Yeah, I love when that happens.
Sadly, my musings aren’t enticing enough to re-write. Plus, I was in the full-on writer’s zone, and now, I’m back in no man’s land, kicking my chair leg and biting the collar of my tee.
Oh well.
In other news, I want to purchase this: 
Word.
It’s safe to say that I’ll be updating this here blog at least once a month. That’s the goal. I’d love to post twice a month, but I’d also love to have a pet monkey. Owning our liking doesn’t always make sense.
Anyways, can I just say that this past birthday (which I celebrated last weekend) was probably the best birthday I’ve had, maybe, to date? (Or that I can remember.) And my birthday wasn’t even listed on Facebook! Imagine that.
Why it was number one:
• Went to a two-day music fest to nourish my live music addiction. It’s a real thing, people! Look it up!
• Chatted with my bff who lives all the way on the other side of the world. And even got calls from three out of four of my immediate family members!
• Had a power hour with good friends, and frivolity definitely ensued. Also, our apartment wasn’t half-trashed and I didn’t get sick. It was the best!
• Coworkers made me feel like a million bucks, just because. Just because they’re innately amazing.
• My lovely cousin flew me out to Seattle, which is one of those cities that you nearly fall head over heels for to the point where you don’t know what to do with yourself. Went on a wine tour for the very first time (in a limo, nonetheless), drank coffee at the first Starbucks, explored what has become one of my favorite museums, and attended Brandi Carlile’s annual charity show. I even side-hugged Brandi after the show. It was awkwardly intimate.
• Received seasons one and two of “Workaholics.”
• Dany didn’t pee on my bed!
Case in point: do not display your birthday on Facebook.
Now here’s a series of rad photos from Seattle:
Hopefully my 23rd year will be filled with more friend time, “Battlestar Galactica” reruns, novel reading, pros writing, music seeking, and randomness. Especially the last one.
My roommates and I adopted a kitten a few weeks ago.
We made a pact that if and when we do part ways, one of us will take full ownership of the cat. And that person is me.
As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, I’ve never had a “real” pet. (I’m defining a “real” pet as one that you can literally pet. Goldfish and Hard Rock teddy bears do not count.) So you can imagine my intrigue and apprehension that came with jumping aboard this pet-owner train. Questions I asked myself: Is it emotionally worth it? Becoming attached to an animal, who could possibly not give a crap about me in return or inevitably pass away in due time? What if I totally mess her up due to my noviceness? Does this mean I can’t have chocolate out anymore?!
All of this aside, the past two weeks felt like I’ve been reliving my childhood and shaping it into the starry-eyed version I saw on the Disney Channel (I’m referring to the Zoogs Disney Channel, which is pre-Even Stevens and Lizzy McGuire). More Dunkaroos, please.
Captain Daenerys Phoebs Tonks Bluth. (The nerdiest cat in the world)
I was never really a huge fan of the felines, as I always preferred playing with dogs. But when I first played with Dany, there was something to her aloofness, curiosity, independence, and random spurts of affection (she snuggled up on my leg the first time I put her on my lap), that made an instant connection. She kind of reminded me of myself, only in cat form. (I tried to put that in a non-creepy, non-douchey way, but there’s really no way around it.) And she never meowed once. Actually, it’s only been recently that she’s become a tad bit vocal, and that’s only if she wants to come into a room. And it’s really hard to ignore it.
But aside from select peeing incidents and gassy upsets, Capt. Dany is incredibly sweet—at least for now.
Here’s to hoping I don’t fuck this up.
—M
I know I tend to voice more of my half-glass-empty perspectives on this here blog. I apologize for that.
Do recognize that I’m not a complete self-loather, or reality-hater, or anything of the sort.
I tend to just analyze and pick apart my feelings when I’m in a bad mood, at the expense of you, the reader.
But I’ve gotta give it up for stress and horrible, awful moments, because it really does make days like today feel as if God high-fived me generously.
So thanks for that, life.
Among doors opened slightly ajar, and the phrase “same difference,” one of my biggest pet peeves is when people tell me or preach to me things I already know. That’s not meant in a smart-ass or cocky way. I’m well aware of my ignorance and naiveness in numerous pockets of life. If we measured the vast amount of information I haven’t even come close to comprehending, it would wrap around the universe an infinite amount of times.
But when people do harp on me about aspects of life that I’m fully mindful of, I slowly start to grind my teeth. Especially when I’m being preached to by someone who uses empty, lazy mumbo jumbo that I can probably just read verbatim inside the closest elementary school library, on a stock-imaged-rainbow motivational poster.
Like today, someone told me I only live once so I shouldn’t stress out.
Wow. How do I respond to such constructive advice? I guess I should’ve said, “Oh god, thank you. Because that totally alleviates and solves all of my problems and does all of my work for me. I shouldn’t stress or vent or feel any anxiety at all because you’ve finalized the idea that I could die tomorrow and I was completely unaware of that fact until now.”
I know that life is short, that I could stop breathing suddenly or croak in a freak accident, surrendering to the idea that I’d be inevitably forgotten generations from now.
I know that you should technically “live in the moment” because that’s all we really own right? Live and appreciate this exact moment because this is the only time it will ever, ever exist?
I know I shouldn’t stress out. It’s bad for your head, your heart, and your overall interactions with other people. But slapping a fake smile on has the same aftereffects.
I know I must sound like the biggest bitch of the west right now, but that’s reality—in this moment.
When I laugh or poke fun at people who spit these meaningless phrases at me, it’s not because i’m a pessimist and I disagree with it. It’s because I’m a realist, and the steps to reaching this supposed “nirvana” is, for an ironic lack of an original phrase, easier said than done.
“We are all dealing with shit of different levels of frustration and annoyance and sorrow. Doesn’t make it any less valid, unless you’re a narcissistic asshole who has no sense of perspective, which you are not.” —My boss, to me.
Without a grain of sarcasm, this lifted my overall esteem. (AKA, hooray! My boss doesn’t think I’m a tool!)
. . . Researching car insurance policies for the state of California. This blows. Really, really hard.
I’m still wrangling all of this car stuff that’s decided to reign my bank account and time into smithereens.
Still on my to-do list before my “arraignment” in July: (They actually wrote “arraignment” on a letter and I’m supposed to plead guilty or not guilty. Whatthefuck!)
If you’ve ever wondered where I go when I’m stressed out, I go there.
In other news, the roomies and I just started season 3 of Breaking Bad. If you’ve never watched Breaking Bad, I feel sorry for you, and you should go watch the first season right this second. Or don’t. Whatev. I really don’t feel sorry for you. But I do believe it’s a fantastic show.
I spent an hour and a half this morning at the Santa Monica DMV, attempting to tackle the two citations I received last month. Yeah, I can feel how jealous you all are.
As much as I loathe that place, I do regret not getting a chance to thank the DMV worker who was helping me for a good hour. I’m sure my incompetence toward vehicle titles, vehicle value, and smog tests straight baffled her. But she handled my questions and wrongly filled-out documents with patience and poise.
It really freakin’ bothers me that I didn’t say “thank you.” I didn’t know she would get up from her desk while I got my license picture taken. And I’m not sure why this is bothering me more than it should. She helped me tremendously and I didn’t even catch her name.
Is it weird that little things, like forgetting to say “thank you” or worrying that someone’s first impression of you is off, irks me the most?
Anyways, if you ever read this, kind, knowledgeable, and sassy DMV-lady, I owe you a batch of cupcakes.
I daydream about 15-20% of my day. Mostly during my morning commute, which I understand is uber-dangerous, but other than work stuff, world hunger, impending sin, and how I wish I had “I Hear A Symphony” by The Supremes on my iPod, there isn’t really anything else to think about other than things I wish I could do, places I’d love to travel to, and things I’d like to buy.
This post will be about the latter. And only a handful (I call things I list in fives a “handful”) of the bajillion things I’d do with a million buckaroos (or maybe just $500):
1. USB Typewriter. How effing cool is this? Of course, this would mean I would need an iPad to go with it. Totally besides the point, though.
2. Unofficial Arrested Development pint glasses. How could I not need this?
3. A Battlestar Galactica Ring. Even though I don’t wear rings at all. I’d wear it around my neck, or something. So say we all!
4. Harry Potter flask. My last flask was taken away from me. It was only worth $10>, but still, parting was such sweet sorrow, especially when you’re being escorted/kicked out of a shady bar in downtown L.A. that you didn’t even want to go into in the first place. A Polyjuice Potion flask would make my dreams come true.
5. Concert tickets. I just signed up for Songkick to track all the shows I want to go to, and it’s just made me tear up because I feel so, so poor.
Writing a note at 12:21 a.m. to someone who will never read it isn’t really my style. (Unless it’s during an impromptu therapy session and the letter is to myself five years from now. But until that time comes . . .)
My irked level is off the charts right now, thanks to the lovely neighbors above me.
So I’ll make an exception.
Dear person who lives in Rm 201,
Merry Christmas, you son of a gun. Oh, is it not Christmas Eve? Then why the hell are you watching Love Actually right now, at 12:23 a.m., on a Thursday night in May? And don’t deny it. I can hear Billy Mack singing about his magical fingers and toes through the thin ceiling. I can also hear the sadness in Sam’s voice, as he contemplates unrequited love for the first time. I have the same amount of saturated sadness housed within myself, since I’m just now realizing that I’ve seen that movie enough times to pinpoint the exact scene you’re watching.
You’re pushing me to reevaluate my life choices. And I haven’t got the energy, time, or patience to dive into deep thought right now.
Although, this is a step up from you blasting “Sweet Child o’ Mine” and Boston at one in the morning. Have you beaten your best score in Guitar Hero yet? You’ll hit Expert in no time, you bloody bastard.
Or maybe I can borrow your lovely clogs. Your moves must be fire, what with you Gregory Haines-ing it up all the time. Yeah, I just verbified Gregory Haines. And yeah, I did just make up the word “verbify.”
Oh sweet, now it’s the lake scene with Colin Firth. Did it ever bother you that the chick he was pining over had a super-duper tramp stamp? Or that they used music from The Sims for this moment and called it sound design? Because that has always annoyed me, and I should not be wasting thoughts on this right now. Not ever, really.
I truly hope that one day you’re stuck in an elevator with the person who lives in the apartment to the left of me. And that he or she traps you with bad Linkin Park covers and Simple Plan late-night karaoke.
Only then will you be welcomed to my personal Hell.
With lots of crazy swearing and middle fingers,
Mel from Rm. 101
oh mel, gee . . . 