Last week I burned the FUCK out of my hand.

You must be wondering, how is this funny? Well, if you have a little 3 Stooges in you, which we all do, it’s already funny. Something hurt me and I said ow and you laugh. The end.

No, seriously, that’s the end of the post.

JAYKAY, y’all. I’m a woman, I never shut up. Durr. You’re not getting off that easy.

In one of the many Disney-Pixar (that sounds like a plug, I assure you, I’m not hot enough to warrant it) animated flicks of yore, called Over the Hedge, there’s a scene in which a squirrel chugs a Red Bull and experiences an insane rush of taurine or whatever the fuck pseudo shit they put in it, and time slows down and he’s moving at the speed of light. I had that moment at work. I moved so quick that in the second and a half the tea machine’s (for the uninitiated thats a large metal thing the size of a garbage can that brews about 9 gallons of tea in 9 minutes) display flashed off, I observed that the tea was empty, needed to be brewed, and automatically reached for the filter-holder-thing to start brewing another…barrel. Keg. Cask. England. India. Whatever one calls entirely too much tea in one place. Which, because this all happened in the span of literally, a second and a half, I didn’t see that the tea machine was actually ON, and the filter-holder-thing was full to the brim of hot tea and water, which sloshed all over my hand and wrist when I pulled it out of the machine.

I’m pretty sure I let out a squeal that would have made the hillbillies from Deliverance proud. I also hopped, which would also make hillbillies proud, because don’t they do that when they accidentally purposely shoot each other in the foot?

Now, I get burned all the time. I get bruised all the time. I’m not a victim of abuse, I just happen to walk into shit. A lot. And I never remember when. I’m thinking my brain has to come to the conclusion that it happens so often to me that it’s just decided “Fuck it, this is a waste of gray matter. She doesn’t need to remember where that mushroom stamp came from.”

So, I walk around for a second, majorly grimacing, and am already blowing it off as just another motherfucking burn from my motherfucking job that I LOVE, until I realize that, um, wow, owch, stings, phew, wow that stings, uuuhh, FUCK IT HURTS. OH, FUCK. BLOODY BUGGERING HELL IT HURTS LIKE THE DOGS BOLLOCKS CUNT SHIT OW.

Of course, I work with a bunch of nurses. Yeah, didn’t you know? Everyone I work with is an R.N. Or they’re pansies. Wait, thats the same thing. Five people immediately come to me and diagnose my burn, prescribe treatment, all the while nodding like God whispered in their ear the secret to this common injury, Le BURN.

Cold water. Lukewarm water. Ice water. No, fuck that, Jen, plunge your hand into the ice well where people drink their Pepsis from. This one was good:  ”Hey, Jen, aloe really helps. The plant, the leaves you get from the grocery store.”

I almost asked that person if they were going to shit either an aloe plant or a Publix and stand in line for me and buy me some aloe, because you know, WE DON’T HAVE AN ALOE PLANT LAYING AROUND THE KITCHEN. Thanks for the UN-HELP.

I don’t remember what the hell temperature water that I stuck my hand under, I do remember that for the next 30 minutes I walked around with my hand in a pitcher filled with water and a few ice cubes, while my darling co workers pointed to the warning on the tea machine every chance they got and read to me like I was Ray Charles, “Hey, Jen….just so you know…this says Caution. HOT. ” And the next person would do it like it was an original idea and start laughing uproariously. That part made me laugh. The idiotic repetition. Apes. I tell people I work at a zoo all the time, and when I replace the people in work stories I tell with random African animals, it’s like reading the perfect Mad Lib.

I don’t know what it is about a person walking around with their hand in a pitcher, but goodness people STARE. What, you’ve never seen someone bathe one part of their body before? We’re a Mexican restaurant, for chrissakes. Never heard of a Spanish shower? Jesus.

Now, my boss, Mr. Hardcore-if-I-can-do-it-then-why-the-fuck-can’t-you who works 80 hours a week and is at least partially insane, sees the burn and tells me I’m going home. I almost fell over. I could be pregnant and my water could break, and he’d expect me to finish my shift at least and THEN go to the hospital. After I mopped up the mess.

When he said that I took a second look at my hand that I had been icing in a pitcher and carrying around like Thing Addams and realized that my burn was a little bit worse than I thought. Mr. Hardcore looks again and says “That’s gotta come off.”

I had a House TV moment and did a what the fuck, WHAT is coming off and why? Because you looked at it and I have botulism? My hand? No, my ring. Well, ok, I’ll take my ring off, see, no big…..OW. My hand had swollen up like that evil chick’s I sat next to in Texas. Yeah, fat women can’t take their rings off. I know this now. It doesn’t happen. I bet if a jeweler did a study on the jewelry found on fat women’s fingers he’d conclude that its all from the 70′s, when it went on, stayed on through pregnancy, birth, raising kids, getting fat, getting divorced, and then eating brownies everyday afterwards.

So I go into the back, where the office is located, sit down, and take my hand back out of the pitcher. Oh, that sweet pitcher. Such relief. Taking it out of the pitcher was like putting your eyeball next to a lightbulb. Because I’m guessing that would be pretty effing painful. It BLEW. He pulls out a pair of dykes or wiresnips or some handy-dandy man tool (I actually know my way around tools quite well, let’s just pretend I don’t to make you feel better) and cuts off the ring on my middle finger. The time it took for him to locate said tool he made me take my hand out of the water, because he insisted it was too cold and my arm shouldn’t feel like an icecube, too. I totally cried. I’m not a crier. Remember, I walk into furniture and hurt myself all the time; don’t cry. I’m pretty good with pain. This fucking hurt. Like that bitch from high school. Or, those bitches. I should say it hurt like the cheerleading squad from high school. I should not write analogies professionally.

I sniffled a bit and hugged my mother-at-work, she patted me on the back and gave me an aspirin which was promptly taken away from me from my dad-at-work, Mr. Hardcore, as soon as she left the office because he insisted it was bad and would thin my blood. (Wasn’t that the point? See, nurses. They’re all nurses. CERTIFIABLE, ya see.) I took some acetaminophen, grabbed my purse, sat at the bar morosely and sulked over lost wages and how my masturbating hand was out of comission, and eventually left. I got to drive home with my elbows, and that was kind of a learning experience. Except that hopefully I’ll never have to do it again.

I told my best friend this, and she was all like, “Yeah, I’ve so totally done that before.”

“Driven with your elbows?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, why?”

“Church learning activity in high school. Was supposed to teach us how we take our body parts for granted, so we like, did everything with our elbows.”

Can I get a wtf? Crazy ass Mormons. They just didn’t want you to touch your no-no place for a week. DUH. I get it, too bad you guys didn’t. I bet that kid that wore his shorts just a little too short figured out how to stroke the shaft with his elbows. Thats why he’s on Broadway in NYC right now. Hello, cliche.

Anyway, I’m getting off track. Theres not really much more to say about me burning my hand. I impressed myself with writing an entire post about it. But, wait, there’s MORE!

I was such a source of amusement it warranted a picture. And today, at work, almost 2 weeks later, I reached for the tea machine and jumped 3 feet in the air when everyone in the kitchen yelled, “JEN! NO.”

I’m not allowed to touch the tea machine. This burn has made me just a little more American.

Also, the title for this post is inspired by Dr. Bishop from Fringe. He says posit a lot, and golly gee, I just love that word.

If you ever want to see your bowels produce something akin to baby shit, do a cleanse.

Me and the bestie (that’s the new vernacular for best friend, I just go with the flow, dawg) decided that we were fed up with being mopey and stagnant, and I thought it might be a good idea for us to start fresh, together. There’s nothing like annoying accountability to make you do what you said you were going to do. Its one thing to let myself down; I’m rife with disappointments. It’s another to have to tell someone you suck balls and are lazy. She’s going to ask me later if I ran today, and more than likely I’ll respond with a text like “NOT FUCKING YET. LAY OFF!!!”

Interestingly enough, we actually both eat pretty healthy. We’re vegetarians. I specifically was a practicing vegan until I moved back to Florida in October and decided not to shun the free pizza with cheese on it that would become available, especially since I was poor and living in between two people’s houses. And, oh my God, who doesn’t LOVE cheese? Noms. Especially on pizza, one of my favorite foods in the world.

Besides that, we eat plenty of vegetables, some tofu, whole grains and whole grain breads, and lots of fruit. Typically when I go grocery shopping I pick up: almond milk, frozen steam-in-a-bag veggies, Claussen kosher pickles (you need those in your life, fyi), mushrooms, spinach, hummus, soy yogurt, granola…and a 12 pack of beer. Whoops.

Dude, I love beer. I love the way it tastes. I love how it’s cold and bubbly and hoppy, all up in your mouth when you get off of work when you’re all sweaty and gross. I love going to bars and talking smack with my friends, over beer. And I don’t just love Yuengling, I love all kinds of microbrew beers. I’m a beer snob. Thus my problem. If I don’t watch myself, I’ll end up with a beer gut. I’ve seen girls with them, and ew, it’s not attractive. I can’t get a ripped tummy if there’s a layer of calories, namely beer carbs and sugar.

I also love coffee. This one is easier to cut out (for a cleanse, anyway) because I don’t have a coffeemaker, or instant coffee, and for me to get my hot black java fix I have to drive somewhere and buy an overpriced cup of it.

The purpose of a cleanse (also referred to as a detox) is to cut out all the bad shit for anywhere from 1 to 7 days. Bad shit is: caffeine, cigarettes, alcohol, tap water (eyeroller), processed/refined foods, meat, dairy, and shitty oils/fats.

What you’re left with is: fruit, vegetables, and whole grains, if that.

Me and Julie both smoke like chimneys, and we both knew better than to try a cleanse that cut out alcohol (my other best friend), caffeine (a mutual good friend of ours), and not have some kind of vice. We’d be at each other’s throats the whole time. And I love her, and I don’t want her to die. I don’t want to die either. Yes, its that extreme. Us not smoking while doing a cleanse together would have ended in our death. Thus, we opted to have a vice, and smoking it was.

So, Sunday afternoon, after we both got to bed at 5:30 A.M., we headed to Whole Foods, the hippie grocery mecca of Tampa, at about 1pm. Thus began our journey through the produce section, searching for things like arugula, rainbow chard, pea sprouts, endive, and jicama. Sample of our typical banter:

“What the FUCK is that? Are we supposed to eat that?”

“I don’t think I know HOW to eat that. Wait, it says here we’re going to juice it.”

“Oh, sick.”

“They don’t have rainbow chard. All they have is Swiss, and green. Green LEAF, specifically.”

“Pick one. They both look like they’re going to taste like shit anyways. I don’t care.”

“Oh, gawd, look at that lady. That’s why I want to quit smoking. Ugh, her skin.”

“That’s not a lady, thats the Grim Reaper, stupid.”

“Wanna do a shot of wheatgrass?”

“No.”

“Hey, it’s not bad, if you get past the fact that I’m drinking something that was probably shit on by a squirrel.”

“Now I definitely want some wheatgrass. That looks like sewage.”

“Ooh, look, samples of Sour Cream and Onion POP chips. I won’t tell you if you don’t tell me.”

“Done. What the hell is a POP chip anyways?”

“Apparently the great minds that have sent us to space have figured out you can pop a potato, like corn.”

“God bless America.”

“Ready to go home and drink shit?”

“No.”

“Sweet, me either. Lets hit a thrift store on the way back.”

“Word.”

We eventually made it past our ADD and got back to my apartment, the designated spot for the cleanse. We knew we wanted to sweat it out by a pool, and my pool is like a good volleyball serve away.

That morning we both drank a concoction of water, lemon juice, cayenne pepper and Celtic sea salt. What we now call the ELIXIR. In case you didn’t know, consumption of peppers can clean you out, which is why you often see them in cleanses. It makes your digestive system go “Oh, shit” (fucking puns, I’m full of ‘em) and empty itself. When we got back to my apartment we made the Sassy Sausalito Salad, which consisted of arugula, endive, raw almonds, romaine, and what the author idiotically refers to as an “Addictive Tangy Dressing”, which is lemon juice, flax oil, and salt. Seriously? It’d be addictive if there was a freaking BUMP in it.

Over that day and the next, we made a ‘Heavenly Juice’ (juiced chard, cucumber, apple, sprouts), ‘Blissful Broth’ (simmered onion, celery, squash, and some herbs then blended in a blender to aid digestion), and a watermelon salad that was actually pretty fucking good. I never used to really care for watermelon. I didn’t NOT like it, I just didn’t see why people went apeshit over it. Now I know, when you’re sweating balls in your apartment with no A/C on purpose, watermelon tastes like heaven.

We did a lot of laying around, because detoxes sap your energy. You’re removing your usual daily consumption of carbs, sugars, and caffeine. It’s not bad to remove those things, just doing it overnight like we did, like most people have to do with a cleanse, makes your energy levels wonky as fuck.

We did a lot of bitching, like me: “Whose fucking idea was this? Shit, mine. Well, fuck you anyways Julie. Stop smiling.”

Julie: “I want to eat something that has fucking TEXTURE. And I’d like to feel full for more than 20 minutes, Jesus.”

Me: “I know, right? If we’re having MSG swings I want it to be because I’m eating deep fried tofu goddammit. I don’t even know what I want to eat right now. I just want something to freaking CHEW. FUUUUCK.”

Later that night Julie went home and showered and I showered. It felt SO AMAZING. And I looked in the mirror and felt fabulous. I had some color in my cheeks from the sun, my body was a little achy from the pummeling I had given it earlier that day, and although I hadn’t lost any weight according to the scale, I felt slimmer and better.

Since we made a ‘One Day Wonder Cleanse’ last for two days, that night we decided to go out and eat something that we could chew. Got some Vietnamese food, and then we hit the bar that is conveniently/distressingly located a block away from my house. And I ordered us….vodka and soda, with a lime. God, when you want a beer, that beverage tastes like SHIT. The first one went down quite bitterly. I bitched the whole time. Next round, added a lemon. And then I stopped caring. Because, I asked for it. Gotta take it.

So, now I’m ‘clean’. Yes, I pooped. A lot. No, nothing colon shaped came out. But I definitely pooped more epically than I had been pooping. I feel better. Am I doing it again anytime soon? No. Hopefully it won’t be necessary. If I keep up with a new regimen of eating better, I won’t have to. Remembering a cleanse will keep my ass in check. Because it sucked.

If you want to be an idiot like me, check out Super Cleanse by Adina Niemerow. Don’t believe her when she says something tastes good, she’s full of shit.

I was working a lunch shift the other day. That statement applies everyday in my life.

Single older man is sat in my section, I go to greet him. He tells me he wants a Pepsi. I ask him if he’s ready to order, and he responded by throwing his hands up in the air and asking, “Do you have BURRITOS? I just want a BURRITO.”

Dude, don’t cry. Yes, we have burritos. Right in the fucking middle of the fucking middle page in the fucking menu. I thought he was going to start crying for his mother in the 5 seconds it took for me to explain that to him and point.

“Well, ok, then. I just want a beef burrito.”

“Alright, no problem. Thanks.”

On my way back to the kitchen I share this little episode with one of my fellow servers, as we do throughout a shift, because sometimes people are just so ridiculous and it must be shared. She does the same to me all the time, and it usually results in us giggling a lot more. For us to know that we’re not alone, that everyone gets sat with a crazy every now and then.

He finishes his burrito, and I go to his table to drop the check. He points to the basket of chips he’s eaten 3 out of. “You’re just going to throw those away, aren’t you?”

“Um, yup.”

“Well, can I have a box to take these home? I can feed them to my squirrels. And NO STYROFOAM. I don’t want anything styrofoam!”

Soothingly I say, “We have bags. Paper bags. And they’re BROWN. (My mind whispers, ‘Like the Earth.’) Is that ok?” Fucking hippie.

“Yes, that’d be fine.”

I go to the bar to get said brown bag, and I have to tell someone what the hell this guy just said to me, and my friend isn’t around, so I tell my boss, who is sitting at the bar, writing something or doing whatever the hell he does sitting at the bar, to which he responds, “That’s not weird.”

What the fuck? He says, “It’s Florida.”

I don’t care if we’re in fucking Taiwan, it’s weird. Squirrels in Florida are rodents, pests. This man HAS some, that he feeds. And when his roof collapses on him because there’s 50 in his attic, he’s going to curse the day he brought home chips to feed them.

Besides which, you don’t want styrofoam, but you’re okay with messing up the eco system and feeding squirrels corn chips that are probably loaded with saturated fat. Hippiecrite.

Oh, my job. I’ll look back on this time on my life someday and have acid reflux.

I’m still so undecided about how I feel about airports. I can’t decide if I love them or hate them. I love them because something ridiculous always happens, without fail. Usually that makes me laugh. I hate them because they are usually filled with obnoxious people.

I’m 23 years old. Yes, there are a lot of 23 year olds out there. But not a lot of 23 year olds fly. Which means when I fly, which happens anywhere from 1-4 times a year, I usually end up sitting next to someone who has no interest in talking to me whatsoever. I don’t blame them. They’d rather not risk hearing the word “like” 6 times in a sentence. Maybe I should fly to Vegas. Because those people gamble. And they’d want to have sex in the bathroom with a 23 year old to gain Mile High status and get their “stays in Vegas” on quicker. Does airspace count?

I was boarding the plane in Atlanta, my connection to Tampa, when I got to row..18? Where ever the hell I was. Oh, by the way. Delta, go fuck yourself for charging for Wi-Fi. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? It”s the INTERNET. FREE. Like libraries. BLOW ME.

Sorry for that ADD bullet point. Anyhoo, I got to my aisle, and I was at the window (Yessss!) and wow, the guy in the middle? Kinda cute. Kinda young. Kinda weird. Unexpected. And he totally had the same look on his face when he saw me. Like, “Youth? Vitality? Non-crochetyness? Ok!”

So he moved out of the way, I got to my seat, sat down, and promptly started chugging my coffee. About 3 minutes later he pulls a book out of his laptop bag, and I rudely looked over his shoulder to see what he was reading (what? It’s my thing. Books. I dig.) and was shockingly turned on. To the max. You’d never guess what it was.

Simply Christian. No, I am not Christian, in any way shape or form. But cute Christian boys? Basically what it comes down to, in layman’s terms, is that I’d like to ruffle some feathers. Even though I’m sure he’s gangbanged some born-again high schoolers, in my mind….he’s a virgin thats only done some groping in a movie theater. And either I’m hotter than I think I am, or I was totally right. All about the body language.

I have an app on my phone. It tracks ovulation. Shut up. I know I’m a nerd. I really got it so it could predict my periods for me because I am entirely too scatterbrained to keep track. Thus the reason I have socks on right now but no underwear. See what I mean?

Another ADD bullet point: better name for the ovulation app? Currently called “My Days”? There Will Be Blood. HA.

I didn’t know this at the time, as I do now, but my sudden urge to rub my genitals all over his book and arm? Ovulation. And it was reeeeaaal bad. I’m talking, I can’t put my hands on my thighs in a resting position because I might have my own personal American Pie and PREEJ all over the damn place.

In between me rolling my eyes heavily over how ridiculous my body was reacting to the hot peach I was sitting next to, I read something in Chapter Whatever about God’s self-expression (really? Shut up, book) and started to feel a little uncomfortable.

Because I mean, how often are you crammed next to someone that you’re thinking horribly dirty thoughts about? I was half afraid I’d blurt out a “YES! RIGHT THERE!” when he passed me my cheap Biscotti biscuit and the cup containing Coke Zero over ice, because thats how airlines fuck you. By giving you half a can of soda in a container you know you’re going to spill all over yourself. I need a lid, because I’m special. Especially dumb.

Seatbelt sign goes off, I dive under the seat in front of me and finagle my laptop out of its bag, with headphones, and promptly start watching “The Blind Side”. Hoping Sandra Bullock’s tight ass will distract me from surfer boy next to me. He pulls out his iPod touch and plugs in, and I see in my previously discussed amazing periph that it’s not turning on. So he puts it back in his bag and sits back and just looks forward. And, because I’m sweet, I hand him a headphone. So we sit there and watch the last half of the movie together.

If I was trying to actually get into his pants, I’d have scored some major romantic-comedy points right there. Too bad I’m cynical and crazy and know better than to think I could be both romantic and comical at the same time. My idea is romance is rough sex, my idea of comedy is dutch ovens.

The movie ends, and he starts a conversation, as I knew he was going to. We had a conversation. He lives in Lakeland.

Screeching halt.

Yick.

He’s on his way back to Tampa from Los Angeles, where he went to meet with some producers for a documentary he’s directing.

I’m sorry, am I sitting on an airplane, or am I in Starbucks?

Now, if I tell you the name of his proposed documentary, who will star in it and what it will be about, AND it actually is made and in 2 years we will all know what it is, this blog can bite me in the ass in 1 of 2 ways. He’ll have either become really not hot and I’ll be like, “Seriously, Jen?” Worse, you’ll be like, “Seriously, Jen?” Or, he’ll be hotter and you and I will be like, “You never had a chance in hell, Jen.” Worse, he’ll be rich. I’ve been in the market for a Sugar Daddy.

Either way, he told me the proposed “actor” for this documentary, and I didn’t stop giggling for 5 minutes. We got off the plane together, walked up the jetway together, got on the shuttle together, after which we parted ways because he had to go baggage claim and I had to go…pee. Never got his name. Awkward parting. One in which numbers probably could have been exchanged, but I bounced before it became too awkward. Thank goodness nature called.

So, to reiterate my original point, kind of like how you’re instructed to do in middle school when you write the 5 by 5 essay, I’m undecided on whether I love or hate airports.

That story is in the plus column for airports, as is this snippet:

While I’m sitting on the plane in Atlanta, people are still boarding. You watch them get on, see the bitchy moms, cranky old people, the Zuni tribesmen, and the bloated drunk businessmen. I see a scruffy white guy walk on with a fedora, wearing a stained somewhat white undershirt. No big deal. He’s a trashy mofo, it happens. He shifts his body to the right, and we all see that he’s clutching a brand new issue of Maxim. Ha. Classy. Wait, it gets better. He walks by my aisle, and his carry-on is….drumroll, please. A black trashbag. Even better, he smells terrible and is totally baked out of his mind.

Thats why I love airports.  Done and done.

Recently I had the mediocrity of traveling to Texas. That sentence might mess with you a little, since its so…wrong. But I can’t really say ‘joy’. It’s TEXAS. Give me a break.

I got a pedicure with my sister and her best friend who was also visiting Texas the same time I was. The same time two of our cousins from our now HUGE English family we recently discovered were visiting as well. Made for a full house. So getting out for a bit was a good idea, especially to have my I-am-a-white-woman-so-I-am-better-than-you attitude reinforced by having a Vietnamese person sit at your feet and scrub, tickle, massage, and grope your feet and legs for 30 minutes.

Disclaimer: I really am not that bigoted. I think.

When I got there, there was a large white woman sitting in a chair already, getting her feet scrubbed. Part of the pedicure process.

All I remember about this lady is the distinct impression her body gave of being made of FLESH. Pale, pink-toned, jiggly, blue veined flesh. She had on capris and a tank top, so she was mostly covered and guess what? It was STILL TOO MUCH.

She also had that color hair I HATE. The ash color. The color of the void. It’s not brown, blonde, grey, red…fucking PURPLE. It’s just….the definition of drab. Without hue. Tone. Vibrance. Ugh.

Well, I shrugged off the fact that I’d be sitting next to someone that represented like, 4 of the deadly sins. It happens sometimes. Sat down, put my feet in the water, almost kicked my tech in the face when she broke out the pumice like I do every time because I’m ungodly ticklish. And right about that time I looked over to see what she was reading, because my amazing periph told me it was not that special rectangular shape reserved for magazines.

And, it was the Bible.

Actually, it was a book of Proverbs.

Only in Texas. Right about this time I notice that her nail tech is STILL scrubbing her feet. Like, they hadn’t moved onto anything, like hot stones, wax treatments, lotion, massage….nope. She was still getting her little piggies washed. 25 minutes later.

If you’ve ever seen James and the Giant Peach, the movie made sometime within the last 10 years? To the Google. 1996. Awesome flick. The two evil aunts? The fat one? Sponge. Thats this lady. Looks just like her. Which is perhaps why I got the distinct impression she was evil when I sat down. And I kind of recoiled. Hello, 5 dolla word. The actress Miriam Margolyes? Played the headmistress in Matilda, too. Yep, see. EVIL.

My nail tech is putting the white on my toe tips…and she’s still getting her feet scrubbed. They’re putting rhinestones on my sister’s friend’s toenails….scrubbin’ away. Putting our flip flops on and walking out the door…guess? Scrub-a-dub-dub.

All I’m sayin’ is….if her feet are that bad…do you think her vagina has leprosy?

I’m smoking in my apartment. I’m smoking in my apartment. Waiting for someone to flog me. Namely, me.

I’ve decided that I do my best bitch thinking when I’m smoking, because smoking makes me feel cynical. I’ve designated my ‘office’/den/mancave that exists in the corner of my apartment as the place I can let loose. To smoke and do lines and make my cat chug beer and masturbate to taboo porn and….flash the recently moved in Indian girls on the first floor.

I think they’re like 7 years old. Is that wrong? I mean, it’s an education, right? Doing my part.

And since I’m not physically like a man (although my heart penis I have inside me says otherwise) I guess I’d call this room my womancave. If we simplify that, break it down to its prime number, I think I may have officially designated this room VAGINA. Isn’t that what we call our womencaves? VAGINAS. Yes, in capital letters. Because my vagina is noisy and it yells when you poke it. No, I don’t have herpes. I just have an opinionated crotch.

I’m totally listening to electronic music right now. Much as I enjoy it from time to time, I can never escape how fucking pretentious it is.

Oh, and if you’d like to know if I’ve ever had anal sex, check out the recent podcast titled “No More Tears” from my amigos Alex and Kevin. They’re my favorite man friends.

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I opted to go mic-less, which is just as well because I couldn’t really talk as I was busy giving them blowjobs. And I’m still not their favorite chick friend.

It’s worth your time. Really. I fully endorse the product No More Tears. Damn, I gave it away.

A day ago someone I went to middle school and high school with died. From a drug overdose.

We were not close, at all. Never really hung out, talked much, whatever. But when you know someone for the formative years of your life, its important, and memorable. And it makes you remember that life is life, it’s fleeting, altogether too short, and gives you a moment of “What the fuck am I doing?”

I’ve had such a moment before, sure. I’m sure we all have. Death usually spurs this on for most people. Pretty typical.

Maybe its the events of the past year, but today that death is kicking my freaking ass.

I’m in limbo. An enjoyable limbo. Which is a surprise to me, because limbo has never sounded like a fun place to be, either spiritually or actually in life. I’m mostly enjoying it because I’ve never experienced it before. The hazy fuzzy feeling of floating where I am in my life, without an actualized purpose. I know I have purpose. Thats been on constant I’ve had my entire life. The feeling of “Hey Jen, you’re supposed to do something. And unfortunately for you, it will involve a lot of work. Because its going to affect a lot of people. Get ready.”

So…that actualization part. What a bitch.

A lot of things that have happened to me and/or I’ve done in the past year have made me reprioritize. Again, and again. And here I am, not doing that again, necessarily, but reflecting on what I know is important to me. And I’m thinking today might be the start to me getting out of limbo, and taking every step like I mean it.

I’ve never been one to waste time. When I know where I’m going, I prefer to get there as soon as possible. Because I have a destination. Me lacking destination has enabled me to enjoy the walk more.

And I know that when I do take these next steps, I’ll be able to appreciate the walk. Because it counts.

I used to think wisdom was an experience that people learn from. That it was a noun, this concept that just happened to those people who choose to think about what happens, and learn a lesson from it. Now I think it’s more of a verb, this action that you can choose to take. It’s a choice.

When something happens, you either learn from it or you don’t. The choice to learn is always there, and the more time you take to reflect on what happens, that makes you wiser, you are practicing wisdom. And I like my concept of wisdom. Its better than me thinking that wisdom is something attainable, that you ‘get’. Nope, it’s definitely you deciding to be wise. And it definitely helps you when you are.

Oh, a week later. How time flies, and how it kind of nosedives into the ground.

Its amazing to me how much we critique ourselves. Me, in particular, I think I do it to a fault. When we’re faced with situations like this, where people that have loved you and have spent as much time with you choose to go a different path with their lives. One that doesn’t involve you as much. You wonder why, what the hell happened, aren’t I somewhat ok? You’ve been with me for this long. What happened?

The funny thing is that I chose to do the same thing a year ago, and it all made sense to me then. It never made sense to Wade, and he still doesn’t understand it. I think when we can talk again I’ll use this situation as an example. Like, hey man, you know how you needed to go? I did, too. Do you get it? Now? And if he doesn’t I’ll chalk it up to a lack of empathy in his personality. I’ve always been good at that, though.

Speaking of what I’m good at, I had a fantabulous day. Yesterday was Cinco De Mayo, and I work at a Mexican restaurant. As such, it was a freaking Corona-tequila-lime-hey you-hey-hey-what?-fuck off festival all day. I worked from 10a.m. to 3:30 a.m., and didn’t hit the sack til 5amish. Which is probably why I’m awake at 2:30 a.m. I got to sleep in split shifts today. I don’t recommend it, by the way. The only thing good that happened is that I cleaned my house at 1 a.m.

So I made good money yesterday, my car payment actually, and spent today wandering around Tampa. Ran into someone awesome, and we had a good time relaying our life stories over the past year. It definitely started with a major “OH, girl, let me tell you..” We’re so predictable sometimes.

She’s in the same place, I am. Starting over. This starting over thing sounds like its cake, but its kind of intense somedays. You wonder if you like the things you like, or they’re just there because they always have been. She bought a convertible because she felt like being impractical and she never gets to be. She wants me to go to IADT for photography school, which is something I’ve always wanted to do but never did because, hey Jen, whatcha gonna do with it? I say that, but I got my undergrad degree in drumroll please….Anthropology. Practically awesome, practically not good if you want to get a big girl job. I’ve already done the impractical, fuck, I might do it again.

Thats cool part about all this. When I ask life’s big questions, I just ask me. Not that I don’t value advice, but I only have myself to consider. Probably a good age for this to be the situation. I think. We’ll see.

I’m off to import blogs all the way back from….2002. Jesus. And then to bed. The cat wants my body.