This is why...

...I'll never be a successful blogger, in all honesty. I haven't published anything here since, according to my dashboard, November 5th. Honestly, I'm not surprised at all. I mean, really, I'm probably the most routine-challenged individual alive.

Do you know how long it took me to get into the habit of having a morning routine for those days that I have school? No? Well, you're not the only one; I don't know either, which, by my reckoning proves that it was a long time. Even then, I don't maintain that routine when I don't have to do something that day. All pretenses of actually caring about hygiene or regular bathing generally fly right out the window the minute I have a day off. This, by the way, is why I absolutely hate it when people come over to hang out when I'm not prepared. Aside from being fairly rude - I have to interrupt my movie for an hour or more while you blather needlessly about whatever you feel like blathering about - when you arrive without warning, I also hate being taken off guard.

A great example of this hatred for being taken off guard is my sophomore, Richard. In all honesty I'm not particularly fond of him - he's really creepy, even if I, personally, have little to fear from his particular brand of creepy, since he's apparently gay (in other cases, I might use his age as a point of argument, saying he's not old enough to really know, but, well, the label kind of fits him, as horrible as that sounds). Moving on to the point, he's one of those people who hugs everyone. Aside from the fact that this makes him somewhat of a biohazard in the event that he hugs someone with a communicable disease, it also makes him a hazard to my health in the parameters that he does not always announce his presence when he chooses to hug you. If you've ever put magnesium in water, you've seen my reaction to receiving an unexpected hug.  Really, you'd think the boy would learn, eventually, that if it's not a hug on my terms, it qualifies as an attack on my person, and will be received as such.

So, you may be wondering what I've been up to in the past twenty-two days. Aside from the relatively obvious school stuff - consisting of trying (and failing through no fault of my own) to set up things for my senior project, and missing as little school as possible to avoid making up P.E. - I've been trying to work on my novel as much as possible, but, that hasn't been working as well as I feel it should have. Actually, since I missed school on Monday, I've had an entire week of free time - thanks to a cold spell that froze over the town on Tuesday and convinced the powers that be to cancel school on Wednesday, too - and I've done nothing with it. Really, I had ambitions for this weekend, but, hey, it's Saturday night, and I've done almost nothing but watch movies the whole time.  So that you might understand this better, I've prepared a few Venn diagrams.

The Truth of My Weekend

My Mental Image of My Weekend (Five Days Old) 

As you can see, the reality of my actions this weekend include a lot of things I didn't intend to do. I did not intend to watch something like 5 movies in two days, sleep until noon four out of the last five days, or work on   filling out this meme for the main character of my novel instead of writing my novel. I did, however, intend to draw a ton of stuff, surpass the 100,000 word mark on my novel (I'm at 91,000 words at the moment. If I really rally today, I could, conceivably, actually accomplish this one), and spend my days doing constructive things. You know, I'm really funny sometimes. Ha Ha. 

I suppose I should just be happy my weekend doesn't look like this: 

The Hive

In my house, we have exactly one scale - well, only one that can measure, support human weight. Remember in the old days, when they weighed you at the doctor's using a system that requires the nurse to move weights back and forth until she finds your weight? I suppose they still use those in some places. Anyhow, we have one of those, and there's nothing more satisfying than putting the big weight - the one that measures fifty pound increments - on 250 and watching it drop like a rock. Yes, I weighed myself this morning - 245.5 lbs. Fuck yeah - that's five fewer pounds that I have to lose before I'm sexy. ;D

I arrived at school this morning to find something that, to me, was quite pleasing. To the owner of the one-wheeled, seat-less bike that that is still in my fucking spot, I'm sure it was or will be much less pleasing. This, if nothing else, supports my vigilante theory. I expect to arrive at school on Monday to find the front wheel missing. I'll be sad if it isn't. As a result of this epic turn of events, I've been randomly blurting out, "Karma's a bitch! >8D" all day.

As you know, we're doing badminton in P.E. Today Steven and I basically agreed that we didn't want to play by the rules and just wanted to have fun and move around, get a work out, you know? No. We didn't get to. Our first match we got paired up with a pair of girls who, for whatever reason, seemed to find the fact that we (a) don't know the rules for shit and (b) don't give a shit about them to be offensive in some way. They, of course, won the match. And we got to have fun playing with a team that didn't mind not playing by the rules. Everything was looking up, until the first team lost and then ended up against us again. So we did the intelligent thing and calmly attempt to explain that they're going to win anyway, so we should just have fun batting the birdie around, yeah? As if. No. We had to play by the rules - which I feel ruins the game, since the rules are retarded, anyway.

By this point I was kind of pissed off, which brought out my asstastically competitive side. If I got the chance, I attempted to spike that damn birdie, and I scored at least four points, much to my satisfaction, getting that aerodynamically retarded "ball" past them and to the ground. I like to think I won, regardless of whether or not I did, because my ego needs it.

Moving on.

Chamber choir has shown a dramatic improvement over the last two years. Wait. did I say improvement? I mean to say that we've gone from being pretty damn amazing - before my time, sadly - to, in my opinion, sub-par. This is not for lack of trying on my part. It's the hive. Our teacher claims that we have promise but, honestly, what we have is "talent," or the intrinsic ability to be able to sing in a  slightly more pleasant manner than the intermediate group. The fact of the matter is, half the class rarely learns their music on time, forcing the rest of us to look equally as retarded as them on stage because we have to maintain some measure of congruity. I've come to realize the these girls all have something in common - they never shut up. The worst offenders are the alarmingly large group of cheerleaders in the alto section.

These girls are, in all honesty, scary. They spew a constant stream of shallow, stupid thoughts into the air. Merely being able to hear their chatter is enough to prompt a brain tumor to sprout. If you say something even vaguely intelligent to them, they assume this eerie, blank expression for the next ten to twenty seconds while their woefully underpowered processors attempt to process the words that just came out of your mouth. It's rumored that, in this moment, you can look directly in their eyes and see the empty space where their soul and their brain should be.

They do not understand simple concepts. You are, out of respect, supposed to shut the hell up while JROTC does their thing with the flags. But, tonight, during out dress rehearsal, not only did these girls refuse to shut up, they were also glued to their cellphones the entire time. If we hadn't been in the middle of rehearsal, I would have verbally kicked their asses. "Hey, you guys, yeah, you. Are you complete fucktards? Do you know how disrespectful it is to the country and the ladies arranging the flags over there when you talk while they're doing their thing? Shut the fuck up or, so help me, I will cut you." Twenty second later, after I've had plenty of time to confirm that their brains are, indeed, missing, I like to think that they would have been so dumbfounded by my mastery of words that they'd shut up entirely. Possibly forever. More likely, however, is the possibility of all six of them turning on me like the hive they imitate, because they feel threatened by my almighty powers of simple logic.

The topic of Twilight once came up while I could hear them and, unable to resist humiliating a twitard, I proceeded to berate them with logical reasons for why the books suck - if you're interested in these arguments, search for Arzim's Rebuttals. In the end they, hilariously, resorted to insulting the work of better writers, claiming that Christopher Paolini can't write, which is just sad, because these girls have obviously never read a good book in their life and would not know one if it stabbed them thirty-seven times in the chest with an eggplant.

Since I spent such a huge part of today being more than a little pissed off, I'm guessing that this post came out a little less amusing than I would have hoped. I do hope you all realize that, while the cheerleaders in choir are complete idiots, I know that some aren't. Some of them can add.

If I have to think of a title every time, I'll die.

So, today I intended to weigh myself. I somehow managed to leave the house this morning without doing so, so I didn't do it, since I had lunch as soon as I got home. So, maybe, we'll have a semi-official weight tomorrow. Or the next. Meh.

I think, for today, we're going to look at my daily routine, since I think I'm very interesting, starting at, like, 1 AM when I go to bed for the night. Since yesterday was relatively typical day, I'll go over it.

After a long night of strenuous internet usage, I'm finally tuckered out and ready to sleep at around 1 AM. So I shut my laptop for the night, turn off the lamp, put my glasses on the shelf or on top of the laptop, and curl up under the covers. five minutes pass, and sleep still doesn't come. So I roll over.

By this time, my cat, Tardzilla (Squeaker's her name, actually) has come in and situated herself in the most inconvenient space possible. Whether she's laying in the space where I plan to put my leg next, or sitting on my laptop threatening to knock my glasses across the room, she always manages to delay my sleep by at least an hour. After several more changes of position, and shoving my cat out of the way three or five times, I'm forced to listen to her purr inexplicably (despite the fact that I've just abused her verbally and somewhat physically) for the next twenty minutes while I attempt to distract myself by thinking about ways I can continue writing on my novel. Or scenes I really want to write, but can't because I need to write all the shit between said scenes and where I am at that point. moving on.

So, eventually, in spite of my cat's attempts to keep me up, I fall asleep. On an optimal night, I wake up six hours later (which feels like fifteen minutes when you're asleep) and get ready to leave home for my daily visit to the mandatory fascist brainwashing facility that is high school. On a not so optimal night, I will wake up like I did yesterday: via cat-tard.

My eyes snapped open, reacting to the alarming noises of something being knocked around. In my sleep starved state, I mistake this noise for any number of sounds, from the death throes of a book in distress, to a pervert watching me sleep. Assuming one of my books is in peril, I grope around in the dark, discovering that my feline nemesis laying between my head and my books. Finding nothing amiss, I go back to sleep. Rattle-clack-sngher! Fuck my life. I open my eyes again - a wholly useless gesture, since I have the vision of an eighty-year-old woman with cataracts without my glasses on - and grope around some more. That cat is still there, and nothing is wrong. One more cycle of this noise and me waking up, and I'm thoroughly pissed off - all I want is sleep and something is inhibiting my pursuit of Zs. This time, when I grope around, I catch a furry arm pawing at the pepsi bottle I tucked into the shelf behind my bed the night before. Cursing under my breath, I seize Tardzilla and kick her out. No more cuddles for you, bitch!

At some time between 8:10 and 8:35 in the morning, and after a cup of coffee that varies between normal and huge sizes depending on the number of minutes left before "getting ready to leave" time, I leave for "school" (the aforementioned fascist brainwashing facility). During the winter, I curse under my breath the entire way: "Fuck it's cold." I arrive to find on of two things: my parking space is either open or closed. If it's closed, it's always occupied by the same bike. Now, because this has rarely happened before, and never with the same bike multiple days in a row, I've been assuming, for the past two months that the asshole taking my spot is a freshman and/or transfer student. I tell myself every time they're there, "I'm gonna wait for this guy to come unlock his bike after school, and I'm gonna kick his ass." I never do, largely because by then I've just decided I want to go home. Today I had the pleasure of arriving to school and finding that his bike is missing its rear-wheel, for whatever reason, and I'd like to think that it's because somebody was all "That asshat's parked in Shqueer's spot." It probably wasn't, but, whatever.

So I lock my bike up, right? And, after arranging my headphones and my hair so that nobody that matters (administrator types) can tell I'm listen to music (today was a hip-hop day, if you're interested), I go inside and, two days a week, listen to (a recording of) Dave Ramsey tell us all about this magical land of his where you can get 12% of your money via investing and where carrying $5000 in cash on your person is not a horrible, horrible idea.

Second period rolls around: P.E. So I go through the no longer mortifying process of undressing in front of other, more attractive females (I stopped giving a flying fuck about their opinion long ago), and spend the next hour jogging, stretching, playing some ridiculous sport, and/or weightlifting. This week we're doing badminton, which I'd have a hell of a lot more fun with if there weren't rules. I keep thinking Steven and I should just be all "so, like, let's not play by the rules and you guys can just win automatically, because it's more fun that way. ;D" It's a valid idea - the rules to that particular game are retarded anyway.

Third period - Chamber choir. I love chamber choir, guys. Best class I have. However, it's less enjoyable following P.E., largely because I'm hot, still somewhat sweaty - because I don't shower at school - and tired of not sitting. My body temperature is high enough that, for whatever reason, when I stand up, you can see the places on my chair where my jeans weren't making contact. Today Our teacher brought us doughnuts - which he promised the class last Friday. If you've never set two dozen of those puppies down an offered them to a group of females number, probably twenty, you probably don't know that all twenty-four pastries are claimed within minutes. Given that excess sugar prompts my brain to assume the Migraine position, I wisely chose to forgo my "treat." In retrospect, I think Wongiun is attempting to kill me.

At lunch I sit with Smut-Face, my only friend still attending the mandatory brainwashing facility, as all the others have moved on to the land of, supposed, free thinking (college). We usually find something to talk about - which usually amounts to complaining about school or students that just get on our nerves - for the duration of lunch.

Then I go to Government. Where they teach us about how they lie to us about how America's government is run, and claim that it's one of the best ones ever. Given that I'm enlightened, I tend to look at all of this very cynically, and sit in the back of the class to avoid mouthing off where the teacher can hear me. This class is privately referred to as "Brainwashing 503: The Final Rinse" by our overlords.

Then it's back to choir, where I get to interact with the best freshman I've ever met who wasn't me. He's not enlightened, unfortunately, so when politics came up while talking to him last night/ today, I felt that I may have ruined my chances of being able to come back three years from now and see if he's evolved into the attractive, sensitive young man I hope he'll be. He has the most adorable curls. I digress.

Seventh period: Writing 121, also known, to me, at least, as "that class where I get praised all the time and get to show off how truly awesome I am at existing. 8D"

After a long day of school, I gather my things and head home, usually choosing to accompany Smut-face part of the way because we're buddies. At this point, all I've had to eat so far that day is not even food: it's that cup of coffee I briefly mentioned seven paragraphs ago. Mom has, in recent times, chosen to prepare lunch/dinner at a time that coincides with my arrival home, since I have a bad habit of eating when I get home from school. After foodening time, I spend the rest of my day on the internet or working on my novel, unless I have homework due the next day, then I might do that. Lately I haven't been hungry, like, at all, so I don't even bother finding myself things to snack on during the eightish hours between then and bed time. Just a square, or two, of 90% dark chocolate, and that's usually because Mom has offered it to me, making the task of obtaining it effortless.

Then, after a long night of strenuous internet usage, I am finally ready to repeat the process all over again, so I can battle the forces of fascist brainwashing and doughnuts with renewed strength.

This is a blog...

I hardly expect it to get popular in the least, largely because it probably won't ever have a focus. It'll include its fair share of politics, dieting, artsy stuff, writing related things, and probably anything else that happens to cross my mind. Because I write on impulse, man. It'll also, probably contain a fair number of curse words - most notably "Fuck," which is a very versatile word and can be used in almost any context.

On the bright side, if you're looking for something humorous, and, possibly, inflammatory or (at least) serious in some way, you've come to the right place, since I'm usually pretty great at executing both.

With that in mind, let's move on with out first topic ever: Me. Well, actually, this will probably be a continued theme throughout the (likely short) existence of this blog. I'm kind of self-centered that way.  But this post is an introduction to the me that exists at this very moment (11:25 PM on November 2nd, 2010).

We'll start with the main reason I decided to start this blog: to guilt myself into actually losing some weight on my diet. I have been struggling with my weight since I was about five years old. Some of the world's fucktards would assume that I simply have subsisted mainly on cake, pie, and lard for the last thirteen years - and they'd be utterly and completely wrong, and not simply because the cake is a lie. Growing up, we rarely had all the shit that is supposed to make kids fat - cookies, candy, pie, cake: all that garbage was a rarity in my household. In fact, we ate what the government insists in healthy food: whole grains, vegetables, fruit. You've seen the food pyramid, right?  Well, we followed that pretty closely. And we just kept getting bigger.

Around the time I entered sixth grade, we decided to try low-carbing it. At the time, I weighed over two hundred pounds, and I was, like 5' 6". It was obvious that something needed to change, or I'd be royally fucked for life. You have no idea how difficult that was. Back then, bread was one of my favorite foods. I loved pasta, rice, and potatoes. So giving those things up was difficult. But it was worth it. I managed to get my weight just below two hundred.

Then we screwed up. We started buying all that "low-carb" stuff. You know, the stuff marketed to Atkins dieters? I put all the weight back on, plus some. After some ups and downs, I eventually came to a point where I was maintaining my weight at, like two-twenty. Well, this was right before my mother decided that she was feeling crappy half the time, and that it might have been the lack of carbs. Initially we only planned to include a few. One meal a week, right? That quickly turned into 3-4 meals a week that included either pasta, rice, or potatoes. My weight shot up to 275 lbs.

Around this time, my helpless father was diagnosed with Type II diabetes. If you haven't looked into the effect diabetes can have on the body, you should look into it - that's some scary shit. This spurred my mother to devote some of her time to researching diets and whatnot, because Dad didn't have (and still doesn't have) health insurance and if we could manage his condition with a diet change, we were going to or die trying. From there she discovered some lovely blogs on the subject of low-carb dieting. My father and I both showed great improvement and, at one point, he was able to stop using his insulin entirely. In the year since, I've managed to lose 25 pounds which, while not being the most astonishing example of weight loss ever, is great, particularly since I haven't been watching myself very closely at all. Inevitably her pursuit of knowledge led her to discover the paleo community, which is actually the main system we've been following for the time between then and now.

And that, my friends, brings us to this very moment in time. My goal for this blog, ultimately, is to log my attempts at getting to a healthy weight. Based on my height (5' 8") and bone structure (not dainty, if that's what you're thinking), I've guesstimated that, barring muscle-weight, 180 lbs is a more than reasonable weight to shoot for. Heck, I'd be happy with 200 lbs, right now - since I can see the merits of my physique now - I do have a nice figure if you look at me from the front - and I can imagine myself being acceptably attractive fifty pounds from now. Fifty, by the way, is an estimate, as I haven't really weighed myself lately - I'm guessing I actually weigh less than I think I do, since my current estimate (250) is based on data from several weeks ago, and I've been relatively good since then.

So, that's my story. It's not a particularly sad one, I suppose. Heck, if I wanted to I could do what all the other fat girls my age do - pretend it's acceptable. Except that it is not acceptable to be fat. Ever. It's not a natural state. And anyone who says otherwise is an idiot.