Oops?

Well… This is awkward. 

I apparently took a very unplanned hiatus from the blog during the months of October and November. With school, personal distractions (whatever that means!), and a complete lack of motivation to really do anything other than the things I *MUST* do, I kind of lost track of everything in my little corner of the Internet. Also, I've been watching a lot of Scrubs as of late, so that's sucked up a lot of my time that I would normally sit down to write in. If anyone who was reading my posts regularly thought I had died or been a victim to some heinous crime, I can tell you that none of those things are true. And I have several hundred people who can back me up on that statement.

I feel like I've been home a lot this semester for some reason (which, honestly, isn't a bad thing because it's nice to take a break from the people I see constantly to see the people I never get to see and drive places without having to get on the expressway). I am currently on break for Thanksgiving, so that's awesome. It's really mostly awesome because that means I'm almost finished with this semester and the closer I am to the semester being over, the closer I am to Christmas. And the closer I am to Christmas, the closer I am to turning 21. I'm just really excited to finally be able to walk into a bar legally and then buy something because I can. 

Ew. My face. But everyone else in this is lovely.

In other news, Bruce and I went to see Switchfoot the other night and (because I'm the coolest most amazing hottest person ever) we had VIP passes. So, basically, dreams came true and I got to meet some really amazing (looking) men and babble like an idiot to them. No, but seriously. It was a fantastic show, and they performed one of my favorite songs called "Your Love Is A Song." They also did a cool Q&A deal during the show, and they answered my really amazing question on stage. So, naturally, when I met them, I had to introduce myself as "Angela from the Question." That's definitely one thing I will one day very much regret. I really shouldn't be allowed to meet famous people because I'm an idiot. 

I will say, though, that meeting Switchfoot definitely beat meeting The All-American Rejects back in 2012 because A) I actually have proof of me touching the band and B) I actually got to talk to the band without being pushed aside by hefty security guards. Also, it was really great getting to do this with Bruce's beautiful beard.

I promised everyone healthy updates so here's one: I definitely was all over the place over the last month a half. I'm really good about working out 5-6 hours every week, but eating is hard because I just want all the unhealthy things all the time. I was 3.5 pounds from the Christmas goal the last time I checked (but that's probably not true anymore because I fluctuate a lot and my body likes to stay at the same weight for long periods of time), but I think I can still get to where I want to be if I buckle down and get serious for the next 2.5 weeks or so.

But hey, no pain, no gain, right? 


Well, until next time, friends.

Lesson learned: When meeting celebrities, just say your name, dammit, and grow out an awesome beard. 

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.

Go Home, October. You're Drunk.

Welcome, October! Time for me to once again ignore the hustle and bustle over pumpkin spice bullshit and countdown to the next major holiday that releases me from the cold, dead grip of junior year of college for like a week. That basically means that October is going to be the longest month ever.

So, every once in a blue moon, I have these realizations about my life and myself and who I am and what I am doing and what I want and why I want it and how I can get it and then my attention returns to its normal obsession with garlic bread and various carbs smothered in cheese. I mean, this happens like twice a year, so trust me... I really don't actually have that much going on in my head at once for prolonged periods of time. That being said, I had one of those moments recently (obviously, or, you know, I wouldn't be talking about this and wasting your time with my unnecessary banter. Oh wait. That's my blog in a nutshell.).

One of my favorite quotes is this:

"You like him because he’s a lost boy. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen before. But do you know what happens to girls who love lost boys? They become lost themselves. Without fail." 

-David Levithan

That quote didn't really have a direct connection to my life until I looked at myself for the first time in a really long time and started to realize how different things have become. 

I've always had a knack for lost people. I think I've always kind of had this idea that I could maybe fix and complete those lost people I found. Of course, now that I'm older, I realize that I can't fix anyone (that's a job for them and them alone), but I am constantly fixated on the dream that that might still be possible. In the end, though, I think I don't actually do any good. I just get tangled up in all the lostness that I try to eliminate. 

I am incredibly lost, without a map and compass. Where I got lost, turned around and around and around, I don't remember. 10th grade? Senior year? College? Behind the counter at that chinese fast food establishment I worked at all summer? 

Who knows? 

But I guess being lost isn't terrible because sometimes you get to take the off-roads and take the detours that lead to dead ends and then you get to turn around and see it all again. And you just keep driving until you hit a familiar spot. I mean, who doesn't love taking the scenic route? 

Falling Without Recovery

Everyone and their mom is obsessed with falling in Love. The movies and TV shows and musical arrangements that fill the airwaves during daily drives to and from work are all full of Love stories that will either leave you curled up under your covers yearning to be touched in the best way or wanting to regurgitate the cold sweet and sour chicken you ate for lunch. The whole Love thing has become such an important force in the lives of pretty much everyone that it's even become like a big deal to tell someone that you love them in a way that's like "Yeah, I loved you before, but now I think I might want to only have sex with just you for the rest of my life." Funny how that happens, right? 

You could have asked high school Angela if she'd ever been in Love, and I can almost guarantee that she would have said yes in a heartbeat. I was stupid, though. I thought I was in Love with every guy who showed any kind of awareness of my existence or any guy who had moves on the astroturf field and do some kind of hair flip. But, let's face it, kids, that's just lust. And lust is Love's evil twin who only wants to give you herpes and a broken heart. 

I've grown up since then, and I'm not going to lie or do a fairy dance around the mushroom to avoid disclosing that I currently find myself caught between the sticky fingers of Love's iron fist. 

But I'm going to just say what no one else will say. Being in Love is shit. It's horrible. I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. 

Some mornings you open your eyes and life is rainbows and puppies and fuzzy kittens sleeping on cotton candy clouds. Suddenly you feel like nothing could possibly go wrong, and you're so happy and just want to go tell it on the mountain so everyone knows about how you have all these feelings for this one insignificantly significant individual. You finally understand the hype about Love. Well, you think you understand. After all, you're pretty much walking around in the same puff of smoke that follows you around after you leave a really good concert or have just had a totally real conversation with Josh Groban. 

Other days, you're lucky if you can get up out of bed. Your chest hurts and you miss this other person more than anything ever. It feels like you're going to actually die. I suppose you could say they're the drug 12 steps wouldn't be enough to kick, and you feel like you're going through the most painful of withdrawals. Every song is suddenly about them, and every movie stars you.  You remember the possibilities of dying of a broken heart and you're nearly positive that that's how you'll die. And, finally, the story of Romeo and Juliet makes complete sense. Maybe those two lovebirds weren't as hormonally irrational as you once thought. 

Then there are days when you absolutely hate everything about this person. You sit there and think to yourself, "Why this person? Why now? Why couldn't I be feeling all this for the cute guy who works at Subway?" You hate the way they laugh, the way they drive too fast, the way they only want you when they drink, the way they look when they think you're not watching, the way they do just about everything. It all sucks for being so damn cute and appealing like a 6-pack of bitch beer on a Friday night. You wish they'd just leave so you could just move the frig on. Like, please get out of my life now. I can't take this. You're killing me slowly. 

But there are still those days when you feel like you're in one of those corny Nicholas Sparks novels, and you're totally invincible to the rest of the world through the power of Love. You love the fact that they're around. You love every little moment you have with them, and you realize how beautiful life is while they're with you. You see them from across the room, and your heart stops and you can't imagine having a more beautiful view. They touch you, and everything feels perfect. They hold you, and you feel the safest you've ever felt. They kiss you, and you wonder if you'll ever find anything that feels more right. And that's not even explaining the feeling at it's best. That's just skidding across the surface. 

The thing about Love, though, is that despite all the aching chests and awkward first kisses and the feeling of "how will I ever move on from this moment?", it's still pretty amazing. And that, kids, is the shittiest part.