All I Want For Christmas Is Practicality

Well, here, once again, I find myself looking into the eye of a storm of holly, jolly, and a belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly as Christmas quickly descends upon a majority of the world. The whole damn family gang is back in session and we'll all be senselessly quoting "Home Alone" and griping about controversial issues and how all medical TV shows lie about the residents hooking up in the on-call room. (New drinking game: take a shot every time someone says "Fuller, go easy on the Pepsi").  What is it… a mere three days until I get to disappoint all the people I know with gifts they didn't ask for and gifts that I definitely didn't go the extra mile for? I swear, every year, Christmas seems to come a little quicker and a little out of nowhere (but seriously, where did the last year go?)

In all seriousness, this year was the hardest year for me to try to make some kind of list of things I might want as gifts this year because no one really knows what I want ever. When I was little, it was so easy to just grab one of those 50-some-odd-page Toys R Us catalogs that came with the Sunday paper and take a marker and circle all the things I desired (mostly things that began with the phrase "Barbie Dream…"). I'd then just hand it to one of my parents with an added paper that said "Cash, money." I was one classy person before I became an adult.

Today, it's not so easy.

Society: Now that you're almost 21 and a fully legal adult who can partake in alcohol soaked activities, you need to stop asking for band t's from Hot Topic and jars of queso and Barbie dolls and merchandise for things you may not be interested in a few months from now.
Me: What?
Me: Escuse me?
Me: Then what is there to long for selfishly?
Society: Practical things. You know, like adult things.
Me: Adult things? From the XXX Adult Superstore downtown?
Society: No. Don't be a smart ass.

So, naturally, my christmas list this year looked very strange as I was typing it up at an unholy hour in the night. I found myself spelling out words like "socks" and "lotion" and "a cute kettle."  The lack of links to band t's and juvenile items was startling. I didn't even know what kind of person I was turning into as I continued to jot down items I'd never thought would be produced from the tips of my fingers unless I was writing some kind of abnormal fetish-infested erotica that beats 50 Shades in freakiness. 


But then I ask Bruce (one of those fully legal adults who can partake in the alcohols) what he wants for Christmas, and (proving my assumption that he'll just leave me to use my imagine to find a good gift for him wrong) tells me he wants all these fancy and "practical" adult items.

Him: *lists a couple of items I've never heard of but are definitely practical adult choices*
Me: *blinks*
Him: *sparkles with adult radiance*
Me: How dare you be more of an adult than me, you schnitzel eater!

Meanwhile, my overly-sophisticated sisters can't seem to make a list that includes an item that isn't less than $50 (well, except for Julia, who kindly just told me she wanted "merch" for Christmas). As far as I can tell, Christmas just gets harder and harder to make affordable as you age.

Unfortunately for me (and everyone blessed to receive something handpicked by me), I'll probably always be an awful gift-giver. And for this, I must apologize. I hope everyone enjoys their $5.99 DVD's of Les Miserables I snagged off Amazon at the last moment. 

But, you know, thank God for Dad who is happy just to have you there. 

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?