Hmmmmph

Fist snowfall of winter was yesterday everyone!

Anyway. I'm pretty tired lately and I think its the stress of exam times and being sick combined. I feel like I could just sleep for hours and hours.

That's all I feel like writing. You see!? Usually I would go on for paragraphs and paragraphs about why and how I feel tired, but instead, I'm going to go read cracked.com for awhile.

I have bronchitis. RUN FROM ME IN FEAR.

Bronchitis is inflammation of the mucous membranes of the bronchi, the airways that carry airflow from the trachea into the lungs. Bronchitis can be classified into two categories, acute and chronic, each of which has unique etiologies, pathologies, and therapies.

Acute bronchitis is characterized by the development of a cough, with or without the production of sputum, mucus that is expectorated (coughed up) from the respiratory tract. Acute bronchitis often occurs during the course of an acute viral illness such as the common cold or influenza. Viruses cause about 90% of cases of acute bronchitis while bacteria account for less than 10%.^[1]

Chronic bronchitis, a type of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, is characterized by the presence of a productive cough that lasts for 3 months or more per year for at least 2 years. Chronic bronchitis most often develops due to recurrent injury to the airways caused by inhaled irritants. Cigarette smoking is the most common cause, followed by air pollution and occupational exposure to irritants, and cold air.

Dying holiday, dying dream.

My dream, since I was little, was to have the best house on the block for Halloween.

I would have the fake cemetery, the creepy, billowing fabric and haunting music. My front yard would be lit in a blood-red glow while creepy, haunting pumpkins flickered with evil intent. A skeleton would laugh from my front door as the braver children led their timid friends towards the sounds of werewolves, screaming witches and snarling dogs. I would be sitting in the entryway, just out of sight from the little ones because I’ve always thought ringing the doorbell was one of the best parts. I’d be dressed in some outlandish costume, Harley Quinn or maybe some kind of zombie witch, and hand them their candy with a glare or maybe some sort of peppy but demented comeback (It’s Harley Quinn, guys.)

Then, as they made their way down the steps, my significant other (Who had been dressed as a zombie warlock or perhaps the joker) would lunge at the nearest child with a haunting laugh or maybe even a simple boo. My house would be the ultimate experience. Tricks and treats galore.

Every time someone hopped out and scared the living crap out of me on Halloween, I thought of a time when I would be that person. I would be the one who everyone talked about, the one for one night who would steal the show. Younger kids would be terrified to approach my door; older kids would point out all the important but small details to their parents. I would be the best.

I’ve held onto this dream for my whole life, since those mystical nights when I would bounce around impatiently with my little brother, waiting for it to be dark so we could go out. Every year the night would become unearthly, radiant and alive. No one was who they appeared but that was okay, because by god- It was Halloween.

I had to work tonight, so I put on most of my costume and worked until 8. In the Halloweens of my youth this was when the night was in full swing, the streets packed with ghosts and ghouls and all manner of creepy creatures. And as my boyfriend (Who one day might be the Joker to my Harley) drove me home I began to fret. Where were all the kids? The little ones who could barely get up the steps and the older toddlers with their little Halloween pumpkin buckets. I didn’t understand.

I told The Boyfriend this image I had in my head of my perfect Halloween haunt once. It was a while ago, but I still remember what he said. “Halloween is a dying holiday. You could put a rubber bat out on the front of your house and have the coolest place on the street.”

When he said it I not only refused to believe him, but got downright mad. I told him he was dumb for thinking that, because holidays don’t just die.

But as I took in the few straggling kids as they walked from house to house I became depressed. A vampire trudged with his mother along one otherwise deserted street. Few houses were lit, few creatures creeping sneakily along the sidewalks with tired parents in tow. There are so few people out there these days, and I don’t understand why.

To all you parents out there who may have stayed with me long enough to get here, please listen. BRING YOUR KIDS OUT ON HALLOWEEN. Dress them up, give then a pillowcase and haul them from place to place. Ignore the cries of ‘my feet are tired’ and ‘but I don’t want to carry the bucket!’. The few fond memories I have of my old house are the ones of shivering under my robot costume with silver face paint slathered all over my forehead, getting home and dumping all the candy on the floor to sort through it and give my dad the things I didn’t like, or swap with my little brother.

And who knows. One day you might show up at a house with billowing fabric and blood-red lights, and your child will receive some tasty treat from a woman dressed as Harley Quinn.

ALERT! ALERT! SITUATION CRITICAL!

*Flails*

Eekkkkk.

Badbadbadbad VERY BAD.

So, Uh... Okay. I was online today, minding my own business and reading some blog posts, when I got an email from Facebook. I'm never really on Facebook, but I get lots of emails from people poking and prodding me and whatnot, so I fuigred what the hell, and clicked on it. I see this:

DO YOU KNOW WHO THAT IS?! DO YOU?!

Of course you don't, I haven't told you and I made the name all blurry.

IT'S THE BOYFRIEND'S GRANDMOTHER, YOU GUYS!

*Panic*

She is one of the nicest old ladies ever, right? Like, adorable and sweet and all that great crap, which is why I do not want her reading my Facebook! Because on the one hand, if I post something like... I dunno...

Me: Tamara-Wow gys i aM SoooOooo wated righ now!

I don't want it to tun into this.

Me: Tamara-Wow gys i aM SoooOooo wated righ now!
The Boyfriend's grandma: Bestgranever1: Interesting, what you choose to do on a Tuesday morning.*

I'm pretty sure I would not only die of shame, but I'd end up being dumped by The Boyfriend. And I don't want that to happen!

On the other hand, if I quietly ignore her as the site suggests she's going to KNOW. And then she'll be suspicious that I'm saying things that she wouldn't want to know and that's why I'm not adding her. This is exactly correct but I don't want her to know but ultimately, she'll know either way.... I'm rambling. It's because of the panic.

The way I see it there are two was this can go down.

1) I can add her and let her see exactly how horrible I am (God knows his mom already does, I was bullied into adding her), and hope that she either won't pay much attention or won't be able to see cause she left her glasses somewhere. This way, I risk her becoming overprotective and therefore, perhaps have tension with The Boyfriend's Family rise.
2) I can ignore her, wich will have one of two consequences.
2a) She will forget about it and move on.
2b) She'll start imagining the horrible things I might be doing that I don't want her to know about, picturing me torturing kittens, binge drinking and pushing her grandson down flights of stairs while telling him it's his fault. None of these things happen, but she is a grandma, it's their job to freak out over little stuff.

None of these options appeal to me. I don't know what to do, and the beautiful and all-knowing K is at some sort of shindig in which she will not answer my textually rendered pleas for help. The Boyfriend..Well he went to a wedding with the bio-dad, and was supposedly home an hour ago, but he's not answering texts either and it's worrysome for me. I'm hoping he just forgot his phone.

*Sigh* BAH.

*(NOTE: I don't do this. This is an exaggeration of what may occur. The last time I got drunk was my 19th birthday, and if you need to know how long ago that was I turn twenty on the second of November. That's right bitches.)