just call me seven


Lame.

funny pictures



I’m Like the Crypt-Keeper.


What am I supposed to be doing with my life?
I feel like I’m stalled.
Like I’m just waiting for something.
Like I’m not actually living life.

I just had a birthday.
I’m now twenty-six.
That’s 26.
I feel old, a little.
But I live with my parents.
So I feel like a kid too.

Why isn’t life what I thought it would be?
I don’t understand.

This looks like it’s trying to be a poem.
This isn’t a poem.
I just feel abrupt.



Christmas.

Wow… I ate way too much today, most of it an abomination to everything that is decent and healthy. But so good… funny how that works.

For the last couple of years, my family has drawn names and bought presents for just one person instead of everyone… This year I had The BFF and I got to buy all kinds of cool, girly, fun stuff for her. It was nice.

I’m always a little afraid that someone won’t have a good Christmas… I think know that I get that from my mother. I think we both just want so badly for no one to be hurt, for everything to be perfect. And you know what? Life just doesn’t really support that concept.

I’m not saying that our Christmas was bad… just that there were really good parts, and some not-as-great parts, and I cried a little, but I do that pretty much every year day anyway, so it wasn’t that big of a deal.

All in all, I’d say it was a good one.

Plus, we got a little bit of snow, which is a rarity in these parts.



Some People Have a Way With Words, While Others… Erm, Thingy.

I am a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I don’t really know why, because I am not busy. It just seems like my to-do list is always a mile long, even if it’s only in my head and not an actual, physical, paper list. And I think about doing the things on it, and it makes me tired. So I don’t do it… but then I feel all lame because I didn’t get anything done. What is the answer to this problem? I feel like making a list is sort of like setting myself up to fail (I can’t even make a list without rewriting the whole thing once or twice because, I don’t know, not all of the list items are prefaced with a verb, or my R looks weird on that third line…), but I know that if I don’t have any sort of goals, I will ACTUALLY never get anything done. [Side note: When I type the word “anything,” I always type “antything” first.]

I finally got my hair professionally trimmed though (first time since August, when my talented cousin cut off my frizzy, limp cloud of curls)… so I’m happy about that. I trimmed it myself a while ago, and it looked pretty good, but then it wouldn’t stand up in the back anymore so I thought I’d have a go at trimming it again myself. This time it didn’t end up looking so hot, and I knew that I should have someone who actually knows what they’re doing fix me up before I did anything really stupid. So I went to this chick right here in my hometown, and got it all taken care of.

Earlier today Smalls and I were talking about my Christmas stocking. I was feeling it, and wondering at what one of the two things were… she said, “It’s your boyfriend.”

A couple weeks ago, I told Smalls to smell a cologne ad from one of my magazines… She said that it smelled like a boy, and I said, that’s kind of the point (it was Aqua di Gio, if you’re curious). I also said that while I appreciate guys who don’t wear cologne, and that in fact I usually prefer that they don’t, I wouldn’t mind one bit if my (still unknown) boyfriend wore it. Smalls asked if she could rip it out of the magazine… I said, “Ok… that’s weird. Why do you want it?” and she said that she
wanted to put it in my stocking. She said that since I didn’t get a husband for Christmas two year ago (yep, I put it on my list), that I could have a boyfriend in my stocking this year. She’s hilarious.

I said that no, this thing was bigger than my boyfriend (who, let’s face it, folks… is some paper-thin (I’m punny) homogenous model on the back of a cologne ad), to which she replied, “Is your boyfriend still in there?” I said, “He better be.”

To which my Mom replies, “I’ve been praying that God would bring you a boyfriend.” I love my mom. She always seems to know how I’m feeling about stuff… I know that she said that because she knows it’s hard that The Married One & The BFF are having a baby, and that The Croodler and The Quas are now declaring love (WTH?), while I stay at home with only two dates to show for my nearly twenty-six years of life, though I am the one out of all five of us kids whose childhood career ambition was to be a wife and a mother.

I just wish that I could find some other dream to pursue, grasp some other ambition, hope in some other objective instead of whining about my shattered dreams and sucking air that other people (people who are actively pursuing life instead of just cruising on auto-pilot) could use. Because, honestly, real people need to have goals and dreams and desires that don’t hinge on marital status. What kind of wife could I be to anyone if all I am is a wisp of an idea, a shadow of a woman, some empty vessel who has no forward motion to contribute?

I’m not sure if I’m making sense at all… it’s too late. I know that there’s more inside of me that I’d like to get out, but my words are flowing like… uh… something really slow. Not to mention I’m using the old computer, and everything I type shows up a second or two after I type it, so by the time I catch that I’ve made a mistake, I’m halfway done with the next sentence. Plus, just watching it makes me feel slow and tired. I will attempt to continue some other day with the pressing questions/thoughts that I can’t seem to elucidate at the moment.



In Which I Spill My Guts, Just A Little Bit.

Day Nine of LaBloShoeMo. This is only my eighth pair of shoes. However, I am not about to be legalistic about the whole thing, so that’s that. It’s hard to be all girly and excited about shoes when you don’t feel anything like a real person, let alone a girly-girl.

These flipflops, I bought at Wal-Mart (I know, I’m the devil) for two bucks, at the end of summer like 3 years ago. I loved them so much (because they were squishy and conformed to my feet) that I went back to buy more pairs, but they had sold out, to my great dismay. I proceeded to wear them for three years, and I still own them. But I don’t wear them very often, because I happen to think it’s a bad thing when you can feel the cracks in the sidewalk. Through your shoes.

They’re so cute, though, that I can’t get rid of them just yet.

So they languish in my shoe bucket, passed over time after time for a better pair, a prettier pair, a pair that works better or a more practical pair.

On a completely unrelated note… I am so tired of being fake. If I have to tell one more person that I’m doing “pretty well,” I just might scream. I hate that our culture (and more specifically, the church) puts so much pressure on everyone to be this perfect specimen of life and love and happiness. Revelations of doubt, self-loathing or temptations are met only with shock and disappointment. Pleas for help hit the brick wall of an expectation of perfection that, let’s face it people, can NEVER be attained this side of Heaven.

I’ll get really honest: I struggle to believe that I’m really saved. I’m afraid that somehow, despite my intense desire to know and love the Lord, I am not one of the elect. I’m terrified when I consider what my life would be like if I never get married, if I am doomed to be alone for the rest of my life. And people say that “if God calls you to that, He will fulfill you,” but I have a hard time believing that. Because you know what? If I’m really honest, God doesn’t feel real to me. I don’t hear His voice; I don’t have confidence that when I die, I’ll hear “Well done, good and faithful servant;” I’m afraid of death; I wonder when everyone is going to figure out that I’m a fake, that I’m not that good Christian girl who reads her Bible day and night and prays without ceasing, who, when her phone rings with the “Jesus Loves Me” ringtone, answers with a hearty “Praise Jesus! How ya doing?” The list goes on. I am full of insecurities and devoid of the smallest shred of confidence that anyone would actually like me if they knew the real me.

But it gets old to always be the downer, too. Because I’m afraid that no one would ever want to be around me if I showed my true colors; I hate to be that girl who is always depressed, the one whom you avoid when you see her coming because you know if you don’t that you’ll be subjected to an endless litany of all her problems. I guess I figure that if people are going to be nice enough to put up with me when I’m around, I might as well do them a favor and at least attempt to appear okay, so they don’t have to deal with the mess that is me.

Some facts:

Fact: I love to sing, and while I feel my voice has gone downhill in recent years, I think it sounds pretty good; at least that’s what I’m told. I sing at church a couple times a month, and I would love to do it more, except I am certain that people would think that I think I’m hot stuff, which isn’t true. So people ask me why I’m not singing in the choir, and I come up with lame excuses like that I’m too busy (I work 15 hours a week. I have like 21 hours to kill every single day) or that I don’t know, when I know perfectly well why. It’s because I am so worried about protecting my Good Christian Girl alter-ego that I can’t do anything that I think might jeopardize that, like making people think that I’m vain and love the sound of my own voice. (Fact [since I’m being all honest and stuff]: I am vain, and sometimes I do love the sound of my own voice.)

Fact: I worry that no boy will ever love me (Fact: I worry that girls don’t love me either).

Fact: I feel like I am a disappointment to everyone I come in contact with: I make mistakes in my work; I am jealous of other peoples’ happiness instead of rejoicing with them (which makes contact with happy people sometimes awkward instead of joyful); I tell Smalls, when she asks me to do something with her, that I don’t feel like it and promptly go back to my dinking around on the Internet, doing nothing of importance and worrying my mother with the amount of time I spend on this life-sucker; I don’t respond well when my dad tells me stuff; I don’t ever call my siblings who don’t live here; I don’t call my siblings that do live here; I don’t call my friends; I come across as rude (I know I do, and I can’t seem to stop it) to people I don’t know very well, because I am so uneasy in social situations that I can’t even answer questions with much more than a two- or three-word sentence, and then can’t think of anything to say/ask in reciprocation, so an awkward silence falls, while I die of mortification because while I know I’m being rude, I have absolutely. nothing. to. say. ever.

Well. I think I’ve said quite enough, and I will probably regret being this open in the morning, but I am sick to death of putting my little mask on and pretending that I don’t cry myself to sleep on a regular basis. I’m not looking for affirmation, so don’t feel like y’all (if anyone actually reads this) have to clog the comment form with gushes of nice things to say about me. I just wanted to spew all this out so that I can start to be a real person instead of just a cardboard cutout.