Quick Update

Hey, people.

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I've been busy lately and trying to get my life back to normal. It's been a bit of a challenge, but I've been managing to keep up with most stuff. Let's see... in the past month I:

Got initiated into a professional co-ed fraternity, Alpha Chi Sigma,
Got a new dog,
Started hanging out with a guy with whom I can make fun of Canadians and manic pixie dream girls,
Possibly developed ADD,
Bought condoms for the first time and made condom water balloons,
Got a non-monetary award for being awesome at work,
Flipped off my chemistry professor, who didn't seem to actually care,
Played with a baby piggy and a lamb,
Failed my first exam ever,
Turned 19 years old,
Got addicted to Angry Birds, but got over said addiction,
Received a very strange, nonsensical fortune in my fortune cookie,
And... I think that's just about it.

I don't have much time to write any more because I have a huge chemistry essay due on Thursday that I barely started, along with my oral final exam (which sounds way too dirty to exist) to prepare for. Here are some pictures of some of the above events:

Dudley, my new doggie :]

So... that's what my life has become lately. I will try to post again next weekend. I hope it happens, but I'm not sure of my schedule, so I'm not so sure. You know, finals and stuff like that.

Rest In Peace, My Love

On Saturday, March 10, 2012, I lost my dog, Quigley. He was a 6-year-old dachshund/lab mix. When he was a puppy, he was abandoned. He and his 8 brothers and sisters were rescued and brought to a shelter. Nobody adopted them for whatever reason, and they were to be put down the next day. A woman from a dog rescue stepped up and volunteered to foster all of them. At the same time, my guinea  pig, Paprika, was dying from some sort of cancer that caused him to bloat and made him unable to use his back legs. I had spent that entire summer force-feeding Paprika around the clock every 3 hours. He ended up dying in August of 2005, around the same time Quigley was born. My family was mourning the loss of our 6-year-old piggy when my mom told a 12-year-old me that she wanted to get a puppy. We looked at pet adoption sites and decided on a puppy named Peanut.

School had started, and I came home crying from a generally bad day. I looked at Peanut's page online to find that he had been adopted. My mom told me that she had found the most adorable puppy in the world up for adoption on petfinder.com. I saw his picture and immediately knew that he was the one for us.

My mom and I had not told my dad that we were looking at puppies, but my mom took my brother and me to see him in October at Petsmart. We filled out an application for adoption, and were told to expect an email later that week. The next day, Sunday, my mom received an email from the foster mom telling us what supplies we would need for him, what kind of food he ate, and something I will never forget, "I will bring him on Thursday. Expect the pup to stay."

I'm not sure when my mom told my dad that we were adopting a puppy, but he didn't resist too much when we showed him the picture. Quigley's foster-mom showed up on Thursday afternoon, with my new puppy slung under one arm. She walked carefully up our steep, crooked driveway, and knocked on our door with her free hand. My mom made me sit still in the living room while she answered the door. The foster-mom set Quigley on the floor when she entered our living room, and he immediately ran to the floor-to-ceiling mirror and started jumping on it. When he realized that it wasn't another puppy, he looked at me with his huge amber eyes and his brow furrowed, like I was some sort of magician.

As the email said, the pup stayed. Training him was very easy. He had only one accident in the house as a puppy. He went through obedience training 3 times, and he graduated with high honors each time. Our walks went from him dragging me around to him walking neatly at my side.

Quigley grew up and turned into a very intelligent, but strange dog. He was far from perfect, but everyone he met loved him (if he didn't try to bite them). He could be temperamental sometimes, especially when someone tried to get too close to our house. My dog was really quirky. He didn't jump on any furniture except for the futon on our back porch or any of his own beds, including the beanbag chair that he stole from me when he was a puppy. He had personality for sure.

 

 

Doing his sexy pose

How he spent every summer

His favorite Halloween costume

Mid-bark snapshot after I told him how cute he is

One day he stepped on a piece of glass and cut his paw. He had to get  a little shard cut out from the webbing between his toes. We had to put a cone on his head so he wouldn't lick at the bandaging. Every dog absolutely hates the cone, and of course he tried to get it off at first. However, once he realized that he got attention if he wore it, he hated when we took it off. He wore it for several days, and seemed depressed when we had to take it off.

This past January, it seemed that Quigley had a bulging disc in his neck. The X-ray and blood work was inconclusive, though. He seemed to be in a lot of pain, so we put him on steroids and painkillers. He slowly started to decline. I came home from school in early February to find him lethargic, but still my same old Quigley. He still enjoyed his daily walks and ate more than he should have. I went back to school, confident that he would bounce back from whatever this was.

I was wrong.

I came home for spring break. My father had warned me that he was very sick and to expect the worst while we were in the car when he picked me up. We arrived at my house, and I opened the door to see that my dog was no longer my dog. He had lost about 10 pounds, and he could no longer use his front right paw due to a pinched nerve. He needed help using the stairs to go outside, and he didn't move more than necessary.


I spent as much time with him as humanly possible. He had good days and bad days.

At the beginning of last week, his belly started bloating severely. I had come home just in time to see the worst in him, and I knew it was almost the end.

Thursday, March 8, 2012:

I talked to our vet while I was at work. He said that it was hard to tell, but due to the bloating, he thought it might be cancer. I guess we'll never find out.

Friday, March 9, 2012:

In the morning, Quigley seemed to be doing very well. His bloating wasn't as bad as it had been, and he was having a good day. I got home from work around 6pm. He had been lying in his beanbag chair. I asked him if he had to go outside, and he just sat there whimpering. Eventually he pulled himself to his feet with his 3 good paws. I led him to the door and helped him outside. He was having trouble standing by himself. He fell over while peeing. His belly looked horribly distended and visibly bloated. I helped him inside and he laid down in his beanbag chair. He whimpered all night long.

Saturday, March 10, 2012:

I woke up early to see how my puppy was. He was in his beanbag chair, whining, panting, and shaking miserably. He had not stood up yet. Suddenly, he struggled to his feet and hobbled into the kitchen toward the side door. He let his bowels loose all over the floor, the second accident he had ever had in his life.

I cleaned up the kitchen and went to sit with my puppy in the living room. My dad called the vet and asked him to come to our house that day as soon as possible. He couldn't make it until 2, but he said that I could come pick up a sedative to make Quigley more comfortable. I was completely numb. I drove out there and took the pill bottle, receiving hugs from everyone. I drove back and gave him his pills. It was 11 am. Quigley spent the rest of his life heavily sedated with me at his side.

The last picture ever taken of Quigley on February 4, 2012

At 1:30, my friend, Danny, who is a vet tech at the clinic where I work called my cell phone. He said that he and my best friend, Rachel, with whom I have worked for 3 years could come over now. I told them to come over.

They pulled up in our driveway. Danny carried a black medical bag and Rachel had a blanket.

When Quig was gone, they wrapped him in the blanket. Danny handed the bag to Rachel and lifted Quigley off the floor. He walked carefully down our steep, crooked driveway, and carefully placed my puppy into the back seat of his car. That was the last time I saw my puppy.

All I want to say is rest in peace, my love. I miss you horribly, and I don't know what I will do without you.

The Straw that Broke the Camel's Back

I'm having a horrible day. I'm not going to get into it (it's kind of personal), but let's just say it's not because it's raining. I decided to write a poem for the first time in a long time. I know it's not good, but I wrote it in like 5 minutes. I'm sorry it's not going to be a very entertaining post this weekend.

Here's my poem:

The straw that broke the camel’s back

Isn’t so much as a straw

As an anvil from an old cartoon.

You’re trying to solve your current predicament

When out of nowhere it just… hits you.

You don’t expect it.

You couldn't predict it.

It just sort of happens

And you can’t prevent it.

The straw that broke the camel’s back

It was coming for a long time

But you ignored the signs.

You ignored the shadow that grew bigger around you

And chose to not hear the warnings.

You tried to sidestep it,

But it followed your steps

Like a sick dance

That led to your breakdown.

The straw that broke the camel’s back

Took you by surprise.

But you have to get over it.

Don’t let it affect you.

Just

Become

Numb

And forget about the anvil

That took your breath

And broke your back.

Terrible Work Day Rant

Sorry, you're not getting a normal blog post today. I have about 1,039,434,394,001,773.591 hours of homework to get done in the next day and a half, and I'm on the brink of blowing my own head off.

I had to work today in the cafeteria serving food for 5 hours. That's pretty bad, but it's worse than it sounds. I was working with three other girls, two of which are from China and can barely speak English. The other girl who is not Chinese just barely gave a fuck about working, and preferred to spend much of her time chatting with the chefs. Her job was to restock the food we were serving. At first, she did her job just fine, but after a few hours, she just kind of... stopped. On top of it, the Chinese girls were stumbling around, unable to understand a word of peoples' orders. Even worse, they moved so slowly I thought I was going to die. You are supposed to get the food on the plate, not having it touch other food stuff, and doing so quickly so you can help the next person in line. She was slowly scooping the tater tots one-by-one and trying to grasp a sausage patty with the tongs, but dropping it. It took all of my strength not to shove her out the my goddamn way and serve the stupid, hungover douche bag who shifted from foot to foot impatiently. I'm not going to go into detail about the many times everyone pissed me off today, but let's just say that it went on constantly for 5 hours. (No, I'm not PMSing. Shut up.)

Anyway, I will hopefully be posting something less rant-y and more like a story next weekend. I'm not sure how that will work out because I'll be on spring break (WOO!) and won't have much time, but expect something on Sunday rather than Saturday.

Peace out, my bitches.

Just Call Me Daredevil, Part 2

Well, the whole cinnamon challenge/ghost pepper thing happened on Saturday. Sorry I couldn't post it sooner. Technical difficulties. Also, I apologize for my voice. I hate it. Anyway, the cinnamon challenge was uneventful and actually not as bad as I had expected. I did spit the cinnamon out, but it was only because I was laughing and I didn't want to be the only one to do it when my friend had already spit it out. Actually, I'll just let you watch this video. Sorry it's sideways, but my friend didn't know how to work the phone...

Yep. That was lovely. However, the ghost pepper challenge was way more eventful. I read the warning label that eating these peppers can cause heart palpitations and breathing problems, but I decided to ignore this. Also, it said that you should handle these peppers with gloves on. So... these peppers are SPICY. I don't really know what I had expected, but it was much, much worse. I took a bite about the size of a quarter and chewed it for a few seconds because if you eat it quickly, it will burn the back of your throat and seriously mess up your stomach. At first, it didn't hurt at all. It just kind of tasted bad. I decided that it would be okay to eat the rest of the pepper I started. However, that ended up impossible. As soon as I opened my mouth for the rest of the pepper, it felt like someone had poured gasoline into my mouth and threw in a lit match. I have eaten habanero peppers before. I have tried Dave's Insanity Sauce, which is a hot sauce so hot that one drop of it into a pot of chili would burn your mouth. This was like nothing I've ever even imagined.

Although the video only shows my reaction for a few minutes, the burning lasted more than 45 minutes, and I had to chug 2 and 1/2 bottles of water to stop the burning. The heat made my eyes water and my entire body started sweating despite the fact that I was in a tank top in 25 degree weather. Also, I'd like to apologize for the fact that my shirt was kind of coming off. I have a pretty good excuse, though! I felt like I was in a sauna, but my gums were swelling and burning. My entire mouth was throbbing. After about 30 minutes, I became accustomed to the burning, but it still hurt a bit. I blew on my hand like how you blow out a candle, and the air was HOT.

Basically, this was probably the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life. I still have a large baggie of peppers, though, so I guess the next time I go home, I'm making a very spicy vegetarian chili. Also, I'm doing it again this coming weekend, but this time I'm eating a whole pepper because I just can't learn consequences.

Just Call Me Daredevil, Part 1

Ahh truth or dare... probably one of the most well-known games for slumber parties or boring classes besides the "penis" game. (You see who can shout "penis" the loudest in a crowded room. Yep, I'm mature.) If you know me very well, you probably already know that I'm a boss at both of these games.

"I win again!" "Uhh, Katie, we're running a marathon, not playing that stupid game." "Oh... That explains a lot."

Also, if you've ever played truth or dare against me, you know that I have (almost) never backed down from a dare. I have talked dirty to a tea kettle, peed outside in the snow, eaten dog food (while being videotaped), and many other things that I don't care to repeat. What happens in slumber parties stays in slumber parties. Also, ovaries before brovaries. Just saying.

Recently, my friend and I were eating at Chipotle when I asked the guy behind the counter that I wanted a disturbing amount of their spiciest salsa on my burrito. I then whipped a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos out of my backpack and ate them and the burrito without having to drink any water. I absolutely love spicy food, and I am able to tolerate it really well. My friend told me that a nearby grocery store sells Naga Jolokia, or ghost peppers, which are the spiciest peppers in the world. For reference, they can be up to 100 times hotter than a Habanero pepper at a whopping 1.04 MILLION Scoville Heat Units. It is enough to make a grown man cry and not be ashamed to do so. I just watched a video of some guy eating one and his face is dripping with sweat, begging his friend, who is taping, for a glass of milk. Anyway, my friend told me that she would buy me some for an early birthday present if she was around to watch me eat one. I told her that hell no, I would not eat one, but then she said, "I dare you."

The pepper also dared me. How can I say no to something like this?

Obviously, I can't turn down a dare, so I have to do this. Of course, my friend will be videotaping it the whole time, and assuming I don't have to be run to the emergency room, I will post the video here within the next few days.

Also, she dared me to do the cinnamon challenge with her. If you don't know what that is because you've been living under a rock for the last few years, it's when you try to eat a tablespoon of ground cinnamon. Look it up on youtube. It's everywhere. It goes the same every time: The person slowly measures the cinnamon, trying to stall. Then, they stuff the spoon into their mouth before they can regret their decision. After a few seconds of trying to swallow the cinnamon, they cough it out into a huge reddish-brown cloud of horror and they run for water like they're going to die. I don't doubt that it will end this way, but I think it would be a fun regrettable decision. Once again, it will be filmed and I will post it here in the next few days. I'm tempted to not do the two challenges in one day, but it's really the only time I have to do this stuff. Maybe I won't do them one after the other, and I'll hold off on one of them. I assume I'll be doing the cinnamon challenge tomorrow, though.

Needless to say, I'm scared shitless and I will probably bring as many water bottles as I can carry.

Wish me luck!

10 Weird Things That Drive Me Crazy

Obviously everyone has their pet peeves and little annoyances that drive them crazy. Sometimes these things are completely inexplicable, but some can be explained. Some can be explained, but these explanations can make you look completely insane. I have a lot of the last ones. I'm going to try to explain these everyday annoyances that piss me off as best as I possibly can without sounding completely neurotic.

#10: When people see me drawing and ask me if I drew that...


This happens way more than you could even expect. I will be in class or in the study lounge drawing someone or something. I'll have a reference, a pencil, a pad of paper, and a half-finished drawing. Inevitably, a random person will come up to my table and ask me, "Wow! Did you draw that?" I suppress my automatic urge to go full-on sarcastic and tell them that yes, I did actually draw it. Now leave me alone before I stab you in the eye with my pencil. I understand that this person just wants to compliment me or start up a conversation, but let's get real. I'm not exactly a social butterfly, especially around strangers. In order to avoid such interactions, I only work on my artwork in my room when I'm alone or I just don't draw. I don't really have the time to draw anyway. I could just get over it, but I know that I probably never will.

#9: When the TV volume isn't on a number divisible by 5...

My family knows all about this one. My dad likes the volume on a prime number, which he knows makes me crazy. This is how it always goes. We are sitting on the couch, watching Top Chef or something, when he decides to turn up the volume. He puts it at 37 or something. I try my hardest not to say something, but then I can't really help it. Eventually, it drives me to madness. I reach over him and grab the remote from the arm of the couch and put it up to 40 or down to 35. My dad tries to grab the remote out of my hands and changes it back. I slap his wrist before he can and I move the remote out of his reach. He tries to reach it anyway. This goes on for a while, so we end up missing the show, and he usually ends up with my teeth or fingernail marks in his forearm because I'm a horrible, dirty fighter. In this case, I usually get my way, but it is always really awkward whenever I go to a friend's house. When I go to a friend's house, I let the host do whatever they want because it's their TV, but I squirm in my seat throughout the movie.

#8: When people talk to me in the car...

I'm going to start out by saying this: I don't find "awkward" silences awkward. I am perfectly comfortable sitting in silence with or without someone. I don't feel the need to fill every silence with meaningless small talk. Let me further extend this: I sometimes just don't want to talk at all. I might not be in the mood. Everyone can be like this. However, for me, it is only in certain situations that I don't want to talk to people. For example, I hate talking in the car as a passenger. I am perfectly comfortable talking when I am driving, and I know that I won't get distracted. I just can't talk as a passenger, especially on long drives or with people I see frequently. It's weird, but if someone can't look at me when I'm talking, I feel really uncomfortable and I clam up. To get around people talking to me in the car, I try to turn up the music, but sometimes this just makes people talk to me even louder, which irritates me even more. I don't mean to be rude, but it just sort of plays out like that.

#7: Issues with grammar...

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not afraid to correct someone when they misspeak. When people say "good" instead of "well" or "who" instead of "whom" I think I might lose my mind. It's more than just that, though. When people mix up "then" and "than" or "of" and "have" (should of instead of should have), I want to shoot myself. That's all I'm going to say so I don't write a 10,000 word rant about how the English language is slowly being ruined.

#6: When the door is unlocked...

I grew up in Suburbia. However, the Suburbia I grew up in borders Detroit, which is famous for its crime rate and its shittiness. Honestly, though, it really pisses me of when someone criticizes Detroit when they've never been there. I have Detroit pride in my blood and guts. I'm not going to be unrealistic, though. You will never see me alone in the city because it (sadly) does have a very high crime rate, and I'm small and couldn't realistically take on a grown man if he is trying to get me into his creepy white van. Growing up in the area has made me disturbingly paranoid. When people are home alone, they tend to lock the door because it is just common sense. I not only make sure that the doors and windows are shut and locked when I'm home alone, though. I make sure all of the doors are locked even when my entire family is home. The windows are okay to be open in certain rooms, but only on the second floor. Paranoia pays off, though. Evolutionarily speaking, the paranoid creatures tend to survive. That rustle in the bushes could either be the wind or it could be a predator. If it is a predator and you assume it's the wind, you're screwed, and you've just taught everyone around you that it is preferable to be skeptical.

#5: When people lecture others about their lifestyles...

People are stupid. They do what they want without considering the consequences. Everyone does it. For example, I am addicted to caffeine. I mean addicted. If I don't get my coffee in the morning, I will start going through withdrawal and get the most intense headache of my life. No, I am not going to quit taking caffeine despite the fact that I probably should. That's my problem. Guess what, though? I'm not breaking any laws. I don't drink or do any drugs (besides caffeine), nor do I smoke (which is not illegal, obviously). It could be much worse than caffeine. It drives me crazy, though, when someone who actually does worse things than me decide that judging my lifestyle is just fine. For example, I know someone (underage) who goes to a ton of parties and gets drunk at least once per week, sometimes much more. I had a ton of homework to do that night, so I bought myself a bottle of caffeine pills and took one to stay awake. This girl asked me what I was taking and then said, "That is so bad for you. You really shouldn't do that." I wanted to say, "At least I'm not getting drunk, doing stupid shit, and forgetting about said stupid shit. I'm doing this so I can be productive and get stuff done. Get over yourself, Princess." Instead, I ignored her and got my homework done. I don't lecture people I know about their drinking habits. My idea should be reciprocated and I shouldn't be lectured about my completely legal caffeine addiction.

#4: When people get what they deserve and then bitch about it...

I'm not talking about people who work hard and then get rich and complain about how they don't have enough money. That is really irritating. I'm talking about people who do something idiotic, are presented with consequences, and then don't face their problems or expect sympathy. If someone goes out and gets shit-faced drunk, loses their phone, credit cards, etc. then I don't feel bad for them. Maybe initially, but if it happens more than once, I say that if you're looking for sympathy, you'll find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. I think that it is clear that if you do something dumb, it's going to bite you in the ass. If you get an ass-bite, don't bitch at me about it because I won't feel bad. I'll just think you're retarded.

#3: When someone talks to me when I have my headphones on...

I listen to music to drown out the world. It gets rid of distractions and helps me think more clearly. However, if someone is going to talk to me, I don't want to be rude and ignore them. This comes at the expense of my own irritation. I have to go back and forth, pausing my music, asking them to repeat themselves. This irritates the other person. I don't get it. When I see someone with their headphones in, I understand that they want to listen to their music. I don't listen to music just because there's nothing better to do. I listen because I want to. Isn't it obvious that I'm busy and I don't feel like talking, especially when I give one-word answers?

#2: A three-in-one package about personal space...

Have you ever gone into a restaurant and seen that nauseating couple that sits together on the same side of the booth, stroking each others' hair like monkeys? Yeah, that is number 2A in the list. It drives me nuts when there is plenty of space on the other side of the table so they can sit across from each other, yet they decide that they will show the world that they are a couple by the gratuitous amounts of PDA.

For 2B, I hate sitting next to someone at the table when they could be across from me. I try to sit down after the other person so I can choose how we are positioned at the table because it is rude to change where you are seated when you're already sitting. I like to see a person's face when I'm talking to them. I hate having to turn to see them face-to-face and having them so close to me...

Which brings me to 2C. I hate having to sit next to someone too closely. My lecture classes drive me nuts because we have to sit crammed together in these tiny chairs so that our thighs and asses are practically touching. When I am sitting next to someone, I can't have my legs touching theirs or I will absolutely freak out.

#1: And yep, it's also about personal space, but in a crazier way...

I like a lot of personal space. I don't have a problem with hugging or anything like that. This involves my hands. I can't stand it when people touch my hands. A lot of people like hand-holding, but I seriously hate it. When someone tries to hold my hand, I want to break theirs. When I had a boyfriend like a million years ago, he used to try to hold my hand. I endured it, but it drove me absolutely insane. After about 2 long minutes, I would pull mine away and maybe put my arm around his back and move so his arm was around my shoulders. Looking back, I probably should have said something, but he was my first boyfriend and I didn't want to seem like a crazy person. It isn't a germophobia thing or anything like that. It wasn't just him trying to hold my hand. I hate it when cashiers accidentally touch my hand when giving me my change. I hate it when someone brushes my hand with theirs when we are walking together. I hate it when my hand touches another person's hand in any way, shape, or form. I don't know why, and I don't think I ever will.

Wow. After writing all of that, I think that I should probably order myself a special jacket and go check myself into a mental institution. If you're reading this, please tell me in the comments either that one of these things drives you crazy or tell me one of your weird pet peeves. When I say "weird pet peeves" I mean the weirdest thing that irritates you the most.
 

Why Every English Teacher I've Ever Had Thinks I'm Insane or Stupid

Before I get to the list of stories to explain my hypothesis about English teachers thinking I'm crazy, I would like to make a quick point about my childhood: I don't remember it. Anything before 7th grade was kind of a blur. It was kind of a traumatic year for a number of reasons, which I am not completely willing to get into.

I'm going to start with the 6th grade. We were reading... umm... some book with a picture of some guy on the cover. (See? My memory's all jacked up!) I was goofing off with a friend of mine, and I was pretending to seductively lick the guy's face on the cover because we were really mature kids. At that particular moment, I did not realize that my English teacher was standing right behind me. My friend started laughing, and I turned to see him both cracking up and rolling his eyes. I don't really remember what he did next, but I feel like he probably walked away and tried to forget about my awkwardness.

7th grade: My 7th grade English teacher was a crazy, sadistic bitch. She was about 6 feet tall and about 400 lbs. I was about 4'6" and 80 lbs at the time, so I thought she was enormous. The scariest part about her was the way she yelled. I think she may be the reason why I am so introverted. Before that class, I was always a very outgoing child, who wasn't afraid to talk to people. A few weeks ago, I ran into her at CVS, and she was coughing like crazy, like her lung was trying to dislodge itself from within this repulsive person. I couldn't help but think, "That's what you get for thinking I'm dumb." Anyway, I was always in the honors classes, from the time I was in 5th grade. When I got to her class, she scared me shitless. She would call on people if their hand wasn't raised. I don't understand why teachers do that. It's obvious that I don't know the answer. Did she really want to embarrass me and make me feel stupid? Did she want me to look dumb to the other kids and give them an opportunity to make fun of me? Did she really want to lower my self-esteem? Several times, she called on me, and I did not know the answer. Rather than helping me, she would make the class sit in silence while I flipped through my book, desperately hoping the answer would magically jump out at me, which it never did. One day, I decided I would not say a word or move a muscle when she called on me. I sat there, avoiding eye contact. I stared at her shoes, waiting for her to move on to torture the next student. When I got home that day, my mom confronted me and told me that she had gotten a call from this teacher, saying she wanted to schedule a meeting. My mom went to meet her. Apparently, this teacher thought I had an attitude problem. I turned my work in on time and tried my hardest, but I would not look at her or say a word to her. She suggested that I should be moved down a grade in English. My mom explained that I was afraid of her because she yelled a lot. She then proceeded to yell at my mom about how she resented that and how she doesn't yell. Ironic, eh? Anyway, she continued to call on me, and I continued to avoid looking at her and saying anything. I turned my work in on time and managed to squeak by with a B-. My mom was perfectly fine with that, and for once, took my side.

8th grade: I was still traumatized by that one insane teacher, so I didn't know what to expect from the next. I guess I had not gotten over my fear of English teachers. Anyway, my 8th grade English teacher was... peppy. She was one of those people who was "suuuuper excited to be here today!!!" even though she was there every freaking day. I kind of wanted to try and teach her about cynicism, but that would require speaking to her. I never said a word to her, so she thought I was a trouble-maker. I sat in the back of the room, and I never warmed up to her. I was terrified. I never said a word throughout the course, but I still passed the class. One day, we were talking about Anne Frank and the Holocaust. I was horrified by some of the stuff that was happening, and for once, I spoke up. Not really "spoke up." I quietly said to a friend, "Oh my God. That is so... cruel!" However, for whatever reason, I kind of tripped over my words, so "cruel" kind of sounded like "cool." You can see where this is going. My teacher looked disgusted and said, "Be quiet, class! I don't know who said it, but I just heard someone say that this was 'cool.' This is not cool. It is awful..." and yada yada yada. I was afraid to say that I hadn't said cool. She knew it was me, though. I spent the rest of 8th grade in the back of the classroom, avoiding all eye contact with everyone.

9th Grade: I kind of tried to block 9th grade out of my mind, and it pretty much worked. However, I will remember this story for quite a while. I was essentially taking freshman English in 8th grade, but my mom wanted me to focus mainly on science because I always wanted to be a scientist. So, I took freshman English again. I knew how to act in a high school setting. It seemed that nobody else knew that it was unacceptable to talk in class, throw paper wads behind the teacher's back, or lack a fetus in their uterus throughout the year. I always followed these rules, yet my teacher never really believed me, since freshmen are stupid and there can't be any that follow the rules. One day, during the TV announcements before class, my friend's marker had exploded all over her bag and on her hands, so she asked me for hand sanitizer. I was one of the cool kids, so I had a bottle of Purell in my backpack. I gave her a little bit. While I was doing so, my teacher suddenly turned around and yelled, "KATHRYN! NO TALKING. GET IN THE HALL. NOW." I tried to protest, but she cut me off. These were her favorite punishments: taking away our freedom to prove our point, and sending us away for whatever amount of time she wanted us to be gone. I left the classroom and sat in the hall for 15 minutes, and she sent out another kid to tell me to come in. Later in the year, she realized that I am smarter than she assumed, and I think she regrets her decision to punish me. Or she still believes I'm dumb and crazy. I guess I'll never know.

10th grade: Well, he is probably reading this post because he is totally cool like that and we still keep in touch. I want to talk about the first day of school in my Honors American Literature class. I remember this quite clearly, but I don't think he does. I had a small group of friends in the class, and we all sat in the front row. That day, I had decided to wear a brand-new pair of shoes to class. They were really cool black and white checkerboard Rocket Dogs. I absolutely loved them, and I still have them to this day. I had gotten compliments on my shoes all day, and I was feeling super-confident, especially because my friends were there with me. My friends and I were all laughing at something when my teacher walked into the room. We were seated near the door, so we were the first 4 people he saw when he walked in the classroom. He said hi to us and then noticed my shoes. He said, "I really like your shoes!" I guess he expected me to say thanks, but I'm really bad at accepting compliments. If someone compliments my shirt or clothing or whatever, I agree with them because I know that it's awesome. That's why I bought it. Anyway, I said to him, "Yeah. They're awesome." I had said it without a thought, but then I saw a look of shock on my teacher's face. Then he said, "Usually people say thank you." I replied, quick as a flash, "Yeah? Well I don't." Then I realized that what I had said may have come off as rude, so I stopped talking and kind of stared at the table in front of me. Then I introduced myself without looking at him. I assume he thought I was completely insane, and through getting to know me, that belief has probably been strengthened. Especially because of the handcuffs incident... That happened in 11th grade though. I'll get to that in a minute.

11th grade: Well, I had the same teacher that I had in 10th grade, but I was also taking another English class at the time. I have always been interested in psychology, so I chose to write a lot about it. I wrote this one story about a girl who had hallucinated her entire life, which had really been spent in a mental institution. Another story was about how people are actually supposed to have wings because they are generally good, but people have become cruel and sick, so they will never fly. I am pretty sure that that teacher thought/still thinks I'm crazy, but whatever. I'm sure he comes across hundreds of even weirder kids. So, the handcuffs incident... That was with my 10th/11th grade teacher. I was carrying a bottle of perfume because I was giving it to a friend. I also had a stiletto in my bag because I was drawing it for art class. I also had a pair of handcuffs. I had won these handcuffs in a game, and chose them as my prize as a joke. I put them in my purse and sort of forgot about them. Anyway, I sat in the desk right in front of my teacher's. I was talking to him about how I had a really busy weekend and searching my purse for a pencil before class. I pulled out my makeup, the perfume, and the shoe. I was saying, "Saturday was just so crazy for me!" when I pulled the handcuffs out of my purse. I realized the implications of all of the things that were strewn across my desk, and stopped myself mid-sentence. It sounded kind of like, "Saturday was just so crazy for me! I was in downtown Detroit for-- I'm not a hooker." I stuffed all of the stuff into my bag while face-palming. I hoped to face-palm hard enough to knock me unconscious, but it didn't work. It was possibly the most awkward, yet hilarious moment of my life.

12th grade: Wow. Now that I think about it, I didn't really have any issues with either of my English teachers. I had my creative writing teacher again for mythology, and a new teacher for a reading class. I'd say we got along pretty well, and we liked to make fun of the other kids in the class because they were all morons. He never came out and said it, but his thoughts on the subject were pretty obvious. Nobody picked up on his sarcasm, and I think I was the only one in the class who realized that he was really smart.

The Early Years: Well, I'd say that in my elementary school, all of my teachers thought I was awesome when I wasn't scaring the other students. I always loved to tell stories. More than that, I have always loved to tell scary stories. Before I could write, I told stories of a man in a black cloak who followed you around. Whenever you turned around, he moved directly out of your line of vision. If you moved fast enough, you could sort of see the shredded ends of his cloak moving in your peripheral vision. Of course, this scared the living shit out of all of the other kids, who then told our teacher, who then told my parents. They made me stop making up these stories. When I learned to write, I wrote of haunted houses and murder stories. (I was a very grim child.) I shared my scary stories with the class. They always loved them, and people always asked me to tell scary stories at recess. So, due to my oddly creepy mind as a child, my teachers thought I was completely insane. Around 5th grade, I realized that it isn't socially acceptable to scare people with stories that could give them paranoid delusions unless you're in the film industry (ba-dum tss!), so I stopped telling scary stories.

Now that you have read all of my weird rambling, I'm sure you think I'm crazy, too. Whatever. I can honestly say that I don't have a problem with that.

Excuses and Lies, Plus the Chicken Suit Story!

Hooray! I'm starting to write regularly again... kind of! It's because I'm trying to avoid writing 3 chemistry papers that have to be done by tomorrow so I can work with my lab group... yada yada yada you don't care.

I just want to talk for a moment about excuses and lying. I am the most amazing liar in the entire world in most situations. I can get anyone to believe just about anything, as long as it is at least somewhat plausible. I think that might be a sign that I might be a sociopath, but I do feel guilty for stuff besides lies I've told. I know lying is wrong, and I feel bad about certain things that have happened in my life, and I know that lying in some situations is absolutely terrible. I have always tried to avoid lying in very serious situations because I know it's wrong. So I know I don't really have problems.... Or do I?

No, I don't. Anyway, now that I'm done conversing with myself, I've decided to talk about the most ridiculous lies that I've ever told anyone. Oh, and those people actually believed me.

The Background Story: This is probably one of the most believable lies I've told. First of all, you should know by now that I don't drink or do drugs. At all. I only have one alcoholic beverage on New Year's Eve every year, and it's champagne. Not the expensive stuff, but the cheap stuff that you can buy for like $10 at CVS. I hate champagne anyway. I always take one sip at midnight, and then I dump my glass down the sink. I tried making it into a mimosa this year, but it was absolutely disgusting. I don't understand why people drink anyway. I've tried beer, but it just tastes like piss to me. I don't ever want to try any sort of liquor you would drink from a shot glass ever because when I was little and I refused to take Nyquil, my mom would get a shot of whiskey and torture herself with the taste so that I would take my medicine. She hates that sort of stuff, too, but she will drink beer or wine. The look on her face whenever she would do this still tortures me to this day, and I never want to taste anything that seems like it would be about as delicious as cough syrup. However, if I tell people that I don't drink because I don't want to, they will think that I'm boring and anti-social. (I'm anti-social, but I'm anything but boring!) The truth is, I don't need to drink to have fun. I act like I'm drunk or high when I am completely sober, and I'm proud of my insanity.

The lie: "Oh, no thanks. I'm allergic to alcohol." People believe me and don't realize that I'm boring! Only my close friends and my roommate know that I choose not to drink because I don't want to look like an idiot or ruin my chances of getting into vet school. It's actually really sad that I have to tell this lie, but if I didn't, I would seem like a loser. This will also be a perfect excuse when I attempt to join the fraternity that I plan on joining this semester.

The Background Story: Ok. This is one of the most ridiculous lies that I've ever told, and it is also the most pointless lie I've ever told. However, someone actually believed me. I obviously have Irish and English blood in me. Come on! I am about as pale as a drowning victim, I love Monty Python, I sometimes spell -or words with a u, and I drink disturbing amounts of tea. I like tea that (apparently) tastes like sock water, Earl Grey. Nobody likes Earl Grey besides the British! On top of it, I can fake an English accent like perfectly. When I was younger, I went to camp, and the counselors were all either from England, Australia, or New Zealand. From an early age, I was able to tell the subtleties of each accent and fake each one perfectly, and I learned certain phrases that they said. Like, chips are fries, runners are shoes, the lift is an elevator, etc. I can imitate 11 different accents from around the fairly well. (English, Australian, New Zealand, Indian, German, Mexican, Southern US, French, Spanish, Canadian, and Swedish. There are more, but these are my best ones!) I figured I'd just screw with someone's mind and pretend that I'm from London just because I knew that I could pull it off. Also, I had bad teeth when I was little. Talk about bad stereotypes!

The lie: "Yes, I'm originally from London. My parents moved here for my father's job when I was 4, but my accent stuck with me!" A friend of mine actually believed this until I decided that it went far enough, and I started speaking with my usual Michigan accent. Currently, I call all of my professors "professor" in an English accent so I can feel like I'm in a Harry Potter movie.

The Background Story: I hate vegans. Actually, I hate other vegetarians. I have only met 2 vegetarians that I actually like. The rest are all nut jobs. But I hate vegans with a burning passion. Unfortunately, I am on the path of veganism. The truth is, I can't eat eggs unless I decide that I'm going to be a nice person that day. They gross me out really badly. Their texture is just... jiggly and kind of nasty. It isn't a moral issue. There isn't anything immoral about eating eggs. I also don't drink milk because I hate the taste of it. I have always hated milk, though. The idea of cheese kind of grosses me out, but I think it's delicious. Don't get me wrong, though. I will have milk and eggs and butter in things like baked goods or whatever, but I won't have them by themselves. I won't put butter on a bagel and call it a day because I really don't like butter. It is not easy to explain this to people, so I usually have to tell a lie.

The Lie: "I'm lactose intolerant and can't drink milk. I can have cheese and some stuff with dairy products, but not too much or I'll get really bad stomachaches." I tell them the truth about eggs because I know that a lot of people have issues with eggs. However, the whole lactose intolerance thing might be true. I've never had tests done, but I do seem to get stomachaches when I eat dairy products. I guess I'm slowly morphing into a vegan, which is probably the most horrifying thing in the world.

The Background Story: This is kind of a longer story, so be prepared. When I was a freshman in high school, I decided that that would be the last year I would go trick-or-treating. I was 14 at the time, but I could pass for a 12-year old. I've always looked younger than I am, so I knew I wouldn't have any problems, especially because it would be dark out and I would be in costume. Currently, I'm almost 19 and I still look like I could pass for 16 for whatever reason (lack of chest? my height? my weight? No clue.) unless I'm really tired. If I'm tired, I look about 2 or 3 years older than I am. Anyway, I decided that I would probably look tired on Halloween, so I wanted to go for a full body costume. My mom took me to Target for a costume because we are super classy people and buy everything we own at Target. We went into the costume section. I looked beyond the slutty French maid's uniforms and found a chicken suit for $75. I begged my mom for it, and she agreed to pay for half if I paid for the other half. I agreed with that deal, and decided to try it on before purchasing it. I want to clarify something before I continue with this story. I have hearing difficulties sometimes. I have always played a loud musical instrument (excluding the year I played the flute), whether it be the saxophone or the drums. At this point, I had just started playing the drums and I didn't have noise-cancelling headphones yet, so my ears were perpetually ringing. Apparently, my mom had told me that she was going to go get some stuff while I was trying on the chicken suit, but I didn't hear her. I pulled it on and put the hood up and buttoned the buttons. I stuck my arms through the wings and put my feet into the chicken feet. It took about 10 minutes to put on because it was so fluffy, but it was so worth it. I turned around to show my mom how beautiful I looked, but she was gone. I will admit that even now, if I lose my mom in a store, I have a mini panic attack until I find her. I started freaking out and running around the store. Still in the chicken suit. Target was crowded that day. I decided that I didn't want to look like a complete weirdo, so I started pretending that I was just kidding around and doing this on purpose to entertain people. I started sliding around the aisles and moon-walking as families stopped, stared, and laughed. (I can moon-walk like the King himself, and I still do it as a fun trick to impress people. It's the only dance move I can actually execute.) Eventually, I found my mom in the cereal aisle. At that point, a small crowd of people had been following me just to watch, and my mom looked at me and asked me what the hell I was doing.

The lie: "Oh, nothing. I just decided to joke around and entertain some people while I looked for you." Really, I was kind of freaking out a whole lot while this was happening, but I didn't want her to know. Now that I think about it, this lie was one of the least convincing lies I've told ever besides one time that I broke down in tears during English class in my junior year and I tried to tell people that I was fine. That's a different story that I don't want to get into... ever. Anyway, my mom made me take off the chicken suit, and we paid for it and left. I still have the chicken suit, and I wear it every Halloween. It has come in handy for so many things, like an English project that I had to do in my freshman year of high school in the spring. Also, I look like I actually have a mind of my own and decided that I don't care about getting attention from guys with T&A. Instead, I want to be myself and dress in a chicken suit instead of impressing people I don't care about.

Here is an artist's interpretation of that day at Target:

 

 

 

Maybe not an artist's interpretation... Ok. I drew it.

I have never told a serious lie, by the way. I don't lie unless it is to avoid some sort of embarrassment or social rejection or just for shits and giggles. I hope you enjoyed this ridiculous post that for whatever reason took me about 2 hours to write. No kidding. Ok. I should probably stop procrastinating and start writing my chemistry papers. I'll post again next week!

Let's Get Serious for a Minute, Guys

Know what drives me crazy? I hate my generation, and I have no choice but to be a part of this group of people. My generation is absolutely ridiculous, and it kind of disturbs me that we are actually better than the kids who are just a few years younger than us. People who don't remember 9/11. Those are the people I'm talking about. However, my generation is actually pretty bad, too.

I got a Kindle Fire for Christmas, and I absolutely couldn't be happier. No, it was not because I could play Words With Friends (although that is a lovely perk!), but it is because I love to read. I miss the feel of a book in my hands when I read, but being able to carry around one portable, hand-held device rather than a bunch of heavy books makes it worth it.

Before I get into the whole book subject, I just want to say that I don't understand the lack of proper grammar used in everyday language. People who mix up then and than, their, they're, and there, your and you're (or say "ur") make me absolutely crazy. Did I miss something? Is it "cool" to sound like a moron? Is it "cool" to have a potential employer look at your Facebook profile and deny you a job because you have the grammatical skills of a duck on heroin? Apparently, I'm a grammar Nazi because it bothers the living shit out of me when I see someone mix up "collage" and "college" or to, too, and two. No, I'm not afraid to correct your grammar when I see someone my age misspelling something or making some sort of obvious error that an elementary school child could point out. People who don't use adverbs correctly make me crazy. If I say, "How are you doing?" and someone says, "I'm doing good," I might just come back at them and say, "Whoa! You slut! Who's Good? Why haven't I met him/her?" Haven't we had the same education, or at least learned something similar?

Now that I'm done with the whole grammar thing, I want to discuss the reading level of my generation. If you approach someone from my generation and ask them, "What's your favorite book?" you will get the same response 90% of the time. This response is possibly the most irritating thing anyone could say to me. I have had so many people say this to me, it makes me wonder why I haven't killed anyone. 90% of my generation will respond to that question with, "Oh. I don't read. LOL." My response to that is a bitch-slap across the face. Oh, I'm sorry! I thought we went to the same school together and learned to read together. I didn't realize that you were illiterate! I'm so sorry for misunderstanding! Maybe I should start making videos instead of sending you Emails. Maybe I'll start calling you instead of texting you. Oh, you're texting me while you're in class? Maybe you should start paying attention and learn some grammar. Or how to read.

A large portion of the leftover 10%, let's call it 9%, of the people who are leftover who actually read will probably say Harry Potter. Or Twilight, but Twilight is starting to die down, I think. I love Harry Potter. It is a wonderful childhood memory, falling in love with the books, and I still own all of them. Reading and re-reading Harry Potter every time a new book would come out was always ridiculously exciting. I still absolutely love Harry Potter, books and movies, yet it is not my favorite book. Not even close. People whose favorite book is Harry Potter tend to have only read Harry Potter in their lifetime. Now shall we discuss Twilight? Yep. I read it. However, I read the books before the first movie actually came out. I liked the books, but let's face it. I was a dumb, 15-year-old girl who lacked a social life, who realized that no guy could possibly ever be interested in me. I saw the first movie when it first came out, and I immediately realized how fucking creepy it really is. Let's be honest. It is about a boring, homely, possibly retarded girl's difficult decision between necrophilia and bestiality. After I saw the movie and was thoroughly creeped out, I re-read the books to see what I possibly could have seen in them before. I think that maybe Stephanie Meyer might have some serious issues. The books were horribly written, and the story had more holes than Swiss cheese. When people say that their favorite book is Twilight, I wonder if they are actually capable of any sort of intelligent conversation, and I am tempted to ask if they ever read anything besides Twilight. Then I wander away toward people who are in the last group of people, the 1%.

Yes. The 1%. (Not to be confused with the whole Occupy movement). The 1% are the people who actually understand basic grammar. They understand why I hate my generation and people that are younger than me. They understand why I usually hang out with people that are several years older than I am. These are the "literate and proud" people of the world. Their favorite books tend to be books that are not for children. These books also lack pictures and may or may not be realistic. Simply put, these people like to read. To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, Of Mice and Men, The Great Gatsby, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and Animal Farm might be one of their favorites. Or not. Maybe they like Stephen King's books, or maybe something like The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. That stuff is pretty awesome, too. I am talking about people who read for fun, who understand symbolism, who use their imaginations, and were not afraid to admit that they read beyond what the teacher assigned in their high school or college literature class. I remember reading The Catcher in the Rye in one night, even though my English teacher at the time did not ask us to start it yet. I read it because I wanted to, and it is still one of my favorite books. When I read The Perks of Being a Wallflower about a week ago, I will admit that I was in tears throughout much of the book. I sought and continue to seek out good books that are thought-provoking and interesting. I love hanging out with people that also love a good book more than a decent movie that tells the same story. I love that I can read a book and visualize what is happening, using my own imagination instead of watching another person's interpretation on a screen.

I guess what I'm trying to say  is, what happened to my generation? Where is the enthusiasm for books, and exercising your mind? Where's the imagination?

New Semester and Adventures in Chem Lab With A Professor Who Thinks I'm Crazy

Well, it's the beginning of a new semester and new things to procrastinate. My winter break was pretty awesome and very much appreciated. I am currently moved back into MSU and readjusting to actually having to wake up before 3 pm. It's crazy. I have to wake up at 8am every morning. On a side note, my roommate is blasting really shitty rap music, so if my grammar doesn't make much sense or is degrading toward women, that is probably why, ma bitches and hoeezzzz!!!11!

Oh thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster! She turned it off. I could feel my IQ points drifting away by the second.

I need to talk about my chemistry lab that happened on Tuesday. Labs in my college are three hours long and are worth only one credit, so I do most of my goofing off in that class. I have heard things about my professor, and a lot of that stuff was negative. I was told that he is extremely sarcastic and can say some really weird things. I immediately knew that I would get along with him very well. I have this horrifying ability to go back and forth with completely nonsensical banter that pushes boundaries and eventually ends rather awkwardly. For example, the following is a conversation I had with a friend through text:

Me: "HI! I miss you!"

Him: "I miss you too!"

Me: "I was too nervous to try to get your attention. See, I'm standing on a ladder outside your bathroom window. I was watching you shower."

Him: "That's really weird. I was just in the shower."

Me: "Yeah. I was watching!"

Him: "Oh! I see you now! Why are you not wearing pants?"

Me: "A bear ate them."

Him: "Nice underwear." (He then described my skivvies. Not super specifically, but it was oddly accurate.)

Me: "Okay. This just got too weird. You literally just told me exactly what underwear I'm wearing."

Him: "Seriously? What the hell..."

Me: "Alright. I have to go to sleep now. When I'm in town next, I'm going to come over and touch your face. Okay?"

Him: "Okay! See you then!"

Then we both stopped texting. I probably should have mentioned before the conversation, but he is gay... so it wasn't weird or anything.

I try to have this sort of conversations with other people, but they usually end extremely awkwardly, and I know that that person is not destined to be a friend of mine.

SO. My point.... I was getting to that. I figured that my professor would have a sense of humor and be as weird as I am because he had said some stuff in lecture that hinted to this particular personality quirk. My lab group and I were discussing the ozone hole in Antarctica when our professor approached us. I decided to use this time to try to see if we would get along.

Him: "So how will this affect the world?"

Me: "Well, we were just discussing how it would affect Australia."

Him: "Yes. Go on."

Me (sarcastically): "We determined that there would be an increase in skin cancer in kangaroos."

Him: "Kangaroos?"

Me: "Well, I would say Australian people, but really, I just care about the Roos."

Him: "Well, of course. However, there is a hole in your theory. Kangaroos wouldn't be as affected by the UV rays due to their fur."

Me: "Neither would Australians."

Him: "What?"

Me: "Australians are... a hairy people?"

Him: "What do you look at on the internet?"

Me: "Ummm... Nothing. I was... kidding. I promise I'm not really weird. Okay, I am, but... still."

Then he kind of looked at me like this:

Except he was much less pale and had way fewer ear piercings. Also he wasn't wearing mascara.

and walked away. Later, he came back to talk to me both in lab and again in lecture, so I have a feeling that it is going to be a good semester in chemistry. Another time, he overheard me being cruel to one of my friends because we have that sort of relationship.

Me *slapping her hand*: "NO! SHUT UP, WOMAN. YOU DON'T TALK."

Her *fake crying*: "I'M SORRY!!!!"

Professor: "Whoa, Kathryn! I hope you didn't just meet her!"

Me: "No, we're going to be roommates next year! We're friends."

Him: "Oh. Got it."

Me: "You already know my name? That was fast."

Him: "I try to learn everyone's names as fast as possible."

Me: "Well, my name isn't hard to forget. There are so many Katies and Kathryns out there that if you don't know someone's name, you can just guess Katie and odds are, you'll be right."

Him: "Unless it's a guy. That would just be weird."

Me *in my best manly voice*: "Yeah my name isn't Katie. It's Mike."

Him: "Well, it's a very common name. Close enough."

Then he wandered to the next group. He kept coming back to my group throughout lab. I like to think that it is because we were a very entertaining bunch of people. Maybe he just wanted to keep an eye on me in case I snapped and decided to set something/someone on fire. We'll find out soon enough!