i can't find the words

There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.

It’s 4:45 in the morning and I’m putting myself on warning. Maybe it was waking up at half past two this afternoon that did me in, or maybe it was the two hours of solid running followed by approximately a gallon of caffeine. Regardless, I’m going to be awake for the long haul, so I may as well keep you updated with wholly unrelated paragraphical ramblings.

There appears to be one rule that governs my life: any girl I develop a crush on is not allowed to be at all attracted to me. Allison may seem like an exception, but I am envoking the “extraordinary circumstances” clause to disqualify her. I plan on collecting more evidence for the existance of this law by asking Sarah out on a date. Actually, I should go whip out the ol’ book-o-crushes and ask them all out… for the same night and restaurant, just to be sure that there’s a fiasco if more than one of them accepts.

I accidentally stole Sarah’s pyjama pants Saturday morning. Which reminds me, just in case you wondered, I was a perfect gentleman and waited until she turned out the family room light before I removed my pants and changed into them. Anyway, these pants are amazing — I believe they’re half towel and half Snuggle the Bear. Unfortunately, they are also tailored exclusively for females (not like those “unisex” flower-print pj pants at Old Navy I tried on once). They’re low-cut, which is quite entertaining when you consider that my hips are pretty comparable to Sarah’s, and well, no, I’ll spare you a description of the crotch situation. But I’ll put up with it so long as I can pretend the lower half of me is wearing a cloud.

I [once again] gave myself a lovely burn while cooking a pizza the other night. One of those things where you think the oven door is open enough, but in reality it’s not and your arm pays for it. In the last ten minutes, it’s really started to itch and peel and ooze, all of which sucks and is gross. Burning is definitely not the best way to die, but I seem to be headed down that path. I think I need to take up smoking, alcoholism or maybe the reckless driving of sports cars, because if I have to go before my time, I’m sure as hell going to look cool.

I already have three, count ‘em – three, concerts lined up once I get back to school. Kristen and I can’t not see M. Doughty again, even if we have to venture into either Hoboken or Brooklyn to get our small rock fix. Kym wants to catch Guster at some pier in Philly, which is fine by me. And then I think I’ve convinced Kristen to see Deirdre Flint with me literally a block from my dorm. It’s wonderful that I’ll have no credit hours [to speak of] competing for my precious time.

I’m gonna go forgive sleep and give her another chance now.

Having not done anything entertaining in nearly a week, I graciously accepted Sarah’s invitation to go over to her house at 11:00 last night. Who could possibly turn down this opportunity, a party in Illinois (pronounced ill-ih-NWAH) where I only knew one person and would be spending the night? Not me, obviously.

So, after a bit of a snafu finding the place (thanks a lot, Mapquest), I eventually showed up and realized that I was not going to be much fun, since I usually just hide in the corner when I only know one person at a party. And by corner, I mean couch. This is what happens when one is afraid of people.

But it all turned out for the better, actually. Sure, I may have been quiet, but I was still a lot awesomer than usual. And then, after everyone else went to bed/home, Sarah and I sat out on the deck and talked until a quarter of 5:00.

Then it was bedtime, which means that I needed pyjama pants. Being a graceful host, Sarah took off the ones she had been wearing all night and handed them to me. And then she made me sleep on the couch.

(Well, I guess it makes sense. When you meet someone online, it takes a little while before you can be sure that they’re not a stabbin’ hobo in disguise.)

The electricians did a shoddy job when my house was being built. The kitchen is pretty huge, with the larger half, over close to the garage, being devoted to the cooking implements, while the smaller section next to the family room is home to the kitchen table. The island, which once seemed to be ever-covered with cooling racks of fresh sugar cookies, has become a fluorescent-bathed wastland of newspapers, junk mail and fake fruit. The rarely-used family table is lit with the standard fare of Southern Living’s suggested décor.

Anyhow, I am getting sidetracked – this is not a description of my kitchen. The whole point of this is that one of the light switches, the one close to the family room, the one that gets used the most, is wired backward. As you walk into the dining area of the kitchen, you reach over to the left and expect that the closest of the two switches would turn on the closest light, the one over the table. It doesn’t work that way, though – it turns on the big fluorescent light instead.

I have lived in this house for eight and one-half years and I still haven’t gotten used to this fact. Eight and one-half years and I always flip the wrong switch and then have to turn it back off and flip the other one.

It’s not that I don’t know which switch does what. Near switch, far light; far switch, near light. And I don’t really think it’s a habit, i.e., I know what I’m doing every time I hit the wrong switch, even before I touch it. I think the problem is that it just makes too much sense for the close switch to turn on the close light.

So there you have it: even if I absolutely know that doing something will get me nowhere, I will continue to do it as long as it makes too much sense to me.

My dad cancelled my checking account last week.

Not on purpose, mind you, but he probably should’ve realized that something had gone awry. You see, he absentmindedly left his debit card at a restaurant (actually, it’s a rather common occurance, just like I tend to leave my wallet in other people’s cars). Always one to keep his head about him (ha.), he called good ol’ Boatman’s Nationsbank Bank of America to block his account from misuse. The conversation he had with the bank person probably went something like this:

“Good evening, this is [junior college graduate] at Bank of America, how may I help you this evening?”

“I left my debit card at a restaurant, I need you to block it until I can pick it back up.”

“Of course, I’ll just need your name, address, telephone number…”

“[name] [address] [telephone number]…”

Okay, okay, it was probably nothing like that. My dad probably spent 15 minutes on hold after conversing with a machine not made of flesh, but the point is this: my dad and I have the same first name and middle initial, and he never verified that the correct account had been blocked.

Now, I wouldn’t be too mad about that, but he received a call verifying the account block the next day, and just to make sure, he drove through an ATM after getting his card back. He probably should have figured that something was amiss when his card was accepted.

Or, when I called home from the gas station Saturday night because I had spent the last five minutes inserting and quickly removing my debit card from the pump, maybe he should’ve put two and two together at that point. But no, he didn’t even think to mention that he had had bank issues a few days prior.

So I had to reopen my account yesterday morning and order a new debit card. The paycheck I deposited Thursday didn’t go through for obvious reasons, so I am lacking gasoline funding for the week. Also, I am much too lazy to go the the bank and write out a check to Cash, so I’ve got 14 dollars to spread out until my new card arrives.

Bitch bitch bitch, moan moan moan.