Confessions and a Ramble About Latex and Zombies and Spoons

I have something I need to admit.

I have the attention span of an ADD child hyped up on Halloween candy, in a situation where laser pointers are involved.

Oh yes. It’s a terrible affliction. I just spent five minutes fondly contemplating laser pointers and how much they excite me, a nineteen year old college student. And not at all because they’re bright mystical moving lights.

They’re also the caveman equivalent to lightsabers.

I had a transition but I got distracted by a person coming into the room where I’m eating, plus the realization that an actor I recognize was on the television. Also there’s a fly buzzing about.

Anyway, the point is, I’m terrible at the whole attention span thing. In previous years, it wasn’t so bad, because I was living in the same town for years, in the same house, in the same state, surrounded by the same people. It’s hard to be overly distracted by something old and familiar. Now however, I’m in this huge, sprawling city, in a new environment, with new people, living in a new place…my brain pretty much constantly short circuits itself in the attempt to pay attention to everything at once. To make it even better(worse?) I live in a hotel, where there are conventions and bridal showers and receptions and limos constantly milling about.

In fact, half of the reason I made this blog was in the hopes it would ground my attention back from where ever it went and had an LSD rave, to the areas I need it to focus itself. …I think my logic was alittle shaky. What am I supposed to do? Everytime I feel myself spiraling into distraction zone (Like this weekend, where I spent 90% of my weekend mindlessly reading MSPaintAdventures) scream “I AM GETTING UNFOCUSED!” and write a blog post? No idea. 

I actually have several half written blog posts, all of which will eventually be finished. They’re about my experience having Canadian Thanksgiving with Boyfriend’s family, Greyhound Bus Trips, School and Other Delightful Things. I keep getting distracted in the middle of writing them.

This will not happen this blog post.

Because I’m about to blow your minds with a transition-connector-thing spanning several paragraphs.

….

So I went Halloween shopping this weekend.

It was pretty crazy. If I wasn’t jobless and stressed about money, I probably would have bought like…fifty costumes and accessories. I really wanted to buy myself a flapper wig. But they only had blonde ones. …Also I’m being fiscally responsible. (cough)

Anyway, Boyfriend and I decided to dress up as something together for this trick-or-treat-for-canned-foods thing his club does. After cruelly shooting down my suggestions of Horse, Cow, Cowgirl-and-soon-to-be-branded-Cow, Snuffalufagus, and Elmo; we settled on being Scary!Ghosts. We felt very original, despite my mother snarking on it slightly when I told her over the phone.

But anyway, we decided to do awesome makeup and latex and such. I, being a film geek and theater major, know how to do such makeup. Boyfriend does not know the horrors that he is subjugating himself to. He doomed himself as soon as this discussion happened:

Boyfriend: So I think we should go all out, and try to be scary. Maybe we could do some sort of makeu--
Me: *odd vacant expression* I know how to do makeup.
Boyfriend: *oblivious to Doom* That’s cool, so I think for the costumes…

See, to my terribly insane brain, that blerp right there means Boyfriend gives me all rights to the makeup department. I now have the power. All of it. 

That leads me to Yesterday, where in the golden hours of the afternoon I journeyed to the Tops Plaza, where both a Target, and the biggest, baddest Party Land ever resides.

This Party Land was having a huge Halloween bash, and when I walked in, I could easily see I was spending the rest of my day there. About 60% of the store had become Halloween-centric. Everything was there. Costumes, costumes, a wall of pictures of costumes to ORDER, wigs, shoes, candy, silly string. It was amazing.

More pertinent to my situation, there was a wall of make up supplies. Anything I might have desired. I was so terribly overwhelmed I had to leave, and consult my friend, Fox. Being a Halloween lover, she helped assist me (by that I mean she listened to me ramble nigh incoherently and waited for me to leave so she could play her games without me in her ear) while I boggled at the choices and probably annoyed everyone around me with the indecision. “Should I get the zombie kit? We’re gonna be ghosts, but it has useful stuff…” “Which is better Fox, Latex or this Skin Wax stuff? I think I’m better at dealing with latex, but I don’t know…What is this Creepy Skin jar? What type of make up should I get?”

But that’s okay, because there were screaming kids in the vicinity, and they were yelping at an octave high enough that I glared at my uterus threateningly and swore that if it ever decided to try and spawn such a high pitched creature, I would become severely angry. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

Anyway, I managed to get away buying less than 20 bucks worth of make up. Though I’ll need to go back, as upon arriving in my hotel dorm, I greedily opened my stuff and began experimenting to see how much would be needed. To my defense, it was NECESSARY. I wanted to see how to best hollow out my cheeks. Then I got bored and turned half my face into a giant bruise. Then I got distracted because my oatmeal was ready for consumption and I wanted to look at the care package my mother sent me and then I remembered I needed to do laundry.

So I walked out of my room and to the laundry room, with apparently a very convincing bruise on my face.

People looked positively horrified. 

I looked really confused, then touched my face and felt the makeup.

Then I felt terrible for getting distracted and forgetting that I made myself look like the victim of a mugging.

At least my neighbors didn’t see me. They probably would’ve recollected some intense, serious-business threats along the lines of “I will kill you with a spoon, you evil bastard” being tossed between Boyfriend and myself during a noble war of tickling, fleeing and counter-tickling. Also shampoo-bottle-throwing (he wasn't playing fair). And six foot tall Boyfriends getting sick of this shit and picking up their loud, flailing five foot tall girlfriends and tossing them in the vicinity of the bed to get the flailing girlfriends out of the “I will stab you with plastic spoons threateningly” radius. 

Things would have been mad awkward then.