"Corpus Christi ranked fattest city in America by Men's Heath..."

   So last weekend I went to Corpus Christi, Texas, United States of America.

   My new friends Brandon and Katie thought it would be in our best interest to hit the Gulf Coast, seeing as we’re only 3 hours away, and get a feel for the warm waves and the sandy beaches. So we piled into the car with our buddy Alex and headed for Corpus Christi.

   There were many signs that it was a bad choice.

The essence of Corpus Christi, TX.

   I had gotten the impression beforehand from some of my friends who are Texas natives that maybe it isn’t so fun to go to Corpus Christi. I wasn’t sure why, but they all sounded remarkably confused when we mentioned our trip and I thought they were all just being haters.

   They said things like,

   “Corpus Christi? Why?”

   And

   “Make sure you pick up lots of pretty needles from the beach for me!”

More of the essence of Corpus Christi, TX.

   And

   “Oh hell no, I’m not going with you!”

   And yeah, these were real signs. Cuz, see, it turns out there was and is a reason Texans don’t go to Corpus Christi.

   It turns out that Corpus Christi, Texas, is the shit hole of the universe.

   There is much to tell, so for now I’ll leave you with these couple of images.

   Stay tuned for news of prostitutes, drug use, late-night pizza delivery, swimming challenges, and margaritas so bad they had to be returned (is it possible? Oh yes, yes it is!). And that was all within the course of 3 hours. 

   Yum.

   Corpus Christi.

*Just one of many interesting facts about Corpus Christi.

"Would you excuse me? I cut my foot before and my shoe is filling up with blood."*

   I had class at 8 a.m. this morning.

   I planned my school clothes the night before, so it was supposed to be easy: wake up, put on clothes, leave apartment and walk to class. I had intended to wear a pair of shoes (flats, mind you) that I know to be uncomfortable (from a terrible night spent waiting tables in them), so I packed a spare pair of comfies in my school bag.

   Thing is, I’m basically a moron before 11 a.m.
   Thing is, I'm basically a moron.

   I forgot sunscreen, I didn’t eat anything, and my coffee mug was dirty and I wasn’t sure I could take coffee to class anyway (nothing like getting reprimanded on your first day with a new professor).

   But Professor E was holding a hot cup of Starbucks throughout his lecture and between staring at it, rubbing my eyes, and sucking in my stomach every time I felt a huge, orchestral rumble come on, I felt very ill-prepared for my second day of graduate school. Ill-prepared, jealous, stupid, and my feet already hurt.

   After class, some of my new friends and I walked over to a local café for breakfast. Apparently, they’d all eaten because while they ordered coffee and toast or "just a latte," I had an omelet with a side of bacon and a side of black beans and about four cups of coffee.

   Then we went to class number two. By this time there was a decided hitch in my giddy-up because left foot was threatening to kick that shoe in the garbage (left foot is definitely the bigger/dominant foot). But we made it to the lecture, and I even made it to the bathroom during the lecture (to relieve myself from what had indeed been, upon close calculation during the lecture and while holding my pee, four cups of coffee)—a bathroom that is either three miles from the lecture hall or which there was an easier way to find that I don’t know about (probably the latter).

   After second class, I decided to be pro-active and get my student ID. Fast-forward to me standing in line for 40 minutes, one shoe off, playing Sudoku on my phone and praying that my left foot wouldn’t get all comfortable outside of the shoe and then refuse to go back in it.

  (Side note: in my student ID photo I look like a fucking hipposaurus.)

   So I started walking home, finding some lovely, shaded paths behind the main drags of campus, and attempting to take in the scenery and pretend that I didn’t feel the need to limp. I’d gone about a quarter mile before I realized that I’d been walking south instead of east, effectively making my trip a good half-mile longer than it had to be. I no longer pretended not to limp. I had to make a conscious effort not to crawl. Or take my damn shoes off all together. But hell, it was over 100 degrees, so I knew the sidewalk wasn’t going to do me any favors. At that point I didn’t even mind looking like a hillbilly, I just didn’t want my feet to suffer any worse pain than the current moment.

   I kept up a brave front. I used all my old acting skills and acted like I didn’t want to lay down on the ground and scream (yay, Theatre degree!). I saw some neat parts of campus and cool kids in groovy clothes and people with booths promoting their yachting clubs, crew clubs and weird Asian nerd frats. But I couldn’t enjoy a moment of it. It felt like my left pinky toe was being slowly sawed off my foot.

   Things went on like that for about a mile before I realized, “Holy shit. I have a spare pair of shoes in my bag!”

   I immediately sat down on a curb and took my shoes off. My left foot was bloody in several places and I had brand-new, bright-red blisters. (I’d pre-bandaged my toes, but that didn’t help either—the blood was dripping into my shoes.)

Blood spilling out of my unassuming flat. Ubiquitous Texan insects running for their lives.

   New shoes on, I felt moronic again. Who in god’s name intentionally packs a spare pair of comfy shoes and then completely forgets about them after walking for 3 miles in shoes full of bloody blisters?

   I’ll tell you who: the same gal who didn’t put sunscreen on her paper-white ass before spending multiple hours in the midday Texas sunshine. The same girl who eats string cheese for dinner because she doesn’t bother to plan or cook a meal…ever. The same girl who will probably die of a combination of skin cancer, malnutrition and gangrene in the next 3-to-6 months if she doesn’t get her act together.
   Maybe most importantly: the same gal who wears heinously painful shoes to school in the first place. Sigh out loud.

   I’m guessing that I won’t be able to move around much tomorrow. But look forward to butt-loads of future complaining.

*Romy and Michele's Highschool Reunion (David Mirkin, 1997).

"You may all go to hell, and I will go to Texas."*

   Hey, you crazies.

   Sorry it’s been so long since my last post.

   I live in Texas y'all.

   I am very hot.

   I have an apartment now.

   And go out a lot.

   That was a poem. Did you get it? Didja?

    Can you keep a secret? I can't. That has nothing to do with my next statement: I’m super in love with this town. I’m so hot most days it’s hard to concentrate or remember my name, but when I’m in my car blasting the AC, and I can focus on life, I find every sight I see highly entertaining if not downright inspiring. 

That's the reading inside at 12:30 a.m. Yikes!

   This post isn’t worth much…just a shout-out to the blogosphere to let y’all know I’m alive.

   Top 5 things I like about Austin so far:

1.  Despite driving in what I’m told is heinous traffic, I can’t help feeling Austin is a paradise compared to LA. Nothing takes more than 30 minutes, and it usually takes a lot less.

2.  Every street looks eclectic and original and bizarre. This is not a town of strip malls and Walmarts, praise Jesus!

3.  Some lady very nicely explained from her car in the lane next to mine today that I was in the wrong lane and about to experience a head-on collision. She offered to let me move in front of her. What? Courteous, kind fellow drivers? What planet am I on?

4.  My new apartment has a balcony overlooking a charming creek. Yay, nature! 

How cute is the GE stove from the 70's? And, as Ouisa pointed out,if it works, I'm one step ahead of my last apartment.

5.  Everyone here dresses fashionably: but not LA fashionably. We’re talking personalized, outrageous, adorable, crazy fashion from vintage to full tattoo sleeves to head-to-toe UT gear. In LA everyone dresses to look thin or importantly chic, here people dress to look unique, different, and like they just don't give a shit. And it’s WONDERFUL. I’ve never seen more beautiful people in one place in my entire life (except of course, at family reunions, duh).

   Honorable Mention: to Louise “Moose” Hopp: Gabe’s kitty has been my go-to companion, whether I’m on the front porch or the back picnic table. She sleeps at the end of the bed and only talks when she has something important to say. She searches out the strange rustling under the backyard steps and keeps me from running in the house screaming because I’m afraid of creatures. Thanks Gabe and Dan and Louise for letting me crash here!

Moose working security on the front porch.

I’ll keep you posted.

*That quote is from Davy Crockett.

"I'm smarter now than I've ever been in my life."*

   I’ve been really awful about blogging this summer.

   Part of me hopes that everyone is disappointed and sad and checks this page every day for updates and is let down and then their days are ruined because I haven’t posted.

   The bigger part of me knows that you all have been living your lives the way you always do, and haven’t been too bummed about it in the least. Fine. (Screw you.)

   Anywhose-its, I don’t want to bore you with a recreation of my intensely amazing summer (you really couldn’t handle it, anyway), I just want to talk to you about math.

   I know I’ve kvetched about math on at least one occasion, but I want to fully describe to you the utter horror that this math class has wreaked on my life.

1.  I am taking statistics online through Omaha’s Metro Community College. Therefore, I am essentially my own teacher. And my teacher is really bad at math.

2.  There are, if I were a responsible, adult-type person, approximately 2-3 hours of homework per day. But who the hell wants to have so much fun? So I wait until day 3 or 4 and do 5-6 hours at a stretch. I’m like an Olympic athlete at math. Except for not really, because I don't try.

3.  Since the course is of course online, I am at a distinct disadvantage because of my cave woman-level knowledge of the Interwebs.

4.  My sister Penelope, who is ten years younger than I am, is taking the same class. Which sort of puts me in the mood to say, “WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I BEEN DOING WITH MY LIFE?”

5.  I’m a girl. We’re not supposed to have to learn the maths (duh), because we’re supposed to get married after high school. But I’m not married, so I have to learn statistics. Thanks a lot, God.

6.  Math books are written by mathematicians, therefore they are extremely good at telling you things that make no sense and they are really terrible at WRITING ANYTHING OF VALUE. I.e. “blah-blah-blah, use this formula, blah-blah-blah, don’t worry about it, "snoochie-roochie," don't think so hard, "blah, blah, blah," answer.” There is no, for instance, description of how these mathematical terms work in the grander scheme of things, just pictures of Asian women with glasses leaning over a list of really long columns of numbers. Yeah, thanks. I already knew Japanese ladies could do math. Showing me a picture of it does not constitute an education or a text book, you dumb fucks.

7.  Really long columns of numbers: fuck you, statistics! Now that we know what we’re doing, do you think you could maybe just hand me the standard deviation for this problem so this quiz doesn’t take me 5 hours to complete?

Here's a collage of my summer artwork.

8.  I know I’m starting grad school in mere weeks, but what does it all mean for me? As soon as I take a math test I’m over it. I don’t hate math, I just don’t ever want to do it again. Because it's stupid and awful. (J/K...it's just time-consuming, requires concentration, and doesn't happen to get my motor running. I'm not trying to be an engineer, bitches!)

   So…the summer has been full of long columns of hideous numbers that mean nothing to me in any real context. In many ways, that is the short story of my life.

   I have, on a positive note, learned a lot about gambling odds. Hopefully this will prove useful the next time I'm on an Indian reservation. 

*This quote is from Season Two of Mad Men. It's odd I haven't quoted Mad Men before. The show makes no sense, has no point, and is yet one of the most addictive pieces of shenanigans I've ever seen. And consider this: not a single character does math. Fuck yeah, advertising!

"She has lost the power of conversation, but not, unfortunately, the power of speech."*

   Y’all ever feel weird and like things aren’t quite the way they ought to be? I’m not a person who fears change, but change does tend to wreak havoc on me. Lately I find myself feeling like I’m the central figure in some David Arkenstone album.

   In case you’re a normal person (or just someone with good taste), you've never heard of David Arkenstone. You should be able to find out everything about him here. My parents, who’ve instilled me with their excellent musical tastes over the years (The Beatles, Yes, Ravi Shankar, The Gershwins, The Allman Brothers, and Led Zeppelin as well as all things classical), had a dark period in the mid-nineties. It was the Arkenstone period, and I don’t want to talk too much about it. Because it’s embarrassing. But his “music” (if you can call it that) always made me feel as though it was about nomads wondering through the desert. But not, you know, like real nomads. These nomads (again, all in my head) were dressed like Olivia Newton-John in that “Physical” video. It was “Physical” meets Lawrence of Arabia. It was (is) terrible. Listen to Mr. Arkenstone sometime. You’ll get it.

   So I’ve been feeling all wandery-in-the-desert, and purposeless and also just epically removed. But maybe also a little bit like Olivia Newton-John in the "Physical" video (spandex, leg warmers, bad hair, headbands). When I get confused about my place in the world, I get tired and take a nap. But there’s really no time for that. I have to take math class (stats, finally!) and find a job (anywhere, anytime) and work on my summer bucket list.

   The bucket list isn’t long, as yet.

   Here it is:

1.  Do a pull-up.

2.  Run a mile.

3.  Run a mile in under 15 minutes (this was my time when I was on the track team in junior high and finished last at EVERY SINGLE MEET.)

4.  Get over fear of bugs, especially spiders, as there will be many of both in Texas.

   I’m currently running for 10 minutes IN A ROW and have accomplished only .63 miles. I’ve killed many spiders and one silverfish, but I’m not anywhere near over my fears. (Especially after hearing Ouisa's boyfriend, Matt, talk in a scholarly fashion about bedbugs, which I'm now convinced are crawling on me at all times.) I’m working on lat pull-downs to make my side muscles stronger.

   But I feel kind of like those people in that American Gothic** painting. I’m standing around with a bunch of tools (or just a broom?) and looking confused and angry in front of a big old barn house: the modern-day, Nebraska equivalent of wandering through the desert.

Nebraskan Gothic

*The quote is George Bernard Shaw. It should be my epitaph.

**Did you know that Grant Woods modeled the figures in American Gothic on his neighbor and his own sister? I also didn't know it was supposed to be a farmer and his spinster daughter. I always thought they were supposed to be a married couple. Wow, art.

"I realize it's about letting things go and not adding more things."*

   I haven’t written a lot lately because everything I do is emotionally fraught and disturbing and seems poised to lead to buckets of tears because I apparently cry at everything now: episodes of Wings, Iron Man III, people not texting me back…seriously, anything. I know, on the slightly rational side of my brain, that much of this has to do with my impending move and the sense of epic-ness that it adds to every song I hear on the radio and every show I see on TV; but more than that, I think it’s still antidepressant withdrawal. Or I’m just back to my pre-medicated level crazy. (Uh-oh. Please, dear lord, don't make me like I was when I was 16 again! It wouldn't be right or fair or decent!) Either way it’s exhausting. And it makes me want to cry more.

   Last week (oh shit, actually it’s been two weeks now), I went surfing. And I went when I was in the death throes of antidepressant withdrawal. And it was the best thing ever. Gabe and Em had gotten me stand-up paddle-surfing lessons and I was nervous and excited to give them a try. I won’t bother you with the details, but they ended up just being regular surfing lessons. But that’s okay because it was great. And I think it was just what I needed to jump-start my brain from the hideous funk I’d been in for a week. Hanging out in the ocean and constantly working at getting up on the board and getting sun on my face and water up my nose and sand everywhere felt really great. And the dolphins swimming around the area (I’m told they’re very social and love people) made it even better. And even just sitting on the beach and watching the water felt good and therapeutic and right. It was wonderful and a much needed distraction from the “must do” list…which is far too long at this point and gives me minor strokes when I think about it. 

How I pictured myself as a surfer.

Closer to reality.

   Brief aside: it was clear that I wasn’t in my right headspace that day because I didn’t even think about Shiders ONCE.

   But in the very fast two weeks since that day, I’ve been overwhelmed with the amount of things I have to do before the movers arrive May 30^th. I’ve been packing, on average, a box a day, and yet my cup still runneth over. This place is ridiculous. When did I accumulate so much crap? I’d like to sort the things into boxes in a way that makes some kind of sense. You know: kitchen, office, bedroom, etc…But there’s so much of it I feel like I’m drowning in piles of garbage. Precious, precious garbage. You can often find things as diverse as a sewing machine, a throw pillow, three pens, two forks, one sock and a coffee table book in a single box at my house. Nothing makes sense. Everything seems at once incredibly important and easily disposable at the same time. I’ve taken bags and bags to Out of the Closet and LA Shares, the electronic recycle and the street corner and still the things keep coming. It’s kind of humiliating in a way. And it makes me want to cry. Again. And more. And maybe one last time for the cheap seats in the back.

A sample of how I pack to move across the country (half-way).

   For instance, today I was cleaning out my dresser and held a t-shirt in my hand for three minutes. My college roommate, Lindsey, gave it to me. It has a picture of a bird of some type (a crane?) in front of a sunset and it says, “Nebraska: Big Cock Country.” After thinking really hard on it, I decided to keep it. But into the give-away pile went an equally amazing t-shirt from a dear friend who shall remain nameless (lest I make that friend as sad as I am). And I’m still agonizing over it. I may even cry over it, if I get the time later.(Oh wait, I forgot: apparently there is always time to cry.)

   That’s my problem: I’m too sentimental. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by no longer keeping a gift they gave me 12 years ago. Even if I never use the gift, part of me dies seeing it in a garbage bag on its way to the charity store. That’s why I’m a hoarder. I love things too much.

   In a perfect world, I would be less lazy, less sentimental and more driven. I would take these clothes, tchotchkes, unused kitchen shit, and piles of outdated electronics to Out of the Closet tomorrow and then go surfing again and try to re-center my chi and spend some more time with the dolphins. (The dudes at the beach are very in touch with their chi's...not so in touch with the proper use of the English language. When my friend Rebecca pointed out the fire smoke, our surfing instructor asked if it was "arsenal." Sigh. You can't be beautiful and brilliant, it would seem. At least not with all that water in your ears.)

   But the likelier scenario is that I’ll keep drinking cupfuls of chicken broth (that's my new thing...sodium, anyone?) and watching old musicals while I weep and stuff 13 years of accumulated crap into boxes upon boxes upon boxes. (I know. Nice attitude.)

   I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I hate moving. Moving sucks and it can blow me. (Don’t think those were my exact words before, but that was definitely the feeling behind them.)

 
*This is from Dry by Augusten Burroughs.

"Reality is the leading cause of stress among those in touch with it."*

   It seems like major life changes always come in bunches. When it rains, it pours, if you will. And I started with one change and then things sort of spun out of control. As they do.

   So, there’s the fact that I’m moving again. And this time I’m moving across the country (but only halfway) to Texas. (Yeehaw!) But then there’s the fact that I’ve got a lot of packing to do, recently quit my antidepressant, have applied/am applying to a butt-load of internships, went to the wedding of one of my best friends and learned that one of my other best friends is engaged. I’m going to live in Omaha for the summer and need to find a job. I’m starting school in Austin in the fall and need to figure out how to pay for it. I have to cancel all the utilities, get rid of some furniture, pass my marketing class, and remember to water my plants and shower occasionally. Whoa, lordy, lordy. I’m a mess. Sadly, I’ve not skipped a single meal so I’m still not one of those people who lose weight when they’re stressed out. 

I'll have to get better at drawing Texas...

   Let’s start with the fact that I’m moving to Texas to raise, ride, and rope broncos. No, not really. I’m just going to graduate school. (The bronco thing will just be a side gig.) Did you know that graduate school is very expensive and there are no dorms? It’s okay, I didn’t have a dorm in undergrad so I’m not that worried. But a little handholding and a helpful to-do list from the U would be useful. I can’t think about that now. There are too many things between now and then that have to get figured out, if I think about that now I’ll go crazy.

   I’m moving back home (Omaha) for the summer. I have to find a job of some type, since I’m almost positive I will not be receiving an allowance. Finding a job in a new/old city is hard. Especially when the city is so small that there’s a good chance you’ll wind up giving a lap dance to one of your high school teachers. Just kidding. My dancing days are over. But it’d still be slightly awkward to wait on my parents’ next-door neighbors or serve coffee to my ex-boyfriend’s best friend.  Shoot. Fingers crossed I get an office job and never have to explain my poor life choices to someone from my past this summer. But Omaha doesn’t usually work that way (3 degrees of separation), so my hopes aren’t very high in that regard.

   But even BEFORE I can panic too much about summer employment, I have to move. Again. And I hate moving. Moving is a heinous, boring nightmare that forces me to really examine when and how I became such a ferocious hoarder. And I have to shut off all my utilities, but I can’t get out in front of them: you really have to cancel them right when you move or you’re sort-of fucked for electricity and gas and Internet for a few weeks. Nards.

   I generally respond to stress by taking a nap. But even that is biting me in the butt, because napping prevents me from packing. And if I don’t finish packing, I can’t move. And if I don’t move, I can’t go to grad school. And if I don’t go to grad school, I’ll die of sadness and poverty. Life is viciously stressful.

   And did I mention I stopped taking my antidepressant? Good timing, that. But I couldn’t bear to go back to my mean, old psychiatrist. She’s a bitch and makes me cry every time I see her. I’d rather cry for free. Plus, it was probably time to quit, anyway. But now I feel like everyday I’m standing outside of my body watching things happen to someone else and it’s extremely disconcerting. And it’s super hard to feel energetic or to get good sleep. I really couldn’t have planned a worse time to go cold turkey on my mental health meds. But…such is life. And it is, yet again, a first world problem. But I’m insane (for real) at the moment. And I probably sound like a bona fide psychopath. But that was always lurking inside of me, and its time I start appreciating myself as the fucked up individual I’ve always been…and may always be.

   And it’s making my insides feel like they’re full of poison and tears. But my insides are also working desperately to expel them, so it’s sort of like a cleanse, right? I’ll add “cleanse” to my California bucket list. It’s such a California thing to do.

I didn't really drink poison. That was artistic license. But it feels like poison's going to come out sometime soon...

   In an effort to stay the positive course, here are things I’m looking forward to in the next few weeks/months:

1.  Leaving Los Angeles.

2.  Spending summer in Omaha.

3.  Paddle-surfing (tomorrow!): bucket list! Bucket list! (Thanks to Gabe and Em!)

4.  Road trips (to Omaha, to Austin, maybe to Mt. Rushmore this summer).

5.  Summer, summer, summer.

6.  Cowboys.

7.  New beginnings.

*The quote is from Lily Tomlin. I don't know how much it applies to me personally, since my grasp of reality is questionable. But it's a nice quote anyway.

"The rate at which a person can mature is directly proportional to the embarrassment he can tolerate."*

   Hi from Austin, Texas, y’all! Yee-haw!

   I’m visiting Gabe again…but now she lives in Austin instead of Minneapolis. I have to say I never would have visited her in Minnesota this time of year, but the weather in Texas is jeeeess right. Although it’s not as sunny as California, but what are you gonna do? Move everyone in the world to California? Oh wait, that already happened. That’s probably one of the reasons everyone there is leaving. That and it’s freaking expensive. And everyone is a narcissist. And it’s the place where dreams go to die. But I digress…

   I had a meeting at U.T. Austin because it’s one of the schools I’m considering attending next year. Halfway through my meeting with the kindly Graduate Advisor, Dr. Wilcox, I realized that I had something sticking out of my nose. It was sort of a white, flakey booger-type thing. (Okay, it had to be a booger—what else comes out of your nose besides snot and occasionally blood?) I hate typing those words as just thinking about things one finds in one’s nose makes me want to vomit all over this keyboard. It's pretty much the only thing that legitimately grosses me out. But that’s what happened, so I had to write it. (Did I?) Fuck my life. I’m sure he’s advising his whole committee to write me out a scholarship check right this very minute.

   “Hey, team! Let’s get this booger girl a scholarship! She showed some real courage coming in here today with crap coming out of her nose. This woman deserves full tuition, and I won’t rest until she gets it!”

   Gabe tried to reassure me that it probably wasn’t obvious to Dr. Wilcox, and suggested that maybe it was IN my nose and hidden rather than sticking out of my nose. This is one of the reasons I am friends with Gabe. Thanks, Gabe! I’m going to tell myself that she’s right and that there’s no way Dr. Wilcox would let me sit there and talk about internships and graduate housing with a booger on my face. If I were he, I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate for one goddamn second. And now that I think about it…he did seem a little distracted. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

   Oh well. I’ve already been accepted there, so he can’t do anything about it now! Haha! The day is mine!

Here's a picture of campus. Sorry for the lack of original images in this post. (Image Source)

   At least I made a lasting impression?

*Tony Benn.