I've made a tumblr again and it's more likely that I'd post more things on it. What is the link to this magical blog, you might ask?

www.harnizzle.tumblr.com

Surprise, surprise.

I Earn My Minimum Wage!

My full-time job is a little option on career lists called "Student". That means, as of August 2009, I am in college, pursuing a Bachelor's degree in English. Oh, and perhaps another one in Secondary Education. (Double major!) I also intend on pursuing my Master's degree in English. Unfortunately, my family does not have enough money to pay for all of the expenses that come with being a college student, and even the ones that came with being a high school student. So, I got a part-time job at Papa John's when I was 16. I've worked for various wages ranging from $6.50 to $7.25 an hour. The raises I received were legal raises of minimum wage. The tasks I am expected to complete are all different from one another, therefore, work is always exciting and I never know what to expect. These tasks include: talking to rude customers on the phone, making the orders of rude customers, cutting the pizza for the rude customers, talking to the rude customers in person, taking money from the rude customers, being yelled at by rude customers, and eventually, calling a manager to the front to handle said rude customers. Sometimes the customers don't even have to yell at me because I know what they're thinking: Look at this pothead pizza girl. She's going nowhere in life. She is probably stupider than the uniform she has to wear for minimum wage. I am better than her.


NEWS FLASH: If you're wearing your over-priced and ugly college class of 1980's ring, you own a 2000 or above model SUV, and you can afford to spend at least $50 on pizza alone, yet don't think you should tip deliver drivers, you are not better than me. You are actually an asshole. You have no consideration for the people who work for you.

There are always times that I hate working at a pizza place. It can get busy and customers and co-workers can be hard to handle. But when I can afford to buy a shit load of pizza or anything really expensive, I'm not going to be a bitch to the people working minimum wage. Granted, not everyone works hard at their job, especially when it's minimum wage, but I work for my money. And I expect the same respect I give to customers day in and out, no matter what kind of mood I am in.

Besides, haven't you seen the movie Waiting? ; )

ANIMALS!

The typical nuclear family consists of parents and their children. If you wanna be old fashioned, the "normal" family consists of Ma, Pop, Sis, and Bubba. My family is not "normal", although it could be construed as so today. It is nuclear in the sense that a "nuclear bomb", also known as cancer, separated us. Before the nuke hit, my family consisted of Ma (Brenda), Pop (Tim), Sis (Mary Beth), Bubba (Josh), and me. We had pets like Mr. Birdie and Mr. Jackson (both parakeets), but they were not substantial to the family unit. The first pet that truly became a part of our family, and is still with us today, is a tabby cat named Abby. She joined our family when Mary Beth left us in 1994. Though she does not replace a sister, she certainly does bridge the gap between us when leukemia tore our family in two. Since I've had a pet since I was just four years old, animals have become extremely important and close to my heart. Maybe Abby is so much more important to us because of what she symbolizes to my family and me, but I see it in other families, too; pets are just as significant. They play a huge role in the family and make a house more of a home. You can't deny enjoying being greeted with love and excitement when you walk in the door after a long day. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why animal cruelty still occurs, when this love is right in front of my eyes. Even if a domestic animal is not your pet, it is still innocent. It is still another living thing on Earth that deserves to be treated with kindness, especially since it is not as capable as humans are to survive. Help stop animal abuse because we need pets in our lives just as much as they need us.


Unless you're allergic. That's cool, too.

Abby & Me - Christmas 1994

Man, I Feel Like a Woman

My mom has a serious problem of misreading labels. It's really quite frustrating. One of our family traditions is eating mozzarella cheese sticks and drinking weak piña coladas for New Year's. It's a great tradition and we look forward to it every year. We even built up this trust in her ability to purchase the most delicious cheese sticks and to make the weakest piña coladas (before she passes out). This trust was shattered in 2008 or 2009 (clearly I don't remember which year because of those crazy strong piña coladas!). She came home with JALAPEÑO cheese sticks. There are various problems with this, number one being, SHE RUINED NEW YEAR'S. The second problem is that she has acid reflux, which now I also do.

The background story on the second point is funnier and less heartwarming than the first. I was in the shower and about to shave my legs when I heard a weird whizzing noise. I couldn't figure it out until after my shower, when I took out the shaving cream can. It was exploding! On the inside! There was a hole in the bottom of the can and shaving cream was oozing out. With my natural journalistic sense, I took a picture.

Since I couldn't use my shaving cream anymore, I had to ask my mom to buy me some more. Once again, I had trust in her ability to get the right shaving cream... simply because it is such a specific item. The last thing I expected to specify to her was WHICH GENDER SHE WAS BUYING SHAVING CREAM FOR. Yes, she bought men's shaving cream. She bought shaving cream that is meant for the faces of men. Immediately, I complained. Her response? "Shaving cream is shaving cream. Who is going to care?" I'll tell you who is going to care; ME. After I shave my legs, instead of smelling like I just shaved my legs, I smell like my legs are actually faces of men and I shaved them.


And then I can't help but think sarcastically, "Man, I feel like a woman!"


Her response to this post: "Buy your own!"

El Pasado pt. Dos!

10-15-09

Being friendly has rarely worked out for me so far. I mean, of course, taking the initiative to talk to someone while I'm not on the clock. I didn't find myself as popular in high school, but well-known, and unfortunately, approachable. This didn't really bother me so much because I was never lonely. Life is different in college. I tell people it's harder for me to make friends because I don't live on campus, but that's bullshit. It's harder because I don't know anyone here and I am somehow less approachable. So, sometimes I try to reach out when I am feeling... sorta social. It's pretty sad, actually. At least I can admit I'm a bitch. I mean, my sarcastic and dry humor is understandably mistaken by the masses as bitterness. I just wish these poor innocent bystanders would understand I mean them no harm. On the other hand, there are people who may not find me approachable, but more so available, after I poorly attempt to start lame conversation. These people are not o-fucking-kay in my book. Today, I was sitting at a table in the cafeteria and this girl sat diagonally from me. I noticed she had this sort of hot dog-sized pig in a blanket thing, and for some reason I started talking before my mind could go, "STOP! ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?! SHIT!". The feeling of regret soon sunk in when she started talking about why she chose the asiago bread over the plain. I guess that's normal. Still pretty un-fucking-interesting, if you ask me. So, I went back to my "homework" of copying answers from the back of the book. Everything was great again. I may have even thought, "This girl is alright. Who wouldn't get asiago?" The joy and peace lasted for about five minutes. She started chuckling and talking about random shit. Maybe it was from the book she was reading. Maybe it was from some other unknown universe that nobody is familiar with except her. All I could hear was some shit about the mind and body. Well, what I really heard was: "I'm fucking up that nice silent peace we just had, and I dip my asiago shit in mayo, mustard, AND ketchup because I'm a freaky bitch!" Obviously, I did not respond. And when I got up to leave, I did not say goodbye. I hope she took that as, "Fuck you, freaky bitch!" Or maybe she just figured I had somewhere to go and thus, I am the bitch.

I guess my whole point is it was easy to see myself as how I wanted others to think of me. This growing up thing is busting out all the cracks of this glorified image of me until all the imagined pieces fall away, and all that's left is me: the cold-hearted girl who won't open up. Or eat asiago hot-fucking-dog-sized pig in a blanket shit and then talk to a goddamn stranger about the nirvana of an experience it must damn well be.

Sometimes (I Wish)

Sometimes I wish I could sleep at night. I figure there has to be several people with the same problem. Over break, I can stay up til 5, 6...7 AM! Then I sleep until maybe 2 or 3 in the afternoon. It is sort of a great schedule because I am young and awesome. But then school starts and the awesomeness is shattered by responsibilities. Instead of mastering the night owl's routine, I have to fight to stay asleep. Nearly every hour I wake up, hoping it is 8 AM so I can get out of bed and give up on the fruitless attempt to be "normal". During the day I am a zombie, ready for someone to please, please, please aim well and shoot me in the head, just so I can finally get some damn sleep. My professors babble and yap about their subject, introductory bullshit that is not worth hearing, and I simply sit and allow my eyes to glaze over, but my body is still programmed to smile and nod politely at the seemingly right times. Did he just say this class is a not feel good class, and we will leave feeling crappy? Yessir, I am pleased by this. Just look at the fixed expression plastered on my face. Please, continue with this discussion. I like the way you are going with this. I like the way you would be going if you were to walk right off the edge of a cliff. No, thank you for YOUR time!

Is there college senioritis or just... life senioritis? Not, like, ending life. Just getting on with it. Getting to the good part. When the hell does that happen?

Understanding in a Car Crash

I have road rage. It's not a medical condition. I'm not sure if it's genetic, either. See, my dad holds up his fingers to make a cross if someone is driving like a jackass, and he yells "COMMUNISTS!" I don't ride with my mom enough to know if she has road rage, but she probably does have some kind of medical condition... which is hopefully not genetic. COUGHPASSIVEAGRESSIVECOUGH.

When I get mad while driving, it's funny. At least, it's funny to Nicole and me. When I was just a new driver, if someone cut me off or made me mad I'd just hold my hand over the horn, and hoped they could tell. "Yeah, buddy. That's your warning. Next time, you'll hear from me!" Over time, my pathetic warnings have turned into blackouts. Just kidding. Now when someone cuts me off or irritates me, I hold my hand over the horn and cuss. "YEAH, JACKASS! THAT'S FUCKING IT! NEXT TIME, YOU'RE TOAST!" Usually Nicole and I will both be yelling "WHAT THE FUCK!?" It's pretty funny, I think. And pretty bad.

Also, whenever I started driving to UMKC every day, on the highway, I've become a much worse driver. Anything below 65 is too slow, and that includes you, residential areas. Slow drivers are my natural enemy, apparently. I blame you, Kansas City. You've only entered my life and made it more urban and fast and less agreeable.

AND THEN, whenever there is a cute dog being walked on the sidewalk, our angry blackout voices change to soft cuddly voices mumbling "AWW, PUPPY!" instead of "Fuck you, Kansan driver".