Lolloping lolloping lolloping

While sorting through toys, games, and books in our basement tonight, Linden and I stumbled upon our parents' Poldark books. We knew they had read them and a few years ago they re-read them, so we asked mum how they were. She gushed about them, and we knew our father would just do the same.

"Oh they're very dramatic and romantic," was the phrase that made my decision for me.

"You know what? I'm going to read these this summer. Yes. That is what I am going to do." So I found the first book in the lot and glanced at the first page of the prologue.

I first noticed the word "lolloping" and decided I was going to enjoy this. Then I noticed the first dialogue:

"Well, Joshua."
"Well, Charles."
"This is a bad business."
"Bad indeed."

Then I decided I was going to enjoy this quite a lot. [Not to be confused with "Quite, alot."]

I'm a little daunted by the prospect of reading an entire saga in addition to Infinite Jest this summer, but it'll be a little easier because it makes for good bedtime reading!

Also, "lolloping" is a very silly word, and deserves to be used far more often.

"Susie! Stop lolloping down the hallway! You're going to fall and break your coccyx!"
"The deer went lolloping through the forest, singing about how happy they were to be alive."
"A semi came lolloping down the freeway, splattering any singing deer who lolloped into its way."
"The models came lolloping down the runway."

Okay, maybe that last one doesn't quite work. I've been watching too much America's Next Top Tahhruhh's BFF.

Math Addiction

I started using math early. Heck, I don't even remember a time when I didn't know 2+2. I figured hey, if the teacher shows it to me it must be okay, right? I mean, if it gets me good grades, I guess I'll keep using it.

By the time I finished middle school, I'd moved onto harder stuff: Algebra. I'd always heard kids on TV talking about Algebra, but I didn't think it would happen to me.

High school was when my math issues started to spiral out of control. 9th grade hit, and I was on the accelerated track: accelerated geometry, algebra 2, finally accelerated pre-calc. I reached a point where my parents couldn't help me, and "calc" was a dirty, four-letter word in our household. I couldn't even go to my friends for help. All my teachers told me was that I needed it for real life, so I couldn't stop taking it. I was past all hope, as far as I knew.

Senior year, it hit me: I don't have to live this way. I took Humanities and my math problems were over. I've been clean for three years now, not counting when a prof tried to get me to use the "real world" stuff in college.

~~
That, dear readers, is what happens when you put me in a kitchen for seven hours with the oldies station playing the same meth addiction and recovery PSA's every fifteen minutes.

Suck. On. That.

I hate going to the doctor's office. Actually, I loathe going to the dentist, so I guess it could be worse. I used to hate going because I went to a pediatrician until I was 19 or so. I haven't been to the doctor at home in a couple of years; last winter I went to a few docs up at school and the otolaryngologist (ear/nose/throat doctor) for my tonsils. Between me turning 21, not being sure if what I had is allergies or a cold, and my mom wanting to get me checked out since I'm more genetically prone to be bi-polar or depressed, we decided it was time to get me to a "real" doctor.

I also hated going to the doctor because of the whole part where they weigh you. That was the main reason why I was terrified of going to the doctor this time, largely because I'd checked myself on our home scale and it was some impossible number that I knew couldn't be right because I can fit into last year's clothes but oh no what if it's right the doctor is going to freak out at me and tell me I need to change my lifestyle which I do and I should get on that right now and ASLDKGJADFGKLJSDFGLKJ was how that thought process went.So I go in, and the nurse says "Alright, now I'm going to weigh you," to which I reply, "Wonderful." I get on the scale, ready to cry, when all of a sudden she goes all the way to the end of the one section and I'm sure she'll have to continue on up the scale

...but she pulls the little mini weight back about halfway to what I can safely say is my lowest weight of 2009 (sometime in the fall), the year I eventually lost about 15 pounds.

I think to myself, if I lost 15 pounds and I basically kept off that weight, then that means I can lose another 15 this summer. Losing about 20 would put me back at my ending high school weight, which would make me feel FANTASTIC. I went through the rest of my day with a bit more spring in my step, knowing that our home scale is a good 25 pounds off.[above: my general attitude for the rest of Friday]

Saturday, on the other hand, was a weird day. I started off feeling exhausted but optimistic, thinking I would be just content to stay at home and do a lot of reading in Infinite Jest. My mother said, "Go to the drugstore first and get your prescription." So off I went on my merry way, only to find out that the doctor didn't call in my prescription to any CVS on Friday, and I would have to wait until Monday to get it. Already feeling a bit overwhelmed by not being able to sleep the night before and overthinking myself into kind of an existential crisis, I started crying on the way home from the drugstore, and didn't stop until about two-and-a-half hours later.
That was when Kelsey came over and we watched the first four episodes ever of Star Trek on dvd, and we talked a little and I started feeling better in general. Campy sci-fi makes everything better. Jon showed up for the last episode and stayed after Kelsey left, and later helped me through an existential crisis, but that's not important right now.

What is important is that the fourth episode of season 1 of Star Trek is called "The Naked Time," and is absolutely ridiculous. An alien virus starts infecting the crew, spreading via perspiration, and removes the crew's inhibitions. One would think that this implies lots and lots of trysts, given the title (there was some discrepancy over whether it was "The Naked Time" or "The Naked Time!"). What it means, however, is that everyone's facade is stripped away, revealing their desires and secret feelings. As far as we know, the virus only made one man suicidal, and he killed himself with a butter knife. It makes most of them act very silly, like Sulu ("who longs to be a swashbuckler out of your 18th Century) some of them relentlessly irritating, (like this fellow who hijacked Scotty's position and kept singing "Kathleen" over the intercom)or in Spock's case, incredibly, heartwrenchingly emotional. [below: a very poor rendering of Kelsey dying a little over Spock]Remember that part where I can't draw? I'm sorry, Kelsey.

BYBS: Friends

While clicking the "next blog" button, I found someone whose blog included a lot of posts with "BYBS" in the title. Curious, I checked them out and found that it stood for "Blog Your Blessings Sunday." You can check out the original prompt here. I decided today is as good a day as any to start this, so here I am, blogging about one of my blessings: friends.

I thank God for my friends. Seriously, without them I would have been lost a long time ago. My friends have stuck with me through every snit and fit I've pitched, every time of uncertainty, and yesterday I was reminded that even if I feel alone, they are always there to support me. I am so blessed to have them all in my life, and I really do mean that.

So that's my Sunday post for the day, I guess. Short and sweet. I've included the list of BYBS-ers on one of the sidebars, so enjoy. Maybe I'll post something later tonight, or I'll just save my combination doctor's office/Star Trek post for Monday. But goodness knows I'll have plenty to post about this week, what with D&D starting tomorrow and Linden coming in town on Tuesday.

Oh, and this tornado that's supposedly going to rip through Livonia right now. Ah well, off to work.

Poor Yorick

I couldn't sleep last night, so I eventually popped a Unisom and was knocked right out. This marks the first time I have ever used a sleeping aid, and hopefully it won't become a habit.

I'm not going to post about what I was thinking, because it was a bunch of depressing stuff that was brought on in large part by a) overthinking everything as is my tendency, and 2) the Communists in the funhouse. As tempting as it was to write something on the internet for everyone to see when I only mean it for a few people, I decided I'd pass.
Today will be a day of rest, working on a blanket with my mother, and hopefully some reading. What am I reading, you ask? Well my main goal is to finish David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest by September 13, as I started reading it on the same date in 2009 after picking it up in Chicago. It's been a goal of mine for a few years to read it, and I finally decided to just go for it. I'm glad I didn't do any research on the subject of reading it beforehand, as I probably would have gotten scared or been like, "Whoa this is too much, I'll just take the Wikipedia summary."

I started reading it on the train back from Chicago, and after reading the foreword by Dave Eggers, I was determined to finish it in a year. I took a break from it for most of spring semester because it was just too draining to get back into while I was worrying about all the other things going on in the music program, but as of the China trip I am back with a vengeance. I even checked out a bit of the Infinite Summer blog from last year (which I'm glad I didn't do; I would have been way too intimidated). According to the how-to page, I have already done 8/11 things right! As far as 9-11 go, I'll probably pick up this reader's guide if they have it at Barnes & Noble or Borders. I will probably check out the online resources, but I might wait to read the rather lengthy study by Greg Carlisle until after I finish reading it. It'll be a good way to asses my understanding, I think.Above: My progress as of April. I am now on page 417.

I was going to write about yesterday's visit to the doctor's office, but this came out instead. Whatever.

Abominations.

Wednesday I heard what sounded like a hybrid dog-monkey yapping in or around my backyard.
I was too scared to look out the window, too afraid of the unending possibilities of carnage I might see.

It was probably a stupid yappy lapdog, but this is what I envisioned:
In case you missed it, that's a "scary monkey mouth," "doggy paws," "obligatory bloodshot eye," "monkey hand-feet," and a "prehensile tail for flinging poo."

My internet search for "monkey dog hybrid" revealed that there is in fact a breed of dog called the Affenpinscher that is nicknamed the "monkey dog." I found this site where they show a picture of the dog, saying that its completely furry face and framed features make it look kinda like a monkey. Other sites say its playful attitude contributes to that, but yet another site I found says that this is not a good dog for children. Gee, who wouldn't want to place a baby monkey-dog in the presence of their children, I mused.

Then I started thinking about other unlikely animal hybrids, namely cats. What could be weird to mix with a cat, I thought? I don't know, how about an elephant? Apparently I was not the first person to think this would be ridiculous, and I stumbled upon this list and more importantly, its comment section where someone joked that they're trying to create a cat-elephant hybrid named a catephant, in order to take "massive poos in [his] neighbour's garden." Charming. This all in the midst of a somewhat confusing and silly argument about taxonomy and wolves/dogs. Seriously though, that list is pretty cool.
What did I come up with?

I also thought about what would happen if machines were hybridized with animals. Not like some sort of cyborg rooster or what have you, but like a bird microwave: [From the back, because seriously, you don't want to see that thing's hind end.] Imagine everything you hate about birds, then imagine them amplified: Being awakened at 5 AM every summer morning by a chorus of birds screaming for each others' attention? You now awaken to the quiet hum of a microwave, followed abruptly by a heinous unearthly beeping at a high E-flat (did I tell you I used to sing the same pitch as the microwave when I was little? No? Well Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime). Annoying bird poo on your windshield? That is now deadly flaming poo showers raining down from the skies. The only saving grace there is the series of deafeningly friendly warning beeps from above.

I quite enjoyed the idea of Tim Curry-Bees. They would lull you into a false sense of security and enjoyment by doing a sing-along of "Sweet Transvestite," then while you're busy doing the Time Warp, they attack from all sides, driving you into anaphylactic shock regardless of whether or not you have a "bee allergy." Everyone is allergic to Frank-n-Bees.

Everyone.

Wow, what a great story.

After reading through most of Allie Brosh’s “Hyperbole and a Half” blog the other day, I contemplated writing a blog. Sarah is writing a reading blog called “Loving Books” and that’s going well, and she also had a cooking blog with her roommates during the school year documenting their apartment cooking escapades.

I thought about the kinds of things people generally write successful blogs about: everyday life/stories from their past, or a specific thing that they dedicate their blog to. I emphatically dabble in lots of interests, so it would be hard for me to, say, write a Classical music blog and not every once in a while express my love for all things Arrested Development.

As pertains to the second option, writing about real life experiences, you can just ask some of my friends: I am mostly terrible at storytelling. This is in part due to my need to slow down what I’m saying so I can think it through while I say it (resulting in lots of low-pitched “ums” and “uhhs” and “likes”), but also because a story is generally more entertaining to me than it is to everyone else, and I just have such high hopes for it that it doesn’t climax so much as it plummets back to where it started. Imagine if you were riding the Millenium Force at Cedar Point, and when you are almost at the top you are anticipating that stomach flip of weightlessness you get at the top, and instead of reaching that point the entire ride just shifts its angle and is now flat, and you are greeted by bored teenagers who escort you off the platform.

That is what hearing a story from me is like.

And see there? Someone else could probably give a much more entertaining metaphor for my storytelling .

So that same day I thought to myself, “Kirsten, you are terrible at stories. Who is great at stories?” I texted my cousin Kelli and said, “You should write a blog,” which apparently was the final motivation she needed to actually do it! That night she started Bagels n Sox, and I am super excited to watch it progress.

That whole time I was thinking about starting a blog, but I was plagued by the notion that I am a horribly uninteresting teller of tales. Then I thought, “Hey, I can start a blog if I want. My excuse can be that it will help me with my writing, so it doesn’t continue to devolve into one-syllable words and internet slang.”

So there it is.

What’s that? You’re wondering about the title of this blog? Listen to me tell you a story and try not to say that to me at the end of it. You will probably have an aneurysm.