Proof it's Really Happening

13.1

I have never been so sore in my life.

Never did I think the day would come (before the year 2065 at least) that getting out of a car, going to the bathroom, and going down a small flight of stairs would be among the most daunting, physically exherting tasks of the day.

The weirdest part? How incredibly happy the current sorry state of my body makes me. My sore muscles are proof that I actually accomplished the thing I halfheartedly pledged to do a few months ago. I sucessfully finished a half marathon.

I won't lie; I don't necessarily love running. Or at least, I sure didn't when this whole marathon idea crept into my head. I basically just signed up for 2 reasons: First, because four of my friends were doing it and I didn't want to be left out. I suppose this may reveal a lot about me as a person; if Cara, Jeni, Aislinn and Kate had signed up for a group cliff-jump, I would probably have been right there, enthusiastically registering my life away as well. I also figured the $46 entrance fee might provide the forced motivation/willpower that was apparently crucial in getting my lazy, atrophied butt back into the gym. At that point, nothing short of the idea of throwing away almost $50 bucks (a decent lunch shift- I always think of money in terms of serving shifts) would have lured me onto that treadmill.

Two months, three monster sized blisters, several long canyon runs, and countless Kardashian viewing sessions (thank you Gold's Gym, for mounting TVs on those treadmills), it was October 30th. The Halloween Half Marathon, advertised on its website as "The Most Extreme Halloween Race in the World!" had arrived.

I'm not the type of person who likes to draw attention to myself in large crowds, so the idea of dressing up and running the race in costume didn't appeal to me. Luckily my friends were on the same page, so we all bundled up in our token spandex running pants- every girl seems to have a pair- and our skull adorned, long sleeved yet breatheable race shirt we picked up the night before. We also took that night's outing as an opportunity to binge (aka carbo load) on pizza. We had about seven different servers walk past our demolished, empty plate/pizza crust littered booth and ask with incredulous looks, if we needed more food. "Wow, you girls really put that down!" and "Nice job ladies, VERY impressive", were also among comments made. We made sure everyone knew we were athletes, and not a support group of bulimics.




The race began at 9:00 am, but we had to board the busses in the mall parking lot much earlier. In hindsight, I can easily say that the bus ride up was much, MUCH worse than the race its self. I have never felt so carsick in my life. I literally dry heaved no less than three times into the wrinkled manilla envelope containing my race bib number. Once we got up there, I felt fine. We were all anxious to start the race.



Th race isself basically started off as a herd of oddly dressed people stampeding down a mountain, and ended up the same; only the people were a little more sparsely situated along the trail and a whole lot sweatier. I found myself getting oddly competitive during the race and credit my faster than anticipated finish time to a man in jeans. A small group of runners had unofficially banded together, since we were going about the same pace. One of which was a man in jeans (maybe a cowboy?), who I was determined to beat. I'm sorry, but I couldn't let someone in DENIM beat me. I was also secretly racing a Lauren Conrad lookalike, Legolas, and a Hispanic Elvis. I am proud to say that my determination to beat these costume clad athletes, an ipod full of sick rap beats provided by Ice Cube and Juvenille, and a whole lot of adrenaline brought me to the finish line in 1 hour and 59 minutes. I officially ran 13.1 miles in less than 2 hours.

Yes, even 2 days later, my hamstrings are still permanently on fire. Yes, I still have to walk backwards down the stairs. I don't know how I am going to get through tonight's work shift. But the finisher's medal is amazing (and also misleadingly reads "Provo Marathon", creating the misleading impression that I ran a full marathon. I would do it again in a second. Well, probably not a second. More like 2 hours. But maybe a little faster...

Things I Will NOT Do to This Blog Once I am Married...

As you may or may not know, I will soon be taking a giant step down the path to responsible, mature adulthood. No, this step does not include my personal forsaking of Lil' Wayne beats, Gossip Girl and Marshmallow Mateys. Sorry mom, I am nowhere near THAT grown up. No, I have actually managed to recruit someone to agree to marry me. So come December 17th of this year, these hip hop listening ears and teenage drama watching eyes will belong to someone's wife. Brock is absolutely perfect and more than that, he is perfect for me. He is the one person who can not only put up with my seemingly endless personality quirks, but he actually seems to sort of like them! He, on the other hand, comes fully loaded with all the features/qualities every desirable husband needs- responsible,hardworking,athletic,love of budgeting spreadsheets etc. Anyway,he is fabulous, I got dang lucky, and eventually this blog will have to change a bit. Here is what I promise NOT to do:

1. I promise I will not change the title to anything including the word "love". People don't need the "clever" title of a blog to be reminded that we are in love. If we weren't, would we be married? I think not. This means no "Love and Memories" and no "All Because 2 People Fell in Love". I will also not use the word "est". As in "Sargent Family: est. 2010". I will also not use a "witty" combination of both of our names, ie. "Brockolyn". We'll save that one for People Magazine.

2. I promise not to post what I call "jumpy pics". Jumpy pics commonly litter the facebook albums and blog posts of Utah Mormons everywhere. They are usually comprised of either a line of girls, or a newlywed couple, at the high point of a synchronized jump. Arms and legs are flailing and an open mouthed, surprised look is usually on the subjects' faces, not unlike the gaping mouthed look I assume a salmon would have, when hooked on a fishing line and being reeled in from the high seas. Quite frankly, I have toyed with the idea of doing this, but Brock and I couldn't even summon up the mental strength (nor physical ability) to do it in jest. I am nowhere near coordinated enough, and I love my future husband too much to strip his manliness away from him in that manner.

3. I will refer to my husband by his name, which is "Brock". I will not downplay his importance as a human being by only referring to him as "husband", like he is a nameless accessory for me to cart around town. (Example: "Handbag" and I went to the mall today...) When I use the word "husband", it will be prefaced with the word "my". I will not call him "lova boy" or "babe" or "Brockers"

4. My posts will have substance. Or at least, as much "substance" as they do now. (Some may argue here, and would probably easily win- my posts aren't all that deep.) I will not post 13 pictures of me in my new Anthropoligie church dress, followed with a cheery "I just LOVE Sundays!!!! Have a LOVELY day!!! This does not require thought to write, nor does it provide entertainment to view.

5. I will not post pictures of every time we go out to eat. I don't look charming and dainty when I hold my burgers up to my mouth- I look more like a ravenous troll. Plus, there are only so many shots you can take of a Costa Vida chicken salad, or a Little Ceasars Hot-N-Ready. If the occasional restaurant pic shows up, I can assure you it will not be a typical "posed candid" of us enjoying our scrumptious fare. And I will make these pics few and far between.

Basically I strongly believe that life should be blogged about, but not lived to be blogged about. If that makes sense. I don't plan on living life with this blog in the back of my mind. Obviously blogs do tend to focus on the good aspects of life; the fun days, the more photogenic moments, etc. But in all reality, life is life, and I don't plan on painting mine to be some glorified, perfected version of it.

Hopefully I didn't hurt any feelings.

Have a LOVELY day! XOXO

Just kidding.

Low Self Esteem on Parade

Last week my boyfriend and I decided to venture out for a night out on the town to the Big City (why, Salt Lake, of course). The city hosts free concerts in a public park once a week, to give back to the greater Salt Lake community and ward off the crack fiends that otherwise occupy its premises. Most of the featured artists aren't very well known amongst mainstream,un-artistic,uncreative radio listeners as myself... (I will be the first to admit,I seriously have the world's worst taste in music- in fact, this idea deserves a post of itself, which I promise will come very soon.)Last week's rising star was some DJ named "Girl Talk", who's musical talent seemed to consist soely of splicing together hip hop songs by pressing "play" on his iTunes and dancing around onstage with toilet paper guns. I wasn't too worried about not being able to follow along with every word; so what if I'm not a legit, merchandise carrying fan? The main reason for the outing was the fabulous people watching opportunity it presented.

If anything, my "people watching" expectations were exceeded. To be put quite honestly, I have never seen such a concentrated bunch of freaks in my life. (After Venice Beach, of course, but hosting complete freaks is its claim to fame...) Here is where my rant begins:

I was shocked at how much time and effort people seemed to have put into looking so homeless. Seriously, so much thought and planning was invested in each trampy looking outfit. This was made apparent by the mold that seemed to be adhered to; the criteria that was met in every single outfit. These so called indie hipsters all claim to be so original. They all claim to be "expressing themselves", right? Well then why do they all look EXACTLY the same? Why does EVERY SINGLE skinny, methed out guy have the SAME scoop neck stripey tank top, wayfarer sunglasses and baggy beanie sloppily thrown (although actually meticulously placed) on the back of his head? And EVERY SINGLE girl seems to own the same baggy fringed vest and miniskirt combo. As for the tattoos: you know what,I'll be open minded here- go ahead and be creative; "express yourself", whatever, I guess it's your body... But I just find it interesting that so many different girls all coincidentally expressed their inner beauty with the same bear paw print on each boob.

For a demographic of people who pride themselves on their "individuality" and "creative expressionism", everybody sure does look and act exactly the same. It is like bad self esteem central; a group of young adults who weren't popular in high school, so upon graduation decided to reinvent themselves and get that craved attention amongst the burnouts, who accept anyone willing to fork over money for pot, and gain inner confidence by appearing "intimidating". Well I'm tellin' ya, I have never encountered a less threatening bunch.

I realized that I must be getting old when I witnessed a particularly young, novice looking group of tramps walk by. I literally turned to my boyfriend and said "that little baby girl is getting pregnant tonight"... I sounded just like someone's mom.

Whereas even a year ago, I probably would have loved the situation at hand, mostly just because of its comedic value, last week we only lasted about 20 minutes. Maybe I'm just not as funny/carefree/open minded as I used to be, but honestly, I was disgusted and repulsed by the absolute lack of dignity/personal hygeine present. So much that it began to depress me. I know that I haven't been exposed to as much, being from Orem Utah and all, so I guess that probably explains the shock factor, but I am not naive; I know that sadly, this represents a big chunk of the adolescent/young adult population in America. On the bright side, that night's free artist (some DJ named "Girl Talk", who's musical talent seems to consist soely of splicing together hip hop songs by pressing "play" on his itunes and dancing around onstage with toilet paper guns) has provided me with a great running mix. Hopefully after enough miles on the treadmill, I will be skinny enough to pull off the baggy fringed vest look; it will show off my bear claw boob tatoos nicely, I think. Just kidding. I promise.;)

A Few of Life’s Most Pathetic/Embarrassing Moments

1. Recently, while standing in the checkout line at Wal Mart, I was greeted loudly with a cheery and thickly accented “Extrrrra Meat! Extrrra Pico!” from a smiling Café Rio line cook (still sporting sweet pork stained apron and hairnet), who not only recognized my face, but apparently remembered my typical lunch order too. I’m pretty sure this indicates a severe Rio addiction. Luckily though, this experience aided the blossoming of a convenient new friendship, and now I get my “extrrra meat” for free.

2. Along the same lines, I exchanged a smile/nod with a familiar looking woman at Target one day, both of us obviously acknowledging recognition of one another. I couldn’t remember who she was for a few minutes, until it dawned on me that she was, in fact, the main daytime clerk at the Provo City Justice Court. The disturbing part isn’t necessarily that I recognized her, but that she recognized me. If my nearly suspended license (I am literally 10 record points, or 1/5 of a standard speeding ticket away from getting my driving privileges revoked) isn’t enough to keep me driving defensively, this definitely will be.

3. When I was young, foolish, and lacked the dating skills (aka “game”) I have now since perfected, I thought it would be a wise idea to write out a list of things to talk about in preparation for a date with a particularly boring (but, like, sooo hot!) boy. This list was entitled “Things to Talk About with Sexy/Boring Rob”. Unfortunately he somehow came across this list halfway through the night, after I had already steered our feeble, strained conversation through the first four bulleted items. Embarrassed, I then attempted to save the “relationship” by leaving my flip flops as collateral of sorts, to ensure another hang out during which I could redeem myself. Instead, all this act earned me was one final text from Sexy/Boring Rob: “I left your shoes on the porch, see you around.” Ouch.

4. A few summers ago, for some odd, unexplainable reason, I signed my roommates and myself up to sing a musical number in church. (Sometimes when I listen to music too loud, I get my sing-along voice mixed up with Celine’s, Rhianna’s, Beyonce’s etc. and mistakenly think I have musical talent.) Unfortunately, I forgot to inform them of this until about ten minutes before the meeting, resulting in the most butchered, painful rendition of “Nearer My God to Thee” the BYU 226th ward had ever been forced to witness. Shoulders were shaking, and tears were falling everywhere as audience members attempted to stifle their laughter. I foolishly invited my own mother, who consoled me later with a “Sacrament meeting isn’t really the time for professional performances…” Later that night, a few of us were walking past our apartment complex’s volleyball sand pit where a group of guys was talking. I overheard the words “worst singing ever” and “really hot though”. Hey, at least we looked good!

Gray Area

Despite all the moral “gray area” that seems to exist these days, there are a few widely accepted things that human beings, as a general rule, just simply shouldn’t do. Examples include feeding zoo animals, ripping off mattress tags, wearing the Ed Hardy shirt/Livestrong bracelet combo(or dating/associating with someone who does), watching any movie in which Eddie Murphy stars as multiple characters, and responding to that oh-so-enticing email from the sickly boy-prince of Nigeria, desperate to bestow upon you his fortune (657,000 African Zarr= 12 million United States Dollars! All he needs is your fax number, social security number, and mother’s maiden name! )

Another item on life’s “do not do” list is picking up hitchhikers.

I’ve learned to resist Prince J-Kwon’s tempting email offer, have only seen “The Nutty Professor 2” once (when my TV remote was lost), and would rather date a Lego than a guy with a decorative skull shirt (much better conversation.) But there is one list item I tend to struggle with.

I have never met anybody who has picked up more hitchhikers than I have. But here is the thing: I don’t even necessarily do it out of the good of my heart. I just find it wildly hilarious/exhilarating. Probably the same sort of rush people get from skydiving. Or illicit drug use.
Disclaimer: The following situations exemplify irresponsible, erratic and dangerous behavior. I do not in any way advocate, or even condone my actions. (But I also do not regret a single one.)

Scene 1: I was driving home late one summer night. Wet, tired and reeking of chlorine, it’s a wonder I stopped when I spotted the dark figure, thumb outstretched, loitering in the Mama Chu’s parking lot. Having just braved the Belmont hot tub (marinate in that thing too long and you’re just begging for a Staph infection) I was probably feeling adventurous. I nonchalantly rolled to a stop and beckoned the shadowy figure over, just like I did this every night. It shuffled over and quickly ducked in, just like it did this every night. I turned for a look at my passenger/service project. We had gone to high school together. I hadn’t spent much time analyzing the kid then, but I wouldn’t have expected him to someday sport a 2XL “G Unit” shirt and reek of cigarette smoke. We awkwardly acknowledged our previous acquaintance and he shared with me his ambition to become a manager at Peter Piper Pizza (they’ve got a great benefit structure.) I don’t know who the joke was on more. Him, for the obvious downward plunge post high school? Or me, for making the conscious decision to let a stranger into my vehicle at 2 am, while wearing a swimming suit, Ugg boots and a Costco bathrobe? Luckily the drive was short and sweet. He was a gracious rider, and thanked me profusely when he got out. Only later did I remember rejecting the Facebook friend request that same boy had coincidentally sent a few months prior. With it, was a heartfelt (and never responded to) message, informing me that I had gotten “hella fine” since high school. Oh, such a sweetie. I’m glad I got a chance to thank him.

Scene 2: A few friends and I were headed up Spanish Fork Canyon to attend some crawfish catching/cooking/eating social event. What exactly a crawfish is, I will never know because of what happened next. We stopped abruptly when we encountered a rusty old tan hatchback with a crazed-looking Indian (I mean, Native American) woman prancing around it, hands waving hysterically in the air. Between raspy, phlegm-filled breaths, she informed us that she was having a “panic attack” and needed to get to the hospital. I immediately offered our assistance, before my wary friends could object. (Let’s be honest; I think I was enticed more by the potential comedic value present than the chance to be a modern day Samaritan.) I ended up driving the woman-in her own car-to the Provo Hospital. I’m surprised we both fit; that car was absolutely littered with dream catchers, afghans, Crystal Creations (probably with healing powers) and prescription drug bottles. I think there might have been a peace pipe. I held her hand in an attempt to calm her down and we engaged in some forced, wheezy-breathed small-talk. Her name was Charlene and she was on her way to the reservation for a family reunion when the “panic attack” hit. Although the (empty) state of the scattered Rx bottles indicated a different story… When we got to the ER she refused to let go of my now sweaty hand, so I agreed to hang around, not knowing that this would involve my hands-on assistance in her urine sample collection. After another solid hour of bedside hand-holding, Charlene informed me that I was now one of her best friends. It’s like I’ve always said; holding hands really is a bigger deal than kissing.

There have been more. Offhand, I can think of three more instances right off the top of my head. Each one has kept me laughing for days on end. I know I get more of a kick out of telling the stories than those who have to sit through them. And I’m not promising there won’t be more. I will just let this be my one “gray area” justification. If a hitchhiker is someday the cause of my ultimate demise, at least I will die in the service of a fellow being. And I will most likely be laughing.

Sociopath in 336?

Lately I have been spending my lunch break at Barnes and Noble. This is partly to discourage me from spending money on lunch(I recently realized that 95% of my bank statement charges are food related), but also so I can discreetly read the new Chelsea Handler book without actually buying it. Last week I stumbled across a disturbing read in the clearance section. (Wow, I am sounding REALLY cheap.) It was called "The Sociopath Next Door" and basically gives you a list of red flags/warning signs that may indicate creepy, sociopathic tendencies in your neighbors. I happen to be a regular viewer of the Lifetime channel, so of course this intrigued me. I flipped it open and read:

“Sociopaths rarely show emotion or cry. If so, it often happens at odd, inappropriate times”.

This worries me. That description is a dead ringer for my own personal “cry habits”. I tend to rarely cry, and if I do, it happens at odd, inappropriate times. If for some reason my dear neighbor both stumbles upon the book and sees me during a deep/inspirational church meeting, she is really going to worry. And all I want her worrying about are my visiting teaching habits, as is her ward calling. Or maybe a repeat performance of the incident where I accidentally stumbled into her apartment instead of my own in the middle of the night. (No, I assure you this wasn’t alcohol induced. Just a common mixture of sleep deprivation and ADHD.)

So now to address the issue at hand: a few examples of emotional displays and the lack therof.

When I was about 10 or 11, I occasionally babysat the kids of a neighborhood family. I was a solid 3 on the babysitter preference list. If Jennifer and Robyn were both busy, Carolyn got the "last resort" call. I didn't care; I liked babysitting for this particular family because they had both Beethoven movies, a Nintendo 64 and name brand Pop Tarts. None of the Western Family “Toast’em Pop Ups” my mom insisted were just as good. Wrong, Mom. They tasted like cardboard and without the credible “Pop Tart” logo stamped on the foil package, they were utterly useless for trading purposes at the lunch table. That particular night, I was just babysitting the family’s little boy. His name was Wesley, but continuously insisted he was Batman, and more often than not wore the pajamas to prove it. Exhausted after a particularly vigorous night of crime fighting, Wesley had fallen dead asleep on the floor, leaving me to watch "Mulan" by myself. About 20 minutes into the movie, during the climax of a typical poignant and inspiring Disney song, Mulan climbs up onto this tall post with only the aid of some sort of Asian weapon. It isn't particularly inspiring nor tear inducing. However, for some reason, without warning, I burst into tears. I was just really... moved, I guess. It was so odd. I wasn't especially passionate about women's liberation, nor Asian warfare so I still can't figure out why this scene made me so emotional. But the tears just wouldn't stop. So there I was sobbing, bathed in tears and Pop Tart crumbs, in front of a Disney movie. Of course, this is when the dad decided to get home. Confused, he asked if everything was okay. All I did was look down, ashamed, and nod shyly. After an awkward moment, and no further questions asked, thus ensued the awkward 3 minute drive home. That, believe it or not, wasn’t the last time I babysat for them. It was the second to last. My final visit ended with the mom coming home to me enthusiastically supporting her seven-year-old’s idea to pierce her own ears with a toothpick. Hey, it would have been interesting!

I also had an "oddly timed emotional episode" once in my 9th grade math class. I had recently lost a dear family member. My parakeet Sammy. We weren't really "pet-people" growing up, so this bird was a huge deal. I am pretty certain I would have saved it from that hypothetical burning building before any of my human family members, except maybe Joel who was still a baby and almost as cute as Sammy. Sammy and I had been through a lot together. A night spent in the orchard, a surprise sex-change (Sammy, not me), and the ONE proud moment when after much coaching, he/she actually said "Pretty Boy". (No wonder that thing had gender confusion issues). Anyway, Sammy's life abruptly ended with bird seed vomit and an unexplained seizure. Both of which, I thought were terribly cute. But sad. Sad enough that a month after this, the mourning process was still in full force. We opened up our Algebra II books to a story problem about two students, probably named Nan and Hank or something, attempting to breed finches. It was the full-color photo that did it. Looking at those sweet little feathered heads, those smiley beaks, all lined up on that twig was too much for me. I had to excuse myself to the hall until I could gain my composure. The tears just wouldn't stop. I think I had about three false alarms where I attempted to enter the classroom again, only to catch a glimpse of those taunting birds and had to go outside again. This behavior would be considered acceptable, if not normal, for a 2nd grader. Unfortunately I was almost 15.

I won't go into detail about the countless testimony meetings/DTRs/chick flicks I have tried to force tears during. See, despite the above odd situations, I am not really a crier at all. "Pretend Mom died... pretend Dad died... Sammy really did die... were (and still are) repeated in my head during times when crying really is encouraged/socially smiled upon. Crying can really come in handy. It's a really convenient way to appear caring/pathetic/spiritually in-tune, depending on the situation. After failing to cry during one particular Girls Camp devotional, I knew I could kiss my dreams of Mia Maid President goodbye. Not to mention the time I tried to break up with a boyfriend because "I was scared and not ready for anything". (Yeah right. Boys, never believe that one.) I'm pretty sure those words would have been more convincing accompanied by tears. Instead, they came across dull and insincere, and somehow I ended up dating him for another month. Hopefully those that know me know that I really do have feelings and my lack of tears in some events isn't a sign of apathy (or sociopathic tendencies). But I should probably invest in a wallet sized bird photo to have on hand. Or maybe a Mulan keychain. Just in case.

Confession

Confession: I couldn't think of a good way to go about writing this "all important" first post, so I googled "blog post ideas". Sadly, this is not the first time I have sheepishly googled something mildly embarrassing/incriminating. "How to get rid of adult onset acne" and "Bone Thugz-Resurrection lyrics" have also been known to pop up in my recent searches.

Unfortunately, nothing promising came up, as I'm fairly sure nobody cares to read a thorough description of my favorite animal or my thoughts on current issues in my industry (whatever that means.) Once again, this isn't the first time a google search has failed me. My complexion is still mediocre at best and my rap skills are far worse, I'm afraid. "White-girl-from-Utah" is still about my level of street cred.

Instead I will just explain my reasoning behind starting this blog. This is my third and final attempt to gain passage into the blogging world(or "blogosphere" as all 'yall like to call it) hence, the blog's title. Due to lack of interest/laziness on my part, the first two never made it past a crappy introductory post, one sympathy reader comment, and about 7 hits. Most of which were probably visits by me.

1. "If you don't exist online, you don't exist at all". This quote was taken off a handout from a marketing class I took, in regards to increasing awareness of your business. I was curious as to my own level of existance, so I googled my name. The results were horrifying. First came up an old facebook profile picture which seemed to be taken during the summer that I had a styling-damage induced mullet and fetish for sparkle eyeliner. The second was an obituary honoring the life of "Carolyn Rae Gassman", a Methodist who enjoyed bridge, gardening, golf, and was an ardent fan of U of U athletics. Also included in the hits were my phone number listing, the Oak Canyon Jr. High honor roll, and an embarrassing high school interview published in the Deseret News during a brief moment of stardom. "Old people are people too" is just one of my many wisdom filled quotes from that interview. I figure that a current blog is a way to at least control ONE of the hits that may come up when my name is googled. Because, you know, my name is probably googled a lot... oh wait...

2. I have a desk job. Due to my recent college graduation, I have officially joined the ranks of full-time employed adults. This is a first for me, as my college job as a restaurant server consisted of 3-4 hour shifts spent scavenging scraps of food off customers' plates and learning dirty Spanish words, all while hanging out with my best friends who conveniently also worked there. A little different from my job now. It's a good different though; I needed a change. And I will admit, I like the idea of having my own business cards, company email address, and a job description that includes the words "wearing lots of hats" and "room for growth". But there is a lot of down time. And let's be honest, there is only so much facebook stalking you can do before you start to feel a little creepy. Plus, I am convinced it's only a matter of time before they come up with some sort of application that tracks everyone who lurks on your profile. When that day comes, we are all toast. I figure I spend at least a little time thinking actual thoughts each day; I might as well write some of them down.

3. My skirt is literally being held together with staples. I'm serious. The side slit somehow ripped this morning during the commute. Should I be upset about this? Probably. But instead of blaming it on my lack of gym dilligence, I am just telling myself it is because I dried it in the dryer, which all girls know can shrink clothes like crazy. Plus, I got the thing from the Banana Republic OUTLET'S SIDEWALK SALE CLEARANCE RACK. The thing is about as thick as a kleenex. Thats what I get for buying my "business casual" clothes at such an extremely deep discount. Anyway, rather than expose 3/4 of my thigh to the entire office, I opted to take the creative route and regain my modesty by using the stapler. This seems to have done the trick, although I can't really move my legs more than about an inch apart. I busted two staple "stitches" during my last attempt to shuffle over to the fax machine and am in no hurry to move my body (especially legs) anytime soon. Blogging requires absolutely no physical exhertion whatsoever. Therefore, I can't think of a better way to kill 30 minutes of company time.

The real test will be to see if I actually write another post. So far, my past blogging record testifies against me. I plan on proving it wrong. But, if the third time isn't a charm, maybe the fourth will be.

Procrastination Is The Best Motivation...

If you wait till the last minute, it will only take a minute. Truer words were never spoken. This little adage rings especially true as I am currently writing my paper at 1 in the morning mere hours before the deadline. Thank goodness its finals week and the library is conveniently open till 2 in order to properly meet my procrastination needs. If I think back to all the time I have wasted between the time this paper was assigned and the time that I am currently doing it, I realize that I could have written it a thousand times over. This is apparently a lesson that I will never learn, because probably 98% of all my school work in the last few years has been accomplished in a similar manner. As I continue to make up paragraphs, cut and paste things from the internet, and increase the font size little by little to fill up my 6 pages I realize that I wouldn't have it any other way really. All that wasted time was fun, and I am sure that I made some fun memories wasting it. Plus, that's just how I roll.

The more I think about it the more I realize that school is all about jumping through hoops. I doubt that my ability to find the second derivative of a function, tell someone why Friedrich Nietzche thought "god was dead", or explain how Bernoulli's Principle is the reason why a 150 ton plane can fly through the air will be a determining factor in my personal or professional success. That being said, I think college has been an incredibly valuable and irreplaceable experience. I've learned how to learn, communicate, work hard, make deadlines, work in teams, follow instructions, take charge, lead a team, live on no sleep, budget my money, live with strangers, be responsible, think on my feet, be original, be creative, be positive, push myself, get out of my comfort zone, rely on myself, rely on faith, rely on others, and probably a thousand and one other extremely applicable things. Whatever I end up doing and where ever I end up doing it, they can teach me job skills and how to do technical things but the aforementioned traits that I have developed, they can't. And it's those things that make me who I am and will lead me to be successful.

Now, I am finally done with my paper. Is it the best I've ever written? No. Is it the worst I've ever written? No again. But its done and its good enough so I'm gonna go waste some more time, eat some Swedish Fish and watch Arrested Development on my computer before I go to bed. Now I know all of you who just wasted, I mean meaningfully spent, the last 5 minutes of your life on the edge of you computer chairs reading this funny yet spiritually uplifting blog post are going to be wanting more entertainment in the near future, so I want you to know that I am already working on entry number two, and it's going to be above and beyond anything you could have imagined. (pretty sure that last one was a run-one sentence)