on The Dentist's Chair

I'm not very scared of the dentist. In fact my mother used to tell me I was "sick" because I "liked" going to the dentist. It wasn't that I LIKED going to the dentist, it was just that I liked the way I felt when it was all over. Like my mouth and I, together, accomplished a great feat of impossible daring. Such was the dentist... when I was 15.

Now my dentist visits consist of blood and guts. No, really. I got my implant -yay- back in May and ever since then it seems like I'm going to be bleeding when I leave a visit. Such was the result of my visit today, clearing my dear implant of any foreign objects that might cross its path.



But! NONE of this is the point. I'm writing today about the peculiarity of the dentist's chair. What an awkward place to be! I'm laying there half-stoned clutching desperately onto a shirt-tail or my own thumbs or the inside of my pocket. It squeaks--no matter what, even if I just flex a butt cheek, it squeaks. And looming to my left, power drills the size of Montana are about to bore their ways through my gums, and saws with teeth sharper than the sharpest shark (what?) are ready to wipe away the remainder of my pitiful teeths.

Normally, when the tools are silenced and the suction has suctioned out all the blood and guts it can find, I'm left with the sound of the second hand on the drug-company-sponsored clock hanging over my head. Tick, tick, tick: Jeanna, you're one second closer to your imminent mouth-altering demise.

Today, however, my dentist was WAY COOL. We were the only team left in the room, and she put on some alt-rock Pandora pretty loud. We were jamming to The Fray and Rob Thomas and Kelly Clarkson and... and. Oh. SHIT. Jimmy Eat m-f-ing World.

Yes, that's right: A Praise Chorus started blaring through her laptop's speakers and I was stuck with a drill in my mouth and a finger up my nose (or so it felt). A Praise Chorus! Of all of the songs in the world, WHY THIS ONE?! Cabral joked with me that perhaps at some point in my life I was hypnotized to COMPULSIVELY DANCE LIKE A MANIAC any time I heard this song... a hypothesis that doesn't seem quite off. My feet, they start moving. My arms, they do some throwback-monkey-white-girl dance. My ass shakes and... and my head... my head bobs... MUST. NOT. BOB. HEAD. Large drill inside mouth. Must not move... Can't... Must fight... the dancing... FEELING......

And just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, Jimmy Eat World wanted to fall in love tonight for the last time. For three and a half grueling minutes, my need for dancing had taken over every non-numb part of my body. And now it was over.

Thank God, right?

WRONG. Because what happened next was even more excruciating than I could have ever predicted.

Yes, that's right: VINDICATED started blaring through her laptop's speakers, and I was stuck with no earplugs and no drill and no saw and no talking and not even a second hand to block it out. WHY?! THIS?! ONE?!

There I was. Stuck in the dentist's chair. The dentist asked me how I was doing. How could I tell her that the most horrifying song in on the planet had just come on her Pandora and she needed to push the Thumbs Down ASAP? I could barely even garble out a "mhhbbgggsrrhh" through the muck and mire before she turned on the drill again, not loud enough to dull the pain of Dashboard Confessional penetrating my ears.

Stuck in the dentist's chair. Sounds like a good review of a horrible, horrible song.

on Comic Sans

Today, I put Comic Sans in my mouth, for the pure pleasure of being able to purge it out.



That's right, Comic Sans: DREAM BIG. Your dreams are futile while swimming around in my stomach acids, and will be crushed by the time they enter my intestinal tract. You will leave this world the same way in which you came: crappy!

on Contraptions

I've been having a problem with this stray cat. See, stray cat knows that Otto inhabits the insides of my dwelling place, and stray cat likes to hop up onto my patio fence and lounge around inside my patio, taunting poor Otto with his menacing looks and large, erm, paws. He struts back and forth and Otto MEWS with all his might, hoping that I'll wake up and let him outside to meet his new friend.

Poor Otto doesn't know that new friend would probably kill him with one little slap (Otto's kinda wimpy). Unfortunately, this does not stop stray cat from prancing around, laughing to himself that Otto cannot come out and play.

Well...
NOT ANYMORE.

Last night, I engineered what I am calling The Ultimate Catraption: the cat trap contraption rivaled only by real chicken wire and foxes across the nation.


(Click for larger, more in-depth and completely precise view)

Here's the idea: the fishing line is pretty much invisible, shocking the cat when he tries to jump on the fence and sending him into a state of frenetic fury. He then goes and tells his other cat friends not to mess with that patio in building 6, and the cat party stops right there.

And last night, IT WORKED! There was no mangy stray cat gracing my patio with his seemingly phantom presence, and Otto and I got a solid night's sleep. As an added bonus, I was able to sleep with the glass door open and have a cool, 50-degree breeze billow through the screen.

Let's just hope it holds out through the rest of this awesome weather.

on Pie

Best. Photo. Sequence. EVER: St. Mary's Pie a Chi Phi

on Dumpster Diving

There comes a time in everyone's life--I'm pretty sure--that, when driving by a dumpster, they think to themselves: "I just have to have that _______."

Today, that ______ for me was a beautiful, turquoise-stained wooden pallet. I've been craving a pallet for quite a while now, and it just so happened that the perfect pallet was waiting for me on top of the dumpster at the Toys-R-Us at Blanco and 410. There was no question in my mind: I had to have that pallet.



After climbing on top of my car (sorry, car), lifting the pallet out of the dumpster, almost dropping it and falling off the car instead (with the pallet landing on top of me, of course), I managed to scoot it over to my back seat. This thing has to weigh at least 50 pounds, but there is no way I'm leaving it here... I've gotten this far.

Lucky for me, a nice guy pulled over to help me load it up, and the awesome manager at my apartment complex helped me get it out of the car and into the house.

So, now I have a pallet. A perfect, beautiful, heavy-as-hell pallet ...that I have NO idea what I'm going to do with.







Just look at it! Look at the details, the colors, the little dents and etchings...
this is going to be a project of epic proportions!

on Weekends

It's been a while since I had a "Weekend," but in the past couple of weekends, I've had some amazing ones.

Three weekends ago, I took a semi-spontaneous trip to Chicago. Train rides, day drunk, Michigan Avenue, art school, Chinatown, downtown, and about 40 miles of walking later, I realized what'd I'd been missing out on: genuine, non-stop fun. Then again, it was one of my first real "Weekend"s since college, and I suppose I'd just been missing it more than I realized.

But this past weekend was no match for that Illinois city... who knew that so much else could happen right here at home. On Friday I got stuck in a flood, had someone run into my car in a parking lot, dressed in a Dirndl, chugged beer with the German club, bought shots for some European guys in a sketchy smokey bar, built an amazing art project, drove three hours through a hurricane, took Julie out for her 21st birthday in Houston, got pulled over and sobriety-tested while wearing boxers and a hoodie, lost my ID, found my ID, went to Buc-ees!!!, got home at 4 in the morning, went to church, cooked homemade biscuits, and got 1/4 through building a website.

Next weekend is La Grange and maybe Mexico; two weekends after that it's back to Chicago again. All with 6 bucks in my bank account and two massive blisters on my heels.

David was right. It's a pretty exhilarating feeling, to start conquering the world again.

on Projects

It had been a while since I worked on a project. A REAL project. Not just putting new wall hangers on the back of old pictures or buying organization at Target to try to make myself seem tidier.

Then, a gangsta-ass artist (ok not really) dropped a set of truly amazing paintings in my lap, and I felt inspired:



I thought to myself, I can't let this kid go to Chicago without making him something in return. Hours of sweating over a hot iron (no joke) I finally came up with this: a photograph printed on multiple pieces of fabric, sewn together with thick thread and stretched over a frame.










It feels good to do projects again.

on 238,000 Good Memories

I wrote this letter to Chevy today:

Dear Chevy,

This past weekend, my mother was involved in an accident which left her 2001 Tahoe totaled. I cannot tell you enough how much Mom loved this Tahoe (or the Taco, as we called it, though I have no idea why).

I grew up with Chevy. My family had Suburbans for as long as I can remember, until my mom "switched" to a Tahoe in 2001. My Grandaddy had a 'Burban with over 300,000 miles on it, and it was still running when we gave it away. My first car was even a Suburban, from the year I was born (1986)... ah, the good ol' days.

Anyway, I digress: Mom's Tahoe is now kaputt. She was pretty upset when it the accident happened, but even more upset when she found out there was nothing she could do to save the poor soul. And as she was unpacking the back--"for the last time," she said sadly--she made a comment that I will never forget. She said, "There are 238,000 good memories in this thing."

238,000 good memories. 238,000 miles of mission trips to Mexico (she'd always volunteer to drive us crazy kids there and back); 238,000 miles of school trips and football games (she was always the loudest in the stands); 238,000 miles of spontaneous road trips to the beach or the mountains... yes, I'd say she was quite right. 238,000 good memories.

It touched me enough to write you a letter about it, as I just wanted to let you know... as corny as it may seem, I don't know that those 238,000 miles could have ever been put on anything else. And, I do hope Mom gets a new Chevy soon... because she's got a lot more memories to go!

A Logo For Otto

I made a logo for the one and only Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer:



Ok, so it's kind of a knock-off. I don't think he'll mind ;)

on Shopping and Driving

I noticed yesterday that people drive their shopping carts the same way they drive their cars.

Instance 1: Man on Cell Phone
Scenario: I'm driving along in the right lane of a four-lane isle in target. A man takes a right into the isle, merging nicely in behind me, when he decides to step on it and pass me in the left lane. I'm ok with this--I'm going slower, he has the right to pass. As said man begins to speed up beside me, he gets a call on his cell phone. This, of course, causes him to slow down drastically, making the other fast-paced woman behind him come to a halting stop. Now, he's interchangeably increasing and decreasing his speed, not only making it impossible to pass him, but making it impossible for the other cart drivers to maintain a consistent rate of speed until their next isle exits. This man--I hate him. And he doesn't care, because he's on his cell phone and NOTHING ELSE is as important as that.

Instance 2: Soccer Mom in Mini Van
Scenario: The isles are bustling with traffic, each cart driver keeping to his or her own respective space. Some are reaching for pasta sauce, some for cookies, all anxious to go home and cook dinner. But then comes Mad Mom. She's got her two kids strapped into the front of the cart, and they're wailing about not getting toys. She's on a mission. She's gotta get home. She's gotta get the first load in the laundry. She's the only one with rights on the road right now, so get out of her way--and this is all completely logical to her. She's risking her kid's LIVES going 1/4 miles an hour through the isles, weaving in and out of traffic in a real-life Mario (Shopping) Kart. And she's winning.

Instance 3: Guy Who Doesn't Use His Blinker
Scenario: Ok, Ok, I know. Shopping carts don't have blinkers. BUT, there is a common courtesy when shopping that, if one is turning down the isle, he or she looks left, looks right, and looks left again, then heads visibly in the direction of the isle with a smile and a nod. It's a non-verbal communication that is essential to the shopping-with-a-shopping-cart experience, even more necessary when you're at the only grocery store in a 20-mile radius at 5:30 pm on a workday afternoon. But then there's that guy, who rams his cart into the center isle, or jerks into another lane, or cuts you off in the check-out line... all without the slightest signal of intention or direction. But why not? I mean, he's the only person in the store that really matters anyway.

Result: An Open Letter to Shoppers around the World
Dear Shoppers: Please be nice. Please be courteous. Please remember that there are other people who have to get places, too. Stay alive--don't text and drive.

on Sick

It's only happened to me a few times. Something makes me so upset that I get sick. Dizzy, nauseous, clammy, cold. Before I know it I'm worshiping the porcelain god, successfully having taken my mind off whatever was bothering me--even if only for a brief few seconds.

Before you decide that I'm embarking on a self-indulgent sob story, hear me out. This kind of thing, until recently, had only happened to me on extremely rare occasions. I don't really enjoy puking, and pepto just doesn't help. So, I decided that the next time I started thinking too hard, I'd Google myself a distraction that didn't involve having to eat another dinner.

What to Google? Funny YouTube videos? Seasons of The Office? Extra-Difficult Sudoku? I wasn't feelin' it. Digg was a bit too liberal today, and I still can't navigate Reddit without wanting to pull out my hair. Not even Tetris was helping. So what do I Google? "Something to make me happy."

After scrolling past the ad-words self-help sites, I came across a do-it-yourself guide to having 100 things to make you happy. Boy, talk about a distraction. I quickly opened TextEdit and thought, "Well, this is going to be easy."

Not so much.

After half an hour, I had a list of 18 things. It was harder than I thought.

1. Popcorn
2. Otto
3. Learning
4. Singing to music in the car
5. Fresh vegetables
6. Julie (and all of my family, really, but Julie especially)
7. John Knox Ranch
8. The feeling of somewhat sore muscles after a bout of strenuous exercise
9. Making art
10. Remembering a joke, and telling it again
11. Finishing a project, no matter how big or small
12. Homemade chocolate milkshakes
13. Courtesy
14. Finally putting away the clean laundry
15. Snail mail
16. The beach and summer's first sunburn
17. Accidentally-good photographs
18. Lazy evenings without the TV on

Unfortunately, the hardest thing was NOT including things that would get me thinking again. There are so many things that used to make me happy, that I would give a lot to have back. If I can only get to 18... it means I'm only 82 away from 100.

As an aside,
This is pretty helpful too:

on COMPUTERZ

For reasons I care not to elaborate upon, I found myself in the big city of Bandera this weekend in desperate need of a Compact Flash (CF) Card Reader. At the intersection of Main Street and Highway 16, I had three choices: a 1980s-inspired Super S, a "Gun & Pawn" down Main, and a little strip-mall store with a lime-green sign blaring "COMPUTERZ". Seeing as how the Super S and the Gun & Pawn had no guarantee of anyone knowing what a CF Card was, much less how to read one (is it like a Hallmark card or what?), I went with COMPUTERZ and crossed my fingers. At least this store had somewhat entered the 90s.

I pulled into the Chevron/Tattoo Parlor/COMPUTERZ parking lot, which was naturally filled with quad-cab Dodge Rams and F-250s and cute cowboys with too-tight blue jeans and steel-toed boots (this IS the Cowboy Capital of the World), my hopes began to dwindle. Three men tipped their hats at me from the car to the curb, and my hopes sank even further. CF was going to be as foreign here as Twitter and ethnic equality.

Opening the door, COMPUTERZ was exactly what I'd imagined it to be. An old guy with a half-blad head and twenty-year beard was sitting behind a counter that was decorated in bright green rope lights. Motorola flip phones from 1996 were stacked in the glass shelving underneath, and the walls were littered with changeable covers for the Noika 3310. I had stepped back in time a decade, and the cigarette-smoking beard dude didn't seem to mind being here.

"Can I help you?" he asked, putting his cigarette out on the countertop. "Sure," I replied. "I'm looking for a CF Card reader, or, at least for the cord to connect a card reader to a USB port."

I shouldn't have been shocked by his response. "A what? A cord for a card?"

Jesus. COMPUTERZ was still working in command prompt on MS DOS. "I'm looking for a memory card reader; if you don't have the reader itself, I'm looking for the cord that would potentially connect the reader to the USB port in the computer."

His reply was a muddled mix of "uh huh" and "what the hell", and I followed him back to the rear of the store, where he had cords of all kinds hanging from pegs in the wall. "Think you can find it over here?" he asked, looking down at me. Of course I could find it... but would I be locked in the store and stuffed in a closet in the process?

As I sifted through cords I'd definitely never seen before, dude picked up a different cigarette off a different desk and lit up. I found the cord I was looking for--though it looked like a beaver had attempted to build a chewed-up house out of it--before he could take his first long drag, and asked him how much he'd sell it to me for. "Twenty bucks," he said, and I couldn't help it: I laughed in his face. "Twenty bucks?!" I replied; "These things with the readers actually attached are 15 bucks brand new."

"Oh," he replied, somewhat puzzled. Then a look of clarity came over his face, and he re-put-out his cigarette stub. "You mean, one of these things?" He walked over to a visibly broken monitor and pulled a trusty Targus 6-in-1 card reader out from a heap of rubbish. "Yes," I said. "One of those things."

"Uh, twenty bucks." I laughed again. "Look, lady, do you want it or not?"

It was life or death; card reader or no card reader. If the luckiest I was going to get was a used, beaver-chewed card reader, I better take my luck and run. I had eighteen bucks in cash in my wallet, which was good enough for him. I collected my card reader--along with my wits--and dashed out the door. My three cowboy friends were still gathered in the parking lot. They politely nodded at me again, in succession.

***

I've lived in small towns all of my life. For a brief four months I lived in Denton, which is small town enough; for five years I lived in San Antonio which is smaller than people might think. But I grew up in a true small town, and reside in one now. I do so by choice. People in small towns have something that people in big cities do not: trust. We trust our neighbors; we trust our police officers and tax collectors; we trust people we won't ever even know. We do this, because without this trust, we'd just live in a smaller, shittier version of a "bad side of the city". Figuratively, of course.

Why COMPUTERZ brings me to appreciate this, I have no idea. I started thinking about Bandera as I drove away from that store, which turned my thoughts to Boerne and then to San Antonio. Certainly, had I walked into a store called COMPUTERZ in good ol' SA, it would be for a going-out-of-business battle that the local owner was losing to the new Best Buy across the street. Old dude with beard wouldn't be making his living anymore trying to cheat twenty bucks of ignorant-looking small girls. And three cowboys wouldn't be standing in the parking lot, waiting for the chance to get the door to the convenience store behind them.

Small towns hold these keys to the past--that, granted, aren't always the best for growth or life--that keep them rooted in what's important. Not what's important to the girl in the Passat that's just stopping by, but what's important to them, their fathers, their grandfathers, and what they want to teach as important to their sons and their grandsons.

I'm rambling. I guess what I meant to say by this whole story is that while the rest of the world has moved on to value THINGS, there are a handful of small towns out there that have shunned the moving on so that they can still value VALUES. How this came up from COMPUTERZ, I guess I'll never know.

on Faith

Nisi credideritis, non intelligetis.

on Teeth.

There is a song that goes, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth." Well, since I am missing my Upper Left Lateral, this song seems quite fitting. I wrote my parents a note saying that I am saving up money to buy my tooth for Christmas, and they set up a cool thing for me. So for the one person (maybe two) who ever read this, you can help me buy my next body part.



Dear friends and family members:
As most of you know, my status as a 'slack-jawed yokel' has far run its course, as the hole between my Upper Left Central tooth and my Upper Left Cuspid has become quite an annoying presence (or lack thereof). Though I have had my fair share of fun pretending to have my tooth fall out if someone accidentally bumps into my mouth, or taking it out to be a farmgirl for Halloween, it is time to fill that hole with a shiny new piece of porcelain tooth. As we look towards a new year, I am also looking forward to having my Dental insurance run out, so I am in need of filling this toothless gap as soon as possible. What a fantastic gift it would be, to find a shiny new tooth under my Christmas tree!

In other words, all I want for Christmas is my one front tooth, and I can't do it without your help (aka money). I know that money is really impersonal, but really--you have no idea what a personalized gift this would be for me. You could even tell all your friends that you helped buy someone a body part for Christmas.

on Chips

I will never be able to move to Mexico if I don't stop wasting all my money on these damned potato chips:

on Thailand

What is it about a warm beer buzz in the early morning hours that makes me want to move to Thailand?

It wasn't my idea. It was just a thought at first, spawned by Lord knows what crisis or contemplation. It was a "Let's move to Thailand" that didn't have any seriousness or weight. And hell, why not? With a 500$/month price tag, it doesn't sound all that bad.

Enter logic and reason, telling me that I couldn't survive a day without HEB or Family Guy, or that it's probably pretty difficult to pay student loan bills on time while living across the world. I suppose this is where the beer buzz comes in. The logic and the reason start to fade away and I'm left with the burning urge to go somewhere, anywhere, if just to have the experience of starting something new.

A simple Google search in the middle of the work day brought the logic and reason back to reality. Evidently, it's not that easy to move to Thailand... but doesn't that make getting there all the more intriguing? Evidently, it's not that easy to find a job in Thailand, unless you planning on teaching or making your own. Evidently, it't just not what you might expect.

Honestly, Thailand, I didn't have that high of expectations in the first place. Sure, it wouldn't be the United States--not Texas or Boerne or a 900 square foot apartment with central air and heat. But there you go: it's not the United States. And, sure, I'd miss my family and my three or four friends, but what is life if you don't go fucking crazy and just pick up and move to Thailand?

At 2:30 in the afternoon, I've been staring at a computer for 6 straight hours today, and though I don't have that warm beer buzz yet this afternoon, I am starting to realize why that "Move to Thailand" voice is getting louder and louder.

Ugh. I don't think I even know where Thailand is on a map.

on Health and Health Care

I'm torn. I am too poor to afford Health Insurance but I do not want anyone else paying for it for me. I'm supposed to be a good Conservative here, but I'm torn.

Before my recent medical debacle, I have always considered myself a fairly healthy person. I eat right and don't like dessert. I don't really exercise that much, but I love being outside, and figure that I get enough exercise being mad and storming around the office all day, running amok when possible.

But the time has come for my fantastic medical insurance to run out. And I mean fantastic. I had coverage for anything and everything thanks to my short time at the Express-News. Obama (yeah, I know) even extended my COBRA coverage and helped me pay for it--and I didn't even have to ask him!

However, now I must ween myself off government assistance and dive into the world of the self-insured. Self-employed, self-sufficient, I might as well be self-insured, too; right? One small problem: I flat out can't afford it. I cannot afford to pay some dude to sell me some other dude's promise that IF I get sick I MIGHT have some financial assistance for it.

Perhaps I am way too uneducated on public policy to even begin to understand this debate. Or too conservative at heart. Or something. Do conservatives even have hearts? Anyway. I'm torn, and I don't know that there is any easy answer besides "Get Richer."

on The Horrible yet Undeniable Fact that One Cannot Possibly Repossess Lost Time

I was sitting on the couch a couple of evenings ago, watching Seinfeld re-runs on TV, scratching my way-too-spolied cat under his cute little chin, when it struck me: I am sitting on the couch, watching Seinfeld re-runs on TV, scratching my way-too-spolied cat under his cute little chin. Not just any couch: my couch. Not just any TV: my TV. And not just any cat: my cat. All these things are mine mine mine.

Wow, I'm vapid and narcissistic and it's only 9 p.m.!

But back to me: for a fleeting moment, I looked around my wonderful and wonderfully clean apartment and realized that I am proud of myself. I am proud of the efforts I have made to be who, where, and what I am today. I'm a pretty decent person, though sometimes I drink too much. I'm mostly nice to people, and believe that getting through the day with a smile on my face is one of my best qualities. I have an amazing job that I absolutely love and wouldn't trade for anything, I have a cat who wakes me up in the morning with cold little nose kisses, and I have a fireplace. A fireplace!

For a 23 year old with bundles of student loans and a car that I don't actually own, I think I'm doing pretty well. I work, I make money, I pay bills, and I buy myself a bottle of wine at the end of the week. I'm happy; I'm supposed to be.

I guess this is the point in my life and in this ridiculously redundant blog entry that I go ahead and admit it: I would give anything to NOT be where I am today.

I remember when I could stay up till 5 or 6 in the morning, crash for a 40 minute nap, and then ace a final exam at 8:30. I want it back. I remember when I could sit down with a different group of friends every day for lunch, happy with pizza or Ramen or an extra-large Coca Cola from the fountain. I want it back. I remember vodka and kool-aid, the ability to study for 48 hours straight, the sanity to deviate from a schedule for a road trip or a trip to the room down the hall.

There was a piano in the practice rooms in the music building; a grand piano, and the keys were perfect. It wasn't always in tune. It didn't matter. I had a magical card with a magical magnetic strip that would open the door to this magical piano. Maybe I just miss that card the most.

Jeanna, here's your lesson: the couch that's yours, the TV that's yours, the cool orange light-up flowers and the Teflon frying pans don't mean shit without the things that actually do mean something. And since, it seems, I can't get those things back--no Coates or piano practice rooms or hammocks and 6-packs--I must do my best to get them again.

I feel like I'm writing fiction, or a terrible Lifetime screenplay. But it's how I feel: I want these things again, the things that aren't "things," but memories and smiles and laughter and energy. And I will have them.

on Last-Minute Mornings

It's 7:06 a.m. and I've been awake for two hours and two minutes now. After propelling myself groggily out of bed and stumbling over to the coffee maker—a pot this morning, instead of a cup—I sat down in front of my computer and told myself something I haven't told myself since the end of my thesis days in college: Write, Jeanna, just effing write.

It feels like it's been forever since I've truly procrastinated. Have I been procrastinating procrastination? Before I confuse myself, I'll get to the point: why is it so damn exhilarating for me to do everything last-minute? I'm staring at a 2000 word essay here; why the hell am I staring at it on deadline morning? Shouldn't this have been done days and days ago?

Well, yes. Should being the operative word. I can think of so many "should"s when it comes to producing work last-minute, and they all, now in retrospect, make me smile. My best piece of art for 2D class was done in 15 minutes; my favorite (and final) essay for American Lit was done five hours before class started, most of it in my head while listening to the Quadrophenia album in its entirety; my senior thesis, for the year I had to work on it, wasn't essentially even started until 6 weeks before its final due date. Yet these are works that I remember, that I remember being the most proud of. Why?

With all of the college memory throwback—hell, I talked to my best UNT friend on the phone last night and relived half of my best college days anyway, might as well go all out this morning (in light of the theme of procrastination and still not getting my story written)—I remembered a website that Career Services or Academic Advancement or some department pointed us to during our first weeks of school: the CalTech Counseling Center site on Procrastination. Notice their reasons for procrastination: Avoidance, A Matter of Will, A Matter of Time, of Approach, even the Failure of Success. If you really read the list, you might find it as bogus as I do.

This website, and the countless others in the Google searchbar like it, all list the same, common factors in procrastination and a procrastinating lifestyle. The psychological evidence seems to prove beyond a theoretical doubt that putting things off is just a superficial way of putting one's self off, not giving the self enough credit to do the things the self strives to achieve. Studies show that procrastinators have to completely change their lives to make room for their last-minute habits, and that, when those habits are not psychologically dealt with, they can have physically adverse effects on things far from homework or getting to the game on time.

However, every single one of these bullshitters probably put together their respective websites last minute, forgetting the one and only thing that makes procrastination fully, truly, vividly worthwhile: the amazing caffeine buzz from the two—or five, or seven—cups, instead of one, of amazingly dark coffee and the warmth, the rush, the elation one feels inside, saying, "Hey, look at me. I did that, it's DONE, and I'm bad ass."

Ha! 24 minutes later, I can get back to music review crunch time. Let me just go pour myself another cup.

on Games

I was really, really sick on Friday, and I tried to start writing a blog entry. I was watching a movie, and I heard a quote that struck me with a great conundrum. I couldn't figure out how to begin the entry, so I just started: "I'm watching this movie, and one of the main characters just said, 'Life is not a game.'"

So I started thinking: if life is not a game, then what is it? And I tried to look up quotes about life not being a game. Turns out, I found more quotes about life being a game instead of not being one. Life seems to be a game of basketball, chance, checkers, chess, cat and mouse, Chutes and Ladders, football, Life the board game, poker, roulette, soccer, tennis, volleyball, wit, and wonder. And a whole bunch of semi-famous people all had advice to offer me on how to play the game of life, and what rules I should (but don't have to) follow in order to win, albeit gracefully and with little controversy mixed in.

This, however, is where my conundrum begins to fester. According to [insert random quote attribute here], the rules of life tell me that I can't double-dribble, catch a bullet, have an Ace in the hole, go first if I'm black, set a mousetrap, roll the dice out of turn, use my hands, or let the ball drop. When I go out of bounds I have to start over, when I land on the "Go to College" space I have to pay 40 grand, and when I score no points it's "love". King me.