Here's to Rambling

On a recent trip to Homer, AK, my brother and I were sitting beside our raging inferno of a campfire when we got into a discussion regarding what, exactly, flame is. I asked my chemistry teacher just that my Sophomore year of high school, but he just scoffed at me and said that it was a chemical reaction, in that "why would you ask such a moronic question" way he had about him. Much to my dismay, it was his intelligence, and not mine that was called into question during the exchange. I've considered the question virtually every time I've stoked a fire since, but it wasn't until a few days ago that I discussed it again. This is what my genius brother pulled out of his ass, with a little help from me on the details: When gases are energized to a certain point, they begin to emit photons, or pockets of light. Burning debris give off a multitude of super-heated gases during the ignition process, and these gases are in turn emitting photons. This would explain why flames flicker in the wind (the air moves the gases and in some cases cools them, thus minimizing the flame), why the flames only reach a certain distance from their original source (the gases eventually cool enough that they no longer have the energy to emit photons), and why different substances have differently colored flames (different ignition sources = different gases, different gases = different photons). It makes perfect sense to even my simple mind.
My mother and brother are flying up to Prudhoe Bay tomorrow for a "family tour." Ironically, they're going to be up there while neither my father nor I will be (note: I'm working three two-week shifts in Prudhoe Bay this summer, totaling 84 hours of work each week. I don't remember how many total hours that works out to be, all I care about is that I'm making a shit ton of money for 6 week's work. I'm sure there will be a bitchfest blog soon enough). It's interesting to watch half of my family ask the same questions and stress over the same issues as I did not a month ago. I answered their questions like a (pretending) seasoned pro. "No, Mom, don't wear Danskos and khaki. They'll get ruined." "Of course they're going to feed you, I don't know of a place up there to buy food other than the Commissary, and I doubt they're going to have you living off $7 bags of M&Ms." The most disgusting thing about the whole ordeal is that they're going to fly up, tour, and come back in less time than it takes me to complete one day of work.
My dad went to the doctor yesterday and came home almost entirely sedated. He's not yet back to full working order, so tomorrow while my brother and mother are traipsing around the arctic wasteland that I call home for half the summer, I get to be on Daddy Duty. My job is to make sure he doesn't fall down the stairs or otherwise harm himself enough to warrant a trip to the ER. This is how I love to spend my weekends: writing pointless shit by night, taking care of drugged up parents by day. This is what I was made for.
One of my best friends from high school got married today, and I wasn't there. I've got to be one of the worst friends on record. Not because I wasn't there, hell, if I'd have spent the $800 on a plane ticket to fly to Kansas for his wedding then I'd be a contender for Grand Viceroy of Friendship. No, the real issue is that I've met his now-wife a total of one time. For about 7 minutes. I've known this guy for going on 7 years. He's the one who during high school I could call crying at 3 in the morning, and who would listen to be blubber until I sobbed myself into a coma. And now I don't even know his wife. I was the first one he told when he started dating her, and then when he bought the ring, but she remains an enigma.
So Critter, my cat, is going on 19 years old. In the past 6 months she's gone from Fatcat to barely there. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do when she finally dies. She's been the one constant in my life, family notwithstanding, for as long as I can remember. When we got back from Homer I was genuinely surprised to find her alive after being alone for just 4 days. Why do we have pets? Missing them is terrible.
Goddamn am I depressing. "Perk up, twatwaffle!" -that's what my brother would tell me.
On a happier (and literally lighter) note, it's well after midnight and the sky is a color of blue that reminds me of Downy. Downy-doused cotton balls. That's what I love about this place; during the summer months the nights are never darker than dusk (not to mention the fact that all the things up here that can kill you are big enough to see coming, and shoot if one is properly armed). Makes staying up 'til ungodly hours entirely too easy. It's my kind of place!

Nonsense.

I have the knees of an old woman.
Sometimes it's best to give up a fight against a lawn mower.
I try to keep my expectations low, but even so I sometimes betray myself and believe that "this time will be different."
When I grow up I'm going to have a menagerie.
I have an unhealthy obsession trench coats... and jackets in general, really.
I love Calvin and Hobbes, but if I ever have a child like Calvin I'm giving him away.
When I was little I used to wish that I had an imaginary friend.
I'd rather have dirt under my fingernails than a manicure.
I like scars that have good stories behind them.
I want to write a book, but I have neither the talent nor the intrinsic drive.
LEGOS make me feel like a little kid in the best way.
I love making books.
I plan on being the crazy cat lady when I get old and senile.
Cats that act like dogs are the coolest domestic animals EVER.
The parts of my personality that I'd most like to change are the ones that I'll never be able to.
The poetry I wrote in 4th grade was more honest and poignant than anything I could write now. I miss being that free.
I've given my brother a complex about his "Maalox toes."
I fall in love with places and situations. Not people.
Before opening up to people I have to know I can trust them, but in order to know if I can trust them I have to open up to them. Hence the extremity of how socially awkward I am.
I cover up my fear of honest conversation by being a smartass.
I won the Pine Wood Derby when I was 4, but because I'm a girl they wouldn't give me a trophy.

I've become too complacent of late:
"You got a C in Calculus." Whatever. "You're going to be working 84 hours per week for 6 weeks." Whatever. "Gas prices are through the fucking roof." Whatever. "You have $13 in your bank account and $15,000 in student loans." Whatever. "You shouldn't go for a run, there's a bear in the neighborhood." Whatever. "You need to get those credits petitioned before it's too late." Whatever.
"Your Eddie Izzard DVD is scratched. Ruined." What. The FUCK?!


1
Here we are, teetering on the precipice of greatness.
And you're already stepping back.
I can feel you pulling away.


2
I've been watching the Minutes tick by for Hours.
Each one mocks me as it passes into Obscurity.
4:02... 4:03... 4:04...

3
The ecstasy was so worth the bruises.

4
Spring is here; a new dawn is breaking.
The sun burns through the mist and the light is caught up in the tiny prisms dotting the earth.
Each leaf, each bud is Nature's own version of a disco ball.
Soon the slumbering beasts are awoken by the melody, and they clamber to join in the ruckus of rebirth.

You weren't supposed to see my footprints, how they staggered all caddywompus away from you.
I didn't want you to follow me.
There was a lantern swinging in the frigid breeze, and I hid behind the inconsistent shadow it cast in the corner by the stairs.
I saw you walking by and knew that you could hear my stuttered breathing, feel me trying to melt into the mortar and away from you.
When you stopped and turned, I knew I'd been had. My secret hideout morphed from sanctuary to prison before I could even make out your features.

I didn't ask you to save me. I didn't want you to fix me.
But there you were, pulling me out from hiding and forcing me to face the warmth with you.

The cold is so much easier.

The significance of the mundane.

I hate flying. I really, truly loathe the idea of it. Every time I'm on a plane taxiing down the runway or queued up waiting for clearance, I close my eyes and think to myself "This could very well be my last moment on Earth. And what am I doing? Sitting strapped to a chair that is almost the complete opposite of comfortable, surrounded by strangers I've been sharing recirculated air with for the last 30 minutes. What a way to go."
With the realization that I ponder the abrupt end to my short (and thus far utterly unaccomplished) life, consider this: On a recent flight from the Midwest to the 49th state, I experienced what can be considered the least nerve-wracking takeoff in the history of me+flight. I was seated next to a friendly couple who offered me the window seat (apparently they could tell how hungover I was and how much I just needed to pass the fuck out). Now, usually when I'm around couples I get painfully awkward and feel like there's a bubble of happiness surrounding them which I have to be careful not to burst with my inability to function normally in society. But with these two, I felt oddly... like a part of them? I'm not going to be able to string together the perfect words to describe what I mean, but I felt un-ostracized (my blog, my made-up words) sitting next to them. Naturally I went through my typical "I'm about to die" mental prep, but at the end of that in-desperate-need-of-an-overhaul train of thought, instead of berating myself for choosing such a stupid way to die, I told myself that if I was to die right then, next to these people, I'd be okay.
I'm not a "warm fuzzies" type of person (not true - catch me on a bad day and I'm one big ball of emotion), but I felt at peace with myself for the first time in years. It's mind-boggling to think that two complete strangers could have a more profound impact on just one moment of my life than some lifelong relationships have had.

Or who knows, maybe I was just still drunk.

There is no happily ever after.
There is a happily.
There is an after.
But the two do not exist in tandem.

Bright and shiny!

Las Vegas really is a terrible place. It's the land of excess, and I've never seen anything like it. You can get lost in The Forum at Caesar's Palace (huge anachronism, by the way) literally for hours. I've done it. Every designer worth mentioning has his own little nook in there, and they're just itching to sell you that $400 shirt that is "oh my God so fabulous!" I shit you not, there is a shoe store with a 300-pound security guard at the door. We named him Bubba. It's no wonder so many folks from other countries hate America; I hated myself a little bit for contributing to such abundance.

What's more (and worse, in my opinion), there is a depressing number of parents who take their small children to Vegas. I'm not a mother, and hopefully won't be for a while yet, but even I know that it's not okay to drunk-stumble down the Vegas Strip with a margarita in one unsteady hand and the handle of a stroller in the other. I don't approve. Not to mention the plethora of "escort service" business cards adorned with nude women that litter the sidewalk. I'm not even comfortable seeing that. How do you think it makes your impressionable 10-year-old feel? Do you really want them to get their first anatomy lesson from a hooker's business card? Kids+Vegas=scars.

As much as I bitch about the city, though, I can't deny that I'm going back in March. I'm a consumer. They've got me hooked. Mind you that I'm staying in the cheapest hotel I can find, and have made a pact with my brother to spend money only at the sketchy places.