Lampyridae

His sanguine spirit turns every firefly into a star. ~Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

On the  night of the 4th, when the rest of the town was gathering in groups, laughing and drinking and relaxing in the grass in preparation for watching the explosions of color that would soon light up the night sky, I was on my way to work. Driving through the masses wandering the streets, I felt that oh-so-familiar hatred of people and crowds well up in me. I wanted nothing more than to turn around, drive home, and hide out in my little apartment for the remainder of the evening. Alone.

But it was then, as I glared my most impressive glares at the joyous folk in the grass, that I saw something that turned my mood around completely.

Fireflies.

Firefly season is here, dear galleons, and there’s a subsequent swelling in my heart. I find myself looking forward to my evening drives to work, just for the opportunity to see their Morse code flickerings lining the street.

As I’ve told you before, I adore fireflies. And while I hold a deep, irrational fear of insects and crawly creatures, fireflies are the exception. I will let them crawl on me, I will cup them in my palms and let them wander over my fingers, I will walk through the grass and let them brush my legs as I pass. They don’t evoke in me the same fight-or-flight (…mostly flight) response as other tiny, leggy beasties.

They are almost sacred to me (insomuch that anything is really sacred in my mind). Like chips of stars fallen to earth, they sprinkle the late summer grass with constellations. I can’t help but be entranced by their presence, by the shifting patterns dancing in the twilight.

When I was a child, growing up in Wyoming, I had never seen a firefly. I’ve never caught them and put them in jars like so many children have. And, while I’m 23 years old now, I think that I would enjoy nothing more than to fill a handful of Mason jars with those luminescent wonders and scatter them about my apartment.

If what we think of as magic were the fifth fundamental force of the universe, fireflies would be the carrier particles. I hope I never become so jaded that I cannot feel pure and cleansing awe at the sight of those miniature solar systems winking in and out of the summer grass.

Vivacious

That’s how I feel today, galleons. Vivacious. That one word can sum up everything about me at this moment. I’m a bubbling fount of verve.

And I’m happy. So happy. I realized this today, as I was dancing around the store while curtain shopping. People were staring, but I was just laughing. Because I couldn’t contain it. I feel alive and free and so very happy.

I was also listening to this, which is infectious:

I want to kiss someone and laugh in their mouth. I want to dance in the rain. I want to serenade someone outside their window. I want to run and run, fast and free and wild, bounding like a deer, half-skipping my way past the drudgery of daily life.

Things are not perfect, but they are good.

Story of My Life

Because I Said I’d Tell You Lot About This… Here’s My News

Last night, I promised you, dear galleons, that I would tell you some wonderful news today. So…

When I was a freshman at MSU, I earned a nickname from the much-esteemed Derek: Watchtower. And here’s how I acquired that nom de plume (not really the correct usage of this phrase, but I like it and it’s staying):

It was a Thursday night. Fall semester. Before I started drinking much at all. Note that this was during the time when Derek would actually buy for us young ROIALies. And he had done so on this fine Thursday, providing the room with Popov (sweet JESUS, why does anyone drink that swill?).

Good times.

So, Thursday night. We’re all piled into Stauff and Nick’s room (the room of the UNIDENTIFIABLE STENCH that bled into the ROIAL office and caused poor Derek no end of suffering… seriously, what the fuck was in their room?!), most of the crowd trashed. Said crowd included myself, Sasha (who was crushing on Stauff), Stauff, Nick, Christine (who wanted in Nick’s pants), Grix (who had the option of getting in Nick’s pants but didn’t want to), Derek, and Ainsley (who was trying to get into Derek’s pants but had only succeeded in plundering his mouth).

People are drinking, and we’re all playing Halo (sometimes, I feel my freshman year can be summed up with Players, Van, Popov, and Halo). Ainsley is on Derek’s lap, trying to Hoover his face off. Then, Nick gets a phone call. And promptly leaves the room.

Hours pass.

Eventually, Nick returns. He was drunk when he left, but now he’s obviously worse. To this day, I can only assume that more alcohol and copious amounts of pot were consumed while he was away. He collapses into a sitting position on the floor, leaning heavily against the bed. He’s so far gone that he won’t respond when I try to talk to him.

Christine, on the other hand, cuddles up to his side. She’s drunk and still trying to get laid. I am trying to make sure Nick isn’t going to die.

He’s unresponsive. I drag the trashcan over and tuck it under his head. I hold him over the trashcan. I make sure that he doesn’t vomit all over the floor and/or pass out and suffocate in his own vomit.

I do all this because, at the time, Nick was one of my closest friends.

I’m there for hours. I’m practically elbowing Christine in the face to keep her off the half-comatose Nick. I’m starting to worry that I’m going to have to call 911 and get him to the hospital because he is suffering from alcohol poisoning.

I’m scared, I’m tired, and all I want to do is go to bed, wake up, and realize that this was all a horrible dream. But, of course, it wasn’t. I’m in a room full of people, and I’m the only one doing anything.

It was awful.

At the end of it all, after holding Nick up for nearly two hours and force feeding him water, he starts to come to. I almost cry. That’s how relieved I am. I get him into bed, and he passes out.

Derek has watched this whole thing, with Ainsley in his lap (and often in his mouth). Eventually, he says something.

“That was…”

There’s a heavy silence. I look at him, worn out, my arms shaking from supporting Nick’s weight for so long. There’s a moment where we just look at each other, and I know that something has changed, but I don’t understand it. Then he speaks again.

“Sam, that was incredible. I always knew you watched out for people, but… Tonight, you were like a Watchtower. Nothing was getting through.”

I’m almost crying at this point. I asked Derek if what I did was right. If I should have just called the cops/hospital instead. He tells me he doesn’t know if what I did was right, but it was admirable and it worked and, in the end, Nick is going to be fine.

And then he told me that anyone would be insanely lucky to count me among their friends.

This was the man who, just over a year later, broke up with his girlfriend and cried onto my shoulder in the middle of the Phillips lobby. We stood there, surrounded by the bags of props for Clue that I, as the AD, was in charge of, with me holding him in my awkward-yet-sincere way and him soaking my blouse with his tears.

I don’t know if people are lucky if I count them as friends, but I do think that the nickname “Watchtower” makes a lot of sense.

I’ve spent so much of my life putting everyone else before myself. My family. My friends. All the people I even remotely care about.

So, I’ve decided to twist this weird need to help people/be there for them to my advantage. For once.

This week, I’ve interviewed for, been offered, and accepted a position as a Nutritional Support Assistant at a hospital in Powell. In this position, my job will mostly consist of feeding old people/long-term care residents. Which isn’t the greatest position in the world, but is a step in the right direction.

Because, in September, I’ll train to become a Certified Nursing Assistant. And, after a year, they’ll pay half my class expenses should I want to become a licensed nurse.

Which, I’ve realized, I do. Some people who know me know that, in the last two years or so, I have spoken on multiple occasions about my desire to work in the medical field. The thing is, unlike all those people I went to school with at MSU, I can’t afford medical school. My parents would neither pay for it nor sign the loans to let me attend.

This way, I can actually get into a field I’ve been eying for a while now. Of course, in order to do so, I’ve had to sign a contract saying I’ll stick around for at least a year.

Holy shit, I made a commitment. What does this mean for me? Am I finally over my fear? Can I be in a real relationship?

Maybe.

Anyway, this position is great. I have real, great benefits (health insurance and life insurance among them), an ID card (which is just cool)… I’m terribly excited.

I don’t start until July, though. And I have to wear scrubs (no woman looks good in scrubs). And, in order to chase this position this week, I actually had to forfeit my current minimum wage position.

So… I’m unemployed for a month. Woo?

Seriously, though, I did not expect to be photographed and jabbed with a needle at a “pre-employment screening.”

On the plus side, I don’t have TB.

“Leaning Your Loneliness Gently on Mine” Stein Mehren

I have really great news to tell you, galleons, but I’m going to wait to do it tomorrow. Because I want to devote a whole post to it and lack the energy to do anything tonight.

And then my eyes fell upon yours
like a stone from my heart
a stone I had long carried about

And your face is no longer
quietly closed on yourself, but
a gift you open with your eyes

And I no longer know if it’s leaves
falling from mighty trees
or a memory of beasts in flight

because the air is dissolving over
your face like a strong light
Your face a mirror in my hands

and the sense-bereft pale
smile of your pale lips; foam
from a storm that has passed

While the butterfly words
wound round us a golden thread
you accepted all my helplessness

And I grasped as if deep in earth
Your breasts, your body, You
and your glance, half scrutiny

half smile, that said: Lover
Tonight you can lean your loneliness
gently on mine

Empty Inside: Sociopaths and Psychopaths in the Media

Song of the moment: In Too Deep Genesis (Why Genesis? I’d suggest skipping to 2:28 of this for the answer)

Galleons, why are sociopaths on television so goddamn attractive? What is it about them that manages to completely turn me (and, for that matter, a large number of people) on?

We’re going to talk about psychopaths/sociopaths today for two reasons. First, I promised you this post a month ago. Second… well, I don’t have anything pressing to talk about, but I didn’t want to cop out of an actual post by throwing up lyrics or something. Again.

Also, I’m actively avoiding finishing up the corrections on Stauff’s paper. Why did I agree to do this again? Oh right… because I’m a masochist.

***

A lot of people would be quick to say that’s a major part of it- that masochists are attracted to sociopaths because of the potential to be hurt. It makes a sort of sense, I suppose. Masochists do, for all intents and purposes, derive pleasure from being hurt. It would make sense for them to seek out particularly sadistic individuals in order to satisfy their desires.

Of course, there are many facets to masochism. And most people don’t take that into account when laying down their blanket judgments of people. Masochism can be a simple desire to have pain inflicted upon one’s person, but this can take many forms. Maybe you like inflicting it on yourself. Maybe you only enjoy receiving pain in a sexual setting. And, then again, maybe it’s not as much about physical pain as it is about humiliation. Maybe you want to be treated poorly- emotional/psychological pain. And, for some emotional masochists, maybe it’s less about deriving pleasure from the pain but an uncontrollable need for it that drives you into bad situation after bad situation, whether you enjoy it or not. You thrive on it, but it doesn’t mean you like it.

Masochism is confusing. And it’s not enough to drive people into frenzies of lust over sociopaths. There’s more at play here. Much more.

***

Let’s start by defining sociopaths and psychopaths. What are they, really?

Well, it might (or might not) surprise you to learn that the difference between sociopathy and psychopathy is blurry, to say the least. To be honest, many psychologists use the terms interchangeably, and even the ones who believe there is a difference can’t agree on what the specific differences are. Hell, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders classes both sociopathy and psychopathy under the heading of “Antisocial Personalities” because they share such similar traits.

For all intents and purposes here (since the psychological community can’t seem to figure their shit out… goddamn soft sciences), we’ll assume the terms are interchangeable.

Psychopathy is mainly concerned with a lack of empathy and emotional base. As Patrick Bateman says in the phenomenal American Psycho, “I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust.” This is what distinguishes a psychopath- a lack of remorse/guilt. They rationalize everything or foist the blame on someone else. They’re tactless and egocentric. Because of their lack of discernable emotion, they are impulsive, reckless, and often violent. They have no “inner compass” telling them what is morally reprehensible.

That’s how morality really works- it gets tied into the emotive parts of the brain. Thus, when contemplating committing what would be a moral crime, a person feels shame, disgust, guilt, and horror. All manner of deterrent emotions. But psychopaths don’t feel that. At all. Therefore, the only thing keeping them from committing such acts is the need to keep up a “human” façade… or to prevent jail time.

So, that’s a psychopath. Note that it doesn’t immediately translate to “serial killer.” However, most serial killers are psychopaths (you know, a square is a rectangle but a rectangle is not a square). In the media, the two terms tend to be interchangeable. Oh look, the media is being misleading again. There’s a fucking surprise.

Actually, sociopaths constitute 4% of the population. Yes, the percentage is that high. We’re not only talking violent psychopaths here, remember. So, we’ve all encountered at least one sociopath in our lives. Most of us… more than one.

***

I’ve always found empathy to be a… distinctly selfish thing. I’m not very good with empathy. I can never “put myself in someone else’s shoes”- I can only relate their experiences to my own life and draw conclusions based on my own emotions or experiences. In the end, any time I practice “empathy,” all I’m doing is logically analyzing someone else’s problem, comparing it to my life, and attempting to find a correlation. I am rubbish if I’ve never experienced what the other person is going through. I can’t even feign understanding.

No, I’m not a psychopath. Trust me, I used to be intensely worried about that as a child (despite the fact that I have extremely prevalent emotional states…). In high school, during my sociology course, I tested myself with the Hare Psychopathy Checklist- Revised. I exhibit some of the traits, but not enough to be classed as a full-on psychopath. Have no fear.

As Sheldon would say, “I’m not crazy- my mother had me tested.”

But back to empathy… I know it’s supposedly very important and all to determining whether a person is a normal functioning human, but I maintain it’s bullshit. In the case of psychopaths, it’s a word we slap half-assedly onto a concept we can’t define- an idea/definition of “humanness” that is lacking in a psychopath.

In his book, The Mask of Sanity, Dr. Hervey Cleckley describes the prototypical psychopath as “a subtly constructed reflex machine which can mimic the human personality perfectly… so perfect is his reproduction of a whole and normal man that no one who examines him in a clinical setting can point out in scientific or objective terms why, or how, he is not real.”

We can’t say why or how he is not real. We just say that he lacks “empathy.” I feel like we’re using the term empathy as a substitute for the word “soul” because we’re uncomfortable slapping the term “soul” on anything remotely scientific. It’s a problem that crops up time and again (frequently in the discussion of human consciousness)- “soul” has become a spiritual term, thus making it a ludicrous term to be used in scientific discourse.

I’m not arguing that we should incorporate the mystic within the realm of science (in fact, I shudder at the concept). There’s a reason science and religion are constantly at odds- they don’t mesh well. But, I don’t really consider psychology much of a science, and I think the study of human motivation almost requires spiritual discussion. After all, religion and belief guide our morality and shape our goals in life. I think it’s important to look at them when discussing psychology.

You know, maybe I dislike the term “empathy” because I don’t believe in a soul…

***

But, I’m straying from the point of this post. We’re talking about the portrayal of psychopaths in the media. And why they are so damn attractive. Let’s look at some of them:

Patrick Bateman from "American Psycho"

Sylar (Gabriel Gray) from "Heroes"

Dexter Morgan from "Dexter"

They crop up in movies and television shows alike. Hell, I’m forgetting a big one that’s been around for ages– the fucking Joker from Batman.

We even recently saw a psychopath (a woman this time!) on House:

Every single one of these psychopathic characters are physically very attractive (even the makeup couldn’t hide Heath Ledger’s boyish good looks). Dammit, Hollywoodland, stop it! I don’t want to lust after psychopaths!

Well, the casting actually makes a lot of sense. True psychopaths can be exceptionally charming and charismatic- they are glib and confident. We all respect confidence and flock to confident people. It’s the way of the world. These people are capable of commanding a room or a group of people, of entertaining and charming them. Psychopaths are quite capable of this. They are the world’s greatest mimics (even better than Ditto). An easy way for filmmakers to translate that charm to the big screen is to cast someone who immediately draws the eye.

A pretty person.

It immediately gives the actor a leg-up on the whole charisma thing. If you manage to find an actor who’s both attractive and able to be charming, you’re fucking golden. Christian Bale does that really well. Zachary Quinto has the eyes that just bore into you and manage to scare you. His early stuff as Sylar was great (throwing the character into tons of emotional crises and giving him “mommy issues” really destroyed him as a villain- mostly because they stripped him of his psychopathy). And Michael C. Hall is abso-fucking-lutely perfect- from the often blank eyes to the disaffected voice-overs and the chillingly “off” facial expressions that break through his human mask… sheer brilliance.

So yes, the casting directors selected sexy people on purpose. Because it helps establish the character.

***

But, even when we’re just watching the television, we’re not that superficial. After we see what these people do, what they are, we should be properly horrified and repulsed.

And yet the attraction stands. Or, more often than not, grows. How do we explain that? Well, there are a number of factors.

We touched on the idea of the tantalizing taboo when we talked about the mafia not too long ago. That concept translates to our current discussion. The psychopath (remember, usually a serial killer in modern media) gets away with all the things we suppress in the name of morality and civilization and ethics and all that. We wouldn’t kill a person… but it doesn’t mean we haven’t entertained the notion. Briefly. Of course, we immediately shove it from our minds (and feel extremely guilty about even having thought about it in a half-assed manner), because it’s wrong. Very, very wrong. But a psychopath… they don’t have that filter, now do they? We hold our comments to people around us in check, for fear of insulting them. Psychopaths don’t. We get overloaded by messy, complicated, often rubbish emotions. Psychopaths aren’t burdened with all that rot.

Like with the mafia, it’s a healthy way for us to live out those dark fantasies we all have. We’d never do this in reality (and we wouldn’t date a psychopath, either), but it’s perfectly okay to watch it (and have a bit of a crush on a television psychopath). After all, that’s all it is- a fantasy.

I, for one, know that the “lack of emotions” thing is what really draws me to psychopathic characters. I hate emotions. I prefer logic. Here are examples of humans without emotion- naturally, I find them attractive on some level. I also found Spock attractive, mind you (Zachary Quinto, you are just sexy… period). Using logic over emotional reactions is incredibly appealing to me.

You know, I’d venture to state that this obsession with psychopathic villains and antiheroes is more prevalent now than at any point in the past because of our society’s reliance on computers. Roll with me on this, for a second. In The Devil in the White City, psychopath H.H. Holmes is described in the following manner: “Events and people captured his attention the way moving objects caught the notice of an amphibian: first a machinelike registration of proximity, next a calculation of worth, and last a decision to act or remain motionless.”

Because psychopaths lack emotion, they lack that undefinable “something” that separates man and machine. Boolean logic has no emotional component. We are fascinated by technology, by computers, by their power to do things the human mind can. We create stories of robots and the uprising of machines, because we see the logical power in the removal of the emotional component from the human machine. It would allow us to become so… ruthless. Of course, after the robots take over, we always have some rag-tag group of humans defeat them with emotions and shit, because we need to feel good about ourselves.

Okay, and because emotions (while usually complete rubbish) can actually be powerful tools in their own right.

Psychopaths are like those robots of science fiction. They are intelligent, functioning machines. They scare us, but they excite us. Even under the warnings and the danger (echoed in science fiction again and again), we see the potential such a system holds. In this age of computers, it’s easier for us to find a way to relate a psychopath to something we know. Therefore, it’s easier for us to handle them.

And, as tech is sexy, so are machines that look like scrumptious men.

Of course, there’s the whole “damaged people being drawn to superficial charm and confidence” bit. Emotionally compromised individuals are often victimized by social predators and sociopaths because they are easy targets. It’s easy to net them, easy to keep them… and easy to use them as an outlet to feed some of your darker tendencies. So, we’ll mention it here, even though we aren’t all damaged to such an extent.

And there are probably plenty of other reasons (and at least one big one that I’m blanking on… it’s gonna drive me crazy), but that’s all I have time to discuss right now. I should really finish Stauff’s paper. He’s taken to IMing me today to ascertain my progress…

I really need to start going out more. It’s a Friday night, and I’ve spent it talking about psychopaths and avoiding homework that’s not even mine…

***

As a complete aside, I am very happy right now, galleons. And no, I can’t tell you why. That could, potentially, spoil the surprise. I’ve been planning this for two months now, and today, the major part of my plan came to fruition. Or came into my possession. However you want to phrase it.

Anyway, I still have some time before I can reveal to you what this is all about. Suffice to say…

The war is not over. *wicked grin*

*giggle*

I suppose this a good time for a (belated) comment on the new season of Doctor Who that started up Saturday. While David Tennant will always be my Doctor (as he will remain for so many people), I find Matt Smith to be… perfectly acceptable. He has big shoes to fill, and he’s doing a remarkable job of balancing some of Ten’s quirks with some fun, campy goofiness for Eleven. It’s making the transition feel smoother by him retaining a little of Ten.

Plus, he has a sexy red-headed Scottish girl as his new companion. She’s got the spunk (and sex appeal) of Rose with the sass of Donna. I think they’re going to be a great pair, and I honestly cannot wait to see what happens this season. Like motherfucking River Song finally coming back. I’m more pleased than I can express that they didn’t just leave that bit of plot unresolved.

And while I understand why they decided to freshen everything up (new TARDIS design, new Doctor, new companion, new sonic screwdriver, new opening credits, new logo) with the regime change, it was a little sad to see everything go. Oh well. Tabula rasa.

Steven Moffat will do a marvelous job (of this I have no doubt). In the past, he’s written some of my favorite episodes (such as Blink and Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead– yes, he’s responsible for the alien race that unnerved me all through the summer of 2008… the Vashta Nerada). Plus, I adored his work on Coupling. I think the show will be better off with Moffat, personally.

Rain Rain Rain

It’s raining here in the arid land of Wyoming, galleons! It never rains here.

I’m so happy.

Eye Candy V: Celebration!

I finally found it, galleons. The image I’ve been looking for since I started the eye candy concept in this little blog all those months ago. You don’t know how often I’ve gotten on Google, trying any combination of words that will eventually bring up this photo. And finally, after months of trial and error, I have succeeded. Enjoy.

I was looking for the second image, but I loved both, so you get a special set of man love this week.

Happy as a Bird With a French Fry

Song of the moment: Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby Counting Crows

Faithful readers… you know, I want to give you all a nickname. I’m having a hard time coming up with something, though. It’s easier coming up with a nickname for an individual, because they have vim and vigor and personality and defining features and such. But you are just my anonymous handful of readers…

Hello my little Spanish galleons! (Got a problem with that?)

In lieu of the post I planned for tonight (it’s a fun one, but I’ll save it for tomorrow), I’m going to tell you about the phenomenal day I had. Because it was a day full of joy for me.

I may just be in a good mood.

Started the day off right, though. I fell in love again. His name is Danny, and he’s fucking adorable. He wrote and performed the little musical number for the Spitzer space telescope’s “podcast” (more like video channel) called IRrelevant Astronomy (FYI, Felicia Day starred in an earlier one that I really enjoyed).

I mean, just look at him in this video. His facial expressions are cute as shit:

Anyway, my faux love life aside, I got to spend today in Cody. Greybull may be the town I graduated from, but Cody has always felt more like home to me. I lived there for 7 years before I was transplanted to the hellhole. Cody is a cute town, just big enough that there’s plenty to do but not terribly large. It’s home to a surprisingly interesting museum (the BBHC), a movie theater, Wal-Mart (hey, that’s a big deal in these parts), and a wide variety of quaint little shops.

It’s these we will focus on today.

My favorite bookstore of all-time is located in Cody. I worked there the summer of my sophomore year of high school, and I would go there every time I came back from Michigan. It’s a small thing that’s disturbingly well-hidden, but you can’t let that fool you. There are more books stuffed in there than you would easily believe. The shelves are packed so tight together that there’s just barely enough room for one person to maneuver. And, while there’s a disgustingly large romance section (…and western section… and western romance section), this bookstore hides some real gems.

Not for collectors, mind you. But for readers, it’s a wonderful place.

Well, I have more credit there than I can easily spend (due to years of bringing in old books that I didn’t want to keep in my personal library), so I pay pennies for already cheap books. It’s fantastic.

Today, I walked out of there with three amazing finds. First, a lovely old copy of Doctor Zhivago, to continue my Russian literature kick. I saw the Keira Knightley television version a while back (a long while back), but I don’t remember much of it. The thing that actually made me pick it up was a memory of Ben describing a scene to me where a man kills his family and then vanishes into the wilderness. It’s something that’s stuck with me (and is currently written in my ye olde storie ideas document), so I figured I’d give the whole text a shot. Though the other thing I remember is the goddamn complex web of characters/character interactions he showed me… but shit, I read Tolkien. I can handle anything after that.

I also found a copy of The Historian. When I was but a wee freshman lass and in the ROIAL class (fuck you WRA, I never had to take you), we had a visiting artist by the name of Jane Congdon come in. She had just spent a bunch of time over in Europe, researching for her own Dracula novel. Her appearance in our class coincided with the Dracula ballet the Wharton Center put on (that was a very odd show, by the by). I’ve seen this book sitting on the shelf of Barnes and Noble for years, but I’ve never bought it. So when I saw it today, I felt compelled to pick it up. This isn’t Congdon’s book (I really don’t know what hers is titled), but she did mention it to us as a hell of a read. So I figured I’d pick up a vampire novel again, if only to remind myself that not all authors think vampires sparkle in the fucking sunlight.

And finally, tucked in the oddest place in the store, I discovered a pristine copy of The Devil in the White City. Now here’s another book that I see every time I’m in a bookstore. And I pick it up. And I think, “I really want to read this.” And I put it back and say, “I’ll get it next time.” Except I never actually do. Well, time to break the cycle. History and serial killing. Delicious.

I also ventured into a game store that recently opened downtown. Mr. Bob’s Game Shop. The name alone made me laugh, but I couldn’t help but feel my heart skip a beat when I saw it. Is this a real comic and game shop? Can this replace 21st Century for me? Because I really need a place to get my nerd fix on.

It was even better than I thought. Half arcade, half game shop. No comics, sadly, but plenty of D&D stuff and Magic cards and expansions for Settlers of Catan. They even had a Cthulhu edition of Munchkin!

When I walked in, there were three younger guys playing Magic, and the store owner behind the counter. All four looked up when I walked in. Oh yes, it was the stereotypical “girl in a game store” moment. I laughed. Out loud. Then I greeted them heartily and asked which expansion of Magic they were playing.

I was accepted with open arms. The shop owner started babbling 90 miles a minute, telling me about what they carry and what they can get. Telling me about their Magic nights on Fridays and D&D campaigns on Wednesdays. I geeked out, babbling right back about my desire to play D&D, especially after recently ceasing to play WoW. We chatted about the new Magic expansion coming out, I confessed I haven’t played since high school, and he told me to come in and watch so that I could get the hang of the new cards and rules.

So yeah… I’m currently researching Pathfinder and hoping to join their D&D campaign in the next two weeks. And maybe the Magic tourneys, too.

I’m such a fucking nerd. But I was so goddamn happy to find like-minded people around here.

I left the magical little store and wandered downtown for a bit. Decided to pop into a smoke shop. Sean told me last time we talked that he found kreteks in Florida (even though they are supposed to be illegal now), so I figured it was worth a shot to check this place out. Found a pack of Djarum Blacks… but they weren’t cigs. They were cigars. They look like a cig and taste just like regular Blacks, they’re just a bit stronger (and shorter and thicker… more like a regular cig). I’ve decided they are acceptable.

Then I found the cutest fucking store I’ve ever seen. They carry books by contemporary authors (rare in this area) and really unique hats and home decor. It was adorable, and I plan on frequenting it all the time.

Imagine Urban Outfitters minus the douchebaggery and with the personality that only comes with an independent shop. Fantastic.

After my shopping escapades, it was time for a big family dinner for my grandfather’s birthday. While at dinner, my aunt commented on the fact that I was eating more vegetables than anything else.

Lisa: You just keep eating carrots, Sam. You’re like a rabbit.

Me: Don’t you dare call me a rabbit.

My Mother: Don’t get her started.

Lisa: Well, it’s true!

Me: *haughty sniff* I’m more like a cat than a rabbit.

Lisa: Oh please! You hate fish!

Me: No, I don’t.

My Mother: Yeah, she made fish for me the other day. She makes all kinds of stuff. Tacos, pasta, salads, soups…

Lisa: Okay Sam, right now. Tacos or fish? Make your choice.

Me: *pause* Can I have a fish taco?

At this point, Frank (my gay uncle) snorts with laughter. I just grin. The whole goddamn table then proceeds to barrage us with questions about what was so funny. Frank and I high-five and never tell them.

I love my uncle.

***

Finally, you may have noticed some recent changes to this site. I finally settled on a proper name for this little blog. “Goes Ding When There’s Stuff” was always a placeholder- I just happened to be watching Doctor Who when I created this thing. But I figured it was high time I decided on something real.

Naturally, I picked Latin.

And what do you all think of the new layout? I’m sorry I’ve been changing it so frequently lately, but all the free layouts for WordPress have something that drives me crazy. I’ve been tweaking this one a bit, and it’s grown on me. It’s tidier than many of the others I’ve tried (links don’t bleed out of their boxes, Twitter updates don’t look crammed together, I can actually distinguish the hyperlinks among the regular text), plus I like the color scheme.

Thoughts?