A Series of Unfortunately Boring Events
I suck.
The problem is, I don't even suck enough to be noteworthy of sucking. To be a mega loser would be an improvement from where I am now because at least then I would be a mega something. As it stands, I am just a mediocre pity whore with a serious inferiority complex.
Guys? Do you mind If I get real with you for a minute? I'm going to break the fourth blogging wall to explain my process. Usually, I like to have an idea to unify these rambling posts by some kind of thread, however weak it is. A lot of the time I'll start with a list of things in my head I want to cover in the same entry. When I sat down to write this one, I was feeling rather melancholy and felt the need to compose a list of the reasons why. However, as the list took shape, it became obvious that my experiences over the past few weeks aren't even sad enough to make worthwhile list of sad stuff.
I have reached a new level of mediocrity.
Here are a few examples, in case you think I'm kidding. I'll show you exciting...and then I'll show you me:
1. Exciting would be if I were failing three classes due to any number of delinquent complications. Exciting would be if I got expelled from school for turning in a paper I bought off the internet from a site called "paper monkey" without reading it through and, hence, not realizing that it was written in a strange mix of Spanish and pig-Latin. Exciting would be if I stopped studying every night because I had been caught up in dark underground ring of cock fighting and cocaine dealing. Oh yes, Columbian nose candy would be exciting indeed.
But I am not exciting. Instead, I spent all of Sunday second guessing myself and nursing my lame-ass non-cocaine addiction (illegally downloaded episodes of scrubs) because I got a low B on one English paper. "Um...Caitlin? Boo frickin hoo." chorus all the starving children in Ethiopia.
2. Exciting would be if I were being haunted by recurring nightmares about tigers ripping me to pieces and playing keep-away with the mangled parts in a moody parody of my most painful elementary school phy-ed memories. Exciting would be if my subconscious began to leak and I spilled all my deepest darkest secrets in my sleep while roommate took careful notes with plans to ALLSTU them to the entire campus as a passive aggressive act of revenge for my continually leaving shoes on her side of the room: "I've seen every episode of Flavor of Love ever made...I steal spoons and peanut butter out of the cafeteria on a regular basis...I love ABBA..." splattered all over the internet would be exciting.
I am not exciting. Here's an example of what happens in my sleep: The other night I had a dream about eating socks. It wasn't even about a noteworthy traumatic sock-eating experience either. I mean, the sock-eating wasn't the main event of my dream. It was more of a nervous dream habit that involved me absent mindedly munching on socks until the moment came when I said to myself, "I need socks. Oh, shoot. I don't have any because I ATE THEM ALL."
3. Exciting would be if I shattered seven bones in my left leg falling down the stairs while fleeing from a rabid raccoon. Exciting would be if I suffered a psychotic break and took a hammer to my own arm in order to avoid dealing with "problem six" in drama class.
But...I am not exciting. I have never broken any bones. I'm not that cool. I came close once, but it's been a while. A couple of weeks ago I was baking -- compulsively the way I do -- all by myself. I should have known this was a bad idea. I should not be left alone with numerous fractions for prolonged periods of time. I get flustered easily. As I was walking down the stairs with my arms full of baking supplies, I lost my footing and fell, ankle first. Baking supplies lay strewn about me as I lay broken at the bottom of the stairwell, moaning to myself. In the end, I couldn't decide if I wanted someone to find me there and help me put my measuring cups in order, or if I would rather lie there alone with all my pain and that last shred of dignity. I didn't have to decide though, because no one came in the end. Only God could hear my cries.
Seriously though, I was fine. Too fine to make a noteworthy addition to any list of unfortunate events. I pulled myself up, brushed myself off and limped around for a few days. I'm good as new now, even though my foot still hurts a little when I bend it like this...
Ow.
See I told you I was boring. And also a little stupid. Just call me boring stupid Caitlin from now on. Or gimpy.
Now please, pardon me while I get over myself.
The problem is, I don't even suck enough to be noteworthy of sucking. To be a mega loser would be an improvement from where I am now because at least then I would be a mega something. As it stands, I am just a mediocre pity whore with a serious inferiority complex.
Guys? Do you mind If I get real with you for a minute? I'm going to break the fourth blogging wall to explain my process. Usually, I like to have an idea to unify these rambling posts by some kind of thread, however weak it is. A lot of the time I'll start with a list of things in my head I want to cover in the same entry. When I sat down to write this one, I was feeling rather melancholy and felt the need to compose a list of the reasons why. However, as the list took shape, it became obvious that my experiences over the past few weeks aren't even sad enough to make worthwhile list of sad stuff.
I have reached a new level of mediocrity.
Here are a few examples, in case you think I'm kidding. I'll show you exciting...and then I'll show you me:
1. Exciting would be if I were failing three classes due to any number of delinquent complications. Exciting would be if I got expelled from school for turning in a paper I bought off the internet from a site called "paper monkey" without reading it through and, hence, not realizing that it was written in a strange mix of Spanish and pig-Latin. Exciting would be if I stopped studying every night because I had been caught up in dark underground ring of cock fighting and cocaine dealing. Oh yes, Columbian nose candy would be exciting indeed.
But I am not exciting. Instead, I spent all of Sunday second guessing myself and nursing my lame-ass non-cocaine addiction (illegally downloaded episodes of scrubs) because I got a low B on one English paper. "Um...Caitlin? Boo frickin hoo." chorus all the starving children in Ethiopia.
2. Exciting would be if I were being haunted by recurring nightmares about tigers ripping me to pieces and playing keep-away with the mangled parts in a moody parody of my most painful elementary school phy-ed memories. Exciting would be if my subconscious began to leak and I spilled all my deepest darkest secrets in my sleep while roommate took careful notes with plans to ALLSTU them to the entire campus as a passive aggressive act of revenge for my continually leaving shoes on her side of the room: "I've seen every episode of Flavor of Love ever made...I steal spoons and peanut butter out of the cafeteria on a regular basis...I love ABBA..." splattered all over the internet would be exciting.
I am not exciting. Here's an example of what happens in my sleep: The other night I had a dream about eating socks. It wasn't even about a noteworthy traumatic sock-eating experience either. I mean, the sock-eating wasn't the main event of my dream. It was more of a nervous dream habit that involved me absent mindedly munching on socks until the moment came when I said to myself, "I need socks. Oh, shoot. I don't have any because I ATE THEM ALL."
3. Exciting would be if I shattered seven bones in my left leg falling down the stairs while fleeing from a rabid raccoon. Exciting would be if I suffered a psychotic break and took a hammer to my own arm in order to avoid dealing with "problem six" in drama class.
But...I am not exciting. I have never broken any bones. I'm not that cool. I came close once, but it's been a while. A couple of weeks ago I was baking -- compulsively the way I do -- all by myself. I should have known this was a bad idea. I should not be left alone with numerous fractions for prolonged periods of time. I get flustered easily. As I was walking down the stairs with my arms full of baking supplies, I lost my footing and fell, ankle first. Baking supplies lay strewn about me as I lay broken at the bottom of the stairwell, moaning to myself. In the end, I couldn't decide if I wanted someone to find me there and help me put my measuring cups in order, or if I would rather lie there alone with all my pain and that last shred of dignity. I didn't have to decide though, because no one came in the end. Only God could hear my cries.
Seriously though, I was fine. Too fine to make a noteworthy addition to any list of unfortunate events. I pulled myself up, brushed myself off and limped around for a few days. I'm good as new now, even though my foot still hurts a little when I bend it like this...
Ow.
See I told you I was boring. And also a little stupid. Just call me boring stupid Caitlin from now on. Or gimpy.
Now please, pardon me while I get over myself.
posted by Caitlin at 4:58 PM
4 Comments:
It's about freaking time you updated this thing!
I mean...uh...CAAAAAITLIN!
I like your life. And you living it. Because then I get to read blog entries like this to make myself feel better about my own sock dreams and ankle-bashings.
That might've gotten weird just now. Sorry. SEE YOU IN A COUPLE WEEKS!
one of the local channels here had a full half-hour episode of socks cooking on the grill.
coincidence?
we must be psychic twins.
Hey Gimpy, remember that time when you promised to post your drama scene?
I'm still waiting . . .
Good lord, my dear!
It's been too long since we've communicated through blogger and now, at long last, we have discovered even MORE similarities!
Ridiculous VH1 trash is apparently what does it for BOTH of us! Huzza!
Post a Comment
<< Home