Research In Africa: Sleep Deprivation

(Note: I wrote this when I was extremely sleep deprived. I kept it to see if it made any sense. I think I was on to something. I'm not sure what, but I was on to something.)

Late nights are difficult. I haven't been able to sleep for some reason. I like my sleep, I was getting good sleep for a long time without any sleeping aids (Insomnia sucks, kids. Stay away from it!), but lately it's been a lot more difficult to get good sleep. And it's not as if my body says, "Oh, dude, you couldn't sleep until 3am? We'll wake up at 8. At least you'll have five hours of shitty sleep." Nope. My body keeps its 5:30am wake-up call. Prick.

The most difficult part is when your brain decides to bring up the past. It's as if it wants to you remember everything that happened. Why? What's the point, Brain? It doesn't do any good, it just brings up memories that won't let me go to freakin' sleep. It's almost as if my brain thinks that I will benefit from thinking about everything that has gone right or wrong in my life at 2:30am... because I can do so much about it at that time.

My brain decides to say, "Hey, remember that one time back in like, 2004, and how much it sucked? Let's think about that again."

"No, Brain. Shut up."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

The whole night is like that. My brain won't go away. It keeps talking to me and bringing up stupid memories that it doesn't know are stupid, because it's just a stupid brain that doesn't care about anything but keeping me up at night. Hey, Brain! I'm a college graduate. There's no reason for you to keep me up like you used to before a huge midterm. 

"You know what you never did? You never went to Africa to do research!"

"Why are you so obsessed with Africa, Brain?"

"Fuck you, you suck. Go to Africa and do research!"

It's a back and forth banter that never ends. At least it doesn't until I get too tired to reply to my brain as if it were a completely different person than me. I blame being tired on that. 

Of course, when I finally drift off into a half-sleep, the house alarm computer thing decides to start beeping. What? Why, alarm? Why did you wake me up? It wasn't even good sleep, so there was no reason for you to hate me or whatever alarms do to slumbering people. Nope. It was a half-assed sleep that I couldn't get a full hold of. 

Then my brain started another celebration or something until it finally got tired. It was like a 3-year old child on too much sugary Red Bull who then crashed. I don't remember falling asleep and I don't remember what my brain was panicking about; I just remember that my brain wanted to make me nostalgic for some odd reason. Or telling me that I suck because I didn't do my research in Africa. (Seriously. Why does research in Africa always come up!?). 

Everything feels better once I wake up, however, because I know my brain is just doing late-night ramblings. I think that next time I'm going to sedate it with Benadryl... 

Why One Shouldn't Date the Other

When you're as passionate about a sport like I am (in my case two, but I'm not here to one-up you or anything), you realize that if you want to have a healthy romantic relationship, you either have to date someone who shares the same passion or date someone who is understanding of your complete psycho addiction to your sport. That person has to understand that you have to put hours and hours of training, and when you're not training, you're most likely racing. Your partner has to realize that your bike is most likely going to get more ass than he/she is.

After dating different people, I've found that I definitely like dating cyclists. I like to be able to ride with my partner, go to his races to cheer him on, and go to cycling events together. However, after trial and error, I realized the type of cyclist I prefer to date. Well, have to date in order to have a healthy relationship.

I'm clearly a roadie. I love racing criteriums above everything else, though the occasional road or mountain bike races are fun. I've been told by many people that I'm a "roadie with the attitude of a mountain biker." I don't know what that means. I've chosen to take it as a compliment, so whenever someone says that, even if they mean it as an insult, I feel complimented. Because I'm a fairly Type B person, I tend to like fairly laid back people, though I've been known to get along with the Type A's. I'm pretty Type B unless I'm asking you to keep your bike out of registration.

It's no doubt that I like dating mountain bikers more. The last couple of times that I've dated roadies or wannabe roadies, it's been a disaster. Training is more about fun for me. I'm an amateur cyclist; always have and always will be, but these guys started training as if they were pros. Yes, I stick to my training program as much as I can and I have a coach, but I won't do it if it's not fun. For these guys, training got too serious, and when they weren't seeing results, when they weren't placing well, and when I started getting stronger than them, it became a problem. A big problem. As if I had just kicked their mother, killed their dog, and punched them in their manhood. 

Yikes.

So, it became clear as day that if I wanted to date a cyclist, I'd have to date either someone with the same mentality as me or someone who races a completely different discipline. Both work. If you have another super laid back roadie (think cyclocross), then you've got a good pair. A mountain biker works, too, because if they ever ride on the road, it's just to keep their fitness up. A cyclocross racer can go either way because that's how they roll.

But even though I like dating the chill, laid back type of person, I also enjoy watching my partner race in crits. It's fun to go to the same event and cheer each other on, and if you're like me, you can heckle the hell out of a rider. 

I'll admit, going to mountain bike and cyclocross races are a lot of fun, too.

I don't know how to draw.

Either way, the dynamic has to work. There has to be enough respect. If you're both crit sluts, then you have to realize that sometimes you have a good year and your partner has a bad one and vice versa. If your partner has a good year, though, you can't hold that against him/her. That's just asking for trouble. Encourage your partner and change your plan so you stop sucking.

Basically, I'm a low-maintenance roadie who likes beer and dirt. As long as we have that and enough respect and we cheer heckle each other at races, all is good in the world of Miss Kay. 

Oh... Triathletes need to stick with one another. No one likes them.

Birds and Trauma

Since I've talked about things I really dislike, such as raisins, I figured I would make another confession. I hate birds. Yup. I would much rather see a raisin farm (from really far away) than hold a bird.

That's not true. I think I hate raisins more. I don't know; it's pretty close.

It wasn't always that way. When I was a kid, I really, really wanted a cockatiel. I don't know why. Future me didn't realize I was going to regret wanting a pet bird. I underestimated how psychotic birds can be. Actually, I didn't estimate it at all because I was an ignorant child who stupidly wanted a pet bird.

In 6th grade, I went to Sly Park for a camping or whatever field trip you want to call it. A week long trip was a pretty big deal back then, especially since I still didn't speak very good English. My parents came to visit me and told me that they had a surprise for me. My mom started making chirping noises (my weirdness is making more and more sense, huh?) and I got all excited and was like "holycrapyougotmeacockatielthatissofreakingcool" except I said it in Spanish and not in those exact words because I didn't know that vocabulary yet, but I was all excited. My mom said no, that they were parakeets and they weren't tame.

I think you can see where this is going.

Those birds were loud. I mean, LOUD. I don't know how else to describe it besides saying that they were fucking loud as hell. But whatever. I just lost sleep. What 11-year old needs that shit? None, except every child so they can grow up to be normal and productive members of society. (Thanks for making me into a weird and productive member of society, parents. You got 50% of it!)

On my 12th birthday, though, they decided to take me to a pet store to buy a cockatiel because I really, really wanted one. I chose the bird that was sleeping in its food dish because I thought it would be totally cool and hilarious to have a weird bird. I mean, c'mon, it was sleeping in its food dish. The pet store people put him in a paper bag with holes so the bird could breathe. The bird was hissing at me the whole way home. When we got home, I tried to take him out of the paper bag, and the asshole bit me. After getting bit several times by this hand fed and totally tame bird, I decided to go to Plan B and rip the bag so I could grab the bird. That worked. Sort of.

For a while he was pretty normal, except that he was afraid of sticks and his birdie jungle gym, would fight with fruit, and was afraid of the phone ringing. I had never owned a cockatiel, so I wasn't sure if this was normal or not, (just so you know, it's not) so I just went along with it. He was my buddy for a while; he'd sit on my shoulder while I did homework and then he would eat my homework. I had a lot of teachers ask me why my homework had chew marks on it but whatever; they just judged me anyway. Weird foreign kid...

The parakeets made Eddie really loud and obnoxious; he copied every noise they made. At that time, Eddie was a free-range bird, so every time that the phone rang he'd fly (or tried to; we clipped his feathers) in a panic. Or if he saw fruit, he'd try to COME AT ME BRO but would lose because when the fruit rolled away, he'd freak out and try to fly away in a panic again. Jesse and Joey were not free-range birds because they weren't tame. My mom would put their cage outside so they could make some Vitamin D or something.

One day, when I came home from school, my mother told me that a gust of wind blew Jesse and Joey's cage down and they escaped. I asked her if she thought that they would come back and she responded with, "No. They're probably going to die soon." (My mother has always been very frank about everything. When I asked her where babies came from, she told me it was from the butt [to keep it simple for a 5-year old]. My first sex ed. class was very confusing. All I knew is that the teacher had it all wrong. Don't worry... I figured it out.)

Things didn't get better with Eddie once Jesse and Joey committed suicide. Eddie kept freaking out about more things and decided that randomly attacking stuff was good fun. My German Shepherd/Chow mix was afraid of the bird. The other dog, Bandit, a Shiz Tsu/Toy Collie mix didn't care because he had the COME AT ME BRO complex, too. Eddie kept attacking everything and everyone. He also ate the paint off the wall. Maybe that had something to do with his craziness... I don't know. I didn't eat paint off the wall when I was a kid (or now). The bird was psycho; he even peacocked my horse! (This is a true story. When Eddie was still not as psycho, I took him to the barn when I was a kid one day to feed my horse his grain. My horse doesn't like feathers. Yeah...)

After several paint incidents, Eddie stopped being a free-range bird.

Fast forward a few years and a kitten was introduced to the house. The kitten was mesmerized by the bird because, duh, she's a fucking cat and she likes to hunt and shit. She jumped on the cage once. Once. Eddie had none of that nonsense and attacked the kitten. The kitten will no longer go near that bird. Even he's too crazy for the psycho cat.

Not only is Eddie psycho, likes to eat paint, attacks huge dogs, and scares kittens, but he's a chronic masturbator. No one believed me until they actually saw it for themselves. When you're 14-years old and you see this happening, it's not cool. Actually, it still isn't. I mean, what the hell!?

And it's not like I can just avoid birds. Birds live outside and shit on everything we love. I also housesit for a couple of friends, one who has an aviary with 12 birds and another one who has a single bird that I think was dropped as an egg or something because he's so weird. I don't touch the ones in the aviary; I just feed them. The single bird gets to come out of its cage when I housesit, but I use a chopstick. No way will I let a bird's clammy feet touch me!

There are several reasons why I dislike birds now. They're loud, they destroy things, they attack people/things, they have clammy feet, some are chronic masturbators, they bite, they have bird dandruff that fills the room and makes me sneeze, they molt, some have deep psychological issues, they shit on your stuff, eat your homework, mock you with their flying abilities, fight with you, threaten your safety, attack dogs, scare kittens, and eat paint off the walls. I think the biggest trauma for me was Eddie, though. That bird just fucked it up for every other bird in the world.

When it comes to birds, most people see this,

Thanks to Eddie, I see this,

Evaluations, Reevaluations, and Missiles

Every year, without fail, I have a birthday. No, bear with me. And every year, without fail, I have the "Shit shit, guys! I'm a year older and what the fuck am I doing with myself?!" While I'm not doing badly at all for a 25-year old, I still get the feeling that I could have gone to Africa or Europe (I don't know) and have done some psychological research or something. But I'm still in good ol' California, running my own business. Which is not a bad thing at all.

My brain likes to screw with me, though. It starts to freak out for no reason. For a few days, my poor little brain feels as if the world is going to collapse onto it. My rational mind tries to tell it to calm down because the sky isn't going to fall anytime soon, but my poor little brain just says, "Fuck you! Yes it is!" and begins to weep. (Or at least what I imagine a weeping brain would look like... I'm not really sure. What does a weeping brain look like? Gross.)

Still gross.

I re-evaluate my life at that point. I start to weed out the people who were not very awesome during the year. It's kind of an advantage to have my birthday at the end of the year (except for sports, enrolling in school, and pretty much everything else in life), because I can just be all, "Oh hey, for 11 months you were a really shitty person, so I'm just going to delete you from my life." I have eleven months of evidence, you guys! It justifies my decision. Deleting from my life really means that I just delete the person from Facebook and ignore any calls or text messages I get from the person. I don't know if that's the right way to go about it, but I guess it has worked in the past. I think it has.

Crap. Now I don't know.

I'm just going to go with yes. I'm pretty good at ignoring stuff. I blame it on growing up in a chaotic home and always fighting with my cousins (I mean punching and scratching and everything like that). It's helped me clean up my act in the past (the ignoring, not the fighting). You get rid of people who bring a lot of negativity in your life. Unfortunately, if you're like me, you tend to attract a lot of bat-shit crazy people. I blame the fact that I'm a psychologist, cyclist, and horsewoman. That's three types of crazy people and I don't know how much longer my poor world can take it. I'm sure it'll be another sixty years, but you never know. That's still a lot of crazy.

Then I feel guilty that I deleted and ignored those people. But if I keep them in my life, it's sensory overload and my brain starts to panic as if someone fired a bunch of missiles and we're all going to die!

So then I just delete and ignore those people anyway because my rational mind tells me that I'll probably get over it after a nap. So I take a nap and don't remember that I made any of those decisions until I open my laptop and check my Facebook. And my phone getting messages such as, "WTF Y DID U DELETE ME??? :( :(" I guess I could say because of your shitty grammar but I just go back to taking a nap or lol'ing at pictures of cats and ponies on the internet. 

I will never understand how people cannot laugh at pictures like that. 

Either way, after a few panicked days (and by panicked I mean that I ran around in panicked circles and hit my coffee table because I didn't know what the hell I was doing), I feel better. Sometimes I sit in the corner of my bed and sob uncontrollably for absolutely no reason, but I feel better the morning after. I then realize that I have nothing to freak out about and that I'm doing perfectly okay for my age. I have a few things I have to take care of for my future, but that stuff is in the works right now, and that's good; at least it's all going somewhere. Progress. 

This sometimes happens a couple of times before my birthday actually hits. It's kind of a panic --> panic --> panic --> shitshitshitshit --> sob --> calm --> yay! --> uncomfortable feeling --> panic --> [...]

I think you get the idea. You guys are intelligent human beings. I think that my brain needs to do a cycle like that every once in a while so it can refresh and continue being a productive organ in my life, kind of like my heart... or liver (who is a total champ). 

I've concluded that my brain is just a fucking asshole. 

Ponies: To Be Or Not To Be

Every kid wants a pony. We waited anxiously each birthday to see if that was the birthday, and every year, we just experienced defeat and disappointment because we knew that the only pony we will ever touch is those grumpy "please kill me" ponies at the fair. Man, those little things are pissy. So much anger in such a small horse.

Okay, I shouldn't say that every kid wants a pony. I didn't exactly want a pony as a kid (though it would have been freakin' awesome); I wanted to be a pony. And no, not in the dirty sense because I was too young for my perverted sexy imagination to have developed. I would only eat my vegetables if I were able to pretend to eat them as a pony. I'm sure my mother went along with it because I would eat my vegetables for the sake of being a pony. My mother was smart; she played my weirdness like a champ. A couple of decades later, I see what she did there. Touché, Mother.

Yeah, I know. That post about weirdness is making sense now, huh?

I'm pretty sure that the general public thought I was a crazy little kid when they saw me prancing around like a pony, yelling neigh or something... or whatever I thought that ponies did when I was at that age.

(By the way, guys. I've been pretty frustrated that I've had to draw all of my pictures on my iPhone. If you guys know of a program that's not Gimp so I can draw crappy pictures on a bigger screen, please tell me. Another requirement is that I don't want to pay a lot of money for it. Never mind, I found one. Most five-year olds would be jealous.)

Really think about it, though. I was on to something when I was a kid. Now that I'm an actual professional equestrian, I know what I could get away with if I were an actual pony without getting deemed crazy/weird:

- Rolling in mud

- Eating dirt

- Being fat

- Being lazy

- Neighing for no reason

- Galloping in a field

- Spacing out

- Falling asleep standing up

- Drooling

- Spooking at shadows

- Eating flowers

The list goes on. It would be pretty awesome. But, I didn't become a pony. I didn't even get a pony as a kid; I went with a full horse. 

Actually, I fear that my horse was dropped while he was being born and that's why he's so weird... but that story is for a different day. 

Raisins: Are There Worse Things?

The answer is no.

One thing I really dislike absolutely loathe with a horribly angry passion is raisins. I hate raisins. I didn't know a person could hate such a small and pruned-up fruit. I love grapes, but dry them out and I start to freak out.

This is pretty much what I see.

A couple of years ago, I went to Disneyland with my then boyfriend and his family. We decided to get breakfast at some place in Downtown Disney, and I decided to get a carrot muffin. The muffin looked delicious, so I bit right into it and, to my horror, saw that it had raisins. I accidentally ate a raisin that morning and pretty much mentally freaked out.

It was pretty devastating. I had just eaten a raisin and the rest of them were just there, in their tiny raisin-ness, taunting me. If you think that raisins can't taunt you, you're wrong. And no one seemed to care that I had just eaten a nasty raisin. Everyone was telling me how delicious raisins are (gross). I then spent the next 30 minutes picking every single raisin out of my muffin.

I'm not allergic to raisins and I used to eat them as a child, so I don't know what started to freak me out about raisins. I don't mind if a raisin touches my food, but I can't eat them. They're gross. Raisins are pretty much the devil incarnate in my eyes.

And it's not as if I can hide my hate for raisins. It's pretty obvious by the look on my face that raisins pretty much freak me out. And because of that, I'm the target for a lot of jokes. At one point, one of my training partners would bring me a box of raisins on every training ride. He thought it was hilarious. I didn't. I'm pretty sure I ended up throwing each box of raisins far away from me. I really can't remember; I kind of just go into a blind freak out when raisins are near me.

I wish I could say that my dramatic hate for raisins was in jest, but it's not. I guess that there are worse things than raisins, like cactus and papaya, and like, war and shit. I'm actually allergic to papaya and cacti, when ingested, make me sick. Even though they make me sick, they still don't freak me out as much as raisins do.

I really hate raisins.

"This is Why I Don't Have a Girlfriend"

Well, I've never had a girlfriend because I don't swing that way, but this post is mostly about the weird things that I do/watch/say. The internet has made it especially easy for that phrase to come up in conversation. So many funny pictures of cats. So. Many. Cats!

Whenever I first meet someone, I'm always a little reserved on the things I reference. Movies are a pretty safe way to go, unless you reference a porno or something; that doesn't usually go as well and you get labeled as the "weird one." Getting super excited while simultaneously being perplexed after learning that you can watch porn on your iPhone can also make you the "weird one," unless you're with the friends who gave you that useless fact.

I keep somewhat of a filter when I hang out with a new buddy because I don't want to be judged, and let's face it, I have a lot to be judged about, so I try to not give people even more fuel. You'd think I'd be used to being judged but I'm not. I try not to reference weird videos that I watch. I try to keep those references hidden, until I can't control myself and say "ohmygod shoes" when I pass a shoe store. That's when I realize I failed to keep my weirdness hidden and it's just a snowball effect. 

However, sometimes I'm not the only weirdo in the group. Some weirdos fail at "normal" before I do (which makes me feel way better). They reference some weird video that I've had on replay before (don't judge!) or a funny picture they saw on 9gag.com or something. At that point, I trample their weirdness by getting overly excited that someone is just as weird as I am! I basically jitter in my seat and then the other weirdo and I go into another snowball effect of vomiting weird references. 

It helps us stay entertained. You don't have very many awkward silences when you have a couple or more weirdos together. It's a good way of getting to know someone, too. Once the weirdness breaks out of its shell, you realize you have so much in common with the other weirdo. Music, food, jokes, stories. You find all of these great similarities even though the other person is completely different than you. 

It's awesome that this happens. When you meet a person who shares your weirdness, tasks that are usually extremely boring become a little lot less boring. It doesn't matter what it is (cleaning stalls, working registration at a bike race, being stuck in traffic, tearing down a bike course, showering), it automatically becomes more fun, and that's freakin' awesome!

Bike Review: Grammo Toa

I told the guys at Grammo that I would write a review on this bike. I haven't written a review yet because this is usually what happens to me when I mountain bike:

This is about the time I really squeak :(

The first time I rode the Toa was at Fall Flash. I decided to "race" Fall Flash for some extra dirt fun. I raced the Expert category, even though I'm no expert. I went out for a practice lap and I was amazed at how easily the bike handled. The Toa is a hard tail but it was still as if I were riding on a fluffly cloud. I was happy and impressed with that. Too bad that I flatted on the first race, but still. The second race on it was even more awesome because I was more comfortable with the bike and decided to have a little bit of fun with it... and I didn't crash on either race!

Point and shoot at its finest.

I then decided that, hey, now that I have a pretty sweet ride, I want to go out and do some more fun rides, so I went out and rode the Connector and Forest Hill Divide Loop for the first time. Okay, so that time I did crash, but it wasn't because of the bike. I crashed because I'm dumb and I can't turn on slippery and dry dirt. 

Boom! Sprinter's leg.

Those trails are a bit more technical than the ones I usually ride. That's what I want, though. I want to keep going out of my comfort zone so my skills can improve. Now that I have an awesome bike for it, I'm able to do so without freaking myself out too much. The fact that I enjoy wearing the trail is a different story that I have no desire to explain (mostly because it just means that I'm still a newb when it comes to riding dirt). The squeaking happens when I'm scared. It's amusing and cheap entertainment for those who ride with me. 

The bike rolls over pretty much anything that I point it at, except for giant logs and boulders. Apparently I need a new skill set for those obstacles or something. Lines that I would have never thought of taking come easy with the Toa. Surprisingly easy. It's almost as if there was a catch to it... maybe it'll sprout a brain and buck me off after each obstacle or something, but no. This is a bike and that's completely irrational to think it would ever do that to me. I think...

I've gone back to the Forest Hill Divide Loop and each time, I ride more and more of the trickier stuff. Same with Granite Bay. I've even gone to Truckee on trails that I've never seen before and had an absolute blast (and surprisingly didn't crash). In fact, I haven't really crashed since the crash that I mentioned earlier (so now I'm going to crash on my next ride. Smooth.)

Pretty sweet, eh?

The bike is awesome. I'm simply in love with it. I felt right at home as soon as I got on it and it gives me the confidence to tackle things I haven't tackled before. I've definitely become a much better mountain biker since I got this bike. It's gotten me addicted to the dirt.

I never knew the 3 more inches could be so satisfying. 

"No, It Really Is You"

Recent conversations have brought this subject up many times. Breakups suck, no matter who does the breaking. Sometimes things just don't work out, and no matter how hard you try, they may never work out. Someone in the partnership then has to grow a pair and do the breaking; the other one knows it's going to happen but lives right on the fence of denial. What a feeling, right?

"Ugh y u so sassy!?"

The thing that gets me the most is that people then get embarrassed if they cry about a breakup. No one wants to feel sad about losing someone and possibly losing the friends they met through that person. The feeling of loss is one of the worst feelings we can experience. But people need to realize that they should be proud of being able to express those feelings. It's okay to call someone and say, "Holy fuck people come and meet me somewhere because this just happened and I'm crying and a bubblering mess and it's really gross because holy fuck I'm crying!" And at that moment, all you need is a huge hug from a friend who doesn't tell you that you look so gross because you cried so much. That hug that a friend gives you is the most important hug that you'll get, because you know you're truly loved by people when when you look like a gross mess.

You might as well do this so you don't scare people.

Most importantly, people should be happy that they allow to let themselves feel like that. The fact that we make ourselves vulnerable enough to express those feelings and to allow to feel the love, happiness, rejection, and sorrow is an amazing thing. At that point, you realize that, even though you feel terribly sad, you have enough mental stability to express that sorrow, to let the rejection hurt, and to become vulnerable in front of your friends and accept their emotional support.

In time (max of 3 days with me), you get over it, keep hanging out with friends, and party like you're 21-years old again (not really, since bed time is 10pm... gods I'm getting old). And then it happens... they text you again. It's like they have a radar or something. The moment you stop thinking of them, BAM! They text you. It doesn't matter what the text is about; they just text you. Some people go into a spiral of depression, others go into a rage, others (like me) roll their eyes and don't respond. Ever. See me on the street and say hi? No response. See me at a bike event and try to chat it up? No response. Try to be "friends"? Nope.



Nope. Nope nope nopenopenope.

"No. No, no, nonononononono."

Sometimes you have to do that. You don't have to be friends with an ex. Why? What's the point? They're an ex for a reason. We don't always keep platonic friendships. If someone is an asshat, you let that asshat go.

And then you'll find yourself being picky. No one is good enough to see those feels you felt before. Until you meet someone who seems like an awesome friend. You can joke, you can hang out, give each other a hard time, flirt, and so on. You found a weird partner in crime. Let's face it, you feel like you hit the jackpot because you're most likely fucking weird.

Or, you can just get this,

From personal experience, I'll tell you that the weirdness is the better option. The weirdo who can quote movies with you, laugh at stupid jokes, and sit in silence with you is very worth it. But whatever pings your pong. Just remember to never put your happiness in the back burner.