When is goodbye really goodbye?

When you are a part of something, whether it be a church group or just a few buddies that hang with you by the river every weekend, it eventually becomes a part of you. Sometimes these consistencies, especially when they are people, can change you and your perspective of the world and the people around you. That is what makes goodbye's so hard. Every time I had to leave Michael I felt like I had to adjust to a life that didn't belong to me, and when I would see him again, my life would continue as if I had come home from a lengthy trip away from myself.

I didn't realize that the lounge was the one place that I could return to myself and have a break from the loneliness. The people there are like my family. I always avoided thinking about the moment when I would have to put in for my two weeks. It's been two years now, two years of people willing to do everything in their power to be there for me, a concept I wasn't used to until my first day at The Strat. Not many people work in an environment like that. I was and am very fortunate.

I had this same issue when I graduated from school and moved away from my friends in Varsity Choir. We were so tight knit that I literally had to cut some ties so that it wouldn't hurt so much. Everyone back in San Antonio still had one another; they still hung out, goofed off, even recalled music that we sang years before and sang their hearts out together. I wasn't a part of that. I am not a part of that. I had and have university, a new life to embrace, one that I would have preferred to include my old friends and the laughter.

But this seems harder. We are all adults-- not children-- so to pick up and move or start a family or whatever it is that adults do, we can do it. All of us. And that is going to keep us apart. Some of my best friends, coworkers here at the lounge, are graduating. Some are staying though, so I'll still have people to come back to. But the unit, this family, is going to branch out, and eventually those connections will fade and be replaced with new connections, new people.

Then again, it is in my power to keep these connections alive. If I can make a long distance relationship work with Michael, I can accomplish the same task with my friends. There are so many mediums that can keep these ties double-knotted. I suppose I just fear change, when the consistencies are no longer consistent. I have always had anxieties about new environments, experiencing things that I am not used to.

Maybe this isn't goodbye. Maybe these relationships I've built will keep the anxieties away.

Maybe it took me writing this to realize that.

Tonight is my second to last night working here. I am going to try and take in every detail, embrace every encounter, and smile as hard as I can. I want to remember tonight. I want to make it worth remembering.

I WAS JUST ABOUT TO CATCH A DITTO WHEN...

http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5174/5507058309_2fb753f8ec_o.jpg

Thanks Stella. Thanks. (Yes that is Zelda, but you get the friggin point.)

I blame my boyfriend too. Thanks for sending me video games during FINALS WEEK.

To write, I must party.

I planned a party of sorts this weekend that I may not even be able to attend because I can't get my shift covered on Saturday. I'd list off every profanity in the book right now if that could communicate to you how I'm feeling right now, but my patience is withering away every moment I am not in the clear to go to this damn party.

So while my blood begins to cool from the simmer it was experiencing previously, I have decided to focus on one of my many writing projects. It is a musical of epic proportions. Before you scoff and remind me of how competitive and unrealistic the world of the arts can be, I am completely aware. You don't have to remind me. But this is not just something I am doing half-assed. I am practically putting my soul into this. Broadway, I AM COMING FOR YOU.

When zombies crave coffee instead of brains

I thought that people were supposed to lose sleep Christmas Eve, not Christmas night! I pulled an unenthusiastic all nighter- unenthusiastic, meaning, all nighters aren't as fun as I remember them to be. It brings me back to what it was like during exams on campus. I'm just not build for shit like this anymore. It must have been a combination of the Acai berry supplements I popped last night and all of the anticipation for Mike to get here. I also worked out, and I think that's bad.

Never before have I been so desperate for coffee. I used to scoff at my parents in the mornings as they dragged their feet across the floor lethargically, destination always the same. The coffee machine was like a glowing beckon to them, leading them home. "Haha! You zombies can drink your coffee and stand around like the living dead. Be jealous of me, for I have my youth!"

My youth doesn't come in handy anymore. Now I'm the zombie, which sucks because I always imagined myself to be the kick-ass survivor who never needed to use the adrenaline shots in L4D2 because I didn't need help being awesome. Now I find myself dragging my feet in the same manner as the folks, grunting in response to anyone talking in my direction, groaning the word "coffee" in repetitions until my thirst has been quenched.

I used to be able to shot gun an energy drink and be cool. It used to be exciting doing shit like that. I am 20-years-old. I'm supposed to be able to do shit like stay up all night without consequence! What the Hell!

That's a lot of shit

For the entirety of this month I have felt like a black cloud was constantly overhead raining piles of shit on the top of me and on top of everything that I did. No matter the circumstance, shit cloud would find me. I am not superstitious or anything, but for it to get this bad, I must have walked under thousands of ladders and broken a plethora of mirrors. Yeah, a plethora. That's how unfortunate I am. But I think after what happened last night, shit cloud will give me a break.

Firstly, I love animals, especially cats. When I was little, I was constantly begging to keep strays, so most of our animals weren't from the pet store- we collected hobos. But now that I'm older, the things that used to excite me don't excite me as much anymore. Birthdays are days that signify just how close to death I really am. Easter eggs no longer have anything inside of them worth hunting for. Christmas can wait until I've had a decent cup of coffee. So you would think that Dad surprising Mom with a cat would be, well, ho hum. But I squealed, I ran to the door, and I bounced up and down until my Dad came inside. Felines bring out my inner five-year-old.

"He shit himself in the carrier. The cat is covered in shit," he announced, bringing a wave of the cat poo aroma into the house with him.

That's when my excitement wavered and I was suddenly an unenthusiastic adult again, because I knew that I would play assistant in the operation that was about to commence: Operation: Bathe Chocolate Covered Kitty. 

At first we tried to clean him outside, but the poo was all dry and stuck to his fur, so that was a vain effort. Instead, Mom and I moved the foul, yet completely adorable addition to our family into the bath tub, but not without a strategy. (A strategy that did not take into consideration that cats think that water is the Devil.)

First Mom would get into the tub with kitty and hold him down while I poured soap into her hands so she could wash him without having to let go. After he was clean, I would wrap him in a towel and dry him off. It sounded simple enough until Mom realized that she would be standing in poo soup for the majority of the operation, but that epiphany came to her a little too late. She probably didn't expect kitty to climb her either, but the job got done and we both came out alive. Only I could no longer breathe and Mom was bleeding profusely. I can't imagine how many shots she might need from all of that exposure to kitty excretion. That shit was all over the place. Literally.

Shit cloud is ruthless.

So kitty was clean and Mom instructed me to do my share of the work and grab a towel. I grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped kitty in it. By that time he was exhausted from fighting and just wanted to be out of the damn water and dry. So I'm holding kitty to me to keep him warm, snuggling him, not realizing that Mom is still standing in the shit water staring at me.

"What?" I asked.

"That's the- ppffffhahahahaha!"

"What?!"

"That's the towel I carried him in here with!"

"BLARRRRGGGGGGG!"

No, I didn't throw up, but I wanted to. At that point, the shit cloud metaphor became literal.

I was covered in shit.

After all was said and done and everyone was sterilized, the energy died down as we decorated the Christmas tree and watched Elf. We managed to trap the poo smell in my parents' room and bathroom, which Dad wasn't too happy about, but I was just glad that shit cloud was quarantined. Maybe then I would have a little peace. But even though shit cloud was being held prisoner, another bad luck symbol of a different consistency but of the same nature was out to get my Mother.

All I could hear was the front door opening as she was letting the dog out and Mom screaming, "FROG IN THE HOUSE!" I, of course, burst out laughing and didn't help her because I am a terrible daughter and I deserve nothing but coal in my stocking. That's when the door slammed and she ran into the kitchen with her hands out in front of her.

"What?!" I cried.

"IT PEED ON ME!"

"OH MY GOD THAT SMELLS TERRIBLE!"

Yes. That was my response, accompanied by me running in the opposite direction of my Mother, who proceeded to chase me with the towel she wiped her hands off on after she washed them. I know, she washed her hands, but still. Ew. My first instinct was to run into another room and hide, which I did, only it was the room that smelled like shit. So the whole house smelled of frog piss and cat shit.

To summarize, Dad got my Mom a shit covered cat for Christmas.

There's nothing like claw marks and an active gag reflex to really kick in that holiday spirit.

Merry Christmas everyone, and may it be a shit-free one!

Technology stereotypes too

You know how Facebook alters its advertisements to appeal to viewers individually? I guess some sort of FB stereotyping system decided that wedding dress, engagement and baby apparel ads would suit me, because even when I clear them off of my screen- repeatedly might I add- more of them spawn with a persistence that I am beginning to question. I don't understand the engagement ring ads either. I'm not the one who should be looking at those. It should be directed to men, am I right?

Is it because I'm twenty (still young!), or is it because all of my friends are married and many already have children? Maybe it's because I have a vagina, and everyone knows that all women aspire to do is to get married and breed. And obviously, because I am a university student, I must need alcohol rehab, because I'm such a drunk.

Alright, alright, maybe I have no room to talk, considering that one of my labels that my sidebar includes "me and booze." And all of these relationship statuses that are shifting from "in a relationship" to "engaged" are really starting to make me want a drink. So scratch the previous sarcasm.

But I don't need rehab. Seriously. I don't!

*hic*

To each his own

Sorry about my unexpected hiatus. Not too much has happened worth blogging about. But I am stuck indoors for a while so I feel that I owe it to myself to post something, even if I end up deleting the entire entry for fear of passing on my intense boredom onto my viewers. I would never wish that on anyone. So I will attempt to make this worth reading.

Today while perusing the online world that is Facebook, I came across an argument between friends about smoking shisha tobacco.  "It's so stupid. It's like smoking weed. It's illegal. Anyone who smokes should be behind bars."

I had to refresh the page to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me. But the comment was still there, residing on my newsfeed like a f#&%ing parasite of knowledge. Tobacco is illegal huh? Then what does that classify me as if I work at a lounge that distributes illegal goods? And what about all of the law enforcement that come in once in a while to smoke? Should they be behind bars? Should I?

There is one thing that really pushes my buttons, and it is ignorant statements like that. Obviously the person did not do their research. Obviously the person needs to do some research.

I read the comment over and over, feeling ridiculous for how much it bothered me. If America's youth is unaware of what is legal and what isn't, will that not determine the future of this country? If people do not know anything on the subjects in which they discuss and refuse the opportunities given to them to learn more, what will my future look like?

That doesn't just go for the legality of certain things, but what about politics? Science? Religions? I'm sick of the mindless dribble I see online of these youths talking out of their asses as if they know something about what they say, when in reality, they are completely unaware that they know nothing.

I never want to be like that. I want to learn. I want to be able to voice my beliefs and have viable backing behind them. I never want to close myself off from ideas just because I don't agree with them. I try to keep myself open to everything and anything there is to know about the world. Let us reword this kid's response.

"Smoking is bad for you. Just because smoking is legal doesn't mean that it should be taken advantage of. I don't agree with it."

I can consider an answer like that, even if I'm a smoker. Sadly, not everyone can appreciate those opposed to activities they partake in, and that is sad to me. Arguing for the sake of arguing is meaningless. Having a civil discussion for the sake of absorbing something from it is respectable.

I like living, thank you.

It is hard to have adventures in Alaska when there is so much damn ice on the road. The weather condemns you to stay put and that is hard to do when you are restless and live in a small town like Homer. But even if I wanted to to venture out and the weather allowed it, there is still one small issue-- I don't have a car.

Mike has been hassling me to learn how to drive his truck so that I can have a means of transportation during the day while he's at work. It makes sense, right? How hard can driving a stick shift be?

Reasons why I refuse:
I don't want to destroy his truck.
His truck barely makes it up hills.
He has trouble driving his truck.
I don't feel like learning how to drive on ice and learning how to drive stick shift at the same flippin' time.
Most of Mike's friends are afraid of his truck.

If those aren't reason enough and ya'll think I'm being ridiculous, I have more. His truck stalls out a lot. His Alaskan friends advise me not to learn in this weather. His truck is attracted to ditches. His truck slides across the road like it was made to do just that.

Still not reason enough?

Then your name is probably Michael.

Goodbye present from Boss Man

For my going away present, Boss Man has given me two shifts to cover tonight. At first I was not pleased with the news, as it is Saturday and all of the college hooligans will be roaming the Square in drunken stupor celebrating Halloween prematurely and I would have to deal with them on my own. Yet the follow up text message went a little something like this: "You'll get paid for both shifts as well as get 90 percent of the tips for the night. Fo' real." Can't complain anymore can I? Luckily it has been smooth sailing, and I'm reaping the benefits.

Yes, there is a lesson in this.

Even if something sounds unappealing at first, sometimes it can be a good opportunity waiting to be taken advantage of. Laziness is often my excuse for letting these chances pass me by. I'm glad that it all worked out for me tonight. Hopefully the rest of the week will be smooth sailing. Only good has come out of this week, so I can't help but be cautious. Maybe the next flower arrangement will ACTUALLY be a bomb.

Who knows.

Stupid question of the night: "Are we allowed to eat food and stuff in here?"
Of course not. We expect the food that we sell here to be consumed outside.
Really?

Oh, how I dream big

I have way too many ideas for my own good.

Lately I have been brainstorming new projects to start once this book has been finished and I get so excited by them that I start developing these ideas without continuing off of something that has already been started. There is now a hefty collection of word documents on my desktop and I am starting to think that I am being unrealistic if I believed that all of these book ideas were going to be finished any time soon. Then there is the fear that if I don't continue with all of these ideas as fast as I can that someone will think of the same thing and take the glory away from me.

I am starting to annoy myself. I'm like a hoarder of book ideas. It is starting to get ugly.

At the end of the day I have all of these outlines with suitable titles and I think to myself, "was I productive today?" I haven't even finished one book. I'm even working on a screenplay. A freaking screenplay! And not just any screenplay, but a musical. There is nothing wrong with having aspirations, but this is just ridiculous.

Back to working on my many projects.

My eye is having a seizure because you are an idiot.

When I sat at my computer with a blog entry in mind, I literally stared at the screen for three minutes before something occurred to me. I never talk about my job other than why I need it, which is obvious and it makes me feel like my content is suffering for it. I am also disappointed that I have not mentioned the fabulous staff that we have all too much because they are some of the most amazingly-awesome people I've ever met, on clock and off. Not many part-timers can say that, and I should be grateful that I can.

The Stratosphere Lounge, or the Strat as most of us refer to it as, is like a home to me. It is a hookah lounge, where you can choose from a variety of flavored tobacco on our menu to smoke. It really leaves room for creativity, and the uh... employee discount on the tobacco is quite ...beneficial.

Bah, what am I kidding. I smoke a bowl every time I go to work. (I need to loosen up. This is beginning to sound like an advertisement.)

So the staff is pretty much the shit and I say this kindly. But I refuse to lead you all to believe that being a server there would be some sort of gift from God, because honestly, like any job, it has it's downfalls. Maybe I worded that wrong. Let me try again. The people that I serve can be really, really, really aggravating. Here is an example of what went through my mind last night: "Touch that coal again and I swear I will put it in a place where the burns won't be appreciated!" I think the guy saw the crazed look in my eyes and decided to give the coal prodding a rest. I am in this recently developed mindset where each bowl that I create becomes my baby- my sweet smelling, delectable baby. When people mess with my baby, they get the eye twitch. Another warranted eye twitch moment occurs when customers are asking for a drink in the fridge behind the register.

Me: "Hi! How can I help you?"

Customer: "Yeah I would like a drink."

Me: "Alright, what would you like?"

Customer: "A soda."

Me: (waiting for further details of said drink, as half of our fridge is a variety of soda)

Customer: (stares at me like I'm stupid for not being able to read his mind)

Me: (being the better person and all) "...What kind of soda?" (Did he really just make me ask?)

Customer: "Oh wait, no, I'd like a Gatorade."

Me: (waiting yet again for specifics, as we have a spectrum of Gatorade flavors)

Customer: Or an energy drink. Yeah, I'd like a Gatorade and an energy drink.

Me: (eye is twitching by now) What kind?

Customer: "The blue kind."

Me: "There are two blue kinds. Light or dark?"

Customer: "Oh uh, dark. And an energy drink please."

Me: (the eye twitch must be obvious at this point) "We have four different kinds of energy drink."

Customer: "Oh um..."

Me: "JUST PICK YOUR G'DAMN DRINK ALREADY! YOUR INDECISION HAS CAUSED A LINE OF IDIOTS TO GATHER BEHIND YOU. I ASSUME THAT THEY MUST BE ATTRACTED TO YOUR IDIOCY. I HAVE THREE HOOKAHS TO PRODUCE AND FIVE COALS TO BRING OUT AND YOU ARE MAKING LIFE MORE DIFFICULT THAN IT HAS TO BE! PICK A FREAKIN' DRINK FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!"

Customer: "DARK BLUE GATORADE AND A MONSTER MA'AM!"

Me: "THANK YOU. NOW TIP ME ASSHOLE."

My job, if at all possible, would be even better if I could get away with shit like that. Make them cower at my presence. But that is just icing on the cake. Customers mostly get the automatic eye twitch when they ask questions about the menu. "What does the watermelon taste like?" Eye twitch. "Does the flavor come in the coal?" Eye twitch. "The Fahkfahkina is an apple right? So is it... appley?" Really? You get an eye twitch too.

I'm supposed to be talking about how fabulous my job is but now I'm just pissed.

Yay for having a day off.

WTF?

So today is my good friend Katie's "WTF" themed 21st birthday party. The idea was ingenious: to dress so outrageously that people say "what the fuck?" when they see you. Sadly I cannot attend, but I wait impatiently for pictures of the shindig. Until then, I am stuck in San Marcos, working another late night shift at the lounge, earning just enough to get me by. The paycheck to paycheck lifestyle is not one I care to lead the rest of my life. But being broke motivates me even more to finish my book!

While Kat is wrapped around the porcelain throne up in Austin, I'll be here, talking to the lot of you while at work.

C'est la vie!

My Name is Jessica, and I'm an English Major

So apparently as an English major I have three options: teach, clue into the warning signs and change majors, or live paycheck to paycheck waiting tables until the day I die (tragic, yes, but us English majors are subconsciously devoted to over-exaggerated Shakespearean conclusions). You are condemned the moment you meet with an adviser and say that you want to major in English. Their generalized response: "Oh, you want to teach then?"

Oh, Hell no. Words cannot describe how limited I felt right then. It is unnerving how one assumption can immediately lead to a girl doubting her dreams. Why isn't "write a best seller" an option? People view getting published as some unreachable dream, under the same categorization as becoming a famous actress.

Little do these people know (yes, Miss. Stick-up-her-ass adviser. I am talking to you too) there are more options for us out there. To be one of us, you have to be a dreamer, believe it or not. And us dreamers do not limit ourselves to such mediocre, colorless, mainstream options that were created to hold us back!

Maybe I'll teach when I'm burnt out on writing the best sellers mentioned above. Until then, I'm sticking to what I want.

Welcome to my Blog.