Wendy, I'm home.

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Dude, I'm beat, yo.

  

No, I haven't transformed into some sort of gangster/hippie hybrid overnight, but 'd' to the 'a•m•n' am I tired.

Too tired, in fact, to make coffee this morning, and since we're out of K-cups, I had tea. And tea is no substitute for coffee. Don't believe me? Why don't you go back and re-read that first sentence. Believe me now? Just be thankful I'm not to the point where I'm deliriously rolling around on the floor laughing like a maniacal crazy person. It's been known to happen, is all I'm saying.

This clock has no relevance to this post. I just thought it was cool.

So you might be wondering why the frick-frack I'm so tired (and when did I start becoming the type of person to replace all my curse words?)? Well, you got me (on both counts). It's not like I'm doing anything all day. However, if I have to blame something, I'm inclined to blame the following:

1. Medication. I'm on it. You don't need to know the details. Moving on.
2. Tension. The tension in the world of OBG is at extreme levels right now. What with job searching, apartment searching, money woes and so on and so on. I believe mental exhaustion can be more debilitating than physical exhaustion.
3. Laziness. I'm pretty sure I read studies about this sort of thing. The less active you are, the more tired you are. Or something like that. The only part of me getting any exercise lately are my fingers. I'm having a hard time convincing myself that it's okay to step away from the computer and the grind of job searching. 
4. Xbox and Dexter. Two things that have consumed my evenings of late. And when it's bedtime, these two get together in my dreams for nocturnal parties that drain the life out of me.
5. My Sleep Schedule. It's all out of whack. As I've discussed before, I'm a night person, and I have a tendency to be an insomniac. It is physically impossible for me to fall asleep before eleven pm, and often times, one am. And while I can be quite functional on a mere six hours of sleep, it is cruel and unusual punishment for me to be rudely awakened by bells and whistles and fog horns and alarms before seven am. Especially when I have a tendency to wake up during the night every few hours. *Sigh* I am so not built for the real world. 

So yeah, I'm tired. But I also have shit to do today, so while I'd really like to go take a quick power nap, I might actually go fold some laundry. Or something like that. And yeah, this post really has no point, but whatev'. I'm too tired to think. Get over it.

These two do not play well in sleepy time dreamland.

Oh, and I think this weekend is going to be relatively tame (thank God), but I did hear rumors of bowling tomorrow night, so that'll be cool. What are your weekend plans? Hope they're good ones (but if they're not, that's okay too).

JCrew is the reason I have no job

I'm job searching this week. I mean, seriously, I am. No really. Kid you not. I am.

Job searching is not only excruciatingly time consuming, it is also excruciatingly painful. It's almost like having a full time job. Except nobody pays you. And you can job search in a ratty old thrift store tee with salsa dripping down the front of you. While sitting in a bed that may or may not have wet coffee spots on it. And tortilla crumbs slowly exfoliating your bare ass because it's impossible to sit Indian style on your bed without your denim skirt migrating up around your waist.

Wait. Where was I? Oh, right. Job searching.

So, I'm an art teacher. I've pretty much exhausted my search options for art teaching jobs and have applied for pretty much all of the few measly open positions that I can apply for (well, ones that don't require me to move ten states away or work in the ghetto. I'm not that desperate yet. Or am I...?). 

I've pretty much resigned myself to the notion that my next job will, most likely, not be as an art teacher. Therefore, this week, I'm bound and determined to find myself a (temporary) position in another field. This requires me to determine what I am and am not willing to do for work. (FYI, I'm pretty much capable of doing any job. It's true. You can hate me if you want, but I'm probably one of the most adaptable people you'll ever meet. When it comes to jobs anyway. I have yet to hold a job that I've been bad at.)

Oh, so you might not know this, but I have adult ADD tendencies, which is related to this post, I swear, but which also resulted in me doing a search for adult ADD tests. As in, right now. As in, I just did it. I took four tests, because, hey, you always get a second opinion, right? Couldn't hurt to get a third and a fourth as well.

The first test gave me a score of 80 (I don't know what that means) but it had this to say:

It is highly likely that you are presently suffering from adult attention deficit disorder, according to your responses on this self-report questionnaire. You should not take this as a diagnosis of any sort, or a recommendation for treatment. However, it would be advisable and likely beneficial for you to seek further diagnosis from a trained mental health professional immediately.

And then it gave me this fun little icon (which I had to tweak, because apparently they can advise me on my mental state but not write proper code) to post on my web page just so others can see how wacko I am.

In case you're curious, the same website offers a whole slew of other I-think-I-might-be-crazy "tests" to take as well. (I think my favorite is the, "Do I Need Therapy? Quiz". Chances are, if you're on the site, you do. I, apparently, do not though.) I'm not gonna lie, I took a few of them. You will not be seeing those results.

Hold on. You're going to have to wait a minute for the rest of the test results. I have a gazillion JCrew sale tabs open that I'm getting tired of scrolling through to get to the ADD tabs. I need to go close some. Oh, incidentally, did you know JCrew just added new summer looks to their sale? Uh, they did! Which they so kindly told me about while I was checking my email to see if I had heard back from any potential employers yet (I haven't, in case you were wondering.).

Where was I? Oh, test results! Dang it! I haven't closed those tabs yet! Whoa! They have so many tees and tanks on sale that I want!

Hmmm... well, the second test gave me a 78, which is funny, because it was the same exact test as the first, just on a different site. The score discrepancy could possibly have something to do with the fact that after I discovered the test was exactly the same, I no longer had the patience to take it and just randomly selected answers. This one however, did not give me a cool icon to proudly display my wacko-ness. 

The third was a pdf file. Pdf files piss me off because they take forever to open and inevitably fuck-up my browser. And it wasn't so much a test as it was a checklist. And I'm pretty sure the website tried to give my computer a virus. Which is why there's no link for it.

The fourth was more or less a checklist with 25 symptoms, but was more entertaining to read. If you experience more than 10 things on the list, you most likely have adult ADD. My score was 14.

Alright, moving on. Job searching... right! So, it's like a full time job, I mean, it takes ALL DAY to job search and at the end of the day, I've only applied to one or two jobs. But wait, that's not the direction I wanted to go with this post. What did I originally start out talking about? Oh, right, what jobs I am and am not willing to do.

Oh god, that sounds like it's going to be awfully time consuming and tedious to write about. How 'bouts we all pretend this post made sense and that I provided you with deep, informative information of my future career choices? 'Kay? Thanks. 

One Blonde Girl 101

When I started this blog, it began as a place for me to reflect on "my journey through life". At the time, I was at a much different place in life (read: happier). My blog was not meant to be humorous nor was it meant to be bitter nor was it meant to be what it has become. It has since evolved into what you see before you. A place for me to rant and rave, bitch and moan, tell funny (hopefully) stories and bond with other bloggers about the woes of life. 

One such blogger is The Naked Writer over at The Writing Womb. I find her ability to be open and honest with the world about the trials and tribulations of her life admirable. She recently wrote a post, The Naked Writer 101, which was both informative and inspiring. Influenced by her frankness, and her "utter disregard for couthness" (yeah, I quoted myself. What of it?) I present to you...

One Blonde Girl 101

       

Because what's a post without a pic? And yes, that is me. (Source)

1. I love pickles. The tangier the better. I love pickles so much that if you leave a pickle on your plate unaccompanied, I will totally eat it on you and then pretend I have no idea what happened to it. True story. Your pickles are not safe with me.

2. I buy clothes with pockets because I never know what to do with my arms in social situations. Pockets are safe and comforting. In a perfect world, every article of clothing would have pockets.

3. When I was in high school I hated being blonde and wanted to dye my hair black but then a friend of mine told me that if I did, my hair would be black permanently, and that scared me, so I didn't.

4. I once hit a flock of birds with my mom's car and killed at least three of them. I've also caused the deaths of a bat and a cat via vehicular manslaughter.

5. I'm a night owl. I'm most productive and energetic after 7 pm. Some nights it will last until 4 am. This makes it very hard for me to be productive in the real world.

6. I function the best on 6 hours of sleep. Any more or less and I'm useless.

7. I dream of being a tattoo artist. Unfortunately, I have a thing against needles.

8. I can't stand to watch any scene in a movie that involves cutting a person. Any other kind of violence is fine, but not cutting.

9. I love horror movies. Especially haunted house and zombie movies. I hate Sci-Fi though. Hate it.

10. I'm constantly changing my mind. Which probably explains why my blog goes through so many transformations. And why I can't decide what to call myself. "April"? "One Pea"? "One Blonde Girl"?

11. I'm not a cat person. There. I said it. I don't like cats. I'll take a dog over a cat any day. The bigger, the better. (I once had a cat that I loved with all my heart. He had six toes on each foot and the funniest looking face. But then he up and died. One minute he was frolicking outside, and the next, he was dead. I don't think I ever got over that.)

12. I've never (knowingly) been involved with or pursued a guy who was already in a relationship. That's the biggest no-no ever. In my opinion. In fact, discovering that a guy was already involved was an instant turn-off for me. He could have been my soul mate and looked like Clive Owen, but as soon as I found out he was married or had a girlfriend, he turned into Steve Buscemi.

13. I've never had stitches. Thank god, because I don't know how I could handle that (see #7).

14. The first time (and unfortunately, not the last) I ever felt violated by a boy was in the first grade when a classmate who liked to look up the girls' skirts hugged me during nap time. It took me many years to get over that.

15. I've never finished a piece of art work. Never. Ever. It's a mental thing. I just can't do it.

16. I'm envious of people who have close relationships with their parents. I don't.

17. I don't do makeup. Possibly because no one ever showed me how. Or possibly because I can think of better, more important things to spend money on.

18. My knees are always hairy. Always. I can't seem to figure out how to work a razor around the knobbiness of my knees.

19. The most traumatic years of my life seem to end with 5s.
1985- I started Kindergarten and hated it and my teacher so much. I cried and cried and cried. The only way they could get me to go peacefully was bribing me with reading time with the other Kindergarten teacher.
1995- Well, in a nutshell, it began with the development of an eating disorder and accumulated with my dad booting me from his house. And a little bit of everything else thrown in for good measure.
2005- Well, I'm not quite ready to talk about this time of my life yet.
Needless to say, I dread 2015.

20. I have a twin sister.

21. I hate Lima beans. Hate 'em.

22. I hate housework. If I ever have a house (and a job), I'm totally hiring a housekeeper. I don't care. I'm doing it.

23. I don't watch ANTM on a regular basis, but anytime there's a marathon on, I'm glued to the TV.

24. I can't really pin down what makes me happy. Not specifically, but when I am happy, you'll know instantly because I make up little songs and dances and I spin.

25. I can't remember the last time in my life I was really, truly happy with my life.

26. I'm a really good multitasker, except when it comes to the big things, like education and relationships and career, then I have to choose one to focus on.

27. Most of the decisions I've made in my life were based on what other people wanted, not what I wanted myself. It's made for a very miserable life, but I'm working on living life for me now.

28. I live in constant fear of settling.

29. I don't trust words. I trust actions.

30. My favorite life advice comes from Magic Hat beer caps.

31.  I can't figure out if I'm more afraid of succeeding or of failing. I pick the middle road by not even trying.

32. My dad used to be the captain of a cargo ship. I was a world traveler until about age 8.

33. My dad's family owns a button factory in Iowa and were innovators in the pearl button industry. I think that's awesome.

34. I hate shopping. Any kind of shopping. Hate it.

35. I love helping people and making their lives easier. It makes me feel good, productive and accomplished.

36. My first real boyfriend was abusive and cheated on me frequently. That was the first and the last time I ever allowed a guy to treat me that way.

37. I love my feet, my knees, my hips, and my collar bones. Basically all the bony parts of my body.

38. Mind-altering substances scare me a little. Not that I'm afraid of their effects, but that I would enjoy them too much and would end up on an episode of Intervention.

39. I hate stuff. I don't understand why people insist on having so much stuff. Every time I move I purge more and more useless stuff and it makes me feel so good.

40. I feel guilty over my grandfather's death. It's totally irrational and illogical, but I often wonder if he would have still fallen down the stairs if I had chosen not to move away.

41. I don't know how to want things. In my mind, wanting something is wrong and a sign of weakness. I can't explain this. Well, I can, but we don't have the time to get into it.

42. I have to have a million and one things going on at once in order to not be bored.

43. I love strawberries.

44. I love music.

45. I love driving a stick shift. It makes me feel strong and powerful.

46. I'm terrified of having kids.

47. I hate spending other peoples money.

48. I often wish I could see myself through other people's eyes. I'm sure they don't see me the way I think they do.

49. I don't regret breaking up with any of my exes.

50. When it comes to intimate relationships, I think bodily functions should always remain private. Always. There are some things I just don't ever want to hear, see or smell. Ever.

51. I have scars on my body that make me severely insecure, force me to be extremely conscious of the way I do things at all times and make me fear the moment someone notices them and asks me about them.

52. I love getting dirty (you can interpret that any way you want).

53. I hate making small chitchat and will avoid encounters with people just to avoid meaningless chitchat.

54. I don't like day-hikes. If I'm going to put in the effort required to go hiking there better be a tent and a cozy sleeping bag at the end of the trail. And a campfire with S'mores.

55. I don't see the point in watching sports on TV. Unless it's the Super Bowl and I'm at a party with lots of alcohol and pizza. Otherwise, what's the point? I do enjoy the excitement of watching them in person. Except for baseball. And golf. And probably curling too.

56. I hate red roses. Hate them. I once got red roses for my birthday from a boyfriend. In November. My birthday is in January. Epic failure. I once received a bouquet of daisies from a guy I was dating. For no reason other than he thought I would like them. Epic success.

57. I'm severely indecisive and can never make up my mind about what I want or like. My brain literally becomes paralyzed whenever anyone asks me what I want or like. I'm trying to work on this. It's not going so well.

58. I have a hard time not judging people for their choice in music, reading material and other entertainment choices (like TV). Sorry.

59. I have sacrificed more of my life for relationships than I would like to admit. I'm trying to work on this.

60. I miss the friendships I had in high school.

61. I have an irrational fear of getting my haircut. Which is why I only get it cut once or twice a year. I've had so many bad experiences. Some day I would like to leave the hair salon with the hair cut I went in there expecting to get. Some day.

62. I have an irrational fear of birds.

63. It's easier for me to be friends with men than with women. I don't get the drama that comes along with having female friends. And I have a hard time relating to women. I'm not sure why.

64. I'm a chronic procrastinator.

65. I love sushi. I never thought I would, but I do.

66. I often wish I could get rid of all my stuff, jump in my car and drive away. Far, far away and start a brand new life where no one knows me. Kind of like Delia Grinstead in Ladder of Years by Ann Tyler. Tyler's books always give me perspective on my life.

67. I love the cartoon, Chowder.

68. I once dated a musician. He wrote a song about me. His band broke up not long after, before they even had a chance to perform the song in public. I was more bothered by that fact than the fact that we broke up as well not long after.

69. I've never had a successful one-night stand. And by successful, I mean, one in which the guy didn't want more. Some of my longest relationships were the result of failed one-night stands.

70. I love gumballs. I've never met a gumball I didn't love. Even the stale ones that have been sitting in the machine for 6 years.

71. I've become more spontaneous and less controlled as the years go by. And here I was afraid it would go the opposite way.

72. In college, I once allowed others to believe that I had slept with someone because I would have felt bad for the guy if his friends had found out the truth. (The truth was, I refused to sleep with him after discovering how small his penis was. I lied and told him I was having my period. And then I slept in my roommate's bed. He had a rep to maintain, and I didn't want to become the source of any suffering for him.)

73. I rarely ever give a shit about what others think about me in any given situation (see #72 above) because I know the truth, and in my mind, that's all that matters.

74. I hate it when I'm forced to justify my actions to someone else. I would love it if I could just act of my own accord and only have to answer to myself.

75. After years and years and years of being in relationships, I feel like I'm all used up.

76. It's easier for me to tell this stuff to strangers than it is for me to tell this stuff to the people who love and care about me. I can't say I'm really trying to work on this.

77. I rarely wash my hands. Not properly at least.

78. I can't stand Molly Ringwald.

79. I can't stand anything really sugary sweet. Like girly drinks. And fancy pastries (egg issue aside). And frosting. And sweet tea. And sweet coffee. (Chocolate is the exception. As long as it isn't gag-me sweet)

80. I have four sisters and a brother. My stepfather always complained about being outnumbered when we were growing up. Now he has four grandsons (officially. Six unofficially, as in, not belonging to my siblings but to their significant others) and a granddaughter. Coincidence? I think not.

81. Only one of my siblings is married. But he's currently going through a divorce, so I guess it no longer counts.

82. Life just won't let me forget the person I'm trying to forget. Stupid life.

83. My mom bought me and my twin the Betty Crocker Cookbook: Bridal Edition years ago, claiming that we'd never get married, so she might as well just buy it for us while it was still available. (Thanks Mom. Your faith in us is so uplifting and inspiring. And don't think I don't know what you're getting at when you hint that you'll never have anymore grandchildren. I get it. I'm an epic failure. I've accepted it. You should too.)

84. I often feel like the black sheep of the family.

85. I once had a student removed from an elective art class I was teaching because he was sexually harassing me. True story.

86. I hate it when people ask me for advice or expect me to comment on a predicament they've gotten themselves into. People rarely want the truth in these situations, and that's usually all I'm willing to dish out because I hate blowing smoke up people's asses.

87. My sexuality often scares me and sometimes feels like more than I can handle (see #88 below).

88. I have a hard time remaining faithful in relationships. I'm trying to work on this.

89. I have a hard time letting people down/disappointing them/breaking their hearts/and so on and so on. It's a guilt thing. I blame my childhood. More specifically, my parents. I'm trying to work on this. (It's not going so well)

90. I believe that dying is like sleeping, but without the dreams.

91. I have a hard time believing in anything that isn't tangible.

92. I love to bake. And plan parties (but not necessarily attend them. I prefer to be behind the scenes. Unless it's of the beer-drinking variety. And especially if there's a bonfire.).

93. I once played a nerd in my class' senior play. I loved it. It fed the acting bug I had been harboring since the eighth grade, but I was realistic, and I knew that where I grew up, the opportunity would never present itself.

94.  I love to cook but I only think it's worth the effort when I cook for someone(s) other than myself.

95. I have a bladder the size of a walnut. This isn't backed by any medical evidence, just by the fact that I have to pee ALL THE FREAKIN' TIME.

96. I have a heart-shaped uterus. This is backed by medical evidence. You would think this would make for a more loving uterine environment. This is not the case. Apparently it makes for a more inhospitable one. Whatever. We'll cross that bridge if we ever get there.

97. I once had dreams of becoming a soccer superstar. But then I hurt my knee and lost all confidence in myself (FYI, this was just one of the many downfalls that occurred in 1995).

98. I love my sisters. We're not all that close, so I often fear that they don't know this, but I do.

99. I prefer to make my own wrapping paper.

100. I don't eat fast food nor do I drink soda. I have no regrets about this.

101. I used to hate my first name, but now I kind of like it. I just wish it were easier for people to remember it (Seriously, it's a month. What's so hard about remembering a month?).

This post has been very therapeutic for me. It won't even bother me if you didn't read through all 101 items because it meant more for me to write it than it did to have anyone read it (quite possibly related to #73?).

And that is that.

I don't do beach

  

We're approaching that time of year again. Yup, summer. Which, inevitably, leads to people wanting to take trips to the beach. Me? I don't do beach. It has nothing to do with the fear of putting on a bathing suit (okay, well maybe a little) because I've been to the beach before, and I've seen people there that look far worse than me in a bikini. I also happen to have an apparently unique talent for knowing what suits/shirts/tanks/shorts/cover-ups work for my body. A talent that it appears few have.

Let me explain why me and the beach don't work...

I'm a mountain girl. Meaning, I was born and raised in the mountains. Beaches were not something I grew up with. You might not know much about the mountains, but the beachfront is not a feature of their landscape. Some may argue that there are lakes within the mountains that have beaches. Let me correct this thinking by explaining that these "beaches" are not real beaches. Real beaches tend to be sandy; not littered with pine needles. They also tend to have a plethora of sunshine, surf, and seashells. Mountain lake beaches tend to have overcast skies, canoe-created wake (because motor boats usually aren't allowed), and pine cones.

Vacations to the beach never happened for me when I was growing up either. My dad was a work-aholic, and my mom was more-or-less broke because my dad refused to pay child-support. Plus, with the wonderful custody agreement my parents had, unless our vacation took place from 6:01 pm Sunday night to 4:59pm Wednesday night, or from Thursday afternoon to 8:59 pm Sunday morning,  or from 5:01 pm Friday night to 6:01 pm Sunday evening (but only every other weekend. Complicated, right? Yeah, trying living it) vacations were out of the question because one parent would have to give up some of their time. But that's a post for another day (or ten sessions with a therapist somewhere in my near-future).

My sisters and I used to spend our summers at a camp my dad owned on a "pond"* in the Adirondacks (but only during the above designated times). The camp had no beach. My dad attempted to create a "beach" by hauling in some dirt he dug up from some sand pit he found in the middle of the woods.** The beach was small, about the size of two kiddie pools, but we were able to make sand castles on it, so it served its purpose well. Uh, until it rained. And then the sand that didn't run into the lake turned into mud. Or became so congested with pine needles that our sand castles ended up looking like an inside-out iron maiden.

 (former location of our "beach". Note all the pine needles)

Any way, back to why beaches and me aren't friends...

• Beaches have sunshine and obscene amounts of deadly UVA and UVB rays. I am white. As in, so white I often look purple because you can see all the blood vessels through my skin. Being so white, the sun scares the shit out of me. 

• I can't swim. I know what you're thinking, but you'd be wrong. Just because I spent my summers at the lake and my dad was a Merchant Marine Captain, does not guarantee that I have a natural ability to swim. On the contrary, I have a natural ability to snort water up my nose every time my head goes under water resulting in my crippling fear of drowning anytime I'm within twelve feet of water. 

• There's nothing to do. I mean, really, how long can one lay on the beach without becoming bored out of their freakin' mind? For me, it's about 15 minutes. Twenty if I happened to have the foresight to bring a book with me. After that I become antsy, fidgety, anxious, and inevitably, super cranky. I need to have at least four things to do at once in order to keep me entertained.*** I hate being bored more than anything in the world.

• I don't like going in the water. Aside from the fact that I can't swim and have an irrational fear of drowning, I will not go into the water unless it is at least 120° out, and the water temperature is 80°, and I'm on the verge of heat exhaustion. Seriously though, I get cold quickly, and I hate being cold almost as much as I hate being bored. I have to have a damn good reason for venturing out into the water and inviting goosebumps and chattering teeth to take over my body.

So, long story short, no, I don't want to go to the beach.+ I'll go camping, I'll go boating (uh, hello, there are life jackets on board, so drowning is not an issue), I'll go sit at a bar on the waterfront and drink all afternoon, but nothing about going to the beach sounds even remotely interesting to me. 

Unless we're going for the people watching, and then yeah, maybe I'll go. But we're only staying for an hour, right?

* It had pond in its name, but it was really more lake-like.

** I'm pretty sure my dad envisioned that once he created a glorious beach for us, my sisters and I would actually use it to enter the water. No matter how great the beach was, it did not change the fact that the ground in the lake was like slimy pudding. And it smelled like dead people.

*** I have been known to listen to music, watch TV, have a conversation with four different people via text messaging, facebook (yes, it's a verb now. Didn't you get that memo?), and catch-up on internet news all at the same time. I may have problems.

+ And water parks are most certainly out of the question too.

Thesis writing is bad for your health (and undoubtedly, your sanity)

 

I'm taking a break from thesis writing to tell you about how writing a thesis could, quite possibly, kill you. Or at least destroy your health and drive you insane. 

For the record, not that anyone cares, I am now 59 pages into what I expect to be a 120 paged thesis. I have three and half chapters left to write and one chapter still in need of some polishing. (If you're keeping score, I have two chapters completed and half a chapter in second draft stage, for a grand total of seven chapters. I'm done boring you now.) 

I will graduate in May, I will graduate in May, I will graduate in all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy*.

Back to my point, thesis writing is bad for your health. 

For one, you will be chained to your work space of choice for most of the day. You will, most likely, be seated for a majority of the time, thus resulting in some horrible tushy expansion. If your work space of choice happens to be your bed (mine is) you will spend all of your time there. Not only will you be sleeping and typing in your bed/work space, you will also be eating there. 

Eating while thesis writing is sloppy work, what with the whole typing with one hand while trying to shove food in your mouth thing. You will soon tire of this task and the resulting mess and stop eating altogether. Unfortunately, since you long ago stopped cleaning your room and laundering your clothes you have a work space situation that now looks like this:

and like this:

You will soon discover ants in your bed. Most likely attracted there by the bagel crumbs and salsa spills from two weeks prior. (you stopped eating, remember? That filth has been there for awhile.) It will then occur to you that you should do some laundry. 

At this point you will be faced with a dilemma; do you A) spend the entire day washing the eight loads of laundry piled up on the floor** in the small washer in your basement, or do you B) haul your laundry to the laundromat and get it all done in a couple of hours? This is a no-brainer. B it is, however you're now faced with another dilemma. 

Going to the laundromat requires that you go out in public. Do you A) take an hour to shower and put together some semblance of an outfit, or do you B) say fuck it, go dirty but brush your teeth and throw on the first articles of clothing that look (and smell) fairly clean? No-brainer again. B it is, shit, it's not like you can even remember the last time you showered at this point, so what's one more day? (seriously, I've been wearing my hair in braids for the past three days and I've had a hat on for one, maybe two. Not a good sign). 

 Aren't I purdy? In case you're wondering, that paper clip is there for safe keeping. I lose them (and the one pen I have in my room) all the time. I may or may not have ripped my room apart looking for a lost paper clip. And my pen. (maybe I should raid my car)

So, you pack up the laundry and hit the road. Of course, you're going to need quarters. Lots of quarters. You take a quick trip to the grocery store to get coffee, water, a roast beef sandwich, a Glamour magazine and $20. (my bank doesn't have a branch or an ATM in my town. Back off.) Despite the fact that there is a customer service desk AND a bank branch in the grocery store, you head off to another bank to get your $20 exchanged for quarters. (past experience has taught you that the snippy teen at customer service doesn't like to part with quarter rolls and the bitch at the bank won't exchange your money unless you have an account there.)

You arrive at the laundromat, load up the entire wall of super-speedy, heavy-duty washers with all the clothes, towels and bedding you own. (hey, you're desperate and you've got shit to do. You can't be waiting around for slow, shitty washers all day. Plus, it's a Tuesday morning and you're the only one there.) The laundering process is pretty uneventful, aside from the nasty-ass coffee you drank, the questionable roast beef sandwich you scarfed down and the nasty green spider you grabbed a hold of while unloading your wash. 

On your way back home you notice a stench in your car that you earlier mistook for the smell of scuzzy, dirty clothes. This is when you realize the travel mugs of coffee you left in the car three weeks ago are still chilling in the cup holders. You arrive home (gagging and cursing the asshole who hit a skunk in the road in front of your house and the bus driver who just ran over the mutilated carcass for the millionth time), grab the two travel mugs, your bag of thesis work and your duffel bag of laundry (you'll go back for the basket and the water later) and head inside. 

In the process of unlocking the back door, you manage to drop one of the precariously balanced coffee mugs. You watch in horrifying slow motion as the mug tumbles out of your hand, smashes into the door, bursts open, and spills coffee chunks all over the entryway, and worse yet, your bag of thesis work.

You spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning up curdled coffee, trying desperately not to barf. Having cleaned up the mess, brought in the rest of the laundry, popped open a beer (hey, it's 5:00 in the UK), put away the laundry, recovered from having your closet shelf come crashing down on top of your head, you finally settle back into your work space. You get set for another afternoon/evening of thesis work, all the while scratching at the ingrown hairs that have sprouted (or not, I guess) on your legs, which haven't been shaved in about two weeks. Oh, and now your two-years worth of blood, sweat and tears smells like a dead baby. (I'm assuming dead babies would have a sickly-sweet, nauseating rotten milk smell to them)

See? Thesis writing is bad for your health. I should get hazard pay for this or something. Okay, time to pop a vitamin (it's all about sustenance, people!) and get back to work. Sleep, after all, is a luxury while thesis writing. Only five more weeks, folks. Five... more... weeks... When you look for me at graduation, I'll be the zombie/mummified skeleton in the ant-infested gown, dragging herself up by her broken and crippled hands (typing is a bitch!) to get her diploma. 

Be proud. Me? I'm seriously disgusted by myself, but I know it's only temporary (right? RIGHT!?) and all will be well again soon.

*  For the record, I try to refrain from wielding my axe while on my crazy, drunken, reclusive genius tirades. Just looking out for the housemates.

** This photo was taken a week or so ago, so you can't really get a good idea to what extent the clothes pile grew. I was half expecting Marjory the Trash Heap to raise her snooty head out of it.