Quirks

I am reading Catch 22.
Which is hilarious by the way. Definitely move it to the top of your summer reading list.

Oh quick shout out to the person I borrowed it from.
I've been carrying it around pretty much everywhere and my purse is a really rough place to be. So the edges are probably a little more frayed...and there might be avocado on it. Sorry! I now put it in an airtight Forever 21 bag to prevent further damages. But if a riot or fire breaks out in my purse and your book is caught in the cross fire, I will buy you a new one and claim nothing happened to it.

There are five bajillion characters in Catch 22. I had to make a character list to keep track of them.
Okay, I have trouble following books with more than 4 characters. It's sad.
I even made a character list for Watchmen.

Anyway, every character in the book has a quirk.
For example, "General P. P. Peckem was a general with whom neatness definitely counted. He was a spry, suave and very precise general who knew the circumference of the equator and always wrote 'enhanced' when he meant 'increased.' He was a prick, and no one knew this better than General Dreedle..."

Son of a Carnie* I want a quirk!
Perhaps I have one but just don't know about it. The thing with quirks is you don't know what you are doing is a quirk unless someone points it out to you.
Unless you develop one knowingly...
"Joanne is a girl who squealed like a dying pig when faced with flying objects. She is a pansy. Everyone knew this and flung random objects at her. It also made tennis a very difficult sport indeed."

In unrelated news, mosquito bit my eyelid. I now look like the unfortunate offspring of a goldfish and whoever is willing to boink a goldfish...or could figure out how to boink a goldfish. I have become the butt sphincter who wears her sunglasses in the underground subway system.


*I have decided to ban all forms of profanity from my blog in light of the fact that I cuss too much. I am hoping this will translate over to real life. Instead of cuss words, I will be using "Son of a ____" and filling in the blank with what I think it would suck to be a son of.
I will probably run out of ideas eventually and come up with other means to express myself.

Live Music EDIT: and Agriculture

I don't understand how some people can go to concerts and just sit/stand there.
When I listen to music live, assuming I am close enough to the front, the vibrations from the sound resonate in my chest. The music seems to fill my body's cavity. I can feel it with every fiber of my being.
How can you just sit there like you are watching a movie? No body swaying, head bobbing, or even foot tapping!

I love watching the drummer when I go see a band. You can't half-ass a drum performance. For me, the drummer usually gets lost in the recording because it's usually the guitarist and the vocalist who make a song memorable. But when you see a drummer live, he is constantly in motion. You can sing or play a guitar moving just your lips or your hands (respectfully), but drumming requires full body movement.

I saw Blonde Redhead in concert.
I am not going to pretend that I knew who they were before today.
They are a little more experimental than what I'm used to. But they really know how to layer different sounds and textures together. It was amazing.



Some of their songs oozed sex.
Which is a high compliment since one is truly happy when doing one of three things: having sex, eating, and getting a back massage.
Preferably all three at once.

By the way, Explosions in the Sky would be perfect sex music. Or even make out music.
Haven't done it yet so someone try it and tell me how it goes...in one word. I don't want the gory details, thanks. Some variation of "Awesome" would do just fine.

EDIT: Seeing Explosions in the Sky in concert in NY!!!

EDIT II: A friend informed me that no one in New York grooves at concerts. They stand as still as scarecrows.

Whoever invented the scarecrow was brilliant but really lacked creativity.
"Hmm...crows are eating my crops. Whatever should I do? If only I could be on the field 24 hours for surveillance...Oh I know! I'll make a replica of me out of straw! I'll even put my clothes on it! But whatever should I call it? Well...its purpose is to scare crows...Oh I know! I call it a scarecrow!"

Eh. I guess a farmer has better things to do than come up for clever names for things.

"Wow...this is really handy for pitching straw. Whatever should I call it? Well it looks like a fork...and it pitches stuff...Oh I know! I'll call it a pitchfork!"

Okay I'm done.

Fregadero!

I can't tell jokes to save my life.
But who can really? It's hard to be funny when facing impending doom.
Hah. Hah.
See above.

I word searched "fuck" on my page. I used it 4 times in like...6 entries.
That is pathetic. I am an intelligent young person who should be able to find more creative ways to be profane.
So I hereby ban the word from this blog. I shall save it for tennis, toe-stubbings, and general bad luck.

Is life easier if you just stop defining what something is and just let it be?
Can Beatles songs answer every philosophical question about life?

What is the meaning of life?
Tomorrow never knows....

Stability

So you know that entry I wrote earlier about not wanting stability?

Yeah, fuck that.

I like being stable. Hell, it took me years to reach this level of stability. I was a pretty messed up kid. It still amazes me that my mom was able to put up with it. We aren't good at expressing feelings in my family, but that is one of the many many reasons I send her flowers on Mother's Day.

So for all you unstable folks out there, teeter-tottering through life, here is my little secret to leading a stable lifestyle.

Accept the fact that life is unstable.
Life is doozy. It is a whirlwind of emotions and feelings and thoughts and actions that conflict and clash, and mix and mingle. Life is not black and white. Life has no right answer. There's no cookie cutter "right path."

I realize that this seems like a cop out. In trying to find the answer, my answer is there is none...or many depending on how you look at it. In trying to find the right path, I have realized there are no paths and that I must forge my own. After years of questioning God and His existence, my conclusion is "Eh...maybe He's up there. If, so, Hey God. How's it going? I hope You like me."
But that's how I see things. And it took me the better half my 20 years of existence to see life as wavering nuances of grey or, if you want something more visually stimulating, a chameleon-like spectrum of color.


Courtesy of flickr.

But trust me. Once you accept the fact that life is fickle, you become a much more level-headed person.

On a somewhat related note, when I typed "fickle" just then, an image of a freckly pickle came to mind. I should probably get more sleep.

Bored

God I'm bored out of my skin.
It's only the second week.

It's weird being back and being treated like I'm 12. I miss being able to go where I wanted, when I wanted. I hate how you need a car to get anywhere here. There's not even a decent cafe within walking distance.
I'm also tired of being woken up every morning by my parents talking loudly about one thing or another. Or my neighbors power washing their car.

Thank goodness I am going to New York next week. I don't think I can handle another two weeks of boredom occasionally alleviated by banging my head on different surfaces. We just got new kitchen tiles so I must attempt that one next.

Driving, Hair, and Ice Cream Metaphors

Some people made fun of me for not driving today.
So I went driving with my mom.
I crashed and broke three of my ribs. Thanks guys.
Sorry, that was a bad joke.

I forgot the joys of being behind the wheel. I mean, I missed the convenience of having a car, but I didn't realize how much I like driving until I was doing it. It was like reconnecting with an old friend and realizing nothing has changed. The soothing clicking sound of the signal lights. The feel of the leather cover on the steering wheel. Easing the brakes into a smooth stop. Before I knew it, I was cruising with one hand on the wheel.
Granted, I still drove at the pace of an old lady and all the cars were cutting in front of me, but that will get better with time.

Today, I learned my hairstylist is psychic.
She was saying that, aside from that really annoying cowlick that forbids me from ever having straight-across the forehead bangs, the hair follicles on my scalp are arranged so that my hair is naturally neat and tidy. Every strand of hair is where it's suppose to be. No random tufts of hair growing in opposite directions, or creating swirl patterns, or doing whatever else hair does to make it unmanageable.
She said that this means I am a "good girl." I am level-headed. I know what I am doing.
I am stable. I will marry some stable guy and we will have a stable marriage. I will lead a stable life with no real regrets and I will die a stable death at the end of my stable years. I will be stably placed in the stable earth where I will rot stably in a stable casket.

Which is great, you know. Who doesn't want stability? Stability is good.
But the word "Goddammit..." slipped into my mind.
I am going to lead a vanilla life. Vanilla ice cream topped with vanilla syrup in a waffle cone laced with vanilla icing. I want some fucking rainbow sprinkles, damn it. Hell, I'll even take some almonds.
I guess I have to make the most of my cowlick. Perhaps I will occasionally write in a library book or something. Maybe I'll even go 5 miles above the speed limit.

I know I know. It's just a forecast by my hairstylist based on my hair. But that has been my life thus far. Stable. Smooth. Neat. And Very Vanilla.

It may be too much to ask for, but I want to taste Rocky Road. Just one ketchup cup sample of it.
(^Look look! Ice cream pun on life!)