Uh oh, I'm in the wrong field!

I just took a quiz online, and apparently I'm in the wrong field!

When you were young, you wanted to be a Astronaut when you grew up, but in reality, you're gonna end up as a Truck Driver

Are you crazy? Staring off into space all the time does not an astronaut make. Do you really think you're up for that much physics? It's ok, though. Soon enough, you realise that not only is math hard, but that there are other ways of being a space traveler.

So after a few years of heavy drug use, your desire to 'get away from it all' still hasn't been killed off. But that's ok, there's still plenty of work out there for a person like you, and there's plenty of stars to see when you're barreling down the highway in BFE, Kansas at 3 in the morning.

What you want to be when you grow up: The fantasy...and the cold hard truth., created by Ptocheia

Pizza...

Pizza and I have had a long and elaborate history together, most of the time ending badly. Tonight, we battled yet again, and I am sad and humbled to say, I lost. I'll let you, dear reader, in on a little of our past. When I was in the high school marching band, we performed at all the half-times of the home games. Our boosters had a food booth, and when we were done performing, we would all head over there, where we chowed down discount slices of pizza. About 30 minutes later, I would be struck ill. Rushing to the bathroom, I was sick, again and again and again. I slowly poisoned myself because the pizza was just so good. It took me several years (I'm dumb sometimes...) until I learned that I am lactose intolerant and the pizza's cheese did not get along with innards. After I wizened up, I took a break from pizza, until I started working at the kennel. One night when I was house sitting for the people who lived in the kennel house, I decided to heat up a slice of pizza for a snack. I thought I had put it in the microwave for one minute, but instead put it in for 11 by accident. When I went to get my pizza, smoke was pouring out of the microwave, smoke detectors were blaring and I had to run around opening windows and dog kennels, hoping the dogs didn't get sick from smoke inhalation. That was when I decided to take yet another brake from pizza. Tonight, I decided to try again. On my way home I picked up a cheese pizza from Papa Murphey's, thoroughly excited to bake it and dig in. I preheated the oven to 425, and just as I slid the pizza on the rack, half of the cheese poured off onto the extremely hot oven floor. Needless to say, the cheese melted, and started to burn. Smoke poured out of the oven, smoke detectors started going off and I was left with a spatula trying to scrape the mess off before my entire house was filled with pizza smoke. Finally, it all cooked down and I shut the oven, set the timer and went to watch House. About fifteen minutes in, I decided to check my progress. Apparently, what I didn't know, cheese seared on to the bottom of the stove raises the temperature to 550. I barely caught my pizza before it turned into a charred mess, but after all that, I could hardly enjoy my dinner. Pizza 3 Lucy 0

Ah, Internet

Here I am sitting at my computer, yet again. I am supposed to be working on my 20-25 page paper, due in 11 days, but instead I am getting caught up in the hypertext of internet web pages. The next thing I know, I'm drooling, my back is asleep and five hours have passed, and somehow I find myself looking at an article entitled "Five types of underwater nematodes and their effect on mankind" or some equally ridiculous title that has absolutely nothing to do with my original search (something like, early Victorian women, or Sense and Sensibility.) Alas, I think I am doomed to spend my life waisting time and getting off track...now, back to learning about how to trim the hoof of a zebra, or whatever other track my computer leads me down...

The Tofu Princess

The Tofu Princess

The Tofu princess, with tears in her eyes, Looked in the mirror, then started to cry.

White gobs of mushy, gelatinous goo, She looked like something that belonged in the zoo.

"I'm ugly!" She shouted, her lumps all shaking, "The only thing tofu is good for, is . baking."

One day in the park, her face made a little girl cry, The princess ran home, she wanted to die.

She stood in the bathroom, knife pressed to her vein, But tofu doesn't bleed, tofu doesn't feel pain.

Our princess knew life couldn't' get any worse, So she went back to school, to be a pediatric nurse.

Being around children left her hollow inside, Every night the princess went home and she cried and she cried.

She decided that she wanted children of her own, So she found a tofu husband, and they bought a nice home.

The tofu princess had finally gotten over her dark spell, And she lived with her tofu husband, a dog and five tofu children as well.

Los Angeles, I'm yours

I've been thinking a lot about my life lately, and while I'm generally happy, something is missing. I can feel it in my core--an ache that I have to push to the back of my mind or else it would bring me to tears. I have never thought of Humboldt as home. Southern California has such an undeniable pull on me I can hardly stand being away. I miss driving through LA at nighttime, it always made me feel so mournful. Me sitting peacefully in my car, surrounded by the bustle of uncertainty. Was the girl in the car next to me an aspiring actress? A writer? An editor? A porn star? Maybe just a student, like me, struggling with her future? When I lived in Ventura whenever I felt like this I would just drive to the Rincon, just as the sun had set and the lights of the oil rigs were coming on. It was so lonely and beautiful, and everything got put in perspective. Although there are many places up here I can go to figure things out, none are as comfortable or familiar to me as the other two places are. It seems to me that here in Humboldt county, everyone cares about what I'm doing, whether I am drinking from plastic water bottles or metal, if I'm destroying the environment with my gigantic truck, or whatever else they see wrong with my lifestyle. While this all may be true, and So Cal people are not as conscienctious about surroundings, they butt out of my life, for the most part, and when they do put their nose where it doesn't belong, it is from a place of ridiculous ignorance, I don't even listen. My problem is, what are these people doing about what they preach? Just by rubbing patcholi oil behind your ears, not washing your hair and smoking pot, you aren't really doing anything! Where is the money you are giving to help wipe AIDS out from Africa? Are you joining the peace corps to irrigate Latin America? Have you ever donated a goat to a starving woman and her family in Zimbabwe? No. Neither have I, but I'm not fussing about what container you drink from. I do not smoke pot, and therefore I do not fit in with this culture. Although you are beautiful, Humboldt County, you are not where I belong. And then, more pain. When I leave here, how will I be able to leave all my friends and my job behind? Will I one day be sitting in my house in Ventura county or wherever I end up, longing to be back, sitting under a redwood tree, smelling the skunky aroma of marijuana and watching the rain fall all around me. I don't know.

word verification

Have you ever paid to the word verification you have to type in before either commenting on a blog or joining a group? It's fascinating! It says that the words are chosen at random, but I think that there's more to it than this. I was commenting on Karol's blog, and my word was exotheak. In examining these words more, I think they actually have a very profound meaning. Exotheak must be the part of a cruistacean, you know, like the theak that is found on the outside of the skeleton, like an exoskeleton. Bearhea is like diarrhea that is found in the forest. Marscapt is a dessert served with warm ice cream and topped with chocolate, and Cated is the past tense of catting. See? I'm sure its a conspiracy, and if we put together all of the word verification words we'd get the answer to the meaning of life, or maybe the location of the holy grail...

Seven things about me that might be true...

Well here goes, mine isn't nearly as pretty as Karol's...

1. I raw feed my three German Shepherds, tonight they got chicken necks, turkey wing, beef kidney and some tongue, and they loved it.
2. I have never smoked pot, and really have no desire to try it. (although my back hurt so bad this weekend I was sorely tempted)
3. I have watched all of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes at least once, sometimes more.
4. I feel the need to adopt all of the biting German Shepherds I can find. Seriously, I feel compelled to do this. At least nobody can break in to my house...
5. I used to be very depressed and wore only black because I wanted someone to notice and help me. Now I wear black because I like it, and it's practical.
6. I used to collect stuffed animals. I have tons of garbage bags full of them in my garage. Now I use them for dog toys, but feel slightly sad when they get ripped up.
7. When I was a kid I wanted to be the Statue of Liberty. I even practiced standing with a book and flashlight.

After a great pain a formal feeling comes

About two days ago, I woke up with a brain splitting earache. The whole right side of my face ached. I couldn't figure out if my ear was causing my jaw pain, or vice versa. Either way, I hurt. I couldn't open my mouth, chew, lay on my right side, or even touch my ear. Thinking it was something that would pass, I let it go. The following morning, it felt slightly better, except as the day progressed, my right ear became fuzzy and then I could hardly hear from it. At this point, I got slightly concerned. With some trepidation, I decided to go to the health center. Previously I had bad experiences there, finding that the doctors were sorely lacking in medical knowledge. Well, I thought that a simple ear infection could be dealt with. I'm not so sure. When the doctor looked in my ear she saw a "huge" ball of wax that was undoubtedly causing my pain. So, bowing to her expert knowledge, I had my ear irragated. They mixed warm water, hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle with a hose at the end, and proceded to pump two bottles worth into my poor, sore ear. When they were done, the doctor looked in it again, still seeing the wax, and told me to come back the following day. I left, my ear packed full of ear wax softener and cotton, throbbing and stinging from the original pain and now new pain from the flushing. The following morning, I woke up, my ear feeling slightly less painful but much more clogged. So, back I went to the doctor for another two spray bottles pumped into my ear. When the nurse looked in my ear again, she thought it was still there, but according to the doctor, it had come out. It wasn't "huge", because we didn't even notice it come out. When the doctor looked in it again she decide that since they forced so much liquid into it they made it macerated, and much more likely to become infected. I guess what I'm getting at, is, after all that, I'm still in pain, can't hear from my right ear and am on antibiotic drops 4 times a day. If the wax was plugging my ear up, and now that it's gone, why can't I hear? Hooray for doctors!

Sad Beauty

The man and woman get on the bus, reeking of pot. The woman holds the baby, dragging the stroller packed full of blankets, bottles, toys behind her up the stairs. The woman grabs the trashcan as she enters, propping it on the chair next to her. She passes the baby off to the man, and cradles the trash can instead. As she turns, her flaccid, stretch marked stomach flops over the top of her hip hugger jeans. Disgusted, she moves to pull her shirt down, but instead leaves it how it is. Coughing, she turns to the trashcan and vomits. Opening the window—either to allow fresh air into the bus or to dissipate the stench of marijuana, I can’t tell. The husband has caught my attention. Face still pocked with acne and scars, he nibbles on the baby’s ears. “Hello Mr. Baby” he repeats, over and over again. Insecure but trying to make the best of it. Still a child himself. Then the baby catches my eye and holds me with his bright, unblinking blue-eyed stare. “What are you?” I can see him mentally asking himself, just as I silently ask him “What are you to become?” I notice tears in the young mother’s made up face, and she dabs at them, hoping her mascara won’t start running. Hoping the makeup will hide her sadness, but knowing it doesn’t. She reaches over to the man, begging him to sit next to her, maybe hold her hair as she vomits again. “We’re almost there” The driver tries to comfort “I don’t know where you’re going” Neither do they. Just away. I press the yellow strip to signal I want to get off. I leave them like that, man cradling woman, woman cradling trash can, baby wondering what it all means.

Reflections

Something is changing inside of me. I feel it just underneath my skin, something new, something different that wasn’t there before. My own Dark Passenger, if you will. I feel withdrawn, still, happier by far in silence, surrounded by only myself—thinking or feeling my own emotions rather than packing myself with people, like a fish on ice. I am not afraid to be alone, and that is how I spend much of my time. The dogs are my constant and sometimes only companions while I’m at home. They don’t make demands, don’t care if I want to sit quietly and think, and only offer occasional sighs or licks as punctuation to my thoughts. Here, I feel that I must step in and explain that I love being with my friends as well, I am not resigned to hermitage in my house with the blinds drawn, scratching words over and over again on my walls like a disturbed patient, but I love my house and the solitude it offers. My insides are raw, scraped bloody by this something inside of me, struggling to get out. I can go nowhere without a pen and a pad of paper, because at the least expected moments, my something frantically screams lines from poems, stories or novellas begging to be written. I can’t force them to the back of my brain as I had been able to in the past. This time and place in my life is certainly not conducive to making friends or “getting out”, but finally I am able to write. This shadow I feel inside me swells, guiding my hand to put pen to paper, wringing out desperate words from my previously stagnant brain. My works are not bright, but for all who know me, I’m sure it is no surprise. I don’t feel depressed, manic or disturbed, just finally like the writer I have strove for so long to become.

Purple

As I sit in front of the computer, eyes locked on the ubiquitous flashing cursor, my numbing brain slides hauntingly closer to the inevitable realization of inadequacy. While words jumble, writhing and churning through the unfathomable spider-silk of my cerebellum, an idea withers, trapped on a single silver fiber as many glinting eyes stare lovingly at their next meal. Bitter food for thought in a darkly famished world. Scanning the fortitude of satirical ballads, we have fallen, corpses under the blood-bright light of the reddening sun. Unworthy as we are, we fade away. Apathetic apoplectic people merging, endless mixers in a churning vortex, tiny pinpoints of light in an otherwise star starved sky. Desecration in a sterile world.

Public Transportation

I love the bus. I love letting someone else drive me where I need to go, and I especially love not having to drive aimlessly up and down the packed aisles of the parking lot, fruitlessly searching for a spot. That being said, this love of mine is greatly overshadowed by the people on the bus. Yesterday, like all other Wednesdays this year, I got on the bus, headed toward the back, and sat down on one of the front-facing seats. As I sat there waiting for the bus to start off, a girl stood in the doorway discussing the route with the driver. Apparently, the large, scrolling yellow words in the window were too complicated for her to understand, and the map, numbered stops and times of departure and arrival too vague. Anyway. Once she was finally convinced that this was the only bus heading in her direction, she came on, passed by at least 20 other empty seats, and sat down on the sideways facing seat directly behind me. I could almost feel her breath on the back of my neck, and could not put my head back without touching her. Casually, I slumped forward a bit in my chair in order to at least give me some semblance of solitude in my seat. I considered moving over, but the bus was already in motion, and figured it wasn't too big of a deal. As we rode on, after about 15 minutes of sitting in such close proximity, her phone rang. Being so close to her, I couldn't help but overhear "no, I can't. I have Strep Throat." Now wait just one minute. What right does this girl have to spread her diseases to unsuspecting people? There were other perfectly suitable chairs, far away from anyone who could have caught her sickness. There is nothing shameful in sitting in the far back corner, or even wearing one of those paper face masks. In fact, I might take to doing those very things. I might even get a belt holster for antibacterial spray. I can get a shoulder strap like in the old war movies and just pack it full of lysol instead of bullets. There is just something inherently wrong with getting sick from someone you don't know. Getting sick should at least involve something fun like sharing bodily fluids with a friend, then at least you are familiar with the germs you got. Now, after observing those on the bus always sitting alone, I have more weapons in my arsenal. Today, when someone sketchy tries to sit near me, I will drool. Look blankly at them, clutch my imaginary baby to my chest and rock back and forth, pretend to be asleep, talk to someone sitting next to me, when there is nobody there, forget to shower for a month, pack my lunch bag with week old sardines or do any combination of the above.