"I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway."

Your mind is a pretty effective time machine, provided you have a good memory and at least a little bit of an imagination. The only drawback is that you can't really change anything unless you can somehow change your own memories AND the memories of all the people who were involved in whatever you're changing. So you can see how that might be difficult. It's one thing to impose your will on your own self, but on other people? Unless you have an Inception-machine or know Joseph Gordon-Levitt, you can just forget it.

But you can pretend things changed. You can even change your own memories enough, just for yourself, that it helps you in the future. Some may call this denial, but I just call it playing the system. I find myself so often hung up on things that have happened to me, things that I no longer have any control over, if I ever did, things that I cannot change now, no matter how hard I wish for it, and yet I dwell on them, well, forever. The whole making mistakes and learning from them has always been hard for me. Like most people, I'd rather not make mistakes, I'd rather just do things perfectly the first time, otherwise aren't I wasting time?

No. Duh, NO. Everyone knows it’s important to make mistakes, because at least you're trying, but it's hard to really take that to heart, to do something about it. Much easier, really, to stay still, doing the things you know how to do and not having to worry about messing up or looking foolish.

I'm not sure why this is something I ever worry about. I try so hard NOT to make a fool of myself and it's usually all for nothing. I end up looking like an idiot at some point during the day, it's just going to happen. That’s just who I am. I'M AN IDIOT. And I'm not trying to demean myself or anything, I like being an idiot. It's much more fun than being serious all the time. And yet, it bothers me sometimes that people don’t seem to take me all that seriously.

This is mostly my fault, I’m pretty sure. I'm more likely to joke and make sarcastic comments and belittle myself than I am to actually offer helpful advice or suggestions. I’m not sure why I do that. Chandler Bing my way through life. (Oh, right, defense mechanism. Duh. Plus, Chandler is the funniest Friend. Who doesn't want to be the funniest?)

I wish I spent less time worrying about the past, I really do, if only because it does no good. Sure, it's helpful to remember your mistakes (if you've been brave enough to make any), but there comes a point when you have to stop dwelling and start thinking about what you're going to do next. Hopefully, it doesn't involve sitting and moping and getting all verklempt while you listen to The National, unless you're me and today is today*. No. Stop that. Get up, take a walk, sit down, read a book, write some nonsense, just do SOMETHING.

Your mind is a time machine after all, bigger on the inside, so just imagine what it can do. 

*I actually wrote this like a month ago, so I feel the need to point out that today I am not moping and listening to The National, today I am high on cold medicine and enjoying Spotify 90s radio.

I have officially run out of things to talk about

My high school lunchroom, like most, had a condiment bar. It was right next to the cash registers, so after everyone stood in line to pay, they could THEN stand in line to squirt some mustard on their hot dog or whatever the hell the lunchroom was serving that day. I don't know. Most days I got french fries or . . . french fries.

The interesting thing about my high school's condiment station was the apparatus used to dispense the various condiments. It was this big shelf thing with what can only be described as udders hanging off of it. You squeezed the udders to make the condiment come out. I wish I could show you a real picture, but I can't, because according to my cousins who are now in high school (how the hell did that happen, btw?), they've gotten rid of the udder contraption. Which is unfortunate, because they're being deprived of something special. There's nothing quite like that feeling of inappropriateness that comes with squeezing a giant condiment udder. Especially the mayonnaise one.

Anyway, while I do not have a real picture, here is a drawing I made of what I remember it looking like. Stephanie, I believe you can back me up on this, yes?

proof that I have always been this way

So earlier this afternoon, I was busy lying in bed, listening to music, and staring at the ceiling when I glanced over at my bookcase and noticed a folder had fallen behind it. I managed to pull myself out of my daydream haze and when I picked up the folder and opened it, I found the most magical thing ever. It was full of stories I'd written in junior high. Oh, they are so good. So, so, so good. And when I say good, I mean TERRIBLE. Just . . . terrible.

The best (worst) one was one I wrote, not for school, but for fun. I believe one of my friends helped me come up with the idea, but I was the one who wrote it (three drafts!) and BEST OF ALL designed and illustrated this cover:


Oh, you guys. Do you see that? That . . . is . . . I have no words. I think my favorite part is the fact that I drew blood dripping off the letters in "Evil Summer." What the fuck? I mean WOW. So, OK. I believe the story was loosely (very loosely) based on this party some friends of my parents used to have when we were younger and the usual attendees of said party. To be fair, I was not a psychotic 12-year-old, this was just around the time I read a lot of those RL Stine books. You know the ones I mean? Hey, he was born in Columbus, Ohio! Ha! Also, this may have been around the time I started reading Stephen King. Anyway, I read the story. It is spectacularly awful, just as I'd hoped, and I actually had to stop reading it and put it away every few pages because I was cringing so hard I could barely see. I was going to post some of it, but it's SEVENTEEN PAGES LONG, and I really don't want to subject you guys to that kind of torture. I will, however, tell you that I wrote the following disclaimer on the inside of the cover (complete with spelling errors):

Readers -- This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiosly. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

I'm really hoping I stole that from somewhere. If not? So. Weird. Oh, I forgot to tell you the best part. On the last page, it totally says, "THE END (or is it?)"

OH. MY. GOD.

All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

So, today I was going to come home and right a proper blog entry about that one time I went camping at the Official Bob Evans Farm in . . . I don't know, Someplace, Ohio. But I had this sneaking suspicion that I already had written about it at some point. AND I HAD. A simple blog search for "Bob Evans Farm" took me to this entry. I already wrote about it in the most mediocre fashion possible, so I guess that saves me the trouble of doing it now. But you know what that means? I am officially out of things to write about on here. Out. Unless you guys have some suggestions, I quit. I just quit.

Nah, not really. I will just have to talk of other (read: boring) things. I'm rereading The Catcher in the Rye. I haven't read it in a couple years. I actually had to buy another copy because I can't find the one I used to have, meaning I either sold it (doubtful) or lent it to someone and they never gave it back. I don't care, though. The best part about books is that you can share them with other people. How disgustingly sweet was that last sentence? Oh man, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Anyway, I wasn't going to buy another copy, I was just going to get it from the library (once I paid my fine and they let me have books again), but I just HAPPENED to be at a used bookstore and I picked up a copy and was flipping through it and saw that someone had written this on the inside of the front cover:

Scott - I figure that you could get your dirty fingures into this cats writting. I know you'll dig it. Happy Birthday Boy . . . Matt

I'm not sure if the spelling mistakes are intentional, but I find them hilarious. Come ON, wouldn't you have bought the book for that reason alone? No? Just me then? OK.

Do you remember that movie with Mel Gibson where he plays the crazy guy? This was before we all knew he was ACTUALLY batshit crazy. Conspiracy Theory! That's what it's called. You know in that movie how he HAS to buy a copy of The Catcher in the Rye whenever he's in or near a bookstore? I had a friend in who said I was the same way, only instead of of The Catcher in the Rye, I'd buy Pride & Prejudice. Just because this one time I bought a copy of it even though I already had one. Also, I stole a copy from the library we worked at because it had Colin Firth's face on it. Come ON, wouldn't you? No? Just me then? OK.

Wow. How obvious is it that I really am out of stuff to write about? Le sigh.

I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day.

Tamara asked: Are you pregnant? Just kidding. Um... If beer was not an option (because I hate beer and it makes me and the baby Jesus cry that you like it) what would be your drink of choice?

Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, it is better that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver. --Jack Handy

OK . . . no, I am not pregnant. I know you said you were kidding, but I just wanted to make sure I point that out before I get to the rest of this. I know it sounds like I drink a lot. Because I talk about drinking . . . a lot. But I don't really drink that often. Just on the weekends. And sometimes during the week Heidi and I will split a bottle of wine but wine is good for your heart, right? Right. Also, what else are weekends for besides drinking? ALSO, I'm young and unmarried and childless, I have to spend my money on something, right? Right.

ANYWAY. FIRST OF ALL (caps lock off), who hates beer?! I was under the impression that everyone loves beer. Probably because all of my friends do, but that is neither here nor there. I don't know where it is, but not in those two places, that is for sure. If you hate beer, what do you drink at baseball games? Water? Coke? NO. The only reason I go to baseball games is because beer and hot dogs taste so much better there. I don't know why. It's science or something.

So, I normally stick to beer because A) it's cheaper and B) when I drink liquor or do shots I tend to get a little out of control. Moreso than I do with beer, anyway. FOR INSTANCE:

• On my 21st birthday, I had shots. A lot of shots. Not 21 because I would have died, but a lot. When I went back to the sorority house, I pretended to swim on a table, stole my friend's boyfriend's hat, and gave a speech to half of the girls in the house about how we should not fight anymore because, and I quote, "we're all Juniors at the same time!"
• Last Oktoberfest. I mostly stuck to beer but I think some shots got in there somehow. Possibly a rum & coke. The night ended with me dancing with an old man at the bar, falling down in front of McDonald's on the way home, trying to break into someone else's condo and yelling at Heidi when she tried to stop me.
• The last time we went to visit people at Wittenberg, my friend Mary and I decided tequila shots would be a good idea. Aren't they always? Somehow that night we ended up getting locked in a closet. A tiny closet. It took them a good 15 minutes to get us out of there because the lock was broken and I am slightly claustrophobic so I almost started hyperventilating and so to distract me Mary started singing and then we both started singing and then Heidi told us to shut up with the singing already! Because we were locked! In! The closet! I'm surprised they let us out; we are extremely obnoxious when we're together, especially after tequila.
• My birthday last year? Mostly beer, mixed with several rum and cokes and I believe more tequila shots? Because Mary and I are crazy. Anyway, I fell down in the parking lot and also Heidi's boyfriend tried to pick me up and then dropped me on my head.

You know, I think I'm going to stop there, because my parents read this and while I'll share a lot with them, I don't think they need to know EVERYTHING, right? Right.

I'm not saying that when I JUST drink beer things like this don't happen. I mean, there was that time I fell out of my loft. And that time I fell down and ripped my jeans on St. Patrick's Day. And that other time I fell in one of those kiddie pools at a party and had to walk home soaking wet (I wasn't the only one, though). I know it sounds like I fall down a lot, but that's not the alcohol, I'm just really clumsy.

The end. Thanks for reading. Come back soon. BFF!* Did I even answer the question? I can't remember. Um, if beer were not an option, I'd drink wine. Or tequila. Or anything, really, as long as it doesn't have cranberry juice in it because cranberry juice tastes like llama pee. I'm assuming.

*Also when I drink a lot of beer, my blog tends to suffer the next day. That is my excuse for this. Sorry. Heh.

I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints -- the sinners are much more fun

Something about the way my shoes sound on the linoleum in the office breakroom reminds me of being in church. The clack clack clack of the heels takes me back to that time when I wasn't such a heathen, when I went to church every Sunday, sometimes even being given the responsibility of carrying a tall candle to light the other candles on the alter, trying not to trip on my way up the aisle over the long white robe, my eyes shooting upward, not toward Heaven, oh no, but never leaving that flickering flame because if it went out I'd have to travel all the way to the back of the church to relight it, every congregant's eyes on me instead of their hymnal, my face flaming.

I don't know where that came from.

I recently bought some new body wash, not realizing until this morning that it was the same scent I'd used on spring break in college, that year we went camping and every day we'd drive to a different beach. After a long day of lying in the sun and passing out from the heat, and then waking up long enough to dip ourselves in the ocean, we'd come back to the campground, which was littered with senior citizens and their motor homes, our tent being one of a handful scattered across the lot. We'd jump in the pool to wash off the salt and sand that still stubbornly clung to our skin and then ease into the hot tub to take the sting out of our sunburn. Later, we'd visit the only bathroom on site to shower away the chlorine and any rogue pieces of sand. And this morning as I closed my eyes and took in that familiar scent I could almost imagine I was back in Florida and that, just as soon as I was dried off and dressed, I'd be walking that long path back to our site, kicking gravel out of my flip flops as I went, to eat, drink, and be merry (but mostly drink and be merry) and maybe even fit in a little sleep before another exhausting day of beach living.

Yeah, I don't know where that came from, either.