In my defense, I didn't cry.

I mean like, I'm not really a crier. And by not really I mean not at all. Where the Red Fern grows? Nope. Dumbledore's death? Nada. Intensely spiritual moments? Not so much, just goose bumps.

I guess I'm more of what you would call an irrational crier.

I once had an uncommonly long day at work. As I stood there at my desk watching the clock begin to move slower and slower the closer it got to close, I kept repeating the events of the day in my mind. Angry costumer, rude person, moody manager, employees with attitude, not a lot of sleep, irrational emotions. Never a good combination. I stood there, feet aching, thinking up all the reasons why I was perfectly justified in thinking that day was one of the worst anyone had ever  had. The more and more I convinced myself this theory was correct the more I found my mind traveling to a singular tomato sitting at home in my parent's fridge. I really, really, like tomatoes. I knew that there was a nice, juicy, ready to be salted tomato sitting right on the shelf, just waiting for me to come home and devour it. I knew that the joy of the tomato would erase everything bad that had happened that day, that I could sit there and listen to my manager's complaints because when I got home, the tomato would make everything right.

After the clock had finally, even graciously, changed to show that it was 11:00, I bounded to the doors, shut them, locked them, clocked out, and booked it home as fast as was legally possible. Relieved, I slumped into the kitchen, dropped my bag on the counter, pulled open the fridge door, and... nothing.

No tomato.

At this point panic began to creep through my body. I began moving things aside, tentatively at first, then, desperation rising, I began pulling things out of the fridge, rummaging through drawers, but to no avail. I knew the tomato was gone.

But I had not lost hope.

I could hear a movie playing in the basement, so I opened the door and called down.

"Mom, What happened to the tomato?"
"Oh! We ate it for dinner!"

...

That was all I needed to hear. I could not even reply. I simply shut the door, made my way to the bar stool, and slumped down onto it.

Then they came, the tears that seem to emerge when least expected and when least called for.

I mean, for the love, it was a freaking tomato.

But I was tired, I was stressed, it had been a long day, and the tomato was the thing that was going to make it all right.

I sat on that stool crying for a good amount of time, harboring bitter feelings toward my parents for eating the tomato to which I had no claim. Thinking that, had they cared about me at all, they would surely have gone to the grocery store to buy another tomato after devouring the only one if our fridge. I, of course, could not make the 3 minute round-trip voyage to Harmons to pick up a tomato, who would think such a thing?

I did not go to bed happy that night.

I could go on to tell you of the other irrational breakdown I've had throughout my life, but I prefer not to reveal all of my deep dark secrets in one blog post.

Remember my Creativity Project?

I surely do. I decided to make a movie, a documentary if you will. And I don't mean to brag, but it was wonderful. From the background music in the actual movie to my editing of the DVD menu, it was pretty freaking fantastic.

The issue: my computer hates me. Obviously, I spoke too soon.

Did my macbook feel like burning the DVD? No. It felt like having errors with the multiplexing and the muxing and other words that started with M that have no meaning to anyone who doesn't study the art of DVD-making for a living.

So there I was, at 3 in the morning the day that the project was due, trying everything that the forums and I knew to get my computer to burn just one, simple, DVD.

I didn't want to be that girl, ya know? The one who put off her semester-long project until the night before and then freaked out realizing she hadn't thought everything through.

I wasn't that girl, I have been working on this project for FOREVER.

But, in the end, I became her. I became the girl who uploads her video to youtube and emails the link to her TAs with a plea for understanding, a promise that this was not how I intended my project to go, and an empty feeling inside accompanied by the knowledge that no matter what I say there is no way for them to know how much work actually went in to this project.

But, in my defense, I didn't cry. Irrationally tired, irritable, frustrated, feeling a bit like a failure, I sucked it up and went to bed dry-eyed.