So, I've heard on multiple occasions that the Holy Grail of breakups is, essentially, when your ex-whatever A) goes bat-shit crazy and embarks on a bold-faced downward spiral without you, B) turns out to have found a new significant other and that person turns out to be mentally retarded and/or heinous, or C) some poignant combination of the two. This is kind of true. If someone catapults into a slippery slope of FAIL as soon as you're out of their life, it's a good, public, undeniable affirmation that you're totally integral to all things good. That's nice. People will make those OH WOW HE/SHE REALLY NEEDED HIS/HER INTELLIGENCE/TALENT/ENCOURAGEMENT TO GO ON THIS IS SAD comments, which basically throws the upper hand into your lap, and, in general, it creates a useful nadir against which to contrast your own burgeoning success (hopefully).
Then there's the downside. You will rarely find something so undermining to your sense of intelligence, judgment, and all things sane. You'll go from marvelling at how someone can do a 180 to wondering glumly whether it was a 180 at all or whether you, in fact, were using decision making skills that were challenged at best. When someone remarks for the fiftieth time that they saw that poor soul snorting coke off a speeding ticket in a low-income apartment or what-the-fuck-ever, you're going to wonder how you didn't sense that inner crazy by the third date. You're going to wonder how he/she got that one by you, and you're going to start to wonder if you're missing similar signals in the people you date nowadays. You're going to get really wary around your date the next few weekends, eying them like their inner crackwhore is about to jump out and stab you with a stiletto at any moment. It gets stressful.
While I'll agree with other sources that there's a moment of AHA! KARMA GOTCHUUUU! to be had upon realization of your ex catching the train to crazy town, it quickly turns into a reality-altering nightmare. If you can't accurately choose a non-nutjob long-term mate, can you make a good decision while you're car-shopping? Can you pick up on your dog sitter's sense of responsibility or lack thereof? Can you tell a scam when it brings its hearing impaired bowling league donation cup to your door? CAN YOU DO ANYTHING EVER??!!!??
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
It's been a while.
So what, you may ask, have I been doing with myself for the last month or whatever? Well, my imaginary audience, I have been leading the glamorous existence of someone who will know EVERY LAST VOCAB WORD THE KAPLAN PREP BOOK HAS TO OFFER. (Which is basically "arcane" and "pulchritude," but I digress.)
The best part of rigorous test preparation, for me, is the fact that no matter how thoroughly competitive I have made myself, I will always develop an eye twitch and a constant headache. Thus is the life of a perfectionist. Out of lack of more effective coping mechanisms, I've done my best to become super-zen about everything the last few weeks. I'm just a couple more meltdowns away from making my membership payment to the Theosophists of America and identifying myself as a practicing spiritualist because YEAH, there IS no religion higher than Truth! YEAH! GOOD WEBSITE!
Basically, any organization that has a lot of pictures of happy, calm-looking people sitting among lush greenery is enough to warrant my membership dues because the concept of inner-peace is my weakness. It seems absolutely awesome. To me, "inner-peace" seems like it would scare off any bad-karma intruders and create a little veil of security for its cultivator. It seems like it would take care of my stress headaches and nervous twitches and weird skin blotches. Like, maybe you'd be able to wake up in the middle of the night and just go back to sleep without turning on the light and harrassing your dog and reading coupon books for an hour and a half. Maybe you'd even be able to drink and watch horror movies at the same time with an OMG IM MORTAL MY MIND CANT HANDLE THIS WHAT IS THE UNIVERSE!?!?!?!! moment. IDK. But with the GRE bearing down upon me in all its standardized four-hour glory, my usual "quirks" have been driving me into the ground. MUST. BE. PERFECT.
Nothing more interesting to say. Oh well.
The best part of rigorous test preparation, for me, is the fact that no matter how thoroughly competitive I have made myself, I will always develop an eye twitch and a constant headache. Thus is the life of a perfectionist. Out of lack of more effective coping mechanisms, I've done my best to become super-zen about everything the last few weeks. I'm just a couple more meltdowns away from making my membership payment to the Theosophists of America and identifying myself as a practicing spiritualist because YEAH, there IS no religion higher than Truth! YEAH! GOOD WEBSITE!
Basically, any organization that has a lot of pictures of happy, calm-looking people sitting among lush greenery is enough to warrant my membership dues because the concept of inner-peace is my weakness. It seems absolutely awesome. To me, "inner-peace" seems like it would scare off any bad-karma intruders and create a little veil of security for its cultivator. It seems like it would take care of my stress headaches and nervous twitches and weird skin blotches. Like, maybe you'd be able to wake up in the middle of the night and just go back to sleep without turning on the light and harrassing your dog and reading coupon books for an hour and a half. Maybe you'd even be able to drink and watch horror movies at the same time with an OMG IM MORTAL MY MIND CANT HANDLE THIS WHAT IS THE UNIVERSE!?!?!?!! moment. IDK. But with the GRE bearing down upon me in all its standardized four-hour glory, my usual "quirks" have been driving me into the ground. MUST. BE. PERFECT.
Nothing more interesting to say. Oh well.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
In celebration of Cinco de Mayo:
I enjoy holidays -- it's no secret. I like the rare satisfaction of having everyone back in one place for a weekend or -- for a really good holiday -- maybe even a whole week. I like drinking with friends and staying out late and having a good opportunity to take spontaneous trips. Not that I usually do, BUT YOU NEVER KNOW DAMN IT!
Since high school, however, there is a handful of holidays that have been statistically unpleasant each year. It just so happens, of course, that these are the same holidays that grow more and more insufferably popular among my peers each fucking year. Exhibit A: St. Patty's Day.
Most people that wear green on St. Patty's day are not Irish and I'm convinced it's mostly a large conspiracy for college students to get drunk and cheat on their significant others or some other debauchery. In high school, St. Patty's was fine. I'd find a friend equally impassioned about underage alcohol possession, we'd turn some watermelon Smirnoff Ice into the best green beer in the world, and success was achieved. After high school, however, I was promptly deported to college, where I was two years younger than everyone else in my grade. The people I dated were older, the people I was friends with were older, and not one of them was interested in, say, drinking their green beer at someone's apartment where I too could join. The problem didn't stop there, however.
Even after I turned 21, some mysterious power of the universe has seemed to come between me and a good time on each of the two St. Patty's days since -- and by this I mean, I have been alone pretending I have something important to study for because ITS A STUPID HOLIDAY ANYWAY and I'm not Irish so whatever.
Exhibit B: Cinco de Mayo
Cinco de Mayo is kind of similar to St. Patty's except that, in addition simply being underage/unentertained, I have experienced some kind of semi-poignant emotional turmoil on May 5th for the past few years. Someone does something offensive or hurtful or straight-up ridiculous every year and I end up hanging out with whoever is kind enough to about 15 minutes of my ranting. The unpleasantness is, of course, totally unrelated to the holiday at hand -- but the fact that someone has felt the inexplicable urge to do something really unadmirable each year on that day since I was about 19 has started to take a toll on my subconscious interpretation of Cinco de Mayo.
Exhibit C (I saved the best[?] for last): FOURTH OF JULY OMG.
Every fourth of July since I turned 18, I have cried. I have basically curled up and bawled, which isn't typical for me, and sat numbly as the fireworks shattered across the river. Last Fourth of July was especially horrific. I was supposed to go to this yearly Fourth of July party (which, for the record, is entirely pleasant in and of itself), and, as with many things, parties are wont to turn into the seventh circle of hell very quickly if you've gotten the emotional equivalent of swift kick to the stomach with a steel-toed boot. I spent about five consecutive hours trying ineffectively to smile perkily at near-strangers.
In hindsight, these problems were all partly my fault. I let the wrong people have too much influence over me and I let my definition of happiness become way, way too narrow (and somehow I tended to reap the consequences most noticably on three particular days each year). It's a small personal goal to regain these young-people-drinking-holidays and possibly enjoy them a little like so many others do. This year's St. Patty's, for example, passed without incident. I didn't do anything to celebrate per se, but I certainly wasn't unhappy. And while that's a pretty miniscule step for everyone else in the nation, it's an incomprehensibly giant leap for me.
Since high school, however, there is a handful of holidays that have been statistically unpleasant each year. It just so happens, of course, that these are the same holidays that grow more and more insufferably popular among my peers each fucking year. Exhibit A: St. Patty's Day.
Most people that wear green on St. Patty's day are not Irish and I'm convinced it's mostly a large conspiracy for college students to get drunk and cheat on their significant others or some other debauchery. In high school, St. Patty's was fine. I'd find a friend equally impassioned about underage alcohol possession, we'd turn some watermelon Smirnoff Ice into the best green beer in the world, and success was achieved. After high school, however, I was promptly deported to college, where I was two years younger than everyone else in my grade. The people I dated were older, the people I was friends with were older, and not one of them was interested in, say, drinking their green beer at someone's apartment where I too could join. The problem didn't stop there, however.
Even after I turned 21, some mysterious power of the universe has seemed to come between me and a good time on each of the two St. Patty's days since -- and by this I mean, I have been alone pretending I have something important to study for because ITS A STUPID HOLIDAY ANYWAY and I'm not Irish so whatever.
Exhibit B: Cinco de Mayo
Cinco de Mayo is kind of similar to St. Patty's except that, in addition simply being underage/unentertained, I have experienced some kind of semi-poignant emotional turmoil on May 5th for the past few years. Someone does something offensive or hurtful or straight-up ridiculous every year and I end up hanging out with whoever is kind enough to about 15 minutes of my ranting. The unpleasantness is, of course, totally unrelated to the holiday at hand -- but the fact that someone has felt the inexplicable urge to do something really unadmirable each year on that day since I was about 19 has started to take a toll on my subconscious interpretation of Cinco de Mayo.
Exhibit C (I saved the best[?] for last): FOURTH OF JULY OMG.
Every fourth of July since I turned 18, I have cried. I have basically curled up and bawled, which isn't typical for me, and sat numbly as the fireworks shattered across the river. Last Fourth of July was especially horrific. I was supposed to go to this yearly Fourth of July party (which, for the record, is entirely pleasant in and of itself), and, as with many things, parties are wont to turn into the seventh circle of hell very quickly if you've gotten the emotional equivalent of swift kick to the stomach with a steel-toed boot. I spent about five consecutive hours trying ineffectively to smile perkily at near-strangers.
In hindsight, these problems were all partly my fault. I let the wrong people have too much influence over me and I let my definition of happiness become way, way too narrow (and somehow I tended to reap the consequences most noticably on three particular days each year). It's a small personal goal to regain these young-people-drinking-holidays and possibly enjoy them a little like so many others do. This year's St. Patty's, for example, passed without incident. I didn't do anything to celebrate per se, but I certainly wasn't unhappy. And while that's a pretty miniscule step for everyone else in the nation, it's an incomprehensibly giant leap for me.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
VICTORY IS MINE.
The biggest wins are the ones the universe just throws in your lap. They require zero effort, no scheming or conniving or otherwise unflattering personal traits, and, best of all, these moments are designed to launch a chain reaction of sweet, if ephemeral, victory.
I got what I needed, you got the sweaty drunk tautly wrapped in Spandex, we all win.
I got what I needed, you got the sweaty drunk tautly wrapped in Spandex, we all win.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Why are weekly arrest updates my favorite thing?
In the world? There are a lot of ways to answer this; a lot of these answers may cast me in an unfavorable light. So I choose to believe that I simply have a thirst for knowledge. It's like reading Twitter.
After watching 8,734 girls scour racks of prom dresses, expressing everything from pure ecstacy to unbridled terror, I realized that prom really is stupid, but not for the reasons I found in high school. In theory, after all, prom is awesome. Who doesn't like limos and fancy dinners and booze and expensive dresses? No one, duh. The problem with prom is that it's designated for the particular time in your life when you do not have the means to fully appreciate this kind of free-for-all.
I think prom should be for seniors in college. Most obviously because you're likely to be able to drink legally at a requisite open bar, and you can enjoy cheap wine in the limo to your heart's content without calling your parents shamefully from the PD immediately after. Furthermore, the majority of colleges have much more tasteful venues than, say, an indoor basketball court with the faint odor of stale sweat and cleaning products hanging in the air. There's always a "hall" with decent tile and, if you're lucky, a relatively fresh paint job. "Halls" have the air quality of a room not permeated in bodily fluids which, for me, is oftentimes key to a pleasant evening.
Aesthetically speaking, you're more likely to have reached some sort of stylistic harmony and you probably won't want the bikini-shaped ball gown with parakeet feathers -- and better yet, you're much less likely to remember your special night by pictures of stress acne in your memory album. It's a win-win. And finally, for the socially uninclined, most public colleges boast a student population so vast that the "I-can't-find-a-date" predicament is virtually eliminated. It's a win-win.
Essentially, I had the prescience -- even during my own delusional teen years -- to understand that prom is ruined by all the teenagers. If I had had an equivalent opportunity a year ago in, say, Millican Hall or the Strozier Library conference area or something, however, I would have been all over that shit. I would have been sipping my ever-cool gin and tonic all damn night and revelling in the fact that my parents were funding it. It would be awesome. If youth is wasted on the young, then it's totally fair to say prom is wasted on the seventeen year olds.
After watching 8,734 girls scour racks of prom dresses, expressing everything from pure ecstacy to unbridled terror, I realized that prom really is stupid, but not for the reasons I found in high school. In theory, after all, prom is awesome. Who doesn't like limos and fancy dinners and booze and expensive dresses? No one, duh. The problem with prom is that it's designated for the particular time in your life when you do not have the means to fully appreciate this kind of free-for-all.
I think prom should be for seniors in college. Most obviously because you're likely to be able to drink legally at a requisite open bar, and you can enjoy cheap wine in the limo to your heart's content without calling your parents shamefully from the PD immediately after. Furthermore, the majority of colleges have much more tasteful venues than, say, an indoor basketball court with the faint odor of stale sweat and cleaning products hanging in the air. There's always a "hall" with decent tile and, if you're lucky, a relatively fresh paint job. "Halls" have the air quality of a room not permeated in bodily fluids which, for me, is oftentimes key to a pleasant evening.
Aesthetically speaking, you're more likely to have reached some sort of stylistic harmony and you probably won't want the bikini-shaped ball gown with parakeet feathers -- and better yet, you're much less likely to remember your special night by pictures of stress acne in your memory album. It's a win-win. And finally, for the socially uninclined, most public colleges boast a student population so vast that the "I-can't-find-a-date" predicament is virtually eliminated. It's a win-win.
Essentially, I had the prescience -- even during my own delusional teen years -- to understand that prom is ruined by all the teenagers. If I had had an equivalent opportunity a year ago in, say, Millican Hall or the Strozier Library conference area or something, however, I would have been all over that shit. I would have been sipping my ever-cool gin and tonic all damn night and revelling in the fact that my parents were funding it. It would be awesome. If youth is wasted on the young, then it's totally fair to say prom is wasted on the seventeen year olds.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The weirdest thing in the world.
I know, perhaps better than anyone, the vast assortment of products, wrappers, foreign money, and ticket stubs that most women discard in their purses, never to see again. With this in mind, I've become downright diligent about checking the inner compartments of each and every purse before I tag or clean it. I find a lot of quarters, gum wrappers, Tylenol, and Canadian pennies, most of which I throw out. Every now and then, I'll find an expensive lipstick or a ten dollar bill or a prescription or something, and I'll put it in the back of the cash drawer and try to remember to return it the next time its owner wanders in. Needless to say, this process isn't exactly rocket science; it's just not a perilous or time-consuming job.
So the other day -- as usual -- there I am, sifting through a handful of new purses, wiping a couple clean, shaking change out of them as I go. I get to the last one and it's huge -- some half nylon, half leather purse-duffel combo. I jiggled it around to check for contents. There was a muted clinking sound, like coins at the far bottom or something. I was talking away to my co-worker (as I am wont to do on my good days), eyeballing some people that just walked in the store, and trying to clean purses all at once. I was a real multi-tasker. I plunged my hand into the bag, groping for the clinky contents at the bottom. Uh-oh, I realized. Something was not right. I was holding something, but it was not change, or gum wrappers, or ticket stubs. I pulled my hand out in curiosity.
"OH MY GOD!!!!!!" I shrieked in horror. I did a little knee-jerkish jump and looked at what I'd dropped on the floor in front of me. It was -- and it pains me to relate this -- a pastel blue octupus vibrator with a tail. More disturbing yet, the tail was proportionately... large. And kind of bead-like. And in dropping the little montrosity against the floor, I had turned it on. There it was, a little sex-bead octopus buzzing and twitching all over the floor, a gruesome remnant of someone's fun time with the duffel bag.
At this point, I froze. I'm a moderate germophobe. I don't like touching door handles and public bathrooms make me a little uneasy, so it follows naturally that inadvertantly touching someone's sex toy that goes God-knows-where is enough to make my delicately balanced psyche basically implode. I couldn't touch it again, that was for sure. But I couldn't let it lie there on the new carpet, either, buzzing around with its creepy little tentacles. I had to pull myself together in this moment of crisis. And most importantly, I had to turn it off.
I grabbed the roll of paper towels off the shelf behind the counter and ripped off about three handfuls. I tried to gather myself mentally, and then, looking prepared to mop up a sea-swell in Venice, I went in for the kill. I grabbed the octopus by its tail with one clump of tissues. I dangled it in front of me, burying my other hand within a second forest of paper towels, and pressed the only thing I could find that even marginally resembled a button. It clicked. Woo! Success! I waited nervously, watching the octopus suspended there in tension.
Something worse happened. After pausing for a few seconds, the thing started pulsing. BRR BRR BRR. I poked the little button again. Faster and faster pulsing. At this point, I lost it. It became clear that someone had fed this thing after midnight or something, and it was never going to turn off. It was probably going to multiply in the dark crevaces of the store, and I couldn't stand idly by and watch it happen. I ran. I ran past the art gallery, the hair salon, and the travel agency, two hands full of paper towels and one clutching a pulsating rubber octopus. I probably had a vaguely maniacal look of terror on my face. I heaved my upper body over the edge of the dumpster fence and threw my gyrating antithesis into the furthest corner of the bin. I could hear it rattling horrifically against the other trash as I walked away, and I felt a (probably disproportionate) rush of relief as I scuttled out of earshot.
Hopefully the owner of that nice trinket doesn't come in and ask for her vibrating octopus, because it's definitely not safely tucked away in the register drawer. Most importantly, though, if you EVER do ANYTHING with a handbag/piece of luggage other than dropping it into the nearest industrial incinerator, please get all of your sex toys out of it. While you're at it, Lysol-wipe that shit to cover your tracks.
So the other day -- as usual -- there I am, sifting through a handful of new purses, wiping a couple clean, shaking change out of them as I go. I get to the last one and it's huge -- some half nylon, half leather purse-duffel combo. I jiggled it around to check for contents. There was a muted clinking sound, like coins at the far bottom or something. I was talking away to my co-worker (as I am wont to do on my good days), eyeballing some people that just walked in the store, and trying to clean purses all at once. I was a real multi-tasker. I plunged my hand into the bag, groping for the clinky contents at the bottom. Uh-oh, I realized. Something was not right. I was holding something, but it was not change, or gum wrappers, or ticket stubs. I pulled my hand out in curiosity.
"OH MY GOD!!!!!!" I shrieked in horror. I did a little knee-jerkish jump and looked at what I'd dropped on the floor in front of me. It was -- and it pains me to relate this -- a pastel blue octupus vibrator with a tail. More disturbing yet, the tail was proportionately... large. And kind of bead-like. And in dropping the little montrosity against the floor, I had turned it on. There it was, a little sex-bead octopus buzzing and twitching all over the floor, a gruesome remnant of someone's fun time with the duffel bag.
At this point, I froze. I'm a moderate germophobe. I don't like touching door handles and public bathrooms make me a little uneasy, so it follows naturally that inadvertantly touching someone's sex toy that goes God-knows-where is enough to make my delicately balanced psyche basically implode. I couldn't touch it again, that was for sure. But I couldn't let it lie there on the new carpet, either, buzzing around with its creepy little tentacles. I had to pull myself together in this moment of crisis. And most importantly, I had to turn it off.
I grabbed the roll of paper towels off the shelf behind the counter and ripped off about three handfuls. I tried to gather myself mentally, and then, looking prepared to mop up a sea-swell in Venice, I went in for the kill. I grabbed the octopus by its tail with one clump of tissues. I dangled it in front of me, burying my other hand within a second forest of paper towels, and pressed the only thing I could find that even marginally resembled a button. It clicked. Woo! Success! I waited nervously, watching the octopus suspended there in tension.
Something worse happened. After pausing for a few seconds, the thing started pulsing. BRR BRR BRR. I poked the little button again. Faster and faster pulsing. At this point, I lost it. It became clear that someone had fed this thing after midnight or something, and it was never going to turn off. It was probably going to multiply in the dark crevaces of the store, and I couldn't stand idly by and watch it happen. I ran. I ran past the art gallery, the hair salon, and the travel agency, two hands full of paper towels and one clutching a pulsating rubber octopus. I probably had a vaguely maniacal look of terror on my face. I heaved my upper body over the edge of the dumpster fence and threw my gyrating antithesis into the furthest corner of the bin. I could hear it rattling horrifically against the other trash as I walked away, and I felt a (probably disproportionate) rush of relief as I scuttled out of earshot.
Hopefully the owner of that nice trinket doesn't come in and ask for her vibrating octopus, because it's definitely not safely tucked away in the register drawer. Most importantly, though, if you EVER do ANYTHING with a handbag/piece of luggage other than dropping it into the nearest industrial incinerator, please get all of your sex toys out of it. While you're at it, Lysol-wipe that shit to cover your tracks.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Whyyyyyy?
If you've ever been friends with a girl on Facebook or Myspace or something, you've undoubtedly stumbled upon that Marilyn Monroe quote -- the, "A wise girl listens but doesn't believe blah blah blah" one. You know. But why? Why has Marilyn Monroe, of all female public figures, become the quide post for wise girls? You know what else wise girls don't do? They don't OVERDOSE IN THEIR FUCKING THIRTIES OR SOMETHING. So maybe that could be worked into the quote.
Statistically, the number of girls that imply they live by this quote indicates that 98% of womanity is not believing anything ever ("But I will always love you!"), not being emotionally attached to whomever they're merely kissing, and breaking up with their boyfriends two and a half weeks into every relationship. So how come 53% of my peers are knocked up? How can these things be reconciled? HOWWWW??
Statistically, the number of girls that imply they live by this quote indicates that 98% of womanity is not believing anything ever ("But I will always love you!"), not being emotionally attached to whomever they're merely kissing, and breaking up with their boyfriends two and a half weeks into every relationship. So how come 53% of my peers are knocked up? How can these things be reconciled? HOWWWW??
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)