Dear Old Golden Rule Days

I don’t really divulge personal life on here blog; my individual blogging style is one of absurd humor and surface stories. This is expected, considering by nature I’m a private person. However, I’ve made a rather large life decision and not sharing it with you makes me feel all dirty inside – not in the sexual way, but in the I just ate a handful of dirt and now there is a worm in my mouth and I must spit it out, kind of way. Ohhhhkay.

I have made the decision to subject myself to major debt (aka go back to school for a degree in graphic design).

I’ve only been out of school (my first degree) for three-point-five years, but I’m glad to see that none of the stereotypes have been broken…and seeing as I’m enrolled in ART school, I have a plethora of new characters to observe. Art school is a fondue pot full of the abnormal…mixed with some familiar faces:

Creepy guy. You know the type; the quiet dude in the back of the class that has his eyes fixated on your every move.

The really old student. If I feel superior to the 18-21 year-olds, they must consider us unborn fetuses. They become real chummy with the professor…exchanging generational anecdotes and looks that imply, “these kids know nothing.”

Transvestite and/or flaming gay male. Pre or post-op, you can’t throw a Gucci bag without hitting one.

Anorexic girl. Basically, she’s a mute because all she’s doing is thinking of ways to decrease her caloric intake from 250 to 100 a day.

Funny guy. I’ve always had an immense appreciation for this guy. Always ready with a wisecrack and gonads the size of cantaloupes (I mean this figuratively, of course). Normally, I would develop a crush on said character, but seeing as I’m a taken woman, I now just admire platonically.

Blonde girl. I know, you’re thinking “what?” This is a personal art school phenomenon. Seeing as I don’t meet the regulation piercing OR tattoo quota, I am considered an outsider. So anyways, there is usually one other blonde girl in the class…and without fail, we are automatically bonded by our passion for bathing, social norms and peroxide.

So there it is. A tidbit of my reality. I’m in a constant state of insecurity and have an unceasing desire to vomit.

It’s Awsome.

Judgment call

Should I be more embarrassed that I accidentally call my own extension at least once a day, or that the displayed message, “You cannot call yourself,” makes me laugh out loud?