You see, like every other student in existence I hate finals. Not because they’re particularly difficult, not because they require studying for the first time this semester, but because they screw with your schedule. Twice a year you check online, go into an office and tailor make a schedule for yourself like you’re some type of wizard of time. It’s like being Harry Potter mixed with The Doctor, except you have to pay for it in the end, reminding you that you are much more akin to the Weasleys, but without any of the perks.

Carefully planned, your life for the next several months is ruled by this schedule. It is also sacrificed to many times, feasting on every declined invitation. The “oh sorry, I have to study. I’ll have to catch up with you later,” is it’s favorite meal; the subject’s dejection is like a fine wine to accompany this scrumptious feast. After weeks of trying to adjust though, the student finally understands the schedule, and plans accordingly.

For a while, everything is good. Pulling an all-nighter to finish an essay becomes a regular thing, as well as classroom nap time. It’s like being back in preschool again, except now there’s the softly wafting smell of cigarettes hanging in the air. But it doesn’t matter, because goddammit, we know what we’re doing now. Our schedule is proof of that.

This wonderful pattern is allowed to persist for somewhere between sixteen and eighteen weeks, becoming stronger and stronger until a sudden realization dawns upon you. That horrifying realization that soon, exams will come. Also, that you are in one way or another screwed.  And unfortunately, I am not immune to this.

As has been suggested, I squandered my time throughout the semester, waiting last minute to finish assignments, and never, ever, studying. Part of it was spent writing about narwhals (because they’re awesome and why not?!), another bit was spent Christmas shopping (yet I still hate Christmas…), and the rest was spent while generally being slovenly (curse you, reddit). Naturally, I was shocked when the teachers made that most terrifying exclamation that exams were just around the bend.

Panic struck.

Heart rates quickened.

And then I went back to not caring.

Except there was still that one small problem; it screwed with the well-established pattern I had carefully constructed. All those months abiding by and memorizing it seemed wasted. Everything must change. Which meant no more classroom nap time, which meant no more sleep in general. Those bastards.

But still, I trudged forth into finals knowing that freedom would soon be mine. Oh, it was nothing more than a long-forgotten memory, but I could almost taste it. It tasted like the wind and the sun, eagles flying over mountains whilst simultaneously bursting into glorious flames, and oddly, coconuts.

With these liberating images in my mind I prepared myself for the first final, tweaking my schedule to fit my needs. Like so many before me, hours were spent poring over the book, memorizing formulas, trying to find that elusive x, and simplifying numbers to things that no longer seemed simple. By the midnight prior I was ready for the exam, and set my alarm 7 a.m.

Based on prior experience, you’d think this is where I’d screw up. But luckily my sleep deprived self realized that it would be much easier just to stay up all night tossing and turning, creating wonderful delusions for my entertainment. Think a tale of a dystopian society ruled by bacon with some possible gummy bear master planners, and you have an idea of what was playing though my mind. A top notch show, really. The alarm clocks heinous screams were this grandiose display’s closing curtain, and in the blink of an eye I was up, giving it a standing ovation.

The rest of my morning procedure passed in what is considered a normal manner: tea was steeped, toast was made, clothes were hastily applied, and bag was packed. I was running perfectly on time… until my mother interjected.

The heavily-lidded, bath-robed thing shuffled its feet around the corner, sounding like a vacuum cleaner, choking to death on a dust bunny. She had one look at me before proclaiming, “I’m taking a shower. Watch your brothers.”

This was unacceptable.

But it was accepted, because doing otherwise would be a terrible crime. Nervously I paced the halls, awaiting that moment when the shower would click off and I could Usain Bolt-it out the door. I waited. And waited. Every second spent tapping my foot and pacing the hall was like a personal sin against the almighty schedule, but I still waited. Until ten minutes later when I said “screw this; I gotta leave!”

Running late, I dashed to my car. The voice of Gandalf followed me, yelling, “RUN, SHADOWFAX! Show us the meaning of haste!” Little did I know though that this day would be the coldest fucking morning of the entire year. That finally, winter was upon us. It was like California had been transplanted in Canada. My breathe froze instantly, tennis shoes slipped on frost, and by the time I reached my car, I realized it was frozen.

Not just a little bit on frost on the windshield. Completely. Frozen. Someone had taken my Mustang and replaced it with a snowman’s vehicle.

Water by the bucketful was thrown onto the windows in the silly hope that the ice might melt, but it only grew thicker and stronger. Clicking the wipers on did nothing. And more importantly, the engine would not turn over at all. Every single mechanical bit on that car had frozen. Already running far behind, I would have cried if I was not convinced the tears would freeze as well.

Luckily, my mother was emerging from the shower just as I was running back into the house, and she was informed of the unfortunate conditions. I wailed and threw my arms up into the air, and generally turned myself into a blubbering mess. Whilst I crumbled pathetically, my mother made a phone call, saying she would “handle the situation.” Which in most cases means she’s going to berate some poor soul working in customer service, but in this case meant calling someone with a less frozen car. I bummed a ride off one of her friends, uttered a thousand thank you-s to my chauffeur, and then ran like hell to my final, across the lawns, up the stairs, and down the hallway. I was panting, on the verge of an asthma attack when I pushed the classroom’s door open.

Ten minutes late, and I was the first one there.

Curse you, community college.

Actually, there isn’t; it just makes me sound like I have a life if I say that.

And I still really have no opinions or stories to offer. So I’m just going to leave this doodle here, and come back later.

Now back to hiding from finals.

It is a week into November which means one thing: A number of members of the bloggerverse and something they call ‘the real world’ are tackling the insurmountable challenge that is known as NaNoWriMo. If you’re so inclined, you can count me in that number of gleeful idiots.

What is NaNoWriMo? Well if you’re unwilling to use Google to find out, I shall inform you; It is an acronym of sorts, standing for National Novel Writing Month. Understood?

What do you mean that does not suffice as an explanation?!

Fine. During the month of November something happens to a select portion of those who consider themselves writers. With a little w. Big W writers (or those who think they are big W writers) typically don’t get caught up in this sort of silliness. Anyway, what happens is that on the first of November, one little w writer looks out at the world and says “I like today, it’s a good sort of day. In fact, it’s the perfect day to jump off a cliff. If I’m going to jump off a cliff, I’d rather it be cheery weather.” And so the little w writer jogs forth into the world, waving merrily at those he passes. When others begin to poke their heads out their window and call out “what the hell are you doing?!” the little w writer smiles and replies, “oh, well I simply decided to jump off a cliff! A metaphorical one, at the least! Cheerio!” Not deterred by this small interruption, the little w writer smirks and continues forth. But now the interest of the public has been peaked.

“What the hell is he talking about?”

“Where’s he going?”

“This better be one goddamn impressive cliff.”

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, the writer becomes something more; he becomes the lemming leader. He continues to smile and wave, followed by thousands in their best Arthur Dent-ian attire. And before the throng realizes what has happened they find that they’ve gone ahead and followed their leader aboard the NaNoWriMo train, already moving too fast to jump off. The little w writer turns around to face his lemmings, a maniacal grin having formed on his face. “Excellent,” he breathes. “Now that I have you assembled, your mission shall be unveiled.”

“Where’s the fucking cliff?”

“Shut the hell up, Gary!”

Lemming leader holds up a silencing hand, and flashes a smile at Gary. “Oh don’t worry, Gary. You’ll be facing the cliff soon enough. The reason you have been collected is because you, the select elite, must face a challenge. For too long you’ve sat before your lap tops, wasting away your existence on Reddit and Twitter. You sip away at your Venti Americano Loca-MochaFrappaLappaCino without a thought, complaining about how oh-so-hard your life is. It’s time for that to end.

“For the next month you’ll have me to answer to. ME, you cat-loving bastards! You’re going to wake up at the crack of dawn with me standing over your shoulder, breathing into your ear, and you’re going to open up a word document. And guess what you’re going to do then? You’re going to write, and you’re  not going to quit til you’ve got 50,000 words staring up at you, those words reading into the very depths of your soul. It won’t be the word ‘banana’ that stares up at you 50,000 times; no! It will be a novel, one that you’ll love despite its obvious faults, and hate despite its glaring glory. Your hearts and souls will be collectively ripped from your bodies and thrown over the cliff to which we head now, where they will be held hostage with your friend Sleep until you’ve achieved your goal. Accept this challenge and you’ll be let off the train immediately, allowed to return to your lap tops and get some real work done. Refuse and I’ll send you all to the bowels of holiday shopping hell. Do we have an understanding?”

And now, I find that I was one of those lemmings that nodded their head in compliance and jumped off at the next station. I was one of those that rushed home and pounded at my keyboard until I thought it would shriek in protest, leaving the outside world behind. But there is a fault in this: I am really, really tired. As in “I have never been so tired in my life” tired. So tired that walking in straight lines seems an impossible task, and words have this lovely habit of forming little whirlpools wherever they appear and reassembling themselves into pentagrams. FOR THE PAST NINE DAYS.

This bout of tiredness has left me feeling that above all else I fail as an author. Why? Well aside from occasionally substituting dialogue for such sentiments as “screw this; give me a corn dog, a bowl of wasabi, and a scalpel,” I’ve found that I lack the knack for plot development. I decide to write a children’s book about jousting narwhals, but what exactly is my goal here? I want my characters to move forward, do some epic shit and blah-de-blah, but beyond that, what is the theme I wish to leave behind? I don’t care if it’s for children; it should have an underlying theme and message, whether it be ‘wearing underpants on your head is cool’ or ‘we must all face our mortality at some point; learning to live without regrets is how we cope with this fact.’

Really, this is just a long winded way for me to ask ‘how are those who are NaNo-ing doing?’ Because my head is spinning.

Anna used head-desk! It’s super effective!

Sigh.

Oh and my obligatory word count: 11,084. CRAP.

Me Vs. The Normal People: A Damned Dignified Place. Full of only the most scrupulous and insightful people you’ll meet this side of the internet. 

Also on an unrelated note: I’m participating in NaNoWriMo this year… anyone want to be writing buddies?

And also, advanced apologies if what I write here during the next month is incoherent/ nonexistent. See the above for an example.

I had no high hopes as I sifted through my email today. I looked upon my inbox listlessly, knowing that the large majority of my electronic mail is advertisements for products I’ll never use, with the occasional peppering of “INCREASE YOUR PENIS SIZE WITH VIAGRA! CANADA RX!”. The other .01% of my emails are from my dad, with headlines such as “World’s Smallest Cat!” or else showing different classic cars for sale.

In the case of the advertisements, I shrug my shoulders and sigh, inserting a weary face palm for good measure. As most sane people would do, I proceed to delete these emails immediately and move on to the next time waster, equally as listless.

But today, something else awaited me in my email. Something that reawakened a childhood fantasy.

What I am speaking of is this glorious bit of advertisement.

I blinked, lost in wonderment. The world was slowly dissolving until the only thing left in it was this glorious coupon. One look at that saber and tight pants had transported me back to the world of my childhood, back to dreams long forgotten in the haze of life. I was instantly carried on a magic carpet ride to the past.

Which, incidentally, is the exact same feeling one has while under the spell of laughing gas. Not that I would know… I certainly never muttered “I am Princess Jasmine!” while succumbing to sedation at a dentist’s office. Nope.

When I was a child, I had dreams, and not just of robots dueling dinosaurs. I had dreams for the future, envisioning an infinite amount of possibilities. In every one of these visions I was something great. I was more than great; I was a bad-ass. In every daydream and every nightmare, when the shit hit the fan I was there showing the incompetents how we do things.

Yes, I was the very definition of a tom-boy. Dresses were the choice attire of Satan, manners were the restrictive ploys of devilishly sly parents, and princesses were the embodiment of all that was wrong in the world. Such concepts were immediately rejected, and substituted with attempts to climb trees and speak squirrel.

This was probably influenced from the fact that I grew up in the shadow of my grandfather, learning to curse like a Bostonian and how to properly cut someone off in traffic while humming a happy ditty about butterflies. From ages two to seven, sister and I essentially lived with the man. The house was (and remains) a treasure trove of computers, gadgets, and as-seen-on-tv products. Amongst all this though was one thing that stood above the rest, capturing the young mind and hypnotizing.

Something beautiful and sinister that only furthered my Napoleon complex. Hung above his dilapidated old rocking chair in a most dignified manner was a sword, a commemorative piece from his US Navy days.

My sister and I would ogle over the thing, staring at it with eyes the size of tennis balls, practically drooling over it. It wasn’t just a sword; it was adventure and freedom, fighting dragons and monsters, and fencing like a musketeer. Every once in a while, our eyes would flicker up to our grandfather, guaranteed to be sitting at the kitchen table with a beer by 11:30 am, and a clumsy request would tumble from our lips.

“Grandpa, can we… take down the sword?” Always in perfect synchronization, always in that toxic sweet voice. Our grandfather would look at us for an unbearably long moment, his brow furrowed suspiciously. It was the type of look that scared the shit out of neighbor kids, but sister and I knew better. After that unfortunately and unfairly long second, our grandfather would shrug his shoulders and nod, casually adding a “don’t stab each other.”

We would practically climb over each other to get to the sword, pushing and shoving as we made our way to the top of the rocking chair and took it down from its place of glory. Though simply allowed to clean it at most, sister and I would fight each other for that right. Of course, we would fight over everything, but the sword more so, because when you held it in your hands it was a shimmering silver symbol of bad-assery and justice.

The Ride of the Valkyries played in my ears as my eyes swept along the thing, and for a moment anything was possible. In that moment, the pool was shark infested waters and the shadows were invading armies. With the power of imagination and a less-imaginary sword, I could conquer the world. And during that all-consuming moment, everything was awesome.

Sister and I would jump off the couch and straight into action, ready to take on anything together. We would yell our childish insults at the invisibles whilst running in circles. Sister would tire of this activity after a few minutes, and though I would stop as well, I felt I could go on forever in this way, an unstoppable force to be reckoned with.

Though simply an advertisement, that coupon reawakened the dreams and delusions of youth. And if an ad can do that, I must say it’s a job well done. I may never take down a monstrous beast, fight off a legion of zombies or have an epic sword fight against rogue spies, but at least I know that once upon a time I believed I could. It may not seem too hopeful to some, but I take comfort in the fact that little me was just as crazy as big me, if in a slightly different way. Though the goals and ambitions differ between these two age frames, there’s still hope in both, and all it takes is a picture to remind me of that.

I write everyday; it’s an inevitable fate, though I don’t complain about it. As should be somewhat evident from the extended period during which I have blogged, I kinda enjoy writing. I know, fricking mind blowing, am I right?

Though I may not be on here everyday to write, somewhere on the internet I lurk about, writing replies and comments to various different things. Or perhaps I am conversing with others in a textual manner. Talking is ever-so-hard, requiring some semblance of social non-idiocy, so why not use chat features, text messaging, and email for all conversational needs instead? It works for me. Especially since I’ve given up all notions of having a social life…ever.

Ahem, anyway… On average, I’d say I write at least a thousand words a day in some form, most of them unintelligible, but they’re still out there. All done without a thought, and it doesn’t disturb me in the least. But right now I have a 5 page research essay due… in 3 hours. And I haven’t started with any of the work. But you know what? I don’t want to write a psychology essay right now. I want to doodle. So instead of essay, I’m going to give you guys a bunch of random hand-drawn stuff. Commence Rejoicing. (Umm, so yeah. Clicking might be necessary to read text. It’s fricking huge.)

Of course, by the time I was actually able to scan in said drawings, the deadline for my paper had already passed. Remarkably, I finished with time to spare.

HELL YEAH!

Today marks a momentous occasion, an event sure to go down in history. It is, of course, my one-year anniversary here at Me Vs. The Normal People. Honestly, I can’t believe I’ve stuck it out so long, nor can I believe so many have stuck it out with me. And for that, I just have to say “thank you.” One year ago I said my oddities were caused by a defect; all my bones were filled with unadulterated nerdy-awesome, and guess what? So are yours, something I’m sure will show up the next time you get an x-ray.

For a week I’ve been trying to think of a way to celebrate this day, but in the end, all I can think of is to say thank-you, and spew out some random crap facts. We’re going to do the random crap facts now, because I say so.

FACT ONE:

The blog was not originally supposed to be called Me Vs. The Normal People. Nope…Chuck Testa.

Sorry, couldn’t resist. Back to vague seriousness.

Rather, the blog was supposed to be named Running from White Coats. But alas, when I briefly told my sister this idea she shook her head in disapproval. She said it was too old-timey of a joke that no one would get it, and it was utterly too long. She informed me that we no longer live in a world where mental health institutes are sanatoriums, and the professionals that occupy their halls are no longer “white coats” (see what I did there? I discreetly explained the joke. This, on the other hand, is not discreet.). I thought it was funny though; it made me think of the Marx Brothers in A Day at the Races (which I think is due for a viewing).

FACT TWO:

The only reason I started a blog was to test myself. I never thought people would read it.

I say “test myself” because for the past several years I have been telling myself that one day, I shall be a novelist. The blog was just to see if I actually liked writing, regardless of style or tone. It was just a project to see whether the writing craze was just a phase, or something worthy as a career. All I can say to that is “I’m still here.”

FACT THREE:

I actually did write a novel…last month. Not a necessarily good one, but one of decent length. Why? Because one day I came across several mentions of NaNoWriMo and of Camp NaNoWriMo, and thought “hey, why not?” If you are unfamiliar, the idea of both of these is to encourage writers to do just that: write. Putting aside cares of quality or continuity, the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. And guess what? I kicked that challenge’s ass, and on my first go ’round too. And it involved time travel, so I mean, that should be worth some bonus points or something, right?

FACT FOUR:

I have no fact four. All I have left is this:

Here’s to another year of apparently nyan-shark, zebragi, silly doodles, sibling rivalry, and overall-insanity.

I’m looking forward to it.

Every once and a while though, an urge comes over me; an urge to have some small encounter with humans that are over the age of seven.

Of course, this is still not facilitated by going outdoors. Rather, the need is met by going to some form of store. And the store I typically go to is the half-price bookstore about three miles from my house.

Though I own a Nook, there is something about bookstores that is just plain appealing. Perhaps its the smell of papers and their bindings, and that ever present hint of must. Maybe the allure is in the just-right amount of stimulus, providing enough color to entertain but not so much to cause a migraine.

Regardless of whatever the draw may be, I decided to venture to my half-price book store last week. I was told that I would have to bring along 3-year-old Little Brother 2, but I didn’t care; in fact, I thought “what the hell, he might have fun.”

He sat in the car quietly, singing the alphabet song on repeat. He held my hand through the parking lot (a rare treat), and even stopped on the sidewalk when I told him to. I was feeling like a champion of childcare; my minion was finally obeying me. I was feeling as if world domination was only a hop, skip, and a jump away from us, our synchronization impeccable.

I was utterly amazed that Little Brother 2 allowed me to lead him to the children’s section of books, sitting down at the kiddie table and flipping through the most glorious Disney sticker book I have ever seen. My mother surely must be insane; this child was no crazy fiend in public, but a calm and collected young gentleman. Evidence be damned: This child was the most polite thing I had even seen.

That is, until it was my turn to shop.

I had allowed the kid a good twenty minutes of his time. He flipped through his story books, he fought back the temptation to use all the stickers, and he had sat quietly in his chair. We had even gotten a little approving nod from another customer of the store that told me, “Good job, you magnificent thing. You’re fricking awesome.” Contented with the experience, I told him “my turn to look,” and things started rapidly snowball down here.

Granted, I was aimless in my searches. My way of picking books is alternating between “pick a classic” and “ooh, that has picture of a (insert mundane item here).” But this was supposed to be my time, goddammit. He had done whatever he had politely pleased, and now it was my turn to do the same. I would browse the aisles to my heart’s content, or at the least for ten minutes.

As soon as we ventured away from the land of puppies, kitties, and rainbows though, Little Brother refused to hold my hand. “Whatever,” I thought. He would get bored/see a creepy guy and come hold my hand later. He would stay close, and I was good.

I was wrong.

Like a caffeinated Seabiscuit on steroids, Little Brother was off and out of the gate. He zoomed through the fiction section, soared past the trashy romance novels, and nearly collided with the collection of vinyl records. Not above chasing him, I trotted along after, all the while muttering a steady stream of “no no no no no!” I got a few suspicious glances and several raised eyebrows from staff, but I caught up to him and thought I was in the clear.

Once again, incorrect.

Though once again safely within the five foot radius, in the mind of a three-year-old, this perimeter is not strictly limited to horizontal planes. Being a vertical spider monkey? Perfectly acceptable. Somewhere in between blinking my left and blinking my right eye, he had mounted the nearest bookcase. Like something out of one of my nightmares he loomed above me, seven feet in the air.

Immediate thought?

“GET THE FUCK DOWN, RIGHT NOW!”

What I actually said?

“aksajfaliwijfwo…NOW!”

Obviously, such a gloriously conquering child would not accept defeat so easily. He swung his free arm about wildly, making King-Kong like swipes and lunges. He also made the most horrendous wail I have ever heard, which I’m sure if the tone was lowered would have been a resounding “screw you.” I begged and babbled, trying to grab him down from the shelf. Each time he was put on the ground though, he would climb back up with a speed The Flash would be envious of. I was quite literally sweating at this point, mortified at this public display. I was sure nothing could get worse.

How foolish.

At the exact moment that I got a very keen smack to the face, a new crop of guest walked through the door. Not any guests though; no, that would be too simple. The guests were none other than the group of twenty or so mentally-handicapped students from the high school down the street, along with their assorted aids. They walked through the door, very clearly excited for the wonderful trip that had been arranged for them… and then the screaming reached their ears. They all spotted me instantly, staring in horror at the scene before them. Little Brother must have felt the glares on his back for without warning he let go of his handhold completely, turning into a sobbing and blubbering mess on the floor. One of the students gave a shudder of shock, and I went whiter than Casper.

I have never been so embarrassed in my life.

The whole display lasted another ten minutes or so, with Little Brother turning to Jell-O every time I tried to pick him up. At one point, an extremely nervous member of staff came up to me, handed me a sticker with a look of desperation and longing for peace, and proceeded to walk away without saying a single word. The entire store seemed to glare at me as I walked out, a collective sigh of relief uttered as the door shut.

And that, my dear children, is why I never go out.

Well, let me start this by thanking Kim for all the wonderful zebragus photos she sent me. They really did make me day. But alas, with the strains of everyday life I forgot to make your prize. That is, I forgot until a few days ago.

And then I forgot again because I went to a cabin for Labor Day weekend and didn’t bring drawing stuff with me.

But it is now finally done! Behold Kim, your winnings. You will receive an email which contains a full resolution scan of your drawing/prize minus the crappy watermark, but until then, a glimpse of what you have won. Do with it as you please; hang it up on a wall, put it on a computer, draw a mustache on him; it’s up to you. I hope you enjoy your prize as much as I enjoyed your pictures.

Obligatory Reminder: Complete. Initiating normal post, entitled “Things I Would Save In a Fire, Part One.”

That’s right! I’m too unoriginal to come up with something more unique for a post. Instead though, I offer a simple, new, and hopefully reoccurring feature. I present unto you “Things I Would Save In a Fire.”

While most people would try to save their precious valuables, I take a different stance on the matter; I would take the weird/awesome stuff that largely cannot be replaced. Or at least it can’t be replaced without losing some of its emotional connection or impact. Sure, I would of course grab things such as my laptop and, well… clothes, but there are a few things that I would be devastated without, even if I don’t show them the love they deserve. 

So without further ado, I present to you what is probably one of my favorite, and to the outside world, least valuable, possessions.

That’s right; it’s a hand-written note from Little Brother number one. It currently adorns the door to my room, and I pass it a hundred times everyday. It still makes me smile. In the case of a blazing fire, this note would most definitely be saved. I only wish that I had kept its corresponding envelope, addressed to “Ms. ANNA, roOm by kiTchen, houSe.”

Don’t you wish your brothers would write letters like this to you, their “second favorite sister in the whole wide world”?

And yes, that is an actual quote.

No matter where I may fall numerically on the favorite sibling list, the note is still one of those things that made my day when I got it, and I hope that I never lose it. After all, how many people get official acceptance letters to “Hogwargs”?