the same time. Wow, that was too much for one good line.
But in hinesight, last night was a decent wrap up to my birthday. I'm 20 years old. Twenty. It just feels old saying it. Too easy. I need a number after it now, like twenty-five or something. At least it takes more than a syllable to say it. Well, two syllables. Whatever.
Well, I should probably get back to looking like I'm doing something important. And since the Wellbutrin feels like it might take a few minutes to kick in from the dose I took this morning, I'm going to go twitch around for a while now.