Welcome to the Most Frequently Updated Blog

I blog too much. A lot of people wonder if I even have a life outside my blog. And the truth is, I do; just very little! As the saying goes, quantity does not equal quality, so maybe I should think about that before I blog more than twice a day!

I took the stat exam, and I did alright. I was given an extra 48 hours to finish the homework and turn it in, but I think I probably passed with at least a B-.

I went and finally took care of my laundry. I was running out of clothes to wear. It's a good thing I have enough underwear to last me a month or else I'd have to resort to wearing them inside out (was that too much info also?). I think I'm just in a really grotesque mood this week -- it's that very special time of the month and I'm just in the most foulest mood. And I feel gross. Like the feeling you get when you're long past due for a shower. Or am I the only person who have gone a few days without a shower? Like I said, I'm feeling grotesque!

Novel-writing, sucks. For me, it is. I'm still at about 500 words, and I'm about to end the story with the narrator committing suicide, just so that I can end the godforsaken thing. I've created a monster. The vast whiteness of the screen frightens me more than any horror film. Sometimes, when I stare at it too long, my monitor goes into that powersave mode and flicks off, so that the screen turns black -- and I can see a haggard woman with dark eyes and stringy hair, staring right back at me. And I jump back with a slight gasp because it looks like she's going to crawl out of the screen like she did in "The Ring." It takes a few nanoseconds to realize that I just saw my reflection and scared myself senseless by my own face. So that's how my novel-writing experience is going.

Now I finally have a few idle moments to sit back and take a breather before heading to class later. I'm sipping diet cherry coke on the rocks, and I can contemplate what to have for dinner. I had the nastiest pasta in the world for lunch today. Guess who made it? I did! It smelled kind of fishy and tasted kind of salty and later, it kind of gave me heartburn. WOAH. I'm just giving away tons of "too much info" today.

I didn't realize that I was actually giving too much info when I was writing in my comments -- honest! But when you visit my blog, you have to be aware of the fact that my life involves things of grotesque nature -- poop, vomit, diarrhea, kitty's litter box, gas and constipation, belching the alphabet, dancing in my underwear when no one's looking, phlegm, pus, and blisters (hmm... have I left out anything?) and that's all before starting the nursing program! Maybe I should blog about my nursing program experiences somewhere else -- I'm pretty certain that it can and will get pretty gross. Being sick is really gross, but yanno, being gross is just part of life. I mean, how many super-diaper-changer-parents do you know, that have never gotten baby poo/pee all over their hands? Aren't babies just the cutest? They vomit up a lot of stuff too, and they take extreme care to vomit when you're dressed for work/job interview/life-altering moments. And when you make sure that someone else is burping the baby because you're dressed up for some important event, they pull their secret weapon on you: projectile vomiting. Lovely little critters.

Which brings me to the topic of babies. Am I afraid of them, or are they afraid of me? I think it's probably the former. Despite the fact that I've actually spent a lot of time around infants, I really don't know how to deal with babies/young children. Usually, I just treat them exactly the same as I do adults, which appears odd to other people. I make baby-talk with my cat and other people's dogs, ("oooooh look how adowable you are ~~ yesssss, aren't you just a big dawwwwg?") but to any humans, I use my normal voice. I mean, I'm sitting with a 18 month old, and he's doing his thing, playing with blocks (or mostly stuffing the blocks into his mouth) or watching TV. And I'm just there. And I'm not exactly an ultra friendly person either. But then, the baby starts doing baby things, and the situation escalates from mildly uncomfortable, to squirmish.

Like, for example, the baby farts. Baby's can't break wind very loudly, and if it's audible at all, it's not likely that you'll hear it. So there's absolutely no warning, and by the time a waft of air brings contact to your nose, it's too late. There's no time to gain composure and pretend it didn't happen. Your face just scrunches up into this awful look, and you give a piercing look at the 18 month old, and he just looks at you. Then the worst thing happens. He smiles. I swear that monster knows what he did! But it's not like you can accuse a baby of farting, and even if he did, it's really not considered ill-mannered of the child.

The worst is not over; try telling the parent(s) that his or her child just passed gas and smiled about it. The average human being passes gas 12 times in a day (that seems a bit high, even for me, but hey, I don't make the statistics). But if you were to take part in this activity in public, wouldn't you at least apologize? And if your child did so, wouldn't you apologize for your child? Alas, no. Just by the event of producing offsprings, people become parents, and parents, have no shame. "Hey your baby just broke wind and let it loose and you better do something about it." That doesn't sound right. So you find yourself alone, in your contemplations and pain and suffering. You have faced and braved the Baby Fart Attack™. Believe me, you are not alone. It really is mind-boggling. How can something that looks so adorable and sweet produce such gawd-awful smell?!

Well, that was my editorial on farting babies. Believe me, they're out there. True story actually. I was left alone with my friend's baby for a few minutes -- the most awkward moment of my life! Since then, that baby's kissed me with his mouth full of fruity jam, took a swig of my shot of soju (I didn't condone that behavior -- accident, honest!), and he pooped while sitting on my lap. We've gotten real close, I tell you. To this day, I'm pretty certain that I've got to be his favorite auntie. Blech. Can't wait for that child to grow up!

So there you have it. Another blog post where the point I was trying to make was lost. What was I going to write about anyway?