Be-bop Skiddly Do Bop Schwee

Today I was dusting the dusty dust off the dust-covered surfaces of our house and I thought to my racist self "If dust is mostly made of dead skin cells, do people with darker skin have darker dust in their homes?" And then I concluded in my lazy half-assed, totally unresearched manner "No, surely not. Skin cells are so tiny, the melanin content would be insignificant at that level." And then I thought about how everything is just an elaborately crafted series of seemingly insiginificant events. Like the plastic on that chair that you're sitting in. Yes, you there! On your high and mightly swirly computer chair with the lever underneath so that you may properly adjust yourself to the height of the desk. Or pretend that you're taking off on a really slow rocket ship that only travels a foot at a time... *reminisce* oh, childhood. All that plastic is made of tiny strand after strand of carbon... thingeys, all tiny, yet oh-so-significant. Or the way that all the tiny cells in yo momma's womb came together at just the right place and time and made a baby.

But we don't appreciate the tinies. We only show respect when they all come together and make something that is much much bigger and significant... to us. Only then does it get a little spot in our tangled jungle of conciousness. Like that dead skin cell that just flaked off my nose. I didn't appreciate it's protection while it was actually a part of me. And I won't notice it in its dust form until it joins forces with a billion other Lisa cells and forms a layer on the fireplace mantle .

And then I thought about life, and how a life and a person is made up of so many tiny events and how we don't actually get to see the product until all the little events have accumulated and started to come together. And then I started to think of little events as battles. Battles that I have to fight each and everyday to create the dust layer of my life. Like the battle that I won this morning with the microwave as it heated up my bagel and didn't explode in my face. And the epic battle that I lost this afternoon with the garage door as it tore the mirror off the side of my car. And the silent battle that I'm currently engaged in with my father as he struggles not to kill me... with a monkey wrench.

But do the events really matter? And if not, then what does matter in life? Do the things that I may or may not do this summer really matter in the grand scheme of things? Maybe I was just created to pass on my "good genes" and then die. Or maybe there is a greater calling for humans and we should all come together like so many monomers and actually impact... something.

Herumph.

Jesus loves the little chidlins...

I have had that damn song stuck in my head all day. It's scary when your past comes back to haunt you like that.

I've also been trying to decide what to do with my life. Not all day long, but for the past thirty minutes or so. It's hard to do because it's pretty depressing. All of the majors that I feel like I could actually do something with require scary courses. Like calculus-based physics and computer programming. Considering my experiences with beginner's chemistry last year (problem sets at 2 in the morning, cramming for exams that you know you'll fail, and a constant stream of tears) I'm not sure if I'm up for all these "hard core" classes. Now I understand why Oskar doesn't want to come to Cornell (on a much smaller scale). It's like you're diving head long into the unknown. All of these classes are just words on a page until you actually get there. And then you can't get out. And you're trapped in a tiny box-world of numbers and calculations and soulless knowledge.

I think I'm just going to dive right into environmental engineering anyway. I won't flunk out of Cornell ("failure" is not in the Passmore vocabulary; "damn close to failure" is, but not "failure), I'll just get a pathetic GPA and pray that someone hires me. And even if I end up living in a shitty apartment, working at McDonalds, living off of the dollar menu at Wendy's, I'll be okay with that. As long as I have friends there with me. Or Oskar. Or both. That would be a really good life.

Tree-hugger majors, here I come! *clicks heels together*

Family Meeting!!!

Kids, your mother and I have decided that it's time that we all had a little... talk. We both love you very much and always want to do what is best for you and that's why... well, we're going to talk about shower hygiene. Yes, that's right the hygiene behind the hygiene. I don't know why I did that unnecessary intro, but it's okay, because that's all behind us now.

Personally, I'm a wash cloth woman. I will throw in the occasional loofah scrub when I'm feeling particularly inspired, but for the most part, I stick to soap and cloth. Which leads me to my first question: how often should you change out your wash cloth? And does the same logic necessarily apply to towels? And where the hell does the loofah fit into all of this? These are serious questions, people. The sanitation needs of humanity depend on the answers! No I am not blowing this all out of proportion! Okay! Just a little! I just feel like there is a real need to discuss these types of issues nowadays.

Bitch got issues...

Hello and happy Friday to you all! I hope you find yourself in splendidly high spirits on this lovely precursor to the weekend. May the lord shineth his rays of hope down upon thee and bless thine life with the splendors of his love. Amen. And amen.

Yeah, me neither.

So here I am eating miso soup at midnight. It sounds like the title of a melodramatic mid-westerner's really bad first novel. A "masterpiece of a work in which she recounts the trials of a young pregnant teen growing up in America's heartland". Was that a rant? I'm not even sure.

This miso soup was brought to you by a tube of mysterious paste-like substance and a bag of freeze dried tofu that I found in my pantry five minutes ago. And it is surprisingly delicious. I'm sure it has everything to do with my obscene cravings of salty foods for the past week and nothing to do with actual quality.

Back in Michigan again. Missing Texas like a bitch. A bitch dat gots issues. There's something about this place that's very lonely. It might have to do with the whole "big house out in the middle of nowhere" thing, but I'm trying to convince myself that that's not the case. I think it's mostly having no one to talk to. And nothing to talk about. Hmmm *formulates scheme to transport Bellami's house filled with everyone she knows and loves to Michigan* (Oh how I do miss the Bellami-ness). But enough of this sadness. Life is pointless and living is futile and Lester, Ester, Wyatt, Amelia, Apple, and Parsley seedlings have stopped growing because there's is no sunlight in this godforsaken house.

I've been looking for a job. So far I've applied to Victoria's Secret, Bed Bath and Beyond, Bath and Body Works, Maurices (clothing store), Claires, Barnes and Noble... and I think that's all. My pickiness with jobs and severe lack of credentials (haha... oh, waitressing years. How I'll never ever miss you.) make me think that I won't be getting hired any time soon. But I'm okay with spending the next two months sleeping until noon and living off of chocolate chip cookies. (God, I'm a spoiled brat.) Now all I need to do is get pretty so I can marry some over-ambitious investment banker and live like this for the rest of my life. Yay! for realistic goals.

Christians don't bother me. In fact, it really bothers me when people "Christian-bash" and assume that everyone that has any kind of religion is a bible-beating evangelical who worships George W. Bizzle... for rizzle. Because they're not. A lot of them are great people who I am only slightly jealous of for having more concept of who they are as a person than I will ever have. But not my sister. For she is one crazy biatch. Most likely, I will regret all of this later, but I predict that she will be the freakishly twitchy, over-bearing, nightmare of a mother by the time she hits forty. And for some reason she will have wild red hair and wear it all on top of her head in a rigid cocoon of hairspray and malice. And I will be the hippy aunt who slips her nieces and nephews hard liquor at new years and is still trying to get laid.