The Love Life That I Don't Have.

I'm 19. Which is all fine and dandy, and completely normal. But what isn't normal is the fact that I have never been in a relationship with anyone. Not that kind, at least. I tell myself that it's normal and that some people just take longer to become open to such relationships. But I think that I am perfectly ready for such an adventure, but I may just be delusional. I like to believe that the right one hasn't come by and that he's still out there, just doing the same thing that I am, but that type of thought just signals some crazy-cat-lady in the making.

What reaffirms my belief that I will always be alone is when I go onto social networking sites, and I see people that I'm connected too only because of a friend's friend or something has someone that is, socially acceptable, way out of their league. I don't want to be mean or hurtful, but seriously. I wouldn't voluntarily get withing twenty feet of some of those people.

I say that I accept that I'm going to be alone and that I'm okay with it. But I'm not. It makes December-February miserable as well as any other time that I am forced to walk past a couple or see people that I thought were in worse condition than I am in, doing better off.

The Twelfth of Fucking March

Prepare for massive amounts of bad language.

But this day was shit. I'm completely used to being ignored by my family. No one ever hears anything I say, and I've come to terms with it. But when I go through an entire day of no one responding to anything I say and when they do hear me they just think I'm mumbling, it really irritates me. Being the middle child since the age if eight, I have grown up knowing that I was the least important, even if they say that I'm not. But I'm nothing special, so they have no argument.

So they wake me up at godforsaken hours of the morning on weekends because everyone else is up and I don't eat right after I'm up, I don't do much in general at that point. But on weekends, I am expected to join in the family activities and have a genuine smile while I'm doing so. I fucking hate weekends. And the thing is, they wake me up and we don't even do anything until two in the afternoon.

My brother moved out over the weekend and since I'm the least important, I was sent to follow him in the truck with his bed so that he would have his truck and his work van at his new place. Alright, it's whatever. But if I had stayed home, I would have logged onto my online class and realized that the test I thought was due on Saturday was actually due on Friday. And if Dad gave a rat's ass about me, he might have realized that I did have some things I needed to do today and that I skipped Paige's party because trying to leave the house at night by myself is more of a hassle than it's worth.

So I stay at home, pretending that I'm happy to be here. And pretending that I love being alive and pretending that life isn't bad. And sure, my life is in far better shape than most, but I fucking hate it here. Half the time I just feel like making myself disappear from the world cause I'm sure that it would be easier. 

I realize that this post has absolutely no flow. But it's not like anyone reads it anyway.

I Am Number Four

I didn't even realize that this movie was actually a book. So before I went to go see the movie, I was determined to read it. Well, I sort of read it before I went. I got about halfway before I went to the cinema. My friend bailed on me after she spent all of her extra cash on driving to Orlando and back, so I went by myself, which was actually pretty nice. There was no silent battle over the armrest or sharing of the large Coke.

Before the lights were completely out, I sat in the back like the nerd that I am reading the novel. As the movie played, I compared parts that were similar, and completely different and once I no longer knew what was going to happen next, I got really excited.

The movie sticks generally sticks to the novel, but like any book to movie, some details were left out. But no book to movie is perfect, and I don't expect them to be. Some hit all the important details while still being a good show. Some just take the character names and run with it. I Am Number Four kept the characters, the storyline and most of the details, not to mention Alex Pettyfer is awfully nice to look at. I fully intend on going to see it again by myself, the novel finished this time.

The best part is that there is going to a sequel to the novel, and probably the movie called The Power of Six, which is about number Seven trying to find the six that remain, I think.

I've seen him on the news. Followed the stories about what happened in Ohio. John Smith, out there, on the run. To the world, he's a mystery. But to me . . . he's one of us.

Nine of us came here, but sometimes I wonder if time has changed us—if we all still believe in our mission. How can I know? There are six of us left. We're hiding, blending in, avoiding contact with one another . . . but our Legacies are developing, and soon we'll be equipped to fight. Is John Number Four, and is his appearance the sign I've been waiting for? And what about Number Five and Six? Could one of them be the raven-haired girl with the stormy eyes from my dreams? The girl with powers that are beyond anything I could ever imagine? The girl who may be strong enough to bring the six of us together?

They caught Number One in Malaysia.
Number Two in England.
And Number Three in Kenya.
They tried to catch Number Four in Ohio—and failed.

I am Number Seven. One of six still alive.

And I'm ready to fight.

My Life. Sort of.

I'm a full time student at a junior college. It's a horrid place and I will probably mention it quite a bit. This is my second year there and I have very few good experiences there. But I digress.
In my Communications 2 class, better known to the rest of the world as English Literature, we read, er, were supposed to read, The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde. I forgot to read it, but the professor brought in the movie and barely questioned us about the actual play.
She started to talk about Oscar Wilde and the Victorian era and I was like 'Oh dear God. This is going to be awful. Two classes of froufrou Victorian snobbishness. Greeaattt.' But then the opening credits came on with some fantastic music and the name Colin Firth. If someone else besides my completely oblivious to classic literature including Jane Austen friend had been there, I would have spazzed.  But no one knew who Colin Firth was, is, so my inner self was flailing like a mad person. Colin Firth, ~swooon~

   

But - my life does not revolve around classic literature and lovely men such as Colin Firth. But instead around food and kittens! Let's do food first, shall we?

The first food blogger I ever found was Heather Baird of Sprinkle Bakes. All of the things she makes are absolutely divine. Well, y'know, really tasty and pretty. I attempted, and did pretty well on her recipe for Pumpkin Cheese Danishes. OhMyGod. They were delicious.

This was the first time I had ever used puff pastry.  I now know that you should not let it sit out for too long, because instead of being the nice fold-able square of dough, you have a huge, sticky mass of dough that won't come apart. Yeah, don't judge me. As always, mine didn't turn out exactly like the picture, but sort of resembled the same sort of shape that I was going for. 

Don't they look delicious? They were, I had like, three in the two days that they were around the house. I also made my great-grandfather's Brunswick stew. It doesn't look all that appetizing, but it's soo good. Especially when it gets cold. Which is why I made it. We finally had a cold snap here in central Florida. Perfect weather for warm food. 

Like I said. It doesn't look like something anyone would ever want to eat, but it's delicious. Every time. And today was a culinary adventure as well. Sort of. I only made the one thing, but it was my first time trying something new, alone, with just a mere paragraph of instruction. This too, was delicious.

Garlic Parmesan chicken drumsticks from Simply Scratch. My family loved it, even my little sister, who only eats her seasoned chicken when everything on it has been rinsed off. My mother rinses her chicken, sigh.

Onto the next order of business. KITTENS! In my house there were two dogs and two cats. The oldest of all of our little domestic creatures is my cat. The queen of sass, Lucki. She's fat and old and perfectly prissy. And then there was Hershey, the chocolate lab mix that my older sister got on Valentine's day when she was in middle school. He died last February. It's the only time I have ever seen my dad cry. Misty is one of my older sister's charity cases. She has them in the forms of dogs and men. Misty barks at everything: the door opening, the oven timer going off, everything. She's a Jack Russel Terrier, she's supposed to do that. That is what her owner tells me. All I see is a rat like dog that poops everywhere and barks too much. And then there was Trixie. A calico cat that my granny found and sort of nursed back to health. We took her in because my granny lives in a condo and had just gotten new flooring. Trixie disappeared two weeks ago. Trixie was my little ten year old sister's cat. Ten year old's aren't ready for a loss yet. So my older brother brought home a little gray tabby today. He's the most adorable little fuzzball ever.
The first thing he did in her room was lay on her hats, so she wanted to name him after a hat. After tossing out Fedora and Stetson, she decided to call him Shako. Don't know what a shako is? Let me show you.

That. Is a shako. I wore one when I was in the high school marching band. They're not that comfortable and I don't wish the harm on anyone else with these beasts. But that's what my little sister named her new kitten after. A marching band hat.

And that. Is our new kitten. Isn't he adorable? Misty likes him, my cat hissed at him. Grouchy old woman. 

I suppose that I've taken up a lot of space now. And I didn't even cover Halloween! Next time, then.

Kitchen Time.

I'll admit it, I am a food blog thief. But nothing on here will be said without due note. I use Stumble Upon to find my wonderful bloggers. It often tells me that I have gone through all of the baking blogs listed on the site, it lies. I've done a few things lately, only misplacing the original creator once, so it will not be displayed. But what I did make, oh yum.

The first was homemade Strawberry Pop-Tarts, from Franish Nonspeaker. The only problem that I encountered was the unexpected amount of time it took me. But then again, I started at nine o'clock at night. The results:

 So the preserves leaked out and got a little burnt, the dog like the bits that I took off and they tasted absolutely wonderful. The icing was too thin, but was still tasted.

And then I made these absolutely fantastic Brown Sugar Cookies with Maple Icing from Brooke McLay. OMGod, these were so amazing. They were loved by my entire family and came out perfectly. You won't see the terrible icing job I did on the first batch, because I ate them before anyone saw. 

 

I followed the recipe for the icing to a tee and it was so difficult to work with. I used an extra half tablespoon of milk and it came out like this, but not the glaze0like icing in Brooke McLay's picture. No matter, my family loved them. I even made one for my little sister that resembled a fudge round, it had so much icing on it.

First and foremost. . .

This is for my own personal sanity, because I need a place where I can talk about anything without getting in trouble with anyone I know. Unless they find this, which would be terrible. 

If you have found this, people that I know, you must understand that everyone needs to vent and my hand is starting to hurt from hand writing all of this. You must have done something to be either praised or censured, so don't complain, it's not my fault. 

Maybe people will read this, maybe they won't. But either way, it's cool, cause nothing really flows in my life and there will be quite a bit of rantings. So if you bypass this nonsense, I completely understand.