Mortified

I have a bad memory. I'm the sort of person who looks for her glasses for fifteen minutes before she realizes that the missing glasses are in fact resting on her nose. I'm the sort of person who doesn't pay a lot of attention to the things that deserve it—it might even sound as if I'm proud of these things. I used to, but being one month away from twenty means that bad memory has stopped being an effective excuse for incompetence a long time ago. I know it should never be, but believe me, it was. It was.

So you must understand that asking me to review the past year is too much. Oh, I can, but it would take too much effort better spent on playing, reading, or watching TV shows. So this is what I'm going to do: I'm going to randomly quote posts I've written the past year. Ready? I'm not.

January 

Ever seen a person in her blue fuzzy comfort jacket, green n’ orange checked pj’s, striped mismatched socks and a bad hair day dance to the Scissor Sisters Filthy Gorgeous? Well, I have. She looked the awfulest, insanest creature I have ever seen in my entire life. My dog gave her a stare that said ‘fuck off or I’ll never speak to you again’ before doing an abrupt walk-out.

http://lizlan.blogspot.com/2007/01/danced-fever-off.html

February 

Nineteen is just a transition. I don’t care much for the age itself, but what it means: I’m one year nearer twenty, one year nearer the two-decade mark ending my teenage stage. As if it was something to mourn for, no. But it is something to miss.

Time is an illusion, age (and pretty much everything else) is a state of mind. I’m not in the mood to preach—is this a change? Perhaps, a symptom of getting older. The whole the-world-is-against-me-and-don’t-understand-me phase is old enough to be discarded for something more practical, lasting and devoid of romance. What?

Surrender.

http://lizlan.blogspot.com/2007/02/xix_117116647487039869.html

March

Parents are crazy animals. You live with them for nineteen years and for some unfathomable reason, they don’t understand why you are what you are and why you do what you do. Who the funk said that parents are instant psychologists? Psychologist, my ass! They’re just being nosy and know-it-all. Come to think of it, isn’t that what psychologists are paid to do?

http://lizlan.blogspot.com/2007/03/pokers.html

April

Something about city lights attracts me like a moth to a gasoline lamp. They are brilliant and twinkling like stars, only nearer, and I am drawn, awed. Imagine how civilization used to consist of scattered fires over windswept plains, and the gods would peer over the world and see Man as the small and dirty animals we are. But now we’re small and dirty animals with concrete cities and magnificent lights to cover our smallness and filth. The gods may have withdrawn to their smoking rooms a little less smug.

http://lizlan.blogspot.com/2007/04/lights.html

May

He gave her a look that was written with 'give me a little credit' all over and calmly asked, "Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe this is too easy because it was just so right? Pieces of two perfectly complimentary forces in this universe finding synergy in each other. Why not bask in the beauty of this symmetry? Why fight it when the inevitability is staring right at you— point blank?"

http://lizette.i.ph/blogs/lizette/2007/05/11/dialogue/#more-32

June

It's all been good. I hope to be back here after I graduate, which is  approximately two years away. In the meantime, I grab my Kenny Rogers Roasters tumbler, the only thing I kept in my drawer, and stuff it in my flashy black bag (a new one which I dislike a lot). I'm good to go. I look at my dreary cubicle for the last time. I turn in my OJT ID, walk out the glass doors and wait forever for an elevator.

http://lizette.i.ph/blogs/lizette/2007/06/08/goodbye-corporate-life/#more-51

And yes, there is a part two.