I love pickles and probably am pregnant because of it

Okay, you guys, there's some serious sh- stuff going on here. I will now enumerate said stuff in an easy-to-read bulleted list:

1. Okay, first of all, I lied. The list isn't bulleted because I can't figure out how to do that on Blogger. Whatever, stop yelling at me, it's gonna be fine, everybody, I'll just use NUMBERS now, IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU?

B. Lied again! Geez, you guys are so gullible. It's sad, really. I'm almost inclined to take pity on you.

. . .

But that's not how I roll.

2. Apparently, "how i roll" includes bizarre (super hard-to-spell word, btw) (btw means "by the way," for the poor souls reading this blog who don't know that acronym) (I'm talking to YOU, mom) and outdated phrases like "how I roll." I apologize for this.

7. Okay, I'm gonna get started on the real stuff now. Promise.

3. So I hate to say it, but I'm like 82% positive I might be probably am definitely-am-not-but-it-seems-like-a plausible-explanation-except-for-the-fact-that-I-would-have-had-to-have-sex-first pregnant. I have, like, half the symptoms. And YES, I did research on this, because I am an educated college student and I like to have SOURCES, people, before I just randomly start spouting crap all over the internet. That's just the kind of person I AM. You're welcome.

So, let's examine:

1. Fatigue: YES. ALL THE TIME. Now, some of you uneducated cretins might say things like "Oh, Marissa, that's just because you're staying up till all hours of the night looking at funny pictures of cats or catering to your histrionic tendencies or writing crap like this blog" but to those people I would respond, "No, I really don't think so," except knowing me it would be more like, "SHUT UP you don't KNOW me--NO ME CONOCES, AY MAMA CHIMARITO TAQUITO LA GRAPELADORA" which pretty much concludes my Spanish vocabulary.
2. Okay, I just looked it up and "grapeladora" is not a real Spanish word. Crud. I think I meant "grapadora," which means stapler. This is the sort of vocab that you're gonna need when you're stranded in Tijuana with just a sombrero, some pens, and a bottle of tequila for company.
3. Back to the list: Nausea. So this one is a resounding YES. I'm nauseous all the time. Like, at least 30% of the time. Is some of that time when I'm on a bus in traffic while doing crossword puzzles and possibly getting a contact high from that smelly hobo leering at me in the corner? Sure. Is the other percentage of the time when I'm having a panic attack and hyperventilating? Okay, yeah. And maybe the rest of the time it's when I'm on a boat in the middle of a choppy sea hunting down the white whale that took off me leg, ye scalawags? Arr. Regardless. Nausea. Yes.
4. Mood swings and irritability: NO. NEVER. I am the friggin' picture of amiability and stability. HA. Ha Ha. Yes.
5. Weird food cravings: Oh, yeah. Like, just now, I had to stop writing in order to get some food, which included two baby dill pickles and three of the peanut butter chocolate chip cookies I made today instead of doing my homework and whatnot.
6. A positive pregnancy test: Really? Like, this list really had to include THAT? You'd think that if anyone had the brains to take a pregnancy test instead of looking this crap up on the internet, they wouldn't NEED any other verification beyond that little plus sign.

So, there you have it world, I have, like, four of the symptoms (out of the 12 that were mentioned on the website) (not all symptoms are mentioned) of the pregnancy disease, as we like to call it here in Utah. (Note: we to not actually call it that in Utah.) (I think that the term that is most frequently used is "Compunction Junction.") (No, it's really not.)

I really wish that I had something clever to say that would wrap up this whole post, but I'm already only going to get, like 4 hours of sleep, which is going to wreak havoc on my mental illness and, consequently, anyone who gets near me within the next 24 hours, so I'll just leave you with this.

And then my dad high-fived the president

Hey, losers! Welp, I've been wanting to write a post for a while, but I've been all whiny, like, "Bleh, I don't have enough to write about, my life is a constant string of neuroses, which actually get kinda commonplace since they stick around for a while, meh . . ."

But! I think I finally have enough that I can talk about to make this an actual post, not just a status update on my horrifically uninteresting life. Plus, I figure I gotta start somewhere, even if I don't have much to work with--mostly because I really do love writing, but also because my therapist recommended (read: threatened) that I get a blog or exercise or do SOMETHING other than curling up in the fetal position and weeping softly or running around stabbing people arbitrarily. Because apparently that's not "constructive" or 'healthy" or "legal." Well, whatever, therapist. Screw you, now you're getting all kinds of crap from my blog. So there.

Anyway.

Okay, so you know how when you get a new puppy and it's all cute and lovable (sp?) and then the minute you turn your back on it, it starts tearing up the house and ruining your carpets and breaking that nice vase (pronounced "VAH-SE") that your great-something-or-other left you? And you're running through your house trying to catch the little hellion and your mom or whoever is screaming at you to "GET THAT THING UNDER CONTROL, THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE PETS, THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS." And when you finally do catch the dog doing something wrong, it looks so innocent and little that you can't possibly be mad at it.

You know how that goes, yes?

Well, that is more or less how I feel about my new roommate (and I pray to all things holy that she never reads this). She is an incredibly sweet girl and she's quite clean, and so far she's beat out a lot of other roommates I've had. We just have a few . . . cultural differences to work out.

Actually, now i just feel guilty writing about this because, like the metaphorical puppy, she has no idea that what's she's doing is wrong or even vaguely irritating. I mean, I have no problem chewing people out for beings jerks when they're doing it on purpose, but when someone is just genuinely oblivious? Even I'm not gonna tear someone down for that.

However, one step out of line and all her dirty laundry is gonna be aired out ALLLLLL over this blog, for all my (6) readers to see.

Moving on.

The only other thing I can think of that is interesting to writing about (besides my cripplingly difficult internship which may or may not cause me to commit a gruesome homicide at some point during the semester) is my next door neighbors.

Before I explain anything else about them, let me just say this: I love babies. I think they are pretty much the cutest things I've ever freakin' seen. Nothing compares to the feeling of just . . . whole-ness that I feel when I'm holding a baby. And I could look at them and play with them pretty much all day.



See, look at that! That is super freakishly cute. (That is also my newest cousin, thanks to my aunt, Brie.) (I hope you don't mind me using the picture, Brie!) (I love you.)

However, there are limitations to my baby-obsession. I found that out just last night, actually, when I discovered around 1 a.m. that the east-most wall in my bedroom (the wall my bed is pressed up against) is shared by the wall of my next door neighbor's baby. Their screaming baby. It took me a full hour to go to sleep (I can only imagine that the baby must have been sick or something to have cried so long.

And THEN. To make things worse, I jolted awake at 4:30 this morning, with the sounds of baby-sobs ringing in my ears. At first I was just irritated. Surely, I thought, surely the parents will come get their child and all this can just be an early morning nightmare.

But the crying went on. And on. AND ON.

I tried experiments. I plugged my ears, put a pillow over my head, moved to sleep on the floor, turned on some white noise. And after trying all of this, I realized something. The baby's cries were consistent, even, repetitive. And, more importantly, when I did these things, like plugging my ears, etc., it made no difference.

I was hearing these sounds inside my head.

Crap, I thought. Crap, I'm too young to be developing dementia. This must be some sort of stress-induced hallucination. And the sad part is, I think I really might have been right. We'll see, tonight, if the crying continues. If it does, I cannot promise that there will be no repercussions. See you on the evening news!

P.S. I am such an adult. Look at what I made myself for dinner:

Yep, that is a plate of nachos with pre-cooked sausage, a glass of milk, aaaaand an entire jar of pickles. Yep.

P.P.S. I just realized that I never explained the title of this post. WELL. Actually it was just a dream my dad (Hugh) had. He and Barack Obama (whom he does not like) were out in the backyard playing a little football. Like, "Oh, hey, Barack, go long!!" and "Sweet catch, Hugh, you sure you never played pro?" And at the end of their little playdate, Obama was like, "Sorry, I got to go. Presidential stuff to do," and my dad was like, "Yeah, it's cool." And they high-fived. And my dad woke up laughing.

Um, hi.

Well, I always feel silly coming back to my blog after a long absence. And this has been the longest one yet. So . . . sorry about that, you guys. And I always feel like I owe everybody an explanation, or at least a synopsis of my life up until this point. I'll just get those two out of the way, shall I?

First, the reason I haven't posted in a while: honestly, I forgot about this blog for the most part. Writing is not as big a part of my life as it used to be--in fact, for a while now, the only thing I write is the occasional fiction and essays for school. It took me a while to adjust to this change, but here's why I think it changed: for a long time, writing was the only way for me to express how I felt. It was an outlet, and a very good one, but over the past few years, I've finally learned how to actually talk to people, instead of keeping everything to myself. And believe me, it was not an easy lesson to learn. Therapy helped with that. And with a lot of other things. But that's neither here nor there.

Actually, wait. I do want to talk about that a little bit. I know there is still a big stigma against mental illness and therapy and all of that (spoken with the derision that is typical when dealing with this subject). But I'm tired of pretending that I'm absolutely perfect and completely confident and totally whole. I have my moments, you guys, where I feel like that. But those are few and far between. Therapy, for me, has been a life-saver, as has been some medication. And you know what? I'm not ashamed of it. At all. If I had diabetes (like my little brother, Mckay), no one would begrudge me my medicine and even some therapy sessions. But because I'm sick in a different way? Well, that's often treated with hesitancy and condescension. Even as I write this, I'm nervous that friends or potential employers or whoever is going to see this and that it's going to impact me in a negative way. But I guess I'm just tired of hiding who I am--I want to show people my good and my bad parts, and I hope they'll accept all of me.

I'm not out to change the world, here, but I'm definitely not going to hide anymore.

That feels good to say.

The point, I guess, is that I struggle. I don't just lie down and take it. I don't give up and hide. I struggle, and it's hard. But I have hope that one day, it's going to be worth it.

Anyway, that's the reason I've been missing for so long. I've been . . . recovering, I guess. And that's part of the reason I'd like to start writing here again. Writing has always been a great bookmark for my life--it's like a place-marker that let's me see where I'm going and where I've been.

So, here's to more blog posts in the future, and here's to a future that's better than what I've had so far. I'm feeling hopeful, guys, and frankly, that's all I ask for.