My nose just itched. I scratched it. It itched again. I wipe my nose and see a black spot.

Ew a black booger? Look closer. That booger has legs. Six legs. And antennae!

You know we have an ant problem when there are ants CRAWLING IN MY NOSE! Thank you very much landlady for not calling the exterminator when we asked. Thank you for making us live in this ant farm!

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To read Abigail’s post about our insect friends, click here.

Thank you, Dooce. Thank you for making me never want to have children. Ever. And please don’t ever let me convince myself that I need drugs to make me normal. I don’t want to become dependent.

This morning I smelled grass. Fresh, soaked soil.

It terrified me. The aroma quickly brought fear, nervousness and inner panic.

Now think like a winner. If you don’t think you’re going to win, then you’ve already lost. And it’s a long and painful journey if you’re just going to finish with average people. I’d be a winner if I could just beat her.

Oh shoot! Did I forget my spikes? Sharp pangs of fear surged through my increasingly tense body. But the pangs subside quickly as I remembered I had packed them the night before.

It’s 45 minutes before race time. Get a good warmup in. Go to the bathroom. Stretch and do strides. Go to the bathroom again. Drink some water, even though you’re never thirsty.

A horn sounds and a man in a red blazer and white straw hat holds up his megaphone. “First call for varsity women’s 5k! First call!” Hundreds of girls line up horizontally. Soon, or later for some, they will line up vertically — from best to worst.

I didn’t have to be best, just better.

I stand next to her, smile and say good luck. That’s what teammates are for. No, that’s a lie. Teammates are meant to be beaten. And I was going to do it.

“Ladies to your mark!” Take a step. Crouch over. Head up. Hold breath. BANG!

Hundreds of girls stampeding across the field. I got a good spot in the pack. I can hold this. This isn’t so bad. Wait, how did those girls get so far ahead?

All of a sudden I am no longer in a crowd. A group of 20, then 10. From 10 to two. Two to one. How’d I slow down so much. How much farther? Where is she? She was only 10 feet ahead, but I guess that looks about 30 feet now. I don’t think I can get her.

One to two. Two to 10. They pass me. One more mile? But I want to stop now. She’s so far ahead. At what point am I supposed to enjoy this?

Eventually I see the finish. My arms and legs are moving, but I feel nothing. A blur of finishers, colored flags and a big clock are calling me home. But home is cruel. Again I am nobody special, again I have failed. He’ll ask why didn’t I beat her and I’ll just be tired, sweaty and holding in tears.

Don’t worry, he says, there’s a new field next week.

liaison, n. 1. An instance or a means of communication between different groups or units of an organization, especially in the armed forces. 2. One that maintains communication: served as the President’s liaison with Congress. 3. A close relationship, connection, or link.

An instance or means of communication is not going on a retreat with the organization. Maintaining communication is does not happen through serving dessert and passing around offering buckets. A close relationship, connection or link does mean meeting every (ahem, other) week.

If someone would forward the above memo to my “boss” that would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.

There is no Ultimate Frisbee team at my school. I sort of tried to start a team last year, and I’m hoping to start one this year. The problem is — I don’t have a lot of free time now as it is. I can’t imagine what it would be like to start up a team here. But there is a dire need.

There is a lot of interest in Ultimate. Intramural season is coming up and there are at least six teams. The problem is, they don’t play by UPA (Ultimate Players Association) rules. They don’t realize, but it makes it a whole lot harder for themselves when they make up their own lame rules.

I was playing with several of the guys the other night when one announced that they’d be adhering to one of the UPA’s rules — if you drop the Frisbee on a “kickoff” it’s a turnover. But the stall count is still fast and three seconds short. They play with more than seven per team on the field. They don’t want to learn the stack offense. And they sure as heck can’t throw — heaven forbid they listen to a girl.

Call me a Frisbee elitist, but this girl happens to play tournaments with two well-established teams (Las Positas College and Solid Gold). Teams that play in tournaments all over the nation. I’m not saying that I’m necessarily good, but I listen and learn from those who are good. Why won’t they listen to me? Why won’t they adhere to all the UPA rules and not just some? WHY MUST I BE SURROUNDED BY INCOMPETENCE?!?!

Okay, so that’s a little drastic. I still play with nice people. But I am losing my desire to play when I’m at school, let alone start up a team.

For more pictures from Discos Calientes 2005, click here.

“Oh no,” she said; her head jolted back as if the mistake had forcefully hit her in the forehead. “Chief is spelled wrong.”

Page 10. The troubled page that wouldn’t print or save. We stared at it all night thinking it was perfect. I guess we were really praying that it would be perfect.

She gasped again.

“Emily, you don’t want to know. … Or do you?”

Of course I didn’t want to know.

“Tell me,” I said. I think I was shocked to hear it come from my mouth. I just gave the command to open the floodgates. All I could see was a tsunami of errors ready to drown me. Drown me with failure.

“The first three columns are left aligned and the last is justified.”

I held my breath, but only for a second. “Oh is that all?” I said. Hah. I guess she didn’t notice the same thing on page one.

It really is amazing that I’m okay with hearing errors. We worked for hours. I spent months preparing for that newspaper. I really did put much of myself into that paper. It was hard to hear that it wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t mean I failed. The fact that there was a paper was enough for me. Knowing that makes me feel free.

This may be the first time I have experienced insomnia. Frankly I don’t see what’s so bad about it. I was able to mostly fix the semester’s registration. I could price books, post pictures on one of my two blogs (check out the new one) or I could be eating snack packs and watching one of the network channels that we now get.

My bones seem to become hollower the more I think about how much I’ll want to sleep when it’s light outside. If I start to think too hard, my brain feels pain as if a pencil were stabbing a Pink Pearl eraser.

Adrenaline gushed through my body with the delicacy of roaring rapids. My first duty as the University newspaper’s Editor in Chief was to get an issue out for Thursday, Aug. 25. At 3:15 a.m. I received confirmation that my pages were successfully uploaded and headed for the presses.

Though I never want to experience late productions nights as this, I was strangely calm. I didn’t even pray until about 1:30 a.m. — when I told the printer the pages would be finished. Along with the strange calm I continue to experience a robotic state. Right now I have no personality. I can’t even tell if I’m tired.

Is this what insomnia is like? Does this mean that I can get money for participating in insomnia research projects advertised through Craig’s List?

I can only find one black shoe that would match this outfit. The horrendous ensemble that fits the “church attire” standard.

But you should go.

I would just be sitting there for hours wishing I could leave.

But you really should go.

I am already late and don’t have any makeup on.

A lot of people are late, just go.

I have so many things to do.

This is one of them. Go.

But no one even knows me there. They can never remember my name. Besides, I don’t think my friends are going.

Fine, it’s up to you. Do what you want.

OK! OK! BUT I’M WEARING JEANS! AND BEING LATE.

I know, I know. I must choose what to blog about and not write about everything. So sorry for the last post. It just felt like I had to get everything in there.

I would like to know what energy carried me from 9:30 until now. I was set on going to bed then, and look what happened. It’s 12:30 and I have to get up early.

As I sit in and inhale white dust and debris, I wonder if this is what a crack house is like. And at once I am thankful not to know what that would be like. But at least crack has its perks. I’m about to inhale crap for seven hours. I’m going to sue for asbestos.

Moving on to my weekend-turned-week wrap up:

Friday: Got early flight and flew home. The boyfriend picked me up. Upon arrival received a basset hound puppy stuffed animal. Got to my house. Said hi to the parents.

Saturday: Awoke way too early. Drove to Chico for Discos Calientes. Forgot wallet and turned back. Became a UPA member. Continued the drive. Met with my team, Pie Queens and Company, unofficially the Team of Terror. Ate deli sandwich. Should have put on sunscreen but didn’t. Warmed up and played four games of Ultimate. Went to get free food but it was all out. Cursed like a sailor. Just kidding. Was dragged to Hula’s Chinese BBQ. Hotel cancelled our rooms and ruined my chances of going to the party. Showered and went to bed early.

Sunday: Awoke way too early (I see this to be a trend…). Played two games with Terror. We had the cutest puppy for a mascot (picture coming soon). Cheered the boys on and chatted with the other female spectators. I loved watching my teammates play. Go LPC! Drove home. Ate at Chevy’s. Matt said it was my birthday. Thoughts to strangle him were drowned out by my tears of embarassment. Yes, I cried when they put the hat on.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday: I’m losing sleep while I try to distinguish these days, so I’ll include the highlights. Ate lunch with mom at Panda. Went to practice and college group. Was rear-ended by a big rig (no worries, Matt, me and the car are okay). Did a little sleeping in. Went to breakfast at JD’s and got our usual: the giant strawberry milkshake. Went to the toy store to see if there were cuter puppies than the one Matt got me. I found another cute one and Matt bought me it too, because I couldn’t decide. I have the best boyfriend. Or I’m spoiled. Or both.

Sidenote: People, be careful on the road. My best friend in eighth grade just died in a car accident. Another friend from college group died the same night in an unrelated accident. Then Sara’s friend was on a motorcycle that was hit and the other driver fled. He’s on life support and not expected to make it.