They Called it Puppy Love

My titles are getting increasingly more cheesy as time progresses. I'm not concerned with this however, for numerous reasons- the main one being that I don't really care.

As one may be able to deduce from the title, this blog post concerns dogs.

Namely, a Miniature Pinscher mix by the name of Winnie. Well actually, her name is D43011. My mother, sister and I decided on the name Winnie Star Bucks the other day on the drive home.

We went around to a few different dog shelters the other day, before finally falling in love with D43011 at the 3rd and final shelter of the day.

Basically, she's freaking adorable.

Screw Cupid

I woke up this morning, snuck up and pounced on my sister, (just to see if I could scare her; she usually catches me before I have the chance) and then I went to the bathroom.

And promptly got a nosebleed.

I can't even remember the last time I got a nosebleed, but I have a foggy recollection that makes me believe it was in my dad's truck, because I remember thinking, "I can't get blood on the grey upholstery".

Anyway, nosebleeds are interesting sensations. You can feel the blood trickle it's way through your nostril, and it's different then just having a runny nose, because blood is much more watery then mucus.

Wow. I really make intriguing blog posts, don't I?

I'm Awfully Off

Sometimes I can't help but hate myself, and more often then not, my life.

And sometimes self-insecurity will hit me like a brick wall, and I'll just kinda of freeze and look at all of the coolly dressed, confident, attractive people that flow around my frozen stance, the literal pebble in a stream. They have friends. They have a happy life, at least to some extent.

And so do I! I'm not claiming not to have friends, or a decently happy life. Just. . . Just all of my friends (or at least a good number of them) are virtual. And many, if not all attempts on my behalf to change that fact, merely do the opposite of it's intentions, and result in my being more alone then ever.

I Always Wanted to be Snoopy

It's with mild anxiety fluttering painfully in my stomach that I write to this blog.

As I'm sure Future-Me (the sole reader of these posts) will remember quite well, we moved into the apartment with the tacky 80's wall paper in the bathroom, and the ugly floral couches (which, to their benefit, are surprisingly comfortable). I'm sitting at the table that I first did roughly a week and a half-ago, when my mother and I first came to scope out the place. We're here for 3 months, as I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before.

The issue that has compelled me to yet again indulge in writing here, is my meeting with my father tonight. My father has been. . . interesting, in these days of separation. His facebook page is plastered of melancholy statements about love, and a picture of a Lucy from the Peanuts pulling away the football as Charlie Brown goes hurtling, screaming through the air. His comment? "A grin of sadistic glee on her face..."

Nice. Real nice, Dad.

Rolling Girl

I awake this morning to packing.

My mother has decided that she can stay here no longer, has rescheduled her surgery (that would render her immobile for a day) and today we are packing up whatever we may need for a few days. We're not leaving the house permanently; my dad works a 7 AM - 6 PM shift most days, so we'd be able to indulge in the "luxuries" of our house during the daytime.

Clothes, food, books, computers, etc. etc. . . We're packing it all up and leaving. We're also going to be meeting the real estate agent from a few days ago, and sign for the condo we checked out. If we can't move in right away, mom says, we'll get a hotel. She says she needs to breathe, and that dad's not letting her do that.

It's an interesting sensation, I guess. Packing up as if we were moving yet again. I've moved about 4 times in my life, but it's been years since the last one, and therefore I am blissfully out of shape when it comes to art of packing boxes, sharpies and tape. Tissue wrapping valuables is a skill I've long since lost. So I'm just going to jam as many clothes as I possibly can into my suitcase, grab a few books, all electronic gizmos and whatever remains of the Mountain Dew.

Clearly, my plan is fool proof.

Anyway, finger's crossed that the next time I write you, it will be in that condo with the hideous floral couches.

50th Post: Angst Extravaganza!

I'm a little at a loss of what to do currently, sitting in my pajamas at the counter top having finished breakfast.

For the past week, I've woken up somewhere around 6 AM, had to pack up a hotel room, haul luggage down flights of stairs, elevators, sidewalks, help pack up the car and then drive until about 9 PM. And this past weekend, having returned home, I've also had to wake up at 6 AM, sleep on the floor of my parent's bedroom, eat at Panera for breakfast two mornings in a row, go apartment hunting, kill time outside of the house, skirt around my dad and begrudgingly listen in to my parent's teary conversations.

Only Rainbows after Rain

Well, I certainly took my own sweet time in updating this blog, of which I'd apologize for, if not for the fact that I highly doubt anyone actually cares. Which is kinda preferable at this point, in all honesty.

You see, I've been realizing that my theory on the benefits of online socializing, being yourself and not worrying about appearances, has more flaws then I'd expected. Because the thing is, I'm not 100% myself on this blog. Nor am I 100% myself on other websites; although I am certainly more myself on online social/writing websites, I am very different facets of my personality for different sites.