Talking Crazy

I cannot do math for the life of me; even simple addition in my head takes me a minute. I am a klutz in the science lab, so even though scientific concepts fascinate me, I could never pursue a field that I can’t actively take part in. My memory for dates and names is…iffy…so history ain’t my bag. But words. I’ve got those. Plenty. And I can put ‘em together in a appealing way, too. That said, writing is an intimidating task, one that I fear sometimes I will not be able to attack head on, as much as I want to.

You see, I have read books that made me laugh until my throat was sore and by abs were tired. I have read books that made me weep, bawl, sob. I have read books that made me love a fictional character–like actually want to crawl into the page and embrace a person who I know is not real. And today, for the first time ever, I read a book that made me sigh, out loud, without meaning to. The sound escaped from me, but I didn’t even realize it was me who made the sound at first when I heard it. Others have written such amazing works that it makes me ache. Can I do that? Will I ever be able to do that? I…I don’t know. And that not knowing…it makes me sad.

No, not those kind of voices. I mean, the voice that sounds an awful lot like yourself in your head that tells you to do things with little logic or reason behind it…just…a feeling. That’s your gut talking. Your instincts. Especially if you’re a girl, trust those instincts. Yes, sometimes this voice will tell you to do something absolutely retarded that makes you wish you could ignore your gut. But, most of the time, when things come full circle, you’ll either be glad you trusted your instincts, or regret ignoring what your gut knew before you did.

Just thought I’d mention…

Ah, summer ‘08. I have never been all that big on summer. My paleness makes me burn easily, which I find unpleasent. I don’t enjoy sweating, which tends to happen in my un air-conditioned home. I tire of reruns, especially considering we only have 8 channels here and the majprity of the day reruns are aired anyway. And, well, I adore my brother…but we fight when we are around each other for more than five minutes, so naturally being home together for hours at a time in horrendous amounts of heat tends to make us cranky and thus we beat on each other. Good times.

But now that, you know, I have been away from home for 8 months and I have matured and grown, summer isn’t like that anymore is it? Nope. It is. I can read and write and hide in my room all I want, I can busy myself in the kitchen finding new and interesting foods to make, I can take bike rides all over the Crap-Town that is Warren, Michigan…but I cannot escape the fact that the second I am around my family, I become the same ol’ Pam I always was: I complain and whine, I eat too much, I sleep too late, and I end up on the couch watching television I don’t even like because that’s just what we do. Oh joy.

This is not commentary on my family. It is commentary on myself. I cannot stick to my guns. Stick to the plans I make when I am away and feeling nostalgic for home. I am weak and something about the smell of my house or sleeping in my old bed makes me someone I do not like. I have already begun to have insomnia, and I have barely caught up on the sleep I was missing the last few weeks of school. I have become horrifyingly lazy, and can’t seem to get myself unpacked, let alone undertake any important task. And, I am worrying about the same old stupid nothings that I worried about for 18 years…things I have been talking myself out of for the two years I’ve been in school.

I will be here for three more months. I can’t waste yet another summer being a bum. Being a sleepy, mopey, anxious, bum. I need to get off my ass and live. But, damn, that ain’t so easy.

My aunt once said that there must only be so many types of noses, so many born structure variations, so many shapes of eyes, so many shades of skin…because how can everybody look like someone else? I think that is quite astute…and…yet…

I somehow look like everybody. I am one of those people who gets approached everywhere by someone who wants to say, “Do I know you? Have we met? Oh, wait…you just look like [fill in name here].” I have been told I look like *deep breath* my mom, my brother (dur), my aunt Dina, my aunt Darci, my cousin Lauren, my cousin Kelsey, my cousin Stef, my cousin Rachy (yeah…and we’re not even blood related O.o), my roommate, Julia Roberts (?), Anna Paquin, Natalie Portman, Alyssa Milano, and Chyler Leigh. Plus all of the strangers who I have never met and who have never been named to me. In high school, people used to tell that they’d met my sister–I don’t have a sister. One of my mangers at work here tells me I have a twin walking around. The list goes on and on and on and on and on…

You know, it gets old being told you look like everyone else. It’s almost offensive. I have always hated other people who have my name. Hated to wear the same shirt as someone else. Have someone steal my signature hairdo (pigtails). So why on earth would I want to be told somebody else has my face? Wait…no…it’s always that I have their face.

What the bloody fuck? Can’t I just be me? Can’t I just have the uniqueness I crave? I swear I will never tell anyone that they look like a certain celebrity or one of my friends ever again if I never get that “Hey, don’t I know you?” look ever again.

I went in blind for my roommate Freshman year. I was convinced that I was going to get stuck with a sororiwhore or a pot head or someone who cannot string two grammatically correct words together. Instead, I got Marianne. A smart, head-on-straight sorta girl who likes the Beatles and the Office and the Ocean’s movies. She ended up being my second half. She knows every word to the same songs I do. She likes the bottom bunk, I like the top. She takes the low notes to songs when I can hit the high, and vice versa. We both love to munch but try and try (and fail) not to. After two years of living together, we are…is best friends the right word? I mean, we could almost be sisters except that we don’t fight. But now, we are approaching our last night as roommates…and it blows. She is moving to the deaf floor, I am moving off campus. We are leaving each other. She gets custody of the fish, I get custody of the futon. I haven’t been this sad about the loss of someone who’s still alive…ever.

It’s not like we’re never gonna see each other. It’s not like I won’t eat at the Gallery all the time so I can see her. It’s not like she’ll never come stay on our couch. It’s not like we won’t still watch the Office or get Dairy Store or share songs over AIM. But it just won’t be the same. How do you say goodbye to someone who really isn’t going away…yet will feel like they’re in another country? How do you tell the person who has been your shoulder, your loft-buddy, your harmonizer, and your best friend, so long? I haven’t a clue…any suggestions?

I remember the first time I ever looked at another girl and compared my face, my body, myself to her. I was in 8th grade. That past summer I had put on my pre-puberty weight, so I was a little squishier all over than I had ever been or ever cared to be. And a girl walked down the hall in a short that showed her belly. And I was envious. I couldn’t do that. I had pudge now. But I thought, “But, at least her butt is big, and my skin is better.” And then I moved on with my life. Ever since, I look at others with a mix of contempt for what they have, and superiority for what they have not. I am fairly certain this makes me a terrible human being and thus I am not going to heaven. But, then again, that would mean that nearly all of us ain’t making it there.

Let’s be honest here. We all compare ourselves to others, usually in a rather deplorable manner. (Don’t lie. You do it. You know you do. Fess up.) There’s nothing like a girl with more cellulite on her legs or hairier arms than you to boost your confidence when you’re feeling down on yourself. When I was having a crisis of confidence a while back, my boyfriend told me to walk into any room, and look for any girl I’d rather be than myself. For any reason. And the fact is, I can (almost) never find anyone. (I think once there was a pretty, skinny, girl who was smart and articulate and I thought, “I’d be alright being her for a day” but that was it.) One girl may have prettier hair, but I have bigger boobs. She has whiter teeth, but her nose is twice the size of my already ample honker. And that girl, well, she’s got the look of Giselle-fucking-Bundchen, but the brains of a starfish.

This is terrible. The fact that I need to talk others down in my head to boost my own self-esteem. But. It. Works. And I know that I am not the only one that sees the girl with the breakout from hell and thinks, “Aww, that sucks for her. But I’m sure as hell glad it ain’t me.” I guess we are all just bad people at heart. But, the people that actually say these things…well, they are the ones who are downright evil.

Alright. Let’s get right to the chase. The sun is finally showing it’s face, the year is winding down, I should be happy…and for the most part, I am. But there are still things pissing me off like whoa. So, because I know you missed it so, I am going to rant a bit. OK? OK.

Pam’s List of Super Annoying People, Places, Things, and Events as of Now

1. People making out in Adam’s Field in broad daylight: Yes, we can see you. And if you try to go any farther we will get you arrested. Please stop.

2. The complete and utter lack of anything I would care to eat in the caf: Cheese souflee with strawberry sauce? Spinach pie? Too salty creamy soups every God damn day? Omelets for dinner? C’mon. The fuck? For serious…is it too much to ask to give a girl some lentil soup or falafel or just veggie nuggets? Please. K, thanks.

3. Madison: I don’t think anyone will read this who knows this chick and, honestly, if they did, I don’t care much because it is a well known fact that her and I do not get along well. She comes to French late almost everyday. She dresses like she is going to a fancy luncheon several days a week, because, apparently, she doesn’t own casual clothes like the rest of us mere mortals. She interrupts class to talk about…herself. She claims that she has a perfect nose. She is pretty much a spoiled conceited bi-atch and I cannot stand her. But, I take solace in this fact: take off the expensive clothes, wipe off the shalack-like makeup, undo the dyed, frou-frou hairdo’s, and you know who she looks like? Me. Haha, bitch. Take that.

4. Girls wearing leggings who have no business wearing leggings: For the record, if you didn’t know, I hate leggings. I think they are glorified tights and should not be worn as if they are pants. However, some people can pull it off better than others. Take, for instance, this chick in my women writer’s class. She is…tiny. She has almost no ass. And what she does have is not dimply like most of us who own a set of hips. She can wear leggings and not look…what’s the word…fat. Because she has no fat. The end. But when girls who are…a healthy size (or more) wear leggings…bad things occur. Namely, you can see every pucker in their tush. It’s kinda icky. Ladies, know your body type. Leggings are not slimming unless you are beyond slim. They, instead, draw attention to that which you don’t want the world to know you possess. I know this, and thus, I will never wear leggings. The end. Amen. Please follow my lead.

5. Maintenance staff cleaning the bathrooms at 10:00am: WE JUST WOKE UP! Hello?! The worst time you can take away our bathroom/shower room is in the morning when we are attempting to get off to class. How many people are taking showers or brushing their teeth at 2:00 in the afternoon? Far fewer than at 10:00. I promise. This is just retarded to me. Let’s make the girls go to class with greasy hair and bad breath. Great idea. No, really, brilliant.

6. Phones and iPods that do not hold a charge: Self explanatory. It’s just a pain.

7. The sound of CATA buses: I know of no other sound that drives me batty faster. I’m just in my room, trying to read or nap and then…that god-fucking-awful whiny roar as the 33 Holden bus leaves the from of Yakeley creeps into my room and just gnaws away at me. How about the buses make a friendlier noise, like birds chirping or The Office theme song or an alarm clock blare…anything is better than what they’ve got now.

8. Getting screwed out of my hard-earned cash: I hate getting a paycheck and scanning it and realizing I am a few hours short of cash. I’m sorry, but I do not work my tail off feeding my peers so that payroll can fuck me over and not give me my dues just because the system is flawed. Fix the flaws. Fork over my cash. Thank you.

9. Cars that cut me off in the crosswalk: OK, if you drivers didn’t know this, the “Yield to Pedestrians in Crosswalk” signs are not code for “lets speed up to 30 miles over the speed limit so that the girl that’s just about to step off the curb sees her life flash before her eyes.” No, “yield” means “slow or stop if necessary so that your 2 ton vehicle does not kill my 130 pound frame.” Not that I’ve translated for you, let’s stop trying to run me and my fellow walkers down like we mortally offended you.

10. Boobs: I hate them. And when I say them, I mean my own. Guys, I know you think they are fun and all, but be thankful you ain’t stuck with a pair. And girls who are small, I know none of us are never happy with our bodies, but trust me when I tell you, it is better to be able to walk up and down stairs or go for a run without very real physical pain than being able to fill out a sweater. Trust me.

11. The new ID scanners in the cafs: Two words–too slow. I want to eat when I go to the caf, not stand in line while the entrance host waits for the computer to recognize my ID.

And my last annoyance, 12. Bad breath: Not that I am never guilty of it, but, oy vey. Some people…oooo, it’s just bad. And maybe I should just be the bitch that says, “Yo. Your breath is rank. Here’s some gum.” But I cannot do that. So just, check yourself often. Carry mints. Brush whenever you leave your residence. And skip the tuna.

When my brother was just a tot, when he wanted to stop eating, he’d whine “Mommy, I’m full” (although “full” sounded a lot like “four” which then inspired lots of mockery and “no, honey, you’re three” which then inspired many a tantrum…but I digress). My cousins, quite unlike my bro, however, would ask politely “Can I be done?” I always thought it was cute. Like they were kindly asking their mom for mercy, rescue from the evil broccoli monster. Now, here I am, needing rescue from the evil end-of-the-year-wind-down monster. Now that the sun has shown its face more than a few times, and we’re down to weeks we can count on one hand I just can’t keep my head in the game, and every time I sit down at my desk to write a paper or do some french homework, I find myself asking…I dunno…God?…the homework fairy?…the ether?…if I can just please please please be done. I am not eager to leave state. I will be sad to be on a four month hiatus from learning. And, hell, I may even miss work and all its obnoxious trappings (but mostly just the money). But I am just so done with homework. With reading what they tell me to, rather than what I am itching to buy every time I tease myself by strolling through Barnes and Noble. I am ready right now to let my laziness win and just check out of the next four weeks…except for the whole gotta-pass-or-it’s-McDonald’s-from-here-on-out thing. And so, I will keep working. I will procrastinate as much as possible, and when I do get shit done it will be begrudgingly so. But I will do it. And all the while, I will be begging in my best three-year-old impression voice, “Can I be done? Please?”

If the metaphor of the title doesn’t make sense, I apologize. That may explain why my poems are always unsuccessful in my Intro to Poetry Writing class. (Which, by the by, is an awesome course if you like getting your hard work bashed right in front of you and the whole class by Diane Wakoski, published poet and trope nazi.)

I had a shitty day. Straight up. One thing after the next to do, disastrous classes, I skipped out on a family gig because I have too much work to do, everyone is gone so I’ve been in my room all by my lonesome most of the day, I called the bf hours ago and apparently he must have died because I can think of no other reason someone wouldn’t look at their phone for an entire day and see that they have a missed call from the girl they supposedly love (but I’m not bitter), and I can’t seem to shake this bloody cold. I know, I’m bitching. Sorry. But there is a point here.

So I drag my ass to the caf b/c I have to eat even though I’m not hungry. And what I do eat sucks. So I get back here to my room and sign onto AIM for the first time in…weeks?…months? And ‘lo a kid from one of my classes pops up just to say hi. I have never spoken to him online, and I normally don;t respond to screennames I don’t recognize. But I did. And the literally 60 seconds we talked suddenly made me smile. It was like he knew that I just needed a virtual hug right now. And suddenly, I’m better. I may even feel good enough to be constructive tonight and get shit done.

I love love love love love how the teeniest things can improve the suckiest of days: a good dessert served in the caf, your favorite movie on RHA (for my non-Spartan readers, that’s the university movie channel here), the sun peeking out from behind a cloud just in time to escort you home, or an almost-stranger IMing to say congratulations on finally finally finally writing a decent poem for class. People need to drop more pennies, because the loss of one cent may brighten someone else’s not-so-fun day.

brunettes still have all the brains (and according to the Spike network, brainy girls are more fun in bed). OK…I know, random. But let me explain.

So, I’m sitting in my Honors Intellectual History class, and looking around, there are no blondes out of the 25-ish person class. Not that big a class, I know, but still. Zero. There is one flaming redhead and a few lightish brown people, but no tow-heads. And then, I remembered. At the start of the semester there was one blondie, but she left the class. Why? Because she fled the state with her criminal boyfriend to “start over.” Hmmm…sounds smart to me. *smirk* I dunno. Just found it funny that in a class meant for brains, every brain is covered by a brunette mop. Interesting….