just call me seven


In Which I Ramble… Forever.

You’d think with all the turkey, pie and pickled things I ate today that I would be sleeping like a log. Alas, it does no good to think about it… because I can’t sleep. It’s almost two in the morning, and here I sit, having made this new blog, lamenting my lack of sleep to the world. Or to whomever reads this. Or to myself… who knows.

There are a lot of things on my mind that I’m not sure I’m going to be able to articulate. It is two in the morning, you know… but here are some random facts about me to get this blog thingie going:

Babies love me.

I love that.

It makes me feel like “The Baby Whisperer” or something.

Unfortunately, I have none of my own.

I am soon, however, to have a niece or nephew.

I’ve only been on two dates in my life.

One was a “friends-only” date.

The other, I can only describe as a disaster, the consequences of which (namely, awkwardness) are still in evidence to this day, despite the protests of the guy involved. (I don’t care what you say, Mr. J… it is awkward, and you know it.)

I am a Christian.

I am the oldest of five children.

I have moved back in with my parents.

This feels somewhat like a step back, since I’m 25 years old.

I am aware that lots of 25-year-olds live with their parents.

That doesn’t negate the fact that it feels a little lame sometimes.

My brothers are like the meat of a sandwich… my sister and I are the bread.

Not to say that my brothers ARE meat… just that they’re the middle of our particular sibling sandwich.

This is long.

If you don’t like it, stop reading.

I like to think that I am witty.

I know for a fact that I have “actually always had a rather extensive vocabulary, not to mention a phenomenal grasp of grammar and a superlative command of syntax.”

I like to quote movies.

Ten points if you know in which movie that quote occurs.

I am sarcastic.

I laugh loudly, at all the wrong times and places.

Hence, I get glared at sometimes.

Which makes my inner rebel rise to my defense, telling myself that I don’t care what people think of me.

But really, I do.

I worry about many things

I worry that I’ll never get married

I worry that people think I’m annoying, and put up with me only because it’s the right thing to do.

I worry that my hair will never be anything but poofy.

I worry that I’m not actually saved.

When I was little and anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always the same: I’m gonna be a mom.

If you asked me the same thing today, I’d probably give a more roundabout answer… but it would, if you could get past the walls I’ve erected to protect my heart, be the same answer.

I work at home, for my parents’ business.

I make… the opposite of bank.

But that’s ok, because I don’t have to pay rent or buy groceries.

And I only work 15 hours in a week, plus or minus a few.

I work on salary, so if I get it done really fast, it’s like I get paid $30+ per hour.

But I usually dawdle.

Because I’m lazy.

And I get sidetracked reading other peoples’ blogs.

And checking my myspace.

And joining groups on facebook.

And following rabbit-trails on Wikipedia.

And taking pictures of myself.

Because, as it happens, the only person who can take a good picture of me is… me.

Not because I’m such a great picture-taker.

I’m not sure why it is.

Maybe I feel less insecure when there’s no one else around or something.

Either way, I always look like a dork when someone else is on the other side of the camera.

Which isn’t saying much, since I pretty much look like a dork all the time.

And I dress like a hobo.

At least I am pretty sure other people think so.

I don’t care; I’ll wear what I want.

But pretty please… will you still like me?

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1 Comment so far
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Little Rascals. Ten points for me..?

Comment by Michael




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