Forgiveness is More Than Saying Sorry

Aside from being an obviously sublime piece of music, forgiveness really is more than saying sorry. You have to show it. You have to mean it. You have to want it. But lately, I've realized the most important thing about forgiveness is that you have to be able to forgive yourself for NOT forgiving everyone and everything.

I know, I know. We're taught to rise above. We're encouraged to follow all those pretty little quotes floating around the Internet, reminding us that holding onto anger or whatever the hell it is we're hugging close, hurts the collective us more than the collective them. And mostly, that is true. It wouldn't be a cliche if it weren't. But there are some people, some things, you just don't have to forgive. It's not law. And you know what? It's also not wrong. It doesn't mean you're holding on to hate or violently cursing the accused's name every night. It just means you have decided to let go without giving said offender the gift of absolution. You're not required to, and you never were.

I've been thinking about the people who have wronged me over the years. Some of them definitely deserve my pardon, while others deserve to suffer some kind of moral penance. On the flip side, I know there are people who will probably never grant me clemency for some of my crimes on them, while others deserve and would most likely accept an apology.

So no, I don't forgive you for alienating me before moving out on me and leaving me thousands in debt. I don't forgive your behavior, and I don't think you should be allowed to forget how many people you hurt in the wake of your departure. You are not forgiven.

And yes, I am sorry for what he did to both of us and how it made me treat you. If I had known, I wouldn't have been a participant. I hope you get out one day. One day...

So no, I do not accept your half-ass warning/apology about bringing me into your psychotic public breakdown, invading my rights to privacy. I don't think you deserve to be forgiven by anyone for what you did. You are not a good person; I do not give you a reprieve.

And yes, I am sorry for whatever drove us apart. Some of it was me, and some of it was you, as it always is in those kind of fizzle-out-friendships. I hope you're as happy as I am now, and maybe we can sit together over junk food and talk about it all again one day. One day...

So no, I do not forgive any of you for making me believe I deserved less than I did. I do not forgive any of you for taking advantage of every part of me. I do not forgive you for trying to hold me down, hold me back, hold me away from the light. I will never release you from your deeds.

And yes, I do forgive myself for all the times I thought I had to forgive these people, all the people, for the things they'd done to me. I forgive myself for holding on too long and for letting go too fast. I forgive myself for not standing up when I should have and not sitting down when I could have. I forgive myself for not knowing how to forgive, when to forgive, if I should forgive. Of greatest importance, I forgive myself for not always trusting myself, for not believing I knew what was best for me, even when the world told me to hold on or let go.

I forgive myself most of all because without the forgiveness (or lack thereof) I gave, I would not be who I am or where I am today. And today, well... I don't have a reason to apologize or forgive. Today, I've learned to live unapologetically and unforgivingly as... me.

Wouldn't It Be Nice?

Life would be much more enjoyable and pleasant if everyone had a British accent. Enjoy this as much as you can between the egregious audio and video. I fully blame the PC I have to use until I get a new charger for my Mac.

Jolly good!

I WON?!?!?!

Do y'all remember this post?

... I'll give you a minute ...

Well, lo and behold, my look (and therefore this blog) was one of the winners of Kate Walsh and Bloglovin's Boyfriend Look contest. I'm stoked to be getting her Boyfriend perfume, but more stoked to have a great woman of substance like Kate select my look AND give the blog a little free publicity in the process.

Check out the scent and Kate's site.

Oh, and if you're new here, check out my blog... and tell Kate I said thanks for being one f'awesome, beautiful lady! ;)

xx,

Rachel

My Father is Actually Sirius Black

Look at him.

Now look at Sirius, or read his description in the book.

Twinsies, right?

Like Sirius and James Potter were, my father, too, is schooled in the ways of silliness.

Okay, maybe these don't capture his essence of silliness that well if you don't know him, but trust me... HE'S UP TO SOME FUNNY BUSINESS!

He is also quite skilled in the arts of sneakiness and hiding, skills Padfoot honed at Hogwart's, but later found useful when on the run from demonic Dementors/all of the wizarding world.

As you can see, I don't really have the best arsenal of sneaky pics. That's because he's so sneaky (and because my stash of photos is actually at my mom's).

He lived in England. SO DID SIRIUS! He went to a school that was, um, BASICALLY Hogwart's. Here he is visiting a place in Ireland that looks sort-of-but-not-really like both.

Just like Sirius, my dad is a scholar but admits to goofing off much more than studying...

...and really thrives off of the good adventure more than the good book.

He used to work at this library in Liverpool (scholarly), then returned to visit (ADVENTURE-Y)!

And – SPOILER ALERT, BUT IT CAME OUT LIKE 8 YEARS AGO – if Bellatrix hadn't killed her cousin and robbed Sirius of his life (RIP!), Sirius would have been the best dad to Harry. And just like the Sirius I believe still lives on behind the veil, my dad has been the best dad to me!

If you look closely, you will see my father's hands. I am crushing him with my then 24-year-old wine drunk weight. GOOD DUDE!

Oh, and also, he's ACTUALLY a wizard.

Happy birthday and Father's Day, Papa Bear!

My Mom v. Diane Keaton

Well, I had drafted parts of this before Mother's Day with every intention of doing a cutesy, yet somewhat humorous, shoutout to my Moms. But then finals week slammed me, and my alma mater aka my sister's undergrad school decided to hold her graduation ceremony ON MOTHER'S DAY...... rude. RUDE!

But this comparison is one well known among our family and friends, one that my sister and I make as often as possible, especially when we find some new and hilarious way in which my mother and Diane Keaton are alike. (Wait, did I say alike? 'Cause I'm pretty sure they are one.) So even though Mother's Day has come and gone, this oldie but goldie comparison model is one that is here to stay.

1. They both get hilarious after a glass of wine.

2. They both dressed like this in the 70s. (Mom would want me to note that she dressed this way before "Annie Hall" was even a glimmer in Woody Allen's eye.)

My sister can look like young Woody sometimes, but that's another entry...

3. They both look like this now.

4. They are both neurotic, but in that adorable Diane-Keaton-as-an-overprotective-frazzled-mom-in-a-movie way.

5. Did I mention they look alike?

6. Goofs (by themselves, or as pictured, with their pals).

7. No, but I mean like, seriously, they're both from Planet Babe.

8. They are both strong, smart, creative women who note the importance of skincare, education, women's (and others') rights, cute fashion, and how dumb men can be.

LUV U LADIES!

The Truth About Grad School

Thinking about grad school? Laughing about the fact that I'm IN grad school? Well, whatever the case may be, here are six things I learned during my first semester in upper-level education:

END OF SEMESTER GLORY!

I'm as brain dead as a bird who flew into a window, but I'm so excited to have an entire summer ahead of me with time to write and write, then read and read. That day ain't today, because I'm going to watch some shitty T.V. while passing out... babysteps, you know? In the mean time, enjoy some photos of times recent and get ready for some scribblings in the very near future!

Freak Out

Copying my lovely Kacey on this one. I love the idea! Sometimes we get so caught up in being "normal" that we don't pay enough attention to the differences that make us... us. Without further ado, what takes me to a level of visceral hate and/or horror that other people seem to LOVE + a couple'a things I actually DO love... probably far much more than the average human.

HATIN' IT:

- Mayo. Seriously, why? WHY? It's disgusting AND scary, and for some reason, you can't get anything in the South without it. Just yesterday I threatened the crew at Firehouse Subs with a punch in the face if they put mayonaise on my sandwich. I wish I were exaggerating, but I'm not.

- People who don't understand feminism/women's rights. Seriously, who are you?

- Taylor Swift. NO ELABORATION NEEDED! Ugh.

- The Big Bang Theory. The show, not the actual theory. Whereas I find the scientific theory riveting, the show makes me want to bang my head in, pun intended.

- Talking about childbirth. I am not interested/am utterly disgusted.

- The Twilight series.

- Homeland. I've watched 3 episodes and believe it to be legitimately horrible, besides Mandy Patinkin.

- Inconsiderate, unsafe drivers.

- PEOPLE WHO DISRESPECT THE TEACHING PROFESSION!

LOVIN' IT:
- Cleaning. It gives me this really strange sense of peace. If I get overwhelmed with school work or life in general, I just zone out doing the dishes or something. Zen and the Art of Housework Maintenance?

- Basically every sci-fi/fantasy/action/comedy fandom on the planet. Like this kind of thing.

- Strong females, like Beyonce, Leslie Knope, and Daenerys Stormborn.

- Abbreviating things that don't actually need to be abbreviated.

- TAKING SELFIES, OKAY?!

- Cheap champagne.

- Southern springs, summers, and falls.

- THE N64!

- My peoples.

- Lists, but this one could go on for weeks, so I'll end here. Cheers!

Catching Up With March

The thought of not having a single post for the month of March sent me into a tiny panic, especially considering that my my two-year blogiversary was on the 15th of this month. Yay, go me, wish I could have given it a big how-de-do like last year! But I guess two years isn't as exciting in blog anniversaries as it is in relationships, sobriety achievements, or employment security, at least not when you haven't been able to blog much, if any, lately.

Right now, I'm working on a huge field study for one of my classes on my Spring Break. Did I mention that Spring Break in grad school is kind of a joke? Thus far, I've done three classroom observations, caught up on housework, helped J move, and worked on the four papers I have due shortly after returning to class next week. I've been daydreaming about warm beaches and fruity drinks a lot, but it's not the same as the real deal.

Oh, did I mention I moved earlier this month myself? S and I got kicked out of our old house by the aforementioned banshee of a roommate for various reasons, including but not limited to a coffee maker. It was an added stress to us in every way to have to relocate, but now that we have our own cute, little cottage without drama and with plenty of working appliances, we're much happier. Even my dog is palpably more happy.

I have so much to say, but the inability to remember it. The only thing fueling my exhausted brain these days is coffee, so instead, enjoy these things I've been into lately:

Yeah, but what about the 89 OTHER body types? God, fashion designers, you stress me out.

The overwhelmingly positive response from most of the country concerning gay marriage rights.

Actresses Without Teeth, in one of those "This is so horrifying, it's uncomfortably funny" kinds of ways.

All the Game of Thrones press leading up to the third season premiere. TOMORROW, TOMORROW, I LOVE YOU, TOMORROW. YOU'RE ONLY A DAY AWAYYYYYY.










Seeing Sara Bareilles in May, and seeing John Mayer in September. (His tickets aren't on sale yet, but I'm trying to have some positive self-fulfilling prophecy go on here...)

Master Adult ADHD

I'm not a stranger to throwing around medical terms, whether for hypochondriac or hyperbolic purposes. I know quite a bit about quite a lot of them, so they're used in daily conversation without a thought. But as I've been sitting in front of my homework for hours... again... I've wondered... again... if I really might have this horribly inconvenient ailment.

You won't be surprised to hear that I WebMD'd that shit as soon as I got the chance between classes and homework and dog mommying and supergirlfriending and roommating. It seems I've won the symptom lottery:

Anxiety! Chronic boredom! Difficulty controlling anger! Difficulty concentrating when reading! Procrastination (aka this)! Low frustration tolerance! Mood swings! And the kicker, self-reporting psychological maladjustment more often!

But then I'm like "Look, girl. You have anxiety because you have an anxiety disorder. You're angry 'cause you have a crazy ghost of a third roommate. You're frustrated easily because you're as clumsy as those poor "before" folks on infomercials. You procrastinate because it's easy, you self-diagnose 'cause you're a hypochondriac, and you are chronically bored because...."

Wait... why am I chronically bored? I am literally ladyballs deep in schoolwork. My Roku is full to the brim with all of my favorite relaxations. I have a dog to play with, friends to grab coffee with, a boyfriend to drive crazy/love/the same thing/amiright?, at least 25 things on my to-do list, and 50 books to read.

But wait... I can't read because I keep reading the same sentence for 10 minutes before I realize that I haven't turned a page. I have been a reader my whole life, and a fast(ish) one at that, and now I can't read 15 pages in less than an hour. Why can't I read?

Okay. Clearly I have an attention disorder then, right? It's cool. I guess I'll be modern and go to therapy. Get treated like an ADULT, you know?

WAIT! I don't have money.
WAIT! I'm going to get money soon.
WAIT! Even when I have money, I can't take any of the medicines they prescribe for ADHD due to my irregular heartbeat.

WAIT! Maybe I'll just have to rub some dirt in it, stand up, and get through it all anyway. Because I can. And when I can't, I have people who will pull me up and make me. And when I'm done, I'll have a Master's to show for it.

And all of you assholes will have to call me Master Jedi.

Taylor Swift Syndrome

Taylor Swift is ruining our lives.

Aside from dominating the iTunes Top 100 and therefore ruining my browsing pleasure, she is seriously and negatively affecting society. How you say? I'M GLAD YOU ASKED!

This girl, for some reason, has a great deal of power. She's like a baby Hitler for tween and teen girls, and no matter how much I protest, even some of my own gal pals. She pulls them in with her poppy (not country-y) songs and relatable lyrics, because let's face it, who hasn't been 15 and heartbroken? And if you grew up in the South, it's unlikely you don't have "Tim McGraw" in your music library, even if you're a 20-something who wants to teach the world about the dangers of Miss. Swift and her teardrop-covered guitar.

But these tunes are all propaganda for this darker, deeper thing that scares the shit out of me. T. Swift has been dubbed this cute little girl next door, but if Janis Ian taught me anything, it's that Taylor Swift is a mean girl. She is a mean girl in nice girls clothing, and she's doing a really good job of tricking a lot of people into believing that clothing is the real deal. That trickery is dangerous. That trickery makes girls everywhere believe it's okay to act the way Taylor acts. And the way Taylor acts is manipulative, disrespectful, and far from nice.

Of course I haven't sat down and discussed philosophy and ASOS with the girl, but I don't need to. I don't need to because she airs her dirty laundry via song, even if that means airing other people's dirty laundry, too. And trust me, you can tell a lot about a person by what they're willing to discuss publicly.

Taylor is of this breed of person who doesn't mind sharing her whole life with the world. That's fine to an extent, because she can choose to share whatever she wants with whomever. But when other people come into play, when other people's private lives get thrusted into the public eye just because they intersect with ol' Swiftys, a line gets crossed. When Taylor does things like discuss another woman's sexuality or directly name men in her songs, she is taking away the right of those people to choose what they want or don't want to share with the public. And that's bullying. That's disrespectful. That's mean.

That deeper, darker thing I mentioned earlier? The scary-as-hell thing that Taylor has done? She has created this environment where she is essentially giving the OK to put anyone who slights you on blast, simply for your own selfish wants, but turn around and say "Oh, but I'm hurt, I couldn't possibly share any of the blame, and it's totally fine because I'm the victim!"

Wrong. So wrong.

People are going to hurt you, my little ladies. You're going to get shit upon and jerked around, and probably even worse. But unless there is a true evil to expose – a molester, a rapist, a beater – you're not helping anyone, most of all yourself, by putting people on blast. You're just prolonging your own torment, creating it for others, and disrespecting the boundaries of other human beings.

Your private life is an amazing, beautiful thing. It's something you get to keep close to you and you alone. Once you give it to someone else, you taint it. You can choose to share things with the person you love or even thousands of people if that's your bag, but the choice should always be yours, and you should never feel like someone has taken away your right to privacy. You should never, ever feel like you're allowed to take it away from someone else. And you should never, ever, ever let Taylor Swift Syndrome let you think it's okay to be an asshole just to make yourself feel better at the expense of one or ten or hundreds of other people.

There might be a fleeting sense of satisfaction Taylor's way, but there is such a prolonged, beautiful, peaceful bliss in caring about other people's feelings, letting things go, and keeping your dirty laundry in the nice, warm wicker basket in your bedroom at home.

Don't let Little Miss. Swift pull that polka-dotted, J.Crew sweater over your eyes. Being a disrespectful dick isn't cool, no matter how rockin' your bangs are. In the words of some much better songwriters, let it be.

I'm Ready, 2013

I spent my last hours of 2012 singing and dancing in a coliseum with a bunch of old work buddies. The Avett Brothers were rocking hard then singing sweetly, and they counted down the welcoming of the new year with the thousands of us that came to see them. Balloons and confetti and voices reigned down, and with them, the promise of a new year. The promise of a better year after a really tough one.

And you know what? Maybe it's just because we're all so damn determined to make it feel better this time around, but so far, 2013 really has been full of greatness. It's been chocked full of hope and niceness. I've seen people remembering what manners are and doing pleasant things for one another. I've seen a renewed sparkle in everyone's eyes, a kind of hop in everyone's step. And I'm really hoping that if we all hope and try hard enough, we can keep it this way for the year and many more years to come.

So without further ado, here are my resolutions for the year. They are simple and complex simultaneously, and only because I have such a sharp picture in my mind am I able to make them so short-n'-sweet.

Not only am I blessed with a resolution partner again, but a NETWORK of partners who are all resolved to grow and learn and live better from here on out. Honestly, this community growing closer, these friends and lovers and families and everything in-between, is the thing I'm most excited about for 2013.

Let's do this, y'all.

Meet The Simple Dog

On Christmas Eve last year, my boyfriend left the house to go pick up my present. He made up a crazy story, so I expected he was half joking and would walk back in with a wrapped box from his truck. When he finally turned up 20 minutes later, he told me to close my eyes, so I did. A gal who never wants to ruin her surprises, I kept them shut tight until I felt a little weight and some warmth on my lap.

I opened my eyes and saw the droopy little face I'd been eyeing for months. My friends had been fostering a little pup for a couple of months, and I'd give J the "PLEASE, OH PLEASE?!" look every time we'd visit, hoping we could adopt him. When I realized he was actually my gift, I was so surprised that J later told me he wasn't sure I was excited. I was.

We shortly considered Copper, but Cooper rolled off the tongue and reminded me of a certain silver-topped journalist. It wasn't long before ol' Coop started to show us his funny ways, and that is when I dubbed him The Simple Dog, thanks to Miss. Allie Brosh over at Hyperbole and a Half.

See, it's not that he couldn't learn tricks or that he didn't know the word "No." He just wandered around rooms aimlessly, tried to squeeze himself inside every nook and cranny he could find, and he would bump into literally anything in his path. It was funny and gave him this little charm I couldn't help loving, but it didn't take us long to get his ass to the vet.

It was there we discovered that he had worms and a heart murmur. This dingbat of a doctor told us to go see a specialist, but I thought logically, "Hey! Don't most growing things get heart murmurs? Couldn't worms give him a murmur?" It took one Google search to find out I was right. As soon as he was treated for the worms, a whole new dog emerged and the murmur was gone. Said doctor was also kicked to the curb.

This new side of Coop was still just as hilarious, but now in a little less of a "I'm worried about him" way and more in a "You're kind of like the Andy Kaufman of dogs" way. He would bound up the stairs and run on the couch like a maniac one second, but flop onto the bed after playing with a tennis ball for five seconds. He learned some new tricks and started talking like a Wookie when he didn't get his way. He made us laugh like crazy, and I fell so deep in love with the goof.

Something was still afoot with the little lad, a conclusion we made after finding rogue blood in the backyard. Tests and lots of money later, we found out he had a congenital liver disease that could only be cured with a surgery we did not (and still don't) have the money for. He was put on medicine that he can never stop taking.

That was early this year. Here we are, on Simple Dog's Gotcha Day, and he's just as goofy as ever. He's actually pretty healthy for a technically sick boy, and until he shows signs otherwise, he's stuck with me. I couldn't imagine not having his droopy face poke me in the nose every morning.

He has taught me a lot about myself, and how to grow up. He's shown me what it's like to simultaneously want to strangle and hug another living being. He has gotten me through a really hard and unexpected time with actual puppy hugs. Cooper is my little Forest Gump, because he might not be the smartest man, but he sure as hell knows what love is.

Happy Gotcha Day, Bear. You are absolutely the best Christmas present I've ever gotten.

Loyalty

Loyalty is one of my top priorities in life. A lot of people don't get it, especially since I was probably horrible at being loyal in high school (and most likely a touch after) because I was a teenager with a serious case of teenager brain. But loyalty is everything. Without it, you're an island floating in the middle of the sea. And not some cute little island full of natives who live in beautiful harmony, but a no one can find you because you're a magical, disappearing, time-traveling "Lost" island in the middle of fucking nowhere. Nobody wants to be the "Lost" island. Nobody. Except maybe Ben.

While my concept of loyalty is most likely the same as the world's as a whole, my expectations of how others should show it is probably where any differences lie. Those expectations seem reasonable to me, but they often leave me disappointed. But hey, no one can know what I consider an unfathomable breach of loyalty if I don't first define what I expect. Let's fix that, shall we?

1. Have my back. You can still disagree with things I do and even tell me you think I'm wrong, but that doesn't mean you have to rescind your support. Be on my side, even when I'm not there to remind you to do so.

2. Stand up for me. If you love me, like me, or even just respect me, say "Yo bro, back off" if someone is being an ass or saying ass-y things about me.

3. Be honest. I'd rather be mad at you for five minutes every time you tell me the truth than shocked and mad at you forever because you couldn't speak some facts.

4. If we're dating, don't cheat on me. You can just break up with me first. It'll suck, but it'll suck a lot less.

5. If we're friends, don't try to bone the person I love, whether we're together or apart. There's a whole world of other people to date. You can even date anyone else I've ever dated. Just don't make moves on the one I actually give a shit about.

6. Be my dog. Applicable only to members of the canine persuasion.

I'm most likely forgetting a great portion of my Loyalty List. I'll probably still find myself saying "Man, loyalty these days!" to Cooper as we cuddle on the couch. But then I'll think "Oh yeah, it's right here in my arms............................ god dammit, Coop, FLEAS?!?!"

Success

Thinking about success is what really sparred this entire project. While driving through our quaint little neighborhood, I pointed out my favorite house to my roommate. I talked about how though it wasn't much, and though I'd prefer a huge plot of land around it, it was enough. It was perfect to me. It was all I needed.

In a culture where big houses often equal success, what am I to make of my dream of a modest, yet absolutely adorable home? I never really thought about the fact that there is a societal definition of success my definition absolutely doesn't coincide with.

That's because to America, success is money, work 'til you die, bigger-is-better for things, smaller-is-beautiful for bodies, and fame is the ultimate goal. Hey, I'll stop being polite and start getting real: all of these things have appealed to me. I'm a human, and I live in the U.S. of A. But as I've grown and changed and become the person I've learned to find is myself, I have also discovered that American success ain't really my bag.

Success to me is:

Being with the people I care about. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I chose real life over my career, and like WHO DOES THAT?!?! But a successful life in my book means building my home life first, career life second, and no amount of bullshit culture pressure can make me doubtful.

A modest home on a big plot of land with animals, gardens, and the person I love. Forget cars, mansions, yachts, and private jets.

Working a job I love. My ideal job means being able to write and use all my other passions in creativity, having independence, using my hands, being surrounded by compassion, and making a difference for someone else. That means salary is secondary, and I only need just enough.

Overcoming fears that block me from doing the billions of things I long to do.

+++++

Really, that's all success is to me. Anything you could possibly ask me about success ("What about starting a family? Your TV pilot? SKYDIVING WITHOUT DYING?!") will ultimately be covered in the four clauses above.

Success to me is... simple.

j WOWW

Sometimes luck finds me. Sometimes that luck is a crazy dangerous infection that only afflicts about 2-3 patients post-wisdom tooth extraction a year, landing me in the hospital for a week on IV antibiotics + another surgery. (MORE ANESTHESIA?! YAY!)

It is a tale I will one day tell with a lot of laughter, but since my face is still semi-swollen and there are many more antibiotics to take, I will just leave you with this video of my transformation into a Jersey Shore character.

You're welcome, America.

Well, Well, Well...

Make sure you're sitting down everyone. I know I've made a lot of promises regarding this issue, but I finally did it. I finally made an appointment for my wisdom tooth surgery. I sure am going to be one fun, giant ball of anxiety until the moment of sedation!

After a lot of nudging from both personal and professional sources, I finally called for a consultation. I woke up bright n' early this morning to head to the oral surgeon to see what he had to say.

I got there and was greeted by delightful staff and a very lovely, tech-savvy office. I watched Obama make some jokes on Leno while I filled out my patient information. A cute child tried to pet my leopard flats.

"This isn't so bad," I thought. "You have been building this up for no reason. It's not like you even hate the dentist. What if you get back there and he's like 'LOLZ, U DON'T NEED TO GET THESE TAKEN OUT!' What if he lets me stay conscious? I can do this! I can conquer the world!!"

My overly nice dental assistant got me comfy, despite the fact that my view was kind of disorienting. It's weird looking at your own mouth on the big-screen.

I told her it might be scary in there since my teeth have been bothering me off and on since January. She boosted my confidence by noting they see a lot of "meth mouth." Sorry for the addicts, but not so sorry for finding a dental assistant who scratched my huge "Breaking Bad" itch. Again, what had I been worried about? THINGS ARE GOING TO BE FINE, RIGHT?!

The surgeon walked in and was beyond pleasant. He looked professional yet friendly, certainly capable of ripping my teeth out of my face bones. He kind of poked around my mouth for 30 seconds and then used my mouth map to tell me what was up.

"See these teeth here, here, and here? They're all covered in bone. Oh, and behind this one? That's a cyst, and we're going to have to test that to make sure it's not something worse. Because of all this, you're going to have to be asleep via an IV drip."

I replied with some nervous laughs and let him know I'd done way too much research, so I knew that tumors could develop because of your wisdom teeth. EHEHEH, IT'S SO FUNNY, I'M DEALING WITH THIS SO WELL, DOC! Inside my head though, my optimism was crashing and burning as my cynicism screamed "DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU'D GET OFF THAT EASY?!"

I chatted with him about my overwhelming fear of anesthesia after he let me know there was no way around sedation. The assistant had taken my blood pressure and instantly commented about how low it was, so she was there to back me up. He assured me about as much as anyone could ever hope to, and mentioned that the medicine would even make my blood pressure rise. He also promised a 20-30 minute surgery. Come on, little body, we can hold out for that long, can't we? Pretty please?

So I discussed price (JESUS.) with the insurance coordinator and made my appointment for the earliest time slot available on Halloween. I figure the juju of my favorite holiday has got to count for something.

I spent the remainder of my day starting to make arrangements for next week and trying to convince my dad to film my post-op jokes in the recovery room. He's not really a huge fan of the idea.

I'll probably say my farewells to everyone, make a last will and testament video, and cry a lot about my ultimate demise, but when I wake up on the other side four teeth and a potential tumor less, I'll feel like a big ol' dummy. A BIG 'UN! Especially since it looks like Hurricane Sandy will kill all of us that week anyway.

Happy Birthday, Baby!

John Clayton Mayer, love of my life, you are the ripe age of 35 today. Well, yesterday, but I wrote this in my brain well before the clock struck midnight.

Not only are you a fox, like a "I'd let my head hit the bed withOUT your hand behind it" fox, but you have gotten me through every break-up in my entire 25 years. Without fail, you have released an album that exactly coincides with the particular brand of heartbreak I'm sipping at that precise moment. You saved me from a lot of dark nights.

A lot of people don't appreciate you, but you know I always will, baby. You're not too poppy like a lot of folks tend to say, despite that really fucking weird "Say" song you put out, but we all make mistakes. You're not the bad guy people make you out to be, because if anyone actually listened to songs like "I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You)," "My Stupid Mouth," or hell, even "Daughters," they would say "Oh, yeah, maybe that guy has some issues like we all do, but at least he's honest about them." Th'fuck's wrong with honesty?

Oh, and did I mention you play a mean guitar? CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE SHIT THAT GOES ON IN "OUT OF MY MIND?" IT IS UNPARALLELED, BABE. UNPARALLELED!

So thanks. Thanks for the mean pickin', the soulful singing. Thanks for "Room for Squares," then "Where the Light Is," then "Battle Studies," now "Born & Raised," and all the others in between. They all did, and still do, get me through the worst and the best moments of my life.

Oh, and how could I ever wish you the happiest of 35ths without mentioning the fateful night I climbed my way to your platform as you were playing "Why, Georgia?" I somehow eluded security and used the heads of two strange men as my stabilizers. I probably made sure the girls were lookin' mighty fine, and then I looked up, right into your eyes, BEGGING you to look at me. You scanned the crowd, looked into my eyes, kept moving, MY HEART WAS BROKEN, but then... then you did a damn DOUBLE-TAKE and stared at me as you sang "Everybody is just a stranger, but that's the danger in going my own way." And then you held that gaze until some floozy threw her bra at you, and we all laughed, me out of psychotic anger that my MOMENT, my time with you was gone.

That bitch. Still love you anyway, boo. THANKS FOR THE MUSIC!

Let's Drink Together, Shall We?

Okay guys, here's the deal. After filming over 45 minutes of drunken material, then having to spend four days actually editing it, I'm kind of done with myself. But here you have it, a lesson in solo drinking.

Don't call Intervention on me as this video is intervention enough. Blargh.

Video Update Time!

An update of what's going on here at the Gonna blog!

Catch y'all later...