Ode To My Marlboros

Yes. It's true. For all of it's negative baggage, I still love cigarettes.
Yet with an amazing amount of will power, I am on a third glass of wine and eating baby carrots. I think I've gone through at least 20. They still don't taste like my Marlboros, and worst still, I keep on eating them yet I remain hungry. Actually, the more I eat the worse they taste. Okay, I've got to stop eating these things. Crack carrots.

Come As You Are

After picking up my graduation gown today I was saddened at my lack of intellectual gumption. I call it intellectual gumption, because in another universe, the bright and bushy tailed eighteen year old would of stuck straight through on a four year scholarship instead of running ( unsuccessfully, I might add ) after boys.
This would of been gumption. But no. Instead said bushy tailed eighteen year old went back home, thirty pounds overweight and went to work in a card and gift shop while convincing herself ( and everyone around her ) that she was going to pursue acting. One little tidbit of advice: If people tell you you are talented and you don't believe them, chances are you're going to crash and burn sooner than later.
So, after that diabolical year ( probably the worst of my entire life thus far) I decided to go back to university with my tail between my legs. Flash forward five years later. I am now working at a bar and taking interviews about what it's like to be at the bottom of the food chain, struggling from paycheck to paycheck.
What the hell?
Two years later I am now about to be married and still Gumption has not made an appearance at my doorstep.
Is this normal? Does this happen at all? Is it just some fluke in the biological department where something got neglected into switching on?
You can call it anything you like.
Perhaps it is merely the last stage of growing up, much as I hate to admit it. Come on kid. Pick a profession or career. Never mind if you hate it or dread going to work everyday. Luck of the draw. You didn't have enough gumption to obtain a Masters or PhD. Like you should of done.

Fake n' Bake, Baby

Here I sit, wafting an interesting combination of tanning lotion and body odor. Yes, I said it. Not entirely lady-like, but who is reading this besides me anyway...
So. My bride-to-be-survival guide. The non-deleted version. It might of sounded funnier in my head at one o'clock in the morning, but am I trying to win an award here on outstanding literature? No.
1.) Call me crazy, but when two people decide to get married the sole reason isn't to procreate. After watching a particular disturbing HD show called " In The Womb" I told my fiance he better make sure his battalion of little men were safely in the trenches playing spider solitare before he came within one inch of me. When confronted with the question: " So, when do you plan to have kids?" answer accordingly. " When I stop being one."
2.) It is never a good idea to fight with your fiance in front of the lady in charge of the Gift Registry. Especially when it's over FREE presents. This is just in poor taste.
3.) Accept the fact that no matter how simple mailing an already stamped envelope may be to you, it actually is a complicated process to most people. Those mailboxes are awfully tricky to see due to camouflage. Bright red. Such a shame.
4.) Sign a contract with your fiance outlining that you are not to be held responsible for things said ( during the pre-months leading up to nuptial bliss) due to a surprise appearance of your alter-ego. You maybe surprised how boistorous and spontaneous she actually is. Instead of making her your enemy, invite her out to dinner with drinks and name her something spunky like Shera.
5.) Procrastination is not your friend. In fact, it should be legally defined as some sort of disease in standard Psychology 101 texts. Take heart. There are ways to lessen the strain. Like shopping. Or reading an Anne Rice novel. Or finding a million other things to do that you've never had the notion to do before. Like flossing.

End Of Part I

Deleting Genious

I feel compelled to write this at this time.
So, in the midst of some witty advice for potentinal would-be-brides, I erased the thing and ended up with ironically enough, the title: Adjacent To The Lunatic...more like Adjacent To The Stupid Lunatic.
Clearly my humorous tirade has ended. I wave a sorrowful farewell on the ocean liner of what was not meant to be. You will not be subjected to my cleverness tonight. I am sure you will console yourself with the nearest distraction. Like the off button.

Knitty Kitten

So. Another month. Another blog.
School is almost over for me for the term. After all the work I've put in I'm glad to have two weeks of being up to eye-balls in wool. And stuff.
The stuff is taking over the house. Especially the lovely bags that have become my children. They are stuffed into a closet where they stay, longingly waiting until I choose them to see the light of day. Which one will I pick tomorrow I wonder?

Busy Bee Meets Another Laura

Just when I thought it was going be be okay.
Hah!
School is a rollercoster. One minute I'm thrilled and the next minute I'm bawling my eyes out for twenty four hours.
The ' incident' shall we call it has been dragged on until next week. They mask it under the name ' closure' but let us all be grown up and call it what it is by it's big, FAT ugly name: Confrontation. I'll have to sit there on the other side of the table and tell this woman I barely know why I decided to throw a hissy fit in the guidance consellor's office on her account( supposedly).
The life line has been temporarily in hybernation for now. I don't know if it is writers block or if I'm just too lazy and covet my time watching television instead.
To whomever is reading this ( besides my imaginary friends Shandon, Jessica and Hilary who told me in a dream that they prefer to be called Shandi, Jess and Hills-to which I replied that Shandi sounded like a prostitute and anyone with the nickname Hills was bound to have social problems,plural)I'll write soon I promise. It's hard to believe that you've joined forces and are begging my agent for me to uncover my next plot, but I can't take the pressure. You'll live, ok? And stop sending my orange-flavored chocolate that you have to smack over concrete to break up. It upsets my ulcer.

Type A Personalities

The idea of drugs scares the crap out of me. All of the aspects of it. Especially the dependecy where eventually drugs are all you are and what you have left.
And it hits everyone, rich or poor normal or messed up.
An only child for instance, with loving parents and a promising future shouldn't even of had the inclination to try blow. Was it out of boredrom? Self-hatred? Or merely self-absorption?
Or the kid down the street with a fancy car and all money could buy ending up shooting heroin in a graveyard, homeless.
It disgusts me. The want to escape life and the situations that force people there.
It all boils down to hatred of one's self. Not being good enough. Feeling everyday that you don't deserve happiness.
I'm not preaching to anyone, not even to myself.
Someone once told me about different types of personalities. Either you're an A and you could do the drug and be fine and not become addicted or a Type B... ( we all know what happens then ) She never told me there was a Type C.