This Is the Abridged Version, On Account of I Am Lazy

I went out for a beer last night with a friend, and then we ran into another friend, and then we made a friend, although I don't believe she ever told us her name. But then it's hard to remember all that when you're so trashed that you start hatching schemes sure to win you a Darwin award.

"I want a log cabin that's built around a tree, and I want the tree to be a chimney."
"But...then it would burn."
"No no no! I would scorch it. I would scorch it really, really well, and then it would be fire resistant."

Our new friend flicked the ashes from her cigarette into our bowl of pretzels and continued, claiming that, while she did want to live in a forest, she couldn't always tell the difference between forests and cities.

"Well, what if there were more trees than people?"
"See, now that's a forest."

She took a pretzel, swirled it in the salt and ash at the bottom of the bowl, and popped it in her mouth. I tasted it vicariously, the ash gritty and wet between my teeth, and, grimacing, washed it down with a swallow of beer.

And then our friend was standing, grabbing her empty glass, and deserting us - she was, apparently, in search of more beer. It was only after she left that we noticed her wallet, also deserted, sitting on the table. Rachel picked it up and turned it over in her hands, saying:

"You know, if we weren't such nice people..."

Being a Pansy Can Be So Inconvenient

My family left for Ohio this morning, so the house, and its multitude of pets, are in my care. There are two dogs, three cats, some random fish, and one other pet - the one my brother dragged me outside to see.

When he said there was another animal my first thought was please, for the love of Jesus, don't let it be a snake. My brother loves snakes, because he is weird, and he had a snake once before (who died by choking on his own food - an understandably traumatic experience for Cormac, who witnessed the scene). We went outside and he lifted the lid of a plastic container, saying,

"He eats nightcrawlers or slugs, but the slugs can't be any wider than his head and the nightcrawlers need to be cut up or he'll choke and die. And the slugs are hard to find so you'll probably have to get a worm. Now I'm not too happy about this either, but we need to keep him alive for study purposes so you have to take good care of him."

And I thought:

Shit.

It's not the snake itself that I mind, it's the worms. I do not want to cut up a worm. I do not want to drop little wriggly worm bits into the home of a snake that is "probably a bull snake but could possibly be a baby rattler," and I do not want to watch the thing digest.

I'm not too thrilled about feeding the fish either, because I find fish kind of gross-looking and hate how they look when they die, and if any of them die on me I'll have to take them out of the tank and flush them down the toilet, which is disgusting. But asking someone to take care of fish is, at least, a normal request, and doesn't necessitate slicing up a live worm.

I am so tempted to don a trench coat and, looking all shifty on some curb, offer naive kids five dollar bills to do the dirty work for me. But then I might feel guilty about luring unsuspecting adolescents into the seedy world of worm-dicing, and anyway, I'm not a Dickens character. So instead I will prove my love for my brother beyond any reasonable doubt, and hopefully overcome my fear of potential rattlesnakes and the worm bits they slurp.

With shaking hands and my eyes squeezed shut, of course.

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.

I Am the Lumberjack of Shitty Music

When confronted with a forest I will always, and without apology, focus solely on the trees. I do this because I like trees. Taking this cliché to its metaphorical extension, I dig details, and frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. Big Pictures are fine; they are varied and expansive and cover a blank space on the wall quite nicely, but as I am a Seinfeld fan, I find my greatest satisfaction in the dissection of irrelevant trivia.

As a result, I have a thing about stupid lyrics. The song itself could be fine, and the overall lyrics could be decent, but if there is one stupid phrase, I will harp on it like nothing else. Take, for example, this line in the Death Cab For Cutie song “Crooked Teeth”:

At night, the sun in the trees
Made the sky line up like crooked teeth
In the mouth of a man who was devouring us both

I actually think this is kind of a cool image. Except:

At night, the sun in the trees

Yep, that makes sense. Because, y’know, I love going sun-gazing at night. I like to just lie on my back under the pitch-black sky, soaking up those glorious golden rays. Just make sure to wear your sunscreen, kids – 90% of skin cancer is contracted by professional spelunkers.

The song, to be fair, is really pretty decent. But you know what song isn’t decent? That Proud to Be an American song. I don’t know exactly what it’s called – probably “Proud to Be an American” – but I’m not looking it up, because I’m lazy. Anyway, forget the forest; this song contains one particular tree I’ve been dying to eradicate for a long time. I’ve ranted about this line many times, so I expect that some of you will read this, sigh, and type your way to a less redundant destination. But you know what? I don’t care. Because this lyric pisses me off, and I want my disgust recorded for posterity.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I have many problems with this line, but let’s start with the problems I have with its message.

First, there is the notion that all it takes to be proud of one’s nationality is freedom. That’s it. Freedom. Nothing else. And this annoys me, because it requires that one’s standards be tragically low. Add to this the fact that “freedom” in this instance is such a vaguely defined concept (not that this is terribly unusual, but whatever) and you have one cantankerous Sam.

The use of the word “American” to refer solely to citizens of the U.S. rather than those of two entire continents is also irritating, but could possibly be justified on the grounds that “U.S. Citizen” does not lend itself well to lyrics. I’m willing to give a little leeway here, if for no other reason than to keep from appearing militantly P.C., since those people drive me bonkers. Bonkers, I say.

Anyway, it’s not the major issue. What really burns my toast is the fact that this lovely couplet makes no grammatical sense whatsoever.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I too am proud to be what I where. Or proud to be where I what. Or where I know, or what I’m free. Also:

My brain just shriveled up and died.

So We Stopped At This Sketchy Gas Station

There was a curb I had to step over on my way to the door, which was coated with a thin layer of dirt and smeared with breath. The cashier was a disheveled, heavy-set woman whose long, yellowing fingernails bore curving strips of glittery blue polish - crack nails, Anna called them - and she tapped them menacingly on the counter as I walked by. When I looked closer I saw that the nail on her middle left finger was beginning to detach; it dangled by its corner, swinging with the motion of her hand.

On my way to the cooler I passed a tall kid with delicate, slightly feminine features, who stared hollowly ahead at the wall in front of him. His mouth was a straight, fixed line, and he held something against his leg, covered with his hand. I pictured a knife, or a razor - something that would appear, suddenly, between his fingers, slicing through the air and turning my life into a Lifetime movie. (Two girls on the road, victimized by a teenage psychopath. Two mothers, bent on revenge - at any cost.)

I got a Sunkist from the cooler and stood in line, behind Potential Psychopath. At the front, a balding man with a body lumpy and pale as a pierogie pounded his fist on the counter, crying, "but I don't want to sign. Why can't you sign?"

Crack Nails tapped his credit card on the counter and smirked. "Well, I guess I could sign. I could sign your name."

"No! I'll sign my own name." Pierogie drew a loose slipknot slightly below the line, then looked back up and whined, "I don't cause problems."

"You don't cause problems?" Crack Nails dropped his card back on the counter, then folded her arms across her chest, digging her crack nails into her upper-arm skin.

"I've never caused problems."

"Alright, you don't cause problems."

"That's right, I don't."

"Bye, William."

Potential Psychopath's hand shifted slightly as he watched Pierogie leave. I embraced my histrionic side and flinched, stumbling back a couple steps; and then my suspicions were confirmed when he lifted his hand and held up a sleek, gleaming silver razor.

Or rather, Razr. Like the cell phone. I'm an idiot.

No.

Seriously, people?

If you want to buy some books, you buy them all at once. That is, you set them on the counter, I ring them up, you pay me, I bag them, and you leave. You don't bring up some books, have me ring them up, tell me to bag them, and then let your four year old granddaughter prance around the store with them for THIRTY MINUTES while I wait for you to decide what else you want. That is not how it works.

Also, if you have store credit, you either give me your credit slip or, if we have it on file, you tell me so and give me your name so I can like, I don't know, look it up? I mean, that sounds pretty logical to me. But you know what isn't logical? Staring at me blankly for about thirty seconds, then sputtering, "what do you mean it's thirty dollars? We're part of your book club thing!"

"'Book club thing'? You mean you have credit?"
"Yeah, that."
"Do you have your paper, or -"
"You never gave us one!"
"Okay, then you left it here?"
"Yeah!"
"Fine. What was your last name, please?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I think it's under [name]."
After a few moments of searching:
"Okay, found it."
"Why didn't you have it before?"

Yeah, um, that's annoying.

"Because I'm not actually telepathic. If you have credit I need you to tell me."
"...Oh. Well, we didn't know that."
"No problem."

I applied their credit, adjusting their total accordingly, and naturally, Grandma Genius (who, by the way, was neither senile nor particularly old, just dumb as a freaking post) decided to pay me almost exclusively in change. I swept the change into my hand one veritable pound at a time, and she shoved four pennies across the table with a condescending:

"You forgot these."

I raised my eyebrow. "Actually, I didn't. But thank you for assuming otherwise."

Luckily, she didn't get it.

And yes, I know that one day my attitude is going to bite me in the ass, but I don't care.

I Could Totally See Why.

So...this


is listed as a "unisex" item.

I just wanted to share that.

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.)

I Hate My Job, and Should Probably Be Fired From It

So, I just saw this chick. She was about my age, and she was stupid. I know this, because she asked stupid questions - questions like "is the number on the price tag the price?" and " does B come after A?" I answered her questions patiently, with the sort of adolescent perkiness that usually annoys the crap out of me, until this chick, spurred to ever-stupider heights by the sweetness of my demeanor, held up a book and asked, "is this, like, a book?"

I stared at her.

"What?"
"Is it a book?"
"I -"

I paused. She was so innocent. So naive. So mind-blowingly stupid. I looked into her blank, expressionless eyes, thought of all the nice ways I could phrase my "yes," and then I smiled and said:

"No."

And she believed me. Christ.

Why I'm Not Getting a Degree In Journalism

Our local paper is the Black Hills Pioneer. I don't expect much from it, because it sucks. But when I looked it up today for information on the recent murder that took place at a local motel (the mayor's stepson was the killer) I was even more disgusted than usual. The whole article is pretty badly written, but this part really stood out:

Bell was arrested at 8:15 a.m. Sunday only blocks away from the motel. He had been on the run for almost nine hours in bitterly cold weather and his feet were bandaged in court Monday.

You'd think they'd have taken care of that earlier - and in a more sterile environment.

A Sad State of Affairs

Some lady dropped off a bunch of books yesterday, saying she'd come back later for her store credit. I said that sounded like a fine idea, and off she went. People do this all the time and I'm totally cool with it, but in this instance especially so, because I'm not sure I'd have been able to disguise the look of horror that took up residence on my face as I perused her offerings. (That sounds...weird. I mean, "perused her offerings"? If Edith Wharton wrote erotica, maybe.)

First I pulled out a couple books on how to build a happy marriage. Aww, I thought. Mawwiage. Then I came across something called "Not Just Friends: Rebuilding Trust and Recovering Your Sanity After Infidelity." That was significantly less cheering. Then there were some books on parenting in the stern, unattractive face of divorce. And finally:


As a friend of mine said, the truly tragic part about this is that "none of the books worked." It's a valid point, no?

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...

Don't Blame Me, She's the One Who Sucks

A certain blogger of questionable quality has deemed me her mortal enemy, and is apparently planning to exact revenge. However, this blogger would like to state, for the record, that she considers her status as the blogger-lacking-in-quality's enemy a compliment. Also, she plans to exact her revenge first, with an unprecedented level of vengeyness.

And while it is true that I am utterly lacking in fighting experience, I will make up for it in passion. Ranting Non-Pacifist is the six-fingered man to my Inigo Montoya, and she should prepare to die - in a figurative sense, that is. I mean, I don't really want her to die. I like feeling superior, and she's good for that.

So. Yeah. We're enemies now, and shit is going to go down.

Also, happy thanksgiving.

All I Want Is a Lunch Break

Creepily perky but incoherent blond wearing a heart-patterned hoodie: [mumble] DMV?
Me: Sorry?
Creepy Blond: [mumble mumble mumble] the DMV?
Me: I'm sorry, still didn't catch tha -
Creepy Blond: [mumble] DMV. [mumble] IV pictures here?
Me: IV?
Creepy Blond: ...IV pictures.
Me: I, um - no. No, we don't. We just...we don't, yeah.
Creepy Blond: Oh! Well! Thanks...anyway...
Me: Okay. Yeah. You're welcome. Bye now.

Five Minutes Later:

This Guy: Didja get my Star Wars book?
Me: I did, yeah. Here it is.
Guy: Wowee! Ya really got it! Well how about that!
Me: Yep.
Guy: I just have the best luck with you!
Me (trying to be perky!): Well. Thank you!
Guy: Ya always get everything on time.
Me: Thanks - I try!
Guy (pointing to book): Isn't that Darth Vader cute?
Me: ...Yes?
Guy: Wouldn't ya just like to kiss him more than any guy you've ever met?
Me: Absolutely?
Guy: I thought so. Now whaddo I owe ya?
Me: It's -
Guy: That's too much!
Me: Um...
Guy: I'm just kiddin'. Whaddo I owe ya?
Me: $11.65?
Guy: Well, that Vader's pretty cute. I guess I'll get it.
Me: ...Alright then.

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.

Those Who Do the Lord's Work Are Rewarded In...Whores?

Pretentious Regular, Reading Back Cover of Son of a Witch: "Saint Glinda? God. Those goddamn Christians are gettin into everything.
Pretentious Regular's mother: It's those goddamn missionaries.
Regular: That's exactly right. The missionaries. God damn missionaries.

Me, thinking: I love it when people trash religion while invoking the Lord's name simultaneously. The fact that Son of a Witch is about, like, a witch, makes this so much funnier.

Regular's mother: You know, most of the apostles had whores.
Regular, turning to me: St. Francis had a whore.
Me: Which one?
Regular: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, which Francis - Xavier or Assisi?
Regular, after a long, uncomfortable pause: Both, I think.
Me: That's interesting. Which of the apostles?
Regular: Francis.
Me: But they weren't apostles, were they?
Regular's mother: They sure were!
Me, annoyed: I don't think so. I went to Catholic school, we had to study this.
Regular: Well, whatever.
Me: ...Right.

And then they scampered away like the whore-deficient non-saints they are.

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.

As If I Needed Confirmation

Sarah Palin, when asked about possible plans to run for president in 2012:

"Right now I cannot even imagine running for national office in 2012. When I say that, of course, coming on the heels of an outcome that I did not anticipate and had not hoped for. But this being a chapter now that is closed and realizing that it is a time to unite and all Americans need to get together and help with this new administration being ushered in."

I'm not exactly sure what this means. I think it's code for "there's a reason it took me five colleges and six years to get a bachelor's," but who knows?

Then, in response to the awesomely blunt suggestion that she might have cost McCain the election, Sarah says:

"I don't think anybody should give Sarah Palin that much credit, that I would trump an economic time in this nation that occurred about two months ago, that my presence on the ticket would trump the economic crisis that America found itself in a couple of months ago and attribute John McCain's loss to me."

I love that she starts talking in the third person, then shifts to first. She's of two minds, this one.

And I know I should be gracious - McCain managed to be, so why can't I? - but...yeah. No. Hey, look! - a slideshow of Sarah Palin's Election Night Tears.

Alarmingly incoherent quotes courtesy of CNN.

Regarding the Election:

I thought I'd be relieved. I didn't think I'd cry.

In Which I Get Obnoxiously Political

And now, for the most wonderful thing I've done all week - or possibly month:

When I recieved a particularly heinous and poorly punctuated piece of propaganda from the so-called "pro-life" movement, I decided, at the encouragement of a girl who usually dispenses wretched advice, to make corrections in red ink, grade it an F, and mail it back to the pit of stupidity from whence it came. And beneath that enormous blocky F I wrote:

Formerly pro-embryo; however, in light of your barely rudimentary grasp of the English language, I have switched teams, and am now batting enthusiastically for the rabid anti-American baby-killers. Also, a suggestion: if you truly wish to end the "97% of abortions which are used as birth control," perhaps you should encourage the immoral people who seek them to Go Gay. This could be both pleasurable and highly effective, in my view, and while I realize that my plan has the potential to make Jesus cry, at least the six-month-olds in overalls pictured on this charming flier would be safe from harm.

Love,

A Lesbian

P.S. - Why is the smallest photo on this flier also the only ethnic baby pictured? Is black ink just less cost-effective?

And, okay, maybe that was mean, but Christ. I like this state alright, but the local Crazies are unusally motivated. Most Crazies just fire off grammatically puzzling letters to their senators, but the people in South Dakota are actually trying to overturn laws. I mean, just shut up, Leslie Unruh.

I would like to add here that I do understand that abortion is a difficult issue, and not all who oppose it are moronic assmonkeys; that said, the self-righteousness of some of these people occasionally makes me want to punch walls. Also, this "exception for rape and incest victims" crap is utter BS, since it would mean that in order to get an abortion, a woman - or girl - would have to prove not only that she was a victim in the first place, but that the pregnancy resulted from that assault. Well, good luck with that, sweetie. Even if you did manage to prove it, the chances of you doing it in time are slim to none.

And what does "abortion as birth control" even mean? When I graded the flier I wrote "PLEASE CLARIFY" every time they used that phrase, because clarification is sorely needed. What woman says to herself, "hmm. I could get on the pill, pay about thirty bucks a month...or I could just mess around and get abortions when necessary. Yeah. That sounds like a wise and cost-effective plan." Uh-huh. Their hypothetical woman sounds like a financially illiterate dumbass.

So the point is, I'm kinda proud of myself. Even if I don't change a single opinion, at least I got to exhibit some impressively curmudgeonly behavior.