Friday, June 29, 2012

Summertime.... and the livin' is way too easy.

June flew by, no? It seems like yesterday that I was doing, well, the same exact thing that I'm doing today. That includes, but not limited to: Netflix marathons (often alone. Currently trying to get through FX's Sons of Anarchy. Good-ass show, if you're into middle-aged men playing with motorcycles and shit. Or that troubled blondie to the right. <3. Intervention's good too; I actually might be addicted to it. Ope! Too far?); driving to and from every town in Western/Upstate N.Y. that borders the Genesee Valley and/or the 390; reading all of the books and magazines (I read the same issue of People twice at work. Mind you, it was on two different occasions. No excuse? I'm sorry); and laying in bed in the dark... at 3 p.m. Like right now, except it's 7. This week we especially wasted our time with Food Network's Chopped and BBQ Pit Wars. Too addicting. Too awesome. I now like to pretend that I'm a participant in a cooking competition on national television when I make sandwiches and omelettes. It makes things go by faster, and it makes my food taste a little bit better. A little.

Now, I don't know about you, but all of those things above (except maybe the driving, although it has gotten more tolerable lately, possibly because I found Rochester's NPR station - 88.5 for those who are wondering. It's just me, Renee, and Steve every morning. With the occasional interjection from inferior and local WXXI. Just kidding, guys. But seriously) are awesome.
Note: Sorry about the long-ass parenthetical remark up there. I got carried away. I am aware that you probably had to reread that sentence a good three, four, maybe 19 times, both with and without the phrase, like when you were in second grade. I don't really care. I just hope we're all caught up now and/or those who were angered have since exited off of this tab. They only helped me by adding to my view count. Thanks folks!

Awesome, in the sense that my brain may or may not be melting. Disintegrating. Right before (behind?) my eyes. I can feel the knowledge that once occupied a small part of my cranium where active and critical thinking took place; it's slowly easing its way out, little by little, with every new lazy and bedridden day. Yesterday I woke up drenched in my own  cerebrospinal fluid. Could've been sweat, highly likely.
Cells are leaking out of my skull like a slashed tire. Actually, it's probably more like a child stabbing a balloon with a fork. I'm pretty sure everything's just gone. But the balloon isn't that one that was on the infomercials in the '90s. Remember? For 30 minutes they'd mesmerize us with the same scene with the magic balloon being tested in various and dangerous situations for a balloon to fall into? What was that balloon called, anyway? I couldn't find it on Google and I searched "magic balloon," "magic balloon with fork," "fork stabs balloon," "balloon As Seen on TV." Let me know what you guys find; you'll probably have to delve deeper. EBSCO Host, perhaps?

I Google Imaged "melting" and this came up.
Pretty accurate.
You see, although I no longer spend long hours (until 1 a.m. Seriously Milne, 24/7 would be where it's at) in the corner of the upper-level of the library and although I don't wonder anymore what terrible project/paper/assignment/problem set will be thrown at me next, and ALTHOUGH I don't pull an all-nighter every Wednesday toiling away to produce a newspaper in the basement of a college union, I kind of miss having a nice daily brain cardio session. Summer has deemed itself successful, once again, at putting me in this weird lackadaisical too-chill state that is anything but intellectually stimulating. In fact, it's quite the opposite. Not that it's a completely bad thing.

But it's an awful and frightening thing. I feel like Charlie in Flowers for Algernon.

I could, and we all try to at one point or another, argue that watching biased and somewhat (barely) informational documentaries on Netflix and reading a couple New Yorker/Economist/Glamour magazine articles are thought-provoking activities that nourish our brain cells. Like, the whole "I read the news every morning, so I'm up-to-date on current events and therefore I am convinced that my brain is still functioning at the same level as when I was reading the news + 15,000 more pages every day. Oh BTW, because I do that, I'm better than you."


So what are you guys doing about this brain melting phenomenon? Is everyone suffering like me, or have you not even realized what's happening yet? Are we picking up new hobbies, learning new languages? How do you guys convince yourselves that there are still some gears turning up there? I'll share with you some of my pseudo-intellectual activities and hobbies that I use to make myself feel a little bit better and a little less like a waste of space, air, and food.

I'm currently reading The Stories of John Cheever.
A big thumbs up and suggested for those who just can't seem
to finish a whole book. (I know, it's hard sometimes.) Seriously, these stories take about eight minutes, not even, to read.
Cheever likes to take the facade that people routinely hide behind and contrast it directly with
 their opposing and often hidden corruption and oddities with which we're all familiar.
If you are a human being, you will relate to this.
Not recommended for those who like books with a lot of action,
but then again, eight minutes people.

Yup. Pullin' out the language card. I'm working at computers a lot lately so
I toss on some tunes sometimes and Radio France Internationale is on my presets!
But it's pretty hard to keep up with what these people are saying, especially when I'm
only half paying attention. No matter how many French classes I take,
they will always speak too quickly for me. I'm hoping the whole "passive learning"
thing will be effective.

I've been cooking and baking a lot! Like I said above, Chopped contestant is the character
I take on when I'm in the kitchen. I've gotten quite good at stir fry (thanks to BRAND NEW RICE COOKER!!),
cookies, and oh dude, we made black bean burgers one night. Those were reaaaaal good.
But, I don't know. Does that even count?
Adults cook all the time. Kind of. But I think that because I'm learning and stuff,
and exploring my options, it's ok. I have food literature that I've been reading.
And by that I mean, I stalk foodgawker every day.
I'm really stretching it here, aren't I?

Wow. So, I thought I had more. I'm reading more books but I'm not going to tell you everything I'm reading, listening to, and watching. Superfluous. Unnecessary. Trite. I also work every single day of the week, so like, throw that in my credentials too. I'm not just dicking around and dabbling all day. Oh, and dude! Friends! They're great! I have them and we all hang out a lot. Dennis Green and many others came over for taco night pot luck this week and it was oh-so-good. Oh-so-good. Who doesn't love a good taco? Riddle me that.

I would, and had high intentions, of posting about my internships and exactly what I'm doing there, but then I got really wary of my bosses/supervisors seeing this blog and I decided it was a bad idea all together. I just replayed the GIF that I created in my mind of them seeing this blog and immediately decided to scrap the internship post. I'll take being mysterious over looked at with laughing eyes for the next two months, please.
But, I don't know, what do you guys think? It's work-appropriate, right? Besides, all the hype about workplaces not hiring workers because of Internet activity is buuuuullllshiiiiiiiiiiiit. If you're curious as to what my internships are and what my 9-5 life entails, my LinkedIn is a somewhat up-to-date self-promotion.

BTW, sorry the colors/text of the blog keep changing. I can't seem to find a scheme that I find aesthetically (or, Megan, Jesse, Laura, Dom, whoever's out there, should I say athletically??) pleasing for over a week. I don't know, am I allowed to change colors more often than not? I feel like it's against the rules of blogging but it's not like MadQuest is the Huffington Post or Perez Hilton. Yet. In due time I will come up with a concrete design but for now, trial period!

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Exercise, I love you. No I hate you. Now I love you.

Drink it in, folks. What you're seeing over there, that sweat-laden, red-faced, teary-eyed, pathetic, tattered and torn, tired and worn excuse for a human being is the result of an hour-long spinning (cycling on a stationary bike alongside other unwilling victims while a horridly fit instructor wearing a full-Nike spandex suit watches and jeers from her bike, noting your every desperate deep breath as she stays cool with a seemingly level and manageable heartbeat, no matter what resistance she sets her bike at. Damn those beautiful fitness instructors like Jillian Michaels seen below! Note to self: Fitness instructors and gym trainers are the new engineers) session that kicked mine and six other chicks' asses today.
No seriously, the seats hurt my ass.

Note: I'm not saying that only the women suffered. It really was an all-female class. Had there been one man, he would have gotten the shit kicked out of him, too. Spinning does not discriminate by gender. Or age. Trust me when I tell you that I was heaving harder than the fifty-something-year-old woman to my right. Was I embarrassed? No. Good for her. Good. For. Her.

That's fine, Jillian. I didn't want your body anyway.
BTW - heard she actually had plastic
surg. to get those abs? Can anyone please
tell me it's true?
That is not a dress I'm wearing, either! It is indeed a shirt. Believe it or not, the makers intention was not to design a shirt that hangs on my body like my boyfriend's favorite quarterback/pointguard/goalie's jersey and/or my own oversized t-shirt. Because I do not have a boyfriend.  

Had I taken a "before" picture - before the madness and before the borderline insanity - you would have observed that the shirt was a little more form-fitting and all, surprisingly, one shade of blue. My face also didn't resemble that of someone stricken with rosacea. All things to remember and keep in mind so you don't, you know, think I look like that all the time. The resemblance between Jillian  and I is actually striking, bear in mind.

I was only ten - no two - minutes, actually seconds, into this "CycleCraze" session before that familiar exercise anguish struck and my life turned shitty. My legs - quads burning like fire and glutes barely functioning - felt like noodles and that hoarse, helpless shortage of breath was all I could focus on. When Nike woman in spandex cat suit announced that the warm-up was over, my heart, quads, and mind had emotional breakdowns at the thought of what lay beyond this so-called "warm-up." "Warm fucking up?" I thought. "Seriously?" I turned my head slowly toward the clock - as to not attract any sort of attention or give off the indication that I was suffering - and my fears were confirmed: With 57 minutes to go, I knew I was in for a bumpy and probably really shitty ride.

But I couldn't leave. Oh no. Leaving an exercise class, as we should all know by now, whether it be Zumba, yoga, water aerobics or ceramics, is one of the biggest faux-pas in the gym world. If you leave a class early, there's a good chance that you'll get called out by the instructor. "Leaving early!?" they'll say. "Can't stand the heat!? Heheheh. I'm just kidding, have a great one, we'll see you next time!" she'll yell, as I awkwardly shimmy out of the room, murmuring angry words toward her under my breath - or what's left of it - for patronizing me, refusing to admit to myself that she is right: I really can't stand the heat. By that point, every class attendee has already profiled me as the girl who left the spinning class early. No longer do I stand with the elite gym gurus; I am at the bottom of the cardio food chain, known for reading full magazines while walking at a brisk 3 m.p.h. on the treadmill and doing four reps with an eight-pound weight followed by ten sit-ups. My chance at ever being taken seriously in any place with a treadmill, dumbbells, punching bags, or middle-aged men and women jumping up and down to Daddy Yankee and P!nk remixes is gone.

That is, unless I was spinning at Planet Fitness - as seen to the left - which prides itself on being a "judgement free zone." I disagree. It was a nice step in the right direction, PF, but touting your motto in bright purple against a urine-colored backdrop is not enough to dissuade people from taking note of my every rep, set, interval, cooldown and warm-up. But this spinning studio wasn't affiliated with Planet Fitness and I didn't have the comfort of knowing that there was an effort put forth against the aforementioned actions.

So that's where I stood, or sat, at 5:35 p.m.. I was pissed and I had an hour left to be pissed. Mind you, it's difficult to do, well, anything at all when it's 90-fucking-4 degrees (damn you, summer solstice and upstate NY's increased sun exposure!! And global warming, for the fools who believe in that batshit theory). Why, why, there is no air conditioning in an exercise studio - or anywhere that requires more physical activity than thinking or sleeping - boggles my mind to this day. To this day. Like, I sweat enough when I stand up, so you can just imagine, similar to my shirt and face seen above, the bike and its surrounding area drenched with deep puddles of salty and delicious perspiration.

Exercise. Why do I choose to do it, and repeatedly? Why do any of us force ourselves to suffer through the recommended aerobic activity of 30 minutes of intense cardio (cardio is underlined in red. Is it not a word? Is cardio FAKE!? Have I at last debunked the age-old myth that exercise is good for you!? Scratch the whole point of this post, and take the upcoming Olympics off of all of our to-watch lists!!!!! No, I could never do that. I've been waiting four years to watch gymnastics and Michael Phelps from my couch again) at least three to five times a week accompanied by two days of strength training, and don't forget the stretching, or else you're fucked! They (you know, the leaders up there. Whoever regulates everything we do. I just refer to them as "they" and people usually interpret the pronoun as seen fitting) have turned exercise and recreational activity into such a required task and health regulation for some of us that things that used to be fun - like sports and running - have been replaced by a 30-minute block of time every day dedicated to torturous activities, and we only do it all to keep up with the standards of this day and age. 

Like, d'oh! I did my 30 minutes of moderate-to-high heart rate activities, thank god it's over! Ope! I picked up ten pounds and bent my arm repeatedly, looks like I'm quite healthy! Or, I chose to walk up the stairs today instead of taking the elevator and my car is parked an extra 18 feet away, US Dept. of Health & Human Services says I'm A-OK in the healthy standards and I'm taking a step (literally) in the right direction toward a healthy lifestyle! Thanks for the help, Prevention magazine! I couldn't have figured out how to go for a walk without any of your advice. Am I right? It's all turned into a terrible chart that maps statistics to tell us if we're active enough or if we do just a little too much sitting. 
We're fulfilling requirements, but do we enjoy this? Do we enjoy the feeling of a face full of fire accompanied by an urge to vomit and/or pass out? Is picking heavy things up and putting them back down a fun thing, or are we all just complying with what we're told to do? Do we ever think about the fact that we're paying an owner of a building to use his conveyor belt and giant bouncy balls? No. Now I'm just getting too philosophical here.
I do not intend to ponder on the whole gym and workout expenditure thing for very long because it makes me feel guilty knowing that all forms of conventional exercise can be duplicated by simply running outside (which I do, and actually did today. I hope no one saw me because I was lookin' roooooooooooough) but I still, and will always, end up buying all sorts of exercise aides: Pilates videos, Turbo Jam classes..... yoga pants..... sweatbands.... superfluous items.... But we're all victims of that, no? So I shouldn't feel guilty. Yoga pants are too comfortable too burden me with those feelings when I wear them, which is every day. What? They're super stretchy and form fitting, but in a good way. Everyone loves yoga pants.

Personally, exercise and I have a love-hate relationship. It's great, it sucks, it's painful, it's pleasurable (lol). Exercising is the greatest feeling in the world and it's the utmost shitty experience ever. I want to die during a spinning class and it burns like gasoline and flames, and that burn, it's really quite great. I feel so many split emotions during one workout that if you were to ask my how I felt during a workout, the response could totally change every second. Feeling strong accompanied by bouts of hatred and self-loathing, usually, is how it works out for me. Choice of song certainly has an effect on my workout too. Dubstep in real life sucks. But while I'm running, there's nothing better than overpowering industrial shit music filling my ear and causing possible long-term damage to my eardrums to push me through 30 minutes.

But what do I think is the best part about a good/bad-ass workout? Ending. The feeling of being done with an exercise session is one that really can't be duplicated, am I right? It's an end to suffering, that end to pain that makes everything so much more bearable and doable again in the future. It's that release that makes you really love everything in the world as you plop down at your kitchen table after a run and just revel in the fact that you just defeated five miles of turf. When the instructor finally announces that he's starting the cool down and he turns on the chillzone music and tells you to turn off all resistance and just "stretch it out." You're just like, fuck yeah. I did it. And you feel strong and you feel great and you feel reaaaaaaaal uplifted. Real good. You want to tell the world. Or you want to crawl into a bathtub of ice cubes to assuage the imminent muscle aching that lies in your future. Either way, each successive workout session is a milestone for you and they add up and before you know it, you're stronger and you're buying more yoga pants.

I don't know about you guys, but that's why I exercise.

That and the fact that doctors, talk show hosts, and parents claim that exercise has a myriad of benefits including, but not limited to: weight control, muscle strengthening and definition, the ability to combat health conditions and diseases, and a heightened energy. But, like that "global warming" thing I mentioned briefly before, it's probably just a theory that will soon be disbanded.

Until then, I will continue to suffer and release endorphins all over the place.

Saturday, June 16, 2012


Uggh. Fuuuuuuuuuuck. Dishes.

         Why are they so hard to keep up with? I feel like for every meal I make, there are eighteen dishes for each ingredient. Omelette? Pans, cutting boards, dishes, ketchup. Cereal? Bowls (yes, plural), spoons, bibs.

          And don't even talk to me about baking. Flour all over clothes - god help me if I wear black, purple, indigo, royal blue or any hue that contrasts highly with white - crusty cooling racks, egg shit everywhere, mixing bowls piled up and measuring cups strewn across the counter. All for one meal or one batch of shitty and over-crispy or undercooked, too sweet or not-sweet-enough lame-ass cookies.

And then, then, if the cookies/eggs/muffins/cereal/Easy Mac is shitty, we all eat silently as we commend the good things about the dish: "It has an interesting after taste!"; "I like the texture of these. It's a lot different than..... [trails off, wants to say "most cookies" a.k.a these cookies are shitty"; "So... what did you put in this?" And then the silent, forcing-food-down eating continues until everyone secretly goes to Wendy's later, where we all run into each other, to avoid going to bed hungry. That, to the left, is a perfect go-to desperation, stressed-eating meal. 

Alas, just some things that have recently come to my attention post-living-independently. Perhaps the Wendy's run was an exaggeration, but you see what I'm saying. And wait, when I say exaggeration, I mean that I'm unsure if others would do this. But I would do it  have done it.

         The first few weeks of living on our own have presented beautiful and typical experiences enhanced by a slight learning curve. We used duct tape to fix the door of our refrigerator (second day), our cooking set off the fire alarm and we've learned how to make quite a mess, almost equivalent to a pack of wild animals gnawing at their prey. My heart yearns for the college's weekly cleaners, as terribly frightening as they were, to just come once and clean our kitchen, even just a quick wipe-down of everything, because it's obviously too much for me to handle. Shout out to my mom for picking up my slime trail for 18 years; now I'm left to fend for myself.

         And, hey, where did all of my money go? Having your own place also means taking your savings and checking accounts, combining them, dividing by seven, and keeping one of those seven pieces for yourself and giving the other six to various vendors of necessary goods and services: utilities, internet, groceries, pizza, toiletries, gas, tacos, coffee. Before this, I had - in my opinion - a lot of cash. Now I have a lot of I.O.U.s for other people as I wait impatiently for Thursday to come around and pay me, already, for my glorious 1/7th of a paycheck. 

Grocery shopping on a budget is tough too. I would love, loooooove to buy each and every all-natural USDA Certified Organic, grass-fed, local item and piece of produce - and I strive to do well in that area! - but alas, I am often forced to choose the hydrogenated, canned, processed, pesticide-filled items to prevent myself from overriding my banking account. Wegmans mac-n-cheese: 78 cents, is it? Annie's (organic) mac-n-cheese? $2-fucking-.39. I'm sorry, Annie's, but I will buy eight of Wegmans factory farm noodles over one box of your free-range powdered cheese meals. I do really love Annie's though, and that rabbit is just real cute. 

So I'm poor, my shit's broken and I'm eating astronaut food for every meal.

          But beneath, above and around these faulty situations comes a heightened feeling of newfound independence, more so than when we first started at school. We have more choices and we think ahead of time. we plan for meals and we host gatherings (ragers); dinner is served piping hot at 5:45 p.m. and the kids are in bed by 9(:30 if they're rascals!) and the bills are paid on time, in full, every time.

Hermie (Herbie? I never know, someone help me out here) and I are on the same page now. Except I am not an elf nor do I plan on being a dentist. But same sort of.... idea.

         Even just saying, "my house," or, "my own (as in both halves are mine) room," or "our bills!" feels cool. We're growing up and venturing into the scandalous and fucked up adult world. Each step brings us closer to misery and desolation and I can taste the sweet smell of divorce around the corner. Ahh, to be old and aging. I think I'll buy some anti-aging cream tonight.

         We're learning and growing and evolving and it's wonderful. And although, although, my dad helped me pay for a car repair the other day and my mom still buys me a lot of awesome shit (Android, anyone!?), I am managing my finances and keeping track of (most  some of) my purchases. And by keeping track, I mean that I'm aware of how much I spent at the co-op the other day and how much I plan to spend on various....things.. this weekend. Awareness, that's what it's about. It's the step right before actually doing something.

See? Our very own kitchen! All with an oven, window and a clock.
Pictured above is one housemate: Uddhi. The other, Mike is lost and not present in my photos.
But he exists, I swear!

So shit's getting harder, but life's getting better. 
Tell me where else I can have all of my friends on one giant sectional couch.
Nowhere, only here. So much love up there.

And no parents to yell at us here. That is, unless the roof falls through, then we're fucked.
But for now, awesome times and cute-ass pictures will do.
Just a bunch of ADULTS on a roof. Ha. Ha. So we're all kids @ heart! It's almost like we're playing house.
And it's awesome. Can I be the baby? (I was always the baby in the '90s).

And a shout-out to dear Katy Boland (first gal from right above, and girl w/ spaghetti jar to the right) who leaves for camp this week! She will be a counselor as part of the Fresh Air Fund at a campground near NYC. The Fresh Air Fund is a nonprofit that provides free summer experiences to NYC kids from low-income or disadvantaged communities and families. Talk about good people, this girl right here. Best of luck to you, Kathryn, and thanks for making us all feel like shit for not being as selfless as you are, darling!

Note: she will be getting paid. Please, when I say selfless, I'm really using the term loosely.

Closing note: It took me so long to post this week because I kept seeing a lot of people on Facebook posting their new blogs almost completely, exactly the same as mine. Well, same sort of idea: meaningless personal posts. So I was contemplating calling it quits but after a lot of thinking, I decided to say nay, I will not let you imposters sway me! I will document my experiences and you will read them!
Besides, theirs were douchey, poorly written and tasteless anyway. (And I'm not talking about the wonderful Jesse Goldberg, Ben Cosman or Alanna Smith)
Fuck. I'm a blog snob. 
Hell yeah!

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Saying goodbyes and Buffa-no more

I know.

I know.

I know. I screwed up. Over a week without a post - nine days, actually. How am I failing so hard when it comes to keeping up with this shit? It's fine, but to the eight of you that read MadQuest, I apologize sincerely. Really, I'm sorry! But since I haven't received any angry letters or emails about my inconsistency, I'll just assume that no one noticed.

I would use the classic no-Internet excuse but my friend, colleague and fellow blogger Ben Cosman had no problem keeping up with his daily posts without the Internet. In fact, the lack of Internet in his room was a focal point of his for a while. My life has obviously deemed itself hopeless, my goals unreachable and me? I cannot and will never be able to keep up with the reliability of Mr. Cosman; I am, however, back in business.

This past week was just a pile of events rolled into a cannoli (wtf? cannoli is underlined in red. So is "wtf") of packing and unpacking, spending money and driving. So I guess the cannoli was from a shitty pizzeria , or maybe even the frozen section of your local gas station. Just... not. good. Too dense, wrong ingredients, an inappropriately crusty shell.

So what was the bulk of this cannoli? Well, in one weekend I packed up my life - mostly clothes and scarves, the necessities- and shipped myself to Geneseo in a U-Haul attached to Mom's Jeep, saying my final goodbye to my home in Buffalo and the cat hair that will forever be there. I took with me a couch and cookware for 12 people. There are three of us.

Along with this hometown farewell came another and undoubtedly sadder sayonara. Big sis of 20 years Emily trucked away to Green Bay with her boyfriend, who is now an actuary, (like engineers, another job where, unless you are an actuary, you're left to wonder), Kevin (right below) and Fancy (left below).

We spent the last few days in a boxed-up house, littered with various items that still had no designated box, which led to their ultimate end: trash bags. I felt like we were squatting and I waited every night for Benny to come and ask for my rent, to which I would reply, "What happened to Benny? What happened to his heart and the ideals he once pursued?" Rent anyone? No? Ok.

Yeah. I know, right? This was our fridge. So sad, but clean, which is important. The ketchup and mustard crusties in the door? Gone. Five-year-old fishsticks? Discarded. Moldy fruit spreads and ricotta cheese, you name it, it's not in that refrigerator. You would look at this and think that we were bohemian vagabonds, living paycheck-to-paycheck, getting shitty take-out every night like the cold and striving artists in the movies. Or like Emily, in the State Farm commercial! Or is it AllState? IDK, but she's on the "Ramen-every-night budget."

But alas, we were not on that budget! We were on the items-that-don't-need-to-be-refrigerated budget! Mmmmmmm, who else looooooooooooves kettle-cooked chips? Raise of hands? So yes, to clarify, this is a couch with various goodies, and a remote. Emily has always been a good companion for eating a whole bag of Goldfish followed by a few Pop-Tarts and a Super Big Gulp (seen below). That couch, along with my clothing, hair and face, was covered in crumbs. I think the cats had some salt in their fur, too.
 Good thing we don't live in NYC!

On our final night, Jake (Emily's BF) bought us $28 of Mighty Taco!!! And let's just say that $28 at Mighty Taco - or any fast-food chain for that matter - can go quite, quite far. Far, as in, 14 burritos. Dealio! Who doesn't love a super mighty, medium, with sour cream and a large Loganberry?
The only bad part? The next day.
Yeaaaah. Talk about irritable.

Just kidding.

And so marks our last days in Buffalo before the big move. I'd say that's a pretty decent way to end our time in a city that has two solid entities to offer us: Mighty Taco and a Seven-Eleven within walking distance.

I am so sad to see Emily leave and to say that we will not be living together this summer, or possibly ever again! Nothing beats hours upon hours of Man Vs. Food, Ancient Aliens and NYC Prep (all on NetFlix, all highly recommended for viewing). We did more, but those times seem to stick out the most for me...
But even though we won't live together, nothing shall change! I love her and she loves me and we are the best of sissies forever. With our background (our childhood in the '90s, specifically) I don't think we'll ever have a problem being on the same page.

Please note: This picture was taken post-lunch and post-packing. We know. We know that we, at least I, look rough.  It was a long morning. Look past it. Thank you.
So here's to Emily and Jake: Best of luck to both of you! You have come this far, now go further. Reach for the moon, and if you miss, you'll land among the stars, right? At least, that's what I've heard. We're all rooting for you over here in upstate NY!

So that's it on my part. I've moved in to my new home in Geneseo (worthy of a completely different post. Essay, book, even) and started on one of my internships which I also will speak more of at a later point. So many thoughts, so little time.

My life is so hard.

Oh, and one last note. Last night, I was explaining my recent migration to a friend, to which he asked in a mildly confused tone, "So wait, you don't have a home anymore? I'm so sorry, but uh, wow, that's great for you!"
First of all, who asks that? Second, I do have a home, thanks, and it's not my Toyota Corolla! It has walls, a roof and two bathrooms. I was like, "I mean, I guess, what? Yeah, if you want to... say it like that. Sure?"

And in my head I continued, as everyone does when they want to say so much more but just don't have the confidence to spit it out: Thank you. Thank you so much for making me feel like a child of gypsies. Your sympathy is appreciated, sir.