The Solution to Our Nation's Debt; a Viable Suggestion for Obama

I have pretty much just solved every budget crisis ever, which I’m pretty sure is a great thing seeing as our economy is dry, right? I’ve heard that the money we throw away on tickets given to us by Police and their backwoods cousins, Highway Patrol, sometimes goes back to the city or state they’re given in. Sometimes. I mean, I understand that some of that money goes to paying for the cop’s salary and equipment and what not, and some of it is laundered or whatever, but at least a tiny portion of it goes back to the state, I think.

The one and only ticket I’ve ever received was for wearing my seatbelt “incorrectly”. This ticket was BULLSHIT, and the cop who gave it to me knew it. I’m short and have a very ample bosom with a tiny little neck. When I wear seatbelts, no matter what I do, they ride up and over my breast and hack away at my miniscule neck. I got tired of almost being decapitated every time I drove to the grocery store, so I started wearing the seatbelt under my arm. This is not the time or a place for any one of you out there in the internets to begin telling me that this is not the correct way to wear a seatbelt, because, obviously, I got that lecture… along with a 99 dollar ticket, thanks.

Anyway, so, I started thinking. If cops really wanted to make the state some money with this whole “ticket” thing, they should start giving tickets for things that EVERYONE does all of the time and that really put our lives in danger. In California we’ve already begun giving tickets to people who talk or text and drive, stating that talking and texting while driving directly correlates to accidents, and though science continues to prove this idea wrong, people still get tickets for this every day.

I suggest that cops start ticketing people who pick their noses while driving. People who do this are way more of a threat than people who talk on their phones. Think about it. You know you’ve done it. You know how in to digging you can get; searching for that piece of gold way up in the back there, almost against the wall of your brain. You go cross eyed looking at your finger which is navigating the passages of your nostrils to scratch out that dried up bit if mucous.

Once you finally get that much sought after treasure, you spend a few minutes examining it. What color is it? What shape is it? Is it the type of booger that’s sticky, or can you roll it in a ball? If it’s sticky you’re going to spend another few minutes panicking, trying to get it off your finger. You’ll try to roll it into a ball and flick it, but it will only get stuck on another finger. Next you’ll have to search for a napkin to wipe it on, but of course, you don’t have one and you can’t put it on those papers you have to turn in to your teacher/boss/probation officer/wife, so you’ll have to find the least conspicuous place in your car to stash it. If it’s the flickable type you’re going to roll it into the perfect ball, then roll down your window and flick it out, right?

So, now you’re probably thinking, she spends way too much time either playing with her own boogers, or watching me play with mine (creepy note, I CAN see you and your boogers). If so, you’re not taking this seriously. THINK ABOUT IT. All the while you are focused on your BOOGERS and not the road. You’re probably swerving in and out of lanes while you hysterically search for a napkin to rid yourself of that overly adhesive nugget. You’ve not doubt tuned out to everyone around you, which is why you didn’t notice me in the next car giving you a very grossed out look while I took mental notes on your process to later describe in detail in my blog. This lack of attention also means you’ve probably failed to notice that grandmother/box of puppies/blind person you mowed down while you were checking out what your nose looks like sans boogers in your review mirror.

It doesn’t stop there though. Just as you’ve probably been one of those reckless nose picking drivers, you’ve also been one people who’ve looked over to the car in the next lane and caught someone in the act. You know when you see someone picking their boogers, you have to stare. You watch them, knowing they are totally unaware of you so you don’t have to look away. You begin to laugh hysterically as you see them waving their hands about helplessly as their sticky booger jumps from one finger to the next. You may even begin to point while you snicker, and now other drivers who’ve looked over at you follow your finger to see what’s so hilarious.

Now the booger picker has started a chain reaction. They are not watching the road because they are cleaning their nose. The person next to them is watching the booger miner and laughing so hard they can’t stay in their lane. The person next to that person has to crane their neck to see where the action is coming from and what it is and therefore begins to drift into an oncoming semi truck. Oh, and the person next to them of course, must do the exact same thing because as Elvis says, “that’s called rubber neckin, baby”!

Now, think about how often you pick your nose while driving, and how often you see someone else picking their nose while driving and tell me that if the dangerous activity, which I just proved IS very dangerous, was one that could be ticketed, we would no longer be in debt. We’d be totally out of debt and maybe even have a surplus of money.

I just hope that because I came up with the golden scheme to save our country that I am exempt from these types of tickets. That just wouldn’t be fair, and I’d be totally broke.

Jitters

I will forever be the kid who is too nervous about the first day of school to sleep. Though, it’s not the giddy I wonder what friends I’ll make, which cute boys will be available to flirt with, if I’ll like my teachers, or even the I get to use my brand new notebook kind of jitters. Those jitters would be nice once in a while.

Instead, I get the nightmares the night before of being late, or showing up in the wrong class, or getting to class and finding out it has been cancelled or moved to a room on the other side of campus. I even get the I’ve been skipping the class the whole semester and now I’m failing dreams. I get the ulcer-esq cramps in my stomach fretting while I should be sleeping that I read the syllabus incorrectly and rented the wrong book. I get the I have to leave two hours early to head to campus that is 1 mile (6 blocks) down the street because I can’t be late anxiety. I get the, should I drive and try to find a meter to park at, or should I walk and sweat my balls off because I might not even find a meter and then I’ll have to drive back home and walk anyway dilemma.

The first day of class is always stressful. This semester, I suppose is especially stressful as it’s my very last first day of fall semester and if anything goes wrong, I won’t graduate as planned in spring. So wish me luck, world. I’ll need it. Luck and some Xanax.

Fluffy and I Will NEVER Forgive You If You Skip This Post. Ever.

I have spent my whole vehicle operating life swerving to avoid hitting things that just jump out in the middle of the road. When I was learning to drive I almost ran into a light pole because I was trying NOT to run over a group of seagulls on the way to school, and I absolutely HATE seagulls. I knew though, that just because I personally hated seagulls (who do nothing but steal your fries at lunch and poop on your head in between classes) and didn't understand why they existed, it was still a horrible thing to run something alive over. I’ve done everything possible to avoid hitting squirrels, too. Squirrels are always popping out in front of cars. I half way believe that commercial where one squirrel jumps into the road to make an oncoming car swerve and crash and then runs back to get a high five from another squirrel. Still, I do everything possible NOT to kill them. One time I stopped in the middle of the road and waited for it to decide where it wanted to be and get there. I held up TRAFFIC for that rodent. I’ve pulled over after nearly hitting a dog and called its owner so they could get it out of the street and ensure that it would not be run over. I've even make sure not to re-run over road kill!

Tonight, however, I couldn’t help it. I. could. Not. Help. It. I killed a kitty. I was driving in a residential area and I had just turned a corner onto a street and I saw something white dart out a just in front of the hood of my car and I screamed and slammed on my breaks. Of course, your car doesn’t immediately stop when you hit the brakes; it keeps going for a foot or more depending on your speed. I wasn’t going that fast, but my car didn’t stop where I wanted it to.

I held my breath for what seemed like ever... or thirty seconds, whichever is longer, and I didn’t feel anything. I thought I was in the clear until beneath my passenger side tired I felt a bump, and then another from the back tire and my car came to a stop. Still screaming I started looking around me to see, if perhaps it ran away. My foot fell off of the brake and my car glided forward and I watched the review mirror to see if I could see a body. I didn’t, and finally I stopped screaming, pulled over and started bawling hot tears.

I cried for about 20 minutes and then I called my mom hoping to hear some warm words of motherly affection. I had just left her house and was only about two blocks away. I called crying and told her my story, and that I had no idea what to do, and that I couldn’t see the cat’s body so maybe it had just limped off. This broke my heart all over again because there was a poor crippled kitty out there somewhere and I started bawling all over again. My mom’s best motherly advice came in the form of, “Just keep on going! Drive home!” WHAT?! Mother, really? I killed a cat and now you want me to run!? REALLY?! So I hung up on her.

I started my car to begin driving home, but I found myself making a u-turn to go back to the scene of the crime. I don’t know what I wanted to find. Half of me wanted to find that the cat was nowhere in sight, and half of me wanted to find its body, though I’m not sure why. Both options pretty much sucked. In option one I’ve crippled a cat and now it’ll have to have a pet wheel chair and it won’t be able to support its cute little kittens any more, and in the other I killed some little girl’s kitty-fluff-fluff.

At first, I saw nothing and then, there it was; the little white cat lying against the curb about 3 feet from where my tires had used it as a speed bump. I had to pull over again as I started sobbing once more. This time, I was not only sobbing but apologizing to the cat. “I’m so sorry Fluffy! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you! There was nothing I could have done, Fluffy…FLUFFYYY!!!” So, in my grief I named the cat I killed, and I named it Fluffy. I have had several cats (I did not kill a single one of them, I swear) and I didn’t name any of them Fluffy. None of the names I ever chose were anything close to that. My cats all had real names, but in a moment of grief, this is the name I gave to the poor cat I killed. What is wrong with me?

I then called my roommate to tell her what I had done, and she proved once again to be a psychopath. After mocking my tears and calling me a murderer and threatening to tell her step mother named “Kitty” who happens to love cats that I killed a cat, she told me she wasn’t sure she believed my story because I hadn’t taken a picture and texted it to her. WHO DOES THAT?!!! Then she tried to convince me that the cat I killed was suicidal and that I was doing it a favor. She said the little girl who owned the cat probably dressed it up in horrible tutus and sweaters and that this was really a mercy killing. I’m not sure I believe that. I’m also not sure she helped much.

My best friend also called me to rant, and I was like, “Oh yah, your day’s bad?! I just killed Fluffy!” She then told me I was retarded for naming the cat I killed and that that was bad murderer etiquette, and next time I kill something in cold blood not to give it a name. Also, she says it was probably a stray cat and wouldn’t have cried if I were lying dead in the street. She said it would probably just eat me. I think she’s also a psychopath. Fluffy would never have eaten me.

With all of these psychopaths in my life, how come I’m the one that killed Fluffy? Me? The one who will be unable to drive after running over a cat for 40 minutes while she sobs and dry heaves on the side of a scarcely lit street at 10pm? ME? ME?!

R.I.P, Fluffy. Don’t know when you were born-August 22, 2010. I hope there’s lots of Fancy Feast where you’re going so you don’t have to eat dead people. Also, I hope there are no streets.

The (Deprivation) Situation

I feel like I’m depriving myself of a key experience and that my deprivation may lead to being isolated from the rest of the world forever. There are certain things that happen in life, that if you don’t make yourself aware of or take part in, define you and your ability to relate to your fellow humans.

For example, if I were to completely ignore 9/11 some would call me ignorant, un-American, and even anti-social. Whenever there was a conversation about this life changing, history making, culture defining day, and I were to withdraw from it or say that I knew nothing of the subject, people would begin to look at me differently. Perhaps people would begin to value my opinions and political views less. Perhaps they would choose not to be around me because the idea that I choose not to participate in an event which is shaping this country every day would be too much for them to bare. The world would change around and without me until I would be left alone on my own little 9/11-less island.

The phenomena I have wrongfully opted out of which is changing this world with every Tweet, every article, every episode is that of MTV’s Jersey Shore. I have not seen a single episode or subscribed to a single cast member’s Twitter, nor have I set my Google Alerts to inform me every time one of them is mentioned on the internet. I know, I know. How could I? How can I be a 20-something living in America and not know what a JWow is? Don’t I know what Snooki’s hair style and orange skin means to this culture? And what the hell am I doing if I’m not aware of The Situation?! Do I want to live alone in a Guido-less world forever? What is wrong with me?

I ask myself these very same questions every time a post about them appears on Jezebel or Gawker or one of my favorite bloggers mentions them and I skip over it. I am being left behind. The world is being shaped by these Jersey Gods and I am standing on the outside looking in. Maybe I should just dive in and watch the whole first season and catch up with the second season. I’m just afraid of losing brain cells and what the spray on tans and tanning booths will do to my skin. These are such silly worries, I know. Maybe I should just do it. Maybe the brave new Fist Pumping World will let me rejoin them if I do. It’s not too late is it?

I did watch the youtube clip where the midget whose hair is as tall as she is gets laid out by a PE teacher. Maybe this can be like a passport of sorts or the secret word at the New World’s front door? “what’s the secret word, Outsider?” “Snooki got socked by a meat head”.

I don’t know. I’m just scared; scared of becoming orange, and scared of being left behind. What to do, what to do?

*Note: while I really don't subscribe to this fad, I do seem to know quite a lot about it. The clip of Snooki getting punched is disgusting and though I poke fun of it here, it is really not a laughing matter in reality... and this is supposed to be reality TV, right? Also, I don't really believe you can really compare 9/11 and Jersey Shore, but in today's culture its almost possible... which is sad. Sad, I tell you.

Hey Look, a post in which my head explodes and I become an Alcoholic... in that order.

I am a giant spaz. GIANT. Pretty much anything that happens or that I have to deal with stresses me out and then I have panic attacks until everything is resolved. This morning I was on hold with my college financial aid office for like, 900 minutes, because I needed to make sure that since I just changed my WHOLE class schedule, and I was 3 units short of full-time until I get added to the two classes in which I'm on the waitlist (URGGG), my loans wouldn't turn their back on me making me unable to pay for school in my second to last semester. This is most likely all my fault, but I'd like to examine the ways in which it’s not ENTIRELY my fault.

My school decided to move the location of one of my classes without letting me know, which is a bitch move, School, BITCH MOVE. In the whole history of my being at this school, I've always taken classes in the same building or the building right next it. FOR TWO YEARS. I transferred in and after finally deciding to be a psych major, the majority of my classes have been in the psych building. I really only know THIS part of campus. I haven't had to traipse around finding this building or running off the print shop, or bookstore, or student union. I understand that these acts may enhance my college experience, but you know, when I have to work three jobs in order to pay for said college experience, I'm too damn tired to do much exploring. Teach me, and let me go home.

Anyway, so, the school decided to move my last class of the day ACROSS CAMPUS which, if you think about it is like almost a mile and a half away. No way are my midget legs carrying me to a foreign part of campus I've never been to in ten minutes. No way, I say. I found this horrifying bit of news out three days ago, and this of course sent me into a panic. Since no one could give me any GOOD ideas (though I did get suggestions such as: buy a scooter. Buy a rocket pack for the scooter. Steal one of those golf carts campus security drives around in. Seduce and sleep with campus security... to get free rides in said carts. Learn to fly. NOT HELPFUL!!!) and my panic attack was full blown, my anxiety grew giant hands and clicked the "drop" button next to the course name.

My panic subsided for all of ten seconds, until I realized I really effing needed that class and then another typhoon of anxiety washed over me. Now I had to search for THREE classes to make up for the ONE I just dropped. Of course, a week before school starts all of the good classes are basically full. At this point I'm shaking my fists through my anxiety attack at my irrational anxiety induced solution to drop the last class. After an hour of searching and being denied and searching I opted to waitlist on Human Sexuality (which is also not in a building I know of, but is relatively closer and there is a 4 hour gap during which I have PLENTY of time to leave one class and find that one... plus I've already taken it, and loved it, so it should be easy), and enrolled in an online course called, get this, Nature and World Culture. SHOOT ME. JUST GET IT OVER WITH WHEREISYOURSHOTGUN? I didn't find a third class, but I have space in my schedule next semester to fit it in, so I'm ok.

The one class I dropped was a 6 unit course, leaving me three short of the necessary 12 to fulfill my loan agreement. So while, I did possibly find replacements, I was still on the waitlist for one of the replacements (ps, I was already on a waitlist for another class I desperately need to graduate) meaning I'm still 3 units short of my loan money and must now kiss my dreams of getting a PhD goodbye, drop out of college and get a job at Mackers (that's McDonalds for all of you who have never had a roommate move to Australia for six months then come back speaking something that's totally not English, mate).

So, back to waking up this morning with an elephant sitting on my chest. I immediately dialed the number for the Financial Aid office, got kicked around through four different people, each time I was placed on hold the psycho-killer vein on my forehead enlarged twice its size, and then finally was placed on hold for 900.. or maybe 20... minutes. This let loose a new set of anxiety as I'm trying to remember how many minutes I have left, and if I go over those minutes how I will pay for the overages (stripping, hooking, drug selling, Mackers in that order). By the time the woman answered the phone the psycho-killer anxiety had crept into my voice and I'm sure I sounded quite insane as I babbled this whole story to her very quickly in a squeaky syrupy voice.

Then, the woman said, "Don't worry. We won't drop you until September, goodbye".

A three day long anxiety attack took only took 8 words to fix. So after I hung up, I opened and drank an entire bottle of Two Buck Chuck at 10:30am.

Let’s recap. The SCHOOL fucked up. My FRIENDS gave me horrible suggestions. My ANXIETY grew hands and dropped classes. The SCHOOL put me on hold.

It’s not my fault.

Now I need to go buy more wine before my roommate notices a whole bottle is missing.

Tech-impaired

I am almost 100% sure that all of the technological gadgets in the entire world get together on a semi monthly basis and plot how to go about confusing the crap out of me. This is not in the least bit conceited or exaggerated. Every single piece of technology hates my guts/loves to mock me.

When I walk past Radio Shack, the Apple Store, or even come within a quarter mile of Fry's Electronics I can hear them all sniggering. All of the laptops, desktops, printers, scanners, cell phones and all of the i-things. They sense me. It must be their 3g networks. They know when I'm coming and they all agree to do the most mind boggling things ever.

Normally, I steer clear of electronic stores of all type. I have this need to believe that I am an intelligent human being, and as soon as I get around a gizmo all of my beliefs fly out of the window. You thought you were smart? How come you can't even get that cell phone to show you its key pad? You're never going to get a PhD if you can't even find the "hint" button on your friend's laptop to show you their password. Give up, loser!

You know that scene in Office Space where that really angry desk-nerd-guy can't get the printer to do anything he wants it to do? Yeah, that's pretty much me with anything you can plug in, recharge, or make wireless. Though, instead of me throwing it out of a window, the device usually convinces me to jump myself. They have that much control over me.

Office Space Printer from Shang Xiao on Vimeo.

I swear, my mother knows more about computers than I do, and she didn't even get complete access to one until about three years ago. I grew up in the technology era. I'm 22 friggin years old, yet every time some new electronic device comes out, I scratch my head. I have no idea who came up with this strategy, but it does nothing; absolutely nothing.

About a year ago I upgraded to a Blackberry because I began to believe the hype. "The Blackberry will change your life... it will transform you from Disorganized Schizophrenic to Multitasking Guru... it will keep your life on track, and there are so many cool amazing things you can do with it... your life will be exponentially better..." I thought that if I could get in with the BB, then it would give the rest of the Electronic World the heads up that I was cool and then they would all stop picking on me.

Up until last week, all I could do with my blackberry was call my mother. Ok, maybe thats an exaggeration. I'm a master texter, so I could text my mother too, but that's pretty much it. My friend and her boyfriend told me I was a "dumb ass smart phone user" which, if I didn't already know, as well understand my complete inability to grasp anything created in this century, would have really hurt my feelings. So I decided to start learning how to use this damn phone.

I, of course, went to my personal guru for guidance, and as usual, Google had all of my answers. I can now buy tickets for shows I don't have the money to see via the ticket-master app, have turned my text message program into a pseudo-i phone messaging system, can BBM 5 of my friends, tweet on a whim (though, I'm still not sure how/what/why to tweet though I did tweet about a very interesting man I met at a cupcake shop...story to come), play this game where I pop bubbles while I wait for classes to start and or assholes in front of me to get out of my way, and get directions anytime I need to by using google's wonderful offspring google maps apps.

While it seems my blackberry is on my side for now, perhaps it is only setting me up for a giant joke where all of these apps that I will no doubt come to depend on decide to crash all at the very same time and my life crumbles and I roll into a ball and cry. Blackberry, should this prove to be a cruel, cruel joke you and your comrades are playing on me, please have mercy on me and let me keep my bubble popping game. I'm working on my high score, here.

More to Stalk

I've decided that is high time I give myself over to the internet... for real this time, though. I've dabbled with this blog as well as created a twitter account so the masses could stalk me, but aside from my usuals and the normal everyday creeper I've got nothin'.

Instead of being offended, and wondering what the hell is wrong with all of you out there, I looked within myself. I realized that five or six posts over the course of a year and a half (maybe 2) and the occasional Tweet is just not enough. I haven't given enough of myself for potential cyber stalkers to really take me serious, and that's just no fair.

So I'm sorry, potential creepers. I vow to give you more of my life, my words, my sass and my hilarity so that you have something to really cling to.

You must understand though, that it may take some time for me to really hook you. I can't just take off running and be as amazing as all of my favorites like The Bloggess, Marinka, and The Sassy Curmudgeon, or even a new found favorite, Sara but I will try.

I think the first step would be, of course, to post more often, which means that until I get in the habit of creating worth while posts, you'll have to suffer through my not so amazing posts, such as this one (in which I'm committing myself to giving you all a blogger who is not only regular but regularly stalkable... which I think is a HUMONGOUS promise and you should all just be friggin' happy with what I'm giving you, ya' greedy brats).

So stay tuned, and I'll be back on a regular basis... just you wait and see. I promise I'll give you more to stalk.