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.

. . .you know I will obey, so please don't make me beg. For blood, sex, and booze you give me.

Part 2. If you haven’t read part 1, you should, because things might not make sense otherwise.

I’d like to point out that it’s fine and dandy to have a good time when you’re out with your family, but if these people sitting across the restaurant don’t stop laughing like donkeys, I might be forced to hit all of them.

So this morning. The trusty old alarm goes off at 6:45, but I was already awake, since I hadn’t taken the aforementioned sleeping pills. I stopped for Burger King coffee and then went to the fairgrounds. On the way, I saw this really horrific-looking accident. Turns out, this 17-year-old kid had fallen asleep at the wheel and had flipped over the guardrail. It really didn’t look like anyone could have possibly survived that accident, but he turned out OK, so that’s good. There were things scattered across the road, I’m assuming they were car parts, but at the time, I was just thinking, “Oh man. I hope those aren’t body parts.” Luckily, though, the kid was OK.

We did setup, I had a lot more coffee, and it started to drizzle.

Have I mentioned what the fundraiser was? I can’t remember. It was a motorcycle rally, which seems to be popular around here. So the fact that it was cold and drizzling and foggy had the potential to be a big problem.

It was touch and go there for a while, but eventually, we did have riders show up. I want to say there were 30 or so which, all things considered, wasn’t bad for the first time an event takes place.

(FYI: Parents who bring children into restaurants and allow them to run rampant, screaming, deserve to have bamboo shoved under their fingernails.)

So Dennis, playing event photographer, comes over and asks me if I have gas in my car. I say no and he suggests I get some, since I, apparently, will be driving him while he shoots the motorcycles. Cool, right?

I go get gas and when I come back, everyone’s getting ready to head out. Dennis tells me, oh, yeah, you’re going to be in the front of everyone, and I’m going to sit in the back of your car and shoot out the window.

Say what?

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I led the pack. It was kind of cool, actually. And I only had a couple moments of, “Sarah? Sarah, slow down.” It wasn’t too much of a stretch, though, because it was so foggy on the parkway, I had a slight fear of catapulting both myself and Dennis to our deaths over the side of a mountain, but it all worked out fine.

The ride lasted an hour-ish. We came back to the site, had barbecue and door prizes and an in-general good time was had by all. I stayed a while to help break down tables and stuff, and then headed out. I’ll need to find out the exact logistics of the event, such as how much was made, etc., so I can write a follow-up article, but I feel like it went well.

I met more cool people after the actual ride was over, and I talked to people I'd met the previous night. This one guy, I think it was Teri that said, "You remember Sarah, right? From last night?" And he said, "Yeah. You were wearing the pink tights." (There they are again!) That made me laugh a little.

After that, it was no rest for the wary, as I still had to shoot an event downtown for Carrie to use for her picture page. At least, I think that’s what that photographs were for. Anyway, I’m kicking myself a little bit right now, because the lens on the camera I had to use has trouble with its auto-focus, and I was shooting quickly, so I have a couple pictures that would have been really good, but they’re not entirely in focus. Sad.

I actually walked to the event, because parking is impossible when they have events downtown. Along the way, I took some “fall photos” for Carrie for next week (she said something about using one for the cover.) However, Dennis told me that next weekend on the parkway would be a good time to shoot fall stuff, so I may hold out for that. I got this one, though, and I thought it was pretty cool. Welcome to WNC in the fall:
I got back from that around 4 this afternoon and promptly fell asleep, waking up again at 7:30. And here I am. McHotpants said he was going to call me so we could hang out, but he hasn’t, and he does this all the time, saying he’ll call and not, so I’m not even going to bother. I don’t need to chase people down to hang out with me. This isn’t my junior year of high school where I had to ask 4 guys to prom before one finally said yes. I do have my pride.

It’s weird, though, how the last two days have been so jam-packed, I’m feeling. . .not let down right now, but like I don’t have anything important to do. I have to work tomorrow, and I’m contemplating church. I really should go, because I didn’t go last week and I was trying to make it a habit. I wish I knew what the sermon was going to be. The last one I attended, two weeks ago, was about being single, and it did nothing but depress me, seriously. Girl Scouts are going to meet tomorrow, but I don’t know that I’ll be finished at work in time. I could, in theory, go into work tonight and get more finished, but honestly? The longer I have away from that place, the better.

And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, I’m going to start answering the questions left by my awesome readers. Seriously, you all rock. Especially Nick, who gave me a variety.

I'm going to start with Ashley's:

I would like to know your thoughts on why Friends is so addicting.

She's referring to the show, just so you're aware that she isn't using the improper subject-verb agreement. She's not asking why friends are addicting. She wants to know why Friends is addicting.

My thoughts on that are that, for one, most of the actors on that show are attractive. This because especially evident when Ashley and I played a Friends drinking game, and added our own twist to it, taking a drink every time we felt compelled to do any given character. I think, between the two of us, the only characters not done were Phoebe and Joey. Maybe she did Joey. I don't know.

Anyway, another reason is that I think, deep down, we all want our lives to be like that. I know that I, personally, don't have a group of five friends that I've known forever with whom I do everything. So It's an escapist-type thing. Not only do I not have five friends with whom I do everything, I don't have five friends that are as attractive as most of that particular group.

A third reason is that you don't really have to take the show too seriously. With a lot of the shows that are on now, you know, like the crime ones and whatnot, awful things happen to people. And while awful-ish things happen to characters on Friends (i.e., breakups, etc.), nothing like Law & Order: SVU happens. So it's a happy show.

Finally, that theme song is damn catchy. It always gets stuck in my head. It's not even that great of a song, but there you go.

I'll answer more questions in the coming entries.

I would like to, if anyone's at all curious, make a note that today, I was told by. . .someone important to me that they were fond of me. Normally, I don't get that told to me unless it's prompted, and it made me happy. Sometimes, I hate being so vague, and I hate not being able to go into detail about things, but, for one, you'd get really, really sick of hearing about it, especially if you know the circumstances behind it, and also, it's really just not a situation that I want to broadcast, you know? I'm sure you do.

Also, I don't know if people are aware of this, but I really, really hate when people I don't know use names like "baby" or "babe" in reference to me. It's like. . .dude, you don't know me. My first boyfriend used to call me baby because he knew I hated it, and my second boyfriend called me that, and I didn't mind it. Because he was allowed.

I learned recently that if you're called something along those lines, say, if someone calls you 'baby girl,' and it's someone of whom you are fond, it's cute. Even if they're not saying it in a "I want to make out with you" sort of way. Or maybe they are, I don't know. Regardless, the name was used in reference to me, and I liked it, even though I feel like I shouldn't have.

You know what else I like that I shouldn't? That stupid Katy Perry song, "I Kissed a Girl." Dear God, I hated that song so much when it first came out, first of all, because the song by the same name by Jill something came out in the 80's, and I felt like it was such a blatant ripoff. Another reason I didn't like it was because I feel like girls making out with girls, girls being "bisexual" is so overplayed these days, it's just irritating.

I've said this before, and I don't mean it to sound racist or whatever, but truly, whenever I hear the word "bisexual," I think of two Asian chicks making out with each other at a frat party with drunken football players cheering them on. I don't know why the girls are Asian in this picture in my head, but they always are. It's possible it's because I saw a lot of Asian "bisexuality" in college. Funny, they just liked the dudes when they were sober. I'm just sayin'.

So, when I was home last weekend, my sister was playing the song really loudly, and then she played it in the car on the way to the party, and it's so. catchy. I hate myself so hard for saying that, but it's true. Damn catchy stupid fake bisexual songs.

Anyway, here it is, if you really want to know:



If you watch it, you'll understand why I hate myself so much for this. But really? If it's not even a little stuck in your head, you're probably deaf.

Goodnight, everybody.

I don't love you, I'm just passing the time. You could love me if I knew how to lie. But who could love me? I am out of my mind.

So it’s October. In 29 days, I will be one year away from being old enough to rent a car without extra fees. Thus begins the birthday countdown. I don’t actually ever make a big thing of my birthday, but for some reason, I'm feeling like an attention whore these days, so I'm making people, at least those who come to this site, aware.

I really hate when people blog about things and are vague and when they don’t say exactly what it is they’re talking about, but in this case, since I’m not entirely certain who all reads this even on a semi-regular basis, I have to be careful, because I’m not in the business of ruining surprises, and if I were to talk about the situation directly, not only would I be a bitch surprise-ruiner, but I’d also have to delve more into my personal life than I care to in a public setting. Some people know, some people don’t, and I don’t need the ones who don’t to become the ones who do. Dig?

It’s amazing to me how five foot, one-ish inch of haircut I don’t understand can, without even speaking to me, remind me exactly of where my place is in the grand scheme of things. How, one day, you can feel like you’re cycling again, right back to the place you know you shouldn’t be in, but rather enjoy being in, and the next day, you understand that, you’re not welcome there.

How can I explain this better?

Ok, here we go. Say there’s a puppy. A puppy that you don’t own, but that you see every now and again and for which you throw a stick or a ball occasionally. You like the puppy, because the puppy’s fun, and the puppy gets you. But you’re well aware that the puppy isn’t yours and that at no point in your life will you ever own the puppy. You don’t actually WANT to own the puppy, because taking care of a puppy is something for which you don’t have the time or patience. You enjoy the time you have with the puppy, but you know that at the end of the day, the puppy’s going to go home with the owner who feeds it and takes care of it. And although you like to play with the puppy, you understand that it’s not. yours.

So the owner of the puppy is not a fan of yours. The owner feels that you’re trying to take the puppy away from its rightful home. You’re not, but if you tried to tell the owner that, the owner wouldn’t believe you, because of the period of time you've spent playing with the puppy. The owner probably is aware of how much you like the puppy. Your guess is that the puppy likes you just as much as you like it, but it wouldn’t tell its owner that, because, for one, puppies don’t talk, and for another, the owner would probably make it sleep out in the yard on cold nights or something. You don’t actually know what kind of relationship the puppy has with its owner, because while it seems to be a not-so-happy kind of relationship, the owner has said things that lead you to believe that maybe things aren't as they seem.

Anyway, now the owner has decided to buy the puppy a brand new, huge doghouse and is taking great pains to make sure that all of the puppy's little friends are aware that the owner is giving the puppy this house. And because of that, you feel a little discombobulated, and it's giving you a weird pain in your stomach that says, "Hey. Stay away from that puppy at all costs. You're going to get your ass kicked otherwise."

So starting today, you just need to tell yourself that no matter what, you need to stay far, far away from that puppy. You need to tell yourself that that puppies has rabies, and if you even get within a foot of it, it could bite you. And then you will die.

All I can really say is that I'm supremely glad that I'm going to be out of town this weekend. Because then, I don't have to make excuses.

Moving on.

Ok, there was a break of about half an hour, I'm back, and you know what? All of the bullshit in my life right now, involving dogs and their owners and past mistakes that you're never allowed to live down? It. Doesn't. Matter. There are bigger things in the world, and if a dog's owner wants to snipe at me, they can. I'll just know that I have a greater purpose in my life than to put up with whatever people who can't let the past be the past can dish out.

I should explain.

I've mentioned, more than once, the girl I interviewed for the Make-A-Wish article. Here's the YouTube video she's in, which I keep meaning to post:



So, the guy that was with her, another Make-A-Wish volunteer, came by to thank me again for the article I wrote. He's told Dennis that he was happy about the article and he told me over the phone the other day how much he liked it, but he stopped by again to tell me again how grateful he was and how much he liked it, and the Make-A-Wish people liked it, and the girl I interviewed liked it (he called her little Rikki, which made me laugh, actually.) He was so incredibly grateful that I really almost cried. Recently, there has been an influx of instances that have almost made me cry, and they haven't all been sad things. I've never been a happy crier, but for some reason, I've been more emotional than usual recently, and several things that are happy have made me tear up, if not just outright cry. While he was here, the guy told me that he's been passing out papers to all these people, to people within Make-A-Wish, to family, friends, and everything.

And I almost cried when he was telling me this. I'm such a putz.

So the point of all this is this: this is going to sound really weird, but I feel like there's a REASON I was the one Vi made do this story. I don't know why, but I have this really strong feeling that there's a reason, and I'd like to know what that reason is.

I've applied for a job at a non-profit in Asheville, and they're supposed to be getting with the "qualified" people by the end of this week, beginning of next. I need this to go through for me. I can't take much more of this. I just can't. I had this whole plan to be out by November, but that's not going to work out for me. I need something. Anything.

I've also been going to church. And it hasn't been struck by lightning. I'll talk more about that later, I guess.

Oh, and Girl Scouts started again, and I'm excited about all the stuff we're going to be doing this season. Good times.

I'd rather sleep my whole life away than let you keep me from dreaming.

Why yes, I am, in fact, sitting in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn in Asheville, picking up their wireless Internet signal. Why do you ask?

Seriously, that's what I'm doing.

"But Sarah," you might say (Yes. My actual name is Sarah. Deal with it. At this point, it would be a relief for someone at work to find this and fire me for something inappropriate I've said. Although, to be fair, I guess I've never actually said where I work. So there's that, at least. There's no proof. Kind of.)

"But Sarah," you would say, after being appalled that I interrupted your interrogation of me. "You don't live in Asheville. It's almost 11:30 p.m. What in the world are you doing that far from home at 11:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, when you have to work a full day tomorrow, starting with an interview ith a douchebag?"

Well, I'll tell you. When I'm angry, I drive. It's not a good habit, as it causes wear and tear on your car, and when you're living in the one part of the country that's freaking out about a "gas shortage" (perpetuated, incidentally, by the media telling everyone there might be a gas shortage and, as a result, causing everyone to rush out and get gas, perpetuating their own drama and crisis. Not that I think people around here are dumb. Even though I do.) I'm aware that I've wasted gas by driving out here with no real purpose except to steal Internet from Holiday Inn (Iz sittin' in your parking lot. Stealin' your Internetz.)

But the way I figure it, it's less self-destructive to drive around, no faster than you usually do, than it is to go drink yourself into a coma. Far less. And it probably costs around the same, truth be told. A night out at a bar and the trip from my house to Asheville is probably about the same.

Or, at least it was, before the Big Gas "Crisis" of 2008.

So why am I angry?

I don't really want to get too into detail, because, as I believe I mentioned at the very beginning of my time blogging here that I didn't want this to turn into my old livejournal, which was angstastic and emolicious. I didn't like that.

However.

Have you ever been so entirely starved for affection and attention that you took someone just being nice to you (which, apparently, you aren't entirely used to) and took it as them being interested in you, and so you, in turn, even though the person totally isn't your type and is a nice enough person, but just not for you, convince yourself that you're interested in because you just so. badly. want someone that's all your own, that you don't have to share, that can make you feel like the last person you were with did, except without all the crap and drama, and then you, through a couple of conversations with the aforementioned person, find out that they "like you as a friend, but not as anything more" (which, upon reflection, sounds so incredibly high school that you want to invite the person to the 5-year reunion your class is having this weekend that you are most assuredly not going to, because you haven't been away from these people long enough to forget why you disliked them in the first place) and you realize, after the conversation, that while your pride and self-esteem are incredibly, incredibly wounded and scarred, the worst thing about it isn't that you were, in essence, flat-out rejected, because you're actually ok with that, because, as you've realized, you weren't ACTUALLY interested in this guy, but that the worst thing is that it's yet someone else who doesn't want you, who you're not good enough for, who reminds you of the you you were in high school, the you you thought you'd left behind in college when you finally found real friends and a niche, which was promptly taken from you when you graduated and moved up to this wretched, wretched job where nothing you do is ever good enough, and you can't get away from the one person who broke your heart, possibly beyond all repair, even though you knew what you were getting into when you got involved and, truth be told, you can't blame him entirely, and you know that, and you hate the fact that he could possibly know how much he has turned your entire world upside down, even though you'd never say it to him, and you're certain he doesn't read your ramblings here and all you really want to do is get him out of your head, and certainly out of your heart, because you know how awful he is for you, but you just remember the beginning, when it was all good, before you started to feel like you were basically just a mid-life crisis, and you've even got people TELLING you you were just a mid-life crisis, and you just want that again, not with him, of course, (or. . .who are you trying to kid? He's the one you can't get out of your head) but someone, but you're relatively convinced you're going to live out the rest of your days as a spinster, because you can't even get someone you thought was interested in you to actually be interested in you, which is actually ok, because you would, in essence, be using him to get over the person that has wrecked so much havoc on your heart?

You have? Good. Me too.

And that's all I'm going to say about it.

Because really? That's not why I was mad in the first place. I was mad in the first place because I've got this story I'm supposed to be writing, and I'm fairly certain she's going to yank it and put a story about the new Wal-Mart on the front page instead, and I'm not willing to spend all this time and energy, busting my ass to do this awesome story, when I'm just going to end up angry tomorrow. But if it doesn't run Monday, I won't be able to use it to enter into this journalism competition, because everything you enter has to have run by Sept. 30, and we're a 3-times-a-week paper, so the next issue after Sept. 30 would be Oct. 1.

Rejected.

I may not actually enter the contest anyway. The only story I have that I wanted to enter is ok, but probably not award-winning.

Also, I should probably go home to my frigid, heatless apartment.

I swear I'll get my ANTM recaps at least up to the last episode this weekend. Or, I'll do my best.

And I'll be happier next time. Maybe. At trhe very least, I won't subject you to multiple angsty entries.

This isn't livejournal, after all.

No one knows except the both of us. We'd best keep this to ourselves and not tell any members of our inner posse.

I am cranky today.

I say that as a kind of warning. I woke up in a pissy mood, so if you don't want to read something written by someone in a pissy mood, I'd recommend you stop reading.

The mood I woke up in was just foul. I'm glad that I'm physically unable to sleep past 8 without waking up, because my phone had turned itself off in the middle of the night, and, therefore, my alarm was off as well. I would have been screwed if it had been Monday, the day of the 8:30 meeting, but since it's Friday, it turned out OK.

Then I grabbed my last breakfast muffin off the top of my fridge, all excited because I'd deliberately saved the chocolate chip muffin for last. It was supposed to be a good combination, you know? Friday and a chocolate chip muffin. However, it turned out to be a blueberry muffin, and that made me mad.

I have nothing against blueberry muffins, mind you. I love blueberry muffins. But when you're in the mood for chocolate chip, blueberry just doesn't cut it.

Also, my mailbox is overrun with a huge ant colony and their gross-looking eggs. I need to Raid the thing.

I went for a shortened version of my "run" yesterday. It was shortened partially because I wasn't really in the mood for it and partially because I had something on my mind, and it's hard to concentrate on breathing so you don't die when you're thinking so hard about something.

Being vague isn't something of which I'm a huge fan, but in this case, I can't really explain the details. Partially because I don't want to and partially because I haven't gotten them figured out for myself.

The situation I find myself in is comparable to playing a board game with a 5-year-old. There is a specific set of rules by which you're supposed to play games. They're usually written down in booklet form within the box in which the game is sold. Whenever you play a game with a 5-year-old, there's a good chance that some of the rules will have to be altered, either to make it easier or to make it so the game doesn't last for three hours. OK, that's cool. You decide on how the rules will go (for example, if you get stuck on that square on the board, you only have to wait for the dice to go to everyone else playing one time, rather than the three times instructed by the official rules. Or if you're about to run out of money, you can take out a loan with someone else who's playing so you're not actually out of the game if you're out of funds. Things like that.)

I'm a fan of rules, so when they're changed like that, I'm not always entirely pleased, but I understand that sometimes in life, things have to deviate away from the norm in order to, one, keep people happy and two, make sure things are as fair as they can be. Life isn't black and white, despite what my high school Ex will tell you.

The problems, for me, begin when people start changing the rules midway through the game. It's like landing on a space that will cost you $500, and you'd originally agreed that you could take out a loan from someone else who's playing, but then, all of a sudden, you can still take out the loan, but along with it, you're being charged 6% interest for every turn during which you haven't paid back the entire sum.

Well, wait a minute. That's not what you said originally. But, you know, OK, I'll do it. Because I don't want to be out of the game. Because it's a fun game.

So I'm still playing the game, in debt $500 x .06 per turn, and I land on a space that sends me to jail if, upon rolling the dice 3 times, I don't rack up a collective 15 points. Since the game is being played with a 5-year-old, that number is moved from 3 to 5. I have 5 chances to roll 15 points. "But no, Liz," someone says. "The rules now dictate that if you don't get a 15 after the first three throws, you can have the extra two, but it'll cost you $10 per throw, on top of the $500 x .o6 per turn."

That's not what you initially said. When we started playing this game, you said you wanted me to play, we'd have to change the rules a little, but as long as everyone was on the same playing field, so to speak, everything would be cool.

So the question I'm sure you're asking at this point would have to be, "Elizabeth, why are you still playing the damn game?"

And to that, I'd have to say, because, for some reason, it seems worth it. To see that 5-year-old laugh when they hit the jackpot and clap their hands when they feel like they're going to win. It's those moments that keep you from overturning the board and scattering the pieces all over the living room and having everyone shake their heads and say, "What a poor sport!" when you walk out of the room.

I don't expect to win the game. When you start playing a game with a 5-year-old, you can't expect to win. But what I really want is to know that I played the game knowing all the rules.

So enough of being vague and pissed off. I should really put this entry in my Livejournal of Angst, but, for some reason, I feel it should go here.