Borderline ADD

i dabbled around the idea of drinking only tea for a solid three days. Only tea so as to cleanse my soul, or mind, or perspective, or some meaningful shit like that. After a couple hours of consecutive hunger, i changed my mission from tea drinking to daily excercising. I had my first jog at college (if you can call it that), and during the run i saw that though running was a grand idea, and definately a plan that i, being the bionic woman that i am, could uphold, it isn't what i was looking for. I tried showering for lengthy periods, i thought about not smoking, yet here i am, full, out of shape, dirty and puffing, desperatly attempting to focus on my spanish homework. Bad dog. What was this classical conditioning that psychology discussed? Where's pavlov when you need him?

never let me give a eulogy

it's officially the death of individual style, and this tragedy was one that caught me off guard. it's a shame, because i finally thought i was about to experience some sort of deeper, more powerful sense. the issue is that classic schooling teaches us to stand a safe distance away from the edge. never toe the line, because one fault can turn a masterpiece into a disaster. but because of this, the majority of people never have, or never will, come close to making something incredible. I discovered this sudden death in the following presumptuous obituary, written in today's issue of the mind of, well, myself.

Creative expression, child of two loving parents (father, time and mother, nature) has tragically passed away, early this tuesday afternoon at around 12:38 pm. Her effect will long be remembered, for she shared a presence that was ubiquitous and ancient. Though the general population is grieving through the classic form of denial, those who have recognized her absence are still only partially in the know. The bitter truth is that this famous individual was murdered. (queue dimming lights and jaws theme song). Yes my friends. This was no "accidental" loss, but the result of a cold-blooded killer. Now, before we point fingers towards the big G.W. bush, Russia, osama, the fundamentalist christians, or the ever-so-popular gays, tranny's, and vegitarians, let's take a step back and examine all the evidence. It seems that the individuality in writing was being suffocated long before the classic people to place the blame on were even around (however i tend to blame russia for the majority of my issues). If we take a look back on how we have been taught to write and express ourselves over the past 100 years, one can observe the steady decline of distinctiveness in how the majority of the population (and by majority of the population i mean kids in the public school system) convey their thoughts and beliefs academically. In noticing this, we cannot blame one person, but our own desire to fall inside of the rigid guidelines set fourth for us learned students by our educators. Creative Expression will forever be in the hearts of those who truly appreciated her beauty, and her assassination will be remembered as a date which will live in infamy... wait, has that been said already?

As i sat in my social criticism class mentally sketching out the perfectly objective piece shown above, i was shocked by how apathetic my professor was to the points we were making. Over and over again, my classmates maintained that they have no idea what their style of writing would be, because the majority of what they write is directed towards a teacher of some kind or another. Instead of trying to arrange an argument in a new and innovative way, we have all been trained to write only to display our knowledge. It caters strictly to whoever is assessing the piece, so trying to spend the extra time imputing your own identity and voice is completely forgone. I find this disgusting, and worst of all, extremely hypocritical. I am this student, just another statistic like those TRUTH commercials beg me not to be. No, i don't actually think that individuality is lost, but the drive to discover it seemed so deeply buried that very few are willing to delve into themselves to find their own expressive tone. even when people begin to hone their own words into a penetrating voice, they easily get sucked back into the classic 3 part essay mentality and continue to color inside of the lines. I'm not satisfied. I want a challenge in writing. something that will sharpen my writing in my own respect (because g-d knows it needs sharpening), and inspire me, most likely through a series of horribly frustrating and disheartening attempts at perfection. until then, RIP identity

g-d save the queen

A british accent is much like marijuana in the sense that it just amplifies the current state of the situation. In this specific case, the subject of my thesis is brittney murphy. What i'm avoiding admitting is that i just wasted and hour and 46 minutes of my life watching possibly one of the worst romantic comedies of all time. I'm not sure how terrible the movie was originally, but the kicker was when the director gave brittney murphy a pseudo american/british accent. The movie did in fact note that Murphy was half american, half british, thus explaining her awkward accent, which is most likely due to the fact that she can't form a proper british accent on her own. What a sly cover for such a horrible sound. What is it about a british accent that makes life so appealing? Everything seems to be that much more attractive when there's a healthy layer of british sounding words slathered on top. Harry potter, the osbournes, prince william, david beckham, VICTORIA beckham, the word colour, poorly dressed pop groups, psychology, spice world, orbit gum, the spanish armada. All of these things seem to lose their glamour as soon as you remove the adorably soothing voice of the UK from the picture. If only my attempt at a british accent didn't morph into the voice of mr. quikimart clerk meets western meets oliver twist. Maybe i'd be a whole lot cuter.
Speaking of adorable, i recently ate my body weight in cheesy fries. Or maybe they were cheez-e fries. The class of cheese is fairly questionable. But no matter where this cheese originated from, there was a ton of it. The basket of fries themselves wasn't actually that large. I think it was just the density of the meal all together that sealed the deal. This was some massive side dish. I'm pretty sure i couldn't bench this basket, even with proper spotting. But i'd like to think that the fries were a positive contribution to my soul as opposed to my belt buckle. I'm fairly confident that weight control is all mental. Take that jenny craig. The clickety sound of me typing is making my cheesy-self a little nauseated. I'm gonna go throw up my major internal organs.

Ouch charley

I sunburned my lips. Scratch that. I fucking sunburned my lips. There, that has the right amount of umph to it. Because of this issue i have encountered, i have recently taken notice at just how important lips are. Now, originally i saw lips as simply a sexual tool, which is one of their many great purposes. However it seems that lips are also important for the following: eating (fuck), drinking (damnit), breathing (meh), talking (uh oh). And for the not so lip-savvy like myself, let me give you ample warning of things sunburned lips do not respond well to: pineapple, alcohol, listerine, balsamic vinaigrette, rachel.
Aside from my excessive pain, today has been yet another day. I went to a fencing club meeting, and stuck out like a sore... [insert fencing term here]. On the up side, i did learn a lot about fencing. On the down side, i did learn a lot about fencing. This can just be another tally added to my obnoxiously pretentious club meetings that i have, and will be going to. So far i have sailing and fencing under my belt, both of which were inspired by other people, but neither of which was i hesitant to attend.
I still don't like the phone. I'm convinced it's the government's way to keep tabs on me. I'm also ridiculously self involved. Also, i think i've developed a physical reaction to speaking on the phone, or skype for that matter. Extreme discomfort is a medical condition, right? Now i have the heart-wrenching decision to make between finishing my spanish homework, or watching Dexter on netflix and living vicariously through a serial killer. The latter it is then.

yes, but my friends call me ACHIE

It's 2:20 in the morning and, surprise surprise, i can't fall asleep. Instead i'm trying to convince myself that the essay i just wrote, which is probably the third worst piece of writing i've ever pumped out, won't make me look like a complete asshole. I say third worst as an educated guess, leaving room for anything written in a foreign language, and/or a particularly horrible first draft of an uninspiring college essay. Somehow, this assignment was so demoralizing, that i needed to go back into my saved documents, and read things that i've written before to remind me that at one point in time, i knew what i was saying. I think i may have chosen the wrong classes. It's that, or the hazy mess of my exhausted mind has left me feeling uninspired. Either way, at this point in time, i feel like i'm going no where. Maybe i need to drink more water. I spent a riveting 4 hours yesterday standing in the sun with another 100,000 people, pretending like i really care about football and like the color yellow. That, followed by a lack of sleep, and a night of vodka and dancing probably didn't help with the dehydration. Plus my lululemon bag told me that apparently water's good for you. You never know when advertising will give you those precious nuggets of golden wisdom. Thanks lulu. I tried to take the RACHIE off my wall, because i thought that removing it might help me sleep. Sometimes, when i'm lying in my perfectly comfortable bed, about to drift into slumber, i can hear the supple whisper of "raaaachhhiieeee" echo through my brain. Yes, it is as unsettling as it sounds. Anyways, i started with R, since that seemed a grammatically perfect place to start, but it seems my super durable double-sided tape as just as durable as it claims to be. Instead of a clean strip, there was still the pathetic remains of the letter left lingering on my wall, like mayan ruins after thousands of years of weathering. That simply wouldn't do. Now here i was holding a partially decorated R in my hands and staring at an equally disturbing ACHIE. I gave up, and decided that instead of rearranging my interior decoration, i should just rearrange my identity. That might be easier.

Goodnight mug, goodnight rug

They say a dog is a man's best friend, which has recently become more and more evident as i spend increasing amounts of time away from my canine. One good thing that's making it easier to be away is that blintzes isn't a dog. she's more of a bathmat. Thus, as a way to be weaned off my pathetic excuse for a mutt, i bought myself (and the roommate) a surprisingly high maintenance rug. In fact, blintz and this rug have more in common than one would presume. Both have little affect on my life aside from aesthetic purposes, both shed an obnoxious amount, neither of them are the most social of creatures, and most importantly, both scare the shit out of unsuspecting strangers. The best part about my rug (which will remain nameless until the perfect one comes to me) is that without much effort, it seems to welcome me home at any hour of the day. I don't know if it is the bright color or the furry nature, but something about the rug, similar to my dog, makes me feel appreciated.
Tonight was a good night. Fat lip aside. Expand upon this fat-lip story you ask? No, i couldn't. Ok, only because you persisted. We were tossing around a paper towel, because thumb-twiddling seemed far too cliche, and the ball lay in caitlins court. For some enigma of a reason, caitlin thought that the playfulness of the crumpled paper towel toss wasn't quite her style, and needed something more dangerous. A close cousin to the paper towel, caitlin picked up a jumbo combination highlighter that she found next to her. Now here is where the blame game gets all muddled up. Clearly displaying the highlighter to me, caitlin assumed that it was safe to toss. This assumption was not only incorrect, but also a little irrelevant, because why would i ever expect a highlighter to come flying at my face. Instead of moving like a sober and/or rational human being would, i opened my mouth. I think you can finish the rest of the story on your own. Now, in my slightly inebriated state, i'm going to watch Daria until her emotionless negativity lulls me into a drunken slumber. This is definitely a good night.