A French Maid and a Sexy Cop

As you know, it's Halloween! Usually one of my favorite holidays. Well, remember how I told you all that my life was like a weird sitcom? Ok, get ready for this one.


Our two friends from home came up to celebrate the holiday, along with my boyfriend. Everything was great; we went out on Friday night (boyfriend and I were "Swamp People..." If you haven't seen the show, it's on the History Channel and I highly suggest you watch it. I had a stuffed alligator and everything!), we went to the horse races again, and we even went roller skating (which was weird and awesome in every way imaginable).


After a lovely dinner of massive amounts of sushi, we decided to go back to my house, put on costumes, and start drinking. My friend and I got ready together. She decided to dress as a lady gangster (the classic, 1920's mobster, not the saggy-pants homeboy) and I decided to go with the ever-classic French maid. I had a fantastic getup and big heels on, and the four of us (us two girls and two boys) had a grand ol' time playing drinking games by ourselves and just hanging out. We had a few people over, and my roommate Carrie came home right as we were about to leave for another party. In the midst of the fog from the fog machine and the flash of the strobe light, I see Carrie freaking out. I asked her what was wrong, and she says, "You better clean this up." I look to where she is pointing. There is an open box of the game "Apples to Apples," the word game, with the cards on top and some on the table. We had played earlier in the night. Sure that a card game can't be the point of this freakout, I ask, "What?"


"The cards. It's my game. It's a mess. You better fix it."
"Ok, I will chill out. I'll get it later," I say.
"YOU KNOW I DON'T LIKE THAT WORD."
"What? Oh, Jesus, get over it, I just meant chill out."
"I don't like that word 'chill.' Don't say it."
"Well, you're gonna have to get over that. It's a damn card game."
BAM. And with that, I went down like Snooki from the Jersey Shore. Apparently, I enraged homegirl so much that she punched me in the side of the head. So I threw myself at her. I am bigger, I am stronger. She went down into the glass table and started punching my back and shoulders, kicking me with her high heels while I yanked her hair and punched her in the neck. Now, remember, I'm dressed as a French maid right now and she is wearing a sexy cop costume. Catfight?


The worst is that she was so shocked that I fought back. What, exactly, did she expect? Drunk or sober, you hit me in the head for no apparent reason and I'm going to fight back. I will never throw the first punch, but if you punch me, what do you expect?


Carrie has been in and out all day. She came in, said "Hi! I'm going out to dinner. Will you be home later? Ok, cool!" I'm curious to see if she remembers this spectacle at all. Last weekend, she got so drunk she stole a longboard and a deck chair. The weekend before, she cheated on her boyfriend and hooked up with my (weirdly unattractive) friend. So hooray for roommates...

Red Sky at Night, Sailor's Delight. Red Sky in the Morning, Sailor's Take Warning.

So, I may nor may not have been offered a free (or at least drastically reduced) tattoo by a very well-known tattoo artist. And I'm at a loss. I've entertained the idea of getting tattoos before, and there are a number that I really like. But I can't decide. My friend, Tattoo, who I think I will call Bombshell from now on, told me the person who offered to do it is more than serious. I met him at a party a few months back with Bombshell and some of her friends. She knows him quite well, and has worked for him before. Apparently he's quite expensive. I've always played around with the idea of getting a quote or two on me, since I love words. I'm quite partial to an Albert Camus quote that goes, "In the midsts of winter, I found within me that there was an invincible summer." I also am very partial to a quote by Hafiz of Persia, though, admittedly, it's a bit modified from the original (this is the format I found the original in, in a book on Tibetan symbols, and the quote stuck with me ever since). It goes, "After a million years of shining, the sun does not say to the earth, 'You owe me.' Imagine a love like this." I think it is absolutely beautiful. 

But I also think of my body as a work of art. And I am not opposed to putting a design or two on there, as well. I like a lot of classic flash, particularly some of Sailor Jerry's cowgirls. The one on the bucking bronco is one of my favorites. 


So: if you were offered a tattoo by a famous tattoo artist, what would you get?  

Adoration

I love being the center of attention. It's such a nice feeling to bask in the attention of everyone around you. I guess since the readers of this blog don't know me, it's hard to imagine what I look like. I don't really like describing my appearance; we'll leave it that I am comfortable with myself, I have worked as a model, and I am usually considered classically and universally cute. My current best friend, the girl who came to the beach house with me, is a completely different kind of beauty: she is petite, sharp looking, and covered in tattoos. She is beautiful, but in a very different way from myself. She has piercings and tattoos all over and is extremely involved in that scene: something that I know very little about, but find fascinating. 


Anyway, at the beach house this past weekend, we walked down the street for dinner with my parents when they got there on Saturday night. Of course, on the walk down, we run into our savior-neighbors, who proceed to try and push their son on us, insisting that we would make a good couple (the three of us!). Upon escaping them, we walked down the hill and into town to a fancy but low-key restaurant, one of my parents' faves. It's a bit pricy, but it's wonderful food in a relaxed atmosphere. 


We decided to all sit at the kitchen bar, where you can watch the chef preparing food behind the counter. Our waiter, who we will call Hotpants, looked rather like Tattoo's boyfriend, came to take our order, and as we're asking questions about subbing this and that and what this or that is on the menu, the chef, who we'll call Steve-O, leans over and tells us that he can make whatever we want. He says that "Pretty girls are no trouble; you can have whatever you like." So, of course, we modify the "wood-fire grill mix"into a surf-and-turf dish including fillet mignon, crab cakes, shrimp, risotto, rockfish, and fresh veggies. AHMazing. Throughout the meal, Steve-O, Hotpants, and another waiter will not take their eyes off us. Now, Tattoo and I both have boyfriends. Our boyfriends are friends; they introduced us. But that doesn't stop us from playing up to the adoring eyes of an entire restaurant.


Especially if it ends in free pumpkin cheesecake. 

No Keys

Update from the beach house: We went to go use the sweet hot tub and ended up on a 2 hour adventure trying to break into my own house. I think I left out before that my parents own the house. We bought the house here on the beach about ten years ago. Anyway, we went out to the hot tub with Bailey and... we got locked out... no phones... no keys, obviously... so we had to go find the neighbors.

First, we checked every door and window. Then I tried numerous small, narrow objects to jimmy the door. Normally a credit card does the trick, but, having nothing, I tried a bucket handle, three shells, a pen, and a plastic knife... all things I found around the house on the ground. Then we decided to try the neighbors... remember, my friend and I are in our bathing suits. That's it. So we ran to the first house we saw with lights on. This is primarily a vacation community, so there aren't a lot of people here. We ran up the steps and knocked on the door, and the guy who answered the door couldn't look less happy. He just looks THRILLED to see us. We explained the situation and asked if we could use his phone. He rolled his eyes, let us in, and pointed to the phone. The phone didn't work, so he silently handed us his cell phone. We called my dad, who is still five hours north of here. Him and my mother are coming tomorrow, but he advised us to find the lockbox with the key: the house we own is for sale, and we have realtors coming in and out, so we have one of those key boxes. We left creepy dudes house, ran back to ours, and found the key box and pressed the code in: zip. Nada. Nothing. No lights, no sounds, no nothing. The battery was dead. Not good. We ran around for another twenty minutes or so, trying to figure out how to get in, to no avail. We decided to try neighbor number two, since neighbor one sucked. We ring the doorbell, and an older man answers the door. We explain the situation and he invites us in. Upstairs, there are seven people enjoying a dinner of paella and wine... we are immediately offered a glass of wine. These people were awesome: they called the rental company, helped us get through to the emergency help line, found us flashlights, and came and sat with us and the dog to wait. They even tried to set us up with the younger guy, the one couple's son, who was around our age, a little older.

Needless to say, we got inside... though my friend did try to jump the repair man's bones. He was kinda hot.

That's enough excitement for one night.

Down the Coast

So last night my friend and I decided to drive a few hours down the coast and go to a beach further south. Not far enough south for it to be hot, but far enough for it to be warm. And sunny. It's beautiful here. We brought her dog, Bailey, a big ol' black lab, because Bailey is nice and normal and dog-like, unlike my dog. We have been playing a lot at the beach, since it's something we don't get to do a lot of in the winter where we live. More to come. 

Major Dork Status

70 Million by Hold Your Horses !


Because I love art. This entertained me for a good half-hour...

It's Raining, It's Pouring...

The old man is snoring and I can't even get out of bed! Yesterday wasn't too bad... today feels like Monday all over again. I my bed is so warm and comfy... my big, old house doesn't have the heat turned on yet, either, so it's COLD when I come out from under the covers.

Guess I should brave the day. Here... we... GO.

On Loss

Because I am only one person, I don't know what it's like to be someone else. I don't know what kind of emotions people experience. I don't understand what goes on in other people's heads. I wish I did. All I can do, though, is work with what I've got. 

For a twenty year old, I think I've been through a lot. A lot of big stuff, I mean, which is essentially why I decided to start this blog. It's given me a unique perspective on life and on the people around me, making everything seem kind of unreal sometimes. I tend to get rather nihilistic because of everything that has happened. I think I'll take this time to get some things off of my mind and to explain some things, since it will help readers understand my need to write things down.

To start, I guess, was my mom. When I was sixteen, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I remember when she told me. She sat me down in the living room, told me that there was something we needed to talk about. I was so young and so self-centered, I was so worried it was something I had done wrong. My mom told me that they had found a lump in her breast, and that it was cancerous, and that they had found traces of it in her lymph nodes, meaning that it had spread. I didn't process it; I remember saying that it wasn't a problem and that they could fix it all. I was right, but I didn't know that at the time. I cried, I hugged my mom. My mom is my best friend, then and now, and I just remember thinking, "I can't do this. I can't do this if my mom is gone, I can't, I can't." The next year and a half or so was so hard. My mom went through chemo. Since I didn't go to a very strict high school, I would bribe the attendance woman, a certain Mrs. D, to let me leave during lunch to go to my mom's treatments. It never felt right, seeing my mom in a hospital bed. I don't believe in God, but I am thankful every day that my mom got through it and that, a few years later, she is cancer free and almost technically "cured." 

Some of my friends weren't so lucky. My junior year of high school, right around the time my mom was diagnosed with cancer, my best friend's mom died. It was so sudden, so freakish... we came home from a soccer game, and I was dropping her off at her house. We pulled up and their were ambulances outside. She ran inside and came back out, screaming. Her mother had fallen and hit her head, and she had died. The worst part was that she and her daughter fought all the time. Earlier that day, she'd been telling me of a stupid fight with her mother. I can't imagine that type of loss. Losing your mother is the worst thing that can happen to a girl, I think. I know that she's somewhere now, wherever it is that we go when we die, watching over us, but that doesn't always make it any easier down here. It thunderstormed during her funeral. It seemed so appropriate.

During my senior year of high school, a few months after my friend's mom passed, one of my close friends died. I've never felt pain like that. I was volunteering at a local film festival when I got the call. Well, text... I always find bad news out in a text. I couldn't comprehend it. I shook, I cried, I had to have my mother pick me up because I couldn't drive. I think the worst part is the guilt that comes with loss. When he passed away, all I could think of was the last phone call I never returned. And how we never got to have our beach day we'd been planning because I was too busy. You can't think that way, of course, but that doesn't make it any easier to stop. I always had a little crush on him. I think about him everyday. After he passed, I dreamed that we were talking. I hope that was a sign, and that he's out there, somewhere, and that he still keeps an eye on all of us down here.

I think the worst thing is when this type of tragedy becomes normal. Just over a year and a half ago, we lost two more from my high school class, one of whom was a childhood friend and the other who was someone I was always close with. I can't even cover his name here for the purpose of anonymity; his name was Justin. God, I'd had a secret crush on him since our freshman year of high school. We spent hours discussing the "pregnant man" scenario, and on the night of our graduation, we got drunk off of cheap beer and Captain Morgan and he told me I had the best boobs in our entire high school. I don't know if that's a compliment or not, but I loved this kid. Not like I love my boyfriend, but like you love a friend. Like you love a good person.  It stormed during his viewing, too. I hope that's a sign that all the people we love and miss are there somewhere, and a thunderstorm is their way of showing us they are still there. Letting us feel them and hear them again.

To those we've lost, you're missed and loved. Among other things, these events have made me who I am. I hope I'm doing ok. It's so easy to spill your heart out when you're anonymous. I wish I could've told you all this sooner.

Bumblepup

Because I am one of those sadistic people that likes to torture their dog with costumes, I bought my dog a bumblebee costume. And yes, I put it on her. And yes, it looks awesome.

When I was buying this costume at Wal-Mart, the man behind me in line commented that he felt bad for the dog. I told him that if he knew my dog, he wouldn't feel bad. I guess I should explain. I love my dog. She loves me. However, that feeling is reserved for me only. Anyone else, don't even think about petting her silky, white fur. Don't even think about it. She is hateful. She's probably about knee-high, weighs all of thirty pounds, and is hell dressed in fur. She's known my boyfriend for six years, and every time he comes in my parents house, she tries to gnaw his ankle off. We were watching football the other day and he got up to cheer and she charged him from the opposite end of the house. She's not just a mean dog, though. I'm convinced that she is autistic. She won't look at things. She refuses to look at the television. If someone bothers her, she will not acknowledge them until she decides to attack. If you upset her routine, good luck dealing with her. She is very nervous and spazzy.

She's... well, she's basically the canine equivalent of me. Oh, no.

The Troll Under the Bridge

Or, to be more precise, the troll in library. That would be me. I've been inhabiting the University's library for some three days now. Well, I guess this is day four. I'm like a little troll, holed up in my little hovel. I've taken over an entire corner of the grad student study area. I refuse to sit among the other undergrads. I get nothing done.


My decision to take six classes (eighteen credits) is catching up to me right now. "Oh, it's not too bad! It's actually pretty easy!" has turned to "DEAR GOD, WHY?!" I'm running on some three hours of sleep. Not good.


My day wouldn't be complete, though, without a little whining. And I'm counting this as my study break, so I'm going to take as much time as I can. Before I was sitting in my little cube, I was sitting at the long general study tables in the atrium of the library. Flipping through my images of neoclassical and Romantic paintings, I am interrupted by a ringing phone. The girl across from me, a small Asian girl, looks embarrassingly around and searches for the offending phone. Here's the kicker: she proceeds to answer it. Not only that, she proceeds to yak away for a good five minutes before she realizes my death stare and hangs up. It is a LIBRARY. SHHH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE.


On that note: back to Mengs, David, Ingres, and Gros. My men tonight. <3

Lost all my money at the tracks...

I actually only bet $4. I won back fifty cents, though! Because the boyfriend and I like to do fun, unconventional things, we decided to take a trip to the horse races on Saturday. I have a small, teensy, itty-bitty obsession with ponies, so this was perfect (he's pretty clever, huh?). We got there in the late afternoon, so we only got to see a few of the races. We didn't realize that the tracks are all of five minutes from my house. I sense a new favorite activity...


I like picking out which horse will win. I like looking at all the statistics and information that they give you, as well as the horses names. When I used to ride, I always wanted to be a jockey. So many of the other riders wanted to perfect jumping or dressage events... I just wanted to ride as fast as possible. I'd hike my stirrups all the way and crouch low like a jockey. I never really pursued horse back riding, but my roommate's mother owns a horse farm, so I might try and get back into it someday. The brother, Hugh, lives with my boyfriend and I, as well as our raging alcoholic of a roommate Tim, at home. I moved out of my parents house when I was eighteen; it seemed like a good idea at the time. I also live with Hugh's sister when I'm at school. We used to be friends, but she's decided she doesn't enjoy my company, it would seem. I like living with my boyfriend, though. That's the hardest thing about being at school: not seeing him. He's my best friend. My mom was horrified when I told her I was moving out; surprisingly, my dad didn't seem to care. He was very accepting of it. I think he must have done similar things when he was my age. I figure I'm doing all right so far, at least compared to a lot of my age group: I'm not an alcoholic, I'm not addicted to any drugs, and I'm not pregnant (nor have I ever been).


Speaking of pregnancy, SO many girls my age are pregnant. Girls I've known for years... girls I grew up with. It's got to be a small, southern thing(I may as well add that I'm from somewhere southern... I'm definitely not from a city, if you couldn't tell). It just seems weird to me. One girl I used to play soccer with in high school just delivered a baby by c-section earlier today. Another friend just had twins. A girl I've known since preschool just had a baby boy. Another girl I went to high school with is eight months pregnant. My roommate Hugh's ex is pregnant... he isn't the baby daddy, but to make the situation REALLY weird, Hugh hooked up with her once or twice after she got pregnant, and then she asked his parents to be the baby's godparents. Yeah, it must be a small town thing.


Alright, I've got to go be studious... or possibly just watch more Pirates of the Caribbean. All three movies have been on the television all day! Who doesn't love Johnny Depp?

Weekend Warrior

I am, quite possibly, the lamest college student ever. But if I am enjoying myself, am I still lame? 


Thursday night usually consists of watching the Jersey Shore with a few of my friends who are weirdly obsessed with it. All are rather large, manly men, who one could possibly classify as "hipster" (though they would punch you in the gut if you called them a hipster). One is a lumberjack and one wears a bandana. Lumberjack and I used to be best friends, but then, like a lot of my friends, he went on a really long bender and wasn't really the same afterwards. Now he looks like a serial killer. Somehow, though, he has a really hot girlfriend, who we'll call Fake Tits McGee. Anyway, God forbid one speaks during the Jersey Shore. Kitten and I joined them a few weeks ago, and were having a quiet conversation during commercials, and they literally kicked us out of the house. Last Thursday, I think we watched the Jersey Shore, but we all accidentally got very drunk, so we may not have watched Jersey Shore at all. We ended up running around in the rain playing ding dong ditch, while the lumberjack laid down in the gutter and pretended he was under a waterfall. Yeah, I don't know.


I skipped that this week and instead had a lovely home cooked meal with Kitten: tuna casserole. She made it without mayonnaise just for me (I have a thing about mayo. It's kind of a phobia. The consistency is so creepy). We enjoyed the tuna casserole with a nice Blue Moon Harvest Ale (my favorite, next to DogFish Head's Punkin' Ale).  


Friday, I was once again pretty lame... my room mate Carrie and I cooked a beef stew type meal with hand chopped sweet potato fries. Yes, we cook a lot. I refuse to live off of ramen and mac and cheese. Then, I proved the fact that I have a vagina and watched Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, Baby Mama, AND Titanic. And then I went to bed.


Today isn't looking too wild, either. My boyfriend is coming to visit from home. It's a couple hour drive, but when he gets here, we're going to the driving range. There is something so satisfying about just whacking golf balls as hard as you possibly can for no reason at all. Carrie is already at the University football game; she started drinking at nine with her lacrosse team. I am not so ambitious; thus far, I've had two cups of coffee, made some scrambled eggs, and watched VH1's Top 20 Countdown.


I don't think it's THAT lame. I'm fairly content today. 

Chlorine

I got in the pool last night for the first time in... far too long. Swimming used to be the biggest part of my life. I swam before school, after school... and then I just... stopped. I could've swam in college. I was fast enough to be on the team. I wouldn't have been the best. Middle of the pack, I figure. But it's just so much strain and pressure. Because it's individual, if you fuck up, it's ALL your fault. You didn't train hard enough. You didn't try hard enough. You didn't work hard enough. You didn't want it bad enough. That's not healthy after a while. 


I miss swimming a lot. I know I hated swimming by the end of everything, but it's so weird to just not have it anymore. I think that's part of what made me go a little nuts: I lost all structure, all normality. Swimming has had a huge impact on me, and I just dropped it. I can make a thousand excuses as to why, but I think I was just tired, emotionally and physically. I used to get so nervous, I'd throw up. That was normal, though. You find a lot of swimmers with semi-bulimic issues, I think. It was the start of a lot for me, but by no means the sole cause. Swimming takes so much out of you. Physically, I've had a bum shoulder since I was eleven. That's the price you pay for having a beautiful stroke: the human body isn't built to swim the butterfly (especially not mine). I hurt my shoulder the first time in fifth grade. I was training for districts or regionals or something. I can't remember. To this day, I don't sleep on that side. 


What i miss most of all, though, is that feeling of family. After a really tough practice together, I loved having a big pasta dinner with my team. My first boyfriend was the captain of my swim team. You become a big, weird, incestuous family. It's hard not to, though: you run around half naked most of the day with a group of teenagers, you're bound to feel pretty close. It was the only sport in high school that really BONDED. We were a family. Even on the USS team, and on the Y team, you really bond with your team and your coach. There weren't any cliques. You're all a bunch of weirdos, but it's ok.


I'm not going to lie... it felt good last night. This could be addicting.

Typical Tuesday

On a typical Tuesday night, what do most college students do?


I have no idea. 


But I can tell you what I'm doing. My Tuesdays are genrally the days that I pretend to be a real student and go to class all day. Like I said, I am both an English major and an art history major- the kind of degrees that people say you can wipe your ass with. Whatever, I've got two pieces of toilet paper, then. So, anyway, most of my Tuesday is spent being a glorified third-grader: I watch movies and look at pictures all day. After a long day of watching movies (The Discreet Lives of the Bourgeoisie and In the Heat of the Night) and looking at some Rococo paintings, I went over to my friend Kitten's house. Kitten and I met up with the plan to study... but, instead, I learned that ancient Roman coinage was called "ass," and a prostitute could cost anywhere from two asses to sixteen asses. That pretty much ruined my study mode... 


Not entirely, though. I'm trying to be studious. One of my seminars at the Blah State University is about ancient Roman everyday life. It's quite interesting to see how everyday people like myself lived two thousand years ago. Well, perhaps they weren't quite like me...


Back to studying. Toodles.

Who are you and why are you on my couch?

I LOVE waking up to random girls asleep on my couch. I really do. At home and at college.


This morning, I woke up around 7:45 and went downstairs to make my first cup of coffee. I have the master bedroom in a four bedroom house; I was put in charge of the house, so I get the perks: master bedroom, biggest fridge space, first in line for the bathroom, etc. etc. One of the bedrooms, though, is a closet: about 5X7. We made the last addition to our house, Tito, live there. So he doesn't have a bed. The room would fit a twin bed, even a full bed, but for some reason, we've lived here for about a month and he still doesn't have a bed.


So he sleeps on the couch.


He sleeps like the dead, so he rarely wakes up to me banging around in the mornings (I'm usually up first). However, this morning, there is a girl NEXT to him on MY couch. I don't want any "love stains" on the couch that I nap on. That's just... foul. Especially because my roommate Tito looks like a lumberjack, and has about the decency of one.


Anyway, I'm looking at this girl, and I realize it's a girl I went to high school with. She graduated two years after me, which makes her eighteen or nineteen now. I was always good friends with her older sister. Now, this girl does't go to my college. I have no idea why she is here, several hours away, hanging out with Tito, who we didn't go to high school with. This is very weird to me.


It's going to be an interesting day.


Also, it is forty-five degrees outside, and my roommate Carrie won't turn the heat on until at least November. I'm sitting under three comforters right now, working my way on to cup of joe number three.


Have a lovely day, all.

It's a start...

The reason I'm writing a blog is because I think what I have to say is important. Not necessarily important on a large scale... but important in the "Look at this girl's life; look what she does; hah, it sounds like a cheap rip off of a late nineties teen movie." My life is ridiculous, and I want to share it. I think it's all worth reading. If anything, these writings are inspired by the fact that someone out there must be as bored as I was in my Intro to Women's Studies class, and I'm hoping that they are desperately searching for some mildly amusing blog to read.

This is that blog.

I guess the first thing I should say is that all of these will be mostly real. I'm going to change everyone's names so that I don't have an army of angry college students and pissed off politicians coming after me, but, other than that, I'm going to try and keep everything close to the facts. 

So here goes:

My name is Seabiscuit. Obviously, it's not my real name. It's not even really a valid nickname. It's something I've been called on occasion, and it's something that will prevent you, dear reader, from ever figuring out my real name. My real name isn't important. What is important is what I do, and what the people around me do. 

I'm a college student at an in-state university; I went out of state to an almost-Ivy-League school, and I lost my mind. I guess it's slowly coming back (keyword: slowly). I wasn't there very long before I came home. I come from a super small coastal town; if you haven't been there, you wouldn't understand. It's populated by about 300 people, sometimes a little less, but in the summer about 30,000 people reside there. I am a politician's daughter. Trust me, you can tell. I get "Oh, Seabiscuit, you're so much TALLER than the last time I saw you!" Well, yes, that happens when the last time you saw me was fifteen years ago when I was five. I may as well add that I am twenty years old now, and none too happy about turning twenty-one soon. My friends are going to kill me. Dear God. I'm graduating college a year early. I will have my bachelors in both English and Art History. If you tell me to get a real degree, I'll probably hate you forever- look what good I'm putting my English degree to already! Without my writing skills, I couldn't be entertaining you here, now could I? 

This seems like a good enough start. Plus, as you'll come to see, I'm secretly a ninety year old woman- I love going to bed before ten o'clock. I like a solid twelve to fourteen hours of sleep, if possible. So good night, world. I'll have more stories tomorrow, I'm sure.