Big Girls Don't Cry (Unless They Have To)

First and foremost, I don't cry. I'm not a crier. I'm one of those people who only cry when I'm really upset, scared, or all of the above. Other than that, you probably won't see me shedding too many tears. Even if I'm watching a sad movie or a tv show that just happens to make me feel all the feelings on steroids, I probably won't cry. I'll just get that feeling on the tips of my eyes that makes me think I'm going to cry but then I don't. Basically, if I cry, it means that shit is for real. If I'm crying, you better stop, drop, and roll yourself to the nearest QuikTrip and get me a doughnut and a 6-pack because I'm losing my shit. Unlike my dad, who cries at everything because he's a dad, I just don't cry unless something is worth crying over.

Growing up, my older sister, Lisa, would test me by accusing me of lying. If I was telling the truth, I'd normally get very mad and start crying because she was some kind of manipulative demon child. She did a lot of other things to torment me, but making me cry because I had to prove I was being truthful was probably one of the most horrific forms of torture she used. (In fact, that's probably why I don't cry. See, who needs therapy when you can just come to these realizations while writing a blog?)

So, like, three weeks ago, I was on the phone with Bruce (the bestie, if you're new to my blog!), and crying came up in our conversation (actually, this might have been an intense, passionate discussion. who knows!) because crying is a thing we sometimes do because of the amount of dust in the air around us when we're together or on the phone or (and most importantly) when LOST is on TV.

Him: You know, I never cried until I became friends with you.
Me: Yeah, same here.
Him: Like, seriously. I cry all the time now.
Me: Maybe this is a sign that we shouldn't be friends anymore.
Him: I don't know.
Me: You're right. That can never happen because you know way too much.

And, to be honest, that's pretty true (I mean, the crying part. Although the him knowing too much part is also very true). I bet that half the time that we're together, one of us cries. And while I'm sure that many of those times it's primarily because of alcohol and the fact that we get too emotional sometimes, half the time is a lot of the time. I mean, Bruce is like the manliest man I know, and I'm not just saying that because I know he'll come kick my ass hardcore if I didn't say that, so he doesn't really cry, he just cleans his face with the water of his eyes. That's how intense he is, guys. Also, that's how he keeps his skin so clear. True story.

So, anywho. I was thinking about it, and I think Bruce is the only person I can cry in front of. This is
probably because A)he's seen me in some very interesting situations (like puking on his balcony and that time my pants fell down because they were so loose) so crying is like nothing and B) he will probably be too busy crying himself to notice how ugly I am when I cry. True shit. Though, I don't know if I am as ugly crying as Kim Kardashian. I may never know.

If I cry at home, Julia will never let me forget about it because she's a little rabbit shit. If I cry at school, I'll look like some kind of freshman who can't figure out if they can walk from Dale Hall to Gaylord College in less than 15 minutes (mind you, that's like a 3 minute walk). So, basically, I reserve all my crying for when I'm with my best friend. That either means my standards are that low or that we have a really awesome relationship.

I basically just realized this entire post is a giant contradiction. Writing is hard, y'all.

I blame the ending of LOST for all my troubles. Also Ron Paul 2012.

A Veritable Smorgasbord

This is so flattering. I know. Where are my boobs?

September means a lot of things, but, here in the great state of Oklahoma, it means the state fair is in our midsts! It's one of the few occasions when Oklahoma's larger individuals crawl from their homes to rent scooters to ride around on while they eat disgusting amounts of food for two weeks (other events may include concerts, festivals, and trips to buffets). Despite my disinterest in rides, games, and spending my money on things that aren't reasonably priced, I really like the fair (mostly because I get to take pictures with various farm animals without being judge too harshly by fellow human beings). This year, I went with my beautiful roommate, Hannah, and we saw some interesting things. Things I probably would never like to see again. Ever. 

Hannah and I both have our fair food quirks. We have designated foods for the state fair and then foods we save for the medieval fair in April. For me, it's all about the corn dogs and funnel cakes. Those two things are things I will basically ONLY eat at the state fair. Get me those things and you pretty much have control over me. I then save my turkey leg and kettle corn needs for the spring. Sure, if I had unlimited funds in my pocket to buy food, I'd probably eat a lot more interesting things like doughnut burgers and "taco in a bag," but until that happens, I'm sticking with the basics.  The real dilemma, though, is that no one wants to eat something questionable and get the shits at the fair. So, I'm literally walking around death valley looking at these vendor booths like:

Me: *sees pizza* Nope

Me: *sees gorgeous dairy-related things* Nope

Me: *sees something greasy and dipped in chocolate* Nope

Me: *sees hot guy eating dairy* Nope 

It's a lot of fun. 

At one point early on in your fair adventures, and I don't really remember what was happening at all when this other thing happened, but we basically almost walked straight into a guy who puked as he was walking towards us. It wasn't even chunky barf. In fact, I think it was just beer. Like, he just spat beer out onto the pavement. But it was in barf form. Needless to say, that was disgusting. 

We also got hit on at the same time by the same guy at a lemonade stand out in the middle of nowhere by the barns for farm animals. He asked if we were sisters and thought I was 17 (that's a new one, I must be aging). If it weren't for his unfortunate dental hygiene, I'm sure he would have hit it off with one of us, but.... ya know. Sorry, buddy.

But I think the highlight of the evening was when we got two helpings of wine slushie samples. We were never completely sure whether there was any alcohol at all in these little samples, but it sure did taste like wine. That's all I got to say about about that. 

Oh, and I dazzled my way into getting 3 dollars off a poster from a couple of Asian guys who thought I was "cute." Actually, the guy asked how much I had (because I didn't have enough to meet their price) and I lied and said I had $7 and he gave it to me. I actually had $9. Oops. 

So, as you can see, I have apparently gotten better looking, older looking, and cheaper since the last time I went to the fair. Yeah, I think that's some good improvements, guys. Hey, bonus is that next time I go to the fair (I mean, if I don't happen to somehow make it to the Tulsa State Fair) I'll be able to reenact that barf scene for myself because legally drinking. Woop!

 

The Thing About Country Music

I've lived in Oklahoma my entire life, so I've pretty much been exposed to the great wonder that is country music since day one. Although no one in my family is gun-hoe about the genre of music, it's definitely made its way into our programmed radio stations on several occasions over the years. That being said, I kind of hate country music. Sure, I probably know all the lyrics to every Rascal Flatts song released before 2006, but that means nothing at all. Yeah, yeah, don't yell at me via hateful comments or whatever it is you trolls do. It's just not my thing.

Or at least that's what I keep telling myself every single time I accidentally find myself liking a song about driving a pick-up truck.

Basically all summer long, I've been bumming off of Bruce by convincing him he should trust me to drive his car and stuff when he's not around (Thank you best friend. I love you!). Now, Bruce has like six different radio stations programmed. Four of them are pop stations that play what's hot and what's a decade or two old. Another is a station that plays a lot of music that is so loud that you can't hear the super depressing lyrics about really sad things that people do and feel. Then there is one that really stands out. You may have already guessed what it is because why else would I be talking about Bruce's programmed radio stations. It's country music.

I'll admit, when there's nothing good on the other stations, I sometimes settle for country. But I'll never admit that to anyone else.

Bruce knows how much I am irritated by the hick-ish-ness that is country music, so when he wants to get on my nerves and be a little shit face (just kidding!!!!), he puts on country music and refuses to let me or anything change that.

So, when we're driving places, it starts totally fine. We're both just jamming to some tunes....

and then it happens. He changes the friggin station unannounced like he's king of the world! Like "Ooooh I pay for gas and I pay my bills and go to work and eat bologna so I get to control the radio!"

And what happens next can only be described as pure agony.

Jokes on him, though. Because I do actually like some of the songs he thinks drive me crazy. But sometimes it's more fun to make fun of them than to just sing along like a normal person.  

To be honest, this post makes no sense at all. I just wanted to try out this comic maker I found. 

So, do I like country music? No. Not at all. Never. In. A. Million. Years. I just like that song about the guy trying to drive home and boink his girl but she is all up on him and he's all over the road. Don't judge me. 

Why The Rush, August?

Wow. How prompt am I in welcoming August to 2013? Well, in all fairness, I have barely been home or mentally awake for the last couple of days, so don't hate. But seriously. I haven't even changed the page on my calendar. I didn't even see my family or bed or dog or a clean change of clothes for 2 days, so my bad for not being on my game!

In my little corner of the universe, August means 2 very important things: 1) Time for school to start again and 2) Time for me to spend way too much on cool school supplies I'll probably never use at all the entire 9 months that I'm in school. Yeah, I'll admit, even at the age that I am, my favorite kind of shopping is school supplies shopping, and it saddens me so much that college doesn't require me to have a big box of crayons and an assortment of Lisa Frank folders and pencils. Instead, I'm good to go with a few Five Star notebooks and a pack of pens. Maybe a mechanical pencil or two. This is just growing up, I guess.

In other news, August now means me moving into my *drumroll please* very first apartment! In about a week and a half, I'll be making the 2 hour trek back to the sometimes-too-dangerous-for-anyone Norman, Oklahoma to begin my junior year at college, and I'll be living with three other girls (let's see how long it takes before I go all Carrie on their asses. Just kidding) (Nope.) I think it's finally hitting
me that summer is coming to a close soon and that I'll be living like a legit adult. (Like buying groceries and cooking and having my own full-sized bed. Those are adult things, right?)

August also means me no longer being employed. Oh what fun it has been to not come home smelling like chow mein or having sweet and sour sauce in random places on my body these last couple of days! I mean, I am so grateful that I was able to make some good money this summer, but you know I am even more grateful that I don't have to worry about that shit anymore (that is, until I'm back to being poor and unable to afford my Sour Patch Kids addiction). SCREW YOU, CHINESE FOOD! 

So, August is going to be pretty crazy and awesome and wonderful and slightly sad and just a tad bit stressful. This pretty much guarantees me having a 5-star, Emmy-nominated meltdown (and me getting really drunk too) at some point, but that is something future Angela can deal with.  I mean, August has already been pretty awesome, so don't rain on my parade.

But, hey, I'll be blogging pretty much everything this month, so you won't miss out on anything that's clean enough for me to write about without having to put a "Not Safe For Work" warning on here. Just kidding. I'll even include that stuff here.

Hey June, Don't Make It Bad

Happy June, lovely readers! Although I have no idea if anything cool happens in June due to the fact that I haven't changed the page of my zombie-themed calendar yet, I'm sure there's something. And, if not, whatever.

Mike Falzone and Coffee Girl

Anywho, lucky me is on a day off from work today, so that pretty much gives me permission to do nothing that can be defined as physical movement. Happy day! In reality, though, I'll probably end up trying to finish unpacking (a chore that seems to have taken me three blissful weeks to complete, mind you) my stuff from college along with cleaning my room while listening to Mike Falzone's podcast "Welcome to the Podcast!" (which you should totally go give a listen because he and his lady are hilarious and it is totally free and available on iTunes! **language warning for the kids**). Actually, none of that will probably happen, but it's nice to think about, ya know? But for now, I'm just going to take some time to write this lovely blog post. Boom!

With the summer heat starting to roar into Oklahoma, I've been hit with a lot of nostalgia. Past summers have typically been pretty nice to me (with exceptions here and there). Concerts of the Jonas Brothers variety (don't judge, just put yo' pom poms down for me), going to the local water park, staying up until who-knows-when and sleeping until never-gonna-happen after drinking energy drinks (Grape NOS and Black Mamba Venom Energy were once the only ways I could pretend to be awake) and having access to the Internet. Smells like summer, right? Oh, the good old days when I didn't have responsibilities or financial burdens. 

Sexxxy

The summer before my freshman year of high school, if I remember well, was actually a pretty decent summer. Despite my constant need to update my at-the-time blog (mentioned in detail here) and fiddle around on Paint Shop Pro, my life wasn't entirely consumed by one thing. That summer was the summer of movies for me. I was fresh out of middle school and still in contact with my close friends
from those torturous years, so we went to the cinema all the time (it probably wasn't actually all the time, but actually like 3 times pfft). Can we all just take a moment of silence for emo Peter Parker in Spider-Man 3? *touches up eyeliner* Okay, we're done with that.  At the time, though, he was the hottest thing in my mind. That summer I also ate a lot of Arby's. I don't even know.

STOP JUDGING ME! YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE!

But the big thing about that summer was the loss of my J-Card. Yup, that was the summer the Jonas Brothers entered my life and stayed a long three years. I can't even remember how exactly I found the Jonas Brothers. Was it that I had their catchy single "Year 3000" on my iPod?  I don't even know. I just know that I was hooked. Here, I'll paint you a picture! I found out they were coming to Tulsa, so I begged for tickets (which had a cost of $27.50 each, btw. That's never going to happen ever again). I wanted a physical copy of their out-of-print debut album so I found a copy on eBay for like $30. They had a new album coming out in August of that year, so you know I had to preorder that ish. Sadly, though, that was probably the cheapest year for my JB obsession.

Man, my life is so sad. 

I'll tell you what pisses me off about that whole JB ordeal, though. At the concert, they did meet-and-greets afterwards and each pass was like $20 (HAHAHAHAHAAH!). I made the biggest mistake of my whole life that night. I decided to not get a M&G pass and instead get a stupid t-shirt and hat! Disastrous, I know! But whatever! 

Life goes on. But, as you can see, I'm still not over it. Never. 

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.

Oh No I Didn't!

The back of an angel.  (photo by me!)

So, 2 years ago, I was lucky enough to be invited to see Josh Groban in concert with my friend, Emma, and her mom. Dude, I love Josh Groban. He's probably the most "adult" singer that I listen to because I'm normally not into music that doesn't have some curve of angst in it (because it's totally not like I don't already have enough angst as it is). Anyway, when I found out that I was going to be seeing him I was like freaking out and preparing my acceptance speech to the spontaneous marriage proposal he would pull out of his pocket during the concert if our eyes should meet for a brief moment. Yeah, that is how much I love Josh Groban. Then again, who doesn't love Josh Groban? I mean, he totally kicks major ass in everything he does. You could probably say he really knows how to... RAISE things up. (Get it? Like, You Raise Me Up...like the song. Nevermind)

Okay. Back to my story. Damn. I'm ADHD right now.

So, we get to the BOK Center in Tulsa, and that's when I find out that we have freaking floor seats. Just FYI, in my adult life I have never ever ever had real floor seats to any concert, so this was a huge deal to me. Because everyone knows that most performers will travel through the crowd on the floor at some point during the show and that gives anyone an opportunity to touch the person they've just paid a ridiculous amount of money to see in concert. Then, when we were situated in our seats, suddenly something rather close to me and amazing caught my eye. 

It was a smaller stage. With a piano on it. A Groban-sized piano. 

So, I immediately turned to Emma. 

Me: Girl, what is that over there?

Her: What?

Me: That thing 10 feet away from us right now. 

Her: Oh my gosh.

Me: You don't think he'll be right there, do you?

Her: Oh my gosh. 

Me: *internally dies from the potential closeness of Josh Groban*

Her: Oh my gosh. 

So, then I just sat there totally flipping my shit because Joshua Winslow Groban might be super close to me any moment from then. And then his opening act came out. And that was alright. I don't remember much of that because of the amazing piano stage that was 10 feet to my left. Yes. It was like being at a funeral and having no choice but to think about the rotting corpse in the box in front of you. (Yes, I did just compare a lifeless body to a piano. Deal with it)

And then it happened. He came out. And began the show. On the piano. 10 feet from my body. 

I melted. 

He did his thing and I continued to melt onto the floor beneath me. His smooth vocals, piano-playing that could make miracles happen, and perfectly styled hair were flawless. The whole crowd was silent for lots of the show because we were all mesmerized by this God-like presence before us. I'd never been to a concert where the crowd wasn't 98% screaming teenage girls or drunk neanderthals, so this was a new concept to my mind. I loved it. 

My favorite thing about concerts are the stories that the performer(s) will tell during the show. Josh, thank the high Heavens above, did this at my concert. He talked about how he'd seen that Tulsa was having it's annual Mayfest (which the cute little idiot called May Fair... but I'll let it slide this time) and some other stuff. Then he told a story about how someone had made a tweet about how he wouldn't be caught dead at a Josh Groban concert. 

Unf. (photo by me!)

Now, what happened next can't be explained. 

Me: OH NO HE DI-DN'T!

Josh: *turns in my direction*

Josh: That's right! "Oh no, he di-dn't!"

Instantly, Emma's mom had her hands on my shoulders and she was saying that I'd talked to Josh. 

And I had.

I had spoken to Josh Groban. 

Truthfully, I didn't think he'd hear my yell because I'm just so used to not being heard, but he did. He acknowledged that my vocal cords had produced a sound that his ears understood. It was amazing. 

So, you see, I might just say things spontaneously sometimes, but sometimes that unflattering habit of mine can perform pop-opera miracles of the Josh Groban variety. So, anyone who says I need to keep my mouth shut can suck my big, fat one, okay? Because I know they haven't talked to Josh freaking Groban. 

Sophomore Slump, Kiss My Keister

A warning at the carwash or for my semester?

I wake up between the unholy hour of 8 am and the mildly unfair hour of 9 am Monday through Friday and, like clockwork, turn out the lights to sink into my own steady beat of insomnia at 11 pm (an unheard of time for many college students. I know.) most nights. I attend 18 hours of class on the regular, never missing a beat, and I manage to workout 4 or 5 times a week and eat food that isn't artificially flavored or colored. Oh, and I do all of this while still keeping myself caught up on my TV shows and demolishing the stack of books by my bed. This is my life. 

As a second semester sophomore in college, I know the system pretty well. I've got a routine packed down securely, and, as long as I follow that routine, I'm going to survive this semester. Now, you might be thinking to yourself: Angela, you make college sound like it's a fight to the death. I think you're overreacting just a tad! And, you know, I'd agree with you for the most part. I just don't think you heard me when I said I was taking 18 HOURS!!!  In college terms, that's a mouthful of the trots right there! 19 hours is the limit for students here at the University of Oklahoma, so being one under that is pretty gutsy. 

I've been joking to myself for the last two weeks that I've become some sort of overachiever since the beginning of the semester. I have due dates scribbled in black ink across my calendar and stacks of assorted Post-It Notes with to-do lists and outlines carefully laid out all over my desk.  This wasn't me last semester, and this sure as hell wasn't me my freshman year (the year I procrastinated, watched LOST, and gained 15 pounds eating Burger King and drinking strawberry Fanta). 

My freshman year in a nutshell after watching 6 seasons of LOST in 4 weeks

I remember how bugged out sophomore year of high school made me, so why shouldn't I have expected the exact same thing out of college? Sure, sophomores in high school only need to conquer their geometry and chemistry classes while striving to control their sexual tension and random outbreaks of zit metropolises on their faces. I'm in a whole other lifeboat on this sinking ship, and Leonardo DiCaprio is nowhere in sight to save me! I've got second semester Latin (can you say, carpe kill me?) and the fact that my clothes never seem to match to worry about! 

It all sounds so sophomoric, don't you think? Exactly. 

I've decided that, despite the curse of the Sophomore Slump, I'm not going to let this semester own me. I was once called Superwoman by a friend, and now I'm here to prove that true. So, watch out professors, peers, and South Oval preachers! I am woman, hear me roar!