Guess what I just did? I irrigated my mouth stitches with special mouthwash prescribed by my dentist. That’s right, I inserted a little syringe into the back of my mouth and sprayed out all those harmful little soul-sucking bacteria. How’s that for sexy? Can you feel it?

Since I can’t drink (well, I can, but codeine causes all kinds of shitfacedness), I’m joining my lovely girls for an evening of food (which I can’t eat), champagne (which I can’t drink) and general gossip (I can’t laugh, it hurts).

But this rest period? Effing amazing. I could definitely work from home, my productivity is skyrocketing. Too bad my coworkers refuse to reply to my emails.

My travel narrative blog should be up before the weekend is over, and I’m pretty stoked about it. MAD STOKED. I’m so sorry I’ve been neglecting to add linkage to all my new readers, plus the Matador Team, but it seemed like such an unnecessary task as I’m also still waiting for That’s Tangly to launch. I hate this blog and I can’t wait for it to be done with. FOREVER. *lightning flashes* Please be sure that I will give appropriate bucketfuls of love to my loyal readers when I can.

Aside: I’m absolutely loving my new position as associate editor. LOVE IT. I’m flinging myself enthusiastically into the process, possibly biting off more than I can chew, but I love it. There’s amazing stuff happening over at Matador.

This is how I used to look before a dentist ripped into my gums and hauled out two big 'ol wisdom teeth.

So sitting here for the last few days have inspired a lot of thinking. Yesterday, while all my American buds were celebrating Thanksgiving, I thought about how much I have to be thankful for. My friends, my family, my new gig with Matador (when I come home from work in the evenings I’m usually up til 1 a.m., writing, brainstorming, and catching up on blogs, and I don’t mind it one bit). I realize that every decision I have made has led me in the right direction, because I’ve followed my heart.

If I could offer one piece of advice to anyone, it would be to do that: follow your heart. Ditch things that don’t feel right. My lord how many times did I have to push aside the negativity and “are you going to be a teacher?” comments when I announced studying English at Memorial University. But I knew it was what I loved doing, and I know for a fact you can only excel at something if you enjoy it.

So here I am, six years later, with a pretty sweet career, a modest Internet footprint in the making, and a sweet-ass position with an online travel magazine.
And I’m still restless. I hate saying this because I know I have coworker(s) reading, but I assume within a few years I’ll be out of here. I love St. John’s, but lately this place makes me feel very lonely and limited. I need to get out. I need to experience different places. But how can I do that with my debt? I will never be one of those people to push my responsibilities aside. I will never run from student loans or forget about line of credit payments.

But fuck, it’s disheartening. My plan is to pay off all my debt within 5 years, save cash, and hit the road on a Round the World trip. But by that time, I’ll be 28. I know, that’s still young, but I’m losing time. I don’t want to waste a minute.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m a giant wiener.

Speaking of debt, Christmas shopping begins tomorrow if I’m brave enough to face the world with cheeks the size of grapefruits. And my mother called me a pussy today because I won’t drink the prune juice that expired in September 2009. I love my mom.

Damn, I was kinda hoping for a more dramatic update about the wisdom teeth extraction, an entry filled with blood and near-death experiences and gory adult teeth with long roots dangling from the ends.

 

But to be honest, the whole thing went smoothly. I feel fine, other than being ravenously hungry while my roommate is eating delicious greasy chicken right in front of me and all I can get down is a pudding. And the gauze in my mouth is still soaked in blood, and now I have big bag of bloody gauze in my bedroom. The sheer sight of it makes me want to scream. Sexy?

 

I was super, super freaked out about this surgery. I don’t know why, but mostly I think I was afraid of the anaesthesia. For real. I knew being IV sedated would be my best option, but I’ve heard that redheads need more anaesthesia than other people and I was terrified I’d be one of those weird cases where I’d be paralysed but totally conscious of everything going on, including a scalpel cutting into my gums.

 

But when I woke up after being sedated, I felt incredible. It was the most bizarre, relieving feeling I’ve ever had. I wasn’t even high, although I did kinda stumble around the pharmacy like a drunkard, my cheeks swollen with gauze stuffing and blood crusted to my lips. I crawled up the stairs when I got home and popped a few drugs, watched a movie with Chef and spent the remainder of the day camped on the futon.

 

The pharmacist did, however, tell me she required an enema after taking the Atasol-3o drugs I’m on. That’s the most I’ve ever needed to know about a stranger.

 

Then I ate ice-cream. Lots and lots of ice-cream.

 

Now I have a surgical glove filled with my wisdom teeth, and I don’t really know what possessed me to keep them. Does the tooth fairy visit for these sort of things? Could he or she possibly bring me $600 to help with my new websites? Sprinkle some stardust over my head so I can win the lottery and move on?

 

Totally taking advantage of these days off to do NOTHING. I apologize in advance for lack of drunken stories.

And so goes the headlines of my life.

 

Crap, I so badly need a new site right now. So so so badly.
Anyway, Friday night I got dressed up to check out the Monte Carlo fundraiser at the Sheraton Hotel. Getting ready for the event was frustrating enough, because I only have like FIFTEEN DRESSES and we all know you can’t recycle the same dress within the span of a year. At one point I stomped my feet like an unruly toddler and screamed, “I’M NOT PRETTY ENOUGH FOR DOCTORS.”

 

(The Monte Carlo is some fundraiser thing hosted by the med school students, including my buddy Jagerbomb. And I just realized I missed this week’s episode of Grey’s, omg.)

 

So we had some drinks at the house and then Chef’s friend proceeds to get stupid-drunk and puke in our sink. This happened all very quickly as we were leaving the house, and I kinda remember seeing it out of the corner of my eye and thinking “did that guy just puke in my sink?” But pushed it off because it seemed like SHEER INSANITY that I’m 23 years old and still have people puking in my sink.
Let me tell you something, having to clean that up after returning home at 3 a.m. isn’t a pleasant stroll through the park. As payback, we drank his $30 bottle of wine.

 

Anyway, Monte Carlo was alright, but my friends didn’t want to stay long as drinks were $7 each. I did see my super mega hot gym crush there though, so now I’m wondering if he’s a doctor. I run into him everywhere, we’re total soulmates. I can feel it. Except oh yeah, I’m asexual and haven’t been physically touched in months. Did I just say that out loud? TENSIONS ARE HIGH.

 

We spent the remainder of the night at Lottie’s, taking over the dancefloor and having impromptu photoshoots. People definitely hate us. My quiet, stay-at-home weekend to catch up on shiz turned into me running all over the city and making crafts with the Rangers. I went to the St. Thomas Church and checked out some puddin’ makin’ event, and poked around a museum where Kevin Major was doing a reading. Why is it that everytime I’m in the company of “good” people, I want to roll around on the floor clasping their ankles and begging for forgiveness?

Oh yeah, here’s why.

 

I made my redheaded accomplice take off her shirt because she wasn't exhibiting her inner skank. And why does my arm look like the flab of an 80-year-old woman who hasn't lifted a barbell in her life?

I don't have the slightest clue who the guy with glasses is, but if I had my time back, I'd ask for his number. And also, wtf is up with the birthday hat?

This morning, I went downstairs for coffee and caught a glimpse of the road from the front door. There was yellow stuff all over the road. I was like, “WTF is all this yellow stuff?!” It took about five seconds to realize it was SUNSHINE. Freaking SUNSHINE. I haven’t seen SUNSHINE in so long, that I had NO IDEA what was spread all over the pavement. I shit you not.

 

I went out for a company supper last night since we’re taking over the world and winning all kinds of awards and kicking ass internationally. I vow never to complain about work again. I can’t think of another place where I could possibly discuss butt plugs and sex toys with my seniors. Pretty sure if they ever even stumbled upon this blog, they’d embrace it rather than fire me. Maybe. The lead tech writer reads, after all. Hi Cubemate!

 

Anyway, I love the mesh of people, and I don’t know why we don’t get together like that more often. One of the guys and I had a contest building the tallest tower out of mussel shells. Then I walked home and wiped out on the street before my house, in front of a bunch of people including an old man who was very concerned. I’m surprised I didn’t land in a pile of broken glass, being in the ghetto and all. My hands are skinned though. They probably have syphilis now.

 

So here’s what I’ve been reading.

 

Bitter is the New Black by Jen Lancaster

 

Rich woman loses job, becomes poor and has epiphany. I liked her in the end, but after I saw the author photo, was confused about the conceit.

 Wow, that book had so much substance that it didn’t even take up two lines. Excellent.

So, Kindle is making its way around the globe. How do you peeps feel about that? How do you feel about potentially never have to turn pages again? Will you miss the sacred, new-book smell? Will you cry about never being able to thumb through pages, pick up a book to read the back-cover, or stack good literature lovingly in your bookshelf?

 

I have mixed emotions. On one hand, the technology is freaking amazing and I do like saving trees. I think it’s safe to assume that this technology is the wave of the future, and although I may not like it, I don’t want to be 80 years old rocking in my chair and grumbling about “those damned kids today, with their fancy high-tech flying cars and loud electronic music.” Yeah, take me back to the good old days when rappers were bangin’ bitches and smokin’ Js. Classic.

 

And what happens when books ARE annihilated? Will all the adorable bookstores in the world close down? Will I not be able to drag my eyes along the titles in a used bookstore? Will I not find carefully written inscriptions on the inside of a cover?

 

THE ECONOMY WILL COLLAPSE. BUT THE TREES WILL BE STANDING.

 

Shit this is all so terribly devastating that I don’t know what to do with myself. Anyone remember the library from Beauty and the Beast? That’s what I want. More than babies. Just books.

Oh blogosphere, how I’ve missed thee. The rest of the week has been significantly more eventful. Sorta.


I went to Kjax’s party on Saturday with the girls, which was pretty sweet since I haven’t been boozing with those ladies in awhile. Some girl brought jello shooters, and so I proceeded to eat the entire tray. So delicious, and filled with vitamins.

 

Then Ani and I went downtown because everybody else was super lame, and I just needed to get out in public after being confined to my house for the previous week. So we went to Dusk where we met up with Ani’s boyfriend and his buddies, and danced up a storm. Then Metro Guy popped in, and quickly weaselled his way into our dance group, thus interrupting my stellar rhythm.

 

I told Ani she could leave me alone with Metro Guy (I don’t know why), and we proceeded to dance a little. He claimed I did not call him, I insisted that he was supposed to call me, and so went our tango of love. Finally I tried to enter his phone number into my Instinct, but accidentally entered his digits as a text message, and ended up texting him his name. I giggled, he was appalled, and then he left.

I was then entirely stranded downtown. I remember scrolling down through my entire list of contacts on my phone in SHEER UTTER PANIC, realizing for the first time ever, I had nobody to tag along with. So I went to Whalen’s where Greener was playing, tried to stay awake at the bar, and then bummed a ride home with him.

Hot girl action

I’ve just now realized the most ridiculous thing: I forgot to mention my friend’s wedding. Yeah, I’m fucking serious. I went to a friend’s wedding on Saturday with Bob and her boyfriend. It was a small ceremony with mostly family, so the three of us stood awkwardly in church while others just stared at us like we were wedding crashers. Don’t worry, there was no one there worth climbing into bed with.

 

I was sceptical about the whole thing because a) SHE’S 23 and b) I never met her fiance until that day, but everything changed when I saw my beautiful buddy walking down the aisle. Did I mention the onslaught of emotion? Holy shit. I suddenly realized “Wow, I can get married now” and I felt the earth tip considerably towards the direction of HELL. I can’t even consider a wedding until five years from now, it’s the furthest thing from my mind. I mean, I do want Nate Gates to be my photographer…and I have my wedding dressed bookmarked in Firefox…and I know my colour theme will be blues…but other than that, I haven’t thought about it AT ALL.

Never mind the man in the background

In other news, Chef has returned from Morocco! My life is filled with the musk of men again! I came home last night to find three boys cooking me supper once again, and now order is restored in my life. We ate lamb tagine and rice with an apricot/prune sauce, it was incredible. Plus Chef brought me back a handcrafted teapot, and did I mention that I really missed him?

 

FINALLY, finally…today Jagerbomb and I had this awesome conversation about Raffi.

 

Candice says: did you know that the banana phone song was originally sung by raffi?

Jagerbomb says: who is raffi?

Candice says: you know, the guy who used to play guitar and sing in the woods and he’d crawl through that log

Jagerbomb says: fred penner?

Candice says: oh shit

Candice says: who the hell is Raffi

Candice says: Raffi does exist

Candice says: HE DOES

Candice says: GOOGLE HIM

 

Then we determined he sings “that baby beluga song.” Enjoy.



 

(I don’t know what the hell is up with the font in this post, but whatever, I’m spontaneous and you can’t handle it.)

It’s Friday night and I’m sitting in my bed surrounded by a bowl of popcorn, some lollipops, and mint Girl Guide cookies. Tonight, I was invited to a kegger and a Captain Morgan party, and there are currently people drinking downstairs. I chose to sit here in my bed and catch up on some work, because I’m entering a new Candice-era where I appreciate full nights of sleep and being asexual. Non-sexual? Whatever. I’m going to be picking popcorn kernels out of my orifices for months.

(Note: I’m going to a party tomorrow night, and I have plans lined up for the next two years, so I’ll be significantly more awesome once I’m on top of things. Also, I spent the night shopping and at the gym, which were both total wastes of time given the fact I didn’t buy ANYTHING [besides a necklace and earrings for myself…] and am now gorging on junkfood.)

Anyway. I had to share this story with you.

So I’m walking to work this morning, and I’m passing through George Street. There’s a man leaning into the dumpster beside The Yellow Belly Brewery. I note that he doesn’t necessarily seem like a bum, because he’s dressed more like a skeet (i.e. windsuit).

I’m walking along, minding my own business, when all of a sudden a MUFFIN skids past my feet and explodes. I look up, and the man is just standing there, cigarette dangling from the very edge of his lips in particular skeet fashion, looking back at me. I’m so genuinely intrigued that I do not even become startled or angered. No words are spoken. I understand this skeet. This skeet understands me. This skeet and I are one.

But did he mean to throw that muffin? If he were digging for food, why would he waste a perfectly good muffin? Did the muffin offend him somehow? Was the muffin a reminder of his skeet existence?

Damn, I had a really great five second video of the runners passing through Water Street with the olympic torch today. I had no intention of watching the parade, I just happened to be there. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement though; it made me want to head to Vancouver in 2010. Some guy passing by handed me two flags and I just kinda waved them lamely there on the side of the road. Go Canada. Woot.

**I just Googled the definition for “skeet” because I wasn’t sure if it were a Newfie word…turns out it means something entirely different than what I’m implying. Think Newfie hillbilly.

Three years ago today, on November 10,  my Aunt was murdered by her common-law husband. Inspired by this Brave New Traveler article titled A Moment of Reflection For Women The World Over, I decided to share this experience for the first time online.

I logged onto Facebook today to see status updates from aunts and cousins, reflecting on how the world changed because of this event. I thought about my father, whom I still haven’t seen cry, and how his life has been affected. I think about her children who have to deal with the consequences of one man, and I think about their children who will grow up never knowing their amazing grandmother. Because of one man.

The following is an essay I wrote for a creative non-fiction course two years ago. I was completely unprepared for the difficulty of reading the piece aloud, but my peers were incredibly supportive and it still remains one of the most raw essays I’ve ever written. The strength of my family is unfathomable, but this essay is mostly about how it changed the dynamics of “home” for me. I’ll perhaps never share it with my family, because it’s entirely my own thoughts and reflections, which I feel is somewhat selfish compared to the magnitude of devastation that hit her children.

 

As Christine Garvin quotes about the regeneration of the soul: “But what can also help it to regenerate are the men who understand it’s not about protecting the women you love – it’s about changing the mindset of the men who don’t love women.”

****

God’s Country

A year ago I headed home anticipating a familiar bed, warm hugs and a hot supper. I squeezed myself between twelve other students on the bus and we sang songs for six hours. We turned onto the Bay d’Espoir Highway and our sighs were collective as the sky cracked open and the sun reflected the clouds with ice-cream colors of pink, and purple, and blue. God’s Country, my home.

But I awoke the next morning to the panicked voice of my mother, and the telephone ringing. I peered out the window at my father, leaning against the rail of the patio while a friend delivered the news. His face was pale, eyes downcast.

My father’s family began pouring in from all corners of the country, relatives I hadn’t seen in years. They still found time to compliment me, to comment on my hair, to engage in conversation. Nearly a family reunion, twelve brothers and sisters, until my aunt’s children showed up in a flurry of tears.

A week went by before funeral arrangements could be considered because the circumstances were complicated. The day the funeral home was opened, we were allowed in groups into the small room where my aunt’s casket lay open for just one evening. I took my father’s hand.

She didn’t look like any relative of mine; her red curls were all wrong, her face too waxy. The smell of embalming fluid was overpowering, like green peppers mingled with the stench of roses and too many flowers. I couldn’t tear my eyes off the purple silk scarf covering the gaping hole in her neck.

I wanted to be strong for my father, so when the tears slipped from my eyes and over my cheeks I felt guilty that he was tearless and patting my shoulder in comfort. Then the guests began pouring in, mourners offering their goodwill, but the outside world was as obscure as the events that had taken place that night on the hill.

The man who committed the act is unheard of, unimportant, although he had been a part of our lives for years. His memory was extinguished once he finished himself off, just seconds after aiming the high-powered rifle at my aunt across the street. Enough force to kill a deer from a mile away, and the witnesses certainly knew it. They certainly knew that her life was over while they cowered behind the water tank, splattered in blood, crying for fear that they would be next as the SWAT team moved in. The thing that hurt my family the most was the image of her laying there, for nearly a full day, while the investigation was carried out. Just laying there in the rain on a patio all alone, her curls sodden while the town passed rumors.

The preacher told us not focus on the nature of the death, but to celebrate her memory. But in a community of 1200 people, rumors build steam until they erupt into ghost stories. My father bought her little blue van, and my brother’s friends refused to ride in it. I sat in the driver’s seat, thinking it didn’t matter who drove it last. I pulled open the ashtray and there was a single cigarette butt with a red rim of lipstick around the end.

My family spent as much time as they could together in that week. Food came from all sources and so we busied ourselves by eating molasses buns, hot chili, and chocolate cakes. Somehow my aunts and uncles still found things to laugh about, and somehow my cousins laughed too.

My grandmother who suffers from Alzheimer’s does not remember her children’s names, so nobody thought she would remember her daughter’s face in the casket. Months later she was still rocking back and forth in her little rocking chair beside the wood stove, mumbling her daughter’s name. I remember my uncle’s shaking hand as he placed it on the casket, lingering it there like just one second longer would make a difference; I remember my father quietly sipping his rum and coke on Christmas Eve, whispering, “Jenny’s comin’ on strong tonight.”

All this, in God’s Country. My home.

Things found in my purse

I pulled this beauty out of my purse the other night and stared at it momentarily stunned. Then I recalled how my bisexual friend and I were splitting a cab downtown, and she was ranting about her recent boy break-up and how she wanted to date a woman next. Her problem, she claims, is that she would be the “bull-dyke” in the relationship, and she just can’t have that.

As we were paying, the cabbie pulled out two free tickets to the strip bar and handed them to us, saying: “I thought you ladies might enjoy these.”

Awesome.

Someone recently questioned why I dubbed my blog “That’s Tangly.” You see, I live in a world called Newfoundland, where words are invented and distorted and reshaped, and so most of the time I have no freaking clue if I’m speaking real English or Newfie English. For me, “tangly” means “messy,” “disorganized,” and “chaotic.” “Tangled.” So when something goes awry, or if I find myself in a weird situation where my head is about to explode, I refer to it as being “tangly.”

In a nutshell, I’m very much tangly.

Another word: “deadly.” This word is used to express positive feedback about something, i.e. “That’s a deadly song!” or “Deadly website, man!” Is this just a Newfie word? Does anyone else use this word in day-to-day speech?
I think when my new blog gets set up I’ll do a video explaining how to properly use the word “b’y”. The possibilities are endless.

I know I’m being ridiculously gushy, and I know you’re sick of hearing about how happy I am, but seriously, I’m really, really grateful for all the support. Like Sabina pointed out in a comment, the fact that I’m 23 years old and I have a position as associate editor at such a huge online magazine is incredible. Plus the warm welcome I’ve been receiving from everyone, including the team, is mind-blowing. I feel really, really good right now. And I love being on the inside, it’s almost like that high school feeling of inclusion I never had. Hah!

 

And then of course I received another award, from one of my new favourite bloggers, and I’m pretty sure this qualifies as the greatest week ever! Thanks Carissa. If you haven’t already, check out her blog. She’s hilarious, outgoing, and totally, brutally honest. If you don’t believe me, just read her TMI posts.

Honest Scrap

So I’m supposed to list 10 things that nobody really knows about me. Tough job, considering I have no inner censorship.

 

  1. I have seizures. I’ve been prone to seizure activity for years, but always minor ones that feel like insane bouts of deja vu with nausea and panic. Sometimes even intense feelings of relief. I was prescribed medication about two years ago, but stopped taking it once a rash broke out from head to toe, and never bothered going back to my doctor.
  2. I have no idea what intimacy is. Not joking. The longest relationship I’ve ever had with a person is 0 seconds. The only guy I can somewhat claim to have dated for a few months slept with one of my good friends, banged multiple hos, and may actually be gay. Why do I suspect this? He once told me “I think I’m a little gay.”
  3. I totally believe in ghosts. I’ve felt uneasy in a number of houses due to weird events, and have been later informed by other people that they’ve felt the same way. Just a “feeling.” In this 100 year old townhouse, I feel fine.
  4. I’ve been having nightmares about t-rex since I was 9 years old, and it’s all the fault of Jurassic Park.
  5. I was a head bangin’, heavy-metal lovin’, hardcore goth wannabe in high school.
  6. I don’t fit in anywhere. I’m too artsy for the logical crowd, and too logical for the artsy crowd.
  7. I keep a list of all the guys I’ve kissed in the back of my diary. Don’t ask what the stars besides some of the names mean.
  8. I’ve written several book series as a kid/teenager, including one titled Pen Friends and another titled The Adventures of Lady and Beauty.
  9. I can’t paint my own fingernails worth shit.
  10. I was really good at drawing and painting. Then I took an art class in my first year of university, and haven’t picked up a pencil since. Going against his lumberjack appearance, my father is an incredibly talented painter.

 

I’m also supposed to award this to ten bloggers, but I’m just going to pass it on to two people I’ve seriously neglected. The first, of course, is V of Uncorked. FINALLY! An award you don’t already have! V is a kickass, sexy lawyer who enjoys shots as much as I do. She’s charmingly intelligent, witty, and has excellent taste in books.

 

The other is Cammy of Classroom Confessions. She recently went through a bad break-up, and I admire her for being honest about it on her blog. Takes guts to spill the beans. She’s sweet, talented, and an all around role model.

 

Weekend was fab! I decided last night that I hadn’t gotten “happy drunk” in a very long time, so I made it my mission to get sloshed without getting sick. Unfortunately the majority of my friends have become severely lame (seriously you guys, when did everyone become Mormon?), so the girls came over and I went downtown with Lottie and Lil Sister.

 

We decided to hit up Lottie’s Pub (not to be confused with the friend) for some cheap White Russians and Blue-Eyed Blonde shots from the hunky bartender with the rippling muscles and bald head. Did I ever mention my affinity towards bald men? It’s a little disturbing.

Blue-eyed blondes

Devil shots

I knew I had reached the goal peak of drunkness when one of the girls commented on how young everyone at the bar was, but I hadn’t noticed due to being totally intoxicated. Then Lil Sis tried to make me hit on her friend who was apparently interested in me, but he didn’t make a move, and there’s nothing I find more attractive in a man than someone who has to express interest in me via a friend. Just sayin’.

 

When we left, me being significantly poorer, I had just chatted up a guy. We stood outside for a bit and him and his buddies tried to convince Sis and I to go to Trinity Pub. Then I pulled a random lollipop out of my purse and started sucking on it.

 

Here’s a tip: If you want to command the entire attention of a group of young men, stick a lollipop in your mouth. It doesn’t matter if you’re devouring the candy like a hungry wench, they will look on completely enraptured. Awkward.

Lottie's

I've missed partying with this babe

 

 

Wow, you guys rock my pants off, which is awkward because TOR is sitting next to me trying to watch the hockey game. I had no idea that last post would elicit such genuine concern about the well-being of my social life, but there you have it. I could nearly taste the panic. To clarify, folks, I won’t be cutting out my social life entirely. I’ll now be getting sloshed just once a week, as opposed to two. Seriously, that’s my idea of banning a social life. There are exceptions, of course.

 

So, the big news! Two days ago I received an email from David Miller, the senior editor at Matador, asking if I would like to join the team as an associate editor. I remember clicking down through my emails that morning at work, glancing at that subject briefly, and moving on…only to have this “WTF?” moment, and immediately scrolling back. I’m still having random “WTF?” moments all over the place, including random bouts of happiness which cause me to dance down my stairs at 8:00 a.m. In my pyjamas.

 

I’m still waiting for them to catch on and realize I’m not actually that smart, I just receive Daily Word emails from Dictionary.com.

 

Anyway! I’m incredibly excited, and unbelievably happy to be a part of such a kick-ass team. The whole thing is a little daunting right now, but if I can write technical manuals for software defined sonar, dammit, I can do this.

 

Friends, I think it’s safe to say I can cross off #9 on my 20 Before 30 list. I love life.

 

In other news, I’m also interning for Matt Kepnes of Nomadic Matt. It’s an unpaid position, but Matt is one ambitious fellow and I want to learn everything I can from him. Should be interesting.

 

With all this going on, and knowing now that I have more followers and I’m working with a team of incredibly bright people, I really feel like going back through all my old blog crap and deleting it. I’ve resolved to handling my writing more slowly and carefully. I tend to just spew words out on paper since I’m always pressed for time, but I have to work on that.

 

I’m also mad hating on this blog, and I’m super anxious to get the new site up and running so I can have a more professional (hah!) environment to work with, and I’m really looking forward to adding dozens more of you people to my blogroll. But my website designer seems to be MIA for whatever reason, and That’s Tangly was supposed to launch two weeks ago. He’s a friend of mine, so I trust him, I just hope everything’s okay. I’ve also decided to launch a separate travel website in addition to my blog, so I can have a place to reflect on just travel-related topics. Like starting a Global Pubcrawl.

 

There you have it! I really hope I can do a good job with this, and I’m going to try super hard. And if that means having to cut out some of my gym time…well, perhaps I’ll just cut out sleep instead.

Don’t Forget to Check Out My New Travel Site!

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