Foot Fetish?

I have really, really gross feet.

Really. You have no idea. All the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten these little feet. It's like they're a breeding ground for calluses (calli?) and blisters and fungus and just general GROSSNESS.

Maybe it's because I'm a soccer player. Maybe it's because I wear flip-flops and high heels and shoes that are bad for my feet. Maybe it's because I wear shower shoes and can't easily wash them. I don't know. They're gross. There's no escaping it.

Over the summer my mom dragged me to a spa and we got pedicures, and we had to apologize to the poor woman who had to practically hacksaw the nasty calluses off my feet. She made them all nice and pretty and within a week they were gross again. It's my curse. I just have gross feet. I will never, ever be able to marry anyone with a foot fetish because they'll HATE me. I'll have to run away and join a convent because no one will ever love me again (which is bad, because I'm not Catholic - not to mention I wouldn't look good in a habit) and I'll take a vow of silence and refuse to talk to anyone ever again because my feet are THAT GROSS.

This morning I got back from my ungodly-early chemistry lab and took off my shoes and woke up my poor roommate because I was 'ewwwing' over the nasty blisters forming on my heels. Then I popped one just for fun and discovered that there was ANOTHER blister under it - right where my flip-flops rub.

I almost took a picture to post it for proof, but I'll spare you your eyes. (And gag reflexes.)

Guess who's NOT wearing flip-flops today? :)

So Which Is It?

Remember when people used to say that humans only use 10% of their brains? (LIE, by the way.) Even if I didn't already know it was false, I wouldn't be able to believe it because of all the random stuff going on in my head.

Map of my brain:



(I may need to reevaluate my priorities... but that's not the point of this post.)

Each of these segments comes with its own distinct voice and personality. For example, I imagine the Useless Knowledge segment as Alex Trebek, complete with the old nineties mustache. Music inexplicably speaks in the voice of my high school choir director (with occasional input from my Auntie Jon) while Responsibility hasn't progressed past infant stage and therefore can't talk, just wails in the corner while the other pieces of my brain ignore it. Sports is a meaner version of myself complete with shinguards and dirt-smeared elbows (from falling all the time) whereas Useful Crap is me in a lab coat. The compiled References personality has bad posture and is cross-eyed from staring at a screen all the time.

All in all, my imaginary brain looks something like this:



There's this site called StumbleUpon that has to be the greatest website EVER for us ADOS (that's Attention Deficit Ooo Shiny) kids, and the other day it led me to a piece of interesting trivia: in South Africa, there was a Sesame Street puppet named Kami who was HIV positive and an orphan, to help kids deal with a circumstance that's not all that uncommon in South Africa.

My brain was in at least fifty different places:

Music: 'Sunny days, sweepin' the clouds away...' Hey, I bet I could transcribe that... Let's see, what are those chords?
Entertainment References: Hey, Final Fantasy XII had a whole bunch of orphans in it! Also, 'Invictus' took place in South Africa.
Sports: So did the FIFA World Cup this year! ...Curse you, Spain, you PIECE OF CRAP! GERMANY SHOULD HAVE WON!
Useless Knowledge: 'Kami' is the Japanese word for God!
Entertainment References: I'm sure I've seen that in an anime somewhere!
Useful Stuff: HIV leads to AIDS, which attacks your immune system!
Music: Hey, that reminds me of RENT!
Responsibility: ...Don't I have homework to be doing?
Everyone Else: NO. GO AWAY.

Conclusion: I'm either a freaking genius or a multiple personality disorder patient. You decide.

Pigeons

My friends and I have weird class schedules here on campus, but they usually coincide for lunch. And with a few exceptions, lunch for us lasts about an hour while we sit around in Upper Powell and goof off. No, we don't need an hour to eat. It's just not worth the climb up four flights of stairs to get back to the dorm room, only to have to turn around and head to calculus or chem lab or humanities or whatever we happen to have that day.

Anyway, in the extra forty or so minutes that we DON'T need, the topics of conversation can get pretty random. And truth be told, I don't remember exactly how the topic came up (probably David and his random subject changes) but somehow we got to talking about messenger pigeons.

David described them as 'ye olde-time text-messaging services,' which resulted in us contemplating the kinds of 'texts' people might have sent in medieval times.

Imagine, for a moment, that you are a noble with enough money to afford your own messenger pigeons, which are finicky and kind of gross (as well as scary, if you ask my brother). Not only are they a pain to take care of, but they also take a few days to get to where they're going, no doubt. You send a message to your parents, living far away for whatever unknown reason, telling them that you're going to marry the man/woman/(animal?) of your dreams:

You: Forsooth, Mother and Father, I beg your blessing for my upcoming nuptials.

You wait with bated breath for the week or so it takes for your pigeon to reach them (hoping that it actually DOES and doesn't get lost in cyberspace - er, the wilderness). When finally your parents' long-awaited reply arrives, you behold this message:

Father: LOL.

Wouldn't it just piss you off? :)

The Downtown Adventures

After a far-too-short fall break, I'm back on campus again.

The drive back is around four hours, and since I don't have a car, some kind person has to take eight hours out of their day to chauffeur me to school, which is a pretty involved little trip. So generally I find some sort of alternative method of transportation. Since I've been expressly forbidden by multiple parties to ever try hitchhiking, I have instead discovered the MegaBus. It's amazing. For fifteen bucks I can snag a ride to Cincinnati, where I have college friends who will let me tag along. This means that all my dear parents have to do is take an hour or so and drive me downtown to the departure point.

I've done it a couple times now, but this time Mom and I forgot to print out the nice MapQuest directions, so we had to play it by ear, and ended up in a not-very-pretty area of downtown before figuring out where we actually should have been. And on the way out of our little detour, we ran across this completely EPIC intersection that consisted of maybe four different streets coming together and slanting off in random directions, usually one-way.. This of course meant that the stoplight was obnoxiously long, and pedestrians have field days at that sort of intersection.

This one group of kids walked by in tight black pants and t-shirts and multicolored Converses, (mind you, it was about eighty degrees at the time) and Mom was all O_O and I was like, "Look, emos! In their natural habitats!"

Which we both thought was insanely funny.

Then we parked in an area that was CLEARLY marked 'POLICE VEHICLES ONLY), except no one seemed to care, so we were good.



And all this was DURING rush hour, mind you. Yay random adventures.

I'm Pretty Much A Genius.

No, really, I am, because I just figured out how to post pictures! (I know, I know. You're in shock.)

Anyway, I've gone back to a bunch of old posts and stuck in pictures because they make sense and I'm bored. There's really not a point to this post. You just wasted sixty seconds of your life. Muahahahaha. I win.

The Moral Is, Drink Your Milk Like A Good Kid.

For reasons unknown, I have this gift for injuring myself. Namely breaking bones. Maybe it's because I don't get enough calcium, maybe I just have genetically low bone density - or maybe I'm just really great at failing at life at exactly the wrong moments.

Anyway, our intramural soccer team had a game this week, and neither of our two goalies showed up, so guess who had to play goal? Yup - me. Not a huge deal, because I used to play goalie all the time, I just generally prefer playing the field - it's just more exciting. The halves in our league are only twenty minutes long, which is obscenely short, but since only five of our teammates showed up to play it felt like an hour. After it became apparent that we weren't going to be winning (or even coming close), Patrick (our team captain) decided that we would be using goalie as the 'break' position.

Doesn't matter, because even in the grand total of twenty minutes that I played, I managed to injure myself. (I know my family won't be surprised by this. At all.) I'm not in great shape (read as: ridiculously slow) so I have to play a preemptive style of goalie - RUN AT WHOEVER IS COMING AT ME WITH FULL FORCE before they can kick it. Sometimes I get to the ball, sometimes I don't, but about eighty percent of the time it ends in both of us hitting the ground none-too-gracefully. But having not played goalie in a long time, I forgot that these full-body tackles usually work better if you don't flail your limbs in random directions.

Yeah. That happened.

I stopped him scoring, ended up hitting this guy (built like a freight train, might I add) full force with my left arm stretched out retardedly, forcing my last two fingers back further than I'm sure they were ever supposed to go and also bending my elbow wrong, but I don't think the elbow's seriously injured. However, the black-and blue state of my hand (and my vast experience with broken bones and pain) suggests that it is broken in at least one place (pinky knuckle) and perhaps one or two more.

Cue face-palm.

I'm used to having broken fingers, so it hasn't been bothering me too much, except for I keep forgetting it's broken and doing dumb things like trying to open doors with it or using it as a brace to push myself out of bed. Or typing (which hurts, so I'm trying to compensate with other fingers). Or, for example, accidentally dropping my phone down behind Emily's bed and making a dive for it - left-handed - and smashing it against the wall.

Sometimes I hate my life.

UPDATE: I went to have my hand x-rayed yesterday, and ended up with this guy: