There's a rather small spider that has made it's residence next to the front door of our house. It just kind of sits (or stands, or hangs, or whatever it does) on the wall. Every day I'd see it in a different place in that exact same area. And when I approach to put my shoes on, since that is where our shoes are all congregated, it just remains completely still as if it could blend in with its surroundings.
But I can still see it. It's there, just hanging out. For at least two weeks, it hasn't gone anywhere else but that one area of wall right next to the doorway.
Typically, when I see a spider, it's usually crawling upwards on a wall somewhere right next to my desk in the basement room. And my first reaction is, as always, to utterly exterminate the cretin without hesitation. Grab the bug spray, spray away, then when it plummets a few feet to the carpet where it may or may not be wriggling in the pain of being poisoned by man-made legal murder of animals, I take a rather large sheet of paper towel, crumple it up and then flush it down the toilet.
I'm a scaredy cat when it comes to creep crawlies, even if I don't show it. From experience, when I see them, my reaction isn't slow, but rather my reactions are always begun with a simple, "Remain calm, act tough, if you freak out, you'll just lose sight of it."
Not too long ago, maybe sometime last year, I got to work, probably walked right through a spider web and contracted the resident living there. My co-worker saw it, freaked out, and excitedly pointed out that there was a spider crawling on my shoulder.
"Okay," I told her.
"Hang on, I'll get it off," she tells me. She so grabs some papers and swats at me. Lo and behold, she swats in the wrong direction and instead of falling to the ground it goes down my shirt. And she screams as much, "It went down you shirt!"
"Okay," I say to her. And without jumping or screaming, I calmly reach into my shirt, turn my collar out to find the darn thing and gently swat it away from me and onto the ground. Now I don't quite remember what happened to it next. It could have crawled away, I could have squashed it, or it could have just disappeared behind the table.
But that was when I realized that I could be quite calm when dealing with a spider crawling down my shirt and I was rather impressed with myself. And from that day on, whenever I see spiders, I don't get jumpy like I used to back in high school, but I remain calm and decide the best way to extinguish it. It's just easier so that you don't lose sight of it when you freak out.
But back to the spider on the wall next to my front door.
Yea, it's still there. I don't know why it's still there. I'm surprised that no one else in the house has seen it yet. I've caught the smell of bug spray every so often and wondered if my mother had killed it. But this morning when I stepped downstairs and walked through our tiny receiving area, I noticed that the little creature was still there, this time on the ceiling.
Why haven't I killed it? one may ask. Well, I don't really know. Lack of desire to kill it, probably. I didn't want to deal with it at first, mostly because I'd been in a hurry to get to work the first time I saw it. But afterwards, when it never moved from its spot, I just didn't have the motivation to off it when it's just sitting there and, well, hanging out.
Or maybe I'm just plain too lazy to off it and feel like it hasn't done anything to me, so why bother it.
Sooner or later, it'll probably get found my someone in my household. I don't know why it hasn't yet.
But for now, I just let it hang and actually find myself looking for it whenever I walk by to see if it's still there. And each and every time, it usually is, even if it's in a different spot.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Fun Times at the Bar and a lesson to all about bar etiquette
To tone down my previous emo blog, here's a fun little read.
I was bartender on Saturday night for a small wedding and did quite well with it on tips. Enough to last me a couple lunches for the next two weeks. I spent the entire evening shaking up my version of a Sex on the Beach mixed drink and dunking my fingers into cherries, as it is what I use as garnish for that particular drink. So when I got home that night, my fingers were stained red.
Interesting times.
Apparently Sex on the Beach was quite popular. I don't know how many times I'd made the drink the entire night, but I know that it should have been a little over fifty of them, or more, even. Otherwise, there were sparse requests for "what kind of shots do you know how to make?" of which the answer was, "I'm sorry, I really don't know any fun shots." And then there was the usual, rum and cokes, vodka cranberries, and a mostly import beer.
I have to admit that I like bartending. It's fun... but I don't like socializing. It requires a certain type of skill that I don't have. It's called talking to people, randomly, with smiles, and without being a bore. I'm not good at that. I can barely talk to my own friends with smiles and without being a bore. But it's okay, because I'm not trying to sell THEM anything or trying to earn tips from them.
But anyway, the night was quite fruitful. When people get drunk enough, they really probably don't care that their bartender is scowling or frowning. They just see the liquor. Quite awesome.
On a side note, I about got pummelled by a 27 year old woman who took great offense at the fact that I needed to see her ID to confirm that she was indeed old enough to drink. She threw a fit. She went to her husband and she demanded that we overlook it. Her husband tried to vouch for her, but you know, a policy is a policy.
"But she's my wife and she's twenty-seven," he insisted.
"Tell them," she urged, practically pouting. I could almost see steam coming out of her ears and her face turning red.
We could only continue to say, "If you don't have your ID, we can't serve you. Sorry."
Begrudgingly, she left the room so that she could go and get her driver's liscence from her car. She was not happy and when she returned, she practically shoved the ID in my face like I was her mortal enemy.
My boss kept telling me that when she returned, I'd have to apologize profusely and simply repeat that we have to card everyone and that it's actually a compliment to be carded. I simply nodded, but conveniently forgot to apologize for asking for her ID.
You come to a bar and want a drink. You look rather young, it's a given that you'll get carded. I'm not going to apologize for doing my job. At least four other women were extremely ecstatic that I carded them and thanked me and tipped me big for it.
For anyone out there who don't understand or who like to make problems for bartenders, please don't. You don't know how much is left in the bartender's responsibility, both morally and legally. If someone underage is being served, it's the bartender's fault-- and it doesn't matter whether or not the bartender had served that underage person in the first place. It could have been a hand-off from someone else who was old enough to procure the alcoholic beverage for said minor.
If there is an accident involving alcohol, the bartender who last served that person is legally at fault. Because a bartender is morally bound to know when to stop serving their extremely inebriated customers. Again, it doesn't matter if someone else came to the bartender to buy a drink and then followed by handing it over to the already 0.45 BAC, completely drunk individual.
The bartender has been told that he/she is morally obligated to make the right decision when serving customers.
It's not fair. I don't like it. You can't control other people. But the burden always comes back to the bartender.
So I implore people: if you are asked for you ID at any place that serves alcohol, don't get offended. It's not to make things hard on you, it's policy and its the law. You can call it a means to save our own asses under legal obligation because it really is. Take it as a compliment. We are subject to ask for identification if someone does not look like he or she is over the age of thirty. If you are asked for your ID, then that means you look young enough to get carded.
I'm twenty-five years old. When I don't get carded, that's when I get offended... but only playfully.
Please don't make things any harder. Don't shoot the messenger. Legal dealings and actions are at stake. We are only doing our jobs.
Secondly, don't keep pestering the bartender about adding "just a little more alcohol" to your drink. Depending on the place, a company policy may or may not be controlling how much alocohol is mixed into a drink, depending on how much it is worth to the company. If we give you more, we get in trouble and the extra money has to come out of our own pockets. If you want a double shot, be willing to pay for the extra shot. If you think the alcohol is too expensive, then don't buy any.
In hospitality, we work to appease, but only within reason.
In summary:
When you are carded, don't get offended and don't take out your anger on the person carding you. It's a compliment. I'm always ready to be carded. And who comes up to a bar without ID anyway-- I don't think the laws have changed just because you're at a hotel and you're attending a friend's wedding. Bars card everywhere.
When you go to a bar, don't pester the bartender... remmeber who's mixing your drink.
To add onto it... we don't tell you how to run your life, so don't tell us how to do our jobs. We are trained.
And while I'm on the subject, sneaking alcohol into a bar has always been a no-no. You don't go to a restaurant and bring your own food, so don't come into a bar and bring your own alcohol. What's the point?
I especially love the ones who bring their own cans of Bud Light when there is free beer at the bar. At those, I really just laugh. Funny people.
I was bartender on Saturday night for a small wedding and did quite well with it on tips. Enough to last me a couple lunches for the next two weeks. I spent the entire evening shaking up my version of a Sex on the Beach mixed drink and dunking my fingers into cherries, as it is what I use as garnish for that particular drink. So when I got home that night, my fingers were stained red.
Interesting times.
Apparently Sex on the Beach was quite popular. I don't know how many times I'd made the drink the entire night, but I know that it should have been a little over fifty of them, or more, even. Otherwise, there were sparse requests for "what kind of shots do you know how to make?" of which the answer was, "I'm sorry, I really don't know any fun shots." And then there was the usual, rum and cokes, vodka cranberries, and a mostly import beer.
I have to admit that I like bartending. It's fun... but I don't like socializing. It requires a certain type of skill that I don't have. It's called talking to people, randomly, with smiles, and without being a bore. I'm not good at that. I can barely talk to my own friends with smiles and without being a bore. But it's okay, because I'm not trying to sell THEM anything or trying to earn tips from them.
But anyway, the night was quite fruitful. When people get drunk enough, they really probably don't care that their bartender is scowling or frowning. They just see the liquor. Quite awesome.
On a side note, I about got pummelled by a 27 year old woman who took great offense at the fact that I needed to see her ID to confirm that she was indeed old enough to drink. She threw a fit. She went to her husband and she demanded that we overlook it. Her husband tried to vouch for her, but you know, a policy is a policy.
"But she's my wife and she's twenty-seven," he insisted.
"Tell them," she urged, practically pouting. I could almost see steam coming out of her ears and her face turning red.
We could only continue to say, "If you don't have your ID, we can't serve you. Sorry."
Begrudgingly, she left the room so that she could go and get her driver's liscence from her car. She was not happy and when she returned, she practically shoved the ID in my face like I was her mortal enemy.
My boss kept telling me that when she returned, I'd have to apologize profusely and simply repeat that we have to card everyone and that it's actually a compliment to be carded. I simply nodded, but conveniently forgot to apologize for asking for her ID.
You come to a bar and want a drink. You look rather young, it's a given that you'll get carded. I'm not going to apologize for doing my job. At least four other women were extremely ecstatic that I carded them and thanked me and tipped me big for it.
For anyone out there who don't understand or who like to make problems for bartenders, please don't. You don't know how much is left in the bartender's responsibility, both morally and legally. If someone underage is being served, it's the bartender's fault-- and it doesn't matter whether or not the bartender had served that underage person in the first place. It could have been a hand-off from someone else who was old enough to procure the alcoholic beverage for said minor.
If there is an accident involving alcohol, the bartender who last served that person is legally at fault. Because a bartender is morally bound to know when to stop serving their extremely inebriated customers. Again, it doesn't matter if someone else came to the bartender to buy a drink and then followed by handing it over to the already 0.45 BAC, completely drunk individual.
The bartender has been told that he/she is morally obligated to make the right decision when serving customers.
It's not fair. I don't like it. You can't control other people. But the burden always comes back to the bartender.
So I implore people: if you are asked for you ID at any place that serves alcohol, don't get offended. It's not to make things hard on you, it's policy and its the law. You can call it a means to save our own asses under legal obligation because it really is. Take it as a compliment. We are subject to ask for identification if someone does not look like he or she is over the age of thirty. If you are asked for your ID, then that means you look young enough to get carded.
I'm twenty-five years old. When I don't get carded, that's when I get offended... but only playfully.
Please don't make things any harder. Don't shoot the messenger. Legal dealings and actions are at stake. We are only doing our jobs.
Secondly, don't keep pestering the bartender about adding "just a little more alcohol" to your drink. Depending on the place, a company policy may or may not be controlling how much alocohol is mixed into a drink, depending on how much it is worth to the company. If we give you more, we get in trouble and the extra money has to come out of our own pockets. If you want a double shot, be willing to pay for the extra shot. If you think the alcohol is too expensive, then don't buy any.
In hospitality, we work to appease, but only within reason.
In summary:
When you are carded, don't get offended and don't take out your anger on the person carding you. It's a compliment. I'm always ready to be carded. And who comes up to a bar without ID anyway-- I don't think the laws have changed just because you're at a hotel and you're attending a friend's wedding. Bars card everywhere.
When you go to a bar, don't pester the bartender... remmeber who's mixing your drink.
To add onto it... we don't tell you how to run your life, so don't tell us how to do our jobs. We are trained.
And while I'm on the subject, sneaking alcohol into a bar has always been a no-no. You don't go to a restaurant and bring your own food, so don't come into a bar and bring your own alcohol. What's the point?
I especially love the ones who bring their own cans of Bud Light when there is free beer at the bar. At those, I really just laugh. Funny people.
Emo moments come so often when you're a jerk
I'm losing it. And I'm a horrible person. And if you've got better things to do than to hear me rant it out about my selfishness, you might as well just stop here. Seriously, no one needs to see this ugly side of me. But if you wish to continue, just bear with me.
It's very simple. I think I'm beginning to lose my grasp on "giving a damn" about a lot of things and a lot of people. I have no compassion for people, no matter who it is. Sure, I can be a friendly person-- I've spent my entire life being a very pleasantly friendly person. I treat others with respect and I maintain that as long as I don't wrong others, they will not wrong me.
I've spent my entire life being the obedient daughter, a kind sister, a caring friend... But I'm not quite sure where that's leading me.
My friends are great. I will not deny that. They listen, they care, and they don't turn their backs on me. I'm eternally grateful, because without them, I would never be able to escape from everything else.
But at home, things are so much different.
I've spent my childhood being a filial child. Whenever mom and dad say jump, I really do say "how high?" I don't talk back, I do as I'm told, and I try so, so, so, so, so hard to please them on many, many occasions. I do my best in school, try to make good grades, clean house, clean my room, do my laundry, babysit.
But what does all of that mean in the end?
I means that Dad can march right up to me and tell me that I never help out around the house. It means that Dad can come to me and tell me that I need to start thinking about others, mainly my mother, and start helping her with the cooking and cleaning. It means that, in contrast, my brothers can sit around all effing day long, watch movies, play on their computers, and no one ever questions that. It means that my dad would rather not trouble my brothers to mow the lawn or help put together a bookshelf and so he'll do it himself while giving me a disappointed look every so often because I didn't volunteer my help. It means that if I don't initiate help around the house, I'm a horrible daughter, but my brothers don't even have to lift a finger and still be their pride and joys.
That's what it all means.
Every year I'm the one who goes out and buys the Christmas cards, birthday cards, Mother's day, Father's day, and any other fine occasion. It's because I'm thinking of my parents and I want to give them something and yet I don't have the money to buy them anything fancy. A card tells them that I'm thinking about them.
But my brother can come home one time and buy them a 22 inch flat screen television and they're bragging about it all over town. My brother can treat them to dinner just that one time in five years and they're beaming with pride.
I know I have no right to complain. I'm spoiled. I live at home without worries of paying rent or bills. My parents will flaunt the fact that I have a Bachelor's degree to some people. My parents will supply daily necessities for my use. My parents will foot the bill for everything that I need.
I'm ashamed to say that I'm still unsatisfied. Maybe I shouldn't be saying things like that. I'm a spoiled rotten child. I don't live on the streets and I don't have to shop at economy stores for anything.
Maybe I'm just trying to find a reason vent my frustration that I've never been the favorite child. Maybe I'm just trying to make a reason for myself to become angry with someone. Maybe I'm just giving myself a justification for how irrationally incompassionate I am about people.
Because, frankly, when it comes to situations wherein one should show a bit of feeling... I just don't really give a damn.
My dad's been organizing and reorganizing and cleaning the basement all morning. I haven't bothered to lend a helping hand. And on top of that, it's driving me crazy that somehow, he's still managing to find things to do that's making a racket... as if he's telling me, "This is not my job. This is your job. You should be cleaning the house as the only girl in this family. But instead of telling you to your face, I'm just going to make noises and hope that you feel like a bad daughter for not even bothering." Yea... that's what I'm hearing. Am I crazy? Well, let's not answer that question, cause we already know the answer.
The last draw would have been when my brother came to me to tell me that my father has been bitching about household funds to him. Apparentely, my brother (who makes much more money than me regularly) thinks that I should pay back my parents what money I've borrowed for school as soon as I can, while I'm still trying to pay off the rest of my school on my meager servant's salary of $2.35/hour plus gratuities that may or may not amount to about a hundred dollars biweekly per pay check.
He thinks that I should NOT be borrowing money from my parents for school. I didn't want to tell him that I've paid for all of my school on my own except for two thousand dollars of which I really needed to complete last semester's tuition payment. I didn't want to tell him that between me and the rest of my lovely brothers, I probably borrow the least amount of money from mom and dad.
And I didn't want to tell him that Dad's been bitching to me about house hold finances since the first time my brother's credit card debt amount came in to perspective.
It's not all me, kid. If you feel like you need to repay our parents, you go right ahead. I have no money right now. Leave me out of it. When I finally land myself a good job, of which I have all the confidence I will, then I'll start handing over checks to my parents monthly, just like my elder brother does.
I'm not a moocher, even if I am a bitch and asshole. I will do my part.
But do not come to me an demand that I pay back a percentage of what I've borrowed from the parents. Because in which case, let my just go out to that magical little money tree and harvest it for a couple hundred dollars. Right?
I'm done. My apologies to anyone who has made it this far. I'm just done.
It's very simple. I think I'm beginning to lose my grasp on "giving a damn" about a lot of things and a lot of people. I have no compassion for people, no matter who it is. Sure, I can be a friendly person-- I've spent my entire life being a very pleasantly friendly person. I treat others with respect and I maintain that as long as I don't wrong others, they will not wrong me.
I've spent my entire life being the obedient daughter, a kind sister, a caring friend... But I'm not quite sure where that's leading me.
My friends are great. I will not deny that. They listen, they care, and they don't turn their backs on me. I'm eternally grateful, because without them, I would never be able to escape from everything else.
But at home, things are so much different.
I've spent my childhood being a filial child. Whenever mom and dad say jump, I really do say "how high?" I don't talk back, I do as I'm told, and I try so, so, so, so, so hard to please them on many, many occasions. I do my best in school, try to make good grades, clean house, clean my room, do my laundry, babysit.
But what does all of that mean in the end?
I means that Dad can march right up to me and tell me that I never help out around the house. It means that Dad can come to me and tell me that I need to start thinking about others, mainly my mother, and start helping her with the cooking and cleaning. It means that, in contrast, my brothers can sit around all effing day long, watch movies, play on their computers, and no one ever questions that. It means that my dad would rather not trouble my brothers to mow the lawn or help put together a bookshelf and so he'll do it himself while giving me a disappointed look every so often because I didn't volunteer my help. It means that if I don't initiate help around the house, I'm a horrible daughter, but my brothers don't even have to lift a finger and still be their pride and joys.
That's what it all means.
Every year I'm the one who goes out and buys the Christmas cards, birthday cards, Mother's day, Father's day, and any other fine occasion. It's because I'm thinking of my parents and I want to give them something and yet I don't have the money to buy them anything fancy. A card tells them that I'm thinking about them.
But my brother can come home one time and buy them a 22 inch flat screen television and they're bragging about it all over town. My brother can treat them to dinner just that one time in five years and they're beaming with pride.
I know I have no right to complain. I'm spoiled. I live at home without worries of paying rent or bills. My parents will flaunt the fact that I have a Bachelor's degree to some people. My parents will supply daily necessities for my use. My parents will foot the bill for everything that I need.
I'm ashamed to say that I'm still unsatisfied. Maybe I shouldn't be saying things like that. I'm a spoiled rotten child. I don't live on the streets and I don't have to shop at economy stores for anything.
Maybe I'm just trying to find a reason vent my frustration that I've never been the favorite child. Maybe I'm just trying to make a reason for myself to become angry with someone. Maybe I'm just giving myself a justification for how irrationally incompassionate I am about people.
Because, frankly, when it comes to situations wherein one should show a bit of feeling... I just don't really give a damn.
My dad's been organizing and reorganizing and cleaning the basement all morning. I haven't bothered to lend a helping hand. And on top of that, it's driving me crazy that somehow, he's still managing to find things to do that's making a racket... as if he's telling me, "This is not my job. This is your job. You should be cleaning the house as the only girl in this family. But instead of telling you to your face, I'm just going to make noises and hope that you feel like a bad daughter for not even bothering." Yea... that's what I'm hearing. Am I crazy? Well, let's not answer that question, cause we already know the answer.
The last draw would have been when my brother came to me to tell me that my father has been bitching about household funds to him. Apparentely, my brother (who makes much more money than me regularly) thinks that I should pay back my parents what money I've borrowed for school as soon as I can, while I'm still trying to pay off the rest of my school on my meager servant's salary of $2.35/hour plus gratuities that may or may not amount to about a hundred dollars biweekly per pay check.
He thinks that I should NOT be borrowing money from my parents for school. I didn't want to tell him that I've paid for all of my school on my own except for two thousand dollars of which I really needed to complete last semester's tuition payment. I didn't want to tell him that between me and the rest of my lovely brothers, I probably borrow the least amount of money from mom and dad.
And I didn't want to tell him that Dad's been bitching to me about house hold finances since the first time my brother's credit card debt amount came in to perspective.
It's not all me, kid. If you feel like you need to repay our parents, you go right ahead. I have no money right now. Leave me out of it. When I finally land myself a good job, of which I have all the confidence I will, then I'll start handing over checks to my parents monthly, just like my elder brother does.
I'm not a moocher, even if I am a bitch and asshole. I will do my part.
But do not come to me an demand that I pay back a percentage of what I've borrowed from the parents. Because in which case, let my just go out to that magical little money tree and harvest it for a couple hundred dollars. Right?
I'm done. My apologies to anyone who has made it this far. I'm just done.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Three Weeks of Relaxing Brain Mush
No, this has nothing to do with a horrific new Quentin Tarentino movie or the like.
My summer class has just come to an end and I realize that I haven't blogged since the beginning of summer. But that's okay cause it's not like much has happened anyway. Between Clinical Microbiology, Parisitology, and Mycology, I've learned that people are safer living in a bubble and having absolutely no fun at all because no matter what you do, you CAN contract some form of bacterial disease or a nasty parasite wherein you spend the rest of your life bed-ridden or hospitalized.
So, so horrible. So everyone just go home now and start building a fort and stock up on lots of bleach, phenol, and well... whatever else that's needed.
LOL
As if... I don't think life would be as fascinating if I couldn't have my raw octopus sushi every so often. And my closest friend would murder if she was told she had to eat all of her steaks cooked to cardboard form.
But anyway, I just checked my grade for the class and I'm fairly content. I didn't get the 'A' that I had been hoping for. That's my fault cause I really should have tried studying more for the first test, because had that grade been a little higher, then I might have hit the borderline for an 'A' and I would at least feel good about it. I managed a high 'B' percent on the last test which then landed me a high 'B' percent in the class overall.
I'm content with it, but not ecstatic. Had I tried harder, I think results would have been different, but I got lazy and so it's my own damn fault that I didn't get that 'A' I wanted so badly.
But anyway again, in other news, everyone seems to be taking a few weeks off during this time as well. While I sit at home and allow my brain to turn into mush for a while before remolding at the end of the month, so are my brothers and my parents. Well, actually, the parental units are only taking a few days off at a time cause they couldn't take more than that, but they're still home and I'm still going to hear it from them regularly.
AT LEAST there's one thing I don't have to hear from them anymore:
As of yesterday evening, my friend and I have begun a rather vigorous exercise regimen wherein we kill ourselves slowly with 3 mile walks, 2 hour tennis playing in the hot beating sun, and another hour of going to the gym.
You know, image has never been an issue for me, but being obese and out of shape has been bothering me for the past few years and I find myself wondering when I ended up becoming so self-conscious about it. I mean, it's not like I was never self-conscious-- since the beginning of time, I've always had low self-esteem.
Growing up with parents who consistently, without fail, compare you to all three of your brothers and be told that you're fat on a regular basis and be told that you're a useless little girl if you don't learn how to cook, clean, take out the trash, babysit the boys, and be an eternal slave did NOTHING to help my already diminishing self-dignity. On top of that, you make friends with some of the smartest girls in school, spend your childhood known as "the crybaby" and are always afraid of what everyone thinks about you to the point that life holds no meaning anymore.
It was fun times until I hit high school and realized that I really did not care what anyone else thought. Truth be told, I followed in my older brother's footsteps for a while until I realized how stupid and retard that particular ideal was. My brother is not a god and has made more mistakes than any normal human being should be allowed. And through him, I learned that I really don't want to be just like him (set aside the fact that he is a male and I am not).
I stopped caring. My parents continued to tell me that I'm fat and slow and clumsy and useless. I continued my epic journey to prove them wrong by being an over-achiever and surpassing everyone in everything if I could manage it.
Okay, so I didn't quit caring what my parents thought about me, but that can't be helped since I've lived in my family's shadow my entire life.
But the fact of the matter was, as far as image goes, I never cared. I don't have a clue how much I weighed back in high school. I don't know what size pants I fit into and I did not care that all of my clothes came from the men's section of a clearance blowout from Venture two years prior. I did what I liked with my own preppy and casual "fashion". Life was so simple.
And then, somehow, after reaching college (as the only official child in this family still in college, then and now) I stopped caring even more. I've proven my point. My brother dropped out of college cause he couldn't handle it and I managed to stay in college... but because there was no more reason to prove to my parents that I'm the smartest person in this family, I just quit trying. No drive, no results. I wasn't even acknowledged anyway, and somehow, my brother was still their pride and joy.
My older brother is a very smart person. A genius, even, if he had simply been able to apply himself. He's successful now with a great position, a good paying job, and he has oodles of experience to back him up. I know this and I can finally acknowledge this-- college does not make one smarter and I feel it actually makes one dumber and more arrogant. I hate myself so much that it sucks.
Anyway, somewhere along the lines of that time period, I began to realize that my self-image was actually quite important to me. I learned from one doctor's office visit that I am way overweight and still gaining. This made me confused at first and then it made me frustrated.
How did I never feel that I was overweight? How did I never realize that I don't fit into my old clothes like I used to? And why is it that now that I've realized how fat I am, I just keep gaining and gaining? Every shirt is tighter now, every pair of jeans does not fit anymore, and food just makes me realize how much of a pig I am-- despite the fact that I still eat it all like its water.
So here I am, trying my best to get rid of all of this excessive weight that's ruined my perfectly good "I don't care about my image" reputation. I care now because I'd like to be able to fit into clothes without looking funny and without going through the XXX-large section every time. And I'd also like my parents to quit telling me that I'm fat and that I need to lose weight, but hey, have another piece of cake, it'll make you feel better.
Say what?
Whatever, I'm just listening to broken records.
Anyway, now that that's out, I need to jump back into my original subject... of which I don't even remember after having ranted my heart out to the world.
Well, I actually do have three weeks off until the Fall semester begins. Pending my work schedule, I think I'll spend a lot of my time going out with my friend and doing out work-outs. It's not like I have anything else to do, really.
And on top of that, even though I said that I'd let my brain turn into mush, I think I'lll end up pulling out my Blood Bank notes and reviewing them a little before classes start again. I need all the studying I can get, because we all know that I'm a useless, stupid, overweight slave girl.
Case closed: as soon as I'm done with this program, I'm seeking employment out of state so that I don't end up blowing my fat stupid brains out, which will happen if I continue to live under my parents' roof and under their constant scrutination of how I do things and why don't act more like my brothers.
One of these days, I hope that they realize that I AM their daughter and NOT their son and that if I am told that I'm fat and need to lose weight one more time, I might scream.
My summer class has just come to an end and I realize that I haven't blogged since the beginning of summer. But that's okay cause it's not like much has happened anyway. Between Clinical Microbiology, Parisitology, and Mycology, I've learned that people are safer living in a bubble and having absolutely no fun at all because no matter what you do, you CAN contract some form of bacterial disease or a nasty parasite wherein you spend the rest of your life bed-ridden or hospitalized.
So, so horrible. So everyone just go home now and start building a fort and stock up on lots of bleach, phenol, and well... whatever else that's needed.
LOL
As if... I don't think life would be as fascinating if I couldn't have my raw octopus sushi every so often. And my closest friend would murder if she was told she had to eat all of her steaks cooked to cardboard form.
But anyway, I just checked my grade for the class and I'm fairly content. I didn't get the 'A' that I had been hoping for. That's my fault cause I really should have tried studying more for the first test, because had that grade been a little higher, then I might have hit the borderline for an 'A' and I would at least feel good about it. I managed a high 'B' percent on the last test which then landed me a high 'B' percent in the class overall.
I'm content with it, but not ecstatic. Had I tried harder, I think results would have been different, but I got lazy and so it's my own damn fault that I didn't get that 'A' I wanted so badly.
But anyway again, in other news, everyone seems to be taking a few weeks off during this time as well. While I sit at home and allow my brain to turn into mush for a while before remolding at the end of the month, so are my brothers and my parents. Well, actually, the parental units are only taking a few days off at a time cause they couldn't take more than that, but they're still home and I'm still going to hear it from them regularly.
AT LEAST there's one thing I don't have to hear from them anymore:
As of yesterday evening, my friend and I have begun a rather vigorous exercise regimen wherein we kill ourselves slowly with 3 mile walks, 2 hour tennis playing in the hot beating sun, and another hour of going to the gym.
You know, image has never been an issue for me, but being obese and out of shape has been bothering me for the past few years and I find myself wondering when I ended up becoming so self-conscious about it. I mean, it's not like I was never self-conscious-- since the beginning of time, I've always had low self-esteem.
Growing up with parents who consistently, without fail, compare you to all three of your brothers and be told that you're fat on a regular basis and be told that you're a useless little girl if you don't learn how to cook, clean, take out the trash, babysit the boys, and be an eternal slave did NOTHING to help my already diminishing self-dignity. On top of that, you make friends with some of the smartest girls in school, spend your childhood known as "the crybaby" and are always afraid of what everyone thinks about you to the point that life holds no meaning anymore.
It was fun times until I hit high school and realized that I really did not care what anyone else thought. Truth be told, I followed in my older brother's footsteps for a while until I realized how stupid and retard that particular ideal was. My brother is not a god and has made more mistakes than any normal human being should be allowed. And through him, I learned that I really don't want to be just like him (set aside the fact that he is a male and I am not).
I stopped caring. My parents continued to tell me that I'm fat and slow and clumsy and useless. I continued my epic journey to prove them wrong by being an over-achiever and surpassing everyone in everything if I could manage it.
Okay, so I didn't quit caring what my parents thought about me, but that can't be helped since I've lived in my family's shadow my entire life.
But the fact of the matter was, as far as image goes, I never cared. I don't have a clue how much I weighed back in high school. I don't know what size pants I fit into and I did not care that all of my clothes came from the men's section of a clearance blowout from Venture two years prior. I did what I liked with my own preppy and casual "fashion". Life was so simple.
And then, somehow, after reaching college (as the only official child in this family still in college, then and now) I stopped caring even more. I've proven my point. My brother dropped out of college cause he couldn't handle it and I managed to stay in college... but because there was no more reason to prove to my parents that I'm the smartest person in this family, I just quit trying. No drive, no results. I wasn't even acknowledged anyway, and somehow, my brother was still their pride and joy.
My older brother is a very smart person. A genius, even, if he had simply been able to apply himself. He's successful now with a great position, a good paying job, and he has oodles of experience to back him up. I know this and I can finally acknowledge this-- college does not make one smarter and I feel it actually makes one dumber and more arrogant. I hate myself so much that it sucks.
Anyway, somewhere along the lines of that time period, I began to realize that my self-image was actually quite important to me. I learned from one doctor's office visit that I am way overweight and still gaining. This made me confused at first and then it made me frustrated.
How did I never feel that I was overweight? How did I never realize that I don't fit into my old clothes like I used to? And why is it that now that I've realized how fat I am, I just keep gaining and gaining? Every shirt is tighter now, every pair of jeans does not fit anymore, and food just makes me realize how much of a pig I am-- despite the fact that I still eat it all like its water.
So here I am, trying my best to get rid of all of this excessive weight that's ruined my perfectly good "I don't care about my image" reputation. I care now because I'd like to be able to fit into clothes without looking funny and without going through the XXX-large section every time. And I'd also like my parents to quit telling me that I'm fat and that I need to lose weight, but hey, have another piece of cake, it'll make you feel better.
Say what?
Whatever, I'm just listening to broken records.
Anyway, now that that's out, I need to jump back into my original subject... of which I don't even remember after having ranted my heart out to the world.
Well, I actually do have three weeks off until the Fall semester begins. Pending my work schedule, I think I'll spend a lot of my time going out with my friend and doing out work-outs. It's not like I have anything else to do, really.
And on top of that, even though I said that I'd let my brain turn into mush, I think I'lll end up pulling out my Blood Bank notes and reviewing them a little before classes start again. I need all the studying I can get, because we all know that I'm a useless, stupid, overweight slave girl.
Case closed: as soon as I'm done with this program, I'm seeking employment out of state so that I don't end up blowing my fat stupid brains out, which will happen if I continue to live under my parents' roof and under their constant scrutination of how I do things and why don't act more like my brothers.
One of these days, I hope that they realize that I AM their daughter and NOT their son and that if I am told that I'm fat and need to lose weight one more time, I might scream.
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