My grandma is in the hospital. I went by after work and spent a few hours with her, kept her company until she was moved her from the ER to a room. She was really sweet and asked me all sorts of questions about my man. I had a nice time visiting with her; I only wish it were under better circumstances. She’ll probably be in the hospital until the weekend. Tomorrow they’re going to do an endoscopy so hopefully we’ll know more. Please keep my grams in your thoughts and prayers.

(Yes. It is too much to ask.)

I was sitting next to two nineteen-year-old boys talking about their mission calls…

“I go into the MTC (mission training center) one day after Obama goes into office.”

“You are a lucky man.”

“Yeah, I’m happy to be out of this country for two years while he’s in office.”

“No kidding. I pray I’ll be so lucky, to get a mission call out of country. I DO NOT TRUST THAT MAN.”

I would like to know what these fucking BABIES actually know about Obama, beyond what their parents and church leaders have frightened them with. It scares the shit out of me to be surrounded by a bunch of thoughtless lemmings.

Last night one of my classmates gave a presentation on death (which was relevant to class material – psychology through the years). I could tell the presenter worked very hard, but the tone in his voice made me cringe: it was the soft, spiritual tone that I am very familiar with; thanks to the 19 years of time I did in the cult that tries to pass as a religion.

He related an account of a friend whose father worked in the church educational system for his entire career; this man became close with many (modern day) prophets and apostles. When he was in the hospital dying from cancer, the prophet and apostles came to visit him. After one came to give him a blessing, he pulled the man’s adult daughter aside to comfort her. She asked the man of God why her father was dying of cancer. What did her kind-hearted father do to deserve this? He responded, “God has many ways of bringing his children home.”

Then I threw up all over my desk.

I fucking HATE that shit. No one likes going to funerals, no one wants to lose loved ones, but that is my least favorite things about funerals: the “he/she is in a better place” bullshit. FUCK THAT. Who’s to say they’re in a better place? I’d like for there to be something beyond this world, but who’s to fucking say if there is anything? Is this discussion appropriate in a public school?

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCK.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kdJ4oVnujbA&hl=en&fs=1]
I don’t remember where I found this, but everyone should watch it, especially every single person who supported Prop 8.

It turns out I’m not the only one stressed out over being a broke-ass student. Before I went to visit my friend last weekend I had $30 in my bank account and nine days until pay day. So I did what any self-sufficient thirty-two year old woman living in her parent’s basement would do: I snaked $12 in quarters from my dad’s ski fund. The TSA agent freaked out when she saw my backpack in the x-ray machine and asked me if I had a roll of quarters in my bag. Apparently, stealing borrowing quarters from your dad is a crime against aviation.

Since then, my financial aid arrived (FINALLY!). For the moment I have some cash, but I’m freaked out to spend it because I can very easily be back in the same broke-ass situation. There are a few things I need to do, but I’m torn about spending the money (other than repaying dad’s ski fund and purchasing an external hard drive). I’m debating whether or not to take a trip to the bay area next weekend for a friend’s wedding reception. The bride wants me to save my money and visit during Christmas break when I have more money (HA!) and time (so we can visit this place). Which I totally think I should do, except that my cousin and her new baby are going to be in town (because of me) and my dear friend Lulu just had her first baby and I don’t want to let either of them down.

The only solution I’ve been able to come up with, thus far, is to get my hands on some anthrax vaccine. I heard and ad on the radio offering $500 CASH MONEY to plasma donors who’ve been vaccinated for anthrax. Plasma proceeds would be wisely spent to visit my family and friends and maybe to purchase a hooker wardrobe for the next time I’m hurting for cash.

“You take Ambien too? Pill poppers unite!”
“I have such bad insomnia that sometimes I still can’t sleep.”
“Do you hallucinate when you take it? I totally think alligators are all around me and eating my legs. And last night? I saw little fairies flying everywhere.”
“Sometimes I sleep walk and eat a bunch of food.”

There was a club at a tabling event promising happiness in dating, celestial marriage and choir. (WHO WANTS TO JOIN A CULT?!) Their ticket to lure prospective club members was Otter Pops. Are we five-years-old? OTTER POPS? I couldn’t even make this shit up.

I had to drop my fun elective to take a math class so I will be prepared to take chemistry next semester. Boo. I hate being a grown up.

On the up: my math class rules. It’s like the Fight Club of Mathematics. (I’m not even kidding.) It’s a good thing my sister warned me about my teacher. He is very into math. LIKE REALLY INTO MATH. He’s the type of person that I imagine would not only understand an algebraic joke that requires solving an equation for a humorous answer: he would also fucking love it. Though I’m pretty sure he’s never actually laughed. Or smiled. Thank god my sister did an impression of him because I would have burst into laughter and started looking around for the hidden cameras when he hiked up his pants and strutted in front of the classroom, looking hella fierce.

*This was all said by ONE PERSON. So I guess that makes it more of a lecture on the joy of sleeping pills unless you count the other participants “Uh-huh’ing” as the over-share occurred.