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.

I know I didn’t post yesterday. I got home at 11:50 and I could have just thrown up a “hey. I’m blogging. Goodbye” post, I didn’t want to, since I basically did that the day before. I don’t know what my failure means. I’ve basically been struggling with my other goals as well, so I could start over… (sigh). We’ll see.

Today’s topic? Parents. They just don’t understand, yo!

So there are definitely secrets I keep from my parents. The biggest one being (surprise surprise) this job. But I have other little secrets my parents don’t know about. One of them is my obsession with nail polish and cosmetics of all kinds, really. But lately my obsession has stuck on nail polish and the monkey on my back hasn’t let go! So my dad made me a nail polish rack for Christmas. It’s really nice, too. Like really nice. I can’t even explain how nice it is. And he was so proud of it, but told me that I shouldn’t try to fill it up completely, since the rack can hold 200+ nail polishes. And I just kind of laughed. Nervously. And while I was breaking out into a sweat, I was trying to figure out a way I could ask my father to make 4 more of those racks for my entire collection.

Yeah. I said it.

And the really crappy thing about it is: the new collections have started to come out, and I already purged a lot of my polishes out. I got rid of tons of my mini nail polishes, and some of my LA colors that I picked up at various Ross’ and Dollar Tree stores. I probably can get rid of some of my Sinful Color nail polishes, because there really isn’t anything unique about a lot of the colors from that collection, and I’m not really married to the idea of picking up any more of them. They tend to release new collections that are basically the same fucking polish they released before, but they just add another name to it. I don’t like that. So … the more I think of it, the more I probably will just get rid of those. I’ll peak at them tomorrow and see if I start to cry at the thought of saying goodbye to them or not.

Where was I?

yeah – so my father has no idea. And he was talking about possibly selling these racks to suppliers and collectors. Cuz it’s an awesome rack (why do I feel like a guy describing some chick’s tits every time I say “rack”?). But he probably will sell it for $200. And I told him that was too much. He needs to make a cheaper one. And he told me that anyone who spends 5 bucks on a bottle of polish can afford to spend $200 bucks on a cool rack to show their collection off. I wanted to tell him I’d prefer to go to target and buy a plastic container, shove my polishes in there, and take the other 190 bucks and buy fingernail polish! But he wouldn’t understand. And he’d probably commit me.

That’s the only thing on my mind, currently. How my father will one day see what his daughter spends her money on and wonder where he went wrong. And I’ll tell him I’m sorry I disappointed him and didn’t become a missionary in Africa like he wanted. But things could always be worse. I could be spending all my money on drugs. Or shoes.

I feel like I should be on a ship or something – commenting about the crew and the weather and potential issues with icebergs. What I meant to imply by the title, however, was that I’m experiencing something greater than a block and more the size of a large log. That weak attempt at a description can only make for a more convincing illustration of my problem. I simply can not write. All weekend long I couldn’t write. I worked a hell of a lot. I talked to most of you and did a pretty decent job. But writing? Didn’t write a lick. And I blame my teacher for it.

S.N. has heard all about this already and has given me some stellar advice. Which I might take eventually. Especially since my way of dealing with it went so well (end sarcasm). Basically what happened is that my Professor told me that I was brilliant and that a piece of my writing was the best piece of writing she had read in the 10 years of teaching. And then she said a whole bunch of other stuff – basically about my talent and that she hoped I was planning on being a poet/writer and blah blah blah. And then she assigned a poem. And it’s due on Thursday. And I haven’t written anything. Because I suck. Everything I write is coming out like the biggest lump of trite, sappy, cliche bullshit ever written. She said she’d take a look at whatever I had written today and yeah – I don’t have anything to show her. And what I could show her would really make me die of embarrassment. And instead of writing my way out of this block I just keep pissing and moaning about being called brilliant. Which is really all I ever wanted. Imagine wanting to do something so bad and only needing a word from someone whose opinion you value (is that who’s or whose? I fricken can never remember that rule for some reason. I think it’s whose, right? Cuz it’s not who is opinion – it’s whose….let me dictionary.com it.. yep – WHOSE). So you finally get that “yup – this is what you should do” word from a person who knows what the fuck she’s talking about … you – or I – should be relieved, right? Which basically brings me to the conclusion I’ve known for a long time: you really can’t satisfy me. I am unsatisfiable. insatiable. hard to please.

Ok – enough of that.

I’ll get over it. Pressure has always made me shine like a diamond – UGH – enough of the horrible cliched madness, CeCe!

In other news – I approached a guy in my writing class and practically begged him to let me be in his group. He told me that I was at the top of his list. That makes me happy because no one wants to throw themselves on someone who doesn’t want to be bothered and also – so incredibly happy that I’m on the top of someone’s list, too. Shit – I must have blown away some people during our first reading, huh? Sure wish I knew what the hell I wrote that was so impressive…

I actually have a funny story about every class I’m taking. But I have to save something for another day. Let me just say for now that my Poetry class is seriously hilarious to me. There is one girl in my class that will make her way into my novel as the obnoxious typical poet/writer wanna be girl. I just want to be careful because she just might surprise us all with an awesome poem on Thursday while my muddled mess will sound something like a beat up recycled Anne Sexton poem that will make everyone else want to slit their wrists.

More Later.

P.S. Sending out the minutes for missed calls this past week (or two) now. Also for feedback and generally putting up with my whining ass.

That’s all I got. A minute.

But I wanted to update everyone on the goings on of CeCe. I’m going to let you all in on a secret – but I am not looking for sympathy. Really. It’s just a heads up type of thing.

First week of classes kicked my ass. Turns out taking 5 classes (mostly literature) is pretty dang difficult. But REALLY fun. I mean REALLY fun. I’m having a wonderful time. Most of my classes are flowing into the other and I feel like I’m finally getting the whole college experience. There’s been several moments where I have been seriously ELATED to be learning. And I read some really incredible text – that was really difficult to read on a whole comprehension level, you know? And I aced my first quiz and could have written an A paper on everything I had read. I just “got” it. It all started to make sense. All the history and literature classes and PHILOSOPHY classes and Political Science classes – all those classes finally met at one point this semester and it’s like the planets all aligned. I don’t know if I’m making sense but it’s a great feeling to be able to use all this learnin’.

The result is – I’m still trying to figure out where study time goes and where play time goes. I figure it might be another week before I can put up a schedule. I know I haven’t had an up to date one since I was 18 (she says tongue in cheek).

This is what I’m going to do in the meantime: I’m going to log in when I get a chance. I don’t know how long I will last – but I will be sending you free minutes if I miss a call. and don’t go fibbing because I get a report of who calls and who doesn’t answer! So please don’t hesitate to call if you see me on. If I don’t answer I’m probably drooling on my pillow, in class and forgot to turn off my phone line, grabbing a quick bite to eat or something like that. Again – if I miss your call I WILL send you a couple of minutes for next time as an incentive to try me again the next time I’m on.

I got to lay down for a bit. This up at 7 and to bed at 2:00AM is beginning to take a toll on my eyes! But tomorrow today is my last day before the weekend so it’s going to be PARTY PLAY TIME at CeCe’s for sure, though!

Hope to talk/play soon!