Talking About Good Timing...

     As of now, I would like to do something near the equivalent of plopping myself beyond the hand-rail so rarely crossed at Niagara Falls. I currently have something of the mono-esque type that is to be determined by undeterminable symptoms and mental crazes of inexplicable nature. My insides are running while my outsides shout, "shut up and go to sleep." I guess this is weird; outsides don't really shout, unless it comes from my mouth, which is isn't, because I don't feel like talking much. Of course I am all about great timing. I have an internship to go to tomorrow with high hopes and greater expectations by the staff of the company. Did I mention a job and social life that I cannot have? Each time I take the train to anywhere, my mind shuts down, Zombie Katie comes out, and I am physically and mentally befuddled on some cross street near Michigan Avenue. Really though, you should check out the serious glaze that comes across my eyes when I start to want to eat humans. That only happens after specific train rides, though-not to worry.
      I'm surprised that I am even writing this now. I remain in this oddish state where I'm so jingly jangly to do things but am so overdone mental-wise that I end up doing a smart load of...nothing. Except of course...eating. I only eat Cheerios now, but the thing is, I'm hungry. But, hunger, nausea, confusion, and a swollen thyroid are quite unable to exist harmoniously within my stupid stomach. Yeah, I called you stupid, you stupid stomach. Please, someone give me a cold or cough. Well, only if I can give you this in exchange. Deal? Deal.
     Anger. This is what I feel when I realize that I will be missing my first class at The Second City today. Why (7x)? I didn't even bother to put in commas. I've said it seven times and you'll have to follow this like the repeating chorus it is. I care no longer. Even my syntactical structure is suffering.I do oddly wish my mind would explode so that I could pull a quick Spongebob as I simply remove my old brain and insert another. Actually, he lost his to Plankton, so, this doesn't even really apply. This sounds doable. Done. I wonder how long I'll be banana-rollin' in my bed. I'll keep tabs. Sounds like a counting game to me.

Out.

The Epiphany about Epiphanies

     I have recently come to the realization of all supposed realizations. This realization had me wondering why I even bother to have said other realizations.
     One word: subjectivity. If the world is viewed differently by each person, we can either attempt to seek out those who do see it sort of similarly, endeavor to juxtapose ourselves with people different than ourselves to immerse ourselves in some twisted version of a learning experience, or give up all together. The logical answer is to give up. As my roommate and I have recently discovered, trying only causes trouble. Let me explain. I say this because, no matter how close you think you've come to finding that one person who is similar enough to you but different enough so you don't piss yourself off with too much "you," there really is no perfect match. What you think is right is 3% wrong in his or her mind and if you multiply this by the 3/7 subjectivity variability, you might as well be a manic monster in his or her mind of regularity. Though, in this case, one could argue that life would not exist without controversy to rough up the edges of an implausible utopia. Yeesh. Anyways...if we as humans are able to recognize the fact that no matter what, we will be different, why can we not just move past this as a human race? Acknowledge it, be sad for ten minutes, spring back, and get over it. Is this not a sequence that we can learn to accept? Nope. No, no, no, it is not (well, maybe you can, but think about whose blog you're reading).
     I, for one, get into quite a few arguments. Not bad ones, but the sort that the debate team would stage in high school. Except I wasn't on the debate team. Anyways, the difference between myself and the other person I frequently find myself in mortal combat with is that I get over it. I practically forget why I'm angry in under ten minutes almost every time without fail. Why must grudges exist? Why mash up your feelings into some sort of deathly fireball...spikes and all? This may come off as a level of disinterest and the possibly existence of a sociopath inside me but, should I care that people think that? Please do allow yourself to be bothered as I sit in the corner caring less. Ok, now I sound pompous; I really don't even know that many big words. There's a reason why I always have Thesaurus.com tabbed on my computer.

Sometimes I Seem Uninterested?

      So I usually wake up at 7:30 every morning with a stomach ache. This is probably from all the unintentionally hard thinking I do every night into the oddest hours of each morning. My days are either extreme or incredibly unremarkable and range from life decision-making to pounding my fist on a table upon discovering that no, I really cannot decide which two gelato flavors I should get. The days usually start out slowly with two eggs, hopefully some cheese, toast, and three or five strawberries (even numbers won't do). If nothing strikes me metaphorically (or sometimes literally) across the face whilst I perform my morning activities, I usually go on to accomplish nothing and do so with such a "heart-on-sleeve" lack of ambition that scares off any morning action-seekers. Once I have bored away any potential morning suitors, I take a standing nap after a simple carbohydrate-filled lunch and continue with usual afternoon activities. Dinner happens, evening parties happen, and then I come back.
     And this is when it happens. Whoever the lucky or unlucky person is who I decide to speak to on Facebook or on the phone has, at this point, unknowingly sent me into a spiral of thought and cogitation. To this day I do not know what starts me off a' pumpin, but something about the blackness of the night allows me to think my thinkiest thoughts. Days remain relatively unproductive as I subconsciously yearn for nighttime and all of the emptiness it has to offer to a mind found claustrophobic by day. I say this while realizing how dangerous my mind is, how I really should stay in the sunlight, and how I should never start conversation with not-so-close friends after 9 p.m.
    So this is essentially what happens: I halfheartedly make decisions while the sun is out, go out, dance a little, come back, and then sit down and really pound them out. But wait, everyone I have just made late night engagements with will hate me, yes? Denny's really is important to some people. This is when the moral dilemmas come in. Is it my fault that I am incapable of making a committed decision at certain hours of the day? Rather, that I am solely capable of making proper ones at another certain hour of the day? I have told people about this very specific process my mind goes through. But, of course that can't band-aid up all the booboos I have just re-opened after what appeared to outsiders as a "fruitful"day of decision making. People are also frightened by the werewolf that is my nighttime brain. Stepping on the sidewalk is to scaring lizards away as talking to people about my mind is to scaring humans away (now, re-read that to take it all in). Some people view this as my having a "grass-is-always-greener" complex, my over analyzing and such. I see it as Thesaurus.com being friendlier to me only at times when humans no longer care that I just found the proper words and syntactical structure to express my insides on the outside.
    Stream of conscience post? Absolutely. Sorry it had to be the first one after a period of non-posting. I do my best, and I am sure that a brimming maximum of four people will read this. Score.

The Inception-I Think I Think This

     I was sure that a day proven to be as uneventful as it in fact was would give me nothing to say, but as it turns out, silence allows the crazy to fully nestle in the noggin. Right now I am going to talk about two wholly unrelated topics and then, at some random point of my choosing, find a way to connect the two. Here we go.
     I like to listen to classic rock-a lot. Of course I do not get my fill when every station broadcasts commercials at the same times each hour (this is a completely different issue that could be used to one stations' advantage, but we can talk about that another time). I find myself especially perturbed when the traffic comes on; this is when I have to ask: why tell me the traffic ahead of time? Why not let me just find out for myself that there is going to be a holdup on I-Idontreallycare so that I don't lunge into a state of mental impetuosity anytime prior to actually experiencing the delay? The premature vexation I felt as I found out my one hour car trip would soon become a two and a half hour circus was almost palpable to the car I must have scraped the tail of in front of me at least six times. Plus, I accidentally stuck my tongue out in disgust when he turned around to motion for me to stop tailgating him. Oops. He definitely saw that. Anyways, knowing many a "thing" in advance has me developing expectations. In this case, I expected to be angry at the classless cowboy riding the pimped out pickup to my north. So I was. I pouted and pumped my fist at who was probably a small old lady in her unfortunate son-and-law's monster truck. Since I am trying to get rid of those life experience-reducing thoughts (expectations), I should probably stop with the radio for a little while (*plugs i-Pod in*).
   
P.s. Why on Earth are many of Mumford and Sons' songs on the popular radio? Not to sound like a hipster, but a new branch of hipster will soon need to be introduced; nowadays, everyone thinks they're cool if they wear high-waisted shorts with their bottoms hanging and their banjos playing.

     Now I will introduce my second unrelated topic of choice: fitted hats versus gangsta, loose with room on the top hats that have made their way from the hands of the homeless to the heads of those who shop at Urban Outfitters; guilty as overpriced-ly charged. Today I bought one of said hats. I honestly did wonder if it made me look homeless, lost, uncomfortable, or just trying to look kool. As I eliminated the possibility that it might make me look kool, I had an internal debate that soon turned into a public conversation with myself about whether I should get the hat. Did I feel schlumpy wearing the hat? Did the hat wear me (I do have a tiny face)? Was I owning the hat? Especially considering the fact that I do not wear hats and that this probably wasn't as extreme a situation as Ted Mosby's red cowbow boots dilemma, I purchased the twenty-dollar cylinder of cheaply constructed fabric and shut my trap. (In a broad, all-knowing voice) If I shall look silly upon adorning said hat, do castigate me by name...and include my middle name...I feel uncomfortable when people find out how to use my middle name against me.
     The golden link between slouchy hats and radio traffic reports exists as this: if we, as judging humans with primordial expectations, continue to prep ourselves for disappointment, where are we going? As the crazy lady in Nordstrom said to me, "where am I going in these glasses?" Granted, they were gold-rimmed Gucci glasses and she was wearing leather boots deeming her appropriate to serve in the honky-tonk CIA. Well, lady, if you want to know where you are going before you slap that cap on, leave now, please. You've already done your wrongs and double-dotted the capitalized "I" that didn't need dotting in the first place. Just put the glasses down.

Katie 1.0, 2.0?

     I once had an art teacher I was not a fan of-actually, I've had many of those, but this specific teacher taught me something that I have recently found applicable to life. Here we go: a color cannot be determined without comparing it to a neighboring color, juxtaposing it with something that allows the original color to appear altered when compared to it's juxtaposition with another [color]. I am Katie. Sometimes I am sarcastic, sharp, sardonic, maniacal, manic Katie, yet other times I am a carefree, sort-of-ditzy, mildly delirious, frenziedly comical version of said Katie.
     Depending upon who I am around, the version of Katie which I choose to exist as changes. Overly normal people have me showcasing my wild side-why would I ever want to act like another goose in a gaggle of brown geese when I could be the white one with the red spotted mohawk? Besides the fact that I wore red spotted shoes with Balenciaga-esque pants in a print that had my employers thinking twice today at work, who else would want to just be another brown goose? Other times I find myself around groups of people so loud that I find myself wanting to just be freakin'...quiet. On occasion, I like to pull a Lisbeth Salander (which I sort of am anyways) and retreat into a metaphysical fetal armadillo position. This way I can choose to ignore loudly gawking idiots within close proximity to my personal bubble as I put up my mental armadillo shield. When I go home I just act like a baby. I roll around and ask for food and hugs in a baby voice that parentals find themselves quite unable to deny. Moral of the story: babies win always.
     Double sometimes-I recently caught myself even dressing a certain way around different groups of people. Whether it is to intimidate slash (/) frighten some of my quieter friends and family members or simply make a personal statement I know not, but I do notice myself dressing bizarrely when given the chance to exist as a shameless fool around others who might tend to see me as just that. The concomitant ordering of my Doc Marten boots with my platform Superga shoes had a friend of mine wondering if I intended on taking courses in witchcraft while abroad in Europe. After all, I would be closer to Harry Potter himself.
     I do not deign to discuss how such discordance has arisen within my internals, but at least I now know why I develop frequent stomach aches? The ability to see myself as a person separated from the social situations in which I frequently engage is a tricky one. This makes me turn o'philosophehr on myself and ponder questions of who I am and why I am here-ew.
     

Camera Sizes

   This upcoming semester I will be traveling to a city outside of London to study abroad in hopes of expanding my ever-so-bubbled Boca Brain. Whilst doing so I intend to photograph the toes, knows, highs, and lows of the United Kingdom, Scandinavia, much of Western Europe and parts of Eastern Europe. Actually, Russians scare me. Regardless, in this case I aim to assimilate the "toes of Europe" to its histories and roots-sort of. But, I have one preeminent problem: lyke, what kinda camera do I bring?
     Here is when I will provide an odd list of parities for you all to learn before we commence. First, the camera I choose to bring can be equated to the type of experience my mind thinks I am going to have. As its size increases, the room left for the unknown and previously unimagined nears a limit-and this limit is zero (Mean Girls). As my friends know, my mind is not good at turning off. That button was lost in production and people close to me have been searching for a replacement part for years. A knack for fabricating preconceived notions is ugly and has been undoubtedly implanted into my mind. Essentially, my camera to backpack ratio has unfortunately remained an even 1:1. Now-my red Herschel backpack is always with me. This backpack matches with nothing and carries everything. Its leather tuchus and sunburnt skin will soon be worn and torn. My backpack represents me minus the fact that I am as porcelain as an albino Sasquatch. The experiences my backpack carries will depend on the size of the camera I bring. And, if I brink a honkin' monstrosity of a camera abroad, am I determining the shape my backpack will mold into (rather, the degree of the curvature of my actual back)? Do I bring a camera small enough to allow room for the unexpected to squeeze itself into the depths of my dirtied pack? But, I can't soil my pack in advance just in hopes of predicting the outcome of my studies abroad, right (well technically I did run over a bagged pair of new shoes with my car to break them in a bit, so that sort of goes against my point)?
     At this point, I am hiking through the ever-mountainous Switzerland with a King Kong-sized camera. My cousin said she saw me from her bedroom window so this is a true story. Not to throw out another bout of cheesed-up rhetoric, but, who wants their camera to backpack ratio to strike even? Also, who makes ratios like this? I think it's time I call Kenmore to find that replacement part...

I Think Too Much I Think

    Today my wisdom teeth decided to come out. Rather, they were forcibly extracted by a South African monster of mayhem who found it proper to shatter said molars through use of a giant drill (yes, that sentence did need that many adjectives). Though I was supposedly in a dream-like state induced by laughing gas and my sheer aversion to live, I found myself quite awake. At times like this, you realize how disorienting it is to live inside your own...flerghin'...head. 

     Imagine I put you in a box. Besides the fact that no one wants to be put in a box, you might start to panic. You may start to stew over topics deeper than what flavor pudding you will funnel down your swollen throat after the torture concludes. The theorizing that goes on inside my head whilst uninterrupted by foreign invaders (most other humans) is of prodigious proportion. For instance, I am going abroad; I began to wonder if I may create a new mental outlook for myself upon experiencing feats other than the ones I am currently involved in. Also, do monkeys go number two? Do penguins wear lipstick? It also makes me wonder why traumatic experiences and the like are required to invoke deep thought. Must I make like Charlie Brown and slide on my tuchus in order to realize that brussel sprout flavored ice cream really isn't that bad? In an odd way, this encapsulating mental state allows for a personal and cathartic therapy session. Therapists never really help anyways, right? I do believe their goal is to remain silent to promote your babbling. Actually, my source X has just confirmed this as partially true. Bam. 

     As some of my friends may know, I am claustrophobic. My past roommate, Allison, may remember the time I forced her to walk me half a mile down to the lit bathroom as we camped in the middle of erm, nowhere, situated near the Chattooga River. My flashlight blew out and I had just about lost it before I safely rolled out of the rain and into the bug-infested but lit restroom. I like to compare my mildly horrific occurence to the one I experienced in the dentist office today. Today I experienced a new form of claustrophobia. As much as I might enjoy being bagged and stuffed in a locked suitcase (likely occurrence), I do not appreciate this feeling of being closed off. Complete darkness is truly paralyzing. Darkness, sometimes cars, too many frogs, and an abundance of humans or bananas make me claustrophobic. It's the feeling of being truly isolated that freaks me. I feel as though I'm in the middle of the North Pole, there is a lot of snow, and I am in a small, ostracized igloo. I have no access to sunlight nor the ability to properly come in contact with others. Snow angels really weren't a part of this deal. Good luck moving to Chicago, Katie.

     Regardless of this information...my teeth are out,  though I unfortunately will not be expecting a visit from the tooth fairy. I suspect she only accepts whole teeth.