Yeah, I'm movin' on, but that's the way it goes.

Listening To: Liar Liar by NeverShoutNever
Feeling: Excitement about the POOAL

I know I had that title of a recent post already, but the blog is moving, and I thought it would be appropriate to have that as the title. I put on this song specifically so I could have that as the title.

The blog has moved to
http://hobomerz.blogspot.com/

I'm basically just starting over. I see all my immaturity here and also a lot of memories I don't want to have; and anyone who wants to Follow me on here should Follow The Anatomy of a Pseudo-Hobo blog, which will soon have it's first post. I just have this doodle I want to do with the first post, which is why it isn't posted yet. I'll be better about posting and try not to be so boring and everything.

And so, thank you for all the years, guys.

The natural life; you're born, you die.

Listening To: Natural Life by Breaking Benjamin
Feeling: The opposite of OPA!. Which must mean something terrible.

Holy granola, my organs hurt. Don't ask my why my organs hurt. I just know they do. Mom tells me I must've slept wrong, but it feels like an alien ripped open my stomach while I was sleeping and pounded my organs because he was bored, then went back home. That's how bad they feel. Oh, and my spine hurts. My ribs hurt. My eyeballs hurt. He probably beat those, too.

Though this post was not supposed to be about everything that was currently causing me pain, it seems that's the way it started off. Oh well. Let's go ahead and get to the topics at hand here, shall we?

I was just contemplating on the fact that I am a person who likes to remember "the good times," an awful lot. I'll just look over and dad and be like,

Me: Dad, do you remember that time?

Dad: *sighs dramatically because he knows what's coming* No, I remember no such time. I don't remember any of the times.

Me: Oh, sure you do. It was that one time when me and you and mom went to the park and we played with those velcro pads and the baseballs that stuck to them because I can't play any real sports, but then I thought I could play real sports so I said, "Let's play soccer!" And then we started to play makeshift soccer but you kicked the ball pretty hard and it flew up into my face and hit me in the nose and I had a bloody nose and I was all upset?

Dad: I vaguely recall.

Me: Good times. 8D Oh, wait, no, I thought you had broken my nose and I was going to be horribly ugly for the rest of my life D8< Bad times, bad times!

And this is how these things go with us. I'm always remembering that one time, and half the time my parental units don't even know what I'm talking about. They are highly convinced that I've made up half of my childhood with false memories and the other half are real but I don't remember those as much because they aren't as exciting for me as the false ones. Though I am absolutely positive they're just old and don't remember the finer points of my upbringing.

I, however, remember all of the finer points of my upbringing. Like how when I was younger I saw those Leprechaun movies and I was highly convinced that that Leprechaun was hiding under my bed, and someone who hated me told him I had his gold and I'm like "Frakk no, I don't have your gold" but he still thought so anyway, and if I dangled a leg or arm over the side of my bed he would claw the crap out of me and drag me under the bed and murder me. To this day I'm still in the habit of attempting to keep my limbs firmly on the bed; never mind that underneath my bed is so much crap there would be no place for the Leprechaun to hide, unless he could shrink himself.

And I wouldn't be surprised.

A more recent memory, though, is that dad has this box thing. It makes noise like it's some huge frakking dog but really it's just a speaker, and he put it in my bathroom as I was passing by. It has a motion sensor. And I'm all ladi-da-dee-isn't-life-super-special-awesome with my iPod in my hand and a dog in the other and this thing goes off. I scream, and I don't even know what I scream, but I scream, drop my iPod and set dog down as gently as a freaked out person an and run. Run like I am in a freaking MARATHON, because I am a survivor and I was highly convinced there was a demon in my bathroom.

I ran directly into dad, who was hunching down in the hallway to witness this reaction -- AT NIGHT, MIND YOU -- so I thought the demon was double-teaming me with another demon before I realized it was dad, who was LOL, ROFL, LMAO, OMGWTFBBQ'ing in the hallway. I basically tried to scrabble over him and told him to save me and basically told him to be eaten by the demon who was after my poor, pure soul. Before I figured out everything was a joke.

The moral of the story is: be careful if you have as big as an imagination as I do.

God, help me I've come undone out of the light of the sun.

Listening To: Give Me A Sign by Breaking Benjamin
Feeling: Tired.

Yeah, I'm probably not going to be posting the lyrics with the song title and whatnot anymore. It's not like it's a big pain in the bum for me or anything, but there just really isn't any point to it except that I haven't seen someone do that. Though I will keep using lyrics as post titles. Alright, let's go ahead and get to an official post here so Flash can read it, maybe comment, and then we can all go back to our normal lives.

First of all, the suminagashi class was not exactly as I expected. Just picture me at the library with my father, whom I forced to take the class with me as some sort of bonding exercise, and I'm waiting for the class to begin because the woman is of course late, by over fifteen minutes. At this point, my spirits are not dampened because, hello, I'm in a library. A big building full of books. How can someone like me not be on cloud nine in the presence of books?

The point is, I spent the fifteen minutes plus by getting some books. Once she finally does arrive and the class is called to session, I promptly realize this day is going to be filled, absolutely filled, with WTFery. As the class contains myself and my slightly disgruntled father, two young boys who reek of mac n' cheese and ugly boy smells and their mother who is trying to be sexy sitting in the corner wearing short-shorts but really, she's way too old for those and her thighs were not what I wanted to see, and two pseudo-artistic teenagers who obviously thought they were all that. One of them was wearing a beret.

Yeah. A beret.

So the teacher comes in and instead of being deep and artistic like I imagined her, she's Miss Happy Rainbow Sunshine Unicorn, and basically treats us like we're in preschool. Which, judging by the immaturity of the two young boys next to me, I'm not surprised. It is deadpan horrible for the entire duration of her explanation about suminagashi and Japan, of which I already knew about everything she said and all the materials.

Dad ended up with a really cool one that looked like a ying-yang of skulls, and I ended up with three that just sort of looked nice. Maybe I'll post pictures eventually, but I seriously doubted it. Basically, I like the art form and everything, but the woman was severely unprepared, severely condescending, and the supplies had holes in them or the brush tips would come off randomly. I still looked like an idiot hunching over a tinfoil pan that looks like its been used a hundred times before, flicking paint and ink into the water.

My faith in the calligraphy class is dwindled. Because the suminagashi class said -- apparently -- five and up. And the calligraphy class says all ages. You would absolutely not think this, due to the fact that calligraphy is supposed to be slow and precise and careful, and you don't want a toddler that eats toenail clippings in there messing about with paper and spilling ink all over everyone while screaming like a banshee.

Pray for me.

As for other news in my life, I apparently now have a pool. A very, very large above-ground pool. I'm all excited for it and everything because it's only about four feet deep, so I won't drown (Yes, I still cannot swim. So sue me). Mom's getting all excited by getting us these fancy towels with flip-flops printed on them, getting me goggles for apparent underwater adventure, those little raft things you lay on and sip your virgin margarita on, and a pool cover. And probably a new two-piece bathing suit for me. Which brings me to the conclusion that I'm glad this pool is, of course, in the backyard, and away from anyone seeing me flailing around like an idiot, LOL'ing and being this extremely happy version of myself that rarely comes out.

I also finished the pink sketchbook. I haven't started in on the black one yet, but I'm probably going to do that today. I was all accomplished and, "Look, mom! Look, dad! I finished my sketchbook!" and they were all, "That's nice, dear" before going back along their daily business. I take it that finishing the sketchbook and starting a new one means a lot more to me than to everyone else...