Actual Conversation, Dated 11/21/2012 @ 12:14A

Me: Honey, why do you have a smiley face drawn on your arm?
Three: Huh?
Me: You have a smiley face drawn on your arm.
Three: Yeah.
Me: Why?
Three: Oh, because I was making fun of Don.
Me: ...
Three: He likes to show off his tattoos because he's intimidated by my arms*, so I decided to use a Sharpie to draw a smiley face.
Me: ...
Three: It was really funny. The guys all laughed.
Me: ... I'm sure they did. How long will that take to wear off?
Three: I dunno. A few days?
Me: Yay.

* His arms are pretty epic and were a definite deciding factor on whether or not I would like to procreate with him.

The Life and Times After Bankruptcy

The mail has become a strange source of amusement this year, partly due to the fact that we filed for bankruptcy in the first quarter of 2012. In exchange for final notices (yay!), we are now getting loan offers and credit card applications (boo!). Damned vultures is what they are, knowing that you can't file for bankruptcy again for nearly a decade. Fuckers. 

Our lawyer and debt counselor* told us this would happen, and for the most part, we've been able to laugh about most of it. Within about a week of our court hearing, we started finding these overly enthusiastic post cards mixed in with our utility bills, telling us that we, too, could rebuild our credit! CAPS! BRIGHT COLORS!! EXCLAMATION POINTS FOR NO REASON!!! It was like all these companies hired Robert Ludlum to write their advertising. Then the auto loans came, and the various banks decided to get in on the action. See also: for-profit universities.

Because ... we obviously have money?

After the initial surge of ridiculous SPEND MONEY NOW THAT YOU'VE WIPED THE SLATE CLEAN shit, things calmed down a bit, but the amount of mail we get is still astronomically higher than before we filed. Before, we could go weeks without getting any new mail. Not even a Brookstone catalog. After? Ha. Our mailman actually came up to me one day and asked me if he could just drop our pile of mail in front of our door. To be fair, our mail boxes are about half the size of a child's shoebox, so anything more than about two letters is enough to force him to shove them in there. 

Honestly, it felt as if someone had, instead of giving out my email to these ass clowns, they gave my address and then said, "Onetwothree GO!!" I kinda wanted to point the finger at our lawyer but figured (hoped) that he wouldn't do that sort of thing. It's not like I couldn't just throw it all away, which I totally did, after I decided that my idea of making a cautionary visual tale to others who would file for bankruptcy might introduce a little thing called a lawsuit into my life and no, thanks. I've had about enough of court rooms**. Although I still kind of want to create a website or some type of educational pamphlet about our experience. Hm, food for thought.

Anyway, it was pretty easy to sort through the crap mail and the things we needed to keep, but Three and I still like to open a few of them, just to see what the company or whatever is trying. My favorites are usually the payday advance ones because they are just so incredibly ludicrous. I mean, come ON, dudes. I have no desire to pay you, like, 200% interest.

How about you burst into flame instead?

Three likes the auto loans, if only for the fact that he knows that they think we're just chomping at the bit to buy a new car***. That's what poor people do, obviously. Buy things we don't need. They're also the most obnoxiously colored pieces of paper, so they're easy to spot.

But the creme de le creme came in the mail today. The second we saw the logo on the envelope, Three and I erupted into laughter. Capital One was trying to get us to sign up for a credit card.

Capital One was one of our debts that was lumped in with our bankruptcy and one of the companies that Three had been tangling with for years. I won't go into the nitty gritty here, but let's just say that Three told them that they could go fuck themselves after the following happened: 1) they told him he could pay a certain amount to stay current and 2) the next day, they said he had to pay $2000 or else ... something. They weren't really too clear with the penalties, but Three stood his ground. He told them who he'd spoken to the day before and that he'd paid the smaller amount over the phone. He then tried to work with them to get a payment plan set up, but they were pretty firm in their "pay us this much or ELSE" stance. This argument, as repetitive as it was, was played out over about a six month period before Three basically said, "Fuck you, assholes. You aren't working with me here."  

They apparently don't keep records of people who tell them to fuck themselves, though, since at this very moment, I have a "NO ANNUAL FEE OUR LOWEST INTRO RATE****" letter right in front of me. First, hahahahahahahahahahahahaha, Capital One, you are dumb. Do you not remember our epic over-the-phone fights? Hahahahahahahahaha! Now that I have that out of the way, second, there is no way in hell we're getting a credit card right now. I've talked to our current bank about our options to rebuild credit in the future, but right now, we're fine doing cash only. We're not planning on buying a house any time soon, and credit cards scare me, anyway. 

This just baffles me, though. I guess I'm naive when it comes to thinking that people are basically alright. Sure, there are the scummy jerkfaces who get off on making other people's lives miserable or focus solely on themselves, but all in all, I think most people just try to do the right thing. And then companies, which all of us know are legally "people," come around and blow my theory out of the water. They are preying on people like us. Luckily for Three and me, we're fairly intelligent people who just throw them the side-eye as we rip up their letter, but there are people out there who will be completely oblivious to the fact that raptors have them in their sights. And that just makes me hate them even more, knowing that they'll screw those people over for a very, very small amount of money in comparison to what they have. Assholes. 

I'm thinking of sending the return envelope back with coupons for Summer's Eve douches. Because I'm, you know, mature and shit. 

* Okay, it was a poorly edited online program that we were forced to complete in order to file for bankruptcy, but I like to call it our debt counselor. It sounds less sad. And yes, I spent quite a bit of time reading over the grammatical errors and thinking, "How did this get approved for public viewing? This is atrocious."

** Between bankruptcy court, which is a whole other story, and the federal child pornography case I had to serve as a jury member on for two weeks back in 2006, I'm about done with our legal system. 

*** Which we kind of are, but that's beside the point. We don't want a "new" car because we're sick of the old one. We want a new car because our current one could crap out on us at any time. 

**** It goes from 0% introductory rate to 22.9% after one year, with a penalty APR of 29.4%. I have to give them credit here, though. On all of the other credit card offers we've gotten, this chart is really small, but I'm thinking that recent legal trouble has them all paranoid. Yep, that's three different links. And they all make me giggle with glee. 

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part IX: Yeah, I Am Officially Done with Aveos

So. We meet again, Bad Luck Car Fairy. I swear, I hate you and wish you were dead. And I don't say that about every fake fairy I come across. But you? You can rot in Fairy Hell.

Anyway, Chiquita's kind of been acting weird the past few weeks, but we were all, "Oh, lahdeedah, you are an Aveo and you could die on is at any moment and we drive on faaaaiiiithhhhhh!"

Three adds a seductive shimmy in between the jazz hands but he's a more daring physical artiste than I.

You kind of have to be that blindly optimistic when dealing with anything Aveo, as you can probably recall from my bitching about them at every chance I get.

Now, do not fear, the bitch is driveable*. It's just that there's a rag in place of the oil cap and oil nearly everywhere in the ... engine area. I don't know what it's called; I'm not a car person. Shut up. Moving on. I don't really know how the oil cap was misplaced. It could have been gone for months and I wouldn't have known the difference. Except that I probably totally could because I noted as I was driving Three into work that it was smoking a little bit more than usual**.

He pooh-poohed my concern with a, "I tell you every time what's going on and you're freaking out again," and I half-heartedly agreed with him. Ever since Roxy went out in a blaze of glory, I've been a little on edge with cars + fires, but can you really blame me? I mean, for fuck's sake, my leg caught fire once; I'm allowed to be a little skittish.

I dropped Three off at work and idled in the parking lot for a minute or two talking to one of his coworkers and one of our mutual friends, oddly enough about 1) the smoke and 2) the fact that our car is a piece of absolute shit. I made it about ten minutes away when I got a call from Three, who was a little uncharacteristically gruff.

Three: You need to come back to the plant.
Me: Now?
Three: Yes.
Me: Why?
Three: Because [friend] said that he saw a big puddle of oil left where you were sitting and the engine will lock up if you lose too much and just come back here so I can see what's going on.
Me: Are you mad at me? What did I do?
Three: I'm just busy at work and ugh. I hate our car.
Me: (SIGH) ME. TOO.

After pulling into the parking lot, Three came out, looking not too thrilled with the situation, but thankfully, he's also a mechanic and yay***. With one look under the hood, he sighed, "Great." Like I said above, the oil cap has magically gone missing. I don't know who steals an oil cap or if the stupid thing just jumped shit. Maybe it's better if we're left in the dark. Anyway, the afore mentioned rag was stuffed into the hole, and we cleaned up the oil on the manifold as best we could.

Now, for some reason, I was tasked with finding the replacement oil cap. Actually, Three had to return to work, where he apparently does stuff for money, so I guess I really was the only choice. However, I am very limited in my car terminology knowledge. The only reason I know that there's a manifold (and I'm not really sure what exactly the manifold is?) is because Three told me so, and he wouldn't be on the phone or in person with me. Don't get me wrong. I can change a tire, my oil, check the pressure - you know, basic stuff, but that's about the extent of my car know-how. After spending my entire life as a woman, I kind of expect people at the car places to try and rip me off****. I do, though, have an ability to read people pretty well, so I've been able to avoid most scams. On the phone, it's a little easier to do, so I took to calling the various locations that all located at least fifteen minutes away from where I am. None are located in Cool Springs, where Three works, which is bizarre to me. They have literally everything else, but not auto parts shops. And guess what. None of them carry the oil cap. Not a single one. Not even the fucking Chevy dealer, and the dealer was the only one who could order it. Of course.

It's like they hate me as much as I hate them.

Luckily, I got all the words right and the guy didn't seem like he was trying to price-gouge me. I'm still letting Three pick up the oil cap on Friday, though. I'm planning on spending the whole day on the computer, catching up on NaNo*****.

But this just got both of us thinking about a couple of things.

First, we're trying to start a family and having reliable and safe transportation is kind of important. And Chiquita is not really either; it's small and could possibly just crap out on us whenever. I mean, look at what happened to Roxy. One day, she was working fine; the next? Dead and useless. Now, we have Three's old boss partly to thank for that, due to his shoddy work, but still.

Second, since I'm self-employed and just starting out my writing career, we're kind of dependent on Three's income right now, and if he can't get to work because of a crapped out car? Yeah. That won't work. It might be easier when and if we get a place closer to his job, but right now, that's not really an option.

So, to Craigslist we go. I've found a couple of options, all of which are awesomely 80s land yachts:

1995 Lincoln Town Car

1985 Oldsmobile Delta 88

Neither of these is the actual car we're looking at, but seriously, I get excited each time I look at them. I have wanted one of these giants since Gladys went to Car Heaven. For those of you who didn't have the pleasure of knowing the wonderfulness that was Gladys, she was a 1995 Buick Century that might as well have been one of these:

Say what you want about the Nazis; they knew how to build tanks.

It was a beautiful piece of machinery. And if I find a decent example of a Buick Century, I will probably try to persuade Three that we need that car. Except that now that I'm looking at the other cars, I'm a little torn. I love the boxy look, and the town car reminds me of my mom's parents' car when I was younger. That thing was as old as I was and it didn't stop working until ... I think I was almost out of high school? Now, it did catch fire in my grandfather's garage, but I think that was kind of a freak accident. That's what I'm choosing to believe, anyway.

And I'm hoping that maybe by buying a car that isn't necessarily prone to, oh, you know, suddenly break down because the manufacturers kind of thought it would be okay just to kind of throw some shit in a box and shake it around and then go, BOOM: CAR. Then again, my car luck tends to follow me, but I'm a positive thinker.

POSITIVE. THINKER.

SOLIDARITY. WITH WHAT? I DON'T KNOW.

Damn, I just don't wanna do a IHtWLwC, Part X.

* Okay, so the stupid spellcheck on here says that both driveable and drivable are incorrect (or so say the squiggly red lines), so whatever. Ironically, so is spellcheck. :shrugs:
** For clarification purposes, a leaky valve cover gasket is the reason that the damned thing occasionally has a case of the oil-fume farts. We just haven't had the money or time to fix it. Mostly money, though. Sigh.
*** In details that will make my mother vomit, I find him incredibly sexy when he's sweaty and covered in oil. Goes back to Ye Olde Daiyes, when we were young and he was still employed by Satan R Us (aka Valvoline).
**** I'm looking at you, Firestone.
***** The election kind of kept me occupied on Tuesday, and then I spent all Wednesday trying to catch up on all the errands I was going to run before the oil cap went AWOL.

Oh, 80s movies, how I love you.

Three and I regularly watch cheesy action movies from the 80s as a way to unwind, and let's face it: the 80s were teeming with the cheese. The fact that films like "Robocop" were considered good (and I'm not even talking about the facts) makes me question the movie-going audiences of that time period. I consider myself a 90s kid, since my first solid memories from the 80s were in, like, 1989, and they're shady at best.* So a lot of these movies that I'm watching now were out when I was a wee bairn, but I don't remember them and probably wasn't allowed to see them. I mean, the first scary movie I ever saw (to me, at least) was "Jurassic Park," and I spent the majority of the time, particularly when the kids were in the kitchen being hunted by velociraptors, hiding in my father's armpit, asking him if it was over. I was a giant pansy.

Oh, who am I kidding? I still am.

Anyway, on the other hand, Three is seven years older than me, so he has pretty firm recollections of these. I constantly side-eye him as we're snuggled in bed with the TV on because we went into the experience with his promises that they're really good. I guess I should have learned my lesson when he told me that "Falling Down" was a happy movie (hint: it's not), but I am also the type of person that has to experience something firsthand in order to determine an opinion. As of late, he's been a little more honest with me as to the quality of the movies that he's having me watch, and he has told me on several occasions that he kept me in the dark so my incredibly sarcastic comments would be more genuine. To be fair, my commentary trends in the acerbic, anyway, but really reaches its peak when I'm angry; and really, really poorly developed movies get me a little Hulk-Smashy. Or at least slightly perturbed.

This weekend, we watched "Conan the Destroyer," mainly because "Conan the Barbarian" wasn't on Netflix. I'd never seen either and was kind of intrigued when I read that Grace Jones, that walking piece of art that she is, was in it.

THIS is what "fierce" is, Tyra. Not "smiling with your eyes."

It started out promising: music that sounded like it was yoinked directly from "The A-Team," a wise-cracking thief sidekick, outfits that made me wonder if they just straight-up stole costumes from old Star Trek episodes, Grace Jones (see above), AND Arnold punched a camel who spit on him within the first 30 minutes of the movie. It was a little weird seeing Olivia D'Abo playing a character so different from Nicole Wallace from Law & Order: Criminal Intent, but she played the genre-required Pouty Pouty Princess to a T without making me wish for her death. Win for her, I guess.

Now, the plot is ridiculous. Which, duh. It's a fucking Conan movie. That's like watching "Die Hard" and expecting John McClain to have an emotional breakthrough as to why he can't resolve terrorist actions with love and understanding, quit the police force, and become a Buddhist monk. Basically, Conan is recruited after enduring a pretty brutal evaluation of his skills where he has to fight a bunch of guys on horses to the death while at a shrine, and the lady (who when I first saw her exclaimed, "IT'S A ROMULAN!!") who had orchestrated Extreme Interview asks him to lead her niece, Jehnna, aka Pouty Pouty Princess, aka PPP, on some sort of journey to get a jewel and a horn to ... resurrect a god? They're not really that specific, although she does promise that she'll help Conan resurrect Valeria, his love interest from the first movie, which I have not seen. So Conan agrees to help; we meet Wilt Chamberlain as Bombaata and Jehnna, who immediately wants Conan (she is a virgin and is sadly inept at anything sexual - a perfect example of why Abstinence Only education is stupid). Bombaata is secretly supposed to kill Conan after Jehnna gets the jewel and the horn and blah blah blah. I couldn't really focus too much on what was happening because of two things: 1) Arnold's giant pecks and 2) Wilt's sheer height.

They could be characters separate from Conan.

No comment needed.

Anyway, then you get to my favorite part: Grace Jones as Zula makes her first appearance. I kept calling her Grace Jones, though, since she can never be anything else to me. She is kicking the ass of a bunch of people, even if she is tied up to a stake (she was part of a raiding party of which she is the only survivor), and Conan kind of helps her by cutting the rope on her leg.

Then they rescue Akiro, also from the first movie, from cannibals, who are wanting to eat his magical flesh because they want his magic ... or something. I'm going to discuss Akiro more in depth below, but he at this time is kind of useless. He can somehow find underwater doors and figure out how PPP was kidnapped by a weird guy in a glass-talc-silver castle in the middle of a lake (it was a pterodactyl made of smoke, because why the hell not?). Thanks to Akiro, they get inside this castle thing, where we're introduced finally to this wizard dude that's apparently important but hasn't really been explained. And things go like this: Conan gets trapped in a mirror room where he's attacked by a gorilla-creature-from-the-black-lagoon-uruk-hai-wannabe who for some reason is wearing a red hooded cape and then smashes mirrors and then throws his sword into one of the mirrors and kills the wizard and ... it gets a little fuzzy from there.

Then stuff just kind of happens. There are a ton of plot holes throughout the rest of the movie, which actually inspired this conversation:

Me: Wait, how did they get out of the cave? They closed the opening by removing the horn from the thing, which is guarded by the bad guys, anyway, and Barbaata -
Three: Bombaata.
Me: Whatever. Bombaata collapsed the other cave exit. So how did they get out?
Three: It's in the script.
Me: Oh. Okay.

Now, like I said above, I didn't really get too upset when it got ludicrous because it's a fucking Conan movie. The comically bloody fight scenes were appropriately ridiculous. Conan's refusal of sex with PPP was a little out of character, in my opinion, but she was a little too pure for his liking, I guess. Based on my knowledge (aka reading Wikipedia) of the previous film, Valeria was a pirate queen who was probably well-versed in The Sexytimes, while PPP couldn't really understand what Grace Jones meant by, "Go and grab him." The ending kind of reminded me of "The Phantom Menace," where the story just kind of stops, nobody learns anything, and there are hints of a sequel. Oh, and there's also no sex at all, despite the lack of clothing on the majority of the women**.

All in all, it was pretty gloriously terrible, as was expected, but I am a little disappointed that I couldn't even add it to my Awesomely Bad Movies list***. The racism was just a little too much for me. I mean, they kinda made strides with the African-American characters (Grace Jones' character's name, Zula, notwithstanding), but they completely undid that - for me, at least - with their treatment of Akiro, the token Asian. First, the character was designed with Chinese costumes and facial hair but was given a Japanese name because ... well, honestly, Hollywood thinks all Asians are interchangeable. Second, the director has the actor, Mako, who is Japanese-American and doesn't really have an accent in real life, speak in the special way that hahaha obviously all Asians speak: slow with stunted pronunciation. And of course, Akiro is a wizard who just kinda goes around, rubs his hands together, and makes grunting noises. He's basically a very, very boring Dragonball Z episode. Now, I'm not Asian, but this portrayal is still offensive to me. I know, I know, I shouldn't get so upset about something that is nearly thirty years old. But this movie was a big fucking hit when it came out in 1984, which means that attitude was shown to large numbers of people. Whether or not they picked up on it at the time doesn't really matter. The racism toward Asians, particularly toward Vietnamese due to the then very recent Vietnam War, was just so pervasive that it was almost expected in film.

Not every Cheesy 80s Movie Night brings out Deep Thoughts with Juju. Most of the time, Three and I just giggle at the insanity. A few weeks ago, we watched "The Karate Kid" and walked away with a bunch of "Sweep the leg, Juju" moments prepared, and Three showed me how the crane kick was probably the dumbest move you could do and can totally be defended against; but that's about it. "Terminator 2" had us drafting up fake propaganda for a "Kill John Connor as a Teenager" campaign and also trying to figure out what Linda Hamilton did to get so buff. The main reason that Three and I watch these movies is because we want mindless entertainment; Three wants it because he has to engage his brain at work all week in ways that just tire him, and I am constantly exercising the creative parts of mine. And honestly, we love critiquing the shit out of those movies. It's what we call fun.

I think next week we shall watch "Predator." I'm kinda in an Arnie mood lately, so it's either that or "Total Recall." Any other suggestions??

* One of my earliest memories is from when I was pretty young; we're talking two and a half or so. And it's a flash of a memory: I remember thinking, "Wow, my parents can lie? That's so not fair," when my mom was trying to pass off her schnauzer, Booshka, as a baby, wrapped in a blanket, because she didn't want to leave her in the car while we slept in a hotel room. I don't have any context, though, but there you have it.
** Grace Jones bares her ass the entire time. Well, save for a single tail that covers her butt crack most of the time. Never let it be said that Grace Jones was ever or will ever be subtle.
*** This includes "Showgirls," "Earth Girls Are Easy," "The Expendables," anything with Nicholas Cage, "Demolition Man," "Hard Target," "Surf Ninjas," "Drop Dead Gorgeous," "Xanadu," and "Waterworld." This is not an exhaustive list, just the ones I could think of off the top of my head.

My Left Brain and Right Brain Cannot Coexist. Yay.

So I had no actual idea that it was nearly November. This is how incredibly devoid of a time-tracking ability I have. I used to think I had a decent grasp on what a minute was, but as I've gotten older, I have realized that a minute could mean multiple things to me: sixty seconds, five minutes, or ten hours. I don't do it on purpose, but it does tend to frustrate more time-conscious people (*coughDADcough*). In the past, I've arrived at a mutually agreed upon location only to be met with crossed arms and angry stares.

Me: What? I'm here!

People: Seriously? You were supposed to be here three hours ago. The movie's already done. 

Me: But we could go to another one! Or ... we could just sit around and glare.*

I may use this expression a lot.

Okay, it's not actually that bad, although now most of my friends are like, "Oh, we can just start. She'll be here whenever." And even sometimes, they do have to call me to make sure that I wasn't distracted by whatever mental shiny that might have crossed my path.

And it just gets worse when I'm focused on something, be that Sims 3, writing, or taking a "quick thirty minute nap," from which I awake seven hours later in the middle of the night with no way in hell of getting back to sleep. It doesn't even help to have a clock of any kind** because I forget the numbers that were there before and hope that I haven't gone over my time limit.

What is bizarre is that, in some other areas of my life, I am almost hyper-in tune with time management. When I was at DHS, I knew the exact date of three Fridays from now, how many hours I had left until a certain deadline, could schedule my day down to the second so I could get all of the necessary tasks done, etc. I was not Me at work, though; I was some sort of weird automaton that ceased to exist when I exited the front doors of that accursed building. Ever since quitting, I've tried to channel that aspect of myself to get shit other than "write all day, wheeee!" done. It's been hard. No, nigh impossible. 

But this has actually shown me something about myself: I cannot function as a time-conscious Meticulaton (TM) at the same time that I'm in a creative frame of mind. I just can't. I also can't be in one state for too long, since I burn out, sometimes more quickly than others. So I did some experimentation over the past few days, which served as kind of a mini-vacation. Three was also on an annoying schedule of three 12-hour shifts in a row, so I didn't really have him as a time meter, which was kind of how I'd been operating since I quit DHS. Now, as I have discovered, it turns out that I am very effective when I am in one or the other mindset. I do prefer the right brainy, imaginative side a bit more than the left brainy, by-the-book side, although I've discovered that I am very good at cleaning and frugal interior design. Shocking, I know, to my family members who claim I know not of such things. 

Humberto, the newest low-budget decoration: a elephant piggy bank, bought from Goodwill for like $1. She has a certain charm, yes? Just say she does, and we can all walk away happy.

On Three's first day of his three-day stretch, I stayed awake all night and rearranged our living/bedroom***. What? I had to stay occupied somehow. 

Now, the official story behind this is that Comcast gave us a deal on our internet/cable package sometime last week, although they didn't really explain it very well. Three was called by one of their representatives, who told him that they'd upgraded our internet speed for free (thanks?), and then two days later, we got a cable box. Both of us were confused and also annoyed, since we didn't ask for cable, but when Three called to straighten things out, we were told that the price was the same but that we now also had cable (again, thanks?). If we chose to keep just the internet, we'd still pay the full price, which still kind of baffles me but at the same time is kind of a good business move. But anyway, our coaxial cable didn't go all the way to our TV (the router and internet box thingy was under our bed), so I realized that, in order to hook up the new cable box, I'd have to move all the furniture. It took about three hours, but at the end of that three hours, the living area actually looked better than it did before (again, thanks, Comcast?). But then I had one coaxial cable and two boxes and I was just all, "Whatever, guys, Imma go draw something."

And I did it without the mustache. How badass am I?

And you know what? I got on a roll. None of it is anything I want to show anyone, but I made some definite progress in character sketches. Another interesting aspect of this whole thing was that, while I definitely was aware of how much time had passed during the Epic Rearranging of 2012, I was even less aware of how much time had passed when I was drawing - more than normal. Three came home and I was simultaneously thrilled that he was there, baffled that he was home early, and then sheepish that I hadn't realized that I'd been in Jujuheadland for nearly eight hours straight. 

I guess it's never too late to learn more about how you operate, right? And it's kind of cool to think that one part of the brain uses certain outside sensory**** information while the other just about refuses to acknowledge its existence. Or maybe it can't or just doesn't realize what it's missing. Apparently, humans know pretty much nothing about the brain; we can't even really explain what headaches are. And that doesn't even touch the concept of how our brain actually perceives things and ... I'm going to have to stop before I start referencing state vector collapse and Dr. Michio Kaku, who I really believe may just be the most awesome person alive. 

Neo only wishes he were this cool. Look, he doesn't even have to look at the water to make it float in midair!

What's great is that I now know how to optimize productivity, and I even enjoy doing the left brain activities while I'm doing them. I've always known that I have to be in the right mood to switch out of my very right brain mode, but I never really knew why or when my next bout of Extreme Cleaning was going to rear its head. And now I do. I call this a win/win. 

Now, back to writing. I've made a few breakthroughs, which I'm actually going to be writing about here fairly soon. And that's totally not meant as an attempt to get you back here to boost the number of views for my blog. 

* Much thanks to "Once More with Feeling," my second favorite episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." The first, of course, being "Restless," the season four finale. 

** Especially this kind: 

I mean, seriously?? How in the hell am I supposed to read that quickly? Or at all? I have to do the math in my head, and I'm a right brained person. Needless to say, this math-in-head thing rarely ends well. Just ask my sister about the "47" story. 

*** We treat our one-bedroom apartment like a studio with a separate office.

**** If you can really sense time? Can you really? Other than by the seemingly mutually decided lengths of time that humans have created? Hmmm, deep thoughts. 

If I could post Amy Poehler as Leslie Knope snarling as the title, I totally would.

Very few things piss me off as badly as the following situation: 

Me: Lalalalalala, my dog is so cute. We're just walking, minding our own business.
Zola: ZOMG OUTSIDE I LOVE OUTSIDE I HAVE TO PEE AND POOP PROBABLY BUT ONLY WHEN I FIND THE PERFECT SPOT IS THAT A FRIEND CAN I HAVE PETS WAIT DO I HAVE TO PEE I DON'T REMEMBER
Lady: (scowly face) There is a bulldog that is clearly vicious because "bull" is in its name and there is also "bull" in "pit bull" so they must be the same thing and I have an adorable and cuddly totally non-aggressive rat terrier that will probably be EATEN by the pitbulldog EVIL THING.
Rat Terrier: THERE IS ANOTHER DOG AND I AM BY NATURE AGGRESSIVE BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT I NEEDED TO BE WHEN I WAS CHASING RATS AND OTHER VERMIN PRIOR TO BECOMING THIS LADY'S MISBEHAVED LAPDOG. I AM GOING TO INSPECT THE OTHER DOG AND THEN BITE ITS FACE OFF!
Me: The fuck? Why is that little shit biting my dog who was doing absolutely nothing?
Zola: OMG YOU ARE NOT A FRIEND MOMMY THE NOT-A-FRIEND BIT ME I WILL HIDE BEHIND YOU.
Lady: YOUR PIT BULL TRIED TO BITE MY DOG!
Me: The fuck? Were you even watching?? Your dog deliberately came up to my dog, who I was pulling closer to me with her lead while you were letting your lead get more lax and seriously, get off your phone. And also, she's not a pit bull. Get your dog the fuck away from mine.
Lady: I will report your dog to the office!
Me: Hahahaha, go ahead? My dog has bite marks on her face and yours doesn't. We'll see what happens.
Lady: ... Well.
Me: Yeah, get the hell away from me.
Zola: MOMMY MY FACE HURTS BUT CAN I HAVE PETS ALSO I AM HUNGRY AND MAY HAVE TO PEE AND POOP.

End scene.

I have no problem disciplining Zola in front of other people and am not at all assuaged by her cute face when she misbehaves in public. But she is the least aggressive dog I have ever met. Ever. The cats terrorize her and eat out of her bowl (she just waits patiently until they are either done or I realize what's going on and shoo them away to their own food bowls) and take her spot on the bed, but she doesn't respond most of the time. And when she does, it's with a frustrated yelp, which is immediately followed by her running to me and looking at me plaintively. When she gets excited, she's difficult to control, so I bought a choke collar that I don't necessarily like using but it gets the job done. I'm currently working on training her to FOCUS but it's not been super successful because her attention span is about as long as ... well, it's not very long.

So when we were out walking the other day, I made sure to keep her attention by talking to her and showing her the training treats I had in my hand. It was working pretty well. Then the rat terrier happened. She was standing there at attention with her head cocked to one side, curious about this newcomer. She looked at me like, "The fuck is that thing?" and then decided that her desire to pee/poop/walk around in the grass sniffing things was more fun than trying to understand this little dog that somehow was pulling his owner (seriously, it couldn't have been more than like 10 pounds) toward us. As dogs do, she let the terrier sniff her face while she wagged her tail, and then BAM, it bit the shit out of her face.

I pulled Zola away and just kind of stared at the lady, who abruptly put her phone to her shoulder (still talking) and tugged her dog back to her with this unholy glare at Zola. Who still, by the way, hadn't done anything, even in retaliation. But whatever.

This woman and I are not friends to say the least. She walks the other way with her little shit when I bring Zola out to go to the bathroom, and it amuses me when she scowls the whole time. I laughed at her yesterday, which I think embarrassed her. And good. She should be embarrassed. She has not trained her dog because he is small and supposedly easy to handle.

Well, guess what, lady? Small dogs are usually the least behaved for a few reasons, one being that owners think their behavior is cute. It's not. If it isn't acceptable for a larger dog to do what your dog just did, then it's not acceptable period. Do you ever watch Cesar Milan? Because you totally should*.

It's just so frustrating to see that some people own dogs. They want them as accessories (thanks, Paris Hilton) or trophies, and often, they treat them as though they are humans. I love to talk about Zola in an anthropomorphised way, but I understand that she is a dog. She needs training, attention, discipline, etc. She also has instincts that will supersede any training I have given her. Now, given that Zola is a bulldog that has been bred to be dependent on humans**, it's more likely that she'd die in a survival situation, but her canine nature would still come to the surface. Her reaction would probably be more flight rather than fight, which is okay with me. She'd last a lot longer that way.

Some people don't read into the breeds they choose or they don't try to find out the possible breeds their mix has. Honestly, I wish I had done more research into bulldogs before getting Zola, but she was cute and spunky and I was 24 and wanted a puppy. If I had to do it over again, I would have gotten a shelter dog, like my sister did with her new dog, Cupcake. But don't tell Zola. She'll be crushed. Anyway, after I bought her, I did a ton of reading about the breed: while not aggressive, they are extremely stubborn, so you need to have a strong personality to properly train one, and they don't necessarily drool all the time like mastiffs, only when they exert themselves. They also have "active digestive systems," which is just nice talk for "they shit and fart rancid smells all the time." They don't need a lot of exercise, which makes them perfect for people that aren't as active (although I'm an avid outdoorsy person, so it always hurts when I'm going for a long walk and I have to leave Zola at home - but don't worry, I take her out afterwards and we play).

But this woman apparently didn't understand where terriers come from. Terriers are fuckers. Sure, they're cute and pocket-sized and will bounce with joy when you get home (Zola does the same thing but for a lot less time because she gets worn out), but they were bred to be active and aggressive hunters. I'm not saying you can't have one; you can. But train the damned thing. Get it socialized with other dogs and people. When it starts to misbehave, remove it from the situation (and apologize for not controlling your dog); praise it when it behaves properly. Don't blame other dog owners for your dog's behavior. It pisses us off. And makes us happy that we call your dog a kick-me. If it gets to the point where you know your dog cannot be in the vicinity of other dogs and/or people, don't let it or limit its interactions as best you can.

For instance, I don't bring Zola to the dog park any longer because she's excitable and not all dogs respond well to her overeager, galloping ZOMG FRIIIEEEEENNNND?? approach. I take her on walks in the regular park, but I cannot let her run around like a crazy person without worrying about another dog reacting poorly to her enthusiasm, hurting themselves, other people, or Zola herself. Now, part of the reason, too, is that I know other people like this terrier lady bring their dogs to the dog park. One of the last times we went, a boxer lost its shit. Luckily, it had nothing to do with Zola, who was still on her leash at the time, but this woman was being forced out by the other owners after she admitted, "Oh, he's a nice dog. He just reacts when he's startled!" Her definition of reaction was, "Oh, he just gets a little jumpy," when it was really, "Oh, he lashes out at everything within five feet of him when anything that isn't his owner comes close to him." She was all teary eyed as she put the lead on him, but seriously? You're going to bring your dog, who you know freaks out at the slightest provocation, to an area where you cannot control most of his environment? That's a lawsuit waiting to happen, lady.

Also, it seems that people forget that dogs can read people's emotions very well. Zola seems to know when I want to be left alone (she's still there but she's at my feet and pretty much chill) or when I am in play-with-me mode. I'm also comfortable around pretty much all dogs. I grew up with a miniature schnauzer, Booshka (that little brat of a dog), then a farm-bred Weimeraner named Cocoa and a fluffy corgi named Maggie***. We lived around people that had dogs, and my sister and I became friends with neighborhood dogs (Molly the English sheepdog, Abby the Doberman pinscher, etc.). So I'm not frightened of dogs at all. I can tell if a dog is aggressive, but I also know how to handle myself around them. They respond to alpha behavior, which my dad (thanks, Daddy) taught me. This rat terrier woman's fear of Zola's "pit bullishness" was just transferring the agitation to her dog, who wanted to defend her. I can't really blame the dog**** because it was just responding to his owner's stupidly placed emotions and maybe thought it was protecting her. I still wanted to kick the little shit into the air like a football. Have I mentioned that I dislike terriers?

Ultimately, all of this is due to ignorance. Or stupidity, depending on how you think of it. There are plenty of ways to learn about dogs and their instincts: online, libraries, other dog owners, PetSmart/Petco. There's not really an excuse for having an ill-mannered pooch any longer. And no, "I'm a passive moron who shouldn't own a dog regardless" is not an excuse. I suppose that isn't going to stop people from buying dogs they can't control or eventually don't want because, wait, it needs food? Attention? I can't just hire someone to play with it? What is this fuckery?? TO THE POUND WITH YOU, YOU LEECH. YOU DON'T EVEN PAY RENT*****.

So, class, what have we learned? Research before you buy (also a good consumer tip). Train your dog. Know your dog's limitations. Know your own limitations (also a good life tip). Don't let your dog bite other dogs' faces.

Class dismissed.

* I now want to find her apartment number and leave her a copy of "Cesar's Way" on her doorstep.
** Purebred bulldogs have to be artificially inseminated because male and female genitalia do not fit together, and when the puppies are born, they have to be taken out via c-section because the puppies' heads are too big than to fit through the vaginal canal. YAY HUMANS. Zola is half Olde English Bulldogge and half English bulldog, so she doesn't have a lot of these problems. She's also spayed, so no puppies for her, anyway.
*** Her original name was Stoli because I had a weird fixation for naming my pets after alcohol. Don't ask. I don't really know, either.
**** Except that I totally do, because I fucking hate terriers. If I wanted to deal with high-pitched yips and aggressive snaps at my heels, I'd watch Here Comes Honey Boo Boo or whatever that show is called. 

***** I may have threatened Zola with this after she threw up for a fifth time in ten minutes because she drank too much water and then got excited because ... I don't know. Maybe she thought I was going to pet her or something? She's a weird dog. 

Now back to your regular programming ... kind of?

Okay, so after a pretty hefty amount of emotional baggage was vomited onto my blog with the last post, I figured I'd cleanse my palate (and yours, YOU ARE WELCOME) with happy things.

Firstly, I cleaned the shit out of my back room. Well, according to my mother, my back room should be our bedroom. But I say, FIE.

1) We never invite anyone over.
2) I like being able to play video games in bed.
3) The only TV that's worth anything is in the living room. The other is in the back room because it is a piece of crap.
4) The back room also serves as my office space.
5) We barely have enough furniture to fit all the rooms.
6) Who cares? It's my fucking apartment.

This is not to say that I will not arrange a new apartment differently. In March, we are most likely going to be moving closer to Three's job, and by that time, I may be hankering for something new. Who knows? Either way, it was nice to have a clean work space. It's kind of amazing how a simple UFYH makes your productivity soar.

Anyway, second, I gave Zola a bath today, which is always an ordeal. I'm fairly sure that, in a past life, Zola was drowned or something, because baths? Even the mere mention of the concept and she hightails it out of sight. Or at least until she forgets about the word "bath" and wants pets. Then again, she is a bulldog, and water on her face sends her into a flurry; apparently, she thinks she's going to die if a droplet gets anywhere near her nose.

But whatever. So I bathed her, right? Well, I don't remember if I've talked about Three's magical power known as "getting water everywhere," but I believe it's apropos to this current discourse. Three really does seem to be able to invoke some type of deluge every time he gets in the bathtub. He's a water boy and likes to soak in the tub after a long day, which I don't really mind. Until he gets out. Or forgets the face wash on the sink counter. Or wants to talk to me and forgets to dry off*. I almost feel like I need to be present with buckets and plenty of towels in hand. But bathing Zola? Just imagine the aftermath of Three bathing and then a monsoon happens: that was the result. I wasn't even sure if I could get it all off of the floor and the walls, and for the rest of today, I've been inspecting the bathroom for remaining puddles. And it's not just the bathroom. She managed to escape from the tub (prior to getting any soap on her, thank GOD), so I had to carry wet, stinky dog back to the bathroom, cursing the whole way and assuming that everyone in the building thought I was abusing my dog. Then came the thrashing about, and can I just say that this dog is fucking strong? I had to use every ounce of strength to get her under the water stream to rinse of the doggie shampoo, and keeping her there for an extended period of time? Ha. There's a reason this took nearly a damned hour.

On the plus side, she smells nice. Win?

Third, I've come up with a list of movies & TV shows that I will be watching for the next few weeks as ~~**~~~{inspiration}~~~**~~ for the upcoming fun that is NaNoWriMo**, and I gotta say, I'm pretty fucking excited. It involves kickass ladies (Xena: Warrior Princess, La Femme Nikita***, Buffy the Vampire Slayer Seasons 5 - 7, Bandidas, etc.), horror films (From Dusk til Dawn****, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, The Sentinal, Dracula with Bela Lugosi, 28 Days Later), and, of course, Die Hard. No movie marathon should ever not include Die Hard.

Fourth and last, I've got half an outline for what I want to do for NaNo. I'm trying to focus SO. HARD. on making sure I keep from writing any parts of the stories that I have planned to write during the 30 days of craziness, but my brain keeps giving me awesome ideas for dialogue and visuals. UGH. I'm also coming up with a Spotify playlist that I'll probably be posting up here once I get it finalized.

Sigh. This is my life. Dogs, writing, movies, haphazard cleaning exercises. Oh, well. It could be worse. Alrighty, back to the grind.

* True story.
** If you want a buddy on NaNo, just send me a buddy request here! :)
*** The Peta Wilson version. I mean, I love Maggie Q and all, but Peta? She's my go-to badass. Plus, she looks a bit like Linda Hamilton, who is my ultimate girl crush.
**** I know, it's not really a horror movie, but it has vampires and Quentin Tarantino's character (Who am I kidding? He wasn't acting. That person is Tarantino.) gets killed. Yay! We all benefit!

I'm Still Fighting This War

In addition to being my new favorite gif ever, I'm wanting to avoid having the below pictures being the first thing you freaking see on Facebook. Ugh. Also: Starbuck, I love you.

I'm not doing anything that someone hasn't done before. Hell, Jamie Lee Curtis did it in a magazine a while ago. Lady Gaga recently did it via the internet. But here it is: me.

I'm not looking for validation here, guys, so you don't need to comment that ZOMG YOU LOOK GREAT WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? or YEAH YOU COULD TOTALLY STAND TO LOSE A FEW POUNDS. But you do need to know that this right here? One of the hardest things I've ever done. And I've done a lot of shit. So. Anyway, moving on.

Like so many girls and women, I have been struggling with anorexia since I was 13. There are multiple origin stories, and all of them seem simultaneous. At the beginning of my middle school years, a very thin girl told all of her friends that a girl with a figure should be the only one wearing the shirt I was wearing. My parents reinforced that exercise was not fun by forcing me to go on long runs with them at the park, when I'd rather be frolicking in the back yard or exploring, Calvin and Hobbes style, the woods at the top of the hill. Cosmo and Marie Claire magazines were everywhere: doctor's offices, our mailbox, friend's coffee tables, so I got to see what I was supposed to look like. I started noticing how other girls looked in comparison to me; in particular, I was noticing the girls that were getting attention from boys. I did not look like them at all. And then, the for the first time, I started to cry myself to sleep, thinking that I was worthless.

It all started out so innocently. I would eat smaller portions at dinner; I would only eat one cookie for dessert. Food became an adversary, determined to make me stay alone and unhappy until my dying day. Other girls became my enemies, competing with me because ... that's what girls do? My own body was my tormentor, constantly reminding me of how inadequate I was. I kept it under wraps as best I could as I went through the remainder of junior high and through high school graduation. But it would only get worse from there.

When I was in college, I also was in the gym about three or four hours a day: running on the treadmill, lifting hand weights, taking an hour yoga class, pushing myself on the weight machines, etc. I had no one looking over my shoulder, telling me I should eat something or say, "Shit, dude, you can't have eaten enough calories today to warrant that type of workout." But I felt great. I wore a size six for the first time in my young adult life. Boys and girls were noticing me. I was getting invited to parties (that I didn't want to go to, anyway, but whatever). My confidence was soaring. Until I looked in the mirror. I still wasn't thin enough. I didn't have the flat abs that I was promised by the magazines describing Britney Spears' workout routine. I had cellulite on my thighs. My ass wasn't as perky as I thought it should be. So I'd add on time at the gym, cut a few more highly-nutritious foods (also they have calories OH NO!!!) from my diet, and this cycle would just repeat itself.

Once I graduated from college, the fact that I was poor actually kind of helped with my eating habits staying the same. I couldn't afford a lot of food, so I subsisted on cereal, bagels, V8, and salads. And I'd just been diagnosed with lactose intolerance, so some of the fattiest foods were automatically no longer a part of my eating regimen. It did explain a lot of the digestive issues I'd had for most of my life. Then, I found out that I also had a mild gluten allergy (no more breads) and that I had an autoimmune disorder (one of the symptoms is psoriasis yay), which was the reason I got sick so often. Now, all of these conditions existed for my entire life, as far as I knew*, but it seems that my not eating anything exasperated them. Oh, and also add in smoking: another super healthy habit I picked up to keep my weight down. Ultimately, I was feeling physically well for such a small portion of my life that I didn't really know what being not-sick was like.

But here's a dark secret: I actually liked getting sick. I liked knowing that, because I was ill, I would only be eating soup and drinking water, if that, and at the end of it all, I'd be at least five pounds thinner. I'd find myself hoping that I'd be sick just a few days longer or that I'd actually fall ill so I could be sure that I'd be at my goal weight, which coincidentally, kept getting lower and lower.

This hurts to write, not just because it was in the past, but because it is very much my present, even though I don't always recognize it as such. I declared war on myself when I was 13 and haven't stopped. I make strides, sure; I wore a bikini on the beach in Biloxi, although I spent a lot of my time trying to hide my stomach. I've found parts of my body that I do like and focus on those. I look myself in the eye in our bathroom mirror and say, "I love you," even though I don't necessarily mean it yet. I have a wonderful partner who has done more than any other to help me find acceptance of myself, and he's had to take a strong position when he discovered that I wasn't eating again. I exercise in moderation and make myself stop after an hour. But I fear that this is something that I will always struggle with, that I will always fall back on loathing my body, my temple.

If I have a daughter, I don't ever want her to hate herself for any reason. I don't want her to look in the mirror and start crying because she doesn't like what she sees. I don't want her to embrace whatever asshole tells her she's pretty because she doesn't fully believe it herself.

I watched the above video, posted by Amy Poehler on her Youtube channel Smart Girls at the Party, and started crying because, you know what, all the things that I said above about myself, my story, everything? They are not things that I want my future-possible daughter to think. So maybe acceptance of myself is more than just about me. Maybe it's about all women: current and not-yet-in-existence ones alike. If I can look myself in the eye and actually believe me when I say, "I love you," maybe that will be one step into making this a better place for women. Hell, a better place for people, regardless of who you are.

This is my goal, even if it is a seemingly insignificant (in comparison to a lot of problems around the world) one. I expect to have setbacks, but I want to succeed, even if it's on my deathbed. When I'm 85, I want to be able to look back on my choices, my actions, and say, "You know what? I did okay." I've got a ways to go, but I know I have help on my journey, in the form of a young pre-anorexia Juju, cheering me the whole time.

* Seriously, just ask my parents and they will tell you the many times the word enema was used in my childhood. JUST ASK. You probably won't and that's okay, because ... well, the question would inevitably draw an answer involving poop, and unless you're already a member of my family, it will disgust you.

Based on the past 24-hour search history on my computer, I am a real-life Dexter. Well, a real-life Dexter who also has a penchant for researching Star Trek mythology, saving pictures of castles, searching for answers as to why one of my cats' shit smells worse than the other, and reading Cakewrecks for hours on end. In addition to googling how to drain blood from a body, which is how Dexter ties in. I suppose I probably should have already mentioned that, but oh, well. Forget that this is a medium that allows me to delete sentences and replace them with shiny new words.

My writing has led me to looking up the most random of subjects: prison architecture and design, Tamil history, the various shades of yellow, krav maga techniques, etc. The list could continue for a very. long. time. It makes me wonder what other people search for on Google. Does anyone else have "can you get cancer by eating cancer-infected flesh?*" on their history? Just me?

It's not like this is new to me, though. Thankfully, my brain is not cataloged like the internet is. I was an inquisitive child, pretty much from the get-go, and so I was constantly asking my parents questions, from the typical, "Mom, why is the sky blue?" to "Mom, can elephants eat their own trunks by accident?" Since Mom was home more often than Dad, I would typically go to her, but she had a penchant for lying. Once she told me that my tongue split at the back of my mouth and both sides continued down to my toes. After that, I was wary of getting any information from her. She also liked to answer most of my queries with, "Go look it up."

So in an effort to avoid having to 1) wait for my father to verify that what my mother told me was accurate and 2) hear "Go look it up" one more fucking time, I took it upon myself to cut out the middle man and go straight to the source, which in this case was the entire World Book series. For some reason, my parents thought the World Book was better than the Encyclopedia Britannica, but I didn't know the difference. I was a young child and, because the internet hadn't been invented by Al Gore yet**, I was forced to actually read. Well, I found it enjoyable because I'd read the whole damned collection by the time I was 10 years old. This really isn't a bragging point for me, I promise. I'd start reading about dog breeds and the get distracted by another topic as I was searching for the right page; then that subject would have "see also" at the end of the article, so to another volume I went. Eventually, I'd get around to reading about dog breeds. Probably. This is how I entertained myself, and yeah, I was That Weird Kid at school who knew way too much about random shit.

And the internet has just made this aspect of myself worse. All of that information, just at the end of your fingertips. And fuck you, Wikipedia. Wiki-spirals are the worst enemy of my writerly productivity. Sure, it starts out as a quick Google search for ancient druid rituals, yet somehow, I always seem to end up on an image page, trying to pick out my next tattoo, or reading about the meanings behind Florence + the Machine's lyrics. Three has come home to me, staring wide-eyed at my computer screen, with 50 tabs open that have absolutely nothing to do with each other (maybe tangentially). He then tells me to come talk to him, an actual in-person human being.

I really hope to pass this trait down to my children. I mean, it's not like I want to force them to have a love of reading and learning on their own. That's not for everyone, I know. But it's something that both my father and I bonded over. He'd come home, and I'd rush to him with this new information that I was just positive he didn't know. It rarely worked out that way, since my father is somewhat of an unrecognized genius who remembers the page from a magazine he read in college and what exactly was on that page and ... sigh. I can only try to be that smart. But he'd sit and listen to me talk about the new dinosaur I'd discovered*** or how I knew how to differentiate between the male and female fiddler crabs down by the bank a few yards away from our house****. I'd like to be able to do the same with my and Three's kids. I don't expect them to be nerdy about the same things, but I'd also like to learn from them. We will be able to geek out together!

God, I really haven't changed much since I was a Wee Baby Seamus.

For now, let's hope that an FBI agent doesn't come knocking on my door because of my internet search history. I've heard that happens sometimes, and not just on some conspiracy theorist put it on a webpage that I might have seen the other day. I swear, I was only looking for information on dead bodies because I want this dead body to appear authentic? And not a real dead body. I am describing one in my story! You know, I should just stop.

I leave you with one of my favorite Weird Al songs:

* Based on what I found, you would have to eat a LOT of cancer to "catch" it, but it's not likely. So eat that cancer, bitches. It's not necessarily bad for you, and it probably won't kill you! YOU ARE WELCOME!!
** I joke, I joke. Snopes.com has already proven this false, but I like to poke fun at good ol' Al.
*** I was and still am a giant dinosaur nerd. I wanted to be a paleontologist for the majority of my young life, although that tended to intertwine with my desire to write. Don't be surprised if dinosaurs in some form show up in my writing. And I'll try to tone down the Moby Dick-esque descriptions of them because we all know that's boring. For other people. I could read about the structure of dinosaurs and their perceived hunting habits all damned day.
**** It's their claw size, by the way. Males have one big claw and one little one. Females have two little ones. The more you know.

NaNo!!! :D :D :D

I hadn't realized that it was so close to November, and it was actually super exciting to get an email from NaNo, letting me know that they'd revamped the site. I immediately hopped on and was all squee-y. I even updated my profile, although I need to find a new avatar image; Major Kusanagi from "Ghost in the Shell" just isn't doing it for me. Maybe Katee Sackhoff's Starbuck??

I fucking love Starbuck.

Anyway, I was this way - all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed - around this same time last year, so I'm taking this month to actually plan the stories that I'm going to write. You know, to use that enthusiasm that will probably be waning by mid-November. I think I was a little too enthusiastic and, well, Sagittarius about the whole thing in 2011. I knew the general idea of where I was going, but without much of a plan, I lost steam pretty quickly. And then the stupid job just made me exhausted because, ha, it's November and everyone wanted to make sure that they had their renewal interviews so they'd get their December SNAP benefits. Then there's my propensity of going back right as I write something to edit it because, well, I just don't like it. I can be strangely perfectionist about certain things.

Yeah, yeah, I know: excuses, excuses. But they're all valid. This year, I don't really have that luxury. Since I'm without employment, at least from the standpoint of someone paying me, I can completely focus on NaNo. So, preparations are beginning. I already have about seventeen deadlines set for various things (artwork, networking, website creation, query letters, etc.), so the next week or so is going to be ... interesting.

Ohohoh! AND!! If you want to participate in NaNo - trust me, the camaraderie will benefit everyone - just go check out my profile page and add me as a buddy: Jujujuniper on NaNo.

Whee!! Only 30 more days!