New Life Goal: Internal Monologue

I was sitting at a stoplight on my way home from work, going over "in my head" what I was going to make for dinner. It was sort of a mental inventory of what was in my fridge/ cupboard. It went something like this:

I have chicken in the fridge I could grill, but it isn't thawed and I hate thawing stuff in the microwave. Plus, it is supposed to rain. Or, I have ground beef, I could make dirty rice and have a salad. That sounds kind of good. I have the stuff for stir fry too. Hm. I am not really hungry, so I guess I could just have like popcorn and string cheese. Oh my God, Erratic, that is insane. Are you listening to yourself? Adult. You are an adult. You cannot have popcorn and string cheese for dinner.

It was about this point that I realized I was saying all of this out loud. I slowly turned my head to the left. It was obvious the person was trying to make it look like they didn't just see that and they most certainly were NOT making eye contact. I look to my right. It is literally a car full of high school teenagers cracking the fuck up. There may have been pointing. I quickly decide, what is the lamest thing I can do, to make this story THAT much better when they tell their friends? I saluted them. And drove off, thinking, man, I have lived alone too long.

Racism

I grew up in a predominantly white, upper-middle class neighborhood. Half of my elementary, middle school, and high school was bussed in from the inner city and were predominantly black.

I remember being in elementary school and having a close friend who was from the inner city. She had asthma and would often miss school because of asthma attacks. She missed school one day. When she came back the following day, I asked if she was OK, was it another asthma attack. Her house had been shot up in the middle of the night because her older brother was in a gang. Nobody was hurt, but her grandmother (who she lived with) insisted that everyone put their mattresses on the floor from now on.

I had a friend in high school who I would sneak into my house late at night because he was scared to go home. He hopped from friends house to friends house in the county trying to stay away from a gang he was once a member of. Halfway through my senior year, nobody ever heard from him again. To this day, I have no idea if he is alive or dead.

Today, I read a blog that I could not understand. I don't believe that this person is a bad person. I have seen no sign of that. Nor do I believe they are racist. They told a story of growing up in a community where they peered at black people from their car windows. They stared at them in awe, thinking to themselves that, wow, they were real. This blogger actually said "I wanted to poke them in the face to see what they felt like."

Now, OK. I realize that my childhood was probably different than most, for more reasons than one. I realize that I am a very open minded person. But, when did that become OK to say? Like, when? I read that and seriously, I wanted to find this person and punch them repeatedly in the face. Nobody can help how or where they are raised. I know that there will always be ignorance in this world, despite my failing campaign to rid the earth of it. (I call it Erratic's Natural Selection.) What I do NOT understand is CHOOSING to be ignorant. CHOOSING to say things like that, with no real thought as to how it will affect the people around you.

Let's play a little game called PUT YOURSELF IN THE OTHER PERSON'S SHOES. Would you be offended/hurt/angry/homicidal if someone said that about you? The answer is yes, yes you would.

It is possible that I misunderstood the tone of the blog. I do not offend easily. I really don't. If that is the case, well, get better at being funny. Either way, I will never read it again.

Beware: Cheesiness Ahead.

Lately, I have been living in some sort of blog dream world. People that I admire, that I read, have been reading this blog. And posting comments. And I know that this is how the blog world works. I know that because I started commenting on blogs as Erratic as opposed to "real me" that eventually they would be curious and read my blog. But, I feel like I just met Kurt Vonnegut. And he's all dead. (Was that too soon? I feel like it might have been too soon.) And I simultaneously fainted and peed and it was the best day ever.

Here is the thing. I love to write. I sit there and write stories in my head on my way to work. I write poetry and short stories constantly on anything that life will let me get my hands on. I am always writing. My brain pretty much functions in two mediums: story and picture. It is how I think. I see the entire world through the lens of a camera (when I choose to look) and my entire life is quantified in how I will tell others about it.

Here is what is weird. I hate talking. I hate being the center of attention. I hate people's focus to be on me. When I started this blog, it was an outlet for me to write. Because sometimes things don't warrant a short story. Or really much of anything. I cannot tell you how many posts I have written that I haven't posted. I kept it private. I slowly started to let a few very close people in to read it. The boy was first. Then Big Jed. Then Krackle. Then Mrs. Williams. Then other friends started slowly trickling in.

But, I kept it private. And I feel like I owe an explanation for that. I don't want the attention. Plain and simple, I don't. But, anonymous me? Anonymous me does. I want to know what people think. But, holy fucking shit, I am terrified to know what people think.

So...the point of this post...I want a review. I really respect these people. Some of my favorite blogs have come from their reviews. They are some of my favorite bloggers. (One of their reviewers has another blog that I have read forever. And she has read and commented on my blog - Hi Gypsy! - and I absolutely fucking love her.) People whose lives have become a part of my own. Because that is what is weird about blogging...you make these friends. These people that you will have in your life forever. But, it is a community. A community I, admittedly, want to be a part of.

AND I AM SO FUCKING BECOMING A PART OF IT. It is the most exhilarating thing that has ever happened to me. Seriously. I am not sure if anything I say is interesting or if I am really any good at this. One day I will grow a pair and submit this blog for a review. Until then, I hope this community continues to embrace me. I hope I will stop posting cheesy things about it. But, mostly, I hope that these people really become a part of my life. I have read about theirs for, at least, a year. Some for many years.

They are all a part of my life. I hope that, eventually, I can become a part of theirs.

Tumor Rash

So, I didn't get paid. I realize that it is a nice little HR mistake due to my disability and that it probably happens all the time. But, seriously, I didn't get paid. So, I am blogging at work. Take that giant corporation that doesn't give a crap about me.

Also, my boss totally doesn't get me. After realizing my paycheck was non existent, I had this conversation:

Erratic: "Excuse me, I believe you have my stapler."

Boss: Looking around, "Why would I have your stapler."

Erratic: "It's a quote from the best movie ever. You seriously have never seen Office Space?"

Boss: "No."

Erratic: "Well, there is this guy Milton and his boss takes his stapler and then they cut off his paychecks and it is funny because I didn't get paid."

Boss: Blank stare

Erratic: "Then he sets the building on fire."

Boss: "Are you going to set the building on fire?"

Erratic: "OK, just never mind. It stopped being funny like 10 minutes ago."

Also, does anyone know why my hair is falling out? I have a few theories, but I feel like they are all flawed.

It could be a reaction to the trauma and/or the drugs.

Aliens could be sneaking in my room at night and exposing me to high levels of radiation.

I am dying of some disease I cannot pronounce, but WebMD says so, so it must be right.

It's a tumor. Accompanied by a rash. We'll call it tumor rash.

That's all I've got folks. But, seriously, I am pulling out handfuls of hair after I get out of the shower. My shower drain clogs halfway through washing my hair. It is out of control.

So, if you see a balding panhandler this weekend, mumbling something about tumor rash, spare some change. It's been a rough year.

AI

Adam was robbed.

Kiss, Santana, and Queen were awesome.

I have never been so grateful for unlimited texts.

I totally lost the American Idol Fantasy thingy.

I am considering making "Adam was robbed!" T-Shirts

Steve Martin has an album coming out?

I am now going to go watch Criminal Minds and silently weep.

You're a Swine Flu

While I was out...work developed a germ phobia. I noticed it first by the hand sanitizer by the door as you left the lunch room. Then, today, something happened that made me want to, well, vomit. Swine Flu. Everywhere.

I walked into the bathroom and saw a sign. It contained instructions. On how to wash your hands. Admittedly, I am the youngest person in my office. There is one person younger than me, and several people I wonder about, but they have kids. This puts them on a maturity level that makes me look like a toddler crying for their Binky. So, for the sake of argument, let's call me the youngest. I know how to wash my hands. If these people - the people who I consider light years ahead of me in life experience - cannot figure out how to properly cleanse their hands, well, fuck me. WE ARE ADULTS. I could rant FOREVER about how this country coddles people and takes away self responsibility, but I won't. I really really want to, mind you. But, this post would be like 17 years long and you all would be like, dude, shut the fuck up. And I would totally agree with you.

I googled "deaths from swine flu" and every article I read indicated there were 6 in the United States. SIX. This is not an epidemic, people. This is a really bad car accident. Or the people I killed last week. Tragic? Yes. Reason to panic? Not so much. There is cautious and there is crazy. If I am calling you crazy...you know you have a problem.

Oh, but nobody worry. I have a plan. My plan is to just start licking everything. And wearing shirts that say "I have Swine Flu: Beware" with a skull and cross bones. And when people ask, I will say the CDC made me do it. Then I will lick them and run away cackling, with my arms flailing everywhere. I think it would be HILARIOUS. (Hi HR! Just kidding! I would never purposefully spread Swine Flu. Well, at least not to the people I liked.)

Or maybe I should put caution tape up around my cubicle and tell everyone I have a tickle in my throat and that they should stay away, because, you never know. I guarantee you at least 3 people would ask for their desks to be moved. To a bubble.

OMG. I should request a bubble.

The point is, the bubonic plague was an epidemic. AIDS in the 80's (and in some countries now) was an epidemic. This is a blip. And, trust me when I say, it isn't because the government stepped in and fixed things before they got bad.

Also...the crap at the end of American Idol when that "new judge" whose last name sounds like phlegm wrote them a song...total fucking crap. I want to vomit a giant hurricane filled mountain while stabbing myself repeatedly in the eye with, well, to stay in theme, a hurricane. Then impale myself on a mountain. And give her swine flu. That was totally random.

Amazon: What the fuck?

I am in love with Amazon.com. Love may be too mild a word. I visit the site daily. I can say that about one other site and that is Google Reader. I don't even check my email daily. Strange things are afoot at Amazon, though. While I was out, the people at my office got me a gift certificate. This was ridiculously thoughtful of them because nothing could make me happier than free money at Amazon. I almost wept.

Due to the free money, I have been purchasing things that were sitting on my wish list, but that I couldn't warrant purchasing. Like a series of books I was really unsure if I would like but can't find at the library. And, the thing that has thrown all logic off, two books on surface effects using polymer clay. Amazon sees this and is like, now, wait just one fucking minute. This girl has been fanatically purchasing books about fairies and dragons and elves and vampires for years. I imagine I fall in a category along the lines of "lives in parents basement" or "scares small children and owns a lot of cats." And now she is purchasing books on crafts? Isn't that reserved for Martha Stewart types? Shouldn't she also be purchasing bake ware and aprons?

OK, I am being ridiculously stereotypical here, but I am stereotyping myself, so I feel like it is allowed. When people first meet me, they are always surprised by the types of books I like to read and the type of music that I like to listen to. Then they are shocked when they learn I love to crochet. And take photography. And make my own cards. And make things out of clay. Maybe there are people out there just like me and I just happen to not know any of them. I don't know. I am digressing from my point.

Amazon flipped the fuck out. And my recommendations started looking like some sort of hybrid Romance novel reading, vampire loving, baking, Suzy homemaker person. I start getting suggestions for all these books that are like Vampire porn. And then, this crap on how to make anything out of string and duct tape. Amazon has steered me towards many books that have become my favorites. I used to look forward to their suggestions. Some of them were a little off - ordering Harry Potter admittedly led to a month of suggestions for middle school kids. But, at least I could say, well, OK, I get that.

But, "How to Marry a Millionaire Vampire?" - Because "Daisy of Love" isn't bad enough.

"Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh." - Um. I am not 12. Seriously, Amazon, you require my birth date.

"Moon Called" - and what? Asked if the refrigerator was running?

And then Amazon starts suggesting stuff I have already purchased from them. Classics that I needed to repurchase because my copy was shot.

"Catcher in the Rye" - I know about the whole serial killer thing and I do not care. I love this book. I also love being a serial killer.

Anything and everything Kurt Vonnegut. Again, I purchased most of his books from them at some point in my adult life. I mean, "Cat's Cradle?" Are there people who don't own this book?

And my favorite, the one that makes the LEAST sense. "Pirates of the Caribbean." The movie. Maybe it is just a default for everyone Amazon can't quite categorize?

So, Amazon, I don't know what the fuck happened. But, get your shit together. Like, now. Because I don't want to have to start actually looking for new reading material. That feels like a lot of work.

I Love You More and Art

I am not particularly fond of children. I mean, I like them. I think, maybe, someday, I want some. But, for the most part, I think that parents in my generation allow their children to be raised by television, creating screaming monsters in public. They are overstimulated. They have no respect for elders. They do things that would have gotten me grounded for eternity. They scare the crap out of me.

So, today, Mrs. Williams, her 3 1/2 year old son, 6 month old daughter, the boy, and I went to a local art fair. And, let me tell you, her kids were wonderful. Baby was strapped to mommy in one of those harness thingies that looks ridiculously uncomfortable, but was nothing but smiles, and big, beautiful eyes. Toddler (how generically impersonal are these names) was another story. He was all energy and talking and stories and I love you's. We split a vegan hot dog (note - weird. not splitting it with toddler, the hot dog) and he frequently asked for a sip of my beer. But, he was fun. And energetic. And well behaved. And he said please, and thank you, and I love you and then I love you more and my heart melted. And he picked up rocks for mommy, daddy, Auntie S (that's me), baby sister, and Madeline (that's his best friend.) And he respected the art, and luckily couldn't read, because there was an entire series based on cuss words. He got his face painted for the first time, with the worst robot face painters ever painted. Ever. It was halfway through the show and we were their only customer. Oh, and they also harassed me incessantly to get my face painted. Um. No.

The point I am making is that it was a great day. Then it rained. Wait. Rained is the wrong word. The sky opened up and shit on us. We all got soaked and ran inside, laughing. OK, I wasn't laughing, I was bitching because I hate getting wet. But, how can you not laugh when a 3 1/2 year old says, "Auntie S, we have an umbrella" in a tone that suggested I was a total dolt for running from the rain, because, duh, the umbrella. We walked around the art show inside, which was both weird and awesome. The boy and I bought our first joint purchase - a piece of art.

Maybe the day didn't end on the best note, which is a story for another post. But, I enjoyed every minute of it.

And, behold, Internet friends, my latest piece of original art. In fact, the first piece I have ever bought from someone I did not know personally. And I am absolutely in love with it. I apologize for the picture quality, but ever since grandma was here, I cannot locate ANYTHING. Like my camera. Or my toilet brush. Or one of the dogs.

Please stop humping your brother.

I am having dog behavioral issues. Since the incident we will refer to as "holy crap, I missed a lot of work" the boy has been coming over almost everyday to walk the dogs. I know, isn't he sweet? This has created this sort of manic behaviour in devil dog. I started to really notice it over the weekend. I am almost embarrassed to say it. Here goes...the short one, the one whose name I cannot even say in shame...has begun humping his brothers head. And side. And rear. And leg. And head again. It is a giant dog porn in my house. Constantly.

I know that it is a way for dogs to assert their dominance. I know all the "real" reasons he is doing it. But, in my head, while watching it unfold and screaming "stop humping your brother" I cannot wrap my head around the fact that the behavior may be justified. All I see is dog humping.

I started thinking...and it only happens when the boy is here. Either he is some sort of canine aphrodisiac or Devil Dog is threatened by his increasing presence. And the boy does let them get away with murder. Is it possible this is some sort of pack animal behavior? Some way for Devil Dog to assert his role as second in command? I don't know. I don't do doggie psychology. And I don't do doggie humping. Or other gross doggie behaviors that should be done while I am not in the room.

I realize they are animals, but, seriously, lick your wang elsewhere. Which brings me to this the photo below; horrifying or hilarious? I can't decide.

Mad Props and Wanda Sykes

So, I may have had a few beers. And I may be slightly biased because I voted for him. But, dude, I love Obama. I have spent the past few hours watching the White House Correspondents' Dinner footage.

Wanda Sykes=hilarious.

Also, Obama made me laugh. Like a lot.

In my twenty something years, I have voted in 3 presidential elections. Two of them were against Bush. I will not make this blog political. I refuse. Because I am stubborn on politics. I don't want to turn this into that forum. But, I freaking love that man. I trust him. As much as you can trust a politician. That may be naive. And I don't care. I want to believe him. I want to trust him. I want everything he says to be true.

But, you know what? I don't care if I am wrong. It feels good to believe. It feels good to have hope. It feels good to see a president laugh when Wanda Sykes completely makes fun of him. It feels good to see him make fun of himself. And the people around us. It feels good to see humor in the White House, to see them laughing with us.

I want to see this country flourish again. To see people stand up and fight for what is right, to make people finally hold the elite accountable. To see this country realize that the middle class is fading away. To fight to bridge the gap between the wealthy and the poor. To fight for human rights. To fight to unite this country again. To stand up against things like torture, instead of promoting it. To stop being so selfish and self centered. To care about our fellow man or woman. To recognize when the people around us are in need and to help, to not just sit back and do nothing. To care about the world around us, instead of caring about ourselves.

Maybe I am too optimistic.

Maybe I shouldn't have shared.

Maybe I am guilty of these things sometimes.

Maybe I should get mad props for posting twice in one day.

Maybe I should never say mad props, even though I think it makes me sound totally awesome.

Today. And some other shit.

I don't really care what people think about me. Personal life me. Crazy, erratic, me. But work me? Work me I care about. I work my fucking ass of for that place and I realized, on my 3 weeks of disability, that it is affecting my personal life. So, now I am having an internal monologue that looks something like this:

Erratic 1: "You should quit your job, sell all your shit, buy an old Volkswagen, and just live your life, man."

Erratic 2: "Shut the fuck up and get a job, hippie."

One part of me realizes that on some level, my career validates me. The other part of me realizes that I have let my job interfere with my life to the point that it is affecting my health. And I feel like everyone sees it and knows that I am returning to work caring a little bit less. And it is making me paranoid. Smoked too much pot, scared to leave the house because the man is waiting in your backyard paranoid. (This is a true story, for another post.)

Also, today sucked ass. And, in a tradition I have been planning to bring to the blog, I am going to rant. In numeric form. Because I can.

1. I had over 700 new emails. I expected more. What I did not expect was that about 40 of them were forwards. FORWARDS. Who sends a forward to someone who is out of the office? And they weren't like, OMG, this is so fucking funny I don't care if it blows up your inbox. It was like, hey, look at this doggie that needs a home. And some shit about frogs that I didn't even read. I deleted it, while simultaneously plotting revenge on the person who sent it. I am thinking interoffice and anthrax. So, if anyone knows how to get anthrax let me know. Also, United States government, if you are reading this, I am totally joking.
2. I had all these meetings scheduled that were meant to "catch me up." Um. Do you have any idea how long it takes to go through 700 emails? I only worked 4 hours. Oh, and I haven't had to use my brain in 3 weeks. And I took enough pain killers in that time to kill a small village. And went through 5 days of withdrawal. I am pretty sure all the brain cells labeled "smart" are long gone. However, "beer," "reality TV," and "dragons" managed to survive.
3. The "welcome back, pity, head tilt, talk to me like a toddler." Enough said. I do not have a brain injury. My lower back does not control my brain. You let me PROVE I am now stupid...don't just assume. And by enough said, I mean shut the fuck up this is my rant and I don't have to make sense. I am also sticking my tongue out at you.
4. Seriously, people, I am afraid I got stupid. Also, if I ever say "got stupid" again, send me some anthrax via interoffice.
5. On my way home, I got hit on by a man with a tooth. He was driving next to me. In a teal green pick up truck. On the highway. Making obscene gestures. At that point, don't you just give up?

So, I am sorry I haven't been writing...I blame the stupid. And I promise to do better.

And does anyone else feel like "The Hangover" looks like the worst movie ever made? Ever? Because, I watch the previews, and I want to shove glass in my eyes. Or something less painful but equally dramatic.

This My Friends

Is abso-fucking-lutely hilarious.

http://www.textsfromlastnight.com/

I typed up a whole post...and I was totally going to post it. But, then I had a bottle of wine. And decided to do some "editing" tomorrow.

Editing=removing all evidence of a crime.

I kid. Sometimes.

I Now Pronounce You Woman and Wine

I am going out of my mind I am so bored. It is like torture. And I am suddenly incapable of entertaining myself. Normally, you could leave me on a deserted island for like a year, and you would return to me, sitting in the middle of some fucked up village I made out of twigs asking if you want a snack. Then I would totally make you take a tour of my village and you would be, all, wow, you are handy. Who knew? And I would be like, fuck yeah, I'm handy. Here, have a coconut.

What am I doing instead? I watched The Wedding Planner. Do you have any idea how horrible The Wedding Planner is? And your answer is no. Because you have a life and you have never seen it. Did anybody ever see that movie? Did J-Lo even see that movie? Because, seriously, it was a giant pile of dog shit. I would say it is looking up, but I am currently watching Bride Wars. I have very low expectations. Also, what is with all the bridey movies? My grandmother is totally picking them. Weird.

I am also in an odd pain place. I stopped taking the pain killers, because, people, that shit is addictive. And I am all about the altered state of being, but not so much about the withdrawal and costly addiction. I went through two days of withdrawal. TWO DAYS. I wasn't even on the shit for two weeks. That was mildly annoying. And by mildly, I mean hot and cold sweats, jitters, and nausea. I would have just started taking it again, but then I found out it was called hillbilly heroin on the "street" and my street cred is already a little iffy, so I am going to just stick with the real heroin. I have a reputation to uphold.

Back to the original point, I am in pain now. And sober. And that sucks. I mean, it really, really sucks. I am still taking Flexeril. And I know, you are all, whoa, that shit is awesome. But, I am all, whoa, I built up a tolerance quick. So, the result of me being in pain, is the constant twitchy, antsy dance of trying to find a comfortable position. Because I am comfortable for approximately a nano second at a time. Then I have to move to get comfortable again. And repeat. So, I kind of resemble a meth addict with a wedgie. It's hot.

I would also like to mention that in a week and a half, I have made my grandmother an alcoholic. Or at least forced her to break her "one glass of wine" a night rule. By like 8 glasses. We got totally trashed last night and talked about reincarnation. Then we both drug our asses out of bed this morning, hung over, and went to physical therapy where they tortured me for an hour while I was sweating pure wine and shame. Because, physical therapists are all skinny and in shape and don't do things like drink 3 bottles of wine with their grandmother and show up for physical therapy hung over. Oh, the shame.

Bridal movie update: Bridal Wars just brought a little tear to my eye. SEND HELP. IMMEDIATELY. And bring tequila. Lots and lots of tequila. I don't have physical therapy until Monday.

UPDATE: When the fuck did it become May???? I just went to make sure my post didn't, like, confess something I accidentally didn't want to confess and it said May 1st. WTF? I REALLY need to get off the couch.