I Just Ate 4 Dinners

Both me and my dad have "It's Complicated" at home from Netflix. I love that so, so much.

You know what I don't love? People who are too publicly emotional. Yeah, I know, I'm Sobfest 2006 at any funeral or viewing of A Walk To Remember, but otherwise, I keep my shit together. People who start to cry when talking about their great aunt Shirley who died in 1974 before they were even born? GET.OVER.IT. And yes, I know I'm not nice. This was established July 1, 1986, when my mother says I came out of the womb with a judgmental scowl on my face.

So in my Intimacy class Monday, we're going over potential project ideas, and a student from the prof's 2002 class comes in to tell us about his project: he wrote a song. About 9/11. You can't see my face now but...use your imagination. (Since you asked, I firmly believe that songs shouldn't have themes except "Christmas." A song whose sole purpose is to make you cry is a BAD BAD THING. BAD. Let's walk in a winter wonderland and rum pum pum pum but I DO NOT want to be reminded of people jumping out of windows to certain death (his lyrics, not mine). So then he goes into how the woman singing along with him was a dear friend who died last year. Ok. That's sad. So get teary, make your point and sit down. Don't try to fight it. Don't continue on and give me a story about how we're all waiting to become stars in the sky lighting the path for the living when we croak (ok, my word and not his. He's the "passed on" or "in a better place" type, clearly). So it goes on for like, five more minutes and he gets sad about EVERYTHING.

"And we sang it by this statue? That survived (squeak) Hiroshima (voice cracks)?" I mean, granted, I only just got over Hiroshima in 2009, but come on buddy, come on...

Ok this entry really petered out quickly BUT moral of the story: emotional people drive me nuts. I wish everyone were cold, stoic and dead inside like me. We can all wear black and mope and only show emotion during "Party in the USA"

Hip THIS

I really kind of miss my Health Promotion class. It was just six students and our awesome professor joking around a table for two hours. I likened it to the gang from "Community." When my mom asked which one I was, and the best match I could think of was Ahbed, the one with Asperger's...I felt sad.

So I'm at the point where if I hear the term hipster used one more time for just an average young person I might de-eyeball someone. Why does this bother me? It's often used derogatorily, or in a joking way, and always as an "us" versus "them" thing, but I don't get it. WHAT IS A HIPSTER?!

From my sad sad corner of global thought, I have come to realize that based on what people tell me, hipsters are a) trendy b) too cool for me c) insecure. And this makes no sense. Because essentially everyone is a hipster under those terms. Everyone under the sun who wears a hat or leggings, has a low-paying job, drinks cheap beer, doesn't get a lot of sleep, is under the age of 33, and has at one point in their life lived in Brooklyn qualifies. Narrow the parameters people! I mean sometimes I wear leggings with a long button down because it's comfortable and the top was super cheap at TJ Maxx. Does that make me a hipster? I have a superiority complex. Does that make me a hipster?

I guess what I'm saying is that overall the word is too often used, often by people who don't know what a hipster truly is so then just open up the umbrella of the term waaayy too wide. I always thought hipsters were unaffected young city people who make no money but spend all their parents' money and are ridiculous music snobs and act too cool to know you and smoke and deeeefinitely don't shop at TJ Maxx. True hipsterness is not me.

But seriously if one more person claims someone else is a hipster because they wear odd shoes or are <28 and live alone I will murdaaa.

Happy Wednesday!

So this Mucinex pill I've been encouraged to swallow is approximately the size of a small votive candle. And because this medicine is apparently imported from East Timor, the little side label has about 2 lines of instructions, none of which say whether it is for AM or PM, or what the side effects are, or essentially if I'll die. Interestingly enough for my purposes, all it DOES say is that the product can't be crushed, chewed or broken. Hello, votive candle. I'd like to introduce you to my trachea- enjoy your experience getting lodged. Haha, that sounds sexual.

So here goes! T- one hour until lunch, when I will take this with food and my new anti-acne oral antibiotics, which Dr. Kaplan neglected to mention may decrease the effectiveness of oral contraceptives say what the fuck?! And here's hoping the Mucinex and Soladyn and Gummy Vites and leftover pierogi/kielbasa don't interact and make me drop the baby this afternoon...or poop my pants.

I Am Really Dumb. Repeatedly.

I consider myself a pretty smart person, because I work hard and get good grades and mostly because I live a life of comparisons to others and most other people in this world are just nincompoops to the 8th power. But lately I've been thinking I'm a dummy bear, mainly because this situation keeps happening: I'm stretching out for a run, and I think, "Gee, I should really put some SPF on my face, now that I'm all high and mighty about the horrors of tanning and skin cancer and wrinkles blah dee blah." I ponder it for a moment, then shrug, thinking, "Whatever, I'm moving quickly, I'm never in one place long enough to need it."

I smile to myself, walk about two feet, then realize HELLO THE SUN IS EVERYWHERE. IT IS NOT A SPOTLIGHT ON YOU IN ONE PLACE. EVEN IF YOU MOVE, AND BOUNCE, IT IS STILL HITTING YOU.

DEAR ALLISON, YOU CANNOT OUTRUN THE SUN. LOVE, COMMON SENSE.

And then I feel ridiculous and hate myself a little and maybe this should have been tagged as "And Then I Cried" and guess what THE SAME THING WILL HAPPEN AGAIN IN TWO DAYS.

And Then I Cried

This blog has become sort of my outlet for self-deprecating humor...or often not humor...so I thought I'd corral the funnier Allie Sucks stories into the title "And Then I Cried."

I watched "Precious" Friday night after I put the babysitting charges to bed. What was I thinking when the movie concluded? That I was horrified by Precious's struggle, and how it compares to my adolescence? That I was inspired by her new devotion to parenthood and her own future? That with JUST THE RIGHT TEACHER anyone can learn? That Mo'nique is a great actress? That my gosh my golly welfare has certainly changed since the late 1980s? No. As the credits rolled, all I could think about was how I can find Mariah Carey's daily makeup artist and hire her for my wedding. And that I wanted some fried chicken.

...and then I cried.