Sometimes I get in these moods, ones where I feel like I’ve completely fallen behind on everything life has told me to catch up on. It’s usually during the aftermath of something wonderful. Maybe after two months straight of weekends that I’ll later describe as “the best times of my life.” Times when hangovers are worth every minute of uninhibited laughter. Times when money has been fleeting, despite not making enough to cover it. Times when I don’t care about anything other than that exact moment I’m in.

And then it catches up. All the things that were supposed to be polluting my head come crashing down on me as if to say, “Hi, I’m here, can you pay attention to me now?” It catches up a lot when I’m alone for a long period of time after not being alone for a long period of time. When the world around me has quieted down and I can finally step back to hear the own buzzing in my head.

And sometimes I look back on that whirlwind of living in the moment and I see it littered with some questionable choices. I see that, at certain times, I could have talked myself into running towards the sun, if I really put my mind to it. I felt fearless and triumphant and invincible. And, then, maybe I’ll watch a movie. Or three movies. Because I’m home alone on a Saturday afternoon after having too much whiskey and someone was sharing my bed the night before, so I’m tired and my defenses are down.

And I’m watching movies and I can’t tell if I’m disappointed in myself or if I’m inspired. Which is a weird distinction, because you wouldn’t think those two could be confused. But, when you think about it, severe disappointment can cause an incredible amount of urgency that swirls you into a fit of productivity, as if this is mother nature’s very own coke high.

Because I get in these moods, the calms after the storms, and I feel like this is the day. This is the day where I’ll write my book. I’ll lock myself up in my apartment and my eyelids will go black because I won’t sleep until the manuscript is shipped off to every publisher I can think of. This will be the day that I write love letters to every boy that’s ever had a stronghold on my heart. This will be the day that starts everything, the day that I’ll look back upon and say, “I remember this one day where I wrote the best thing I’ve ever written in my entire life.”

It’s like a fire boils inside my stomach and I feel so overwhelmed with inspiration that instead of actually writing the best thing I’ve ever written, I end up pacing the apartment, drinking gallons of water in an effort to give my body something else to do other than feel let down. And I watch another movie. And the next day, that same boy comes over again and I forget about the fire and find myself smack right in the middle of another day in which the moment, the seconds, the milliseconds, are the only things that matter.

And so it goes.

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Let me start this off by saying that I am literally hobbling around everywhere because Nicole thought it would be a good idea for us to start the 30-Day Shred because apparently she hates me and hates when I am able to sit down without screaming, “Ow ow ow ow! I hate Jillian Michaels! Whoever invented Jillian Michaels’ sucks!” But, this blog post is not about The Shred because Nicole already called dibs on that topic.

Yes, we call dibs on blog topics.

Yes, we really are that sick.

Or, maybe we really are that smart and clever and pretty?

I’ll let you decide.

I’m sticking with the latter, in case you wanted to know my stance on the issue.

Also, don’t hate me but I kind of forgot I had a blog for a good week. I’d sit there and be all, “Hm, it feels as though I’m forgetting something” and I’d search through my purse and realize I had my keys, wallet, phone, and then just skip along. Silly me! I have everything I need right here with me!

OH HOW WRONG I WAS.

I had completely forgotten that there was a blog here and that people might, you know, some day want me to update it. So, hi, here I am. I’m doing that thing where I remember I have a blog and therefore start writing in it with the hopes that you beautiful people will submit clever comments that I can read over and then proceed to chuckle to myself about how funny my blog commenters are. Yes, I do this. Yes, I have a sort of hall of fame for blog commenters. No, you can’t see it. Yes, it’s because I haven’t actually written any of this hall of fame down. Yes, eventually, I have a blog topic. I think. Or, I thought I did until I started writing and now I’ve used up half of my self-allotted word count without making a point like, at all. So, either this blog post is about to be extraordinarily long or I’m just going to cut myself off mid-sentence in a strange attempt to monitor my own rambling. Yes, I’ve had too much coffee. Yes, that’s basically everyday for me. No, I’m not drunk. Yes, I’m telling the truth. And yes, it was fine for you to assume I was drunk.

Okay, you were right. Fine. FINE. You were right. I have no blog topic. Well, I did when I started. That part was true. But then I started writing and rambling and now I’ve realized that all I actually want to do is write you a list of the notable things going on as of late. Which is to say, you should tell me the notable things happening in your life so we can be notable together. And then we can frolic. Wait, frolic isn’t spelled “frolick”? That’s some bullshit. I used to think in another life I could have been a spelling bee champion (I know guys, I dream big), but then I realized that I think both frolic and nudge are spelled with k’s. Maybe I just feel bad for the letter k. I feel as though it should get more play in the spelling community. It’s like c’s red-headed stepchild, except c is a little bastard that can’t make up its mind about how it should be pronounced. Do I have to put quotes around letters? Is it k or “k”? I hate grammar. And spelling. And spelling bees.

Yes, I’m bitter. For now on, I spell things like this: frolick, knudge, koffee, katerpillar, and kunt. Whoa, guys, kunt is a word! It doesn’t have the squiggly line under it. Let me see what it means. Hold please. Um. It’s not in the dictionary? NOW I DISTRUST THE SQUIGGLY LINES. YOU CAN’T DISTRUST THE RED SQUIGGLY LINES. THIS IS ALL YOU HAVE. I MEAN, THIS IS ALL I HAVE. I MEAN, THAT SOUNDS PATHETIC.

Uh, guys, I’m over my word limit. No list of notable things from me today. You send me yours. I’ll live vicariously through the cool things that have happened to you, because I’m now on the verge of a spelling and grammar related breakdown.

Woe is fucking me.

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This past Saturday morning, after a frighteningly large amount of pomegranate vodka, Nicole snuck into my bed at exactly 6:01 a.m. to wake me up, since she’s a raging insomniac and gets terribly impatient when I, you know, would like to sleep. She wants to play. At 6:01 a.m. on a Saturday morning. After a night where we, in the midst of talking, happened to down an entire fifth of vodka in the span of two hours. After the last drop was poured from the bottle, we looked at each other and said, “Now, wait, how the hell did that happen?” And, like any other responsible adults, we decided to ponder the whereabouts of our missing vodka over more vodka at our neighborhood bar. Naturally.

But this blog post is not about the alcohol problem Nicole and I clearly have. It’s about how she came into my bed during the wee hours of the morning and played “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz on her iPhone while telling me about the dream she had just woken up from.

Apparently, we were at a show together where there was a certain someone who had his eye on me. We’ll call him Jake, because I like that name. (HI JAKE) And, once the show was over, Jake came over to me where he was trying to spit some game. Part of said game-spitting was him telling me that he knew Taio Cruz and that Taio happened to be backstage and would I like to meet him?

WOULD I?

OH, YES YES I WOULD.

So, Jake takes Nicole and I backstage to meet Taio. And, I do what any other woman would do when faced with hot hot hot Taio Cruz. I sleep with him. Of course. I mean, OF COURSE.

And, in her dream, Nicole has to sort of comfort Jake because he was stupid enough to introduce me to Taio Cruz as a way to IMPRESS ME. Like, who does that? There’s just no situation in which I’m going to sleep with anyone over Taio. Unless that someone is John Mayer. Or Jim from The Office. Or that guy in The Tudors who’s really hot. No, not Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Too obvious. The other guy. The one who marries the king’s sister. Except the king’s sister dies, so he’s single again, which is to say that if it was the 1700′s, I’d open up my corset for the Duke of Wellington. Or the Duke of Suffolk. Whoever he is. I’m confused. Where was I?

Oh yes. TAIO.

A few things of note here:

1. Nicole is such a good friend that she gets me laid in her own dreams to really, really hot men. You’re all jealous she’s not your best friend.

2. Except she’s probably having sex with John Mayer in her dreams and isn’t telling me. BITCH.

3. As a general rule, you should probably never introduce me to Taio Cruz if you are hoping that I might potentially sleep with you. It’s safe to say that the situation will not lean in your favor and you’ll end up spilling your guts out to Nicole, who’s holding out for John Mayer until further notice.

The end.

Bye bye.

HI TAIO

So, I should be working right now. Nicole made me this nice little index card of all the things I need to get done today, something she does everyday, something that she has trained me to need, so much so that when I’m away from her, I make her send me a virtual index card, otherwise I’m like a lost cat searching for their yum yums. Or something like that.

However, today, for some reason, I strayed. I strayed from the almighty index card and decided to make a video in iMovie, which is to say, go me. Seriously. I’ve come a long way in iMovie since that Vegas video Nicole and I made which, at the end of it, she scolds me for not knowing how to turn off the recorder. But, this time! THIS TIME! I found a way to splice TWO videos together, make the sound on the original videos go away, and then add music to the clip. I even added fades! FADES! MUSIC!

This is a glorious day for me. And, I know, you’re all wondering, “but, Jamie, aren’t you like, good with technology?”

Yes. I kind of am. BUT iMOVIE? I don’t know. Shit’s not intuitive. And maybe you’re sitting there being all, “dude, my five year old cousin knows how to use iMovie.” To which I’ll respond with, “well, maybe I only know how to do complex technological things like make websites look pretty.”

Also, I HAVE TO GET BACK TO WORK. HI SHATTERBOXX CLIENTS!

Oh, wait! Here’s the video I made! I didn’t shoot the footage, but I was there and I added the music and and and GO ME! I suggest you get high, set this puppy to full screen, and enjoy. Or, you know, don’t. Because drugs are bad. Tsk tsk.

{picture credit: me, bitches}

So, I just got back from the Backstreet Boys concert at the Warfield and I know, you are either jealous or you want to judge me. If you want to judge me, then sh sh sh, bye bye. None of that here. Because, THE BACKSTREET BOYS ARE THE SHIT. Don’t even lie that when “Everybody” comes on, you’re not going to scream at the top of your lungs, “BACKSTREET’S BACK, ALRIGHT!” If you don’t want to scream that at the top of your lungs, then I don’t know what you’re doing reading my blog. Or existing, for that matter. You judge me for liking BSB? I JUDGE YOU FOR NOT.

JUDGY JUDGES AT YOU, BSB HATER.

For real though. My best friend of like 14 years, Jessica and I used to squeal like schoolgirls over the Backstreet Boys. And *NSYNC because, I mean, *NSYNC is for life, but they aren’t together anymore, so BSB comes in a very, VERY close second. So, when Jessica heard they were playing tonight, she called me this morning an obscene amount of times before I finally decided to pick up. Then, she’s all, “JAMIE TELL ME YOU DO NOT HAVE ANY PLANS TONIGHT!” She was like, out of breath. Calm, woman. Calm.

“Uh… no plans?”

“OKAY GOOD BECAUSE I BOUGHT YOU A BACKSTREET BOYS TICKET AS A LATE BIRTHDAY PRESENT!”

[inaudible noises]

So, firstly, I downloaded every Backstreet Boy song I didn’t already have and I played all their albums on shuffle the entire day and got so pumped that I thought I would fall over from excitement. Yes, I realize I sound insane. And yes, I understand if this changes your entire view of me. BUT THE BACKSTREET BOYS ARE A PART OF ME, PEOPLE. A PART!

Plus, THEY ARE ALL SO HOT. Like, when I was a wee little one, I had no idea what to do with boys, so my crushes on the likes of Justin Timberlake and Nick Carter (AKA, SWOON) were sort of, I don’t know, harmless? But now. OH NOW. I know what I can do with Nick’s parts and what Nick’s parts could do to me and BACKSTREET COULD BE BACK, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. WINK WINK NUDGE NUDGE.

And, so we went. And it was pure glory. I sang at the top of my lungs to all my favorite songs and, halfway through, Jessica remarked that “we’re going to tell our kids about this!” To which I responded, “YES!” which is funny because I don’t even know if I want kids, but I kind of want kids just to be able to tell them stories about when I went to that Backstreet Boys concert. And they’ll be all, “Backstreet Boys!? Yeah, I totally heard them on the oldies station, mom!” Except it will be the future and there won’t be radio stations; it will be called something else.

But I’m not from the future, so I don’t know what it will be called yet. Probably something like, “I heard them on the oldies station IN MY BRAIN.” Because, in the future, there will be microchips installed in our children’s brains which will act as iPods so we don’t have to waste all our goddamn money on Apple products, especially since those bastards always seem to put out some new and hot upgrade of THE PRODUCT I JUST BOUGHT A MONTH EARLIER.

Like, fuck off iPhone 4. I JUST BOUGHT THE iPHONE 3GS! And, I realize I was behind on that technology, BUT GIVE ME A BREAK, APPLE. I’m trying to keep up. By the time I have enough money to buy your hot new product, it’s already a year old and I end up getting blindsided by THE NEW RELEASE. It’s like I keep finally getting the hottest boyfriend ever only to be totally screwed over because SOMEONE HOTTER COMES ALONG THAT I CAN’T HAVE BECAUSE I ALREADY HAVE A BOYFRIEND.

fsdkgjdfkgjhdfg

Deep breaths, Jamie.

Okay, hi, I’m back.

At this point, I’m going to leave you with a video I took on my shitty, antique iPhone 3GS at the BSB concert. It’s a video of the song “More Than That” which you’ll start singing involuntarily and you’ll go, “How the flying hell do I remember these lyrics?” I did the same thing. I was all, “I can’t tell you when the what World War I ended, but OH CAN I SING EVERY LYRIC TO EVERY BACKSTREET BOYS SONG. RESPECT, PEOPLE. RESPECT.” Now that’s what I call priorities.

Update: I just watched and listened to this video and it’s horrid. Like, that’s the worst audio I’ve ever heard. It sounds like they are screaming. Which they kind of were, but I didn’t notice because I was all, “NICK TAKE MY BRA TAKE ME HAVE MY BABIES I LOVE YOU FOREVER!”

And, on that note, would you please excuse me? I have some dignity I seemed to have misplaced.

{flickr credit}

Life in the digital age can be quite strange at times. Like when life becomes death and someone’s Facebook profile becomes a very awkward and haunting shrine to the life they once had. I had a friend who passed away a couple years ago and his MySpace turned into a sort of weird vigil area where people would write to him, like he’s, ya know, checking his MySpace up in Heaven. With his WiFi. And his MacBook. Of course. Totally.

However, wasn’t it only a matter of time before someone capitalized on this budding industry? Why yes it was. Social Media for the Deceased! Yay! So morbid!

Enter My Webwill. Your life online after death. According to their website, “My Webwill allows you to make decisions about your online life after death. You can choose to deactivate, change or transfer your accounts, like Twitter, Facebook or your blog. At the time of your death we perform your wishes.” And then if you watch their video, they will also send out emails and change statuses at the time of your death.

…

THIS IS THE BEST THING THAT I’VE EVER HEARD OF EVER.

Can you IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES? Oh my god. I’m so excited! The jokes! The things I’ll do! The emails I’ll send! I’ll freak all my loved ones (and enemies) out! Exclamation point!

So, being the morbid and weird person that I am, I compiled a list of the things I’d do using My Webwill! Sorry, mom! So! Many! Exclamation! Points! Way! Too! Irrationally! Excited!

Is it weird that I kind of want to die, so I can do all of this? Like, that’s really strange. Like, I should be committed for even thinking these thoughts.

BUT I DON’T CARE! Without further ado, my life online after death! I’M SO EXCITED.

1. Have them delete this blog entry, so no one knows I had these plans

2. Send an email to all the boys who ever dicked me over
Subject: I am dead now.
Message: And I just thought you should know that your penis is small and my orgasms? Fake. All fake. Kiss kiss bang bang, Jamie

3. Update my Facebook & Twitter status for five days, starting with the day after I died
Update 1: Judgment Day. Had a pretty cool discussion with God today. We went through my entire life and man, I had some good times. A little too much wine, but overall pretty damn killer. God was impressed. He forgave me for that one time in Italy…
Update 2: They let me into Heaven. I’m just as surprised as you all are! Heaven is pretty boring, so I’ll probably end up down in hell. So, Nicole? I’m still saving you a bunk.
Update 3: Went exploring today and guys! Guys! Guess what! Biggie, 2Pac and Michael Jackson are here. Apparently they’re letting anyone into Heaven, nowadays…
Update 4: Um, hey, I’m kinda bored up here. Can someone cool go ahead and die? Bring whiskey.
Update 5: I FOUND CHOM CHOM!

4. Send an email to all the people I didn’t really like
Subject: I’m not really dead.
Message: I’m just waiting for a zombie apocalypse. When that happens (and it will, believe me), I’m coming for you first. Mmmmm, brains.

5. Send emails to random people in my life and make them think I’m spying on them
Subject: Dearest Jane
Message: That outfit you’re wearing today? Hideous. Girl. Come on. Didn’t I teach you anything about fashion? Those shoes with that shirt? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED.

Subject: Dear [REDACTED]
Message: I have it on good authority that JESUS IS WATCHING YOU. TSK TSK.

6. Update my LinkedIn
Job title: Recruiter for Hell
Employer: Lucifer, Inc.
Main duties: Convincing people to make bad decisions and to sin.
Testimonial: “Jamie is a natural! You’d think she was making bad decisions and sinnin’ her entire life. She hardly needed any training before she was down on Earth helping with recruitment of the world’s most badass sinners!” —The Devil

7. Update my flickr from time to time with pictures I Photoshop before I die.
You know, pictures of me with Jesus. And with dead celebrities. And with my dog. A lot of which will feature a Jamie with her thumbs up, proudly dead and hobnobbin’ it with all the other dead people. The one I take with Jimi Hendrix will show me giving you the finger though. Just, ya know, for good measure. Some sample pictures for your viewing pleasure:

God. This is a terrible blog entry. I’m so going to hell for this.

{flickr credit}

Living in the world of Google images, WebMD and Grey’s Anatomy, I’ve found that it is easier to be a hypochondriac now that there is a plethora of information at our disposal. Do you have a headache on a random Tuesday afternoon? Well, hm, according to the plot line of Grey’s, you might have a brain tumor. And, Dr. Derek Shepherd may be able to find an experimental surgery to save you, all the while saving his own relationship problems. He’s a superhero. Okay so, you’re right, I have been watching way too much Grey’s lately, because Nicole found out I hadn’t really seen the show all the way through and insisted I sit on the couch and watch horrific medical emergencies happen over and over and over again until every time my thumb hurts I’m convinced I have some life threatening version of carpal tunnel and if I don’t get Bailey to operate on me RIGHT THIS SECOND, then I surely will DIE. DEAD DIE FOREVER.

Which then made me start thinking about this idea of hypochondria. I definitely know I’m already predisposed to it since my mother is a professional hypochondriac (sorry mom, but it’s true). Every time I see this woman, she’s all, “My eyes are so swollen! I ate something bad!” And she’s allergic to something new every other week. A cough isn’t just the cold; it’s bronchitis. So, I get it. I GET IT. I have the hypochondriac blood in me. It’s pretty much inevitable that I will probably die from manifesting some rare disease in my head that they will have to name “The Varon.” People will be all, “Well, my symptoms are a mild headache, a little pressure in my index finger, and swollen eyes. Whattya think it is, Doc?” “Sounds like ya came down with The Varon. You have a week to live. Bye bye.”

However, my physical hypochondria, er, ahem, FUTURE hypochondria in no way even somewhat a little rivals my self-improvement hypochondria (AKA, self-improvemachondria, which is the technical word I came up with for an ailment I’m sure you have as well). This is when you become terribly addicted to self-help blogs and books and all of a sudden, you’ve diagnosed yourself with an anxiety disorder, a commitment problem, and an inability to set short-term goals. All of a sudden, every single book title applies to you and you’re taking the quizzes at the front of every book in Borders, frantically hoping that ONE OF THESE DAYS you’ll be able to answer “no” to, “Do you constantly feel restless?”

Based on every single self-improvement book, I am a commitment-phobe who is also a hopeless romantic with mild anxiety, a tendency towards perfectionism, a control problem, but also no self-control, an obsessive personality, but also someone who is guarded, but also someone who lets too many people in, and also a terrible multitasker while also being the world’s best multitasker and OH DEAR GOD SHUT IT DOWN.

You all do this too, right? I can’t be the only person who assumes every single self-improvement book is applicable to my life. I just can’t. Please tell me I can’t. Help. Please write a book called, Self-Improvement Hypochondria: How To Know You Have It & How To Beat It Once You Have Self-Diagnosed Yourself.

Or maybe I should write that book, because, clearly, this is a topic I am quite well-versed in. Except, according to self-improvement books all along the watchtower, I am far too unfocused to take on a project like that, even though, then, some books will tell me that my ambition gets in the way of my love life and oh my god, I’m doing it again.

Help.

Stop me.

Tell me I’m not crazy. TELL ME!

Oh god, I have a headache now. I mean, I have a brain tumor now. A BRAIN TUMOR.

flickr credit

In terms of intelligence, I consider myself to be somewhat above average and yet… AND YET. There are some things, just, some of those things that, even when someone explains them to me, my brain tends to implode upon itself and I’m left there with drool coming out of my mouth, pointing at the shiniest thing. Or, you know, I just nod like I understand, but really? I have no for serious clue what the person is talking about and I don’t want them to think I’m an imbecile so I’m all, “Yeah, totally, astrophysics, totally, aced that class, no big.” I DIDN’T EVEN TAKE ASTROPHYSICS BECAUSE WHY WOULD I? MY BRAIN. MY POOR BRAIN.

Here’s a list of things that I don’t understand, even though people have sat me down, put a beer in front of me, and took it upon themselves to make me understand. Much to their chagrin, my eyes proceeded to gloss over or I reached for my phone and was all, “Mmhmm, yeah, definitely listening… sure… go on, yep yep yep.” I realize that this might make me seem like an asshole, but would it make you feel better if, instead of an asshole, we assumed I was just kind of dumb? Okay. Great. Let’s go with that.

1. Russia
See, there’s this map of the world on the wall of our apartment. And, every time I look at that goddamn map, I think, “WHAT IS RUSSIA!” Because, I don’t understand what Russia is. Like, it’s so big and it’s in two different continents and it seems pretty cold and I mean, who lives there? Who actually lives in Russia? I just don’t understand. It’s so big. That’s what she said. But seriously, so big. And it was the Soviet Union at some point, but I don’t even know and there was a Cold War, but my ability to retain historical knowledge has been damaged potentially by whiskey, so really, at the end of the day, I’m very confused about the state of Russia and what its purpose is. Oh god. Please don’t kill me, Russians. Seriously, I come in peace. Well, I’m not actually in Russia, nor will I be there at any point in the near future, but when I do eventually go to Russia, I’ll come in peace. I think. Or maybe they’ll ban me because of this blog post. I can’t be entirely sure.

2. LOST
See, I have a love slash hate relationship with LOST. I was convinced to watch this show and spent a considerable amount of time catching up on all the many upon many episodes over a specific Spring Break in which I apparently had no life to attend to. I caught up on that Spring Break to Season 4 and all it left me was headaches, terrible eye strain and questions concerning polar bears, Dharma Initiatives and something or other about time travel. Since that Spring Break, I continued, faithfully, to keep up on LOST and you know what LOST? I’D LIKE MY GODDAMN THOUSANDS OF HOURS BACK. Because, now the show has ended and it was terribly unfulfilling and people keep being all, “Wait, you didn’t get the ending? Whoa! Here’s what happened…” And then my mind just stops functioning and I want to smack the person who is trying to explain LOST to me, because MY BRAIN CANNOT COMPUTE. In my world, time travel and parallel universes and maybe purgatory or basically MAGIC doesn’t exist. So, my brain, being rooted completely in reality, cannot comprehend an island in which people can live forever and potentially turn into monsters made of smoke. I’m sorry. It’s just not possible. Kiss kiss no bang bang.

3. Geometry
Geometric theories? Finding the areas of arbitrary shapes? Yeah, bro, that class was super useful. All day I’m calculating the areas of triangles and squares. ALL DAY.

4. How any of the following actually work: television, internet, radio
Nope. No clue. Don’t even try.

5. Why people like Jack Johnson
He’s terrible. He’s boring. And EVERY SINGLE SONG SOUNDS EXACTLY THE SAME. Every single song sounds like something you’d listen to while high on a beach lounging in a hammock in Hawaii. Which is cool for like, the two times I’ve been to Hawaii, but all other days? No. His music is so impractical and stupid and don’t even link me to a song you think I’ll really like, because I promise you, I have been through this with diehard Jack Johnson fans and what ends up happening is they run out of the room crying, clutching their precious CD, yelling, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND JACK JOHNSON!” And then I go back to listening to good music, like Kings of Leon and Bon Iver and people who are actually talented and not just potheads on a beach with a fucking ukelele.

Whoa, Jamie, have an opinion. Jeez.

Okay, all of you sexy people out there. Tell me. What things do you not understand? Maybe I will understand them and it will make me feel triumphant and superior. Or maybe you’ll just list off a lot of things I also don’t understand and I’ll feel even more like a jackass. Guess we’ll see! GOD I CAN’T WAIT.

{picture credit}

Hi everyone. How are you? Are you good? Are you in a funk? Are you feeling like you need a little pick-me-up in the form of fermented sugar? How about a latte? God. I drank a latte at 9pm tonight, which was a terrible idea considering that, right now, it’s 11:15pm and I’m really not tired at all. Also, I do not like how the proper grammatical way to display time is 11:15 p.m.. That’s just too many periods. I get very confused. If this were a Facebook post and if Facebook didn’t get rid of the “dislike” button, I’d dislike the APA grammatical style of time display. Yeah, that’s quite a sentence. I know.

See? Too much coffee. This is Jamie’s brain on a Venti Vanilla Latte at 9pm. Not to be confused with 9 p.m. which is bullshit. But, okay, fine, I’ll stop talking about grammar.

So, hi. Yeah. I was in a funk for a while. I think I’m seeing the sun through the trees, or some sort of metaphor to say that yes, I feel like I’m coming out of it. I was spending a lot of time balancing the desire to live in the moment while simultaneously wanting so much from the future. And I was spending a lot of time not knowing how to act socially when I know I’m not interested in making my life messy with the likes of the opposite sex at this moment. Because, I’m ready to be back out traveling, a wanderer of the world, a person who glides in and out of airports whilst continuing to look fabulous and feel fresh and free.

I’m also trying to be a woman who has her nails painted all the time. So, we win some and we lose some.

The good news is, I feel as though I’ve busted out of my funk. The bad news is there was a funk to bust out of. All the same, I learned, I grew, and I understood even more what makes me happy and what makes me feel like I’m living at my best.

One definable thing is that I need to be social without pressure. The second I start thinking that it might be cool to meet someone or when I pile on expectations, I have already ruined a perfectly fine night. I overthink. And then think some more on top of that. But, the second I stopped putting any pressure on myself was the second I started carrying on conversations with taxi drivers and getting scolded at by the manager of a restaurant because Nicole and I were too busy charming the chefs that they got distracted from their jobs and basically talking to anyone that would let me ask them a bazillion questions about their life.

I feel back to me. I feel I’ve come back into the skin of the person I want to continue working towards becoming. I want to always be the type of person that can strike up a memorable conversation with the woman standing in front of me in line for the bathroom. If anything, just to be able to hear about the new guy she’s dating and watch that glow in her eye widen as she reaches for her phone to show me a picture of him. These are the moments that can fall between the cracks of big, huge life-changing events.

And, it is moments like that that I think I forgot how much I loved.

Also, I’m writing this after I’ve come back from my first bartending class. Oh, did I tell you I’m going to school to become a bartender? Why yes, I am. Don’t worry, Shatterboxx isn’t going anywhere (I mean, I love designing more than I love my future first born) (just kidding) (kind of). I’ve always had a sick fascination with bartending (and drinking, clearly), so I thought I’d give it a try and see if it’s something I actually enjoy and would you believe it? THAT WAS THE MOST FUN CLASS EVER.

So yeah. Bartending class. No pressure. Small moments that have big, happy consequence. I feel happy. Actually, I feel better than happy.

I feel alive.

And, I think, really, that’s all I can ever hope for. To just. Ya know. Feel alive.

{flickr credit}

Here’s the thing about me: I hate weather. Any weather that is more than, “No wind, 60°, clear blue skies.” Now, I realize this is a terrible complaint coming from a girl who has grown up and lived in California her entire life, so some of you may be all, “BITCH YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WEATHER.” You are probably from the East Coast and I’ll be the first to say that you are correct and I am a little baby. So, there. Now that we have that all sorted out, I can continue.

Weather. I hate it so much, I can almost feel the hatred seeping through my pores. Who are these people who live in areas with tornado warnings? WHO ARE YOU. HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT? I remember I was in Ohio once for a wedding and we were walking around town. Everything was fine, it was beautiful out. Then, all of a sudden, out of goddamn nowhere, it starts to torrential downpour and we hear on the radio there is a tornado warning. ASK ME WHAT SCARES ME THE MOST. JUST ASK ME.

YES. YOU GUESSED IT.

TORNADOS. EXCUSE MY FRENCH, BUT FUCK TORNADOS. FUCK ‘EM.

Okay. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. I live in California. No tornados here, Jamie. Calm down. CALM DOWN.

So, no tornados in San Francisco, which is good. But, you know what isn’t good? ALL THE WEATHER IN SAN FRANCISCO. These are some schizophrenic weather conditions up in here. It’s all beautiful and sunny one minute and seriously, SERIOUSLY, the next minute it could be foggy and raining. Do you want to know how many times I’ve left the apartment without an umbrella because it was clear and beautiful out just to get caught in a storm? A LOT. ENOUGH TIMES TO NOTICE.

And, I know, I KNOW, a lot of you are rolling your eyes at me because you, well, you definitely live in places where tornados are a real thing and where your car might get snowed in or where the humidity makes you want to kill yourself. I get it. I know. Again, I’m acknowledging that I’m acting like a baby, but I think it’s because I’m so used to California weather that that makes me even more susceptible to bad weather and I guess that’s sort of like saying that I’m so used to Cristal, I couldn’t even touch any of that Brut nonsense, but that isn’t important right now.

What is important right now is that I got really sick and I can’t wear dresses at all because of San Francisco weather. Now, I may have gotten sick from partying too hard for three weeks straight and that may have something to do with a little thing called Bloggers in Sin City in Vegas, but I’m going to go ahead and say that Vegas is good for my health and it’s the bipolar weather behavior in San Francisco that caused me to have hallucinatory fever-state dreams on Sunday night.

And, as for the dresses thing, well, THIS WIND. THIS GODDAMN SAN FRANCISCO “I LIVE BY AN OCEAN” WIND. It’s killing me. It’s killing my fashion. IT’S KILLING EVERYTHING I CARE ABOUT.

My dresses! MY POOR DRESSES! Every time I leave the apartment in a dress, it ends up blowing everywhere and I realize I should have worn pants and ask me how much I hate wearing pants. JUST ASK ME.

SO MUCH.

I HATE PANTS IN MUCH THE SAME WAY I HATE WEATHER.

I know. I have such big girl problems these days.

Wah. Wah. Woe is me. Wittle Jamie can’t wear her dresses and hates it when it’s anything other than 60° and cloudless and beautiful. Poor wittle Jamie.

As a side note: the more I write on this blog, the more I realize that I’m rendering myself almost completely un-dateable. If I am forced to change my name and create an entire new identity completely separate of this blog for dating purposes, don’t blame me. BLAME THE BLOG. AND I BLAME YOU FOR WANTING TO READ THIS BLOG. I DO THIS ALL FOR YOU.

I’M SO SELFLESS.

WHY DO I ALWAYS SCREAM AT THE END OF MY BLOG POSTS?

IT’S BECAUSE I NEVER KNOW HOW TO END THEM.

THE END.

BYE!