Strawberry Fields Forever

Today my alarm went off at 9am and for 5 minutes I cursed it's existence and pouted in bed before dragging myself to the shower. Now, 9am is not particularly early in my book. I'm actually quite used to being at work at 6:30 to sell lukewarm coffee and slightly stale muffins to old people who have nothing better to do than be awake at the butt-crack of dawn and lecture everyone they see for their "lack of respect" and "horrendous taste in music". But last night was my first night training as Supervisor at work (yay me!) and I was so fueled with the power of bossing people around that by the time I got home at 10:30pm I was too pumped up to sleep. I even practiced at home by bossing Matt around and threatening to "write him up" if he acted out of line. So when my head finally hit the pillow around 1:30 I cursed myself for the fact that Easter brunch in the am meant not sleeping in until noon as originally planned. But once I was showered and my face was properly painted on like the not-so-secret drag queen I am, I was excited to meet up with one of my favorite friends from home for a crowded but delicious Easter brunch at the Madonna Inn. Seeing Carizza is like seeing a little ball of sunshine (a sexy ball of sunshine!), she just lights up the room and instantly puts me a good mood. It made me miss home and all the people I once saw on a daily basis. As exciting as life is outside the nest there are some days that I miss ditching class to hang out with my friends. Once upon a time my biggest expense concern was how I was going to pay for my prom dress (a mighty fine looking prom dress, might I add.). After almost a year I still haven't acquired a lot of new friends in San Luis Obispo and it's not often I get to dress up and go out and socialize. The next few months are packed with life changing events. I'm planning my best friends wedding shower for May, and attending her wedding in the summer, my baby cousin is pregnant (!) and due in the fall, I'm working and living on my own and preparing myself for the upcoming changes in Matt's life. I have a plan and goals and things are falling into place. Everyone around me is growing up and it reminds me that I'm growing up too. I don't always like it, but unless someone mails me a ticket to Neverland and a key to a room in the Lost Boys cabin, it's not going to stop. For the last few months I've been plagued with these horrible dreams about money issues, family issues, and the stress of life in general. I already have enough trouble sleeping as it is, so giving me nightmares just seems like a cruel joke God likes to play on me when he's not busy fucking with underdeveloped countries. But the other night I had a dream I was on a swing. Simple as that. Me. Swing. Nice breeze. And it was the best dream I've had in a long while (Sorry dream where I married Ryan Reynolds, you've been beaten). It's amazing that something so simple can be so relaxing and mean so much. Now I'm determined to find a swing and just ignore the rest of the world for a while. Hopefully this plan won't end with angry parents calling the police to report a creepy girl on the swings at the park.

Good Day Sunshine

This morning when I woke up I just knew it was going to be a good day. It's a rarity that I wake up refreshed and ready to start the day without a cup--or ten--of coffee. Rather than fumbling around with outstretched arms like a brain-craving zombie (yumm, brains! Perhaps with a good garlic white sauce? Watch your back, Paula Dean!) I felt prepared to play the part of sexy zombie hunter, the kind whose makeup always seems flawless no matter how much of the apocalypse she's been through. I went to work and clocked in at 6:25 am sharp, because I am a show-off and I always have to be 5 mintutes early. When I walked into the office I stopped dead in my tacks because up on the bulletin board was posted the holy-of-holies on shiney white paper. A notice to all retail sales associates (that's me!) that a new supervisor position was opening at the end of the month and any employees interested in said position should submit their letter of intent. This excited me for two reasons: being a supervisor would mean a huge bump up in pay which is always needed and graciously accepted AND my manager personally pulled me aside last week and asked me to apply for this position. As excited as I am to hammer this glowing list of illustrious and noteable attributes that make me a valuable member of the Apple Farm team (oh, and money is good too. Yeah....money....) I can't get my hopes up too high. There are 2 other girls just as qualified as I am. My best defense against these formidable foes? My charm. On the 18th my manager plans on holding interviews with everyone who submits their letters. I'm going to smile a lot, talk confidently and be as witty and charming as my que cards allow. ;) Wish me luck!

I've Got a Feeling

When I started this blog I promised myself I would update often so everyone could have the inside scoop of what's going on in my not-so-organized head (isn't this a promise all bloggers make, break, and eventually apologize for?). Well I won't be making anymore promises to myself or anyone else for that matter. I owe you nothing and I hope you've come to expect nothing in return. Well, not nothing. I would hope that I'm interesting enough that you look forward to reading my ramblings and expect some sort of creativity to spurt forth like a stabbed artery at some point. Even if it takes weeks. So what is my grand excuse for being a shitty blogger, much like an absentee father who only shows up once a month to take Jimmy to the movies and is usually late and talks on his cellphone through the entire film, eventually getting both Jimmy and himself kicked out of the theater before Kurt Russell even has the chance to escape from New York, then drops Jimmy off an hour before the visit is even supposed to end because he has to pick up his girlfriend Cherry from her shift at hooters? Well, dear reader--and Jimmy--I've been writing. I know that sounds like a terrible and fabulous lie, because let's face it, even when I lie I'm fabulous, but it's oh so true! I've been on a roll lately. Inspiration stuck its little lightning rod in my ass and I've yet to be able to pry it from my swollen cheeks (too much imagery? I apologize. See! Imagery! That's something writers use!). Yesterday I hauled my lazy bum to the Barnes and Noble downtown, put on a pair of black-rimmed glasses and loaded up on books about the city of lights and hookers that resemble Nicole Kidman: Paris. I sat at a small cafe table on the second story over-looking the town, sipped my free water (because even coffee is out of my budget right now.) and started taking notes. A few weeks ago I came up with this idea to write a sort of twisted coming-of-age story set in 1960's Paris. And damn did I pick a great setting. The time period and the backdrop fit perfectly with my naive misfits. Drugs sex and rock and roll anyone? Basically since the start of February I've been filling my notebooks with ideas, timelines, plot-points and character developments. So far I love what I have. I'm not bragging by any means (although we all know that outwardly I'm fucking awesome) because I'm not all that confident in my writing and more likely than not this will wind up just another angsty teen melodrama to throw on top of my trash pile. But that's not the point. The point is I'm writing! I'm putting pen to paper for the first time in almost a year and I'm letting the ideas flow. I feel like I'm finally doing something with me life. Right now Bad Romance is streaming through my headphones because no one brings the crazy like Lady Gaga, and that's exactly what I need right now. So I'm going to go put on my Lobster headpiece, grab my disco stick and let the crazy flow. Then I'm off to pick up Jimmy and drop off yet another child-support check. And yes, I will be deducting the frozen yogurt I buy him from the total check. Life ain't cheap. Ciao, darlings!

Come and Get it

So here I am, 2 hours away from being (or pretending to be) that grown-up 21 year old adult that everyone expects of me, and I'm standing in the bathroom holding a brand new leather jacket in one hand and a bottle of flaming red hair dye in the other.
The smirk on my face could turn this town inside out.
Fuck being responsible.
Fuck being an adult.
I am youthful, humorous, confident, and practically bursting with sexuality. Who made up all these rules about age and maturity? Since when did it become a crime to wrecklessly explore the world and take life for what is? A means to an end. No one's going to hold your hand from cradle to tomb. These are the moments you have to enjoy and the mysteries you have to solve on your own.
I love that about life.
I love that you can color your hair and paint on some ruby red lipstick and morph into a completely different person. The man at the club knows me only as the lusty sex kitten who flirts her way to payday. The girl at the coffee shop knows me only as the quiet girl in the glasses and cardigan who always has her nose in a book. My boss knows me as a hard worker. My boyfriend knows me as a good lover. Most of my friends know me as a good listener.
I get to play all these parts.
Life is really a one man show.
But at the end of the day, no matter what my outward appearance may be, I'm still the exact same Ashley Joelle Jasper I've been since day one.
And no one can take that away from me.
Happy Birthday.

Eight Days a Week

I thought I'd be awesome and catch you up on my boring life. Whether this is torture or a thrilling look into the life of the insane that far surpasses any mental ward based piece of literature is up to you.

So today (Sat) and tomorrow (Sun) are my days off. I've actually had far more days off than I wanted lately. I would say I'm down to working 3 or 4 days a week and no one is hiring so a 2nd job seems unlikely at the moment. Work is slow and my manager is actually apologizing and feeling guilt ridden for the lack of hours she's supplying me with, but alas, her hands are tied. What the big boss says goes, no matter how crippling it may be for his employees.

The house has been exceptionally cold lately. I feel like I live in a snowman's asshole, so hot showers and warm fuzzy blankets worn like an emperor's robe have become classic favorites. I refuse to give into the snuggie though. I will die before I spend 20 bucks on a backwards robe that makes me one step closer to the fat cat lady who sits on her couch watching soaps and eating cheetos all day.

I've been a writing fiend lately. Funny enough, not having a life frees up some time to pretend you have something to say that's worth recording on paper. I got this awesome journal for the new year called "one line a day". It encourages writing by having you record one line in the book everyday for a span of five years. So far it's taught me two important things: 1.) I'm a lazy motherfucker who talks more than I actually do. and 2.) I have the attention span of a chihuahua on crack so writing in short bursts forces me to examine my details more closely and be far more witty in smaller sections. I'm becoming more disciplined in my correspondence and I'm proud of that. I'm starting to become more motivated to make this whole "author" thing happen. I just need to focus on finding more outlets and staying inspired.

I'm also making a list to keep me from falling into the trap of the boring life:



*Write or read for 60 minutes everyday.
*Start hiking. (There is so much beautiful greenery out here. I need to take advantage of that.)
*Learn to play the guitar (I don't need to be a musical god. Being mediocre will do just fine.)
*Sing in public more often
*Cook one scary new thing every month
*Finish my fafsa early for once
*Take at least one class that will help me learn some useful new skill
*Go out and socialize with the public at least once a month (being a hermit, no matter if it's a sexy hermit, is no way to stay in touch with life)
*Go to pismo beach (I've lived here for 6 months and I've never been! What the hell!?!!?)
*Try something new (falling on my face has always made for a humorous note to the public)


Alright, so I think I've exacerbated the fountain enough for one night. I've far exceeded the one line encouragement level and I'm treading into essay waters. That's going to turn me into an english student if I'm not careful.

Ob la di, ob la da

I've recently discovered it's possible to live at or below the poverty line with more tumble weeds blowing through your wallet than cash, and still go to bed with a full stomach. You just have to get a little creative.

I'm ashamed to say that I've gotten so poor that I can no longer afford groceries. Work is slow so the hours have decreased and no one seems to be hiring, so a second job seems unrealistic. I'm so broke I think the homeless guys on the street are going to start giving me change. I'm staying optimistic though. With my free time I've been working on getting my life in order and writing more, because really that's where my heart is.

So, back to feeding myself on impecunious man's budget.

I opened my fridge the other day in the hopes that some almighty feast from the god's would somehow be waiting for me on a gold platter. Alas, all I really discovered was some rendered bacon fat, some wilted veggies, and half an apple pie. The freezer offered me a little more luck with a bunch of leftover Christmas ham and some bacon, so I started to think of what I could turn that into. Turns out, there are lots of things you can do with such meaty items. Stumbling upon some beef bouillon, a bit of milk, an onion and a can of mixed vegetables, I went to work making a hearty ham and bacon stew. Not too bad, and it fed myself and two growing boys with endless appetites. Now that I'm out of ham, I've moved on to the cupboards. Turns out a box of pasta meant as a side-dish doubles as semi-homemade macaroni and cheese with a little leftover cheese from the fridge. Ramen with some vinaigrette, olives, and slices almonds turns into a surprisingly tasty Asian pasta salad. And frozen mashed up bananas with a bit of milk and sugar is just about as good as ice cream. This might sound disgusting to you, but until you show up at my door with a plate of steak or a check with my name on it, I don't want to hear it. Work has also been a huge lifesaver. Breakfasts come in the form of fruit from the salad bar, a large cup of coffee, and sometimes a muffin which has "mysteriously" broken into two pieces and therefore is unfit to sell to our customers. Lunch usually consists of vegetable soup and a lot of times brings some of his friends home with me in a carry-out container. Everynight for the past 2 weeks I've gone to bed without feeling hungry, and in a time where about 3.5 million people don't have that luxury, I guess I've got not complaints. It's really humbled me, I suppose. I don't need all that money to be happy. I don't have to go out to eat all the time, or buy that cute dress I saw at the mall, or see every damn movie that some big budget director has thrown into theaters. I'm content and for now, and I think I can manage with the little I've got.

If you'll excuse me, I've scrounged up some change from the couches and I'm off to buy some milk to accompany the cereal I got on sale for 99 cents. :)

For No One

A shot in the dark.
I'm coming to round five.
Still no luck.
The ideas just don't seem to be flowing like they used to.
My fingers twist tightly around the base of the pen, turning my knuckles an eerie shade of white. Another barely marked piece of paper gets balled up and tossed into the waste-basket like the forsaken remnants of yesterdays lunch. A useless notebook filled with useless words. Nothing original. Nothing emotive. Once upon a time reverie and purpose used to gush forth like blood pouring from a broken vein. Now my thoughts lay dormant.
Nothing is good enough. Every possible idea seems beyond useless.
I consider, for a few moments, just giving up. Drop the pen, stand up and leave. Someone must be hiring. Perhaps I can work in a museum. Passing out those tiny little brochures and pointing schoolchildren to the dinosaur exhibit, their tiny fingers wrapped around the wrists of their parents, attempting to drag mummy and daddy across the linoleum as fast as possible as if the t-rex might once again go extinct if they don't dash to the other side of the hall like rabid little monkeys. No. I don't think I'm cut out for that. I don't like kids much, and the elderly on a dreary Sunday afternoon can be ten times worse.
I inhale deeply, letting the air fill my lungs. Exhaustion is taking over. The blackness of sleep slowly creeping into view. I close my eyes for a moment, toying with the thought of a solid nap. I can picture my pillow in my head better than any lover that ever existed. Whomever compared a soft pillow to falling asleep on a cloud was not far off. It only takes a moment before I realize I'm drifting off.
I snap my head back up into place, filled with determination and a hint of desperate anger. Anything to make me feel motivated.
Since the age of seven, all I've wanted to do is write. Something as simple as putting my pen to paper, something that brings me more pleasure than anything else in the world is now haunting me, baring down like a weight on my chest. Maybe I'm over thinking it.
Should something you love so wholly be so difficult? What is it I'm missing? Where is my inspiration?
Suddenly, in a moment of overdue frustration I slam the notebook shut and fling the remaining scraps of paper and crumpled notes to the floor. My feet hit the ground so hard I feel the pain reverberate all the way up to my knees as I storm off to the kitchen in search of another cup of coffee. The little white clock nailed to the wall reads; 3:24 am. My third break in as many hours and still nothing of use. I flip through the mail on the table while the pot begins to drip and in a moment more humorous coincidence than irony I stumble upon a coupon for the local National History museum. I let a small smile permeate my lips.
Things really could be worse. I just need a day off and a day out. I check for the museum hours on the back of the ad. Tomorrow seems like a mighty fine day for a history lesson. But first, some rest. I choose to abandon the pot of coffee and leave my workings in a wash of sudden darkness as I close my bedroom door and reach for the pillows like a lost child.
The night is too good, and tomorrow is another chance to screw it all up.