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I have weird dreams.

When I say weird, I mean premonition, deja vu, badda bing badda boom dreams.

And I don't like them.

Sometimes they come true...it's freaky. Normally only when it's a dream I can remember...but since I'm a nut and am constantly daydreaming, I have a hard time differentiating between what dreams are real and which are imaginary stories in my head.

Let's just say this last one better be fake.

I'm sitting here in the Denver airport with nothing better to do than ponder the meaning of life. I really love the free internet here...I mean, who the hell has the nerve to charge 8 bucks for a half hour of wifi? That's preposterous. I'm definitely pro universal wireless...the world will be a much better and more connected place.

Of course, this is coming from a freakishly obsessed internet fiend who can't wait to move to Africa and get rid of Myspace, Facebook, LJ, blogspot, etc etc etc....but until then, I'll indulge.

I'm on the way to Reno. I discovered a long time ago, the first time I moved there actually, that I didn't belong. I don't fit in with the people, I have different goals than the majority, and I act like a 60 year old gin drinking man. But Reno is where my family is, so technically that is "home." Even though I feel like a stranger. Reno's a small town, something that I remind myself of every time I click around the Myspace/Facebook world we reside in. Someone knows someone who knows someone who works with someone. It's like a small town cest pool.

I shouldn't run into Big. Because I never ran into him while we were dating and I shouldn't run into him when we aren't, right? Of course, Newton will have something to say about that assumption. I digress. It's ok. I am just another American woman living. Average. No?

I will hopefully be able to handle the maturity gap for two weeks. I don't mean to offend, but if you think about it, I'm actually putting my self down. Twenty year olds aren't supposed to act like mothers, 60 year old men, or drink gin and dry red wine. But I do, so deal.

I left my mat at home (NYC home). Too many Christmas gifts. So I'll be diving into Ashtanga on the icky poo mat...but I can't wait.

Speaking of yoga, my roomie walked in on me in lunge bind today. Talk about awkward moment. But I had to get my fix for the day!

This is a completely uneloquent mumbo jumbo of oh wait, I went to sleep at 3, got up at 6:30, took a final, got home by 9:30, and cleaned my entire apartment. After yoga, of course. AND packed. I'm a super trooper.

I think I really want soft serve right now. I don't eat ice cream very often...and I still have an agonizing hour before my plane departs.

Apparently my brother crashed the car coming back from his girlfriend's. Um. Girl. Friend. Somehow he's starting to have a functional relationship. I on the other hand am being called mom by the other's seven year old while baking cookies. Functional? I think not.

One day I will stop being a selfish attention whore. Until then, just embrace me.

Superficial Mentalities

I'm so...over this.
This...
this...
thing. That is my life.

Because you know what. It doesn't matter what I look like. Put some makeup on anyone and they'll look like a million bucks. Remove the eyeliner and blush and you have a regular old person. A person who ages. A person with blemishes. A person who will eventually age in a million and a half ways. Beauty is subjective and beauty is fleeting.

I wish people understood that.

I don't like it when you call me "beautiful" because that means nothing to me. It means that you are looking at me as an object, not as a person. You are viewing the shell of me. You are viewing the facade that I have built, that God has molded, as a preface to the person, as a shield to my real person. It's a thick shell. And calling me "beautiful" "gorgeous" "hot"--that shows how little you have even attempted to chisel your way through it.

I had a conversation once. No. That's not true. I've had this conversation several times. With different people. Where they elaborate on their use of the term after an outburst of mine.... A memorable one was this person who, for the first time, revealed (or so I thought) that they had been slowly chiseling away at my shield, and had actually gotten through. A later conversation with another person showed that it shouldn't have taken two years for that to happen. Beauty, in that sense, is something that is internal. The latter saw how I was with a child...and only then did that person see my true self. because who can honestly keep a shield up around a child?

I like to think of myself as a beautiful person. Inside, not necessarily out. Because, honestly, when I am in the raw bitter moments that only a few people have seen me in, I don't consider myself a physically pretty person. But inside...hopefully that light shines through.

So don't call me beautiful. Don't tell me I'm pretty. Don't comment on my physical characteristics, because that's so superficial it disgusts me. Talk to me about things that matter. Have conversations about your passions, because that is what gets me. What you love I love, what I love, hopefully you'll love. Talking is hard...but it's magical. And that's the only complement I can ask for. View my intelligence. View my opinions. Actually see who I am...and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you in. Until then, consider the Great Wall secure.

Go watch Chuck. It's a funny show. I love nerds....big sigh. He can help fix my computer any day.