I was looking over my old blogs awhile ago, and I noticed how many of them include "I'm having trouble sleeping." I started wondering why that occurs so often. I decided that it came down to one of three things: 1. Sleepiness induced delirium makes me want to blog; 2. My sleeplessness is caused by something that's weighing on my mind; and/or 3. I'm always tired. At any rate, I feel confident saying that the majority of my blogs are written while I'm tired and/or drinking. I fit at least one criterion right now.
I got an internship that's absolutely perfect in every way. It's amazing how happy it makes me.
I've been thinking about romantic relationships a lot lately. Well, to be honest, it's not a lot when compared to most people, but it is a lot compared to my normal rate. I'm not sure why. I'm very happy being single. I guess it's because I feel so fulfilled in every other aspect of my life, and I'd like someone to make me even happier. Maybe it's JT's adventures.
A few days ago, after I finished reading a book, a little blurb popped into my head. As someone who is not particularly adept at fiction, I didn't quite know what to do with it. As I mulled it over, I realized it perhaps related to me as much as any fictional person in my head. I have, of course, forgotten it, but I shall try to reproduce what I remember here. "You wonder if you can ever have a normal relationship. You think of the books with love stories that call to you, incite your imagination. They're not the normal ones. Shakespeare, Austen, that Harlequin crap, none of that appeals to you. It's only those Modern and Postmodern tales, with their fucked up romances, that you enjoy. It probably says something about you. You're not sure you want to think about it. As much as you hate Keats, you wonder if he's right that nothing can ever live up to the anticipation." I'm pretty sure it was more poignant when I first thought of it.
I miss having friends. Obviously, I have friends, but they don't live here. Some are from college, and have spread out depending on school and jobs, and most of the ones from high school have had the good sense to move away. The few that remain I rarely see. Some just have inconvenient lives, some are conditional friends, seeing me only when there's no one else, or when JT is here, or when certain things in their lives are not happening. At least I'll see LM this weekend.
ND: Thanks for reading! That goes for other people too, but I'm pretty sure ND is the only one.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Foods I Strangely Hate
So, for those of you who haven't heard, and I assume anyone who reads this has, I got a job. Better yet, it's pretty much exactly what I wanted.
So, in celebration, I'm making a list of foods I hate that everyone seems to like. I'm leaving out my least favorite food, spinach, because it is generally agreed to be absolutely disgusting. Without further ado, in no particular order:
1. Bacon. I don't like it at all. When I tell people this, they always assume I'm a vegetarian, which everyone knows is laughable. Many consider it to be the best food on the planet.
2. Flavored chips. I like tortilla chips. I like potato chips. But I hate sour cream and onion and nacho cheese and all those other ones.
3. Chocolate cake and ice cream. It doesn't taste like chocolate. It tastes like nastiness.
4. Dr. Pepper. I have never liked it. I never will. In case you can't tell, I had a difficult time at birthday parties in elementary school.
5. Oreos. I mentioned my hate of fake chocolate. I also hate marshmallows with a passion. This is two of my least favorite things put together.
6. Butterfingers. I'm not even sure what it's supposed to taste like, but it tastes horrible.
So, in celebration, I'm making a list of foods I hate that everyone seems to like. I'm leaving out my least favorite food, spinach, because it is generally agreed to be absolutely disgusting. Without further ado, in no particular order:
1. Bacon. I don't like it at all. When I tell people this, they always assume I'm a vegetarian, which everyone knows is laughable. Many consider it to be the best food on the planet.
2. Flavored chips. I like tortilla chips. I like potato chips. But I hate sour cream and onion and nacho cheese and all those other ones.
3. Chocolate cake and ice cream. It doesn't taste like chocolate. It tastes like nastiness.
4. Dr. Pepper. I have never liked it. I never will. In case you can't tell, I had a difficult time at birthday parties in elementary school.
5. Oreos. I mentioned my hate of fake chocolate. I also hate marshmallows with a passion. This is two of my least favorite things put together.
6. Butterfingers. I'm not even sure what it's supposed to taste like, but it tastes horrible.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
I really should be over this by now.
I love Classics. I can talk for hours about any number of classical things. I especially love the Roman Civil War. Last night, as I was starting to nod off to sleep, I was thinking of names that have been around for millennia. (Oddly, my spell check does not think that's a word. It needs to go back to Latin class.) One of the names I thought of was Claudia. That, of course, made me think of Clodia, who was born Claudia. Clodia was the plebeian version of the patrician Claudia. Her brother, Clodius, got them adopted into the plebeian branch of the family so he could be Tribune of the Plebs. He wanted to do so because they got veto power over the laws.
When I thought of that, I got so excited I couldn't sleep. Super nerdiness achieved!
When I thought of that, I got so excited I couldn't sleep. Super nerdiness achieved!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
In Which I Make A List And Have A Tonal Shift
In news that will shock absolutely nobody that knows me, I watch a lot of procedurals. This is probably directly related to my murder mystery addiction. At any rate, I've noticed that a lot of things commonly pop up in these shows. I have, of course, decided to make a list of some of these.
1. At least one major female character must be Damaged. The capitalization was intentional. The aforementioned damage usually comes in one of two forms: either something happened to her family when she was a child (this detective usually is haunted by the crime and wants to solve it, or suffers from abandonment issues) or she had a wonderful family, but for one reason or another, did a lot of stupid things as a teenager. In the few cases where there is not a damaged female, one of them should have had either an abortion or a miscarriage. I'm sure there is some feminist theory about this. I am equally sure that I don't care.
2. At least one case should involve a murdered ADA. Why ADAs are more prevalent than, say, judges or police officers I do not understand. Ideally, the ADA should have been upstanding and a crusader. The ADA will then be revealed to have a sordid private life.
3. At least one case will involve a polygamous cult. A woman inside the compound will make a call, usually concerned about her daughter. The cult leader will, of course, treat the police as the devil testing the believers, and sometimes actually believes it. The caller will refuse to come forward. For bonus points, someone working on the case with the team will have been a former member of the cult.
4. At least one murder victim must be known to one of the victims, ideally as a former lover. Because this is TV land, the detective will be allowed to investigate the case.
5. At least one case will involve a bigamist. Sometimes, there are even more wives. If the wives knew he had multiple spouses, all will claim to be okay with the arrangement, but do not be fooled. The first wife is jealous and has killed him. If the wives are shocked to learn their husband had at least one other wife, do not be fooled. They knew, met each other, and conspired to kill him.
6. At least one case should highlight different beliefs the main characters hold. These differences can be religious, about abortion or the death penalty, about politics, or any other hot button issue. Both must be able to give well reasoned defenses of their beliefs at the drop of a hat. Neither one is shown to be correct, thus avoiding any real controversy.
7. One of the characters should have overcome some sort of addiction, most often alcoholism. Generally, this should only be brought up in cases in which either a suspect or the victim suffered from it, or when something terrible happens to the character.
8. Sexual tension between the leads, even if it's clearly never going to be resolved, is always a plus.
9. A conspiracy nut is always helpful. At least one case will involve a conspiracy theory. He (for it is almost always a man) will either be proven to be at least partially right, or will have knowledge or contacts necessary for solving the case. For extra fun, throw in DARPA.
10. At least one case should involve Homeland Security interfering in the investigation. In almost all cases, the murder has nothing to do with whatever Homeland Security is trying to protect.
11. At least one case should just be a senseless murder. The detectives will unearth every bad thing about the victim and the suspects, only to learn that the victim was killed in a robbery or got caught in the crossfire of a gang.
1. At least one major female character must be Damaged. The capitalization was intentional. The aforementioned damage usually comes in one of two forms: either something happened to her family when she was a child (this detective usually is haunted by the crime and wants to solve it, or suffers from abandonment issues) or she had a wonderful family, but for one reason or another, did a lot of stupid things as a teenager. In the few cases where there is not a damaged female, one of them should have had either an abortion or a miscarriage. I'm sure there is some feminist theory about this. I am equally sure that I don't care.
2. At least one case should involve a murdered ADA. Why ADAs are more prevalent than, say, judges or police officers I do not understand. Ideally, the ADA should have been upstanding and a crusader. The ADA will then be revealed to have a sordid private life.
3. At least one case will involve a polygamous cult. A woman inside the compound will make a call, usually concerned about her daughter. The cult leader will, of course, treat the police as the devil testing the believers, and sometimes actually believes it. The caller will refuse to come forward. For bonus points, someone working on the case with the team will have been a former member of the cult.
4. At least one murder victim must be known to one of the victims, ideally as a former lover. Because this is TV land, the detective will be allowed to investigate the case.
5. At least one case will involve a bigamist. Sometimes, there are even more wives. If the wives knew he had multiple spouses, all will claim to be okay with the arrangement, but do not be fooled. The first wife is jealous and has killed him. If the wives are shocked to learn their husband had at least one other wife, do not be fooled. They knew, met each other, and conspired to kill him.
6. At least one case should highlight different beliefs the main characters hold. These differences can be religious, about abortion or the death penalty, about politics, or any other hot button issue. Both must be able to give well reasoned defenses of their beliefs at the drop of a hat. Neither one is shown to be correct, thus avoiding any real controversy.
7. One of the characters should have overcome some sort of addiction, most often alcoholism. Generally, this should only be brought up in cases in which either a suspect or the victim suffered from it, or when something terrible happens to the character.
8. Sexual tension between the leads, even if it's clearly never going to be resolved, is always a plus.
9. A conspiracy nut is always helpful. At least one case will involve a conspiracy theory. He (for it is almost always a man) will either be proven to be at least partially right, or will have knowledge or contacts necessary for solving the case. For extra fun, throw in DARPA.
10. At least one case should involve Homeland Security interfering in the investigation. In almost all cases, the murder has nothing to do with whatever Homeland Security is trying to protect.
11. At least one case should just be a senseless murder. The detectives will unearth every bad thing about the victim and the suspects, only to learn that the victim was killed in a robbery or got caught in the crossfire of a gang.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Cassius, It's Over. You're Second Best.
Some people want me to write another entry. You're probably in the minority.
For most of my life, I've been second best. That's not entirely true. Sometimes I'm a little lower down the list. Sometimes I'm the best within a certain group, but not as great a level up. Big fish, small pond, and all that.
I'm aware that this sounds rather like a problem of privilege. Surely, you might say, you have it better than most. Perhaps this is so, but I feel like it's worse. There are many things I'm bad at. Take art, for example. My talent is approximately that of a somewhat talented elementary school aged child. I don't mind that, or my mediocrity at sports, or my lack of social skills. I just assume they're things I can never excel at. But the things I'm almost great at are almost tortuous. I feel like if I could just be a tiny bit better or smarter, I could achieve the coveted "best" status. Yet it constantly eludes me. Sometimes I think "not quite good enough" is my status in life.
I've had more than one interview that resulted in a response of "we like you, but the position has been filled." At times, I'd rather get a "you aren't what we want." At least then I'd have to change.
The title I chose for this is two-fold. First is the obvious "second best." The second is that I can't stop making Classical references or talking about it. I have no desire to study it anymore, but I love the history, the stories, Latin, everything. My mother was reading a novel set in Rome and kept referring to "Crassius." I asked her whether she meant Crassus or Cassius, two very different people. She said it was Crassus, "the rich one." I informed her that Crassus was rich, and that Cassius was a politician associated with Caesar who was always second best. A few days later, my iTunes played "Cassius" by Foals, a song I almost never listen too, and I was surprised to hear its lyrics echo my thoughts.
Maybe I'm really just Cassius.
For most of my life, I've been second best. That's not entirely true. Sometimes I'm a little lower down the list. Sometimes I'm the best within a certain group, but not as great a level up. Big fish, small pond, and all that.
I'm aware that this sounds rather like a problem of privilege. Surely, you might say, you have it better than most. Perhaps this is so, but I feel like it's worse. There are many things I'm bad at. Take art, for example. My talent is approximately that of a somewhat talented elementary school aged child. I don't mind that, or my mediocrity at sports, or my lack of social skills. I just assume they're things I can never excel at. But the things I'm almost great at are almost tortuous. I feel like if I could just be a tiny bit better or smarter, I could achieve the coveted "best" status. Yet it constantly eludes me. Sometimes I think "not quite good enough" is my status in life.
I've had more than one interview that resulted in a response of "we like you, but the position has been filled." At times, I'd rather get a "you aren't what we want." At least then I'd have to change.
The title I chose for this is two-fold. First is the obvious "second best." The second is that I can't stop making Classical references or talking about it. I have no desire to study it anymore, but I love the history, the stories, Latin, everything. My mother was reading a novel set in Rome and kept referring to "Crassius." I asked her whether she meant Crassus or Cassius, two very different people. She said it was Crassus, "the rich one." I informed her that Crassus was rich, and that Cassius was a politician associated with Caesar who was always second best. A few days later, my iTunes played "Cassius" by Foals, a song I almost never listen too, and I was surprised to hear its lyrics echo my thoughts.
Maybe I'm really just Cassius.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Dear Vegas Males: It's Not Me; It's You
That's a rather egotistical title, isn't it?
But it's really how I feel. (For a grammar addict, I start a significant number of sentences in conjunctions and end a huge number in prepositions. I comfort myself in the knowledge that those fall under style, not grammar.)
I occasionally ponder my relationship status, and wonder why I'm single. My answer lately has been that I don't jive with Vegas guys. You might ask if I'm being geographically biased, but I'm not. I act the same, regardless of location. And yet, in every place except Vegas, I get hit on almost everyday. Cashiers love me. Random people I pass are enchanted. I tried to blame it on myself, say that I was awkward or mean or went to a woman's college, but those arguments really don't hold up when you compare my experiences anywhere except Vegas to those in Vegas.
I doubt that I suddenly get less attractive or my personality diminishes just because of locale. I suspect, rather, that Las Vegas tends to have the kind of men that don't like me, and that I don't like.
Okay, I'm a Republican. I don't ride a bike, for many reasons I will happily tell you if you ask, I don't gamble, smoke, or do drugs. I do drink, sometimes quite a bit. I've grown into my limbs, which out-sized me five years ago. I don't belong to any given clique. I sometimes dork out, but it tends to be when I'm drunk or I know it'll be appreciated, and I've been told that I'm so cute and happy when I do it that no one has the heart to tell me he has no idea what I'm talking about. I love fashion, but I'm not a fashionista. I switch between professional, teenager, preppy, business casual, hipster, name your style, depending on my mood on any given day. I'm very self-aware. I'm smart. I'm probably smarter than most people I know, but I don't care that much, as long as the people in my life can keep up or don't care. I read less than I like. We probably have common heroes, but not necessarily for the same reasons. It's a sad state events when you're trying to justify yourself to hipsters, because they're the closest you can get in your city to your ideal. But you make do with what you have.
I'm not sure why Vegas guys seem so reluctant to get to know me. They don't even know the myriad of reasons to hate me, and I promise you there are many. Maybe I don't pass some artificial test I'm unaware of. Are fake breasts necessary for attention here?
It seems only older men hit on me. And I don't mean 27. I mean 35+. I have friends who are dating guys in that range, and I'm happy for them, but it's not what I want. And the ones who are in my preferred age range tend to be not attractive to me, either physically or mentally.
Guys, just introduce yourselves to me. I don't bite, unless you're my sister. I'm good at politely declining, allowing you to believe the fault is mine. I can make excuses like you can't believe. But you won't approach me. And I don't try, because I know the pattern in this city. I can make the five guys in a party full of girls fall for me, but not a single Las Vegas guy.
I know there are good guys in Vegas. This is a generalization. I know that I'll find someone as soon as I move, but what's wrong with wanting someone here?
Why can't you hate me after meeting me?
Or learn that I'm okay with us not agreeing on things?
Or maybe you even like my views. But you'll never know until you try.
But it's really how I feel. (For a grammar addict, I start a significant number of sentences in conjunctions and end a huge number in prepositions. I comfort myself in the knowledge that those fall under style, not grammar.)
I occasionally ponder my relationship status, and wonder why I'm single. My answer lately has been that I don't jive with Vegas guys. You might ask if I'm being geographically biased, but I'm not. I act the same, regardless of location. And yet, in every place except Vegas, I get hit on almost everyday. Cashiers love me. Random people I pass are enchanted. I tried to blame it on myself, say that I was awkward or mean or went to a woman's college, but those arguments really don't hold up when you compare my experiences anywhere except Vegas to those in Vegas.
I doubt that I suddenly get less attractive or my personality diminishes just because of locale. I suspect, rather, that Las Vegas tends to have the kind of men that don't like me, and that I don't like.
Okay, I'm a Republican. I don't ride a bike, for many reasons I will happily tell you if you ask, I don't gamble, smoke, or do drugs. I do drink, sometimes quite a bit. I've grown into my limbs, which out-sized me five years ago. I don't belong to any given clique. I sometimes dork out, but it tends to be when I'm drunk or I know it'll be appreciated, and I've been told that I'm so cute and happy when I do it that no one has the heart to tell me he has no idea what I'm talking about. I love fashion, but I'm not a fashionista. I switch between professional, teenager, preppy, business casual, hipster, name your style, depending on my mood on any given day. I'm very self-aware. I'm smart. I'm probably smarter than most people I know, but I don't care that much, as long as the people in my life can keep up or don't care. I read less than I like. We probably have common heroes, but not necessarily for the same reasons. It's a sad state events when you're trying to justify yourself to hipsters, because they're the closest you can get in your city to your ideal. But you make do with what you have.
I'm not sure why Vegas guys seem so reluctant to get to know me. They don't even know the myriad of reasons to hate me, and I promise you there are many. Maybe I don't pass some artificial test I'm unaware of. Are fake breasts necessary for attention here?
It seems only older men hit on me. And I don't mean 27. I mean 35+. I have friends who are dating guys in that range, and I'm happy for them, but it's not what I want. And the ones who are in my preferred age range tend to be not attractive to me, either physically or mentally.
Guys, just introduce yourselves to me. I don't bite, unless you're my sister. I'm good at politely declining, allowing you to believe the fault is mine. I can make excuses like you can't believe. But you won't approach me. And I don't try, because I know the pattern in this city. I can make the five guys in a party full of girls fall for me, but not a single Las Vegas guy.
I know there are good guys in Vegas. This is a generalization. I know that I'll find someone as soon as I move, but what's wrong with wanting someone here?
Why can't you hate me after meeting me?
Or learn that I'm okay with us not agreeing on things?
Or maybe you even like my views. But you'll never know until you try.
New Blog
This is probably around my fifth attempt at blogging. Some have been read more than other. I've advertised them probably proportional to the audience drawn. I've decided to make this one non-anonymous. Most people reading this are acquainted with me. I've just decided that this is the medium I want to portray my life in for now. With the exception of my livejournal from when I was 16, which consisted of the thoughts of a bored 16-year-old on summer vacation, I like most of them. Some of them I even admire, and marvel that those thoughts and words came from me.
The title of the blog, Stalled, is how I perceive my life right now. I know where I want to get, and how to get there, but I'm not quite ready for it. So, I'm entering a period I expect will last between two and five years while I relax and prepare, often simultaneously, for a legal and/or political career.
At this point, I've spent about a month doing absolutely nothing. It was necessary. I spent the last year and a half of my college career stressed and teetering somewhere between "not happy" and "miserable." Upon reflection, I should have gone abroad or take a semester or a year off. Hindsight is 20/20, as cliches like reminding us. I needed that time to catch up on sleep, and not have to do anything. In the past couple of weeks, I've been starting to look for things to do. I started looking at dance classes, something I loved in elementary school and rediscovered my love of in college, and right after I'd back from a studio I thought was perfect for me in terms of content and location, I learned that someone I'd known and had talked to a lot about dance had been shot by her fiance. It really affected me, something I'll discuss in a paragraph or two, and made me avoid dance because it was such a reminder of her. However, I think I've gotten to the point that I'm ready to call the dance studio. I also started looking at jobs casually, browsing Craigslist everyday, and joining Monster.com. I've learned that I'm surprisingly employable. I guess I'm still kind of in the mindset of me two years ago, a student without a resume. It's amazing how much a Bachelor's degree and work experience make a difference. I've got an audition for a job I really want, both because of what it is, and the opportunities it both offers and leaves open. So, in at least some ways, my life is starting to get back on track.
I love both the movie and novel Fight Club. Part of what I love so much about it is that I can disagree with it so much, and still be enthralled with it. It was part of the author's intention. At any rate, the particular part I'm trying to talk about is when the main character goes to the support groups. When surrounded by death, he sees himself as the center of the universe. Everyone wants to be healthy. But in the past few weeks, two people I've known have died. One, as mentioned earlier, was murdered. I'd worked with her over the summer, and liked her a lot. She'd been two years sober, and I've known few people who wanted to live as much as she did. She wanted to be a teacher, even though she'd already gotten a master's in an unrelated field. The other died while studying abroad, and language and time barriers have prevented me from knowing exactly what happened to him. He's someone I DID NOT hook up with. I use the capitals for emphasis, in that I had the opportunity, but chose not to. I'm glad I didn't, because it may have devastated me. Instead, the combination of the two, perhaps aided by my fairly recent Dead Like Me marathon, made me dream about death. Nightmares of friends killing themselves. Dreams where I knew I would die soon, and had to assess what I wanted to do before death spirited me away, and upon waking, knew that they were personal matters that if I were to live would cause more awkwardness than pleasure, and knew that they would never occur. It made me feel like the center of death, like those who knew me were at risk, irrational as it may seem.
I'm not sure if I had more to say or not for this general introduction, but I'll leave it here, and do another entry if I remember something important.
The title of the blog, Stalled, is how I perceive my life right now. I know where I want to get, and how to get there, but I'm not quite ready for it. So, I'm entering a period I expect will last between two and five years while I relax and prepare, often simultaneously, for a legal and/or political career.
At this point, I've spent about a month doing absolutely nothing. It was necessary. I spent the last year and a half of my college career stressed and teetering somewhere between "not happy" and "miserable." Upon reflection, I should have gone abroad or take a semester or a year off. Hindsight is 20/20, as cliches like reminding us. I needed that time to catch up on sleep, and not have to do anything. In the past couple of weeks, I've been starting to look for things to do. I started looking at dance classes, something I loved in elementary school and rediscovered my love of in college, and right after I'd back from a studio I thought was perfect for me in terms of content and location, I learned that someone I'd known and had talked to a lot about dance had been shot by her fiance. It really affected me, something I'll discuss in a paragraph or two, and made me avoid dance because it was such a reminder of her. However, I think I've gotten to the point that I'm ready to call the dance studio. I also started looking at jobs casually, browsing Craigslist everyday, and joining Monster.com. I've learned that I'm surprisingly employable. I guess I'm still kind of in the mindset of me two years ago, a student without a resume. It's amazing how much a Bachelor's degree and work experience make a difference. I've got an audition for a job I really want, both because of what it is, and the opportunities it both offers and leaves open. So, in at least some ways, my life is starting to get back on track.
I love both the movie and novel Fight Club. Part of what I love so much about it is that I can disagree with it so much, and still be enthralled with it. It was part of the author's intention. At any rate, the particular part I'm trying to talk about is when the main character goes to the support groups. When surrounded by death, he sees himself as the center of the universe. Everyone wants to be healthy. But in the past few weeks, two people I've known have died. One, as mentioned earlier, was murdered. I'd worked with her over the summer, and liked her a lot. She'd been two years sober, and I've known few people who wanted to live as much as she did. She wanted to be a teacher, even though she'd already gotten a master's in an unrelated field. The other died while studying abroad, and language and time barriers have prevented me from knowing exactly what happened to him. He's someone I DID NOT hook up with. I use the capitals for emphasis, in that I had the opportunity, but chose not to. I'm glad I didn't, because it may have devastated me. Instead, the combination of the two, perhaps aided by my fairly recent Dead Like Me marathon, made me dream about death. Nightmares of friends killing themselves. Dreams where I knew I would die soon, and had to assess what I wanted to do before death spirited me away, and upon waking, knew that they were personal matters that if I were to live would cause more awkwardness than pleasure, and knew that they would never occur. It made me feel like the center of death, like those who knew me were at risk, irrational as it may seem.
I'm not sure if I had more to say or not for this general introduction, but I'll leave it here, and do another entry if I remember something important.
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