Call Me Bipolar Barba

Well, kids, there are many topics on hand for discussion today as I have been diligently writing down my thoughts for blogs all week ... but writing them down and blogging them aren't exactly the same, now are they? So, now that is the Bi(n)g Bang Blog to end them all. Here we go!

Roman Numeral 1
I have been a wacko this week! It's been a veritable rollercoaster. At one point I really just wanted to go to sleep until I liked myself again. Let's back up and explain why...
Subsection A
Went to Beth Orton on Wednesday. Was very excited, not really for Beth herself because I only know one song and think her voice is bad. Well, the concert was standing-room-only (or however you hyphenate that), and I was smooth sailing during the opening act (P.S. Trumpet player =d hot). However, by the time Beth got around to her 5th encore (seriously), I was about to cry. I didn't realize the effect that my boobs and bad posture could have on my poor vertebrae. And that damn woman just kept a-singin' her songs, none of which I knew at all. So, long-story-short, when my friends asked me how I liked it, I freaked out (against my better judgment) and gave my real opinion. Which leads me to
Subsection B
I was reading in one of my Candace Bushnell books last night (I think it's masochistic how I feel that I must finish this book that gives me a really bleak view of my future in NYC, but whatevs...), and the character was saying how people just want to hear bullshit. They want to be affirmed either about themselves or what they're interested in, even if it's completely untrue. I've been feeling a lot this way lately, myself. It's not pretty when you realize that you should just shut your mouth and go with the flow. (And by the by, the character is a shizophrenic... but I continue to relate to her. Her closest friend is a gay man, tush.)

Roman Numeral 2
I've realized that Carrie Bradshaw/Michael Patrick King really is right: timing is everything. On Tuesday I woke up ridiculously late and did not do anything until I had a movie screening at 8:30. Literally, I don't even think I left my room. Yet after the movie when I was at the Union Bar, I received about 5 text messages in 20 minutes. It's insanity how you can be completely un-booked for 23 hours and 45 minutes of the day, but in those 15 occupied minutes, you're juggling, multi-tasking, whatever you want to call it. Essentially we (Americans, especially) do 37 things at a time in pursuit of this whole concept of "free time", but what we don't realize is that we're wasting it by cutting up our productivity by difusing our concentration.
I'll get off my soapbox now.

Roman Numeral 3
I am desperate. On Tuesday I accosted three random men and asked them on tips to snag myself a feller. As guys tend to do, they avoided specifics. But apparently I'm really "smart", and that should do the trick. Well that's nice. Do I have a good personality, too?
Anyhow, I've decided I just need to resign myself to the fact that God is calling me to join the nunnery. And I also need to stop talking about men. There is nothing more depressing than thinking constantly about yourself. Kierkegaard new it, and I do, too, but I persist in analyzing myself. I want to think this is a girl thing, but is it really? Do guys do this? (For proof of how much we girls think about ourselves -- specifically "sexually" -- go to the Virgin Manifesto.) There's a reason that Carrie Bradshaw is a Carrie, not a Carl and that all the college sex columnists are female. Maybe men just don't think about it this much.
In a sidenote, I've discovered that my walks to and from campus are very contemplative times, and, thus, I need to find a way to distract myself and avoid that introspection as quickly as possible.

Roman Numeral 4
Last but certainly not least: Friends are beautiful, wonderful things (some would call them people, but I'll stick with "things"). Think about it: Who else would listen to me bitch and moan about the same 3 topics for years at a time (and commiserate with me)? Sure, friends don't have to wake up to you in the morning and kiss your morning-breath mouth, but you don't have to do that for them. Yet, at the end of the day, this is someone who enjoys spending time with you even though they know you (in this case you = me).
I have been forgetting lately how important my friends are and how much they can transform your day. I've been stuck in this single-girl-on-the-go mode ever since I was in New York this summer. I haven't been in the company of a large group of friends for a long time, and the fierce independence I've been developing is taking its toll.
So I am making the declaration right now to anyone who is reading this: You are a friend of mine. Know that you are loved despite my hesitance/forgetfulness in reminding you and my self-absorption, and I appreciate the fact that you've stuck with me in one way or another despite the fact that I frequently am a psychopath. Yay for you.

So friends... lovahs... readers, I'll end on this maudlin note because sometimes that's appropriate. Have a good weekend!