Questions To Which I Need Answers

Why do we make the “aww” sound when we see something cute?  I assume it is learnt, but the origin still baffles me.

Is milk okay after the expiration date?  No, it probably is.  Especially if I cooked with it…my tummy hurts.

Why did the GAP ever think they were capable of creating commercials better than the dancing ones?  No one can do that.  Those were great.  Did you know Rashida Jones was in one of those?  Yeah, for two seconds--THAT’S WHERE I KNOW HER FROM!

The Cats

Bart and Di(ana) went to the vet recently.  I mean, they didn't take themselves, obviously, but they were there nonetheless.  I left this apartment with a boy and a girl kitty and I came back with two boys. DIANA HAS BALLS! That is embarrassing.  Not her having balls, but me not realizing it. The conversation went like this:

Vet Tech (holding up Diana's tail): This must be the little boy.

Me (internally): Oh, damn.

Vet Tech (holding up Bart's tail): Oh, and another boy!  Brothers!

Me (outloud): Oh, damn.

Instead I imagine it more like this:

Vet Tech: Oh, and another boy!  Brothers!

Me: Oh, geezum.  That is so embarrassing.  I should have known that wasn't a vagina.  I mean, for God's sake I've got one of those--I see it everyday!  Shit, those are balls.  I see balls everyday too!  I mean, not that I'm like a hooker or something and it's my job to see balls...not that only hookers see balls everyday.  Heck, you probably see balls everyday too.  What are you doing with that needle?

It's just that I should really know basic anatomy.  Even on cats.

The Boyfriend And I Have Been Having Harry Potter Marathons

The other day, he walked over to this rather large mirror that I bought at a town sale that has been sitting against the wall for a while.  He had to kneel to be in front of it.  Then he called me over.  I was reluctant to sit, but The Boyfriend promised it wasn’t something weird.  So I did and he put his arm around me and we looked at our reflections and he goes, “Look, it’s that mirror from The Sorcerer’s Stone.”

FUCKING AWWWW!

So, it’s sweet, People Who Haven’t Seen Harry Potter, because there’s this thing called the Mirror of Erised which shows the "deepest and most desperate desire of our hearts." The happiest person in the whole world would see only himself, exactly how he is.  So that was pretty much ridiculously sweet on his part, not to mention clever.

Gollygee he’s adorable.

An Open Letter To The Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo

Dick move, bro.  Total dick move.

But not for the reasons you think.

First of all, a stereo is just a stereo—it’s a thing.  A thing I don’t need.  You, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you just took away a thing.  However, with it you took so much more.

When I was eight, I was going to be a star.  Ask my mom; she walked in on me in my room being Shania Twain too many times to count.  Being interrupted during imaginary concerts which I co-performed with the Backstreet Boys and The Monkees (I was a very musically decade-confused child) was my adolescent equivalent to masturbation.  I mean, not that it took the place of masturbation, it was just what I was walked in on doing like in all those teen movies—kids are always getting walked in on during masturbation.  Look, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you’re making me digress and sound like I learned about my lady parts to “The Last Train To Clarksville.”  Whether or not that is the truth is not the point. 

The point is, you did not steal imminent stardom away from me—my uber stage fright and lack of talent did that at the tryouts for a talent show in the sixth grade in which I could not pull off Monica’s soulful part in “The Boy Is Mine.”  But despite the fact that I can’t get up in front of people without my voice quivering and that I can’t match half of the pitches I hear and that I’ve only got an octave and a half range (alto—and no one gives a shit about female altos), my car was my Ambassador Theatre.  I could scream myself into emo-ridden tears with Gerard Way and Billy Joe Armstrong, I could deafeningly and delusionally try to hit Mariah Carey’s high notes, I could put on the perfect show where I was both Megara and the Muses in Disney’s Hercules.  I was Sandra Dee, Roxie Hart, Jesus Christ Superstar.  But now…now I am the silent shell of a former blindingly brilliant star, throat slashed like the plastic around what used to be my orchestra pit.

Also, you sat in my car seat, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo.  Ew.  I feel totally violated.  I do not like to think about your ass where my delicate derriere goes.  When I was very upset about what you had done, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, I imagined the kind of person you are.  I am an open-minded, liberal sucker for all the criminals breakin’ the laws, but sometimes I get angry and revert to someone who’s lived in backwater, white-bred, red-state Appalachia for far too long.  I see the people who walk these streets.  I have painted your profile.  And you know what I see?  I see your clothes—and they are WAY TOO FUCKING BIG FOR YOU.

Because of this, it makes it much more likely that your ass is hanging out.  Your bare ass on my car seat.  Your bare ass that you have likely not cleaned recently.  Your bare ass that you have likely not cleaned recently and shoved massive amounts of drugs into because that’s why you’re stealing my mother fucking stereo, so you can fucking pawn it, probably to the fucking pawn shop RIGHT ACROSS THE FUCKING STREET, for enough cash to buy some more crack to shove in YOUR crack and sell to little kids and make them crack addicts too so they have to go out and steal other peoples’ personal Ambassador Theatres for crack to shove into their cracks.  Look, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, I don’t know anything about drugs, but I’m imagining them up your butt because I’m angry and this whole paragraph is butt-related, okay?  Cut me some slack—YOU JUST BROKE INTO MY CAR AND STOLE MY STEREO!

But I could live with these things, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, and I could ignore them if you hadn’t caused me a third and final malfeasant.  You made me think that the universe hated me.  How dare you, how VERY dare you.  I am an optimist.  I believe that good ultimately comes from good.  I have never needed positive reinforcement in my life to make me be nice or loving or to put up with peoples’ shit or to decide that it’s okay when things go wrong and to keep on smiling, because I’ve known that it’s more important for me to put out good into the world than to get good back, to even expect good back, because the universe would appreciate good and make other good happen—not necessarily to me or anyone I know, but just any good.  But I’ve been depressed lately and felt useless and hopeless and I just finished Wicked which destroyed a little piece of my soul and then this, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo.  This.

You do this and I become this solipsistic asshole who thinks the universe is so concerned with her that it’s decided to hate her.  What the fuck is up with that?  In a way, you turned me back into that eight year old who sang on her bed to a crowd of stuffed animals only they were throwing rotten vegetables at her instead of panties.  See, I am liberal, really, because I would like to be a lesbian icon whom gets ladies underwear thrown at her, and not just because those are preferable to rotten vegetables, but because they mark adoration and adoration from any group is adoration—I’m not prejudiced.  No, not used undies, new ones bought right before the concert because that would be funny because it’s so cliche, right?  So then this one girl does it and I make a big deal about it and then everyone starts doing it.  See?  Liberal.  Oh, but Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you are making me digress again.

So maybe I should be thanking you, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, for rescuing me from what could have been a really horrible self-indulgent depression.  (Sidenote: Universe, if this was your doing for the same reasons, thanks.  I promise not to think you’re so concerned with me, Universe, that you’d single me out for anything ever again.)

But, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, I’m not going to thank you because, really, YOU BROKE INTO MY CAR AND STOLE MY STEREO!  That qualifies as a dick move and does not garner gratitude.

And by the way, you didn’t even get the most valuable things in there like the lei I had from Amanda’s bridal shower or Molly’s taekwondo medals or the Homies sticker from Maggie.  So suck on that, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo.

Suck. On. That.

--Ashley

P.S. I got really attached to The Monkees reference I made earlier, and I cheated you out of a way better Shania Twain reference.  I’m sorry, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, but only because it’s a pretty good one, not because I feel bad for depriving you.  Here is what it should have read:

“[My mom] walked in on me in my room being Shania Twain too many times to count…[Interrupted performing] was my adolescent equivalent to masturbation.  I mean, not that it took the place of masturbation, it was just what I was walked in on doing like in all those teen movies—kids are always getting walked in on during masturbation.  Look, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, you’re making me digress and sound like I learned about my lady parts to “Man I Feel Like A Woman.”

P.P.S. I actually do have to thank you, Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Stereo, because you finally gave me a reason to use the word malfeasant.  I love that word.  But you should just know that I have to thank you; I’m not going to actually say it because, you know, YOU BROKE INTO MY CAR AND STOLE MY STEREO!

OMG WTF IS THIS?!?!?!?

Seriously, I don't even know how many legs it had, but it is copper colored and not like kinda reddish brown--it shines the way copper does.  Is it a spider?  Is is a scorpion?  I don't fucking know but I don't want anymore of them in the place where I live!

This is a shit picture but it's with my phone because I left my camera at Doug's during his pirate themed birthday party, which I already told you about.

Actually, this thing looks like a miniature face hugger.  Oh, Lord.

I tweeted a little while back that my kittens had most definitely saved me from a spider because I found a dead one and I flushed it and I thought it was kinda weird looking, but I hadn't seen a spider in a long time that was that big, so I just figured they looked like that.  To be honest, I don't like killing bugs.  I am perfectly fine with letting them live as long as it's outside, and yes, I will go out of my way (or get someone else to go out of their way) to put whatever bug is in the shower outside.

HOWEVER, I just found the thing in that picture on the floor.  It was already smooshed, like the last one I found, so maybe the cats murdered it--Diana was growling in the kitchen earlier but I figured it was at nothing because she's crazy and kind of a bitch like that--or maybe The Boyfriend stepped on it.  (I never wear shoes so I would have known had my bare foot come in contact with it.)

I am starting to fear that the pimple on my lower back is not a direct result of the monthly breakout I experience due to my period or even a pimple at all but a fucking spider/scorpion bite and these headaches I've been having are not because of the low pressure and/or my period.  This makes me really fear for women everywhere--if we genuinely get sick on our periods how are we ever supposed to know?

But that's a digression and I don't have time for one of those right now.  The point is: I'm scared.  And I'm hoping that The Boyfriend sees this post before he comes home in the morning because I'm leaving the thing's carcass on the back of the toilet for him to inspect while he takes his homecoming wee.

I can't die now; this blog has just started!

A Brush With Death

Right now I feel like I’m going to die.  I am so hungry.  This morning I got up and looked at The Boyfriend’s paper for him which was fine because he’s an exceptional academic writer, but I still told him he had to take me out to eat later because I was doing him such an awesome favor seeing as I am a professional writing tutor and all and normally this kind of thing would be worth at least $15.00 then I had a piece and a half of toast and a glass of milk before I felt all nauseous then I drove The Boyfriend to class and when I was driving back I was like, “I don’t have my phone.  Man, it would suck if The Boyfriend didn’t have class today and tried to run after the car as I was driving away, but his radio station was up too loud for me to hear, especially since it’s raining.”  Then I got home and immediately found my phone: One Missed Call From: The Boyfriend.  One New Text Message: “Come back.  Class was cancelled.”

He didn’t run after the car or anything.  Lame.

Anyway, then he took a nap, which was supposed to be a nap, but his naps never are naps because he tricks me about naps.  One time at like 6:00pm he was like, “Let’s take a nap” and I was like, “Okay!” even though I wasn’t really sleepy because I partially thought “nap” was code for “sexy time” and even if it really were a nap it would only last an hour.  Once midnight rolled around and I hadn’t fallen asleep and was staring at the ceiling, still not tired and sans sexy time to boot I was like, “This is not a nap at all!  This is sleeping!  I have been bamboozled!”  Anyway, The Boyfriend’s nap started at 1:30 and it’s after 5:00 now and we planned to go eat right after his class which ends at 3:18 but usually gets out sooner.

I am like a ravenous wolverine at this point and the kittens are starting to look delicious.

I could just eat, but I really want a turkey sub from Potbelly.

But this isn’t the brush with death I wanted to tell you about.  Back in the day, I used to “donate” plasma for money.  Really I shouldn’t say “used to” like it was a super regular thing because I only did it twice before my heroic act of charity was thwarted.

First, though, let me tell you about giving plasma.  It’s sweet.  Unless your nurse hates her life and has decided to blame you for the fact that her children are monsters and her boss won’t quit making sexual advances towards her so she stabs you repeatedly and without apology, then the whole experience is just like waiting around then getting paid, all for a good cause.  The plasma you donate goes to like kids with cancer or something.  I don’t know--sick people.

Anyway, after this really intense process of questions about having unprotected sex with men who may have had unprotected sex with other men before 1970 and trading sex for drugs or money and lots of other questions you wouldn’t admit to even if they were true, you get hooked up to this machine that pumps your blood out into a bag next to you.  Then that machine reverses itself and PUMPS YOUR BLOOD BACK INTO YOU.  It’s horrifying.  And awesome.  The machine keeps your plasma, a piss-on-a-day-you-drank-an-okay-amount-of-fluids color liquid, in a separate bag after straining it out of your blood.  You get back your plasmaless blood because your body is sweet and can just make new plasma unlike those sick kids which is just sad, so I’m not going to even try to make a joke here.

The end is the only terrible part because once you’ve filled up the plasma bag then they pump saline into your veins to hydrate you so you can go out into the world and keep being awesome.  They tell you, “This part will probably make you a little cold.”  They grossly underestimate your threshold for cold.  I shiver so intensely during this process I think the needle is going to come flying out of my arm and I’m going to coat the entire room in sanguineness and the melted iceberg that sunk the titanic.

But I endured this, TWICE, and wanted to endure more for the mon--for the children.  Except I got a certified letter in the mail from the place one day which told me there was a problem with my blood test which may affect my future as a donor.  I suppose most people would hear, “You have the flu and shouldn’t be donating right now,” but I heard, “YOU HAVE AIDS AND ARE GOING TO DIE A SLOW, PAINFUL, LONELY DEATH!!!”

I called.  You shouldn’t even bother calling.  They “don’t discuss this type of thing over the phone.”  Great, now I have AIDS and should be utterly ashamed about it.  This was on a Saturday night that I got the letter.  The place was closed on Sunday, so I had to wait until Monday to go.  My friends and mother tried to comfort me.  Molly even told me, “AIDS isn’t a death sentence anymore” which was so deadpan that I hated her for suggesting and thus reassuring my fear that I, in fact, had AIDS.  My mother insisted that it couldn’t be AIDS or anything communicable, of course, because she thinks I’m a saint.  Instead she kind of shrugged and said, “Maybe it’s just cancer?”  I think after that I forewent people all together and just watched Rent to prepare for the rest of my life except that when I realized my life would be devoid of singing and dancing numbers I fell into an even deeper depression.

When Monday came I set off for the plasma center as early as possible.  The thing about the plasma center was that it was an hour and a half away from where I lived and I had to traverse the frightening backcountry of rural Ohio to get to it.  I don’t care how politically incorrect this is, but since The Hills Have Eyes, I’ve been afraid of hillbillies.  People in the city will kill you, but people in the country will KEEP you.  I am not locationally bigoted on this subject: if you live any version of off-the-grid and it is very likely that you call you mom “sis” then you terrify me.  Also, you won’t be reading my blog because you have no internets and/or you can’t read, so I’m unconcerned about saying this.

So driving through a place that is mostly forested and dotted with dilapidated trailers and the occasional gas station/diner/place-where-some-creepy-guy-tells-you-to-take-a-shortcut-that-you-sure-as-fuck-shouldn’t-take-but-are-going-to-anyway-and-get-yourself-ambushed-by-inbred-monster-cannibals-who-worship-an-unexploded-warhead scares the bejeezus out of me.  I also have a bad sense of direction, especially when I am by myself, so I of course got lost.  I kept driving up on ghost towns that all looked alike and had one street labeled by random numbers or a term like “Coonpath.”  I drove through the hills crying because I didn’t want to die from my possible AIDS, but it would be preferable to being kept by hill-people.  Then I cried because being kept by hill-people was the superior option in the only two I though my life had at that moment.  Then I felt a little bit better at the thought that I would give the hill-people my AIDS which they would totally deserve after repeatedly raping and then eating me.  Then I cried again because I didn’t want to have AIDS to give them.

Finally, I made it to the plasma place.  I was too dehydrated to cry anymore.  I went in, told them who I was, and they told me they’d get a doctor to talk to me so I sat out in the waiting room.  A plasma center waiting room is never a pleasant place to be.  Honestly, most people who go there need money.  And some of them need it for bad things--or at least they look like they need it for bad things.  Maybe even to buy the rope and chains to tie up the unsuspecting lost people who take that shortcut from Frank at the gas station.  So I sat there, waiting.  It felt like forever.  I was alone and I was going to find out for sure that I was dying and I was going to still be alone then I’d have to drive two plus hours, depending on my capabilities to not get lost, home and be alone there some more.  I magically rehydrated and started to cry again.  This was a quiet, restrained cry where it only comes out the corner of your eyes like when you watch a really happy movie in the theaters but you’re with your friends and they think it’s sappy so you can’t tears-of-joy-and-sentimentality cry in front of them, but you know when the lights come up your eyes are going to be rimmed red and they’ll be like, “Jesus, Ashley, why are you crying?”  And you have to be like, “But they get to be together and it’s so sweet.  She seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees Jake Sully!  Shut up!”

But then the doctor called my name and I went in this little private room with her and she asked me to shut the door behind me and I almost died right there.  Then she told me why I was there and I was like, “Yeah, I fucking know why, bitch; I’ve known for three goddamned days now and you just need to spit it the fuck out!” but that was only in my head because all I was capable of saying was, “Mmhughasdknsriead…”

Then she eyed my chart and said, “You tested positive for syphilis.”

The following was what went through my mind in rapid succession:

WTF.


Stunned silence.


Syphilis is not AIDS!!!!!  YAY!!!!!!!


Wait, what is syphilis?


Don’t pirates get that?


I’m pretty sure Benjamin Franklin had that and he was a whore.


I’m not a whore…wait, who cares if I’m a whore, is this going to kill me?


I’M DYING AGAIN!!!!!  NO!!!!!!!

Then she keeps looking at her little chart and says, “We did a second test though that came up negative.”

“Huh?”

“Your first test was positive, but the second, more invasive test was negative.”

“So…I don’t have syphilis?”

“No.  It’s actually pretty common to get a false positive for syphilis, especially for women.  The test isn’t perfect.  But this still means you won’t be able to donate with us anymore--”

From that point on I didn’t hear a thing she said.  I was just happy to be alive.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized how pissed off I was since I am ungrateful and can’t just be happy that I don’t have AIDS or syphilis.  I was negative for everything.  SHE COULD HAVE LEAD WITH THAT.  Would it have been that much harder for her to sit me down and say, “Don’t worry--you’re perfectly healthy.  BUT…” and then explain to me that even false positives get you kicked out of the program?  This leads me to believe that she gets joy out of scaring people and hates her life and her kids are monsters and her boss sexually harasses her, but I don’t even feel bad for her because whatthefuckever: she made me feel like I was dying!!!

So, that’s when I almost died.  Right now it’s 6:41 and I’ve been reduced to eating raw carrots in lieu of fattening carbs because The Boyfriend is still “napping.”  I am going to chew really fucking loud and I hope he hears it.

P.S. This whole sexually transmitted diseases thing happened before The Boyfriend.  I don’t know why that matters, but I imagine it might.  Also, just to be clear, I DON’T HAVE ANY STDS OR OTHER COMMUNICABLE DISEASES.

Also

I have been neglecting clipping my toenails for a while now. This probably isn't all right and someone is bound to get scarred for life (physically or emotionally), but I am just way too lazy to do it.

Like this, kinda grainy on my phone because I left my real camera at Doug's house during his pirate themed birthday party, they ALMOST look like they were purposely made that way like a French pedicure.

Ew. Do not Google image search "French pedicure." Okay, I know you're going to do it. I don't mind feet really, but those feet are just not okay. Then again, who could live up to the standards my feet have set, right?

And yes, those are a bunch of receipts that fell out of my checkbook. I took this picture this morning. It is now almost midnight. They're still there. My checkbook is still unbalanced.

Things The Boyfriend Did Today Instead of Writing His Paper That's Due Tomorrow That He's Known About All Quarter

So maybe that title is a bit excessive, but at least it's descriptive.

-Woke me up at an unreasonable time (before noon) to keep him awake
-Played with the cats
-Ate pizza (which would have been fine if it didn't take him over an hour to do)
-Peeled off his "locust skin"
-Forced the cats to cuddle with him
-Made me open an online bank account that I couldn't even actually open
-Made me call the online bank and embarrass myself by talking about my time of the month with a proper, southern gentleman
-Got burnt by the juices dripping off of the piece of meat I was holding
-Showered (I had no qualms about this one)
-Played a real-time strategy game on his computer
-Argued that the RTS is not actually irrelevant to his paper because the paper is supposed to be about the fall of Rome and the game has a Roman theme
-Made me rub lotion on his toe that was peeling
-Complained that I didn't rub hard enough so it tickled
-Offered me a chunk of his foot skin
-Threatened to eat his foot skin if I made him do work
-Threw away the foot skin after touching me with it, the asshole
-Made me watch a Lordi music video
-Made me actually like the video because of its theatrics
-Tricked me into watching more Lordi videos
-Gave me an extensive list of the things he did at work the previous night instead of write his paper which included:
---Playing Flash games
---Looking at 4Chan
---Searching for the specific remix to the 9000 power level Dragonball Z thing he wants me to see
---Finding a new background for his computer (which is this, btw)
---Trying to balance between two chairs
---Trying to poop, unsuccessfully
---Finally beating the Greek campaign on Age of Empires
---Checking his online bank
---Realizing he got his tax refund
---Trying to poop again
---Checking the online comics he always checks when avoiding writing papers
---Pirating music
---Reading several Wikipedia articles about the music he was pirating
---Going to ESPN.com
---Lamenting about having missed the 2010 NFL draft
---Pretending to go poop a third time (knowing it was fruitless) so he didn't have to work but bring the book on Rome he's supposed to be reviewing with him
---Probably working at some point

Finally wrote an outline for his paper:

Opening paragraph – BS about author and how amazing he is.
2nd paragraph – explain what the central view is, and what the author wants to prove.
3rd paragraph – begin chapter by chapter breakdown, how they involve the central view.
4th paragraph – continue chapter breakdown as needed.
5th paragraph – reasons why the author might be full of shit.
6th paragraph – what ‘technique’ the author used to make himself sound important.
7th paragraph – why this technique is valid to the central view.
8th paragraph – more bitching about why he might be full of shit.
9th paragraph – insert additional bitching or fawning here.
Closing paragraph – more BS about how amazing the author is; summarize essay.

That's verbatim from his word document. To be fair, though, he did stay up for 24 hours to do all of this.

Meanwhile, I was super productive today despite The Boyfriend's best efforts to use me as a distraction, and I made a pizza, a pot roast and ANOTHER BLOG! That's right! Though this one may be less entertaining for you. You can find it at http://misswritewell.blogspot.com, though nothing may be there right now. I figure, there's really only one skill I have--writing--so I may as well monopolize on it. I'm going to use that *blog as a database-type writing tutor for students, I think, with articles about essay writing and style and general "rules" about what an academic paper should be. I may even make cartoons for it. As an online writing tutor I've scoured the internet for good, spelled-out but language-appropriate sources for undergrads to link my tutees to so they'll have the proper information, but it's tough even for me and I know what I'm looking for and I know what's correct and what's not. So, fuck em: I'm gonna make it!

*My grammar is not always correct, nor do I ever plan it to be, so try not to find it ironic that my writing about my writing blog or my writing in my writing blog may be imperfect. I'm not a robot!

To My Unborn, Unconceived (Probably) Child

I haven’t got my period yet this cycle. I am not stressed out about this. Not yet. I have had some cramps, am unnecessarily cranky and am ravenous for chocolate, so it’s just a waiting game with my ovaries at this point. But it got me thinking: someday I could make another human!

So what would I want that human to know if I were in some horrible accident post its birth and it never knew me? What would it have to go off of? These blog posts? Dear God. The stored files on my computer? Holy Horus. The things people tell it? (Don’t think I’m callous because I’m calling it an “it.” One of English’s flaws is that we do not have a third person, singular, genderless pronoun. “Them” is plural and so grammatically incorrect. “It” is the best I can do without using that horrible him/her concoction.) I’m sure people would say nice stuff about me, but normally people say nice stuff about dead people which is probably more often than we realize (or want to recognize) just inflated garbage because when someone’s dead we suddenly have to be nice to them. That doesn’t really make any sense. What is that person gonna do about it, really?

That person is dead.

Even though I believe in ghosts and am pretty sure that if someone called me a dick once I died that I would find a way to haunt them, and not like Patrick Swayze in Ghost haunt them, but just generally make them miserable haunt them, doesn’t mean that most other people believe in ghosts or would be capable, once they die, of pulling off a successful haunt. I imagine you need to really plan out your haunting ahead of time and hone your apparition skills (source: Beetlejuice) and just because you suddenly have an infinite amount of time on your newly transparent hands doesn’t mean the still-living cocksuckers defaming your memory are going to be around forever, waiting for you to paranormally get back at them. And the desire to haunt them will wear off if you take too long after they’ve forgotten about how shitty you were when you were alive, so you have to get to this haunting thing right away after death. Which is why I’ll be sweet at it because I’m thinking about it now and planning it, and no, you can't know about my haunting plans because then, if I die and want to haunt you but you know about what I want to do, then when creepy shit starts happening to you, you'll just be all “Oh, Ashley, stop that!” or “Hey, you broke my vase! You owe me! What’s Michael Jackson up to?” But I won’t be able to tell you what Michael Jackson’s up to because he’s not dead, just hanging out in Dubai, but you won’t believe me because no one believes me when I tell them that–and you’d think being dead would make people find my argument a little more compelling, but you’d probably just think I was being lazy when in actuality I wouldn’t be--I'd be the opposite of lazy because, after you’d be all “I know Jacko’s not dead!” then I’d be like, “Fine…” and I’d have to go to Dubai and haunt him a little, find out, and report back to you like he’s dead. And that’s just unsuccessful haunting all together. Not that it will matter because most people aren’t horrible like me and think it’s okay to talk shit about the deceased, so they won’t say crap about me which is actually pretty nice.

But really, you should be much nicer to people when they’re alive, especially if they’re an asshole (ew, see, that “they” is just wrong) because people who are assholes are more likely to punch you in the face if you talk shit about them and even ghosts can’t punch. At least not at first. And I don’t believe it’s out of respect for the still living because, if that dead person was a jerk and you say so the other people should be like, “Yeah, Jim was kind of a douche” because chances are that Jim was a douche to the people who are saddened by his death too. Douchiness is douchiness. I mean, if you were a douche and then you fall out of a hot air balloon it’s not really like people have an obligation to suddenly recognize your good qualities, if any, or pretend like you were sweet.

So what I’m saying is, if my child is my child then it will probably think about this (because nature over nurture, apparently) and not really trust everything everyone says because the people who know me well enough to tell my it about me will say nice things. Granted, those things (except for the me hating on dead people stuff) will be utterly true because I am pretty fucking sweet, but my it deserves some empirical evidence of my true existence and not the fluff that will come about because I can’t stick up for my own damn self because I’m dead and haven't gotten a hang on haunting yet.

Actually, now that I think about it, that’s pretty valiant of you, still-living people. To push aside your own qualms and think of my it who never got a chance to know me. That’s really, really nice. See, now that’s a true thing I would say about you if you were dead first, “Dude, Sally would have been so sweet to my kid and told it how awesome I was if I’d have died first! She was a saint!” Of course, I couldn’t genuinely know that, but since you’d be dead, I would probably give you the benefit of the doubt. Oh, gosh, becoming the thing I hate already.

Well, since you still-living people seem to have it covered, I guess I can forgo this whole thing. Except that this entry will still exist and then cause the whole “Are these people lying to me about my mum?” question to be in my it’s head. (Yeah, it is going to call me “mum.” Deal with it.)

Unborn, (probably) unconceived baby, Mum was awesome.

Done.

P.S. I just got my period, so I could take out those parenthetical probablies and that whole first paragraph, but I’m not going to. Instead, you can just relax with this little bit extra knowledge here at the end.

How To Remember Things

Repeat what you want to remember five times to yourself. Like, if you want to get bread at the grocery store, well, you should probably just remember that, but if you don’t think you will just say, out loud, counting on your fingers (because that’s how I do it) “Bread, bread, bread, bread, bread.”

I’ve come to the conclusion that this might not work in and of itself, but because I’m convinced that it does work, and I do it, then it actually works. Like the power of suggestion or some shit.

That’s all. Just thought I’d share.

How To Lower Your Expectations

To start out, find something you have little to no expectations about but still enjoy. Probably a food source would work best for this. For instance, I chose Taco Bell. It is important that this something is not particularly meaningful nor very good, but still brings you unreasonable joy.

The next step is to pretend like you’ve never experienced the something before. You might need someone to help you with this and you may need to bring up a conversation, for example, strategically before coming upon the something you want to pretend to experience for the first time. Example:

Me: I’m hungry.

The Boyfriend: Well, there’s a Taco Bell right up here.

Me: What is this Tah-ko Bee-al you speak of?

The Boyfriend: Taco Bell. You ask to go there on a daily basis.

Me: I’m sorry, but you must be confusing it with something else; I have never heard of a Tah-ko Bee-al. Will you tell me about it?

The Boyfriend: Okay, what game are we playing that I don’t know about?

Me: *Sigh* Please just tell me about Taco Bell like I don’t know about it.

The Boyfriend (because he is great and humors me): Taco Bell is a fast food restaurant that has various Americanized Mexican foods.

Me: Is it good? (stage whisper) Tell me that it’s bad.

The Boyfriend: Umm, is this turning into a sex game? Because I don’t know if I like where it’s headed if it’s going to involve food that gives you diarrhea.

Me: Just tell me the quality of the food is very low.

(Side note: Step three is happening now! You have to convince yourself that the something you’re about to experience for the first time for pretend is awful.)

The Boyfriend: The quality of the food is very low.

Me: Well, I’m hungry anyway. We may as well give it a shot.

The Boyfriend (pulling into the drive thru): God, you’re weird.

Step four is pretty simple–have the experience. Unless you’re really unlucky and something goes wrong like you find a toe in your burrito then whatever something you take part in will exceed your expectations.

So that’s just laying groundwork for the rest of your life and giving you a fallback experience. Now, repeat steps one through four with increasingly bigger and higher expectationed things. And, as a bonus, whenever someone or something lets you down, you can re-experience that original something. For instance, when I get an email from the Red Cross about a job I was super excited for and envisioned myself in for a few weeks that tells me I am not qualified, I can just go to Taco Bell and be blown away by toe-less tacos.

It’s not really that complicated and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.

Why is no one employing me to just be a genius? Probably because I can’t spell “genius” without spellchecker.

Adventures With The Boyfriend

I had no idea how that key lime pie yogurt was going to taste before I ate it. But, surprisingly, that was not the most exciting thing that happened to me today. Spoiler alert: it tasted like limey yogurt.

The Boyfriend Paul Walkered the shit out of our car ride today. I am not even joking. It turns out that he was planning on waking up at noon or I was supposed to wake him up at noon so he could get a book for a paper he needs to write. I got up at 2:30 this afternoon. Just cause: I was up til 3 am and then woke up again at 6 and at that point my body was all, “Okay, I’m good on sleep, Ashley–go do things on the internets!”

But I was like, “WTF, body, it’s only been three hours and you were like busy yesterday what with the mac n cheese and going out to dinner and shopping late at night.”

So I forced myself to stay in bed and stare at the ceiling til 9ish when I fell back to sleep.

By 2:30 I felt like I’d punished my body enough and came out to go do things on the internets. Then I had to poop, so I did, and then I had to shower because of the pooping. Then The Boyfriend, who independently roused himself, called in to me as I was drying off and told me he needed to go to the library and it closed at 4 so, “we have to go…now.”

There was little urgency in his voice, but then I saw it was 3:30. Balls.

So we set off for a library branch neither of us had been to in a part of town that was completely foreign. “Foreign,” as it turns out, is my polite word for “scary.” No, I don’t mean foreign people, I mean not-familiar. And full of scary people.

I was convinced we were going to make it no matter what, but that could have been the guilt of my showering and forgetfulness infringing on his book-retrieval time influencing my optimism. But because this city is weird and there is Leonard Avenue and Old Leonard Avenue, neither of which we had to be on except for when 5th Street became one of them for like five seconds, and because there are random one-ways and parking on the street between regular business hours in the right lane with no warning, and because city schools are overcrowded and the traffic from them insane, The Boyfriend was a little stressed about driving. So he switched to Delivery Boy Mode.

I do not like Delivery Boy Mode.

The Boyfriend delivered pizzas at one point a few years ago. He also used to valet. This mixture made him not wear a seatbelt and totally disregard the safety of everyone around or in his car. I took on the precautionary responsibility of shouting out the color of the upcoming stoplights. I wanted to say something about how being late would be better than not making it there, or anywhere, at all, but then I felt like my mom and just said, “Yellow. Yellow! ORANGE!”

We actually did make it with fifteen minutes to spare thanks to The Boyfriend’s skills, so we quickly got out to go inside, but we parked on the side of the building and didn’t know where the entrance was. Knowing right away rather than just looking was much more efficient seeing as we only had fifteen whole minutes to traverse the tiny branch, so The Boyfriend asked me if there was an entrance around back. “The Boyfriend, I don’t know! How am I supposed to know that?” So, because it makes more sense for the place you enter to be at the back of a building, we went there first. There was no entrance. But there were hoodlums. It was at that moment I realized that in my post-shower, fast-paced dressing I picked out unnecessarily-short-for-the weather shorts and had neglected to put on a bra but did choose a particularly tight shirt. Granted, I am pretty pre-pubescent boy chested, but it was obvious nonetheless.

It didn’t matter though because the hoodlums weren’t hoodlums at all, just kids who hung out at the library after school, and we quickly rerouted ourselves to go in the entrance. I just wanted to give you that sexy image of me. You’re welcome, internets.

We found the book in record time. In fact, the librarian was even impressed. We know because he told us so. And so is the combined power of one and nine tenths of an English degree.

Then we had to go to the pet store for kitten food and then I wanted Panda Express which The Boyfriend has never had before. I learned once that by crying The Boyfriend will take me to the Chinese buffet, so I know that he doesn’t hate bad Asian food, but I still got all stressed out about the decision because I hate making food decisions. The only good thing that came from my choice was that now I don’t have to make one again for at least a month because I can say, “Uh, I JUST picked Panda Express, The Boyfriend. It’s your turn.” At that point we had to get back home because being outside in the daylight for more than an hour was really way too stressful for either of us.

Then I learned: The Boyfriend is paranoid. I am too, but I am aware that I am predisposed to paranoia, so I have to keep myself in check now that I realize The Boyfriend is the same way, or maybe worse. On the way back we drove through a few random alleys because apparently just going straight until High Street then left and left again to our street was too much. I was like, “Hey, this is the way I walked when I had to park a million miles away. I don’t feel like we should be driving here–it’s awfully pedestrian,” but The Boyfriend was just all, “Where’s my apartment?!”

Then there was an alley which wasn’t an alley at all but a parking lot for an apartment complex that he was like, “Should I go down here?” and then did, so I was like, “Sure!” because he already made the turn even though I knew it was a parking lot. It turned out fine because the lot was open on both ends and got us closer to home anyhow.

But there was a dude standing by his car in the parking lot and he waved and The Boyfriend waved back then was all, “I think that was my landlord.” I told him it definitely was because the same realty group owned the place we were driving through and where we live. Then I had a mini panic attack:

“That guy was in the parking lot yesterday–he saw me get in your car and drive away! He knows, he knows!”

(Side note: No one is supposed to live in this apartment except for The Boyfriend. Not me, not the cats.)

But The Boyfriend didn’t care about that. He was, however, weirded out that Landlord recognize him. He told me he’d only met Landlord a few times, and that was when he had long hair (The Boyfriend, not Landlord–I doubt Landlord has changed his haircut since he got into the realty business so his actual face matches his face on billboards and the like), so there was no way he could know who he was now. No. Way. It was totally weird.

So I had to bring it down:

“You have this parking thing with his name on it hanging from your rearview…You were driving into *his* parking lot, he had to think you were a tenant there…He’s one of those guys who owns so much stuff and deals with so many people he probably just–”

“Waves at everybody?”

“Exactly.”

Then we came back and ate Panda Express and watched Community on Hulu even though The Boyfriend wanted to read.

I don’t really have a good ending to this, but I ate six pieces of toast tonight and now I feel awful.

Shouldn’t have eaten that yogurt.

I trusted those holes and they betrayed me.

I had an insanely disappointing experience with maccarroni and cheese this morning.

I just know my whole day is going to be ruined.

You see, there is a very specific, albeit intuition-based, science to making boxed mac n cheese. I violated that on so many levels today. I really deserve the tragedy that befell me, but my acceptance of that doesn’t remove my disappointment nor make my tummy any more full of mac n cheese.

First, a little history. I had my first experiences with boxed mac n cheese with Lyndsey. It was one of the few things as growing insatiable middle schoolers we could cook on our own. Since I was always over at Lyndsey’s house, she was in charge of the cooking. She made it just right that first time, setting my expectations high. Amazing. However, that was apparently where she lucked out because on subsequent occasions she burnt, undercooked, or (the worst) flooded the mac n cheese.

I took on all mac n cheese cooking responsibilities from there.

I tried out different brands of boxed mac n cheese dinners. Even those single-serving ones by Kraft. Disgusting. But then all Kraft mac n cheese is gross. Add water? Really? Ew. I found Kroger mac n cheese to be the best.

Since then I’ve loved the stuff and decoded the exact, eye-balled amount of milk to tip into the pan and the heaping spoonful of Country Crock to add to the salted noodles and bio-hazard-orange cheese. It’s fucking magical.

But this morning it all came crashing down on me like so many unopened boxes of the stuff.

Too much milk. I flooded it. The worst.

There’s no going back once you flood mac n cheese because you don’t realize it’s happened until after you start to stir and you can see the milky, pale orange water collecting on the bottom of the pan behind every stir. By then half of the cheese mixture is just gone unless you’re willing to drink the stuff. You desperately try to stir harder, hoping it’s going to thicken, but in vain. You know it won’t. With every mix of the spoon it just gets worse. You’ve coated the noodles thinly, that cunnilingus-resembling sound that Jo Koy talks about is nonexistent, and you know there’s only one possible salvage technique that’s going to leave what was once going to be a steamy, glorious lunch as a sub-par snack: you’ve got to drain it.

Draining never works that well–you have less flavor and no thickness. But you’ll do anything to avoid sipping at cheese water. My problem was in my pot choice. I was lazy this morning–a victim of my own devices. I used the black pot which has no lid but was clean instead of just washing the red one with the non-ill-fitting lid with built-in draining holes. Now, I drained the boiling water with this lid, but that was with the severe concentration of my hungry, giddy, middle-school-minded self. Now, as I held the slightly-too-big-cover just at the edge of the pot I was a jaded, 22-year-old, unemployed college grad about to eat watery mac n cheese for breakfast at 2:42 in the afternoon.

Life sucked.

And then my futile grip, and ergo my will to go on, gave way, and two thirds of the orange, liquid mess rained down on a sink already filled to its brim with dishes. I wanted to scream out in anguish, to berate the sky with the sorrow and anger ready to burst forth from me, but The Boyfriend was asleep having worked overnight, so instead I cursed the lid for its inadequacy in the hushed tones of a stage whisper:

“You fucking fuck. I cannot fucking believe this shittiness. What a dick move, lid. Seriously. You are an asshole. A total fucking asshole. A cocksucker of epic proportions. Ser-i-ous-ly. I hope you suck cocks in hell when you die, and I hope you hate it. For real, lid. I am not even playing anymore. Fuck you and fuck your holes. All of them. Both sides. The big holes and the little holes. What, you thought I’d take mercy on the little holes because they’re little? Fuck no I won’t. I trusted those holes and they betrayed me like little fucking betraying betrayers. I am not even going to let anything cool down even a tiny bit ever again before using you to strain stuff. I’m serious. You suck.”

I was pretty upset.

Left with half of a cereal bowl worth of thinly-coated, watery, orange noodle soup that vaguely smelled of the former glory I had envisioned, I thought I could add some shredded cheese to it to give it some thickness. It was still hot enough to melt it anyway. I only had Mexican blend in the fridge, but I really enjoy Mexican cheese, so it couldn’t hurt, right? Fucking wrong! It was awful. Too salty, greasy, and the flavors were just off.

So I had some toast, which is pretty hard to fuck up, and called it a meal. The barrage of noodles is still all over the dishes in the sink. I have to go clean that shit up now.

The whole thing was just so disappointing. I mean, I ate it, but I was not happy about it.

What Do You Do With a BA in English?

Oh, it is time to start writing again.

I woke up this afternoon to all kinds of awesome. Ideas, that is. I finally have my life figured out. That’s right–done. I am going to online tutor for moolah, I am going to write some blogs for a little more cash, and I’m going to write romance novels. My life will revolve around the written word even more so and I will always be happy. I will also be a professional job applicant who is never called in for interviews. You know, just someone to give the people who look over resumes something to shred. Or send to their delete folder. I will do this for free out of the goodness of my heart.

As it turns out, I am qualified for nothing. I spent four years in college working my tail off and three years tutoring to come out with no skills except, ya know, I can write good. I have a BA in English, but this song was right all along. I feel like a total asshole for the seminars I hosted, bringing in people who have real jobs to talk to prospective graduates like when they go out into the world they too will get real jobs and become real people with real lives and more real stuff.

I would like some real please.

Instead I am here typing at midnight and will be up for at least four more hours because I don’t have to be awake tomorrow until…well I have a dinner date at 8:00pm.
I can’t really complain though: I love my life. I love waking up next to The Boyfriend. I wrote him a poem today which was inspired by this lady who I idolize and think is like a billion times funnier, blonde me. (I called The Boyfriend “The Boyfriend” before reading her blog, btw. Also, I had my hyperbole cartoon pre-knowing-about-her too. So there.) My friends who I also love are on the verge of graduating with degrees in actual things too such as journalism, teaching and computer-inter-technolo-webz so I can live off them if need be seeing as The Boyfriend is also working on his English degree. Hopefully, though, he never graduates and keeps his totally rad student job. Or gets an awesome job with the school and then marries me so I can have some health insurance.

Not that it matters because I’m about to start spitting out some world class sexy-time writing. Well, no, not really. This romance stuff is just as hard as I thought it’d be. That is to say, I’m freaking myself out trying to be good. Because readers deserve good writing and the only way any publisher is going to pick me up is if it’s good. Don’t get me wrong, though, I am not convinced this will be an easy task at all, I just need to hype myself up so I go through with it.

Being published would be my only actual ever dream coming true. Like, I have wanted things to happen before and worked towards goals and stuff, but I’ve never for so long desired, fantasized over, and made so many deals with the devil/promises to God I never intend to keep about as this being an author thing. Oh, I feel so teeny tiny when I say that like I’m looking up at the whole enormous world from an itty bitty stool, touching the tips of my fingers together in front of my mouth and gnawing on my inner lip and blinking giant eyes that take up my whole forehead. Not giant like creepy, but giant like cute and scared. Basically this is me as seen by what I imagine everything is when I think about my name on a book cover with my story inside:

.

That would have been funnier if WordPress would let me put more whitespace between paragraphs, but whatever.

Never mind that, fucking Blogger LOVES ME and lets me do what I want!!!

Did you know I actually sent a short story into a magazine? Like almost a month ago. Uh hu. This is like a regular wait time though, so it’s not like they’ve rejected me and just decided to ignore me. Not yet. Not like all the possible employers I’ve applied to. They’ll get back to me. It hasn’t been that long. Not THAT long. Stop freaking out, okay? Jeez!

Okay, so this was a lot of hard work. Too much real. Thanks, world. It’s time for me to go eat some peanut butter and play video games. Yeay!

Hello, Blogspot

You are not a jerk like Wordpress I suddenly found out was. Wordpress generated me traffic and was easy to use, but then it wanted to keep all the revenue from that for itself. Eff you, Wordpress.

Hello, Blogger.