A look inside my neurotic mind

I'm honoured. Truly. To think, that not only am I* recognized for my contributions to the blogging world, but for the time I spend wasting...I mean, learning...by reading other blogs, that I spend mindlessly looking for clips on Youtube, and looking up the latest low-fat recipes that I'm not going to use.

I*appreciate recognition for the little influence I* have on the happenings of the world. I* appreciate the recognition for the hours of babysitting work that I do when I'm supposed to be stocking IV solutions in a hospital. I* am eternally grateful, Time, for your realization that I*, have the power to change...little.

Having said all of this, Time, I* appreciate that you have recognized that celebrities and politicians and terrorists are not the only ones who have incredible things happen in their lives, nor are they the only ones who have struggles and pitfalls to overcome. They can do great things and perhaps affect a great many more people than I can, but Time, you have come to understand that they do this with a great deal more money as well as a personal staff/entourage that I could only dream of. Granted, in exchange, I do have those things called "friends" who I don't have to pay for them to hang out with me. That alone makes me* worthy of the title you so kindly gave me*.

Thank you again.



* I= us

Exams, that is. It's tough. It doesn't help that I'm playing the whole avoidance game. I'd rather be blogging than studying. I've baked 5 batches of biscotti this week when I was supposed to be doing homework. Delicious. But short of keeping my notes under my pillow and hoping to learn through osmosis, I've done nothing by way of accomplishing my goal of straight A's this semester. Well, other than all of the hard work I put in this semester, but I've gotten to the point where I'm just tired. Tired of school, tired of anxiety, I just wanna have fun. All this homework, it's givin me a headache.

That's really all I have time to say right now...I really should be studying.

Okay, so dreams are an amazing phenomenon when you think about it. Sometimes they represent issues or anxieties that we experience in day to day life (wow, I'm surprised I don't dream more often). Recurring dreams often mean there is a crisis in your life and they'll usually go away when the crisis is resolved.

Here's my q. What the fuck is it supposed to mean when you dream that you're pregnant? First off, I'm not pregnant. And yes, I'd like to be...in like 5 years. Not right now. Holy shit, I woke up this morning and had to remind myself that it was impossible for biological reasons. But last night I had the most fucked up dream.

First off, I was back working at Starbuck for whatever reason. I don't know why. Second, I was fucking pregnant. With twin girls. AND, they weren't my boyfriends, they weren't even mine. I was a surrogate. Only I didn't know that I was a surrogate or that I was pregnant. I was walking across to the Burger Inn across from the Starbucks I worked at poof, suddenly this guy who's a friend of my brother's, Ari, pops up and he and his dream-wife (I say dream-wife because the guy's NOT MARRIED) tell me that I'm carrying their babies and why am I putting myself in danger by walking across the parking lot?

What the hell?

So in the dream I pretty much have the same thoughtline as real-life Sandra had when I woke up this morning. I say "What? Since when?" and they say "Come one Sandra, you agreed to this months ago."

Clearly. If I'm preggers with your babies it didn't happen by accident, especially since they're not even biologically mine. It's not like I tripped and fell, legs spread, onto an open petri dish and the embryos just hopped into my uterus. Without my knowing about it.

So in the dream I wake up the next day, think that that was a dream, and take like four home pregnancy tests, all of which are positive, and I look into a mirror and suddenly I'm huge. So for some reason I'm at a barbecue and they're there and my brothers are both there and I'm asking everyone if they knew that I was Ari and his wife's surrogate, and as dream folk often do, they looked at me like I was crazy. Then Ari's wife (who I stress, does not exist) pulls me aside and I ask her if there's some kind of contract in place, and she says there's a verbal contract and I demand one in writing because I'm too young for this kind of thing and afraid that they'd take off and leave me with their daughters. (I told you this dream was messed up)

I can't figure it out! I woke up this morning freaked out. I checked to make sure I wasn't pregnant (I didn't take a home pregnancy test) by making sure that I was the same size that I was when I went to bed last night (which shows how tired I was this morning), because in the dream I was only convinced that I was pregnant because of how huge I was.

Here's what I am thinking: Last night there was this woman on the Daily Show talking about stem cell research, and I was thinking about where science draws the line between finding cures and playing God, and wondering about whether it was ethical or environmentally right (I was just wondering people, I'm not evil), and then I began to wonder about the people who undergo IVF treatment to begin with when there are so many children in the world who would love to be adopted by a loving family. I mean, I understand that they want it to be their baby, but is that really fair? I mean, some people just can't have kids, it's called population control (I know that makes me sound awful, but I'm not). There are kids out there already who need homes and these people are too busy wanting their kids to have their own DNA to even entertain that possibility. I know that adoption waiting lists are long, but most of that is for babies, what about adopting an older child? I could go on forever.

I thought maybe that because I was thinking about this before I fell asleep that this may have had something to do with my dream, but that doesn't change the fact that it's messed.

You know the ones I'm talking about. Not the old friends who you're thrilled to run into and can generally sit there chatting with for hours, but the old friends who a pretty much an obligation. They've become that bitter old aunt who if you don't call them or visit them frequently enough they guilt you when you do. And not in a teasing, flippant way where they're not really trying to make you feel guilty. The kind of way that just ends up pissing you off because they're really a tactless, hypocritical, judgemental bitch who has no idea what you've been dealing with over the last year of your life, because if you were to actually open up to them about OCD they'd probably- you guessed it- be judgemental, call you a hypochondriac, and in general- you guessed it again- be a bitch about it.

In case you hadn't noticed, I just had the most pleasant conversation with one of these so-called friends.

It went like this:
Me: Hey, I'm sorry I haven't been able to come up since you told me about you and your boyfriend, I feel really awful about it, but the fact of the matter is that I'm driving a crappy rental car right now so I'm worried about taking it too far since I have to pay for kilometers on top of gas. And you moved to the other side of the city. But that's not the point- I'm really sorry that I haven't been able to get up there, I hope you can forgive me.

Hypocritical, judgemental, Bitch-face replies: Well it always seems like you have no time for anyone or anything but Dave.

Me: Well I know it seems like that, but....

H: Well I have to go because I have a friend over, but you can call me later.


Hands up, the people who think I'm actually gonna call this witch any time soon? Do you know what she said to me when I asked her how she was doing when she broke up with him? "I feel like I have Satan inside me, and he's ripping up my insides with sharp, rusty nails." What the fuck are you supposed to say to that? "Um...that really sucks..." Most people just say "It really hurts." That's a little more believable. I'm questioning her judgement as far as actually breaking up with the guy goes, if it hurts that much, but if it really hurts that much she wouldn't be out clubbing every night.

Here's what I should have said instead of being completely dumbfounded:

Me: Listen, bitch, you were dating that guy for four years and I can count on one hand the amount of times you hung out with me alone. It was always us hanging out with him (translation: me getting to join you guys on a date. Awkward for me AND him) or your high school friends, most of whom I don't know, but when I'd invite you out with my friends you'd say..."Um...I don't really know them...why don't you give me a call when we can just hang out you and me."

You know what? FUCK THAT SHIT. I've been to hell and back over the last year, and when I'd call her the conversation would always steer towards how awful her life was. How her mom was pressuring her, how she was interested in a guy other than her boyfriend who turned out to be married, how difficult all these problems are to deal with! She has no idea what problems are, what fears are, what anxieties are! Why? Because every time I tried to talk to her about it, she'd just start talking about herself again.

This was the end of the conversation:
H: And then you wonder why you're not the first person I call when I have problems.

Excuse me? Ex-FUCKING-cuse me? Cause I call you for anything? Whenever she calls me, I listen and comfort. Try to give her advice. Try not to be judgemental. Too bad no one told her that friendship was a two-way street.

Ok, off my chest. And release.

So after an afternoon wasted playing with my blog template, I'm satisfied. Somewhat. I'm still rethinking the title, the hot pink banner, and the font. But this'll have to do for now.

Welcome to my foray back into the blogging world. We'll see if this becomes as addictive as it was last time, but truth be told this blog is going to be mostly about my OCD so you may be freaked a bit. Don't say I didn't warn ya.