Yes, I've resorted to writing about grilled cheese

So the other day they had a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Now just to clear things up, I'm not going to become one of those bloggers. You know, who become so desperate for material that they start writing about what they had for lunch, but... allow me to indulge myself just this once. Please. I'd like to dabble in the art of food description, and this grilled cheese nearly jumped off the plate and begged me for imortalization in a nearly readerless blog.

 Anyway. So the food at this summer program is pretty good. It's pretty much like any school cafeteria, with the usual options every day and a rotated hot lunch. Except it's done buffet style... and without the Stop-Fumbling-With-Your-Damn-Money-I-Got-Shit-To-Do-Lunch-Ladies.

Usually for lunch I have pasta and salad coated in Ranch, because I consider it safe. Can't really go wrong with pasta. But on the particular day I'm thinking of, the menu board read: GRILLED CHEESE. Upon seeing this glorious declaration of lunchtime food, I was filled with unparalleled joy and excitement. The lining of my empty stomach jumped up and down like a school girl after she's talked to a cute guy. Now, I've been at this program for roughly five weeks now, and grilled cheese is pretty much my favorite lunch food at home. If there's one thing I've craved, it's been a grilled cheese sandwhich with a tomato.

So I bounded up the stairs, pushing aside unsuspecting teens and startling one or two teachers. The need for a solid, hot, steamy sandwich was overwhelming. A wave of pure desire and sandwich lust sent me powerwalking through the line, even though it moved at a snails pace. Once standing in front of the platter of sandwiches, I took two. Two beautiful, warm, cheesy sanwiches.

I devoured those sandwiches. They fell into my stomach magically, not quite tasting of home... but of something close. Truthfully I'm not all too sure what home tastes like, because it isn't a food... but yeah. It's gotta be something like the taste of grilled cheese. I think if I ate my family, my cats, the walls, the cielings, and the furniture it would taste like grilled cheese. And death. Considering my stomach would start to disintigrate right after I ate my brother and his nastiness.

I don't quite understand why grilled cheese sandwiches are so delicious. I've been wringing my hands for the past ten minutes trying to find the words to describe the taste... but it's hard. Here's what I've come up with so far:

The rough bread succumbs easily to my incisors, powerless to the wishes of my stomach. The cheese oozes around the bread, determined to fulfill the desires of my tastebuds. As for the tomato... well, the tomato has a flavor so softly present that it merely pulls at a corner of my attention. It accentuates without overpowering, lessoning the dryness of the bread while diluting the strength of the cheese. My eyes close against their will, nostrils flaring in order to vacuum up as much of the grilled cheese aroma as possible. They can not expand enough. I cannot get enough until the last bite, when I realize that I am perfectly full. There is no lingering hunger. No overly stuffed bloating. Just perfection.

In conclusion, I ate a grilled cheese sandwich. Writing about it has been interesting, but I doubt I will do it again. Unless I eat something spectacular. But it has to be life changingly spectacular. The day I find a food that finds me love, makes me immortal, and gets more people to read this blog, I will write about it.

My laundry smells like Wonton soup

So today I did my laundry. I know I know, no need to clap so enthusiastically now. Just calm down, all of you. Anyway. Currently I'm living in a dorm for this summer program, and the laundry machines are... sketchy. I'd been trying to avoid these machines for a while now, but I was down to my last pair of undies (gasp so scandelous) so I figured I had to just get it over with. Yes, I just talked about my underwear on the internet. And yes, I just brought even more attention to it by pointing it out.

Ahem. So I was forced into doing my laundry. Everything was going swimmingly, the machine ate my five quarters, I put in detergent, and when I opened it up everything seemed damp. I'm trustng that damp means clean. Unless the machine just likes screwing with people. Then it's probably laughing its metallic butt off at us all as I type.

The problem arose when I put my clothes in the drier. It gobbled up another five quarters and turned on, giving me false hopes that it would actually do what I wanted. But apparently I'm a total fail at doing womanly tasks such as laundry and forgot to clean the lint thingy. So... it didn't dry my clothes. Just imagine for a moment, getting all excited over finally having clean clothes to put away into the proper drawers. Then, you open the door to the drier, happy in your ignorance. Suddenly that naiivety is squashed, because you are faced with a mound of damp, sketchily washed clothes that smell oddly of wonton soup.

I faced a moment of pure depression in that instant. There was a flash of red in front of my eyes, and I was filled with an intense desire to cause physical pain to this drier machine. I had to teach it a lesson. Just for a second I allowed myself the pleasure of imagining the scene: my magically athletic form beating the shit out of this giant block of pure ugly metal with a hammer, much like one seen in the Super Smash bros game. You know... the one that makes your character go all apeshit and kick ass. I'd beat it into scraps all the while screaming, "WHY YOU NO DRY CLOTHES, DRIER? I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU."

Anyway. Now my room has my undergarments, socks, shirts, and shorts lying around collecting wrinkles and stiffening up. Everything is going to be all itchy and uncomfortable, not to mention I can't use my desk... or chair. My stuff covers everything.

I am not often filled with a sense of self pity. Sure there are moments, but aside from the major catastrophes in my life I'd give anything to change, I'm quite content with the life I've been given. But it's moments like these, when I'm crouching uncomfortably and typing a blog post that is bound to get roughly two readers, surrounded by damp clothes that smell like wonton soup and probably aren't even clean... that I am filled with darkness. Dear drier, why do you dampen my clothes, my life, and my heart?

To All You Guys Who Think Tickling is Flirtacious

Now I happen to know that none of my followers at this moment are male... but I don't really care. I've got shit to say to the imaginary men I like to think lurk here. Gotta love how handsome imaginary lurker men can be... Ahem.

Men. Tickling as a means of flirting, or a means of anything... is a no-no. Seriously. I don't know who started this whole idea that it was a good way to attract the attentions of a female, but somewhere along the line you were lied to. I'm here to put an end to this madness. Or at least put an end to the madness in the invisible men present. You see, my dear fellows, today I was victimized. I was the target of a dreaded tickle attack. Let me paint this picture like any good writer would.

I was sitting in the library, a book plastered in my hand. I love to read and act intelligent in libraries, so it's assumable I was enjoying myself. Just as I was getting to a really suspenseful part that involved murder and all that good stuff, the perpetrator of my blissful moment materialized.

 

At first, I was unfazed. I constantly read in odd places such as crowded hallways and lunchrooms, so I'm used to dealing with distractions.

Said man starts talking, and I'm like, alright. I'll talk to you. You're friendly. Of course I'm aware that he's a total flirt with every girl he knows, but I still like to be friendly. Usually. So yeah we are talking, when suddenly he decides to initiate a one way tickle fight. I'm assuming that based off of whatever backwards education in women dealings he had, he'd expected a giggle and rolling of the eyes... but no. TICKLE FIGHTS SUCK. My ribcage is fragile, man. I don't need your creepy-ass fingers all up in my business. Seriously. If I'm telling you to stop while glaring like madusa with contacts that have been lit... on fire, you better get the hell away from me.

Listen close now, boy. If you want to flirt with a girl, there are better ways. Tickling just makes everyone feel awkward, especially the girl. There's nothing worse than feeling powerless while forced to laugh at the same time. Not only that, but the unhappy laughter sounds stupid and causes even more insecurity. You don't think girls have enough to be insecure about these days, son? If you want to touch a girl while flirting, hugs are safe. Hugs are friendly and noncreepy if done right. Compliments are also more forward ways of flirting if you want to be direct. You could even just touch her arm or something. Hell, anything is better than tickling. I'd rather a guy punched me in the face than tried to awkwardly tickle me.

Okay, well maybe not punched in the face... but something else dramatic, like stroking my face for no reason or poking my elbow. As creepy as those sound, they are far better than tickling. I hope this post has somehow improved the way men flirt all over the world. And women.

If you're a tickler, stop or GTFO.

To My Dear, Dear Follower

It's official. I have a follower. For some reason I feel an intense desire to order custom made gang robes. Correction... robe. Therefore when my follower walks around in the street, people will know who they follow. People will know.

Well... I haven't really got much to say. Which, coming from my mouth/fingers, means I've actually got plenty to fill a page with. My Dear, Dear Follower. You are the first. Therefore I adore you. Okay, so to be honest I know who you are. And probably pressured you into becoming a follower simply because I was feeling needy... but hey. I have a follower. (inserts evil grin). Anyway. It's all cool. Once I become ultra famous you'll be like... ohmygosh. I was here before the mad rushes of screaming fanboys and adoring academics admiring my writing. And you'll feel special all because I forced you into following me.

You see the kind of lies my brain feeds me late in the night?

I wonder how Lord Voldemort got so many followers. Did people really like what he stood for or did he just scare so much shit out of them they crumbled from lack of bodily volume? For some reason my mind has shifted into thinking about how to threaten online users into following me... but all I can think of is... robes.

Maybe I can just offer virtual/imaginary robes as a reward of extreme devotion. Let's see... what would it look like. I'm thinking a navy blue robe with a boss hood and hidden pockets on the inside, because hidden pockets make everything better. Trust me. If you are female and haven't had the most pleasurable experience of pulling something meaningless from a hidden pocket... go do so now. Like.. right now. Steal a jacket from your man, your friend's man, your sister's man, your dream man. Any man. Stick your hand in his hidden pocket. Offer whoever is sitting next to you that previously invisible pencil, eraser, rubber band. Do it.

The robe* of my follower will have hidden pockets. And be blue. And look totally badass. I would also like it to include a tie. I don't know why, but I find ties hot. This tie will have black and white polka dots. It will be expected that my follower shall carry around a Trident as well. Why? Because I said so.

*I am not responsible for any arrests made due to the sketchiness of these robes.

Rain is Cold

Have you ever felt the urge to run out and dance in the rain? It's a fairly resistable urge, much to the surprise of many song writers and poets. Most people ignore it completely, taking to simply imagining the romantic moment while flipping through channels on the tv. But really. Is there a person out there who hasn't wanted to just jump in a puddle, release that inner tigress and pounce? Rain is the most natural thing on this planet. Though few actually take the time to understand it, we accept it. Nobody tries to change the rain. Sure, little kids sing their songs because they want to go out and play ball, but what are they really going to do about it?

You can tell a lot about people by how they react to a rainstorm. Some huddle together in bunches, watching movies and taking comfort in the contrast between their warm sofas and the chilly pellets that bombard the streets. Others pretend that rain doesn't effect them. They whip out umbrellas and squeaky boots, prepared to fight the forces against them. Then, there are the adventurers. The ones whose lips twitch into a smile the instant they feel that first drop on their forehead. The rain does not hit them like an agressive attack. No, it melts into their skin, morphing into the body that welcomes it. Sometimes those people annoy me. I stare at the puddle twirling girls, laughing like they have it all in that one moment. When I stare out my windows at them, I hate everything. What could be so happy about such a moment? Surely their enjoyment is simply a means to make others feel bad about their own lives, and to make them feel like they aren't outgoing enough to jump into a rainstorm. But then... other times I'm one of those people. I grin secretly to myself, taking those extra short steps so that the walk to my house without an umbrella can extend by just the smallest margin. It's like nobody else matters. How can they intrude upon that moment? When a curtain of rain separates me from the rest of the world. I know I'm being cheasy right now, but that's alright. Sometimes you just feel like your joints have been clogged up by that cheese in a can stuff and you have to write it down somewhere. So bare with me.

Yesterday I had one of those moments in the rain. Instead of just walking to where I was meant to go, I pointed my umbrella to the ground and just... walked. And you know what I realized? Rain is cold. No matter how warm your embraces may be in a passionate rainy movie scene, or how fast you spin, or how hard you jump into that puddle, rain is cold. If you accept it into your body, it slinks its way through your system, meandering along goosebumps and arm hairs. By the time I got back, I was freezing. So was it worth it? Was shivering alone on a dim sidewalk for no other reason than just to feel something.... was it worth it?

I Have the Willpower of a Matured Dandelion

Shortly after submitting my introduction post, I faced an internal dilema. You see, on one hand I wanted to be all cool and mysterious and remain anonymous. But on the other... on the other hand I didn't. What's the point in writing something that isn't going to be read? I know, I know, the pleasure of writing is supposed to come from the feeling of writing it and such... and that's great and all... but it's only really an awesome theory on paper (pun intended). In reality, I want feedback. I want to know if the words that I meticulously picked out had the desired effect, or if they just flopped on the ground like a dry fish.

Does it make me a bad person if I crumbled within the first thirty seconds of posting and sent this blog to someone I know? It's not like I didn't know my willpower was in the shitter already. Because trust me. It is.

You know how long it takes me to click on the little facebook bookmark when I'm doing homework? Negative two seconds. That's right. I bet right now you're like, now wait a second. I've been educated for quite a few years now, and I'm prettttty sure, no offense to your intelligence or anything, but I'm pretttty sure you can't have negative time. Well, you would be wrong. Because my willpower is so weak, that it breaks before I even decide to do homework. I could be sitting on the couch with mounds of stuff to do, and the red notification box pops into my mind, calling to me. Whispers of promising status updates and photo likings. And THUS. Negative two seconds before my mind registers the need to do homework, I have decided that it will not be getting done anytime soon. I've already clicked the FB tab in my mind. It's happened with such force that most of the time facebook is already open on the computer by the time I've drifted into the well worn seat cushion.

My willpower is similar to that of a matured dandelion. You know, the kind that people blow on to make wishes and spread weeds. Sometimes the wind picks it up on its own. It doesn't take any convincing. Other times its a bit more difficult. You'll need an entire lungful of air to send the pieces into the sky. Either way it never stays completely in tact.

This is the twentieth title I've written

Well... hello. Welcome. Grab a virtual chair, fluff up the pixelated cushions. Seriously, make yourself at home.

This will be the first blog of many. Maybe. Yes. I think so. Okay, there will be many depending on how long it takes me to figure out that I'm really just talking to myself... and putting the madness online.

BUT. Until then, allow me to introduce myself. I am goldfish_lovin. I prefer to remain anonymous partly because I'm worried that I may be moved to a mental facility once my acquiantences realize the depth of my oddness, and partly because I like to be... mysterious. (inserts dramatic face here). So yeah. The basics: I'm a high school senior (female) with a passion for writing and too much to think about. A splendid combination, is it not?

If I haven't bored you to the point where you've already gone to check your facebook three times while reading this, then I'd like to go on and explain why I've begun to write this blog.

In numbered order to ease the distractable soul:

1. boredom
2. to exchange advice with fellow writers
3. to share funny stories and thoughts
4. to talk about myself without worrying about people leaving midconversation (or knowing about them leaving)
5. HOMEWORK AVOIDANCE
6. feedback? We'll see if anybody actually bothers to read this

So yeah. That's me. I tend to ramble. But that's okay. I'm going to attempt to keep this blog running no matter how many empty seats try and suffocate my dreams. I'd like to see them try and stop me. I'd like to see them try.