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

I've been giving it much thought over the past few weeks, and I've decided that Anthropology (my current major) is simply not for me. I'm far too capitalistic, and care far too little about the world outside of my own sphere of existence. I have no desire to explore and improve. My short time in the working world, functioning as an independent adult, has crushed some of the idealism that comes so naturally to the academic hippified thinking that seems to dominate this major.

I mean that in the nicest way possible. It's my fault I no longer have a heart.

So I'm finishing out this semester of classes, but I'm changing my major as soon as I can to Sociology, a major I actually have taken the intro class in, unlike Anthropology, whose intro class I am taking right now. Yes, this may set back my graduation even more. I care not.

Other than thinking a lot about school, I have maintained my usual slacker existence. Don't worry about that; that mode of dealing is probably here to stay.

“I'm amazed that individuals 4 years younger than me drive Lexuses but will scramble for a piece of candy.”, extisp.icio.us, buying episodes of This American Life from iTunes, making a “Next Action” list to keep myself on track and from freaking out (thanks cb), crossing things off that list, remembering how truly wonderful my friends are (yes, I mean you!), Chet Baker, clean T-shirts, the upcoming weekend, You Are A oversexed sexybitch who loves to stroke hot bitches

Comment accompanied with appropriate demonstrative motion—“Just rub some aloe on your ass.”, Thanks Satan!, the new viral nature of Flickr, the killer bookmarking app that is del.icio.us, the new A Scanner Darkly teaser, pain that reminds me that I am still alive because it's impossible to numb out and ignore, the interesting color of my ass-bruise, working the phrase ass-bruise into conversation, boyfriend metaphor for firefox v. ie, being able to breathe again!

This morning I woke up the first time my alarm went off.

This never happens.

I'm fairly certain it worked this time because I've replaced the squawk! squawk! squawk! of my clock radio with my new mobile phone alarm, playing my Love in an Elevator ringtone.

I climbed out of bed, did the morning thing. I had time to make French bread pizza for breakfast, take a lot of vitamins to combat the cold I am suffering from, and give some clear thought to my goals for the day. I wasn't feeling terribly chipper about going to class, but I was making good time, and if I booked it I'd only be about a minute late.

I pulled on my lucky hat, started up the iPod and bounded down the stairs.

At the second floor landing I nearly ran into a guy coming out of the hall right off the stairs. In a gentlemanly move he motioned me past him. I smiled and rushed down the steps.

I ended up going a little faster than I cared to.

I'm not sure what the liquid on the stairs was. It looked like water, but it could have been anything. Whatever it was, it was grimy and oily. I remember thinking—in the moment just before I stepped right into it, gliding across it, losing my footing and sliding down half a flight of stairs at a high speed—that I should maybe try to avoid the splotches of liquid, a trail leading down decorating a dozen steps.

The world swirled for a moment while I was airborne, and then I was swept back to reality by the pain. The lovely pain. I do know now that, despite habitual binge drinking, all my nerve endings are still working.

The young man who had ushered me past (and in light of this, I must say I feel especially terrible that I can't conjure up his face in my head for the life of me) came down the stairs and genuinely expressed concern.

“Are you okay?”

Gasp. Squint. “No—” I strained through gritted teeth, “—definitely not.”

I was still sitting where I had landed, contemplating what it was going to feel like to stand. He stood there in front of me, looking half-worried and half-obligated, and offered to stay there for a moment, presumably in case I couldn't get up on my own.

I insisted this was not necessary. “No—go ahead.” I spoke with a tightened chest and short, abbreviated breaths. I think I was trying not to cry.

The gentlemen left. I sat there for a moment, pondering blowing off class, walking back upstairs, laying down on the couch and sobbing for awhile. However, at this point, it seemed much less painful to go down stairs than climb back upstairs, so I took a deep breathe and stood.

It hurt even more than I thought it would.

Where I stood, I face a wall where someone had scrawled a too-late warning.

“Be Safe”

The final verdict? I twisted my shoulder when I grabbed for the rail, my right wrist is still throbbing from when I landed on it, and there are a few ungrateful spots on my back and spine that came into violent contact with the stairs when I flipped backwards. I'm a mess.

“Plus,” I told Neil later, “I probably have a bruise on my ass the size of Texas.”

I don't usually do this kind of thing (at least not anymore) but I can't help it; this invites all kinds of scandal. And I do love a good scandal.

To my crüe:

If you woke up and I was in bed with you, what would be your first thought?

Comments are open!

being addressed as baby doll and blue eyes, getting various aspects of the life under control, the thought of not having a cold anymore, getting a C on my Anthro test without studying at all (that's what I was aiming for), flickr, del.icio.us, my new mobile phone (it's got a camera and two color screens, the phone is the sex), being potentially excited again about doing more unpaid design for family members (why?!? Why do I do that?!? :) )

It was time for a change.

Not a lot to talk about right now. Content is hard to come by lately, but I'll have something soon.

For now: sleeeeep.

Neil
     [17:31] indeedy do da

Jenna
     [17:31] I like how you say something like that and I look back at you and you look totally serious like nothing funny is going on at all :) haha

Neil
     [17:32] no, im laughin in my head you see, i cant show everyone how happy i am all the time or else they'll never take me seriously.
     [17:32] must be stern. like bull

Jenna
     [17:33] that explains why I have a hard time getting taken seriously

Neil
     [17:34] uh huh, gotta lay that foot down and be like NO, i am a mean son of a bitch.
     [17:34] then bite someones ear, that'll teach em

Jenna
     [17:35] yes. yes it would.

Deedsy (12:51:25 AM): jeez, shows how much you love me
Jen (12:51:47 AM): no I knew that, this is just me being all confused
Deedsy (12:51:52 AM): right
Deedsy (12:51:54 AM): right
Jen (12:52:19 AM): well at least I don't stalk you, I could you know, I just gave up stalking for lent is all
Deedsy (12:52:30 AM): oh riiight
Deedsy (12:53:05 AM): well then in that case, i'm blocking you from my life, getting my friend taymin to be my jenna-guard (and he'll do it) and than going to timmy's for a fuzzy
Jen (12:54:12 AM): hey, didn't I just say “guaranteed stalk-free for 40 days”?

Jen (10:45:34 PM): I've seen a lot of older people on the cupid recently, and I decided we can just pretend the other one does not exist and we should all be fine
Sarah (10:46:43 PM): other one?
Jen (10:47:15 PM): like, younger people pretend older people are not on the network and likewise
Sarah (10:47:46 PM): yes. sure. fine.
Jen (10:47:50 PM): I mean, we can't get people to just roll over and die, although that sure would be convenient

• The fact that recently, in my own mind, I've been substituting the word “job” with the word “career” when I think about what it is I do to earn my bread.
• The way working at a corporation makes me feel a part of a team, of something great, while simultaneously reducing me down to a cog in the machine, just one more worker bee.
• The way I'm embarassed to pull out my new iPod on the street, lest I be accused (even if it's only in the minds of passers-by) of actually attempting to be “trendy”.
• The fact that I will be 22 years old in less than a month, and instead of being excited, I'm trying to figure out where the last year went.
• That I now have three different wishlists (try saying “obnoxious materialism” five times fast).
• That anyone actually considers me an adult.

being addressed as doll, babe, blue eyes, sweeetheart, sweetie, and Jen-nahnahnah; watching some of my three very best friends talk for hours, even if it was all boxing, and therefore boring after many minutes; driving the Indian home in the warm mid-day sun, my finally clean car, staying up too late because you know you can sleep in, Terrapin Cream Ale

I walked from Copper Creek and stood in front of my building (also, stood in front of the bar on the first floor of my building) and people watched while I finished my cigarette. Three men—all clearly old enough to be my father—stood off to my left. Two of them walked inside the bar after being asked by someone working the door to say off the sidewalk with open bottles. I don't know how the one who approached me managed to say outside with his bottle of Sam Adams, but there he was, arms stretched to either side, ready to envelope me. I put the hand that was holding my purse gently to his chest, halting whatever campaign he had decided upon. He looked very put out by this.

With my hand steady at his chest and his arms still out, I gave him a friendly “Hi.”

He stared at me for a moment. He was obviously very drunk already, especially considering it was only 10 PM. “Do you have a light?”

I noticed he was holding an unlit cigarette, so I pulled out my Zippo.

Looking at my Black in my other hand he asked, “What are you smoking?”

“Cloves.”

He took my cigarette from me and took a drag. When he handed it back, I asked if he still needed a light.

This is when he asked, and I am not making this up, “Can I touch you?”

I smiled. “No.”

I lit his cigarette for him, and his friends, still with the open bottles, came out onto the sidewalk looking for him. They were also very drunk and had somehow gotten the impression their friend was making a very successful conquest. I backed away in small steps as the man who had propositioned me insisted to his friends that they needed to go to “Chelsea's, I'm telling ya. Chelsea's.” (Chelsea's is one of Athens' local girlie bars. I think they offer “private lingerie modeling” or somesuch nonsense.) One of the friends made an off hand motion to me encouraging his friend, as if I was an acceptable strip club substitute, but I was on my way upstairs, and left those creeps in the dust.

However, it was less scary than amusing, and nothing could have dampened my mood. Free beer + time with Neil = loving life right now.

This is what happens when you can't sleep.

You sit at your desk reading about TSA regulations and procedures and lusting after kitschy personal care kits, all in hasty preparation for a brief trip that is still 6 weeks, two tests, one project and one birthday away.

You now know that if you were so compelled, you could bring five liters of whiskey onto a plane. If you had that need.

You again inspect the beautiful locket that you would love to receive from someone and imagine dreamily what that would be like. To actually have a Valentine on Valentine's Day, or on any day. You decide you like the idea of receiving the locket even more than the locket itself, and somehow simultaneously applaud yourself for being so unattached to material things while using the same attachment to overshadow the issue at hand. You use them to cancel each other out.

A certain part of you feels hollow.

the encyclopedia of productivity that is Lifehacker, looking in the mirror and noticing that I actually am losing weight, the comfort of knowing that Jack can fly with me, having conversations at work about how “Jenna's website is finally NSFW”, random and timely massages from the gentleman formerly known as HGB, fetishizing air travel, the sublime hits-way-too-close-to-home writing of Stephanie Klein at Greek Tragedy