I believe there are about 100 things you should know about me. And I use “you” loosely. Over the years my desire to blog or share or tweet has dwindled into a messy lump of carelessness. It will make a fascinating story one day but now is not the time.

It’s not that I don’t have a lot to write about. I write constantly, sometimes I even get out my computer and type it into my pages or word documents. Most of the writing I do every day is in my head. Which doesn’t do any one any bit of good. But there it is.

I’ve tried to “trick” myself into writing things. Giving myself little challenges which sometimes energizes me sufficiently but by day 10 I’m back to my old tricks. Abandonment. Boredom. Laziness. The Blahs. You know it’s bad when you can no longer trick yourself. Or at least, I know it’s bad then. Really bad. I can mostly fool myself most of the time. Just part of my genius.

This might be another one of those tricks. I’m not going to think about it much because if I discover it’s yet another plan to get me to write more, I’ll rebel, as most teenagers do, and I’ll stop writing again. So I’ll begin (again, Finnegan).

The first thing you should know about meis I have a fear–a horrible fear–of Kangaroos. I’m aware that there are a few of you who already know this fact, and maybe I even wrote about it in the “about me” section of this mostly abandoned blog. But this is the news at 11 story. The feature segment that you stayed up for. I kid. Mostly.

My fear of Kangaroos happened when I was probably about 4 years old. I think that’s when I first saw the picture of the gigantic bunny rabbit. My brothers would often torture me. Mostly kids stuff until you grow up and find out that they emotionally scarred you. My oldest brother have this box of boy stuff. Not THAT kind of boy stuff, that boy stuff he kept under his mattress. And yes. I checked. That’s a whole different thing to know about me. Let’s stay on track, shall we?

So in this box there were a multitude of things. Bee-bees for his gun (mmhm… I said gun), marbles (remind me about those sometimes), letters from his girlfriend (remind me about THOSE sometime, too!) and these really strange photos. One of them was this old postcard of my father’s. It was all yellowed and sinister looking. On the front of this postcard was this picture of a little man and a huge – I mean HUGE rabbit. the rabbit was taller than the grown man, and the man looked tall, too. Over 6 feet tall, my brother told me. Which would make this rabbit about 20 feet tall by my accurate as usual mathematic calculations. It freaked me out. It freaked me out so bad that I can’t even go on line and find you a picture of the thing that I saw. I know it’s out there because the internet has every picture of everything you could imagine (remind me to tell you about that sometime, too!)

My parents have since told me a multitude of times (probably close to 100) that this thing does not exist. But they also told me that spiders do not travel in groups and I’ve spotted several spiders hanging out together on my ceiling.
In my head I connect kangaroos with that huge rabbit creature I saw when I was a child. They are huge (taller than a man!) and they hop. Therefore I hate Kangaroos. I fear them. If I see them in a zoo I’m leaving the zoo. If I see pictures of them I start to whimper a little bit. If I see one suddenly on television, I want to cry and I leave the room. If Kangaroos suddenly became popular in the state of California, I would move and leave my fingernail polish here because I couldn’t get out of this state fast enough.

I don’t care if there are cute kangaroos. I don’t care if you show me a stuffed one. I don’t want it. And you and I will never be friends again. People can do a lot to me and I will forgive them. But giving me a picture of a kangaroo is one thing I will never forgive. I’m not kidding. I’m not even going to talk about the whole pocket thing and having a joey in there. That is just plain creepy and disgusting.

So there you have it. The first thing you should know about me. There’s more to know. Maybe I’ll write about the next thing sooner than later. Ssssh. Don’t say it.

Just a note to let you all know that I will be password protecting some of my posts. I’d like to write here more often, but truthfully, it unnerves me a bit that people who aren’t callers or fellow operators are able to read my more “sensitive” posts. There are subjects I don’t feel as comfortable discussing knowing that ‘whoever’ can happen upon my page and read to their heart’s content. There are certain things I share with you, specifically, and … well… no need to beat a dead horse (god, that’s one horrible figure of speech, isn’t it?), you all know what I’m talking about.

So – yeah. Hope your Easter was lovely. Mine was! I got to spend time with my family and church services were DELIGHTFUL! I seriously love Easter and Spring and new beginnings, and even the gentle send off of harsh winter, ice, and deathly cold. I know, I know, I live in California. But trust me, we all have our winters to endure – no one is immune.

Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve updated in here. I’ve been extremely busy. I’m working on a few projects and there’s school and family, and new friends (who have beach houses!). Stay tuned though – lots of changes in my life and I definitely want all of you to be a part of it. :X.

Oooh – there’s my phone! More later! xo.

And I’m behind again.

I realize I haven’t logged on for the last few evenings. actually I was on late late late last night. Where were you? I’ll be on late this evening into tomorrow morning. Then gone during the afternoon. And then…. (drum roll please) I will be home alone for 3 days!!! So I can be loud. And inappropriate! Yippee!

Gotta run. More later, okay?

Oh, if you let me know what movie/musical my title comes from, I’ll give you a special treat. Call and give me your best educated guess/answer.

I’ve caught up! Blog Every Day In February is officially back on track. Hallelujah.

I just got done emailing some of my friends from my last writing class at school. I had to tell them I wouldn’t be returning to campus as a student. I’ll still be doing some volunteer work (because, hey, I need these things on my application for schools!), but I won’t be attending school there. I’ll be working on my math class. Trying to get the damn stuff done already. I have one final math class, and I’m taking it off campus with my tutor.

A few years ago, I came across this porn movie with Gauge in it. She’s this blonde that is exceptionally gifted at anal sex. Actually she stands on her head and gets fucked in the ass which, hats off to you, Gauge, is impressive! The movie I first saw her in had the title Bring em Young. They said it was a university, and I thought it was just a porn thing. Clever, too, I thought. Cuz it actually sounded like it could be a real school. BYU.

Imagine my surprise when my tutor enrolled me in an independent studies class at BYU – Brigham Young University. I told Sarah Nanette last night that I didn’t think it was a real school! As a result, I keep saying the name wrong. Bringum Young. Ugh. My tutor is going to think I’m a bigger freak than he realized.

It was super hard not signing up for any classes. But I don’t need them. I signed up for classes last semester because I needed them and they would count towards my major. But enough is enough. I gotta get out of the small college in this now small town and head for greener pastures. And it’s really scary. I didn’t realize before how much I was clinging to the school. I didn’t realize how it had become a crutch for me. And I didn’t realize how sometimes, when bad things happen, it kind of keeps you stuck. Even if you’re miserable, there is a safety in being miserable and stuck. There are tons of reasons why I want to continue taking classes at my old school, but none of them are healthy reasons, I’ve realized. So… I’m moving on.

What this means for niteflirt is, I’ll probably have better hours. I’ll be more flexible during the next few months. And I’ll be working more because BYU ain’t cheap, to be honest. One class is costing the same as 4 classes at my old school. And that’s not including the books that I’ll need. I’m reviewing a previous class at the moment so I’m covered, but by next month I want to be enrolled.

This is the most adult thing I’ve done in a long time.
And it feels good.

Not sure if I told you this yet or not, but my father built me a case for my finger nail polish. It’s pretty elaborate. So far, I’ve stored about 110 polishes. There’s room for another 100 on the rack. My dad took a look at my polishes, and I saw the look on his face. The judgement look. Like he was adding them up one by one, trying to figure out how much I’ve wasted on nail polish. And I get it. He’s always been thrifty like that — doesn’t get into the frivolity of my life at all. My mom doesn’t get it either. I would think she would have protected me from that look he was giving me. But my mom has always been thrifty, too. She hasn’t ever just went and bought something because it was pretty. She has to figure out if she’ll use it how ever many times in order to make the purchase worth it. Shit, they are just now getting use to the fact that I spent over 1000 dollars on a dog, for crying out loud. If I need a new tire, or need books for classes, my dad will tell me to sell my polish. I can hear it now. Fuck.

The bad thing is, I lined them all up, and even though they are all different colors, when they are in rainbow order, you can’t quite tell the difference between the pinks, the mauves, the reds. I can tell. Sort of. But my papa preaching and judging me really makes all the colors blend into one big fuzzy rainbow. He’s sucked the joy out of my collection. With one look. Just like that.

Damn it.