I don't remember always having A.D.D. In an honest admission I'll have to reveal that this is a self-proclaimed diagnosis of attention deficit disorder that most would agree I am no where near being qualified to determine, but I work at MedExpress; that has to count for something! Doesn't it?
I mean, people walk in here every day claiming to have swine flue, strep throat, gonorrhea, and several other diseases which often requires, or at least they beleive it requires, a visual at the front window of their open wounds, rashes, or their personal hankie because how could we possibly know whats wrong with them without seeing first hand the gunk being expelled from their nostrils. ((These are instances of previous encounters, no fiction here.))
Regardless of these ill-mannered, germ infested patients who diagnose themselves and would clearly be a bit healthier if they had cut back to three packs a day instead of four, or showered every now and then, it's not their needs or their stench that truly keeps me from the books I initially accepted this job to be able to read. It is in fact an issue of A.D.D. I mean, it has to be! To be quite honest, I'm already bored with writing this. Perhaps this is clearly why I can't commit to doing it every day. It seems that the only thing I can commit to these days are hours of online shopping and thinking about exercising (sidenote: thinking in this context is not meant as a synonym for "anticipation". Sadly the thought of exercising does not excite me to a point of consuming my thoughts while awaiting the next opportunity to make it a reality. Thinking, in this sense of the word means all thought and no action. On a bigger and sadder note, thinking is also the reason for the 5-10 pounds I've surely gained in the last month, well, that and the cheese and spinach stuffed pizza sitting in the breakroom of work I'll be heating up in the toaster oven any minute. Come to think of it............................................................................................................................................................................................
Mmmmmmmmmm,make it 10-12 pounds. Honestly, I'm just glad it's winter and flow-y, heavy, thick and disguising sweaters are in style.
So what the hell was I talking about? Oh, A.D.D! How does one actually get diagnosed with A.D.D.? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do not believe "I can't get shit done" is covered by my insurance company. What brings you in Ms. Aponte?
Well, Let's see. I majored in English Literature and I'd rather pick my split ends for hours than read a book these days and my boyfriend thinks I'm unstable...he may be right.
Are you on any medications?
I'd like to be.
anything you take currently?
Birth Control, because clearly we don't need more of me!
Okay, truly, I'm bored. And I'm willing to bet you are as well.
It's over.......phew!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
What is up?
Things are looking a bit more bright these days. This brightness is of course, no thanks to the Pennsylvania skies of gray and gloom which make it hard to differentiate morning from night through the looking glass. It is however, with thanks to several unexpected friends who allowed me to pour my heart out to them while they not only loaned a listening ear (or in some cases a racing eye as they had to keep up with repetitive messages of my overly verbose typing on facebook) but who also had some words of their own in response. I know I joke about being self-absorbed, but sometimes I really don't just want to hear myself talk---pick up your jaw from the floor, it's really not THAT shocking.
The thing is, sometimes you get tired of being the one everyone comes to for advice because a one way street often hits a dead end, and let's just say, at the end of this street was a garage of hopelessness I drove directly into and parked there for awhile. Well, after struggling in park I finally managed to find reverse and believe it or not, I can see the sun endlessly fighting to shine through those gray skies.
Now, if only my tangible means of transportation would follow the lead of my mental mustang, we might be cruising through good times. Clearly this is not the case. I kid you not when I tell you that the second the first flurry of snow fell upon my ready to retire ford contour, he/she basically decided that if I was going to make it suffer through the bitter cold it finds so unfamiliar having come from South Carolina, it would make me suffer through the embarrassment of driving it until it decides that I should suffer in the cold as well. The day has not come, yet, where I have been reduced to trudging through the formerly white turned concrete gray and unsanitary snow in order to reach safety (because surely my cell phone will be dead when this happens), but let it be noted that this in the moment I most dread and anticipate. I'm not sure how much longer my financial means will restrict me to the clunker car unworthy of even the worst 16 year old drivers (if Officer Baker has any say in it I will be driving this car for the rest of my life) but I'm thinking my next drive will be to buy a lottery ticket. Just sayin'...
The thing is, sometimes you get tired of being the one everyone comes to for advice because a one way street often hits a dead end, and let's just say, at the end of this street was a garage of hopelessness I drove directly into and parked there for awhile. Well, after struggling in park I finally managed to find reverse and believe it or not, I can see the sun endlessly fighting to shine through those gray skies.
Now, if only my tangible means of transportation would follow the lead of my mental mustang, we might be cruising through good times. Clearly this is not the case. I kid you not when I tell you that the second the first flurry of snow fell upon my ready to retire ford contour, he/she basically decided that if I was going to make it suffer through the bitter cold it finds so unfamiliar having come from South Carolina, it would make me suffer through the embarrassment of driving it until it decides that I should suffer in the cold as well. The day has not come, yet, where I have been reduced to trudging through the formerly white turned concrete gray and unsanitary snow in order to reach safety (because surely my cell phone will be dead when this happens), but let it be noted that this in the moment I most dread and anticipate. I'm not sure how much longer my financial means will restrict me to the clunker car unworthy of even the worst 16 year old drivers (if Officer Baker has any say in it I will be driving this car for the rest of my life) but I'm thinking my next drive will be to buy a lottery ticket. Just sayin'...
Thursday, December 2, 2010
tiny little mishaps
When and where do people find time for this day in and day out? Don't get me wrong, the mere idea of consecutive sentences consistently complaining about the vices and annoyances of the world sounds more satisfying than the majority of the 8oz. steak cooked to medium rare perfection and the baked potato smothered in butter in sour cream practically melting at the tip of my anxiously awaiting tongue that I just minutes ago enjoyed to the very possible extent of enjoyment. But, much like every positive thing in life (or at least my life), those mouthwatering leftovers were left alone and growing cold at the end of the dimly lit table where it has by now faced its unfortunate fate of the dumpster rather than the less unfortunate fate of my belly. So much for a breakfast feast of steak and eggs.
Anyways, no sense whining about the missed opportunity of a second good meal. If complaining were to again be the purpose of my #unknown rant I'd much rather complain about a separate series of unfortunate events, like perhaps 12 hours of academy award winning drug seekers and ill-mannered coughers spewing their symptomatic germs all over my counter space while I can't even enjoy a half hour lunch break. Or maybe the drive back form South Carolina that took an extra 4 1/2 hours because, well, because the horse and buggy system my boyfriend currently bitches about in the Amish town where he resides doesn't always seem that terrible of an alternative in comparison to leaking breaklines.
I'm not exactly sure whether everything happens to me or just appears to happen to me, but even my bunny expectations have fallen through the cracks of my hopeful fingers. All I wanted was to fill those cracks with the warm fuzziness of a furry friend whose utter cuteness would make me "oooooo" and "awwwwwe" like most people do at the sight of a new born baby where as I'd much rather prefer the company of friend who I can buy (or in this case simply take) rather than incubate for nine months and then force out of a part of my body that should never be forced to expand that large. It's gross, I know.
Point is, my expectations lately have been much too high, with the exception of my cake however, a cake that took 25 years to finally be taught to make by my reluctant mother. No, she's not a greedy hoarder of cake recipes, but it has taken being away for months at a time for her to show the nurture side of herself. (she's a softie with a tough exterior, wonder where I get it from).
The thing is, at some point you have to wonder why things fall apart and why these tiny little mishaps carry so much more weight in my head than the successes, like my cake, or the fact that even almost five hours behind schedule, we still made it home safely. Perhaps it's the fault of my parents themselves, who taught me to want it all but didn't follow it up with a lecture on what to do when you don't get it all. Maybe this is why I cried for days the first time I failed a test in college. It's self-efficacy and when you're an intrinsic person, you blame yourself and take responsibility for these so called mishaps and failures. Somewhere along the lines though, I became a bit extrinsic, blaming everything to the fault of luck followed by several moments of "things couldn't get any worse! And then the clouds opened up and God said, 'I hate you Steph Aponte'". I'm not sure what it will take to find my old self, the girl who laughed when things didn't go her way or who never stressed. That girl didn't flip out on Pittburgh Police Officers and spend the worst night of her life in a holding cell with two heroine addicts who in a building full of people she would have previously respected and admired found herself at a level closer to the jailbirds. I wasn't quite at the level to actually partake in the brown bag breakfast they supplied of milk and apple slices; It seemed more than obvious to me that I clearly didn't belong there when I was the only one not moaning in pain and begging for detox medication. But if I have ever in my life had an epiphany, I had one at the moment, realizing that the little mishaps turn into real life nightmares when you let them.
For now, I'll just enjoy the company of the sweet Italian sitting next to me, considering that my time to enjoy this moment is rapidly ticking away and especially because for this one moment, the last thing I want is to be told that it's over.
-Stephanie
Anyways, no sense whining about the missed opportunity of a second good meal. If complaining were to again be the purpose of my #unknown rant I'd much rather complain about a separate series of unfortunate events, like perhaps 12 hours of academy award winning drug seekers and ill-mannered coughers spewing their symptomatic germs all over my counter space while I can't even enjoy a half hour lunch break. Or maybe the drive back form South Carolina that took an extra 4 1/2 hours because, well, because the horse and buggy system my boyfriend currently bitches about in the Amish town where he resides doesn't always seem that terrible of an alternative in comparison to leaking breaklines.
I'm not exactly sure whether everything happens to me or just appears to happen to me, but even my bunny expectations have fallen through the cracks of my hopeful fingers. All I wanted was to fill those cracks with the warm fuzziness of a furry friend whose utter cuteness would make me "oooooo" and "awwwwwe" like most people do at the sight of a new born baby where as I'd much rather prefer the company of friend who I can buy (or in this case simply take) rather than incubate for nine months and then force out of a part of my body that should never be forced to expand that large. It's gross, I know.
Point is, my expectations lately have been much too high, with the exception of my cake however, a cake that took 25 years to finally be taught to make by my reluctant mother. No, she's not a greedy hoarder of cake recipes, but it has taken being away for months at a time for her to show the nurture side of herself. (she's a softie with a tough exterior, wonder where I get it from).
The thing is, at some point you have to wonder why things fall apart and why these tiny little mishaps carry so much more weight in my head than the successes, like my cake, or the fact that even almost five hours behind schedule, we still made it home safely. Perhaps it's the fault of my parents themselves, who taught me to want it all but didn't follow it up with a lecture on what to do when you don't get it all. Maybe this is why I cried for days the first time I failed a test in college. It's self-efficacy and when you're an intrinsic person, you blame yourself and take responsibility for these so called mishaps and failures. Somewhere along the lines though, I became a bit extrinsic, blaming everything to the fault of luck followed by several moments of "things couldn't get any worse! And then the clouds opened up and God said, 'I hate you Steph Aponte'". I'm not sure what it will take to find my old self, the girl who laughed when things didn't go her way or who never stressed. That girl didn't flip out on Pittburgh Police Officers and spend the worst night of her life in a holding cell with two heroine addicts who in a building full of people she would have previously respected and admired found herself at a level closer to the jailbirds. I wasn't quite at the level to actually partake in the brown bag breakfast they supplied of milk and apple slices; It seemed more than obvious to me that I clearly didn't belong there when I was the only one not moaning in pain and begging for detox medication. But if I have ever in my life had an epiphany, I had one at the moment, realizing that the little mishaps turn into real life nightmares when you let them.
For now, I'll just enjoy the company of the sweet Italian sitting next to me, considering that my time to enjoy this moment is rapidly ticking away and especially because for this one moment, the last thing I want is to be told that it's over.
-Stephanie
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Holidays.......seriously, tell me when it's over!
I can vaguely recall a moment between the hefty scooping of mounds of mashed potatoes and "round dos" when I uttered the words, "I could stop now and be content, full but not overly full".
That must have been the angel on my right shoulder. She's the one with the new Android and a facebook obsession and the reason why hundreds of my facebook friends were aware that my sister craved a big mac covered in gravy while simultaneously shoveling a centerpiece turkey make of fudge stripe cookies and candy corn. She is also the reason why my hands were too occupied to take another mouthful and managed my ability to speak the words about forfeiting the extra's on my plate without spitting stuffing and french style green beans (with extra butter) all over Lourdes who sat on the other side of the circular Lighting McQueen kiddie table where we dined (that was facebook documented as well). I love this angel; who said technology was the reason for childhood obesity?
It's the other angel, the one of my left who's too old fashion to learn the technological jargon it takes to survive in year 2010 but too lazy to walk outside and live like its 1930 where people relied on the physical movement of more than just their opposable thumbs. This angel sent me over for seconds followed by a couple of backyard fire roasted smores because "how could I have some more if I haven't had any yet?".
It's now Saturday, two days proceeding our Kingful feast and I still feel full. I still eat, but I'm pretty sure plate two is still lurking around in my digestive track somewhere. (my apologies for the graphics)
The funny thing these days about Holiday's though, is not that we were forced even now at 25 and 30 to crouch our stubby but too long for two feet chair legs at the kids table (we chose this) or that we feast in a garage turned movie theater in South Carolina and not my hometown of Pittsburgh where the house we grew up in hardly had a living room much less a theater, but it's the fact that had I not chosen to sit across from Lourdes at a table smaller than the ones we were subjected to as children, chances are I would not have known the person stuffing their unfamiliar face with my mother's "just dump it all in" stuffing or my oldest sister Ingret's "chocolate and not quite peanut butter" pie. Had it not been for the familar loudeness of previously all Puerto Rican and now a mut style melting pot of Spanish speaking people, I could have easily confused my parent's house for a random church soup kitchen with air freshners. I wouldn't be able to give any of these visitors a couple of bucks without worrying that they would "just buy booze with it" either.
I guess that's not funny; it's sad actually. Holiday's just aren't the same anymore. At least when I was younger I expected my drunken Uncle Berto to stutter step while attempting to keep his balance and admire the shimmer of his moisten lips (because he was always "wetting his whistle") and laugh as he insulted our sega sonic playing skills. We laughed on cue when our aunts, uncles and parents told stories we didnt understand and teased us for never making to the adult table regardless of how many years past and how old we were.
It's hard to laugh now. There's nothing funny about contemplating punching a drunk lady you intentionally blocked all memory of previous encounters with because drunk or sober she was more annoying than the nasaly asain looking man who did the parrots voice in aladdin. I could, in all honesty, rant about literally feeling my blood boil as she insisted on cleaning my mothers kitchen which resulted in nothing more than a waste of water and well, not so much soap because she clearly didn't use any and the wastefulness of an entire chicken who sacrificed its life only to be bioled in a pot of an odd lime base broth because drunken lady whose name I can't remember was not satisfied alone with the plethora of turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings of a thanksgiving dinner. No, drunken lady wanted CHICKEN SOUP! Ugh...we're leaving for Pittsburgh tomorrow; I pray I don't see drunken lady again...
-stephanie
That must have been the angel on my right shoulder. She's the one with the new Android and a facebook obsession and the reason why hundreds of my facebook friends were aware that my sister craved a big mac covered in gravy while simultaneously shoveling a centerpiece turkey make of fudge stripe cookies and candy corn. She is also the reason why my hands were too occupied to take another mouthful and managed my ability to speak the words about forfeiting the extra's on my plate without spitting stuffing and french style green beans (with extra butter) all over Lourdes who sat on the other side of the circular Lighting McQueen kiddie table where we dined (that was facebook documented as well). I love this angel; who said technology was the reason for childhood obesity?
It's the other angel, the one of my left who's too old fashion to learn the technological jargon it takes to survive in year 2010 but too lazy to walk outside and live like its 1930 where people relied on the physical movement of more than just their opposable thumbs. This angel sent me over for seconds followed by a couple of backyard fire roasted smores because "how could I have some more if I haven't had any yet?".
It's now Saturday, two days proceeding our Kingful feast and I still feel full. I still eat, but I'm pretty sure plate two is still lurking around in my digestive track somewhere. (my apologies for the graphics)
The funny thing these days about Holiday's though, is not that we were forced even now at 25 and 30 to crouch our stubby but too long for two feet chair legs at the kids table (we chose this) or that we feast in a garage turned movie theater in South Carolina and not my hometown of Pittsburgh where the house we grew up in hardly had a living room much less a theater, but it's the fact that had I not chosen to sit across from Lourdes at a table smaller than the ones we were subjected to as children, chances are I would not have known the person stuffing their unfamiliar face with my mother's "just dump it all in" stuffing or my oldest sister Ingret's "chocolate and not quite peanut butter" pie. Had it not been for the familar loudeness of previously all Puerto Rican and now a mut style melting pot of Spanish speaking people, I could have easily confused my parent's house for a random church soup kitchen with air freshners. I wouldn't be able to give any of these visitors a couple of bucks without worrying that they would "just buy booze with it" either.
I guess that's not funny; it's sad actually. Holiday's just aren't the same anymore. At least when I was younger I expected my drunken Uncle Berto to stutter step while attempting to keep his balance and admire the shimmer of his moisten lips (because he was always "wetting his whistle") and laugh as he insulted our sega sonic playing skills. We laughed on cue when our aunts, uncles and parents told stories we didnt understand and teased us for never making to the adult table regardless of how many years past and how old we were.
It's hard to laugh now. There's nothing funny about contemplating punching a drunk lady you intentionally blocked all memory of previous encounters with because drunk or sober she was more annoying than the nasaly asain looking man who did the parrots voice in aladdin. I could, in all honesty, rant about literally feeling my blood boil as she insisted on cleaning my mothers kitchen which resulted in nothing more than a waste of water and well, not so much soap because she clearly didn't use any and the wastefulness of an entire chicken who sacrificed its life only to be bioled in a pot of an odd lime base broth because drunken lady whose name I can't remember was not satisfied alone with the plethora of turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings of a thanksgiving dinner. No, drunken lady wanted CHICKEN SOUP! Ugh...we're leaving for Pittsburgh tomorrow; I pray I don't see drunken lady again...
-stephanie
Thursday, November 25, 2010
We made it!!!
After a late start and an excruciatingly long 10hour+ drive, Lourdes and I arrived at our parents house in South Carolina around 7:30 last night. It was obvious when we had reached the state line: the term road rage doesn't even begin to explain the depths of my sisters driving skills. I beleive at one point after being cut off by a driver in an obvious hurry, her furry sounded something like..."GGGGRRRRR, if my dog and sister weren't in the car with me I'd (explicit) cut you the(explicit) off!" You would think for a moment that Levi (said dog) and I would be grateful for the fact that she had taken our lives and the apparent danger she threatened into consideration. BUT (and this is a big BUT here) before she had even finished her threatening rant to the man who could not hear her, let's just say: foot, gas, quick serve, change lanes, Lourdes and a sigh of relief--Apparently dog and sister lives aren't as precious as she had originally imagined.
Anyways, the thought of detailing any of the hardly entertaining events of the voyage last night was more exhausting than the trip itself, especially when I arrived to have, within minutes, a belly full of mom's rice and mami olga meat (that means nothing to you but the world to me). Aside from witnessing my hundred pound sister down Micky d's breakfast, a snickers ice cream bar, a whopper jr, and listen to her bitch about how she wanted "to sit comfy with a coke but the moronic bitch gave her diet", the trip was fairly uneventful. However, a weekend back with the rest of the family, mom's new hardwood floors and Levi's neglectfully long nails, Thanksgiving dinner, baking and booze...hmmmmm-this should be interesting.
Updates to come...
-steph
Anyways, the thought of detailing any of the hardly entertaining events of the voyage last night was more exhausting than the trip itself, especially when I arrived to have, within minutes, a belly full of mom's rice and mami olga meat (that means nothing to you but the world to me). Aside from witnessing my hundred pound sister down Micky d's breakfast, a snickers ice cream bar, a whopper jr, and listen to her bitch about how she wanted "to sit comfy with a coke but the moronic bitch gave her diet", the trip was fairly uneventful. However, a weekend back with the rest of the family, mom's new hardwood floors and Levi's neglectfully long nails, Thanksgiving dinner, baking and booze...hmmmmm-this should be interesting.
Updates to come...
-steph
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I've decided to add another member to my family!!! No, I haven't purposely ceased to oblige to the every day command of my phone at the exact moment its alarm obnoxiously vibrates with a bright red screen that screams "PILL" in oversized lettering, BUT I will be responsible for the life of a furry little friend whose current name is "playboy".
Trust me, I didn't choose the name; it WILL be changed. I can do that, right? Rabbits don't actually respond to names, do they? I mean, I'm not even fully sure my dog understand what his real name is, considering my sister and I have turned "Levi" into a series of nicknames, all derived for one logical reason or another. Well, maybe not logical, but according to our thought process, they make sense. Without giving you the exact train of thought that led to each, let's just say he responds, or at least appears to respond to the following: Levi, Keagan, Bubbas, Bubz, and shithead.
A rabbit on the other hand, they...
Hmmmm, well, I don't have a legitimate reason for believing they are incapable of learning their names, not any aside from my brief encounters with wildlife anyways. Although, when my sister, Lourdes, and I attempted to save a bunny from the death trap of her trailblazer's tire, we fed it kittens milk from a tiny bottle until it became big and bouncy enough to realize it absolutely despised us to which we decided to set him free. To this day, I think he hangs out by our house where we let him go, but runs like hell when he see's either of us within 10 feet of him(Maybe they are smarter than I thought).
I am assumming this particular rabbit I am being given, despite being named "Playboy", ((clearly not his fault)), is fairly intelligent. I am told he is potty trained...in other words, he does his number 1 & 2 businness in a litter box. HAHAHA. Who needs a cat?
This is pretty impressive though. I mean, I know grown men (who shall remain nameless) who can hardly manage this task. But then again, perhaps rabbits are smarter than men...
hmmmmmmm....maybe I'll have to call him Playboy afterall....((UGH)).
-Steph
Trust me, I didn't choose the name; it WILL be changed. I can do that, right? Rabbits don't actually respond to names, do they? I mean, I'm not even fully sure my dog understand what his real name is, considering my sister and I have turned "Levi" into a series of nicknames, all derived for one logical reason or another. Well, maybe not logical, but according to our thought process, they make sense. Without giving you the exact train of thought that led to each, let's just say he responds, or at least appears to respond to the following: Levi, Keagan, Bubbas, Bubz, and shithead.
A rabbit on the other hand, they...
Hmmmm, well, I don't have a legitimate reason for believing they are incapable of learning their names, not any aside from my brief encounters with wildlife anyways. Although, when my sister, Lourdes, and I attempted to save a bunny from the death trap of her trailblazer's tire, we fed it kittens milk from a tiny bottle until it became big and bouncy enough to realize it absolutely despised us to which we decided to set him free. To this day, I think he hangs out by our house where we let him go, but runs like hell when he see's either of us within 10 feet of him(Maybe they are smarter than I thought).
I am assumming this particular rabbit I am being given, despite being named "Playboy", ((clearly not his fault)), is fairly intelligent. I am told he is potty trained...in other words, he does his number 1 & 2 businness in a litter box. HAHAHA. Who needs a cat?
This is pretty impressive though. I mean, I know grown men (who shall remain nameless) who can hardly manage this task. But then again, perhaps rabbits are smarter than men...
hmmmmmmm....maybe I'll have to call him Playboy afterall....((UGH)).
-Steph
Sunday, November 21, 2010
blogging is for narcissists
So, how does this work exactly?
According to what I’ve learned from watching Julie and Julia, bloggers have a mission; a goal of sorts. Now, mind you I never read the aforementioned “Julie’s” blog of soufflés and struggle of simmering, but in a restless redbox moment a few weeks ago, I found myself debating between this particular flick and Toy Story 3. All jokes aside, I really did want to stare mindlessly at the blindingly bright screen and imagine for a second that I could make it to “infinity and beyond” if I really set my mind to it, but I could feel the anxiety building up in a line of anticipation behind me and while I contemplated taking the last copy available, I figured karma was a bitch and God would never forgive me for being spiteful to children; I chose the more adult-like cooking film, obviously.
But anyways, I hate to disappoint you, but unlike Julie, I have no intended goal for writing this; I won’t be charming you with my endless efforts to make the best beef stew. I’m just an aimless blogger, and when you’re finished with your overwhelming sighs of hatred at my making you read the past few sentences only to learn that nothing will ever come of it, I’ll let you in on the realization of my life, the epiphany of life itself: WE ARE ALL AIMLESS. Truth is, I don’t have a clue what will be worth bitching and moaning about day after day. Regardless, the fact is, whether anyone reads this or not, its therapeutic to write it, because I like the sound of my own voice, or in this case, the tapping of my thoughts being typed away on the bright white keys of the brand new Sony laptop I couldn’t afford but purchased anyway. Blogging appeals to my narcissism…not to mention my need to complain about the day...just tell me when its over…
-Stephanie
According to what I’ve learned from watching Julie and Julia, bloggers have a mission; a goal of sorts. Now, mind you I never read the aforementioned “Julie’s” blog of soufflés and struggle of simmering, but in a restless redbox moment a few weeks ago, I found myself debating between this particular flick and Toy Story 3. All jokes aside, I really did want to stare mindlessly at the blindingly bright screen and imagine for a second that I could make it to “infinity and beyond” if I really set my mind to it, but I could feel the anxiety building up in a line of anticipation behind me and while I contemplated taking the last copy available, I figured karma was a bitch and God would never forgive me for being spiteful to children; I chose the more adult-like cooking film, obviously.
But anyways, I hate to disappoint you, but unlike Julie, I have no intended goal for writing this; I won’t be charming you with my endless efforts to make the best beef stew. I’m just an aimless blogger, and when you’re finished with your overwhelming sighs of hatred at my making you read the past few sentences only to learn that nothing will ever come of it, I’ll let you in on the realization of my life, the epiphany of life itself: WE ARE ALL AIMLESS. Truth is, I don’t have a clue what will be worth bitching and moaning about day after day. Regardless, the fact is, whether anyone reads this or not, its therapeutic to write it, because I like the sound of my own voice, or in this case, the tapping of my thoughts being typed away on the bright white keys of the brand new Sony laptop I couldn’t afford but purchased anyway. Blogging appeals to my narcissism…not to mention my need to complain about the day...just tell me when its over…
-Stephanie
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