Breakfast.

When I was in elementary school, we used to have cereal every weekday morning. On the weekends, Dustin, Trisha and I would make Jiffy Blueberry muffins (Trish was probably 12, so she could cook, and Dustin and I could try to help.) Or sometimes Mom would cook pancakes, bacon, biscuits and gravy, waffles, french toast, scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns--not all at once, but some combination.

When I was in middle school, the cool thing was to skip breakfast because food made everyone nauseous in the morning. So I drank chocolate milk every day in sixth grade. This was a terrible idea. My bones grew stronger and decided to grow, causing me to be 5' 6" and taller than most everyone else in my grade, especially every single boy in the school. Unfortunately, the damage had been done, so I continued to drink milk for breakfast. Instead of chocolate, I began adding Carnation instant breakfast packets to my milk.

In high school, after having to get up at 5:45, I usually just didn't eat breakfast at all until senior year, when free breakfast was offered to everyone. For the entire year I ate my individual bowl of cereal and my cinnamon toast. I actually didn't always eat the cinnamon toast. It was mass produced, frequently was crunchy, dripping with butter, or an outrageously cinna-tastic piece of not so good bread. I went through phases with the cereal: Trix, Lucky Charms, and Cocoa Puffs. Healthy, well-balanced meals!

When I went to college, these healthy breakfast habits continued. When I worked at Duvall over the summers (which I had a dream that the pool was flooded, so I was jumping around on fences to stay dry, but the swimmers, who just swam in the flooded pool area, tugged on the fence so I got drenched. I didn't work there, I was just passing through,) I would always eat. At college, I frequently had cereal. I rarely went to the meal plan place for breakfast--Why waste a meal on cereal when I had cereal in my dorm? Or I could make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich! Or a grilled cheese sandwich on the iron...

When we go home, we usually have Saturday morning breakfast, where Mom makes us all a big breakfast. Dustin and I pretend to help. After "helping" Trish make muffins for years, we're quite accustomed to hanging out in the kitchen, leaving the cook to think we're helping when in reality we are just giggling about some joke and watching the cook do all the work.

Today, I decided to be different and make french toast for breakfast! However, we were out of eggs... and I wasn't sure if the milk was good... and we don't own any cinnamon or vanilla... I briefly contemplated fried milk toast as a breakfast, and if it would satisfy my craving. Or test edible. Or get crunchy, because I'm 30% certain that the eggs make it crunchy.

However, I opted on the side of caution and made grilled cheese instead.

Awareness.

Having been writing all day for school, I will take a break from my assignment to do something else: blogging. I usually try to stay away from controversial subjects on my blog, like politics, religion, anything serious, etc. However, I began thinking about an issue this morning and planning out this blog, and as the situation has escalated, I want to write my say before too much more goes down via the Book of Face.

A few months ago, something happened on Facebook. People started changing their statuses to highly uncomfortable things, like "So-and-So likes it on a wooden peg near the door," or,"Whats-her-face likes it on a dresser next to the bed." Highly uncomfortable. When people commented saying, "Bro, why are you so awkward?" they respond with, "Oh, it's for breast cancer awareness! It's where I put my purse!" When I asked how this raises said awareness, one of my friends responded, "When people ask you why your status says that, you say it's for breast cancer awareness."

As of three days ago, I began seeing alot of animated profile pictures. Specifically, of cartoon characters from my past. They were interesting! I had absolutely no idea why this was going on, or who was part of the trend, but it seemed cute and I also wished I could make some part of my childhood cartoon days my profile picture! If only I knew why this was happening!

Well, eventually due to some roundabout status posting, I discovered it was to raise awareness! Child abuse awareness.

My issues with this scenario are numerous. Firstly, since most profile picture changes are not accompanied by any sort of child abuse information, anyone who is not part of the trend thinks it's just a cool fad, and has no idea about the awareness, as I did for three days. Secondly, I think everyone is aware of child abuse, and does not like it. When my good friend Leah questioned in a status how it helped, she got many negative responses, and about how it caused them to be more aware. I also commented, about how I was aware of child abuse for thirty minutes that morning and pondered the terrible truths, but that in no way affected any abused child for better or worse. To this, one response was that prayer helps, and another was that maybe .5% of the people would be inspired to help! To the first response: while I believe in the power of prayer, I'd maybe like to see a specific campaign about praying for child abuse, if prayer is your method of battle. To the next: instead of campaigning to thousands of people to be aware, why not campaign for change? Instead of telling everyone to be aware that child abuse happens, why not tell everyone to make a change for child abuse! To get the right to change your picture, donate to a cause. Something like that.

I don't wear breast cancer awareness ribbons or any sort of awareness shirts or anything of the like, because being aware of the problem does nothing. I know breast cancer exists, and it is unfortunate, but until I am donating money towards finding a cure, or until I actively am involved in helping the situation for the better, why should I get the right to wear something and act like I'm a hero for being aware that it exists? I was aware it existed before I wore the ribbon, the only difference is that now I can feel like I'm making a change. I'd much rather wear awareness shirts for issues like, "Things about Global Warming that you didn't' know," or, "Specific reasons why you should recycle cardboard," because those are things of which I'm not aware, and also prompt a change... although if I wore the recycling shirt and still didn't recycle cardboard, what would the point be?

Allergies.

Some people, on a yearly basis, begin sniffling and complaining about these "Allergies." Some people enter a room where there has been an animal and begin sneezing, with this same complaint. Some people eat a peanut and die.

With the exception of the third case, I never really understood their complaints. It's just a runny nose. It's just sneezing. Suck it up, get some tissues, life continues. I never had much sympathy for these people because I, having never experienced allergies, did not know that 90% of the reaction from allergies is inside of one's head. Not as in imaginary, as in it is literally somewhere behind the eyes and above the nasal passages. I believe this area is the sinuses, but I also haven't taken any anatomy beyond the first grade version that teaches you important things like "Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes."

No longer. I am a changed person. I have battled with allergies vigilantly, and am now a changed person.

For Thanksgiving, I went to Mike's house. His parents own two birds and a dog. They also live in the middle area of Florida, which is known for being terrible for pollen allergies and such. I don't know what did this to me, but I woke up at 4 am in the middle of the first night, unable to breathe through most of my nose. I want to describe more, but I also don't want to get into details about runny noses on the internet. You've all been there.

I ended up not being able to sleep again the rest of the night, so I tried to live with allergies on four hours of sleep the next day. Big mistake. The allergy symptoms mixed with the tired symptoms until I didn't know what belonged where, and I just felt like a zombie with an overinflated head. The 90% under the surface is the inflamed sinuses or whatever. It is like there is a balloon inside of my skull, confined to only be as large as my skull, that can only hold so much water because it can only expand as large as my skull. Well, someone stuck a plug in my nose, forcing water to continue building up in that balloon, so that my head feels like the inside is expanding against itself, threatening to cause a burst so that the pressure can escape.

I've written this blog first thing in the morning, so if it is incoherent, my apologies. It's the allergies trying to take over.

Anyways, to all of you who have ever suffered from allergies, I am completely and sincerely sorry.

Green.

The seasons hold no meaning in Florida, other than a slight change in clothing, and a few hours of sunlight.

I've always said fall was my favorite season because the leaves change, even if it doesn't happen in Florida. I never thought about how it also means everything dies for the next few months. To other people, at least I assume, fall isn't fun because, although there's a few weeks of beautiful colors, there are months of lifeless trees and colorless views.

Similarly, I've never seen any reason to enjoy spring, but I assume that for anyone living anywhere but here, it's wonderful to see everything return to life after months of cold and death and hibernation. What must it be like to see green again after months of gray and white?

In Florida, it's green all year long. In the middle of winter, the trees look the exact same, having refused to shed any foliage. Everything looks as alive in June as it does in December, and spring has no effect on any of the colors we see. And I think I have a lesser appreciation for green because of this. When people ask why there are bad times, the typical answer is that without bad times, we wouldn't be able to appreciate the good times. Well, without a winter or a fall, how can I ever appreciate leaves and spring and green?

Salsa.

As I write this blog, I am pressing my lips furiously against the condensation on my glass of water, as I naively decided that I no longer needed the ice cube I was previously using.

I made home-made salsa once. After eating it at a friend's house, I looked up a recipe for mild salsa, and where the recipe called for optional jalapeno peppers, I decilined. My salsa was delicious, although it had a tad bit too much cilantro for my taste.

Today, I went to Publix with Mike to buy some sort of delicious fruit. As we perused the fruit section, he stopped in front of one bin and became rather excited. I was confused and hesitant, since I didn't want to disappoint him by letting him know that tomatillos, while tiny, green, and interesting looking, couldn't possibly be whatever delicious fruit for which he had mistaken them. Luckily, he began raving about homemade salsa, buying all the necessary ingredients on the spot.

Later that evening, we began the process of making said salsa. Now, when I made salsa, I just stuck some large pieces into the Magic Bullet, via suggestion of my father, and ended up with a chunky, delicious sort of salsa, like the one my friend inspired me to make. This salsa, however, was to be finely ground. Finely ground. I don't think you are quite getting the picture. Imagine cutting something into itsy-bitsy pieces in your mind, so that it is approaching inhalant-size. Then Mike tells you, "Oh, it's almost there, just go through it a few more times!" Really? Are we drinking this salsa? Also, since we are making a rather large bowl of this salsa, it takes hours to chop everything. It took two people about two hours, so I can't imagine the task of making it alone. However, after hours of cutting, sore hands, sore back, and other similar symptoms, the salsa was ready for the taste test.

Because of the ingredients, I knew it would be spicier than my jalapeno-free salsa. Also, I knew that habanero peppers were one of the most spicy substances known to man. I even should have been warned when Mike, with a much higher spicy tolerance than me (as a child, Popeye's chicken strips, which aren't spicy, were too much for my tongue, let alone anything that dared called itself mild) was shocked, though impressed, with the spiciness of this salsa. Instead, I chose to put a miniscule amount of salsa on a tortilla chip and take a nibble. Bad idea.

I jumped back, repeating the words, "Too spicy! Milk!" until Mike poured me a glass of the small amount of milk he had left. After taking a sip, I tried another bite. This method may have allowed me to eat a considerable amount of the salsa which, though tasty, could burn a hole through certain types of cloth. When the milk was finished, I was finished with salsa. However, two minutes of washing my hands with soap and water had not removed the pepper residue. I mistakenly licked my thumb, only to be assaulted with another wave of fire. With no milk, I grabbed an ice cube. I'm not sure if I counteracted the spice or if I successfully numbed my mouth. Either way, it dulled the pain.

I will never again volunteer to mince the habanero peppers.

Cats.

I grew up my entire life with a dog. I think when I was... maybe 5 or so I wanted a cat, as all little girls did. Then my dad decided Dustin needed a dog, and we got one of my most feared animals: a dog. I used to stand on the kitchen table screaming as a little harmless puppy walked through the kitchen, wagging his tail and barking. In a few weeks, however, I was converted, and after a bite from a cat on my arm, I have been convinced for the past 15 years that I am a "Dog person."

This is also because of my inability to interact with cats, due to an overwhelming experience with dogs. For example, Jess had a dog and a cat. I walked up to the cat, stuck my face in his, and said "I LOVE YOU!" The cat ran away and hid under the bed. A similar show of affection towards the dog revealed that the dog not only felt the same way, but always had, and wanted nothing more than to be showered with my affection.

These past few weeks, I have been making friends with Mike's cat, Max. Little by little I have begun to love and understand Max more and more. He's one of the main things I want to talk about to my friends (Max licked the blinds today, Max attacked a hair tie today, Max let me pick him up!) Today, Max is spending the weekend with me while Mike journeys out of town.

I walked into my apartment, and this tiny, soft creature began rubbing around my legs. I sat down, and he circled me, purring and rubbing against me, letting me scratch his head and directing me where to scratch. He licked my hand, then brought me a hair tie, which I threw, and he proceeded to play fetch with me.

I have fallen completely in love with a tiny, spastic, soft, slightly crazy ball of fur and meows. And I couldn't be happier.

Police.

I was pulled over by a police officer as I was making the four hour trip from college to my house this weekend. Half of the trip is on the interstate, and half is on those state roads through the forest. This is going to be a long post.

Now, before this blog, let me say, I have been pulled over before, and I have nothing against cops. I have been given a ticket, which I knew I deserved, and I took it without complaining or getting upset. I have been yelled at by a cop for speeding in a school zone, and I understood full well why he yelled at me. However, I do not tolerate being pulled over for something I did legally and then being yelled at, interrupted, and treated like a common criminal without being given the opportunity to try to politely explain why I didn't understand.

There was a dotted yellow line on a two lane road. Dotted yellows are passing zones, and as long as no cars are approaching in the other lane, and as long as the passing driver does not exceed speed limit, it is well within the law to use the dotted yellow lines. The problem is that it is difficult to use these lanes properly without looking like a crazy driver. However, a light had turned green, and as soon as we had crossed the road, there was a dotted yellow line, no cars coming towards me, and a semi accelerating very, very slowly in front of me. So I took the opportunity to pull into the passing lane and accelerate more quickly than him, so that both of us could drive without having to be in each other's ways.

As I approach the front of the semi, a car appears coming towards me in the distance, but not near where I am. I have reached about 50 at that point, and pull in front of the semi. A good amount of seconds later, the approaching car passes me, turns on flashing lights, and makes a U-turn. Without even waiting for the car to get behind me, I pull over and get out my information.

A large woman approaches my car.
"Do you have any idea what the speed limit on this road is?"

"Um.. It's 50, isn't it?"

"Well.. I mean, it's 55, but that's not the point, you were going faster than that. Didn't you see me?"

I'm nervous and scared at this point. The closer I get to home, the more I regress into my childhood, and the less control I have over my emotions. I feel sick and I feel the tears welling up, having already driven two hours and done poorly on two exams earlier that day, from being sick all week, and from now having a cop pull me over. I don't feel like an adult, I feel like I'm 16, and I wish my parents were here, because they would know what to do.

"I thought the double yellow--I mean dashed yellow--isn't it for passing? Wasn't it a passing lane? I thought I was allowed--"

"No, you're allowed to use it SAFELY, but I was coming towards you."

"But I couldn't see you when I first pulled over--"

"EXACTLY. You couldn't see me, so you shouldn't have used the lane"

No, I couldn't see you, which is how the dotted yellow lanes work. They are only put in places where if there are no cars in visibility, you are safe to pass, so that you have enough time to pass the car even if someone does appear. You appeared long after I started passing. If we weren't allowed to use the lanes on the off-chance a car would appear, what would be the point of the passing lanes?

"But the lanes are made--"

"Don't interrupt me. That was reckless driving! Do you know I could ARREST you for this? I could take you in right now!"

"But.." The tears well up. "I didn't know I was wrong, that's what the dotted yellow lines are for, and if I couldn't see you I should have had enough room--"

"Excuse me, how old are you?" She looks at me, disgusted, as if it is unwarranted that I get tearful and scared at the suggestion of arresting me.

I'm feeling more and more like a child the less you treat me like a human being. Interrupt me some more, belittle me some more, yell more, be rude. I'm probably 14 at this point, or at least I feel it.

"I'm 21..."

She walks back to her car with my information, and I call Mom. I sob out my story, scared and frightened. I don't want to get arrested, I didn't do anything illegal, and she has interrupted me, refused to listen to my logic, and apparently doesn't understand the idea that she could have appeared long after I began passing the semi, which is okay because dotted yellows are made to accommodate for that. Mom calms me, reminds me that it's going to be okay. I hang up as she walks back.

"Are you calm now?" She is slightly nicer.

"Yes." I say, and wipe the last tear off my face.

She gives me some speech about giving me a warning, about that I need to be safe, about that people die. She leaves. I put my face on my steering wheel and cry more. I'm pretty sure any girl knows that feeling, of just crying out all of your emotions, from stressful weeks of meeting new people and time management and exams and school and being sick all week and then a cop threatening to arrest you, and the injustice of the fact that the cop can interrupt everything you say and not listen to why it made sense that you couldn't see her when you started passing, but she can just yell and interrupt and be rude to you because she's in a position of power. I call my mother, I feel about 12 years old at this point, and I cry until I feel better and am composed enough to drive a car.

Then I pull back on the road and finish driving home.

Idnignation.

Usually my blogs are made for two purposes. They are either meant to be touching and inspiring, involving some deep sort of interesting thought I have, or they are meant to bring laughter, whether at something I found funny, or at my frustration about a situation. I'm not above laughing at myself in my blog. Rarely, though, if ever, have I written a post that is angry and meant to make others angry. I try to avoid blogs about politics, religion, or something else explosive, because I feel like we have enough blogs trying to prove points to the world about governments and whatnot.

But, as I yelled a common rant to an acquaintance, I realized that maybe I should make a blog about this, where I won't find my speed and volume of speaking increasing steadily to the point where, tongue-tied, I stutter angrily before yelling out a noise of frustration, leaving the listener bewildered and amused, though not thoroughly convinced of what I was trying to say. I'd much rather lay my thoughts out coherently in the world of cyberspace, where I find myself able to express myself more clearly than in any words I have ever spoken.

(Note: If you've ever talked to me in real life, you've heard this rant before.)

I chose the career choice of education to inspire. I could have done something more challenging or difficult, or even something more interesting or rewarding. I didn't want that, though. I wanted to be a teacher, to inspire thought, learning, and passion in young minds, to help them grow into smart, understanding individuals.

I find it a shame that in our society, education is a fallback career. "If you can't do, teach." So many of my fellow classmates have this, "I didn't know what else I could do so I chose education." There are such minimal requirements to enter teaching as a career, so that anyone can fall back to education when all other career options fail. Why are people not outraged by this? Children are being taught by some of the lowest minds in the college society, learning from the slackers who decided everything else was too challenging or too much effort, so they decided to teach. People for some reason find this acceptable. While the nation mourns how our education is so much lower than that of other countries and funnels millions of dollars into trying to fix the problem, they fail to realize that the budget does no good when it is being poured into employees with little care, passion, or knowledge for what they do. What good will better supplies do when in the hands of someone who won't utilize them to their full potential, to someone who will treat their students the same way they treated their college career: meeting the bare, minimum requirements necessary to avoid being unemployed?

Almost any other degree-requiring job has higher, more competitive standards than teaching. For example, only the most brightest, most dedicated, and most passionate minds make it through the schooling necessary to become doctors, through years of intense effort, to earn enough of our trust to care for our bodies and physical health. Why, then, do we not have the same amount of concern and standards for the people who foster our thinking minds? Is our mind not so much more the essence of who we are, what we are, than the body, the mere shell, that houses it?

I spend so much of my time, too much of my time, allowing the things with which I disagree to pass me by, considering them as the inevitable things in life that will frustrate me. But no more. I'm no longer going to sit back and allow the state of education to continue as it is. I don't know where I start, I don't know how I, as one person, can make a difference, but I will find a way. Change has to start somewhere, maybe it already is and I can assist it, or maybe I'll be fighting a battle against people who don't care enough to listen or help. But what good is feeling this indignant if I'm not going to attempt to right it?

Mayans.

In 2012, the Mayans think the world is going to end. Or at least they just decided to only make a calendar to that point, and were going to tackle 2013 once they got there, which they saw no point in doing at the time, much like our Y2K crisis.

Anyways, in 2012, there will be a natural disaster and lots of people will die. Do I know this because of the Mayans? No, I know this because it inevitably and quite sadly happens every year.

But when it does happen, believe you me, they will say, "Those Mayans were right... they knew. They knew."

Social Chameleons.

"My typical username is b4d4ndyg00dpizz4
Is that interesting enough? Being interesting isn't my strong point. If I can help it, I blend into crowds. I like to be a social chameleon, to exist, but not to stand out. Seeing topics that require me to go out of my way to be noticed isn't scary so much as perplexing for me. Will my topic be interesting enough? Will it be too strange? Will it be acceptable? Thousands of other questions run through my mind as I try to think of some sort of topic that represents me."

For an online class, we were required to post on the forums about ourselves, with an interesting title. This was the beginning of my post.

Lately, more and more, I question my sanity as a human being. I know everyone does, but I'm talking about in terms of social interactions. Last year, when I stayed in my dorm and played WoW, it was so easy to just pass so many social activities. And it wasn't because WoW was more important, it's because it's so easy for me to sit in my room by myself, only having to interact through a computer. If I am out walking around campus, I prefer to have my headphones in, safely barricaded from the strangers around me. I don't strike up conversation with strangers if I can help it, unless social situations deem it absolutely necessary.

This year, I've been much more social. Some events I find fun and look forward to attending, but often I find myself torn. I'd much rather stay in my room, I'd much rather stay at home, I'd much rather skip out. And then I push myself to go, reminding myself that it's not normal to spend all my time alone, normal people want to do things, normal people like other people, normal people like large group activities full of strangers and cliques that don't notice you, with maybe a little bit of space for your presence, your friendship, your interaction. And, whether I have a good time or not, it's always the fact that even if I think I'd have fun, I have to talk myself into being social, I have to remind myself of what's normal. I hear friends wanting to do things and not having enough time, I hear friends who enjoy social interactions with strangers, and I wonder what happened to the bubbly, busy, over-eager girl from high school, who only recently pushed herself into joining the first choir in three years and is taking half of her classes online. Who is this strange person I am becoming, more and more secluded?

World of Warcraft.

Freedom. The power to determine action without restraint, the absence of or release from ties, obligations, etc.

This blog has been in my head for about a year now, ever since I began playing Wow. It's been altering slowly over time: an explanation of how the game is so much cooler than I thought when I made fun of those who played it, an analysis of the in-game economy and its reflection on a real economy and society, a justification of my playing as not an addiction, a regretful paragraph on the time I lost.

World of Warcraft is an addiction. My friends told me it was, and I still justified my playing, and I still don't necessarily regret that I ever played consistently. The problem, however, is the priority of playing. For a good seven months, Wow was the top priority in my life. I rushed back from class to sign in. I turned down requests to leave my dorm just to stay sitting at my desk, safe in a world of pixels. I almost lost my real, true friends to pixels with voices.

See, I wonder how different Wow is from a real addiction. Wow doesn't affect your mindset, like drugs, but drugs don't have the influence of real people. Drugs aren't actual human beings, somewhere else in the world, people that can relate to how you feel about the game, that can understand why you play, that can listen to you and talk to you and be your friend all from the comfort and safety of your desk, without requiring you to change out of your pajamas or risk anything real. It's a scary, scary spiral. And it's different than other games, games that pause when you leave. The Wow world continues without me while I am away, but I forgot that the real world, real people, do too. And then, after only five months of playing, you wonder why you've spend 52 days, 24 hour days, logged into your computer. Why you were so ready to turn down your friends and family, and how you can make empty promises to do better later while you sit glued to your screen.

And little by little, I'm breaking free. I've gone from constantly playing to signing on only for raids, and now I'm even willing to skip raids when friends invite me out for plans. As a result, my guild, my Wow friends, the people who rely on me to log on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday from 9-12 pm, those people are beginning to get frustrated with me, are beginning to get tired of me, and are thinking of replacing me. I might not have a spot to raid anymore if I keep up this hanging-out-with-friends business.

And, for the first time in a year, I don't really mind.

Antibiotics.

"The discovery of penicillin is attributed to Scottish scientist and Nobel laureate Alexander Flemming in 1928." --Wikipedia.

Yes, schools everywhere, I just cited Wikipedia and I do believe it to be credible. Antibiotics haven't been around for even a century, yet they are a very common use of medicine. Also of household products. Antibiotic soap. Antibiotic hand gel. Antibiotic children's toys, pillows, earrings... Maybe I'm also getting confused with hypoallergenic. Which, according to Wikipedia, means it causes less allergic reactions. So if your allergic to bacteria, the two could be synonyms.

I was going to insert a paragraph here listing names of many antibiotics, but the Wiki page on Antibiotics proves much too wordy for me to put in the effort. So I'll begin the story.

Antibiotics are a medicine made to kill bacteria. Bacteria is a type of living organism that causes various sicknesses. Also, some bacteria are good, like the ones living in your intestines. However, bad bacteria must be vanquished from your body with the use of an antibiotic, prescribed by your friendly doctor upon need. Or upon request. Or upon a vague whim of sickness, or any other small unexplained complaint. You see, I have an issue with the overuse of antibiotics. I did a speech on it once in college. Most antibiotics are 99.9% effective. Now, people see that and think, "Well, now, that kills all the bacterias that are around and leaves me safe!" Firstly, you teach your immune system NOTHING by refusing to allow it to battle. Secondly, it in no way kills everything. In fact, 0.1% of those bacteria survive and learn to counteract that antibiotic. These surviving, immune bacteria are no longer easily destroyed, they are slowly becoming superbacteria, a new breed of diseases which cannot be destroyed by normal antibiotics. The same thing happens when people cease using prescription medicine because they feel better, even though some antibiotics remain. They help breed super powerful, resistant bacteria.

Now, if that isn't enough to be worried about, there's an even more pressing issue. People who misuse antibiotics. They don't realize that all that antibiotics can do is kill bacteria. I become worried when, upon telling my mom that I have a cold, she suggests I take an antibiotic, and even more concerned when, responding that the doctor won't prescribe some for my cold, I am informed that we have some left over from someone's unfinished prescription. Nothing about that situation offered me any comfort of mind or any cure for my cold. If anything, the virus inside of me laughed, hearing this solution, and began planning an alliance with superbacteria to take over the human race. Not comforting at all.

At work, I told this story to my coworkers, where one of them told a similar story where a previous boss offered her one antibiotic pill on a day when she felt under the weather. Other people had similar parent stories, and some even had stories of doctors over-prescribing antibiotics.

Friends, readers, internet-users everywhere, I urge you. We must spread the word. We must educate the people on bacteria and proper antibiotics use. It's up to us now.

Contact me via blog comment if you have any ideas for a catchy t-shirt design to help spread the word.

Chicken Fried.

Everyone has a favorite food, or at least certain foods they prefer over others. If not that, I'm sure everyone at least have foods they DON'T like. But today, I'm going to speak on the subject of a certain type of food, a food that happens to be the favorite of the man with whom I spoke: Dustin, my brother.

"I love the small honeybee," says Dustin, in a quote I wrote down on a notepad and no longer remember why. I was taking notes on the subject while my brother explained the finer points of fried chicken to me.

"Fried chicken is like a chocolate chip cookie. Sometimes you want a crunchy cookie, sometimes a chewy cookie. Sometimes you want a cookie with alot of chocolate chips, and sometimes you want a cookies without alot of chocolate chips. Sometimes you want an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie instead of a regular one."

We talk about the different types of chicken. Dustin begins by talking about the different breadings: Crispy, spicy, breaded, etc. Apparently deciding which of these you desire is the first step in figuring out exactly what type of fried chicken to acquire. Also, the weather is important. "Popeyes is the kind of chicken you want on a rainy day, while KFC is better for late, sunny afternoon." Even the time of day affects the side items. How enlightening. Dustin also commented on other restaurants, such as Bojangles, in North Carolina, and Publix, which has a unique flavor that doesn't appeal to Dustin's taste buds.

"What about Chicken strips?" I ask. Dustin looks at me patiently. "Fried chicken is like a chocolate chip cookie..." He repeats the quote. Chicken strips, I learn, are another type of chicken. Bone-in and bone-out is another important decision to make in the chicken choosing process, along with the possibility of a chicken sandwich. My bad. Chicken fries are also, on rare occasions, acceptable. Dustin begins comparing most of the chicken from different well-known fast food chains, but I cut him off with my curiosity--what about chicken biscuits?

Dustin's eyes light up as he begins to shout about the genius invention of the chicken biscuit, the perfection of breakfast. Also, due to the growing popularity, chicken biscuits can now be found just about anywhere, sometimes even with country gravy if your appetite calls for it! Wow!

I begin to realize that Dustin has only ever had store-bought fried chicken. At the risk of sounding racist, I ask Dustin if he has ever tried home-made fried chicken made by a southern, home-cooking black woman.

"I haven't met one yet," responds Dustin, somewhat dejectedly.

"If you did, would you go for the food?" I ask.

"If I did, I would go for her."

Going Home.

The school year finally ended. The school year in which I invested most of my time into pixels and electronic nonexistent items within a virtual world. I wonder if I will look back on this year of seclusion and regret the hermit lifestyle I lived, or if I will just accept it as another one of the lessons I learned and lifestyles I had to live to know how I want to live.

As it is, by the second semester I had better accustomed myself to maintaining my time. I'd found more time for friends, school, and the things in life I had begun to neglect since the last summer left me alone. I love my friends dearly, and I know without them life would be empty. Even as their lives change permanently, for the better, I know I'll remain close to them, whatever effort it takes.

I began this blog with the intention of writing about a specific two day time frame, and find myself summarizing feelings of the whole year. To return, I spent finals week mostly in the car, carting items the four hour drive home and returning to school for more. On the morning I was going to leave for the summer, I met with Leah and Judy for breakfast. These little times, the invitations, I so often take for granted, but at least on this day in particular, I fully appreciated what a blessing it was to spend the morning with two people I care about so dearly.

As I drove away from Tallahassee for the next few months, there was a definite lump in my throat, accompanied by a sinking in my stomach. I wasn't eager to return home; last summer had included some of the more stupid choices I've made and some of the most painful losses. At least this time, friendless at home, I'd only suffer from extreme loneliness.

I pulled into my driveway. Seeing the TV on, I wanted to sneak through the side door and remain unnoticed, to cause my mom and brother a laugh when they realized I'd been home for quite some time. However, upon entering the side door into the kitchen, I was met with an absurd sight. A metal gizmo was clamped to the table, Mom was spooning some rather mushy noodles onto a plate, and Dustin was holding a large, flat piece of dough and blow-drying it with a hair dryer. (This piece of dough would never get cut, Dustin would dub it "Supah-Noodle. It was the slimiest of them all, and not even the dog would finish what Dustin had taken one bite of to prove his manliness.) "Andrea! You have to go out back and see my vegetable garden!" my mother said.

Nothing quite compares to family. Nothing is ever as peaceful as returning home to a homemade pasta mess and being immediately put to work in the chaos.

Fishtank.

I have a pet fish this semester. Four actually, and they are black tetras, and I didn't name them because I can't keep them apart. They are collectively "my fish" or "fishies," and that is all they ever need to be.

Over Christmas break, my parents asked me what I wanted. At first, I said a computer, to which they responded mine still had a warranty. Then I asked for a new front bumper to my car. Dustin asked what was the point of scratching an additional bumper. Then I remembered the loneliness of my dorm, and I asked for a fishtank. Mom hesitated to respond, then expressed her concern that any pet of mine would promptly die. Thanks for the faith, Mom.

Either way, I finally got my fish tank and bought my pet fish. I used to think fish were a fake pet. I mean, dogs and cats have feelings. Fish just kind of exist. The day I brought my fish home, I forgot to open the bag when i let them sit in the tank for the water temperature to adjust. As a result, when I returned my fish weren't looking so well. I felt panic to a degree that I wouldn't have expected over the danger that this four fish I'd had for a few hours were facing. I quickly released them into the tank, and watched terrified until they had all finally resumed their typical swimming.

Every morning when I wake up, I feed them and smile. Every night, I say goodnight to them. It sounds ridiculous, but I have legitimately built up an attachment to these four little creatures that inhabit a tank of water in my dorm. I look forward to seeing them, I'm glad to care for them, and I know that life would be lonely without them.

Frostbite.

As I have stated before, I live in Florida. The Sunshine State. Where it never snows. As such, I am quite accustomed to warm weather. I can wear jeans and a hoodie when it's 80 degrees out, and in fact did for the majority of middle school. (I was still figuring out who I was.) I mean, I have a tolerance for some cold, in short bursts, perhaps when it's still early morning and the sun hasn't risen, or maybe on a rare day when it stays cold all day and it's necessary for me to actually search for a shirt with sleeves that reach all the way to my wrists.

That was then. Now I have moved into northern Florida for college, where apparently the weather is much more brutal. I woke up yesterday for the first day of classes and checked the weather app on my iPhone. It was currently 32 degrees outside, but it felt like 22. I contemplated dropping the class, but begrudgingly realized that "I would have died of cold" would not have gone well with my parents as to why I lost my scholarships, dropped out of school, and moved back in with them forever.

I blow dried my hair. Not for any sake of fashion, but because although arriving to class with icicles on my hair might look surprisingly like dreadlocks, I felt it was not the best thing for my health. I did put on multiple layers of clothes. Florida jeans are made to be worn in the summer and not overheat. As such, they aren't good for the winter. In fact, they are completely useless in the winter. So I wear leggings under them to make up for this fact. It might help more if the leggings in Florida weren't made to be worn in the summer and not let you overheat.

Today, it is 33 degrees out, and it feels like 33, since there is no wind. In fact, according to the app, the wind is CALM at calm mph. That is great to know. I'll go prepare for that immediately.

Love.

Love. There a thousand directions in which a blog on this topic could go. I'll start by saying that in other languages, there are often multiple translations for our version of love, referring to different types of love. Isn't it odd that we use the same word to describe scenarios ranging from someone with whom we want to spend the rest of our lives to a tasty meal which we found quite pleasing to the palette?

In my last blog, I touched--merely touched--on the topic of love for family and friends, about both of which I could write books and still never fully explain. However, today I want to touch on the topic most commonly portrayed by the media and most pressed upon our minds since we were first old enough to watch movies: I guess I'll call it relationship love for lack of a better term.

See, from what I've been taught my whole life in movies--fairy tales, chick flicks, even comedies--is that two people meet and realize they are attracted to each other, physically emotionally, maybe they initially hate each other even, it's not too important. In the course of the next small time period, there is an obstacle to this love. However, they are both amazingly able to overcome this, and you have true love! Applause and tears, that's how to find a soulmate.

Of course, everyone always mocks this. Everyone seems to know this is a farce, that love can't be that way, but deep down it's still difficult for me to overcome this mindset, that love should be full of turmoil but resolution, constantly full of the butterflies in the stomach and jitters and whatever else they portray. I think that many people, even if they openly know the movie love isn't true love, still seem to search for that feeling in life. I know I do. But any relationship I've ever been in lost that feeling eventually. And then I wonder why I looked to the media when one of the more true examples of love has been in front of my face just as long.

My parents were married some years before I was born. As long as I've been alive, they've been together. They seem to enjoy each other's company; they have such goofy jokes and sometimes my brother and I just roll our eyes to see them together, singing or some other nonsense. The little quirks that all families have. Also, though, like I'm sure everyone does in their lifetime, they've been known to fight on occasion. I'm sure I don't even know the worst of it, but I'm willing to bet at times they have been so angry with each other that at least one of them has wanted to walk out.

"Love is not a feeling; it's an ability." That was a quote in a movie. I, however, beg to differ. While I agree that love is not the emotion we make it out to be, I say rather than ability, love is a decision, love is a choice. No matter how my parents have ever felt towards one another, whether happy or angry or sad or disappointed or overjoyed, they have always made the decision to still be there, for better or for worse, through good times and bad, through whatever life threw at them. The choice to stay together, to still live together and function together, that's what love is. Any movie that shows love as the resolution after one conflict has only scratched the surface. I think love is so much more deep and so much more true than that.

Mom, Dad, I love you both very much. You two have helped show me more clearly that anyone else can a depth of love that movies or stories or music can't even touch on. Thank you for that.