1) Drink no soda for 365 days.
2) Lose fifteen pounds. (It's like math. If 1), then 2)...)
3) Actually finish a story I start.
4) Graduate.5) Claw someone with my nails. No, bad Wren!
::EDIT::
6) Stop buying things I don't need. Am not rich in manner of snobby uncle.
Feel like am dying. No homework today. Can't move, sit upright, write , or type. Perhaps I should just nap in the shower.
Put list of make-up work I have left to do in sidebar to encourage me to work on it. I think it may have been a little counter-productive, because now I am just overwhelmed. Which may also be a good thing, since it will encourage me to work.
Right then. Geology labs it is.
If you are angry at me, there are ways of going about it. Randomly losing an entire toenail and portions of two others is not what I would call either mature or subtle. I know you're pissed that you always feel like your toes are curled. Trust me, I am too.
But it is not my fault.
Also, your ploy didn't work. My foot may look kinda nasty, but I didn't feel a thing.
No love,
Wren's brain, which has quite enough on its mind already, thanks
Five hours later, you wake up with amazing body... and the sudden urge to
I have met a girl that makes MiniFam seem polite. In fact, MiniFam may be becoming more polite because of her.
Both of these girls received easily $1k worth of presents at the ripe age of seven. MiniFam loved them all, but all the other brat did was complain about getting "an ugly iPod."
YOU ARE SEVEN. You are lucky you HAVE an iPod! No. You shouldn't have an iPod, because you are going to lose it or break it in about two seconds. Holy crap.
If I am woken up at 7AM to watch two rabid brats tear through paper ever again I am going to maim someone. This family misses the point of this damn holiday, and are creating two of the most spoiled brats ever to terrorize Saint Louis. At least MiniFam knows she is spoiled. Maybe she'll end up all postmodernist like I did.
I AM GOING TO BED.
It is not a good idea to wear a shirt that says "You Have Cholera! :D" to the family Christmas Eve dinner.
Er. Last night apparently re-designed story blog site while under the influence of Ambien.
I really need to stop moving when I take that crap.
Here's my room. First shot is from the basement hallway, through the door. Pictures are huge so you can spy and see details. Yes, I do keep it this clean.
This is my amazing bed. It's a full futon on a queen futon frame, so there is space around the mattress between the frame. I used the bed skirt to fill the gap with shiny crinkly fabric, which looks amazing. Unc once tried to get me a new mattress, and I foamed at the mouth. I love my bed just the way it is, and if you can't figure out exactly why, I am not telling you. XD
The bedspread is handmade, I believe, and cost almost $400. There are currently three tears in it from Spawn and Co. sneaking into my room, which I have every intention of fixing tomorrow while listening to some sort of Medieval music. The pictures above the headboard are the only cool thing Unc has ever gotten me of his own volition. Oh, and those ceiling lights can be dimmed.
On the right side of the room is my bookshelf and the door to the bathroom. The shelf has a few of the several hundred books I have to my name. It also currently has my mother's journal on it. The CD stand to the right with the enormous candle? The pot it's in used to be the home of Cassandra the Orchid. Yay trivia.
I usually leave the door to the bathroom open in my room and keep the one in the hall locked. Makes my room feel less enclosed, and makes listening to music easier when I am in the Epic Shower (tm). A long time ago Rose (Anna) dubbed this the Alice in Wonderland bathroom. I'm short enough to where moving around in it isn't a problem, but I think the ceiling in it is almost a foot shorter than the ceiling in my bedroom.
Here is the door to the Epic Shower. The shower extends on either side of the door to either wall of the bathroom. When the door shuts, it seals off completely, so it can get really steamy in there. The bench you can see on the left has a twin on the right. They are cool, but a little cold (shocking, since it is stone). If I feel like sitting I usually sacrifice a towel. The visible knob is for the left shower head, which feels like a thunderstorm. The one on the right is removable and has like twelve settings. I don't know what Fam was thinking when she built this, but I can guarantee it wasn't about sex. IT'S ALL A COINCIDENCE. V:
Here is the dresser that sits opposite my bed on the same wall as the main door. It makes my clothing smell overwhelmingly of wood, but I am going to attempt to fix that with socks full of baking soda. Fam bought it for me when I whined about not having a closet. I still cannot decide how I feel about its existence, but it matches the room. The topmost decoration is the infamous calligraphy set. Below it is a pot that used to have a plant in it. :( Below that is a dragon candle I've had since eighth grade whose head is slightly melted. Below that? Three-wick candle. Below that is my Crying Buddha statue, below that some Chinese Dragon china, and the bottom is a big vase that I used to put orchids in.
The pillows in the corner are what remains of my enormous collection (thank you Spawn and Co. -.-) that I used to keep around for maximum Sex Rug floppage. The Sex Rug is currently awaiting me to freak out and clean it, and is not yet on display in the room. Despite its name, there are cosmic laws against sex ever actually being had on it. (Ever tried to clean bodily fluids off leather? Sorry, but it has to be said.)
Opposite the bookshelf is my stereo system and the shelf I am using for an impromptu desk, plus Toby the Tuxedo Tiger, but I forgot to get a picture and am now too tired to do so.
Made rather painful decision upon coming back to Saint Louis and seeing how immaculate my room was. (I have taken to calling my room the Wren Museum. I'll explain later.) Apparently [stripper girlfriend who is as old as I am] busted her ass to get it clean and ready for me. There is not a speck of dust in sight, and all my candleholders have fresh candles.
So, she is now simply [girlfriend]. It is clear she's trying to be nice, and I really can't justify being a bitch for no reason. I may not respect her, but if I were mean to everyone I didn't respect...well. I'd run out of venom.
Unc is being his normal self. He gave me the requisite hug, handed me car keys and $100, and called it a day. As long as he keeps giving me money, this will not be an issue. >> I was also invited to eat dinners with them every night by [girlfriend], which is an enormous step up from last year.
Went through my room today while unpacking in the hopes that a clean and moved-in room will cause me to do homework more efficiently. While sorting through all the old body wash in my bathroom, I stumbled across a large box with a clasp. Opened clasp, discovered High School Me's Nailpolish Stash(tm). After much squeeing and accidental brain cell murder, I had them all reconstituted, and now have a veritable rainbow of colors to choose from for my nails. They are all lined up in a row by shade behind my sink now. Just seeing them makes me ache for nailpolish remover.
I think I'll take pictures of my living quarters and post them later, since none of you have ever seen my bedroom here.
Last night I apparently decided it was a good idea to nailpolish a huge orange flower onto one of my suitcases.
I'll certainly be able to find it at baggage claim, anyway.
I hit on my hot professor today. In front of the entire class. D:
We had our final at noon. Otto and I went to the room at about 11:35 to get settled in. Oddly enough, we were the first ones there. I desperately wanted to get on my laptop and surf the web for a little while to let my brain unwind before the exam, but the only electrical outlet is at the front of the room, behind the professor's desk. Like that is going to stop me!
"He is going to be so flustered when he walks in and finds you in his chair, Wren," notes Otto, which is probably what I can safely blame the rest of this fiasco on. I set my laptop on the desk, place my cappuccino beside it, then get out a bunch of papers and spread them across all the rest of the empty space. As a final touch, I open up iTunes and start blasting some music.
"You're my obsession," says Animotion.
"You're insane," says a scruffy classmate as he walks in.
Students are walking by in the hall, slowing down, and going o.o .
Other classmates start filing in and giggling. I wave and smile jauntily. Some of them begin wondering if the professor would let us listen to music during the final. Others suggest other bad 80s songs to play. My favorites begin dancing in their chairs.
It is now 11:58, and Corey Hart is elucidating why he wears his sunglasses at night. The professor walks in at his normal brisk pace, sees me, and stops cold.
"Hi!" I smile.
"Hello, Wren..." He approaches the desk tremulously.
"Trade ya." The words slipped out of my mouth before I knew what was happening.
He blinks. "You want me to sit at your desk?"
"Yeah, actually. I really have no intention of moving."
He glances at the desk, then back at me. Several people in the class begin giggling hysterically.
"But I want to grade papers. I'm not sure I'd have enough room at your desk."
"Welcome to our world." The class begins to giggle harder. The professor is grinning bemusedly.
"Wren."
"Okay, fine. Can we at least keep the music on?"
"No. That wouldn't be fair to everyone else."
"Actually, it was their idea." One of the guys in the back of the room is now crying.
"Okay. It wouldn't be fair to me. I think I wouldn't be able to grade papers."
"I think the beat might help you get a good rhythm going."
He gives me a look.
"Okayyy, fine." I kill the music and slump off to my chair, pouting. (Oh God I pouted at my professor!)
He rallies valiantly and attempts to get a semblance of control over the class. He explains the basics of the final and then asks if anyone has a question. I raise my hand.
"Yes, Wren?"
"Can I steal you for a few seconds before the final?"
"Can you what?" The giggling resumes.
"Steal you."
"You want to talk to me."
"Yes."
"In the hall?"
"That would be preferable, yes."
"Okay, let me hand some stuff out."
He does so. Several of my classmates are too busy staring at me to hand out papers effectively. He finishes up, and looks at me.
"So we're talking now."
"Yes."
"Okay. I am walking towards the door." He begins to do so. Tears resume from the boy in the back row.
"Excellent." I get up and get to the door. Professor does an about-face.
"Wait, let me hand something else out first."
I hover in the doorway with my back against the doorframe and wait for him to finish. When he turns back toward me, I roll around the doorframe and into the hall.
I roll around the doorframe and into the hall.
He joins me, and we discuss whether or not I should take the final. We conclude no, pick a date to do so, and finish up the paperwork. I ask him for his signature and suggest we go back into the class where he can sign it at his precious desk.
"No, I'll just do it out here." Instead of using a wall, he kneels down on the floor.
So there I am, staring at my professor, who is down on one knee in front of me with paperwork in hand. A student walks down the hall, sees this, and gazes at me with great interest. I resist the urge to remove his spine.
Paperwork now signed, I give the professor his copy. We wish each other a good break and he flees for the classroom. "Thanks for the card," I hear him mumble. (I had sent all my professors thank-you notes for being so reasonable with my incompletes.)
I slink in a few seconds later, gather my stuff, and head for the hall. As soon as I leave the building, I call Maddo and explain that she is under no circumstances allowed to let me outdoors for the remainder of the day.
Otto called me later and told me I couldn't possibly have disrupted the class any more. For once, I am inclined to agree.
Saturday is going to be a disaster.
Unc's stupid twat of a receptionist booked the wrong flight for me home, so I will now be flying from Seattle to fucking Dallas/Fort Worth before heading in to Saint Louis. To make matters worse, I have just been informed that neither of them will be picking me up at the airport.
MiniFam will "be asleep," and Unc will be "out with [stripper who is as old as I am.]"
Nice to see you guys, too.
I have a final at noon today, and another one at noon tomorrow. I woke up at 8AM to study for this one in the confines of our lovely cafe (♫ which has a heated floor ♪ ...), and have since made a terrible discovery.
My brain seems to be full.
How am I supposed to be able to do well on this final and take one more if my BRAIN is full? It's not like a hard disc. There are no tools for me to run that compress old files and delete all the temp files. In any case, I have a feeling deleting all the temporary files would be counterproductive, since I highly doubt any of this material has made it through the cobweb-ridden detrital labyrinth that is my memory to find a free niche to set up shop.
Right now all I want to do is get on the plane, collapse akimbo all over a seat, and watch my newly remastered copy of The Last Unicorn.
So they think they know what is wrong with me.
The current theory is that this is another fibro flare-up, similar to my hands, and the resulting pain has caused me to tear a muscle in my stomach. So, we get rid of the pain, and the muscle gets to heal. They're planning on sending me to a pain clinic to receive trigger point therapy, and hopefully everything else will right itself.
::EDIT::
Fam: "How did you tear a muscle in your stomach?"
My Inner Brat: "Sex."
My Wiser Self: "I have no idea."
No, really, I have no idea. It certainly wasn't sex. =(
Head over to LJ for the thank-you post. You might also want to check out the actual flickr page, because there are more photos than I actually posted in the community.
No, I am NOT too lazy to link here, but I AM in the middle of finals. XP*
Attempting to blog this before the Ambien sets in full.
Wren: I'm going to take a shower. After taking Ambien.
Sarah: ...are you going to be alright?
Wren: Yeah, should be fine. I'll hallucinate, but I won't pass out in the shower or anything.
Sarah: ...give me a time frame.
Wren: 30 minutes?
Sarah: Okay, if you're not out in 30 minutes I am sending in a squat team.
Wren: ....a what now?
Sarah: SWAT! SWAT! SWAT TEAM!
1)
Squeaker: I hate the world today
Maddo: I know. You need something happy. Do something amazing in your one-hour breaks
Squeaker: Sorry, I don't believe sex should only last one hour
Maddo: hehehe! at least you still have your wit
Squeaker: Yah, I think you guys will never be free of that. I will be the most sarcastic Alzheimer's patient ever seen.
Maddo: awesome
2)
Squeaker: HAAHAHAHAHA: "Anyone know how/when the golf cart was side swiped. There are several deep scratches on the driver’s side to the rear of the seat."
Squeaker: Oh, Big Boss.
Maddo: tell him godzilla attacked it
Squeaker: I'd love to.
Maddo: that would be amazing
Squeaker: He'd kill me with EYEBEAMS
Squeaker: He's really Mothra
Maddo: lmao
Maddo: blog!
3)
Squeaker: You know, I should have been a poet. Everyone with a sickly constitution was a successful poet.
Maddo: just don't end up with your head in an oven dear
Squeaker: If I were a successful poet, it would be too swelled to fit.
Maddo: you should be like... a movie critic
Maddo: everyone would love your criticisms
Squeaker: "This movie would only be improved by the addition of a pack of rabid dogs which had the ability to go back in time and eat all the actors."
Maddo: exactly!
Squeaker: Hmmmm.
Squeaker: But I hate movies.
Maddo: you do not hate movies
Maddo: you just hate bad movies
Maddo: but being able to destroy them with your witty criticisms would make it all better
Maddo: you could be like Ego, from Ratatouille
Squeaker: hmmmm. How does one GET that job? I highly doubt it pays the bills either
Maddo: it does it you're roger ebert
Have discovered downside to Unbreakable Fingernails. Kevlar does not coat entire hand. Soft tissues now in significant danger of having nails ripped off them.
Alternately, I have gone insane.
For the past few days I have been having a problem. My nails are getting rather long, and it has been making doing simple things difficult. For example, typing. Typing hurts after a while. Also, earlier today I was unable to open a Ziplock bag. Twice. Usually I don't have this problem with long nails, because my nails are stronger than most people's. They don't break, really. Instead, they shatter, and nail shrapnel goes flying and embeds itself within soft tissues in a five foot radius. When I used to swordfight in high school, the wrong blow ensured everyone involved would be left a bloody pincushion. The last time one broke, during field work on this semester's research trip, I believe it killed a clam.
Needless to say, I am not used to having problems with my nails. Then again, it has been a very long time since my nails were quite this long.
So how did I deal with this issue? Did I, perhaps, trim my nails? Oh no. Did I purchase a minion to follow me around and do all my opening and writing for me? Oh no (but not for lack of trying!)
Did I coat them in fucking Kevlar and rhinestones and go on about my business?
Bingo.
Lilith really needs to learn how to share. Poor, unsuspecting S.T.
This post is really so I can test out Flickr's photoblogging system.
I really wish I were asleep.
Neo was laid to rest today in the campus Arboretum, under a Western Red Cedar. He was buried with his favorite wood shelf, chew chain, and hammock. His headstone is a granite boulder large enough to cover the entire grave and prevent tampering. In attendance were the entirety of Comic House, the friend who brought him to us, and his original owner from the psych lab. The entire ceremony, from digging to me crying, went off without issue or busybody interference.
We'll miss you, little guy.
Taken cold, with no studying beyond familiarizing myself with question types:
Math: 510/800
Verbal: 640/800
Writing: TBD
Both are passing scores and high enough on the bell curve to satisfy me. I'm not proud, but I'm not going to drop another $200 to try again, either.
So, I had yet another test today. Go to the hospital, check in, get robed, get on the X-ray table. I'm supposed to drink some liquid contrast and let them take periodic X-rays of me until it has traveled all through my digestive system. Alright, peachy.
Nurse hands me the first cup of contrast. It looks exactly like semi-gloss eggshell wall paint. "Am I going to have brain cells left over after this?" I enquire.
"In theory, yes. Also, the faster you drink that, the sooner you get out of here."
Right then. As she turns her back, I turn the cup bottoms up and just down it all in one go. Three seconds later, there are 16oz of white paint sitting heavily in my tummy, which is preparing to write another round of angry e-mails insisting it was not informed the contractors would be redecorating as well as examining the structural soundness, and I have a coating of white goo on my tongue and lips.
"May I have a napkin?"
"Sure, hon!" The nurse heads over, hands me a towel, and grabs hold of the cup. There is a pause as she realises it is empty.
"Holy shit." There is a pregnant pause. She stares at me, all agog, and I smile back demurely.
"I have never seen anyone drink this that fast." She continues to stare at me like I am a mutant, and Maddo wisely keeps mum about the whole no gag-reflex thing. "I haven't even made the next dose!"
"Well, you did say this would go by faster."
"....right."
XD
I was informed today that both Fam and Unc will be out of town on Christmas Eve and Day, meaning I will be spending the holiday at home alone.
So, the results of the latest tests are in. Apparently my intestines look 100% normal.
Which means we've run out of tests to do, and they still have no idea what's wrong. Unless one of my biopsies (which felt LOVELY, let me tell you) comes back with some sort of result, we're back on square one.
I have no idea what to do about my classes.
I have found the one thing on this planet that makes me gag when it touches my tongue.
And I have 1.7 liters of it left to choke down.
(A continuation of this post.)
Brain:
I swear, if I make it out of this alive, I am climbing up our esophagus and ripping you out of that skull of yours.
Stomach:
Quit your pansy-ass whining, or I'll drink this shit faster. I'm the one who's suffering here, NOT YOU. You can't SEE the way this stuff won't dissolve Crystal Light. You don't SEE how much of it we still have left to drink.
And Holy Shit. You can't TASTE it. You can't even FATHOM how sickeningly reminiscent this stuff is of wet baby powder, currently flavored with lemons in. You also can't FEEL the way it coats our mouth grittily and then just kind of sliiiiiides down our throat.
All you have to do is channel it on into our intestines. So please. Leave me to wallow in my misery. Or I may snap and kill us both so I don't have to order our hands to pick up the glass and our throat to swallow anymore.
I will be signing out of my e-mail account until further notice. Please do not try to contact me, as I have every intention of being comatose on the floor under a blanket.
The Brain.
My new phone tells me whenever I have e-mail. This means that, no matter where I go, I am now one with my inbox. It's at once comforting, daunting, and embarrassing that it is so clear I am a child of the information age. I mean really--does it have to be that obvious?
In other news, my stomach has been speaking to me for the first time in a month. Our exchange has been going something like this:
Dear Brain:
I've noticed a sudden lapse in food being sent down my way. What gives? Did someone beat you with a copy of Skinny Bitch or something? I'm all for self-improvement, but what you're doing here is war.
Please remedy this situation as soon as possible, or I will be contacting the proper authorities.
Regards,
Stomach.
Dear Stomach:
I must admit to being rather surprised at hearing from you at all. As far as I or the people at payroll are concerned, you have been AWOL for nearly a month now. I've been having to decide whether or not to feed this body arbitrarily, with absolutely no cues from you! What a disaster. And now you simply show back up and expect me to cave to your petty demands just because I am under orders to feed you nothing but broth and Jell-O until our friends the intestines finish being violated by a long, narrow camera with a hooky bit at the end?
Unacceptable. Do me a favor-for once- and go back to doing what you spent the past month on. Nothing! How hard can that be?
Sincerely,
The Brain.
Brain:
Look. You and I both know this broth sucks. Know why? Because it's chicken, and fat, and seasonings, MINUS THE CHICKEN AND THE FAT, AND THE SEASONINGS. You even gave me the low sodium kind! Which means that it smells like chicken, delectable, filling, nummy chicken, but there's not actually anything there to digest! You are basically filling me with chicken-flavored water and you expect me to be happy about this! What is it you DO up there in that skull all day? Huff glue?
Ooooh. You know what, though? It smells yummy. Reminds me of stuffing. A huge bowl of fluffy, moist stuffing just waiting to be fluffed with a fork and rammed into our body's slavering jaws. C'mon. Be a pal and eat that instead.
Ta!
Stomach
Stomach:
Look, you're just hurting us both here. I love stuffing just as much as you do, possibly more, since I am capable of enjoying the aesthetics of a dish far more than the organ that receives its masticated remains.
Unfortunately, the intestines have been feeling under the weather, and that means everyone is going to have to deal with some discomfort. Remember getting that camera rammed into you last week? Well, now it's their turn. Yes, I am aware that this is unfair to you, especially since I get to be asleep for the whole thing again However, I think you would be making us all a lot less miserable IF YOU WOULD STOP FUCKING TALKING TO ME ABOUT FOOD I SWEAR I WILL STAB YOU IN THE E-
Ahem.
Eat your Goddamn Jell-O. I made the extra-jiggy kind just for you, since it is better at masquerading as a solid food.
Adieu!
The Brain
Brain:
Love,
Stomach
Stomach:
It is now 6:30 AM. It is time for me to drink 8OZ of electrolyte fluid every ten minutes until I have choked down a gallon of it. Sources say it will take five hours. Want to feel full, bitch?
WELL GOOD, BECAUSE NOW'S THE TIME.
Fuck off,
The Brain.
Dear Brain:
Let's not be too hasty. Perhaps we can talk about this!
Sincerely, oh God, so very sincerely,
The Stomach.
NOTE TO SELF: Update this banner.
