I have arrived

I'm here!

I made it to Atlanta, safe and sound.

At the moment, I'm really bored. Boredom leads to thinking, analyzing, then over-thinking and over-analyzing.

This is such an opportunity for me. I have the chance to be literally anything. I don't know anyone here. They don't know me. I can be so totally honest here, undo all my half-truths and leave all my mistakes and miscommunications behind. It's incredibly freeing, but a little terrifying at the same time. I've been the Concordia version of myself for so long. Even when I went to Mexico, that was me. I dragged all that baggage between countries, bringing it to Mexico, adding and subtracting insecurities and perceptions, and bringing what was left home with me.

Now I'm here.

When I say that I can leave all my half-truths and miscommunications behind, I don't mean that I was a liar, or that I made things up. But four years is a long time, especially the four years between 18 and 22. The things that were true at 18 aren't anymore at 22. I don't hate romantic comedies as a genre anymore, and I won't avoid scary movies like the plague. I am much more aware of the difference between being good and being self-righteous, and I have come to realize how badly I need people who will be straightforward and honest with me.

I don't really know what I'll do differently, but I'm going to paint myself as honestly as I know how. These next six months are going to be practice in being a more real and truthful me.

I, Emily Hiestand, am terrible at reading people's feelings towards me. I will always convince myself that people are just trying to be nice, and don't actually like me. I don't know the line between flirting and being nice. I like being warm. When I get really angry, I cry. When I get really sad, I watch TV. Or blog. When I get really excited I make odd noises and do a little white-girl dance. When I'm nervous, I talk too much, sweat, and shake. When I'm happy I want to tell someone about it. When I drink I share too many of my skeletons.

I have the baggage that I've dragged with me all over the world, but it's not going to weigh be down. It's so full of useful information and tools, and most importantly, people I care about who I know care about me. Whatever else happens, there will be Laura, Krista, Josh, Kate, Tichael, Peters, Adam, Taylor, and Zeb. I trust them, all in different ways and for different reasons; but I truly believe that if I really, really needed them, I could count on them to be there. That means more to me than any amount of self-awareness.

Contents of my coin jar

$0.82 in pennies
$0.80 in nickels
$1.10 in dimes
$2.25 in quarters (not going back in, I might need those for parking)
$0.50 in silver dollars
$4.00 in gold dollars
2 Chinese coins my dad brought back from a business trip
$2.11 in Canada money
12 pfennig, which I think was German currency before the euro
1 rand from South Africa
2.55 euro
$41.90 in Mexican pesos, which would get me like 2 tacos or a capuccino

I want to be like the movies.

I'm ok with being ordinary; ordinary looking, with an ordinary job and paycheck, and ordinary car and an ordinary apartment. Life doesn't need to be extraordinary to be beautiful and valuable.

I've graduated, and I'm getting a real person job. I'm moving 1,360 miles away, and everyone says that it's a brand new adventure, which is totally accurate.

These times of transition always make me feel a little lost. I don't really have an ultimate goal, but I've come to realize that it makes me just like everyone else. I'm just sort of wandering through life, looking at things along the way. If I had a goal of where I wanted to end up, I could maybe formulate a plan with steps, and measurable timetables. I know it's typical Midwest to want a house with a yard, a spouse, kids, cars, and maybe a place to go on the weekends.

I don't know if I want any of that. Do I really want the average 2.5 children? And why is being single bad? I would rather stay single than be divorced before I'm thirty, and I certainly don't need a house so big that I lose my husband and kids in the too-many rooms. Maybe I want some or all of those things, or will want them someday.

Right now, I have different priorities:

I want to sit and eat take-out on the floor of an apartment or house, surrounded by boxes full of yet-to-be-unpacked household items. I want to move in and sleep on a mattress on the floor at first, cause there hasn't been time to go bed shopping yet.

I want to tape paint swatches on the wall and stare at them, and then paint them on my walls with a scarf on my head and a smudge on my nose.

I want a balcony where I can put plants, and smoke hookah, and eat biscotti with my coffee on sunny Sunday mornings.

I want a kitchen I can dance-cook in, one with enough space for me to spin in a circle.

I want to find some sort of exercise that I enjoy. I don't want to be old and fat.

Atlanta is going to be an adventure. Each time I try something new, I understand the direction I'm headed a little better. Will it be perfect and life-altering? I hope not. I don't want cliches.

Icky sicky

I'm sick.

When I was younger (think 13-15) I used to play dress-up in my room. I'd make up new episodes of my favorite shows, M*A*S*H and Hogan's Heroes, and then act them out in front of a mirror. I was always the hero, and I usually got horrifically wounded in some way that saved every single other person in the general vicinity, and then made a magical recovery from the edge of the grave to everyone's great relief and astonishment. Some of those stories involved me pretending to be a boy. I'd wrap my chest up in Ace bandages until I looked like I had pecs instead of boobs. It was always a little difficult to breathe. I usually incorporated that into my almost-tragic story.

I stopped my imaginary life on the battlefield when my real life got busy and I got more friends. Plus there's no way I could pass for a boy anymore. Unless that boy had some serious man-boobs.

My head aches, my nose is drippy, and I feel like I have an ACE bandage wrapped around my chest. And Alan Alda is nowhere to be found.

Oh, you...

Damnit.

Track of the day: Bang Bang by will.i.am
Blue: My foot, I've been sitting on it and it's turning colors.

Negative Nancy

Poor Nancy. I don't know anyone with that name, but that's probably cause everyone just assumes she'll be a Debbie Downer. Get it? Cause I don't know anyone named Debbie either... funny...?

Regardless, there is a ton of negativity happening on my Facebook newsfeed and I'm kinda sick of it.

"But Emily," you say, "Your complaints of negativity are also fairly negative, and I'm pretty sure a couple of your blog posts have been significantly more whiny than uplifting". Fair point, friend. Touche. I know that it makes me a hypocrite to complain about complainers, but I'm not blowing up your Facebook newsfeed on a daily basis with information that's irrelevant to my life about how shitty yours is because you have a cold. 

Life is shitty sometimes. Everyone knows that. 
Anyone who says otherwise is either super drugged up or lacking some of their mental faculties. 

But you- with your constant complaints about schoolwork being overwhelming, and your unfortunate allergy symptoms- you're bringing everyone who sees your whiny status DOWN. They're having a perfectly decent day, and then:

BAM!

This beaut of a status:

"When I get emotional, I get cold, when I'm cold, I get the shivers, which makes my shingles worse (don't ask me why, cus idk). -rough night for various reasons..."

This particular Facebook-er has a pretty consistent habit of incredibly depressing statuses. If the writer is reading this, know that you have been stricken from my newsfeed for your status that make me want to smack you and ask you the following:

Are you trying to make people feel sorry for you?

Are you trying to bring everyone down to your emotional level?

Is there a reason you needed to broadcast this rather than texting your mom so she can say, "Oh poor baby" at which point you can cry a little bit to yourself and then get on with your life?

Maybe your thought process is, "I'm just being honest about what's happening in my life right now". To which I would counter,

REALLY??

Is that the ONLY thing that's going on in your life right now?

Is today actually the worst day of your life because you woke up late and forgot to finish that term paper?

It makes me feel like this:

My one suggestion to you is that you consider this: Emotion is contagious. Empathy is what makes humanity incredibly and wonderfully humane. Your statuses are going out and contaminating the bright, emotional palettes of others with nasty shit-colors. Don't be the smallpox of the emotional world. Be that awesome kind of radioactivity that makes people into superheroes so they can join the Avengers.

I want to know about your life. I want to know what beauty you saw in the world today, and what struggles you've overcome, and if you need help overcoming a struggle I'd be glad to help you out. But if your cry for help is your Facebook status, know that  you won't be taken seriously. It's Facebook, where people post Instagram-ed photos of their Starbucks cups.

And I will disable any notifications from you. :D

Feet in Heels>Feet and Heels

So I have this thing for feet. Not like a fetish, that’s totally normal. You tell people you have a foot fetish, and they’ll probably just ask you for a foot massage. 

I hate feet. 

I don’t just dislike them, I hate them. I don’t want to see yours, I don’t want you to see mine, and if yours come near me or you come near mine, so help you, I will knee you in your goddamn nose. 

The thing about feet, is that they’re these extensions of your limbs that are a lot like really fucked up hands. They’re like hands where they shouldn’t be. And that makes toes like fingers that never grew right, which creeps me out. 

And what’s worse, is that they’re stuck in shoes all day. Shoes aren't breathable, friendly fabric like freakin' under armor or wool or cotton. Imagine wearing wearing an all leather suit. Your body would be marinating in its own sweat conglomerations by the end of one hour of walking, even at like a normal obese American pace. Like I said, I don’t wear all leather suits, and I’m guessing you all don’t either. But your feet wear leather suits ALL THE TIME. So your feet are always just sitting in puddles of their own juices. 

That’s like peeing  in your pants and then wearing them the rest of the day anyway, just hoping they dry out on their own. 

I hate feet, but I love shoes. So there’s always this inner conflict about the awesome gorgeous magnificence of those things that go on your feet (and believe me, the things on my feet are certainly magnificent), and the horrifying knowledge of what goes inside them. The only thing keeping shoes from being as awful as feet are the 3mm of cotton that keeps them from touching, and the fact that no one will ever try to massage my shoes. 

Also, these: 

Aren't they just amazing? Got them on ModCloth.

Blue thing of the day: My spectacular heels.

Track of the day: Great Day by The Lonely Island
Watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRu_-9MBpd4