Maybe I'm Just Bitter 'Cause I'm Klutzy

There was some kind of hippie concert thing on campus today. I was walking to class and there was a band playing, a woman singer with a thin wail and a random cluster of instruments behind her. (Actually, they might not have been that bad, I don't know. I wasn't really listening. I heard it as buzzing occasionally broken by the singer's wails.)

But mostly I was disturbed by my fellow students' ebullience. They were leaping across the green like athletic-shorted gazelles, snatching frisbees from the air, their charming attempts at facial hair lit by the joyful late afternoon sun. I looked to my left and saw a physics professor demonstrating gravity by playfully lobbing freshly picked apples at his students' heads.

Well, no. I just expected to see this. Because I was pretty sure I had walked into a college brochure. And so I stood there thinking, "oh, come on. I do not really go to school here." And then I walked into the building for my next class, leaned against the cold wall in the shadowy hallway and felt much better.

Best of all, by the time my class ended, both the music and the ebullience had died.

I Only Date Guys Who Wear Ascots

Smartly-dressed Jovial Man: Where's the men's clothing store in town?
Me: Actually, I don't believe there is one.
Jovial Man: What? How can that be?
Me: Erm...
Jovial Man: What has happened to Spearfish?!
Me: I don't recall there ever being -
Jovial Man: There was when I lived here! But that was before you were born.
Me: Ah. I see.
Jovial Man: Maybe there's one a way's up? Up on the hill?
Me: I don't think so...
Jovial Man: Huh. I would have thought, what with all the college students and all...

Yeah. Because when I think dress shirts and tasseled leather shoes, I think the men of Black Hills State. Seriously guys, stand up and fight.

Fight for your right to look like pretentious asshats.

Lately...

Things I haven't done in awhile:

1. Woken up twenty minutes before class and contemplated skipping, only to find myself sitting in my usual seat sixteen minutes later with my hideously knotted hair indiscreetly tucked under a faded black shirt that says "don't mind me - I'm with the band."

2. Wondered where on earth I would have gotten such a dumb shirt.

3. Said "screw it; I don't care," and worn sweatpants outside my apartment building, then glimpsed my reflection in a glass door and realized that the message I am sending to world is "I have given up." And then decided I didn't care, because, let's face it...I have. Given up, that is.

4. Been the only girl in a game of Truth or Dare with enough class not to traipse around in cheap lingerie.

5. Written "I am going to punch that kid in the face" in my notebook, then turned the notebook at a forty-five degree angle in order to share this profoundly empty threat with the person next to me.

6. Become so thoroughly obliterated that I found myself puking...in a bar...at five a.m; subsequently been forced to endure endless ribbing from my parents, who also made a point of thanking the bartender who had been working that night for ensuring I lived to see another day.

7. Made a fake Facebook friend. (Seriously, four of my friends are not real people.)

8. Twisted around in my seat to ask the guy behind me if would "just shut up," then stared him down fearlessly when he told me to "turn around. Right now. Turn around and don't even look at me."

9. Gotten an A for Making Shit Up.

10. Generally embraced the role of Cranky, Stressed-Out College Student Who Is Probably a Little Irritating to the Rest of the World.


But here's something stupid!

I was shuffling to the laundry room on my floor to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. Because I am OCD, I knew that my clothes could not have been ready for more than three minutes; thus, I was not one of those obnoxious people who leaves their clothes in the washer hours after they've finished, rendering them a congealed, soapy mass of icky.

When I got to the laundry room, though, there was a guy already there. The washer was running and there was a pile of clothes on top of it, leading me to the reasonable conclusion that this guy was one of those assholes who doesn't give you five minutes to remove your clothes before he takes it upon himself to contaminate your freshly laundered underwear with his hands.

Only he wasn't one of those guys. He was one of those guys who pours detergent onto the clothes already in the washer - the clothes that are not actually his - pays the machine a dollar, and starts a new cycle. I'm sure you know the type.

When I turned to him and asked, "weren't there some clothes in the washer there?" he looked confused, then opened the washer (luckily it was a top-loader), stared at the clothes inside, and went "oh. Are these your clothes?"

"Yeah, that'd be them."

"I'm...sorry."

"S'okay." I reached into the washer and started lifting out of my clothes, which were dripping wet and covered in soap scum. Naturally he stood and watched, and naturally, this particular load of laundry included all of my cutest underwear. And of course I was wearing a white t-shirt with no bra, and of course I had put my hair up, so I couldn't just flip it in front to cover my dampened shirt. Of course.

He offered to pay for the cost of drying my clothes but I told him not to worry about it. I went back to my apartment, unpaused Pride and Prejudice, and picked up the washcloth I'd been knitting. I thought of happier times, when womens' underwear was something to be imagined but never seen; when you didn't have to sacrifice four quarters just to have your sweatshop-produced clothing swirl for half an hour in cold water.

And then I made myself some waffles. Waffles cure all ills.

Maturity

...is when, faced with a paper tablecloth and a cup full of crayons, you and a friend decide to debate whether writing "THIS IS ART!!" does, in fact, constitute art.

Then you roll up the tablecloth and take it with you when you leave.

(I wish I had a picture of this masterpiece in its entirety, as it was sheer brilliance. Particularly the drawing of George Costanza/Ghandi.)

(Also, Roma's, I apologize for acting like a precocious third-grader...but sometimes it just needs to be done.)

You Suck. Also, Why I Never Blog.

Okay, so I'm at the library, and I just went to print something off, and what did I see? Another queued document awaiting printing. Well, okay, I saw a bunch of documents awaiting printing, but this one stuck out, as it was titled "suck ass." Naturally I checked the name of the student to whom this sucky bit of writing belonged, and when I saw the name I smiled. That kid really is an ass.

Then when I sat back down, I noticed that the laptop I had checked out had the words "THIS LAPTOP SUCKS" scratched into the lid. (Do they call that thing a lid? Probably not. But then what do they call it? I'm sure it's totally obvious, but I have no idea.)

So, um, yeah. I'm not really sure what my point was. I guess that life just kind of sucks right now. And also, I really need to finish this paper.

Thomas's stories force his listeners to view their present situation in the context of their past, blah blah blah blah blah...

If I Only Had Knowledge of 19th Century Poetry I Could Totally Come Up With a Clever Post Title

So I got a paper back today. I got an A-. I'm not complaining - it wasn't an A paper. Plus I forgot to title it and, um, I did embarrass myself a bit with a tragic lack of attention to detail...

My sentence:

It is therefore determined that Earl should report the incident to Greggy Longfellow, the local sheriff, before the three take any further action.

My professor's comment:

Longwell. Longfellow also pompous but a 19th century poet & not a member of the police force.

My reaction:

It's nice she has a sense of humor about it, because I'm a little mortified.

I called him Longfellow throughout the entire paper, too. Damn it.

Yeah.

I need to stop writing in the passive voice so much. By which I mean, it is advisable that I cease writing in the passive voice. This stupid paper (you know, the one due tomorrow) read likes a freaking Sarah Palin monologue.

And that's all I have to say about that.

I Like Lists

Five Things That Are Making Me Want to Punch the World In the Face:

1. The doors to the library squeal when opened. They do - they squeal. The squeal is long and protracted, the sound of a colicky baby preparing for an epic scream. If it was only a little more high-pitched it would be audible only to dogs, but as luck would have it, it's just low enough that every time the door opens my brain feels like it's being stabbed. Which kinda hurts.

2. I don't understand how to factor quadrinomials and I don't give a shit. I really don't. Those goddamned quadrinomials can factor themselves, for all I care. They can find their own parentheses and distribute their own exponents and scrounge up their own negative signs, because I'm done. I am. Screw you, quadrinomials.

3. I have to write about integrity, and all I can think of is that Seinfeld episode where George won't let NBC make Jerry a show about something because he doesn't want to compromise his artistic integrity, prompting Jerry to point out that "you're not an artist, and you have no integrity!" But something tells me that won't work for this particular writing.

4. I forgot to eat before coming to the library, and now I am hungry. The library should serve strawberry whipped cream waffles and cranberry juice, but does it? Oh no. And why? Because it sucks. God, I love waffles. You know what else sounds good? Vanilla ice cream with maple syrup and nuts. That would be freaking delicious right about now.

5. I started reorganizing my apartment this morning and haven't finished yet, meaning that when I do get home - poor, downtrodden, with equations I don't quite understand swimming in my beleaguered brain - the first thing I see will be my dresser. In the middle of the floor. And then I will probably step on my jewelry box. At which point I will likely cry, or do something equally immature - like stomp my foot, pull on my hair, and scream, "it's not fair!"

The sad thing about the ridiculously cranky mood I'm in is that I can't blame it on a hangover. It's just me being a pain in the ass and reinforcing negative female stereotypes. Bad at math, hyper-sensitive to noise, addicted to sugar, obsessed with interior decorating to a disturbing degree: I am everything that is wrong with women. Also, I will grow up to be a cat lady.

And there's no turning back now.