I Hate Everybody and Not Being Able to Stab.

Men are so unreliable. In the interest of not hating, I concede that there must be reliable men somewhere out there but I think they might be a myth because I CERTAINLY HAVE NEVER COME ACROSS ANY. Sorry, it's the whole anger thing again. And I'm not even PMSing so I'm considering going to a therapist or something for all these issues I seem to have.

Although I think I may be justified.
So yesterday I arrived back in Westwood via Southwest Airlines and the Flyaway shuttle, which stops like a mile away from my apartment. A mile filled with dark roads and a cemetery, just so you know. Anyway, my friend [name withheld for protection (my protection, not his, because if this person turns up in the area with mysterious eye wounds I will not be implicated)] was supposed to meet me at the shuttle stop but guess what? He didn't. And so I had to walk by the dark cemetery alone. It's a miracle I didn't get eaten by zombies. Here is a list of what I learned so that hopefully you will also be able to survive in a situation like this.

1. When your friend offers to meet you at the shuttle stop do not accept. Especially if other friends offer you a ride but your friend says "no, I'll get you because we can hang out and catch up after Thanksgiving break" so you say "okay, I'm dumb and will do that instead." And do not think you are being thoughtful by reminding him days in advance of the time you are arriving because this will not matter and he will leave you to the mercy of the zombies anyway.

2. If you pass by a fire station that has a sign proclaiming "SAFE HOUSE" don't get too hopeful because it just means that it's a place where children in danger can be dropped off and not that it's a haven from zombies. And if you stare too longingly at the fire engines that you're hoping are Transformers in disguise and will take you home then passersby will give you strange looks and walk a little more briskly.

3. If you scare all the passersby out of your immediate vicinity then no one will help you lift your fifty pound suitcase over a tall curb.

Eventually my friend got back to school and ran to find me which didn't really help with the anger but did help with the fatigue because he took all my luggage. And then he got all these pitying looks because he looked like a pack mule with all my luggage and all his while I strode briskly and angrily by him empty-handed.



So the moral of the story is that men cannot be trusted. It's actually kind of like a extended metaphor because I'm not too mad about this anymore but I am mad about something else that cannot be so easily explained away with zombies and blurry iPhone pictures. I don't even think I can stab my way out of it. So there is nothing to alleviate the anger and if you find me with my head completely exploded within the next week just rejoice for me because honestly that is probably the best-case scenario at this point.

If You've Ever Wanted to Trap a Man's Love Like it Was a Wounded Bird You Should Read This.

I came home this Thanksgiving to three copies of Women's Health magazine on our washing machine in the garage. I'd forgotten that whenever I order make-up from e.l.f. my purple eyeliner and fuchsia nail polish come with a complimentary subscription to this magazine. Usually I don't mind reading about how to "BURN MORE FAT!" or "Eat, Drink & Still Shrink!" while eating cookies in a comfortable chair, but today I came across an article that reminded me of why I don't actually pay for these things.

The first red flag? The article is entitled "Lock Down His Love." I mean, they're not even trying to put up a dignified front anymore (there's also a sub-heading called "How To Make Him Your Boyfriend" -- it was highlighted). But let's look at the content, shall we?

Some interesting quotes from the article:

"According to research, women have a greater chance of landing a boyfriend when they don't have sex on the first date."

Okay I have to admit I'm conflicted on this one. I can't imagine being comfortable enough with a guy I've met only a time or two to sleep with him, but if it's like you've been friends/joking about sexing each other up for months and you finally get him alone I'm not going to judge what happens. Not that.. I would know. Anything about this situation. Let's move on.

"Don't skip yoga or happy hour just because he wants to see you... Not always being available keeps the mystery alive."

If this is true I have totally failed because I am the least mysterious woman alive. I mean, first of all there's this blog, which the last two guys I've dated read regularly enough to make snide comments about it to me (they're not fans of eye-stabbing -- hits too close to home?), and other than that if I want to see a guy and he calls (or texts, I guess I'm easy) my response usually varies between "when will you get here?" to "omg I am more excited about your visit than I have ever been about Santa Claus." So I might have to work on that. Although I don't really see it happening, I am way too lazy to put any effort into attempts at coyness. Also I'm pretty sure my fingers text faster than my brain can think. This would explain a lot.

So in the interest of journalism, I decided to form a guy panel to survey the accuracy of these statements. My panel consisted of Mango and Jamerz, not just because they were my only close guy friends online (apparently some people spend the Thanksgiving holiday with family and not their computers? Who knew?) but because they are sophisticated men whose opinions are always honest and eloquent. As you will soon see. As an afterthought I added Iz to the panel as a voice for the girls, not because her answers are usually insightful but because I figured that could count as my contribution to family time.

So here are my very scientific results, complete with their own subheadings:

Being a Ho: Does it Pay Off?

Me: Would you be less likely to date a girl if she slept with you on the first date?

Mango: Maybe.

Mango: Is she good?

Me: At sex?!

Mango: Never mind. Next question.

Me: Come on, I need your honest answer. This is a scientific survey.

Mango: I'd say no. I wouldn't be less likely to date her.

Me: You wouldn't think she's a ho?

Mango: Well I wouldn't sleep with her unless she was super amazing and perfect with me so I guess if that were the case I would date her.

Isn't he sweet and even more naively romantic than me? He's single, ladies. And makes a delicious salami-and-corn pasta. He really likes watching Spongebob though, so I hope you'd rather spend a Saturday evening in a pineapple under the sea than at a club or something.

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: Tough question... so I barely know the girl?

Me: Let's assume she's hot though.

Jamerz: Of course. <-- I enjoyed this response of his.

Jamerz: I'd definitely have concerns.

Me: About her ho-ibility?

Jamerz: Yeah.

Me: So if a girl sleeps with you on the first date, you'd be less likely to make her your girlfriend, is that fair to say?

Jamerz: I think that's fair.

Ho-ibility.

Me: Would you sleep with a guy on the first date?

Iz: If it's not my first time.

Iz: And if I'm just looking for fun.

I've taught her well.

Mystery: Necessary, or a Waste of Time and Disguises in the Form of Fake Mustaches?

Me: Do you prefer it when women are mysterious?

Mango: I guess in a way. If they're all boring and stuff it's not as fun, right. But not too mysterious.

Me: Like they don't always meet you when you call.

Mango: If I planned something really spontaneous I'd be sad if she said she was busy. If it always happened I'd be like oh she's too busy or something. But it might stir up interest in the beginning.

How did we ever start dating then? I lived across the hall. I don't think you can get much more accessible than that.

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: If I'm looking at her as a potential girlfriend, I'd like some degree of openness. I think I'd like someone I can communicate frankly with.

Thank god guys like this exist because I have a suspicion that sometimes I'm as frank as a hot dog. Oh my god I'm so sorry. That was the lamest joke ever. I don't think it can even be classified as a joke. Let's just pretend like it never happened.

Me: Do you ever pretend to be mysterious with a guy?

Iz: Depends on how much I like him and how solid my original plans are.

By "how solid my original plans are" she means "how many cupcakes will be at the party I was planning on going to versus how many cupcakes he is likely to be bringing on the date." Hint to potential suitors: less than a Baker's Dozen? You're out of luck.

Maybe He's Just Not That Into You or Maybe You Shouldn't Have Used that Mustache After All: Top Three Reasons He Hasn't Asked You Out Yet (Carolyn's Guy Panel Edition)

Mango: 1. If she's actually a boy.

At this point I had to intervene and explain to him that this is referring to a girl he is already dating so if he wouldn't date her as a him then it's not applicable. Unless he'd date him and just not ask him to be his girlfriend.

Mango: Oh.

Me: Start over.

Mango: 1. If they were fake. Like with over-make up. Like it covers their arms.

Sometimes I don't even try to understand him.

Mango: 2. If they were anorexic.

Random. But in retrospect it makes sense, as I clearly don't have this problem. I have like the opposite problem. What's the word for when you're the opposite of anorexic? Oh shit. It's obesity. Let's ignore this part too.

Mango: 3. If they're a boy.

Me: Okay, I just explained this to you.

Mango: Oh, right.

Mango: 3. If we didn't have anything in common.

Me: That's a pretty good--

Mango: Or if they go to USC.

Then he started explaining to me (in detail) what happened in the UCLA-USC game today.

Jamerz: 1. We don't share similar values (i.e. family, career.).

Jamerz: 2. We don't have similar tastes in what we think is fun/funny.

Jamerz: 3. We don't have similar opinions about what a balanced relationship consists of, like what we expect from each other.

Can you tell who is the easier interview subject here? Anyway their answers are kind of encouraging and contradicts that whole theory that girls are more mature than guys because if you had asked me the same question my answers may or may not have been along the lines of:

Carolyn: 1. He uses messenger bags.

Carolyn: 2. He doesn't think Call of Duty is fun.

Carolyn: 3. He often subtly hints that I need to stop drinking.

Maybe it's just me.

Last Bonus Question as a Reward for You Reading All the Way Down Here

Me: What would you do if you were about to propose to the girl you're dating but then you found out she was a guy?

Mango: Wow. I probably wouldn't propose.

Me: Would you break up with them?

Mango: I'd go to counseling and figure it out with them. Why didn't they tell me?
Me: They were afraid you would leave them.

Mango: Yeah, counseling.

Me: Alone or with them?

Mango: With them.

Aw that's kind of sweet and definitely surprising because Mango isn't exactly liberal so this just proves that the power of love can overcome anything, even Republican values. This must be some kind of journalistic breakthrough. Pulitzer?

Me: [same question]

Jamerz: Whaaaaa

Jamerz: I would be devastated.

Jamerz: That's not something I would be okay with.

Me: HAHAHA

Me: Oh my god I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. I didn't read the devastated part.

Jamerz: [silence]

Me: So you'd just never see them again?

Jamerz: Probably. That is just too important to withhold.

Fair enough. I am of the opinion that love transcends gender but to be fair I've never fallen in love with a girl masquerading as a boy who's been lying to me the entire time I've known her and who knows how I'd react if I did. Pretty sure eye-stabbing would be involved, it's another thing that transcends gender.

Me: What would you do if the guy you wanted to marry proposed but turned out to be a girl?

Iz: I'd be like "..."

Iz: Then I would rethink things a bit. Although he did lie to me.

Me: But he was perfect in every other way.

Iz: Hm, then I'd have to think about it. Now let me write my essay. We'll discuss your sexuality later.

Oh god I've taught her to be witty. Kind of. But I do like how her initial reaction would be speechlessness -- she must really be surprised then.

Wow longest (and most imformative? yes) blog entry ever. I'm pretty sure I spent more time and effort on it than I did on the three essays I have due within the next week. You're welcome.

If I Had a Tag About My Temper It Would Definitely Be the Highest on that List on the Left There.

I'm at home! I realize I am not always completely enthusiastic about this (I guess I bitched about being home a lot over summer because the day before I left I was telling Tando about how excited I was to go home, and he was like, "really?"), but this time I'm only home for like four days, which is the perfect amount, apparently. It's just enough time to eat a lot of food that is not scrambled eggs with spam and enjoy the little luxuries of life like a car and memory foam and two-ply tissues.

Today when my mom was driving with me and my sister she told us about this Taiwanese talk show she was watching, in which they had celebrity husband/wife pairs on the show. There was this one middle-aged couple where the lady was a movie star a generation ago and has since stop working and the husband was Korean (I'm not sure if that was his profession -- this is just the description I was given). One of the younger guests on the show was telling the lady about how he admired her because he watched her shows while he was growing up. Apparently this incensed the husband because he felt the other guy was implying that his wife was old and he was afraid that this would hurt her feelings. So he confronted the guy and was like "please don't speak to my wife that way" and everyone on set kinda froze and was like "uhmm" and it was super awkward and the other guy kept apologizing because that wasn't his intention.

Anyway the whole point of that was how different Iz and my reactions were compared to our mom's. Iz and I were like "omg how awkward and embarrassing!" and my mom was like "really? I think it's kind of sweet how he stands up for his wife like that.." and then our conversation became a little awkward.

So maybe it's a generational difference, because my mom is still awed by men who publicly show affection for their wives, whereas Iz and I are thinking that we'd want guys who can conduct themselves in society (and on talk shows) without creating awkward silences. Like, yes it's nice when a guy is willing to hold your hand when you're out in public or even (gasp) say "I love you" within earshot of others, but it's also awesome when they can control their tempers and not freak everyone out when you go on Maury because you're pretty sure he's the father but it wouldn't hurt to make sure and also you've always wanted to meet Maury Povich.

Aggressive guys make me skittish. This is a carryover from having grown up with the Angry Asian Dad -- you know, when everything's dandy when they're happy because they buy you presents but when they're mad you better run for cover because they'll start throwing TV remotes? But apparently I've learned to live with skittishness because most of my past relationships have been characterized by really passionate arguments, and if you've ever tried to carry out a one-sided passionate argument you know that it's pretty futile. It's hard to feel satisfied when you're the only one throwing dinnerware. I mean I guess I could try for something low-key and peaceful but I think I'm too young for that and at this point in my life my temper is kinda so bad that I need someone who's equally hot-headed or else all the suppression will cause my head to explode. Actually I think I'm perpetuating this incorrect view of myself because honestly I'm not that volatile and I don't know why every blog post ends with me talking about damaging property.

Okay this is like the lamest blog post ever but I'm writing it on Iz's computer because mine won't connect to the internet at home so I have to plug it in in the study and it's too cold to be anywhere but under covers and she's laying next to me waiting to reclaim her laptop and speeding up the process by occasionally rubbing her leg against mine and IT'S FREAKING ME OUT. GOODBYE.

What I'm Grateful for This Year.

1. Predictable Thanksgiving blog posts.

2. Tuesday nights.

3. Sparkly eye make up that makes me look like a fairy on crack.

4. A "feminist" sister who manages to turn all her school papers into dissertations on Perez Hilton.

5. Parents who still think of us as princesses.

6. Boys who don't get angry.

7. Fuzzy pink boots and metallic wristlets.

8. Having the ability to help the sweetest, cutest children in the world (or at the very least in Watts).

9. Only having to go through two quarters of the 33% fee increase before graduation (this one is also on my parents' list).

10. Pineapple guava juice and pineapple mango body butter.

11. Strange (and sometimes stupid) music.

12. Your face.

Happy holidays, fools. Be safe, drink a lot, and stay off the road.

The Queen of the South

Swamped in papers and confusion and just general discontentment with life-- you know the kind that rolls around during finals season? Or the week before Thanksgiving when you realize you might not actually have time to eat any turkey because you'll be so busy writing four essays and trying not to stick a gun in your mouth? Yeah, that kind of feeling. So in lieu of me making lame jokes about pop music or boys or how I set off the fire alarm when I try to make breakfast (true story, it happened this morning -- I do believe that my brain may possibly be missing some sort of homemaker gene?), here's something somebody else wrote that is neither lame nor funny but kind of what life is all about:

"I wonder if you'll make a mistake someday and tell me you love me."
She turned to look at him when she heard his words. He was not upset with her, or in a bad mood. It was not even a reproach. "I love you, cabron."
"Of course you do." He was always making this joke. In his easygoing way, watching her, inciting her to talk, provoking her.
"You'd think it cost you money," he would say. "You're so cool... You've got my ego, or whatever you call it, beat to a pulp." And then Teresa would hold him, kiss his eyes, say I love you, I love you, I love you, over and over. Pinche Gallego piece of shit. And he would laugh as though it didn't matter to him, as though it were nothing but a simple pretext for conversation, a joke, and she were the one that should be reproaching him. Stop, stop. Stop! And in a minute they would stop laughing and stand facing each other, and Teresa would feel powerless at all the things that she couldn't do, while the male eyes would look at her fixedly, resignedly, as if crying a little inside, silently, like some kid running after the older boys that were leaving him behind. A dry, unspoken grief that made her feel so tender, and then she would be almost sure that maybe she did really, actually love this man. And each time this happened, Teresa would repress the impulse to raise her hand and caress Santiago's face in some way hard to know, explain, feel, as if she owed him something and could never repay him.

There are two kinds of men, she thought suddenly: Those who fight and those who don't. Those who take life the way it comes and say, Oh well, what the fuck, and when the spotlights come on put up their hands and say, Take me. And those who don't. Those who sometimes, in the middle of a pitch-dark ocean, make a woman look at them like she was looking at him now.

If I'm This Scattered Writing a Blog Post You Can Imagine How My Final Papers are Going.

Where are you on a Thursday night? I hope you are out at a club trying to pick up a hot guy/girl or downing jagerbombs at a bar because I am sitting at Laycon's desk wearing Mango's monkey hat (see picture) and trying to do an essay about Romeo and Juliet while listening to music that kind of makes me want to kill myself.
Not me. I was too lazy to take a picture so I found one on Google. She looks a little too serious considering her get-up. Also I don't have the gloves but now I know what to get Mango for Christmas this year.

This is vaguely maddening not just for the obvious reasons but also because I thought I was done with high school. I'm so over 14 year olds thinking they are in love and dragging the whole fair city of Verona into their teenage drama. I mean if I can't tell at 21 whether or not I'm anywhere near love then how can a couple of tweens? Anyway, I'm not sure if I'm low on sleep or vegetables or some other integral lifestyle element (cupcakes?) but I'm so distracted today there's no way I can get myself to string 2478 words together in a cohesive manner. A few minutes ago Mango looked over from where he was studying on his bed to find me looking in the closet mirror and squeezing the monkey ears on my hat.

I think I need more animal clothing.

Anyway, I was trying to at least appear to be productive by doing my psych reading and highlighting in lieu of actually processing any words when I came across a sentence too alarming to be glanced over.

"Mortality rates from all causes of death are consistently higher among the unmarried than the married. Unmarried and more socially isolated people have also manifested higher rates of tuberculosis, accidents, and psychiatric disorders such as schizophrenia."

Oh my god you guys. I am at risk for tuberculosis. Isn't that what Nicole Kidman died from in Moulin Rouge? This is just all bad because I don't want to be a hooker or dead or Ewan McGregor's love interest. No I take that back. Ewan McGregor is fine but I don't want to be the love interest of that whiny poet he played in the movie. I mean I'm all for the destitute Parisian lifestyle of the bohemian author but when he THREW THE MONEY AT HER AT THE END? I WAS ENRAGED.

Okay well I guess technically I'm not "socially isolated" but I am unmarried and this paper makes that sound like some bad shiz. And I mean it's not like I have anything against marriage and I'm definitely way too young for that but I don't know anyone who I would even remotely want to spend forever with. Although it looks like I should be less nitpicky if I don't want to die an early death.

I can't believe how quickly this quarter is ending. It's just me getting closer to being homeless, jobless and out on the street so I guess it's pretty natural that I feel like time is flying. This week is basically over and then I'm only here for two days next week, and when I come back from Thanksgiving there's only two more weeks before I peace out of L.A. for practically a whole month. And then it's off to Korea and Taiwan and if I don't kill myself because I'm a size XXL there then I'll have lots of pictures and adventurous stories for you all when I return.

I'm sure you guys can gather from this little blog that my life is pretty boring so it probably won't come as a surprise when I tell you the most exciting thing that happened this week was when the cutest guy in my class told me he liked my backpack. I was very pleased because a) he has good taste and b) he was talking to me. Also c) I was dressed very cutely that day. And I especially loved the way he said it because he spoke very quietly and kind of shyly and made speical mention of the bows I'd glued to like every available surface. Later on when I shared the good news with the Y she suggested that maybe he was gay. I denied this possibility. And then today when I told Aarow he had the same reaction. I mean I guess they could be right but I have my doubts because of the way he dresses and how scruffy he looks.

It's not really about him though. It just reminds me that I adore shy guys that aren't groomed to within an inch of their lives and when they're all nice it makes my heart go bumpbump and makes me stutter and then I'm shy and then we never speak again because both of us are too mortified to approach the other. And this is why I'm going to get tuberculosis.

Life is Stupid Awesome.

Today I got called out for my excessive use of violence in my blog. Apparently eye-stabbing isn't a widely accepted form of emotional expression? Or something. So in an attempt to repent, I've decided to try and cut out all gratuitous mentions of stabbing or kicking or even fork-stealing. Consider me reformed.

Other than that, how was my day, you ask? Well really only one notable thing happened. And I'm stretching the definition of notable. I was at work when a package arrived. It was a nice hefty size and it was addressed to me, so naturally I got really worked up and excited until I realized that the return address was Laycon's home, which means his sister/parents had sent him some goody. I was pretty sad, but in a totally non-violent way. So anyway, like the good friend I am I decided to lug the package over to Laycon's apartment, which is more or less on my way home from work.

Two things I learned:

1. Laycon's parents must have sent him goodies in the form of gold bricks because that thing is heavy.

2. I'm kind of a loser.

Elaboration: I had my arms wrapped awkwardly around the bulky box and was trying to distract myself from my not-getting-package sadness by singing along to my iPod. Unfortunately this prevented me from hearing the footsteps from behind that would've warned me I wasn't alone on the path. As it was, however, I was at the height of the song when I saw a guy hurry by. I thought about how I must've sounded to him and started laughing at how weird I am. Only I didn't wait long enough before the giggling started so what he experienced was walking by a girl in a red coat and purple eyeliner singing off-keyedly to herself while struggling with a largeish package and then, when he passed her, unexpected chuckling. Yeah, I totally understand the weird look he gave me over his shoulder.

So there's a guy walking around the school area right now convinced I'm a freak. If you meet him don't listen to his lies. You have the real story. Just kick him in the shins smile and thank him for the warning.

Anyway, by the time I got to Laycon's place my arms were sore and I was overly warm from the brisk walking and a little annoyed because Mango hadn't answered my last two calls telling him to come down and get the package. I was about to do some eye-stabbing figured he was busy with something and decided to try the door buzzer. When no one responded to me over the intercom, I considered throwing a brick through their window called Laycon. He wasn't at home, and wouldn't be for another thirty minutes. I thought about telling him where he could shove his package told him I would call another one of his roommates instead. When I called Maaron and he picked up, he didn't really know what I was talking about and kept telling me to go upstairs. I threatened to burn down their building if no one came immediately tried to explain that I was on my way home and would prefer having someone come down to grab the package so that I could continue on my way. When Roro finally came down to get the package, he received a call before I could greet him. He held up a "wait-a-second" finger and I showed him a finger too silently handed him the package before waving goodbye.

All in all it was quite an infuriating uneventful trip and I am proud to say that my non-violence streak is going strong.

The Difference Between Getting Tied Up and Being Tied Down.

Remember how I like music that may not be of the highest artistic integrity? Well, I find "Tie Me Down" by the New Boyz to be really really catchy. It's a terrible song, let me just get that out there right away. They're just some teenage kids bragging about what pimps they are and how all women are hos. But it's so freaking listen-to-able and usually I just try to switch all the pronouns in my head so that it's from a girl's point of view (he ain't gon' tie me down!)

But even though I know the song is chauvinistic and stupid, part of me kind of believes that's really how guys think. I know that totally makes me sound like a hater, and there are definitely exceptions to the rule out there (like all my roommates' boyfriends and my guy friends like Stuffin and Laycon and Mango and Jchaq), but come on. Kind of, right?

Okay, like this part:

Know we been together for a minute,
But uhhh, its kinda been forever since we been in
The kinda situation not involving other women

I totally chuckled when I heard that for the first time. And I know guys aren't the only ones who can wander in a relationship. I'm totally not the right person to talk to about relationships, by the way, because I am so weird about them. Like for some reason I still believe in True Love and Happily Ever After (blame Disney, that heartless but enchanting corporation) so I end up doing the stupidest things in relationships before I realize that maybe this guy I've been dating for three months isn't the Love of My Life and I should stop believing him when he says he hasn't called because he lost his phone for the third time in two days and that hey, he'd really like to come see me this weekend but unfortunately his car broke down and there are no buses between my house and his and not a single one of his friends will give him a ride and hey, come on, he would ride a horse to come see me if that's what it'd take, baby, but I know he's allergic to horse dander and I wouldn't want him to die, would I?

So it's like years of this type of guy that's turned me into a strange hybrid between hopeless romantic and really angry fork-stealer.

But I digress. My favorite part of the song:

But I'm surprised that you're still standing there
As you know I'm a man and I have no feelings

Okay, okay, I know boys have feelings. But sometimes it seriously feels like they don't. And I just want to stab them in the eye and say "Feel THIS?" but that would probably be frowned upon in a court of law and honestly I wouldn't last a day in prison (too pretty) (just kidding) (not vain).

To sum up I would just like to say if I ever meet a tall boy who likes how fluffy my hair gets after I shower and only buys me flowers in whimsical shapes and enjoys explaining football plays to me then I hope he never reads this because he's going to mistakenly think I may have mild violent tendencies and a worrisome obsession with forks. Not to mention questionable taste in music.

I Totally Take Back What I Said About Pictures Being Easier to Blog.

Hello hello. So I realized that I'm going to have four papers due within a span of about seven days for a total of maybe forty pages? Of original thought. So that sucks. Anyway, I'm going to save all my words for schoolwork so here are some pictures courtesy of my iPhone and Microsoft Paint.
Not sure what this guy was doing on campus. Not giving out free samples, that's for sure. I checked.

So for Jenn's birthday we went to Medieval Times and it was awesome because I'm pretty sure that makes me a princess. A classy one, as you can tell from our napkin menu bill of fare.
That guy is our host/chancellor. He was tall and pretty good looking and there were a bunch of girls there who'd been patronizing the bar and they were flocking around him like crazy. I wasn't one of them. Just to clear that up. I did bring a flask though (not pictured).
They had these knights assigned to each section. Ours was yellow. He lost though.
Probably no explanation necessary.


On Jenn's actual birthday her boyfriend and sister and best friend brought over some ice cream cake. For some reason we let the Y put the candles on.



At the basketball game last week Mango pointed out how they seemed to have buffed up Joe Bruin over the summer. We think they just stuffed extra padding onto the original costume. Either that or steroids.

Oh my goshhh so when we entered Pauley at the start of the game they had these raffle slips for students to fill out, and there was one that if you were chosen you could try to make these shots during halftime to win prizes. AND THEY PICKED MANGO! And he totally refused to go up, even though they broadcast his name like thirty times and had it up on the big screen and everything. He's so going to regret this forever.

Aren't these cute? If anyone ever has to give me a perishable token of their affection I hope it comes in puppy form.

That's all. I hope you enjoyed this because it seriously took me forever to get these pictures to this level of awesome and then I kept accidentally deleting shiz and I was this close to just throwing my computer out the window but instead I powered through it like a real trooper. You're welcome.

U-C-STOPSCREAMINGOBSCENITIESINTOMYEARGUYBEHINDME-LLLLL-A!

Yesterday I went to my first UCLA men's basketball game ever. I've been to Pauley before, for a thousand different reasons: Mango's intramural basketball games, a UCLA women's gymnastics meet, a L.A. Sparks playoff game, the LMFAO concert. Random, I know. But this was the first time I've gone for men's basketball and wow, are sports fans unattractive.

Well, let me back up. I'm a sports fan, I guess. I would say my interest in sports is higher than that of the average female and lower than that of the average male. I'm like a sports fan hermaphrodite. It's really late, I don't know why I would say something like that. But what I'm trying to say is that every time I attend a sporting event I am reminded of how annoying most sports fans are. Myself excluded. Of course.

Mango says it's all part of the package, that trash talking and shrieking and senseless traditions are an inherent aspect of spectator sports. And I'm like, eh.

Don't get me wrong, I had a great time at the game. I might even have participated in an 8-clap or two. And UCLA won, which I'm pretty sure is a direct result of my efforts. In the spirit of the subject matter, here is a play by play of my night and a little insight into why I think many sports fans are idiots a tad overzealous.

7:00 PM: Mango and I join Robong and Dwang in the student section of the stands, which is like three rows back from courtside. When I'm trying to settle in I accidentally kick the girl in front of me, but I don't feel too bad because it doesn't seem like she noticed and also she did that thing with her Den shirt where she like cut the heck out of it so that it exposed as much shoulder and cleavage as possible. And then she tied it up at the back to bare some midriff and honestly, is it necessary to slut up for a sporting event? I'm probably not the right person to judge though, because I totally went in an (intact) Den shirt and a UCLA jacket and sweats. If it helps, they were girl sweats, so I didn't look too homeless. Just mildly homeless. Like I only recently lost my job and my house but I'm still trying to do laundry in the sink at the McDonalds on the corner to you know, keep up appearances.

8:00 PM: The game is under way and okay, there are a lot of weird traditions that college students do. Like the entire student section is standing right now. Is this going to stop anytime soon? Some of the traditions at least are funny or amusing but some are kind of mean and make me a little sad. Or is it mad? Anyway this one thing they do is when a member of the opposing team makes an air-ball, they chant "air-ball, air-ball" every single time he has his hands on the ball up until he makes a shot. This one guy on the Concordia team shot an air-ball in the first five minutes of the game and then didn't make a basket until the very end of the second half, so he had to put up with a lot of this chanting. I'm going to be honest, I felt bad for him. He was really hustling and plus their team is the underdog, and I always root for underdogs (hence my undying devotion to the Warriors), and so what happened was that I kept accidentally clapping for the other team.

8:15 PM: Hunh. So I guess we're not sitting down.

8:30 PM: Seriously, they will not stop with the "air-ball" chants. This bothers me on a number of levels. First of all, I'm not a fan of chanting. It's so cult-y and I'm also not a fan of cults. Second of all, it's so mean. I try to counter all the mean vibes by cheering positively ("maybe try again!" "don't listen to them, you're still a good player!" "welcome to Los Angeles!") but it's hard to be heard over the crowd and also Mango keeps trying to quiet me down to prevent us from being killed.

8:45 PM: Wow I did not know you were allowed to call a ref that without getting thrown out.

9:00 PM: Seriously? Standing for the duration of the entire game?

9:15 PM: Okay, guy behind me with a super loud annoying voice: stop telling the opposing team's players to go home. (Verbatim: "hey YOU! Number 33! Go HOME! YOU SUCK! GO HOME!") If they went home there wouldn't be a game to watch at all and then you'd have to be alone at home wondering why you have no friends and okay guess what it's because you're obnoxious there I solved the problem for you okay?!

9:20 PM: This thing is like two hours long. My feet are getting tired.

9:30 PM: Thank god it's over let me sit. UCLA WINS! The game ends with UCLA shooting a clutch 3 after our best player fouled out and winning by one with our first and only lead of the game. It's pretty cool and I'm all school-pridey and stuff but secretly I feel a little bad for Concordia because they played so hard and all their players were like a full foot shorter than ours. I feel like they should have gotten points for being scrappy but Mango says that is not a category in basketball scoring.

In conclusion, I hope next time our school plays a team who's really mean and maybe are known puppy-beaters or something because then I can cheer with a clear conscience. Although I don't hope that anyone hurts puppies. And if they did they should probably be in jail and not on the basketball court. Although Mango did tell me that one of the UCLA players was suspended for a while because he beat up his girlfriend. I definitely did not cheer for him. That's kind of an awkward note to end this on. Oh well.

Did You Miss Me?

Remember when I used to get mad? Well since I've calmed down and returned to the land of the sane, I've been thinking about that. And since I took two psych classes back in high school, I feel I'm fairly qualified to diagnose myself; I suspect I may have a little, teensy problem: I don't get sad, I get angry.

Here are some examples.

Cause: I'm making soup for dinner and I burn it and it's the last batch of ingredients I have.
Result: I get very mad. Also hungry. But mostly mad. I turn off all the lights and go into my room and vow never to eat again, just to spite food. But then I realize it would be way more of a punishment if I ate everything instead, and then I go to Ralphs and buy those cupcakes that are super on sale because they're about to expire in five minutes. Take that, food.

Cause: I find out I can't go to something fun because of a (less fun) prior commitment.
Result: I get really mad and think about how terrible commitments are and swear never to make another one and then for good measure I kick some defenseless animals to seal the deal. The last part may be a slight exaggeration but the first part is true and also explains my inability to commit. It's not you, it's my anger.

Cause: Some boy breaks my heart.
Result: I'm furious and I want to knee him in the face except that I probably still like him (because otherwise how is he going to break any internal organs of mine?) so instead I think about how satisfying it would be if I mastered his absolute favorite video game and then beat him at it and then while he's crying I secretly steal all his forks and donate them to the forkless and then when the next time he sees me he asks, "Hey, do you have any idea where all my forks went?" I reply, "Hey, just be grateful they're not all IN YOUR FACE," and leave him mystified and rueful that he ever let me get away. See, it's subtle but appropriate.

So I don't know. But now my midterms are over and the mad dash to finish three simultaneous papers on three very different topics has not yet begun, and my mom just sent me a surprise care package today, and a rather handsome knight defended my honor (and that of approximately a hundred other people sitting in his section) (yellow), and there are birthdays and holidays and even Disneyland on the horizon, and as a result I'm feeling almost... mellow.

I know, it's freaking me out too. But just thought I'd let you guys know that I didn't explode in a fit of temper and take out half of Los Angeles; I've just been too busy taking midterms, buying flasks and eating chicken with my bare hands to post. Rest assured though, I'm still working on PLWBIFEMCMEFW and soon you guys will be able to peruse through a post filled with dozens of blurry iPhone pictures showing food, dorks, anachronism and dyslexia. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The First Step is Admitting You Have a Problem.

Ughhh I am PMSing so badly. I'm sorry, I know that's way too much information for the internets but honestly if you're even slightly grossed out about that you're going to have to leave now because it's only going to get worse.

So because my body is a piece of crap or something I didn't get my period for like the entire summer and I just got back on birth control which I guess triggers the hormones or whatever shiz like that because now I have it and IT'S KILLING ME. I never used to really PMS but I am seriously throwing bitch fits left and right this time. I'm hoping this is just my body easing back into this whole painful godforsaken process and it won't happen next month because honestly I'm not going to have any friends left if this keeps up.

So if I have emotionally mugged you recently I'm very apologetic and I swear I'm not insane and if you stick around just a little longer I'll probably stop calling you names or making snide remarks about your shoes.

Like, I think it's gotten to the point where people fear me. That's right, little ol' me. Tando, who lives in a neighborhood frequented by gangsters, I'm pretty sure, is scared of me. And my cousin, who's this awesome 26 year old tough guy, recently told my mom that he's scared of me because I'm intimidating. And just last week Laycon had a dream where I was mad at him and he was so scared that when he woke up he texted me to make sure I wasn't really going to chase him down with an axe (I wasn't, it was a chainsaw). And I think Mango is starting to tremble whenever I stomp my left foot (I don't stomp the right one anymore, it's like permanently injured from wayyy back two years ago when Mango and I were arguing in the stairwell -- this was our hobby back when we were dating -- and I was very angry and STOMP! and "OUCH" and we had to cease the argument to tend to my injury).

But I don't know why they're scared of me, it's not like I'm stomping on their feet. Boys.

Non-Suicidey Things.

So last night Stuffin made an observation about how I mentioned suicide in my last three blog posts. And I feel very contrite about this because suicide is no laughing matter, and while I may joke about things like how I might have a drinking problem or at the very least some anger issues, suicide might not be as socially acceptable to write about in so cavalier a manner. Although I would like to point out that if I were really anywhere near killing myself I wouldn't be broadcasting it every other day, so this is really more a cry for help. Speaking of which, I haven't exactly received any concerned phone calls from you guys. It's like you're encouraging my suicidal thoughts. So really I think you're at fault here, not me.

In any case, though, I will try to focus on non-suicidey things. And what is more non-suicidey than life? Even better, new life. That's right, I'm pregnant. No, totally kidding. What I'm actually talking about are the two little additions to my apartment in the form of the Y's pet mice. Unless you are my landlord, in which case I'm talking about ice cream. Boy, I love ice cream. Also, when are you going to fix our kitchen sink?

So the Y got these pet mice because we recently had some mice-drama, which I may have to tell you all about another time because I think there are still legal issues pending over that whole debacle. But the end result is that we have these two mice sitting in a nice little plastic cage in our living room, and they are tiny and adorable and everyone spends hours cooing over them and counting their poops or whatever and IT FREAKS ME THE EFF OUT.

Okay, it's not that bad. I mean I'm pretty fond of creatures, but to be very honest with you I'm kind of more fond of creatures that acknowledge my existence. Like if I had a puppy that ran up to me whenever I came in the front door and fetched me milk tea when I'm studying (it's a super genius puppy) I would name it Archibald Hamilton III and love it. But for things like turtles and mice that are really really small and don't know what a human is, it kinda freaks me out to have them nearby. I don't mind them in the wild. Like when I went to Hawaii and saw fish while I was snorkeling I was like "oh cool fish!" and then I left it in its natural habitat (the Pacific Ocean) and it left me in mine (the cookie shop around the corner from my hotel) and we were all very happy.

But now the little unaware-I-exist animals have entered my apartment and I'm nervous. After all the Y went through I definitely did not have the heart to tell her she can't keep her critters here (although I did draw the line at the bedroom; I don't want to wake up and find the mice staring at me in a curious but cruelly careless manner--that's how mice stare, fyi) but I have a few reservations.

First, critters smell. Even puppies smell, which sucks. The only puppy I've ever met that smelled good was this little five month old one that had never been outside his owner's mansion and who had puppy cologne in the bathroom. But all other animals have a smell that I'm not really excited to have wafting through my living room. I'm hoping that the mice are small enough and that the Y loves cleaning cages enough that this won't really be an issue.

The main problem I think is the scratching. I CAN'T TAKE THE SCRATCHING. I'm sitting in the living room as I type this and the cage is on the end table behind me and every so often there will be a loud persistent scratching sound and I think "oh god I hope the mouse doesn't scratch its way out and end up in my hair" and it went on for so long that I turned around to say "stop it" but then I noticed the sound wasn't even from the mouse scratching, it was from it drinking from that little ball tube water drinky thing that little animals have. And so I felt really really guilty about telling it to stop drinking because I don't want it to be dehydrated, but another part of me felt like "oh my god it's going to make that sound every time it gets water?" and then I get a headache and need to rehydrate myself. With vodka.

You Know When TV Writers Don't Want to Write a Whole New Episode so Instead They Have a Lot of Flashbacks? This is Like That, Except With Links.

This isn't a real blog post so don't expect richly detailed prose about the intricacies of undergraduate life in Los Angeles. Well, who am I kidding. Don't expect an overshare of information about personal grooming or vague and possibly drunken rambling about obsolete television shows.

Anyway this is just a quick drive-by to say I'm probably going to be leaving this world soon and farewell, blog. You were good to me for the half year I had you and I hope that when I'm gone someone awesome hacks into you and pretends to write as me, as if I had never died, and it freaks out the people who read you (all eight of them), because they went to my funeral and I was in the casket damnit and so who is this proclaiming their love of bargain hunting on you?

But on the off chance I survive midterm season (this year featuring papers, massive reading, two presentations and two exams all crammed into two fun-filled consecutive days) and the fact that I haven't gone grocery shopping in over a week and am not above eating whatever is in the back of the fridge, don't be offended if you don't get an invitation to a funeral. Because I probably made it. Or whatever.

Anyway, my being on blogger at all is totally Meema's fault because I should be slaving over homework that makes me want to cry blood so that I can show my bloody-teardrop-stained-papers to my professors and say "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE" but I can't control what my tears are made of, apparently, so I'm here instead because of a conversation I had with Meema:

[Meema]: a lot of work to do?
me: just kill me
[Meema]: but then who will write my favorite personal blog :/
me: you're just saying that
[Meema]: no I'm not
[Meema]: yours is the favorite of mine of people I actually know
[Meema]: and ones that are about their own lives in general
[Meema]: well it's between you and this graduate-school educated escort who writes about crying during yoga and the rich men she services

I think I've just been complimented, people.

Happy Birthday, Iz.

Five reasons I'm moderately glad not to be an only child:

5. I have a travel buddy. One of my first memories of Iz and I in Taiwan (3rd and 4th grades, respectively) is when we first got to the airport. Now, I hope the fact that we'd just been on a plane for 12 straight hours excuses this, but while our mom was waiting in line for customs Iz and I sat on the floor and sang the "who wears short shorts?" song for like thirty minutes non-stop. (Answer: "I WEAR SHORT SHORTS).

4. I have someone to spit on. One of Iz's favorite childhood memories (I'm sure) is from when we were little, like in elementary school, and she was bothering me while I was reading (this is how most our childhood memories start out). She kept talking and talking and moving closer and closer as she did so that eventually and inevitably my face was speckled with her spit. This did not please tweenage-Carolyn, so very naturally I reacted by holding her down and spitting on her face. Justice was served.

3. I'm relatively normal, as children go. My mom stayed home with us up until about when Iz started kindergarten. Let me just say, Iz was the clingiest baby ever. And only to my mom. Like to the point where she would cry if my mom left her alone with my dad. It was sad, and also made people suspect my dad was a baby-abuser. Anyway, when my mom started work we'd be at home with a babysitter or whatever from when school let out to when she got home after work. Iz would go lie on my parents' bed and bury her face in my mom's pajamas and sob until my mom got home. Sometimes she would switch things up by calling my mom's office (I'm pretty sure that's the first phone number she ever memorized) and sob into the phone until my mom was forced to hang up because her boss was looking at her like she'd just murdered a puppy over the telephone line.

2. I'm a comparably good spellur speller. We were playing the Naked Game a year or so ago and Iz wrote "surades." The person who got the word paused the game ("what's ... sur.. ah.. days?") so that she could explain to us that she meant "charades."

And..

1.
Two words: penis hat.


Happy birthday, Iz.

Laundry Day.

Hello, Monday.

I spent the weekend in San Diego and Irvine and I don't know really what to say about it, except that it was one of those weekends where you feel like you need to wash all your clothes afterwards.

So since I've been so busy lately doing laundry with school that I never get a chance to write here, I came up with the best idea I've had since that time I ordered Enzos at ten P.M. because obesity has been a goal of mine since childhood I was studying late into the night and needed nourishment.

So, consider this the grand unveiling of Pictures in Lieu of Words Because I Fail as an English Major and Captions are Much Easier and Faster to Write (PLWBIFEMCMEFW).

A hamburger-cake.

A close up of the hamburger-cake. This is how awesome it was. I love cake, I love hamburgers; one day I dream of eating a hamburger that tastes like cake.

Okay, so this picture is way back from the end of summer (this doesn't explain the expression on Iz's face, but then again, what can?) when our family drove one tiny car down to southern California with most of my and Iz's belongings. The car was crammed so full that stuff took up most of the backseat, and Iz and I were squished so closely she thought she was in heaven (this only makes sense to people who have experienced the clinginess that is my sister). So I guess maybe that expression is just a demonstration of her excitement at the thought of a six hour ride in close quarters.


OH MY GOD. My favorite souvenir from this weekend. Iz's friend ("Shaftsies" -- three guesses who came up with that nickname? Hint: not me) gave it to me as a "thank you" gift for going to my own sister's birthday dinner. If all family events were similarly rewarded, I would avoid my family a lot less. Then again, maybe not, some people would have a field day with my chocolate-enhanced figure.

Now I have to go collect my laundry from my bedroom floor. Our dryer apparently is confused as to what appliance it is and sucks like a vacuum cleaner so none of my clothes are dry and everything is spread out on sheets on my floor like I'm having some sort of strange underwear swap meet. I would put a picture of it here but I'm pretty sure it's a slippery slope from pictures of drying underwear to adult films or something like that.

The Sickness Didn't Kill Me, but My Life Might.

Hello, world wide web. I haven't been blogging lately because life has been sucking hard and I try to preserve the naivete of my poor innocent blog by shielding it from the big bad world of collegiate stress as much as possible. But yesterday was the last straw.

Let me tell you a little about the weeks leading up to this moment. Ever since class started, my life has been steadily spiraling downwards to the point where, when I fill my Eeyore thermos with mineral water every morning, I wistfully eye the half handle of Svedka in the fridge. But it hasn't quite gotten to the point of alcoholism (yet).

Instead, I've decided to fill my days with other worthwhile ambitions, like flyering for Prolit ("do you want to help children?" -- this was quickly shortened to "help children!" while I desperately shove the flyer into the passerby's hand; this strategy is alarming enough that it works up to 20% of the time), pretending I understand other English majors (how can one relate Curb Your Enthusiasm to Aristotle's Poetics to Soviet and Japanese productions of King Lear? Come to my senior seminar to find out!), to attending mandatory training sessions for volunteers working with minors (Powerpoint presentation: "try to limit your physical contact with children to high fives. No hugs! If absolutely necessary, side hugs only." Have you ever tried to high five a seven year old while she is sprinting toward you for a hug? I foresee this information causing more trouble than good), and desperately ransacking my apartment for food. It was the fruitlessness of this last endeavor that led me to a midnight rendezvous at Ralphs with Roro, Laycon and Mango. And that was where my weary spirit was dealt its last, crushing blow.




Now goodbye, cruel world.

Screw You and Your Immune System.

I'm sick. No, I'm not bitching, I'm actually sick. Sick as in the Y was so concerned just by the weakened state of my voice that she took my temperature. I insisted that this was unnecessary, but I guess I was wrong because it came out to something a little over 102 degrees, which, according to the Y (resident expert in over-worrying about illnesses -- a little quirk for which I am now very grateful) is "hella high." Then she gave me some Nyquil, so I'm just typing fast now in a race against sweet medication-induced sleep.

Why am I writing instead of sleeping or mentally railing against my usually reliable immune system? Ah, college. I turned in at the early hour of 10:30 after watching a sneak preview of Zombieland, after which I felt so ache-y that I practically sprinted home and then stood in a scalding hot shower for thirty minutes solely because I couldn't find the energy to towel off. Then, at 12:15 AM, I was awoken by the sounds of drunken revelry outside my window. Thursday night on frat row. I tried to be understanding, I really really did. I tried really hard not to imagine the students outside as raucous zombies and me as Woody Harrelson with four pistols and two machine guns. I told myself that surely I've had nights like that, where I was just the right amount of drunk to enjoy walking and not notice the volume of my voice, and hey, it wasn't their fault I was sick, right? Then I hear from outside some drunken jerk slur, "that guy is a faggot-retarded faggot." Okay. I would never say that. A girl chimes in, "hey guys, I'm going to pop a squat in about five steps. Okay, I'm popping a squat!"

They were lucky I was having difficulty even getting myself to sit up, much less be in any position to pour burning oil out my window.

The thing I hate most about being sick -- more than the feeling that my head is wrapped in really hot cotton, more than the whole freezing-without-blankets-burning-up-with dilemma-- is that I become a huge brat. I mean, more than usual, if you can imagine. I'm kidding. I'm usually very good, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'll occasionally throw a minor tantrum, but it's nothing compared to what I'm like when I'm sick.

Take, for example, Jamerz and Teenie and I in line for Zombieland. "You don't have swine flu," Teenie insists. "you don't even have a fever." (Oh, how wrong she was proved to be). "I'M DYING," I wail, causing multiple heads to turn and the strangers nearest to me to back away. "I'M GOING TO BE DEAD IN A FEW HOURS AND THE LAST THING I DID WAS STAND IN A REALLY LONG LINE." James chuckled. "You're funny when you're sick," he said. What I think he really meant was "thank god my girlfriend doesn't get like this."

I'm fairly certain that my mystery sickness escalated in severity solely because no one (with the later exception of the Y) sympathized. When I walked to class with Mango in the morning, his idea of being comforting was something along the lines of: "No, you're not dying. Yes, you can make it up those stairs. What do you mean you can't, it's only twelve flights. No, you're not going to throw up." And this was before he started imitating me ("Oh, I'm soo sick. Oh I'm going to die. Oh my head feels like it's going to implode.") Cruel? Certainly. Unusual? Unfortunately not. It turned out to not be a departure from anyone else's reactions throughout the day.

In my class today the only person I knew didn't even attend lecture, so I had no one who could even pretend to care. Talk about inconsiderate.

At work Arrow did not evince much concern for my state (apparently snacking on Funyons and Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies is not a symptom of illness-- excuse me for missing lunch), but he did offer me a Tylenol. This is probably what sedated me for when Tando messaged me, saying "you're not dying" -- this in reference to my facebook status ("I'm dying I'm dying D: someone medicate me"). It was not exactly the kind of comfort a girl would like to receive on her deathbed.

Okay, I'm going to stop typing because my fingers are getting so warm I can't feel them anymore (sad? yes, welcome to the life of an invalid). I'll set this post to automatically publish tomorrow night so that if I die you'll all have something to remember me by. Oh, and try not to dance on my grave. But if you must -- absolutely no square dancing. I mean it.

Do Not Entrust Me With Your Children.

Hello, hello. I'm like a neglectful parent to my blog; right when I get it I fawn over it and coo about how adorable it is and update it every day and then I begin to ignore it because it's so needy and needs to be burped all the time but then I start feeling guilty about my terrible attitude and renew my promise to write something every day and then I go to Hawaii on vacation and totally forget I even had a baby and then I come back and child services is knocking on the door and now I'm only limited to thirty minute visitations before my full blogger rights are restored to me. Well that last part isn't completely accurate but I had to work out a way to say that there is only approximately fifty minutes of battery life left on my computer and the charger is way the heck in the living room and I love my blog but frankly there are limits to my dedication.

So.. yeah. I'm back from Hawaii! In fact I'm not even in Fremont Union City anymore, I'm in the City of Angels and happy as a clam. Or more like happy as an otter holding a clam that I'm about to crack open and eat. I'm sorry, it's really, really late.

Anyway, Hawaii was as amazing as you'd expect an island paradise to be and I have a lot to say about it, I think, (well actually I have a terrible memory, which is why I am a little obsessed with making itineraries and scrapbooks and virtual photo albums and -- oh yeah, blog posts) but I'm waiting until all the pictures are uploaded (you know who you are -- and if you don't, you are Teenie, Jamerz and Mango) before I begin on what will be the most epic blog post ever attempted completed in a timely and coherent manner.

So if my life were a tv show and you just missed the last few episodes because you are not a very loyal viewer (honestly, did you even notice that I hadn't updated in a week? I bet no one even sent any search parties out to Hawaii, like I expressly asked you to, did you? And I don't care that I had a post since my return, it could very well have been pre-scheduled and for all you know I'm now lying in a pit of lava in the middle of the Pacific) then the recap at the beginning of the newest episode would go something like this:

1. It was very recently the birthdays of three of my good friends: Teenie, Kenny and Stuffin (collectively known as the September babies). Their birthdays are in three days in a row in the middle of September, and usually at the end of our summer break we throw a huge joint birthday party. The only thing was that this year I had exactly one day between my return from Hawaii and my departure from Northern California. What followed was a very busy pre-party morning full of humorous hijinks and laughable setbacks that would be very entertaining if it had not happened to me, but it did, so we are not going to talk about it.

2. My family and I made the road trip down to Southern California, and I think it really says a lot about the three years I've spent here that when we became stuck for about an hour in blistering hot Los Angeles traffic, all I could think of was how happy I was to be back. Also we borrowed this cargo truck from a family friend to haul the furniture for my new apartment, and I am not kidding when I say cargo truck. We had to go through weigh stations. Yes, it was thrilling, and yes, I did feel like I should be wearing a cap. It also brought me way back to when my family was dirt-poor and my dad would have to make weekly (weekly!) drives up and down the coast of California hauling cargo, and sometimes he'd take me or my sister along and we'd sit on a little stool in the back with the boxes while my dad and another worker sat in the only two seats in the cab. And it was awesome, if a little bumpy.

3. On Tuesday Tando brought over half the stuff he's let me store at his place over summer. He tells me he only brought half of it because "it got too dark and [he] couldn't see anymore." This statement was mildly confusing but I assume he meant he couldn't see between his front door and his car and didn't want to lug a bunch of stuff in the dark. When the Y asks why he didn't bring all my things I tell her what he said, and her take on it is that maybe he's scared of being outside in the dark because the gangsters will get him (Tando does not live in the best part of Los Angeles).

4. On Thursday Tando was supposed to bring the rest of my stuff but he couldn't because the car he was going to use wasn't available.

5. On Friday Tando and his cousin were supposed to hang out with me and the Y (and, I assume, bring the rest of my things) but they cancel. I begin to suspect that Tando's pet bunny has eaten all my clothes and my trash can and my mini-fridge and he is stalling for time before he can work up the courage to tell me this.

6. Tando calls and explains the reason he had to cancel was because he needed to wait for the electricity guy to come and turn his power back on. I recall that Tando had his power shut off ages ago for forgetting to pay the bill. "They turned it off again?!" I ask increduously.
"No," he said, "they never turned it back on."
"How long have you been living without electricity?!"
"Like a week. I thought you knew this."
"No, you didn't mention it again."
"Well, why did you think I couldn't bring all your stuff last time? I couldn't see where everything was in my apartment after the sun went down!"

I am slightly ashamed to say that at this point I burst out laughing, which Tando did not appreciate. I tried to lighten the mood by saying, "oh... the Y thought you were just scared of gangsters." For some reason this did not help either. But luckily everything worked out because today the guy finally came and turned his power back on and I got all my stuff back and now I have my scarves and shoes and belts and Tando has electricity. And my battery has two minutes left on it.

Good night, see you again soon. Really. Well, maybe.