I just had to Google Image “gimp mask” for a tweet. And that’s a pretty accurate representation of what today has been like.
I’m drinking coffee—okay, a vanilla latte—because I stayed up until two a.m. the last two nights writing a paper. And by “stayed up until two,” I mean “stayed in the study lounge until two, and then stumbled back to my dorm.” Also, when I got back to my dorm last night/early this morning at 2:30 a.m., it was entirely dark. Like, Mariana’s Trench dark, because the power had gone out. It was freaky.
Tonight will probably be another late night. I have one more paper to write, and I have to finish my application for study abroad. I have to write a CV—“curriculum vitae”—and that just seems like the worst idea ever. It’s basically a list of all your accomplishments, and I’m guessing I can’t just copy-and-paste a compiled list of all the re-tweets I’ve gotten into a Microsoft Word document. Or can I? Can I?
I want to have everything done and finished before I go home for spring break so that I can reach my full potential and actually become a potato wedged into couch cushions. I think I can really go for the gold this year, you guys.
Side bar: If you ever want to feel weirder than you already probably do, sing “Brave” by Sara Bareilles but in the voice of Christopher Walken. I just did it, and I am forever altered by the experience.
I’m writing this post because I have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s part nerves from getting everything done on time, part excitement for being home, and part vomit because of romantical things. Ugh, I legitimately hate that I just typed out those words. I like this human being—let’s call him Patient Zero; not because he has a weird disease, but just because I was thinking about calling him “Victim of Love” but that makes me sound like a serial killer—and I think—heavy, heavy, Mercury-heavy emphasis on “think”—that it is possible that he could possibly, maybe, potentially have some non-neutral but non-negative feelings towards me.
And so on one hand, I’m excited for that and I want to ask him to a second location—WHY AM I SOUNDING LIKE A SERIAL KILLER—and hang out. But on the other hand, there is also a very real possibility—a probability, in fact; actual I don’t know the difference; I was terrible in statistics—that he could very much not like me. I act really weird around him. Not “mentioning diarrhea or slavery” weird, but “I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands which suddenly seem very weird” weird.
I don’t get uncomfortable often—I seem to lack the ability to be embarrassed. I think it’s because when something awkward happens, I’m too busy imagining the Tweet I’m going to write about it to actually get embarrassed. But I’m way uncomfortable around Patient Zero. I think because he’s cool, and I’m a melted puddle of sludge, and whenever he sees me, he’s probably wondering why the tall, slim, hot guy in front of him is acting like Jabba the Hutt. (I am that tall, slim hot guy who is acting like Jabba the Hutt. Also, nearly typed out “Jabba the Slut” and am now wondering if there is a stripper/pornstar with that stage name. But I am afraid to Google it because there are some things you can’t un-see.)
I’m actually feeling kind of weird writing this out, like “Oh should I not say this?” but who the fuck cares? This is a blog, not the Pentagon Papers. And writing things out, not having them roll around in my head, helps a lot. And I’ve been feeling shitty enough at times that I know I need to do anything that helps me. And this is my blog, my space to vent. And to discuss vents. Ventilation is so important, you guys.
Side bar, Microsoft wants me to correct “who the fuck cares” to “whom the fuck cares” but that just seems too pretentious, even for me.
I have a pimple on my cheekbone. Like, right on my cheekbone. And yes, it draws the eye to my high cheekbones, which are a definite plus for my face, but still, I’m not thrilled about looking like I have the Black Plague. Too soon? Also in class, I was looking at the weird dry patch of skin I have on my—perfectly sculpted bicep—and noticed two longer, darker hairs. My armhair is very blonde and fine—fine—so this was weird. Wait, now I can’t find them. Wait never mind. I found them.
Music-wise, I keep oscillating between Meghan Trainor, Kanye West, Nicki Minaj and Banks. The Pinkprint is so good, but so is Title, and nothing helps me more when I feel like ramming a car through a brick wall than “Black Skinhead.”
I was thinking today that if I end up being a writer for my life/job, how will I have enough words to span an entire life? I mean, even now I was scrambling to find an accurate metaphor before thinking of “Jabba the Hutt” to describe my behavior. But if it all goes to plan, my writing will be about my life, and as long as I keep being uncomfortable and awkward—which, considering the week I’ve had, is a definite possibility—I suppose I’ll always have material to write about. And eventually I’ll probably have kids or a dog, so then I’ll have another creature’s life to milk for product endorsements and book deals. No, but I’ll be a great parent to any humans/dogs that come into my life.
The coffee has now all been drunk, and I’m in the “nervous energy jittery shivering” phase of my caffeine fix. I regret saying “caffeine fix.” But it happened. I suppose I could delete it, but I want you to know that I’M HUMAN TOO. I MAKE MISTAKES TOO.
Side bar, Spotify is pushing HARD for me to upgrade to Spotify Premium and I just want to be like “GOD, GET OFF MY BACK” whenever they play a commercial and it just ends up being an ad for themselves.
Maybe I should go after Star Wars nerds, since I act like Jabba the Hutt. Wait, is it Star Trek? Dammit, now the Trekkies and the War-ies (?) will be mad at me for mixing it up. Now I’m definitely not going to get a boyfriend. I’ve alienated the nerds. Not that Star Wars is nerdy…I mean, it is. But cool-nerdy. Like how Drake was on Degrassi and now he’s a rapper. It’s, like, cool. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.