Anonymous Amy

I got to sleep until 5AM!
For whatever reason I didn’t wake up until 5 today–my body has been attacking my REM somewhere between 1 and 4AM but for whatever reason today I got to sleep in! woo hoo
Of course, I woke up in the middle of my brain spouting off a favorite 80’s hit you may remember, “Don’t worry, Be Happy”. Thanks, Brain.
Brains are weird.
I don’t know about you but my brain sometimes has nothing to do with me.
It’s like me and my brain are conjoined twins and it’s just hosting off me. Sometimes I have no idea what my brain is going to do.
It even calls me names.
Yesterday I wanted some potato chips in the kitchen. I was sitting in the living room and I thought “oh, yum, there are potato chips on top of the refrigerator–I should get them” and then I said to myself “nah, I don’t feel like it”.
Now that part is perfectly normal, right? We all have little internal conflicts, but here is the part I’m not sure of. The “abnormal” part, if you will.
After the “nah, I don’t feel like it” part something/someone in my head said “Bitch!”
My brain totally cursed me out for not feeding it some Frito Lays.

Am I in the early stages of schizophrenia? maybe it’s just sleep deprivation…

This Subaru, although not mine, does remind me of what I look like driving down the road.  Okay, I’m not this bad, I don’t have a half a tree chained to my car masked as a bumper.  But I do refer to my Subaru Outback as “The Hearse”.  It feels like a death trap and it looks like it should be delivering a casket to a cemetery.  I’ve never been a fan of the grocery-getter style.  I’m young and without children so I really don’t want to be toting a couple hundred pounds of vehicle behind the front seat.  Isn’t that reserved for soccer moms and Costco enthusiasts?
So what is it about the Hearse I don’t like?
My image.
It make me feel too old and used; like I need to whip out a boob and suckle a baby and then run some cupcakes up to the elementary school for Mommy Day-where I’ll probably take heat from other mothers who baked their own goodies from scratch.  (I’ve heard the working mothers VS stay-at-home mothers is a vicious debate.  It’s one I don’t want to be involved in yet!)
My sucky Subaru is categorizing me into stereotypes I don’t belong in!
You may be wondering; “why the hell did you buy it then?”
The answer is: I didn’t.
I am a complainer and a very ungrateful piece of shit.
The car was very sweetly given to me; I gave a jolly smile and took the keys but secretly I was dreading the drive.
The car shudders uncontrollably at speeds over 55, the enormous station wagon part in the back shakes incessantly when coming to a stop, the car vibrates like a vibrator (seriously, Samantha from Sex in the City would love it), until yesterday, when making any left turn there would be a grumbling, grinding, disgruntled fart noise from from wheel well; we found out that the mud flap was loose and rubbing against the wheel so we took it off and now there are only 3 mud flaps on the car.  The antenna somehow came out of the antenna hole but it isn’t entirely ripped off so it’s tucked into the ski-rack on top of the car to keep from blowing wildly in the wind, and then there’s the smell.  There is a leak of some oozing black liquid that oddly enough is not oil.  I like to think of it as the blood and guts of the Subaru.  When the car gets hot it smells like we’re roasting tires and plastic bottles over a campfire.  It’s lovely.  Oh, and also the tires in the front leak so when they get low the car barely turns and I get to go fill them up every 2 weeks or so.  What a life!
I need to somehow not associate my car with who I am but that’s really hard to do when I get out of it and have to kick the side panel back on.  The reason I keep it is b/c I have no payments and it is a great way to save money; otherwise I wouldn’t be going to France.
Do you drive a beater car?  How do you cope?

Today while walking down the hallway of the school I work at I passed by this:

I can’t even imagine what it must be like to come to America from wherever–and have to take a class on how to like us. I should have put my ear against the door to listen to what they were saying. If I really wanted to mess with them I could have waited for the session to end and then done the opposite of all the important information they just learned. But I’m really not a mean person–I just like seeing the pot get stirred…not with innocent people though I suppose. I always feel especially bad for the lost international students who are so timid and slight, I want to help them but I also kind of want to tip them over, like sleeping cows. sigh. i’m sorry you read this.

The past couple of days have been crass to me. Without going on and on by bemoaning the plethora of events that zapped my inspiration and energy, I’ll just tell you that I had to run, yes run, up the stairs to my bedroom at 6pm yesterday so I could hide under the covers. I was afraid the universe would tackle me with another blatant attack.
It’s up there, the Universe, leaning over Itself, staring through opera glasses to judge–is that Amy down there lolly-gagging and smiling? Is she trying to be happy???

**BOOM** **ZAP** **POW**
all street lights fail, beer bottles explode, internet connection down, dishwasher dead, credit card unpaid, pants don’t fit, boyfriend clueless, spider on KITCHEN table skitters toward me…

I’m not joking. all incongruousness vied me within about 2 hours. it was literally like someone with power saw that my day wasn’t flawed and they Had to put a stop to it. well, my unflawed wagon is fixed. it’s totally fucked up now. thank you.

Getting the mail isn’t an evil process. It shouldn’t be scary or horrific or frightening. Sure, the mailbox holds a small part of the unknown but it isn’t going to chase you with an axe.

I have a slight case of exaggeration. here is the back-story.
Call it what you will; luck, karma, fate, destiny, God, chance, life, good, evil, tea leaves…..
It hates me.
“Unfortunate” follows me as if I’m eating a pile of crunchy Jinx and dropping a fat crumb trail. I don’t walk around tempting the gods by stating obvious facts so that they can be jinxed and then thrown at my wallowing self. But yes, yes, I did in fact get excited about a random expectation.
-My stimulus package.- That money owed to me by the governments… (sorry. i’ve fallen prey to the “everything is plural” phenomenon) I even made a public comment on my Twenty Something Blogger site regarding my surprise that this so called money exists and that maybe I’ll be a believer since others were receiving this fabled money. how stimulating.
**PIANO COMES CRASHING OUT OF BLUE SKY ONTO HEAD**
I am notoriously known for getting the shit end of the stick. I try not to make a habit of picking up shitty sticks but again, it’s like I have a posse of them trying to hang with me.
I should be grateful that the United States Postal Service even considers me alive. I had to fight for this right. They killed me off when I moved and my mail service discontinued. All my Netflix movies were leaving their Netflix queue but being mysteriously returned by someone who was NOT ME! The post office said i was deceased. They took the liberty of putting a yellow sticker onto the bottom of envelopes coming to me that simply said “deceased”.
I was now:
“Stick it in my ass” Jones
151 wehateyourlife Court
Die, MI 66666
DECEASED

After I convinced them that I didn’t die, I just moved up the street, not into a cemetery but a condo…they finally stopped breaking the news of my untimely death via a yellow sticker on the front of my mail envelopes.
No one seemed alarmed when they found out, in this manner, that I died. Most people nodded and went about eating their Cheerios. Thanks Friends. Their expectations of my finality was laid to rest. excuse the pun. yay.

this is just one little story in the unique collage of karmic repercussions I’ve managed to survive. Anything from getting a brand new car without working brakes to being chased up a flight of stairs by an astonishingly quick midget to having my car stuck in the driveway of a fraternity house across the street from the office i worked in….(no worries aye….Jeff, the husky, red-bearded and incredibly hostile Facilities guy drove it out “no problem”. In the meantime my car is doused in cheeseburger remnants and slime from Nick and I, who grappled, with soggy, greased fingers at car parts to hide in as we slid down a hill of ice where we thought we’d plunge to our death. But THANKS Jeff for just driving it on out like it was a horse heading to his barn.)
Here for a while the waters have been calm. I’ve been chugging along at a miserable pace but nothing disturbingly inconvenient has surfaced. (i’m going to fucking pay for writing that out. the universe isn’t one to let me get away with these types of naive statements. Seriously, just ask my butt.)(I like to kid about anal rape. I know it isnt actually a laughing
matter but it’s so graphically descriptive of my feelings…)
Like I said, exaggeration is probably key to these little disaster recipes.
So, my boyfriend, lets call him Life Loves Me, gets in the car with a funny envelope. The envelope has my name on it in the return address side. Weird. The envelope only has a return address side…the rest appears to have been chomped off by ….a shark, maybe? Yes, that must be what happened. Ooooor, the mail box does have an axe and it chopped off half of my envelope. But, why? The partial envelope is contained inside a bigger envelope with a clear, plastic window to display my slaughtered piece of mail. Honestly, my measly murdered mail should have been delivered inside a Band-Aid box or via a cast…or at least they could have delivered the culprit shark.
But no, it was just me, Life Loves Me and this illegible cut of something that was just about to make sense.
Life Loves Me: that is your return address and my handwriting…*pause*…What did I mail for you? Oh shit, your taxes. I mailed your taxes for you.
upon opening the strong, secure, well-put-together envelope from my friendly, neighborhood USPS I was horrified to find that the small triangular shaped envelope was indeed housing the triangular left-overs of my taxes. so i guess they’re late.

i smile at people because I am friendly. it’s a curse. i’m not overly happy and fake but I am courteous and amicable. even to people i don’t necessarily really want to be smiling at. perhaps it is see through. there are certain people who do not smile and they don’t even act like they just didn’t notice you smile at them. they watch you smile at them, look into your face and they refuse to reciprocate the action. i wish i could do that; i never would have fucking smiled at them in the first place. I don’t even like you! I just wasted a smile on you and now i’m pissed because had i known you were going to be an asshole, which is most likely why i don’t even like you, i would have just walked on by pretending to be in my own world. I can do that too.

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