Perpetual Smile

In my high school class, I was the token goth chick, complete with black beeswaxed hair, black lipstick, fishnet, and awesome knee high (platform) boots. Dir en grey (during their super crazy goth days) were my inspiration:

(By the way, “Hotarubi” is my all-time favorite Dir en grey song. I loved them until I met them after a concert and they completely ignored me. Douchebags.)

My favorite outfit involved straight-jacket pants — you know, the ones with tons of belts and buckles preventing you from running if, say, a crazed serial killer or rapist (or your high school science teacher) came after you. And a trenchcoat. Oh yeah, I couldn’t survive without the trenchcoat. (I still have lots of this wardrobe in storage. It’s going to be fun whenever I get to look at it all again.)

Anyway, most people were either afraid of me, talked a lot of shit about me, or were morbidly curious and talked to me on occasion. Mostly, they just couldn’t figure me out. Back then, that bugged me. Now I think it’s pretty cool. However, if they had known my biggest secret, they might not have been so scared.

At 15, I still played with Barbies.

Whoops, there goes my street cred.

My sister and I always played elaborate, daytime Emmy worthy games with our Barbies that would last weeks if we were careful. We both had great imaginations, and since there weren’t any kids in our neighborhood to play with we spent a lot of time inside together. We had a few cars, a plane, a limousine, and two campers, and TONS of dolls. There were the two hot twin Kens, my New Kids On the Block Ken, my hispanic Barbie, my African-American Barbie with the super cool short and veryvery curly hair, the hot blond Barbie who still smelled like the perfume she’d been sprayed with in the factory over ten years before, and a whole bunch more that I don’t really remember.

That was the last year that I really played with them, but I’ll always remember the good times Lauren and I had, spending the days of our childhood actually playing out the lives of the people we’d made up rather than just dressing and undressing our dolls.

Now I’m older and it’s not kosher to play with Barbies anymore, but I totally want to buy a Barbie and make my own Barbie of the Undead. Seriously. Click it. You know you want to.

What was your favorite toy as a kid? What are your best childhood memories of that toy? Share in the comments below!

The first time that I remember it happening, we lived at the duplex.

I sat in the pink upstairs bathroom, doing my business. Suddenly, as if listening to a radio, I heard a woman’s voice. I couldn’t make out anything she said; most of it was static and crackling. I looked out the window. No one there. No one lived downstairs or upstairs from us, and to my knowledge no one was playing a radio in the house. As crazy as this sounds, the static came from inside of me.

(Note: I don’t hear voices. Promise.)

I got the hell out of the bathroom as quickly as possible.

It happened every so often after that, in the same pink bathroom. Same woman’s voice, washed out by static.

White noise.

Another time, I sat on Mommy’s bed in my parents’ bedroom while Mommy read to Lauren and I. The phone rang and Mom answered it. I could hear my aunt. While Lauren and I sat waiting for the conversation to end so we could get back to whichever Narnia book we were on, I heard the white noise again.

I looked frantically at my sister. She heard nothing. I looked at Mom and tried to tell myself it was just my aunt’s voice that I was hearing, but it wasn’t. I tried to tell myself it was some radio station crossed with the phone lines or something, but it sounded exactly like the same woman’s voice, all muffled and drowned out by static. No one else heard it, either.

I was definitely creeped out.

Luckily, I haven’t heard it in years.

Until last night.

I usually go to bed listening to some kind of music on my BlackBerry (it’s also an mp3 player) — especially if I can’t sleep, am stressed, or worried (which I am, all three). Last night I plugged in my headphones, stuck them in my ears, and heard weird noise.

Not headphone feedback.

White noise.

I can’t even really explain it, but I know it wasn’t just a regular headphone thing.

I noticed that I had accidentally turned my camera on (there’s a button on the side), so I exited it and the white noise stopped. A second later, it started again.

No woman’s voice, but it was definitely there, and definitely creepy.

“Lauren?” I didn’t want to wake her up because I knew she had to go into work for five in the morning, but I had to make sure I wasn’t losing my damn mind.

“Hmn?” She turned toward me.

“Listen to this.” I handed her the headphones. “I don’t have music playing. I promise. Just listen.”

I watched her face as she listened. Her eyes widened a little. “That’s weird.”

“Isn’t it? It’s fucking creepy. White noise,” I said, taking the headphones back and putting them back in my ears. I could still hear it.

I hadn’t even thought about the white noise I heard as a kid until this morning, when I was on Twitter talking to Kreshnik.

I’m trying not to think about it anymore. What are some weird things you’ve experienced but couldn’t explain? Leave a comment and share it!

that we can look at each other, not say a word, and know exactly what the other is thinking.

our inside jokes. (The bra is on the cow’s head.)

the Dollhouse, Buffy, and everything else marathons.

how awesome of a writer you are.

your sense of humor. (Gubba.)

that you are my little sister.

your (stubborn) determination to do well in school and to not miss school (even when you’re sick).

when you listen to me rant and rave about the same stuff, over and over again, as if you’re hearing it for the first time.

when you remind me that I’ve already bitched about something and tell me you don’t want to hear it anymore.

that you have welcomed Michael as a part of the family and love him almost as much as I do.

the ginormous purses you wear, buy, and barely use.

our differences, in music, men, food, etc.

the things we have in common.

how good you are with Katarina, even though you insist you don’t like kids.

when you stick up for me, even when we both know I’m wrong.

that you understand everything, even if you’ve never experienced it.

that I can tell you anything without being afraid of being judged.

You’re my best girl friend. I love you.

During the summer before I turned nine (I’m an August baby), my little sister and I somehow managed to get lice. It still, to this day, makes my head itch terribly just thinking about it.

Lauren and I were probably playing Barbies or with our gigantic town of various action figures when we noticed a teensy black bug crawling around in our hideaway book. (You know, one of those hollow books you can hide things in?) We bounced down the stairs to wherever Mom was at the moment (probably in the living room watching General Hospital).

“Look Mommy,” we said, holding out the book to her. “What is it?”

I think my mother had a heart attack.

Luckily, my mom has always been calm and composed, and she recovered pretty quickly. She checked our heads and, sure enough, it was lice.

My sister and I were very close as little kids (and still are). At the time, we didn’t hang out with other kids outside of school. Since it was the middle of summer, we hadn’t come into contact with other kids aside from our cousins (who were lice-free). Yet somehow we had managed to both come down with the little buggers.

Mom immediately went out and bought the lice rinses, shampooing and combing the stuff through our long, shiny hair. I hated the scent of it, and I hated stooping over the sink as she rinsed it out. When we were both done, however, we seemed to be cured.

Of course, we weren’t. We did the treatment several more times over the next couple of weeks. Mom and Dad bombed the whole house, and soaked our stuffed animals in the tub with some stuff that was supposed to kill any eggs nested in our stuffed friends. All of our clothing and sheets were washed with scalding hot water, yet we still couldn’t get rid of the lice.

Finally, some well-meaning person told my mom to soak our heads with Vaseline. I can still remember Mom and Dad getting ready for the project. Dad bought some Ajax, which was the only thing that would cut through to wash the Vaseline out once we were coated. Lauren and I sat in chairs as Mom and Dad worked Vaseline into our hair and put plastic shower caps and plastic bags over our heads to keep it from dripping onto anything. I’m not sure how long we had to let it set in, but eventually it was time to wash it out. To this day, I can’t look at a bottle of Ajax and not remember my parents soaping up my hair over and over again, trying to get all of the Vaseline out. Unfortunately, my and Lauren’s hair was so long that it just wasn’t happening.

“We’re going to have to cut it,” said one of my parents. (I’ve honestly blocked out who.)

“NO!” Lauren and I screamed.

“We don’t have a choice,” Mom said. And then she took out the scissors from the drawer — the same scissors Lauren had once used to give her Barbie a lopsided haircut — and cut our hair as we cried and begged her not to.

Once our hair was shorter (and by shorter I mean boy short), the Vaseline washed out without a problem. And the lice? Were gone, never to come back. But I had one hell of a horrible haircut, worse than the haircut Britt recently gave her daughter Emma — I promise!! (I refuse to post pictures, because it truly was that bad.)

For the longest time after that, I refused to cut my hair. It grew all the way down to my hips before, at thirteen, I decided to cut it. Now I could care less; I cut it all the time! But for some reason, when I was a kid, my hair seemed to be my sole identity.

Do you have a bad or funny haircut story? Comment here with your best (or worst), and let’s show Britt that she hasn’t totally traumatized her kid!

I was going to write a super update about awesome stuff but since I got distracted — read: Twitter, WordPress.org, Ning — this lame one will just have to do.

I went and got that blood work done earlier this morning. It should be illegal to get up before eleven on the weekend. Seriously. I am so sleep deprived and it isn’t even the work week!

Anyway, while the nice lady took big vials of blood from me, I considered asking her to rig the results so I could have a diagnosis. Seriously. I thought about it. She seemed sympathetic, so she might have done it.

She told me to drink some orange juice since I had so much blood taken. None of the phlebotomists I’ve had draw my blood ever mentioned that before. She said any time you have large quantities or large vials taken, you should drink O.J. Maybe this is a sign that my luck is turning around; between the super awesome PA I’ve been seeing and now this really helpful phlebotomist, I’ve been given reason to believe that now I’ll get some answers. Maybe.

Last night I went with my sister Lauren to Nikki‘s to watch the Degrassi Goes Hollywood movie. It was pretty good, even though there were some things I didn’t like. I’ll have to post a full review later, after I watch it again. (Yes, I have no life. Thanks for reminding me.)

Now I’m headed out to have lunch with my great-great-aunt Betty with Mom and Lauren. After that, as long as I’m feeling up to it, Lauren and I are going to Lake Compounce for the day. It’s supposed to be really hot today, so I have a feeling we’ll spend most of the day in the water park. And of course I’ll have to ride the Boulder Dash.

What are you doing this weekend to stay cool? Leave a comment and tell me.

I flipped open my checkbook and looked at the last balance. Almost $70. Good. I could get my hair done, and I’d still have enough for coffee for the week.

Mike had overdrawn his account, so after lunch and meeting with the bank accountant to straighten things out, we went to his sister’s salon to attempt to look human again. (Well, I already looked human and just needed a trim and some color. He had a beard fit for a grizzly and wanted to shape up his cut. Secretly, I hoped he would clean up the beard, too.) Britt brought us back to life in just a couple of hours, and I felt so good that I practically skipped out of the salon. Who cared that I desperately needed sleep? Not me.

Later that night I begged Mike to take me to Kmart — sorry, Target — so that I could get a beach chair and noodle (one of those foam floaty things) for a beach trip I had planned with my family the next day. Kmart had plenty of noodles, but just one beach chair. It didn’t recline or anything, and I wasn’t going to settle when what I really wanted was one of those chairs you could actually lie down in. So I asked Mike to take me across the street to Walmart.

By the time we got to Walmart, Mike could barely walk because I beat him into taking me to Walmart his back hurt so bad. I felt awful and kept trying to get him to sit down while I hunted for the beach chairs, but he’s just as stubborn as I am and wouldn’t listen. We ended up in the garden section looking at reclining beach chairs. These at least reclined, but in all of my fatigue I was about as cranky as a nap-withdrawn two-year-old and insisted on scouring the store for a damn unfolding-lay-down beach chair (because my vocabulary is awesome, too)!

Somewhere between the garden section and somewhere else in the store, I stopped and covered my face with my hands. I had spent about six or seven bucks at Stop & Shop on Garnier color safe shampoo and conditioner. I had spent somewhere around eleven bucks at Kmart on the noodle, some cookies, and something else that I still have no recollection of. I saw little colored numbers spinning around me in that store aisle, and then they all nosedived right on my head.

“What’s wrong? Dizzy?” Mike put a hand on my back to steady me.

“No,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I think I overdrew my account.” Had I really made fun of him for overdrawing his account just a few hours ago? Maybe I was the star of some sick reality TV show. We left the store and I called my sister to have her look at my checkbook. I did the math and slumped in defeat. How could I let this happen? Being tired was just not an excuse.

Mike stopped at a red light. “Do you want to go deposit some money into your account?”

“What money?” I had my head down on the dashboard.

“Maybe from your business or savings account?” He started driving again. “Do you want to stop at the ATM?”

I tried to climb through the sludge that my brain had become. What he was saying didn’t make any sense. “Would you mind?”

We drove to an ATM from our bank and I took some money out of my business account. As I started filling out a deposit envelope, the screen froze.

TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE. “No,” I said. TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE. “Do you hate me? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I turned and pointed, staring at Mike through the glass windows. He stared back at me. “Do you see this? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

I hung my head in defeat and looked down at the money in my hands and the half filled out envelope. As I started to shove everything back into my purse, the screen came back to life.

“Gotcha,” it seemed to say. “Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”

I composed myself and deposited the money, wondering if I was just crazy or if someone had a bad sense of humor. As I climbed back into the RAV4, I asked Mike if he’d seen the out of service notice.

“Yeah,” he said.

“The weird thing is,” I said, “is that my balance read something totally different from my checkbook. So obviously something didn’t come out yet, so I didn’t technically overdraw — yet. So as long as nothing else comes out tonight, I should be okay. Right? Right.”

I went home and left my stupid noodle on the porch. I crawled into bed and tried to look forward to the beach the next day, even though it meant getting up early and still not getting enough sleep.

I dragged myself through the next morning, but once I got to the beach it felt totally worth it. I didn’t have a beach chair, but at least I could float on the waves with my noodle and soak up the sun. I deserved it, dammit.

“Is that your noodle?” My baby cousin Kat asked. She was wrapped in a towel and shivering; the water was a little cold that early.

“Yes it is,” I told her.

“Can I play with it?”

“Yes, as soon as you warm up a little more, I will take you in and we’ll play with the noodle.”

She beamed up at me, and I grinned right back.

An hour or so later, she was ready to go back into the water. “Can we play with your noodle now?”

I held her hand and led her into the water. We got to her thighs and I put the noodle down, still holding onto her. “Ready?” I lifted her up and tried to sit her on the noodle. She didn’t quite weigh enough. “Wanna ride it like a horsey instead?” She nodded and I sat her down straddling the noodle. She grinned and giggled as she rode the “horsey” through the water, just like I had when I was a little kid. Suddenly the night before was totally worth it.

“Excuse me,” said someone from the shore.

I looked up to see the lifeguard on duty standing with her hands on her hips. “Yes?” I giggled at Kat continued to bounce as she floated.

“You can’t have noodles in the water.”

Welcome to the beach.

I don’t like the pizza place in my neighborhood. I used to like them, when they first opened and were run by a very nice Greek family. That same family opened another restaurant on the other side of town, and a couple years ago sold both of them. They disappeared — and so did the good pizza.

But I thought I might die if I didn’t eat anything soon, so I broke my no-neighborhood-pizza vow and went to buy a couple of slices.

I should have known better.

Carrying my little pizza box in one hand and balancing my wallet on top of it, I climbed the three steps to my house and opened the door. I started to move toward the first floor door — but my left hand didn’t come with me. I turned and saw my left thumb closed in the door, and screamed (because it only hurts when you see it). There may have been a sailor word or two. I put the pizza box down on the stairs (that lead up to the second and third floors), opened the door, and held my hand up for inspection.

The thumb could bend, but it hurt like fucking hell. A little crescent that looked well on its way to black was forming under my nail, but everything still seemed to work okay. So I grabbed my pizza box and went inside.

“Hello,” my mom called from the dining room.

“Hi,” I said. “I closed my thumb in the door.” I put the pizza box down and went to the kitchen sink.

“Ooh,” my mom said.

And then, my spiteful little thumb decided to kick it up a notch. Or I came out of shock. Something like that.

“OW! MOMMY!”

My mom came running into the kitchen. “Cold water,” she said, always the voice of calm.

“OWOWOWOW!” The cold water running over my thumb soothed the pain a little, but every few seconds or so I’d get a huge jolt of OW. After a few minutes of water and then an ice pack, I ate my pizza and then went back upstairs wishing I could take my thumb off for the time being and put it in the freezer with the ice pack.

I decided to suck it up and do some laundry. I’d just bought a new bra and some panties — yay! — at Target, along with a pair of capri sweats. I’d also bought a hoodie at Southern, so I wanted to get everything all washed. As I loaded everything into the washer, my big right toe met the bottom corner of the washer and I saw stars again.

“AGH! Why am I such a klutz?” I howled as I hopped into the kitchen. Because running away from the inanimate object that beats you up always helps, right?

Once the laundry was tumbling, I put on Incubus’s new greatest hits collection and started to work through the piles of sticky notes, documents, folders, and some new office supplies that I’d been neglecting for the last week. I sat on the couch putting things into folders and using my (swoon) new Sharpie pen to label things. I reached for the little wastebasket to my left — and fell off the couch.

As I lay crumpled on the floor, I started to fear for my life. What if my body was secretly possessed and wanted to kill me?

Later on as I watched Rachel Getting Married and then Blackout with my mom and Lauren, I noticed that (of course) my neck, arm, and leg muscles hurt.

“I don’t know what the hell I did to myself,” I told mom and Lauren.

An hour later: “Oh yeah. I fell off the couch.”

Are you a hazard to yourself? Share some of your finer moments in the comments. Clumsy people unite!

I’ve decided that it no longer matters which disease I’m fighting. For so long, I’ve become wrapped up in finding out WHAT it is, rather than focusing on how to fix it. I’ve been focusing on trying to find a pattern, and the only pattern I can seem to find is that it just keeps getting worse. Whatever it is, it’s kicking my ass.

The thoughts in my mind are too loose, and trying to get it all down on paper is like herding kittens. I can’t think straight. All I want to do is cry, but I know that if I start I’ll never be able to stop.

A few months ago I would half-jokingly say, “what’s next, I won’t be able to walk?” I tried to picture the day that might happen. I couldn’t. I refused to. I was convinced that whatever this was, I’d have it all figured out and better before it got to that point. Now? Not so much.

Over the last couple of weeks — and more so the last couple of days — I’ve had a really rude awakening. The person I once was is gone. She’s dead and buried. As much as I’ve tried to come to terms with that, I couldn’t. Now it looks like I’m going to have to.

It started a couple of weeks ago, when I was house sitting. Actually it was the night after the Fourth of July, the night after the party Mike and I went to. (The one I went to wearing wedges, walking gracefully for the first time in my life. See what alcohol does?) That Sunday my right ankle ached a little. I wrote it off as a twisted ankle, considering the previous night’s shoes. I perhaps stupidly ignored the fact that the pain was awfully similar to the pain I get in my arms and sometimes my thighs and toes.

It went away — for a couple of days. Then it came back, and sometimes occurred in my left ankle, too. It came and went, and after a couple days I had to admit to myself that whatever was wrong with me was also now wrong with my ankles. I saw my PA on Friday and told her about it. She checked for pain and swelling, to make sure I really hadn’t twisted it. Nothing hurt when she poked at it or bent it, but she did notice a slight swelling in the tendon next to my ankle — which she said could occur with Lyme Disease.

I’ve been tested for Lyme Disease before, and the blood test results came back negative each time. Pam said that Lyme isn’t always detected in blood tests, and that it’s a great imitator of other autoimmune diseases — which would explain my crazy grocery list of symptoms. She said she might just put me on the treatment anyway, but that she had to check with Dr. Mongelluzzo (the practice’s head doctor) first. I also got my second B12 injection, and we also discussed the possibility of sero-negative arthritis.

At home, I did some research. No other doctor had ever told me that Lyme doesn’t necessarily show up in tests. They had all just written it off and gone on to the next thing. I was pissed. “If it’s been Lyme Disease the whole goddamn time, and I could have had treatment and relief two fucking years ago,” I said to Mike, “I’m going to flip shit.”

Saturday I was supposed to go play miniature golf with Mike, Robbie, and Jaysa. I was excited, but by the time it was time to go my right ankle hurt so bad that I couldn’t walk on it much. I canceled at the last minute, and convinced Mike to go without me. Granted, I got to go see Harry Potter instead, but I still felt bad. Here I was, giving up more because of the Disease With No Name.

Sunday it was a lot better. I felt a little twinge now and then, but in comparison to the day before I felt okay. I spent the afternoon at the beach with my mom and sister and made plans to go to Lake Compounce on Monday with Lauren and Mike.

By the time we got to Lake Compounce, my ankles ached a little but not enough to stop me. We went on a couple water rides and I let them talk me into riding Thunder and Lightening (which was actually cool, even though looking straight down at the ground the first couple of times was a little scary). But by about 8:00, both of my legs were aching, sometimes sharply, with the pain radiating up and down and all over. I could barely walk. In line for rides, I leaned on fences. While walking, I leaned on Mike. I went from amusement park Indiana Jones to feeble old man in less than a couple of hours. As much as I wanted to ride my favorite, Boulder Dash, I could barely stand the thought of standing in line for twenty minutes for it.

So I made us leave. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

The walk from the park exit to my car was beyond excruciating. I’ve always been good with words but the closest I can come to describing it is saying that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I literally look teeny, tiny baby steps, shuffling at Mike’s side while Lauren tried to slow down and stay with us. People kept going around me. I think the old people were even moving faster than me. I kept joking about maybe stealing someone’s stroller, or where was that security van when we needed it, but I honestly don’t know how I did it. I remember thinking at one point, “wow, this really fucking hurts.”

My only consolation was that it’s probably going to get a lot worse.

Meanwhile, I’m not noticing any difference from the B12 shots. Pam says if it’s going to work, I’ll feel a difference by the third shot. If anything, she said it would make me feel less lethargic. I think, if anything, I’m feeling more fatigued — even on the days when I get a lot of sleep.

Today I’m having a hard time smiling. Because now, to me, “what’s next” is not a joke. It’s a nightmare and my reality. Am I going to be in a wheelchair? Will I lose yet more of my independence — my self? I used to be able to carry things, play with my friends’ kids and little cousins, go hiking. I’m losing more and more of who I used to be.

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On a totally different note, I will be blogging during Blogathon 2009 (July 25th) with Donnie of Voice the Silence to raise money for RAINN. Please read my blog post about this over at Scars Can Speak, and thank you for your support.

I step closer, my skin feeling electric with anticipation and anxiety. I rub at my lips with my fingers, pulling at them a little, trying not to fidget. I don’t want to show that I’m scared. Hell, I’m not scared. Just excited. I’ve done this before. I can’t be scared.

I shiver a little, but I don’t think it’s because I’m cold. I mean, we’re in the shade and the sun is on it’s way down, but I’m not cold. I’m scared.

“I’ve got that, like, jittery feeling, even though I’ve done this before,” I say to my sister and her friend. I don’t want to be a chicken, but part of me wants to bolt.

The next car comes flying back in, clattering against the tracks. One of the girls’ hair stands straight out behind her as they come to a halt. My eyes widen and I start to shiver again. The guy in front of me gets into the now empty car with a little boy who almost looks too small to ride. His daughters get into the car behind them.

“We’re next,” I say, and I’m not sure whether I’m excited or terrified.

“I’m actually a little scared now,” Lauren, my sister, says. Her friend Gaby is silent.

“Me too,” I say. “But I’m also excited!” I bounce on the balls of my feet a little, faking the excitement and confidence until I almost believe it.

The next car pulls up, jolting to a stop.

“How was your ride?” The ride attendant on the microphone says. The riders cheer, and I start to feel even more anxious. I wonder whether anyone has ever had a panic attack on a roller coaster before. I think I might.

The tension is so thick and I am certain I’m going to faint; my knees feel like rubber. I want to kick myself. You’ve done this twice before, I remind myself. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

The gates open and I pause before I step onto the platform. Lauren and Gaby slip into the car behind me, and suddenly it hits me full on that I’m going to ride alone. There will be no one beside me for me to think about as we bullet through the lake woods. There will be no one next to me to grin at when it’s all over. If it ever ends.

I strap myself in and adjust my sunglasses. I’m wearing them over my regular glasses, and no one can tell I’m wearing those glasses at all. The sunglasses are tight, but suddenly I’m not sure that they are going to stay on. If they fall off, they’re going to hit my sister and Gaby, probably knock them out, maybe kill them.

There’s no time to change my mind or put my glasses in the cubby hole; the car is moving. My heart tries to crawl into my throat and I wrap my fingers around the bar. The car begins its climb. Should I hold onto the safety bar or should I hold onto the bar further away? Could I put my hands up? What if I need to hold my glasses on? The car rolls down the slope, heading for the first drop.

“This one’s the absolute worst,” I hear Lauren say behind me. “It scares me the most.”

I swallow hard, try to mentally prepare myself for what I know is coming. I decide to wrap one hand around the bar furthest away, and the other around the one closest to me. It’s coming closer and closer — and then we drop we’re flying we’re going to fly off of the fucking track oh my fucking god my glasses they’re going to hold on to them no they’re okay oh fuck we’re going to fly off the track oh no I’m okay you’re okay we’re okay whoa whoa whoa oh oh no no make it stop don’t let it stop holy shit we are not even touching the track anymore we just flew right off of it ooh whoa we’re back on oh my fucking god make it stop make it stop you’re okay it’s calming down wait don’t let it stop big drop oh wow that wasn’t so bad big drop oh oh oh they just took my picture shit we’re going to go off the track little drop it’s calming down little i think i might cry aww dammit we’re stopping

We jolt to a stop. I inhale and check my two pairs of glasses. They’re right where they were when I first strapped myself in. Good to know.

I turn around, words stumbling out of my mouth, describing how it felt. We start to chatter as we realize that we survived yet another roller coaster ride. “I was so scared!” “I thought we were going to go off the track!” “I know!” “That was great!”

As the car pulls up and we get off, the conversation continues. “I kept telling myself ‘you’re okay, you’re okay,’” I say, laughing. I sigh. “I love rollercoasters.”

We exit the ride and stop at the Boulder Dash photo booth to see how our pictures came out. Gaby has her hands up in the air, Lauren is holding onto the bar, and they both look fearless. I wonder for a second if I look terrified or if I am crying.

“Check out your poker face with those sunglasses,” Gaby says.

I look like I’ve ridden twenty million coasters, like it doesn’t even faze me anymore.

I’m a rock star.

I spent Friday afternoon on the phone with Southern (the university I’ve been trying to attend since last winter). After graduation Thursday night, I felt determined; I wanted to get everything squared away so that I could definitely start classes in the fall. All work and no school really brings some perspective into your life; I was bored as hell and I suddenly missed the papers, the homework, the fresh new notebooks waiting to be used. (Okay, so I have an addiction to office supplies. Whatever.)

As I learned last winter, doing things for myself without my mom to hold my hand was no easy task. As I got transferred further and further down the line of humorless staff, I thought more and more about giving up. I couldn’t seem to get the help I needed and every person I talked to transferred me before I could get a sentence out of my mouth.

I didn’t give up, though. I didn’t break down like I did last winter when I found out that my schedule had been dropped because I couldn’t afford the higher tuition cost. After the last two years of putting everything into school, after hearing Jon Savoy‘s inspiring speech about his fifteen year commitment to his Associates degree at commencement, I didn’t want to waste any time.

I’m going to double major, in English: Creative Writing and Elementary Education (for grades K-6). I’m probably insane, but I want to do it. I don’t care how long it takes.

Growing up, I had several great elementary school teachers who made me want to be a teacher. Every day after school and homework, my sister and I would play school. She would be the teacher for one grade, and I would be the teacher for another grade. We both played each other’s students. We used actual textbooks that our school gave to us because they didn’t use them anymore. We printed worksheets and carefully planned lessons for our imaginary students. We wrote out math problems on black- and whiteboards. We took attendance on graphing paper from our great-grandmother. I loved every minute of it.

I don’t mind helping Mike’s little brother with his math homework. I love doing it. Even when Tony gets frustrated, I still feel calm and patient — even though I am the least patient person in the world when it comes to everything else. (Kids are my weakness. Heh.) I love playing games with my little cousin Katarina and reading to her. I love helping Tony with his spelling words and his English homework. I love coloring with my goddaughter Kaylene, or explaining to Katarina the difference between an orca and a shark.

I have always kind of wanted to be a teacher, but didn’t think I could because I am already a web designer. You already have a career, I would tell myself. You can’t do everything at once. Wait a few years and see if you still want to do this. Just wait.

But I figure, why the hell not? Why not now? Why do I have to just stick to one thing? I can do it all. I can do and be anything I want.

I’m not going to rush. I don’t expect to finish in just two years (since I transferred, I expected myself to be able to completely my Bachelor’s in another two years). I refuse to put any pressure on myself. I’ll take my time, and when it’s all over I’m going to walk across that stage again — with two more degrees.

I’m all about accomplishments these days. It feels so good to finally feel alive.