Every now and then, my irrational side takes over. The part of my brain that likes to dwell on the past, things that don't matter, and things that won't change. The part of my brain that is the fascist leader of all my self-esteem issues, all the negative things I think about myself; the part of my brain that never ceases it's desire to convince me that I do not deserve to be happy.
Lately, I've been good at getting that part of my brain to SHUT THE GODDAMN HELL UP. I don't work hard to ensure I'm miserable in Milwaukee, I enjoy the time I have to myself while on the bus, I enjoy taking walks down town and to the grocery store when it's above freezing outside; I let myself have friends that I cannot wait to live with next year.

But every now and then, irrational brain teams up with crazygirlbrain and wage ware on rational and logical brain.

About a month ago, they made a break in the defenses. And to be quite honest, I kind of lost it for a while there. I actually became convinced that my boyfriend (you know, the one who has stuck by me and loved me for the past four years, three of those four years in a long-distance relationship.) was only with me because he wanted to spend the rest of his life riding around on the coat tails of my success and ambition. I was convinced that he didn't care enough about me to try and do anything with his life.
This is not to say that I didn't think he loved me. I knew he did. But when he would say, "I don't need anything else to be happy but you." My brain interpreted that as, "I don't have to try for anything better, because you are good enough to keep me satisfied." I interpreted that to mean he didn't feel the need to better himself because he already had what he wanted. I interpreted that as he wasn't going to better himself because he was going to marry the doctor and I would just go ahead and provide for everything.
And this "realization" infuriated me. To the point where I was prepared to break up with the man and throw away everything that we had done over the past four years and erase all the plans we had made. How dare he not try to better himself while I am out here in fucking Milwaukee, WISCONSIN becoming a mother fucking DOCTOR so I can ensure that we have a better life and we have all we want. How dare he not try to figure out what he loves to do and pursue it.
How dare he.

It was with Rational and Logical Brain's dying breath that it pleaded, "Talk to him first."

So I went home for Spring Break, got lost in the butterflies he still causes in my stomach, distracted by the way he makes my knees buckle when we kiss. And I would think to myself, "I can't lose this. I love him so much. But maybe that's not enough."
So, very unfairly, I blindsided the poor man with all sorts of accusations and ill-formed sentences that kind of trickled off into the Land of I Don't Know How To Put This Into Words Without Yelling.
Naturally, he pouted for a while, but we both got over it and things were better, but not great, they were barely good.

Then, the night before I came back to Milwaukee, he brought it up. And he explained everything.
He explained why it had taken so long for him to come up with a response, and how he knows how his family fights (using guilt and finding the most hurtful thing to say in order to win the argument) and how he knows I was not brought up in a family that fought and how he knows I can't emotionally handle that kind of conversation/argument when he can.
He explained how much my accusations hurt him because of how out of the blue they were.
He explained what he meant about a lot of things.

Because his mind and my mind are very different. They work in different ways and they process in different ways and they see the world differently.
Our lives are very different. Having Marquette and Athletic Training and Physical Therapy and Residencies fall into place was how my life worked; and that's not how it went for him.
And when he's not looking for a major to start an education on, and not looking for a career change that will make him happier than Smiths, it's not because he doesn't want to, or because he doesn't want to put the effort in, or because he is content with not perfection.
It's because he knows that where he is right now is the best place for him to be for me.
He knows that where he is offers fantastic flexibility in his schedule, allowing him to take off a whole week when I come home and then go right back to working 40 hours a week.
It's the best job stability there is. He's guaranteed to move up in the company when he wants and at a time that would be most convenient for us.

So he's not staying there because it's the easiest thing to do, or he thinks he doesn't need to work for anything else. It's because he is willing to be unhappy with his job to ensure I get to go were I want to go, and do what I want to do, and become who I want to become. He's where he is because he believes that nothing short of Everything I Want, is good enough for me, and he believes it is his responsibility to make sure I can have it.

And that to me, is a better show of love than all of the flowers, teddy bears, or diamonds he could ever buy.

This is chilling at the Milwaukee War Memorial, which is down by the lake.

It's still cloudy and miserable looking outside, the kind of weather that makes me want to curl up in bed with a mug of tea and watch lots of movies all day. HOWEVA! My sources at weather.com tell me that it will not drop below 40*F for the next 10 days. Which is nice, because next Saturday, the 9th, I will be hanging out at The Valley for most of the day, providing medical coverage to a bunch of soccer hooligans or something. It's currently slated to be 57*F on Saturday. Hmm, acceptable.

Also, I've got 8 pounds of oranges in my fridge. Yay.

Went to the future apartment last night and hung out with the future roommates for a bit and got very, very, drunk in the present.
All conversations were highly sexual, as per usual. Although the boyfriend (yet another Andrew) of a friend (co-blogger? Megan) of one of the future roommates (Lindseh) had some things to say about the Mind Of The Boy, which I thought were actually wonderful things to hear, and they made me feel much better about some of the insecurities I have in my own relationship.
Typing is hurting my brain, so here are pictures to show the progression of the rest of the night (pictures stolen from Lindseh):

All the ladies in attendance. Picture taken by the gentlemanly boyfriend of the gal in the gray sweater.

Everything is good. Having nice conversations about vibrators and oral, and tiny girl is still upright.

Future roommates, roommate M and I are definitely tipsy at this point. Superpowers you ask? Of course, I grant them now. Super not breaking glass things when dropped on the kitchen floor (me), Super Orgasm Woman (Lindsey), Perky Tits Girl (Marie), Super Tallest One In the Apartment (Nichole).

Good thing only like 4 people read this blog.

Oh. Well then.

Cat Hat. No animals were harmed in the making of this picture. In fact, PheobeCat puts up with what they do to her so well that I'm starting to think she likes it. Kind of like how Ruben likes to be held against the ceiling and wiped across the hardwood like a duster.

Wooooo(!!!) floor. I am the big spoon for booze. At this point I am not THAT horribly drunk. I don't think. Anyway, the stuff in the square bottle by my knee is called Apple Pie. It was more cinnamony that I would have liked, but still very good.

Things went a bit down hill after everyone went home, but it did help me figure out how much alcohol = fun!college!hurray! and how much = dehydration/dying/toilets :( frowny face.

It's a learning experience for me.

What else. Oh! Right! It was rainy all morning and then around noon I hear this banging and so I look outside and see:

FURYHAIL!! Or at least what I assume is furyhail. I've heard of such Midwest hail storms (this one even had lightning) and hope I finally experienced one.

It hailed and threw a royal fit for about three minutes then went back to being a light sprinkle.

My size 7.5 - 8 foot. For reference.

And now I need to drink more water and go back to sleep.

These were taken yesterday in conjunction with the picture of Lake Michigan. While taking that picture, the city proper was too my back (west).

To the north, you see all the apartment complexes and condos that are outrageously expensive because they are "Lake Front." The further north you go, the nicer it gets. North and east along the lake is Rich People Land, while north and west towards UWM is hipsterville. Eventually, north and west turns into Shorewood, Bayshore, and Mequon where Homestead High School is. Mequon is the super nice city, were everyone is either a doctor, lawyer, or engineer and lives in these gorgeous looking houses that are skinny but very long and all have a large third floor room with the window at the front and a slopping ceiling due to the roof.


South of were I was standing, you see the more industrial pocket of Milwaukee, the part that, quite honestly, terrifies me. It extends up to were I live on 20th street, goes until about 35th street or so, and then the area gets nice again. The houses go from wood and pealing pain to brick and plaster and bright colors and front lawns.



In other news, not only is the former president of our school being accused of covering up sexual abuse in the parish he worked at before coming to Marquette, multiple members of the men's basketball team has been accused of sexual assault. Nice job guys.
We are Marquette?

Edit: Now with Split Peas!

Dear Lake Michigan,
Your vastness confuses me.

Best Regards,
Me.

Edit:
I have previously explained that my internal monologue is either very rational, a mentally challenger butterfly, or an inner-city thug; it would be correct to assume that the internal rational for most things I do is quite questionable at best.
Example: Tonight.
Situation: Last week I bought a 5lb bag of rice, because I love me some rice and it is necessary that there is always some in my fridge for easy access. Split Peas happened to be on sale that day, so I got a bag of those too.
Result: It's about 9:00pm; I've been to Physics class, I've been to Homestead Highschool and athletic trainer...ed like a boss, I've read over the chapter in Physics, I've taken a nap, I've been to the gym, I've eaten dinner, and now I am bored.
Internal monologue: "I just finished the last bit of rice that was in the fridge with dinner, I should make some more." When I open the cubord to get the salt, because I am impatient and YES THE TWO SECONDS THAT WATER BOILS FASTER IF YOU ADD SALT REALLY DOES [not actually] MAKE A DIFFERENCE, I see my split peas. "Hmm, maybe I should make some of those with the rice. After all, they are yellow, apparently high in fiber and protein (incomplete protein though), low in cholesterol, and would make a nice contrast if I mixed them in with the rice. 3 cups of water to one cup of split peas huh? Well one cup doesn't seem like that much, I'll just make the whole bag."
Dump
Water
Boil
What I think while rice and split peas begin to boil: "Mwa-ha! I shall feast on this for probably over a week and the fruits of my labor shall not be in vain!!"

What I end up with:


Internal Monologue: "Well what in the goddamn hell am I going to do with NINETEEN CUPS [yes, I measured] of split peas and rice?"

My internal monologue, while highly persuasive, is not very spacially oriented and forgets that both rice and bean-like things e-x-p-a-n-d when cooked. Which leads me to the mentally challenged butterfly assumption, cause I make rice like, once every 5 days.

Dear itunes,
Fleetwood Mac was an excellent choice to skip to while on random. Most of the time I am clicking on the next song button looking for something to listen to that I worry you get discouraged. I just wanted you to know you are doing an excellent job.

With auditory satisfaction,
Michelle

Every now and then I wonder what would happen if I just STOPPED POSTING A DAILY UPDATE (gasp) and just went with it when I forgot my camera. Probably nothing, but there is a slim chance it would result in the end of the world, and that is not a chance I am willing to take.

So here are the two songs I've been listening to obsessively for the past three days.

Blow, by Kesha:


Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones:



They go together quite nicely I think.

Hmm... Lets see if I have a picture today...
Nope.
I don't.

So let's go back through space and time, to a simpler time, an easier time, an I'm-dressed-up-for-80's-Day-during-Homecoming-Week-in-2007 time:



Hmm.. yup. :D
Oh the pre-birthcontrol-boobs, how I miss you, you wonderfully perky B-cups you.

Fun Fact: I much preferred my very androgenous small breasted, straight hipped, square shouldered pre-puberty body to the one I have know, even though how I look know would be considered much more aesthetically pleasing by society's standards.
My dad used to tell me I was nothing but muscle and tough as nails.

Although, while I was taping a boy's wrist at Homestead High School today I did cause an examination of surprise. To tape a wrist, it is easiest for the athlete to spread their fingers out at wide as they can, and then press their fingers into your stomach to help hold it steady. I got the response (from a rather tall, heavy, teddy-bear/big spoon looking black kid), "Holy crap girl, you've got some abs in there!" He then told his buddy my abs were better than those of said buddy.
I think working at Homestead will be enjoyable. Not as much as I enjoyed working with soccer or track at Marquette, but I really like working with Molly (who also went to Marquette and is the head athletic trainer there) and I really enjoy the ability to educate the kids about how their body works.
There was a surprise soccer game today, as in Molly had been told earlier in the week it would be canceled and it was not, so she let me be Totally In Charge of the training room for about and hour and a half while she went out to the soccer field. It's really nice knowing that how I behaved for the previous hour led her to believe I was competent enough to prevent disaster. I ended up outside for the last 15 minutes of the game and to help clean up, and Molly let me drive Bert, which is one of those diesel-run golf carts with the bed on the back for putting things, such as water coolers, on and hauling them around. It was fun, he was all VROOMVROOMBRAPBRAPVROOM I HAVE NO MUFFLER VROOM.

End.