So by popular demand (a whopping four people!) a link to my livejournal . Most of it is friends only, but feel free to add me as a friend if you have a livejournal. (Try not to be too horrified. If you thought my writing was bad here, just wait until you take a look at that. It’s appalling. That’s whats so wonderful about it.) You may be excited to see that there are some pictures of J (and one with a guitar WOOHOO)

Here’s a sample of what you can expect from my LJ:
“i had so much fun today at my friends house. i went over and we went to the park to hang out and watch these cute guys play basketball :b. And after that we decided togo eat pizza. While we were walking to the pizzaria, this nine year old started hitting on us!!! He was like yo, can I get ya’lls number. And we were like ummmm…. maybe another time, and we ran off. Then we played with the ouja board. We asked it what jobs we are gonna have when we get older. Turnsout Im going to be a penis cleaner, and my friend is gopnna be a stripper lmao. And Im going to be a virgin all my life and get married at the age of 45. Isnt that crazy??? hahahaha”

Just kidding. I wrote that in 2002, when I was fourteen. I’m ashamed that I was still that dumb at FOURTEEN. It’s kind of crazy to think that I’ve had that LJ for six years.

I’m so glad that I got to make comment friends with so many awesome people. Don’t fret too much, because I’ll still be stalking everyone’s blogs and I’ll probably want to reply more now that I’m not worrying about my own.

I started this site as an experiment. I read dozens of blogs and it got to the point where I thought, “hey that looks fun, I’m going to try it.” Which is pretty much the way I start doing anything (like the time I started knitting, writing comics, started a photoblog that lasted a day, bought a scrapbooking kit, joined the tennis team, became a sociology major, then a journalism major, then an art history major) I see a lot of people do something, I want to do it too, then I realize I don’t really like it much at all.

I don’t like blogging.

It feels like such a chore. I feel like a bad mommy if I go days and days without posting anything, but why should I even feel like that? It’s my site after all, I can do whatever I want with it. But that still doesn’t kill the soul-eating guilt I feel when I neglect this place. (Overreact, much?)

So with that I think I bid blogging adieu. I’m still going to read blogs of course, I love doing that. It’s the whole keeping my own blog thing that makes me want to die. Plus I hate wordpress. Paragraphs should automatically space on their own, dammit.

Who knows, this may just be a weird phase I am going through, and I’ll realize that I truly do love to blog, and I’ll pop back up. I do have this stupid webspace for the next 6 months. Chances are it’ll turn into a completely different site all together when I get inspired to do something else that I’ll end up hating.

But for now I’m probably going back to Livejournal where I can update once a month and go back to being a poor speller (I’m taking a huge step backward, and I love it).

In the past week I’ve come to realize that my biggest flaw is my inability to say no to anyone. I just feel like a terrible awful witch if I reject people. This includes telemarketers, job recruiters, and thugs who hit on me.

I was sitting on a bench waiting for my interview on Tuesday. This black teenager (his race [and mine] is important to this story) sits next to me and asks, “do you read the bible?” Even as a Christian I know that any conversation with a stranger that starts with “do you read the bible?” should be avoided, unless I want to be told that I’m going to hell, God hates me, and everything I’ve ever learned about Christianity is wrong so here is the right way. So because I am the queen of sensibility, I said, “yes,” and then I waited for him to save me.

Instead he asked me another question, this time it was, “what’s your ethnic background?” Apparently I never learned anything as a child when people told me not to talk to strangers because instead of telling him I didn’t want to talk, I told him I was Puerto Rican.

He was incredibly pleased by this because it allowed him to preach to me about his version of Christianity. He told me that I was actually a so-called Puerto Rican, complete with loser air quotation marks. I was black, Jesus was black, and I had to free myself from the white oppressor. I should have just told him that I happened to like white people very much and many of them are very sexy, thank you. But of course I did what should always be done when talking to a crazy person. Nod in a agreement.

I didn’t know what else to do! And if I wasn’t doing a good enough job handling the situation already, I gave him my phone number and email address in exchange for a flier.

I finally got around to checking out the flier tonight, and it was so worth talking to this guy for.

Right smack in the center is a picture of what most people recognize Jesus as, white-ish with long, fab Herbal Essence hair. The caption above the picture says, “This is NOT Jesus Christ!” Next to that picture is a funky black Jesus (the real Jesus!) with a fro, surrounded by bling. Well, the picture is sort of fuzzy so it might not be actual bling. Let’s just say he looks fly.

Reading the page, I felt sad for all of my white and non-hispanic Christian friends who are all wasting their time with their faith. They aren’t black afterall. Then I came across “THOSE WHOSE FATHERS ARE OF NEGROID AND INDIAN DESCENT MAKE UP THE 12 TRIBES OF THE NATION OF ISRAEL.” Well that’s a relief. I was beginning to worry about J’s soul.

Tuesday night I’ll have to watch their television show “The Real Jews Are Black”.

After much beating myself up over how much I suck and will be poor forever, I dragged myself back to the mall and filled out some applications. it was pretty simple once the feeling that I wanted to vomit all over the merchandise passed. once I filled out the first one the rest were cake. I even had a group interview (yeah I’ve never heard of this either). I mean, regular interviews are bad enough, but an interview with five other people was horrifying. At least the hiring manager was incredibly sassy and fabulous. No, I am not describing a woman.

I am crossing my fingers to get a job at American Eagle or Aerie. The discount there is just amazing. 50% off of all promoted items and 40% off of everything else. I’ll be a walking American Eagle advertisement, but who cares? It’s one of the only adult stores that actually sells my size (Which is an XS, but if you’ve ever tried on an XS in any other store you’ll know that the clothes LIE TO YOU. What is with stores making sizes bigger than what they’re supposed to be? There’s a word for that isn’t there?). Anyway, if I get the job in AE, I’ll get the Aerie (AE’s lady undies store) discount too, which I desperately need. It’s about time I stop wearing underwear with rainbows and unicorns in granny style. I’m actually wearing a pair of underwear that says “Friday” right now.

Oh yes, and let’s not forget the incredibly sexy young man also interviewing for a job. Now I know my heart belongs to J, even if he refuses to realize this, but that doesn’t mean I can’t admire someone very pretty from across the pile of polo shirts and flip flops.

If I don’t get a job I don’t know what I will do to support my new lifestyle as a shopaholic. In the past three days I’ve purchased three dresses and a skirt, none of which I need. I never used to like shopping, and now I can’t even go into a store without foaming from the mouth.

If this blog ever disappears, it’ll be because I spent all my money and couldn’t pay my hosting bill.

I couldn’t do it. I went to the mall with every intention of picking up as many applications as possible. I was going to walk into the stores and walk out a potential employee. It was all so perfect when I imagined myself being super cute and professional in my head. They’d see me and say “you’re exactly what we’re looking for!” I wouldn’t even have to ask.

Instead I hesitated outside of stores. I kept telling myself to just go in and ask. It’s no big deal, people do it all the time. Even when I saw giant “hiring” signs I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. I literally paced back and forth arguing with myself outside of a store that I knew was looking for workers. They probably thought I was some sort of mall terrorist.

I don’t know if I see myself working this sum

So one of my goals for this summer is to get a job and actually be useful to society rather than sit around in my house all day watching episodes of 30 Rock and eat everything in the kitchen. Which is quite a good way to spend a summer, if I do say so myself. I mean I’m young and I have no responsibilities, when else will I be able to have endless television show marathons and bookmark things from crafting sites that I will never be able to actually make myself.

I don’t even know how to go about getting a job. It’s not like I’m looking for some sort of big executive position or anything, just something simple in a clothing store or a bookstore or an escort service. Am I supposed to just walk into stores and say “hello, can I have an application?” What if they look at me and say “no, you’re short, you cannot work here.” That probably won’t happen, but it’s a possibility! How can I work if I can’t see over a counter and help customers?

Then after I fill out the applications what do I do? Do I wait for them to call me? And why would they call me anyway? What would make my application stand out from the other kids who are probably applying for summer jobs as well? AND OH MY GOSH WHAT IF I HAVE TO GO IN FOR AN INTERVIEW AND THEY ASK ME ALL SORTS OF CRAZY QUESTIONS ABOUT WHY I SHOULD BE CHOSEN AND OF COURSE I’LL SAY SOMETHING RIDICULOUS LIKE, “I really just want the 40% discount.”

Getting a job is scary and I don’t want to do it, you can’t make me. No.

After what has to be the shortest school year ever I am finally home for the summer. It’ll probably be an incredibly long and boring three months involving looking for work, working, eating, and not much else. I never thought I would get to the point where I’d actually long to be at school.

I suppose, as obvious as this is, the biggest reason I am sad to be home is because of the short amount of time I got to spend attempting to be closer to McCrushy . This boy has to be the most oblivious person I know. Could I send enough hints at him? The only way I could make it clearer is by showing up at his apartment with flowers, and even then he’d probably think I gave them to him to spruce up the kitchen a bit. It’s gotten to the point where everyone except him can see that I like him.

For example,

My drunken suitemate, who I barely even talk to aside for the occasional “hey, what’s going on?” said to me, after stumbling into the suite from a night of partying, “that boy likes you. YOU’RE SO CUTE. He totally likes you.” I asked her who she was talking about, because I honestly had no idea. She responded, “you know. That boy. I don’t know his name. He likes you.”

Later, I recalled this story to a friend of mine. “She was probably talking about J,” he said without hesitation and an eyebrow wiggle. (I’m going to call him J now because I can’t type of McCrushy anymore. It makes me want McDonalds.)

I was a bit suspicious as to why he would even bring up J in the first place. I never mention him to him (this is a very odd sounding sentence). So either the romantic tension between us is rather obvious, or J has actually made mention of me to the boys.

Even earlier than this incident, I went out with a couple of girls I’ve recently become close to. As what usually happens when a bunch of young girls get together, we started to talk about crushes. I tried to dance around the subject, but after everyone else had shared, they all looked at me and asked me who I liked. Before I could say anything, one girl chimed in, “I think I know,” and the other two girls agreed that they knew who it was too. I had each of them go around and whisper into my ear who they thought, and they all said J. I asked them if it was really that obvious, and they all nodded and said that they think he reciprocates.

So why then, am I sitting here at home with absolutely no stories to tell of any romantic advancement between the two of us? The badness of my flirting skills really isn’t exaggerated. Everyone gets the hint except him.

I know all isn’t doomed. I can easily see him this summer; we only live in different boroughs. The question is how? I know I’m too scared to just ask him to hang out on my own. If I were a normal human, I could say, “Hey J, want to hang out tomorrow,” but instead I suffer from social awkardtism. There must be a way I can trick him into hanging out with me, but if it goes anything like the time I complained and complained to him about how I didn’t get to go to the movies, and boy I sure do want to go to the movies, I’ll even walk there if I have to (and he STILL doesn’t offer to take me), then I probably won’t see him until September.

At least I have my true boyfriend, Wii, to keep me company.

I hate finals. Can I please have my life back?

I always try to stay away from teen drama shows. They all seem the same. A bunch of beautiful twenty-something looking “kids” (who really looked like this in high school? I was not fabulous. I wore platform Herman Munster shoes from Steve Madden, and shirts with words like “princess” covered in glitter and gemstones) in high school have relationships. The end. But I have to admit it, I’ve recently started watching Gossip Girl, and I can’t believe how incredibly addicting it is. I’m so addicted that I’m even considering watching One Tree Hill, just because I want more teen angst. It pains me to type that. Then again this is all coming from a girl who sits through hours long marathons of Degrassi. I’m starting to wonder why I even said I stay away from teen drama shows in the first place.

The thing about Gossip Girl is I feel inadequate after watching it. Everyone is just so beautiful. They have perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect apartments, and perfect wardrobes—oh god, the wardrobes. They’re fab. I’m certain that if I had a wardrobe like those girls every problem in my life would be solved. Failed a final exam? Who cares, look at my marvelous skirt!

I can literally feel my self-esteem slipping away as I watch these pretty people gallivant around New York. All throughout an episode I’ll keep pausing and peering into my closet and noticing how all of my clothes are pathetic, and why do I have so many pairs of jeans, and what was I thinking when I bought that cami? I can’t even believe how much of a girl I’ve become in the past couple of years. I never used to care about this stuff. I blame it on Sex and the City.

So in a desperate attempt to be more beautiful than usual, and because I can’t afford new clothing, I settled for trying to curl my hair. My hair is very plain. I straighten it because it looks a mess if I leave it natural, but the problem with straightening is that it leaves my hair without any volume… So as I watched Blair Waldorf be a complete whore with glamorous bouncy hair last night, I thought to myself, “That’s exactly what I need to change my life. Curls!”

I had watched a friend of mine curl her hair with a straightening iron a few days ago. It looked simple enough. Twirl and pull. Voila, curls. Except not. What I got instead were awkward crispy pieces of hair. I kept telling myself to continue anyway because after I finish my entire head it would all come together, and I’d look rich and beautiful. Instead I got the exact opposite results. I looked homeless.

How exactly do girls curl their hair? I’ve tried everything from actual curling irons, to hot rollers, and now straightening irons. My problem isn’t getting the curls to stay; it’s getting them to actually look nice and curl-like rather than a strange lump poking out of my head. I’m not even looking to have a full on head of curly hair. I just want to add a bit of bounce to my dull do. Should I just hire a personal stylist? I bet Serena Van Der Woodsen never has these problems.

You know I’m spooning deprived when I get satisfaction out of sitting squished in the back of a car really close to McCrushy. I hope he wasn’t creeped out by my eyes-shut-in-pleasure face and the occassional sniffing.