Monday Bear

So I’ve got this idea:  They should have ride-on vacuum cleaners.  Like the lawn mowers, you know.  I wonder why they don’t.  It would make cleaning much more exciting, making my house much more clean.

I can’t sleep.  I was really tired when I went to bed, but then I started thinking about wedding flowers, so I though, “Oh, I’ll get on the computer and look for a florist!”.  Nope.  Here’s a list of things I did:

• Check email.
• Play on facebook.
• Make an Alley Jo Tribute photo album on Myspace.
• Read a Wikipedia article about John Wayne Gacy, because I was looking for a link to his artwork, which I was going to send to someone and never did.  Whoops.
• Read some blogs.
• Google image search “beauty.”  I was kind of hoping to find a picture of me.  Alas.  If someone can make that happen, it would be much appreciated.  I’ll so give you a dollar.
• Look at Matthew’s website, because I missed him, but I didn’t want to go into the bedroom because it’s dark and scary in there.
• Look for hp print projects, even though I don’t have a printer.
• Google “Nashville florists” and look at one website.
• Decide to blog.

An Oreck infomercial is on.  When is that guy supposed to die, anyway?  I mean, he’s cute and all, but he’s been old since I was a baby.  Every dog has his day, you know?

Mine and Matthew’s 2 year anniversary is next Monday.   I remember when we would flirt with each other on gTalk and google everything that the other person would talk about, because we really had no idea.  I remember trying so hard to impress him, because I thought he was way too cool for me.  I remember when I pretended to be more health-conscious than I really am to avoid seeming fat and slobbish.  I think all girls do that.  I know my mom does.  I remember going to school and telling my friends about “this cute boy from mtsu, and he has a beard, and he’s soooo cool, and he has a beautiful smile, and he wears the cutest clothes, and he’s really smart…”

And now we’re getting married.

Golly gee, I’m getting way to real.  Which brings me to my next point:

Nobody wants to read your poetry.

I can’t tell you how many blogs I’ve opened and immediately closed because I see, “I wrote this last night.  Let me know what you think.”  *snap snap*

People want to read witty one-liners and short paragraphs.  Not a page long deal about a lost love or dog.

If you want someone to read your poetry, put it on one of those websites like poetry.com, where you and other lames like you can all read each others poetry and talk about your feelings and rhyming dictionaries.
It’s always an awkward scenario when a friend asks you to read their poetry or prose, either by electronic file, or worse, paper.  If they email it to you, you can just pretend to read it, and say, “wow, cool.  Deep.” But if they hand you a piece of paper, that’s more difficult to fake.

Even worse is when they say, “I wrote this for/about you.”  Then you -have- to read it, because

1.  You actually kind of want to know what they said.
2.  They’re definitely going to want some kind of feedback other than “whoa.”

I remember back when I was hot and desirable, and boys would always write songs/poetry for me.  I think literally every boyfriend I had up until Matthew wrote stuff for me.  I only remember one being good; he wrote it on pretty paper and put it in a frame for me for Christmas.  Then I took it to ballet, and made my friends ooh and ahh.  This guy at school said something about his misspelling, but it turns out that guy actually wrote me some pretty bad poetry a few months later when said boyfriend broke up with me.   The weirdest thing was when a guy who I had no idea had feelings for me wrote several poems for me.  I’m actually thinking of a particular guy.  We were on MSN messenger (which is what we did in high school) talking about music or something, and he directs me to his poetry.com page.  I pretend to read his poetry, and then he gives me the, “Well those were actually about you.”

I’m really glad there was an e-barrier between us.

I just decided that if you want to have a separate page or a link on your website on which to store your bad poetry, that’s fine.   Matthew actually suggested I do that with my scientific theses, but then I realized nobody cares about sexual dimorphism in crayfish.

A similar situation with which almost anyone can relate:

Some of my friends often ask me to proofread their papers.  It’s no problem if this is a once a semester thing, and the paper is short and interesting, but some people do this with every paper and assignment they turn in.  This one girl actually wanted me to proofread her outline.  In this case, I just look at it for about two minutes– long enough to have actually read the paper, but without putting forth any effort.  I then hand it back to the student and simply say, “Looks good.”

Johnna and I have an understanding, however, and if we don’t want to read the other’s paper, we say so.

That’s the way the world should work, I think.  Candidly.

So in conclusion, t 

Oh!  I almost forgot.  I’ve been slacking on this policy lately, and if I have forgotten you, let me know.  For all new readers, or those who have been reading for ages yet haven’t commented until just now, I will blogmention you and make you famous in the world of Liz.

Greg taught my Trig class four semesters ago.  He’s a big dork, and he sometimes talks in goofy accents.  Once in class he called on this girl and said, “Do you have a question, Jessica?” in a Mexican-ish accent.  He then looks at his role book and says, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know your last name was Mendez.  If I had known, I wouldn’t have said it like that.”

Ha!  He was so uncomfortable.  That is a very uncomfortable situation.  Funny, though.

Alan gives his girlfriend Pokemon-inspired pet names.   He and Matthew are friends.  Matthew pretends to be smarter than Alan, because he helps Alan with programming stuffs, but Alan is actually two semesters in front of Matthew.

Aw bitch you got jacked bitch.

So in conclusion, (for realsies this time), the U.S. Farm Report is now on TV.  Does this mean that the farmers are awake before I go to bed?  Holy crap, it’s 5AM.  I don’t think I’ve ever stayed up this late.  What do I do?  I’m not even tired.  I would drink a glass of wine to help me to sleep, but I’m genetically predisposed to alcoholism!  Benadryl?   No, I consider that drug abuse.  Counting sheep doesn’t work.  Dammit.  I’m screwed.

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 24th, 2008 at 5:56 AM and is filed under Awkward Scenarios, Dating, Google, Language, Television. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.