2AMDBC

I'm finding that I am getting too old for a great many things.

Phone calls at 2 AM? Too old for that.

I think I'm on the verge of a quarter-life crisis. I turn 23 soon, and while it's not the end of the world, it sure feels old as fuck to me.

Emaleigh is 16 this year. I held her immediately after she was born. I changed her diapers. I tricked her into eating lemons by calling them candy [I'm sure she loves that I'm telling these stories] and now she's going to be getting her driver's license.

I'm terrified that I've already failed at life, and really I haven't even started it.

I have two visions of myself as an old lady. One is a crazy old bat who yells at children and spies on her neighbors. This is quite feasible [I'm not always the peachiest of people]. I alphabetize my DVDs for crying out loud. I shelve my books like I work for Barnes & Noble. I HAVE A TRAY DEDICATED TO PERFUME because one thing I am OCD about is items that are and are not allowed to sit directly on a countertop.

The other is this darling hippie with long silver hair who bakes obsessively and makes sure her living room always smells of sandalwood and her bedroom of lavender.

I'm really hoping for the second. I'm also hoping that she's not homeless, perhaps moderately well-known in the art world.

As much as I'd like to know for certain where I'm headed, the fact that I'm feeling old and a failure is killing me.

Everyone my age is so obsessed with figuring out their lives immediately. All my pop talks about these days is my ten-year plan. I feel like an ass that refuses to plow. I just want to be young and free while I can.

I want to wake up tomorrow and drive to Chicago. Run around the city laughing at the top of my lungs. Befriend a drag-queen named Connie Lingus and giggle while people sing Journey in a tiny karaoke bar. Bump into a friendly stranger on the sidewalk outside of a little coffee shop and share a picnic the same afternoon.

Life has become far too predictable lately.

All I want is randomness.

I don't think I'm ready to grow up just yet. Problem is, life presses on at the same breakneck speed whether you want it to or not.

Redemption. Otherwise entitled: FAW/AT-BBM

I have redeemed myself for all instances of questionable shenanigans.

Yes, children. ALL instances.

On a completely different note:

Oh. Em. Ef. Gee.

Two days. I cannot wait!

LSP

The rage has lifted. It is completely last season's Prada. [New catch-phrase, BT Dubs. You're welcome. Be sure to spread it like the syph.]

It's quite miraculous, really. I don't know what happened, but I don't feel like gouging everyone's eyes out with my clickable Sharpie anymore.

It could have been the phone call with Marcus earlier today. It's nice to hear someone excited about your brother's return. And to have them willing to listen to you complain about the heinous bitch your siblings call step-mother. And to know that this person would totally go to a Britney Spears concert with you, no questions asked. And to know that when a girl walks by wearing yellow crocs, double cuffed jeans, VPL, blue glitter eyeshadow, a scrunchie, or anything with the word "bootylicious" on it, you don't need to explain anything; they know.

Though the rage is gone, I still want to go home.

It's funny how the most irreplaceable people in you life are often the ones you'd most like to replace.

A little while ago CRT posted a blog about homosexuality, to which I responded with a very Danielle [sarcastic with a pinch of bitch] comment.

He then sent [it felt more like an attack] me a Facebook message listing points to prove me wrong in my comment. [Which I find a bit funny, considering I made no argument against his post in my comment.]

I was going to counter that message here, but then I realized: I am not Michael Stephanic, and I am not Clark, and I see no reason to "kick some ass" in arguments. It's just not who I am.

I make my position known in sharp statements, and move on. [Perhaps I'll post my response later. I am fond of my phrasing. What can I say, I am a wordsmith.]

This whole situation put me in a state of rage. And I realized, it's time to go home.

This break can't come quickly enough. I need the time away. To clear my head. To recenter. To remain able to continue liking everyone.

At Danny's prompting . . .

Danny Roberts, whom you're all aware I adore [I haven't forgotten about that print, children. March 3. It's coming.] made a request quite a few posts back [I spent the afternoon catching up. I'm a slacker.] that his fans post two images that remind them of their own view of what love is.

I am deviating a bit, and posting one of what love should be, and one of what it shouldn't.


[JFK Memorial, Dallas, TX.]


[DART Transit, Dallas, TX. Pictured: Matthew McGrath]

Stick that in your industrial military complex pipe and smoke it, G Dub. Or shove it up your ass. Your choice.

I take a quick study break to bring you this breaking news report:

My brother is coming home from tour numero two very soon. [First tour extended by six months + second tour after saying he wouldn't have to go back = angry Danielle.]

Some of you may remember that last year I was accused of not supporting our troops after making a harmless joke in the beloved [and greatly missed] Big 10 of the Echo.

Turns out this unpatriotic bitch has a brother in the armed forces. [And a Marine at that. Even though he works for everything I stand against, at least he's on the team that kicks the most ass.] [Suck on that, you twat. Yeah, I am still a little bitter about those comments, you ignorant hate-monger.]

At any rate, last month he watched [yes, as in saw first hand, maybe even got splattered a bit] one of the men he was stationed with get his head blown off. And his best friend was sent home last week without a leg. [I believe that means he gets a Purple Heart. I don't think medals are nearly as rad as legs. They may be shiny, but they can't wrap around another body in the shower. I'm just saying . . .]

[(First tour extended by six months + second tour after saying he wouldn't have to go back) X injured friend] ^ dead friend = George W. and all of his toadies are assholes.

[That's math, bitches.]

As far as I know Sean is uninjured. He's currently in Germany. [Yay beer! And Lederhosen! And beer!] Soon he will be in California to debrief. And then . . . . . . home to Houston on December 19th!! [That's our brother Jason's birthday, which makes the return even better.]

So happy. You can't imagine.

If it weren't for a Bib Interp test tomorrow, I'd be running around screaming and smiling like a nutter.

An artificial tree that plays Silent Night over and over again. . .

This is my life lately.

I must help some of the most idiotic and rude people improve their writing skills multiple times a week. Not only this, but I am required to remain both professional and friendly.
I live in an environment that actively suppresses both creativity and forward-thinking.
I haven't slept well in days.

I need to giggle.
I need a functioning digital SLR.
I need 18 rolls of film.
I need a brush, a 6' X 9' canvas, and a heap of paint.
I need visual stimulation.
I need aural stimulation.
I need out.
I need a hug.