Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

This was only ten days ago, but it feels like years have gone by.

Singing the Beatles' “Blackbird” to myself softly in the Sam Deeds arranged style; going through old parts of my flickr for no reason and remembering things I had forgotten; Sarah Tollerson's solo performance giving me goosebumps; hanging out with Maggs, who comes to my bar just to see me; Happy Hour with Matt and Chris, who throw things a lot; Happy Hour with Ripley, who can pop it with the best of em, and who queued up my song without me asking; hanging out with Zach, who I've missed dearly; making a Happy Birthday video to send to Abie; all of Brett's damn enthusiasm; Stephanie adjusting my shirt to show more of my breasts, despite my insistence that maybe that button should stay buttoned; finding out I can go a damn long time without eating a thing as long as I keep drinking and smoking (breakfast of champions!)

Cinco de Mayo. Taken by Abie.

Abie's hilarious explanation of concert goer types. Nearly 5 years old, but still entirely true.

sweaty shirtless moshers

these are the guys that make me smell like sweaty boy when i get home afterwards. they usually start off with a shirt, but then it disintegrates. so they're left shirtless. now no guy without major muscles can be in this category. thats just the way it is. these guys are all about moshing. they like to slime as many people they can with sweat. dammit, they are amusing and great. but don't push them (punch them instead), cuz since they're so sweaty, all that you will have accomplished is getting icky sweat all over yourself.

rabbit guys

let me explain this. rabbit guys. i've heard that how you dance is how you fuck. so these guys are screwed..but not literally. they are the ones with ABSOLUTELY no rhythm, and hop about in an insanely annoying sense.

boys who are afraid to mosh

bitches.

I was nearly knocked unconscious once by a rabbit guy's overly enthusiastic unpredictable head banging. I had to leave the crowd and go sit down. True story.

my “only slightly shorter but it feels a lot shorter to me” hair, my now very tangible prospects for the future, the fact that my car seems to be running fine (for now), the fabulous open mic I attended at the Red Light, knowing that even though I'm terrible at calling people HGB will call me just to check up, laughing fits that ultimately give me hiccups, being aware that even adorable British men are still no match for my special super power, a charming musician who insists on taking my picture even though it horrifies me, new music from said musician, having concrete goals thanks to Abie

“Don't forget you are going to help me plan my future tonight, okay?” I yell up to Abie's loft while she's trying to have an international conversation.

“I know, we're going to get high and plan your future.
“Not in that order, though.”

The basic idea (with some can't-talk-about-it-yet ulterior motives) was to map out what I have left to take in order to just graduate, already!

Abie, my dear Abie, did all of the legwork, and I sat and watched her, confused. I am indebted to the redhead, of course. She figured most of it out.

I'm putting it in writing so I have to commit to it: if I'm not out by December of 2007, I will most certainly be out by May of 2008. This is going to happen by picking the pace back up just a bit, taking summer classes, and a fair amount of determination on my part.

Now that I have a date, an idea of what I have to do, I'm much more motivated to go ahead and knock it out. Its not an impassable obstacle but just some hurdles to jump. No problem.

“Abie, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to graduate.”

I would just like to point out that when there is homework to be done, suddenly one also must do laundry, clean one's desk, dust-off the keyboard, do the dishes, run errands, and do anything, anything, but focus on the task at hand.

One might even update their journal to keep from doing homework.

“Can I just complain for second?”

“Sure.” Abie pauses her phone call with David.

“I hate how every one of these goddamn writing assignments is always like ‘Imagine you're an anthropologist...’. How 'bout, no!?! I don't want to! I would just like to write some stupid research paper and get it over with. I don't want to have to use my creative energy on this!”

Abie explains the situation to David, and relays his answer to me.

“David says, ‘Imagine I'm an anthropologist....Tell them, I would take my own life.’”

We laugh. A lot.

And then I remember I'm supposed to be working.

Ergh.

Usually we at the House do not sink to low levels of depavity for a cheap laugh. Although we are in fact depraved, and cheap, we usually like to reveal it in a more intimate fashion than the Internet.

However, in lieu of being able to post anything of greater length at this time, we submit this card, sent to my dear friend and roommmate Abie by her man in the UK, David.

I will warn you, it's not for the kids (and probably not safe for work). Read More »

On Wednesday night, my roommates called me into the living room to receive the previously mentioned special backordered gift. Wondering what it was had been driving me crazy for three days, but even more so, I was worried that after all the build up I wouldn't look excited enough. I'm not a great gift receiver, and never know how to properly show my gratitude.

In this case, I needn't have worried.

They had hastily wrapped it up in the cover of this weeks Flagpole Magazine. It was a small box, and I had no idea what it could be, until I cleared away the newsprint and saw the brand name on the top of the gift box.

I must have turned pale at that point. There is no way they actually bought that for me.

I opened the box, and they had, in fact, bought me the locket I had daydreamed about receiving for Valentine's Day.

Catie asked, “Jenna Tollerson, will you be our Valentine?”

It took just about everything I had in me not to cry.

Dear Apartment 6:

I don't know if I tell you enough, but living at Apartment 6 with you, my great friends, is the happiest I have ever been in all my 22 years. Not just the happiest, even, but the first time in my life I have ever been truly happy. The work and thought everyone put into my birthday is just one more reason I feel that moving into that apartment was the best decision I ever made. I love you.

I'm wearing that locket even now, as I sit in my sister's home office in Redmond, Washington. I've only been here 24 hours, and at some point there will be much to tell, but there has been so much airport-havoc-people-watching-meeting-people-and-dogs-talking-til-dawn that my head is spinning as I attempt to process all the details.

So I've been writing in a notebook for the past couple of days. Paper and pen, the old-fashioned way, and trying to jot things down, from my head, no self editing and none of the weaving into what would normally make it into the public domain. I'm doing this so I don't miss anything.

Details are, of course, what turns a series of events into a story. I continute to be, more than anything, in the business of Jenna Tollerson mythopoeia.

We at the House are not giving up cyberspace. You can trust that the stories will indeed follow. Soon.

I'll tell you a secret: I've woken up crying for the past three days. Woken up and just sobbed for 10 or 15 minutes.

This is strange behavior under any circumstances, but especially strange because today—the third day I've woken up wondering why I bother to ever get out of bed—is my birthday. I am 22 years old today. And I've been having one of the worst weeks I've had in awhile.

If it wasn't the crippling low, it was an equally crippling bout of anxiety that lasted for my entire workday on Wednesday—nearly 8 hours of tense muscles, rapid heartbeat and difficulty breathing—that only slightly let up after I got home and incoherently babbled to Abie about nothing that I can remember now. It's been not wanting to ever get out of bed, preferring to hide in the dark and not face the world.

Here's where I need to point out that trying to hide from the world and having a birthday at the same time are totally incompatible. Even though I didn't even think they knew about my birthday at the time, Crystal and Amanda showed up at my house on Saturday night (from out of state, no less) and forced me to go a show with them, even though I had no other goals for the night than to curl up into a ball on the couch and try to disappear.

I got out of my pajamas, took a shower, and put on a show of my own: the one where I am happy and normal and not incredibly depressed.

We went to Flicker. My roommates Emily and Melissa were already there. Michael Flynn played lots of mushy love songs. He's actually fantastic, but felt distracted and in a daze.

Between sets Abie showed up, and then Bill Carson played. He's equally fantastic, and writes really sexy music, and the whole time I was thinking about how I needed to get the hell outta there into the open air, away from the crowds. I did not want to be around people at that moment.

After the set I got up and dashed out, and Abie came and found me. I related to her nearly everything, how I felt like shit, smothered by my life, that things, at 22, where not going at all the way I wanted.

Saying it aloud did help, just a little.

Just after midnight we gathered roommates and house guests and all ten of us went to the Grill.

We were all being goofy, taking pictures of each other, generally making too much of a ruckus, when spontaneously all nine people seated with me sang me Happy Birthday. It was simultaneously special, embarrassing, and the exact opposite of imperative-be-ye-not-social.

I probably needed it.

I woke up late today. My Dad called me while I was still in bed, contemplating the work ahead of me, and invited me to Winder to have dinner. I told him I had too much studying to do. He said he would come to Athens and feed me on a study break.

I got in the shower, further putting off studying, and realized there was no way I was going to pass the test on Tuesday. I got out of the shower, got online, and dropped the class.

I called my Dad. “I don't have to study anymore. I dropped it.”

“You sound ten times better than you did when I talked to you before.”

My sister and I went to Winder to eat Zaxby's with Dad. Choices in Winder are slim, see. Being in Winder made me feel kind of relaxed for some reason. Sarah and Dad talked a lot about music theory. Dad made his usual quota of bad jokes, and Sarah talked about her recent admission to a fancy music school. It was good to not be talking about myself for awhile.

When I came home at least 3 roommates blocked me from the kitchen and told me I needed to get in my room. This is a customary Apartment 6 birthday greeting.

A few minutes later, they called me into the living room. You will never guess what my cake looked like. It was the Best Thing Ever.

After I blew out the candles Abie asked me to sit down.

“We have to tell you something about your present. We all went in on something for you but it's on backorder, so you'll have to wait.”

“You guys did that for me?”

It's really awesome to find out your roommates were planning something behind your back, as long as it's not your demise.

Allison: “If you want something to unwrap I can wrap something for you—like the Prince of Weasels.”

Catie: “The Prince of Weasels is not for giving away.”

Allison: “Oh.”

I love both my families. Not because they buy me things or make me iPod cakes or pick beautiful pink flowers out for me, but because I've got people pulling for me even when things seem dark and inescapable. They love me even if I am a grump for a whole week, and they think about me even when I'm not standing there in front of them. I've been up in my own head a lot lately and forgot that I'm in a lot of other people's heads too.