Rather than tackle any of my Challenges, I’m gonna talk about how my night went, and you’re going to freaking deal with it, okay?

For starters, I think it’s time I get a name tag something like this:

Now, it’s not that I don’t appreciate people buying me drinks–especially when it’s The Ladies, because then I don’t feel obligated to pay them back with sexual favors.  Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it a good idea.

I’ll give you some perspective on the matter.  On a good day, I break the 3-digit weight barrier.  I also frequently forget to eat.  I usually get at least one meal a day in me, but for the most part, caffeine and nicotine suppress my hunger level so thoroughly that I wind up feeling faint before I feel hungry.  It’s a damn miracle I haven’t passed out at work, like, ever.

I also don’t drink nearly as often as a regular 22-year-old.  (Which is pretty goddamn sad, in my opinion, since I’ve always thought I drink a lot.  Then I met other people my age.  Thanks for setting the Alcoholism Bar so high, college students!)  By default, all this puts me in a different drinking category than the majority of the human race, and that fact is highlighted when other people are doing the Alcoholic Beverage Ordering for me.  If I almost never remember my own low alcohol tolerance, they’re definitely not going to think of it before I’m, you know.  Drunk.

That basically tells you all you need to know about my night.  Due to the kindness of others and my own inability to gauge my own blood alcohol content, I wound up slizzard when I should have just been… Thursday-afternoon-drunk, I guess?  (Does such a threshold exist?  I kinda feel like I should never be drunk on a Thursday afternoon.  Clearly, the inventor of the happy hour disagrees with me.)

As I type this particular sentence, it’s 11 PM.  I got home and into bed around 7:30.  That tells you how early this shit started.  On a fucking Thursday.  Hey there, Self!  Have you maybe considered growing up at some point?  No?  Well, okay!  You can just continue to regret every decision you make.  That’s cool too, I guess?

(This may not be important, but just for the record, I’m only conscious right now because I wanted Taquitos more than I wanted sleep.)

At drink number 2, I was feeling pretty sweet.  I made a couple semi-inebriated phone calls to some awesome people (HI WAYNE.  I called you back.  You never answered.  The tables have tuuuuuurned), sexually harassed both the UPS guy and the security guard at work (did I mention we were getting drunk less than a block away from work? I freaking love Seattle.), and… Okay so I regret all those things a little.  BUT ONLY A LITTLE.  It was still pretty fun!

And then I had three more drinks and never ate any food, sweet Lord why?

And later, after stumbling the 8 blocks to my bus stop, I realized I’m The Drunk Girl At The Bus Stop On A Fucking Thursday.  That was cool.  I love how I can be totally wasted and still incredibly self-conscious.  Thanks, social anxiety, for making everything in my life not fun at all.

Now, you may ask yourself what point there could possibly be to recounting my alcoholic shenanigans when, clearly, a sane person would never speak of it again.  I promise I’m not only writing this out of boredom while I wait for Taquitos to heat up in my oven like a fucking 18th century houswife, because this apartment was invented before microwaves.  (Although that’s helping with the motivation.) I actually have two super valid reasons for talking about this.  Prepare yourself for number one.

As I staggered into my apartment and passed right the fuck out less than five minutes after getting changed into my super awesome mature adult Tweety Bird PJs, a thought popped into my brain, seemingly out of nowhere.

I wouldn’t mind if I died right now.

In fact, it might be a little easier if I did.

… Um.  What… was that bullshit?

If I’d been sober enough to sit up without worrying about the twirling room (and its possible effect on my Vomit-o-Meter), I might have jolted upright and slapped myself in the face.  Instead, I just fell into a dead sleep for 3 hours.  When I woke up, I didn’t even remember feeling that way until I spent at least 20 minutes fantasizing about what my life would be like if I had the energy to make Taquitos.  (Hint: It is almost identical to what my life was like without the energy to make Taquitos, except with Taquitos)

When it came back to me, I was a little disturbed.  Not necessarily by the content, because.  Well.  I’m kind of a melodramatic fucker, if you haven’t noticed, and I often have stupid thoughts that are quickly followed by the thought, stop being so fucking melodramatic.  Howevs, this particular thought struck me as completely true and honest at the time.  I genuinely did not give care if I died.

So, uh.  Maybe I should try not feeling like that?

I’m not suicidal, mind you.  I’m waaaay the hell too lazy to end my own life.  This was not a fit of true depression.  It was just overwhelming apathy.  And apathy’s not too bad, y’all!  It’s gotten me through quite a lot of bullshit in my life.  Apathy has saved me from more destructive emotions, like blinding rage and real suicidal feelings.  It’s how I’ve gotten through the last few months without spontaneously punching people in the face, and I think apathy is often a good tool when one needs to reign in their emotions to get through a rough patch.  But the rough patch is mostly over, and apathy is no longer helping.  It’s time to kick that habit, because hey, I actually have shit to care about now.

“Hey, Jess! You said you had two reasons for writing this entry, and Holy Hell you have written a lot of words and you’re not even to the second thing yet.”  Calm the hell down, okay?  I’m getting to it.  Slowly.

Tonight, before the major drinking began, my homeslice Sarah was talking about abstaining from alcohol for the month of January.  (While typing that, I automatically capitalized “alcohol” like it was a proper noun.  Issues, much?)  Everyone was all, naaaaahhhhh!  But she made it through the night without a single drop of poison in her system, and we all gave her mad propz, yo.

During this conversation, the idea of a “cleanse” was brought up.  Part of this cleanse involves a two-week abstinence from all the things I love, like coffee and cigarettes and alcohol (don’t tell my parents.  Oh wait, I DON’T HAVE ANY).  It also involves exclusively eating fruit and vegetables for a fucking week, which sounds like a really stupid idea, but WHATEVS.  As I was lying in bed, contemplating how my night of substance abuse was immediately followed by a strong sense of don’t-give-a-fuck-about-life, the concept of not doing terrible things to my body for a couple weeks didn’t sound so bad.

And that’s when another thought occurred to me:  Do I do terrible things to my body because I don’t care about living, or do I not care about living because I do terrible things to my body?

Well, boys and girls, we’re about to find out!  Please join me on my adventure into Not Having Any Fun At All.  Since I started writing this, I’ve done a bit of research and I apparently need to do a lot of planning to buy/prepare the right foods and shit.  It’s not as simple as just eating fruits and vegetables.  But, you know.  I’m fucking determined.  I will spend my lunch break making a grocery list, and I will buy some shit and then I will go home and tomorrow I’ll get up and drink pureed broccoli or some shit and probably instantly vomit on the floor.  All in the name of discovering what I might feel like when I’m not constantly pumping my system full of chemicals to stay awake, fall asleep, and exist without crying.  I JUST CAN’T WAIT, Y’ALL.

I’m also partially not starting today because I am hung over and have a metric fuckton of stuff to do.  Also I have no acceptable food with me, and the thought of seeking it out makes my body go, “Uuuuuuugggghhh, really? Without coffee? How do you expect me to even walk that far?”  I won’t smoke, but the rest of this shit has to wait until morning.

P.S. All audience-proposed challenges are being postponed until I stop hating myself, which will probably happen in about 14 days.

AND GENTS!

AND GENDER-NEUTRAL PROTOPLASM!

So, I complete my previous challenge.  Now I need a new one.

I should probably set up some guidelines for this, so here we go.  (P.S. Trying to write this at work, but the phones are OFF DA HOOOOOK today.  Christ.  If I get one more phone call UGH ANOTHER PHONE CALL.  Good thing I didn’t finish that threat in time.)

Challenge Guidelines 

Right now, I’m looking for challenges that can reasonably be completed in a week.  (7 days, start to finish.)

What kind of things can be a challenge?  I’M GLAD YOU ASKED!

My previous (and only) challenge was a writing challenge: Write down one thing per day that you didn’t do five years ago.  Obvs, this was totally doable because I’m a blogomaniac.  However, challenges are not limited to the written word.  The only questions I want you to ask yourself before proposing a challenge are:

- Is it legal?

- Can it be accomplished in Seattle?

- Does it cost a shitload of money?  (I don’t know if you knew this, but I am poor as shit, guys.)

- Does it put me at risk for severe bodily harm? (Definition of severe: Bad enough to limit my ability to work the next day.  Bruises, papercuts, and pulled muscles are acceptable.  Just take into account that I’m on my feet all day and move a lot of heavy objects.)

Also remember that I have a full-time job, so if it needs to be done during banker hours, I’ll have to do some planning ahead.  Like, a month to request time off.  (Will you really request time off to do a stupid Internet challenge?  Maybe, but only if it’s SUPER AWESOME.)

Aaaand… That’s about it right now?  Some example challenges I am pulling directly out of my anus right now:

Okay!  That’s it.  Go nuts. When I’ve either completed or failed a challenge, I will (A) write about it, (B) do a vlog about it, or (C) take pictures/videos AND blog about it.

I’m sure I’ll refine this as I begin to fail challenges all willy nilly, but we’ve got to start somewhere.

What if you get more than one challenge?  Good question!  This hasn’t been an issue yet, but I’ll let you know how I plan on dealing with that.  Maybe I’ll start a backlog of challenges?  Maybe I’ll only pick the awesome ones?  Maybe I’ll FLIP A COIN?!

Perhaps if I ever have more than 4 people reading this, I’ll have y’all vote or something.  I don’t know.  I’m just fucking around with this right now, so bear with me.

THAT’S ALL, FOLKS.

So, I don’t wanna brag, but I was pretty much the best at Christmas this year. I actually succeeded in buying people things before the last minute (although I waited until like, the 22nd to start wrapping and sending things, thus costing myself a metric eff-ton of money for shipping. By the way, if you want a fantastic reason to hate the world, try using the UPS site, like, ever.). I also dressed up like an elf (sort of) on Friday, and gave homemade shortbread cookies to our delivery peeps and security guards. (One of whom gave me a bottle of chocolate wine for Christmas. Dude! CHOCOLATE WINE! He totally gets me.) Everyone was all, “Awww, you’re full of Christmas cheer!” even though I was dying on the inside because a large part of me still hates Christmas and all it represents. And by that I mean what it REALLY represents to people, which is guilt and consumerism. But I tried my best to channel what I consider to be the “real meaning of Christmas,” which is being super awesome and unexpectedly nice to people to make yourself, and them, feel better for a very brief moment before you, and they, slip back into the overwhelming depression of a meaningless existence.

I got a lot of comments on my outfit. Most of them were good. One of them made no sense at all. He started by saying he’s been “seeing us everywhere” (as in, girls in Mrs. Claus outfits? Even though I was more like an elf?), and launches into a thing about seeing Mrs. Claus at a restaurant, and then getting food poisoning? And something about it tasting like cat food? AND dog food? And then he wandered away to go donate blood or something. I don’t even know. But other than that, comments were ALL POSITIVE and not crazy at all!

It was actually pretty goddamn awesome, though. It’s the first time since childhood that I’ve felt genuinely warm and squishy inside because of the holidays.

Guys, I just almost hit someone in the face with my badge. I AM BAD AT MY JOB.

On Christmas Eve, my brother helped me move my shit from my old apartment to my new one, and I was struck by how small my pile o’ boxes looked in comparison to my ginormous apartment (which is actually just normal-sized, but like I’ve mentioned, my old place is a box). The place echoes like crazy, and without a lamp in my living room, it’s dark as hell and just so… empty. But I was strangely comfortable with it, because there’s potential for a home here. I haven’t felt like I could have a home since I left my old home. It’s definitely time to stop living in limbo and actually commit to this life I’m stuck with for however much longer I’m not dead.

By the way, if you’re reading this and live in the general vicinity of Seattle, you will be coming over at some point. You have no choice in the matter. I may not have furniture yet, but we can sit on boxes and drink cheap liquor and listen to terrible music and talk about things! All of which we couldn’t do in my old apartment because PEOPLE DIDN’T FIT IN THERE.

Also, as my friend Wayne pointed out, it’s a lot more comfortable when you aren’t always three feet away from the bathroom door. Especially when someone’s trying to quietly vomit. (Yeah, that was me. Wild Blue beer + probably the flu = a really awkward night for everyone.)

Speaking of beer, I now live within really easy walking distance of an awesome brewery (I haven’t been there yet, but I’ve had multiple people ask me if I’m near it, which means it must be ballah)! AND a pub with a really cool name!

Sorry guys, I’m hella excited about this apartment, so you’ll probably hear a lot of unnecessary details about it in the coming weeks.

This update has no theme or meaning, but I hope you enjoyed it I guess?!

MERRY NEW YEAR, HAPPY ECZEMA, whatever else there is? Kwanzaa, I guess! I kinda feel like Kwanzaa has become a parody of itself and people only celebrate it ironically now. Maybe that’s not true at all and I just hang out with assholes. I don’t know. Either way, enjoy the last week of your year, however you may choose to celebrate it. WOOP WOOP!

Last week, I was challenged by my homeslice Timmy(tm) to annotate five things that I didn’t do five years ago.  I was gonna post this LAST weekend, but things got in the way.  Afroman would understand.

Howevs, I did it, and here it is!

1. CROCHET!

I learned to crochet one sleep-drunk night with my stepmom, before she was my stepmom.  She was spending the weekend at my dad’s place, and we tended to act like 12-year-old girls when this occurred.  We’d refuse to go to bed at a reasonable hour, and we’d eat lots of candy and watch movies until my dad came home around 6 AM (he worked nights) and give his disappointed face when he saw we were still conscious and giggling.  On this particular weekend, some time around midnight, we decided to make a trip to Wal-Mart to buy some yarn, some hooks, and some instructional books.  Ooh, that kinda rhymed.  It’s like the 12 Days of Crocheting!  (ugh why did I type that.  I seriously need an editor)

Two hours (and a lot of failures) later, I was about to start stabbing hooks into my eyes.  I am not built to do things that require hand-eye coordination and patience.  However, I was now determined to make the task of the dreaded Single Crochet Row slightly less irritating.  Thus began an obsession that lasted a couple years, before I moved to Seattle and it petered out like most of my interests.  (However, I live like, a block and a half away from a yarn store now, so shit might get real.)

2. COOK!

I was never taught to cook as a child, and since I’m in the habit of blaming my parents for everything wrong with my adult life… SCREW YOU GUYS.  But nah, I get it.  It’s cool.  My parents were self-taught amateur chefs, and I don’t think the concept of passing this down was ever really considered.  Which is good, because my cooking style differs significantly from theirs.

When I lived in South Carolina for a year and was too lazy to buy groceries, I mastered the egg.  Two years later, my stepmom (why yes, she taught me a lot of things) took on the epic task of teaching me how to cook MORE than just an egg.  And what a challenge it must have been for her, considering even trying to follow a simple recipe terrified me.

Now I have moderate pseudo-cooking skillz which I will have the chance to improve significantly once I have a KITCHEN, which I will on Friday the 23rd.  Eff yeah.

3. SMOKE!

Mostly because it was illegal for me five years ago.

4. ANSWER PHONES WHEN THEY RING!

Everyone hates the phone.  Everyone.  Okay, not everyone.  But I swear, I’ve never been in a household where people don’t do The Phone Dance when it rings.  You know the one.  Aaaaaallll the members of the house do that half-assed “I’m totally gonna get it” jig, and then wait for someone else to get closer to the ringing monstrosity so they don’t REALLY have to pick it up.  It’s very similar to The Check Dance at dinner, except instead of avoiding monetary responsibility, you’re avoiding the inherent awkwardness of speaking to a mystery caller.

Now I’m not nearly as likely to avoid phone calls.  I man up and answer that shit when it rings.  It’s a pretty big change.  This is totally not lame at all to put on a list.

Okay fine it’s lame screw you guys.

5. WEAR MAKEUP

Is this positive or negative?  I’m not sure.  I know there was a very long phase when I didn’t wear makeup because I was terrified of doing it wrong, followed by another long phase when I was afraid to leave the house without it.  Part of this was due to only getting male attention when my face was plastered with skin-tinted lies.

Was that attention merely due to the makeup, or was it the confidence I gained knowing I didn’t look like a SPLOTCHSTROSITY?  I’m not sure.  I do, however, know that there’s almost never a makeup-free workday where someone doesn’t comment on how “tired” I look.  This disturbs me a little.  But at least I know now that I won’t lose friends by letting them see me with clean skin, so I’m not as emotionally dependent on makeup for self-esteem.

Let’s ignore that thing where I totally put on makeup this morning, specifically because I had to get coffee and there’s usually a cute barista at that time of day.  IGNORE IT COMPLETELY.

Fuck you, Chrome.  ”Barista” is a word.  Update your goddamn dictionary once in a while.

Here’s where a normal person would write a conclusion, but I’m too lazy.  MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Anyhoo.

Ugh. I’ve been super crankalicious all week, y’all, and it seems to have gotten significantly worse today.  I can’t get out of this mood.  I don’t know how.

At times like this, I want to come crawling back to the comfort of all my old internet hideouts.  To remember that some things don’t change or go away.  But everything changes, and everything goes away, and trying to turn myself back into the person I no longer even want to be is super dumb.  I want to be beyond that phase.  It’s just the transition that’s a pain in the ass.

I’m still trying to move to West Seattle, and all I want is for these fuckers to send me a LEASE so I can SIGN IT and GIVE THEM MORE MONEY, and they won’t do it.  I’ve been waiting two weeks, and they’re all, “Oh, if you don’t get it by Thursday, call me again!”  And guess what?  It’s Thursday, and I called, and she never called back.

A week before I’m supposed to move out (to an apartment I haven’t even signed for yet), I discovered I have fleas in my current place.

I scheduled a coffee date with a girl I met in West Seattle.  She stopped responding to my texts.

I don’t have a father anymore.

I know there’s got to be a break in the monotony, but Jesus, when it rains, how it pours.

Fuck you, Ok Go. Pop rock lyrics shouldn’t be poignant, ever.

Overall, I’m doing fine.  Hell, I’ve been happier lately than ever before.  I was so excited to get this apartment.  I’m so excited to move in.  I’m like 99% sure the landlord’s just being flaky, and not jacking the apartment out from under me after I’ve already given her a deposit.  (If I suspected as much, I would be in more of a Bruce Banner kind of rage instead of a “waaah I’m going to write about my feelings” kind.)  I’m happy to finally build a home, instead of just avoid the box I’m forced to sleep in.

I’m happy to be writing in a semi-constructive fashion again.  It feels good to remember that I’m capable of having passions, even if it takes everything I have to dig them out of my skull.

Hell, I’ve even reached a point in life where I don’t hate my own face.  That’s a huge accomplishment.

But even with all this amazing stuff happening…  This week can suck my dick.  I’m tired of being angry about things I can’t change.  All of this is out of my hands right now, and I fucking hate knowing I have to sit around and wait for other people to do what they’re supposed to do.  I’m used to my problems being 100% self-inflicted, so to suddenly be at the mercy of other people is stressful and terrifying.  I haven’t placed myself in this position for a long time.

This slow, creeping disappointment is new to me.  I started out with no doubt that people will come through.  I just never expected any other outcome.  Then a few days passed, and that certainty turned to mostly certainty.  More time passed and that mostly-certainty started to feel like false hope, and then more and more time passed and I woke up today and realized that all the hope ran out, and I no longer expect anything at all.  Or I guess I just began to expect nothing, which is so much worse, and YEAH GUYS I’M TOTALLY TALKING ABOUT A LEASE RIGHT NOW.  What of it?  Paperwork is really important to me.  I’m super passionate about it.

I’m just all, gurrrrr, arrrgh.  That’s all.  And I’m tired of being all gurrr, arrrgh.  Especially since there’s no direct, quantifiable reason I can easily change.  I’m just.  Pissed, and pissy, and I’m being confrontational with everyone and I want to slap myself for it but that would only make me angrier and then I might throw things and NO ONE NEEDS THAT.

I wish liquor stores delivered.

The problem I’m facing is… well.  How in the hell do I publicize this if I’ve cut myself off from all forms of social networking?  I mean, I’m not trying to become famous here, but I’d at least like my friends to read my shit so they can say how funny I am and then tell me I SHOULD be famous, thus reaffirming my belief that my current lack of fame and fortune has nothing to do with talent or consistency, and everything to do with luck.

How can I do that when I don’t have access to… Anything?  Ugh, I say.  UGH.  Suddenly I’m reminded that things like Facebook serve a goddamn purpose if you want people to know about the things you do on the Internet.

I seriously do not have even one solution to this.  Unless I start texting everyone my goddamn updates, but I think I’d rather stab myself.  Getting ads on your phone from supposed friends is worse than getting drunk texts from exes.  ”Exes.”  That word looks very weird when typed.  It looks like the name of an ancient mythic sword–the only one in existence that can slice through dragon scales.  But it’s not.  All exes really do is (are?  is?  MY GRAMMAR HAS GONE DOWNHILL, GUYS) cut through your self-esteem and decision-making abilities.

But.  Um.  Yeah.  I don’t know.  If anyone can think of a solution, tell me about it!

In the meantime, I’ll start thinking of things I can do to keep myself motivated to update at least once a week.  At the moment, I think my theme will be “Shit I’m Doing Instead of the Internet.”  It’s all pretty sweet, guys.  Like, for instance, I watched the entire Black Books series in like three days.  Aaaaaand, I read a book!  Oh wait, I did that before the Internet Drought of ’11.  So… basically I watched Black Books?

I also got a decent amount of Christmas shopping done.  That was bitchin’.  I read the news, like, twice.  I also read about psychology, like, twice.  I’m a powerhouse of information browsing.

Ugh this is lame.  I should do something awesome just to write about it.  SUGGESTIONS WELCOME.

Actually, yes!  Let’s do that!  If there’s something you want me to do/write about, TELL ME AND I WILL DO IT, kay?  As long as it’s not something stupid, like setting my hand on fire or dancing around in a diaper.  REAL CHALLENGES ONLY PLZ.

Let’s say for the sake of awesomeness that if I receive a challenge that I can complete in 5 days, I will update about it on Saturday.  Deal?!

OKAY LET’S GO WITH THE COMMENTS NOW

I’ve lived in the University District of Seattle since I moved here in September of last year.  I’m assuming you can all guess based on the name that this area is located next a university.  UW, to be specific.  This means I see a whole lot of:

-   Drunken frat boys
-   Purple sweatshirts with giant white W’s on them
-   Sorority girls doing the walk of shame in perversely short cocktail dresses, regardless of the time of day
-   … That’s about all I see, ever.  Ever.  EVER.

I’m sure this is affected by the fact that I don’t just live in the U District. I live on aptly-nicknamed Frat Row.

I also live in what’s called a “mini-studio,” which is essentially a dorm room with its own bathroom attached and no roommate.  There’s room for a desk, a bed, and a space large enough to walk between the bed and desk.  That’s about it.

Okay, fine.  So there’s also kind of a coat closet… area… thing, and a “kitchenette,” which is code for “a microwave and mini-fridge.”  Both of these exist in the same hallway-ish area in front of the door and… Fuck… Why am I even explaining this?   It’s small.  That’s my point.  It’s tiny.  It’s like, 200 square feet, including the bathroom, and sometimes I feel like the walls are closing in.  Sometimes they probably are, due to the thumping vibrations of shitty frat boy music blasting toward me from all directions.  It sucks.  It sucks so goddamn hard.

However, the suck finally has a foreseeable end!  My lease is up on the 31st, and I’ve already found a bitchin’ apartment in West Seattle, far removed from the drunken frattery of my current life.  Those fuckers will have to travel at least 10 miles to find me now, and we all know drunken stumbling never takes you that far.

Since I’m aware of my own shortcomings as an adult type person, I’ve started cleaning and packing early.  I have like, 2 weeks to get this shit done, and I am ON IT.

Cleaning isn’t a problem.  I rock at cleaning.  However, I rarely use these skills for good.  The problem with living in a home that’s the size of a box (and nobody knows your name!  Ha!  Skee-Lo, anyone? …Anyone?) is that I feel absolutely no urge to be here.  Ever.  And on the rare (okay, frequent) occasions when I find myself stuck inside for an entire day, this box starts to feel more like a bear trap, and I fear if I move around too much it will go off and clamp down on my leg and I’ll never be able to leave again.

So instead I sit very still and don’t clean.

Until it’s time to move, that is!

And suddenly, it comes back to me how many of the things in here used to be a different, much lighter color?  And then I touch things and they explode in dust and there are creatures living in crevices and I step on bits of food I have no memory of ever eating here and everything’s covered in someone else’s hair–Or is it just my hair, from an era when it was a different color?  Has it been that long since I’ve cleaned?  APPARENTLY SO.  And as I crawl around on the (thankfully shallow) carpet collecting broken wine bottles and bits of tobacco, I start to wonder if I don’t live here at all, but merely got blackout drunk one night and stumbled into Bernard Black’s apartment, never to leave again.  It’s disgusting.  I am disgusting.

This, boys and girls, is what happens when you project all of your depression onto a building!  It ain’t pretty, and the only consolation is that it’s finally, finally over.

Thankfully, I actually started the project of cleaning things up, like… A month ago.  It’s slow going, but it’s definitely going, and I’m not ashamed to live here anymore.  (Well. A little ashamed.)

The real problem I have with moving is the organizational part.  I’ve moved before, but there’s usually someone standing around telling me when I’m making really illogical packing decisions.  Like, “Jess, don’t hide your passport in the Kleenex box for ‘safe keeping.’  Do you realize what people do with Kleenex boxes when they use the last tissue?  Uh huh.  And do you really trust yourself to remember it’s in there after you move?  Uh huh.  Now give me all the important things, and you’re not allowed to touch them until you’re at the airport.  Okay?”

Y’all know how I diagnosed myself with ADHD a while back, and then continually used it as an excuse for everything stupid about me?  Well, I can’t even use that bullshit this time.  There is no goddamn reason for why my brain can’t recognize simple patterns, make a plan, and fill some goddamn boxes with some things.  But holy shit, I am a flurry of nonsense when I pack, and I can’t wait for it to be over.

Here’s what usually happens.  First, I realize I have to pack.  So I start packing.  Then I realize I need to organize things first.  And thus, I begin the dreaded piles.

Ahh, yes.  The piles.  So, I am usually fairly limited on space when I pack, due to leading a disgusting life of filth and grunge.  I also tend to start packing before I collect, say, empty containers of any variety.  So instead I just make… piles.  Piles of things.  Things I need for certain tasks or times or body parts or WHATEVER.

Unfortunately, the math goes something like this:

Time + Piles = Very Vague Degrees of Separation Between the Contents of the Piles.

Let me explain.  You know how when you do laundry, and you’re trying to separate the lights from the darks?  If you’re like me and wear a large variety of stupid clothing, you inevitably come across one article that doesn’t really fit into either pile.  Then you just have to pick one and roll with it.  But the human mind can’t stop there!  We have to justify everything, too!  ”I’ll put it with the darks, because most of my darks are warmer colors, and this is a warmer color, too!”  But this excuse creates another factor to consider for all other articles placed in the pile.

But before you came across that one article that fucked you up, you weren’t taking this factor into consideration.  But now you are.  So the bottom half of this stack is different from the top half, and you’re never going to re-sort it, so you wind up with a pile of laundry almost identical in color and shade to the other pile of laundry.

Wait, what?  That doesn’t ever happen to you?  Well fuck you.  Fuck all y’all.

POINT IS, this is what happens to my Packing Piles.  I’ll start out with a stack of shit for “Things I Need For That Party On Tuesday,” or something.  And it’s next to my “Medications” pile, which is next to my “Orange Things” pile.  But it only takes about twenty minutes and a strong cup of coffee to make me forget what the piles are for, and suddenly I look at what was once the Tuesday Party Pile, and I’ve got a packet of birth control sitting on top of some black pumps and a block of cheddar cheese, and I have no fucking idea what it’s even supposed to mean, so I just throw everything into the same garbage bag and await further instruction.

OR, conversely, I don’t put them in a bag at all.  I just leave junk lying around, waiting for that magical *click* in my brain where I remember all the logic behind my sorting decisions.

BUT THE CLICK NEVER HAPPENS, FOLKS.

And God forbid someone actually comes over in the middle of this madness.

Well-Meaning Friend:  Um, hey, Jess?  So I dropped by earlier to give you that book, and your apartment looks like several shrapnel bombs were dropped in the middle of a trailer park yard sale.  Is everything okay?
Me:  Oh, yeah, sorry.  I’m just cleaning.
Well-Meaning Friend:  I don’t think that’s it.  I mean… I saw smoke coming out of–
Me:  Ohhhh, that.  Yeah, I realized I don’t have room for any of my candles, so I decided to leave them burning until I move.
Well-Meaning Friend:  But the smoke was coming from the trash can?
Me:  Augh, of course it was.  I mean, I’m going to dump them anyway, so I lit them in the trash can.  It’s an easy way to skip the step of throwing them away!  Do I have to explain everything to you?
Well-Meaning Friend:  But, dude!  There was trash in there!  Paper trash!
Me: Yeah?  So?  It’s just trash.  If you love trash so much, WHY DON’T YOU MARRY IT AND JUST LEAVE ME ALONE THIS IS JUST HOW I PACK.

Shocking that I’m single, isn’t it?

Part 1 and 2, Nutshell Edition:  I was a social cripple.  Like.  Fo serious.  I couldn’t even say “hi” without nonsensical syllables spilling from my mouth like yogurty vomit.  This fear of people, combined with a need for human interaction, drove me into the strong and loving arms of the Internet.  Little did I know, Internetz was also controlling, manipulative, hurtful, and most of all, addictive in a way that stifled my ability to make real friends.

However, the point of this harrowing tale of boredom and inexperience is not to highlight how terrible my life is.  The point is to bask in the glory of change.  It took me several years of constant terror paired with intense depression to break myself out of the bubble I was in, but all my hard work finally paid off. I lead a moderately (…okay barely) social life now.  I have friends!  Real ones!  Some of whom I didn’t even meet through the Internet!  What?  WHAT?!

AND!  There are very few people in the world who still consider me a social cripple!  In fact, when I applied for bartending school, the across-the-board response was something like, “That’s perfect!  You’re so sociable!“

LOLWOT?!

Granted, I still have my moments.  Usually these moments limit themselves to specific people, but.  That’s also a story for another day.  (And an entertaining one, only slightly colored with shame and regret.)

These days, my good moments far outweigh the what the hell is she talking about and what is wrong with her face oh wait she’s just trying to express something nonverbally moments.  And the intense relief of realizing I’m not the weirdest person in the world has allowed me to conquer the bulk of my social fears.  Yes, this still leaves a shitload to deal with, like fear of karaoke and bowling alleys and Laundromats and ordering sushi in public and let’s not even get into formal dinner events involving multiple kinds of forks and properly folded napkins and MY GOD, WHY IS THE WORLD SO COMPLICATED AND EMBARRASSING.  But once you conquer enough social fears, the rest start to feel like more of the same.  Not everything I do is an entirely new adventure into looking dumb.  It’s an old adventure into looking dumb with different clothes on.  And although my immediate response to doing new things still involves immediate rejection and several low-grade strokes, I at least have the perspective of memory to off-set my instinctual terror.  Hey, Jess!  Remember the last time you did something scary and new, and almost no one laughed at you?  This is probably going to be like that, except with more raw fish, or dirty clothes, or round heavy objects being hurled toward other objects, or… Forks!  JUST DO IT, PUSSY.

For some more perspective, here’s a picture of me three weeks ago, standing in a shower at a hotel:

Clearly so much cooler than I was at 13! Right guys? …Guys?

So now I get out of the house. I do things. I try shit that makes me look stupid and sometimes I DON’T EVEN CARE. (But usually I do. I just, you know, repress it a lot)  Making connections with people and experiencing new things is intensely satisfying, especially since I spent so much of my life without any unique stimulus.  But when I get home, what do I inevitably do?

That’s right!  I spend the rest of my free time browsing the fucking Internet.  Not even effectively, either.  I check the same 4 websites over and over and over and over and oveeeeerrrrrrr because it gives me a tiny boost of self-confidence whenever people respond to my shit.  A boost that is UNMATCHED by the boost I get from talking to real people in real life who have actually met me and know I’m awesome instead of just assume I’m awesome based on the words I spew onto a page and the one picture of me I’ve taken at a decent angle that makes me look moderately non-ugly and causes 4channers to shout PUT A SHOE ON YOUR HEAD or TITS OR GTFO or whatever it is they shout these days to make women feel like they’re only valuable people if they fit society’s standards for attractiveness.  It’s bullshit.  It’s meaningless.  It used to make me feel better about myself, because I was gaining confirmation of my overall awesomeness at a time when, at best, I was invisible to the real world, and at worst, was a glaringly obvious freak.

So yes, it’s terrible and stupid and actually causes more long-term self-esteem issues than it solves.  But when I walk into my empty box of an apartment and face another several hours alone with my thoughts with no one to tell me to stop being depressing and self-loathing, getting that half-assed ego boost  from the Internet doesn’t sound so bad.  Because it’s SOMETHING, you know?  Better than getting swallowed up by the void of loneliness.

But it all needs to stop.

Problem is, old habits–especially habits formed before puberty–are fucking hard to break.  SO HARD.  And I find myself just sitting here staring at the screen, starting to type in my (other, private) blog address without even realizing it and then suddenly I’m back to old patterns, literally seconds after telling myself not to do it.

And now, after a 13-day streak of not hitting up any of my sites, it’s not any easier at all.  It’s actually the opposite of not smoking, because it gets harder every day, and the patterns don’t seem to be breaking themselves.  Maybe because I’ve yet to fill the void with something meaningful.  Seriously, it sucks.  I woke up this morning, checked my e-mail, and just stared at the address bar.  Like somehow just glaring at it was going to give me what I wanted.  You used to bring me so much happiness, I thought at it.  But that was a lie.  It didn’t bring me happiness.  It gave me an escape.

And since that void is still gaping, I’ll probably be updating more regularly.  Hopefully more succinctly, too.  Maybe I should spend this precious time working on my editing skillz rather than my writing skillz.  Clearly, production is not my issue at this point.

CONCLUSION: I don’t know.  The Internet sucks, but so does Internet detox?  Especially when it’s fo reelzies, unlike my half-assed detox a couple months ago?  So if I disappear entirely, CHECK THE NEWS.  I probably jumped in front of a truck in the hopes that it would be friends with me.

Part 1 Summary:  I quit almost all of the Internet.  I was also a super loser as a kid.  I gave a list of things that made this super clear.  If you want to point and laugh, go back and read that, but otherwise you can start here.

Those of you who know me (which is everyone who reads this, because my Internet groupies tapered off in like, ’06) know I was homeschooled from the middle of 4th grade and on.  Very few people, however, know that I spent ages 9 through 15 interacting with maybe one person a month outside my family–each interaction lasting approximately 2 minutes or less.  These usually occurred when I was dragged to grocery stores by my well-meaning, but equally socially crippled, mother.  It was a rare occasion that I was forced to interact with a cashier, bagger, or friendly customer.  When it occurred, I’d usually mumble some indistinguishable syllables, they’d politely nod their heads, and that was about it.  For 6 extremely shitty years.

I compensated for this by spending my free time (of which I had, um, at least 10 hours a day, due to a complete lack of responsibilities?) in chatrooms.  At 10, I attracted a pedophile or two, and my parents found out.  And they were all, “JESS THAT DUDE’S A PEDO” and I was all, “Nah man, just cos his screen name is “SkinBiter” doesn’t make him a bad dude!”  True story.  10-year-old Jessie was super dumb.  I was banned from the Internet for like.  Three days or something.  Goddamn, I had the most trusting overprotective parents EVER.

Howevs, that’s when my mom decided I might need real friends, so she put me in girl scouts.  And, granted, I didn’t really connect with those girls.  I lived in a trailer park.  They lived in upper-middle-class suburbs, and instead of actually doing girl scout shit, they just shopped.  And I, uh.  Followed them around through stores, looking poor.  But hey, they were PEOPLE!  Some of them were nice and actually liked talking to me!  So that was cool.

This lasted for about… A month?  Then the troop disbanded, no one ever talked to me again, and I came crawling back to the interwebs.  (I’d learned my lesson about online “dating,” mind you.  No more pedos for me.) I think AIM was a thing by then, so I just IMed people all day.  I had like, 5 windows going at a time.  I was a MASTER at multitasking via a computer screen, but talking to even one real person sent me running for a closet to hide in until it was over.

This is something I don’t talk about.  Like.  Ever.  Mainly because of the shame.  I thought I was fundamentally broken, and by the time my parental guidance disappeared around 13, I didn’t even have enough confidence to leave the house.  I was terrified of everything.

I feel like this entry is just a giant block of text, so here’s an overexposed photo of me around 13, to give you some sweet perspective:

Sometimes I wish I’d been a dumb kid. It was the self-awareness more than the awkwardness that almost killed me.  I knew how I seemed to others.  I could feel the awkwardness happen as soon as I entered a room.  My body language screamed, “Please notice how uncomfortable I am at all times!  Look, LOOK!  OVER HERE! I’M TRYING TO BE UNNOTICEABLE IN A REALLY OBVIOUS WAY!  GUYS!  SERIOUSLY!  I’M AWKWARD!”

Worse, I knew I could make friends if I tried.  Self-awareness meant I was capable of self-sufficiency, so it was my responsibility to fix my shit.  Aaaand I didn’t fix shit.  I just hid in my room.  Pile all that guilt on top of the already-crushing shame, and you’ve got a recipe for a permanent hermit life.  A… Hermanent?  Fuck yes, hermanent!  NEW WORD!  Use it wisely, and please, only for good.

The only thing that even partially broke me out of it was getting a job in retail.  And it sucked.  Hoo boy, did it SUCK.  Try going from 2 minutes of human interaction a month to MEETING OVER 100 PEOPLE A DAY.  I went home most days with gaping emotional wounds, and new embarrassing moments to replay in my head over and over and over and over until I wanted to die.  I WANTED TO DIE SO HARD ALL THE TIME.

For 7 months, until I quit to move to South Carolina and housesit for a year.  I was 17.  I hoped leaving my job would make the depression end, but it actually just spiraled even further out of control–this time with the added knowledge that I was no longer only fucking myself over, but also my family!  GO TEAM JESS!

I spent that year unconscious for over 12 hours a day.  Sleep was my escape from the fact that I was failing, due to never being taught basic life skills like how to sort mail and how to do laundry.  AND I was too ashamed to ask for help.  (Sorry, Family I Was Housesitting For! If it’s any consolation, I’m slightly less damaged now?)  But that’s a story for another time, because that shame actually goes deeper than all the shame I’m talking about right now!  In fact, I don’t even know how or why I’m typing this!  Maybe if I use exclamation points, it will seem lighthearted and I won’t want to die by the end of this paragraph!

It almost worked!

!

REPRESS, REPRESS.

Much better.

So, there you go.  A childhood full of loneliness and failure, leading to an adulthood full of fears and Internet addiction.  Look forward to Part 3, tentatively titled “What’s Going On Right Now and Shit.”

NO, because that’s a story told by practically everyone who decides to “quit” Facebook.  But I’m going to tell it anyway, because it’s NEW TO ME, fuckers.

So for very complicated, melodramatic reasons I’m not going to get into because they sound super lame on paper, I’ve decided to stop going to any of my social websites.  This started about 10 days ago, and includes the deactivation of:

-          My private blog site

-          Facebook

-          Twitter

-          Google+

-          Dating sites

-          Forums

If it had been an option to slowly taper off my overall usage, I would have done so.  But it wasn’t, so I had to quit them all at once.  And it turns out quitting the interwebs cold turkey is very similar to quitting smoking, except A THOUSAND TIMES WORSE ALL THE TIME EVERY DAY.

Oh, sure, maybe it’s not a big deal for YOU.  You people, with your lives, and your…  Hobbies, and shit.  But let me tell you a little story, okay?  Once upon a time, a 9-year-old girl discovered the internet.  Then, it became her only form of socialization for the following 10 years.

“Ha!  Not really though, right?  Like… not… really?” You may be thinking.  Or saying.  At your monitor.  Like a weirdo.  Stop it.

Well, the answer is Yes, really, and No, I’m not exaggerating.

Here comes a wordy description of my childhood!  I think it has potential to be a grade-A Lifetime movie (cos those exist, right? llollo), so script writers, set your pencils to… “Write a script”?  I guess?  Okay, GO!

My dad worked nights and was mostly absent.  My mom, though loving in her own way, was overprotective to the point of my not being allowed out of sight.  Ever.  Even as a young teenager.

Well, that’s not exactly true.  I was allowed to wander our classy little trailer park, but only if I was alone.  I was not, allowed to go anywhere with friends, ever, even if it was only a block away from home.  As you can imagine, my social life didn’t bloom under these circumstances.

For some overall perspective, let me give you a list of firsts, and the ages at which I experienced them.

First kiss – 16.  Shit, 17?  Yeah, maybe 17.

First time hanging out with a friend without any form of parental supervision – 16.  (And it was someone I’d met on the internet.  GO FIGURE.)

First time going to a playground without a parent – 12.  (I still wasn’t technically allowed to go to a playground, and I got caught because my dad followed me.)

First time checking out at a store without a parent – 14.

First time on a bus – 16.  (My first day of work.  Which was the first time I’d interacted with other teenagers.  Literally.)

First time paying at a restaurant – 18, maybe?  (I’d paid other people back for buying me food, but I hadn’t gone through the process of paying the waitstaff.  “So I just… I sit here?  With the money?  And stuff?  And they pick it up and… And then  what?  WHAT HAPPENS?  HOW DO I TIP?  WHAT IS BOX HAPPENING?”)

That’s just a starter list to give you a general picture of my childhood, and I think it’s enough for now, because I’m getting  overwhelmed with my own lameness.  The second part of this entry is UPCOMING and MOSTLY DONE, so don’t fret!  There are a lot more meaningless words to waste your time on!  GET READY, GUYS.