I suck at golf
I suck at golf. I've only "putted on the green" once (does briefly at a Goodtimes count?), but I do know for a fact that I hold the golf club as awkwardly as chopsticks. Those slender wooden pieces evade me. My parents, the experienced chopstick-ers that they are, have told me time and again "it's just like writing with a pencil." And yet I never learned, though I did find out that chopsticks served a better purpose holding up my hair, as my brother discovered it made for excellent makeshift Wolverine claws.

I can't dive. I wussed out of the 6th grade P.E. class when Ms. Belcampo was teaching us how to "enter the water as gracefully as a swan," which to this day doesn't make sense because swans don't dive. But oh, do they float. I sat contentedly at the far end of the pool, swishing my feet in the water, as I watched the other kids "part the water with their hands." What if they couldn't part it properly? What if, instead of entering the water hands-first, I made painful contact with my stomach instead? That was what I was afraid of -- the belly flop. the literal sting, the slap to the face that I could never be a graceful swan. So I settled for a paddling duck instead.

I'm a pack rat. I keep everything, from movie stubs to parking receipts, from pieces of paper covertly written on to the detailed day schedules that read: 10:45AM - return 2 month overdue lib. books. I write these day schedules with the hope that I would someday cure my latent procrastination. I don't think it's working, as I sit here instead of 12PM - return 5 day overdue movie rental. Most of the time, I forget about these schedules anyway, as they are stuffed in between an Ani DiFranco folder and a Women's Studies book.

I'm the biggest pillow and blanket hog. Don't share a bed with me unless you want to find yourself waking up cold and shivering. Although I've been told that I'm also a big sleeper-hugger, meaning I like to wrap myself around people, a la pigs in a blanket. Which, believe me, is less appreciated than one would imagine. Also, I'm a walking gas station. My roommate told me that people emit seven liters of gas everday, which seems about right to me. I've never been that person in class who farted out loud during a test, but I have been that person who threw up behind a tree at a park in broad daylight, while people were having a picnic five feet away. Does that count? Does that even apply? I don't know, but that's a random fact that I find amusing to this day.

I'm a huge sap. I'm in love with the concept of being in love. I choke up at commercials, I cry at TV shows, I have about five crushes, two of whom I can't even name because I've never met them. I make home-made cards, I attach songs to people, I make mix CDs. Once I stayed up until four AM making a mix CD, two hours was devoted to making a watercolored cover/booklet listing the songs in the mix, and their relevance to the theme, which was I have a big honking crush on you, a-duh. He said he liked it, listened to it a lot, and I felt supremely justified in losing sleep just so he could sleep at night.

And, as with everything else, I make lists and discard them. On top of this list: how to kill some time before heading out in the cold.