this happened last wednesday

The sun had just risen, and it was drizzling. I was riding my bike to meet Kelly for a run. A few of Columbia's homeless addicts were standing together in a parking lot, mesmerized by a rainbow. It seemed to be a very childish scence, because they were amazed by something so simple. A few minutes later, as we took the first few steps of our run, Kelly noticed the rainbow, too. It was a great rainbow, spanning across the whole sky. It was a good start to the run.

About 30 minutes later, it started raining, and I couldn't keep my glasses clean of rain quickly enough. A few minutes after that, it started pouring, and I was screwed.

I was thinking about starting a food blog,

for these reasons. I like to eat food. I like to make food. I hate spending money on food when I go out to eat. I always resort to the same recipes, and for some reason I feel that a blog about food would force me to be more creative in my cooking. I don't know why, because I don't know who would read it. But then again, I don't know who reads this one.

Anyways, it would be great! I could call it something spectacular like… Betsy's Kitschy Kitch. It would be all about my adventures in the kitchen. How more worthwhile could this project get? I don't believe there is an answer to that question.

Tonight's dinner proposed a problem, however. I burned my grilled cheese sammich and the soup I ate wasn't anything to tell mom about. I'm not even that good of a cook.

it's a new week!

AND the radiohead album comes out in two days. Also, I don't hate puppies. Check out this adorable puppy picture I took over the weekend:

This is what happens when I decide to work 30+ hours in one mon-fri span:

Stressed. There are not enough hours in the day to do the things I need to do: study, write, run, go to the grocery story, interview, eat, shower, sleep. Thus, there is no chance of time to do the things I want to do: laugh, have nice dreams, clean my room, read, send mail, journal, have friends.

I start to hate people who are not as stressed as I am. I hate my sister for going to Vegas. I hate my friends who go out on Thursday. I hate people eating burritos outside Chipotle. I hate puppies. Now I am filled not only with stress, but hate. Add little sleep and general grumpiness mood.

I feel gross. I haven't done any running except between class/work/interviews/class/work. I haven't taken a shower since… I forget. I am driving myself into coldsoredom.

I wake up after six hours of sleep this morning, all thanks to my redank schedule and I hate my life. I hate that I have to do two interviews back-to-back, I hate the journalism school and I even hate all the music on my "Greatest Songs in the World" itunes playlist. I hate happy people.

And what is the point of all of this? Basically, I need to never do this again. Is all the money I made this week worth it? Maybe later, but not now. Definitely not now. I cannot do this to myself. This will be a constant reminder of how to rank priorities. Certain things are more important than I originally thought. Like being happy. Like taking showers.

Yesterday:

As I exhaustedly collapsed onto bed last night, I thought about what a day of extremes it had been.

Before I left for work at preschool, I was in the worst of moods. Too much to do, too much work, too much school. Too many assignments, too litle time to do them all. And when am I going to have time to train for a marathon in all of this? I was stressed to the maximum.

Then, preschool. I completely forgot about everything. The kids are so simple and so real. We ate Jello for snack, and did you know four-year-olds eating Jello is adorable? When I finished school, I was worry free. Sure, I still had all that stuff to worry about, but meh… it's really not a big deal. I had 45 minutes to cram in some Foucault, and then I ran over to babysit the most adorable kids ever. I ran around like a crazy and almost melted when Jackson screamed "J'AI UN DRAGON!" (I am a dragon). I was happy happy happy.

Then, home to get some reading done and write a paper before sleep. I got distracted and did some writing for a different class because I felt like writing something. Suddenly, I started writing this really personal thing about my grandpa and became really upset and started to cry. I cried until the last word and gathered myself together to finish my homework so I could finally sleep.

And, like I said, I was exhausted once I finally got there. I feel like I felt too many things in one day. That's okay though. I am the toughest person I know. ha, that was a joke.

in case you didn't know me, I am a very judgemental

The other night, which may or may not have been last night because the whole week has had no specifics for me, some kids I know left Lakota to go watch the OC. I was all hunched over studying and thought to myself mean things about these people. Seriously guys. The OC? Why don't you go read some Kant or something of the sort and spend your time in a worthwhile fashion? Then I forgot about it and continued crafting complex-compound sentences.

Tonight, I spent a worthless hour watching The Office, and it was brilliant. And I hated myself for hating the OC-watchers. Because the non-depth of it completely took my mind of ELT I have been concerned about lately. I am now refreshed to read John Locke with a cheerful mind.

I seem to consistently attract creeps. That's all I'm saying.

Found

I was cleaning up my desktop and found this paragraph I transcribed from a This American Life episode. I can't remember which one it was. But it goes like this:

I think most of us are like that, like Phillip Dick or Ellery’s father. Most of us are toiling away at daily work that doesn’t seem as important to us as the ambitious dreams we have for ourselves. We’re convinced that we’re not living up to our potential, that there’s a better part of our ourselves that just hasn’t expressed itself yet. Until our daily lives are over and what’s left is that daily work. Whatever it is. Whatever we gave it.

Remember when?

Today is September 11, 2007. Did you remember? I feel sad mostly. I have a great deal of work to finish, but I'm not quite in the mood.

To quote a simple song titled Colours by Donovan "Freedom is a word I rarely use without thinking."

Today I biked beside a butterfly for about five seconds. It was the best five seconds of my day. I felt as though the butterfly and I were friends, running out a race we had bet against each other, the winner gets a lollipop. But there are probably two lollipops, so it didn't really matter who won anyway.

deux things:

1. I wonder why it is socially normal for boys to have short hair and girls to have long hair. What a strange world it would be if most boys had long hair and most girls had short.
2. I like when my room is a little messy. Maybe the heaps of clothes is a little over the top, but I do like a little disorder. That makes it feel like home.

tonight I am looking at POY Winner's Gallery while eating dinner. And I am listening to Sky Blue Sky, as a whole, one of Wilco's more somber albums I think. These pictures are sad.

I wonder why I don't have eloquent enough words to describe the feeling that makes me not want to finish my Garlic Herb Chicken with Egg Noodles. Haven't I been to three years of journalism school? I start eating the noodles one by one with my fingers, feeling this is somehow the right thing to do. I force myself to read the captions even though they hurt my little heart. Sometimes I wonder about the shallow and mean things I have done to people and wonder if I cannot feel feelings. But right now, I think this is not true.

I am a happy person. But there are things that make me sad.

For my Ginger Ale Friend (we know orange is better)

I am really glad I started running again. Even though getting back in shape is consistently one of the most painful things I put myself through, I forgive myself. There is something to this.

Now go listen to "It's All Gonna Break" by Broken Social Scene.

Changes. (you know. like the 2pac song. or the david bowie song. whatevs.)

So summer in the city is officially over as I am leaving in the a.m. to drive to Columbia, MO. Thus, I feel I should say something insightful about this next change in my life. But I have no insight here.

I can only think about the recurring memory of speeding north up I-55 towards the distant Sears' Tower, cranking some phat beats (most likely a mix cd a friend made me), and making air waves with my hand in the 70 mph wind. This is a good feeling, and a nice thing to remember.

And, that is all. Next post to come from the Show Me State. What does that even mean? Beats me, it's not my state. Represent, Land of Lincoln.

I have been very into reading memoirs lately. And I would be lying if I told you I don't know why. The reason I read these witty likely-enough stories of well known contemporary authors is because a) they are entertaining and b) they make me feel better about my sad excuse for a summer job. Steven King once shoved dirty sheets into a industrial strength washing machine to make money. David Sedaris carried boxes of books up and down flights of new york apartment stairs. Sarah Vowell was a temp for 13 months while crashing on her married friends' fold out couch. And look at where these people are now!

I don't intend to be a famous contemporary American author. All I'm saying is that these stories help drive home the fact that even though I hate my job, it pays well and I'm only 20. Also, I realize that living with my parents isn't too horrible 100% of 40% of the time.

I mean Augusten Burroughs, my god. Even if the whole book is lies, the life portrayed is raw and makes me appreciative. His mom encourages him to fake suicide so she can have some peace and quiet. My mom says "how many meatballs do you want?" I say four or five and ask her if she can fix the straps on my dress, I would like to wear it to Amanda's party on Friday. "Just run upstairs and grab stome straight pins," she says. "I only need a couple."

I went to hear a free Decemberists show the other night, one of the great things about the city of Chicago. It was okay, at best. I'm actually not that big of a fan. But free, you know?

I was more entertained by the find-stranger-in-crowd-and-make-up-a-story-about-him/her/them game. Joe found a man who had mistakenly navigated to becomeafratboy.com instead of becomeahipster.com, mine was a dude who had tried to suppress his hipster ways to earn the love of a sorority girl, and Amy's couple met on eharmony.com. This combined with Amy's talent to pick up guys no matter where she goes, (which resulted in a delicious treat of waffles and nutella pulled from their backpack), I do say it was a good evening. We also saw a man who looked like John Lennon, and certainly encouraged the image with his glasses and haircut.

The last few notes of the band which we were really too far away to see brought some light rain, and by the time Amy and I stepped off at her El stop, it was heavily storming. Do you remember that match when Hermione used the impervius spell on Harry's glasses? The weather was like that.

I chucked my shoes in my bag, and spent the rest of the walk home jumping in puddles and avoiding Amy with the umbrella. She found a way to make it more of a weapon against me than a safeguard from the rain. We slopped up her apartment, and agreed it felt more like a Friday night than a Tuesday one.

Am I accomplished?

Said a friend to me the other day on a cream cheese and salsa concoction of my mother's, "This dip is like a 20-year-old, it doesn't know what it wants to be." I found this to be rather insightful and true, because honestly, what 20-year-old knows shit about herself?

But at 21, different expectations are upon us. Around for two decades and one-tenth, have you accomplished something? Anything?

As I was thinking these thoughts, I decided right then and there that I would make a list of 21 things I have accomplished in my life. The list would be complete before this coming Saturday.

I came up with about seven things off the top of my head and immediately felt disgusted with myself. Why did I feel compelled to post a list of my own accomplishments for all to read? What was I trying to prove? Who was I trying to prove it to? And why did I deem 21 the magical number of what I was supposed to have accomplished, what just because I am quicking approaching the age of the same number?

These are the Things I Look Forward to At Work:

I. Making Active Employee Purple Folders
A. the satisfying eurphoria felt when pounding typewriter keys
B. Rolling my chair between cubicles
i. seeing if I can complete the journey in one roll
II. Lunch
A. Food
B. Not working
C. Reading Harry Potter
III. Brainstorming witty remarks to throw at the Andy-esque character

I also wrote a Haiku, titled "Ode to Old Blisters."

Highlight of my day:
Painlessly peeling dead skin
Below. Fresh, Smooth, Pink

As I was packing my lunch for my miserable, miserable job tomorrow, I started thinking about things that seemed really important when I was a kid.

This stroll down memory lane was initiated by a recent-running-out-of-paper-bags-event at my house. I had to substitute a plastic bag to contain tomorrow's lunch. I remembered when this sort of thing happened when I was 10 or so years old.

"MOM! WE'RE OUT OF PAPER BAGS" I would inform my mother.
"Just use a grocery bag."
"NO! I CAN'T!"

Mom did not get it. I absolutely could not show up to 5th grade the next day with my lunch in a plastic bag. All the kids would think my family was weird or something. Nor could I put my sandwich in a fold-over baggie, since everyone else had their pb&js in ziplock brand baggies. Nor could I use Roseart brand markers. Everyone else had crayola. They would think my family was poor or something.

I act as if these things were absolutes, but they were quite not for the following reasons: 1. my mother pinches pennies 2. she did not care about my grade school rep. And a result, I was sent to the first day of school with generic brand glue when everyone else had Elmer's, and 10 cent notebooks when everyone else wrote in 5 Star.

Did these things really matter? Was I oblivious to all the mean things the people inside the Spacemaker crowd said about the outsiders? Or did the Spacemaker kids even care? Did I just think they cared because I didn't have one?

Beside all of this, I think I turned out okay. Right?

This is what I can recollect from a conversation I overhead in the breakroom at work today.

nameless woman 1: oh you're getting a pop?
nameless woman 2: Yeah… You know, I really shouldn't.
nameless woman 1: Yeah, I don't drink pop anymore
nameless woman 2: oh?
nameless woman 1: yeah
nameless woman 2: what do you drink?
nameless woman 1: water. or coffee
nameless woman 2: I should stop drinking pop
nameless woman 1: I also really like raspberry iced tea

etc,
etc,
etc,…

I am taking my first paycheck straight to the store where they sell guillotines.