How I met your mother, and avoided homework.

I have a shit ton of homework waiting for me, which will take hours to accomplish.

Translation: I’m going to blog instead.

Recently I’ve started learning how to cook. I’ve been saying that for the last year that I’ve lived in Jacksonville though, but in reality that just meant that making ramen noodles had become like a reflex once I felt hunger pains. I’ve finally mastered cheeseburgers (made some a few nights ago that were so delicious I ate two rather than my usual half of one). My spaghetti isn’t half bad either. And my next two cooking goals are breakfast food and Mexican food.

My boyfriend’s sister and I have also decided to trade cooking lessons, from her, for babysitting, as in I’m babysitting her adorable daughter whenever she needs some mommy relaxation time.

In other news, my roommates finally joined society and became addicted to How I Met Your Mother. The last few days I’ve spent a good portion of my time re-watching it with them, and I had completely forgotten how this hilarious show….. makes me cry like I’m five years old again, and Johnny Johnson pushed me down in the sandbox.

Note: As far as I know I never went to school with a boy named Johnny Johnson.

Seriously though, disregard every hipster you meet that tells you HIMYM is too “mainstream”, or whatever hipsters say. It’s a great show that I’d suggest to just about anyone. And it’s made me realize how I really want to own this print.

  

 So cute.

Now, I must end this pointless blog entry to actually do some of the homework that I’m pretty sure everyone in this room thinks I’m doing. 

Lost in Translation

Ever since I was a kid I knew that if someone was suddenly incredibly sweet to me that meant that they probably felt guilty about something cruel they’d done to me.

Like tonight, I said something silly that made Chris roll his eyes. I can’t stand that. It makes me feel…. dumb…. like I shouldn’t speak, like I’m not good enough (thanks for scarring me with that forever, dude that molested me. I really appreciate it). I thought I was doing a somewhat decent job of hiding that it had bothered me, but realized I wasn’t once he went into “super sweet boyfriend mode”, as I like to call it. He grabbed my hand and looked at me with puppy dog eyes whereas earlier he’d been transfixed on the television.

I’m not clever enough to make this make sense, but that little moment of annoyance had made me feel hollow. Not because of him, it wasn’t really his fault at all. This is how I always feel after any similar situation. Hollow, empty, broken, a ghost stuck inside a body with too much emotional baggage. However you want to describe it. Seriously, however you want to describe it, because I sure as hell don’t know how.

Once we closed the door to my bedroom he tried touching me, but I couldn’t let him. Letting him touch me right then would have made me feel too real, too solid. And I wasn’t ready to be out of my head and back into my body yet.

I have a Lost in Translation poster hanging up in my room. I found myself staring at it thinking, “I don’t want to be Charlotte. Please, God, don’t let me be Charlotte.”

I don’t want to be lost. I want to be here. Here in this bed with this boy I love who is telling me how he’s going to take me to Atlanta for Valentines Day so we can go to the aquarium, because I’ve been going on and on about how I want to go there, and to a comic book store he knows I’ll love. And it all sounds lovely. And I want to believe it. So, I’m just going to cross my fingers in hopes that it happens. I realize, as I come back to myself, that’s all I can do.

mountain dew and hairy pits

I smoke countless cigarettes while waiting for my boyfriend and his bandmate to pull into the parking lot of my apartment. He left his cigarettes (one of our shared addictions) here this morning in his rush to go home and get ready for his show in Montgomery tonight. I've never mentioned it to him, because he hasn't had that many shows since we've been together, but he always seems anxious before a show. It wouldn't be enough for anyone who hasn't spent hours upon hours with him to notice, and I barely notice it myself. He paces as soon as he stands, still friendly and loving but slightly lacking his usual carefree humor that he wears like a second skin.


He calls and tells me he's not far from my apartment. There wasn't enough time to make myself not look like shit, so I make up for it with a few sprays of my best perfume. If you can't look pretty at least you can smell fuckable, right? I smile to myself as I grab the Mountain-Dew I so sweetly bought for him as a small "I love you, and I'll miss you tonight" present. He pulls up right as I turn the corner of my building. I notice that Erek, his bandmate, isn't with him, which means I can kiss Chris how I want to without grossing out an unwilling audience. Which means I can also rub his cock through his jeans to remind him of what a ladylike catch I am.
We wrap around each other as soon as he steps out of the van, breaking away for only a second so I can hand him his drink and he can place it in a cup-holder then kisses me thank you.


There's a part, a very small almost minuscule part, of me that hates loving him so much. Only because it's horrifying. Being in love I mean. I've loved several guys in the past, but not like this. With one of them it was young love, something that I know would have probably turned into a life long thing had we been able to give it a chance, but we can't change the past so I never worry over it. The rest were chaotic loves, coming of age loves that I always knew were meaningless in the long run. Little cuts that would heal into white, almost invisible, scars. Painful, but not unbearable. Or rather, annoying but not long lasting (haha, clever penis joke. I'm hilarious).
He could break my heart though, if he ever wanted to...


Anyway. Back to non-heartbroken us.
I want to tell him all of this, however I'm sure there will be a better time, preferably while we're not in a parking lot. And, preferably when I'm wearing a short dress that makes me look like I a have a nice ass and decent sized tits. Instead I ask him about his plans for the night. He tells me about what time they're playing, how he'll text me before and after the show, tells me they're staying the night with Erek's friend Courtney.

Wait.
What?

Did the hotel they were supposed to stay in change it's name to Courtney? He explains that they can't get Erek's hotel employee discount in Montgomery so they're going to spend the night with this Courtney instead. Luckily I've already calmed my embarrassing jealousy when he tells me that this girl doesn't shave her armpits and is one of those new age wannabe boho half straight half lesbian hippies. I like to think that if he was going to cheat on me at least it would be with someone who shaves her armpits. I can just hear the whispers now if I'm wrong, "Oh there goes that poor Morgan girl. You know, her hot rock star boyfriend cheated on her with a girl that has hairy pits. I suppose shaving doesn't make up for being horrible in the bedroom". Psh, as if though. I'm fantastic in bed. That's what my therapist says at least.


Realizing that my boyfriend needed to leave, and wouldn't be around to cuddle me tonight, I gave him a few more goodbye kisses, and one last crotch grope for the road.
Now I'm sitting here smoking more cigarettes and listening to my super white guy friends try to do impressions of famous badasses, try being the key word there. Also, they're trying to tell me that Nightwing (Dick Grayson.... nevermind... just Google it if you care) looks better with a mullet. As usual, I strongly disagree.

Batman smells

     My holiday break has mostly been spent sleeping and kissing my boyfriend.

So, basically, it's been lovely.

Hopefully anyone reading this has also had a nice holiday.

My roommates and I are always looking for an excuse to throw a party, which is a perfect excuse to drink. Classy, I know. So, anyway, we decided to throw a tacky Christmas sweater party. I really don't have the words to correctly explain how amazing everyone looked. Our friend Dustin shocked us all with his cutting edge attire. But once Staci showed up in her homemade tacky sweater we all agreed that she was the best/worst dressed of the night.

Dustin looking fab.

Staci wowing us with her physical expression of the Christmas spirit.

We all got trashed playing Waterfall (also known by a million other names).

Will bitched out and fell asleep. Haaa. Light weight.

For Christmas my parents were sweet enough to get me a new queen sized mattress. I know that probably doesn't sound very exciting, but trust me, after sleeping on the shitty mattress that came with my apartment over the last two years a new mattress was a complete blessing. Especially to my back. Plus, there's a lot more room for, uh.... stretching. Yeah, stretching. 

Becca, who I have been friends with since middle school, bought J.K Rowling's new book The Casual Vacancy for me. She also presented me with a small corgi figurine (knowing my obsession with corgis) that bobs its head when the sun hits it. 

My boyfriend, Chris, was a doll and decided to get me some Spider-Man presents. A Spider-Man trash can, cup, and pen. He also got me a little Robin shot glass (a silly inside joke between us that I'm sure I'll write about one day) and a small graphic novel I've been wanting forever called Lost at Sea. I'm doing my best not to ramble on and on about how sweet he is.
I'm hoping that for my birthday he'll rent a Spider-Man costume for himself.
Insert some clever comment here about how Chris wearing a Spider-Man costume will help me with my bed stretches. 

I won't bore anyone, including myself, with a list of the other things I was lucky enough to receive over Christmas. Honestly, the best gift I could ever have is laying here next to me smoking out of his pipe and watching Shameless (UK version) with me.

love.

(Disgusting, yeah, I know. Trust me, I make myself want to puke too.)

Oh and, at some point, I decided to get bangs. Bangs, not banged. They're alright. 

So hip. So trendy. So sarcastic.

the girl who didn't know how to begin

I never quite know how to start anything. 

But, I'll give it a try.

I'm Morgan, I'm 21 years old and live in a small town located in the middle of nowhere (also known as Alabama). I'm a typical college student who isn't so sure of what to do with my life. I have a lovely boyfriend, who I adore, and some amazing friends who are always there for me.
(I'm leaving out all the kind of sexy, kind of gross stuff, by the way. Like I totally won't mention my disgusting cigarette addiction. Or how I give great blow-jobs. Trust me, I won't mention any of that.)

I love so many things that it would take forever and a day to type them all out. Some that instantly come to mind though are:

Skeletons, keys, summer, books, my combat boots, swimming all day, writing, clothes, cowboy bebop, comics, woodchuck, hair-dye, fall, being a bum, reading, and a million other things.

Honestly, I have no idea exactly what this blog will revolve around, but I've wanted to start one for a while now.

Maybe it'll just be about things I find interesting, or simply a little peek into my life.

Fingers crossed that it won't be too boring.


Also, my best friend had to remind me of how old I am, haaaa.