family

friends

good health

2 week free trials of netflix

double sided tape

pecan pie

unlimited text messaging

season 1 of grey’s anatomy

and most of all, three pound bags of haribo gummy bears

Ever get the feeling that nobody is listening?

My mother talks way too much. So does my dad. I come from a family of discussion hijacking, conversation monopolizing, big time talkers. They have a few interesting things to say, every once in awhile, but for the most part I’m listening to recycled stories with details that pick up sensationalized bits of untruth with each retelling. All of my best female friends are talkers. I seem to attract the type of person who prefers incessant chatter to silence and feels as if it is their duty to do all of the talking. This isn’t so bad seeing as I am the type of girl who listens more than she talks.

So that feeling that nobody is listening? I get it all the time. It’s a constant in my life.

For just once (a day? a week? in a blue moon?), I need to feel like someone is listening. I need someone who will take each of my words and process them individually. Not someone who will act on cue, who will grimace in all the right places, making all the right faces. Someone who will listen to what I’m saying rather than for when they can jump in to add their own two cents.

This feeling, this same lonely feeling, was what first drove me to blogging three years ago. It was truly therapy for me. For the two years that I committed to it on a semi-regular basis, it was what kept me sane. It got me through those crazy high school years. It got me into college. It got me through fights with my mother, bad days at work, and sleepless nights.

So here I am again, ready to start all over. And even though I know that blogging is, for the most part, this completely narcissistic activity that, to a large degree involves throwing a bunch of words into this vast, unknowable void that nobody will ever read, I want to do this again. Because at least I can pretend that somebody is reading. It’s the illusion that the Internet, this great big mass of faceless human beings, is somehow paying attention (whether or not that is actually the case). It’s the illusion that I matter because I’ve at least gotten the chance to say, or type rather, what I want to say. Whether you listen or not, whether you read or not, the fact that I get to put my thoughts out there, wherever “there” is, means something. I wrote it in a blog entry years ago and I truly believe that this, my blog, is the place for the stuff I can’t say out loud. And yes, sometimes it’s trivial shit about bad hair days, but it’s my life. And it seems as if life, these days, is nothing if not lived online. People tweet the most intimate details of their lives in real time and wait for responses as proof that it’s all actually happening. And because I’ve never been particularly talented at distinguishing the stuff that is actually happening from the stuff that’s purely a concoction of my own deranged mind, I guess that’s what I’m here for.

Let the blogging begin again… I think?

Do not mix your prescription 800 mg monster-sized ibuprofen pills with your over-the-counter 200 mg baby-sized Motrin. Monster medication will bully baby Motrin into submission and then forcibly eject baby Motrin (and just about everything else) out of the stomach via the esophagus.

Will cause:

Intense Stomach Pain

Scary heart palpitations

Shortness of breath

Dry mouth/dehydration

Uncontrollable shaking

Vomiting up everything you’ve eaten in the last 12 hours… and some stuff you didn’t (i.e. stomach fluids, questionable flesh colored chunks, etc.)

Let’s just say chinese takeout and Sour Patch Kids don’t taste quite the same coming back up.

I have a habit of falling off the face of the earth. I absolutely hate returning missed phone calls, replying to text messages, responding to e-mails. Keeping up and staying connected is just not my thing. People love to get offended when they’re left hanging, but sometimes they don’t realize that it’s just not personal. It’s not that I don’t like you. It’s that I don’t like the process.

During what were perhaps the most interesting few months of my life, I did not blog once. I somehow found it necessary to write every minute of my boring, boy-less, teenage angsty high school years yet the moment my life became slightly reality-TV-show-worthy, I disappeared. I actually started to live life, meet new people, have boy drama. And I wasn’t writing about any of it. Needless to say, much of the writing I will do this summer will be written in the past tense. I have a lot of catching up to do.

In failing to blog on a somewhat regular basis as I used to do, I’ve realized just how much I both miss and need it. This process is the one that I didn’t mind as much as all the others. The one that I sometimes looked forward to. This therapeutic, narcissistic, wonderful process. As tedious and time consuming as it can sometimes be, I miss blogging. So, while I will likely never respond to your text messages or your e-mails or your phone calls, I will update my blog and keep up with yours.

And I’ll try not to fall off the face of the earth… again.

Poor college student that I am, it was very foolish of me to think that I could pay a monthly bill to have my own website. In fact, at this very moment I am finding it extremely difficult to scrape together just four quarters so that I can go buy some pretzels from the vending machine. This is pathetic.

So, this is my new home. It feels good to be back.