And then my dad high-fived the president

Hey, losers! Welp, I've been wanting to write a post for a while, but I've been all whiny, like, "Bleh, I don't have enough to write about, my life is a constant string of neuroses, which actually get kinda commonplace since they stick around for a while, meh . . ."

But! I think I finally have enough that I can talk about to make this an actual post, not just a status update on my horrifically uninteresting life. Plus, I figure I gotta start somewhere, even if I don't have much to work with--mostly because I really do love writing, but also because my therapist recommended (read: threatened) that I get a blog or exercise or do SOMETHING other than curling up in the fetal position and weeping softly or running around stabbing people arbitrarily. Because apparently that's not "constructive" or 'healthy" or "legal." Well, whatever, therapist. Screw you, now you're getting all kinds of crap from my blog. So there.

Anyway.

Okay, so you know how when you get a new puppy and it's all cute and lovable (sp?) and then the minute you turn your back on it, it starts tearing up the house and ruining your carpets and breaking that nice vase (pronounced "VAH-SE") that your great-something-or-other left you? And you're running through your house trying to catch the little hellion and your mom or whoever is screaming at you to "GET THAT THING UNDER CONTROL, THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE PETS, THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS." And when you finally do catch the dog doing something wrong, it looks so innocent and little that you can't possibly be mad at it.

You know how that goes, yes?

Well, that is more or less how I feel about my new roommate (and I pray to all things holy that she never reads this). She is an incredibly sweet girl and she's quite clean, and so far she's beat out a lot of other roommates I've had. We just have a few . . . cultural differences to work out.

Actually, now i just feel guilty writing about this because, like the metaphorical puppy, she has no idea that what's she's doing is wrong or even vaguely irritating. I mean, I have no problem chewing people out for beings jerks when they're doing it on purpose, but when someone is just genuinely oblivious? Even I'm not gonna tear someone down for that.

However, one step out of line and all her dirty laundry is gonna be aired out ALLLLLL over this blog, for all my (6) readers to see.

Moving on.

The only other thing I can think of that is interesting to writing about (besides my cripplingly difficult internship which may or may not cause me to commit a gruesome homicide at some point during the semester) is my next door neighbors.

Before I explain anything else about them, let me just say this: I love babies. I think they are pretty much the cutest things I've ever freakin' seen. Nothing compares to the feeling of just . . . whole-ness that I feel when I'm holding a baby. And I could look at them and play with them pretty much all day.



See, look at that! That is super freakishly cute. (That is also my newest cousin, thanks to my aunt, Brie.) (I hope you don't mind me using the picture, Brie!) (I love you.)

However, there are limitations to my baby-obsession. I found that out just last night, actually, when I discovered around 1 a.m. that the east-most wall in my bedroom (the wall my bed is pressed up against) is shared by the wall of my next door neighbor's baby. Their screaming baby. It took me a full hour to go to sleep (I can only imagine that the baby must have been sick or something to have cried so long.

And THEN. To make things worse, I jolted awake at 4:30 this morning, with the sounds of baby-sobs ringing in my ears. At first I was just irritated. Surely, I thought, surely the parents will come get their child and all this can just be an early morning nightmare.

But the crying went on. And on. AND ON.

I tried experiments. I plugged my ears, put a pillow over my head, moved to sleep on the floor, turned on some white noise. And after trying all of this, I realized something. The baby's cries were consistent, even, repetitive. And, more importantly, when I did these things, like plugging my ears, etc., it made no difference.

I was hearing these sounds inside my head.

Crap, I thought. Crap, I'm too young to be developing dementia. This must be some sort of stress-induced hallucination. And the sad part is, I think I really might have been right. We'll see, tonight, if the crying continues. If it does, I cannot promise that there will be no repercussions. See you on the evening news!

P.S. I am such an adult. Look at what I made myself for dinner:

Yep, that is a plate of nachos with pre-cooked sausage, a glass of milk, aaaaand an entire jar of pickles. Yep.

P.P.S. I just realized that I never explained the title of this post. WELL. Actually it was just a dream my dad (Hugh) had. He and Barack Obama (whom he does not like) were out in the backyard playing a little football. Like, "Oh, hey, Barack, go long!!" and "Sweet catch, Hugh, you sure you never played pro?" And at the end of their little playdate, Obama was like, "Sorry, I got to go. Presidential stuff to do," and my dad was like, "Yeah, it's cool." And they high-fived. And my dad woke up laughing.