On Quirkiness

Statement: I'm quirky. And I don't hate it.

Proof:  Recently, someone called me quirky.  Not to my face.  It wasn't long before word of it made its way around to my face-- to which my face responded, "--whaaa? Oh...yeah."  In the past, I had never thought of that word when I thought of myself, but in actuality, it makes total sense.  Someone just needed to tell me.  This realization made me wonder: have I always been quirky?  Three seconds later, I knew. In those three seconds I thought about:

how, when I was seven, I peed in my wicker garbage can because my five year old sister suggested it (sorry about that, Ma!).

and how, in fourth grade I tried (with great success, I imagine) to convince my classmates I was an alien from the planet Longifra (...yep).

and how, when I was ten I ate my corn like such a maniac (i.e. not in standard "typewriter" fashion, like a normal human being) that my dad yelled at me (sidenote: my dad has probably yelled at me a grand total of FOUR times in my entire life-- this was one of those times. <--- is my awesome dad the source of my quirkiness? The man is a geyser (I'm talkin', Old Faithful) of quirk; it wouldn't surprise me).

and also how, bad puns and math puns are what I live for. And don't even get me started on bad math puns.  Seriously. Don't.

and how I love the spins. Yep, the ones you get when you drink a bit more than you should have.  They're like a roller coaster, except better-- you don't have to pay an admission fee.

and how my back-up back-up life plan is to start a towing company that exclusively tows tow trucks (I have a thing for sticking it to the man-- so sue me).

and also how, I'm an avid supporter of "-asaurus rex"-ing things (re: my about me. Also, re: many things I say on the daily).

and how I make friendship bracelets. Still. A lot.

and how I've been to pole vault camps. Three of them.

and how I'm not a fan of pillows.  I appreciate when my head is at the same sea level as my body.  I am, however, a huge fan of deltoids (yes, the muscle. And yes, this is at least the second blog post I've mentioned this in).

So, I'm a left-handed, meat-hating, deltoid-loving, female studying math. I still can't decide whether or not it's a good thing that I am finally self-aware about how much I ooze quirkiness.  It's an easy out sometimes.  Now, when I walk around in my underwear at home and my mom looks at me like I'm psychotic/yells at me, I say "what? I'm quirky."  Q.E.D.

On Exqueezing Myself

Statement: I should be censored. 

Proof: I may or may not have said exqueeze me to quite possibly the most prestigious mathematician I have ever come in human contact with. This happening coincidentally occurred in front of someone who I later found out was a reporter doing an article on said mathematician, and my friend-- who (after her jaw finally undropped) said "did you just say exqueeze me to my advisor?"

Yep. And you can quote me on that.

Q.E.D.

On Birdy

Statement:  It is physically possible for your goosebumps to have goosebumps.

Proof: Exhibit A.

In the market for permanent chills? Look no further than the 14 year old bone-chilling singer/pianist, Birdy, of the aforementioned link.  She's 14, from England, and completely breath-stealing.  Also, she's 14.  If you've spoken to me at all in the past six months, chances are you've heard this before-- well, too bad.  This little lady is something big.  Never did I ever think any cover of the Bon Iver's Skinny Love would do the incredible song any inch of justice, but I will be the first to admit I was completely wrong.  After this song gave me the chills the 153,234th (a modest guesstimate, by any means) time, I caught myself thinking it might be better than the original; and I'll stand by that wild assessment-- it might be...almost definitely.  

Need more Birdy? Of course you do.

Here you go.  And here you also go.

So, the next time your AC breaks in your car, instead of getting it fixed just play some tunes from this talented young artist and let her Siren (a la Homer, not a la NYPD)-like voice chill your soul.

Your ears can thank me later.  Q.E.D.

Statement: I'm blembarrassed (embarrassed, as a blogger).

Proof:  Totally forgot to Q.E.D. the last post.

Q.E.D.

On Maturity

Statement: Growing up is optional.

Proof:  Ever since I turned 21, birthdays are the worsthdays (okay, so I forced that rhyme a little bit-- still more respectable than rhyming kodak with kodak, Pitbull).  They serve as a yearly reminder that no matter how hard I try, I will never be a kid again-- an unfortunate and unfair truth fact.  Any time I'm even slightly sad about having to grow up I think of my brother and my tear ducts dry up quicker than bird poop on a tin roof in Tijuana.  My older brother, "Nick," is incredible.  I'd bet my left arm (note: I'm a lefty and the deltoid is my favorite muscle, so that's a huge deal) that no human being that has met him for more than 37 seconds, doesn't love him. Part of his undeniable charm is his youthful personality (and most of the rest of it is due to his dazzling wordplay and mondo-sized heart).  

One of Nick's roommates "Paul" has four younger sibs-- quadruplets to be exact, which makes him the ultimate big bro.   From what I gather, Nick and Paul spend their days trying to out-big-brother each other.  Everyday events turn into showdowns.  Last weekend, I was lucky enough to witness quite a few of these monumental battles.  My favorite of which occurred upon the dropping of a pen-- a seemingly uninteresting occurrence.

Nick and Paul look at the pen, then at each other and immediately touch their noses (last one has to pick it up). Decidedly a tie, both of their feet (one from each roomie) spring towards the pen with Usain Bolt speed and Jack (you know, the ol' candlestick jumper)-like nimbleness.  I'm sitting at the kitchen table at the edge of my seat in joyful anticipation of what will happen next in this nail-biter.  The roommates skate around the kitchen, each of their feet hoping to gain full control of the coveted bic.  I thought for sure Nick's webbed toes would prove superior, but it wasn't long before the foot battle turned into a bonafide world cup match, right there in Kitchen Stadium (not the one in Iron Chef America, but that would be a great venue for their next showdown).  I'm not entirely sure what happened next.  Before I knew it Paul had made us all delicious spinach, tomato and goat cheese omelettes-- apparently it was just another Saturday morning.