Because I'm Moving Across the World

I'm not actually moving across the world. I know. But when you've lived in one city all your life, and you're suddenly packing that life into six boxes, one suitcase, one duffel bag, and one trunk-- all of which you're mostly certain is not going to fit in your dorm room-- and planning your twelve-hour drive from Atlanta, GA to Oberlin, OH, it feels like you're moving from Atlanta to Shanghai.

It's daunting.

But it's kind of okay, when you're still not finished packing the summer clothes you're beginning to realize you're not really going to need because winter lasts three months longer in virtually any place that isn't Georgia, because it's not real yet. I have yet to put away the essentials like laptops and toothpaste (because those are exactly the same kind of essential), and the majority of the clothes I might wear in the next seven days are still in my closet or two remaining drawers of clothes. ... It's so not going to fit in my room, is it?

And I open one drawer where I've always kept my underwear (because you wanted to know, didn't you), and then I remember that I dumped all of it into the duffel bag, which doesn't explain why that duffel bag will no longer fit anything else but old socks and underwear that I probably should have sorted through before I put it away. Guess who's going to be packing and re-packing all week for this one? Never mind that I shoved three pairs of boots into the bag on to of all that and sat on the top of the bag while pulling the zipper shut, praying to God that the bag wouldn't rip since I bought it three days ago, and now, I'm going to have to open it back up to sort again, and in all likelihood, those boots are going to explode all up in my face.

I should find some sort of helmet or something. Packing is a dangerous business.

And among the old things packed, I have too many "new" things to consider, if when I say "new" I mean my sister's old, baby cube-esque refrigerator begrudgingly retrieved from storage, the old printer my dad needs an excuse to get rid of because he wants one that doesn't print with a shadow that makes your brain go fuzzy when you try to read what you just printed, and every piece of bedroom accessories that I decided I was going to just pull out of the closet because I'm the last child out of the house and my parents certainly don't need it.

Ah, the glories of not taking that massive shopping trip to Bed, Bath, and Beyond that you need a U-Haul to get everything home from.

Plus, the parentals were all, "If you want new stuff, you're using the graduation money you got from a zillion relatives to pay for it." And I was like, "I think I'll save that to feed myself, thanks!" Hey. Recycling. I'm living in the environmentally-aware freshmen dorm anyone. Let's just say I got an early jump on all this, yeah?

But there is actual new stuff, like the cell phone I just got to replace the three-year-old, once-dropped-in-a-toilet-two-years-ago, doesn't-operate-in-the-humidity-because-you-clearly-over-exposed-it-to-water-damage, really-banged-up-and-has-taken-damage-like-a-tank-because-it's-a-nokia cell I've been holding on to for a year longer than I should have because it flashed rainbows at me any time I had a message waiting or when it went into screen-saver mode.

I'm still kind of in mourning, even if my new phone is adorable, squat, and framed in lime green because it's my favourite colour. But seriously. How do you replace the lost rainbows?!

It's an issue.

Meanwhile, I owe about ten people phone calls because I've been buried in packing and procrastination of packing, then I went and got a new phone and improperly screened calls I didn't recognize because I hadn't put all the numbers in yet. Oops. Eventually, I swear, I will call you back.

Also, because I'm one of the last of my high school friends still at home. There's clearly a miscommunication between northern and southern schools, seeing as everyone south of Virginia started school one or two weeks ago, while I've been at home, still obsessing, re-packing, and pretending that I have everything done while I've done absolutely nothing. I think this is done to discourage people from migrating north; just drive them insane with anticipation and anxiety by giving them three extra weeks to be anal about what's not yet happening.

And, give them time to stress about the fact that they're completely unequipped for winter, and there are no local stores that have a clue as to what they might need. Oh. My. God. If nothing else, I have no hope of grasping what it's like to be suddenly doused in more than an inch of snow. Snow boots? What?! I bought a parka from Land's End, and that's about the extent of my prepared-ness. Everyone's told me I have no idea, that I have no way to prepare myself for a real winter (thanks for all the support, guys!), so I decided, "Fuck all!" I'll deal with it as it comes. Somewhere between Oberlin and Cleveland, there's an outlet mall with my name on it. Or which ever parent's name is going to be on the emergency credit card that's going to be paying the damages. Heh...eh... H'ooooooh dear....

I'm reminded of a song from some musical I can't remember. I could Google it, but I'm too lazy.

"Why, oh, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy, oh, why-oh...
Why did I ever leave Ohio?"

... It's not a song I should have stuck in my head, seeing as it's not exactly the position I'm in yet. But then again, I'm hard-pressed to think of good rhymes for "Georgia." State names seem particularly tricky...

I shall ponder this while packing, I think. While also trying to rid myself of the only two lines of that song that I remember as they repeat over and over and over and over...

Things Like Writing Fantasy

I'm a fiction writer, along with a number of other things, but in particular, I'd like to consider that my major passion is in writing. This should seem obvious in the fact that I bother to write things all over the internet like blogs and whatnot. Clearly, I'm not going to do all this unless it means something to me.

And I mean something other than watching my pageview counter go up. Because that would be a lousy incentive.

But in all seriousness, why should I be so attached to a practice that makes some people cringe and shrink away in horror? There were way too many people in my AP English class who would rather spend twelve hours on a special project and explanatory presentation than write a two-hour paper on the book of choice. What can I say? Choosing the two-hour paper, I figured out who was the real masochist.

I've had my masochistic moments, but pulling all-nighters to create a mind-blowing diorama when I could write an equally good paper in way less time just seems simple to me. I let the pain-inflicting project go. Taking the easy way out is nice sometimes too. If I want to inflict ego-reducing and sleep-depriving pain on myself, I'll just go back to playing World of Warcraft. At least it's entertaining.


But, I digress. Writing papers is one thing. Writing beyond the classroom is entirely another. Like Writing Fantasy. That is like asking for a world of pain. Among other things, of course. Discovery, passion, character, world-building, drama, revenge, love, magic... And death. Lots of death.

Writing. The thing can get you killed.

Or your characters. In fact, preferably your characters. Because the day my characters leap off of the pages and begin rioting because I killed someone off I shouldn't have, I'm dead. Those people are scary, and they've kind of been haunting my dreams lately. I keep waiting for the Karma Catch-Up, but it's not happening. ... Makes me nervous...

Unless you count my characters haunting my dreams as karma, which it totally could be. Or I'm just losing my mind. Or I lost it waaaaaaaaaay long ago and have been falling out of this world for a long time.

That's probably it.

Because I don't think I've really been operating on the same plane of existence as the normal population of people for a pretty long time. Sometimes I get weird looks and things. Sometimes it's because I just did or said something absolutely ridiculous. Sometimes, I swear it's because I'm from another planet.

Not surprising. I should write a book on it. Oh god, I already am.

An Introduction of Sorts

I stopped blogging more than a year ago for a really good reason:

Blogs can hurt people really, really badly.

So I stayed away for a long time until I found the reason that blogs are awesome: humour. Because sometimes, people have too much ridiculousness in their life not to share it. At this point, while I was basking in the ridiculousness of my latest obsession, the Bloggess, who, if you have not ever read any of her posts, has got to have the best, most amazingly optimistic outlook on life and all its weirdness and just so happens to write in a voice that sounds creepily exactly like me, someone suggested I revive my blogging days.

To which I laughingly replied, "Hell no."

But in all seriousness, I gave the idea some thought, then realized that in all likelihood, this could become exactly what it was last time: a rant thread of all the stupid shit people do. Admittedly, among all those thoughts was the stroke of brilliance that said, "Well, Margaret, what if it wasn't a rant thread at all the stupid crap people come up with? What if it was a laugh-your-ass-off at the crazy crap people do thread?" Regardless, I was reluctant to take back my blog ban. Anyone who knows me knows that when given an outlet to speak my mind, sometimes horrible things can happen.

But, while in a car with my best friends driving down to rural Georgia to go see the final performance of our former high school's band camp, 'cause we're just that awesome that we'd drive two hours round trip for that, I realized that as long as I'm not pissed off, the random word vomit that seems to escape me can be pretty entertaining. Not to mention terrifying when the person in the driver's seat is laughing to the point of tears. Guess who won't be driving next time, Karen?

Me, probably.

Because if there's anyone who'd be worse at driving than the person who's dissolving into hysterical tears, it's the one responsible for ranting hilariously. My bad. In any case, they're the ones who put the idea of blogging back into my head (while discussing the almighty Bloggess), where it sat, somewhat belligerently, until another friend of mine announced that he was taking up blogging again.

And let me tell you, if you knew Chase, you'd know that if he's making a vow not to make huge emotional rant posts and instead dedicating himself to a scheduled review of games, movies, TV shows, and more, then anything is possible. Snaps for Chase. I'm following you and promoting your new blog because you've inspired me.

Which is hilarious, seeing as neither of us have any followers except for each other right now.

OMG. We're like BESTIES.

If I was up for the pain, I would smack myself for that. Instead, I'm just laughing really loudly and unnerving my unfortunate mother who is trying to go to sleep. Oh, Lady... You shouldn't have raised a Blogger.

Unlike Chase, I have no schedule. Mostly because I don't follow anything regularly enough to make a point of reviewing it and whatnot.

Actually, you know what I could use to do reviews? StumbleUpon.

Because nothing comes up like the random crap that gets you through the day like Stumbling. HA HA! Look! I've come up with some place for this blog to start.

Whew... That was exhausting, though. I'm burned out for the moment. But don't worry, I'm sure my wonderful life full of randomness (which is totally not the case when on the last, slowest month of summer holidays ever) will come up with Plenty of Postage for later.

Adieu!