Who cares if I'm cheating? The Honors Code doesn't cover this anway...

There I was, at the bookstore, loading up on LoCo items, since they are all on sale. And there. On the bookshelf.
A novel writing kit. I kind of laughed, but I did end up buying it.

It's by the guy who founded NaNoWriMo, and there really were some great tips in there. There is a progress chart (Darn you mother. I don't want to use it so I'm going to make a bigger one on posterboard so that it can be used another time), gold star stickers, and tip-a-day cards.

I'm super excited.

I think I'm sort of cheating, because I've already started writing before I found the kit, and they are pretty insistent that you don't have anything written before you start. But considering I only had about a 1,000 words, I don't see much of a problem.

So I've decided to work around National Novel Writing Month, and write one premature. I figure, it's the summer, I only have one class, and I should be able to get a little more than 1,500 words a day, right?

I found this great workbook (that is really meant for high school students but who cares I'm still only 18 anyway) for planning through things. I like things to be planned....I can't help it. Haha.

Soooooooo that's what I'm going to do at work today. How about you?

Cats in suits

Oh my goodness.

I'll never look at Men In Black the same way every again.

Oh, Sweet Summer

So it turns out that most techno songs are no longer free for me to listen to. Techno is eternally bound to the summer I turned 16.

There I was, just sitting there, philosophizing and the radio pulsing with music, when a techno song came on. And all at once, as if I were a child standing underneath a mushroom at a water park, it hit me.

I had bought two techno CDs that spring, and they really were the soundtrack of my summer. I listened to them, and nothing else. Dance remixes, DJ remixes, whatever what was on those CDs. I adored them. I couldn't get enough.
And so it really shouldn't come as a surprise, then, that I've created a mental link from that genre to that summer.
It was the summer I got my first love letter.
It was the summer I fancied myself in love.
It was the summer I learned I could write.
It was the summer I learned how to take a picture.
It was the summer I was independent.
It was the summer I felt like I belonged somewhere.
It's not a bad memory, that summer. Nostalgic and semi-bittersweet when I think of the goodbyes and the hellos that vanished as time washed over the months.

Here is to the summer.

And I'm taking back my toast to the radio. Because it made me realize that techno is dead to me, as all summers must die.

And again I am stabbed by the vorpal sword....

...of weakness and temptation that is.

I have a certain fondness for food. Not to the point where I overeat, but I do love food.

Last night while watching Here Come the Newlyweds with Bren, one of the questions they asked was "What does your wife (in our case girlfriend) waste the most money on?" And the couples added money to the pot if they both matched their answers.

Well...Bren and I would have gotten money. Because we both answered "food."

The ultimate weakness, however, is free food. WHAT? YOU SAY I CAN EAT THIS? FOR FREE??

....it is a dreadful fault.


.......I'm going to eat my second free doughnut now.

Hello, Loyola College....

So now that I'm working at both the Tech help desk, and covering the switchboard for the college, I'm bound to get a few wrong calls everyonce and a while right?

I thought that the strangest one would have been a woman calling from my home area code, asking for carpet, but I was just proven wrong.


Pawn shop?
Really?

And the strangest part, is that people don't...believe me when I answer the phone, stating exactly who they are calling.
"Hello, Loyola College."
"Hey is this **** ***** Pawn Shop?"

.....No. In fact it is not. It is Loyola College. Which I just stated that it was.
I don't know where this confusion comes from.

At least I can't say that I don't meet interesting people at this job.

There isn't anything I love more than Free Food

....There was free pizza here at work.

I didn't get any.


I guess I'll just wait until 1:30 or so to go reheat mac and cheese in the fridge, or eat left over salad.
Life is wonderful?

Job Description?

Remember that time my job entailed answering the occasional phone call, and taking inventory once or twice a day?

Surprise. Turns out my job has been updated and expanded.

To answering the phone a whole lot more, and not being able to leave aformentioned phone to take inventory because the phone is ringin' off the hook.

Instead of handling the calls for the department I work for, I'm now working the switchboard.
As in, you call the general number...and I pick up the phone.

"I don't know what department this person is in, and I don't know their last name. But can you transfer me to them?"


At least I'm still getting paid.

I don't need no education

Here I thought I went to college to, I don't know, bond with peers, get an education, network.

Most of all, I wanted to get away from idiots. Those people who just don't get it.
No offense if you are one of those people (are we not all at some point?), but sometimes I have to seriously wonder how these people got in here. I don't have a problem with them being here. Every one has the right to take a Chemistry class.

But if you are a science major, and can't understand that there is extra oxygen BECAUSE YOU ARE PUMPING IT IN, then maybe you should reconsider your career choice.


In the future, I do not want these people to be my doctors.

Bad Habits

Of posting multiple times a day after not posting for weeks upon weeks.

I am very ashamed of the following story, but on the internet, shame turns into celebrity, that that guy who sang that euro pop song and was everywhere.

It wasn't the greatest thing to be known for, but hey. Any publicity is good publicity right?

So after watching the movie IKIRU, in Philosophy, the professor was preparing us for the next movie, Run Lola Run, which our class will be watching tonight.
IKIRU isn't the most jolly of films, what with stomach cancer and existentialist themes, but during one of the saddest parts of the movie, I started to get congested. Purely the result of being in the basement of the Humanities Center, I assure you.

However, at the end of class, the professor mentioned that he thought he heard sniffling.
It was me of course, but it wasn't because I was upset. Just because my nose was stuffy.

Not wanting to be known as she-who-cries-during-movies, I immediately followed with:

"Oh, that was me. I was just constipated."

.....wrongwordwrongwordwrongword, Mel. Great job.

I was completely horrified, and corrected myself. It was too late.


I fear that I shall be known as she-who-needs-to-poop-during-movies-but-cannot for ever more.

The Internet is a tool....sort of like a hole punch.

It's there, and we love to use it, but sometimes we find ourselves punching holes in papers that have no binder.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this analogy.

Either way. Today, I found the most wonderful site.

englishrussia.com

It has lots of pictures from Russia.

I'm considering making it my homepage.

Well you better go catch it...

I feel like my nose is constipated.

I've always prided myself on my strong immune system, but now it appears that I have develped allergies. Or maybe just one. To a different mattress. Or my car carpeting.

Clearly the mastermind behind my stuffiness...is leisure time.

For the past three months, January until May, I've done nothing but keep busy. Up by 8, classes or work until about 5, maybe later.

What is that? I can wake up anytime I want? I don't have to be anywhere? Or do things? Or leave the house if I don't want to?

The freedom is destroying me. It flits about, and quite frankly, I don't know what to do with myself.

In the meantime, I'm going to spend my days before summer classes reading books, for fun. And being unable to breathe, yet unable to blow my nose at the same time.

Fantastic.

And the meat just kept coming...

I went out to dinner at a Brazilian resturant with my parents today.

I really can't describe how wonderful the Imperial was.

The three of us each ordered an All-You-Can-Eat Brazilian BBQ, for $20.

The waiter brings out a small bowl of beans, and a plate of french fries, white rice, and yellow rice.
For the three of us to share?

...alright.

Then came the food.

An endless stream of delicious food.

One piece of chicken. Then one sausage. Then a chicken wing. Then one rib. And on and on, each time the cook brought out a completely different type of meat.

To be honest, I thought it was strange that they were only giving one of each on each plate, but considering that I barely finished the first piece of chicken and the sausage? I can hardly judge.

Even though we were the only ones in the resturant, as we were wrapping up and paying our bills, two more families came in for dinner.

In conclusion, if you ever find yourself in the Bound Brook area, go there. You will not leave unsatisfied.

It's that time again....

We're almost in that state of limbo - after finals, but before grades are posted - anxiously awaiting to see how that ridiculous final affected our class average.

I think the schools do it on purpose.
Here we are. Sitting on the edges of the provided rock-y chairs, surrounded by things that should be packed, checking WebAdvisor for the third time that morning, in hopes a grade will be posted, and the fate of a GPA will be determined.

I'm in the same situation as last semester.

I have a 4.00.

But I only have one grade back.



At least this time it is a 4-credit class, and not a 1-credit lab.

Just point me in the direction of the BINGO tournament.

The other day while I was in the bathroom of the suite, I got to thinking about where I will be living next year.
This in turn led to a shiver running down my spine, at what kind of horrors are going on in that apartment now, it being occupied by male swimmers.

I had a day-mare(?), imagining walking down the hallway with a black light, and the walls lighting up like a Christmas tree, in March, on fire.

At that exact moment, another, terrifying thought struck me. The other type of enclosed living environment. Not housing for seniors, but senior housing.


Think about it. A nursing home is the college dorm of the golden ages.

• An all you can eat buffet style cafeteria, complete with little cups of jello.
• You're stuck with a roommate with whom you may or may not get along with.
• You are completely free to wander the halls, if you are on the right floor, of course.
• If you become lost, you can ask anyone to help direct you to where you are going.
• There are visiting hours.
• To be quite honest, you can have sex with whomever you want, and they won't remember it the next morning.

I'm now terrified at stepping foot in a senior housing facility, much less carrying a black light.

I come for the sand, not for the money.

I had an interview for a summer internship today.

Not sure how it went.

I don't think I'll get the position.

It's far away, appears to be no pay, requires training that I don't have, and they hope that the intern will return after being set free.

And I don't see that happening.

To be honest, I'm probably going to move to Maryland at some point.

And I don't even know if building engineering is anything I am interested in.

But being so close to the beach would be so nice.

What Not To Wear: Cotton Edition

It has been brought to my attention that my fashion sense....does not exist.

I've worn novelty t-shirts all through high school and the first two semesters of college. I like them. They are cute, and often have clever phrases plastered across the front.

Fatal flaw. I missed the memo that girls aren't supposed to wear t-shirts past the age of..16? Maybe it is because I never had a real Sweet Sixteen. The government must send out notices about the rules and regulations.

I have always been known as the girl who wears those witty/cute/clever/really cool t-shirts. Or maybe that is just what was said to my face.

As such I am currently working on a new style for my wardrobe. Goodbye brightly colored monsters and cupcakes. The time has come for style.

This is probably the source of my paper doll obsession.

Suggestions will be appreciated and reviewed.

Knock twice before invading

Apparently the title of this post is actually a book/article about meningococcus.

What I was looking to talk about was housing registration.

Somehow or another, we completely lucked out. 1300 when the numbering starts at 1286. We got the room we wanted, in the building we wanted, at approximately the altitude we wanted.

But I am still led to wonder what will happen when time comes in to move.

Each bedroom sleeps two people, but are completely different sizes. One has its own bathroom, one has a walk-in closet, and the other is a closet.

And we are already preregistered for what room we'll be in. We drew lots to determine who went where.

I can only hope that B stands for bathroom.

Or Benevolent gift from the closet gods.

I use an astrolabe to plan my future.

Scheduling classes was a disaster.

You would think that the honors program would involve perks, like a continental breakfast, after dinner mints, and priority in classes. Clearly not.

The math class I needed to get in filled up and I had to waver in. And then the people "helping" out decided to not do their jobs and made me struggle to get into classes that should have been easy.

They don't seem to understand that I can't register for classes if the co-requisites are filled.

And yes Doctor. I don't know where you've been but that class has always been required for an Engineering Major.

And someone else told you that about a half hour before I mentioned it again.

How did you forget?

I guess we all can't play with toy trucks and EZ Bake Ovens.

Once again I'm back to being unable to control my urges.

Let me explain.
As a kid, I was not really a doll type of girl. I had little soap operas going on between my 4 pack of crayons (every one knows that any more than that just gets complicated and turns brown), what with the floozy red and arrogant blue hooking up and yellow and green being the dysfunctional secondary couple that kept getting in the way. The same type of playing happened with my sweet collection of toy cars. I had this pretty awesome car that changed from pink to white if I ran it under hot water. Therefore it was the cool one, and various soap-opera scenarios ensued.
I digress.
I never really played with dolls. I had stuffed animals that I liked more, and despite having lots of Barbie stuff, I just could not get into it. Maybe there just was not enough drama.

However. I have recently discovered an updated version of my mom's favorite past-time as a girl: Paper dolls.
It took 18 years, but now I've discovered a fascination with dress up - tragically for me, this manifests in me opening up sparkly pink web pages designed for 7 year old girls...while at work.

I can't help it. Curses to you glitter and flash animations.


And I hate it when the clothes don't snap on and I have to drag them into place.

But if you were filled with candy, I'm not sure I wouldn't get the bat.

I have an addictive personality. This is a fact.

If I ever get into something, and find myself very interested, or involved, then it becomes rather hard to stop. For example, even as a little kid, whenever I would bring home a new book, I found myself unable to put it down until I finished.

As a result, I would stay up until two in the morning, and when my mom got up in the middle of the night and discovered my light was on, I would rush to make something up such as, "I just got up to go to the bathroom," or "I'm having trouble sleeping."

Well yes. I am having trouble sleeping. Because I'm having issues trying to bring myself to sleep.

Anyway. Back on point. I don't have much free time. Really, I'd like to go to the gym. Even though I have a membership, and truly enjoy going, I can't bring myself to go. Probably because I get dragged into other activities that I can't pull myself away from.

Facebook: I keep checking. Really? No one comments on your photos or anything, and I really doubt that you're going to get another notification in the next half second.

fmylife.com: Sometimes it makes me feel better about my life. And then I realize that I'm spending my time reading about downers in people's lives when I could be living mine.

failblog.org: Same reason as above.

And most recently, and I am ashamed to say it: Viva Piñata.

I've always noticed that I get a little too compulsive about games like the Sims, or other types of "you create a world/farm/house/take care of this thing" games. This is no exception.

They are piñatas. I don't even like piñatas. When ever I had one for my birthday, my dad would always bring the rope up while it was my turn so I always missed. Everyone would laugh at me for missing, and I would be terribly embarrassed and ashamed.

And yet, the concept of building a beautiful little garden filled with the beasts appeals to me.

I'm trying to wean myself off - I've only been playing since last Saturday, but I've already slacked on my work, am alienating my friends, and have started yelling at people when they interrupt me when I'm trying to get a breeding bonus.

I hope I don't get the shakes.

waffles + batter = you're playing baseball all wrong

I've discovered that Potato Bread has a tragic flaw.

When I was buying two loaves last Sunday (not this past Sunday, but the Sunday before that), I was frantically clutching them to my breast while I ran up and down the aisles looking for food-stuffs I would need. Seeing as how I don't have a way to get myself to a grocery store, whenever I find myself at one I am sure to stock up.

As I was checking out, I noticed that in my desperation I had held them a tad too tightly, not unlike a child clinging to the lifeguard as he is learning how to swim. As a result, smack in the middle of both loaves were huge arm-shaped indents.

Oh, that should not be a problem! Right? I'll just kind of stretch it out when the time comes, or use it for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Well, I have gone through the first loaf. Mostly. There are four slices left in the first bag - the end caps, and two squished-beyond-recognition slices with holes in them from me trying to un-squish them.

I'm dreading the middle of the next loaf. I had no idea that potato bread was so sensitive! I don't have a toaster, or I would make toast. I can't use it for grilled cheese, because I don't have a stove - I would have to put it in the grill. This bread is useless to me. Maybe I'll just make peanut butter without the jelly. and force myself to take them for lunch to work.

It will be a sad little sandwich, but I'll cherish my thriftiness as I try to stretch the $70 I have left for food out for another month.

And if I do have to make more grilled cheese, I hope that I don't forget to take out the waffle plates first. As cute as it was, eating a cheese sandwich shaped as a waffle, I thought the bread was too compact. Not fluffy enough to my liking.

....Scratch that. A waffle-cheese sandwich is the second best type of sandwich there is.

It is second only to a peanut butter sandwich cut into the shape of a dinosaur.

But don't we all have some dirty laundry?

Right now mine is in the basket under my bed with some more from this past week in a duffel bag. I have some time today, so I should really do it tonight, and not scrounge around for clean socks until the weekend.

I don't really want to have to carry everything down to the first floor and wait a full hour and a half until my clothes to be clean. Only to find out, of course, that I'm bringing back two socks that I have never seen before and that I am missing three - all of which belong to different partners.

Socks are the hussies of clothing I think.

They aren't faithful to their partners, instead hooking up with any stray sock they can find that remotely looks like themselves. When the subject of commitment comes up, they hitch a ride with the washer and don't come back to town until the whole thing has blown over. Assuming they come back at all.

Maybe they just realized that if they never got out of that hamper they would never get out. Their dreams were always out of reach and they figured that this dirty little crate was holding them back.

From being a self-employed business sock.

Or getting cosmetic surgery - those toe socks always got special treatment.

Or getting their big break as a sock puppet.

Or if dreams really came true, flying in the sky, flapping and clapping as a wind sock.

So they split.

Some come back, their hearts crushed, but a little wiser about the industry.

But the others. Well, I certainly haven't heard from them.

Now patterned socks, they have morals.

I guess we all need a meteor every once and a while.

I totally forgot that I had this blog.

It is about the same as starting a new one, since the last time I blogged was seven months ago and as I'm restarting, I've deleted those posts.

My previous attempt at blogging was mostly an effort of trying to make myself feel more artsy and creative than I actually felt. Seeing as it was forced, and re-reading them I realized that I sounded like a self-centered-basket-of-day-old-trout, I thought it was best to start all over.

I prefer not to sound like that. I regret ever thinking that sounding like trout was a good idea, actually.

Heaven knows I would have hated reading that in the archives. I used the word 'telly' for crying out loud. I'm glad that I found it before anyone else did. It gave me the chance to destroy it.

Thank goodness for small favors.