are you there self-control? it's me, crystal.

Every year, the library where I work partners up with the public library and holds a book sale to help fund events going on in the community. Being staff, this is the first year I participated in helping sit stuff up.

You guys. I bought 26 books.

26 mother-lovin' books.

I hear people talk about self-control, and I get the concept, but the execution is a little fuzzy for me. And I'm okay with that because I just got 26 books for 15 bucks, including the complete short stories of Hemingway, The Giving Tree (even if it is sexist), and Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, which I have never read.

I know. How I ever survived elementary school is totally beyond me.

what a stupid lamb.

I have some serious problems.

What a news flash, I know.

I've spent the bulk of my day (fine, all of it; I have no life, so sue me) shut up in my room reading the fourth book of the Mediator series by Meg Cabot and, consequently, bawling my eyes out over it. Which only makes me angry. Seriously, when I cry, which is way rare, I become angry at myself for doing so. I was raised to view crying as a sign of weakness and now I have emotional issues that will probably screw up any relationships I ever happen to get in... provided I actually attract a guy long enough to form a relationship with him...

Right, that's a can of worms not needing to be unleashed now.

Anyway, the only thing I can think that brought on those annoying tears is that the whole series is about this girl who helps ghosts finish up their unfinished business to get from Point A to Point B. And, the only thing I can figure is, that all the talk about death, made me think of the people that I have lost and just made me cry like a little brat in a toy store not leaving with the gigantic Barbie dollhouse with the working elevator.

Dammit, I wanted that dollhouse, okay? It had a working elevator, people. And a hot tub for Barbie and Ken to get down in.

Not that I would have thought of that when I was six, but still. That dollhouse should have been mine.

But I've mostly made my peace with it. The crying, that is. I still want the dollhouse. Now I'm just annoyed because I have half of a great idea for a novel and, for the life of me, cannot figure out the other half. I probably have a fourth of this story already written down in various notebooks and on computer files and a notebook that I haven't seen since sometime in mid-March as it is being, from what I can tell, held hostage at a friend's apartment. But that fourth of the story I have jotted down in various locations is just a skeleton because I'm missing half of the plot. It's surprisingly to find any urban legends and folklore on the subject that hasn't been recently exploited by a crappy book series and an even crappier movie to accompany in it, despite the fact that Robert Pattinson is one of the most attractive motherfuckers on the planet, wonky eye and all. I mean, yeah, I love those books and the movie, but I am well aware that that vampire franchise sucks only the most awful things.

And, sadly, I can't think of anything else to write but in that same vein. Heh, vampires, vein. That was almost clever. Pathetic and sad, yes, but clever just the same.

So, in conclusion, I am an uncreative crybaby who never got a Barbie dollhouse with a working elevator and hot tub.

Bella: How did you get in here?

Edward: The window.
Bella: Do you do that a lot?
Edward: Just the past couple of months.
- Twilight

If Edward wasn't so terribly attractive, Bella would have reported him to the proper authorities for being a Grade A, First Class Creeper.