Liveblogging me trying to increase my credit card limit so I can continue going to school.

Phone flirting with this Jewy sounding nerd guy to raise my credit card limit doesn’t seem to be working.

What is happening to my America?

Edit: He’s putting me on hold! His system froze! I’ll freeze your system, buddy! Get outta here!

Edit: He transferred me! I got an African on the line! Maybe an Indian. I don’t understand accents.

Edit: I’m preapproved for $1200 more! I could go for the $2500 more like I was intending, but maybe I shouldn’t! I’m conflicted! The Afrindian is helping me through this.

Edit: I took the $1200! The Afrindian was no help. He then tried giving me some sort of 0% interest rate offer, but it sounded too good to be true, so I bet it was. I declined.

WHAT A RUSH!!!! I’M GOING TO TRY TO INCREASE ALL OF MY CREDIT LIMITS EVERY DAY!!!!

I won $100 off a scratch ticket and was so happy. $100 means so much to me. I then scratched another ticket and won $278,000. Shaking, I checked the back to make sure it was real — of course it was real! I bought it! Cumberland Farms would not give me a fake scratch ticket! I brushed the ashy shavings off the front of the card and put it on my night stand until morning, when I heard everyone wake up.

I first showed my father the $100 winner. Then the $278,000 winner. He didn’t believe me, I promised him it was true. His enthusiasm was not what I expected, but he was happy for me.

I am so glad this is real, I am so glad this is not fake, I thought.

And then my alarm went off.

And now I want to die.

I can’t believe I was so happy it wasn’t fake in the dream. What the fuck. It wasn’t a normal dream of something amazing happening, it was a dream where something amazing happened and I was SO FULL OF INNOCENT GRATEFULNESS THAT IT WAS TRUE.

Tuesday the sunset was a rainbow. From the horizon up redorangeyellowgreenblueindigoviolet. I pulled over on a long and winding road with the woods to my left and clean fields to my right. Turned off the radio until all I saw was the sunset, all I heard was my blinker tickticktick, and all I felt was the tension in my right foot from pressing down the brake pedal. I realized the near silence and lack of other people did not make anything more or less beautiful, and whatever I was feeling would not mean much tomorrow.

One time, when I was 18, I saw a facially-hot midget.

A blog about my anxiety about blogging.

I’m currently watching a True Life about people who either live their life through only the Internet or who live dual lives, acting completely different in their real lives than the persona they put online.

I’ve been really conscious about how often I’ve used Tumblr lately. And by lately, I mean since I’ve had this fucking thing like 2ish years ago. In general, aside from the quick succession of posts from last night detailing what kind of moronic shenanigans I deal with on a daily basis in my home life, I believe I haven’t fallen into that trap of getting too personal and detailish. I mean, yeah, period-boobs and wanting to make out with James Franco and talking about car-crying, those are pretty personal, but not something I would ashamed to talk about with my Dad. In fact, I revel in talking about my period at my Dad. It’s the quickest way to get him to leave the room. Sometimes I just say “vagina” and he’s already half way down the street, getting another pack of cigars to help forget what a disgusting failure his oldest daughter really is.

And, I don’t know, there is a difference between living a dual life/no life and living a life while keeping a blog. Right? Blogging is normal now?

Do my friends think I’m ridiculous? Are strangers reading this blog because it is a train wreck of a human writing this shit? CONSTANTLY WRITING THIS SHIT?

I think I’m ridiculous. I write in this nearly every day. That means I’m on the computer nearly every day. I guess that is normal, to an extent, especially for a college student.

I feel uncomfortable admitting to most others that I have a blog, and I can think of one person in particular who has, several times, said to me something like “I’m afraid Caragh woulda blogged about it.” And then that leaves me in sobs internally because WHAT IF THAT MEANS I’M WEIRD?

I don’t know! I’m having a blogging crisis! Gettin’ real ashamed over here! Thinkin’ maybe I should stop blogging constant shit about mundane feelings and actions!

I just changed the channel and now I’m watching Bridezilla.

I know I said “these are the morons I live with” and I only talked about my moron-sister, so maybe I should add that today my mother yelled at me because I wouldn’t clean the inside of the oven. While it was on. At 350 degrees.

Granted, I had spilt pumpkin bread batter in it. So I turned the oven off to let it cool so I could clean. “You can’t turn the oven off and then start cooking the bread again, it won’t cook right.” WELL, THEN THE ALTERNATIVE IS TO KEEP THE OVEN ON AND DIE OF SMOKE INHALATION FROM BURNING PUMPKIN BREAD SMOKE. “Just keep it on and use some paper towels.” YOU WANT ME TO STICK MY HAND IN AN OVEN THAT IS ON AT 350 DEGREES WITH NOTHING BUT PAPER TOWELS BETWEEN ME AND THE SEARING, BURNING METAL?

I couldn’t be making this shit up if I tried. I’m sorry for resorting back to a 16 year old and complaining about my family, BUT MY SISTER STOLE MY CAR AND MY MOTHER SCREAMED AT ME FOR NOT CLEANING AN OVEN THAT WAS ON.

My 18 year old sister, who had a child at 16 because she didn’t know how to use birth control, who dropped out of high school because she didn’t know how to manage her time, who almost died while totalling her car in a drunk driving accident two weeks ago (“they shouldn’t have gotten out of that car alive.” - some cop), stole my fucking car and thinks I was over-reacting when I called her up and starting yelling at her.

These are the fucking morons I live with. This is what I get for fucking trusting this fucking household with a spare set. “I’m 10 minutes away, what’s the big deal?” I WAS 10 STEPS AWAY. ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS ASK. THE BIG DEAL IS THAT YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT AND STOLE MY FUCKING CAR.

YOU CAN’T GET ‘97 MERCURY SABLES ANYWHERE, YOU KNOW. ESPECIALLY WITH THE LEATHER INTERIOR.*

*Covered in some sort of chocolate. It’s everywhere. I’ve had the car for a month and I keep finding new places the former owner covered in chocolate. It’s so disgusting. I won’t even use my cup holders because I gag every time I try to go near it with a washcloth. Yesterday I used the sun visor for the first time and down came tumbling a garage door remote… covered in chocolate. It’s amazing, actually. I feel like he had to do it on purpose. I don’t think you can cover that many square inches with chocolate by accident.

I wish I was more sick so I could go to the doctor so they could test me for h1n1. I don’t think relying on the opinion of a nursing student is like, a proper diagnosis. I DID feel like dying for 36 hours, but now I just feel like self-mutilating. My cough is disgusting, my nose is running the Boston Marathon, but my headaches are gone, my fever is gone, and I’ve had no vomiting or that other gross word I don’t even want to mention.

I basically just want bragging rights to “I survived h1n1,” but I can’t properly make those claims when maybe I just have a really, really bad cold, or the regular season flu.

Well, I can make those claims. But only in 5 years, when people have forgotten I never got tested.