Sunday, August 28, 2011

That Just Happened

I punched myself in the face. And it wasn't on purpose. I just have no real depth perception.

See, I was cleaning up the apartment with my other roommates. Just de-boxing boxes, packing away the last of the dishes, vacuuming the carpet. And I thought I'd get the broom. Be real thorough about it.

I skipped down the hall, humming a little Guys and Dolls under my breath. But I paused when I reached the back storage room, looking around for a broom. The light was on and I fumbled with the stuff, shuffling around some boxes to reveal a stack of broom-like items. Long sticks, you know. I reached through the tangled handles, grasping what I was sure was the correct tool. I pulled at it, starting to sing again. And then something hit me in the face.

Before I even realized what had happened, I was blinking and balking and sputtering. And then I started tearing up inexplicably in one eye. I reared back to figure out what was happening, and then I got it.

In one hand, I was grasping the handle of the broom halfway down. And in my enthusiastic excitement, I had yanked it forward only to forget that, yes, that top part had to swing up with it. Right into my eye.

Like deep in, too. I mean, the little demon inside me literally thrust the handle into my right eye socket and spun it around a little, just for a few laughs.

No, it was really my fault. I really, honestly, literally did not see that coming. I don't know how, but it was invisible to me. That is, until it was suddenly pushing in my eyeball stretching towards the back of my head.

It hurt. A lot. And I don't know how my eye survived, because it felt like it squeezed my eye all the way back to my brain. But I assure you it's still intact. Even my contact went unscathed.
Honestly, I was a little more than scared 
that it would have somehow seared to my eye 
and that when I tried to take it out at night,
I would peel my iris out with it. 
bleh. 
But then I couldn't stop laughing at myself. And shaking my head and mumbling to myself. And wiping at the tears and the runny mascara. And worrying/hoping that I would get a black eye, already preparing an entirely different war story to share if that were the case. And then I wondered if maybe I could laugh over it with my roommates, bond over my klutzy, self-mutilating behavior.  But I didn't want to embarrass myself.

No; instead, I post it here for all the world to read how I, Shelby Anne Boyer, punched myself in the face. Because, yeah, that really happened.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

I Love Life

This is my try at a positive spin on life. I figure it's a new school year, I'm in a new apartment, it's time to be a new me. Or isn't that the cliche anyway?
But, seriously. I'm going to be happy.

No matter how much I already hate my major (as griped about here previously).
No matter how much I hate myself for signing up for a poetry class--a full four months worth of poetry? Seriously? And I already know I'll be expected to attend poetry readings (can I get a snap*snap*bongo drum).
No mattter how awful it is watching my savings drain into book-buying. My running total is at $511. Yeah, and that's used, Amazon--the whole save-some-money shebang.
No matter how much I hate that this is the first week I've actually gotten to sleep in since having a full-time job and it's over in three days. 
No matter how little food I have currently, or how unprepared I am school-supplies-wise or how unenthusiastic I am about strapping a backpack to myself and skipping off to school with 31,000+ others.

No matter all that, I am trying to be happy.

Ha. Even this blog post is dripping with cynicism.

But I should be serious. I do have a good, happy life and I'm well aware of it. I'm just embracing that sarcastic side of me, because I'll always be a glass-half-empty kind of girl. Not in a I-hate-my-life-and-I-want-to-die kind of way, but more like....life-sucks-and-then-you-die. See the difference? One is just depressing and helpless, the other is dark and funny and content with the combo. And that is definitely moi.

Really, I can blame my mom for seeing that: she opened my eyes to my own reality this last week, really introduced me to myself and my personality as a *ahem* Type 4. In a nutshell, a Type 4 is one whose favorite word is "stupid."

Mind. Blown.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Shameless Self-Promoting

I critique books. And by critique I mean criticize.
It's been a while since I've read anything good, okay?

But, in any case, I have a book blog. I'm still figuring it out, ironing out the kinks, figuring out ways to make it rock. But it's started and it's lovely.

Only....no one's following it.

Actually, before yesterday, I had one friend following it. So that's cool. A little pathetic, sure (not her--my one, true friend--but the number). And even when I posted a link on facebook. Nothing. I must say, I am ashamed.

I thought, well, maybe they don't like books. Maybe they're already sick of me with this blog--maybe one is enough?! I may have been hurt, but I wasn't going to say anything.

And then I got on today. And guess what? Um, I have another follower. A certain Carol Oates. Don't know her? Well, neither do I. She's one of those people you tend to know of.
As in she has her own claim to fame. 
As in she is a writer of YA fiction. 
As in she's been published. 
Multiple times.

And she follows my blog. I don't know how or why or if it even means anything. But she's a follower. I guess that makes her cooler than you.

Just kidding. No hard feelings.

Only...a famous person follows my blog. Ergo, you should too. 

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Here's to Growing Up.

I am so humiliated right now, I can barely function. I just spent a couple hours clicking through my emails, reading conversations from '06 to '09. Holy crap.

WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME I WAS A PSYCHOPATH??

I found all these "flirt sessions" with various boys I can barely remember. I can't believe the things I did and said and sent. I can't believe I used the WORLD WIDE WEB to transmit them. Now they're just floating around somewhere, completely out of my control. Those guys will probably find them years from now and send copies to their daughters, just to say "Never be like this."

Ah, I was so crazy. Most of it, I don't even remember. Those high school years are all just...hazy. All the boys and texts and conversations--they're just blurs. I think I blocked them from my memory.

You think looking back at old crushes would be funny. No, I'm just in utter shock over how psycho and vapid I was. I've always thought I finally got my confidence around then. Yeah, I got confidence, sure, but I also got crazy. I would share them but--no, no, I will never share them.

I seriously can't believe it. I'm in shock right now; my hands are starting to shake. Who was I? What was I thinking? And the sad thing is, for all these immensely embarrassing flirt sessions with all these must-have-been-terrified guys, I got over them in DAYS. And I remember that--I remember the drama I put into getting rid of them. So to look at the starry-eyed moments between us, remembering the humiliating lengths I went to to wrap them around my finger, and then to suddenly stop all contact.... It's just awful. Man, I was crazy.

There was the poor German foreign exchange student who didn't understand my use of emoticons and obsessions with exclamation points.

There was the guy I texted a picture of my lips to--a well-used gag from my sophomore year. Seriously.

There was the guy I spent weeks flirting with, discussing what it'd be like to be in a relationship together. We even talked about meeting each other's parents--before we'd even officially met.Yeah.

There were a bunch of boys I'd practically force to ask me out, then I'd just chicken out on them. Because, oh yeah, I was a completely different person via text.I may suffer from a split-personality disorder. 

There were all the times I'd prod them to tease me, to say they liked me, to make them compliment me. I lapped it up like a kitten with warm milk. It was that nasty.

Man, I really was such a minx. A flirt. A vixen. Maybe even a little bit heartless. Because each of those boys, I just dropped like it was hot. Man, when I was over something, I was over it. I got bored/scared/underwhelmed and I'd just go stone cold on them.

I am such a freak. I just had no inhibitions, I guess. I think I even enjoyed the terror involved. IT'S EMBARRASSING!!!

My history is littered with dark secrets I don't even tell myself. I just bury them. I forget them. I ignore them until my memories are all rosy. I think I lie to myself. And then days like this happen, where I go back and realize just how much I'd blocked from my memory. Then I'm red from head to toe, blushing and gawking and doubting that that really was me.

Also, I was quite the drama queen. I could be nasty. I had no qualms about letting people know just what I thought about them. I think I thought that was big of me. But, man, I could be mean. So I'd like to take this moment to apologize to anyone who felt like I was some crazy [BADWORD] who said some crazy [BADWORD] things without any real reason.
*Since I don't know what exactly I did to you, 
you're welcome to fill in the blanks as you see fit.

Of course, most of the people I should be apologizing to don't read this blog. Because I probably sent them to therapy with the things I said. There must an underground market that caters entirely to the Shelby-ruined-my-life crowd. They probably have an annual "I Hate Shelby" festival where they sell voodoo dolls and Shelby-shaped pinatas. They must print off my emails and burn them, laughing maniacally as they plot my murder.

I should see if I can join. Because, at this moment, I really do hate my old self. That crazy, psycho [BADWORD].

Thank You for Being Here Today!

Last night, my roommates and I went to get some fro-yo.
Side story: they have the best pomegranate flavor at this place. 
That and coconut together....Ah! To die for.

As we were walking along, my one roommate, Melinda, in her freshly-graduated maturity, decided we should try to balance our wallets on our heads. Turns out, she'd just been watching Disney Channel's Princess Protection Program (no shame) and wanted to try being a princess with perfect posture. Well, I rocked. It was easy, breezy, beautiful and I kept it up all the way to the shop. Then we laughed and ate fro-yo topped with candies and chocolates and fruit.

Oh my.

We spent our time talking about attractive men in movies. And monkeys taking over the world this weekend. We laughed, zoning in and out of full consciousness. I accidentally dropped my spoon.

And by dropped I mean flung. And by accident I mean I ripped it out of my mouth too quickly and I lost control of my hand.

We'd forget what we were talking about; we'd change conversations before the last was finished. I don't know what was wrong with us, but we were loopy. And deciding to intake such copious amounts of sugar might not have been our brightest moment.

Once we reached a slightly comatose state where normal, acceptable behavior was forgotten, we decided it was time to go home. Sugared drool dripped down our shaking lips. We were laughing maniacally, stumbling through the shop, tripping over chairs and tables that decided to get in our way. Our ears were buzzing and the sun was blinding and I was using this screaming giggle to announce that I hadn't had dinner yet! That that was the first food of the day! That yogurt should be its own food group, it's so good!

That was the state of things once we got out: hyper and hilarious. So, of course, the wallets go back on our heads. Only this time, with our new found, sugar-induced courage, we tried curtsying and spinning and leaping.

Down the sidewalk. In broad daylight. In public.

We spoke in (awful) British accents, using words like "darling" and "charmed," I'm sure. We walked slowly and did pageant waves at the people driving by. And we navigated the stairs with perfect poise. We were graceful, we were gorgeous, we were glorious with our soft steps and arched necks, walking as though on ice, a gentle smile pinned to our cheeks. Quite frankly, we were the epitome of class.

Duchess Kate has nothing on us.