Edward Cullen, you decide.

I want a tattoo. I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo. So, why don’t I have one already? Because I’m neurotic, afraid of commitment, and completely indecisive- all of which you should have already known! I never make any big decisions, or even small ones. If I do make a decision, it’s kind of spur of the moment, do or die. I’m serious. Nine times out of ten, when I go to a restaurant I agonize over three to five meal options I may or may not want to get. When the waiter comes to me, my adrenaline rushes through my brain, I ask the waiter several complicated questions about the taste, texture, and their preference of my options, and as soon as the waiter gives me their shining recommendation for a particular meal choice, I go completely batshit and choose an option that I was never debating over and the waiter undoubtedly asks the cook to add a special ingredient in my food.

Need another example? Fine! When I was 18, my best friend at the time wanted to go get a tattoo. Our other best friend found a cool place in the city to go, and I made a joke about how I’d always wanted to get my tongue pierced (which I had since I was ten and Scary Spice and her stud bearing tongue were my heroes). While my friend was getting her tattoo done, our other friend found the piercer and told her that I wanted my tongue pierced without my knowledge. The piercer came out and handed me a form and started showing me the types of starter bars I could get put in. At first I was all, no… no, I can’t really get my tongue pierced. What if it gets paralyzed, or I hate it, it swells up to the size of Montana, or it splits in half and I have to become a Carny? But then, the adrenaline started pumping, and the next thing I knew I had a metal bar through my tongue and I couldn’t pronounce my Ss or Ts for a week.

Luckily though, six years later, when I decided I was over my tongue ring I was able to take it out leaving only a little scar as a reminder. When my dinner arrives, if I decide I hate my choice, I either don’t have to eat it, or can take it home and feed it to someone else. These decisions, though anxiety provoking, have never been long lasting or far reaching. Good thing, because as I am completely indecisive, I eventually change my mind about every decision I ever make and have to undo… or rechoose. A tattoo, however, is a lifelong commitment. Life is way too long a time… I could change my mind about my tattoo a bajillion times before my life is over.

I mean, what if I get it in a place that when I’m old sags and then my tattoo looks like a bull dog’s butt hole? Or what if I decide I’m going to embrace my inner Jew, become a Rabbi, and need to be buried in a Jewish Cemetery? Or what if I commit a crime, and I’m identified by my ink and I have to spend the rest of my life behind bars? Let’s not even think about the very real fact that I could become a vampire and live forever and have to deal with that fact that I have a Britney Spears’ lyric tattooed on my wrist in the year 4017 and no one even knows who Britney Spears is except for historians and that gives away my age and they realize what I am and stake my ass!

Do you see how neurotic I am? Can you see why, while I really want a tattoo, I can’t get one because I’m crazy and will regret it a thousand years from now? Do you think my chances of falling in love with my own Edward Cullen and becoming the next Bella are pretty high? Because this tattoo thing really hinges on that outcome.

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.

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.