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"This is your world and I'm just living in it." Slowly but surely, I'm forging it into my own. I declare this space Andeeland, and you are welcome to revel in my tales of this world.


  • When I introduce myself to people, about 75% of the time it goes like this-
  • *Casual my name is... and handshake.
  • Any Person: So where are you from?
  • Me: Idaho.
  • Any Person: (A) Potatoes! OR (B) That's the place with potatoes, right?
  • *His/Her eyes turn into large orbs of surprise. (You'd think I'd I said I hail from Mars or something equally bizarre. Nobody from home prepared me to become such an oddity.)
  • Me: Yeah. That's home.
  • Sometimes people will comment on its "cool shape" or ask (with a deeply puzzled look) "That's close to California, right?" (Yeah, Not really.) "Haha, I'm not very good at geography." (Well, I'm not either, but the geography of the Western U.S. is tons easier than the Eastern portion, so at least I have an excuse.)
  • Once, somebody even asked me whether or potatoes were cheaper back home. (I don't know. I don't have a reason to buy potatoes while I'm here. I live in a college dorm.)

Crouton Kid

Q: Who doesn’t like croutons? 

A: Nobody. (Even people that are allergic to wheat like croutons. They just can’t have any. It’s a forbidden love, a taboo. It’s the star-crossed love of the ages, like Romeo and Juliet. Except, it’s between person and food. Maybe that makes it more like Twilight… eww)

On with the story:

I, like everybody else, happen to enjoy croutons in my salad, and one day while I was going through the salad bar line in my high school, I happened to glance at the person in front of me. This boy stuck his entire hand into the crouton bin, and I swear his grimy fingers touched every single square in that bin. I was disgusted and outraged. (He must have liked croutons too.) GOSH, DARN IT! Nothing else, and I repeat nothing else, that they served for lunch was actually edible. I was in a rage. I ranted and raved the entire day. I had no idea what this kid’s name was, so in the midst of telling the story I instantaneously dubbed him Crouton Kid.” 

For months, I would check to see if he was in front or behind me while I was in line. I needed to know if my croutons were safe. I told this story countless times (normally to whoever was next to me in line.) Eventually, I learned his real name, but it was too late; “Crouton Kid” had already stuck. Sometime the next school year, a friend of mine sent me text saying, “so-and-so just referred to Crouton Kid.” Oddly enough, I didn’t know so-and-so let alone speak with him. How exactly did he hear the tale of Crouton Kid? Did he even hear it? I have no idea, but the ramblings of a mad-women (me) made it around. I must have complained a lot more than I thought.

How’s College…


I moved across the country for college (from Idaho to Georgia). It’s a big change, and whenever I talk to anybody from home (or even those people colleges pay to make sure you haven’t thrown yourself off a building yet) they ask me series of questions: 

Is it the way you expected?

In all honesty, I had no expectations for college, so it just is. I didn’t make up fantasies on how it would e like or what I would do. Of course I had though about it but not with rose-colored glasses. I knew it would be work, and that it would be different, but that’s it; that’s as far as I thought. 

Are you having fun?

How am I supposed to answer that? Do they want to hear about my drunken carousing? (Which there actually is none of, because I live a “pathetic” existence and don’t really care.) Does anybody have fun all of the time? If you do, something is seriously wrong with you or you’re just lying. There are fun moments (if they were all the time, it wouldn’t be fun, because fun is out of the ordinary). What I cryptically answer is, “Yeah, sometimes.”

How is it different from high school?

Umm… I’m the only one in charge of myself, and nobody really cares if I show up or not, so that’s different… I have to force myself to go find food. It’s a pain in the butt. I used to enjoy eating and cooking, but now I only eat so I don’t pass out.  The work itself isn’t too hard, but it’s not easy, it just is.

How are you doing?

I’m not exactly happy, but I’m not sad either. I guess the right word for it is content (but a little less happy). I’m lonely and homesick from time to time, but I’m okay. I find my little bits of sunshine. I’m making friends, but I miss my friends that I told any and every thing to.


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