Wash, then Dry

Points earned lately = +1 for making buttermilk pancakes. And, literally, that’s it. I’ve kind of forgotten that working all day has it’s downside in that I don’t really have time to read or write, and exercising afterwards might make me suicidal. And working on the weekends is the toughest of all because you know everyone else is at the beach, and the irresistible urge to take down your Facebook profile creeps in, like it did that time you were in the hospital for Halloween. 

But, you know, work is work. You get paid for it. And no matter how much I want to frolic with the animals, read about magic, and explore places in the Triangle, I want a washer and dryer more. (I’ve taken to wearing my clothes about eighteen times. The laundromat is a scary, scary place where I live; the university constantly emails police reports about psychopaths hiding behind washers, waiting to mug those who come in alone or with knock-off brand-named products. Trust me, that is a LOT of people in Greenville.)

So, I sit in wait. For the day when I can feel like real people again. For the day my clothes are clean, my house is organized, and the big pile of laundry doesn’t come alive and talk to me in my nightmares.

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Obsession

I think that there is a common thread between all human beings: everyone has that one obsession that is borderline creepy. That one thing they do, either for attention or for the sheer pleasure of it which somehow seems a little wrong or just…..let’s face it: wrong.

I thought, in all fairness to those who read my blog, I would share mine with you today.

Now, I know I am not the only one who has this…problem. There are whole forums devoted to those who share my obsession, and who flaunt it as if it was normal (and as if it fit into their daily schedules of work and family and the gym. Well, hate to tell you, but we all know you’re lying about that). And, I have to admit, once Judson moved in with me and college was over, and I couldn’t procrastinate any more for the life of me, I had to stop. Which is probably why I’m writing about it now: because it’s damn hard to stop and no one ever really wants to, especially when they’ve had a few beers and it’s staring them in face just saying…play me!

Sorry, a tangent.

Anyway my obsession?

The Sims:

That’s right: I took pictures of my sims freaking out. Exactly. I told you it was bad. This is just one from a series of pictures I took while attempting to do a legacy. If you don’t know what a legacy is, just imagine a bunch of nerds (like me) taking pictures of their sims, giving them personalities, and writing stories about them. Look, I told you it was going to be bleak.
The one thing no one ever told me was: hey, this shit is time consuming. Sure, it’s fun to get a little buzzed, sit in front of the computer and play God for oh like eight hours straight, but the next morning you still haven’t finished your paper, your friends think you are dead, and, in the end, you’re just some cracked-out nerd.
Luckily for me, my friends understood. My friend, Sydney, and I used to “media-whore” together; media-whoring was a series of nights during which we listened to music, watched television, played video games, read, put a clear bag to our lips, and finished
homework all at the same time. It took immense concentration, and little bit of hate for our bodies.
College was a hazy time for us needless to say, especially because media-whoring was pretty much solely done after 3 a.m. and in a fit of hysteria to finish work. Anyway, I digress. It didn’t diminish my obsession.
And one finds that as new deadlines and goals spring forth, they think their obsessions are hidden for good. Unfortunately, as I sit down to write or paint or I start running through my neighborhood, I find myself thinking: “Shit. I could be playing Sims right now.”