to glen bron three weeks after fathers day because i suck at doing things on time

when i was little, i would lie in bed and listen to all the sounds of the night. i had all my family members' sounds memorized, a symphony of familiarity. they were all comforting in a way, letting me know that even though i was alone in my room, i was never really alone. i could always tell it was my dad walking down the hall because his knee creaked. back and forth i could hear it as he paced down the hallway, his left knee, the one i sat on when he picked me and my older sister up. when i was sure there were monsters underneath my bed, i would listen for that creak as he went around locking the doors. it was a lullaby that lulled me to sleep at night, a night light for a little girl petrified of the dark. i could always listen for the creak, and it always came.

when i was a bit bigger, id still get scared at night sometimes. sixteen years old, and still having nightmares. id go running into my parents room trembling and half awake. id feel stupid by the time i got there, but my dad would say "its okay shanny." then he would let me sleep at the foot of their bed, like a dog the size of a teenage girl. he would always get up super early to go to work, and i would listen for the sounds of his standard morning routine as he shuffled around the bathroom. he'd pee for a while, then shower, then dig through his ties. every morning, like clockwork, he'd come out with multiple options to ask my mom which one looked best. id always pretend to be asleep, but id be secretly waiting for him to emerge from his cave of suit coats and dress shirts with two different colors of ties, and he always came.

when i was even bigger, i came home from college for christmas break with a bout of whooping cough and broken confidence. my mom had died a little bit ago, and i wasnt dealing very well. i had signed up to go to mexico next semester, but i was a broken woman who couldnt even get out of the house, let alone go help people in rural mexico. i felt defeated and alone. one night i was crying and i needed someone to care more than anything in the world, and then my dad came in. he sat me down and told me we would figure this out together. we kneeled side by side, at the foot of his bed right next to my old spot, and we prayed. a couple of days later, he drove me to the airport, dropped me off with a suitcase and a smile, and told me that i was going to have an incredible experience. i did. i laughed and i loved and i lived and i ate beans, and i learned about myself and about loving other people. i will never be the same. and it was all because when needed my dad, he came.

now i am older, still confused and unsure of what to do with my life, still afraid of the dark, still in need of confidence and reassurance and love, and still scared of the unknown. the foot of my dad's bed is thousands of miles away. my dad has a new wife to tell him which ties look good with which shirts. he has different children to attend to and different mouths to feed. i dont have whooping cough anymore, and hope never to have it again. life is busy and different than it used to be, and i have to act like a grown up. im told they are not afraid of a whole lot. but sometimes when i get scared at night, i can hear the creak of my daddy's knee, and i know he will always come.

a fun game.

a fun game i like to play sometimes is called: tell your face to act out a certain emotion. its like charades, between you and your face. i have been playing this game since the purchase of my macbook 2 years ago. there have been several good games of charades between me and my face. my face usually wins. the winner gets a photo shoot on photobooth all to his or herself. these were some winners i found today while browsing through photobooth:
this one was: you havent gone #2 in three weeks.

this one was: ive had influenza for 3.4 weeks and it made my eyeballs disappear.

this one was: morph into a 300 pound woman with chicken grease all over her face.

as you can see, my face is very good at this game.

lrc i love you.

i love when the man next to me in the lrc is watching made: i want to be a baseball player on mtv.com.

i love when the power all over campus turns off and the library is evacuated, and all i want is an aluminum blanket, a ham radio, and a group sing along to kumbayah.

i love when there are two 12 year old boys sitting behind me in the lrc that have been engaged in playing some sort of alien video game for 3.5 hours, and not realizing that they are in the library, have grunted multiple times in their pursuit to kill.

i love gchat, but my love for it will never exceed my love for aim. RIP Wnderchic. you were a good friend. you made me e-popular. i salute you. you improved my typing skills more than mavis beacon ever will. thank you gchat, for making internet chatting cool again.

i love caffeine. i love 32 oz of caffeine tucked in the front of my backpack, past the library security guards, every day for the last 2 years, and promptly displayed in front of my computer in the lrc.

and i love that when my best friend since i was 4 and i say our final goodbyes in the lrc when we will most likely never live in the same city again, instead of embracing, we ghostride facebook together one last time.

lrc, youre gunna miss me.

obama fist bumps. and so do i.

i have been an active fist bumper since the ripe age of 7. though the specific motions have varied throughout the ages, the fist bump itself has remained a stable, a constant in my toolbox of touches. i am a self diagnosed hug phobic and used to be a touch phobic, especially public touch, and especially touch initiated by others. typing those words just made my insides feel weird. i hated christmas, because it meant i would have to hug my cousins. when my cousin jake came home from his mission, i hid in the airport bathroom so there would be no forced touching between us. you think i exaggerate, but this is all 100 percent fact. the fist bump provided a perfect solution to all my touching woes: it lasts a split second, the only contact that occurs is between fists, and it reinforces good feelings and glad tidings without any sort of awkward, unnecessary body contact.

i perfected my fist bumping skills in 7th and 8th grade, when forced hugging both when you saw someone and when you parted ways was a must to be a cool kid. unfortunately, i was a cool kid, so i was assaulted by hugs from sweaty 7th grade boys left and right. school was a touching nightmare. i had lots of friends. this meant 30-40 hugs a day. for someone that will go to great lengths to avoid one forced hug, 30-40 was out of the picture. i was being touched too much. touch could come at any time, without warning, and i was never prepared. something had to be done to prevent this invasion of personal space.

though i had been an active fist bumper for the duration of my elementary school years, jr high is when fist bumping became my saving grace. extend a fist, avoid a sweaty hug. fist bumping was a dream compared to a forced hug in which no one knows where to put their arms, your jansport backpack is providing blockage to essential areas needed to complete the touch, and at any moment, with the wrong head turn, your ear could suction to their cheek (has that ever happened to you? in the todem pole of awkward things that could happen during a forced touch, the ear suction is at the top, no questions asked). with fist bumps, there are no questions of full frontal vs. side, height differences, girl arms on top or boy arms, two armed or one, back pat, duration, did i put on deodorant this morning? there is no chance of accidental awkward body part touching. it is intimate without being awkward. and that is how in 7th and 8th grade, i became known as the fist bumper.

though i have gotten less awkward in recent times, i am still not a fan of the forced hug. i have gone to great lengths to avoid the end of the date hug. i am not ashamed to say i have utilized the fist bump as an end of the date hug replacement. brad packer knows what im talking about. it doesnt mean i didnt have a good time. i am just not good at hugging, as my friend chateau was always quick to point out. i am a one armed hugger at best, and my body stiffens to a dead board. who wants to hug a dead board after a magical night together? (i guess all boards are dead, but if you have hugged me in recent times, you know what i mean). fist bumping, on the other hand, is one of my touching talents. i have good hand eye coordination, and a knack for hitting my target. your fist never leaves my fist not feeling good, while my ability to end of the date hug is up there with my ability to match articles of clothing. nonexistent.

though maybe during my jr high years i was not proud of this talent, i am no longer going to hide my fist bumping skills under a bushel. if barack fist bumps when he finds out he received the democratic nomination for the white house, possibly one of the largest feats of all time, then fist bumping is the new top of the todem pole of touch. he could have cried, he could have kissed his wife on the mouth, he could have smoked a victory cigarette, he could have picked her up and whirled her around. but he fist bumped, because he wanted to. and maybe you dont, but i understand exactly how barack was feeling, and i salute him. the fist bump is a token of friendship that can be exchanged with anyone, no matter their height, race, sexual preference, age or hygiene habits. it doesnt discriminate. it just loves. with that fist bump, barack told us: im just one of you. anyone can vote for me, just like anyone can fist bump. i touch my wifes fist. i will touch yours.

so next time you see me and i bump your fist, dont feel offended. im touching you the way i know best. knuckles are the new waist. double bumps are the new back pat. fist bumping is sweeping the nation. fist bump is love. pass it on.

let the bodies hit the floor.

new favorite saturday night activity: convulsing to the sounds of rob zombie with megan allen and nicholas cottrell. apartment destroyed. head banged. punk rock sign held high. happiness felt in heart. thank you rob, for believing in me. you're a good man.