I’ve always been a huge fan of sleep. It is easily on the top of the list of my favorite things to do. It’s not that I’m lazy or I sleep all the time, quite the opposite actually. I’m a chronic insomniac; by design, not choice. As a result I crave sleep. I’m like a junkie itching for that next taste of sweet, sweet Lady H. And of course my favorite part of sleep is the dreams.
As a youngster I spent entirely too much time reading up on lucid dreaming and at around the age of 22, I finally accomplished it one night. Best. Dream. Ever. Once I realized I was in a dream, I took control, started flying around a certain big blue box retailer and hurling fireballs around a la “Charmed” Demons. Jolly good fun, I say!
During my journeys though I have come across a not so nice side effect of the actions and tricks required to make lucid dreaming possible: sleep paralysis. It’s the worst, the absolute worst. It’s a state in which the mind is able to wake up, in my case quite often, my eyes are able to open and close and my vocal chords are able to produce some type of muttering, just not quite the words my mind is trying to force it to say. This happened to me one night while W. was giving a State of the Union address and I was napping. My eyes shot open, my ears could hear and I spent the next 45 minutes trying to force my..well…anything to move until finally my body caught up with the rest of me and I shot up on the couch.
Lately all I seem to be having are nightmares when I sleep. Nightmares are apparently the trigger for sleep paralysis in me. The lucid dreaming tricks are so second nature to me that when in a dream, my triggers are almost always present. And my mind always wants to explore that, but I have found that if I do when all that’s occurring are nightmares I end up in dire straits of sleep paralysis that have gotten to the point where they wake both M and my dog up. Not good. So no more lucid dreaming=no more sleep paralysis. Fair enough. But now what do I do to just stop the fucking nightmares?!?
I’m really bad at taking care of my cars. Like really bad. My dad worked in auto parts and most men in his family are mechanics so to be fair, I was pretty spoiled in that respect growing up. I never had to worry about when to change my oil or what to do if my car made funny noises. The maintenance was done like clockwork and funny noises were solved by simply switching keys with my dad. Oh, and getting a hour long lecture. (at least.)
Upon becoming a grown up, I married someone who knew less about car care than I did…so we maybe changed our oil like once every 10k miles or so. And somehow managed to get lectures from strangers down at Jiffy Lube. In all honesty, the lectures just make me want to deal with the realities of spending anything other than gas money and insurance cash on my vehicle. So it was, I owned cheap cars and got three years out of it before they crapped out. Usual culprit being a busted tranny due to fluid negligence.
If my car acted up I would talk to it in a soothing voice and tell that fucker to “Walk it off…” I’d get home and check the fluids, almost always be a quart low on oil, fill her up and keep on trucking. Then I got white lightning. I changed my oil, I replaced fuel filters, I took fucking care of that car…and a year and two months after buying it, I got t-boned by a crazy lady and the insurance check didn’t even pay it off completely.
Now I’m back to cheap cars..$650 minivan to be more specific, and my actions today speak very clearly, the Voyager gets to walk it off. At a cost of about a quart of oil every two days. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.
I cried. Ryan Dunn has always been my favorite Jackass. Even before there was a jackass. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life in a relationship with a skateboarder. cKy was aired with significant regularity in my house. I saw all but the last Jackass flick in a theater, would have but traveling the country with a dog in tow means you can only do dog friendly things with one’s time…soooo, yeah. Hell a combination of jackass flicks, Kevin Smith and vicodin got me thru SUPERFoot’s bedrest. And of all the crew, Dunn has just always been the one I go “aww!” over.
Now he’s gone at an entirely too young age. And for doing something that..well…is a pretty common occurrence in our generation. I can’t honestly think of a single person I know who hasn’t done it. Self included. It’s something that I haven’t even thought of doing since my last wreck (that did not include alcohol in any way, shape or form, nor was it even my fault!!!!!). The wreck changed my driving and as a result, I choose to never be even slightly impaired, even if I’m under the limit…but had some crazy lady not t-boned me while I was just going thru a green light, I’d probably still do it too. NOT something I’m proud to admit, but it is what it is.
I don’t think it’s right to use this time to declare a war on drunk driving. Sorry Ebert. We all are well aware of the consequences when we put ourselves in this situation, Dunn’s passenger was not naive to the facts. But this isn’t a time for blame. Perhaps it will enlighten the rest of my generation and make them think twice about stepping behind the wheel after drinking, but that’s not where our focus is at right now so to try and force it upon us will get you nowhere.
For now, we’ve lost our Random Hero. He may have been at fault for the wreck that caused his death, but that’s a story for a different day. And any lesson you try to bestow on us at this point would just be lost even if it could get past the thick barrier of disbelief that we are all still reeling with over this sudden and tragic loss.
This isn’t the time for blame, this is a time to mourn our Random Hero and to celebrate his life. Get off the soapbox, it will still be there next week, I pinky swear.
Idk what else to say other than I’ve come to terms with staying at home. While I really did envision my path taking a different route…you know the road in which it isn’t regularly over 100 degrees outside…it seems that isn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
So, instead of trying to cram quick visits in with my friends before hopping in the car to run away again…I’m taking a quiet approach. The kind where I get a real job. Possibly, née probably an apartment, and quietly settle back into life back in DFW…and then…now this part is very bloody likely, randomly get a bug up my ass to just up and leave as soon as my lease is over.
I don’t “settle” well. Its quite possibly a fatal flaw.
Once upon a time, I weighed 80 pounds more than I do now. This is not to say I am what you would call “thin” now, but more pudgy. Chubby if you will. I wear clothes that come largely from the juniors section and my size 11 skirts threaten to fall off of me when I raise my arms. Chubby. Not fat.
It would appear though that what is “in” right now is to call me fat. And more than just calling me fat, we’re talking full on tirades about well, it got very lewd and disgusting by a few, yep, more than one, perpetrators of douchebaggery on the Twitter. Separate incidents too. And both over me simply voicing my opinion and these asshats coming out of nowhere to attempt to rip me a new shiny asshole. What I find absolutely hilarious though is that when I was significantly heavier, no one ever called me fat. So how is it that now when the only real fat I have left to conquer is..well just an allover toning up…my tummy is flat but could be narrower, of course…and my legs…well I never really overcame being both a jock and a cheerleader in high school, I have cheerleader thighs, I do…but how now guys?
I know it’s a cheap insult from weak minds that lack anything else negative to say about my otherwise awesome self. And all truth be told, it didn’t sting quite so badly until it was reinforced (out of anger/spite), by a source much closer to me after the fact…I know I’m still a “big chick”…but fuck all, my clothes are all literally falling off of me…if I’ve not shed the title of “fat girl” yet…then when? If I have to keep this shit with me all the way to 105 I’m gonna be pissed!
I don’t know why this is bumming me out in such a manner…After all, I didn’t win the championship myself. Why should it bother me so much that I don’t get to celebrate it with the team. OK, fair enough, you’re coming into this conversation a bit late so let me fill you in:
I came to DFW with the intent of seeing the NBA Finals thru, win or lose with my Mavs. I didn’t particularly want to come back, but fate brought me here so I figured I would at least latch onto the one thing I always loved about the metro-plex. So I did. And I really, really just wanted to see the Parade.
I’ve always loved Victory Parades. My parents were Cowboys fans so we went to every one that the Cowboys had. Always been a big fan of pomp and circumstance….it’s a celebration bitches!! But, I figured out….after hours and hours of dissection over my limited circumstances that going to see the parade tomorrow is just completely out of the question.
Is it so wrong that I just wanted to see Dirk holding the MVP trophy in person?
I’ve been refraining from calling myself a MFFL. Not because I haven’t loved watching the boys in blue play since I was a little thing. Not because I feel myself not to be a fan. Hell, my first homecoming game on a varsity basketball team (Disclaimer: I was 12 when this happened, private schools let you be in varsity as soon as they see you can play. TCAL is weird.), was played on the floor of Reunion Arena before a Mavericks game. (We lost. Much like the Mavs in their game. However, when we played the team at the end of the season, I scored the game winning shot to take us to State. Hell yeah ninjas. I was a lil ballin’ badass.)
I’ve loved this team through thick and thin and have kept up a massive amounts of superstitions in their name each playoff season. Hell, I came back to Texas to be here for these Finals. But I haven’t called myself that. Because if you are, you don’t need to.
If you teared up at the sight of Cuban on the bench as the game just seemingly drew out to much longer than that last minute showed on the clock….it just was. A really happy lil 12 year old came out in me the other night. The same 12 year old that played Spit with Mavericks logo cards up in the upper deck of Reunion Arena during halftimezies. That 12 year old got to see her team…the team that Jason Kidd started with that same year that she got to play ball on the big boy’s court…they fucking won. I’ve never been a football fan…baseball and basketball are games that made sense to me….and now, one of my teams are world fucking champions. And no one can take that away.
I ❤ the Mavericks. And win or lose in those Finals, I wouldn't say any less. They played their heart out and they got what they deserved. 4 W's.
I'm 99% positive this has just been a rant.