Wow.

So I bought a new bike. He's a hybrid that's road-bikey enough to go fast on pavement with little effort and be lightweight enough to transport, but mountain-bikey enough to make me happy. His frame is nice and beefy, too, which is what caused me to name him Thor.

Which means I have been biking to work. At three miles one way with only two hills, it's not that bad of a trip. Takes about twenty minutes. The only thing I really have to complain about after 12 miles in two days is how fucking saddle-sore I am.

I've had sunburns so bad I couldn't wear bras, and allergic reactions to fabric softener so bad I couldn't wear shirts, but I have never-- and considering some of my stranger antics, this is genuinely saying something-- never had a bruise so bad I couldn't wear underwear. Thor appears to be a tough lover, and anyone who makes a joke about his hammer will be sacked (a phrase I have chosen purely for Brandon's benefit.)

The funniest thing about this post is the ego.

Theory.

If I am less funny, boys will consequently be less attracted to me.

Problem.

I have no idea how to go about being less funny.

Fuck.

Yo yo yo yo yo yo yo I killed the rock rock rock rock rock

Daryl and I have concluded that I get to do whatever I want, and other people are just forced to go along with it. For example:

When I switched to dispatch last semester, I was given a new badge number randomly, and I sulked for a long time. When I switched back to patrol, I proceeded to throw a fit until they gave me my old number back. Bossman Prime is never going to let me live it down, ("'It's a palindrome!' is not a reason, Wren.") and Tom keeps making "you just want to be under me" jokes, but I wanted my old number back, damnit!

Today, Mother Goose (my new name for an old bossman, see here) decided that Daryl was to spend all eight hours in the office dispatching. I decided he was wrong. We proceeded to "compromise," and as a result he has spent one hour in the office dispatching. I'm sorry, but learning buildings are more important.

And now, I eat sushi.

i have a mortar board sunburn.

I graduated yesterday. Barefoot.

Things Wren is no longer allowed to do at the apartment:

1) Answer the door wearing only a towel and brushing teeth and proceed to have a conversation like all is normal. Thirty-something upstairs neighbor-dad can only pretend not to be freaked out for so long.

Someone in the apartmet complex doesn't understand why their network should really have a password assigned to it.

Taking a break from getting the apartment set up, because otherwise I might die. I want to be completely moved out by tonight so tomorrow and Monday I can do a lot of house cleaning. Well, tomorrow, because Monday the internet people are coming, and I am having my TV moved. (There is no way in HELL I am doing that on my own ever again. Too many people I know have lost too much skin.)

My room already looks amazing. Fam and Unc are sure to hate it when they come in.

Crap, I need to get showered/dressed, because Maddo's family has offered to take me out to dinner. I want to nap, but they are going to a Japanese restaurant, and I would love some agedashi tofu. Been craving it for weeks.

Alright, this post had no point. I'm not dead, guys.

I, what, but...bzuh?

I just finished my last final. My major and minor are officially done. All that's left to do is take the grad school prereq and my advanced fiction writing course this summer, and I am all ready to become a graduate student.

Two things are running through my head right now:
1) I am done with science classes for the foreseeable future.
2) OMG MUSTMOVEOUTNOW.

All you need to know about graduation:

1) They misspelled my name on the programs. I am now "Renn Williams."
2) My family isn't showing up until Sunday morning, one hour before Commencement.

It's been an interesting day.

I've been propositioned for sex twice in six hours.

What happens when you discuss drugs with a disapproving Wren

Mike: you are probably all shaking your head at me
Wren: not really
Mike: it's what you usually do though
Wren: that's just your paranoia talking
Mike: seems like you get into mommy mode when i talk of doing bad things :P
Wren: sod off.
Mike: the brits are rubbing off on you
Wren: I like it when they rub off on me.
Mike: ewww
Wren: I love me.
Mike: no. that line was just gross
Wren: you're the one who read into it.
Mike: you definitely didn't mean that to be harmless
Mike: you intended to be very harmful and awful!
Wren: ^-^
Wren: semen: my anti-drug.
Wren: *runs awaaaaay*
Mike: aghahgashgalsghasdflgk
Mike: I HATE YOu*

*that lowercase u was when his brain snapped, I think.

How to have my day in several steps

1) Write this into your final paper:

When Beowulf first plans to meet Grendel in combat, he goes into graphic detail regarding the violent and painful nature of his own death, should he fail:

Nor need'st thou then

to hide my head; for his I shall be,

dyed in gore, if death must take me;

and my blood-covered body he'll bear as prey,

ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely,

with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen;

no further for me need'st food prepare! (446-452)

Beowulf is well aware that should he die, it will likely be painful, but he seems perfectly sanguine about this (literally, perhaps), and even seems to have a sense of humor concerning the entire ordeal.

2) Hear this from Daryl:

"I'm sorry, I just can't see you as a stripper! You look too classy!"

3) Get into a fight with a drunk girl at work:

"Security, this is Wren."
"Um, hi. I need to be let into my room."
"What's your name?"
"Um, [First name]."
"And your last name?"
"Um, [Last name]."
"Can you spell that?"
"Um, [zkfbadslfbasllmumble]."
"...And where are you locked out of?"
"I don't remember the room number, but I live in [dorm.]"
"...Hold please."
*Computer tells me she lives in a completely different dorm than she wants let into. She is informed I am talking to my boss to try and see if there is any way we can figure out where she belongs. She's on hold a grand total of two minutes before she hangs up and calls back.*

"Security, this is Wren..."
"Hi, I REALLY need to be let into my room."
"I know, and getting you in there would be a lot easier if you could actually remember your room number. I'm putting you back on hold."

Luckily, then my boss showed up to save the day and dealt with her himself.

Oh, indeed.

Maddo: “Your sandwich is so gross.”

Wren: “Shut up. You're the one with Sex Stomach.”

Maddo: “You just wish you had Sex Stomach.”

Wren: “No, I just wish I had sex.”

Maddo: “That's the general idea. If you don't have Sex Stomach, you were doing it wrong.”

Wren: “Maddo, we've had this conversation. I know all about post-sex hurt. You're talking to the Queen Bee of Masochism.”

Maddo: “...ew. Bees.”

This is your brain on grave shift.

I is a human
they not a human
I has a food
om nom nom nom!

(The rats were bitching about being hungry.)

The worst feeling in the world is waking up right before your alarm at 3AM.

The second worst feeling* in the world is accidentally taking a big swig from a mug of recently-cold tea at 3:25 AM.

*This is, of course, excluding such feelings as labor, being stabbed in the gut, or breaking one's fingers in an automatic gate.