Unhealthy Obsessions

So you're probably expecting an entire entry about something very serious, like cutting. But no. This entire entry is about my unhealthy obsession- WITH CATS.

My family had a cat named Buttons ever since I was 3. She was the cutest, fluffiest little ball of brown fur with adorable big, blue eyes. I loved her to death, and she loved everyone in the family... except me. Somehow she picked me to be her human chew toy/scratching post. While she melted and purred contentedly under the touch of my dad or sister, whenever I came around she was on high alert, intent on destruction.

Maybe it's because I wasn't always that nice to her. Sure, when she got dementia and would start walking in circles I may have called her funny nicknames like Magellan (what? It was fitting. Magellan circumnavigated the world, Buttons circumnavigated the living room). But when it came down to it, I did nothing but smother her with love. Keyword being SMOTHER.

So since I haven't had the best relationship with my own cat, I have searched for love from fluffy four-legged friends elsewhere (stop and admire the alliteration, if you please). I like to watch videos of cats on Youtube, giggling like a maniac and squealing with delight at the sight of kittens running on treadmills or  cats swimming in public pools, until my roommate's boyfriend that she talks to on Skype looks at her like she's living with a paranoid schizophrenic and begins to worry for my sanity.

You can say I'm strange. But, in the words of John Lennon, "I'm not the only one." I just happen to be one of many people who will giggle with joy when presented with a picture of a cute Russian Blue and a block-lettered caption of "I can has cheezburger?"

Maybe I Exaggerate Sometimes...

First of all, I'm a dramatic person. I come from a family of dramatic people. My sister goes into seizures of terror whenever she sees a spider, my dad screams about third degree burns when you flush the toilet on him in the shower, and my mom thinks I'm lying dead in a ditch somewhere if I didn't tell her I was going to get ice cream with friends. So it's no surprise that, though I'm very serious and like to see things realistically, I can twist the truth and blow it way out of proportion.

This happened just the other day, with a Statistics midterm that I took. I was SO prepared. Sure, I hadn't gone to class, but the lectures were podcasted. I went through every lecture, read every chapter, did all the review questions- I was fairly sure I would make this test my bitch. So when I sauntered confidently into the lecture hall to find that reading and understanding the test questions was like trying to communicate in Swahili only using three-letter words that begin with "i," I was pretty flustered.

I walked out of the lecture hall like I was walking down Death Row. My fate was decided. I had bombed the test, and there went 10% of my grade. "Don't worry," the professor insisted, "it's curved. You probably all did a lot better than you think." I don't think that statement applies to someone who felt like projectile vomiting over the entire first row out of pure terror and anxiety.

So I called my dad, as I often do, to talk about what had happened. He was surprisingly calm about it (knowing that I'm an English major and math is FAR from my forte), telling me that if I get a bad grade in the class I can always just re-take it. "What's the worst that could happen?" WRONG QUESTION TO ASK. The wheels in my mind started turning, and the little voice in the back of my head that likes to over-think everything started yelling like a middle-aged drunk man at a football game.
So of course, when asked that question my first thoughts were:

Fail class --> Don't get into grad school --> Move back in with parents --> Stay unemployed  --> DIE ALONE

Of course, as everyone knows, that's not exactly a realistic way of thinking about things.  But at the time, it seemed reasonable. So my dad is telling me, "You know that's not going to happen." And I'm screaming, "SHH! LET ME HAVE MY MOMENT!!" 

Sometimes having an overactive imagination comes back to kick you in the face.

Not the Jell-O Mold of Homogeny!!

I know. I did it. I broke down and made a blog, just like everyone else. I conformed to the monotony of modern society. I let myself be shaped by the Jell-O Mold of Homogeny. I have taken up the diary form of, dare I say it, the hipster culture.

But all seriousness aside, welcome! This blog is a place for me to rant about idiotic things and tell hilarious/strange stories about my life and childhood. You won't see little MS paint drawings to accompany the story (because I have almost no artistic skill, especially with a mouse), but hopefully the humor and relate-ability of each post will make up for it.

This is my space to talk about my life, and if you'd like to read, by all means go ahead. If you don't find it exciting enough to satiate your blog-reading needs, then feel free to move on. Or get hit by a cement truck. Whichever comes first.