veggieburgerwithbacon

I went to college. I have no idea why. My career is mindless work. It’s not even 9 am yet and I’ve already worked  with the most pissed off lady in the history of the world. Everything that sucks about her life is some way my fault. Fuck.Dat.Noise. I must say that I really can’t wrap my head around blamers. I work with a lot of blamers. No responsibility at all for the shit substances that makes up  their lives. As  if having a good attitude is so difficult. I love the ones that say things “cannot get worse”. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh Christ. I just peed a little. New flash, amigo. It can, and it will if you don’t STFU and change your attitude. I know it can get worse. I’ve seen it get worse. I refuse to live in a world where negativity is king. No way. There’s way too much cool shit happening every day to dwell on what sucks. I didn’t get this peppy ass attitude easily….It took me 3 weeks, because that’s how long it took my finger to heal.

                A few years back I was sitting in my mom’s car, in a drive through in Chandler, waiting to grab a drink. My kids were little. I think Hayse was an infant. I’m not sure. There’s too many kids in my life. I forget who was who or who said what.. I know I had a kid or kids though. Anyway, back to the story. I was bitching. I mean royally griping about how fucking terrible things were (they weren’t that bad). I was so stressed out about money (we weren’t that broke). I was so annoyed with how stressful school was (It was actually kinda easy). I was tired because the babies woke me up at night (they slept 12 hours, I just stayed up till 2 am so 7 am felt early). I was sick of my messy ass house (the house is always messy, I’ll give myself that one gripe). I was going on and on and on about how fucking terrible it was to be me. Poor me. Poor me. God why didn’t my mother punch me in the eye? Just recalling it makes me want to donkey punch myself.

                So I’m whining about my damn close to perfect life. I make some grandiose hand gesture about how things “Seriously-Could-Not-Get-Worse!!!”. Famous last words. Suddenly I feel this jolt of pain. My right pointer finger is on fire. It hurts. I focus my eyes on the digit that rings never fit on. There’s a mother fucking bee. It’s repeatedly squatting it’s ass into the pad of my knuckle. I  watch it plunge it’s ass into my finger three more times before it’s butt falls off and it flies away. WTF. Sitting in a closed vehicle, with my family, I am stung by a honey bee. Are you fucking kidding me. Things just got worse. I said they couldn’t. I challenged the universe. I am going to pay for it, royally.

                Within an hour my hand is so swollen that all my fingers lose feeling. My pointer finger is in full salute, unable to bend at all, looking like a foam finger at a fucking baseball game. For three weeks, I am a one handed bandit. I try to maintain a good attitude. I try to laugh it off. I know, for a fact, that things could have gotten worse. I had a bum finger. I could have lost an arm. I was lucky it was a bee. It woke my ass up. I needed it. I was a whiney bitch. There’s power in positivity. I thank that bee. He gave his life for me.  Jesus Bee. My savior.

I was mopping today when i got home, NBD. I had the door open to the garage, and was listening to music and the kids playing in the driveway. It took a minute, but then it was too quiet. That “too” quiet that all parents know. So I go to look for the twinemies, and I can’t find them. I look on the side of the house and they’re missing. Not there. It’s too silent. There are, for the first time ever, no kids, not even the neighbor kids, playing in the street. I re-look through my house and no kids are to be found. Panic strikes. My babies are both missing. Holy fuck. I grab my cell, to call 911. I run to the end of the block, screaming for them. Nothing. Silence. I am beyond panic here. They’re gone. More silence. What the fuck. I suddenly see them in some man’s car, terrified. He’s going to kill both my kids. Or worse. He won’t just kill them. Calm the fuck down Cassandra. It’s ok. I’m crying now. And gagging. Some freaky pervert comes out to see what’s happening. I know he’s taken them. I know he’s killed my kids. He tells me to go look in the bushes on the other side of his neighbor’s house. Good one, asshole. I know you have them and this is your decoy. I keep one one eye on him and frantically haul ass to look on the side of the house. At least 4 minutes has passed. I’m now having an out of body experience. I’m not thinking clearly. I’m still screaming for them. Between my gasps and screams, I hear Hayse. They’re alive. Thank you fucking God. I see them both. They run up, excited, to tell me they’ve found a cat… and it “Got dead”….The 11 year old neighbor girl comes out too. She was their guide. My children went on an adventure to see a dead body. This is Stand By Me 2 material. Ray Brower, The Cat…I silently thank God that he didn’t take my kids, as I would lose my fucking mind if they went missing. Then I look at my babies. They’re safe. They’re healthy. They’re beautiful. They are so fucking busted. I look at them again. Rage. I am suddenly livid. “Run” I tell them. “Run home fast!” They both go home. I’m shaking. My babies are safe. I will now kill them for the fear they caused. I come home. Breathe. Cry. Thank God. Contemplate taking a Xanax. They are ok. They are ok. They are ok. Being a parent is terrible sometimes. Thank you Xanax, for stopping the shaking of my hands…Thank fucking God my kids were just on an adventure. Exhale. I need sleep.

The kids and I leave for California next week and I am beyond excited. This is a vacation that has been needed for a long time. Those poor kids have been so awesome for me lately, that I know they deserve this trip more than I do. I’m looking forward to seeing the look on the little girls’ faces when they see Shamu. I mean, it’s fucking Shamu. Clearly they’re going to flip the hell out, right? Or be scared. I’m going with excited though. It’s my blog. I can do what I like. Not sure which day, but we’re going to the ocean one of the days. I totes need to pack a cooler for that. I hope it’s not all gross and rainy or overcast-y, but if it is, we’re still going. There’s so much stuff I want to show them, but the biggest thing is that I want to spend the time with them as our little family unit. Being a single mom is the last thing that I wanted to be for them, but I know that we’ve got this down. Our family is so close, I know that spending a week together will only make that more so.

                I was talking to a colleague today about the trip. She thought it was a great idea. The girls have seen the peak and pit of their mom and that’s not really fair. I work  a lot and seem to never have a break, so relaxing with my kids is going to be heavenly. Truly. It’s gonna kick ass. Usually at the end of the year the kids and I go out to dinner, usually at Ahso, and celebrate how well they did in school that year. This year, we’ll be on the beach on their last day of school. And if all goes as planned, this will be our annual family trip from here on out. I’ve been trying to find ways to make it normal that it’s the 5 of us, and not make it weird or dramatic. I never wanted the kids to know how disappointed I was in myself that I couldn’t fix my marriage. Or how embarrassed I was to be going through another divorce when I was only 31. I realize that they probably don’t care, but I do. I wanted the kids to see a healthy relationship and know what it looked like so that they would have that too when they grew up. Hopefully it isn’t too late for that… I can still find that one day, right?

                I think the hardest part about being a single parent is the boredom. Trying to sit in silence or watch TV alone is gay. Don’t get me started on how much I fucking miss going out to dinner. That was one thing I never did alone. Nor would I. God help me, I haven’t recovered from the time that I went to a bar alone and got bombarded with cat talk for 3 hours. Hey. At least I left wasted and totally sure that I hate cats with a passion. Filthy little assholes. Seriously. Varmints. Gag. Cats and snakes. And scorpions. And spiders. And spider webs. And fruit loops that are soggy in the sink. Those are things I think are really gross. And midgets. And some amputees.. The ones with the hooks are ok though. Or the boomerang feet. Although I think those people are cheating because I could run really fast if I was springy too. Wow. I just went on a tangent. I did. Ok. Time to shut up…PS- I want to be glitter bombed. How fun would that be?

My dad is just an awesome man, in the true definition of the word, in that he leaves me in awe sometimes. I cannot speak highly enough of my love, admiration, and pure pride that I feel for that man. I could name a thousand things that as my father and my mentor, that he has given me, but the greatest gift of all, has been the gift of football.

From the time I was little, I knew we were Sun Devils. I knew I would go to ASU, and I knew what my future looked like. Now, at 31, I can say that my love for this institution is beyond average, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I look forward to football season more than I look forward to Christmas. I spend an absurd amount of money on ASU apparel, to the point that I have an entire section in my closet totally dedicated to my team. My babies have more ASU clothes and toys than anything else in the house. Lucah was 4 weeks old at her first home game. I flew with 3 children from Denver to see games. I have missed weddings. I have missed work. I have not missed my team. Fork em.

What’s so funny about being a Sun Devil isn’t the ability to watch my team win game after game, as any true fan will know, we are still rebuilding ourselves back to the Plummer/Tillman/Poole era of greatness that we know we can be again. What’s so amazing is the feeling of being surrounded by thousands of people who love the same thing you do, week after week. When I lived in Colorado, I was thousands of miles from home, and there were times I would throw on my Devil hoodie and hit the pavement for a run, and more than once, a car honked and a “Fork Em” was held up for me to see. True. Undying. Devotion. That’s what makes a Sun Devil a Sun Devil.

Anyone can be a Broncos fan, or a Cards fan, or a Packers fan.. All they have to do is climb up on that lame-ass bandwagon and wait till the season ends to tuck and roll as they barrel off. A Sun Devil is a name that is earned. We don’t do fair weather fans. Fuck you. We have 2 options; you are a Sun Devil, or you are not a Sun Devil. And we take this shit seriously. We don’t just go to games, we experience them. We plan all week for the tailgates, who will bring what, who needs an extra ticket, who needs a ride, who will ride home with who, who has a parking pass, who has the beer. There is planning involved. One does not simply “go to an ASU” game.

The ASU tailgates will no doubt be on the highlight reel of my funeral. When I look back on my life, my biggest moments are defined by times at those games, at that stadium, with those people. There was when I was a little girl with my mom and my dad, and although those memories are faded, I still remember eating candy, drinking Sprite, and struggling to get the powder-y soap to foam on my little hands in the bathroom. There was the season after my folks split up when Dad took us to the games by himself. It was then that I learned my first taste of freedom and juvenile responsibility, simply by my father handing the boys and I our tickets and telling us to meet him at the half. There was the season I drove there by myself, as a newly licensed teenage girl, with a carload of girls whom my brother and his friends would spend the evening hitting on. There was the year I was an adult, and everyone made comments to my dad about how I had “blossomed”. There was the season my Mom was back. There was the season I was embarrassed to be there, trying to conceal my tummy, not yet comfortable with the idea of being a young mother. There was the next season when I proudly showed up with my 8 month old, stunningly bald, brown-eyed baby girl- totally rocking her Devil horns and ASU onesie. There was the first season without Micah, which was also the first season Lucah was a Sun Devil. There was Payte’s first season. There was the season I had a baby on each hip. There was the season they started serving beer in loge. There was the season Payte stopped being afraid of fireworks and people.  My life is defined by my love for this school and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I look forward to every fall, no matter what the season may hold. Next season is my favorite so far, since I have no idea what it brings and I love a good mystery.

I look forward to not only what the season holds, but my kids’ lives in the future as I wishfully hope that they choose to be Sun Devils as well. It is their choice, but I have planted the seed and am feverishly watering it each passing day. No matter where they choose to earn their education, I know ASU will be home. I know that they will look back on the memories and be happy, and I know that like me, they will pass this on to their own kids. That’s the best part about growing up in a football family, knowing that even when I am gone, the kids will always have a part of me through this. They will see the pitchfork and think of mom, they’ll walk by Palm walk and remember our strolls there. They’ll maybe one day take their husbands or wives there and talk about when they were little.  It’s all part of the big picture I guess. I didn’t make a conscious decision to raise little Sun Devils because I wanted them to be football fans; I did it because I wanted them to see the importance of having something outside of work that you love, that you are passionate about, and fuck it, I’ll admit it… something you obsess about. Go Devils.

There is no quote more true, than the one that titles this blog entry. Being a runner is a part of who I am, but what made me become a runner was not that I knew I was good at it, as I was aware that I was not, it was because I was naive enough to know that I could get better, and 11 years of road running later, I am still telling myself that it will get get easier. It never does, but I get better, and my love for running grows with each pad on the pavement. Being a runner has alone birthed me a family that I did not know I was missing. I have so many best friends now who are my “run family” that I cannot list them all. What I can say though, is that today, in the wake of the bombings in Boston, I am aching for my affected friends and family, and I do not understand why this has happened. But there are a few things that I do know. 

               Being a runner, I have known what it feels like to celebrate so many firsts, that I think that is one of the reasons I love it. There was the time I walked a mile, then two, then three consecutively. There was the first time I ran ten minutes without a break, then a mile, then 2, then 8. You can see, this is never going to be something where I will not have a goal. Being a runner is like being the best at your own sports, ever time you finish a run, or set a PR. There is no end to how much you can accomplish and there is no limit to how great you can be. 

              Running gives you a sense of accomplishment that you cannot get anywhere else. You can be your best or your worst at the same time. You can run 5 miles slower than you have walked them before, but if you did it with a headache, it can also be your best run while you were sick. There is no such thing as a bad run. They are all great in some form or another. 

    I could literally type for hours on why I love running and all the ways in which it has changed who I am, but what I want to address is the relationship runners have with each other. When you are a runner, you know the other runners are family. The cheer for you when you post that you ran only a measly mile, because we all remember our first few months as runners and we get it. Runners all see others runners are fantastic. If you are trying, we will support you and encourage you. I personally think running should be required at least weekly for everyone capable, but I am not POTUS yet, and I cannot make such suggestions (btw, I am well aware that POTUS’es can’t either). 

     When you are a runner, you see the girl who ran for 12 minutes and posted it on Facebook and you do not think less of her, you think about your own accomplishments as a runner and you think of how cool it would be for 12 minutes to be all it took you again to feel like you’ve had a long run. And you see the lady who just finished 18 miles and you envy that kicked your ass in time and you vow next time to step it up. There is no golden child in this family, we really are all equals in our minds. 

         Today, when so many were hurt, I could not help but think about the men and women who had almost made it to the finish line when the bomb went off. Not only were they physically wounded, they were robbed emotionally of the sense of accomplishment from something that no doubt took them months to prepare for. Some were killed while some lost limbs. I am not sure which may be worse for some of them. Imagine having had worked for many months training for this moment, and to see it fade away into the chaos. As if it wasn’t already a terrible situation, you now have that on top of it. Fuck that. That’s not cool. I don’t know much, but I know the resilience that runners have, and I know that those who survive this will run again. Because, quite frankly, running is not something you just stop doing. Being a runner is who you are and what you do. No one understands it unless they are a runner. I can say without hesitation, that running saved my life and I am confident that it will aid in saving the victims as well.

I knew that this year would bring great things. How great, I did not know. Then I heard that Top Gun was coming back to the theaters. Holy shit. Yes. This is my year. Last Friday the day was finally here and I was so excited to take my kids to see this movie that in my life has been epic and extremely personal as well. Maverick was my first crush. Dangerzone will always be Micah. Everything about that movie speaks to my soul, and I am in love with it. I’ve bought the fucking soundtrack 5 times. The movie was nothing short of amazing and I fell in love with the 80’s all over again. I will always love the 80’s and Kenny Loggins. I’m not gonna lie, I was crying before the movie even started. On the drive home, which was long since the kids and I had to go see it in East Mesa, I felt Micah everywhere. I heard him in the music. I saw his truck on the road. I had him riding shotgun, and I knew that things were going to be okay. I haven’t been sure about that for six months. My life and future was always up in the air and I never knew where I would end up. Then, everything was just ok again. Like that.. That easy. I no longer was worried. And I’m a fucking worrier. I overthink. That’s what I do… I put the kids to bed that night and I decided to get some work done when my phone chimed. Blast from the past. I couldn’t have expected it, but there it was. A name on my phone, calling me from the dead to talk. It’s funny how when you least expect it, life puts what you need in your way. I needed a friend. I needed that friend. So here I am now, a week later, and everything feels right. I am not lonely. I’m excited about the future. For the first time in 8 years, I’m not afraid. I don’t know what happened in my car that night driving home, but I think Micah saw me. I think he knew I was still in pain and that I missed him so much still that I wasn’t living wholly. I think he decided to help out. Maybe it’s premature, but I think things will be getting better from now on. No more shit. No more bad. I want a life with my children that is filled with adventures. They don’t know it yet, but everything just changed. Errythang.

I can’t help but think that with all the mindless shit I read all day long, that the world is totally fucked. People have no idea what the hell matters now and no idea what they are doing on this planet. Jesus, stop bitching about your fat ass! Be thankful you have a body left to dwell in… Newsflash, not everyone does. Stop saying you wished you did this or you wished you did that… Quit living safe because you are too afraid to do what you are afraid of. Quit being a pussy! Make a change or you’ll be the same sad mess the rest of this life and probably the next as well.  I was talking to my daughter the other day, keep in mind that she’s 4, and she said, “Mom, I have loved you so many times, but this time, I love you the most”. I knew what she meant. I almost lost my shit. How does my preschooler get that we’re older than our bodies, but grown adults don’t get it. Lately I’ve had a slew of shit days, and I’ve taken the time during said shit days to think about what I do have going right in my life. Every time, I find peace thinking about my girls. I really am so thankful to have them, and I never forget that. I can’t help but think that whoever created me did so knowing that this go-round in life, I would really need some helpers to keep me from vanishing into some dark, fucked up abyss of depression.

        I think about Aubrey, and how totally unlike me she is. Why was I picked to raise her? She needed a stage mom, not me. When I found out I was pregnant with her I thought it was a cruel joke. I was just on the verge of what was supposed to be the best years of my life. And then suddenly I had to settle down, stop having fun, and be someone’s mother. I had no idea that “fun” as I had known it was shallow and inconsequential compared how hard I laughed the first time she did. I was pulling off her jammies, made a “brrrrrrrp” sound like a car as I ripped off the snaps on her onesie, and she giggled out loud for the first time. It was the first time in my life that I laughed and cried at the same time. I was so happy that I could make her happy, because until then, I was sure she thought I was an idiot (She never smiled, she looked at me and judged me, I was sure of it). When all my friends were turning 21 and having fun, I was hanging out with my kid, who was bald as could be and I loved it. Now she’s older, and I realize that we’re really not that different at all. She loves attention, but she’s humble and doesn’t boast her own accomplishments. She’s really hard on herself and I find myself telling her to take a break, just have fun, slow down, don’t overdo it,  there’s no rush in life and no one cares if you’re not perfect. Sage advice, right? I should take it.

              Then there’s Lucah. Holy shitballs I love that kid. I used to wonder how the hell I would love as much as I loved Aubrey, since she was perfect. When I was pregnant with Lucah, I thought about the girls playing together and the new baby taking a toy from Aubrey and me getting defensive, but it didn’t happen that way. That really corny saying that love doesn’t divide for another baby, it multiples… Holy hell. So.Damn.True. When Micah died, I wanted to be dead too. The thought of possibly living decades and decades without seeing him or calling him or laughing with him made me insane. I would envision what it would be life to see him again, and it was the only time I felt any peace at all. I looked at Aubrey and thought that since I was now half of a person, she was getting half of a mom, and that just wasn’t fair. She was 2, she would be ok without me for sure. Surely someone would meet her dad and fall in love with her and pow! New Mommy for Aubrey. Yes, I was incredibly fucked up. I never got to a point of planning my demise, but I wished for it. The only reason I kept fighting to maintain my own health was because if I died, so did the baby inside me, and I didn’t think that was fair. I made her a promise to give her a shot at life, and then I would be outtie 5000. She kept me alive for six months purely by existing. Call it what you want, but she was with me for a reason and we both knew it. I look at her now, and she’s so sensitve but strong. I really think I might be her favorite person in the whole world and that’s a really neat feeling. Sometimes I wish she would be more of an asshole, because kids can be cruel. When the bullies call her fat, I wish she would just beat the piss out of them, because physically, she’s strong enough to. And Lord knows I would be proud of her if she did. Some kids just need a good ass kicking, especially those that go out of their way to hurt Lucah, considering she’s the coolest kid in the world. I keep telling her though that those kids are assholes. Yes, I tell her they’re assholes. She’s an old soul; she deserves to be treated as such. I tell her their existence in this world means little compared to hers and she needs to remember that at the end of the day, she’s a badass and they probably go home and wish they were as smart as she is or as funny or as cool. I hope one day she believes me. Or I hope she decides to kick their asses. I would buy her a new bike if she did.  

And then there is Payte. My little Martian baby. She is the epitome of an old soul. From the moment she was born, I knew she was different. I’ve come to accept that she is far more intelligent than her little body can handle and I should stop being surprised when she says the most mind boggling stuff. If there is anything I know for sure about her, it’s that she is the definition of pure and good. She is so kind and sweet and gentle. Sometimes I look at her and it takes my breath away because her eyes are the same color as Micah’s were and I can trick myself into seeing his face in hers. It’s a trip, but I love it. I love that somehow genetics allowed a little part of him to live on physically through me. I remember how much I wanted her, how much she was going to be all that was beautiful about the love than her dad and I had. She was going to be our baby, created because we were in love. Blah blah blah. I cannot help but think about Fun’s lyrics, the most amazing things can come from some terrible lies. So true. I might have gotten so lost in the illusion of what I wanted to see that I was blind to what was really in front of me, but Paytlen is still the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Literally. Her face is flawless and she looks like a toy. I’m fairly certain she will grow up to be a doctor… or a supermodel. Hopefully both.  She’s such a creature of habit that it’s funny. No one leaves the house without a hug and a kiss or all hell breaks loose. It’s not a bad habit to have. Our family knows all too well not to take tomorrow for granted. Payte helps to remind us that, and I think we all subconsciously know we need her to keep us in check. I can’t help but look at her and Hayslie and know that they might be the only ones in the world who could understand how much I loved Micah.

            This reminds me, I should talk about Hayslie. Never in a million years did I think I would have four daughters. Never in a bazillion years did I think I would love it. I think Hayslie makes me love it just a little bit more. I used to wonder how a kid could come into the world as the youngest and still make a splash, but she sure as hell did. I think I am a little more lenient with her because she’s the baby, but also because I never thought she was ever actually going to be around. From the moment I was pregnant with her, I had a bad feeling. I remember getting pissed at my doctors for keeping me pregnant when I knew the longer we went the more likely I was to be delivering a dead baby.  I hated them and I hated that my body was being used as a human coffin. When my water broke prematurely, I was half relieved because I knew she was finally going to be out of me and finally someone could intervene with what I knew was going to be her eminent demise if she stayed in my body. I have no idea why, but I knew that she needed to be out, even prematurely, if she was going to live. A full term birth was going to be a death sentence for her and I knew it. Once she was out of the NICU and home with us, I knew Hayslie was going to be awesome. She used to wake up every single time, open her eyes, and grin wildly that she was awake again. It made me laugh every time. Now, she’s such a stinker and so stubborn, I can’t help but think that the world has no idea what it’s in for with her. She will no doubt be leaving behind a huge dent when she leaves this world, no doubt in my mind at all.

            I have to say, I really don’t know who created me and where I came from, but I know that for some reason, no matter how fucked up life may be, that there is a rhyme and reason for everything and sometimes I’m just too small to see the big picture. I hate when people say that I’m “lucky” because there was nothing lucky about how I got here. I could very easily have taken a different path, made different choices, and had a totally different life.  I also hate when people say that I am “blessed” because that implies that some part of all this was easy. As if Micah died and I was just oh-so-thankful that I was knocked up and couldn’t off myself when I wanted to. It wasn’t a blessing. I was some finely tuned planned made by someone so much more awesome than we are all that knew exactly which pieces to play in this life so that when shit hit the fan, we all had each other to make damn sure we were ok. I wasn’t blessed with the family I have. We traveled many lifetimes together and I’m sure we fucked up royally in the past, which is why we can make this look easy. We’re old souls. Like Plato said, we are merely a soul that has been put into a body, already knowing everything we needed to know. We just need those experiences to unlock what we already knew, and we go from there.

            I have been very meticulous about whom I have in my corner, and many people have been nixed for not having anything worth a damn to contribute to the journey. I’ve definitely learned that this is not supposed to be a serious life and I’m trying my hardest to make the kids see that as long as they are trying to leave this world a better place than I brought them in to it, I could not ask for more. I want them to live their lives, not one I carefully scripted for them. I want them to look back on life when they are ready to go and not regret a single moment. I have regrets, I want better for them. I have hurt ones I loved dearly and lost friends I miss painfully. I missed chances to do great things because I was afraid and I’ve doubted myself when I never should have. I will die with these regrets. I am a young soul still, lots and lots of kinks to work out, that’s part of the journey; I am a work in progress.  For the girls, they have a world of opportunities ahead of them and my only purpose in this life now is to show them they are able to do anything they want if they just want it bad enough. They were put in to these perfectly functioning, healthy little bodies and they have an obligation to themselves to make damn sure it isn’t wasted by living safe.  

I sit at work, at a job that is not what I thought it would be, and I’m trying to think about the good things in my life, as I wish to God I could just walk out right now, but I have students to help, and Lord knows my students need the help. I sit here, at my desk, day after day, analyze people. More on that later. But today, I’ll talk about Brian (Bryan, Bryon, who gives a fuck? Moving on…) So Brian comes by my desk a lot, says hello, and usually makes some lame ass comment about football, my flowers, my coffee mug, my shoes; anything to distract from the fact that Brian, is in fact, staring at my tits.

This week the company decided that we were moving. What the fuck does that mean? I have no flipping idea. In addition to moving, I get to physically move all my shit too, so now there’s boxes surrounding me as I work. Did I mention by “work” I mean I do homework and shop online? Because I pretty much “work” with 3 students a day, 4 hours tops and that’s when I’m busy. Sorry, I get side tracked SO easily. Fuck. Oh yeah, Brian. He likes my boobies. So anyway, Brian sees my boxes all packed up and my Halloween shit all put away, and he brilliantly has to make a comment about how long it took me to pack my stuff (5 minutes. I threw all my shit in a boxes, sorting it will take hours. I now have something to do next week. Raise the roof, bitch).

So again, Brain likes to come by and say hello. I actually don’t mind him. He’s wildly unattractive, to a point that I get lost in his face while we talk, because I can’t figure out what it is that makes him so funny looking. And I can’t ask him. “You look normal, but not. Are you on drugs? Did you like, smoosh an eye socket as a baby? Anything?” So I wonder as we chat. Brain also has a really bad habit of calling me Jessica. I don’t even correct him. I didn’t know why he does it. I don’t know why he thinks this is my name. I look NOTHING like a Jessica. So I let him call me this odd name as by now, I’m sure that it’s because he’s a ruh-tard and cannot help it. My name is not forgettable or common, and it’s written on my fucking name plate thingie.

Today, as he left for the day, Brian stopped by to chat again. As he was leaving he gave me his usual sendoff, by walking away, turning the corner, and giving me one last “Bye Jessica, have a nice weekend!” wave/smile combo. But today, the wrong nameage was not okay with me. So not OK, that I had to correct him. Not wanting to embarrass my work friend who I’ll never see again after today as my new office area is in the back southwest corner of the building, in case you want to find me or something, I playfully made a joke and went on with my day…” Ew, don’t EVER call me ‘Jessie’ again. It’s Jessica! I’m not 7 anymore!” Sometimes, I don’t understand my logic either. Oh well. Back to slaying dragons.

Jessica Wisdom