It’s been a gruesome few weeks.  I have a horrible case of senioritis (wow, that’s a real word?) and the effects could possibly be devastating.  I’ve missed more classes than I’m willing to admit online, but it’s difficult to convince myself at 7:00 am that driving an hour in traffic to class is a better decision than staying in bed for another two, tucked in warmly under the covers.

I’ve officially made the move to my new place.  Although I’ve been living here for a few weeks, in traditional Julie fashion, I waited until the very last minute to clean out my old apartment.  I spent the entire day in La Mesa practicing kung-fu on unsuspecting pieces of unwanted furniture, kicking legs off of tables and tearing apart desks and other unwanted items.  My brother and I piled an interesting collection of trash into our two dumpsters (I figured it was only fair, since our trash, sewer and water bill this month exceed $160 – but that’s a rant I’ll save for another day).  I’m happy to report that the same utilities in my new place came to a total of eleven dollars and sixteen cents.

The new place is wonderful and I’ve even managed to adopt a little lucky bamboo plant and haven’t managed to kill it yet.  I would proudly post some pictures of my Ikea adorned apartment, but there are still unpacked boxes littering the living room.

I happened to be found via MySpace by my husband.  Really.  We were married in preschool.  He asked if this meant that he could receive back pay from all the alimony he forked over to his ex-wife – I don’t think it would hold up in court though.  He was probably my first real internet friend, as we officially met for the second time while playing Doom together on a site called H2H.  He was a gaming God, and claims that’s why I spent so much time swooning over him as a teenager.  He’s probably right.  Things might be rekindled if only he could level his Warrior to 70.  But alas, he has two jobs and stuff, so I doubt he’ll be raiding of winning my affection any time soon!

Not too long ago I went to a rock show with my best buddy, Chris.  He’s such a trooper, and the only one willing to tag along with me at a rock show where we’re likely to be the oldest people there.  I got a chance to meet some of the band members, who were casually hanging out by the bar and looked barely old enough to drink.  I picked up a couple band t-shirts as always, and probably wear them more than I wash them.

Tomorrow we’re heading out for a delicious (I hope!) steak dinner to celebrate a few birthdays.  Tami had hers on Tuesday, and Chris will be enjoying his on Monday.

I doubt I’ll be writing anything else until finals are over.  The next time I type to this page I will be boasting my college degree!  (Let’s hope that doesn’t mean I won’t be posting until after Summer school is over...)

So today marks the fourth year that I’ve been pecking away at the keyboard and posting my bitter banter in online form.  I don’t know if this is a celebrated milestone, or if I should really get my head checked for spending ridiculous amounts of time over the years sharing my innermost thoughts with complete strangers who only happen across my delirious monologues because they’re searching for pixel porn.

I’ve often thought about breaking up with my blog, and moving on to greener pastures such as intellectually stimulating political discourse, or possibly even doin’ it old style, with a pen and notebook.  What it really comes down to is I like blogging.  I don’t have to be as honest as I’d sometimes let myself be when recording my thoughts between two blue lines on recycled paper.  I can embellish the silly details of my day to day life, and not worry about killing trees in the process or creating ungodly controversy with my haughty opinions.

It seems that everyday I find myself in an amusing situation that can only be perfectly explored through the use of endless adjectives in an online blog.  (Is that redundant?)  So much has been going on lately, but I haven’t created the time to sit computer-side and unleash my life into MSWord.

I’ve been preparing myself for graduation (or an endless college career, depending on my grades this semester), playing a lot of video games (and enjoying them), and discovering the wonders of biscuits and cheese.

I spent a weekend evening at an English pub, where I treated myself to Bangers and Mash, along with a cold scotch egg.  Over a few white russians (we’re a cultured group!) I reminisced about my old “bloke” of a boyfriend who was from abroad.  He wrote me love letters, was devilishly handsome, had an amazing accent, and a wife that I really didn’t know about.

I spent most of the evening parading around asking anyone on a dare if they were English.  My luck wasn’t so hot, but this tattooed mystery man was!  My friends and I collectively decided he was a gigolo.  He was rough, tough, stubbly, and well dressed.  It turns out, his story for the night included him being a weapon expert, teaching SWAT teams how to use advanced weapons.  My friends rolled their eyes and headed back inside when he began to tell me about how he adopted an injured dog found in the dumpster 8 years ago.  If time has taught me anything, it’s that I can’t be left alone with bar boys and be expected to make good decisions, so I followed my friends back to our seats with a sigh.

I’m hoping to be living at the new apartment tomorrow.  As eager as I am to get out, I’ve had the new place since April 1^st, but have failed to finally move my bed or computer.  All I have left here are those items, and a pile of trash that’s starting to make my brother look like the clean sibling.

Alright, so who says you can’t have fun and get some work done at the same time? Obviously no one from my company (I knew there were a few good reasons I worked for them!) Thursday through Sunday we had an event that resembled something I would have put together and attended on my own time, even if I wasn’t employed. I got to meet and mingle with fellow gamers, share ideas and opinions, and generally have a fantastic time.

Thursday night was my first venture into Rock Band. I sang some Black Sabbath, a little Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and even some of The Clash. My fans cheered for an encore from the couches in our swanky rented-out nightclub, while the bartender pleaded with my boss to make me stop singing at the top of my lungs. Luckily, a co-worker who was more microphone-worthy was able to take over and please the raging crowd with her melodies.

Friday morning after a breakfast of coffee and ibuprofen, we headed down to the docks to board the Hornblower so we could go whale watching. I’ve never gotten sea sick, but then again I haven’t spent too much time out on the water. I was weary about eating the semi-stale bagel and prepackaged fruit that they handed out as a morning snack, but it went down smoothly and never made its way back up, even though the motion of the ocean nearly knocked me on my ass a couple of times. It was a great feeling standing on the ship's helm and looking out on to the ocean, though looking at the navy men on a passing warship was a much more appealing site. I figured there had to be at least one Danny on that ship.  Julie overboard!

We saw dolphins, seals or sea lions, and eventually even a whale (who  passively remained near our ship for an hour due to the lobster trap tangled in his tail). Two guys on the cruise nicknamed him ‘Edgar’ and hilarity ensued as the both of them took on whale personas and acted out an entertaining skit that depicted ‘Edgar’ and ‘Emma’ as two aging Jewish orcas who couldn’t stop bickering. It was comedy gold.

That evening we headed to Dick’s Last Resort for dinner, where the waiters happened to give me the same hat I received the last time I was there. Do I just look like a girl who’s “easier to get into than community college”? I mean, I think that would require men taking the SATs and providing me with original transcripts and shot records before dropping their pants. I think that should at least be saved for the second or third date, right?

Our two tables became involved in methodical war games as we prepared and launched wadded up napkins soaked in various fluids across the room, some of which bounced off balloons and landed right back in our faces, but after the few rounds of tequila, no one seemed to mind. A few of us headed up stairs and I totally kicked collective ass in pool (this is the part where I get to lie because it is my blog and everyone else was too drunk to remember the night ending differently).

The next morning we saw [NDA] and talked about just how amazingly awesome [NDA] was and our eyebrows were raised numerous times when we discussed [NDA] and how it would affect [NDA] by allowing [NDA] in multiples of [NDA], but only on Tuesdays and [NDA].

We spent our Saturday evening on the lower rooftop of the ultra trendy W Hotel, where I was dressed to impress (my fellow geeks) with gaming attire and my dice covered sweatshirt. A couple people commented how they could just toss me around and have bonus damage rolls.

After the weekend ended, I was understandably exhausted. The workweek has just begun, and there’s definitely a lot to accomplish in the next few days. They say you’re supposed to work hard, and play even harder, but I think I got those two reversed somehow, because the work will be happening until the evening hours on Friday, and all I can think about is how I want to play again! I met some wonderful people, and I look forward to seeing them all again.

We had our first softball game this evening, and it’s fair to say that I think I broke both of my big toes!  Whoever says your feet don’t get bigger over the years is a horrible, rotten liar.  I swear last spring my cleats fit just fine, but tonight, anytime I came to an abrupt stop my feet jammed themselves up against the tip of my shoe, tugging my nail away from my toe in a bloody and bruised mess.  I should be happy that I even had the opportunity to run to second base, let alone third and home!

I had a few ‘butterfly’ moments out in the field.  Especially when some show-of left hander popped one up in my direction (hey, whatever happened to looking out for your own kind, buddy?!) and I watched it land to my right and bounce behind me before I realized, I should probably chase after that rolling mass of rubber (or whatever deceiving material “softballs” are made of!)

I had so much fun, though.  I only wish I had the strength and form to whack one right out of the park and the speed to dart from base to base.

Those words have been written many times before on my blog.  Procrastination usually leads to long nights of skim-reading and coffee while cramming for an exam.

I spent this weekend saying goodbye to one of my favorite developers, who is moving on to another company in a state that is more affordable to live in.  We had beers, bonding, and a bunch of shit-talking from me about how I am going to “kick yalls’ asses in pool!”  Luckily, no one I threatened ended up making it to the bowling alley where I ultimately failed at shooting multiple times.

I met some guys at the bar, which normally wouldn’t be much to blog about, but this encounter was slightly different than the normal obvious attempt to mate mildly masked as an intoxicated introduction.  I was waiting in line with a friend to order a beer, when an overly drunk mass of man asked my buddy if I were his girlfriend.  My friend tossed a glance at me as if to say, “I should probably tell him I am your significant other just to save you from the incoherent drivel you are about to hear from this lush.”  Next came 20 questions:  Where are you from?  What do you do?  How tall are you?  Then he asked one too many:  “How old are you?”  I am now officially offended by that question.

After I proved how incredibly witty and clever my portion of the conversation seemed to be when conversing with an inebriated man, I was not-so-casually dragged away by another friend who isn’t so keen on the idea of guys in bars chatting me up.  I cannot help myself though, and we ended up chatting a bit more over the next couple of hours.  It came down to the moment of truth, where this guy apparently “mustered up the courage” to ask for my digits.  “No, I am sorry.”  I smiled, “You cannot have my number.”  (Hello, my stalker still dials me to tell me ‘Have a good morning, sweetie’.)  He complained in an utterly unconvincing fashion that girls like me are ruining men’s self esteem because they take a chance by asking for a number, only to get turned down.  I have a hard time believing that this guy was even slightly fazed by the thought of rejection.  I bet he easily asks for and gets more numbers than most of my fellow dorks do.  Sorry, no pity buster.

But the beautiful catch was, his roommate was there – and knowing I was a gamer – asked for my WoW character’s name, since I wasn’t handing out other contact info.  So there we were – a level 70 Druid and 70 Mage, exchanging servers and avatar names in a bar over beer.  He sent me an in-game mail, and now we may just explore Azeroth together on some newbies.