Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

Sabrina found this test, and I remembered that I had initially taken it over two years ago, and put the results here. For fun, I took it again:

The point? I have changed. Thank the gods for that, at least.

Ryan Adams, Please Do Not Let Me Go Read More »

Note the small title homage to Miss Samantha Kirby.

Today, while studying over at College Square, I observed one of the indie hipster kids sitting outside Lunch Paper wearing one black and one white old-school high top Converse. I'm know I'm supposed to be moved to pass some sort of judgement in this case, either consisting of, “My! How unique, cool, and off-beat!” or “How lame. How contrived.” (the former getting me some “you're so cool” praise, the latter getting me chided for being sort of square and unforgiving, allowing the chider to bathe in his/her scenester superiority—in neither case would I really care).

But the only thing I could think about was—how does he decide which foot is white and which foot is black? Does it change daily? Weekly? Is he going to switch when this pairing wears out, or is the other combination ignored completely? Is the most important part that the left is white and the right is black, or simply that they mismatch?

Clearly, my brain was looking for something to do besides study 19th century European art history. Oy.

All my roommates are asleep.

This was weird to realize just after midnight on a Saturday, so I turned off the DVD I was watching, walked downstairs and trolled around the city for half an hour. The weather is mostly just great, but now that it has finally warmed just a little, I find myself longing for the hot tropical blanket of humidity that settles over Georgia in the summer. A Southerner through and through, that's what I love most about living here.

Of course, come July, I'll outwardly complain and turn up the AC, just like everyone else.

I've seen a lot of shows in the past few days—Bain Mattox, Borrowed Angels, Hector the Hero, and Tin Cup Prophette. All of these bands share members, some pulled right out of Jump. Sometimes it kinda felt like a Charleston invasion. In a good way.

These are all bands everyone should actively persue. In the bridge of the song Blackwater, Cary Ann (the sexy front woman for the Borrowed Angels) sings “I love you” in a way that makes me wish that I could somehow have a romantic relationship with her just so someone could sing “I love you” to me that way.

Unfourtunately, although I can't speak for Miss Cary Ann, I am hopelessly and unquestionably heterosexual. Ah well. Someday I will find a young man who can sing to me that way. Hopefully someday soon.

“You've told me all this stuff in your life that you are doing wrong. What do you feel that you are doing right?”

Long pause as Jenna's face contorts and brow furrows in thought.

“That's not supposed to be a hard question to answer.”

I finally found a station with a west coast feed of Loveline.

You have no idea how happy this makes me.

Today was okay. Work, followed by some work. Then I came home and watched the original version of Ocean's Eleven with the little ones.

Then I told them all about my grandfather's obsession with spraypainting everything.

His shoes.

His garden statuary.

The doors inside his house.

His '69 Impala.

(maybe I forgot the Impala?)

I raise my rock hands in salute to the Abinator!

Goodnight.

Went to Tastyworld on Friday with the Ab and Richard and saw my good friends in the Outfit, who pretty much always rock my ass off.

Saturday went over to Maggs' house for a par-tay. Maggie and Leigh are very gracious hostesses and I had a fabulous time, although I think I've given up Southern Comfort for good. It's just far too sweet. Also, it conjures up bad memories for my stomach.

Came home Sunday morning, took a shower, and made myself a sizable breakfast. Sat down in front of the tv and ate, then I rested my poor head which was unhappy about having slept on the floor of Maggie's house, and accidentally fell asleep. For six hours. What are you gonna do, really?

Got up, made dinner, then brownies, then hung out with my peeps, drank a beer and went to bed. Couldn't really sleep so I was mostly there symbolically so that was something.

Next thing I know, Maggie's calling me because it's time to go shopping, and off to the mall we went, where thanks to some lucrative coupons I got $200 worth of clothes for $100. And an awesome purse. And some pimp-tastic sunglasses with pink rhinestones on them.

Abie-inspired “pimpin' ain't easy” series

Time with Maggs + Pink sunglasses = a fabulous way to start your week.

Today has gone by very quickly.

I was reminded today that I usually don't have to tell people my stories. Everyone reads all my stories on my website.

Sometimes it's flattering, and fun, and then other times you realize you have nothing to say at a dinner party.

Journal revamp coming, inspired by this woman, who rocks me, both in design and in writing. I'm going to try to break my old girl out of MT default templates for real, yo.

It would help if I could use my own computer for anything anymore. Maybe I'll get it fixed someday.

But now, it is time for sleep. Bedtime was so like, 75 hundred hours ago.

Last night was my friend Richard's 21st birthday.

Although I “really didn't seem that drunk at all” last night, today I got much use out of the hangover kit Melissa gave me for my 21st birthday last week, and spent a large part of the afternoon sitting in a hot bath eating crackers and sipping spring water.

I got out and slept in the living room for a long time, then went out to dinner with my parents, who quickly figured out why I was asleep everytime they called.

“Were you out all night?”

“No, I just don't feel very well.”

“Are you hungover?”

“What time are you guys getting here?”

“We're on our way downtown right now. Are you hungover?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still want to come have dinner with us?”

“Yes, yes, I'm fine.”

“Where were you last night?”

“My friend Richard's birthday party.”

“Oh. What—”

“Mom, I'm putting on my shoes and coming downstairs right now, okay?”

I get in the car with Mom, Dad, and Uncle David, and I have to detail what I was drinking (Southern Comfort) and what I mixed it with (cranberry juice). Then they all proceeded to faux-lecture me on the dangers of sweet drinks for giving one hangovers.

However, it was less about scolding me and more about living through me vicariously. And, there is always this gem of parental wisdom:

“If you had been smoking pot, you know, you wouldn't be hungover.”

Thanks, Dad.

Mom wanted to buy me a beer when we were out to dinner, and when I expressed a complete lack of desire to drink anything but water, I was assaulted by several exclamations of “Hair of the dog that bit ya!”, the idea that actually drinking more alcohol helps to get rid of hangovers. While I know this is based on some very sound anecdotal evidence, I myself pretty much see it as a get-back-on-the-horse mantra for alcoholics.

And like the t-shirt says: I'm not an alcoholic, I'm a professional drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings.

Today I have been lazy. The only really productive thing I did was finally balance my checkbook. After that I sat around, called a couple of people, but mostly watched Six Feet Under and read my Playboy Bartender's Guide. All I wanted to do all day is go out and be social but it being spring break not a whole lot of people are even in town.

After dinner Abie finally got home from work and we went out and got Starbucks for her and then to Taco Stand for a beer for me. It is still very weird that I can ask for a beer and they will go ahead and sell it to me. I imagine it will continue to be weird for quite some time.

Then we came home and I kept Abie company while she did t-shirt surgery. She has made some pretty nifty halters and skirts and such. Girl loves to sew.

Today has been so slow I am actually looking forward to work tomorrow. So I better get my ass to bed.

G'night.

4 bars.

6 drinks.

A free Zippo!

Ridiculous amounts of fun.

However, ironically, can't sleep. Everytime I lay down the room rocks back and forth, incessantly.

“Hell fuck to the yeah!”

Abie had, um, unusually large hair last night after taking it out of braids, and had to take pictures. She then compelled me to take a bunch with her.

The whole series is here.

I became a work place cliché today—the girl crying in a bathroom stall.

I have become consumed by this completely irrational fear that I'm going to get fired soon. Which is utterly ridiculous, but we are in the middle of performance reviews and its got me totally stressed out.

This whole thing was spurred by getting in trouble this morning for something I screwed up yesterday. So I spent 10 minutes very early this morning sitting in the dark, on the floor, bleary-eyed wondering What am I doing?

Not in reference to crying in the office bathroom but rather, why do I attempt to sabotage myself at every turn?

I need to:

• get to work on time

• concentrate while I'm at work (rather than slacking off)
• show initiative, and that care about doing a good job

I did all that before. I don't understand what's happening to me.

The job is very important to me. How I do at this job is largely how I measure my self-worth. It allows me to hold my head high, because I'm good at it.

Lately it's just been another thing that's there for me to screw up.

I guess I've just gotta put it out of my head. Par-tay this weekend.

The beauty of Georgia. Not even a week ago it was snowing. Not even two days ago I had to keep my hands in my pockets to keep them freezing into chunks of ice and falling right off my arms.

Now I'm actually worried about being too warm. This place I live is so strange.

But good.

Hope the weather holds up, this is great birthday weather.