Say Yes To Pizza

If I have any true beliefs, I can firmly say that I believe in not dieting. I grew up on diet plans and supplements, so I know what it's like to have to be stuck in an abstract box of bland food and zero chance of anything close to resembling pizza. I'll never tell anyone to diet, and I will never go on another diet as long as I live. With all the crash dieting and the promotion of suspicious pills being sold by doctors and "health" distributors today, I just don't see how anyone even wants to be on a stinkin' diet. I would much rather eat pizza than diet. And, sure, people will read this and say that they need to lose weight or that they are happy eating rabbit food or doing a juice cleanse. All I have to say to those people is simply this: no. 

No. NO. NO. NO!

Like, do you even know what a diet is? Did you fall asleep during middle school health class on the day when they talked about nutrition and exercise and why the body needs food? Because I'm starting feel like no one really knows anything about the definition of a diet when they decide to "go on one," whatever that means. I just want to take a moment to look at the definition of "diet" according to whatever popped up when I googled "define diet," okay?

Hmm...

No, wait. That's not right...

That's better! 

For some stupid reason, people have forgotten that a diet is what you eat. That's it. Your diet is whatever the hell you stick in your mouth. So, yeah, that pepperoni pizza with stuffed crust you ate entirely by yourself last night was definitely on your diet. And that Chinese takeout you indulged in? It's on your diet too! But guess what! Those fruits and vegetables and 8 glasses of water you're supposed to be getting every day are also on your diet. Do you see what I'm getting at? Like those taco shell commercials, you can have both.

So, from now on, maybe people should stop this nonsensical "dieting" thing and just eat what is good for you while still eating some of the things you love. With a steady exercise regime and a positive attitude, you'll be way happier than if you were starving yourself or popping pills.

Your body needs food to function, guys. That's all I'm saying. Like they sing in that song about crossing the street on Barney & Friends, "I always stop, look, and listen, when I walk across the street." Do the same thing when your stomach cusses you out for not feeding it when it needs food.  Always listen to what your body is saying. It's full of secrets.

Also pizza. Sometimes. Always.

I Write The Things That No One Reads

I've been thinking lately about writing. I like to think that I'm a writer, I guess, so I should know a thing or two about writing. Maybe? 

I realized the other day that I began writing way back when strictly on paper with an extra sharp Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencil (Let's face it, they take the cake with those super soft erasers that won't rip your paper when you're furiously erasing half a math test in the 5th grade when you realize you've been using the wrong formulas for circles) and only for school stuff. I want to say with confidence that I am pretty sure the first paper I ever wrote on a computer was a report on hurricanes for 5th grade English. Before that, every single thing I wrote was written by hand.

I can picture so clearly the time one of my teachers assigned my class to write 100-word essays on something probably really stupid and I had to count the words on this piece of college-ruled notebook paper as I went. It seemed like too many words at the time. 100 words was an infinity. It was the dictionary. It was a Charles Dicken's novel. Now, that's like two or three sentences if I'm trying to be really fancy and have a strange need to write everything in really drawn out language like most of the sentences in this blog. Maybe a small paragraph if I'm feeling super lazy and unmotivated. Today, I just have to look down at the bottom of Microsoft Word to see how many words I've written.

Sadly, I don't write on paper with an actual writing utensil as much anymore as I would like to say. There's still something awesome about hearing the grinding of pencil lead on a sheet of lined notebook paper as you suddenly get hit with inspiration or finally figure out the perfect way to state whatever kind of bullshit you've been unscrambling in your mind.  I do most of my writing on the computer now.  It's fast and it causes way fewer hand cramps at the end of an hour of writing, ya know?

At the beginning of 2013, I decided I wanted to keep a composition notebook style journal over the course of the year. So, that worked out just fine for January, but when February hit, I lost all ability to write anything with my hands. So, now I have a month of random journal entries about boobs and school and my inability to not be nervous about everything that happens in my life and a few half-finished entries that took me 2 weeks to write. But, for some reason, I've kept up with this blog for almost four months or so. I don't know what logic is anymore.

Writing, while something that not everyone seems to like or be good at even if they try and try and try and be okay at it, is something I'm kind of pretty sure doesn't have to be done in any certain way, but it's just strange to think about how my methods of writing have change over time as technology changed. Like, when was the last time I turned in a handwritten assignment that was actually graded? I don't know!

Like, are there writers who write by hand and think they are just better than all the writers who write on
computers and typewriters? Probably. Pretentious writers. 

And then there's me. I write on all the platforms, but no one ever reads it.

Orange Mashugana

Long time, no blog, right? Oh well! I have good excuses for why I failed to write much over the last week or so. Like, oh, I don't know... That I AM NO LONGER UNEMPLOYED! 

Yup, yup! You heard it! My streak of perpetual unemployment seems to be not as perpetual as I once assumed. That, kids, just shows that you shouldn't count your chickens before they hatch. Anyway, the last four days of my life have been pretty booked up, so I hope I can make it up to anyone who has actually missed reading about my life, thoughts, and other mashugana that I come up with from somewhere deep inside the crevices of my fragile mind.

So, last night, I got off work and went over to the Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market to get a sick Bruce some orange juice (how nice am I? Seriously?). Okay, let me just say that this Wal-Mart is open 24/7, so when I went prancing in at 10:30 at night, I really wasn't sure what kind of crowd I was going to see. Well, apparently, it's just workers restocking things. To be honest, I was hoping for a late-night crowd of crackheads, but when has Wal-Mart ever actually met my expectations of anything? Never. 

I found the orange juice in the maze of aisles and sectioned off arrays of baked goods that I really wanted to buy but talked myself out of eventually. When I was looking at the small selection of orange juice that was at my disposal, I realized I had no idea what any of the information on any of the containers meant. "Made from concentrate?" What? What the hell does that mean? Was it made by a worker who was really concentrated on making the best bottle of OJ ever? And what about pulp vs no
pulp vs extra pulp? Personally, I hate the feeling of drinking pulp so I always opt for the no pulp, but what if pulp is actually really good for you and pretty much the only nutritionally beneficial element of a bottle of OJ? This was really something to think about especially since I was buying it for someone who was sick, you know? 

Eventually, I just grabbed a big bottle of Tropicana without pulp because it had the prettiest label. I'm sure that says plenty of untrue things about me. 

I'm sure this story had a point, but, a few Sour Punch Straws later, I can't remember what that might have been.

Being an adult and having to make choices like "Which is the healthiest brand of orange juice?" just kind of freaks me out. Like, I have no idea how people walk into grocery stores and know what all the labels mean. Sure, I know not to buy anything with high-fructose corn syrup (or really anything with corn in it) or artificial sweeteners that rhyme with gross, but what else should I know? I can't Google every grocery product individually like "Are Sour Punch Straws bad for me?" because I'd be in the store for the rest of time. But, idiots shop for groceries. So, I don't know.

So, I guess the point of this is that there should only be one brand of OJ and it should be the healthiest OJ ever because I am incapable of picking out a bottle of juice.

Under The Knife: A Tale of A Girl and Her Gallbladder

When I was a junior in high school, my health kind of went on a downward spiral into the pits of Hell. I don't talk about it in detail too often (though, I have briefly said things about it in other posts on here) unless it comes up or someone asks. So, just cutting to the punchline of this unfunny joke of mine, I don't have a gallbladder. And, for those readers who have no idea what the frig a gallbladder does, it pretty much aids in digestion of fats by storing bile produced by the liver that is later released to break fats down. Mine didn't like to do that...

So, I was sitting in physics class (which, just for bonus info, was actually one of my favorite classes I took in high school) on Friday, April 9, 2010, when suddenly I got this feeling in my upper abdomen. It wasn't anything painful or immediately recognizable. It just suddenly felt like a clown was scrunched up in my belly trying to blow up balloons despite the lack of space to do such an activity. All that pressure built up overtime became quite uncomfortable. 

This had happened before almost a year before. It was the holiest of gallbladder attacks. Again, for those who have no idea what a gallbladder attack is: this basically means that bile has solidified due to all the chemicals in the gallbladder being out of balance. So, when the body goes to release bile after fat has been consumed, it tries to pass this hard lump through a narrow bile duct. Basically, it is like trying to pass a golfball through a straw. Ouch, right? Yes. Ouch. Very much ouch! 

So, like the polite student I am, I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom. My teacher, Mr. Howe-The-Heck-Do-We-Learn-This-Ish, normally wasn't into letting students just leave but I guess I am just super special or something because he let me go, no questions asked. Alleluia! Alleluia! Thanks be to God! 

I didn't even go in the direction of the bathroom. I was headed for the attendance office to ask to get my parents on the phone to take me to the ER (Some kids get really drunk and have sex in high school, I took trips to the ER. No biggie). 

Just my luck, I ran into the attendance secretary on my way down the hall.

Her: Hello, Angela!

Me: Oh! I was just headed to see you!

Her: Is everything okay?

Me: Nope, I think something is wrong and I need to bounce my way to the hospital ASAP.

And you can bet your family jewels that we got our butts down to the office and had my dad on the phone in a matter of minutes. 

Meanwhile, I'm toppled over holding my gut as if I thought it would just pop like a zit if I squeezed hard enough. I just wanted the pressure to go away. I literally thought my skin was just going to burst. Lucky for me, everyone in the school was headed for a pep rally (for what, I don't give a flying fart in space) so no one was really around to see me in such a state. 

Ugh, but, while I was waiting for my dad to show up, there was this evil immortal nun at my school who just kept asking me stupid questions while I was trying not to cuss my back flab off due to the amount of discomfort I was experiencing. Well, I guess they weren't stupid questions. Just super annoying to someone in pain, ya know? Luckily, the secretary was with me to fight off the questions because I couldn't really say anything at all. 

So, then my dad shows up and he gets my car and he takes me to the hospital literally 3 minutes away. I will never forget that ride to the hospital because my dad had turned down the stereo but I could still make out the end of "When You Believe" from The Prince of Egypt and the start of "Holding Out for a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler playing on a CD. Don't ask me. I had weird mix-CD's in my car at the time. 

No, you end up dead at the end. Be quiet. 

We get to the hospital and we wait in the ER waiting room for like 2 hours or something ridiculous. By the time they got to looking at me, I wasn't even in that much pain anymore. They gave me some gunk to drink that was supposed to numb my stomach. I'm not sure, but I think they might have even had me hooked up to stuff. It was a huge blur. But I do remember that they brought in an ultrasound machine, and a male ultrasound technician looked at my insides. I had no idea what I was looking at on the screen, but I assumed the guy knew what he was doing. And he thought he saw some gallstones. A doctor then came in and talked to me about how I'd probably need to have my gallbladder taken out to avoid any further complications. (FYI. This isn't the only course of action available, so don't jump on it like I did if you're ever in this situation). I probably nodded me head to whatever he was saying. It was like Sam in Holes just telling me he could fix it... but this doctor was white and only trying to suck money out of my dad. Oh well. 

Then we went home. And, while slightly doped up on a post-ER high, I went to see Alice in Wonderland in theaters. It is safe to say, I remember almost nothing about that movie. Yay! And the next night, I sleepily went to my junior prom. And then I felt like crap for the rest of the weekend. 

A few weeks later, I went under the knife and had a cholecystectomy. This was the first time I'd ever been put under anesthesia or been cut open anywhere that wasn't my mouth. I was put on hardcore narcotics for a few days, (Oh, the good days!) and I was told to eat as much jello as I wanted. 

Sure, I can't enjoy ice cream, milk with my cereal, or the greasiest foods in America anymore, but so what? I can still eat disgusting amounts of Sour Patch Kids, thankfully. I have an ugly scar on my belly, and when suddenly everyone starts getting the Gbizzles out as a fashion statement, I can say I was into that way before everyone else. Angelina Jolie, I'm watching you. 

But, seriously, kiddos. Take care of your bodies. Don't eat unhealthy amounts of fat that cause your body to jump of a cliff into a pit of health issues you'll die with when you're 35. Seriously. Go exercise now. And eat a bag of celery. 

Why Not You?

Every once in a full moon, I like to go on FaceBook and see if I can remember the names of all the people I graduated high school with. Sadly, I can't remember like a fourth of them. So, when someone I had totally forgotten existed pops up on my feed or in the search results unexpectedly, I instantly have to know what happened to them since I apparently forgot they were a person that I even knew or just really a person at all because my mind is special. Yeah, so some investigation happens. It's kind of very entertaining to find out who got fat, who is still a narrow-minded buttface (no, seriously, his face looks like a butt), who dropped out of college, and who got really freaking hot once they abandoned that awkward high school charm that I swear is sewn into private school uniforms. (Or maybe my tastes just changed).

My question is, for those that look like they've got it all together, why not you? Why didn't I fall in love with you when you were in my second hour chemistry class sophomore year? Why weren't we closer than you just copying my algebra 1 homework 5 minutes before class? Why didn't we hangout more when we had the chance instead of just passing each other in the halls everyday like "whatever"? Why did it take me 2 years of being away from you to realize how awesome you are? 

I can't say exactly why I would even want to consider anyone I went to high school with as a regret, but some nights I'm just left to wonder why things weren't different.

I mean, I have theories about why things were the way they were back then, but I'd rather not get into that stuff in this particular post.

The honesty behind this post is that I wouldn't want anything to be any different from the way it was because the people that are on the computer screen or under a name in my phone didn't exist in 2007 or even in 2011 when we all graduated together on a sticky May evening. There were reasons I didn't
want to be closer to them, and they didn't want anything to do with me.

Also, these people that I'm talking about, they really don't have it all together. Instagram posts and tweets don't mean anything. The Facebook statuses about whatever might be happening in the lives of these people don't mean anything. Trust me, I've faked my way through my own fair share of social networking sites (I'm kind of a pro, no big deal).

John Green once wrote, "Just remember that sometimes, the way you think about a person isn’t the way they actually are…People are different when you can smell them and see them up close, you know?"

So, as to not crush my dreams that the people I went to high school with are actually good people deep down passed their rotting livers, I think I'll just avoid being in the same room with any of them until our 10 year reunion (when hopefully I will have a classy, tall-dark-and-handsome kind of husband and a great body) so that the realities of these people don't have to be a thing.

Wait, I bet you're thinking that that's not the way to live. You're right. Thankfully, I don't know any of these people anymore, so it's not like I'm making up stories and lives for people I actually see on a daily basis.

But I'm still going to wonder and ask myself "what if..." and "why not?" and "how come?" because I'll never truly be satisfied with my life choices. But I have what I have and I had what I had. The people that I call my friends today are way better than anything I could have every imagined, and that should be enough.

 It is enough. 

When The Girls Stop By For The Summer

Amen!

Well, it is very much official. I AM ON SUMMER VACATION, CAKE SNIFFERS! 

But, you know, I've still got that whole "perpetually unemployed" thing to resolve. We'll see what happens with that. But, other than that, I'm on vacation from EVERYTHING. And after the Hell of a semester I've just finished, I think I am pretty deserving of some major R&R and a big bag of Sour Patch Kids.

So, what are my plans for the summer? Nothing fancy or super exciting, I swear (ain't nobody got the money for that!). Actually, I don't really have plans. I'll probably just go with the flow, and take it one day at a time by sitting around complaining about the Oklahoma heat (no, not the Thunder, sorry) and  thinking about all the productive things I could potentially be doing instead of not sitting there doing nothing. But, I do have things I want to do (but that really means nothing because I always WANT to do things, but you know how it is). So, here's my "Optional Sensational Summer Bucket List" (Maybe you'll get some ideas as to what you might want to do with yourself this summer from how lame I really am).

1. Finish the book I've been reading for the last 2 months (The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, for the curious reader)
2. Dip into my feminine side and do some of those DIY Pinterest craft things (which would require me to actually get a Pinterest account to begin with. Ugh.)
3. Get a job (shut up)
4. Lose 7 pounds / go down a jean size
5. Hit up the library and check out the erotica section and read it in public without an ounce of shame
6. Learn to use chopsticks
7. Throw out all the high school stuff I've been hoarding for the last million years
8. Immerse myself in historic Oklahoma culture by doing one of my favorite things: going to museums
9. Find a new song to be stuck on that isn't "Kokomo" by the Beach Boys (♫ Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya..♫)
10. Take it easy

Pretty much

So, now you guys know how lame I am when I have no immediate responsibilities or a routine to uphold. Hey, what can I say? I'm a college student with repressed ambition. 

But, let's be serious, if I can't get a job, I'll probably spend my entire summer feeling ashamed that I'm not worthy of making money and that list will just die like the dreams of angry men. I'll be a little Gavroche crawling through the barricade to my untimely and under-appreciated death. I'LL BE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE AGAIN AND AGAIN! Can someone please do a parody of "Red and Black" for me about my first world struggles? Les Mis, man. 

I'm just Chandler Bing, guys. 

Tales From Room 1109

So, if I hadn't made it clear over the last 40 posts or whatever, I've been living in a dorm room for the last 9 months or so. As a sophomore in college, I think it is safe to say that doing a second round in the dorms after freshman year was singlehandedly the worst mistake I have made in college thus far (but taking "Rocks for Jocks" follows close behind, just fyi). You can safely assume that as I prepare to spend my last night in this tomb of a room the hallelujah chorus is blasting as my climactic background music. 

Okay, so you might be wondering why I regret living in the dorms. Boy, where do I even begin? 

Do I start with the roommate I had for 2 months that liked to get up at 7 am every single day of the week without fail to eat a bowl of cereal as loud as she possibly could as if she was actually trying to wake me up? (Note: I didn't even have class until 12:30 so being woken up at 7 was liking waking up to Satan's buttcrack) Also, she was diabetic so I already kind of hated her for that. When she moved out in October, I pretty much celebrated by not wearing pants for an entire weekend.


Do I begin with the heathens I had living on my floor? I think I'll start with that one because it's still pretty relevant.

So, my floor is upperclassmen coed, which I thought was going to be cool and possibly increase my chances of finding my one true love (WHERE ARE MY SUITORS??). Nope. Not at all. While not everyone on my floor was terrible (mostly the people who I never saw), the rest of the floor was almost a sequel to "Carrie." I can't even count the times I tweeted about wanting to dump pig's blood all over all of them and then proceed to burn them all up in a school gym. I'm not violent, but these violent thoughts possessed me quite often. (writer problems, guys)

My floormates could possibly be the most inconsiderate people I have ever met. It's basically this one big clique that call themselves "The Party Planning Committee" (but I have actually never seen them plan anything ever). It consists of Troll Boy (he literally looks like an ugly ogre), High Leprechaun (and not even a cute leprechaun like in The Luck of the Irish), The Advanced High Schooler (he was 17 when he started his JUNIOR year of college this year soooo yeah), Biracial Miss Piggy, and The Blondes (roommates who just happened to be blonde).  You know, I'm sure they are all nice people, but no. I lost all respect for them when they decided it would be okay to have a party in the hallway in the middle of the night. No.

They are seriously the loudest people I have ever met. They don't understand common courtesy for
people who may or may not be studying or sleeping.

Yes, maybe I am a party pooping stick in the mud, but if anyone (and I seriously mean ANYONE) disturbs my sleep, I automatically hate them. My sleep is my preecccciioouuss. Take it away from me, and you will die. Eventually.

It's people like them that make me wish I had an alcohol problem. I'm not even due for that until I hit 30. Stop trying to drive me mad! 

Will I miss any of them? No. Not at all. In fact, I'll probably still hate them years from now. They'll be the first to die whenever I start writing horror novels (after my erotica goes viral, of course).

Next year, I hopefully won't be fantasizing about killing my roommates (OMG can I be British and call them flatmates?). But if I do, this blog will probably be the first to know.

But seriously, I have the worst luck with living with people. Thus, I'm probably going to die alone. Just saying.

Do You Like Tacos or...?

I am a firm believer that what goes on under the sheets and between the legs is private business for every single person who wants it to be. Whether that is if you lead a very sexually active life or what your sexual preference is at the end of the night, to me, none of that matters. Sometimes people are extremely open about their gender/sexuality/sex life/whatever, and others would really rather keep that to themselves. Either choice is fine.

But I'm not going to lie. I have had some friends over the years that have seriously made me think about what kind of person they are. Some people are just harder to read to find out that kind of information. I'm talking "Great Expectations" hard. I found myself thinking about what my friends' sexual orientations were and whether they were virgins or not. For some unexplainable reason, I was extremely curious about this stuff. I turned to mutual friends and whispered in the shadows, "Hey, do you know if he's gay?" Sometimes I got answers, and other times I just had to go straight to the main source.

As always, my conversations with people are so awkward and so "ugh-I-don't-want-to-have-to-ask-this-right-now-let-me-die"

Me: Hey

Friend: Oh, hey!

Me: So, uh, I have a friend...

Friend: Yeah?

Me: And, uh, they asked me if you were...

Friend: What? A serial killer? HIV positive? The Famous Jett Jackson? Bringing da noise, bringing da funk? Bluffin' with my muffin? Rocky mountain high? Heir to the Genovian throne? Just somebody that you used to know? A Pisces? 

Me: GAY! 

Friend: Oh. No. I'm straight. 

Me: What about those other things? Are you the heir to the Genovian throne?

Friend: Shhhhhh *backs away slowly*

It is truly none of my business if someone likes boys or girls or neither or if they like to have lots of sex or not have any at all. But, like all great people in history, I can be too curious at times. 

At the end of the day, though, knowing or not knowing that information about a friend or classmate or random Subway employee that made me a really good sandwich once really doesn't matter at all. I'm not even just saying that right now. 

Well, it does matter because if I do know I can either A) fall madly in lust with you or B) ship you with another one of my friends. But those are like the only reasons I would ever truly need to know anything about you. Yeah. 

If your pants are full of secrets, though, I'm probably going to do some investigating. Oops. My bad. 

You and Me and My Erotica

As of recently, having discovered where the real money is in writing, I've decided I'm going to pursue the great art of erotic paperbacks (yes, you know, the ones grocery stores stick in the corner by the magazines and coloring books). Despite my own lack of sexual allure, I've read enough Hancest (Hanson incest) fan fiction and I've spent like 4 years on Tumblr, so you know, I know about the sex. It really can't be that hard if you really think about it. I mean, Fifty Shades of Grey, which originally was written as Twilight fan fiction, got published and has sold like one bagillion copies. So, what I'm thinking is I have to get in on that sweetness because money.

So, you might be thinking that I am totally not the person to be writing such filth, and I definitely agree with you on that. Like, what do I know about romance or making the sex happen? I'm 20, perpetually single, and only attract guys who religiously watch Doctor Who. That's not enough credibility to make me a candidate for such a career, but seriously.

So, what's my game plan? Well, pretty much, I have a four-step plan for my success as an erotica novelist.



1. Read lots of bad erotica to get a grasp on plots and writing techniques. Plus, I really need to find out where all the hot Fabio-esque models are, so I can have the absolute best men on my covers. That's
probably the real key to making money off these pieces of literature. Just saying. The secrets are in the lush, blonde locks. 

2. Create a cool, sexy pen name because there is no way I'm putting my name on this trash (plus, my name just wouldn't look good on a book. That's why I need to get married soon and get a new last name. WHERE ARE MY SUITORS?). Once I have a cool, sexy pen name, the rest will come magically.

3. Write erotica. Yeah. Pretty much. And, honestly, I'd probably write all of them while listening to the only sexual song of my youth. Yes, I'm talking about "Digital Get Down" by NSYNC. Shhh. I know. I don't know why I was allowed to listen to that either.

4. Make so much money they actually have to bring it to my house in wheelbarrows and put it in those cloth sacks with big green dollar signs on them. I'll finally be able to afford to over-compensate for my lack of sexual allure with tons of money.

See? It's totally a great plan.

The sad thing about all this is that I would probably write some really fantastic erotica if I actually sat down and tried. So, maybe one day. Perhaps, sooner than anyone thinks.

But you may never know because of my sexy, cool pen name. Then again, I might give myself away with all the references to the steamy cage scene in LOST. But that might just be coincidental. You don't know my life!

It's Gonna Be May!

Yeah, that's all. Happy Dead Week! 

(Click the picture for a surprise)