Interjections! Show excitement! And emotion!

The last post of 2008, you guys. I'll try to avoid being overly "OMG, it's the end of the year! I'm going to get sentimental!"

I haven't written in a while, and a lot of stuff has been going on, but I'm not going to try to recount everything. I've been ludicrously happy here recently, and it's been nice.

It's New Year's Eve and I'll be going to Bryson City tonight to hear NewJeff's band. I'm not. . .honestly, I'm not thrilled about it, but I'm not going to sit at home by myself on New Year's Eve, a night when I tend to be a little overly emotional anyway (because it's usually a "Oh my GOD, it's been another year, and I'm STILL alone!" I'm not actually alone, but physically, I would be alone this evening.) I had New Year's plans, which I'd made. . .a month and a half/two months ago, but they were canceled last week. Now, I'm not going to lie. . .I'm still pissed about that. I've been good, especially recently, about not holding onto things that don't really matter, that I KNOW don't really matter, but this? I continue to be beyond pissed about this. Because this'll be the first New Year's in. . .well, since freshman year of high school, that I don't have someone to hang out with (or a group of people to hang out with.)

When I called NewJeff to get directions to the place, he mentioned how sad it is that I'm going by myself. Thank you, Jeff. I wasn't already aware of how pathetic it is. I really needed you to remind me. Much obliged.

However, the alternative is sitting at home alone, feeling really sorry for myself, and I refuse to do that. So I will look cute, I will go to Bryson City, and I will be sociable.

I honestly can't believe it's the end of the year. More has happened in the past year than I think has happened to me in the entirety of my life. I won't list it all, but just believe me when I say that this year was. . .eventful, to say the least. I don't profess to know what 2009 is going to bring, but I hope it's. . .you know, I don't want to say "better," because this past year wasn't bad, per se. A lot of crappy things happened, but it wasn't, in its entirety, a bad year.

Now that I've started this entry, I feel like I don't have as much to say as I thought I did. Maybe I felt guilty for not updating for a long period of time. I don't know. It seems like I start out having tons to say and then I lose steam.

Anyway, everyone have a happy New Year's Eve, be safe, and I'll catch everyone in 2009.

I take my pills. The babies cry. All I hear is what's playing through the in-flight radio.

So I'm not going to be able to put "Sarah - award-winning writer" on my resume anytime soon. The results from the NC Press Association came in today and I didn't win anything.

However, Dennis won two different awards, and as the person that was after him saying, "You're entering, right? What are you entering? Have you picked what you're entering yet?," I'm really, really excited that he won. I knew he would, because he's really good at what he does. I really and truly can not put into words how happy I am he won, because I don't think he gets enough credit, at least around here, for all the hard work he puts in and how amazing his stuff really is.

Because of this, I'm in a weird situation at the moment. I'm so happy that he won. . .but I am, in fact, devastated that I didn't. It might sound stupid, but this was. . .I needed this. I needed something to prove to my boss that I am, in fact, not worthless in this job. I get the feeling every now and then that she doesn't think I can do anything right, and winning something, ANYTHING, would have shown that, yes, I am good at what I do. Other people think I'm good at what I do. I could have brought the letter home at Christmas and said, "Look! I'm awesome!" I had all but convinced myself I'd already won, because I thought my stuff was really good. I entered my gay article, my Make-A-Wish article and. . .something else I don't remember. And I thought they were good!

One might argue that some people around here thought they were good, too, but honestly? Some of the stuff people around this town think is "good" is. . .pretty bad. So now I'm really concerned that I'm one of those writers that is good. . .to people in Western North Carolina. That I'm right on par with the people that I don't think are very good at all.

I have this one writer (had, I guess, this one writer) that is incredibly popular with people around here. I don't think she's funny at all. I'm afraid I'm that kind of writer. That people without. . .I don't want to be insulting to people around here, because not everyone is unintelligent by any stretch of the imagination, but. . .a lot of the people around here have been here their entire lives. Small town living is all they know and sometimes, that means they haven't. . .ever experienced anything outside of their own bubble.

I'm unable to relay what I'm trying to mean. All I'm saying is that I wish I were good enough that people outside of this area thought I was, too.

I really needed this, is all I'm saying. I have been, effectively, knocked down a few pegs. Maybe I deserved that.

However, I get the feeling that Dennis needed it more, so that's good. I feel I'm growing as a person because I'm honestly, really and truly not jealous that he won. I'm not angry he won. I wish I were, actually, because I would rather be angry than incredibly sad. But he deserves it. Both of them. And I don't want to take away from that.

There's the update. I'm going to go back to work. Just regular work, though. Not award-winning work.

How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat. Some dance to remember; some dance to forget.

It is currently. . .4:22 a.m. I've been lying in bed for the last hour, trying to talk myself into falling asleep, and, clearly, I did not accomplish that particular goal. I decided that getting up, turning on infomercials, blogging and finishing my freelancing projects would be more effective and time-effective than lying in bed, being really pissed off that I couldn't sleep.

Luckily, one of my absolute favorite infomercials is on: For Jack Lalanne's Power Juicer. I. . .really want this juicer. For only four payments of $49.95! It's backed by the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval! It comes with more than 60 recipes (a $25 deal for free). If you call right now, they'll make one of the payments FOR you! That's only three payments of $49.95. But wait! Fitness phenomenon Jack Lalanne wants to celebrate his birthday by taking AN AMAZING $50 dollars off! That's like paying only TWO PAYMENTS of $49.95. Hell to the yeah. I've wanted this thing, seriously, since I first saw the infomercials about a month or so ago when Carrie and I had a sleepover of sorts, where we talked about things girls talk about, ate Doritoes, drank wine, and saw the commercial for this fabulous juicer.

Really, the only infomercial that's even remotely as good is the one for those knives. I don't know the specifics of them, but you get, like 5,000 kinds of knives that can all cut through an aluminum can (and really? I know I often get the urge to cut aluminum cans in half. So these knives are pretty much essential to my everyday life.)

So the reason I'm not sleeping is because I've been trying to not take Tylenol PM. I was afraid I was going to get addicted to it or something. As it turns out, the only thing I'm really addicted to is sleep, and now I'm not getting that. Oh yeah, and crack cocaine.

No, I'm kidding. About the crack cocaine. Not the sleep.

But I really can't sleep without something to help me along. If I drink wine before I go to bed, I can GET to sleep, but I can't STAY asleep. If I just bring myself to the absolute brink of exhaustion, I can sometimes fall asleep, but, again, I can't stay asleep. And with the Tylenol PM, 9 out of 10 nights, I can fall and stay asleep.

So what's been going on with Sarah? I've been working all the time, which is nothing new, but I've also been. . .really, really happy. Like, almost ridiculously so. It's something that you can't really exhibit at work, because then you have to contend with really annoying questions, but I'm smiling a lot more. Yesterday (Monday, my production day), I was a little stressed out when I went into work (I'll get into why in a second), but it was OK. Like. . .I didn't cry, which is my usual fallback, and I just kept plugging along. And I finished by 5! One of these days, I'll finish by 4. And maybe one day, I'll meet my 2 o'clock deadline. (Oh, don't look at me like that. The guy in prepress who does the pages doesn't come in until at LEAST 3.)

So the reason I was stressed out. Friday, Vi says to me, "Sarah, can you come into my office? We need to talk about the freelancing."

At this point, I freaked out because, as I mentioned, I've been writing freelance articles, and the first thing I thought was that she'd found out, and I wasn't allowed to do that, and I was in trouble.

(I mean, I know that pretty much everyone does it. Freelances, that is. But that's where my mind immediately went.)

As it turns out, they have cut. . .all of my funding for my publication, meaning I can't pay anyone to write for me anymore. I have a little network of freelancers, three of which were paid. The rest do it because they like to/to get their name out there/whatever. Some of them used to be paid, but stayed on after Carrie told them she couldn't pay them anymore. I was hoping that these three (The Big 3, if you will) would do the same. Or, at least one of them would do the same.

So I let the three of them know what was up. One of them wrote a "humor" column twice a month and got paid $50 a pop for them. I. . .think she was entirely overpaid, but she was popular within the county and had been doing it pretty much since the beginning, so I guess they consider her worth it. I was told to tell her that she could either do one a month for the usual $50 or, if she still wanted to do two, it would have to be cut back to $25 a month. Yes, that kind of sucks, but if you really like doing something. . .well, I'll come back to that.

One of them got paid $25 for 250 word columns and $35 for 350 word columns. Again, I felt she was overpaid, because honestly? I could write the same thing in a short amount of time. (And now, I probably will have to.)

The last one, I'm not actually sure what she got paid, because she sometimes would write things just because she wanted to and only charged for the bigger ones. She was my favorite. Not just because she's the nicest of the three, but because her work. . .ethic?. . .makes more sense to me. Charge for the bigger articles (which were always really good) and write smaller ones because you want to.

The first person I heard back from was the column-writer. Literally, I cringed when I saw the e-mail from her, because, from what I remember from Carrie talking about dealing with her, I just didn't feel like it would end well.

It didn't, really.

She was kind of bitchy about the "buy-one-get-one-free" deal and said she "couldn't deal with this right now" because she was flying. . .somewhere to do some kid's show or something. She said she'd deal with it when she got back. I'm. . .guessing that's going to be a no. She said she probably wouldn't be writing for me at all anymore.

The second one wrote me back and said she wouldn't be contributing anymore. She also told me that she would cancel the two interviews she already had lined up (which is what put me in a lurch yesterday) and for me to let her know when I could pay her again. That. . .kind of pissed me off. On the one hand, I get it, kind of. On the other hand, that was a commitment she'd already made, and she ended up really screwing me.

When talking about this situation, I've told people that, in college, I worked for my college paper, and I have no idea how much I got paid to do it. I did get paid, and it wasn't a lot, but I didn't really care. I would have done it for free, because I loved doing it. Especially senior year, when I was writing my columns. I LOVED it. So I don't entirely understand why people aren't willing to at least work with me. Maybe not write articles that are as long. Maybe not write them as often. If the guy I freelance for found himself in the same situation and he said he couldn't pay me for what I was doing (which is X-number of 500-word articles), I'd say, well, if you cut the word number down, I'll still do them sometimes.

It's a little different, because he has several writers working for him, but you get the gist.

The last woman said if she had ideas or stories every now and then, she'd still send them to me. And this is why she's my favorite. She gets what I tried to explain above. She likes doing it.

So that's where I am right now. Hopefully, one of these days, the economy will turn around and people will have jobs again and will pay for their advertising (why they don't collect money BEFORE running the ad, I'll never understand) and I can pay the freelancers for their word. And I can tell you one thing: if I'm still in charge when that happens, I will first pay the people who have been writing for me for free. Because they're going to be the ones that help me through.

Oh, speaking of. Those of you who remember my past conundrum, of needing to interview the person who hates me more than probably anyone else in the county in order to write a center story? Carrie offered to write that story for me. So win-win-win, because I get the person that I feel would be the most instrumental to my story without actually having to speak to her, Carrie gets to write a center story (which. . .I'm assuming she wants to do, since she volunteered to do it), and the woman that hates me gets recognized for her work. Also, I get to be the bigger person (kind of) for including her. So, really, win-win-win-win. Wins all around.

I'm getting a vacation next week! I'll have the entire week off! Of course, that means I'm going to be working my ass off next week to get the publication finished early (early as in. . .Friday), but then I'm going to be not at work for an entire week. I'm not sure I'll really know what to do with myself. But it's not going to be work. I will absolutely NOT be answering any calls that come from the office. None. And if Vi calls me and leaves a message, I will listen to it Friday, when I come back.

Nick's coming home this week! He will be flying in Saturday. I was originally planning to go to the airport when he came in, when I thought he was coming Sunday, but as it turns out, his flight isn't expected until 10:45 p.m. Saturday, and planes are usually late, aren't they? Then he's probably going to sleep through Sunday. So. . .I don't actually know when I'll see him. But he'll be home.

So it's after 5 now. I'm going to go finish an article and maybe get like an hour of sleep.

UPDATE: It is currently 7:42 a.m., the sun is up, and I have written my final two articles so I don't have to worry about them mid-day like I'd intended to. I never went back to sleep. I also had a minor nervous breakdown because I couldn't find one of the articles I'd written, and I thought I was going to have to rewrite it. Damn you, Montpellier, France, for saving to the "My Templates" part of the computer. I'm thinking, while I'm up, I'm going to go get a biscuit for breakfast. I also anticipate being really loopy all day.

Layla. You've got me on my knees (Layla). I'm begging darling please (Layla).

Basically? Today was the best day ever.

I know that's kind of a dramatic change from last time I posted, but fact: I was in a good mood all day.

(Before I start in on all that, I want to say that my cousin's husband family is having a difficult time right now and if you're into the whole praying thing, they could probably use it. Also, Dennis' daughter is having surgery tomorrow [don't worry, nothing's wrong], and if you could keep her in your thoughts, too, that'd be cool.)

So anyway, I woke up this morning, and I was just in the best mood. It's been raining for the last few days, and I've been trying to brighten things up a little bit by wearing bright tights. Yesterday's were fuschia (magenta?), and today's were purple. And I blew out my hair, and, thanks to the humidity/rain, it did this cool flipped out thing that I got compliments on all day long. Now I just need to figure out how to make it do that when it's not raining, and I'll be good to go.

Also, I don't hate my hair anymore. I still loathe the bangs, and I will never concede on that, but now that it's not flat-ironed to my head, I think it's actually kind of cute. I'm dealing with the bangs by either spraying them back or wearing headbands.

Anyway, work was good today, Vi was in a rare good mood (she's actually likable when she chooses good moods!) and it was. . .just happy.

Looking back on it, I can't even tell you why today was so good. It just was. I had a really, really good day.

I'm not sure what I'm doing this weekend, but I don't have concrete plans.

I was going to write a big, long entry, but I took my sleep drugs already, and I'm on my way out.

Another one bites the dust.

When I get especially bored with my life, I usually end up doing something to my hair. It usually entails cutting off a great deal of hair, changing it to a different color, whatever.

So yesterday, I had an appointment in Asheville to get this haircut that I loved that I found, actually, on the salon's Web site. It was a great deal shorter, with punky, choppy bangs, and I thought, "That's it. That's exactly what my life needs right now. I need a badass haircut."

I went to get said badass haircut and ended up with. . .imagine, if you will, Catherine Zeta-Jones in Chicago, mixed with a guy (any guy), mixed with Suri Cruise. I have literal Suri Cruise bangs. People keep telling me that I shouldn't hate it but, you know what? I do. I hate it severely.

I'm. . .not pretty anymore. I've never been, you know, the girl that walks into the room and every head turns, but I have never been offensive-looking (save those years between 12 and 14, but everyone has awkward phases.) Now? I look in the mirror and just want to cry. There is nothing feminine about me anymore. I'm not pretty, I'm not cute, I'm just. . .really, really unfortunate-looking.

So much for a happy blog post, because I feel the need to mention that I'm ridiculously lonely, too. In this office at the end of the hall, I never see anyone. People used to stop at my dek to talk to me when I was at the top of the stairs, because I was right there, and now that I'm in this office, I see a lot less of people I'd like to see more of. It's just more out of the way to come talk to me now.

I'm just unhappy today. I guess that's all I really have to say.

Without your love, I'd be nowhere at all, oh, what would I do? (If not for you.)

I'm loving that this laptop is picking up a random wireless signal from. . .somewhere, so I don't have to plug it up at the moment.

I'm debating on whether or not to go into work today. I'll probably just go in tomorrow and get a lot finished. I have two columns to definitely write (the food column and the Last Word) and there are a couple of other ideas I have that I might get started on. But I don't know.

I was reading my news feed from the N&O, and I came across this story:

As store worker died, shoppers kept on

By Colleen Long, The Associated Press

NEW YORK - A Wal-Mart worker was killed Friday when "out-of-control" shoppers desperate for bargains broke down the doors at a 5 a.m. sale.

Other workers were trampled as they tried to rescue the man, and customers shouted angrily and kept shopping when store officials said they were closing because of the death, police and witnesses said.

At least four other people, including a woman who was eight months pregnant, were taken to hospitals for observation or minor injuries, and the store in Valley Stream on Long Island closed for several hours before reopening.

Nassau County police said about 2,000 people were gathered outside the store's doors at a mall about 20 miles east of Manhattan. The impatient crowd knocked the man, identified by police as Jdimytai Damour of Queens, to the ground as he opened the doors, leaving a metal portion of the frame crumpled like an accordion.

"This crowd was out of control," said Nassau police spokesman Lt. Michael Fleming. He described the scene as "utter chaos."

Dozens of store employees trying to fight their way out to help Damour were also trampled by the crowd, Fleming said.

Items on sale at the store included a Samsung 50-inch Plasma HDTV for $798, a Bissel Compact Upright Vacuum for $28, a Samsung 10.2 megapixel digital camera for $69, and DVDs such as "The Incredible Hulk" for $9.

Damour, 34, was taken to a hospital, where he was pronounced dead about 6 a.m., police said. The exact cause of death has not been determined.

A 28-year-old pregnant woman was taken to a hospital, where she and the baby were reported to be OK, said police Sgt. Anthony Repalone.

Police said criminal charges were possible in the case, but Fleming said it would be difficult to identify individual shoppers. Authorities were reviewing surveillance video.

Wal-Mart Stores Inc., based in Bentonville, Ark., called the incident a "tragic situation" and said the employee came from a temporary agency and was doing maintenance work. It said it tried to prepare for the crowd by adding staffers and outside security workers, putting up barricades and consulting police.

"Despite all of our precautions, this unfortunate event occurred," senior Vice President Hank Mullany said in a statement.

Kimberly Cribbs, who witnessed the stampede, said shoppers were acting like "savages."

"When they were saying they had to leave, that an employee got killed, people were yelling 'I've been on line since yesterday morning,' " she said. "They kept shopping."

That? Is ridiculous. I mean, I like getting good deals as much as the next person, but I've never really understood the whole thing with day after Thanksgiving shopping. Maybe stores shouldn't have things be so ridiculously overpriced throughout the year, and then it wouldn't be such a big deal when prices are where they put them that Friday. I mean. . .starting a sale at 5 a.m.? Really? Why? When I was having lunch with Jan yesterday, we were talking about that, and I said, "You know, there are precious few things in life that would get me out of bed at 5 a.m. Actually. . .you'd have to get out of bed long before 5. The sale actually starts at 5. No thanks.

I did go to Wal-Mart yesterday, but it wasn't until, like, 7 at night. I had a sweater to return and I bought picture frames. I got all that done, and no one died.

People have weird priorities. Especially now when we're in a recession, or whatever it is we're in at the moment. Instead of buying TVs, how about paying off your credit cards? Or making sure you can make rent this month? Just a thought.

A weekly publication I love (and I think they very loosely call it a "magazine." I suppose it's as much a magazine as mine is.) is Skirt! Magazine. I picked up a copy in Greensboro Thursday, and I've been looking through it, looking for ideas to borrow and/or steal. This little box that always on the front cover says, "Skirt! is all about women. . .their work, play, families, creativity, style, health and wealth, bodies and souls. Skirt! is an attitude. . .spirited, independent, outspoken, serious, playful and irreverent, sometimes controversial, always passionate."

That? Is the kind of publication I want to work for. I mean, I love that I'm the editor of my own publication, but honestly? My hands are tied on a lot of subjects. I'm not allowed to put in reviews of restaurants if there's anything negative said in them. Nothing controversial. Kind of. . .mountain white bread, truth be told. I want something else. I'll do this until I learn everything about it, and add my own touches to it, but I need something bigger, you know? I'm aware that if I want anything bigger, I won't be able to live in this town forever, which. . .sucks in a way. I really do like it here. But there's more out there I need to get to eventually, and there are a lot of things here I need to get away from.

Speaking of things to get away from, I had to go downstairs to Angie and Kristina and make sure that my name was taken off the template for the Obits and the Life sections, because Vi did those for Wednesday's paper, and one headline said something about how an author was going to 'ahare' their book and another said that a couple was going to hold an anniversary 'recpetion.' Now. . .I know people make mistakes, but spell check would have caught that. Ahare and recpetion are not words, and spell check knows that. It's frustrating to have an editor that would clearly rather be a reporter, that doesn't care enough to run spell check. I run spell check over EVERYTHING I do. I mean, I understand if you accidentally type "their" instead of "there," and a proofreader would catch that, if my company would stop being so cheap and hire one, but misspelling things in HEADLINES is why people make fun of us. And it's, 9 times out of 10, because of Vi.

We ran a story a few months ago that said something about 'duel farmer's markets.' Perhaps if the veggie-growers were out there with swords screaming, "En garde!," that would make sense. However, what Vi was going for was that there were two farmer's markets. Dual farmer's markets.

Basically, we all look like a bunch of idiots a bunch of the time.

But I made sure my name was taken off that template, because it looked like I was the one that made those egregious errors. False. I would not misspell "reception." And if I mistyped it? It would be caught when I ran spell check. I'm just sayin'.

I need to ask Dennis to take a new mug shot of me. NewJeff said the one I have in the system made me 'look like I weighed 300 pounds,' and while I know that I shouldn't let what people say bother me, when someone tells me I look fat, I take that particular insult very, very personally. See, one side of my family is all incredibly obese, and I'm terrifie that I'm going to end up like that. I'm not a small girl by any means (it's hard to even pretend to be petite when you tower over most girls), but I'm not going to let myself get to the point where that side of the family is. I will not. So a new mug shot it is, since NewJeff has given me a gigantic complex about the entire thing.

So while I'm aware I shouldn't let what people say bother me, I am, in fact, overly sensitive. I can just ignore it better about some things than others.

Was it something I said to make you turn away, to make you walk out and leave me cold?

I am sitting in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart writing this. Not the new Super Wal-Mart in my town, but the old super Wal-Mart a few towns over. I’ve been avoiding writing for the last few days, partially because I’ve been busy with baby sister in town, but also because my head has been in a really weird place, and I didn’t want to concern people. (After finishing this, I would recommend you not read the rest if you’re feeling a bit down, or even if you’re really happy. It kind of got depressing at the end.)

I’m debating on whether I want to start with the potentially concern-causing thing or with the things that are happier/don’t matter as much/are of no real consequence to my life as a general whole.

I guess we’ll start with the lighter things.

Today’s outfit? Fab. My mom’s friend, Susie, gets rid of clothes fairly frequently, and a lot of times, a lot of them go to me. Today’s combination was my brown heels, literally the most comfortable heels I own. I bought them on a whim a year or two ago when I went shopping in Chapel Hill with Nick and his mom. I didn’t wear them much when I first bought them, because I didn’t own much in the way of brown clothing, but since stocking up on my shades of brown, I’ve been able to wear them more frequently. They are ridiculously comfortable, though. I could walk around in these things all day and not even notice that I was wearing heels. Those were paired with my light blue, wide-legged jeans (thanks to Goody’s, a place I’ve finally found jeans that look good on me. They’re a bit long, because regulars are too short and longs are too long, but if I wear heels with them, they’re fine. A peach tank top, courtesy of Susie and this brown courdoroy jacket, also courtesy of Susie. When I pulled this thing out of the box, I was already thinking of all the outfits I could work around it. I initially had it paired with another Susie shirt, a sleeveless white shirt with crazy brown and yellow pattered. . .flowers, I believe, but I didn’t know if I wanted to go quite that crazy today, so peach it was. I felt really good in this outfit, and that’s what counts, I guess. And since I’ve devoted an entire paragraph to it, I think that should be about the end of it.

Thanksgiving was. . .the usual family affair. Depressing. I drove 6 hours round-trip yesterday, and you’d think that after that, I’d be sick of driving, but here I am, a few towns away, typing. Tonight’s driving jag had a purpose, though. I needed to get away.

Katie was here from Sunday until yesterday, and it was. . .awesome. I never get to see her, and it was really great having her stay for a few days. We went to Asheville Wednesday (since I’d worked all day Saturday, I took Wednesday off) and she came to work with me the other days. I felt guilty, dragging her into work, but she had her laptop, so she was plenty amused. She also liked the little coffee place near work, and went there for breakfast both days she was there. (Incidentally, that place makes a mean pancake. I had no idea they even made pancakes. Trust Katie to find pancakes where there appear to be none.)

It was sad at work today, because I was the only person on the second floor. The newsroom was deserted, it being the day after Thanksgiving and all, except when Chuck came in for an hour or so, and Dennis made a brief appearance. It’s starting to slowly sink in how on my own I am now that Carrie’s gone. It was hidden this week, because Katie was here, but today, I was all alone upstairs and it was just. . .kind of heartbreakingly sad.

I was rescued at 11 or so when this woman, Jan, who I write articles for occasionally, picked me up to take me to this place in the next town over to interview this artist about Christmas ornaments. She also bought me lunch, which was awesome. We went to this seafood place that I’d heard good things about. I. . .have never trusted seafood in the mountains, but I think my mind has been changed after this place. It was delicious. I tried not to think about how far away we are from the actual ocean. My sandwich was wonderful, though, and it was surprisingly inexpensive. Jan paid today, but I mean on the whole, it was surprisingly inexpensive.

After my family Thanksgiving gala, I went into downtown Greensboro and took photos for an hour or so. Remember how I was talking, a month or so ago, about the two great loves of my life, Raleigh and the town in which I currently reside? Greensboro is that hot, young thing that I had an illicit affair with when Raleigh and I were on the outs. I’d forgotten how much I loved taking pictures in downtown Greensboro. I was alone, but it was ok. Once I stop being lazy and get up and get my card reader, I'll put some of those pictures on here.

Downtown Greensboro made me forget how altogether sad I am these days. There’s the occasional bright spot, of course, like my new office, and the times I get to see MK and seeing Katie, but I’m just not feeling altogether whole, and I’m not sure why. But in Greensboro? I was thrilled. I was so happy to be there, photographing the place I lived for 4 years. The last time I photographed downtown, it was in black and white (and then Wal-Mart messed up my film, so it was also in sepia), but this is the first time I’d photographed it in color. It was amazing, really. All the light and the reflections. . .I miss that place sometimes. I actually printed out some of the pictures and I’m going to put them up in my office. I should go into downtown Raleigh next time I’m there, see if I feel the same things there as I do in Greensboro. I’ve lived here for so long that I forget that there places outside of here I can go and take photos. It helped that downtown was basically deserted, it being Thanksgiving, so I could just be alone with the city. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt what it’s like, being alone with a place you love, but it got me through the rest of that day, and I wasn’t sad on the way home, as I expected to be.

So here’s a question for you. I got the idea for a future issue of my mag to do a feature on scrapbooking. It’s the holidays, and people take a lot of photos, and I happen to know that there are several places that do classes and sell supplies. . .things like that. The problem I have is that the person that I’ve mentioned before that hates me? The one person that would probably have me “taken care of” if she could? That’s what she does. She’s actually quite good. . .I’ve seen her Web site and the stuff she does, and it’s good. Under other circumstances, I’d call her first to interview her about this stuff. My dilemma is this — I can’t snub her. For one, because, as I mentioned, she’s good. Also, because that would probably make the situation worse than it already is. On the other hand, I absolutely, staunchly refuse to ask her to come to my office so I can talk to her. I won’t do it. I know that business is business and personal issues are personal, but I think if you knew the depth of her hatred for me, you’d agree that her being in my office is not something that needs to happen. So I don’t know what to do from here. It won’t be for a couple weeks until I need this centerspread, but I need to figure out what to do now. I could give the assignment to one of my freelancers, but I’d really rather write it myself, for one, because it’s a relatively interesting subject matter, and also, the more I write, the less I have to pay the freelancers. And cheap is good. So I’m at a loss here. It may end up that I just don’t do the feature, since I don’t know how to go about this situation, but that seems kind of a shame.

At Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, my aunt got onto the subject of my love life (or lack thereof.) “Sarah,” she says, “what’s happening in the old love life these days?” I muttered something about not having time, there not really being anyone nearby, etc. She says, “Ah ha! There must be a new guy if she’s not willing to talk.” “No,” I say, “there is most definitively not a new guy.” “Then you must be involved with an old guy,” she says. “What happened to the one from last year?” I know who she’s talking about, but I say, “I wasn’t seeing anyone at this time last year,” True. It was Easter she was thinking of, but I wasn’t about to correct her. She turns to Katie, “How about it, Katie?” she says, “I’m certain you know everything.” Katie, who, in fact, knows nothing more than what she observes, gives a half-smile and shakes her head, saying nothing. (I knew there was a reason I love her.) My aunt finally gives up, but that got me to thinking, “My God. I have never brought anyone home for the holidays.” My step-cousin (or whatever) has brought his parade of girlfriends to the dinners, but I’ve never had anyone. And that makes me. . .incredibly sad. But I decide not to dwell on it.

I continued thinking about this today. I was sitting in my office, alone, and thinking that, really and truly, if I were to keel over at home, it would be a while before anyone noticed. Suppose I kicked it during lunch on a Friday. If I didn’t come back to work, they’d just assume I’d gone home for the day. I don’t normally see people on Saturday, and if it wasn’t my Sunday to work, it would be Monday before anyone even thought anything weird was going on. Maybe someone would notice when I didn’t show up for the 8:30 meeting that starts at 9:15, but they’d try to call me and go on with the meeting. Maybe around lunch, someone would get vaguely concerned.

This particular timeline I’m gleaning from what happened when McHotpants didn’t show up for a staff meeting. We just had the meeting, and then at around 11:30 or 12, Vi sent me out to his house, since he wasn’t answering his phone. I ended up getting a hold of him on the way to his house (he slept through his alarm and, apparently, the 5,000 phone calls that morning) and nothing was wrong, but still. It was noon before we knew for sure what was going on. If I keeled over at noon on Friday, and it was noon Monday before anyone noticed anything was amiss. . .that’s like 3 days. It kind of puts things into perspective, and shows you where you stand in life. I need a roommate. Or a boyfriend.

As I was sitting my office, the lights out, after Karen had gotten offline and before I started talking to Nick, I was just thinking about my own mortality. A little morbid, sure, but I was alone in a cold, dark office. What else do you think about? I went through the whole scenario, the noon Friday to noon Monday scenario, and then I climbed up onto the roof.

That might sound weird, but actually, the last time I had a minor panic attack about something completely unrelated, I went up to the roof and it gave me clarity. Literally, I stood there for a while, and suddenly, everything was put into perspective for me, and I felt better.

It was oddly quiet today for being Black Friday, and I just stood there for a little while, looking down onto Main Street. I was far enough away from the edge that I wasn’t in any danger of falling off, but I found myself thinking, “What if?” That’s it. What if? What would happen? If I were to fall off that roof, what would happen? I’m not married, I don’t have any kids. . .what would happen to the things I owned? What would my obituary say? Having worked in the obituaries for over a year, I’ve seen a lot of variety in what those things say. But what would mine say? No one there knows me, really knows me, so a lot of the things that people say in their loved ones’ obituaries, “He loved hunting, fishing, crossword puzzles, church and his grandchildren,” wouldn’t be relevant. What would the people I spend the most time with really be able to say about me? “She was a decent writer, took decent photographs, loved Diet Coke and talked about her sister a lot”? I mean, Carrie’s family, she knows me, and I guess they call the parents in situations like that, but that had me really concerned. That no one would know what to put in my obituary. That I would just be another, “Oh, wow, 24. She died awfully young.”

And I’ve always wondered how people who don’t live where you died would find out. I have friends in South Carolina, Raleigh, Greensboro, Asheville, Chapel Hill, Fayetteville, Pennsylvania, Manchester (at the moment). How do they know? Do those left behind think to call these people? How would people know? Would they just start to wonder when you don’t answer your phone for a while? Are you supposed to leave a list of people you want notified? How does it WORK?

I think I’m too young to be thinking about things like this, and I know it sounds really, awfully morbid, but I don’t want people to worry about me. I’m not going to jump off the roof. I promise. These are just the things I think about when I’m alone. And I’m alone a lot. I think a lot of people think about stuff like this. . .it’s just that not many people talk about it. And I’m talking about it because I don’t want it just bouncing around in my head.

Sorry, y’all. I just have a lot on my mind these days. And I’m just unhappy. The holidays do that to me, especially over the last two years. The aunt I was closest to died Christmas Eve day, you know. My senior year of college. That was a rough year. My uncle, her brother, my father’s brother, had died three months prior. And the last time I talked to her, I was telling her that no, I couldn’t take her and my grandmother Christmas shopping. I really, really didn’t want to, and somehow, something came up so I honestly couldn’t. But that was the last time I talked to her. When I told her no, I couldn’t help them out. I’d done it the weekend before and I was going to be damned if I was going to do it again.

And that’s the last time I’ll ever talk to her. I was being a selfish bitch in the last conversation I had with her. The next time I saw her was at the wake.

I’m going to stop here. I’m sorry this was so depressing.

If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman? If I'm alive and well, will you be there a-holding my hand?

So long since my last post (like a week). So much to tell (like a lot). I'm probably going to forget something or leave something out, but I'll do my very best.

First of all, I started my new job yesterday. I, admittedly, got off to a rocky start, but it had nothing to do with the job I'm going to be doing, but the job that I was doing before. I don't feel like going into the inane details, but suffice it to say that we need better management.

I LOVE having an office. I've only been in there for a day, but it's. . .kind of amazing. I like having a place to pace around (as I do when I'm thinking), I like having a whiteboard where I can make notes, I love my big desk and I love having a door I can close. I haven't closed it yet, but I could if I wanted to. I also took the microwave from my old desk, since it had been Allison that brought that in and Allison is no longer there. Come Sunday, I'll have a fridge in there as well (random fact about me. Whenever I write out "fridge," it's because I truly have no idea how to spell the entire, spelled-out word, and I don't want to look dumb or take the effort to figure it out) because the one I had in college is at my grandparents' house, and I will, in fact, be in Greensboro Sunday for my mom's side of the family's Thanksgiving soiree. (I can spell things like soiree properly, but I can't spell the entirety of fridge.)

I have written my first Last Word. The Last Word is a column at the end of the publication that is normally humor-based or whatever. Carrie wrote her last Last Word last week with her Thanksgiving issue of the mag (in keeping with my "anonymity," I'm just going to refer to it as the mag. I'm aware it's not a real magazine, but I think I'm allowed.) which, in my opinion, was one of her best issues to date. It's right up there with Folkmoot and last year's gift guide.

Anyway, I'm going to put the Last Word here, to give you a preview, since it won't actually come out until Tuesday. Karen's already seen it, but the rest of you can be surprised:

I was having a conversation with some of my colleagues the other day and we started talking about what you don’t know about people. One reporter, Kim, said that when you fill out a survey on one of those social networking sites, like Facebook or MySpace, one question typically asked is, “What’s one thing people don’t know about you?” Kim said this was a dumb question, because, “There’s probably a reason you haven’t told people some things.”
I thought about that for a second and said, “Well, things people don’t know about you aren’t necessarily secrets. They’re just things you don’t think to mention.” The example I gave was that I don’t really like Oreos without peanut butter on them. It’s not something I’m ashamed of; it’s just something that doesn’t come up often. Incidentally, a couple weeks ago, one of my favorite people, not actually knowing my preference, presented me with an Oreo that had peanut butter cream in the middle instead of regular cream. The question here is, how had I gone this long without knowing such a thing existed?
Anyway, I decided that, as the new mag editor, I would share with all of you, the readers, some things you probably don’t know about me. It’s a bonding experience. We’re going to be, in one form or another, in each other’s lives at least once a week, pretty much indefinitely. After this, if you see me walking down Main Street, you can turn to whomever you’re with and say, “Hey, did you know she [enter name of fact here]?” If they read the mag (and hopefully, they do), they’ll tell you they already knew. If they don’t, you will have given them a completely useless nugget of knowledge they will most likely remember, even though they’re not sure why. Some of these, those closest to me would know, but I feel, again, that we’re bonding here, so I’ll share them with you as well.
Let’s begin.
There are two movies that will cause me to tear up every time I see them: Armageddon and Sesame Street’s “Follow That Bird.” I think Armageddon is understandable. It’s at that one part where Bruce Willis and his excess of testosterone are about to save the day and he’s saying goodbye to Liv Tyler? I tear up every time. It just happens. Follow That Bird, on the other hand, is an interesting story. Apparently, when I was 2 or so, I would watch the movie over and over, paying most attention to the part of the movie where Big Bird, who has been kidnapped and painted blue, is forced to sing this incredibly sad song about why he’s so blue (figuratively). My mom worried about masochistic tendencies in her daughter because I seemed to watch it just so I could watch that part and cry. Cut to 17 years later. I’m 19 and home after my first year of college. I’d recently discovered Netflix and had rented Follow That Bird, just for kicks, and to laugh at 2-year-old Sarah and how overly sensitive she was. Imagine my horror when, at that part of the film, I felt my eyes well up. I definitely cried through the entire song. Thinking it was a fluke, I went to the part of the DVD that just showed the songs and watched it again. I swear it was some kind of Pavlovian thing, because the tears started up. I have, in fact, not watched it since.
The sound that I almost literally cannot stand to be around is the sound of packing tape or duct tape being either ripped off the roll or off a box. Before I moved here, I worked for Pepsi in Raleigh. I sat in a cubicle in the middle of the room and the IT shared a cube wall with me. I never knew this guy’s name, but apparently a big part of his job was to put packing tape onto or rip packing tape off of boxes. He would begin at approximately 11:30 a.m. and rip tape until 3:30 or 4 in the afternoon. The sound almost drove me out of my mind. I had to start bringing in my iPod and put it up to an ear-shattering volume to cover the sound that made me want to jump out of my skin. Have you ever gotten so intensely agitated about something that it made you feel itchy? That was me at Pepsi. More recently, it was when my work friend Aron was making his Halloween costume that he learned about my tape aversion. His costume this year was “Duct Tape Man,” which, obviously, required the use of duct tape. Lots and lots of duct tape. After about half an hour into the construction of the costume, I said to Aron in what I hoped was a conversational tone of voice, “Did you know that the sound of duct tape being ripped off the roll is one thing that kind of makes me a little crazy?” Apparently, the tone wasn’t as conversational as I might have hoped, because Aron looked at me with something resembling fear on his face. Since Halloween was the following evening, he had to finish the costume, so I ignored it the best I could. Incidentally, we are still friends and I managed to not tear out all my hair.
I really, really wish I could speak French fluently. This might not seem like such a weird thing. There are plenty of people who wish they could speak a foreign language. I guess the weird part about it is that I‘m unable to do it, seeing as to how I took three years of French in high school and, collectively, four semesters of French in college. The four semesters in college were a requirement, although to this day I’m not certain why you need two years of a foreign language to get a degree in English. But despite five years of French classes and three half-semesters where I dropped midway through because I realized at the rate I was going, I would kill my GPA if I continued, I still have the most rudimentary grasp of conversational French. I can read it sometimes and I have a few choice phrases I can understand and speak, but in general, it’s an epic failure. As a result, I sound like someone really pretentious when I randomly drop the French words I do know into conversation (i.e. “Would tu aimer to go to déjeuner at Nick and Nate’s avec moi?”) I would, however, love to be able to bust out entire, correct, sentences in French. It’s a dream of mine, really. But despite my best efforts and my GPA, ultimately, being knocked down to just below 3.0, I can’t do it and so, for now, people will have to deal with hearing things like, “J’adore what you’ve done with your cheveux.”
So there you go. Three things about me that you most likely didn’t know, and might not have even cared to know. But now that I’ve shared, I’d like to ask you to share, too. I want to know what you want to read in the mag. I’d love to hear your ideas for things you’d like to see more of, things you’d like to see less of and what I can do to make your reading experience as enjoyable as it could possibly be. You can e-mail me at [my work e-mail] with anything you’d like to say. You can even come by my office to chat. If you do this, though, I’d like to ask that you bring Oreos. Also, peanut butter.

So there it is. My first offering as BigShot Editor. I'm rather proud of it. I miss writing columns. I got to do it weekly in college.

What else? I know there's more.

Oh! I've discovered a clothing brand that J'adore. At Target, they have this brand called Converse One Star. Since it's the Converse brand, it's ridiculously expensive. However, if you wait for things to go on sale and clearance, it's palpable. The only thing is, their sizes are kind of weird. I got a white shirt there a few weeks ago that was a medium, the long-sleeved polo I've got on today is a large, and a tank top I bought there is a small. So. . .I'm not sure about that. I think they tend to run big, because the shirt I've got on today could probably stand to be a size smaller. But even though I don't like everything in the collection, the basis of it is exactly my casual style. (My casual style and my "professional" style are kind of two different things.)

You know those weird, random things that you remember that you really have to reason to remember ever? Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" just came on my Pandora radio, and I was reminded of a time in. . .it was either 8th or 9th grade, because I was in Latin class and those were the only two years I took Latin (due to having been forced by the school, not due to any kind of burning desire to learn dead languages), but we were, for some reason, playing charades, and my teacher, Mr. Walker (who also taught English one year, I believe), was up and was trying to act out a song title, and couldn't het anyone to guess it and finally began frntically pointing at this one girl, Stephanie Young, and as soon as he pointed to her, I KNEW what he was trying to get at but, for whatever reason, decided not to say anything. No one ever figured it out. And if I would have been like, "I figured it out," either people wouldn't have believed me, or they would have wondered why, if I knew it, I didn't say anything. That, in fact, is an excellent question. I really don't know.

I'm wicked excited that Katie is coming to stay with me tomorrow. It took us forEVER to convince our mother to let her come up, but we did prevail. It didn't help when my town was all over the news because of a flasher who decided to flash people ON MY STREET. Like, literally. On my street. I told my mother that he was only flashing men (true), but she still was hesitant. I'm saying, it's ok for me to live near Flashy McJunkerstein, but not Katie? I don't know. (Also, I think it's mildly funny that my spellcheck didn't pick up "McJunkerstein.") So when I go to Greensboro tomorrow for "Thanksgiving," I'll bring her back with me, and she'll stay here until Thursday, when we go BACK to Greensboro for Actual!Thanksgiving, and I'll drop her off with my father.

Another reason my mother gave for her trepidation for letting Katie come up was that Katie, "Isn't used to living the same lifestyle I do." . . .Really? I can tell you with absolute certainty that Katie goes out more often than I do. If I come home past 8 or 9, it's either because I'm at Carrie's, I'm still at work, or I'm out randomly driving around. I kind of wish I were living the life my mother seems to think I am.

Nick'll be back in. . .29 days. One more month. His family is going to see him this week and they're spending Thanksgiving in Paris. My question is, why am I not spending Thanksgiving in Paris? I think that's a valid question. It would make sense, really. As in, "I am THANKFUL that I'm in Paris!" Whatever. I'm sure he's aware that he needs to being me presents. If any of you are wondering, and I know you are, I have, in fact, picked the outfit that I'm going to wear when I see Nick again. I have to look fabulous, obviously, and I have just the thing.

And finally, ANTM. My poor Analeigh made it to the Top 3 and then lost out in being in the Top 2 by being beaten by weird, manly McKey and always-looks-like-she's-going-to-cry Samantha. Ultimately, as I predicted, McKey won. Homegirl is. . .not cute. Not pretty. She looks like a mannish duck. Maybe that's what the modeling industry is into these days, but if I were a designer, I wouldn't want my dresses worn by a man. But at least the cycle is over. Hopefully, I won't get sucked into the next cycle. My nerves can't take it.

Off to work and errands.

Please don't leave, stay in bed (touch my body instead). Gonna make you feel it. Can you still feel it?

So, this day was. . .interesting. I colored my hair last night, and it. . .didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. It's kind of black now. I looked in the mirror this morning and thought, super. I look like Morticia Addams. Then I put on the outfit I'd planned on, and when I pulled on the boots (mid-calf, high heeled black boots) I realized right then that I could never wear those boots ever again, because I truly looked like a vampire hooker. I have a feeling if I didn't have the black hair, I'd just look like a regular hooker. So the boots have to go. Not the ones I wear on usually at least a bi-weekly basis, but a pair that I don't think I've worn since college.

Anyway, I went to a salon near my house and they told me that it would, in fact, be a long an arduous (and more expensive than I want to think about) process, but they might be able to help me. I'm a little concerned that the process is going to turn my hair to straw. Most people at work didn't think it was awful (they actually said it looked fine), but the way I figure it, if I let it grow out, I'll just have to keep recoloring the roots a color that I hate. I swear I'm never going to touch my hair again. Until I start going gray.

So work was whatever, we've survived without Vi. It's. . .so nice when she's not there. We're not being micro-managed within an inch of our lives. Now she's coming back and we're all going to get a dressing down about. . .whatever she can come up with. And I'm going to have to train that woman I don't like for my job.

After work, I had a conversation that put me into one of those "oh my God, I need to drive and sing" moods. And then. . .I needed a cheeseburger. I'm not a big beef eater, and I don't eat hamburgers very often, but occasionally, I have a hankering, and I had one of those this evening. Since I was going to be driving anyway, I thought, "Why not Burger King? In Asheville?"

Little-known fact about me: Burger King is basically the only fast-food burger I'll eat. If there's absolutely nothing else around, I'll eat something else, but Burger King is the way to go.

So one double cheeseburger later, I was still driving (and it was really foggy. I probably wouldn't have driven as far as I did had I known how foggy it was) and listening to Maroon 5. Probably not the best band, considering, but whatever.

I'm rambling.

Ok, I'm going to stop rambling. And I leave you with this: if you ever get the urge to buy me a "Because you're awesome" gift or a "Because you work too hard for too little pay and deserve something awesome in your life," I would recommend this site. Pretty much any of those would make me happy.

I'll write more when I'm not rambling.

I was so high I did not recognize the fire burning in her eyes, the chaos that controlled my mind.

In honor of tonight's episode of America's Next Top Model (during which I can only PRAY that effing Marjorie gets the boot), I'm posting a video my sister, Katie, her best friend, Meghan, and Meghan's brother, Ryan, made. They made this a few months ago, but it cracks me up every single time I see it. My sister is the "Russian Girl."

Tell her about it, tell her everything you feel. Give her every reason to accept that you're for real.

I discovered this evening that for the past 24 years, men have been holding out on me.

No. . .not like that.

I was looking for a plain white T-shirt to wear under a shirt I'm wearing tomorrow. I kept finding all these girl shirts with weird buttons on the sleeves or ridiculously high prices. Then I found them: men's undershirts.

I know a lot of guys wear them under, like, button-down shirts, but I'm not entirely sure why. That is, I wasn't sure why. Now I know.

Because they are ridiculously comfortable. Seriously. Luckily, they come in a pack of two, so I have an extra one to wear to bed. Which I am currently doing. It's soft and comfortable and wonderful. I only wish I'd gotten them in small instead of medium, because I have a feeling that under tomorrow's shirt, it's going to be a little big. But still. Best three bucks I even spent.

After I left work this evening, I did something I haven't done in a while: I drove through three different counties. I just wanted to drive, and to think about things. I cranked the music and sang along and thought.

One conclusion I came to is that I absolutely will go to the company Christmas party even though the Person Who Hates me will be there. I'm going to put on my awesome black and white polka-dotted dress, my snazzy red heels, and bring my cousin as my date and it will be awesome. Yes. Period.

I was going to color my hair tonight, but I just got back like 45 minutes ago (11:15-ish) and I didn't want to invoke the wrath of my insane neighbor. So I'll just wear a hat tomorrow and color it tomorrow night. I hate that my roots grow so fast, because I have to do this often, and it's the biggest pain. However, it's less of a pain than hating my natural hair color. I wouldn't be so incredibly self-conscious about it except one of the reporters feels the need to point out when my roots are growing in. I'm aware I shouldn't let that bother me, but it does. What I really, really want is to put a bright color in along with the dark brown. Like. . .red or pink or something. However, I feel like I'm past the age where that's acceptable. I have to be "professional" now.

But dark brown hair would be perfect with pink highlights! I'm so mad I missed this stage of rebellion. Instead, I got my cartiledge pierced.

This guy I know, Mike, said I should get different colored highlights in my hair. He thought it would look cool, but it sounds like entirely too much effort. I just really want red. Not the kind of red my hair is now, but Crayola red. How awesome would that be?

Also, if I had a technicolor color in my hair, it might not match everything.

You spin me right round, baby, right round like a record baby, right round round round round.

I feel that, in general, the readers I have are fairly non-judgmental. The people that I know come here regularly, Karen, Nick, Ashley, Carrie, I know that I don't actually have to explain myself to, but for some reason, I always feel like I need to. The stuff I'm about to talk about, I feel the need to say prior, "You guys know I don't mean it like this, right?" for some reason.

Maybe because I'm aware this is a very public blog site, and I have delusions that someone is going to come across it, care enough to read it, and think I'm an awful person. Which, generally, I am not. But I want people to know that I'm. . .not a bad person? I don't know. I'm dealing with things and emotions right now that are kind of weird for me, and since I don't know what I'm dealing with I, in effect, don't know if I'm dealing with them PROPERLY.

Also, I started this blog with the intent of it just being somewhere I could talk about the weirdness in my life and how things were going at work, and it has turned into an actual, introspective. . .diary, a journal if you will, where I actually deal with those damned things called feelings. I don't know how I feel about that. Maybe I should get back to just general, "This happened, this happened, haha, isn't that funny?" But maybe then I wouldn't write as much. Maybe I'm overthinking it, like I do everything else, and it doesn't actually matter to anyone except me.

I don't really know.

So this day.

It's 6:51, and I'm still at work. I'm supposed to be in Asheville at Carol's birthday dinner, which started at 6. After that, they're going to her boyfriend's brewery for a few drinks or whatever, and I told her I'd catch up with them then, but the fact of the matter is, I'm still here.

The question then comes into play, "Sarah, why are you still there?"

I'm still here because, even though I may be one of the only ones, I, for whatever reason, care about putting out a paper that doesn't completely blow. Vi's out of town this week, and so I'm literally the only person that is here to look at what NewJeff's done and to make sure that it and the sports pages are done right. Vi doesn't give the front this much attention, so why should I?

Because I'm a perfectionist that cares way too much about an organization that doesn't give a damn about me, that's why.

So I had to do Randy's obituary today. I didn't think I would have to, because, from what I understand, it turns out they're not entirely sure why killed him. I believe they're thinking aneurisym (or however you spell it). It was. . .it was rough. Chuck helped write it, and I put it at the top of the page, with a picture. They're not having a funeral, just a visitation on Wednesday. I'll probably see if MK would like me to go. . .not necessarily with him, but for him, I guess, but I have all ideas that he'll not be going alone, so he should be fine. I'm. . .more than slightly concerned about him, but I can't really do anything.

It's 8 now, and I'm finally heading to Asheville. I. . .don't really want to go, but I'd be disappointed if someone said they were coming to see me and didn't because of stupid work, so off I go.

I'll give you more of those "feelings" everyone's so keen on me talking about later. I'm worn out, though, and it's an emotional and physical worn out, so I'm going to have to put my party face on.

EDITED: Carol called me and said things would be winding down by the time I got there, so we could hang out and have a make-up birthday later. I'm. . .kind of sad, actually, even though I'm tired, because I was looking forward to not thinking about anything for a while. So, no Asheville for Sarah.

I'm going to go get some coffee ice cream, which I have recently discovered I love, and go blog some more at home. Sorry for the outpouring, y'all.

This love has taken its toll on me. She said goodbye, too many times before.

Another day. I spoke to MK this morning, and he sounds down, obviously, but he's generally ok. That conversation was utterly and absolutely heartbreaking, because I can't do anything. I can't help and I can't fix anything. All I can do is be here, and I think he knows I am.

I read what I wrote last night and, while it's fairly obvious I wasn't writing like I normally do (thanks to the wine), I meant everything I wrote, and it stands.

I'm going with Carrie to a play tonight. I. . .actually have no idea what the play is. I think it's the last one of the season, though. Pretty much all day, I've been doing nothing, aside from worrying. As I do.

I feel like I should write, but I don't have anything to say. Last night was entirely surreal and sad and weird, and I don't feel everything is entirely back to normal. I know I'm, inevitably, going to be putting Randy's obituary in the paper, and I'm not looking forward to that. I feel like I should go to the funeral, too, whenever that is.

As a side note, I'd like to mention how amazingly awesome my Twin is. Karen and I talk. . .most days, and for someone that I've never met, it's cool how we kind of get each other. I talked to her this morning after I talked to MK, and she gets it.

Also as another side note, I think one of the best movies ever made is Legally Blonde. I may have mentioned this before, but whenever I see that it's on, I have to watch it, no matter where in the movie I'm starting. It's a happy movie. It's one of those movies that looks like it would be stupid, but is actually cute and endearing. Reese Withspoon is amazing in it. I was actually thinking about it this morning, because I own it and I was thinking I needed a happy movie today, and I saw on the channel channel that it was on. So that's what I'm watching now and will probably continue watching until I leave.

Sorry for the lame entry. Would a video of an awesome song help?

I lost a friend. Somewhere along in the bitterness. But I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life.

I need to start this entry out with a disclaimer.

One thing that is a pet peeve of mine is when someone dies and people who only marginally and exponentially knew the person act like they've just lost someone very close to them. It's like they feel that they'll get some kind of attention if they were really close with the person. I'm not trying to do that. I'm cataloging things as they happened this evening, no exaggeration, no pretending like I am something I'm not.

Another thing I should disclaimer here is that this is not a happy entry. It's beyond even some of my more emo entries, but I need to write this out, and I know that not many people read this anyway, so it's not like I'm broadcasting to a wide range of people.

One of our sports writers, Randy, died tonight.

I should start from the beginning, because there's a lot of details to the story that won't make sense unless they're implicitly stated. I'm also making my way through a bottle of wine right now, so I'm hoping I remain understandable. (And yes, for those keeping score at home, I am keeping track of my blood sugar and adjusting my insulin accordingly.)

I left work this evening (last night? I don't even know what time it is at this point.) later, because I was talking to Dennis and NewJeff about. . .nothing important. We were just chatting, but then I had to leave and get going, because I was intending to go to the PHS game, as I'd previously mentioned. They won, something like 50- or 60- something to 0. Also kind of not the point.

I saw my ex at the game, so we chatted some. We talked about Desperate Housewives. I had to park far away in Murderville, U.S.A., because I didn't know that press could park right up behind the stadium. He was parked considerably closer than I was, so he offered to drive me to my car, since it was chilly and raining.

After the game, we hung around a little, he talked to people he knew, he bought me a hot dog, I said hi to Chuck (the sports writer), and I was freezing, so we got in the car and he cranked up the heat. We sat for a few minutes, chatting, while we waited for the mob to subside.

At one point in the conversation, I got this really, really unsettling case of deja vu. It happens sometimes, that I dream things and they happen, but this time, it felt like something really bad was going to happen. However, usually when I get that feeling, it's nothing, so I let it go. I did mention to my ex that I felt the weird deja vu, and he said that he'd felt the same thing twice since we'd been sitting in the car.

So finally, we're able to get out, and he drives me up to where my car is. We're sitting there, having a quasi-serious conversation, and we hear sirens. It doesn't seem so odd, except that they end up driving right past where we were sitting. He said he got a bad feeling about someone he knew that had been at the game, so he started up the car and followed the ambulance and the fire truck that had sped by.

We followed them back past the school and down this long, dark road that led to the high school (I think that's where we were. It was dark and hard to tell. I was discombobulated and wasn't sure where we were. I also was having a panicky version of deja vu and was trying to not go hysterical, so I don't even really remember much of that ride.)

We pulled up to the school, whichever school it was, and there are people gathered around and several emergency vehicles. My. . .I'm going to start calling him MK, ok? My Kiwi. It's easier than "my ex," and I'm feeling particularly. . .whatever tonight. This morning. Whatever. So MK.

MK hops out of the car and goes over to where the crowd is. I stay in the car, for one, because he left it running, and I took that as a hint I should stay in the car. For another. . .I didn't want to know, you know? If something gruesome had happened, I didn't think I could handle it. Also. . .I'd dreamed this. In the dream, I didn't know what was going on, but it was the same scenario, and that terrified me, because even though I didn't remember what had happened in the dream, I knew it was bad.

I sat in the car. . .maybe 20 minutes? Half an hour? It felt like forever. MK finally comes back and tells me that Randy's had a heart attack. He'd had it, apparently, while driving, and had hit this little guard building at the school. MK and Randy had been friends forever. They'd known each other forever. MK started driving again.

As he jetted down the road, MK told me he was going to go to the local hospital, because that's where they were taking Randy. At this point, I didn't know if that meant he was going right then and I'd have to find some way to get my car later, or if he was going to take me by my car first. I didn't really care.

As it turned out, he was taking me to my car first. He said, "I'm going to make sure you can start your car and then I'm going to get to the hospital as fast as I can." I couldn't do anything except nod. He stopped, and I scrambled to get out of the car. I actually banged my hip on the car as I got out, and it went numb for a second, and I was thinking, oh, man, I'm not going to be able to drive. Obviously, it turned out OK. I have a bruise, but not a problem at all. He told me that he would wait until I started my car, to make sure I could get it started, and I wanted to say, "No, just go. Get to the hospital," but I didn't want an argument and I knew he'd wait anyway. He told me to be careful and I said, "No. YOU be careful," and I got into my car as fast as I could, started it, and waved him on. He screeched away.

I made a split-second decision to follow him and go to the hospital as well.

Now, I did know Randy. We weren't friends and I'd only spoken to him a couple dozen times, but he was always nice to me when he came into the office, he always said hi to me, and Chuck seemed to like him. I'm sure if I'd known him better as a person, rather than just someone who came in occasionally, I would have liked him. I liked what I knew of him.

But that's not why I went to the hospital.

I went to the hospital because I had a feeling it wasn't going to be good, and I wanted to be there for MK. I know he would do the same for me. He would. I had to be there.

So I break more than a few traffic laws trying to keep up with MK, because I didn't know exactly where to go to get to the emergency room at the hospital. As it turned out, I could have easily figured it out, but I didn't know that at the time. I never went over 65 mph, and I didn't technically run any red lights. What I ended up doing was making a right on red and then another right onto the road I'd initially been on. See? Even in the face of emergency and mild panic, I still follow most of the laws.

But I made it, not too terribly long after MK got there (I got turned around in the parking lot behind the hospital) and when I walked up to where MK was, crouching against the wall outside the hospital, he told me, basically, that it didn't look good.

I don't know how long we were there before it was made known that Randy didn't make it. After the guy came out and said that, MK walked away. I figured he wanted to be alone, so I waited until he came back.

After waiting a little while longer, there was nothing else to be done. Family was coming, there were several other people there. . .there was nothing I could have done. MK told me he was going to leave, and I told him I'd walk down to his car with him. I did all I could possibly do -- I hugged him. I held on as long as he wanted me to, and told him to be careful on his way home. He said he'd call me tomorrow (today?) I don't expect him to remember that. I'll probably call him, though, to make sure he's OK. What I wanted to say was, "MK, I love you," but I knew that it wouldn't come out the way I wanted it to, and I didn't want to. . .do whatever that would have done. So I just kept my mouth shut and left.

I got to my house, but drove past it, because I didn't want to go in. Then Ashley called me. And I lost it.

I'm usually pretty good about not being overly emotional when it actually counts. I can hold it together to give other people support when they need it, but afterward, I lose it. And lost it I did.

I told her what happened, and cried and cried. The stress, the incredible emotion I knew MK was feeling, everything. . .I told her I wasn't trying to be one of those people that acted all uppity when someone they barely knew died, but it was. . .it was MK. I went to that hospital to be there for him if he needed me, and it hurt so much to see him like that. I wanted to make everything go away, to make it all better for him, but I couldn't. There's nothing I could or can do, and that just completely tore me up from the inside.

Kiwi, I don't know if you ever frequent my little corner of the Internet, if you used to and then didn't because I stopped writing or if you ever did, but I want you to know that I love you. I don't care if I'm not supposed to, or if I'm not supposed to say it or whatever. Maybe you don't love me the way I love you, but I know you at least care about me, and I want you to know that I'd do anything for you. Absolutely anything. I love you in a way that, really and truly, I've never loved anyone in my life. I'd tell you that straight up, but I don't think you'd. . .appreciate hearing it. But if I can do anything for you, I would. After everything that happened tonight, I know how precious life is. You even said that to me when I got to the hospital. "Sarah," you said, "you just never know. Life's so short."

And it is. And I'm sorry you had to go through this. So, incredibly sorry. I'm here if you need me. I want you to know that.

And I've finished my bottle of wine now and I'm going to go to bed. So goodnight, everyone. Goodnight, and I'd encourage you to tell the people you love that you love them. Because you don't ever know. I'm going to call my parents tomorrow and make sure everything's OK back home, and maybe one day, I'll actually tell MK what I'm feeling.

But probably not.

Please put the doctor on the phone, 'cause I'm not making any sense. (Blame everyone but me for this mess.)

So I got this haircut yesterday.

I have desperately needed a haircut for. . .probably more than a year.  It was frizzy and unruly and ridiculous.  Carrie had told me about this place near where Wal-Mart used to be.  Since we just got a new Super Wal-Mart, the shopping center where the old Wal-Mart used to be is still there, but with considerably less traffic.

I went to this place and, when I walked in, it kind of smelled like someone had been smoking in there.  Ok, not a big deal.  I gave the lady my name (I was the only person there) and sat down in one of the chairs.

About 30 seconds later, this guy, this true mountain man complete with denim and flannel vest, baseball cap and awesome pornstache, calls my name and brings me back to the chair.  When I had first walked in, I thought he and this other guy in there were maintenance men.  Then I thought he was just going to, I don't know, bring me back to the chair before the person who was actually going to cut my hair came over.

False.

This guy, who I think is somehow related to Larry the Cable Guy because the resemblance was UNCANNY, was the one who was going to cut my hair.  Truly, the only difference between Larry the Cable Guy and my hairdresser was the pornstache and lack of a goatee on the hairdresser.  The pornstache, though, was truly a work of art.

Now, at this point, I'm a little apprehensive.  This guy, who looked like he was getting ready to go out and. . .I don't know, chop logs or shoot bears or skin deer for fun, was going to cut my hair.  Honestly?  I kept expecting that it was a joke.  I was waiting for one of the women to come over, laugh, and say that her name was Shirley, and she'd be my hairdresser.

It was then that I made a decision.  I could have asked for someone else, but then I thought, you know, that would be kind of bitchy.  It's just hair.  Since I was only asking for a couple inches trimmed off, there were only so many ways the haircut could go wrong.  Besides, it would grow back if anything tragic happened to it.  And besides, the experience would give me more material for my eventual novel and, at the very least, something to blog about.

Nope.  This guy put the plastic cape thing around my neck and pulled my hair back.  He was. . .surprisingly gentle with my hair.  Now that I think about it, I did find that interesting.  Looking at him, you'd have expected him to grab a handful of hair and yank it back.  But actually, he was very careful.  He told me he wished he had my hair (meaning, thick, and a lot of it) because he was losing his.  Then he explained that he'd be wetting my hair down and combing it out so it could be ready to cut.  Then he asked me if I wanted it all one length or if I wanted it layered.  Then he asked me about my bangs and I told him I was growing them out after a disastrous haircut two years ago.

The whole thing, really and truly, was so incredibly bizarre and surreal that I honestly thought it was some kind of elaborate practical joke.

But I showed him how much I wanted cut off (about two inches, and trust me, I have so much hair, it's not even noticeable) and he started trimming.  We talked about politics, what I do for a living, how I like living here and how nice the weather was yesterday.  He was. . .kind of awesome.

I said something about how annoying it was that my hair gets so frizzy, and he told me that, since I color it, that's a common problem, but a good way to help combat that is with a good leave-in conditioner.  Then we talked about conditioner for a while.

Now, I have had my hair cut by men before.  I had this hairdresser, who I believe was named Vince, back in Raleigh that worked at the Great Clips near my house, and I would always request him, because he always did a wonderful job.  He was also the stereotypical kind of guy that you'd expect to do hair.  I'm not being gayist here, but it's true - typically, men who do hair are gay.  But the guy last night?  If he was gay, there was nothing stereotypical about him at all, except for the hairdressing thing.  He really looked like the kind of guy that wore flannel year-round and had raw rabbit meat from a rabbit he'd skinned that morning for breakfast, along with. . .I don't know. . .deer urine or something.

But I left that place with exactly what I'd asked for - 2 inches of my hair cut off - which is so rare.  I don't remember the last time I went to get my hair cut and actually got what I asked for.  I'm not sure I'd go back there, but it was kind of an amazing experience.

Tomorrow is the last official home game for both high school football teams, and I'm going to the one that I'd most like to see win.  Between the two teams, the one I'm going to go see even though it's in the next town over is the non-snobby team.  The other one, everyone in that school, teachers and students alike, seem to have this weird sense of entitlement.  

Carrie's leaving on the 21st and I realized today that I'm. . .not going to really have anyone to talk to at work anymore, t have lunch with.  I mean, I have people I'm friendly with, and people I'd. . .consider friends, but you know how things are sometimes?  When they're complicated?  It's like that. 

Plus, and this is one of the things that drives me the most up the wall, but that office?  Is so freaking juvenile.  There's one person younger than me in that place (she's 22.  With two kids.  She's engaged.), then me, then Carrie, and then a couple people downstairs are in their 20s, but upper 20s.  One of them is married and the other is getting married.  I'm the only person there in my 20s not in a relationship, so I can't really relate to most of the other people.  Upstairs, the person closest to my age is 6 years older than me.

I guess I got off the "juvenile" part of it, but it's like I told Aron (one of the guys downstairs) yesterday - in that place, it's like I never left high school.  The cliques are there, the cattiness is there, the immaturity is there. . .I can't stand it.  I'm sorry, but being mean to me to be "funny," isn't.  It's stupid.  And it hurts my feelings.

It's at times like this that I really wish I could talk to you like I used to.  I miss that and I could really use it right now.

This feeling's like no other. I want you to know that I've never had someone that knows me like you do. (The way you do.)

Ladies, gentlemen and assorted others, I apologize with the profuse apologeticness of a thousand people who are really, really sorry for my lack of updating as of late. I keep meaning to but just. . .don't. There's been a lot going on, and some of it isn't anything I really feel like talking about, so I feel it's better to not blog at all than to blog depressingly.

It may, however, have cost me the few readers I have. Come back! I still love you!

So let's start with the election.

Obama won. Duh. What's funny to me, though, is that North Carolina, as of 1:07 p.m. Wednesday, Nov. 5, STILL hasn't gone either way. We are the 2008 version of the 2000 Florida. it doesn't really matter which way we go, because the election's been called, but if we end up going Democratic, that'll be the first time in. . .30, 40 something years that that's happened, and that's pretty much a milestone, no matter which way you voted.

Facebook, to me, has been the funniest part of the election. The people who voted Obama are FREAKING OUT in their status massages and the people who voted McCain are all really angry and saying America's going to hell in a handbasket.

Me? I'm just glad the whole thing is over. No more political ads, no more fliers in my mailbox. . .we're done. I did vote, if you're wondering. I didn't actually like either candidate, but I did vote for one of them. Not that a vote matters, mind you, since we still have the ridiculously outdated Electoral College in place, but still. It's nice to pretend, if even for a moment, that your opinion matters, even if you're like me and your opinion is kind of wishy-washy.

McCain, in my opinion, gave one hell of a concession speech. He seemed like a completely different person than he's been for the last. . .however God-awful long we've been in this election process. I have a feeling if he'd showed that side of himself, rather than the smug, condescending, Emperor Palpatine asshat he's been, we might have woken up to different headlines this morning.

Actually, I told Dennis last night (because everyone was at the office really late, working to get the election edition of the paper out this morning) [also, I accidentally typed "erection edition" of the paper, and I'm pretty sure that we wouldn't be able to get away with that. Whatever that may actually be.] that Obama people really, really bug me. Not all of them, obviously, but the loud ones. They're all so. . .I don't remember the word I used to describe them, but. . .maybe arrogant? I don't know. I have, as a general rule, and I know this doesn't apply to everyone, noticed that extremely liberal people tend to be more arrogant and extremely conservative people tend to be more smug. I think the lesson here is that middle-of-the-road-wishy-washy is the way to be. At least in this instance.

I'd also comment on the douchiness of those people at McCain's concession speech who were booing Obama, but I feel I've talked enough politics. It'll be interesting to see what the next four years will bring. I have a feeling it'll bring a Palin run for the presidency in 2012.

Good Lord, I'll be pushing 30 in 2012. Jeez.

Ok, so now important things. America's Next Top Model. It's on tonight, and I hope against all hope it's better than last week's episode, because last week's episode was more boring than Mayor Boring McBoringstein of Boringville. They're down to 5 girls now, who are still on the road towards becoming America's Next Top Model.

They are, from my least favorite to the one I hope wins:

5. Marjorie
Dear sweet Jesus, why is this girl still on my TV screen? She's Not. Cute. She's awkward, she's self-deprecating, she's NOT CUTE, she keeps pulling her "Oh, I'm foreign and that's why I'm this way and blah blah blah SHUT UP, MARJORIE! This is America's Next Top Model, honeycakes. Not the "Foreigners Coming to America to Model and Complaining Because 'No One Understands Them' Because They Moved to America When They Were 7" competition. Shut. Up. Every time Marjorie is on the screen, I want to cry. If she wins this thing, I will personally hunt down Ms. Tyra Banks, punch her first in the face and then in the back of her weave, and tell her that her level of fierceness has gone down by a multiple of 10. Period.

4. Elina
Ok, ok. I know that Elina, at the beginning of this competition, was one of my favorites. Not anymore. She has become super-creepy, really annoying and obnoxious beyond all reason. Sure, she takes good photos, but she's. . .she is opinionated to the point of being pushy and in-your-face, and she has suddenly latched onto whatever her nationality is (a nationality I'm pretty sure we hadn't even heard about before a couple of weeks ago) as an excuse as to why "no one understands her." She's, apparently, Eastern European or something, and I'll give her the same speech I gave Marjorie: You're in America. You're in a competition with the word "America" in the title. Stop whining about being foreign. You're pretty enough, but obnoxious as hell. You and Marjorie can both go home. Also, she was in the bottom 2 for two weeks in a row. It's time, Elina.

3. Samantha
Samantha is just kind of annoying, but not in the kind of way that elicits real hatred, such as how I feel about fracking Marjorie. I think Samantha is an idiot, but no one ever said models were supposed to be smart. She has a bit of pig face going on as well, which I don't find attractive at all. If it came down to idiot Marjorie, Elina and Samantha, I'd have to go for Samantha, but she's not interesting (or pretty) enough to be the winner of this competition. I do think that "uninteresting" is probably the best descriptor I can come up with for her. There's nothing special about her. To me, she always kind of looks like she's on the verge of tears.


2. McKey
Now, McKey, I think is kind of hideous, and she looks like a man. If we're talking about looks, McKey would definitely be 5/5 for me. But she doesn't have enough annoying characteristics for me to truly dislike her. She's vaguely interesting, I guess, and 100 times better than Elina and INFINITELY better than Idiot Marjorie. I think McKey was much more attractive before they gave her her makeover, but what can you do? Now she. . .definitely looks like a man, but if my girl didn't win, McKey wouldn't be an absolutely awful alternative. I kind of, for whatever reason, actually get the feeling she wins this thing. But time will tell.

1. Analeigh
This? Is my GIRL. She first caught my attention because her huge peace sign necklace reminded me of my sister, but throughout the entire competition, she's been awesome. She had the best commercial when they did them the other week, she seems genuinely sweet and likable (until the inevitable "Analeigh is not what she seems!" episode) and she's really, really pretty. I'm just absolutely in love with Analeigh and, even though I have a feeling she's not going to take the entire thing, I hope she at least makes is to the top 3. If either Elina or Idiot Marjorie (ESPECIALLY Idiot Marjorie) makes it over her, this show and I will be done.

So we'll see what happens tonight.

Next time, I'll write about going through resumes, my new job, High School Musical 3, and my new and improved 'diabeetus.'