Monday, February 28, 2011

So not normal.

I realized something potentially bad last night.

I can’t tell when I’m getting hit on.

Very rarely if it’s really blatant, I might.  But even then I usually can’t tell (with the exception of when I was working at Payless, but that was REALLY blatant and by very unattractive people).

How can I not tell, you ask?  I just think people are really nice to me all the time.  I’m used to people giving me things or discounting things, or just smiling a lot.  That’s not flirting; that’s friendliness…  Right?

I think maybe the problem is that I don’t feel as if I’m THAT attractive, that I would just have people flirting with me all the time.  I know I have a decent face, big boobs, and decent legs.  But I personally feel as if everything else is kind of eh, and my general ‘ness’ is kind of entertaining at times; so I think everyone else feels that way, too.  That I’m probably a pretty cool person, but not necessarily do-able or someone they would want to actually be romantically involved with.

Also, if I assume people are just generally friendly, I can’t be wrong and I can’t get hurt. 

Recently I started doing this thing that I think will drive my friends nuts pretty soon.

I text one of them when I think I may have gotten hit on and tell them what happened.    Then they tell me I got hit on and ask about the guy.  Unless I got hit on by a girl, in which case for some reason I magically am able to realize what happened and text a friend to tell them about it.  It doesn’t happen that often because of the area I live in, so I have to share.

I guess I just don’t understand.  How do I tell the difference between flirting and friendly?

I can tell when one of my girl friends is being flirted with…  Why can I not tell when it happens to me?

And, while we’re on this subject, do I always pick the awful guys?  They hit me, cry, or both.  They can’t just be men.  And what is it about the way that boys are being raised today that makes them pussies as adults?

Anyway, back to the original subject.  I know, I’m super awesome at derailing, but we have to get back on track at some point…  Choo, choo!  (Omg I haven’t even had caffeine yet today.  What is going on?!)

Just once I want to be able to tell when a man I might have interest in is attracted to me.  And maybe be able to make a pass at him without being a super huge dork-- although that might require me not to be a super huge dork.  So it’s probably impossible. 

Or I would love to be able to go out with my parents and not have them talking about the guys that were staring at me the whole time we’re out and have any idea at all of what the hell they’re talking about. 

It’s kind of a weird feeling, this obliviousness. 

Can someone give me telltale signs?  Some kind of clue? 

Maybe if I knew what I was looking for it would help me.

In other news, I pierced my lip. 

It’s adorable.


Suck it, haters.

(Not my lip.  That's just gross; I don't even know you.)

Friday, February 25, 2011

The Juice

I don’t like meat.  

Red meat, really.  

I’ll eat chicken and turkey sometimes, but that’s pretty much it—except for bacon.  I have a love/hate relationship with bacon.  I love it (when it’s almost burned and the fat is super crispy) and it hates me.  Bacon and eggs?  So freaking delicious…  While I’m eating it.  45 minutes later when I’m burping it up?  Not so much.  

Lately I’ve noticed I really don’t have a lot of energy.  It’s been insanely difficult to drag my butt out of bed every morning for work.  And voice lessons.  And church.  I pretty much never get to sleep in.  I was having trouble focusing at work and in class, to the point where I starting drinking a bottle of Coke every day.  I try super hard not to do that because Coke is pretty much the number one reason (maybe number two; french fries are probably number one) I gain weight.  However, I can’t handle the amount of caffeine in regular coffee or energy drinks, so Coke is my caffeine of choice.  It used to be Pepsi, but now I can just feel Pepsi eating away at my stomach.  

It’s awesome.

Anyway, lack of focus, lethargy, general ass-dragging.  

I take my vitamins every morning, so I assumed I wasn’t lacking some essential nutrient.  Except, remember how I don’t really like meat?  That means I don’t really eat meat.  I love cheese, but I haven’t been eating a lot of it, either.  

I started and stopped drinking a protein supplement last year because I need to have something solid and bread-y first thing in the morning; it helps “soak up” all the acid that builds up in my stomach while I sleep.  I know the best time to drink the protein shake is in the morning, and by afternoon I want actual food, anyway.

This week, I decided to forgo one of the slices of buttered wheat toast/toastwich* I usually eat for breakfast and try to eat one slice of dry sourdough and do the protein supplement again.

Holy.  Crap.

I started noticing a difference yesterday.  I didn’t really think much of it.  I wondered why I wasn’t feeling crazy tired, since the most sleep I’ve gotten all week is maybe seven hours and I’m an eight or nine hour girl. 

By Friday, I would typically be dragging—especially considering how little sleep I’ve been getting.  

This morning, I got up when my third alarm went off, instead of waiting for the fourth one like I usually do.  And I didn’t have a problem getting up.


So I decided to do what I always do when I don’t know much about something and Googled “protein deficiency.”  


Looks like I’m back on the juice.

*Toastwich is a breakfast food I created based loosely on McMuffins.  Except there is no egg.  Or Canadian bacon.  (Both of which I actually like; I just don't have time to prepare them at work.)  I toast two slices of bread, put some mustard on one side of each piece of toast, put a slice of cheddar cheese on one, and smash the other piece of toast on top.  (I'm like the fucking Hulk with bread.)  The warmth of the toast melts the cheese, thus creating a tasty breakfast sangwich. 

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Heinz 57... Catching up.

So, this week I’ve had a paper and a test in one class and a speech due in another.  Work has also been surprisingly busy.   Which is why it’s been a little longer than usual since my last blog.  

Sorry, my love.   (You know who you are.)

Let’s catch up, okay?

My hands are super dry right now.  I’m sure I’m not drinking enough water, but I’ve been drinking a little more than usual, so I don’t understand why my hands are even MORE dry.  Advice?  Anyone?  

I purchased my first pair of those sweater leggings.  I’ve been avoiding them for over a year now and finally caved.  

Holy crap, people!  Why have I not been wearing these, you know, since birth?!  I may never wear pants again.  I’m not even joking…  Except that I did wear pants yesterday.  But I made the no-pants decision this morning, so yesterday doesn’t count.  Unless it gets really cold.  In which case, I might wear pants. 

Maybe I should start working out more often for this plan to come together.

My thighs leave a little something to be desired and I could definitely stand to decrease some of the space occupied by my boo-tay.  Not that I don’t look good in leggings.  And not that I will stop wearing them just because my ass is not tiny.  They are far too comfortable for that.  

Hello, salad and leg lifts.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I said I was going to start jogging?  Yeah.  Haven’t done that yet.  I’ve been trying to walk my dog when I have time to do that, at least.  He’s loving it.  In all reality, so am I.  I need to keep my blood moving.  And I’m determined to wear the bathing suit top I just bought this summer.  It’s hot pink leopard print.  Eat your hearts out.  (I don’t really understand that phrase.  Why would you eat your own heart?  And what should you eat it with?  A spoon, perhaps?  Are you eating it out of a bowl or your ribcage?)

Part of my problem is that I always have things to do.  I was going to jog Saturday.  I ended up running errands with my mom, then going to dinner with one of my besties and the ‘rents.  (Thought spring rolls would be safe because I don’t like the pork egg rolls…  Was WRONG.  Apparently I can only tolerate cabbage when it’s more soggy and less crispy.)  Also, it’s not so fun to jog when you just had coffee.  For me, at least.  I don’t like the dairy-running feeling.   Then we went out with another friend…  Until, like, 2 AM.

Sunday I went to church, had an awesome brunch, then took a two hour nap.  It was fabulous.  Except for the four hours of laundry.

In other news, I’m considering another piercing.  I already know what tattoo I want next and where I’m going to put it.  

If anyone has an opinion on either of those things, I’d love to hear it.  Really. 
Promise I’ll write a better post either tomorrow or Saturday, okay?

Monday, February 21, 2011

Crisp and Clean

A couple years ago, I purchased my first bed.  Outside the twin bed I'd been sleeping on since I was two, of course.  But I can't really say I purchased that.  My parents did.  And, while I still loved that bed, I was twenty, about to move into my own place, and, since I'd been sleeping on it for eighteen years, my little twin bed wasn't really cutting it anymore.  It was pretty creaky and I had to sleep in a very specific place or I'd get jabbed in the rib.  I think the mattress was getting tired and cranky.  Really.  Really.  Cranky.

I had the money, so my parents convinced me to buy a new bed.  It was queen sized.  I still love it.

When I moved out, I took it with me and my then-boyfriend and I slept on it for almost the entire time we lived together.  It was the perfect size. 

I brought it with me when I left.

It’s still the perfect size.  For just me.  And the pillows I keep along the side.  I think I've mentioned those before.  I'm sure I will again.

My dog has his own bed.  But for some reason lately he's been trying to sleep on mine with me.  It is a little small for that.  He's there now...  Squashing my feet and making it unbearably hot under my covers.


He looks so content.


The thing about my bed is this: it's rather oddly sized.  Until my dad mentioned something about it the other night, I had forgotten my box springs are on the floor because it is so TALL.  At one point I had it in a loft frame, too.  Never.  Again.  I felt like I was one with the ceiling.

The other thing about my bed is that the mattress is super thick.  I love it because it's so comfy, but it ticks me off because I never have sheets that fit.

For three years, I've been using mix and match sheets I stole out of my parents' linen closet.  The pockets on the standard queen sheets are just not deep enough for my insanely thick mattress.  So they get all pissy and slip up.  And I end up pushing my fitted sheet to the corners of my bed every night so I'm not sleeping on the bare mattress.  Because that's just gross. 

Sometimes I use king-sized sheets.  This almost works because the pockets fit better.  But I have to fashion sheet suspenders with zip ties, bubble gum, and rubber bands in order to McGuyver my sheets into even remotely wanting to stay in one spot.  Instead of wadding up in the middle.  Where I sleep.  Because they are king-sized assholes. 

Last night, I finally broke down and bought a set of sheets.

They are very specifically mine that I did not steal from anyone's linen closet. 

They are light green.  They are Ralph Lauren.  They are 100% cotton.  And, most importantly, they are perfect.  The pockets, I mean.  The sheets are awesome in general.  But color and thread count were quite honestly not my primary concern in this purchase. 

The pockets, however.  BIG concern.  And they fit just like a glove.

A big, square, elastic edged, green, cotton-y bed-glove. 



I think I'm in love.


Last night my dog woke me up five times.  Not because he wanted outside.  Because he didn't want to sleep in HIS bed.  He wanted to sleep in MY bed.  ON ME.


Thursday, February 17, 2011

The cranks.

The parking lot at my work has turned into a river I will have to wade across to get to my car this afternoon.

I was trying to write a post about how I hate that restaurants are now adding caloric information to their menus and it completely ruins my eating-out experience.  But I suddenly started feeling icky.

Like, sinus/head weirdness icky.

It's snowing everywhere around me.  It was snowing at my house when I left this morning.  But not at my work.  Which is weird because my work is at a higher elevation than my work.  But, no.

I have to find a reed to breathe through to get across the freaking Nile to my car and everyone else is all frolicking and happy and shit.

No.  I'm not cranky at all.  Shut up.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Potty Training

I'm supposed to be working on the outline for a speech about my pet peeves right now.  But I'm not.

In my defense, I did some of it.  It's just that it's soo boooring.  Also, I can only use up to three pet peeves.  How is that fair?

I mean, I hate everything.

For instance, I hate public bathrooms.  Unless I'm on the road or in a place with limited options, I have predetermined places I am willing to use the toilet.  Top of the list?  Macy's.  I will NOT go into a gas station bathroom in my own town.  Because I can go to Macy's.  It's cleaner, I can look at shoes on the way out, and I don't have to deal with the gas station attendant staring at me like I'm stealing because I don't need gas and I don't want to have to buy a Kit-Kat in order to take a piss.  I will go to the mall to pee in Macy's. 

If I'm already at the mall, my second option is Payless because I used to work there and they let me use the employee bathroom still.  It's a one-room-er. Which is nice because I don't have to wonder about the weirdo who doesn't know the rules about picking stalls in an un-crowded public bathroom and who I am convinced wants to steal my shoes and listen to me pee.

As far as I'm concerned, there is nowhere else to pee in the mall.  NOWHERE.

And yes, I am aware there are public bathrooms in the mall.  That area is more like a vortex in the corner of the food court.  I will acknowledge its general existence, but I don't want to go over there and get stuck in it.

Other places I will pee include certain sit-down restaurants.  Where I live, I will use the bathroom at Cool Hand Luke's, Casa Ramos, and Yuet Bistro.  Steakhouse, Mexican, and Chinese.  At least I don't discriminate!

If absolutely necessary, I will use the toilet in TJ Maxx or Barnes and Noble.  TJ Maxx is just creepy because you have to wander back into the stockroom to get to it and I feel weird going through doors that are marked “Employees Only” when I am very much aware I am not an employee.  I wish I could say I was really okay with the Barnes and Noble bathroom.  But I'm not.  I'll use it if I'm going to pee my pants or I can't get to Macy's anytime soon.  Otherwise, it's too damp. 

As you can see, this is a rather short list of places to pee. 

I will go at the movie theater sometimes because I just can't hold it anymore and want to enjoy my movie instead of squirming.  Wal-Mart?  Fuck.  No.  Target?  Never even considered it.  Something about having to wander past the snack area to get there freaks me the hell out.  Fast food restaurants are also a no, unless in cases of emergency. 

Pooping is not an option in public toilets.  I like to pretend I don't do it, so I would most definitely need some privacy if it was something I were going to do.  If I feel as if I may have a bathroom emergency, I will try to gauge whether or not I think I can make it home, then pray for the 12 minute drive from town to my house that I don't shit myself.

Not that I could do that, since I don't do that.

I lucked out at my job because there are only two people, including me, who are regularly in the office.  There are only a couple other people who use the bathroom there.  And I am the one who cleans it.  So I know how clean it is (the toilet is pristine, btw) and whose ass has touched the seat. I'm not in to sharing cooties with strangers.

I'm not sure what the point of this post is anymore.

Except, if you ever need to know a safe place to take a piss, you know who to ask.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Pink & Black

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I thought it would be fun to look at one of my Valentine’s past, in a semi-Scrooge-y way.

Sound great, right? 

I know.  I have the best ideas.

So, four years ago, I had semi-broken up with my boyfriend (who I actually didn’t want to leave) when I moved to another city five hours away.  I had been there a month on Valentine’s Day.  

We still talked all the time; we texted or IM-ed all day, and I would call him frequently as I walked to and from class.  We still said we loved each other.  We still seemed like we were in a relationship.

On Valentine’s Day I received a box of roses that he had ordered to be shipped to me, since he couldn’t come see me.  It was the best Valentine’s I had ever had up to that point in my life.

A week later, on Yahoo IM, he told me he had cheated on me.  Twice.  

The first time was with his most recent ex about a week after I officially became his girlfriend.  They fucked in her car and he kept it a secret from me for six months before finally telling me.  Over IM.  The second was within the last week or so (the details are a little fuzzy on that one because I was already so mad).  He fooled around with his old high school girlfriend.

He told me it would never happen again.

So, the next day I hacked his Myspace and read the messages he had sent her that day telling her they should do it again sometime soon.

My friend took me, my roses, and some matches to the beach.  We bought lighter fluid. 

Then this happened:



We may have taken pictures of the entire thing and sent them to him later that night, but I really just can’t be sure…

Then we wrapped the entire charred bouquet back up and let the tide carry it off into the night.

This is the first year I really truly haven’t been annoyed at the prospect of Valentine’s Day. I feel as if I’m becoming “perpetually single.”  And I am truly okay with that.  I have more important things to worry about that whether or not a man wants me.  I feel better about myself now than I ever have in a relationship.  Also, I can’t really hate a holiday, fake or not, that makes boxes of chocolate readily available to me in pretty much any retail location I visit.  Also, sometimes there are good V-Day lingerie sales and I am a huge sucker for sexy panties and Victoria’s Secret perfume.  

Since my two favorite colors are black and pink, and Valentine’s Day is very pink-appropriate, I decided to wear only those two colors today.  Down to my underwear.  No joke.  I am rocking the pink extensions, black CFM heels, and a pink and black flouncy tutu at work.  

Which officially makes this an awesome day.


Happy V-Day, everyone!

Sunday, February 13, 2011

It's about shit and shopping. I warned you.

So... About this weekend.

I was supposed to have learned a seven page opera aria (solo vocal piece from an opera) this last week to perform at an audition this afternoon. I didn't have time between working full time and the ten hours I spend in night classes each week, as well as making up for everything I missed while doing performances last week, so I really didn't have much of a chance to learn it. Not knowing the music is a very good reason not to do an audition, so I canceled it. Which caused my day to pan out very differently than expected.

I went grocery shopping with my parents. For three hours.

Then I went to the mall.

I didn't actually go for me, mind you. I went because my mom wanted me to get her bandeau bras and legging shorts like the ones I got last week from Wet Seal. But I ended up getting two dresses and leggings for myself, as well. I need to stop going there.

I also got perfume at Victoria's Secret. I love Victoria's Secret.

Then I walked my dog. Which was great; the weather was beautiful today and it felt like I was in Eureka-- without the fog or the awesomeness of the ocean. So, plus and minus.

I have three indoor cats. I had to empty their litter boxes, which hadn't been emptied in a week. And DEAR GOD. It was awful.

The cat I got when I lived with my ex is extremely OCD and every time the litter boxes get too full for his liking, he finds a rug to shit on. Usually in the general area of the litter boxes. But still, he appeared to have been at it for a day or two. (I haven't been in the garage in a couple days, so I didn't know how bad it was.) He might weigh eight pounds at most, but this cat can SHIT. Apparently.

And soiled cat litter, when in a heavy black trash bag, is super heavy.

Even industrial waste trash bags that should be able to transport body parts without issue cannot withstand the weight of soiled cat litter... That only takes up 1/3 of the space of the bag. And holes start to form of their own volition right after you pick the bag up. Before you can attempt to shove it out the garage door you can only get up two feet and before you even try to shove it around the crap piled outside the ENTIRE door.

* Sigh *

So, now I'm watching The Proposal for the second time in the last week. God, I love this movie. And naked Ryan Reynolds. LOVE naked Ryan Reynolds.

It takes two to make a thing go right... It takes two to make it out of sight.”

Okay, maybe I just love Ryan Reynolds. Period. Ever since Two Guys, a Girl, and a Pizza Place. Even before Two Guys and a Girl.

Which means I was like ten when I fell for Ryan Reynolds.


Now, to end a perfectly strange weekend, I need to shave my legs. Not that anyone will be touching them.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Just Like a Rabbit... Kinda.

I really feel like I’ve spent the last decade or so trying to escape myself.  

How is that possible?  I’m only 23…

But the hormonal mess that was Junior High was not (in the beginning, at least) especially good to me. 

Let me tell you something you already know (if you are a woman or have daughters):  Girls can be cruel.  Women can also be cruel, but there is a specific kind of insanity that occurs when the hormones start kicking around in a 12 year-old female’s body. 

Sixth grade was the only year I faked being sick in order to stay home from school.

Up until then, I was a (sort of) loud, friendly, ham-it-up kind of girl.  I even loved to run.  So I was super skinny.

I became fairly introverted.  I never exercised.  I felt as if people thought I was unapproachable.  Which may have been because I was, at least a little bit.

The biggest change that occurred was that I needed people; I felt like I needed a man.

I know.  So unhealthy.

As a kid, I would frequently play by myself even when I had the option of playing with other kids.  Not that I didn’t like the other kids.  They just didn’t play my games the way I wanted them to.  Also, Barbie and Ken liked their naked alone time and I didn’t want to deprive them of that.

By the time I was twenty, I wouldn’t even go to the grocery store by myself.  Unless I very desperately needed tampons.  But sometimes even then I would ask my mom to go for me. 

*Side note- I hate being that girl who goes to Target and only needs to buy a box of Playtex Gentle Glides, so she buys an extra tube of mascara and a package of Milano cookies so it looks like she doesn’t just need tampons (even though it still does), and gets in the long line for the old lady cashier (because I am NOT buying tampons from the hot guy cashier, no matter how cool he seems to be with it), only to wait for fifteen minutes and have the old cashier go on break and be replaced by a young guy even hotter than the cashier whose line she could have been through and in her car eating cookies already, had she wanted him to know she's actually a real woman and not a cyborg who doesn’t bleed.*

Anyway, a couple years ago I was going through a lot of self-analysis and, after a few conversations with a friend, I realized that I hadn’t been my true self in a long time.  And I was tired of faking it. 

Two years later, I am closer to the real version of me than I have been in 12 years. 

I must say, I haven’t been this comfortable in my own skin or this happy in as long. 

I don’t care what people think; I wear a pink wig at work (sometimes).  I go out without makeup on.  I initiate conversations without feeling weird about it.  I smile.  I laugh.  I go out with my friends.  I am confident again.

There’s really only one thing left to work on.


It’s going to be difficult.  It’s been a long time.  I hate running shoes.  And the feeling when sweat dries in my hair.  (It is not “glistening” when it’s dripping, people.)  I hate cramps in my side.  I hate my night classes three nights a week interfering.   Most of all, I hate that I can feel the fat in my stomach and thighs moving around and I hate that I have to wear a sports bra over my regular bra because neither of them does shit to support me when I’m trying to run.  Stupid boobs.

But I can do this.

I can do this.


Monday, February 7, 2011

And... It Totally Did

When I was about eleven, I pined for boobs.  

When I was about twelve, I got them.  

In the beginning, I was approximately the same size as most of my friends.  Maybe a little bit bigger.  But I was not the girl in the class that had to start wearing a bra in fourth grade and, up until probably my freshman or sophomore year in high school, I could still go without a bra and look good.

Alas, I did not stop growing until seventeen.  By then I had surpassed the “My, what nice, firm breasts you have” category and jumped straight into “Bam!  Ta-tas!”

Buying t-shirts is a dangerous game in this category, let me tell you.

Bathing suits?  Also awful.

A couple of years ago I dropped from a size 15/16 to a size 8 and my then boyfriend convinced me I looked super hot in a bikini, thus beginning my secret love affair with skimpy swimming attire.  The problem is not so much that I’ve put about ten pounds back on since starting a desk job last year, but more that I have to shop in January to even come close to finding tops that fit.  

I’m even starting to appreciate that stores sell bathing suit pieces separately, even if they only to it for monetary gains, because I have to purchase a top and bottom in completely different sizes and it saves me from having to buy two bathing suits.  

And halter tops?  No.  Way.

Last year I found the perfect polka dot bandeau top at Target and in a couple years, when I’m tired of it and the fabric starts to really wear, I am fucked.  

The only clothing item huge boobs come in handy for is lingerie.  And not even normal lingerie.  Corsets.  You know, as long as I can get them to stay most of the way in the corset.

Which was the problem with my dress this weekend.  It has a corset (with boning) top that my kajungas just barely fit into.  Yet, somehow, I was the only one who noticed.  Maybe that was because I had to zip it all the way up around my waist, then put the straps over my shoulders and push my boobs down into it.  

Then figure out how to breathe.  While singing.  No biggie.  

In other news, I’m convinced I need to take a short-ish trip on the diet train.  The booby part was perhaps not the only portion of the dress seeming a little snug.  It was just the most snug.

That being said, I really want some french fries.  I’m starving.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

I only hope the dress doesn't squash my boobs this time.

I think I could get used to this.  

Not the splitting headache and complete lack of any kind of sleep whatsoever. 

But to the double life.

I work full time as an office assistant and receptionist.  I love my job.  I love the people I work with/for.  But getting up early Monday through Friday doesn’t make me a morning person.  I would totally consider the downgrade in pay if I could start two hours later and work six hours instead of eight.  Alas, it’s not in the cards.

I also go to night school three days a week.  Right now I’m trying to finish up my AA and transfer to a university in the fall.  

That is my normal double life.

This week, my nights have been filled with dress rehearsals and performances. I’ve skipped (with the teachers’ knowledge and general acceptance of the situation) every one of my night classes.  I got home after midnight Tuesday and I’m sure I will again tonight. 

I am sleep deprived, dehydrated, my head aches, and I’m just about a billion times more A.D.D. than usual (I’m starting to take inventory of everything pink in the room).  It’s stressful and I hardly even have time to eat, but it is so worth it.

Singing opera isn’t exactly what I saw myself doing during the “what do I want to be when I grow up” game at 14, but, aside from writing, it’s one of the most fulfilling things I have ever done.  It’s also one of the most difficult.  I have a hard time keeping everything I’m supposed to do in my head at once.  But maybe that’s why it keeps me interested. 

So, while you’re comfy-cozy on your bed tonight, watching Gray’s Anatomy or whatever the hell it is that’s on Thursday nights now (I don’t know, obviously), I’ll be donning my fake eyelashes (I like to think of them as "falsies") and wandering out onto a brightly lit stage to sing an apology to my lover…  With a little extra lipstick and without a microphone.

P.S. If this post seemed scattered and off, it’s because I was multitasking and taking a desperately needed catnap while writing it.