tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55171251101590785142024-03-05T20:10:27.278-08:00Gooble Gobble With MeWhatever whenever.Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-44982504086499433782010-04-11T13:59:00.000-07:002010-04-11T14:12:08.184-07:00Ms. Tucker goes to WashingtonSo my reason for going to Washington might differ slightly from Jimmy Stewarts' but I am excited nonetheless. A couple weeks ago I was offered an internship at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in Washington D.C. It's pretty insane to say the least. I applied for a few other internships and got rejected and I had pretty much given up, so the phone call from D.C. at 6 a.m. one morning really shook me up.<div><br /></div><div>I'm very excited but I'm also extremetly nervous. I have that wanna-puke feeling sun up to sun down nowadays. I'll only be gone for 10 weeks, but it is going to cost a lot of money, I've never left home for that long before, I've never been further east than Texas, I am scared to leave my boyfriend, I don't know anyone there, and I won't get to spend my time wasting away in the hot Utah sun like I usually do during summer. However, this is also a once in a lifetime opportunity, it's going to look awesome on a resume, I get some school credit, and I think my boyfriend is going to come out and visit me and we're going to take a little trip to New York! I honestly have no idea what to expect, but I'm going to make the most of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need this for many reasons. For one, I need to prove to myself that I can go out and try something new and scary, make new friends, and see new places. I also think I need to get out of Utah more and this will help me prepare for grad school (which is only about a year and half away!) I also think it will help my relationship life out. I have a lot of insecurities, like most people do even if they won't admit it, and going away, pretending to be confident, and experiencing something on my own will hopefully help me strengthen my personal awareness and realize that I am a strong and valuable person. I also hope that it might just make a certain someone realize how much I mean to them. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will most likely keep this thing updated as I take my adventure. Look for me flashing gang signs behind Obama, and feel free to live vicariously through me. I might even buy you a souvenier if you are extra kind, or send me $5 bucks. </div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-48674577325559680092010-03-01T19:08:00.000-08:002010-03-01T19:19:29.696-08:00Less than a point.<div><br /></div><div>Here's just some garbage I found in my desktop folder labeled "Pointless." I actually think there is a point to all of these things, but I haven't quite figured them out yet. Enjoy. And after you enjoy them, take a gander at this. It might just change your life.</div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GG7UQGHRrSQ</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkc9sE3pHPTRytMcZ71TZpyOqFnOTQhUXeU27RFIdoo4AL_OY7Q3_qLsQKi3HwB_5BQW8NkqxAwu3v4ODEi0OF_dQTVUPyjyZYJH3oD7qJOunONAXTeDic7D9pHrgywWQtdIJT2GqKaU/s1600-h/6a010535647bf3970b012875df124e970c.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkc9sE3pHPTRytMcZ71TZpyOqFnOTQhUXeU27RFIdoo4AL_OY7Q3_qLsQKi3HwB_5BQW8NkqxAwu3v4ODEi0OF_dQTVUPyjyZYJH3oD7qJOunONAXTeDic7D9pHrgywWQtdIJT2GqKaU/s320/6a010535647bf3970b012875df124e970c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443870071168274978" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9uOthEXAtoS9YT5Mlw1qydIPLpJxuAPdenAYAbHO_gyl4UOJoQUSQ4ieJGQds7wH0tAUyr03s6A0hIXUIcYCub7W3WuXKX7JogBNgXIZwo2HF_OFYtBYPHj3dOvQMdeKObWYyGhfvyQ/s1600-h/x3Rmp1Hjoqmp0doqbcB9vCBVo1_500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9uOthEXAtoS9YT5Mlw1qydIPLpJxuAPdenAYAbHO_gyl4UOJoQUSQ4ieJGQds7wH0tAUyr03s6A0hIXUIcYCub7W3WuXKX7JogBNgXIZwo2HF_OFYtBYPHj3dOvQMdeKObWYyGhfvyQ/s320/x3Rmp1Hjoqmp0doqbcB9vCBVo1_500.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443870060391208226" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1c5QSHLf0xig5RUSBUzFFt1agYsuFZcyzas3fi3c6ekoqFncRJ5ta8rtKu0AiV_rRn2I8mDtg8P_fX_2h2XKsq32QhmrqmmWaujEQbAE3dAgFjY-o9PQcTR68BEkSpaEralO6t3vFwkQ/s1600-h/amy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1c5QSHLf0xig5RUSBUzFFt1agYsuFZcyzas3fi3c6ekoqFncRJ5ta8rtKu0AiV_rRn2I8mDtg8P_fX_2h2XKsq32QhmrqmmWaujEQbAE3dAgFjY-o9PQcTR68BEkSpaEralO6t3vFwkQ/s320/amy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443870058694918162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22e3lRkp8JwzYEf-N9fEUHjDZM8TQsend-uBbJXbc1YIn6EBwr-tYPX5SCKTLUziCQCSASWHdA5h4fBS5QxGQlypBiRw21cl3KOf9Oxx6USwhtAa-28fRAvO4xv0diaOjQnd9qcCaIzc/s1600-h/15.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 193px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi22e3lRkp8JwzYEf-N9fEUHjDZM8TQsend-uBbJXbc1YIn6EBwr-tYPX5SCKTLUziCQCSASWHdA5h4fBS5QxGQlypBiRw21cl3KOf9Oxx6USwhtAa-28fRAvO4xv0diaOjQnd9qcCaIzc/s320/15.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443870049027839250" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-34553676745075176132010-02-28T11:22:00.000-08:002010-02-28T12:01:30.730-08:00Schmutzig SchnurrbartSo I haven't written in a while, not that YOU, the vast space of the interweb really cares. I've met a lot of assholes lately that deserve some good ol' fashioned, internet baked, pie in the face. <div><br /></div><div>1-- German Cameras-- This is the kid with the spiky hair that is not quite up to The Cure status, not quite soccer mom, but definitely somewhere in between. He thinks he's European or something, but with no taste, no sexy accent, and the fashion sense of a 12 year old rebellious private school student. (Ties, converse shoes, swears, ill-fitting ripped up jeans.) So one day in class he decides to delight us with his presence and some knowledge that will now be completely out of context and hard for you to understand. I'll try my best. Basically we were discussing whether technology has helped us socially and mentally, and I made some brown-nose comment about how it has made us somewhat lazier, less imaginative, and has decreased the number of face-to-face relationships. </div><div><br /></div><div>Professor: Yeah, yeah I agree. </div><div>German Cameras: Well I collect German Cameras. Does anyone else here collect German cameras? (slight pause, no class response) Thought so.....</div><div><br /></div><div>Blah blah blah the rest doesn't even matter. At that moment I just had two things to say, 1. If German cameras are so amazing, why don't we all own one? 2. Who the hell said anything about cameras? Oh and I also wanted to call him a "Schmutzig Schnurrbart" which means "dirty moustache" and tell him that if he didn't know what that meant, he had no room to talk about anything German. And then I wanted to physically do two things. 1. Punch that sucker right in his spiky noggin and 2. Throw up in my hands and flail them in his direction. I think that would really teach him. </div><div><br /></div><div>At this point, I am bored of my own writing and I don't necessarily feel the desire to keep going, so I'm just going to list the rest of the assholes with short police-blotterish descriptions. You can make up the details for yourself. Cool, it's like a game for you. </div><div><br /></div><div>2--Janetta--Round physique, short straight across bangs, glasses, sweaty, sweatshirt. Doesn't ever shut up. Spills her drink all over her desk and wipes it up with her sleeve in the middle of a comment, and never pauses her speech. Opens up sodas slow, making a long "Pshhhhhh pshh pshhhhhhhhhhhhh psh..." sound which pisses off the teacher, gets put on the comment-making-back burner for the day, but still manages to speak more than anyone else. </div><div><br /></div><div>3--Struggling writer hippie--Came in for a tutorial at work, plagiarized her entire 1 page summary, yelled at me, thinking I made up the word "plagiarism" and its definition, asked me if I liked her socks "from Journey's, you know, the shoe store," and ultimately freaked the shit out at me. If I were to make up a word, I'd make up something cooler than "plagiarism." Give me some damn credit. </div><div><br /></div><div>4--Guitar kid--Thinks he is always on camera, looks like a character from this crappy 70's era version of a Chaucer's Tale that I watched in high school, is always singing and carrying around a guitar, sits down at a table in the hallway across from a lady trying to do her job and serenades her with some impromptu bullshit with lyrics, "I'm looking for a reason...." meanwhile inserting comments to other people passing by, "I'm looking for a reason.....hey, nice hair cut...la dee doo dee da da." Someone needs to tell that kid that he should probably take a back-burner with Janetta and then the two of them can talk and sing over each other until their vocal chords get so worn out from all the noise that they are making that they start talking like Diane Rehm (only without intelligent things to say), and then Janetta's drink will explode (for the last time) making her so frustrated that she'll leave to Germany to buy herself a German camera which she can then film Guitar kid with, and the two of them will make some disgusting movies together, get married, and talk each other literally to death, and meanwhile give German Camera someone to talk to so he can stop annoying everyone else. I'm not too concerned about Hippie girl, cause I'm pretty sure her anger and self-hatred will get the best of her. She's more of the self-destructing type so I don't have to imagine long run-on sentences about the end of her.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that's it. You all might hate me by now, but really you should just be thinking, "Wow, I'm glad Madelyn has the balls to say all of this because I think of this stuff everyday and let it fester inside of me until I explode like Janetta's drink and make my therapist metaphorically wipe it up with his sweatshirt sleeve." You dudes are SO welcome.</div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-16427081618778413772009-12-06T22:24:00.001-08:002010-02-28T11:21:16.763-08:00Obsession by that stupid Twilight lady writer<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">Well, Caroline asked me to start writing on here again, so here I am. This one is for you girlfriend! (Oh and for Hannah cause according to facebook, she loves my blogs.)<br /></span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">Lately I've had an obsession with cute animals. I'm pretty sure I am reverting into a child because I can't get enough of monkeys and puppies. If you were to present me with a tiny animal figurine (or anything small for that matter) I'd probably love you forever. And ever. I am infatuated with anything small. For instance, at Smiths there is this shitty, crunchy, mini-french bread bull shit that I only love to eat because I can call it "tiny bread" and I feel like a lady at a French tea party when I eat it. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">Another thing I am obsessed with is crying. I don't know why I was born the most emotional person on the planet but it gets annoying. I think I suppressed a lot of feelings when I was a child and teenager while my mom was sick and I was forced to act like a grown up, so my emotions are making a come back like Micheal Jackson tried to, only I am alive and succeeding at being a freak. (Too soon? I can't believe I made an MJ joke. How cliche.) So now I cry at movie trailers, bodily functions, whenever I lose something, when I spill something on my clothes, when I see kids that look like me, and when I even think about my dad getting old. After a fit of crying I usually have to pee and then take a nap. I waste a lot of time crying, peeing, and napping. Thanks Ortho Tri Cycalin Lo. Or maybe I should just thank myself for not knowing how to not cry, or maybe I should just blame it all on my bulbous ET eyes I have been blessed with. Thanks God.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">I'm also obsessed with trying to predict the future even when it is impossible,</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">thinking about the past,</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">and often times screwing up the present. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">Oh and cussing.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">Footnote: I feel like this last part just got super lame. Who do I think I am? Emo shit. Maybe I'll just go bite my pillow and have the most kick ass sob fest of all time! Right on! You bring the kegger and I'll cry you a new one! Hellz yeaaaaah bitttch</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFCC;">!</span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-77380035489348701662009-07-07T00:23:00.001-07:002009-07-07T00:23:56.560-07:00Wa-wa-watch<div>F. U. U. S. A.</div><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://widgets.clearspring.com/o/4837b4759c19ccae/4a52f80ad76c676c/4837b4759c19ccae/85ae809f/widget.js"></script>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-60916154429317684862009-07-07T00:14:00.000-07:002009-07-07T00:24:21.827-07:00F. U. U. S. A.America turns out to be a terrible place after all. So I found this great site where you can watch all these documentaries for free and I feel like in the past week I've gained a lot of insight from wasting my time on there. Not only can a person be tortured without being charged with anything, you and your 86 year old grandmother can be searched at the airport everytime you go because you wrote a compelling essay about the secrets of the Iraqi war. I've learned from other shows that crack addicts become call girls, Patti Smith was a badass, and old people can make porn. Gross. <div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I feel like people should watch it.<br /><div><br /></div></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-81797390498750441142009-05-10T02:01:00.000-07:002009-05-10T02:17:47.501-07:00Ryan B is the way to B.It's 3 am. I can't sleep. All I hear is the hum of Arrested Development coming from the other room because the dumbass that built this home made the weirdest room ever with two doorways, and only one door, with a closet the size of all the other bedrooms combined. It smells like old people. <div><br /></div><div>I'm writing this so Ryan can have one last hoo-rah reading my blog before he scoots on off to Madagascar. Are there even people there? I'm going to miss that Cobra.</div><div><br /></div><div>So it's finally summer. Thank heavens. But now I realize how bored I am, and how much I need to get crackin' on those hobbies! Last summer was the greatest. I made new friends. We lit roman candles out the windows of my car which resulted in me putting out a small fire that started on Ryan's chest, we stayed out late, had fake acid trips, took real life spontaneous road trips, hobo camped in Austin's field, ate peaches in gigantic storage rooms, captured flags, waited for free doughnuts, and had FP on a regular basis back when my boss didn't give a crap. What happened? People move out. Bitches move in. Jesus calls people places and we all actually have to work. </div><div><br /></div><div>Being a grown up isn't that great. But being the friend of a cobra is fun. Even if we can never have that summer ever again, we can take something from it. </div><div>1. Don't leave the bag of unlit fireworks by your feet when driving around and lighting fireworks that tend to backfire.</div><div>2. Don't go to the Mapleton gas stations past dark because cops won't believe that you are 18.</div><div>3. Always be someone's bitch.</div><div>4. Find something to do besides loiter.</div><div>5. Loiter often.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seacrest out.</div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-64546010663121787152009-04-24T22:54:00.000-07:002009-04-24T23:11:58.005-07:00person-cuted. It's kinda like persecuted.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">Why am I writing a blog on a Friday night? Also, my class is over, so why am I still writing on this thing at all?</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">Oh maybe because my brain is going to explode. I had the urge to send out a mass text today saying something along the lines of "please, anyone, help me from going crazy." Who do I think I am? George Bailey? Oh I would give anything for Clarence to come down and let me be his wing-gaining project. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">Life is a bitch sometimes. I have a good day, and then I have an awful day, and then I have a mediocre at best day. I was told that I am a dark person. Is this true? I just feel like me. Yeah sure, I have always liked going to funerals and I used to pretend to be an orphan or a persecuted Jew as a kid. Didn't everyone do that? I was normal otherwise. I spent most afternoons "playing school" in my basement. My classroom was complete with a chalkboard, a real school desk, and a projector. I dug holes in the garden and made rivers out of them. I knew so many facts about slavery! I ate pansies and hated crawling on my knees. I was your average wuss that later looks back on her life and realizes all the weird habits she used to have which continue to contribute to her supposed darkness. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">But hey, I never tortured animals.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">I never lit things on fire.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">I never rolled up cocoa powder and leaves in a napkin and made my friend smoke it. Ok...yeah I did. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">Childhood really does determine the type of adult a person becomes. I have a friend who grew up feeling no love from his family, who was forced to believe things he didn't want to, and was fed strange ideas. To this day, he still deals with the feelings he formed as a kid, and the hatred that he built up in his heart for his own gene pool. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">So we have a few solutions here. 1. don't have kids. 2. don't have kids unless you are mentally and economically prepared to do so. 3. don't have too many kids. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 255);">Don't clone me. For the sake of humanity, please don't.</span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-30947859360280558602009-03-29T19:47:00.000-07:002009-03-29T20:10:52.487-07:00For the love.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">So I've been thinking about the past a lot lately. Sometimes I have no idea how to feel about my past, or what to make of the way I have transformed. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">I used to be a shy, innocent, snobbishly adorable brainiac. I sometimes wish I could be just that type of person all grown up, but experiences, heartbreaks, failures, attitudes and even the state of the world we live in gets in the way of this purity and beautiful childlike adulthood. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">I often look at small children and marvel at the world they see. I can't count the number of times I have been filled with sadness at these moments, when I realize they won't stay a child forever and that someday they will have to see the bitterness of what is around them. At the same time, I get so excited at the idea of what they can become. I only hope they do better than I ever did. Old people make me feel the same way. I cry for the things they have seen, and smile at the thought of all they have gained in one lifetime. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">Being the youngest in my family, I never really got to see a human being grow up entirely until my sisters had kids. I used to make fun of my sister Kelly for how she cried when I first went off to kindergarten, but I can see why! Kids are cruel. Adults can be even meaner. The world is a frightening place full of preying wolves. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">However, there is also so much beauty in the world, and kindness waiting to be shown. Last night at work, I was stressed out of my mind and doing the work of 4 employees. People were losing patience with me and God forbid they had to wait for their food longer than usual. Out of the crowd of assholes came one mild and carefree samaritan. She saw me trying my hardest, and offered to help me out. She even cleaned off a table and rearranged the chairs for me. Why can't the world see things the way this woman did? I wish I was that type of person. A shining beacon in this place of cloudy pizza-filled brains and stubborn hearts.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">"Children don't grow up. Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up. We're just a million little gods making rainstorms turning every good thing to rust." --Arcade Fire.</span><br /></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-69687087863184462622009-03-23T13:51:00.001-07:002009-03-23T14:37:55.741-07:00A little piece of rhyme in the middle of a beat<span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">My mind has been racing lately. I've been having scary vampire dreams due to reading Dracula for my English class, I'm stressing about what I'm going to become, and school is all around bumming me out. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Here's a few things I have decided though. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">1. I want to become a professional mourner. Those over-dramatic wailers employed by funeral homes can get paid thousands of dollars per funeral! I just need to work on my crying without laughing skills.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">2. I don't want to get married ever. Or at least not for a loooooonnnnggggggg time. There are just so many other things I want to do! And I want to finish school first. And also, nobody would want to marry me right now anyways. My new haircut supposedly makes me look like a 12 year old boy. However, I love it. I see married couples come into the restaurant all the time that look completely miserable with each other. I want to be sure, before I do anything so drastic.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwA2fLJjifmRmiGgfa5NFjf9FTRlyXG9eaXD3ItZcNiY7yAcKExj_OG_g4gEcQ8eFS-KlFoOaQKePMqarW2qi76ivsZlBwtRLLRu9tV2zB3ymt-mChgd0LvZ-ggXXzyk2zvoYBzKnqLSI/s320/Photo+84.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316500028360979762" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">3. I am not moving back home for the summer. I love my family, and home is a pretty easy life, but now that I've tasted what its like to be on my own, I don't want to go back. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">4. I'm going to sign up to be a movie extra for the summer. If I only have to work 4 random days a month, I can make about $1,000. Money has obviously been on my brain lately if you couldn't tell.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">5. I'm going to start playing my violin again. A kid I went to high school with even asked me if I am interested in being in a band with him. It could be fun.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">6. I am super excited for tonight. Even though I have to go to traffic school (kick me in the face) David is coming home, and we are going to make a huge delicious dinner because of his recent obsession with food network.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">7. The pizza man suit at work is hysterical.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">8. I kinda want a tattoo (but don't tell my family).</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">9. I really despise Pampers the cat.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">10. The asshole that has been running that obnoxious motor outside my window for the past 3 hours is about to get a telepathic beat down.</span></span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-87545648653001052592009-03-11T12:20:00.000-07:002009-03-11T12:43:31.665-07:00Man, I'm road trippin'It seems like all my blog posts are about my sorry little life, so let's take a break from my relationship issues and focus on something even more carnal and pitiful...the Phoenix Zoo.<div><br /></div><div>It's not that the place itself is pitiful, it just hurts when you really stop and think about all those animals being subjected to the ways of humans through stinky glass cages. It's bad enough living among humans as a human, but I can't even imagine being taken from my natural habitat and being forced to sit in an enclosed place while snotty-nosed children and their raunchy parents stare sweaty and wide-eyed at me through bars and fences. Whoa, how's that for a long run-on sentence? This doesn't mean that I don't enjoy the zoo though. I love animals. I just wish they had an interactive zoo where all the animals could talk back to you. That, my friend, would be quite the learning experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite part of the excursion was actually the lady selling entrance tickets in the booth by the front gates. She was homely and she loved her job. I could immediately sense the excitement radiating from her bosom, which was somewhere hidden underneath that frumpy zoo polo. I happen to have a weird obsession with pandas and elephants, so, knowing that I would make her day by asking a question, I inquired about the zoo's panda ownership status. To my great disappointment....there were no pandas. "However we are trying to obtain a red panda! Here's a map. On the front is a baby orangatan named Lola! She may not be out today because the weather might not be warm enough..." I could have listened to that lady talk all day. It was like speaking to a four year old about "diggers" and dinosaurs. </div><div><br /></div><div>There were a lot of other strange people in the the city of Phoenix, not just at the zoo. Take the androgenous weirdo at the concert who talked with absolutely no volume control for example. "I JUST SPILLED A BEER ON SOME GUY'S BACK! HE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE! MY NAME'S RACHEL! I DON'T EVEN REALIZE EVERYONE CAN HEAR ME AND IS QUESTIONING MY GENDER!" Needless to say, I got sick of her pretty fast. There was also the lady at Coco's restaurant who had some sort of bias against me. I asked if they had coke. She said no, Pepsi products only. Bummer. Then get me a Dr. Pepper please? No. Pepsi products. Yeah...thats why I said...Oh nevermind you ol' hag. Dr. Pepper is a universal drink that is carried by Pepsi and Coca Cola. I know this. Obviously she didn't, so for the next half hour we were there she hated me. </div><div><br /></div><div>So between the zoo's absence of pandas and our 30 mile drive down a dirt road in Navajo nation, I had quite an enjoyable adventure in what I imagined as a bland state, but was pleasantly surprised at its hint of sweetness. Oh Arizona. You desert dessert. </div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-38048462318614957212009-02-27T16:25:00.000-08:002009-02-27T17:38:32.966-08:00Coma. Toast.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UDoMyeN_SzMeGtFYLG028EbrkJlQMXLqAjZjCypXJY4o4Fz0iQzb28uHcCZ_wgbHMvzCi5dx-MK4FvfH2BvAapnRh9SAnzwdn0tRPiLVJiTWfIVdyM5LoIeaYy-CxoW9TuGrZ-Gr6ec/s1600-h/Photo+66.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UDoMyeN_SzMeGtFYLG028EbrkJlQMXLqAjZjCypXJY4o4Fz0iQzb28uHcCZ_wgbHMvzCi5dx-MK4FvfH2BvAapnRh9SAnzwdn0tRPiLVJiTWfIVdyM5LoIeaYy-CxoW9TuGrZ-Gr6ec/s320/Photo+66.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307656566513318338" /></a><br />Here we go again, on the carnival ride of my life, minus the Mexicans and admit one tickets. Just the nauseous, fun at first but then really shitty, dizzying experience that makes you wonder why you put so much effort into getting to the carnival in the first place. <div><br /></div><div>I think I have been cursed with something that makes the end of my months completely unbearable. Everything that is great only can last for approximately 22 days. Hey world, chap my ass AGAIN because it'd be absolutely great if nothing went my way AGAIN. Just the other day, after spending wonderful time with David, I got pulled over in a completely unfair way. The cop, who already had a lady pulled over, walked into the middle of the street and waved me down. Can they do that? And how, sir, were you radar-ing me? Obviously cops are out of this world and know a hell of a lot more than me. </div><div><br /></div><div>My cursing is bad today.</div><div><br /></div><div>That same day I had the school call me and tell me I had double credit for a class I didn't actually take, but got credit for through high school smart kid courses. So supposedly I am now down three credits and can't get my associates at the end of this semester like I thought. Thanks for letting me know ahead of time Yudi Lewis. I could have easily taken another class this semester, since my schedule is the equivalent to that of a rigorous 5th grader. But now, I'll have to take a useless elective credit sometime just to get a meaningless degree. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then my relationship life once again kicked me in the face later that night. I think I've been repressing things and I completely put David's ex girlfriend out of my mind. I sent her through a worm hole in my brain to a land far away, but not that terrible of a place, because I have nothing against her. But what David and I began to form felt great. Even after all the crap that surfaced when this situation first arose, we actually became closer. Was that a good thing? I think so. I really like him. But at the same time, I know where the deepest part of his heart lies. So we discussed things again. Pain. I wish I could see the future. I don't regret anything. I don't want to surrender. I hate being second. I wish I could show him the things I could offer. I wish that life was fair. I wish I could verbalize my feelings in a way that would make everything gravitate towards my heart and then make everything go my way.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wish that man I passed on the narrow staircase, or rather avoided passing, would have jabbed my brain with that claw for a hand of his and made me wake up from this coma. If I was anyone else I would have never been ok with this situation, but I don't want to be forced to let go of the feelings that I have. I'm being selfish. I will butt you in line for that shitty carnival ride, just to feel the enjoyment of the initial take-off, and then you will be the one wiping the vomit from my chin when it ends, like it always does. Disappointingly. </div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-55923024245438286952009-02-23T16:46:00.000-08:002012-02-17T00:21:33.124-08:00I bet your grandma didn't vote Obama<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#c0c0c0;">Everybody has a racist grandmother. If you think, "nah my grandma is open-minded and full of equality" think again. Ask her what a Brazilian nut is called, and you've got a 72% chance she'll call it a "nigger toe." It's not that they should be scorned for these types of comments, because they were raised in a different time when these types of nick names were generally accepted in society. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#c0c0c0;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#c0c0c0;">My mom's mother was known for saying some pretty racially discriminating things. She once told my sister that her black baby doll was cute and that she'd "keep the baby, but ditch the husband." She also had a therapist that would visit her home, and before starting a story about him, she'd clarify that he was a French-Canadian-African-American. I wish people would run off a stream of my heritage in an introduction. "Here is Madge, your typical Welsh-English-Euro trash-American. One day she....etc." Of course, many of the things my grandmother said were outspoken and a little shocking. She once demanded that my brother saw her legs off because they hurt. She also showed me her breasts once in a lesson about kleenex and perspiration, but that's a story for another day...probably a day when your stomach is feeling strong and resistant. Good ol' LaRue. We all miss her.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#c0c0c0;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#c0c0c0;">My dad's mother isn't quite as harsh. The only thing I can really think of that might seem taboo is the fact that her heavy-set dog used to have a gorilla stuffed animal he would carry around and in her baby/puppy voice she would say, "Now Shadow, go get your black baby!" Shadow didn't like his white baby half as much. If I wanted to sound racist, I'd say it was because he was all black himself. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#c0c0c0;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#c0c0c0;">I've possibly offended you with this blog, but my point is that you should talk to your grandparents. It's amazing to see how society has changed through the generations. And next time you crack open a Brazilian nut, think of my "grandma wiff da glasses" as I used to say, and thank your stars you never got taught a lesson on tissue and grandmother anatomy like I did.</span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-60468214320786129552009-02-19T11:42:00.000-08:002013-05-03T09:25:43.529-07:00Intuitions.So you know that initial feeling you get when you first notice something or somebody strange? I used to be a firm believer in that those type of feelings are usually spot on. However, intuitions can sometimes be misleading, mainly because I have a wild imagination, and I like to look at situations through my story-teller lens, in order to make whatever is happening into a great tale to tell later on. Here are two examples of my personal intuition. One is deserving of an intuition high five and the other makes my "first guess" deserve a swift kick in the ass.<br />
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Once upon a time there was a creepy old dude (I say old meaning around 45 yrs of age) who used to come into my work all the time. The leather vest, beady eyed stare, and shorts in the winter were in no way appealing to me. He happened to work next door at the music store and would often come in to get water or pick up borrowed music equipment, etc. Every time he made his bashful entrance, I was cordial and greeted him with my ultra cheesy waitress voice. Supposedly, this was in some way leading the man on. I didn't think this however, because I use the same voice for crippled old women, babies in strollers, and frumpy housewives, and so far none of them have come on to me in any way shape or form. But I had this gut feeling about this man named Kevin. He gave me that "ewwww, I don't really want you near me" sort of feeling. It became worse after comments he aimed towards me like, "You know what I love about you? Your smile. It's infectious." Uh sir, you are infectious, like a disease I don't want to deal with. It continued to escalate until one day he came in, and after attempting to hide in the bathroom, he took me aside and told me he had a crush on me and informed me that he was "perfectly harmless." Sure you are. Nobody clarifies that sort of thing, unless there are suspicions floating around. So he was labeled Creepy Kevin by me and some coworkers. He even wrote me a note once that said for me to pretend like none of that had happened, and later I had a delivery driver pretend to be my boyfriend. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So that whole mess died down and he seemed to disappear because we had this concept at work that he was a little bit on the predator side, and he told another worker that he wanted everyone to stop looking at him like he was a stalker. I'm pretty sure he was avoiding us after that. However the thought of Creepy Kevin still gave me the jitters. Then one day I received a text message from an old friend of mine that used to work at the same music store, informing me that Kevin had been fired from his job being caught kissing a fourteen year old in the basement. Thanks intuition. Thank heavens I never was lured into his van with no windows. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now for my intuition failure. A few weeks ago at work, I heard a horn honking outside. It sounded like someone was just laying on their car horn. So Peter and I were looking out the huge glass windows to try and see the commotion. Coming down Main Street was a fire truck, blasting its horn and behind it was a bus with its emergency flashers on, occupied by a bunch of bald dudes flailing their arms out the windows. This image was so strange to me. We were absolutely puzzled at what it could possibly mean. So here was our theory; they were obviously Mexican prisoners (Peter swore on his life that they had dark skin), being transferred somewhere on a bus with faulty brakes. So the fire truck was driving in front in order to get people out of the way, because there was no stopping this mobile prison! I was stoked to tell this story to everyone I knew. So the next morning I went to my parents house for breakfast and in one breath told the entire story to my patient father. At the conclusion of my theory he just had this befuddled look on his face, as if I had just told an awful joke. He then burst out laughing and said, "Oh Madelyn. You want to know what that was? A bus full of the high school swim team (hence the baldness). They just took state and made their grand entrance into town last night. Read the paper." And for the rest of the week, he told that story to every person he came in contact with. Thanks intuition, for at least making my father see what a complete imaginative moron he has for a daughter and perhaps making him the life of his business meetings. </div>
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So when it comes to creepy old dudes, you are probably right in your apprehensiveness. But when you convince yourself that you just saw a runaway prison bus, think again.</div>
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Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-23997750842843134892009-02-05T22:52:00.000-08:002012-02-17T00:22:58.014-08:00Hey life, quit giving me all these damn honorable mentions.<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavK6TcM3DhzQUVjG38T6bBy_HEwfwfyMlkEUZ0_LET4W7XWAa5DyuP6elPQFTjn8sRnXr-y6tCAXUIT3ND9F21mMr9jDVbno9st_2XQWHMs3Z9SBuoWLTKU_33StAlBUXo_ODusw-74s/s1600-h/Photo+64.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavK6TcM3DhzQUVjG38T6bBy_HEwfwfyMlkEUZ0_LET4W7XWAa5DyuP6elPQFTjn8sRnXr-y6tCAXUIT3ND9F21mMr9jDVbno9st_2XQWHMs3Z9SBuoWLTKU_33StAlBUXo_ODusw-74s/s200/Photo+64.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299585123816294354" /></a><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;">So here I sit again. Dumped for the second time in a month. Wrapped in crappy feelings and confusion and trying to forget the fact that if letting myself get attached, closely followed by my ass being handed to me on a platter was a sport, I'd get the gold. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;">But in life I seem to always get the silver medal. I'm a good person, but there's someone who is great. I'm cute, but there is someone that is gorgeous. I am fun to be around, but you'd rather fill your schedule with someone else. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;">Us mother Tuckers (it's my last name, you squares. Breathe.) seem to have issues with getting emotionally connected to people and then when things don't go our way it is devastating. I have decided that getting dumped because your pheremones aren't up to quality standards isn't half as bad as being dumped because an ex came knocking at the door. Plus #2 has become one of my closest friends, and we will still be friends but now I feel second best. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;">And why is it that when one thing goes wrong in my life, everything else joins in on the "lets beat Madelyn's self esteem to a nice JUICY pulp." Take my car battery for example. Ok car battery. You've worked fine for months and then all of a sudden when all I want to do is go home and climb in my snuggie (the blanket with sleeves!) you decide to be a total dill hole and get all loose and incapable of doing your duty. And why is my relationship life always going in circles? Where did scarf boy all of a sudden resurface? And why are we chatting about Disney movies? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;">Somebody hold a pillow over my head, please. Or at least get me some more candy corn. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;">All I want to do is talk to David right now and have anything go my way for once. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#99ff99;">I'll end this with a positive note. I drew a picture of an elephant with a face for a body and called it elephace. Also, a man told me I provided excellent service. Whoa perves, calm down. I serve PIZZA for a living. Get your mind out of the gutter, and pick up mine for me while you're down there. </span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-57288383842676745832009-01-31T01:34:00.000-08:002009-01-31T02:35:40.579-08:00Oh, bother.<span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">There are so very many things that seem to bother me lately. I'm turning into a crusty old man at such a young age. If I was a golden girl I'd most definitely be Dorothy, and not because I look transgender, thank heavens. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">One thing that really rattles my chain is people who just feel the need to talk, no matter what situation they are in. For instance, a boy in my English class seems to ask questions just for the sake of hearing words exit his mouth, not to add to the lecture or gain insight. One day he blurted out, "Is that a juxtaposition?" Excuse me sir, that was completely irrelevant. Even if it was a juxtaposition, we don't need to discuss that. Cool you know big words though! "Is this blog a cornucopia of thoughts?" Look Big Guy, I can do it too.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">Money is especially bothersome. I think I have a spending problem and I'm not really afraid to admit it. I just like to treat myself to things, whether it be Reese's Puff Cereal or a new pair of pants, I just have a hard time holding back. Plus amazing grant money is always shoving itself in my face saying, "Look I'm like a gift to you. Thank God your parents aren't wealthy and spend me."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">Being forced to take pointless classes is always frustrating. I have learned nothing from my science class except that old professors find slightly dirty jokes to be worthy of a.) wasting a solid 15 minutes of class time and b.) a wrinkled thumbs up if it produces a silent chuckle from within. My ethics class consists of one of those "addicted to hearing my voice" men as mentioned above, and a student with a weird tick who is always involuntarily distracting me with his odd grunting noises. There's also the two girls who think that doing sign language is the perfect way to hide that fact they are communicating from across the aisle. But guess what girlfriends, just because you are "silently" talking doe</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">sn't mean that your hand motions are invisible to the naked eye and that your laughs are also muted. So, I rarely take anything from that class except the fact that my teacher talks weird because he is from Holland.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">The cold has also been troubling me lately. I'm sick of scraping off my windshield because I always get home last and have to park under the trees out front where the sun never shines. I'm sick of all my jackets and I hate that the Kokua Hut has the oldest, most unreliable heater in the world. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">And lastly, why the hell would anyone go into Asian Studies as a major?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);">So with all this bitterness stewing inside of me I'll leave you with a message of love. I love fresh flowers. I love looking at art. I love listening to live music. And I love taking naps. I also love the photoshop magic that Spencer mastered to make an image to put on a future blog page we are planning. Perhaps we have ourselves a business plan, folks.</span></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYHEuSdZxx_n0CdN4kY6FKMcd0YqSBeP408B811l6bGeWHd3AbQsty_nnL9YvMhkrc-sa1Vo71ESE95rXMOH3D2dTwWXg_9d71ntI3Ks9h8hKWogbJzkKg3wIqPkgl5KDbk6IIcvR334/s320/madge.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297402931090240930" /><div><br /></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-65907302698937187032009-01-25T22:01:00.001-08:002009-01-25T22:25:15.425-08:00Chris Angel....MINDCRAMP!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">Have you ever felt like all your creative juices have somehow been sucked from your soul and you are no longer an original being, but instead just a walking robotic shell of your full potential? It's weird and I know I just tried to sound extremely deep in explaining the matter, but that is exactly how I feel lately! It's as if everything that comes out of my mouth is just fluff. Just useless air dust that can penetrate nothing for the better or for the worse. Even my curse words seem to come out clean and my jokes are dry and unfulfilling (but not talented dry humor like my 7th grade math teacher, Mr. Schramm, championed.) I don't know what put me into this slump. I decided to set some goals though, that might help me in my quest for creativity. I'm not sure how these goals will help me, but I've always been quite the list-maker so somehow I feel like my metaphorical "dehydration" will be quenched with such a list. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">1. Make a quilt. (This frustrating process makes me feel accomplished)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">2. Play my violin. (Theres something to be said about rosin-ing up a bow again. I'm not sure what that thing to be said is, however)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">3. Learn ceramics (Make cooler stuff than that dumb mug I made up at Bennion Creek)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">4. Write down my life stories (Because I am a grandmother)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">5. Go somewhere new once a week (Stores, restaurants, people's houses, hallways, times, etc.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">6. Don' t drink soda for a month (That's just a test of my self control. Girl loves her coke. The liquid kind, not the powder substance, although equally addicting for me i'm sure)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">7. Learn French (So Cardine and I can someday move to France and feel the power of travel)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">8. Draw (Be a better artist. Creative juices flow with pencil and paper I believe)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">9. Pose nude (Whoa. Don't ask how this is going to help)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">10. Take a roadtrip (One of my favorite things to do. There are always stories to be told after)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">11. Learn to cook (But don't become Kelli the culinary student/roommate with the no-tail kitten)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">12. Cut my hair really short </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">13. Get a new job</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">14. Eat organic foods </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">15. Meet new people every day</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">If I could somehow imagine a cure for this state I am in, I would add curing this lack of mind cramping to the list as well. Maybe I just need someone to tell me that I am a unique person. Maybe I just need that sort of confirmation. Or perhaps I just need to occupy my free time better and do something useful instead of making lists and writing pointless blogs. </span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-86305239639768790672009-01-19T22:33:00.001-08:002009-01-19T23:03:02.439-08:00.hip to be cloned.<span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">I don't understand the whole hipster scene. Where do all these jokers become acquainted and connected? Is there a new online social network called uniqueface.com or iwearmonacles.org that I have been cyber excluded from? Do I have to wear a feather in my hair to be cool? I feel so lost. Also I feel so young. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">19 is an age where you feel the exact same as you always have. I can buy myself a sweet Cuban cigar now and post a picture of it online, so everyone says, "oh look at her. How clever. She doesn't smoke but she posted a picture as if to say that she does. What a prank." Then maybe I could break into the Provo scene and live a brief and temporary existence of superiority. I feel like that is what happens with that whole group of people. They do something "unique" once and it earns them some glory for a period of time until someone else comes along with choppier hair and pointier shoes and a flashy scarf. Then you are just another face on center street and if you are lucky someone will remember you one day. But that conversation with a shout-out to you will be short-lived and the subject will quickly change to the latest Saddle Creek band emergence and you have sunk back into normalcy. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Honestly I am just a little bitter as of right now because I'm sick of trying to compete in this strange college student unique-ness contest. I listen to Saddle Creek records, I care about fashion and being my own person, but I will never be one of those glorified hipsters because I don't have a female entourage. I can probably count the number of friends I have that are girls on one hand. I don't feel the need to have a group of cloned me's following me around and providing me with an escape and double dose of sex appeal. I feel like I can stand on my own and if I can't be noticed alone, then the lookers are losers and they can have all the clones they want.</span></span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-23227099739482460982009-01-12T21:59:00.000-08:002009-01-12T22:38:07.272-08:00Moving up. Moving out.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">So I finally branched out on my own and stepped/jumped/boogied on in to the world of adulthood. With a box of ramen noodles, a stick of butter, and some Life cereal I hope to survive for the time being. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Our house has been christened as the Kokua Hut (the meaning is left up to your imagination). With four different estrogen packages, the house has a nice and diverse feel to it. Our landlord (dubbed the Captain) Bob Kirk is an interesting fellow, however. The first time I laid eyes on the king of over-explaining everything, I was greeted with a, "Just having fish problems!!" I'm still not sure why he felt the need to share that rather priceless piece of information with us, but it definitely left some sort of impression on me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">The Kokua Hut has just started its wonderful adventure. Today we even found the word "demon" carved into our knik-knack shelving unit. Thanks for the warm welcome, previous tenants. I bet it was the demon carver who also sent over a neighbor to ask us for a spare wire hanger, probably to jack our cars with. Oh how I can't wait to see where this road of my existence takes me. Three cheers for living on my own with awesome people! Hip-hip-hooray, son.</span></span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5517125110159078514.post-72636095329304167782009-01-08T15:51:00.000-08:002009-01-12T22:46:00.634-08:00Dump. Such an ugly word.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">I tell a lot of stories. Some people don't know how to react to these seemingly small events of my life, but when I get them off my chest I feel...the exact same as I did before I told them. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">So I had never really had much experience with airports until this recent Christmas break, when I decided to fly by the seat of my pants and have an adventure. I had met a young(ish) lad from San Diego and we had become what society would call "boyfriend/girlfriend" material. I met him because an old friend of mine had become acquainted with him at, believe it or not, the airport. So after months of talking, and a visit from him to Utah, I bought myself a flight to the good old Golden State. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">I should have taken my first night as a sign from someplace higher than my own naive and vulnerable soul. The flight was cancelled. I ended up setting up camp with an architect and a veterinarian in terminal C11 and spent the night with a beach towel for warmth and a backpack to support my neck. Airports are loud at night, and is it a rule that the night crew has to vacuum the same patch of carpet eight different times in one shift? Needless to say, my 45 minutes of hellish sleep didn't leave me with the best taste in my mouth. Or maybe that was just because the cheap toothpaste Delta offered us didn't do a good job. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">The rest of the week was a blast. Six flags, holding hands, being a girlfriend, seeing the ocean sounds incredible, right? That's what I thought too, until tables turned when we got to the airport to send me home and we stood near the security gate saying goodbye. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">"Have you felt something weird the past few days?" he inquired. "I think we need to go back to being friends."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">"Wow. What the hell?" I thought and then asked for a reason for this change of heart and relationship status.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">"I realized a few days ago," he started, "that maybe I'm not as attracted to you as I thought I was. Have you ever heard of pheremones?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">REALLY? Was I all of a sudden in science/health class? Did he really just pull that one out on me? Talk about feeling like a complete idiot. Isn't something like that a factor you can figure out the first time you physically interact with someone? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">So I walked away knowing I would never see that boy again and feeling like an ugly hag of a human being, but you know what? He's the one missing out. I'm past it. Too bad I didn't get that architect's number...</span></div>Madzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17659758614039521262noreply@blogger.com0