So I'm a student again, and it blows. It blows major dirty chunks into the toilet bowl we call life. I'm usually not this passionate about things but...oh wait. Yes I am.
Anywho, so I'm sitting in the library at school (University of Lethbridge, baby!) and I'm currently hating life. Not to the point of last year's suicidal stretch known as camp, but it's certainly up there. I'm an English major: surprise, surprise. And, other than sitting through the best class of my life every tuesday and thursday afternoon, I really haven't put too much effort into doing anything for it. At all. And I have a huge-ass essay due next thursday, which I haven't even started yet. Boo on that shit.
Also, surprise surprise, I'm a cook again. At Montana's. Please don't mistake it for a fine-dining experience; I have 'Montana's Cookhouse and Saloon' silkscreened on my left breast (I know, TMI...whatever) while at work, thus making it the most embarassing job I've ever had in the culinary world. Ew. Life blows.
[Also, one of the girls I live with just got a job as a cook at The Cheesecake and I think I might hate her for it. She says she's nervous about it and asks me for advice on what to expect, but I know that she's just trying to underhandedly rub it in my face that she's worked at Wendy's for the majority of the last year and just moved above me in the culinary world with one good recommendation. Fuck you, then. I'm finishing my apprenticeship.]
But it rocks, too. I got out of camp, and out of Christianity. Yesterday was the first time someone's asked me about it in a long, long while. (Except for Ken at camp this summer, but he's a whole different story in and of himself.) While talking to (read: trying to ignore) one of the guys I work with, he said something about how one of the other guys at work had mentioned that he thought I'm probably religious. I was so astounded at that declaration, I actually listened to him for a minute, to confirm what I thought I had heard. And I heard correctly. With all the deviations in my old, christian, lifestyle that I've made since January of this year, the one that constantly comes up and bites me in the ass is my space bubble. I can't touch other people. That's my thing. If you ever need to know one thing about me; that's it. Don't touch me. Ever. Unless I give you permission first, which is rare. So I corrected him in saying that I'm not, but I used to be, which led me right into a conversation that I didn't want to be a part of so I walked away. Which was probably one of the bitchiest things I could've done, but it felt like the only way out. And for once, he didn't follow me. Victory!
[Bearing in mind that this is, Brian, the kid who talks forever but never says anything. (Although 90% of the cooks could tell you a great deal of his life story.) This is also the kid who went on for so long about wanting to see a person being deep-fried that I actually told him, verbatim, to "just stop talking for the rest of the night." Right in front of the guy I like, too. We were both trying to ask/tell him politely to stop, but I guess my blunt statement won over manners. I like to think that gave Eric a better respect for me, and didn't just give him the notion that I'm a huge bitch...]
But that conversation led me to think about the common misconception that Christians have space bubbles. Hear me out: they don't. Living among them (which makes me sound like an Ethnographer, not a teenager...meh) for the majority of my life, I know without the shadow of a doubt that Christians do not have issues sharing space with others. I was the only one that I knew of who did. That makes me wonder about the way people think, sometimes. But that's another rant for another day...
Oh yeah, I got drunk last thursday night for the second time ever. Well, technically I let my house-mates get me drunk, but do I regret it? Not in the least. I had a blast dancing. (Keep in mind that every time I go to the bar and dance, I'm stone cold sober. I usually only drink water.) I saw a couple guys from work and one of them came up to me and asked what was up. I told him that my friends were trying to get me drunk but it wasn't working. He then told me that I had to be at least a little drunk (get this)...because I was smiling! Do I really look that pissy at work? Shit, I never noticed until he said that. Ah well, I don't really regret it, because it keeps all the sex-crazed, high-school kids that I work with, and their sexual advances on all the female staff at an arm's length from me. If that's the case; go me.
In other news, to all the people who don't like me: Fuck you; I love me! That is all.
~Blackbird
ps- I know, I know; "When you like someone, actually tell him and then maybe you won't be left in the wings hating all couples..." Fuck that shit. I know I should tell him, but maybe I want to see if he'll say something to me first. Or maybe I'm scared that he's involved with the one girl I actually loathe. Or maybe I'm too much of a wuss. Whatever. Pick whichever one you want; they're all true. So there.
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