I am a Myth.

I like how I can go online, put in my email address, and start a blog. All of the sudden, I’m a writer. I’m a writer? I’m a writer!

I’m not a writer.

I am a myth. Or at least that was my dream as a child. I had always wanted to be what other people couldn’t. I wanted to be the protagonist of our favorite books. Maybe for a little while I wanted to be the character with wings. Maybe for a while I wanted to be the super saiyan. I wanted to be unique. I wanted to be talked about. I wanted to be magic. I’m probably not the only one who felt that way during childhood, but for the sake of selfishness and that desire to be unique, I wanted to be the only one who felt that way.

I am packing up to move out of my dorm. It is a slow process because I have to wait until weekends to bring things home. I pack things in order of importance. All of the crap I didn’t really need at school went first. All that is left is some things that I don’t need there, and some things that I do.
I have some posters hung up. Half of them are of the artsy, black & white, grown-up sort. You know a shot of the Eiffel Tower, Wars End Kiss, etc. Then I have some random posters that I will have to let go of eventually. Avatar: The Last Airbender, Kingdom Hearts II. I am trying to figure out when I have to throw them away. That sounds like a stupid thing to talk about, I know. If that’s how you feel, then whatever. But I mean when do I have to throw these childhood posters away? Are they going to be Dining Room conversation pieces? Themes for the nursery? When I throw them away, will I be a grown up?

There isn’t anything on the walls anymore. It is just a boring, concrete box. I don’t wanna be in it anymore.

TGIF. Thank God Its Finals. Well, it will be next week.  But I don’t have much work left to do this week but exam reviews, so I am trying to relax a little. After I move out I am going straight to work for mom.

I want to be a grown up. I mean I know I’m grown up, but I’m not a grown up.

Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,

AMZ

The Pickles Show!

Friday, after gorging ourselves on all you can eat barbequed pork and other southern classics, We arrived home to hear this sound. It was an odd sound, like a little girl saying “Ow, ow, ow.” Mom said its the kitten she tried to save the other day, but got away from her.
After meowing at it for ten minutes, and it meowing back, I discovered it was inside of my neighbor’s shed. What a good time to meet my neighbor for the first time! Michael and I managed to grab it and bring it inside.
  Her name is Pickles. Though my friend Sjaan never got to meet Pickles, she decided this awesome name.
Pickles cries like a baby, probably because she still is a baby. Apparently her voice box is messed up, because her cute kitten meow is silent, though she still tries. And her scared, abandoned meow is loud and sad. You can’t leave her alone, or she will cry. In the short 24 hours that I had Pickles in my home, she went from deathly scared of people, to loving us dearly. She went from starving and skinny to fat and happy. She went from orphan to adopted. She followed us around the house and the yard because she knew we were her family. She would climb up my shirt and nuzzle me, and I’d nuzzle back as a good mom should. It is a sign of love.
Pickles left us, the foster family, to live with Leslie and Mona. Leslie is a dear friend of the family, and Mona is her kitty. It was kitty love at first sight when Leslie came to get Pickles. I knew she was going to a good home and a good family.
 
Even now, two days after Pickles “moved,” I am sad that she is gone. I know she would have been lonely in our house during the day. I know we would have a hard time with buying food and such, but boy is she a great kitty. She learned to use a litter box in two days! I guess I feel this way because I don’t have any pets other than my Betta Fish, Sgt. Pepper. You can’t hold a fish, and they’re just using you for food. Fish are jerks.
I know I want a cat when I have my own place, I just want to make sure it’s special. Not some mean cat. That’s what I liked about Pickles. She was rescued, and she was thankful.
I am happy because Pickles is happy in her new home, and Leslie is happy to have her. My own special kitty is out there when I am ready for it.

Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,
AMZ

Superfeminist!…to the Rescue?

Let’s talk about feminism. Let’s talk about the fight for a woman to be on the same level as a man. That’s what feminism is, in case you didn’t already know that. Its a bit of an odd word. That ism, makes it seem so negative. Racism, colorism, sexism—All are so negative. But feminism, that’s a word that runs against the pack, I guess. Antifeminism fits into that trend of isms and negativity more than the word itself. Maybe we should consider changing it.
The word is pretty serious, from what I’ve learned. No it doesn’t mean I burn bras. No, it doesn’t mean I hate men because they are pigs. Nope, none of that. I love men. Most of them are pretty cool guys. Now, a few bad apples have tried to spoil the bunch, in both cases. There are some men out there that really are pigs. And there are some women out there, waving the flag of feminism, that push back the cause instead of further it. “Equality for women!…and punishment for men, for everything they’ve done to us.”
As a student at a woman’s college, this superfeminism is an idea that is taken far too seriously by a few of the students. These students preach about women’s oppression in the history of, well, forever, and turn around and oppress their male counterparts. They say a man has no right to a pregnant woman’s child, because he isn’t carrying it for nine months. Well ladies, there are plenty of men that would carry their child themselves (if it were biologically possible, of course) if it meant that that child would be healthy. That’s such a terrible thing to say. Boohoo, I carried a baby for nine months, I went through this pain and suffering, he will never see that child because I went through it and he doesn’t know what it is like. Boohoo my body is ruined because of him.
Aww, isn’t that so sad. You were put through that whole long nine months, poor you. But your selfish decision will keep a capable father from having a relationship with his child because you are mad that he couldn’t carry it instead. I propose that we have a nation-wide tube tying. Some women just aren’t fit to have kids because even if they are responsible for this small life, they will still think that everything is about themselves.
My point is, despite the digressions...that just because your predecessors of the same sex have been put through hell and back, doesn’t mean you make it your mission in life to take revenge on the opposite sex. I believe the proper definition that these people would fit is: Stank. Don’t be stank, people.

Ice Cream Drama Queen

I have decided that I will no longer call people my friends. You see, whenever I call someone close to me a (good, best, awesome, you get the picture) friend, the forces of the universe decide to take my words, my simple expression, and make me pay. Friends will become develop assorted tensions, relationships will begin and end, drama will ensue! Crash! It will almost be as bad as the remake of “Clash of the Titans.” (There I said it, it’s out there now. That movie was terrible.)
The point is, I guess, that we all change. For the good or bad, that depends on the individual. But sometimes we change whether we know it or not. Maybe a silent parting and a summer break will fix the relationship and make it whole again, like day one. Maybe that has been tried before. Maybe there have already been so many summer breaks and there will only be so many more before the final parting…
I heard the suggestion of something along the lines of an ice-cream-I-hate-you-party. Where we, the cluster of feuding friends in question, chow down on our favorite ice creams and let loose the dormant feelings that we have hidden. Personally, I would go into that with an attitude. You would all have your giant Edy’s to share (spit, spoons, and swear words), and I would have one of those personal Ben and Jerry’s ice creams that only cost a buck. Yes, the one with the little spoon. Partly because my family is from Vermont, as are Ben and Jerry, so whenever I can show some pride for the Green Mountain State I will. Partly it is because I want my favorite flavor to myself, so the rest of you can suck moose tracks. It wouldn’t be the best attitude to go into a group intervention with.
Does anybody have some Ben and Jerry’s? I think it’s about damn time.
There is this sickening, winded feeling. Deep in my gut. It shortens my breath and makes me panic. I am looking side to side and everything appears to be normal, but that feeling remains. I feel like I am back in high school. Mumbling under your breath. Talking about her. Scoff. Ignore. Interrupt. I would like to go one day. No, I would love to go one day- where everyone I know feels like September. The newness of the fall semester, but the old comfort like your favorite pair of jeans that you know won’t let you down. But it is still only Spring, and we have blossomed a new boldness and contempt. We have to wait for the heat of Summer for the contempt to wither.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what not to day. According to John Mayer, I should say what I need to say. But saying what you need to say is easier said than done.
Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,
AMZ

What’s That You’re Drinking? Why This? This is Mud.

While I sat in my Social Work class, falling asleep because of the dim lighting and informative film from the 80’s, I decided to start writing a list. It was called: Things to Blog About. Among the things on this list are eating sideways, Facebook formalities, and shite coffee.
Something I scribbled on the top of the list was: When rude girls stare in the dining hall. Okay, when my friends and I are eating lunch and enjoying life, talking about bestiality and watching our friend Jenn laugh so hard that she chokes on water, do me a favor: Don’t stare. Yes, that is water coming from her nose. It’s quite obvious that you have a problem with us. You being the large group of girls openly gawking. So either say something (an adult thing to do), or get over it (also an adult thing to do). Nothing like a bunch of histrionic child-like girls openly jeering. As I have said before: If you don’t stop staring, I will start charging admission. (It’s only the capitalist thing to do).
Parenthesis are “in” in this post, as are colons.
I only have one more scoop of amazing vanilla-nut-butter-cookie flavored coffee left in my fridge, and alas, this is not enough coffee to get me through the week. In order to remedy this painful situation I woke up at 8 this morning, as usual, (and with a mean case of David Bowie morning hair) but this time I committed myself to walking to the terrace for a cup of their brew and a scone. Well. As it turns out, it doesn’t open until 8:30. Ah well, such is life. I went back up at 8:30, got my scone and cup o’ Starbucks coffee. By the smell of this foul liquid, I would be needing an assault of creams and sugars to tame the bitter. 6 sugars, 5 creams. A cautious sip. /Gag/. 2 more sugars and 2 more creams. Awful still, but I’ll take it. Count ‘em up people: 8 sugars and 7 creams to help me realize the painful truth: Starbucks coffee will still taste like cardboard and rear-end no matter what magical potions you put in it to improve the taste.
I wanted to talk about something important. Not deathly important, but still important enough. All of you do it, whether you are bold enough to admit it is up to you. You see friends, I am talking about Facebook Formalities. What exactly is a Facebook formality? Well boys and girls, a Facebook formality is the acceptance and maintenance of Facebook friends that aren’t actually based on a real friendship. This could be completely harmless, like being friends with your old boss, that cool teacher from high school you know you will never speak to once you become friends, or even those classmates from high school that you know you will never talk to once you become friends. On the other side of this it could be dangerous. That harpie ex-friend of yours that oozes so much narcissism that it makes you ill to hear their name, the classmate or coworker that gets on your last nerve, that airhead that is so full of themselves and addicted to their destructive lifestyle (sleeping around, tanning, drinking, this list goes on forever) that it makes you wonder how come they haven’t realized that their life is full of fail yet. “_____ ______ I love my life! I am so happy and I love my amazing friends so much!” Stop lying haha, we all know that just means you’re miserable and putting on a show for the Facebook Formalities. Facebook formalities are so full of bunk. Dear Friend, I hate you.
On a positive note, I guess I need to go talk to a priest. You see, I am (kinda-sorta-mostly-almost) Catholic. *Story Time* Mom was pregnant with me, while raising two children. I think they were about 5 and 3. The two of them were baptized in the Catholic Church, so mom wanted the same for me. Well being so busy with momming, she didn’t make it to church as often as she would have liked. When she took me in to be baptized, the priest said something along the lines of, “I’m not going to baptize your child because you have low attendance and will obviously not raise her in the church.” Well. Mom said he could go to hell, flipped him the bird, took me home, blessed the kitchen sink, and tossed me in! The end.*
Anyway, I am kind of Catholic, and Michael is Episcopalian, but has from a young age wanted to get married in a Catholic Church. That leaves us with two options: Either he can convert to the true Christian religion, or we (God, and priest willing) can get married in a Catholic church purely because I am Catholic and if we swear on the powers that be to raise our offspring in the Catholic Church. I am hoping for the first one, but will take the latter. This is where talking to a priest comes in. In order to convert, as I am told by ma cousine, Erin, He will have to take an adult course (which lasts about a year) in order to become part of the Church. He is a full time student with a full time job and a full time relationship—when could he possibly have time for courses? What I am wondering is whether or not he should do it before we get married (God willing) or afterward in the magical lull between college stress and the stress of kids. When our money is our own and so is our home! et cetera. Mom said he is going to be an amazing father. I’d have to agree with that.
Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,
AMZ

Don’t Be Such a Beach.

This one is going to be longer than usual, so brace yourself.

A lot of fun-type things have happened over the last week. Wednesday, at least I think it was Wednesday, Michael came over and we inhaled a sickeningly large amount of Sonic food. But wait, the fun doesn’t stop there. All of my college friends, minus a few of my favorites, went to the basement and made brownies and watched Beauty and the Beast. Who doesn’t like brownies? Who doesn’t like Disney? Exactly.
That was like a visit to my childhood, except Michael was included that time. Aside from the fact that I have a personal thing about unnecessary talking/singing during movies, it was pretty awesome.
Afterwards the brownies went back upstairs with us, minus the Michael, and we gorged ourselves on brownies and milk on Jenn’s floor. That was the second time in one night that I consumed way too much for no reason. We ended up watching another movie: Fantastic Mr. Fox. The one time that I actually enjoyed a George Clooney movie. Why? Because I couldn’t see his face. It was a pretty cussin’ awesome movie. I definitely recommend it, mostly because of all the big names that are in it.
Underlying icky feeling of the night? Tension between some and awkwardness between others leaves me feeling yucky.
Thursday I went to class, packed up, and went home early so that I could get ready to go to the beach on Friday. Let me be clear with this: I had the full intention of skipping my classes (because I ooze rebellion). I told my mom that my only two Friday classes were canceled. Well, here comes Friday. I get a text saying that our English class was canceled because my professor was sick. Really? I fail at skipping classes.
For those of you who have never had anything to do with me when I am going on vacation, I just want to let you know: I have a packing problem. I have been told that I get it from my grandmother. I have to be prepared for anything and everything. Why is that? Well, I have this funny thing about being unprepared. I will kick myself for longer than necessary if I didn’t bring something so simple. I started typing a list of the random crap I packed just to give you an idea, then I realized I was about two paragraphs into this list and nowhere near done. I deleted it for the sake of your sanity.
Friday Michael and I packed up the Solara and headed to the beach with the ipod on shuffle. We had to make a quick detour at my dorm because, well, I forgot to pack shorts. Beach vacation, and a shoulder bag full of jeans. Fail Number Two! We stopped before that and grabbed some Chick fil a meals for lunch. In order to run into the dorm in time, I had to eat pretty quickly. It was gone in five minutes, and I still had plenty of Dr. Pepper to spare. Ahh, satisfying. Driving, driving, driving. Music and banter. But wait, blue lights? That’s right folks. Michael got his second speeding ticket in a year. This one is for going 80 in a 60. I don’t know how many points this one will cost him, but it is going to be $185. It’s like plucking a stone from the side of my phantom engagement ring.
When the mom car (mom, my sister, and my sister’s kids) arrived we all got settled in our respective rooms. Ocean ocean, yeah yeah. We went to a great restaurant called Sea Captain’s House. Oh yeah, fantastic.
Saturday I had a wonderful and nutritious breakfast of lucky charms, while Michael chowed down on last night’s steak. To sum up that entire day: The ocean is still cold, SPF 90 really does work, The pool is freezing, the lazy river feels like pee, and the hot tub melted my skin off. But wait, there’s more! I love Riesling, and Kahlua and cream, Putt-Putt at the beach is always fun, even if mom effortlessly kicked everyone’s ass, and there is nothing like watching tv and drinking margaritas with the family to make you feel like you’re at home.
Sunday morning Michael and I walked around the beach to find shells. We found some cute ones, some ugly ones, and some in between. I found a tide pool full of baby clams that were eating. The girls carried a fist full of those clams around in a beach bucket and mom got worried that we were killing them. We buried Michael in the sand. I made him into a beautiful mermaid! The girls made his boobs a little lopsided though…
I finally manned up and jumped into the ocean. I ended up staying there for a very long time. Michael and I vowed not to not go home tan so we rebelled against the SPF 90 and went bare. Ow.
When we left the beach, Myself, Michael, my sister, and the girls went in the same car because we wanted to get home for our lives to pick back up on Monday. Mom didn’t have to work until Tuesday, so she was staying to continue to lay on the beach, dine in fancy restaurants, and visit the bar. She cried as she saw us off, telling us she loved us. Oh mummy. I love you. Well ten minutes down the road she calls to tell us that she is coming home! Poor momma couldn’t even last an hour by herself. Eventually when we made it home and myself to my dorm, she called and told me that she doesn’t want me to leave.
You see, Michael and I had originally planned on moving to Atlanta after school so that Michael could take advantage of a business opportunity. That fell through, so we are probably going to be staying near home. My mom thought she could be independent; that she wouldn’t need any of us. We need each other, and that’s perfectly alright.

Peace, Love, and Pudd'n Pops
AMZ

Did that noodle really just come out of my face?

The heat has been turned off in my dorm room, but the air has not been turned on yet. If you turn on the vent it will dump out warmer than desired stale air that only makes the fact that it is at least 85 in our rooms worse. So, because it is better to suffer together than apart, I am hiding in a friend’s room. I intended to work on an English paper…but since I have forgotten my flash drive with my prewriting on it, and because it is all the way down the hall and down one flight of stairs, I have decided just to update le blog. Okay, so it isn’t that far away, but it is hotter than Dante’s Inferno in this place and moving just makes it so much worse. Opening the windows solves nothing because of the pollen blizzard that is blowing around outside. I could make a pollen angel or pollen man out of this crap.

Michael’s brother accidently let it be known how much money Michael has in the bank. To his brother, this wasn’t a big deal. To Michael is was a tragedy. To myself, I finally found how much money is in the engagement fund. Trust me people, it was something for me to be excited about.

I enjoyed my Easter Sunday. I didn’t get gifts or go on an egg hunt. I just spent the day with my mom. We ate a small dinner of mashed potatoes, turkey loin, deviled eggs, carrots, and corn. We had a bottle of wine, and some pudding pie for dessert. I suppose what I enjoyed the most about it was that I spent two hours at the kitchen table talking to her and enjoying myself. We talked about marriage and weddings (her previous one and my…impending one). We talked of futures, of family, of finances.
It was pretty swell.

Speaking of hilariously painful happenings, Friday I committed myself to working in my room. I skipped the campus food and went for a college classic: Ramen. So here I am, slurping ramen (from my RAMEN BOWL!) and watching tv. Cough. Choke. Gag. Then I am okay again. Except…my nose is on fire. Ten minutes later I try to purge my face of this demon pain. Wam Bam—I blew a noodle out of my nose! It hurt like hell, but it was fantastically hilarious. So much that I took a picture of said demon noodle and sent it to Michael.

Anyhoozles, I have to go and be collegiate.

Peace, Love, and Pudd’n Pops,
AMZ