Bugger

I have decided that random itching always has a cause.  You know -- overactive imagination = complex explanation, all that jazz.

Simple explanation: I have done quite a bit of Internet research on random itching.  Apparently it can be caused by anything from microscopic bacteria burrowing under your skin, to blood circulation issues, to stress making your nerve endings prickle.  It is very common, completely unpredictable, and (so far as anyone can tell) completely unrelated to psychological phenomena.

My explanation: Invisible Psycho-Projected Mosquitoes.

In this case, my explanation is almost shorter!  Except that you probably have no idea what I mean by "Invisible Psycho-Projected Mosquitoes," so I am going to have to explain my explanation.  Considering just how thoroughly developed this theory is, that will make my explanation longer.  So I'll just shrug and get on with it.

I want you to know that this theory is backed up by Science.  It might not be good science, and it's definitely not Bill Nye Science.  (Bill Nye Science is widely considered to be the best Science around, followed at a respectable second by MythBusters Science.)  I am pretty sure that the Science I attempt fulfills the equal-and-opposite-reaction rule.  Because if there is a climax of Science, I am probably the antithesis of that climax.  I am the Anti-Bill-Nye.  Like the Anti-Christ, except not nearly as pernicious (or apocalyptic).

It is this Anti-Bill-Nye Science that supports my hypothesis.  You can decide if that is a good thing, or if it actually hurts my case to admit this to you.

Invisible Psycho-Projected Mosquitoes (hereafter referred to as "IPPMs," because I am too lazy to type that multiple times) are what happens any time one humanoid thinks about another humanoid in a certain way.  You have heard of sending someone mind bullets, or glaring daggers at someone?  The IPPMs are very similar to those concepts.  They are like microscopic target-seeking torpedoes, armed and very dangerous, random-itch-wise.

As a living, breathing humanoid, you are automatically equipped with several types of IPPMs.  It's like having several different species of bothersome bugs (like gnats, horseflies, gallinappers, tsetse flies, etc.), except that psycho-projected insects are all of the invisible mosquito genus.  Each of these different IPPMs has a specific target, and are caused by certain psychic stimuli.

Allow me to give you several examples.

Mens-Anopheles Nasum (or the Nasal IPPM):  This IPPM is activated whenever someone is thinking of you.  They head straight for your nose, and make it unbearably itchy, often culminating in a sneeze.  This is an age-old myth, an old wives' tale, and a Hindi belief.  It is probably the most widely recognized IPPM (except nobody thinks of it as invisible mosquitoes flying up your nose -- only I am that odd).  Another explanation for your nose itching might be simply that you have to sneeze.

Mens-Anopheles Auriculum (or the Ear-Type IPPM):  If your ears itch or burn, you have most likely been the victim of an Ear-Type IPPM.  These are activated when someone has gone past the cognitive stage and is actually talking about you.  Again, this phenomenon has been widely associated with its cause by many in European history.  Another explanation for your ears burning might be that you are blushing.  Another explanation for your ears itching might be that you have eczema.  But these cases are few and far between; more often, somebody is talking about you.

Mens-Anopheles Retrum (or the Impossible-To-Reach-Place IPPM): Whenever your back itches in that impossible-to-reach place, this IPPM has been to visit.  Triggered when someone gossips about you, these itches are incredibly difficult to scratch and even worse to get rid of.  It would probably be easier to find whoever is gossiping about you and stand awkwardly close to them, so they'll be afraid to continue and change the subject quickly.  Another explanation might be that you are wearing wool.  Why you would ever wear garments of 100% wool is beyond me, but hey, it's your skin.

Mens-Anopheles Manum (or the Handy IPPM): Anytime your hands itch, this is undoubtedly the result of someone planning something involving you.  Someone experiencing itchy hands should be on the lookout for last-minute invitations, surprise parties, and/or cheap practical jokes.  Because of how often this happens to me, I am on the lookout for all those things, and also some IPPM repellant.  If you see any (or develop any), do let me know.  Another explanation for itchy hands might be that you have touched something icky -- I recommend washing your hands repeatedly before assigning blame to Handy IPPMs.

Mens-Anopheles Genum (or the Kneeful IPPM): An itching knee usually indicates that someone has just envisioned what your kids would look like.  Hopefully a person sending out Kneeful IPPMs is your significant other, best friend, or parent, and not just some random person you passed on the street.  Another explanation for itching knees is that you need to shave (or you have dry skin).

My ears are itching.  Stop talking about me!

Mens-Anopheles Pedum (or the Barefoot IPPM): Itchy feet are a bad sign.  Run!  If your feet are itching, you have been attacked by Barefoot IPPMs, which are harbingers for anyone who means you harm.  Don't wait to find out what kind of harm, just get somewhere safe, check all closets/bathtubs/dark spaces for serial killers, and lock yourself in until the itching stops.  Another explanation for itchy feet might be that you have Athlete's Foot.

Mens-Anopheles Supra-Pedum (or the WTF? IPPM): WTF? IPPMs are incredibly rare.  They target the top of the foot, and are exceptionally annoying.  These perplexing IPPMs are the heralds of true love, as they are triggered by someone having just fallen in love with you.  Enjoy it (that is, if it is possible to enjoy the constant prickling and tingling of itchy tops of your feet...)!  There is no other explanation for this phenomenon.

Mens-Anopheles Ulnum (or the Elbowesque IPPM): As it is supposed to be impossible for your elbows to itch, if you find yourself a victim of itchy elbows, you have most certainly been plagued by the Elbowesque IPPMs, which are triggered by someone wondering if it is possible for elbows to itch.

The above examples are not the only IPPMs out there.  Since there are innumerable ways to think about a person, there are innumerable types of psycho-projected mosquitoes resulting from those thoughts.  This should be a good basic guide however.  In the meantime, I will continue to work on Psycho-Projected Bugspray.  One day, we will be free of these pesky random itches, if it's the last thing I do!

Somewhere, an Invisible Psycho-Projected Mosquito's foot just itched.

Haystack

Today is an Exasperation Day.  I have these periodically.  Usually they happen towards the end of a week.  Usually they happen because I haven't gotten a lot of sleep.  And usually they happen when I can't express my exasperation without losing self-respect, dignity, or my job.

The sole characterization of an Exasperation Day is one very simple thing: all day long, at every moment, for no real reason at all, you feel completely, overwhelmingly, and unbearably annoyed.

The things that cause this buzzing annoyance are things that happen every day.  But for some reason, on Exasperation Days, they don't slip off your shoulders like they normally do.  They build up.  They resonate.  They linger.  They fester.

Normally, it doesn't hit me that I'm having an Exasperation Day until around lunchtime.  That's about when I realize that all the festering annoyance has been eating a hole in my stomach, and now I won't have enough lunch to fill it, and isn't that just one more annoying thing to top it all off?

But I knew as soon as I woke up today.  The second my phone woke itself up to vibrate angrily and blare the cheesy ringtone I use for my alarm, I thought, "I am already annoyed.  Uh-oh."

I lay there for as long as humanly possible before throwing off the covers and getting ready for work.  I glanced at the clock, did a double-take, and then remembered that I had to go into work offensively early today to make up some time.

(Did you know there is a Spanish word for 'offensively early?'  A different word than just early, I mean.  I'm talking about offensively early, so early you feel personally affronted that such an hour even exists.  There is a Spanish word for that: madrugada).

As you may have guessed from that long parenthetical rant, I am not a morning person.

Still, there is nothing to be done about the fact that this is a day.  There is also nothing to be done about the fact that this is a work day, which means I have to go out in public on this day.  There is also nothing to be done about the fact that this is a winter work day, which means I have to go out in public on a cold day.  I hate the cold.  Cold is my arch-enemy (as opposed to snow, which is my mortal enemy -- believe me, there is a difference).

As I said, there is nothing to be done about any of those things, so I put on gloves, a coat, and my brave face, and head out the front door to my ostentatiously bright yellow car.  There is frost on the windshield.  It refuses to be erased by my windshield wipers.  Heavy sigh.  Grudging obligation.  Scraper.  Cold.

On my way to work, I get stuck behind OldManCadillac.  This is one of those impossibly wide Cadillacs from the 80s.  And in the driver's seat is one of those impossibly old men in his 80s.  OldManCadillac won't stop dancing on his brakes.  Don't get me wrong, pal, I'm thrilled that you're still feeling footloose in your old age, but couldn't we move those fancy toes to the right just a few inches?

Once I get past the cold and into work at last, the annoyances start to come more quickly, one on the heels of another.  The first one is my stupid hair and its stupid frizz and the stupid fact that it won't stay in its stupid ponytail.  And then my stupid computer wants me to reboot it so it can install some stupid updates.  And the stupid applications give me stupid papercuts on my stupid fingers.  And I can't stop thinking the word stupid!

Cue the laugh.  There is this man I work with.  Well, I don't really work with him... it would be more accurate to say: There is this man I work near.  Ignoring the fact that I just ended two sentences in prepositions, let's talk about this NearNeighbor of mine.  NearNeighbor has one of those laughs.  It's a laugh that hardly sounds like a laugh at all.  It almost sounds like he knows he should be making some sort of sound that resembles laughter, but he can't muster up enough enthusiasm for the idea.  His laugh sounds like this: "Ngh ngh ngh."

It ends in a period.  Not an exclamation point.  And it is always three times.  And he doesn't ever open his mouth to laugh.  It is always that "ngh" sound in the back of his throat.  It is quite possibly the most annoying laugh that has ever been heard on this planet (and there have been some really annoying laughs before it -- just talk to Mandark from Dexter's Laboratory, or Gertie from Oklahoma!).

Stupid hair!  Stay in the stupid ponytail!

ABWUHHOO!

Good Lord.  Was that a sneeze?

ABWAAAAHU!

Yes.  Someone is definitely sneezing.  Loudly.

UUBAAHH!

This sneezing person might possibly have some species of troll in their family tree.

Great.  My iPod just died.  That means I will have to use my crappy Pandora account.  Pandora isn't psychic like my iPod.  Pandora will make me listen to stuff I don't want to listen to.  I just wanted to listen to Plain White T's.

My Gatorade bottle is entirely too large.  How am I stupposed to grip it properly?

BAHOOEY!

Bless you, I think.

Is that... Is it getting sunny outside?  Yes, it most definitely is!  That is a beautiful blue sky, hardly a cloud in sight!  It's sunny!  Oh my goodness, finally!  Hooray!  I... Wait.  I'm inside.  Expletive.

Ngh, ngh, ngh.

I can't forget I have a date with Llena de Amor at 6 tonight.  Oh, man, my show is going to be so intense tonight.  Marianela and Gretel are talking like they might finally reveal their true identities.  I can't miss that.  But... it's Friday, so my exercise place is closing by 7.  Crap.  Exercise, or telenovela?

HABAHOO!

Geez, did the cubicles just shake?

I need to exercise tonight.  I haven't gotten a star on my New Year's Resolution Chart in a few days.  I should really exercise tonight.  Exercise is more important than a Spanish soap opera.  But what if the rapist pees his pants again?  I will cry if I miss that.

Ngh ngh ngh.

Wait a second, who's this joker they've put in my ear?  Kris Allen?  "Kris" is the way a girl spells that name.  You're not a girl.  And why are you trying to combine fluffy pop with rap?  It's like audible vomit.  Ew.  Pandora, did you get this guy out of that box of yours?  You know you're not supposed to open that thing.

Oh.  Thank you very much, you evil cloud.  If you hadn't momentarily moved over the sun and dimmed the lighting in the whole building, I might have succeeded in forgetting that it is beautiful outside while I am stuck in a cramped office building.  Lovely.

This.  Gatorade.  Bottle.  Is.  TOO.  EFFING.  BIG.

I guess I can miss my show just for tonight.  After all, I can always catch up.  And it will feel good to exercise.  I like endorphins.  After all, it's not like much ever happens on that show that they don't recount for you like eight times in the next episode, right?  Except for that one show where they spanned two years in a two-minute montage...  But they would only do that once, right?  Right?

Ngh ngh ngh.

What in the... Paramore?!  Pandora, you really do not know me at all.  Why can't you just play me Plain White T's?

NYABAHROOM!

That sneeze sounded almost like an over-enthusiastic cheer for the restroom facilities.  YEAH, BATHROOM!

It's... so... sunny.  Maybe I could hop out there for my break really quick?  No, we're not allowed to go outside the building for our breaks unless we're going somewhere for lunch.  Maybe I'll go to McDonald's, just to get outside for a bit.  But I can't.  I swore off McDonald's until I get more numbers.  Grumble.

Hair.  Ponytail.  Now.

I am going to have to go exercise tonight.  I will hate myself more tomorrow if I don't exercise than if I don't watch my show.  My show will survive without me.

Ngh ngh ngh.

What is so freakin' funny?!

Oh.  I'm hungry.  I think it's lunch time.  And it's an Exasperation Day, so you know I didn't bring enough lunch to fill the new holes my acidic annoyance has created by now.

Ngh ngh ngh.

Seriously, what is so funny?!?!

I refuse to take a sip of this Gatorade, as the bottle is much too big and I am tired of lifting it to my mouth.

I could be frolicking through Crockett Park in twenty minutes if I left right now.

Ow!  Stupid applications!  Papercuts are lethal pain in tiny doses!

GABRAGHT!

Was that German, or are you still sneezing?  Would you like some Sudafed?  Some Claritin, perhaps?  Or maybe you could use some Go-Home-If-You're-Sick.

Oh my word, Pandora.  Are you really forcing me to listen to Forever the Sickest Kids?  No.  I hereby unplug my headphones from your "personalized" radio station.

I really want a sip of this Gatorade.  But it's so friggin' bulky!

Ngh ngh ngh.

He must be talking to a clown, or something.  Why else would you laugh that much at work?

I need food.  It's lunch time.  I should eat.  I should drink some of this Gatorade.  I should throw away this ponytail holder because it is obviously way to stretchy to hold my hair up anymore.

MWUMBAHU!

That sounds like a city in Africa.

-----

I could go on like that forever, but I have better things to do, and so do you.  I may have exaggerated some things a little bit, like the debate between exercise and my telenovela.  The sneeze onomatopoeia was all accurate, however.

Just so you know, I'm waiting for that final straw.  The one that broke the camel's back (or should I say giraffe?).  You'll know when it comes.  I'll implode on myself, and this blog will slowly self-destruct as a result.

Maybe if I could go outside, the sunny afternoon breezes would blow some of the straw away before I reached the breaking point.  I guess we'll never know, will we?

Ngh ngh ngh.

Architecture

I have thought of another analogy for my predicament with BlueEyes.  I know it's lame to write about your love life (or, in my case, lack thereof), on your blog.  But I will remind you that this is my blog, and I can use it to write about whatever strikes my fancy, so that new analogy is the main topic of today's post.

But before we get to that, let's take a trip down Memory Lane.  We're going back to pre-school.

Pre-school!  Remember those days?  Pre-school was awesome, dude.  Things were simpler back then.  Pre-school was playtime, all day, every day!  Boys were gross, and girls had cooties.  Roger picked his nose, and Debbie sucked her thumb, and tag was the best game ever invented, unless you were playing hide-n-seek.  You could make a friend by telling a kid you liked his hat.  You could make an enemy by pulling a girl's hair.  And your idea of a date was protecting the fortress on top of the monkey bars for the entirety of recess (that still sounds like a good date to me).

In pre-school, it was an earth-shattering disaster if you fell and scraped your knee, and if it started bleeding?!  Oh, lawdy, the world was ending.

In pre-school, your coolness factor was directly proportional to how much mud was on your clothes.  'Shut up' and 'poop' were bad words.  And the worst social disaster you could possibly endure was to refuse a dare.  Such an infraction of pre-school social etiquette would earn you the shameful title of 'chicken' for a whole week.

In pre-school, we had no fear.  Heights?  The higher the better!  Tight spaces?  Perfect hide-outs.  And let's not forget that nothing was inedible.  Worms, dirt, grass, pebbles, and yesterday's Skittle that fell on the floor -- all fair game.

In pre-school, our plans for our lives were huge.  The sky was the limit!  We were going to be firemen by day, astronauts by night, and paleontologists in our spare time.  Our parents were superheroes (they still are), our siblings were annoying (they still are), and nothing mattered more than what flavor of pudding was in your lunchbox.

Those were the days.

I don't know about you kids, but when I was in pre-school, my favorite indoor activity was Legos.  I loved me some Legos.  As an only child for the first four years of my life, I was really good at playing by myself.  My parents couldn't even use the typical go-to-your-room punishment, because it wasn't a punishment for me at all.  There were toys in my room.  Why would that be a bad thing?

Every day when I went to pre-school, I would claim the entire bucket of Legos as soon as I was through the door, to make sure no other child could infringe on my playtime.  If any of my classmates beat me to the Legos bucket, I could only find the energy to walk in endless circles around the room, my arms hanging listlessly at my sides, my eyes filled with lost, confused tears.

I created masterpieces with my Legos.  I made towers as tall as I was.  I made sprawling mansions, complete with perimeter walls and an entrance gate.  I made castles, with turrets and battlements and tiny little paper flags.  I could make a house with hardly any effort at all, complete with separate rooms, furniture, doors and windows, a garage, a car for the garage, stairs, gardens, a driveway, sidewalks, whatever I could think up!

I probably ought to mention that, since I was so self-sustaining, I did have "imaginary friends."  Mine were not the typical imaginary friends of lonely little girls, however.  I didn't play tea-party or dress-up with my imaginary friends.  They didn't have stupid names like "Mrs. Pollocolips" or "Nanny Friarbutt."  My imaginary friends were not just my friends.  They were my children.

My Children were about two inches tall, and there were hundreds of them.  Although I knew each child individually, they were usually referred to in the plural just for the sake of simplicity.  They were a huge part of my life.  After My Children were born, nothing was ever my fault anymore.  If something was broken, it was My Children.  If something was missing, it was My Children.  If I told you I didn't have to go to the bathroom, but you made me go anyway, and you heard someone peeing, that was My Children, too. 

Whenever Mom describes the importance of My Children in my life, she talks about that day in the car.  Mom was driving me somewhere, and this somewhere involved getting on the Interstate.  Not unusual.  I was talking and singing to myself.  Also not unusual.  But, quite suddenly and without warning, I started screaming hysterically.  That was very unusual, indeed.

My poor startled Mom tried to ask me what was wrong, and in my panicked state, I managed to yell at her to pull over, which she did.  As soon as the car had stopped, I rolled down the window and leaned out, looking back several yards behind the car.  I probably called out a few unintelligible things, but Mom doesn't remember.  She does remember that just a few moments later, I rolled up the window, faced forward again, and told her it was okay to go.

When she asked what happened, I very calmly explained that My Children had fallen out of the car.  But they were back inside now, and everything was fine.

Clearly, My Children were very important to me.  And as you can imagine, My Children also accompanied me to school.  And when I constructed those beautiful, wondrous castles and houses and buildings, who do you suppose peopled them?  You guessed it: My Children.

Enter villain: Travis. *hiss*  I don't remember Travis's last name.  I don't think there were last names in pre-school.  But I remember Travis.  Travis was big, tall, and mean.  He was a bully, with a copper-blonde mullet.  Travis liked to pick on me, especially, which Mom always said was because he liked me.  I could only respond to that with one word: Ew.

Travis was the destroyer of Lego masterpieces.  I would spend so much time carefully building each little room and terrace of a cavernous villa, watching My Children move in, and before I knew what happened it would be smashed under Travis's big feet.  So much work and time, now a fallen rainbow of despair!  Thankfully, My Children were virtually indestructible, as most imaginary beings are.

But even when I was in pre-school, I had OCD tendencies.  When something was destroyed, I would recreate it.  I would build a mansion. CRASH!  I would build a house.  CRUSH!  I would build a castle.  BAM!  I would build a tower.  CRUNCH!  You couldn't even give the guy points for creativity.  He always just roared in for a few moments, mangled my carefully-constructed miniature buildings with kicking and stomping, and roared away again.  It turns out, it didn't matter what kind of building you made, they were all just as easily destroyed.

My relationship with BlueEyes is like that.

For months now, I have been trying to simply forget that I have a crush on the boy.  And when I'm away from him for extended periods of time, that approach works spectacularly well.  I can build an I-don't-really-like-him-anymore house without breaking a sweat.  But then, I'll go to a party, and he'll be there.  BOOM!  In an incredibly ironic move, he completely crushes that house I slaved over for weeks.

But I regroup.  I build a no-seriously-I-don't-like-him-anymore mansion, and people it with good logic and hopelessness.  Then I see him at church, and he actually talks to me, or waves at me, or acknowledges my existence in some tiny way.  BANG!  Mansion terminated.  Just like this song I know, I built a castle made of paper decks that never stood a chance.

CrazyAunt has this quote she likes to throw at me sometimes.  She says, "Do you know what the definition of insanity is?  Doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result."  But it's CrazyAunt.  What does she know?

So I start over again.  This time, I build an I-am-so-over-him-it-is-not-even-funny fortress, and fortify it with cannons of derision, troops of distractions, and walls of I'm-ignoring-you.  Then I go to Brother's basketball game, and we joke with each other by way of an intermediary, and I hear it, that distant SPLOOPH of my fortress imploding.

And I remember that quote CrazyAunt slung at me.  And I think, "I must be insane."

It turns out, it doesn't matter what kind of building you make, they are all just as easily destroyed.

Just in Case

I like to prepare extensively for things that people say will never happen.  I know most people like to comfort themselves with the idea that a particular disaster could never occur.  And most people don't think about what their life would really be like if their wildest dreams ever came true.  But I am of a different mind.  I like to be prepared for every possibility, no matter how remote.

Here, I'll tell you something embarrassing about me: I am an avid fan of telenovelas.  That's right.  I watch Spanish soap operas.  I like to pretend like there's a point to watching these Spanish soap operas, and there sort of is.  They do keep me in practice with my Spanish-speaking skills.  However, if I am being totally honest, I have to own up to the fact that I actually crave the ridiculous drama of these soap operas.

I mean, come on.  No matter how bad my life gets, at least I don't have to worry about an evil twin coming into town and screwing up my life.  And even when my selective memory rears its ugly head, at least I haven't been beaten half to death so that I now have amnesia.  And I know for a fact that Brother is my real brother.  Telenovelas, by simple comparison, make it startlingly clear just how great it is to only have to deal with normal drama.

Although, I have to say, it would be kind of nice to have the romantic theme music play when you meet the person you're supposed to end up with.  Then, no matter how wrong things go in the middle, you know you get a happy ending with lots of kisses and probably like a quadruple wedding.

Like most obsessions, my intimacy with telenovelas leaks out into my everyday life.  When I find myself angry or sad, without much of an outlet, I tend to talk out loud to myself in Spanish.  This penchant for having an inner monologue out loud is an age-old tool -- in addition to telenovelas, even Shakespeare had his characters recite asides!  My life is full of Hispanic asides.

Even better, for Christmas a few years ago, I wrote a synopsis for a telenovela based on BrownFriend's first year of college, which I try to update as things progress.  BrownFriend has the unfortunate quality of attracting awkwardness.  It's never her fault, but she's so gorgeous and so genuinely good that she seems to be constantly surrounded by male hopefuls.  Many times, these hopefuls swarm at the same moment, creating all kinds of fun drama for BrownFriend.  Well, it's not exactly fun for BrownFriend, but I always get a kick out of it.  These ridiculous moments are perfect telenovela material.  BrownFriend and I are hoping that we can eventually get our show optioned to appear on Univision.

The past few paragraphs were the scenic route leading to this drop-off view: I am totally ready to be scouted for a role in an Univision telenovela.  In an ideal world, I would be the leading lady, an American or European immigrant to a Spanish-speaking country (probably Mexico, since it's Univision).  And in a very ideal world, I would be acting opposite Jose Luis Resendez, who is by far my favorite soap star.

If you think I'm kidding, take the following into consideration.  In preparation for this eventual role, I have practiced speaking Spanish with several different accents, both subtle and outlandish: American (including Yankee, Midwest, and Southern), British, French, and German.  I have even practiced speaking Spanish with that stupid Castellano lisp they use in Spain.  And I've practiced the Puerto-Rican accent, where they cut most of their words in half and talk faster than a speeding bullet (Super-Tongues!).  And the Argentinian 'j' sounds, too.

What?  Am I getting too detailed?  Sorry about that...

Anyway, you can laugh, if you'd like.  I told you at the beginning of the post that I prepare for unlikely events.  But if, by some miracle, I get the opportunity, I'll be quite the interesting persona.  They rarely choose non-Hispanic actors for their telenovelas, even when the character in question is supposed to be American.  So we'll see who's laughing when I'm being interviewed on Don Fransisco Presenta after my starring role in the most-watched telenovela of the season!

Here's something else that's slightly embarrassing: Movies have always been a somewhat problematic addiction of mine.  I love movies.  I could watch movies back to back all day long for weeks on end, if my schedule and finances would permit it.  When I moved into my apartment, I was thrilled, because the two large bookshelves I had bought would finally allow me to display all my movies with room to spare (something that hadn't been achieved since my freshman year of college).

I tell you that to tell you this: I have seen several movies of the sci-fi, overcoming-the-government/machines/aliens type movies.  There are some quality films in that genre, like V for Vendetta, Matrix, iRobot, Minority Report, Independence Day, Eagle Eye, Mars Attacks!, etc.  However, these movies have one thing in common... The Big Brother Factor.

For those of you unfamiliar with the reference, I do not blame you.  1984 is a terrible book, in which (spoiler alert!) the bad guy wins.  The bad guy should never, ever win.

But I shouldn't say it's a terrible book, because as far as sci-fi stories go, it's actually very compelling.  The creepiest part about it is the villain of the piece.  In this futuristic world, Big Brother is everywhere.  Big Brother is supposed to be your protector.  He can watch you through your television screen because he wants to keep you safe, not because he's a creeper.  He's in your vehicle, your paintings, your workplace, the pubs and bars, the sportsplexes, everywhere!  Never doubt it -- Big Brother is watching you.

The Big Brother Factor has been a huge sci-fi storyline staple ever since.  And for good reason!  How do you fight something that is everywhere, controlling everything?  And how do you fight the ideologies that keep it in power?  It's the perfect antagonist.  And the best thing about it is how plausible it is.

Of course, with my overactive imagination, I take these movies and stories far too seriously.  What if Big Brother ever did come into existence?  We wouldn't call it that, of course.  It would be called something seemingly professional and seemingly harmless, like the Federal Liability & Intelligence Electronic System (FLIES on the wall), when actually a more accurate name would be the Government Stalker of Death.

It isn't completely out in left field, especially as the fight against domestic terrorism intensifies.  Justifications abound, with my personal favorite being, "If you haven't done anything wrong, there's no reason to be upset about invasions of privacy."  Yeah.  Did you notice the word 'invasions' in there?  Because I did.  And 'invasions' is rarely a word that gives me warm-fuzzies.  I mean, I wouldn't ever put it on a greeting card, if you catch my drift.  But maybe that's just me.

I tell you that to tell you this: I feel strongly that I should be prepared for the inevitability of a real-life Big Brother.  I work diligently to improve upon the part of my brain that I feel will be of most use to me during this eventuality: my propensity for languages.  If it ever comes down to it, I could flee to Central or South America (excepting Brazil), or Spain.  If those countries were out of the question, I could travel to any of the French-speaking countries.  And if even those countries couldn't be considered, I could probably survive on the Russian I know.

However, considering how much I hate change, and how I tend to revert to Meh Mode so often, my guess is that I won't be moving until my life is actively threatened.  Therefore, in preparation for my time under a Big Brother regime, I have been practicing codes.  These codes include a number code and a symbol code of my own devising, in addition to the ability to write in Runes.  I am learning morse code, and diagram codes, and I am becoming extremely skilled with anagrams.

But perhaps the most important thing I am practicing is a language I invented with BlueFriend in seventh grade.  BlueFriend and I invented this language in order to pass notes without fear. With this code, no teacher was able to read what we confided to each other on paper.

We might be a little out of practice, but BlueFriend and I still use this language today.  We later taught it to PurpleFriend, although she has, for the most part, forgotten it.  I even attempted to teach it to GreenFriend while we were on Wilderness Trek in our high school days.  GreenFriend has a less-than-fabulous memory, by her own admission, so she, too, has forgotten the language.

The language is called TAC, and I believe firmly that, when spoken using several phonetic rules I have invented (somewhat arbitrarily), it will be difficult to crack, even though when written, it would be exceedingly simple to decipher.  I practice speaking TAC every day, and I am very nearly fluent.  I plan to teach it to my loved ones in the event that my Big Brother fears become real.  I dare Big Brother to learn TAC.

Now, here's the big one: A couple of months ago, I woke up from a vivid dream, thoroughly creeped out.  All night long, I had wrestled with one very long dream, taking place during the Zombie Apocalypse.

This was no normal Zombie Apocalypse dream (those are normal, right?), in that the undead weren't as inhibited as they are when commonly portrayed in movies and books.  The reanimated corpses in my dream could sense and seek out any human who had consumed sugar.  They were as physically able as ever, and although they were significantly diminished in their mental capacities, they still had the ability to set traps.

Accompanying me in my dream were PurpleFriend, who features prominently in several of my dreams simply because she is my other half, and FoxyFriend, who featured in this dream specifically, because she and I have had a plan for exactly this type of situation for years.

When we were in high school, PurpleFriend, FoxyFriend, and I were a dynamic lunch-eating trio.  We all shared a lunch period, we all hated the cafeteria, and we were all quirky, witty characters.  Because of these things, we had several memorable conversations.  For example, in one conversation regarding krakens and underwater castles, this phrase was uttered, and was repeated for years to come: "Well, slap my seahorse and paint a monkey green!"

But our conversations did/do not always center around silly turns of phrase.  A perfect example of our more enlightened conversations occurred the day that FoxyFriend and I formed the Zombie Apocalypse Protection Unit (ZAP).  Along with Father Bobo, who lived on the roof of the school, she and I would use our high school building as a protective fortress.

Studies have shown that the best place to be during a Zombie Uprising is a complex building, like a mall.  The school is the perfect strategic location in the event of an invasion of the rising dead (there's that word 'invasion' again, still as unpleasant as ever).  Although members of ZAP would be familiar with the layout, any mentally deficient zombie would have trouble with the school's grid of maze-like hallways, the number of lockable doors, and the multiple floor levels connected by staircases.  (There is one elevator, but it would be easily dispatched).

Even in my dream, when faced with the mortal peril of having our flesh eaten mercilessly by hypoglycemic zombies, FoxyFriend, PurpleFriend and I remained completely unphased.  We even took two little girls under our protection.  Our first hide-out was the roof of an apartment building, our second a belfry, both very effective.  And you'll be pleased to know that, with the help of The Rock, we all made it out alive.

So you see, I am fully prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse.  You will find I am generous with my knowledge, and vigilant in my defense training.  So when those Inferi come moaning at your door, just remember that the ZAP Unit is waiting for you to join the resistance.

Horizontally

I am going to start this blog post by writing about hugs.  The way I see it, there are three basic types of hugs: frontal hugs, sideways hugs, and group hugs.  You know what I'm talking about.

A frontal hug has many different sub-categories.  One common frontal hug is the Man Hug, in which two male humanoids approach one another, shake hands, pull into a quick hug, slap each other on the back a couple of times, and part.

Another is the Great-Aunt Bertha Hug, in which the smaller and weaker humanoid is swiftly and forcibly squished into the breast of the larger party, held there until almost smothered, and then released.

There's also the Glomp, which begins with a sneak attack, hits the climax when one humanoid jumps into the other's arms, and can be characterized by the possibility that one or both people might end up on the ground by the time the hug is over.

My personal favorite is the Bear Hug, in which two humanoids of any size, gender, or hair color approach one another, hug powerfully, growl/laugh/squeal, and then part.  Sometimes a person involved in a Bear Hug might even lose their footing for a moment or two.

Sideways hugs of all varieties can be described with one word: awkward.  It could be the Hesitant Hug, where you think you maybe should hug someone, but you can't quite decide, so what ends up happening can be anything from a regular sideways hug to using the other person's shoulder for an armrest.  Awkward.

There's also the Yikes Hug, when a person wants to hug you, but you really don't want to hug them, so you turn sideways at the last second so they can't really get a full hug in on you.  It's the hug equivalent of cheeking someone when they try to kiss you.  Awkward.

My favorite sideways hug is the Boy/Girl Friendship Hug.  This hug occurs when two people who don't happen to be the same gender do happen to be friends, and to see each other in a social situation.  Usually when this hug appears, it is because there is some gray fuzz on the definition of the relationship, and neither party is willing to dust it off just yet.  So they go with the sideways hug so there's no awkwardness.  Except, guess what?  It's still awkward.

Group hugs are the best category.  They are always chaotic, usually messy, and never fail to cause uproarious laughter.  There's The Sandwich, in which one person becomes the meat, and two or three other people become the bread.  This is very amusing for the bread people and the spectators, although it can be rather unpleasant for the one in the middle...

A similar hug is The Squish.  This is usually reserved for a special occasion, like an engagement or a birthday.  Like The Sandwich, one person is the victi-- I mean, the center of attention.  Once they are surrounded, everyone moves inward until the main character of this hug can no longer breathe properly.  Again, this is a crowd favorite, but can be a little disconcerting for the monkey in the middle.

The best group hug is The Blob.  Everyone hugs everyone, and then everyone keeps hugging everyone, and soon it's just a giant hug-fest of peace and love and rainbows.  Also, like the horror movie with the same name, this hug is almost impossible to avoid and/or escape.

Now I will ask the question you are undoubtedly thinking by now: Why in the world am I writing in deep, superfluous detail about hugs?

Well, I'll tell you.  Although I plan to spend more paragraphs on the topic, the explanation can be summed up in three dreaded words:  There's this boy.

You see, it occurred to me recently that a lot of social interactions can be contrasted with the hug system I have described for you.  This idea occurred to me because that dreaded boy I mentioned above causes me to overanalyze social situations even more than I already do.  His mere presence ups the social ante until it's almost too much to risk.  A big reason for this is my completely unavoidable attraction to him.  But usually I blame it on his complex, distractingly blue eyes.

With most of my friends, including the guys, frontal hug interaction is no problem at all.  A one-on-one greeting followed by a friendly conversation is as easy as breathing.  I have known most of my current social group for my whole life (hence the ease of the situation -- new people make me clam up and reveal my socially challenged-ness).  When you've known people since the pimples and greasy hair of high school, or in some cases, since the poopy diapers and runny noses of toddlerhood, the social rules don't really exist anymore.

As you can imagine, BlueEyes is an exception to that generality.  I sure know how to pick 'em -- BlueEyes is just as socially challenged as I am, at least when it comes to interacting with me.  I have known BlueEyes since I was just a weird little tomboy, still fascinated with roly-polies and positive that I was going to be a paleontologist when I grew up.  So we know how to have a conversation.  But lately, we choose not to go there.  We choose to casually ignore one another.  I think you can infer that this approach is getting frustrating.

Here comes the kicker.  BlueEyes and I are forced into the same social situations more often than is comfortable.  You see, our group hug interactions tend to overlap one another.  He's friends with a lot of my friends, I'm friends with a lot of his friends, and these friends all tend to have parties sometimes.  Not to mention his friendship with Brother, and the fact that we've gone to the same church since infancy.  That's a lot of times to casually ignore each other.

Usually, our group hug interactions are virtually painless.  Groups make everything easier, since there's the built-in buffer of too many people talking at once about the same topics.  And our group hug interactions are definitely of The Blob persuasion.  It was the sideways hug interactions that first got me thinking about these classifications for relationships.

There's no denying that BlueEyes and I have a sideways hug relationship.  We must have a buffer at all times, a medium if you will, through which we can direct our social interaction.  If it appears that we are both speaking with that neutral party, while still kind of talking to each other, then we can project the illusion of having a frontal hug relationship, when really our relationship would be easier without any hugging at all.

Typically after a night of sideways hug interactions, I just feel ridiculous and goofy for over-thinking every little thing, down to the minutest details.  I also feel ridiculous for being incapable of simply stepping past that sideways barrier and going for the normal, pleasant frontal hug conversation.  And it feels silly that BlueEyes can't get past the sideways force field either.

When these feelings overwhelm me, it leaves me with the very real fear that BlueEyes and I are going to be stuck in the accidental armrest phase forever.  Conversation-wise and hug-wise, sideways is just awkward.

I don't know if any of this makes sense.  I guess hugs are a weird way to categorize this whole thing.  Still, I wish that we could all have frontal hug relationships, where you could speak your mind or give someone a Bear Hug without worrying that they'll hate you, or that you'll break them.  I wish you could say exactly what you were thinking in a given situation, without having those newly spoken thoughts backfire on you, wreaking havoc on your life through pesky social repercussions.

I guess what I'm saying is: I want life to make sense.

Yeah.  That's not gonna happen.

... Group hug?

Improbable

Remember that overactive imagination I mentioned before?  That overactive imagination is an unavoidable side-effect of being me.  And because of it, my life is about ten times more complicated than it needs to be.  Because when you have an overactive imagination, no event gets a simple explanation.

In some cases, this can actually be helpful.  I'm like a mental Boy Scout -- always prepared.  For instance, no serial killer will ever fool me by hiding in the backseat of my car.  Before I even open my driver's side door, I check through the windows for backseat lurkers.  Sometimes, I even check my trunk, just in case a passing serial killer needed a place to stash a potential victim, and my trunk was handy.

But most of the time, the complex situations I invent are more a vague entertainment than a helpful preparation.  Please allow me to give you some example situations, taking place in and around my apartment complex.

Situation #1: Every week when I take my trash down to the pick-up bins, I notice an empty, gallon-sized glass bottle of Merlot.  Since the trash is emptied every Tuesday, this means that every week, someone in my apartment building is drinking an entire gallon of Merlot.  Therefore, this person drinks Merlot like I drink milk.

Simple Explanation: The woman in Apt. #2 likes Merlot, and is kind of an alcoholic.

My Explanation: The woman in Apt. #2 met her first husband on her travels in France.  He was a young US soldier, she a naive university student.  With each passing day, the two of them fell deeper and deeper in love.  But cruel circumstances sought to part them; she had to return home to finish her studies, and he would transfer to a new European military base.  On the eve of their separation, they stole away from their respective obligations and met at a tiny little café, where they drank a bottle of Merlot beneath the sparkling moonlight.

Although they were parted in the coming months, they always had Merlot and moonlight.  In the years that followed, after they had been married, they celebrated each anniversary with a bottle of Merlot.  But now that he has passed, and she has found love again in a new man, she still can't forget their old love, and toasts him every evening, in the moonlight, with a glass of Merlot.

Situation #2: All the dogs in the neighborhood spontaneously erupt into raucous, long-lasting fits of barking.  They do this once every two weeks or so, creating a very eerie soundtrack for my bedtime preparations.

Simple explanation: One of them started barking, and the others thought it was a really good idea.

-OR-

There was a coyote, and they were afraid.

-OR-

Someone walked by.

My Explanation: There is a ghost in the neighborhood, which appears every two weeks.  This ghost is the ghost of a Confederate soldier, who, during the Battle of Nashville, was waiting in a very good hiding place to ambush any Union soldiers that happened by.  That was before the dogs found him, and started to bark and howl, betraying his position to the Union Troops.  Needless to say, his hiding place wasn't very good anymore.

Now, he returns every two weeks to punish the species that caused his demise.  He rattles their cage doors, pulls their tails, and stands just beyond leash range, torturing all the dogs in the neighborhood.  I call this ghost the Confederate Canine Poltergeist (or CCP), and am almost positive that he really exists.

~On a completely unrelated note, I think I am going to start saying "saving numbers" instead of "saving money."  I don't really feel like I save money, since I use my debit card waaaaaaaaay too often.  I'm really just saving numbers on my computer screen.  And now, back to the regularly scheduled program.~

Situation #3: Sometimes, after the gates to the complex have closed, my friends come over for some kind of get-together or shindig I happen to be hosting.  My apartment is literally right in front of the gates, so how this usually goes down is: 1.) They drive up to the gates. 2.) They call me.  3.) I pick up my remote for the gates, pull back my balcony curtains, and open the gate from my living room.

But sometimes, especially when PinkFriend is involved, something magical happens.  The gates mysteriously open without any prompting from me, without any impatient residents waiting behind her, and without any pedestrians visible.

Simple Explanation: The gate got confused and opened due to a proximity sensor of some kind.

My Explanation: One of the residents in Building B sits at his window, remote in the ready position, watching for anyone getting stuck at the gate.  When he sees this happening, he uses the powers given him by a higher being, and allows them entrance to the apartment complex.  This gives him a strange feeling of benevolent omnipotence, an emotion to which he is now addicted.

(*Note: This is a really bad idea, Building B Power-Trip Man.  What if you admit a serial killer to the complex?!  But perhaps he's thought of that, since he usually only lets PinkFriend in.  Even I can't imagine a serial killer driving a little white PT Cruiser).

-OR-

PinkFriend uses her Disney magic to send a signal to the gate.  Since all technology can be trumped by Disney magic, the gate opens magically for her, and her alone.

I should get me some of that Disney magic.  But it'd probably cost too many numbers...

There is actually another explanation for the gate thing having to do with a hobgoblin, what lives in the signal box.  He likes PinkFriend a lot.  He is also a cousin to the monster in the ice-maker of my parents' refrigerator, and his brother is the whatsit that lives in the lint trap of the dryer and steals socks.

But those will be stories for a different blog post, because I'm tired of writing and I can't think of a good conclusion for this desultory collection of anecdotes.  Yet, do not fear, good readers!  For every good writer knows, when in doubt about a conclusion, just use the old stand-by:

-THE END.-

Spite

All right, you know that when Beethoven was first starting out as a musician, people were having conversations like this:

Townsperson 1: Good day.

Townsperson 2: It is, isn't it?

T1: I say, did you hear that Beethoven is composing his fifth symphony?

T2: Beethoven?  You mean Ludwig von?

T1: The very same!

T2: Umm...

T1: What's wrong?

T2: Well, I'm afraid what you're saying is quite impossible.

T1: And why is that?

T2: Dude, Ludwig von Beethoven is deaf.

And yet, he was making beautiful music that we still know today!  Isn't that incredible?

Of course, every time I picture Beethoven... Well, before I tell you what I picture, let me give you a little background.  Then you can decide whether you want to read what I picture or not.  It isn't exactly a pleasant image.

When I was in fourth grade, we all had to give a report on someone of significance in history.  This was a Montessori School, so the word "significance" was interpreted widely.  I did my report on Chester Alan Arthur's wife, Ellen.  I thought she was pretty.  But GenericName did her report on Ludwig von Beethoven.  A few of the key points she brought up were as follows: 1.) He was deaf.  2.) He broke the legs off his piano so he could feel the vibrations in the floor.  3.) He often practiced in the nude, with the curtains wide open.

Okay, my little fourth grade self had the same overactive imagination as I do today.  As that fourth grade girl with a detail-oriented mind, I added a couple of elements to the picture GenericName had drawn for us.  I figured he had to be old.  And I figured he was probably drunk a lot (because who in their right mind would go naked with the curtains open?).

***If you don't want to read about the conclusionary mental image created by these aforementioned elements of my limited knowledge, skip the next paragraph entirely.*** 

So, when I picture Beethoven, this is what I see: I see an overweight, old man with a ridiculously huge, curly gray wig.  He's completely nude, holding a glass of vodka, and sitting spreadeagled on the floor in front of his broken piano, shaking the whole house with his thunderous melodies.  Isn't that lovely?

Don't worry, this paragraph is safe to read.  In a way, I find my unconventional picture of Beethoven to be... sort of inspiring.  Because that dude was written off by everyone.  You know he was.  People would walk by his house shielding their eyes, muttering about the crazy deaf guy who lived there.  They only muttered because he had money, otherwise they would have yelled about it.  He would have been slandered openly all over the streets.

And when he went deaf and continued to write music, well... you know he was laughed at.  Heck.  I would have laughed at him.  Wouldn't you?  I mean, before you'd heard his music.  If you just heard the rumor on the street, or read it in the paper, wouldn't you be skeptical?  A deaf lunatic, writing symphonies!  What has the musical world come to these days?

But I think there's a lesson buried in Beethoven's towering powdered wig.  I think we ought to take a note out of Beethoven's symphonies.  We really ought to be Beethoven.

I mean, if Thing 2 scratched my right hand, and it became gangrenous and they had to amputate it, would I learn to write with my left hand so I could continue to write my stories?  Would I type one-handed, knowing I would be ten times slower that way?

Let's say I did.  Then let's say, I got locked out of my apartment on a freezing cold night, and I got frostbite on my left hand.  Now that hand's gone, too.  Would I go to the effort of getting some kind of voice recognition software?  Would I try to dictate my stories?  Or would I just give up?  Because I can tell you, if I went deaf, I would not be trying to write music.  I would be sitting in a corner bemoaning my fate.

But not Beethoven.  He could have chosen to give up, to succumb to what the world was telling him.  His ears were trying to force him out of something he loved.  But did he surrender?  No, good ol' Ludwig put the wig back on, poured the vodka and said, "Screw you, hatahs!"  And kept writing his music.  And I'm so glad he did!  The world would be a darker place without the Ode to Joy.

Beethoven was definitely crazy.  But I am of the opinion that crazy people are blessed above all others.  I think they've figured out something we haven't.  And I want to try to find that.  Sometimes you have to play raucous melodies on the broken piano in the buff.  Sometimes you have to spite all the naysayers just for the fun of it.  Sometimes you have to shock people.

I'm not gonna lie -- you'll never see me get naked in public.  Not even close.  But I'll definitely be rocking the Beethoven way, with my own personal twist.  And maybe (just maybe!) when I die, people will look at my tombstone, smile softly, and say, "That girl was an absolute loon."

I would love that.