I've always wanted to keep a record

Now, this seems a little negative, even for me, but I would love to have a list of the things that I absolutely can't stand.
I suppose that I could, you know... do things I like as well.
But for now.
I do not like:
Beeping
Tapping
Blinking.
I do not like them very much indeed!

Very. Tired. Girl.

I was born in the right age.

This morning I got up with the idea that my class was happening some time around noon. It didn't worry me that I couldn't put my finger on exactly what class that might happen to be or exactly when around the hour of 12 o'clock that I was supposed to be attending it. (I take the same bus to all stops and it only comes once an hour, so I knew which one to get on.) It didn't really seem necessary. Until, that is, I showed up at my first guess and met a dark, empty classroom.
Is this the classroom for my... Psych Discussion? I ask myself.
... Yes. I believe so.
When is your Psych discussion?
Noon. Ish. Maybe.
Oh yeah? Huh. Well.
What is a girl to do? My brain can't formulate another better answer to the question, and in any other age I would have had to sink down onto the cold cement, put my head in my hands and think. really. hard. until I was able to wake up and deal with the situation, probably missing my... um... class? this morning which I was *almost certain* meant that I wouldn't be getting that... one test back. From that... once class. That I... have this morning.
But no! I was not limited to my own sad spent brain power which would still be on strike for a few days after this weekend (oh man) I had the entire internet at my disposal.
And now it's time to get off the internet and go to my SOCIOLOGY discussion (praise Google!) and collect my Sociology Midterm! At 12:30, which is, indeed some time around the hour of noon, thank you very much.

Now, this is not very interesting.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how many planets are in our solar system, but he knows the minute difference between different cigarette ashes. Hmm.
And he's famous for his deductive reasoning, and most of us are not. Now, he's also fictional, but that is beside the point.
College (and school before college) teaches some very useless information. Or, at least information that will become so completely unuseful after college that it seems kind of... irresponsible to crowd our brains with it.
(Because yeah, we can store as many bits of knowledge as we want, I'm not arguing for limited memory storage but recall DOES get harder. That's about as fact-y as psych gets...)
I guess what I mean by all that babble is:
Scientific Calculator v Graphing Calculator v Calculator you get as a free gift from some finance based business. I know difference! I didn't think that was weird. But after going home and requesting to know where in the hell my scientific calculator had been stored and being met with blank stares and then three (yes, three) graphing calculators, I'm beginning to realize that it's not really standard. Standard knowledge, I mean.
And why would it be for a non-math profession? (And why on earth would one turn down a graphing calculator in favor of one that doesn't do as much? Precalculus tests- Also, why would someone spend a quarter on something when they could just plug it into their big shiny machine...)
So I think I'm going to try to forget it. Because this is not something that I need to know.

EDIT:: 4/28/09 "Also, why would someone spend a quarter on something when they could just plug it into their big shiny machine..." I just read that again. It didn't make any sense. At all.

Conclusion: I appear to have meant "Who would someone waste a quarter in college (10 weeks) on a class to teach them something that can be done by a calculator." Which does make sense.

Sunday

Saying your very first word aloud at 5 in the evening is such a weird feeling. Maybe that's why I almost make an effort not to go out into public on Sundays, just to have that jolt of oddness in my life every week.
I'm pretty sure that I developed the Sunday outfit: badly fitting jeans and this one old green shirt, because it's the one thing that transitions seamlessly from couch to grocery store and looks great with unwashed or brushed hair.
As I get older and refine this weekly ritual more the only things I can think that I'd like to change are, having a sunnier kitchen and living room to curl up in, and have an inside radio that picks up NPR without my having to work too hard at it.

Funny little habit.

I've developed a habit, and it's gotten much stronger now that I on my own. I think I should preface this with a bit about my parents. They were never into being proper. They taught me right and wrong as best they could and when to say thank you and to keep my elbows off the table, but I took an interest in learning when to say "May I," and "whom" all by myself. I could have gone my entire life saying "Can I have that cookie," and it would not have bothered them at all.
I still refuse to put a napkin in my lap, which irks them slightly, but that is another story.
Back to the habit.
Now that I live nearly alone (with a mostly absent roommate with her own room) I find myself giving myself instructions.
"Now, you know you have to get up early in the morning. Not just early enough to get to class, mind you, but also to wash your hair. No excuses, it must be washed."
"Oh, I suppose you may listen to your ipod if it helps you fall asleep, but you know you really must stop relying on things like that. You're getting a bit old for security blankets you know."
It's as though I have an alternate personality that chimes in with good motherly advice, in a vaguely trans-Atlantic accent, that my mother would never actually give.
How strange.
I wonder if other people have imaginary nannies on their shoulders telling them to eat more broccoli instead of another piece of chocolate. Or maybe they just call it a conscience and don't feel the need to personify it with it's own specific accent.
"But you must stop dragging this whole blog-posting out just so you don't have to go to bed! Lights off! I mean it!"

Dad's Birthday

I forgot it. My mother reminded me a few days ago, don't forget your dad's birthday! It's on Thursday. And I did. I forgot. I'm bad with that stuff. Really really bad. Unbelievably bad. The curious thing here is that, who cares? He doesn't care. He's 57...er 8 ish and when was the last time he did anything for his birthday? Or wanted anything. It doesn't logical that I should call. I guess it's a social obligation that I need to conform to. And it's not one I like.

I'm finding it very hard to write a decent blog post at jury duty. They all end up sounding preachy and slightly irritable. I'm wondering if this could possibly be the fact that it is nearly 2 and I have been in this room (which looks like a cross between a free clinic and an airport) since 8.

Why can't I be interesting right now? I don't know. Ask the Sacramento County Courthouse.