The One Who Dwells Within

I have never hated being in college as much as I have this week. It's this week every semester, actually, that I, along with a few thousand other UNC students, begin to lose my mind. My first exam week went by relatively smoothly. At least I don't remember any tragedies. Second semester finals week is a complete blur to me, besides the mental breakdown I suffered while studying for economics (Ralph Byrns if you ever read this, I HATE YOU). But all was well and good after that was over because the end of that exam week meant summer.

This week before exams even started, things took a sharp turn. A downhill turn. Off a cliff.

Monday. All is well for most of the day. Internal conflict begins.
Tuesday. Went to sleep at 5pm.
Wednesday. Woke up at 7:30am (from 5pm the night before). Exam. Personal conflict causes me to completely stop focusing on class, exams, learning and breathing. Nap, even though I had slept for 14 hours the night before.
Wednesday night. Go to dinner. Get to dinner, head starts to implode. Skip all LDOC celebrations, bed at 9:30.
Thursday. Campus health for 2 hours. They don't tell me anything. French exam review. They don't teach me anything. Froze to death on the way home. Bed at 9.
Friday morning. 12:30am. I'm awake. I'm shivering. It's not cold. I can't swallow. I can't see anything. It's at this moment that I believe the demons began to enter my body. Yes, demons. The ones who dwelt within Cain, Nero, Judas and Legion, as well as Belial and Lucifer, the devil himself in the flesh. Can't breathe. Force myself out of bed to take some medicine that I know isn't going to help. May or may not have contorted my body into odd positions and ate some spiders.

At some point this weekend I regained control of my body. I'm just patiently waiting for the demons to return and, frankly, I'm afraid to see what's going to happen. But kind of excited.

Someone get Sir Anthony Hopkins on the phone.

True Life: I'm Awkward

College is a time when people tend to make great realizations about themselves. Students figure out where they're going in life, what they're good at, how much they can drink...I found out exactly how awkward I am. If you're wondering, the answer is VERY awkward.

In high school, I never had to face this most prominent part of my personality. I had a group of good friends and I never had to speak to anyone outside of that group. If I wasn't with them, I was at home where the only person I had to talk to was my bird. And she would take any attention she could get.

Once I got to college I realized that the social life that I loved in high school was about to go down the drain. No matter how much time I managed to spend with the few friends that came with me to college, I was still required to interact with other people. If you know me well enough, you'll know that that is probably the last thing I ever want to do next to wearing sweatpants and listening to Taylor Swift.
Even in the first days of college, I was faced with a roommate that I didn't really know. Sure, we had corresponded, but I'm super charming via Facebook and text message because those are crafts I have perfected. Plus, I can usually take as long as I want to come up with the perfect response. So needless to say there was a lot of awkward forced small-talk. I figured that would die down and things would be normal after a little while. I mean that's what happens with normal people, right? Not me. For a few months our room was filled with awkward small talk, then it all eventually faded into nothing. And the scared child inside of me was perfectly okay with that.
Then this year (last year too, but mostly this year unfortunately), I've been forced into social situations that I just have no idea how to navigate: parties. They always start out pretty good because I usually go there with my friends, then my heart drops and my mind starts racing. I don't know these people. What if they say something to me? I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't even know how to talk to people. Do they want to talk to me? What if they don't even want to talk to me? I guess that's okay...but that means there's something wrong with me. It's probably the fact that I'm standing in the most awkward place and not talking to anybody. Do they know what I'm thinking? Am I saying this out loud? Oh god. I should dance or something. I'll just check my phone. Oh. Nothing. All my friends are here. Facebook. Nothing. All my facebook friends are out being social and not on facebook. Uhhhh...

In the off chance that people do speak to me, I still can't avoid the awkward. I just don't even know how to respond to some things.
For example, I have no idea how to respond to "what's up?" I can't even explain my aversion to the phrase...it just triggers awkward. Usually I ignore it and pretend the person just said "hello" or something that I think a normal person should say.
Even if an exchange started off easily, with a simple "Hey! How are you?! It's so good to see you!" I usually have no idea where to go from there.

I guess I'm just doomed to a life of drink-sipping and phone-checking...

Happy Endings

A friend of mine (Yes, I have friends. Well. Some.), who will remain nameless, recently said to me "You know, Al, college is the time when people are looking for the person they're going to spend the rest of their life with. Yep. So you should think about that."
If you know me at all you could probably guess that I didn't think about it much (you would definitely know that if you can tell who said it). But I did think about it later, probably when I should have been doing homework or something important like that.
The more I thought about it, the more I started to think about how stupid that is. Why should I be looking for forever in every single person I meet? I usually can't even remember people's names. Usually I dread seeing them ever again. I just don't think I should be wasting my college life looking for the person that I'm going to be stuck with for the rest of my life starting at age 19. And I consider myself a nice person, so I'm definitely not trying to cause anyone to suffer through being with me for that long. I'm not even sure I want to spend all those years with myself. Call me a romantic, but I would like to just let it happen. Maybe one day I'll meet someone who just won't leave me alone and we'll spend the rest of our lives together (this is most likely to happen with the aforementioned friend). Until then, why is it so bad to do whatever I want?
I, like other people of my generation, have been taught most of life's lessons through television. Sitcoms taught me that people rarely get married before their mid 30s. And these shows are still running, so the mother and the happy ending may not be found until the characters are in their forties. Or maybe never. And you know what? That's okay. And it's hilarious.
So if staying single for a few extra years (maybe my whole life) leads to the hilarity that occurs on the sitcoms I've been watching, bring it on. And by "bring it on," I mean that every person tryin' to spend the rest of his or her life with me needs to back off. Funny > Happy.

Despite all these feelings, there are a few people I would never turn down if they just said "hey. let's spend the rest of our lives together."

Here's a list of people that I would consider spending the rest of my life with (though some in a completely nonromantic, nonsexual way. I'll let you guess which ones those are), starting right now.
Chelsea Handler. Imagine the mean jokes.
Sofia Vergara. I could listen to that voice forever.
Some guy from my art class last semester. I never spoke to him. Who cares.
Kevin Jonas. And his wife too I guess.
Anyone who will buy me milkshakes and Cheese Nips.
Any kind of bird.
My denim jacket.
Heidi Klum.
Carrie Underwood.
Beyonce's baby.
A skeleton.
Mrs Lovett from Sweeney Todd. Corset and human meat pies? My kind of woman.
Brangelina.
Demi Lovato.

I would keep going but even getting that much was a stretch. All I could think about was my wardrobe.

I don't really hate midgets...

...okay maybe I do. More on that later.

It has recently been brought to my attention that I am a negative person. And by recently, I mean that I've been told this for 19 years and I'm just now choosing to acknowledge it. The only reason now is so special is because I just challenged myself to create a list of things I like and I couldn't think of anything that's not sitting on my desk. And this is just a bunch of shit. I don't even really like it. Well except for the Pepsi cans. I like Pepsi.
BUT as my dedicated readers (of which I'm probably the only one) know, I had no trouble compiling a list of things that I don't like. Newbs, go back to February and check it out.

So I sat down and I said to myself "Garret," (that's what I call myself) I says, "Garret, this is a real problem. Why are you so hateful?"
And after some serious conversation with myself, I came to a conclusion.
Happy and realistic just aren't funny. I can't control what goes on around me, but I can change how I see it and make the best of it. For example, I could look at a midget and feel bad for him. I could feel bad that his little arms probably can't reach above his head or around anyone else's body. I could feel bad that he's probably going to be mistaken for a football a few times in his short (get it?) little life. I could feel bad that no one is going to love him. But I choose not to see those horrible things. If I did, what kind of life would I live? That would be a sad, depressing life only lived by those who do not qualify as human beings (see example).
So when I see a little nugget waddling around, I do what's best for me and ultimately for the world: I make jokes. The way I see it, looking at life the way it is is just sad. And don't get me wrong, this doesn't just apply to midgets. Other common examples include the British, anyone who resembles a witch, lesbians and anyone wearing sweatpants in public.

So if I ever offend you, just know that I am working on making this world a happier place. Midgets, hop off your little pedestals and get over it.

I could walk all the way to China!

Sometimes I just have too much energy. It's never at a convenient time, like, say, 8am when I have to get the fuck up and walk to class. Or at 11am when I'm only halfway through the day and I still have to run from one end of the earth to the other in less than ten minutes. Energy would be nice when I have three classes in a row in which most of my grade is based off of participation. (For any of you who were wondering, sleeping does not get you participation points. At least not at UNC.) Energy would even be nice at, like, supper time when I could go out and be social. But just like during my 8am walk and 11am run and all the classes in between, all I want to do is sleep.
But do I ever or have I EVER had all the energy I need at those times?

NO.
If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing this.
No, instead of having a normal amount of energy throughout the day like I would suspect a normal person would, mine comes in bursts. Like fucking supernova bursts. Usually around 11pm.
I sit around and do nothing all day because, well, I don't have the energy, but then when I SHOULD be winding down and doing nothing, my body wants me to do cartwheels and jump out the window.
In fact, if you care enough to check, you'll notice that several of the posts to this blog were done after midnight. Every single one of those, including the existence of the blog itself can be attributed to what I'm experiencing RIGHT NOW. Tonight it came a little early, probably because I've been up since the crack of dawn and my internal clock is thrown off. I guess that happens when you go from sleeping into the late afternoon to waking up to get the worm.
I just can't handle myself. I don't know what to do. Over the summer I would usually walk around my room (anyone who has been in my room can tell you that's not an easy task because it's ridiculously small and even more ridiculously cluttered) and then walk down the hall. Several times. I can't do that here because I live with other people who I don't think know how much of a freak I am and I'd like to keep it that way as long as possible.
So for now I'm going to roll back and forth in my desk chair, check my phone every five seconds, watch Jenna Marbles videos, clean my room, make my bed, eat something, stumble, draw a picture, write myself notes and tap my fingers. AT THE SAME TIME.
To my roommate: I'm sorry.

Birthday Sex

So it's my birthday. It's also Halle Berry's birthday, Jay Manuel's birthday and apparently the day that Timothy McVeigh was sentenced to death. So hooray for us.
Thanks to modern technology and that kid from the Social Network, everyone on facebook can see that it's my birthday. And anyone who's anyone is wishing me a happy birthday, even people I don't know i.e. this one girl I've been facebook friends with forever and have never seen her nor heard anyone speak her name. Lord knows I love all this attention, but as I get older, the multiple well-wishers seem to blend together and I'm faced with a dilemma. In years prior, there would be a new notification for each wall post, so I would get notifications into the seventies if I went without checking it for more than a minute. Now all the notifications are crammed into one, so as I just logged on, I only had seven notifications. It was kind of upsetting.
But that's not the dilemma.
The dilemma that I face every year is what to do about these wall posts. I personally like when people thank me for wishing them a happy birthday, but if I commented on every wall post and said "thank you!" it would eventually get old and seem insincere. And kind of pathetic, like I didn't have anything better to do on my birthday. Obviously I don't, but that's beside the point. I mean of course I'm grateful for all the well-wishing. Who wouldn't be?
I could just post a status at the end of the day saying "Thanks everyone!" or some shit like that, but that seems even less sincere. The easiest option would be to "like" every wall post, but I've always seen that as a dick move.
I'm thinking about only commenting on/liking the ones that I feel deserve it.



Who am I kidding anyway? I don't really care about how people feel.

I've decided what I want to do with my life.

This entry and all those posted under this are transplanted from my old blog. I decided to switch blog sites to start my professional blogging career. More information on that below...

Anyone that knows me should be able to tell you that the thing I want most in this thing we call life is to be famous. I've never known why, but something about people wanting to know what I'm doing every single day appeals to me. Some would say that I crave attention because of a lack of attention from my parents/other authority figures during my childhood. I say that's stupid, I just want to be Zac Efron.
I've slowly come to the realization that I don't have the talent to be as famous as I want to be. I often fantasize about getting my start on American Idol or the Disney Channel, then after being unfairly kicked off of American Idol after making the top 12 or my Disney show runs its course, breaking out into the world. I envy those people who start off with the wholesome image then get to do something dramatic to break out of it. Considering I'm about to turn nineteen, I think the Disney ship has sailed. Unfortunately, the American Idol yacht has been at sea for quite a while now, as I've never been able to sing.
After I accepted my talentless life and future as reality, I had to figure out another way to become famous. I could try to break into acting somewhere other than the Disney channel, but haven't the passion nor the hometown to do that. This revelation led me to my desire to be a journalist. First, I wanted to write for a newspaper as a career because I like to write and, I don't mean to brag, but I can write a mean research paper. That's all good and well, but where the hell would that get me? Ultimately I decided on broadcast journalism, because my face could be on tv and that would at least make me feel famous. Maybe even famous enough to get my memoir on the NYT bestseller list. I assume you have to be famous first to do that. I don't know how else writers get famous, except for that Patterson guy because he advertises his books on tv. 

Even more recently, I have been reading (wtf?) Tucker Max's books and watching every Jenna Marbles video ever posted. These are two people that I really identify with and I could definitely see myself living their lives. How did they get their lives? I don't fucking know, but they're famous. I know Tucker is rich and I'm sure Jenna gets some money from youtube advertisers or something. Tucker made a website, got a book deal. Marbles posts one video and blows up. 

I could totally do that. I personally think my twitter is already celebrity-rate stuff and I'm sure I could come up with something to write a book about. It sure wouldn't be about my sad life, but I think I have a vivid enough imagination. So I've set my sights on becoming an internet celebrity. I'm not sure yet how to get so much exposure, but it's going to happen. Just you wait.

Beyonce: You showed your ass and I saw the real you.

I'm tired of people gushing over Beyonce.
Okay, she's pretty and can sing/scream fairly well. But I'm over the fake-nice she always has going on. She seems so sweet in interviews that people completely overlook how trashy she has become. And not only are her music videos getting trashier, each single is sucking more than the last.
Video example one: "Why Don't You Love Me?"

Not the classiest lyrics ("I've got beauty. I've got class. I've got style and I've got ass"), but I'll hand it to her: she didn't write this song. (Her sister did. Maybe trashy runs in the family) She could have made a fun video, but she decides to romp around with no pants (surprise), stilettos (not complaining) and smoking cigarettes and drinking.

Video example two: Her newest, "Best Thing I Never Had."
First of all, the song is horrible. It's just not catchy and the lyrics are anything but creative or subtle. My favorite: "you showed your ass and I saw the real you." The song seemed like a calm enough ballad, though, so I assumed we'd get a heartfelt video full of emotion. Wrong. We got Beyonce in see-through lingerie. Classy? Never.

ONE more thing about this video: she used (what we're to assume is) real footage of a boyfriend that "showed his ass." That's just bitchy and not in the least bit classy.

PS I've heard her say in several interviews that she doesn't curse.


Final video example: "Irreplaceable," probably one of the songs that made Beyonce such a huge star. The song was catchy and sassy enough, but did anyone else notice the oddly-placed bra and curlers (I guess that's what they're called)? Okay, you're mad at this guy for cheating on you. So you sneak off into the attic and take your shirt off?

Not only are her videos trashy, but I've come to realize that her lyrics are as well. I don't know that she writes all her lyrics, but she still sings them.

Lyrics example one: "Video phone." The entire song.

Lyrics example two: "Kitty Kat." This song, while obviously trashy, had a cute metaphor that was completely shattered and littered with trash when she muttered "your sex ain't all that."

Lyrics example three: Her ill-received attempt at a second single "1+1." Now I haven't heard this song, but, unfortunately, I saw the end of her performance on American Idol a few months ago in which she shouted "Make love to me! Make love to me!" Uhh, that's a family show, B.

As much as I want to, I cannot hate everything and everyone that Beyonce is. I was a very big Beyonce fan up until I heard "Run the World." That's a stupid song and I can only assume that the rest of that album is horrible.
It's not the fact that she is trashy that bothers me. I have no problem with Ke$ha. It's the fact that she acts like she's not trashy that bothers me.
So I will continue to support classic Beyonce/Sasha Fierce but I refuse to sit through her lies any longer.

Oh, and there's this...

The Simple Life

 I really wish my life was a movie. All the dramatic monologues, schemes and fights that I plan in my head are just wasted. Every time anyone angers me, I want to say something like "You just don't understand," give a disappointed look and walk out the door. I just want dramatic pauses to not just seem like awkward silences or me forgetting what I was going to say. Whenever a temp comes into my lawfirm, I want her to become crazily obsessed with me and kidnap my baby. When I move into a new house with my girlfriend, I want to be haunted and ultimately killed by a demon that she failed to mention earlier in our relationship.
I have recently come to the realization that my life may be more fitting for a situational comedy, which I'm told is sometimes called a "sitcom." I have a strange group of friends and my life is arranged into an oddly episodic structure and it doesn't matter what happens between the episodes. Even so, sadly, my life hardly contains enough material for a successful sitcom. Maybe I could get away with a mini-series. Or a reality show. I'm thinking something along the lines of me living on a farm and doing manual labor.

Are you there, English? It's me, Alex.

This was my last English assignment...what am I supposed to post now?

Are You There, English? It's Me, Alex.

I’ve found that my first year of college has been full of clichés. I’ve lost and gained weight, stayed out all night, spent all night in the library. The biggest cliché that I’ve fulfilled during my freshman year is “finding myself.” Honestly, I never thought I lost myself. It’s not that I had a sudden realization and changed who I was, but there was a point in which I sat down and realized without a doubt who I am and who I want to be.

It started out as a typical Thursday: I went to my art class until five o’clock, then met up with some friends to get dinner. Something that wasn’t typical, though, was that I had been invited to go out later that night (not that I never get invited to go out; it’s just not too common). When I agreed to go out, I knew I had homework to do. I had assignments for economics and for English due the next day. Knowing this, I still didn’t take the initiative to get these things done before I went out, but I was responsible enough to write myself a little note to remind myself to do them when I got home. I had known about the English assignment all week: I was to write an autobiography. I’ve always considered my life boring, so I seriously thought all week about making up my entire life story.

I finally got to my dorm room at 4:30, fumbled for my keys and struggled to find the lock on my door. I got into my room and I couldn’t see a thing. After an initial panic from a going-blind-scare, I turned on the light. After being blinded once again, this time by the white light of heaven coming from my ceiling, I stumbled through the room. To make it to my desk, I had to hold onto everything, including my roommate’s bed and myself. I’m convinced my clumsiness came from the startling fluorescent light. What else could it have been? I finally fell into my desk chair and went to open my computer to get on Facebook. That’s when I noticed the pink sticky note that said “autobiography” on top of my laptop, no doubt left to encourage me to get straight to work instead of getting on Facebook. After about thirty minutes of hardcore Facebooking, I knew it was time to get some serious writing done.

At this point I was faced with a dilemma: I never decided how to write this paper. I fancy myself a writer, so I couldn’t just spit out a boring paper. At that point, I stood up to go get myself a drink and a thought hit me: I could use Reba McEntire’s song “The Night the Lights Went out in Georgia” as my life story. Or even better: “Fancy.” Honestly, I think that’s the funniest thing I have ever said and I didn’t even say it out loud. I laughed out loud at the thought of portraying myself as the murderer of my brother’s cheating wife or an eighteen year-old prostitute in a satin dancin’ dress. Ultimately, I decided against using both of those and realized that I should just make my own life sound interesting.
Making my life sound interesting was hard work. I ended up creating a childhood based on a book I had read by my favorite comedian, Chelsea Handler. I wrote that my parents had six kids, my dad was a used car dealer and I raised myself, none of which are true in my case. All the while, I was laughing at myself. After somewhat summarizing Chelsea’s childhood in the place of my own, I went back to my own life. At this point I figured that I’m witty enough to make anything interesting. As I wrote the rest of the story, I laughed at myself even more. I accused my middle school PE teachers of murder and criticized the Facebook generation. I even added the fact that I had considered using Reba McEntire songs. By the end of the second page (two page maximum), I was cracking myself up. I was so happy with what I had just done that I didn’t even proofread it; I immediately submitted it and went to bed.

The next morning, I had a break before my English class in which I went to breakfast with some friends. I was still proud of my autobiography, so I forced my friend Maggie to listen to it. As I read it to her, I relived all the humor from the night before and could barely make it through a sentence without laughing while Maggie was faking laughter because I told her how funny I thought it was – sweet of her, as always . I decided it might be a good idea to fix all the typos that had occurred in my 4:30 AM haze and resubmit the paper before class. When I got to class, I laughed to myself the entire time. I was expected to sit through lecture and listen, but every time my teacher said “think about your autobiography…” I had to hold my hand over my mouth to keep myself from laughing. I think the guy sitting in front of me heard a little bit. By the end of class I realized no one was going to read it. I have never been so disappointed.

Since I believed the world needed to read my autobiography, I posted it on Facebook when I got home. My friends who actually get my sense of humor thought it was funny, so I know now that I’m not the only one. Even my mom complimented it. I’m not sure why she read it, but she told me I’m a great writer. Honestly, I’m still laughing about it. This whole experience made me realize a few things: Top of the Hill leftovers are amazing at four AM, I can write a great paper when I’m in a pinch, and most of all, I am capable of being extremely entertaining.
The story that the autobiography told didn’t mean a thing to me. I didn’t care if the information was accurate or if I left out any part of my life; I just wanted it to be a good, entertaining read. It was then and there that my potential for being a writer started to show. I always thought I wanted to be a journalist. Sure, a journalist is somewhat of a writer, but journalists are all about dates, times, and other facts that are usually read as “blah, blah, blah” by anyone with a personality or an attention span short enough to be called a Generation Y-er. Apparently, an autobiography is supposed to contain facts like the day you were born, where you grew up and your weight and social security number. It never even crossed my mind to include those things. All I could think about was making this paper entertaining.

I don’t think I realized it at the time what all this meant. Again, I never thought I was lost, so I was never looking to find myself. I was just writing what was in my head. It wasn’t until I forced myself to analyze my story – i.e. writing this paper – that I saw such potential. Now, as I go on through the rest of my college years making C’s and D’s on papers, I’ll always know that there is a part of me that can write a decent paper. The part of me that can write a paper may not be able to correctly cite sources, recite facts or analyze American history, but it can tell a damn good story. Even if that’s all I’m good for, I’m happy with it. I’m going to continue on my path to being a journalist – not because it’s what I want to do, but because it’s what’s best for me to do. I can’t go my whole life hoping to become a successful writer for fear of living in a shitty apartment eating food out of a can and bussing tables just knowing that my “big break” is coming with my next novel. In the future when I conclude a hard-hitting piece on corrupt politics or close out my national evening news show, I will always know that there is a writer suppressed by all those “blah, blah, blah’s.”

Alex Norton: Life on the Streets...of Local Neighborhoods

I had to write an autobiography for my English class. I had a week to write it and decided to write it when I got home at 5am the night (morning) before it was due. I'll let you decide what I was doing until 5am, but when I reread it when I woke up, there were several typos. I'll contribute that to being up so late.
So without further ado, here is a glimpse of my life, which will be hitting the shelves of your local bookstores very soon.

Alex Norton: Life on the Streets...of Local Neighborhoods

When I was born, my parents already had six kids. By this point in their lives, having a new kid was the last thing they were worried about. They had gotten so used to having kids around that they pretty much left me to raise myself. In elementary school, I woke myself up every morning, made my breakfast and eventually woke up my slacker parents because there was one thing I still couldn’t do on my own: drive myself to school. Lord knows I tried to drive myself, but there was always something in my way and it was usually the dashboard. Driving me to school was an unnecessary problem. See, my dad fancied himself a used car dealer and stocked our front yard with cars from the 1970s…it was 1997. We had an abundance of cars in which he could have driven me to school, each equally as shitty as the next. Every day I begged him to drop me off a few blocks away from school so I could avoid the embarrassment of being seen in a 1978 El Camino with three hubcaps, but he insisted on driving me straight to the front door of the school: no kid of his was going to be seen walking to school. Great. The one thing he cared about. I made it through elementary school with little significant events aside from the normal teasing, pushing and hair burning of grammar-schoolers.

After elementary school, I moved to middle school. I was no dummy so there was no problem getting from the fifth to the sixth grade and on through eighth, but I honestly don’t remember a thing about middle school aside from the murder attempts by the PE teachers that they disguised as running drills. And Myspace – lots of Myspace, but I’d rather not talk about that dark moment in history.

High school was my place. I breezed through classes with absolutely no studying and probably no knowledge of the subjects. It was when facebook was introduced to the high school generation that my life completely changed. Finally, I knew exactly what people were doing at all times of the day, whether they were my friends, acquaintances or people I thought I recognized, but really didn’t, then kept as friends because I didn’t want my friend count to dwindle below 500. The first few years of facebook, I joined the crowd and updated my status to tell the world (aka my 557 close friends) what I was doing. Then I realized that the sun gods had given me a gift that was going unnoticed. Now I’m no Lucille Ball, but I can make a person laugh, especially if that person is myself. I even cracked myself up thinking about this autobiography when I considered using the lyrics to “Fancy” or “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia,” by Reba McEntire and Reba McEntire, respectively, as my life stories. I ultimately decided against both of those because I’m obviously not an 18 year old prostitute in a red dancin’ dress and I’m not ready to confess to murder just yet.

Now that I’m in college, I only find myself funnier. I find more and more often that I’m the only one who thinks I’m funny, but that’s quite alright with me. Okay, it’s not alright with me. No one wants to be friends with me and I think that’s just plain ridiculous. Freshman year is almost over and I’m going out with a number of friends barely above the number I started with and a level of wit way higher than I’ve ever achieved. Friends or no friends, my future is bright.

I really hate...

 I often find myself saying "I really hate when..."
Sometimes I have a reason; some things just get on my nerves. I feel like I've spent many nights thinking about things I hate and then I forget about it, only to dwell on it again several other times. So, in hopes of stopping myself from driving myself crazy, I've decided to compile a list. There's no way I can think of all of them while I'm sitting here right now, so be on the lookout for sequels.

I hate...
...when people continuously pronounce things wrong after they've been corrected.
...when people listen to music really loud, especially through headphones. I just don't get it.
...when people sing the wrong lyrics to a song. If you don't know it, don't sing it. You look like an idiot.
...when people don't realize they're being condescending. It's safe for me to assume I always sound condescending, so I never get surprised if people get offended. But I hate when people are surprised that they just insulted you.
...having to start conversations. If it was purely up to me, I would probably never speak to anyone.
...when people act like you're wrong because you don't do something the way they do.
...when people commonly mistake sarcasm for a seriousness.
...sentence fragments.
...unnecessary commas.
...econ.
...grudges. Get the fuck over it.
...when people get mad when I cuss. I'm not cussing to be mean; it's just the way I talk. Sometimes it gets the point across better. Grow the fuck up.
...when people tell me what I said, what I think or what I believe.
...when people tell me multiple times what they've said, what they think or what they believe. There's a good chance I didn't care the first time.
...college.
...when people describe themselves as "random" or say "...that was random."
...when people think they know more than me.
...when people inform me of things I obviously already know. This one can be forgivable, though, if they honestly didn't know I knew something.
...when people repeat the end of your sentence when you're speaking to them. I think I do that and it really annoys me. Sorry, everybody, if I do it to you.
...people who think they're so unique that they have to brag about it.
...solo artists who perform under stage names that sound like there should be an entire band involved. Examples: Owl City, Never Shout Never.
...when the same song is on the radio all the time.
...Owl City.
...the people who say "I don't really watch TV." That doesn't make you any better than people who do.
...when people are mean to Miley Cyrus. I won't get into that now.
...when I scratch my head once and then can't stop.
...when people shut out your ideas just because they don't understand immediately.
...when people don't try to understand.
...the fact that I post to this Livejournal like someone is actually reading it.
...when people say they don't like popular things just to be different.
...when those people excessively talk about it.
...close-minded people who claim to be open-minded.
...the fact that most of these probably relate to me.
...Maya Angelou.
...when people act like they're better people than I am.
...self-esteem suckers.
...when people don't notice that I'm wearing a new pair of sunglasses or a pair that I don't wear often.
...when people don't listen.
...when people talk shit then get upset when I do it back. I'm not just going to let that go.
...when people can't get my tone from a text message. I know you can hear my voice saying it; you should understand.
...when people who I know have their phone with them 24/7 don't answer texts.
...when people call me when I'm not expecting it. I won't answer.
...when people tell me to call them. I don't want to call you.
...not having a job.
...when people insist upon themselves.
...econ, again.

I think that's enough for the night.

I wish I was an Avatar.

Like the blue kind. But the Last Airbender kind would be cool too.
I would make a way better candidate for the Avatar program than Jake Sully. Okay, I'm not a marine. I couldn't protect anyone from anything. But they make it pretty damn clear that there's no way to protect yourself from anything on Pandora, so who gives a shit if you're a marine? Plus...I'm not an idiot. After being chased by that giant panther, he decides to try to fend for himself all night. Just get in a goddamn tree and go to sleep. Then BAM you're back with the humans. Problem solved. Then, of course, if he would've done that, he wouldn't have ended up fucking Zoe Saldana and there would've been no plot. But, hey, I'm trying to be an avatar, not a movie writer. The one problem I would have is with the language. I took three years of French and probably couldn't speak an entire sentence. He learns Na'vi in three hours, or however long this damn movie is.
I do have a problem with "the bond," though. Not so much a problem, really, but a question. You connect that dreadlock with an animal and you can tell it what to do with your mind. Then, apparently some part of the Na'vi sex ritual is making this same bond. Does that mean you can control the person you're connected to? Also, why can't the animals control the people they're connected to? Apparently the animals are ruled by Eywa. Wouldn't the god that controls an entire planet have more power than one little humanoid? PLOT HOLES, James Cameron.


PS I just decided that my favorite character is the woman that drives the helicopter. She's badass.