Schools Out

The only graduation song I need. 

So, the race is won and what not. I beat the American education system with my small freckled fist like the boss I was born to be. Hilariously, the day before graduation the arts building caught fire because of the decrepit heating system. It was saved, no extensive books. But I felt Alice Cooper would be appropriate. Now I can focus on making money, going to Maine and introducing another state to my awesomeness.

On a related note to making money because I'm poor as fuck, popcorn is now a food group to me. My pyramid sort of looks like ramen over popcorn over sugar with a caffeine base. I forgot to eat before work so I came home, popped a bag and am chilling out to the Venture Bros. with it while Gidget complains about her lack of sex. She went into heat and apparently is heart broken that I put Biscuit in mom's room. Poor guy was wiped out. And walking funny. I thought he could use a break.

Hilariously, Gidget doesn't totally understand mating, so when Biscuit slows down she tries to take the top position. I don't think she knows it doesn't work that way.

Its almost Christmas. In case you didn't know. I'm stoked to the max. No idea what I'm getting, really, but everyone is home and getting along. There's a ton of cookies and macaroni and cheese. There will be bacon and meat. And cookies. And bacon. I've been listening to my random Christmas songs, like Here Comes Son Goku and what not.

H&M is great. The best job so far. Though tonight was slow and boring, I won't complain because I'm making moneys. The people are nice, the work is decent and the customers are better than Forever 21. However, those last minute bitches who like to mess up my perfect racks piss me the fuck off. Don't come into my store 10 minutes before closing, flip clothes over the rack and not even buy something. I also don't want to hear you bitch that a seven dollar dress doesn't come in your size, you angry moo cow. BITCH. This is not Torrid.

Which is horrible of me, but that woman was a level 10 narcissistic douche. I apologize we don't carry your size, I do, but don't take it out on my racks. Just because I get paid to work there doesn't mean you get to treat my store like a fucking free for all. Also, keep you damn kids out of my displays or I swear I'll loosen the mannequins from the bases enough to scare the shit out of them. Inattentive parenting dicks.

Rambling done. Good job is still good.

Sarah told me recently I don't talk about David all that often. Which is true. Why? Because if the world discovered just how freaking awesome he is, someone may try to take him. And that would mean I'd have to fight a bitch. He really is the best man in the world. Sweet, funny, smart, witty. It totally helps he thinks I'm beautiful and tells me so every day. And that he believes that my craziness is what makes me epic.

So, I try not to talk about him not just to rub how fucking great he is into my friends' faces, but also because I fear becoming that girl whose always ranting about her boyfriend. I now he's awesome. He knows I know. Fuck the world, we make our own rules. I don't want to go on facebook and do the 'I miss you baby' 'My sweetie is so cool. Can't breathe without him. Its like Stockholm but more romantic' or 'I love my boyfriend because he hasn't filed a restraining order yet, and even when he does, it won't stop me'. Those girls aggravate me to no end. I can live without David. Its perfectly human.

But I really don't want to. I think that's more important. We would survive without each other just fine, but neither of us wants to face that world. Missing pieces and whatnot.

Anyway, Goodnight world. Popcorn is gone so its time for dreams.

Tree Octopodes

It's finals week, I'm panicking like a mad woman. The weather is shifting so rapidly my head feels like it will explode in five seconds. There's a lot going on, I've got to say.

So, in my mad rush yesterday to finish (by finish I mean start, edit, and print) my eight page autobiography for Fiction class I happened to be present for something interesting. A psychology graduate student was being reviewed by a panel of senior staff (double entendre there, because all the gents were old as sin).

On a random note, I'm getting pissed at Chrome for telling me entendre is not a word, but gents is. Moving back to the topic at hand.

This girl is about twenty-two at most. She's explaining to them that in her teaching assignment she wanted to explain things in two meshed ways. Be innovative. Involve the class. How to use Xtra Normal to get the students to build funny tutorials so they grasp the materials. That caught my attention. I about pissed myself with laughter when she started explaining about The Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus and the movement to save it as an endangered species. When one the older men asked if this was a legitimate campaign I almost had to walk away.

I had never heard of this before at this point, but the mere idea was enough to make me die of laughter. Then I looked it up.

I had a joygasm. Legitimately, I snorted and felt euphoric amounts of pleasure. A website that mentions both Sasquatch, an octopus that lives in conifers, fights over grammar and how to become the biggest idiot in the woods since snype hunting is what heaven is made of. The further I got into the website, the more ridiculously amazing it became. They have faux scientific names and photos and everything. This is the best internet hoax since Bonsai Kitty.

In other news, Russia is in the midst of a revolution because Valdimir Putin rigged the presidential election in the most idiotic way possible. 140% of votes went to him alone. That's not including the votes for other candidates, mind you. You want the news on that, go to 9gag.com. Because apparently Russian government has implemented one hell of a blackout on the media so the story can't be leaked. You know. Since the developed world isn't all the keen on outright oppression.

Let's see. I'm starting work tomorrow. I have two exams left until I'm done with the semester and hopefully school. I'm anxious about it.

I don't have much else to say at the moment. So, goodnight world!

The Bitch Please Paradox

Fuck you. Fuck you and your ridiculous grade school form of cowardice that has let you bitch to me for almost TEN years instead of fixing your fucking middle class issues. Fuck the fact that with all the shit you talk about your life, with all the texts I've answered, phone calls I've taken, advice I've given, projects we've made and all the absolute whining you've done that you don't respect me enough to at least tell me you don't want to speak to me anymore. Double fuck the fact that you were cool until he put that ring on your finger.

I try not to ask for much from people. Honesty, respect. Basic human wants, I think. I ask that you treat me as well as I treat you and not more. If you can't give that, then cut ties so we can both be on our own ways. I guess that's what happened. I just had more invested than the other party.

The deal is, I had a friend from seventh grade until earlier this year. She was really close to me when we lived in Idaho, decently close in Hawaii and since I've been in Virginia due to mutual shit storms our lives haven't totally meshed. But we were still friends. When her douchebag boyfriend cheated on her and they broke up for 48 hours? I was the one she called. And I took that call. We texted and what not. Not always frequently, but I don't consistently text anyone. Even Sarah. And for God's sake, we're engaged!

I go on Facebook, curious because none of my previous texts had been answered and none of my messages or comments replied to to find out she deleted me. Okay, I get it. You're all engaged and growing up. I'm not always easy to deal with and those who can deserve a trophy no doubt. But you could have the fucking respect to tell me personally you have a problem or are tired or whatever the issue is before just cowardly dipping out like a bitch.

In all honesty, its understandable. I won't lie about it. Anyone who knows me knows I can not only be a bitch, but that I'm sometimes very hard to deal with. I'm not even angry she doesn't want to be friends. I'm completely angry with how she went about it. She's not a bad person. As annoyed as I am I'm not an idiot. She's starting a life with someone she loves and all that. Being all adulty. My complaint is completely related to the fact she didn't have the courtesy to forewarn me. Granted, its her nature to avoid conflict as much as humanly possible, still. 8 years feels like it merits some sort of heads up. Well, at any rate I wish her the best. I hope her fiance mans up and matures. I hope she finds a job she's happy at and that her self esteem starts to sky rocket. She does deserve to be happy for once. Its not something she's had a lot of in her life.

In other news. I graduate soon! WOO. I will be the fourth Foltermann, second member of my household and I believe first Holt to receive a college degree. Maybe. My cousin or aunt may have beaten me to it. I will be officially done with school December 17th and plan to party it up with my parents and maybe Tim and a few former work buddies.

I have a new job. I now work at the illustrious H&M, and I am obligated to mention none of my opinions or rants reflect the company, personnel, or values and I am not in any manner a spokesperson or public endorser. I'm excited about it. The company in itself is very interesting and well coordinated, the staff is awesome and the work is stuff I can do. Oh, and there's a store in Portland, Maine so I can likely transfer up there after my exit exam in January.

Which, my move date has been pushed back about a month. I neglected to take my exit exam BEFORE graduating, so I have to take the next one in January. After that I should be home free. I'll be in Maine, tackling moose, cuddling with my beau, and partying with Emily. Who is, by the way, going to be the bestest roommate in the whole wide world. I can't wait to live with her.

I want some steampunk-esque goggles to wear on top of my head. I don't know why, other than I like the way they look. And I have some things to ask my new manager about  before I do them. There's nothing in the handbook for H&M about hair, tattoos or piercings so I want to double check with her before I dye my bangs green or turquoise. I had them pink but it faded quickly.

I'm also on chapter 9 of my novel and missed my National Novel Writing Month deadline by 433 words. One day this book will be on shelves. I will see it happen!

I'm too tired to type right. Off to bed I go.

Goodnight world!!

No longer a Ginger, Still no Soul

Well. I'm hungry, its 11:12pm and I have no more episodes of Big Bang Theory to ogle. Ramen it is.

So, I've been rotating easily between the two worlds of severe boredom and sleep deprivation lately and the result is doing some odd things, writing several chapters for National Novel Writing Month in a single day, and discovering 9GAG. Oh, 9GAG. I feel like you're what everyone meant to save me from my warning me about 4chan. Too late. Soul's gone.

Escaped being a ginger (not that I dislike it) by dyeing my hair dark brown, still forfeit my soul. I'm just doomed, it seems, might as well enjoy it!

So, I'm not sure if I actually made a reference to this or not before but when I visited Maine a post-friend of a friend of mine kept doing what they called The Necromorph Dance. Dead Space, bro. Now, these fucking humanoid monstrosities are nightmares bred with spiders.

(Stolen from Courtesy of ....too fucking long. Its from Google)

They like to eat you. Or stab you. Or delight you with a casual dance that is meant to be imitated with two human beings because we simply lack the sheer number of arms necessary to accomplish the dance on our own. Watching this was a highlight of my visit. Watching Emily fling herself onto David's back and they both started doing it without cue? Out of this world. Doing it on your own, behind your father's back?

Yeah, not as cool. Anyway, school is nearly done and I'm managing to fight the horde of zombies also known as final projects. You want something that truly wants your brain? Try be a fucking engineer. I'm not, but still, vector calculus looks like Klingon to me. 

In local news, I need a FUCKING job. Applied at Target, got a dismissal email. Ka-fucking-pow, bro. Not even a decent rejection call. Just an email that basically said "We saw you worked for Forever 21, and we choose to not associate with your kind." I cuss a lot more later at night than I do when the sun is out. Like a language vampire. Not that I'm much better during the day. I applied at H&M, so hopefully that goes through. Its a temp position, which is what I want, pays over minimum and hey, clothes. All I know is that I need to get my savings back up so I can get my ass up north. I want to start my year of good graces. 

Well, I'm done ranting and such for the night. More updating. Other than my ferrets being overly stimulated jackwagons there isn't much else to talk about. So, have a goodnight. 

Ciao, bitches. 

Land Ducks

Ninja the Ferret is a small furry pain my ass, too good at proving his name. This damn critter devises ways to escape all of his prisons. Seriously. If I didn't have Gidget I'd lose him again. She's a pretty good pointer when it comes to the ferrets, honestly. She nudges him back over the baby gate with her nose. She herds and traps him when he gets loose until I can come fetch him. In another world she'd be a fabulous hunting dog. The one thing she isn't afraid of.

The other ferrets are growing pretty big. They're getting heavy. And way more cuddly than ferrets of the past have been. Gizmo loves to be held. Stitch likes to have his belly rubbed. They're so adorable. I love my boys.

In celebration of my dad's success in school we went out to lunch at El Azteca, a Mexican restaurant. It was nice, we don't go to that particular spot often. The food was really good though. Seriously. And my favorite part? There were freaking ducks outside.

Land ducks.

I say land ducks because back in September, on the 11th when we were hunting for ferrets at Animal Jungle we saw a momma with ducklings. They were adorable fuzz balls. We had to swing the truck around a bend to get close enough for pictures without bothering them. They were living under the cover of a tree by a bank. It caught us my surprise not only because they were in middle of a fucking shopping center, but because these little fluffy bumpkins looked to be very young pretty late in the year.

See? Momma and her little ducklings hiding out under a tree.

Well, we go into El Azteca to get to Mexican party on. Without the tequila. My parents don't need to see me like that, no sir. So, we come waddling out of the place and what do I see round the corner of the back of the building? Land ducks. And they've gotten BIG.

In typical Cynthia fashion I made a big fuss and said if I was out of the truck I would grab one of those ducks. Mom says she'd like to see that. Dad decides this show would indeed be worth it, pulls around the parking lot and parks letting me escape the truck. Mom is taking pictures of this whole thing, by the way, determined I'm going to get mauled. Ducks are some of the only birds I tolerate. Birds are freaky. I dislike most of the them. Annoying, chirpy gits.

What happens when I stalk up to these late bloomers?

The little guys come running right up to me wagging their little ducky tails. It was amazing. I pet a duck and I liked it. Nothing quite like disappointing your mother when she's expecting you to be attacked outright by wild animals you have no business messing with in the first place. And for the record, I do not endorse this. Because they are my ducks. You can go assault your own land ridden aquatic fowl. 

Look at em. Cute little buggers. They're still clinging to a few baby down feathers. Such an odd thing, but it was amazing. I thought I'd share this amazing story. And for the record, Virginia Beach Kill Shelters, if you take my ducks I will maim you.

Quack, motherfucker. 

Like and Addict

I'm sick. Again. This is getting old fast, I used to have an immune system you set a fucking atom bomb off near without repercussions. Now I'm on a mixture of leftover hydrocodone and Tylenol Cold PM Warming, still unable to sleep. I'm considering making my own variety of Lazy Cakes with belladonna and melatonin.

I wrote a crappy rough draft of my project piece for Experimental Psychology, a class I'm pretty much scrapping by in based on my ability to take tastes and bullshit papers. Also, eating extra credit like its a fucking cupcake. The paper was late, so I'm sure that adding that to the fact it was realistically incomplete  I might not get good credit for it. I'm going to have to set up a time to talk to the professor and see if I can make up the projects somehow. Oh, to top off the beginning of the week I have two exams. Awesome. And I believe I have a story due in Fiction.

I'm not in the best of moods. Thank God tomorrow is Halloween. I love Halloween. And I hope I get the call from JCPenney tomorrow. I'm tired of arguing with my mom over whether or not I'll be able to move in December. Its happening, whether or not I'm totally prepped for it. I've made up my mind and for once in my life I'm sticking to my guns and gritting through the speed bumps.

There was something else I wanted to say, but I don't remember. Let's see... Friday was awesome even though I got sick from it. Time with Tim is always a way to go about my life. We went to dinner, frozen yogurt and then to Hunt Club Farms and tortured some children. I was really on my game and I got lei'd by a doll girl. It was awesome. I made friends with zombies and got attacked by a small hillbilly child who was the most adorable fucking thing ever. I also pet sat some guinea pigs who were very sweet. Getting paid in cookies? The only way to live, man.

Oh! I realized Saturday that I treat everything like I'm addicted to it. I drink like I'm in recovery, I refuse drugs because of the idea that I may fall into a deep abyss of pain and ruin, I don't play internet games or do anything outright fun and of my generation for the fear that it will consume me. Its an interesting realization. I may expand on that later.

I have to go now, I think the medicine is kicking in. I'm about to pass out.

Gaydar

Lucky you, you get two posts in one night from me.

In an ongoing battle, my father and I have been discussing the... sexuality of a friend of mine. My dad is determined this guy simply is ambiguous to his own desires. I keep pointing out the evidence that lends to the opposite. This particular character in my life is pretty spot on on what he wants. Or, moreover, who he wants it from. For over a week now this has gone on and on and on. I'll bring this gentleman up and my dad will shoot back randomly with "I still don't think he's gay."

Today at dinner, celebrating adding a new truck to the family, we got into this conversation again. I blame myself. I brought him up. I was told, by this friend of mine, that I'm a hag because my gaydar is always tripping. This is something I can completely handle. Also, if Virginia Beach didn't have so many men locked in their closets, I might not always be detecting them. That's neither here not there.

So, while explaining this to my parents in a true Foltermann family dinner fashion I point out how this particular male friend of mine who prefers gentlemanly callers has no concept of how to find said men to call upon him. His gaydar is about six clicks from calibrated. Its like he has the compass Jack Sparrow wants to protect so badly (which is probably a good analogy. Let's face it Johnny, you aren't fooling anyone just because of the kids). Mom laughed and dad got confused, but let it go.

I'm downstairs, about to head up, and as I'm gathering my laptop, sweet tea, and dog Dad looks at me and goes "Hey, I just thought of something!"

"That's a nice change."

"Shut up. If (we'll call him Bob) Bob's gaydar doesn't work, how does he know he's gay. Radars identify themselves."

"Dad, he can't tell if other men are gay. He knows he is. We've talked about this. And radars don't show their home tower on the screen."

"No, but they recognize it. I think he's confused."

"Well, does your gaydar ping on you?"

"No."

"You have a pretty fucked up and unreliable gaydar, Dad. I mean, for all you know, you're confused. Maybe its supposed to ping and it doesn't because it isn't calibrated right."

"You're just making shit up now."

"No, I'm using the same logic you applied to Bob and you. I'm just right."

"Go upstairs."

So I go upstairs and tell him goodnight, and get almost to the top when I hear, "And I still love you even though Bob isn't gay."

"I think you need get calibrated!"

"Hag!"

And that's the end of my night. After bullshitting a single page, thorough proposal paper on the differences between rehabilitation and detention in the juvenile justice system, I got to unwind discussing my friend's sexuality with my father. Times are good.