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.

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.

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.

New rant... Parents... Ugh... skip if you have better things to do

Okay, so I'm wondering how well some other people know their own kids. I used to wonder whether it was just me and that no matter what I tell anyone, nobody listens. But then I realized, I'm not always around everyone else, and everyone else still manages to remember some details of what I say. I can't blame them if they don't remember either, because they aren't family and they aren't my parents. Everyone else is not obligated to know me and who I am.

Although I don't give much faith that any of my friends really know who I am. This includes everyone, best friend no exception. Because I'm simply a very private person who doesn't say much about myself. Sure, I'll rant about current news and what's bothering me, but I rarely tell people things that can be significant, but also insignificant at the same time.

I mention the second paragraph (as I skew off the subject of this post) because when I mentioned my little "How Well Do You Know Anita Truong?" quiz on Facebook, no one seemed too ecstatic about taking it except for my classmates who barely know me and who wouldn't be able to get a high score even if they tried. One of them got an eighty percent because she cheated and already knew the answers to a lot of them. And because I gave away a couple freebies.

Yea, my closest friend almost seemed like she was struggling to know the answers to my quiz questions, so instead of making her feel uncomfortable, I smoothly transitioned with: "Well, one of the questions was, 'What is my favorite movie?'... and the answer, of course, is 'Love Actually.'"

Of course, I guess I could have gone and thrown in questions that my closest friends would be more likely to answer correctly, but what fun would that be? I could have asked questions like: "How many brothers do I have?" or "True or False: I graduated valedictorian in high school." or "At what age did I first drink alcohol?" and stuff like that that all of my closest friends would know. Of course, the answer to that last one is a mystery even to me, because even though I never truly started drinking alcohol knowingly until I was twenty-one, I also remember having a sip of my father's beer when I was a little girl and feeling revolted by it. How old was I when that happened? I really can't remember. But the penultimate answer, as far as anyone else knows, is twenty-one.

The fact of the matter is still that, a lot of people don't really know the real me. Some people learn aspects about me pretty quickly because I present that aspect openly. A lot of people, close friends included, don't know that I'm always listening to corny music in three different languages; that I love to write romantic comedies with specific plots and specific types of characters that aren't really that popular; that I love to read amateur romantic comedy stories on Fictionpress.com about young adults; that I am an avid and obsessed fan of the shoujo genre of manga because of all the fluffy and romantic, chicken soup for the hopeless romantic's soul type of stories with a tinge of comedy; that fall for guys easily and still do, but continue to play off the fact that I'm a future spinster in the making; that I'm completely clueless about life, about love, about relationships, about friendships, and about everything, and yet I'm really good at acting like I know what you're talking about; that the only reason I keep claiming that I don't need a boyfriend is still because of my low self-esteem and the fact that no one finds me interesting enough to ask me out, and just because I acted like an ass once towards a guy who could have been a great boyfriend doesn't mean that I'll do the same to every other guy.

I mean, while I'm on this second detoured rant: I am twenty-five years old and I've never dated in my entire life. I don't know how it works; I don't know how the relationship, boyfriend-girlfriend thing works, and I sure as hell don't know what I'm supposed to do or how I'm supposed to react. My hormones are behind my own age and I'm still stuck in the times when, if a guy was interested, he'd try to chase you, he'd ask you out, and he'd do what he can to let you know that he's interested, or even tell you that he's interested. For me, NO ONE MAN has ever told me that he was interested in me.

I mean, is it really my responsibility to make sure that if I go on a blind date that I have to call him, and I have to show, with signs and flashing neon lights, that I'm interested. I show my feelings and emotions much different than every other girl on this planet. I don't know how to flirt, I don't know how to talk to people, and I'm just clueless. But after only one phone conversation, it was already decided that I wasn't interested.

Well, just like the darned movie, maybe he just wasn't that into me.

My friends know that I'm a clueless romantic. I can see it happening in the movies and to other people, but when it's me, it goes right over my head. And I don't want to read the signs all wrong and make a fool of myself. I've asked a guy out before and after the so called lunch "date" was told that he wasn't interested in me. I haven't seen him since.

I spent time over a year flirting with a guy over the internet in private, even though I knew he had a girlfriend, was a friend of my brothers, and I wouldn't have a chance if hell froze over; and then he threw it all back in my face when he claimed that I was the one who did all the flirting and that he was merely responding. And so gave the idea of "flirting" the boot to the curb and decided that I would never do it again unless I really liked someone and knew I'd have a chance.

And then I spent a year crushing on another guy who was not good for me only to have my closest friend ask him about me during one drunken party just to find out for me that he's not interested, of which I had already known. I had a crush on a gay friend, I had a crush on many jerks, and eventually I fell for the guy who was my blind date to begin with, of which everyone tells me that I blew off and so lost my chance.

While I admit that I hadn't been attracted to him at first, that doesn't mean that I wasn't interested, and I sure as hell hadn't blown him off. And if I did, I don't know how I had done it. I really do like him now and I know it's my own fault that it hadn't worked out. But the fact of the matter was, we had spent a total of two times doing stuff that seemed related to dating: we went out bowling with friends as the meeting, and then he called and we talked for a while. After that... well, nothing.

I'm dense when it comes to talking to people, and I just think he wasn't really that intereted in me in the first place to give up so easily.

Then again, I don't know how this stuff works anyway.

But getting back on track after two detours, today's post was really supposed to be about me ranting about how my parents never remember anything that I tell them, but will always remember everything that my brothers have to do without them having to tell them. It's also about how my parents still don't know my likes and dislikes after so many years of living under the same roof together. That just goes to show that just because you're family doesn't mean that you know better than other people.

My mother will remember when my older brother comes in from his most recent business trip down to the exact time; they'll remember tennis games for my little brother, and they remember when my other brother has to work and when he gets off work and what days he has off. They remember a lot of that stuff.

I go to school Monday through Thursday at eight o'clock in the morning, each of those days. I usually work on weekends during the evening. I will even tell my parents that same exact week what my schedule looks like and which days I work and which days I don't work. I will tell them about parties that I'm going to on certain days. But on Friday mornings, it does not fail: "Anita, you don't have school today?" "Anita, you don't work today?"

And they will also rememember when my brothers have their own parties to go to. Well, when I inform them ahead of time that I have one too, they seem to conveniently forget.

They have always known that my younger brother prefers egg noodles over rice noodles, but conveniently forget that I prefer rice noodles over egg noodles and claim that I've always eaten egg noodles when clearly I've always ordered the rice noodle dishes when we go out to lunch. My parents know that my elder brother cannot stand heat and so the air conditioning comes on in full blast. They know my brother's friends without effort, and they know what kind of cakes and ice creams that they prefer.

For me: my parents have never made an effort to get to know my friends. When my older brother had a birthday, his friends had been invited over, everyone says happy birthday to him, everyone knows its his birthday. We all sit around the kitchen table and do all the birthday stuff and my parents are social with my brother's friends. The very next day when my birthday rolls around and my best friend comes to hang out with me, everyone hides. My father stays in his bedroom clicking around on the internet, my brother's remain down in the basement playing their video games, and so it's just me, my best friend, and then my mother singing happy birthday to me and cutting the cake with me and taking pictures.

I'd be lying that that day hadn't upset me. I even fel compelled to apologize to my best friend for my father's behavior, for the rest of my family's act of staying away. I expressed to her that I was upset that none of my family felt that my birthday was important enough to spend with me for a few minutes by cutting the cake. And that just because I have a friend over doesn't mean that everyone can act like assholes.

I was upset that time. I really was.

My parents know about the dates and girlfriends that my elder brother has had. My parents have been kind to all of my older brother's friends. But I don't invite my friends over anymore because my parents are rude to them by hiding.

On average, I probably talk to my parents in civil conversation more often than my brothers do. On average, I probably do special things for my parents more than my brothers do. Sure, the older brother paid for a new flat screen with a TV stand and everything to go with it. Sure, the older brother takes them out to eat often. But every year, I'm the one who buys Christmas cards, birthday cards, Father's Day cards, Mother's Day cards... all of it, and then I sign all of their names because they're too busy to bother with it.

You know... I think by now, I'm done with it all. After this year, I'm done. No more cards will be bought. My mother's birthday will be the last and then I'm done. I'm tired of being the considerate one, yet no one will be considerate towards me. I mean, I suggest hanging out and going out to eat. But my brothers are so wrapped up in their games and their sleeping, and their own fun and their own convenience that we often don't leave for dinner in time to make it to nice places and have to settle for what's left. My brother's spend my parents money endlessly like they have a right, but when I do it once, everyone jumps on my case.

I'm tired of being the one overlooked.

My parents don't seem to know me. My parents don't understand me, and they sure as hell don't seem like they're going to make an effort either.

It's like they have selective hearing or something, but it's a tad annoying.

But anyway, this post has gotten longer and more whiny than I'd expected. I really hadn't intended to become the spoiled and dramatic "woe is me" character that I despise so much. I apologize to anyone who's gotten this far in the post because you've put up with a lot already. I can be very whiney when I get started, and for all I know, it's probably not as bad as my state of mind is making it sound right now. I mean, maybe I just need to build a bridge and get over it, because my life doesn't suck and I have no rights to complain to anyone at all. I have no rights to complain period. I'm just a whiny baby and I'll learn to get over it, because there's no other way.

And I have to leave for work in the next seven minutes. So well, if I decide to rant again, I guess it'll be part two.

Today I get to soak myself in cigar smoke. I'll be crankier and have a bigger headache than usual.

Fate, fat, me, and a new health regimen

I assume that the Fates are against me no matter what I try to do, but I will stick to this new "diet" plan and I will at least look good in something from Maurices this Saturday for my "birthday" gathering. In keeping with trying to lose weight (which is an ongoing struggle involving me, my parents, and good food) I've promised myself that this summer I will try to eat healthy as a means to at least not gain anymore than I already have. Exercise is beyond me since I'm a lazy ass and my school schedule doesn't leave much room for me to do much physical activities.

I did however, promise my friend that we would go on her three mile, treacherous journey in the park every weekend. I don't know if I have just signed my death certificate or not, cause I'm at least able to make it around and back alive without wheezing.

My exercise plan has always been, no exercise more vigorous than walking up and down a set of stairs.

But anyway, I started my day by eating breakfast, since apparently eating breakfast is a good way to make sure you don't eat too much dinner, which is a good way of making sure that you can digest everything throughout the day instead of cramming it all together at night and hoping that something digests before you go to sleep. And so, even though it wasn't a big breakfast, I still ate something: yogurt. Yeah, I know, it's not a big deal and nothing to write home about. But I've gotten so used to not eating breakfast that I now feel queasy because I did eat breakfast today.

It's not part of my usual consumption so it's starting to confuse my body.

Following breakfast, I had put together a few things for lunch: some leftover pasta from Red Beans and Bayou Grill, a small dose of peanut butter, and one apple. I managed to finish eighty percent of my apple with the peanut butter smeared on before I began to feel full. I forced myself to finish the rest of my apple and a good portion of the peanut butter and I now continue to feel queasy. I didn't even bother to touch the leftover pasta and may end up throwing that, plus the rest of the portion of my leftovers that I left at home, away into the trash.

Peanut butter is freakishly filling and I think I know how I'm going to control my diet now. I don't think that peanut butter is going to completely fatten me up if I eat it all the time, but I know I'll probably end up getting sick of it easily.

This only means that I need to come up with other lunch ideas.

In other news, I'm turning twenty-five next week and I feel much older than that.

In school I've just begun the "new semester" but the summer semester really doesn't start until two weeks from today. But I'm already in class and cramming new material and listening to noisy classmates talk about nothing in particular. Every so often, someone will yell out something random and only one out of ten times is it actually something humorous enough to make me chuckle to myself. Other times it's just annoying and you don't know whether to laugh or to roll your eyes; I probably do the latter without realizing it.

But it's okay, because I'm good at selective hearing and I sometimes chose to think that I don't know or care about what's going on anyway. Life in class is beginning anew once again, and it just feels like the end is not very far away even though there is still so much to go through.

Anyway, well, there's little else to mention. My new "diet" plan is going to annoy me and make me cranky, because they always do. On top of that, my friend has always been so stuck on her ideas that her ideas of a good "diet" regimen is going to get on my nerves. Friends who are head strong are so hard to talk to if you really don't want to piss them off.

Self-discovery and some reminiscing of a sort

It's Memorial Day weekend and school starts again tomorrow. I've yet to even think about how I'm going to go about organizing my class work this summer, but I know it's going to be vigorous.

I'm turning twenty five next week and I lose my insurance with my parents. Fortunately for me, I've bought myself some more of that nifty insurance stuff that I probably don't even need anyway because I rarely get myself seriously hurt or sick enough that I have to see a doctor. I see my doctor maybe once a year for annual check-ups. Otherwise, I don't even see the doctor's parking lot at all for a long time. My immune system is in tip-top shape, and I can take care of myself just fine when I get sick.

But back to my utterly insignificant ramblings...

A lot of thoughts come into your mind when you least expect them to. For me, they happen when you've got a lot to think about and a lot of time to let your mind think. Random things come to mind whenever I simply sit and play Minesweeper on the computer. Even more random thoughts happen as I'm showering.

Worse yet, today I've realized just how much of a caring and compassionate person that I... well, that I'm not.

It's Memorial Day weekend and it's a chance for all families to get together, visit the graves and have a picnic or barbeque. I go walking with my friend, then I visit my grandparents' graves with my family and everything feels so obligated and meaningless.

For a few dull, odd minutes, my parents debated over which side of grandma's nameplate to stand on to be correct. To the side, an old man stood before another grave and bowed his head in respect as he was probably thinking about old times and remembering things about his deceased loved one. Back to grandma's grave, my parents are now discussing my grandmother's true age because, after all, let's face it, all Asian women who'd come to America will falsify their age at some point in time. And apparently, my grandmother was one of them.

Dad wanted to make sure we knew that.

After our simple little visit, we walked away and my parents end up discussing why there's a particular tombstone that is shaped oddly like a bench with only one name inscribed into it. My dad conveniently points out that another grave nearby belongs to the guy of the same name on the bench and Mom wonders why someone would want to put a bench in the middle of a cemetery anyway.

Dad says that people donate to the funeral home and get their names carved in places. For instance, some trees were donated and little plaques are set up next to them to indicate exactly who had done this nice deed for the home.

So there's my lovely little life in a nutshell of reminiscing about deceased loved ones. To make matters more interesting, the one major thing that I actually notice about my grandfather's grave when he'd visited him (at another cemetery earlier) was that his tombstone was leaning very far forward. But it's okay, right? Because all of the other tombstones are also leaning very far forward.

Dad says it's to make them look ancient or to depict which graves are older than others.

But you know, I'm not sure how much of what Dad said today was really just guesses, cause I'm sure landscaping has a lot to do with how the tombstones are put down...

But anyway, enough about depressing cemetery conversation between my parents.

In a nutshell, it just seems as if I found the conversation much more amusing over realizing that Memorial Day is supposed to have meaning behind it. Instead, I find no meaning behind anything anymore.

I've discussed this with my friend. There are no holidays out there that have any meaning for me. None of them actually do anything for me at all. Nothing holds meaning for me and it's not just about the holidays or whatnot.

I've found that sometimes I can be completely indifferent to my friends' cries for attention and help. Sometimes whenever they talk, I just don't care. Whenever some other acquaintances seem to have issues piling up in their laps, I just don't care. Whenever people I know seem to be breaking down and having a hard time... well, again, I simply just don't care.

I don't care enough to listen and I don't care enough to offer my condolences, nonetheless offer a shoulder to cry on or a false promise of "Let me know what I can do to help you." Because sometimes those words are said hollowly anyway and you expect that 99 percent of the time, you won't be told if there's really something that you can do to help.

I don't offer any of that because I know for a fact that there is never anything that can be done to help or to make things better.

And in my mind, people love to lay out their problems to the world anyway. I've always said it: People love to glorify their misery. Drama is a true best friend to many, especially a lot of women. It's a sad thing to admit, but it's the truth. But don't get me started on that soap box of opinions.

Simply put, I'm just a horrible, horrible little person.

I mean, just the other day, I was talking to my best friend and telling her about that guy I have a crush on who has a girlfriend. I'm a bad person when it comes to dating and I'm not quite sure that I'll ever be ready to take on relationships of the romantic, intimate kind. But my exact words to my best friend had been, "Is it bad that I'm waiting for them to break up?"

Oh yea, I'm a horrible person. I really do like him, but I barely know him. And I think he's a great guy and because he has a girlfriend, I don't ever want to hear about it. I just like to hear that he's single and willing to hang out with friends regularly. But I just don't like hearing about his girlfriend and I'm wanting them to break up. The most horrible part of this situation, however, is the fact that even if he breaks up, he won't be interested in dating me and if he is, I don't know how I owuld handle it.

I definitely won't be the one doing anything to make things happen.

So, in the end, I'm just a horrible, unsympathetic, incompassionate jerk. It's great, we have so much fun being assholes.

The last final this semester and an Elvis impersonator

I worked as a bartender on Saturday and ended up watching the most interesting form of entertainment for a group of fifty chiropractors. After listening to a short speech by Miss Kansas, of whom I did not recognize, but thought had the weirdest looking skirt and funniest looking crown, the group got an Elvis impersonator to perform for them.

So I usually have no problems with entertainment and singing entertainment. Not everyone is good, but he wasn't a bad singer. And I don't really know Elvis that well, but I've heard his music even if I'm not really a fan.

However, where my bar was set up including how the stage was set up, I had the most unfortunate angle to view the Elvis impersonator and his... less than left to the imagination pants. Spotlights and white clothing equals a bad combination. Let's just say I spent a good amount of time averting my eyes from him. And those pants should never go into fashion again.

Yea... I'm not that much of a fan of the guy, impersonator or not.

But enough of that.

This morning I'm taking my last final of the semester. Whoop-dee, it's almost over... well, for a few days and then school starts up again in a week. All is cool, but because my boss found out that I have a week off, I'm practically working every day.

That's fine, my friend will be home soon and I'll hopefully get to hang out with her at least once before the summer semester starts. On top of that, my twenty-fifth is coming up in two weeks, right dab smack in the middle of the two week pre-session of a vigorous class. And then I lose my insurance coverage, so I need to get something new from the school.

At least there is ONE thing to look forward to: I've asked my friend to make me a strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting as her birthday present to me and she agreed. I'll be happily chowing down on that and, well, being happy. I love cake and I haven't had strawberry cake in a while. This will be nice.

There are other things I'd love to get as well, but that's for the future when we all actually have money. Right now, we just perservere with what we have.

You know those days I used to sleep...

So it's Mother's Day and I can't quite feel my arms or my back. I hate to say things like this when it's a significant holiday, but I am seriously in lots of pain at the moment. My arms are literally threatening to fall off and I'm wondering if it isn't because I stayed up most of the night to do homework...

Well, it's my own fault really. If I hadn't spent all Friday being a bum then I could've been done with my take home final already. Instead, I spent my day half working on it and half playing around in virtual reality. And now I've barely skimmed the bulk of my work. On top of that I have a test tomorrow that I'm freaking out about for some reason despite it being mostly a common sense subject and I won't have time the rest of today to do any studying nonetheless finish that take home final.

And then there're all my other finals to think about. I shall not be sleeping because only one of those finals are even remotely dreamably doable.

Yea... Sleep will not be in my near future but at least I get to take four days to myself the following week. Although I did stupidly inform my boss that I would be available during that time. That just means that I'm asking to be put to work which I am definitely not.

I'm so tired and cranky right now.

But enough of the woes...

Plans... but not really

I actually have a Friday off from work this week, which I would be completely ecstatic about if I didn't have finals coming up. It also doesn't help that the one person I would normally be hanging out with is in Louisiana right now. I can't exactly take my own road trip to Louisiana just to hang out for the night. By the time I get there, I'll have to turn around and come right back because even with Friday night off, I still have to work on Saturday.

So as a means to remain as productive as possible, I've made my own stay-at-home plans to sit in one place all night and do some studying. I have one take home final to finish up, which will probably take a couple hours cause it's really long. And then I have a test to skim notes for on Monday. And then Finals will begin to conquer my life next week.

I've already told my friends that I won't be very present in the following week... or for the next few weeks... months... even the rest of the year. I will be buried beneath text books and they'll be wondering whether or not I'm still alive enough to hang out. And if so, will I become cranky all of a sudden.

At work, I've been run ragged from those groups of people who think that banquet servers are like magic and can teleport from one end of the hallway to another within seconds. And I swear, I think one of those women last night thought I had more than two hands, because she kept trying to hand me her dirty plate even though I was already carrying more than my share of stuff.

People never cease to amuse me.

And then there are those coworkers who simply don't know when to stop talking about their personal lives. Well, it's fine if you want to vent... but really now, some times too much information is too much information and I'd rather not be listening to certain things. Makes you feel a little awkard. And then you don't know what to say and silence ensues.

And then we change the subject to "So I saw the funniest thing yesterday" to which you try and claw at some random humorous event you may or may not have seen, be it yesterday or not. It's okay, amusing things happen regularly. There's bound to be something you can tell your friends about to make the awkward silence go away before someone shoots someone else.

In other news, my dad has gone into ultra monetary nag mode once again and I have to start thinking about how I shall pay both my parents back for all the money I've spent of their's since the beginning of my life. It's like he thinks that I can just pull some wads of hundred dollar bills out of my ass and hand it to him. Really now, my dead beat job doesn't even pay enough for me to be handing out hundreds of dollars... even for fun.

And my younger brother who makes more money than I do at his job thinks that I have money to "pay back" my parents for stuff. I really, really wanted to punch him. I think I wanted to punch him more when he asked me whether or not I'm sure I'd be finding a job after this Med Tech program is over and done with. You know, because according to him, all med techs do the exact same thing anyway, so why do we need so many of them? Two can handle a lab right? I really, really, really about punched him then.

The little prick has always been a bit arrogant just because he has a nice full-time job with good benefits and I don't. I guess he forgot to consider that he had gotten his nice little full-time job with good benefits through connection. Basically, my older brother said, let him work here... and they did. My older brother never did something like that for me. The little prick didn't even have to go for an interview and was hired on because he was recommended by one of company's favorite whipping boys.

And me... through connection, I got a dead beat, $2.35/hr plus gratuities job where you can either have no hours, be run to death, or sit around and make money. Take your pick, I hate working with customers and pretending that I'm a cheery, happy-go-lucky person, but it's all I got right now. I'm not ungrateful that my uncle connected me, but this is not exactly a real job, and I didn't even have an interview. And so I'm not going around gloating about it as if I were better than my brother who has a nicer job.

I really, really feel like hitting him sometimes.

But anyway, all of this is relative.

In a perfect life, my ideal job would be where I sit at my desk all day long, write stories, review all sorts of stuff and make money from it. I like to just sit and write, but of course, this isn't a perfect world and if it were, it would probably bore me to death.

I'm so, so hard to please despite being an easily amused person-- those are two different things anyway.

The near future and a funny smell

This break room literally reeks of formaldehyde from the gross anatomy class and it's giving me a headache.

Aside from that, I really should be studying for my finals and other tests upcoming, but my mind is kind of preoccupied with nothing right now. I'm just on that downslope we like to call "Slacker Hell" wherein I try to come up with all reasons possible to procrastinate and put off staring at endless slides of notes and study questions.

It's horrible, but it's nearing the end of the semester and I tend to do things like that because... well, it feels easier. I've lost steam these past few weeks and really, all I want to do is sit around and do nothing.

Granted, I've been forcing myself to study and I've been finishing up all the homework and take-home finals I have, but that doesn't mean that studying for upcoming finals are going to be less arduous. I'm straining and I hate it.

At home, my mind is more interested in playing an endless game of Trivial Pursuit with my brother even though we've probably already recycled all the answer three times. Movies are more enticing and I'm sitting through reruns of the first three seasons of FREINDS just because I can-- not to say I'm not enjoying it since FRIENDS is one of my favorite series.

And I think that I may have even ticked off one of my friends because I've been ignoring her on account of my being buried in work and suddenly I want to go out and do something. But lo and behold, she's leaving town-- of which she's probably already told me ten times plus when she would be leaving and I just kept forgetting.

I am a great friend!

The smell of formaldehyde isn't getting any better and there doesn't seem to be a way to fix it.

And lately, I've been having the weirdest dreams about a certain somebody that I would rather not make public. Let's just say that I'm relieved that at least not all of them are... well, rated adult. Oh my god! Don't tell me that stupid virgin sexual frustration is finally catching up with me...

Okay, TMI. I'm sorry. Just ignore all of that. I think when I stop staring at endless med tech notes and school work, I'll be able to come back into reality and be a normal person. Well, at least I'll be able to be the person I was before I... crossed further into the realm of insanity. So everyone just has to deal with it for another year. And then after that, you only have to deal with my usual abnormal self.

In other news, I think I'm botching up my "Musings of a Random Girl" series by going too far overboard into the reality sector. I need to take out at least 60% of the truths in those short stories and replace them some fiction, otherwise, I'm just ranting and ranting is always best left for the blogs. In the story, it needs to be more than just me screaming injustices at the world.

In fact, the first two shorts of "Musings" are actually perfect with the exception of those too close to personal reality stuff. Without them, the stories would probably be left without substance, but I don't want to use too much of personal reality to write them. I'd rather make up half of it like I sort of did with the second story. So a lot of rewriting will be in order even though those are the official first stories I have ever finished to the end without it being part of a school assignment a la Creative Writing class which did nothing to boost my ego and did nothing to improve my writing skills except to tell me that I'm wordy.

Oh yea... I'm extremely wordy. I'm random, I ramble, I'm wordy, and I take forever to get to the point if there ever was one. It can't be helped, but it's going to be the death of me. I was alway hoping that I could balance out wordy with humor, but I'm not sure if it works that way. We'll just have to see.

I have a friend who has agreed to read my two finished products and critique them harshly. So if I come back to the blog with a depressing, virtually tear-stained post, that will be why.

Anyway, I have a lab practical to do in about forty-five minutes; and so in order for life to continue on, I must prevail. Or whatever. I'm a geek and I pathetically admit that I'm a loser too.

None of the above has anything to do with anything, and now I'm just rambling even more.