Like omigod! How geeky is having a detailed description of your life on the internet? So what say I. I know that I'm a geek and the thing about it is: I'm happy being geek girl. I like being that person people call and say: "I want a website but I have no computer knowledge whatsoever, not to mention the IQ of a stump, and so will you make it for me, after which I will attempt to add stuff to it at the rate of once a millenium and then only after bugging you for a month about what I type in to get a link up?"
OK, now that I have alienated some people . . you know, people get offended when I say stuff like that to them, they get all bitchy and stuff, and I really don't mean anything by it, I'm just an intentionally cruel person because it amuses me to see people suffer. No, there I go on a tangent again. I do that regularly as you will discover if you read anymore of this. And I think that by now a great few are beating that back button to death.
Really though, you're saying. What is up with you. So I say the sky and now I'm pissing myself off with stupid answers to my own questions, which, if I'm not mistaken, is a sign of insanity. I think I'm a skitzo, but when I'm Anne she doesn't think so. Bob thinks so, but then Bob is just a yes man.
And that's the way it goes in my head all day long.
OK, not really, I just have a stupid imagination. I did crack as a child and see where it got me. I'm living proof you shouldn't do drugs.
To be semi-serious: I am 18 years old, I live in Florida, I am in college. I am a junior in college. This bothers people. They ask: how can you be a junior in college at 18? And I say, duh I told you I was a geek. No, I did dual enrollment in highschool and I got my AA (yes, Alcoholics Anonymous) degree this July, a month after graduating from Backwards Cow Country High, in a section of Florida nobody except the three people who live there have ever heard of, called Brooksville. No I wasn't born there thank you God for small favors.
I was born in Tampa and only moved to Bville when I was 8 or 9 or something. When my dad said I had to leave, my best friend, Kaysha Shams, was most upset and asked her father if she could move to Brooksville with me. Her father said: No! Brooksville is the end of the world!
I thought he was either joking or just doing grass, until we moved, and for the last ten years of my life I have been realizing just how right he was. So Mr. Shams, my hat is off to you for your incredible insight.
I'm a civil engineering major here at USF, and for those of you who are considering majoring in engineering I'm here to tell you: What are you nuts?! You retard, don't go into engineering, run dammit, run for your life!!!! But yeah, it really is a killer major. Everything on earth apparently is light years easier then engineering. Every hard and time consuming class in the Univesities is a requirement for engineering students. People always say things like: (in a calc 1 class) this is the hardest math you'll ever have to take, probably the last one too except for some stats (pause) unless you're going into engineering, in which case you'll have to take 3,000 more math classes, all infinitely harder than the ones any other major has to take.
And that's the story of my life. I'm always getting screwed over. So Dilbert is my hero. Now people are believing more and more that I am a nerd. So let me add here that Star Wars is cool as hell and I plan to be first in line to go see Episode II. And now you're convinced I'm a nerd.
But, the Star Wars I must admit is more than partly due to the fact that Ewan McGregor is a *very* nice Obi-Wan. But that is another story entirely.
I am deeply southern. This is an illusive quality about me because, being raised originally in Tampa, I do not have an obvious southern accent. Once in a while I say Ya'll and that tends to betray me. But other than that I don't really use southern words. Now some of you don't know what I mean by "southern" words, and I'm here to tell you they are very real. My grandfather was extremely southern and used southern words in every sentence. His favorite by far was "Yonder". For the benefit of those of you who aren't southern, "yonder" is our equivalent for "there". Except yonder is not a restricted word like there. Yonder has the ability to be any given point, in any given place in the universe, at any given second. Furthermore, if you say yonder and point in the correct direction it is not necessary to provide any other description of this point. My grandfather always did this. For example:
Me: Grandpa, where is the closest Piggly Wiggly?
Grandpa: Over yonder (accompanied by pointing off to his right)
Me: (stare awaiting a better explanation)
Grandpa: (returns to reading the paper and swatting flies)
And he was always swatting flies because he always sat on his carport. Why in Gods creation would a man sit on his carport? He didn't have a porch. Duh. Southern people still sit on their porches in North Carolina (which is where he lived). And you are also asking yourself: Piggly Wiggly?!? And yes, they have stores called this in North Carolina, and other truly southern states.
So what makes a state truly southern? Well, first the people that live there must still firmly stick strongly by political ideas that were prevalent right after the Civil War. Why? because these people are still convinced that is what century they are in. There are still lots of "good ol' boys" around here in the southern states that raise cattle, and on dates (with women they really like), throw them in their pick-up they fixed up themself and take them to see where they shot their first deer.
How do I know this? I have gone on dates like this. And yes I did run home and give my computer a big smooch. But in a way the southern way of life is interesting. I personally go and see my family regularly for entertainment purposes. For instance, I have these two great aunts named Pearl and Hazel. They are both 2,000 years old and have poofy,white frosted hair, as do all proper older southern women. They drive a Lincoln which doubles as a limousine in emergencies and they can't see over the dash of it. They are just a riot. When I told them about college, Pearl marveled to another relative (I have thousands of relatives and I don't know how 90% are related) about how smart kids were these days.
And speaking of relatives I actually have a Great Aunt who is my grandmother. We're talking inbreeding here, folks, and yes it scares the hell out of me. But it isn't as bad as it seems on the outset. My grandfather was married 3 times, the first time was to my grandmother Marie. Marie had a brother, Bruce, who was married to Virginia. Marie and Bruce died. Then after my grandfathers second wife, Neil, died, he married Virginia. So twisted as it is, I don't think it qualifies as inbreeding. So, as my father says, I'm my own grandpa.
Things like that, and having your cheeks pinched and told you look like a southern Belle make it all worthwhile to be southern. That, and I know you put salt and butter on your grits and eat them for breakfast with your livermush. Some things are just pure southern I suppose.
I was lucky because my father moved to Florida after he got out of 'nam and went to school. He lost his southern-speak and now marvels that he ever pronounced North Carolina as "Norf Carolina". My mothers family originates from Kentucky, but she grew up in Tampa, so neither of my parents sound like they just stepped off the farm. I thank God for that every day.
Ok, that was kind of an overview into my little world. Now I will take you far, far back in time, to 1981. June 28th 1981, at Women's Hospital in Tampa, FL.
OK. Fast forward, because I don't remember anything from back then.
I spent my younger years in Brandon, at Brandon Academy. It was a little private school for the severely retarded... OH! I mean, for the "special kids", where we had to wear uniforms and do lots of homework. And that was back in the day when I did homework. Nowadays I don't believe in that stuff. The true point of homework is the same as that of college: to keep would-be troublemakers like me off the street.
Even as a very young child it was evident that I was not normal. Apparently it never occured to me that I lived in the 80s and science had made such huge advances as, say, board games and sports. Instead I sat in the middle of my room and told myself stories. This was a great wonder to my mother who, at my age, was happily ripping off the heads of siblings dolls. So, and she says she did it so I could keep the stories forever, but I suspect she was thinking blackmail, she got a tape recorder and started recording me talking to me, myself and I.
And those stories are more messed up than the stories smack users tell. I kid you not. I still have them and they are deeply disturbing. So right off the bat I was a warped individual. And it just got worse from there. I'm not sure how it got worse, but I'm pretty darn sure it did.
As for my brutal honesty, I come by it honest from my father, in fact, for the scientifically inclined, my father and I have a DNA match at something like a million and one percent. And this disturbs me (more than I already am), mainly because my father is a lunatic. But we'll come to that later. At any rate, this trait also began to come out quite young.
There was certain kid in my class in the 2nd or 3rd grade (I don't remember which, the war fried my brains) that was, how can I put this delicately? Big as a Barn. I won't give names because, knowing my luck he is now a devilishly handsome, lean, wealthy, and powerful attorney. So my dad is cruel as anything, so he tells me to go up to the kid and give him a weight-watchers brochure. I found this a marvelously good idea, and without hesitation, marched up to the kid, gave it to him, and informed him: "Here, this is because you're so fat."
My social skills haven't improved since then. I got sent to the principal's office for that one. I seem to remember being in the principal's office an awful lot in my childhood. And the principal's office in a private school is an ugly place indeed.
You see, in the private sector, parents pay money to send their kids to a school where the child can be tortured at regular intervals throughout the day, and the school needn't fear of reproach. Apparently this makes children smarter and well-rounded. Also, I have yet to meet a nice private school principal. In my experience, they are all embezzlers, sex perps and/or child abusers. Now personally, being locked in a room with one of these people is not why I get up in the morning. The good part about it is that they are generally trying to look busy and important, so they paddle you real quick and then tell you, and I quote: "Now get out, I have some embezzling to do". My parents always wondered how I learned that word at such an early age.
Also in private schools they regularly encourage parents to come to parent-teacher meetings. Parent-teacher meeting were always bad news, no matter what. This is due to the fact that no matter how good you had been, the teacher would find something to say that you did. This makes it appear to the unknowing parents that the teacher did something other than file and paint his/her nails all day long.
After a prolonged chat amongst the parents and teachers the parents all sit down together and watch as the principal or a teacher talk about how poor the school is and that they would begin loaning the kids as slave labor in 3rd world countries unless some money came in soon. Then, some teachers begin passing around collection plates just like in church, only here, if you put in under 200$ they fail your child until you give them more money.
And private schools are always so poor even though they pull in large sums of money from tuition and parent-teacher night. This could possibly be due to the embezzling of the principal, but they frown on you pointing that out. So the answer to this is fundraisers. They would give us all bunches of useless junk and tell us to sell it. It was our peril if we failed to sell mass quantities of junk. They had nice prizes we could win if we sold a lot, such as: a hunk of green plastic, a hunk of orange plastic, or, the really nice one, if you sold 3 million dollars worth of wrapping paper, a plastic slinky the size of a thumb. So we would all set out every weekend with some huge box of junk and visions of that slinky and begin begging people to buy.
But I shouldn't complain about those types of fundraisers. Those were the easy ones. What I used to really dread were the "walk-a-thons". For those of you who don't know how these work, it's basically a form of gambling. People agree to give you so many pennies for every fifty miles you walk. Depending on how sprite you look, they might pledge anywhere from 1 cent to 1 dollar. And no one ever pledges over 5 cent. So, after we collected 3,000 pledges each, one day the school would send us out to "walk".
They would rope off the "track" for us and lots of people would turn out to see us go. No, it is not at all dissimiliar from going to the dog track. In fact we all had numbers and people would stand around and point at one of us and say to their companion: "got 3 cents riding on that 'un". The teachers would line the track and, when we were off, they would encourage us to keep running. Now hold on you say, this is a walk-a-thon isn't it? Answer:yes, but there's a time limit which is, and I swear I am not kidding, 4 days. So much more money can be raised if you run. This is not a problem for the first, say, five minutes. It gets old quick, but that is why the teachers are there. They all take along their yard sticks to the event and whack kids when they show signs of slowing. The teachers work in shifts so they can last the whole four days, through all hours of the night.
But, at the end of the walk-a-thon, you have the pleasure of knowing you earned just under 6 dollars and, for all your effort you win absolutely nothing. Then it's back to class, because hey, it's only early friday and you have the rest of the day to write a paper or two on how you will earn more money at next years walk-a-thon. And I swear that was an assignment after every one of those fundraisers.
Leaving the subject of school behind, my love of horses began very early in my life also. At the tender age of 3 my uncle sat me astride a short pony named Rusty, and my life was irreversibly changed forever.
As soon as I was placed on the pony's back I found my seat and wrapped my hands in his main. It came more naturally to me than walking or speaking. I can't explain how I just knew in a moment that I was born to ride.
My parents never had a chance. Things went down hill pretty quick from there. For my fourth birthday I was insistent upon having a pony come to our house for the day. My parents hoped that would satisfy me. They really should have known better.
From that day forward I wanted a horse. When it came time for my birthday my parents would ask: "what do you want for your birthday?" and I would respond: "a horse". Then they would try to prompt me for other options: "or...." and I would give in: "OK, a small horse." This would frustrate my parents to no end. And I did the same thing for Christmas. As a result, I always got stupid crap I didn't want for my birthday and Christmas. One would think that it would occur to me to provide other options after a while. But if one thought that then one would be wrong.
I would open each present in hopes it was a horse...no matter how small. Now, why you ask would a present, say the size of a very small jewelry box contain a horse? But I remind you that I never claimed to be overly bright as a child. I had the common sense of a house plant.
In fact, my common sense was a fairly regular problem. Now, I mentioned before that my father is a psychopath. I think a result of that is he is also incredibly cruel to those unable to defend themselves. When I was real little he had this remote control R2-D2 toy that I was afraid of. When he discovered I was scared of it he began using it to chase me around the house. I would cry and cry and he would laugh and laugh.
Dad also used to torture our pets. I had this kermit puppet as a child, and he discovered that he could use it to attack the dogs and they would run. Nowadays he loves to lay my cat down on the floor and spin him around real fast until he gets all seasick. So this gives you an idea of the person we are dealing with.
Now, not having good common sense in such a household can be very bad for a persons health. My father likes very hot peppers, but, like most sane creatures, the dogs and I did not. So my fathers goal in life soon became trying to get us to eat jalapeno peppers. Now, I was pretty easy at first. Children tend to trust parents, but I soon became wary if my father appeared to be smiling. The dog's trust he had to really earn though.
I'll never forget that day. A day that will live in infamy. Father had fed the dog scraps, and I mean good scraps, off the table for years in preparation for this one day. The dog had finally reached the point where she would not stop and smell something my father gave her before chomping down on it. she trusted him completely. Rule #1 in my house. Never trust my father completely.
I was watching from in the family room and dad was with the dog in the breakfast nook. Dad sat at the table and fixed my poor dog: named Peepers an entire sandwich all her own...... a jalapeno pepper sandwich. She never saw it coming. She bit into that sandwich with all the faith in the world, and swallowed it before it ever hit her what was to come. For a moment she sat there, not understanding. Then, suddenly, she turned and ran for her water bowl. That is honestly the first time I have ever seen a dog drink water non-stop for an hour.
So back to what I was saying. There was one Christmas that (and I think they did it on purpose) my parents had me really believing I had gotten a horse. I woke up early with visions of grays and chestnuts dancing in my head, and ran into the family room. And there, on the floor, was a rope that led out the door and off around the house.
Now, a person thinking sensibly would realize that, first of all, my parents were not going to buy me a horse. Second, we lived in a residential division in Brandon, so even if they had, it would not be in the yard. But nothing on earth could have convinced me in that moment that there was not a horse at the end of that rope.
My parents had awoken and they told me to "follow the rope to my present". And I did just that, with undying faith my dreams had all come true. Everything was in slow motion as I walked out the door and kept following the rope. My whole life flashed before my eyes. Then, I reached the end of the rope.... and there, to my greatest astonishment, stood a
Swingset still in the box.
Everything was silent. My parents stood behind me with grins on their faces. But I was paralyzed. Time did not move. I felt all of my hopes and dreams being smashed and beaten like Rodney King. I could not speak and could not move. Then suddenly, i found my voice and said: "What the f*** is that?" My parents were not impressed when I explained that I had learned this word from the embezzling principals which they were convinced were a figment of my imagination.
