#71,879 Fool

I wish I had a cooler addiction. Something like, an addiction to adrenaline rushes or exotic foods. A cool addiction would lead me to awesome places in the world, and to new experiences and adventures.

But no. Apparently the cards shuffled their way into dealing me an addiction to ipod Solitaire. That's right. I have no control over this intense, burning desire to constantly sort cards from least to greatest. It overpowers my sense of logic and duty. Truthfully it's becoming a bit of a problem. Instead of watching a movie with my brother, I play Solitaire. Instead of doing my summer homework, I play Solitaire. Instead of sleeping, I play Solitaire. It's come to the point where without even consciously making the decision to play, my fingers have already found their way to the Solitaire app on my ipod.

But, just like any other addiction, I've found ways to excuse my destructive behavior. Instead of feeling alone and antisocial while playing Solitaire, I've switched to the multiplayer mode, which uses the internet to put me up against someone else in a race. Therefore, I can claim that my opponent is committing just as heinous a crime as I am by avoiding life through virtual cards. I also use the multiplayer mode to allow myself to continue playing even when I've clearly had enough. There is a ranking attached to the multiplayer mode of Solitaire, one that you can only improve through constantly playing and constantly winning. Every night I play that extra game, those two extra games, those twenty extra games because I know it will better my ranking.

Currently, I am ranked #71,879. Now, before you start thinking, wow, this chick sucks, I would like to point out that #71,879 is in the top 5% of all ipod touch/iphone Solitaire players. IN THE WORLD. That's right. The top 5%. And every day I decrease that number by about two or three thousand, meaning that in roughly 28.8 days I WILL BE NUMBER ONE. BAHAHAHAHAHA.

So yes. It's an addiction, but it's also an extreme desire to win. Somehow I've channeled all of my competitive energy into this little game of cards, and you know what? It's done wonders to how I act around other people. Because of Solitaire I am a better person. Yeah. So it's okay to play it. All the time.

Right now my shortest winning time is 59 seconds. I'd like you to take a moment and soak that up. Less than a minute to sort 52 cards into their respective suits. Solitaire is one of the few things I will admit I am superior in, and I must claim this superiority by being #1. And when I do.... well, when I do there will be CAKE. AND ICE-CREAM AND CONFETTI AND RAVE MUSIC. And I will be able to die happy.

My name is goldfish, and I am addicted to Solitaire.

Mechanical Pencils- A Love/Hate Relationship

So the other day I was using my mechanical pencil, and it ran out of lead. Naturally, I decided to blog about it.

The thing about mechanical pencils... is that I love them. A lot. Mechanical pencils are always perfectly pointed, so you never get that progression of handwriting that just goes from bad to apocalyptic in a matter of minutes. It's perfectly consistent and reliable. I tend to get a confidence boost about my handwriting whenever I use a mechanical pencil. I'm pretty sure it's the same crappy scribble, but deep in my heart I feel improvement. I can't even begin to tell you what believing you have better handwriting can do to your day. It's like, you're just going along, doing normal tasks and feeling dull, when suddenly you get a mechanical pencil. And all of your writing magically seems beautiful as it sprouts on to the page. And  you can do anything. You can climb a tree again. You can swim a channel. I don't care which channel, just a channel. You can brainstorm ideas about what you can now do all day just because your handwriting will make the ideas possible.

It's really an incredible experience, to use a mechanical pencil. However, just like all good things in life... there are complications. The main one being, that mechanical pencils hate me. I don't know what it is, but they don't like to see me happy. That's a fact.

I'd say I get about a day to enjoy a mechanical pencil before something happens to tear my pencil and I apart and remind me that I actually secretly hate mechanical pencils. I shall list the three most common ways mechanical pencils display their hatred.

1. My pencil runs out of lead. Usually when I come across mechanical pencils they are already used, so it only makes sense that sooner or later they will run out of lead. I understand this, and I also understand that I am fully capable of finding replacement lead. That said, I am a lazy person. I don't carry lead around in my pockets, so finding one of those little, pin-sized glass cases full of lead, which is probably buried deep in the confines of my artsy stuff cabinet, would be a pain, and much more work then just finding another pencil. But it isn't my laziness that makes my eye twitch as I look upon the useless pencil in my hand. No, it is the fact that it torments me. The pencil is not satisfied with simply running out of juice right when I need it. It has to make the last bit of lead impossible to use. That little millimeter of lead that just keeps sliding back into the pencil when I press it onto the paper mocks me. It rubs salt into the already blistering wounds of my heart.

2. The erasure runs out. There is nothing more depressing then trying to erase something and failing. Because then you have to look at that un-erasable thing for the rest of your life. Or until you disintegrate it with a flame-thrower. Unfortunately, flame-throwers are harder to come by these days than you'd think.

3. Mechanical pencils are secretly the reincarnations of Houdini. I don't know why, but my mechanical pencils are always running away. Oh wait, I do know why. They hate me. It's not even like the pencils wait until my back is turned to make a mad dash for the exit. They pouf out of existence the second they leave my hand, even if I had been staring at it moments before and made a conscious decision to put the pencil in an easily rememberable location. You can't escape like that without a thoroughly developed plan sketched out along the walls of a jail cell.

So yeah. Despite the fact that I love mechanical pencils, they never seem to return the feeling. So I hate them back. It's difficult to understand, really. All I know is that mechanical pencils are an important part of my life, so I guess I'll have to learn to live with my conflicting emotions.

Musings of the Exhausted

Hey. Oh hey. So right now I'm super tired. And bored. And I don't really feel like sleeping for some odd reason.

So I'm going to type this post and regret it later. But hey, life is full of regrets, is it not? I regret getting pizza today instead of chinese food. I regret watching Rebecca Black's new music video. I regret not finding a unicorn.

So yeah. You ever feel drunk when you're tired? Like your mind just keeps rambling on and on and on until suddenly your own brain stops you and is just like, what the hell are you talking about? That's pretty much what's happening now, except I'm writing it down...

You ever notice how it's always insanely difficult to get comfortable while staying awake when you're tired. I'm not sure why, but I think it's because if I'm comfortable I'll fall asleep, so it's like my body is purposefully sabotaging my mind's desire to sleep. It's like a double agent, working for my conscious mind's goal of staying awake while pretending to also want sleep by flopping lazily on the bed in odd ways... which actually doesn't lead to comfort but gives the false impression of it. Oh, how sneaky you are, body. But I'm on to you.

I just put the laptop on my legs for a minute, but then I chickened out. I heard that makes it so you can't have kids. Despite the fact that I'm constantly suspicious of this piece of information/ annoyed at the inconveniences it causes, putting the laptop on my legs now scares the shit out of me. Every second it spends touching my skin gives me a rush of adrenaline, like I'm balancing a sword on my forehead and any minute it could come slashing down on somebody's face. My heart picks up speed and everything. I think I need to get out more. Do some actual knife throwing to teach my adrenaline glands a lesson or two.

My friend had an energy drink a couple of hours ago. I watched her drink it, and to be honest I think my mind is more jittery than hers at the moment. She's not here, but I'm feeling a telepathic communication. I just know. Kind of like E.T. knows how that little kid with the bike feels. You know how when they both start dying it's because they're connected in some super supernatural way. Well... that's how it is. When my bamboo plant starts to die I'll know it's because my friend needs me.

Anyway I think it's about time I went to sleep. I guess I figured that since I had the time at the moment I'd give you two posts in one day... or was the last one yesterday... I can't remember considering it's late and I'm delusional. So yeah. Hopefully this makes up for the lack of posts in the last couple of days. Even if this one is a piece of crap. I can't tell. But that's okay. I hope it was entertaining anyway. Good night.

I just want to suck your blood... no biggie.

Well. How do I go about this, exactly? I guess I'll just have to jump right into it.

Vampires. My God how they confuse my sensitive, easily corruptible feelings. At one point in my life, vampires fascinated me. Like all other mythical creatures, I was drawn to their mystery, to their dark yet secretly lonely nature. But now... the very word vampire disgusts me. I can't even think it without the corners of my lips dropping, right eyebrow twitching with annoyance and nose scrunching, like I'm snarling at an inanimate object and getting continuously annoyed by the fact that it isn't becoming frightened.

But how. How could my perceptions go from such adoration to complete abhoration in such a short period of my adolescent years? To tell you the truth I think it was a combination of overexposure and Robert Pattinson's face. Now, now, to all of you obsessive Edward fangirls, there's no need to bring out your shotguns just yet. It's not like I'm going to stalk Robert P on the street and stab him for contributing to my hatred of vampires. I'm just going to verbally abuse him. And this is the internet. So you can't find me. Unless you are super hackers who know how to do that sort of thing and have way to much time on your hands. Then you can go ahead and shoot me, but I'll die happy, knowing that I have boss computer geniuses following my blog. SO HA! YOU CAN'T WIN.

Ahem. Moving on. Robert P just did not work as a proper portrayal of a sexy vampire. In fact, he took all of the carefully constructed, beautifully gorgeous vampires of my imagination and ran them over with a truck, with no Edward Cullen there to stop it. Because he was under the front tire. Dead. I don't understand why some girls find him good looking. Okay, maybe as Cedric Diggory he was "cute," but with painted abs, deteriorated white wall paper skin, and a failed chemistry with Kristen Stewart, it was just a whole lot of ugly. So yeah. Thanks, Robert, for the countless times your face has slithered its way into my thoughts as I've tried to picture a completely unrelated, sexy fictional bloodsucker.

Now, of course Robert isn't the only culprit in the case of my vampire enthusiasm deflation. The media and other Young Adult fiction writers have seriously overexposed vampires as a fantasy race, taking away from their dignity and secrecy. There's a bit of fun in leaving a bit of feed for the imagination. I'm sick of going into bookstores, strolling down to my favorite fiction section, and finding row upon row suffocated with vampire novels. There are vampires in school books, vampires on vacation books, and even vampires gone on a  shopping trip books. I don't need to read about the vampire romance that occurred during a family fishing trip, nor do I care about the angst of a vampire's first swirly. My God. Are authors these days so dry of new material that all they can think of is vampires? I'D HONESTLY RATHER READ 100 PAGES ABOUT A GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH.

And another thing, I'm no hipster, but it's extremely annoying when something that used to be cool gets blown up in the media and taken over by screaming thirteen year olds. The old fashioned, onion fearing, night dwelling vampires we all used to know were at one point cool. But now that little girls and soccer moms are going crazy over vampires, it's no longer safe for us cool, 17 year old kids to be seen reading a vampire book or watching a vampire movie. Where's the justice in that?

Unfortunately, I doubt this whole vampire fiasco will wither away before I'm fifty. All I can hope for is that by the time I have kids, they will not know the face of Robert Pattinson as the face of all vampires, and that they will be able to enjoy the hotness of vampires as they are. Or were.

A Vlogger's Testimony To Tickling

I am once again ultra excited. This tends to happen a lot, usually at the mention of cool socks, X-men, Mario, or the Hunger Games. But this time, I have been shot into a whirlwind of excitement by my good friend, April!

You see, April is a vlogger, and in one of her more recent vlogs she comments on my tickle fight post. Now, let me just say a few things about April before I begin ranting. She is an incredibly awesome person. Her vlogs are as refreshing as the first sip of watery looking liquid from a cactus after a being abandoned without supplies for a week on the moon. Her opinions are honest and profound, and she's just an awesome spunky person in every way. Except for weight lifting. Because I'm pretty sure she would be squashed just as easily as I would in an arm wrestle against Arnold Schwarzenegger. And yes, I looked up how to spell that. BUT IN EVERYTHING ELSE SHE IS SPECTACULAR.

Anyway, my good friend April has posted a testimonial to my tickling is not flirtatious post. She had been victimized countless times by ticklers, and I have witnessed the very crimes committed against her myself. April, I would like to apologize for not intervening. But, you must know, I have little bodily power over the antagonistic ticklers in our lives. My power lies in frowning angrily at people and shaking my head like a disappointed grandmother. Granny disapproves of these boys and their disregard for the delicacy of women.

Now, now. April and I are far from the stereotypes of flower-like women with too many feelings and not enough intelligence. In no way do I admit that men are superior to women with the comments on this blog. I simply acknowledge the clear physical difference between the two genders, and the need to be aware when dealing with sensitive people.

As for the tickling dilemma which has brought April and I into collaboration, instead of reiterating the problem, I would like to quote April. "You do not want to be remembered as 'that nice guy who actually tried to grope me.'" Seriously. If you so desire to get that close to a girl, ask her out. Give her a hug. Or just keep your hands to yo damn self. Keep on vlogging, April!

Link to April's page is here.

Matthew Azrieli- My Canadian Musician Friend

SO. It's official. I've made a friend who I'm positive is going to be famous one day. I mean, truthfully I have no doubts that all my friends are going to be super rich and famous in the future... but this kid will probably reach that status before age 73. Which is when I plan on peaking. So naturally my friends will reach their ultimate status at that age too... because it makes sense.

Anyway, I've created this post to pretty much shamelessly advertise his music. Now all six of you loyal, beautiful followers will be forced to click on this link... or to just look at it and wonder for endless hours who this mysterious, soon to be famous Matthew Azrieli is. I bet you are trying to make up a song in your head right now that could possibly belong to this musician. It could possibly have to do with love, a dragon, or maybe even the apocalypse. It could be anything.

A breif overview of my opinions about Matthew's music goes as follows: I think it's incredible.

You want a bit more info? Aight, fine. He's extremely talented when it comes to playing the guitar and has a deep but soothing singing voice. I listen to a wide variety of music depending on what mood I'm in, and his style is definitely something I'd turn to if I'm just sitting on a park bench feeling light and airy on the inside. It gives me sort of a swaying back and forth feeling, like I should be swishing my feet over the side of a wall.

So yeah. I feel special. I just know that when people like Matthew and all of my fantastically talented friends do something incredible with their lives, they will look back at the blog posts I wrote about them when they were just starting out, and they'll be like, wow. I need to get this goldfish chick a motorcycle.

Once again, here is Matthew Azrieli.

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.