Frankly, my dear, my sentiments would be far too time consuming to detail here and the movie has already been almost four hours long, so I guess I'll just say "I don't give a damn" and be done with it.

Listen, I'm not going to lie to you...I'm fucking done already. Also, I ramble a lot about nothing that matters, but I DO end this with two pictures of my butt, so...you're welcome, or I'm sorry.

I am exhausted with school, and I am exhausted with one of my professors, and I am exhausted by not being at the beach every single fucking moment of every single fucking day. It's not even gratifying to know that in five weeks I'll be done. I'm fucking done already NOW.

                   

Yes, my wall is purple. I love it. I hated it initially, but I've grown rather fond of it. I'm sure this looks like very little actual work, all things considered, but it's quite a bit. It's a fuckton of reading (that I'm actually doing this semester, because right before you get your degree is when you should buckle down and be a good student, right? Really earn that 3.8 GPA I'm so proud of), and a lot of coordinated effort with young ass students that need to be corralled by my old ass. Taking on five classes really isn't all that much, considering when I was going after my business degree, I was taking six (my second semester, the dean approved me for seven classes, and I think he did it because I walked in so confident I could handle all of it AND a full time job AND a kid AND a flourishing social life that he wanted to see if I was ACTUALLY capable of it. Joke was ultimately on me, and I dropped college algebra. I am fucking numbers stupid. That's why I'm going after a masters in psychology and not business. Too many numbers. No thank you), and at one point in the beginning of my psych path, I flirted with the idea of taking 8 classes JUST to be done faster. Five is a very reasonable number, and because my sole job is school right now (I haven't even touched photography except for funsies. I am too fucking busy), feeling over it might be a little bit whiny. But fuck it, I'm over it, and if that's whiny, I'm whiny.

I'm stuck at home today, unable to go work in the lo'i, and I'm pretty fucking disappointed about it. BUT it means I can put the finishing touches on my mini mid-term paper for my least favorite class that's due tomorrow. I sent my professor a huge email detailing my complaints, and she wants to meet with me about it tomorrow, so I'm putting together a more detailed list of complaints. I get really weird about rocking the boat sometimes. I really noticed it when I was with Dan. I would have a pretty fucking legitimate grievance, and then I'd talk myself into thinking I was wrong for having whatever thing bother me, and I would cement my feelings of wrongness by convincing myself that I'D be the asshole if I brought it up. I did this for a fucking LONG time with Dan. The whole of our relationship, really, and it's left me with a very complicated ball of needing understanding and closure in the pit of my stomach, and being absolutely haunted by pretty fucking consistent dreams about Dan. A lot of unresolved issues there that I could have curtailed if I  had had the spine to go through with telling him the first time he crossed my lines that he was being a needle dick, because I would have either dropped him/been dropped by him on the spot, or I would have maintained that momentum for the rest of our relationship and taken the piss out of him every single time he treated me like shit. Which was a lot. I uh...I'm not making myself look like all that strong of a woman here, and in truth, I wasn't when it came to Dan. That tall mother fucker was my god damn kryptonite, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. On an unrelated note, I feel pretty fucking shitty that my husband, whom I love far more honestly and a lot more as a whole than I loved Dan, gets the short end of the stick because I loved Dan with more fervor and less reservation (undeservedly so). My husband has his faults, and a lot of them make me feel inferior and ugly and uncared for in much the same ways that Dan did, but I far prefer my relationship with Derek. Getting back on track, I am not spineless about the things that irritate me with Derek. I always mention them, because I'd rather be honest and open and obscenely irate at my husband than silent and convincing myself I'm wrong about my pains in my head. I learned that it's better to be the way I am now (and really, the way I was before Dan. I was always the kind of person who told people to fuck right off when they were doing something that hurt me personally. I changed all of that for Dan, and I really....I really just do not fucking know why. He didn't earn that from me, I just gave that to him right off the bat. It's infuriating to see that hindsight isn't 20/20 at all...it's WAY fucking blurred by any manner of other shit) than to be a super fucking mousy bystander in my own emotional immolation. I learned that through experience, and I feel validated in behaving the way I do now. It's served me well.

I do NOT have that validation from dealing with a professor, though, because I've always handled my relationships with professors as having a very impermeable line between always correct (the professor) and always wrong (the student). Do I believe this is true? Absolutely not. It's such a strange dynamic, really, and so arrogant to think that this one person knows better than you, therefore you need to look at them at all times, and address them formally at all times, and treat them like superior humans when the truth is, they fucking suck a good deal of the time and should be told as much. I've always kept my mouth shut about my shitty professors, though, because I think I understand fairly well that in a showdown between myself and a professor to any person higher than them in the school authority hierarchy, I'm the one the school doesn't know, and it's easier to write off one student than an entire teacher. I've had bad professors before...careless ones that talk shit about students, and don't show respect for their students, changing expectations and due dates without mentioning anything, just being general pricks because they have the power seat and wield over students because they can. I've just dealt with it, because I was adult enough when I started college that I could let it roll off of my back and not bother me. I had too much other shit to worry about, and if I  kept my head down and just did my shit, I'd survive and be able to forget all about my nimrod professors sooner rather than later.

I do not know what the deal is this semester, but I have fucking had it with one of my professors, and I sent her a pretty fucking detailed email accounting for my grievances. I felt super justified in sending it, especially after speaking with other students in the class and having them agree with my problems. I told her she was disregarding of her students and their other obligations, that she shouldn't be talking shit about students when they're not there (I had bronchitis and missed two sessions, and my classmates filled me in that she was running her mouth a bit about me missing class. I've also heard her run her mouth about other students who missed class because of work), that her emails are brazenly snarky and maybe she needs to watch her tone (she sends emails about her disappointment in us for not attending things, and that attendance is important, but she regularly asks that we miss days worth of classes to attend things she wants us to do with little regard to the make up work she's incurring for us), that asking her students to create their own make up work is fucking lazy as hell (has anybody ever had a teacher that was like, eh, create your own assignment, I can't be bothered. This absolutely floors me), and that all around, she's setting students up to fail by being inconsiderate. I cannot stress enough that I have conferred with other students, and there is a general consensus that this is going on, and I know I'm not being a nitpicky cunt for calling this professor out. That being said, I didn't mention the other students because I'm not a fucking rat and I'm not trying to get everyone into some school drama when they have enough on their plates, which leaves me open for her saying that the problem isn't her, it's just my interpretation. So I feel wobbly in the stomach about this now. I suppose we'll see about it all tomorrow.

In other news, cycling has done wonders for my butt. It has never been so deliciously round in all my days, even when I was running. Check it:



Even my little back dimples have returned! I know I'm still a lardo in almost every other meaning of the word (and I'm working on it. PCOS is a fucking bear to combat, even with being a pretty fucking healthy eating vegan, and even with cycling every fucking day, and even with yoga every fucking day, and even with hiking and swimming on the weekends, I am struggling to slip the fuck out of this hideous god damn fat suit that my body is walking around as), but small pushes forward are starting to be noticeable. Derek says he notices them a lot, which I guess is encouraging, but I'm still frustrated that shit isn't just falling off the way it used to before PCOS took over my body in a not so nice way.

I will say that cycling the twelve miles for school every day, and trying to come to terms with having an older body that doesn't just let go of weight like it did when I was in my twenties (both because of age AND because of PCOS which I think was really kicked into gear from gaining weight after my accident. An exceptionally vicious cycle), and having to wear weather appropriate clothes that allow for me to not die from heat exhaustion on my way to school but that are suitable for cycling, and sweating because the ride is long and difficult, and the weather is sunny and humid, has really helped me be more ok with having a fuck it attitude about my appearance. I look like a fucking bedraggled ass labradoodle when I roll into class every day. I'm in riding shorts, so it looks like I freshly shit myself with the padding bulge directly over my asshole area, I'm sweating damn near literal buckets from every inch of my skin, I'm in a yoga tank or some other workout friendly, breezy shirt because it's so god damn hot out, and my hair. My fucking hair. I don't straighten it anymore because I'm too busy doing other shit that would immediately ruin the flawless look I'm going for when I make the effort to straighten my wild mane. I smell like SunBum, though, which is really the only perk to my Zero Fucks Given look. Other than that, I am a hot god damn mess for every single class. And I have stopped giving a fuck about how I look there. I think I mentioned this in a previous blog, but I feel particularly self congratulatory about this, because my appearance has always mattered to me in a big way. I knew I didn't have much to work with, so I wanted to fucking work the little bit I had hard. I don't have that luxury now, so I can't do my hair, I can't do my makeup, I can't hide behind fashion. I'm just sweaty and frizzy and fresh(...ly red) faced and always wearing workout clothes, and that's just the pulp of that motherfucker. I do wish I could walk around campus looking cute as fuck, or at least put together. Part of me is still envious of people that get looked at. That really isn't what people are about with me. I think I'm pretty ENOUGH that dudes needing a place to bury their dicks for a little will look past the fact that I'm not an Amazonian supermodel goddess, and then they find out that I'm just WAY super cool and obviously the smartest and also super cool and smart that they end up being intrigued enough to stick around, but my looks have never, ever, EVER been my strong suit. I keep holding on to the idea that I'll be hot one day, but let's fucking be real: I'm 34, I've never been hot a day in my life, and whatever hotness I DID have is more than likely long behind me.

I am considering a tummy tuck, because this pesky ass extra skin from having two watermelons pretending to be children living in my guts for almost a year each ruined my stomach. I would like to not loathe myself (correction: my figure. I fucking love myself, I think I am the goddamn tits) so that I can....I don't know...look in the mirror if I'm naked without recoiling in shame and horror. It's a strange thing, because I don't care about how I look at school in the ridiculous shit I'm wearing so I can be comfortable cycling the twelve miles to be there, but I definitely care about how I look naked. And my naked body is a fucking trainwreck, and I hate it, and if surgery can help that, I am all in. My primary worry, and the thing keeping me from a consultation, is that if the surgeon asks me if I've considered X procedure, as well, or would I maybe like this thrown in for little extra, I will never be able to unsee those flaws, and I will forever be chasing a plastic ideal that will be prohibitively expensive and never, ever finished enough for my satisfaction.

I may just have to accept the fact that, if Derek and I don't make it, or I decide to have a vengeful affair because he had one first, or whatever throws me into the fray of finding new dick in my thirties or forties, dudes are going to have to be ok with my body as it is. Maybe they can just focus on my ass?

Why do mice have such small balls? Because so few know how to dance!

I moved around a lot the first few years of my life. My parents split when I was....about four, I think? Maybe five? My mom and I left Ithaca and eventually settled in with my grandpa George and my grandma Dottie (whom I called Garm Garm) somewhere in Broward County, Florida. I can't remember what city, it doesn't really matter. We didn't live with them long, and my mom moved into an apartment with her friend Beth. Here are two stories about fucking absurdly stupid things I did while we lived at that apartment.

Vignette one:

Of course my mom had to put me in school, and while we lived in that apartment, I went to Sunrise Elementary. CORRECTION: Horizon Elementary. I know this because I tried to look up Sunrise to see if there were any pictures of it, only to find out that Sunrise Elementary didn't exist, I was mixing shit up. The school was Horizon Elementary in SUNRISE, Florida. I was pretty fucking close. Anyway, it was a shit place.

                                                 

Not pictured: Federal Funding worth a damn.

I only went there for one year. I'm not really sure why, my memory doesn't serve me well 100% of the time (see: my ego). My teacher there was named Ms. Stats, and again, I don't know why I remember that, but not why I didn't stay at that school very long. Here's what I do remember: we did a lot of arts and crafts in her first grade class. I vaguely remember something about carving stamps out of potatoes (letting children carve anything out of anything seems ill-advised. For fuck's sake, my husband doesn't trust me with knives NOW), but what I remember most was making Victorian-era Silhouette cameos. We would sit in front of a lamp and the teacher would trace our outlines onto a piece of paper, and then we colored them in. which I believe IS the traditional method: trace a lamp shadow onto paper, then have first graders color it in really badly with stubby crayons. Classically Victorian.  

Anyway. 

This is where I become the poster child for both responsible teachering, and effective child proofing. While Ms. Stats was doing her thing, I was doing mine. I was off wandering through the classroom, rummaging through places I didn't belong. There was a little washroom section in the very back of the classroom, in this hidden little alcove in the wall. There was no cupboard above the sink, and no cupboard under the sink, just bottles of soap, and boxes of cleaning agents. I sat down in front of the wash basin (one of those industrial plastic dealybobs with the big trapezoid for a sink with a barebones hook faucet, and a single tube that held it upright), and I grabbed a box of Ivory Snow. This very box:

           

I saw this box, and for some reason, my first grader brain thought, "that looks and sounds DELICIOUS", so I uh...I started eating it. I grabbed a fucking fistful and shoved it right into my stupid, stupid mouth. That's not even where all of this falls down, because I ate more than one fistful. I ate TWO. It took me two fistfuls of Ivory fucking Snow to figure out that this box of delicious powder was actually a box of disgusting powder. My stupid ass sat underneath a sink, like some sort of fairytale goblin, eating laundry detergent by the fistful, and here's the thing: MY TEACHER NEVER FOUND ME. Nobody ever realized I was exercising curiosity about Pica. I put the box down, and then went and told Ms. Stats that I ate something gross under the sink. She asked me what I ate, and I showed her, and she flipped her fucking SHIT. Pretty righteously, obviously. I remember her asking me why I did it, and I remember suddenly feeling VERY aware of how stupid what I did was, and reflecting on the taste in my mouth and thinking I didn't want to be embarrassed in front of my class, who was now an audience to Ms. Stats yelling at me about my eating fucking detergent. I panicked, and realized as she was asking me why the fuck I ate detergent that I had to come up with a damn good reason why I ate detergent. I whizzed through my brain for ANYTHING food-related that I could cover my ass with, and I blurted out, "I THOUGHT IT WAS MASHED POTATOES". Because my mom made mashed potatoes with potato flakes, see? Ivory Snow looked like mashed potato flakes. Brilliant save, I thought. Except it wasn't. This was not enough for Ms. Stats, just like it wouldn't be enough for me if my son was a dumb dumb and shoved fist after fist of laundry detergent down his god damn gullet. She asked me what made me think it was mashed potatoes. What about it being under the sink, next to bottles of soap, made me think it was mashed potatoes. I was fucking trapped now, because hand to heart, I have no fucking idea why I ate that soap. I just did. I just wanted to eat the soap. So I told the best lie I could: I thought the mom and the baby were so happy on a mountain of potatoes. I wanted to eat a mountain of potatoes. Which isn't REALLY a lie, I fucking love mashed potatoes. But there was no connection to them until I needed it. I think I knew it was soap, I just....nothing was going to stop me from greedily gnoshing on soap flakes. I got it in my head that a snack of detergent was my prize after nosily making my way through the classroom while I waited my turn for my silhouette to be drawn. This wasn't my initial plan. I didn't set out to find some soap to eat, it was more me rolling with my whims. Box under a sink? Wanna sit down and eat it? YUP. So I did. 

Ms. Stats must have called my mom (or poison control. Or both?), and I must have been sent home, or Ms. Stats made a judgment call and decided I wasn't going to die, and since I didn't vomit, I was fine to stick around (you guys, the fucking WAY early nineties was a wild time regarding child safety), because I DID get to do my Victorian silhouette project, and I only remember that I got to do it because I was the only kid in class with curly hair, and Ms. Stats didn't feel like tracing the outlines of my curls, so I just had a huge, smooth bubble around a smaller, vaguely head shaped bubble with a jutted triangle for a nose. I think she was mad at me. 

And that is the story of how I started the Tidepod challenge in earnest. 

Vignette two:

There was a HUGE forest of Sawtooth plants and ferns and palm trees behind this complex that my mom and Beth and I lived in. There was enough space between all of the plants for a child to run through all of it, but I mean....that should have been ill-advised, because those Sawtooth bushes are fucking sharp, and I got cut to pieces on them more than once. Like I said: 1990 was a dangerous time to be a kid, but a great time to be a fairly absentee parent. So I was wandering around the savage brush of a forest that this Florida community provided when I had a brilliant idea:

I was going to go tell my mom there was a fire. 

There wasn't, obviously, but this somehow seemed like a good idea. I didn't want to be an alarmist, though. I think my motivation was to show my mom I wasn't afraid of fire, and I was brave. So I went home, and sat down in the living room, staring at my mom who was smoking a Virginia Slim on the couch, because 90s. She played directly into my hands, asking me why I wasn't playing outside anymore. I shrugged with a nonchalantness far beyond my years and said, "I don't know. There was a fire, and I got bored, so I came inside."

My mom didn't automatically believe me, so I can only guess this must have been after the detergent eating and my judgment was questionable. So she pressed me about the fire a little bit, asking me where it was, and did I see it for real? I didn't smell like smoke (a bold assertion for a woman puffing away on the fucking stupidest brand of cigarette there ever was). And I started getting indignant. Of fucking COURSE there was a fire, mommy, it was in the bushes. And it was little, but it was still a fire. I got pushy enough about my imaginary fire that she got up, slightly more panicked, and called the fire department. 

Are you ready for the story to get good?

There really was a fucking fire. A fucking tiny little brush fire had started, not by where I was playing, but close enough that I was commended by the fucking fire department for being so fucking brave, and doing the right thing by reporting a fire immediately instead of watching it. My grandfather bought me a fucking bike for my efforts. I got a stuffed teddy bear from the fire house. MY MOM GOT A DISCOUNT ON HER RENT. The entire fucking community was so grateful, because that fire could have been so much worse, and honestly, I remember the smoke looking scarily large to my little brain when we went outside to meet the firemen and tell them where the fire was. A big, billowing cloud, and the air smelled really bad. 

That is the story about the time I willed a fire into being because I wanted to be a hero. 

I honestly do not know how that happened. Hand to heart again, there was no fire when I went home. It was just an idea I had, to tell my mom there was a fire. I don't know why I  had that idea, I don't know why I thought it would make me look brave. It is such an eerie coincidence, and of COURSE I couldn't tell my mom I fucking faked the entire thing. In my head, if I told my mom, or told the firemen that that fire wasn't my fire, and I knew that fire wasn't my fire because my fire wasn't real, they'd think I started the other fire to cover my ass. I didn't, I just lied at a really convenient time. 

So...you're welcome, Sunrise, Florida. I'll accept that key to the city any time.