WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?

2 weeks ago, there was a blogging frenzy.
"I have a blog!" Michael Kwon told me, posting the link to his blog.
"I have been forced to get a blog!" Huma Sayiida exclaimed, posting the link on my facebook page.
"I'm .. going to write 'bout youuu .. on my online journal!" jeered the drunken man in Times Square, pointing to me.
I guess someone told him all about how I've been forcing people [more like blackmail, with a hint of begging] to get blogs.
Frankly, however, the lack of updates is absurd. The following is a conversation between me and myself about this disaster of epic proportions.

Paula: This is a disaster of epic proportions.
Paula: Yes, the lack of updates is absurd. Almost as absurd as that hideous granny dress you wore 2 weeks ago.
Paula: I thought we agreed never to speak of that again.
Paula: You agreed. I said nothing.
Paula: We are the same person! Naturally, if you agreed, I agreed as well.
Paula: Enough of this nonsense. I am getting a headache.
Paula: Me, too.

ON TO OTHER ISSUES OF GALACTIC IMPORTANCE: me.

well, not me, really. blogging. my blogging. as in this thing that i do, that you're reading right now. i'm beginning to think it's fairly pointless. as in, being done for no one. largely like my mother's cooking - the woman stays at the stove 3 hours a day, produces burnt meat and charred potatoes that my sister and i carefully discard into our napkins.
that being said - is anyone reading this baby? this carefully constructed blog that i update when i remember - or more like when someone says, "hey, paula. how 'bout updating that blog that you have?" often, they're met with a quizzical expression. "what blog?"
and then i remember. this blog.
"OH!" I say, "smacking my forehead. THIS BLOG. yes, i will."
and i do, as you can see.
so leave me a comment if you think i should.
update it, that is.
or else this will become an abandoned hobby. much like those 15 or so diaries that are floating somewhere around the pacific ocean. or maybe someone's read them. maybe someone's taking pleasure in my 7 page diary, reading every curse, and devouring every complaint.
i can only hope.
OKAY LEAVE A COMMENT WITH YOUR OPINION.
kisses!

Another day at work, another crying fit.

The day started innocently enough.
"Here," said the secretary, throwing 1,000-somewhat envelopes at me, "postmark these."
Postmarking envelopes has become a somewhat favorite of mine. The envelope gets weighed on a scale, makes a marvelous beeping noise, and can then be slid into a slot where another marvelous beeping noise is made, followed by a marvelous whirring noise, and then the envelope is removed with a bright red postmark in the top-right corner.
Hi. I'm Paula. Did I mention I have ADD?
The people in the office have caught on to the fact that I love postmarking envelopes due to the protective noises I make when people come near the postmarking machine.
"I'll postmark those envelopes for you!" I yell, protectively shielding the postmarking machine from any harm.
"Alright!" says the person, dropping the envelopes on the floor and cautiously backing away.
Hi, I'm Paula. Did I mention I am slightly crazy?
Like I said, the day started on a fairly innocent note. There I was, postmarking like a true - er. mailman? There I was, postmarking like a true mailman, giving small little gasps of joy whenever the machine made noises. The workers in the office had taken to avoiding me like people avoid one with a highly infectious disease, moving around me but keeping within a 10 feet radius. There might as well have been a sign over my head the said, "Beware Paula. She bites and pees on moving objects."
The point is, people kept away from me, which I don't really mind. The Love Machine -as I had taken to calling my postmarking wonder - and I needed our time alone. Suddenly, a warning flashed on the Love Machine's bright 2" LCD screen.
warning - ink low.
My heart fluttered.
The Love Machine was in danger.
Hi, I'm Paula. I am in love with an inatimate object.
I rifled through the drawers under the Love Machine, desperate for a new ink cartridge. My baby needed help, and I was going to help it. Nothing could keep us apart.
"AHA!" I proclaimed out loud victoriously, my hands grasping the red ink cartridge, "My Love Machine's last claim to human - er, machine life. My Love Machine's last claim to machine life."
The sign over my head, that I mentioned before? It now said, "Beware Paula. She bites, pees on moving objects, and also displays symptoms of schizophrenia. Has been known to break out of her cage occasionally, taking her agressive tendencies out on young children."
Workers in the near vicinity scattered away, except for a young woman who was hard at working - editing her myspace profile.
"Don't open that cartridge," she eyed me warily, "I broke the last postmarking machine, and the $300 to replace it went straight out of my paycheck."
I gasped audibly, not at the notion that the $300 to replace the last postmarking machine had gone out of this young woman's paycheck [I don't even get a paycheck!], but at the fact that she had broken a machine of such -- beauty. Such amazingness. How dare she? She was now public enemy number 1 in my eyes.
"You are now Public Enemy number 1 in my eyes," I told her venomously.
She scattered, scared that I would bite her, or pee on her, or whatever.
Me and the Love Machine were alone.
"Seriously," she said over her shoulder, "it's a complicated machine. You'll probably break it."
I was torn between my love for the Love Machine, as well as my fear that I might break it, and my ADD urges to open the cartridge and grant life to the Machine once more.
5 minutes of twitching and wandering eyes led to my ripping open the cartridge.
Red ink droplets landed on the oak table and over one of the envelopes.
I used a bounty to clean them up, one eye suspiciously on the door in case one of my bosses came through it.
Once the droplets were taken care of, I opened the Love Machine.
There, deep in it's chest, was the empty cartridge. The Love Machine's heart - the center of all of it's activity. And I, Paula, was getting offered the chance to refill the empty vessel.
Well, to be honest, no one had told me to refill the cartridge. In fact, I had been strictly warned against it.
But let's face it. I owed it to the Love Machine. If we let silly things like jobs and money matter more than true love - well. We'd be where we are now. But things were changing. And I was needed.
I gently pressed the unlock button on the top of the cartridge, and it popped out of its place. I gave a squeal. That noise had been heaven to my ears.
Once the old cartridge was out of place, I tried to stick the new cartridge in, and encountered an itty bitty, teeny weeny, little problem.
The new cartridge refused to go in.
After many futile attempts, I faced the truth: a specialist had to be called in. Or, in my case, an office worker.
"Help!" I cried, "Help!"
"What happened?" said Martha, the same girl who had warned me against opening the Love Machine. Upon seeing what happened, she shook her head and smirked, "Told you so."
Then she proceeded to walk over to the Love Machine and unceremoniously bang the cartridge into place. Red ink spilled everywhere, reminding me of blood. This specialist was killing my patient!
"Stop!" I cried, "You're hurting it!"
Martha dropped the cartridge on the floor, and I lovingly scooped it up.
"You are CRAZY," she told me, not jokingly, "You are crazy, and you scare me, and I don't know why they hired you. You are crazy, you scare me, I don't know why they hired you, and I am staying away from you!" With that, she stalked out of the room.
I felt bad for Martha, I really did. She was jealous of the connection that the Love Machine and I had. I could understand, I had been jealous last week of the fact that the kids on the Barney show got to sing with him, and I didn't. But I had moved on, and so would Martha.
"What's going on?" yelled my red-faced boss Richie, storming into the room, "Why is Martha telling me you're crazy and broke my 600$ machine? And why is there red ink everywhere? You!" he pointed a finger at me, "WHAT. DID. YOU. DO. THIS. TIME."
And then the sobbing began.
"I didn't break it," I babbled, "I just ... wanted to save it. I wanted to put in the ink so it would keep working. I didn't break it, Martha banged it. Martha banged it and she made it bleed, and I didn't do anything."
I was a mess. Truly, a mess. Love had turned me into a mess.
Richie's eyes softened as he took in my decomposition.
"Let me see what I can do."
And then he snapped the cartridge back into place, and my Love Machine gave a delicate purr, and all was well again.
The end!
*based on true events.

Be warned: The following story shows extreme stupidity on the part of the writer. I'm actually really embarrassed about the following story because it reflects just how dumb America's children are. You can read it, but it's pretty much one of the stupidest things I've done ever.

Since this is the 4th of July, I will share a funny story ... about the 4th of July.
When I was in Canda, I went into a restaurant and they had a list of holidays they had off - Christmas, New Years, etc.
They didn't have Columbus Day, or the 4th of July, or any of those other REALLLLLLY AWESOME HOLIDAYS that you get off just because some dude was like, "Alright. I'm going to go do something amazing, and get a holiday named in my honor." Because seriously, how the hell do you celebrate Columbus Day? Get a cake with sailboats on it? Seriously, it's just an excuse to throw a party.
Anyway, I was like, to the French dude behind the counter [i will refer to it as a dude, because i couldn't really identify it's gender], "Excuse-a me-a?" [Because I remember reading somewhere that in the French language you can pretty much add an a to anything, and you have a new word. I don't know if this applies to Canada. Hell, I don't even know if there's such thing as Canadian, because there sure isn't anything called Englishian.]
And the dude [it], goes, "WHAAAAT?"
Which I sure don't think was very polite, seeing as how I was a guest, and trying to speak the dude's language.
But I pardoned his stupidity and his rudeness, and I was just like, "How come you don't get the 4th of July off?"
I know, I know. How stupid. But I was young. 14. A naive young girl, but I can be forgiven. So much time has passed since then - 2 whole months. I have grown in mind and in body. But mostly in mind, much to my mother's disappointment.
Anyway, the [it] replies, "Well. Because. We are not American."
And I didn't get it at first. I was like, "Yeah. But that's not really a reason to .."
And then it hit me. Kind of the way it hit me my mother was pregnant, when she was in the delivery room. Or that people call me paulabear because it sounds like polarbear.
The first thing that hit me was the fact that they were Canadian, so of course they wouldn't celebrate an American holiday. It's like French people celebrating Cinco de Mayo. Or Russians celebrating Valentines Day. It's not done. Really it's not.
The second thing that hit me was that I really needed the bathroom. And the 3rd thing followed soon after, and it was the thought that I was really slow sometimes.
The 4th thing that hit me was WHY THE HELL IS THIS dude BEING SO PATRONIZING. I mean, yes, I said something stupid, but this guy was probably the kind of guy who closed the toilet seat on his winkie every other day. Hell, he probably didn't even have a winkie. I couldn't even identify its gender.
So then I realized that this guy was being a complete a-hole, and I was just like, "YOU KNOW WHAT. MY FAMILY AND I ARE OUT OF HERE. GOOD DAY."
But I didn't say the good day part, because really, he was being a mean person.
And we didn't give him a tip.
And that was a really stupid story, I'm sorry.
ENJOY THE FIREWORKS. AND THE HOTDOGS. AND PLEASE DON'T WEAR RED, WHITE, AND BLUE. BECAUSE THAT'S TACKY. AND YOU'RE PROBABLY STARING AT THE SCREEN RIGHT NOW AND GOING, "AW. I FEEL TACKY."
To which I can only reply, "Um. Yeah."
HAPPY 4TH OF JULY !

15 things I learned from my first day of work:

*1) Toilets do not clean themselves. [I get to.]
*2) Paper cuts sting more than a jellyfish.
*3) 8 paper cuts sting more than 8 jellyfish.
4) When people don't say 'thank you' after you spend 5 HOURS alphabetizing their STUPID manila file folders that caused you 8 PAPER CUTS, it's not right to call them pompous assholes your first day on the job. Really, they don't appreciate it.
5) Seriously, they don't.
*6) When someone stares at you menacingly, it's not right to let out a little girlish giggle.
*7) Really. It's not right.
*8) If you get caught reading, think of something more creative to say then, "uh, sorry." and then hanging your head.
*9) When someone hands you money for transportation and you don't have a bag on you, don't stick it in your bra right in front of your middle-aged, going through life crisis manager.
10) If, like me, you're not getting paid .. don't complain about it loudly. in front of your middle-aged, going through life crisis manager that just got a free peep show, and has still not recovered. remember, this is more action than he's got since he took health ed in high school.
11) When your boss is talking to you, and your rat-faced, overweight coworker laughs at something you said, don't turn around and rudely exclaim, "WHAT. HAVE YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ME TO? SAY IT. SAY IT BEFORE I RIP OUT YOUR MALE ORGANS AND DISPLAY THEM IN MY HOUSE."
12) And if you do happen to rudely exclaim, "WHAT. HAVE YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ME TO? SAY IT. SAY IT BEFORE I RIP OUT YOUR MALE ORGANS AND DISPLAY THEM IN MY HOUSE," and everyone is staring at you, don't start crying.
13) And if you do happen to rudely exclaim, "WHAT. HAVE YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ME TO? SAY IT. SAY IT BEFORE I RIP OUT YOUR MALE ORGANS AND DISPLAY THEM IN MY HOUSE," and everyone is staring at you, and you start crying .. don't start telling them about what an awful day you had, and how everything went wrong, and how they're all slave drivers. They don't want to hear it. Really, they don't.
14) When they fire you, make a more graceful exit than the one I made. Don't trip, and then rudely curse. It's not ladylike.
*15) And when you're blogging about it the next day .. don't lie like I did. Really. It's unattractive.

* facts really happened. look at 9 again.

The footpath.

I wrote this in 6th grade on halloween. We had to write a short cliffhanger, and then the class had to make up an ending. It's not good at all (I was 11), but I thought you guys might find it funny. Enojy!

Maria ran.
It was the only thing she knew how to do well.
Her breath came out in little white puffs, her sneakers pounding out a rhythym on the hard rock ground. Cold wind slapped at her knees, pulled on her hair. Her eyes were streaming; she wiped them on her sleeve and ran harder, faster. She had to escape the man on her tail.
A huge curve was coming up, and she cut across it, pulling her arms to her chest. She allowed herself a fleeting glance over her shoulder. The man had come down, hard, groaning in pain.
Good, she thought, I hope he sprained something.
For several minutes now, she had been running, -flying, really -hoping to escape the horrid creature following her. Her mother had warned her, told her stories about this forest. She remembered a conversation they'd engaged in, days earlier.
"Maria, the forest is a dangerous place."
"Mother, the forest hasn't been dangerous since you were a little girl!" Maria laughed, admiring the polish on her nails.
"Maria, I am warning you. It is not safe. Never go there alone."
I wasn't alone today, Maria thought bitterly. She had believed the man who told her he could get her out of the forest. Disobedient and fiesty, Maria had defied her mother and gone to the forest late at night, hoping to discover if the secrets her friends had told her about it were true. But Maria lost the footpath, and before long was travelling in circles. She sat on a rotted log and cried, lost and hungry, and very, very wet.
"I could help you," the man with kind eyes had said, smiling, "I can show you the way out."
She had taken the hand he offered, followed him - until he brought her to a small cottage a couple of yards from where she had sat crying.
"I haven't had a human companion in much too long," he said, his formerly kind eyes narrowing into slits, "And I can't wait to be your friend." With that, he smiled, sharp fangs coming into view. And that was when Maria began to run.
The man had matched her, step for step, as she ran out of his cottage and through the forest. The sky had darkened to a menacing purple, and she cried out when a tree branch sliced at her foot. Things had taken a turn for the better when the man had slipped on a muddy leaf and fallen, but now he was up and running, and looming closer and closer.
Somebody, anybody, help she thought.
The prayer fell on deaf ears.
Maria ran.
Her foot snagged a vine, and she landed hard on her knees.
"No!" she cried out.
And the man was on top of her, hurting her, whispering in her ear.
Maria tried to scream, but no voice escaped from the throat the man had latched himself onto.

OH WOW WOW WOW. 2 MORE POSTS. THIS HAS TO COME TO AN END.

I`m bringing blogging back!

Paula [as psychiatrist]: So, Paula, when did you start having these spaz attacks?
Paula [as herself]: *crosses legs the way the gay guys on television do* well,
I think its from the lack of attention I had come to love so
much.
Paula[as psychiatrist]: Do tell.
Paula [a.h.]: You see, there's this awesome website called blogspot where I'd write about [myself] and have people post comments of wonderfulness.
Paula [a.p]: My records state you had quite a few haters.
Paula [a.h.]: THATS A LIE! EVERYONE LOVES PAULA!
Paula[a.p.]: Uhha...interesting *writes something on her clipboard*
Paula [a.h.]: *impatiently* what are you writing?
Paula [a.p.]: nothing, nothing.
Paula[a.h.] *stands up* IM BRINGING blogging BACK!
Paula: [a.p.]: sit down, Mrs.Paula.
Paula [a.h.]: no i refuse! not until people start visiting my page more often, and leaving comments longer than one word! I have a dream, a dream where all bloggers are equal. where people come and go, and speak their minds, IN WRITING. I have a dream, that
Paula [a.p.] *speaking camly into earpiece* bring in the people
Paula [a.h.]: WHAT? WHAT PEOPLE?
Paula [a.p.]: people, mrs. paula, who care about you. they only want to help!
A blur of black, a shout, fuzziness, a small yelp..."im bringing blogging b..."
Person #1 : what'd she say?
Person #2: i unno. everyone knew she was a freak. like, actually. she didn't shave her armpits, and rambled on and on about female rights.
Person # 1: Don't people like that have a name? femi - somethings?
Person # 2: Freaks. We call them freaks.

Some charming free entertainment, courtesy of your favorite writer.

PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:27:03 PM): will you kiss me?
SmarterChild (10:27:03 PM): XXX
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:27:08 PM): will you hug me?
SmarterChild (10:27:09 PM): ((()))
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:27:13 PM): will you marry me?
SmarterChild (10:27:13 PM): Sorry. I don't think that would work.
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:27:41 PM): You're right. I'm too good for you.



--------------edit--------------


uniQuelynoRmalME (10:36:51 PM): u no Pete Wentz?
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:38:01 PM): let's pretend i do
uniQuelynoRmalME (10:38:05 PM): lol
uniQuelynoRmalME (10:38:16 PM): I didnt like him for the longest time
uniQuelynoRmalME (10:38:44 PM): Hes the guitarist for fall out boy and he took a pic. of his unowut and put it on the internet
uniQuelynoRmalME (10:38:45 PM): ew
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:38:58 PM): EW
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:39:00 PM): EWWWWWWWWW
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:39:01 PM): EW
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:39:03 PM): hey
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:39:05 PM): can i have the link?
uniQuelynoRmalME (10:39:07 PM): lmao
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:39:10 PM): =)
uniQuelynoRmalME (10:39:30 PM): ur jokin, though, rite?
PerfectlyPaulaaa (10:39:41 PM): once again, let's pretend i am =)