Cockroach, A Wes Craven Film.

From: Dinsdale [fakeaddress@gmail.com]

To: Dinsdale's Dad [reallyboringaddress@somecompanyi'veneverheardoffrom1996.com]

Subject: Cockroach, A Wes Craven Film


So this morning I had to kill a cockroach. And it was really big and when I sprayed it it fell onto the window sill and I got it in the dustpan but then it started running all over the dustpan and I was screaming and I dropped the dustpan and I was all, "oh god it's trapped under the dustpan and I'm going to have to move it or maybe I could just leave it there until it dies I mean that can't be that long right like cockroaches can't survive without food for that long right and whatever I can just leave it there and avoid the living room for a week I mean who needs living rooms anyway they're totally overrated" except then it started crawling out from under the dustpan like it was some kind of mutant zombie cockroach and so I got it with the brush and somehow got it into the dustpan and then I ran outside screaming and I really hope none of our neighbours witnessed me in my dressing gown looking like a psychopath with crazy eyes screaming "DIE! DIE! DIE!" as I stomped it to death.


I expect a present for this.
 
 
 
Sent from my iPad*
 
 
*Totally lying

No Longer a Cautionary Tale.

Internet, I'm going to be straight with you.  As a kid, I had terribly teeth-brushing habits.  I just Could. Not. Be. Bothered.  I was also (this, I'm sure, will come as a surprise to those who know me) a ridiculously stubborn child.  One of my few memories from early childhood was being sent by my mother to brush my teeth, and being so damn contrary about the whole thing that I pretended for a good five minutes.  Wet the brush, used the toothpaste, ran the water - the whole damn shebang, except of course for the actual brushing part.

(This appalling habit may or may not be the reason I had my first filling aged five.)

Anyway, Internet, obviously I got over it.  As I got older I realized that maybe brushing your teeth was not the Chinese Water Torture I'd apparently thought it was.  Plus, you know, boys don't like girls who can grow penicillin in their mouths.  Floss and I even made an acquaintance, although I'm sorry to say our affair has been frought with difficulties and on-and-off passions: joyous meetings and indifferent partings.  (But seriously, does anyone actually floss twice a day? I AM USUALLY RUNNING LATE, PEOPLE.)

However, the point of this post (I know! There's a point! You totally weren't expecting a point, were you?) is not to disgust you with tales of why I'm lucky to still have all my teeth.  (Well, apart from my wisdom teeth.)  (And those other molars my orthodontist said were in the way.)  (And all my baby teeth, obviously, although they really didn't want to go.)  (You know, maybe I should tell you sometime about the reason I hate dentists.)  (Hint: It has to do with all those missing teeth.)

No, the point of this post is simple: mouthwash!*

Even as I finally got my shit together with brushing and flossing, I could never get the final part of the trifecta right: mouthwash.  Those people in the Listerine ads always look so damn happy to be gargling with that stuff, and I Cannot Figure Out Why.  They are essentially napalming their mouths.  Why are they smiling afterwards?  Is Listerine all part of some weird S&M thing I don't get because I went to Catholic school?

Listerine tastes like I'd imagine the chilli tequila I made some friends shot** tasted.  Which is to say: awful.  Horrific.  Like you have ingested fire, and not in the cool circus fire-eater way.  I have never been able to bring myself to use it, and I think my record for gargling it sits at about ten seconds.  Which, if you're a liberal arts grad like me and thus not good with numbers, is Pretty Far Away from the sixty seconds they recommend.

I'm so bad with mouthwash I even cheated when I had my wisdom teeth out.  The surgeon gave me a bottle of mouthwash (which was totally not Listerine, by the way, but some weird hospital generic stuff with only slightly less napalm).  I was told to gargle with salt water the first few days, then use the mouthwash for two weeks, until the stitches had dissolved.  Quite frankly, Internet, I was FAR more interested in the prescription for tramadol he also gave me, so I didn't really pay much attention.  I think I ended up using the salt water three or four times and the mouthwash maybe once.  It's a miracle I didn't end up as a Cautionary Tale of that girl who didn't follow her surgeon's instructions and her whole jaw rotted off.

But the other day, Internet, I was wasting time at the mall*** and wandered into the grocery store.  And ended up in the dental aisle, trying to figure out if they'd changed the packaging of the uber-fancy I-cost-three-times-as-much-but-do-the-same-thing toothpaste, or if there were in fact two pretentious toothpastes.  And it's then I made a discovery.

Listerine makes a mouthwash for kids!

I know, Internet.  YOU have known this forever; you kind of thought it was obvious.  But you have to understand, I had absolutely no reason to ever look at the mouthwash shelf; all mouthwashes are the urine of the devil, right?  So at some point in the last, oh, decade, they started making mouthwash for kids and I never noticed.  So I continued to only half-assedly commit to oral hygiene.  (Hee, oral! Yes, I'm twelve.)

Obviously, I bought some of this kids' mouthwash, if only to prove to myself that Listerine was torturing innocent children, or something.  And Internet?  It's good!  No napalm or anything!  I still don't last the sixty seconds, but I'm chalking that up to inherent laziness (sixty seconds is a LONG TIME, people).  The point is, I'm finally treating my teeth the way they're supposed to be treated.

Now, all I have to do is overcome my instinct to shot the Listerine.



*YES, that totally is a point, as you will see if you actually read the rest of the post instead of skipping down to the bottom.

**HAHA SUCKERS!

***Sometimes, Internet, I get in my car and then suddenly I'm at the mall.  I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW I'M GETTING THERE.

Stockholming Myself - Day Two

So as is usual with life, I'm writing this right before the deadline.  Thus, it's going to be pretty boring.  Suck it.

(Also? My supervisor emailed me this morning and wants to see me - with the outline of my essay that I haven't even looked at - tomorrow.  I'm working tomorrow.  So that's going to be a fun email to send!)

Anyway, photo time!

Yes, that is my bathroom. The hallway with the full-length mirror was in use.  And yes, that's a toilet behind me.  YOU HAVE ONE TOO, YOU KNOW.

A somewhat lazier outfit today, to reflect the fact I'm supposed to be working.  (Hah!)

Top, Madame Hawke.  Jeans, Abercrombie & Fitch.  Belt, Glassons (because I am poor) (Also: cheap).

Stockholming Myself - Day One

The theory behind Stockholming Myself, something I made up that is composed of absolutely zero science, is that if I take the dreaded full-length body shot picture every single day, I will either notice gradual change from my diet & exercise plan or, failing that, will learn to like what I’ve got based on continual, unrelenting exposure. - Temerity Jane

So one of my favorite bloggers, TJ, has a new project: Stockholming Herself.  And she wants other people to join in.  And because when I am procrastinating doing assignments, absolutely anything sounds like the BEST! IDEA! EVER! I decided to join in.

For me, in addition to the whole "acceptance" thing (which at the moment is, "I'll accept my body when it's 20 pounds lighter"), I'm hoping this will encourage me to put more effort into what I wear.  At the moment I'm really schizophrenic with my wardrobe - it's either "overdressed matron" or "homeless junkie".  I'd like to try to find a balance between those, so I look pulled together, but also age-appropriate.

(Plus, this might mean I actually get dressed on days I don't have to go anywhere!)

And... I've kind of run out of excuses to postpone posting the photo at this point.  Ugh.

You would not believe the number of photos I had to take to find one that wasn't so blurry I looked like I had eight arms.

Most of the other people participating in this project are full of optimistic "I look better in the photo than I

thought!" comments.  I'm going to blame the cheap mirror for the fact I look 10 lbs heavier in the photo than I did when I looked in the bathroom mirror.

Anyway, on to the fun part!  Top, World (several years old). Skirt, David Lawrence.  Shoes, Kors by Michael Kors (also several years old, and also the victim of a number of drunken falls, so, you know, they're a lot less fancy than they sound.)

Happy Chrismahanukwanzakah!

We're not really doing Christmas this year.  Like birthdays, parties, graduations, or pretty much ANYTHING THAT IS SUPPOSED TO BE FUN, I kind of hate Christmas.  I don't do well in situations where IT IS EXPECTED you will enjoy yourself, and then I feel guilty for not having fun, and then I feel guilty for feeling guilty, and are you understanding the level of crazy yet?

Anyway, no one can be bothered getting a Christmas tree, and until today, we had an old Santa hat on the door instead of a wreath. (I'm not sure what that was supposed to convey. We killed Santa and kept his hat as a trophy? We think clothing items are wall hangings? We're secretly Vs who still don't understand this "Christmas" concept, but are trying to play along anyway?)

One tradition I haven't given up, though, is the gingerbread house.  Although that's mainly because I was giving one away this year.  The other one - the one that I should have been spending hours on this month - as yet is sadly sans decoration.

But! One small, basic gingerbread house went to the Sisters of St Joseph today, so at least I feel mildly accomplished.

This is it almost done - the damn window panes kept falling off, so when I fixed them, I also added some more decoration.  But was then too lazy to document it.

I cannot tell you how infuriating it was to buy two boxes of ribbon candy and still not find two pieces that match.  Seriously, that fence burns itself into my retinas every time I look at these pictures.  DOES NOT MATCH.  IS NOT SYMMETRICAL.  HAS RUINED WHOLE CONCEPT. *eyelid twitch*

Part of the redecoration included adding more Pez candy to outline the walls.  And let me tell you, when you find yourself FILING DOWN PEZ CANDY at ELEVEN PM (as in, BASICALLY MIDNIGHT) (WHICH IS PRACTICALLY DAWN) (SERIOUSLY, I HAVE TO GET UP EARLY TO GO TO WORK) to make it fit the peak of the roof - WHEN NO ONE WILL EVEN NOTICE ANYWAY - you have a problem.*

*Problem may also include excessive use of capslock key. If problem persists, consult your physician. (WHO WILL PROBABLY SEND YOU TO A SHRINK FOR ANGER ISSUES). (Which is unnecessary, because the capslock does not indicate anger.) (The excessive parentheses may be worth examining, though.)

Inspiration

This is not a depression blog. I did start one, years ago, and lasted about a month before my mood changed again and I lost interest. When I started this blog, I saw it more as a creative outlet - a place to write, to learn about a particular style of writing, to record my life, to amuse my friends. I'm on medication now. I no longer walk around in that black fog. I'm good.

But.

I sat down today to write an entry, knowing I need to write more often. I love writing, and I've always considered myself a good writer. I can churn out an essay at 4am the day it's due, and get an A. I can paint a picture with words. I can't sing, or draw, or run a marathon (or a mile), but I can write.

Except that as the fog has lifted, I've been writing less and less. I have a folder on my laptop full of pieces of writing - from completed short stories to 100-word snippets of imagery - that helped me in the worst times. They're not the most uplifting tales. They dealt with how I was feeling; they're about loss and death and suicide. They were a form of therapy, and I suppose I should be glad I can't write that anymore.

Don't get me wrong: I love being okay. I love being able to feel something other than despair. This year has been the best year in a long time. I don't want to be 'that depressed girl' again. I want to be normal.

But I am sad that I seem to have lost the urge to write. The tortured genius is a cliche, but studies have shown that it's often correct. Vincent van Gogh, Winston Churchill and Sylvia Plath all suffered from depression. And they all achieved great things. I'm no Plath, and I don't aspire to be her, but I do want to be able to enjoy writing again.

This was on PostSecret a few weeks ago. It's a better end to this post than I can come up with right now.

Girl Talk Thursday: Roommates

So, I love Girl Talk Thursday, and I'm in awe of the amazingly talented women who participate, and I had a vague idea that one day - you know, when I actually updated this blog more than once a month, or whenever I have a major assignment due - I might eventually pluck up the courage to join in.

Then I saw this week's topic: Roommates.

And YEAH, HOLY HELL, DO I HAVE A STORY.

This year, after two years away from home, I transferred to a university in my hometown. There were a lot of reasons for this - some financial, some personal - but I won't lie, my roommate experience didn't exactly make me regret leaving. A tip for all those off to college: If you get told a person HARRASSED A GIRL SO MUCH SHE MOVED OUT OF THE DORMS AND LEFT THE UNIVERSITY, even if this information comes from the resident "off-her-meds chick", MAYBE CONSIDER NOT LIVING WITH THAT PERSON.

I was not so smart.

My first year I was lucky enough to get a single room, for which I was eternally thankful. I had a much harder time adjusting to being away from home than I thought I would, and it was so nice to be able to go to my room and shut out all the drama and bad food and just be alone for a while. When everyone was figuring out where they would live the following year, I wasn't sure what to do, and when Dan* asked me to move into a place with him and a few of his friends from high school, I thought, why not?

It started out easy enough. I was friends with his girlfriend, so the fact she slept every night at our place didn't bother me. Sure, he was loud and kind of gross, but I figured, he's a 19-year-old guy, what do you expect? And yeah, it was annoying that my bedroom was next to the bathroom - and underneath the living room - so I heard pretty much everything everyone did. But that's all part of the learning curve, right?

We had fun, and everyone was always teasing each other. In addition to Dan, there was a girl he went to high school with, Jenny, and her roommate from the previous year, Sarah. Jenny was really hardworking, but kind and friendly. Sarah was much more pragmatic, but a fantastic cook and really fun to hang out with (she's the one who introduced me to Buffy, for which I will be forever in her debt!). And then there was the girl we got to fill the spare room, Natalie. Natalie grew up on a farm and was pretty much the polar opposite of me in every way, but she seemed nice enough.

I'd noticed Dan's tendency to bear grudges and focus his hatred on one specific person a little the previous year, but it didn't seem like a big deal. The girl he had the major drama with that year also went to high-school with him, and I always thought she had a bit of a crush on him. So I figured it was old drama, and none of my business.

(Are you starting to think, 'God, you're stupid' yet? 'Cause I wasn't! I was blissfully unaware!)

You can probably see where this is going. For whatever reason, he decided I was going to be his next target. It started out innocuously enough - he'd eat my food, but I always did offer to share; he gave me a nickname I didn't really like, but I didn't protest; he'd always override my food preferences, but others often agreed with him - in short, nothing obvious until later.

I asked him to quit using the nickname, and I think that started it. Because would he quit? HELL NO. It escalated - pointed comments all the time, flat-out stealing of my food and alcohol, being deliberately loud in the living room when I was trying to sleep. He'd pile up his dishes and leave cups everywhere, then yell at me if I left a single utensil in the sink because the dishwasher was full. At one point, he even got his mother to call up and ask for me by that God-awful name (which by that point was enough to make me want to bash his head against a wall). Natalie, no doubt having assessed the situation much better than I had, quickly sided with him, and they became a tag-team that made my skin crawl. They'd either deliberately make comments, or pointedly ignore me. I spent most of last year in my room, because one or other of them always held court in the living room, and I was not welcome.

The situation went up and down - Dan is an incredibly selfish person, and he and Natalie would have silent fights every so often over God-knows-what. The whole situation reminded me so much of being five or six again, when your 'best friend' changed daily, and you never knew why. It was ridiculous, and I pointed this out many times, but apparently, six-year-olds can't see reason.

Eventually, of course, the year ended (THANK GOD) and everyone went home for the summer. When everyone went back to school, I heard that he and his girlfriend (who had decided to move in together) split up shortly after the semester began. He apparently came out and is dating a guy now, and his girlfriend is now stuck with all the rent on an apartment she couldn't afford in the first place. I'm breathing a sigh of relief I don't have to know, or care, about the drama anymore.

Also: I MAY BECOME A HERMIT.

*His name was not Dan. Obviously. Part of me really wants to write his full name and all identifying details here, in the hope that one day, by some miraculous twist of fate, this blog will be so famous it will be the first hit on Google when you search for him, and he will be shunned, but despite all evidence to the contrary, I'm not actually crazy enough to think that won't reflect worse on me than on him. So yeah, call him Dan. Or the name of your obnoxious ex-boyfriend, or that kid who always picked on you in the first grade. In other words, when you read his name, you should want to hit him with a heavy object. I do. (Bitter? Not at all, why do you ask?)