First, wow. I mean, I know I asked a fairly deep question but…wow, my bloggy friends. Wow.

Your responses…are enough to make MY brain do cartwheels.  They did, actually.  I literally said, “wow.”

I am a person who can be moved by music in a big way.  It’s like I morph out of my body and into the song and I don’t feel anything else except the beat, the bridge, the chorus, the highs and lows…I am the song.

And today, your comments were my song.

I realize some of you are new and haven’t seen the ups and downs and changes in me, in my writing and in my blog and its audience.  It was once much larger, much more…how shall we say…it graced the in-boxes and homepages and whatevers of many different peoples…(Yes, I said peoples.  On purpose).

Then it wasn’t.

And that’s how blogging goes.

I’ve accepted that.  I’m over it, actually.  Like me, don’t like me.  I’m still me.  So, yah.  Go put that in your pipe and smoke it.  Or something.  I don’t smoke so…no idea how that works, exactly.

And, truly, those of you who have been here from the beginning, in the infancy stages (kkktookmybabyaway, Shannon, franzi, to name a few) to those who’ve stayed through the first year…to my newer follwers (dare I call you that?) who have somehow stumbled upon my words…thank you.  For being here. 

Now, a treat!

I come from a weird background?  Weird to me, anyway.  Parents?  Divorced.  Siblings?  Yes.  Three.  One is 2.5 years younger, the next is 10 years younger and the last?  13.  Lots of stuff happened between my childhood years to right up to the point I met Time. And all of it happened really fast…too fast for me to process.  As an example: I tried out for 8th grade basketball.  Made the team. Went to summer camp. Improved. Tried out for 9th grade basketball in high school and made Varsity.  Started all 4 years.  Got into college. Played basketball there, too.  I walked in and was a starter. I broke lots of records. I received lots of accolades and newspaper articles and, and, and… I graduated college in 3 years with a BA and no plan…

And here we are. I’m processing…what? I have no idea how I got from where I was then to now.

I think this is most of an issue with myself.  Me.  Who I am at the core. I never really had a plan that got me to here.  And I’m sure no one really did have a plan to get them to the NOW,  but, if you knew me in the flesh, you’d know that I make lists for everything.  I plan out dinner before breakfast is over.  I need to know where I’m going and how I am to get there.  I want the goal out there somewhere, floating around, and then I want to make a plan to grab it.

I PLAN.

EVERYTHING.

I am rigid when plans don’t “work out” and I struggle changing mid-stream.  I mean, REALLY. STRUGGLE.  As in: (if) we were supposed to run one morning and don’t? MAJOR runners guilt that sits with me all day.  Or (if) we’re supposed to be going somewhere at a specified time and then….we don’t?  Or we’re late (and late to me is on time…)?

Hello, Meltdown Disaster.

I know, it really isn’t a big deal.  Or, it shouldn’t be.  And I’m trying to get there.  To the, “ah.  no biggie. Change of plans/pace/direction would be nice, anyway.”

(and just so you know, simply writing those words are painful)

So, IF I could do something again…I’d probably try to take a minute and actually think about what I wanted out of life.  Where I wanted to go/be/do/accomplish after school.  After basketball.

I never had that plan.  I never made one.  It’s almost dumb ass luck that I’m in the place I am today. 

I didn’t plan it this way.  I didn’t plan anything.  I was never that girl who was all, “I want to be married with 2.5 kids and live in the ‘burbs by the time I’m 27.”

(And IF that was my plan?  I’ve already failed.  Miserably. So, good thing for my planney parts that it wasn’t)

Now it’s like I’m trying to make up for that by making a plan?  But I’m struggling because *my* plan isn’t *mine* anymore.  It’s mine PLUS.  Plus Tim.  Plus responsibilities.  Plus the fur children. PLUS. PLUS PLUSPLUSPLUSPLUUUUUUSSSSSSS.

This is difficult for me because not only am I a planner, I am a selfish one at that.

Going along with that, I’m also trying, as in: making a conscious effort, not to be so selfish.  So self absorbed. So… ID  (As in: id, ego, super ego.  Way to go, Psych degree.  I knew you’d be useful…)

You know those people you see who are always smiley and nice and have lots of friends?  The one everyone wants to be friends with and always manages to find something nice to say about everyone?

Yah.  Not me.  Not…yet.

This is probably what I’d want to change if I was plopped down into obscurity (or Cassoday, Kansas.  Population? Less than the number of people residing in my neighborhood.  Also important to note: the Prairie Chicken Capital of the World.  Whatever that is.) and could be ANYONE.

I’d be that girl.  The smiley one with lots of compliments.

I have no idea why that is so desirable.  I mean, I’m not a MEAN person.  I’m just…I like things MY WAY more than I like anything YOUR WAY.  Even if YOUR WAY is better/smarter/more efficient/safer/not assbackwards.

I’m not sure how much of everything else – i.e. the “growing years” – that I’d want to be able to call mulligan.  Because, as most of you pointed out, calling mulligan is basically like a playing the lottery: Who the hell knows what you’ll get the next time, if you GET anything at all.  I think what I like about the idea is the knowledge (which I realize I wouldn’t have) and the control (which I also probably wouldn’t have).

Commenter Bert – whoever you are (Hi! Where’s Ernie?) - you said it best, I think.  It’s the future we should try to change.  Not the past.

I’m working on that.  I think.  At least, I’m working on trying to make a plan.  To make me into the ME I see on the inside.  Because the inside and the outside still aren’t quite all matchey like I’d prefer.

And I’m big on matchey.

One time, not very long ago, I realized Tim had been mismatching these two different pairs of tan work socks.  One pair had tiny brown specks and the other tiny brown flecks (Oh, there is so a difference to us matchey people.  The specks are rounder.  The flecks are like…tiny smears).  Anyway, I quickly fixed that mis-matchey faux pas and now?  Those two pairs of socks are all matchey, as they should be.

Your take away message from all this?

Order has been restored to the sock drawer.

I know this is short…but it’s kind of spur of the moment….and I just have to ask:

If you could shed your person – whoever you are now – and start over, would you?…

And if you did seize that opportunity (or lack thereof, depending on your first answer) to start over completely…to start fresh, to have your shot at being…anyone…what would you do differently?…Who would be YOU?

I know some of you wouldn’t change a single thing, because *you* wouldn’t BE where *you* are now…but if you let your mind wander….is there even a tiny part of you that you wished could be more outspoken? Quiet? Bold? Flamboyant? Humble? Sincere?…..

I’m not really asking if you like YOU.

I’m asking if there is a piece of you that you’d still like to work on/improve/change/develop…. Yet you feel that in your current “situation” it would be near impossible because if you attempted to make that change, those who know you now would think you had gone off the deep end…needed a round room with *soft* walls…lost your marbles…basically, this “further developed” YOU would not fit…it wouldn’t be “in character.”

I’m formulating my answer…have been forming it for quite awhile, actually…and I will answer my own question.

More than likely…no, definitely…my answer will introduce me to part of myself that I didn’t know before, which is important, I think.

Also: blame the cerebral dump on therapy.

It’s been making me ask a lot more questions than is typical of my *normal* self.

Aren’t you glad I had this little chat? Now, go let your brain do cartwheels and get back to me once the room stops spinning, because no one likes an incoherent typer….

….well, fine. Fine, fine, FINE. I’ll admit it: Maybe that’s not ALWAYS entirely true….incoherent typers are sometimes more entertaining than a squirrel dangling precariously on a stand-alone bird feeder…

Now, go! Think! Vamos!

I’ve been trying to make an effort to write *more* frequently. Emphasis on TRY.

Again: Emphasis. on. TRY.

If you’re super nerdy, you can be like me (which I don’t really recommend) and say em-PHA-sis…because somewhere, at some random point in time, someone who I don’t know said, “it’s because you put the em-PHA-sis on the wrong syl-LA-blA.” 

And Tim remembered it and then said it to me one day when I pronounced a word where the above sentence was utilized in a conversation I’ll never recall (other than the syl-LA-blA bit), to demonstrate that I don’t understand how to speak the American language (and really, who does?  How is it even fair to expect a foreigner to “speak English” when we can’t even do it right? Just a pondering for you know, times when you’re really, really bored).

And yes, I am aware that it’s spelled “syllable.”  But you wouldn’t say it right if I wrote “syl-LA-blE.”

See?

Also, this is probably *about* the time when, if you and I were actually having a face-to-face conversation, Tim would look at me like I’m crazy and say, “I like peanut butter.  Can you swim?”

Lost?

Typical.

This is how my brain works.  All the time. It’s stuck on the random setting.

If this stream of (semi?) consciousness is pissing you off or making you want to run out of your house, screaming something about swimming with peanut butter syllables….well.

Imagine how TIM FEELS.

(basically, it could be worse)

And the whole peanut butter and swimming thing is one of those come-back-to-reality checks that Tim uses to say, “Um. The hell?  How did you get from talking about….(I had to scroll up.  I forgot what I was “talking about” earlier.)…..yes!  That’s it.  Writing more frequently.  How did I go from attempting to write more frequently to a parenthesis rant on speaking American English?

The answer is pretty much, well, I have no idea.  It just happened?

SO.  Let’s continue, shall we?

(And I don’t TRY to be random.  It really just happens.  Truly.  Pops right out. Daily.  Something probably short circuits.  Reset button. I have no idea.)

I miss writing.  To you.  About me.  However all that works out…still a mystery to me but, still, I miss it.

I’ve noticed a few new people commenting.  YAY!!!!!!!!!!  Hi!!

Now, where did you come from? 

I’m always curious to know how someone found my little corner of obscurity.

And to my loyal friends: You know I think you’re super fantastic.

Life has been…damn.  It just doesn’t slow down, does it?  It feels like it’s all going faster and faster…which I didn’t believe would actually happen when my mom would tell me that as a kid.  I remember days dragging on and on and ON…it was like one adult day was probably…4.25 kid days.  Truly.  The sun went up and down multiple times before I would ask and my mom’s answer would  finally be that it was ACTUALLY TOMORROW.

I miss that.  The simplicity.

Don’t we all?

I keep trying to figure out how to make it simple again…but just when I think I’ve figured something out, life likes to toss in a nice little (unplanned) surprise and the result to said “surprise” is that I speed up another 10 MPH.

Awesome.

Obviously, I’ve got a few of those *surprises* – aka fires – burning right now.  And I’m struggling to keep up.  I’m struggling to get to the point I want to be at now.  Mostly I think it’s due to the effort it will require.  Partly due to the aforementioned fires and another partly due to lack of wherewithal (another English conundrum.  Why only ONE L, wherewithal?) as to the how to get from point Q to G or Y to B…whichever direction it is…I’ve zero clue how to get on that path and GET. THERE.

I don’t even know where I’m going. 

This is also probably a slight issue.

On the sunshine smiley rainbow side that is me trying to find something fabulous in even the most asinine, mundane facets of life, I know what I don’t want.

I don’t want to be a parrot.  A blog parrot.  A writer parrot.  I want to be a dodo bird or maybe an ostrich, since I think the dodo bird is a-gone-gone.

I don’t want to live in Georgia forever.  I like the mountains.  I love traveling. 

I don’t want to be mediocre.  I want to be spectacular.  Leave my mark.  Like my random brain: permanent.

I don’t really want to continue making a list…so I’m thinking we’re done with that.

My point, which has gotten hopelessly lost, is that life is throwing all kinds of shit at my wall and only some of it is actually sticking.

And hopefully, the sticking pieces are worth something…the kinds with corn bits or something interesting and thought invoking.

Bonus: I’m currently eating Fruit Loops. 

I haven’t had Fruit Loops since I could count my age on two hands.

BUT.

I’m doing it with a plastic pink spoon that’s been melted by the dishwasher.

This probably means I’m doing it right.

And now I’m remembering why I haven’t had Fruit Loops in forever.

They leave a film on my spoon.  And on the roof of my mouth.

This probably isn’t healthy natural.

How do you get hospitalized for exhaustion? Because I think I need to play whatever card that allows me some REST.

Tim does too.

For like…a month…or so….

And just in case you happen to be the one admitting us, we must be put up in a private room with a special king sized hospital bed. I refuse be stuffed into one of those half single sized beds with bars on the sides where I can’t morph into my spread eagle sloth shape at night without having to call for help at 3AM because my arm has somehow gone under my thigh and through the bed bar and my fingers have lost all sensation and are now involuntarily twitching, pressing the buttons on the bed remote that make it go up and down and up and down…

Not. Happening. We need, no, we REQUIRE a big ass bed in a wing where they serve you varying flavors of jello with cute little spoons at exactly 8:00am, 12:00pm and 6:00pm and we’ll watch trashy daytime TV and get mylar balloons and stuffed bears from all those unknown far away relatives, like Auntie Beatrice (whoever that is).

And maybe all of said presents can be delivered on sparkly jeweled platters by squat-sized gnomes that we can, upon request, bend into submission like barbie dolls – which, by the way, all of my barbies had broken knee caps because I wanted ALL of their leg to BEND. I was not satisfied with the solitary pendulum motion at the hip joint, Mattel, thankyouverymuch.

So, I took matters into my own hands and told my friends, as they tried to make prissy barbie or bitchy barbie walk across a shoebox stage or up the barbie palace steps, only to have her legs crumble beneath her, that my barbies legs weren’t broken! Silly friend with zero imaginary skills!

They were double jointed. Duh.

Obviously, I don’t know what to say because my brain is like all mushy…so things like hospitals and barbies and jello just kinda blur together…so nothing really makes any sense.

To me.

And if I don’t make any sense to myself…well…to hell with the rest of the universe (read: you) understanding me.

If I am totally honest, all I (and “I” being my brain) want to write is:

!UNICORNS!….

See?

Maybe we should have a picture day?

I like this one. It has baby cows. And a bird.

And now that I actually pay attention to the personalities contained within this picture, it kinda looks like the white bird is having some kind of altercation with the big brown cow who has his (her?) ears back all, “I’ve got a big ass and gnashy teeth, so back the hell off, you pissant little twit.”

…massive bovine sigh…(I’m speaking for that white cow)

I took this picture while we were heading into the town of Hana on Maui back in March…

And have no idea how to caption this…because my brain is…cloudy.

And cloudy (does not) = creativity.

Help me?

When I started blogging, I had no idea what I was doing…no idea how to get “followers” or “friends” or whatever you want to call YOU PEOPLE (Personally, I like to call you my crash. And for that to make sense, you’ll have to read this…the relevance is near the bottom with the rhinoceros).

Then I happened upon all those prolific writer people…like dooce. Or the bloggess…or that Pioneer person…whoever you see as Super Awesome in this world of internets.

And I saw what they did that made them so…how shall we say…popular?…and I tried employing some of those tactics.

Now, anyone who knows me (which, in reality, is probably no one except Tim?), knows that “popularity” is this elusive, top secret club that I cannot seem to gain entry in any facet of life. It’s like ohhhh!…I’m almost…there…annnnnd…damn. It evades me again.

Blogging has been like that for me. There was a point where I had thought I had something really good going.

Then I stopped being “funny” and all communal like and visible and commenting every which where…and, the stopping, by the way, was thanks to the old-new-asshole I like to call my daily visit to the seventh circle of snake balls. And I hate snakes. And balls. Random sidebar: I actually tried a nice set of animal testicles – fried, mind you – yesterday at work. This has nothing to do with anything other than they were the most vile tasting things I’ve ever put in my mouth. Ever. And I’m talking over things like boogers, here (and me + boogers = freak out session). And the thought of a snake makes me want to climb the walls and hang from the ceiling fan.

Point is: the job sucks away my life like one of those ghost things in Harry Potter…the dementers or whatever they’re called. You know, the ones where you have to eat chocolate after an attack……(hmmm….chocolate….)

And as to why I ate testicles at work, that’s an entirely different story, but they were on a platter with pigs feet, two tongues, a tiny fried brain and red crickets, among other things.

Anyway, back to why I’m even here.

I started blogging with no plan. I kept blogging trying to get *popular*

Obviously, I’m not exactly shaping up to become this prolific blogger chick who makes bazillions from writing about her ass…or how she (can’t) cook or how her (nonexistent) baby and dog get along by smearing poo on the walls.

HOWEVER.

There is a lining to this whole thing. Silver. Pink. Chartreuse. Whatever color gives you the warm and fuzzies.

And the reason there is a positive spin and not some tirade as to why I’m not good enough or a plea for help to gain more. More readers. More comments. MORE… is because I’m kind of trying to grow up and not be so selfish. I say kind of because I still like to *be* selfish sometimes.

BUT.

I’m also really going to try to do this for me.

I’m standing up for me.

I’m going to express ME.

And whether all of you people (whom I adore, by the way, and read every comment and respond in my head and then forget to respond via booshy… ) like it or not…I’m doing it.

I may lose every single reader…except Tim, who is a religious reader…but I’ll gain so much more.

And I think that’s important.

You know when you look at a word for so long it just looks…WRONG?

Adult has gotten there for me. To the weirdness. At this point in the looking-at-a-word-too-long delirium, I’ve come to the conclusion that adult is actually supposed to be pronounced “Ahhh-DUUU-LTT.”

Yah. I have no idea. I’ve found that the absolute best possible solution is to just roll with it (”it” being me) and it will make sense….maybe…eventually.

Anyhow, as my therapy (THEEEE-RAPISTS!) assignment, I’m supposed to illustrate who my “adult” (say it with me now: AH-DUUU-LTT!) self really IS. And because my drawing skills were left behind in the 2nd grade, along with my maturity, apparently, I’ve decided that writing about my adult (AH-DUUUU-LLTT!) self is probably the better option.

(Obviously, I am already failing miserably in this exercise)

The issue here is that my adult self…yah…this needs another name…how about BIG GIRL JESSICA…yes. BGJ for short (I *do* realize there is zero bell ringing significance to those three letters. Again, roll with it.). Where was I? Right. BGJ has no idea how to step up and over LBJ (Little Bitty Jessica) and be all, “STOP PROTECTING. This isn’t an emergency. It’s like, life.”

Because right now…right now what happens is my massive, tricked out LBJ bejeweled protector shield comes flying out the instant it thinks there is any HINT for POTENTIAL conflict.

And when I say “potential” and “conflict” together, this means anything from a knock ‘em down, drag ‘em out fight to pussy-footing around about what to have for dinner. Or who goes first in the shower. Or what to watch on TV.

I’d rather be all, “Whatever. I don’t care” when what BGJ wants to say is, “HELL. TO. THE. NO. Watching another second of ‘America’s Got [editor's note: ZERO] Talent’ will drive me to start making pock marks in the ceiling by hurling large, blunt objects in its general direction. ‘General direction’ being defined as HIGH and briefly defying gravity.”

(you are understanding why therapy has become essential, no?)

This standing up for myself is super challenging. I totally understand that mini-conflicts are kind of important to just take head-on and deal with instead of employing some kind of defensive measure. And I’ve never figured out how to do that…take conflict actively. In the momently (it’s an adverbjative, didn’t you know?). And now it is causing all sorts of internal conflict between BGJ and LBJ…more specifically, it’s BGJ versus LBJ’s bedazzled shield (with sparklies!).

I’m actually in the middle of having a mini-conflict right now. With Tim. AS. I. WRITE. How randomally appropriate.

It’s about Colorado. And it’s super difficult. It’s not even a fight. It’s just…new. It’s standing up for what I really care about without backing down. And this newness is hard.

[momentary visual interlude while I practice bringing out the big guns...aka BGJ]

[I'm pretty sure the basic message *they* are trying to convey here is: NO]

[can I swim? NO.]

[but...it says...? NO]

[Pet the animals? NO]

[do a head stand into the ground while defying gravity with my urine stream? NO]

[wave at you from choppy water between pairs of shark fins? NO]

[float aimlessly with squiggly lines? Hell, I already peed so...danger should be minimal. NO]

[do a flailing superman jump onto the shore to escape the Goliath wave chasing me? NO]

[that last one doesn't exactly seem fair....? NO.]

[Wait, so you mean, the answer to the flailing superman thing is no or you mean I had a point?]

So. I’ll let you ponder that while I get back to my real-life conflict. OR…non-conflict.

And Tim pointed out my backing down in above referenced mini conflict that wasn’t really a conflict. He’s being like…super pay-attentioner (helllooo, nounjative). He’s trying to help me…which really just helps him…and us…so technically, he wins, regardless. Which means he has a vested interest in my learning.

Go team.

I’m also kind of afraid that my adult self is slightly assholeish. And selfish. And partly mean. Pushy. Doesn’t put up with any kind of crap. Impulsive. Slightly conceited?

Do I really want to let this BGJ out? Like, out, out? THE OUT? Almost like coming out of the closet…except I’m going to pop out from behind this bedazzled shield (And yes. I’m currently fascinated with the word “bedazzled” and will continue to use it in all it’s shiny, blinged out glory).

With a cape.

I’m sure the BGJ has lots of nice attributes, too…but I’m pretty sure she’s so tired of being complacent and being the nice person and CONFORMING that all she wants to do is jump out and start yelling in people’s faces. For no apparent reason other than, what the hell? She can.

I mean, I’m going to just DO IT. To say what I feel. To feel the emotions as they come at me instead of filtering them through the shield, where I get a watered down version of the *real thing.”

If I don’t, I will literally go crazy. The feeling I have inside…it’s like a pressure buildup and at some point, there is no way I’ll be able to hold it in anymore and I’ll blow a ginormous gasket and go crazy. Like, the white room and padded walls crazy. Crazy where you take pills from a Dixie cup and sit on a grassy knoll with your phone-a-friend during visiting hours. Crazy like groupies sitting in circles talking about their problems whilst twirling their hair or staring at the ceiling, counting the heffalumps congregating on the window sill.

I’m currently trying my absolute wife-like best to not get super pissy about NOT running this morning…

NOT running when…

[begin pouty face and whiny voice] the temperature was in the low 70s!…THE LOW DAMN 70s!…This obviously means that tomorrow will be like LAST WEEKEND….in the high 70s and “feels like 80+”

…dammit…dammit…trying…I’m trying here…TRYING not to go yell upstairs all, “WE SHOULD HAVE RUUNNNN!”….

And NOT getting pissy is MONUMENTALLY CHALLENGING right now…ladies, if you catch my drift…or…flow…guys…welcome to the TMI train.

See, the reason why I’m not supposed to be mad is I have no right to be mad is because it’s my fault.

I gave Tim a moldy fruit salad for lunch yesterday.

And he ate it….er…most of it.

So, his stomach is kind of mad at HIM.

Because of ME.

Now, in my semi-defense, I didn’t know it was moldy…

*sigh*

The should-have-just-sucked-the-shit-right-the-hell-up-we-would-have-been-DONE-BY-NOW angry feeling is hard pressed to leave me……..

So, let us move on to other anger-inducing subjects, shall we?

All of which happened to me between……Monday….annnnnd…..right now.

Case # 15,986: Firing someone for the first time.

This was a non-fun activity that involved lots of super secret planning. Now, I can’t lie and say the super secret planning didn’t make me feel like I was involved in some kind of awesome espionage…because it SO DID…but once it came down to sitting face to face and actually telling my assistant…we’ll call her Polly (because names, of course, must be changed to protect the incompetent)…it wasn’t so exciting.

The President and the Director of Education were both there with me and both volunteered to do the dirty work for me, since I had never done it before, but I was all, “No. I’ll do it.”

I mean, it’s not like I’m going to have the chance to do this again…maybe not ever…because I’m currently in the middle of another super secret plan that involves things like me not working ever again….and the lottery.

Obviously, this plan is failing miserably.

But the firing plan, unlike the lottery one, went off without much fuss. Once Polly was brought into the President’s Office by the Director, where the President and I were already parked, I waited for her to sit down and then I made myself pretend I was acting in a movie. It worked well enough for me to get the words out without sounding like a complete moron. Then Polly handed over her stuff and walked out with the President. It was over in like…five minutes.

I felt relieved. It was FINALLY. OVER.

No more documenting and daily meetings and…lots and lots and lots and lots of unnecessary crap.

Except, little did my super naïve brain know, the aftermath is way worse than the actual event.

Which brings us to Case # 784,230: The Firing Aftermath

The night it happened, a student comes up to her former office, where I happened to be standing and was all, Where’s Polly?”

I tell him, “She no longer works with the company. How can I help you?”

And he’s all, “Why not? When is she coming back?”

Me: “She’s not coming back.”

And he rolls his eyes and walks off, all pissed and huffy…and then comes back about two hours later and is all, “When’s Polly coming back?”

Ummm….did I not make myself clear the FIRST time we started this conversation?

Then, yesterday, otherwise known as Day Two of The Aftermath, on top of getting the stink eye from lots of her little clique of bandits, a student was, literally and loudly, chanting down the hall, while pumping his fist in the air, “Bring Back Polly! Bring Back Polly!”

I looked at him with the evil eye all, “That isn’t appropriate and you need to stop saying that down the hallway.”

Then he was all, “Well, what happened? WHY IS SHE GONE?”

And I, along with two other employees who happened to be standing next to me, had to explain that it was A: None of his damn business and B: Not “legally permissible” for us to disclose.

He then decided to bitch and moan about how no one but Polly was on “his team” and “understood him” and “looked out for him” and (this is the part where the “one of these things is not like the other” begins) how all students should be provided laptops. Because they “pay so much to go here.”

Seriously?

SERIOUSLY?

I’m convinced that once his generation…which is like, 0.5 behind mine…takes over the world, it’s all going to hell. These people (who call themselves GROWN ASS WO/MEN) want everyone to DO everything FOR THEM…it should all be handed to them on a silver platter with glitter emanating from the rims and fairies strumming on harpsichords.

What I really want to say to those little bitches?

Fuck right the hell off and go devise a grand plan involving how YOU will get a laptop since the computers within the walls of the school AREN’T ENOUGH for YOU.

They need to change their names to grown ass whiny bitch fuckfaces.

(When I said “anger-inducing” I really had no idea it was going to get to this level….I’m even surprising myself at the level of animosity)

Case # 513: Office Relocations Are Full of Suck

Along with everything ELSE I had to do this week…I also had to move my office to another one. The President is trying to convey “change is good” to the entire group of bitter non-changers.

Personally, I really don’t care. Truly do not give two lawn gnomey shits where I move to…because I’m still hoping my super awesome lottery plan pans out. Which, if you say it enough times, like Dorothy, you will get to wherever it is you need to be.

I think what I’m missing are those sparkly red shoes…

Anyhow, this relocation plan has already – after TWO DAYS – made my at-work life miserable because, as irony would have me, I was directed to move into the (now former) office the THE BITTER QUEEN, who has been in that damn space for FIVE YEARS and loves to complain about everything. To everyone. ALL THE TIME.

And I just do not have the brain capacity to deal with all of said negativity without wanting to go run through a mine field blindfolded.

So I sweated and grunted and moved lots of shit that wasn’t mine into an office that was disgusting because, on top of all of the bitterness that leaks out of her mouth at a constant drip, she has disorganization and piling behavior. As in: nothing gets put away, it just goes onto another stack on the desk or on the floor or on another pile that already exists and the word “proactive” means that thirty seconds before something is due, you’ll see a flurry of paper and dust coming from her office door.

Also, everyone keeps walking in with a confused look all, “Um…who are YOU?”

Life is super terrific right now.

And I’m still kind of pissed about the NOT running.

But not AS pissed as I am when I realize that I’m going to have to deal with all of the aforementioned rhinoceros poo until….well, I don’t.

Which, right now, is kind of a long time. Forever, as far as I can see. There is no end to this dark tunnel. And the tunnel might just be the rhino’s ass tube, for all I know…

And, by the way, is a bunch (pack? pride? raggle?) of rhinoceros rhinoceri or rhinoceroses or rhinoceros’s?….

I say rhinoceri.

Tim says rhinoceroses.

The internet says a group of rhinoceroses (FINE. He’s right) is called a crash. Now, THAT is fantastic.

Wait! I think I just found my silver lining!

THIS TIME TOMORROW, after the long run, I should LOSE WEIGHT instead of NOT LOSING ANY WEIGHT like last weekend.

I stepped off the scale and was all, “How can I run THIRTEEN MILES and lose ZERO WEIGHT?”

The probable non-weight loss from last week and almost guaranteed this week is thanks to the TMI I already mentioned and should probably not compare to something like chunky tomato soup.

I know. TMI. Again.

Blame it on the broken brain-to-mouth filter. Or, in this case, brain-to-typing fingers filter.

Toodles!

(the only reason I’m even bringing the imaginary conversation back is because it’s not really imaginary)

(to me)

(it definitely happened)

(I just don’t have any witnesses)

(in my brain)

And for all of this to make sense, you should probably read this first.  It’s about puffer fish and my inability to understand basic words.

So, moving forward (how’d you like the puffer fish?  And my proven inability to correctly identify words?), I learned a very valuable lesson last night from bob.

And if you don’t know bob, he’s this super cool dude who left a super confusing comment on my post about the guessing game…which, in hindsight, kind of had an obvious answer…(ummmm….running?)….but I thought I’d be all, “Bet you’ll never know!…..”

Shameful.  I know.  Shameful just like what’s about to follow.

I do this to myself, y’all.  And I know it.  It’s called Putting Yourself Out There And Making A Shit-ton Of Mistakes.  And to that I say: Run it up the flagpole, bioatches!

(I will forever have a problem spelling phonetically)

Anyhow, here is bob with his own super sneaky snarky brain teaser (you know you’re my favorite, bob):

And when I read that last night I was all, “Huh?”

Then Tim sends me a text message today all, “It IS bated. It’s short for Abated….so it’s bated breath NEVER baited breath….”

Well, damn.

And this precipitated an entire dialogue between super-brilliant-bob and me, the popper with baited breath.

(In my defense, I thought the phrase was written to mean your breath was baited with anticipation….or something….either way, that line of thinking = wrong)

me: So,  bob.  My words are garbage.

bob: No, they are simply rubbish with a slight tinge of…how shall we say…

me: Stank?

bob: You, tiny grasshopper, have a long way to go.

me: Stank IS a word, bob.  Just, you know, FYI.

bob: It is for your information.  You really should attempt complete words from time to time.

me: Why are you speaking to me in a quiet, whisper-like voice? 

bob: Why do I have a reason to yell?

me: Does that mean you’re like, on the verge of snapping and going all apeshit?

bob: No…but I do believe it means you require some assistance.

me: No shit, bob.  Therapy, remember? “The-rapists?”

bob: I meant with writing…

me: Assmunch!  Just SAY IT bob! You know you want to call me an assmunch!…a douche canoe!…a….

bob: …an aspiring writer.

Yaaaay bob!…..

(begin finger twirling above my head)

He’s obviously way above reproach (did I use that, right, bob? Reproach?). 

And I’m…well, definitely not. 

This is probably why I A: have no friends and B: am in therapy.

And no, there really is no significance to using a lowercase “b” for “bob.”  I have to give a reason? I think I like the lowercase b better.  It feels nicer.

In other news, I totally got pulled over on my way home from getting my stitches out today.

Was I being a super speeder?

No.  Not today.  Which?  Super good thing…cause….yaaaahhh…ouch…that ticket would have been painful in more ways than one.

No, apparently, today is opposite day for *appropriately using* your turn signal.

It is also bionic vision day for police officers.

Good to know, right?  You are so welcome!

I was moseying (just to clarify, bob, is that a word? Moseying?  No?  Well, I think I kind of like it… mental note: add moseying to Jessionary) down the road, minding my own business, when a cop pulls out in the road and starts driving behind me.  So I keep going, cause stopping is probably the wrong choice. 

A traffic light turns yellow.  I stop…because speeding through a yellow light is, again, probably the wrong decision. 

He sits behind me at the light. 

The light turns green and I go through the light.  Then, (here comes the important part) I TURN ON MY BLINKER and change lanes AFTER the intersection. 

Allthewhile, asscop (I know bob, that is so not a word.  But today, it’s like an adjective-noun.  Otherwise known as a nounjative) is still at the stop light. 

Now, I have no idea why he didn’t come right along with the rest of us, but….the asscop mind is not one to understand, I suppose.  Anyhow, he was probably…..3 semi-trucks behind me when I changed lanes.

THEN he does his best asscop gunning of the engine and literally gets right up on my bumper for about five seconds and….wait for it……throws on his blue lights.

I stared at him in the rearview mirror all, “Really? We’re doing this?  Seriously?  Seriously?”

I  mean, I didn’t actually verbalize that…but I was thinking it.

So I pull over into a turn lane.  He walks up to me as I roll down my window and get blasted with “feels like 103 degrees” heat.

He looks down at me and I’m all, “Hi.”  I mean, what else am I supposed to say?  I didn’t DO anything wrong.

Asscop: “I pulled you over because you didn’t use your turn signal.”

Me: “Um. Yes I did.”

Asscop: “You’re sure?”

(now, even if I WASN’T sure about my ability to follow driving-a-car-directions…do you really think me, or any sane person with half a brain, would ADMIT THAT to YOU, giver of nasty, asspensive citations?….No, wait…wait…I probably should have been all, “You are SO RIGHT.  I never use my turn signal.  I mean, really, why bother?  If you SEE ME coming into your lane, then MOVE.  Either that or your stupid ass is going to get run right the hell over.”)

Me: “Yes.  I don’t drive un-safely.” (I know, bob, I know.  Pisspoor choice of a non-word)

Asscop: “Well, I wasn’t exactly right behind you….so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

(me in my brain): Rhheeaally?  Wow.  Thanks.  No, really. It’s so awesome you believe ME and can’t technically admit that you have no idea what you’re talking about.

Me (for serious): “Thanks.”

Then he takes my drivers license.  I offer up insurance and he turns it down, walks away and goes to see if I’m some kind of closet criminal.

Surprise!

I’m not…unless you count my obsession with signing my name with neat-o pens on the pen box in stores like Staples.

So, asscop walks back to my car and is all, “Is this a hybrid?”

(me in my brain): No.  It’s a magical broomstick.  Or maybe today it’s a flying carpet.  Bridgette’s kinda temperamental.

Me: “Yes.”

Asscop: “Is there another name for it?”

Me (WTF?): Um…a Lexus two hundred-h-something?

(Really, asscop?  I’m a chick – aka a human with boobs who can make babies and has zero brain space for car knowledge beyond the fact that my car drives and needs gas.  Other than that, I have no idea.  If there are other “names” that my car goes by, then I’m probably the wrong person to ask)

Asscop: “I know it’s a Lexus I just…well, I like it.  Nice car.”

REALLY?

REALLY???!?!

REALLY?!?!??!!!?!

Damn.

It’s like he forgot why he was trying to pull me over in the first place (because there was no WHY) and was all, “Well, shit.  I guess I’ll just punt.”