trait snapshot: messy, disorganized, social, tough, outgoing, rarely worries, self revealing, open, risk taker, likes the unknown, likes large parties, makes friends easily, likes to stand out, likes to make fun of people, reckless, optimistic, positive, strong, does not like to be alone, ambivalent about chaos, abstract, impractical, not good at saving money, fearless, trusting, thrill seeker, not rule conscious, enjoys leadership, strange, loves food, abstract, rarely irritated, anti-authority, attracted to the counter culture

That little "trait snapshot" thingy is basically me to a T, minus the "does not like to be alone" misnomer. Unprecedented insight, the Internet! Good form!

-Fuck you Chicago and DePaul. I figured out that you guys are secret, sadistic, Megan-stalkers that scheme about how you're going to keep me here weeks after all my Maryland friends finish their finals, and in the process make this weather as disgustingly February as possible. I love you, but I think we need a break.

-HOLY SHIT I wish I had a livejournal so I could bask in zit-popping joy along with these fellow freakshows. My mouth actually watered when reading some of these. I think I have a problem. They also use the term "harvest," which is what I think to myself when I go on a blackhead-extracting/zit-searching spree. Thank you sweet Jesus for giving me a zit-popping fetish as opposed to a child pornography fetish.

-There is this homeless kid who decided to buy green hair dye instead of deodorant who hangs around and apparantly "lives" upstairs now. Goes by the moniker, "Pickles." All four floors of the stairway reek at times. I do not have empirical evidence that Pickles the culprit, but since the stench started rearing its ugly head as soon as he set a spell here -- all signs point to: home[less]boy has some body odor issues. I would be more than happy to lend him some of my deliciously scented body foofoo gels.

His homelessness does not bother me. His odor does. I feel that because I have never been homeless (except for a short thirty minute period when I was a seven year old runaway), I am not in a place to judge them -- unless they deliberately infringe themselves upon me in a negative way. This is true of anyone who is not me, really.

-I have not written a research paper/assignment since circa third grade (on Sir Francis Drake). I now have a ten-pager due in roughly three weeks. How the FUCK am I supposed to mount this bucking bronco. ANSWER MY RHETORICAL QUESTION!

-I am so fricken psyched to be the destination of a Mattindsay Kishtensperger road trip in two weekends. This has been the carrot on a stick dangling in front of my bunny-like face to get me through this trimester. I feel like a total mom because I have a whole itinerary planned out for the occasion. O'boy.

-I am pretty sure I have hives or something. Lately before I go to bed I itch everywhere and get these little (and some big) raised bumps, especially on my forearms, thighs, and chest. ?!. I think I am allergic to life.

-MY ROOMMATE, SARAH THOMPSON, BOUGHT ME THE 28 DAYS LATER SOUNDTRACK "JUST BECAUSE" (!!!) WHICH MAKES HER THE COOLEST AND MOST RIGHTEOUSLY AWESOME DUDE I HAVE EVER LIVED WITH (BESIDES MOM). Maybe it's because I am a huge dork, but this occasion almost brought tears to my eyes.

-I gained about infinity scene points last night for going to a performance of three obscure dance bands in some kind of artsy, apartment-style venue in the hippest part of town. I then lost all said points for behaving like a normal, fun-loving kid who hears good music and wants do dance.

My pro-fun, anti-suckingatlife agenda interferes with my hipster cred (as I write this, my tongue is firmly planted in my cheek).

Anyway, the first act was somewhat weak. It is becoming evident to me that a lot of bands think that just because they have a keyboard, they're automatically good.

Pine-Am (?) was the second act -- an all-girl, all-Asian, all-synchronized dancing full body joyburst. Most of the time, cute things annoy me (i.e. babies, Disney, Tilly and the Wall), but I think that because I could easily picture any of these chicks whipping out a shuriken and shishkabobbing my inner organs -- they were tolerable. Even... loveable.

Femme Fatality (not Fatal) were two boys echoing Robert Smith if he had channelled his angst into awesome dancebeats instead of fruity wusswhining.

There was a video projector. There was faux fog. Normally these things suck, because of the techno that is usually accompanying them. Not tonight.

Meghan and I then went to the 'burbs to Christiana's unintentional zombie theme party for about ten minutes. When you are sober and surrounded by drunks, the world becomes a slow, wafty, clumsy place. We humored them and ate some tostitos.

It was a good night. A good night.

-I'm going to be a junior next year. Weird. I'm not really feeling this whole "grad school/real life/get a job" thing. Thinking about being a psychologist in seven years (minimum) is not only a fretful thought for myself, but also to the entire community of mental health workers.

Imagine a 26 year old Megan Boyle as your therapist.

If there is one thing I have learned from my psychologist father, it's that in order to gain credibility in this field, one must have a beard. The bigger the beard, the more trustworthy the psychologist, the higher the pay.

I have fucking blue hair, and it ain't growing on my face.

(This is, of course, bullshit. If I choose to be a therapist, I will kick ass. I've been told by my dad, his colleagues, and my therapist that I have a natural knack for it/understanding people -- so natural in fact, that I know that my posting this whole parenthetical aside is not to reinforce the public of my credibility, it's because I feel insecure about it and want everyone to think that I am better than them -- at least in this aspect of life -- when I really know that since my image of myself as a therapist is based solely on hearsay and not professional experience, I am in no position to gloat. Basically.)

-How awesome would it be to not want to do anything in life. Why can't I just be Paris Hilton version beta: bigger, smarter, less money, none of the stupid miniature dogs and all of the sex.

I'm not ready for a career, I'm not done with fun.

I'm not even sure I spelled "career" correctly.