Daydream Believer

For the past few weeks I have been feeling constantly on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. In fact, when I am in class and feeling particularly stressed, I imagine the various ways in which it could happen. Here is what i have come up with thus far:


(The Mild Ones)
Scenario One:
I am sitting in class when I suddenly (but subtly) faint and fall off my chair. Nobody sees me fall, but they hear the "thunk" as I hit the floor, cracking my head open and gushing blood everywhere. Everyone is terribly worried.

Scenario Two:
I am sitting down in class when I begin to feel dizzy and nauseous. I get up, intending to go outside for fresh air, but end up running to the garbage can to vomit. I press the back of my hand to my forehead and faint dramatically.

(The Not-So Mild Ones)
Scenario Three:
I get so suddenly and violently fed-up that I start swearing, screaming, and flipping over desks. I then run out of class and into traffic, where I fling myself onto the windshield of a passing car.

Scenario Four:
I am given back a test/major project only to see that I have failed. I rip up the test/project, begin bawling and trying to explain all the stress I'm under to the teacher and class, and then run out of class and down the street until I pass out... that last bit was stolen from a friend.

At the end of each I end up in the hospital.
I guess the theme of these little daydreams is that, in the end, everyone understands the stress I'm under and thinks twice about giving me three major assignments at one time...*Thorpe*. I know it's lame and oh-so kindergarten-passive-aggressive-note-to-mommy-and-daddy-telling-them-I'll-run-away-if-I-have-to-do-any-more-chores, but I'm just getting fed up, and the lack of sleep/proper nutrition I've experienced lately has really been getting to me. Not to mention some particularly raging horomones that have caused me to cry at the drop of a hat... But enough about my teenage emotions. There are baby bunnies living on my lawn!

I Am Surrounded by the Follies of My Own Gender

I have not blogged for awhile.
But I will not apologize. Because to apologize would be to imply that people are relying on me, which they are not. I will not over-estimate the importance of my blog, as so many delusional people do.
I will apologize for something, though; I am sorry that I used "blog" as a verb.

I realized something today, and I think you ought to know what it is. Not that you are relying on this information or anything, but if you happen to be paying attention, you should find this information of worth.
What I realized is that women who say that all men are the same are idiots. Plain and simple.
Firstly, the statement is a gross exaggeration - has the speaker had experience with all men? I think not. And if she did manage such a feat, she would have to be a bit of a tramp, and most likely would not have trustworthy judgement, don't you think?
Women who claim that all men are the same have simply had perhaps a handful of bad relationship experiences, and are feeling down in the dumps. And in said dumps, they comfort themselves by thinking about every awful quality that ever was present in a man. This helps them to boost their self-esteem, and ignore the fact that part of the problem may have been them.

How can a woman say that all men are the same? Can you compare your garden variety suburban drug addict to an earnest youth worker? Not without disproving the bulk of your theory. Here is what you are likely to find when comparing varying men:

1. (Straight) men like women. Especially certain bodyparts.
2. Men are likely to think about these bodyparts for a good part of their day.
3. Men are often confused by women.
4. Men are sometimes made nervous by women.
5. Men may lie or exaggerate in order to try and win the favour of women they are attracted to.
6. Sometimes men don't know the right answer to the question a woman is asking, and may accidentally say something the woman doesn't like.
7. Men, like women, make mistakes.

Can we blame men if they occasionally give us an answer we don't like? Is it right to criticze them for telling us honestly that our hair looks dumb that way, or, yes, we do look fat in that dress? Is it our duty to hold a grudge for a week if they are a half hour late for dinner?
If we are upset by these things, it is because of several qualities common amongst women:

1. High maintenance
2. High standards
3. Obsession with mind games
4. The need to be lied to

Men are very drama-free. They lay things out flat on the table, and can become upset and ununderstanding when women expect the things in shining paper and a great big bow. This causes arguments, which cause tears and break-ups and other horrible things.
Some men are jerks.
Some women are sluts.
The world still turns.

I, myself, have very little experience with men. Most of my experience has been with boys, in fact. But from that experience I have learned the value of good judgement. I look for a smart man who reads good books, enjoys the films of Alfred Hitchcock, and has a deep hatred of most North Americans.
How can I go wrong with that?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T (Means Dry Faces).

I realized that my last blog was kind of personal, and did not follow my theme of having some kind of message, or story that might be interesting to others. Sorry.
On a contradictory note, a three year-old spat on my face the other day at work. And I found out that neither Chapters or The Oakville Centre for the Performing Arts is hiring. Life is a bitch.

Welly welly well,
On another, more depressing topic, I visited my grandma in the hospital today. She is in with a broken wrist, and may require surgery in weeks to come. I told her I would pray for her, but I forgot. I don't know that it would count, either way.
Across the room (though only separated by about a foot, the darned room was so small) was a very old and sickly-looking woman being visited by an old man. They were speaking what I believe was Italian, which I realized must come in handy in a hospital - to speak another language, that is. It would be such a relief to be able to have a conversation in a room with three other patients and not have to worry about privacy. Although, keeping bodily functions private did not seem to be this woman's priority; she belched like you would not believe. She sounded as though she was about to be sick, and I thought I might be, too. Poor old thing, though, perhaps she had uncontrollable stomach issues.

I'd like to grow old, but keep my dignity. I figure I am owed this, as I have learned that it is impossible to give birth and be left with any. I will spare you all the horrifying details, but know this; if childbirth is a miracle, God is a sadist.
Oh! Speaking of birth, I came up with a short story idea about a sperm bank, and two nurses running an under-the-counter operation selling sperm to women who want their children to have better qualities than their husbands.
Harsh, right?
Do you know what else is harsh?
having a three year-old spit on your face.

Get used to it.

no leaders, please

I don't think I can work in one place for too long. I need to change. I need for my place of work to change.
The YMCA does not do this for me. What it does do is force me to supervise the same weekly program for the same bratty kids. And since I go to work after school, it prevents me from sneaking in an episode of Dexter before my father, who does not approve of me watching such things, gets home.
All work and no Dexter makes Laura hit children.

(Just kidding)

Working at the YMCA makes me miss my previous place of work, the privately owned Encore Theatre. There I experienced real variation. I miss it.

I miss learning that there were energy pills hidden in the ceiling upstairs.
I miss experimenting with slushie-pop mixes when no one was looking
I miss hearing stories of mice who peacefully and patiently observed the employees.
I miss hearing a grown man scream as mice ran out from under the dumpster out back.
I miss the life-sized cutout of Barack Obama.
I miss singing.
I miss dancing.
I miss my friends!

The Y is not for me. I am not the sporty type, and I find it difficult to befriend those who are. I thought I'd be happier working at Chapters, but I have realized from observing the "Staff Pick" stickers that most of them are romance-crazed females. I wish they were all Steve's.

Or at least the type who hide energy pills in the ceiling.

Hold Your Tongue!

I just wanted to say that I am currently going through my first bad break-up, but am NOT going to go on about it. I just wanted to set an example for any lonely teenagers who may come across this, because I find their blogs a waste of the English language, as well.

Go Back to Your Precious Husband and Child

Do you know what? I only just posted a blog, but going through the blogs of others has fired me up enough to write another one. Maybe they tie a bunch of related blogs together when you click the "Next Blog" button at the top of the screen, but for argument's sake let's pretend they don't.

I clicked that damned button about twenty times, and each blog was about just one thing: BABIES.
I love the fat, vomiting little creatures, I truly do, but if you find them reason enough to dedicate an entire blog to documenting every minute detail of their lives, you should seriously think about picking up a video camera instead. Or perhaps to start scrapbooking.
My point being; KEEP YOUR CHILDREN TO YOURSELF.

Each blog was by middle aged women, either talking about their wonderful children's first words, first steps, first belches, for God's sake! or their own struggle with infertility. Do you know whatI think? I think that blogs should be for the very young, or at least for the not-so-young with lives! I'm sure that children are just the most wonderful thing that can happen to a person, but to become so obsessed with your lovely husband and lovely infants is probably a sign that you should start writing a crappy romance novel. Because you probably read enough of them to know how it's done.

The Holiday

Once in a while you watch a crappy movie, and it makes you cry. And once in a while you watch a pretty decent movie, and it makes you wish you were Julia Child. Is that so wrong?

The crappy movie made reference to is The Holiday, with Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz. Kate Winslet should mean the movie is awesome, but Cameron Diaz kind of overcomes her with crappiness. But Gangs of New York was still awesome, even with Diaz's terrible excuse for an Irish accent. I guess what I'm trying to say is that The Holiday and Julie & Julia are both decent chick flicks, on the rare occasion that that you can watch one without gagging. And Meryl Streep is bitchin'.

Do you know why I cried? Because a sweet little old man went to some thingamajig to be recognized for his writing (I think), and then was surprised when the room was filled with people cheering for him, and his sweet little wrinkled face simply bloomed with joy. God bless the elderly!
I think I have a wee bit of an old man complex, because I have no grandfathers of my own. This complex has no serious effects, it just gives me a strong urge to work at an old folks' home. And dress like I'm from the 20's-50's. And blast Buddy Holly or The Benny Goodman Orchestra when I pass someone elderly in the car. And cry when I see someone elderly smile, laugh, cry, or show any emotion, essentially. Like I said, no serious effects.

I just think we should all appreciate the elderly more than we do. But not the more modern elderly, like the ones who have DVD players (and know how to make them work), or the ones on TV who ride skateboards. I mean the ones who are losing their marbles, and can ramble on for hours about "the good old days". The ones whose children abandon them in homes where they're allowed to shower only twice a week. The ones who are injusticed or in pain, who are seen as "unuseful" by the younger public. I'll basically have to volunteer or work at an old folks' home, dress up all lovely so I can hear them say "Just like girls used to!", investigate the conditions they live in, and totally write a letter to someone... someone important.

I guess I'm just hormonal lately.