A new post for the new year, as my blog struggles to survive another 365 days of my neglect and general apathy.

Remember in my last post when I talked about going skiing for New Year's eve? and not ziplining? well that, mofos, is what you call foreshadowing.

I think. I'm a little rusty on my literary tropes now that I spend the majority of my days feeling my eyeballs slowly dry out in a cubicle. But here's the whole sordid story, which I shall call "Carolyn goes Skiing and Not Ziplining which Very Nearly Resulted in her Death but through Perseverance she was able to Survive and even got a Burrito out of it at the End, although she did Lose her Lips and the Use of her Major Muscles for the Next Few Days."

Here's how it starts.

December 30th, 2010

8:00 AM: I have a cold. This actually started several days ago, but I don't want to recount my entire winter vacation.

7:00 PM: Isabel, Mike and I head over to Clayton's to hang out with him. We're actually there to pick him up for the snow trip, but we figured we might as well get some fun out of it so we went early enough to fit in a few games of Black Ops.

7:30 PM: We play those missions or whatever they're called. It's like a free-for-all but with special conditions. Like you only get one bullet or your gun changes every 45 seconds. I forget what they're called but they're really fun except for the part where I practically get a blister on my thumb from hitting x to respawn. Because I'm not so good at the video games. Mike is, though, and he has so much fun he says, "can we just do this instead of going to Big Bear?" Which is more foreshadowing.

7:45 PM: Isabel gets bored of not watching us play video games and borrows Clayton's computer to look at a naked picture of T.I.

7:50 PM: Isabel reports that T.I. "looks awkward" naked.

8:00 PM: We head to Brian's house because it's closer to Big Bear and we won't have to wake up as early the next morning. By which I mean 5:30 instead of 4:30. Yeah, AM. It was that kind of vacation.

9:00 PM: We get to Brian's house and his mom makes us red bean soup which is usually delicious but I can't taste anything because of the phlegm. From my cold, not the soup.

10:00 PM: Marc arrives and the whole party is there except for Rohit, who missed out on a night of all four boys sleeping on the floor of Brian's "bonus room," and, as Mike put it the next morning, "performing a symphony of snores."

New Year's Eve

6:00 AM: I wake up and put on my silly bands.

9:00 AM: We get to Big Bear and make our first stop at the ski rental place. At this point I was naively unaware that I was strapping myself into a torture device. Also I have to pee.

10:00 AM: We get to "Snow Summit" (a misnomer -- it should've been called "The Icy Gates of Hell") and luckily they have a bathroom or my day would have been even worse.

10:30 AM: Brian is the most experienced skier and tries to teach the rest of us on that little flat part of the slope where all the little kids are learning to snowboard. Everyone slides around uncontrollably except Marc, who is athletically inclined, and me and Isabel, who practice standing very still.

12:00 PM: We head for the actual slopes. The ones where you have to take the lift. Going into this day, I thought the lift would be my mortal enemy. When I was small it seemed really big and fast, and getting on and off was a tricky matter full of planning and coordination, neither of which little Carolyn was good at. My most ingrained memory of skiing in my youth is tripping off the lift at the dismount area, getting knocked on the head, and the operator stopping the whole thing while a dozen strangers watched me struggle to get up. Also I was wearing a snow jumpsuit. It was red.

12:20 PM: We get on the lift, which isn't nearly as fast or big as I remember. It was actually quite enjoyable. I didn't know at this point, but it would turn out to the best part of skiing because it doesn't involve moving or falling. Although, toward the end, falling off the lift would've been a sweet release.

12:30 PM: We go down the bunny slope. I discover there seems to be a problem with the brakes on my skis. Despite Brian's very helpful advice to "Wedge. Wedge, Carolyn. You're not wedging. Pretend your skis are pizzas," I find that the most reliable way of stopping is to fall onto the snow and then spread my body out to cover as much surface area as possible so that there is more dragging force and I can come to a quicker halt.

1:30 PM: We find Clayton, who has escaped to the baby bunny slopes. The ones that have the moving flat escalator thing instead of a ski lift. I am able to get down this without falling, but it is tiring because for every thirty second run down the slope there is a three minute wait on the moving escalator, and standing has become a chore of epic proportions.

2:00 PM: I can't feel my face. Or my fingers. I didn't eat lunch because a $5 hot dog would have been wasted on my frozen taste buds. I have approximately 30 bruises and still haven't learned how to stop. I'm pretty sure I was born without the muscles one uses in "wedging." On the plus side, I haven't mowed over any children or fallen off the side of the mountain. Incidentally, two of my biggest skiing fears.

3:30 PM: We get in line to go to the summit. The sign says the route is "the easiest." It literally says that on the sign. This little bit of false advertising would be my downfall. Also literally.

4:00 PM: We get to the top of the mountain. And I mean the top. We soared over all the other skiers and trees and small animals and landed at the peak. It was almost like ziplining except at the end you get abandoned and have to find your own way down.

4:00 PM -- 5:30 PM: For the next one and a half hours (yes, one and a half hours) I followed this time tested routine:

1. Ski fifty yards.

2. Start going too fast.

3. Freak out.

4. Fall down.

5. Stare at the sky, wishing I were dead, as small children zip past me on their skis.

6. Brian comes to a stop about six feet from me. While looking around pretending he doesn't know who I am, he says "come on, get up, we're almost there."

7. I continue to stare at the sky. "Go on without me," I say, "I can't make it."

8. "Well you have to," Brian says, "there's no other way down."

9. A concerned passerby stops and looks at me. "Is she okay?" he asks Brian, who reluctantly acknowledges my existence and says, "Yeah. Well, I think so."

10. I laboriously get up and look down the slope with trepidation. Brian and I stand there for up to five minutes before I can urge my body to once again hurtle itself down the side of a mountain.

Once in a while I would switch things up on steps #2-4 by falling on accident.

Later on, when I finally got off the slope and was feeling mildly human again, Marc told me that after he got down the mountain in "three minutes" (that SON OF A BITCH) he stood there "in the cold" waiting for me and Brian to come down. When we finally came within view, this is how he described it:

"Yeah, you would ski for like a few seconds, and then fall down. And Brian would ski over to you. And then you'd get up and you two would just stand there for like five minutes. What were you doing? During the one and a half hours I was waiting, I saw a couple of snowmobiles go by and I thought they were for you."

Needless to say I detest him.

7:00 PM: In a stroke of New Year's luck, across the street from our motel was a DELICIOUS Mexican food place that the nice owners kept open for us. I had a ground beef burrito.

8:00 PM: I call first shower and discover that the entire back half of my body is bruised. I have trouble stepping over the two inch ledge thing into the shower.

9:00 PM: We watch "Minute to Win It" Christmas edition. There is a task where the guy has to put a gingerbread man on his forehead and move it to his mouth using only his face muscles.

11:30 PM: Everyone wants to sleep but it seems like a waste to stay awake this long and not wait 'til midnight.

12:00 AM: We watch the ball drop for the third time that night and Isabel immediately turns off the light. We all knock out.

3:00 AM: Someone is snoring.

New Year's Day

9:00 AM: My lips are so chapped. Also I cannot walk.

Unrelated, but I like when people find Lady Gaga attractive.

I am writing this in the hopes that it will keep me from falling into a deep, dark despair. It is Sunday evening. It has been raining for the past three days. I HAVE NO FOOD IN MY HOUSE. It's just all a little too much to handle.

Possibly the only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists out of sheer boredom is the knowledge that in four days, I'LL NEVER BE BORED AGAIN. Or, at the very least, that I will be mildly entertained for the next week and a half. This is my first winter without a school break. Which means while everyone is running around drinking for three weeks, I am going to bed before midnight so that I can drive through the pouring rain to sit in a cubicle for eight hours and then driving home in the pouring rain to rummage through my empty cabinets, debate braving the rain to go to the grocery store, looking for and not finding an umbrella, and then lying in bed listening to music from '90s boy bands until hunger and boredom lull me to sleep. But this will all end on THURSDAY. Also known as CHRISTMAS EVE.

That is the day that MY FAMILY COMES TO LOS ANGELES. I am excited about this for two reasons: 1. We are going to Vegas to spend Christmas, and 2. I relish the challenge of searching my wardrobe for something "mom-approved," aka necklines above the throat (oddly, short hemlines are okay -- my mother once told me I look better in short skirts because they make my legs look longer. Thanks, mom?)

But above all, Thursday marks my last day at work until the new year. That's right, a glorious WEEK AND A HALF off. And during those ten days, amazing things will happen.

Here's a breakdown of the fun:

Friday, 12/24 to Monday, 12/27: we go to Vegas for some bright lights, some gambling, and, if my sister has her way and we sneak away from the family -- some shameless drinking.

Monday, 12/27: we return from Vegas and make our way to our annual Secret Santa with high school friends. Sometimes when I think that I've been friends with some of these people for seven years, I get a headache and have to lie down. Perhaps this year my gift for my Secret Santa will be the gift of youth. I don't know if that falls within the $50 limit though. Maybe I'll just get him/her a keg of beer. Close enough.

Tuesday, 12/28 to Thursday, 12/30: we bum around Los Angeles and San Diego, showing the parents and family friends (we have an awesome family from Taiwan visiting us) the sights. I haven't decided where to take them during the LA leg of the trip though. I have a feeling my usual haunts of the taco truck and the Dollar Tree are not quite what my parents have in mind.

Friday 12/31 to Saturday, 1/1: WE GO TO BIG BEAR FOR NEW YEAR'S! I'm quite excited about this despite the fact that by overwhelming majority, we are going skiing instead of ziplining. Given the choice, I will almost always prefer zipping at the speed of the light over mountains and trees to falling in my face in the snow. But alas. I only hope I do not get frostbite on my nose. Because then it would fall off, and I wouldn't be able to smell, which means I wouldn't be able to taste. Although, I don't have food in my apartment anyway. Cue an 'Nsync ballad.

Circle of Life. But Without Any Animals.

Whenever I come home (like I am now for spring break), I usually feel two things:

1. guilt, for all the bad things I do at school that my darling mother has no inkling of, and

2. relief, for not being in high school anymore.

For the first part, it's not that bad. Like I'll be the first to admit that I make some questionable choices but for the most part I'm doing pretty well. Like my sins run more along the lines of ordering delivery five nights out of the week rather than selling myself for cocaine or something. I'm fairly certain that if you put a mountain of cocaine in front of me and then a styrofoam box of Enzo's wings, I'd be all over the latter. Unless I could convert the cocaine into cash with which I can buy wings. But I guess that would make me a drug dealer. And then I'd probably feel pretty guilty.

But my mother has got to be one of the best moms in the world. I mean we squabble now and then and she has this crazy idea that I have too many shoes, but for the most part she is the greatest (example: she was telling me she thinks I may have too many pairs of shoes today as she was buying me two new pairs). And this is an issue because she's always like "think about how much love and care your parents have invested in you, so don't throw yourself away on a boy who won't treat you as well as we do" and I'm like oh shoot. Like, I have enough trouble meeting a guy who doesn't drop a conversation the second he turns on his xbox, but to be actually treated with respect and affection? Let's not get crazy here.

Although I do want to add as a side note that when Mango puts his mind to it, he can be a pretty good best friend. Like, the other day I had an interview in downtown LA, which is a 1.5 hour bus ride from Westwood. It was also during Tuesday of finals week, and I was done on Monday but Mango had two more Thursday and Friday. Our conversation about the interview went something like this:

Me: I have an interview at City Hall on Tuesday.

Mango: That's in downtown? Like near the Staples Center?

Me: Yeah I think so.

Pause here as we both reflect back on the last time we took the bus to Staples Center (to go to the circus) and the show ended at 10 PM and we had to wait for an hour for the next (and last) bus and after strolling past closed stores for half an hour we made our way down two or three very dark city blocks to the bus stop, which turned out to be on a dimly lit corner next to an empty lot. I'm not kidding. Also we were the only two people on the bus until halfway through when a homeless person joined us. I was pretty glad to see Westwood that night.

Mango: I'll go with you.

Me: But you have finals! There's no way you'll be able to study on the bus.

Mango: There's no way I'll be able to study if I'm worried that you'll get raped in your interview clothes.

Me: I'm going in the daytime.

But yeah he ended up coming with me and it was actually pretty fun to hang out on the bus and walk a little around City Hall and to be perfectly honest I probably would've gotten lost if Mango hadn't been there.

So who needs nice boys when you have friends like this?

Anyway, it's not like I hated high school. I mean I didn't really thrive in it like some people do, but it wasn't like I knew any better. The summer before I left for college I was SO SCARED. I was like OMG MY LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. And I didn't realize that was a good thing. Like, high school me didn't realize that life could be better than having a curfew, six classes a day, a pothead boyfriend and a wardrobe comprising mostly of clothing from Hollister.

But now that I think about it, after (almost) four years of college I sleep before midnight every day, spend as much as or more(!) time on homework than I did in high school, still have an interest in pothead boys, and ... well, no more Hollister clothing. So I guess that's something. What progress I've made.

It's a Work in Progress, Okay?

I hate charming boys. Shoot. I take that back. I'm doing this new thing where I'm very peaceable and calm and benevolent and loving of the entire world which is difficult for me because it involves not stomping feet or stabbing anyone (no link to that, I googled "stab" in my blog and my browser almost overloaded and crashed). This little resolution came about in two ways:

1. A little while ago I had a really bad couple of days. It wasn't quite rock bottom but it was close. Like if rock bottom were a balding middle aged woman who is realizing that the man she married twenty years ago likes reenacting historical scenes with stuffed animals more than he likes her, then I was that woman's illiterate country cousin. But as with all things in life (yeah? that sounded pretty zen, right?), the crappiness challenge eventually passed and I realized that I am just a spoiled brat who pouts or buys shoes every time she gets her feelings hurt. And I vowed that if I had to be a spoiled brat, I would be one who doesn't throw tantrums too often because feet broken from excessive stomping will not wear new shoes well I am a mature and sensible woman who is at peace with herself and with the world.

2. I spent some quality time with a friend of mine who is the most tranquil, sunniest person I know. I've never heard her say anything bad about anyone, and even though she's younger than me she makes me want to be like her. Recently something really great has happened to her, and I'm pretty sure there is no one more deserving. She's head over heels in love and it's insane; I've never seen anything like it. A lot of my friends (reference all three of my roommates) are in relationships, but I've never seen anyone glow the way Ash did when she told me about her boyfriend. I mean, a little cynical part of me (the part that remembers about a thousand broken promises by a variety of douchebag boyfriends) thinks that it might be puppy love, and I'm a little scared that she's so optimistic she's gonna get hurt, but another part of me (the part that listens to Taylor Swift) thinks this is the most AMAZING THING IN THE WORLD. And it's so nice to see her once in a while and remember that the world isn't full of jerks.

So I take it back. I hate am uneasy around charming boys. I hate don't like how they can do the most appalling things but all they have to do is crack a joke or flash a smile and everyone adores them again. I guess this is why I may have, in the past, gravitated toward guys who are really (and I mean really) rough around the edges, because they seem to have no pretense.

But. Uh. No. So wrong. Unfortunately life is not a romance novel. Which means that that guy who's a little brusque and rude and not so nice to you? He's not hiding any inner pain that you can magically cure him of. He's actually kind of just a jerk who probably likes making girls cry. And you know how in love stories two people will find each other infuriating and engage in a shouting match that ends up in a steaming bedroom scene (ref: The Notebook, or any other love movie ever made)? Yeah, that doesn't happen in real life either. Apparently being told about all your character deficiencies isn't a big turn on. Who knew criticizing someone's personality didn't count as foreplay?

I had to read this book for one of my classes called The Female Quixote and I feel like every boy in the world should read this. It's set in late 19th century England and it's all about this young woman who's beautiful and intelligent and rich and basically perfect except that she was brought up in a castle far from society and all she had for entertainment were romance novels. Yes that's right. So she expected all her "lovers" to suffer in quiet anguish for her (confessing one's love was very much not allowed in her romance novels) and only after years of this kind of emotional torture could he maybe kiss her hand and that would be enough for him to be inspired to go off and perform all these mighty deeds in the name of his love and when he comes back, the lovely lady will blush and avert her eyes and confess that she "does not hate him" and he will rejoice and proclaim himself the happiest man alive. I swear I'm not exaggerating at all.

So I don't get why anyone would call me high maintenance just because I like shoes and don't hate compliments. It's like uh. Am I asking you to buy me shoes? No. I buy my own damn brightly colored sneakers or questionably skanky boots. And if I get a little upset because your insults outweigh the compliments you give me by maybe 1000 to 1 then no, I'm not being unreasonable or childish, you are being a bully and a stupid douchebag a fellow human being who is completely entitled to your own opinions, but wouldn't the world be a much nicer place if we didn't poison other people's souls all just tried to have a more positive attitude?

This zen shit stuff is hard awesome.

The Art of Compromise. And Hair.

My idea of a good compromise: When Mango makes dinner and then I say I'll do the dishes but get too caught up in whatever sports game we're watching so he takes them to the sink and when I get up to help he says "sit down, you know you don't have to lift a finger here." (He literally says this, I think it might be part ironic but whatevers)

My idea of a not-so-good compromise: What happened to my hair over winter break.

Let me start at the beginning. If you've known me for a period of over two weeks you'll probably know that my hair is the bane of my existence. I'll complain about it for a few months, then I'll cut it, then I'll complain about it for a week, then I'll be reasonably satisfied with it for two months, then the process will start all over again.

This is because my hair is the most contrary thing ever. Like if if my hair were a child it'd be the kind of child who would knock all the items off a supermarket shelf and shriek while you frantically try to hide all the broken bottles before security arrives. Or if it were a preteen it'd be the kind who'd dye its hair the opposite of its natural color and get an eyelid piercing and use red paint to cover its walls in bad poetry. If it were an ex-girlfriend it'd be the kind who would steal all your forks.

So you get the point. Basically my hair sucks. And what I did to it over winter break did not help.

We were in Taiwan, a place known to me as home of good, plentiful food, generous uncles and cheap cosmetic procedures. My mom, you might remember, is fairly concerned over my appearance (refer to any post on dieting). I mean, she's not like a pushy crazy mother, like the kind you see on Toddlers and Tiaras. But I think in general she's just kind of girly, which would put her girliness level at wayy above mine, so we have some disagreements.

Like in Taiwan. She really, really, reeeally wanted me to get my hair straightened. Like the way she put it, it was like her main goal in life for the foreseeable future.

I did not want my hair straightened. First of all, remember how my hair sucks? It does not listen to damaging salon straightenings. I had done that to my hair once and three days later it was waving like a beauty contest winner at the town's annual parade. My mom dragged me back to the salon and demanded to know what happened. The lady who did my hair examined my head, prodded a little, and announced, "It's not our fault. That's just the way her hair is."

So I did not see why this time would be any better. My mom, however, had her own opinion. "Technology has improved," she insisted. "It's going to be successful this time."

It was not.

I admit that this was partly my fault. Instead of getting straightened hair that would plaster to my head and make me look like a basset hound, I wanted something kind of not like that at all. I wanted the kind of weird little crimpy hair things that I can't adequately describe but is basically the opposite of a straightening. The overly-diplomatic stylist thought it would be a good idea for my mother and I to not have a smack-down fight in the middle of his salon, so he made the suggestion that he would just straighten the TOP part of my hair, and then if I so desired I could crimp the bottom part to my heart's content.

I feel like visual aids are in order.

Option #1:

Option #2:

And of course, what actually happened:

So now what's happened is that my hair is half really flat and half really sticky-out-in-different-directions and basically wholly awful.

I am Mentally Incapable. It's Confirmed.

Oh man, I don't even know where to begin. Well actually I began by totally deleting the link to this blog off my facebook because that is just the kind of entry this is going to be.

So it all started with me wanting to go home for Chinese New Years. I'm pretty sure this was the catalyst because two things happen whenever I go home:

1. I get drunk the night before.

2. I have a lot of difficulty at the airport the next day.

I guess I don't learn lessons.

So on Thursday to cap off a two week period of midterms/fundraisers/dipping stuff I'm not allowed to eat in chocolate for five hours in one sitting/essays I got really drunk. I'm not going to go into details about the depths of my inebriation, but suffice to say it is a good thing I made that rule about wearing pants (or at the very least leggings) to parties way back in freshman year because I'm pretty sure at some point in the night I was not in total control of my limbs.

But this isn't really about the impressive amounts of cheap vodka I consumed or how I lost in semis in the beer pong tournament despite my amazing explosion shot to win the previous game or how around 2 AM I decided to play DJ and Maaron yelled at me for trying to put on old P. Diddy songs.

This is about the dangers of the morning after. So listen carefully, kids. You'll want to avoid the mistakes I made.

First of all - I'm not going to mince words - I looked like shit Friday morning. I had gotten home at four AM and by the time I showered (I have to shower before I get into bed no matter how opposite of sober I am - yes I am the epitome of hygiene) and dragged my dizzy self into bed it was god knows what time. And since I had a flight to catch at 1:30 I had changed my work hours that day to 8-11 and if you know me at all you'll know what a rough morning I had by the fact that I WORE GLASSES. Yes. Out in public.

The whole day was actually really comical in that kind of hazy, hungover, oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening way.

Let's list them:

1. The glasses thing. Trust me, it was serious. On top of that I was late because have you ever tried to wake up at seven after two hours of sleep while hungover? Then you understand why I didn't have time to put on make up or consider what to wear because I ended up in a pair of shiny red pants (I actually like these pants, and I totally wronged them with the rest of my outfit), this completely non-matching cream top and my Prolit sweatshirt. And purple moccasins. I basically looked like the personification of a hangover. Before I left I looked in the full length mirror by my front door and could only shake my head.

2. I had to bring my luggage to work since I was leaving straight from the office. I also had to bring the crushgrams that my co-workers bought for me. And I am so sick of hearing about them from the fundraiser that I don't want to explain but basically it was a six pack of glass soda bottles. Which I precariously balanced on my rolling suitcase while walking the four blocks to work. In my glasses. It felt like some sort of strange and strenuous dream.

3. Luckily my work is awesome so everyone sympathized and gave me different bits of advice on how to not die but THEN. Oh my god. This is kind of complicated but basically what happened was that Tando came into the office for the first time since he stopped working there, and I don't want to get into details but I was SO MAD that the one day I come into work looking like shit he happens to have an errand up at the office. When he came in through the door I lifted my head from its resting place on the table and was like "Jesus, please tell me you are joking," but nope. And I'm not saying that I look gorgeous when I step into the office everyday but I definitely don't usually look like a TellyTubby got drunk and threw up and the puke put on glasses and became me. And it's not like I'm trying to impress anyone but seriously. Talk about adding insult to injury.

4. Did you know airports had terminals? Well me and my hangover didn't. I'd never taken any airline other than Southwest from LAX, and Southwest is at terminal 1 right next to the security. So since I was already checked in for my United flight I was like "oh I'll just get off at Southwest because I'll be closer to security." Uh WRONG. United is at terminal 7. I was so confused. I literally had to text Arrow because I was like WTF WHERE AM I? And because he is the best friend a hungover girl can ask for (and has a strangely comprehensive understanding of the LAX floorplan) he directed me to the right place. It's not interesting enough to go in depth into but let me just tell you a shuttle was involved. That was how far I was from my flight.

5. The shuttle went to the ARRIVALS section of terminal 7. And there was this one other middle aged guy on the shuttle who got on and off at the same stops as I did (which helped because I was like oh hey I'm not the only one who makes these mistakes, and this guy doesn't even look hungover so he soberly made this mistake) so I started following him and he KEPT LOOKING BACK worriedly at me. I mean I was looking a mess and probably had on a pretty grim expression because I was wondering if I would miss my flight and also mentally vowing to never drink again but still after the fifth time he looked back I was starting to feel like an old-person stalker. Which didn't really help.

6. I made it to my gate in the nick of time. My flight was delayed. For two hours. My laptop and phone both ran out of batteries so I couldn't tell my dad when I was taking off. I had to pee but I couldn't because they loaded us onto the plane and THEN announced the delay. (I don't like airplane bathrooms.) I sat behind a crying baby.

Oh and on my way to the Flyaway shuttle I was telling Mango how I will never ever drink again and he gave me a baleful look and was like "you always say that. but you always do again" and I was like "oh this must be what it's like to be an alcoholic parent."

And that was my Friday. Happy Chinese New Year's everyone.

The Sequel.

So if you're wondering how a bad day can get worse, wonder no more.

Apparently I've forgotten that Mango is not the kind of person one goes to to be comforted because I went over to his place last night. This is the first conversation we had:

Me: It's been a crappy day.

Mango: Aww, is it because they canceled your class?

Me: No, it's becau--

Mango: Yes it is.

Me: What? No it's not.

Mango: Yes, I know it is.

Me: No, I could not care less about that class.

Mango: Yes you could.

This is the second conversation we had:

Mango: Remember that time I blocked you on AIM?

Me: Uhm, no...

Mango: Yeah it was an accident but I totally forgot about you until a few months later when I was like "hey Carolyn hasn't been online in a while" and I checked and you were blocked and I unblocked you and you were there.

Me: Great.

This is the third conversation we had:

Mango: Where's Laycon?

Me: At my place. (The rest of) my apartment invited him over for dinner.

Mango: Why don't they ever invite us?

Granted that was a valid question but a really shitty pep talk. And then after that he got into bed and promptly fell asleep and it was just all so depressing that I wanted to kill myself. But instead I went home and got in bed because I heard that sleep is like temporary death and I figured it would be a safe reprieve when one does not have the proper drugs is not yet ready for the real thing. And that was around 8 o'clock which would explain why I'm up at seven.

And you know how they say things look better in the morning? That is incorrect. And to make things weirder I woke up with these mystery scratches all over myself so either a cat snuck into my bed or I rolled over a razor blade while I was sleeping. I guess that's the problem with temporary death -- when you wake up you still have to face the scratches.

My Day Has Been as Confusing and Bad as this Blog Post.

When I woke up this morning and couldn't move, I should've known it was going to be a shitty day. I sometimes mess up my neck and have to spend a few days trying really hard not to make sudden movements with my head, which severely dampens my reaction time so if you see me this week please don't throw anything at my head because I won't be able to dodge it and let's be honest, you don't really have the money to pay for the reconstructive surgery, do you? That's what I thought.

So I had the spend the entire day turning my whole body if someone was addressing me, which you probably don't think is that weird but wait until you have to do it yourself.

So that's one.

Two?

My fantasy team is killing me. Not literally but it's getting close. Like if I drop one more place I will probably get an ulcer and in an attempt to cure it I'll probably drink a lot and then I'll get liver disease and die, and IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT CHAUNCEY BILLUPS?

My conversation with my friend Tard didn't improve my mood --

Me: my team's killing me

Tard: yes they are

Tard: I knew this was going to happen eventually

Tard: your team was doing too well

Me: I swear I'm this close to killing someone

Me: it could be you, tard

Me: it could be you

Tard: I didn't know you cared so much

Me: oh you'll find out how much I care

Me: with a knife in your kidney

Tard: wow ok

So in addition to the ulcer I may be facing jailtime. Not sure.

So that's two.

Three: the contents of my refrigerator?

Two bags of dumplings and one bag of wontons that the Y was kind enough to buy for me yesterday. Other than that, there's my flask of Svedka, a jug of water and some string cheese that, frankly, I'm a little scared to eat. Does prepackaged cheese go bad? I seriously need to get a car so that when I have a day like this one instead of writing a rage-filled blog post that doesn't even mention Taiwan or Korea (at least until now) I can just go buy some ice cream and maybe a cat because let's face it, I'm going to end up as one of those people who owns a cat and eats cookies and cream for dinner on Tuesday nights. Why is this, you ask? This is because of

Number four: I make the worst decisions a girl in my situation can conceivably make. Like if you got a puppy and put my life choices in front of it in form of those little bone-shaped biscuits I can guarantee you 98% of the time it will make a better choice than I would. And I am armed with facts and experience. Which apparently counts for nothing here.

It's times like this when I look back on my admittedly not-too-long life and muse, "how did I screw things up this badly?"

Now, I may be being a little dramatic. It's not like I have a heroin addiction and am carrying the child of a 50 year old married man whose company has just put my parents' out of business and so my whole family is depending on the income I generate as a stripper which will soon end because of the aforementioned pregnancy. So it's not as bad as that.

But I haven't exactly made some stellar choices either. Like when I look at my peers (is that a douchey word to use? I feel like it is) and some girl is graduating at the top of her class in her very competitive major and already has an internship with the biggest publishing house on the west coast that will turn into a full-time job after she's done with school and she's engaged to her boyfriend who knows how to tie his own ties and always picks her up when he says he will then I'm like hm. Maybe could've done things a little differently. Me, not her. Clearly. I bet she doesn't even like ice cream.

Like I'm always saying I want to meet some new people and do something different with my life but this is exactly the reason I don't like to actually go out and socialize or anything like that. When you meet someone for the first time, there is no warning signal that goes off and says "stay away from this person, you will become close friends and you'll give him the key to your apartment for emergencies but one day you'll wake up to find him sitting at the foot of your bed and smiling while he hums the theme from Titanic."

Something like that. Or maybe something less drastic, like this guy who sits down next to you in class one day is going to write you love songs and take you on picnics to the beach and ridicule tweens with you and eventually end up breaking your heart. Or it might even be good, like that waitress at your favorite restaurant is going to become your best friend and be the maid-of-honor at your wedding and bring you a cinnamon pretzel to keep you from fleeing the altar. BUT YOU DON'T KNOW, DO YOU?

And that just leaves you seven months later thinking back to that ill-fated first text message or first phone call or first drink sent across the bar and you're like, wow. Did I pick the wrong choice on that one or what. Should never have called her/slept with him/gotten that tattoo of her face/kidnapped his dog, etc.

But no matter how much you rethink your choices, I guess that's just life. Like as much as I may have just bitched, I don't regret things. It's like a policy of mine. I suspect most of it stems from a strong dislike of admitting I'm wrong, but no matter how you stack it, everything's considered life experience, right? Unless you keep making the same mistakes over and over again. This is why I don't re-date boys. But my point is that people are terrible and scary and probably often crazy but you're going to have to deal with them anyway. And I guess it's okay to believe the best of them even though once in a while it'll come back to bite you really hard and you'll have days like the one I just had. But now that you are armed with my wise interpretation of it, you'll be able to deal with it better, right? And a last word of advice: always sleep with a stuffed animal that has a can of pepper spray hidden in it so that if you pull the tail the pepper spray will spray out of its mouth. You're welcome.

Jet Lag, Customer Service, and A Potential Cry for Help.

To quote Iz, upon arriving at SFO international airport: "oh thank GOD for American men!"

And that about sums up my winter vacation.

Haha no I'm just kidding. Actually a ton of shiz happened that will probably span several posts, many of which probably won't end up being actually written. But just to keep myself accountable:

1. Korea. It's cold.

2. My grandparents' story.

3. The wrong restaurant.

4. Babies: sometimes they're kinda ugly.

5. Stanford. Four years later, nothing has changed.

6. Photoshop photoshoot.

7. Uncle Paddington and his countryside abode.

8. Shopping, shopping, and did I mention shopping? Plus mah hair.

9. My drunken uncles.

10. Chinese-style parking lot money-shoving fight.

There, that makes it seem a lot easier. So I got back yesterday around noon. After lunch I collapsed into my memory foam (the first time I've had a bed to myself in two weeks -- it was heavenly, I don't know how I'll ever stand being married) and knocked out for the rest of the year. I know, I'm a party animal.

Anyway, today I was much better thanks in part to the sixteen total hours of sleep I got the day before and in another part to a McDonald's iced coffee (diet commences when I return to school, I swear). So Iz and I went to the mall because I hadn't recklessly spent American money in a while finished my Secret Santa shopping yet. And that is where Iz Got Hit On By a Slightly Creepy Older Gentleman.

This is how it happened.

Iz and I were at one of those carts that they have in the middle of the mall, those mini-store things. We wanted to buy some of this $50 face-wash system thing but the guy was nowhere to be found. While we were waiting, this one guy from the cell phone stand next to it (like three feet away) came over and joked, "It's all free today!" While we were considering just taking the products and leaving $2 and a note ("we weren't sure how much it cost -- hope this covers it") when he added, "Nah, I think the guy stepped away for a second to use the restroom."

So we waited another few minutes. And then a few minutes more. Pretty soon it was coming up on fifteen minutes (Iz whispered, "This guy is taking a fat poop") when another one of the cell phone guys came over. He started making small talk in that way guys do when they're working up to a way to ask for a girl's number and these situations make me nervous so I wandered off under the guise of looking for a trash can in which to throw this little piece of paper I had on me. I know, I'm a terrible wingwoman/big sister.

Anyway, when I came back he was asking her what she does, and when she told him she was a comm major at UCSD he looked kind of surprised. Then he told her he had a journalism degree from University of Oklahoma (? some state like that) and that he spent six years working with the Air Force and that this mall job was just temporary while he was adjusting to his recent move to the Bay. Then he asked her for her number.

Oh my god that was the reason I avoid situations like that. It was so awkward while she just stood there going "mmm hmmm rmmm ehhh eeeh" until finally I totally butted in and was like "uhmm well she has a boyfriend" and then the guy just smiled real big and was like "well who said we have to go on a date? can't I just get your number?" And then it was more awkward and no one spoke until I said loudly, "Hmm, I wonder where the toy store is?" which was supposed to be a hint for Iz to be like, "oh, I know!" and lead us away but I don't think she got it because she just kept smiling politely and the guy kept waiting expectantly and I kind of blocked out the rest but I know we eventually left and the guy did not have a number to show for his efforts.

And then after we left Iz and I had the following conversation:

Me: Eek.

Iz: That was weird.

Me: Yeah, he's way too old for you.

Iz: Really? How old do you think he was?
Me: Well he graduated from college, right? And then he worked for the Air Force for six years? And then he moved back here? So he's probably like 30. And you look and act like you're 12.

Iz: He worked for the Air Force for six years?

Me: Uh, yeah. He mentioned that like twice.

Iz: Oh. I wasn't listening.

Me: Oh my god.

Iz: I feel bad. Maybe I should've given him my number.

So if anyone is looking for a pity date..

Anyway, that's that. Tomorrow I'm flying off to Los Angeles (the third plane I'll have been on in as many days) and luckily Maaron is picking me up from the airport so I won't have to drag my four pieces of luggage the mile between the Flyaway stop and my apartment. This marks the first time in four years that I've been picked up from LAX. I need more friends with cars am certainly very independent.

Independence occasionally has a drawback, however. Like tomorrow I am getting back to Los Angeles before any of my roommates or friends and I am slightly worried that a serial killer has been holed up in our empty apartment all break and I'll be the first one to discover him in three weeks and oh god he's going to cut my ears off. I am so serious about this that I am honestly considering asking Maaron to come up and check for monsters when he drops me off. But after that I'll deadbolt the door and I'll be fine, right? Right? Killers can't climb three stories onto a balcony and then break through the glass of double French doors and then track down the only occupant in the apartment in mere seconds by following her singing to the shower, right? RIGHT?

Okay, just making sure. I'm actually thinking it won't be that bad. The first day I moved into my apartment I was also unexpectedly left alone at night and I totally survived it and this was before the internet or cable was hooked up. Still, if you don't hear from me in a few days...

Guy Love.

Alright I lied. I'm totally back with a super long post but feel free to read this in a week if you're looking to pace yourself/can't stand my endless rambling two days in a row.

Today I met up with a bunch of my old friends and had lunch and realized that wow I am lucky. It might just be in comparison to some stuff going on in the rest of my life but it's still true, I've been pretty fortunate on the whole friendship front. And of course I have great girl friends too, but today I'm really grateful for my guy friends. We're not as close now, so it's not like something happened recently to ignite this feeling or anything, but back in high school and even the first few years of college when we all saw each other more often than twice a year, these guys were awesome.

And even now I have really strong guy friendships in my life. I usually find myself telling them more than I would tell a girl, just because I know my guy friends are less likely to repeat things and because they can give me the guy perspective on what I'm telling them, which unfortunately is usually about some other guy screwing up my life.

So that's something: if I have all these awesome guy friends in my life, guys who are thoughtful and kind and respectful and smart, why do I so often end up messing around with someone who is ... the opposite of that? Ah, but even I know it's not as black and white as that. Of course, my guy friends are thoughtful and kind and respectful and smart to me, but that's because we are just friends. They don't make it a habit of showing me their mean, petty, rude sides, just like I don't yell at them sleep with them or expect them to tell me I'm pretty (it's actually kind of weird when they comment on my appearance -- although that's not a discouragement, guys -- I'm sure if you keep complimenting I'll get used to it). So maybe it's not right to judge it like that, but now that we're strangely and slowly growing up, I've been able to see these friends get girlfriends and from what I can tell, they haven't suddenly transformed into beasts or anything like that.

Take my old friend Stuffin for example. We used to actually be really good friends, but college and new friends and significant others have distracted from that. We were pretty close in high school though, and he was like a brother to me and Iz. When we still lived near him he used to pick us up all the time when we were meeting up with friends, and one Christmas he went with me to pick out a Christmas tree because my parents were too busy to do it. He carried the tree into our living room and, while I was calling my mom with the good news ("I bought a tree! I bought a tree! It's in our living room now!") he found a broom and dustpan and was sweeping all the stray Christmas tree needles up. One year when I came home for summer, my flight was scheduled for when my parents were at work so he offered to pick me up. I joked that I'd always wanted to be greeted at the airport with balloons and when he got me he brought along those cute little balloon on a stick things. And if you guys think that is being a good friend, then imagine how he must be as a boyfriend, because he treats his girlfriend a thousand times better than that.

Or my friends Laycon and Mango (back when Mango and I had only ever been friends). One week in my second year in college I was really sick. It was probably the worst (non-alcohol related) illness I'd ever had in college -- the accompanying cough lasted half a year, if that gives any indication to just how badly I felt like dying that week when it was at its worst. Anyway, when my neighbors Laycon and Mango heard I was threatening to jump out my window just to put myself out of my misery, they rushed over. And I lived on the fourth floor, which just shows what good friends they were. The jump wouldn't even have killed me. But anyway, Laycon came with a water heater and made me like thirty cups of tea, and I don't remember what Mango brought (probably nothing) but I do remember that I was already kinda starting to like him back then so I was WRACKED WITH AGONY both because my lungs were like 75% phlegm but also because I looked horrible, like unbrushed-hair-runny-nose-glasses-puffy-eyes horrible.

So when Mango knocked on my door, I opened it like half an inch and peered out like that crazy lady whose yard the neighborhood kids aren't allowed to go in.

"Yes?" I said.

"Hi," he said, trying to look through the door. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible." I said.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"No, I look so disgusting."

"But we haven't hung out in a while."
"I know, but if you see my face we will never hang out again because you'll be like oh god she's ugly."

"Okay, you know I wouldn't say that."

"You might."

"Carolyn..."

"We can chat, but you can't look at my face."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

And this is how we had a thirty minute conversation wherein Mango's eyes were glued to the floor the entire time. Once he interrupted what I was saying with a frantic "Sorry!" and I was like, "What?" and he was like "I accidentally saw your foot" and I felt kind of like I was in a Victorian novel. And it was cool, because I love Victorian novels.

So, with these examples of Good Guys in mind, comes the age-old question: "so why are girls attracted to jerks?"

And, as is usually the case when we have these difficult to resolve questions, it is time for...

DUMDUMDUMDUM

A Panel

Question of the Day: Why are girls so ridiculously and stupidly attracted to jerks?

For this question I was totally fair and asked three boys and three girls, but it was unanimous: everyone agreed that girls seem to like jerks more than nice guys.

Then the big question was: why? Are we just stupid? Or is there actually a reason that we gravitate toward guys who make us wish we could shrink really small and crawl inside their heads so we can kick their brains?

Well, I got a variety of answers to my questions but they were very interesting and probably true.

Almost all the boys said that they felt jerks got more girls because they were more confident or outgoing.

To quote Laycon, "bad boys make girls hot, good boys make good friends; nice guys are usually more timid and reserved and don't give off sex appeal."

Hmm.. I don't know if I can attest to this. There must be some limit to the "bad," right, because I know I definitely don't find convicts attractive. Orange really doesn't do it for me. But it is true, when you meet a nice, quiet guy you immediately think aww it would be so cool if we could be friends. Unless there's like incredible magical chemistry, in which case you think aww it would be so cool if I could jump his bones. No? Justs me? Okay, moving on.

My friend Tard thinks confidence is the dealmaker also, he said, "Jerks tend to not care what they do, which shows confidence. They're more hotheaded and less cautious, which is exciting."

Hmm I don't know about that either. I find careless guys nerve-wracking and I really like even-headed guys who stay calm through all types of situations because to be honest if anyone's gonna overreact IT'S GONNA BE ME OKAY? And also, there's that one quintessential "bad boy" thing about having a motorcycle, which I've never really found that attractive. I don't know why, I'm not against it and I could see how it could be a potential turn on for girls but I have just never met anyone who personified it. Maybe I'm just lazy and like to sit in cars with the luxuries of radio and a/c. Or maybe I should stop picturing old bearded men on Harleys when I think "motorcycle."

Iz asked Poops the same question and his answer was so awesome I have to quote it directly:

Poops: Girls like jerks more because they are more outgoing.

Iz: so.. what are you [I knew she would get sidetracked; note: Iz not a good investigative reporter]

Poops: I'm in between

Poops: Nice guy in the beginning

Poops: Jerk in the end

Iz: PUHlease no you're not

Poops: PEACE

Poops: YOU FELL FOR ME WOMAN

Of course, the girls had their own opinions about the matter.

Whenever paneling comes up Iz sets aside her oversized novelty stationery and her habit of pluralizing every single word (Iz speak: everys singles words) and tries to sound like an intelligent 20 year old instead of a toddler who has developed really, really slowly. Like slowly to the point where the parents are flying to specialists around the country. Anyway, here's what she had to say:

Iz: The mean behavior can be addicting for those who aren't experienced yet. It's like they'll be a jerk and then they'll be super nice to you and the contrast makes you get addicted to them more.

Me: What if you are experienced?

Iz: Hm... then it might be hot for a while. But that's it. Being a jerk is a pretty big turn off.

Amen.

Teenie: It's a pride thing. At first girls are like "how dare you not treat me like a princess?!" and then they get intrigued. You're drawn to him because you want to win him over. Or maybe it's the sad fact that guys who are jerks know that they have something going for them, and hence they can afford to be a jerk? It's like, goddamnit you're such an asshole but I'd like to jump your bones anyway.

Hm... I am familiar with that phenomenon. Does this contradict my agreement with what Iz said? Now you see why my life is so confusing.

Meema: The thing is, if a guy is really nice, he can easily be put on the Friend Ladder. Because he's friendly and non-provoking. Attraction needs a little danger sometimes, something to excite. If he's nice and NOT boring, then it's a much better situation. But that's hard to find often.

So it seems like the conclusion is that interestingness(?) in a guy is more important than niceness. Which blows, but might possibly be true. The funny thing is that while it seems that everyone agrees girls go for the jerks, it's not really holding true in my personal experience. I mean, I admit I've gone through the phase of being interested in the kind of guy who can roll a joint drunk and in the dark but isn't sure what, exactly, a library is for. That was called high school. But now I am a completely mature and independent woman who totally knows what she wants in life and would never ever again hook up with a guy who thinks it's okay to refer to a girl as a stupid bitch as long as he assured her he was joking afterwards ("it means I love you, baby"). Right?

And not to get all disgusting and sentimental right here but to come full circle -- it's my guy friends (remember that topic?) who usually remind me that hey, I might get my heart broken or at least fairly insulted by jerks but it's the nice guys who will listen and okay, they might not go hunt down and kill anyone for me, but they can definitely make me dinner and tell me I'm pretty (this is a surprisingly effective cure for sadness). And, in the last year, no one's been better at that for me than Mango.

So, for his birthday (he's turned 20 today, prime Spongebob-watching age) --

10 Reasons I Love Mango

10. He doesn't care that I often plaster his personal life all over my blog, usually including pictures of him in strange poses.

9. He knows me (scarily) well, which is a plus because sometimes it's nice to be understood and not completely misjudged. For example, when we went whale-watching at Newport Beach we were sailing out of the harbor(?) and there were all these beachfront mansions and I saw this set of three. The first mansion was this big modern one, where all the walls were made of glass. The second one was this really cute Victorian-esque sunbeamy yellow thing with white trim. The last one was Grecian, I guess, it was white marble with big tall pillars. Anyway, I pointed the trio out to Mango and said, "So when you get super rich, which one are you going to buy me?" And he looked at them and was like "the third one" and I was like "OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU KNOW" and he just kind of rolled his eyes and was like "well duh, I know you."

8. He knows me, and still sticks around. He may be one of the only people on earth who can handle me when I'm in one of my moods. Usually he's the only one within kicking distance (I wonder why..) but when it strikes, he usually kind of just sits through it until I've let off all my steam and then he'll look at me all calmly and say, "well, you know I'll love you no matter what." And if you can continue being mad after something like that you're a much more willful woman than I am. Also he sometimes has candy.

7. He always shares his candy.

6. He makes me dinner at ridiculous times like 4:30 PM because I never have time for lunch and then when I get hungry again around 10 PM he not only doesn't mock me for eating so late, he will order food with me and then go pick it up from downstairs when the delivery guy comes. And then afterwards when I complain about how fat I am he will only agree a little.

5. I can wear my baggy sweats and a lumpy sweatshirt and my dorky glasses around him and he'll be like "you pull that look off well" and then I'll stop mentally freaking out that I'm the grossest person in the world.

4. He always takes my side.

3. When I promise we'll hang out and then I come over and fall asleep for four hours on his bed and then wake up and say "I'm sleepy, I'm gonna go home" he will walk me and not complain that technically we didn't actually do anything fun.

2. When he walks me home and there's no one in my apartment at like 2 AM he always checks for monsters and will wait for me to shower because he knows I get scared when it's late and dark and the apartment is empty and I have to shower because what if I open the door when I'm done and THERE IS A MASKED MURDERER SITTING ON MY BED? This is an honest, real fear of mine. Sometimes the murderer is wearing an animal head.

1. He is my best buddy.

Well that's that. I'm leaving for Korea tomorrow so if you don't hear back from me please send former President Clinton over there asap. But if all goes well I should be in Taiwan by Saturday around noon, and Saturday around one PM I will probably have overdosed from pearl milk tea. Barring that though, I will take a lot of pictures and report back and I swear that I will actually do it. Not like that time with Hawaii. Haha. Remember that? Good times.

This Post is Gonna Be So Long You're Going to Be Sick of My Writing for a Good Three Weeks so Yay! It All Works Out.

Remember me? I'm sorry. I know -- yes, you have every right to be angry. It's just that things have been so hectic, and then -- of course I care about you, how can you ask that? I know I promised to write on -- but you should understand that they needed me to -- you know, have you ever thought that maybe it's you? Yeah, I said it. Maybe you're just not supportive enough and I couldn't feel like I could talk to you. So instead of pointing fingers, maybe you should take a long, deep look within yourself and -- oh, don't cry. Here, let's just call it even and forget everything, okay? And maybe make me a sandwich? Great, you're the best.

And that's how I would apologize if I were a boy.

But anyway, hello. Apparently I have this tradition (I'm going to call it a tradition instead of an unfortunate habit because that is the kind of denial positive thinking I am capable of) of not writing for a really long time and then feeling bad and putting up a ridiculously long and nonsensical post right before I leave the country.

So yeah, I'm leaving the country! My flight out is this Thursday, right after Mango's birthday tomorrow (happy birthday fool). It's like a fourteen hour flight to Korea (I wish so hard that I was exaggerating right now) and we'll be there for two to three days before making the shorter flight over to Taiwan. I'm not scared of flying at all, but sometimes I get a little claustrophobic in the stale cabin when it's going on hour eleven and my legs feel cramped no matter how much I am intruding into the personal space of the passenger in front of me, and I've already gone through the Sky Mall magazine twice, and made a third attempt to eat the congealed lasagna in front of me and OH GOD IF I DON'T GET OUT OF HERE I'M GOING TO THROW UP OR SHOOT MYSELF. Usually I just play the most soothing music I have and try to fall asleep. Sometimes I throw up.

So anyway, there's that to look forward to. I don't really know what I've been up to the last two weeks. I've definitely been enjoying my student pass to all the UCLA basketball games, and that might have something to do with all the tall, good-looking athletic guys because it sure isn't our 3-6 record that keeps me enthralled. Anyway, our student section is called The Den (because we're Bruins -- isn't that cute?) and they pass out a newsletter kind of thing at the beginning of each game debriefing us about who the opponent is. And there's this section called "The Dirt" where they trashtalk the other team and oh my god look at this one from a little while ago:

It's like they're personally attacking me. Also I'd like to meet this AJ guy. Also I don't know why my Paint made that stupid white erasey mark. Life hates me today and GUESS WHAT THE FEELING IS MUTUAL. Okay I might be PMSing (I bet you guys are like omg why does this girl get her period every other week? but sometimes it's not that, sometimes I'm just a bitch).

Also I spent a lot of time studying and a lot of time playing video games. Speaking of which, Mango has gotten into the habit of complaining that I've become "too girly." His comments are based on the dual facts that I occasionally roll some glitter around my eyes and that I seem to fall into an unbreakable kind of trance anytime I approach a store that even remotely looks like it could be selling some sort of clothing.

This second thing is nothing new though, if you have ever shopped with me you should know this. It's like I am some sort of homing device. The second I spot something of interest I will completely zone out my surroundings and make a beeline for whatever has caught my eye. I often lose my shopping companions by doing this. But it's not my fault they can't keep up, it's not like there's a rule against running in malls. I should know. But I guess it can be disconcerting to the people who accompany me; one second we are having a perfectly pleasant conversation about whether or not it is acceptable to wear black and brown together (it is not), and the next thing they see is a somewhat possessed gleam in my eye before I take off sprinting. Sometimes I don't return for days.

This is why I am looking so forward to shopping in Taiwan. It's like one huge Ross except everything is aimed at young women who like cute things oh my god it's heaven.

Well I mean there's also a lot of weird shiz. Like I remember when I went back years ago there was this really popular chain of stores decked out in bright neon lights that my childish eyes were immediately attracted to which would be a good marketing strategy except that the name of the store was "CONDOM WORLD" and they only sold one product (three guesses what it is -- although I'm sure there were many, many varieties of that one product).

Also trendy when I was last in Taiwan were black blinged out tshirts showing a giant middle finger wearing like three rings with silver chains around the wrists. And the silver chains were actual metal chains hanging off the tshirt. So it's really more of a pick-and-choose market.

But that was a long time ago. So long, in fact, that Iz and I weren't yet allowed to wear nail polish (I know, insanity right?) whereas this time I plan to bring back a small suitcase filled solely with metallic and sparkly bottles of awesome. Jesus, maybe Mango is right.

Something else I want to do in Taiwan is streak my hair purple and get a tongue ring. Only one of these will be accomplished, and I'll give you a hint as to which one -- my parents like the color purple much more than they like punching holes into any part of the body that is not an earlobe (and even then it gets at least three disapproving clicks of the tongue). I'm trying to console myself by thinking about how I can get my ears re-pierced (this is how lazy I am -- I lost two of my earrings and didn't put in more studs for months and then when I tried: lo and behold, piercings heal, and now I just have one piercing left [if you're good at math or at least didn't get flunked out of remedial addition then you know I was supposed to have three piercings] so I'm like some sort of weird lopsided earring pirate... you know, like instead of having one eye I just have one piercing? okay never mind) and so I can finally wear cute earrings again and Iz will stop asking if the one piercing I have is "on the gay side."

So there's that.

Since we're going to Korea and none of us know anything about Seoul except that all the girls have cancer and all the boys are in love with someone who is actually their biological sister separated from birth (unless you're saying Korean dramas aren't an accurate indicator of the country's societal norms?), my mom asked if I could look something up online so that we don't get lost and never return or accidentally purchase a life-size cow made of solid gold that costs more than our house in America is worth.

So then I googled something like "korea tourist guide" and the first result was for the wikitravel article on South Korea and I was very happy because I love wikipedia and then the second search result caught my eye and it was the wikitravel article on NORTH KOREA. So naturally I had to click that one first and this is what I found:

Click to enlarge and you better do it because look how hard I worked

Isn't that awesome and weird? And terrifying?

And then I went to the Seoul page and found out I would not be entirely safe in the south either:

I'm a little nervous about my trip.

Speaking of angry, it's come to my attention lately that certain people who will remain unnamed think that I am a really angry but well-dressed person who is sincere about wanting to stab everything in sight. So I feel like I should clear this up, and not just for future litigation purposes: I only want to stab half of what I talk about stabbing. Are we good now? Okay. I tried to explain to these people (actually it was just one but I don't want to single this person out but then I was like well I don't want people to think that there is just like a horde out there who doesn't understand me so yeah it's just one person) that "it's just my writing style" and the person was like, very skeptically, "I've never heard of the writing style stabby" and I was like "well maybe you should spend more time reading and less time suggesting I look into anger therapy, yeah?" And then we ended our conversation in a completely civil manner that involved no bloodshed. See how suppressed mature I am?

Okay so I'm grouchy and don't know what to wear tomorrow and my feet are cold and my cramps feel like a stampede of thirty pound centipedes wearing soccer cleats are doing a jig in my stupid UNNECESSARY uterus so I'm going to leave before anyone reading this gets too alarmed and tries to come put me down before I can cause any damage to my immediate vicinity.

One last thing. Happy 20th birthday to my favorite tropical fruit even though I'm slightly allergic to it:

This blog loves you and dinosaurs. More dinosaurs though.