I'M BACK. Brace yourself.

Family, assorted neighbors, friends, Romans, countrymen, people lending ears, those of you who are wondering whether I'm here to bury Caesar or to praise him:

...hi.

The following is an update on the lack of updates, of sorts. It will be as poorly-worded and confusing as that last sentence, and inasmuch as I have every doubt that anything of consequence will be spoken, I have equal amounts of confidence that it will likely contain as much awkwardness as the opener.
More simply put, get out while you can.

I suppose this post could serve as a form of apology for the fact that I failed to bless any one of your existences with Lydia's monthly snarkletter, so to speak. Not that I owe you guys anything; heck, in the timelessly inspirational words of Lesley Gore: "It's my [blog], and I'll [write] if I want to." 
But in more deep and sentimentally meaningful terms (here it comes), I'm probably going to talk about a whole bunch of crud about why I haven't been feeling like writing and why this lackage of postage has occurred.
Not that I owe it to you at all.
But maybe I do owe you an explanation.

FIRSTLY, as most of you know, I was in South Africa for the semester. (WHAT!?) If you didn't, well, I probably don't know you, and better you find out now than before, when the information could have served toward stalking me more effectively. I mostly just chilled and did school, although I did several things that made me feel very nauseous, including, but not limited to, jumping off a very tall bridge attached to a stretchy rope against my parents teary-eyed wishes, obtaining a nose piercing through a fairly unorthodox methodology (yes, my nose. Yes, I AM cool. How dare you assume otherwise), riding a poorly ventilated ferry to visit Nelson Mandela's jail cell, climbing one of the "new 7 wonders of the natural world" (by my count there are now 21 wonders...I have my doubts on the new levels of inclusiveness this club is now displaying), a.k.a., Cape Town's Table Mountain (the nausea part of this was instilled by the sandwiches I ate beforehand, which is why I no longer believe in mayonnaise), AND, of COURSE, with marine biologist hopes in full rapture and fullness—full fullness? Nevermind—searching for the terror of the ocean, a.k.a., not exactly so terrifying, a.k.a., actually kind of adorable, a.k.a., just with largeness and scary teeth, a.k.a., the great white shark. Which I saw, in all its not-so-gory glory and misjudged majesty, swimming through my barf as it sank to the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.
I'm sure the presumable hundred dollars I spent on soft serve vanilla ice cream throughout the trip contributed to the questionable digestive state. Although, seeing as the entirety of the latter half of the trip was taken in a bus that smelled like moth balls, all of Africa could have made me nauseous and I would never have known the difference!

Can you smell the bitterness? It smells like napthalene. And vomit.

Okay, facts: I'm bitter because every time I've driven anywhere since I've gotten back, I've gotten motion sickness like I haven't had since the fourth grade. I'm bitter because I'm enduring reverse culture shock in all its forthright ugliness. I'm bitter because the STUPID housing office put me a hundred thousand miles from the science building, which is where I'm actually going to be living next semester (actually it is exactly one mile; pardon my gross exaggeration, but walking that twice a day is still TOO MUCH) #biologymajorproblems #geneticsfordayzanddayz #stereotypemenow. I'm bitter because the vast majority of everyone I care about lives at least an hour away, if not fourteen days away (although by now we know my guessing skills are a little off), and I hate driving because yesterday on my way home from someone's house the world decided to swallow up every on ramp ever created and I had to call my dad crying because I didn't want to sleep in the parking lot of Walmart. And FINALLY, I am bitter upon bitter because for some reason, whether it be genuine gentility, thoughtful interest in my goings on, or morbid, torturous tendencies, everyone keeps wanting me to talk to them about how the freaking trip went.

Here's my preface question: what if it sucked? What if I came back from "my big adventure" and people ran up to you asking things like, "WOW, HOW WAS IT? WAS IT FUN!? I AM SO IRRATIONALLY EXCITED FOR YOU TO TELL ME ABOUT IT ALL," and you said, "I wish I had been in a coma for the entire time I was there." What would people say? Would they label you as ungrateful? Probably. Would they doubt your sincerity? It's highly possible. Would they wrinkle their noses and stalk off in disgust? That would be picturesque. What also is picturesque is that I made that exact face as I wrote that sentence...and now I'm laughing. HA. I am so funny.
You would be so judged. No one would ever want you to go anywhere again. They'd just say, "Wow, I hope you never go to Australia, because I love Australia, and I don't want it to smell like your throw-up."

That isn't how I feel at all. I just wanted to make that point.

Usually my answer is along the lines of this this:
"South Africa is beautiful. The countryside is unreal and the culture is cool and blended and exciting and the history is fascinating and the people are awesome. The boats made me lose everything I had eaten beforehand, but that's okay. I'm happy to be home but I'm happy I went."

This is more ore less true, but it feels like a lie every time I say it. Usually I just end up saying it was really cool, because ultimately, that's what they all want to hear.

Now I'm going to pretend you actually are interested in why I don't like talking about it. And I'm going to talk about it.
It's in thirds, if that makes it easier to follow.

There is a third of it that is rapturous and joyful. We had a freaking WATERFALL on our campus. It was sunny every day and then ten seconds later it would thunder and lightning like the apocalypse was upon us. There was a game reserve full of zebra and antelope a literal minute and a half down the road, that we could chill in for free, whenever. We learned Zulu. We ate delicious bread. My friend met a lady who named her baby after him. Most of us got to work at awesome non profit organizations for three weeks, and most of us shed many tears when we left them. And then we moved, and on the way to the new place we got to pet cheetahs, and when we got there we lived five minutes away from the beach. We saw penguins. PENGUINS. There are penguins in Africa. And then, to top off the already insane cupcake with cray cray frosting, one of the most widely influential leaders in the past century (as a general rule, your opinion on him is not welcome on this post and you may debate his life choices on a less classy piece of the internet, thank you), who was from South Africa, died while I was IN South Africa. I literally lived history. All of that doesn't fit in an easy answer, and to describe it doesn't do nearly as much as it did to see it firsthand.

Then there was a second third of it that was honestly really, really rough, and moderately difficult to talk about. The last time I bailed on America (that's a way better way to say you left the country), I was sixteen, and I did not get homesick one bit. Granted, at that point in time, I was in high school, and I hated high school's guts. Now, I am in college, and it is probably one of my favorite things. Also, another one of my favorite things is my boyfriend, and guess where he was not? Africa.
For the sake of fairly accurate disclosure, this time around, I felt lonely and useless and gross, for a good majority of the period, and part of the reason I'm not talking about it as much as is expected is that I'm trying to recover from the blows that my emotional constitution took while I was travelling and "adventuring."
NOT TO MAKE ANYONE DEPRESSED, JUST TRYING TO BE REAL.

The last third of it all is this: it seems like everyone and their relative comes back from their study abroad experience raving. Absolutely raving. Potentially raving mad; that's always a possibility. 
America, I presume, went on just as it normally did. Except apparently the government didn't...awk. But that aside, it was just normal life, ¿verdad? It was another semester at school or months at work or however long just doin' your thang. And that's part of why it's hard to answer the question of "how was Africa": because people expect that the entire time you're there you're breathing in magical adventure dust and frolicking with monkeys. Firstly, monkeys are gross. I would never frolic with a monkey. They eat garbage and poop garbage and throw pooped-out garbage. Actually that might be a stereotype. But nonetheless...no. None of that. The trip was far more mundane than people realize. We had problems with the wifi and toilets that didn't flush and breakfasts whose origins we questioned. We took taxis and avoided being robbed more often than usual and got takeout four times in one week, but would you consider that a thrill ride? Most people would not.
Then again, most people have not tried Nihao Kitchen's fried rice.
Shoot. Dang.
But for some reason, the whole freaking world has this expectation that studying abroad is living in pure exhilaration every minute of the day, like we pulled a Dorothy and went from black and white Kansas to technicolor Oz, and we were all just running around yelling about how cool it was, all the time. I don't know. I've never done drugs, but I did see Across the Universe, which is almost the same, and when people describe study abroad to me, sometimes it kind of sounds like they maybe just sat around and tripped for three months.

On that note...that's it.
I have spent a lot of time feeling like I was failing everyone by leaving the country and not being stoked for every second of it, and I'm really over it. If you ask me, "How is Africa?" or you have asked me this in the past, and I stared at you kind of awkwardly and stuttered a lot and said something really vague, I promise it's nothing personal. I'm just trying to hold back the verbal emesis (emesis = vomit, because I needed another word for it, because apparently I've talked about it five times in this post) that has partially made its way into this downer of a webpage. It will come. Eventually. Right now it's just sitting inside me like a giant onion that's making me cry and causing blockage of feelings and can only be removed by peeling it away a little bit at a time.
Soon it will be better. And I will write more eloquently and beautifully, and we will all be happy, and we will all dance around joyfully in the radiance and ecstasy that life as we know it should be.

...is it just me, or did that last sentence sound like studying abroad?

Bye!

Thanks for being you. (Round 1?)

This idea has been bubbling in my mind for a couple of days and it’s probably the first productive thing I’ve done, ever, other than folding laundry. (SpellCheck epiphany: I didn’t realize basketful was a measurement…how interesting. SpellCheck, however, does not register with Spell Check. Once again, I am thoroughly amazed.) Finally, after a whole lot of lazy, I couldn’t take it anymore. I am a writer, and sometimes, a writer’s just gotta vomit up some words of wisdom. Or just some words.

Without further ado, my words and barf.

Not gonna lie, I tried to spell that further adieu.

I just want you all to know, firstly and foremostly, that I am completely and totally stealing this idea from Sarah, whose lovely blog about her life (and past experiences in the Tenderloin of San Francisco) can be seen here. The reason that I don’t feel bad about this is that if you look back on what smart people have said over the years, really no idea is original. “There is nothing new under the sun.” So this is my twist on that. Really, none of this blog is original, as many of you who are familiar with Dave Barry probably know. (Dave Barry makes fun of things professionally, in a very smart way, and there is a chance that some individuals could consider some things that I have written in the past plagiarism of his style, but we’re going to call it flattery, because that sounds a lot nicer.) However, I do want to give Sarah credit for this, and for those who understand and are interested, hers is way better. It's like I took it and ruined it. So just…yeah no one worry about it.

On another level of introduction, this type of enthusiastic encouragement posting may end up being a thing. It won’t be scheduled. It won’t be formatted. It won’t always be enthralling, as hard as that is to believe. But if it does continue, then, well, what the heck.

Seriously, though, it may only happen once.

No one get excited.

What the crud, Lydia!? WHAT DOES ALL THIS MEAN.

This post is going to be vaguely similar to a letter of appreciation (of sorts) that I am writing publicly for a few very good reasons:

1. Because writing this all as a Facebook post would be too awkwardly long.

2. Because writing this all as a text would give me carpal tunnel. Carpal tenal? Carpal…tunal. UGH.

3. Because writing this all as a message or email or letter is just too dang personal and I want everyone to hear it. And I don’t know her address.

4. Because the person in consideration is fly as pie and people should know about her.

5. Because it’s not really even in letter format and is really just going to be like an announcement of awesome.

ANYWAY.

This introduction will probably be longer than the actual post. What is my freaking problem.

for Jenessa.(pic stolen from her Facebook, for reasons involving my lack of photographic skills and this sweet moose.)

So I have this friend named Jenessa, and as mentioned before, she is pretty fly. I met her in an emergency small group my freshman year of college, emergency meaning I was added to it at the tail end of things to increase its legitimacy, and small meaning there were four of us until one moved back to Arkansas. Which is too bad, because she was really cool and I liked bragging about knowing her, but I guess she looks happy enough in her pictures. Jenessa is a biology major, as am I, which is funny, because until my second small group meaning (she wasn’t there the first time), I had never seen her. Ever. She also commutes and never had any classes with me, so that added to her mysterious aura. Sometime during the first semester of last year, we realized that we were going to have Organic Chemistry and Cell Biology together the semester afterward, and it was a loud and joyous occasion. The semester itself was not as loud or joyous, but does that really matter?

No.

My baby little brother just threw a tater tot at me and now I have friend potato all on my shirt. What the crud. Also I just spelled that as friend potato and am so amused that I’m going to leave it.

One thing I have always appreciated about Jenessa is that she is the undercover bio major. This has in part to do with how sneaky she is. Also, she is sort of short, so the tall people may not always see her. This is a lot of fun, because she is quite good at school. There was a point last year when I asked her how she did on some test or something, and she told me, and it wasn’t surprise as much as the happy realization of, “Hey. Jenessa can get A’s. A’s are good things.* Jenessa is a good thing. This is almost too much of a good thing but I think we’re going to be alright.” This really never impacted our friendship, but I just thought it was interesting.

She also happens to be intelligent.* And it’s because I know that Jenessa puts thought into her decisions and opinions that she is so easy to respect. It’s nice to be able to talk to her about things that I haven’t really thought through and only speculate on, because when I am wrong, it’s easy to understand why, and whenever she agrees with me, I feel so validated I can’t even stand it. So conversationally, she’s pretty much the best, for several reasons, the most important of those reasons being that we both are usually upset about the same things at the exact same time, and when we meet with our small group leader, we just rant about these things for hours, and our leader just kind of laughs at us.

*This isn’t necessary to the story, but I wanted to draw attention to the fact that Jenessa getting good grades and Jenessa being intelligent are separate categories. There are a lot of idiots who do very well in school and a lot of brilliant individuals who failed out of college. Furthermore, too much of the environment that the she and I are in so often (namely, a major that really only has value when tacked onto the end of a graduate degree) place a whole heaping pile of stress onto the grades you get and the academic valor you have. (Is academic valor a phrase? It so should be.) There really is no personal value attached to your grades. It is important to work hard and be dedicated to what you pursue, but if you happen to fail a class, that’s really not something that takes away from your identity. :) I know that I say that a lot, but I meet a lot of people who need to hear it, as well as happen to be one of them.

This last paragraph is really just to sum everything up and say that she is just pretty dang loyal. A lot of people consider that being mean to the same people, which is not actulaly what that means. Jenessa is loyal because the first time we went to coffee I was horribly awkward and had to pee like six times, but we still hung out after that. She listens to me for all the obscene amount of time it takes for me to get over my problems, and she lets me eat all the candy in her house, and she tries to get her cat to like me (even though it is just a very aloof cat), and she sends me pictures of cacti, and she studies with me even though all I do is talk, and she visits me in the research cave. She is just a good friend. And it’s not just me. Literally, right now, you could go on her profile and there is ANOTHER person talking about how kind and supportive she is. Right under the picture of the cookie dough. LOOK. Okay, don’t. Don’t be a creep. But REALLY. She is a gem.

Naturally, the least I could do would be to write a thousand word essay on how cool she is.

Nessa, they don't make friends like you. Like they couldn't if they tried. Like if they had a friend factory with all the good stuff piled up and they picked through it to find the best of the best of all of the niceness, they wouldn’t get you. They would get some weird teddy bear person who just sits and spews out compliments and hugs everyone, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but you're still way better, probably because you’re really funny when you aren't being as nice as you almost always are and because any of us who have been on Splash Mountain know that talking teddy bears aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. And either way, thanks to our various shared experiences, you will always remind me of pandas, and they're way better than really anything.

Well, that’s...that. This may never happen again, this may happen again many times; I have a lot of cool friends, but before this continues I obviously will need to learn how to condense my ideas on them. Obviously all of them deserve to be appreciated in every way possible.

In the meantime, have a great Sunday, and if anyone needs to borrow any eggs, they really should come to our house, because my mom bought seventy-two this week.

Fin.

Here we go a-vacationing.

Guess where I am.

...
...
...
...

If you guessed North Carolina, you are SO right! If you didn't...well, better luck next time.

IF THERE IS A NEXT TIME.

Okay. I...am here with my grandma, who is on her computer playing a game...oh, nope! She's checking my blog. Awkward. HI GRANDMA. My granddad is also here, somewhere, I think watching the news, but I never know where he is. Like a fox. Not like people usually keep tabs on foxes, but...the stigma. You get it.

The vacation saga is the topic of the post (I mean duh, the title), and I hope that after reading it you don't have negative impressions of my ability to travel or of my family in general. Not that you shouldn't; less than five minutes after we arrived, there was already a blood stain on the refrigerator.

The saga begins on Thursday evening, when I was finishing packing. Thankfully, I have recently obtained a clipboard (!!!), so I was at least motivated as to the list-making. The rest of it didn't flow so well. This is why, at 9:00 at night, I got a text from my friend Matt who is off at camp saying, "Hey! I have a few minutes and we should talk!" and I Skyped him for 45 minutes while I folded two shirts, which is...something.
By the way, if your name is Jeremiah, and I told you I was unavailable to Skype on Thursday, I apologize sincerely, because when you asked, I really thought I wouldn't have any free time that day. I technically didn't, but I did anyway. That didn't make sense. Soon.
Anyway. I went to bed at 11:30 and still wasn't done packing. I tried to wake up at 3:00, and woke up at 4:00. The entirety of the process was far from ideal.

We arrived after a day of flying that honestly did not have to be that long, but it was, because after waking up at 4:00 and flying to Atlanta (where it is tradition to spend obscene amounts of moneys at Popeye's), our flight was delayed from 4:05 to 4:45, to 5:00, to 5:30, to 6:00, to 6:30, to 6:45, to 7:00 (after which point they at least gave us food vouchers), to 7:30, to 8:00, which I think is when we actually left, but I don't remember anymore. I just remember feeling sick and not hungry, but also like I should have been hungry, which is pretty much the worst. And I really wanted a brownie, and I walked all over the flippin' concourse to find one, and it wasn't even that good. Anyway. We got to the final airport after 9:00, I think, after which it took just way too much time (but not too much money, apparently) to rent a car exactly like the one we have at home, and then drive to Grandma and Grandpa's.

On the way there, we played Make it or Break it. You may not know what this is. In short, it is a game where you suggest the presence of a slightly abnormal quality in a potential partner, and the rest of the car decides whether it would be possible for them to overlook it, or whether that would be a "deal breaker." (Get it? Make it or BREAK it? As in break up? Okay.) It's supposed to give you insight into everyone's character, but all I learned is nothing important about Dad and Mom (hello, they're already married), Big Little Brother has high standards, and Baby Little Brother wants to marry a vampire who can talk to dolphins and has glowing red eyes, because "you wouldn't have to buy reflectors for your bike."

The moment we arrived, some toads greeted us, and after that, our beloved grandparents greeted us, and after that, some potato salad and turkey greeted us, only to be devoured, so that was too bad for it.

Consequently, we collapsed.

I woke up Saturday morning and ate a FAT breakfast, which in reality was a fairly normal sized breakfast, it just seemed big. And DELICIOUS. Then we wandered for a bit. Then we ate a fat lunch with this glorious barbecue and hush puppies (deep friend corn bread, for the foreigners), and then we wandered some more, and I read, and then we ate a fat dinner. I just want you all to know that when I say fat, it is so totally the greatest compliment I could ever give a meal, and you need not worry yourselves that I'm judging anyone's eating habits; I just...like...food.

On Sunday we went to church and did all of the above. 

Today I woke up at 11:30.

That really is the extent of the experience. For the sake of interesting details, and because I probably should stop talking about what I ate. I'll just talk about North Carolina for a bit.

First of all, the mosquitoes here are always feeding, and they're as big as a doorknob with a syringe attached to the end, with which they stab you and suck your blood, which they eventually spray everywhere when your grandma swats them for getting into the house. So far I only have one bite, which I take to mean as having undesirable blood. This is too bad, because I was really hoping to lure in a creepy vampire boyfriend in an internal war with himself over wanting to murder and marry me at the same time, but I guess I'll get over it.

There are frogs/toads of various sizes hopping about everywhere, especially in the funky little ravine by the house. This poses a problem, as mosquitoes also like ravines, but sometimes, we decide it's worth it. We found some cute lil' baby frogs/toads, but one died while I was holding it, and I may not catch anything else for the rest of the vacation or my life.

There are also fire ants, which are hard to explain until they're crawling up your leg, but then you really will get it.

Basically, there are open spaces and clean air and the only gray in the sky is thunderclouds. There is peace and quiet and two cars drive past every hour, and the only sound outside are birds and crickets and cicadas (crickets on steroids) and my dad getting back to his roots on Granddad's tractor. All we do is wander and come back in and eat and nap and wander some more and read books and go to church on Sunday, and I swear we haven't laughed this much in months. We might even go to the beach this week.
The Atlantic beach. Of the Atlantic Ocean.

That being said, if I don't come home, don't cry for me.


fin.

Morning ramblings.

Good morning, family.

I currently am seated beneath the shade of a majestic gingko tree, at 7:32 in the morning, when there is no need for shade because it’s the only reasonably temperatured time of the day in this desert, rejoicing in the fact that the school’s wifi has finally recognized that the security they gave me to download is compatible with their policies.

For the sake of literary development, I’ll be supplying your dialogue.

“Lydia, why are you at school? It’s the summer. Get a freaking life already.”

Well, that’s an excellent question, young ones. It turns out, that when one is in possession of a carpool with one’s timely and overachieving mother, one is denied all privileges of waking up and growling at such things that would involve a higher level of function, like walking or opening one’s eyes. I, however, woke up today at 6:00, packed a lunch, dressed myself appropriately, brushed my teeth, spoke incoherent words to my dog, who just gazed at me mournfully, as per the usual, and created tea, and I performed all these tasks sans growling.

You may be interested to know that as it turns out, Irish Breakfast Tea is a bunch of nasty crap in a bag that, when soaked in boiling water for an extended period of time, makes nasty crap water. As would be expected. Based on my observation, however, in which I was the unlucky test subject, I’m starting to wonder if there may also be drugs in the tea bag with the crap, and judging by the looks I got when I left the car to go to work today, my conclusions are not inconceivable. Hence, I was all wound up today, with no room to move, because seatbelts are safe and blahblahblah, and now this is happening.

Moving on to the question that I asked myself earlier, I am at school because I have a job there. So…ha. Also, yes. My mom does work at my school. Don’t laugh; she’s just a needy person, and we all can be like that sometimes.

“Okay, Lydia, that’s nice. I’m so happy for your achievement. What is your job?”

HA. What is my job. You silly little mouse people.

Actually, I don’t know why that was an insulting question. I do research on termite behavior.

“Termites? Really?”

That was an insulting question. Yes. Termites. They’re…adorable…

“So…does this mean you want to be an entymologist?”

Nope!

“Well…gosh Lydia, then what do you want to do?”

How about you’re not allowed to ask me that question, and when I get worked up enough about it, I’ll write a blog post about it. Okay?

“Well, why don’t you introduce another topic you can ramble about?”

Here’s a thought I had this morning: I’m studying abroad next semester in South Africa, and everytime I tell anyone that, the people my age all say, “That’s so sick! I’m so jealous! AHHHHHH *faint*” but all those who are old and gray or my parents seem to be highly disappointed in my decision. “Lydia, you know that’s not safe,” is the big winner in phrase bingo. And I say, “Okay, Mr. African Travel Expert, do you know the crime rate? Do you know the distribution of violence in the cities? Do you know where I’m staying? Because here’s what I know…” and then I spout off all of the stuff the program told me to say around nervous people. None of them seem convinced. At all.

And yeah, I’m sure South Africa isn’t the safest country on the globe, and I know that there’s a whole butt ton of precautions I’m probably supposed to take in order to be completely safe, but yesterday I received an email from the campus safety office, here, in America, where I go to school and live every day, that someone was stabbed

STABBED

not on campus, but nearby

STABBED

but apparently is okay, but

HE WAS STABBED.

What kills me (ooh, bad pun) is that at the end of the email, it said “Suspect description was unavailable because the victim was incoherent at the time.”

WELL YEAH, HE HAD JUST BEEN STABBED.

I’m discussing this with Chris right now, and his thoughts on the subject are, “Well this is an interesting place, that’s for sure.”

And now we’re discussing Lil’ Wayne, and Breaking Bad, and apparently, “…even though I’m a biology major, I would like it.”

?

The essence of this post is threefold: first and foremost, I wanted to warn you about cruddy tea and a local stabbing. Secondly, I needed something constructive to do while I ate my breakfast. Thirdly, and most importantly, I read a blog post (someone else’s, although yes, I do read my own blog) about how good writers utilize good verbs more than they employ good adjectives, and I desired for my writing to be improved upon.

That’s all. I have to go communicate with real people now/go to work/walk across the atrium to the lab and wonder why I don’t have any experiments to do.

“Bye!”

Bye!

"You hang up first!"

No, you!

“Are you confused yet?”

Me too!

…

fin.

BECAUSE I'M NEEDY.

I told someone yesterday that I haven't posted in a while because I haven't been in a funny-writing mood.
I wasn't lying. I just haven't had any good ideas.
I guess we're back in business.

One nice thing about living at home for the summer is all the extra time you get to spend with your family. But before you say, "AWWWW WHAT A GOOD DAUGHTER," ask me what the bad thing about living at home for the summer is.
Exactly.
It's also been dumb because my car decided to go all depressed on me, and it's always whining and it won't tell me how much gas is in it, and I don't know, I feel like that's pretty important? So she's grounded, which puts me at the mercy of my parents' cars' schedules and ends up making me feel like I'm grounded, but I guess there's nothing we can do. So Cam and Coco and Tim have driven me a lot of places. Incidentally, I happen to owe all of them money for pizza.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Last night, it had been two days since I saw my mom (TWO WHOLE DAYS) which isn't long (IT'S LONG) compared to how long I was in school last semester (IT'S REALLY...wait, what?), but still, when you live at home, with big little brother and baby little brother and father and lunatic dog and a copious supply of football laundry and NBA 2K13 blaring on your TV speakers until two o'clock in the frigging morning, your mother becomes something of a novelty. And when you want to tell her things, it becomes an ordeal. At least at my house. It's mastering the art of shouting without people hearing you, really. This can become draining, and when I don't feel like spending time with anyone and just lie on your bed for hours, I've decided that's okay, which is why I napped for half of May.

But sometimes you really do want to talk to her, and what sucks about that is that moms, contrary to popular belief, would rather organize filing cabinets than ask you about your weekend. This has been proven by none other than yours truly and the garbage bag of desk-crud that I threw away last night.
Of course, it probably bothers you to hear this, especially if you are a mom and think that I'm a prissy little brat for posting this. Or if you're my mom, and you know I'm a prissy little brat for posting this. So let me clarify: this is not a bad thing. Sometimes, moms just have things that they need to get done, and they forget that they have children. If you had to clean and cook and work all the time, you'd forget your own name. Moms have it hard, and if you're not the kid who needs to be registered for NCAA football scouting, you're going to be the kid that gets forgotten.

So if you've ever had this conversation...

"Oh boy, I was so busy today, but I got a free lunch, and - can you throw this away for me? - your brother is having his birthday party soon, and I'm cleaning the house, and everyone loves me, because I'm great, and you're so cute and I love my pajamas!"

"UGH, MOM, LISTEN TO MY ANGST."

...then I have good news! You don't have to live your life being forgotten! As I've been learning throughout my college years (all two of them), there are two sides to every relationship (unless you're a triplet), and sometimes, your side of the relationship may need to speak up. Or resort to trickery and manipulation. Both have worked. And I am the grand master of convincing my mom that I'm cooler than her super cool manila folders.
The bad news is that the last dosage of caffeine I had was a Chai Tea Latte from Panera, which I finished by 7:45, and it is now almost six hours later, and the computer screen keeps going blurry and my head feels like it's full of tar. So this might not actually be helpful...at all.

Some safe ways to get your mother's attention.
by Lydia

1. Stare at her.
This works on most people, so why not your mom? It'll probably make her feel super uncomfortable, plus, if she does have eyes in the back of her head, which everyone says she does (by the way, if you say that, and you think you sound funny, you actually don't...sorry), she'll notice right away and get super uncomfortable. Since you're her child, she can ask you, "Sweetie, why are you being a creep?" instead of deftly avoiding someone who actually was a creep. Or maybe you are a creep, but your mom loves you anyway. In that case, proceed to step two.

2. Sit close to her, but don't talk.
This seems counter intuitive, because normally, if you want someone's attention, you yell or make yourself slightly more boisterous. But moms are different, especially when they're in the filing zone, so if you're being loud about something that doesn't involve personal injury or death, she'll probably ignore you. Being quiet might not get her to ask questions (and it might still be pretty creepy), but at least she'll know that you're full of intriguing mystery.

3. Follow her.
This works best if she's just wandering around the house through different rooms. If she's driving, it starts to become a little needy.

4. Send her a lot of ambiguous texts.
"Hi Mom."
"Hi sweetie. What's up?" 
"..."

(My mom refers to people as "Sweetie" a lot. Except my guy friends, who for some reason are all "goobers.")

5. Lay on her bed.
In some cases, this can be difficult, despite the fact that laying on beds was recently voted America's favorite pastime. The key to getting this tactic right is remembering that you are not her companion; you are an impediment. My mom and dad have a California king sized bed, which is what wild elephants hide behind during hunts on the Serengeti (lol jk elephants don't hunt), so if I'm going to get in the way, it involves spreading myself out like a flying squirrel just so I can cover the mattress. It doesn't actually work, because your mom will probably just wander around her room in her pajamas talking about her day. "La la la la, look at me, I'm an adorable mom. I filed today."

6. Play hard to get.
Eventually she'll figure it out, and when that happens, you have to remain silent, just to make her feel bad. Feel free to intermittently scowl.

7. Look sad.
Apparently yanking on the compassion strings works too. Actually, the heartstrings. You tug the heartstrings and get compassion. Whatever. Words. Just fake some emotion to draw her in, and she'll become all nervous and worried. You may find yourself hearing those kind, comforting words:
Normal (British) mom: "Beloved child, is something the matter?"
Or, sometimes, these words:
My mom: "What's wrong, sweetie?! Look at your forehead! Why are there frownies?"

8. Write a passive aggressive blog post.
This should be self-explanatory.

Eight is kind of a weird number when it comes to pointage, but...eh. Basically, if your mom ignores you, stalk her.
Many thanks to the readers and to Josh for giving me coffee before I started drooling on the keyboard.

fin.

Ish my baby brother writes.

A yearish ago, I posted a long list of some of the ridiculous things my baby brother said over the course of the summer. I could do that with really anyone, but the reason I decided to immortalize what he said is because even when he makes absolutely zero sense, you can still see how brilliant and special he is. As great as that seems, this is actually a tragedy, because he is in middle school, where talent and ability and a person's value and human decency and even basic mammalian instincts are all flushed down the toilet during snack time, and if the class is still alive by the end of lunch, the teachers are doing a solid job.

A few days ago, Baby Brother went to a nearby elementary school, where he hung out with a first grader (named Isaiah, for reference) for a short while and was assigned the task of writing a story about the small child, which is a pretty sick idea, honestly. For some reason, he had to get up super early this morning to do it, which, for most of us, tends to be a significant impediment to our writing ability, but for him, was apparently not even an issue, even on his day off. I found it lying on the stool this morning and it might be the best thing I've read all summer, and I just finished The Great Gatsby, so...yeah.

So I gave him some generic compliment: "That story was so good! I loved it!"
And he said, "Yeah, it's pretty amazing."

J

For the good of all mankind and for the sake of quality entertainment, he let me blog it, even though he hasn't turned it in yet.
This is, in essence, the equivalent of getting an unpublished manuscript of Harry Potter for Christmas.
What's more, this is all him, not my mom doing it for him, not me rephrasing his sentences, just his beautiful, unadulterated rough draft (after I fixed one itty bitty baby spelling error), straight from his unappreciated yet undoubtedly gifted eighth grade soul.

I should probably stop writing before I start leaking overprotective sisterly bitterness. I've already had to delete three paragraphs.
Thanks for reading, and happy Memorial Day.

--

            In the year 2482, on the planet Earth, there was a boy named Isaiah. This boy had magnificent talents. He had the strength of ten men, he was also extremely smart, and he was very handsome. He was a full package. But recently aliens had come to earth and started taking over the world. Isaiah did not like aliens. He wanted to shoot and punch them in their faces, but these weren’t normal aliens.

These aliens had a disgusting power we call hard-wiring. Hard wiring is when an alien turns a human into an alien. Isaiah had to do something! When Isaiah was younger, his parents were taken from him by Lord Hiss, undisputed ruler of the aliens. Isaiah despised Lord Hiss. He wanted to shoot and punch him in the face.

Isaiah’s best friend was named Jack. Jack was very cool. Isaiah and Jack had been friends for a long time. Isaiah had been trying very hard to find out about Lord Hiss’s location, which is where we pick up our two courageous figures and our repetitive narrator.

Jack finally says something, “How long have we been on this road, Isaiah?”

“A long, stinking time!” said Isaiah.

“Good to know.”

Suddenly Isaiah and Jack came upon a weary traveler. Isaiah asked him his name, “What is your name, most elderly one?”

“Tooth,” he said.

Isaiah and Jack looked at each other. “Tooth?!”

“Yes, Tooth,” the man replied.

“Why are you sitting on the side of the road?” Isaiah inquired of the old man.

“I was waiting for Lord Hiss to come down on his daily route to get coffee, and when he was sucking on a hot cup of java, WHAM! We’ve nabbed our dictator. But, he bought a coffee machine, so now I’m just a lonely man on the street.”

Jack finally asked, “Where does Lord Hiss live?”

The old man answered, “Right up the hill—in that big, scary tower.”

“Thank you,” both of them say, and they went on their merry way, singing, “Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala.”

After days of painstaking walking in dirt and gravel, they were finally halfway there. After more days, they were there.

To be continued….

Immediately.

Three days Isaiah and Jack were looking for a way into the heavily guarded tower. Jack finally lost hope, and he fell. As he was falling, he hit the doorbell on the front door, and passage was granted to them.

“That was easy.”

Then, instantaneously, Jack was captured by the evil alien goons!

Jack raised his fist to fight off the aliens, but there were too many. Isaiah’s friend is being hard wired! Noooooooooo!

Isaiah had to avenge Jack. Lord Hiss was about to open up a can of pain. With anger covering all his thoughts and tears covering both his eyes, Isaiah ran down the hall, toppling over aliens—up the hall, left and right, down the stairs. Isaiah ran as fast as he could, and finally came to Lord Hiss’s lair.

A dark, rattley voice said, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Isaiah drew his neutrino blaster and dropped it on the ground.  Lord Hiss drew his various weapons and dropped them on the ground. What would happen?! What terrible accident would come of this?

Isaiah was red with fury, as if fate brought him to this very moment. Isaiah could hear the bells “ding ding.”  Isaiah and Lord Hiss approached each other.

Isaiah was the first one to land a punch, and then a kick. But Lord Hiss came back with a disgusting green tentacle and slapped him across the face.

Isaiah was infuriated, and Lord Hiss never saw that tentacle again, because Isaiah tied it behind his back.

Oooh, that made Lord Hiss mad! He wound up and punched Isaiah up the chin. Nooo! Now Isaiah and Lord Hiss were just trading punches, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left!

But finally, Isaiah dodged one of the lefts, and with a thundering uppercut, he made contact and put to rest the evil fiend. From his disgusting orange pocket, Isaiah pulled out the key to release all the prisoners.

His parents were overjoyed. They came running out to hug their hero, their son. They always knew Isaiah was special.

In the other cell was Madison. Madison dashed out of her captivity and hugged Isaiah. (This may or may not be the Madison in your classroom.)

Suddenly, all the aliens turned to humans! Isaiah realized that since he defeated Lord Hiss, all the hard-wired aliens returned to their original state. Isaiah was ecstatic to see Jack running down the hall, up the stairs, and into the bro hug of Isaiah.

Jack and Isaiah got serious. Isaiah may have freed everybody, saved his best friend’s life, his parents, and his gal-pal, but there still was a war criminal on the ground, retching, because his plan had failed.

Isaiah and Jack picked him up and shook him around a little bit, while Madison called the police. They loaded him into the paddy-wagon. As he was being escorted away in the vehicle, Lord Hiss let out a billowing, “You shall pay for this, Isaiah!”

“Check, please!” said Isaiah.

Everybody laughed, and that is where we end our story.

Tune in next time for my final draft.

fin.

Because dinner isn't ready yet.

(You should know: I wrote the title last of all, and immediately after finishing it, dinner was ready.)

So my dad just told me, “I’m glad you’ve gotten to cleaning your room finally,” or something along those lines, which is really too bad for him, because I’m about to write about it instead of actually doing it. OOPS.

Seriously, though, maybe I should just write a blog about housecleaning, because I always end up amusing myself so thoroughly in the process. Of course, then I would never actually clean my house, and then I would have no credibility.

Then again, what’s new?

Many of you are probably thinking (by now you should know this is just a word device that allows me to Segway* into new topics, so don’t feel bad if you weren’t actually thinking it), “Hey, Lydia, why does your dad care if your room is clean or not? Aren’t you at college?” and to that I must respond and say that I moved back exactly one week ago (a.k.a., THE SEMESTER IS OVER HAPPY TEARS), so now I live on my dad’s property once again, and its upkeep is once again a part of my responsibility.

This brings up an important question: Why do they call it “REAL” estate? Why is the REAL important? Do some people sell fake estate? I’m sure they do. Is it to differentiate from home sales on the black market? If someone could fill me in, that’d be great.

From my extensive experience, moving back from college usually involves finding everything you own that could function as a storage container (grocery bags, tissue boxes, large shoes) and throwing things into those things, and then throwing those things into your car, and then calling your dad because your car is making a funny sound, and then him saying, “It should be fine; just come home anyway and then never drive it again,” and then driving nervously home on a congested freeway full of reckless drunkards. Ha ha! This is a joke. Sort of.

The kicker is when you get home and you have to move all of your stuff from your car to the inside of your house. This can take up to a few months. Eventually, it’s in, and after some parental prompting, it finds its way up the stairs into your room. This can take up to a few years. By some miracle, we managed to do it in a week, which is saying something, because we haven’t finished unpacking from when we moved here. Four years ago. Anyway, my room is full of boxes that I’m not going to unpack until I actually need what’s in them, which I didn't think mattered, because my room has always been something of a storage unit for boxes. From our move. Four years ago. Really, the only difference in my room between pre-Lydia and post-Lydia was that I had unpacked my duffel bag, so there was a whole mess of clothes laying on the floor and the chair, but there have been clothes on the chair for the whole semester and probably since the beginning of history. All in all, I didn’t think it looked that different, but apparently it’s a disgrace. So when I was asked for the fourth time this week to clean it, I finally caved. And by that, I mean I repacked my duffel bag.

After that, my mom came in with some giant blankets and asked me to store them in my closet.

It never fails. 

Fortunately, they have yet to find the dishes next to my bed from…uh…Tuesday? No. Maybe Monday. Yes, definitely Monday. Ew. One second.

(If I had sponsors, they would give a message here.)

All better. I’m pretty sure those were from both Monday and Tuesday, because I did not have ice cream twice in one day. Although comparatively, indulgence in such a habit would probably be less atrocious then the cleaning habits I have just displayed.

But I digress.

Usually, when I clean, I become very distracted by not cleaning. This will make me a bad wife (and apparently an even worse feminist). Today, for example, I watched four tutorials on how to cut T-shirts into tank tops and then attempted to follow suit. The project itself was laden with irony, as the shirt was one I had gotten from running track at Private Christian High School, but after I was through with it, it was no longer within the dress code of Private Christian High School. Then again, neither were the cheer uniforms, but that’s not a discussion I feel like having again. All in all, I didn’t intend the shirt to come out skanky, but it kind of did, and now I might not wear it, but it’s cute in theory.

After that, I read a book.

Then, still infused by the YouTube-induced craft-fever, I began a search for some old pants.

Then my dad came in.

“Mom? Oh…hi dad.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cleaning!”

“…okay…”

“Why do we have this?”

“That’s, um, a muumuu.”

(I was wearing a muumuu.)

“Why do we have it?”

“I bought it for your mom.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“…um…you’re cleaning?”

“Yep!”

“Okay. I’m glad you’re cleaning, but…you need to go wash off that gunky thing by the door.”

“Okay.”

(...brief pause for me to get downstairs and turn on the hose..)

“Could you clean it over there so that you water the palm tree?” 

(My dad invested in several palm trees for his mid-life crisis. One lives in the garden, one died in the garden, four are growing in pots against the wall for pool privacy, and one grew a foot a week and is almost as tall as our house and will probably eat us someday. This is the one he is speaking of.)

“Okay.”

Then I came upstairs...annnnnnd...blogged about it.

This has been the height of excitement today. We have come full circle, right back to where the story started (that’s what full circle means), and fortunately for you, I have nothing left to waste your time with.

So…have a nice day.

Fin.

*Apparently, that's not how you spell this word in this context. A segue is a transition, and a Segway is "the leader in personal, green transportation." In the interest of consistency and further rebelliousness, I'm going to continue to spell it the mall cop way, not my mom's way. Thank you for understanding.

Keep Facebook classy.

I realize this is probably the most useless thing you’ll read today, maybe this week, maybe even your life. Probably the last one. Thankfully the standards of what is and is not useful have been so distorted by narcissistic society that none of you will notice.

…great start.

As many of you know, I am an avid user of the social networking phenomena known to the world as “Facebook” and to one of my professors as “the sole cause of the ruination of actual friendship in America.” He’s a little extreme. I think that Facebook can be super convenient and nifty, especially if you’re the kind of control freak that likes to know what everyone’s doing every second of every day and every time you can’t because the network is down your eye twitches a little harder.

Actually, maybe I get what he’s getting at.

I feel like, over the period of time it’s survived, Facebook has evolved in usage; maybe this is overly philosophical, but I think that as much as it is a way of keeping up to date on your friends’ lives and chatting with distant buddies, it is now a way of proclaiming ourselves into the world the way we want to be perceived. And through that evolution, along with its changes in news feeds and tickers and picture viewers, it has evolved a set of unspoken laws that govern the dos and don’ts of our lives far more than we would like to admit.

Sadly enough, some truly wonderful, beautiful, inspirational people have yet to understand just what is entailed in having and using it to communicate properly, despite academic achievement or social capability (okay, maybe social capability plays into it a little*). If you are one of them, welcome. Most likely you don't realize that you are. But if you find this helpful...tada. And this post should help you. Almost as much as it will help me.

But even more importantly, I feel the need to address another community of individuals. Unfortunately for many, there are some taking unfair advantage of this site we care so much about. They are easy to perceive by their inundation of statuses or pictures or the way they take their relationship status way too dang seriously. These people - lovingly known to many as “social media whores,” - are being singled out as a frustrating mob of losers who are just getting way too flipping into it.
There is also a group of people who care enough to point them out and label them for the way they are controlling their usage of a universally available, free, existentially useless resource, when their annoyances and rudeness could literally be removed by the push of a button. A virtual button.

Come to terms with it. You are one of them. Your mother is one of them. WE ARE ALL THEM. THEY. This post may be as much as an admittance that I am one of them as it is a plea for people to stop being socially awkward all up on my timeline. This is no longer a condition. It’s a part of humanity. We actually have changed that much. 

And whether you like it or not, this is what you have signed up for. And that is why there are rules. And you ALL need to follow them.

Or I will unfriend you.

RULE #1: (we’ll start off simple) POKING. IS. NOT. FLIRTING.

First, I have to clarify—because our culture is not only narcissistic, it is also perverted—that I am referring to the application on Facebook that allows  you to “poke” other individuals, and that's it. I believe it was intended as a way to remind people that you had posted on their wall, and why the heck haven’t they responded yet, it’s been five whole minutes. Now it’s just a way for people to hold uselessness over each others’ heads (“Hey, I poked you and you didn’t poke back! I’m winning!”), because never ending virtual battles are a great way to spend our youth.

It’s funny to me that I say this, because I have been poking about twelve people consistently for about three years. Actually, not really, because (confession!) I started this post last year, and now I never poke anyone, which may be due to a general decrease of interest in the pastime or my increase in age, but it's most likely that I probably just guilt-tripped myself into stopping. Either way, the deal with that situation is that most of those “poke wars” started three years ago. Obviously they're all friends of mine. Also, this rule was not in effect then. So if you happen to develop feelings for someone you’ve been poking then congratulations and I wish you all the best in your next steps on whether or not you decide to push the “poke back” button. But if you just started liking her, don’t just start poking her! Do you even know what it means to be mysterious and coy? Right! It means “one who does not poke”!

Also, if you have been poking her, and she stops poking you, THAT DOESN’T MEAN POKE HER AGAIN. It doesn’t mean she forgot, it doesn’t mean she’s confused, it means she’s creeped the frick out, and you need to approach her in a more substantially normal manner. Girls, this applies to you, too. He doesn’t like you. Cut it out.

Here’s a tip: Play hard-to-get poke war. It consists of never poking anyone ever.

RULE #2: STALKING GENERALLY IMPLIES SUBTLETY.

Clarification (again with the vagueness...where will it end): Facebook has also changed the definition of stalking. Not really. But in the usual context, it has little to do with illegality. Maybe it should, but we won't deal with that right now.
I have nothing against Facebook stalking. Nothing. You know why? Because people put all that crap up for you to look at. It's a power trip. It's a way for people to be self-obsessed and praised for it in conjunction. So don't let anyone psych you out, because they're being hypocritical. Going through old profile pictures is the best use of Facebook. That's my life philosophy.
So the problem does not lie within the fact that you go on his profile on the hour, every hour. It lies in the fact that you like everything he posts. That's a little much. Unless you want him to know, then by all means, go way back. Like his high school track finals announcement. Comment on his homecoming pictures. "Oh you were so cute LOL" is great if he can stand people who still use "LOL." But if you're trying to be subtle (and I'm all about being subtle, and mysterious, and ignored, and hated), then play it cool.

RULE #3: STOP FRIEND-REQUESTING PEOPLE YOU MIGHT MEET SOMEDAY.

This does not apply to a mutual friend that you have an intention of meeting. This applies specifically to those people who join groups for their new school or new club or new something, which is composed of HUNDREDS of people, and friend ALL of the members. It's flipping ridiculous. How the heck are you going to meet all these people? You aren't. You're going to have a news feed with a blockade of complete strangers' pictures and a guilty twist of confused acquaintanceship that keeps you from deleting them now, but you're still going to delete over half of them the second you graduate. You already hate some of them now, but it's too late, because you've been mystery internet friends for long enough that if you dropped them now, they'd know something was up. Talk. About. Awkward.

RULE #4: YOU DO NOT COMMENT ON A WALL POST FROM SOMEONE THAT YOU DO NOT KNOW.

I used the extra large font (before) and the bolded font (after) because this should be common sense. If you are stalking someone you know/haven't seen in a while, and you see a post on their wall from a complete stranger talking about something completely unrelated to your life, or, heck, even if it is related, what do you do? Read it. Memorize every comment. Click and see all the people who liked it. But remember, if it is not about you, it is not your business, and you are not invited to this party. I don't care if it is a mutual discussion about how they like math, and you have a Ph.D. in mathematical...stuff.......YOU DO NOT TELL THEM ABOUT MATH.

Drop it...

Good boy.

Here's a better way of putting it: what would you do if you were just talking to someone on the street, having a nice conversation, and someone who knew your friend waltzed over (literally waltzed, because the mental image is better) and started talking to both of you about the exact thing you were just talking about. See? Weird.
The ONLY instance in which this would be acceptable would be this:

"Hey, Brad, Lydia's super attractive and funny and has a great personality! What's her blog's URL?"
"Hey, Ryan! You got that right! How are your millions of dollars from modeling treating you? I don't actually know her blog's URL, but you shouldn't have much time to read it anyway, since it sucks you in with its greatness, and you need all the time you can get to finish your novel."
"Yeah, that's true. Oh well. I don't have my millions of dollars; I donated them all to a respectable nonprofit organization."
"You go, Ryan!"

This would constitute an appropriate time for me to comment and say, "Ryan! My blog is mumblingsthataremeaningless.blogspot.com! :D" and then go along my merry way.

RULE #5: THREE STATUSES A DAY IS PUSHING IT.
People...I know Facebook is a place to make your life sound as great as it possibly can because it's the only way that people will respect and appreciate and love you more than they do in real life, but that's no reason to act desperate.
Relax.
People really only care about your Instagram, anyway.

RULE #6: UTILIZE YOUR RESOURCES.
Here is how:
1. You know that crazy person who always posts ridiculous whiny statuses but you feel bad deleting? Go to their Facebook. See where it says friends? Click on it. See where it has a little check mark next to "Show in News Feed"? Click it.
2. You know that creepy person who always comments on your pictures but you feel bad unfriending? Go to your Facebook. Click the status box. Click the gear. Click custom. Where it says, "Don't share this with," type their name. End problem. End creepy.
3. Repeat step 2 for professors whose classes you complain about profusely.
See? Your problems are over! You're so welcome. No, YOU are!

RULE #7: THE EMOTICONS ARE STUPID AND I HATE THEM.
Use them if you want. That just needed to be said.

RULES #8-15: SOME "TECHY" PHRASES YOU SHOULD NEVER USE AND THE REASONS WHY...
"Lol" - it's just not a thing anymore. Also, it's most likely a lie. You usually do not comment "lol" when you have actually lol'ed. Usually, I comment, "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'M DYING AND I JUST PEED, IN CLASS! BWAAAAAHHHHH marry me" (this is a gross exaggeration) to get my point across when I lol. And man does it get my point across.
"LOL" - you may think this is the same, but it's not. It's completely different. First of all, it's that yucky phrase, and second of all, CAPS? Get it together.
":-D" - you may only use a smiley face with a nose if you are a parent, or over the age of thirty-five. The only exception to this is ">8-E" which you may use if you are incredibly upset or a serial killer.
"Ptl" - Really? That's how you praise the Lord? With three letters? Come on.

"Omg" - eh. Okay. You can use it if you're in middle school. When I was fourteen, I always typed out "OMGoodness" because...I WAS COOL.
"Idk" - the reason you should stop using this is that it doesn't actually stand for what you think it does, and instead of saying "I don't know," like you want to, you actually just end up saying, "I am lazy," which doesn't make any sense when it comes to English, but it's the truth.
"Techy" - I just think it sounds dumb and therefore no one should say it.

Well...that's a wrap, folks. I have nothing to say, for once. I'm also ridiculously exhausted, and already tired of summer school, even though it's only been...one day. Whatever.

FIN.

*A LOT.