Nobody Ever Said I Was A Classy Broad

Here I sit, drinking 2/$8 champagne out of an old Pom Tea glass and eating cheap Hershey's chocolate by myself on a Friday night. I'm wondering... do I actually have to adopt the cats, or will dozens just one day appear in my house? I think one of my roommates may be allergic, so perhaps I should postpone cat-ladyitis and get a temporary social life until I can afford to live alone. Also: I learned to knit a few years ago, and really didn't enjoy it. Is there some other hobby that a future cat-lady such as myself could take up? Like cross-stitch or skeet shooting? Is there a handbook or official rules somewhere? I just want to be prepared.

I've Got An M.D... A WebM.D.

Slate read my last blog and decided I needed some advice. Apparently I'm not a hypochondriac, I'm a cyberchondriac. Yikes.

Whatever. I'm still scared of necrotizing fasciitis. And will be until I get up the nerve to go to the doctor. For a -chondriac, I'm awfully willing to allow my course of treatment to be, "Eh, it'll pass."

Eight-Legged Freak

Hypochondriacs should not be allowed access to Google. This is a fact I've known for years. It gets reiterated to me time and time again, when I notice a potential symptom, hit up WebMD and the like, and convince myself it's fatal.

We just moved into a house that's been vacant for some time, and we've spotted several bugs, ranging from cockroaches to (gulp) spiders. I have a few bites on my calf that are redder, more swollen and more tender than your run-of-the-mill bugbite. I also have no one to restrict my access to the internet. This all adds up to me convincing myself that a brown recluse (common to Georgia, unfortunately) has feasted on my flesh and I'm sure to develop a case of necrotizing fasciitis that only Dr. Gregory House can diagnose. If I'm not long for this world, it's been real.

If my prognosis isn't quite so dire but I have been bitten by a spider, it sure as hell better have been radioactive. I'm not letting my right leg be some arachnid's late night snack without getting some superpowers out of the deal.

Humility

Yesterday I promised a high school journal excerpt years from now, when I've finally gotten over my embarrassment. Well, packing today, I found my middle school journals, and just couldn't wait. Here's a little something for you, moderately edited (because they're my damn journals and I can edit them if I want to). Also, names have been changed because who knows how many of you characters secretly went to my middle school:

June 11, 1998
"Why is life so complicated? It is, really. One day you like one guy, the next day you like another. What's with that? 'Cause yesterday, I only liked Josh, but now I like Anthony. But only now I like them both! I have more of a chance with Anthony, but Lindsay likes him and Josh's SO FINE! But Anthony is really cute and really nice but Josh's SO FUNNY but Anthony's funny and from Texas! We have so much in common! But I'm so much like Josh but I don't know Anthony too well so maybe I'm a lot like him, too. How the hell am I supposed to decide? Oh, yeah, I don't have to. School ends tomorrow. Nothing more. Who am I kidding? Neither of them are gonna ask me out tomorrow. Or even really talk to me. So who cares? I can't do anything about it. I won't ask either of them out. OR even "really talk to them." All I wanna do is go out with ONE of them! And I can't even decide who. 'Cause they're both so cool. And cute. And sweet. And... oh, forget it. It doesn't really matter anymore. Really. It doesn't."

Aaaand scene. So what've we gleaned about 12-year-old Amy from this, class? I made liberal use of the underline, that's for sure. Keep in mind, each of these boys were classmates I'd barely spoken five sentences to over the course of 7th grade. But really, when you get past that and the obvious junior-high descriptors ("so fine!"), is my thought process about boys really all that different at 23? Eh, it doesn't really matter. Really. It doesn't.

P.S. fellow bloggers, feel free to take this as a call to arms and post your own horrifyingly embarrassing diary entries. I won't say it's therapeutic, but it's certainly interesting.

Past Imperfect

I used to want to be famous. When I was very young, I wanted to be a famous singer-- I hadn't yet realized that you have to be good at singing to do so. Later, I wanted to be a famous actress-- that pipe dream kind of petered out during high school theater classes. I've at times wanted to be a famous writer, a famous reporter, a famous figure skater. I don't think I've ever had an ambition to be something that wasn't at least moderately in the public eye.

But tonight, I realized that I really, really do not want to be famous. What brought me to this realization, you ask? I read my high school diary. And if I were to become famous, and it was for some reason published, I do believe I would literally die. If it was published posthumously, I would die again. It's the sort of stuff that would be perfect for Cringe, if it were a little less cringe-worthy. Yikes.

Maybe one day I'll excerpt a bit of it for you. One day far, far from today. Because now, after reading the entire thing, I need to go hide somewhere before I give into my urge to burn the damn fuzzy, leopard-spotted notebook so it will never, ever be exposed to prying eyes.

A Stocking-Feet Game

'Tis the night before Thanksgiving; you can't expect any self-respecting non-professional blogger with minimal readership to write a serious entry today, can you?

I just wanted to stop by and tell you something.

Ahem.

I hate socks.



You heard me. I hate 'em. Hate hate hate. I'm mildly claustrophobic, but I think my feet have a case that is unparalleled in all of Neuroticland. On top of my feet's hatred of being encased in anything (and, to be fair, this includes shoes that aren't flip-flops or my battered Birkenstock clogs), I'm both prone and sensitive to toe-wedgies. You know, when your sock material kind of gets caught between individual toes, and then you start wiggling them to try and free them, only it doesn't work, so you wiggle them harder, but it just gets worse, so you have to rip your shoes off and yank the fabric away from your sensitive, sensitive toes? No? That's just me? Well, okay then. Good to know.

In any case, it's probably good that I hate socks. According to Lauren, my taste in them is deplorable. Every time I'm be-socked at her house (a necessary evil due to her chilly hardwood floors, you see), I hear cries of, "Amy, grow the hell up and get some damned white socks!" Apparently hearts, gingerbread men or my personal favorite, puppies wearing Santa hats, are unacceptable sock decor for adults. Lucky for me, she has yet to see the High School Musical-themed socks with Zac Efron's face on them that Ashleigh gifted me with. She may just kick me out of her house at that point.

My feet resent this cold weather we're having. Sockless, my toes go numb and I fear for their little-piggy lives. I may rip them off violently in my sleep, but socks are the status quo in these chilly winter months.

Hey, at least if an impromptu game of Twister ever breaks out, I'll be ready.